The Tower Treasure (Hardy Boys #1)
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
1
The Speed Demon
FRANK and Joe Hardy clutched the grips of their motorcycles and stared in horror at the oncoming car. It was careening from side to side on the narrow road.
”He’ll hit us! We’d better climb this hillside— and fast!” Frank exclaimed, as the boys brought their motorcycles to a screeching halt and leaped off.
”On the double!” Joe cried out as they started up the steep embankment.
To their amazement, the reckless driver suddenly pulled his car hard to the right and turned into a side road on two wheels. The boys expected the car to turn over, but it held the dusty ground and sped off out of sight.
”Wow!” said Joe. ”Let’s get away from here before the crazy guy comes back. That’s a dead-end road, you know.”
2
The boys scrambled back onto their motorcycles and gunned them a bit to get past the intersecting road in a hurry. They rode in silence for a while, gazing at the scene ahead.
On their right an embankment of tumbled rocks and boulders sloped steeply to the water below. From the opposite side rose a jagged cliff. The little-traveled road was winding, and just wide enough for two cars to pass.
”Boy, I’d hate to fall off the edge of this road,” Frank remarked. ”It’s a hundred-foot drop.”
”That’s right,” Joe agreed. ”We’d sure be smashed to bits before we ever got to the bottom.” Then he smiled. ”Watch your step, Frank, or Dad’s papers won’t get delivered.”
Frank reached into his jacket pocket to be sure several important legal papers which he was to deliver for Mr, Hardy were still there. Relieved to find them, Frank chuckled and said, ”After the help we gave Dad on his latest case, he ought to set up the firm of Hardy and Sons.”
”Why not?” Joe replied with a broad grin. ”Isn’t he one of the most famous private detectives in the country? And aren’t we bright too?” Then, becoming serious, he added, ”I wish we could solve a mystery on our own, though.”
Frank and Joe, students at Bayport High, were combining business with pleasure this Saturday morning by doing the errand for their father.
Even though one boy was dark and the other 
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fair, there was a marked resemblance between the two brothers. Eighteen-year-old Frank was tall and dark. Joe, a year younger, was blond with blue eyes. They were the only children of Fenton and Laura Hardy. The family lived in Bayport, a small but thriving city of fifty thousand inhabitants, located on Barmet Bay, three miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean.
The two motorcycles whipped along the narrow road that skirted the bay and led to Willowville, the brothers’ destination. The boys took the next curve neatly and started up a long, steep slope. Here the road was a mere ribbon and badly in need of repair.
”Once we get to the top of the hill it won’t be so rough,” Frank remarked, as they jounced over the uneven surface. ”Better road from there into Willowville.”
Just then, above the sharp put-put of their own motors, the two boys heard the roar of a car approaching from their rear at great speed. They took a moment to glance back.
”Looks like that same guy we saw before!” Joe burst out. ”Good night!”
At once the Hardys stopped and pulled as close to the edge as they dared. Frank and Joe hopped off and stood poised to leap out of danger again if necessary.
The car hurtled toward them like a shot. Just when it seemed as if it could not miss them, th 
4
driver swung the wheel about viciously and the sedan sped past.
”Whew! That was close!” Frank gasped.
The car had been traveling at such high speed that the boys had been unable to get the license number or a glimpse of the driver’s features. But they had noted that he was hatless and had a shock of red hair.
”If I ever meet him again,” Joe muttered, ”I’ll —I’ll—” The boy was too excited to finish the threat.
Frank relaxed. ”He must be practicing for some kind of race,” he remarked, as the dark-blue sedan disappeared from sight around the curve ahead.
The boys resumed their journey. By the tim 
5
they rounded the curve, and could see Willowville in a valley along the bay beneath them, there was no trace of the rash motorist.
”He’s probably halfway across the state by this time,” Joe remarked.
”Unless he’s in jail or over a cliff,” Frank added.
The boys reached Willowville and Frank delivered the legal papers to a lawyer while Joe guarded the motorcycles. When his brother returned, Joe suggested, ”How about taking the other road back to Bayport? I don’t crave going over that bumpy stretch again. 
6
”Suits me. We can stop off at Chet’s.”
Chet Morton, who was a school chum of the Hardy boys, lived on a farm about a mile out of Bayport. The pride of Chet’s life was a bright yellow jalopy which he had named Queen. He worked on it daily to ”soup up” the engine.
Frank and Joe retraced their trip for a few miles, then turned onto a country road which led to the main highway on which the Morton farm was situated. As they neared Chet’s home, Frank suddenly brought his motorcycle to a stop and peered down into a clump of bushes in a deep ditch at the side of the road.
”Joe! That crazy driver or somebody else had a crackup!”
Among the tall bushes was an overturned blue sedan. The car was a total wreck, and lay wheels upward, a mass of tangled junk.
”We’d better see if there’s anyone underneath,” Joe cried out.
The boys made their way down the culvert, their hearts pounding. What would they find?
A close look into the sedan and in the immediate vicinity proved that there was no victim around.
”Maybe this happened some time ago,” said Joe, ”and—”
Frank stepped forward and laid his hand on the exposed engine. ”Joe, it’s still warm,” he said. ”The accident occurred a short while ago. No 
7
I’m sure this is the red-haired driver’s car.”
”But what about him?” Joe asked. ”Is he alive? Did somebody rescue him, or what happened?”
Frank shrugged. ”One thing I can tell you. Either he or somebody else removed the license plates to avoid identification.”
The brothers were completely puzzled by the whole affair. Since their assistance was not needed at the spot, they climbed out of the culvert and back onto their motorcycles. Before long they were in sight of the Mortons’ home, a rambling old farmhouse with an apple orchard at the rear. When they drove up the lane they saw Chet at the barnyard gate.
”Hi, fella!” Joe called.
Chet hurried down the lane to meet them. He was a plump boy who loved to eat and was rarely without an apple or a pocket of cookies. His round, freckled face usually wore a smile. But today the Hardys sensed something was wrong. As they brought their motorcycles to a stop, they noticed that their chum’s cheery expression was missing.
”What’s the matter?” Frank asked.
”I’m in trouble,” Chet replied. ”You’re just in time to help me. Did you meet a fellow driving the Queen?”
Frank and Joe looked at each other blankly.
”Your car? No, we haven’t seen it,” said Joe. ”What’s happened?”
”It’s been stolen! 
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”Stolen!”
”Yes. I just came out to the garage to get the Queen and she was gone,” Chet answered mournfully.
”Wasn’t the car locked?”
”That’s the strange part of it. She was locked, although the garage door was open. I can’t see how anyone got away with it.”
”A professional job,” Frank commented. ”Auto thieves always carry scores of keys with them. Chet, have you any idea when this happened?”
”Not more than fifteen minutes ago, because that’s when I came home with the car.”
”We’re wasting time!” Joe cried out. ”Let’s chase that thief!”
”But I don’t know which way he went,” Chet protested.
”We didn’t meet him, so he must have gone in the other direction,” Frank reasoned.
”Climb on behind me, Chet,” Joe urged. ”The Queen can’t go as fast as our motorcycles. We’ll catch her in no time!”
”And there was only a little gas in my car, anyway,” Chet said excitedly as he swung himself onto Joe’s motorcycle. ”Maybe it has stalled by this time.”
In a few moments the boys were tearing down the road in pursuit of the automobile thief 
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CHAPTER II
The Holdup
CHET MORTON’S jalopy was such a brilliant yellow that the boys were confident it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.
”The Queen’s pretty well known around Bayport,” Frank remarked. ”We should meet someone who saw it.”
”Seems strange to me,” said Joe, ”that a thief would take a car like that. Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and color. They’re easier to get rid of.”
”It’s possible,” Frank suggested, ”that the thief didn’t steal the car to sell it. Maybe, for some reason, he was making a fast getaway and he’ll abandon it.”
”Look!” Chet exclaimed, pointing to a truck garden where several men were hoeing cabbage plants. ”Maybe they saw the Queen.”
”I’ll ask them,” Frank offered, and brought his motorcycle to a stop.
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He scrambled over the fence and jumped across the rows of small plants until he reached the first farm hand.
”Did you see a yellow jalopy go by here within the past hour?” Frank asked him.
The lanky old farmer leaned on his hoe and put a hand to one ear. ”Eh?” he shouted.
”Did you see a fellow pass along here in a bright yellow car?” Frank repeated in a louder tone.
The farmer called to his companions. As they ambled over, the old man removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty chew.
”Lad here wants to know if we saw a jalopy come by,” he said slowly.
The other three farm hands, all rather elderly men, did not answer at once. Instead, they laid down their hoes and the plug of tobacco was duly passed around the group.
Frank grit his teeth. ”Please hurry up and answer. The car was stolen. We’re trying to find the thief!”
”That so?” said one of the men. ”A hot rod, eh?”
”Yes. A bright yellow one,” Frank replied.
Another of the workers removed his hat and mopped his brow. ”Seems to me,” he drawled, ”I did see a car come by here a while ago.”
”A yellow car?”
”No—’twarn’t yeller, come to think of it. I guess 
11
anyhow, it was a delivery truck, if I remember rightly.”
Frank strove to conceal his impatience. ”Please, did any of you—?”
”Was it a brand-new car, real shiny?” asked the fourth member of the group.
”No, it was an old car, but it was painted bright yellow,” Frank explained.
”My nephew had one of them things,” the farmer remarked. ”Never thought they was safe, myself.”
”I don’t agree with you,” still another man spoke up. ”All boys like cars and you might as well let ’em have one they can work on themselves.”
”You’re all wrong!” the deaf man interrupted. ”Let the boys work on the farm truck. That way they won’t get into mischief!” He gave a cackling sort of laugh. ”Well, son, I guess we ain’t been much help to you. Hope you find the critter that stole your hot rod.”
”Thanks,” said Frank, and joined the other boys. ”No luck. Let’s go!”
As they approached Bayport, the trio saw a girl walking along the road ahead of them. When the cyclists drew nearer, Frank’s face lighted up, for he had recognized Callie Shaw, who was in his class at Bayport High. Frank often dated Callie and liked her better than any girl he knew.
The boys brought their motorcycles to a sto 
12
beside pretty, brown-eyed Callie. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly battered package. She looked vexed.
”Hi, Callie! What’s the matter?” Frank asked. ”You look as if your last friend had gone off in a moon rocket.”
Callie gave a mischievous smile. ”How could I think that with you three friends showing up? Or are you about to take off?” Then her smile faded and she held out the damaged package. ”Look at that!” she exclaimed. ”It’s your fault, Chet Morton!”
The stout boy gulped. ”M-my fault? How do you figure that?”
”Well, dear old Mrs. Wills down the road is ill, so I baked her a cake.”
”Lucky Mrs. Wills,” Joe broke in. ”Callie, I’m feeling terribly ill.”
Callie ignored him. ”That man in the car came along here so fast that I jumped to the side of the road and dropped my package. I’m afraid my cake is ruined!”
”What man?” Joe asked.
”The one Chet lent his car to.”
”Callie, that’s the man we’re looking for!” Frank exclaimed. ”Chet didn’t lend him the car. He stole it!”
”Oh!” said Callie, shocked. ”Chet, that’s a shame.”
”Was he heading for Bayport?” Joe asked 
13
”Yes, and at the speed he was making the poor Queen travel, you’ll never catch him.”
Chet groaned. ”I just remembered that the gas gauge wasn’t working. I guess the car had more gas in it than I thought. No telling where that guy may take my Queen.”
”We’d better go to police headquarters,” Frank suggested. ”Callie, will you describe this man?”
”All I saw,” she answered, ”was a blur, but the man did have red hair.”
”Red hair!” Frank fairly shouted. ”Joe, do you think he could be the same man we saw? The one who wrecked his own car?”
Joe wagged his head. ”Miracles do happen. Maybe he wasn’t hurt very much and walked to Chet’s house.”
”And helped himself to my car!” Chet added.
Frank snapped his fingers. ”Say! Maybe the wrecked car didn’t belong to that fellow—”
”You mean he’d stolen it, too!” Joe interrupted.
”Yes—which would make him even more desperate to get away.”
”Whatever are you boys talking about?” Callie asked.
”I’ll phone you tonight and tell you,” Frank promised. ”Got to dash now.”
The boys waved good-by to Callie and hurried into town. They went at once to Chief Ezra Collig, head of the Bayport police force. He was a tall 
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husky man, well known to Fenton Hardy and his two sons. The chief had often turned to the private detective for help in solving particularly difficult cases.
When the boys went into his office they found the police chief talking with three excited men. One of these was Ike Harrity, the old ticket seller at the city ferryboat office. Another was Policeman Con Riley. The third was Oscar Smuff, a short, stout man. He was invariably seen wearing a checkered suit and a soft felt hat. He called himself a private detective and was working hard to earn a place on the Bayport police force.
”Smuff’s playing up to Collig again,” Joe whispered, chuckling, as the boys waited for the chief to speak to them.
Ike Harrity was frankly frightened. He was a timid man, who had perched on a high stool behind the ticket window at the ferryboat office day in and day out for a good many years.
”I was just countin’ up the mornin’s receipts,” he was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice, ”when in comes this fellow and sticks a revolver in front of my nose.”
”Just a minute,” interrupted Chief Collig, turning to the newcomers. ”What can I do for you boys?”
”I came to report a theft,” Chet spoke up. ”My hot rod has been stolen.”
”Why, it was one of those crazy hot rods thi 
15
fellow drove!” Ike Harrity cried out. ”A yellow one!”
”Ha!” exclaimed Oscar Smuff. ”A clue!” He immediately pulled a pencil and notebook from his pocket.
”My Queen!” shouted Chet.
Chief Collig rapped on his desk for quiet and asked, ”What’s a queen got to do with all this?”
Chet explained, then the chief related Harrity’s story for him.
”A man drove up to the ferryboat office and tried to hold up Mr. Harrity. But a passenger came into the office and the fellow ran away.”
As the officer paused, Frank gave Chief Collig a brief account of the wrecked blue sedan near the Morton farm.
”I’ll send some men out there right now.” The chief pressed a buzzer and quickly relayed his orders.
”It certainly looks,” Joe commented, ”as if the man who stole Chet’s car and the fellow who tried to hold up the ferryboat office are the same person!”
”Did you notice the color of the man’s hair?” Frank asked Mr. Harrity.
Smuff interrupted. ”What’s that got to do with it?”
”It may have a great deal to do with it,” Frank replied. ”What was the color of his hair, Mr. Harrity? 
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”Dark brown and short cropped.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other, perplexed. ”You’re sure it wasn’t red?” Joe asked.
Chief Collig sat forward in his chair. ”What are you driving at, boys? Have you some information about this man?”
”We were told,” said Joe, ”that the guy who stole Chet’s car had red hair. A friend of ours saw him.”
”Then he must have turned the jalopy over to someone else,” Chief Collig concluded.
At this moment a short, nervous little man was ushered into the room. He was the passenger who had gone into the ferryboat office at the time of the attempted holdup. Chief Collig had sent for him.
The newcomer introduced himself as Henry J. Brown of New York. He told of entering the office and seeing a man run away from the ticket window with a revolver in his hand.
”What color was his hair?” Frank asked eagerly. ”Did you notice?”
”I can’t say I did,” the man replied. ”My eyes were focused on that gun. Say, wait a minute! He had red hair. You couldn’t miss it! I noticed it after he jumped into the car.”
Oscar Smuff looked bewildered. ”You say he had red hair.” The detective turned to Mr. Harrity. ”And you say he had dark hair. Somethin’ wrong somewhere!” He shook his head in puzzlement 
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The others were puzzled too. Frank asked Mr. Brown to tell once more just when he had noticed the red hair.
”After the fellow leaned down in the car and popped his head up again,” the New Yorker replied.
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it possible the red hair was a wig and the thief had put it on just before Mr. Brown had noticed him? The boys kept still—they didn’t want any interference from Smuff in tracking down this clue.
Harrity and Brown began to argue over the color of the thief’s hair. Finally Chief Collig had to rap once more for order, ”I’ll send out an alarm for both this holdup man and for Chet’s car. I guess that’s all that can be done now.”
Undaunted by their failure to catch the thief, the Hardy boys left police headquarters with Chet Morton. They were determined to pursue the case.
”We’ll talk with Dad tonight, Chet,” Frank promised. ”Maybe he’ll give us some leads.”
”I sure hope so, fellows,” their friend replied as they climbed onto the motorcycles.
The same thought was running through Frank’s and Joe’s minds: maybe this mystery would turn out to be their first case 
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CHAPTER III
The Threat
”YOU’RE getting to be pretty good on that motorcycle, Frank,” Joe said as the boys rode into the Hardy garage. ”I’m not even scared to ride alongside you any more!”
”You’re not scared!” Frank pretended to take Joe seriously. ”What about me—riding with a daredevil like you?”
”Well,” Joe countered, ”let’s just admit that we’re both pretty good!”
”It sure was swell of Dad to let us have them,” Joe continued.
”Yes,” Frank agreed. ”And if we’re going to be detectives, we’ll get a lot of use out of them.”
The boys started toward the house, passing the old-fashioned barn on the property. Its first floor had been converted into a gymnasium which was used after school and on week ends by Frank and Joe and their friends.
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The Hardy home, on the corner of High and Elm streets, was an old stone house set in a large, tree-shaded lawn. Right now, crocuses and miniature narcissi were sticking their heads through the light-green grass.
”Hello, Mother!” said Frank, as he pushed open the kitchen door.
Mrs. Hardy, a petite, pretty woman, looked up from the table on which she was stuffing a large roasting chicken and smiled.
Her sons kissed her affectionately and Joe asked, ”Dad upstairs?”
”Yes, dear. He’s in his study.”
The study was Fenton Hardy’s workshop. Adjoining it was a fine library which contained not only books but files of disguises, records of criminal cases, and translations of thousands of codes.
Walking into the study, Frank and Joe greeted their father. ”We’re reporting errand accomplished,” Frank announced.
”Fine!” Mr. Hardy replied. Then he gave his sons a searching glance. ”I’d say your trip netted you more than just my errand.”
Frank and Joe had learned early in their boyhood that it was impossible to keep any secrets from their astute father. They assumed that this ability was one reason why he had been such a successful detective on the New York City police force before setting up a private practice in Bayport 
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”We ran into some real excitement,” Frank said, and told his father the whole story of Chet’s missing jalopy, the wrecked car which they suspected had been a stolen one also, and the attempted holdup at the ferryboat office.
”Chet’s counting on us to find his car,” Joe added.
Frank grinned. ”That is, unless the police find it first.”
Mr. Hardy was silent for several seconds. Then he said, ”Do you want a little advice? You know I never give it unless I’m asked for it.” He chuckled.
”We’ll need a lot of help,” Joe answered.
Mr. Hardy said that to him the most interesting angle to the case was the fact that the suspect apparently used one or more wigs as a disguise. ”He may have bought at least one of them in Bayport. I suggest that you boys make the rounds of all shops selling wigs and see what you can find out.”
The boys glanced at the clock on their father’s large desk, then Frank said, ”We’ll have time to do a little sleuthing before closing time. Let’s go!”
The two boys made a dash for the door, then both stopped short. They did not have the slightest idea where they were going! Sheepishly Joe asked, ”Dad, do you know which stores sell wigs?”
With a twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hardy arose from the desk, walked into the library, and opened a file drawer labeled ”W through Z.” A moment later he pulled out a thick folder marked WIGS 
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Manufacturers, distributors, and retail shops of the world.
”Why, Dad, I didn’t know you had all this information—” Joe began.
His father merely smiled. He thumbed through the heavy sheaf of papers, and pulled one out.
”Bayport,” he read. ”Well, three of these places can be eliminated at once. They sell only women’s hair pieces. Now let’s see. Frank, get a paper and pencil. First there’s Schwartz’s Masquerade and Costume Shop. It’s at 79 Renshaw Avenue. Then there’s Flint’s at Market and Pine, and one more: Ruben Brothers. That’s on Main Street just this side of the railroad.”
”Schwartz’s is closest,” Frank spoke up. ”Let’s try him first, Joe.”
Hopefully the boys dashed out to their motorcycles and hurried downtown. As they entered Schwartz’s shop, a short, plump, smiling man came toward them.
”Well, you just got under the wire, fellows,” he said, looking up at a large old-fashioned clock on the wall. ”I was going to close up promptly tonight because a big shipment came in today and I never have time except after business hours to unpack and list my merchandise.”
”Our errand won’t take long,” said Frank. ”We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the detective. We’d like to know whether or not you recently sold a red wig to a man. 
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Mr. Schwartz shook his head. ”I haven’t sold a red wig in months, or even rented one. Everybody seems to want blond or brown or black lately. But you understand, I don’t usually sell wigs at all. I rent ”em.”
”I understand,” said Frank. ”We’re just trying to find out about a man who uses a red wig as a disguise. We thought he might have bought or rented it here and that you would know his name.”
Mr. Schwartz leaned across the counter. ”This man you speak of—he sounds like a character. It’s just possible he may come in to get a wig from me. If he does, I’ll be glad to let you know.”
The boys thanked the shopkeeper and were about to leave when Mr. Schwartz called, ”Hold on a minute!”
The Hardys hoped that the dealer had suddenly remembered something important. This was not the case, however. With a grin the man asked the boys if they would like to help him open some cartons which had arrived and to try on the costumes.
”Those folks at the factory don’t always get the sizes marked right,” he said. ”Would you be able to stay a few minutes and help me? I’ll be glad to pay you.”
”Oh, we don’t want any money,” Joe spoke up. ”To tell you the truth, I’d like to see your costumes.”
Mr. Schwartz locked the front door of his shop 
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then led the boys into a rear room. It was so filled with costumes of all kinds and paraphernalia for theatrical work, plus piles of cartons, that Frank and Joe wondered how the man could ever find anything.
”Here is today’s shipment,” Mr. Schwartz said, pointing to six cartons standing not far from the rear entrance to his shop.
Together he and the boys slit open the boxes and one by one lifted out a king’s robe, a queen’s tiara, and a Little Bopeep costume. Suddenly Mr. Schwartz said:
”Here’s a skeleton marked size thirty-eight. Would one of you boys mind trying it on?”
Frank picked up the costume, unzipped the back, and stepped into the skeleton outfit. It was tremendous on him and the ribs sagged ludicrously.
”Guess a fat man modeled for this,” he remarked, holding the garment out to its full width.
At that moment there was a loud rap on the front door of the store. Mr. Schwartz made no move to answer it. ”I’m closed,” he said. ”Let him rap.”
Suddenly Frank had an idea. The thief who used wigs might be the late customer, coming on purpose at this hour to avoid meeting other people. Without a word to the others, he dashed through the doorway into the store and toward the front entrance 
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He could vaguely see someone waiting to be admitted. But the stranger gave one look at the leaping, out-of-shape skeleton and disappeared in a flash. At the same moment Frank tripped and fell headlong.
Mr. Schwartz and Joe, hearing the crash, rushed out to see what had happened. Frank, hopelessly tangled in the skeleton attire, was helped to his feet. When he told the others why he had made his unsuccessful dash to the front door, they conceded he might have a point.
”But you sure scared him away in that outfit,” Joe said, laughing. ”He won’t be back!”
The boys stayed for over half an hour helping Mr. Schwartz, then said good-by and went home.
”Monday we’ll tackle those other two wig shops,” said Frank.
The following morning the Hardy family attended church, then after dinner Frank and Joe told their parents they were going to ride out to see Chet Morton ”We’ve been invited to stay to supper,” Frank added. ”But we promise not to get home late.”
The Hardys picked up Callie Shaw, who also had been invited. Gaily she perched on the seat behind Frank.
”Hold on, Callie,” Joe teased. ”Frank’s a wild cyclist!”
The young people were greeted at the door of the Morton farmhouse by Chet’s younger siste 
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Iola, dark-haired and pretty. Joe Hardy thought she was quite the nicest girl in Bayport High and dated her regularly.
As dusk came on, the five young people gathered in the Mortons’ kitchen to prepare supper. Chet, who loved to eat, was in charge, and doled out various jobs to the others. When he finished, Joe remarked, ”And what are you going to do, big boy?”
The stout youth grinned. ”I’m the official taster.”
A howl went up from the others. ”No workee, no eatee,” said Iola flatly.
Chet grinned. ”Oh, well, if you insist, I’ll make a little side dish for all of us. How about Welsh rabbit?”
”You’re elected!” the others chorused, and Chet set to work.
The farmhouse kitchen was large and contained a group of windows in one corner. Here stood a large table, where the young people decided to eat. They had just sat down when the telephone rang. Chet got up and walked out in the hall to answer it. Within a minute he re-entered the kitchen, his eyes bulging.
”What’s the matter?” Iola asked quickly.
”I— I’ve been th-threatened!” Chet replied.
”Threatened!” the others cried out. ”How?”
Chet was so frightened he could hardly speak, but he managed to make the others understan 
26
that a man had just said on the telephone, ”You’ll never get your jalopy back. And if you don’t lay off trying to find me or your car, you’re going to get hurt!”
”Whew!” cried Joe. ”This is getting serious!” Callie and Iola had clutched their throats and were staring wild-eyed at Chet. Frank, about to speak, happened to glance out the window toward the barn. For an instant he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no! They were not. A figure was sneaking from the barn and down the lane toward the highway.
”Fellows!” he cried suddenly. ”Follow me! 
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CHAPTER IV
Red Versus Yellow
BY THE time the Hardy boys and Chet had raced from the Mortons’ kitchen, the prowler was not in sight. Thinking he had run across one of the fields, the three pursuers scattered in various directions to search. Joe struck out straight ahead and pressed his ear to the ground to listen for receding footsteps. He could hear none. Presently the three boys met once more to discuss their failure to catch up to the man, and to question why he had been there.
”Do you think he was a thief?” Joe asked Chet. ”What would he steal?”
”Search me,” the stout boy replied. ”Let’s take a look.”
”I believe he was carrying something, but I couldn’t see what it was,” Frank revealed.
The barn door had not been closed yet for the night and the boys walked in. Chet turned on the lights and the searchers gazed around.
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”Look!” Frank cried suddenly.
He pointed to the floor below the telephone extension in the barn. There lay a man’s gray wig.
”The intruder’s!” Joe exclaimed.
”It sure looks so,” Frank agreed. ”And something must have scared him. In his hurry to get away he must have dropped this.”
Frank picked up the wig and examined it carefully for a clue. ”No identifying mark in it. Say, I have an idea,” he burst out. ”That man phoned you from here, Chet.”
”You mean he’s the one who threatened me?”
”Yes. If you know how, you can call your own telephone number from an extension.”
”That’s right.”
Chet was wagging his head. ”You mean that guy bothered to come all the way here to use this phone to threaten me? Why?”
Both Hardys said they felt the man had not come specifically for that reason. There was another more important one. ”We must figure it out. Chet, you ought to be able to answer that better than anybody else. What is there, or was there, in this barn to interest such a person?”
The stout boy scratched his head and let his eyes wander around the building. ”It wouldn’t be any of the livestock,” he said slowly. ”And it couldn’t be hay or feed.” Suddenly Chet snapped his fingers. ”Maybe I have the answer. Wait a minute, fellows. 
29
On the floor lay a man’s wi 
30
He disappeared from the barn and made a beeline for the garage. Chet hurried inside but was back in a few seconds.
”I have it!” he shouted. ”That guy came here to get the spare tire for the jalopy.”
”The one you had is gone?” Frank asked.
Chet nodded. He suggested that perhaps the man was not too far away. He might be on some side road changing the tire. ”Let’s find out,” he urged.
Although the Hardys felt that it would be a useless search, they agreed to go along. They got on their motorcycles, with Chet riding behind Joe. The boys went up one road and down another, covering the territory very thoroughly. They saw no parked car.
”Not even any evidence that a driver pulled off the road and stayed to change a tire,” Frank remarked. ”No footprints, no tool marks, no treads.”
”That guy must have had somebody around to pick him up,” Chet concluded with a sigh.
”Cheer up, Chet,” Frank said, as they walked back to the house. ”That spare tire may turn out to be a clue in this case.”
When the boys entered the kitchen again, they were met with anxious inquiries from Callie and Iola.
”What in the world were you doing—dashin 
31
out of here without a word?” Callie asked in a shaking voice.
”Yes, what’s going on? You had us frightened silly,” Iola joined in. ”First Chet gets a threatening phone call, and then suddenly all three of you run out of the house like madmen!”
”Calm down, girls,” Frank said soothingly. ”I saw a prowler, and we were looking for him, but all we found was this!” He tossed the gray wig onto a chair in the hall.
Suddenly there was a loud wail from Chet. ”My Welsh rabbit! It’s been standing so long it will be ruined!”
Iola began to giggle. ”Oh, you men!” she said. ”Do you suppose Callie and I would let all that good cheese go to waste? We kept that Welsh rabbit at just the right temperature and it isn’t spoiled at all.”
Chet looked relieved, as he and the others took their places at the table. Although there was a great deal of bantering during the meal, the conversation in the main revolved around Chet’s missing jalopy and the thief who evidently wore hair disguises to suit his fancy.
Frank and Joe asked Chet if they might take along the gray wig and examine it more thoroughly. There might be some kind of mark on it to indicate either the maker or the owner. Chet readily agreed 
32
But when supper was over, Callie said to Frank with a teasing gleam in her eyes, ”Why don’t you hot-shot sleuths examine that wig now? I’d like to watch your super-duper methods.”
”Just for that, I will,” said Frank.
He went to get the wig from the hall chair, and then laid it on the kitchen table. From his pocket he took a small magnifying glass and carefully examined every inch of the lining of the wig.
”Nothing here,” he said presently.
The hair was thoroughly examined and parted strand by strand to see if there were any identifying designations on the hair piece. Frank could discover nothing.
”I’m afraid this isn’t going to help us much,” he said in disgust. ”But I’ll show it to the different wig men in town.”
As he finished speaking the telephone rang and Iola went to answer it. Chet turned white and looked nervous. Was the caller the man who had threatened him? And what did he want?
Presently Iola returned to the kitchen, a worried frown on her face. ”It’s a man for you, Chet. He wouldn’t give his name.”
Trembling visibly, Chet walked slowly to the telephone. The others followed and listened.
”Ye-yes, I’m Chet Morton. N-no, I haven’t got my car back.”
There was a long silence, as the person on the other end of the line spoke rapidly 
33
”B-but I haven’t any money,” Chet said finally. ”I— Well, okay, I’ll let you know.”
Chet hung up and wobbled to a nearby chair. The others bombarded him with questions.
The stout boy took a deep breath, then said, ”I can get my jalopy back. But the man wants a lot of money for the information as to where it is.”
”Oh, I’m glad you’re going to get your car back!” Callie exclaimed.
”But I haven’t got any money,” Chet groaned.
”Who’s the man?” Frank demanded.
There was another long pause before Chet answered. Then, looking at the waiting group before him, he announced simply, ”Smuff. Oscar Smuff!”
His listeners gasped in astonishment. This was the last thing they expected to hear. The detective was selling information as to where Chet would find his missing jalopy!
”Why, that cheap so-and-so!” Joe cried out angrily.
Chet explained that Smuff had said he was not in business for his health. He had to make a living and any information which he dug up as a detective should be properly paid for.
Frank shrugged. ”I suppose Smuff has a point there. How much does he want for the information, Chet?”
”His fee is twenty-five dollars!”
”What!” the others cried out.
After a long consultation it was decided tha 
34
the young people would pool their resources. Whatever sum they could collect toward the twenty-five dollars would be offered to Oscar Smuff to lead them to Chet’s car.
”But make it very plain,” Frank admonished, ”that if it’s not your jalopy Smuff leads us to, you won’t pay him one nickel.”
Chet put in a call to Smuff’s home. As expected, the detective grumbled at the offer of ten dollars but finally accepted it. He said he would pick up the boys in half an hour and take them to the spot.
About this time Mr. and Mrs. Morton returned home. Chet and Iola’s father was a good-looking, jolly man with his son’s same general build and coloring. He was in the real-estate business in Bayport and ran the farm as a hobby.
Mrs. Morton was an older edition of her daughter Iola and just as witty and lighthearted. But when she learned what had transpired and that her son had been threatened, she was worried.
”You boys must be very careful,” Mrs. Morton advised. ”From what I hear about Smuff, this red-haired thief could easily put one over on him. So watch your step!”
Chet promised that they would.
”Good luck!” Callie called out, as Smuff beeped his horn outside the door. ”And don’t be too late. I want to hear the news before I have to go home. 
35
Frank, Joe, and Chet found Smuff entirely uncommunicative about where they were going. He seemed to enjoy the role he was playing.
”I knew I’d be the one to break this case,” he boasted.
Joe could not resist the temptation of asking Smuff if he was going to lead them to the thief as well as to the car. The detective flushed in embarrassment and admitted that he did not have full details yet on this part of the mystery.
”But it won’t be long before I capture that fellow,” he assured the boys. They managed to keep their faces straight and only hoped that they were not now on a wild-goose chase.
Twenty minutes later Smuff pulled into the town of Ducksworth and drove straight to a used-car lot. Stopping, he announced, ”Well, here we are. Get ready to fork over that money, Chet.”
Smuff nodded to the attendant in charge, then led the boys down a long aisle past row after row of cars to where several jalopies were lined up against a rear fence. Turning left, the detective finally paused before a bright red car.
”Here you are!” said Smuff grandly, extending his right hand toward Chet. ”My money, please.”
The stout boy as well as the Hardys stared at the jalopy. There was no question but that it was the same make and model as Chet’s.
”The thief thought he could disguise it by painting it red,” Smuff explained 
36
”Is that your guess?” Frank asked quietly.
Oscar Smuff frowned. ”How else could you figure it?” he asked.
”Then there’ll be yellow paint under the red,” Frank went on. ”Let’s take a look to make sure.”
It was evident that Smuff did not like this procedure. ”So you doubt me, eh?” he asked in an unpleasant tone.
”Anybody can get fooled,” Frank told him. ”Well, Chet, let’s operate on this car.”
The detective stood by sullenly as Frank pulled out a penknife and began to scrape the red paint off part of the fender 
37
CHAPTER V
The Hunt Is Intensified
”HEY!” Oscar Smuff shouted, ”You be careful with that penknife! The man who owns this place don’t want you ruinin’ his cars!”
Frank Hardy looked up at the detective. ”I’ve watched my father scrape off flecks of paint many times. The way he does it, you wouldn’t know anybody had made a mark.”
Smuff grunted. ”But you’re not your father. Easy there!”
As cautiously as possible Frank picked off flecks of the red paint in a spot where it would hardly be noticeable. Taking a flashlight from his pocket, he trained it on the spot.
Joe, leaning over his brother’s shoulder, said, ”There was light-blue paint under this red, not yellow.”
”Right,” Frank agreed, eying Smuff intently.
The detective reddened. ”You fellows trying to
38
tell me this isn’t Chet’s jalopy?” he demanded. ”Well, I’m telling you it is, and I’m right!”
”Oh, we haven’t said you’re wrong,” Joe spoke up quickly. Secretly he was hoping that this was Chet’s car, but reason told him it was not.
”We’ll try another place,” Frank said, straightening up, and walking around to a fender on the opposite side.
Here, too, the test indicated that the car had been painted light blue before the red coat had been put over it.
”Well, maybe the thief put blue on and then red,” said Smuff stubbornly.
Frank grinned. ”We’ll go a little deeper. If the owner of this establishment objects, we’ll pay for having the fenders painted.”
But though Frank went down through several layers of paint, he could not find any sign of yellow.
All this time Chet had been walking round and round the car, looking intently at it inside and out. Even before Frank announced that he was sure this was not the missing jalopy, Chet was convinced of it himself.
”The Queen had a long, thin dent in the right rear fender,” he said. ”And that seat cushion by the door had a little split in it. I don’t think the thief would have bothered to fix them up.”
Chet showed his keen disappointment, but he was glad that the Hardys had come along to hel 
39
him prove the truth. But Smuff was not giving up the money so easily.
”You haven’t proved a thing,” he said. ”The man who runs this place admitted that maybe this is a stolen car. The fellow who sold it to him said he lived on a farm outside Bayport.”
The Hardys and Chet were taken aback for a moment by this information. But in a moment Frank said, ”Let’s go talk to the owner. We’ll find out more about the person who brought this car in.”
The man who ran the used-car lot was very cooperative. He readily answered all questions the Hardys put to him. The bill of sale revealed that the former owner of the red jalopy was Melvin Schuster of Bayport.
”Why, we know him!” Frank spoke up. ”He goes to Bayport High—at least, he did. He and his family moved far away. That’s probably why he sold his car.”
”But Mr. Smuff said you suspected the car was stolen,” Joe put in.
The used-car lot owner smiled. ”I’m afraid maybe Mr. Smuff put that idea in my head. I did say that the person seemed in an awful hurry to get rid of the car and sold it very cheap. Sometimes when that happens, we dealers are a little afraid to take the responsibility of buying a car, in case it is stolen property. But at the time Mr. Schuste 
40
came in, I thought everything was on the level and bought his jalopy.”
Frank said that he was sure everything was all right, and after the dealer described Melvin Schuster, there was no question but that he was the owner.
Smuff was completely crestfallen. Without a word he started for his own car and the boys followed. The detective did not talk on the way back to the Morton farm, and the boys, feeling rather sorry for him, spoke of matters other than the car incident.
As the Hardys and Chet walked into the Morton home, the two girls rushed forward. ”Did you find it?” Iola asked eagerly.
Chet sighed. ”Another one of Smuff’s bluffs,” he said disgustedly. He handed back the money which his friends had given to help pay the detective.
Frank and Joe said good-by, went for their motorcycles, and took Callie home. Then they returned to their own house, showered, and went to bed.
As soon as school was over the next day, they took the gray wig and visited Schwartz’s shop. The owner assured them that the hair piece had not come from his store.
”It’s a very cheap one,” the man said rather disdainfully.
Frank and Joe visited Flint’s and Ruben Brothers’ shops as well. Neither place had sol 
41
the gray wig. Furthermore, neither of them had had a customer in many weeks who had wanted a red wig, or who was in the habit of using wigs or toupees of various colors.
”Today’s sleuthing was a complete washout,” Joe reported that night to his father.
The famous detective smiled. ”Don’t be discouraged,” he said. ”I can tell you that one bit of success makes up for a hundred false trails.”
As the boys were undressing for bed later, Frank reminded his brother that the following day was a school holiday. ”That’ll give us hours and hours to work on the case,” he said enthusiastically.
”What do you suggest we do?” Joe asked.
Frank shrugged. Several ideas were brought up by the brothers, but one which Joe proposed was given preference. They would get hold of a large group of their friends. On the theory that the thief could not have driven a long distance away because of the police alarm, the boys would make an extensive search in the surrounding area for Chet’s jalopy.
”We’ll hunt in every possible hiding place,” he stated.
Early the next morning Frank hurried to the telephone and put in one call after another to ”the gang.” These included, besides Chet Morton, Allen Hooper, nicknamed Biff because of his fondness for a distant relative who was a boxer named Biff; Jerry Gilroy, Phil Cohen, and Tony Prito. Al 
42
were students at Bayport High and prominent in various sports.
The five boys were eager to co-operate. They agreed to assemble at the Hardy home at nine o’clock. In the meantime, Frank and Joe would lay out a plan of action.
As soon as breakfast was over the Hardys told their father what they had in mind and asked if he had any suggestions on how they might go about their search.
”Take a map,” he said, ”with our house as a radius and cut pie-shaped sections. I suggest that two boys work together.”
By nine o’clock his sons had mapped out the search in detail. The first recruit to arrive was Tony Prito, a lively boy with a good sense of humor. He was followed in a moment by Phil Cohen, a quiet, intelligent boy.
”Put us to work,” said Tony. ”I brought one of my father’s trucks that he isn’t going to use today.” Tony’s father was in the contracting business. ”I can cover a lot of miles in it.”
Frank suggested that Tony and Phil work together. He showed them the map, with Bayport as the center of a great circle, cut into four equal sections.
”Suppose you take from nine o’clock to twelve on this dial we’ve marked. Mother has agreed to stay at home all day and act as clearing house for our reports. Call in every hour. 
43
”Will do,” Tony promised. ”Come on, Phil. Let’s get going!”
The two boys were just starting off when Biff and Jerry arrived at the Hardy home on motorcycles. Biff, blond and long-legged, had an ambling gait, with which he could cover a tremendous amount of territory in a short time. Jerry, an excellent fielder on Bayport High’s baseball team, was of medium height, wiry, and strong.
Biff and Jerry were assigned to the section on the map designated six to nine o’clock. They were given further instructions on sleuthing, then started off on their quest.
”Where’s Chet?” Mr. Hardy asked his sons. ”Wasn’t he going to help in the search?”
”He probably overslept. Chet’s been known to do that,” Frank said with a grin.
”He also might have taken time for a double breakfast,” Joe suggested.
Mrs. Hardy, who had stepped to the front porch, called, ”Here he comes now. Isn’t that Mr. Morton’s car?”
”Yes, it is,” Frank replied.
Chet’s father let him off in front of the Hardy home and the stout boy hurried to the porch. ”Good morning, Mrs. Hardy. Good morning, Mr. Hardy. Hi, chums!” he said cheerily. ”Sorry to be late. My dad had a lot of phoning to do before he left. I was afraid if I’d tried to walk here, I wouldn’t have arrived until tomorrow. 
44
At this point Mr. Hardy spoke up. ”As I said before, I think you boys should work in twos. There are only three of you to take care of half the territory.” The detective suddenly grinned boyishly. ”How about me learning up with one of you?”
Frank and Joe looked at their dad in delight. ”You mean it?” Frank cried out. ”I’ll choose you as my partner right now.”
”I have a further suggestion,” the detective said. ”It’s not going to take you fellows more than three hours to cover the area you’ve laid out. And there’s an additional section I think you might look into.”
”What’s that?” Joe inquired.
”Willow Grove. That’s a park area, but there’s also a lot of tangled woodland to one side of it. Good place to hide a stolen car.”
Mr. Hardy suggested that the boys meet for a picnic lunch at Willow Grove and later do some sleuthing in the vicinity. ”That is, provided you haven’t found Chet’s jalopy by that time.”
Mrs. Hardy spoke up. ”I’ll fix a nice lunch for all of you,” she offered.
”That sure would be swell,” Chet said hastily. ”You make grand picnic lunches, Mrs. Hardy.”
Frank and Joe liked the plan, and it was decided that the boys would have the picnic whether or not they had found the jalopy by one o’clock. Mrs. Hardy said she would relay the news to the other boys when they phoned in 
45
Chet and Joe set off on the Hardy boys’ motorcycles, taking the twelve-to-three segment on the map. Then Mr. Hardy and Frank drove off for the three-to-six area.
Hour after hour went by, with the searchers constantly on the alert. Every garage, public and private, every little-used road, every patch of woods was thoroughly investigated. There was no sign of Chet’s missing yellow jalopy. Finally at one o’clock Frank and his father returned to the Hardy home. A few moments later Joe and Chet returned and a huge picnic lunch was stowed aboard the two motorcycles.
When the three boys reached the picnic area they were required to park their motorcycles outside the fence. They unstrapped the lunch baskets and carried them down to the lake front. The other boys were already there.
”Too bad we can’t go swimming,” Tony remarked, ”but this water’s pretty cold.”
Quickly they unpacked the food and assembled around one of the park picnic tables.
”Um! Yum! Chicken sandwiches!” Chet cried gleefully.
During the meal the boys exchanged reports on their morning’s sleuthing. All had tried hard but failed to find any trace of the missing car.
”Our work hasn’t ended,” Frank reminded the others. ”But I’m so stuffed I’m going to rest a while before I start out again. 
46
All the other boys but Joe Hardy felt the same way and lay down on the grass for a nap. Joe, eager to find out whether or not the woods to their right held the secret of the missing car, plunged off alone through the underbrush.
He searched for twenty minutes without finding a clue to any automobile. He was on the point of returning and waiting for the other boys when he saw a small clearing ahead of him. It appeared to be part of an abandoned roadway.
Excitedly Joe pushed on through the dense undergrowth. It was in a low-lying part of the grove and the ground was wet. At one point it was quite muddy, and it was here that Joe saw something that aroused his curiosity.
”A tire! Then maybe an automobile has been in here,” he muttered to himself, although there were no tire marks in the immediate vicinity. ”No footprints, either. I guess someone tossed this tire here.”
Remembering his father’s admonitions on the value of developing one’s powers of observation, Joe went closer and examined the tire.
”That tread,” he thought excitedly, ”looks familiar.”
He gazed at it until he was sure, then dashed back to the other boys.
”I’ve found a clue!” he cried out. ”Come on, everybody! 
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CHAPTER VI
The Robbery
JOE HARDY quickly led the way into the swampy area as the other boys trooped along, everyone talking at once. When they reached the spot, Chet examined the tire and exclaimed:
”There’s no mistake about it! This is one of the tires! When the thief put on the new one, he threw this away.”
”Perhaps the Queen is still around,” suggested Frank quickly. ”The thief may have picked this road as a good place to hide your jalopy until he could make a getaway.”
”It would be an ideal place,” Chet agreed. ”People coming to Willow Grove have to park at the gate, so nobody would come in here. But this old road comes in from the main highway. Let’s take a look, fellows.”
A scrutinizing search was begun along the aban-
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doned road in the direction of the highway. A moment later Frank and Chet, in the lead, cried out simultaneously.
”Here’s a bypath! And here are tire marks!” Frank exclaimed. To one side was a narrow roadway, almost overgrown with weeds and low bushes. It led from the abandoned road into the depths of the woods.
Without hesitation Frank and Chet plunged into it. Presently the roadway widened out, then wound about a heavy clump of trees. It came to an end in a wide clearing.
In the clearing stood Chet Morton’s lost jalopy!
”My Queen!” he yelled in delight. ”Her own license plates!”
His shout was heard by the rest of the boys, who came on a run. Chet’s joy was boundless. He examined the car with minute care, while his chums crowded around. At last he straightened up with a smile of satisfaction.
”She hasn’t been damaged a bit. All ready to run. The thief just hid the old bus in here and made a getaway. Come on, fellows, climb aboard. Free ride to the highway!”
Before leaving, the Hardys examined footprints left by the thief. ”He wore sneakers,” Frank observed.
Suddenly Chet swung open the door and looked on the floor. ”You mean he wore my sneakers. They’re gone. 
49
”And carried his own shoes,” Joe observed. ”Very clever. Well, that washes out one clue. Can’t trace the man by his shoe prints.”
”Let’s go!” Chet urged.
He jumped into the car and in a few seconds the engine roared. There was barely sufficient room in the clearing to permit him to turn the jalopy about. When he swung around and headed up the bypath, the boys gave a cheer and hastened to clamber aboard.
Lurching and swaying, the car reached the abandoned road and from there made the run to the main highway. The boys transferred to Tony’s truck and the motorcycles, and formed a parade into Bayport, with Frank and Joe in the lead. It was their intention to ride up to police headquarters and announce their success to Chief Collig.
”And I hope Smuff will be around,” Chet gloated.
As the grinning riders came down Main Street, however, they noticed that no one paid any attention to them, and there seemed to be an unusual air of mystery in the town. People were standing in little groups, gesticulating and talking earnestly.
Presently the Hardys saw Oscar Smuff striding along with a portentous frown. Joe called out to him. ”What’s going on, detective? You notice we found Chet’s car.”
”I’ve got something more important than stolen cars to worry— Hey, what’s that?” Detective Smuf 
50
stared blankly, as the full import of the discovery filtered his consciousness.
The boys waited for Stnuff’s praise, but he did not giv it. Instead, he said, ”I got a big mystery to solve. The Tower Mansion has been robbed!”
”Good night!” the Hardys chorused.
Tower Mansion was one of the show places of Bayport. Few people in the city had ever been permitted to enter the place and the admiration which the palatial building excited was solely by reason of its exterior appearance. But the first thing a newcomer to Bayport usually asked was, ”Who owns that house with the towers over on the hill?”
It was an immense, rambling stone structure overlooking the bay, and could be seen for miles, silhouetted against the sky line like an ancient feudal castle. The resemblance to a castle was heightened by the fact that from each of the far ends of the mansion arose a high tower.
One of these had been built when the mansion was erected by Major Applegate, an eccentric, retired old Army man who had made a fortune by lucky real-estate deals. Years ago there had been many parties and dances in the mansion.
But the Applegate family had become scattered until at last there remained in the old home only Hurd Applegate and his sister Adelia. They lived in the vast, lonely mansion at the present time.
Hurd Applegate was a man about sixty, tall, and stooped. His life seemed to be devoted now to th 
51
collection of rare stamps. But a few years before he had built a new tower on the mansion, a duplicate of the original one.
His sister Adelia was a maiden lady of uncertain years. Well-dressed women in Bayport were amused by her clothes. She dressed in clashing colors and unbecoming styles. Hurd and Adelia Applegate were reputed to be enormously wealthy, although they lived simply, kept only a few servants, and never had visitors.
”Tell us about the theft,” Joe begged Smuff.
But the detective waved his hand airily. ”You’ll have to find out yourselves,” he retorted as he hurried off.
Frank and Joe called good-by to their friends and headed for home. As they arrived, the boys saw Hurd Applegate just leaving the house. The man tapped the steps with his cane as he came down them. When he heard the boys’ motorcycles he gave them a piercing glance.
”Good day!” he growled in a grudging manner and went on his way.
”He must have been asking Dad to take the case,” Frank said to his brother, as they pulled into the garage.
The boys rushed into the house, eager to find out more about the robbery. In the front hallway they met their father.
”We heard the Tower Mansion has been robbed,” said Joe 
52
Mr. Hardy nodded. ”Yes. Mr. Applegate was just here to tell me about it. He wants me to handle the case.”
”How much was taken?”
Mr. Hardy smiled. ”Well, I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you. The safe in the Applegate library was opened. The loss will be about forty thousand dollars, all in securities and jewels.”
”Whew!” exclaimed Frank. ”What a haul! When did it happen?”
”Either last night or this morning. Mr. Applegate did not get up until after ten o’clock this morning and did not go into the library until nearly noon. It was then that he discovered the theft.”
”How was the safe opened?”
”By using the combination. It was opened either by someone who knew the set of numbers or else by a very clever thief who could detect the noise of the tumblers. I’m going up to the house in a few minutes. Mr. Applegate is to call for me.”
”I’d like to go along,” Joe said eagerly.
”So would I,” Frank declared.
Mr. Hardy looked at his sons and smiled. ”Well, if you want to be detectives, I suppose it is about as good a chance as any to watch a crime investigation from the inside. If Mr. Applegate doesn’t object, you may come with me.”
A few minutes later a foreign-make, chauffeur-driven car drew up before the Hardy home. Mr 
53
Applegate was seated in the rear, his chin resting on his cane. The three Hardys went outside. When the detective mentioned the boys’ request, the man merely grunted assent and moved over. Frank and Joe stepped in after their father. The car headed toward Tower Mansion.
”I don’t really need a detective in this case!” Hurd Applegate snapped. ”Don’t need one at all. It’s as clear as the nose on your face. I know who took the stuff. But I can’t prove it.”
”Whom do you suspect?” Fenton Hardy asked.
”Only one man in the world could have taken the jewels and securities. Robinson!”
”Robinson?’”
”Yes. Henry Robinson—the caretaker. He’s the man.”
The Hardy boys looked at each other in consternation. Henry Robinson, the caretaker of the Tower Mansion, was the father of one of their closest chums! Perry Robinson, nicknamed ”Slim,” was the son of the accused man!
That his father should be blamed for the robbery seemed absurd to the Hardy boys. They had met Mr. Robinson upon several occasions and he had appeared to be a good-natured, easygoing man with high principles.
”I don’t believe he’s guilty,” Frank whispered.
”Neither do I,” returned his brother.
”What makes you suspect Robinson?” Mr. Hardy asked Hurd Applegate 
54
”He’s the only person besides my sister and me who ever saw that safe opened and closed. He could have learned the combination if he’d kept his eyes and ears open, which I’m sure he did.”
”Is that your only reason for suspecting him?”
”No. This morning he paid oft a nine-hundred-dollar note at the bank. And I know for a fact he didn’t have more than one hundred dollars to his name a few days ago. Now where did he raise nine hundred dollars so suddenly?”
”Perhaps he has a good explanation,” Mr. Hardy suggested.
”Oh, he’ll have an explanation all right!” sniffed Mr. Applegate. ”But it will have to be a mighty good one to satisfy me.”
The automobile was now speeding up the wide driveway that led to Tower Mansion and within a few minutes stopped at the front entrance. Mr. Hardy and the two boys accompanied the eccentric man into the house.
”Nothing has been disturbed in the library since the discovery of the theft,” he said, leading the way there.
Mr. Hardy examined the open safe, then took a special magnifying glass from his pocket. With minute care he inspected the dial of the combination lock. Next he walked to each window and the door to examine them for fingerprints. He asked Mr. Applegate to hold his fingers up to a strong light and got a clear view of the whorls and line 
55
on the inside of the tips. At last he shook his head.
”A smooth job,” he observed. ”The thief must have worn gloves. All the fingerprints in the room, Mr. Applegate, seem to be yours.”
”No use looking for fingerprints or any other evidence!” Mr. Applegate barked impatiently. ”It was Robinson, I tell you.”
”Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to ask him a few questions,” Mr. Hardy advised.
Mr. Applegate rang for one of the servants and instructed him to tell the caretaker to come to the library at once. Mr. Hardy glanced at the boys and suggested they wait in the hallway.
”It might prove less embarrassing to Mr. Robinson that way,” he said in a low voice.
Frank and Joe readily withdrew. In the hall they met Mr. Robinson and his son Perry. The man was calm, but pale, and at the doorway he patted Slim on the shoulder.
”Don’t worry,” he said. ”Everything will be all right.” With that he entered the library.
Slim turned to his two friends. ”It’s got to be!” he cried out. ”My dad is innocent! 
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CHAPTER VII
The Arrest
FRANK and Joe were determined to help their chum prove his father’s innocence. They shared his conviction that Mr. Robinson was not guilty.
”Of course he’s innocent,” Frank agreed. ”He’ll be able to clear himself all right, Slim.”
”But things look pretty black right now,” the boy said. He was white-faced and shaken. ”Unless Mr. Hardy can catch the real thief, I’m afraid Dad will be blamed for the robbery.”
”Everybody knows your father is honest,” said Joe consolingly. ”He has been a faithful employee —even Mr. Applegate will have to admit that.”
”Which won’t help him much if he can’t clear himself of the charge. And Dad admits that he did know the combination of the safe, although of course he’d never use it.”
”He knew it?” repeated Joe, surprised.
57
”Dad learned the combination accidentally. It was so simple one couldn’t forget it. This was how it happened. One day when he was cleaning the library fireplace, he found a piece of paper with numbers on it. He studied them and decided they were the safe combination. Dad laid the paper on the desk. The window was open and he figured the breeze must have blown the paper to the floor.”
”Does Mr. Applegate know that?”
”Not yet. But Dad is going to tell him now. He realizes it will look bad for him, but he’s going to give Mr. Applegate the truth.”
From the library came the hum of voices. The harsh tones of Hurd Applegate occasionally rose above the murmur of conversation and finally the boys heard Mr. Robinson’s voice rise sharply.
”I didn’t do it! I tell you I didn’t take that money!”
”Then where did you get the nine hundred you paid on that note?” demanded Mr. Applegate.
Silence.
”Where did you get it?”
”I’m not at liberty to tell you or anyone else.”
”Why not?”
”I got the money honestly—that’s all I can say about it.”
”Oh, ho!” exclaimed Mr. Applegate. ”You got the money honestly, yet you can’t tell me where it came from! A pretty story! If you got the money 
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honestly you shouldn’t be ashamed to tell where it came from.”
”I’m not ashamed. I can only say again, I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”
”Mighty funny thing that you should get nine hundred dollars so quickly. You were pretty hard up last week, weren’t you? Had to ask for an advance on your month’s wages.”
”That is true.”
”And then the day of this robbery you suddenly have nine hundred dollars that you can’t explain.”
Mr. Hardy’s calm voice broke in. ”Of course I don’t like to pry into your private affairs, Mr. Robinson,” he said, ”but it would be best if you would clear up this matter of the money.”
”I know it looks bad,” replied the caretaker doggedly. ”But I’ve made a promise I can’t break.”
”And you admit being familiar with the combination of the safe, too!” broke in Mr. Applegate. ”I didn’t know that before. Why didn’t you tell me?”
”I didn’t consider it important.”
”And yet you come and tell me now!”
”I have nothing to conceal. If I had taken the securities and jewels I wouldn’t be telling you that I knew the combination.”
”Yes,” agreed Mr. Hardy, ”that’s a point in your favor, Mr. Robinson.”
”Is it?” asked Mr. Applegate. ”Robinson’s just clever enough to think up a trick like that. He’ 
59
figure that by appearing to be honest, I’d believe he is honest and couldn’t have committed this robbery. Very clever. But not clever enough. There’s plenty of evidence right this minute to convict him, and I’m not going to delay any further.”
In a moment Mr. Applegate’s voice continued, ”Police station? Hello . . . Police station? . . . This is Applegate speaking—Applegate—Hurd Applegate. . . . Well, we’ve found our man in that robbery. . . . Yes, Robinson. . . . You thought so, eh?—So did I, but I wasn’t sure. . . . He has practically convicted himself by his own story. . . . Yes, I want him arrested. . . . You’ll be up right away? . . . Fine. . . . Good-by.”
”You’re not going to have me arrested, Mr’. Applegate?” the caretaker cried out in alarm.
”Why not? You’re the thief!”
”It might have been better to wait a while,” Mr. Hardy interposed. ”At least until there was more evidence.”
”What more evidence do we want, Mr. Hardy,” the owner of Tower Mansion sneered. ”If Robinson wants to return the jewels and securities I’ll have the charge withdrawn—but that’s all.”
”I can’t return them! I didn’t take them!” Mr. Robinson defended himself.
”You’ll have plenty of time to think,” Mr. Applegate declared. ”You’ll be in the penitentiary a long time—a long time.”
In the hallway the boys listened in growing ex 
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citement and dismay. The case had taken an abrupt and tragic turn. Slim looked as though he might collapse under the strain.
”My dad’s innocent,” the boy muttered over and over again, clenching his fists. ”I know he is. They can’t arrest him. He never stole anything in his life!”
Frank patted his friend on the shoulder. ”Brace up, pal,” he advised. ”It looks discouraging just now, but I’m sure your father xvill be able to clear himself.”
”I— I’ll have to tell Mother,” stammered Slim. ”This will break her heart. And my sisters—”
Frank and Joe followed the boy down the hallway and along a corridor that led to the east wing of the mansion. There, in a neat but sparsely furnished apartment, they found Mrs. Robinson, a gentle, kind-faced woman, who was lame. She was seated in a chair by the window, anxiously waiting. Her two daughters, Paula and Tessie, twelve-yearold twins, were at her side, and all looked up in expectation as the boys came in.
”What news, son?” Mrs. Robinson asked bravely, after she had greeted the Hardys.
”Bad, Mother.”
”They’re not—they’re not—arresting him?” cried Paula, springing forward.
Perry nodded wordlessly.
”But they can’t!” Tessie protested. ”Dad couldn’t do anything like that! It’s wrong— 
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Frank, looking at Mrs. Robinson, saw her suddenly slump over in a faint. He sprang forward and caught the woman in his arms as she was about to fall to the floor.
”Mother!” cried Slim in terror, as Frank laid Mrs. Robinson on a couch, then he said quickly to his sister, ”Paula, bring the smelling salts and her special medicine.”
Perry explained that at times undue excitement caused an ”attack.” ”I shouldn’t have told her about Dad,” the boy chided himself.
”She’d have to know it sooner or later,” Joe said kindly.
In a moment Paula returned with the bottle of smelling salts and medicine. The inhalant brought her mother back to consciousness, and Paula then gave Mrs. Robinson the medicine. In a few moments the woman completely revived and apologized for having worried everyone.
”I admit it was a dreadful shock to think my husband has been arrested,” she said, ”but surely something can be done to prove his innocence.”
Instantly Frank and Joe assured her they would do everything they could to find the real thief, because they too felt that Mr. Robinson was not guilty.
The next morning, as the brothers were dressing in their room at home, Frank remarked, ”There’s a great deal about this case that hasn’t come to the surface yet. It’s just possible that th 
62
man who stole Chet Morton’s car may have had something to do with the theft.”
Joe agreed. ”He was a criminal—that much is certain. He stole an automobile and he tried to hold up the ticket office, so why not another robbery?”
”Right, Joe. I just realized that we never inspected Chet’s car for any clues to the thief, so let’s do it.”
The stout boy did not bring his jalopy to school that day, so the Hardys had to submerge their curiosity until classes and baseball practice were over. Then, when Mrs. Morton picked up Chet and Iola, Frank and Joe went home with them.
”I’ll look under the seats,” Joe offered.
”And I’ll search the trunk compartment.” Frank walked to the back of the car and raised the cover. He began rooting under rags, papers, and discarded schoolbooks. Presently he gave a cry of victory.
”Here it is! The best evidence in the world!”
Joe and Chet rushed to his side as he held up a man’s red wig.
Frank said excitedly, ”Maybe there’s a clue in this hair piece!”
An examination failed to reveal any, but Frank said he would like to show the wig to his father. He covered it with a handkerchief and put it carefully in an inner pocket. Chet drove the Hardys home 
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They assumed that their father was in his study on the second floor, and rushed up there and into the room without ceremony.
”Dad, we’ve found a clue!” Joe cried. Then he stepped back, embarrassed, as he realized there was someone else in the room.
”Sorry!” said Frank. The boys would have retreated, but Mr. Hardy’s visitor turned around and they saw that he was Perry Robinson.
”It’s only me,” said Slim. ”Don’t go.”
”Hi, Slim!”
”Perry has been trying to shed a little more light on the Tower robbery,” explained Mr. Hardy. ”But what is this clue you’re talking about?”
”It might concern the robbery,” replied Frank. ”It’s about the red-haired man.” He took the wig from his pocket and told where he had found it.
Mr. Hardy’s interest was kindled at once. ”This seems to link up a pretty good chain of evidence. The man who passed you on the shore road wrecked the car he was driving, then stole Chet’s, and afterward tried to hold up the ticket office. When he failed there, he tried another and more successful robbery at the Tower.”
”Do you really think the wig might help us solve the Tower robbery?” asked Perry, taking hope.
”Possibly.”
”I was just telling your father,” Slim went on, that I saw a strange man lurking around th 
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grounds of the mansion two days before the robbery. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, and in the shock of Dad’s arrest I forgot about it.”
”Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him?” Frank asked.
”I’m afraid I can’t. It was in the evening. I was sitting by a window, studying, and happened to look up. I saw this fellow moving about among the trees. Later, I heard one of the dogs barking in another part of the grounds. Shortly afterward, I saw someone running across the lawn. I thought he was just a tramp.”
”Did he wear a hat or a cap?”
”As near as I can remember, it was a cap. His clothes were dark.”
”And you couldn’t see his face?”
”No.”
”Well, it’s not much to go on,” said Mr. Hardy, ”but it might be linked up with Frank and Joe’s idea that the man who stole the jalopy may still have been hanging around Bayport.” The detective thought deeply for a few moments. ”I’ll bring all these facts to Mr. Applegate’s attention, and I’m also going to have a talk with the police authorities. I feel they haven’t enough evidence to warrant holding your father, Perry.”
”Do you think you can have him released?” the boy asked eagerly.
”I’m sure of it. In fact, I believe Mr. Applegat 
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is beginning to realize now that he made a mistake.”
”It will be wonderful if we can have Dad back with us again,” said Perry. ”Of course things won’t be the same for him. He’ll be under a cloud of suspicion as long as this mystery isn’t cleared up. I suppose Mr. Applegate won’t employ him or anyone else.”
”All the more reason why we should get busy and clear up the affair,” Frank said quickly, and Joe added, ”Slim, we’ll do all we can to help your father. 
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CHAPTER VIII
An Important Discovery
WHEN the Hardy boys were on their way home from school the next afternoon they noticed that a crowd had collected in the vestibule of the post office and were staring at the bulletin board.
”Wonder what’s up now?” said Joe, pushing his way forward through the crowd with the agility of an eel. Frank was not slow in following.
On the board was a large poster. The ink on it was scarcely dry. At the top, in enormous black letters, it read:
$1000 REWARD
Underneath, in slightly smaller type, was the following:
The above reward will be paid for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who broke into Tower Mansion and stole jewels and securities from a safe in the library.
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The reward was being offered by Hurd Applegate.
”Why, that must mean the charge against Mr. Robinson has been dropped!” exclaimed Joe.
”It looks like it. Let’s see if we can find Slim.”
All about them people were commenting on the size of the reward, and there were many expressions of envy for the person who would be fortunate enough to solve the mystery.
”A thousand dollars!” said Frank, as the brothers made their way out of the post office. ”That’s a lot of money, Joe.”
”I’ll say it is.”
”And there’s no reason why we haven’t as good a chance of earning it as anyone else.”
”I suppose Dad and the police are barred from the reward, for it’s their duty to find the thief if they can. But if we track him down we can get the money. It’ll be a good sum to add to our college fund.”
”Let’s go! Say, there’s Slim now.”
Perry Robinson was coming down the street toward them. He looked much happier than he had the previous evening, and when he saw the Hardy boys his face lighted up.
”Dad is free,” he told them. ”Thanks to your father, the charge has been dropped.”
”I’m sure glad to hear that!” exclaimed Joe. ”I see a reward is being offered.”
”Your father convinced Mr. Applegate that i 
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must have been an outside job. And the work of a professional thief. Chief Collig admitted there wasn’t much evidence against Dad, so they let him go. It’s a great relief. My mother and sisters were almost crazy with worry.”
”No wonder,” commented Frank. ”What’s your father going to do now?”
”I don’t know,” Slim admitted. ”Of course, we’ve had to move from the Tower Mansion estate. Mr. Applegate said that even though the charge had been dropped, he wasn’t altogether convinced in his own mind that Dad hadn’t had something to do with the theft. So he dismissed him.”
”That’s tough luck. But your dad will be able to get another job somewhere,” Frank said consolingly.
”I’m not so sure about that. People aren’t likely to employ a man who’s been suspected of stealing. Dad tried two or three places this afternoon, but he was turned down.”
The Hardys were silent. They felt very sorry for the Robinsons and were determined to do what they could to help them.
”We’ve rented a small house just outside the city,” Slim went on. ”It’s cheap and the neighborhood is kind of bad, but we’ll have to get along.”
Frank and Joe admired Slim. There was no false pride about him. He faced the facts as they came, and made the best of them. ”But if Dad doesn’ 
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get a job, it will mean that I’ll have to go to work full time.”
”Why, Slim—you’d have to quit school!” Joe cried out.
”I can’t help that. I wouldn’t want to, for you know I was trying for a scholarship. But—”
The brothers realized how much it would mean to their chum if he had to leave school. Perry Robinson was an ambitious boy and one of the top ten in his class. He had always wanted to continue his studies and go on to a university, and his teachers had predicted a brilliant career for him as an engineer. Now it seemed that all his ambitions for a high school diploma and a college education would have to be given up because of this misfortune.
Frank put an arm around Slim’s shoulders. ”Chin up,” he said with a warm smile. ”Joe and I
are going to plug away at this affair until we get to the bottom of it!”
”It’s mighty good of you fellows,” Slim said | gratefully. ”I won’t forget it in a hurry.” He tried to smile, but it was evident that the boy was deeply worried. When he walked away it was not with the light, carefree step which the Hardys associated with him.
”What’s the first move, Frank?” Joe asked.
”We’d better get a full description of those jewels. Perhaps the thief tried to pawn them. Let’s try all the pawnshops and see what we can find out. 
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”Good idea, even if the police have already done it.” Frank grinned. Then he sobered, ”Do you think Applegate will give us a list?”
”We won’t have to ask him. Dad should have that information.”
”Let’s find out right now.”
When the boys returned home, they found their father waiting for them. ”I have news for you,” he said. ”Your theory about the wrecked auto being stolen has been confirmed. Collig phoned just now and told me the true ownership had been traced by the engine number. Car belongs to a man over in Thornton.”
”Good. That’s one more strike against the thief,” Joe declared.
But a moment later the boys met with disappointment when they asked their father for a list of the stolen jewels.
”I’m willing to give you all the information I have,” said Fenton Hardy, ”but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use. Furthermore, I’ll bet I can tell just what you’re going to do.”
”What?”
”Make the rounds of the pawnshops to see if any of the jewels have been turned in.”
The Hardy boys looked at each other in amazement. ”I might have guessed,” said Frank.
Their father smiled. ”Not an hour after I was called in on the case I had a full description of all those jewels in every pawnshop in the city. Mor 
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than that, the description has been sent to jewelry firms and pawnshops in other cities near here, and also the New York police. Here’s a duplicate list if you want it, but you’ll just be wasting time calling at the shops. All the dealers are on the lookout for the jewels.”
Mechanically, Frank took the list. ”And I thought it was such a bright idea!”
”It is a bright idea. But it has been used before. Most jewel robberies are solved in just this manner—by tracing the thief when he tries to get rid of the gems.”
”Well,” said Joe gloomily, ”I guess that plan is all shot to pieces. Come on, Frank. We’ll think of something else.”
”Out for the reward?” asked Mr. Hardy, chuckling.
”Yes. And we’ll get it, too!”
”I hope you do. But you can’t ask me to help you any more than I’ve done. It’s my case, too, remember. So from now on, you boys and I are rivals!”
”It’s a go!”
”More power to you!” Mr. Hardy smiled and returned to his desk.
He had a sheaf of reports from shops and agencies in various parts of the state, through which he had been trying to trace the stolen jewels and securities, but in every case the report was the same. There had been no lead to the gems or the bonds taken from Tower Mansion 
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When the boys left their father’s study they went outside and sat on the back-porch steps.
”What shall we do now?” asked Joe.
”I don’t know. Dad sure took the wind out of our sails that time, didn’t he?”
”I’ll say he did. But it was just as well. He saved us a lot of trouble.”
”Yes, we might have been going around in circles,” Frank conceded.
Joe wagged his head. ”It looks as if Dad has the inside track on the case—in the city, anyway.”
”What have you got in mind?” Joe asked.
”To concentrate on the country. We started out to find the thief because he stole Chet’s car. Let’s start all over again from that point.”
”Meaning?”
”Mr. Red Wig may have come back to the woods expecting to use Chet’s car again, and—”
”Frank, you’re a genius! You figure the guy may have left a clue by accident.”
”Exactly.”
Fired with enthusiasm once more, the brothers called to Mrs. Hardy where they were going, then set off on their motorcycles. After parking them at the picnic site, the brothers once more set off for the isolated spot where the jalopy had been hidden.
Everything looked the same as it had before, but Frank and Joe examined the ground carefully fo 
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Frank and Joe examined the circular mark 
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new footprints. They found none, but Joe pointed out six-inch circular marks at regular intervals.
”They’re just the size of a man’s stride,” he remarked, ”and I didn’t notice them before.”
”I didn’t either,” said Frank. ”Do you suppose that thief tied pads onto his shoes to keep him from making footprints?”
”Let’s see where they lead.”
The boys followed the circular marks through the thicket. They had not gone far when their eyes lighted up with excitement.
”Another clue!” Joe yelled. ”And this time a swell one! 
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CHAPTER IX
Rival Detectives
”MAYBE,” Frank said with a grin, ”Dad will take us into his camp when he sees these!”
”Just a minute,” Joe spoke up. ”I thought we were rivals now, and you and I have to solve this mystery alone to earn the reward.”
Frank held up a man’s battered felt hat and an old jacket. ”If these belong to that thief, I think we’ve earned the money already!”
He felt through the pockets of the jacket, but they were empty. ”No clue here,” he said.
”This hat has a label, though—New York City store,” said Joe.
”And the coat, too,” Frank added. ”Same shop. Well, one thing is sure. If they do belong to the thief, he never meant to leave them. The labels are a dead giveaway.”
”He must have been frightened off,” Joe concluded, ”Maybe when he found that Chet’s jalopy
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was gone, he felt he’d better scram, and forgot the coat and hat.”
”What I’d like to know,” Frank said, ”is whether some hairs from that red wig may be in the hat.”
Joe grinned. ”Bright boy.” He carried the hat to a spot where the sunlight filtered down through the trees and looked intently at the inside, even turning down the band. ”Yowee! Success!” he yelled.
Frank gazed at two short strands of red hair. They looked exactly like those in the wig which the boys had found.
Joe sighed. ”I guess we’ll have to tell Dad about this. He has the wig.”
”Right.”
Frank and Joe hurried home, clutching their precious clues firmly. Mr. Hardy was still in his study when his sons returned. The detective looked up, frankly surprised to see them home so soon. There was the suspicion of a twinkle in his eyes.
”What! More clues!” he exclaimed. ”You’re really on the job.”
”You bet we have more clues!” cried Frank eagerly. He told the boys’ story and laid the hat and jacket on a table. ”We’re turning these over to you.”
”But I thought you two were working on this case as my rivals. 
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”To tell the truth,” said Frank, ”we don’t know what to do with the clue we’ve found. It leads to New York City.”
Mr. Hardy leaned forward in his desk chair as Frank pointed out the labels and the two strands of red hair.
”And besides,” Frank went on, ”I guess the only way to prove that the thief owns these clothes is by comparing the hairs in the hat with the red wig. And Joe and I don’t have the wig.”
With a grin the detective went to his files and brought it out. ”Chief Collig left this here.”
The strands of hair were compared and matched | perfectly!
”You boys have certainly made fine progress,” Mr. Hardy praised his sons. He smiled. ”And since you have, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Chief Collig asked me to see what I could figure out of the wig. He says there’s no maker’s name on it.”
”And there isn’t?” Joe asked.
His father’s eyes twinkled once more. ”I guess Collig’s assistants weren’t very thorough. At any rate, I discovered there’s an inner lining and on that is the maker’s name. He’s in New York City and I was just thinking about flying there to talk to him. Now you boys have given me a double incentive for going.”
Frank and Joe beamed with pleasure, then suddenly their faces clouded 
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”What’s the matter?” Mr. Hardy asked them.
Joe answered. ”It looks as if you’re going to solve the case all alone.”
”Nothing of the sort,” the detective replied. ”The person who bought the wig may not have given his name. The hat may have been purchased a long time ago, and it isn’t likely that the clerk who sold it will remember who bought it. The same with the jacket.”
Frank and Joe brightened. ”Then the case is far from solved,” Frank said.
”All these are good leads, however,” Mr. Hardy said. ”There is always the chance that the store may not be far from where the suspect lives. Though it’s a slim chance, we can’t afford to overlook anything. I’ll take these articles to the city and see what I can do. It may mean everything and it may mean nothing. Don’t be disappointed if I come back empty-handed. And don’t be surprised if I come back with some valuable information.”
Mr. Hardy tossed the wig, coat, and hat into a bag that was standing open near his desk. The detective was accustomed to being called away suddenly on strange errands, and he was always prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.
”Not much use starting now,” he said, glancing at his watch. ”But I’ll go to the city first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you boys keep your eyes and ears open for more clues. The case isn’t over yet by any means. 
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Mr. Hardy picked up some papers on his desk, as a hint that the interview was over, and the boys left the study. They were in a state of high excitement when they went to bed that night and could not get to sleep.
”That thief must be pretty smart,” murmured Joe, after they had talked long into the night.
”The smarter crooks are, the harder they fall,” Frank replied. ”If this fellow has any kind of a record, it won’t take long for Dad to run him down. I’ve heard Dad say that there is no such thing as a clever crook. If he was really clever, he wouldn’t be a crook at all.”
”Yes, I guess there’s something in that, too. But it shows that we’re not up against any amateur. This fellow is a slippery customer.”
”He’ll have to be mighty slippery from now on. Once Dad has a few clues to work on he never lets up till he gets his man.”
”And don’t forget us,” said Joe, yawning. With that the boys fell asleep.
When they went down to breakfast the following morning Frank and Joe learned that their father had left for New York on an early-morning plane. Their mother remarked, ”I’ll be so relieved when he gets back. So often these missions turn out to be dangerous.”
She went on to say that her husband had promised to phone her if he wasn’t going to be back by suppertime. Suddenly she added with a tantalizin 
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smile, ”Your father said he might have a surprise for you if he remains in New York.”
Mrs. Hardy refused to divulge another word. The boys went to school, but all through the morning could scarcely keep their minds on studies. They kept wondering how Fenton Hardy was faring on his quest in New York and what the surprise was.
Slim Robinson was at school that day, but after classes he confided to the Hardys that he was leaving for good.
”It’s no use,” he said. ”Dad can’t keep me in school any longer and it’s up to me to pitch in and help the family. I’m to start work tomorrow at a supermarket.”
”And you wanted to go to college!” exclaimed Frank. ”It’s a shame!”
”Can’t be helped,” replied Perry with a grimace. ”I consider myself lucky to have stayed in school this long. I’ll have to give up all those college plans and settle down in the business world. There’s one good thing about it—I’ll have a chance to learn supermarket work from the ground up. I’m starting in the receiving department.” He smiled. ”Perhaps in about fifty years I’ll be head of the firm!”
”You’ll make good at whatever you tackle,” Joe assured him. ”But I’m sorry you won’t be able to go through college as you planned. Don’t give up hope yet, Slim. One never knows what may hap 
81
pen. Perhaps the thief who did rob Tower Mansion will be found.”
Frank and Joe wanted to tell Slim about the clues they had discovered the previous day, but the same thought came into their minds—that it would be unfair to raise any false hopes. So they said good-by and wished him good luck. Perry tried hard to be cheerful, but his smile was very faint as he turned away from them and walked down the street.
”I sure feel sorry for him,” said Frank, as he and Joe started for home. ”He was such a hard worker in school and counted so much on going to college.”
”We’ve just got to clear up the Tower robbery, that’s all there is to it!” declared his brother.
As they neared the Hardy home, the boys’ steps quickened. Would they find that their father had returned with the information on the identity of the thief? Or was he still in New York? And were they about to share another of his secrets 
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CHAPTER X
A Sleuthing Trip
FRANK and Joe’s first stop was the Hardy garage. Looking in, they saw that only Mrs. Hardy’s car was there. Their father had taken his sedan to the airport and not brought it back.
”Dad’s not home!” Joe cried excitedly. ”Now we’ll hear what the surprise is.” Dashing into the kitchen, he called, ”Mother!”
”I’m upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Hardy called back.
The boys rushed up the front stairway two steps at a time. Their mother met them at the door of their bedroom. Smiling broadly, she pointed to a packed suitcase on Frank’s bed. The boys looked puzzled.
Next, from her dress pocket, Mrs. Hardy brought out two plane tickets and some dollar bills. She handed a ticket and half the money to each of her sons, saying, ”Your father wants you to meet him in New York to help him on the case.”
Frank and Joe were speechless for a moment,
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then they grabbed their mother in a bear hug. ”This is super!” Joe exclaimed. ”What a surprise!”
Frank looked affectionately at his mother. ”You sure were busy today—getting our plane tickets and money. I wish you were going too.”
Mrs. Hardy laughed. ”When I go to New York for a week end I want to have fun with you boys, not trot around to police stations and thieves’ hide-outs!” she teased. ”I’ll go some other time. Well, let’s hurry downstairs. There’s a snack ready for you. Then I’ll drive my detective sons to the airport.”
In less than two hours the boys were on the plane to New York City. Upon landing there, they were met by Mr. Hardy. He took them to his hotel, where he had engaged an adjoining room for them. It was not until the doors were closed that he brought up the subject of the mystery.
”The case has taken an interesting turn, and may involve considerable research. That’s why I thought you might help me.”
”Tell us what has happened so far,” Frank requested eagerly.
Mr. Hardy said that immediately upon arriving in the city he had gone to the office of the company which had manufactured the red wig. After sending in his card to the manager he had been admitted readily.
”That’s because the name of Fenton Hardy i 
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known from the Atlantic to the Pacific!” Joe interjected proudly.
The detective gave his son a wink and went on with the story. ” ’Some of our customers in trouble, Mr. Hardy?’ the manager asked me when I laid the red wig on his desk.
” ’Not yet,’ I said. ’But one of them may be if I can trace the purchaser of this wig.’
”The manager picked it up. He inspected it carefully and frowned. ’We sell mainly to an exclusive theatrical trade. I hope none of the actors has done anything wrong.’ ”
” ’Can you tell me who bought this one?’ I asked
” ’We make wigs only to order,’ the manager said. He pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a written message. ’It may be difficult. This wig is not a new one. In fact, I would say it was fashioned about two years ago.’
” ’A long time. But still—’ I encouraged him,” the detective went on. ”In a few minutes a bespectacled elderly man shuffled into the office in response to the manager’s summons.
” ’Kauffman, here,’ the manager said, ’is our expert. What he doesn’t know about wigs isn’t worth knowing.’ Then, turning to the old man, he handed him the red wig. ’Remember it, Kauffman?’
”The old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling. ’Red wig—red wig—’ he muttered 
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” ’About two years old, isn’t it?’ the manager prompted.
” ’Not quite. Year’n a half, I’d say. Looks like a comedy-character type. Wait’ll I think. There ain’t been so many of our customers playin’ that kind of a part inside a year and a half. Let’s see. Let’s see.’ The old man paced up and down the office, muttering names under his breath. Suddenly he stopped, snapping his fingers.
” ’I have it! he said. ’It must have been Morley who bought that wig. That’s who it was! Harold Morley. He’s playin’ in Shakespearean repertoire with Hamlin’s company. Very fussy about his wigs. Has to have ’em just so. I remember he bought this one, because he came in here about a month ago and ordered another like it.’
” ’Why would he do that?’ I asked him.
”Kauffman shrugged his shoulders. ’Ain’t none of my business. Lots of actors keep a double set of wigs. Morley’s playin’ down at the Crescent Theater right now. Call him up.’
” ’I’ll go and see him,’ I told the men. And that’s just what we’ll do, Frank and Joe, after a bite of supper.”
”You don’t think this actor is the thief, do you?” Frank asked in amazement. ”How could he have gone back and forth to Bayport so quickly? And isn’t he playing here in town every night?”
Mr. Hardy admitted that he too was puzzled. He was certain Morley was not the man who had wor 
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the wig on the day the jalopy was stolen, for the Shakespearean company had been playing a three weeks’ run in New York. It was improbable, in any case, that the actor was a thief.
The three Hardys arrived at Mr. Morley’s dressing room half an hour before curtain time. Mr. Hardy presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent, but he and his sons were finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug place, with pictures on the walls, a potted plant in the window overlooking the alleyway, and a rug on the floor.
Seated before a mirror with electric lights at either side was a stout little man, almost totally bald. He was diligently rubbing creamy stage make-up on his face. He did not turn around, but eyed his visitors in the mirror, casually telling them to sit down. Mr. Hardy took the only chair. The boys squatted on the floor.
”Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” the actor said in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. ”Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social —or professional?”
”Professional.”
Morley continued rubbing the make-up on his jowls. ”Out with it,” he said briefly.
”Ever see this wig before?” Mr. Hardy asked 
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him, laying the hair piece on the make-up table.
Morley turned from the mirror, and an expression of delight crossed his plump countenance. ”Well, I’ll say I’ve seen it before!” he declared. ”Old Kauffman—the best wigmaker in the country made this for me about a year and a half ago. Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see this red wig again.”
”Why?”
”Stolen from me. Some low-down sneak got in here and cleaned out my dressing room one night during the performance. Nerviest thing I ever heard of. Came right in here while I was doing my stuff out front, grabbed my watch and money and a diamond ring I had lying by the mirror, took this wig and a couple of others that were around, and beat it. Nobody saw him come or go. Must have got in by that window.”
Morley talked in short, rapid sentences, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.
”All the wigs were red,” he stated. ”I didn’t worry so much about the other wigs, because they were for old plays, but this one was being used right along. Kauffman made it specially for me. I had to get him to make another. But say—where did you find it?”
”Oh, my sons located it during some detective work we’re on. The crook left this behind. I was trying to trace him by it. 
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Morley did not inquire further. ”That’s all the help I can give you,” he said. ”The police never did learn who cleaned out my dressing room.”
”Too bad. Well, I’ll probably get him some other way. Give me a list and description of the articles he took from you. Probably I can trace him through that.”
”Glad to,” said Morley. He reached into a drawer and drew out a sheet of paper which he handed to the detective. ”That’s the same list I gave the police when I reported the robbery. Number of the watch, and everything. I didn’t bother to mention the wigs. Figured they wouldn’t be in any condition to wear if I did get them back.”
Mr. Hardy folded the list and put it in his pocket. Morley glanced at his watch, lying face up beside the mirror, and gave an exclamation. ”Suffering Sebastopol! Curtain in five minutes and I’m not half made up yet. Excuse me, folks, but I’ve got to get on my horse. In this business ’I’ll be ready in a minute’ doesn’t go.”
He seized a stick of grease paint and feverishly resumed the task of altering his appearance to that of the character he was portraying at that evening’s performance. Mr, Hardy and his sons left. They made their way out to the street.
”Not much luck there,” Frank commented.
”Except through Mr. Morley’s stolen jewelry,” his father reminded him. ”If that’s located in a pawnshop, it may lead to the thief. Well, boys 
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would you like to go into the theater via the front entrance and see the show?”
”Yes, Dad,” the brothers replied, and Joe added, ”Tomorrow we’ll try to find out the name and address of the thief through his coat and hat?”
”Right,” the detective said.
The Hardys enjoyed the performance of The Merchant of Venice with Mr. Morley as Launcelot Gobbo, and laughed hilariously at his comedy and gestures.
The next morning the detective and his sons visited the store from which the thief’s jacket and hat had been purchased. They were told that the styles were three years out of date and there was no way to tell who had bought them.
”The articles,” the head of the men’s suit department suggested, ”may have been picked up more recently at a secondhand clothing store.” The Hardys thanked him and left.
”All this trip for nothing.” Joe gave a sigh.
His father laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ”A good detective,” he said, ”never sighs with discouragement nor becomes impatient. It took years of persistence to solve some famous cases.”
He suggested that their next effort be devoted to doing some research in the city’s police files. Since Mr. Hardy had formerly been a member of the New York City detective force, he was permitted to search the records at any time.
Frank and Joe accompanied him to headquar 
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ters and the work began. First came a run-down on any known New York criminals who used disguises. Of these men, the Hardys took the reports on the ones who were thin and of medium height.
Next came a check by telephone on the whereabouts of these people. All could be accounted for as working some distance from Bayport at the time of the thefts, with one exception.
”I’ll bet he’s our man!” Frank exclaimed. ”But where is he now? 
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CHAPTER XI
Anxious Waiting
THE suspect, the Hardys learned, was out of prison on parole. His name was John Jackley, but he was known as Red Jackley because when caught before going to prison he had been wearing a red wig.
”He lives right here in New York, and maybe he’s back home by this time,” Joe spoke up. ”Let’s go see him.”
”Just a minute,” Mr. Hardy said, holding up his hand. ”I don’t like to leave Mother alone so long. Besides, in this type of sleuthing three detectives together are too noticeable to a crook. This Jackley may or may not be our man. But if he is, he’s probably dangerous. I want you boys to take the evening plane home. I’ll phone the house the minute the thief is in custody.”
”All right, Dad,” his sons chorused, though secretly disappointed that they had to leave.
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When they reached home, Frank and Joe learned that their mother had been working on the case from a completely different angle. Hers was the humanitarian side.
”I went to call on the Robinsons to try to bolster their spirits,” she said. ”I told them about your trip to New York and that seemed to cheer them a lot. Monday I’m going to bake a ham and a cake for you to take to them. Mrs. Robinson isn’t well and can do little in the kitchen.”
”That’s swell of you!” Frank said admiringly. I’ll go.”
Joe told them he had a tennis match to play. ”I’ll do the next errand,” he promised.
Monday, during a change of classes, Frank met Callie Shaw in the corridor. ”Hi!” she said. ”What great problem is on Detective Hardy’s mind? You look as if you’d lost your best criminal!”
Frank grimaced. ”Maybe I have,” he said.
He told Callie that he had phoned home at noon confidently expecting to hear that his father had reported the arrest of the real thief of the Applegate money and the exoneration of Mr. Robinson. ”But there was no word, Callie, and I’m worried Dad may be in danger.”
”I don’t blame you,” she said. ”What do you think has happened?”
”Well, you never can tell when you’re dealing with criminals.”
”Now, Frank, you’re not trying to tell me you 
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father would let himself get trapped?” Callie said.
”No, I don’t think he would, Callie. Maybe Dad hasn’t returned because he still hasn’t found the man he was looking for.”
”Well, I certainly hope that thief is caught,” said Callie. ”But, Frank, nobody really believes Mr. Robinson did it!”
”Nobody but Hurd Applegate and the men who employ people. Until they find the man who did take the stuff, Mr. Robinson is out of a job.” I’m going over to see the Robinsons soon. Where are they living?”
Frank gave Callie the address. Her eyes widened. ”Why, that’s in one of the poorest sections of the city! Frank, I had no idea the Robinsons’ plight was that bad!”
”It is—and it’ll be a lot worse unless Mr. Robinson gets work pretty soon. Slim’s earnings aren’t enough to take care of the whole family. Say, Callie, how about going over to the Robinsons’ with me after school? Mother’s sending a ham and a cake.”
”I’d love to,” Callie agreed. The two parted at the door of the algebra teacher’s classroom.
As soon as the last bell had rung, Frank and Callie left the building together. First they stopped at the Shaw house to leave the girl’s books.
”I think I’ll take some fruit to the Robinsons,” Callie said, and quickly filled a bag with oranges, bananas, and grapes 
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When the couple reached the Hardy home, Frank asked his mother if any messages had come. ”No, not yet,” she answered.
Frank said nothing to her about being concerned over his father, as he tucked the ham under one arm and picked up the cakebox. But after he and Callie reached the street, he again confided his concern to Callie.
”It does seem strange you haven’t heard anything,” she admitted. ”But don’t forget the old saying, ’No news is good news,’ so don’t worry.”
”I’ll take your advice,” Frank agreed. ”No use wearing a sour look around the Robinsons.”
”Or when you’re with me, either,” Callie said, tossing her head teasingly.
Frank hailed an approaching bus bound for the section of the city in which the Robinsons lived. He and Callie climbed aboard. It was a long ride and the streets became less attractive as they neared the outskirts of Bayport.
”It’s a shame, that’s what it is!” declared Callie abruptly. ”The Robinsons were always accustomed to having everything so nice! And now they have to live here! Oh, I hope your father catches the man who committed that robbery—and soon!”
Her eyes flashed and for a moment she looked so fierce that Frank laughed.
”I suppose you’d like to be the judge and jury at his trial, eh? 
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”I’d give him a hundred years in jaill” Callie declared.
When they came to the street where the Robinsons had moved they found that it was an even poorer thoroughfare than they had expected. There were small houses badly in need of paint and repairs. Shabbily dressed children were playing in the roadway.
At the far end of the street stood a small cottage that somehow contrived to look homelike in spite of the surroundings. The picket fence had been repaired and the yard had been cleaned up.
”This is where they live,” said Frank.
Callie smiled. ”It’s the neatest place on the whole street.”
Paula and Tessie answered their knock. The twins’ faces lighted up with pleasure when they saw who the callers were.
”Frank and Callie!” they exclaimed. ”Come in.”
The callers were greeted with kindly dignity by Mrs. Robinson. She looked pale and thin but had the same self-possession she had always shown at Tower Mansion.
”We can’t stay long,” Callie explained. ”But Frank and I just thought we’d run out to see how you all are. And we brought something for you.”
The fruit, ham, and cake were presented. As the twins ohed and ahed over the food, Mrs. Robinson’s eyes filled with tears. ”You are dear peo 
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ple,” she said. ”Frank, tell your mother I can’t thank her enough.”
Frank grinned as Mrs. Robinson went on, ”Callie, we shall enjoy this fruit very much. Many thanks.”
Paula said, ”It’s a wonderful gift. Say, did you know Perry got a better job the second day he was at the supermarket?”
”No. That’s swell,” Frank replied. ”It didn’t take the manager long to find out how smart Slim is, eh?”
The twins giggled, but Mrs. Robinson said dolefully, ”I wish my husband could find a job. Since no one around here will employ him, he is thinking of going to another city to get work.”
”And leave you here?”
”I suppose so. We don’t know what to do.”
”It’s so unfair!” Paula flared up. ”My father didn’t have a thing to do with that miserable robbery, and yet he has to suffer for it just the same!”
Mrs. Robinson said to Frank hesitantly, ”Has Mr. Hardy discovered anything—yet?”
”I don’t know,” Frank admitted. ”We haven’t heard from him. He’s been in New York following up some clues. But so far there’s been no word.”
”We hardly dare hope that he’ll be able to clear Mr. Robinson,” the woman said sorrowfully. ”The whole case is so mysterious.”
”I’ve stopped thinking of it,” Tessie declared. ”If the mystery is cleared up, okay. If it isn’t—w 
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won’t starve, at any rate, and my father knows we believe in him.”
”Yes, I suppose it doesn’t do much good to keep talking about it,” agreed Mrs. Robinson. ”We’ve gone over the whole matter so thoroughly that there is nothing more to say.”
So, by tacit consent, the subject was changed and for the rest of their stay Frank and Callie chatted of doings at school. Mrs. Robinson and the girls invited them to remain for supper, but Callie insisted that she must go. As they were leaving, Mrs. Robinson drew Frank to one side.
”Promise me one thing,” she said. ”Let me know as soon as your father returns—that is, if he has any news.”
”I’ll do that, Mrs. Robinson,” Frank agreed. ”I know what this suspense must be like for you and the twins.”
”It’s terrible. But as long as Fenton Hardy—and his sons—are working on the case, I’m sure it will be straightened out.”
Callie and Frank were unusually silent all the way home. They had been profoundly affected by the change that the Tower Mansion mystery had caused in the lives of the Robinsons. Callie lived but a few blocks from the Hardy home, and Frank accompanied her to the door.
”See you tomorrow,” he said.
”Yes, Frank. And I hope you’ll hear good news from your father. 
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The boy quickened his steps and ran eagerly into the Hardy house. Joe met him.
”Any phone call?”
Joe shook his head. ”Mother’s pretty worried that something has happened to Dad. 
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CHAPTER XII
A Disturbing Absence
ANOTHER whole day went by. When still no word had come from Mr. Hardy, his wife phoned the New York hotel. She was told that the detective had checked out the day before.
Discouraged and nervous about the new mystery of their father’s disappearance, Frank and Joe found it almost impossible to concentrate on their studies.
Then, the following morning when Mrs. Hardy came to awaken them, she wore a broad smile. ”Your father is home!” she said excitedly. ”He’s all right but has had a bad time. He’s asleep now and will tell you everything after school.”
The boys were wild with impatience to learn the outcome of his trip, but they were obliged to curb their curiosity.
”Dad must be mighty tired,” Joe remarked, as Mrs. Hardy went downstairs to start breakfast. ”I wonder where he came from.”
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”Probably he was up all night. When he’s working on a case, he forgets about sleep. Do you think he found out anything?”
”Hope so, Frank. I wish he’d wake up and tell us. I hate to go back to school without knowing.”
But Mr. Hardy had not awakened by the time the boys set out for school, although they lingered until they were in danger of being late. As soon as classes were over, they shattered all records in their race home.
Fenton Hardy was in the living room, and as they rushed in panting, he grinned broadly. He looked refreshed after his long sleep and it was evident that his trip had not been entirely without success, for his manner was cheerful.
”Hello, boys! Sorry I worried you and Mother,”
”What luck, Dad?” asked Frank.
”Good and bad. Here’s the story: I went to the house where Red Jackley was boarding. Although he seemed to be an exemplary parolee, I decided to watch him a while and try to make friends.”
”How could you do that?”
”By taking a room in the same house and pretending to be a fellow criminal.”
”Wow!” Joe cried. ”And then?”
”Jackley himself spoiled everything. He got mixed up in a jewel robbery and cleared out of the city. Luckily, I heard him packing, and I trailed him. The police were watching for him and he couldn’t get out of town by plane or bus. He out 
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witted the police by jumping a freight on the railroad.”
”And you still followed?”
”I lost him two or three times, but fortunately I managed to pick up his trail again. He got out of the city and into upper New York State. Then his luck failed him. A railroad detective recognized Jackley and the chase was on. Up to that time I had been content with just keeping behind him. I had still hoped to pose as a fellow fugitive and win his confidence. But when the pursuit started in earnest, I had to join the officers.”
”And they caught Jackley?”
”Not without great difficulty. Jackley, by the way, was once a railroad man. Strangely enough, he worked not many miles from here. He managed to steal a railroad handcar and got away from us. But he didn’t last long, for the handcar jumped the tracks on a curve and Jackley was badly smashed up.”
”Killed?” Frank asked quickly.
”No. But he’s in a hospital right now and the doctors say he hasn’t much of a chance.”
”He’s under arrest?”
”Oh, yes. He’s being held for the jewel thefts and also for the theft from the actor’s dressing room. But he probably won’t live to answer either charge.”
”Didn’t you find out anything that would connect him with the Tower robbery? 
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”Not a thing.”
The boys were disappointed, and their expressions showed it. If Red Jackley died without confessing, the secret of the Tower robbery would die with him. Mr. Robinson might never be cleared. He might be doomed to spend the rest of his life under a cloud, suspected of being a thief.
”Have you talked to Jackley?” Frank asked.
”I didn’t have a chance—he wasn’t conscious.”
”Then you may never be able to get a confession from him.”
Fenton Hardy shrugged. ”I may be able to. If Jackley regains consciousness and knows he’s going to die, he may admit everything. I intend to see him in the hospital and ask him about the Tower robbery.”
”Is he far away?”
”Albany. I explained my mission to the doctor in charge and he promised to telephone me as soon as it was possible for Jackley to see anyone.”
”You say he used to work near here?” Joe asked.
”He was once employed by the railroad, and he knows all the country around here well. Then he became mixed up in some thefts from freight cars, and after he got out of jail, turned professional criminal. I suppose he came back here because he is so familiar with this area.”
”I promised to call Mrs. Robinson,” Frank spoke up. ”Okay to tell her about Jackley? 
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”Yes, it may cheer her up. But ask her not to tell anyone.”
Frank dialed the number and relayed part of his father’s story. The accused man’s wife was overwhelmed and relieved by the news, but promised not to divulge the information. Just as Frank finished the call, the doorbell rang. Frank ushered in the private detective Oscar Smuff.
”Your pa home?” he asked.
”Yes. Come in.” Frank led the way into the living room.
Smuff, although he considered himself a topnotch sleuth, stood in awe of Fenton Hardy. He cleared his throat nervously.
”Good afternoon, Oscar,” said Mr. Hardy pleasantly. ”Won’t you sit down?”
Detective Smuff eased himself into an armchair, then glanced inquiringly at the two boys. At once Mr. Hardy said, ”Unless your business is very private, I’d like to have my sons stay.”
”Well, I reckon that’ll be all right,” Smuff conceded. ”I hear you’re working on this Applegate case.”
”Perhaps I am.”
”You’ve been out of town several days,” Smuff remarked cannily, ”so I deduced you must be workin’ on it.”
”Very clever of you, Detective Smuff,” Mr. Hardy said, smiling at his visitor 
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Smuff squirmed uneasily in his chair. ”I’m workin’ on this case too—I’d like to get that thousand-dollar reward, but I’d share it with you. I was just wonderin’ if you’d found any clues.”
Mr. Hardy’s smile faded. He said, with annoyance, ”If I went away, it is my own business. And if I’m working on the Tower robbery, that also is my business. You’ll have to find your own clues, Oscar.”
”Well, now, don’t get on your high horse, Mr. Hardy,” the visitor remonstrated. ”I’m just anxious to get this affair cleared up and I thought we might work together. I heard you were with the officers what chased this here notorious criminal Red Jackley.”
Mr. Hardy gave a perceptible start. He had no idea that news of the capture of Jackley had reached Bayport, much less that his own participation in the chase had become known. The local police must have received the information and somehow Smuff had heard the news.
”What of it?” Mr. Hardy asked in a casual way.
”Did Jackley have anything to do with the Tower case?”
”How should I know?”
”Wasn’t that what you were workin’ on?”
”As I’ve told you, that’s my affair.”
Detective Smuff looked sad. ”I guess you just don’t want to cooperate with me, Mr. Hardy. I was thinkin’ of goin’ over to the hospital where thi 
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man Jackley is and questionin’ him about the case.”
Mr. Hardy’s lips narrowed into a straight line. ”You can’t do that, Oscar. He isn’t conscious. The doctor won’t let you see him.”
”I’m goin’ to try. Jackley’ll come to some time and I want to be on hand. There’s a plane at six o’clock, and I aim to leave my house about five-thirty and catch it.” He thumped his chest in admiration. ”Detectives don’t have to show up for a plane till the last minute, eh, Mr. Hardy? Well, I’ll have a talk with Jackley tonight. And I may let you know what he says.”
”Have it your own way,” said Mr. Hardy. ”But if you take my advice you’ll not visit the hospital. You’ll just spoil everything. Jackley will talk when the times comes.”
”So there is somethin’ in it!” Smuff said triumphantly. ”Well, I’m goin’ over there and get a confession!” With that he arose, stumped out of the room, and left the house 
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CHAPTER XIII
Teamwork
AFTER Smuff left the house, Mr. Hardy sat back with a gesture of despair. ”That man,” he said, ”handles an investigation so clumsily that Red Jackley will close up like a clam if Smuff manages to question him.”
At that moment the telephone rang. The boys listened excitedly as Mr. Hardy answered. ”Hello. . . . Oh, yes, doctor. ... Is that so? . . . Jackley will probably live only until morning? ... I can see him. . . . Fine. . . . Thank you. Good-by.”
The detective put back the receiver and turned to the boys. ”I’ll take that six-o’clock plane to Albany. But if Smuff goes too, it may ruin everything. The Albany police and I must question Jackley first.”
”When’s the next commercial flight after six?” Joe asked.
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”Seven o’clock.”
”Then,” said Frank, Smuff can take that one and question Jackley later. Come on, Joe. Let’s see what we can do to help Dad!”
”Don’t you boys do anything rash,” their father warned.
”We won’t.”
Frank led the way outdoors and started walking down the street.
”What’s on your mind?” Joe asked as they reached the corner.
”We must figure out how to keep Detective Smuff in Bayport until seven o’clock.”
”But how?”
”I don’t know yet, but we’ll find a way. We can’t have him bursting into that hospital room and spoiling the chance of Dad’s getting a confession. Smuff might ruin things so the case will never be solved.”
”You’re right.”
The brothers walked along the street in silence. They realized that the situation was urgent. But though they racked their brains trying to think of a way to prevent Detective Smuff from catching the six-o’clock plane, it seemed hopeless.
”Let’s round up our gang,” Joe suggested finally. ”Perhaps they’ll have some ideas.”
The Hardys found their friends on the tennis courts of Bayport High.
”Hi, fellows!” called Chet Morton when he sa 
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Frank and Joe approaching. ”You’re too late for a game. Where’ve you been?”
”We had something important to do,” Frank replied. ”Say, we need your help.”
”What’s the matter?” asked Tony Prito.
”Oscar Smuff is trying to win that thousand-dollar reward and get himself on the Bayport police force by interfering in one of Dad’s cases,” Frank explained. ”We can’t tell you much more than that. But the main thing is, we want to keep him from catching the six-o’clock plane. We—er— don’t want him to go until seven.”
”What do you want us to do?” Biff Hooper asked.
”Help us figure out how to keep Smuff in Bayport until seven o’clock,”
”Without having Chief Collig lock us up?” Jerry Gilroy put in. ”Are you serious about this, Frank?”
”Absolutely. If Smuff gets to a certain place before Dad can, the case will be ruined. And I don’t mind telling you that it has something to do with Slim Robinson.”
Chet Morton whistled. ”Oh, ho! I catch on. The Tower business. If that’s it, we’ll make sure the six-o’clock plane leaves here without that nutty detective.” Chet had a special dislike for Smuff, because the man had once reported him for swimming in the bay after hours.
”So our problem,” said Phil solemnly, ”is t 
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keep Smuff here and keep out of trouble ourselves.”
”Right.”
”Well,” Jerry Gilroy said, ”let’s put our heads together, fellows, and work out a plan.”
A dozen ideas were put forth, each wilder than the one before. Biff Hooper, with a wide grin, went so far as to propose kidnaping Smuff, binding him hand and foot, and setting him adrift in the bay in an open boat.
”We could rescue him later,” he said. The proposal was so ridiculous that the others howled with laughter.
Phil Cohen suggested setting the detective’s watch back an hour. That plan, as Frank observed, was a good one except for the minor difficulty of laying hands on the watch.
”We might send him a warning not to take a plane before seven o’clock,” Tony Prito said, ”and sign it with a skull and crossbones.”
”That’s a keen idea!” Chet cried enthusiastically. ”Let’s do it!”
”Wait a minute, fellows,” Frank spoke up. ”If Smuff ever found out who wrote it, we’d be up to our necks in trouble. We could all be arrested!”
”I know!” Joe cried suddenly, snapping his fingers. ”Why didn’t I think of it before? And it’s so simple, too.”
”Well, tell us!” Frank urged 
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Joe explained that every once in a while he and Frank went down to Rocco’s fruit store to act as clerks while the owner went home to supper. He stayed open evenings until nine.
”Rocco’s is only a block from Smuff’s house. Smuff knows Frank and I go there, so he wouldn’t be surprised to see us in the neighborhood. I suggest that the bunch of us meet casually down near the store and one boy after another stop Smuff to talk. Maybe we can even get him into the shop. You know Smuff loves to eat.”
”You can’t hate him for that,” Chet spoke up. ”I’ll be glad to invite him in and buy him an apple for his trip.”
”A fifteen-minute delay for Smuff is all we need,” Frank said.
”I think it’s a swell idea,” Biff spoke up. ”And I’m sure Mr. Rocco will cooperate.”
”Who’s going to persuade him?” Phil asked.
”That’s Frank and Joe’s department,” Jerry replied.
Rocco was a hard-working man who had come from Italy only a few years ago. He was a simple, genial person and had great admiration for the Hardy boys.
The whole group made their way toward the fruit store, but only the Hardys went inside. The others spread out to watch for Smuff, who was expected to leave his house soon. Each boy went over his part in the plan 
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When Frank and Joe walked into the fruit store, they found the dark-eyed Rocco sorting oranges. ”Buona sera” he said. ”Good evening. How you like my fix the place?”
”Looks swell,” Frank answered. ”New bins. Better lights.” Then he added, ”How does your neighbor Smuff like it?”
Rocco threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust. ”Oh, that man! He make me mad. He say I charge too much. He tell me I ought to go back to old country.”
”Don’t pay any attention to him,” Joe advised. ”Say, Mr. Rocco,” he went on, ”you look tired. Why don’t you go home for an hour or so and let Frank and me take over here?”
”You think I look tired? That worry my wife. Then Rosa say I must close up early.” Rocco sighed. ”You very kind boys. I do what you say. Come back six-thirty.”
As Rocco removed his apron, he said, ”I fix trash in yard to burn. You do that?”
”Glad to.”
Rocco showed them a wire incinerator in the yard, then left the store. Five minutes later there was a whistle from the street. A signal from Jerry! Frank and Joe went to the front door to watch. Smuff was just backing his car out of the driveway. As prearranged, Phil hurried over and stopped him.
The detective and the boy apparently got int 
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an argument, but it did not last long enough to satisfy Frank and Joe. The conversation took less than two minutes, then Smuff backed around into the street.
”Hey, Frank,” said Joe, ”I have an idea. Go light that trash. Make it a roaring fire!”
Without further explanation he dashed into the street, but Frank figured out what was in his brother’s mind. He dashed through the store and into the yard. Quickly he lighted the papers in the incinerator in several places. The rubbish blazed lustily.
Joe was intently watching the scene down the street. Smuff was now being ”interviewed” by Biff, and Chet came forward to urge Smuff to take some fruit with him on his trip. The detective hesitated, then shook his head and started off in his car.
Only five of the necessary fifteen-minute delay had elapsed! Joe hesitated no longer. Running down the street, he held up one hand for the oncoming car to stop.
”Come quick, Smuff!” he called out. ”There’s a fire back of Rocco’s!”
”Well, you put it out. I’m in a hurry!” the detective told the boy tartly.
”You mean you’d let all of Bayport burn down just because you’re in a hurry?” Joe pretended to scoff.
Smuff winced, but still did not move. Joe said 
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”Where’s the fire?” Smuff cried ou 
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starting back to the store, ”Well, Frank and I will have to take care of it alone.”
This brought the detective to action. He realized he might be missing a chance to become a hero! In a flash he drove his car down the street and parked in front of the fruit store.
”Where’s the fire?” Smuff cried out, nearly bumping into Frank who was dashing from the front door of Rocco’s.
”The fire—is—back there—in the yard.” Frank pretended to pant. ”You go look and see if we ought to turn in an alarm.”
Smuff dashed inside the store and hurried to the yard. By this time the Hardys’ friends had gathered in Rocco’s fruit store. They asked excitedly what was going on.
”Frank! Joe!” yelled Smuff from the rear of the store. ”Where’s Rocco? Where’s a pail? Where’s some water? 
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CHAPTER XIV
The Confession
”Rocco’s not around,” Joe replied to Smuff. ”There’s water in the sink—in the back. Shall I call the fire department?”
”No, I can manage this,” Smuff declared. ”But where’s a pail?”
Frank dashed into the back room and found a pail under the sink. He filled it with water and handed the pail to Smuff, who hurried to the yard. He doused the incinerator flames which hissed and crackled, then died.
”Some people have no sense,” Smuff commented. ”The idea of anyone starting a fire, then going off and leaving it! I’ll bet that was Rocco’s work! As for you boys—you had to call me. Didn’t have the savvy to put out a simple fire.”
”Good thing you were around,” Frank observed, suppressing a smile.
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”I’ll say it was,” Smuff agreed. ”And Chief Collig is sure goin’ to hear about this.”
”Oh, please don’t tell him about us,” Joe spoke up, half closing his eyes so Smuff could not see the twinkle in them.
”I didn’t mean that. Oscar Smuff is no squealer. I mean Collig is goin’ to hear what I did.” The detective chuckled. ”One more notch in my gun, as the cowboys say.”
Suddenly Smuff sobered and looked at his wrist watch. ”Oh, no!” he cried out. ”Ten minutes to six! I can’t make my plane!”
”That’s a shame,” Frank said consolingly. ”But cheer up, Smuff, there’s a seven-o’clock plane for Albany. I wish you luck in your interview.”
Smuff stormed out of the fruit store and disappeared with his car. The Hardys and their friends burst into roars of laughter which did not stop until a woman customer came into the shop. All the boys but Frank and Joe left.
Rocco returned at six-thirty, pleased that so much fruit had been sold during his absence. ”You better salesman than Rocco.” He grinned widely.
The Hardys went home, well-satisfied with their day’s work. The six-o’clock plane had left without Smuff. Their father could make his trip to the hospital without the annoying detective’s interference.
Fenton Hardy did not return home until th 
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next afternoon. When the boys came from school they found him in high spirits.
”Solved the mystery?” Joe asked eagerly.
”Practically. First of all, Jackley is dead.”
”Did he confess?”
”You’re not very sympathetic toward the poor fellow, Joe. Yes, he confessed. Fortunately, Oscar Smuff didn’t show up while Jackley was talking.”
Frank and Joe glanced at each other and their father smiled quietly. ”I have an idea,” he said, ”that you two sleuths know more about this Smuff business than you would care to tell. Well, anyhow, the Albany police and I had a clear field. I saw Jackley before he died and questioned him about the Tower robbery.”
”Did he admit everything?”
”Jackley said he came to Bayport with the intention of robbery. He stole a car, smashed it up, and took Chet’s. Then he went to rob the ticket office. When he failed in that he decided to hang around town for a few days. He hit upon Tower Mansion as his next effort. Jackley entered the library with gloves on, opened the safe, and took out the jewelry and securities.”
”What did he do with the loot?”
”That’s what I’m coming to. It was not until Jackley knew he was at the point of death that he did confess to the Tower affair. Then he said, ’Yes, I took the stuff—but I didn’t dare try sellin 
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any of it right away, so I hid it. You can get all the stuff back easily. It’s in the old tower—’
”That was all he said. Jackley lost consciousness then and never regained it.”
”When did Smuff get there?” Joe asked eagerly.
”Not until after Jackley had gone into a coma,” Mr. Hardy replied. ”We both sat by his bed, hoping the man would awaken, but he died within an hour. Just where Jackley hid the loot in the old tower, he was never able to say.”
”Does Smuff know what Jackley said?”
”No.”
”If the loot’s hidden in the old Applegate tower, we’ll find it in no time!” Frank exclaimed.
”Tower Mansion has two towers—the old and the new,” Joe reminded him.
”We’ll search the old tower first.”
”The story seems likely enough,” Mr. Hardy remarked. ”Jackley would gain nothing by lying about it on his deathbed. He probably became panicky after he committed the robbery and hid in the old tower until he was able to get away safely. No doubt he decided to hide the stuff there and take a chance on coming back for it some time after the affair had blown over.”
Joe nodded. ”That was why Jackley couldn’t be traced through the jewels and the bonds. They were never disposed of—they’ve been lying in the old tower all this time! 
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”I tried to get him to tell me in just what part of the tower the loot was hidden,” Mr. Hardy continued, ”but he died before he could say any more.”
”Too bad,” said Frank. ”But it shouldn’t be hard to find the loot, now that we have a general idea where it is. Probably Jackley didn’t hide it very carefully. Since the old tower has been unoccupied for a long time, the stuff would be safe there from snoopers.”
Joe jumped up from his chair. ”I think we ought to get busy and go search the old tower right away. Oh, boy! Maybe we can hand old Mr. Applegate his jewels and bonds this afternoon and clear Mr. Robinson! Let’s go!”
”I’ll leave it to you boys to make the search,” said Mr. Hardy with a smile. ”Then you can have the satisfaction of turning over the stolen property to Mr. Applegate. I guess you can get along without me in this case from now on.”
”We wouldn’t have got very far if it hadn’t been for you,” Frank declared.
”And I wouldn’t have got very far if it hadn’t been for you, so we’re even.” Mr. Hardy’s smile broadened. ”Well, good luck to you.”
As the boys started from the study, Frank said, ”Thanks, Dad. I only hope the Applegates don’t throw us out when we ask to be allowed to look around inside the old tower. 
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”Just tell them,” his father advised, ”that you have a pretty good clue to where the bonds and jewels are hidden and they’ll let you search.”
Joe grinned. ”Frank, we’ll have that thousand-dollar reward before the day is over!”
The brothers raced from the house, confident that they were about to solve the Tower Treasure mystery 
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CHAPTER XV
The Tower Search
WHEN the Hardy boys reached Tower Mansion at four o’clock the door was opened by Hurd Applegate himself. The tall, stooped gentleman peered at them through his thick-lensed glasses. In one hand he held a sheet of stamps.
”Yes?” he said, seemingly annoyed at being disturbed.
”You remember us, don’t you?” Frank asked politely. ”We’re Mr. Hardy’s sons.”
”Fenton Hardy, the detective? Oh, yes. Well, what do you want?”
”We’d like to look through the old tower, if you don’t mind. We have a clue about the robbery.”
”What kind of clue?”
”We have evidence that leads us to believe the jewels and bonds were hidden by the thief in the old tower.”
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”Oh! You have evidence, have you?” The elderly man peered at the boys closely. ”It’s that rascal Robinson, I’ll warrant, who gave it to you. He hid the stuff, and now he’s suggesting where you might find it, just to clear himself.”
Frank and Joe had not considered the affair in this light, and they gazed at Mr. Applegate in consternation. At last Joe spoke up.
”Mr. Robinson has nothing to do with this,” he said. ”The real thief was found. He said the loot was hidden in the old tower. If you will just let us take a look around, we’ll find it for you.”
”Who was the real thief?”
”We’d rather not tell you, sir, until we find the stolen property, then we’ll reveal the whole story.”
Mr. Applegate took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. He stared at the boys suspiciously for a few moments. Then he called out:
”Adelia!”
From the dim interior of the hallway a high feminine voice answered.
”What do you want?”
”Come here a minute.”
There was a rustle of skirts, and Adelia Applegate appeared. A faded blond woman of thin features, she was dressed in a fashion of fifteen years before, in which every color of the spectrum fought for supremacy 
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”What’s the matter?” she demanded. ”I can’t sit down to do a bit of sewing without you interrupting me, Hurd.”
”These boys want to look through the old tower.”
”What for? Up to some mischief?”
Frank and Joe feared she would not give her consent. Frank said quietly, ”We’re doing some work for our dad, the detective Fenton Hardy.”
”They think they can find the bonds and jewels in the tower,” Hurd Applegate explained.
”Oh, they do, do they?” the woman said icily. ”And what would the bonds and jewels be doing in the old tower?”
”We have evidence that they were hidden there after the robbery,” Frank told her.
Miss Applegate viewed the boys with obvious suspicion. ”As if any thief would be silly enough to hide them right in the house he robbed!” she said in a tone of finality.
”We’re just trying to help you,” Joe put in courteously.
”Go ahead, then,” said Miss Applegate with a sigh. ”But even if you tear the old tower to pieces, you won’t find anything. It’s all foolishness.”
Frank and Joe followed Hurd Applegate through the gloomy halls and corridors that led toward the old tower. He said he was inclined to share his sister’s opinion that the boys’ search would be in vain 
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”We’ll make a try at it, anyway, Mr. Applegate,” Frank said.
”Don’t ask me to help you. I’ve got a bad knee. Anyway, I just received some new stamps this afternoon. You interrupted me when I was sorting them. I must get back to my work.”
The man reached a corridor that was heavily covered with dust. It apparently had not been in use for a long time and was bare and unfurnished. At the end was a heavy door. It was unlocked, and when Mr. Applegate opened it, the boys saw a square room. Almost in the center of it rose a flight of wooden stairs with a heavily ornamented balustrade. The stairway twisted and turned to the roof, five floors above. Opening from each floor was a room.
”There you are,” Mr. Applegate announced. ”Search all you want to. But you won’t find anything—of that I’m certain.”
With this parting remark he turned and hobbled back along the corridor, the sheet of stamps still in his gnarled hand.
The Hardy boys looked at each other. ”Not very encouraging, is he?” Joe remarked.
”He doesn’t deserve to get his stuff back,” Frank declared flatly, then shrugged. ”Let’s get up into the tower and start the search.”
Frank and Joe first examined the dusty stairs carefully for footprints, but none were to be seen.
”That seems queer,” Frank remarked. ”If Jack 
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ley was here recently you’d think his footprints would still show. Judging by this dust, there hasn’t been anyone in the tower for at least a year.”
”Perhaps the dust collects more quickly than we think,” Joe countered. ”Or the wind may get in here and blow it around.”
An inspection of the first floor of the old tower revealed that there was no place where the loot could have been hidden except under the stairs. But they found nothing there.
The boys ascended to the next floor, and entered the room to the left of the stair well. It was as drab and bare as the one they had just left. Here again the dust lay thick and the murky windows were almost obscured with cobwebs. There was an atmosphere of age and decay about the entire place, as if it had been abandoned for years.
”Nothing here,” said Frank after a quick glance around. ”On we go.”
They made their way up to the next floor. After searching this room and under the stairway, they had to admit defeat.
The floor above was a duplicate of the first and second. It was bare and cheerless, deep in dust. There was not the slightest sign of a hiding place, or any indication that another human being had been in the tower for a long time.
”Doesn’t look very promising, Joe. Still, Jackley may have gone right to the top of the tower.”
The search continued without success until th 
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boys reached the roof. Here a trap door which swung inward led to the top of the tower. Frank unlatched it and pulled on the door. It did not budge.
”I’ll help you,” Joe offered.
Together the brothers yanked on the stubborn trap door of the old tower. Suddenly it gave way completely, causing both boys to lose their balance. Frank fell backward down the stairway.
Joe, with a cry, toppled over the railing into space!
Frank grabbed a spindle of the balustrade and kept himself from sliding farther down the steps. He had seen Joe’s plunge and expected the next moment to hear a sickening thud on the floor five stories below.
”Joe!” he murmured as he pulled himself upright. ”Oh, Joe!”
To Frank’s amazement, he heard no thud and now looked over the balustrade. His brother was not lying unconscious at the bottom of the tower. Instead, he was clinging to two spindles of the stairway on the floor below.
Frank, heaving a tremendous sigh of relief, ran down and helped pull Joe to the safety of the steps. Both boys sat down to catch their breaths and recover from their falls.
Finally Joe said, ”Thanks. For a second I sure thought I was going to end my career as a detective right here! 
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”I guess you can also thank our gym teacher for the tricks he taught you on the bars,” Frank remarked. ”You must have grabbed those spindles with flash-camera speed.”
Presently the boys turned their eyes upward. An expression halfway between a grin and a worried frown crossed their faces.
”Mr. Applegate,” Joe remarked, ”isn’t going to like hearing we ruined his trap door.”
”No. Let’s see if we can put it back in place.”
The boys climbed the stairway and examined the damage. They found that the hinges had pulled away from rotted wood. A new piece would have to be put in to hold the door in place.
”Before we go downstairs,” said Joe, ”let’s look out on the roof. We thought maybe the loot was hidden there. Remember?”
Frank and Joe climbed outside to a narrow, railinged walk that ran around the four sides of the square tower. There was nothing on it.
”Our only reward for all this work is a good view of Bayport,” Frank remarked ruefully.
Below lay the bustling little city, and to the east was Barmet Bay, its waters sparkling in the late afternoon.
”Dad was fooled by Jackley, I guess,” Frank said slowly. ”There hasn’t been anyone in this tower for years.”
The boys gazed moodily over the city, then down at the grounds of Tower Mansion. The man 
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roofs of the house itself were far below, and directly across from them rose the heavy bulk of the new tower.
”Do you think Jackley might have meant the new tower?” Joe exclaimed suddenly.
”Dad said he specified the old one.”
”But he may have been mistaken. Even the new one looks old. Let’s ask Mr. Applegate if we may search the new tower, too.”
”It’s worth trying, anyway. But I’m afraid when we tell him about the trap door, he’ll say no.”
The brothers went down through the opening. They lifted the door into place, latched it, and then wedged Frank’s small pocket notebook into the damaged side. The door held, but Frank and Joe knew that wind or rain would easily dislodge it.
The boys hurried down the steps and through the corridor to the main part of the house.
Adelia Applegate popped her head out of a doorway. ”Where’s the loot?” she asked.
”We didn’t find any,” Frank admitted.
The woman sniffed. ”I told you so! Such a waste of time!”
”We think now,” Joe spoke up, ”that the stolen property is probably hidden in the new tower.”
”In the new tower!” Miss Applegate cried out. ”Absurd! I suppose you’ll want to go poking through there now.”
”If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
”It would be too much trouble, indeed!” sh 
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shrilled. ”I shan’t have boys rummaging through my house on a wild-goose chase like this. You’d better leave at once, and forget all this nonsense.”
Her voice had attracted the attention of Hurd Applegate, who came hobbling out of his study.
”Now what’s the matter?” he demanded. His sister told him and suddenly his face creased in a triumphant smile. ”Aha! So you didn’t find anything after all! You thought you’d clear Robinson, but you haven’t done it.”
”Not yet,” Frank answered.
”These boys have the audacity,” Miss Applegate broke in, ”to want to go looking through the new tower.”
Hurd Applegate stared at the boys. ”Well, they can’t do it!” he snapped. ”Are you boys trying to make a fool of me?” he asked, shaking a fist at them.
Frank and Joe exchanged glances and nodded at each other. They would have to reveal their reason for thinking the loot was in the new tower.
”Mr. Applegate,” Frank began, ”the information about where your stolen stuff is hidden came from the man who took the jewels and the bonds. And it wasn’t Mr. Robinson.”
”What! You mean it was someone else? Has he been caught?”
”He was captured but he’s dead now.”
”Dead? What happened?” Hurd Applegate asked in excitement.
”His name was Red Jackley and he was a notori 
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ous criminal. Dad got on his trail and Jackley tried to escape on a railroad handcar. It smashed up and he was fatally injured,” Frank explained.
”Where did you get your information then?” Mr. Applegate asked.
Frank told the whole story, ending with, ”We thought Jackley might have made a mistake and that it’s the new tower where he hid the loot.”
Hurd Applegate rubbed his chin meditatively. It was evident that he was impressed by the boys’ story.
”So this fellow Jackley confessed to the robbery, eh?”
”He admitted everything. He had once worked around here and knew the Bayport area well. He had been hanging around the city for several days before the robbery.”
”Well,” Applegate said slowly, ”if he said he hid the stuff in the old tower and it’s not there, it must be in the new tower, as you say.”
”Will you let us search it?” Joe asked eagerly.
”Yes, and I’ll help. I’m just as eager to find the jewels and bonds as you are. Come on, boys!”
Hurd Applegate led the way across the mansion toward a door which opened into the new tower. Now that the man was in a good mood, Frank decided that this was an opportune time to tell him about the trap door. He did so, offering to pay for the repair.
”Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Applegate. ”I’l 
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have it fixed. In fact, Robinson— Oh, I forgot. I’ll get a carpenter.”
He said no more, but quickened his steps. Frank and Joe grinned. Old Mr. Applegate had not even reprimanded them!
The mansion owner opened the door to the new tower and stepped into a corridor. Frank and Joe, tingling with excitement, followed 
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CHAPTER XVI
A Surprise
THE rooms in the new tower had been furnished when it was built. But only on rare occasions when the Applegates had visitors were the rooms occupied, the owner stated.
In the first one Frank, Joe, and Mr. Applegate found nothing, although they looked carefully in closets, bureaus, highboys, and under the large pieces of furniture. They even turned up mattresses and rugs. When they were satisfied that the loot had not been hidden there, they ascended the stairs to the room above. Again their investigation proved fruitless.
Hurd Applegate, being a quick-tempered man, fell back into his old mood. The boys’ story had convinced him, but when they had searched the rooms in the tower without success, he showed his disgust.
”It’s a hoax!” he snorted. ”Adelia was right. I’ve
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been made a fool of! And all because of Robinson!”
”I can’t understand it!” Joe burst out. ”Jackley said he hid the stuff in the tower.”
”If that fellow did hide the jewels and bonds in one of the towers,” Applegate surmised, ”someone else must have come in and taken them—maybe someone working with him. Or else Robinson found the loot right after the robbery and kept it for himself.”
”I’m sure Mr. Robinson wouldn’t do that,” Joe objected.
”Then where did he get the nine hundred dollars? Explain that. Robinson won’t!”
On the way back to the main part of the mansion, Hurd Applegate elaborated on his theory. The fact that the loot had not been found seemed to convince him all over again that Robinson was involved in some way.
”Like as not he was in league with Jackley!” the man stated flatly.
Again Frank and Joe protested that the ex-caretaker did not hobnob with criminals. Nevertheless, the Hardys were puzzled, disappointed, and alarmed. Their search had only resulted in implicating Mr. Robinson more deeply in the mystery.
Back in the hallway of the main house they met Adelia Applegate, who crowed triumphantly when she saw the search party returning empty-handed. ”Didn’t I tell you?” she cried. ”Hurd Applegate, you’ve let these boys make a fool of you! 
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She escorted the Hardys to the front door, while her brother, shaking his head perplexedly, went back to his study.
”We sure messed things up, Frank,” Joe declared, as they walked toward their motorcycles. ”I feel like a dud rocket.”
”Me too.”
They hurried home to tell their father the disappointing news. Fenton Hardy was amazed to hear that the stolen valuables had not been located in either tower. ”You’re sure you went over the place thoroughly?”
”Every inch of it. There wasn’t a sign of the loot. From the dust in the old tower, I’d say no one had been there for ages,” Frank replied.
”Strange,” the detective muttered. ”I’m sure Jackley wasn’t lying. He had absolutely nothing to gain by deceiving me. ’I hid it in the old tower.’ Those were his very words. And what could he mean but the old tower of Tower Mansion? And why should he be so careful to say the old tower? Since he was familiar with Bayport, he probably knew that the mansion has two towers, the old and the new.”
”Of course, it may be that we didn’t search thoroughly enough,” Joe remarked. ”The loot could be hidden under the flooring or behind a movable wall panel. We didn’t look there.”
”That’s the only solution,” Mr. Hardy agreed. ”I’m still not satisfied that the stolen property isn’ 
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there. I’m going to ask Applegate to permit another search of both towers. And now, I think your mother wants you to do an errand downtown.”
Mrs. Hardy explained what she wanted and Frank and Joe were soon on their motorcycles again. When the boys reached the business section of Bayport they found that Jackley’s confession had already become known. The local radio station had broadcast it in the afternoon news program and people everywhere were discussing it.
Detective Smuff walked along the street looking as if he would bite the head off the first person who mentioned the case to him. When he saw the Hardy boys he glowered.
”Well,” he grunted, ”I hear you got the stuff back.”
”I wish we had,” Frank said glumly.
”What!” the detective cried out, brightening at once. ”You didn’t get it? I thought they said on the radio that this fellow Jackley had told your father where he hid it.”
”He did. But how did the news leak out?”
”Jackley’s door wasn’t closed all the time. One of the other patients who was walking by the room heard the confession and spilled it. So you didn’t find the loot after all! Ha-ha! That’s a good one! Didn’t Jackley say the stuff was hidden in the old tower? What more do you need?”
”Well, it wasn’t there!” Joe retorted hotly. ”Jackley must have made a mistake! 
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”Jackley made a mistake!” Smuff continued cheerfully. ”It looks like the joke’s on you fellows and your father!” The would-be sleuth went on down the street, chuckling to himself.
When Frank and Joe returned home they found that Mr. Hardy had been in touch with Hurd Applegate and had convinced him that a more detailed search of the towers would be advisable.
”Boys,” he said, ”we’ll go there directly after supper. I think we’d better not wait until tomorrow.”
At seven o’clock the detective and his sons presented themselves at the Tower Mansion. Hurd Applegate met them at the door.
”I’m letting you make this search,” he said as he led them toward the old tower, ”but I’m convinced you won’t find anything. I’ve talked the case over with Chief Collig. He’s inclined to think that Robinson is behind it all and I’m sure he is.”
”But how about Jackley’s confession?” Mr. Hardy asked him.
”The chief says that could be a blind. Jackley did it to protect Robinson. They were working together.”
”I know it looks bad for Robinson,” Mr. Hardy admitted, ”but I want to give the towers another close examination. I heard Jackley make the confession and I don’t believe he was lying.”
”Maybe. Maybe. But I’m telling you it was a hoax. 
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”I’ll believe that only if I don’t find anything inside or outside either tower,” Mr. Hardy declared, his mouth set in a grim line.
”Well, come on, let’s get started,” Hurd Applegate said, unlocking the door leading to the old tower.
Eagerly the four set to work. They started at the top of the old tower and worked downward. Their investigation left no possibility untouched. All the walls were tapped for hollow sounds which might indicate secret hiding places. The floors were examined closely for signs of any recent disturbance to the wood. But the missing jewels and bonds were not located. Finally the group reached the ground floor again.
”Nothing to do but go on to the new tower,” Mr. Hardy commented briefly.
”I’ll have to rest and eat something before I do any more,” Hurd Applegate said wearily. He led the way to the dining room where sandwiches and milk had been set out. ”Help yourselves,” he invited. He himself took only crackers and milk when they all sat down.
After the brief stop for refreshment, the Hardys and the mansion owner turned their attention to the new tower. Again they searched carefully. Walls and partitions were tapped and floors were sounded. Every bit of furniture was minutely examined. Not an inch of space escaped the scrutiny of the detective and his helpers 
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As the search drew to a close and the loot still had not been found, Mr. Hardy remarked, ”It certainly looks as if the stolen property was never hidden here by Jackley. And furthermore, there’s no evidence that if he did hide it here, anyone came in to take it away.”
”You mean,” said Frank, ”it’s proof that Mr. Robinson did not come in here?”
”Exactly.”
”Maybe not,” Mr. Applegate conceded. ”But it still doesn’t prove he wasn’t in cahoots with the thief!”
”I’m not going to give up this search yet,” Mr. Hardy said determinedly. ”Perhaps the loot was hidden somewhere outside the old tower.”
He explained that it would be difficult to examine the grounds properly at night. ”With your permission, Mr. Applegate, my sons and I will return at sunrise tomorrow morning and start work again.” As the owner reluctantly nodded his assent, Mr. Hardy turned to Frank and Joe and smiled. ”We ought to be able to prove our point before schooltime.”
The boys, who had had no time to prepare any homework, reminded their father that a note from him to the principal would be a great help. The detective smiled, and as soon as they reached home he wrote one out, then said good night.
Frank and Joe felt as if their eyes had hardly closed when they opened them again to see thei 
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father standing between their beds. ”Time to get up if you want to be in on the search,” he announced.
The boys blinked sleepily, then sprang out of bed. Showers awakened them fully and they dressed quickly. Mrs. Hardy was in the kitchen when they entered it and breakfast was ready. The sun was just rising over a distant hill.
”Everything hot this morning,” Mrs. Hardy said. ”It’s chilly outside.”
The menu included hot applesauce, oatmeal, poached eggs on toast, and cocoa. Breakfast was eaten almost in silence to avoid any delay, and within twenty minutes the three Hardy sleuths were on their way.
”I see you put spades in the car, Dad,” Frank remarked. ”I take it we’re going to do some digging.”
”Yes, if we don’t locate the loot hidden above ground some place.”
When the Hardys reached Tower Mansion they instituted their hunt without notifying the Applegates, who, they were sure, were still asleep. Everything in the vicinity of both towers was scrutinized. Boulders were overturned, the space under the summerhouse examined by flashlight, every stone in the masonry tested to see if it could be dislodged. Not a clue turned up.
”I guess we dig,” Frank stated finally.
He chose a bed of perennial bushes at the foot of the old tower where there had been recent plant 
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ing, and pushed one of the spades in deep with his foot. The tool hit an obstruction. Excitedly Frank shoveled away the dirt around the spot. In half a minute he gave a cry of delight. ”A chest! I’ve found a buried chest! 
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CHAPTER XVII
An Unexpected Find
THROWING out the dirt in great spadefuls, Prank uncovered the chest completely. It was about two feet long, six inches wide, and a foot deep.
”The treasure!” Joe cried out, running up.
Mr. Hardy was at his son’s heels and looked in amazement at Frank’s discovery. The boy lifted the chest out of the hole and instantly began to raise the lid on which there was no lock.
Everyone held his breath. Had the Hardys really uncovered the jewels and securities stolen from the Applegates? Frank flung back the lid.
The three sleuths stared at the contents. They had never been more surprised in their lives. Finally Joe found his voice.
”Nothing but a lot of flower bulbs!”
The first shock of disappointment over, the detective and his sons burst into laughter. The con14
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tents of the chest were such a far cry from what they had expected that now the situation seemed ridiculous.
”Well, one thing is sure,” said Frank. ”Red Jackley never buried this chest. I wonder who did?”
”I can answer that,” a voice behind them replied, and the Hardys turned to see Hurd Applegate, clad in bathrobe and slippers, walking toward them.
”Good morning, Mr. Applegate,” the boys chorused, and their father added, ”You see we’re on the job. For a couple of moments we thought we had found your stolen property.”
Hurd Applegate’s face took on a stern look. ”You didn’t find my securities,” he said, ”but maybe you have found a clue to the thief. Robinson buried that chest full of bulbs. That’s what he’s done with Adelia’s jewelry and my securities! He’s buried them some place, but I’d be willing to bet anything it wasn’t on the grounds here.”
Frank, realizing the man was not in a good humor this morning, tried to steer the conversation away from the stolen valuables. ”Mr. Applegate,” he said, ”why did Mr. Robinson bury these flower bulbs here?”
The owner of Tower Mansion gave a little snort. ”That man’s nutty about unusual flowers. He sent to Europe for these bulbs. They have to be kept in a cool, dark place for several months, so he decided to bury them. He’s always doing something quee 
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like that. Why, do you know what he tried to get me to do? Put up a greenhouse here on the property so he could raise all kinds of rare flowers.”
”That sounds like a swell hobby,” Joe spoke up.
”Swell nothing!” Mr. Applegate replied. ”I guess you don’t know how much greenhouses cost. And besides, growing rare flowers takes a lot of time. Robinson had enough to do without fiddling around with making great big daisies out of little wild ones, or turning cowslips into orchids!”
Frank whistled. ”If Mr. Robinson can do that, he’s a genius!”
”Genius—that’s a joke!” said Mr. Applegate. ”Well, go on with your digging. I want this mystery cleared up.”
It was decided that Mr. Hardy, with his superior powers of observation, would scrutinize the ground near both towers. Wherever it looked as if the ground had been turned over recently, the boys would dig at the spot. The chest of flower bulbs was carefully replaced and the dirt shoveled over it.
”Here’s a place where you might dig,” Mr. Hardy called presently from the opposite side of the old tower. When the boys arrived with their spades, he said, ”I have an idea a dog dug up this spot and probably all you’ll find is a beef bone. But we don’t want to miss anything.”
This time Joe’s spade hit the object which had been buried. As his father had prophesied, it proved to be only a bone secreted by some dog 
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The three Hardys transferred their work to the new tower. All this time Hurd Applegate had been looking on in silence, From the corners of their eyes, the Hardys could catch an expression of satisfaction on the elderly man’s face.
Mr. Hardy glanced at his wrist watch, then said, ”Well, boys, I guess this is our last try.” He indicated another spot a few feet away. ”You fellows must get cleaned up and go to school.”
Undaunted by their failures so far, Frank and Joe dug in with a will. In a few moments they had uncovered another small chest.
”Wow, this one is heavy!’’ Frank said as he lifted it from the hole,
”Then maybe—maybe it’s the stolen property!” Joe exclaimed.
Even Mr, Applegate showed keen interest this time and leaned over to raise the lid himself. The box contained several sacks.
”The jewels!” Joe cried out.
”And that flat-shaped sack could contain the securities!” Frank said enthusiastically.
Mr. Applegate picked up one of the circular bags and quickly untied the string wound about the top. His face took on a look of utter disgust. ”Seeds!” he fairly shouted.
Mr. Hardy had already picked up the flat sack. He looked almost as disappointed as Mr. Applegate. ”Flower catalogs!” he exclaimed. ”They seem to be in various foreign languages. 
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Frank lifted the chest from the hol 
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”Oh, Robinson was always sending for things from all over the world,” the Tower Mansion owner remarked. ”I told him to destroy them. He paid too much attention to that stuff when he might have been doing something useful. I suppose he buried the catalogs, so I wouldn’t find them.”
After a long breath the elderly man went on, ”Well, we’ve reached the end of the line. You Hardys haven’t proved a thing, but you’ve certainly torn up my house and grounds.”
”The three sleuths had to admit this was true but told him they were still fired by two hopes: to clear Mr. Robinson of the charge against him, and to find the stolen property. As they put their spades back into the Hardy car, Mr. Applegate invited them into the house to wash and have a bite to eat.
”I guess you boys could do with a second breakfast,” he added, and the brothers thought, ”Maybe at times Mr. Applegate isn’t such a bad sort.”
They accepted the invitation and enjoyed the meal of waffles and honey. Their father then drove them to Bayport High.
Frank and Joe had no sooner stepped from the car than they heard their names called. Turning, they saw Iola Morton and Callie Shaw coming toward them.
”Hi, boys!”
”Hi, girls! 
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”Say, did you hear what happened early this morning?” Callie asked.
”No. School called off for today?” Joe asked eagerly.
”I wish it were.” Callie sobered. ”It’s about Mr. Robinson. He’s been arrested again!”
”No!” The Hardys stared at Callie, thunderstruck. ”Why?” Frank demanded.
Iola took up the story, saying that she and Chet had heard the bad news on the radio that morning. They had stopped at the Robinsons’ home, when their father brought them to school, to find out more about what had happened.
”It seems that Chief Collig has an idea Mr. Robinson was in league with the thief Jackley, that man your father got the confession from. So he arrested him. Poor Mrs. Robinson! She doesn’t know what to do.”
”And Mr. Robinson had just managed to find another job,” Callie said sadly. ”Oh, can’t you boys do something?”
”We’re working on the case as hard as we can,” Frank replied, and told the girls about their sleuthing the evening before and early that morning. At that moment the school bell rang and the young people had to separate.
Frank and Joe were deeply concerned by what they had just heard. At lunch they met Jerry, Phil, Tony, and Chet Morton and told them the news.
”This is tough on Slim,” Phil remarked 
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”Tough on the whole family,” Chet declared.
The boys discussed the situation from all angles and racked their brains for some way in which they could help the Robinsons. They concluded that only the actual discovery of the stolen jewels and bonds would clear Mr. Robinson of the suspicion which hung over him.
”That means there’s only one thing to do,” Frank said. ”We must find that loot!”
After school he and Joe played baseball for the required period, then went directly home. They had no heart for further sports activities. It was a dull, gloomy day, indicative of rain and this did not raise the boys’ spirits.
Frank, who was restless, finally suggested, ”Let’s take a walk.”
”Maybe it’ll help clear the cobwebs from our brains,” Joe agreed.
They told their mother they would be home by suppertime, then set off. The brothers walked mile after mile, and then, as they turned back, they were drawn as if by magnets to Tower Mansion.
”This place is beginning to haunt me,” said Joe, as they walked up the driveway.
Suddenly Frank caught his brother’s arm. ”I just had an idea. Maybe Jackley in his deathbed confession was confused and meant some other robbery he committed. Besides, at some time in every mystery the most innocent-seeming people becom 
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suspect. What proof is there that the Applegates haven’t pulled a hoax? For reasons of their own they might say that the things had been stolen from their safe. Don’t forget that Dad didn’t find any fingerprints on it except Mr. Applegate’s.”
”Frank, you’ve got a point there. That man and his sister act so mean sometimes, I wouldn’t put it past them to be trying to cheat the insurance company,” said Joe.
”Exactly,” his brother agreed. ”For the moment, let’s play it this way. We’ll pretend they’re suspects and do a little spying about this place.”
Instantly the boys left the roadway and disappeared among the shrubbery that lined it. Making their way cautiously, they moved forward toward Tower Mansion. The place was in darkness with the exception of three lighted rooms on the first floor.
”What’s your idea, Frank?” his brother whispered. ”To learn something that might tell us whether or not the Applegates are implicated in the robbery?”
”Yes. Maybe we’ll get a clue if we keep our eyes and ears open.”
The boys walked forward in silence. They approached the mansion from the end where the old tower stood. Somewhere, not far from them, they suddenly heard footsteps on the gravel walk. In a flash the brothers dodged behind a tree. The foot 
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steps came closer and the boys waited to see who was approaching. Was it one of the Applegates, or someone else?
Before they could find out, the person’s footsteps receded and the boys emerged from their hiding place. Suddenly a glaring light was beamed directly on them.
It came from the top room of the old tower 
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CHAPTER XVIII
A Startling Deduction
”DUCK!” Frank ordered in a hoarse whisper, quickly dropping to the ground.
Instantly Joe threw himself face down alongside his brother.
”You think the person with the flashlight in the tower saw us?” Frank asked.
”He could have, but maybe not. We sure went down fast.”
The strong flashlight was not trained on them again. It was beamed out a window of the tower in another direction, then turned off.
”Well, what say?” Joe asked. ”Shall we go on up to the mansion and continue our sleuthing?”
Frank was of the opinion that if they did, they might get into trouble. Even if they had not been recognized, the person in the tower probably had spotted them.
”I’d like to find out who was in the tower,” Joe
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argued. ”It’s just possible that the Applegates don’t know anything about him.”
Frank laughed quietly. ”Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” he advised.
As the boys debated about whether to leave the grounds or to go forward, the matter was suddenly taken out of their hands. From around the corner of the tower rushed a huge police dog, growling and barking. It apparently had scented the brothers and was bounding directly toward them.
Frank and Joe started to run pell-mell, but were unable to keep ahead of the dog. In a few moments he blocked their path menacingly and set up a ferocious barking.
”I guess we’re caught,” Frank said. ”And I hope this old fellow won’t take a piece out of my leg.”
The two boys tried to make friends with the animal, but he would not let them budge.
”Well, what do we do now?” Joe asked in disgust as the dog continued to growl menacingly.
”Wait to be rescued,” Frank replied tersely.
A moment later they saw a bobbing light coming in their direction and presently Mr. Applegate appeared. He looked at the boys in complete astonishment.
”You fellows never give up, do you?” he remarked. ”What have you been doing—more digging?”
The brothers did not reply at once. They were embarrassed at having been discovered, but re 
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lieved that the man did not suspect what they had really intended to do. The owner of Tower Mansion took their lack of response to mean he was right.
”I’m just not going to have any more of my grounds ruined,” he said gruffly. ”I’ve borrowed this watchdog, Rex, and he’s going to keep everybody away. If you have any reason for wanting to see me, you’d better phone first, and I’ll keep Rex chained.”
”Who was up in the tower with a flashlight?” Frank asked the elderly man.
”My sister. She got it into her head that maybe she was smarter than you fellows and could find the stolen stuff in the old tower, but she didn’t!” Frank and Joe suppressed grins as he went on. ”And then Adelia decided to flash that high-powered flashlight around the grounds, thinking we might have a lot of curious visitors because of the publicity. Apparently she picked you up.”
The boys laughed. ”Yes, she did,” Frank admitted. ”Between her and Rex, I guess you needn’t worry about any prowlers.”
Frank and Joe said good night to Hurd Applegate and started down the driveway. This time the dog did not follow them. He remained at the man’s side until the Hardys were out of sight.
As they trudged homeward, Joe remarked, ”This seems to be our day for exciting events that fizzle out like wet fireworks. 
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”Yes. Nothing to show for all our work.”
At supper both Mr. and Mrs. Hardy laughed at the boys’ story of their encounter with the dog. Then they became serious when Frank asked his father if he thought there was a chance that the Applegates might be guilty of falsely reporting a robbery.
”It’s possible, of course,” the detective answered. ”But the Applegates are so well-to-do I can’t see any point in their trying such a thing. I believe it’s best for us to stick to the original idea —that someone really did take jewels and securities from the safe, and that the person was Jackley.”
As the boys were going to bed that night, Frank remarked to his brother, ”Tomorrow is Saturday and we have the whole day free. I vote we set ourselves the goal of solving the mystery before night.”
”A big order, but I’m with you,” Joe replied with a grin.
They were up early and began to discuss what course of sleuthing they should follow.
”I think we ought to start off on a completely new tack,” Joe suggested.
”In which direction?” Frank asked him.
”In the direction of the railroad.”
Joe went on to explain that one thing they had not done was find out about Red Jackley’s habits when he had worked around Bayport. If they could talk to one or more persons who had know 
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him, they might pick up some new clue which would lead them to the stolen property.
”Good idea, Joe,” his brother agreed. ”Let’s take our lunch and make an all-day trip on our motorcycles.”
”Fine.”
Mr. Hardy had left the house very early, so his sons did not see him. When his wife heard the boys’ plan, she thought it an excellent one and immediately offered to make some sandwiches for them. By the time they were ready to leave she had two small boxes packed with a hearty picnic lunch.
”Good-by and good luck!” Mrs. Hardy called as the brothers rode off.
”Thanks, Mother, for everything!” the young detectives chorused as they started off.
When Frank and Joe reached the Bayport railroad station, they questioned the stationmaster, and learned that he had been with the company only a year and had not known Red Jackley.
”Did he work on a passenger train?” the man asked.
”I don’t think so,” Frank replied. ”I believe he was employed as a maintenance man.”
”Then,” said the stationmaster, ”I’d advise you to go out along the highway to the railroad crossings and interview a couple of old flagmen who are still around. Both of them seem to know everybody and everything connected with the railroad for the past fifty years.” He chuckled 
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The boys knew of two grade crossings some miles out of town and now headed for them. At the first one they learned that the regular flagman was home ill and his substitute had never heard of Red Jackley. Frank and Joe went on.
At the next crossing they found old Mike Halley, the flagman there, busy at his job. His bright blue eyes searched their faces for a moment, then he amazed them by saying, ”You’re Frank and Joe Hardy, sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy.”
”You know us?” Frank asked. ”I must confess I don’t recall having met you before.”
”And you ain’t,” the man responded. ”But I make it a rule to memorize every face I see in the newspapers. Never know when there’s goin’ to be an accident and I might be called on to identify some people.”
The boys gulped at this gruesome thought, then Frank asked Halley if he remembered a railroad man named Red Jackley.
”I recollect a man named Jackley, but he wasn’t never called Red when I knew him. I reckon he’s the same fellow, though. You mean the one that I read went to jail?”
”That’s the man!”
”He out of the pen yet?” Mike Halley questioned.
”He died,” Joe replied. ”Our dad is working on a case that has some connection with Jackley an 
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we’re just trying to find out something about him.”
”Then what you want to do,” said the flagman, ”is go down to the Bayport and Coast Line Railroad. That’s where Jackley used to work. He was around the station at Cherryville. That ain’t so far from here.” He pointed in a northerly direction.
”Thanks a million,” said Frank. ”You’ve helped us a lot.”
The brothers set off on their motorcycles for Cherryville. When they came to the small town, a policeman directed them to the railroad station, which was about a half mile out of town. The station stood in a depression below a new highway, and was reached by a curving road which ran parallel to the tracks for several hundred feet.
The building itself was small, square, and very much in need of paint. A few nearby frame buildings were in a bad state of disrepair. An old wooden water tank, about seventy yards from one side of the station house, sagged precariously. At the same distance on the other side rose another water tank. This one, painted red, was of metal and in much better condition.
Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles and went into the station. A man in his shirt sleeves and wearing a green visor was bustling about behind the ticket window.
”Are you the stationmaster?” Frank called to him.
The man came forward. ”I’m Jake—stationmas 
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ter, and ticket seller, and baggage slinger, and express handler, and mail carrier, and janitor, and even rice thrower. You name it. I’m your man.”
The boys burst into laughter, then Joe said, ”If there’s anybody here who can tell us what we want to know, I’m sure it’s you. But first, what do you mean you’re a rice thrower?”
The station agent guffawed. ”Well, it don’t happen often, but when a bride and groom comes down here to take a train, I just go out, grab some of the rice, and throw it along with everybody else. I reckon if that’ll make ’em happy, I want to be part of the proceedin’s.”
Again the Hardys roared with laughter. Then Frank inquired if the man had known Red Jackley.
”I sure did,” Jake replied. ”Funny kind of fellow. Work like mad one minute, then loaf on the job the next. One thing about him, he never wanted nobody to give him any orders.”
”Did you know that he died recently?” Frank asked.
”No, I didn’t,” the stationmaster answered. ”I’m real sorry to hear that. Jackley wasn’t a bad sort when I knew him. Just got to keepin’ the wrong kind of company, I guess.”
”Can you tell us any particular characteristics he had?” Frank questioned.
Jake scratched his head above his visor. Finally he said, ”The thing I remember most about Jack 
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ley is that he was a regular monkey. He was nimble as could be, racin’ up and down freight-car ladders.”
At that moment they heard a train whistle and the man said hurriedly, ”Got to leave you now, boys. Come back some other time when I ain’t so busy. Got to meet this train.”
The Hardys left him and Frank suggested, ”Let’s eat our lunch and then come back.”
They found a little grove of trees beside the railroad tracks and propped their motorcycles against a large tree.
”I’m starved,” said Frank, seating himself under the tree and opening his box of lunch.
”Boy, this is good!” Joe exclaimed a moment later as he bit hungrily into a thick roast beef sandwich.
”If Jackley had only stayed with the railroad company,” Frank observed as he munched a deviled egg, ”it would’ve been better for everyone.”
”He sure caused a lot of trouble before he died,” Joe agreed.
”And he’s caused a lot more since, the way things have gone. For the Robinsons, especially.”
The boys gazed reflectively down the tracks, gleaming in the sun. The rails stretched far into the distance. Only a few hundred feet from the place where they were seated, the Hardys could see both water tanks: the dilapidated, weather 
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beaten wooden one, with some of the rungs missing from the ladder that led up its side, and the squat, metal tank, perched on spindly legs.
Frank took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully. The sight of the two water towers had given him an idea, but at first it seemed to him too absurd for consideration. He was wondering whether or not he should mention it to his brother.
Then he noticed that Joe, too, was gazing intently down the tracks at the tanks. Joe raised a cooky to his lips absently, attempted a bite, and missed the cooky altogether. Still he continued gazing fixedly in the same direction.
Finally Joe turned and looked at his brother. Both knew that they were thinking the identical thing.
”Two water towers,” Frank said in a low but excited tone.
”An old one and a newer one,” Joe murmured.
”And Jackley said—”
”He hid the stuff in the old tower.”
”He was a railroad man.”
”Why not?” Joe shouted, springing to his feet. ”Why couldn’t it have been this old water tower he meant? He used to work around here.”
”After all, he didn’t say the old tower of Tower Mansion. He just said ’old tower’!” 
”Frank, I believe we’ve stumbled on a terrific clue!” Joe said jubilantly. ”It would be the natura 
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thing for Jackley to come to his former haunts after the robbery!”
”Right!” Frank agreed.
”And when he discovered that Chet’s jalopy was gone, he probably thought that the police were hot on his trail, so he decided to hide the loot some place he knew—where no one else would suspect. The old water tower! This must be the place! 
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CHAPTER XIX
Loot!
LUNCH, motorcycles—everything else was forgotten! With wild yells of excitement, Frank and Joe hurried down the embankment which flanked the right of way.
But as they came to a fence that separated the tracks from the grass and weeds that grew along the side, they stopped short. Someone on the highway above was sounding a car horn. Looking up, they recognized the driver.
Smuff!
”Oh, good night!” Joe cried out.
”The last person we want to see right now,” Frank said in disgust.
”We’ll get rid of him in a hurry,” Joe determined.
The boys turned around and climbed back up the embankment. By this time Oscar Smuff had
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stepped from his car and was walking down to meet the boys.
”Well, I found you,” he said.
”You mean you’ve been looking for us?” Frank asked in astonishment.
The detective grinned. With an ingratiating air he explained to the boys that he had trailed them for miles. He had seen them leave home on their motorcycles, and almost caught up with them at the Bayport station, only to lose them. But the stationmaster had revealed the Hardys’ next destination, and the aspiring sleuth had hastened to talk to the flagman, Mike Halley.
”He told me I’d find you here,” Smuff said, selfsatisfaction evident in his tone.
”But why do you want us?” Joe demanded.
”I’ve come to make a proposition,” Smuff announced. ”I’ve got a swell clue about Jackley and that loot he hid, but I need somebody to help me in the search. How about it, fellows? If old Smuff lets you in on his secret, will you help him?”
Frank and Joe were astounded at this turn of events. Did the man really know something important? Or was he suddenly becoming clever and trying to trick the Hardys into divulging what they knew? One thing the brothers were sure of: they wanted nothing to do with Oscar Smuff until they had searched the old water tower.
”Thanks for the compliment,” Frank said. H 
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grinned. ”Joe and I think we’re pretty good ourselves. We’re glad you do.”
”Then you’ll work with me?” Smuff asked, his eyes lighting up in anticipation.
”I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no,” Frank countered. He glanced at Joe, who was standing in back of the detective. Joe shook his head vigorously. ”Tell you what, Smuff,” Frank went on. ”When Joe and I get back to Bayport, we’ll look you up. We came out here to have a picnic lunch and relax.”
Smuff’s face fell. But he was not giving up so easily. ”When I drove up, I saw you running like mad down the bank. Do you call that relaxing?”
”Oh, when you sit around awhile eating, your legs feel kind of cramped,” Joe told him. ”Anyway, we have to keep in practice for the Bayport High baseball team.”
Smuff looked as if he did not know whether or not he was being kidded. But finally he said, ”Okay, fellows. If you’ll get in touch with me the first of the week, I can promise you a big surprise. You’ve proved you can’t win the thousand-dollar reward alone, so we may as well each get a share of it. I’ve already admitted I need help to solve this mystery.”
He turned and slowly ambled up the embankment to his car. The boys waved good-by to the detective and waited until he was far out of sight and they were sure he would not return. Then Frank and Joe hurried down to the tracks, vaulte 
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the fence, and ran pell-mell toward the old water tower.
”If only we have stumbled on the secret!” Frank said enthusiastically.
”It’ll clear Mr. Robinson—”
”We will earn the reward by ourselves—”
”Best of all, Dad will be proud of us.”
The old water tower reared forlornly alongside the tracks. At close quarters it seemed even more decrepit than from a distance. When the boys glanced at the ladder with its many rungs missing, they wondered if they would be able to ascend to the top on it.
”If Jackley climbed this ladder we can too,” said Frank as he stopped, panting, at the bottom. ”Let’s go!”
He began to scramble up the rotted wood rungs. He had ascended only four of them when there came an alarming crack!
”Careful!” Joe cried out from below.
Frank clung to the rung above just as the one beneath him snapped under his weight. He drew himself up and cautiously put his foot on the next rung. This one was firmer and held his weight.
”Hey!” Joe called up. ”Don’t break all the rungs! I want to come up too!”
Frank continued to climb the ladder as his brother began the ascent. When they came to any place where a rung had broken off, the boys were obliged to haul themselves up by main force. Bu 
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finally Frank reached the top and waited until Joe was just beneath him.
”There’s a trap door up here leading down into the tank,” Frank called.
”Well, for Pete’s sake, be careful,” Joe warned. ”We don’t want any more accidents with trap doors.”
The boys climbed onto the roof of the tower, which swayed under their weight. Both fully realized their peril.
”We can’t give up now!” said Frank, and scrambled over the surface of the roof until he reached the trap door. Joe followed. They unlatched and raised the door, then peered down into the recesses of the abandoned water tank. It was about seven feet in depth and twelve in diameter.
Frank lowered himself through the opening, but clung to the rim until he was sure, from feeling around with his feet, that the floor would not break through. ”It’s okay,” he told Joe, who followed his brother inside.
Eagerly the boys peered about the dim interior. The place seemed to be partly filled with rubbish. There was a quantity of old lumber, miscellaneous bits of steel rails, battered tin pails, and crowbars, all piled in helter-skelter fashion. At first glance there was no sign of the Applegates’ stolen possessions.
”The jewels and bonds must be here some 
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where,” Joe declared. ”But if Jackley did put the stuff here, he wouldn’t have left it right out in the open. It’s probably hidden under some of this junk.”
Frank pulled out a flashlight and swung it around. In its glow Joe began to hunt frantically, casting aside the old pails and pieces of lumber.
One entire half of the tower was searched without result. Frank turned the flashlight to the far side and noted that a number of boards had been piled up in a rather orderly crisscrossed manner.
”Joe,” said Frank, ”I’d say these boards hadn’t been thrown here accidentally. It sure looks as if somebody had placed them deliberately to hide something underneath.”
”You’re right.”
Like a terrier after a bone, Joe dived toward the pile. Hastily he pulled away the boards.
Revealed in the neat little hiding place lay a bag. It was an ordinary gunny sack, but as Joe dragged it out he felt sure that the search for the Applegate property had come to an end.
”This must be it!” he exulted.
”The Tower treasure!” Frank smothered a whoop of joy.
Joe carried the sack into the light beneath the trap door.
”Hurry up! Open it!” Frank urged.
With trembling fingers Joe began to untie th 
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cord around the sack. There were many knots, and as Joe worked at them, Frank fidgeted nervously.
”Let me try,” he said impatiently.
At last, with both Hardys working on the stubborn knots, the cord was untied and the bag gaped open. Joe plunged one hand into it and withdrew an old-fashioned bracelet of precious stones.
”Jewelry!”
”How about the securities?”
Again Joe groped into the sack. His fingers encountered a bulky packet. When he pulled it out, the boys exclaimed in unison:
”The bonds!”
The bundle of papers, held together by an elastic band, proved to be the securities. The first of the documents was a negotiable bond for one thousand dollars issued by the city of Bayport.
”Mr. Applegate’s property!” Frank cried out triumphantly. ”Joe, do you realize what this means? We’ve solved the mystery!”
The brothers looked at each other almost unbelievingly, then each slapped the other on the back. ”We did it! We did it!” Joe cried out jubilantly.
Frank grinned. ”And without old Smuff,” he said.
”Now Mr. Robinson’s cleared for sure!” Joe exclaimed. ”That’s the best part of solving this mystery.”
”You’re right!”
The boys rejoiced over their discovery for an 
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other full minute, then decided to hurry back to Bayport with the precious sack.
”You go down first, Frank,” said Joe. ”I’ll toss the sack to you and then come myself.”
He picked up the bag and was about to hoist it to his shoulders when both boys heard a sound on the roof of the tower. They looked up to see an evil-looking, unshaven man peering down at them.
”Halt!” he ordered.
”Who are you?” Frank asked.
”They call me Hobo Johnny,” the man replied. ”This here is my quarters and anything in it belongs to me. You got no right in my room. You can’t take anything away. And thanks for finding the wad. I never thought to look around.”
Joe, taken aback a moment, now said, ”You may sleep here, but this is railroad property. You don’t own what’s in this tower. Now go on down the ladder, so we can leave.”
”So you’re going to fight, eh?” Hobo Johnny said in an ugly tone. ”I’ll see about that!”
Without warning the trap door was slammed shut and locked from the outside 
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CHAPTER XX
The Escape
”LET us out of here!” Frank shouted at Hobo Johnny.
”You can’t get away with this!” Joe yelled.
The man on the water tower roof gave a loud guffaw. ”You think I ain’t got no brains. Well, I got enough to know when I’m well off. I ain’t in no hurry to collect that treasure you found in the tower. A few days from now will be all right for me to sell it.”
”A few days from now?” Joe exclaimed, horrified. ”By that time we’ll be suffocated or die of starvation.”
Frank put an arm around his impulsive brother’s shoulder. In a low tone he said, ”We won’t do either, Joe. I don’t think it’s going to be too hard to get out of here. If not by the trap door, we’ll hack our way out through one side of the tank.”
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Joe calmed down and both boys became silent. This seemed to worry Hobo Johnny, who called down, ”What’re you guys up to?” No answer.
”Okay. I’m leaving you now, but I’ll be back for that treasure. Don’t try any funny stuff or you’ll get hurt!”
The man on the roof waited a few moments for an answer. Receiving none, he shuffled across the tower to the ladder.
”I hope he doesn’t break all the rungs,” said Joe worriedly. ”We won’t be able to get down.” Again Frank patted his brother on the shoulder. ”I noticed an iron pipe running from the top of this tower to the bottom,” he said. ”If necessary, we can slide down the pipe.”
”How long do you think we should wait before trying to break out of here?” Joe asked.
Before replying, Frank pondered the situation. Not knowing anything about Hobo Johnny’s habits, he wondered how far away from the tower the man would go. If not far, the boys might find him waiting below and a tough person to handle. Finally, Frank decided that since the tramp had said he would return in an hour, he must be planning to go some distance away, perhaps to get a couple of his hobo friends to come back and help him.
”I’d say that if we leave in fifteen minutes we’ll be safe,” was Frank’s conclusion 
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Every second seemed like an hour, but finally when the fifteen minutes were up, the boys lifted a plank and tried to push up the trap door. It would not budge.
”Where do we try next?” Joe questioned.
Frank was examining the seams around the trap door with the flashlight. Presently he pointed out a section where the wood looked completely dried out.
”It shouldn’t be too hard to ram a hole here, Joe. Then you can boost me up, so I can reach through and turn the handle on the lock.”
Joe picked up a crowbar and jabbed the sharp end between the edge of the trap door and the board next to it. There was a splintering sound. He gave the tool another tremendous push. The seam widened. Now he and Frank together wedged the end of the crowbar up through the opening.
In a few moments they had sprung the two boards far enough apart so that Frank, by standing on Joe’s shoulders, could reach his arm through the opening. He found the handle which locked the trap door and turned it. Joe pushed up the door with the plank.
The boys were free!
Frank pulled himself up through the opening and hurried to the edge of the roof. He looked all around below. Hobo Johnny was not in sight; in fact, there was no one to be seen anywhere 
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”Clear field ahead!” he announced.
Now the boys began to carry out their original intention of removing the stolen property from the old water tower. Frank went back to the trap door and Joe handed up the sack, then joined his brother on the roof. The older boy went down the ladder quickly and his brother tossed the treasure to him. Joe lost no time in following.
”We’d better get away from here in a hurry!” Frank advised, and both boys sprinted to their motorcycles.
”Let’s divide this stuff. It’ll be easier to carry,” Frank suggested.
He opened the sack and handed Joe the bundle of securities, which the boy jammed into his pocket. Frank stuffed the sack containing the jewelry into his own side pocket. Then they hopped onto their motorcycles, stepped on the starters, and roared down the road toward Bayport. It was not until they were several miles from the old water tower that the Hardys relaxed. Grins spread over their faces.
”I don’t know who’s going to be the most surprised—Hurd or Adelia Applegate, or Chief Collig or—”
”I have another guess—Dad!” said Frank.
”I guess you’re right,” Joe agreed. ”And the most disappointed person is going to be one Oscar Smuff! 
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”What clue do you suppose he wanted us to follow?”
”It’s my idea he didn’t have any. He just wanted to hook on to us and then claim the glory if we found the treasure, so Collig would give him a job on the force.”
”Where do you think we ought to take these valuables?” Joe asked presently.
The boys discussed this as they covered nearly a mile of ground and finally came to the conclusion that since Hurd Applegate had given their father the job of finding the stolen property, the detective should be the one to return it to the owners.
Half an hour later the brothers pulled into the Hardy driveway and soon were overwhelming their parents with the good news.
”It’s wonderful! Simply wonderful!” Mrs. Hardy cried out, hugging each of her sons.
Their father’s face wore a broad grin. ”I’m certainly proud of you,” he said, and slapped Frank and Joe on the back. ”You boys shall have the honor of making the announcement to the Applegates.”
”How about Chief Collig?” Frank asked. ”And we’ll report Hobo Johnny to him.”
”And we’ll invite the Robinsons to hear the announcement,” Joe added.
The detective said he thought there should be a grand meeting at the Applegates’ home of everyone involved with the tower mystery. He sug 
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gested that when the boys called up, they try to arrange such a meeting for that very evening.
Frank was selected to make the report to Hurd Applegate; the others could hear the elderly man exclaim in amazement. ”I didn’t think you’d do it!” he said over and over again.
Shouting for his sister, he relayed the message, then said, ”Adelia wants me to tell you she’s the most relieved woman in all of Bayport. She never did like any of this business.”
The Applegates readily agreed to a meeting at their home early that evening and insisted that Mr. Robinson be there. Mr. Hardy was to see to it that Chief Collig released the man at once.
”This is going to be a lot of fun,” Frank declared at supper. ”Mother, I think you should come along? Will you?”
”I’d love to,” Mrs. Hardy replied. ”I’d like to hear what the Applegates and Mr. Robinson and Chief Collig are going to say.”
”And Chet should be there too,” Joe said. ”After all, it was his stolen car that gave us the clue to Red Jackley.” Chet was called and gave a whoop of delight. He agreed to meet the Hardy family at the Tower Mansion.
”There’s one more person who ought to attend,” said Frank with a twinkle in his eye. ”Oscar Smuff. I’d like to watch his face, too.”
”At least we should tell him that the mystery has been solved,” Joe spoke up 
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Frank waited until his father had phoned Chief Collig, who promised to release Mr. Robinson at once and bring him out to the Applegates’ home. Then Frank called Detective Smuff. He could not resist the temptation to keep Smuff guessing a little longer, and merely invited him to join the conference for a big surprise.
At eight o’clock one car after another arrived at the Tower Mansion. When the Hardy family walked in they found all the Robinsons there. The twins rushed up to Frank and Joe and hugged them. Slim and his father shook the brothers’ hands fervently and Mr. Robinson said, ”How can I ever thank you?”
There were tears in his wife’s eyes and her voice trembled as she added her appreciation for what the Hardy boys had done. ”You’ll never know what this means to us,” she said.
Oscar Smuff was the last to arrive. Instantly he demanded to know what was going on. Frank and Joe had hoped to have a little fun with him, but Tessie and Paula, unable to restrain their enthusiasm, shouted, ”Frank and Joe Hardy found the jewelry and the papers! They’re real heroes!”
As Frank and Joe reddened in embarrassment, Detective Smuff looked at them disbelievingly. ”You!” he almost screamed. ”You mean the Hardy boys found the treasure?”
As all the others nodded, Slim spoke up, ”This means that my father is completely exonerated. 
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”But how about that nine hundred dollars?” Smuff demanded suspiciously. ”What’s the explanation of where your father got that?”
Mr. Robinson straightened up. ”I’m sorry,” he said, ”but I must keep my promise to remain silent about that money.”
To everyone’s amazement, Adelia Applegate arose and went to stand by the man’s side. ”I will tell you where Robinson got that money,” she said dramatically. ”At my own suggestion I loaned it to him.”
”You!” her brother shouted disbelievingly.
”Yes, this was one time when I didn’t ask your advice because I knew you wouldn’t agree. I knew Robinson needed the money and I really forced him to borrow it, but made him promise to tell no one where he got it. Then when the robbery took place, I didn’t know what to think. I was sick over the whole affair, and I’m very, very glad everything’s cleared up.”
Miss Applegate’s announcement astounded her listeners. Robinson stood up, shook her hand, and said in a shaky voice, ”Thank you, Miss Adelia.”
Hurd Applegate cleared his throat, then said, ”I’d like to make an announcement. Will you all please sit down?”
After everyone had taken seats in the large living room of the mansion, the owner went on, ”My sister Adelia and I have been talking things over. This whole robbery business has taught u 
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a great lesson. In the future we’re not going to be so standoffish from the residents of Bayport. We’re going to dedicate part of our grounds—the part with the pond—as a picnic and swimming spot for the townspeople.”
”Super!” exclaimed Chet, and Mrs. Hardy said, ”I know everyone will appreciate that.”
”I haven’t finished,” Hurd Applegate went on. ”I want to make a public apology to Mr. Robinson. Adelia and I are extremely sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused him. Robinson, if you will come back and work for us, we promise to treat you like the gentleman you are. We will increase your salary and we have decided to build that greenhouse you want. You’ll have free rein to raise all the rare flowers you wish to.”
There was a gasp from everyone in the room. All eyes were turned on Mr. Robinson. Slowly he arose from his chair, walked over to Mr. Applegate, and shook his hand.
”No hard feelings,” he said. ”I’ll be happy to have my old position back, and with the new greenhouse, I’m sure I’ll win a lot of blue ribbons for you and Miss Adelia.”
As he returned to his chair, Mr. Applegate said, ”There is just one more item of business—the reward. The thousand-dollar reward goes to Frank and Joe Hardy, who solved the mystery of the Tower treasure. 
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”A thousand bucks!” exclaimed Detective Smuff.
”Dollars, Mr. Smuff—dollars!” Adelia Applegate corrected him severely. ”No slang, please, not in Tower Mansion.”
”One thousand iron men,” Smuff continued, unheeding. ”One thousand round, fat, juicy smackers. For two high school boys! And a real detective like me—”
The thought was too much for him. He dropped his head in his hands and groaned aloud. Frank and Joe did not dare look at each other. They were finding it difficult to restrain their laughter.
”Yes, a thousand dollars,” Hurd Applegate went on. ”Five hundred to each boy.”
He took the two checks from a pocket and handed one each to Frank and Joe, who accepted them with thanks. Mr. Applegate now invited his guests into the dining room for sandwiches, cake, and cold drinks.
As Frank and Joe ate, they were congratulated over and over by the others in the room. They accepted it all with a grin, but secretly, each boy had a little feeling of sadness that the case had ended. They hoped another mystery would soon come their way, and one did at THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF.
”Later, on the way home, Mr. Hardy asked his sons, ”What are you fellows going to do with all that money? 
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Frank had an instant answer. ”Put most of it in the bank.”
And Joe added, ”Frank and I for some time have wanted to build a crime lab on the second floor of our barn. Now we can do it. All right, Dad?”
The detective smiled and nodded. ”An excellent idea! 
Cult of Crime (Hardy Boys Casefiles #3)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
HE WANDERED AIMLESSLY as night fell on the New York City streets. The growling in his stomach reminded him of how long it had been since he’d eaten last. Though tall, he stooped when he walked, and even when trying to beg money from passersby, he could no longer look other people in the eye.
Like many other teenagers who had left home and come to the city, he owned nothing but the clothes on his back. And he was homeless, with nowhere to go.
He searched for a place to spend the night. He had no money to spend on a hotel, and he had learned long ago that if he went to a shelter, the authorities would learn his age and his name and send him home.
He hoped he could find a doorway or an alley-
2
way with a cardboard box to sleep in, but he was wary of the other people who slept on the streets. They didn’t like strangers, and choosing a spot that one of them had already chosen could get him beaten, or even killed. He kept walking.
The bells were what startled him. It seemed strange to him that something so beautiful could be heard in a neighborhood of rundown buildings and vacant lots, where honest people didn’t come out at night, and where thieves and rats and insects crawled the streets.
But there they were. Rhythmically they grew louder, then softer, then louder again, like some low, lovely song, and he found himself drawn to them.
He was almost at the building before he realized it. The building rose out of the slums like a beacon, and men and women—boys and girls, really, as none of them were older than he was— chanted and swayed both inside it and on the street in front of it.
The men wore white tunics tied at the waist with a sash and long, white slacks that reached down to the cloth sandals on their feet. The women had scarves wrapped around their heads and wore long, white gowns covering them from shoulder to ankle.
They were happy, all of them. He could see it in their faces. They danced in the glow of the neon lights on the front of the building, the lights that read Mission.
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It was a church, unlike any he had ever seen in the little town of Bayport.
He wanted to back away, to run, but the smell of food wafted out of the building. He inhaled hungrily, and on his stomach’s command, his feet marched forward. He moved out of the shadows and into the light.
The dancing stopped and the bells died. Everyone was looking at him.
He felt awkward. These people in their pure white clothes were everything he was not. He ran a filthy hand through his brown hair, and grime fell from it. Again he wanted to run, but the stares and the scent of food sapped him of strength, and without even thinking, he reached out his hands.
”Please,” he croaked, and he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. What right did he have to expect their help or to share their food?
He didn’t even have to look in their eyes to know what would be there: the same disgust and fear he had seen in the eyes of everyone he had ever asked for help since he came to the city. He hated that look.
A young woman touched him gently on the shoulder.
She was smiling serenely, and on her face he saw none of the fear he had expected. Instead there was kindness. It was in her eyes and in her touch, and for the first time since leaving home, he felt warm inside. He felt almost as if he had come home again.
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”You’re tired,” she said, and he nodded mutely. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her skin was smooth and white. There was peace in the graceful way she moved, and her outstretched hand seemed to offer him that peace. ”You can sleep in the mission tonight. And have plenty of food. Would you like some supper?”
Before he could answer, the others surrounded him. They laughed and smiled and slapped him gently on the back, as if he were an old friend. He nodded fiercely and smiled back, and before he knew it, they were all going into the building.
”What’s your name?” he asked the woman. His throat hurt, and he realized that he had barely spoken since arriving in the city.
”Chandra,” she replied.
”Chandra,” he repeated. ”I thought you were American, but that name sounds—”
”Indian,” she cut in. ”I used to have another name, but that was before I received the Rajah’s peace.”
Inside, the building was almost empty. He could smell food coming from somewhere—a kitchen, probably—but in the main room he saw nothing but rows and rows of woven flaxen mats, with a wooden bowl set in front of each. One by one, and one on each mat, the boys and girls sat down, crossing their legs underneath them.
Chandra led him to an empty mat and then sat on the mat next to it.
”The Rajah’s peace?” he said, looking at her
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with suspicion. ”This isn’t one of those crazy cults, is it? I don’t want to get hooked up with that kind of thing.”
Chandra smiled at him again, and the smile washed away his fears. ”Don’t worry, brother. We make no one stay against his will. When you are fed and rested, you can return to the world if you like. But I pray that the Rajah’s peace will bless you, too.”
A large lump of rice dropped into his bowl, dumped there by a boy who carried a large pot and a ladle. He reached down to scoop it into his mouth, but Chandra put a hand on his wrist and kept him from raising it again.
”Not yet,” she said. ”We have to wait, but not long. Do you like the city?”
He sunk his head to his chest and took a deep breath. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. ”I hate it,” he said.
”But you can’t go home,” she replied. It was a statement, not a question. ”I came to the city like you once, and I ended up like you. One thing saved me.”
”What’s that?”
”The Rajah.” Her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke the name. ”He has a place far from here, out in the country. It’s a place where we return to the natural way, where we can be cleansed of the evil of the city and of this society.”
Chandra stared straight into his eyes, and her fingers brushed his cheek. For a moment he felt
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as if his heart would stop. ”You can go there, if you like,” she continued. ”Our bus leaves in the morning.”
”I don’t know,” he replied. There was suspicion in his voice, but she didn’t seem to mind.
”Be calm,” she said. ”We’re happy, and we only want you to be happy. You want to be happy, don’t you?”
”Well. . .” He sighed and thought of his days on the street. He remembered the cold and the hunger and the scornful looks. Finally he admitted, ”Yes.”
”The Rajah can make you happy,” Chandra said. ”You don’t have to stay. You can leave any time you want. But if you really want to be happy, all you have to do is get on that bus.”
”Well, well. What have we here?” a deep voice boomed above him. He looked up to see a goldenhaired man wrapped in gold-and-scarlet robes. The man gazed down at him with fire in his eyes.
”Who’s he?” he murmured to Chandra. She bowed where she sat, her face to the floor and her arms outstretched before her.
”Vivasvat, the right hand of the Rajah,” she whispered. ”All glory to Vivasvat.”
A strong hand gripped his collar and lifted him up, and he found himself gawking at the man in scarlet and gold. ”This filthy boy has no place in the Rajah’s temple!” Vivasvat shouted. The room grew silent. ”He is unclean.”
Then Vivasvat shook him, and dirt flaked off
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him and fell on the floor. The others began to laugh, and Vivas vat grinned and let him go.
”Unclean things cannot stand the light of the Rajah’s truth. Take him upstairs and bathe him,” Vivasvat ordered two boys who sat nearby. ”Burn his clothes and give him our finest garments to wear. For only when he is purified are we pure, and only then shall we eat the Rajah’s food.”
The boys each took him by an arm and began to hustle him out of the room. They had almost reached a door leading to stairs when Vivasvat’s voice boomed again.
”Boy!” he said. ”What is your name?”
”Frank,” he replied. ”Frank Hardy.”
Then they whisked him through the door and up the steps.
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Chapter 2
WHEN THE BUS pulled away from the building the next morning, Frank Hardy was on it. He was dressed as all the others were dressed, and anyone would have mistaken him for one of the Rajah’s followers, except that his hair was thick and full while theirs had been cut short.
Long ago, the bus had been a school bus, but the Rajah’s followers had transformed it. They’d painted it, and slogans praising the Rajah were written all over the walls. Smiling, happy faces beamed all around him.
This is where I have to be careful, Frank thought. A dinner and a breakfast that were heavy on starch, new clothes, getting up early in the morning. They never let me out of their sight, and they try to keep me involved in their activities. They want to break down my defenses. I
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can’t let them. For Holly’s sake, I can’t let them.
”Let’s pass the time with a sing-along,” a jolly voice said. Cheers greeted the suggestion. Slowly someone started singing a familiar melody, and the song sped up as more people joined in.
Chandra, seated in front of him, turned around. ”Join in, Frank,” she said. ”It’s fun.”
He smiled and nodded. Blot it out, he told himself. Don’t play their mind games. Think about something else. Try to remember what you’re trying to do, how you got here.
”Join in, Frank,” Chandra repeated, and immediately other voices chimed in, crying, ”Join in, Frank. Join in.”
In his mind, he drifted away, while his lips began to mouth the words of the song. And without realizing it, he began to smile. In his mind, Frank Hardy could see his family’s house in Bayport. It was an old house, built around the turn of the century, but it was large and warm in a way that more modern buildings never were. It was home. He and his brother, Joe, had grown up there, as had their father, the famous detective Fenton Hardy, and his father before him.
Was it only a week since Frank had been home? It seemed as if years had passed since the morning Emmett Strand had come to their door.
The weather had been unseasonably hot, and Frank, a light sleeper at the best of times, tossed and turned in his bed all night. He had dozed on
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and off for hours, getting up now and then to play a game of chess with his computer in the hopes that it would tire him out.
Someone was moving about downstairs. Frank knew it wasn’t a burglar, because the alarms hadn’t gone off. He had put in the security system himself, so he knew the alarms worked. More likely, the ”prowler” was either Joe or his father, who had been out of town on a case.
Frank felt like going downstairs for a chat, but that wouldn’t help him sleep. He pressed his face into his pillow and closed his eyes.
He was finally drifting off when a loud pounding on the front door of the house jarred him awake again. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. 5:03 A.M. No one comes around at this time of morning, he thought. He leaped out of bed and threw on his robe. Not unless there’s trouble.
Frank heard the front door creak open. Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor of the foyer by the door. He opened the door to his room and jumped back.
Joe was on the other side of the door. He was an inch shorter than Frank, and his blond hair was matted down on his head. Though a year younger than his brother, Joe was the huskier of the two. In the dim light of the hall, his blue eyes gleamed with surprise. They had both startled each other.
”What are you doing out here, Joe?” Frank
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whispered. He sighed with relief. ”Why aren’t you asleep?”
”I can’t sleep,” Joe replied. ”It’s too hot, and I had this funny feeling that something was going to happen. It looks like I was right. Dad got home half an hour ago and called Mr. Strand. He just came over.”
”Emmett Strand? The banker?”
”Right,” Joe said through a yawn. ”And since I couldn’t sleep, I sneaked downstairs to find out what Dad was up to these days. I think he’s been doing some work for Mr. Strand, but it sounded like Dad couldn’t finish the case.”
Frank blinked with surprise. ”That’s not like Dad. Let’s try to find out what’s going on.” Quietly they slipped down the hall, passing their mother’s room and then their Aunt Gertrude’s. Both women were sleeping soundly. The boys crept down the stairway to the main floor, trying hard to keep the old steps from creaking.
From the stairs they could see that a desk lamp was on in their father’s office. Mr. Strand was there, too, pacing back and forth and dabbing the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. His eyes were wide and dulled with worry, and frustration and fear could be heard in his voice.
In all the years Frank had known Emmett Strand, he had never seen him display the slightest uneasiness. Mr. Strand ran his life as he ran his business—with clear logic and very little emotion—and that style had made him one of the top
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bankers on the East Coast. Not even when his wife died, leaving him to raise their infant daughter alone, did Strand let his emotions run away with him.
”Maybe I should have been more like you,” Strand was saying as the Hardys moved closer to the door. His voice cracked as he spoke. ”Your boys turned out all right. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
”I’m afraid not, Emmett,” Fenton Hardy replied. ”And there’s nothing the police can do, either. Holly’s of age now, which means you can’t control her anymore. We can always hope she’ll change her mind, but in the meantime, you’d better protect yourself.”
Holly? Frank was surprised. She was Strand’s daughter, and she and Frank had grown up together. Before he’d met Callie Shaw, he had even thought that they might fall in love one day. Apparently she was now in some kind of trouble—trouble so bad that even his father couldn’t get her out of it.
”What do you mean, protect myself?” Emmett Strand asked.
”I wish I didn’t have to bring this up,” Mr. Hardy said. ”But keep in mind that Holly hasn’t simply run away from home. She has joined a cult. This man who runs it, the Rajah, demands that his followers turn over all their worldly goods to him. That’s the first step on their path to ’enlightenment.’”
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”Hah!” Strand snorted. ”If he hates worldly goods so much, why does he have a fleet of Cadillacs? He’s a con man, pure and simple.”
”Maybe so, but that’s not the point.”
”What is the point, Fenton?”
”The point is, Emmett,” Mr. Hardy replied, ”that you’ve made millions in banking. Suppose something should happen to you. Who’d inherit the money and everything else you own?”
There was a long pause as Strand sank into a chair. Finally he replied, ”Holly, of course.”
”And in her present frame of mind, I think she’d turn it all over to the Rajah,” Fenton Hardy went on. ”Everything you worked for all these years would be in the Rajah’s hands. You’ve got to cut Holly out of your will, at least until she comes home.”
”I can’t!” Strand exclaimed in anguish. ”She’s my only child. I can’t cut her off just like that, even though she has cut me out of her life. There must be something else we can do.”
”Face facts,” said Fenton Hardy gently. ”Holly is living at the Rajah’s commune upstate. If there was a chance that you could convince her to come home, I wouldn’t have to suggest this. But I know they won’t even let you in to talk to her. I traced her up there, but I can’t go in and get her without breaking the law, and neither can the police.”
”The law! The law protects that. . . that thief! Doesn’t the law care about my daughter?”
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Hardy patted his friend’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. ”I know this is hard for you, Emmett—”
Emmett Strand stood up abruptly, shaking off the hand. ”I’ve been a bad father, but I won’t abandon my daughter when she needs me most. I won’t do what you’re suggesting!”
”Emmett, please!”
”I won’t, Fenton! And it doesn’t matter if you refuse to rescue Holly. I’ll find someone who will. I’ll do it myself if I have to!” With that, Emmett Strand turned on his heel and stormed out of Fenton Hardy’s office, and out of the house.
On the stairs, Frank whispered, ”Let’s get back to our rooms before Dad finds out we’ve been eavesdropping.”
But Joe stood where he was, clenching his fists, his lips curled in anger. ”That Rajah character is stealing Holly’s life just like the Assassins stole Iola’s. Maybe he’s not killing her like Iola was killed, but she’s lost to us just the same. I wish there was something we could do to help her.”
Frank Hardy rubbed his chin, thinking over what he had heard. ”Maybe there is,” he said. ”Maybe there is.”
”Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Joe asked Frank as the train carried them toward New York City. ”This cult stuff gets
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pretty strange. Suppose you knuckle under to them, the way Holly did.”
”It won’t happen,” Frank replied. He wore old, crumpled clothes, and dirt smudged his face. ”I’ve studied how cults work and how they brainwash the kids who fall into their hands. But those kids desperately want the approval the cult gives them. I don’t. As long as I keep my mind on what I’m there for, they won’t have any power over me.”
Joe frowned. ”I still don’t like it. We should just bust in there and get her out.”
”We can’t. It’s illegal,” Frank said. ”Besides, when I get in there to talk to her, I’m sure I can convince her to leave with me. If she leaves of her own free will, then we won’t be breaking the law.”
”If you get in. They’re going to be suspicious if you just walk up and ask to go to their commune.”
Frank smiled mischievously. ”I don’t need to ask them. They’ll ask me. I know how their minds work. Once I’m in, they’ll want to get me somewhere where the only influence on me is the Rajah, where they can watch my every move and make sure I’m trying to be like them. And the only place for that is the commune.”
”I still don’t like it,” Joe said, scowling. ”What if something goes wrong?”
”That’s why you’re backing me up, little
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brother.” What could go wrong? Frank thought. I’m wise to their tricks, and if I don’t fall for them, they’ll have no power over me.
It had seemed like such sound reasoning at the time. ...
”Frank!” Chandra said, shaking him. His eyes snapped open, and he was aware that the singing had stopped. Every eye in the bus was on him, demanding his attention.
”You mustn’t sleep, Frank,” she continued. Her smile turned gentle again. ”It isn’t time for that. To be enlightened, we must become truly awake, and to do that we must fight sleep, which is the enemy of wisdom.”
”I’m sorry,” he said, and to his astonishment, he was sorry. He didn’t know the people he was with, but what they thought of him was becoming important to him. He studied their faces. There was a joy and serenity in them that he had not expected.
They couldn’t all be faking it, he thought. Maybe they do know something we don’t. Maybe they have connected with a new spirituality.
He shook himself suddenly. I’m falling for it. I knew exactly what to expect and I’m still falling for it. A quiet fear began to gnaw at him. He tried to remember things like Bayport and Joe, but already those things seemed somewhat remote.
”Are you all right, Frank?” Chandra said with concern.
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”I’m just feeling a little sick,” he replied. Before he could say anything more, she was calling for the driver to stop the bus. It skidded to a halt on the gravel siding of the road, and Frank was hustled off, surrounded by cultists who blocked every avenue of escape.
”Get some air,” Chandra ordered. ”When you’re feeling well enough, we’ll continue.” If the truth were known, Frank felt better already.
For he had seen, a quarter of a mile or so down the road in back of them, a black van. It was the van that the Bayport Mall Merchants had presented to the Hardys after the Dead on Target case, when Frank and Joe had thwarted a terrorist bombing and assassination attempt in the heart of the mall. Now, to Frank, it was proof that Joe was really there after all, watching out for him.
As Frank watched, a small car pulled in front of the black van and stopped dead, forcing the van to stop as well. Two men hopped out of the car. They were dressed in the white tunics and slacks that the Rajah’s followers wore. But the sunlight glinted off the guns in their hands.
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Chapter 3
JOE HARDY DROVE the black van down winding mountain roads. Ever since the Rajah’s bus had left the city, it had traveled farther and farther into the hills—and he’d had more and more trouble following it inconspicuously.
The van was intended as the Hardys’ mobile base of operations. Frank had crammed it with state-of-the-art surveillance and communications equipment, a portable crime lab, and a small but powerful computer. Joe had overhauled the van itself to prepare it for tough action at high speeds.
But now the van crawled along, trying to stay within sight but just out of view of the rickety old bus ahead. Joe clenched his teeth in frustration. Make a run for it, he urged silently. Make your move! I want some action! At this leisurely pace,
19
it was hard to remember the real danger facing Frank.
At first, Joe didn’t hear the tires grinding the road behind him. The long drive had dulled his senses. Then his eye caught sight of the car growing larger in his rearview mirror, and his muscles tensed for action.
He glanced at the mirror on the other door. An identical car was coming around his far side. Alert, he took in every sight and sound, calculating the danger.
Something didn’t add up. Something was wrong.
Ahead, the bus had stopped, and the passengers were getting off. At that distance, he couldn’t tell which of them was Frank, but there didn’t seem to be any trouble. The Rajah’s followers milled around the bus, stretching, getting some air. But the cars were even with him now, speeding to pass him.
”Pull over!” the driver to his left shouted. It was a cultist, and the pure white of his clothes clashed sharply with the cold black metal of the Smith & Wesson Magnum .38 on the seat next to him. The driver of the other car waved an Uzi submachine gun in the air. ”Pull over!” he also cried. ”Get out!”
Joe smiled. A flip of the switch, and shields would cover the windows, making the black van bulletproof. Then it would be easy to run the two cars off the road. He knew they were no threat to
20
him, as long as he stayed inside. Once he left the safety of the van, though, his chances of survival would plunge.
But there was Frank to consider. If I show these guys what I can do, it could blow Frank’s cover, Joe thought. Maybe I can bluff them.
He fingered the shield switch, and then, as the cars moved in front of him to block the road, he hit another switch instead. Gears ground, circuits clicked and whirred, and paneling slid down from the ceiling to cover the sophisticated electronics within the van. By the time Joe stopped at the side of the road, the inside of the van looked the same as any other customized van owned by half the teenagers in America.
The Rajah’s gunmen, their weapons aimed at Joe, bolted from their cars, ran to the van, and flung its doors open.
”Hey, dude,” Joe mumbled. He smiled stupidly at the gunman. ”What’s happenin’? Rad day for a ride, isn’t it? I mean, like, totally awesome.”
”Shut up,” the man with the Magnum ordered. He clamped a hand around Joe’s neck and yanked him from the driver’s seat. Joe landed on the road—hard.
The pain maddened him. His eyes flared with anger, and, instinctively, he clenched his fists and started to rise to fight his attacker. Then he remembered Frank. Neither gunman had seen his reaction or how ready for a fight Joe was, and for
21
his brother’s sake, he choked back his anger. But if the chance came to use it, he would gladly let it out.
The man with the Uzi poked his head into the van and looked around. ”Nothing here,” he said. ”Looks like he’s just some kid, out on a joy ride.”
”I don’t believe that,” the other gunman replied grimly. Squinting his tiny, dark eyes into pinpoints, he glared at Joe. ”He’s hiding something.”
He seized Joe under the arm and hauled him to his feet. Jutting his hand out sharply, he knocked Joe back against the van and lifted the Magnum so that its muzzle was an inch from Joe’s nose. ”What are you hiding, kid? Why are you following the bus? You’ve got about thirty seconds to spill your guts before I do it for you.”
The other gunman looked on in horror. ”You crazy, Bobby? He’s nobody! Let him go!”
”Look at him!” the one called Bobby cried. ”He’s not afraid. He’s not even sweating. This guy’s used to danger and plenty of it, and that makes him too dangerous to live.”
Joe felt his jaw tightening. The anger was welling up inside him again. He tensed his muscles, waiting for the time to make his move.
”You’re paranoid,” the other gunman said. ”We kill him, and it’ll be trouble for everyone.”
”I’ve got that figured,” Bobby replied. ”We get one of the kids—let’s make it a girl—to claim he
22
tried to kidnap her. When it turns out he had a gun, the cops’ll know we had to shoot him to defend her.”
”I don’t have a gun,” Joe said calmly.
”When they find you, you will.” Bobby’s eyes bored deep into Joe’s. ”Is that a bit of fear I see there? Oh, I hope so. That’s just how I want to remember you.” His finger tightened on the trigger.
”Bobby, no!” screamed the man with the Uzi. Bobby turned his head and started to growl a response.
Joe’s fist slammed up, ramming Bobby’s gun hand aside. A shot roared into the air, and before Bobby knew what was happening, Joe grabbed his wrist. He spun the gunman as he forced his arm down, then twisted behind him and locked an elbow around Bobby’s neck, pressing at his windpipe.
The gun was still in Bobby’s hand, but Joe’s hand was wrapped around the gunman’s, forcing his arm to point in whichever direction Joe wanted. At the moment it was pointed directly at the man with the Uzi.
”Drop it,” Joe said. ”Maybe you can still get me, but you’ll have to go through your pal to do it.”
The man with the Uzi licked his lips anxiously and fingered his gun. Joe tightened his grip on Bobby, and Bobby let out a moan then collapsed unconscious in Joe’s arms.
23
Long seconds ticked by. No one moved.
”Drop it and I’ll let you live,” Joe said. ”That’s a better deal than your pal would have given me. I’d rather not do anything we’ll both regret, but I will if I have to, and then you might not be around to regret it.
”Drop it,” he repeated softly.
The Uzi slid from the man’s fingers and dropped into the dirt.
Joe pried the Magnum from Bobby’s fingers and let him slide to the ground. Taking careful aim, he flagged the other gunman over to the van.
”You said you wouldn’t kill me,” the gunman whimpered. He glanced over first one shoulder and then the other, looking for somewhere to run, then finally staggered to the van, defeated.
”I just need you under wraps for a while,” Joe said. ”It’ll be a little uncomfortable, but you’ll be all right. Oh. There’s just one other thing.
”Take off your clothes.”
Frank’s eyes opened wide at the sound of the shot, and his muscles tensed. Holly and the Rajah fled from his mind, and all he could think about was his brother, alone, facing an unknown enemy.
He could see nothing of what was happening behind the black van. He started to run, and all of a sudden found a half dozen of the Rajah’s followers blocking his path. In their midst was Chandra.
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”It’s time to get back on the bus, Frank,” she said. Her voice was calm but stern, her tone indicating she was used to being obeyed.
”But something’s going on back there,” Frank said. As soon as he was finished speaking, he clamped his mouth shut. What could he say? Rescuing his brother would blow his cover, but he had to find out what was happening. ”There was a shot, wasn’t there? Someone may be hurt.”
Sighing, Chandra turned toward the black van. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, ”Is anyone injured back there?”
A figure in white stepped out from behind the van. ”No,” he shouted. ”Some engine trouble, that’s all. We’ll have him out of here in no time.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ”All praise to the Rajah.”
”All praise to the Rajah,” the cultists who milled around Frank chanted in unison. Then, single file, they climbed back aboard the bus.
Almost visibly, the resistance melted out of Frank’s body, his sudden rebelliousness replaced by the gratefulness and meekness that had secured him a place as one of the Rajah’s followers He joined in line and suppressed the grin that threatened to form on his lips, just as he had swallowed the gasp that had almost escaped him moments before.
”You mustn’t be so willful, Frank,” Chandra said as the ride got under way again. ”Willfulness is what brought you down in your previous life
25
You must learn to control your own selfish desires and trust in the way of the Rajah.”
”The Rajah is joy. The Rajah is peace. The Rajah loves us all,” said a blond girl seated next to him. Frank nodded. Bowing his head and closing his eyes tightly, he repeated her chant.
But it was not those words that gave him a feeling of peace and warmth. It was others. In his head, he repeated the words of the white-garbed man who had yelled from the van. The words themselves were not important to him. He just wanted to hear them again and again, as best he could.
For the words and the clothes were those of a Rajah devotee, but the voice was that of Joe Hardy.
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Chapter 4
THE RAJAH’S COMMUNE had settled in a valley high in the Adirondack Mountains. Twin peaks guarded the valley, limiting travel to the one road that led into the commune.
Though the legend was persistent among the Rajah’s followers that he had performed a miracle and created the valley himself, the land had been used for farming for three hundred years, and the cultists continued to farm the rich soil.
Once a month, some of them traveled halfway down one of the mountains, to the small town of Pickwee, to trade their crops for other supplies. For the most part, they grew all of their own food and made all of their own tools.
The Rajah had promised them a simple life, and what they did not have was considered unneces-
27
sary for that life. Even the housing was simple: a cluster of small log lodges, with the girls living in some of them and the boys living in the others. The lodges held only cots, with each lodge sleeping forty in tight quarters. No room for privacy, Frank thought. No room for individuality.
But obviously, privacy and individuality were unimportant to the Rajah’s followers. Though they had nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a bed to sleep in at night, they were always laughing and smiling.
If doubt or curiosity existed in the commune, Frank could see no sign of it. The Rajah’s followers were blissfully happy, happier than anyone Frank had ever known and happier than he’d ever thought anyone could be.
His first day at the commune was uneventful. As the bus pulled in, the members stopped what they were doing and ran to meet it. Frank stepped down into a cheering mob, and a flurry of hands clutched and shook his, patting him on the shoulders and back, welcoming him.
As others came off the bus, the crowd turned its attention to them. Only one boy stayed with Frank. He was sixteen at most, and though his flaming red hair recently had been cut short, it was starting to curl again as it grew out. His hair color and the many freckles that dotted his beaming face marked him as Irish-American.
Despite Frank’s attempts to walk away from
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him, the boy kept pace, never breaking his smile for a moment and constantly staring into Frank’s eyes.
”Frank, this is Kadji,” Chandra said after a few moments. ”He’ll be your companion while you’re here.”
Frank opened his mouth in surprise. ”But I thought you—”
Chandra cut him off. ”I must return to the city, to give peace to other poor, lost souls. Kadji will help you find your place in the commune. He will always be here for you, and he will give you any help you need. Goodbye, Frank.”
With that, Chandra turned and climbed aboard the bus. The motor started, and the bus rattled through the gate, to begin its long journey back to the city.
”Don’t worry, Frank,” Kadji said cheerfully. ”I remember how I felt when I first arrived. When the bus left, I was scared that I’d be trapped here. But I like it here, and so will you.”
”She said I could leave if I wanted to. And I thought she liked me .. .”
Kadji nodded. ”She loves you, Frank. We all love you, and we all love each other, in a pure and spiritual way. Anyway, if you still want to, you’ll be able to leave when the bus gets back. In a few days .. .”
Frank gazed around the compound, trying to
29
look relaxed and fascinated. In reality, he was remembering every detail and studying every face.
The sleeping lodges seemed scattered at first, but as Frank walked around, he realized that they were set up to look as if they were all radiating from a large, old farmhouse. Though rustic, it had obviously been remodeled recently, with oneway windows and high security locks on the doors.
”Who lives there?” Frank asked.
”That is his home,” Kadji replied. The smile faded from his lips, and he cast his eyes down and lowered his voice to a whisper. ”I am not worthy to speak his name.”
The Rajah, Frank mused. Cultists passed him, two by two, always a girl with a girl or a boy with a boy, but none of them went near the house. He scanned their faces.
Holly Strand was not among them.
”Does he ever come out?” Frank asked. ”Do you ever see him?”
”He appears, though his holiness is sometimes too much to look upon.” Kadji was barely breathing by then, and in between sentences, his lips moved wordlessly in prayer. ”During the festival. During the name giving.”
”During what?”
”The festival when you will become one of us. He will give you your new name.”
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”Like Kadji?” Frank asked. ”What’s your real name?”
Kadji raised his head, smiling peacefully again. ”My real name is Kadji. I had another name once, but that was my name in sin. It’s dead and forgotten, like my old life.”
Uh-huh, Frank thought. ”The people I see,” he said, ”are they everyone who lives here, Kadji? I thought the place was much bigger.”
”Only some are here,” Kadji replied. ”A few who have fully developed spirits are allowed to return to the outside world. Chandra was one of those. Some work in the fields, gathering crops. Some cook, some clean, and some wash clothing. Some are off playing games.”
”Do they ever . . .” He wasn’t sure how to ask without arousing Kadji’s suspicions. But he’s expecting me to be suspicious, Frank reasoned. I can ask anything, as long as I don’t seem to be looking for something specific. He’ll just try to ease my mind. ”Does everyone ever get together at one time?”
”At the name giving,” Kadji said. He stared deep into Frank’s eyes again, smiling his placid, blank smile. ”Everyone will come to greet you, Frank. Everyone wants to be your friend. You’ll see.”
He pointed across the yard, to an area where the field had been partly cleared away. A pole was stuck in the ground there, and a ball hung
31
from a rope attached to the top of the pole. Several of the Rajah’s followers were congregating around the pole.
”There’s a tetherball game starting up, Frank,” Kadji said, with controlled excitement in his voice. ”Do you like to play?”
”Sure,” Frank said.
”Oh, good! Let’s get in on the game.” He grabbed Frank by the elbow and pulled him toward the pole. ”This will be fun. You’ll like it here, Frank. You really will.”
Breaking into a light jog, to hurry to the game, Frank smiled at Kadji and said, ”You know, I really think I will.”
I’ll wait a few hours, and then tell them that I want to stay. They’ll bring everyone together for the name giving, Frank thought.
And that’s where I’ll find Holly.
On the other side of the one-way windows, a dark-eyed man watched as the recruits left the bus. He was taller than Frank and muscular as well, and he was dressed in a tunic and slacks like the cultists, but his clothes were made of the finest purple silk. His face was narrow and bearded, with a strong Roman nose, and his heavy brows shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of mystery and power.
He was the Rajah.
”Him,” said a girl’s voice. She was partly
32
hidden in the shadows of the house, but her delicate hand was visible in the light from the window as she pointed at the bus.
The Rajah looked out at Frank Hardy, who was surrounded by the cheerful cultists. ”You know him?”
Holly Strand stepped out of the shadows. Her long auburn hair fell freely down her back, and her slender face was marred only by the sadness in her eyes. ”His name is Frank Hardy,” she said emotionlessly. ”I grew up with him. His father’s a detective or something.”
The Rajah stroked his chin. ”The one who came around, asking questions about you, yes. And now his son ...”
Suddenly he swept Holly into his arms and held her close, pressing her head against his chest. His reddish brown beard blended into Holly’s hair, the two colors matching perfectly. His eyes were raised upward, and tears formed at the edges of them. ”Of all these, you are my favorite, Yami. All these have come to me, but you alone I sought.”
”I know, Great Rajah. Thank you.”
”Then, for what you are about to do, you are forgiven,” he continued. ”Go, and make sure he doesn’t see you until the proper time.” He released her, and she backed away, pressing her fingers against her tear-streaked cheeks.
”I don’t want to go,” she sobbed.
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Go,” he said. ”It is my will.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
In the empty room, Holly Strand felt terribly alone. Since she had come to the commune, she had been free of the terrible emotions that had always confused and troubled her. Now they flooded back, and even though she fought them, she could feel the fear and doubt.
She clenched her fists until her fingernails left red marks on her palms. The effort steadied her. She knew she had no right to doubt the Rajah’s plans, and now she was filled with horror at her own weakness.
Choking back her rage, she ran from the room and out of the house, letting the back door swing wide open. She knew she must go to her lodge and pray until the Rajah needed her.
Joe Hardy caught the door and slipped inside the Rajah’s house before letting it close.
He was still amazed at the ease with which he had infiltrated the commune. Dressed as one of them, he had simply walked in across the fields. No one had batted an eye. He suspected that there was something about his outfit, taken from one of the men who attacked him on the road, that identified him as a member of the Rajah’s special guard.
Joe grinned briefly as he thought about those two gunmen. He’d dumped them in the woods off
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the highway with their hands and feet loosely bound. Clothes do make—or unmake—the man, he thought.
Whatever the reason for the success of his disguise, no one had stopped or questioned him. After spotting Frank playing tetherball, he had briefly checked the lodges. There was nothing peculiar about them, he thought, except how people could stand to live in them. The farmhouse was the only building he hadn’t checked, and for a few moments, the locks had stymied him.
Then the door had opened, and suddenly Joe was in.
The house was not what he expected. The room that the Rajah and Holly had stood in was bare, except for what looked like a small altar in one corner and kneeling mats on the floor. It was the Rajah’s private temple, barren and austere.
But in the next, soundproofed room, Joe found a wide-screen television hooked up to a stereo videocassette recorder. A complete, state-of-the-art stereo system sat next to it. Records and videotapes were racked along an entire wall. In the middle of the room, with a good view of the TV screen and halfway between two six-foot-tall stereo speakers, was a reclining chair.
On the wall opposite the record racks was another door, leading to another room, and Joe could hear an excited voice shouting there. He put his ear against the door and listened.
35
”We’ve got a good thing going here!” the voice cried. ”Why should we risk it on this fool scheme? Just throw him out. There’s nothing anyone can do to us. You know that!”
”It is my will,” a deep, soft voice replied. It was the Rajah. ”Do not question my will.”
”Boy, you’re really getting into this godhead stuff, aren’t you?” the first voice said. ”If I hadn’t found you and come up with this scam, you’d still be hustling fortunes at Fourth of July sideshows.”
”You are wrong,” the Rajah said calmly. ”There was no life before the Rajah, and you have always been Vivasvat.”
Vivasvat exhaled sharply. ”Mikey, Mikey,” he said. ”Remember me? This is Shakey Leland you’re talking to. Okay, so we don’t kick the guy out. Let’s just kill him and bury him in the woods someplace. Nobody knows he’s here. Nobody’ll know the difference.”
Now the Rajah’s voice grew enraged. ”Get out!” he ordered. ”The boy is a gift. He will soon do our bidding, and he is not to be harmed! Do not speak to me of murder.”
”Oh, I’ll leave,” Vivasvat shouted. ”But we take care of the kid my way, and don’t you dare lecture me. You’ve murdered, too, Mikey. You can call it penance or justice or divine will if you want, but it’s still murder. So spare me the piety!”
Suddenly the door opened, and Joe and Vivas-
36
vat stood face-to-face. Vivasvat’s lips curled with rage, and he aimed a pistol at Joe. Desperately, Joe grabbed for his own gun, the Magnum he had taken from Bobby, but Vivasvat jabbed his hand upward. The pistol butt smashed into Joe’s jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.
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Chapter 5
THE HAZE PARTED slowly. Joe Hardy wanted to clear the mist from his eyes with a wave of his hand, but neither hand could move. He blinked instead, and the mist finally evaporated.
Joe lay on his stomach on the floor of the stereo room. His clothes were gone, and he shivered as the temperature in the valley dipped with the dusk.
Something scratched at his wrists, and he realized that his hands had been bound behind his back. A sandaled foot stood directly in his line of vision. The Rajah, cruel and majestic, was seated at the end of the room.
Vivasvat reached down, grabbed Joe by the hair, and lifted his head so that their eyes met. ”You’re Joe Hardy,” he said. ”Don’t bother to deny it. We have your identification.”
38
”Ask the young man why he is here,” the Rajah commanded. ”Does he intend to help his brother?”
Joe’s mouth dropped open. He knows, he thought. He knows the whole plan. Joe shut his mouth and glared at the cult leader, uncertain of what to say.
The Rajah stood and strode across the room, standing so tall that his feet seemed not to touch the ground. ”You don’t want your brother to join us, do you?”
Joe sighed with relief and stifled a chuckle.
”That’s right,” he said. ”I came to get Frank out of here.”
A grim smile came to the Rajah’s lips, and Joe suddenly knew he had made a mistake. He could tell from the Rajah’s satisfied expression that they hadn’t known for sure if he and Frank were brothers. He had just confirmed it for them.
”What’re we wasting time with this mook for?” Vivasvat said. ”He’s seen our operation. He knows about the security guards. I say we get rid of him.”
”Enough,” the Rajah commanded. ”Send someone for the van he was driving, and bring it to the commune.” To Joe, he said, ”You have sinned against my law. The commune meets tonight to welcome your brother to our numberdid I mention he has asked to join us?—and they shall decide your punishment.”
”Great,” Joe said.
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”Shut up, creep.” Vivasvat put his mouth next to Joe’s ear and very softly continued, ”Say anything to anyone about what you’ve heard here today, and I’ll kill you on the spot. Got it?”
Joe nodded.
”They may decide to let you go,” the Rajah said. ”In any case, you won’t be with us much longer.” The Rajah left the room, laughing coldly.
She appeared in the doorway of the lodge, a thin silhouette framed against the growing bonfire outside. Frank stared at her, mystified by her sudden appearance, but Kadji’s eyes bulged in horror.
”You can’t come in here, Yami,” Kadji croaked, his voice sticking in his throat. ”Only men are allowed in the men’s lodge.”
”Then send Frank out,” she said. ”I want to see him before he ... before he joins us.”
Kadji shook his head fiercely. ”I’m responsible for him. If anything happens—”
”It won’t,” she replied. ”Please.” She looked at Frank with mournful, lonely eyes. ”Can’t we please talk for a few minutes, Frank?”
Frank sat on the edge of his cot, staring at her. He had bathed in preparation for the festival and had just begun to dress when she appeared. ”It’s all right,” he told Kadji. ”I’ll be back in time for the name giving.” He slipped on a tunic.
”He’s your responsibility, Yami,” Kadji called bitterly as Frank reached the lodge door.
40
”Yours!” He was still muttering as Frank took Holly’s hand, and they stepped into the cool mountain night.
”Do I call you Yami?” Frank asked after they had walked some distance.
The bonfires were far behind them, though Frank and Holly were still on commune land. Above them, the stars were clearer than Frank had ever seen them. There were hundreds, perhaps millions, more than could be seen from New York City or even from Bayport, because there were no other lights to blot them out. Frank felt as if he were walking under the very roof of heaven.
”Call me Holly,” she answered. ”I’ve waited so long to be called Holly again.” She licked her lips, hesitant to speak. Finally she said, ”I’m surprised to see you, Frank. You’re the last person I’d expect to see in a place like this.”
Frank chuckled. ”Why? Didn’t you think I wanted peace? Didn’t you think I wanted somewhere to belong?”
”I always thought you had those things. You were so good at sports, and girls were always running after you.”
”After me?” he asked skeptically. ”I never noticed.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. ”No, you were so hooked on ... what’s her name? Callie Shaw?”
”Callie. Huh! She was always on my case. Do
41
this, do that. What a nag! Just like my old man. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore.”
”So you left,” she said. ”I know that story. Still, I wish I’d gotten a fraction of the love and attention from my father that you got from yours.”
They walked some more in silence, then she clutched his arm fiercely. ”You’ve got to get out of here, Frank. You’re in terrible, terrible danger.”
”What do you mean?” he asked. There was a note of disbelief in his voice, but his mind was racing, calculating the options he’d have if he were discovered.
”It’s the Rajah. He’s cruel and ruthless. He takes perfectly sweet teenagers and twists them into merciless robots. He steals our minds, Frank. He steals our souls.”
Frank looked at her intently for a moment. ”If this place is so bad, why don’t you leave?”
Holly bit her lip. ”You don’t understand. I know too much. If I go, they’ll follow. They’ll find me and kill me. I’m safe only here.” She shuddered, and Frank took her in his arms.
”Shhh,” he said, stroking her hair. ”It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.” She sobbed against his shoulder until no more tears would come.
”We’d better be getting back,” Frank said.
But the next thing he knew, she had stood on tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and
42
was pulling his mouth to hers. Then she pulled away, her cheeks red with embarrassment.
In the distance, Frank could hear the happy chants of the cultists, but it seemed that he and Holly were the only people in the world, and everything else was a dream.
Holly looked at him anxiously. ”Take me away, Frank. You can protect me.”
He lowered his head. ”We can’t talk now. We’d better be getting back,” he said, and the wind went out of her as if he had punched her in the stomach.
As they walked back to the huts, Holly asked, ”If it hadn’t been for Callie Shaw, would we have gotten together?”
”I can’t answer that question,” Frank said carefully. She nodded and sighed, saying nothing else on the walk back.
It wasn’t until they had reached the lodges that they noticed something had changed. When they’d left, a bonfire had been burning in front of each lodge. Now there was just one huge blaze in the midst of the lodges, in front of the Rajah’s home.
”It’s not a name giving,” Holly said, the color draining from her cheeks. ”It’s an inquisition. Someone will face the test of the flames.”
”The test of the flames?” Frank repeated. ”What’s that?”
”Someone has betrayed us,” she replied, as if
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she hadn’t heard him. Then she glared at him with fear in her eyes. ”I must go,” she said. Before he could speak, she ran into the darkness.
Frank was puzzled. Holly had seemed so determined before, so anxious to be rescued. Then, when she saw the fire, awe and superstition had twisted her features into a mask of dread. It was as if she had become some other person.
Yami, thought Frank. The Rajah’s Yami, as he named her. Is that what would happen to me if I stayed? If I wanted to stay? Is that what happens to all of them?
Slowly he entered his lodge. For the first time, all lights were turned out, and he was surprised that Kadji wasn’t there waiting for him.
But something was there, waiting in the darkness. Frank couldn’t see it in the gloom, but he felt its presence. It pressed against his chest, keeping him from inhaling. Nothing’s there, he told himself, but terror welled up in him all the same. Nothing’s there!
At the far end of the lodge, something moved toward him. Frank could only spot flashes of purple, glinting in the blackness. He tensed and backed away.
”Where are you going, boy?” said a familiar voice behind him. Frank looked over his shoulder at the grim face of Vivas vat.
”You and the girl, Yami,” said the Rajah as he stepped into the faint light from the bonfire out-
44
side. Vivasvat caught Frank’s arms in an iron grip and pinned them to his side. ”Did you touch?” the Rajah asked.
”No,” Frank said. ”Your will—”
”Good,” the Rajah interjected. He smiled slightly. ”You were gone for some time. What did you discuss?”
”We . . .” Frank began. He thought for a moment. ”Holly . . . Yami hates it here. She asked me to help her escape,” Frank said.
”And will you?” the Rajah asked.
”She is misguided,” Frank replied solemnly. ”I came here for peace. I want you to teach me the way of peace, Master.”
A cold chuckle burst from the Rajah’s lips. ”Very good, boy. You have taken your second step toward peace, forgoing temptation and speaking the truth.”
Frank gasped. ”You knew?”
”It was my will. All things are my will here.” The Rajah stepped past Frank and Vivasvat and into the night, gesturing for them to follow. Vivasvat let go of Frank’s arms.
”You may serve me again tonight,” the Rajah said to Frank, who was following a step behind. Vivasvat hung back, staying away from them. ”We have had an intruder, a devil who came to do evil. Tonight you must hold the torch of truth to him, to burn out his lies and release him to glory.”
”I don’t understand,” Frank said.
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”He will be tested with flames. They will not burn the holy, but all evil things fear them. You shall hold the first torch, boy, and then I will give you your name.”
Frank’s mouth and throat went dry as they turned a corner. The Rajah’s followers were gathered around the bonfire, each holding a torch. They stared savagely at a pole in front of the Rajah’s home. A boy was tied to it—the boy who was to face the flames.
The boy was Joe Hardy.
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Chapter 6
THE RAJAH STOOD before his followers and raised his hands in benediction. ”Bless you, my children,” he said. They had been chanting loudly, but the chanting dropped to a whisper when he spoke, and they turned their eyes to the ground. Only Frank kept his eyes on the Rajah as he desperately tried to think of a plan.
”Brothers! Sisters!” the Rajah went on. He swung an arm down, pointing a long, bony finger at Joe. ”We have a devil in our midst!” A hush like a breath of air passed through the crowd.
”He comes to destroy our faith! A soul has come to us for salvation, and this devil comes to drag that soul back to the world of evil!” The cultists howled in outrage, flinging curses at Joe. ”But his victim shall be his savior instead! Step
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up, Frank Hardy—you who will be called Vaisravana—and prove yourself worthy.”
”Vais-ra-va-na, Vais-ra-va-na,” the cultists chanted over and over. The Rajah stepped among them and pulled a stick of wood from the bonfire. Flames crackled at one end of the stick as the Rajah held it out to Frank.
”Take it, Vaisravana,” the Rajah said. ”Take it, and burn the devil from your brother! My will is your will! My will is your will!”
”His will is your will,” the Rajah’s followers intoned. Frank looked at them, and as he watched, their faces began to change.
They know what’s coming, he thought, and the knowledge sickened him. They were all children, really, from homes like his and like Holly’s, but he could tell by the look in their eyes that they wanted to see blood. They played at being holy, but the ritual and the Rajah had released something in them that only blood would satisfy.
He wanted to run, but there was nowhere he could run to.
With trembling fingers, he took the fiery brand.
Vivasvat clapped his hands, and a dozen men emerged from the throng. They formed a human corridor from Frank to Joe and stood there, legs spread and arms folded, staring at Frank. All around, he could hear dozens of voices blending into one, speaking a single word in endless repetition. ”Vais-ra-va-na, Vais-ra-va-na!”
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Quietly the Rajah said, ”Do it.”
The brand had burned down, and flames licked at Frank’s hand as he moved toward Joe. He didn’t notice the heat.
Frank studied the faces as he passed the rows of men who, though they wore the same garb as the Rajah’s followers, were older than most of them. The faces were hard and merciless, and beneath each tunic showed the telltale bulge of hidden pistols. The Rajah’s bodyguards.
If I could just get to a gun, Frank thought.
He had no more time to think. He was standing before Joe. Every eye was on them. The chanting had become a shriek, the only sound in the world. From the corner of his eye, he could see the bodyguards fingering their guns, and the Rajah was grinning mirthlessly and nodding. The chanting went on and on.
Mouthing a silent prayer, Frank thrust the firebrand at Joe.
Suddenly he spun, hurling the wood at the bodyguard standing to his left. The man screamed as the flames brushed him, and jumped back. For a moment, everyone watched him, and Frank leaped in the air. He smashed out with his foot at the bodyguard to his right, striking him in the stomach. The guard doubled over.
Frank caught the man in midfall and flipped him around. The bodyguard slammed against the ground. In a flash, Frank reached into the man’s
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tunic. Out came a .357 Magnum, and Frank fired it once in the air. The chanting stopped.
Frank backed around the pole, keeping the gun trained on the Rajah. ”Stay back,” he warned. ”Anyone so much as breathes hard and your leader gets it.” To Joe, he said, ”You okay?”
”A little bruised, but otherwise pretty good,” Joe replied. ”Too good to hang around with these creeps any longer. Ready to go?”
”As soon as I get you untied,” Frank said. He tried to loosen the knot at Joe’s wrists, but he couldn’t afford to look at the rope. If he took his eyes off the Rajah, even for a second, or if he moved the gun slightly, it would be all over.
Frank didn’t mind fighting the bodyguards if it came to that, but he couldn’t face the prospect of fighting the cult. Despite what he had seen in their eyes moments before, they were only frightened innocents at heart.
Keeping his eyes riveted on the Rajah, Frank whispered into Joe’s ear, ”As soon as I shoot, run for the van. Understand?”
”But I’m still tied,” Joe whispered back. ”How—?”
”Just do it,” Frank murmured. Then, to the Rajah, he shouted, ”Come here! Now!”
The Rajah stood still, his mouth dangling slightly open. His lower lip trembled, and there was, at last, fear in his eyes. Are his followers looking at him? Frank wondered, though he
50
dared not turn his head to check. Can they see that he’s only a man, and a rotten excuse for a man at that?
”Come here,” Frank repeated. ”Don’t make me kill you.”
The Rajah walked forward, through the corridor of bodyguards. His eyes shifted left, then right, then left again, but there was no escape. No way he could push his men aside before Frank fired.
”Do not—” the Rajah started to say and then paused. His confident smile locked back into place, and he spoke steadily. ”Do what you want with me, devil, but do not harm these holy souls.” He spread his arms out, waving at his followers, and continued walking toward Frank.
He’s good, Frank thought. He’s really good. A true showman, even in the face of death. Then a terrifying thought hit him. What if he knows? What if he figured out I wouldn’t gun down an unarmed man? That all this is an act?
No, he assured himself. If he knew that, Joe and I would be prisoners by now. Or worse.
When they were less than an arm’s length apart, Frank grabbed the Rajah by the shoulder, spun him around, and wrapped an arm around the Rajah’s throat. But as he did so, he lowered his gun. As one, the Rajah’s followers lunged.
Frank fired his gun once. The Rajah stiffened and his eyes bulged, and Frank pushed the Rajah’s slumping body away as the man fainted at
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the roar of the shot. The bullet ripped through Joe’s ropes. Joe was free.
”Go!” Frank screamed and fired a round of shots over the heads of the crowd. The Rajah’s bodyguards scrambled for cover, fumbling for their guns, and the cultists shrieked and scattered among the lodges.
Joe dashed for the black van. Oddly, no one barred his way. I guess they just weren’t expecting us to make a break for it, he thought. The Joe Hardy luck, it seemed, was holding up. He reached for the door handle on the van.
The door burst open, smashing into Joe and knocking him off his feet. Dazed, he shook his head to clear the pain, and dimly he saw a man stepping out of the truck.
”Vivasvat,” Joe said. ”I thought I’d have to leave without getting another crack at you.”
”You aren’t going anywhere, boy,” Vivasvat said. He crooked a finger at Joe and motioned him forward, challenging him. ”Come on, boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Joe vaulted up, head first, and butted Vivasvat in the stomach. Though the wind was knocked out of him, Vivasvat grabbed Joe by the ears and swiftly jabbed his knee up, smashing Joe in the Adam’s apple. Joe staggered back, barely remaining on his feet.
”Come on, boy,” Vivasvat taunted. ”Come on.”
Joe moved cautiously, his hands clenched into
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fists and his left arm raised for protection. ”Come on,” Vivasvat repeated, and he laughed. Joe feinted with his left hand. Vivasvat knocked the hand aside, but in doing so opened himself up to Joe’s right. Joe swung, putting all his strength behind the jab.
With a chuckle, Vivasvat stepped aside. Caught off balance, Joe lurched forward, and Vivasvat cupped his hands together and smashed them against the back of Joe’s head. His knees weak, Joe staggered toward the black van.
In the corner of his eye, Joe saw Vivasvat coming up behind him. But he was still stunned. Vivasvat’s blows were expertly placed, and though Joe was a fine amateur boxer, he could see he was outclassed by the Rajah’s henchman.
Vivasvat swung again, and Joe brought both arms up in front of his face, fending off the blow. He fell back against the side of the van. Rest, he said to himself. Concentrate. Let him tire himself out and wait for the right moment.
A fist slammed against his temple, and another on his chest. A third blow smashed into his arms, and he felt the strength drain from them. They were useless now, dangling by his side.
Vivasvat smiled and put a hand under Joe’s chin, steadying his head. ”There,” Vivasvat said. ”That’s just the way I want to remember you, wimp.” He drew back a fist, aiming the killing blow at Joe’s face.
As Vivasvat swung, Joe suddenly jerked his
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head to one side. Vivasvat screamed, and Joe heard bones crunch against the tempered steel side of the van. He swung a right uppercut into Vivasvat’s stomach, and the man doubled over, joe slammed both hands down on Vivasvat’s neck, and Vivasvat dropped to the ground and lay still.
Taking a deep breath, Joe climbed into the van and started the motor. He was too tired to hear the screams of the Rajah’s followers or the gun battle going on between Frank and the Rajah’s bodyguards. He switched on the lights and drove the van onto the battlefield.
”Over here!” Frank shouted, and Joe saw him huddled against one of the lodges. Bullets smacked into the van, but they had no more effect than Vivasvat’s hand had. Joe drove the van to the lodge and hit a switch on the dashboard. The back door of the van swung open, and Frank leaped in.
”Let’s get out of here,” he said.
”What about Holly?” Joe asked. ”We can’t leave without her.”
”We can’t take her,” Frank said with a sigh. ”She tried to trap me for the Rajah. She doesn’t want to go, and if we take her against her will, it’s kidnapping. Let’s go.”
More shots were fired as the black van pulled away, and Frank stared out the back window. The Rajah’s followers were coming out of hiding, screaming at the van and cursing. At the forefront
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of the mob was Holly. Frank could barely hear her above the din.
”I want to go, too!” she was yelling. ”Take me with you, Frank! I want to go, too!”
”Stop!” Frank cried. ”Back it up! She wants to be rescued.”
”All right!” Joe said. He slammed on the brakes and spun the van around. They sped back the way they had come.
Shrieking, the Rajah’s followers hurled themselves out of the way. Only Holly stood in their path, illuminated by the headlights and swaying slightly, tensing for action. As they zoomed past, Frank threw open the side door. His hand went out and locked onto Holly’s wrist, and she was pulled from her feet and into the van.
”We did it!” Frank exclaimed as he slammed the door shut. ”Let’s go.” The van roared into the night, followed only by slugs from the guns of the Rajah’s followers.
In the grass next to the Rajah’s home, Vivas vat nursed his broken hand. He sat there, crying, until a shadow fell over him. The Rajah stood there, a curiously self-assured expression on his face.
”This is your fault,” Vivasvat said. ”If you had let me handle it—”
”Everything that has been done has been my will,” the Rajah said. Serenely he drew a pistol from his tunic. It was the same pistol Joe had carried when he entered the camp.
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”I have no need of you anymore, my friend,” said the Rajah, looking down. ”Now that Strand is within my grasp, I am afraid we must say goodbye.”
The Rajah fired six times, and each time, Vivasvat jerked. When the last shot was fired, Vivasvat fell on his back, his mouth and eyes open. The Rajah tapped the body twice, but there was no response. He went into his home, shut and locked the door, and dialed the phone. After a dozen rings, someone on the other end answered.
”Pickwee police?” the Rajah said in a grieved tone. ”This is the Rajah. I regret to say that my commune has been invaded. One of my charges was kidnapped, and my assistant was murdered. . . . What? Yes, the murderer left his weapon here. I’m sure his fingerprints are all over it.
”His name? I only heard it once. But I believe he called himself Joe Hardy.”
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Chapter 7
”No ONE’S FOLLOWING us,” Frank said. He gazed out the back window of the black van, but only the gravel road and silent forest showed in the red glare of the taillights. Beyond that was nothing but darkness.
Clouds had moved into the area, blotting out the moon and stars. If anyone was following them, they were doing it without lights, severely limiting the chances of catching up. Aside from dull thunder in the distance, the only sound was the ricochet of gravel off the van’s underbelly as it sped down the mountain.
”No readings on the sensors,” Joe said, glancing at the readout from their surveillance equipment as he drove. ”There’s no one within half a mile of us, if the infrared scopes aren’t on the fritz. We did it!”
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”That was some stunt you pulled, brother, going in there in disguise,” Frank replied. ”Why didn’t you stick to the plan?”
”Sometimes you have to play these things by ear,” Joe said, laughing. ”Go with whatever works, that’s what I say.”
”It didn’t work,” Holly said, in a voice so low it could barely be heard. Both Hardys raised their eyebrows in surprise. Those were the first words Holly had spoken since they’d left the commune, but she wasn’t making any sense.
”Shhh,” Frank said comfortingly. ”You’re safe now, Holly. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”
”No, you’re wrong,” she said. She sat back against the wall and drew her knees up until they pressed against her chin. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and fatigue and fear reddened her eyes. ”You’re wrong about everything. The Rajah hasn’t let us go. He’s toying with us. I know he is. Just like I know my father sent you.”
Frank shook his head. ”It’s not true. He doesn’t know we’re here, and neither does our dad. We came here because you needed help and we could give it. And you don’t have to worry about the Rajah, either.”
”Yeah, you make too big a deal about him,” Joe said. ”He’s not so tough.”
”You don’t know anything about him,” Holly snapped. ”He’ll catch me, and he’ll take me
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back, and he’ll destroy you. I should never have left the commune.”
Joe smirked, though he made sure to keep his face turned away from Holly. She’s nuts, he thought. That creep’s got his followers so wound up they think he can do anything.
”I’ll tell you what, Holly. There’s a village a little ways down the mountain, called Pickwee. We’ll get in touch with the police there and have them escort you home. Then the Rajah won’t be able to get his hooks into you again.”
She winced at the mention of home and uncurled her body, shivering. ”Hold me, Frank,” she said, and he put his arm around her shoulder. She rested her head on his chest and sighed.
”I don’t want to go home,” she declared. ”I don’t ever want to see my father again. Just let me stay with you, Frank.”
Frank’s mouth dropped open. For once, he didn’t know what to say. In the driver’s seat, Joe grinned, and the black van continued down the mountain.
The town of Pickwee had existed since the Revolutionary War. Originally one of the few coach stops in the Appalachians, it had become the home of a number of shops that served the farmers in the mountains. As a result, the town closed up when the sun went down, with only a bar and a gas station staying open late in the evening.
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Joe pulled the van into the gas station and up to a pump. No one was around, and if not for a light on in the office, he would have thought the station was closed. He tapped the car horn twice, but there were still no signs of life.
Finally, after Joe had climbed out of the truck and started pumping gas himself, a dark-haired man in a checked shirt and blue jeans sauntered out from behind the station.
”What’s your hurry, young fellow?” he asked Joe.
Inside the van, Frank heard the man. Holly had fallen asleep, using his chest as a pillow. Carefully he slipped out from under her, cradling her head in his hands. He lowered her head to the floor, and when he stepped out of the back door, she still slept peacefully.
She looked angelic, a child, but Frank couldn’t think of her as a child anymore. She was warm and soft, and ... He rubbed his eyes and tried to think of Callie, but her face kept blending in his mind with the face of Holly Strand.
Frank shut the back door and locked it. The station owner looked at him, then at Joe, then back at Frank, and he stepped back, suddenly wary.
”I ain’t got no money, if you’re thinking of robbing me,” the station owner said. ”You kids ain’t looking for trouble, are you?”
”We’re looking for a policeman,” Frank said. ”Any idea where the police station is?”
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”Heck, that’s closed this time of night,” the manager replied. ”Don’t need it much up here. Sheriff Keller, he’d be in the bar by now. A fellow just ran over there with a message for him, matter of fact.”
”Thanks,” Frank said. He looked around. The bar was a block away, a brick building with tiny windows and a flashing neon sign in front of it. ”Cruise on over and wait for me when you’re done filling up, Joe.”
Joe nodded.
As he neared the bar, Frank heard shouting. There was also muffled music, the sound of a jukebox turned low. Through the window, Frank could see a burly, bearded man pacing back and forth. He was screaming at no one in particular, and his long blond hair bobbed up and down as he walked.
His back had been turned when Frank entered, and before he noticed, Frank slipped around him and up to the bar.
”Don’t worry about him,” the bartender said to Frank. Like the screaming man, the bartender had a beard, though his was dark and crinkly. Between his teeth was a toothpick, and he leaned against the bar, leafing through a magazine. ”That’s Hobart. He’s harmless, unless you step on his toes or try to steal his stuff. What can I get you?”
”I’m not old enough to drink,” Frank said. ”I’m looking for Sheriff Keller.”
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”You came to the right place,” the bartender said. ”Sheriff Keller’s the coffee guzzler in back.” He pointed to a row of booths along the back of the barroom. In one of the booths sat two men dressed in police uniforms. The older, who must have been fifty, had graying hair and a wiry mustache. Keller, Frank guessed. He wore no tie, his collar was unbuttoned, and he wrapped his hands around a cup of coffee and drowsily listened to the younger man.
The second man looked barely older than Frank, and unlike the older man, he wore a strictly regulation uniform. Even his badge looked freshly polished. He was waving his hands and talking excitedly, though he was making a point of keeping his voice down.
Frank sauntered over to the booth, but he froze as he heard what the younger policeman was saying: ”... murder at the hippie camp up there, Sheriff. Couple of fellows burst in with this black van and grabbed a girl. Shot one of their high muckamucks on the way out. S’posed to be heading this way.”
”I don’t guess you got any names to go with all these stories?” Keller asked. He looked tired and impatient with the younger man, but Frank could tell from his tone of voice that he was getting interested in the case.
The younger man pulled a sheaf of notepaper from his pocket and thumbed through it. ”Yeah, it was . . . Joe something or other ...” He
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searched the last sheet of paper without luck. ”I must’ve left it back at the station.”
He rose from the booth and ran out the door. Frank breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the policeman heading away from the filling station and the van parked there. He was about to leave the bar himself when Keller glanced at him and barked, ”You’re a little young to be in here, aren’t you? Let’s see a card.”
”I just came in for information,” Frank said.
”Card!” Keller barked, and held out his hand. Frank dug his identification from his wallet and dropped it in Keller’s palm. ”Frank Hardy, huh? Had some private dick named Hardy nosing around here a couple weeks ago. He just wanted information, too. Know him?”
”Nope,” Frank lied. He stepped around the booth so he could look out the door of the bar at the gas station. Joe was just pulling the van away. ”Just a coincidence, I guess.”
”Uh-huh,” the policeman said, and gave Frank’s identification back. ”Just what kind of information do you want?”
”Some friends of mine told me there was a shortcut to Albany around here, but I got lost. Do you have any idea where I’d pick it up?”
Keller cracked his knuckles. ”Quickest way to Albany is the Interstate. You’re quite a ways off the track.”
”I guess they were pulling my leg,” Frank said.
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”I guess they were,” Keller sneered. ”By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have seen a black van in your travels, would you?”
Frank chewed on his lip as if he were deep in thought. After a couple of seconds, he replied, ”Nope. Sorry.” The policeman just stared at him and tried to crack his knuckles again, but no sound came.
”Well, I’d better be going,” Frank said. The policeman nodded solemnly. ”Thanks for your help,” Frank called back as he reached the door of the bar. Keller still watched and absentmindedly picked up the coffee cup again.
The black van was parked outside, and Joe stood alongside it, leaning against the driver’s door. When he saw Frank, he called, ”So where’s the help?”
Frank clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth. ”Keep your voice down,” he said. ”You’re in a lot of trouble.”
Joe stared in amazement as Frank pulled his hand away. ”Me? What did I do?” he whispered.
”Someone got killed at the commune tonight,” Frank growled. ”The Rajah must have called the cops, because they’re looking for a guy named Joe who’s driving a black van.
”By now, every cop in the state will be looking for us. We’ve got to dump the van.”
”I’ll wake Holly,” Joe said. ”You heard what she said. If it wasn’t for you, she’d be back with
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the Rajah right now. We can’t get caught before we get her home.”
Behind them, there was the sharp click of a revolver being cocked. The Hardys turned slowly to see Keller leveling a gun at them.
”Consider yourselves caught, boys,” the policeman said. ”Justice may be blind, but I ain’t.”
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Chapter8
”You’ve GOT THE situation all wrong, Sheriff,” Frank began. ”We didn’t—”
”Shut up,” Keller barked. ”Don’t matter to me what the situation is. All I know is that the fellow up the hill pays me a lot of money to keep trouble away from him.” His lip curled, exposing nicotine-stained teeth. ”And you boys are trouble.”
Joe clenched his fists. He took a step toward Keller. Keller aimed his gun at Joe’s nose.
”Tough guy, huh?” Keller said. ”Come on. I dare you. Come on!”
”No, Joe,” Frank said calmly. Joe shook with anger for a moment, then his hands fell open. He backed away.
Keller waved them to the back of the van with his gun. ”This where you’ve got the girl? Did you
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really think you could get her down this hill without getting caught?”
”Listen,” Joe said, ”you’ve got to see that she gets back to her father. It’s important.”
Keller snickered. ”She’s going back up the hill, boys. Where she belongs. If her daddy wants her, he’d better go up there and ask real nice.” He grabbed the back door handle and turned it, releasing the catch.
The door slammed open, smashing into Keller. He toppled backward, spinning clumsily and trying to aim his revolver. Joe lunged at him, grabbing his wrist. The gun went off, spitting a bullet harmlessly into the ground.
Joe socked Keller. The sheriff toppled. He lay still on the ground.
”That awful man!” Holly cried, terror in her voice. ”I’ve seen him at the commune. You can’t let him take me back. You can’t.” Her voice disintegrated into choked sobs.
In houses and buildings all around, lights came on.
”Let’s go,” Frank said. ”That shot must’ve woken the whole town. We’ll never be able to explain beating up a cop, at least not in time to do Holly any good.”
”Right,” Joe replied. He jumped into the van past Holly, who was trying to catch her breath. As his fingers tapped the van’s walls, paneling fell open to reveal hidden chambers.
From one, Joe snatched three insulated jack-
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ets, and from another a pair of survival knives. Finally, from the van’s front panel, he disconnected the shortwave transmitter-receiver.
”What’s going on?” Holly asked.
”Hey!” cried a voice from down the street. It was the deputy. ”Hey!”
”We’re going the rest of the way on foot,” Frank said. He helped Holly out of the van, but warily kept his eye on the deputy, who was running toward them, drawing his gun as he neared.
”The Rajah pulled a fast one,” Joe added. ”We’ve got to ditch the van or it’s all over.” He tossed a jacket to Holly. ”Put this on. It’ll be a little big, but it’s better than freezing to death.”
He handed Frank a jacket and a knife. The deputy had almost reached them when his eyes fell on the prone form of the sheriff. With a gasp, he stopped dead in his tracks. ”Sheriff Keller?” he said dumbly, as if awaiting a response.
Frank and Joe each grabbed one of Holly’s arms and hurried her into the darkness. Alerted by the motion, the deputy raised his gun. He was too late. By then Frank, Joe, and Holly were fading into the shadows. The deputy leaped over the sheriff and ran around the van, then stared into the night.
The fugitives were gone, their trail marked only by a faint rustling of leaves that seemed to come from all around.
* * *
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Joe pushed aside a tree branch, holding it so that Holly could pass. Frank stayed several paces behind them, watching for signs of pursuit. The lights of Pickwee could be seen above them on the mountain, and more lights were turned on there by the minute.
But so far no one was on their trail. Frank was grateful for that much, at least, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Keller came to. Then the hunt for them would be on.
They had to find help.
But where? he wondered. He was sure they could make it down the mountain if luck stayed with them, but how could they get back to Bayport once they got to the highway? It would take days to get home on foot, and every minute they spent in the open increased their chances of getting caught. The highway patrol would certainly be looking for them.
Besides, Frank doubted that Holly could hold up. She was too fragile, a delicate flower. He just wanted to protect her, to keep her safe in his arms.
Frank snapped to attention, startled by that thought. He looked again over his shoulder, but the woods were still quiet except for the sound of Joe hacking away at the brush with his knife.
Holly marched behind Joe, easily keeping pace as if she were fresh and they were out for a jaunt and none of the day’s events had happened. So, she had reservoirs of courage and strength after
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all, Frank realized. She was everything he could hope for.
Frank snapped to attention again. I’m falling in love with her, he thought. I really am. He found the thought oddly upsetting.
For what seemed like hours, the three continued through the woods and down the mountainside.
”What’s that?” Holly asked, after they had walked several miles. She pointed through the trees.
Joe Hardy squinted. He could see nothing unusual in the endless swirl of bark and branches and leaves. There was nothing, he knew, except illusions caused by the moon reflecting off—
”What’s the matter?” Frank asked as his brother stopped abruptly.
”The moon,” Joe replied. ”Moonlight’s reflecting against something over there. Glass, I think.”
They pushed through the brush, heading for the light.
The cabin they found was made of logs and plastered together with dried mud. It was halfhidden in the woods, in the smallest of clearings. There were no roads to it, and tree limbs blocked any view of it from the air. There was simply no way of telling it was there without stumbling on to it as they had done.
Frank crept up to the building, flattened him-
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self against it, and craned his neck to peer through the window. Nothing moved inside the cabin. It housed a crude table and an old bed, both carved from logs, like the cabin itself. Dust carpeted the floor. There was no sign that anyone had been inside it for years.
”I think it’s deserted,” Frank said. ”It’s as good a place as any to stop and rest until sunrise.”
Fear welled up in Holly’s eyes again. ”Those men,” she said, her lips trembling. ”They’ll find us. They’ll catch us.”
”No, Frank’s right,” replied Joe. ”We don’t even know for sure if we’re being followed. If we are, they’re nowhere near us, and they could miss this cabin as easily as we almost did.”
”If they haven’t caught up with us by now, odds are we don’t have to worry about them,” Frank agreed. ”It’s what’s ahead that we have to be prepared for.”
Holly nodded, but there was still a hint of doubt in her slight smile. She tried the cabin door. It swung open at her touch.
”Go on in,” Joe told Holly. ”You’ll be safe. We’ve got some things to do.” She nodded again, then vanished into the cabin.
When she was out of sight, Joe unstrapped the communicator from his back, set it on the ground in front of him, and raised its antenna. Quickly he twisted the dial to a secret radio frequency and slipped in a special scrambler circuit. It was used
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only by members of the clandestine government agency called the Network.
”Hardys calling Gray Man,” he said into his handset. ”Hardys calling Gray Man. Come in, Gray Man. Mayday. Mayday.”
White noise crackled unintelligibly on the speaker. Slowly a voice rose out of the static. ”I read you, Hardy,” it said.
It was the Gray Man.
Frank took the microphone as Joe fine-tuned the signal. ”We’ve run into some trouble, Gray Man,” Frank said. ”We could use some backup.”
”Negative,” the Gray Man replied. ”We are fully apprised of your situation. Until the charges against you have been dropped, this agency can’t afford to become involved.”
Joe took back the microphone. ”We understand,” he said. It was a lie. He didn’t understand, but he knew there was nothing to be gained by challenging the Gray Man’s decision. ”At least send someone to Pickwee to get the van. We had to leave it there.”
”Affirmative,” the Gray Man’s voice said. ”Contact me again when it’s over. And good luck.” A loud click sounded, and white noise filled the airwaves.
Frank sighed. ”Looks like we’re on our own. Might as well leave the communicator here. It won’t do us any good, and it’ll only slow us down.”
A scream ripped from the cabin.
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”Holly!” Frank cried. Unsheathing his knife, he kicked in the cabin door. Holly was on the floor, crawling backward toward him. Her shrieks filled the air, but he couldn’t see what she was shrieking at.
Then a creature with matted hair and mad eyes rose from the floor. It was giant, and in the darkness, it seemed like an ogre risen from the night. There had been no one in the cabin before, and no door except the one in front.
How did it get in? Frank wondered. He peered at the creature, and it became a bearded man who stood well over six feet tall. Long hair and a beard framed his face. In his hands was an ancient shotgun.
It was aimed at Frank.
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Chapter 9
FRANK’S BREATH CAUGHT in his throat. He had faced death many times before, and he would have thought its nearness could no longer affect him. But it did. Each time it came in some new form, equally dangerous and frightening.
The giant with the old gun was no exception. His matted, unkempt hair and his ragged clothes were laughable, but nothing was funny about the deadly weapon he held.
”Keep cool,” Frank said. He raised his hands over his head. ”We’re not going to hurt you.” As the giant approached, Frank slowly moved toward the near wall.
”My house,” the giant said as they circled around each other. ”You shouldn’t be in Rosie’s house.”
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”Rosie, huh? I bet you’re named for your rosy personality,” Frank quipped. He wished he were as confident as he sounded. Holly was curled up in the corner, trembling with fear. He couldn’t depend on her in a fight.
The giant called Rosie steadied the gun. ”Hold still,” he growled.
Frank kept circling. He stopped finally at the back wall of the cabin. Rosie stood silhouetted against the window, his huge frame almost blocking out the moonlight.
”Think you’re smart, don’t you?” Rosie muttered. He peered with one eye down the shotgun barrel until Frank was locked in his sights. ”This’ll make you smart, smart boy.”
He cocked back the shotgun’s hammer with his thumb. His finger tightened around the trigger.
At that moment, Joe crashed through the window, smashing into Rosie’s back. The giant turnbled forward and landed on his knees. His shotgun skidded across the floor and came to a halt at Frank’s feet. Joe scrambled onto the giant and pinned him to the ground.
”You tricked me,” Rosie muttered. Still stunned, he shook his head, and long strands of his hair whipped across Joe’s chest. Bits of windowpane fell from his shoulders.
”Down, boy,” Joe said as Rosie tried to stand. He shifted his weight onto the giant’s shoulders to force him down again. To his surprise, Rosie
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didn’t even seem to notice he was there, rising up stiffly, a growl forming in his throat.
Frank picked up the shotgun.
The giant lurched back suddenly, slamming Joe into the wall. The wind was knocked out of Joe, and he stumbled, his hand clutching at his chest.
Rosie’s arm locked around his neck. The giant started to squeeze.
Frank took careful aim with the shotgun. ”Drop him!” he shouted.
Rosie grinned savagely and tightened his grip on Joe’s throat. ”He hasn’t got much time left.” He squeezed again for emphasis. Joe sputtered and coughed. ”Better give me the gun, boy. Otherwise.. .”
Frank was adamant. ”Otherwise, I’ll have to pull the trigger,” he said calmly. ”The second you kill him. Or you can let him go. Now.”
The grin faded from Rosie’s lips. He swallowed hard. Frank could see from the doubt in Rosie’s eyes that he had gotten through to the giant.
They stood there for long seconds, staring each other down. Then Rosie opened his arm, and Joe fell away, gasping for breath.
Frank handed the shotgun back to the giant. ”We didn’t come here looking for trouble,” he explained. ”We only wanted shelter.”
”Thought you was some of Keller’s boys,” Rosie said. Now that the fighting had stopped and he had his gun back, he smiled like they were all
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old friends. ”He sends them around now and then. He’s been trying to drive me off the mountain since I got here.”
Frank helped Holly to her feet. She was still cowering in the corner, her fear-glazed eyes fixed on the giant. ”Shhh,” Frank comforted her. ”It was just a misunderstanding. Everything’s all right.”
Joe sat where he’d fallen, rubbing his neck.
”We ran into the sheriff, too,” he told Rosie.
”He’s enough to put anyone on edge. What are you doing all alone out here, anyway?”
”Surviving,” Rosie replied. ”See, someday our whole civilization’s going to collapse. There won’t be food in the cities, and it’ll be every man for himself. I’m taking care of myself now, so I can make it through those times of woe.”
”Really?” Joe said. ”This is surviving?”
”It’s all I need. Plenty of squirrels to eat, and some nuts and berries. It’s easy when you get the hang of it. I raise a few crops, too, but Keller’s boys keep tearing them up.”
”How long have you been at this?” Joe asked.
Rosie opened his arms wide and beamed from one side of the cabin to the other. His chest heaved with pride. ”I’ve had this little homestead since nineteen-seventy.”
”They’re here,” Frank said abruptly. He was staring out a window at beams of light that pierced the darkness of the woods. Coming into
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the clearing were half a dozen men, led by Keller, who carried a hunting rifle and a bullhorn.
Rosie sidled up to the door. ”Get away from here, Sheriff. I’ve got no business with you.”
”Maybe I’ve got business with you,” the sheriff replied. ”We’re looking for some kids—two boys and a girl. You seen them?”
”Can’t say as I have, Sheriff,” Rosie said.
”They’re trying to surround us,” Frank whispered as the six men fanned out around the edges of the clearing.
”Mind telling me how you broke your window, Rosie?” Keller called. ”You’re usually pretty careful about things like that.”
Rosie spat out the door. ”Maybe someone broke it for me, Sheriff. You’d know more about that than I would.”
”There’s no way we can make a run for it,” Joe whispered. ”We’re trapped in here.”
”Let’s cut the chitchat, Rosie,” the sheriff shouted. ”We know you’ve got them in there. Send out the girl and we’ll let the others go.”
”Frank!” Holly pleaded. Rosie looked over at them, waiting for a response. Frank shook his head.
”Sorry, Sheriff,” the giant said.
Keller’s eyes bulged with anger. ”I’ve been waiting years for this, Rosie. I never thought you’d give me an excuse to come down on you as hard as I wanted. But this time I got you.”
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Keller whipped his hand into the air. Rosie threw himself backward, out of the doorway.
A half-dozen explosions burst at once, sending chips of wood flying from the door frame. Frank pulled Holly to the ground to shield her from the shots, and Joe slid into the door, knocking it closed.
”Get over there,” Rosie barked. He pointed to the trap door. ”Start down. I’ll catch up in a minute.”
”You’ve got thirty seconds to come out,” Keller yelled from outside. ”Then we shoot the whole place down around you. We’ve got enough ammo to do it.”
Frank dropped into the dark hole. His foot touched a ladder rung, slipped, and then he was tumbling. He managed to grab hold of the ladder. It seemed as if he was dangling over a vast, unending void, broken only by a soft hum.
There’s an engine down here, he thought. Maybe Rosie’s not so crazy, after all.
”Frank?” Holly said from somewhere in the darkness above him. ”Where are you?”
”Here.” He raised a hand, caught hers, and helped her down the ladder. He was suddenly conscious of her smooth fingers brushing and tightening against him. Then she was in his arms again.
”Watch out!” Joe called softly as his foot
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kicked Frank’s shoulder. ”Coming through. Step aside.”
A light glowed above them. ”Take this,” Rosie called. He dropped a flashlight into the shaft, and Joe caught it. ”I’ll be right—”
His words were cut off by bursts of gunfire followed by a dull thud.
”Rosie!” the three of them cried at once.
No answer came.
”They must have gotten him,” Joe said over the gunshots. ”All because of us.” He turned sadly, swinging the flashlight up.
He jumped back, nearly knocking over Frank and Holly. A man stood before them, his long hair matted over his bearded, smiling face.
”I had to jump,” Rosie explained. ”That’s bad. No time to latch the trap door. They’ll find it as soon as they stop shooting.” He took the flashlight from Joe and shone it into the darkness.
They were in a cave. Frank had been right about the motor. A small engine chugged and purred in a corner, and boxes filled with dried foods were stacked near it. Nearby were a small cot and a cooking stove. This was Rosie’s real home, he realized. The cabin above was just for show.
Down a long corridor was a big-wheeler Jeep, the kind that was specially made for off-road travel.
Rosie ran for it, and the Hardys and Holly
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followed. ”Hop in,” Rosie said. They scrambled aboard. It was old, they could tell, but in perfect shape. The engine started up as soon as Rosie turned the key.
”Ride out!” the giant cried, and the Jeep shot forward. Joe, Frank, and Holly screamed, and the Hardys both lunged for the steering wheel. Rosie laughed wildly, the look of madness creeping back into his face.
The Jeep careened straight at the cave wall.
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Chapter 10
IT WAS TOO late for Frank or Joe to move. The Jeep smashed head-on into the wall.
To their surprise, it kept moving. The wall had come down, and it was flapping on the front end of the Jeep.
Rosie chuckled. They had run through a canvas sheet that had covered the mouth of the cave. ”I’ve had that up for years, to keep people from seeing where I live. From the outside, it looks just like a moss-covered rock.” He laughed again. ”Riding through it gets them every time.”
”Them?” Joe said. ”You’ve done this before?”
”Back during the Vietnam War, I’d drive draft dodgers to the Canadian border,” Rosie replied. He stared wistfully at the sky. ”We’d go all the way to the Saint Lawrence on back roads and off
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roads. A guy ran a speedboat out of Morristown into Canada. I wonder what ever happened to him. Those sure were the days.”
He reached out the driver’s window, grabbed the canvas, and pulled it back over the hood until it was all inside the car. The Jeep whipped between and around trees as if it were a dirt bike. It bounced over rocks and ditches. It was evident that nothing fazed Rosie, and he would stop for nothing.
”So what’s your story?” Rosie asked. ”Run a stoplight in Keller’s county?”
”It’s a little more complicated than that,” Joe said. ”We rescued Holly from a commune this evening.”
Rosie cocked an eyebrow, and his face filled with a new respect for the Hardy boys. ”The Rajah’s spread, huh? Mean guys up there. They took some shots at me once just for hunting within a hundred feet of the place.” He leaned over to Joe and winked. ”I had to crack a few skulls over that one.”
Then he straightened up, tilting his head back to talk to Frank and Holly. ”How’d you get hooked up with that mob, missy?”
”You’re mistaken,” Holly said. She suddenly sounded cross. ”The Rajah doesn’t believe in guns. He’d throw anyone using them out of the commune.”
”Wise up, Holly,” Joe said in disgust. ”Those
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guys took shots at me, and someone killed Vivasvat. They didn’t do that with prayer.”
”Joe,” warned Frank.
”Get real, Frank,” Joe shot back. ”She sounds like she still believes in that creep.”
”I don’t!” she insisted. Tears welled up in her eyes. ”I just want to go home! I just want to go home. ...”
She buried her face in Frank’s shoulder and sobbed. He slipped a comforting arm around her, softly smoothing her hair.
”Look what you’ve done,” he scolded Joe. ”Hasn’t she been through enough?”
Joe scowled, but Rosie just grinned. If he had heard the conversation, he showed no sign of it. Steering the Jeep through the trees, he was lost in the fantasy world of his memories, dreaming of a life that had vanished more than a decade before.
”Thanks for getting us out of there, Rosie,” Frank finally said. ”I’m sorry you’ll get into trouble for it.”
”What?” Rosie drifted out of the daydream. ”Oh, don’t you worry about that. Keller never saw you in my place, and there’s no evidence you were even there. If they shot up my cabin enough, I’ll even get some money from the county out of this.”
”How long before we hit the highway?” Joe asked.
Rosie laughed. ”You don’t know much about
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being on the run, partner. The cops’ll be all over the highway, waiting for you. You’ll never get where you’re going that way. You’re getting out right about here.”
Joe peered into the night. The woods had thinned into meadow, but they were still in the mountains. There were no signs of civilization there. ”There’s a road around here somewhere, right?” Joe asked.
”Nope,” Rosie said. ”Better.” The Jeep screeched to a stop at the edge of a sloping cliff. ”Look down there.”
Joe climbed out of the Jeep and stared down the cliff. Far below was a rushing torrent of water—a river. But Rosie was wrong. It was too far below. There was no way to reach the river, and no way to travel on it if they did.
Rosie had led them to a dead end.
Frustrated, Joe kicked a stone down the cliffside and listened to it roll. It hit something flat, bounced twice and rang as it bounced, then rolled the rest of the way and splashed into the water.
It rang! Joe thought excitedly. But it’s stone. There’s something else down there, something metal. He squinted. Partway down, almost hidden in the darkness, ran a set of train tracks.
”Where do they go?” Joe called.
The others left the Jeep and joined him. Holly’s eyes widened in horror. ”You don’t expect us to walk back to Bayport, do you?”
”If you want, sure,” Rosie said with a chuckle.
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”Or we could wait for a train, couldn’t we?” Frank said. ”These would be cargo train tracks, since no passenger trains come through here. The train would slow down around this bend, to avoid throwing itself into the river. If it’s going slowly enough, we should be able to hop on with ease.”
He turned to Rosie, whose mouth dangled open with surprise. ”That’s why you brought us to this particular spot, isn’t it?”
Rosie smiled cunningly. ”You’re pretty smart, all right. Except I bet you don’t know when the next train’s coming by.”
”Nope,” said Joe. ”When?”
From the distance came a faint rumbling, and the ground began to quiver.
”In about two minutes,” Rosie said, laughing.
”Come on!” Frank shouted, grabbing Holly’s hand. ”We’ve got to get down to the tracks. Quick!” They scrambled down the slope, sliding instead of staying on their feet. ”Thanks again,” Frank called to Rosie.
”Anytime, sport,” Rosie called back. ”If you’re ever in these parts .. .”
His words were cut off by the roar of the train. It rumbled toward them, slowing as it hit the curve. They threw themselves against the hill as the train drew near.
Then it was passing them. Frank tried to yell orders, but the noise drowned his words. He strained his eyes, looking for the right boxcar to jump. Two cars filled with cattle passed, followed
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by cars full of coal and corn. Then he saw what he was looking for.
Coming up was an open, empty boxcar.
He grabbed Holly’s wrist again and pulled her along. From the corner of his eye, he could see Joe on the move already, heading along the tracks the other way.
Nimbly Joe grabbed the handles on the side of the empty car as it eased past him. He was in his element, moving the way he had learned in the gym, pulling himself up the row of handles the way he would pull himself up a rope. It was child’s play for him. With the grace of a trained gymnast, he swung from the handles through the open door. He was inside.
As the boxcar caught up to Frank and Holly and pulled past them, Joe held the frame of the door and stretched his arm out. Holly’s fingers touched his and slid off.
”I can’t do it!” she cried. ”I can’t! I can’t!” She stopped, clenching her fists. She started to curl up like a child.
Frank clutched her around the waist and lifted her into the air. Without pausing to think, he tossed her bodily into the boxcar. She smacked the floor and rolled across it, dazed.
The boxcar moved on, leaving Frank running beside the train.
Joe howled and leaned out of the car again, hoping to give Frank a hold. It was no use. Frank stopped running and tried to catch his breath.
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Throwing Holly aboard had used up the last of his strength. It was too long since he had slept.
Moments later, the last car in the train, a caboose, pulled alongside him. It’s now or never, he thought, gritting his teeth. He took a deep breath and leaped. His hand caught the back steps of the train.
Gasping for breath, he pulled himself aboard and collapsed on the caboose’s back platform. No one else was aboard the caboose. It was being used for storage, with big sacks of grain piled inside.
Frank leaned out over the edge of the platform and looked along the train. He could see Joe in the open car, smiling and waving. At last they were safe. They could rest.
A bullet splintered the wall above Frank’s ear.
At the sound of the shot, loud even against the roar of the train, Joe leaped back to the door. Figures lined the hilltop they had just climbed down. Flames spat from their hands as the thunderclaps exploded.
It was Keller and his men. Rosie hadn’t lost them after all, and they were shooting at Frank. The train rounded the mountain, allowing Joe a view of the back of the caboose. He could see his brother trying to stand and get a view of the shooters.
”No!” Joe cried.
A shot rang out, driving the figure on the caboose platform backward. It swayed on the oppo-
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site side for a second and then plunged off the train.
Joe scrambled to the other side of the boxcar and wrenched the door open. He saw the moon reflected in the water below. Next he saw a clothcovered lump bob twice in the river, then sink beneath the swirling waters.
Frank was gone.
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Chapter 11
”HE WAS THE only one who loved me,” Holly said through her tears.
Joe looked up wearily and shook himself awake. He sat crouched over his knees against the wall of the boxcar; he had been sitting that way for hours while Holly cried herself to sleep on and off.
”I don’t want to talk about Frank anymore,” he said. A lump about the size of a fist rose in his throat and choked him. He had always known that danger might one day take one of them. But not yet, he thought. It shouldn’t have happened yet.
Holly was so grief-stricken, though, that she couldn’t see how upset Joe was. ”I know he loved me,” she repeated. ”If he didn’t love me,
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he wouldn’t have gone into the commune after me. Poor Frank.”
”He didn’t love you!” Joe shouted in exasperation. Holly sat up stiffly and stared at him, pain and doubt in her eyes, and Joe softened. She’s not to blame. There’s no reason to yell at her. ”That’s just the way he was,” he said gently. ”He knew you were in trouble and he came to help.”
She smiled. ”You’re a lot like him. Not in the way you walk or dress, of course. He was quieter than you are, and a lot less physical. But both of you believe in the same things, don’t you?”
”Yes, I guess we do,” Joe said. ”Or did. Look, I’d rather not talk about Frank anymore. Not until I have to explain to Mom and Dad.”
”So what do you want to talk about?”
”I’d like to sleep,” Joe replied, ”but if you want to talk, then let’s talk about you.”
”Me?” Holly said in surprise. ”I’m ... there’s nothing to talk about.”
She’s hiding something, Joe realized suddenly. It was in the way her voice trembled, the way she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. ”Let’s talk about the Rajah, then,” he said, playing a hunch.
”What about him?” Holly asked coldly, and he knew he was on the right track. She didn’t want to talk about the Rajah.
He had to coax the information out of her. How would Frank have handled this? he wondered. He
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smiled and bent his head so she would not see. When he raised his head again, his expression Was bland, as if he weren’t really interested in their conversation.
”What made you run to the Rajah?” he asked.
Her relief at his question was noticeable, but there was still a darkness in her eyes and a chill in her voice that bothered Joe. ”My father,” she said slowly. ”I had to get away from my father.”
”Why?” Joe asked. ”He seems like a nice enough guy to me. Did he hit you?”
”No. He never laid a hand on me. He never even touched me. That was the problem.”
”I don’t understand.”
Holly’s eyes flashed angrily. ”You’ve got a family! You hug, don’t you? You do things together, like a family should.”
”Sure.”
”We didn’t. My father and I, I mean. Not since Mom died. He didn’t love me much before that, but afterward, he never had time for me. I didn’t even see him at meals.
”It was like he didn’t want me there. Like he wanted me to vanish, to be a non-person. There’s nothing worse you can do to somebody, Joe. Nothing!
”Nothing,” she repeated softly, then she started to cry again. He stood and pulled her to him, hugging her. She clung to him like a child, and after a few minutes, her sobs quieted.
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”That explains why you left home,” he said gently. ”But how did you get hooked up with the cult?”
She pulled away from him, suspicious again. ”You’re working for my father, aren’t you? He’s the one who sent you.”
”No. He sent our dad. You know him. Fenton Hardy, the detective. He couldn’t do anything for you, so we decided to give it a shot.”
”So you are working for my father.”
Joe shook his head. ”He doesn’t know what we were doing. Neither does our father. We did it for you, not them. So why don’t you trust me?”
”Why should I?” She turned away, arms wrapped around herself. ”I trusted Frank. But he’s gone now. Why did he have to go?”
”Blame it on the Rajah!” Joe shouted. ”He sent his goons after us.” Joe calmed himself down. ”Look, I’ll tell you everything I know. When I was in the Rajah’s home, I heard him talking about big plans. You were at the center of them.”
Holly gasped. ”Me? What do you mean? How could I—?”
”I don’t know,” Joe replied. ”That’s why you’ve got to talk.”
She stared at him for a long time. At last she said, ”All right.
”It was horrible,” she began. ”I had to leave home. I couldn’t stay there anymore. But I had
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nowhere to go. My mother had left me some money, so I took it with me. I thought I could live off it for a long time, if I was careful.
”I went to New York. My father probably didn’t even notice. By the end of my first day, I had found a cheap hotel to live in. They made you pay by the day, which would make my money run out quicker, but I was going to get a job. There are a lot of acting jobs in New York. I think I’d make a good actress, don’t you?
”I would have, too,” Holly continued without waiting for Joe to answer. ”Every day for a week, I went out and looked for a job. But there were lots of other girls looking, too. I never got to prove myself. It was awful. And I always had this feeling I was being watched, like someone was waiting to get me.
”The first time I noticed any of the Rajah’s people, they were dancing outside my hotel. I guess that was three or four days after I got there. They seemed so happy and . . . and loving. And loved. It made me think of everything I wanted and never had. They were a family.
”One day I came back to my room and found I’d been robbed. I’d hidden my money, but it was gone. All of it. So I complained to the manager, and she accused me of trying to get out of paying the rent. She took all my stuff and threw me out. On the street! Where was I supposed to go? All I could do was cry and cry and cry.
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”Then he was there.
”He brushed away my tears and called me little sister and told me there was always a place for me among his children. He said that with him, I would be free and safe.
”And I knew I was home.
”I spent the night in the Rajah’s center in Manhattan. The next morning, a Rolls-Royce arrived for me. It was the Rajah’s, too. He was there to escort me personally to the commune. The others said that marked me as a special follower, and I was. I knew I was.
”For the first time in my life, I felt special and loved. The Rajah treated me like a princess. To this day, I don’t know why he did it. But I know I’ll always love him.”
”Joe?” Holly whispered, but he was asleep. His head bobbed as the train rumbled along, but his eyes didn’t open. With her soft, droning voice, she had stopped him when all the Rajah’s agents couldn’t.
Holly smiled and peered out the door of the boxcar. The train slowed as it neared a railroad yard. They weren’t in Bayport, she knew, but they were close enough. It was another of the look-alike, semi-industrial, semirural towns that dotted the banks of the Hudson River. The sweet country smell of the upstate air had been replaced by the odor of sulfur and exhaust.
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Holly had hoped she would never see a city again, but there she was.
Joe mumbled, startling her. She watched him carefully to make sure he was still asleep. He murmured something else and rolled onto his side.
Holly studied the empty car, as she had studied it every minute of the long trip. There was nothing in it but Joe and her. She chewed on her lip. There’s got to be something here I can use, she thought.
Her eyes lit up, and she moved quickly to one of the doors. It slid shut easily, and much more quietly than she expected. On the door was a metal bar, a support used to keep the door closed. She grabbed the bar and twisted it. It refused to come loose.
Joe rolled onto his stomach.
The train was pulling to a stop. Holly knew the jolt of that final stop would jar Joe awake. She had to work fast.
But the metal bar wouldn’t cooperate. Holly braced herself against the door and twisted again. The bar moved slightly. It was old, and the bolts holding it to the door were loose.
She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and wedged her hip between the door and the bar. Holding the bar in place with her hands, she threw her weight against the bar. The wood of the door cracked, then splintered.
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Joe grumbled at the noise and shook his head, but his eyes stayed closed.
At that moment, the bar broke off in Holly’s hands. Catching her breath, she stood over Joe and with both hands raised the bar high over her head. ”Goodbye, Joe,” she said.
With all her might, she swung the bar down.
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Chapter 12
SOMETHING WRAPPED AROUND Holly’s ankle and shoved it forward. As she fell back, she tried to scream, but a rough hand clapped over her mouth. The stench of rot filled her nostrils, making her sick. Her arms flapped wildly as she fell, and the iron bar flew from her hand and clattered across the boxcar floor.
Joe shot up. The train lurched to a halt.
Cops, he thought as he saw the two men in the doorway. Train yards hired private guards to keep people off the freight trains. But the men he saw were ragged and unshaven. They looked as if they hadn’t slept indoors or eaten in days. Bums, he realized. One of them dragged Holly from the car as the other came inside and picked up the iron bar.
”Money,” he said to Joe, and patted the bar
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against his palm. The bum spoke in a flat, dull voice. His eyes were dull, too, glazed over by hunger and hate. There was no reason or hope left in him.
Joe didn’t move or speak.
”Money!” the bum repeated. He smashed the bar to the floor. Bits of wood flew up from the blow. Joe held his ground.
With a shout, the bum lunged at Joe and swung the iron bar. Joe rolled aside as the bar smashed the floor again. Balancing on his hands, Joe swung his feet around and kicked at the back of the bum’s knees. The bum toppled forward.
He caught himself on the iron bar. Without thinking, he flung the bar at Joe, dancing on one foot for a moment, trying to regain his balance. Then his feet spun out from under him, and he flopped like a rag doll onto the floor. A tiny groan sputtered from his lips.
Joe kicked the iron bar out of the car and leaped after it.
Half a car away, Holly wrestled with the other bum, trying to drive him away. It was no use. The bum was much stronger than she was. She dug her fingernails into his cheeks, but the expression in the bum’s eyes didn’t change. Like the guy in the boxcar, he was beyond pain.
Joe grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and landed his fist as hard as he could in the bum’s belly. The bum doubled over and clutched
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against his palm. The bum spoke in a flat, dull voice. His eyes were dull, too, glazed over by hunger and hate. There was no reason or hope left in him.
Joe didn’t move or speak.
”Money!” the bum repeated. He smashed the bar to the floor. Bits of wood flew up from the blow. Joe held his ground.
With a shout, the bum lunged at Joe and swung the iron bar. Joe rolled aside as the bar smashed the floor again. Balancing on his hands, Joe swung his feet around and kicked at the back of the bum’s knees. The bum toppled forward.
He caught himself on the iron bar. Without thinking, he flung the bar at Joe, dancing on one foot for a moment, trying to regain his balance, Then his feet spun out from under him, and he flopped like a rag doll onto the floor. A tiny groan sputtered from his lips.
Joe kicked the iron bar out of the car and leaped after it.
Half a car away, Holly wrestled with the other bum, trying to drive him away. It was no use. The bum was much stronger than she was. She dug her fingernails into his cheeks, but the expression in the bum’s eyes didn’t change. Like the guy in the boxcar, he was beyond pain.
Joe grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and landed his fist as hard as he could in the bum’s belly. The bum doubled over and clutched
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his stomach. Something woke in his dead eyes, and he growled from his gut.
The bum straightened up as best as he could and threw a punch at Joe. Joe easily sidestepped it and brought both fists down onto the bum’s back. The bum sat down suddenly, whining and crying. Joe watched him carefully for a long moment, but the fight had gone out of the bum. He probably doesn’t even remember it, Joe realized, and he turned his attention to Holly.
She was kneeling on the ground, shivering with horror. Joe put his hands on her shoulders to help her up, but she wriggled out of his grasp.
”I’m all right,” Holly said. ”Thanks for helping.”
”Those bums won’t bother us again,” Joe replied. He glanced around the train yard. ”There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here. Any idea where we are?” She shrugged. ”Come on, then,” Joe continued, and walked alongside the train.
A head bobbed through the space between two cars. Joe flattened himself against the side of the train, signaling to Holly to do the same. The footsteps on the other side of the train passed by and faded into the distance.
”Let’s get out of here,” Joe said. He grabbed Holly’s hand and pulled her into a run. They sprinted as fast as they could along the row of boxcars.
A whistle pierced the air, and rapid footsteps
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began moving toward them. Joe glanced over his shoulder. No one was there, but he could hear more footsteps moving quickly in their direction, They’re running alongside the other trains, Joe thought. That’s why I can’t see them.
He concentrated, sorting out the footsteps. At least six men were after them. From the sound of it, there are four on our left side and two on our right. He might be able to take the two men by himself, but not before the others caught up, There was nowhere to go but forward.
Ahead, he could see the open field beyond the train yard. All they had to do was reach it and climb over the barbed-wire fence surrounding the yard and they were safe. Only a few more steps, he told himself. Just a few more steps.
A bald man with a baseball bat stepped out from behind the caboose and blocked their path. ”We’ve been waiting for you, boy,” he said with a toothless grin. He passed the bat back and forth from hand to hand. ”A guy upstate alerted the yard crews all up and down the river that you were on this train, and he’s offering a lot of money to get you back.”
”Sheriff Keller,” Holly gasped. ”He’s doing this for the Rajah.” She slowed to a fast walk. ”We can’t make it.”
”Keep running,” Joe ordered. He lowered his head and butted into the man before he could swing the bat. Then he straightened up suddenly, flipping the man over his shoulder.
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Holly froze in her tracks. A group of burly men rounded the next train and whooped at her. She whirled around. ”Joe!”
”This way!” he shouted, and grabbed her hand again. They dashed back the way they’d come, with the herd of howling men in hot pursuit.
The four men Joe had heard moments earlier spilled through the gaps between the boxcars. Joe veered in the other direction, shoving Holly between two boxcars. The other two men who had been following them would be on the other side, he knew, but he hoped he could handle both of them. If nothing else, he could buy Holly time to escape.
He clenched his fists. Then he hurled himself into the open, hoping to catch the men by surprise. The surprise was on him.
The two men lay on the ground, unconscious.
”What happened to them?” Holly asked in bewilderment.
”Beats me,” Joe replied. But he knew. Whoever had knocked out the two men had acted silently and skillfully. And Joe could see no bruises on them, which indicated that their attacker had special talents for dealing with people.
There must be thousands of people like that in the world, he knew, but it was unlikely that any of them would be there at that time and willing to help them.
There’s only one person it could be, he thought
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to himself. He couldn’t suppress a big grin. It was impossible, but it had to be true.
Frank was alive!
”Joe!” Holly screamed again. More men were coming at them. Joe turned. Others were bearing down. It was too late to get away. The men circled them, surrounding them on all sides. Joe counted fourteen all together, coming closer and closer. He could stop three, maybe four at best, but the others would certainly get him.
They were trapped.
Frank, he wondered, where are you when I need you?
He bobbed up and down, looking over the shoulders of the approaching men, but Frank was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he had his reasons for wanting everyone to think he was dead.
”I’m sorry Holly,” Joe said as the men closed in. He clenched and raised his fists. ”I let you down.”
He slugged the nearest attacker, a bearded man in a denim jacket, and the man toppled like an oak. A fist pounded against Joe’s jaw. He staggered back, dazed, and swung without connecting at a second man.
Another fist slammed his shoulder and a third his back. Pain clouded his sight. Joe felt his hand strike something hard, but he couldn’t see what it was. He couldn’t see anything.
Joe’s body had taken over for his mind. He
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ignored the pain, swinging wildly as somewhere beyond the cloud around his mind, Holly screamed and screamed until her voice became a long, shrill howl that filled the world.
He was still swinging as the police cars pulled up, sirens blaring. The men scattered at the first sighting of the cars, but Joe kept swinging.
Slowly the cloud lifted from Joe’s mind. His arms, terribly tired, fell uselessly to his sides, and he gazed down. Five men lay at his feet. Holly was nearby, jumping up and down, frantically waving at the police.
He realized it was the scream of their sirens, not Holly’s screams, that he had heard. He wanted to run again, but he knew that he and Holly could never escape the cars on foot. And maybe I shouldn’t, he thought. There’s only one person who could have called the police. Frank.
The cars screeched to a halt in front of him, forming a line. As policemen leaped from their cars and took shelter behind them, they took careful aim at Joe. He nodded and sat down on the ground, hands behind his head. A policeman and his partner approached Joe slowly, keeping their guns carefully trained on him. Another policeman led Holly to the cars.
”You’re Joe Hardy?” the first policeman asked.
”Yes,” Joe replied as the policeman helped him to his feet. ”Am I under arrest?”
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”Not yet,” he replied. ”I’ve got orders to return you to Bayport for questioning. Where’s your brother?”
”He was in the caboose the last I saw him,” Joe said.
”Check it out, Matt,” the policeman said. His partner ran to the caboose and disappeared inside it for a few minutes. Finally he popped his head out a window and yelled, ”Nothing in here but some big sacks of grain. No sign of the kid.” He came running back.
The first policeman led Joe to the car while his partner opened the back door. Before he got in, Joe took a last look at the train yard. Aside from the police and the few groaning men he had knocked down, there was no movement. Where was Frank?
Okay, big brother, Joe thought as he climbed into the police car. We’ll play it your way.
I just hope you know what you’re doing.
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Chapter 13
THOUGH CHET MORTON had grown up in Bayport, he had never grown tired of the town. With its clean air and tree-lined streets, it was the only place he would ever be able to think of as home. But while Bayport had stayed the same through much of his childhood, the town had changed a lot in the past few years, and Chet wasn’t sure he liked all the changes.
Those thoughts were running through his head as he strolled past the closed-up brick buildings near the town square. Once they’d been full of stores. Chet fondly remembered long summer afternoons in Mr. Reis’s Soda Paradise, sipping strawberry sodas and reading comic books. But the Soda Paradise was gone, a For Rent sign on the window of its building.
Other stores were gone, too. They had moved
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out to the mall built near the interstate highway that curved around Bayport a few miles out of town. The mall drew the kids, emptying the Soda Paradise until no customers were left.
No customers except Chet, that is. He drank Mr. Reis’s sodas right up until the day the shop closed. ”You shouldn’t drink so many sodas,” Mr. Reis would scold. ”Are you trying to keep me in business all by yourself?” Chet would laugh then, because he would have kept Mr. Reis in business if he could have.
But the Soda Paradise was gone, and Mr. Reis was gone, too, moved to Miami. Peering into the window of the store, Chet could see that the counter was still there, but it was bare. The comic and magazine racks were empty, and large clumps of dust lay on the floor.
I don’t like change, Chet decided. He moved on. The stores were gone, but offices had taken the place of some of them.
But while the new growth would save Bayport from extinction, it would also bring the crime and noise that people were coming to Bayport to get away from. It wasn’t something Chet was looking forward to.
Some things would never change, though. The old town square stayed the same, no matter what, with the police station on one side, and City Hall, with the mayor’s office and the courthouse in it, on the adjacent side.
Across the square stood the Strand Bank. It
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Was still the bank most of the people of Bayport used, and it had resisted the move to the mall. But this day, the town square was different. It was lined with rickety old school buses—dozens of them, each carrying forty or more boys and girls. More buses rolled into town every hour, converging on the square, where the marquee on the old movie theater read: TONIGHT ONLY! THE RAJAH SPEAKS!
Chet walked past the town square and turned north on the next block. He didn’t want to run into the Rajah’s followers congregating there in their turbans and robes.
Though he would never have admitted it, Chet was surprised to see they were actually well behaved. They sat quietly on the buses, chanting their chants. Nothing in their manner indicated that they were any nuisance or threat to the people of Bayport.
Chet pictured himself in a turban and gown, his hair shaved off and a glazed look in his eyes, and he shuddered. He sped up from a fast walk to a jog and didn’t slow down until he was far away from the town square.
Chet was almost at the Hardy house when he saw another bus. It was parked across the street from the house. There was no one in the bus, but Chet could see picket signs inside with slogans
like THE MURDERER MUST BE PUNISHED and FREE OUR SISTER.
Chet knew the Rajah’s people were around
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somewhere. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel their eyes watching everything that happened on the block. He continued around the block to the next street and approached the Hardy house by the old shortcut through the backyard.
Before he could reach the door, a man appeared in front of Chet, and Chet’s heart jumped to his throat. This is it, he thought. They’ve got me now. I’m doomed. He opened his mouth to scream.
”Kind of jumpy, aren’t you, Morton?” Con Riley said, grinning. He was one of the best cops on the Bayport force, but he lived in the shadow of Fenton Hardy and his famous sons. Usually he took this situation with good humor, but he still enjoyed ribbing the Hardys and their friends. ”You better get in there, Morton. The chief’s waiting for you.”
Chet gulped. If Police Chief Collig was there, the meeting would be trouble. For a moment, he considered leaving. But that would mean looking foolish in front of Riley, so Chet opened the screen door and went into the house.
He noticed the change in the house as soon as he entered the kitchen. The room was normally filled with the sweet scent of Aunt Gertrude’s baking, and he had hoped to get a slice of cherry pie from her. It was as if she weren’t in the house at all. Puzzled, he strolled into the living room.
”It’s about time,” said Tony Prito, who sat on
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the sofa next to Phil Cohen. They were both friends of the Hardys, too. Chet liked Phil, though Phil was so smart he often made Chet feel stupid by comparison. Tony, who worked at the pizza place in the mall, was okay, but Chet thought he was a show-off and didn’t quite trust him.
”We’re about to get our orders,” Phil said with a smile. There was something reassuring about Phil. No matter how great the danger, he never lost his sense of humor, and Chet had the feeling they were heading for danger now. ”Allow the chief to explain.”
Chief Collig stood next to the easy chair. He was clearly uncomfortable. Though he had often asked Fenton Hardy for help, he never liked putting the boys in danger.
”In case there are any of you who don’t know,” he began, ”a couple of days ago, Frank and Joe Hardy rescued Holly Strand from this madman who calls himself the Rajah. Today the Rajah has brought his people to town in an attempt to get the girl back. And Frank Hardy is still missing.”
Chet heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Joe Hardy. ”Hello, Joe,” he said uncomfortably.
Joe had been involved with Chet’s sister, Iola, until she was killed by a bomb meant for Joe. It was the event that had given Joe and Frank a new
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direction in their lives, as dedicated crime fighters. But it had left Joe and Chet unsure of what to say to each other.
”Hi,” Joe replied. Then he said to the chief, ”I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”
”Wait a minute!” Chet cried. ”I thought you were in jail. Didn’t the police bring you in yesterday?”
The chief shook his head. ”There’s not enough evidence to hold him. The Rajah has turned over a gun with Joe’s fingerprints on it, but he won’t let anyone see the body of the man who was supposedly killed. He’s a strange one.”
”And all the witnesses are his followers, which makes it a little hard for the police to trust them,” Joe added. ”But it does restrict my movements.”
”Yes,” Chief Collig agreed. ”Until we’ve sorted it out, you’re still a suspect. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in the house.”
Joe nodded. ”Which is why we need you and Tony and Phil, Chet. You’re going to be my eyes and legs. As I was saying, the Rajah’s up to something that’s bigger than just getting Holly back.
”She told me how his people followed her when she ran away from home. He finally came looking for her personally and took her up to his commune himself. No one else got that kind of special treatment.
”Then, when I was in the Rajah’s home, I heard him arguing with his assistant, Vivasvat.
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Vivasvat called himself Shakey Leland and called the Rajah Mikey.”
”Leland, huh?” the chief said. ”I remember him. He used to run con games up in the Boston area. I ran him out of Bayport a couple of times, but he vanished a few years back. No wonder the Rajah doesn’t want us looking at the body.”
”There’s more,” Joe said. ”He knew who Frank was before Frank got into the commune. He knew who I was. So he must have let us take Holly out of there.”
”That doesn’t make sense,” Tony mused. ”If he went to all that much trouble, why would he let her go? And then come after her?”
”It puzzled me, too,” said a voice behind them. ”There’s only one explanation I can think of.” They all spun abruptly and stared at the tall, brown-haired boy who leaned against the kitchen doorway.
”Holly’s more valuable to the Rajah here,” said Frank Hardy.
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Chapter 14
”FRANK!” JOE CRIED. ”You’re back! I thought you were alive, but when you didn’t show yourself. .. What have you been doing?”
”A little nosing around—while the Rajah and his people thought I was dead,” Frank said. ”I took advantage of the dark and chucked a grain sack off the caboose. That’s what fell into the river.”
”Great trick!” Phil Cohen said. ”But how’d you manage to sneak back here without the Rajah’s people spotting you?”
”I know my way around Bayport a lot better than the cultists do,” Frank said with a smile. ”Like the old shortcuts we used when we were kids.” He looked around. ”But where are Mom and Dad?”
”Fenton’s guarding Emmett Strand and his
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daughter. I’ve called to tell him you’re all right,” Chief Collig said. ”He sent your mother and your aunt out of town until all this blows over. They’ll be glad to know you’re back.”
”What did you mean, Frank?” Chet asked. ”You said something about the Rajah needing Holly out here?”
Frank pursed his lips, thinking. ”She holds some special meaning for him. What’s special about Holly? She’s pretty enough and smart, but what’s extraordinary about her?”
”Her father?” Phil suggested.
”The bank!” Tony shouted.
”Exactly,” Frank said. ”The Rajah plans to rob the Strand Bank.”
”I don’t get it,” Joe said. ”How can Holly help him rob the bank? Even if she could get him in there, computers control the vault doors. No one can get to the money without the proper control codes. It would’ve made more sense for the Rajah to hold Holly hostage in exchange for the codes.”
The chief cleared his throat. ”It doesn’t matter. Now that we’ve figured out his scheme, we’ll just arrest the Rajah the instant he sets foot inside Bayport. That will take care of him.”
”But not his followers,” Frank said. ”We haven’t got any proof of the Rajah’s plans, and you can’t arrest him without proof. If you do, there’ll be a riot. Can you imagine five thousand teenagers on a rampage in Bayport?”
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”Five thousand!” Chief Collig gasped. ”Surely there aren’t that many?”
”There are,” Frank said. ”Every follower he has in the world. They’re all in Bayport.
”And so is he.”
Fenton Hardy pulled aside the curtain and looked out the front window of Emmett Strand’s house. He was annoyed that none of the Rajah’s followers were visible outside. They were out there somewhere, probably watching him even as he was looking for them, and he would have felt better if he could see them.
Instincts developed over long years of detective work told him that the enemy was nearby. And he had learned to trust his instincts.
Maybe, he thought, they didn’t know where Strand lived. Unlike most other people with money, Emmett Strand lived in a small house. Since his wife died, Strand had shown little interest in anything but banking, and moving would have taken a lot of time and attention. So he stayed in his modest home with, until recently, his daughter.
”Would you like some tea, Mr. Hardy?” Holly called from the next room.
”Yes, please,” he called back. He would have preferred coffee, but he saw no reason to thwart Holly’s good intentions. He had seen Emmett Strand do that too often in the past few years, on
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those rare occasions when he had visited Emmett in his home.
Emmett Strand was always contradicting Holly, always making her feel as if nothing she could do were good enough. There was no malice in what he did, just awkwardness. He had left Holly’s upbringing to his wife. Turned into a single parent, he had no idea of what to do, and he was too proud a man to ask.
Was it any wonder that Holly Strand had run away from home?
Fenton Hardy wondered at the change in Holly since her return to Bayport. Surly and shorttempered before leaving, she had become sweet and contrite, anxious to help. He shook his head. People, in his experience, did not change their natures so quickly.
Holly entered the room, carrying a tea tray with a silver teapot and a china cup on it. Next to the cup was a little silver spoon, a sugar bowl, and several slices of lemon. Fenton poured himself a cup of tea and squeezed a lemon into it.
”Can I talk to you?” Holly asked. ”About Frank?”
Fenton Hardy looked at her over the rim of his cup as he sipped. No one was supposed to know that Frank was alive. ”Go ahead,” he said.
Holly bowed her head and giggled in embarrassment. ”I’m sorry. I know you think something has happened to Frank, but... somehow I
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feel he’s okay. I can ... I don’t know ... I just know he’s out there.
”What I wanted to know is—” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. ”Is he serious about Callie?”
”Callie Shaw?” Fenton Hardy chuckled, ”i don’t really know. He sees her pretty exclusively.” He gulped down more tea to hide his amusement.
The smile faded from Holly’s lips, and she cast her eyes to the floor. ”Oh. I guess there’s no room for me in his life, then.”
”I wouldn’t give up too quickly,” Fenton replied, stifling a chuckle. ”Frank has always been a little shy around girls. I’ve always suspected he stayed with Callie because she was safe. Now, you take Joe. He’s a real ladies’ man. . . .”
His head spun suddenly. The room seemed to wave past him. ”Now, you take Joe . ..” he said again, but the words turned to gum in his mouth. His fingers grew numb, and the cup slid from them. It fell to the floor but bounced instead of breaking, and warm liquid ran from it onto the rug.
The rug rose up and slammed him in the face. He rolled onto his back. ”Help me,” he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn’t move properly. Holly stood over him, studying him. Her warn) smile had vanished, replaced by a cold glower.
Then darkness swam over him, and he remembered nothing else.
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Holly squatted and picked up the fallen teacup. AS the Rajah had instructed, she wiped the cup clean of knockout drops.
She walked up the stairs to her father’s study. He was sleeping at his desk, where she had left him. She picked his teacup off the floor and wiped it clean, too.
”Can you hear me, Daddy?” she asked.
With eyes closed, he nodded his head slightly. His lips twitched as if he were trying to talk, but no words came out.
”Tell me the control codes to the vault, Daddy,” she said.
Emmett Strand mumbled and rolled his head onto his shoulder.
”Daddy!” she snapped. ”This is important.” She lifted his hand and put a pen in it, then rested it on a piece of paper on the desk. ”Write it down, Daddy.”
Without waking, he began to write.
The desk phone rang. Holly snatched it from its cradle, worried that the noise would wake her father. To her relief, he continued writing. At the sound of the voice on the other end of the line, she snapped to attention. ”Yes, I gave him the truth serum, just as you said. He’s writing now.” Her father’s hand slid off the table.
She picked up the paper and read it over the phone.
* * *
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”What do you mean, the Rajah’s in Bayport?” the chief asked Frank. ”We’ve been watching the roads since the first bus rolled in.”
”When I left Joe and Holly at the train yard, I began walking back to Bayport,” Frank said. ”It was a long walk, but I didn’t have any other choice. If I had hitched a ride or hopped another train, I would have been caught. So I walked.
”I was just getting to the Bayport town limits when I was nearly spotted by a passing car. There was a ditch by the side of the road and I jumped into it. Imagine my surprise when I recognized the people in the car.”
”The Rajah?” Chet asked.
Frank laughed. ”Good guess, Einstein. That was a few hours before his followers came rolling into town.”
”Impossible!” Chief Collig muttered. ”Joe described the Rajah’s Rolls-Royce perfectly. There’s no way it could have gotten in without getting spotted.”
”That’s just it,” Frank said. ”He didn’t use the Rolls-Royce. He came here in an old, beat-up Volkswagen. You have to hand it to the Rajah. He knows how to keep a low profile when he wants one.
”Anyway, once I got to town, it wasn’t too hard to find the car. The Rajah’s holed up in the old Miller Hotel on the square, under the name of Michael Hadley.”
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”Mikey!” Joe said. ”That’s what Shakey Leland called him.”
”And he’s in the square,” the chief said in horror. ”He could touch off that crowd in an instant. I’ll send Riley over to arrest him before he can cause any more trouble.”
”You can’t charge him with anything,” Frank reminded him. ”But maybe we can head him off before he carries out his plans.
”Phil, use my computer and call some law enforcement data bases. Try to find something on a Michael Hadley who hung around with a Shakey Leland.
”Chet, I want you to keep an eye on the Miller Hotel. We’ve got to know when the Rajah makes his move.
”Tony, find Biff Hooper. We’ll need all the friends we have—especially ones with muscle. As soon as you find him, head over to the Strand place and help protect Holly. When everything breaks loose, she’ll be in danger.”
The back door slammed, and Con Riley burst into the room. The color was drained from his face, and for the first time since Frank and Joe had met him, he looked like he was verging on panic.
”The call came in on the radio, Chief,” Riley said. ”We’ve got to get over to the square. ”It’s a riot.”
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Chapter 15
THE SQUARE WAS on fire.
Mad shadows of a thousand-headed monster rose up on the wall of City Hall, cast there by the flames. They roared across the grassy park in the midst of the square.
They haven’t spread to the buildings yet, Frank realized. It can be stopped. From somewhere he heard sirens but couldn’t tell if they were from police cars or fire engines. They must be fire engines, he thought. All the cops are here already.
Policemen in black, faceless helmets dashed back and forth in the streets, chasing the Rajah’s followers. As they ran, the Rajah’s people picked up rocks and hurled them at the pursuing police. Waving nightsticks, the policemen forced back the rioters as best they could, trying to stem the flood of violence.
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”It’s no good,” Chief Collig said suddenly to Frank. ”We haven’t got enough men to handle a riot this big. The mayor will have to call in the National Guard.”
Bayport will be in ruins long before they get here, thought Frank. He turned to speak to the chief, but Collig was already gone to help his men.
Across the square, glass smashed. Frank looked over to see the front window of the police station falling away, shattered by a rock.
Nearby, Joe pulled three rioters off a policeman who had fallen. Panicked, the policeman swung at Joe with his nightstick. Joe hopped out of the way and was swallowed up by the crowd.
A mist hit Frank, startling him. Firemen had arrived, spraying the grass fire with a jet of water that turned the flame into thick black smoke. The smoke billowed over the square, darkening the late afternoon.
Frantic policemen whispered to the firemen, who turned the hose on some rioters and drove them back and out of the square.
Frank heard more windows breaking, somewhere to the south. The riot was moving out of the square and into the residential areas of BayPort, he knew. No one seemed to notice him. He was looking for a familiar face, one that could bring the riot to an end.
He was looking for the Rajah.
Instead, he found Joe. In an alley, Joe had
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cornered one of the Rajah’s guards, a brownbearded man with beady eyes and bad teeth. He growled at Joe through a twisted mouth, and his hand crept slowly around his back.
”Trouble, brother?” Frank yelled over the din of the crowd.
”I know this guy,” Joe replied. ”The last time I saw him, I had to take a Magnum away from him. His name’s Bobby. He was just going to tell me what the Rajah’s real scheme is.”
Bobby’s hand swung behind his back and came out again with a Walther automatic pistol.
The alley exploded in a cloud of gas. Joe choked and leaped forward, slamming into Bobby. He slugged the Rajah’s guard with all his strength. Bobby crumpled to the ground, the Walther sliding from his hand as he slid down the wall. Joe kicked the gun into a pile of rubbish.
Then he coughed and doubled over. Fire burned his eyes and nose, but there was no fire. He rubbed his face, trying to put it out. The more he rubbed, the hotter the fire grew. His stomach began to churn. He felt like passing out. He wanted to stop coughing, but he couldn’t.
Frank caught Joe’s arm and helped him out of the alley. The elder Hardy brother was coughing too, and crying, but while Joe had fought Bobby, Frank had stripped off his jacket and tied it around his nose and mouth. ”We got hit with tear gas,” he told Joe. ”Relax. Don’t rub or it gets
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worse. Just let the wind blow it out of your eyes, and you’ll be okay.”
Only half-able to see, they stumbled through the streets, staggering into rioters who barely noticed them. The Rajah’s thousand-headed monster had broken up into five thousand frightened teenagers, all running in different directions, pursued by the law.
Frank knew what the terror in their faces meant. It meant that the Rajah’s hold over them was broken at last. He had abandoned them to the police, and that breach of faith could never be repaired.
A team of policemen in gas masks and riot gear stopped, recognized the Hardy boys, and moved on. Slowly moisture returned to Joe’s throat, and the coughing subsided. He was able to see again. Another squad of policemen raced through the clearing smoke, and then two boys appeared— Tony Prito and Biff Hooper.
”Are you guys all right?” Tony asked. ”We came over as soon as I rounded up Biff. What happened? It looks like a war zone out here.”
It was true. Much of the park was burned away, and the smell of smoke clung to everything. Broken glass littered the sidewalks. The scene was like something out of a war movie.
”It doesn’t make sense,” Frank said. ”Why would the Rajah throw away his cult like that? He Practically sacrificed them!”
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”And half of Bayport with them,” Joe murmured. ”What’s his game?”
Biff twirled a finger around his ear. ”Aw, you know his kind of creep. Crazy.”
Frank and Joe scowled, but Tony laughed. ”Yeah, every cop in town is out chasing his followers. He didn’t even have the guts to be here with his people.”
Frank gasped. ”Every cop? You sure of that?”
”Positive,” Tony replied. ”Chief Collig superseded all other orders when the riot started—”
He never got a chance to finish. ”The bank!” Frank and Joe shouted at the same time. In a second, both were on their feet, racing for the Strand Bank.
When they reached it, they saw five men inside, dressed in black leather jackets. They held Uzi submachine guns in their hands. One of them was on his knees in front of Emmett Strand’s desk, tapping on a computer punchboard hidden under the desk drawer.
Peering through the window, Joe recognized one of the men. It was the other man who had held him up on the road outside the commune. ”Those are the Rajah’s men,” he whispered to Frank. ”But where’s the Rajah? What are they doing?”
”Opening the vault,” Frank whispered back. Tony and Biff caught up with them and hid themselves along the granite wall of the bank. ”I don’t
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know how, but they’ve got the computer access code.”
”Not from old Strand,” Joe said. He frowned. He knew Emmett Strand shared the information with no one at the bank. Someone else had provided the information, someone who had enough contact with Strand to be able to get it out of him. ”Holly,” he gasped.
”What?” Frank whispered.
”It all fits,” Joe said. ”That’s why the Rajah had us take Holly out of the commune. So she could go home ’saved’ and wheedle the access codes from her father.”
”You’re talking crazy,” Frank shot back. But he had a sinking feeling that Joe was right. They had been used, and because of it, the Rajah’s agents were about to reap millions of dollars.
Except that the Hardys hadn’t died when they were supposed to. And that would be the Rajah’s downfall, if Frank had anything to say about it.
”Frank!” Phil Cohen shouted from across the square. He ran toward them, waving a computer printout. ”You’ve got to see this!”
Frank tried to signal him to hide himself, but it was too late. The square, abandoned by rioters and police, was silent as the grave by now, and Phil’s words echoed through it like thunderclaps. The gunman nearest the door burst out, aiming at Phil.
Biff tackled the gunman. The Uzi flew from his
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hands and skidded along the sidewalk. Joe lunged for it.
A burst of gunfire ripped between him and the gun. A second gunman stood there, aiming at them. Across the street, Phil froze. The second gunman signaled him over. One by one, the boys got up and raised their hands over their heads.
”What’d you shoot for?” the first gunman said to his partner as he got to his feet. He picked up the fallen gun. ”If any cops heard that—”
”If the brats have done their job properly, they’ll be leading the cops out of town by now,” the second gunman, replied. ”Let’s get these punks inside. These two”—he pointed at the Hardys—”deserve to watch us rob this place. After all, we couldn’t have done it without them.”
The gunmen’s laughter roared mockingly in the Hardys’ ears as they were led inside.
”Where’s the Rajah?” Joe asked. ”I can’t believe he trusts you not to run off with the money yourselves.”
”Shut up,” the first gunman snarled. ”This money is ours. He doesn’t want any of it.”
”Sort of a reward for his faithful servants?” Frank quipped. But he was stumped. If money wasn’t the Rajah’s game, what was?
The gunmen ignored him. ”That’s the last sequence,” said the one on the floor. He stood up as the bank vault clicked and whirred. Slowly the vault door swung open.
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”This is it! We’re rich!” a gunman cried, but surprise choked his words. Stunned and bewildered, everyone stared at one another, then at the vault, and then at one another again.
The vault was empty.
”So, the Rajah cheated you, too,” Frank said calmly.
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Chapter 16
”THAT MAN is a smooth operator, all right,” Frank went on. ”He’s got the money, and he left you here to get grabbed by the cops.”
”Shut up!” shouted the gunman nearest the vault. ”You’re nothing but trouble, punk. I ought to ice you right here.”
”You just can’t stand the truth,” Frank said, raising his voice. The other gunmen turned to watch the fight. I’ve got to keep them looking at me, Frank thought, and continued, ”You’re so dumb you think you’d still be tough even if you didn’t have that Uzi.”
The gunman sneered. ”Keep talking, kid. Think I was born yesterday? I’m not putting down the gun no matter what you say.”
While everyone’s attention was on Frank, Joe slowly sidled up to the gunman nearest him.
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”You’re chicken,” Frank said. ”You’re too chicken to even find the Rajah and get your money.”
The gunman steadied the submachine gun at Frank. ”I ought to shut you up right now.”
”Hold it, Duke,” another gunman said. ”The kid’s got a point. What are we going to do about the Rajah?”
”Shut up!” the one called Duke screamed.
Joe leaped for the gunman nearest him.
At the sound of a safety clicking off, Joe and the other boys threw themselves to the floor. Duke spun, pivoting away from Frank and riddling the wall of the bank with bullets. One of the gunmen shrieked and fell back, clutching his shoulder. Duke had gotten one of his own men.
But he had turned his back on Frank. Striking a karate pose, Frank lunged forward, smashing the heel of his hand against Duke’s back. His face frozen with anger, Duke spun as he fell, trying to get a shot at Frank again. Frank clutched the gun stock and kicked Duke away. The gunman slammed against the bank’s marble wall and sank, groaning, to the floor.
Frank turned and aimed the Uzi at the other gunmen. ”We can do this the hard way,” he said. ”But if anyone starts shooting, I guarantee at least one of you won’t get out of here.”
The gunmen glanced from one to the other, silently weighing their options. ”You going after
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the Rajah?” one of them asked. ”You going to catch him?”
Frank nodded. ”You know I am. We will, my brother and I.”
The gunmen exchanged glances again. Slowly the one who had spoken crouched and set his gun on the floor. Then he stood again, his hands raised high in the air. ”If it’s all right with you, I want to live long enough to pay that creep back,” he said.
One by one, the other gunmen set their weapons down and surrendered. The boys got up from the floor and gathered the guns.
”I don’t get it,” Tony said. ”How did this Rajah rob the bank? There wasn’t time after the riot started. He couldn’t have gotten here before his men.”
”He had plenty of time,” Frank said. ”The riot wasn’t his cover, the incoming buses were. We were paying so much attention to his followers that we missed what he was up to. If he had the access codes, he could have come in here any time. The riot was just icing on the cake.”
”So he only wanted the money, after all,” Joe said. ”I thought it was something more than that.”
”So did I,” Frank said. ”I still do. There’s something here that just doesn’t add up.”
”That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Phil Cohen said. ”I did the computer check, like you
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told me to. There’s no criminal record on Michael Hadley. So I checked on Shakey Leland.
”It seems our Mr. Leland took over a carnival late in his criminal career. It took a little work to get the carnival’s tax records, but when I did, who do you think I found listed as a mind reader and fortune-teller?”
”Michael Hadley,” Tony said in a bored tone. He hated it when Phil belabored the obvious.
Phil grinned and shook his head. ”Not quite.” He offered the computer readout to Frank. ”I figured you’d want to see this.”
Joe moved beside his brother for a look at the paper, and their faces turned gray as they read it.
Frank tossed the Uzi to Biff. ”Can you hold these clowns until the police get back?”
”Just let them try to start something with me,” Biff replied. He gritted his teeth, showing them to the gunmen.
”Good,” Frank said. ”Get some medical attention for the one who got shot, too. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” With Tony and Phil in tow, the Hardy boys started for the door.
”Wait a minute!” Biff yelled. ”What’s up? Where are you going?”
”We’ve got to get to the Strand house right away,” Frank said without stopping.
”As for what’s up,” Joe said, ”you’d never believe it.”
* * *
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Fenton Hardy tried to lift his head. It wouldn’t move. He wanted to use his hands to raise it, but they wouldn’t move, either. They hung at his sides, pressing against cool metal.
He tried to remember where he was. Slowly the dull fog lifted from his brain. He was in a house, and he was gagged and bound to a chair. Emmett’s house, he remembered. What had happened? He recalled watching for the Rajah’s followers, and then Holly brought him some tea, and then nothing.
The tea! he realized. She drugged the tea.
”Wake up,” he heard a deep voice say. ”Wake up, Fenton Hardy. We need a witness.” A hand lifted his head by the hair, and he found himself staring at a muscular, dark-eyed man, dressed in silk. He towered over Hardy like a giant. Still dazed from the drug, Hardy shifted his eyes. Emmett Strand was tied to the chair next to him, and Emmett’s sad eyes were focused on something beyond the tall man.
Then the man let go of Hardy’s hair and stepped aside, and Fenton Hardy saw what Emmett Strand saw.
There, dressed in fine purple silks, was Holly Strand. She stood contentedly, a vacant gleam in her eyes, which were fixed on the tall man. In her hand was a butcher knife.
”We need a witness,” the tall man repeated, ”to the trial and execution of Emmett Strand.”
Fenton Hardy strained at the ropes that bound
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him to the chair, but they held firm. He knew, finally, whom he faced. It was the Rajah. Hardy had never seen the man before, but he understood the mad gleam in his eye. Before, Fenton Hardy believed the Rajah was nothing more than a clever con man, out to swindle children of their property and their futures. But face-to-face with the Rajah, he knew how wrong he had been.
For the Rajah had the look of a man who listened to voices in his head, who firmly believed in his own superiority. It was a look Fenton Hardy had seen in many other men, men who viewed the world through their own fantasies of power.
”This man has committed many crimes,” the Rajah said, resting a bony hand on Strand’s shoulder. ”He takes money from the poor and keeps it for himself.”
”It’s not true,” Strand mumbled, his voice cracking.
”He has cared for no one. He has treated his business as more important than love, friends, or family. He has condemned his children to smother in the emptiness of their own souls.”
”No,” Strand said, a little louder now. ”I’ve only got one child. Holly. I’ve always loved her. I always wanted the best for her.”
”Old man,” the Rajah spat. ”You lie!”
He stepped away from Strand, circling around Holly. She didn’t take her eyes off him. Her faith in him, Fenton Hardy could see, was total and
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absolute. She would work for the Rajah, she would die for him if necessary.
She would even kill for him.
”Your life has been dedicated to taking, old man,” the Rajah continued. He wrapped a comforting arm around Holly. ”You have robbed your precious daughter of her childhood. You robbed your wife of life itself. For these things, you stand convicted.” 
”No,” Strand murmured. ”Please . . . don’t. ..”
”As you have taken from others,” the Rajah said, ”so have I taken from you. I have taken everything. I have taken the money from your bank, and by doing this, I have taken your reputation. I have taken your daughter from you and given her a home where she is loved as a little sister. I have taken your peace of mind.
”As you took everything from me, I take everything from you.”
Emmett Strand stared at the Rajah, stunned. ”From you? I’ve never even met you before! How could I take anything from you?”
”Silence!” The Rajah’s eyes flared as if on fire, and his smug sneer vanished, replaced by lips curled in rage. ”You are a hypocrite.”
Holly stepped over to her father and raised the knife over his head.
”And now we take your life,” the Rajah said.
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Chapter 17
”WHAT GIVES?” ASKED Tony as they ran. ”The Rajah’s got what he came for. He’ll be long gone by now.”
”No,” Joe said. ”Frank was right all along. The Rajah isn’t out for money alone. He wants revenge.”
They turned a corner and broke into a sprint. At the far end of the block was the Strand house. Dusk had fallen, and the house was dark, except for a single light on the second floor.
”I don’t like it,” said Frank. ”There’s no sign of Dad, but he wouldn’t leave. Not unless something has happened.” Or something has happened to him, he thought, and forced the thought from his mind.
”Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Tony demanded.
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”It’s really very simple,” Phil replied. ”See, the Rajah used to work in the carnival with Shakey Leland, where he learned tricks like mind reading and hypnotism.”
Tony was puzzled. ”I thought you said Michael Hadley isn’t the Rajah!”
Phil laughed. ”Not quite. I said the Rajah isn’t Michael Hadley. Not really, anyway.”
”Shhh,” Frank said. He bounded up the front steps and onto the porch of the Strand place. He tried the front door. It was locked.
”Dad!” he called. ”Holly!” There was no answer. ”Something’s wrong. We’ve got to break the door down.”
”Let me,” Joe said. He hurled himself against the heavy oak door. It held. ”I’ll try it again.”
”Never mind,” Frank said, and peeled off his jacket. He wrapped it around his fist and rammed his hand through the front window. The glass broke and spilled into the house. A loud bell sounded, part of the house’s burglar alarm system, and somewhere in the Bayport police station, a light on a map of the town started to blink—a light that was unwatched, since the entire force was trying desperately to round up the rioting cultists.
With his wrapped hand, Frank knocked the rest of the glass out of the window. Peeling his jacket away, he reached a hand inside the house and unlatched the window.
In seconds, they climbed inside. ”There was a
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light on upstairs,” Frank said. ”We’ll try there.”
Praying that they were not too late, Frank bolted up the stairs.
”Kill him, little sister,” the Rajah said. ”Make him feel the pain that you have felt.”
Holly stood with the butcher knife poised over her father. ”Yes,” she said gently, as if in a trance. She forced the blade down.
Outside the room an alarm bell clanged.
The sound startled her, and she pulled the knife away before it struck her father. She stared at the blade in her hands, holding it as if it were a snake that would coil around and strike her.
”Little sister,” the Rajah snarled. ”Do as you are told.”
”No, please,” Emmett Strand pleaded. ”I know I haven’t shown it very often, Holly, but—” He paused, unsure of how to say what he had to say. He could think of only one way. ”Baby, I love you.”
The door crashed in, and Frank Hardy stood there, glaring at the knife in Holly’s hand. Looking at the cruel leer on the Rajah’s face, he understood what was happening.
”Don’t do it,” he said to Holly. ”Stop right now. For me.”
Slowly she shook her head. ”He doesn’t love me.”
”Of course he loves you,” Frank said. ”He’s your father.”
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”Do you love me, Frank?” she asked. ”I want you to love me.”
”And I do,” he replied. ”But not in the way you want.”
”That’s what I’d expect him to say!” Holly cried bitterly, looking down at her father.
”He deserves to die,” the Rajah said. ”Kill him.”
She held the knife uncertainly, waving it over her father’s head.
”Listen to me, Holly,” Frank said. ”I know what you’re going through. We all want to be loved.”
”You do not know!” she screamed. ”Everyone loves you! Your mother and father love you! Your brother loves you! Callie Shaw loves you! I love you!”
He shook his head. ”And everyone loves you, Holly. Your father loves you. I love you. But people love in different ways. You can’t choose the way people are going to love you. You have to take what you get. That’s just the way it is.”
”I’m the only one who loves you, little sister,” the Rajah said. ”Do as I say.”
”No!” Frank shouted. ”He doesn’t love anyone! He hates, Holly! He hates! Do you want to be like that? Do you want to be like him?”
”She is like me,” the Rajah said smugly. ”She is my little sister.”
Frank turned and looked him in the eye. In a calm voice, he said, ”I know.” Then he smiled.
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For the first time, doubt crept into the Rajah’s eyes. ”You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
”I do,” Frank said. ”I had a check done on your background, Paul.”
”You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” the Rajah said with trembling lips. ”I am the Rajah, he through whom heaven shall be made on earth. I am the mightiest of mighties, and nations shall tremble before me.”
”You were a cheap hustler in a carnival,” Frank interrupted. He was suddenly very tired and short-tempered. ”Your name was Mikey Hadley when Shakey Leland found you pitching fortunes for a couple of dollars a shot.
”He must have been pretty impressed with your talent. Then again, I hear you were a fair hypnotist, and Leland was smart enough to know the time was ripe for a new religion.”
”No,” said the Rajah.
”Yes,” Frank continued. ”So you and Leland bought a little land and started preaching, preying on poor, lost kids who had run away from home. You promised them heaven, but you just made them your brainwashed slaves.”
”It was my divine right,” the Rajah said.
”But you never told Leland what you were really up to, did you? You kept your eyes open for Holly, because you knew someday she’d walk into your trap, or you would lure her in or drag her in, and then you could carry out your plans.
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”But Leland was smart enough to see that your revenge scheme would blow the good scam you two had. So you killed him to keep him from getting in the way. Right?”
”Silence!” the Rajah raged. His hands shook as he squeezed them into fists.
Emmett Strand stared dumbly at Frank. ”What are you talking about?” he asked, but a look of terrible understanding began to steal over his face. The past was coming back to Strand, and it terrified him.
Frank stared into Holly’s eyes. What he was saying fascinated her, but he could see that she was frightened, too, and in that state she was capable of anything.
He reached over and took the knife from her hand. She didn’t try to hold on to it.
”The Rajah never told you his real name, did he?” Frank asked her. ”Not the name he was using when Leland found him. His real name.”
”Stop!” the Rajah shouted. ”I command it!”
Frank ignored him. ”I saw his birth certificate, Holly. Michael’s his second name. Hadley is his mother’s last name.
”His name is Paul Michael Strand.”
”Mary Hadley had a son?” Emmett Strand said in disbelief. Tears welled up in his eyes. ”I never knew. ... I never knew. . . .”
”You knew!” the Rajah shrieked. Despite his size, he no longer seemed the nearly omnipotent figure he had appeared to be just moments before.
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He looked like an angry little boy, and years of rage crackled in his voice.
”My mother wasn’t good enough for you! You had to go off and run your bank and make lots of money, and you didn’t care about us or anyone else. All you cared about was your money.”
”It’s not true,” Strand said. ”I didn’t know. Do you mean all these years you thought that I—? Oh, you poor boy. My poor son.”
”I don’t want your pity, old man!” the Rajah said. ”I don’t need it.”
”You’ve got nothing else, Paul,” Frank said. ”Your followers have left you. You’re wanted by the police. Give it up.”
To Frank’s surprise, the Rajah smiled. ”You think you have power over me because you’ve discovered my secret? The voices still speak to me.” He tapped two fingers on his forehead. ”They have told me my future, and it is good.”
He stretched out his hand to Holly. ”Come with me, little sister.”
She looked to Frank, but though she moved her lips, no words came out. She was confused, Frank realized. She was in shock, and he wasn’t sure what to do.
Before anyone could move, Holly stepped over to the Rajah and took his hand.
”No!” Frank screamed, but it was too late.
The Rajah spun her as soon as her fingers touched his. As she twirled into him, his arm wrapped around her neck and shoulders, holding
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her there. A hand disappeared into his silk robe and came out a second later, holding a gun. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Holly’s temple.
”Now,” the Rajah said, ”I will have my revenge.”
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Chapter 18
”LET HER GO!” Frank shouted at the Rajah. ”It’s all over. You’ve lost.”
The Rajah’s mouth twitched in anger. Then his lips curled into a vicious smile. Madness glazed his eyes.
”My father has sinned, and he must pay,” the Rajah said. ”Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. From this day, I am the Lord, and I shall avenge.”
Firmly holding Holly, he turned the gun on Frank. ”You thought you could trick me, but I know. Call in the others.”
”What others?” Frank asked.
”You came with three others. Your brother and two boys. Call them in, or this precious flower will be crushed.” The Rajah tightened his grip on Holly.
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He does know! Frank thought. For a moment, he was in the Rajah’s grip again, as he had almost been at the commune. He was ready to believe that the Rajah had miraculous powers. He shook himself, pulling his eyes away from the Rajah’s magnetic gaze. There’s a simple explanation for this. He saw us from the window, that’s all.
”Three seconds,” the Rajah said.
”Joe!” Frank called. ”Tony! Phil! Come in here.”
One by one, they entered. The Rajah gestured with the pistol, and they raised their hands and moved next to Frank. ”Very good,” the Rajah said. ”Turn around and put your hands and faces against the wall.” They followed his orders.
”Very good,” he repeated. Still gripping Holly, he turned to Emmett Strand. ”I bless you, Father.” He aimed the gun at Strand.
His fingered tightened on the trigger.
Fenton Hardy threw himself forward into the Rajah. He was still tied in his chair, and he swung his body as he lunged so that the heavy chair smashed into the Rajah’s side.
The shot slammed into the side wall.
”Hiiii-ya!” Frank screamed at the top of his lungs as he spun and leaped into the air. He jabbed his heel out, smacking it against the Rajah’s gun hand. The gun flew across the room. Frank landed and swung the back of his hand into the side of the Rajah’s head.
With a scream, the Rajah let go of Holly and
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raised a hand to his pained ear. Before anyone could stop her, Holly scrambled across the room and grabbed the gun.
Her face was lit with anger and hate as she aimed it at the Rajah. ”You used me,” she said bitterly. ”I thought you were good. I thought you loved me for myself.”
Hunched over in pain, the Rajah stared at her in disbelief. ”Little sister,” he said, but the strength was gone from his voice. He had offered peace to his followers, but now, staring at death, he was terrified. Almost by reflex, he continued, ”Don’t turn on me. You were chosen above all others—”
”Shut up!” she shouted. Tears of rage blinded her.
”Give me the gun, Holly,” Frank said. He stepped forward, his hand extended. ”If you shoot him, you’ll be as bad as he is. Don’t let his lies destroy your life.”
”I am destroyed!” she howled. ”I’ve been such a fool!” She held the gun steady in both hands and drew a bead on the Rajah’s heart. Her finger twitched on the trigger.
Then, with a tiny cry of frustrated anger, she thrust the gun into Frank’s hands and sank to her knees, sobbing.
In a superhuman burst of desperation, the Rajah hurled himself at Joe and the other boys. Instinctively they jumped out of the way.
Laughing madly, the Rajah plunged through
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the window, spraying glass across the sloping roof outside. He rolled down the roof and crashed clumsily onto the ground. When he stood, he was still laughing.
”Call Chief Collig,” Frank ordered. He helped his father off the floor. ”The police can pick up the Rajah now.”
”The police are too busy to help,” Joe said. ”I’m going after him.” Before anyone could speak, Joe leaped out the window and slid down the roof in pursuit.
By the time he reached the ground, the Rajah was already rounding the far corner of the block. Joe sprinted after him. For Joe, it was just like running in one of his high school track meets. Except this is more important than any race, he thought. If I don’t stop the Rajah now, he’ll keep coming back until he wins. He’ll wipe us out one by one when we least expect it.
Just like what happened to Iola. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He was going to catch the Rajah if it was the last thing he did.
But the Rajah was faster than Joe expected. Already he was out of sight, leaving only a trail of mirthless, mocking laughter for Joe to follow.
He turned onto the next street as the laughter turned to howling. There he saw the Rajah, haranguing someone he had knocked on the ground. When he saw Joe, he began to run again, but he had lost precious time, and Joe was close on his heels.
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Gasping for breath, Joe poured all his energy into a last burst of speed and tackled the Rajah.
”Release me,” the Rajah ordered. ”I am the power—”
”Shut up,” Joe barked, and twisted the Rajah’s arm behind his back, immobilizing him. ”This time it’s really over.”
”Joe!” called a nearby voice. Joe turned to see the person the Rajah had knocked down. He laughed when he saw the chubby face.
”I looked all over for the Rajah, just like Frank told me,” Chet Morton said. ”But I couldn’t find any sign of him. Biff told me you went to the Strand place.” He stopped, puzzled, and studied Joe’s silk-garbed captive.
”Did I miss something?” Chet asked.
”I can’t thank you enough for all your help,” Emmett Strand said. He stood with the Hardy boys and Holly in Kennedy International Airport in New York.
”Our pleasure, sir,” Frank said. He faced Holly and smiled. ”You look good.” He hadn’t seen her in the six weeks since the Rajah’s capture.
She blushed. ”Thank you. I’m feeling a lot better these days. I’ve been getting professional help.”
”We both have,” Emmett Strand said. ”Together. We’re close now for the first time in our lives.” He held up two airline tickets. ”That’s
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why we’re taking this trip to Europe. It’s about time I stopped worrying about making money and started being friends with my daughter.”
He gave Holly a hug. ”It’s funny. If Paul hadn’t tried to destroy me, I would never have known how miserable Holly was. In a way, we’re a lot better off.”
”So is the Rajah,” Joe said. ”He’ll get lots of help where he is. Maybe they’ll even straighten him out someday.” But probably not, he thought. At least he’s behind bars where he can’t do any more harm.
Strand nodded sadly. ”It’s too bad about him. When I married his mother, I wanted to be a good husband. But it was a mistake. She never really wanted to be married, and when she divorced me, I thought I’d never love anyone again. Until I met Holly’s mother.
”The hate that twisted him all those years wasn’t necessary. If I had known, I would have been there for him. His mother didn’t tell me she was pregnant when she left me. I never knew.”
Frank patted his shoulder comfortingly. ”Now you’ve got your daughter back. Make the best of it.”
”I’m so glad the murder charges against you were dropped, Joe,” Holly said.
Joe shrugged. ”It was no big deal. All the Rajah’s guards knew he killed Leland. When he turned on them, they turned on him. It wasn’t a
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smart move on your half-brother’s part. He may have headed the cult, but Leland was the real brains behind it.”
Flight information blared over the airport loudspeakers. ”That’s our flight, honey,” Emmett Strand said. ”We’ve got to go.”
”Could I catch up in a minute, Dad?” Holly asked. ”I’d like to speak to Frank alone.” Her father smiled and nodded, and strolled toward the boarding gates. Smirking, Joe also walked away.
”I just want to thank you again,” Holly said when they were alone. ”If you hadn’t rescued me, I don’t know what would have happened. You saved my life, Frank.”
”You would have seen the light eventually,” he replied.
”I don’t think so,” she replied. ”I only escaped because, for a moment, I thought you loved me. I guess you do, in a way.”
It was Frank’s turn to blush. ”Don’t push so hard at love, Holly. You’ll find it.”
”I already have,” she said. ”Goodbye, Frank.”
She kissed him.
Then she was gone, vanished with her father beyond the boarding gates. Gently he brushed the touch of her off his lips and went to find his brother.
Joe stood at a newsstand, reading a magazine. ”It says here that most of the Rajah’s followers
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went back to their families. At least from now on, they’ll know better than to think a guru is anything more than just another human being.”
”Amen to that,” Frank said. They started for the exit.
At the door, a boy approached them. He was dressed in a plain blue suit. He was sixteen at most, and his flame-red hair had recently been cut short, though it had already started to grow again. His hair and the many freckles on his face marked him as Irish-American. In his arm was a stack of books. He didn’t recognize Frank or Joe at all.
”Kadji?” Frank said, startled. ”Is that you?”
For a moment the boy appeared puzzled. Then he beamed at Frank, though it was obvious he still didn’t recognize him. ”That was in a past life. I’m called Brother Raphael now.”
He thrust a book at them. It was beautifully printed, with a painting of angels battling devils on the cover. ”This book reveals the secret struggle that has shaped the history of mankind. I want you to have it. It will show you the role that you are destined to play.”
He tried to put the book in Frank’s hand. ”Our ministry is costly, brother. If you could make a small contribution .. .”
Frank shook his head. ”I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled his hands back to avoid the book. ”I’m sorry for you.”
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But the boy had already lost interest and, with the book ready, walked toward a young, dark-haired girl wearing blue jeans and carrying a knapsack.
Wordlessly, the Hardys left the airport and went home.
Hardy Boys 03 The Case of the Old Mill
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
A Narrow Escape  
“WONDER what mystery Dad’s working on now?” Joe Hardy asked.
His brother Frank looked eagerly down the platform of the Bayport railroad station. “It must be a very important case, the way Dad dashed off to Detroit. We’ll know in a few minutes.”
Joe looked at his watch impatiently. “Train’s late.”
Both boys were wondering, too, about a certain surprise their father had hinted might be ready for them upon his return.
Waiting with Frank and Joe for Mr. Hardy’s arrival was their best friend Chet Morton. “Your dad’s cases are always exciting—and dangerous,” the plump, ruddy-faced boy remarked. “Do you think he’ll give you a chance to help out on this one?”
“We sure hope so,” Joe replied eagerly.
“Well, if I know you fellows,” Chet went on, “you’ll get mixed up in the mystery, somehow-and so will I, sooner or later. There goes my peaceful summer vacation!”
Frank and Joe chuckled, knowing that Chet, despite his penchant for taking things easy and avoiding unnecessary risks, would stick by them through any peril.
Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank, and blond impetuous Joe, a year younger, had often assisted their detective father, Fenton Hardy, in solving baffling mysteries. There was nothing the two brothers liked more than tackling a tough case, either with their father, or by themselves.
Chet gave a huge sigh and leaned against a baggage truck as though his weight were too much for him. “I sure could use something to eat,” he declared. “I should have brought along some candy or peanuts.”
The Hardys exchanged winks. They frequently needled their friend about his appetite, and Joe could not resist doing so now.
“What’s the matter, Chet? Didn’t you have lunch? Or did you forget to eat?”
The thought of this remote possibility brought a hearty laugh from Frank. Chet threw both boys a glance of mock indignation, then grinned. “Okay, okay. I’m going inside and get some candy from the machine.”
As Chet went into the station, the Hardys looked across to the opposite platform where a northbound train roared in. The powerful diesel ground to a halt, sparks flashing from under the wheels. Passengers began to alight.
“Did you notice that there weren’t any passengers waiting to board the train?” Frank remarked.
At that moment a man dashed up the stairs onto the platform toward the rear of the train. As the train started to move, the stranger made a leap for the last car.
“Guess he made it. That fellow’s lucky,” Joe commented as the train sped away. “And crazy!”
“You’re telling me!” Chet exclaimed, as he rejoined the brothers. Munching on a chocolate bar, he added, “That same man stopped me in the station and asked me to change a twenty-dollar bill. There was a long line at the ticket window, so he didn’t want to wait for change there. He grabbed the money I gave him and rushed out the door as if the police were after him!”
“Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “You must be really loaded with money if you could change a twenty-dollar bill.”
Chet blushed and tried to look as modest as he could. “Matter of fact, I do have a good bit with me,” he said proudly. “I guess the man saw it when I pulled out my wallet to be sure the money was there.”
“What are you going to do with all your cash?” Frank asked curiously. “Start a mint of your own?”
“Now, don’t be funny, Frank Hardy,” Chet retorted. “You must have noticed that for a long time I haven’t been spending much. I’ve been saving like mad to buy a special scientific instrument. After your dad arrives, I’m going to pick it up.”
“What kind of hobby are you latching onto this time, Chet?” Frank asked, grinning.
From past experience, Frank and Joe knew that their friend’s interest in his new hobby would only last until another hobby captured his fancy.
“This is different,” Chet insisted. “I’m going to the Scientific Specialties Store and buy a twin-lensed, high-powered micrascope-and an illuminator to go with it.”
“A microscope!” Joe exclaimed. “What are you going to do with it—hunt for the answers to school exams?”
Frank joined Joe in a loud laugh, but Chet did not seem to think there was anything funny about it.
“Just you two wait,” he muttered, kicking a stone that was lying on the platform. “You don’t know whether or not I’ll decide to be a naturalist or even a zoologist.”
“Wow!” said Joe. “I can just see a sign: Chester Morton, Big-game Naturalist.”
“Okay,” Chet said. “Maybe even you two great detectives will need me to help you with some of your cases.”
The conversation ended with Frank’s saying, “Here comes Dad’s train.”
The express from Detroit rolled into the station. The brothers and their friend scanned the passengers alighting. To their disappointment, Mr. Hardy was not among them.
“Aren’t there any other Bayport passengers?” Frank asked a conductor.
“No, sir,” the trainman called out as he waved the go-ahead signal to the engineer and jumped back onto the car.
As the train pulled out, Joe said, “Dad must have been delayed at the last moment. Let’s come back to the station and meet the four-o’clock train.”
“That’s plenty of time for you fellows to go with me and pick up my microscope,” said Chet.
The boys walked to Chet’s jalopy, nicknamed Queen, parked in the station lot. The Queen had been painted a brilliant yellow, and “souped up” by Chet during one of the periods when engines were his hobby. It was a familiar and amusing sight around the streets of Bayport.
“She’s not fancy, but she gets around pretty quick,” Chet often maintained stoutly. “I wouldn’t trade her for all the fancy cars in the showrooms.”
“Some adjustment!” Joe grimaced. “Think we’ll get to town in one piece?”
“Huh!” Chet snorted. “You don’t appreciate great mechanical genius when you see it!”
In the business center of Bayport, the boys found traffic heavy. Fortunately, Chet found a parking spot across the street from the Scientific Specialties Store and swung the car neatly into the space.
“See what I mean?” he asked. “Good old Queen. And boy, I can’t wait to start working with that microscope!” Chet exclaimed as the three boys got out and walked to the corner.
“All bugs beware.” Joe grinned.
“You ought to be a whiz in science class next year,” Frank said while they waited for the light to change.
When it flashed green, the trio started across the street. Simultaneously, a young boy on a bicycle began to ride toward them from the opposite side of the street.
The next moment a large sedan, its horn honking loudly, sped through the intersection against the red light and roared directly toward the Hardys and Chet. Instantly Frank gave Joe and Chet a tremendous push and they all leaped back to safety. To their horror, the sedan swerved and the young boy on the bicycle was directly in its path.
“Look out!” the Hardys yelled at him.

CHAPTER II
Trailing a Detective  
THE BOY on the bicycle heard the Hardys’ warning just in time and swerved away from the on-rushing car. He skidded and ran up against the curb.
The momentum carried the boy over the handlebars. He landed in a sitting position on the pavement, looking dazed.
“That driver must be out of his head!” Joe yelled as he, Frank, and Chet dashed over to the boy.
The sedan continued its erratic path, and finally, with brakes squealing and horn blaring, slammed into the curb. It had barely missed a parked car.
By now the Hardys and Chet had reached the boy. He was still seated on the sidewalk, holding his head. “Are you all right?” Frank asked, bending down. The boy was about fourteen years old, very thin and tall for his age.
“I—I think so.” A grateful look came into the boy’s clear brown eyes. “Thanks for the warning, fellows! Whew! That was close!”
Frank and Joe helped him to his feet. A crowd had gathered, and the Hardys had a hard time keeping the onlookers back. Just then the driver of the sedan made his way through the throng. He was a middle-aged man, and his face was ashen and drawn.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! My brakes wouldn’t hold. Are you fellows all right?” The driver was frantic with worry. “It happened so fast—I—I just couldn’t stop!”
“In that case, you’re lucky no one was hurt,” Frank said calmly.
The Hardys saw a familiar uniformed figure push through the crowd toward them.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. He was Officer Roberts, a member of the local police department and an old friend of the Hardys. The driver of the car started to explain, but by this time he had become so confused, his statements were incoherent.
“What happened, Frank?” Officer Roberts asked.
Frank assured him no one was hurt, and said that apparently the mishap had been entirely accidental, and the only damage was to the boy’s bicycle. The front wheel spokes were bent, and some of the paint was scratched off the fender. The car driver, somewhat calmer now, insisted upon giving the boy five dollars toward repairs.
“I’ll phone for a tow truck,” Joe offered, and hurried off to make the call while Officer Roberts got the traffic moving again.
After the garage truck had left with the sedan, and the crowd had dispersed, the boy with the bicycle gave a sudden gasp.
“My envelope!” he cried out. “Where is it?”
The Hardys and Chet looked around. Joe was the first to spot a large Manila envelope in the street near the curb. He stepped out and picked it up. “Is this yours?” he asked.
“Yes! I was afraid it was lost!”
As Joe handed over the heavy, sealed envelope, he noticed that it was addressed in bold printing to Mr. Victor Peters, Parker Building, and had Confidential marked in the lower lefthand corner. 
The boy smiled as he took the envelope and mounted his bicycle. “Thanks a lot for helping me, fellows. My name is Ken Blake.”
The Hardys and Chet introduced themselves and asked Ken if he lived in Bayport.
“Not really,” Ken answered slowly. “I have a summer job near here.”
“Oh! Where are you working?” Chet asked.
Ken paused a moment before replying. “At a place outside of town,” he said finally.
Although curious about Ken’s apparent evasiveness, Frank changed the subject. He had been observing the bicycle with interest. Its handlebars were a different shape from most American models. The handgrips were much higher than the center post and the whole effect was that of a deep U.
“That’s a nifty bike,” he said. “What kind is it?”
Ken looked pleased. “It was made in Belgium. Rides real smooth.” Then he added, “I’d better get back on the job now. I have several errands to do. So long, and thanks again.”
As Ken rode off, Joe murmured, “Funny he’s so secretive about where he lives and works.”
Frank agreed. “I wonder why.”
Chet scoffed. “There you go again, making a mystery out of it.”
Frank and Joe had acquired their keen observation and interest in places and people from their father, one of the most famous investigators in the United States.
Only recently, the boys had solved The Tower Treasure mystery. Shortly afterward, they had used all their ingenuity and courage to uncover a dangerous secret in the case of The House on the Cliff.
“Come on, you two,” Chet urged. “Let’s get my microscope before anything else happens.”
They had almost reached the Scientific Specialties Store when Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed down the street.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “There’s Oscar Smuff. What’s he up to?” 
The other boys looked and saw a short, stout man who was wearing a loud-checkered suit and a soft felt hat. Chet guffawed. “He acts as if he were stalking big game in Africa! Where’s the lion?”
“I think”—Frank chuckled—“our friend is trying to shadow someone.”
“If he is,” Chet said, “how could anybody not know Oscar Smuff was following him?”
Oscar Smuff, the Hardys knew, wanted to be a member of the Bayport Police Department. He had read many books on crime detection, but, though he tried hard, he was just not astute enough to do anything right. The boys had encountered him several times while working on their own cases. Usually Smuff’s efforts at detection had proved more hindrance than help, and at times actually laughable.
“Let’s see what happens,” said Joe.
In a second the boys spotted the man Oscar Smuff was tailing—a tall, trim, well-dressed stranger. He carried a suitcase and strode along as though he was going some place with a firm purpose in mind.
The boys could hardly restrain their laughter as they watched Smuff’s amateurish attempts to put into action what he had read about sleuthing.
“He’s about as inconspicuous as an elephant!” Chet observed.
Smuff would run a few steps ahead of the stranger, then stop at a store window and pretend to be looking at the merchandise on display. Obviously he was waiting for the man to pass him, but Smuff did not seem to care what kind of window he was looking in. Joe nudged Frank and Chet when Oscar Smuff paused before the painted-over window of a vacant store.
“Wonder what he’s supposed to be looking at,” Chet remarked.
Smuff hurried on, then suddenly stopped again. He took off his jacket, threw it over his arm, and put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
“Get a load of his tactics now!” Joe laughed. “He’s trying to change his appearance.”
Frank chuckled. “Oscar’s been studying about how to tail, but he needs a lot more practice.”
“He probably suspects the man has contraband in his suitcase,” Joe guessed, grinning.
The tall stranger suddenly turned and looked back at Smuff. The would-be detective had ducked into a doorway and was peering out like a child playing hide-and-seek. For a moment Smuff and the stranger stared at each other. The man shrugged as though puzzled about what was going on, then continued walking.
Smuff kept up his comical efforts to shadow his quarry, unaware that the boys were following him. Near the end of the block, the man turned into a small variety store and Smuff scurried in after him.
“Come on!” said Joe to Frank and Chet. “This is too good to miss.”
The boys followed. Oscar Smuff was standing behind a display of large red balloons. He was so intent on his quarry that he still did not notice the Hardys and Chet.
Frank looked around the store quickly and saw the stranger at the drug counter selecting some toothpaste. The suitcase was on the floor beside him. As they watched, the man picked up the toothpaste and his bag, and went up front to the checkout counter. He took out a bill and gave it to the woman cashier.
Immediately Smuff went into action. He dashed from behind the balloons and across the front of the store. Elbowing several customers out of the way, he grasped the man by the arm and in a loud voice announced, “You’re under arrest! Come with me!”
The man looked at Oscar Smuff as though he were crazy. So did the cashier. Other people quickly crowded around.
“What’s the matter?” someone called out.
The Hardys and Chet hurried forward, as the man pulled his arm away from Smuff’s grasp and demanded angrily, “What’s the meaning of this?”
“You know very well what’s the meaning of this,” Smuff blustered, and grabbed the man’s arm again. “Now, miss”—Smuff turned to the cashier—“let me see the bill this man just gave you.”
The woman was too surprised to refuse the request and handed the bill to the amateur detective.
Smuff took the money. The Hardys stepped up and peered over his shoulder. The bill was a five-dollar one. Suddenly the expression on Smuff’s face changed to confusion and concern.
“Oh—er—a five—” he stuttered.
He dropped his hold on the man’s arm and stared down at the floor. “Awfully sorry,” he muttered. “It’s been—a—mistake.”
Both the man and the cashier looked completely bewildered. The next moment Smuff whirled and dashed from the store.
The Hardys and Chet rushed after him. They were overwhelmed with curiosity as to what Smuff thought the man had done. The boys soon overtook the would-be detective.
“What’s up?” Joe demanded. “Looking for somebody suspicious?”
Oscar Smuff reddened when he realized the boys had witnessed his entire performance.
“Never mind,” he said sharply. “I’ll bet even you smart-aleck Hardys have made mistakes. Anyhow, this is different. I’m helping the police on a very special, very confidential case.”
As he made the last statement, Smuff shrugged off his look of embarrassment and assumed an air of great importance.
“Well, I can’t waste precious time gabbing with you three.” Smuff turned and rushed off down the street. 
The boys watched his bustling figure as he disappeared into the crowd. “I wonder what kind of case ’Detective’ Smuff is working on?” Frank mused. 
“I do too,” Joe said, as Chet finally led the way into the Scientific Specialties Store.
Mr. Reed, the shop owner, stood behind the counter. He was a plump, pleasant man with a shock of white hair that stood erect on his head.
“Have you come for your microscope, Chet?” he asked. As he spoke, the man’s head bobbed up and down and his white hair waved back and forth as though blown by the wind.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Reed,” Chet said enthusiastically. “My friends, Frank and Joe, are looking forward to trying out the microscope just as much as I am.”
Joe smiled a little skeptically, but Frank agreed with his chum. Chet pulled out his wallet and emptied it of ten- and twenty-dollar bills. “Here you are, Mr. Reed. I’ve been saving for a long time so I could get the best.”
“And the best this is.” Mr. Reed smiled. “I’ll get the microscope you want from the stock-room.” The proprietor picked up the money and disappeared into the back of the store.
While they waited, Chet pointed out the various instruments on display in the showcase. The Hardys were surprised at how much Chet had learned about microscopes and their use.
After waiting five minutes, Chet grew impatient, “Wonder what’s keeping Mr. Reed,” he said. “I hope he has my ’scope in stock.”
At that moment Mr. Reed returned. There was a look of concern on his face.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t got the model.” Chet groaned.
Mr. Reed shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was solemn.
“It’s not that, Chet,” he said. “I’m afraid that one of the twenty-dollar bills you gave me is a counterfeit!”

CHAPTER III
An Unexpected Return  
“COUNTERFEIT!”
Chet burst out. “Counterfeit! It can’t be. I just drew the money out of the bank this morning.” 
The Hardys, nonplused, stared at the twenty-dollar bill Mr. Reed was holding.
“I’m sorry, Chet,” Mr. Reed said sympathetically. “But just a few days ago all the store-keepers in town were notified by the police to be on the lookout for fake twenties. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have checked it. I can’t understand, though, why the bank didn’t detect it.”
Frank’s mind raced. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Chet, what about the man you made change for at the station?”
“You’re right, Frank!” Joe put in. “He must have passed Chet the phony twenty!” 
“You mean he gave it to me on purpose?” Chet asked indignantly.
“It’s possible,” Frank said. “Of course it would be pretty hard to prove whether he did it intentionally or not.”
“What did the man look like?” Joe questioned Chet. “We got only a glimpse of him running for the train. He was medium height and stocky, but did you notice anything else about him?”
Chet thought for a few seconds. Then he said, “I do remember that the man had a sharp nose. But he was wearing sunglasses and a slouch hat, so I didn’t notice much else.”
The Hardys tried to fix a picture of the man in their minds. Meanwhile, Chet looked gloomily at the bogus bill.
“What luck!” he complained. “Here I am cheated out of twenty dollars and the microscope.”
“I’m sorry, Chet,” Mr. Reed said. “I wish there was something I could do about it.”
“Don’t worry, Chet,” said Joe. “You’ll get the microscope, anyway.” He turned to his brother. “How much money do you have with you?” he asked. “I have five-fifty.”
Frank emptied his pockets, but all he had was three dollars in change and bills.
“We’ll lend you what we have,” Joe offered. “Eight-fifty.”
Although Chet protested, the Hardys insisted, and Mr. Reed added, “You can take the microscope along and pay me the balance when you can.”
Frank and Joe put their money on the counter, while Mr. Reed went to wrap the instrument.
“Thanks. You’re real pals,” Chet said gratefully.
When the store owner returned with the package, Chet said, “I’ll go right down to Dad’s office and borrow the balance. We’ll get back here later this afternoon. Thanks very much, Mr. Reed.”
The boys were about to leave when Frank had a sudden thought.
“Mr. Reed,” he said, “would you let us borrow that counterfeit bill for some close study? We’ll be sure to turn it over to Chief Collig.”
“Swell idea,” Joe said.
The proprietor, who was familiar with the Hardys’ reputation as sleuths, readily assented. Frank put the bill in his pocket and the boys left the store.
They hurried back to Chet’s car and drove to Mr. Morton’s real-estate office several blocks away. The office was on the street level of a small building. They entered and were greeted pleasantly by Mr. Morton’s efficient secretary, Miss Benson.
“Hello, boys. Enjoying your summer vacation?”
“Yes, thanks, Miss Benson,” Chet said, eying his father’s empty desk. “When will Dad be back?”
“Your father’s gone for the day, Chet,” she replied. “He decided to go home early.”
“That’s funny,” Chet mused. “Dad usually stays until five at least.”
“We have time to drive out to the farm before we meet the train,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”
The Morton farm was on the outskirts of Bayport. When Chet swung the car into the driveway, Joe noticed with pleasure that Iola, Chet’s sister, was waving to them from the front porch. Dark-haired Iola, slim and vivacious, was Joe’s favorite date.
When they told her about the counterfeit bill, she exclaimed, “What a shame!”
Joe agreed emphatically. “And we’d sure like to get a lead on the man who passed it to Chet.”
“Sounds as if you Hardys are in the mood for some sleuthing,” Iola said with a twinkle in her eye.
“What’s this about sleuthing?” asked attractive Mrs. Morton as she came outside and joined the group.
The boys quickly explained. Then Chet asked his mother, “Is Dad around?”
Mrs. Morton smiled. “He isn’t here right now, Chet. He’s attending to an important job.”
Chet looked disappointed until his sister giggled and said, “Dad’s not too far away.” Iola winked at her mother and they both began to laugh.
“Your father’s important job is at his favorite fishing spot,” Mrs. Morton told Chet.
“Fishing!” Chet exclaimed. “He never goes fishing during the week!”
“He did this time,” said Mrs. Morton. “I guess the good weather was too much for him to resist.”
A few minutes later the boys were in the jalopy and driving down a country road bordered by woods. A half mile farther, Chet stopped and turned off the Queen’s engine. The sound of rushing water could be heard.
“This is the spot,” Chet announced, and they started off through the woods.
The boys soon came to a clear running stream and spotted Mr. Morton seated contentedly on the bank. He was leaning against a tree, holding his rod lightly between his knees and steadying it with his hands.
Just as the boys called a greeting to him, the line began to jerk and almost immediately the rod bent till the tip was close to the water. Mr. Morton leaped to his feet and shouted, “Just a minute, fellows! I’ve hooked a lulu!”
Mr. Morton was an expert. He let the fish take just enough line to bury the hook properly, then he very gently braked the reel with his thumb.
So intent was Mr. Morton on his fishing, he was not aware that his son was now rushing down the slope toward him. Suddenly Chet slipped on a moss-covered rock and fell forward. He lost his grip on the box containing the microscope and it flew toward the water. Joe, behind Chet, leaped forward and grabbed the box.
“Whew!” Chet exclaimed, regaining his balance. “Good work, Joe! Thanks a million!”
The three boys joined Mr. Morton, who was busy landing his catch, a fine, smallmouthed black bass. He held up the fish for them to admire. “Isn’t it a beauty, boys?” he said.
“Terrific, Dad,” Chet replied, still out of breath from his near tumble. “And I have something to show you.”
He unwrapped the package and held out the microscope. Mr. Morton put the fish in his creel, then studied the instrument closely.
“It’s a topnotch one, son,” he declared. “And just the model you wanted.”
“Yes, Dad. Only there’s a slight problem connected with it.”
“Oh—oh.” Mr. Morton chuckled good-naturedly. “I should have known from the look on your face. You didn’t have enough money, after all. Well, how much do you need?”
“That isn’t all there is to it,” Chet hastened to inform him, and told about the counterfeit bill.
Mr. Morton’s face darkened. “I hope we’re not in for a flood of phony bills.”
Frank nodded. “Especially since these are very clever imitations.”
Chet’s father handed over twenty dollars in small bills.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“From now on, Chet, be careful about making change for strangers,” Mr. Morton cautioned.
“I will,” his son promised fervently. “Getting cheated once is enough!”
Chet paid the Hardys the money they had lent him. Then he said to his father, “I sure was surprised when Mother told me you were fishing —in the middle of the week.”
Mr. Morton smiled broadly. “I’ve been working hard the past year on the big sale of land to Elekton Controls,” he said. “I thought it was time to take an afternoon off and do some thinking while the fish were nibbling.”
“Is that the property in back of the plant they just finished building?” asked Frank.
“That’s right.” Mr. Morton pointed upstream. “You can just see the top of the main building from here.”
“The property you sold has the old Turner mill on it,” Joe remarked. “Quite a contrast. A company that makes top-secret control parts for space missiles in a modern building right next to an ancient, abandoned gristmill.”
“I suppose they’ll tear the old place down,” Frank remarked.
“No, Elekton has decided to use it,” Mr. Morton went on. “I suggested to them that the old mill would make an attractive gatehouse for the plant’s rear entrance. After all, it’s a historic place, built by the settlers when this whole area was inhabited by Indians. The company has renovated the old mill a bit, restoring the old living quarters and adding modern facilities.”
“Is someone living there?” Joe asked with interest.
“I understand a couple of their employees are,” Mr. Morton replied. Then he continued, “They’ve even repaired the wheel, so it’s turning again. Hearing the rushing water and the grinding of the wheel’s gear mechanism brought back memories to me.”
“About the Indians, Dad?” Chet joked.
“Not quite, son.” His father smiled. “But I can remember when the mill produced the best flour around here. Your grandmother made many a delicious loaf of bread from wheat ground in the Turner mill.”
“That’s for me!” Chet said.
Everyone laughed as Mr. Morton reminisced further about having seen the mill in full operation when he was a boy. Suddenly he and the Hardys noticed that Chet had fallen silent. There was a familiar, faraway look in his eyes.
Joe grinned. “Chet, you’re turning some new idea over in your mind.”
“That’s right,” Chet said excitedly. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I could get a summer job at Elekton.”
Mr. Morton exchanged amazed glances with the Hardys at the thought of Chet’s working during the summer vacation! But, with growing enthusiasm, Chet went on:
“I could earn the twenty dollars I owe you, Dad. Besides, if I am going to be a scientist, I couldn’t think of a better place to work.”
“Elekton’s a fine company,” his father said. “I wish you luck, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Chet smiled broadly. “See you later. I have to go now and pay Mr. Reed the money I owe him.”
On the drive back to town, Chet told Frank and Joe that he was going to apply for a job at the Elekton plant the next day.
“We’ll go along,” Joe offered. “I’d like to see the plant and the old mill.”
“Swell,” said Chet.
When they reached the shopping area in Bayport, Chet drove directly to Mr. Reed’s store. The three boys had just alighted from the parked car when Chet excitedly grabbed his friends’ arms.
“There he is!” the chubby boy exclaimed. “Right down the street—the man who gave me that phony twenty!”

CHAPTER IV
The Shadowy Visitor  
“THERE he goes! Across the street!” Joe said excitedly. “Let’s ask him about the counterfeit bill!”
The three boys broke into a run, dodging in and out of the crowd of afternoon shoppers. The Hardys kept their eyes trained on the stocky figure of their quarry.
But their chase was halted at the corner by a red traffic light against them. The street was congested with vehicles and it was impossible for the boys to get across.
“What luck!” Joe growled impatiently.
It seemed to be the longest red light they had ever encountered. When it changed, the three-some streaked across the street—but it was too late. The stocky man was lost to sight. The Hardys raced down the next two blocks, peering in every direction, but to no avail.
Disappointed, Frank and Joe went back to Chet, who had stopped to catch his breath.
“We lost him,” Joe reported tersely.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “I have a hunch that man who passed the bogus twenty-dollar bill to Chet knew it was counterfeit. That last-second dash for the train was just a gimmick to make a fast getaway. But his showing up here in Bayport a couple hours after he took the train out of town is mighty peculiar.”
Joe and Chet agreed. “He probably got off in Bridgeport,” Frank went on. “That’s the nearest big town.”
As the boys walked back toward the Scientific Specialties Store, they speculated about the source of the supply of bogus money.
“Maybe it’s Bridgeport,” Frank said. “That could be one of the reasons he took the train there—to get a new supply, or palm off more.”
“You mean they might actually make the stuff there?” Chet asked.
Frank shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “I hope no more counterfeit bills are passed in Bayport.”
“There probably will be,” Chet said ruefully, “if this town is full of easy marks like me.”
“Let’s keep a sharp lookout for that fake-money passer from now on,” Joe said, “and other clues to the counterfeit ring.”
“Who knows,” Chet put in, “it could turn out to be your next case.”
As soon as Mr. Reed had been paid, the boys drove to Bayport Police Headquarters. Chet decided to take his microscope into headquarters and show it to Chief Ezra Collig. The keen-eyed, robust officer was an old friend of Fenton Hardy and his sons. Many times the four had cooperated on cases.
“Sit down,” the chief said cordially. “I can see that you boys have something special on your minds. Another mystery?”
He leaned forward expectantly in his chair.
“It’s possible, Chief,” replied Frank as he handed over the counterfeit bill. Quickly the Hardys explained what had happened, then voiced their suspicions of the man who had just eluded them.
“Have there been any other reports of people receiving fake bills?” Joe asked the officer.
Chief Collig nodded. “Chet’s not the first to be fooled,” he replied. “Since the Secret Service alerted us to watch for these twenty-dollar bills, we’ve had nearly a dozen complaints. But we’ve instructed the people involved not to talk about it.”
“Why?” Chet asked curiously.
“It’s part of our strategy. We hope to trap at least some of the gang by lulling them into a feeling of false security.”
The boys learned that Chet’s description of the stocky stranger tallied with what the police had on file.
“He’s a slippery one,” the chief added. “It sounds to me as if the man wears a different outfit each time he shoves a bill.”
“Shoves?” echoed Chet.
“A shover—or passer—is a professional term for people who pass counterfeit money,” Chief Collig explained. He rubbed the bogus bill between his fingers. “This is a clever forgery,” he said. “Let’s see what it looks like under your microscope, Chet.”
It took just a minute to rig and focus the microscope. Then, under Chief Collig’s directions, the boys scrutinized the faults in the bill.
“Look at the serial number,” the chief pointed out. “That’s the large, colored group of numbers that appears on the upper right and lower left portions of the bill.”
As the boys peered at the number, Chief Collig made some quick calculations on his desk pad. “Divide the serial number by six,” he went on, “and in this case, the remainder is two.”
When the boys looked puzzled, the chief smiled. “On the upper left portion of the note you’ll see a small letter. One that is not followed by a number. That’s the check letter and in this case it’s B.”
The boys listened as Chief Collig further explained, “If the letter B corresponds to the remainder two, after you have done the division, it means the bill is either genuine—or a careful fake. The same way with the remainder, one. The check letter would be A or G; and with the remainder three, the check letter C or I, and so on.”
“Wow! Some arithmetic!” Chet remarked.
Frank looked thoughtful. “In this case, the test of the divisional check indicates the bill is genuine.”
“Exactly,” Chief Collig said. “And the portrait of Jackson is good. The border, sometimes called lathe or scrollwork, is excellent.”
“But, Chief,” said Joe, puzzled, “everything you’ve mentioned points toward the bill’s being the real thing.”
“That’s right. However, you’ll see through the microscope that the lines in the portrait are slightly grayish and the red and blue fibers running through the bank note have been simulated with colored ink.”
In turn, the boys peered through the microscope, observing the points the chief had called to their attention.
Chief Collig snapped off the light in Chet’s microscope and pulled the bill out from under the clips that were holding it in place.
He handed the fake bill to Frank and at the same time gave him a genuine one from his wallet. “Now feel the difference in the paper quality,” he directed.
Frank did so and could tell immediately that the forged bill was much rougher and thicker than the genuine one.
Just then the chief’s telephone rang. He answered it, speaking quickly. When he hung up, Chief Collig said, “I must go out on a call, boys. Thanks for bringing in this bill. If you come across any others like it, or clues that might help the police, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll relay your description of the suspect to the Secret Service, and also turn this bill over to them.”
Chief Collig arose from his desk, and the boys walked out of the building with him. On the way, Joe said, “I wonder if Oscar Smuff has heard of the counterfeiting racket, and is—er—working on it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The chief sighed. “That fellow will never give up.”
The boys did not mention their encounter with Smuff earlier in the afternoon, but they were fairly certain that Oscar Smuff had trailed the man because he was a stranger in town and had been carrying a suitcase. The aspiring detective undoubtedly had jumped to the conclusion that the suitcase was filled with counterfeit money.
When the chief had gone, Joe glanced at his watch. “If we’re going to meet Dad’s train, we’d better get started.”
The three boys climbed into the jalopy and drove off. They arrived at the station just as the four-o’clock train was coming to a halt.
A moment later they spotted Mr. Hardy alighting from the rear car. “Dad!” cried Frank and Joe, and dashed to greet him, followed by Chet.
Fenton Hardy, a tall, distinguished-looking man, smiled broadly. “I appreciate this special reception—and a ride home, too,” he added, noticing Chet’s jalopy in the lot.
“Right this way, sir.” Chet grinned.
Joe took his father’s suitcase and everyone went to the car. As they rode along, the boys gave Mr. Hardy an account of the afternoon’s exciting events.
The detective listened intently. In conclusion, Frank said, “Dad, does your new case have anything to do with the counterfeiting ring?”
Mr. Hardy did not answer for a moment. His mind seemed to be focused on another matter. Finally he said, “No. But I’ll be glad to help you boys track down any clues to these counterfeiters. I have a feeling you’ll be on the lookout for them!”
“We sure will!” Joe said emphatically.
As they turned into the Hardy driveway, Frank said, “Maybe more leads will show up around here.”
Fenton Hardy agreed. “That’s a strong possibility.”
They were met at the door by Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister. She was a tall, angular woman, somewhat peppery in manner, but extremely kindhearted. Miss Hardy had arrived recently for one of her frequent long visits with the family. In her forthright manner she was constantly making dire predictions about the dangers of sleuthing, and the terrible fate awaiting anyone who was a detective.
She greeted her brother affectionately as everyone went into the living room. With a sigh she asked, “Will you be home for a while this time, Fenton, before you have to go dashing off on another case?”
Chuckling, Mr. Hardy replied, “I’ll probably be around for a while, Gertrude—especially if the boys run into any more counterfeit money.”
“What! Laura, did you hear that?” Aunt Gertrude turned to a slim, attractive woman who had just entered the room.
“I did.” Mrs. Hardy greeted her husband, then urged the boys to explain.
After hearing of Chet’s experience, both women shook their heads in dismay. “Well, the sooner those counterfeiters are caught, the better!” Aunt Gertrude declared firmly.
“That’s what we figure, Aunty,” Joe spoke up. “We’ll see what we can do! Right, Frank?”
“You bet.”
Chet added, grinning, “With the Hardy boys on their trail, those counterfeiters won’t have a chance!”
“And Laura and I will lose sleep worrying,” Aunt Gertrude prophesied.
Frank and Joe exchanged winks, knowing that actually she and Mrs. Hardy were proud of the boys’ sleuthing accomplishments, though sometimes fearful of the dangers they encountered.
“What delayed you today, Fenton?” Aunt Gertrude asked her brother. “Another case, I suppose.”
Mr. Hardy explained, “There is a special matter I’m investigating, but I’m not at liberty to talk about it yet.”
His next remark diverted the boys’ attention from the counterfeiters. “Frank and Joe, will you be free tomorrow to see the surprise I have for you both?” he asked. “It’ll be ready late in the afternoon.”
“We sure will!” his sons exclaimed together. They knew what they hoped the surprise would be, but did not dare count on it.
The brothers tried without success to coax a hint from their family.
“All I can say,” Aunt Gertrude remarked, “is that you’re mighty lucky boys!” With a deep sigh she added, “But this surprise certainly won’t help my peace of mind!”
“Oh, Aunty!” said Joe. “You don’t really worry about us, do you?”
“Oh, no!” she exploded. “Only on weekdays, Saturdays, and Sundays!”
Before Chet left for home, he reminded Frank and Joe of his intention to apply to Elekton Controls Limited for a job.
Overhearing him, Mr. Hardy was immediately interested. “So you want to enter the scientific field, Chet?” he said. “Good for you and lots of luck!”
The detective told the boys that the company, in addition to manufacturing controls, was engaged in secret experiments with advanced electronic controls.
“Not too long ago,” he concluded, “I met some of Elekton’s officers.”
It flashed through Chet’s mind that he might ask the detective to make an appointment for him, but he decided not to. He wanted to get the job without an assist from anyone. Frank and Joe suggested that Chet come for them early the next afternoon.
“I have an idea!” Chet exclaimed. “Let’s go earlier and take along a picnic lunch. We’ll be right near Willow River. After I apply for a job, we can eat by the water. Then you fellows can help me collect bark and stone specimens.”
“Microscope study, eh?” Frank grinned. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
At supper Aunt Gertrude commented wryly, “There’ll be two moons in the sky when Chet Morton settles down to a job!”
The others laughed, then the conversation reverted once more to counterfeiting. Mr. Hardy backed up Chief Collig’s statement that the bogus twenty-dollar bills being circulated were clever imitations. “I heard that the Secret Service is finding it a hard case to crack,” he added.
Frank and Joe were wondering about their father’s other case. They realized it must be extremely confidential, and refrained from questioning him.
In the middle of the night, Joe was suddenly awakened by a clattering sound. He leaped out of bed and rushed across the room to the front window. It was a dark, moonless night, and for a moment Joe could see nothing.
But suddenly he detected a movement near the front door, then saw a shadowy figure running down the walk to the street.
“Hey!” Joe called out. “Who are you? What do you want?”
At the end of the walk, the mysterious figure leaped onto a bicycle. It swerved, nearly throwing the rider, but he regained his balance and sped off into the darkness.
“What’s going on?” Joe cried out.

CHAPTER V
The Bicycle Clue  
JOE ran downstairs to the front door, flung it open, and dashed outside. He reached the end of the walk and peered in the direction the mysterious cyclist had taken. The person was not in sight.
Puzzled, Joe walked back slowly to the house. Had the stranger come there by mistake? “If not, what did he want?” Joe wondered.
The rest of the Hardy family had been awakened by Joe’s cries to the stranger. By this time, they were clustered at the doorway and all the lights in the house were on.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” Aunt Gertrude demanded. “Who were you calling to at this unearthly hour?”
Joe was about to reply when he noticed a large white envelope protruding from the mailbox. He pulled it out, and saw that his father’s name was typed on the front. “This is for you, Dad.”
Joe handed the envelope to Mr. Hardy. “That fellow on the bike must have left it.”
Joe was besieged with questions, and he explained what had happened.
“It’s a funny way to deliver a message,” Frank commented.
“Very suspicious, if you ask me!” Aunt Gertrude snapped.
Suddenly they all noticed that Mr. Hardy was frowning at the contents of the envelope—a plain piece of white paper.
“What does it say, Fenton?” Mrs. Hardy asked anxiously.
He read the typed message: “‘Drop case or else danger for you and family.’ ” 
There was silence for a moment, then Aunt Gertrude exclaimed, “I knew it! We can’t get a decent night’s sleep with three detectives in the family! I just know there’s real trouble brewing!” 
Although she spoke tartly, the others realized Miss Hardy was concerned, as always, for her brother’s safety.
“Now, don’t worry, Gertrude,” Fenton Hardy said reassuringly. “The boys and I will be on guard against any danger. This note probably is the work of a harmless crank.”
Aunt Gertrude tossed her head as though she did not believe this for a moment.
“Let’s all look around for clues to the person on the bike,” Frank suggested.
Flashlights were procured, and the entire family searched the grounds thoroughly on both sides of the stoop and the walk. As Frank and his aunt neared the end of the front walk, Miss Hardy cried out, “There’s something—next to that bush.”
Frank picked up the object. “A bicycle pedal!” he exclaimed. “Aunty, this is a terrific clue! I think we have four detectives in the family!” 
His aunt forced a rather embarrassed smile.
“The pedal must’ve fallen off the bike Joe saw,” Frank said. “That’s why it swerved.”
Back in the house, the family gathered in the kitchen. They were too excited to go back to bed immediately, and the boys were eager to question their father. They all had cookies and lemonade.
“What case did the warning refer to?” Joe asked Mr. Hardy.
“I can’t be sure,” the detective replied slowly.
Again the boys wondered about Mr. Hardy’s secret case, and longed to know what it involved. “Maybe the threat is connected with that one,” Frank thought. Before the boys went to sleep, they decided to track down the pedal clue early the next morning.
Right after breakfast, Chet telephoned. He told Frank, who took the call, that his sister Iola and her friend Callie Shaw had offered to pack lunch if they could go along on the picnic.
“Swell,” Frank said enthusiastically. Callie was his favorite date. “In the meantime, how’d you like to do some sleuthing with us?”
“Sure! What’s up?”
Frank quickly told Chet about the excitement of the previous night. “Meet us here as soon as you can.”
When Frank and Joe informed Mr. Hardy of their plan to trace the pedal, he nodded approval. “I must go out of town for a short while,” he said. “But first, I’d like to examine the warning note in the lab.”
The boys went with him to their fully equipped laboratory over the garage. Mr. Hardy dusted the note carefully, but when he blew the powder away, there was no sign of a fingerprint.
Holding the note up to the light, Mr. Hardy said, “There’s no watermark. Of course, this is not a full sheet of paper.”
“Dead end, so far.” Joe frowned. “If we could only locate the typewriter this message was written on—”
Shortly after Mr. Hardy had driven off in his sedan, Chet arrived. “Where to, fellows?” he asked as they set off in the Queen.
“Center of town,” Joe replied.
On the way, the brothers briefed Chet on their plan, which was to make inquiries at all the bicycle supply stores. In the first four they visited, Frank showed the pedal and asked if there had been any requests for a replacement that morning. All the answers were negative. Finally, at the largest supply store in Bayport, they obtained some helpful information.
“This particular pedal comes from a bike made in Belgium,” the proprietor said. “There isn’t a store in town that carries parts for it.”
The boys were disappointed. As Frank put the pedal back in his pocket he asked the proprietor where parts for the Belgian bicycle could be purchased.
“It might be worth your while to check over in Bridgeport,” the man said. “I think you’ll find Traylor’s handles them.”
“It’s an odd coincidence,” Frank remarked, when the boys were back in the car. “We’ve come across two Belgian bikes in two days.”
When they reached the Traylor store in Bridgeport, the young detectives learned they had just missed a customer who had purchased a pedal for a Belgian bike.
“Who was he?” Frank inquired.
“I don’t know.”
“What did he look like?” Joe asked.
The proprietor’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry. I was too busy to pay much attention, so I can’t tell you much. As far as I can remember, he was a tall boy, maybe about fourteen.”
The three friends knew this vague description was almost useless. There probably were hundreds of boys living in the surrounding area who fitted that description.
As the boys reached the street, Joe said determinedly, “We’re not giving up!”
“Hey!” Chet reminded his friends. “It’s almost time to pick up the girls.”
Within an hour the five young people were turning off the highway onto a side road paralleling Elekton’s east fence. A little farther on Chet made a right turn and followed the dirt road that led to the rear entrance of the plant.
“Any luck sleuthing?” Pretty, brown-eyed Callie Shaw asked the Hardys.
“What makes you think we were sleuthing?”
“Oh, I can tell!” Callie said, her eyes twinkling. “You two always have that detective gleam in your eyes when you’re mixed up in a mystery!”
“They certainly have!” Iola agreed, laughing.
When they reached a grove bordering Willow River, which was to their left, Chet pulled over. “I’ll park here.”
The girls had decided they would like to see the changes which had been made in the old mill. As the group approached Elekton’s gatehouse, they were amazed at the transformation.
No longer did the mill look shabby and neglected. The three-story structure had been completely repainted and the weeds and overgrowth of years cleared away. The grounds and shrubbery of the whole area were neatly trimmed.
“Look!” said Frank. “There’s the mill wheel!”
As the Hardys and their friends watched the huge wheel turning, they felt for a moment that they were living in olden days. Water which poured from a pond over a high stone dam on the south side and through an elevated millrace caused the wheel to revolve.
“Oh!” Callie exclaimed admiringly as she spotted a little bridge over the stream from the falls. “It looks just like a painting!”
About three hundred yards from the north side of the mill was the closed rear gate to Elekton’s ultramodern plant.
“Some contrast between the old and the new!” Joe remarked as they left the dirt road and walked up the front path to the gatehouse.
Suddenly the door opened and a dark-haired, muscular man in uniform came out to meet them. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “I’m the gate guard here.”
“I’d like to apply for a summer job at Elekton,” Chet told him.
“Have you an appointment?”
“No,” replied Chet. “I guess I should have phoned first.”
The guard agreed. “You would’ve saved yourself time and trouble,” he said. “I’m sure there aren’t any openings, especially for temporary help.”
“Well, couldn’t I go in and leave an application with the personnel manager?” Chet asked.
The guard shrugged. “Tell you what—I’ll phone the personnel office instead,” he offered, and went back into the mill.
While they waited, the five looked around. At the south side of the mill grounds, a slender, graying man who wore overalls was clipping the low hedges.
“Look, Callie,” said Iola, pointing toward a spot near the hedges. “Isn’t that quaint? An old flour barrel with ivy growing out of it!”
“Charming.” Callie smiled.
The girls and boys started over toward the mill for a closer inspection. At that same moment the guard came to the door. “Just as I told you,” he called out to Chet. “No openings! Sorry!”
“Too bad, Chet,” Joe said sympathetically. “Well, at least you can keep on relaxing.”
Despite his disappointment, Chet grinned. “Right now I’m starved. ”Let’s go down to the river and have our picnic.”
He thanked the guard, and the young people started to walk away. Suddenly Frank stopped and looked back at the mill. Propped against the south wall was a bicycle. Quickly he ran over to examine it. “This looks like a Belgian model,” Frank thought. “Sure is,” he told himself. “The same type Ken Blake has.”
On impulse Frank pulled the pedal from his pocket and compared it to those on the bike. They matched exactly. Frank noticed that one of the pedals looked much less worn than the other. “As if it had been replaced recently,” he reflected, wondering excitedly if someone had used this bicycle to deliver the warning note.
“And could this bike be Ken’s?” the young detective asked himself.
He inspected the front-wheel spokes. None was twisted, but several had slight dents. “They could’ve been straightened out easily,” Frank reasoned, “and the paint scratches on the fender touched up.”
He felt his heart beat faster as he waved his companions to join him. When Frank pointed out the clues to his brother, Joe agreed immediately.
“It could be the bicycle which was used to deliver the message—”
Joe was interrupted by a strange voice behind them. “Pardon me, but why are you so interested in that bike?”
Frank quickly slipped the pedal into his pocket as the group swung around to face the speaker. He was the man who had been clipping the hedges.
“Because just yesterday we met a boy, Ken Blake, who was riding a bike of the same model. We don’t often see this Belgian make around.”
For a moment the man looked surprised, then smiled. “Of course! Ken works here—does odd jobs for us around the mill. You must be the boys he met yesterday when he was delivering some copy to the printer.”
“Yes,” Frank replied. “When we asked Ken about his job he was very secretive.”
“Well,” the maintenance man said, “he has to be! This plant is doing top-secret work. All of us have been impressed with the necessity of not talking about Elekton at all.”
“Is Ken around?” Joe asked nonchalantly. “We’d like to say hello.”
“I’m afraid not,” was the reply. “We sent him by bus this afternoon to do an errand. He won’t be back until later.” The man excused himself and resumed his clipping.
“We’d better eat.” Iola giggled. “My poor brother is suffering.”
“I sure am!” Chet rolled his eyes. Laughing, the picnickers started away.
Joe, who was in the rear, happened to glance up at the front of the mill. He was startled to catch a glimpse of a face at one of the second-story windows. He stopped in his tracks.
“Ken Blake!” Joe said to himself.
As the young sleuth stared, mystified, the face disappeared from the window.

CHAPTER VI
A Mysterious Tunnel  
PUZZLED, Joe continued looking up at the window of the old mill.
“What’s the matter?” Iola asked him. “Did you see a ghost?”
In a low whisper Joe explained about the face which had disappeared. “I’m sure it was Ken Blake I saw at that window!”
The others followed his gaze. “No one’s there now,” Iola said. “Of course the glass in all the windows is old and wavy. The sunlight on them could cause an illusion.”
Chet agreed. “How could Ken be here if he was sent on an errand?”
Joe stood for a minute, deep in thought. “I can’t figure it out, but I’m sure that it was no illusion. Come on, Frank. Let’s go check.”
While the others walked down the hill, the Hardys strode up to the maintenance man, who was still trimming hedges.
“Are you sure Ken went into town?” Joe asked. “Just now I thought I saw him looking out a second-floor window.”
“You couldn’t have. You must have been dreaming.” The man gave a jovial laugh.
Joe was still not convinced. Impulsively he asked, “Does Ken ever run any errands for you at night?”
“No,” the man answered readily. “He leaves his bike here and walks home when we close at five-thirty.”
“Does anyone else have access to the bike after that?” Frank queried.
“It’s kept in an open storage area under the rear of the mill and could be taken from there easily.”
Although obviously curious, the man did not ask the Hardys the reason for their questions. He looked at his watch.
“Excuse me, boys, I’m late for lunch.” He turned and hurried into the mill.
As the brothers hastened to catch up with Chet and the girls, Frank said, “Another thing which makes me wonder if that bicycle is connected with the warning is the description of the boy who bought the pedal. He could be Ken Blake.” 
“I agree,” Joe said. “I’d sure like to question Ken.”
“We’ll come back another time,” Frank proposed.
The group picked up the picnic hamper from the Queen and strolled down a narrow path through the woods leading to Willow River.
“Here’s a good spot.” Callie pointed to a shaded level area along the bank. “We haven’t been in this section before.”
Soon everyone was enjoying the delicious lunch the girls had prepared: chicken sandwiches, potato salad, chocolate cake, and lemonade. While they were eating, the girls were the targets of good-natured kidding.
“Boy!” Joe exclaimed as he finished his piece of cake. “This is almost as good as my mother and Aunt Gertrude make.”
“That’s
a compliment!” Chet said emphatically. 
Callie’s eyes twinkled. “I know it is. Joe’s mother and aunt are the best cooks ever!”
Iola sniffed. “I don’t know about this compliment stuff. There’s something on your mind, Joe Hardy!”
Joe grinned. “How are you on apple pie and cream puffs and—?”
“Oh, stop it!” Iola commanded. “Otherwise, you won’t get a second piece of cake!”
“I give up.” Joe handed over his paper plate.
After lunch everyone but Chet was ready to relax in the sun. Normally he was the first one to suggest a period of rest, even a nap, but now his new project was uppermost in his mind.
“Let’s start to collect the specimens for my microscope,” he urged his friends.
The Hardys groaned good-naturedly at Chet’s enthusiasm, but readily agreed.
“We’ll need some exercise to work off that meal.” Frank grinned.
The girls packed the food wrappings in the hamper. Then, single file, the group walked downstream, paying careful attention to the rocks and vegetation. Chet picked up several rocks and leaves, but discarded them as being too common.
“Are you looking for something from the Stone Age?” Joe quipped. “Maybe a prehistoric fossil?”
“Wouldn’t you be surprised if I found one?” Chet retorted.
They followed a bend in the river and came to a small cove with a rocky, shelving beach. Here the willow trees did not grow so thickly. The shoreline curved gently around to the right before it came to a halt in a sandy strip along the riverbank.
“What a nice spot,” said Callie. “We’ll have to come here again and wear our swim suits.”
“Look!” cried Iola. “What’s that?”
She pointed to a dark opening beneath a rocky ledge which bordered the beach.
“A cave!” exclaimed Joe and Frank together.
Intrigued, the five hurried along the beach for a closer look. Eagerly the Hardys and Chet peered inside the entrance. The interior was damp, and the cave’s walls were covered with green growth.


  
“Hey! This looks like a tunnel!”
“This’ll be a perfect spot to look for specimens,” Chet said. “Let’s go in!”
The boys entered the cave. The girls, however, decided to stay outside.
“Too spooky—and crowded!” Callie declared. “Iola and I will sun ourselves while you boys explore.”
The Hardys and Chet could just about stand up in the low-ceilinged cave. Frank turned on his pocket flashlight and pointed to an unusual yellow-green fungus on the right side of the cave. “Here’s a good sample of lichens, Chet.”
Soon the boys were busy scraping various lichens off the rocks. Gradually they moved deeper into the cave. Frank halted in front of a pile of rocks at the rear.
“There ought to be some interesting specimens behind these stones,” he said. “They look loose enough to move.”
Together, the three boys rolled some of the rocks to one side. To their great surprise, the stones had concealed another dark hole.
“Hey! This looks like a tunnel!”
Excitedly Joe poked his flashlight into the opening. In its beam they could see that the hole appeared to extend into the side of the bank.
“Let’s see where the tunnel goes!” Joe urged.
“Okay,” Frank agreed eagerly. “We’ll have to move more of these rocks before we can climb through. I wonder who put them here and why.”
Rapidly the boys pushed rocks aside until the narrow tunnel entrance was completely exposed. Joe crawled in first, then Frank.
Chet tried to squeeze his bulky form through the space but quickly backed out. “It’s too tight for me,” he groaned. “I’ll stay here and collect more specimens. Anyhow, I’ll bet some animal made the tunnel and it doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“I’m sure no animal did this,” Joe called back, aiming his flashlight at the earthen walls of the tunnel. “Look how hard-packed the sides are—as if dug out by a shovel.”
Frank was of the same opinion. He pointed to rough-hewn wooden stakes placed at intervals along the sides and across the ceiling. “I wonder who put those supports here—and when.”
The Hardys crawled ahead carefully. There was just room in the passageway for a normal-sized person to get through.
Presently Joe called back to his brother, “Look ahead! I can see a sharp bend to the right. Let’s keep going.”
Frank was about to reply when the brothers were startled by a girl’s scream from outside.
“That’s Callie!” Frank exclaimed. “Something’s wrong!”

CHAPTER VII
Sleuthing by Microscope  
FRANK and Joe scrambled through the tunnel and out of the cave. They found Chet and the girls staring at an arrow embedded in the sandy beach.
“It—it almost hit us,” Iola quavered. Callie, who was white-faced with fear, nodded.
Joe was furious. “Whoever shot it shouldn’t be allowed to use such a dangerous weapon!” he burst out. “That’s a hunting arrow—it could have caused serious injury.”
Chet gulped. “M-maybe the Indians haven’t left here, after all,” he said, trying to hide his nervousness.
Joe turned to dash off into the woods to search for the bowman.
“Wait!” Frank called. He had pulled the arrow from the sand. “This was done deliberately,” he announced grimly, holding the arrow up for all of them to see. Attached to the shaft just below the feathers was a tiny piece of paper. It had been fastened on with adhesive tape.
Frank unrolled the paper and read the printed message aloud: “ ‘Danger. Hardys beware.’ ”
Chet and the girls shuddered and looked around fearfully, as though they expected to see the bowman behind them.
“You boys are involved in a new mystery!” Callie exclaimed. “Your own or your father’s?” 
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. It certainly seemed as though they were involved, but they had no way of knowing which case. Did it involve the counterfeit money? Or was it the case their father could not divulge? 
“A warning did come to Dad,” Frank admitted. “This one obviously was meant for Joe and me. Whoever shot the arrow trailed us here.”
Joe frowned. “I wonder if the same person sent both warnings.”
“I still think Ken Blake could give us a clue,” Frank said. “But we must remember that anybody could have taken the bike from the storage place under the mill.”
Frank pocketed the latest warning, then the five searched quickly for any lead to the bowman. They found none. When the group returned to the beach, Joe looked at the sky. “We’re in for a storm—and not one of us has a raincoat.”
The bright summer sun had disappeared behind towering banks of cumulus clouds. There were rumbles of heavy thunder, followed by vivid flashes of lightning. The air had become humid and oppressive.
“Let’s get out of here!” Chet urged. “This isn’t a picnic any more!”
The young people hastened through the woods and up the road to Chet’s jalopy. As they drove off, rain began coming down in torrents. The sky grew blacker.
Callie shivered. “It seems so sinister—after that awful arrow.”
Chet dropped his sister off at the Morton farm and at the same time picked up his new microscope. He begged to try out the instrument on both warning notes and the Hardys smilingly agreed, although they had an up-to-date model of their own.
By the time they had said good-by to Callie at her house, and Chet had driven the Queen into the Hardys’ driveway, the storm had ended. The sun shone brightly again.
Immediately the three boys went to the laboratory over the garage. Here Frank carefully dusted the arrow and the second warning note for prints. He blew the powder away, and Joe and Chet looked over his shoulder as he peered through the magnifying glass.
“Nothing. Same as the warning to Dad. The person no doubt wore gloves.”
“Now to compare this paper to the first note,” Joe said.
“Right,” his brother agreed. “You have the combination to the cabinet in Dad’s study. Chet and I will rig up his microscope while you get the note from the file.”
Frank and Chet focused and adjusted the microscope, making sure it was level on the table. They plugged in the illuminator and checked to see that it did not provide too dazzling a reflection. When Joe returned, Chet took the two pieces of paper and fitted them side by side under the clips on the base.
“Okay. Want to take a look, fellows?” Frank, then Joe, studied both papers. “The quality and texture are definitely the same,” Frank observed.
Next, he lifted the second note from under the clips and slowly moved the paper back and forth under the lenses.
“A watermark!” he exclaimed, stepping back so the others could look at the small, faint imprint.
“Sure is!” said Joe. “A five-pointed star. This could be a valuable clue! We can try to track down exactly where this paper came from.”
“And also the arrow,” said Chet. “I’ll make the rounds of sport stores in town.”
“Swell, Chet. Thanks,” Frank said.
After their friend had left, the Hardys consulted the classified directory for paper manufacturers.
They made several calls without any luck. Finally they learned that the Quality Paper Company in Bridgeport manufactured paper bearing the five-pointed star watermark. The brothers wanted to go at once to get more information, but realized this errand would have to wait.
“Dad will be home soon,” Frank reminded his brother. “We don’t want to miss our surprise!”
“Right. And I’d like to tell him about the warning on the arrow.”
When Chet returned from a round of the sports shops, he was glum. “I wasn’t much help,” he said. “The arrow isn’t new, and all the stores I checked told me it was a standard model that could be purchased at any sports shop in the country.”
“Never mind, Chet,” said Frank. “At least giving your microscope a trial run helped us to spot the watermark on the second warning note. We’ve located a company that manufactures paper with the star watermark.”
Chet’s face brightened. “Let me know if you find out anything else,” he said, packing up his microscope. “I guess I’ll take off—and do some nature study for a change.”
After he had driven off, Frank and Joe walked to the house. Their minds once more turned to the surprise Mr. Hardy had for them.
“Wouldn’t it be terrific if—” Joe said to Frank excitedly. “Do you think it is?”
“I’m just hoping.” Frank grinned.
Just then a newsboy delivered the evening newspaper. The brothers entered the house and went into the living room. Frank scanned the front page and pointed out an item about new trouble in an Indiana electronics plant.
“That’s where an explosion took place a couple of months ago,” Joe remarked. “Sabotage, the investigators decided.”
“And before that,” Frank added, “the same thing happened at a rocket research lab in California. Another unsolved case.”
“Seems almost like a chain reaction,” Frank remarked.
Any mystery appealed to the boys, but they did not have much chance to discuss this one. The telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude, after taking the call, burst into the living room. From the look on her face Frank and Joe could tell she was indignant, and at the same time, frightened.
“What’s the matter, Aunty?” Joe asked.
“More threats—that’s all!” she cried out. “This time by telephone. A man’s voice—he sounded sinister—horrible!”
Mrs. Hardy came into the living room at that moment. “What did he say, Gertrude?” she asked.
Aunt Gertrude took a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “ ‘Hardy and his sons are playing with fire,’ the man said. ‘They’ll get burned if they don’t lay off this case.”’ Miss Hardy sniffed. “I don’t know what case he meant. What kind of danger are you boys mixed up in now?” 
Frank and Joe smiled wryly. “Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied, “we really don’t know. But please try not to worry,” he begged her and his mother. “You know that Dad and the two of us will be careful.”
When Mr. Hardy came home a little later, his family told him about the threatening telephone call. The boys, however, did not mention the arrow warning in the presence of their mother and Aunt Gertrude. They knew it would only add to their concern.
Mr. Hardy was as puzzled as his sons. “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “At this point it’s impossible to tell which ‘case’ the person is referring to. If I knew, it might shed light on either one.”
The detective grinned and changed the subject. “Right now, I want you all to come for a drive and have a look at the boys’ surprise.”
“Swell!” Frank and Joe exclaimed in unison.
While Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy were getting ready, Frank and Joe went out to the car with their father. Quickly the boys related their afternoon’s experience, concluding with the arrow incident.
The detective looked grim. “Whoever is responsible for these warnings is certainly keeping close tabs on us.”
Mr. Hardy and his sons speculated for a few minutes on the fact that the pedal found in front of the house apparently had belonged to Ken’s bike.
“I think Joe and I should go back tonight to the place where we had the picnic,” Frank told his father. “In the darkness we’ll have a better chance to sleuth without being seen. And there might be some clue we missed this afternoon.”
“I suppose you’re right,” agreed his father. “But be cautious.”
As Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy came out of the house, conversation about the mystery ceased. Everyone climbed into the sedan and Mr. Hardy drove off. Frank and Joe, seated alongside him, were in a state of rising suspense. Was the surprise the one thing they wanted most of all?

CHAPTER VIII
The Strange Mill Wheel  
A FEW minutes later Mr. Hardy was driving along the Bayport waterfront.
“Is the surprise here, Dad?” Joe asked excitedly.
“That’s right.”
Mr. Hardy drove to a boathouse at the far end of the dock area and parked. He then invited the others to follow him. He walked to the door of a boathouse and unfastened the padlock.
Frank and Joe held their breaths as Mr. Hardy swung back the door. For a moment they stared inside, speechless with delight. Finally Joe burst out, “Exactly what we had hoped for, Dad!” and put an arm affectionately around his father.
“What a beauty!” Frank exclaimed and wrung Mr. Hardy’s hand.
Rocking between the piles lay a sleek, completely equipped motorboat. It nudged gently against clean white fenders as the waves from the bay worked their way under the boathouse door.
The boys’ mother exclaimed in delight, and even Aunt Gertrude was duly impressed by the handsome craft.
“This is the same model we saw at the boat show,” Joe said admiringly. “I never thought we’d own one.”
“She even has the name we picked out,” Frank observed excitedly. “The Sleuth!”
Shiny brass letters were fitted on the bow of the boat, with the port of registry, Bayport, underneath them.
Mr. Hardy and his wife beamed as their sons walked up and down, praising every detail of the graceful new craft. It could seat six people comfortably. The polished fore and aft decks carried gleaming anchor fittings, and the rubbing strakes were painted white. The Sleuth seemed to be waiting to be taken for a run!
“May we try her out now, Dad?” Joe asked.
“Of course. She’s fueled up.”
Aunt Gertrude shook her head. “The Sleuth’s an attractive boat, all right. But don’t you two start doing any crazy stunts in it,” she cautioned her nephews. “And be back for supper.” 
When the adults had left, Frank and Joe climbed aboard and soon had the Sleuth gliding into the bay. The boys had no difficulty operating the motorboat. They had gained experience running their friend Tony Prito’s boat, the Napoli, which had similar controls. 
Taking turns at the wheel, the brothers ran the boat up and down the bay. “Terrific!” Joe shouted.
Frank grinned. “Am I glad we stuck to our agreement with Dad, and saved up to help buy this!”
For some time the boys had been putting money toward a boat of their own into a special bank account. Mr. Hardy had promised that when the account reached a certain sum, he would make up the necessary balance.
Now, as the Sleuth knifed through the water, Frank and Joe admired the way the stern sat down in the water when the boat gathered speed. Joe was impressed with the turning circle and the fact that no matter how sharp the twist, none of the spume sprayed into the cockpit. 
“Wait until Tony and Chet see this!” Joe exclaimed, when they were pulling back toward the boathouse.
“Speaking of Tony—there he is,” Frank said. Their dark-haired classmate was standing on the dock, shouting and waving to them.
Joe, who was at the wheel, brought the Sleuth neatly alongside. He turned off the engine as Tony rushed up. 
“Don’t tell me this dreamboat is yours?” he demanded in amazement.
“Nothing but,” Joe said proudly.
Tony and the brothers inspected the boat carefully, comparing her various features with the Napoli. They lifted the battens from the Sleuth’s cowling and admired the powerful motor underneath. 
“She’s neat all right,” said Tony. “But I’ll still promise you a stiff race in the Napoli!”
“We’ll take you up on it after the Sleuth’s broken in,” Joe returned, laughing. 
Tony became serious. “Say, fellows, something happened today in connection with my dad’s business that I want to tell you about. Your mother said you were down here,” he explained.
“What’s up?” Frank asked.
Tony’s father was a building contractor and also had a construction supply yard where Tony worked during the summer. “Today I went to the bank, just before it closed, to deposit the cash and checks we took in this week,” he said. “The teller discovered that one of the bills was a counterfeit!”
“A twenty-dollar bill?” Frank guessed.
“Yes. How’d you know?”
The Hardys related Chet’s experience. Tony’s dark brows drew together. “I’d like to get my hands on the guy making the stuff!” he said angrily.
“So would we!” Joe stated.
The Hardys learned that the head teller had told Tony he would make a report to the Bayport police and turn the bill over to the Secret Service. “Did he explain how he could tell that the bill was a fake?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” replied Tony, and from his description, the Hardys were sure that the bill had come from the same batch as the one passed to Chet.
“Think back, Tony,” Frank urged. “Have you any idea who gave it to you—or your father?”
Tony looked doubtful. “Three days’ trade—pretty hard to remember. Of course, we know most of the customers. I did ask Mike, our yardman, who helps with sales. He mentioned one purchaser he didn’t know.”
Frank, eager for any possible lead, carefully questioned Tony. The Hardys learned that three days before, just at closing time, a faded green panel truck had driven into the Prito supply yard. “Mike remembers there were no markings on the truck—as if the name might have been painted out.”
“Who was in it?” Joe prompted.
“A young boy—about fourteen—was with the driver. Mike says they bought about fifty dollars’ worth of old bricks and lumber. The boy paid him in assorted bills. One was a twenty. Our other cash customers had given smaller bills.”
“What did the driver look like?” Frank probed.
“Mike said he didn’t notice—the fellow stayed behind the wheel. There was a last-minute rush at the yard, so the boy and Mike piled the stuff into the back of the truck. Then the driver gave the boy money to pay the bill.”
Frank and Joe wondered the same thing: Had the man driving the truck passed the bogus bill deliberately? If so, was he the one who had fooled Chet? “It seems funny he’d go to so much trouble to dump one phony twenty-dollar bill,” Joe said.
Frank agreed and added, “Besides, what would a person in league with counterfeiters want with a pile of old bricks and lumber?”
He turned to Tony. “Did Mike notice anything in particular about the boy?”
“He was tall and thin. Mike thinks he was wearing a striped shirt.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. “Could be Ken Blake!” Joe declared. Briefly, the Hardys explained their first encounter with the boy.
“He might have been helping pick up the load for Elekton,” Frank reasoned. “But why would a modern plant want secondhand building material? And why wouldn’t they have the purchase billed to them?”
“What’s more,” his brother put in, “why didn’t the driver get out and help with the loading? Unless, perhaps, he wanted to stay out of sight as much as possible.”
“Too bad Mike didn’t notice the truck’s license number,” Tony said. “Naturally he had no reason to at the time.”
“Was there anything unusual about the truck besides the fact it wasn’t marked?” Frank asked his chum.
Tony thought for a moment. “Mike did say there was a bike in the back. He had to move it out of the way.”
“Ken rides one,” Joe remarked.
“Well, Dad will be glad if you two pick up any clues to these counterfeiters,” Tony said. “He’s hopping mad at being cheated, and Mike feels sore about it.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open for that green truck,” Frank assured him. “The whole business sounds suspicious—though the bill could have been passed accidentally.”
“Let’s question Ken Blake,” Joe proposed.
He and his brother housed the Sleuth, and the three boys started homeward. On the way they continued to speculate on the counterfeiting racket.
“Let me know if I can help you detectives,” Tony said as he turned into his street.
“Will do.”
That evening, when it grew dark, Frank and Joe told their mother and aunt that they were going out to do some investigating. Before they left, the boys had a chance to speak to their father in private about Tony’s report of the counterfeit bill and green truck and their own hunches.
Mr. Hardy agreed that the purchase of lumber and bricks seemed odd, but he felt that until more positive evidence could be obtained, it was best not to approach Elekton officials on the matter.
“I guess you’re right, Dad,” said Frank. “We might be way off base.”
The detective wished them luck on their sleuthing mission. The boys decided to make the trip in the Sleuth. They rode their motorcycles down to the boathouse, parked them, then climbed aboard the new boat. Joe took the wheel and soon the sleek craft was cutting across the bay toward the mouth of Willow River. 
When they entered it, Joe throttled down and carefully navigated the stream. Meanwhile, Frank shone his flashlight on the wooded banks.
“There’s the cave—ahead!” he whispered.
Joe ran the boat astern a few yards and Frank dropped anchor. The brothers waded ashore, carrying their shoes and socks.
When they reached the mouth of the cave, Joe said, “Let’s investigate this place first.”
They went into the cave and moved forward to the tunnel. One glance told them that the tunnel had become impassable—it was filled with water.
“Must have been the cloudburst,” said Frank, as they emerged from the cave. “We’ll have to wait until the ground dries out. At least we can take a look through the woods and the area around the mill for clues to the bowman.”
Shielding the lenses of their flashlights, so that the light beams would not be easily detected by anyone lurking in the vicinity, the boys began a thorough search of the wooded section. As they worked their way noiselessly uphill among the trees, the only sound was the eerie rattling the wind made in the leaves and branches.
Frank and Joe shone their lights beneath shrubs and rocks, and even crawled under some fallen trees. They found nothing suspicious. They were approaching the edge of the woods and could see the outline of the mill beyond. The old wheel creaked and rumbled.
Suddenly Frank whispered hoarsely, “Look! Here’s something!”
Joe joined his brother, and together they examined the leather object Frank had picked up.
“An archer’s finger guard,” he said.
“It may be a valuable clue to the arrow warning,” Joe said, as Frank pocketed the guard. “Let’s go up to the mill,” he proposed. “Maybe the men there have seen something suspicious.”
As the boys crossed the clearing toward the gatehouse, they saw that it was in darkness.
“Probably everyone has gone to bed,” Frank remarked.
For a moment the brothers stood wondering what to do next. “Something’s missing,” Joe said in a puzzled voice. “I have it! The mill wheel has stopped turning.”
“Maybe it was switched off for the night,” Frank observed.
The boys were eager to question the occupants, but decided not to awaken them.
“Let’s walk around the mill,” said Frank, “and look through the woods on the other side.”
The boys had just passed the north corner of the building when, with a creaking groan, the wheel started to turn again.
“There must be something wrong with the mechanism,” Frank deduced. “The wheel hasn’t been used for so many years that adapting it to work the generator may have put a strain on it.”
“We’d better let the men know it’s acting up,” Joe said.
The boys retraced their steps to the mill door. As they reached it, the wheel stopped turning.
Frank and Joe stood staring off to their left where the mass of the motionless wheel was outlined against the night sky.
“Spooky, isn’t it?” Joe commented.
Frank nodded, and knocked on the door. There was no response. After a short wait, he knocked again—louder this time. The sound echoed in the deep silence of the night. Still no one answered.
The Hardys waited a while longer. Finally they turned away. “Must be sound sleepers,” Joe commented. “Well, maybe they’ll discover what’s wrong tomorrow.”
Frank and Joe were about to resume their search for clues when they heard a loud crashing noise from the woods which bordered Willow River.
The boys dashed ahead to investigate. Entering the woods, they made their way stealthily forward, flashlights turned off. Silently they drew near the river.
After a few minutes they stopped, and listened intently. The sound was not repeated.
“Must have been an animal,” Joe whispered.
Just then they heard a rustling sound behind them and turned to look. The next instant each received a terrific blow on the back of the head. Both boys blacked out.

CHAPTER IX
Tracing a Slugger  
WHEN Frank regained consciousness, his first thought was of his brother. He turned his throbbing head and saw that Joe was lying next to him.
“Joe!” he exclaimed anxiously.
To his relief, Joe stirred and mumbled, “W-what happened?”
“Someone conked us on the head—”
Frank broke off as he became aware of a gentle rocking motion. He sat up. Was he still dizzy or were they moving? When his mind and vision cleared, he knew they were certainly moving.
“Hey!” he said. “We’re on the Sleuth!”
Astonished, Joe raised himself and looked around. They were indeed aboard their boat—lying on the foredeck and slowly drifting down Willow River toward the bay. The anchor lay beside them.
“A fog’s rolling in,” Frank said uneasily, observing white swirls of mist ahead. “Let’s start ’er up before visibility gets worse.”
The boys wriggled into the cockpit and Joe pressed the starter. It would not catch. While Joe stayed at the controls, Frank climbed to the foredeck and lifted the cowling from the engine. He quickly checked to see if the distributor wires were in place. They were. There did not seem to be anything visibly wrong with the engine, but when he lifted the top off the carburetor, he found it empty.
A quick check of the gas tank revealed the cause of the trouble. The tank had been drained.
“Fine mess we’re in,” he mumbled. “What was the idea?”
“The man who hit us on the head can answer that one,” Joe said bitterly. “He sure did a complete job—even took both the oars!”
“We’ll have to tow her,” Frank said tersely, “to make more speed and guide her.”
While Joe stripped to his shorts, Frank quickly led a painter through one of the foredeck fair-leads.
“Take this painter,” Frank said, handing Joe the rope. “Make it fast around your shoulder and swim straight ahead. I’ll unhinge one of the battens and use it as a paddle and try to keep her straight. In a few minutes I’ll change places with you.”
The Hardys knew that keeping a dead weight like the Sleuth moving in a straight line would be a tough job. However, with Joe swimming ahead and Frank wielding the batten, they managed to make fairly steady progress. 
It was slow, backbreaking work, and before they reached the bay, the boys had changed places three times. Their heads were pounding more than ever from the physical strain. Also, the fog had grown so dense that it was impossible to see very far ahead.
Frank, who was taking his turn in the water, did not know how much longer he could go on.
Suddenly Joe shouted from the boat, “There’s a light! Help! Help! Ahoy! Over here!” he directed at the top of his lungs.
Gradually the light approached them. Frank clambered back into the Sleuth as a Harbor Police boat, making its scheduled rounds, pulled alongside. 
“You’re just in time!” Frank gasped to the sergeant in charge. “We’re exhausted.”
“I can see that. You run out of gas?” the police officer asked.
“Worse than that. Foul play,” Frank replied.
“Tough luck,” the sergeant said. “You can tell your story when we get to town.”
The officer gave orders to his crew, and a tow-line was put on the Sleuth. The boys were given blankets to throw around themselves. 
When the two crafts reached the Harbor Police pier, the boys went inside and gave a full account of what had happened to them and asked that the report be relayed to Chief Collig.
“We’ll give you some gas,” said the sergeant who had rescued the boys. “Then do you think you can make it home alone?”
“Yes, thank you.”
A half hour later the boys, tired and disappointed, cycled home. Their mother and aunt gasped with dismay at the sight of the weary boys in the water-sodden clothing. Joe and Frank, however, made light of the evening’s experience.
“We ran out of gas,” Joe explained, “and had to swim back with the Sleuth.”
Aunt Gertrude sniffed skeptically. “Humph! It must have been some long ride to use up all that fuel!” She hustled off to make hot chocolate.
Mrs. Hardy told the boys that their father had left the house an hour before and would be away overnight working on his case. Again Frank and Joe wondered about it. And did the attack tonight have any connection with either case?
After a hot bath and a good night’s sleep, Frank and Joe were eager to continue their search for clues to the bowman, the counterfeiters, and the writer of the first warning note to Mr. Hardy.
Breakfast over, Frank and Joe went to the lab and dusted the archer’s finger guard. To the brothers’ delight they lifted one clear print.
“We’ll take this to Chief Collig on our way to the paper company in Bridgeport,” Frank decided.
Just before they left, Chet telephoned. “Guess what!” he said to Frank, who answered. “I have an appointment at Elekton to see about a job!”
“How’d you do it?” Frank asked, amazed. “You sure work fast.”
Chet laughed. “I decided to telephone on my own,” he explained. “The man in the personnel office told me there might be something available on a part-time basis. How about that?”
“Swell,” Frank said. “The vacancy must have come up since yesterday.”
“Funny thing,” Chet added. “The personnel manager asked me if I’d applied before. I said No, though the guard had phoned about me yesterday. The manager said he didn’t remember this, but that somebody else in the office might have taken the call.”
Chet became more and more excited as he talked about the prospect of getting a job in the Elekton laboratory. “I’m going to make a lot of money and—”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Frank cautioned his friend. “Elekton is such a top-secret outfit they might not hire anyone on a part-time basis for lab work. But you might get something else.”
“We’ll see,” Chet replied optimistically.
“Joe and I have something special to show you,” Frank told him. “After you have your interview, meet us at the north end of the Bayport waterfront.”
Chet begged to know why, but Frank kept the news about the Sleuth a secret. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said. 
“Okay, then. So long!”
The Hardys hopped on their motorcycles and rode to police headquarters. They talked to Chief Collig in detail about the attack on them, and left the bowman’s fingerprint for him to trace.
“Good work, boys,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Frank and Joe had decided not to mention to him the green truck and its possible connection with the counterfeiters until they had more proof.
The boys mounted their motorcycles and rode to Bridgeport. They easily located the Quality Paper Company, and inquired there for Mr. Evans, the sales manager, with whom they had talked the day before.
When Frank and Joe entered his office and identified themselves, Mr. Evans looked at the brothers curiously. But he was most cooperative in answering their questions.
“No,” Mr. Evans said, “we don’t sell our star watermark paper to retail stores in this vicinity. All our purchasers are large industrial companies. Here is a list.” He handed a printed sheet across the desk to Frank.
The boys were disappointed not to have obtained any individual’s name. Nevertheless, Frank and Joe read the list carefully. Several names, including Elekton Controls Limited, were familiar to them. The warning note could have come from any one of thousands of employees of any of the firms.
“I guess there’s no clue here to the man we want to locate,” Frank said to Mr. Evans.
The boys thanked him. As they started to leave, he called them back.
“Are you boys, by any chance, related to Mr. Fenton Hardy?” he asked.
Joe, puzzled, nodded. “He’s our father. Why?”
“Quite a coincidence,” Mr. Evans said. “Mr. Hardy was here a little while ago.”
“He was!” Frank exclaimed in surprise. The brothers exchanged glances, wondering what mission their father had been on.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Mr. Hardy’s visit,” Mr. Evans said.
“That’s all right,” Joe assured him. “If Dad had wanted the visit kept secret, he would have told you.”
When the boys were outside again, Frank said, “I hope Dad will be home. I’d like to find out what brought him here.”
Frank and Joe rode directly home and were glad to see Mr. Hardy’s sedan in the driveway. The boys rushed into the house.
They found the detective in his study, talking on the telephone. The boys paused next to the partly open door.
“... the same eight-and-one pattern, I believe,” their father was saying.... “Yes—I’ll be there.... Good-by.”
Frank knocked and the boys entered the room. Mr. Hardy greeted them warmly. He was startled when Joe told him, “We know where you’ve been this morning, Dad.”
“Were you two shadowing me?” the detective joked.
“Not exactly.” Frank grinned, and explained why they had visited the Quality Paper Company.
“Good idea,” said the detective. “Did you learn anything?”
“No,” Joe replied glumly, then asked suddenly, “Dad, did you go to Quality Paper in connection with the warning note on the arrow?”
Mr. Hardy admitted that he had gone there to investigate the watermark. “I believe I did find a clue to confirm a suspicion of mine. But I’m not sure yet where it will lead.”
The boys sensed that their father’s trip had been linked to his secret case. “If it was to help us on the counterfeiting mystery, he’d say so,” Frank thought. “And he hasn’t mentioned Elekton, so I guess he doesn’t suspect any of that company’s employees.”
Mr. Hardy changed the subject. He looked at his sons quizzically. “What’s this I hear from Aunt Gertrude about you boys coming home last night half dead?”
The boys explained, omitting none of the details. “We didn’t want to alarm Mother and Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said, “so we didn’t tell them about the attack.”
Mr. Hardy looked grim and warned his sons gravely to be extra cautious.
“There’s one bright spot,” he added. “The print you found on that finger guard. It could be a big break.”
During lunch the detective was unusually preoccupied. The boys tried to draw him out by questions and deductions about the counterfeiting case. He would say very little, however, and seemed to be concentrating on a knotty problem.
A little later the boys rode their motorcycles straight to the boathouse and parked at the street end of the jetty. “Chet ought to show up soon,” Joe remarked.
As the brothers walked toward the boathouse Frank commented on his father’s preoccupation during luncheon.
“I have a hunch Dad’s assignment is even tougher than usual,” he confided. “I wish we could help him on it.”
Frank seemed to be only half listening and nodded absently.
“What’s the matter with you?” Joe laughed. “I’m talking to myself!”
Suddenly Frank stopped. He grasped his brother’s arm firmly.
“Joe!” he said. “We may have found a clue in Bridgeport this morning, and didn’t realize it!”

CHAPTER X
The Sign of the Arrow  
“WHAT clue do you mean, Frank?” Joe demanded eagerly.
“Elekton’s name was on that list Mr. Evans showed us this morning.”
“Yes, I know. But Dad didn’t seem excited over that.”
“Well, I am,” Frank said. “Put two and two together. Every time we’ve been near the Elekton area, something has happened. First, the warning on the arrow, then the attack last night.”
“Of course!” Joe said. “I get you! Someone who has access to the company’s paper supply could have sent the warnings, and knocked us out. But who? An employee of Elekton?”
“That’s the mystery,” said Frank. “Is the person trying to get at Dad through us? And which of the cases is this mysterious person connected with —the counterfeit case or Dad’s secret one?”
“Then there’s the bike,” Joe recalled. “Someone from the company easily could have taken it from the storage area under the mill at night when the guard and maintenance man were inside the gatehouse.”
“Joe,” said Frank slowly, “we’re theorizing on the case having a connection with Elekton. Do you think Dad is, too, even though he didn’t tell us? The Elekton name may have been the clue he found at Quality Paper!”
Joe snapped his fingers. “My guess is that Dad is doing some detective work for Elekton! That would explain why he can’t say anything. Elekton is doing top-secret space missile work.”
“It’s possible,” Frank speculated, “that Elekton retained Dad because of the chain of sabotage acts in plants handling similar jobs for the government.”
“Sounds logical,” Joe agreed. “I guess Dad’s main assignment would be to ward off sabotage at Elekton. No wonder he is so anxious to find out who sent the warnings.”
Just then Chet arrived in the Queen and leaped out.
“I have a job!” he announced to Frank and Joe. Then he looked a bit sheepish. “It’s—er—in the cafeteria, serving behind the food counter. The cafeteria is run on a concession basis, and the people working there aren’t as carefully screened as the plant employees.”
Joe grinned. “It’s not very scientific, but think of the food! You’ll be able to eat anything you want.”
Chet sighed, and did not respond with one of his usual humorous comebacks. A worried expression spread over his face. He shifted from one foot to the other.
“What’s on your mind?” Joe prodded. “Not nervous about the job, are you?”
Chet shook his head. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of white paper. “I am nervous about this—another warning note! It was on the seat of my car when I came out after the job interview.” He handed the note to Frank. 
Unfolding it, Frank read aloud, “‘You and your pals watch out!’ ” There was no signature on the boldly printed note, but at the bottom was the crude drawing of an arrow.
Chet gulped. “Must be that arrow shooter. He’s keeping tabs on all of us!” he said.
Frank and Joe studied the note intently for a minute, then Frank asked Chet, “Where did you park?”
“Near the front entrance. The guard at the mill told me to go in that way to reach the personnel office.” Chet smiled faintly. “Boy, was he surprised when I told him I had an appointment.”
The Hardys were more convinced than ever that their unknown enemy must somehow be linked with the Elekton company. “We’ll compare this note with the others,” Frank said. “But first, Chet, we’ll show you something to cheer you up.”
The brothers led their friend into the boathouse. “Feast your eyes!” Joe grinned. “This is our surprise.”
Chet gasped when he saw the Sleuth. “Wow! She’s really yours?” 
“You bet! How about a ride?”
Eagerly Chet accepted. As the Hardys refueled from the boathouse tank, they told Chet about the adventure they had had the previous night.
“You suspect there’s a connection between somebody at Elekton and the counterfeiting?” Chet guessed.
“That’s right,” Frank replied.
He then told Chet about the Pritos having received a counterfeit bill. “We think,” said Joe, “the boy in the panel truck who gave Mike the counterfeit twenty might have been Ken Blake.” 
“Ken Blake again,” Chet commented. “Funny how he keeps turning up.”
The Hardys agreed. As Frank steered the Sleuth into the bay, Joe suggested, “Let’s run up Willow River to the mill. That’ll give you a good chance to see how the boat rides, Chet, and also we can stop to question the guard and maintenance man, and Ken Blake. They might have seen some suspicious people in the area.” 
“I should’ve known this would turn into a sleuthing trip.” Chet sighed. “Oh, well, I’m with you if we can learn anything about the counterfeiters.”


  
“Something’s wrong!” Joe shouted. “I can’t slow her down.”
When Frank had the Sleuth well away from shore and out of the path of other craft on the bay, he pushed the throttle for more speed and steered the boat toward the mouth of the river. 
The Sleuth responded like a thoroughbred. The stern sat back in the water and in a second it was planing wide open across the bay. 
“How do you like this?” Frank called from the cockpit.
“Terrific!” Chet yelled back enthusiastically.
Frank now swung the wheel back and forth to show his friend how stable the boat was. Then he said, “Joe, take the wheel and show Chet your stuff!”
The brothers changed places and Joe made a wide circle to port, with the Sleuth heeling beautifully. Then he headed for the river’s narrow mouth. 
“Better slow down!” Frank warned him.
Obediently Joe began to ease the throttle. The Sleuth did not respond! And there was no lessening of the roar of the engine. 
Quickly Joe turned the throttle all the way back. Still there was no decrease in speed.
“Something’s wrong!” he shouted. “I can’t slow her down!”

CHAPTER XI
Sinister Tactics  
“WHAT do you mean you can’t slow down?” Chet yelled. “Turn off the engine!”
“Joe can’t,” Frank said grimly. “He has the throttle to off position and we’re still traveling at full speed.” 
There was no choice for Joe but to swing the Sleuth into another wide, sweeping turn. It would have been foolhardy to enter the river at such speed, and Joe knew that under the circumstances he needed lots of room to maneuver. The motorboat zoomed back into the middle of the bay. It seemed to the boys that suddenly there was far more traffic on the bay than there had been before. 
“Look out!” Chet yelled. Joe just missed a high-speed runabout.
He turned and twisted to avoid the small pleasure boats. The young pilot was more worried about endangering these people than he was about colliding with the larger vessels, which were commercial craft.
“Keep her as straight as you can!” Frank shouted to Joe. “I’ll take a look at the engine and see what I can do with it.”
Frank stood up and leaned forward to open the cowling in front of the dashboard, as the boat leaped across the waves in the bay.
“Watch out!” Chet yelled, as Frank almost lost his balance.
Joe had made a sharp turn to avoid cutting in front of a rowboat containing a man and several children. Joe realized that the wash of the speeding Sleuth might upset it. 
“If those people are thrown overboard,” he thought, “we’ll have to rescue them. But how?” Fortunately, the boat did not overturn.
Frank quickly lifted the cowling from the engine and stepped into the pit. He knew he could open the fuel intake and siphon off the gas into the bay, but this would take too long.
“I’ll have to stop the boat-right now!” he decided.
Frank reached down beside the roaring engine and pulled three wires away from the distributor. Instantly the engine died, and Frank stood up just as Joe made another sharp turn to miss hitting a small outboard motorboat that had wandered across their path.
“Good night!” Chet cried out. “That was a close one!”
Even with the Sleuth’s reduction in speed, the other boat rocked violently back and forth as it was caught in the wash. Frank grasped the gunwale, ready to leap over the side and rescue the man if his boat overturned. 
But the smaller craft had been pulled around to face the wash. Though it bounced almost out of the water, the boat quickly resumed an even keel.
The lone man in it kept coming toward the Sleuth. As he drew alongside, he began to wave his arms and shout at the boys. 
“What’s the matter with you young fools?” he yelled. “You shouldn’t be allowed to operate a boat until you learn how to run one.”
“We couldn’t—” Joe started to say when the man interrupted.
“You should have more respect for other people’s safety!”
Frank finally managed to explain. “It was an accident. The throttle was jammed open. I had to pull the wires out of the distributor to stop her.”
By this time the outboard was close enough for its pilot to look over the Sleuth’s side and into the engine housing where Frank was pointing at the distributor. 
The man quickly calmed down. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “There are so many fools running around in high-powered boats these days, without knowing anything about the rules of navigation, I just got good and mad at your performance.”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” said Joe. Then he asked, “Do you think you could tow us into the municipal dock so that we can have repairs made?”
“Glad to,” said the man.
At the dock, the Hardys and Chet watched while the serviceman checked the Sleuth to find out the cause of the trouble. Presently he looked up at the boys with an odd expression. 
“What’s the trouble?” Frank asked. “Serious?”
The mechanic’s reply startled them. “This is a new motorboat and no doubt was in tiptop shape. But somebody tampered with the throttle!”
“What!” Joe demanded. “Let’s see!”
The serviceman pointed out where a cotter pin had been removed from the throttle group. And the tension spring which opened and closed the valve had been replaced with a bar to hold the throttle wide open, once it was pushed there.
The Hardys and Chet exchanged glances which meant: “The unknown enemy again?”
The boys, however, did not mention their suspicions to the mechanic. Frank merely requested him to make the necessary repairs on the Sleuth. Then the trio walked back to the Hardys’ boathouse. 
Several fishermen were standing at a nearby wharf. Frank and Joe asked them if they had seen anyone near the boathouse.
“No,” each one said.
The three boys inspected the boathouse. Frank scrutinized the hasp on the door. “The Sleuth must have been tampered with while it was inside. Unless it was done last night while we were unconscious.” 
There was no sign of the lock having been forced open, but near the edge of the loose hasp there were faint scratches.
“Look!” Joe pointed. “Somebody tore the whole hasp off the door and then carefully put it back on.”
Frank looked grim. “I’m sure this was done by the same person who attacked us last night, and sent us the warnings.”
“You’re right,” said Joe. “This is what Dad would call sinister tactics.”
Again both brothers wondered with which case their enemy was connected. There seemed to be no answer to this tantalizing question which kept coming up again and again.
Chet drove the Queen back to the Hardys’, and the brothers rode their motorcycles. When they reached the house they went at once to the lab with the note Chet had found in his car.
They dusted it for fingerprints but were disappointed again. There was not one trace of a print. The boys found, however, that the paper was the same as that used for the previous warnings.
“Well,” said Joe, “I vote we go on out to the mill.”
The boys went in the Queen. Chet had just brought his car to a stop on the dirt road when Joe called out, “There’s Ken Blake trimming the grass over by the millrace. Now’s our chance to talk to him.”
The three jumped out. Ken looked up, stared for a second, then threw his clippers to the ground. To the boys’ surprise, he turned and ran away from them, along the stream.
“Wait!” Frank yelled.
Ken looked over his shoulder, but kept on running. Suddenly he tripped and stumbled. For a moment the boy teetered on the bank of the rushing stream. The next instant he lost his balance and fell headlong into the water!
At once the Hardys and Chet dashed to the water’s edge. Horrified, they saw that the force of the water was carrying the boy, obviously a poor swimmer, straight toward the plunging falls!

CHAPTER XII
An Interrupted Chase  
FRANK, quick as lightning, dashed to the mill-stream and plunged in after Ken Blake. The boy was being pulled relentlessly toward the waterfall. In another moment he would be swept over the brink of the dam!
With strong strokes, Frank swam toward the struggling boy. Reaching out desperately, he managed to grasp Ken’s shirt.
Joe jumped in to assist Frank. The two boys were buffeted by the rushing water but between them they managed to drag Ken back from the falls.
“Easy,” Frank cautioned the frightened youth. “Relax. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
Despite the weight of their clothes, the Hardys, both proficient at lifesaving techniques, soon worked Ken close to the bank. Chet leaned over and helped haul him out of the water. Then Frank and Joe climbed out.
To their relief, Ken, though white-faced and panting from exhaustion, seemed to be all right. The Hardys flopped to the ground to catch their breath.
“That was a whale of a rescue!” Chet praised them.
“You bet!” Ken gasped weakly. “Thanks, fellows! You’ve saved my life!”
“In a way it was our fault,” Joe replied ruefully. “You wouldn’t have fallen in if we hadn’t come here. But why did you run away when you saw us?” 
Ken hesitated before answering. “Mr. Markel —the guard at the gatehouse-said you wanted to talk to me. He warned me about talking to outsiders, because of the strict security at Elekton.”
Joe nodded. “We understand, Ken. But,” he added, “we have something important to ask you, and I don’t think you will be going against company rules if you answer. Did anybody use your bike the night before last to deliver a message to our house?”
“Your house?” Ken sounded surprised. “No. At least, not that I know of.”
Joe went on, “Did you buy a pedal in Bridgeport to replace the one missing from your bike?”
Ken again looked surprised. “Yes. It was gone yesterday morning when I came to work. I suspected someone must have used my bike and lost the pedal. When I couldn’t find it around here, Mr. Market sent me to Bridgeport to buy a new one.”
It was on the tip of Frank’s tongue to ask the boy if he had seen any person in the area of the mill carrying a bow and arrow. But suddenly Mr. Markel and the maintenance man came dashing from the mill.
“What’s going on here?” the guard demanded, staring at the Hardys and Ken, who were still dripping wet.
Briefly, Frank told the men what had happened. They thanked the brothers warmly for the rescue, and the maintenance man hustled Ken into the mill for dry clothes. He did not invite the Hardys inside.
Frank and Joe turned to Mr. Markel, intending to question him. But before they could, a horn sounded and a shabby green panel truck approached the plant gate.
The guard hurried over to admit the truck and it entered without stopping. Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm. “Hey! That truck’s unmarked—it looks like the one Tony described.”
The brothers peered after the vehicle, but by this time it was far into the grounds, and had turned out of sight behind one of the buildings.
“I wonder,” Joe said excitedly, “if the driver is the man who gave the Pritos the counterfeit bill!”
The boys had noticed only that the driver wore a cap pulled low and sat slouched over the wheel.
“If this truck’s the same one, it may be connected with Elekton,” Frank said tersely.
Both Hardys, though uncomfortably wet, decided to stay and see what they could find out. They hailed Mr. Markel as he walked back from the Elekton gate.
“Does that truck belong to Elekton?” Frank asked him.
“No, it doesn’t,” the guard answered.
“Do you know who does own it?” asked Joe.
Mr. Markel shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, boys. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out such information. Excuse me, I have work to do.” He turned and went back into the gatehouse.
“Come on, fellows,” Chet urged. “You’d better not hang around in those wet clothes.”
The Hardys, however, were determined to stay long enough to question Ken Blake further, if possible.
“He’ll probably be coming outside soon,” said Joe. “Frank and I can dry out on the beach by the cave. It won’t take long in this hot sun.”
Chet sighed. “Okay. And I know what I’m supposed to do—wait here and watch for Ken.”
Frank chuckled. “You’re a mind reader.”
Chet took his post at the edge of the woods, and the Hardys hurried down to the river’s edge.
They spread their slacks and shirts on the sun-warmed rocks. In a short while the clothing was dry enough to put on.
“Say, maybe we’ll have time to investigate that tunnel before Chet calls us,” Joe suggested eagerly.
He and Frank started for the cave, but a second later Chet came running through the woods toward them.
“Ken came out, but he’s gone on an errand,” he reported, and explained that the boy had rushed from the mill dressed in oversize dungarees and a red shirt. “He was riding off on his bike when I caught up to him. I told Ken you wanted to see him, but he said he had to make a fast trip downtown and deliver an envelope to the Parker Building.”
“We’ll catch him there,” Frank decided.
The three boys ran up the wooded slope and jumped into the Queen. They kept on the main road to Bayport, hoping to overtake Ken, but they did not pass him.
“He must have taken another route,” Joe said.
At the Parker Building there were no parking spaces available, so Chet stopped his jalopy long enough to drop off Frank and Joe.
“I’ll keep circling the block until you come out,” Chet called as he drove away.
There was no sign of Ken’s bicycle outside the building. The Hardys rushed into the lobby and immediately were met by a five-o’clock crowd of office workers streaming from the elevators. Frank and Joe made their way through the throng, but saw no sign of Ken.
Joe had an idea. “Maybe he was making the delivery to Mr. Peters, the name I saw on the Manila envelope I picked up the other day. Let’s see if Ken’s still in his office.”
The boys ran their eyes down the building directory, but Mr. Peters was not listed. The brothers questioned the elevator starter, who replied that so far as he knew, no one by the name of Peters had an office in the building.
Joe asked the starter, “Did you notice a boy wearing dungarees and a bright-red shirt in the lobby a few minutes ago?”
“Sure,” was the prompt reply. “Just before the five-o’clock rush started. I saw the boy come in and give an envelope to a man waiting in the corner over there. The man took the envelope and they both left right away.”
“I guess he must be Mr. Peters,” Frank said.
“Could be,” the starter agreed. “I didn’t recognize him.”
As the Hardys hurried outside, Joe said, “Well, we got crossed up on that one. Let’s get back to the mill. Ken will have to drop off the bike.”
The brothers waited at the curb for Chet. In a few minutes the Queen pulled up. “All aboard!” Chet sang out. “Any luck?”
“No.”
When Frank told Chet they were returning to the mill, their good-natured friend nodded. “It’s fortunate I bought these sandwiches,” he said, indicating a paper bag on the seat beside him. “I had a feeling we’d be late to supper.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I’ll stop and phone our families so they won’t wait supper for us.”
After Joe had made the calls and they were on their way again, he told Frank and Chet that Mr. Hardy had left a message saying he would not be home until after ten o’clock.
As the Queen went down the side road past the Elekton buildings, Frank thought, “If Dad is working for Elekton, he might be somewhere in the plant right this minute.” 
The same possibility was running through Joe’s mind. “Wonder if Dad is expecting a break in his secret case.”
As Chet neared the turn into the mill road, a green truck zoomed out directly in front of the Queen. Chet jammed on his brake, narrowly avoiding a collision. The truck swung around the jalopy at full speed and roared off toward the highway.
“The green truck we saw before!” Joe exclaimed. “This time I got the license number, but couldn’t see the driver’s face.”
“Let’s follow him!” Frank urged.
Chet started back in pursuit. “That guy ought to be arrested for reckless driving!” he declared indignantly.
The Hardys peered ahead as they turned right onto the main road, trying to keep the truck in sight. Suddenly the boys heard a tremendous bo-o-om and felt the car shake.
“An explosion!” Joe cried out, turning his head. “Look!”
Against the sky a brilliant flash and billows of smoke came from the direction of Elekton. Another explosion followed.
“The plant’s blowing up!” Joe gasped.

CHAPTER XIII
Sudden Suspicion  
THE roar of the explosion and the sight of smoke and flames stunned the three boys for a moment. Chet stepped on the brake so fast that his passengers hit the dashboard.
“Take it easy!” urged Frank, although he was as excited as Chet.
All thoughts of chasing the mysterious green truck were erased from the Hardys’ minds.
“Let’s get as close as possible,” Frank said tersely, as Chet headed the car back toward the plant. “I’d like to know what—”
Frank broke off as a series of explosions occurred. The brothers sat forward tensely.
As the Queen drew near the main entrance, the boys could see that the flames and smoke were pouring from a single building at the northeast corner.
“It’s one of the labs, I think,” said Frank.
Quickly Chet pulled over and parked, and the boys hopped out of the jalopy. The series of explosive sounds had died away, but the damage appeared to be extensive. Most of the windows in the steel-and-concrete building had been blown out by the force of the blast.
Smoke and flames were pouring out of the blackened spaces where the windows had been. As the boys ran toward the front, the roof of the west wing caved in. The rush of oxygen provided fuel for a new surge of flames that reached toward the sky.
“Lucky this happened after closing time,” Chet murmured, staring wide-eyed at the fire. “There might have been a lot of injuries.”
“I hope no one was inside.” Joe exchanged worried glances with his brother. Both shared the same concern. It was for their father.
“I wish we could find out whether or not Dad’s at Elekton,” Frank whispered to Joe.
At this point, the boys heard the scream of sirens. Soon fire trucks and police cars from Bayport pulled up at the front gate. The Hardys saw Chief Collig in the first police car. They rushed up to him and he asked how they happened to be there.
“Sleuthing,” Frank answered simply. Without going into detail, he added, “Joe and I aren’t sure, but we have a hunch Dad may have been— or still is—here at Elekton. All right if we go into the grounds and look around?” he asked eagerly. “And take Chet?”
The officer agreed.
By this time the guard had opened the wide gate, and the fire apparatus rushed in. Some of the police officers followed, while others took positions along the road and directed traffic so it would not block the path of emergency vehicles.
As the boys rode inside with the chief, Joe asked him, “Any idea what caused the explosion?”
“Not yet. Hard to tell until the firemen can get inside the building.”
When they reached the burning structure, Chief Collig began directing police operations, and checking with the firemen. As soon as they seemed to have the flames under control, the firemen entered the laboratory building to look for any possible victims of the explosions.
The Hardys and Chet, meanwhile, had searched the outdoors area for Mr. Hardy, but did not see the detective.
“Maybe we were wrong about Dad’s coming here,” Joe said to his brother, more hopeful than before. “Dad probably wouldn’t have been in the lab.”
The brothers went back to Chief Collig, who told them he had not seen Fenton Hardy. Just then the fire chief came up to the group.
“I’ll bet this fire was no accident,” he reported grimly to Collig. “The same thing happened in Indiana about two months ago—and that was sabotage!”
Frank and Joe stared at each other. “Sabotage!” Joe whispered.
A startling thought flashed into Frank’s mind, and, drawing his brother aside, he exclaimed, “Remember what we overheard Dad say on the phone? ‘The same eight-and-one pattern. I’ll be there.’ ”
“And two months equal about eight weeks,” Joe added excitedly. “That might have been the saboteurs’ time schedule Dad was referring to! So maybe the explosion at Elekton was set for today!”
Frank’s apprehension about his father returned full force. “Joe,” he said tensely, “Dad might have been inside the lab building trying to stop the saboteurs!”
Deeply disturbed, the Hardys pleaded with Chief Collig for permission to enter the building and search for their father.
“I can tell you’re worried, boys,” the officer said sympathetically. “But it’s still too risky for me to let you go inside. It’ll be some time before we’re sure there’s no danger of further explosions.”
“I know,” Frank agreed. “But what if Dad is in there and badly hurt?”
The police chief did his best to reassure the brothers. “Your father would never forgive me if I let you risk your lives,” he added. “I suggest that you go on home and cheer up your mother in case she has the same fears you do. I promise if I see your dad I’ll call you, or ask him to.”
The boys realized that their old friend was right, and slowly walked away. Frank and Joe looked back once at the blackened building, outlined against the twilight sky. Wisps of smoke still curled from the torn-out windows. It was a gloomy, silent trio that drove to the Hardy home in the Queen.
Frank and Joe decided not to tell their mother or aunt of their fear, or to give any hint of their suspicions. When the boys entered the living room, both women gave sighs of relief. They had heard the explosions and the subsequent news flashes about it.
Aunt Gertrude looked at the boys sharply. “By the way, where have you three been all this time? I was afraid that you might have been near Elekton’s.”
Frank, Joe, and Chet admitted that they had been. “You know we couldn’t miss a chance to find out what the excitement was about,” Joe said teasingly, then added with an assurance he was far from feeling, “Don’t worry. The fire was pretty much under control when we left.”
To change the subject, Frank said cheerfully, “I sure am hungry. Let’s dig into those sandwiches you bought, Chet!”
“Good idea!” Joe agreed.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to fix you something hot to eat?” Mrs. Hardy asked.
“Thanks, Mother, but we’ll have enough.” Frank smiled.
Chet called his family to let them know where he was, then the three boys sat down in the kitchen and halfheartedly munched the sandwiches. Aunt Gertrude bustled in and served them generous portions of deep-dish apple pie.
“This is more super than usual,” Chet declared, trying hard to be cheerful.
The boys finished their pie, but without appetite. When they refused second helpings, however, Aunt Gertrude demanded suspiciously, “Are you ill—or what?”
“Oh, no, Aunty,” Joe replied hastily. “Just—er—too much detecting.”
“I can believe that!” Miss Hardy said tartly.
The evening dragged on, tension mounting every minute. The boys tried to read or talk, but their concern for the detective’s safety made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
Eleven o’clock! Where was their father? Frank and Joe wondered. 
“Aren’t you boys going to bed soon?” Mrs. Hardy asked, as she and Aunt Gertrude started upstairs.
“Pretty soon,” Frank answered.
The three boys sat glumly around the living room for a few minutes until the women were out of earshot.
“Fellows,” said Chet, “I caught on that you’re sure your dad is working on an important case for Elekton, and it’s a top-secret one—that’s why you couldn’t say anything about it.”
“You’re right,” Frank told him.
Chet went on to mention that his father had heard of various problems at Elekton—production stoppages caused by power breaks, and, before the buildings were completed, there were reports of tools and equipment being missing.
“This ties in with our hunch about the secrecy of Dad’s case,” Frank said. “The company must have suspected that major sabotage was being planned, and retained Dad to try and stop it.”
Talking over their speculations helped to relieve some of the tension the boys felt and made the time pass a little faster as they waited for news of Fenton Hardy.
“I wonder how the saboteurs got into the plant?” Joe said, thinking aloud. “Both the gates are locked and well guarded. It seems almost impossible for anyone to have sneaked in the necessary amount of explosives—without inside help.”
A sudden thought flashed into Frank’s mind. He leaped to his feet. “The green truck!” he exclaimed. “It was unmarked, remember? It could have been carrying dynamite—camouflaged under ordinary supplies!”
“That could be, Frank!” Joe jumped up. “If so, no wonder it was in such a rush! I’ll phone the chief right now and give him the truck’s license number.”
Frank went with Joe to the hall telephone. As they approached the phone, it rang. The bell, shattering the tense atmosphere, seemed louder than usual.
“It must be Dad!” exclaimed the brothers together, and Chet hurried into the hall.
Frank eagerly lifted the receiver. “Hello!” he said expectantly.
The next moment Frank looked dejected. He replaced the receiver and said glumly, “Wrong number.”
The Hardys exchanged bleak looks. What had happened to their father? 

CHAPTER XIV
Prisoners!  
THE HARDYS’ disappointment in discovering that the telephone call was not from their father was intense. Nevertheless, Joe picked up the receiver and dialed police headquarters to report the truck’s license number.
“Line’s busy,” he said.
Joe tried several more times without success. Suddenly he burst out, “I can’t stand it another minute to think of Dad perhaps lying out there hurt. Let’s go back to Elekton and see if we can learn something.”
“All right,” Frank agreed, also eager for action, and the three rushed to the front door.
Just as they opened it, the boys saw the headlights of a car turning into the driveway.
“It’s Dad!”
Joe barely refrained from shouting so as not to awaken Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. 
The detective’s sedan headed for the garage at the back of the house. Heaving sighs of thankful relief, the boys quietly hurried through the house into the kitchen to meet him.
“Are we glad to see you, Dad!” Frank exclaimed as he came into the house.
His father looked pale and disheveled. There was a large purple bruise on his left temple. He slumped wearily into a chair.
“I guess I’m lucky to be here.” Mr. Hardy managed a rueful smile. “Well, I owe you boys an explanation, and now is the time.”
“Dad,” Joe spoke up, “you are working on the sabotage case for Elekton, aren’t you?” 
“And you were in the lab building during the explosions?” Frank put in.
“You’re both right,” the detective replied. “Of course I know I can depend on all of you to keep the matter strictly confidential. The case is far from solved.”
Mr. Hardy was relieved that Frank and Joe had kept their fears for his safety from his wife and sister. He now revealed to the boys that for the past several hours he had been closeted with Elekton’s officials. Suspecting that the saboteurs had inside help, the detective had screened the records of all employees. He and the officials had found nothing suspicious. 
“I’ll submit a full report to the FBI tomorrow morning, and continue a search on my own.”
When Joe asked if the eight-and-one pattern referred to the saboteurs’ schedule, his father nodded. “In the other plants, the sabotage took place eight weeks plus one day apart.
“In each of those plants,” the detective went on, “the damage occurred right after closing time. Figuring the schedule would be exactly right for an attempt on Elekton in a couple of days, I started a systematic check of the various buildings. I planned to check daily, until the saboteurs had been caught here or elsewhere. At my request, one company security guard was assigned to assist me. I felt that the fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. That’s how I ruined the saboteurs’ plan in Detroit.
“Nothing suspicious occurred here until today when I took up a post in the section of the building where the experimental work is being conducted. After all the employees had left, and the dim night-lights were on, I went toward the east lab wing to investigate.”
Mr. Hardy paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “Just as I reached the lab, I happened to glance back into the hall. Things started to happen—fast.”
“What did you see, Dad?” asked Joe, and all the boys leaned forward expectantly.
The detective went on, “Hurrying down the hall from the west lab were two men in work clothes, one carrying a leather bag. I knew there weren’t supposed to be any workmen in the building. I stepped out to question them, but the pair broke into a run and dashed past me down the stairs.”
“Did you see what either of them looked like?” Frank asked.
“I did catch a glimpse of one before they broke away. He had heavy features and thick eyebrows. But just as I was about to take off after them, I smelled something burning in the east lab and went to investigate. The first thing I saw was a long fuse sputtering toward a box of dynamite, set against the wall.
“I didn’t know if it was the kind of fuse that would burn internally or not, so I took my pen-knife and cut it close to the dynamite. Professional saboteurs don’t usually rely on just one explosive, so I started for the west wing to check the lab there.”
Mr. Hardy leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bruise on his temple. In a low voice he said, “But I didn’t make it. I was running toward the hall when there was a roar and a burst of flame. The explosion lifted me off my feet and threw me against the wall. Though I was stunned, I managed to get back to the east wing. I reached for the phone, then blacked out.
“I must have been unconscious for some time because when the firemen found me and helped me out of the building, the fire had been put out.”
“You’re all right now?” asked Frank.
“Yes. It was a temporary blackout from shock. What bothers me is that I had the saboteurs’ pattern figured out—only they must have become panicky, and moved up their nefarious scheme two days.”
Joe looked grim. “I wish we’d been there to help you capture those rats!”
Chet asked Mr. Hardy if he would like a fruit drink. “I’ll make some lemonade,” he offered.
“Sounds good.” Mr. Hardy smiled.
As they sipped the lemonade, Frank and Joe questioned their father about his theories.
“I’m still convinced,” said Mr. Hardy, “that one of those men works in the plant. How else would he have known when the watchman makes his rounds and how to disconnect the electronic alarms? But I can’t figure how the outside accomplice got in—those gates are carefully guarded.” 
At this point, Frank told his father about the green truck. “We suspected at first it might be connected with the counterfeiters. Now we have a hunch the saboteurs may have used it.”
Fenton Hardy seemed greatly encouraged by this possible lead. Joe gave him the license number, which Mr. Hardy said he would report to Chief Collig at once.
When Mr. Hardy returned from the telephone, he told the boys the chief would check the license number with the Motor Vehicle Bureau in the morning and by then he also would have some information about the print on the archer’s finger guard.
The next morning after breakfast Frank said he wanted to take another look at the warning notes.
“Why?” Joe asked curiously as they went to the file.
Frank held up the “arrow” warning, and the one received by Chet. “I’ve been thinking about the printing on these two—seems familiar. I have it!” he burst out.
“Have what?” Joe asked.
“This printing”—Frank pointed to the papers —“is the same as the printing on Ken’s envelope addressed to Victor Peters. I’m positive.”
Excitedly the brothers speculated on the possible meaning of this clue. “I’d sure like to find out,” said Joe, “who addresses the envelopes Ken delivers, and if they’re always sent to Mr. Peters in the Parker Building. And why—if he doesn’t have an office there. And who is Victor Peters?” 
“If the person who addresses the envelopes and the sender of the warnings are the same,” Frank declared, “it looks as though he’s sending something to a confederate, under pretense of having work done for Elekton. I wonder what that something could be?”
“At any rate,” Joe added, “this could be a link either to the counterfeiters or to the saboteurs. Which one?”
The boys decided to go out to the mill again, in hopes of quizzing Ken Blake. Just then their father came downstairs. Frank and Joe were glad to see that he looked rested and cheerful.
Mr. Hardy phoned Chief Collig. When the detective hung up, he told his sons that the license number belonged to stolen plates and the fingerprint to a confidence man nicknamed The Arrow.
“He’s called this because for several years he worked at exclusive summer resorts, teaching archery to wealthy vacationers, then fleecing as many of them as he could. After each swindle, The Arrow disappeared. Unfortunately, there’s no picture of him on file. All the police have is a general description of him.”
Frank and Joe learned that the swindler had a pleasant speaking voice, was of medium height, with dark hair and brown eyes.
“Not much to go on,” Joe remarked glumly.
“No, but if he is working for Elekton, he must be pretty shrewd to have passed their screening.” 
Mr. Hardy agreed, and phoned Elekton, requesting the personnel department to check if anybody answering The Arrow’s description was employed there.
The brothers then informed their father about the similar lettering on the warnings and Ken’s Manila envelope.
“A valuable clue,” he remarked. “I wish I could go with you to question Ken.” The detective explained that right now he had to make his report of the explosion to the nearby FBI office.
When he had left, Frank and Joe rode off to the mill on their motorcycles.
At the gatehouse the guard had unexpected news. “Ken Blake isn’t working here any more,” Mr. Markel said. “We had to discharge him.”
“Why?” asked Joe in surprise.
The guard replied that most of the necessary jobs had been done around the mill grounds. “Mr. Docker—my coworker—and I felt we could handle everything from now on,” he explained.
“I see,” said Frank. “Can you tell us where Ken is staying?”
Markel said he was not sure, but he thought Ken might have been boarding in an old farmhouse about a mile up the highway.
When the brothers reached the highway, they stopped. “Which way do we go? Mr. Markel didn’t tell us,” Joe said in chagrin.
“Instead of going back to find out, let’s ask at that gas station across the way,” Frank suggested. “Someone there may know.”
“An old farmhouse?” the attendant repeated in answer to Frank’s query. “There’s one about a mile from here going toward Bayport. That might be the place your friend is staying. What does he look like?”
Frank described Ken carefully. The attendant nodded. “Yep. I’ve seen him ride by here on his bike. A couple of times when I was going past the farm I noticed him turn in the dirt road to it.”
“Thanks a lot!” The Hardys cycled off quickly.
Soon they were heading up the narrow, dusty lane, which led to a ramshackle, weather-beaten house. The brothers parked their motorcycles among the high weeds in front of it and dismounted.
“This place seems deserted!” Joe muttered.
Frank agreed and looked around, perplexed. “Odd that Ken would be boarding in such a run-down house.”
Frank and Joe walked onto the creaky porch and knocked at the sagging door. There was no answer. They knocked again and called. Still no response.
“Some peculiar boardinghouse!” Joe said. “I wouldn’t want a room here!”
Frank frowned. “This must be the wrong place. Look—it’s all locked up and there’s hardly any furniture.”
“I’ll bet nobody lives in this house!” Joe burst out.
“But the attendant said he has seen Ken riding in here,” Frank declared. “Why?”
“Let’s have a look,” Joe urged.
Mystified, Frank and Joe circled the house. Since they were now certain it had been abandoned, they glanced in various windows. When Joe came to the kitchen he grabbed Frank’s arm excitedly.
“Somebody is staying here! Could it be Ken?”
Through the dusty glass the boys could see on a rickety table several open cans of food, a carton of milk, and a bowl.
“Must be a tramp,” Frank guessed. “I’m sure Ken wouldn’t live here.”
In turning away, the young detectives noticed a small stone structure about ten yards behind the house. It was the size of a one-car garage. Instead of windows, it had slits high in the walls.
“It probably was used to store farm equipment,” Frank said. “We might as well check.”
They unbolted the old-fashioned, stout, wooden double doors. These swung outward, and the boys were surprised that the doors opened so silently. “As if they’d been oiled,” Frank said.
“No wonder!” Joe cried out. “Look!”
Inside was a shabby green panel truck! “The same one we saw yesterday! Joe exclaimed. “What’s it doing here?”
The boys noticed immediately that the vehicle had no license plates. “They probably were taken off,” Frank surmised, “and disposed of.”


  
“We’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed
Frank checked the glove compartment while Joe looked on the seat and under the cushion for any clue to the driver or owner of the vehicle. Suddenly he called out, “Hey! What’s going on?”
Joe jumped from the truck and saw with astonishment that the garage doors were swinging shut. Together, the boys rushed forward but not in time. They heard the outside bolt being rammed into place.
“We’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed.
Again and again the Hardys threw their weight against the doors. This proved futile. Panting, Frank and Joe looked for a means of escape.
“Those slits in the wall are too high and too narrow, anyway,” Frank said, chiding himself for not having been on guard.
Finally he reached into the glove compartment and drew out an empty cigarette package he had noticed before. He pulled off the foil. Joe understood immediately what his brother had in mind. Frank lifted the truck’s hood and jammed the foil between the starting wires near the fuse box. “Worth a try,” he said. “Ignition key’s gone. If we can start the engine—we’ll smash our way out!”
Joe took his place at the wheel and Frank climbed in beside him. To their delight, Joe gunned the engine into life.
“Here goes!” he muttered grimly. “Brace yourself!”
“Ready!”
Joe eased the truck as far back as he could, then accelerated swiftly forward. The truck’s wheels spun on the dirt floor and then with a roar it headed for the heavy doors.

CHAPTER XV
Lead to a Counterfeiter  
C-R-A-S-H!
The green truck smashed through the heavy garage doors. The Hardys felt a terrific jolt and heard the wood splinter and rip as they shot forward into the farmyard. 
“Wow!” Joe gasped as he braked to a halt. “We’re free—but not saying in what shape!”
Frank gave a wry laugh. “Probably better than the front of this truck!”
The boys hopped to the ground and looked around the overgrown yard. No one was in sight. The whole area seemed just as deserted as it had been when they arrived.
“Let’s check the house,” Joe urged. “Someone could be hiding in there.” 
The brothers ran to the run-down dwelling. They found all the doors and windows locked. Again they peered through the dirty panes, but did not see anyone.
“I figure that whoever locked us in the garage would decide that getting away from here in a hurry was his safest bet.”
“He must have gone on foot,” Joe remarked. “I didn’t hear an engine start up.”
The Hardys decided to separate, each searching the highway for a mile in opposite directions.
“We’ll meet back at the service station we stopped at,” Frank called as the boys kicked their motors into life and took off toward the highway.
Fifteen minutes later they parked near the station. Neither boy had spotted any suspicious pedestrians.
“Did you see anybody come down this road in a hurry during the past twenty minutes?” Joe asked the attendant.
“I didn’t notice, fellows,” came the answer. “I’ve been busy working under a car. Find your friend?”
“No. That farmhouse is apparently deserted except for signs of a tramp living there,” Joe told him.
The Hardys quickly asked the attendant if he knew of any boardinghouse nearby. After a moment’s thought, he replied:
“I believe a Mrs. Smith, who lives a little ways beyond the old place, takes boarders.”
“We’ll try there. Thanks again,” Frank said as he and Joe went back to their motorcycles.
Before Frank threw his weight back on the starter, he said, “Well, let’s hope Ken Blake can give us a lead.”
“If we ever find him,” Joe responded.
They located Mrs. Smith’s boardinghouse with no trouble. She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman and quickly confirmed that Ken was staying there for the summer. She was an old friend of his parents. Mrs. Smith invited the Hardys to sit down in the living room.
“Ken’s upstairs now,” she said. “I’ll call him.”
When Ken came down, the Hardys noticed that he looked dejected. Frank felt certain it was because of losing his job and asked him what had happened.
“I don’t know,” Ken replied. “Mr. Markel just told me I wouldn’t be needed any longer. I hope I’ll be able to find another job this summer,” he added. “My folks sent me here for a vacation. But I was going to surprise them—” His voice trailed off sadly.
“Ken,” Frank said kindly, “you may be able to help us in a very important way. Now that you’re not working at the Elekton gatehouse, we hope you can answer some questions—to help solve a mystery.”
Frank explained that he and Joe often worked on mysteries and assisted their detective father.
Ken’s face brightened. “I’ll do my best, fellows,” he assured them eagerly.
“Last week,” Joe began, “a shabby green panel truck went to Pritos’ Supply Yard and picked up old bricks and lumber. Our friend Tony Prito said there was a boy in the truck who helped the yardman with the loading. Were you the boy?”
“Yes,” Ken replied readily.
“Who was the driver?” Frank asked him.
“Mr. Docker, the maintenance man at the mill. He said he’d hurt his arm and asked me to help load the stuff.” Ken looked puzzled. “Is that part of the mystery?”
“We think it could be,” Frank said. “Now, Ken —we’ve learned since then that one of the bills you gave the yardman is a counterfeit twenty.”
Ken’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “A—a counterfeit!” he echoed. “Honest, I didn’t know it was, Frank and Joe!”
“Oh, we’re sure you didn’t,” Joe assured him. “Have you any idea who gave Docker the cash?”
Ken told the Hardys he did not know. Then Frank asked:
“What were the old bricks and lumber used for, Ken?”
“Mr. Docker told me they were for repair work around the plant. After we got back to the mill, Mr. Markel and I stored the load in the basement.”
“Is it still there?” asked Frank.
“I guess so,” Ken answered. “Up to the time I left, it hadn’t been taken out.”
The Hardys determined to question Markel and Docker at the first opportunity. Then Frank changed the subject and asked about the day of the picnic when Joe thought he had seen Ken at the window.
“I remember,” the younger boy said. “I did see you all outside. I never knew you were looking for me.”
“When we told Mr. Docker,” Frank went on, “he said Joe must have been mistaken.”
Ken remarked slowly, “He probably was worrying about the plant’s security policy. He and Mr. Markel were always reminding me not to talk to anybody.”
“During the time you were working at the Elekton gatehouse, did you see any strange or suspicious person near either the plant or the mill grounds?” Frank asked.
“No,” said Ken in surprise. Curiosity overcoming him, he burst out, “You mean there’s some crook loose around here?”
Frank and Joe nodded vigorously. “We’re afraid so,” Frank told him. “But who, or what he’s up to, is what we’re trying to find out. When we do, we’ll explain everything.”
Joe then asked Ken if he had seen anyone in the area of the mill with a bow and arrow.
“A bow and arrow?” Ken repeated. “No, I never did. I sure would’ve remembered that!”
Frank nodded and switched to another line of questioning. “When you delivered envelopes, Ken, did you always take them to Mr. Victor Peters?”
“Yes,” Ken answered.
The Hardys learned further that Ken’s delivery trips always had been to Bayport—sometimes to the Parker Building, and sometimes to other office buildings in the business section.
“Did Mr. Peters meet you in the lobby every time?” Frank queried.
“That’s right.”
“What was in the envelopes?” was Joe’s next question.
“Mr. Markel said they were bulletins and forms to be printed for Elekton.”
“Were the envelopes always marked confidential?” Joe asked.
“Yes.”
“Probably everything is that Elekton sends out,” Frank said.
“Sounds like a complicated delivery arrangement to me,” Joe declared.
Ken admitted that he had not thought much about it at the time, except that he had assumed Mr. Peters relayed the material to the printing company.
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Both remembered Frank’s surmise that the bulky Manila envelopes had not contained bona fide Elekton papers at all!
“What does Mr. Peters look like?” asked Joe, a note of intense excitement in his voice.
“Average height and stocky, with a sharp nose. Sometimes he’d be wearing sunglasses.”
“Stocky and a sharp nose,” Frank repeated. “Sunglasses.” Meaningfully he asked Joe, “Whom does that description fit?”
Joe jumped to his feet. “The man who gave Chet the counterfeit twenty at the railroad station!”
The Hardys had no doubt now that the mysterious Victor Peters must be a passer for the counterfeit ring!

CHAPTER XVI
A Night Assignment  
GREATLY excited at this valuable clue to the counterfeiters, Frank asked, “Ken, who gave Mr. Markel the envelopes for Victor Peters?”
“I’m sorry, fellows, I don’t know.”
The Hardys speculated on where Peters was living. Was it somewhere near Bayport?
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Ken,” he said, “this morning we found out that sometimes you’d ride up that dirt road to the deserted farmhouse. Was it for any particular reason?”
“Yes,” Ken replied. “Mr. Markel told me a poor old man was staying in the house, and a couple of times a week I was sent there to leave a box of food on the front porch.”
“Did you ever see the ‘poor old man’?” Frank asked. “Or the green panel truck?”
The Hardys were not surprised when the answer to both questions was No. They suspected the “poor old man” was Peters hiding out there and that he had made sure the truck was out of sight whenever Ken was expected.
The brothers were silent, each puzzling over the significance of what they had just learned. If the truck was used by the counterfeiters, how did this tie in with its being used for the sabotage at Elekton?
“Was The Arrow in league with the saboteurs? Did he also have something to do with the envelopes sent to Victor Peters?” Joe asked himself.
Frank wondered, “Is The Arrow—or a confederate of his working at Elekton—the person responsible for the warnings, the attack on us, and the tampering with the Sleuth?”
“Ken,” Frank said aloud, “I think you’d better come and stay with us for a while, until we break this case. Maybe you can help us.”
He did not want to mention it to Ken, but the possibility had occurred to him that the boy might be in danger if the counterfeiters suspected that he had given the Hardys any information about Victor Peters.
Ken was delighted with the idea, and Mrs. Smith, who knew of Fenton Hardy and his sons, gave permission for her young charge to go.
As a precaution, Frank requested the kindly woman to tell any stranger asking for Ken Blake that he was “visiting friends.”
“I’ll do that,” she agreed.
Ken rode the back seat of Joe’s motorcycle on the trip to High Street. He was warmly welcomed by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” said Mrs. Hardy, who knew that Frank and Joe had a good reason for inviting Ken. But neither woman asked questions in his presence.
“Your father probably will be out all day,” Mrs. Hardy told her sons. “He’ll phone later.”
While lunch was being prepared, Frank called police headquarters to give Chief Collig a report on what had happened at the deserted farmhouse.
“I’ll notify the FBI,” the chief said. “I’m sure they’ll want to send men out there to examine that truck and take fingerprints. Elekton,” the chief added, “had no record of any employee answering The Arrow’s description.”
“We’re working on a couple of theories,” Frank confided. “But nothing definite so far.”
After lunch the Hardys decided their next move was to try to find out more about the contents of the envelopes Ken had delivered to Peters.
“We could ask Elekton officials straight out,” Joe suggested.
His brother did not agree. “Without tangible evidence to back us up, we’d have to give too many reasons for wanting to know.”
Finally Frank hit on an idea. He telephoned Elekton, asked for the accounting department, and inquired where the company had its printing done. The accounting clerk apparently thought he was a salesman, and gave him the information.
Frank hung up. “What did they say?” Joe asked impatiently.
“All Elekton’s printing is done on the premises!”
“That proves it!” Joe burst out. “The setup with Ken delivering envelopes to Peters isn’t a legitimate one, and has nothing to do with Elekton business.”
Meanwhile Ken, greatly mystified, had been listening intently. Now he spoke up. “Jeepers, Frank and Joe, have I been doing something wrong?”
In their excitement the Hardys had almost forgotten their guest. Frank turned to him apologetically. “Not you, Ken. We’re trying to figure out who has.”
Just then the Hardys heard the familiar chug of the Queen pulling up outside. The brothers went out to the porch with Ken. Chet leaped from his jalopy and bounded up to them. His chubby face was split with a wide grin.
“Get a load of this!” He showed them a badge with his picture on it. “I’ll have to wear it when I start work. Everybody has to wear one before he can get into the plant,” he added. “Even the president of Elekton!”
Suddenly Chet became aware of Ken Blake. “Hello!” the plump boy greeted him in surprise. Ken smiled, and the Hardys told their friend of the morning’s adventure.
“Boy!” Chet exclaimed. “Things are starting to pop! So you found that green truck!”
At these words a strange look crossed Frank’s face.
“Chet,” he said excitedly, “did you say every body must show identification to enter Elekton’s grounds?” 
“Yes—everybody,” Chet answered positively.
“What are you getting at, Frank?” his brother asked quickly.
“Before yesterday’s explosion, when we saw the gate guard admit the green truck, the driver didn’t stop—didn’t show any identification at all!”
“That’s true!” Joe exclaimed. “Mr. Markel doesn’t seem to be the careless type, though.”
“I know,” Frank went on. “If the green truck was sneaking in explosives—what better way than to let the driver zip right through.”
Joe stared at his brother. “You mean Markel deliberately let the truck go by? That he’s in league with the saboteurs, or the counterfeiters, or both?”
As the others listened in astonishment, Frank replied, “I have more than a hunch he is—and Docker, too. It would explain a lot.”
Joe nodded in growing comprehension. “It sure would!”
“How?” demanded Chet.
Joe took up the line of deduction. “Markel himself told Ken the envelopes were for the printer. Why did Docker say Ken wasn’t at the mill the day I saw him? And what was the real reason for his being discharged?”
“I’m getting it,” Chet interjected. “Those men were trying to keep you from questioning Ken. Why?”
“Perhaps because of what Ken could tell us, if we happened to ask him about the envelopes he delivered,” Joe replied. Then he asked Ken if Markel and Docker knew that Joe had picked up the envelope the day of the near accident.
“I didn’t say anything about that,” Ken replied. The boy’s face wore a perplexed, worried look. “You mean Mr. Docker and Mr. Markel might be—crooks! They didn’t act that way.”
“I agree,” Frank said. “And we still have no proof. We’ll see if we can find some—one way or another.”
The Hardys reflected on the other mysterious happenings. “The green truck,” Frank said, “could belong to the gatehouse men, since it seems to be used for whatever their scheme is, and they are hiding it at the deserted farmhouse.”
“Also,” Joe put in, “if Victor Peters is the ‘old man,’ he’s probably an accomplice.”
“And,” Frank continued, “don’t forget that the bike Ken used was available to both Docker and Markel to deliver the warning note. The arrow shooting occurred near the mill; the attack on us in the woods that night was near the mill. The warning note found in Chet’s car was put there after Markel told him to go to the front gate. The guard probably lied to Chet the first day we went to the mill—he never did phone the personnel department.”
“Another thing,” Joe pointed out. “Both men are more free to come and go than someone working in the plant.”
There was silence while the Hardys concentrated on what their next move should be.
“No doubt about it,” Frank said finally. “Everything seems to point toward the mill as the place to find the answers.”
“And the only way to be sure,” Joe added, “is to go and find out ourselves. How about tonight?”
Frank and Chet agreed, and the boys decided to wait until it was fairly dark. “I’ll call Tony and see if he can go with us,” Frank said. “We’ll need his help.”
Tony was eager to accompany the trio. “Sounds as if you’re hitting pay dirt in the mystery,” he remarked when Frank had brought him up to date.
“We hope so.”
Later, Joe outlined a plan whereby they might ascertain if Peters was an accomplice of Docker and Markel, and at the same time make it possible for them to get into the mill. 
“Swell idea,” Frank said approvingly. “Better brush up on your voice-disguising technique!”
Joe grinned. “I’ll practice.”
Just before supper Mr. Hardy phoned to say he would not be home until later that night.
“Making progress, Dad?” asked Frank, who had taken the call.
“Could be, son,” the detective replied. “That’s why I’ll be delayed. Tell your mother and Gertrude not to worry.”
“Okay. And, Dad—Joe and I will be doing some sleuthing tonight to try out a few new ideas we have.”
“Fine. But watch your step!”
About eight-thirty that evening Chet and Tony pulled up to the Hardy home in the Queen.
Ken Blake went with the brothers to the door. “See you later, Ken,” Frank said, and Joe added, “I know you’d like to come along, but we don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks.”
The younger boy looked wistful. “I wish I could do something to help you fellows.”
“There is a way you can help,” Frank told him.
At that moment Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came into the hall. Quickly Frank drew Ken aside and whispered something to him.

CHAPTER XVII
Secret Signal  
WITH rising excitement, Frank, Joe, Chet, and Tony drove off through the dusk toward the old mill.
Chet came to a stop about one hundred yards from the beginning of the dirt road leading to the gatehouse. He and Tony jumped out. They waved to the Hardys, then disappeared into the woods.
Joe took the wheel of the jalopy. “Now, part two of our plan. I hope it works.”
The brothers quickly rode to the service station where they had been that morning. Joe parked and hurried to the outdoor telephone booth nearby. From his pocket he took a slip of paper on which Ken had jotted down the night telephone number of the Elekton gatehouse.
Joe dialed the number, then covered the mouthpiece with his handkerchief to muffle his voice.
A familiar voice answered, “Gatehouse. Markel speaking.”
Joe said tersely, “Peters speaking. Something has gone wrong. Both of you meet me outside the Parker Building. Make it snappy!” Then he hung up.
When Joe returned to the Queen, Frank had turned it around and they were ready to go. They sped back toward the mill and in about ten minutes had the jalopy parked out of sight in the shadows of the trees where the dirt road joined the paved one.
The brothers, keeping out of sight among the trees, ran to join Chet and Tony who were waiting behind a large oak near the edge of the gatehouse grounds.
“It worked!” Tony reported excitedly. “About fifteen minutes ago the lights in the mill went out, and Markel and Docker left in a hurry.”
“On foot?” Joe asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. If they have to take a bus or cab to town, it’ll give us more time,” Frank said.
Tony and Chet were given instructions about keeping watch outside while the Hardys inspected the mill. The brothers explained where the Queen was parked, in case trouble should arise and their friends had to go for help.
Frank and Joe approached the mill cautiously. It was dark now, but they did not use flashlights. Though confident that the gatehouse was deserted, they did not wish to take any chances. As they neared the building the Hardys could see that the shutters were tightly closed. Over the sound of the wind in the trees came the rumble of the turning mill wheel.
The Hardys headed for the door. They had just mounted the steps when the rumbling sound of the wheel ceased.
In the silence both boys looked around, perplexed. “I thought it had been fixed,” Joe whispered. “Seemed okay the other day.”
“Yes. But last time we were here at night the wheel stopped when we were about this distance away from it,” Frank observed.
Thoughtfully the boys stepped back from the mill entrance to a point where they could see the wheel. They stood peering at it through the dark ness. Suddenly, with a dull rumble, it started to turn again!
Mystified, the Hardys advanced toward the gatehouse and stopped at the entrance. In a short while the wheel stopped.
“Hm!” Joe murmured. “Just like one of those electric-eye doors.”
“Exactly!” Frank exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “I’ll bet the wheel’s not broken—it’s been rigged up as a warning signal to be used at night! When someone approaches the mill, the path of the invisible beam is broken and the wheel stops. The lack of noise is enough for anyone inside to notice, and also, the lights would go out because the generator is powered by the wheel.”
The Hardys went on a quick search for the origin of the light beam. Frank was first to discover that it was camouflaged in the flour-barrel ivy planter. Beneath a thin covering of earth, and barely concealed, were the heavy batteries, wired in parallel, which produced the current necessary to operate the light source for the electric eye.
The stopping and starting of the wheel was further explained when Frank found, screened by a bushy shrub, a small post with a tiny glass mirror fastened on its side.
“That’s the complete secret of the signal!” he exclaimed. “This is one of the mirrors a photoelectric cell system would use. With several of these hidden mirrors, they’ve made a light-ring around the mill so an intruder from any side would break the beam. The barrel that contains the battery power also contains the eye that completes the circuit.”
“I’ll bet Markel and Docker rigged this up,” Joe said excitedly. “Which means there must be something in the mill they want very badly to keep secret! We must find a way inside!”
The Hardys did not pull the wires off the battery connection, since they might have need of the warning system. Quietly and quickly the brothers made a circuit of the mill, trying doors and first-floor windows, in hopes of finding one unlocked. But none was.
“We can’t break in,” Joe muttered.
Both boys were aware that time was precious—the men might return shortly. The young sleuths made another circle of the mill. This time they paused to stare at the huge wheel, which was turning once more.
“Look!” Joe whispered tensely, pointing to an open window-shaped space above the wheel.
“It’s our only chance to get inside,” Frank stated. “We’ll try climbing up.”
The Hardys realized it would not be easy to reach the opening. Had there been a walkway on top of the wheel, as there was in many mills, climbing it would have been relatively simple.
The brothers came to a quick decision: to maneuver one of the paddles on the wheel until it was directly below the ledge of the open space, then stop the motion. During the short interval which took place between the stop and start of the wheel, they hoped to climb by way of the paddles to the top and gain entrance to the mill.
Joe ran back through the beam, breaking it, while Frank clambered over a pile of rocks across the water to the wheel. It rumbled to a stop, one paddle aligned with the open space above. By the time Joe returned, Frank had started to climb up, pulling himself from paddle to paddle by means of the metal side struts. Joe followed close behind.
The boys knew they were taking a chance in their ascent up the wet, slippery, mossy wheel. They were sure there must be a timing-delay switch somewhere in the electric-eye circuit. Could they beat it, or would they be tossed off into the dark rushing water?
“I believe I can get to the top paddle and reach the opening before the timer starts the wheel turning again. But can Joe?” Frank thought. “Hurry!” he cried out to his brother.
Doggedly the two continued upward. Suddenly Joe’s hand slipped on a slimy patch of moss. He almost lost his grip, but managed to cling desperately to the edge of the paddle above his head, both feet dangling in mid-air.
“Frank!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
His brother threw his weight to the right. Holding tight with his left hand to a strut, he reached down and grasped Joe’s wrist. With an aerialist’s grip, Joe locked his fingers on Frank’s wrist, and let go with his other hand.
Frank swung him out away from the wheel. As Joe swung himself back, he managed to regain his footing and get a firm hold on the paddle supports.
“Whew!” said Joe. “Thanks!”
The boys resumed the climb, spurred by the thought that the sluice gate would reopen any second and start the wheel revolving.
Frank finally reached the top paddle. Stretching his arms upward, he barely reached the sill of the opening. The old wood was rough and splintering, but felt strong enough to hold his weight.
“Here goes!” he thought, and sprang away from the paddle.
At the same moment, with a creaking rumble, the wheel started to move!

CHAPTER XVIII
The Hidden Room  
WHILE Frank clung grimly to the sill, Joe, below him, knew he must act fast to avoid missing the chance to get off, and perhaps being crushed beneath the turning wheel. He leaped upward with all his might.
Joe’s fingers barely grasped the ledge, but he managed to hang onto the rough surface beside his brother. Then together they pulled themselves up and over the sill through the open space.
In another moment they were standing inside the second floor of the building. Rickety boards creaked under their weight. Still not wishing to risk the use of flashlights, the Hardys peered around in the darkness.
“I think we’re in the original grinding room,” Frank whispered as he discerned the outlines of two huge stone cylinders in the middle of the room.
“You’re right,” said Joe. “There’s the old grain hopper.” He pointed to a chute leading down to the grinding stones.
Though many years had passed since the mill had been used to produce flour, the harsh, dry odor of grain still lingered in the air. In two of the corners were cots and a set of crude shelves for clothes. Suddenly the boys’ hearts jumped. A loud clattering noise came from directly below. Then, through a wide crack in the floor, shone a yellow shaft of light!
“Someone else must be here!” Joe whispered.
The Hardys stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for another sound. Who was in the suddenly lighted room?
The suspense was unbearable. Finally the brothers tiptoed over and peered through the wide crack. Straightening up, Frank observed, “Can’t see anyone. We’d better go investigate.”
Fearful of stumbling in the inky darkness, the boys now turned on their flashlights, but shielded them with their hands. Cautiously they found their way to a door. It opened into a short passageway which led down a narrow flight of steps.
Soon Frank and Joe were in another small hall. Ahead was a partially opened door, with light streaming from it.
Every nerve taut, the young sleuths advanced. Frank edged up to the door and looked in.
“Well?” Joe hissed. To his utter astonishment Frank gave a low chuckle, and motioned him forward.
“For Pete’s sake!” Joe grinned.
Inside, perched on a chipped grindstone, was a huge, white cat. Its tail twitched indignantly. An overturned lamp lay on a table.
The Hardys laughed in relief. “Our noisemaker and lamplighter!” Frank said as the boys entered the room. “The cat must have knocked over the lamp and clicked the switch.”
Although the room contained the gear mechanism and the shaft connected to the mill wheel, it was being used as a living area by the present tenants. There were two overstuffed chairs, a table, and a chest of drawers. On the floor, as if dropped in haste, lay a scattered newspaper.
“Let’s search the rest of the mill before Markel and Docker get back,” Joe suggested. “Nothing suspicious here.”
The Hardys started with the top story of the old building. There they found what was once the grain storage room. Now it was filled with odds and ends of discarded furniture.
“I’m sure nothing’s hidden here,” Frank said.
The other floors yielded no clues to what Docker and Markel’s secret might be.
Frank was inclined to be discouraged. “Maybe our big hunch is all wet,” he muttered.
Joe refused to give up. “Let’s investigate the cellar. Come on!”
The brothers went into the kitchen toward the basement stairway. Suddenly Joe gave a stifled yell. Something had brushed across his trouser legs. Frank swung his light around. The beam caught two round golden eyes staring up at them.
“The white cat!” Joe said sheepishly.
Chuckling, the Hardys continued down into the damp, cool cellar. It was long and narrow, with only two small windows.
Three walls were of natural stone and mortar. The fourth wall was lined with wooden shelves. Frank and Joe played their flashlights into every corner.
“Hm.” There was a note of disappointment in Joe’s voice. “Wheelbarrow, shovels, picks—just ordinary equipment.”
Frank nodded. “Seems to be all, but where are the old bricks and lumber that Ken said were stored here?”
“I’m sure the stuff was never intended for Elekton,” Joe declared. “More likely the mill. But where? In a floor? We haven’t seen any signs.”
Thoughtfully the boys walked over to inspect the shelves, which held an assortment of implements. Frank reached out to pick up a hammer.
To his amazement, he could not lift it. A further quick examination revealed that all the tools were glued to the shelves.
“Joe!” he exclaimed. “There’s a special reason for this—and I think it’s camouflage!”
“You mean these shelves are movable, and the tools are fastened so they won’t fall off?”
“Yes. Also, I have a feeling this whole section is made of the old lumber from Pritos’ yard.”
“And the bricks?” Joe asked, puzzled.
His brother’s answer was terse. “Remember, this mill was used by settlers. In those days many places had hidden rooms in case of Indian attacks—”
“I get you!” Joe broke in. “Those bricks are in a secret room! The best place to build one in this mill would have been the cellar.”
“Right,” agreed Frank. “And the only thing unusual here is this shelf setup. I’ll bet it’s actually the entrance to the secret room.”
“All we have to do is find the opening mechanism,” Joe declared.
Using their flashlights, the boys went over every inch of the shelves. These were nailed to a backing of boards. The Hardys pulled and pushed, but nothing happened. Finally, on the bottom shelf near the wall, Frank discovered a knot in the wood. In desperation, he pressed his thumb hard against the knot.


  
“The door to the secret room!” Frank exulted
There was the hum of a motor, and, as smoothly as though it were moving on greased rails, the middle section of shelves swung inward.
“The door to the secret room!” Frank exulted.
Quickly the boys slipped inside the room and shone their flashlights around. The first thing they noticed was the flooring—recently laid bricks. Frank snapped on a light switch beside the entrance.
The boys blinked in the sudden glare of two high-watt bulbs suspended from the low ceiling. The next instant both spotted a small, hand-printing press.
“The counterfeiters’ workshop!” they cried out.
On a wooden table at the rear of the room were a camera, etching tools, zinc plates, and a large pan with little compartments containing various colors of ink. At the edge of the table was a portable typewriter.
Frank picked up a piece of paper, rolled it into the machine, and typed a few lines. Pulling it out, he showed the paper to Joe.
“The machine used to type the warning note Dad got!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “The counterfeiters must have thought he was on their trail.”
“And look here!” exclaimed Frank, his voice tense. A small pile of twenty-dollar bills lay among the equipment. “They’re fakes,” he added, scrutinizing the bills. “They’re the same as Chet’s and Tony’s.”
Joe made another startling discovery. In one corner stood a bow, with the string loosened and carefully wound around the handgrip. A quiver of three hunting arrows leaned against the wall nearby.
Excitedly Joe pulled one out. “The same type that was fired at the girls,” he observed. “This must belong to The Arrow!”
“Docker matches his description,” Frank pointed out. “He easily could have colored his hair gray.”
The Hardys were thrilled at the irrefutable evidence all around them. “Now we know why Markel and Docker rigged the mill wheel—to give a warning signal when they’re working in this room!”
“Also, we have a good idea what was being sent to Peters in the envelopes—phony twenty-dollar bills!”
“Let’s get Dad and Chief Collig here!” Joe urged, stuffing several of the counterfeits into a pocket.
As the boys turned to leave, the lights in the secret room went out. Frank and Joe froze. They realized the mill wheel had stopped turning.
“The signal!” Joe said grimly. “Someone is coming!”

CHAPTER XIX
Underground Chase  
THE HARDYS knew this was the signal for them to get out of the secret room—and fast! As they hurried into the cellar, the lights came on again. With hearts beating faster, they started for the stairway. But before the boys reached it, they heard the mill door being unlocked, then heavy footsteps pounded overhead.
“Docker!” a man’s voice called. “Markel! Where are you!”
The Hardys listened tensely, hoping for a chance to escape unseen. When they heard the man cross the ground floor and go upstairs, Joe whispered, “Let’s make a break for it!”
The boys dashed to the steps. They could see a crack of light beneath the closed door to the kitchen. Suddenly the light vanished, and the rumble of the mill wheel ceased.
The Hardys stopped in their tracks. “Somebody else is coming!” Frank muttered. “Probably Docker and Markel. We’re trapped!”
Again the brothers heard the mill door open. Two men were talking loudly and angrily. Then came the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs to the first floor.
“Peters!” The boys recognized Docker’s voice. “Where in blazes were you?”
Frank and Joe nudged each other. Victor Peters was in league with the gatehouse men!
“What do you mean? I told you I’d meet you here at eleven,” snarled Peters.
“You must be nuts!” retorted Markel. “You called here an hour ago and said there was trouble and to meet you at the Parker Building.”
Peters’ tone grew menacing. “Something’s fishy. I didn’t phone. You know I’d use the two-way radio. What’s the matter with you guys, anyway?”
“Listen!” Markel snapped. “Somebody called here and said he was you. The voice did sound sort of fuzzy, but I didn’t have a chance to ask questions—he hung up on me. I thought maybe your radio had conked out.” 
The Hardys, crouched on the cellar stairs, could feel the increasing tension in the room above. Docker growled, “Something funny is going on. Whoever phoned must be on to us, or suspect enough to want to get in here and snoop around.”
“The Feds! We’ll have to scram!” said Markel, with more than a trace of fear in his voice. “Come on! Let’s get moving!”
“Not so fast, Markel!” Docker barked. “We’re not ditching the stuff we’ve made. We’ll have a look around first—starting with the cellar.”
The men strode into the kitchen. Below, Frank grabbed Joe. “No choice now. Into the secret room!”
Quickly the brothers ran back into the workshop. Frank pulled the door behind him and slid the heavy bolt into place.
Tensely the brothers pressed against the door as the three men came downstairs into the basement. Frank and Joe could hear them moving around, searching for signs of an intruder.
“I’d better check the rest of the mill,” Docker said brusquely. “You two get the plates and the greenbacks. Go out through the tunnel, and I’ll meet you at the other end. We’ll wait there for Blum to pay us off, then vamoose.”
“We’re in a fix, all right,” Joe said under his breath. “What tunnel are they talking about?”
“And who’s Blum?” Frank wondered.
The boys heard the hum of the motor that opened the secret door. But the bolt held it shut.
“The mechanism won’t work!” Markel rasped.
“Maybe it’s just stuck,” said Peters.
The men began pounding on the wood.
“What’s going on?” Docker demanded as he returned.
“We can’t budge this tricky door you dreamed up,” Peters complained.
“There’s nothing wrong with the door, you blockheads!” Docker shouted. “Somebody’s in the room! Break down the door!”
In half a minute his order was followed by several sharp blows.
“Oh, great!” Joe groaned. “They’re using axes!”
“We won’t have long to figure a way out,” Frank said wryly.
“Way out!” Joe scoffed. “There isn’t any!”
Frank’s mind raced. “Hey! They said something about leaving through a tunnel! It must be in here.”
Frantically the Hardys searched for another exit from the secret room. They crawled on the floor, and pried up one brick after another looking for a ring that might open a trap door.
“Nothing!” Joe said desperately.
All the while the men in the cellar kept battering away at the door. “Good thing that old lumber is such hard wood,” Frank thought. “But they’ll break through any minute.”
“Look!” Joe pointed. “Under the bench!”
Frank noticed a shovel lying beneath the worktable. The boys pushed it aside, and saw that the wall behind the table was partially covered with loose dirt. On a hunch Frank grabbed the shovel and dug into the dirt.
“This dirt might have been put here to hide the entrance to the tunnel!” he gasped.
“It better be!” His brother clawed frantically at the dirt.
At the same moment there was a loud splintering noise. The Hardys looked around. A large crack had appeared in the bolted door.
One of the men outside yelled, “A couple more blows and we’ll be in.”
Frank dug furiously. Suddenly his shovel opened up a small hole in the crumbly dirt. Joe scooped away with his hands. Finally there was a space big enough for the boys to squeeze through. Without hesitation, Frank wriggled in, then Joe.
From behind them came a tremendous crash and the sound of ripping wood. Markel’s voice shouted, “Into the tunnel! After ’em!”
The Hardys heard no more as they pushed ahead on hands and knees into the damp darkness of an earthen passageway.
Joe was about to call out to his brother when he became aware that someone was crawling behind him. “No room here for a knockdown fight,” he thought, wondering if the pursuer were armed.
The young detective scrambled on as fast as he could in the narrow, twisting tunnel. He managed to catch up to Frank, and with a push warned him to go at top speed.
“Somebody’s after us!” Joe hissed. “If only we can outdistance him!”
The underground route was a tortuous, harrowing one. The Hardys frequently scraped knees and shoulders against sharp stones in the tunnel floor and walls. They had held onto their flashlights, but did not dare turn them on.
“This passageway is endless!” Frank thought. The close, clammy atmosphere made it increasingly difficult for him and his brother to breathe.
Joe thought uneasily, “What if we hit a blind alley and are stuck in here?”
The boys longed to stop and catch their breath, but they could hear the sounds of pursuit growing nearer, and forced themselves onward faster than ever.
Frank wondered if Chet and Tony had seen the men enter the mill and had gone for help.
“We’ll need it,” he thought grimly.
Suddenly the brothers came to another turn and the ground began to slope sharply upward.
“Maybe we’re getting close to the end,” Frank conjectured hopefully.
Spurred by possible freedom, he put on a burst of speed. Joe did the same. A moment later Frank stopped unexpectedly and Joe bumped into him.
“What’s the matter?” he barely whispered.
“Dead end,” reported his brother.
Squeezing up beside Frank, Joe reached out and touched a pile of stones blocking their path. The boys now could hear the heavy breathing of their pursuer.
“Let’s move these stones,” Frank urged. Both Hardys worked with desperate haste to pull the barrier down. They heaved thankful sighs when a draft of fresh air struck their faces.
“The exit!” Joe whispered in relief.
The brothers wriggled through the opening they had made and found themselves in a rock walled space.
“It’s the cave by the river, Joe!” Frank cried out. “Someone put back the rocks we removed!”
The boys clicked on their flashlights and started toward the entrance of the cave.
“We beat ’em to it!” Joe exclaimed.
“That’s what you think!” came a harsh voice from the entrance.
The glare from two flashlights almost blinded the Hardys. Docker and Markel, with drawn revolvers, had stepped into the cave.

CHAPTER XX
Solid Evidence  
FOR a second the two armed men stared in disbelief at Frank and Joe. “The Hardy boys!” Docker snarled. “So you’re the snoopers we’ve trapped!”
There was a scuffling in the tunnel behind the boys. A stocky man, huffing and puffing, emerged from the tunnel. The Hardys recognized him instantly: the counterfeit passer, Victor Peters.
The newcomer gaped at the Hardys. “What are they doing here?”
“A good question!” Markel snapped at his accomplice. “You told us on the two-way radio you’d locked ’em up with the truck.”
Peters whined, “I did. They must’ve broken out.” 
“Obviously.” Docker gave him a withering look.
Frank and Joe realized that Peters had not returned to the old farmhouse.
Docker whirled on them. “How did you escape?”
The boys looked at him coldly. “That’s for you to find out,” Joe retorted.
“It’s a good thing Markel and I decided to head ’em off at the cave,” Docker added angrily. “Otherwise, they would have escaped again.”
The Hardys could see that the men were nervous and edgy. “I’m not the only one who made a mistake,” Peters growled. “I told you a couple of days ago to get rid of that kid Ken when these pests started asking about him, and then found the tunnel. We could have thrown ’em off the scent!”
While the men argued, the Hardys kept on the alert for a chance to break away. Markel’s eye caught the movement, and he leveled his revolver. “Don’t be smart!” he ordered. “You’re covered.”
Peters continued the tirade against his confederates. “Docker, you should’ve finished these Hardys off when you put ’em in the boat that night! And you”—Peters turned on Markel—“you could have planted a dynamite charge in their boat instead of just monkeying with the throttle.” 
The Hardys, meanwhile, were thankful for the precious minutes gained by the men’s dissension. “Tony and Chet might come back in time with help,” Joe thought.
Simultaneously, Frank hoped that Ken Blake had carried out his whispered instructions.
Docker glanced nervously at his watch. “Blum ought to be here,” he fumed.
“Who’s Blum?” Frank asked suddenly. “One of your counterfeiting pals?”
Docker, Markel, and Peters laughed scornfully. “No,” said Markel. “We’re the only ones in our exclusive society. Paul Blum doesn’t know anything about our—er—mill operation, but it was through him we got the jobs at the gatehouse. The whole deal really paid off double.”
Docker interrupted him with a warning. “Don’t blab so much!”
Markel sneered. “Why not? What I say won’t do these smart alecks any good.”
Joe looked at the guard calmly. “Who paid you to let the green panel truck into Elekton?”
All three men started visibly. “How’d you know that?” Markel demanded.
“Just had a hunch,” Joe replied.
The former guard regained his composure. “We’ll get our money for that little job tonight.”
Frank and Joe felt elated. Paul Blum, whom these men expected, must be the sabotage ring-leader! “So that’s what Markel meant by the deal paying off double,” Frank thought. “He and Docker working the counterfeit racket on their own—and being in cahoots with the saboteurs.”
Frank addressed Markel in an icy tone. “You call blowing up a building a ‘little job’?”
The counterfeiters’ reactions astonished the Hardys. “What!” bellowed Markel, as Docker and Peters went ashen. 
Joe snorted. “You expect us to believe you didn’t know explosives were in that truck?” 
Victor Peters was beside himself with rage. “Fools!” he shrilled at Docker and Markel. “You let yourselves be used by saboteurs? This whole state will be crawling with police and federal agents.” 
The gatehouse men, though shaken, kept their revolvers trained on the Hardys. “Never mind,” Docker muttered. “Soon as Blum shows up we’ll get out of here and lie low for a while.”
Frank and Joe learned also that Docker and Markel actually were brothers, but the two refused to give their real names.
“You, Docker, are known as The Arrow, aren’t you?” Frank accused him.
“Yeah. Next time I’ll use you boys for targets!” the man retorted threateningly. 
The Hardys kept egging the men on to further admissions. Docker and Markel had been approached several months before by Blum who tipped them off to good-paying jobs at the Elekton gatehouse. Docker had cleverly forged references and identification for Markel and himself.
As soon as he and Markel had obtained the jobs, Blum had instructed them to buy the truck secondhand in another state, and told them only that Markel was to lend Blum the truck on a certain day when notified, let him through the gate, then out again soon after closing time. The guard would be handsomely paid to do this.
When Markel and Docker had become settled in the mill, the two had discovered the secret room and tunnel, which once had been a settlers’ escape route. The men had wasted no time in setting it up for their counterfeiting racket, and often used the nondescript green truck to sneak in the required equipment.
“Who rigged up the electric-eye signal?” Frank queried.
“My work,” Docker replied proudly.
As the boys had surmised, Peters, an old acquaintance of theirs, was “the old man” at the deserted farmhouse. When the boys had left the mill that morning Docker had radioed Peters, telling him if the Hardys showed up at the farm, he was to trap them.
“No doubt you planned to finish us off when you came back,” Joe said.
Peters nodded.
Frank said to Docker, “I must admit, those twenties are pretty good forgeries. The police think so, too.”
The counterfeiter smiled in contempt. “Your fat friend sure was fooled.”
He explained that his skill at engraving, which he had learned years ago, had enabled him to make the plates from which the bills were printed.
“Which one of you rode Ken’s bike and left the typed warning for our father?” Frank asked.
“I did,” Markel replied promptly.
“Why? He wasn’t involved with the counterfeiting case.”
We thought he was when we overheard a company bigwig say Fenton Hardy was ‘taking the case.’ ”
“Yeah,” Docker said. “I wasn’t kidding when I sent the warnings—on paper and by phone.”
He had acquired some sheets of bond paper from Elekton on a pretext; also the Manila envelopes used to deliver the bogus money to Peters. Docker admitted he had “unloaded” the counterfeit twenty at Pritos’ yard by mistake.
Peters broke in abruptly. “We’d better get rid of these kids right now!”
The three men held a whispered conference, but Docker and Markel did not take their eyes from the Hardys. Suddenly the boys’ keen ears detected the put-put of an approaching motorboat.
One thought flashed across their minds—Chet and Tony were bringing help. But in a few minutes their hopes were dashed! A heavy-set, dark-haired man peered into the mouth of the cave.
“Blum!” Markel said.
“Who are these kids?” Blum asked, squinting at Frank and Joe.
“Their name is Hardy—” Docker began, but Blum cut him short.
“Hardy!” he said sharply. “Listen—I just gave Fenton Hardy the slip at the Bayport dock. He was on a police launch.”
“We’ve got to move fast!” Markel urged. “Docker and I caught these sons of his snooping. Pay us what you promised and we’ll scram.”
Blum looked disgusted. “Stupid amateurs! You let kids make it so hot you have to get out of town?” The heavy-set man pulled out his wallet. “Here’s your cut for letting me into the plant,” he continued scornfully. “I’m glad to get rid of such bunglers.”
“It’s not just these kids that made it hot for us!” Docker stormed. “If we’d known you were going to blow up that lab, we never would’ve gotten mixed up with you.”
The Hardys noticed that Paul Blum appeared startled at Docker’s words.
Frank spoke up boldly. “Sure. We all know you’re back of the sabotage. Who pays you for doing it? And who’s your inside man at Elekton?” 
Blum glared, then in a sinister tone replied, “You’ll never live to sing to the cops, so I’ll tell you. Several countries that want to stop United States progress in missiles are paying me. My friend in the plant is a fellow named Jordan.”
The saboteur revealed that his accomplice had first carried out smaller acts of sabotage, the ones which Chet had heard about from his father. It had been Blum himself who had driven the truck into the grounds and placed the dynamite in the laboratory. “Jordan and I gave your father the slip, then, too!”
“You guys can stand here and talk!” snapped Peters. “I’m going. You’d better take care of these Hardys.” He backed out of the cave and raced off.
The counterfeiters discussed heatedly whether “to get rid” of Frank and Joe immediately, or take “these kids” and dispose of them later.
“That’s your worry!” Blum said. “I’m taking off!” 
“Oh, no, you’re not. You can’t leave us in the lurch.” Markel waved his gun meaningfully.
At that instant there was a crashing noise outside the cave. The three men swung around.
This was all the Hardys needed. They hurled themselves at their captors, forcing them backward onto the rocky beach. From the woods they heard Chet yell, “Here we come, fellows!”
Frank had tackled Blum, and Joe was wrestling with Docker on the beach.
Tony Prito yelled, “Got you!” as he took a flying leap at Markel and brought him to the ground.
The older men, though strong, were no match for the agile Hardys and the furious onslaught of Chet and Tony. Finally the struggle ended.
The saboteur and counterfeiters were disarmed and lined up before the cave, their arms pinioned behind them by Joe, Chet, and Tony. Frank took charge of the revolvers.
“Good work, you two!” he said to his friends.
Chet, out of breath, grinned proudly. “I’m glad Tony and I stuck around when we saw these guys high-tailing it through the woods.”
Now Frank turned to the prisoners. “Okay. March!” he ordered.
But before anyone could move, footsteps were heard approaching through the woods. A moment later Chief Collig and another officer appeared. With them, in handcuffs, was Victor Peters.
“Chief! Are we glad to see you!” Joe exclaimed.
The chief stared in amazement at the boys and their captives. “I got your message from Ken Blake,” he told Frank. “Looks as if you have your hands full!”
“Oh, we have!” Joe grinned, then, puzzled, he asked his brother, “What message?”
“Just before I left the house I told Ken to call Chief Collig if we weren’t back by eleven, and tell him where we had gone.”
While Blum and the counterfeiters stood in sullen silence, the four boys learned that Ken had called the chief just minutes after Fenton Hardy had left in the police launch in pursuit of Paul Blum.
“When we reached the mill we met this crook running out of the woods.” Chief Collig gestured toward the handcuffed Peters. “I recognized him from Chet’s description. When we found phony money on him, he told me where you were, hoping to get off with a lighter sentence.”
“You rat!” Docker’s face contorted with rage.
At that moment the group became aware of a police launch churning toward them, the beam from its searchlight sweeping the water. In the excitement, no one had heard the sound of its engine.
“Dad!” cried the Hardys, spotting the detective’s erect figure standing in the bow. Soon the launch was beached, and Mr. Hardy, with several officers, leaped ashore.
“Well,” Mr. Hardy said sternly when he saw Blum, “you won’t be escaping again.”
The captured lawbreakers were handcuffed and put aboard the launch. Mr. Hardy looked at his sons and their friends proudly. “You’ve done a yeoman’s job—on both cases, yours and mine,” he said.
After the police cruiser had departed, Frank and Joe led their father and the others into the mill cellar and showed them the secret room.
“This is all the evidence you need against the counterfeiters, Chief,” said Mr. Hardy. “I can see there are plenty of fingerprints on this equipment. We know some will match the one on the finger guard. Besides your evidence, boys, Ken’s testimony should be more than enough to convict them.”
“What about Jordan, Blum’s confederate at Elekton?” Frank asked.
Mr. Hardy smiled. “He was my big prize and I’m glad to say he is in jail!” The detective explained that further sleuthing had led to Jordan —and through him, Paul Blum. Mr. Hardy’s first break had come when he learned that one Elekton employee had seen Jordan going toward the laboratory building at closing time on the day of the explosion.
A police guard was assigned to watch the counterfeiters’ workshop and its contents. Then the four boys, Mr. Hardy, and the chief left the mill. Outside, they paused and looked back at the turning wheel.
Frank laughed. “Its signaling days are over.” “Sure hope so,” Chet declared firmly. “No more mysteries for a while, please!”
Tony chuckled. “With Frank and Joe around, I wouldn’t count on it.”
His words proved to be true. Sooner than even the Hardy boys expected, they were called upon to solve the mystery of THE MISSING CHUMS.
Now Joe turned to their plump friend. “Good thing you bought that microscope, Chet. We started to look for nature specimens and dug up the old mill’s secret!”
Edge of Destruction (Hardy Boys Casefiles #5)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Joe! watch it!" Frank Hardy grabbed his younger brother's arm. He yanked Joe from the path of a guy in a tuxedo who was charging for the ballroom exit.
Until a few minutes before, the wealthy and famous had jammed the mid-Manhattan hotel ballroom for a political gathering. But as the room slowly filled with smoke, the distinguished group was being turned into a panic-stricken mob.
The purpose of the gathering had been to kick off the mayoral campaign of Chief of Police Samuel Peterson. Right then, though, Peterson's supporters were busy running for exits. Peterson himself remained cool and stood in front of a microphone, trying to calm the crowd. "Don't panic. Exit in an orderly fashion," he instructed.
2
He might as well have been talking to himself. As the smoke grew thicker, his voice was drowned out by shouts, screams, curses, and waves of choking sounds.
"The doors are locked! We're trapped!" a man yelled, his shrieks dissolving into a series of wracking coughs. Soon the guests were fighting to get out.
The smoke had become so dense that Joe and Frank Hardy, standing side by side, could barely see each other. Frank grabbed a napkin from one of the tables and held it over his face.
"What do we do?" Joe shouted into his brother's ear. Joe knew he couldn't charge into action. Too many people around him were doing that, and they were only adding to the chaos.
"Keep cool!" Frank shouted back. But when he tried to figure out how to calm the fear-crazed crowd, he came up with zero. He was ready to admit defeat, all set to tell Joe it was every man for himself. Then he saw he didn't have to.
"Hey, the smoke's not that thick anymore," he said. "I can even feel the air-conditioning again."
Joe nodded. "Somebody must have put out the fire."
All around them, other people were making the same discovery. The shouting and screaming turned into a buzz as the smoke thinned. The guests were looking slightly sheepish.
Samuel Peterson's voice could be heard clearly over the microphone then. "The trouble seems to
3
be over now," he said. "As soon as we find out exactly what has happened, we'll make an announcement."
A man angrily waved his fist and shouted, "But we're still locked in! What's going on?" As if in answer, the doors to the ballroom were smashed open, and police came pouring into the room.
"Peterson must have called them," said Frank. "I understand he's in constant radio contact with his men."
Peterson talked with an officer for a minute, then turned back to the microphone. "We still don't know what caused the smoke," he reported. "But no fire's been found. So let's act like New Yorkers and not let this incident throw us." Then, raising his arms enthusiastically, Peterson shouted, "Okay now, everybody, let's get on with the party!"
His words were greeted with applause. Then the band members, who had returned to their places, played a smooth rendition of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."
"Nice choice," said Frank.
"I'd rather hear some Stones," said Joe, not getting the joke. He looked at the guests. "But these people would probably think it was too loud. They look—old."
"Old—and rich. Like Dad told us, most of this crowd has been invited so they'll give big bucks for Peterson's race this fall," Frank said, looking at the formally dressed guests.
4
The Hardy boys were wearing suits and ties for the first time that summer. "You have to," their father, Fenton Hardy, had told them when they protested. "That is, if you want to meet Peterson." The boys wanted to meet Peterson, so they wore ties. And Joe complained the whole time that his was strangling him.
For years they had heard about the police chief from their father, who often reminisced about when he had worked as a New York City police detective. That was before he'd set out on his own as a private investigator. Peterson had been Mr. Hardy's partner on the force. The Peterson-Hardy combination had cracked some of the toughest cases in the department's history.
Sam Peterson had also cracked some long-standing traditions. As the leader of the Guardians, the black police officers' association, Peterson had demonstrated the skills and smarts that eventually got him appointed chief. The two men had kept in touch, and Hardy was one of the first people Peterson had told about his decision to run for mayor.
"He's invited me to come to his campaign opener," Fenton Hardy had told Frank and Joe. "And he said to bring the two of you along. I've told him a lot about you—like any parent, I can't resist bragging a little about my kids. Anyway, he wants to meet you."
"And I'd like to meet him," said Frank enthusiastically. "From what you've told us about him,!
5
he'll make quite a mayor if he manages to get elected." 
"Yeah, and I bet he will be," said Joe. "He's my kind of guy." 
"If you go with me, you have to be prepared to mingle with an older crowd," warned Mr. Hardy. "Big-city politics isn't kid stuff." 
"That's okay. We'll do anything." Joe grinned. "If you want us to, we can dye our hair white at the temples." 
"And put a little stuffing around our waists." Frank grinned, too, looking pointedly at his father's stomach bulging slightly above his belt. 
Fenton Hardy gave his belly an affectionate pat. "I've got to lay off those chocolate-chip cookies and put in a few more hours at the tennis club." He smiled ruefully. "I'll appoint you my guardians at this affair—don't let me get near the buffet." 
Now, standing in the ballroom, Frank said, "Speaking of Dad, let's find out what he thinks caused the smoke." 
"I wonder where he is," said Joe, scanning the room. "Last I saw of him, he was talking to Guido Scalpia." 
"Let's go ask Guido, then," said Frank. "It'll give us a chance to meet him." 
When they finally met and asked the tall, distinguished-looking former Yankee center fielder about their father, he shook his head. "I was talking to him, you know, remembering when he 
6
helped catch a crank who was sending me threatening letters. But at the first whiff of smoke coming into the room, your dad went to find out what was going on. You know that all he needs is a scent of mystery and he's off and running. I've always thought he's part bloodhound."
"You're right about that. But which direction did he head in?" Frank asked.
"I don't know. Maybe he went outside to help the cops," Guido said.
Joe headed for the door, calling over his shoulder to his brother, "Let's find out." Outside the ballroom, the two brothers still had no luck. The lobby was swarming with fire fighters and cops, but none of them had seen Fenton Hardy. Most of them did know what he looked like, though.
"Maybe Peterson can help," said Frank. "It figures Dad must have gone to him when the trouble started."
They returned to the ballroom and joined the crowd around Peterson. "Hey, kids, where's your dad?" he called before they could ask. "I have some people I want him to meet."
"Beats us," said Frank. He was beginning to have a slightly uneasy feeling.
"What's Dad up to?" Joe said, almost to himself. But his thoughts were interrupted by a piercing noise coming from Peterson's breast pocket.
"A cop is never off duty," the chief said, faking a sigh. Pulling his beeper out, he flicked on the incoming-call switch.
7
The voice that came over the beeper was high-pitched—obviously a man trying to mask his identity. 
"Hi, chiefy," the voice said, chirping cheerfully. "Don't bother hunting for your pal Fenton Hardy. No way you're going to find him. And unless you do what I say, you'll find him in a way you won't like." The voice paused for the space of a heartbeat, then went on, sounding exultantly happy. "You'll find Fenton Hardy dead, baby. Did you hear me? Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead." 
8
 
9
Chapter 2
samuel peterson's face turned hard as he listened to the voice from his beeper. He pressed the talk button. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What have you done with Fenton?"
"Come on, Chief, you really don't expect me to answer those questions," the voice said. "There's just one question you should be asking."
"What's that?" said Peterson.
"'What do I have to do if I want to see Fenton Hardy alive again?'" the voice said.
"Okay, what do I do?" said Peterson. He was trying to keep his voice neutral so it gave no hint of the rage that was building up inside him.
"Right now, you do nothing. You just wait for me to contact you again. Oh yeah, one other
10
thing. Keep all this to yourself. Believe me, you don't want to alert the public. Because if you do it'll lead to a panic in the city that'll make what happened in your smoke-filled room look like calm demonstration."
"A panic?" Peterson's voice sounded hoarse.) "What do you mean? I don't get the connection.
"You will, Peterson baby, you will. For the moment, trust me," the voice continued, "and keep your trap shut tight."
Peterson's eyes were slits of fury. "Okay, you have my word. But when are you going to call again?" A clicking sound and then a buzz of static were all that answered him. The connection had been broken.
Peterson turned to Frank and Joe. "You kids heard what this joker said, right?" They nodded.
"I'm sorry about your dad—really sorry. But you know to keep your mouths shut about it, right?" The chief took a deep breath, shaking his head, "Good thing you two were the only ones within earshot. It'll make security easier."
"We'll sit tight until we find out what the kidnappers want," Joe said. "Then we can make our move."
Peterson gave the Hardy boys a tolerant smile. "Look, kids, I know you want to help your father, but I suggest you leave this matter to the police. It's a job for professionals."
"We're not exactly amateurs," said Joe indignantly. He was about to tell Peterson about some of
11
the cases he and Frank had cracked, but Frank cut him off.
"We won't get in your way," Frank assured Peterson. "But since he is our father, will you at least keep us posted on what's going on? We can't pretend we're not worried."
"Okay," said Peterson. "Keep quiet about this for the time being, and I'll let you in on what's going down."
"Thanks a lot," said Frank politely.
"Yeah, thanks a million," Joe said sarcastically.
"Maybe we'll call our mom now," Frank said before Joe could get started. "We'll tell her we're staying in the city. That way she won't get suspicious about Dad not coming home, and we'll be on hand here if anything comes up."
"You do that," said Peterson. "I'm heading back to my office, as soon as I can get away from here. Meet me at my car. It's out in front."
"See you there," said Frank. "And soon," Joe added, as the two boys headed off in search of a pay phone. "Okay, why are you giving in to Peterson?" Joe demanded as soon as they were out of sight. "He treated us like a couple of five-year-olds." 
"Look, as far as Peterson is concerned, we're not much better than five-year-olds. A couple of guys still in high school don't rate in his book. He's not about to make us his partners in this case—especially since he's running for mayor.
12
Imagine what the headlines would say if the papers found out: 'Top Cop Turns to Kiddie Corps for Help.' The smart thing for us to do is play dumb. That'll keep Peterson happy until we get enough info to do something on our own."
Joe thought a second, then shrugged. "You know, I hate to admit it, but you're probably right." Frank gave him a grin. "But I want one thing understood," Joe went on. "Once we do get any kind of lead, we don't wait for Peterson's okay. We swing into action."
"Agreed," said Frank. Even if this case hadn't involved their dad's safety, Frank would have] been hooked. He could never resist an intriguing mystery.
From a pay phone in the hotel lobby, Frank called home to Bayport. "Your mother is out at a Bayport beautification meeting," their aunt Gertrude said after answering the phone. Then she added in a worried voice, "I hope nothing's the matter."
Frank tried to laugh off his aunt's worry. "Hey, nothing's wrong. Really. I just called to say that the police chief has invited Dad, Joe, and me to stay in the city for a few days. Dad will be giving a lecture at the police academy, and Joe and I are going to get a chance to see how a big-city police department works from the inside."
"I'll tell your mother," their aunt Gertrude said. "But, Frank, dear—all of you—do be
13
careful. I remember the last time I was in New York—"
"I know," Frank cut in. "I promise we'll be careful."
"I'm sure you will be," she said. "But keep an eye on Joe. He can be so impulsive."
"I'll do that," said Frank as he looked up to see Peterson and several uniformed policemen walking out of the hotel. "I have to hang up now," Frank said quickly. "Dad's signaling that we're moving on to the police chief's office."
"That's what I mean about New York," said his aunt Gertrude. "Rush, rush, rush."
"Right—and that's what I have to do. 'Bye," said Frank, hanging up. He headed after Joe, who was following Peterson out of the hotel.
Back in his office, Peterson loosened his tie and sat down behind his desk. Then he motioned for Frank and Joe to take seats facing him.
Joe tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Well," he finally burst out, "what do we do now?"
"We do what we were told," said Peterson. "We wait."
They didn't have to wait long. Five minutes of tense silence later, the buzzer on Peterson's intercom sounded.
"What is it?" Peterson asked.
"Someone sent you a package," a cop said.
14
"Bring it up right away."
"What about security?"
Peterson thought a moment. "All right. Have it] checked out. But make it a rush job."
Peterson turned from his intercom and explained. "It's routine procedure for our bomb] squad to check out all incoming packages."
"Terrorists?" Frank asked.
"The threat's there all the time," said Peterson.
"You think Dad's kidnappers are terrorists?" Joe asked, his voice rising. Just the word terrorist was enough to make his blood boil. Not long before, the girl he had loved, Iola Morton, had fallen victim to a terrorist firebomb. Ever since, Joe had been consumed by a passion for vengeance on terrorists. And now he had to bite his lower lip to keep the rage inside him from bursting out.
"No use guessing," said Peterson. "I have a hunch that this package will give us an idea."
The package was already open when the uniformed policeman brought it in and placed it on Peterson's desk. Reaching inside, the police chief pulled out a cassette.
"It's a videotape," said Frank. "Where can we play it?"
"I've got a VCR right here in my office. It's in this cabinet." He walked to the other side of the room and opened a door of the walnut wall unit.
He turned back and noticed Frank looking at
15
the tape curiously. "What's the matter? Something wrong with this?" asked Peterson, holding up the tape.
"Probably not," said Frank. "I've just never seen that brand before. It's some kind of import."
The chief inserted the cassette into the VCR. The picture quality was extremely good, far above average.
An image of Joe and Frank's father appeared on the screen, absolutely clear, every detail sharp, the color lifelike.
Lifelike, though, was the wrong word, because Fenton Hardy was lying with his eyes closed and his arms folded over his chest.
His resting place was the red plush interior of a gleaming wooden coffin.
"Those pigs were lying to me," Peterson snarled. He slammed his fist against the wall. "They were keeping me off their trail, stalling for time until they could get away clean. They've already killed him!"
16
 
17
Chapter 3
the three stared in horror at the image of Fenton Hardy's corpse.
"Dead," said Frank in a stunned voice.
"I can't believe it," said Joe, barely able to choke out the words.
There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Silently, Peterson and the boys sat alone with their shock and grief. They glued their attention to the picture on the screen, as if by looking at it hard enough they could change what they saw.
Suddenly Frank leaped up from his chair and pointed. "Look!" Moving slowly onto the screen was the back of a hand. The hand was curled around something and covered Fenton Hardy's nose and mouth for a minute. Then it turned to display what it was holding.
18
"What—?" Joe looked puzzled. "A mirror?'
"Yes," Frank said excitedly. "But that's not what's important. Look what's on the mirror."
Joe looked more closely. "The center is fogged over—some kind of steam."
Frank shook his head. "That's not steam—it's condensation caused by breath on the glass." He hesitated. "Dad's breath."
"Then he's alive." Joe went limp with relief.
"Well, they picked a fine way to tell us that." Peterson said sharply as the screen went dark.
"Maybe they were trying to tell us something else, too," said Frank.
"They've told me enough," said Joe. "We have to get after them—fast."
"Relax, Joe." Peterson looked tired. "Believe me, the department is beginning to move on this. We'll be quietly checking over the whole hotel. That way, we'll find out how your dad was taken out of the place. Then, once we've picked up the trail, we'll follow it and close in. I know you're impatient to find your dad. But trust us. We have our procedures."
Joe's grimace made it clear what he thought of the ponderous police pace. "Don't forget our agreement," Peterson said, cautioning him. "I don't want you and your brother getting mixed up in all this."
"Right, right," muttered Joe, without even trying to sound as if he meant it.
19
Before Peterson could make his point again, the phone rang, and he picked it up. He pressed a button that let the caller's voice be projected into the room. 
"I hope you enjoyed the TV show," the same high-pitched voice that had announced the kidnapping said. 
"What have you done to Fenton Hardy?" Peterson demanded. "Drugged him? Beaten him unconscious?" 
"What we've done is far more interesting than that," said the voice. "The illustrious investigator has the honor of being the first human guinea pig for a powerful new virus we've developed." 
"Virus?" the chief echoed. 
"That's right, chiefy. Virus Strain A—intended to leave its victims totally unconscious, but alive." A hoarse laugh grated through the speaker. "And you'll be happy to know it works. It works perfectly. Fenton Hardy will stay just the way you saw him until we stop feeding him through IVs or cure him with a special antibody we've created. So," the voice said after a slight pause, "are you convinced?" 
"Convinced of what?" Peterson was keeping his voice calm and level, but the effort was showing. 
"That we have the scientific capability of carrying out our threat. You know, for a guy that's running for mayor, you're not so smart." 
20
Peterson ignored the slur. "I have no definite proof, but I'll have to believe you. Now may I ask, what threat?"
"Well," the voice said, "Virus Strain A isn't our only weapon. We also have Virus Strain B. So far we've used it only on laboratory animals but it kills those little rats amazingly quickly-after several minutes of excruciating agony, that is."
There was a silence. Then the voice said, "What? No more questions? I thought for sure you would jump in with the one you should be dying to ask."
"Which is?"
"What do we plan to do with Virus B?" said the voice gleefully.
Peterson took a long, deep breath. "Okay. what are you planning to do?"
"We're going to release Virus B in six of New York's largest buildings. There'll be at least fifty] thousand dead—and that'll be just the beginning. The entire city will go crazy with fear. New York] will turn into a madhouse—and then into a ghost town."
"You're the one who's crazy, if you expect me to believe that," said Peterson.
"You've seen what we've done to Fenton Hardy. And you said you believe us. And you! also witnessed what we were able to do at your gathering this evening. It will be just as easy to fill
21
buildings with our virus as it was to fill that room in the hotel with smoke."
"Let's say for the sake of argument that you can do it," said Peterson. "Why would you?"
"Once again you're not asking the right question," the voice said sharply. "The only question that should concern you is why we wouldn't do
it."
"Okay, why wouldn't you?"
"We won't do it if we receive twenty million dollars in used fifty-and hundred-dollar bills."
Peterson was poker-faced as he answered, "How do you expect me to come up with that kind of money?"
"This city is filled with banks, big businesses, millionaires, and tax collectors, Mr. Police Chief. I'm sure if you explain to certain people what they will lose if the money isn't paid, they'll decide that the price is cheap."
"But all that will take time."
"We're willing to be reasonable," said the voice. "We'll give you three days to get the money together. After you've done that, we'll tell you how to deliver it."
"Three days! That's not—"
"Actually," said the voice, "if you don't get it in two days, we'll help you speed up the collection process."
"What do you mean?"
"Believe me, you don't want to find out. Oh,
22
yes," the voice went on, "one more thing. Don't try to use the time we're giving you to hunt us down. The moment we spot a single cop, Fenton Hardy dies."
"But—"
"But nothing," said the voice. "Just goodbye."
"Not so fast," said Peterson. "I want—" Then he realized he was speaking into a dead line, and his expression tensed. "I was hoping to keep him on longer," he told Joe and Frank. "But I guess he talked long enough."
Frank understood immediately. "You've got a tracer on your phone. That's it, isn't it?"
"Sharp thinking," the chief said. "The tracer is part of a computerized system. As soon as I heard the kidnapper's voice, I pressed this button here. The call was instantly traced, and the nearest patrol cars were sent to the address. We should be getting news of the capture any minut now. I can't wait to see the look on your dad's face when he learns how fast we've rescued him., That should show him how far we've come since he left the force."
The phone rang. Smiling, Peterson picked up the receiver.
"Well?" he said expectantly. "You have him?' His smile vanished. "That's impossible," he said. "Check it out. And if you can't come up with anything, check it out again." Peterson slamme down the receiver.
"These so-called technical experts can't do
23
anything right!" he exploded. Then he got control of himself. "It's the tracer system," he said in a cold, even voice. "It doesn't work."
"What's the trouble?" Frank asked anxiously. "They couldn't trace the call?"
"They traced it, all right," said Peterson. "But the computer readout said the call had been made from a spot in the middle of Lexington Avenue, between Forty-second and Forty-third streets."
Joe slumped in his chair, as his brother sat up. "Maybe the call was made from a car phone," Frank suggested.
"Not a chance," Peterson came back. "The person making the call didn't move one inch. And not even a city traffic jam would result in a car's sitting in one place that long—at least, not without our knowing about it."
"Then what's going on?" Joe wondered.
"A snafu," said Peterson bitterly. "We're back where we were before we started. Square zero." He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse. "Actually, we're worse off. We can't make a move without putting your dad's life on the line. You can bet that from now on those scum will be watching for any sign of our coming after them. So for the time being, we're paralyzed."
Frank suddenly got to his feet, his abruptness startling not only Peterson but Joe as well. "Well," he said, "if we can't do anything but wait, there's no sense in our hanging around. We
24
might as well head back to Bayport. At least that way we'll be able to make excuses for Dad's absence if it lasts more than a few days."
"But we can't leave the city," Joe protested.
"I'm sorry, but Frank's right," Peterson said. "There's nothing you kids can do here."
"That's what you say," said Joe, his temper flaring.
"Come on," Frank said, pulling at him. "You know, it's really a drag always having to keep cool for both of us."
"What's really a drag is you playing Mr. Goody Goody all the time," Joe answered, the expression in his eyes furious.
"Look," Peterson said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, "I know how upseting it must be, but I don't have time to waste listening to your squabbles. I've got things to do, people to contact."
"What do you mean, 'people to contact'?" Joe snapped. "I thought we were paralyzed."
"I'll be talking to people about raising the ransom," Peterson said. "I don't intend to pay those scum"—his eyes went down—"but I don't want to let your father—or the city—down either."
Frank nodded. He tugged at Joe's arm. "We might as well get out of here and let Chief Peterson do what he has to."
Joe's first reaction was to shake Frank off, but then he caught the message in his brother's eyes
25
"Okay, big brother, don't push too far," Joe said, angry for Peterson's benefit. "I'm coming. We'll settle this outside." 
Peterson shook hands with both boys. Then he put an arm around each of them as they walked to the door. "Remember, Frank," he said, "keep your head—and make sure your brother hangs on to his." 
"I'll do my best," Frank promised convincingly. 
"All right, what's up?" Joe demanded as soon as they were out of Peterson's office. "I could see from that look you gave me that something's going on in that busy brain of yours. 
"We need a good night's sleep," Frank said. "We're going to a hotel, and tomorrow we're going into action!" 
26
 
27
Chapter 4
outside in the morning Joe had only one question. "Where to?" He felt too tired to say more than that. He had spent an awful night, twisting and turning. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father lying in that coffin, barely breathing.
Frank, too, hadn't slept well. He had had nightmares about searching for his father through scenes of plague and desolation. New Yorkers were struggling like rats in traps, spreading the deadly virus until the whole city was exterminated. He blinked his eyes and finally answered his brother's question. "Grand Central Station."
"Great," Joe complained, looking at the crowded sidewalks. "We'll never get there."
"If we don't crack this case, there won't be
28
anyone in the streets," Frank muttered, pulling] his brother into a subway entrance. "The police] can't make a move without putting Dad in deadly] danger—so it's up to us to track down the kidnappers."
"Call them terrorists—because that's what they are," said Joe, his fists clenched.
"Whatever you call them, they won't be on the lookout for us," said Frank quietly, and he ran to buy two tokens. "That's why I didn't tell Peterson about the lead I thought of. He might have been tempted to send cops out to follow it up," he] said after he and Joe were on the train.
"Brilliant observation, Sherlock," said Joe. "But tell me one other thing. What's this lead of yours? Or do you want to keep me in the dark] too?"
"I'm surprised you didn't spot it right away," Frank said in the maddening manner he sometimes had.
"I was too busy seeing red. Frank, just thinking about those terrorists made me—"
"You know," Frank broke in, "if you saw less red, you might see more clues."
"Look," Joe snapped, "forget the big-brother lecture and just give me the lowdown."
"Always so impatient." Frank sighed. "But, if you insist—it was the videotape, Mr. Detective.! A weird off-brand—Kajimaki Industries, it said. There can't be many stores that carry it, and maybe we can find out if a clerk remembers!
29
anyone buying some recently. The brand's unusual enough so that it might stick in someone's mind. The lead's worth checking, anyway—seeing as we have nothing else to go on."
"So where are we heading now?" asked Joe.
"There's a hole-in-the-wall computer store near Grand Central," said Frank, who was a dedicated PC buff. "I've bought hard-to-get computer parts there, and I've noticed the place carries a lot of cheap foreign videotapes. If nothing else, we can ask them the names of other stores to look in."
"Hmm," Joe grunted grudgingly. "Once in a while you do come up with an okay idea."
"Let's hope this one pans out," said Frank. "As Peterson said, otherwise it's back to square zero."
Joe looked out the window. "Well, here's where we find out," he said as the train came to a grinding halt at the Grand Central Station stop.
The boys joined the flow of passengers moving rapidly out of the car. In a minute they found a sign telling them which ramp to take to the surface.
"What a maze down here," said Joe. "Makes me feel like a mouse in a laboratory experiment." He looked around at all the people jostling past. It was as if everyone was in a race to be the first up the ramp. "One mouse in a mob of mice."
"The subways are just part of the underground," said Frank. "There are the railroad
30
lines here, too. Plus a lot of other facilities. I once read a newspaper article on Grand Central Station. It said that so many different things have] been built under the station since it first went up that nobody has a complete map of them all."
"Who would want one?" said Joe as they] reached the top of the ramp. "Give me life above-ground anytime."
Joe didn't feel much better, though, after they] made their way through the crowded station and exited up on the street.
"I still feel like I'm underground," he said. They were on a sidewalk that lay in the permanent shadow of towering buildings. Only a narrow strip of bright blue sky above them proved that it was still broad daylight. Edging the blue were dark gray clouds that would bring rain later.
Frank put his hand on Joe's arm. "Wait," he said. "Here's the store."
On the window was a big sign proclaiming! SUPER SALE! GOING OUT for BUSINESS!! with the word for written in nearly invisible ink. Inside were display counters jammed with every conceivable kind of electronic goods.
"Kajimaki videotape?" said the salesman. "You're in luck. We're the only place in town that carries it. The company went out of business last year, and we snapped up their last shipment That's why we're able to offer it at an unbelievably low price. In fact, if you buy one of our new
31
VCRs, also on special sale, we'll toss in five tapes free." 
"Actually, we just want some information," said Frank. 
The eager gleam in the salesman's eyes faded. "You want information?" he said. "There's a big booth inside Grand Central Station that'll give you information. They'll even give it for free. This place is a store. We sell things. You give us money, we give you merchandise. Got it?" 
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. This man was so warm—so friendly. 
"Look, I'd like to buy some of those videotapes," Frank began. "In fact, if the price is right, maybe I'll buy you out. But first I want to be sure the stuff is okay," he said. "You ever get any complaints?" 
"Absolutely not," said the salesman indignantly. "Do you think this establishment would sell anything not backed up with an ironclad guarantee?" 
"Is that your guarantee?" Frank asked, pointing. A small, faded sign was attached to the wall with peeling Scotch tape. In tiny letters, the sign said, "All sales final. Absolutely no refunds." 
"Oh, that," said the salesman. "That's just to discourage cranks." 
That got a smile from Frank. "Well," he said, "not that I don't believe you, but maybe you can tell me if you've sold many of these tapes." 
32
"Sold many? Of course we have," said the salesman.
"How many?" asked Frank.
"A lot," said the salesman.
"How many is a lot?" asked Frank.
"Quite a few," said the salesman.
"How many is quite a few?" asked Frank.
"A number," said the salesman.
"What number?" asked Frank.
"Just yesterday a guy came in and bought a couple of tapes," the salesman said.
"Just one person has bought Kajimaki tape?"
"For pete's sake, kid, we just got the shipment in a couple of days ago. Kajimaki doesn't have brand recognition."
"So why did this guy buy it?" asked Frank.
"To tell the truth, he didn't actually buy it. offered to toss it in free when he was trying to decide if he wanted to buy a video camera—ah on special sale, incidentally. Maybe you'd like to take a look at one. I'll make you a deal you won't believe."
Frank pretended to consider. He looked at Joe as if asking an opinion. Joe shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. "You think we can trust this guy?"
Frank turned back to the salesman. "Look don't worry about my friend here. It's not that I don't trust you, but maybe you could tell me who this other person was who bought the tapes. Maybe you even have his name on a credit card
33
receipt. That way I could get in touch with him. I could check out if he's happy with it." 
"No luck," the salesman said. "The guy paid in cash for the whole thing. Some people do it that way. Crisp hundred-dollar bills. I don't ask where they get them." 
"Actually, I buy things the same way," said Frank. "In fact, most of my crowd does." He knew he had to try to squeeze out the last bit of information fast, before the salesman began to get suspicious. "Actually, this guy might be somebody I know. A real big spender—a video freak, too. He told me he was going to buy some new equipment. Was he a tall, skinny guy with red hair?" 
"No," said the salesman. "This guy was tall, all right, but he must have weighed three hundred pounds. Plus, he was bald and had a black beard. A little weird looking, you might say, but easy to remember." 
"Guess it wasn't Tim," said Frank, quickly mentioning a name. "Too bad there's no way I could find out who he is—or be able to contact him. Look, if he ever comes in again, maybe you could get more information about him and call me. I can give you a phone number." 
"Yeah, right," said the salesman, his interest fading as his hopes for a sale dimmed. Then suddenly his eyes brightened. "Hey, what a break!" 
Frank and Joe wheeled around to see where he 
34
was looking. Filling the doorway was the mountain of a man that the salesman had just de scribed.
Before they could make a move, the salesman was out from behind his counter and past them to greet the customer.
"Hello, sir!" he said. "Glad to see you again. Hope you were happy with that great Kajimaki tape you got. As a matter of fact, these two young men are interested in buying some. Maybe you could tell them—"
He didn't get to finish his sentence. The big bald, bearded man pivoted instantly and vanishe from the doorway.
The salesman turned toward the Hardy boys. "Hey," he said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's got into—"
But he didn't get to finish that sentence either. Frank and Joe tore past him, desperate to get to the sidewalk before the big man disappeared down the street.
"Hey, wait!" the salesman shouted after them from the store doorway. "I'll give you a deal you can't—" But by that time they were almost out of hearing range. They had spotted the big man racing into Grand Central Station and were running after him, weaving through swarms of pedestrians who constantly held them back, they did manage to make it into the station shopping arcade just in time to see the man going down a flight of marble stairs.
35
"Let's go!" Joe said, leading the way. 
At the top of the stairs, Frank saw a sign: To Trains. 
"Quick," he said to Joe, who needed no urging. "He's going to leave town." 
When they reached the next level down, they saw the man darting into the farthest entranceway in a line of tunnels that led to the different train platforms. 
"Let's hope his train isn't pulling away right now," said Joe as they ran after him. 
They got to the entrance, dashed through, and saw—nothing. There was no train on either of the tracks. In front of them, under dim electric light, the long concrete platform stretched empty into the distance. 
Joe clenched his teeth angrily. "He got away!" 
"But where?" said Frank. "I don't see any way out of here other than the entrance we just came through. And he couldn't have vanished into thin air. Let's check the tracks. Maybe he's crouched down there, hiding." 
Joe took one side of the platform, Frank took the other. They moved cautiously, ready to spring into action. Every second or two, they glanced across the platform at each other in case one of them suddenly needed help. 
"Nothing," said Joe disgustedly when they reached the end. "So, what now?" 
Frank thought a minute. "Maybe, just maybe," he said, "the creep escaped down the tracks." 
36
"Pretty slim possibility," said Joe. "But it's worth checking out"—he made a face—"considering we have no other choice."
"You go down the left track, I'll go down the right," said Frank. "We'll both give it five minutes before we come back and meet on the platform. Unless, of course, something turns up sooner. Then whoever makes the find will give a yell and hope the other hears it."
"Let's go," said Joe impatiently.
"Hold on. First we check the time and synchronize our watches."
Joe rolled his eyes. "You find more ways to waste time," he complained. But he went through the routine.
Once down on the track, Joe went all out to make up for lost time.
"If the guy did go down these tracks," he muttered to himself, "he has a big head start." Joe race-walked between the tracks, carefully avoiding the electrified rail or tripping over ties. The light from the platform soon faded, so he turned on the combination pen and flashlight he always carried with him. Good thing Frank had one just like it, he thought. And he squinted to see what the faint glow would reveal.
Nothing.
Then he saw something in the grime that covered the track bed. Something that might be
37
the trace of a footprint. Maybe he should go back and tell Frank, or yell for him. But going back would let the guy get away for sure. And yelling would alert him to move faster. There was a good chance the guy had slowed down, thinking he was safe.
Joe knew that by moving faster he might close the gap and get his hands on the bearded man. He figured he would be able to beat a guy as fat as that if it came down to a dash.
So he broke into a jog, keeping his body low. His eyes peered into the distance, hunting for anything up ahead. His ears strained to pick up the sound of footsteps other than his own.
Then he saw something. A speck of light down the track, getting brighter every second. And he heard a distant roar.
A train. Heading straight at him.
He almost tripped as he came to a stop.
Desperately he looked back at where he'd come from. He could barely see the glow from the platform. He had lost his sense of space and time in the heat of the chase. His stomach did a flip as he realized he had no chance of getting back in time.
The train light was growing larger and larger, like a giant eye. The engineer was sure to see him, he thought. The train was bound to slow down.
But even as he thought it, he could see how
38
wrong he was. If anything, the train was coming at him faster and faster, as if it were behind schedule, trying to catch up.
The light was blinding. The roar was deafening.
There was no way the train could stop now.
No way out for him.
No way but to die!
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Chapter 5
joe wasn't the only one staring with horror at the approaching train.
Frank was staring at it too. He felt as though his blood was draining from his body. Cold sweat beaded his skin. "Joe!"
He had returned to the platform right on schedule. But he wasn't surprised when he didn't find Joe waiting for him. Joe wasn't one to keep to schedules.
Frank sighed. He had just decided that he'd have to go down the tracks to find Joe. He was lowering himself onto the track when he heard the train. Jerking himself back up onto the platform, he watched helplessly as the train approached. He pretended he would see it slow
40
down, see it come to a stop before the inevitable happened.
It didn't.
It didn't stop until it reached the platform and slowly screeched to a halt.
Frank stood in the middle of the stream of passengers pouring out of the train.
His eyes were dulled, his expression blank, mind empty except for the single word that kept echoing inside it.
Joe. Joe. Joe.
Joe had lost his head one time too many. At now he had lost his life.
"Hey, what are you standing there for? No time to waste thinking. Get moving!"
Frank blinked. It was as if he could hear Joe's voice. He had to get a grip on himself.
"Didn't you hear me? Come on!"
Then Frank saw him. Joe was coming out from behind the last car in the train. He was motioning for Frank to join him—fast.
Frank was a long-distance runner, not a sprinter like his brother, but he set a personal best record racing down the platform.
"I thought for sure you were a goner," he panted.
"Me too," said Joe.
"How did you—?"
"I'll show you," Joe said. "Come on."
After a quick check to make sure that the few people had left the platform and no employees
41
were watching, Joe and Frank squeezed behind the train and dropped back onto the tracks. Joe led the way into the darkness, using the faint glow from his flashlight. Frank used his flashlight too, and for five minutes they walked the tracks.
Frank felt confused. "I still don't see—"
"Take a look at this," Joe interrupted. He shone his light onto the side of the concrete tunnel wall. There, painted the same color, was a metal door.
"When I saw the train coming and realized it wasn't going to stop, I did the only thing I could," said Joe. "I hit the wall. Only instead of the wall I found this door. And even better than that, I found—well, look."
Joe pushed, and the door swung in.
"You don't have to tell me it was dumb luck. I know it was," said Joe, and Frank nodded.
"I'm not just talking about saving my life," Joe went on. "Finding this puts us back on the trail of that guy we were chasing. It must be the way he escaped. Come on. But watch your step. Right after we go through this doorway we go down some stairs."
"How far down do the stairs go?"
"I don't know," said Joe. "I figured I'd better go back to get you before trying to find out. Sometimes you actually come in handy in situations like this. If that guy has pals down there, I'd really need you. Besides, he probably stopped running once he ducked out of the tunnel. No
42
way he could know I'd stumble on this door Ordinarily, I wouldn't have spotted it in a milliot years. It looks like it's part of the wall."
"I'm not sure how safe this is," said Frank feeling suspicious. "Why didn't the guy lock the door? Maybe we're walking into a trap."
"Sometimes you're too cautious for your own good," said Joe in disgust. He shone his flashlight on the inside of the door. Rust had completely corroded the bolt that would lock the door. But the bolt had been chiseled away so that it could be opened, and now there was no way to lock it again.
"Any more questions?" Joe asked.
Without waiting for Frank's reply, he headed down rusted metal stairs, which led into pitch darkness.
Frank did have more questions. He sensed danger waited for them at the bottom of the stairs, and he would have liked to have some idea about what that danger would be. But he followed anyway.
The stairs went down and down.
"Wonder what they were used for," Joe said calling back.
"There's a lot of stuff underground in the city Basements built to house the foundations of the tall buildings. Tunnels for drainage, water, electrical and communication cables. And under Grand Central Station there's a whole maze; maintenance sheds and storage rooms. Things 
43
keep changing so fast in the city that a lot of underground support systems have simply been abandoned. New York isn't into looking back. It's too busy rushing into the future."
"Hey, how do you know so much about it?" asked Joe.
"From that article I told you about."
Joe shook his head. "You're the only person I know who reads everything and forgets nothing. I hope you realize that computer data banks are making you obsolete."
"Speaking of data banks, I read—"
"Forget it," said Joe. "Time to get back to business."
They had reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in a corridor. The air was thick and musty. They guessed that no one had breathed it for years. But when their flashlight beams moved over the floor, they could see footprints in the dust.
Instinctively they put their fingers to their lips and grinned at each other, nodding. Then, in dead silence, they moved down the corridor.
There was a glimmer of light ahead. As they came closer, they saw that the light came from around the edges of a door that was slightly ajar.
Joe looked at Frank. Frank looked at Joe. Joe motioned for Frank to stay back to provide backup support. Then he slowly pushed the door open.
44
Putting his pen flashlight back in his pocket Joe stepped into the room.
"What the—?" he said. "Frank, take a look at this."
Frank followed him in. "It's like a hospital ward," he said.
"Complete with a patient," said Joe.
The room they were in contained four hospital type beds. In one of them lay an old man with his eyes closed, completely still.
"He's alive," said Frank, anxiously checking for a pulse. "But barely. The pulse is very slow very weak."
Joe was staring grimly at the far wall rather, at the coffin leaning there. "Are you thinking the same thing I am?" he asked.
Frank looked up from the sick man. videotape. Dad lying there, just like this. In a coffin."
"Hey, these aren't ordinary hospital beds said Joe, examining one more closely. "Look at this."
Each of the beds, including the one that comatose man was lying in, was equipped with straps to bind hands and feet.
Frank's face twisted. "It's like some kind of torture chamber." He looked at the other beds. Three of them were made up, their sheets and pillows unwrinkled. But the sheets on the remaining bed were in disarray, the pillow still revealing the imprint of a head.
45
Frank put his hand palm-down on it. "It's still warm," he said. "They must have grabbed whoever was lying here and carried him away. And I have a good hunch who that person was." 
"Dad," said Joe, staring at the straps. 
"Keep your cool," Frank cautioned him. "We can't help Dad by getting mad. What we have to get are clues about what's going on." He looked around the room. "There's one. Look." 
He pointed to a small hole high in one of the walls. In the hole a lens glinted. 
Frank made a closer inspection. "A camera lens. I have a hunch it's the same camera that took those pictures of Dad." 
Joe pressed his ear to the wall. "I can hear it whirring. It must be shooting us right now." He picked up a scalpel that was lying on a bedside table and drove the scalpel into the hole. But the lens didn't shatter. Instead, the force of the blow pushed the camera backward, away from the opening. 
"The camera must be in an adjoining room," said Frank. "Let's check it out." 
In the corridor again, they cautiously approached the next room and entered. 
Snapping on a light switch, they saw that the room was deserted. The video camera lay on the floor, pointing upward and still whirring. 
Frank clicked it off and removed the film. "Kajimaki," he said. "This is the camera they used to tape Dad, all right. And now they're using 
46
it as a security system, to check out anyone who enters the room."
"How do we keep them from knowing we got in here?" Joe asked. "As long as the kidnappers think that the guy we chased gave us the slip they won't feel pressured into giving up a bargaining chip like Dad."
"That camera store is just about to make another sale of Kajimaki film. We put the film in the camera, put the camera back on its mounting,; start it up again. When the kidnappers check all they'll see is a videotape of an empty room. Frank started for the door. "Let's go before they come back."
The boys left the room and hurried up stairs. "The only trouble is," Joe remarked, "after we do all this, we won't be any closer to rescuing Dad."
"But with any luck, we will be soon," Frank. "After we set up the camera again, we wait in the dark corridor for someone to get out the film. Then we'll tail him. If you can stand the wait," Frank kidded, "we might finally get some action."
"I hope so," said Joe, not responding to teasing. "Because I get cold chills thinking what will happen to Dad if time runs out."
"Not to mention what will happen to all the other thousands of people in the city," Frank.
47
It took fifteen minutes to get back to the camera store. After getting the videotape, Frank bought a manila envelope and some stamps. 
"Give me all your ID," he told his brother. "If we have bad luck and get caught, we don't want the crooks to know our names and connect us with Dad. At least he won't pay for our fouling up." 
Joe nodded and emptied his wallet. Frank put all the ID into the envelope, addressed the envelope to their home, put stamps on it, and dropped it into the mailbox. "Great," Joe said. "Now we're stripped for action." 
A half-hour later he and Frank had set up the camera again and were crouched in the pitch-dark corridor. "If we could just do something," Joe whispered. 
"All we can do is wait," said Frank. "And keep our eyes and ears open." 
Then Joe heard something, the slightest of sounds, the faint rustling of someone's clothing, maybe the sole of a shoe brushing the floor. But to Joe's keyed-up senses, it sounded as if an alarm were going off. 
He whirled around, his right fist ready, then lashed out as he faced a dim shape poised to jump him. 
The shiver that went down his arm told him he had made solid contact with a jaw. And the figure toppling backward confirmed his observation. 
At the same time, Frank had swiveled around 
48
to find a blunt instrument being thrust down at him. He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the weapon, flipped the man it belonged to, and without breaking his flow of movement, delivered a knockout chop to the back of the man's neck.
"Close call," said Joe. He was breathing hard. "They almost got us."
"But now we have them. Come on," Frank said. "Let's get them onto those hospital beds and strap them down before they come to. After that we'll have time to figure out how to make them talk."
"It'll be a pleasure," said Joe. He was bending over to pick up the man he'd knocked out. Frank was doing the same with his man.
Unfortunately, this time when they heard sounds and saw dim shapes coming at them from the darkness, their hands were full.
All they had time to do was drop their burdens and begin to straighten up into fighting positions before time ran out on them.
Then blackness. Blackness filled with pain--hard rubber truncheons were hammered down on their skulls.
49
Chapter 6
the blackness turned to glaring light. Joe's head hurt unbearably as he opened his eyes.
Groaning, he tried to touch the sore spot on his skull. But he couldn't move his hands—or his feet.
There was no need to look down. He could feel the straps cutting into his wrists and ankles. Turning his head, he saw that Frank was pinned the same way on the next bed.
Frank had already come to. When he saw Joe turn his head, he gave his brother a wry smile.
"Finally," a voice said. "We thought you two would never wake up."
The man who spoke was tall and pale faced. He wore his long black hair in a pony tail. Drooping on either side of his mouth was a long and straggly
50
mustache. A not-so-white T-shirt and olive green army-surplus fatigue pants completed the sinister look. Beside him stood a powerfully built black man whose huge muscles rippled under a navy blue T-shirt. The man's massive legs were crammed into worn blue jeans.
Both men were looking at the Hardy boys with hatred.
They seemed to be restrained from violence only by the man who stood behind them, the third man was short and slight. His tan summer suit, pale blue button-down shirt, and striped tie contrasted sharply with his companions' clothes.
"Take it easy," he said to the other two. The authority in his voice was unmistakable. "Remember, we want to keep these two alive and conscious—for the time being, anyway. We need information from them."
Reluctantly the two stepped back, and the boss moved in toward Joe and Frank.
"What makes you think you can get away with this?" Joe demanded before the man had a chance to speak.
Frank interrupted, saying, "Look, I don't know what you think we did, but there's been a big mistake. My brother and I were sight-seeing," he began, desperately trying to concoct a story. "We got bored with all the usual tourist stuff. I remembered reading a newspaper article about all the underground space beneath Grand
51
Central, and we figured it'd be fun to explore. We didn't know we'd be trespassing, honest. We're really sorry."
A nasty expression appeared on the suited man's face. "Stop wasting your breath lying, kid," he said. Then he shrugged. "But I guess it doesn't matter. Pretty soon you won't have any breath to waste. Down here we can get rid of you two without a trace in the time it takes to break your necks, which is exactly what Jack and Carl here are aching to do." He glanced at his two companions, and they looked more than pleased with the idea. Then he went on. His voice was gentler now, coaxing. "Come on, tell us how we can get our hands on the antibody to fix up Ian here, and we'll let you go. Otherwise, we'll make you wish you were as dead to the world as he looks now."
"Ian?" said Frank.
"Who's Ian?" echoed Joe.
But all they had to do was follow the man's eyes to see who Ian was—the man they had found lying as if dead. He was still there, in the bed on the other side of Frank.
"You must have thought you were real smart, leaving our friend here as bait," the man in the tan suit said. "You figured we'd come for him, while you were waiting outside ready to close in on us. What you didn't count on was that we'd be suspicious and hold back until we made sure
52
everything was safe. Good thing we did. We spotted you taking your stakeout positions—and now you're the ones caught in your own trap."
Frank's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Hey," he said excitedly, "I think there's been] some kind of mistake."
"Yeah, and you made it," said Carl, flexing his huge hands as if straining against an invisible] leash.
"We're not the guys you think we are," Frank went on. "We're fighting the guys that did this to Ian—the same as you are."
"Right," Joe broke in. "I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank. We're from Bayport. If you don't believe it, just look in our—" He stopped abruptly.
"We did look in your wallets," the man in the suit said, finishing Joe's thought. "No ID. Two punks with orders not to be identified in case of trouble."
Frank tried another tack. "Look, if you think we're punks, why aren't we carrying weapons?'. you searched us, you must know we're clean."
"I know what you did to our two friends back there in the corridor. Knocked them cold. You beat up helpless homeless people. But what you didn't figure was that we'd fight back."
Frank looked puzzled. "What do you mean," he said, "'homeless people'?"
"Enough talk," Jack said. "Time for action."
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The man in the suit nodded. "Jack's right. You two punks have jerked us around long enough. Tell us how we get our hands on the antibody, or I unleash Jack and Carl on you." His face was grim. "It's better to talk now than scream later." 
"Believe me," Frank said, "we'd tell you about the antibody if we knew anything about it." 
"You have to believe us," Joe pleaded. Then, as Jack and Carl moved forward, his desperation turned to pure anger. "You're jerks, you know that? Total jerks. We want that antibody as much as you do. They've snatched our dad and turned him into the same kind of zombie as Ian here. We could all help each other. But instead, you morons want to get rid of us." 
The man in the suit held up a hand and stopped Jack and Carl from moving any closer to the Hardys. 
"You know, I'm beginning to believe you," he said thoughtfully. "Not so much your words, but your anger. It sounds too real to be faked." 
Frank gave his brother a grateful look. For once, Joe's hair-trigger temper had come in handy. 
"Why don't you tell me more about yourselves, so I can check it out," the man 
said. 
"Now you're talking sense," said Joe. 
"Or else they're fast-talking us," said Frank. "Let's not be too eager to tell these guys anything. I mean, we know who we are. But how do 
54
we know who they are? Maybe they're pulling a scam on us. Maybe you've told them too much already."
Joe turned to the man in the suit. "All right.] Who are you guys?"
"And can you prove it?" Frank added.
"So," said the man. "Now we're stuck." he grinned. "You don't trust us, and we don't trust you."
"It's like some kind of standoff," Frank agreed. "Neither one of us will let his guard down."
"The question is, how do we end it?" said the man.
But they didn't have time to come up with an answer.
"Okay, scum, up with your hands," a voice from the doorway ordered.
Standing there was the big, bald, bearded man whom Frank and Joe had chased. Behind him was a squat man with a military crew cut. He held a .45—big and deadly looking.
There was no arguing with those guns.
Jack, Carl, and the man in the suit raised their hands instantly.
While the squat man held his gun on them, the bearded man walked over to Joe and Frank.
"Hey, kids, we meet again," he said with a nasty smile. "Congratulations. You finally caught up with me." He gave Frank, then Joe, a close view of his gun. "Notice that the safety is off," he
55
said menacingly. "And let me tell you that this piece has a hair trigger. So don't make any quick movements when I unstrap you. Just keep lying there, deadlike, until I tell you to get up. I'd hate to have to get those nice clean sheets all stained with blood." 
With his gun in one hand, he unstrapped first Joe, then Frank. Then he stepped back a safe distance and motioned for the boys to stand up. 
Frank and Joe exchanged quick glances. This guy was a pro. It was going to be hard to get his gun away from him. 
In fact, it might be impossible. 
"Get over there!" the bearded man ordered, motioning Joe and Frank to join Jack, Carl, and the man in the suit. 
The man in the suit spoke quietly to Joe and Frank. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Jones. Peter Jones. At least we can trust each other now. That's one problem we don't have." 
Though Jones had spoken in a low voice, the bearded man caught the last sentence. 
The gunman grinned. "You guys ain't going to have any problems to worry about," he said. "You see these guns? They're going to solve all your problems forever." 
56
 
57
Chapter 7
"We do it now, huh?" asked the man with the crew cut. His voice was eager.
"Cool it, dimwit," said the bearded gunman. "We got our orders. We take them to the dumpoff spot. That way, no stress, no mess."
The first gunman gave him a sour look. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."
"Out into the corridor," the bearded man told his captives. "And no funny business. Or else the dum-dum bullets in this gun will splatter you all over the walls."
The Hardys, along with Peter Jones, Jack, and Carl, were herded out of the room and down the corridor.
"That's far enough," announced the bearded man.
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While his sidekick held a gun on the prisoners, he lifted a trapdoor in the floor, shone his flashlight through it, and disappeared down a metal ladder.
"Okay." His voice echoed from below. "Send them down. I'll cover them when they get here."
"You heard him," said the short-haired gun man, shining his flashlight in the hole.
"Where does this go?" Joe wondered aloud as he climbed down the ladder after Frank.
Peter Jones answered from above him. "You'll find out soon enough," he said. Obviously, Jones knew the answer, and he wasn't happy with it.
Frank looked around at the huge concrete tunnel they were standing in. "Looks like an abandoned sewer," he said, turning to Jones. "Am i right?"
"No talking!" the bearded gunman said before Jones could answer. "Keep your mouths shut and your ears open. That way, you won't die ahead of schedule."
By then everyone had reached the bottom of the ladder. Without hesitating, the gunmen marched their prisoners through the sewer, the silence was disturbed only by the sound of their footsteps.
"We're almost there," the bearded man reported. "If you have any prayers or goodbyes say them now. You've got three minutes left."
The words seemed to reverberate in the air and Joe felt a chill run through him. Then he
59
realized it wasn't echoes he was hearing, but a distant roaring sound that was growing louder. 
The two gunmen heard it too. Puzzled looks spread across their faces. 
Jones and his companions did not look puzzled, though. Even in the dim glow of the flashlights, Joe could see their expressions light up with sudden hope. 
A few seconds later the roaring was nearly deafening. Despite themselves, the gunmen turned around to see what was happening. At that same moment, Joe and Frank felt hands on their arms, pulling them up another ladder. 
"Climb!" Jones shouted. 
"Hold it or we'll—" the bearded gunman threatened, but his words were drowned out. 
By that time Joe and Frank were well up the rungs of the ladder, following Jones and his friends. 
The gunmen's flashlights had gone out, and the tremendous roaring filled the blackness below. But the five continued climbing. 
From above, Frank and Joe heard a series of groans and then a harsh, grating sound just before a circle of dim light appeared. Water splattered down on the Hardys' upturned faces. 
Jones and his friends had managed to remove a manhole cover and were climbing up through the opening. 
Soon Joe and Frank stood beside them on a one-way city street blocked off from traffic by 
60
two huge garbage trucks positioned at the entrance. Rain pounded their bodies while gigantic forks of lightning lit up the black afternoon sky.
"I still don't get what happened down there, Joe said to Jones after they had replaced the cover and moved onto the sidewalk. "Maybe you can fill me in."
"You were right about our being in a sewer," said Jones. "But it wasn't an abandoned one. It was a storm sewer, built to carry off rain water from the streets. It's lucky for us that this storm hit when it did. Or else we'd be in the East River and not those goons." Jones pointed down the street. "The river is just a couple of blocks from here. They were planning to knock us off and drop us in."
"I'm glad they're gone, but now we're left with no clues. We have no idea who those men were and who their boss is—unless you know," Frank.
"I was hoping you did," Jones said.
Frank had to laugh. "Give us a break. Joe and I don't even know who you are."
"That's true," Jones agreed. "I guess we're in the dark."
By then the sun was breaking through clouds, flooding the city with dazzling light reflected off the puddles in the street.
"Look," Jones said suddenly. "We'd better start putting our heads together—if we want to get anywhere, that is. My apartment's near here
61
Let's go there, dry off, and exchange information. I've got a hunch we can help one another." 
"Fair enough," said Frank. 
"I'll fill you in at our next meeting," Jones said to both his men. They nodded. 
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tool. He inserted it into a hole in the manhole cover and heaved. The cover lifted. Jack stood for a second, tilting his head with one ear toward the hole. "The water's only a trickle now. We can go back down in a minute." The man grinned broadly. "See you, Jonesy." 
Joe and Frank exchanged glances. Go back down? 
"Come on, kids, let's get going," Jones said before they could ask questions. 
They left Jack and Carl standing by the manhole. "They're a little uncomfortable at my place," Jones explained. "It's too high up for them." 
Jones's apartment was high up by anyone's standards, on the fortieth floor of a new high-rise. 
"This is a long way up from that sewer down there," said Joe after they had dried off. He stood by a huge picture window and looked out over the city. The sun was just starting to dip below the tops of the high buildings to the west. 
"Not so long—just two years long," said Jones. "But I'll tell you about myself later. First tell me about yourselves." 
62
Frank and Joe did. They told him who they were, who their father was, and what had happened to them since the evening before.
"Your turn now," said Frank.
"Yeah," said Joe. "What did you mean about this apartment being two years away from that sewer down there?"
"I meant that two years ago I was living below the surface of the city."
"With Carl and Jack?" asked Frank.
"With them and with a lot of other people," said Jones. "Do you have any idea how many people live in forgotten building basements? abandoned subway stations? In utility tunnels that are no longer used? There's practically an entire city underground."
"Why would anyone live like that?" Joe asked "Like some kind of mole?"
"There are as many different reasons as there are people," said Jones. "But most of them just can't afford the rents in New York. They either lost apartments when their buildings were torn down to make way for luxury apartments when their living spaces were turned into apartments and condos for the well-to-do. Other simply got in one kind of jam or another and decided to drop out. Some of the people I know prefer to lead lives outside the mainstream, like I said, there are all kinds of people down there."
"And you?" said Frank.
"Me? I was a lawyer with a great career, a
63
and a child I loved, and everything going for me. Then my wife and child died in an air crash, and nothing seemed worth doing. I wound up living underground with the others, sleeping on a cot in a room that once had been used for train maintenance. The only time I surfaced was to panhandle a few bucks and buy what I needed to live."
"But you've surfaced now," said Joe.
"After a while the wounds healed. I got a job, and since then I've done pretty well. But I never lost my ties with the people I lived with down below," said Jones. "And when the trouble started, they came to me for help."
"The trouble?" said Frank. "You mean those two goons who almost rubbed us all out?"
Jones nodded. "They're part of it. About five months ago, thugs started appearing underground. They drove people out with threats or actual violence. And since then, they've continued expanding their turf. Don't ask me why, but they want space and privacy, and their victims haven't been able to do anything to stop them. When the goons kidnapped Ian—the poor guy you saw lying in the hospital bed—to use in some kind of medical experiment, that was the last straw. There was a meeting to organize a self-defense corps, with me as coordinator."
"Couldn't they go to the cops?" asked Frank, and then answered his own question. "No, I guess they couldn't. Living underground is illegal, right?"
64
"Right," said Jones. "There's an unspoken agreement between the underground people and the cops. The people stay out of sight and out of trouble, and the cops stay out of their hair."
"So you guys don't want the cops getting mixed up in this fight any more than we do," said Frank.
"You've got the picture. The underground people are sure that if they called the cops in, the cops would have no choice but to destroy their life below."
"That leaves us with nobody to help us but] each other," said Joe. "I just wish we knew who, the enemy is."
"And what he's out to do," said Frank.
Just then the phone rang.
Jones answered it and listened a moment. Then he hung up, his face flushed with excitement. He turned to the Hardy boys.
"Come on. We finally got a break!" he said eagerly.
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"We managed to capture one of them. I want to question him." Jones hurried to the door. "I just hope we get there before they lynch him!"
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Chapter 8
"WHY are we wearing these?" Joe rapped his knuckles against the blue hard hat he was wearing. Jones had produced three of them as they rushed from his apartment. "Are we supposed to blast the truth out of this guy?"
"You'll see," Jones said.
They left the building, and he led the way down a quiet side street. Halfway down the block, he stopped at a manhole cover and opened his briefcase. Out came a crowbar. Jones wedged it in the cover, stamped down, and levered the cover out of the way.
"After I surfaced, I needed a convenient way to get back underground whenever I wanted," he explained. "I found out that if I wore a hard hat
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nobody would look twice when they saw me going down into a manhole."
After a few minutes of walking through a storm sewer, Jones said, "This is where we get out." He shone his flashlight up a short metal ladder,! which they climbed.
They found themselves in a concrete cavern lit by candles. Three men in ragged clothes were guarding a man who clearly had gotten the worst of a fight.
"Good work," said Jones. "And thanks for getting in touch with me so fast."
"This guy made it easy—he supplied the phone," said one of the guards. "It's tapped into a telephone cable down here. A real neat job. should know, I used to work for the phone company before they laid me off."
A thought struck Frank. "Just where in the city are we right now?"
"Under the center of Lexington Avenue, between Forty-second and Forty-third streets," said the man.
"That explains it," said Frank.
"Explains what?" Jones looked quizzical.
"The police chief's phone-tracing system pinpointed a threatening phone call coming from here," said Frank. "Peterson will be happy to know that his system wasn't at fault. But the thing I don't understand," he continued, "is how we can be under the middle of a major avenue. Maybe that's a dumb question, but—"
67
"Don't be hard on yourself," Jones interrupted. "You don't know how New York skyscrapers are built. First, builders have to dig huge basements to house the foundations. Those basements interlock with each other and extend under most of the city's streets." 
"Well, you weren't kidding about there being a lot of empty space down here," said Joe, looking around him. 
Jones's expression hardened. "There is a lot of territory down here," he said. "But not enough for us and them." 
"Right," said a man wearing an old army jacket. "It's a war between the underground and the underworld—and we're going to win it." 
"Remember, we just think our enemies are part of the underworld," cautioned Jones. "We don't have any proof they're professionals." 
"We do now," said the man, indicating their prisoner. "This guy's a jailbird. His name's Gus Hays. We didn't get much more out of him. We figured we'd give you a crack at questioning him before we got really rough." 
Jones nodded. He turned to Hays. "You heard the man. Why don't you tell me all you know— otherwise I can't answer for the consequences. It's not that I'm into violence, you understand. But these other gentlemen"—Jones gestured at the ragged bunch of men standing guard—"they get their kicks out of breaking bones." 
Hays took a bloodstained handkerchief away 
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from his battered nose. "They can break every bone in my body," he said, "but I can't tell them any more than I have already."
"What did you tell them?" asked Jones.
"That I got out of the slammer a couple of months ago and was hired to do telephone taps and feed-ins like this one." Gingerly the man touched his nose.
"Who hired you?" asked Jones.
"I don't know." Hays shook his head slowly. "The day after I got out, some guy I didn't know called me. He arranged a meet and made me a job offer. He told me that if I did what I was told and didn't ask any questions I'd get my pay in cash in the mail every week. How could I say no?"
"If that's all you have to tell us, you're in big trouble," Jones snapped convincingly. "I don't think I can hold these men back much longer."
"But what else can I tell you?" Hays pleaded.,
"For starters, what were you doing down here just now?"
"I was given another message to send to the police chief," said Hays.
"What was it?"
"I was supposed to remind him that time is running out for the city."
"That's all?" said Jones.
"That's all, I swear," Hays said. By now his face was pale and beaded with sweat. The men guarding him were closing in.
"Maybe I'm soft, but I believe you," said
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Jones. "Now the question is, what do we do with you? We can't let you go." 
"P-please—" Hays was completely losing it. 
"There is an alternative: an all-expense-paid vacation underground—in our part of the underground," Jones said. "You don't leave till we tell you. Okay?" 
"Sounds fine to me," Hays said. Accompanied by two burly guards, he walked quickly down the tunnel. 
Jones watched them disappear. "Not much help," he said. "But at least we know the odds we're facing. Whoever we're fighting has criminal connections, lots of money, and a highly developed organization." 
"That makes the threat against the city even more of a sure thing," said Frank. "And as the message said, time is running out. We have to move fast. Maybe we should split up. You and the underground people keep the fight going down here. Joe and I will hunt aboveground. We can keep in touch and coordinate our moves." 
"Fair enough," said Jones. He gave Frank a card. "These are my numbers, at home and in the office. If I'm not there, use my answering machine." 
"Good luck down here," said Frank. 
"Good luck up there," said Jones. 
Twenty minutes later, after one of the underground men had guided the Hardy boys through a maze of sewers and abandoned steam pipes back 
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to Grand Central Station, Joe asked Frank, "Well, what's the next step?"
"The next step is to stop moving and start thinking," said Frank.
"I should have known you'd come up with something like that." Joe grimaced. "But let's not take too long doing it, okay?"
"We don't have too long," Frank reminded him. "But let's fuel up." He indicated a pizza stand in the station arcade. "We haven't had anything since breakfast, and it's way past dinnertime now."
Joe and Frank got on with their discussion between mouthfuls of pizza topped with green peppers, onions, pepperoni, and extra cheese.
"What we have to do is analyze this case," said Frank. He reached for the crushed red peppers. "What's the most mysterious thing about it?"
Joe shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned everything."
"But what seems to make no sense at all?" Frank pursued.
Joe considered. "The whole way this blackmail scheme was set up. Why did the crooks put muscle on the police chief and not on the mayor And why did they snatch an out-of-towner like Dad?"
Frank nodded. "Just what I was thinking. There's hope for you yet."
"Please. Don't overwhelm me with compliments while I'm eating," warned Joe lightly.
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He finished his slice and signaled to the counterman to heat up another. "Anyway, tell me what else you were thinking."
"What Dad and Peterson have in common," said Frank, forgetting the half-eaten slice in his hand, "is that they used to work together years ago. Maybe this has something to do with that."
"But what?" asked Joe. "And how can we find out? We can't go to Peterson. There's no telling what kind of surveillance they have him under."
"Right. We can't alert them—or it's goodbye Dad." Frank put down his pizza, his appetite gone. "And goodbye city."
"So what do we do? Where do we go?"
"As the saying goes, there's no place like home." Frank was already pulling out a train schedule from his pocket. "We're in luck. A train leaves in four minutes. We can just make it."
"But my pizza!" Joe said, grabbing the slice and throwing down some money. Pizza in hand, he kept up with his brother and leaped aboard the train just as it was moving off.
Just then, he figured out why they were going home. "I should have thought of it earlier," he said after they sat down in a nearly empty car. He took a bite of his pizza. It was still warm. "Dad's files. He has records of all his old cases, including some from when he was a cop."
"It'll feel funny breaking into his private files, but I figure he'll understand," said Frank.
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"But what'll we say to Mom and Aunt Gertrude?"
"Nothing," said Frank. "They both should be asleep by the time we arrive. We'll sneak into the house, go to Dad's den, get the info we need, and head back to the city."
"I have to hand it to you, you do have a knack for making plans." Joe licked his lips, wishing they made pizza slices bigger. "Of course, whether or not they work is a different story."
This plan, though, had every indication of working perfectly.
Their house was dark when they arrived.
They let themselves in and moved through the rooms without making a sound. 
Frank silently swung open the door to the den.
But then the silence was shattered, and the; plan with it.
"Freeze!" a snarling voice commanded. "Or you're as good as dead!"
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Chapter 9
Joe and frank stared at the two men who had invaded their house. One of them held a long-barreled gun in his hand, and he was pointing at an attachment at the end of the barrel. "Know what this is, kids?" he asked.
"A silencer," said Joe.
"Smart," said the man. "Real good. I like bright kids. And if you're really smart, you won't make me show you how well this silencer works."
"I'm really smart," said Joe. "And so's my brother."
"Two smart kids. Good for you. Now to prove you're smart, show us how to unlock your dad's files—and fast," he ordered. The man's tone
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indicated that he was serious. So did the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Frank's head. The partner drew a gun of his own and covered Joe.
The boys' eyes met.
"I'm not going to argue," said Frank. He went to the desk and took out a key to the steel cabinets that contained Fenton Hardy's files. He turned the key in the pickproof lock and opened one of the drawers.
"Thanks for being so cooperative," said the first man.
"Yeah, you're real good kids," said the secand.
"It's a shame we gotta do what we gotta do,"] said the first.
"But orders are orders," said the second "And we were told what we had to do if any one spotted us during this break-in."
"So long, kids," said the first as both men brought their guns into firing positions.
"Hey, wait a minute," Frank said, acting terified. "You're not going to—?"
"Please! We're so young! Give us a break," said Joe. His voice was trembling.
"We'll do anything you ask, anything," said Frank.
"This can't be happening," said Joe. "It's a nightmare!"
"Come on," said the first intruder. "I thought you kids would have a little more guts than that.
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"Yeah." The second man shook his head. "Kids today just don't have what it takes." 
"You kids get hold of yourselves," said the first man. "Stop shaking, stand up straight, die like men." 
"Please," begged Frank. 
"Don't," begged Joe. 
"Drop it, you two!" commanded a voice from the doorway. 
Laura Hardy, the boy's mother, was standing there with a gun in her hand. 
"Whoa!" said the first intruder, hastily dropping his gun. "Watch that thing, lady, it might go off!" 
"See, I'm dropping my gun too," said the second man. He let it fall from his hand. 
"I was starting to think you wouldn't get here," Frank said to his mom. "Good thing Dad had that alarm installed to go off in your bedroom if anyone got into his files without first shutting the system off." 
"Joe, gather up those guns on the floor and cover these two. Frank, get some clothesline from the storeroom." 
Soon the intruders were securely tied with gags in their mouths. "All right, Joe," said Mrs. Hardy, "we can put our guns down now and call the police to pick up this pair. Then, of course, you boys will explain to me what this is all about." She reached for the phone. "Gertrude 
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told me you called and said you were staying in the city with your father."
"Hold it, Mom. Better not call the cops,"; Frank said quickly.
"Why not?"
"I didn't want to worry Aunt Gertrude, so there was something I didn't tell her."
Laura Hardy's eyes bored straight into her son's. "And what exactly did you leave out, young man?"
"That Dad was asked by his old pal Peterson to help out on a case," said Frank. "He said we could tag along, just to find out what detective work was all about."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. Then it turned out that Dad needed information from his files, so he sent us here to get it. But it seems as if the guy he's hunting had the same idea."
"But I still don't understand why I shouldn't call the police." Laura Hardy was beginning to look confused.
Frank paused. Then he said, "You tell he Joe."
Joe, his mind a blank, stared openmouthed at his brother. Fortunately, an idea came to him.
"Dad doesn't want the crook to know how close he is to being caught," Joe said, inventing quickly. "If these two are locked up, they'll call their lawyer, and their lawyer will alert their boss."
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"That's right," said Frank, flashing Joe a grin of gratitude. "So what you have to do is hold on to these two bozos for a day or so, before we send them off to jail."
"Oh, come on, Frank—"
"We wouldn't ask you to do it, Mom, but we know you've helped Dad on cases before. And he's told us you're as tough in the crunch as he is."
Looking pleased, Laura Hardy nodded. "All right. I'll be glad to help out." She looked at the boys closely then. "Your father is all right, isn't he?" she asked.
Joe felt himself clench inside for what he was about to say. "Sure, Mom," he said. "Dad's doing great."
"Well, then"—Laura Hardy glared at the intruders —"I think it's best to put you two in the basement," she told them. "And I warn you— don't try anything. I might not like guns, but I do know how to use them."
The intruders were meek as lambs as Joe and Frank untied their feet and led them downstairs, with their mother holding a gun on them.
"If you two want to tell us who your boss is, we could tell the D.A. you were cooperative, and maybe your sentences could be made lighter." Laura Hardy's voice was brisk and professional.
The first intruder, sweat beading his brow, indicated that he wanted his gag removed. "Look, lady, if I knew anything, I'd tell you. But
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our boss keeps his identity secret. And we've only been working for him a couple of months."
"How did he get in touch with you, then?" Laura Hardy persisted. "No lying, or you'll be sorry."
"Mac and I were fresh out of jail when a man called us and asked us to work for him," said the second crook after Joe removed his gag. We receive orders by phone and get paid by mail. Honest. It's the truth."
Laura Hardy raised her eyebrows. "I suppose I have to believe you. But if I find out you've been lying—"
"Not us," said the first man.
"No, ma'am," said the second.
"Oh dear," said a voice. "What's going on down there?" It was the boys' aunt Gertrude.
"Don't worry, Gertrude," said Laura, "I'm helping the boys gag and bind the men. "It's just the boys."
"I knew I heard noises down there," said Gertrude.
"They found a couple of strays," Laura said, repressing a smile. "We'll be keeping them in the basement until they go to the—pound."
"I hate strays," said Gertrude. "Don't expect me to go down there to feed them."
"I expected that reaction," Laura Hardy said as she and the boys went up the stairs. "'make things easier."
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Joe rushed to the files and started working through them. "Dad said we should look in the stuff covering the time he was a New York City cop." He kept looking. "Hey, Frank," he said, "the files are arranged by year. Now all we have to do is search for the years when he was on the force." 
"Your father started on the force twenty-five years ago," said Mrs. Hardy. "He decided to go off on his own when you two were still toddlers— about fifteen years ago, I think." 
"Thanks, Mom," Frank said. He pulled the files covering that time period out of the file cabinet. They formed a thick stack of papers and newspaper clippings. Fenton Hardy had been a very busy cop. 
"We'll need a couple of shopping bags for these," said Joe. 
"You're taking them all?" His mother looked surprised. 
"That's what Dad told us to do," said Frank. "Our job wasn't to ask questions." 
"Then I won't bother asking any either," said his mom. "I'll wait until he gets home." 
"We've got to get to bed, Mom, so we can go back to the city on the earliest train tomorrow morning." 
"Okay. Well, sleep tight, boys. I think I'm ready to go back to bed too," she added with a yawn. 
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What neither boy mentioned was that they would be up all night going over the files, paper by paper, clipping by clipping.
Dawn was turning the New York City sky from purple to pink when the phone rang in Peter Jones's high-rise apartment.
Groaning, he reached for the receiver, sleep still fogging his mind.
But his thoughts became clear when he heard what Frank Hardy had to say.
"Sorry to wake you, Peter, but I thought you'd want to know—we've found out who our enemy is."
Jones was suddenly awake and on his feet "Hey!" he said. "That's great!"
"Maybe," said Frank, his voice grim. "You'll have to decide that for yourself when you find out who we're up against."
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Chapter
1010
"that man's a monster," Jones exclaimed as he looked at the photo on the yellowing newspaper clipping later that morning.
"Just what I said when I got a look at him," agreed Joe.
The man in the photo was tall and horrendously fat. Rolls of flab bulged over the starched collar of his shirt. Piglike eyes stared out at the camera. The handcuffs binding his wrists together clearly were cutting into his ample flesh.
"Mob Chief Collared by Rookie Cops," the headline above the photo read.
"Listen to the story," said Frank. He picked up another clipping. "This is from the inside of the same paper. It gives the details. 'Nick Trask was today taken into police custody by two first
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year patrolmen, Fenton Hardy and Samuel Peterson, as the result of evidence gathered in investigation carried out on their own initiative over the past several months. The charges against the reputed mob boss include loan-sharking, extortion, kidnapping, drug dealing, and assault. Trask has refused all comment, but his lawyer William Sawyer, has issued a statement expressing confidence that the charges against his client will be proven baseless.'"
"That lawyer was wrong, though," said Joe showing Jones more clippings from the same file "Trask was convicted on enough counts to se him up for twenty-three years—and for their work, Peterson and Dad made it to detective grade in a couple of years."
"Listen to this," said Frank, who read from another clipping. "'After sentencing, Trask attempted to break free from his guards to attack the two policemen who had arrested him. Trask shouted a vow of revenge at the pair of patrol men, saying he would get them no matter how long it took.'"
Jones looked at the dates of the clipping "Twenty-four years ago. Trask must have been released last year—unless he got time off for good behavior."
"He wasn't that lucky," said Frank, the judge sentencing him said that no time off would be granted."
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Jones nodded. "It all seems to fit. Trask got out a year ago." 
"And now he's looking for revenge," said Frank. "And somehow in that year he's managed to recruit an army of crooks. I wonder where he got them all." 
"I can make a good guess," said Frank. "Each of the three we've pumped recently got out of prison. He must have gotten to know a lot of men in his years behind bars. All he had to do was set up a kind of employment agency for them when they got out. He'd have a huge pool of skilled labor." 
"But where did he get the dough to hire them?" wondered Joe. 
"A big-time hood like Trask probably had quite a stash hidden away," said Jones. "That might explain what he and his gang are doing underground. He could have held on to his money, but no way could he have hung on to his territory. His fellow mobsters must have taken over his turf, and there would be no way they'd give it back." 
"So he's using his supply of money and cheap labor to build a new crime empire," said Frank. "An underground empire this time—so big that it's scary." He shook his head. "And crazy, too. He'll wipe out the city, just for starters." 
"If we could just find out where he's operating from, where his headquarters are," said Joe. "I 
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could really go for busting in on him and getting my dad back." 
"I have it!" said Frank. 
"Have what?" said Joe irritably. Frank could never resist coming out with a teaser before explaining one of his bright ideas. 
"I have thought of the place we can begin looking," said Frank. "The city has to have records, right? They probably even have a tie-in to federal prison records. In addition to Trask, I bet they'll have records of the others who were in with him and have since been released." 
"They do have," said Jones, nodding. "It's all in a central computer bank downtown." 
"If we could just get at it," said Frank. 
"There's a chance we can," said Jones eagerly. "I'm going to make a phone call." When he returned later, he said, "We're in luck. The underground knows where Lardner is. They're sending him right up." 
"Who's Lardner?" 
"He's a computer expert, one who set up a lot of the city systems. But he was let go, right in the middle of a high-tech slowdown, and he wound up where he is now—in the underground." Jones glanced at his watch. "He should be here in a few minutes. That was the good news," he said. 
Joe and Frank had been sitting down, and by the look on Jones's face, they were glad they had some support under them. 
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"The bad news," he went on, "is that Ian—you know, the old guy you found in the bed—he died." 
Joe let his head fall back onto the top of his chair. "He died?" 
"Yeah. Doc said that the bug the crooks used on him must have been a doozy." 
"Dad—" Frank mumbled woodenly. "What kind of condition could he be in then?" 
"Look," Jones said, "Ian was an old man— weak to begin with. Your dad's younger. He'll make it. You'll see." 
The boys weren't sure. But they knew that feeling sorry for themselves would get them exactly nowhere. 
"Doc?" echoed Frank, coming out of his fog. "Doc who? Who's he?" Then he said, "No, don't tell me. Doc dropped out of his medical practice for some reason or other, then disappeared into the underground." 
His eyes twinkling, Jones nodded. "You're beginning to get an idea of how many different kinds of people live down there. There are a lot of ways to fail in the city. But there aren't many places to go if you do." 
A little while later the door buzzer sounded. 
"I hope this is the help we need," said Frank as Jones told the doorman to let the caller in. 
A couple of minutes later a small man dressed in faded blue jeans walked into the apartment. 
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After the situation was explained to him, Lardner said, "Yeah, I designed the data bank myself. It has real easy access."
"But how do we get to it?" asked Frank.
"That's easy too," said Lardner. He pulled out a set of keys from his pocket. "When I got canned, I took these as souvenirs. These are the sweethearts that'll let us into the building and, then into the computer room."
"What are we waiting for?" said Joe. "Let's go."
"First we have to make a plan," said Frank.
"Plan? What plan do we need?" asked Joe, his voice riddled with impatience. "Today's Sunday, in case you haven't noticed. Nobody'll be working down there. We'll sneak in, get the information, and get out. A piece of cake."
"Well, it's true we don't have much time," Frank said reluctantly.
"Then what are we waiting for?" said Joe eagerly.
Jones cleared his throat. "I hope you kids don't mind, but I'm not going with you."
Joe stopped in his tracks, surprised.
Jones looked embarrassed. "The risk is too great. If I were caught, I would be disbarred."
"That's okay, Peter, we can handle this ourselves," said Joe. "Frank is into computers."
"With Lardner's help, I don't see any problems," agreed Frank.
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It was Lardner's turn to look embarrassed. "If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon stay out of this too. I've been thinking about finding a job lately, and a jail record would finish me. So, how about if I just give you the keys and tell you everything you need to know." 
"I understand," said Frank, nodding. 
"Sure—no problem," said Joe. He meant it. 
As he said to Frank on the taxi ride downtown, "It must be a drag being grown-up and having so much to lose that you're afraid to take risks." 
"Yeah," said Frank. "Jones and Lardner aren't lucky like us. All we have to lose is our lives." 
"Always worrying," said Joe. 
Frank shook his head. "That's because there's always something to worry about. Sometimes I think it would be better to lead a slightly more normal life." 
"Oh, come on, you know as well as I do you'd be bored to death if you didn't have a mystery to solve." 
The expression on Frank's face remained serious. "This is one mystery I could do without. Risking my life is one thing. But it's Dad's life that's on the line now." 
"Right," said Joe. The reality of what could happen to their father returned. 
Just then the cab stopped in front of a large 
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building in lower Manhattan. "Let's go," Joe' said, psyching himself. "This is going to be a snap. I can feel it." 
"So far, so good," Frank admitted a quarter-hour later. "In fact, the whole thing—getting in the side door and up to this room—has been too easy." 
"You're like one of those guys in the movies," said Joe. "You know, the ones who say, 'It's quiet here. Too quiet.' Come on, relax." 
"I'll relax after I check out the access codes Lardner gave me," Frank said. "Too much might have been changed since he was let go." He sat down in front of a computer screen and looked at the piece of paper Lardner had given him. On it the computer whiz had printed very specific instructions. "Here goes," Frank said, and started punching out the first code. 
"It's working!" he said ecstatically, and punched out Nicholas Trask's name. 
Trask's case history flashed on the screen, including the name of the prison where he had served his time. 
"Now for the next code," said Frank. 
When he punched it out, he had access to the records at Trask's prison. He wrote down the names and addresses of prisoners who had been there during Trask's stay and who had been recently released. 
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"Interesting," he said. "Current addresses are supposed to be listed, but look at all the prisoners that have 'Address Unknown.'"
"I'll bet Trask recruited a lot of them," said Joe. "We'll have to track them down somehow."
"There's a listing of their families' addresses, and their wives'," said Frank, who was writing furiously. "That should help. Hey, look at that name. Helmut von Reich."
"What about him?" said Joe.
"I remember reading about von Reich," said Frank. "He was a doctor convicted of manufacturing some kind of phony cancer cure."
"I have to admit, sometimes your memory comes in handy," said Joe. "Although I hate to think what your brain must look like."
Frank was scanning the data on the doctor. "Von Reich was released almost at the same time as Trask. I think we can make an educated guess now about where Trask got his Virus A and Virus B."
"Yeah, I think you're right," Joe said. "And speaking of those viruses ..."
"Time to go," said Frank, stuffing the sheets of paper covered with names and addresses into a pocket.
But the brothers made it only as far as the computer room door.
Joe reached for the knob. But the door swung open before he touched it.
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"You kids find what you were looking for—or do you need some help?" 
Two policemen blocked the doorway. Both had guns drawn. 
Frank and Joe exchanged glances—they knew what they had to do. 
"Look, before you start asking questions, take us to Samuel Peterson," said Frank. "We have information he desperately needs." 
"Peterson? The Peterson, the chief of police?" one of the cops asked. 
"Right," said Joe. "Hey! What are you waiting for? Why are you standing there grinning? I told you, this is urgent." 
"Just hold your horses," said the second cop. "First, let's check what you've done to these computers." 
"At least hurry up about it. We have to get to Peterson." That was all Frank could say. 
The cop nodded but sat down at a computer. "It'll just take a minute," he said. While his partner kept a gun on the two brothers, he consulted a slip of paper and began punching keys furiously. 
Frank watched data flash on the screen, then vanish. It was like seeing a neon sign that kept going on and off. 
Then he realized what was happening. 
"Hey, watch it!" he shouted. "You're erasing all that stuff!" 
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The cop at the keyboard didn't bother looking up. His partner with the gun answered for him. 
"Yeah, kids, just like we're going to erase 
you." 
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93
Chapter
11
"don't worry," said the one with the gun. "We ain't going to rub you out—yet."
"First we have to take you to the boss," said the other one, snapping off the computer and standing up. "We don't do anything unless he gives the okay."
"But I have a hunch what he'll want us to do," said the first man. He laughed. "You kids better not make any plans for the future."
"Let's cut out of here now—before somebody finds that guard we stiffed," said his partner.
Joe and Frank were herded from the building. Nobody would think twice, seeing a couple of cops with their guns drawn covering two teens. But there was no one to notice. The early-Sunday
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streets around the cluster of municipal buildings in downtown Manhattan were deserted.
"Up here," said one of the men. They climbed some broad steps leading up to a huge granite building. In front of the building stood a statue of a woman who symbolized justice.
Joe and Frank exchanged glances. Why wer they being taken to a city courthouse?
The men let themselves into the building with a key, then took the boys down to the basement in an elevator. There they unlocked another door and went down a flight of hidden steps to a long underground corridor.
"Pretty slick, huh?" said one of the men, following the beam from his flashlight. "Last place anybody would look—right under the biggest courthouse in the city. Seems they built this tunnel along with the building a hundred years] ago, and then they forgot about it."
"Even better is where it goes," said his partner.
"Don't even try to guess where, kids," said the first thug. "You couldn't in a million years."
"Let me in on the big secret," said Joe sarcastically. "The suspense is killing me."
"Ain't going to be the suspense that kills you," said the first guy, chortling at his own joke.
"You can ask the boss himself," said his partner. "We're here."
They had reached a metal door at the end of the
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tunnel, and one of the men gave a series of long and short rings on a buzzer, clearly a code. 
The door swung open. 
Joe and Frank barely noticed the man who opened it because they were staring past him at a man rising from behind a desk. 
The guy looked like a body builder who had been stretched to six and a half feet. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans that showed the enormous muscles of his arms, shoulders, chest, and thighs. Even his head looked like an enormous muscle, with its shaven skull gleaming in the light from the naked overhead bulb. Salt-and-pepper hair bristled over the top of his shirtline. 
Who was this awesome character? 
The same answer crossed both Frank and Joe's minds. But neither of them could believe it. 
No way this rock-hard man could be the mountain of fat they had seen in the yellowing newspaper photo. No way they could be standing here staring at Nick Trask. 
"Don't tell me who you kids are," the man said with a thick New York accent. "Let me guess. The Hardy boys. Congratulations. You moved faster than I figured you would." 
"Hardy boys?" said Joe, putting on a tough New York accent himself. "Who you talking about?" 
"You got us mixed up with somebody else, mister," said Frank with the same accent. 
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"Come on, kids, don't waste my time," said the well-preserved hoodlum. "If you're not the Hardy boys, I'm not Nick Trask."
"You, Nick Trask?" said Joe.
"Don't kid us," said Frank. "I mean, I heard stories about him. You know, like he's a legend in the neighborhood. A real big shot. And from what I heard, a real tub of lard too."
"That was a long time ago," said Trask. "Over twenty years you can build a lot of muscle if you' pump iron day after day, getting in shape for when you get out.
"I was the youngest boss in the organization," he said. "I lived high, ate and drank everything I pleased. A great life. But two guys took it all away from me. Peterson—and Hardy."
"Hey, Mr. Trask, you got the wrong guys. We ain't no Hardys," said Frank. "We was just fooling around in that office, you know, for kicks, when your guys jumped us."
"That's right, Mr. Trask, sir," said Joe. "You let us go, and we won't say a word. I mean, we think you're something. In our neighborhood you're a regular hero."
Trask turned to one of the phony cops. "Frisk these punk kids. Fast."
The man did as he was told. He came up with an old clipping about Trask that Joe had accidentally left in his pocket.
"Nice try, kids," said Trask. "I didn't even need this to know who you are. I already figured
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you went back home to get at your dad's files when the people I sent to snatch them didn't report back. 
"When I figured you had your hands on the old clippings, I knew you'd use the city computers to check me out," Trask went on. "Well, both you kids were too smart for your own good. You didn't stop me from wiping out my records. And you gave me a bonus by giving me you." 
"What good is having us going to do you?" said Frank. 
"I ain't sure yet. But I'll figure out some—" Trask paused, and a smile made his face even uglier. "I just got an idea." He turned to the phony cops. "Go get the doctor. He's in the lab. I got a job for him. 
"We installed a lab in the subbasement of the building next door. Pretty neat setup, huh?" said Trask. 
A minute later his two men returned. In their custody was a slim, dark-haired man with a small goatee and big, bulging eyes. The man wore a spotless white lab coat, but his hands were stained multicolored by chemicals. 
Joe took one look at him and thought he was a mad scientist, right out of central casting. 
The guy's voice was mad, too, a different kind. Angry mad. 
"I was just coming in to see you, Trask," he said. "I told you two days ago, I need more supplies. And the company will not give me what 
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I need if I do not pay. Do not promise me that you will have your men hijack the stuff. They have' already made too many mistakes in what they have stolen."
"Look—" Trask started.
"I do not want excuses," interrupted the doctor. "I want to continue my experiments. You promised to give me all I need if I gave you what you want. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, and now you must keep your part. Or else no more virus."
"Your lab stuff is costing me a fortune, von Reich," Trask growled.
"You did not seem to worry about cash when we worked out our plan in the cell," the doctor said.
"How was I to know about inflation?" Trask muttered.
"Your financial problems do not interest me," the doctor said coldly. "I don't care how you get it, but I want my money. If you want to call our deal off, I can continue my experiments elsewhere."
Joe and Frank expected Trask to twist the doctor's head off. The look in his eyes said that he wanted to. Surprisingly, however, Trask forced a smile onto his face. He laid a huge hand on the doctor's narrow shoulder in a calming gesture.
"Hey, Doc," he said, "don't get mad. You'll get your money, and so will everybody else, as
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soon as the city comes through with the twenty million. And that will be just chicken feed compared to how much we'll rake in once we take over the whole underground. We'll be able to loot any store we want, transport any drug, set up illegal gambling, the works. We'll be as rich as kings. All we need is that twenty million to really put us into business. Just be patient a little while longer." 
"I'll be patient—but still I need more money for my suppliers," said the doctor. "And they deal in cash only." 
"Okay, okay," snapped Trask. "How's this?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Slowly he peeled them off and dropped them into von Reich's waiting hand. First hundred-dollar bills, then fifties, then twenties. Trask stopped with over half the roll still in his hand. 
"That's all?" demanded the doctor. 
"I got other expenses," Trask said quickly. He stuffed the roll back into his pocket, but not before Frank and Joe caught a glimpse of the top bill. 
It was a single. The boys exchanged glances. They both realized that the bankroll had big bills on top, but the bulk of them were small. It looked as though Trask had a cash-flow problem. 
The doctor, though, seemed satisfied. "Okay, for now we are back in business. I will go back to my work." 
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"First I got some more of my work for you. couple of new patients, sons of Mr. Hardy," Trask said. "They need treatment real bad."
"Treatment A or Treatment B?" asked the doctor, a hint of a nasty smile edging across his thin lips.
"Treatment A," said Trask. "We'll save B for the big moment."
With guns leveled at them, the Hardy boys followed Dr. von Reich out of Trask's headquarters. They were escorted down a short corridor and into a room filled with laboratory equipment.
"You first," the doctor said to Frank. "Lie down on the table."
Frank glanced at the gun trained on him. He shrugged and then obeyed.
Furtively Joe looked sideways at the gun trained on him. He couldn't make a move.
One of the phony cops strapped Frank down on the table, then stepped back.
Meanwhile the doctor had filled a hypodermic with a solution drawn from a tube stored in a refrigerator.
Both Hardy boys knew what the solution was.
Despite himself, Frank grew pale. The doctor,] smiling with evident enjoyment, held the instrument in front of Frank's eyes for a moment so] that Frank could get a good, long look at it.
"What's the matter, little boy, afraid of a tiny needle?" the doctor asked mockingly. "Do not
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worry. You will hardly feel it. And then, I promise you, you will feel nothing at all." 
Before Joe's horrified eyes, von Reich plunged the needle into Frank's arm. Almost instantly Frank's eyes bulged with shock and then closed just as fast, his face and body going slack. 
"Just lay him on the floor. It will not bother him in the least," the doctor told one of Trask's men. 
Two minutes later Joe was the one strapped on the table. 
He steeled himself so he wouldn't flinch when the doctor gave him a close-up of the needle. 
But he couldn't help shuddering inwardly when he heard the doctor's words: "As the saying goes, young man, like father, like sons." 
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Chapter 12
blackness.
That was all Joe saw. But he was sure he was awake. He was sure he had his eyes open.
Maybe this was what Virus A did to you, he thought. Maybe it took away your sight and made you think you were conscious when you were really still knocked out.
Was he running a fever? He didn't think so. But to make sure, he put his hand on his forehead. Or at least he tried to. He couldn't move.
He seemed to be tied up hand and foot, lying on what felt like the concrete floor of a pitch-dark room. But he had no idea what kind of room he was in.
Then the total silence was broken as he heard footsteps moving toward him. He tensed. He felt
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a foot collide with his side. Next a hand felt his face, forehead, nose, gagged mouth.
"That you, Joe?" It was Frank's voice that was] whispering.
Joe felt the gag being taken out of his mouth.
Before Joe could say anything, Frank said] hoarsely, "Keep your voice way down. This place might be bugged."
"Always playing it cautious," Joe teased softly. "See if you can untie me."
Frank untied Joe's wrists, then the rope around' his ankles.
"Easy as pie," whispered Frank. "Whoever tied us up was never a Boy Scout. I think this underground living is getting to Trask's boys. They're getting sloppy."
"You were tied up too?" Joe asked. He tried to rub the circulation back into his wrists and ankles. "How did you get loose?"
"When I came to, I rolled along the floor, hoping I'd run into some luck," said Frank. "And I did. I hit a wall. Then I made my way along the wall until I reached a doorway. The door was locked, but it was set far enough into the wall to leave a hard edge exposed. I used the edge to saw through the ropes around my wrists. The rest was easy."
"Do you think Dad is tied up in here?" wondered Joe.
"I doubt it. I covered a lot of territory in here before I found you."
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"How long do you figure we were knocked out?" asked Joe. 
"No idea," said Frank. "That Virus A is strange. It put me out like a light, but now I don't feel bad at all. How about you?" 
"All I feel is starved," said Joe. 
"We're really in the dark about everything," mused Frank. 
As if in answer to this, light from an overhead bulb flooded the room. 
In that first flash of light, Joe and Frank stared at each other. Their faces were streaked with grime, their hair was dusty, their clothes looked like dirty rags, but no one else was in the dusty concrete room. 
They didn't have time to talk. Without saying a word, they gave each other a nod, then dashed toward the door. There they pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the doorway. 
Just then the door swung inward. 
The two fake cops entered. 
"Hey, where did those—?" was all the first one had a chance to say before Frank leaped on him from the rear. Joe took on the second man. 
Three minutes later the Hardy boys had the unconscious men tied up and gagged. 
"Quick!" said Frank. "Let's get out of here!" 
They left the room, closing the door behind them, and found themselves in a dimly lit corridor that seemed familiar. 
"I think the lab we were given the shots in is 
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down there," Frank said. They headed toward where Frank was pointing.
"This looks like it," said Frank as he and Joe stood facing the closed door.
Joe took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing,"" he said as he pushed the door open.
We've hit the jackpot, was Frank's first thought when he looked inside.
Inside the room, Dr. von Reich was without bodyguards, though he was not alone. Sitting in a chair, looking pale but wide awake, was Fenton Hardy.
The doctor was standing with his back to the boys in front of Mr. Hardy, a hypodermic in his hand. He was poised, ready to give the injection. Mr. Hardy was not tied up, but he was making no move to stop the doctor. Frank ran across the short distance and grabbed von Reich's wrist, forcing him to drop the needle to the floor. Joe, meanwhile, wrapped one arm around the doctor's neck and pressed his other hand across the doctor's mouth.
"Make a sound, and listen to your neck snap," Joe threatened. Frank closed the lab door and quickly returned to the doctor and frisked him.
"He's clean," Frank said, hurrying to his father's side.
"No funny business, or we'll lay you out," Joe warned. Then he released the doctor.
"Dad, are you okay?" Frank asked.
He had reason to be concerned. Fenton Hardy
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had remained sitting in the chair. There was an expression in his eyes that his sons had never seen before. A bewildered, confused look.
"Okay? Yes, I'm okay," he said, but his voice was not reassuring. It was low, indistinct, as if he were having trouble getting his words out.
"It must have hit him harder than it did us," said Frank.
"You were figuring on shooting Dad up with more Virus A, huh?" he snarled. "And hitting us with it, too, I bet. That's why you sent the goons to get us. Well, unless you give us the antibody that cleans the bug clear out of Dad, I'm giving you a shot of your own medicine—or should I say, your own sickness."
Fear was apparent on von Reich's face, but the doctor couldn't resist giving the Hardy boys a superior sneer. "I thought you two were supposed to be bright. Hasn't one of you figured it out by now?"
"Figured what out?" asked Joe, looking at Frank for some clue about what the doctor was hinting at.
His brother didn't fail him. "I think I know," Frank said.
"And what do you know?" asked the doctor.
"Virus A doesn't exist," said Frank. "That would explain why we made such complete recoveries. And why Dad will, too, once he shakes off the effects of the drug you used on him."
"So you do have some semblance of intelligence,
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after all," the doctor said in an oily voice. "How reassuring to learn that not all of our young people are a bunch of—"
"Hey, wait!" Joe broke in unexpectedly. "What about Ian, the old guy we found underneath Grand Central? He didn't make a complete recovery."
"That's right," Frank agreed, turning from Joe to glare at the doctor. "The man's dead."
Dr. von Reich seemed genuinely puzzled. "I'm telling you the truth. There is no Virus A. I used a drug, not a virus. I don't know why he died."
The Hardys looked at each other. "So," Joe said, perking up, "if you have no virus, you've got nothing to threaten the city with."
"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you," said the doctor, wearing an evil-looking smile. "There may be no Virus A, but Virus B is very, very real. We merely decided that developing a Virus A was an unnecessary expense."
"So where is this Virus B kept?" Joe asked.
"Now, that, young man, I will not tell you. I must save something to bargain with. I will tell you, though, that you will never find it."
"I believe him. Let's go before somebody down here finds out what's up," said Frank.
"Yeah," said Joe. "I guess we can get the virus later. Get ready to move, von Reich.
"No, wait," he said, picking up the hypodermic from the floor and looking at it. "Good. It
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wasn't damaged. Let's see how fast this knockout drug of yours works, Doctor." 
"That's pretty gross," said Frank dubiously. 
"What do you mean?" asked Joe. "It'll put von Reich out of action, won't it? We can really make time getting out of here and be back with help before Trask realizes we've gone and has time to do anything about Virus B. Besides, the drug won't do anything more than knock the doctor out for a while." 
"Okay, Joe, I'll go along with your scheme. The question is, who gives von Reich the shot? I'm not into handling needles." 
Joe looked at the hypodermic in his hand, and his stomach gave a lurch. "Me either." Then he smiled. "Good thing we have an expert in the room." Smiling, and despite the doctor's protests, he handed von Reich the hypodermic. "Doctor," Joe said, "show us your stuff." 
"And what if I say no?" von Reich responded. 
"There are other ways of putting you to sleep," said Joe. He bunched his fist in front of the doctor's face. 
"You will never get out of here," the doctor threatened, rolling up his sleeve. "When I wake up, I will have the pleasure of finding you in my power again. And I assure you, Virus B is a far more interesting substance than this drug." A minute later, the doctor was lying unconscious on the floor. 
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"He'll be out long enough for us to reach Peterson and get help. Let's go," said Joe. Then he saw his father still hadn't moved. "What's wrong, Dad?" 
But before Fenton Hardy could answer, Joe heard another sound—the sound of the doorknob turning. 
Here we go again, thought Joe. He flattened himself against the wall on one side of the doorway, while Frank did the same on the other side. 
The door swung open. 
Joe and Frank tensed to spring. 
Then, without warning, the script changed. 
"Don't come in—my boys are waiting for you!" Fenton Hardy shouted. 
And everything froze. 
Joe and Frank couldn't do anything. They felt paralyzed. 
All they could think was that their own father had betrayed them! 
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Chapter
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"okay, file out of the room with your hands up," said Trask's bodyguard. He had been alerted by Fenton Hardy's warning shout. In the man's hand was an ugly-looking Uzi. But the look on his face was even uglier than the gun.
"Do what he says. Don't even think of getting the best of him," Fenton Hardy advised his sons, his eyes swimming with worry.
"No talk—just move it," the bodyguard snarled. He'd glanced into the lab and seen the doctor lying out cold on the floor. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes once the boss finds out what you did to the doctor."
Trask's face flushed with rage when he heard the news. "Wise guy, huh?" he said to Hardy.
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"You forgot what I told you. I got a good mind to] pull the plug on those dames of yours." 
"But it was the kids who did it, and they didn't know," protested Mr. Hardy. 
"That's what you say," sneered Trask. 
Desperation flooded the boys' father's voice. "Please. Believe me. You don't think they'd have tried anything if they knew." 
"Knew what?" asked Joe. 
"Quiet!" ordered Trask, whirling to face him. Then he turned back to face Fenton Hardy. 
"Okay, I'll let it go this time," Trask said reluctantly. "But tell your kids the score. From now on no more excuses." 
Mr. Hardy turned to his sons. "Sorry for fouling up your plans—but I had no choice. Trask's men have taken your mother and your aunt prisoner in Bayport. All Trask has to do is make a phone call, and Gertrude and your mother are dead." 
"Dad, he's conning you," said Joe. 
"Right," said Frank. "It's Mom and Aunt Gertrude who have the prisoners. We left them at home holding the goons at gunpoint." 
Trask gave out a hoarse laugh. "You really think a couple of women could keep my men under their thumbs? Your luck ran out. The situation in Bayport is reversed, and your mother and aunt are paying for it." 
"You're lying!" said Joe. 
But the cold contempt in Trask's voice chilled 
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him. "Want to bet on it? Want to bet your mother's and aunt's lives?" 
"You see why I had to stop you," Fenton Hardy said. "If we tried to escape, it wouldn't be just our lives we were putting on the line. And how could we really have been certain that Trask wouldn't have released Virus B in the meantime and wiped out the city? No," Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully, "the risk was too great." 
Frank and Joe nodded. They should have known their dad had a good reason for doing what he did. They just hoped he could come up with something to get them out of this jam. 
The brothers glanced at their father's face but couldn't see a glimmer of hope. He, like them, was alert, but the tight line of Fenton Hardy's mouth told his sons that he, too, couldn't see an escape. Time was running out for them all. 
Thinking about time made Frank ask suddenly, "Hey, Trask, how long were we knocked out? What's been going on?" 
"You weren't out long enough," Trask said. 
"Long enough for what?" asked Frank. "Long enough for you to get videos of us to send to Peterson?" he guessed. 
"That's it on the nose, kid," said Trask. "I told Peterson that if he didn't put his hands on the ransom real fast, all the males in the Hardy family would get it." Trask glanced at his watch. "Hey, you know what?" 
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Finally Joe gave in. "Okay, Trask, I'll bite. What?" he asked. 
"The time I gave Peterson—it was up five minutes ago. Let's see how much that cop thinks your lives are worth." 
Trask picked up his phone and punched out a number. 
"Was the dough delivered?" he asked. 
His face darkened as he heard the answer. He slammed down the receiver. 
"Nothing yet. Not a cent," he growled. "All Peterson left at the drop-off point was a note begging for more time. Seems the big-money boys want proof of what kind of danger they're in." 
Trask crashed his big fist down on his desk. The desk trembled. Trask was in his fifties, but the huge muscles in his arms were those of a younger man. 
"I'll give them all the proof they want," he said, glaring at the Hardys. A nasty smile shaped his thick lips. "You think three Hardy corpses should do it?" He faced Fenton Hardy. "What do you think, Mr. Big Important Man?" 
Before he could answer, Trask changed course. "Nah. A two-bit private eye and two baby boys wouldn't be impressive enough to make those fat cats cough up that big a chunk of their loot. Besides, Fenton, old buddy, I don't want you to die just yet. I want you around—that way you can 
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see what kind of guy you were dealing with when you tangled with me." 
Trask nodded at his bodyguard. "Come on. We're all going to the lab. Keep your guns on these jokers. You can never tell what they'll come up with." 
"Gonna check on how the doctor is?" the bodyguard asked his boss. 
"As far as I'm concerned, that creep can stay out for good," said Trask. "In fact, he's better off if he does. It'll spare him the shock of finding out that his share of the take ain't going to be what he expected." 
"Double-crossing your own partner," said Joe. "You're a real sweet guy." 
Trask wasn't insulted. If anything, he looked as if he had received a compliment. "In this business, kid, nice guys finish last. Dead last." 
In the lab, Trask poked the doctor with his toe. Von Reich groaned, then stirred. 
A cloud passed over Trask's face. "That drug of his ain't so good," he muttered. He bent down and picked up the hypodermic that had fallen to the floor when the doctor had passed out. Trask's face brightened. "Hey, Doc only injected himself with a little bit of it. I always knew the man was shrewd." 
By then von Reich's eyelids were fluttering open. He was struggling to sit up. 
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But a minute later he was back on the floor, totally unconscious. With a big smile, Trask had emptied the rest of the needle into his arm. 
Trask went to the lab refrigerator and took out a tightly corked test tube. A row of identical test tubes remained there. 
"Nice supply, huh?" Trask said, making sure the Hardys got a good view. "Enough to wipe out a whole city." 
"I can't believe it was right there," said Frank, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. 
Trask closed the refrigerator door, then, eyeing the test tube, he faked a toss to Joe. 
He chuckled as Joe instinctively made a desperate grab at thin air. "Think I'd trust you to catch this, kid?" Trask sneered. "You drop it, and we're all dead in about three minutes. A real ugly way to go, too. You should have seen how the doc's lab rats writhed around before they croaked. Ugly sight, believe me. Real ugly. 
"Tell you what," he said. He was clearly enjoying himself. "I'll let you carry the stuff." 
He handed the test tube to Joe. Joe held it carefully as he looked at it. The test tube was filled with a clear liquid. Joe tried to remember what he had learned about viruses in biology. It was hard to imagine that the liquid in that test tube was the breeding ground for millions of organisms that only the most high-powered high-tech microscopes could identify. 
"Unbelievable," he said. 
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"Gives you the creeps, huh?" said Trask. "Don't worry. You won't have to carry it far. Come on." 
Once again they walked down the corridor. This time they headed past Trask's office, not stopping until they reached a metal ladder. Trask climbed up the ladder. He gave five sharp raps on the trapdoor just above his head. Then he paused before rapping three times more. When the door was lifted, Trask squeezed through what, for him was a narrow opening. 
"Okay, the rest of you come up," he called down. "And, you Hardys, no funny business." 
While Trask's bodyguard held a gun on them from below, the Hardys climbed the ladder. Joe was extra careful because of his deadly cargo. They reached a dimly lit basement and discovered Trask standing next to a man dressed in a janitor's outfit. 
"Give him the test tube," said Trask. Joe obeyed. 
"Be careful of this stuff," Trask told the man. "Insert it the way we planned. Then clear out fast." 
The man made a face. "You don't have to tell me that," he said, already fiddling with a series of pipes. "I saw what happened to those mice. No way I'm going to let that happen to me." 
"Now we go back to my office and wait," said Trask, taking one last look at what his man was doing. 
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"Wait for what?" asked Frank. He dreaded the answer. 
"Wait for my man here to hook up the test tube to a timing device he's planted inside the building's central air-conditioning system. The device will smash the test tube open in five minutes." Trask wore a sinister smile. "After that happens," he said, "it should take about half an hour for the radio and TV people to report the tragedy. Maybe we'll hear even sooner." 
"What makes you think the story will get on the news so fast?" asked Joe. "It's Sunday, no one's around." 
"Hey, bright boy, I forgot to tell you what building my office is under," Trask said, gloating. 
"Some kind of courthouse, right?" Joe asked. 
"Wrong," Trask said, grinning. "We're standing directly under City Hall. Just think," he went on. "Peterson is having a special meeting with the mayor and the city council, trying to convince them that we're for real. Sunday or not, they're all there." 
A horrifying picture suddenly appeared in all of the Hardys' minds. 
"In a few minutes, they'll know they were wrong to doubt me—dead wrong." 
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Chapter
14
back in his office, Trask sat down at his desk, leaned back in his chair, and turned on his TV. By then four of his hoods had come in. The atmosphere was that of a big party. The thugs sat drinking beer as they watched a silent image on the TV screen. In no time, they knew, the program would be interrupted by some grim-faced announcer. Then the sound would be turned up again as they got all the gruesome details. Meanwhile, Trask had plenty to say to fill the silence.
"That twenty million is practically in my pocket," he said, licking beer foam off his lips. "The fat cats will fall all over themselves to pay it when they see what's happened to their mayor and chief of police. After that, I can start getting
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even with my 'pals.' When I got out of the joint, I found out what kind of pals they were—they'd divided up all my territory. 'Tough luck,' they told me. I was out in the cold."
"Gee, rough break," said Joe sarcastically. "You can't trust anybody anymore."
"So that's why you had to move underground," said Frank. "It was the only area in the city still open to you."
"You got the picture," Trask said bitterly. He grimaced at the memory. "Well, in just a couple of minutes now, nobody's ever going to get the better of Nick Trask again," he said, smiling.
But after a couple of minutes of watching the silent TV screen, Trask was no longer smiling. The same nature show was continuing. Trask got up and switched channels. Everything was normal, on all the stations. He snapped off the set suddenly and snapped on a transistor radio, turning to an all-news station. The announcer was enthusiastically reporting the score of a Yankees game.
Grabbing his phone then, Trask punched out a number. He shouted into the mouthpiece, "What's going on? Why didn't the thing go off?" Pause. "Well, go find out!"
Trask threw down the receiver. It hit the floor, carrying the rest of the phone with it. Picking up the jumble of plastic and cord, Trask shook his head in disgust. "Can you believe it? That jerk
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was just sitting around having a beer. He didn't bother checking to see what was happening. No wonder he wound up in the joint." 
The phone rang, and Trask snatched it up. "You sap," he exploded into the receiver after listening a minute. "You must've fouled up the timer. Get down to the basement and check it out!" 
Again Trask slammed down the phone. "The meeting is still going on at City Hall. They all should've croaked by now, like those rats or mice or whatever von Reich used in his experiments." 
Trask lit a cigarette. Then he noticed one was already burning on the edge of his ashtray. Stubbing both of them out, he stood up and started pacing. 
"Getting a little nervous, are you?" Joe couldn't resist asking. 
Trask was opening his mouth to snarl an answer when the phone rang again. He dashed for it and picked it up. "Yeah? What did you find?" he asked anxiously. His ear was plastered against the receiver. "What!" he exclaimed. "Are you kidding me?" 
He listened a moment, then let the receiver drop. His eyes had a dazed expression. 
"What happened?" Fenton Hardy asked. 
"I don't get it," Trask muttered. "My man went down to the basement. The test tube was smashed, just the way we planned it. The air
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conditioning system was working great." Trask's voice rose to a bellow of rage. "Then what went wrong? No one's dead!"
Trask shook his head in disbelief. "The guy must've made a mistake. I'll tell him to check it all out again."
He picked up the phone. After furiously punching out numbers, he stood openmouthed, waiting.
"Now this thing is on the fritz," he said savagely, storming out of the room. Almost as an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, "Come on, all of you. We're going to the lab. The doctor has a lot of explaining to do."
The Hardys were herded out of the room, and everyone followed Trask's trail.
Frank managed to whisper to Joe and his dad as they left the room, "For the time being, there's no way Trask can make a phone call."
The two nodded. They all knew what that meant. With the phone out, Trask couldn't order their mom and aunt killed. A chance to escape had just appeared—if they moved fast enough.
The trouble was, bullets moved faster. Three Uzis were trained on the Hardys, and the men holding them looked trigger happy.
When they reached the lab, Trask gave the bodyguard a nod, and the man took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
The Hardys glanced knowingly at each other. All three of them saw the bodyguard leave the
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key in the lock. When Trask led everyone into the lab, the door was left open. 
Another aid to help them escape. 
But the guns were still trained on them. 
Trask went to the doctor, picked him up, and shook him like a rag doll. 
Von Reich stayed out like a light. 
"The doctor's drug worked okay," growled Trask. "So what went wrong with his virus? He swore it worked. 'A hundred percent effective,' he said." 
Letting the doctor drop to the floor, Trask glared down at the unconscious body. He looked as if he wanted to kick it. In fact, his foot actually was poised to deliver a kick when, instead, he turned away. 
Having second thoughts, he turned back. Joe and Frank winced as they witnessed him deliver a vicious kick to the doctor's side. What if Trask's rage turned against them? 
But Trask had a more pressing concern. 
"Let's see if the doctor has anything to hide," he said slyly. "Some cute little secrets. The guy insisted on living in this lab. Claimed he wanted to be close to his work. But maybe he stayed here because he didn't want to leave his personal stuff unprotected. Maybe he had something he didn't want anyone to find." 
Trask stormed over to a corner of the lab where a bed and a chest of drawers were set up. First he 
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attacked the chest of drawers. His methods were crude but effective. He simply pulled out one drawer after another and dumped their contents on the floor.
All he found, though, were shirts, underwear, and socks.
By then three of Trask's men had joined him in rummaging around the doctor's living space. The remaining two kept their Uzis on the Hardys. The three prisoners were feeling restless.
"Looks like the doctor kept his bag packed," said one of the men. "Maybe he figured he'd have to clear out in a hurry."
He pulled a leather suitcase out from under the doctor's bed.
"Let's take a look," said Trask. He tried to open the suitcase, but it was locked. Shrugging, he pulled out a .45 automatic. The sound of the shot was deafening. Rows of empty test tubes on the walls trembled. But Trask wasn't interested. Not after he'd shoved aside the shattered lock and taken a look inside the suitcase.
"Dough!" he said, nearly pop-eyed. And at the sound of that magic word, his men gathered around him to stare at the contents.
"My dough," said Trask. "All the dough I gave the doctor for his 'experiments.' I should have known better than to trust a guy who was sent up for selling a phony cure for cancer. The rat was pulling a scam on me. Those test tubes must've been filled with a hundred percent water. He
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must have dosed his lab animals with poison to make me think Virus B was working. The double-crosser was going to take the money and run." 
His face twisted with rage, Trask reached for his gun and swung around. He glowered at the prone body of the doctor. His men, though, were far more fascinated by the stacks of neatly bundled currency in the suitcase. They stared at them as if hypnotized. 
Joe, Frank, and Fenton Hardy, though, didn't care about the money. They were more interested in the two guards who still had guns on them. 
And in the open bottles of liquid that Joe and Frank only had to reach out to grab off the lab table. 
They reached. They grabbed. 
I hope this stuff is strong, Frank prayed silently as he flung the liquid in the nearest guard's face. His brother's bottle followed quickly, splashing in the face of the second guard. 
The men's agonized screams gave the boys their answer. 
By that time all three Hardys were through the doorway. Fenton Hardy slammed the lab door and turned the key in the lock. "Move fast," he said, "before Trask can get to a phone and contact the men holding your mom and aunt. As soon as we're clear, we can alert the Bayport police." 
The Hardy boys needed no urging. In fact, they had to keep their speed down so their dad could keep up with them. 
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"We'll be out of here in no time," exulted Joe as they dashed down a corridor and whipped around a corner. 
"Not quite," said Frank. As they made the turn, they almost fell over their own feet braking to a stop. 
Coming toward them were four men, all brandishing pistols. 
"The other way!" ordered Fenton Hardy, and the three raced back around the corner and down the corridor. 
But they hadn't made it halfway to the lab when they heard the rapid firing of an Uzi. The lab door flew open, its shattered lock clattering to the floor. Trask and his men poured out, guns drawn. 
The Hardys wheeled around again, but the four gunmen who had cut off their escape were turning the corner and sighting in on them. 
Spinning one last time, the Hardys came face to face with Trask's fury. On either side of him, his hired guns were swinging up to take dead aim. 
"Uh-oh," said Joe. 
"We're trapped," said Frank. 
But their dad summed it up best. 
"We're dead." 
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Chapter
15
fenton hardy had another word of wisdom for his sons. It was based on years of experience.
"Dive!" he said.
Frank and Joe were already ahead of him. As their father did, they knew that guns tended to jerk upward when fired. Diving, they might avoid the first rounds coming at them. After that, though, they would be done for.
But lying flat on the floor, they heard bullets continue to whiz over their heads. What was happening? Trask's thugs couldn't shoot that badly.
Then the shooting stopped. The Hardys looked up and saw that the men who had cut off their escape were gone.
"Get up, before I leave you lying there—permanently,"
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Trask said, frowning down at them.
From their vantage point, they were looking straight into the barrel of his gun. His men stood behind him, their Uzis smoking.
"Come on, on your feet," Trask said. "And no more funny business. You Hardys are lucky I still need you alive."
Back in the lab, he told them, "So now you see what kind of friends my old pals are. I got a little short and had to borrow from them, and then, just because I got a bit behind in my payments, they send in muscle to collect. As if they couldn't trust me to make good on a lousy couple hundred grand."
"An honest guy like you," said Joe with mock sympathy.
"Kid, someday you're going to open your mouth too wide and find a gun rammed down your throat," Trask spat out. Then he said, "But I have more important things to do right now. Like get uptown to Grand Central. We can contact Peterson from there. We still have a chance to put the squeeze on the city for the dough. They don't know it's a bluff yet—and they'll pay rather than risk it."
Trask turned to his men. "Come on, you guys. And keep the Hardys covered. If they even look like they're making a break, don't ask questions. Blow them away."
Trask started for the door, the suitcase full of
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money in one hand, his gun in the other. Then he stopped. None of his men had made a move. 
"Come on," he snapped. "I said let's go." 
"You didn't tell us we'd be in a war against the mob," the bodyguard complained, and the other four nodded. "That wasn't part of the deal." 
"And we ain't been paid in three weeks," said one of the others. "That wasn't part of the deal either." 
"So you can count us out," said another one. 
"And we'll take the dough in the suitcase to cover what you owe us," said the third. 
"Hand it over," said the fourth. 
Instinctively, Trask started to raise his gun. Then, taking a look at the Uzis trained on him, he thought better of it and tossed the suitcase at the feet of his bodyguard. 
"Here," he snarled. "Take it. And good luck. You'll need it." 
The bodyguard grabbed the suitcase. He and the others were out of the room in a flash. They left the door open behind them, and their running footsteps could be heard heading down the corridor. 
"Those morons don't have enough brains to figure out that the organization has this place surrounded," Trask said. "Just like they cut off my phones so I couldn't call for help from uptown. Those jerks don't have a chance of getting out of here." 
"And you do?" asked Frank. 
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"You bet I do—and I'm taking you with me," said Trask. He motioned with his gun for the Hardys to move out of the room ahead of him. "I'm not beaten yet." 
"Just hold on a minute," Fenton Hardy boomed. His voice stopped Trask cold. "Have you thought about this—with that old man Ian dead, you're up against a murder rap. The best thing for you would be to turn yourself in." 
"But that guy didn't die from the virus—there was no virus." 
Fenton Hardy scowled. "You think the police will care about that?" 
Trask considered Hardy's words. Then a crooked smile erupted on his face. "Well, my dear friend," he said, sneering, "if I'm going to be sent up for killing one guy"—Trask's gaze swept over the three—"then I might as well kill three more!" 
Ten minutes later, after moving through a maze of corridors, tunnels, and an old water main, the group emerged into a subway station—or what was once a subway station. By then Trask had taken a flashlight out of his pocket. In its beam the Hardys could see elaborate tilework that was now cracked and covered with grime. 
"This used to be the City Hall station," said Trask. "A real fancy place once, from what they tell me. What you call a showcase. But the station's been deserted for years." 
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"What do we do now, catch the phantom express?" asked Frank, looking around. He felt strange standing there, as if he were in a haunted house. 
"Shut up and listen," said Trask. "Fenton, get closer to me. I'm going to be carrying my gun in my jacket pocket, and it's going to be pointed right at you. So if your kids get any ideas of making a break for it, you're going to pay." 
Just then a roaring filled the station as a train went by. 
"We're going down on the tracks," Trask said when he could be heard again. "We can make it to the next stop before another train comes." 
Five minutes later, people waiting on the next subway platform saw four figures—two mature men and two teens—emerging from the darkness of the tunnel and climbing up onto the platform. 
"Some people will do anything to beat the fare," one woman said to her companion. But as far as the Hardys could make out, everyone else looked the other way. 
Ten minutes after that, the next train finally arrived. The commuters jammed into the already packed cars. Trask stayed close to Fenton Hardy, who felt Trask's pistol poking into his back. Afraid for their father, Frank and Joe made no move to escape. 
After several stops, the train made it to Grand Central. 
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Fenton Hardy felt Trask's gun give him a painful jab, and he and his sons moved in front of the hoodlum and off the train.
"We're home free," said Trask, and fifteen minutes later they were underground again, in another of Trask's headquarters.
"It's practically payday now," Trask assured the six men he had gathered in the room. His voice was full of hearty good cheer. "Just a couple of phone calls, and we're all rich."
"About time," muttered one of the men.
Trask's tone changed abruptly. "One more wisecrack, and you're out in the cold. Got it?"
"Just kidding," the man apologized.
"You better be," growled Trask.
"That you, Peterson?" Trask snarled after reaching for the phone and punching out a number. "I hope by now you've given up trying to trace my calls. Now listen and listen hard. I want that dough you promised me and I want it fast. Don't jerk me around, Mr. Almost Mayor. It won't do much for your campaign if I kill the Hardys—yeah, all of them—and then I start on the rest of the city. You didn't know I had the Hardy kids along with their dad? Here. Pay attention."
He handed the phone to Frank. "Tell him the good news, kid."
"Peterson?" Frank said into the receiver. The chief sounded hoarse to him. He had the voice of
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a man who had been talking too much and not getting enough sleep. 
"Yes, he's got us," Frank went on when Peterson asked him to confirm. 
Trask took the phone back. "Convinced?" He smiled. "Good. Now, like I said, I want the money fast. 
"What do you mean, you have just five million?" Trask said. He'd been listening to Peterson's reply. "What am I supposed to do with chicken feed like that? It'll barely cover expenses." Trask concentrated. "Okay," he said. "I'll agree to that. You leave the five million at the drop-off point as agreed and get me the rest in two days. You've bought that much time—but, Peterson"—Trask looked at the Hardys—"you cross me, you even make me think you're crossing me, and your friends are dead meat." 
Trask wore a triumphant expression as he put the phone down. "I knew they'd chicken out. They don't have enough guts to see a few lousy lives lost. That's why tough guys like me always come out on top." 
"You're on the bottom as far as I'm concerned," Joe said, and Trask shoved him hard. 
Then the hood turned to his men and told two of them to pick up the parcel at the drop-off point. "It should be there in ten minutes," he said. "Keep your eyes peeled so you're not followed. I don't figure Peterson's going to pull a fast one. 
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Still, you can't be sure. He must be getting a lot of heat from the fat cats. They ain't into giving away their dough." 
After the men left, Trask gave the rest of his crew a little pep talk. "Boys, you've done good work for me, and when Nick Trask gets good work, he pays good for it. You know the dough I told you you'd get when this job was finished? Well, I'm going to double it, just as soon as that final payment is made. Plus all of you are going to have executive jobs in the organization I'm setting up. You'll be kings of the city, and I don't mean the underground. We'll be moving up in the world soon, taking over everything." 
It took just twenty minutes for Trask's messengers to return with a satchel. 
"Let me see that," Trask said, reaching out for it. 
He turned all his attention to the satchel. Putting it on his desk, he started unloading the contents—bundle after bundle of hundred-dollar bills. He counted the bills in the first bundle, then used that stack to measure the thickness of all the other bundles he took out. After counting the total number, he did a quick multiplication on a small calculator and announced, "Five million on the nose." 
But he wasn't quite finished. He took a magnifying glass from the desk drawer. Examining two bills closely, he gave a final nod. "Good," he 
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said. "Peterson didn't mark them. Guess he knows that Nick Trask is no chump." 
Trask then began to load the bundles back into the satchel, casually sweeping the two loose bills onto the floor. 
When one of his men bent to pick them up, Trask said, "Don't bother, that's small stuff. In two days you're going to have more dough than you can stuff in your pockets." 
The thug hesitated. Then, giving the bills a quick glance, he backed off from them. 
"You guys are in the big time now," Trask told them. "You've got to learn to think big. But, of course, we still have to keep on our toes. That's why I'm sending you out to make sure the cops don't try to find this place. You already know your guardposts, so get to them fast. Make sure nobody sneaks by you." 
Trask waited until the last of his men had left. Then, with his gun covering the Hardys, he went to the door and locked it. Next he bent over, picked up the hundred-dollar bills he had grandly swept to the floor, and stuck them into his wallet. 
"Never know when a couple of hundred will come in handy," he said, "though I won't really need them. Not with the rest of this pile here." 
Moving to the satchel stuffed with money, he snapped it closed. Then he picked it up, testing its weight. 
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"Not as heavy as I thought," he said. "I'll be able to make good time with it." 
The Hardys looked at one another. 
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Frank asked his dad. 
"The thought crossed my mind," he answered. 
"What are you two talking . . . oh, I see what you mean," Joe said. He shook his head at Trask. "Hey, Nick, I'm surprised at you. You wouldn't be thinking of stealing that five mil, would you?" 
Trask's grin grew even wider. "You Hardys are smart, aren't you? Sure, I'm getting out while the getting is good and the coast is clear. Five mil will do me just fine." 
"If there's one thing I've learned in this case," said Joe, smiling ruefully, "it's never to believe that stuff you hear about honor among thieves. Crooks are crooks, and that's it." 
"Hey, I'm glad you wised up," said Trask. "It's a real shame you won't be able to use what you've learned. The problem is, all you Hardys know too much, and you just can't stay alive." 
He leveled his gun at Joe, Frank, and Fenton Hardy, making a sweeping motion in front of their faces. 
"Okay, let's not waste time," he said. "Which one of you wants to get it first?" 
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the hardys looked at one another, each hoping the others would see a way out. But all they saw were helpless expressions.
"Hey, don't look so down in the dumps. I'm being a nice guy," Trask mocked. "I'm letting you choose what order you want to die in. So don't waste my time, or I'll let my gun do the deciding."
Before Frank or Joe could make a move, their dad stepped forward. He was shielding them now and looking up at Trask.
"Hey, that's nice, Fenton, real nice," said Trask. "You've lived a lot longer than your kids, so now you're going to give them some extra time. I'm sure they'll appreciate it for the rest of their lives—all one minute more."
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Then Trask paused, as if having second thoughts. "But maybe I shouldn't waste you first. I mean, it might be fun making you watch your own two kids get it." 
But Trask didn't have the pleasure of watching Fenton Hardy plead or squirm. He stood in front of Trask without wavering, his gaze level and hard. Finally, Trask shrugged, tiring of his game. "Okay, Fenton, I'll be Mr. Nice Guy. You get it first, and you can just think of what your kids will feel like when they watch you go." 
Trask extended his arm. He aimed directly at the center of Fenton Hardy's forehead. At a distance of less than four feet, there wasn't a chance in the world of his missing the target. 
Hardy, lips drawn tight, stared into the gun barrel without flinching. 
Frank and Joe felt sick to their stomachs. They couldn't bear to watch what was going to happen, yet they couldn't tear their eyes away from their last look at their dad. 
Trask's eyes shone happily. "I won't say it's been nice knowing you, Fenton. But it's sure going to be nice killing—" 
To Frank and Joe, braced for horror, the sound of the phone ringing was louder than a pistol shot. 
Trask was startled as well. His gun hand held steady, but his face swiveled around to look at the ringing phone. 
That was all Fenton Hardy needed. He lunged 
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for Trask's gun, grabbing the barrel with both hands and using every ounce of his strength to wrench it from his iron grip. 
But that still left Trask's other hand free—free enough to smash into Fenton Hardy's jaw. Still clutching the gun, he crashed backward against a wall, then collapsed in a heap. 
Trask snickered loudly and went after Hardy, his hand out to snatch the gun back. 
But before he could take two steps, Joe hit him around the knees in a perfect low tackle. Joe had brought down charging fullbacks with tackles just like it. But all he succeeded in doing then was stopping Trask's forward movement. 
The guy's built like a brick wall, was the only thing Joe had time to think before Trask grabbed him and tore himself loose. Roaring, he pitched Joe against the wall. 
Joe, half-stunned, desperately tried to clear his head. At the same time, he watched Frank deliver a perfect karate chop to Trask's upper arm. The chop looked as if it could have felled a tree, but all it did was make Trask grunt. Trask's other arm hooked around toward Frank in a vicious counterpunch that Frank barely dodged. But he couldn't duck Trask's kick. It caught him on an ankle and sent him sprawling. 
"Hey, Nick baby, look at me!" Joe yelled just as Trask was raising his foot for another kick that would have laid Frank's head wide open. 
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But the crook did what Joe hoped he would— he hesitated and turned to face Joe. Joe butted him in the pit of the stomach with the top of his head, his legs pumping like pistons. 
He has to go down now, Joe thought, hearing the whoosh of Trask's breath as it was knocked out of him. But he had hardly finished thinking that when he felt Trask's fist cracking against his jaw. 
Joe saw stars. Through them he made out the phantom shape of Frank charging Trask once again. But Trask smashed Frank. 
The Hardy boys were beside each other then, both of them reeling on the floor as Trask stood over them, grinning. The boys tried to move when Trask reached out to grab them, but their battered bodies weren't able to follow the commands of their clearing brains. 
Then each of them was being lifted off the ground, Frank in Trask's left hand, Joe in his right. They heard Trask's voice, harsh with pain and rage. "You punk kids figure two heads are better than one, I bet. Let's see how good your two heads are when I smash them together." 
Frank and Joe tried to struggle, but their bodies still would not obey. 
All they could do was brace themselves for the violent agony they would feel when their skulls were smashed together. All they could do was ready themselves for the inevitable blackout. 
But their luck held. 
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"Owwwwww!" howled Trask. Then his voice turned dull. "Ugh," he grunted.
Frank and Joe felt themselves released from his grip as, with a surprised look on his face and like a huge falling tree, Trask slowly toppled over.
Behind him Fenton Hardy stood with Trask's gun raised, ready to strike a third blow if necessary.
"I thought for a second he wasn't going to go down," Fenton said. "He's got a head like a rock. You kids okay? Good thing I came to in time."
"I've got nothing that a couple of aspirin won't cure," said Joe, rubbing his sore chin.
Frank looked down at Trask. "When he goes back to jail, they'd better not let him get at that bodybuilding equipment again."
"Hey, he didn't stand a chance," said Joe. "Not against us." He grinned at his dad. "All three of us."
Then the Hardys noticed something they'd put out of their consciousness during the fight. The phone was still ringing.
"Let's see how well I can imitate Trask's voice," Fenton Hardy said.
He picked up the receiver. "Yeah," he growled. "What do you want? And make it quick."
He listened for a minute. "What do they look like?" he rasped.
Another silence. The investigator hung up without saying goodbye.
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"It was one of Trask's men," he said worriedly. "He said they were being attacked at all their guardposts. But before he could tell me who was doing the attacking, the line went dead."
"Maybe the cops got to them," said Joe.
"Doesn't seem likely," said Frank. "The guy would have said that right away."
"I've got a better idea," said their father. "The mob must have traced Trask up here. And now they're coming to get him."
"It figures," said Joe, nodding. "I bet they captured some of Trask's men downtown. It wouldn't have taken much to make them talk."
"The mob isn't coming just to get Trask," Frank thought out loud. "They're coming to get us too. No way they'll leave any live witnesses around."
"We have to get out of here fast," said his dad.
"And lug big boy here with us," said Joe, looking down at the unconscious Trask. "What a pain. Maybe we should just leave him here for his old pals to take care of."
"Forget it," said his dad. "We're working for the law, not the lawless."
"Just a thought," said Joe. "Come on, Frank, help me move man-mountain here."
He bent to grab Trask by one arm. Frank bent to grab the other, but the sound of someone trying to open the door made them both
straighten up fast.
"Too late," their father said. "We're trapped."
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He leveled the gun at the door. "The only thing we can do," he said, "is try to take as many of them with us as we can." 
"Right, Dad," the boys said. But it occurred to them that what they really were saying was goodbye. 
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17
an ax smashed through the door around the lock.
The door swung open.
And Frank and Joe shouted at the top of their lungs, "Don't shoot!"
But they shouted their warning in opposite directions.
Frank shouted at his dad, who was standing facing the door with his gun leveled.
Joe shouted at the open doorway, where, gun in hand and in the same firing position, stood Peter Jones.
Both men lowered their guns, and both Hardy boys breathed a sigh of relief.
Jones stuck his gun into the belt of his seer
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sucker suit. Over his shoulder, he said, "It's okay. We're among friends." 
He entered the room followed by six men. All were carrying weapons. One of the men was a wiry Latino in a gray sweatsuit. The other five, three of them black, two white, all of them bearded and two with hair in pony tails, wore old army fatigues. 
"Meet my strike force," Jones said after the Hardy boys introduced him and their dad to each other. "Carlos here was once a lightweight contender. And each of these vets makes Rambo look like a Boy Scout. Those crooks didn't know what hit them. We took the entire arsenal we're carrying from them. As soon as we lifted a gun from the first one we ambushed, the rest came easy." 
"Lucky for us you decided to attack when you did," said Frank. "If that crook hadn't made that desperate phone call, we'd be lying there the way Trask is now. Except that we'd be dead." 
"It wasn't luck—it was underground people power," said Jones proudly. "You probably didn't notice it, but there was an old woman nesting down in the old City Hall subway station. She saw Trask herding you onto the uptown tracks, and she figured it might have something to do with the struggle up here. So she gave us a call, and I got our act together." 
"We'd better get our act together," Fenton 
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Hardy told his sons. "Your mom and Gertrude are still in danger. First thing we do is call the Bayport police and alert them to the situation. They can surround the house." 
Fenton Hardy was smiling when he put down the receiver after talking to the police. "I should have known that a couple of crooks couldn't get the best of Laura. When they tried some funny business, she laid them out cold. Then she contacted Collig and had him lock them up—with the understanding, of course, that he'd keep the whole operation quiet until I told her my assignment was finished." 
"So Trask was lying when he said his men were holding Mom and Aunt Gertrude captive," said Joe. 
"Why so surprised?" asked Frank. "Ever since we went underground, nothing's been quite what it seemed. I've been feeling like I wandered into Alice's Wonderland." 
"Yeah," said Joe. "This whole case was a great big web of lies—which reminds me," he added, "what did happen to Ian? How did he die?" 
Jones's face went slack. "Heart attack," he said sadly. "The doctor's drug was too much for him. If he'd been stronger, Ian would be with us now, celebrating." 
"Which we can do now, thank goodness," said Mr. Hardy. He picked up the phone again. "I can 
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hardly wait to tell Sam Peterson the good news. This whole thing must have been like a nightmare for him." 
But Peterson still had one last concern. 
He explained it two hours later in a very private meeting in his office. He'd asked Fenton Hardy, Joe and Frank, and Peter Jones to stop by. 
"When the media start asking questions," Peterson said after his secretary had left the room, "it's going to be hard to explain what happened. I mean, I appreciate the help that the underground people provided. But officially they're not even supposed to be living down there, much less doing the job of the police." 
"Which wouldn't exactly help your image when you run for mayor, right, Chief?" said Peter Jones with a smile. 
"That, too, of course," Peterson acknowledged. 
"I think I have a way out of your dilemma," Jones said, his smile warm. "And out of a lot of other people's dilemmas as well." 
"Oh? What's that?" asked Peterson with keen interest. 
"I'd be glad to have my people provide eyewitness testimony to how the police made an underground raid at Grand Central and caught the Trask gang. The raid was astounding, they'll testify, its success hinging on the help of undercover 
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cops disguised as underground people. That should go a long way in making you a hero. It might also make you a mayor." 
"And why would you do all that for me?" Peterson asked. His eyes narrowed slightly. 
"I can see you've started thinking like a politician already," said Jones with a grin. "You're right. I do want something. I want a strong commitment from you. If you're elected mayor, I'd like you to be sympathetic to the city's homeless population. Some people prefer to live underground, but most of them are forced to. And I think it's the city's job to help bring these people into the light again. Do you agree to help us?" 
"I agree," said Peterson. "And I also agree with what you said and want to help." 
"Will you put it in writing?" asked Jones. 
"I may sound like a politician, but you sound even more like a lawyer," the chief said, chuckling. "Sure, I'll put it in writing. In fact, I'll do even more than that to assure you I'll keep my word. How would you like a job in my administration if I'm elected? I'll need people like you around me—people who can keep me in touch with everyone in the city I'm supposed to serve." 
"Chief," Jones promised, "you have yourself a new aide—and I think you're going to have a whole bunch of very effective new campaign workers." 
Jones and Peterson shook hands firmly. The Hardys looked on. 
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"I guess we can be getting back to Bayport," Fenton Hardy said then. "We're leaving New York in pretty good hands." 
"Before you go, you have to promise me something," Peterson said. "At least your kids have to." 
"What's that?" asked Frank. 
"In a few years, when you're considering jobs, think about joining the New York City Police Department," said Peterson. "You're the best prospects I've seen since the old days when your dad and I put on uniforms." 
"Chips off the old block, Sam," Fenton Hardy agreed, placing a hand on each of his sons' shoulders. "Chips off the old block." 
"Come on, we're a couple of high school kids," said Joe. "We just want to have fun. No more crime fighting for us." 
And now it was the Hardy boys' turn to exchange great big grins. 
Hardy Boys 05
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
Danger in the Fog  
“SOMEBODY’S going to get hurt!” Frank Hardy exclaimed.
He and his four companions paused in the darkening woods and listened as rifleshots and loud laughter rang out from a nearby ridge.
“Careless hunters,” Frank’s brother Joe said grimly.
Joe was seventeen, tall and blond, and a year younger than Frank.
“Let’s go back to the cabin,” urged plump Chet Morton nervously. “I’m hungry, anyhow.”
Lanky Biff Hooper agreed. “We can look for a campsite tomorrow.”
“Unless Frank and Joe are called away to solve a mystery,” Tony Prito needled.
Frank chuckled. “There’s a chance we will—”
Smack!
A bullet thudded into a tree an inch from Joe’s head! 
For a moment there was stunned silence. Then Frank asked quickly, “Joe, are you all right?”
His brother gulped and looked at the gash in the bark. “I’m okay. But one inch closer—”
Biff Hooper’s handsome face flushed with anger. “I’m going after those fellows!” he declared.
As he spoke, three hunters came into view.
“Hold it!” Frank hailed them. “You men nearly killed my brother!”
“Why don’t you be careful?” Joe shouted.
“Sorry, boys,” one of the men called back casually. He and his companions did not stop; instead, they moved on through the undergrowth.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” Chet bellowed.
“Forget it, kid,” another of the hunters replied. “Nobody got hurt.”
“Stupid sportsmen!” growled Joe as the trio disappeared. He added to his companions, “You fellows nearly lost one business partner.”
The five boys had pooled money to build their own cabin and were exploring the deep woods north of Bayport looking for a campsite.
To relieve the tension caused by the near accident, Tony Prito said jokingly, “We’re used to the idea of losing you and Frank. Every time we start a project, you two get involved in a mystery.”
Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the well-known detective. They had solved many mysteries on their own and sometimes cooperated with their father on his cases.
Biff grinned. “Amazing! We’ve been here one whole day, and you Hardys are still with us!”
Frank winked at Joe. “We may have to leave,” he admitted. “Dad’s on a case out West and we’re hoping we’ll get a call to go and help him.”
The others groaned, then laughed. “In fact,” Joe added, “we might even find a clue right around here.”
“What!” chorused the Hardys’ pals.
“Remember when Frank and I inquired at the store about a man named Mike Onslow?” Joe went on, “Dad asked us to keep an eye out for him. Onslow lives somewhere in these woods, and he may have some useful information that ties in with Dad’s case.”
“Come on,” said Chet. “Let’s eat and talk later.”
The boys pushed on through the growing darkness. Fog was beginning to rise by the time they reached the edge of the clearing where their rented cabin stood. As they crossed to the crude log house, rifleshots sounded in the distance.
Chet winced. “Those careless hunters are still at it,” he remarked.
The boys were about to enter the cabin when Joe exclaimed, “Quiet!”
They all halted, listening intently. “It sounded like a cry,” Joe said.
The others had heard nothing, and finally went inside.
“Hope nobody was shot by those fools,” Tony remarked, lighting the oil lamp.
Frank and Joe built a fire in the fireplace, while Chet started supper on a wood stove.
“This is a bad place to get hurt,” Biff said.
The boys were ten miles from the nearest town, Clintville, and the only road was steep and rutted. They had borrowed Mr. Hardy’s car for the trip, but had left it in the Clintville Garage. George Haskins, owner of the town’s one hotel, had rented them the cabin, and his son Lenny had driven the boys to it in his jeep.
“It wouldn’t be easy to get help here,” Joe agreed.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chet announced. “Bring chairs to the—” He stopped short. From the clearing outside came the sound of running feet and then a frantic hammering on the door. Tony strode over and opened it. Lenny Haskins, a lanky boy, stood in the doorway, panting.
“What’s the matter?” Tony asked the youth.
“Frank and Joe Hardy have a long-distance call at the hotel,” the boy blurted, out of breath.
“From where?” Frank asked.
“Don’t know,” Lenny said. “There’s trouble on the line and all I could make out was that the person would call back in an hour or so.”
“Maybe it’s Dad!” Frank exclaimed.
“I’ll bet you’re right,” Joe agreed. “We told him he could reach us through Mr. Haskins.”
“You fellows go ahead and eat,” said Frank. “Joe and I will return to the hotel with Lenny.”
With the Haskins boy leading the way, the Hardys hurried across the clearing and down a trail through the misty woods to the road. There they piled into the rattletrap jeep.
“Hang on!” said Lenny, as they started a bone-shaking ride downhill.
Twenty minutes later the car reached Main Street in Clintville and came to a stop in front of Haskins Hotel. The telephone was ringing as the boys rushed in.
Mr. Haskins seized the receiver from the wall telephone. “Yep!” he shouted into the mouthpiece, then handed the instrument to Frank.
“This is Hank Shale,” came a voice, barely understandable through the static. “Your pa asked me to call and say he needs your help pronto.”
“Is Dad okay?” Frank asked loudly.
The answer was drowned out by crackling noises over the wire. Then the voice said, “Get here to Lucky Lode,” and the line went dead.
“Hank Shale is the name of the old friend Dad told us he’d be staying with,” Joe recalled. “But how do we know that was really Shale?”
“I heard the operator say it was Lucky Lode calling,” put in Mr. Haskins.
“That settles it then,” Frank said urgently. “Something has happened. We must take off right away and help Dad!”
“There’s a morning flight to the West,” Joe said. “We’ll have to make it!” 
After some difficulty, the boys managed to place a call to Lucky Lode, notifying Hank of their plan to start out the next day.
“Better eat before you go,” the hotel proprietor said kindly.
Gratefully the hungry boys joined Mr. Haskins and Lenny at a table in the kitchen. While they ate, Frank and Joe made their plans. They asked Lenny to take them back to the cabin in his jeep and wait while they packed.
“Then we’ll pick up our car in the garage, drive all night, and make Bayport by sunup. Another car can be sent back later for the other fellows.”
After the meal, the Hardys thanked Mr. Haskins and hurried out with Lenny. Soon they were riding up the steep hill in the noisy jeep.
Joe shouted, “We’ll have to move fast to—”
Crash!
The oil pan of the jeep hit a rock in the road. The vehicle lurched into the ditch and stopped against a tree. 
“We can soon push it back on the road,” Lenny said, as they climbed out.
“No use. We wouldn’t get far, the way it’s losing oil,” replied Frank when he saw the extent of the damage. “We’ll walk the rest of the way and you can go back for help or another car.”
Lenny agreed and hurried down the hill as the Hardys began hiking up the rugged road. Their flashlights were on, but the beams hardly penetrated the thickening fog. Often they stumbled over rocks and into ruts. The night was raw and damp.


  
The jeep lurched into the ditch!
Suddenly Joe stopped. “What’s that?”
For a second they both stood still and from the woods came a faint cry. “He-e-elp!”
“Come on!” Frank said tersely.
The boys cut into the woods on their right, and felt their way through the mist-shrouded trees. Low branches cut their faces, and once Joe tripped over a huge oak root.
Again they heard the thin call for help.
“Over there,” said Frank, “where the fog is denser.”
Cautiously they moved forward. Suddenly the cry came more loudly—from right below their feet!
“Careful,” warned Frank, feeling ahead with his foot. “There’s a ravine here.” Half sliding, the boys worked their way down the bank. At the bottom Frank stumbled over something bulky and there came another moan. He beamed his light on a prostrate figure.
“Here he is, Joe,” said Frank. The two boys knelt beside the victim.
“My leg,” the man groaned. “I’ve been shot.”
With extreme care Frank pulled aside the trouser cloth torn by the bullet. “Doesn’t seem to be much bleeding now, but there might be more when we move you.” Quickly the boys wound their handkerchiefs loosely around the man’s thigh to use as a tourniquet if necessary.
As they lifted the moaning figure, he fainted.
“No time to waste, Joe. He’s pretty weak.”
Joe peered around into the blanket of fog. “Suppose we can’t find our cabin?” he asked grimly.
“We must,” Frank replied. “This man may die if we don’t get him to shelter.” 

CHAPTER II
A Suspicious Summons  
TOGETHER, the boys eased the unconscious man up the bank. Then Frank hoisted him over one shoulder.
“Lucky he’s not a big fellow,” Joe commented.
He went ahead, beaming his light through the fog and leading Frank by one hand. Gradually the white mist grew less dense, and the Hardys could make out the shapes of trees.
“That looks like the oak where I stumbled,” Joe said. “I think we go left here.”
Progress was slow and uncertain. Finally Frank said, “If we don’t come to the road soon, we’d better stop. We may have lost our bearings and be heading deeper into the woods.”
To the boys’ relief, the man’s wound bled little. Just as they were about to turn back, Joe felt rocky ruts underfoot and exclaimed, “Here’s the road!”
Carefully he and Frank began the climb uphill and struggled to the top. The fog had drifted and lightened in spots. The boys trudged on. Finally, Frank caught sight of the path which led to the clearing. A few minutes later the Hardys found the cabin, and Frank pounded on the door.
Biff opened it and exclaimed in amazement. Quickly he and the other boys helped carry the man to one of the bunks and covered him. When Tony brought the oil lamp from the table, they saw that the man’s face was deeply seamed by time and weather. Joe removed the man’s worn woolen hat, revealing a thick thatch of grizzled hair.
While Frank cut away the victim’s trouser leg and examined the bullet wound in his thigh, Joe quietly told the others all that had happened. Meantime, Biff unpacked their first-aid kit, and Chet began heating a can of soup.
“We must get this man to a doctor,” Frank said as he finished bandaging the leg. “The bullet will have to be removed.”
The victim groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “Wh-where am I?” he whispered.
Joe quickly explained what had happened.
“Sip this soup,” Chet told the patient, “and you’ll feel a lot better. I’ll feed it to you.”
When the stranger had finished the soup, he said in a stronger voice, “Thank you, boys, for a mighty good turn. I wish I could repay you.”
“The most important thing is to get you to a doctor. We’re expecting Lenny Haskins to come for—” Frank broke off as the old man gave a start. “Is anything wrong?”
“Say! Would any of you boys be Frank and Joe Hardy?” the patient inquired in a feeble voice.
The two brothers identified themselves.
“I plumb forgot, gettin’ shot by that fool hunter and all,” the man went on, “but you’re the lads I was comin’ to see. The storekeeper in Clintville said you wanted to get in touch with me.”
“Are you Mike Onslow?” Frank queried.
“Yep, that’s me.”
“We asked about you, but the storekeeper told us you’d probably be off tending your traplines,” Frank went on. “He doubted we’d catch you at home, even if we could find your cabin.”
Onslow nodded. “My shack’s pretty hard to get to if you don’t know these woods. I camp out quite a bit, anyhow, durin’ the trappin’ season.” He gave the brothers a quizzical look. “What you want to see me about?”
“You’d better not do any more talking till you’re stronger,” Joe advised.
But the trapper insisted he felt equal to it, so Frank explained that their father was a private detective and had been engaged to track down a gang of criminals in Montana.
“Dad thinks they may be holed up somewhere in the country around Lucky Lode,” Frank went on. “He heard out there that you had prospected the whole area about twenty-five years ago and once tangled with crooks who had a secret hideout in those parts.”
Joe added, “He thought you might know of some likely spots to hunt for the gang.”
The elderly trapper sighed and settled back on the bunk. His eyes took on a faraway look.
“Yep, I know the Lucky Lode country like the palm of my hand,” he murmured. “Don’t reckon as I can help you much, though. But your pa’s right—I did run up against a gang o’ owlhoots.”
“Tell us about it,” Frank urged.
“Well,” Onslow began, “I was partners with two brothers, John and James Coulson, and a big redheaded daredevil, Bart Dawson. We were workin’ a claim in the Bitterroot Hills and we sure ’nough struck it rich.”
“Gold?” Joe asked.
Onslow nodded. “Real pay dirt—we thought we were fixed for life. By the time the vein petered out, we had three bags o’ nuggets and one of old gold coins we found stashed behind a rock.”
“Wow! What happened?” put in Tony.
“The night we were ready to leave our claim, we were jumped by the toughest bunch o’ crooks in Montana—Black Pepper and his gang. They surrounded our cabin, and we knew we’d never get away with our skins and the gold.” 
“How did you make it finally?” Chet asked.
“Well, Bart Dawson was an ex-pilot and he had an old, beat-up plane out on the plateau. We’d already put the gold aboard—easier than luggin’ it on horseback. While we lured Black Pepper and his boys around to the front of the cabin, Bart slipped out back and ran for his crate. The gang spotted Bart and chased him. We heard his motor, so we knew he got away okay. Before the varmints came back, the rest of us escaped from the cabin.”
“You met Dawson later?” Joe wanted to know.
Onslow’s face became bitter. “We were supposed to meet him up in Helena and split the gold four ways. But we never saw Dawson or the gold again. Funny part of it is, Dawson was a good partner. I’d have staked my life we could trust him. But I was wrong.” 
“Didn’t you ever hear of him afterward, or pick up his trail?” questioned Frank.
“Nope. Never found hide nor hair o’ him. After that, I got fed up prospectin’. So I come back East and settled down to scratchin’ out a livin’ with my traplines. I lost track o’ the Coulson brothers.”
Everyone was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then Joe asked Mike Onslow, “Have you any ideas as to where Dad might look for the criminals he’s after?”
The woodsman chuckled dryly. “Son, there’s a heap o’ places he might look—awful big country out Montana way. Them mountains is full o’ spots for a gang to hole up in.” The trapper frowned. “One likely place was in the Lone Tree area—a box canyon part way up Windy Peak. Accordin’ to rumors, that was Black Pepper’s hideout.”
The Hardys were excited by this information. “Thanks for the tip,” said Frank. “It’s tough luck, your getting shot tonight. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t started out to see us. But maybe we can make up for it.”
“Right!” Joe chimed in. “When we’re out West, we’ll try to find a clue to Dawson and your missing gold.”
“That’s kind of you, boys,” said the trapper, “but I don’t think there’s much use. If Dawson really stole that gold, there wouldn’t be much left after twenty-five years. All the same,” he added spunkily, “if you’re willin’ to try, I’ll help you if I can.”
Onslow scratched his head and was thoughtful for a moment. “Don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll draw you a map of our claim.”
“That’ll be a starting point, anyhow,” Frank said.
While the boys packed the Hardys’ gear, Onslow drew a map for Frank and Joe. “Here’s where the claim was,” he said, marking an X. “This region was called the Lone Tree area because of a giant pine which stood all by itself on a cliff. Every body out there knows Lone Tree,” he added.
As Joe tucked the map into his pocket, someone pounded on the door. It was Lenny. “Are you ready?” he asked, panting. “The jeep’s fixed.”
Frank told him about finding Onslow with the gunshot wound. Then the boys improvised a stretcher, and Frank and Joe carried the injured trapper out to the jeep. While they were placing him on the back seat, Tony, Chet, and Biff collected and stowed the Hardys’ gear. A few moments later Lenny started the engine and they took off.
“So long!” Frank and Joe called from the jeep.
“Good luck!” chorused Chet and the others.
When Lenny reached town, he drove straight to the local doctor’s office. Despite their hurry, the Hardys waited to hear Dr. Knapp’s report after the bullet had been removed.
“He’ll have to stay off that leg and have nursing care,” Dr. Knapp advised as he washed his hands. “He ought to go to the hospital.”
“I have no money for that,” Mike spoke up. “I’ll look after myself.”
“No, you won’t,” Frank said with a smile. “We’ll take you back to Bayport with us.”
“You bet!” his brother added. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude will like having somebody to fuss over.”
The injured man protested that he did not want to be a nuisance, but the boys won their point. After picking up their car at the garage, they drove all night and arrived in Bayport at dawn. Quietly they carried Onslow up to their room. Then Frank awakened his mother and explained what had happened. She smiled understandingly and soon she and Mr. Hardy’s sister, Gertrude, were welcoming the woodsman warmly.
“You look as though you’re in need of a good meal,” Miss Hardy stated. She was a tall, spare woman with a tart tongue but a warm heart.
“We’ll fix something right now,” agreed the boys’ slim, attractive mother.
As Frank and Joe hurried downstairs after the women, Aunt Gertrude clucked disapprovingly. “Flying around in airplanes, traipsing about the Wild West chasing outlaws! You boys are headed for trouble again.”
“We hope so, Aunty.” Joe laughed as his aunt sniffed and bustled into the kitchen with Mrs. Hardy.
Frank called the airport to check on their plane time and reported to Joe. “We have one hour to shower, dress, drive to the airport, and buy our tickets.”
“We can take our camping gear just as it is,” said his brother.
The boys wasted no time getting ready, and soon were on their way. They pulled up in the parking lot outside the air terminal with ten minutes to spare. Frank paid for their tickets and checked the baggage through to Cold Springs, the closest airport to Lucky Lode. Meantime, Joe wired their father.
As the brothers sank into their plane seats, Joe exclaimed with a grin, “We made it!”
“But we have to change at Chicago and Butte,” Frank reminded him.
As soon as the plane was airborne, a hot breakfast was served. After eating, the boys napped for a couple of hours. When they awoke, Joe took out the map Onslow had drawn.
“It shows the area around the claim,” he remarked, studying it closely. “But not how to get there from Lucky Lode.”
Joe was replacing the sketch in his wallet, when the pilot’s voice announced that they were coming into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. After deplaning, Frank and Joe checked at the airline ticket counter. A clerk told them that the plane they were to board would be three hours late in taking off.
Just then a quiet voice behind them asked, “Are you the Hardy boys?”
The brothers turned to face the speaker—a well-dressed man in dark clothes. “Yes, we are,” Frank replied.
“My name is Hopkins,” the stranger said. “I’ve had word from your father that I’m to give you some important reports. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop by my office to get them, so I’ll have to ask you to come there with me.”
Frank looked at Joe. They had never heard the detective mention Mr. Hopkins. The man smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re cautious,” he said. “But I assure you this is on the level. Your father called me this morning.”
The boys realized they did not know all Mr. Hardy’s associates. It was possible the man was telling the truth. Both Frank and Joe reasoned that Hank Shale could have mentioned Mr. Hopkins over the telephone, but they had missed it because the connection had been so bad.
“Whom is Dad staying with?” Frank asked as a test.
“Hank Shale,” Mr. Hopkins replied promptly. Then he added seriously, “The reports are very important, boys.” Frank and Joe knew they would have to risk accompanying him.
“All right,” Frank said. “Let’s go.”
“My car and chauffeur are right outside,” Mr. Hopkins told them, walking toward the door.
The brothers followed him to a large black sedan parked at the curb. The chauffeur leaned back and opened the rear door. The boys climbed in. Mr. Hopkins seated himself in front.
Suddenly, as the driver started the motor, both rear doors opened and two big, tough-looking men slid in, one on each side of the Hardys.
Instantly Frank and Joe realized this was a trap. Joe reached across to the dashboard in a desperate effort to switch off the engine. The two thugs pushed him back roughly.
“None o’ that!” one snarled as the car shot away from the curb. “From here on you kids’ll take orders from us. Don’t argue or we’ll shut you up in a way you won’t like!”

CHAPTER III
Shortcut to Peril  
FRANK and Joe gritted their teeth, furious at having walked into a trap. The two thugs kept an iron grip on the boys.
“Where are you guys taking us?” Joe asked angrily.
Hopkins turned around in the front seat and gave a nasty sneer. “You’re both going on a little trip. You’ll soon find out where.” He added gloatingly, “We knew that you’d show up at the airport today.”
He now addressed one henchman, a flashily dressed fellow. “Robby, gag these kids if they squawk. And you, Zeke, let them see what you’ll use on them if you have to.”
Zeke, who was wearing a brown suit and shirt, opened his huge hand and revealed a small blackjack. Without a word he gave the boys a threatening look and closed his hand again.
The car moved smoothly through traffic and the boys’ captors never loosened their grasp. After a long ride, the car reached a wide, store-fronted avenue in one of the Chicago suburbs. Slowing up, it turned down a side street and pulled into the driveway of a very old house near the corner. The driver parked in back and the four men hustled the Hardys inside. They went upstairs to an open hallway protected by a railing.
“Get in there!” Zeke ordered, and pushed the boys into a room near the head of the stairs. There was one window with the shade drawn and a table.
“What’s this all about?” Frank demanded.
Hopkins ignored the question. “Empty your pockets!” he barked.
Zeke opened his hand, disclosing the black jack. Realizing that resistance was pointless, the brothers obeyed.
“You won’t need this stuff,” Hopkins said, as tickets, money, and keys were laid on the table.
Going through Joe’s wallet, Hopkins found the map which Mike Onslow had drawn. Hopkins gave the boys a hard look. “Where did you get this?”
“What do you want with us?” Frank countered.
Hopkins’ eyes glittered menacingly. “So you won’t talk about the map. Well, you will later.” He folded the map and put it into his pocket. “The boss’ll be interested to hear about this,” he said to his companions. “Now tie up these smart alecks.”
With a sneer the driver of the car pulled several lengths of heavy cord from his pocket. Robby bound the Hardys’ wrists behind their backs, while Zeke began tying their ankles together.
As his henchmen finished, Hopkins snapped, “I have to get downtown. Nick, go out and start the car.” When the chauffeur left, Hopkins said to Zeke and Robby, “Don’t forget—I’ll need one of you a little later.”
“How about me?” Robby asked hopefully.
“You’ll do.” Hopkins glanced at his wristwatch. “There’ll be a taxi here to pick you up at noon—twenty-three minutes from now. Be ready.”
As Hopkins moved toward the door, Joe asked hotly, “How long are you going to keep us here?”
“Until your father drops the case he’s on.”
After a short interval there came the sound of a car driving away. Within seconds Zeke said to Robby, “Let’s go downstairs and eat some lunch.”
“And leave these boys?” Robby asked. “Zeke, you’re crazy. They might get loose.”
A crafty look came into Zeke’s eyes as he gazed at a closet. It had an old-fashioned wooden latch.
“We’ll lock ‘em in there,” he said. “If they try to bust out, we’ll hear ’em and come runnin’.”
“Okay,” Robby agreed. “And for safety we’ll lock the hall door.”
Frank and Joe were dragged into the closet and the latch was secured. The men left the room. At once the Hardys began trying to free themselves. Frank managed to back close to his brother, and with his fingers, work at Joe’s wrist bonds.
“We sure pulled a boner,” Frank said grimly. “Dad told us before he left that the gang he’s after is widespread.”
“What puzzles me,” Joe replied, as he finally extricated his hands from the loosened ropes, and untied Frank’s wrist cords, “is how they knew we were heading for the West?”
Frank shrugged as he and Joe freed their ankles. “We’ll find out later. Right now we must escape.”
Joe was already feeling around the closet. On a hook hung a slender metal coat hanger. “I’ll try this,” he said. “The door crack by the latch is pretty wide. Hurray! The hanger goes through!”
It was only a matter of moments before the wooden latch had been pushed upward, and the boys stepped out of the closet. They pocketed the tickets, money, and wallets, which were still on the table.
Joe whispered, “The hall door won’t be so easy.”
Frank had tiptoed to the one window in the room. He pushed aside the shade and looked down onto a shabby backyard adjoined by empty lots.
“Too far to drop down there,” he muttered. “We’ll just have to rush those men when they come back.”
The next instant came the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. Joe stepped to one side of the door while Frank crouched in the center of the room.
The key turned in the lock and the door burst open. Frank charged forward, butting Zeke squarely in the stomach. The blow sent the man reeling across the hall against the hallway railing. Zeke toppled over it backward with a shriek of panic and would have plunged to the floor below had he not grabbed one of the rails.
Enraged, Zeke’s partner seized Frank by the shoulder and swung him around for a punch. Joe rushed out through the doorway. His fist landed hard on the back of Robby’s skull and the man collapsed in a heap.
“Come on! Let’s go!” Frank exclaimed.
Zeke snarled and tried desperately to pull himself back up over the railing as the two boys dashed downstairs and out the front door. To their relief, they saw a taxi waiting at the curb, its motor idling.
“Boy! We timed things just right!” Joe exclaimed gleefully.
The driver, a thin-faced, hawk-nosed man, looked at the boys in surprise as they yanked open the car door and climbed in.
“O’Hare Airport,” Frank ordered. “Fast as you can make it!”
The driver threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. Frank and Joe looked back at the house. As the taxi reached the corner and swung onto the avenue, the boys caught a glimpse of Robby rushing from the house.
“I’ll bet he’s mad enough to chew nails!” Joe thought with a chuckle.
“I’d like to see Hopkins’ face when Robby reports what happened,” Frank whispered.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Joe asked the driver. “We have to catch a plane.”
The taxi driver glanced at the Hardys in his rearview mirror. “Sure. I’ll take a shortcut.”
He turned right at the next corner. After threading his way through several narrow side streets, the driver came to another avenue. Here he swung right again.
The Hardys were puzzled. Although the side streets had slanted and twisted somewhat, it seemed as if they were now heading back in the same direction from which they had come! Joe was about to protest when Frank clutched his arm.
He pointed furtively to the taxi driver’s identification card. The photograph on the card showed a chubby man with a small button nose. He looked nothing like the hawk-featured driver.
Joe gulped as he realized that this driver was an impostor—most likely one of Hopkins’ thugs! The boys had escaped from Zeke and Robby only to fall straight into the clutches of another member of the gang!

CHAPTER IV
A Painted Warning  
THE Hardys looked at each other, speechless. No wonder the taxi driver had seemed surprised! He must have guessed they had escaped from Zeke and Robby. But he had not dared risk any strong-arm tactics in full view of the neighboring houses.
Probably, Frank thought, he had driven around to gain time while figuring out his next move. Maybe the driver, too, had glimpsed Robby and was circling back to the house for help.
Joe wondered, “Could we tackle this hood without causing an accident? I’m afraid not.”
As if reading his brother’s mind, Frank scribbled a note on his plane-ticket envelope:
Hop out at first stoplight!
Joe nodded tensely. Two blocks later a traffic signal loomed. It was just changing to yellow. The driver tried to beat the light, but an oncoming car made a left turn, blocking his way, and he had to slam on the brakes. Frank nudged his brother toward the right-hand door and Joe jerked it open.
“Hey! What’s the idea?” the driver snarled as the boys leaped out. “Come back!”
Frank and Joe sprinted across the street. Reaching the curb, they glanced back. The driver was still snarling at them, but they could not hear what he was saying. Then the light changed and he was forced to move on in the surge of traffic.
“He may try a U-turn!” Frank said. “Let’s go!”
“Wait! Here comes another taxi!” Joe exclaimed. They flagged it down and jumped in. “O’Hare Airport! Step on it!” Frank ordered.
As the taxi sped off, the boys watched out the rear window. But no one was in pursuit.
“Whew!” Joe said, giving a sigh of relief. “Good thing you spotted that identification photo!”
Frank nodded. “That thug must have stolen the car from the real driver—and not just to trap us,” he whispered. “I’ll bet it was to be used for pulling another job!”
“Right! That’s why Hopkins told Robby exactly when it would arrive—they may be planning a carefully timed holdup!”
It was only a few minutes before takeoff when the boys dashed into the air terminal. Frank made a hasty call to Captain Jaworski of the Chicago Police, an old friend. Frank quickly explained what had happened and told the chief their theory that the gang might be planning to use the stolen taxi for some crooked job.
“The name on the real driver’s identification card was Ira Kleeder,” Frank added.
“Good enough. We can get the license number from the taxi company. And thanks for the tip!”
Joe, who was standing watch outside the telephone booth, rapped on the glass and pointed frantically to his wristwatch. Frank rang off, and the boys raced to the loading gate.
“We nearly left without you,” the stewardess said as she welcomed them aboard the plane. The Hardys smiled and found seats.
Soon they were airborne. The two boys settled back as the plane headed west.
“I’d sure like to know how Hopkins got word we were on our way to Lucky Lode,” Frank mused.
“The gang out there must have informed him,” Joe said. “Remember—he even knows that Dad is staying with Hank Shale.”
“Another thing,” Frank went on, “why should they be interested in that map? Is there some connection between Onslow’s claim and the gang? We’d better ask Mike to send us another map.”
“I can remember it pretty clearly,” Joe assured him, then added soberly, “Why didn’t Dad call us himself? I hope he’s not hurt.”
Frank nodded, troubled. Lunch was served aboard the plane. Afterward, the boys dozed.
At Butte they were wary, staying close to other passengers as they changed planes. No one bothered them, however. Soon they were winging their way in a two-motored craft over the frozen ridges of the Rockies toward Cold Springs, the small airport serving Lucky Lode.
The plane set down bumpily on a snow-covered landing strip. As the Hardys came out and gazed around, a sharp, biting wind hit their faces.
“Wow! This sure is different!” said Frank.
Pine woods surrounded the bleak, windswept field with its Quonset hut terminal and hangar. A helicopter and a tiny single-engine aircraft were parked near the edge of the field. To the west loomed the snowy Bitterroot mountain range.
“Brr!” Joe shivered. “Lonely looking, eh?”
“Sure is.” Frank replied.
As the brothers headed for the terminal, a hatless man in a plaid mackinaw strode toward them. “Frank and Joe Hardy?” he boomed.
He was a tall, handsome, ruddy-faced man. His white hair blew about in the wind. “I’m Bob Dodge,” he added, shaking hands with the boys heartily. “Your father’s working on a case for me in Lucky Lode. I came over in my helicopter to pick you up.”
“Why didn’t Dad come?” Frank asked.
“He had an accident—broke a couple of ribs. Nothing serious,” Dodge added, “but the doctor taped his chest and wants him to keep quiet.”
Seeing a look of suspicion on the boys’ faces, Dodge took a picture from his pocket. “Your father gave me this.” He held out a snapshot of the Hardys’ house with Aunt Gertrude standing on the lawn. “That’s your father’s sister,” Dodge said.
“Okay.” Frank knew that if the detective had been forced to hand over the picture, he would not have given Aunt Gertrude’s true identity. Mr. Dodge must be all right.
“We have to be careful,” Joe explained.
“I understand.” Dodge smiled. “There’s some stuff in the terminal I want to pick up. You two go on aboard.” He gestured toward the helicopter.
The boys started across the field. They were still some distance from the craft when a tall, thin man suddenly jumped out of the ship and walked rapidly away.
“Wonder who he is?” Joe asked.
“Maybe an airport attendant,” Frank guessed.
“If so, why is he heading for the woods?”
Frank frowned. When they reached the helicopter, he said, “I wish we knew what that fellow was doing aboard.”
Joe pulled back the door and looked inside cautiously. The boys searched the helicopter but found nothing.
Frank chuckled in relief. “Okay, we didn’t get booby-trapped. Let’s stow our gear.”
They climbed out and Joe was about to open the access hatch to the baggage compartment, just aft of the cabin, when Frank stopped him.
“Let’s play safe and check this door.”
“Good idea.” Frank took a rope from his gear and tied one end to the hatch handle. The boys backed off to one side. Frank tugged the rope.
Boo-o-om!
A deafening blast rocked the craft and knocked the boys off their feet. An acrid smell of gunpowder assailed their nostrils. 
“Good grief!” Joe whispered.
Pale and shaken, they examined the baggage compartment. A sawed-off shotgun had been wired and propped into position inside, evidently by someone working through a removable panel in the forward wall. The gun had been triggered by a cord tied to the door latch.
Meanwhile, the explosion had brought Bob Dodge and an older man running from the terminal. “What happened?” they yelled together.
Frank explained, and the two men examined the deadly setup with dismayed looks. Joe cautioned them not to touch the weapon so it could be checked for fingerprints. Dodge’s companion, who proved to be the airport manager, went off to report the incident to the police.
Frank and Joe took out their fingerprint kit and dusted the shotgun. No prints appeared.
“The man we saw at the copter wore gloves,” Frank recalled, “but I was hoping something might show up, anyhow.”
“The gun must have been wiped clean beforehand,” Joe deduced.
Soon two police officers arrived. The Hardys described their near-fatal experience, and reported the results of their fingerprint check.
“You’re detectives?” one officer asked.
Frank introduced himself and his brother as Fenton Hardy’s sons. “I see,” said the officer. “I’ve heard of him—rarely fails to solve a case. So you’re following in his footsteps. Well, good luck!”
The brothers turned over the weapon to the policemen, who then, with the boys assisting, made a thorough check of the helicopter. They found no clues, however, so the Hardys stowed their gear and followed Dodge aboard the whirlybird.
“That scattergun could have been meant for me,” Dodge remarked worriedly, as he started the motor.
“Or for us,” Frank said.
As the helicopter rose and soared toward the Bitterroot mountain range, Frank told Dodge of their being kidnapped in Chicago.
“What is the case Dad is working on for you?” Joe asked.
“I’ve been running an armored-car service for ten years,” the big man explained. ”Recently one of my trucks was hijacked and a money shipment stolen. Both guards aboard were shot. The money was insured, of course, but I wanted those hijackers caught to avoid any future holdups, so, knowing your father’s reputation for tracking down hijackers, I engaged him to investigate. My men’s safety is important to me. The police have worked on the case, too. They and your father managed to recover the money and catch two of the gang, but the others escaped. Someone reported seeing them in Canada.”


  
Boo-o-om!
The blast knocked the boys off their feet 
“Then why has Dad stayed here?” Frank asked.
“Because he believes the leader of the gang, Big Al Martin, is still in this area. Your father refuses to leave until he is found.”
“How did Dad get hurt?” Joe questioned.
“He was thrown from a horse yesterday afternoon,” Dodge replied, “while chasing a fellow he thinks is one of Big Al’s men.”
“And now Dad wants us to try to find the outlaws,” Frank surmised.
“Yes,” Dodge said, “and the sooner the better. Big Al’s dangerous—he belongs behind bars. The police know he has henchmen in other cities.”
As Dodge spoke, the helicopter shook and rattled in the wind. Below them, the boys saw wild, rugged country. Snow-covered buttes stood like gaunt sentinels overlooking heavily wooded valleys.
Presently Dodge shouted, “It won’t be long now!”
Ahead, in a mountain cleft, the pilot pointed out the tiny town of Lucky Lode. “Over to the left is Windy Peak—the highest in the range.”
“Have you been flying long, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked.
“I started taking lessons a couple of years ago and it came easily to me.”
“Have you always lived in the West?” Frank asked, but Dodge did not reply.
“Here we go!” he said, and began setting the helicopter down. Frank wondered if Dodge had not heard his question or did not want to discuss his past.
The pilot landed expertly in a clearing at one end of Lucky Lode. Then he helped the boys lug their gear to Hank Shale’s cabin at the foot of a steep hill on the outskirts of the town.
When Frank knocked, the door was opened by a tall, skinny man with thinning red hair. His wrinkled face split into a grin when he saw the trio.
“Come in and thaw out!” he exclaimed. “I’m Hank Shale. Your pa and I’ve been waitin’ for you!”
The boys entered to find their father seated before a roaring fire. Fenton Hardy was a trim, athletic-looking man. His keen eyes lighted up when he saw his sons.
“Hello, boys,” said the detective, and moving carefully, shook hands with them. “Thanks for giving up your camping trip.”
“We’d rather work with you any day,” Joe said, grinning.
Mr. Hardy smiled and turned to Dodge. “I appreciate your bringing my sons.”
Hank announced that he was going to the kitchen and rustle up some grub.
“I’ll help you,” Dodge volunteered. “The three detectives can sit by the fire and exchange news.”
In low voices the boys told their father all that had happened since they had left Bayport.
Mr. Hardy looked grave. “I agree with you that someone here must have informed Al’s Chicago henchmen that you were coming. But who?” He glanced toward the kitchen and called, “Hank!”
When the red-haired man appeared in the doorway, Mr. Hardy asked him, “Who was in Burke’s general store when you phoned my sons last night?”
“Just the usual crowd o’ fellers sittin’ around the stove,” Hank replied. “I had to holler on account o’ that bad connection, so they all heard every word.”
“Someone on the line might have been listening, too,” Joe remarked.
“I smell somethin’ burnin’!” Hank exclaimed and bolted into the kitchen.
“We’ll have to be on guard,” said Frank. “Someone probably will be watching every move we make.”
“Dad,” Joe asked, “what made you so sure Big Al didn’t go to Canada?”
“I was working with the police,” Mr. Hardy said, “when we caught two of the gang week before last. One of them told us Big Al was hiding out here, and meant to attend to some unfinished business. The police thought he was lying in order to sidetrack us while Al made an escape. I had a hunch it was the truth.”
“Why?” asked Frank.
“Because the man seemed scared and appeared to be hoping for a break at his trial. I started riding the hills trying to pick up Al’s trail. Yesterday I followed a rough-looking fellow on horseback. He met another man in a small clearing. I heard them talking and caught the words ‘Big Al‘ and ‘hideout.’ Just then my horse Major whinnied and the men galloped off. I gave chase, but Major stumbled and I took a spill.” The detective smiled ruefully. “Now I’m stuck here! Boys,” he added seriously, “your job is to find that hideout.”
Frank and Joe, greatly excited by this challenge, discussed it all during a supper of thick western steaks, beans, and biscuits.
“We’ll have to get a line on what Big Al’s unfinished business is,” Frank said, when they were seated around the fireplace later.
“In any event, it’s probably illegal,” his father rejoined.
Presently Dodge got up. “Guess I’d better get back to the hotel.”
“Are your offices in Lucky Lode?” Joe asked.
“No, in Helena. I’ve been staying in town to watch developments on the case. If there’s any way I can help you, boys,” the big man added, “just let me know.”
After Dodge had left, Mr. Hardy remarked, “Bob strikes me as a fine man. Never mentions his early days, but I’m told he started his business on a shoestring and built it up by hard work.”
“Speakin’ o’ work, who wants to wash dishes?”
Laughing, the boys took Hank’s hint and before long the kitchen was shipshape.
Finally the brothers went to bed in one of two small rooms which led off the big one. Weary, the boys fell asleep immediately.
Suddenly they awoke with a start. A rumbling noise was coming from behind the cabin, growing louder every moment. The brothers leaped from bed. At the same instant, the cabin was jarred with a deafening crash.
Frank and Joe heard Hank yell as they rushed into the living room. “Look! Fire!” He pointed to the kitchen where a bright red glow was visible.
The trio dashed in. By the light of the flames they could see that a huge boulder had crashed through the back wall, overturning the stove and spewing burning firewood over the floor.
The boys raced back to their bedroom to get blankets. Spreading them over the fire, they began smothering and stamping out the flames. Mr. Hardy had hurried from his room, but the boys would not allow him to help. Meanwhile, Hank had filled a bucket at the kitchen pump and was dousing water over the hot stove. The fire sizzled angrily but gradually died out.
“Tarnation!” Hank exclaimed. “Nearest thing to an avalanche we’ve ever had around here.” He lighted an oil lamp, and everyone surveyed the damage.
“What a mess!” Joe grimaced.
The cabin owner sighed. “A whoppin’ big hole in the wall, and some burnt floorin’. Well, I reckon I can fix it tomorrow.”
Frank and Joe started to push the boulder out through the hole, then Joe gasped in surprise. On the huge stone were brightly painted red letters. Rolling the boulder a bit farther, the boys made out a crudely painted message: 
HARDYS—LEAVE TOWN!
 
“A warning from Big Al!” Frank said grimly.

CHAPTER V
The Strange Blue Light  
THE three detectives and Hank examined the warning message on the huge rock.
“Big Al is a rough customer,” Mr. Hardy said, frowning. “Be on your guard at all times.”
“We’ll watch out, Dad,” Frank promised.
He and Joe shoved the boulder outside and looked up the hill. The moon had set and the mountainside was shrouded in darkness.
“No telling if anyone’s up there,” Joe muttered.
The two brothers shivered in the icy wind, and then squirmed through the hole into the burned kitchen. Meanwhile, Hank pulled on warm clothes, went out to a lean-to, and brought back a tarpaulin. The boys helped him nail it over the hole in the wall, then set the stove up.
“That’ll do till mornin’,” Hank said.
Frank and Joe were up as soon as it was light. After a quick breakfast they climbed the steep, snow-covered slope behind the shack, following the trail plowed by the huge boulder. The boys soon found a deep gouge where the stone had been pried out of the hillside.
“Somebody used a crowbar to get it going,” Joe said, kneeling on the ground.
“And here are some traces of red paint,” Frank pointed out.
They scouted around thoroughly, and noticed the snow had been disturbed, as if to cover tracks.
“Whoever pried that stone loose,” Frank said thoughtfully, “may have come from town rather than from a hideout in the hills.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not likely that anyone hiding up in the mountains would have red paint on hand. The person who did this probably got it at the village store.”
“Maybe Big Al has an agent in Lucky Lode,” Joe suggested.
The boys walked on up the hill. The undergrowth at the top was parted and broken.
“Someone forced his way through here,” Frank said.
They followed the trampled brush to a trail which led along the wooded ridge, paralleling the main street of Lucky Lode below them. Soon they spotted a narrow path leading down into the small community.
“The man we’re after could have come this way,” Frank said. “We’d better scout for clues.”
Slowly he and Joe walked down the steep, narrow trail. There were footprints, but these were too jumbled to be of any significance. They reached the bottom without finding anything else, then climbed back to the top and continued along the ridge.
After a while the boys emerged into a clearing. Before them lay an old cemetery. They crawled through a gap in the dilapidated wooden fence and walked silently among the gravestones. From the bleak, windswept spot they could see all of Lucky Lode in the valley below. The old part of town ended directly under the cemetery.
“Look at these, Frank,” called Joe, from where he knelt beside a double headstone.
“‘John and James Coulson’!” Frank read. “Mike Onslow’s partners!”
“I guess they came to Lucky Lode to try for another stake,” Joe said.
“You’re probably right,” Frank replied.
The boys decided to go into town and headed for the cemetery gate. Coarse brush grew up around the ornate posts. Frank passed through, but Joe was pulled up short.
“Wait!” he said. “I’m caught!”
Big burrs clung to his trousers. Fumbling with heavily gloved fingers, he managed to get free. Together, he and Frank pulled out all the burrs and the brothers scrambled down the slope.
At the foot they saw the deserted gray-weathered buildings. As they walked along the old wooden sidewalk, the boards creaked and the wind rattled the loose doors and shutters.
“This end of Lucky Lode’s a real ghost town,” Frank remarked.
“Somebody lives here, though,” Joe replied. He pointed ahead to a tumbledown house. A pale stream of smoke issued from the chimney.
Suddenly the door opened a crack and a rifle muzzle poked out. It was aimed straight at the boys!
Frank and Joe halted, not knowing whether to drop to the ground or run. But nothing happened. At last they moved forward cautiously.
The muzzle followed the Hardys until they came abreast of the porch. Then the door was kicked open and an old man jumped out, aiming the weapon at them. Frank and Joe stopped.
“What are you doin’ here?” the white-haired man demanded curtly, his eyes squinting suspiciously.
“Just visiting,” Frank said in a friendly tone.
“We’re from the East,” Joe went on. “Staying with Hank Shale.”
The old man lowered the rifle. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “Any friend of Hank Shale is a friend of mine. Come on in.”
“Did you expect somebody else?” Frank asked, as the boys followed the old man into the shack.
“Don’t know!” he snapped. “A fella can’t be too careful around here now. There’s funny things happenin’ up on Cemetery Hill.”
The boys found themselves in a plainly furnished room heated by a wood stove. They introduced themselves and their host said, “My name’s Ben Tinker.” He pointed to two wooden chairs near the stove. “Sit down and warm up.”
“What did you mean by funny things going on in the cemetery?” Frank asked him.
“It’s haunted,” Ben said flatly. “Has been for the past two weeks.”
“Haunted!” Joe echoed. “How?”
“Sometimes, late at night, a blue light blinks on and off up there. I’ve seen it,” the old man explained, “because I’m a night owl and like a breath of air before turnin’ in.”
“Has anyone else seen the light?” Frank asked.
“Doubt it. In Lucky Lode nobody’s out late at night. But that’s not all,” Ben went on. “About an hour after the lights show, somebody walks past here. I think it’s Charlie’s ghost. Charlie used to play piano in the Peacock Dance Hall next door. He was killed in a gunfight there forty years ago and buried up on Cemetery Hill.”
The Hardys were mystified. “Why do you think it’s Charlie’s ghost, Ben?” Frank asked.
“Because some nights I hear the piano—it’s still there. Sort of tuneless, like when Charlie let his fingers wander over the keys.”
“When was the last time you saw the blue light?” Frank queried.
“Night before last.”
“You don’t really believe it’s a ghost, do you?” Joe said.
“Might be. Then again might not. Somebody might be up to monkey business,” Ben admitted. “That’s why I keep this handy.” He pointed to the rifle leaning against the wall.
Frank, on impulse, asked the old-timer, “Do you know anything about John and James Coulson?”
“Sure do. They died in a mining accident about twenty-five years ago, after some highbinder stole a lot o’ gold from them.”
“We’d like to hear the story,” Frank said quickly.
Ben’s rambling account of the Lone Tree incident agreed with the version the Hardys had heard from Mike Onslow.
“What happened to Bart Dawson?” Joe asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” was Ben’s reply, “but he must have kept the gold. I saw him in Helena a couple o’ years after and he acted like he didn’t know me. Why would he have done that if he hadn’t been guilty?”
The Hardys exchanged glances. It certainly sounded as though Mike Onslow’s ex-partner had absconded with the gold! The brothers got up to leave, and Frank said, “Thanks for telling us all this, Ben.”
“Any time, boys. Come back again,” the man urged. “But stay away from that graveyard!”
As the Hardys walked down the main street toward the populated part of Lucky Lode, Frank suggested that the blue light could be a signal.
“I think so, too,” Joe agreed. “Cemetery Hill is clearly visible from everywhere in town.”
“It would be an ideal place for Big Al to signal a spy if he had one in Lucky Lode,” Frank remarked.
“Ben said the light has been around for only a couple of weeks,” Joe added, “and that’s about the length of time Dad thinks Big Al has been hiding out near here.”
“The footsteps Ben hears could be the spy returning to town after meeting Al in the cemetery,” Frank speculated.
“What about the piano playing in the deserted dance hall?” Joe asked.
“Maybe it’s Ben Tinker’s imagination.”
By this time the boys had reached the business section of Main Street. Frank stopped in front of the general store. “Let’s go in and see if we can find out anything about that red paint.”
Inside, a husky man stood behind the counter, slitting open cartons with his pocketknife. Frank asked if he were the owner.
“I am,” he said. “Jim Burke’s the name.”
Frank and Joe told him who they were, and he introduced the boys to several men seated around a potbelly stove. The Hardys noticed that the town post office, telephone switchboard, and telegraph office were also in the store.
“You must know everything that’s going on in town, Mr. Burke,” Joe said, smiling.
“That’s right,” the man answered with a wink.
“Could you tell us which stores here stock red paint?” Frank asked.
Burke chuckled. “This is the only store there is,” he replied. “I carry it. You want some?”
“No,” said Joe. “We’d like to find out if anyone bought red paint in the past few weeks.”
“No one,” Burke told him promptly. “I’d remember because I don’t sell much of it. Why?”
While Frank described the boulder attack on Hank’s cabin, he and Joe watched their listeners’ faces. None showed any sign of guilt. The Hardys told about meeting Ben Tinker and asked if anyone else had seen the blue light at the top of Cemetery Hill.
Burke laughed. “Ben Tinker’s always imaginin’ things.”
One of the other men guffawed. “A couple of weeks ago he was seein’ men from outer space.”
The Hardys did not believe this but made no comment. They left the store and went back to their cabin. Here they found Hank Shale and their father repairing the damaged wall.
“You’d better take it easy, Dad,” Joe said with concern.
“Oh, I haven’t been exerting myself.” Fenton Hardy grinned at his sons. “I have to find some way to work off a little energy.”
While Hank fixed lunch, Frank and Joe related what they had found out.
“Ben is an old man,” Hank put in as he dished out a sizzling plateful of ham and eggs, “but he’s not loco. Still, the whole story, blue lights and all, might be just his imagination.”
That afternoon the boys insisted that their father remain quiet while they helped Hank rebuild the cabin wall. By nightfall the job was done.
While they were relaxing in front of the fire after supper, Hank told the boys where they could rent horses to search for Big Al’s hideout. “I only have my mare Daisy,” he added, “and she’s none too young and spry.”
“There are a number of abandoned mines in this area,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “I suggest you investigate them.”
“But watch out for tommy-knockers,” Hank warned with a grin.
“Tommy-knockers? What’re they?” Joe asked.
“Some kind o’ gnomes or spirits or suchlike that live underground. Old-time miners used to say that if you heard one knockin’, it meant there was about to be an accident.”
“Okay. If we hear any, we’ll watch our step,” Frank promised jokingly. “By the way, we’d like to search the Lone Tree area. Where was Mike Onslow’s claim located?”
“Nobody knows, any more,” Hank said, scratching his head. “The Lone Tree territory’s too big for you fellows to cover alone.”
He drew them a sketch, showing the location of Lone Tree and deserted mines in the area. Frank and Joe decided which ones they would try next day.
Later, the brothers walked down to the livery stable on Main Street and rented horses for their expedition. The boys rode back to the cabin and stabled the animals in Hank’s lean-to. When they returned, Hank and Mr. Hardy were asleep, but the boys sat up for a while and discussed the mystery. They became aware that the wind had risen and was whipping around the cabin.
“We’d better take a look at the horses,” Frank suggested.
Bundling into their heavy jackets, the boys went outside. The lean-to was snugly built and the animals seemed comfortable. Satisfied, Frank and Joe started back. As they rounded the corner of Hank’s cabin, they stopped short.
“Look!” breathed Joe.
Clearly visible on the top of Cemetery Hill was a winking blue light!

CHAPTER VI
Ghost Music  
“LET’S go up there!” urged Frank, grabbing Joe’s arm.
As quickly and quietly as possible, the boys scaled the hill in back of Hank’s cabin and hurried along the ridge trail toward the graveyard. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Frank and Joe paused in the shelter of the trees.
The night was moonless but the northern lights made great colored streaks across the sky. In a back corner of the cemetery, the brothers spotted a tall, thin figure.
“Probably the person who signaled with the blue light!” Joe whispered.
Crouching low, the young detectives crept through the broken fence. They moved forward soundlessly to a large stone monument and knelt behind it. The Hardys wished they could get closer to the man, but that gravestone was the only one large enough to afford them cover.
The man paced about restlessly, stamping his feet and huddling his shoulders for warmth. Presently the boys heard the sound of footsteps in the front of the cemetery. A second figure, big and bulky, approached the first. The newcomer’s cap was pulled low, and his face appeared to be muffled for protection against the bitter cold. He took up a position with his back turned to the two brothers.
As the thin man spoke, Frank and Joe strained their ears to hear above the roaring of the wind. They were able to catch only a part of the conversation.
“... Big Al’s plenty mad,” the first man was saying. “He gave me special orders for you tonight, Slip Gun.”
The big man was silent, apparently waiting for the speaker to continue.
“He wants you to keep the Hardy boys bottled up in town,” the thin man went on. “Also, be sure to tip him off on every move they make.”
The other man’s muffled response was drowned by the wind. Evidently he had asked a question.
“No luck yet,” the tall figure declared. “He’d better forget ... that special business ... it’s hopeless ... meeting day after tomorrow ... wants ... the usual stuff.”
“Where?”
“Shadow of the Bear,” answered the thin man.
The next instant there came the loud crack of breaking twigs. Both men whirled toward the noise. The boys held their breath. Was somebody else in the graveyard?
After a long silence, the thin man said, “Tomorrow Jake and I . . . with the boss ... Brady’s Mine. It’s one that ain’t flooded.”
Frank’s and Joe’s hearts jumped with excitement, but the wind rose to a howl and they could hear no more. The men murmured together for a few minutes, then parted.
The thin man moved past the Hardys’ hiding place. He slipped through the gap in the fence and quickly disappeared into the woods. Soon afterward, the boys heard a horse whinny and a brief clatter of hoofs on rocky ground.
“No chance of following him,” Joe muttered. “He might have led us to the gang’s hideout, too.” 
Just then the other man trudged by. The boys waited tensely until the bulky figure reached the gate.
“Joe,” whispered Frank, “we can still find out who Big Al’s spy in town is.”
Cautiously the boys started toward the cemetery gate. They could hear the big man ahead, slipping and slithering along over the stony, snow-covered hill. The Hardys followed him as closely as they dared, moving furtively from one patch of scrub brush to another.
Suddenly Frank stopped short to listen. He thought he had heard a noise behind them and seized his brother’s arm to alert him. Startled, Joe slipped and nearly fell. A shower of stones cascaded down the hill!
There was silence on the dark slope. Frank and Joe stood motionless, listening intently. They could imagine the burly figure ahead listening as well. Then, from behind them, another rock came tumbling down.
Joe nudged Frank. “We didn’t cause that! Someone’s following us!”
Had the thin man spotted them, the Hardys wondered, and doubled back to stalk them? Or had a third person been in the cemetery, as they suspected?
The brothers scanned the hill above, but could see no one. “He’s probably hiding behind boulders or scrub,” Frank whispered.
After a while the Hardys thought they detected sounds of movement below them. Warily they descended, alert for any possible attack from the rear.
By the time they reached the foot of the hill, Frank and Joe had drawn close enough to their quarry to spot his shadowy figure disappearing into the ghost town. The boys trod stealthily on the snow-crusted wooden sidewalk, hugging the buildings. Ahead they could hear the man’s footsteps and see his bulky, muffled shape. Suddenly he vanished into the sagging shell of a deserted building.
The Hardys quickened their pace and peered around the corner of the building. They were just in time to see the man emerge from the rear. He whirled about and ran to the far side of the adjoining building.
Frank darted in pursuit and saw the man return to the street. When Frank reached the sidewalk again, Joe was at his elbow, silent as a shadow. Ahead, the man was hurrying down the street toward the other end of town.
“He knows he’s being followed,” Joe whispered, “and is trying to shake us.”
“Come on, or we’ll lose him!” Frank urged.
Flinging caution aside, the boys broke into a run, their steps pounding on the plank walk. Apparently their quarry heard them and immediately stepped up his own pace. A moment later the dim figure melted into the darkness between two old buildings. Frank and Joe reached the spot in a few seconds.
“This way!” Frank urged in a low voice, and the Hardys plunged into the shadowy gloom of the narrow passageway.
Behind the two structures, the brothers found themselves in an area overgrown with weeds and brush which merged into the trees on the hillside. Frank and Joe halted, straining their eyes in the darkness and listening intently. Nothing could be heard but the wind—then the howl of a wolf somewhere beyond the ridge.
“Looks as if he’s given us the slip,” Joe muttered.
The boys flicked on their flashlights and searched about. They finally picked out the fugitive’s prints, but his tracks led to the hard-trampled roadway and became indistinguishable. Baffled, the Hardys started back through the ghost town on their way to Hank’s cabin.
“Of all the luck!” Joe grumbled. “We almost had our hands on that spy!”
“At least we’ve learned one thing about him,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“What’s that?”
“His nickname. The man he met in the cemetery called him ‘Slip Gun.’”
“You’re right! I almost forgot,” Joe said. “Maybe it’ll help us trace him, if we can find out what it means. Any idea?”
Frank shook his head. “Not a glimmer, except that it sounds like a cowboy expression. Maybe Hank can tell us.”
As they approached Ben Tinker’s place, the brothers noticed that the windows were dark. Frank and Joe paused at the shack to listen, and heard a steady wheezing snore coming from inside.
“Good thing the old man’s asleep”—Frank chuckled—“or he might have started shooting at us!”
The Hardys resumed their pace. They were about to go past the deserted dance hall next door, when suddenly they froze in their tracks. Both Frank and Joe felt the hair on their necks rise and cold chills sweep up and down their spines.
From the abandoned hall, through the moan of the wind, came the sound of piano playing.
Tinker’s ghost music!

CHAPTER VII
A Rooftop Struggle  
THE wind suddenly died down and in the eerie silence Frank and Joe again heard the tinkle of the piano keys coming from the deserted dance hall.
Joe murmured, “Here’s one mystery we can solve tonight! Let’s find out what goes on in here!” 
“Right.”
Moving lightly over the wooden sidewalk, the boys approached the dance-hall entrance. The weird, tuneless music stopped.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “Maybe we’ve scared the spook away,” Frank whispered half jokingly.
As if in answer, the music started once more. This time both the treble and bass keys of the piano sounded.
Quickly the Hardys drew flashlights from their jacket pockets and stepped inside. The searchers snapped on their flashlights and played the beams about the interior.
The music stopped again.
The room was sparsely furnished with a few rickety tables and chairs, heavily coated with dust. Ancient oil-lamp chandeliers, festooned with cobwebs, dangled from the ceiling.
At that moment the piano resumed its tinkling. Outside, the wind howled and shutters banged.
“Boy! This place is really creepy!” said Joe with a shudder.
Frank gripped his brother’s arm. “Look there!”
The boys’ lights now fell on a raised dais at one end of the room. On it stood a battered upright piano.
The Hardys stared in astonishment as the music continued. “The piano’s playing by itself!” Joe exclaimed.
Quickly the brothers crossed the room and Frank lifted the top of the old piano. He shone his flashlight inside. There was a sudden squeaking and twanging of wires.
“For Pete’s sake!” he burst out, as several rats scampered out of the piano, jumped down to the floor, and scurried away.
The boys laughed heartily. “There goes Tinker’s ghost music,” Frank said.
“Talented rats.” Joe grinned.
Suddenly, from the direction of the doorway, they heard the sidewalk creak. The boys whirled as a low, flat voice snarled, “You kids have been askin’ for it!”
Frank and Joe barely had time to glimpse a head—masked by a ghostlike hood with eyeholes —above the swinging doors. Then a gloved hand jerked into view, clutching a short-barreled revolver, the thumb cocking back the hammer. There was a spurt of flame.
Bang! A bullet whistled across the room and thudded into the piano. The Hardys dived from the dais, snapping off their flashlights and crashing into the tables and chairs below.
As the echoes of the shot died away, Frank picked up a broken chair and hurled it in the general direction of the gun flash.
There was a grunt as the chair connected, then the Hardys could hear the gunman’s feet scraping across the floor. He was stalking them in the darkness!
The boys separated instinctively to divide his attention. Frank crept off to the right and Joe to the left.
Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. In two long strides he reached the window and leaped through it into the darkness outside.
Crash! Bang!
There was no glass in the window, but Frank’s weight had carried away the crosspieces of the frame. He landed feet first. A moment later he saw a figure struggling through the window, grunting with the effort. The masked man! 
Frank dashed around the corner of the dance hall. When he reached the back, he skidded to a halt at a high fence that was blocking his way. Hearing the gunman’s steps behind him, Frank vaulted the fence and fell in a heap on the other side.
The gunman leaped a moment later. Frank held his breath. He could see the man silhouetted against the dim light of the sky—then darting off into the darkness.
Frank jumped up and dashed into a ramshackle building that stood next to the dance hall. But the hooded man evidently had spotted the boy’s move, for Frank heard steps pounding in pursuit.
Without hesitation he raced through the front door and out onto the slippery, snowy sidewalk.
There was no time to find cover. The gunman was hot on his heels. In desperation, Frank ran straight down the open street. As he sped along, he wondered what had happened to Joe.
Flinging a glance over his shoulder, Frank saw the hooded gunman raise his arm to fire. Zing! The bullet whistled past Frank’s head and ricocheted off a metal store sign. 
Just ahead, to the left, was an old hitching rail. Frank recalled that it stood in front of the ghost town’s abandoned hotel. He cut across the street and dashed into the narrow side yard of the hotel.
A flight of outside stairs slanted up the wall of the building. Frank mounted the steps two at a time. At the top was a rickety wooden balcony, which sagged under Frank’s weight as he stepped onto it.
“Now what?” the young detective wondered. Had he worked himself into a corner? Frank’s heart thudded as he heard the gunman’s footsteps on the wooden walk below.
Just out of reach, the overhanging roof of the hotel loomed in the blackness. There was no place else to go, so Frank leaped up for the edge.
His fingers dug into the broken shingles and he swung himself onto the rear slope of the snow-covered roof. Meanwhile, the hooded gunman had already started up the stairs. Frank heard his clattering footsteps as he reached the balcony platform. Then he saw the man’s hands appear, clutching the edge of the roof. A moment later his hooded head rose into view against the night sky! He was pulling himself up for a shot at close range!
Frank fought down a surge of panic. He had wriggled some distance away from the eaves. Now he must work his way back and try to overcome his assailant before the man could pull his gun.
Frank slithered toward him across the slippery shingles. By now the man had one leg up over the roof and was groping for the gun in his coat pocket.
“I won’t be able to reach him in time!” Frank thought grimly.
Just then he heard steps racing up the stairway to the balcony.
The gunman heard the footsteps, too. He paused and looked down, then managed to extract the gun from his pocket. An instant later Frank saw his body jerk, and the man clutched the roof edge as if to brace himself.
Evidently the newcomer was pulling the gunman’s other leg, trying to dislodge him! The hooded figure suddenly gave a tremendous heave upward and the next moment was free, sprawled full length on the roof. Frank by now was close enough to grab the man’s coat sleeve.
The gunman threw up his arm and yanked it free. But the force of this action caused him to lose his grip completely! His gun arced through the air, hit the rear part of the roof, and bounced off. The man, meanwhile was rolling and slipping rapidly toward the edge.
Frank saw him clutch frantically for the gutter. The man caught it, hung suspended for a moment, then swung over to the drainpipe and slid down it to the ground.
“Frank! Are you all right?” It was Joe! 
“I’m okay.” As quickly as possible, Frank wriggled toward the stairway side of the roof and dropped safely onto the balcony platform.
The Hardys glanced over the railing. Below, the hooded figure was groping about hastily, trying to find his gun.
“Come on, Joe! Let’s get him this time!” Frank urged, and the boys went bucketing down the stairs.
Hearing them, the man gave up his search and dashed off into the darkness. Their quarry was some distance ahead when Frank and Joe approached the inhabited part of Lucky Lode. But the town was so dimly lighted it was hard to keep the figure in view, except for his white hood.
The next moment the boys lost sight of him completely as he disappeared into the deep shadows around the general store. Nevertheless, Frank and Joe dashed in pursuit.
Reaching the store, they saw no one in front, so they ran to the back. The area was hidden in almost total darkness.
Suddenly Frank stiffened. “Did you hear something?” he muttered.
“Yes. Sounded like a door closing.”
“Come on!”
The boys ran around to the front of the store. There were no lights showing. Joe grabbed the doorknob and shook it. The door was locked.
Frank knocked. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet of the deserted street. The boys waited for a few moments. When no one answered, Frank repeated his knock. He kept hammering on the door.
At last there was a response. From inside came the call, “Just a minute! Hold your horses!”
Presently a light showed, and a moment later Jim Burke came to the door, holding an oil lamp. He had pulled on a bathrobe over his long underwear.
“Well? What’s all the excitement about?” From the look on his face, Burke was not pleased at being disturbed at so late an hour. Frank explained why they had roused him.
“Nope.” Burke’s expression was puzzled as he shook his head. “I haven’t seen or heard anyone —except you two.”
“Could the fellow we’re after have slipped in your back door?” Joe asked.
“Not a chance,” Burke replied. “I sleep right in the back room.”
As Burke spoke, the front door suddenly burst open and Bob Dodge strode in out of the windy darkness.
Frank and Joe stared at him. Dodge’s outer garments were wet with snow, and his coat sleeves and trouser legs were covered with burrs!

CHAPTER VIII
Tommy-knockers!  
THE same thought struck the Hardy boys. Did the burrs on Dodge’s clothes mean he had been one of the people in the cemetery—perhaps even the man they had chased? Excited, Frank and Joe watched the big man’s face closely.
But Dodge displayed no outward signs of guilt. “What’s all the shooting about?” he asked while brushing the snow off his coat.
Burke raised his eyebrows. “You heard it?”
“I sure did,” the big, white-haired man replied. “I couldn’t sleep tonight, so I went for a stroll up on the hillside. Then I heard two gunshots and I came down to investigate.”
“Did you see anybody, Mr. Dodge?” Frank put in.
“Well, not too clearly. I thought I glimpsed two people running in this direction. But when I got down to the street, there was no one in sight.”
“Must’ve been these two lads,” the storekeeper said. “They woke me up and told me some gun-slinger had been chasin’ ’em through the ghost town. Didn’t hear anythin’ myself,” Burke added, “but I guess I was pretty sound asleep.”
Frank repeated the story they had told Burke. “We were investigating what Ben Tinker had told us about the old dance hall being haunted,” Frank explained. “While we were inside the place, someone shot at us.”
“He chased us for a while, and then we turned the tables and started chasing him,” Joe added. “Whoever the man was, he headed for the store.”
Dodge frowned worriedly. “You boys seem to attract danger. I hope you won’t take any unnecessary chances on this case.”
“We’ll try not to,” Frank said. “There isn’t much more we can do tonight, anyhow.”
The Hardys started to leave. Just before they reached the door, Frank turned and said casually, “By the way, does either of you know what’s meant by a ‘slip gun’?”
Dodge and Burke looked surprised, but otherwise their expressions seemed innocent enough.
“It’s a gun that’s been fixed in a certain way so it can be fired by thumbing the hammer,” Dodge explained.
“You mean like fanning?” Joe asked.
“No. Fanning is when you hold the gun in one hand and keep knocking back the hammer with the other,” Dodge replied. “But in slip shooting you fire the gun by simply wiping your thumb back over the hammer. It’s a bit slower than fanning, but more accurate.”
“How would a gun be fixed for slip shooting?” Frank put in.
Dodge shrugged. “Oh, often the trigger’s taken out, and the hammer spur lowered. Sometimes a slip shooter may cut off part of the barrel so he can carry the gun in his pocket.”
“Sounds like a real gunfighter’s trick,” Joe said.
“You boys aimin’ to try it?” Burke grinned.
“No,” Joe replied. “I just meant that a slip gun isn’t something a law-abiding person would be apt to have around.”
“Ever seen one?” Frank asked the two men.
Burke promptly shook his head. Dodge looked a bit startled, then answered slowly, “No. Stop to think of it, I don’t even recall where I acquired that information. One of those things you pick up in the West, I suppose.”
The boys said good-by and went out. The night was chillier than ever and the wind biting.
“Where to?” Joe asked, pulling his jacket collar up for protection. “Back to Hank’s?”
“Not yet,” Frank said. “Let’s see if we can find that gun the hooded man dropped.”
“Hey, that’s right!”
As the two headed back toward the ghost town, Frank said thoughtfully, “Looks as though we now have two prime suspects, Joe.”
“Right—Burke, or Bob Dodge, which is hard to believe. But those burrs on his clothes sure looked suspicious.”
“Dodge admitted he was on the hillside,” Frank pointed out. “I suppose the cemetery isn’t the only place they grow.”
“You’ll have to admit, though, it’s a real coincidence,” Joe argued. “On the other hand, Burke took a long time to open the door for us.”
Frank nodded. “Long enough to yank off a hood and get out of wet clothes. I wish we could have searched his back room.”
“Another thing,” Joe went on, “the general store would be a perfect setup for a spy of Big Al’s in Lucky Lode.”
“It sure would,” Frank agreed. “Burke has a chance to learn everything that goes on. What’s more, he could relay telephone or telegraph messages between Big Al and members of the gang in other spots—even handle mail for them.”
“He could provide Big Al with supplies, too, including that red paint.”
The boys trudged along in silence.
“We can build just as strong a case against Dodge,” Frank said after a while. “It seems strange to me that he keeps hanging around Lucky Lode, instead of tending to his business in Helena.”
“I’ve wondered about that, too,” Joe conceded, “even though he claims to be staying here on account of the case Dad’s working on. If Dodge is in cahoots with the gang, he may be keeping an eye on the gang’s doings. Also, he could be using the copter to transport supplies to the crooks.”
“And don’t forget that shotgun booby trap at the airport,” Frank added. “Dodge sent us to the copter alone—which could mean he wanted to make sure he wasn’t in range when the gun went off.”
Joe frowned. “But would a company president plot with a crook to rob his own truck?”
“Why not? The money was covered by insurance. And he might have hired Dad to allay suspicion.”
As the boys neared the old abandoned hotel, they watched the display of northern lights sweeping across the sky.
“You know, Frank,” Joe said slowly, “there’s one big thing in Dodge’s favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Dad likes him.”
“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “From the way Dad spoke last night, he really admires Dodge—and Dad’s a good judge of character. He never would have talked about Dodge as he did if he suspected him.”
Making their way through the side yard to the back of the hotel, the Hardys switched on their flashlights and began searching for the gun.
Presently Joe exclaimed, “Here it is!” The revolver lay in a clump of undergrowth. Joe picked it up carefully by the trigger guard.
“It’s a slip gun, all right,” Frank commented. “No trigger, and the barrel’s been cut short.”
“That means Slip Gun is the man we followed from the cemetery! He’s Big Al’s spy.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You know, Joe—Dodge might have been the person we heard following us.”
“Maybe, but there’s no way to be sure,” Joe pointed out. “Slip Gun is a husky fellow, and Dodge and Burke are both big men. Either one would answer the description.”
“True enough,” Frank conceded. “Besides, if Dodge did follow us, why didn’t he admit it?”
When the Hardys got back to the cabin, both their father and Hank were sleeping soundly. Frank and Joe checked the slip gun for fingerprints, but found none clear enough to photograph. Evidently the hooded man’s gloved hand had smudged any that might have existed before the night’s events.
The brothers undressed quickly and crawled into their bunks. As Joe blew out the oil lamp, Frank yawned and said sleepily, “Wonder what ‘Shadow of the Bear’ means?”
“Me too. Something else to track down—” Joe’s voice trailed off and he was fast asleep.
Neither boy needed an alarm clock. They got up at dawn without disturbing the men and had a quick breakfast. Then they went outside, saddled up their horses, and mounted.
“Do you have Hank’s sketch of the mines?” Joe asked as they started up the hill.
“Right here.” Frank patted his pocket. “I wish we still had Mike Onslow’s map.”
“Poor Mike!” Joe reined in his skittish horse. “I wish we could find at least some of his missing gold.”
“So do I.” Frank added with a chuckle, “I’ll bet Aunt Gertrude is fussing over him right now like a mother hen.”
When the boys reached the top of the hill, they could see the sunlight starting to work its way over Windy Peak. “Lucky Slip Gun didn’t stop us,” said Joe as they halted to study the map.
Brady’s Mine, they found, was located to the north, not far away. Half an hour’s ride brought them to a point somewhere below the mine site. Here the boys dismounted and led their horses carefully up the slope.
Frank and Joe scouted the area, but could see nobody, nor any tracks in the snow.
“Let’s take a look inside,” Joe suggested.
The boys tied their horses to a clump of bushes a hundred yards from the mouth of the mine. After making sure their flashlights were working, they cautiously approached the dark hole in the edge of the hill.
The mine entrance was big enough for them to walk erect. Inside, the Hardys paused to listen, then snapped on their flashlights. They were in a fair-sized cavern, which had been hacked and blasted out of the mountainside. Just ahead, a tunnel sloped downward into darkness.
Among the rubble on the floor were some lengths of rusty iron pipe and a discarded pick with a broken handle.
“Doesn’t look as if anyone has been here in a long time,” Joe murmured. His voice echoed weirdly in the chilly cavern.
Frank was about to reply when suddenly both boys stiffened. “Did you hear something?” he whispered.
“I sure did!”
As the brothers froze into silence, the sound came again—tap ... tap-tap ... tap.
“Spirits!” Joe gasped. “Tommy-knockers!”

CHAPTER IX
The Crowbar Clue  
THE tapping noises from within the mine died away. Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly.
“You don’t really believe that superstition about spirit rapping?” Frank muttered.
“Of course not,” Joe whispered. “It did sound spooky, though.”
“More likely it’s Big Al’s gang,” Frank said, peering around intently.
Joe’s face took on a troubled frown. “But there were no prints outside showing that anyone else had come here.”
“Maybe there’s another entrance,” Frank argued. “Let’s find out.”
The two boys started forward into the tunnel. Its walls and ceiling were shored with ancient timbers that gave out a smell of moldy dampness. The passageway not only sloped downward, but turned and twisted. Evidently it had been tunneled out to follow the vein of ore.
Presently the floor of the passage leveled off. The Hardys probed the darkness ahead with the yellow glow of their flashlights. Still there was no sign of the tunnel coming to an end or opening out into a large excavation.
“How far does this go?” Joe said tensely.
“It has to end somewhere,” Frank replied.
Both boys felt their nerves tauten. The eerie stillness was broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing hollowly through the tunnel.
Suddenly Frank came to a halt and pointed to the handle of a crowbar protruding from between two of the wall timbers. The bar was painted with bright-red markings. The Hardys bent close to examine them.
 
AL-5-X-*-4
“‘Al!’” Joe read. “This may be a code message from Big Al to the gang!”
“Or maybe a message to Big Al,” Frank countered. He tested one of the red daubs with his finger. The paint was dry but looked fresh enough to have been applied recently.
Joe tried to puzzle out the meaning of the message. “Any ideas, Frank?”
The older boy shook his head. “Beats me—unless,” he added slowly, “the crowbar was put here to mark a certain spot in the mine.”
“Maybe something’s hidden behind the timbers!” Joe conjectured excitedly.
Frank doubted this. “These shorings look as if they’ve been here forever.”
“Let’s make sure,” Joe urged. “We’ll want to take the crowbar along with us, anyhow, so we can check it for clues. Hold my flashlight, will you?”
Gripping the handle carefully, so that at least part of the surface could be tested later for fingerprints, Joe yanked hard on the crowbar. It gave scarcely at all. He threw his whole weight into the effort and began forcing the bar from side to side. The timbering creaked ominously.
“Hey, be careful!” Frank warned. “This tunnel isn’t shored up too solidly along here!”
“Don’t worry—I can get the bar out.” Joe grunted, heaving hard. “It’s coming now!”
The rotten wood crumpled and shredded as the crowbar gouged into it. Suddenly, as Joe gave one last hard yank, there was a loud splintering noise. The ceiling sagged.
“Look out!” Frank cried out. He grabbed Joe’s arm, and both boys leaped ahead in the nick of time.
A split second later the tunnel caved in! As the boys dashed to safety, tons of earth and rock came pouring down. The passageway rumbled and thundered with the deafening impact.
“Good grief!” Joe stared back in awe after he and his brother had come to a halt deeper inside the tunnel. “I should have listened to your warning, Frank!”
“Forget it. Let’s be thankful neither of us got hurt and that I still have our flashlights.”
Both boys coughed and tried to screen their noses from the cloud of dust billowing through the passage. Gradually the particles settled.
“How do we get out of here?” Joe asked worriedly. “Dig our way through?”
The brothers strode back toward the scene of the cave-in. The tunnel there was totally blocked by the tremendous fall of dirt and rock.
“What about the crowbar?” Frank asked suddenly. “We can use that.”
“I dropped it,” Joe admitted, red-faced. “It’s somewhere underneath all this rubble.”
“Oh, great.”
“Maybe we can still dig through,” Joe said. “Come on—let’s try!”
The Hardys set their flashlights on the ground, then began clawing away the debris with their hands. Soon the boys were panting and soaked with perspiration. In addition to loose dirt and stones, huge hunks of rock had broken off and been carried downward in the cave-in.
After trying vainly to shift one enormous stone fragment, Frank and Joe gave up in despair.
“We’ll never make it,” Frank said, breathing hard. “We don’t even know how far the cave-in extends.”


  
Tons of earth and rock came pouring down
Joe leaned against the wall to collect his strength. “That means we’ll have to find another way out of here.” 
“If there is one.”
Although neither boy said so aloud, they knew their situation was desperate. Brady’s Mine was only one of the places on Hank’s map which they had picked out to search and they had told no one of the clue they had overheard. No doubt a search party would be organized when they failed to return. But how long would they be trapped underground before help might arrive?
“No use standing here,” Frank said finally. “Let’s find out where the tunnel leads.”
“Right. We’re getting fresh air, so there must be an exit.”
Using only one flashlight in order to conserve their battery power, the Hardys pressed on.
“Joe, there’s another reason why well find an exit,” Frank said suddenly. “I believe someone from the gang was doing that tapping. If so, he must have been on this side of the cave-in.”
“Sure—and the noises we heard were the sounds of the crowbar being pounded into position,” Joe guessed.
“Let’s hope he hasn’t heard us,” Frank murmured. “And the chances are there was more than one member of the gang here.”
“Probably they scooted out the other entrance, so they wouldn’t be caught in the cave-in,” Joe reasoned. “But we’d better talk in whispers just the same.”
Both boys realized also that the flashlight beam would make them easy targets. But they had no choice. Without a light to guide them, there would be no hope of finding a way out through the inky darkness.
Presently the tunnel widened, opening into a sizable cavern. The Hardys held their breath as Frank swept his flashlight beam rapidly about the chamber. He and Joe were ready to dive to the floor or retreat at the first sign of an enemy. But the cavern was empty.
“Look!” Frank exclaimed. “Another tunnel!” He aimed his light toward a dark hole that gaped in the far wall.
The two boys hurried to examine it. This passageway was narrower than the one they had just left and not shored by timbers. It was high enough for the Hardys to walk erect, but in places they found it a tight squeeze.
This time, Joe took the lead. Although the tunnel twisted and turned, he pressed forward steadily. He became aware that the cool draft was growing stronger.
“Feel the breeze?” Joe called back over his shoulder. “We must be near the end.”
Joe had spoken too soon. They turned a sharp corner and the tunnel ended in a sheer wall of solid rock.
They could go no farther!
The boys shone their flashlights upward. There was nothing to see but the rock roof.
Joe gave a groan and sank down on the rocky floor of the tunnel. “What’ll we do now?”
For a few minutes the brothers sat in silence. Then suddenly Frank leaped to his feet. “The draft!” he said.
“What about it?”
“We’ve passed the opening.”
Frank snapped on his light and started back down the tunnel. Joe scrambled to his feet and followed. As they moved back around the bend again, they could feel the movement of air on their cheeks.
“The air current seems to flow from somewhere up above,” Frank said, aiming his light toward the roof.
“It does!” Joe exclaimed. “See that crack?”
High overhead, well out of reach, was a rocky shelf protruding from the wall. Frank grabbed a handful of dust and tossed it up to the shelf. Some dropped on the edge, but the rest remained in the air and then slowly drifted away out of sight.
“That’s it!” Joe said excitedly. “There’s something beyond! It must lead to an exit.”
Frank braced himself against the wall. “Up you go, Joe!”
Quickly Joe climbed to his brother’s shoulders and found he could easily reach the rocky shelf. Joe gripped the edge and pulled himself upward. Then he lay on his stomach and, reaching down, grasped Frank’s hand in a fireman’s grip. A second later Frank was seated beside Joe.
When the Hardys turned, they found still another tunnel facing them. This one slanted upward from the shelf and was too low-roofed for anyone to walk upright. Aiming their lights ahead, the boys crawled on hands and knees through the cramped area.
Presently a glimmer of daylight showed ahead. Joe was about to exclaim in relief when a murmur of voices suddenly reached the boys’ ears.
The Hardys knelt motionless and looked at each other. Were members of the gang just outside the tunnel exit waiting for them?
Frank put a finger to his lips. Without a word the boys resumed their crawling—but more slowly and quietly now—toward the mouth of the passage.
Near the opening they halted. A voice which Frank and Joe recognized as that of the thin man they had overheard at the cemetery was saying:
“Those kids ought to be showin’ any time now, if the cave-in didn’t get ’em.”
Then another man, deeper-voiced, chuckled. “If it didn‘t, we’ll trap ’em like rats comin’ out of a hole!”

CHAPTER X
Ambush Trail  
A PANG of fear shot through Frank and Joe as they realized they were trapped in the mine. A clump of brush partly screened the tunnel mouth, but the Hardys’ enemies were waiting outside—ready to seize the boys the moment they appeared!
Scarcely daring to breathe, the boys listened as the thin man went on: “I figured it was them Hardys eavesdroppin’ at the graveyard last night.” He laughed. “Pretty smart o’ me givin’ out that hint about Brady’s Mine, eh?”
“They fell for it, all right,” his partner agreed. “And that crowbar business, too, with the phony code. Best part is, it’ll look accidental.”
The boys heard a deep-throated chuckle. Joe shot a shamefaced glance at his brother. The crowbar must have been painted to attract their attention and then cunningly planted at a weakly shored part of the tunnel!
The thin man continued, “I’ll really get a kick out o’ payin’ off those brats. Big Al was plenty sore at me ’cause that shotgun setup in the copter didn’t work out.”
“’Twasn’t your fault, Slim.”
“Try tellin’ that to Al. He was mad over Slip Gun not gettin’ the kids last night. Now he blames me for wastin’ time this mornin’.”
“How come?”
“Aw, that special business he keeps harpin’ on —it’s all he thinks about. He wanted us to do some searchin’ elsewhere today, but the Hardys comin’ here changed his plans.”
There was silence for a while. Frank and Joe waited tensely, digesting what they had overheard. Then Slim spoke again.
“Wonder how much longer we'll have to wait? I’m gettin’ fed up, perchin’ here in this cold.”
“Maybe the kids can’t find their way out,” his partner suggested. “If they ain’t dead already, that is.”
“You sure the tunnel caved in, Jake?”
“Sure. Sounded like an earthquake. I could see the dust comin’ out the front end.”
“Did you make certain the tunnel was completely blocked?” Slim asked.
“Well, I didn’t actually go inside and look. I might’ve got trapped. Besides, they didn’t show up!”
“You chowderhead!” Slim exploded irritably. “If it ain’t blocked, the kids may still be able to squirm out. Go on back and make sure.”
“Okay, okay.” Jake sounded as if he were getting to his feet.
“Wait! Got another idea. You fetch their horses and bring ’em back here before you check the tunnel,” Slim added. “That way, there’ll be no chance o’ the Hardys pullin’ a sneak.”
After warning Joe to silence, Frank wriggled forward and peered out through the screen of brush. In the distance he could see Jake’s stocky figure heading down the snow-covered mountainside on his way to the mine entrance.
Frank was astonished at how far Jake had gone in a few seconds. Since the two men had conversed in low voices, the speakers had sounded as if they were fairly close to the clump of brush. Now Frank realized his mistake.
The opening was on one side of a narrow draw. Slim was evidently perched out of sight, somewhere higher up the mountainside—probably holding a rifle to cover the boys.
The two men must have thought their conversation was inaudible to anyone else, but the steep-sided draw had caused an echo effect, trapping their voices and reflecting the sound back toward the tunnel.
Frank signaled his brother to crawl forward and join him. Stealthily Joe complied. Several minutes later Jake returned, leading the boys’ horses. Slim came down the slope to meet him.
“No sign of ’em,” the Hardys heard Jake report.
“Check inside the tunnel,” Slim told his partner. “If they didn’t get buried by the cave-in, we’re supposed to take’em up to Windy Peak.”
The thugs exchanged one or two other remarks, but their conversation was carried away by a surge of icy wind sweeping down the draw.
Jake turned and started off again, heading back to the mine entrance. Slim threw a glance toward the clump of brush to make sure their quarry had not yet emerged. Then he took the boys’ horses and trudged toward a stunted, leafless tree growing out of the mountainside.
“Let’s jump him!” Joe urged.
Frank had noticed that the man wore a long barreled revolver in a holster slung at his hip. If he had a rifle, he must have left it at the spot where he and Jake had been waiting.
“It’s risky, but we’ll try,” Frank agreed.
The moaning of the wind would help cover the sound of their footsteps in the snow, and Slim’s back was turned as he prepared to tether the horses to the tree. Jake was already out of sight behind a shoulder of the hill.
“It’s now or never!” Frank hissed.
Slithering from the hole and past the screen of brush, the boys darted across the slope. They were halfway to the man when one of the horses suddenly detected the boys and whinnied.
Slim muttered an oath and jerked the horse roughly by its bridle. He seemed to realize that something behind him had startled the animal.
The man whirled, his hand streaking toward the gun at his hip. At the same moment, Frank hurled himself through the air in a flying tackle. Just as Slim yanked his gun from its holster, Frank rammed into him!
In an instant Joe had joined the fray. He stunned Slim with a backhand smash to the side of the head. As the thug went limp, his revolver arced into the air and went hurtling down the mountainside.
“Come on! Grab your horse!” Joe urged. “We’ve got to get out of here before Jake finds out what happened and starts firing at us.”
The boys quickly untied their mounts and swung into the saddles. The horses whinnied, then went galloping down the draw as Frank and Joe dug their heels into the horses’ flanks.
Frank threw a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Slim staggering to his feet. The man’s face was livid with fury.
“Jake!” he bawled at the top of his lungs. “The Hardy kids are gettin’ away!”
His voice trailed off and was lost against the wind. Moments later a rifle crack echoed, but by now the boys were well out of range.
“Did you spot the men’s horses?” Joe called.
“Up the mountainside, I think,” Frank yelled back. “We’d better not count on a big lead!”
The boys pushed their mounts hard, taking desperate chances along the rocky declivities. No sounds of pursuit reached their ears, and gradually Frank and Joe slowed their pace.
In about twenty minutes they topped the ridge overlooking Lucky Lode and rode down the trail into town. As their horses clip-clopped along the main street toward Hank’s cabin, Frank asked, “Did you hear what that fellow Slim said about taking us to Windy Peak?”
“I sure did,” Joe returned. “It could mean that’s Al’s hideout. Let’s search there.”
Frank nodded. “It’ll be an overnight trip. We’ll need supplies.”
The boys were surprised to find a battered blue station wagon parked in front of their cabin.
“Doc Whitlow’s here,” Hank explained when they went inside. “He’s in with your pa now.”
“Is Dad worse?” Frank asked, concerned.
“Not exactly, but he spent a kind o’ restless night. And this mornin’ he felt like he was runnin’ a slight fever. So I fetched the doc.”
Minutes later the physician, a young man with a brown beard, emerged from Mr. Hardy’s room.
“Nothing to worry about,” Doc Whitlow announced. “Apparently your father overexerted himself yesterday and irritated the fracture.”
“He shouldn’t have worked on the wall,” Frank said.
“I gave him something to ease the pain,” the doctor said. “He’s sleeping now.”
Doc Whitlow declined Hank’s offer of lunch, saying he had to get back to his office in the nearby town of Bear Creek. After he had left, Hank prepared a meal of beans and frankfurters and sat down to eat with Frank and Joe.
“You boys just missed seein’ Bob Dodge,” he remarked.
“When was he here?” Joe asked.
“Just a while ’fore you two showed up. Say—you boys look like you been through the mill. What happened?”
The Hardys related all that had taken place the night before, as well as the entrapment at Brady’s Mine and their narrow escape from the two gang members, Slim and Jake. Hank, too, was puzzled by the Shadow of the Bear reference. The boys asked him to pass on a full report to their father.
“You mean you won’t be around to tell him?”
“We’re going up to investigate Windy Peak,” Frank replied. “The sooner the better.”
A worried look spread over the Westerner’s leathery face. He urged the boys to be extremely cautious, now that the gang was clearly trying to get rid of them. He agreed to provide supplies for the trip, however, and to lend them his mare Daisy for use as a pack horse. Soon the boys were ready to start.
“What’s the easiest way to get up Windy Peak, Hank?” asked Joe as he tightened the cinch.
“There ain’t no easy way this time o’ year,” the man replied. “You’ll have to take an old Indian path called Ambush Trail, up near Brady’s Mine. Starts about half a mile north o’ the mine entrance. But watch your step.”
“Bad going?” Frank put in.
“Plenty bad. Even in summer, that trail’s full o’ narrow ledges and hairpin turns. Now it’ll be lots worse. We had a freak thaw early this month that probably loosened quite a few boulders. Some places you’ll be on icy ledges lookin’ straight down the side of a cliff.”
Hank’s warning proved to be fully justified. At first the trail seemed fairly easy, but as they left the timberline behind, the path narrowed and wound confusingly in and out among the rocky outcrops on the face of the mountainside.
“I’ll bet even the Indians got lost sometimes on this snaky trail,” Joe remarked wryly.
On their left the mountain towered sheer above them, with precariously poised boulders and crusted drifts of snow. Half-dislodged clumps of earth and rock projected from the cliffside.
“This would be a bad place to get caught in an avalanche,” Frank observed.
Joe gulped. “Whew! Don’t even think it!”
Presently the boys saw horseshoe prints in the snow. Apparently the riders, whoever they were, had cut in from some side path.
“At least we seem to be on the right trail,” Joe said tensely.
“Probably members of the gang,” Frank cautioned. “We’d better keep a sharp eye out.”
The prints faded out presently as the path became more glazed and rocky. Soon the trail narrowed so much that the boys were forced to proceed single file. Both gulped as they glanced down the cliff at the icy river below.
Joe was close behind when Frank turned a sharp corner on the trail and reined to a halt. Ahead was a huge barrier of snow, rocks, and logs.
“Must have been an avalanche,” Joe said.
Frank moved forward for a better look. “Maybe not,” he commented. “Those logs don’t look like windfalls—they could have been cut by men. Anyhow—our trail is blocked.”
After sizing up the situation, Frank and Joe decided to risk skirting the curve of the hillside, which seemed less steep at this point.
“Maybe we can get back on the trail somewhere beyond the barrier,” Joe said hopefully.
Dismounting, the Hardys started cautiously downward. Frank went first, leading his horse and Daisy. Joe followed with his mount.
For a while the footing seemed fairly sure. The Hardys had negotiated their way around part of the slope when Frank suddenly felt the ground shifting beneath his feet.
“Look out, Joe!” he cried out. “There’s loose shale under this snow!”
A spatter of stones and earth went clattering down the mountainside. As the brothers scrambled for safer ground, their mounts became panicky, neighing and pawing wildly for a foothold.
The horses’ bucking dislodged still more shale. The next instant, the horses and the boys went slipping and sliding downward in the landslide. All three of the animals went over on their sides in a swirl of flying hoofs.
Frank and Joe were half stunned as they tumbled on down the mountain. Below was an icy creek. Suddenly they were sailing through the air.
Crash!
... Crash!
The Hardys and their horses shattered the ice and disappeared below the surface of the mountain torrent!

CHAPTER XI
Shadow of the Bear  
THE icy shock of the water stung the Hardys back to full consciousness. They flailed their arms and legs wildly, fighting to get to the surface.
Frank broke water first, gasping for breath. His heart skipped when he saw nothing but the half-frozen river, the struggling horses, and the steep-sided canyon. Where was Joe?
Then his brother bobbed to the surface nearby. “Thank goodness,” Frank murmured.
Neither boy had breath to spare to make himself heard above the roar of the rushing current. The ice extended outward from both banks, but near the center, the water was surging along in full torrent. With every passing moment, Frank and Joe were being swept farther downstream.
Joe pointed to the horses. The two saddle animals were breaking their way through the ice, gradually swimming and floundering toward shore. Daisy, the elderly pack mare, loaded down with supplies, was having a more difficult time.
“She may drown!” Frank thought fearfully.
He and Joe summoned all their strength and swam toward the frantic animals. In a few minutes their own horses managed to reach the bank. Daisy was rolling her eyes, whinnying and snorting with terror. But Frank and Joe were finally able to steer her to safety through the broken ice.
At last the boys staggered out of the water and flopped down on the rocky, snow-covered bank. The saddle horses stood shaking themselves farther up the shore, and Daisy trotted on to join them.
“Wow!” Joe took a deep breath. “What a day for a swim!”
“Joe, we’re pretty lucky, at that.” Frank got up. “We’d better see about the supplies.”
“And a fire—if we can make one,” Joe added.
Both boys were shivering and blue with cold. They hurried toward the horses. At least half the provisions and gear strapped to Daisy’s back had come loose and had been carried away.
“Let’s get out of sight first,” Joe suggested. “Someone may be spying on us from up on the mountain.”
“Right!” Frank agreed. “I’m sure now that the barrier on the trail was no accident.”
The brothers led the horses toward some sheltering timber. Just beyond the trees they discovered a rocky recess in the mountainside. Here they grouped the horses and proceeded to survey the state of their supplies.
“Well,” Joe said, “at least it’s not so bad as it might have been.”
Most of their provisions were gone, as well as their tent and other camp equipment. But they had blankets, towels, spare clothing, fishing gear, compass, matches, and some food. Luckily, everything had been packed in waterproof wrapping.
“I’m sure glad we still have that compass,” Frank remarked, as the boys unsaddled the horses and used the towels to rub down the animals.
“You bet,” Joe agreed. “If we should lose our bearings in this wilderness with our food so low, we’d really be in a jam.”
“You build a fire, Joe,” Frank suggested, “while I get out dry clothes for us.”
After donning fresh clothing in the warmth from the crackling flames, and drying their windbreakers, the Hardys soon felt more comfortable. Their horses recovered rapidly and began to nibble the shrubs and winter-dry brush sticking up through the snow.
Frank stepped out of their rocky niche and shaded his eyes toward the sun, which was already red and low in the sky. In another half hour it would be out of sight behind the mountains.
“Too late to do much traveling now,” said Frank. “We may as well camp here and strike out for Windy Peak early in the morning.”
“Okay, Frank. I’ll try some fishing. That looks like a trout stream.”
He put their collapsible fishing rod together and headed off among the trees toward the bank of the river.
“Watch your step on that ice!” Frank called.
As Joe disappeared from view, his brother took out their precious compass. Using the setting sun as a reference, he checked the action of the needle to see if any magnetic ore in the range might be affecting it. The deviation, if any, seemed to be very slight.
“It’s a cinch we’ll never get back up the cliff to the trail,” Frank thought. “At least not here. We’ll have to follow the river and try to find some place where the canyon walls are not so steep.”
“Frank! Frank!” It was Joe calling from the river. “Help! Frank, help!”
“The ice!” Frank thought. “Joe’s broken through!”
Laying the compass on a flat rock, the older Hardy dashed toward the river. To Frank’s amazement, Joe was in no danger. But he was sprawled flat on the ice, clinging desperately to the rod and trying not to lose the prize catch he had hooked. The fish had sounded and was bending the rod almost to a U-shape as it fought to escape.
“Quick! Give me a hand!” Joe shouted.
Frank flat-footed gingerly out onto the ice, grabbed the line, and began hauling in.
“I guess we’re breaking all the rules for game fishing,” he called back with a chuckle, “but this is one fellow we can’t risk losing!”
The fish put up a furious struggle that roused the boys’ admiration, but they finally managed to reel in a huge cutthroat trout.
“Boy, what a swell catch!” Frank cried. “There’s our supper!”
“First fish that ever decked me,” Joe said, grinning. “But then it’s the first time I’ve ever tried trout fishing on ice.”
Back at camp, Joe set about cleaning the fish while Frank built up the fire. Suddenly Joe heard his brother gasp.
“What’s wrong?”
“The compass!” Frank exclaimed. “I left it right here on this flat rock. Now it’s gone!”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I put it exactly where this pine cone is. Wait a minute! That wasn’t here before!” Frank broke off and picked up the pine cone. An exasperated look spread over his face. “You know what, Joe? A pack rat has been here!”
“I’ll bet you’re right!” Joe declared. “The rat picked up the compass because it’s bright and shiny, and left the pine cone in its place.”
The Hardys looked at each other gravely. Any other time the situation might have been funny, but right now the compass was vital to them. Without it, they might never find their way safely out of the wilderness.
“Come on! Let’s look for it!” Frank urged. “I remember reading that pack rats will often drop a prize if something else catches their eye.”
The boys began a systematic search, pacing back and forth around the camp in widening circles. At last Frank detected some faint rodent tracks in the trampled snow and soon spotted a shiny object in the cliffside brush.
Frank pounced on the compass with a cry of relief. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “What a break!”
“Better keep it in your pocket from now on,” Joe advised.
The trout, cooked over heated rocks, made a tasty dish. After the meal, the boys felt more cheerful. As they huddled around the campfire in their blankets, Frank said thoughtfully, “Tomorrow’s the day for Big Al’s meeting.”
“Right. I wish we could find the place.”
“If only we knew what Shadow of the Bear meant,” Frank mused.
In spite of the cold and their desperate situation, the boys slept well. The horses, too, evidently rested well during the night, staying close together near the embers of the fire.
Next morning Frank and Joe made a cold breakfast of oatmeal mush and dried apricots from their scanty supplies. Then they fed and saddled the horses, strapped their remaining gear on Daisy’s back, and headed downriver.
The canyon turned and twisted along the curve of the mountainside, and the footing was treacherous. As they rode, the Hardys continually scanned the sides of the gorge, hoping to find a route out of the canyon. Twice they dismounted and tried to thread their way upward, leading the horses. But both times the cliff wall proved too steep.
At last, however, the canyon opened out and the slope of the cliffs became more gentle. Relieved, Frank and Joe halted for another cold meal. Then they rode to higher ground and struck back across the rolling foothills of the mountain range in the general direction of town.
Eventually they cut into a beaten trail. About midafternoon, the brothers swung over a rise on the rocky, snow-covered path and Frank reined up sharply.
“Look!” he exclaimed, and indicated the area to their right.
Looming against the sky was a huge, ungainly rock formation that crudely resembled a bear standing upright.
“Al’s meeting place!” Joe breathed.
Dismounting, the boys ground-hitched their horses out of sight behind a clump of boulders. Then they crept cautiously toward the huge rock formation. To their surprise, Frank and Joe discovered that it was poised on the rim of a small box canyon.
The Hardys cautiously peered over the edge. The canyon was choked with drifted snow, from which protruded a few scrubby trees and brush. The view directly below was blocked by a shelving overhang of rock, about twenty feet farther down and extending along the cliff wall. The boys could detect no sign or sound of human beings.
“Maybe we missed the meeting,” Joe murmured. “Or this isn’t the place, after all.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Frank replied. “My guess is, the confab hasn’t been held yet.” He gazed across the canyon. “Let’s keep an eye on that bear’s shadow.”
In the lowering sun the rock formation cast a formless shadow on the opposite wall. As the boys stood up, Joe remarked with a puzzled look, “That shadow doesn’t look much like a bear.”
“True. But it might at some other time of day. Remember, Slim didn’t name any hour for the meeting. He just said, ‘Shadow of the Bear.’ ”
“I get it!” Joe broke in excitedly. “Maybe the meeting is to take place when the bear shows up clearly on the canyon wall!”
“And that ought to be when the sun drops a little lower,” Frank added.
Joe asked, “Do you think the meeting will be down inside the canyon?”
“Probably. Up here by this rock formation the gang would be too easy to spot.”
“But this looks like a blind canyon to me,” Joe objected. “How’ll they get into it?”
“There may be an entrance we can’t see from here. Let’s stay out of sight.”
The boys found cover in a nearby cluster of rocks and brush. As the sun sank lower, the bear’s shadow across the canyon became more distinct and realistic.
“Listen!” Joe whispered suddenly.
From somewhere below came a clopping of horses’ hoofs—then a sound of men reining up and dismounting. The Hardys peered downward, but the rocky overhang of the canyon prevented them from seeing what was taking place.
A murmur of voices came drifting up. The boys strained their ears and recognized Slim’s voice, but could not make out what he was saying. Then a harsh voice, unfamiliar to the Hardys, spoke out clearly:
“You sure muffed things in Lucky Lode, Slip Gun!”
“I couldn’t help it, Big Al,” returned a voice too muffled to identify.
“One more job like that and I’ll—” the harsh tone faded to a threatening mutter.
Frank and Joe could hardly keep from shouting for joy. They had found Big Al! If only they could dare to try capturing him!

CHAPTER XII
Big Al’s Orders  
THE only reply to Big Al’s scornful words was a brief, sullen mutter. It was so low that the Hardys could not distinguish whether the speaker might have been Burke or Bob Dodge.
Frank and Joe exchanged a grimace of disappointment. If only the Lucky Lode spy would speak again, and more loudly! But evidently he was too cowed by his boss’s angry tone to put up an argument.
“Stupid cluck!” Big Al continued to rant. “You had a chance to get rid of those kids—or at least scare ’em off this case. And what happens? You get so rattled you can’t even hang onto your own gun!”
“Don’t worry, Al”—Jake’s voice cut in quickly, trying to placate the gang leader—“Slim and me took care o’ them brats.”
“At Brady’s Mine?” the boss snapped back.
“Well, no—not there. The crowbar stunt worked okay, but they ducked the cave-in and—”
Jake’s explanation was cut short by another outburst from Big Al. Slim hastened to soothe him.
“Jake’s tryin’ to tell you, boss—they’re both drowned.”
“Drowned?”
“Yeah. We figured they’d be comin’ along Ambush Trail, so we fixed up a roadblock to sidetrack ‘em and make ’em go lower down. The cliff shoulder along there is all loose shale, but it’s covered over with snow. Sure enough, they tried to worm around it and the ground gave way. Must’ve been a regular landside from the looks of it!” Slim chuckled with satisfaction. “Anyhow, they took a long fall and wound up in the drink, horses and all.”
“You sure o’ that?” Big Al demanded suspiciously.
“Sure. Jake and me came back to check and we could see the break in the ice where they went through. We even spotted some o’ their gear float-in’ downriver.”
“Good! It’s about time.” Big Al sounded mollified by the news. “Those kids knew too much—and they were too smart to fool around with. They were makin’ monkeys out of all you guys!”
“Aw, boss, we couldn’t help it if—” The rest of Jake’s whining protest was lost in the wind.
“Shut up!” Big Al roared. “One thing’s sure —anything those kids knew, they’ve told their father. So he’ll have to be the next one to go. Slip Gun, you’re supposed to be handlin’ things in town. You take care of Hardy tonight. Get me?”
“Yeah.” Only a single word—and again too low for the voice to be identified.
Frank and Joe looked at each other, stunned. The gang had their father marked for death! They would have to return in time to warn him! 
“The weather’s gettin’ worse all the time, boss,” Slim put in. “How much longer do we have to keep searchin’?”
“Listen, you!” Big Al’s voice was fierce. “I staked out that loot twenty-five years ago. And I aim to have it! We’re goin’ to keep lookin’ till we find the wreck of a plane. The stuff’ll be there, all right—and a skeleton with it.”
“How do you know there’s a wreck?” Jake asked.
“Don’t worry—I made sure.” Big Al gave an ugly chuckle. Again his rough voice drifted up to the listeners on the cliff. “Enough talkin’. Get these supply cartons cut open and load the horses. We’ll leave part of the stores cached here and take the rest up to the hideout.”
From below came the sound of cardboard boxes being ripped open, and the mumble of the men’s voices. Suddenly Frank and Joe heard an exclamation of annoyance.
“What’s wrong now?” Big Al snarled.
“Looks like Slip Gun just broke his knife blade,” Jake replied.
Before the unidentified man could add anything, the gang leader snapped curtly, “Never mind gripin’! Use your fingers!”
Presently they could hear the men loading the horses. A few moments later the boys heard Big Al’s harsh tones: “You’ve all had your orders. Now let’s get goin’!”
Horses’ hoofs started up on a rocky surface somewhere below—then faded bit by bit, echoing hollowly.
Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “There must be a passage from the canyon that leads out through the hill!” he whispered excitedly.
“Right! We’d better get back to the trail and see if we can spot them!”
Frank led the way as the brothers hurried back to the site from which they had first noticed the bearlike rock formation. Sprawling among the snow and rocks to avoid being seen, the Hardys gazed intently down the hillside.
For a long while there was no sign of humans. The sun had vanished behind clouds, leaving a leaden, wintry sky. Nothing was visible below but the vast, rugged expanse of timber-clad wilderness.
Joe fidgeted anxiously. “Those fellows can’t just disappear!” he muttered. “They’ll have to come out somewh—”
Frank held up his hand for silence. “There they are!” he whispered.
Far below and off to the right, four riders had emerged from a patch of brush on the hillside. They paused momentarily, then separated. Three of the men rode upward through a notch in the hills. The fourth headed off in the direction of Lucky Lode, leading an empty pack horse behind his mount.
“That one by himself must be Slip Gun!” Joe groaned. “If only we had binoculars to see who he is!”
“Maybe we can overtake him,” Frank said hopefully. “Anyhow, the important thing is to get to the cabin and warn Dad. Let’s go!”
Quickly the boys got their horses, swung into the saddles, and started off along the trail. They watched for a safe place to descend the hillside and soon picked out a likely route. The downslope, even here, was steep and slippery, but their horses managed to negotiate it successfully.
Minutes later, Frank and Joe picked up Slip Gun’s trail in the snow. By this time the spy was far ahead and lost to view among the timber.
As the boys rode along, Joe fumed impatiently. “We’ll lose him if we don’t make better time!” he said, urging his horse to greater speed.
“Take it easy, Joe,” Frank advised. “This ground is pretty rough going for the horses— they’re doing the best they can. It won’t help any if one of them breaks a leg.”
Joe admitted the wisdom of his brother’s words, and they pressed forward at the best pace they could manage.
“You know,” Frank said, “I’m beginning to see why Hopkins was so interested when he saw Mike Onslow’s map.”
“You must be thinking the same thing I am,” Joe returned. “Big Al must be looking for Onslow’s missing gold!”
Frank pounded his fist into his palm as another thought struck him. “And, if he staked it out twenty-five years ago,” he added excitedly, “that means—Big Al and Black Pepper are the same person! Also, the wrecked plane they’re looking for must be the crate Bart Dawson took off in!”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Big Al seems to be sure Dawson died in the wreck.”
“Which doesn’t jibe with what Ben Tinker told us,” Frank pointed out. “Ben claimed he saw Dawson in Helena a couple of years later.”
“True—though nobody around here seems to believe anything Ben says.”
“I know—but he did hear the music in the dance hall.” 
Joe chuckled. “That’s right. Of course it wasn’t exactly played by Charlie’s ghost.”
Dusk was gathering fast. By the time the boys had passed through the stretch of timber, it was no longer possible to make out Slip Gun’s tracks, nor see the rider ahead. By now Frank and Joe were able to recognize familiar landmarks and inside of an hour were crossing the ridge above Lucky Lode. The town lights were visible below.
“It’s tough luck we weren’t able to nab Slip Gun,” Frank said, as the brothers spurred their horses down the trail.
“Let’s hope we’re not too late to warn Dad!” Joe said grimly.
There was no sign of the horseman they were pursuing as they pounded through the streets of Lucky Lode. The boys’ fears mounted when they drew in sight of Hank’s cabin. Although darkness had fallen, no lights showed in the windows.
Frank and Joe pulled to a halt, leaped from their horses, and dashed inside, fear gripping them.
“Hank! Dad!” Frank shouted.
No one answered. Without bothering to light the oil lamp, the boys blundered through the darkness and hastily checked the two sleeping rooms and the kitchen.
The cabin was empty!

CHAPTER XIII
A Fight in the Dark  
“WE’RE too late!” Frank muttered in a choking voice.
Joe was too stunned to speak. The killer must have arrived before them! But where had the victims been taken?
The next instant the Hardys stiffened in suspense. Someone was slipping quietly into the cabin through the half-open front door.
“That you, boys?” It was Hank Shale!
Frank and Joe rushed to question him.
“What happened to Dad?” Joe exclaimed.
“Don’t worry—your pa’s safe,” the Westerner assured them. “I just finished movin’ him to Ben Tinker’s place.”
A wave of relief swept over the boys. “Did you know he was in danger?” Frank asked.
“We figgered so. After I told him how Big Al’s men tried to get you lads, your pa had a hunch the gang might come after him next.”
“His hunch was right,” Joe said. “Big Al’s spy was ordered to kill Dad tonight!”
Hank gave a low whistle. “By jingo, then he took cover just in time!” Hank listened tensely as the boys related their latest adventures.
“We’d better not wait any longer,” Frank declared. “The killer may make his move any time now. Hank, you’d better go back to Ben’s place and stand guard!”
“What about you two?”
“We’ll wait here at the cabin and see if Slip Gun shows up,” Frank replied.
“And if he does,” Joe declared, “we’ll have him dead to rights!”
“Now hold on!” said Hank. “If this feller’s comin’ to kill your pa, he’ll be armed. It’d be plumb foolish to try takin’ him on alone.”
“Then we’ll wait outside and just see who he is,” Frank promised hastily. “The arrest can be handled later.”
Hank started back to Ben Tinker’s. Meanwhile, Joe lighted the oil lamp and the boys rummaged quickly through their father’s gear for extra flashlights to replace the ones they had lost in the river. Then they extinguished the lamp and hurried outside.
After stabling their horses in the lean-to, without taking time to unsaddle them, the boys darted into a nearby clump of trees. They picked out a spot from which they could watch the front door of the cabin and waited. For the next quarter of an hour nothing disturbed the peaceful quiet of the icy night.
Suddenly Frank gave a low hiss and pointed toward the cabin. The boys could barely discern the figure of a man, moving silently. He tried the door cautiously, then slipped inside.
“Think we should try to nab him?” Joe whispered.
“We promised Hank we wouldn’t,” Frank reminded his brother. “But don’t worry—once he comes back, we won’t let him out of our sight till we’ve identified him. This time he won’t give us the slip!”
The boys fell silent as a faint glow of light showed through the cabin window. The glow moved about. Evidently the intruder had brought a flashlight of his own.
The Hardys stiffened in surprise as a second figure suddenly loomed in the darkness near the cabin. The newcomer halted for an instant, then moved swiftly toward the door and went inside.
Joe gasped, “Two of them!”
A second later came a muffled outburst of voices, then a sharp cry. Confused noises followed, then a crash.
“They’re fighting!” Frank sprang up. “Come on! That second person must have surprised the killer—he may need help!”
Joe followed as his brother sprinted from their hiding place. Frank reached the cabin first and tried to open the door. But it resisted his efforts, as if something were blocking it.
Frank braced his shoulder and slammed hard against the wood. This time it yielded and came open part way.
“Wait—wait a minute!” a voice just inside muttered thickly.
The boys pushed on through and almost stumbled over someone on the floor. Frank snapped on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the face of Burke, the storekeeper!
“Never mind me! Get him!” Burke rasped as he struggled to his feet. “He went through the back window!”
Joe had already switched on his flashlight. As Burke spoke, the beam swept through the doorway and showed an open window.
Joe darted out the front door and ran to the back of the cabin. Frank dashed straight to the bedroom and stuck his head out the window.
Tracks were visible in the snow, leading off toward the heavy brush and timber skirting the hillside. Joe came around the corner of the cabin, picked out the footprints with the beam of his flashlight, and began following them.
“Hold it, Joe!” Frank called. “That fellow might have a gun!”
Joe halted unwillingly and looked back at his brother. “If he had a gun, wouldn’t he have used it on Burke?”
“How do we know?” Frank argued. “Maybe he had no chance to draw before he knocked Burke down—and after he heard us at the door, he may have been more interested in making a getaway. Anyhow, don’t risk it, Joe!”
“Okay.” Joe shrugged and returned to the cabin.
By this time Burke was sitting down, and Frank had righted the overturned table and chairs. The storekeeper was disheveled and had a raw-looking bruise on his right cheek.
“What happened?” Frank asked him.
“I came here to see you boys or your dad,” Burke replied. “Instead, I discovered Bob Dodge nosin’ around with a flashlight—”
“Dodge!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together. “You heard me!” the storekeeper snapped. He rubbed his cheek gingerly. “I accused him of bein’ a crook, and he slugged me with his flashlight. Then we started fightin’. Finally Dodge knocked me down against the door, and before I could get up, he scrammed.”
“If Dodge had the flashlight, how could you see who he was?” Joe asked.
“I couldn’t at first,” Burke explained. “I called out, ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Who’s there?’—somethin’ like that. Then he started givin’ me some cock-and-bull story about lookin’ for your dad and Hank Shale, and I recognized his voice. I said, ‘Don’t try to kid me, Dodge—you’re in with that gang Mr. Hardy’s after!’ That’s when he conked me with the flashlight.”
The boys looked at each other in bewilderment.
“What made you suspect Dodge is in league with Big Al’s gang?” Frank questioned.
“Because I suddenly remembered him buyin’ some red paint soon after your dad first came to Lucky Lode,” Burke replied. “It slipped my mind when you boys asked me. That’s what I was comin’ here to tell you.”
Frank and Joe digested this startling news. Burke’s story added up to a convincing case against Dodge.
“That would explain why he fled,” Joe said. “If he figured the jig was up, Mr. Dodge may have headed for the gang’s hideout.”
“Or taken off in his copter!” Frank exclaimed. “I’ll see if it’s still where he landed us.”
“We’ll both go,” Joe said.
“No need for that,” his brother argued. “You’d better help Mr. Burke back to his store.”
From the quick look his brother flashed him, Joe guessed that Frank still mistrusted Burke and wanted the man kept under surveillance.
Burke, however, declined the offer. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m okay now.”
The storekeeper stood up to go, but after taking a few steps, he teetered and leaned weakly against the wall.
“Whew!” Burke muttered, shaking his head. “Guess I’m still a bit woozy from that clout Dodge gave me.”
Joe helped him back to the chair, then went for some water from the kitchen pump. Before leaving, Frank made an excuse to join Joe.
“Take Burke to the store,” he whispered. “Then go straight to Ben Tinker’s and make sure Dad’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”
Frank went outside, got his horse from the lean-to, and rode off toward the clearing where he judged the helicopter was parked.
Joe, meanwhile, bathed Burke’s head with cold water and bandaged his injured cheek.
“Where did your dad go?” Burke asked.
“He and Hank Shale are following a lead on the case,” Joe said vaguely. He then suggested that they take the remaining two horses and ride, rather than walk, to the store.
Burke shook his head. “It’s not far enough to bother. Besides, the way I feel, I’m not sure I could stick onto a saddle.”
Joe assisted him on foot to the store with no further difficulty. Burke thanked him, said good night, and went inside. Joe lingered until he saw the light go out. Then he hurried to Ben Tinker’s cabin.
The young detective found Mr. Hardy, Hank, and Ben awake and gathered around a glowing potbelly stove. They listened with keen interest as Joe poured out his story of the night’s events. Just as he was finishing, there came the sound of a horse being reined up outside, and a moment later Frank burst into the cabin.
“The helicopter’s still at the field,” Frank reported. “I scouted around a bit, but there’s no sign of Dodge. And he hasn’t returned to the hotel.”
Mr. Hardy frowned and stroked his jaw. “I find it hard to believe that Bob Dodge can be a criminal—much less a killer,” the detective said. “What’s your opinion, boys?”
“Until tonight it seemed to me to be a tossup between Burke and Dodge,” Joe replied. “We’ve suspected one of them must be Big Al’s spy, ever since that night we trailed the hooded man to the general store.”
Frank nodded and tallied up the evidence.
His father said, “Burke may be lying about what happened at the cabin tonight. Are you sure Dodge wasn’t the second man to arrive?”
“It was too dark to tell,” Frank admitted. “But you’re right—Dodge may have surprised Burke there and accused him of working with the gang. And Burke may have done the attacking but got knocked down.” 
“In that case, why should Dodge duck out the window?” Hank objected.
“Burke was blocking the door,” Joe said. “Maybe Dodge decided to get out fast, in case Burke came at him again.”
Ben Tinker put in, “That still don’t explain where he disappeared to.”
Mr. Hardy arose from his chair and paced back and forth. “The flashlight might carry fingerprints,” he remarked. “Was it still around?”
“I didn’t see it,” Joe replied. “Dodge must have taken it with him.”
“But we don’t know that,” Frank emphasized. “Burke could have slipped it inside his coat while we were looking out back.”
Joe agreed. “We should have checked on that right away.”
Frank suddenly snapped his fingers. “Let’s assume Dodge is innocent. And if he got those burrs on his coat up at the cemetery, he must have been the third man—the one we heard behind us.”
“Yes, and he may have spotted the blue signal light and gone to investigate just as we did.”
“Right,” Frank went on. “So maybe Dodge suspected all along that Burke was the man who met Slim. But he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Then, when he discovered Burke at the cabin tonight, he accused him outright—and Burke got panicky and jumped him.”
Ben Tinker grunted suspiciously. “If Dodge suspected Burke, whyn’t he tell you lads or your pa?”
“Matter of fact, Dodge did come around yesterday,” Hank reminded them. “But the doc was tendin’ to Fenton, and the boys weren’t here, so he never got to talk to ’em.”
“Maybe that’s why Dodge came to the cabin tonight—to tell us his suspicions,” Mr. Hardy conjectured. “Has Burke ever been in trouble with the law?” he asked.
Hank and Ben replied that so far as they knew, he had not.
Frank began pacing the floor. “As things stand, we can make out a pretty convincing case for or against either Burke or Dodge,” he stated. “Dodge has disappeared but Burke is still around. What we need is some way to test Burke’s innocence—or guilt.” 
Mr. Hardy nodded. “Good thought.”
“We know that the gang wants Joe and me out of the way,” Frank went on. “And we also know they’re after Mike Onslow’s lost gold. So let’s set a trap for Burke.”
“How?” asked Joe.
Frank grinned and said coolly, “By using the best possible bait—the gold and ourselves!”

CHAPTER XIV
The Broken Knife  
FRANK explained his plan while the others listened approvingly.
“Right smart idea, boy!” Ben Tinker cackled appreciatively. “If Burke’s in league with the gang, I’ll lay ten to one he snaps at the bait!”
Mr. Hardy agreed. “But you boys should have a lawman on hand when the trap is sprung.”
“I’ll go along,” Hank Shale volunteered. “And I’ll get Sheriff Kenner over at Bear Creek.”
After details of the planned capture had been settled, Mr. Hardy said, “You boys had better bunk here for the night, if Ben will permit. It might be risky staying at Hank’s place, in case the gang makes another attempt on our lives.”
Ben willingly approved, and the boys said they would stretch out on blankets by the stove.
“We’ll have to make one more trip back to Hank’s, though, to tend the horses,” Joe added.
The brothers set out, riding double on Frank’s horse. By this hour the long, single street of Lucky Lode was dark and silent. When the Hardys reached Hank’s cabin, they dismounted and went to the lean-to.
It was empty! Both Joe’s horse and Daisy, the pack mare, were gone!
“Who could have taken them?” Joe gasped.
Frank was equally mystified. “Maybe footprints will give us a clue,” he said hopefully.
The boys shone their flashlights around the trampled snow. Horseshoe prints led off up the hillside. A man’s tracks were heading toward the cabin from the patch of timber into which Dodge had disappeared earlier. 
“He must have come back after we left!” Joe exclaimed.
“Sure looks that way,” Frank agreed. “We can check more carefully by daylight.”
The boys returned to Ben’s and stabled Frank’s horse in one of the old ghost-town buildings. When they went inside the cabin, the three men were asleep. Ben was snoring loudly.
“Even that won’t keep me awake tonight!” Joe grinned, and yawned deeply.
In spite of their exhausting adventures, Frank and Joe awoke at daybreak, thoroughly refreshed. After pulling on their clothes, they hurried back to Hank Shale’s cabin.
Although the snow had wind-drifted, it was still possible to make out Dodge’s tracks. They led away from the cabin to the woods, then returned to the lean-to.
“He was punchy, all right,” Frank remarked. “His steps zigzagged.”
The prints led to a clump of brush, where the crushed, broken twigs indicated the fugitive had fallen full length.
“Dodge collapsed when he got this far!” Joe said in surprise.
“Yes, Joe. And this may prove his innocence.”
“How so?”
“Suppose it was Burke who beaned him with the flashlight, instead of the other way around. Dodge might have fought back, knocked Burke down, then scrammed out the window before Burke could come at him again. Dodge may have been dazed from the blow—”
“I get it!” Joe interrupted excitedly. “So he staggered out here in the woods, maybe not even knowing where he was going, and passed out.”
Frank said he was puzzled. “Why should Dodge go riding off up the hillside, instead of back into town? And why take Daisy?”
Joe shook his head. “Maybe we have him figured all wrong. Could be he is part of the gang, and wanted to get up to their hideout.”
Frank and Joe checked again on the helicopter and found it still in the clearing. On their way back through Lucky Lode, the Hardys stopped off at the hotel. The worried manager informed them that he had had no word from the vanished armored-car-company owner.
“I’ve notified Sheriff Kenner and I just now finished calling Mr. Dodge’s office in Helena,” the manager added.
Back at Ben’s cabin, the boys found a hearty breakfast awaiting them. As they ate, Frank and Joe reported the theft of the two horses and discussed their theories with the men.
“An amazing turn of events,” Mr. Hardy said.
As soon as the meal was over, Hank and the boys went off to hire fresh mounts from the livery stable. They promised to pay the owner for the lost horse if it was not recovered. Hank started off for Bear Creek to meet the sheriff. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe rode to the general store.
“Mornin’, boys,” Burke greeted them. Aside from his bruised cheek, he seemed to have suffered no ill effects from the fight.
Frank read off a short list of supplies. One item was a carton of canned beans. When Burke brought it, Frank said, “We’d better divide the cans between our saddlebags, Joe. Could you lend me a knife to open the carton, Mr. Burke?”
“Sure,” Burke took out a huge pocketknife and tossed it on the counter.
As the storekeeper went off to get the rest of the items, Frank opened the knife. About half the main blade was broken off!
The Hardys exchanged quick glances of triumph. The first part of Frank’s plan had paid off. Unless the broken knife was an amazing coincidence, Burke must be the man the gang called “Slip Gun”! Now to see if he would take the bait they were about to offer!
As Frank had hoped, Burke was curious as to why the boys needed the supplies. “You fellas fixin’ to take a trip somewhere?” he asked casually as he totaled the bill.
“Not too far,” Frank replied. “We’ll be camping in a canyon up the mountain a ways.”
“And we’ll be coming back rich!” Joe added boastfully.
Frank shot an angry look at his brother, as if Joe had spoken out of turn.
“Rich?” Burke looked at the boys questioningly.
“It was supposed to be a secret,” Frank grumbled, “but—well, I guess we can trust you after what happened last night.”
“Sure! I won’t tell nobody,” Burke purred. “Well, one reason we came out West was to look for some lost gold that an old miner named Mike Onslow told us about,” Frank began.
“He drew us a map,” put in Joe, “but it was stolen from us.”
“Then yesterday we were out in a box canyon where there’s a certain rock formation that looks like a bear,” Frank went on. “We’d heard Big Al’s gang planned to meet there. We didn’t see the gang, but we did spot a clue to the whereabouts of the gold. And we have the location marked right here on a map we drew ourselves.”
Frank pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and tapped it significantly.
Burke stared in amazement. “No foolin’! You really know where to lay hands on the gold?”
The boys nodded gloatingly.
“But please don’t say a word to anyone,” Joe cautioned. “We don’t want to start a gold rush out to that canyon before we’ve had a chance to uncover the treasure.”
“Don’t worry, boys! Mum’s the word as far as I’m concerned.” Burke gave an oily smile.
After stowing the supplies in their saddlebags, Frank and Joe rode out of town. Beyond the ridge they reined up at a sheltered spot agreed upon beforehand with Hank. Here the boys waited until they were joined by Hank and Sheriff Kenner. Then all four set out together, retracing the route the Hardys had followed when returning to town from the canyon the evening before.
A brief search soon disclosed the opening in the hillside through which the gang had emerged from the canyon. The entrance widened into a high-arched rocky passage, big enough for riding two abreast. The passage ended directly below the bear-shaped rock.
Once inside, Frank, Joe, and their two companions paused to consider their next move.
Sheriff Kenner, a rugged-looking man with an iron-gray mustache, asked the boys, “What time do you figure the gang will show—assuming Burke took the bait?”
“He jumped at it!” Joe declared confidently.
“My hunch is,” Frank said, “they’ll wait until after dark and try to take us by surprise.”
The group kept out of sight below the rocky overhang and Hank cooked lunch over a small fire. Meanwhile, the two boys searched for the broken knife blade. Joe soon found it.
“This sure looks as if it fits Burke’s knife,” he said, handing over the blade to the sheriff.
By the time darkness fell, the group had arranged a convincing-looking camp with two stone-and-brush dummies covered with blankets to resemble sleepers. Then the four retired with their horses behind a cluster of huge boulders.
Time passed slowly. The campfire was renewed. Suddenly, above the soughing of the wind, the listeners’ ears caught the faint clop of horses’ hoofs. The riders were coming through the rocky passage. Frank, Joe, and their two companions swung quietly into their saddles. Sheriff Kenner whispered final orders.
Moments later, three horsemen entered the canyon. There was sufficient moonlight for the boys to make out Slim and Jake. The third man, they guessed, was Big Al. Evidently Burke was not taking part in the raid.
The three thugs paused inside the canyon. The dying campfire and the two blanketed dummies lay in plain view. Big Al hissed out an order. Slim and Jake charged forward, their horses breaking into a gallop. The gang leader followed at a more leisurely pace.
“All right, let’s take ’em!” Sheriff Kenner snapped in a low voice. He and Hank spurred their horses from behind the boulders, while Frank and Joe waited, according to plan.
“Don’t go for your guns! Just reach!” Sheriff Kenner yelled. At the same time, he fired a shot to show that he meant business.
Slim and Jake reined up sharply. Their hands shot skyward in panic as the bullet whistled over their heads. Frank and Joe spurred their horses into action and sped from behind the boulders. At that same instant Big Al wheeled his horse in a wild dash for the passageway. The boys and Hank followed, but suddenly Hank’s horse stumbled and its rider went flying off. The Hardys stopped, and turned back to help him.
“I’ll—be all right—boys. Nothin—broken! Just —got the—wind knocked out o’ me,” he called out.
Reassured, Joe swung his mount in the direction of the escaping outlaw. “Big Al’s getting away! Let’s go after him!” he called to his brother.
Frank needed no urging. Together, they galloped after the ringleader. With Slim and Jake to deal with, the sheriff was powerless to join the chase. He shouted a warning to the two boys, advising them to wait, but his cry was drowned by the thundering hoofbeats.
The boys were already plunging through the tunnel in hot pursuit of the outlaw. In the darkness ahead they could hear the pounding hoofs of Big Al’s mount and see an occasional glint of sparks as its steel shoes struck the rocks.
Presently a dim glow of moonlight showed the passageway coming to an end. For a time Big Al’s figure was clearly silhouetted. Then it was lost to view as he emerged from the passage and headed to the right along the foot of the hillside. In moments Frank and Joe were out of the passageway and turning their own horses in the same direction.


  
“Big Al’s heading toward the same notch he and his men aimed for yesterday!” Frank called.
For more than an hour the chase continued—over rocks, through dangerous gullies, then along a river winding through a narrow canyon. Suddenly Frank and Joe lost sight of their quarry as the canyon curved sharply. When the boys rounded the bend, they reined up in astonishment.


  
Ahead, the canyon ended abruptly in a high frozen cataract. The outlaw had vanished!

CHAPTER XV
Underground Chase  
FRANK and Joe looked at each other in sheer disbelief, mingled with uneasiness. Except for the panting of their horses, not a sound broke the wintry silence of the canyon.
“Could Big Al have rigged some kind of ambush?” Joe asked in a low, worried voice.
“I don’t see how,” Frank murmured, scanning the terrain. “There’s no place for him and his horse to hide.”
The cliff walls on either side were bare and precipitous. With the moon almost directly overhead, the snow-covered floor of the canyon was revealed with brilliant clarity. The narrow riverbanks were barren of brush. Aside from a few scattered rocks —none big enough to afford cover—nothing intervened between the boys and the frozen waterfall.
“Well, he must be here somewhere,” Joe said edgily. “His tracks will give us the answer.”
Frank agreed. The boys dismounted and moved forward cautiously, leading their horses. Moonlight wrapped the scene in eerie loneliness. The boys kept their eyes and ears alert. Gradually they became aware of another sound—the muted roar of falling water, still flowing behind the glacier-like formation.
The sound became louder as they neared the cataract. The majestic ice curtain glittered in the moonlight. It was fringed with great, jagged blue-white spears that hung down like stalactites.
“I don’t get it,” Joe muttered. “Al’s tracks lead straight toward the waterfall!”
As they proceeded, Frank took out his flashlight, and switched it on. He gave a cry of surprise.
“Joe! He must have gone under the waterfall!” 
At the base of the cliff was a dark open space yawning between the curve of the falls and the rock face! It was large enough to admit a horse and rider. The boys moved closer for a better look and Frank probed the darkness with his flashlight.
“Look! There’s an opening in the cliff wall!” Joe exclaimed. “It must be a tunnel!”
“Or maybe just a blind cavern,” Frank said, switching off his flashlight. “Big Al could be waiting for us in there!”
After a whispered conference, Frank groped his way behind the cataract. When he reached the opening in the cliff he quickly snapped on his flashlight again for a more leisurely examination. Presently he came back and reported to Joe. “It’s a tunnel, all right. No telling how far it goes —or where.”
“No sign of Big Al?” Joe questioned.
“Not in person, but there are wet tracks.”
The two horses balked a bit as the boys took their bridles and attempted to lead them into the dark space behind the icy falls. Joe’s animal, which was in the lead, whinnied and reared when it felt the splattering spray, but it soon calmed under Joe’s reassuring hand.
Inside the tunnel mouth the passage widened, giving the boys room to mount. Frank and Joe rode slowly forward, with Joe, in the lead, shining his flashlight.
After several hundred yards the passage widened and the boys were able to ride side by side.
“Must have been the bed of an old underground stream,” Frank guessed. “See how smooth the walls are worn.”
Joe nodded. “We’d better speed up before Big Al gets too far ahead.”
Urging their horses to a faster pace, they pushed on through the tunnel. At intervals the boys stopped and listened, hoping to catch some sound of their quarry. The fourth time they halted, a faint echoing sound of horse’s hoofs on rock reached their ears from somewhere ahead.
“We must be getting closer!” Joe said tensely.
Just how close was difficult to judge, since the enclosed passage with its smooth, hard walls might carry the sound almost any distance. The boys rode on steadily. When they paused to listen once more, the hoofbeats were no longer audible. But twenty minutes later Joe thought he could detect them again.
“He may be far ahead of us,” said Frank. “Sound can be pretty tricky in here.”
As the brothers continued along the tunnel, the chill, dank atmosphere gradually became warmer. Frank and Joe unzipped their heavy windbreakers.
After a while it became necessary to rest the horses. The Hardys did not dare pause too long for fear of losing Big Al completely, and soon went on.
The tunnel turned and twisted. The horses were nervous at first about proceeding, but gradually became accustomed to the experience.
“It seems as if we’ve been traveling for hours,” said Frank. Presently he snapped on his flashlight to glance at his wristwatch. To his amazement, it was almost three-thirty in the morning! “Whew! Do you realize the night’s almost over, Joe?”
“I sure do. The horses are bushed.”
Gradually the boys became aware that the tunnel was sloping upward. The horses began to pant and labor from the steepness of the incline, and the Hardys had to rest them more frequently.
“It’s getting colder in here,” Joe said with a sudden shiver. Both boys zipped up their jackets.
“We must be getting close to the surface,” Frank said hopefully.
Sometime later he was about to turn on his flashlight again when he paused. “Hey! The tunnel’s not so dark as it has been—or am I imagining things?”
“You’re right!” Joe replied, with rising excitement. “I’ll keep my flashlight off for a while.”
Soon the boys could feel cold air on their faces. The tunnel was lightening every moment, and presently a gray glimmer of daylight showed ahead. With joyful cries of relief, Frank and Joe urged their horses forward.
In a minute or so, they had emerged onto a snow-covered mountainside. Rocks, scattered trees, and slopes all around them were bathed in the ghostly light of dawn. The Hardys leaped from their horses, stretched their tired muscles, and inhaled the fresh air deeply. Then they looked around and assessed their situation.
“There are Big Al’s tracks,” Joe said, pointing them out.
Frank nodded. “Fairly fresh, too—but he could be a good distance ahead of us.”
“Any idea where we are, Frank?”
“Not much, except that we’ve come clear through the mountain.” Frank grinned wryly. “I’m famished, Joe. How about you?”
“Same here! Think we can take time to eat?”
“May as well,” Frank decided. “No telling how long we’ll be on the trail. Lucky we didn’t unpack.”
The boys fed their horses, built a small fire, and had breakfast. Then they swung back into the saddles and resumed their pursuit of the outlaw. His tracks led upward onto a beaten trail winding along the mountainside.
When they reached the path, Frank reined in his mount and glanced toward a high, jutting rock formation farther up the mountain. “Know something, Joe?” he remarked. “I’ll bet this is a continuation of Ambush Trail.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “You’re right! I remember seeing that rocky outcrop way in the distance, just before we fell into the river!”
“If this is Ambush Trail,” Frank went on, “Big Al must be heading for their hideout on Windy Peak.” 
“That figures,” Joe agreed. “He thinks he’s shaken us by going through the tunnel.”
The boys continued their pursuit throughout the morning. Around noontime, Big Al’s tracks left the well-defined path and disappeared upward among the higher rocks and brush.
Joe groaned at the sight. “Good grief! How can we tackle that kind of ground when our horses are exhausted already?”
Frank looked thoughtful as they slouched in their saddles and studied the terrain. “Maybe there’s no need to, Joe. I have a hunch this could be a dodge to throw us off.”
“You could be right,” Joe said, brightening. “If Big Al’s heading for Windy Peak, he’ll probably have to come back to the trail eventually.” 
After talking the matter over, the Hardys decided to halt for lunch and a rest. Two hours later, feeling refreshed, they hit the trail again.
It was late in the afternoon when the boys sighted the outlaw’s tracks once more, leading from the slope back down to the trail.
“Your hunch paid off, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “These tracks look pretty fresh, too!”
Encouraged, the boys pressed forward with new energy. A mile farther on, the trail forked. One branch struck sharply upward. The other followed a more winding course along the curve of the mountainside. To their left stretched a shallow box canyon.
Frank and Joe took the lower trail, since the prints showed that Big Al had gone that way. Gradually the path became little more than a rocky ledge, with frequent sharp turns and a sheer drop-off along the outer edge. The Hardys rode single file, with Joe in the lead.
Suddenly a pebble clattered down from a rock jutting out just above their heads. Frank shot a quick glance upward. “Look out, Joe!” he yelled.
A rope with a wide circling noose was snaking down toward his brother’s head!
Frank’s warning came an instant too late. The noose settled over Joe’s shoulders and jerked tight, nearly yanking him from the saddle.
Frank spurred forward, white with terror. Someone hidden on the ledge above them was trying to drop Joe over the precipice! Frank managed to grab the taut rope just in time. Almost at the same instant, the unseen enemy let go of it. Joe would have gone over the brink, but Frank’s quick jerk on the rope pulled his brother back from the edge, and Joe dropped heavily onto the trail. Unhurt, he struggled to his feet and began extricating himself from the noose. In moments he was free.
“There goes the rat!” Frank yelled as a figure burst from the ledge above and scrambled rapidly along the slope.
Big Al!
Instantly Joe was back in the saddle. The Hardys spurred forward in hot pursuit. The outlaw’s course was roughly parallel to the trail. Suddenly Big Al checked his stride long enough to send a large rock rumbling down the slope.
“Hold it, Frank!” Joe warned.
Both boys yanked their horses to a rearing, whinnying halt in the nick of time! A split second later the rock crashed onto the trail just ahead, rolled to the edge, and went over.
The animals snorted with fear and stood trembling. Frank and Joe barely managed to spur them into motion again. Big Al was lost to view behind a clump of brush and jagged outcropping.
The trail ahead bent sharply around a projecting shoulder of the mountainside. Joe caught a quick glimpse of Big Al outlined against the sky as he rounded the slope. Then he disappeared.
The boys slowed their mounts to negotiate the dangerous hairpin curve of the ledge. As they came around to the opposite side of the shoulder, Joe reined in and signaled Frank to halt. Ahead stood Big Al’s riderless horse. The Hardys dismounted to scout the situation.
“Where has he gone?” Frank asked tensely.
“Search me,” Joe replied, looking around.
Just past the outlaw’s horse the trail petered out and the terrain sloped upward in a jumble of giant rocks. Beyond them a huge boulder stood poised straight up like a pinnacle.
“He must be holed up among those rocks,” Frank said. “Probably waiting for us!”
He had hardly finished speaking when Joe clutched his brother’s arm and pointed. “Look! There he is!”
Big Al had suddenly appeared, clawing his way to the very top of the jutting boulder!
“He’s trapped!” Frank cried out triumphantly. “Let’s get him!”

CHAPTER XVI
Cliff Hideaway  
“YOU’LL never take me alive!” screamed Big Al.
He had reached the top of the huge boulder and now stood waving his arms against the leaden sky. The outlaw was jumping around as though half-crazed.
“Try to get me!” he challenged.
As Frank and Joe sped into the jumble of rocks, they lost sight of their quarry momentarily. They could hear Big Al still yelling, then suddenly there was silence.
“Wonder what happened?” Joe panted. “Did—”
He was interrupted by a long-drawn-out scream which gradually trailed off. Then there was silence.
Dashing from the rocks, the boys came around a corner. Before them was the huge boulder.
“He’s gone!” Joe panted.
“But where?”
There was no place for Big Al to have run except down the rocky trail on which the boys had been.
“He must have jumped over the edge!” Joe yelled. The Hardys ran to it. They could see most of the canyon floor below them. There was no sign of a body.
“He must have gone down!” Frank said, puzzled. “But where is he?” 
The boys looked closely again in the waning light. There was no one in sight.
“I wonder—” Joe said slowly. “Even if Big Al did go over the side, he may have known a safe way to slide to the bottom, and there might be some hiding place—”
Frank agreed. “Big Al’s pretty tricky. He could have figured out some way to escape.”
As the light failed, the brothers strained their eyes to peer into the darkness, but could detect no niche, crevice, or cave in which to hide.
“Well,” Frank murmured at last, “there isn’t much we can do tonight. I sure hate to think Big Al is roaming around here loose.”
Joe looked toward the sky. It was dark now and they were a long distance up Windy Peak. “What’ll we do, Frank?” he asked.
“The only thing we can do,” said his brother, “is spend the night here. Tomorrow we might manage to find some trace of Big Al. I want to know if he’s dead or alive.”
“I do, too!” Joe exclaimed.
“We’ll have to make camp,” Frank said, “but first we’d better do something about our horses.”
“Yes, and Big Al’s, too,” Joe added, pointing toward the outlaw’s fine roan that was still ground-hitched.
The boys gathered the three animals together, rode back to the fork, and secured the horses to rocks.
“These old fellows will provide us with a good warning system,” Frank remarked.
“How?” his brother asked.
Frank explained his idea. “We’ll leave them here and go part way back along the trail to make camp. If Al is alive he’ll have to come past here, since all three trails meet at this spot. He’ll want his roan, anyway. The horses would be sure to whinny and waken us.” 
“Good scheme!” said Joe. “We’ll camp at the Rock Motel!”
“Every comfort and all for free,” Frank joked.
The boys ate, fed the horses, then carted their bedrolls and meager supplies to a sheltered spot and quickly spread out the blankets. Though the brothers were tired, sleep was slow in coming.
“I can’t help wondering if Big Al is tricking us again,” Frank said uneasily as he was finally drifting off.
He dreamed several times about the outlaw and tried to figure out why he and Joe had not seen Big Al’s body in the gorge. Both boys slept fitfully through the night.
As the blackness of the sky began to lighten with the coming of dawn, they got up and ate a cold but nourishing breakfast of oranges, oatmeal cookies, and egg flakes. Refreshed, the boys walked toward the edge of the cliff over which Big Al had disappeared.
“We may be able to see something more in the daylight,” Joe remarked.
Frank had been staring into the gray, lowering sky. “I doubt if there’s anything to see,” he observed.
“What do you mean?”
Frank scanned the sky once more. “I think we’ve been fooled again,” he answered. “If there had been a body down in the gorge, there’d be carrion birds flying around.”
“Of course,” said Joe.
“I wondered about it last night, but thought maybe because it was so late there wouldn’t be any birds at work. But some would be here this morning, if there was anything to attract them.”
“Let’s look over the edge again,” Joe suggested.
The brothers dropped to their stomachs and crept as close as they could to the rim. By leaning well over it, they could look almost to the base of the cliff.
“See anything, Joe?”
“Not a thing.”
Suddenly, from far below, came the rattle of small pebbles. A great black raven flew out of the precipice.
“There must be a nest in the cliff!” Joe cried out.
The boys edged forward over the rough stones. They held on as tightly as possible before leaning over to locate the nest.
“There it is!” exclaimed Frank.
Below them in a recess that nature had torn in the cliffside was the bird’s nest and alongside it enough room to give a man shelter.
“That was Big Al’s hiding place!” Frank said grimly. “He swung down there to the left and probably got away during the night.”
Frank and Joe crawled back from the cliff’s edge until they could stand up in safety.
“He fooled us all right,” said Frank. “I wonder how long it was before he left here.”
“Maybe,” Joe suggested, “it depended on the horses. I’ll bet he waited until just before dawn and then stole them!”
Frank was angry. “Of course. His horse would know him, and since the three animals have been together and gotten to be friends, none of them would whinny an alarm. I should have realized that.”
The boys dashed for the fork. Their guess had been right! The horses were gone! And taken up the steeper branch!
“Al did trick us!” Frank chided himself. 
“Now he’s really got us in a spot,” murmured his brother. “Do we head for home or trail him?”
“Trail him,” Frank decided promptly. ‘We’ll have to walk, of course.”
“Can we make it up there?” Joe sounded worried.
“I don’t know, but we’ll have to try.”
The brothers huddled in the shelter of a rock to discuss the situation. What lay ahead? They realized it might be a long and treacherous climb —perhaps another night without hot food and proper shelter. They noticed it was growing colder and that was a bad sign too. It was not only going to be uncomfortable for the Hardy boys, but they could easily freeze to death!
“Come on, Joe!” Frank said resolutely as he started up the steep trail. “We’re not going to let Big Al get away!”
Joe joined his brother and together they started the climb along this part of Ambush Trail. The turns were abrupt and the wind whistled sharply. Once Joe had to snatch Frank back when the wind nearly blew him over the edge.
For hours the boys toiled along the trail, following the string of horseshoe prints. During the afternoon, the marks made an abrupt turn that opened onto a plateau. It was almost completely surrounded by jagged outcroppings of rocks. The boys ducked down out of the strong wind which had swept the area almost clean of snow.
Suddenly their eyes bulged as they spotted a small cabin that lay nestled in the center of the little plateau! From its chimney came a thin wisp of smoke.
“Somebody’s here!” said Joe excitedly, and instinctively began to run.
“Wait!” Frank warned. “It might be Big Al. We’d better approach cautiously. Say, Joe—look !”
On a ridge beyond the cabin was a single weather-beaten pine tree.
“The lone pine!” Joe exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Frank, “and if it is, that building might be Mike Onslow’s cabin—now occupied by Big Al!”

CHAPTER XVII
The Secret Listener  
As THE boys paused uncertainly, pondering their next move, the cabin door opened. A tall, white-haired man strode out and waved to them.
“Hi there!” he called. “Looking for shelter?”
The boys gasped as they recognized him.
“It’s Mr. Dodge!” Joe exclaimed.
“Can we trust him?” Frank muttered. “If he is in cahoots with the gang, Big Al may be in there, waiting to jump us.”
Joe shot his brother a quick glance. “If we run for it, they may come after us shooting!”
“Guess we’ll have to play this by ear,” Frank said in a low voice. “Better pretend we don’t suspect anything—but be ready to act fast if we spot a trap.”
The Hardys walked toward the cabin.
“What are you doing up here, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked when they drew closer.
A bewildered look came over the man’s face. “Dodge?” he repeated. “My name is Dawson—Bart Dawson. I worked a claim up here with Mike Onslow and the Coulson brothers.”
The boys stopped short in astonishment.
“That’s right,” Dodge went on. His manner seemed strange. “I—I’d better explain,” he added. “Come on inside and I’ll tell you the whole story. Maybe you boys can help me.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both had a hunch as to what Dodge was about to tell them.
“Okay, let’s go,” Frank murmured to Joe.
The brothers entered and Dodge closed the door. The cabin had a “lived-in” appearance. There were cans of food and other supplies on the shelves, and a pile of firewood beside the potbelly stove.
“Sit down, boys.”
Frank and Joe found chairs, but Dodge remained standing. He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick shock of white hair, as if he scarcely knew how to begin. He had a livid, swollen bruise on his right temple.
“Can you lads imagine what it’s like to wake up suddenly and not know where you are or how you got there?” the big man said at last. “To have a complete blank in your memory?”
“A blank twenty-five years long?” Joe put in.
Dodge looked startled. “I don’t know how you guessed it, son, but you must be just about right. Last time I recall, I was a young man with red hair and a beard. Also I was very skinny. But now when I see myself”—he gestured toward a small cracked mirror—“my hair’s white, I’m years older, and I’m much heavier.”
“Do you recognize us?” Frank queried.
The man shook his head. “No—and I’ve been wondering why you called me Dodge.”
“Because you’ve been going under the name of Bob Dodge,” Frank replied.
“Same initials—B.D.—but a different identity,” Joe added.
After introducing himself and his brother, Frank went on, “You spoke about waking up suddenly. Where?”
“In some woods near a cabin,” the man answered. “Felt as if I’d hit my head—or been hit —and there was a big swelling on my temple. Do you fellows know what happened?”
“You were conked with a flashlight,” Joe told him.
Frank leaned forward and asked, “Can’t you remember anything about a fight inside a cabin?”
Bart Dawson frowned in deep thought. Finally he shook his head. “No. I tried to figure how I’d got to the woods, but nothing came back to me.”
“What did you do next?” Frank said.
“Well, I staggered out of the woods. It was dark, but I was close to someone’s cabin. I knocked on the door, but—no answer.”
“Is that any reason to steal two horses?” Joe asked accusingly.
Dawson flushed. “You seem to know all my actions. I guess it was pretty highhanded, helping myself like that. But believe me, I intended to bring them back.”
“Just why did you take them?” Frank asked. “If you were confused, you could have gone into town for help.”
“I guess so,” Dawson admitted. “But the main street was dark and no one seemed to be stirring. Besides, I—well, I’d have felt pretty foolish waking people up and confessing I was mixed up.
“All I knew,” the man went on, “was that my name was Bart Dawson and I had to find my partners fast. It seemed terribly urgent for me to get back up here to our cabin on Windy Peak. There were two horses in the stable, so I helped myself to ’em and hit the trail. I took the pack horse,” he added, “because it was carrying blankets and a few supplies which I figured I might need in case I got lost and had to camp in the open.”
“When did you arrive here?” Frank asked.
“Yesterday afternoon. The place was empty, but there was some food.”
Frank and Joe concluded this was the gang’s hideout.
“When I saw myself in the mirror,” Dawson went on, “I realized how many years must have gone by.” His voice broke. He slumped down on a bunk and put his head in his hands. “If you boys can fill me in at all,” he said, “I’d sure appreciate it.”
Frank and Joe explained to Dawson that under the name Dodge, he had been operating a successful armored-car business in Helena for ten years. Where he had been before that, they did not know. The boys also told him how he had engaged their father, Fenton Hardy, to run down a gang of robbers and how his sons had been brought into the case. Frank ended by telling Dawson about his fight with Burke at Hank Shale’s cabin, and how a trap had been baited for Burke later, which resulted in the capture of Slim and Jake.
The white-haired man on the bunk shook his head hopelessly. “Thanks for telling me this, boys. But I still can’t remember a thing about my life as Bob Dodge.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?” Joe pressed him.
Slowly Dawson began to relate how he and his partners had been besieged in this very cabin by Black Pepper’s gang.
“We heard about that from Mike Onslow,” Frank put in. “He’s a trapper now, back East. The two Coulson brothers are dead.”
Dawson swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear that.” After a moment he continued, “Anyhow, I remember taking off in the plane and heading north. But after three or four minutes the engine failed—and the ship crashed.”
“You couldn’t have gone far in three or four minutes,” Joe said thoughtfully.
“No, that’s right,” Dawson agreed, frowning. “I think I came down in the big valley beyond Lone Tree Ridge.”
“Then what?” Frank asked.
Dawson got up from the bunk and paced back and forth. “The plane hit hard and cartwheeled over into a sort of little gully somewhere along the valley floor. I must have blacked out for a while. When I came to, I had a terrible pain in my head.”
“You walked away from the wreck?” asked Joe.
“Yes. I was worried about Black Pepper getting the gold and the fact that Mike Onslow and the Coulson boys had entrusted it to me. Don’t know how I managed, weak as I was, but somehow I got the sacks of gold out of the plane.”
“What did you intend to do?” Frank inquired.
Dawson rubbed his head painfully. “I’ve been concentrating on that ever since I arrived at the cabin,” he replied. “I recall knowing I couldn’t lug the gold very far, and that I wanted to hide it in a safe place. Some landmark in the valley must have reminded me of an old abandoned mine called the Lone Tree diggings.”
“Is that where you took the gold?” Joe asked.
“It must have been,” Dawson said. “Anyhow, I remember finding a tunnel opening—and at the end of the tunnel a big excavation with bluish dirt walls. That’s where I hid the gold.”
“Can you remember anything more?” Frank urged.
“Not much. Guess I tried to reach help. But it was bitter cold and snowing and I must have lost my way. Seems as if I wandered for a long time—plodding along blindly, falling, getting up, and staggering on. After that, everything’s a blank.”
“The crash and the terrible hardships you went through must have brought on amnesia,” Joe said.
“And the blow Burke gave you that night triggered your mind into recalling the past,” Frank added.
“Incidentally,” Joe put in, “we’re pretty sure that Black Pepper and the gang leader Big Al are the same man.”
Dawson frowned again. “You said I was running a business up in Helena,” he murmured. “In that case, why was I hanging around Lucky Lode? Your father was handling the detective work.”
“We wondered about that ourselves,” Frank admitted. “In fact, it made us suspect that you might be in with the gang. But maybe you were trying to dig up your past. I have a hunch this territory around Lucky Lode could have rung a bell in your mind.”
Suddenly all three were startled by the whinny of a horse. Frank and Joe leaped from their chairs and dashed outside, followed by Dawson. A man on horseback had just emerged from a clump of rocks and brush. He was headed toward the ridge.
“That’s Big Al!” Joe cried.
A thought flashed into Frank’s mind. Around the windward sides of the cabin lay an area of drift snow. Frank ran toward it. As he had feared, fresh tracks were visible leading toward and away from the lean-to shed at the back.
“He was here!” Frank called angrily. As the others joined him, he pointed to the prints in the snow. “I’ll bet Big Al was hiding in the shed! He must have heard everything!”
The Hardys and Dawson hurried into the shed. Joe’s saddle horse and Daisy, the pack mare—the animals Dawson had taken from Hank’s cabin—were peacefully munching hay at the feedbox. Dawson was mystified, but Frank and Joe quickly reconstructed what must have happened.
“The gang’s been using this cabin as their hideout,” Joe said. “Big Al must have reached here just before we did. When he saw the smoke, Big Al figured he’d better scout the situation.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “He circled around the cabin toward that clump of brush, left the horses there, and sneaked up from the rear.”
“I’ll bet he was in the lean-to when we arrived,” Joe added. “That means he heard everything through the wall—including what Mr. Dodge—Dawson—told us about the place where he hid the gold!”
“And now Big Al’s on his way to find it!” Frank exclaimed.
The Hardys ran toward the clump of rocks and brush. Among them, well out of sight of the cabin, were the two horses Big Al had stolen from the boys. The outlaw had abandoned the extra animals when he galloped off.
“We’ll go after him!” Frank decided.
The boys rode the horses back to the cabin. Dawson was eager to accompany them in pursuit of the gang leader, but the Hardys thought it more important that he return to Lucky Lode immediately and tell their father the turn of events.
“Dad and Hank and the sheriff will be worried sick about us by this time,” Frank said. “Besides, Mr. Dawson, that knock on the head may cause some aftereffects—you should see a doctor.”
After some persuasion, Dawson agreed, although the leaden sky foreboded bad weather.
Frank and Joe quickly collected some supplies from among the provisions in the cabin. In doing so, they discovered a powerful flashlight with a blue lens—evidently the signal light beamed from the cemetery—and a complete list of the gang members, with jotted notes on how to contact them, including Hopkins’ group in Chicago.
“This should give the police all they need to smash the gang for good!” Joe exclaimed, handing the papers to Dawson.
Snow was falling as the boys mounted their horses. Dawson was ready to hit the trail for Lucky Lode with the other horses. After a final farewell Frank and Joe galloped off.
The snow was gradually obliterating Big Al’s tracks. By the time the Hardys had topped the ridge and were riding down into the valley below, the outlaw’s trail had disappeared.
“A tough break,” Frank murmured, “but at least we know the general direction he’s taking.”
An hour later they reached level ground. The sky was darkening now under a heavy overcast and wind was roaring down the valley at gale force. The brothers hunched low in the saddle as driving gusts of snow stung their faces.
Frank took the lead while the boys threaded their way among boulders and brush that studded the valley floor. Here and there drifts were accumulating and the horses’ legs sank deep into the snow at every step. Soon the snow was swirling so thickly that Frank could see only a few yards ahead. Had they made a mistake, he wondered, in pressing ahead through the storm?
“Looks as though we’re in for a real blizzard, Joe!” he yelled. “We’d better find shelter!”
Hearing no answer, Frank swung around in the saddle—then gasped. Joe was nowhere in sight !
“Joe!” Frank screamed against the wind. “Joe! Where are you?”
There was no reply.

CHAPTER XVIII
North from Lone Tree  
FOR a moment Frank was panic-stricken. He shouted Joe’s name, but the howling wind drowned his voice.
Snugging his chin inside his turned-up coat collar, Frank slouched in his saddle and waited. Minutes dragged by. Again and again he called his brother’s name, but no answering cry reached his ears. Darkness was closing in rapidly now, and Frank was half numbed from the icy blast of the storm. His heart sank with every passing moment.
“It’s hopeless,” Frank decided at last. “If I sit here much longer, I’ll freeze. I must get out of the driving wind and snow.” Frank urged his horse in the general direction of the mountainside.
Presently through the swirling snow, a shapeless, rocky mass loomed in front of him. Frank guided his horse along the base of the rock, and after several minutes of plodding, found a spot that was partially sheltered by overhang. He dismounted and drew his horse in out of the blizzard.
Frank clicked on his flashlight and shone it about the area. Fringing the rock face were brownish clumps of brush—dry and brittle beneath their coating of snow.
“These will do for a fire,” Frank thought. “And it might signal Joe!”
He broke off enough of the brush to make a small pile and took out his waterproof case of matches. He struck one, then a second. Both blew out, but the third one caught. Cupping the flame in his hand, Frank held it against one of the broken twigs. In a moment the dry wood began to smolder. Bit by bit, Frank nursed the ember into a fire and soon had a roaring blaze going.
“It won’t last long, though,” he reflected as he warmed his face and hands.
By now the circle of firelight was strong enough to reveal a fallen tree several yards away. Frank managed to break off some branches and brought them back to augment his supply of firewood.
“If only Joe were here!” he thought.
Shivering, Frank walked out into the darkness. “Joe!” he shouted, his voice straining. Then again, “Joe! ...”
Frank listened intently. Suddenly his heart leaped. He had heard a cry!
Frank began yelling frantically. Several moments later a horse and rider took shape out of the snowy darkness. Frank rushed to meet them and guided Joe’s frost-rimed mount back toward the welcome glow of the firelight.


  
He shouted Joe’s name, but the howling wind drowned his voice
Joe himself was white from head to foot. He climbed wearily out of the saddle, shook himself off, and hunkered close to the flames while Frank attended to his horse.
“Whew!” Joe gave a long sigh of relief as the warmth of the blaze restored his numbed circulation. “Good thing you built this fire, Frank. I was about ready to give up.”
“I was hoping you might spot the light,” Frank said. “How did we get separated?”
“My carelessness,” Joe confessed. “I was looking around for signs of Big Al and sort of trusting my horse to follow yours. First thing I knew, you were nowhere in sight.”
The boys blanketed and fed their horses, then opened a can of beans and had a warm supper.
“Wonder if Big Al’s lost in the storm, too?” Joe mused drowsily.
“Probably,” Frank replied. “If he’s smart, he’ll find some kind of shelter.”
“He may already have found the mine tunnel where Dawson’s gold is hidden,” Joe pointed out.
“Let’s hope not!”
There was a long silence as the two brothers crouched close to the fire, listening to the roar of the storm. Gradually their heads drooped. It was an uneasy, uncomfortable night. Frank and Joe managed to sleep, off and on, but as the fire died down one or the other would get up and forage for more wood.
With the first clear light of dawn, the brothers were awake and preparing to hit the trail. The snow had stopped sometime during the early morning. Now the whole valley lay covered in a ghostly blanket of white.
“What’s our next move?” Joe asked as the boys ate breakfast.
“I think our best bet is to look for the lost plane,” Frank suggested. “The mine tunnel can’t be too far from there.”
Joe shook his head pessimistically. “Don’t forget, Big Al’s gang has been looking for it for a long time with no luck.”
“But they had nothing to go on,” Frank argued. “Of course Dawson’s plane fell into a gully—so it might not be too easy to spot.”
“That’s true,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Let’s see if we can get some idea of where it came down. According to Dawson, he headed north and was in the air only three or four minutes!”
The Hardys made a rough calculation, based on the probable speed of a single-engine plane of old vintage. Then, using their compass and taking a bearing on the lone sentinel pine atop the ridge, they started off toward the area where they estimated the crash might have occurred.
The horses could move only at a slow plod. Their forelegs sank knee-deep into the snow at every step. Frank and Joe—their breaths steaming in the subzero atmosphere—were forced to control their impatience.
The search continued for several hours. By late morning, both boys were discouraged. Joe, who was in the lead, reined in his horse.
“Seems pretty hopeless, if you ask me,” he said, swinging around in his saddle. “Maybe we should—”
Joe broke off with a gasp. As he turned, his eyes had suddenly detected something protruding from the snow in the distance.
“Frank!” Joe pointed off through the clear, cold air.
Frank’s eyes widened as he too saw the object. “You’re right! Let’s go check!”
Turning their horses, the boys rode toward the spot. Even before they reached it, they could make out the skeletal wing tip of a plane sticking up from a snow-choked gully.
“That’s the wreck, all right!” Frank exclaimed jubilantly. “No wonder Big Al and his gang never saw it! Those trees along the edge of the gully would screen it from the ridge!”
The boys halted to discuss the next step in their search.
“The mine tunnel must be somewhere in the mountainside,” Frank reasoned. “And it must be on this side of the valley. The other side’s miles away—Dawson couldn’t have carried the gold that far.”
“Which still gives us a lot of ground to cover,” Joe said.
The two boys rode toward the edge of the valley where the ground began to slope steeply upward.
“Dawson probably wasn’t in shape to climb very far after the crash,” Frank said. “So let’s concentrate along the lower slopes.”
The boys decided to turn left and skirt the mountainside for at least two miles. If their efforts proved fruitless, they would then retrace their steps and try the other direction.
Deep drifts and tangled underbrush made the going difficult. Several times the Hardys were disappointed. What looked like a hole in the mountainside proved to be only the shadow of trees or some rocky outcropping.
But suddenly Frank gave a cry of excitement and pointed. “There’s an opening for sure, Joe.”
The dark recess was only partly screened by a clump of underbrush. The two boys dismounted, ground-hitched their horses, and scrambled up the slope. They pulled aside the snow-laden brush and Frank shone his flashlight into the hole.
As the yellow beam stabbed through the darkness, Joe murmured, “This looks more like an ordinary cave than a mine tunnel.”
“But there is a tunnel back there,” Frank replied.
In the rear wall of the cavern, about fifty feet or more from the entrance, they could make out another hole which evidently led deep into the mountainside.
“Okay, let’s take a look,” Joe urged.
The boys entered the cave cautiously and walked toward the inner passage. Frank stopped as he heard a faint rustling noise to their left.
“Hold it, Joe.”
His brother turned quickly. A pair of glowing eyes glinted at them from the darkness.
Frank’s flashlight revealed an enormous gray wolf! Standing stiffly, the animal glared at the intruders, baring its teeth in a low growl.
Other noises reached the boys’ ears. Frank swung his flashlight around and a dozen pairs of wolves’ eyes shone in the glow like burning coals.
“Good grief!” Frank’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “We’ve walked straight into a den of wolves!”

CHAPTER XIX
Wolf Prey  
FOR a moment the Hardys were paralyzed with fright.
Joe swallowed hard and whispered, “Can we make a break for freedom?”
“We can try.”
At the first step, however, the huge timber wolf nearest them gave a savage snarl. The fur on its back bristled stiffly.
Frank muttered, “One false move and that lobo will go for us. This pack acts hungry.”
There was a patter of feet in the darkness. The glowing eyes from the dim recesses circled closer. The wolves were gathering around the boys, cutting off escape through the cave entrance!
Frank could feel drops of cold perspiration trickling down his skin. “Snap on your flashlight, too, Joe. That may help hold them back.”
Joe played the beam slowly back and forth, while Frank used his.
The wolves slunk restlessly to and fro. Their lolling tongues gave them a wickedly grinning appearance, but they were wary of the lights. Now and then, as a gaunt gray form was caught in the full radiance of a beam, the animal would leap back into the shadows.
It was clear that the flashlights could not hold the beasts at bay for long. As the wolves paced back and forth, the circle was being drawn gradually tighter.
“Watch it!” Joe exclaimed suddenly.
The leader of the pack was advancing straight toward Frank, who stabbed his light full into the wolf’s greenish eyes. The brute shrank back, its ears laid flat to its head. A vicious growl issued from its throat.
Instinctively the Hardys moved a step backward. The pack seemed to sense the boys’ fear and pressed its advantage, forcing the Hardys to retreat still farther.
“Into the tunnel!” Frank told his brother.
“It may be a blind alley,” Joe warned.
“We’ll have to risk it—there’s no other way out.”
Inch by inch, the boys backed toward the tunnel opening.
“It’s not wide enough for both of us,” Joe said tensely, flashing his light quickly behind them.
“Then you go first,” Frank ordered.
They were only a few yards from the tunnel now. Joe began working his way into position behind his brother. The wolves edged closer still, growing bolder, as if they sensed that their victims were trying to escape.
Suddenly the leader gave a vicious snarl and shortened his distance from the boys with a quick leap forward. Again Frank focused his flashlight squarely into the huge beast’s eyes—but this time the wolf refused to shrink back. Frank’s heart hammered as he saw the bared fangs and slavering jaws. Any instant it would leap in for the kill!
“Quick! A rock!” Frank gasped.
Joe looked around desperately and snatched up a heavy, jagged stone. He hurled it with all his might at the wolf. The rock hit the beast squarely in the head and the wolf collapsed, with blood oozing from the wound.
A chorus of low growls rose from the pack. The wolves seemed cowed by their leader’s downfall, but their nostrils had caught the scent of blood.
“Run for it!” Frank yelled.
Joe turned and plunged into the narrow passageway. Frank followed but more slowly, keeping his light aimed back at the wolves. The pack was gathering around its downed leader, sniffing and growling at the carcass.
Suddenly Frank heard a cry from Joe. It faded abruptly somewhere in the distance.
“Joe! Are you all right?” Frank glanced around hastily but saw only darkness.
A loud snarl drew his attention back toward the main cave. Glowing eyes were peering into the passage as if the wolves were nerving themselves for a renewed attack. Frank backed away fast, hoping to keep them dazzled with the flashlight beam.
Suddenly the ground seemed to end. His foot encountered only empty space!
The next instant Frank was plunging downward through a narrow hole. Instinctively he doubled up and a moment later landed hard amid dirt and rubble.
Frank was breathless from the jolting shock. Luckily he was still clutching the flashlight. He rolled quickly to his feet and played the beam around. A surge of relief swept over him.
Joe was lying on the ground only a few feet away. He, too, had fallen through the hole, but apparently had retained enough presence of mind to roll clear before Frank fell on him.
“Whew!” Joe was struggling for breath. “Had the wind knocked out of met” As Frank helped him to his feet, he asked, “What about those wolves?”
“Guess they won’t bother us down here,” Frank replied. He shone his flashlight up the hole, which seemed to be a natural chimney in the rock, but he could see nothing.
Meanwhile, Joe was examining the area into which they had fallen. This too appeared to be a passageway, but larger than the one they had ducked into while escaping from the wolves.
“Frank—look!” Joe exclaimed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Timbering!” Joe’s beam picked out a few moldy uprights and crossbeams, still in position at intervals along the passage despite years of disuse. “This place is a mine tunnel!”
“You’re right!” Frank’s voice quivered with excitement. “This must be the tunnel of the Lone Tree diggings that Dawson told us about!”
“Feels like cold air coming from over there,” Joe said, glancing toward his right. A curve of the tunnel prevented them from seeing more than ten yards in that direction, but Joe reasoned, “The entrance must be at that end.”
Frank agreed and added, “So the chamber with the bluish dirt walls would be the other way. Come on. Let’s find out!”
Shining their flashlights ahead, the Hardys plodded on. The tunnel was wide enough for them to proceed side by side, but at times they had to duck their heads to avoid bumping them on a crossbeam or a low-hanging clump of rock. Presently the boys’ excitement grew as they noticed blue-gray streaks appearing in the earth of the tunnel walls.
“There it is!” Frank cried suddenly.
Far ahead, dimly revealed by the glow of their flashlights, the tunnel opened out into a wider cavern. The boys sprinted forward eagerly. As they burst into the underground chamber, Joe gave a low shout of triumph.
The walls of the cavern were veined with bluish clay!
“This is the place, all right!” Joe exclaimed.
The Hardys excitedly shone their flashlights around the chamber. Several rusty picks and shovels lay scattered about, abandoned by the miners who had worked there many, many years before. The floor of the cavern was hard-packed, but in a few moments Frank and Joe discovered a heap of earth which looked as though at some time it had been dug up, then replaced.
“Grab a shovel, Joe!” Frank said. “I’ll bet this is where Dawson buried the gold! Let’s see if it’s still here!”
Both boys set to work. Though the spot was not rocky, the digging was difficult. Frank exchanged his shovel for a pick and began loosening the earth. Then he switched to a shovel again and helped Joe scoop out the dislodged dirt and gravel. After several minutes the Hardys were streaming with perspiration from the exhausting job.
“Boy! No wonder miners use dynamite!” Joe took off his heavy jacket. Frank, too, removed his and the boys returned to the digging. Their flashlights had been propped nearby to illuminate the spot.
Suddenly a yellowish-brown patch showed beneath the dirt. The boys frantically scraped and shoveled away the earth in a frenzy of anticipation.
A moment later they could make out four bulging leather pokes buried in the hole. As Frank beamed his flashlight into it, Joe tipped up a bag. Suddenly one side of the rotting leather burst open and gleaming yellow coins poured from it! The other bags held nuggets.
“Dawson’s and Onslow’s gold!” Frank cried out.
The boys dropped to their knees, tense with excitement.
“Wow! Imagine how Mike Onslow will feel when he gets the news!” Joe exclaimed.
“He never will!” said a harsh voice directly behind the Hardys.
Frank swung the flashlight around. Not ten feet away stood a glowering man.
“Big Al!” Joe gasped.
“That’s right.” The gang leader gave an ugly laugh. “Thanks for finding the gold, kids. Too bad you’ll never live to enjoy it!”

CHAPTER XX
Windy Peak Prisoner  
“WHAT do you intend to do?” Frank demanded.
“What do you think?” Big Al rasped. “I’m going to get rid of you brats for keeps.” 
“You’ve tried before,” Joe said defiantly.
“I sure have.” Big Al’s face was hard. “Since your pa’s a big detective, I tried to fix you so it would look like an accident. Then I made out like I’d gone over the cliff and got killed. But you punks were still camping there next morning—so I swiped your horses, figuring you’d wind up starved or frozen, and nothing could be pinned on me. That didn’t work either.”
Frank regarded the outlaw coolly. “So?”
“So now, I’ve got the gold and that’s all that matters. You kids’ll never leave here alive.” The outlaw’s hand went to the holster he was wearing.
“Click off your light, Joe!” Frank said in a whisper, snapping off his own.
As Big Al snaked out his gun, the cavern was plunged into darkness. Frank and Joe dived clear of his line of fire and clawed for their shovels.
The outlaw’s gun thundered as both boys hurled their shovels toward the spurt of flame. There was a thud and a cry of pain. At least one of the shovels had found its target!
The boys closed in on Big Al. Frank found the outlaw’s gun arm and levered it backward with both hands. Joe was busy on the other side.
Big Al fought like a madman, but Frank and Joe hung on. The outlaw screeched in pain as Frank applied bone-cracking pressure to his wrist, and a moment later the gun dropped from Big Al’s numbed fingers. Frank heard it fall and for an instant slackened pressure as he kicked the revolver out of reach.
The momentary diversion gave Big Al the chance he needed. Digging his fingers into Joe’s throat, he hurled the boy hard against the rocky wall. Joe sank to the ground, stunned.
“Now I’ll take care of you, kid!” Big Al snarled at Frank. 
The huge outlaw was more than a match for Frank alone. Frank fought desperately to maintain his hold, but Big Al grabbed his shoulder, jerked him loose, and drove a punch to Frank’s face. Frank staggered back, tripped over a rock, and fell heavily to the ground.
“Don’t try anything more or I’ll beat your brains out!” Big Al warned as he groped for his lost gun.
Meanwhile, Joe had recovered from the pounding Big Al had given him, and was feeling around stealthily for one of the shovels. His fingers closed around a wooden handle just as Big Al spoke. Seizing the implement, Joe sprang to his feet and swung hard in the direction of Big Al’s voice.
There was a thudding impact, a gasp, and the sound of a body hitting the ground.
“I got him, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Sure—just woozy.” Frank pulled himself together and began searching for a flashlight. A moment later he found one and switched it on. Big Al lay stretched on the floor of the cavern, unconscious.
“Good work, Joe! I thought we were goners,” Frank confessed, still panting from the struggle. “Let’s tie him up before he comes to.”
The boys took off their belts and strapped the gang leader’s wrists and ankles tightly. Then, with Frank taking his shoulders and Joe his legs, they managed to lug their prisoner through the mine tunnel. The outlaw’s roan horse was standing outside, hitched to a rock.
“Stay here and guard him,” Frank said to his brother as they dumped their prisoner across the horse’s back. “I’ll go and get the gold.”
Making two trips, Frank hauled out the four bags. Then he stood watch over the unconscious outlaw while Joe went to retrieve their horses.
Joe soon sighted the two animals wandering through the snow along the foot of the mountainside. Evidently the scent of the wolves, or their snarling, had frightened the horses away from the cave.
Joe quickly rounded up their mounts and brought them back to the mouth of the mine tunnel. Big Al had not yet recovered consciousness and Frank was tying him fast to the roan.
“I found some rope in his saddlebag,” Frank explained.
The boys loaded the gold into their saddlebags, then Joe attached the lead rope of Big Al’s horse to the saddle of his own mount.
The outlaw was showing signs of reviving. Joe rubbed snow in his face to bring him around faster. As the man’s eyes opened, he roared with rage and struggled violently against his bonds. But he soon realized he was helpless.
Big Al’s face took on a sullen scowl. “I hope that gold brings you punks and Dawson and Onslow the same kind of bad luck it brought me!” he muttered viciously. “That gold should’ve been mine twenty-five years ago!”
“You mean when you were Black Pepper, and you and your gang tried to snatch it from those four miners?” Joe asked.
“You know that too, eh?” The outlaw glared at the Hardys. “All right, it’s true. I was Black Pepper, and I’d have had the gold if that skunk Dawson hadn’t cheated me out of it!”
“Cheated
you?” Frank retorted sarcastically. 
“Because I’d put sand and gravel in the gas tank of his plane. But he managed to take off, and after he crashed a bad storm came up—so we couldn’t even find the wreck.”
Big Al went on bitterly, “Other jobs came up after that, and I was dodging lawmen. But I never forgot there was a fortune in gold somewhere in these mountains. When my men and I came up here to lie low after that payroll robbery, I figured this was my chance. I’d have had the whole loot if it hadn’t been for you!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Frank asked. “You’d never have found where Dawson hid the gold if you hadn’t overheard us talking at the cabin.”
Big Al laughed harshly. “Sure. Even before you two showed up, I was hidin’ in the horse shed attached to the cabin and was tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on. But once I wised up to the fact that Dodge was really Dawson, I’d have choked the truth out of him!”
“Just out of curiosity,” Joe said, “how did you find the mine today? For that matter, how did you survive the storm?”
“I’m used to this country, kid—found a snug place to hole up for the night,” Big Al said boastfully. “This morning I spied your tracks leadin’ to that wolf cave. But I spotted the pack before I went barging in. So I searched around and found the real mine tunnel. After that, all I had to do was keep strikin’ matches till I saw where the tunnel ended.”
“Come on, Joe. We’ve spent enough time talking,” said Frank. “Let’s get started!”
The boys knew the trip back to Lucky Lode would be treacherous, especially with a heavy load of gold and the task of keeping a close eye on Big Al. They quickly mounted and started off. Just as the trio emerged from the valley, the Hardys shouted joyfully. They had sighted Hank Shale and Sheriff Kenner topping Lone Tree Ridge!
“Boys! Are you all right?” Hank yelled as he and the sheriff spurred forward to meet them.
Frank and Joe told their story and turned Big Al over to the sheriff. Hank had listened with growing astonishment and admiration.
“You sure are wonders,” he said to Frank and Joe. “We were afraid you’d be frozen stiff by now. And here you’re bringin’ back Big Al and the gold! And you solved the mystery o’ Bart Dawson!” 
“Your pa should be mighty proud of you lads!” Sheriff Kenner added.
The boys grinned and Frank said, “I’m glad we could help out.” Then he asked the men, “How did you get here?”
The sheriff explained that after handcuffing Slim and Jake, he and Hank had tried to follow the boys and the fleeing gang leader. But in the darkness, with the other two outlaws on their hands, the chase had proved impossible.
“So we took ’em back to Lucky Lode,” said Kenner. “We arrested Burke. He made a full confession about being Slip Gun—the gang’s spy in town—and pushing the boulder into Hank’s cabin. Later that day we started back to search for you. We looked everywhere and had just given up hope when we ran into Dodge—or Dawson, rather—on his way back and heard part of the story.”
“How’s Dad?” Frank asked anxiously.
“Doin’ fine. Fact is, the doc says he can take the tape off’n his ribs in another day or so,” Hank replied. “We practically had to tie him down to keep him from comin’ along.”
Late that night the lights of Lucky Lode were sighted and by midnight the party rode into town.
Frank and Joe and their father held a warm reunion at Ben Tinker’s cabin.
Dawson was also on hand as the boys told their story of finding the gold and capturing Big Al.
“I can’t get over it,” said Ben Tinker. He chuckled. “Regardin’ you, Dawson, bein’ Dodge and you not knowin’ it. No wonder you didn’t recognize me when I saw you one time up in Helena.” Ben cackled with satisfaction. “Reckon now folks’ll believe I ain’t given to imaginin’ things!”
Frank and Joe, glad the case was solved, wondered what kind of adventure would come their way next. They were soon to find out when confronted by The Shore Road Mystery.
Mr. Hardy looked proudly at his sons, then said, “Incidentally, boys, I had a call from Chicago after you left, saying the police had traced that phony taxi driver. Also, those friends of Big Al’s, Hopkins and his hoods, were rounded up, thanks to your phone tip. They all just made full confessions. By the way, Hopkins never had a chance to send Onslow’s map to Al. The gang was going to pull a bank holdup that afternoon, but your escape ruined their plans.”
“Speaking of plans, I wonder what Mike Onslow’s will be when he learns he’s rich,” Frank mused.
Joe chuckled. “Let’s phone him first thing in the morning and find out. And I’d give a mint to see Aunt Gertrude’s face when she hears about the gold!” 
Deathgame (Hardy Boys Casefiles #7)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
“Joe, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Frank Hardy glared at his younger brother, Joe. Then his eyes went to the gun clenched in his own hand. “It’s crazy and—”
“Keep it down, will you!” Even in a whisper, Joe Hardy’s voice was sharp. He nodded toward the area beyond the thick bushes that concealed them. “One of the guys out there will hear you.”
Frank peered into the early-evening dusk, trying to catch any trace of movement in the dark woods. The air was full of nighttime sounds: crickets, wind beating against the upper branches of the trees, the occasional buzz of a mosquito seeking blood.
Beyond the woods, the Hardys could hear waves battering the rocky cliffs at the Bayport
2
inlet. Half-seen in the shadows, an overgrown path twisted serpent-fashion through the woods, past bushes and rocks.
Joe Hardy checked the load in his pistol. It was exactly like Frank’s weapon. Satisfied, Joe cautiously closed the chamber and let his eyes scan the path.
He could see no movement. Still, he knew they were out there, waiting to close in for the kill.
In the shadows Joe could see his eighteen-yearold brother running a hand through his brown hair—a sure sign that Frank was nervous. Joe thought the whole thing was turning into a lot more than he had bargained for. Here it was, a warm Saturday night in July. Joe could have been at a movie, having fun. Instead, he was sweating in the woods, waiting to kill or be killed.
Joe’s eyes went back to the trail. It was too dark to see. He’d have to rely on sounds: a snapped twig, leaves brushing against clothes. All he had to do was listen for that one out-of-place noise.
“Come on, Frank, this will be a piece of cake,” Joe whispered, trying to reassure himself. “They don’t realize who they’re up against. We’re practically professionals.”
Like Joe, Frank was crouched behind a low bush. He stirred, irritated. “The reason we’re so good is because I take nothing for granted. So be quiet. I want—”
He stopped as they both heard a loud snap.
3
“That’s them!” Joe whispered tensely. He strained his eyes, staring toward a rise where the trail curled around a boulder covered with lichens. Joe saw something move near the rock. Could it have been just a branch or—no!
A hand.
A hand holding a pistol.
No mistake.
The hunter had pressed himself against the jagged rock at the rise in the trail. His body almost blended in perfectly with his cover. He seemed content to remain where he was.
“See him?” Joe murmured to Frank.
“I’m not blind,” Frank whispered. “But Where’s his friend?”
Where was the hunter’s partner? On the trail? Creeping up behind them? Joe’s skin crawled at the thought of being shot in the back.
Rising from his cover, Joe dashed for the dense woods a few feet away.
Frank didn’t question his brother’s move. “I’ll cover you,” he whispered, raising the barrel of his gun.
Joe made his way through the trees, dropping behind his brother. Now to circle around, so I can come out onto the trail behind the hunter, Joe thought, ducking under branches. Every now and then he heard a suspicious noise, paused, and then moved on. The breeze was working for the enemy that night.
Joe eased out of the woods. He was closing in
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on the rock where his quarry was hiding. Only a few more steps, and he would be ready to nail him.
That was when he saw the second hunter. Like the first one, he was a large male dressed in black. And he had risen out of the underbrush only a few feet from Frank. Joe could see a glint of silver over the hunter’s eyes. That meant he was wearing special night-vision goggles.
Joe had to do something to save Frank! But he was too far away for a clear shot. He thought of screaming to confuse the predator, but that would warn the hunter near the boulder; he’d shoot Joe dead in a second. Joe began to breathe faster, awaiting the inevitable.
Frank Hardy held his breath as he heard the telltale rustle of brush. Close. Too close. He squeezed the handle of his pistol. Could it be Joe? No, Frank had no idea where his brother was, but he did know he was being watched by hostile eyes. He must move, whatever the cost.
Frank dove backward toward the trail, branches whipping past his face. He heard Joe shout, “Frank!”
Almost immediately he heard a shot. Something ripped through the bushes where he had just been.
After Frank landed on the path, he came up into a crouch. Immediately, the person who had molded himself to the rock jumped out and rushed toward him, shooting as he ran. Someone
5
else was moving rapidly through the trees in Frank’s direction.
Frank whipped his pistol toward the first attacker, firing two quick shots. That ended the charge. The guy made an awkward about-face and scuttled back to the safety of his jagged rock. Another shot sounded from farther away. Joe. The unlucky attacker hugged the ground.
Frank felt safe for only a moment. The second attacker was gaining on him quickly, and Frank was an easy target on the path.
He leapt to his feet and started running through the woods toward the sound of the crashing surf. Once free of the woods, he could find a hiding place among the craggy cliffs and wait for his pursuers. He would have more of a chance against them there. He knew the terrain above the beach as well as anyone.
It took Frank two minutes of hard running before he came to a bank of huge boulders at the top of the Bayport cliffs that edged down to the Atlantic. Waves smashed onto the rocks far below him.
He knelt beside a boulder, looking toward the woods. Feathery clouds, pushed by the gathering wind, slid across a half-moon. He held his gun ready.
Frank was calm now. He could hear someone running through the woods. In a few seconds, whoever it was would come out into the open and be caught in his gunsight.
6
He sensed victory and waited eagerly for his pursuer.
“Hey, Frank Hardy. Guess what?” a voice asked sarcastically. Three feet behind Frank, the leader stood up. “You lose,” he said coldly, and pulled the trigger of his gun.
Frank fell backward on the rocks.
The leader approached slowly, his gun still aimed at Frank’s body. He pulled off the infrared goggles, checking his kill.
An indisputable kill, marked by a splash of shocking red spreading over Frank Hardy’s chest, its center directly over his heart!
7
Chapter 2
Joe Hardy burst from the woods, his pistol ready. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw Frank.
His brother lay on the rocks, a black-clad figure standing over him. A second figure came to a halt close to Joe and whirled, gun in hand.
Joe turned and snapped off a shot without even glancing to see where he had hit the guy. He was too busy bringing his gun to bear on the leader.
“Too late, Joe. It’s all over.”
The leader’s gun had already covered Joe. The first pellet splattered against his gun hand. A second pellet burst against his knee, and the third hit dead center in his stomach. Three shots in as many seconds. There was red gel everywhere.
“How’s that for fancy shooting?” The blackclad
8
figure whipped off his goggles, laughing. Biff Hooper slapped his goggles against his thigh. His initials, B.H., glinted silver where they were inscribed near the edge of the octagonal lenses.
“Show-off!” Joe grumbled, dropping his gun.
“You can get up now, Frank,” Biff said in a mocking tone.
Frank sat up, a disgusted look on his face. He ran a hand through the red goo on his chest.
“You’re a real mess, Frank,” Biff said, helping him to his feet.
“You said the paint in those pellets would wash out,” Frank said, staring at the red goop on his hand. “If it doesn’t come off, I’ll be after you for real.”
Tony Prito shook his head as he walked over to Joe. “Well, you got me, Joe, if it makes you feel any better,” Tony said. His fingers touched a red smear through his dark hair. He looked about as happy as Frank. With a shrug he headed back toward the woods.
Biff walked jauntily over to Joe. “Cheer up, Hardy. You took my challenge to a survival game and you lost. Too bad you were up against the master.”
Throwing an arm around Joe, Biff patted his shoulder in an ironic gesture of comfort. “And don’t sweat my telling everybody that I outdid you guys. I’ve got class. I know how to win.”
“Oh, great,” said Frank. He glared at Joe. “How’d I let you talk me into this stupid game?”
9
“Hey!” Biff protested. “It is not stupid. It’s a sport that takes skill, patience, daring, and strategy! There are professional camps all over the country for it. And I bet I could turn up at any of them and come home a winner.”
“Let’s get back to where we parked the cars,” Frank said curtly. He stopped for a second to scoop up some leaves to wipe his hands on.
Joe stopped beside Frank. “You just didn’t take it seriously,” he growled. “If you hadn’t been complaining all the time, we’d have beaten them.”
“Not a chance!” Biff said, laughing and twirling his gun in three quick flips.
Biff was blond and stood well over six feet. His wide shoulders looked as if they’d have trouble passing through a doorway. His chest was almost as wide, layered with muscles from working out. He was friendly, quick to smile, and usually easygoing. Only on the football field had Joe seen the tough competitiveness that lay beneath the nice-guy exterior.
At least, that was how he’d been before his new interest in survival games. Joe had to admit that that night Biff hadn’t been playing like a nice guy. He’d better control that aggressive streak, Joe thought. It could get him into trouble.
Fenton Hardy always told his sons that analyzing personality was as important as gathering Physical evidence in solving crimes. That was how he had become a top private investigator.
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Joe liked to think that reading people was his specialty while high-tech information gathering was Frank’s strong point. And watching the new Biff rang warning bells in Joe’s head.
“You know, this game wasn’t really on the level,” Joe said as he started to trail after his brother into the woods.
“How do you figure that?” Biff asked.
“Well, you had those special night-vision goggles. They gave you an edge.”
“I just call that being prepared,” Biff said with a grin.
“You’re overdoing it, Hooper.” Joe shook his head.
Biff grabbed his arm. “Hey, Joe? Can you hold up a minute?”
Biff’s voice was suddenly quiet. Joe turned around. “Everything okay?” he asked.
Biff unsnapped the pouch on his utility belt that held his initialed goggles. His eyes didn’t meet Joe’s. “I can’t tell Frank this. You know how he is,” Biff whispered. He looked vulnerable, anything but the tough victor of that night’s survival game.
The other two were far ahead, walking through the dark to the road. Joe could hear them laughing. He stood patiently, listening to the waves break while Biff decided to tell him whatever was on his mind.
“See, I buy these survival game magazines,” Biff began. “They have ads for seminars. You go
11
someplace in the wilderness and play the game for two or three days. There’s this one place that sounds really fantastic.”
“So?” Joe asked.
“So, it’s called the Ultimo Survival Camp. It’s kind of far away and expensive, but I think I’m going to go.”
“Where is it, Australia?”
“Not that far. It’s in Georgia. The nearest town is called Clayton,” Biff said.
“How much does it cost?” Joe asked.
“Well, let’s just say that I’ll have to mow a lot of lawns when I get back to make my savings account healthy again,” he said. “But how can you beat a survival camp at a place called Screamer Mountain?”
Joe realized that as Biff spoke, he was trying to convince himself that going to the camp would be okay.
“I’m sick of hanging around Bayport,” Biff said abruptly. “You have your detective thing, so I thought you might understand. This is a chance to have some real adventure in my life.” He grabbed Joe’s arm. “I’m going tomorrow. I’ll be back in three days.”
“You aren’t going to tell your parents, are you?” Joe asked, understanding at last.
“No, you’re the only one who knows, and you’ve got to keep it a secret. I’ve told my mom and dad that I’m going to visit my aunt and uncle near Albany.”
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Joe shook his head. “I don’t think this is a great idea, but I won’t rat on you,” he said. “Just be back in three days.”
“Sure—I will.” Biff sounded excited now, as if his plan seemed more real for having confided it. “Remember—don’t tell Frank.”
“I won’t,” Joe said. And they ran to catch up with the others.
* * *
“Do you know where he’s gone?” demanded the voice over the phone. “It’s been four days. We’ve tried everything. Please, if you know anything, you must help us.”
Mrs. Hooper sounded as if she was close to hysteria. Joe Hardy felt a sick emptiness in his stomach. Something had happened to Biff at the Ultimo Survival Camp, and Biff’s parents didn’t have a clue as to where their son was.
“We thought he’d gone to my brother’s place upstate,” Mrs. Hooper’s voice shook. “That’s what he told us, but—but he didn’t. When he didn’t come back in three days, we called—and he had never been there. This is turning into a nightmare.”
Joe took a deep breath. “I think I may know where he is,” he said simply. He told Mrs. Hooper everything Biff had confided in him— which he realized wasn’t all that much.
* * *
Georgia in July was hot, very hot.
Joe and Frank sat on either side of Biff’s father
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in the back of a black-and-white police car. Mr. Hooper was a tall, slender man, not given to showing emotion. He sat silently, dabbing at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. Biff’s mother sat in the front, her blond hair awry. She was silent, too.
Sheriff Kraft, from the town of Clayton, drove them over the dirt road that cut through the lush, low mountains. Periodically, he would try to start a conversation, without success. The air-conditioning in his car was broken, but he didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Frank Hardy studied his brother’s set face. Joe usually wasn’t so quiet. He’d been like that once before—when Iola Morton, his girlfriend, had died in a car bombing. He feels guilty, Frank realized. He knows he should have tried to talk Biff out of going but he didn’t.
Joe ignored the hot wind blowing in the window. What if he were responsible for the injury— maybe even the death—of Biff Hooper? Joe knew he couldn’t live with himself until he found Biff—healthy and in one piece.
Sheriff Kraft pulled up to the outer perimeter of the Ultimo Survival Camp. Ahead was a mesh fence topped with heavy, rusted barbed wire. At a small guardhouse, a young man in camouflage fatigues stopped and asked for identification, and then waved them through.
“Was that a rifle on that young man’s shoulder?” asked Mrs. Hooper.
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Nobody answered. The M-16 on the kid’s back was answer enough.
They drove past areas where instructors were drilling groups of teens in vigorous calisthenics. Beyond them, where gray stone cliffs thrust up, an instructor was demonstrating rappelling techniques.
Joe’s attention was caught by a squat blockhouse half-hidden by a stand of maple trees. It looked like a military command center, built out of cinder blocks, with bars on the windows, a satellite dish in the yard, and an antenna poking out of the roof.
As the sheriff’s car pulled up to the front of this building, a man stepped from the doorway.
“We’ve had no problems before this with the Ultimo Survival Camp,” Sheriff Kraft said gently to Mr. Hooper. “But they do rough it out here, make no mistake about that. Do away with all the modern conveniences. Part of their appeal, I guess.
“Today, I couldn’t personally get hold of Orville Brand, the guy who runs this place. There aren’t any phones on the premises, and as you can see, they’re pretty isolated out here. I sent my deputy ahead to tell them we were coming, though.”
Let’s get on with it, Joe thought. He opened the back door and stepped out. Frank watched him, then glanced at Mr. Hooper.
As Joe walked around the back of the car,
15
Sheriff Kraft opened his door. The man who had emerged from the building stopped near him.
“Sheriff Kraft.”
“That it is. Good to see you, Major Brand.” Sheriff Kraft extended his hand, and the two men shook.
“And you, too,” Brand answered with a slight smile. His hair was shaved to the scalp, which appeared white in contrast to his sun-weathered face. His skin seemed to be too tight over his face, a thin layer covering muscle and bone, so lean that it was almost skeletal. He had hard, high cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes.
He walked briskly around the front of the car and opened the door for Mrs. Hooper before she could do it herself. He even bowed slightly.
“I’m sorry to hear of your trouble, Mrs. Hooper.” Brand’s voice sounded better suited to barking orders than to soothing people. “Whenever one of the boys in my outfit went missing—”
Joe stalked up to Brand and stopped in front of him, the door between them. “Thanks for your concern, but just tell us what’s going on, will you?”
Brand was silent for a moment, staring at Joe. The skin over his face seemed to stretch almost to the breaking point. Large teeth showed behind his pencil-thin lips.
“I’ll forgive your bad manners,” Brand said.
He reached a hand into the car to help Mrs. Hooper out. “I am saddened to hear about your
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son. But, as I telegrammed, I checked our records thoroughly, and I even had the entire camp searched.”
His dark eyes were unreadable as he paused to consider his next words.
“But nobody here,” he announced, like a juror delivering a death sentence, “has ever seen or heard of anyone named Biff Hooper.”
17
Chapter 3
The exterior of the Ultimo Survival Camp command center might look like a wartime bunker, but inside it was a startlingly modern office.
Fluorescent lighting made the big room shadowless. Against one wall stood a series of computers, their screens glowing with green letters.
The workers at the consoles, desks, and filing cabinets wore the same green fatigues as Brand. They worked as silently and efficiently as robots. Slit windows looked out on wide lawns and clusters of maple trees. Beyond these rose rugged, thickly wooded mountains.
Brand moved like an officer among his troops. He led Frank, Joe, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, and Sheriff Kraft to one of the console operators. “Marsha, could you key in our roster file for these good people?”
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The young woman nodded, her reddish blond hair in striking contrast to her green fatigues.
Frank, who was quite adept at operating a computer keyboard, admired the woman’s expertise as her fingers moved briskly over the keys.
Letters appeared on the screen. Mrs. Hooper leaned forward anxiously, her pale face acquiring an eerie green glow. Her husband stood behind her, his face pinched and white.
The access code into Ultimo’s computer roster system flashed onto the screen. The code letters read: GRUNTS.
“Cute,” Frank whispered to Joe. “It’s slang for soldiers,” he told the Hoopers. He wondered if the entrance code was Brand’s idea of a joke. He didn’t seem the humorous type.
Marsha quietly punched other keys, and page after page of personnel and attendee rosters flashed on the screen. They all leaned toward the screen, watching anxiously for Biff’s name. It did not appear.
“These rosters go to all squadron section leaders every morning, so they know exactly who is in their groups that day. The rosters come directly from this entrance computer list. I hand deliver them, first thing after breakfast.” Brand’s thin lips barely moved as he spoke.
Joe meandered away from the screen and the drone of Brand’s voice.
Okay, he told himself, it’s a foregone conclusion. We aren’t going to see Biff’s name on that
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list. So, what exactly does that mean? That Biff was never here? Or that his name has been eliminated from the computer memory?
He could still hear Brand speaking over the quiet click of the computer keyboards. He stopped before a bank of filing cabinets on the opposite side of the room. Above them was a large photograph framed in ornate, carved wood. Funny, he thought, an old-fashioned frame in this ultrasophisticated office.
In the picture were two soldiers in combat fatigues, both carrying weapons, both with grease-smeared faces. Commandos, Joe realized. One of the men was Brand. The other was— unbelievable. His huge, muscular body dwarfed Brand. Even his hands and fingers appeared too thick, making the pistol he carried seem like a child’s toy. Joe looked more carefully. That “toy gun” was a Super Blackhawk pistol. Its barrel was seven and a half inches long.
The man wore a bandanna knotted about his forehead, but it was hardly to hold back his hair, which was cut as short as Brand’s.
What stood out most clearly was a tattoo of a snake twisting about a human victim on the man’s rippling biceps. The body of the snake traveled down the arm. The head, etched upon the biceps, had its fangs sunk into its helpless captive.
Brand had noticed Joe’s departure and walked across the room toward him.
Joe crooked a thumb up at the photograph.
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“Who’s this guy? He looks like a real gorilla.”
“That is our camp founder,” Brand answered. “I served under him in ‘Nam. He saved my life.”
He leaned toward Joe, and something seemed to spark deep in his dark eyes, just for an instant. “If it weren’t for him, I’d have been left for dead out in the jungle. I had three bullets in me. He stopped my bleeding and carried me to the medics—seven hard miles. He felt every step of it. I was unconscious, but others told me what he’d done, how he’d saved me.” The spark in the dark eyes died.
“Hey, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Joe said. Maybe he’d simply gotten a bad first impression of Brand. Yet, as helpful as Brand appeared to be, there was something about him that was just wrong.
A smile stretched Brand’s thin lips. He clapped Joe’s shoulder heartily.
“So, Joseph, if I were you, I would be careful about making light of the colonel. He is much revered and loved. A lot of people here might take—offense at any offhanded or untoward comments about him.”
Brand turned to the rest of the group. “Speaking of my staff, you’ll have the chance to observe them—and how they put the colonel’s philosophy to work—as you tour our facilities.”
“Wait a minute, Major Brand,” Mr. Hooper said, his voice sharp. “We don’t want a tour of this infernal camp. We want our son. We think
21
you accepted a minor here for training without getting parental consent. Now he’s disappeared, and it’s your responsibility to help us find him.”
“I told you,” Brand said testily, “your son has never been here. He doesn’t show up on our computer records, and our records are never wrong.”
“Well, then, where is he?” countered Mr. Hooper. “He told his friend Joe here that he was coming to your camp. Biff doesn’t lie.”
Major Brand met Mr. Hooper’s gaze calmly. “Obviously, he never got here. Maybe he stopped on the way. Maybe he changed his mind and never came to Georgia at all.”
And maybe, thought Joe, there’s something you’re trying to cover up.
“We’re checking into those possibilities,” the sheriff said soothingly.
“Since we’re here, we might as well get the tour,” Mrs. Hooper said wearily. “That way we can satisfy ourselves that Biff really isn’t on the camp’s grounds.”
“That’s better,” Brand said smoothly. “I don’t often give tours myself, so you’re getting the redcarpet treatment. Now, if you’ll wait here for a moment, I’ll go get the necessary keys from my office.”
He saluted the group and pivoted toward the door. Mrs. Hooper put her arm through her husband’s, and they walked over to a window to look out.
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“Charming guy,” Frank said sarcastically.
“He’s done something with Biff. I know it, and I’m going to get him,” Joe said, pounding his fist in his palm.
“Cool it,” Frank said. “Sure, he’s a slimy creep who knows more than he’s letting on. But a confrontation won’t get you anywhere. We need a technological edge—like a trusty portable computer.”
“Where can we get one out here?” Joe asked.
“Mine is waiting for us back in the hotel room,” Frank replied, smiling devilishly.
Brand was like a top salesman or politician as he conducted the tour. He knew how to talk a lot, tell lots of little anecdotes, yet say absolutely nothing.
Brand led them in a vast circle around the office, which was at the center of the grounds. At the base of the mountains was a series of barracks, built up on wooden planks, with crawl spaces beneath them. Each building had a placard by the door, stenciled with the name of the counselor in charge.
They passed a number of teens eating their lunches from mess kits, talking about what they had learned that morning, or telling “war stories” of previous survival games. They were almost fanatically clean-cut and in top physical condition.
No one had heard of Biff Hooper. Nor did anyone have a single bad word to say about the
23
camp- As Brand led the way toward the area where mountain climbing techniques were taught, Joe lagged behind.
He quickly picked out several of the camp counselors, all in pressed, tailored fatigues. He wanted to question them, away from Brand. He described Biff to several of the counselors, but no one had seen him.
Joe started back toward the group, hoping Brand hadn’t seen him disappear. He followed them up an incline that led into a wooded area. Running through the trees, Joe spotted something to his left. He stopped for a second and stared.
Barbed wire.
Should he continue to try to catch up with the group? It would only mean a slight detour to check the wired area.
Joe ran quietly over to the wire fence. A large sign was attached to a fencepost, and he saw several other signs in either direction. The signs read: No Trespassing Allowed Beyond This Point. Restricted Area. DANGER.
Why isn’t this on the guided tour? Joe wondered. Maybe it’s something Brand doesn’t want us to see. I think I’ll take a look.
He took out his Swiss Army knife and snipped out two sections of wire. Even though he stepped through carefully, a twisted barb snagged his Pants, leaving a small rip at the knee.
Joe set off through the trees at a fast clip. Got to get in and out as fast as possible, he thought.
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He scanned the area, trying not to miss anything.
He had not gone far when the trees began to thin. He reached a wide, hilly area, overgrown with long golden grass. There were thickets, some trees, something else he couldn’t quite figure out—about two dozen dirt mounds. Something must be hidden just beneath the surface, but what?
Joe calculated for a moment. Brand would have noticed his absence by now and would probably be looking for him. He’d be easily spotted if he stepped into the open to check out those mounds.
Shrugging, he dashed out, stooped over and using available bushes for cover, he reached one of the mounds and started scooping away the dirt and sand. What was buried under the surface?
He had just hit something hard when the ground beside him erupted, spraying dirt into his eyes. Joe fell back, half-blinded, as something burst from the ground. “What the—?” he said.
He was facing a life-size wooden cutout of a man carrying a gun. The figure, which was masked, had just been thrust up from the mound.
Then a shot thundered through the air, and a bullet ripped through the painted chest of the wooden man looming over Joe. It tore a jagged hole in the figure and sent a shard of wood flying that hit Joe in the face.
Sand and dirt were spraying up everywhere as more and more guns joined in the firing. Mound
25
after mound erupted with pop-up soldiers like a cardboard army of villainous jack-in-the-boxes. The roar of gunfire was continuous now. Bullets ricocheted off nearby rocks as Joe squirmed backward.
Too late, he realized where he was.
He was trapped in the middle of a target range—and he was the target!
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27
Chapter 4
Joe Hardy swept the back of his hand across his stinging cheek. A thin smear of dirt and blood rubbed onto his hand. He was already moving, rolling toward the nearest scrub grass-covered hill. Got to get out of here. Grab some cover, he kept repeating to himself.
A new wave of gunshots smashed into the wooden figures. Bullets ripped through the dirt around him, even though he was clear of the clustered targets.
He kept rolling, his world shrunk to that little hillock. A near miss sent sand spraying into his eyes. The noise was deafening. Keep moving! he urged himself.
Joe heard shouting. It seemed very faint, under the staccato of gunfire. But he thought he recognized the voice—Brand’s.
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“Ceasefire! Ceasefire!” Brand yelled, charging from the tour group toward the firing line. “Live target on range!”
Only a few steps behind Brand, Frank Hardy raced toward the hill. They had reached the line of trainees now. The instructors had taken up the call of “Cease fire!”
But Frank still heard shots. He knocked a rifle from one kid’s hands.
“Are you deaf?” he shouted furiously. “Can’t you hear? You want to get somebody killed?”
“Killed? What?” the kid asked, looking down at the gun in confusion.
Brand strode off across the field. He shouted back to the counselors, “Secure all weapons from the trainees immediately. Make sure all weapons are unloaded.”
The counselors quickly followed his orders.
“Sheriff, if you would kindly follow me!” Brand called without looking back.
Frank didn’t wait for an invitation. He followed in Sheriff Kraft’s footsteps.
* * *
Joe Hardy had continued to roll during Brand’s cease-fire orders. That little hill has got to be near, he had thought, astonished that he hadn’t been hit yet by a bullet.
Then he realized that something had changed. The thunder had stopped.
Joe was behind the tiny hill, flat on his back.
29
He lay gasping as if he had run a marathon, blinking his sand-filled eyes.
His vision slowly came back. The first thing he saw was a pair of combat boots striding toward him. Brand, Joe thought, shaking his head, trying to free his eyes of grit. I must be seeing things.
But Brand was still there, towering over him. Joe stared up into dark eyes raging with fury. Brand’s leathery fingers were curled into fists, ready to strike. But then the major glanced over the hill and forced himself to relax.
He wanted to hit me. But not in front of witnesses! Joe thought.
Frank and Sheriff Kraft rounded the hill.
Brand spoke in a harsh, grating whisper. “Do you know you might have been killed?”
Shakily, Joe got to his feet. If he had to have it out with this man, he’d do it standing up.
“Sure, I figured that out right when I found out this wasn’t the camp softball field. I didn’t realize—”
“Didn’t realize?” Brand fumed. He looked at Sheriff Kraft. “I swear to you, Sheriff, we have never had an accident like this in the entire history of our camp. This area is cordoned off with barbed wire and is clearly marked as restricted—no trespassing allowed!” Brand looked back at Joe accusingly. “But, then again, we usually have only mature young men here, not lunatics!”
30
Joe was mute.
“Say it!” Brand demanded. “Tell the sheriff. Admit that you saw the warning signs.”
“I did,” Joe said quietly.
“Then you purposely chose to disregard them. It isn’t easy to get through that fence. You had to work at it to get yourself into such a dangerous situation. What could have possessed you?” Brand growled.
Joe glared at him in frustration. I could say that I was looking for Biff, but that would sound phony. Especially since Brand just saved my tail.
A counselor appeared beside Brand, removing his cap. He had wispy hair and on the right side of his scalp, a curved bald spot in the shape of a sickle. It was a scar from a very old wound—hair didn’t grow over scar tissue.
“All the weapons have been emptied and locked up, sir,” he reported.
“Thank you, Sergeant Collins,” Brand said succinctly.
As Collins did an about-face in the sand and started to return to the firing line, Joe caught a glimpse of something attached to his utility belt. It hung from a strap and slapped against his thigh as he walked—a pair of goggles.
Dark rubber goggles with oddly shaped lenses.
Octagonal? Was that a suggestion of silver on the dark rubber?
31
Brand stepped in front of Joe, cutting off his sight line. “Come along.”
Joe moved to try to get another look at Collins, but by then the counselor was too far in the distance. I want another look at those goggles, he thought. He remembered the aftermath of that wild survival game, how Biff had slapped his thigh with his night-vision lenses, how the silver initials had glinted.
Brand led them back toward the area where Mr. and Mrs. Hooper were still standing. He and the Sheriff were far enough ahead of the Hardys so that Joe could quickly tell Frank about the glasses on Collin’s belt.
“I wanted to demand to see them,” Joe said. “But how could I? Brand’s already got everyone convinced that I’m a dangerous hothead.”
“You gave him some help on that,” Frank said, “blundering onto the target range.”
In fact, Brand was already pouring it on as they arrived. “Fortunately, most of our charges here understand the dangerous nature of weapons,” Brand was saying. “They know that rifles are not toys. And they follow the strict rules that are laid down for their own safety.”
As they reached Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, Brand turned to Joe and attempted a smile. “I’m sorry if I was harsh with you,” he said reasonably. “But you must understand that that was a foolish thing you did.”
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“It’s a mistake I won’t make again,” Joe promised.
“Ah! I’m glad!” Brand said. He was really smiling now.
“We’ve taken up enough of your time,” Sheriff Kraft said. “Thanks for being so understanding. You can see how concerned the Hoopers are.”
“Certainly, Sheriff,” Brand answered. “I only wish I could do more. Come, let me escort you back to the car.” Brand walked off the firing line.
Mrs. Hooper stopped and looked up at Joe, her eyes bleak.
“Biff’s not here.” Her voice was hoarse. “I wish you hadn’t been so certain we’d find him.” Then she walked away blindly.
Frank and Joe both stared at her back, wishing there was something they could say.
“We’ll find Biff,” Frank called after her. “Whatever it takes.”
“Very admirable.”
Brand’s voice startled the Hardys. They had not been aware that he had returned.
“I like a man who doesn’t desert his friends,” Brand said as Frank and Joe followed him down the slope in the direction of the command center.
They passed the blockhouse, then walked in silence to the police car. Before Joe climbed into the backseat, he stopped and looked back at Brand. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he’d tangle with that guy.
If those were Biff’s goggles, Joe told himself,
33
then Brand knows Biff was here. And if Biff is or was here and then disappeared—well, then it looks like this place isn’t all fun and games!
“That was a real interesting tour,” Sheriff Kraft said. “Much obliged.”
“Feel free to drop by again,” said Brand as one professional to another.
“Hey, maybe you’ll see me again, too,” Joe said blandly.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Brand replied.
Both meant more than they were saying. Under their words was a promise—and a threat.
For a long moment, Joe met Brand’s hard, cold stare. So this guy teaches people how to survive, he thought. The only question is, how well did Biff learn his lessons?
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35
Chapter 5
“I’m not arguing with you, Joe,” Frank Hardy said, sitting on one of the beds in their hotel room. He did not look up at his brother, who was pacing furiously. Instead, he tapped the Access key on his lap computer.
“Well, then, you’re not agreeing enough,” Joe countered, stopping at the one window in the room.
It was only nine-thirty that night, but the whole town of Clayton had shut down. There were neither cars on the street nor people on the sidewalks. Joe noticed a black van parked just beyond the glow of light thrown by the nearest street lamp.
Frank tapped GRUNTS and then, ACCESS TO ROSTER FILE on the keyboard. “I know
36
you feel responsible for Biff’s disappearance.” He was speaking almost absently as he worked on the computer. A grim smiled appeared on his face as the first roster sheet of the Ultimo Survival Course appeared.
“I guess I am acting a little crazy over it.” Joe turned away from the window, leaning against the frame. “Mrs. Hooper kept laying a guilt trip on me, all the way back to the airport.” He sighed. “Then, as she was boarding the plane, she asked me to forgive her. Said she was so worried about Biff that she didn’t know what she was saying.”
“And?” Frank asked, continuing to type. He started noting down the home phone numbers beside each trainee’s name.
Joe slammed a fist into his open palm. “It just made me feel worse! I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m not leaving until we’ve found Biff! If he didn’t want to go to the Ultimo Survival Camp, why did he make such a big deal out of telling me?” He whirled toward Frank. “I tell you, Brand is covering up Biff’s disappearance!”
Frank looked up from the computer. “OkayNice theory. The only problem is, why? What reason could the camp have for kidnapping Biff? We’ve seen for ourselves that they’re a legitimate business with a high safety record. Sheriff Kraft vouched for that, even though he admitted he wasn’t thrilled to have a place like it operating in his jurisdiction.”
37
Frank disconnected the computer from the phone between their two beds and began dialing a number.
“Who are you calling?” Joe asked. “I don’t think they have takeout pizza service around here after the sun goes down.”
Frank kept dialing, but he looked at Joe and grinned. “While you were busy getting Major Brand good and riled, I learned how to break into the camp’s computer system.”
He put the phone to his ear, listened to ringing on the other end. “Now, I thought we’d talk with these supposedly satisfied customers. You know, check if any other parents had kids who never returned. Let’s see if they really do give a product endorsement.”
Joe jumped up in the air, making a victory gesture with his fist. “Frank! You’re a genius!”
After the first three calls, Joe stopped listening. He slumped on the bed. None of the attendees had disappeared. They vouched for the camp like actors in a television commercial.
Joe thrust himself off the bed, stalking back to the window. The street was still quiet. The black van was still parked just beyond the circle of light.
Frank hung up the phone with a clatter. “Well, lhat idea’s a bust.”
Joe spun around from the window, excitement lighting his blue eyes. “Wait a minute! Wait a Minute!”
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“Uh-oh,” said Frank. “The great brain is at work.”
Joe ignored the crack. “Sheriff Kraft told us about the investigation he did. But I just thought of something he didn’t do.”
Frank turned off his computer. “Such as?”
“The police checked flights into the airport to see if anyone had noted Biff’s arrival.”
“Right. Sheriff Kraft told us that,” Frank admitted with a shrug. “So what?”
“So, Biff didn’t have a lot of money. What if he came in by another route? Suppose he came in by bus?” Joe grabbed Frank’s arm and yanked him off the bed. “Come on! I know you’ll want to see the nighttime hustle and bustle of the Clayton, Georgia, bus terminal.”
* * *
Joe approached a ticket window and started to describe Biff. Almost before he began, the clerk interrupted him.
“Sure, sure,” he said, sounding grateful for anything that might enliven the humid night. There were only a handful of people in the terminal, and most of them were sleeping on benches. “I saw that boy, right here.”
“You did!” Frank exclaimed incredulously.
“Yeah! Except I didn’t see him arriving. Saw him leave about a half hour ago.”
Joe scarcely dared to breathe. “Half an hour ago!”
39
“Sure enough. He bought a ticket for Fayetteville.”
Frank looked at Joe, puzzled. “Why would Biff want to go to Fayetteville?”
“You got me,” the ticket clerk said, shrugging. “But customers don’t have to tell why they’re going where they’re going. Long as they pay the fare, they can go any doggone place they want.”
“Come on.” Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “We’ll find out when we’ve caught up with him.”
* * *
It took them another hour to catch up with the Fayetteville bus.
Frank was at the wheel of the rental car, a worn sedan with sloppy alignment and virtually no pickup. “This crate was not built for speed,” he said as they jarred against a rut. “Especially on a road like this.”
The bus did not go on the interstates. Instead, it took dark, back country roads that twisted maddeningly through the hills and pine forests.
It was not a route to drive blind. But that was what Frank was doing, sometimes going into wild tire-screaming skids as they navigated lethal hairPin turns in the middle of nowhere.
“How about staying on the road?” Joe asked, unable to resist needling his brother.
“Why don’t you—” Frank stopped and concentrated on avoiding a tree. “This stupid wheel keeps pulling to the right.” He breathed a sigh of
40
relief when their high beams finally picked up the rear of the bus.
Joe stared intently through the bug-splattered windshield of the car.
“Pull up alongside. Maybe we can get a glimpse of him”
“Lots of luck,” Frank muttered, shaking his head.
“Just do it, will you? How else can I see if Biff is in there?”
Frank swung the car to the left and stepped on the gas. The road veered, but at least there were no lights coming toward them. The rental car inched up beside the bus.
One of the unwashed, center windows of the bus was lit. Someone was sitting up, head tilted down, obviously reading.
Joe rolled down his window, as if that could help him see through the mud-smeared bus window.
Then he reached back and grabbed at Frank’s arm. They hit a rut just then, and the car went swerving over toward the wheezing bus.
“Let go!” Frank yelled, getting the car back under control. “If you’re going to start acting like a maniac, at least give me some warning.”
But Joe was paying no attention to his brother. His eyes were locked on the bus window. “It’s Biff!” he shouted, astounded. “It’s got to be!”
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Chapter 6
“Make this guy pull over!” Joe urged, never taking his eyes from the bus window.
“Cut off a bus while going down a hill?” Frank stared at his brother for a second, then shrugged. “Sure, why not? We’ve been driving like maniacs all night.”
They were nearing the outskirts of a small town—little more than a widening in the road. The buildings were all dark, clustered at the foot of the hillside.
But Joe’s attention was focused on that halfvisible face in the bus. Come on, pal, turn toward me, he thought. He could see unruly blond hair, but the features were blurred by the film of dried Crud on the glass. The head was still bent.
“Biff’s probably checking up on the latest survival tactics,” Joe said. “And he’ll need them.
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I’m going to hit him over the head for all the grief he’s given us.”
Frank leaned on the horn as he speeded up to pass the bus. The driver didn’t give Frank an inch, staying right in the middle of the road. The rental car’s wheels whined on the gravel shoulder.
With a quick twist of the wheel, Frank swung the car in front of the bus. Then he began slowing down. In his rearview mirror, he could see the bus driver glaring in disbelief as he hit his brakes.
The bus groaned to a stop. Joe leapt out of the car before Frank had completely stopped and raced up the hill to the bus. Its doors remained firmly shut.
Joe hammered on the glass. “Please, open up! It’s an emergency!”
The bus driver merely stared down at him, scowling.
Frank joined Joe at the bus door. “Sir, we’re assisting the police in searching for a missing person who may be aboard this bus. I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother, Joe. We’re detectives.”
The driver pulled on the lever that swung the door wide. “Detectives!” He gave them a long, suspicious look. “You two look like a pair of punks to me. Now beat it.”
Joe ignored the bus driver’s command, leaping up the steps. He ran past the driver and down the dimly lit aisle.
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Most of the seats were dark, except for the one halfway down. There, the ceiling light cut through the gloom onto blond hair and the face below it.
Joe halted. He felt as if someone had slugged him in the stomach. The air left him in a rush.
That face did not belong to Biff Hooper!
“You’re not—” Joe began.
The man bounced up from his seat and launched himself forcefully into Joe. He was built like a fullback on steroids. The impact knocked Joe into a seat where a huge woman sat with a Siamese cat in her lap. Both the woman and the cat were asleep, and both awoke screaming and flailing when Joe hit them. Hands and claws raked at him.
“Help! Help! Help!” The lady’s sentiments were echoed by the cat in the same high pitch.
Frank was standing near the bus driver, explaining the situation, when he heard the bedlam. He looked along the interior of the bus, wondering what was going on. Then he saw a massive, blond-haired figure charging at him.
Frank started to bring his arms up, trying to decide if there was anything he could say that Would calm the man.
He had no chance. The figure bent low and dove at him, the blond head smashing into his stomach. Frank was hurtled into the bus driver’s lap and sprawled out across the wheel. The bus horn began blasting.
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The blond man jumped off the bus and tore off down the hill.
Joe freed himself from the woman and her cat. The woman had calmed down, but the cat was still clawing and screeching wildly as Joe dashed up the aisle.
The bus horn had stuck when Frank fell against it. Passengers were awakening. Everyone was shouting questions. Frank shoved himself off the bus driver, who was attempting, without success, to shut off the infernal racket of the horn.
Joe reached Frank, but didn’t stop. He leapt off the bus and kept on running. Frank was right behind him. “What did you say to get that guy so upset?” Frank asked breathlessly.
“Didn’t say a word. But he knew who I was. I’ll swear to it.”
They ran past their rental car. Ahead of them, at the bottom of the hill, the man ducked down a side road, taking a quick look back to see if they were following.
They reached the side road at the same time and continued running.
“You see him?” Joe asked, panting.
“Yeah. Going over that hurricane fence at the end of the road. Looks like the other side is some kind of store parking lot!”
They ran past houses with broken-down wooden fences. In the street old, rusted hulks of cars stood on tireless rims. The scent of oil was in the hot night air. Junk-food wrappers littered the
45
grass and sidewalks, and most of the houses were unpainted. Frank suddenly felt very far from Bayport.
They scrambled over the hurricane fence as the man reached the shadowy rear wall of the store. There were other stores near it, all dark, all obviously closed, some permanently boarded over.
There was the sound of breaking glass. “He must have used his elbow to smash in a back window,” Joe said. “I think he just climbed into the store.”
Frank and Joe reached the broken window less than a minute later. They hugged the wall of either side of the window frame. Both were breathing heavily. The interior of the darkened store was ominously quiet.
“He could be waiting for us,” Frank whispered.
“There are two of us,” Joe said in a loud voice, then without hesitating he went in through the broken window.
As Frank climbed in after him, Joe was looking at the shadowy counters which formed narrow aisles.
A sporting goods store: basketballs, weights, little golf gizmos, a rack of baseball bats.
Joe stopped beside the bats, hefted one in his hand.
The blond guy stepped out at the end of the aisle just as Frank joined Joe.
“Glad you could make it,” he said with an
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arrogant grin. “Though it would have been better for my team if you could have waited until we made the stop in town. They’re going to be annoyed, missing out on your elimination. It’s too bad, but some players just don’t make it through the game.”
Frank and Joe started cautiously down the aisle. Joe let the bat dangle from one hand.
“All right. Stop right there!” The man held up his hand. He held a grenade in it. “I bet you know what this baby can do. So no cute tricks.”
“How’d you know we’d be checking the bus terminal?” Frank asked as he came to an abrupt stop.
“We checked you out at the airport. As soon as we learned you hadn’t left town, we kept you under surveillance.”
“The black van just beyond the street lamp?” Joe asked.
“You got it. We had a shotgun microphone aimed at your window and heard everything you said. So when you went to the terminal, we were all set. I was the decoy to lure you out of town.”
The man reached up and pulled off his blond hair. It was a wig. “Now we’ve got you alone, and we can take care of you. All I have to do is make a phone call—” He broke off in midsentence and hefted the grenade. “You have no objections, right?”
As the man spoke, Frank and Joe glanced meaningfully at each other. They didn’t need any
47
further communication. They began to inch apart, in order to offer separate targets.
When the man realized what they were up to, he threw the blond wig down violently, pulled the pin on the grenade, and raised his arm, ready to throw it.
“Stop that!” he yelled.
It was as if he had shouted a signal. The Hardys dove wide in opposite directions. But they didn’t get far in the crowded store. Frank crashed into a shelf full of catchers’ mitts. Joe knocked over a rack of fishing poles.
“All right, wise guys, this will still get one of you.” The man hurled the grenade directly at Joe.
Pushing himself up from the tangle of fishing poles, Joe saw the deadly green sphere tumbling toward him. It wasn’t going to miss!
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49
Chapter 7
Joe found it difficult to really believe that something as small as a grenade could be so destructive. Yet, within seconds of the release of the pin, that little olive green ball would explode into a bundle of shrapnel, capable of digging an inch deep into walls.
He watched it come toward him. The man had thrown it in a straight line, no fancy high curve, just hard and fast, right down the center. If it hit him and then detonated, he would be dead.
Joe raised the bat in his hands. It was almost an instinctive act, born of years of playing ball back in Bayport with Frank, Biff, Tony, and the other
guys. Biff often threw just such a straight hardball.
Joe had no room to swing, confined by the counters. Instead, he bunted.
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There was a dull whack of metal on wood. Then, clack! clack! clack! with a monotonous tap on the linoleum each time the grenade bounced back in the direction of the man who had thrown it.
The man’s hard face lost all its arrogance. It went slack with shock, and his eyes widened. He spun about and frantically started to run away.
The grenade bounced, clack!, and wobbled off to the left, away from the man, veering toward a glass-enclosed counter, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.
Then two feet from the counter, it exploded!
Heat and smoke erupted. Both Hardys hit the floor, hands over their ears. The blast was thunderous in the confined space. They didn’t even hear the ceiling fall in.
Frank lay in the midst of the baseball glove display. Baseball players’ signatures danced before his eyes. He was positive the explosion had rendered him deaf, until he heard Joe calling.
“Frank! Don’t let him get away!”
Joe ran into the smoke. Frank shoved his way clear and staggered to his feet. He tapped his ear with the palm of his hand, trying to clear his head. He looked up for an instant, and did a double take. He could see stars.
The blast had ripped a huge hole out of a section of roof, and now gray smoke billowed through it in a rush.
Frank had taken half a dozen steps into the
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smoke when he ran right into his brother. Joe was standing still.
“What’s the matter?” Frank asked, trying to take small breaths so that he wouldn’t inhale the smoke too deeply. “I thought you didn’t want him to get away.”
“He won’t,” Joe said in a somber voice.
Joe pointed. Frank looked through the smoke. Debris from the collapsed roof littered the floor in a huge pile. A human hand was thrust up through the wreckage. The fingers did not move. The grenade’s metal pin was still wrapped around the man’s forefinger.
“The authorities will be here pretty quick,” Joe said, stumbling away. “We’d better put in a call to Sheriff Kraft. We may need him to verify who we are.”
They found their way out into the night as the first sirens sounded.
* * *
The fire was an orange-and-gold inferno seen through a billowing haze. The firefighters’ sooty faces looked grotesque in the light from the burning building. Shafts of water raised great arcs of gray smoke.
Frank and Joe were sitting alone in Sheriff Kraft’s squad car. The store owner had arrived ten minutes before and kept repeating, “Grenades, grenades; we don’t stock grenades,” to anyone who would stop to listen.
Sheriff Kraft approached his car wearily. His
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hat was tilted back on his head, and he had bags under his eyes. He didn’t speak at first but leaned in and picked up a thermos and some cardboard cups.
“If you’re anything like me, you could stand a cup of coffee,” he said, sounding exhausted.
Joe nodded numbly.
“Most people don’t almost get themselves killed twice in one day.” Sheriff Kraft poured some coffee into one of the cups and handed it to Joe.
Joe blew softly on the steaming coffee. “I see they brought the body out.”
Sheriff Kraft handed Frank a cup. “I know it makes you feel bad, son. But it wasn’t your fault. That man was playing with death, carrying that grenade. You couldn’t have known it would blow up the stored ammunition in the hunting sales area.”
“Is that what it did?” Joe asked.
Sheriff Kraft sipped his own coffee. “You didn’t know?”
“We couldn’t see much after it went off,” Frank said. “Joe stumbled on the body.”
“Well, there’s no identification on the man. Bus driver doesn’t know who he was. In fact, he’s still up the hill, trying to get that blamed horn unstuck. Sounds like a banshee!” Sheriff Kraft brushed a hand through his thinning hair.
He sipped his coffee, careful not to get any on
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his short mustache or beard. The steam from the cup fogged his glasses.
“We’ve got two deputies patrolling the area, looking for the black van. Couple of folks saw it, but they said it took off when the store exploded. Looks like the whole town came out to see what happened.”
Joe stared moodily into his cup of coffee. “Well, it’s obvious that Brand set up that surveillance on us.”
Sheriff Kraft wiped the edge of his sleeve across his glasses to clear them. “Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?”
“Who else have we asked about Biff?” Joe argued. “I think Brand realized we weren’t going to give up the search, so he had us bugged to learn what our plans were. And when he heard us discussing going to the bus station, he had his Biff impersonator head out there fast.” Joe stopped suddenly. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
Sheriff Kraft smiled grimly. “I see.” He gave them a long look. “I think you boys watch too many movies and TV shows about southern sheriffs.”
He took a sip of coffee and looked up at the smoke. “Well, being a lawman was what I always wanted to be. The sheriff’s face grew serious. “I know you probably think I’m against you two meddling with this Ultimo Camp thing,” he said.
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“Maybe you even think I’ve got you labeled as troublemakers.” He tossed the dregs of his coffee into the gutter and then looked from Frank to Joe.
“I’m here to tell you there’s nothing further from the truth.”
Joe glanced at Frank.
“I have a plan in mind,” Joe said hesitantly, and climbed out of the car. Frank joined him.
“Well, now’s not the time to keep it to yourself, Joe,” said the sheriff. “I think we’ve decided we’re on the same side. You know, I don’t like having an armed camp right in the middle of my jurisdiction.” He stared down at Joe.
“I want to find a way to get into that camp undercover,” Joe said fiercely. “See what we can find out if our good buddy Orville Brand doesn’t know we’re around.”
“Well, I don’t rightly know how you’d go about doing that,” Sheriff Kraft said, rubbing his chin. “But if you did figure out a way, and you did find some concrete evidence of wrongdoing, something I could take to a judge and get a search warrant for, I’d move right in.”
“Just one problem—I haven’t figured out how to get in,” Joe said.
Sheriff Kraft said quietly, “Well, I hope you do, and I hope you find your friend.”
Joe stared straight into Sheriff Kraft’s eyes. “So do I. But—I’m not so sure anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Sheriff Kraft questioned.
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Smoke drifted past.
“If it was Brand who tried to kill us—well, I don’t think he’s trying to hide Biff anymore.” Joe shuddered slightly. “He’s trying too hard to stop any investigation. There’s something bigger at work here—much bigger.” He turned to Frank and said what had been on his mind all along. “Maybe their training got a little too rough—and Biff didn’t make it!”
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Chapter 8
Frank and Joe Hardy stood at attention in the early-morning mist, risking the threat of discovery. They both had on fake eyebrows and thin mustaches, and Joe sported a false gold front tooth.
It was just after six in the morning, and they were surrounded by Ultimo Survival Camp trainees. Sergeant Collins, the counselor with the sickle-shaped scar on his head, stood at the front of the group. He had a clipboard with a roster sheet attached in the crook of his right arm. He Was taking roll call.
Collins had not yet shouted the names Fred and Jim Cassidy. Sheriff Kraft had suggested the names to Frank and Joe, and Joe hoped desperately that the names were on the sheet. If not, he and Frank would quickly be discovered and turned over to Brand.
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“Atwood, E.,” Collins read off the clipboard. The name echoed faintly.
“Here!”
It was the second morning after the explosion. Frank had figured out how to get them inside the camp compound without going through regular entrance procedures. They would never have slipped past Brand.
Using the Ultimo Survival Course’s computer access code, Frank had broken into the camp’s system and added the pair of fake names to Collins’s squad. This tactic, he hoped, would allow them to bypass the command center—and Orville Brand.
“Bartlett, K.!” Collins called.
“Here, sir!”
In the middle of the night Sheriff Kraft had dropped them off in a wooded area on the edge of the Ultimo property. He had driven away before they began their efforts to sneak through the outer perimeter fences. No one could say he was a witness to illegal trespass.
“Brown, R.!”
“Right over here!”
“ ‘Here’ or ‘Present’ will suffice,” Collins said as a rebuke.
They had made their way through thick woods until they reached the base of the mountain. Just before dawn broke, they had hidden themselves in the crawl space under the barracks that housed Collins’s troops. When reveille sounded and
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everyone clomped out of the barracks and down the steps to form a squad, Frank and Joe—now Fred and Jim—had stepped out nonchalantly from under the raised section and joined the ranks.
Now Collins was shouting names, but still he had not reached theirs. Joe wondered if Frank had truly managed to bypass the command center and gotten their names entered on the computer roster lists.
“Cassidy, F.!” Collins read.
“Here!” Frank called smartly.
Joe exulted. They had done it! Success!
* * *
They’re trying to kill us, Frank thought, nearing the end of the morning’s five-mile run. This had followed a set of a hundred chin-ups and endless sets of push-ups. The sun had not yet climbed above the mountains. There was still mist rising from the ground. And he was sweating. His lungs were laboring. His legs ached. No wonder they call this the Ultimo Survival Camp. It’s a major accomplishment if you survive, he told himself.
* * *
Joe was relieved to get on the obstacle course. Ordinarily, climbing over fences and crawling through mud would not have been comforting. But at least he had managed to escape the mess hall, where they served the most disgusting scrambled eggs he had ever tasted.
If that hadn’t been enough to make him lose his
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appetite, Brand had strolled around the long breakfast tables. Both Joe and Frank had kept their heads bowed whenever he came anywhere near their table.
Collins had sat at the head of their table. He still had the pair of goggles at his waist that looked an awful lot like the ones Biff wore, but Joe would have to see the initials B.H. to be absolutely sure.
That was easier said than done. Collins treated his squad like a bunch of green recruits in boot camp; he kept his distance. Joe had seen rocks that were friendlier.
Now, as the squad approached the obstacle course, Joe drew abreast of Collins. “Uh, sir,” he began.
Ignoring him, Collins spun about and ordered all the trainees to leave their personal belongings on a table nearby. Joe stared down at the goggles dangling at thigh level. Collins caught him.
“Something wrong with your ears?” he asked suspiciously. “And what are you staring at?”
“I was wondering where I could get a utility belt like the one you have,” Joe replied.
“Let’s just see if you can get through the course like a man,” Collins snarled, “before you start thinking about dressing like one.”
Joe positioned himself to begin the course. To his right, on a long table, were the trainees’ personal belongings: watches, neck chains, hunting knives.
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“Get going!” Collins ordered Joe.
Joe began the rigorous course. He hurdled fences, pulled himself across a rope strung over a huge, muddy pit, then crawled through a shallow ditch topped with barbed wire. But when he was at the top rung of a wooden barrier, he paused, looking back at the beginning.
Well, what do you know about that? Joe thought. Their drill instructor was going through the items left on the table. Collins was ripping off the trainees!
When he finished the course, Joe stretched out on the ground, exhausted. After about five minutes, one of the trainees ran up to Collins, an angry look on his face.
“My watch is missing!” the trainee complained.
Collins’s right forefinger traced the livid white scar in his hair. “What’s the matter, Bartlett? Can’t keep track of your stuff? What do you think I am, your personal watchdog? You’re responsible for keeping an eye on your own equipment, I just make sure you don’t wreck it going through the course.”
Collins gestured at the trainees who were recovering from the course. “Better check your buddies. One of them’s not trustworthy.”
* * *
Frank Hardy decided to skip the lunch of creamed chipped beef on soggy white bread.
He managed to find himself a good hiding place
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in the maple trees that stood not far from the command center from which he could observe. There was a truck pulled up near the front door, and men and women in fatigues were carrying out record files and handing them up to others stationed in the back of the truck.
What were they doing? Packing up? Getting ready to abandon the camp?
It can’t be! Frank told himself. He and Joe weren’t on to anything yet that was of real danger to Brand’s crew.
He heard a snap behind him. Someone was approaching through the trees nearby! Frank peered cautiously behind him. It was Brand, walking in his direction!
His mind raced. Should he sneak away? No. Any movement would catch Brand’s eye. Frank would have to lie low. He tried not to think of what would happen to him if Brand tripped over him.
Brand did walk by, only six inches away.
Frank wished he’d gone in to eat the creamed chipped beef. But then he got a break. He could not hear Brand’s words when the man stopped by the back of the truck, but he obviously ordered the people down and back into the center. Within moments the truck was clear.
Frank ran to the back of the truck, and went through the first batch of files he came to. He pulled one out at random and studied it.
The papers inside were mainly letters between
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the Ultimo Survival Camp and Generalissimo Manuel Strosser, the merciless dictator of San Marcos. The papers outlined a business deal in which the camp would provide mercenary troops for the dictator.
Hardly able to believe what he had found, Frank continued to scan the page. But he came to an abrupt stop when he read the bottom line—the fee for those fully trained troops: one million dollars!
If Biff had discovered this, and if he’d been caught. . . . Frank couldn’t stop the thought. It would certainly be a strong motive for getting rid of Biff—permanently!
* * *
Later that day Joe Hardy, a.k.a. Jim Cassidy, was in trouble! Collins saw it at once. He had been showing the greenhorns, as he liked to call them, how to climb up a mountainside. He had a headache and would rather not have been teaching wimps how to rappel. Only the dark-skinned one—what was his name, the kid over to his right, Fred Cassidy—had any talent for climbing and descent.
The brother, Jim Cassidy, was directly above Collins right then, only ten feet farther up the uneven rocky surface. Collins remembered how this blond kid had been staring at him just before the obstacle course. He could have sworn he had been watching him—as if he knew that Collins was about to check the contents of the trainees’
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table to see if they’d left him any little treats worth taking.
From where Collins hung from his rope, feet planted firmly against the side of the mountain, he could easily see the blond kid. Jim Cassidy had stopped on a narrow ridge covered with mountain laurel.
When Jim grabbed a handful of dark green branches in an attempt to gain some leverage, Collins knew there was trouble!
The roots pulled loose from the ledge. Specks of dirt splattered across Collins’s face as Jim Cassidy’s boots scraped against rock. His hands searched wildly for some kind of hold. He didn’t find one. He fell backward, and now, like the dirt, he was hurtling downward!
Collins stared in disbelief as the kid’s body grew rapidly larger.
He could only think one thought: This kid is going to get himself smashed to a pulp!
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Chapter 9
Joe had not counted on Collins letting him fall.
The way Joe had it planned, Collins would reach out, like the seasoned mountaineer he was supposed to be, and snatch him from the long, bumpy descent to broken limbs or death! Collins, the hero of the day, with theft as a sideline. And then Joe could get a good look at those goggles dangling from Collins’s waist.
The only problem was that Collins was not going to grab him. Collins had frozen in the clutch!
Joe scraped against the gray rock, hitting his thigh hard. That’s going to leave one wicked bruise, he thought.
Joe twisted his body violently, one hand holding tight to the rope lashed about him.
Well, if Collins wouldn’t reach out to grab him,
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he would swing himself toward Collins and grab onto him!
He banged across the side of the mountain in a long swing that carried him down and to the left. He crashed right into Collins, who had thrust out his arms as if to stop him. As Joe’s body slammed into Collins’s stiffened fingers, the instructor’s eyes went wide with pain. Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Collins’s neck, as if he were afraid.
Don’t put on the frightened pupil bit too thick, he silently warned himself.
The two of them swayed from Collins’s anchored rope. Collins ripped Joe’s arms from around his neck and shoved them up against the mountainside.
“Find a handhold there!” he shouted. “What are you trying to do, get us both killed?”
Collins pushed himself out from the cliff edge, holding onto his rope, and rappelled down from Joe a couple of feet. Joe could barely stop himself from screaming in anger. He still hadn’t managed to get a clear look at the dark goggles.
“You take it nice and easy,” Collins called to Joe, “and get yourself down to the bottom. And don’t do any more stupid things like grabbing onto vegetation without having your rope secured.”
Frank swung expertly over to Joe’s side. Joe saw dread in Frank’s brown eyes.
Oh, no, Joe thought. He really thought I was falling.
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“You okay?” Frank asked tensely.
“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,”he whispered. “It didn’t work out as I planned.”
“You were almost killed twice in the last two days, and when I saw you falling, all I could think about was how people say things happen in threes.” Frank also kept his voice to a whisper, but Joe could read his worry and anger.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” Joe whispered.
“I hate your spur-of-the-moment ideas!” Frank hissed back.
Joe shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not too crazy about them myself.”
Joe climbed cautiously down. Collins gave him a wide berth.
One of the trainees called over to Joe, “Hey, what happened up there? You slip on a banana peel?”
The other trainees, clinging like awkward spiders to the side of the cliff, laughed. Trainee Brown laughed so hard that his feet slipped and he was left dangling from his rope, which fortunately was secured. He stopped laughing.
As Joe passed by Collins on his way down he tried to get a clear view of the goggles, but they Were hidden by Collins’s leg. He could only see the tops of them. They were certainly similar to the ones Biff had had.
“Cassidy,” Collins snapped. “The point of this camp is survival. You want to pull stunts, pull
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them at home—I shouldn’t have to nursemaid you.” He scowled. “Know what would have happened to me if you’d fallen?”
“I can’t imagine,” Joe answered, stopping his descent for a moment. “I was thinking about what would have happened to me.”
“You’d have put me in bad with Major Brand,” Collins said harshly. “I could have lost my job. He could have lost faith in me.”
“Gee,” Joe said as politely as he could, “I wouldn’t want a thing like that to happen.”
He could feel Collins glaring at him, all the way to the bottom of the mountain.
* * *
The next part of the plan was a little more complicated. Joe had to break into Collins’s room and search for the goggles without getting caught.
Still, he decided, it had to be easier than Frank’s job: making conversation with Collins.
It was dark in front of the rec hall. The trainees were inside, watching a double feature—The Killer Commandos and Return of the Killer Commandos. Except for Collins, who always ran the projector and claimed to have seen both films more than a hundred times, the instructors had taken off on their own.
“Hi,” Frank said as he stepped in front of Collins.
Collins grunted, trying to move around Frank.
Machine-gun sound effects and explosions punctuated the night from the rec room.
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“I just wanted to thank you for saving my brother’s life out there,” said Frank.
“Just my job, kid,” Collins muttered and again tried to push past him.
But Frank was instantly in front of him again. “Look,” he went on, “don’t hold it against him, will you? Jim just hasn’t done much rappelling. He—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Collins interrupted. He shoved Frank aside. “Now, do you mind getting out of my way?”
* * *
Inside Collins’s dark room, Joe Hardy could hear Frank and Collins talking. His heart was pounding.
He surveyed the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He didn’t dare even turn on a flashlight. First he checked under the military cot in the center of the room. He could have bounced quarters off the tightly made bed.
Carefully, he slipped his hand under the mattress, making a wide, slow sweep to see if anything was hidden there.
Nothing.
* * *
Collins climbed the stairs that led to his room. Frank dashed up the steps and grabbed his arm. Collins whirled about and glared at him. “What is it now?” he asked.
Frank hesitated. What was he going to say now? “I—I was just wondering about
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tomorrow,” he finally got out. “I thought maybe if you could tell me what’s on the schedule, I could make sure my brother is better prepared.”
Collins gave him a long, hard look. “Cassidy, I’ll let you know what the schedule is when I let everybody else know. Now, either get back to the movie or go get some sleep. You’ll need it.” He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.
* * *
Joe was searching through the bureau drawers when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.
Not enough time! he thought.
Then in the next instant he heard the doorknob turning!
* * *
Frank firmly placed his hand on top of Collins’s and pulled the man’s hand off the doorknob. Collins turned to look at him as if Frank were crazy. In the moonlight, the scar on Collins’s skull appeared very livid.
“Get your hands off me, you little creep,” Collins snarled.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”
“What question?” Collins asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m going rock climbing next month,” Frank said in desperation. “In Washington State.”
“That’s lovely,” Collins drawled. “Enjoy yourself.”
Frank smiled again, the most pleasant smile he
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could manage while making conversation with this glowering bozo. It made his face hurt.
“What I wanted to ask you,” he pressed on, “is if you’ve ever played in the Cascades. I mean, do you have any tips about the area—things to watch out for, rope techniques ...”
“Cassidy.” Collins’s voice hovered between boredom and outright irritation. “I don’t think much of you or your brother. He’s a pain in the behind, an awkward grunt. You’re a little better—the best in the squad. You don’t need my advice. So why are you trying to butter me up?”
Frank faked all the indignation he could dig up. “Butter you up? I thought I was talking one climber to another. I—”
Collins turned back to the door. “Kid,” he said, beginning to turn the knob, “if you’re not sucking up, I think you’re crazy.”
* * *
Joe finally found the hidden treasure in a shoebox tucked away on the top shelf of the closet. There were more wristwatches than an octopus could wear, all kinds of jewelry, different kinds of camping equipment—and a pair of octagonal goggles, with the initials B.H.!
I’ve got you, Collins! he thought. Then he heard the door start to open and knew he was going to be discovered.
* * *
“How about the Negev?” At this point Frank was willing to try anything.
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Collins stopped. He stood with his back to Frank for such a long time that Frank was positive he wasn’t going to reply. Then, Collins turned. Frank saw a really baffled look cross the sergeant’s face.
“The Negev is in Israel,” he said, trying hard to keep his patience.
“I know that,” Frank said. “Haven’t you ever done any desert climbing?”
“I did my desert training in the Sahara,” Collins told him. “Lived for five days on one lousy canteen of water. Thought my skin was going to shrivel off in that sun.”
Joe was climbing out the side window as Frank said, “What about the Himalayas? You ever done any climbing there?”
* * *
Frank and Joe were alone in the barracks, sitting on Frank’s bunk, drinking Gatorade.
“Wow, ‘Fred,’ you made yourself look like a real jerk with Collins.” Joe grinned. “But we’ve got him now—Collins and the whole camp.”
The barracks stretched wide and long. Empty bunks stood in rows waiting for their occupants.
Joe took a swig of Gatorade. “If someone as sharp as Brand had anything to do with Biff’s disappearance, you can bet he wouldn’t leave any evidence around. I’ll bet Brand doesn’t even know Biff’s goggles are around.”
Frank gazed about the room. It seemed somehow ominous—too quiet, too empty.
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“Okay,” Joe said, “when the trainees come back in and lights go out, we wait a little while and then sneak out of here. We come back here with Sheriff Kraft and let him search Collins’s room. When he finds Biff’s goggles, he’ll have good cause to turn this camp upside down.”
Frank tilted the cup to his lips and drained his Gatorade.
“And the best thing is,” Joe went on, raising his cup high, “we put it over on Brand. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”
Frank did not say anything. He was looking at his cup as if he were having difficulty focusing.
“What do you think, Frank?” Joe asked. “Will Brand be surprised when we come waltzing in here tomorrow or what?”
Frank let the cup drop out of his hand onto the mattress.
Joe yawned. “Hey, Frank? Why don’t you say something?” He turned toward Frank and was surprised to see him half-lying on the bed, his feet still on the floor.
“What are you doing, falling asleep on me at a time like this?” Joe asked, standing.
Then he staggered. “What the—?” Joe grabbed for the bunk edge, missed. Frank’s body on the bed seemed to blur. Drugged! The thought went through his mind. Only the lowest of the low would drug the Gatorade!
Joe tried to pull himself together. Anyhow,
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how did Brand or his people even know we were here and drinking Gatorade?
As he slumped to the floor, Joe was aware that people were entering the room from the far end. Three, maybe four people at the most.
He could not make out their features. Flesh tones melted into cloth.
Someone knelt beside him. Was that a skeleton smiling?
No! The sunken eyes, burning darkly. He could make out the eyes—Brand’s!
Brand’s voice sounded very distant. “I told you I was looking forward to meeting you again.”
They were the last words Joe heard. Then the world became lost in darkness.
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Chapter 10
Something hurt!
Joe Hardy heard the harsh sound of flesh striking against flesh. Pain followed immediately. Slowly, he came to. Someone was slapping him across the face.
Again, Brand backhanded Joe, and the resulting surge of pain brought him fully back to awareness. Instinctively, Joe moved to defend himself, ready to hurl himself at Brand and take him out, no matter what the consequences. But his body jerked against a restraint at his waist. He couldn’t move his hands.
Joe tried to comprehend why he couldn’t strike out at Brand. He looked down at his wrists. They were strapped to the arms of a seat. He was belted across the stomach into a seat of plush maroon velvet.
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He became aware of the drone of an engine as Brand straightened up. They were on a private plane.
“Stop hitting him!” he heard Frank say and realized that his brother was strapped into the seat beside him.
Brand gazed from Frank to Joe. The dark eyes held a flicker of joy—an eerie thing to see on that face.
“You both thought you were so clever,” Brand said smugly, his narrow lips stretching in a cruel smile. “Well, you were, in a way. I try to give credit where credit is due.” He shook his head. “Too bad about Collins. You were right, Joseph, I was surprised to find out about those goggles. Collins now has a matching scar on the other side of his head.”
Frank tested the straps biting into his wrists. They didn’t give an inch.
“On the other hand,” Brand continued, “I always review the roster sheets when I hand them out. When I spotted both a ‘Fred’ and a ‘Jim Cassidy’ listed, specifically when I did not recall interviewing any trainees with the same last name, I knew it had to be you two. I figured I’d wait you out to see what your game was.”
“Yes,” Frank said bitterly. “We noticed you like to play games. With people’s lives.”
‘‘ You should feel honored.” Brand walked over to the window and peered out at the clouds. “You are being taken to Colonel Hammerlock’s private
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sanctuary.” He turned back to stare at them. “To one of the best hunting grounds in the world.”
Joe decided to goad Brand. It was a standard ploy he and Frank had agreed upon in case they were caught by an enemy: try to create a situation that might lead to a chance for escape. Keep the adversary talking—information could be a powerful weapon.
“Is that his real name, Hammerlock?” Joe asked sarcastically. “I know a wrestling coach who would love to have him on the Bayport High team.”
Brand stalked impatiently past them in the center aisle of the plane. “Hammerlock is the code name he went under during the war. He was a hero then.”
He leaned toward Joe, flashing his cadaverous smile. His hand whipped up, fast, before Joe could attempt to twist his head away from the blow. A vivid red mark colored Joe’s face. “You shouldn’t pick on people’s names, Hardy,” Brand went on calmly. “Especially when they aren’t around. It’s not polite. Do you want to make jokes about my name? Orville.”
The smile disappeared, and the thin lips hardly seemed to move as he added, “When I was a teenager, my peers loved to make fun of my name. But not for long.”
Frank glared directly into Brand’s hate-filled eyes. “Personally,” he said in a bright voice, “I love the name Orville. One of the Wright brothers
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was named Orville.” He paused, making sure Brand was looking at him. “Too bad you dishonor the name.”
Brand spun toward Frank, his hand raised. But before he could connect, Joe lifted his feet, tripping Brand. The major grunted in surprise and then, with the agility of a cat, regained his balance. He’s not going to be an easy one to fight, thought Joe, noting the maneuver.
“How many missing teenagers are there besides Biff?” Joe asked, wanting to distract Brand before he went for Frank again.
Brand’s right hand was clenched in a fist, and he was shaking with rage. Then, as Joe had seen on the target range, he uncurled his fingers, grew calmer and spoke with quiet tension. “A few dozen. An elite corps for the colonel.”
“How’d you pull it off?” Frank asked in disbelief. “Dozens of kids disappear, and no one questions where they went?”
Brand chuckled. The sound seemed like bones scraping together deep in his throat.
“Do you know how many runaways there are in this country?” he asked, actually beginning to enjoy himself again. “No, I expect you don’t. You two are nice and content in Bayport, though I suspect that friends of yours, like this Biff, perhaps are not as satisfied.”
The plane started a descent. Out of the window Frank could see a stretch of ocean past the clouds.
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“Some kids run to the cities,” Brand continued. “Most of them are looking to get away from terrible home lives. But they find they ran to more terrible things than they ever imagined.”
The plane was slanting down through the clouds now, piercing the vast cotton-candy sky.
“Some kids go looking for adventure—or a cause.” Brand nodded. “That’s what we offer to those who want it enough to pass the test.”
“The games, you mean?” Joe guessed, wondering exactly where they were landing.
“The Ultimo Survival Camp was legitimate. It also provided a perfect recruiting system and raised generous funds for the colonel’s real purposes. You two made a grave mistake when you forced us to abandon it.” He ran a hand over his scalp. “You should have seen those trainees milling about as we took off from our private airstrip. They were quite beside themselves.”
“I still don’t understand how you and Colonel Hammerlock get away with it,” Frank said, pretending admiration.
“You don’t fool me with your transparent attempts to appeal to my ego,” Brand snapped at him. “But there is no reason not to tell you. Where you’re going is the last stop.” He stared at the plane ceiling for a moment, as if considering what to tell them.
Joe rubbed his wrists against the strap. His flesh burned with the effort, but the strap remained taut as ever.
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“It was all quite easy once we had the camp going. But you see, only a few applicants ever got to play the game for real. I personally selected the trainees who proved they would make superior warriors,” Brand began.
Frank could see the tops of trees out the window and a stretch of lovely, deserted beach. They were approaching an island!
“Oh, no matter how good a trainee was, if he came to our course with his parents’ permission—or if I found out that he had told lots of people where he was going—he was never even considered for indoctrination.”
The green tops of trees rushed by directly under them.
“I talked with your friend Biff for several hours. He took me into his confidence while I was giving him personal instruction in combat.” Brand shrugged. “I knew his parents didn’t have the faintest idea where he had gone. And he was good at the game, a natural for combat. Perhaps I was a little eager.”
The dark eyes turned to Joe, displeased. “Unfortunately, Biff did not tell me he had confided in you. I must admit, I was a little taken aback by first the inquiries and then your sudden visit.”
The plane dipped. Joe’s stomach lurched. The plane’s wheels touched ground, bumping them about in their restraints.
“What’s happened to Biff?” Frank asked, dreading the answer.
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Brand shook his head sadly. “He hasn’t been totally cooperative.”
“Good old Biff!” Joe said with a laugh.
Those dark, reptilian eyes turned on Joe. “When you two showed up with the sheriff, well, you can imagine. I radioed the colonel—our people here had to interrogate the boy rather severely.” Brand’s voice made that sound as if it was a pity. “I’m rather afraid to see what, if anything, is left of him.”
With that, Brand strode to the plane’s cockpit. Moments later the Hardys were untied and escorted from the cabin at gunpoint.
Frank and Joe halted on the plane steps, stunned. Built into the side of a rust-colored mountain they saw a fantastic, old-fashioned fortress. High bastions stood at each corner of the stone edifice, and uniformed, armed guards patrolled the battlements. “It’s authentic,” Brand said proudly, “built in the eighteenth century to deal with pirates. With some renovations, it was quite suitable for the colonel’s needs.”
But Frank and Joe weren’t noticing the scenery. Standing before the plane, directly ahead of them, was Colonel Hammerlock himself.
Brand shoved them forward. Both of the Hardys almost fell down the steps.
“Now, move!” Brand commanded.
Frank knew that Joe wanted to attack; his brother had been itching for action from the moment they’d been untied.
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“Not now!” he whispered quickly. “Let’s find out where Biff is and what kind of shape he’s in first.”
“Yeah. You’re right,” Joe muttered as they marched toward the colonel. In person, the colonel looked much as he had in his picture, but even larger and more impressive. He was barechested, except for a shoulder holster and a bandolier of ammunition. He stood in the hot sun, his powerful torso gleaming with sweat.
“Where do you think we are?” Joe whispered.
“Some deserted island in the Caribbean,” Frank replied with a shrug.
Brand shoved Frank again. “Don’t speak until you’re spoken to,” he ordered.
Colonel Hammerlock did not move until they reached him. He wore a red bandanna knotted about his head. He held a Super Blackhawk pistol trained on the Hardys. As he raised it level with Joe’s eyes, a snake tattoo rippled along his arm muscles. The heavy gun seemed puny in his huge fist.
He surveyed Frank and Joe as if he could not believe what he saw. “You mean to tell me, Brand, that it was two no-accounts like this who forced us to close the center?”
Brand looked uneasy. “Sorry, sir. These are the ones.”
Frank pointed to the gun. “That’s not one of your trainee’s target pistols,” he observed.
“You’re right,” the colonel said in a guttural
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voice. “This weapon fires eighteen rounds of MTM forty-four Magnum ammunition.” Some of the colonel’s words were slurred, and Joe realized that he suffered from partial paralysis on the right side of his face.
Colonel Hammerlock looked at the gun lovingly, then gazed at Frank. “The weapon has been tested on Asiatic water buffalo, as well as wild boar. Goes right through ‘em. Imagine what it does to humans.” With a laugh, the colonel turned and started toward the entrance to the fortress. Brand nudged the Hardys, and reluctantly they followed.
Inside, the colonel led them to a set of stone steps that descended into a network of subterranean corridors. The stone walls were damp. The air smelled of mud and decay.
“Where are you taking us?” Joe demanded.
“You’ll see,” Brand replied.
Finally they reached a cobblestone corridor that led past huge metal doors with small barred windows set at their tops. Water dripped somewhere in the deep shadows.
“We keep transgressors down here,” the colonel informed them.
“Transgressors?” Frank asked.
“Recruits with capabilities that could have made them invaluable additions to our organization. Some foolishly decline our offer to serve, as if they think they really have an option. Others are simply too rebellious.”
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The colonel stopped at a door midway along the corridor and took keys from a belt about his waist. “Some are not willing to be, uh, team players.”
“My kind of people!” Joe exclaimed defiantly.
The colonel unlocked the door. “Good!” he said, thrusting the door open. “Then you can enjoy dying alongside them!”
Brand shoved them through the doorway, and the steel door slammed shut with an ominous clang.
Frank and Joe stood still for a moment, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. The room they were locked in was a dirt-floored dungeon. Rats scampered near a battered, bloodied figure that lay very still, half-obscured in shadow.
“Oh; no,” said Frank, darting forward. “Biff!”
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Chapter 11
A large rat was sniffing around Biff’s ankles.
Biff’s hand feebly swiped at the rodent’s well-fed body. Whipping its tail around, the animal let out a squeaky screech of protest, then fled into the shadowy recesses of the damp cell.
Frank felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw that weak gesture. It meant Biff was alive!
The Hardys knelt on either side of their friend. Gently, they propped him up against the stone wall.
Biff’s face was swollen and bruised, but he managed a weak smile. “I knew you guys would find me. Knew it all the time.”
“Yeah, we’ve got to get you back to Bayport. Football practice starts soon,” Joe said, trying not to let Biff see how concerned he was. He knew he had to bolster Biff’s hopes for escape.
Suddenly, Frank and Joe became aware of a
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shuffling sound behind them. They turned to see two other prisoners who shared the same dungeon quarters.
“Frank?” Biff mumbled.
“Yeah?”
“This is turning out not to be fun.” Biff sagged back against the wall.
Frank nodded solemnly. “The real thing seldom is.” He stood and faced the two other prisoners. “Where are your manners, Biff? You haven’t introduced us to your cellmates.”
“Hi. I’m Terrence Scott. Just call me Terry,” said a black teenager as he extended his hand in greeting. He was in much better shape than Biff.
Terry’s hair was cropped close to his head. His brown eyes were almond shaped, and they glittered with an alert curiosity that even his surroundings couldn’t lessen.
Terry was as tall as Joe, with a thin, wiry build. His handshake was firm.
“Hey, Terry,” Frank said. “How did you wind up here?”
Terry shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.” He grinned. “Biff’s talked a lot about you two. Your reputation precedes you.”
He gestured awkwardly toward Biff’s battered body. “We’ve tried to help Biff as much as we could. They worked him over pretty thoroughly a couple of days ago.” Terry breathed harshly. “Not much we could do for him. They confiscated all our medical equipment.”
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“You were one of the game players at Ultimo?” Joe asked.
“Yeah. Seemed like a good idea when I signed up. My father’s an intelligence agent.” Terry looked down at his muddied fatigues. “I thought I could follow in my dad’s footsteps. Figured I’d impress him.”
He took a deep breath. “Now I could kick myself for being so clever in covering my own tracks. I made it impossible for him to trace me.”
In the silence, they could hear rat claws raking through dirt.
Terry turned to the remaining prisoner, who stood behind him.
“I suppose you’d like to meet the third occupant of our little abode.” He held a palm out to indicate the figure, who stepped forward.
A girl! Joe thought, then corrected himself, a woman. She was about his age, seventeen. Did that make her a girl or a woman?
Her handshake was as firm as Terry’s.
“I’m Lauren Madigan,” she announced in a confident voice.
Her hair had been lightened by the sun to a golden blond. Her face was tanned, and her eyes were a clear blue. She stood just over five feet.
Lauren rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. “As long as we’re telling life stories, I’ll give you the condensed version of mine.” She looked up at the high, hard ceiling, as if she could see her past up there. “I come from a large family
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in the Midwest, five brothers and three sisters. The first time I ever played a survival game, it was like a revelation to me.”
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
Lauren kicked out at a rat that was creeping near her booted foot. “Oh, it’s hard to explain. I guess it was the first time I felt like I’d achieved something on my own.”
She stared after the squealing rat. “When you have so many people around you—brothers, sisters—you just feel like you’re part of a group. That you’ve lost your own personal identity.”
She looked directly at Joe. “Every time I played at survival, it gave me a feeling of independence. It was something none of my brothers or sisters could or would do. My parents didn’t approve of the games. They thought the games were endorsing violence. I thought they were offering freedom.” She surveyed the walls glumly. “And for a time, they were. But not anymore.”
* * *
It was the weirdest dinner party Joe had ever attended.
In the early evening, Brand had visited their cell, inviting the five of them to dine with the colonel.
Not that there was a choice. Brand and several armed guards led them to a large room on the second floor of the fortress. Two guards
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supported Biff between them. Frank wondered how his friend would be able to sit through the meal.
Hammerlock’s inner sanctum was a combination dining room and armory. The walls and floor were decorated with a vast array of weaponry: guns, crossbows, suits of armor, broadswords—a virtual history of weapons collected in one room.
The center of the room was dominated by a long, elegant table, surrounded by high-backed, hand-carved wooden chairs. A sumptuously woven tablecloth covered the entire length. Joe shook his head in amazement at the embroidered scene it depicted: medieval knights charged on horses; samurai warriors attacked with swords; Civil War soldiers battled with bayonets and cannons; and modern soldiers marched with M-16s. There were ornate candlesticks placed along the center of the table, each with a tapered, flickering candle. Seven filigreed metal plates were set out.
Colonel Hammerlock sat at the head of the table, and at his nod orderlies appeared and served dinner. I should have expected this, Joe thought as they placed army ration packages on top of the metal plates.
“Dig in!” the colonel ordered. He immediately ripped open his package, pulled out a can, and attacked the top with a small can opener.
“This tops everything,” Terry muttered to Frank.
Joe found the can opener in his package, and
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pulled out a green painted can labeled Peaches. He cut open the lid. Flecks of paint shredded into the syrup.
“Who designed these things, anyway?” he complained. “Is that paint supposed to add vitamins to my peaches?”
“Stop bellyaching!” Hammerlock ordered through a mouthful of food. “The paint just gives it a little texture.” He chomped steadily, swallowed, and looked up at Joe. “I can see you don’t have the kind of stamina necessary to be a part of our team.”
Frank opened a can of Spam. “And just what team is that? The one you’ve created by kidnapping teenagers?”
The side of the colonel’s face that was not paralyzed twitched. “What we have done is not kidnapping,” he said with exaggerated calm. “It is merely the recruitment of a new fighting unit— my fighting unit!”
Joe noticed that Biff was barely eating. The colonel wiped some food from his lip. “True,” he admitted after a long moment. “Some members might come unwillingly. Until they learn how their ability for combat—their individual strength—can be used to change the world.”
“Then again,” Brand interjected, staring at Lauren and Terry, “some recruits never learn.”
Ignoring him, Hammerlock glared across the table at Joe and Frank. “Bureaucratic red tape ruined my military career. The essentials of how
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that happened are not important. What is important is that I have created an independent fighting unit that does not need to be sanctioned by any government or chain of military command to get a job done!”
Hammerlock continued, becoming more excited by his vision. The more fervent he became, the more he slurred his words.
“We have already begun. Perhaps you read about a strike on an airliner full of hostages taken by terrorists?”
Frank remembered. There had been speculation in the news at the time as to the identity of the rescue force. If his recollection was correct, a number of the hostages had died instead of being saved. And the mysterious rescuers had opened fire on law enforcement officials as well as on the terrorists.
“Oh, yeah, that fiasco,” Frank said, knowing he was treading on thin ice.
Terry shot him a grin, but Hammerlock’s face was mottled with rage. He pounded a fist on the table. “We’d have saved them all if it hadn’t been for those pussy-footed police! They interfered with our plan!”
Since the ice was already cracking around him, Frank decided to ask about the San Marcos deal he had read about in the files he’d discovered at the Ultimo Survival Camp.
“You sound indignant and righteous,” Frank said, carefully choosing his words. “But if you’re
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so honorable, how could you provide mercenaries to San Marcos? There aren’t any high ideals in that kind of business. It’s a matter of making profit from human suffering.”
Hammerlock stared past the candle flame that fluttered in the space between him and Frank. He slammed down his hand, snuffing out the flame with his palm.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said in a very quiet voice.
“But I saw—”
Hammerlock cut Frank off. “I will not allow you to sully what I have worked so hard to achieve. The time of my private army has come. My troops do not exist for personal gain. If I discover the location of missing POWs in Vietnam, I will go in with a crack unit at a moment’s notice. My men will never negotiate with terrorists. We will deal with a ruthless enemy in a ruthless fashion.”
Frank did not back down. “You could end up endangering the lives of hostages, you could end up killing innocent people—have you considered those factors?”
Hammerlock gestured abruptly, stabbing his plastic fork in Frank’s direction. “A soldier takes risks with his life. And we are all at war. It won’t be long before the public understands this and comes to adore us!”
Joe shook his head in apparent admiration. “Colonel, you are no ordinary man.” He paused
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for a second. “You’re a real loony tune!” He pushed his canned peaches away. “Think I’ll skip the peaches à la lead poisoning.”
Hammerlock looked at Joe as if he were a mutant from outer space. Then he barked out an order to have the table cleared. Orderlies picked up the cans.
Lauren snatched a small package of gum from one of the orderlies. “Just a second, I wasn’t finished.”
Once the table was cleared, the orderlies returned to deposit a collection of knives in the center of the table. The blades were all sheathed.
Hammerlock picked one up and drew the wicked-looking blade out halfway. “These are Malin M-Fifteen survival knives. Each one contains a precision ZF-Three-sixty Liquid Damped Compass, plus a small survival kit within the handle, including an eighteen-inch cable saw and waterproof matches, among other items.”
He shoved the sharp, silvered blade back into the sheath. Metal scraped metal.
“Get up!” Hammerlock ordered.
Joe and Frank supported Biff between them. Biff gamely tried to stand. “I’ll be all right,” he muttered.
“Just hold on to us for a while, tough guy,” Frank murmured.
Hammerlock let the lethal, heavy knife drop to the table. He spoke slowly as if to let every word sink in.
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“Recruits, grunts who don’t live up to our expectations or who become a threat, get to play our survival game.” Hammerlock paused, raising his head from the knives to pierce Terry with his gaze. Terry’s eyes did not blink, nor did he look away. “For real!”
Hammerlock picked up the knives and walked around the table, dropping a knife before each of them. “Hunting you down—gives me the chance for a little rest and relaxation.”
Terry picked up not only the knife that had been provided for him but Biff’s as well. “We’ll set you up with this later, Biff.”
“You want to get on with it?” Lauren asked coldly.
“The five of you will be set loose in the jungle terrain beyond our fortress.” Hammerlock thought for a moment, his expression grave, then nodded, as if in agreement with himself. “I’ll give you until dawn and then start after you. I think that’s a sporting chance.
“I’ll probably be back in time for breakfast, but it will be a pleasant surprise if the five of you are tough enough to make the hunt last until lunch.”
Hammerlock drew his Super Blackhawk pistol. He twirled the gun around his forefinger.
“Just consider this the final exam.”
Hammerlock suddenly stopped the spinning gun. It was pointed right at Joe’s head.
“And I mean just that. You flunk this course— and you die!”
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Chapter 12
“This is the place,” Frank Hardy agreed, looking back along the trail. The dawn light rose in a milky haze over the palmetto trees. “If we’re going to ambush Hammerlock, we should do it here.”
The Hardys, Terry, and Lauren had made their way as quickly as possiole along a sandy trail that cut through the scrub and palmetto. They took turns carrying Biff.
Lauren had suggested they use the fireman’s carry, straddling Biff over both shoulders. “But how could you—” Joe began.
Lauren answered by slinging Biff over her shoulders and stalking into the woods. They’d had no choice but to follow her.
There was little light among the trees and they
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had to watch out for tangled roots twisting up in the sandy path.
Joe followed closely behind Lauren. Hanging over her shoulder, Biff looked back at Joe in desperation.
“You won’t tell anyone back home about this, will you?” he pleaded. “Me, saved from death by a girl barely five feet tall.”
“They’d have to tear my fingernails out first,” Joe assured him. “They’d have to boil me in oil, pluck my eyebrows. And I still wouldn’t give them word one.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Biff said.
Frank nudged Joe, who was staring at Biff, bobbing slightly as Lauren made her way along the path.
“I’ll bet Lauren could get it out of you in three seconds flat,” Frank said with a grin.
Joe looked sharply at his brother. He hoped Lauren hadn’t heard Frank’s comment. She kept walking.
“I saw the way you were looking at her,” Frank went on. “Definite interest—maybe even admiration?”
Joe stared at him, exasperated. “Will you shut up? She’ll hear you.”
Frank shook his head in mild amusement. “In about an hour we’re going to have a certifiable homicidal psychopath using us for target practice, and you’re worried about what Lauren is going to think.”
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“Yeah, well, you’re the one who brought her up. Are you just jealous because she likes me better than you?” Joe asked.
“Oh, right, can’t you see my heart is breaking?” Frank replied. “Lauren,” he called, putting an end to the conversation. “Why don’t you let me take Biff for a while?”
With seemingly no effort Lauren transferred Biff to Frank’s shoulders.
“You’ve go to stop eating all those burgers, Biff!” Frank grunted as they started off again.
They discussed possible scenarios against Hammerlock as the sky slowly brightened. Frank was the strategist.
“I think the major thing that we have to keep reminding ourselves is that we can’t afford a physical confrontation with Hammerlock. He’s skilled at this sort of hunting and far stronger.”
“So, what you’re saying,” Joe said as he accepted Biff on his shoulders, “is that our only chance is to outwit him.”
* * *
It was just before dawn. They knew they had fifteen minutes at most before Hammerlock would set out after them.
“Maybe we should set some sort of ambush for him. No one, outside the colonel and his elite squad, lives on this island,” said Terry.
“We have no idea how far away the next Caribbean Island is,” Frank continued with the planning, “so there’s no reason to head for the beach,
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which is what I’m sure he’ll expect us to try. We just can’t chance swimming, without knowing how far and in what direction the closest inhabited island is.”
Lauren picked the actual spot in the trail where they would stage their ambush. “You see how the trail zigzags here very sharply. So when Hammerlock approaches this point, he’s blind to anyone stationed nearby.”
Joe looked excitedly into her vivid blue eyes. Her pupils seemed to enlarge slightly.
“You’ve got a plan!” he said with a note of triumph. He turned to Frank. “I love it! She beat you to the punch!”
Frank rolled his eyes.
“You haven’t heard my plan yet,” Lauren reminded him coolly.
Joe nodded. “That’s true. But when I do, I know I’m going to love it!”
Lauren tried not to smile and failed. Turning to Frank, she asked, “Is he always like this?”
“Only when his life is in danger,” Frank replied.
Terry disappeared while they were working out the actual logistics of the trap.
“I’m not sure I like this,” Frank said as the sky began to turn a light peach color.
“What’s wrong, Frank?” Lauren asked as she inspected a tree near the edge of the path. She was going to climb up one trunk, and Terry
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another, in the hopes that they could drop down on the colonel when he passed below.
“I’ll tell you,” Joe said, picking a spot alongside the path where the scrub brush was densest and would make the best hiding place. “Frank doesn’t like the idea of us taking direct physical action against Hammerlock.”
“Let’s say I have a few reservations,” Frank said grimly.
“Look at it this way, Frank. What we’ve really done is combine our collective intelligence with force,” Joe reasoned.
“It sounds good when you put it that way,” Frank admitted grudgingly.
Lauren tested the lower branches of the tree. She nodded to herself. The branches would support her.
Then she turned to Frank. “I think our best bet at this point is to try to put Hammerlock on the defensive,” she explained, her sapphire eyes thoughtful. “He’s bound to think we’ll be concentrating on finding a way off his human game preserve.”
Biff was hidden deep in a thicket off to the side of the trail. He seemed stronger than when the boys had first found him, but he was still weak and bruised from the beatings.
“I’m reduced to being a mere ‘spotter,’ “ he grumbled.
Frank studied the sky. “Sun’s up. Hammerlock
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must be on his way by now. It won’t be long.”
Joe whirled about, looking left and right, obviously disturbed.
“What’s wrong, Joe?” Lauren asked.
“Terry! Where’s Terry? Anybody see him?” His voice rose in concern.
“Calm down, Joe.” Terry’s voice came from the trees. He appeared a moment later, carrying all their canteens.
“Where’d you go? What’d you take our canteens for?” Joe asked.
Terry handed Joe one of the canteens. “Try some of this.”
As Terry pushed through the brush to hand a canteen to Biff, Joe unscrewed the cap. He took a sniff. “What is it?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s a drink made from crushed cinnamon, ginger, and a special tree bark,” Terry replied. “Drink up. It’s actually good, and it’ll give you strength.” Terry caught Joe looking distrustfully at his canteen. “Stop making faces, Joe. Set a good example for Biff.”
Terry silently worked his way through the thicket, back out onto the path. “Hammerlock won’t expect any of us to know how to live off what’s at hand on this island. This puts us one up on him already.”
Joe took a cautious sip. “Hey, this isn’t so bad, after all.”
“How’d you learn to make this?” Frank asked.
“I told you my dad was an agent. He was Ann
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stationed in the Caribbean for a while when I was a kid, and he taught me how to make it. I guess he was doing some kind of counterinsurgency stuff. He never talked much about it,” Terry answered as he studied the tree he was to climb.
“Time to get ready,” Frank said when he had finished the exotic drink. “Take your places.”
Lauren climbed nimbly up the tree she had chosen. She had her knife drawn, and for an instant sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp metal.
“Watch it!” Joe called up to her. “Hammerlock could spot that.”
She realized what had happened and scraped the knife blade against the bark of the tree to dull the shine. “Sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t realize. And you’d better keep your voice down, or he’ll hear us for sure.”
Joe gave her a thumbs-up sign and whispered, “Now we’re even.”
As Joe settled himself in the brush, he had an odd sense of deja vu. Why? It came to him suddenly. Except for the fact that there were fronds and scrub and sand, the act of lying in wait reminded him of the night he and Frank and Biff and Tony Prito had played their survival game in Bayport.
It seemed a lifetime ago.
* * *
Biff had given the signal, a circular wave of his hand. The thickets were silent, the ambushers holding their collective breath as Hammerlock
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moved toward the bend in the trail. He came into sight, then stood motionless.
Listening.
Eyes searching.
Hammerlock wore a torn olive-drab safari shirt. His bulging arms were smeared with black and green camouflage paint. He pressed himself up against a tree trunk, almost willing himself to become a part of it.
Come on! Move! Joe thought, trying to will him to take three more steps. That would place him right between the two Hardys.
What’s stopping him? Some sixth sense? Joe wondered.
Hammerlock sprang away from the tree, moving all in a rush. He was going to run right by them. It all happened so abruptly that Joe was afraid Hammerlock would be past and gone before they could spring the trap. He pushed himself outward, ready to wrap his arms around the colonel’s strong midsection. His hands slid on greased flesh. He couldn’t hold on!
Hammerlock had expected the attack. He was already whirling away from it, flinging Joe into the scrub. His pistol appeared in his hand, as if from nowhere, and the barrel erupted with flame. The gun sounded like a cannon.
He had aimed up at the tree where Terry was stationed. The .44-caliber bullet tore the limb from beneath Terry’s feet!
Terry gasped, clawing at branches, anything to
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stop his fall. He plunged downward, hit a branch, and tumbled into the scrub near where Joe had hidden.
Hammerlock spun around, his attention back on Joe. His gun was lowered, ready to fire again.
Now the weapon that had pulverized the tree limb was aimed directly at the bridge of Joe’s nose. He was as good as dead, no doubt about it! Hammerlock couldn’t miss at this range.
Joe took a deep breath.
Lauren landed on Hammerlock’s back, booted feet first. The blow would have knocked a normal man to the ground. But not Hammerlock. The shock just knocked his gun hand a few inches off. The gun exploded with flame and thunder and the bullet whizzed by just above Joe’s head.
She saved my life! Joe thought, diving off the trail. How can I ever make it up to her?
Lauren hit the sandy path, rolling into the scrub. She came up fast and was running immediately. Joe found her right beside him as he hurtled through the jungle foliage.
“I thought I was dead!” he told her.
“I thought you were, too,” she answered.
“How’d he know where we were?” Joe asked furiously. “It isn’t fair! One moment, we had him dead. And then the next second, he’s on to us!” Almost, he thought, as if someone had told him.
“I just hope Frank and Terry are all right,” Lauren said as they reached Biff.
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“It was a fiasco, huh?” he asked. “A complete fiasco,” Joe admitted.
* * *
Frank Hardy’s heart hammered in his chest as he ran. Hammerlock was gaining on him. And Frank knew it!
Frank crushed roots underfoot and shoved branches out of his way as he tore through the underbrush. In spite of the obstacles, he was making top speed in the mad race. Only problem is, Frank thought, I’m blazing a trail for Hammerlock!
Frank reached the far side of a palmetto thicket. He stopped and bent over, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees. He saw an open space ahead of him. Got to get across that, find a place to hide. At least I can make some speed here.
He made himself begin running again.
It was a mistake.
Frank knew it immediately.
His feet sank into a quagmire. It quickly oozed up past the tops of his boots. He tried to yank himself free. But the bog held on to his legs like a thousand leeches, refusing to let go.
Behind him in the thicket, he could hear Hammerlock approaching.
A bitter taste filled Frank’s mouth. Perfect—a choice of deaths! Sink slowly until this quicksand strangles me, or let Hammerlock blow me away!
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Chapter 13
The quicksand was the consistency and color of maple syrup, and it clung tenaciously to Frank.
His first panicked efforts to pull himself free had resulted in pushing him in deeper, up to his thighs. Mud supped inside his boots, like cold worms crawling past his socks to his feet.
Hammerlock had stopped running. Frank could imagine him, just beyond the patch of quicksand, standing very still as he had on the trail. He would be listening, trying to figure out why Frank wasn’t making any more noise.
Perhaps he expected another trap. He would proceed cautiously.
That would give Frank a few precious extra seconds. But for what purpose? If Hammerlock discovered him stuck helplessly, he only had to
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stand and watch until the ooze slid over Frank’s head and bubbled with his last tortured breaths. Or he could use Frank for target practice. Knowing Hammerlock, Frank fully expected to be used as target practice.
Even though he had stopped moving, the quicksand had managed to suck Frank down to his waist. Looking around frantically, he raised his hands so they would not become trapped.
Snap!
Hammerlock was on the move again. Slowly, but on the move!
And heading directly toward Frank!
Frank’s hands reached back, searching desperately above his head. They closed over something wooden. A branch? What? He twisted around to see, sending himself deeper into the quicksand.
He had grabbed onto a set of palmetto roots, hanging over the embankment, and thrusting down into the quicksand.
Another footfall, quieter this time. No snap of wood, just a slight squeezing noise, a bending of grass underfoot. He wouldn’t have heard it if Hammerlock had not been so close.
Think, Frank! Think! You’re always telling Joe to analyze a situation. Make the most of whatever is at hand, Frank said to himself.
But what was at hand? Quicksand that would clutch at his hands and hold them prisoner. Palmetto roots that had been arcing down into the quicksand depths for decades.
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And then he had a vision of his girlfriend, Callie Shaw, back in Bayport. Could it be just a few days before that they’d been swimming in the clear water of the ocean? The idea came to him just then.
Maybe he could convince Hammerlock that he had already died. Frank grabbed hold of the palmetto roots and started to push himself down, down, under the slime.
Holding tightly on to the roots, Frank started making as much noise as he could, twisting and thrashing in the mud.
Hand over hand he forced himself down into the muck. Up to his chest. Clammy goo slid wetly under his armpits. Up to his chin!
He couldn’t do it. His brain fought too hard against him.
Suppose you can’t pull yourself back up, he thought. Suppose you only think you can. Suppose you force yourself under, and the ooze enters your mouth, and your nostrils, and you suffocate? If you can’t pull yourself free, what then?
You cannot do this, he told himself.
He heard Hammerlock, just on the other side of the palmetto trees. Two, three steps at the most. Then the colonel would be standing over him, aiming that gun. He forgot what the name of it was, but he remembered Hammerlock telling him what it could do to a water buffalo!
He pulled himself under.
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The muck squeezed over his head. It ran into his ears. It tried to force its way past his closed eyelids. It seeped between his clenched lips. He could taste grit against his tongue, feel it grind between his teeth. Mud spread slowly into the back of his throat. He was gagging!
Then his hands began slipping on the muckcovered roots!
Pull yourself up! Pull yourself up! his mind screamed.
No! Not yet. Please, not yet. Maybe Hammerlock is standing up there, watching the spot where the mud closed over your head.
His fingers were growing numb, aching. Mud seeped into his nostrils. He tried to exhale and force it out, but somehow the stuff managed to flow in deeper.
He couldn’t wait any longer!
He wanted to reach up, to grasp higher, almost afraid to let go of the root. He threw his hand up and it slid. It slid down!
In the darkness, behind his tightly closed eyelids, he could feel his blood pounding. The darkness of the mud pressed in on him relentlessly. It was getting hard to concentrate. Which way was up? The pounding in his chest grew fiercer. He felt as if he’d breathed flames into his lungs. They were burning!
He forced his arm up again, forced his fingers to close tightly around the slippery root.
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I’ve got to breathe! My lungs are going to burst, he thought, his mind beginning to race.
He could feel blood rushing in his temples.
Mud oozed deeper into his ears. Mud was everywhere! He was never going to get out.
He yanked himself upward, fiercely. His head thrust up through the quagmire. Rivulets of muck slid down from his hair, over his forehead. Frank yanked ferociously on the tangled root. Now his nose and lips were free. Coughing, nearly choking, he finally drew in a sobbing breath. Air! Fresh air!
Straining, battling the unyielding pull of the quicksand, he finally reached a dry area.
I beat you! he thought fiercely as if the bog were a living enemy.
Frank was almost afraid he’d look up to see Hammerlock’s gun pointed at his head. Finally he forced himself to see if he was alone—and took a long, shaky breath. He was.
As he pulled himself free he felt another surge of triumph over the swamp and the mud.
He crawled into the grass and lay there, gasping. He knew he had to get back to Joe and the others. But he needed just a few moments to breathe, to wipe his hands clean, to try to get the mud out of his ears and mouth.
He was still lying in the tall swamp grass, his breathing getting back to normal, when he heard the voices. Frank lay still, listening to the sounds
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of several bodies forcing their way through the palmetto thicket.
“Let’s hurry this up,” one voice said. “I heard gunshots coming from over here somewhere.”
Frank peered through the grass, to see Major Brand carrying a submachine gun. Two of the counselors from the Ultimo Survival Camp accompanied him. They, too, were armed.
Brand checked the action on his weapon as he passed within six feet of Frank’s head. He never noticed his quarry. The mud on Frank’s body acted as a natural camouflage.
“Those grunts and Hammerlock can’t be far ahead.” Brand laughed. It sounded shockingly loud in the quiet jungle. “Let’s finish up this turkey shoot. Then we can take our cool million!”
He snapped the action of his gun, then led his team onward. They moved confidently, crashing through the brush, not even trying to hide their progress.
Frank managed to get to his feet. He clung to one of the palmetto trees.
He had to warn Joe and the others! He had to reach them in time!
And he had to do it without running into at least four people who wanted him dead!
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Chapter 14
The hardest thing for Joe Hardy to do was to keep his imagination from dwelling on the ways Frank might die if Hammerlock caught him.
He worked beside Terry and Lauren on a new trap they had talked about as a backup for their first trap. They had planned it back when Frank was still with them, before their ambush had failed so disastrously. How had it gone so wrong? How had Hammerlock known where they were? Joe had difficulty concentrating on the hard work at hand.
At any second, he kept expecting to hear gunshots in the distance—abrupt, brief, and fatal for his brother.
If he had any idea in which direction Frank had fled, he would have attempted to follow. But he didn’t have a clue. His last glimpse of Frank had been during the brief scuffle with Hammerlock,
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before they’d all taken off running. He and Lauren had picked up Biff. Then they’d found Terry crouching in the brush, some distance from the tree where he’d almost been shot. The severed branch had saved him from a full impact with the ground.
“Frank!” Joe had said nervously, looking around. “Where’s Frank?”
Terry had shaken his head. “I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t know. I hit the ground hard, and people were running all around me. I thought Hammerlock would appear at any moment, aim that cannon of his at me, and that would be it! Bye-bye time.”
Terry had paused, and his almond eyes had expressed his pain and sorrow even before he spoke. “Hammerlock didn’t chase you, or Biff, or Lauren, or me. There’s only one target left, I’m afraid.”
“Frank,” Joe whispered numbly.
They had searched briefly for some clue as to where Frank might have fled. But the jungle kept its secret. They had no idea when—or if—Frank would return.
Joe’s mind kept returning to the one thought: How? How could Hammerlock have known they were there?
He reconstructed the ambush in his head. Two images kept haunting him. Lauren, high in the tree, her knife shining in the sunlight. An accident? he asked himself. Then there was Terry,
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disappearing into the jungle to get the supplies for his survival punch. But gone long enough to give us away, he thought.
Joe shook his head. You can’t think like this. You’re depending on these people to help save your life. Another thought pushed its way forward. They may already have cost Frank his life. Joe squashed that thought, too. They had to start work on the second trap. They had to.
As he and Terry picked out the two small trees they would use to build their trap, memories of Frank plagued Joe. He could hear his brother’s voice, as clearly as if it were real, saying he would back him no matter what. He saw Frank’s face, looking at him with concern, when Frank had thought he really fell down the mountainside.
Then came the nightmare memory that always surfaced when he was upset. A vision of the moment their car had exploded, with his girlfriend, Iola Morton, caught inside. Joe had not saved her. He had failed Iola—as he had just failed Frank.
Come on, get to work, Joe told himself. This is what Frank would have wanted you to do. But the thought gave him little comfort.
He and Terry twisted open the tops of the handles of their Malin M-15 survival knives. They each withdrew the wire saws coiled within. They Were really ingenious little gizmos—eighteen inches long, with razor-sharp teeth.
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Joe hooked one of the saw’s ringlike grips over his finger, then dug out the nylon fishing cords tucked tightly inside the handle. Terry did the same, placing them beside the trunks of the chosen trees.
Terry stretched the nylon cord between his hands and tugged. The line bit into the palms of his hands. He pulled harder. His flesh creased more deeply, but the line held firm.
“It’ll hold,” Terry said.
Joe barely heard. He was still brooding about Frank. If Joe survived this thing and Frank didn’t, how would he explain it to their parents? He imagined his mother fighting back tears. Joe’s own eyes began to sting and fill. He quickly blinked back the tears before the others could see them.
Terry began to use the saw on one of the small trees, carving notches into the bark. Joe halfheartedly ripped his saw’s teeth across the second trunk. Could he have given us away? he asked himself.
Lauren stopped beside him. Sunlight glinted off her blond hair.
“You all right?” she asked, standing above him as he watched wood shavings spew away from the saw.
“Yes,” he said, but did not mean it. That knife reflecting the sun. A dead giveaway, Joe thought.
Lauren knelt beside him. Her clear blue eyes were full of concern.
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“I have a lot of brothers and sisters,” she said after long seconds in which the only sound was the saws chewing through wood.
“So you said.” Joe stopped sawing, glanced up into her eyes, then turned away.
“I may have wanted to do something to prove myself, apart from them. But if one of them were hurt—if something happened to any of them, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d be lost.” She paused. “Please, don’t blame yourself.”
“It’s my problem,” he muttered. The saw stuck in the wood, and he jerked at it savagely.
Lauren grabbed his arm, stopped him. One hand touched his cheek and turned his face back to her.
She smiled grimly. “No, Joe. It’s our problem. We’re all a team here. We’re working together. It’s the only way we’ll get out of this alive.”
Joe’s voice was sarcastic. “You sound like a football coach giving a pep talk.”
Lauren smiled. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t give up on your brother. From what I’ve seen, he’s pretty resourceful. I’m betting he’ll outwit Hammerlock.”
The day became instantly warmer. Joe knew it was only because of Lauren.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be counting Frank out,” Joe said.
He stared into her eyes, and found himself liking Lauren for her never-say-die spirit and her compassion. “I—” he began.
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And then he felt a sudden sharp stab of guilt. Iola. The explosion.
The day went cold again, as if he had betrayed Iola’s memory. She had been the only girl he’d ever really cared about. Could anyone ever really take her place?
“Joe, are you okay?” Lauren asked. “You just stopped speaking so quickly. And you look so— hurt. What is it?”
He couldn’t look directly at her, so he went back to sawing notches in the tree. “There’s no time to discuss it now. I wouldn’t know what to say about it, anyway,” he answered evasively.
He changed the subject. “I still keep wondering how Hammerlock could have tumbled to us so quickly. He zeroed in on us like a homing pigeon coming to roost. The man’s incredible!”
“He is that!” Lauren said, standing. The mention of Hammerlock’s name made her nervous.
She clapped Joe on the shoulder. “Now, let me get to work.”
Terry stopped sawing and looked over at them. “Good. For a while there I thought I was going to have to set this trap all by myself.”
He surveyed the notches he had carved into the small tree. “I think this one is finished. Let me help you, Joe.” Terry came over to them. He stopped beside Lauren and grinned. “But first, coach, have you got a pep talk for me, too?”
“Do you need one?” she asked.
“Hey, everybody can use a good pep talk once
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in a while.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Go carve your spear. When Joe and I are done here, we’ll come over and help you.”
“Thanks, Terry,” she said, moving rapidly through the shrubs toward a thin sapling.
“She’s okay,” Terry said admiringly.
Joe looked up. “So are you, Terry.”
“We’ve got a good group here.” Terry pointed to where Biff was keeping a lookout some distance away. “Including Biff. The three of us got to know each other pretty well. You have a lot of time for talk when you’re locked up together. Look at him out there, totally vigilant. Even hurt, he still wants to pull his weight. Hammerlock won’t be able to sneak past him.” Terry knelt beside Joe. “Okay, let’s get this job finished.”
They carved notches on either side of the tree. After a bit, they pulled on the tree, bending it backward. The thin tree pulled against their hands. It had a lot of tension and wanted to spring upright.
“That’ll do the trick,” Terry said.
“I think you’re right,” Joe said. He felt better, but he was still waiting for the jungle air to be ripped apart by gunshots. What if I’m wrong? he wondered. One of these two may already have gotten Frank killed.
* * *
It took Lauren less than five minutes to saw through the sapling. She coiled the thin metal saw back into its original shape and forced it into the
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handle of the knife. She held the knife with great care. It was a weapon to respect.
When she was in the middle of carving the spear out of the sapling, Joe and Terry joined her. They helped her trim and carve the spear tip.
The sun was climbing high above the trees now, and the sky was clear, so beautiful that it seemed to promise paradise.
They finished the spear. It ended in a jagged, rough-hewn point, the pale gleaming yellow of freshly cut wood.
Lauren stared at Biff. He was still waiting. No signal.
Hammerlock was not yet ready to attack again.
* * *
The three of them forced the small, notched trees backward until their tops touched the ground. They fastened the bent trees in firing position with the nylon fishing cords. They all held their breath, hoping the cords would hold the trees in check—until the time came to fire. The cords stretched, but held.
They were nocking the spear into the center of the line stretched between the trees, but had not completed the task, when Biff signaled emphatically from his vantage point.
“It’s Hammerlock!” Lauren said. “And he’s close.”
“Real close,” Joe agreed, a sick feeling in his stomach. “He found us again—thirty seconds before we’re ready.”
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Chapter 15
Biff remained still, watching Hammerlock’s confident advance. Hammerlock would pass within ten yards of him. Biff gritted his teeth. There was no way he could stop Hammerlock. He was still too weak to defend even himself. He could only watch—and warn the others.
The colonel held the powerful handgun at his side, straight down. In seconds, though, Biff knew he could whip it up, aim, and fire.
It would be insane for Biff to let Hammerlock know where he was hidden among the covering of thick fronds. But a glance over his shoulder told him that Joe and the others did not yet have the spear nocked in place. Hammerlock would be upon them before they could get it ready for firing.
Biff’s hands searched quickly over the sand for rocks. He found one! Two! A third!
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Hammerlock was almost past him. In ten seconds, tops, he would spot the threesome.
It was now or never.
Biff raised himself painfully, afraid his legs wouldn’t support him. He shook, like an invalid standing for the first time in years.
Can’t let myself fall, he thought.
His knees buckled and pain shot up his legs, deep into his thighs, and he started to topple.
Hammerlock heard the noise and went into a quick crouch, turning at the same instant. His gun hand came up, just as quickly as Biff had known it would!
* * *
“What is he doing? Has he gone nuts?” Joe asked in stunned disbelief. The sick feeling wouldn’t go away. Somehow, Hammerlock knew how to find us again. Terry or Lauren must be on his side, Joe thought.
Biff fell against the side of the tree. It was the only thing holding him up. Hammerlock was moving toward Biff, zeroing in on his prey.
Joe could see that Biff had something in his fists. He was raising one of his arms.
Rocks! He has rocks, Joe thought, horrified. Rocks against state-of-the-art weaponry!
It was like watching a modern David and Goliath, Biff so vulnerable and small against the mighty figure of Hammerlock!
“Come on!” Terry said. “He’s buying us time. Let’s not waste it!”
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Hammerlock’s gun fired, and Joe heard Biff cry out.
* * *
The bullet tore a chunk out of the tree just half an inch from Biff’s head. It would have hit him if he had not lurched when he threw the rock. The rock landed short of Hammerlock.
Biff knew he was going to fall. His legs were giving out on him. He tossed the second rock, giving it everything he had, and plunged forward, falling through leaves and branches.
With a moan of pain, he rolled, crushing vegetation that was in his way. He suddenly wondered if there were poisonous snakes on this island. Who cares, he thought, I’m going to get a bullet in the head any second now.
He rolled in the direction of the spear trap. If he was going to buy it, the best he could do was lead Hammerlock in its direction—make Hammerlock the target of the day, for once!
Biff sprawled out in front of the trajectory area for the spear. He could hear Hammerlock coming after him.
Keep your head low, Biff told himself, or you’ll end up as the first piece of shish kebab.
Hammerlock appeared five feet away from him, his figure blotting out the trees and sun. He aimed his gun at Biff.
If the spear-slingshot wasn’t ready, Biff was as good as dead!
* * *
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Joe glared at Terry as they cut the nylon restraining cords. If he sabotages us now, I’ll know, Joe thought. But the trees whipped upward. The spear was shot forward like a giant arrow. All three watched, mesmerized, as it sailed over Biff’s sprawled, helpless form.
Hammerlock’s head snapped up. The huge gun followed as quickly. The unparalyzed side of his face reacted to the sight of the spear rushing at him.
The spear caught Hammerlock before he could move! It hit him high in the shoulder and knocked him off his feet. The carved wood broke as he landed, cracking in half with a tearing sound.
Joe leapt to his feet.
“Got him!”
The huge body rolled and closed in on itself.
“We’ve won!”
Joe rushed forward. Lauren and Terry were on either side of him.
Hammerlock moved. Joe could not believe it, but the colonel was pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. The three of them came to a stop, frozen in disbelief.
Impossible! Joe told himself. No man could get up after that!
Like some mythical monster, Hammerlock rose to his feet, the broken spear still protruding from his safari shirt. His good eye looked down at it as if it were only a minor nuisance. One greased hand reached up, gripped the broken spear, and
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ripped it free. He disdainfully tossed it into the sand, and then turned his attention to the threesome standing no more than a dozen yards away.
Terry did his best to nail Hammerlock, thought Joe. So Lauren had to be the traitor. He turned to her.
But Lauren was charging Hammerlock. Joe could scarcely believe it. She covered half a dozen yards, moving without a word, her knife held tight in her hand. She would never make it. He knew she would never make it! “No!” he screamed, but he was too late.
The Super Blackhawk came up, fired. The bullet caught Lauren, whipping her about violently. She hit the sand with a muted thud and lay there motionless.
Hammerlock walked deliberately toward them, callously stepping over Lauren’s inert body. He didn’t even give her a second glance.
Joe was gasping for breath. He felt as if everything he had ever feared had finally caught up with him.
Iola. Frank. Now Lauren. Dead! All of them, dead!
He stared into Hammerlock’s emotionless face and felt the rage build within him. He could hardly hold himself still. All he wanted was a crack at this psychopath! Just one chance to even the score!
“Hey, Hammerlock,” he called to the colonel. “You want a fight? A fair fight? Why not put that
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gun down and go one on one with me?” Although he was seething with fury, Joe’s voice was cold.
Hammerlock’s face never changed expression as he studied Joe. “That’s a laugh. What is it with you, kid? You go to the movies a lot or something? I’m not going to risk anything. When you’ve got an enemy cornered, you kill him. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to shoot you stone-cold dead.”
Joe stood his ground, Terry beside him.
Hammerlock raised his gun to firing position, wincing as he did so. “That was a cute idea, using those trees as a bow. Too bad it didn’t work.”
The colonel tapped his chest where the spear had hit. “I’m wearing a Kevlar vest under my shirt. Your spear hurt, but it didn’t penetrate.” His voice was deadly quiet, and did not reflect pain. “I don’t like being hurt.”
Hammerlock moved the huge gun until its barrel was aimed directly between Joe’s eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” Joe said, trying to breathe evenly, “I don’t like having guns pointed at me. How about if that makes us even?”
“Not a chance,” Hammerlock answered. His thick forefinger started to squeeze the trigger!
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Chapter 16
Lauren Madigan felt the blood trickle warmly down her side.
The force of the bullet had given her whole body a tremendous shock, even though it had only grazed her side. She had known she could never reach Hammerlock with the knife. But she had never really intended to. She just wanted him to think she had.
It had all been a matter of timing. She had watched Hammerlock’s fingers, trying to anticipate the second the trigger would be pulled. When she was positive he was about to shoot, she had whipped her body about, hoping that she would be out of the trajectory of the bullet, but that it would look as if it had hit her.
She didn’t quite make it—yet she had been partially successful. The bullet had actually
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grazed her, and she hadn’t had to fake her hard collision with the sand.
She hadn’t even had to concentrate on remaining motionless. The initial trauma to her nervous system took care of that. Even a minor wound from a high-caliber weapon such as Hammerlock’s caused a devastating reaction to the body. No acting was needed.
By the time Hammerlock stepped over her, she was becoming aware again of the sand and voices.
From the corner of her eye, Lauren could see Biff valiantly, but hopelessly, crawling through the sand. He was too far away to reach Hammerlock in time, and too weak to do anything even if he did.
She looked past Hammerlock and caught a glimpse of Terry trying to position his knife for an underhanded throw. He was trying not to make an overt movement, or Hammerlock would spot it and squeeze off half a dozen shots in two seconds. And he had them dead in his sights.
But Lauren could fix that. She kicked out, straight and hard. Her booted heel thrust into Hammerlock’s leg, right behind the knee. The leg gave, and for a split second Hammerlock’s pistol wavered.
Joe and Terry were upon him instantly. Joe dove high, his fist slamming into Hammerlock’s throat. Terry hit the colonel’s broad midsection. They all tumbled into the sand.
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Lauren joined the melee, sending a hard right hook into Hammerlock’s nose.
Joe was throwing punches, anywhere he could land a fist, when he heard someone laugh. He had heard that laugh before—that hideous laugh that sounded like bones scraping together.
Hammerlock took advantage of the instant’s distraction. He flung Joe away like a rag doll, and was lurching back onto his feet when he heard the laugh again.
“Playing in the sand, Colonel?” the voice asked.
Everyone became still.
Orville Brand. Brand with an automatic weapon. Brand smiling, there to claim his prize.
He wasn’t alone. There were two other paramilitary types with him. And they were both armed.
Joe glared at Brand, ready to charge him.
The major’s dark, sunken eyes appraised Joe, his machine gun aimed at Joe’s chest.
“What a pleasure to see you looking so well,” Brand said tauntingly.
Hammerlock disengaged himself from Terry and Lauren.
“Sporting chance, huh?” Joe spat at Hammerlock with contempt. “You come after us with superior firepower, and even then you need backup troops to cover for you.”
The left side of Hammerlock’s face twitched. “You condemn me unjustly. I didn’t order Brand
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or any of these others to give me strike support.”
Hammerlock glared at Brand. “You’re getting overzealous. You know I go on these hunts alone. How dare you disregard the procedure? You’d better have a good excuse, Major.”
Hammerlock stalked heavily over to the spot where his Super Blackhawk pistol had landed. He started to bend to pick it up.
“Colonel,” Brand said, his tone part cornmand, part warning.
Puzzled, Hammerlock cocked his head in Brand’s direction. Then he saw that the machine gun was aimed at him.
“I wouldn’t,” Brand said.
Hammerlock stood very still, trying to understand what was happening. He took a threatening step toward Brand, and the other two men swung their weapons to cover him.
Hammerlock stopped dead. He was too much the seasoned warrior to move, knowing that the odds were against him.
Hammerlock ignored the others, staring only at Brand. “Am I to understand that you are like those bureaucrats who betrayed me so many years ago? Am I to understand that the bonds that held us together in the face of war have been destroyed?”
“So, the death game comes full circle,” Joe said mockingly.
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Hammerlock stared at Brand in honest bewilderment. “I saved your life,” he said.
“That was a long time ago,” Brand replied. “You couldn’t possibly expect subservience forever.”
“Subservience, no, but loyalty, yes!” Hammerlock snarled.
“Brand believes in money more than loyalty, right, Major?” Joe asked sarcastically. He was thinking of the documents Frank had found.
“It’s the San Marcos business, isn’t it?” Joe continued. “Hammerlock was telling the truth when he denied knowing anything about that mercenary deal.” He shook his head. “He is a psychopath, who thinks there are simple answers to complex world problems. But at least he’s not out to make big bucks from them.”
“Is that true, Orville?” Hammerlock asked. His face became unreadable again.
“Why don’t you give me a harangue about honor, Colonel? Honor is an illusion. It’s in your mind. It’s a disease that has prevented you from seeing how what we created could make us rich men!” Brand’s anger seemed to get the better of him, and Joe was afraid he might open fire.
“I created Ultimo,” Hammerlock stated, but it was in a dead voice, as if he had already decided the argument was over.
“But I’m going to turn the squadron into the highest-paid independent mercenary unit ever,”
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Brand informed him. “With or without Ultimo. In a little over two weeks, I’m going to take command of our forces and lead them in a strike into San Marcos.”
Hammerlock’s guttural voice was devoid of threat, just flat and distant. “I’ll never let you turn this noble fighting unit into a collection of hyenas and jackals.”
Brand shrugged. “Yes. That’s the problem. You see, Colonel, I wish I could leave you here on this island to play your little games, but I know you would oppose me.”
“You should know that. You’ve known me long enough.”
“The troops have been training for this operation and this operation alone. They think you approve of it.” Brand’s dark, sunken eyes shone. “If I let you return to camp, you could create tremendous divisiveness within the troops. Right now, as long as they think you endorse it, they’re hungry to go into battle.”
“Over my dead body,” Hammerlock said.
Brand’s thin lips parted in a smile. “Exactly Colonel.”
Terry picked himself up, anticipating what was coming. “Oh, and let me guess,” he said. “You’re going to use us as the scapegoats. You’re going to make it look like one of us killed the colonel during his little foray.”
“Brilliant, Terry,” Brand said. “Your father
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would be proud of you. Of course, he’ll never know.”
“Because we’ll all be dead. You’ll have had to avenge the dear colonel,” Terry said.
Brand nodded. “Yes. That should make you happy, Colonel. The troops will love the revenge angle. You’ve trained them so efficiently on the subject.” Brand paused, then added, “And, of course, in the end, I will make over a million dollars.”
Brand aimed his machine gun at Joe. One of the other men kept Hammerlock covered. The third man aimed at Terry.
Biff started crawling again. He shouted, “No!” but no one bothered to react to him.
Brand’s thin lips pulled up over his large teeth. “Looks like you’re on the firing range again, Joseph! Only this time there are no wooden targets. Game’s over.” He nodded toward the other men. “Ready on the firing line. Ready!” A dramatic pause for effect, and then the command, “Aim!”
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Chapter 17
“Fi—”
Frank Hardy’s boots slammed into Brand’s mouth, driving the last command down his throat. Brand fell backward, Frank on top of him. Frank’s hands went for Brand’s machine gun, trying to wrest it from him.
“Go for Hammerlock’s gun, Joe! Get the gun!” Frank shouted. The machine gun in his hands quivered like a living thing as he grappled with Brand, its barrel swaying back and forth before his face. If Brand got his finger inside the trigger guard, Frank’s plan would turn into another disaster.
Frank had heard the gunfire, which told both Brand and him where the colonel was located. Then he had followed Brand and company, climbing a tree while Brand confronted Hammerlock.
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All the time Frank kept trying to figure out the best plan of attack against four weapons when he had none!
Brand had forced the issue, with his decision to carry out an on-the-spot execution. Frank had to do something immediately.
He had tensed his muscles for the jump, choosing his target. It had to be Brand. Frank knew Joe would go into action, and he suspected that Lauren and Terry would do the same. Even Hammerlock should be on their side in the resulting skirmish.
When Frank and Brand tumbled into the sand, the two mercenaries looked around in confusion, as if trying to decide whom to shoot first. They did not have more than a couple of seconds to consider.
Joe dove wildly, hit the sand on his right shoulder, grabbed Hammerlock’s pistol in the middle of a roll, and came up on one knee. The gun felt heavy and gritty with sand.
Hammerlock elbowed the mercenary nearest him in the stomach and had that man’s weapon in his hands before Joe was in a firing position. The last soldier swung his gun toward Hammerlock, but the huge man was gone, swallowed up by the jungle.
Terry hurled himself into the other soldier with a jolting body block that sent the man and weapon flying.
The man Terry had hit lay curled up on the
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ground, gurgling. He did not look as if he would want to move for a long, long time.
Brand was up, bashing Frank’s hands against a sand-covered rock. Once! Twice! Frank tried to hold on to the weapon, but once he realized it was useless, he let go and scrambled away. Brand tried to bring the weapon to bear on Frank, but thought better of it when Joe snapped off a shot with the Super Blackhawk.
The gun’s heavy recoil shook Joe’s gun hand, jerking it up.
Before he could get off another shot, Brand thrashed away into the jungle. They could hear him running.
Joe looked at the gun in his hand with new respect.
Frank got to his feet, rubbing his knuckles where Brand had battered them. Joe ran over to him.
“Miss me?” Frank asked with a grin.
Frank was the color of mud, from head to toe.
Joe looked him over in disbelief. “You look like a walking lump of oatmeal.”
“That’s a nice way to talk to someone who just saved your life.”
Joe hugged him fiercely. “I don’t care if I do get crud all over me!”
Terry ran up to them, holding one of the machine guns. His face was glowing with victory.
“I can’t believe we did it!” he shouted, and then all three were hugging one another.
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“Someone keep telling me, ‘I’m alive! I’m alive!’ “ Lauren said, joining the group.
Terry spoke excitedly. “When that spear got Hammerlock and he just yanked it out, I told myself, ‘It can’t be.’ And then when he aimed his gun at you”—he shook Joe happily—”I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t figure your chances were very hot.”
Joe grinned. “Imagine how I felt.” He took a deep breath. We all fought Hammerlock. We’re all on the same side!
Terry backed away from the group, wiping mud off his clothes. He took a long look at Frank.
“Frank,” he said, “you’re a mess.”
He smiled. “Yeah. But we made Hammerlock miss his breakfast.”
Lauren gave a good imitation of being contrite. “Yes, I feel bad about that.” She broke into a laugh of relief. “But I think I can get over it.”
Joe noticed the wet bloodstain on Lauren’s side. “How bad is it?” he asked, worried.
“Not bad,” she replied gamely, but he knew it hurt.
“We should get you patched up. Let’s take a seat over here.” He indicated a fallen log almost under the tree where Frank had hidden. “Frank and Terry can tie up the big bad men over there.”
“One of them has a lump on his head you wouldn’t believe,” Frank said as he stopped by the mercenary lying prostrate along the trail.
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“I put it there with his weapon after I took it away from him,” Terry said.
Joe helped Lauren apply an impromptu bandage made from his T-shirt. He wanted to say something to thank her. But every sentence he started just sounded like a cliché. What could he say to someone who had just saved his life?
“I was so—” He stopped. “I don’t know what word to use.”
“What are we talking about?” Lauren asked.
“When you got shot. When I thought you were dead.” He looked away from her, his brow furrowed. “I thought, ‘It’s happening again. I’ve failed.’ “
“Failed?” Lauren said. “I can’t imagine you ever worrying about failing at something.”
“There was someone—very close to me ... When you got hit, it was like reliving the moment that I lost her. I felt so helpless.”
“Now, that’s something I know you’re not,” Lauren said with a smile. A special light was sparkling in her bright blue eyes.
He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “No. I don’t feel that way right now.”
“What do you feel like?”
Joe grinned. “Like getting the bad guys!”
* * *
Terry examined the job he and Frank had done of tying the mercenaries to trees. “I think that’ll do,” he said, satisfied.
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Joe approached them. “I’ve got a plan.”
“I think I heard it already. It’s called, ‘Get the bad guys,’ “ Frank responded.
“Right. We return to Hammerlock’s fortress. No one, but no one, is going to be expecting us to try a move like that.” Joe’s grin turned wolfish. “We’ll catch them with their pants down.”
“He’s got a point,” Lauren agreed, walking up to them. “And we have some weapons now, besides.”
“Not only that,” Terry added, “but they have a communications center there. And it just so happens that my dad taught me how to send and receive. Do you read me?”
“We’re going to get rescued!” Joe said, beaming.
“Or at least call the police and marines and a planeload of psychiatrists for these loony tunes,” Terry said.
Suddenly they heard a distant shout from deep in the jungle.
“Brand!” a voice shouted. Hammerlock’s voice.
No answer came. All four of them listened, startled by the intrusion.
Finally Hammerlock shouted again from somewhere. “Brand! Forget the others! You’re mine!”
The jungle went still again. They listened for a long while.
Biff made his way painfully over to the group,
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limping. “Hey! Did you guys forget about me?” he complained.
Joe clapped his hands together. “Nope. We waited around just for you. Come on, it’s time to move out and take over the fortress.”
Biff looked from Frank to Terry to Lauren. “What’s he talking about?”
Joe picked Biff up and slung him over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it!”
* * *
Dark clouds crept over the mountainside. They used the shadows from them for cover until they were close enough to take their first prisoner, one of the guards on the outer perimeter.
The man wasn’t about to argue with two guns aimed at his head. He gladly handed his weapon over to Lauren.
No one had alerted the men in the fortress to be on the lookout, so it was relatively easy to approach them. They made their prisoner march ahead of them for cover and took new prisoners as they moved deeper within.
At last, they came to the stairs that led to the dungeon chambers.
“Terry,” Lauren said, brightly, “how would you like to escort me as I show these model prisoners the latest in dungeon accommodations?”
“Sounds delightful,” Terry replied.
Some of the captured guards turned to see if
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they were joking. Terry and Lauren smiled and pointed the way with raised gun barrels. The prisoners all decided it would be a very good idea to check out the dungeon area.
“While you do that Joe and I will look for their communications center. It has to be somewhere on one of the upper floors,” Frank guessed, looking about for the stairs that had taken them up to Hammerlock’s inner sanctum.
Frank walked over to a high-backed chair and shifted Biff off his shoulders and into it.
“And what am I going to be doing?” Biff asked.
“Pretend you’re the king,” Joe suggested as he and Frank began to search the premises.
Biff waved the hand holding the machine gun. “With this, I guess I am.”
The Hardys found the stairs. They searched room after room on each floor. Finally they found the radio room on the fourth floor. Two radio operators sat with headphones on, absorbed in the equipment in front of them.
Frank came up behind them and quickly jerked the headphones away. The two radio men turned to see Joe aiming the Super Blackhawk pistol in their direction; the seven-and-a-half inch barrel was a silent but imposing presence in the room.
“Recognize it?” Joe asked.
They tied up the operators with extension cords from one of the closets.
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“Let’s go find Terry and let him get this thing operating for us,” Frank proposed.
Frank was feeling pretty good. They hadn’t run into any real opposition. No one had been seriously hurt. On the way up the stairs he’d passed a mirror and for once, he had to agree with Joe. He did resemble a walking lump of oatmeal, but it seemed a small price to pay.
Then as they left the communications room they got lost.
They had covered so many corridors and gone through so many different rooms that somewhere on the route back they made a wrong turn. They realized it when they entered a long corridor, carved out of solid rock.
“I don’t remember being here before,” Joe said.
“Excellent deduction,” Frank commented. They walked slowly down the corridor. It was dimly lit with a single sixty-watt bulb. The shadows they cast upon the clammy walls looked like elongated gray ghosts.
“Hello,” a voice said from behind them.
Frank halted, glancing at Joe. “Did you hear that?”
“At least he didn’t laugh. I really hate his laugh,” Joe said, turning.
Brand stood at the end of the corridor they’d just come from. He held his machine gun at waist height.
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“You ruined it all,” he told them. His voice cracked with emotion.
“Brand!”
The voice calling Brand’s name sounded exactly as it had in the jungle. But in those close quarters, echoing off the stone walls, it raised gooseflesh on Joe’s neck. It came from behind them.
The Hardys turned the other way. Hammerlock stood at the opposite end of the corridor, covered with sweat, grease, and blood. His shadow stretched nightmarishly behind him.
“I told you, Brand. You have to answer to me,” Hammerlock growled. His guttural voice sounded more animal than human.
Frank and Joe looked back and forth. They were caught between two murderous men. In seconds the dimly lit corridor would be filled with bullets—and so would they.
These rough-hewn rock walls could easily become their tomb!
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Chapter 18
Joe snapped his pistol up quickly and pulled the trigger. His target was the dim light bulb. When it shattered, the whole corridor went as black as the interior of a crypt.
The sound of the shot reverberated through the room.
The Hardys each dove for an opposite wall of the corridor, pressing against the cold stone. Sharp edges dug into their backs.
Rapid gunfire lit the blackness in sudden spurts from both ends of the corridor. Joe squeezed the trigger of his gun again. Click!
“Our cannon just ran out of ammunition,” he whispered to Frank. “Now what do we do?”
Bullets ricocheted off the walls at the ends of the corridor.
“Let’s go for Brand!” Frank whispered.
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Fortunately the racket of the gunshots kept them from being overheard by either of the men. “He’s closer.”
“And not as strong,” Joe added.
They moved as quietly as they could along the corridor, trying to stay flat against the walls. Their luck held as the bullets continued to rip down the middle of the long hall.
The gunfire abruptly ended on both ends of the room, as if by some cue. With the absence of noise, the place became darker, more ominous.
Joe froze. He knew they must be close to Brand. But he couldn’t even see Frank, who was only across the width of the corridor from him. He listened. Nothing, just silence as vast as the darkness. He could feel his hand growing sweaty on the heavy gun.
Brand cleared his throat.
The sound was so close to Joe that he almost jumped back. Instead, he flung himself into the darkness, trusting his ears. He rammed into Brand, both of them tumbling to the floor. Hammerlock heard the scuffle.
“Brand!” he shouted. “You want to know what I’m doing, Brand?”
The major whacked Joe with the machine gun in a desperate effort to get free. Frank managed to grope through the dark, guided by the sounds of struggle, and pried the weapon loose from Brand’s hands.
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“I’m putting on my light-intensification goggles, Brand! And you know what that means? It means I can see you in the dark. I can see your little friends! And you can’t see me!”
Hammerlock’s voice seemed to spur Brand into panic. His fists flailed wildly, but most of the blows he delivered glanced off.
“Ah, I see all of you. Having a good time down there?”
As Hammerlock’s voice faded, they could hear him stepping quietly toward them along the stone floor.
“I’m going to have to kill you all,” Hammerlock said. His voice sounded almost rational. Almost.
Frank managed to get a choke hold around Brand’s neck. Gurgling, the man clawed at his hands. But Frank held tight. When Brand’s arms went limp, Frank let go.
Joe jumped to his feet. “Let’s get out of here!”
“My sentiments exactly!” Frank exclaimed.
They ran through the darkness, afraid that at any moment they might trip over some obstacle. Reaching the end of the corridor, they turned blindly. “Come on!” Joe called. He ran on for about ten feet.
Then he crashed into a wall.
“Dead end!” Joe said, as if he couldn’t believe it. Desperately, he ran his hand along the obstruction. “Wait! A door!”
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“Open it!” Frank urged as he caught up.
Joe’s fingers searched for the knob, found it, and his hand slipped on the metal.
Locked!
“Ah! There you are!” Hammerlock said from somewhere in the darkness. “End of the game. I win.”
“Break it in!” Frank shouted.
Joe hit the door with his shoulder. He yelled in pain. The door remained fast, but his shoulder felt as if it were broken in a dozen places.
“Not with your shoulder,” Frank admonished. “Kick it in!” He came up beside his brother. “Together!”
They both kicked out at the same time, right at the door handle. There was a splintering sound, but the door held.
“Nice try,” said Hammerlock, and his voice was frighteningly close in the dark.
They kicked again. Wood tore with grinding, splintering sounds. But still the door held.
“If you only knew how clearly these lightintensification goggles let me see your futile efforts.” Hammerlock sounded as if he were right on top of them. “Of course, I could shoot you now. I could have shot you when I first rounded the corner. But I admire effort, even if it is hopeless. Too bad I’m going to have to call a finish to this little game.”
They heard the click of a gun chamber.
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“It really is the end of the game, you know,” Hammerlock said matter-of-factly.
They kicked out again. This time, miraculously, the door rebounded inward, banging against the wall. Beyond were high windows, reaching to the roof, and through it the sun. The dark clouds had passed.
The Hardys blinked in the sudden brightness.
But behind them, Hammerlock screamed. “The light! Noooooooo!” The colonel clutched at the goggles, trying to rip them off. He dropped the machine gun he had been carrying.
The intensified sunlight seared through his eyes, incredibly brilliant. Bellowing in pain, Hammerlock tore the goggles off, crushing them in his big hands. He staggered around—arms groping—blind.
Joe walked up to the colonel, who was flailing desperately with his arms.
“Hammerlock?” Joe said quietly.
Hammerlock lunged for him. And missed!
Joe whacked him over the head with the butt of his gun. Hammerlock hit the floor. He didn’t seem to mind that the floor was stone. He appeared to be asleep.
“Good night,” said Joe.
* * *
Terry looked at the radio equipment and said, “No problem. Give me five minutes and I’ll have this baby humming.” He started flipping
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switches. “Who do you want to call to come and rescue us?”
“Some rescue,” Biff moaned. “I’ll be free only until I get home. Then I’ll be grounded for the next nine years—if my father doesn’t kill me first.”
“I think your mother has first dibs on killing you,” Joe said comfortingly.
He walked over and patted Frank on the back. “Well, Frank, you might be kind of a nerd sometimes, but you always come through in a pinch.”
“Is Frank really a nerd?” Lauren asked, her eyes merry now that the danger was over.
“Well, he loves to play with his computer and he can’t dance and he has no sense of humor at all,” Joe replied. “Ask Biff.”
Frank threw up his hands. “I don’t know why I’m so misunderstood. I’m a fun kind of guy.” He brushed his hand through his dark hair and saw that it came away covered with chunks of crusting mud. “Why should I get this flak just because I have superior intelligence?”
Joe brushed away some more of the dried mud from Frank’s shoulder. “That’s not flak. That’s flakes!”
They stepped outside, onto the battlements of the old fortress. Sitting side by side, tied hand and foot, were Brand and Hammerlock.
The last rays of the sun threw alternate bands of orange and black over Hammerlock’s face. He almost looked like a human tiger.
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“Looks like your eyesight is back,” Frank said.
“Oh, I recognize you.” Hammerlock’s voice was a low growl in his chest.
“Hey, lighten up, Colonel,” called Joe from the doorway. “At least you’re out here in the fresh air. The rest of your boys are locked up in the dungeons.”
The hate in Hammerlock’s eyes was terrifying. “Why do you leave me with this traitor?”
“To keep an eye on you,” Lauren said. “I wouldn’t trust either of you alone.”
“The next sound you hear will be that of helicopters,” Joe cut in, “coming to take old Orville here to jail. And as for you, Colonel—well, I don’t know where they’ll put you. Some kind of—”
“Enough!” Sweat broke out on Hammerlock’s forehead as he wrenched against the ropes holding him. The muscles on his arms bulged, his snake tattoo writhed. Then, unbelievably, Joe, Frank, and Lauren heard a snap! The ropes tore loose from Hammerlock’s wrists.
Frank and Lauren darted a glance at the doorway. None of them had thought to bring their weapons out there. They had thought the prisoners were bound securely.
Obviously, they had thought wrong. Hammerlock ripped the ropes loose from his ankles as if he were tearing the string off a parcel. He rose to his feet, eyes glittering. “Now we’ll see.”
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Despairing, Frank went into a karate stance. No way could he stop this man mountain, not when Hammerlock was in this enraged state.
“Colonel, what about me?” said Brand.
Hammerlock’s answer was a vicious snap-kick that left his ex-subordinate groaning.
In that brief moment of distraction, Joe darted inside the doorway. He stepped out again. Even in the gathering shadows, everyone could see the outline of a pistol in his hand.
“Hold it right there, Hammerlock,” Joe shouted.
The colonel froze. “You think that popgun can kill me?” he said.
“It won’t have to kill you,” Joe said. “All it has to do is blow you off this wall. It’s a long fall to the rocks down there.” He gestured with the muzzle. “And don’t think about jumping me. I’m just a little too far away.”
Hammerlock glared around in frustration. Then his tensed muscles sagged as Biff came out to join Joe, his M-16 aimed and ready.
“Look what we just found,” Biff said, holding out several pairs of handcuffs.
“Put them all on the colonel, here,” said Joe. Again he pointed his pistol. “Colonel, on the ground, please. On your belly. Hands behind your back.”
A few minutes later Hammerlock was trussed like a turkey. But Joe still wasn’t satisfied. He
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had the colonel wrapped in so many layers of rope that he resembled a mummy.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?” Frank asked as Joe tied the finishing knots.
“I don’t want to go through this business ever again,” Joe said.
“Why?” asked Lauren. “You handled it so well with that pistol.”
“That’s precisely why I don’t want to do it again.” Joe picked up the pistol, aimed it at Hammerlock, and snapped off a shot.
“Joe!” shouted Frank.
His cry almost drowned out the pock! of the gun. Then a smear of magenta paint appeared on the wall over Hammerlock’s head. It dripped down on the colonel as he yelled in inarticulate fury.
Biff stared in disbelief. “That’s a paint-pellet gun from one of their games!” he said.
“You bet it is,” said Joe. “Now you know why I’d never want to face him down again with one of those.”
He grinned, then turned to Biff. “And you can do me a favor, pal. Next time you take up a game, make it checkers.”
Hostages of Hate (Hardy Boys Casefiles #10)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
”LOOK AT THIS place. Is it disorganized!” Joe Hardy scowled as he pushed his way through the huge crowd.
”It’s all the media people getting in one another’s way,” his older brother, Frank, replied. They circled around one camera crew, only to walk into another. ”But then, I suppose a national seminar on counterterrorism is big news.”
The two brothers had taken Friday off from school and were down in Washington, D.C., because their father was taking part in the seminar. A successful private detective, Fenton Hardy was giving a lecture on the latest in security methods. Frank and Joe had gone along to be his friendly audience—and to pick up some new techniques for their own use. Fenton Hardy didn’t always
2
approve of their work as detectives, but he didn’t forbid them from doing it, either.
Joe ran a hand through his blond hair, his face the picture of frustration. ”So far, it’s just been a lot of hot air. All talk.”
”What were you expecting?” Frank almost laughed. ”A bunch of musclemen with Uzis and bazookas, demonstrating them in this crowded room?”
”We could use a couple of demonstrations,” Joe said. ”Better than listening to some guy talk about”—he pulled out a program—”International Effects of Jungle-based Radical-Liberational Movements.” He stared in scorn. ”What does that mean? How can that help if some crazy throws a bomb ...” His voice trailed off, and his face went white.
Frank stood silently, his dark eyes full of sympathy. He knew what was doing through Joe’s mind. The same picture was going through his: their car blowing up from a terrorist bomb. And Joe’s girlfriend, Iola Morton, disappearing in the ball of flame.
”Come on, let’s get out of here,” Frank said, breaking the mood. ”I’ve had enough classes lately. This is supposed to be a break from school.”
They stepped out of the building. Joe took a deep breath of fresh air. ”This was what I needed,” he said. ”I was getting a little crazy in there.”
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”You know,” Frank said, ”we’re only about a quarter of a mile from the airport. What do you say we take a walk over there?”
Joe grinned knowingly as he looked at his brother. ”And why would you want to go over there?” he asked. ”As if I didn’t know.”
Frank looked at his watch. ”Well, they’re getting ready for the hostage exercise. I thought you might like to see it.”
”Wait, wait,” said Joe. ”I feel a deduction coming on.” He stroked his chin and pretended to be deep in thought. ”I suspect you have another motive for going there. Someone you want to see.”
”Come on,” Frank said, complaining. ”If we don’t get there soon, Callie will be on the plane.”
The most publicized part of the seminar was going to be a fully staged airplane hijacking. The ”terrorists” would be fake—counterterrorist experts. But the people at the seminar, including all the government officials, were going to treat the exercise as real. They’d be acting out their parts in front of television cameras.
Policemen, security agents, and hostage negotiators would swing into action as if a hijacking were actually taking place. And the plane, pilots, and passengers would be real—ordinary people picked at random from the people at the conference.
One of the passengers was Frank’s girlfriend, Callie Shaw, whom Fenton Hardy had invited to
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join them. ”She was so excited to be chosen,” Frank said as he and Joe walked to the airport. ”All I kept hearing about was what an adventure it would be—how lucky she was.”
”Lucky?” Joe laughed. ”I don’t know about that. She’s going to spend hours cooped up in that DC-9. She’ll probably be bored to death—if heatstroke doesn’t get her first.” He grinned. ”They turn the air-conditioning off when a plane is stuck on the ground with its engines off. It’ll be like a sauna in there.”
Frank glared at his brother. ”You might have mentioned all this stuff to her, you know.”
”What?” asked Joe, all innocence. ”And ruin her fun?”
They headed for the airport, but the walk took longer than they had expected. Apparently, preparation for the exercise had created a monumental traffic jam. Even pedestrians couldn’t get through the wall of cars.
Frank and Joe ran through the Departures building to Gate 61, where International Airways’ ”Flight to East Nowhere” was supposed to be leaving. But when they got there, the passenger lounge was empty.
”I’m sorry, sir,” said the agent. ”All passengers have boarded the airplane.”
”I wanted to say goodbye to someone.” Frank was very disappointed.
”That won’t be possible,” said the attendant.
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”But you can watch the takeoff from the observation deck.”
Joe shrugged. ”Doesn’t sound too interesting to me. We all know the plane is never going to take off.”
But Frank surprised him by saying, ”Let’s give it a try.”
They managed to squeeze through the crowd gathered to watch the exercise. They sidled to the front and stood at the huge plate-glass windows of the observation deck, looking down at the International Airways plane. It wasn’t the biggest airliner they had ever seen, but it certainly was beautiful. The whole body of the sleek jet was painted royal blue with gold trim. The two jet engines set in the tail of the plane were gold with blue trim.
”What do you expect to see from this far away?” Joe asked.
”You can see a lot—if you come prepared,” Frank answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a squat fountain pen. As he pulled on the ends, it telescoped into a miniature spyglass. ”One of the surveillance tools they were selling at the seminar,” Frank said. ”I couldn’t resist it.”
He scanned the side of the plane. ”If I know Callie, she has a window seat.”
”What if she got one on the other side of the plane?”
Frank glanced at Joe. ”Spoilsport.” He went
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back to looking through his spyglass. ”There she is. Up near the front of the plane—first class.” Callie’s blond hair was unmistakable. So was the lively look on her face as she gazed out the window. Frank raised a hand to wave, then put it down. ”She’d never see me.”
”Well, you got your look at her,” said Joe. ”Happy now?”
Frank smiled. ”Happy.” He was about to put the spyglass away when a flurry of movement caught his eye. The main door of the airplane suddenly pushed out and swung away. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a conservative gray business suit, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. A large black bag with eyeholes cut in it had been slipped over his head. In his hand gleamed an Uzi submachine gun.
”Uh-oh,” said Frank. ”Looks like the show’s starting.” He focused in on the supposed hijacker.
The guy was shouting and pointing wildly with one arm. Frank refocused his spyglass to see airport personnel running around on the tarmac. Then suddenly they were huddling on the ground or diving for cover.
Frank flicked back to the guy in the doorway. Sure enough, his Uzi was spitting flame.
”Outrageous!” said Joe, straining to see what was going on! ”They’re going to use up a lot of blanks in this exercise.”
”Hey, look!” Frank said, still scanning the
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scene. ”The pilot, copilot, and navigator are escaping!” Both crew members had dropped from the cockpit on a rope ladder, then sprinted across the smooth surface. The hijacker turned toward them. He fired a burst as they dove for cover behind a pile of luggage.
Frank froze as he focused on a row of neat holes appearing in the suitcases.
”Something’s wrong,” he said hoarsely. ”That guy is using real bullets!”
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Chapter 2
Now Frank could see other evidence that live ammunition was flying over the tarmac. Ricochetted bullets spanged off vehicles. A truck’s windshield vanished in a spray of gunfire. The driver bolted from the cab, miraculously unhurt.
The gunner wasn’t aiming at anything—or anyone—just swinging his Uzi in a half-circle, with steady pressure on the trigger. Frank had just refocused on him when a stray round shattered the window in front of him. Joe yanked his brother back into the crowd pressed close against them. The safety glass crumbled and fell to the floor where they’d been standing.
With the glass gone, they could hear the wild uproar on the runway below. Terrified yells and screams rose from the trapped airport personnel.
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Then they were drowned out by the renewed snarl of rapid fire from the Uzi.
Instinctively, Frank and Joe ducked and hit the floor. ”The guy must have slapped in a new magazine,” Joe said.
Frank aimed his spyglass at the door again, just in time to see the gunman disappear. The reason was obvious—police and counterterrorist experts were charging onto the scene.
Frank and Joe stared as if they were watching a movie. The law-enforcement officials ran back and forth. Some rushed forward, as if to charge the plane. The Uzi snarled again, stitching a line of broken runway just in front of the police. They stumbled to a stop, falling over themselves to retreat in Keystone Kops style.
A voice boomed from the airplane. ”You will not come any closer,” it announced in lightly accented English. ”If anyone passes that line, passengers on this aircraft will die.”
Joe turned to his brother, but Frank had shoved his way through the crowd and was dashing from the observation deck. Down on the lower level of the terminal building, police and security people ran around, seemingly without reason. They had all been prepared for a test—but now the test had been turned into a life-and-death situation.
Frank had no problem getting onto the runway himself. And it was no problem for Joe, either, as he pursued his brother.
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When they headed for the airplane, however, a large policeman appeared in front of Frank, but he brushed right past him.
That was the worst thing he could have done. The cop, figuring Frank was joining the terrorists aboard the plane, drew his pistol.
Joe pushed himself to top speed.
The policeman, hearing running footsteps behind him, hesitated for a split second and looked over his shoulder. Joe used that time to pass the cop and hit Frank in a flying tackle.
Joe, holding Frank down, explained about Callie to the cop. Then he asked, ”Where can we get the story on what’s going on?”
The policeman shrugged his burly shoulders. ”I wish I knew,” he said.
Beyond them, workmen were bringing out sawhorses and boards. The cop glanced over. ”Well, somebody’s finally getting things organized. They’re setting up a police line.”
Frank slowly rose to his feet, staring over the improvised barricade to the plane beyond. A crowd was gathering just behind the sawhorses. Not casual bystanders—the police were keeping them away. No, this crowd bristled with microphones and Minicams newspeople in search of a story.
”We can’t find out anything here,” Joe said. ”Come on. Let’s head back to the conference. With all the experts there, that’s where the action will be.”
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Frank nodded and started off, almost robotlike. Joe trailed behind.
When they got back to the conference hall, it was like walking into a circus. There were even more camera crews than before. And standing in front of them were dozens of experts, all giving opinions on the daring hijack.
Joe stared in dismay. ”This is even worse than the airport. Nothing’s changed. It’s just gotten louder.”
Frank pointed around the hall. Television sets now dotted the floor, adding to the noise. ”Everyone wants to see what the networks have to say about the hijacking.”
Joe turned to the nearest set. Washington correspondent Pauline Fox was talking from the barricade by the plane. She was every inch the skilled news professional—her blond hair was perfectly in place, and her voice had just the right note of concern. Rising behind her was the hijacked International Airways plane.
”To recap the story,” she said, ”a test went disastrously wrong today at National Airport.” She stared into the camera. ”This airplane full of Passengers was supposed to be hijacked today— by government agents, as an exercise for the National Conference on—”
The picture suddenly went wild, jagged bars of color zigzagging across the screen. The uproar in the center grew—every television in the huge room was acting the same way.
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Then they all cleared, and every set showed the same picture.
In a dimly lit room, a man sat in an armchair. The semidarkness made it impossible to see his face.
”Good afternoon, delegates to the seminar on terrorism.” His English was very precise, but a trace of harshness lingered on the consonants. ”The time has come for me to introduce myself. Not personally, of course. Your many law-enforcement agencies are already trying to identify me. I am the leader of the Army for the New World Order. We have taken control of the airplane that was to be used for your test.”
Chuckling dryly, the man went on. ”I have commandeered all the televisions at your conference. This is so you will know for certain that it is my group in command of the hostages. We were the only ones ready with this particular prerecorded message. I would not want any group of madmen calling the media and claiming responsibility for an act by ANWO.”
”Some group of madmen,” Joe muttered. ”This guy doesn’t sound like he’s got all his screws bolted down too tight.”
But the terrorist leader’s quiet, clipped voice went on. ”It is most important that you understand with whom you are dealing. We are a serious group, and we expect that all of you will treat us seriously. Soon, a videotape of ANWO’s demands will be made available to the media. These
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are unconditional demands, and we do not intend to negotiate.”
A chill crept over Frank Hardy’s body as he heard the calm voice speaking reasonably about madness and bloody murder. ”I most earnestly hope that I can depend on your cooperation.”
The leader hesitated for a moment. ”Otherwise,” he finally said, ”I assure you, all of the people on that aircraft will die.”
Interference blurred the screens again, then Pauline Fox reappeared.
”That guy is mocking us—right to our faces!” a man burst out. Joe could read his name tag: ”R. O’Neill, National Advisory Committee on Terrorism.”
Pauline Fox wasn’t standing in front of the hijacked plane anymore. She was walking toward it, and the camera was following her. ”I’ve been invited aboard the airplane to meet a spokesperson ...” Joe caught the words over the uproar.
Professor T. J. Hayden of Hadley University looked disgusted. ”Great. They’re arranging media opportunities now.’’
”We should be blacking out this whole thing!” R- O’Neill said explosively.
”And show the world how afraid we are?” asked Hayden. He shrugged. ”And if we tried, what do you think the terrorists’ first demand would be? With the hostages’ necks on the line.”
Pauline Fox was actually aboard the plane now, in the first-class cabin. It was empty, except for
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the armed, masked terrorist in the suit and three passengers. One was a gray-haired elderly man, the second was a woman with carefully arranged orange hair, and the third was a blond young woman. Frank and Joe both gasped. ”Callie!”
The camera focused on the elderly man as the terrorist stood behind him. ”Professor Beemis, a noted authority on international affairs,” came the terrorist’s slightly accented voice. ”You will tell them about conditions on this aircraft.”
”N-no one was hurt as they took over,” the professor said shakily. ”I don’t know about outside—” His voice was cut off abruptly as the terrorist laid a hand on his shoulder.
”Look at that!” O’Neill said. ”They’re probably talking from a prepared script—and that guy doesn’t want the professor moving away from it.”
”Professor Beemis,” Pauline Fox’s voice called out. ”Are you—”
”You will ask no questions,” the terrorist’s voice said. ”Otherwise, you will leave.”
He moved behind the orange-haired woman. ”Mrs. Margaret Thayer, wife of Senator Thayer.”
”They’ve got guns and lots of ammunition.” The woman’s voice was shrill. ”And they’ve got a bomb in a briefcase. They say it’s enough to blow up the plane and kill everyone on it.” Tears began to run down her face, streaking her carefully
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applied makeup. ”I don’t want to die! You’ve got to listen to these people!”
The camera zoomed in on the weeping woman. Then the terrorist moved on to Callie. ”Miss Shaw, a student, and the youngest person on the aircraft.”
Callie’s voice was low and tight as she began. ”We’ve been treated—”
The terrorist’s hand landed on her shoulder. ”Louder.”
She appeared to be blinking away tears as she started again. ”We’ve been treated very well. No one has been mistreated. Our captors—”
O’Neill stood in front of the set. ”I can’t stand to listen to any more of this.”
But Frank pushed him aside. ”Quiet.” He was staring fixedly at the screen, his lips moving.
”What’s the big idea, kid?” The government expert leaned over Frank, who pushed him aside without turning from the TV.
”Callie and I have a system for sending messages to each other across the classroom in school. We blink our eyelids.”
”Blink?” Joe repeated. ”What kind of messages?”
Frank’s ears turned red, but he didn’t look at his brother. ”Not as important as this one.” He read from the screen: ”Frank. Only two on Plane.” He paused for a second. ”Help.”
Callie’s voice went on, parroting how well the terrorists were treating them.
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”Just two guys holding all those people,” Joe said.
Callie’s eyes blinked again. ”Bomb real,” Frank read. His hands clenched into fists.
As her speech finished, the camera pulled back from Callie. ”I have something to add,” the terrorist said, still standing behind her.
The camera switched to the masked face. With the black bag over his head, he looked almost laughable—except for the cold stare coming from behind the eyeholes.
”We have one further message for the government of the United States,” he said. ”We are fighting a war and are willing to die for our cause. We will also execute all enemies—man, woman, or child.”
The camera pulled back to show that the terrorist had pointed the barrel of his Uzi at Callie’s head.
”We regret this demonstration, but your government must be made aware of our seriousness . . .” The man’s hand tightened on Callie’s shoulder as he aimed the gun.
”Oh no,” Joe breathed.
”NO!” The cry was torn from Frank as he leaped at the set.
But even as he moved, the picture disappeared. The screen went blank.
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Chapter 3
Aboard the plane, Callie Shaw shut her eyes and struggled not to let her fear show on her face. These guys will never see me cry, she promised herself. And they won’t see me beg.
Behind her, she heard the terrorist’s voice. For once, it wasn’t full of icy confidence. ”What? What are you doing?” he cried, surprised.
Callie opened her eyes to see Pauline Fox standing beside her cameraman. ”I turned off the camera,” the newswoman said. ”Our live feed is off—there are just blank screens out there now.” Her voice shook as she glared at the terrorist. ”I will not stand here and film a murder for you.”
The gun muzzle at Callie’s head quivered with the terrorist’s annoyance. ”You will show what we tell you to show.”
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”No,” said Pauline Fox.
”You are a news broadcaster,” said the gunman. ”You are supposed to report the news.” He gestured at Callie. ”This is news.”
”It’s cold-blooded killing. And I won’t play a part in it.”
”We could get other newspeople in here—” The terrorist’s voice was cold and confident again.
”Not after what just went out,” Pauline Fox retorted. ”They know what you’re up to. Nobody will give you live airtime.”
The terrorist stood for a long moment, his gun still resting against Callie’s temple. Then the cold metal left her head. ”Into the other cabin,” he ordered abruptly.
Professor Beemis and Mrs. Thayer hurriedly got to their feet, scuttling for the cabin door.
Callie turned back at the door to see that the gun was now aimed at Pauline Fox and her cameraman. ”You too, Miss Fox.”
A hand grabbed Callie by the hair, hauling her into the economy cabin of the plane. ”Inside, you,” a voice screamed in her ear.
She turned to look into the second hijacker’s face, which was not protected by a mask. His dark eyes were level with hers as he dragged her along—he was only as tall as she was. But he had a wiry strength and a machine gun in his hand— she wouldn’t argue with him.
19
The man’s eyes burned like coals against the dark tan of his face, his coarse black hair dancing wildly as he pushed her down the aisle. The tan business suit he wore was now blotched with sweat stains at the back and under the arms. ”Sit here,” he shouted, thrusting her into an aisle seat.
Callie glanced around the semidarkened cabin. All the window shades were down, to keep the police from seeing what went on inside. The men on the plane had been put in the window seats. Some of them nursed bruises where the terrorists had hit them. ”Neutralizing them,” the graysuited terrorist had called it. Breaking their spirit is more like it, Callie told herself. Showing them that two guys with guns can beat up a planeful of unarmed men.
Only women were now sitting in aisle seats. They figure women are too weak to attack them as they pass in the aisles, Callie realized. She watched the man’s back. Maybe I’ll have a chance to give them a nasty surprise.
The tan-suited terrorist walked up and down the aisle, his Uzi at the ready. He whirled around when the other terrorist entered the cabin—with Pauline Fox ahead of him. The cameraman had been locked in the cockpit.
”Calmly, Habib,” said the gray-suited gunman as his comrade’s gun snapped into firing position.
20
”Do not think this is his real name. We use false names.”
”What is she doing here?” Habib yelled, anger thickening his accent. ”Lars, I do not have my mask.”
”It is necessary.” Lars pulled his mask off too, revealing a pale face that looked as if it had been chiseled from ice. Handsome as that of a statue, and with about as much feeling. His eyes were like twin blue pebbles as he looked at his partner.
”Miss Fox will not cooperate in transmitting all of our message.”
”That’s Ms. Fox, and I won’t—” The rest of Pauline Fox’s words were cut off as Habib charged down the aisle and pointed his gun at her. The muzzle was only inches from her face.
”You will do this thing!” His voice was almost a scream.
Pauline Fox stood very still as she stared at the gun. Even though her face was pale, she shook her head. ”No.”
”I will kill you then!”
Then Callie called out, ”You do that. And you can kiss goodbye any hopes of getting your precious message out.”
Habib whirled around, ready to smash his gun into Callie’s face. But the blue-eyed man reached over to grab the other’s arm. ”Why do you say that?” he asked Callie.
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”The newspeople won’t give you a second on television if you kill a reporter.”
The cold blue eyes narrowed, considering that fact. Then they turned and gave Pauline Fox an appraising look. ”You are a brave woman to refuse us even after we have threatened you. So I will no longer threaten you. But what happens if I threaten someone else?”
Pauline glanced at Callie, but the gray-suited man shook his head. ”I was thinking about your cameraman. We could execute him instead of Miss Shaw. It would not be a problem.”
”But how can you shoot the cameraman?” Callie said. ”Who’ll run the camera?”
Lars gave her a chilly smile. ”I know much about machinery—of all kinds. Running the videotape could be arranged.” He looked at her. ”Easily.”
”But you’ll have the same problem. Shoot me, shoot my cameraman, and you’ll be like poison to any other newspeople.” Pauline Fox stared at the two terrorists. ”They’ll know you can’t be trusted.”
Lars pulled on his mask. When his face was hidden again, he spoke to Pauline. ”Congratulations, Miss—no, Ms. Fox,” he said. ”You have won this time. There will be no execution. And your cameraman will be allowed to leave without harm.”
Callie went limp with relief. Pauline took a
22
long, deep breath and then moved toward the exit where the cameraman would be released.
But Lars barred her way.
”Unfortunately,” he said, ”I cannot let you leave. You know too much.”
”You mean, how many—” Pauline said.
”How few of them there are.” Callie cut her off. Oh, Frank, were you watching? Did you get my message?
Lars nodded. ”I am afraid I cannot let you go off and tell your police. You will have to join the other hostages. I will inform your cameraman.” He moved toward the cockpit.
Pauline Fox stared after him, dazed. In two seconds, she had gone from neutral observer to helpless pawn.
”Down! Sit!” The newswoman was shoved into the seat across the aisle from Callie.
Pauline stared around wildly. ”What? How?”
”No talking!” The terrorist’s voice rose in a screech. Pauline Fox took in the gun clutched in his hand, the venomous look in his eyes—and stayed silent. The man smiled in triumph and started patrolling the aisle again.
Pauline Fox slumped limply in her chair, arms wrapped around herself as if she were warding off a chill. Her usually perfect hair was askew, and her skin was gray.
Glancing around to make sure the gunman wouldn’t see or hear her, Callie whispered,
23
”Thanks. You saved my life. That was pretty brave.”
”Brave? So were you.” Pauline turned hopeless eyes toward Callie. ”But I think I just traded my life for yours.”
24
Chapter 4
Frank Hardy slammed his hand down on top of the television set. ”They can’t stop it there! What happened to Callie?”
R. O’Neill, the government counterterrorist expert, and Professor Hayden glanced at each other. Then O’Neill asked, ”You know the girl, huh?” He tried to soften his voice. ”Well, we’ll know soon enough.”
”She slipped a message across!” Frank told them. ”There are just two guys aboard the plane. Only two! The cops outnumber them a hundred to one. They should be able to sneak up on them—”
He stopped as he saw the disbelieving look on the government man’s face. ”A message, eh, kid?” O’Neill patted Frank on the shoulder. ”Good work.”
25
”You can see it,” Frank went on desperately. ”Get a videotape of that interview on the plane. The close-up of Callie. I’ll show you the code we used.”
”Sure, kid.” O’Neill patted Frank’s shoulder again, then started to walk away.
Frank grabbed his arm. ”You’ve got to listen to me!”
The government man shook himself loose. But in a smooth move, Frank grabbed the guy’s arm once again and sent him tumbling to the floor.
Joe jumped and put a restraining arm out to keep Frank from doing anything else. ”I don’t think you convinced him,” Joe whispered in his brother’s ear.
”I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Frank said to the man.
”You little twerp!” O’Neill growled, getting back to his feet. He looked ready to deck Frank, until a hand landed on his elbow. O’Neill’s glare of annoyance turned to a look of shock. ”You!”
The man restraining O’Neill looked perfectly ordinary. In fact, he looked almost too ordinary, from his rumpled suit to his slightly scuffed shoes. But looks could be deceiving. And it was obvious that O’Neill recognized him.
The Hardys knew him only by his code name, Gray Man. He was an agent of the Ultra secret government organization called the Network, and he sometimes acted as their contact man.
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”You’re sure you want to draw all this attention to yourself?” the Gray Man asked.
O’Neill looked around at the gathering crowd and blanched. He quickly took off.
”Um, thanks,” said Frank.
The Gray Man slowly shook his head. ”Who else but you would be throwing punches in the middle of a crisis—especially at a U.S. Espionage Resources agent?”
”Espionage Resources?” Joe glanced after the government man, who had now disappeared. ”But his name tag said he was with the National Advisory Committee on Terrorism.”
The Gray Man rolled his eyes. ”A front organization,” he said. ”You don’t think he’s going to advertise, do you?” He tapped his own name tag.
Joe read, ” ’H. P Gray, Council on International Law.’ ”
A dignified-looking elderly lady appeared beside him. She wore a name tag for the same organization. But the Hardys knew her real job. She was the head of the Network, running it from a mansion in Virginia. They had saved her from an assassination attempt in an adventure they called The Lazarus Plot.
”We’re surprised to see you here, ma’am,” Joe said.
”But why?” the woman asked with a dazzling smile. ”I’m the honorary chairman of the Council on International Law. I have to put in an appearance,
27
even though I detest the idea of a meeting about something as violent as terrorism.”
The Hardys saw the ironic glint in her eye.
”Well, I’m glad to see you. We’ve got something for the Network,” Frank whispered. Walking to a corner, he told her about Callie’s message.
The smile disappeared from the woman’s face. ”There’s nothing we can do about it.”
”Nothing?” Frank repeated.
She said no more, just walked off into the crowd.
”Interagency politics,” the Gray Man whispered. ”Our people are not supposed to get involved.”
”But what about the message?” Frank asked. ”Can’t we talk to whoever is running the case?”
Now it was the Gray Man’s turn to give them an ironic smile. ”Would you believe U.S. Espionage Resources?” he asked. ”You blew your chances with Roger O’Neill. He’ll never listen to you now. And even if he believed you, there’s nothing to be done.”
The sour look on the government man’s face intensified. ”It doesn’t matter if there are two men or two hundred aboard that plane. They’ve got guns, and innocent passengers will get killed if we try anything. Not to mention that bomb.”
The Gray Man took a deep breath. ”We don’t even know that there are just two terrorists.” He raised a hand as Frank started to protest. ”I’m
28
sure your girlfriend saw two terrorists. But they may have additional people planted among the passengers, ready to leap into action if needed.”
He let that sink in for a moment, looking at their mutinous faces. ”So do me a favor. Leave this one to the professionals.” Then a glint came into his eyes. ”But if I know you two, you won’t butt out. So I’ll do what I can to help—which won’t be much.” He shrugged.
”The Network can’t be officially involved. Still, if we get a chance to show Espionage Resources up . . .”He grinned. ”Interagency politics works both ways.” He nodded a goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.
Frank smiled bitterly at his brother. ”Just great. Callie risks her life to get a message out from that plane, and nobody wants to hear it— officially.”
”Maybe you just didn’t tell it to the right person,” Joe suggested.
Frank turned to him. ”You mean Dad?”
Joe nodded. ”Seems worth trying.”
Fenton Hardy was amused to hear about the code. ”And all these years I thought you were just getting an education,” he said.
But he was deadly serious when he heard about Callie’s message. ”Only two,” he said, eyes thoughtful. ”That’s a help. Let’s see if we can get hold of one of the house phones. There are a lot of people I’ll want to call.”
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Before they could set off, however, a TV crew surrounded Fenton and the boys.
”Mr. Hardy,” said the correspondent. ”I’m Gil da Campo. EuroNews Syndicate. Could we take a few minutes of your time? We’d like your comments on the hostage situation.”
Fenton Hardy stared at him. ”There’s nothing to discuss. As far as I’m aware, the situation hasn’t changed.”
Then he realized that the camera was already running. ”What is this?”
”I understand that one of the hostages, a Miss Shaw, is a friend—a close friend—of your son.” Gil da Campo extended his microphone to Frank. ”How does it feel to have a loved one trapped aboard the plane?”
”What?” Frank stepped back as if the mike thrust in his face were a live snake. A cameraman with bright red hair stepped forward, focusing in.
”Gustave!” da Campo shouted. ”Tight close-up!”
The Minicam operator darted around Fenton Hardy, pursuing Frank. But the Hardys were able to escape into the crowd. The EuroNews crew fell behind them. ”Thank you for your comments!” da Campo called.
Fenton Hardy shook his head as he rejoined his sons. ”Let’s get to that phone,” he said.
While their father made his calls, Frank paced back and forth, trying to work off his anger.
”You’ve got to hand it to these ANWO guys,”
30
Joe said. ”They’ve got guts. How do you think they managed to gimmick all the TV sets in here?”
”A VCR broadcaster, like the gadget that lets us see rented films on all the sets in the house,” Frank responded absently. Then he stopped in his tracks. ”That’s the question I should have asked,” he said. ”I’m really losing it.”
”Well, you answered it now,” Joe said. ”Maybe we could track it down.”
”With all the TV people around here?” Frank shook his head. ”Network, local news, foreign syndicates like the one that nailed us on the floor out there.” He paused. ”What was it that terrorist said on the tape? That the demands would be passed on to the media.”
The Hardys looked around the conference center, which was still crawling with TV crews. ”What better place to give a tape to a newsman?” Joe asked.
Fenton Hardy returned. ”My friends in high places thanked me for the information but don’t know what to do with it. Officially, the government is still formulating policy.”
”Which translates to stalling for time,” Frank said.
”But they do have a new line on this Army for the New World Order,” Fenton Hardy said. ”It’s a real lovely group. They recruit anybody, from either end of the political spectrum. The only unifying force is that they want to destroy the
31
world as it is now. When that’s done, they’ll fight among themselves to decide what the new world order will be.”
”Sounds great,” said Joe.
”Problem is, their ideas may be nutty, but their leader is brilliant.” Fenton Hardy’s face was grim. ”He’s only known as the Dutchman. CIA reports have him coming from Germany. The FBI’s files say he’s from Holland. And Espionage Resources believes he’s a South African. He’d worked for a lot of wild causes, then went freelance, planning raids and bombings for other terrorist groups. Looks like he was raising money for his own bunch the whole time.”
”So now we have ANWO.” Frank ran a hand through his hair. ”We just had a thought about their next move.”
Fenton Hardy nodded as he listened to the boys’ suspicion that the taped demands would be passed on to one of the media people. ”I think we can ignore the small outfits and the foreign groups,” he said. ”These guys will go for the big league.” He smiled. ”Well, there are three network news offices here, and three of us. What do you say we each keep an eye on one of them?”
* * *
The news office was humming, everyone moving at high speed. People walked in and out, getting new film packs, batteries, and cups of coffee to recharge themselves. Frank even saw
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some familiar faces as correspondents checked in.
But his job was boring. All he could do was keep an eye on as much as he could see. That wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to move, to do something to help Callie. Frank almost grinned to himself. Now I know why Joe hates stakeouts so much, he told himself.
He stifled a yawn and looked longingly at half a ham sandwich left on one of the desks. Then a man passed the desk, and Frank came alert.
Gustave, the redheaded cameraman who had chased him across the convention floor, walked into the office. He stopped by a rack of videotapes and slipped a cassette box out of his pocket. The boxes in the rack were all black. The box in Gustave’s hand was red. He slipped it into the rack, turned around, and walked out.
Frank stepped back, not wanting to be recognized. But he did notice one thing—the badge on Gustave’s chest. It was a network badge, not the EuroNews tag he had worn before.
Letting Gustave get a small lead on him, Frank swung onto the cameraman’s trail. He’s up to something, Frank told himself. But will he be our first link to ANWO?
All of Frank’s attention was on Gustave. So when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jumped. ”Cool off,” a voice whispered in his ear. He turned to see Joe’s grinning face.
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”Saw you walking off, and you didn’t look like you were heading for the John.”
Frank quickly explained the situation with Gustave. ”I think he’s connected with ANWO. The only problem is, how do we prove it?”
Joe’s grin got wider. ”I’ve got a way.” Frank’s eyes continued to follow Gustave as his brother whispered in his ear. Both Hardys grinned at each other. Then Joe faded into the crowd as Frank continued tailing Gustave.
* * *
Gustave Villen slipped into a quiet stairwell, ready to disappear from the conference. He was completely unprepared when the door banged open again, hitting him in the back. He staggered forward, nearly tumbling down the stairs.
Gustave whirled around to confront the cold, furious face of the guy his crew had filmed. ”I-I’m sorry about the interview, Monsieur Hardy.” His voice went high with fright. ”It’s my job—”
”Shut up, creep.” Frank Hardy had cut him off. ”I know you’ve got some kind of connection with those guys on the plane. I’m going to find out what it is.”
”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gustave protested. ”I’m a Belgian citizen, working for EuroNews—”
”That’s no EuroNews tag on your chest,” Frank said, breaking in. ”I saw you sneak into that news office and plant a tape. If we play it, I
34
bet we’ll find ANWO’s list of demands. You’re working for them. And you’re going to tell me all about it, right?”
Gustave realized he couldn’t deny the accusation. He didn’t even try. His eyes went cold, and a gravity blade appeared in his hand.
One flick of his wrist, and the four-inch knife blade clicked into position. Then he lunged forward, giving Frank Hardy his answer—an overhand stab, aimed straight at his chest!
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Chapter 5
Caught off guard, Frank had just a second to respond. He threw himself to one side just before the knife point reached his chest. The desperate jump left him off balance. He went down on his right knee, then leaped to both feet again.
The force of Gustave’s thrust actually sent the knife into the metal door, scoring the paint. But Gustave recovered quickly and whirled around, his back to the door.
He blocked Frank’s path back to the safety of the convention floor.
Gustave grinned. He had him now. If Hardy tried to head down the stairs, he’d have Gustave’s knife at his undefended back all the way down. He could try to back off from Gustave and take the stairway up to the next floor. But he’d be slow moving backward—and if he turned to run,
36
he would again present Gustave with an undefended target.
And even if he made it to either floor, he couldn’t escape. The doors were locked. Gustave’s associates had taken care to leave open only the one stairwell door and the door to the underground parking lot.
Full of confidence, Gustave advanced. He’d herd this Frank Hardy back until he had him in a corner. Then he’d silence him—permanently— and be on his way.
Frank Hardy gave ground slowly but steadily. From Gustave’s crouch and the way he handled his weapon, Frank could see that the Belgian knew his way around knives.
Even in the half-light of the emergency stairs, the blade of Gustave’s knife glittered.
Frank tried to circle around Gustave, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver on the cramped stairwell. Gustave slashed at Frank, forcing him back again. Then he laughed. ”Non, non, Monsieur Hardy. You don’t want to rush back to the seminar now. Not until we have finished our little tête-àtête.”
I’m running out of time—and room, Frank thought. He faked left, and as Gustave moved to block him, he jumped to the right, onto the stairs leading up to the next floor.
Frank scrambled up the stairs, grabbing for the handrail. Gustave charged after him, his knife at the ready. Got to time this just right, Frank told
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himself, casting a glance over his shoulder. Gustave had just gotten into the perfect position for Frank to attack. With both hands on the railing, Frank pushed off, lashing out with his left foot in a karate kick.
His heel caught Gustave right on the point of the chin.
Gustave’s head snapped back, and he tumbled down to the landing below. He landed flat on his back, his arms flew out, and the knife went skittering from his nerveless grasp.
When Gustave started taking notice again, he saw Frank Hardy wedging the knife into a crack in the concrete stairs. Frank stomped down on it, snapping the blade in two.
Then he loomed over Gustave. He was still breathing heavily from the fight, and his face was red. But it was the murderous fury in his eyes that made the Belgian terrorist cringe. ”Please—” he said.
”Now you’re asking for favors.” Frank’s voice was hoarse as he looked down at Gustave.
All the fight knocked out of him, Gustave got up on his hands and knees, trying to scuttle away.
But Frank grabbed and twisted a clump of Gustave’s red hair in his hand. ”Now I know you’re one of those ANWO creeps. You’re working for the guys who’ve got my girlfriend. I’m going to find out what you know, or you’re going to go flying down these stairs—headfirst.”
Frank tightened his hold on Gustave’s hair as
38
he dragged him up the stairs. ”Talk—while you still can.”
”Monsieur, you don’t understand. They’d kill me. I—I can’t.”
”We’ll find out about that,” Frank said grimly. Either you start talking, or I’ll fling you down this flight of stairs, then the next one, and the next—” He yanked Gustave’s head back so he could look him in the eye. Frank looked angry enough to do it.
”I’ll keep doing it until I run out of stairs, or until there’s not enough of you left to pick up.”
Frank grabbed Gustave’s belt and began swinging him back and forth. Gustave’s arms waved feebly as Frank prepared to push him. ”Last chance, Gustave. One—two—ughh!”
Frank suddenly went limp. Gustave dropped to the stairwell floor, gibbering in French as his chin hit the concrete. But when Frank flopped down beside him, Gustave realized this was his chance to escape. Gustave started to scrabble away but instantly bumped into two heavy boots. He looked up into a pair of ice-blue eyes.
A young blond man leaned against the door to the convention floor. He rubbed his left hand over a big, competent fist. ”You must be Gustave,” he said.
”What—what happened?” Gustave asked.
”Quiet!” commanded the blond man. ”I took care of this fellow.” His English was good, but there was a faint trace of accent—German?
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”There is trouble. The operation has been compromised. This man found you and other members of the army.” He took a deep breath. ”I must warn the Dutchman.”
”Your contact—” Gustave began.
”Is now being watched!” The blond man cut him off. ”The message must go through. We may have only minutes. Give me someone I can talk to. You can go, and I will warn the others.” He prodded Frank Hardy’s unmoving form with the toe of his boot. ”I’ll take care of this one, too.”
Gustave licked his lips. He wasn’t so eager for grand struggles right then, especially if the whole operation was going wrong. At last, he made up his mind. ”The Hole-in-the-Wall—a sweet shop on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask for Lonnie.”
”And the recognition code?”
Gustave hesitated.
The blond man gave him a sharp look. ”Come. There must be a recognition code!”
Gustave finally gave in. ”You must say, ’The day dawned most promisingly.’ And he will answer, ’Like a new world.’ ”
”That is all?”
Gustave nodded. ”That is all.”
A smile crooked the blond man’s lips as he leaned over the Belgian. ”Thanks, pal.”
The sudden switch from an accent to pure American English made Gustave glance up in astonishment. That’s how he saw the fist flashing
40
for his jaw. Then he didn’t feel astonished. He was out cold, slumped on the floor.
Frank Hardy groaned as he sat up. ”What do you have in those boots, Joe, lead weights?” He rubbed his ribs. ”And did you have to be so realistic?” he asked his brother.
”Steel toes,” Joe answered with a grin. ”I had to convince that guy, didn’t I?” Joe nudged the unconscious Gustave with his foot. ”What do we do about this guy?”
Frank pulled off the Belgian’s belt and pulled his arms together. ”Tie him up, call Dad, and be out of here by the time he comes to collect Gustave.” His face was hard as he looked at his brother. ”We’ve got a date at the Hole-in-theWall. With Lonnie—and maybe the Dutchman.”
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Chapter 6
The Hardys had some trouble finding a cab driver who was willing to go to the Hole-in-theWall. It was in a tough neighborhood and not very conveniently located from the conference center. It would mean a trip through heavy downtown traffic.
But if their trip was slow, it was also scenic. Their route took them along the south side of the Mall, with all the white marble museums. Then the dome of the Capitol Building rose up on the side, and the cab cut over onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
Government buildings began to thin out then. Once they were past the Library of Congress, Pennsylvania Avenue started changing. Neighborhood-type stores began appearing. And the
42
farther they traveled, the more run-down the neighborhood became.
”This is the street the president lives on?” Joe asked.
”Well, not on this end of it.” The driver grinned. He began to make another joke when the radio cut in with a new report on the hostage situation.
”A videotaped set of demands from the Army for the New World Order has been discovered in a major network news office,” the announcer said. ”The leader of the group has explained that there will be no negotiations. Four members of his group presently in prison in France must be released, U.S. antiterrorist advisors must be withdrawn from foreign countries, and a million-dollar ransom is to be delivered to the plane.”
”Those guys are sure doing a number on us,” commented the driver.
But Frank was leaning forward in his seat, straining to hear the rest of the report.
”These demands must be met within the next twelve hours,” the announcer went on, ”or, according to the tape, the International Airways jet—and everyone aboard—will be blown up.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. ”Twelve hours to find this guy,” Joe muttered.
”Are we getting near that address we gave you?” Frank asked.
”Next corner,” the driver responded.
They looked down a row of shabby storefronts,
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some of them boarded up. On the corner was the candy store they wanted. Its side and front windows had been crudely filled in with cement blocks and the whole front given a quick once-over with white paint, now gone dingy.
A crudely hand-lettered sign stood over the door.
Hole-in-the-Wall
Candy, Sodas
Joe gazed from the sign to the store. ”Great name. Describes the place perfectly.”
”At least the door is open,” Frank said. ”Somebody must be in there. Let’s go.”
They stepped through the doorway and went from bright Washington sunlight into gloom. Whoever owned the place didn’t believe in a lot of light. With the windows blocked up, the two forty-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling didn’t begin to light up the store.
It smelled of dust and sweat. Frank squinted his eyes, making out a counter by the entrance and a soda fountain along one wall. ”Hello?” he called.
”How do?” As Frank’s eyes got accustomed to the dimness, he realized a man was sitting on one of the fountain stools. He did his best not to stare as the man labored toward them on a cane.
The man topped Frank’s six-foot-one height
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and was incredibly heavy. Billows of fat rolled over the waist of the man’s worn jeans and rippled under his torn undershirt. Tufts of white chest hair peeped out, too.
Joe glanced at his brother, his thoughts evident in his eyes. Samples too much of his own candy.
But as the man stepped into the light from the front door, both Hardys gasped. The man’s right arm and half of his face were a mass of scar tissue.
The man’s lips curled into a smile as he looked into their faces. ”Got this courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. Was in a demolitions unit. But one of the timers was screwed up. Dang near demolished me.”
He leaned on his cane. ”They retired me, and I had enough money to get me this nice store. So what can I get for you gentlemen? A candy bar? A nice lime rickey?” With his heavy southern accent, those last words sounded more like ”lahmrickay.”
”We are looking for Lonnie.” Joe did his foreign-English routine again, pronouncing every word very carefully, as if he had to think about it.
”I’m Lonnie. A couple of foreign boys, hey? Sure you wouldn’t like some soda pop?”
”No. We came in to get out of the sun.” Joe fanned himself with his hand. ”The day dawned most promisingly.”
Lonnie’s eyes suddenly became sharp. ”Like
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anew world,” he responded. ”So. I see you boys need something more than soda.” He waddled past them, closing the door. ”Come in the back.” Joe and Frank followed him, nearly choking in the stench of stale sweat.
Lonnie led them into a combination office and storeroom, piled high with crates. Joe leaned against one that had just been pried open and glanced inside. ”Heckler and Koch machine guns,” he commented.
”I can still use my old Marine contacts to get guns for the cause,” Lonnie said, settling his bulk behind a desk. ”Still got some buddies. Even down in the barracks by the Navy Yard. And, of course, there are my demolition skills. I built the bomb that’s in the airplane.”
He leaned back, and suddenly an old Army Colt automatic appeared in his hand. ”I also know all the people who would use that recognition code—and you’re not any of them.”
”Gustave sent us,” Frank said, imitating Joe’s accent. ”He fears the airport operation has been compromised. People are after him.”
”So he sent you?” Lonnie asked.
”There is more,” Joe said. ”But we are to report only to the leader.” He hesitated for a second. ”The Dutchman.”
Lonnie frowned. ”That’s not standard procedure. The Dutchman operates only through cutouts.”
Frank nodded in understanding. Of course he
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would use cutouts—innocent-looking go-betweens—to receive his reports and issue his orders. It made sense that ANWO’s leader wouldn’t run the risk of being traced through direct contact with his agents.
”Why don’t you pass the report on to me?” Lonnie said. ”I’ll pass it straight to the big man.”
”You are so close to the leader?” Joe asked.
”Don’t let this dump fool you, sonny.” Although he still held the pistol on them, Frank noticed that Lonnie’s grip had relaxed a bit. ”I got this store because it’s a perfect contact spot. There’s even a disco around the corner where lots of foreign students hang out.” He grinned. ”Seems real natural that some of them might stop off for a soda or such.”
”A good cover,” Frank said. ”But this report cannot go in the usual way.” Frank had to choose his words carefully. This guy was obviously one of the higher-ups in AN WO. ”The report is for the leader’s ears alone. The leak comes from too high a level.”
Lonnie’s frown got worse, but he put down his gun. ”It’s Beauvoir, isn’t it? He wants us to fail—even get captured—so he can take over.” He shook his head. ”I warned against letting him into this.” He looked at the Hardys. ”Am I right?”
”I cannot say,” Joe responded, in just the right voice to confirm Lonnie’s suspicions. In a group
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as crazy as this, there have to be lots of factions, he thought. Let him blame whoever he likes.
Lonnie leaned back in his chair. ”I’m right, aren’t I? Can’t put much over on me. I been on the drill here more years than you been around.” He leaned farther back, looking reminiscent.
”Our message,” Frank pressed, not really wanting to hear about twenty years of wacko politics.
”I been thinking on it,” Lonnie said. ”Don’t know where the Dutchman is, myself. But Pia sure will. A good kid, Pia. And an easy contact for you kids. Just go up to Georgetown. I’ll give you the number where you can reach—”
He reached over for a pad and pencil. But just as he put pencil to paper, the sound of sirens came screaming up the street. ”Sounds like a whole convoy of cop cars,” Lonnie said, pausing.
”A familiar sound in this area, I expect,” said Joe.
But as the sirens got louder and louder, Lonnie’s face became more thoughtful. Frank risked one glance at the gun. Could he beat Lonnie to it?
Lonnie surprised him. He leaned back again in his chair, way back, resting his hand on an old fuse box behind his desk.
”You know,” Lonnie said, ”I sure as sugar hope you’re not snitches or undercover cops.”
The Hardys could barely hear his voice over the noise of the sirens outside.
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” ’Cause I decided a long time ago I wasn’t going to get caught.” Lonnie gave them a lopsided smile as he looked down at his half-crippled bulk. ”And I sure can’t run.”
He swung open the door of the fuse box. It was crammed with what looked like yellowish clay. ”CN—plastic explosive.” Lonnie flicked a big black electrical switch in the middle of the bomb. ”And this switch here activates a detonator.”
Lonnie rose to his feet. ”Now, if anybody’s fool enough to open the front door, we’re all going to go up like the Fourth of July.”
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Chapter 7
Frank and Joe both charged for the fuse box, but Lonnie stood in the way.
Joe threw a whistling right, straight into Lonnie’s gut. His fist penetrated four inches of blubber, then hit rock-hard muscle.
”Hunh!” Lonnie grunted. Then his massive fist caught Joe in the side of the head, sending him spinning away.
Frank tried a karate blow to Lonnie’s neck, But again, Lonnie’s fat cushioned the blow.
He picked Frank up with both hands and threw him across the office. Frank crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor.
Ears ringing, he forced himself to his feet. The office was quiet now; the sirens had stopped blaring. Any second, someone would be coming through that door.
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Frank’s eyes fell on the old pistol still sitting on the desk. He lunged for it, almost had his fingers around the butt—
Then he dropped it as Lonnie lashed into his shoulder with his cane.
”No way, boy. If we’re going to go, we’re going to go.”
Joe came staggering up for another attack, sidestepping Lonnie to get at the switch. He managed to get his fingers into the box, only to have Lonnie’s cane rammed into his stomach. Joe folded in pain. All he had to show for it was a sticky coating of CN on his fingers.
Frank stopped rubbing his injured shoulder and grabbed left-handed for the gun. Lonnie’s cane swept out, sending the pistol spinning away.
But the grab had been only a feint. While Lonnie was distracted, Frank’s right hand had crept painfully into his pocket. It came out with a small spray can.
As Lonnie brought his cane around again, Frank brought his hand up. His aim was pretty shaky, but the spray did its job. It jetted into Lonnie’s face.
Lonnie screamed, his cane falling to the floor as he brought both hands up to his eyes.
Frank lurched past him, his own eyes tearing as he passed through the cloud of liquid tear gas. He flicked the switch to the ”off” position. Please, don’t let it be booby-trapped, he prayed.
Nothing happened. They didn’t blow up.
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But Lonnie did. With a roar, he started flailing his arms around. Even blind, he was a formidable opponent. One of his hamlike fists caught Frank a glancing blow, knocking him to the ground. The little can rolled from Frank’s hand.
Lonnie fumbled around the fuse box, trying to rearm his bomb.
Then Joe hit him in a flying tackle. They both disappeared behind the desk as Lonnie lost his balance and hit the floor thunderously.
Frank got to his knees and found the pistol resting on the floor beside him. Picking it up, he started for the desk. ”Joe? You okay?”
”Yeah.” Joe reappeared, grinning and brushing dust off himself. ”I was lucky. He didn’t land on me.” He picked up the aerosol can and looked at it curiously. ”What is this stuff?”
”Mace,” Frank said. ”Something else I bought at the—”
”Freeze!” bellowed a voice from the doorway.
Frank turned to find three policemen braced for a fight, their pistols all aimed at him.
”Drop the gun!” one of the cops ordered.
Frank opened his hand. The heavy Colt thudded to the floor.
”All secure,” the policeman reported. They Parted, and Roger O’Neill, the agent from U.S. Espionage Resources, entered the room. He gave the Hardys a disgusted look. ”I don’t believe it,” he said. Then he called over his shoulder, ”You’ve got to see this.”
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Fenton Hardy appeared in the doorway. He didn’t look disgusted. Concerned, yes. Upset And as the boys looked into his eyes, they realized ”angry” might be the best description.
”Um, hi, Dad,” said Joe.
”I don’t know what to say.” Fenton Hardy shook his head, disappointed. ”I thought we were supposed to be working together, staking out those news offices. Next thing I know, you call me about that Gustave fellow and disappear. We interrogated him, you know. He told me everything—” He began to look angrier. ”Everything,”
”Yeah,” O’Neill said. ”We know how you’ve been playing junior detective.”
Meanwhile, the policemen had found Lonnie and handcuffed him. O’Neill waved them off impatiently as they approached Frank and Joe.
Frank tried to explain things to his father. ”We had to do something. For Callie. She’s trapped on that plane.”
”I understand that,” Fenton Hardy said. ”But you’re not going to save her alone. Don’t you think the U.S. government might help?”
Joe gave O’Neill a sideways glance. ”They haven’t been much help up to now,” he muttered.
”Boys, I trusted you, and look what’s happened.”
Frank’s head came up. ”Two ANWO agents caught. We’ve gotten the first break in this case.” He glanced over at Agent O’Neill. ”While the
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older and wiser heads were doing nothing.” His eyes locked pleadingly with his father’s. ”We’ve heard that ANWO has set a twelve-hour deadline for their demands. They’ll blow Callie up—”
Fenton Hardy turned away. ”There are one hundred and fourteen lives at stake here, besides Callie Shaw. And your reckless behavior has endangered them all.” He sighed. ”Agent O’Neill has requested—demanded—that you stop impeding his investigation. He’s escorting you to the airport to put you on the first plane back to New York. Then straight on to Bayport. Understand? I’ll stay on—”
”Dad,” Frank said, interrupting, his voice low. ”If Mom were on that hijacked plane, what would you do?”
For a long moment, Fenton Hardy didn’t answer. Finally, he said, ”I-I’d go along with the government.” But they all heard the quaver in his voice.
Agent O’Neill cut in quickly. ”Come on, kids, I’ve got a car for you.” He led them out of the office. Fenton Hardy didn’t turn around.
Outside, the whole neighborhood was crawling with uniformed police, carrying rifles and shotguns.
”Let’s clear the way here!” O’Neill shouted, having his government identification. The cops Parted before the magic ID, opening a lane to the big black sedan surrounded by police cruisers, Two men in dark suits and sunglasses got out of
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the car. They popped to attention when they saw their superior.
”We’re taking these kids to the airport,” O’Neill told his associates. ”Peterson, you’re responsible for getting them on a plane to New York. In fact, you’ll fly with them, to make sure they get there.” He gave the Hardys a nasty smile. ”That way, we won’t have any more surprises out of you.”
Peterson opened the rear door, and O’Neill waved the Hardys in. Frank slid across the seat and touched the handle on the far door, with a vague idea of opening it and making a getaway.
O’Neill seemed to read his mind. ”Go on, try it.” There seemed to be no lock button, but when Frank pulled on the handle, it didn’t give.
”This is a company car,” O’Neill explained. ”If you want the back doors to open, the driver has to press a button up front.” He nodded to the driver. ”Try it now.”
The door opened, but Peterson stood ready to block any escape.
”Now, stop thinking up silly stunts like that, and let’s get going.”
Joe got into the car, then O’Neill joined the two brothers in back. Peterson sat with the driver in the front.
O’Neill’s ID was as effective at clearing away cop cars as it had been at clearing away cops.
Frank and Joe sat in silence as the car retraced
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the route they had taken to reach the Hole-in-the-Wall.
O’Neill had Peterson busy on the mobile telephone, checking out flights to New York. ”We’re in luck,” he reported. ”There’s one with seats available, and we should be there fifteen minutes before departure.” He gave the Hardys another sour smile. ”I’ll be glad to have you two out of my hair, even if it means a delay in interrogating that guy we caught in the candy store.”
Frank looked at the government man, then stared out the window. Obviously, O’Neill was never going to forgive Frank for throwing him in the middle of the convention floor.
”Of course, he may have told you kids something.” O’Neill made the comment very offhandedly, studying his fingernails. ”Sooo”—O’Neill drew out the word—”if you have anything to tell me, it had better be now.”
He looked at Frank. Frank glanced at Joe.
”You mean, like secrets and stuff?” Joe said. He managed to make himself sound like a little kid.
A flash of irritation appeared in O’Neill’s eyes, but he managed to keep his temper. ”Yeah, something like that.”
”Gosh, no,” Frank chirped in. ”He was a Seasoned terrorist. He’d never give secrets away to a couple of kids.”
O’Neill had had it. ”Okay, you two,” he snarled. ”I see you’ll smart-mouth me right to
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the end. But if I find out you impeded a federal investigation—”
”Me?” Joe said, the voice of injured innocence.
”Us?” said Frank, his eyes wide.
O’Neill bit back the retort he was about to make. He crossed his arms and settled back in his seat.
It was at that moment that a taxi rammed into the back of their car. O’Neill lurched forward, just managing to get his hands up to brace himself against the front seat.
He reached into his pocket for his ID card. ”He rammed into the wrong car this time!” O’Neill pulled on the door handle. Of course, it didn’t open, ”Hey, Peterson, open this up. I’m going to talk to this guy.”
Peterson obediently leaned over and hit a button on the console. Frank and Joe glanced at each other. As O’Neill opened his door, Frank operated the handle on his side.
He waited till O’Neill was nose to nose with the cabbie, then pushed against the door. It swung open, and they dashed out into the street.
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Chapter 8
Traffic heading for the Potomac bridges was heavy. Frank and Joe almost got run over twice before O’Neill realized they were escaping.
”Hold it!” he yelled.
Frank had to grin at how easily they had gotten away, but the grin disappeared when he saw Peterson starting to run after them. At least he had to dodge traffic, too, so Frank and Joe had a respectable lead on him.
”How are we going to lose him?” Joe asked, on the sidewalk now.
”I have no idea!” Frank responded.
They ran for a couple of blocks, with Peterson closing the gap. Dodging through the homebound office workers, Joe glanced over his shoulder. ”Still there,” he puffed.
Frank was starting to gasp for breath, too. He
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had a stitch in his side, and the shoulder that Lonnie had clobbered was beginning to throb. But Peterson was still getting closer.
How do they train those guys? Frank wondered.
They plowed on, Peterson still gaining. Escape plans ran through Frank’s mind. Maybe they could duck into an office building, go out a side exit, and lose him. But what if there weren’t any side exits? They’d be trapped. And Frank didn’t know the buildings around there.
Other half-formed schemes floated around in his mind, but nothing really solidified. Frank began to get worried. He could usually come up with some sort of plan.
Just ahead of him, Joe turned and waved his arm. ”This way!” He plunged through an entrance and down an escalator. Frank followed his brother in a broken-field run down the moving steps. Then he knew where they were heading— into a station for the Metro, Washington’s subway system.
Frank brightened. Grabbing a train would be the perfect way to lose Peterson. Of course, they’d have to buck the ticket lines. Unless-— Frank shrugged. They were already on the run from the government. What difference would it make if they beat the fares?
He followed Joe straight to the turnstiles. But Joe didn’t take a running jump. Instead, he dug out his wallet and produced a small card.
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When Frank saw the computerized plastic strip on the side, he recognized it as a Metro fare card! Where had Joe gotten it?
Now wasn’t the time to ask. Joe slipped the card into a sensing device, and the turnstile barrier swung open. Then he flung the card back.
Frank snatched the card in midair, then inserted it. As he ran through the turnstile, he could see Peterson charging up. The government agent was groping in his jacket. Frank went pale. He couldn’t be thinking of shooting—not in this crowded space!
But no, no one was that crazy. Peterson whipped out his own fare card. Frank didn’t watch him, though. His attention was on the blinking lights on one of the platforms. That meant an incoming train!
Behind him, he heard a wild yell. Frank turned to see Peterson tumbling to the ground. He had tripped over a commuter’s feet. Frank didn’t get a good look at the commuter—he was wearing a gray suit. Could it be? No. The Gray Man couldn’t have tailed them.
Frank joined Joe in the crush on another escalator, heading for the train that was pulling in. They rushed for the doors, managed to squeeze in. The doors hissed closed, just as Peterson reached them.
He was still pounding on the doors as the train Pulled out.
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Joe grinned at Frank. ”Lucky I had that ok ticket, huh?”
”Where did you get it?” Frank wanted to know.
”A souvenir, I guess you could call it. Last time I was down here, I used one of those automated machines to get a fare card. You know—you slip a bill in, push buttons to show how much money goes on the card, and get change.”
Joe shrugged. ”I put a five in the machine, but it wouldn’t give me any change. So I wound up with five dollars on my card. I didn’t use it up, so I held on to it. No machine gets away with cheating me!”
Frank smiled. ”So, when you saw the Metro entrance you knew we could get on.”
”Yeah,” said Joe. ”The problem is, where do we get off?”
”Three stops,” Frank said, squinting at the system map. ”Then we change trains.”
”To throw Peterson off our trail?”
Frank nodded. ”And to head for our next contact.”
Joe looked puzzled and opened his mouth to speak. Then he looked at all the ears around them and shut his mouth.
* * *
A short time later, the Hardys rode an escalator up to the surface again. ”Dupont Circle,” Frank said. ”This is about as close as the Metro comes to where we’re going.”
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”Which brings up a question. Where are we going?” Joe asked. He followed Frank around a huge traffic circle, then down a block of turn-of-the-century houses. ”Pretty nice,” he said, looking around. ”But we’ve gone two blocks, and you haven’t answered my question yet.”
He sighed. ”We managed to get away, but we’ve got no weapons—unless you count the plastic explosive I wiped off onto my handkerchief. They even took away the can of Mace. We’re going up against a bunch of terrorists with machine guns. To top everything off, we’re going in blind. We didn’t have time to get anything out of Lonnie. We don’t know who to see or where to find this Dutchman.”
”If we get the Dutchman, we’ll have a hostage ANWO can’t ignore,” Frank answered. ”And Lonnie did tell us about his contact.” He grinned. ”First of all, Lonnie gave us a name—Pia. A girl’s name.”
Joe stared.
”Remember?” Frank said. ”Lonnie said he couldn’t help us. We had to see Pia. And we’d have to go to Georgetown. He was just about to give us her number when he heard the sirens.”
”So, we’ve got a name and a neighborhood—but a pretty big neighborhood. What do you plan on doing, walking the streets and calling her name?”
Frank smiled. ”I’m hoping to cut it down a little bit,” he said. ”There were two other things
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Lonnie said. First, he called Pia a good kid. So I guess she’d be young.”
”Okay. What was the other thing?”
”Lonnie said it would be an easy contact for us. ’You kids.’ Those were his exact words.”
”So?” said Joe.
”So where in Georgetown would you find a lot of kids?” asked Frank. He grinned at Joe’s growing understanding. ”Right. The university.”
Joe shook his head. ”So we’ve got to check out a whole school.”
Frank clapped Joe on the back. ”And if there’s a man who can find one girl in a thousand, it’s Joe Hardy,” he said.
They stopped off at a used-book store to buy props so they’d look like students, then walked the rest of the way to the university. Nobody bothered them as they found their way to the cafeteria. A few minutes later, Joe was chatting with a cute blond.
”Hey, Maddie, I can’t believe how lucky I was to meet you,” he said. ”Think you can help me set up my friend here?” He gestured toward Frank, who sat at the far side of their table. looking off into the crowd.
”I don’t know,” Maddie said. ”He looks cute enough.”
”He’s into causes. Any girls around here like that?”
Maddie shrugged. ”I don’t know. That’s not really my crowd.”
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”He’s heard about a girl he really wants to meet. Her name is Pia.”
”Oh, her” Maddie’s nose wrinkled. ”Crazy Pia.” She looked at Frank again. ”Funny. He doesn’t look weird.”
”Weird?” Joe looked puzzled.
”Well, why would he be interested in somebody like Pia? I mean, she’s really crazy. Always talking like the end of the world is coming. She’s the Queen of Weird!”
”Do you know where he could find her? He really wants to meet her.”
Maddie turned to give Frank a long, disbelieving stare, while Frank concentrated hard on looking as weird as possible.
Finally, Maddie shrugged. ”I never see her in classes. Nobody ever does. But I suppose she’s in the Student Union. She’s usually there, painting signs for weird causes.”
Joe stood up. ”Maybe I’ll take my friend to go meet her.”
Maddie shrugged again. ”Go ahead. But no way am I going to double with her.” She grinned and nodded at Frank. ”With him, maybe. But not with her.”
Frank pretended not to hear, but the color rose in his face. Callie was in horrible danger, and this girl was trying to flirt with him.
He turned to Maddie and gave her his gooniest smile. ”Did I just hear you say you’d like to go Out with me? They’re having a march to ban
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chrome on cars. It’ll help us save precious natural resources. Maybe you’d like—”
”Um, I don’t think I could make it,” Maddie said quickly. ”But this girl I know, Pia, would probably love to go. I just told your friend here where you could find her.”
”Great!” said Frank. ”If you change your mind—”
”I don’t think so,” Maddie said. To Joe, she whispered, ”You aren’t like that, are you?”
”Oh no,” Joe whispered back. ”I like chrome on cars. See you later.” He waved goodbye to Maddie. All the way out of the cafeteria, he had to fight a wild urge to break into laughter.
”Chrome on cars?” he muttered as they walked to the Student Union. ”You smooth-talking devil, you!”
The Student Union was a big underground complex, with lots of places for a sign painter to hang out. Joe and Frank spent a lot of time looking but got nowhere.
While they talked to one kid who was tuning his guitar, a campus security guard walked by. The Hardys tensed for a second, but the guard walked right past them.
”I’m looking for Olympia Morrison,” the guard said in a loud voice. ”Anybody know where she is?”
”Pia?” One girl pushed back her hair and pointed. ”She’s over in the corner, painting.”
Joe and Frank both followed her arm. There,
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in the corner, a girl dressed all in black sat with some pieces of posterboard, painting what looked like slogans.
She stopped as she became aware of people looking at her. Then she saw the guard. In one fluid movement, she was up and running.
”Hey, wait!” called the guard. He took a couple of steps forward. But Pia only ran faster.
”Hey!”
”What’s going on?” The kids in the room were all looking around now.
The guard just shrugged. ”I don’t know.” He tapped a note in his hand. ”The dean just told me to deliver this to her.”
But Frank and Joe hardly paid any attention. They were pushing their way through the crowd, already in hot pursuit.
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Chapter 9
Tracking Pia Morrison wasn’t easy. For one thing, she had a lead on the Hardys as she left the student union and darted across the campus. For another, it was Friday evening, and the streets of Georgetown were beginning to fill.
”Where did all these people come from?” Joe muttered as more and more people clogged the streets. In seconds he passed some students, two guys in suits with briefcases, a family of tourists, and eight suburban teenagers obviously looking for action.
One of the teenagers jostled Joe back, shouting, ”Hey, watch where you’re going!” He hooked Joe’s arm, swinging him around.
Pia moved like a running back through the opponent’s defensive line, zipping easily through momentary openings in the crowds.
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Things weren’t so easy for the Hardys. They were bigger, so their efforts to make a path usually earned them dirty looks from jostled pedestrians.
Frank’s chest tightened as he watched his one hope for saving Callie slip away. His frustration mounted as Pia disappeared into the crowd. He wanted to slam his way through that uncaring herd and catch that girl.
Save it for the bad guys, Frank told himself. Desperately, he rose up on his toes to scan the jammed sidewalk. Then he saw her—Pia was crossing the street. ”Come on!”
Crossing in the middle of the block wasn’t easy. The traffic was bumper to bumper. But Frank and Joe finally found a space they could squeeze through, and then they had to work their way through the crowd on the opposite sidewalk.
It was slow torture, pushing against the mob. Everyone seemed to be ambling, looking in the windows of the shops along the street. And, of course, the local hangouts had heavy foot traffic in front of them, too. Everything had slowed to a crawl.
The Hardys finally reached the corner and glanced around. Pia wasn’t in the crowd. Finally, Frank noticed a dark figure legging it down a side street. ”There!”
Off the main drag, they made better time. Joe held out an arm to stop Frank from charging headlong. ”Better not make too much noise,” he
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said. ”We don’t want her turning around to see people running after her.”
They moved at a jog, keeping Pia in sight and slowly drawing closer. She led them through a beautiful neighborhood, with rows of old colonial townhouses. The sidewalks were made of blocks of slate, old-fashioned and uneven—perfect for tripping a running pursuer.
After three blocks, Pia turned a corner. Frank and Joe broke into a cautious run. They reached the cross street and saw Pia enter a townhouse in the middle of the block.
A moment later, they were standing in front of the house. Three buzzers stood by the door, one for each floor of the building. The middle one read, ”O. Morrison.”
Joe whistled. ”Pretty nice for a plain college student,” he said.
”Maybe Daddy’s paying for it,” Frank suggested. His voice grew grim. ”Or maybe ANWO.” He jabbed at Pia’s button. ”She ought to be upstairs by now. Get ready with your magic accent.”
A frightened voice came over the intercom system. ”Yes?”
”You are Pia, yes?” said Joe, sounding equally nervous. ”You do not know us. But we have a message. You must help us.”
Seconds ticked slowly by until the voice on the other side finally said, ”A-all right. Come up.”
The buzzer sounded, and they headed up the
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stairs. A door on the second floor swung open, and Pia stood outlined in the light, checking them out. Frank noticed that she kept her right hand out of sight behind the door frame.
As they came level with her, the Hardys finally got their first good look at Pia. She was slender— skinny, really. The black jeans and sweatshirt she wore hung on her, emphasizing rather than hiding her skinniness.
Her dark hair was stringy, and her face fell just short of pretty—a little too pinched to be attractive. Right then, with her lower lip between her teeth, she looked like a scared rabbit. Round glasses magnified her pale eyes.
”Stay right there,” she said as they reached the landing. Now her hand came into view. It was holding a small Beretta, and even though the muzzle was shaking, it was close enough to hit one of them. ”Now. What are you doing here? You said something about a message.”
”From Mr. Lonnie,” Joe said. ”I am Josef. This is Franz.” Frank nodded. ”Mr. Lonnie, he was . . . recruiting us.” Joe paused for a second, as if trying to think of the right word. ”For the New Order. He gave us your name in case anything went wrong.”
Joe shook his head. ”I think something has. We went to his store—you know, the Hole-in-the-Wall? And there were policemen all around it. I think they were arresting Mr. Lonnie. Franz and
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I, we did not wait to see. We thought you should know this.”
Pia’s eyes went round with shock. ”First Gustave, now Lonnie. This is bad.” Then she abruptly became businesslike, tossing the pistol onto a table by the door. ”We’ll just have to add their freedom to our demands. Come in. I’ll have to decide on our next move.” She closed the door behind them.
An open suitcase sat in the middle of the living room, with piles of clothes, papers, and books around it.
”You can see I was getting ready to leave,” Pia said. ”One of the school cops came to get me today. I think someone may be on to me.”
Joe almost opened his mouth to say the guy was just bringing a message, then shut it. He wasn’t supposed to know that. He just nodded, marveling at Pia’s paranoid lifestyle.
”I was going to go to the safe house, where we were supposed to meet after the operation. But now—” Pia shook her head. ”I don’t think so. Lonnie knew about it.”
Her rabbitlike teeth started gnawing at her lower lip again. ”I know he’d die rather than give away a secret, but we can’t be sure. They could use truth drugs on him.” She motioned to Joe to go to the window. ”We’ve got a front view of the street. You keep watch. I’ve got to get ready.”
”We will do everything we can to help you,” Joe promised.
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Pia threw aside most of the clothes and the books. The papers she tossed into the old-fashioned fireplace, setting a match to them. ”We’ll have to travel light,” she said. ”There’s an important stop we have to make. He’ll need my report to change the plan.” She coughed. ”Someone I need to see.” She glanced at them, her newfound trust faltering for a second.
Frank’s heart began to pound. That ”someone” she was talking about could only be the Dutchman.
”Can we go with you?” he asked. ”Josef and I, we are afraid. What if Mr. Lonnie talks about us? We are not yet members of your army, but I hope you will help us.”
”Don’t worry,” Pia replied, all confidence again. ”If Lonnie recruited you, that’s good enough for me. We take care of our own. I’ll make sure of it. After all, you brought us this warning—”
”Pia! Look!” Joe stood by the side of the window so he could keep an eye on the darkening street without being seen himself. Pia and Frank rushed over to peek out.
The street below them was suddenly filled. A long black car, surrounded by police vehicles, pulled up. All of the officers moved out silently.
”A surprise raid,” Frank said. His brain slipped into high gear. He recognized O’Neill’s customized car. That meant Lonnie had talked. O’Neill—and maybe Fenton Hardy—would soon
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be bursting through the door. Once again, he and Joe would be shipped off to Bayport —this time under armed guard. If they were lucky, they might make Pia tell them where the Dutchman was. But even if the government captured the ANWO leader, his release would probably wind up at the top of the terrorists’ demands.
Would the government really keep the Dutchman in prison and let a planeload of people die? Frank didn’t think so. There had to be a better way.
He made up his mind. ”Is there another way out?”
Pia nodded. ”Right. Come on.”
She forgot to pick up her pistol. She even left the papers burning merrily in the fireplace. Frank and Joe followed her into the bedroom, where she started throwing shoes and junk out of her closet.
”I don’t—” Frank began as Pia got down on her hands and knees on the closet floor. Then he shut up as he watched her slide out a panel in the back wall. ”This will take us into the closet of an apartment in the next building,” she explained. ”We’ll be coming out a block away.”
Pia eased her way into the crawl space, followed by Frank and Joe.
I sure hope nobody’s home, Frank thought.
As if she were reading his mind, Pia told them, ”The apartment is empty. It’s rented by one of our people, but he never uses it.”
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She eased open the closet door on the other side, and they emerged into darkness. Pia headed for the apartment door, but Frank slipped over to the window. ”Wait,” he whispered as she prepared to open the door. ”Look here.”
They stared into the street below. It, too, was crawling with cops. ”I guess they figured we might go over the roof or something,” Pia said. ”They must have surrounded the whole block.”
”Trapped.” Joe breathed out loud.
”No,” said Pia. ”We still have a way out.”
She led them down the stairs to the ground floor, then down another flight to the basement. ”Careful,” she whispered. ”It’s old. The ceiling’s very low.”
”Ah,” said Frank, nearly braining himself on a ceiling beam.
Pia fumbled at a shelf, striking a match. Then she lit a candle stub, which threw a wan circle of light. ”At least we can see where we’re going now.”
Half bent over, she led them deeper into the cellar. ”We’re under the sidewalk now,” she said. ”You can hear some of the footsteps.”
Listening carefully, the Hardys could indeed hear noises above them.
Pia led them forward until they faced what seemed to be a blank wall. She counted bricks from one corner, then slammed her hand against one.
With the faintest squeal, the center of the wall
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began to pivot. ”It’s more than a century old,” Pia said. ”Before the Civil War, this was an Underground Railroad escape tunnel for runaway slaves. It goes under the street, through the graveyard, and into another basement. They’ll never be looking for us there.”
Pia took some keys and money from her bag. These she pocketed and then led the way with her candle, crouching down as she stepped into the musty tunnel. The air smelled as if it hadn’t been breathed for at least a hundred years.
The tunnel started out as a bricked vault, but as they went farther along, it changed. The ceiling started to slope, until finally they had to crawl. Then the brick disappeared altogether, leaving them in a dirt tunnel with infrequent wooden support beams.
Maybe this is the part under the graveyard, Frank thought. He had no idea how far they had come. He just followed the dim circle of light that was Pia’s candle.
Suddenly, Pia stopped. Frank nearly ran into her. ”There’s a tricky part here,” she said. ”One of the beams has fallen in.”
Great, Frank thought as she worked her way around the fallen wood. ”Did you hear?” he called back to Joe. ”A fallen beam.”
Joe Japped Frank on the ankle, letting him know he understood.
Then it was Frank’s turn to squirm through the half-blocked opening. He eased his shoulders
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through, careful not to touch the wood. This won’t be easy for Joe, he thought.
When he was almost through, Frank heard a noise just above his head. Must be under the street again. That sounds like a truck up there.
There was no time for thought as the truck jarred to a stop—and the roof of the tunnel thundered down on Frank!
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Chapter 10
The tunnel roof didn’t fall on Joe. Instead, darkness hit him—a terrible darkness, so deep he could see nothing. One moment he was groping along after Frank, and then came that complete blackness.
He rubbed his eyes, coughing on invisible dust. So this is what it’s like to be blind, he thought.
”Frank? Pia?” he called. Maybe Pia had dropped the candle. She looked like the flaky type to him.
No answer.
”Guys?” Stretching his arms forward, he tried to feel his way. Inches from his face, he hit loose earth. A cave-in.
Joe fumbled around, making sure the whole tunnel had been filled. It had. It looked as if he’d have to turn back.
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But as he groped around along the tunnel floor, he found something that froze him. A shoe. Frank’s shoe. And as he felt farther, he realized a foot was still in it. Frank was trapped under the dirt!
Desperate, Joe tapped against Frank’s ankle. He got an answering twitch. Frank was alive!
Joe began clawing at the cave-in. Frank might be alive, but there was no way he could breathe under all that dirt.
Hurling the loose earth behind him, Joe worked to free his brother’s legs. He uncovered a piece of wooden bracing and used that as a shovel. Now he was up to Frank’s waist. Joe dug frantically. At least the roof still held. No more dirt came cascading down.
As he felt himself being freed, Frank began to wriggle around. Joe got the message. He got a hold on his brother and pulled.
Frank came free unexpectedly. The two of them tumbled back in the darkness, both coughing in the dust.
”Are you okay?” Joe finally managed to say.
”Yeah.” Frank’s voice was hoarse but strong. ”I was lucky. When the dirt came down, I wound UP with my head between my arms. That left a little air pocket around my face. Otherwise—”
Otherwise, you’d be breathing dirt, Joe thought. ”Well, you’re out now. The question is, what do we do?”
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”Well, I don’t see us going forward,” Frank said.
”I don’t see anything!” Joe gave a short, bitter laugh.
”The problem is, if we go back, we’ll be walking into the arms of the cops.”
”And Dad, and O’Neill. They’ll have us on a plane so fast—”
”I guess that means we go forward,” Frank said.
Joe fumbled around. ”Well, there’s a piece of wood around here somewhere.”
They set to work digging through the obstruction before them.
”Hold it!” Frank said. ”I think I heard something.”
Joe paused, and they both heard a scraping noise coming from the far side of the cave-in.
”That must be Pia working toward us,” Frank said. ”Come on!”
They dug quickly, fearful that another truck would come rumbling over them and undo all their work. The noise had sounded pretty close. Maybe the cave-in wasn’t that big.
Then Joe’s piece of wood rammed into something coming from the other side—a piece of wood in Pia’s hands. ”Franz? Josef?” Her voice was shrill with terror. ”My candle is out! I can’t see!”
For a second, Frank almost forgot his false identity. He remembered just in time to put on
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his fake accent. ”We are here,” he said, taking pia’s hand while Joe enlarged the hole. ”Right here!”
As soon as the hole was large enough, Frank and Joe crawled through to a more stable section of tunnel. Pia’s voice quavered. ”I thought you were buried.”
”Just a little,” Frank said. ”I am all right.”
Then Pia shook herself, as if to make her fear go away. ”We must be almost at the other end. Follow me.”
And soon enough, the bottom of the tunnel turned to brick under their knees again. After that, they came to a dead end. Frank and Joe both leaned against the walls of the tunnel as Pia fumbled for the release in the darkness.
Then they heard a rusty squeal as a section of wall pivoted. Pia fumbled around again, this time outside the tunnel. A line of light appeared at the edge of the doorway. All three of them blinked, raising their hands. Even the dim basement bulbs were blinding after their trip through darkness. Joe thought he’d never seen anything that looked so good as that basement.
Frank staggered out into the basement, staring around at the boxes and plastic bags that filled the space. ”What is all this?” he asked.
”Clothes,” Pia answered. ”We’re in the basement of a boutique. Our cause owns the building and rents it out. The store makes a good cover.” She stopped short, then burst out laughing as
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Frank turned around. ”Oh, Franz!” she said. ”Just look at you!”
Every inch of Frank was stained with dirt. His clothes, his hair, his face—he was even leaving dusty footprints wherever he went. But he began to laugh as he looked at Pia and Joe in the light. They weren’t much better off.
”Well, you are lucky, Pia,” he finally said. ”You can get new clothes. But for me—” He held up a sequined minidress. ”I do not think so, do you?”
”You’re right. This is a women’s shop. But I suppose there’s something here I can change into,” Pia said.
She disappeared around a rack of clothes to try on her choices. Joe and Frank attempted to beat some of the dust out of their own clothes, but it was a pretty hopeless job. Frank wondered if the dirt on his hands and face was permanently ingrained.
”Well, what do you think?” Pia asked as she stepped back to join the boys.
”Ah,” said Frank. Pia had worked hard to change her appearance. She wore a checked shirt and a pair of tailored jeans. Even her hair was different, combed back and pulled into a bun. Except for her glasses, she looked like a different girl. -Almost pretty.
”Nice,” Joe said. ”Very nice.”
Pia actually blushed. ”I don’t usually dress this
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way,” she explained. ”But I thought to fool the police—”
”Oh yes,” Frank agreed. ”I would be fooled.”
Pia blushed some more. ”I think we should be moving. The police won’t be looking for us on the other side of the graveyard. But it’s not a good idea to hang around.”
She led the way up the stairs, pausing cautiously at the top step. ”I’m going to turn the light off, just in case,” she said, hitting the switch. Then she slowly eased the door open and peeked around. ”As I said, closed. Nobody’s here.”
They stepped out into the darkened shop. Pia went to the door, peering through the glass. ”I don’t see anyone outside,” she reported. ”No police.”
Pia rattled keys in the locks. ”That’ll do it,” she said. ”We can step out of here, free and clear.”
She swung the door open. A piercing siren went off.
Pia froze. ”What?”
”They gave you all the keys,” Frank said. ”They did not mention the new alarm system.”
He grabbed Pia’s arm and bolted from the door.
”This will draw them,” Joe said as he followed them.
”Draw?” Pia echoed.
”The police. With all of them around, many will answer this call,” Frank explained.
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As if to underline what he said, they heard the not-too-distant sound of sirens.
”Have to get out of here,” Frank said as they rushed along the tree-lined streets. ”Do you have any ideas?”
Pia shook her head. ”We have nowhere else in the neighborhood.”
Frank scowled. ”No place to hide. Can we get back to the crowds?”
Again, Pia shook her head. ”Wisconsin and M streets are behind us. The police are blocking our way.”
”We may as well stop running. It will only call attention to ourselves.”
They slowed their pace to a fast walk. Joe kept glancing over his shoulder. But so far there were no signs of pursuit.
”For once,” he said, ”luck is on our side. Maybe we—”
At that moment, a police cruiser turned the corner three blocks ahead of them. Then it was coming straight at them, slowly, its searchlight playing on both sides of the street.
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Chapter 11
Frank and Joe stared at each other in panic. They had only seconds to come up with a plan. ”Back—into those bushes,” Joe hissed. Frank didn’t even hesitate. He slipped into the shadows.
As the car approached, Joe folded the astonished Pia in his arms, turning her away from the street. He slipped off her glasses and, as the police car came up, started kissing her. They stood that way for a long moment, until the searchlight caught them. Pia jumped away, half-blind and blinking, the picture of surprise.
A policeman leaned out the car window, trying to hide a smile. ”Sorry to bother you, kids. Someone tried to break into a store a couple of blocks back. We’re looking for them. Did anyone come running past you?”
Pia shrank back in fear. But to the policeman
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she just looked embarrassed. Joe was left to answer the question. ”Uh, well, I didn’t see—I mean, I don’t think so,” he said. ”Um, I didn’t notice—”
The policeman’s grin grew broader as he listened to Joe’s fumbling explanation.
”Stop digging yourself in any deeper, kid. I guess you didn’t see anything.”
”I-I thought I saw someone passing,” Pia said timidly. ”I didn’t really look. It could have been a man or a woman. But they were heading in that direction.” She pointed back the way the police car had come.
The policeman nodded. ”Thanks. We’ll get some units over there. And, kids, why don’t you use Lover’s Lane?”
They could hear the cop’s laughter as the car started off down the street. But through the window Joe could see that he was already talking on the radio.
”What have you done?” he asked in a furious whisper. ”The police are already behind us. Now they will be searching ahead of us as well.”
”I-I thought they would turn around and go away,” Pia stammered.
”Your thinking was not right,” Joe muttered. ”As you saw.”
”They are gone?” Frank asked.
Joe looked down into the shadows. With his stained face, Frank was completely camouflaged.
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He grinned at his brother. ”I think pretty fast, no?” he asked.
”That reminds me,” Pia said. She shook Joe’s hand. ”That’s for saving us, Josef.” Then she gave Joe a ringing slap across the face. ”And that’s for trying something like that without asking me.”
Joe rubbed his cheek, while Frank tried his best not to laugh.
”There’s no time for this.” Pia quickly slipped her glasses back on. ”We have to get out of here.”
”But where?” Frank asked. ”Police to the east, police to the west.”
”We go north,” Pia said. She hesitated. ”I have a friend who lives up that way.”
Frank kept a careful poker face, in spite of his excitement. He remembered Pia’s slip earlier. Her ”friend” had the power to change ANWO’s plans. It had to be the Dutchman. But why would the brains behind the hijacking have such an obviously inexperienced contact?
Actually, it made a strange sort of sense. Who would pay much attention to a radical-cause groupie? Pia made the perfect cutout for the Dutchman. And, with luck, she would lead the Hardys to her boss.
They set off along the streets, taking a zigzag route. Sometimes they even circled around blocks. Frank gave Pia a look. ”Are you trying to confuse us?” he asked.
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She shook her head. ”It’s standard procedure. To make sure no one is following us.”
Joe shook his head. ”If anyone was following, we’d already be arrested.”
Pia shrugged but continued with her strange route. Several times, they saw police cars in the distance. None of them ever came close.
After leading them in a circle around the Naval Observatory, Pia looked over her shoulder, still checking to make sure they weren’t being followed. ”Good,” she said. ”Everything’s okay. Now we head down Massachusetts Avenue, across the bridge, and out of Georgetown.”
They were three blocks from the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge when they saw the roadblock.
It was discreet, a couple of police cars off at the side of the road. But it was clear that the cops were checking everyone who crossed that bridge.
”Over,” said Pia, turning abruptly. ”We’ll try the Buffalo Bridge on Q Street.” They walked a block and turned onto Q Street.
The cops were waiting there, too.
Pia stood very still, staring at the collection of police cars. ”They’ll be covering every bridge back into the city, won’t they?” Pia whispered.
”Looks like it,” Joe agreed.
Frank began thinking furiously. ”These bridges?” he said, ”they go over a park as well as Rock Creek.”
”Rock Creek Park,” Pia said.
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Frank remembered crossing the M Street Bridge, farther south. It cut across a ravine with a creek below. ”There was an autobahn—how do you say? A freeway down there, too,” he said. ”We must get over that.”
”What are you saying?” Joe asked.
”We go into the park, climb down to the creek, and cross it,” said Frank.
Pia nodded eagerly. ”We should try it under the P Street Bridge,” she said. ”Someone told me that Washington’s army crossed the creek there, marching down to Yorktown.”
”Good,” said Frank. ”First we must get into the park.”
Getting in wasn’t too difficult—a quick climb over a fence. Getting down to the creek was tough. The ravine walls were steep and heavily overgrown. And the darkness didn’t help.
”Can’t even see where I’m going,” Joe muttered in his brother’s ear. ”This stupid— whoooah!” He slipped on a rock and tore through some bushes.
By the time they finally reached the creek, each of them had a good collection of scratches and scrapes.
”There is the freeway. On the other side of the water,” said Frank, scouting out the territory.
”Yeah. There’s the bridge where it crosses over the creek. So we can follow the creek under the freeway and cross the creek itself.” Pia patted him on the shoulder. ”Good thinking, Franz.”
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Frank grunted noncommittally, ”After we cross the water, then I will be happy.”
”At least there are no police,” said Joe.
”No sense in waiting.” Pia turned to the Hardys. ”Let’s go.”
All three slipped off their shoes and hung them over their necks. Their socks went into their pockets, and they rolled up the legs of their pants.
”Careful,” said Frank. ”Watch your feet.”
They edged into the water. Pia winced. ”Cold.” She shivered.
Frank just grit his teeth and kept moving.
The water was soon up to their knees and slowly crept higher the farther they moved. Even with their jeans rolled, it was obvious that they were going to get soaking wet.
They continued to slosh their way through to the far side. Then, after pausing for a while to let their soggy clothes dry a bit, they put their shoes back on.
”We’re aiming for Sheridan Circle,” Pia said. ”Maybe we can walk beside the freeway and then climb up.”
Frank and Joe just shrugged. The climb down hadn’t been fun. Somehow, they suspected a climb up would be even worse.
Pia led the way through the underbrush, guiding herself by the gleam of headlights on the freeway nearby. Finally, they reached the grassy margin of the freeway.
”Just a couple of blocks now,” Pia said.
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”How high up?” asked Joe. ”We still must climb the ravine.”
”It’s worth it,” Frank whispered. ”At the end of it, we meet the Dutchman. And when we get him . . .”
The brothers caught up with Pia, who had suddenly stopped. Then they saw why.
Parked by the side of the road was a car—a large black car. It looked horribly familiar. So did the man leaning against the fender—their old friend, Roger O’Neill.
They could see the look on his face in the intermittent beams from headlights—the smile they had seen before.
”Well, well, well,” O’Neill said, crossing his arms. ”Now, why did I expect to see you here?”
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Chapter 12
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. How had O’Neill followed them? He must have known about the tunnel. And when the cop reported seeing the kids near the store, he could have added it up and tailed them.
But no more time to wonder; in about three seconds, O’Neill would open his mouth. Pia would find out that they weren’t Franz and Josef, and she’d never lead them to the Dutchman. Even if she informed on her leader, considering O’Neill’s track record, he’d lose the guy. Or worse, he would blow the plan.
There was only one thing to do. Frank stepped forward. ”I do not understand, sir.” He looked pleadingly, desperately, into O’Neill’s eyes. ”We were just walking.”
O’Neill leaned back on the fender. His nasty
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smile only grew larger. ”Yeah. Through the water. Stop giving me this innocent act. I’ve got you, dead.”
He drew himself up, reaching under his jacket for his gun. ”You are under—”
”Schwein!” Joe burst out. If he was going down the tubes, he decided to go down in character.
O’Neill jerked out his .38 Special. ”You little creep!” He swung the pistol up and caught Joe on the side of the head. Joe crumpled to the ground. O’Neill brought the gun around for another blow.
Frank had no choice. He launched off on his right foot, his left foot sweeping up. The high kick caught O’Neill in the forearm, swinging the gun off course.
Twisting around, O’Neill aimed at Frank. But Joe threw himself at the government man’s knees. They both went down in a heap, O’Neill clubbing Joe again.
Frank jumped forward, and O’Neill revealed his own martial-arts training. He launched a snap kick at Frank’s head. This wasn’t a blow meant to stun. It could injure, even kill.
Frank barely saw the foot coming at the side of his head. But O’Neill’s timing was off. There was the briefest hesitation in his attack, and that saved Frank’s life.
He scrambled desperately away, and O’Neill’s heavy shoe just grazed his ear. Frank jumped
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back. As O’Neill regained his feet, the gun came up again, and this time Joe was in no shape to help. Frank tried a desperation play, his right leg sweeping around in a circle to catch O’Neill behind the knees.
The government man toppled to the ground. Frank swung him around, one arm immobilizing O’Neill’s gun hand. His fingers reached for the pressure points in the neck. Seconds later, the agent sagged, unconscious.
Frank felt no triumph. If he had had trouble before, he had major ones now. Breaking and entering—or, rather, exiting—and now attacking a federal officer. If Frank couldn’t free the hostages after all this, he’d probably be better off flying away with the hijackers.
Pia bustled in and frisked the unconscious government man, digging out his wallet. While she withdrew to examine the papers, Joe came over from the car, carrying a couple of pairs of handcuffs. ”We’re in luck,” he whispered. ”The car’s empty.”
Frank shook his head again. ”I’m still not thinking straight. It never even occurred to me to look.”
Joe grinned. ”I think I know why he didn’t want Peterson or his driver around. Looks like O’Neill wanted all the glory for capturing us.”
”Well, I don’t know how this will look on his record.” Frank jerked O’Neill’s wrists behind his
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back and cuffed them. He used the other pair of handcuffs on the government man’s ankles.
”Help me get him in the car,” he whispered to Joe. ”Then we’ve got to get out of here.”
”Right,” said Joe. ”Somebody is sure to report your roadside karate demonstration.”
As the Hardys tucked the government man into the backseat of the car, Pia reappeared with O’Neill’s ID in one hand and his gun in the other.
”U.S. Espionage Resources,” she said flatly, bringing up the gun. ”He deserves to die.”
”No time,” Frank said quickly, smacking the barrel with the flat of his hand, forcing it down. ”We must get out of here. And a shot will make more people remember us.”
He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the pistol, taking it from Pia. ”No fingerprints,” he said. Then he took the wallet. ”And no identification.”
Winding up, he flung both gun and wallet far off into the underbrush. ”Now, we climb.”
The ascent up the other side of the ravine was a nightmare. Now gravity was against them, and they were already tired. They were covered with sweat by the time they reached the top. Frank’s face showed thin streaks of white where the sweat had cleaned away some of the ground-in dirt.
Just as they reached the top, the scream of Police sirens cut the air. They looked down to see three cruisers pull up beside the black car.
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”You were right,” Pia told Frank. ”We had to get out of there.”
”And now we must get out of here,” Frank said, agreeing. ”Where do we go?”
”We’re almost there,” Pia said. ”Follow me.”
She led the way out of the park, cutting around a large house. ”The Turkish Embassy,” she said. ”Good. Here’s Sheridan Circle.”
They stepped onto the street and saw a large open space before them. In the center was a bronze statue—the Civil War general Sheridan on his horse, leaning back and swinging his cap as if to rally his troops.
”Which way?” asked Joe.
”Around the general,” Pia answered with a grin. She seemed very sure of herself as she led them past houses—more like mansions—around the circle. Frank saw lots of brass plaques.
”This is the south end of Embassy Row,” Pia explained as they passed the buildings. ”Romania, Ireland, Guatemala, Cyprus—”
”All next door to one another,” Joe whispered. Frank gave him a look, telling him to knock off the commentary.
”The house we’re heading for isn’t quite so large,” Pia explained. ”But it is connected to one of the embassies.” Her eyes became guarded once again. ”The person we’re going to see has powerful friends.”
I’ll bet, thought Frank, wondering which country was willing to help the Dutchman in America.
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He had no time for other thoughts. Pia had darted down another street and stopped in front of a house that didn’t look like a mansion—at least, not a very rich mansion.
She ran right up to the front door and pressed the bell. Even though the windows were dark, the door was opened immediately—as if she were expected.
Standing framed in the oversize doorway was a short, pudgy man in a sweater too large for him. His forehead was high, fringed with thinning blond hair. He had fat round cheeks, like Santa Claus, but they weren’t a healthy pink. They were pale, sallow, almost yellowish. He had the look of a man who spent too much time indoors.
Quickly, he beckoned them in, then shut the door. His lips were curled in a smile, but jowls sagged at the sides of his face, pulling the smile down. His nose was short, and his glasses slid to the tip of it. His chin was weak, too small for the cheeks and jowls.
But his eyes were sharp, a sparkling blue. They darted from Pia to the Hardys as he laughed. ”Ah, Pia, my poor, poor dear. You look as though you’ve been playing in the mud.” He glanced again at Frank and Joe. ”And who have you been playing with?”
”Franz, Josef,” she said, ”meet—Karl.”
Those sharp eyes took in Frank and Joe again. ”Franz? Josef?” He started speaking to them
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rapidly in a guttural language. German? Dutch? Frank couldn’t tell.
Pia touched his sleeve, looking hurt. ”I don’t understand what you’re saying. And didn’t we agree? All members of the cause will speak English.”
”Ah,” said Karl. ”But I did not know I was speaking to members of the cause.” His eyes narrowed behind his heavy lenses. ”Which is strange. I thought I knew everyone in the cause.”
Frank kept his face carefully blank, hiding his excitement. They must be very close to the Dutchman now. This guy would have to be a special lieutenant. Maybe the guy they were looking for was right in this house!
”Lonnie had just recruited them,” Pia explained.
”Lonnie is under arrest.” Karl sounded as if he were having just an ordinary conversation, but both Frank and Joe noticed that his right hand had not left the pocket of his sweater. They knew he had a gun in there.
”I know,” said Pia. ”They came and warned me. Otherwise, I’d have been arrested, too!” She raised her arms, showing off her bedraggled state. ”Why do you think we look like this? We’ve been on the run!”
Karl’s hand almost came out of his pocket. ”You were followed here?” His accent became much stronger all of a sudden.
Pia shook her head. ”We gave them the slip
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But we had to wade across Rock Creek. And on the other side, a government agent was waiting! Franz took him out.” She smiled and gave Frank an admiring gaze. In fact, Frank realized with embarrassment, it was more than admiring.
”He knocked the guy out and left him tied up in his car. Then we came here.” Pia turned all business again, looking at Karl. ”I think we’ve finally found just the people we need for the reinforcement action.”
Karl smiled. ”I believe you may be right,” he said to Pia. His right hand finally came out of his pocket—empty. He rubbed it against his other hand with a dry, rasping sound. ”But you must think I am a terrible host. Please wash up, and I will get you something to drink. Then we will discuss business, yes?”
* * *
Frank left the bathroom feeling one hundred percent better. His clothes were still damp from the trip across the creek, but at least he was clean. He had managed to remove all the dirt from his face.
He followed the scent of brewed coffee into the kitchen. It was a large room, with a huge, round oak table in the middle. Frank’s stomach rumbled when he saw a silver tray piled high with thick sandwiches. Beside it were cans of soda and cups for coffee.
But the wooden chairs around the table were empty. Frank stood by one of them, hesitating.
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Should he try to find the others? He sat down. Joe could take care of himself. And he wanted a look at the papers piled beside the tray.
He spread out a wide, rolled-up piece of paper and gasped. It was a plan of the airport. Marked in red was the area around Gate 61. The outline of an airliner had been inked in there. The International Airways jet!
Also on the map were arrows and notes in blue. They seemed to lead back to one of the hangars.
”Look at him!” A voice cut through Frank’s puzzled thoughts. ”He takes so long, I have to give a tour of the house to entertain you. Then he sneaks into the kitchen. But does he look at the food? No! He looks at the papers!”
Karl laughed heartily as he led Pia and Joe into the kitchen. ”So? Do you like my plans? I worked very hard on them, I assure you.”
Frank stared up in astonishment. Karl’s last three words rang in his head. The same words— the same voice—as the faceless figure on the videotape. Frank couldn’t believe it. This was the mysterious Dutchman? This pudgy little accountant type? Somehow, Frank had expected someone more polished, more sinister—more young. He dropped the papers and stared.
But the Dutchman stared in equal surprise when he saw Frank cleaned up.
”You aren’t a Franz,” the Dutchman rasped. ”You’re a Frank! Frank Hardy. I saw the tape
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that Gustave shot on television! You have a girl on the plane.”
He straight-armed Joe, sending him staggering against the table. Then he whipped out a Walther pistol from his sweater pocket. ”You may have found your way here, but you’ll never leave. Not alive!”
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Chapter 13
The shock of having his cover blown might have stunned even a professional into a fatal paralysis. But Frank Hardy was moving even as Karl brought his gun up. He kicked his chair away and dropped under the table as flame flashed from the muzzle of the Walther. A bullet whistled through the space where he’d been sitting an instant before.
Frank hit the floor. ”Missed me—Dutchman.”
Hearing his professional name shocked Karl into a second’s hesitation. But he could afford it. He was holding a gun with twenty shots against a boy with no weapon at all.
Yet it was the unarmed boy who used that hesitation to launch an attack. Bracing his feet under the edge of the big kitchen table, Frank heaved, making the whole table tilt. Then it fell
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over with a crash, bouncing on the floor, scattering food and drink all over the kitchen.
The Dutchman jumped back in alarm, squeezing off a shot into the falling table. A nine-millimeter bullet tore through the oak of the tabletop. It passed over Frank’s head. Close, but not close enough. Karl couldn’t see where to aim.
He never got a chance for another try.
Frank pivoted around, using the table itself as his weapon. He shoved his shoulder into the tabletop and wrapped his arm around its pedestal. Joe had also dropped to the floor and behind the tabletop. He realized what Frank was up to and reached over to give him a hand. Together, they launched the table like a giant battering ram.
The Dutchman had lost the advantage. He was waving his gun, trying to decide where to shoot, when the table seemed to attack him. It caught him head-on, smashed into him, and sent him sprawling backward.
Karl hit the floor hard, arms and legs flailing. The gun left his hand, skittering across the shiny kitchen floor like a stone skipped across a lake.
But Frank hadn’t finished yet. Rising to his feet, he braced himself and kicked the table again. The tabletop flew over and landed on the horrified Karl. He had time only to scream a few curses. His hands had automatically shot up to brace against the weight. He wasn’t hurt, but he Was trapped for a few precious moments.
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Frank went to get the Walther, but it had skidded to a stop in front of Pia, who stood frozen in the doorway. She snapped out of her daze, crouched, and picked up the gun.
Events had moved too fast for her. The pistol wavered in her hand, as if she didn’t quite know where to point it.
Gambling, Frank took a step toward her, reaching out with his hand. ”Come on, Pia, give me the gun.”
”No!” The word came like an explosion from the trapped Dutchman. He grunted, trying to shove the table off himself. ”Shoot. Kill them both. Then we leave.”
Blinking in astonishment, Pia still hesitated. She was obviously having a hard time thinking of Franz and Josef, the allies who had warned her and helped in her escape from the police, as enemies.
Frank took another step. He was almost within grabbing range.
But Pia finally made up her mind. Her slack face tightened up, and she swung the gun to cover him. ”You tricked me!” she cried, her voice a shrill scream. ”You pretended to be helping me, but all the time you were using me to get to Karl.”,
Frank stood still, just a little too far from the gun to try anything.
”You were working with the police all along,
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weren’t you? Pretending to be recruits to the cause.” She glared across the room at Joe. ”I thought you were so smart, tricking those cops in Georgetown. But it wasn’t so hard, was it? The same way it wasn’t so hard for you to beat that Espionage Resources man by the freeway.”
Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a snarl. ”It was good acting. But I bet he lay right down for you. I’m only sorry now I didn’t shoot him. That would have surprised him. But no, you stopped me. Of course you would, if you were working together.”
It almost made Frank laugh. Pia thought the whole horrible journey had been a setup. If only she knew!
But Pia went on, her voice growing shriller. ”When I think that I worried about you when that tunnel caved in, when you fought—you made me like you!” She almost spat the word out. ”And all the time you had another girl.” If she had had a crush on him before, it was all over then. She was working herself into a fury—a murderous fury.
”Pia!” The Dutchman had finally wormed his way out from under the table. Sitting up, he glared at her, ignoring Joe. He knew he was safe. Joe couldn’t make a move before Pia shot him.
But the Dutchman also wanted the gun in his hands. He got to his feet and walked to Pia, being careful not to get in her line of fire. ”I will take care of these two. Give me the gun.”
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For a second, Pia looked rebellious. But all Karl had to do was repeat her name again, more sternly. He was, after all, the leader. And she was his follower. He edged forward, confidently extending his hand.
That was when Joe grabbed the full can of soda lying on the floor and threw it at the back of the terrorist’s head.
The Dutchman went down like dead weight. Pia stared for an instant, then turned her gun on Joe.
Frank leaped forward, his hand sweeping down like a blade.
The gun went off, but it was pointing at the floor. The recoil and Frank’s blow jarred the pistol from Pia’s hand. It clattered to the floor.
But Pia wasn’t finished. With a howl, she dropped to the floor, scrambling for the gun. Frank tried to grab her, but she twisted free. Pia’s elbow caught him in the side of the head—not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to slow him down.
She stretched desperately, snatching up the gun. Still shaky, Frank jumped on her, pinning the wrist of her gun hand to the floor. She flailed under him, her free hand smacking against him, one knee thumping against his ribs.
But Frank wasn’t about to be distracted. His fingers were clamping on the pressure points in her neck. She managed one convulsive shudder before she sagged back, unconscious.
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Frank scooped up the pistol, then stood up. ”She’ll be in dreamland for a few minutes at least—time enough to find something to tie her up with. How is our friend Karl?”
”He’ll wake up with a good-sized bump on the back of his head, but that’s about it,” said Joe, carefully examining the unconscious terrorist leader. ”Hard to believe he’s the big cheese. Somehow I kept expecting more muscles.”
Frank shook his head. ”When you have brains, you don’t need muscles. You just recruit young, strong, desperate people to follow your plans. If they go wrong, the recruits die. So what? They are expendable.”
His fists clenched. ”Lots of innocent people die, too—the ones who happen to be walking past when a bomb explodes, those trapped on the airplanes that get hijacked ...”
Joe nodded grimly. ”And if a plan goes well, slugs like Karl step out from the shadows and become heroes of the movement—whatever the movement happens to be.” He looked down at the Dutchman. ”Well, we’ve got him now. The question is, what do we do with him?”
* * *
Half an hour later, the captives were lying tied up on the living-room floor. Joe had robbed the stereo system of wire to bind their wrists and ankles. He had also found some rags to gag them with.
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Pia came to first. They could hear her make faint, muffled noises, almost drowned out by the sound of a transistor radio. Then the Dutchman opened his eyes, glaring at them silently.
Frank got up from the couch and turned the radio off. ”We’ve been listening to the news. The same reports, over and over again. Nothing’s changed at the airport.” He sat down again, spreading out the papers he had retrieved from the kitchen. The plans hadn’t gone through the fight unscathed. There were mayonnaise stains, a big blotch where the coffee had spilled, and a bullet hole in one corner.
Joe had been more interested in finding an undamaged sandwich than looking at the plans. Frank had only nibbled on his sandwich as he read.
For about the fifth time, Joe got up and checked the street outside. Frank didn’t even look up. ”If anybody had heard shots, the cops would have been here by now.” He grinned, rattling the papers. ”Nobody else is coming to visit. Our friend here left strict orders. No contact while the operation went down.”
He walked over to the Dutchman, knelt, and loosened his gag. ”You left that order, didn’t you?”
”Even the best plans go wrong.” He sounded like a college professor commenting on a disappointing experiment.
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”This changes nothing, you know,” he continued in that same calm voice. ”We’ve already accomplished our major objective—disrupting the counterterrorism seminar. The ransom would be useful, but it is not important. And the prisoners we wanted freed . . .” He shrugged. ”They are not really part of our organization. That was merely misdirection. I was much more interested in getting your antiterrorism experts out of Europe. Too much cooperation between countries would hamper my cause.”
”But if your main target was the seminar, why seize the plane?” Joe demanded. ”Why not attack the conference rooms, where your enemies really are?”
The Dutchman smiled. ”You are very direct, my young friend. There are other ways to destroy an enemy. Instead of making martyrs of the men at the seminar, I hurt them far worse by making them seem ineffectual under the cameras of your own media. A true victory.”
”Victory!” said Joe. ”You’re lying on the floor, tied up. Reinforcements can never reach the plane to relieve the hijackers. And you’re acting as if you’ve won!”
”I have won,” the Dutchman said, still calm. ”My people on the plane will continue to carry out my plan—without reinforcements. Of course, when they don’t appear, Lars and Habib will become nervous. I cannot be responsible for their actions in that heightened state.”
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Frank turned away abruptly. The Dutchman laughed.
”I know that your father is a detective—an ex-policeman. You play by the rules.” He made the word sound like a joke.
”Oh yeah,” Joe burst out. ”You guys don’t have to worry about rules. You just kill off anybody who gets in your way. Even if they don’t get in your way. What do they say? ’Kill one, frighten a hundred’?” The muscles on his jaw stood out.
”So, you can’t do anything to me, can you?” The Dutchman mocked him. ”If you do, you’ll be no better than I.”
Frank swooped down and silenced him with the gag. ”Don’t push your luck,” he warned.
”I don’t know why we’re wasting our time listening to this creep,” said Joe. ”We ought to be doing something. I mean, I don’t want to get you upset or anything, but Callie is still stuck on that plane. And time is running out.” He glanced over at the Dutchman. ”I figure we’ll pack him into a car and head for the airport—”
”Where the cops will take him off our hands as soon as we reach the outside gates.” Frank finished for Joe grimly. ”And then the negotiators will negotiate, and the terrorists will demand that our side set him free. Because if we don’t, they’ll kill all the people on the plane.”
The Dutchman’s eyes changed as he listened
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to them. Frank suspected that if they took the gag off, he’d be laughing.
Standing over his captive, Frank looked at his brother. ”You know,” he said, ”maybe he has a point. If we want to save those people, we’ll have to forget the rules.”
He spread out the plans of the airport. ”The red lines and notes show his plan for taking over the jetliner. He really did it with only two guys. Nobody else is hiding on the plane.”
Then he pointed to the blue lines and notes. ”And here is his plan to get reinforcements aboard. In a little while, the guys on the plane are going to demand a van full of food. And these notes outline how to sneak into the airport and take over that van.”
Frank glanced at his watch. ”We’ve got time, but we should start getting ready. There are supplies—guns and stuff—hidden here in the house for this run. But there are some preparations we’ll have to make that aren’t noted down here.” He smiled grimly. ”For instance, that little souvenir you got from Lonnie—the handful of CN —will come in handy.”
He started writing a list on a piece of paper. ”Here are the supplies we’ll need. I saw car keys on a rack in the kitchen. There’s probably a car in the garage. Try to find an all-night store and get what we need. I’ll stay and keep our host company.”
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Joe jumped to his feet. ”At last I get some action!” he said.
Frank smiled. ”And I have a plan. Or should I say”—he glanced over at the beet-red Dutchman—”he has a plan.”
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Chapter 14
Callie Shaw glanced at her watch—hours since the terrorists had taken over the plane. For about the four-hundredth time, she tried to close -her eyes and rest. And once again, it didn’t work. She sighed and wished she hadn’t. The air in the plane was so thick, it was like trying to inhale molasses. Hot molasses.
With the air-conditioning off, the inside of the jet had quickly heated up. Even now, at night, the interior of the plane had not cooled off. Washington’s hot spring weather had made things just about unbearable.
Callie normally would have hated the idea of fainting. But she began to yearn for the chance to faint so she could escape. She glanced around the plane. Some of the older people were really looking bad.
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Pauline Fox’s TV look was melting away across the aisle from her. Her hairdo had turned into individual limp strands, and all her makeup had sweated off. She just looked tired, terrified, and worn out—she looked like everybody else on the plane.
The two hijackers were feeling the heat as well. Even the icy Lars was beginning to wilt. He had taken off his jacket and tie. Habib had his shirt unbuttoned all the way down the front, and his shirttails were hanging out of his pants.
Once an hour, the hijackers had been allowing the flight attendants to serve water, one row at a time. They had also allowed people to go to the rest rooms, one every fifteen minutes. Otherwise, no one was allowed into the aisle—on pain of death.
Pauline Fox had filled Callie in on what had happened in the outside world up to the time of her own capture, whispering in short bursts while Lars and Habib weren’t near. Callie had found it especially interesting that the hijackers had made no effort to deal with police or government negotiators. And certainly in the time that followed, Lars and Habib hadn’t done any negotiating.
”If anything is going on,” she had whispered, ”it’s not being handled from here. Somebody outside must be cutting the deals.”
But as the hours dragged on, Callie found it harder and harder to think of a world outside the plane. Her universe had shrunk to a seat, the
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heat, the damp, and the odors. If Lars and Habib start shooting, they may be doing us a favor, she found herself thinking.
Finally, Lars made an announcement. ”We have been here a long time, and I know you are hungry and thirsty. When we took over this aircraft, I told the attendants to turn off the ovens that heat the meals.” He paused for a moment to give them an icy smile. ”We did not need more heat.”
Callie had to agree with that.
”Now we will ask the negotiators outside for food—sandwiches and cold drinks.”
Involuntarily, the captives let loose a heartfelt ”Ahh.”
Lars looked almost human as he smiled again. ”Soon a van will come with these items. I will ask for them now. Habib will guard you.” His smile disappeared. ”I need not remind you to remain quietly in your seats.”
He certainly didn’t have to remind them of what would happen if they didn’t. Habib stood in the back of the cabin, his machine gun ready.
Lars pulled his mask over his head and went outside to negotiate for food. He returned looking very pleased with himself. ”The food will be here within the hour.”
Now that they had something to look forward to, all of them were sneaking peeks at their wristwatches. But the time moved so slowly that Callie soon grew bored.
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Anyway, she was far more interested in the reactions of the hijackers. They were excited. Habib especially seemed to glance at his watch constantly.
Callie began to wonder. These guys aren’t charged up about getting a ham sandwich and a root beer. Something else is going on here.
She looked over at Pauline Fox, who had also come alive in her seat. The newswoman was very interested, too. But when Callie looked at her and raised her eyebrows, Pauline could only answer with a shrug.
As snack time approached, Callie found herself getting more and more nervous. The terrorists were doing something nice for their captives. Why were they acting so out of character? Callie was convinced that whatever would happen, it would probably be bad. Not that she’d be able to do anything about it, though. The hijackers would be able to spread poison on every sandwich, and she wouldn’t be able to get up and stop them. Or maybe she would. Dying from a bullet would at least be faster.
Then she was rudely shaken from her thoughts by Habib, who was walking down the aisle with a big bag, stopping at every seat. ”We be nice to you, you help us. Money. Jewelry. You put it all in the bag, please.”
Please. He walks down the aisle with a bag in one hand and a gun in the other, and he says please.
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The man by the window in Callie’s row dug out his wallet, pulling out a fat wad of bills. He passed them to the woman next to him, who took bills out of her purse, slipped off a gold ring, and handed the pile to Callie.
Reaching into her own pocket, Callie pulled out the money she had brought along. It wasn’t much—she had left most of her money with Mr. Hardy. She had planned to hit the shops in Georgetown.
”That’s all?” Habib said.
Callie nodded.
Habib pointed with his gun at the man. ”You have a gold watch.”
The man’s face turned the color of dough as he quickly stripped the watch off. His hand trembled as he passed it over.
Then Habib looked critically at Callie. ”Nice chain,” he said.
Callie fingered the silver filigree chain she was wearing. Frank had given it to her when they had started going out. She wore it every day. It had cost Frank good money, but she knew it really wasn’t very valuable. For a second, Callie thought of arguing. But she looked at Habib’s gun and the bag he was shaking impatiently.
She sighed and started to slip it over her head.
”Achh,” growled Habib. He grabbed the chain and yanked it off her throat, breaking it. He shoved it into the bag and went on to the next seat.
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Callie stared after him, fingering the welt at her neck. If I get the chance, I’ll make him pay for that, she promised herself.
”Stop. They’re coming.” Lars’s voice was actually showing emotion. Why was he getting so excited over a food delivery?
Lars went into the first-class cabin, positioning himself to cover the door. Habib covered the passengers again.
They could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the access ladder.
”We bring tidings of the new day!” a voice called up.
”Then hurry the dawn!” Lars called back.
Callie blinked. A recognition code? Her heart chilled. The deli very men must be reinforcements for the terrorists! How had they gotten past all the cops and guards outside?
Two men in gray coveralls came in, bent under the weight of a huge box.
”You heard? They knew the code!” Lars’s face split in a big smile.
”Comrades! Brothers!” cried Habib.
The two newcomers put down the box, opening it. Then they stood, with machine guns of their own in their hands. ”Yeah, right,” said the blondhaired one, who turned to face Habib.
Callie froze in her seat. It was Joe Hardy!
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Chapter 15
Frank Hardy hoped that the smile on his face didn’t look as phony as it felt. Every muscle in his body was strained to the bursting point. He kept one hand in his pocket, clutching his secret weapon.
”You brought more weapons and ammunition?” asked Lars.
Frank nodded to the blond terrorist.
”Any food?” asked Habib.
”Everything,” said Frank.
”We think you’ll especially like this. It’s a surprise.” Joe Hardy stood by the box of supplies and reached deep inside. He hauled up the Dutchman, bound and gagged, with an assembly of electronic equipment strapped to his chest.
The whole plane became silent as the two
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terrorists gawked at their leader, stunned to see him brought so low.
Lars turned to face Frank Hardy. His face was at its most dangerous—totally devoid of emotion. But his eyes glittered with menace, and his fingers were white around the grip of his Uzi. ”Your government has made a great mistake,” he said.
”Oh, we’re not government guys,” Frank admitted cheerfully. ”This is a strictly free-lance job.”
”Even more foolish.” The muzzle of Lars’s gun inched up.
Frank didn’t move his gun. Instead, he just held out his fist. Barely visible was a small remote-control device, about the size of a disposable cigarette lighter. Frank’s thumb was over a small stud at the top.
”I hear you guys know all about bombs,” he said. ”So I guess you’ll know a detonator when you see one. But maybe you haven’t looked at your boss too carefully. You ought to check out the jewelry he’s wearing.’’
Lars and Frank locked eyes. ”Do it,” Frank suggested. ”Before you do something stupid.”
Silently, Lars walked over to the Dutchman. The head terrorist had been bound so that he had absolutely no freedom of movement. Each of his wrists was securely bound to one of his thighs. Strapped to his chest was a mass of electronics hardware. Wires led up to his mouth. Dribbling
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from his lips was just the faintest trace of grayish yellow plasticine. . . .
Lars’s eyes went wide.
”You do recognize it, don’t you?” Frank asked. ”Yes, it’s CN. Used to belong to your friend Lonnie. He showed us his getaway bomb— before we took him down. We saved a little bit, though. Enough, say, to blow a man’s head off.”
Frank and Lars locked gazes again, both their faces grim. ”Don’t kid yourself,” Frank said softly. ”If I have to, I’ll push the button.”
Lars stepped away from the Dutchman, his face slowly going pale with the realization of what the Hardys had done. ”And you call us terrorists,” he whispered.
”Actually, he was the one who gave us the idea,” Frank said, nodding at the Dutchman. ”He said we’d never beat you by following the rules. So we decided to take a page from your book—where anything is allowed.”
”Yeah,” said Joe. ”You’ve got everybody aboard this plane sitting on top of a bomb. So don’t go complaining because we didn’t treat your boss with kid gloves.”
Lars glared, but his gun went down from firing position.
Frank nodded. ”Now, that’s being reasonable. And I can be reasonable, too. I offer you a trade. My detonator for yours. Your boss’s life for the briefcase bomb.” He grinned without any humor in his eyes. ”And I don’t want to rush you, but I
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want it now. It shouldn’t be so hard to make up your mind. I hear you guys make split-second decisions about human life all the time.”
Lars glanced over at Habib, then at the Dutchman. Frank held his breath. This was the big gamble. He knew that the two hijackers were willing to die for the Dutchman. But would they sacrifice their own leader? Frank didn’t think so—and he was risking his life on that hunch.
He knew that if the Dutchman could speak, he’d order his people to take out the whole plane. But the Dutchman had his mouth full right then.
Slowly, unwillingly, Lars’s hand crept into his shirt pocket. He drew out a detonator that was almost a twin to the one Frank held.
”Good,” said Frank. ”Put it on the floor. And I’ll put mine down.”
They crouched to deposit the killer buttons, staring at each other, fingers on the triggers of their guns. This was the crucial part. If Lars got hold of both detonators, Frank and Joe would die. And Lars was convinced that the same would happen to him and Habib if Frank got both detonators.
”Okay.” Frank’s voice grew tighter as he gave the last instructions for the exchange. ”Now we stand. Both of us step away from the detonators.” They moved away. ”Now, on the count of three, we pick up the one we want. One—two— three!”
Both of them pounced. Frank snatched up the
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small electrical component, holding it tightly in his hand. He had done it! He had pulled the terrorists’ fangs! This was their main threat to the airliner, and now it was neutralized. He almost went limp with relief, but still he kept a sharp eye on Lars.
”No!” Everyone’s eyes shifted to Habib, who was backing up the aisle, his gun leveled at the group at the front of the plane—Frank, Joe, the Dutchman, and Lars. ”We need the bomb,” he said. ”Our guns are not enough. Only the threat of the bomb will keep the policemen away.”
He stared at Frank, sighting down his weapon. ”You will put the detonator down,” Habib said, almost parroting Frank’s earlier instructions. ”Then you will step away.”
Frank opened his hand, studying the detonator for a long moment.
”Drop it, I say!” The ragged edge to Habib’s voice was far more convincing than the volume he used.
Shrugging, Frank turned his hand, letting the detonator fall.
Passengers gasped or screamed as they saw the instrument of their destruction drop to the floor. Even Habib flinched, drawing back from the halfexpected explosion.
When Habib jumped, his gun no longer covered the group. Frank used that second to complete phase two of his movement. He stomped on the detonator, crushing its radio microcircuits. Then
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he dove for the floor, praying that Joe would take his lead.
Habib shrieked in fury, triggering his Uzi. The hammering of rapid fire drowned him out as his bullets tore first into the ceiling, then sprayed randomly around the cabin. It also masked the cries of the passengers. They huddled on the floor as wild shots whizzed overhead.
Habib wasn’t even aiming. He just swung his gun around in a wide arc, holding the trigger down. His fire was wild, the gun staying at shoulder height, sometimes rising above his head. Everyone on the plane had hit the floor, even the Dutchman. Somehow, Lars had pulled over the box that held the bound leader before the bullets started flying. Then he dove for cover.
Even though Habib’s bullets had missed all human targets, they did do tremendous damage. The wild shots tore through the thin metal walls of the plane. They smashed lights, throwing sparks and fragments. And they shattered window after window.
Finally, Habib’s forty-round clip ran out. He stood in the aisle, blinking in the sudden silence. The screaming had stopped. Only whimpers and a few terrified moans carried through the air.
Lying flat on the floor, Joe made some desperate calculations. Did he dare try a shot back at the terrorist? No, he didn’t dare. Habib was standing right in the middle of the passengers.
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Any off-target shot might hit an innocent bystander. What if a stray bullet hit Callie?
If only he could run down there and take this guy on hand to hand. He’d beat him to a pulp!
But Habib was too far away. Before Joe could get halfway down the aisle, the terrorist would have the new clip in. Then it would be Joe who’d end up dead.
Joe sighed. He was still angry, but he wasn’t stupid.
A new sound entered the airplane—the scream of sirens outside. Blinking red lights sparkled through the windows where Habib’s bullets had torn through the shades and glass.
Habib ran down the aisle, hosing down the windows again with a new clip. ”Stay away, police!” he screamed out the windows. By the time he was finished, the whole starboard side of the plane had lost all its windows. They seemed to explode as Habib’s bullets hit them, flying outward in a hail of fragments.
Frank Hardy held his breath. What if the cops outside started firing back? They could leave the whole plane looking like Swiss cheese. He desperately wished he had seen Callie before this all started happening. But before everything started, he hadn’t had time to look. And now—well, if he stuck his head out, he’d probably get it blown off. Not that there’d be anything to see. All the passengers were hugging the floor. Even Habib’s fellow hijacker was sprawled on the ground. Still,
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he’d like to see Callie, even if it was one last time—
The gunshots ended again—early, it seemed to Frank. He risked a quick peek, to find Habib muttering in his native tongue and smashing at the bolt on his Uzi. His gun had jammed!
Frank swung up, bringing his own gun to bear. Habib caught the motion and hurled his gun at Frank’s head. While Frank ducked, Habib dug something out of the pocket of his pants.
He held it up before him in both hands. Frank froze. A grenade!
Habib’s right thumb gripped the grenade, holding the handle in. His left thumb was hooked through the ring of the firing pin. One jerk, and the grenade would be armed. If he opened his right hand, the handle would fly off, the timer would begin, and ten seconds later the grenade would explode.
Frank shuddered to think of what the storm of shrapnel would do in an enclosed space.
Habib slowly walked forward, his eyes wide, madness behind them. ”You destroyed our bomb. But I brought a bomb of my own, you see?” He actually had a smile on his face as he talked to Frank. ”Now you, Mr. American Tough Guy, you get to die.” Habib laughed wildly.
Right then, he passed Callie’s seat. She wasn’t in it, of course. Like everyone aboard the plane, she was crouched on the floor. And because she
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was a weak, nonthreatening woman, she was on the aisle.
From her vantage point, she couldn’t see what Habib had in his hand. All she knew was that Habib had a weapon and that he was threatening Frank. So, as Habib came past, she did the only thing she could think of.
She tripped Habib.
His hands thrust out wildly as he lost his balance. The pin tore loose from the grenade and went flying. Habib managed to keep his grip on the grenade as he toppled forward, his eyes wide with terror.
Frank dashed forward as Habib hit the floor. The grenade was armed and trapped under the terrorist’s body!
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Chapter 16
Habib lay motionless on the floor. He didn’t even tremble. He was paralyzed with terror.
Frank Hardy was the only one who moved. He sprinted down the aisle of the airplane, dropping to his knees and skidding the last few feet. Before he had even stopped, he was flipping Habib over.
Frank took a long, deep breath of relief when he saw Habib’s hand still tightly clenched around the grenade. ”Okay,” he said, reaching out his hand. ”Just loosen up a bit. Give me that thing.”
It was as though Habib hadn’t even heard. He didn’t move. He just lay where he was, glassy-eyed.
Frank took Habib’s fist. The fingers wouldn’t budge. He could break the grip if he broke the hand. But that wouldn’t help much. If the handle
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got loose, the bomb would be armed and ready to blast in seconds.
And even if he got the grenade with the handle still down, what would he do with it? Frank looked at the shape in Habib’s hand. How weird to think that this small object, hardly larger than a baseball, could destroy the whole plane. Yet with the pin in, it was completely harmless.
That made up Frank’s mind. The first thing to do was find the firing pin. With that back in, he could take the grenade from Habib.
Apparently, Habib realized what Frank was doing. That was when he came out of his funk. He gave Frank the grenade—right in the head, still clutched in his right fist.
It was a glancing blow, but hard enough to stun.
Frank reeled back, trying to blink away the jagged bolts of lightning that flashed before his eyes. Habib would be coming at him, trying to catch him while he was helpless.
The light show cleared enough to reveal a shadowy figure leaping at Frank, his arm raised for another blow. If he stayed where he was, Habib would probably nail him—permanently. In desperation, Frank threw himself forward at the figure.
They crashed into each other in the middle of the aisle, both on their knees now. Frank tried
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for a tackle to knock Habib down. He failed. Habib shoved him back, trying to butt Frank.
His forehead crashed into Frank’s shoulder. They grappled together, Habib still flailing his right arm, trying to slug Frank with the grenade again.
Frank found himself fighting at a tremendous disadvantage. Habib had a wonderful weapon for trying to brain him. But even if Frank managed to disarm Habib, the live grenade would kill everyone on the plane.
They swayed back and forth in the aisle, lurching around as they tried to throw each other off balance. Then Habib sent them both crashing into one of the seats. Frank hit an armrest and lost his hold. Habib leaned back for a final blow, triumph on his face.
But that look soon turned to one of total shock and surprise. He made a horrible choking noise. Kneeling behind Habib, her face white and serious, was Callie. In her hands was the leather belt she had been wearing. But now Habib was wearing it—around his neck.
He tried hard to turn around, but Callie had a knee in his back. She tightened the belt, and instinctively both of Habib’s hands went to his throat.
The grenade fell to the floor and bounced. The handle flew off. It was armed!
Frank darted forward, scooping up the bomb. It was no longer a question of putting the pin
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back in. There was just one crying need—to get the grenade off the plane. The seconds were ticking away. Frank rose to his feet, hurling the grenade out the nearest broken window. He didn’t even have time to see what—or who—was out there.
”Watch out! Grenade!” he yelled, hoping the cops would be keeping pretty far away. They must have been pretty confused by then about what was happening on board the jetliner.
The blast from outside was far away, but it still shook the plane. Frank paid no attention. He still had a job to take care of. Pivoting around, he threw a karate blow at Habib. He was just in time. The hijacker had managed to squirm around to grab at Callie. The blow landed with devastating force. Frank was through playing around with this guy, especially since his metallic hot potato was gone.
The blow tore Habib away from Callie. The terrorist caromed into one of the seats, then bounced off to hit the floor.
Frank dropped to his knees to pick Habib up. As he fell, a new volley of bullets flew over his head. Frank turned to see Lars whipping his Uzi around one-handed as Joe dropped to the floor for cover. With his free hand, the terrorist dragged the bound figure of the Dutchman, and they retreated into the first-class cabin.
Once again, everyone hugged the floor until the two terrorists were out of sight. But Frank was
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busy even as the bullets flew. He threw a choke hold on Habib —this one wasn’t getting away. The hijacker thrashed for a few seconds. But as the shooting stopped, his body dropped like a deflated balloon. The Hardys may have lost two of the bad guys, but the third was definitely out of the game.
Joe stood up, his face twisted in a scowl. ”Real cute. He fired low enough to keep me from interfering with him and just high enough to reward me for being a good boy.”
Frank nodded. He knew that if Joe had tried to stop Lars, the terrorist would have aimed low, killing Joe and probably maiming dozens of innocent passengers.
”At least we’ve got them now,” Joe said. ”They’re trapped in the nose of the plane. They know that if they try coming back here again, they’ll be walking into our guns. If they try to get off the plane—well, that’s what all those cops outside are waiting for.”
Frank nodded. ”They’ve got big problems. This plane is going nowhere, and they’re about to lose their hostages.”
A babble of noise erupted from the crowd of passengers.
”What do you mean?” A woman’s voice cut across the noise.
Frank turned to her, staring for a second. Then he realized why she looked familiar. Despite the
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stringy hair and the bags under her eyes, this was Pauline Fox.
”The hijackers control the front hatch of the plane,” he explained. ”That’s where passengers usually get on or off. But there are escape hatches in the tail.”
”They could shoot us as we get off!” the newswoman said.
”We’ll call to the cops first,” said Frank. ”Tell them what’s going on in here. Then they can lay cover fire on the nose of the plane—keep the terrorists’ heads down until everyone is off and safe. But first things first.”
Frank looked down at Habib, lying at his feet. ”We need something to tie this guy up with.” He turned to his brother. ”And we need somebody to cover that front doorway. Joe, that’s a job for you and your gun. See if you can find stuff to make a barricade. Everyone else, go back to your seats. Don’t sit down. Stay on the floor. We’ll need somebody from the plane crew to open those hatches.”
He grinned at Callie. ”And I’d like you to come with me. We’ll give the cops the good news, together.”
The passengers listened to these plans in a happy daze. They had spent so much time in mortal danger, they could hardly believe that they were safe now.
They weren’t.
As two flight attendants opened the rear
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hatches, the whole plane began to tremble. A high-pitched whine filled the cabin—a whine that anyone who had ever flown was sure to recognize. It was just louder because so many of the windows were gone.
It was the sound of jet engines starting up.
The airliner jolted as it started moving forward, nearly throwing Frank and Callie out the emergency hatch.
”Lars—the tall blond—said he was good at mechanical stuff,” Callie said. ”He just never mentioned that he knew how to fly one of these.”
Joe threw himself through the door into first-class and was met by a quick burst of fire. He jumped back to friendly territory. ”The Dutchman’s standing guard with the Uzi,” he reported. ”Looks like they piled up all the carry-on luggage in first-class to barricade the door to the cockpit.”
Frank looked out one of the shattered windows. ”We’re moving too fast to let people jump off,” he said.
”What I don’t get is why they’re doing this,” Joe complained. ”I mean, they can keep us aboard until they run out of fuel—” He jerked as the plane lurched through another turn. ”You know this Lars guy doesn’t strike me as a very good pilot.”
”Good enough,” one of the flight attendants said in a tight voice. ”He’s taxiing out to one of
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the runways. If he’s good enough to do that, he’s good enough to get us into the air.”
She stared at the broken windows. ”And the cockpit has its own air system.”
Everyone’s eyes went to the windows in slow horror.
”Those guys will have a chance to escape and air to breathe,” Callie said quietly. ”But when the plane rises high enough, those broken windows will let all the air out of here. All of us will suffocate!”
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Chapter 17
The passengers began to crowd into the aisle, completely giving way to panic. Cries and screams filled the air, fighting with the whine of the jet engines. But the engine noise still dominated, growing louder as the plane picked up speed.
Even though there was nowhere to go, people began pushing at one another. Then they began shoving and clawing. Some of the more desperate people began heading for the rear escape hatches. Better to jump to a possible death than stay aboard for a sure one.
Callie looked nervously at Frank as the crowd headed their way. They were standing right in front of the hatches, directly in the path of what was rapidly becoming a mob.
Frank’s face was cold and remote. Callie knew
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that look. Frank was running over about a dozen possible plans to get them out of this. And from the frown on his face, she could tell none of them would work.
Before the crowd got to within pushing distance, however, Frank snapped back to the real world. He turned his frown on the mob.
”Out of our way!” screamed a heavyset woman. Her hair looked like a wad of collapsed cotton candy. Only its orange color helped Frank and Callie recognize Mrs. Thayer, the senator’s wife. ”You can’t keep us here! We aren’t going to stay and die like rats in a trap!”
”You can’t jump from a moving plane,” Frank told her. ”It’s like leaping from a second-story window.”
But those people weren’t ready to discuss anything rationally. More and more passengers pushed against those in the front ranks. They began advancing on Frank and Callie. ”Let us off! Let us off!”
Frank shook his head in disbelief. But as hands grabbed for him, he shoved Callie behind him. ”Don’t be stupid!” he shouted.
Then a new chant rose from the back of the group. ”Throw them off! Throw them out!”
For a second, Frank stared. He shouted to the people, but they were making too much noise for him to be heard. He glanced at the weapon in his hand, and then he used it. A quick burst into the ceiling shocked the crowd into silence.
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”Look, all of you. This plane has two engines—both of them in the tail and both of them over these hatches.”
”So what?” somebody called.
”Remember how a jet crashed some years ago because a flock of starlings got sucked into the air intakes for the engines?” Frank asked. ”Those intakes are right up there.” He pointed over his head.
”We don’t have many starlings handy,” a voice said.
”No, but we’ve got blankets, paper, pillows, and magazines.” Frank stared into the faces of the crowd. ”If we can starve those jets of air, we won’t take off. It’s a better gamble than jumping thirty feet onto the runway.”
”He’s right,” another voice cried out.
”Yeah. Let’s get that junk up here!”
”Come on!”
”Form a line,” Frank called. ”Pass the stuff along. And cut up the big stuff, like the blankets. We want it small enough to get sucked in but big enough to stick.”
He shouted up to the front of the cabin. ”Joe, you stay on guard duty.”
”Just what I’ve been doing,” Joe called back. ”While you were busy discussing policy with that lynch mob.”
With a chance to do something to save themselves, the passengers went to work feverishly.
Mrs. Thayer led the group in charge of tearing
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up the blankets. Her hairdo wobbled ridiculously as she reduced the blankets to long strips. ”Ow!” she cried. ”Third nail I’ve broken so far!” But she kept on tearing.
Pauline Fox was searching through the seats, trying to find more things to throw into the engines. ”Not my bag!” a woman cried as she picked up a canvas tote.
”Honey, it’s not going to be much use to you if we go up there.” She dumped the bag onto a seat and passed it up the line, shaking her head. ”The best story of my life, and I don’t have a camera handy.”
”If you did, we’d be passing that up, too!” somebody called.
Callie and Frank grinned at each other as they stood at the end of one line, tossing stuff as high as they could, past the jet intakes. ”Look at all this—stuff,” Frank grunted as he hurled torn blankets up.
”I like this,” Callie replied, tossing a set of plastic cards Frisbee-style into the engine. ”They’re the instructions on what to do in case of an emergency.”
Frank grinned at her. ”Well, this is an emergency, isn’t it?”
The flood of items began to decrease as the searchers reached the seats at the back. Then it swelled as they started going over the cabin again, scavenging in new and more creative ways. Pauline Fox ripped the headrest covers off the
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seats. Mrs. Thayer and her crew started tearing the elastic magazine holders from the seats.
”Hey, look what I found!” Professor Beemis called out. ”The bag that terrorist was using to make his collection.”
”My money!” somebody else cried.
”My pearls!” shouted a woman.
”Pass it up,” said Frank.
”What?” a roar of furious voices demanded.
”The money is paper, just like the magazine pages,” Frank said. ”And the metal in the jewelry will do a real job on the vanes in the engine.”
”Expensive paper,” one of the passengers muttered.
”It’ll all be worthless if we don’t live to spend it,” said Frank. He opened his own wallet, took out the bills, and tossed them into the intake. ”Anybody else?”
Everyone feverishly searched pockets and purses. Money, handkerchiefs, even used tissues appeared on the line.
Habib’s bag of loot came up to Frank and Callie. They tossed handfuls of bills up at the jet intake.
”If these things go through, they’ll make the airport people very happy,” Callie said.
”Probably look more like confetti than money,” Frank said.
”This had better start working soon,” Professor Beemis called out. ”We’ve reached the runway now.”
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Stuff began appearing at a fever pitch as the plane prepared for its leap into the air. Callie and Frank found themselves throwing trays snapped from the chairs, seat belts, even people’s shirts torn off and handed up the line.
The jet engines revved faster. ”Lars is preparing for his takeoff.” Callie gritted her teeth.
A low groan went through the group of passengers.
”Wait a second! What’s that noise?” asked Mrs. Thayer, shushing everyone.
They all listened intently. There it came again—a clunk, a rasping sound that grew into a loud grinding noise. The whole plane began to shake wildly. Then the whine of the jets died away. The airliner coasted along until it came to a stop, about two-thirds of the way down the runway.
”There’s smoke coming from one of the engines,” Professor Beemis reported, craning his neck out the window. ”And the most unbelievable trail of garbage you ever saw, stretched out behind us.”
The passengers whistled and cheered. From the distance came the sound of sirens as police cars raced to barricade the runway. The airport’s fire engines and crash trucks came roaring up, too.
”They gave it their best shot, but we beat them,” Callie said. ”We’ve won!”
”Not so fast!” a voice called from the first
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class area. It was the Dutchman. ”I have something you should see. Will you allow me into your cabin?”
”What’s up, pal?” called Joe. ”You want to surrender?”
”Let us just say I want to end this,” the Dutchman shouted back. ”I promise, no gun play. Here.” A harsh black shape came flying through the doorway, clattering to the floor. Lars’s Uzi.
”We’ve got Habib’s gun, and the Dutchman is clean,” Joe said. ”Unless Lars is toting a pistol in his back pocket.”
He shrugged. ”We’ll be ready for him.” Stepping back and well to the side, Joe aimed his machine gun to cover the door.
”Okay, Dutchman,” Frank yelled. ”Come on in.”
The pudgy figure of the head terrorist appeared in the doorway. ”Wrecking the engines to ruin our escape.” He shook his head. ”I would never have thought of that. I’m afraid you’ve destroyed an International Airways plane, however.” The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders, lifting up the briefcase he held in his right hand.
”Why don’t you put that case down?” Frank said. ”I want to see what you’ve got hidden in your other hand.”
”Oh, gladly,” said the Dutchman. He put the case down at his feet. In his left hand he held— Frank’s detonator.
”This is the bomb we brought aboard. And I
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think you know what I have in my hand.” The terrorist’s voice was almost gentle, as if he were lecturing on a minor subject.
”You thought you were so smart, trading your detonator for ours.” Now the Dutchman’s voice hardened. ”Using a different frequency to set your bomb off. You were too smart. Lars and I built a new detonating charge, using the plastique you crammed into my mouth. I won’t be captured and made a fool of.”
He raised his hand, his thumb poised over the blasting button. ”You see, it doesn’t matter that you destroyed this plane. Because I will finish the job.”
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Chapter 18
Callie threw her arms around Frank, holding him close. They were just too far away to do anything.
Joe Hardy threw away his gun and hurtled himself at the Dutchman.
”Fool!” sneered the terrorist. He pressed the button on his detonator.
Nothing happened.
The Dutchman gawked at his hand. He pressed the button twice more—three times. Then he went for the briefcase bomb.
But Joe was standing in front of him. ”You were pretty brave with that bomb at your feet. Ready to blow us all to kingdom come. Let’s see how well you do with these bombs.” He raised his fists.
”Now this one I call the Big Bang—” He
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rammed his left fist into the Dutchman’s paunch. The terrorist gasped and folded in half, still clicking away with the detonator.
”And this one I call the Big Boom. Now I’m going to lower it on you.” Joe brought his right fist down on top of the Dutchman’s head. The terrorist crashed to the floor.
”All right, Joe, that’s enough. He’s lost it all, and he knows it. Let it go at that.” Frank came down the aisle to join his younger brother.
”Uh-uh,” said Joe. He reached for the briefcase. ”I’m going to open this and feed him every flavor of plastique that’s in there. And I’ll make sure he swallows it all.”
”No way.” Frank put his foot on top of the case. ”For all we know, they may have a boobytrap set in this so it explodes if it’s opened. Leave him for the cops.”
Callie stood beside Frank. ”That was really something,” she said to Joe. ”Jumping him like that. It’s almost as if you knew the bomb wouldn’t go off.”
”Well,” said Joe, trying to look modest and heroic.
Frank laughed. ”He did know the bomb wouldn’t go off. So did I. Right after the Dutchman said he had used the plastique we’d stuck in his mouth to make the detonating charge.”
”What?” Callie whirled around.
”Come on, Callie.” Frank grinned. ”Where were we going to find any plastic explosive?
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Frank did have a little CN stuck to his hand after our fight with Lonnie, this crew’s bomb maker. But not enough to do anything useful.”
”Sure, it was useful,” Joe cut in. ”I was able to match the exact same color and texture with the modeling clay I bought when you sent me out.”
”M-m-modeling clay?” Callie sputtered.
”Yeah. Looked like CN, felt like CN— ’Course, it didn’t taste like CN. But then, I guess our friend here never tried nibbling on any of his bombs.”
Callie was still in shock. ”You mean, you had him thinking it was a bomb, and all along it was modeling clay in his mouth?”
”You got it.” Frank’s eyes twinkled as he grinned.
The Dutchman made a strangling sound down on the floor.
”Sounds like he’s still got it,” said Joe. ”Maybe he’s got some caught on his tonsils.” He went over and picked up his gun. ”And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to visit our friend Lars.”
Apparently, Lars had lost all his fight when the big explosion failed to come. Moments later, they could hear Joe’s voice over the last remaining loudspeakers. ”This is your honorary captain speaking. The last terrorist has surrendered, and I’ve just spoken with the police. They’re moving a set of passenger stairs up to the front hatch.
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Why don’t you start lining up to get off this crate?” He laughed. ”At least there won’t be much in the way of luggage!”
The passengers burst into excited chatter at the thought of finally escaping from the plane. Mrs. Thayer started trying to pat her hair into order.
Pauline Fox stopped beside Callie and Frank. ”I want to thank you, kids. First for saving my life. And second for giving me the story of my career! Wait till I catch up with my camera crew. If this doesn’t win me an award—” She shook their hands and joined the line.
As the passengers started filing forward, several stopped to thank the kids. ”I don’t even know your names, and you saved us all,” one woman said.
”We all worked together to save ourselves. If you hadn’t helped stop those engines ...” Frank smiled and shook his head.
”Well, won’t you at least go out ahead of us?” another passenger asked.
Again, Frank shook his head. ”I think the cops might get nervous if they saw anybody coming out of the plane with a machine gun. Besides, we still have these goons to guard.”
”We’ll take care of them,” a voice from behind him said.
Frank turned around to find Roger O’Neill clambering through the escape hatch. ”We set up a ladder back here,” the government man
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explained. He moved a little stiffly, as if he had a bad set of bruises.
A crew of policemen followed O’Neill. And after them came Fenton Hardy, with a look of fury on his face.
”Uh-oh,” Frank heard Joe whisper as he came to turn Lars over to the cops. ”We’re in trouble now.”
Fenton Hardy crossed his arms across his chest, glaring at his sons. ”It’s not enough that you run off like a pair of vigilantes when my back is turned. But then, after I specifically ordered you—”
”They did save us, Mr. Hardy,” Callie said, cutting in desperately. ”They saved everybody on the plane.”
”I can understand your gratitude to these two,” Fenton Hardy said to her. ”What I can’t understand is how they expected—”
”Actually, Fenton, if you’re going to blame anyone, it should be me.” Agent O’Neill looked as if saying those words hurt him even more than his bruises. ”I recruited them after we left the Hole-in-the-Wall. Because so many of the AN WO terrorists were young people, I thought they might be able to infiltrate the group. Everything they did—everything—was under my orders.”
Frank and Joe stared at the Espionage Resources agent. Why was he lying to get them off the hook? Frank had been expecting O’Neill to have them thrown in jail.
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Then the answer appeared from the crowd of cops behind O’Neill. A man in an airport security guard’s uniform turned around. He was an ordinary sort, the kind of guy who disappears in a crowd. But this guy winked at the Hardys.
It was the Gray Man.
Frank and Joe immediately got the message. A little more interagency politics, a deal cut between Espionage Resources and the Network. And, although Espionage Resources might get the credit on TV, the Hardys suspected that the people who counted would know that Network agents had really gotten the job done.
”Actually,” Frank said to O’Neill, ”I hope you can keep our names out of this. We worked under your orders, so you should really be the hero.”
”Oh,” said O’Neill. ”Urn. Well, I suppose we can arrange something like that.” He began to smile. ”I will need a final report, though, before we go public with the story of the rescue.”
”Sure,” said Frank. ”And there’s one other person to be picked up.” He gave the address of the house near Sheridan Circle. ”There’s a girl tied up in the living room—Olympia Morrison. She was our contact to the Dutchman.”
”Good, good. Fine. Where is our press officer?” O’Neill asked.
”I guess I owe you boys an apology,” Fenton Hardy said. ”Your actions are much more understandable now that I know you were working with
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Agent O’Neill.” He glared at the government man. ”You might have told me.”
”Sorry, Fenton,” said O’Neill, lying desperately. ”It was on a need-to-know basis only. You might have tried to get involved. We couldn’t risk it.”
”Well,” said Fenton Hardy. ”I want you boys to promise me one thing. You won’t do any more work for these people. Okay?”
”Okay, Dad,” the Hardys promised. ”We won’t do any work for Espionage Resources.”
The Gray Man smiled and disappeared into the crowd.
”Now, what’s all this about a girl?” Callie wanted to know.
”Oh, it was terrible, Callie,” Joe said. ”We both tried to romance this girl to find out where the secret headquarters was. And I—” He hung his head. ”I struck out. She wanted nothing to do with me. She wanted a dashing man of action— like Frank here.”
”Oh yeah?” Callie’s hands were on her hips.
”It’s not the way it sounds,” Frank said, beginning to explain.
”Really?” said Callie.
”I told you,” Joe said with a grin. ”You should have stuck with Pia and quit while you were ahead.”
He quickly retreated as Callie glared at him.
Frank and Callie stood staring at each other in the now-empty plane.
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”You know,” Callie finally said, ”sometimes you can be a real jerk.”
”There was nothing going on with Pia,” Frank said. ”She wound up trying to shoot me—twice.”
”I know that,” Callie said. ”I was wondering how long you were going to wait before you kissed me.”
Frank didn’t need a second invitation.
Moments later, they headed out of the plane together, laughing.
”Remind me to rescue you more often,” Frank said.
”Don’t hold your breath,” Callie retorted. ”After this adventure, I just want a good long rest.”
”The seminar will be over soon,” Frank said. ”Then we’ll hop a plane home—”
”No way!” Callie cut him off. ”You can come along with me if you want, but I’m telling you right now, I’m going home by bus.”
Frank shrugged. ”Okay, Greyhound, here we come. But if somebody wants to take the bus to Havana—”
Hardy Boys 10: What Happened at Midnight
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
Burglars
“WHAT an assignment! And from our own Dad!”
Joe Hardy grinned at his brother Frank as the two boys slipped into ripple soled shoes and put on dark jackets.
“First time we’ve ever been asked to play burglar,” Frank answered with a chuckle.
A few days before, their father, an ace detective, and Malcolm Wright, an inventor, had left for California to hunt for Wright’s valuable stolen antique plane. Because they would be delayed in returning, the inventor had requested the brothers to “break into” his home and retrieve a top-secret invention before thieves took it.
“A little second-story work around midnight,” Joe mused, “and all because Mr. Wright left his keys inside the house and locked everything but that one bedroom window with a broken lock.” 
“The invention must be something super or Dad and Mr. Wright wouldn’t have asked us to guard it with our lives,” Frank remarked. “I wonder what it is.”
“Dad gave us permission to find out. Say, suppose we can’t locate that secret compartment we think is in Mr. Wright’s desk before those thieves arrive?” Joe asked. “I wish Dad could have given us all the details before the call was cut off and we couldn’t get it back.”
Joe, who had blond hair, was a year younger than his dark-haired, eighteen-year-old brother Frank. Both had solved many mysteries, some of them for their father.
Fenton Hardy had told the boys on the telephone that just before Mr. Wright had left Bayport, where they all lived, he had been threatened by a mysterious gang. They had learned about the invention from a worker in a factory that had made some of the parts. He had breached the confidence placed in him.
The caller had told Mr. Wright that if he did not voluntarily turn over his invention before a certain time, “visitors” would come for it. The date they had set was the following day!
“Mr. Wright didn’t have time to put the invention in a safe-deposit box, so he hid it in his study,” Fenton Hardy had said. “He’s afraid the thieves may break into his house, so he has alerted the police to be there tomorrow morning. But he’s worried and he wants you boys to get the small box containing the invention before then. Don’t leave it at our house when you’re not there. Keep it with you at all times but well hidden.”
Frank and Joe relayed the conversation to their pretty, understanding mother, and to Aunt Gertrude, their father’s maiden sister who lived with them. She was inclined to be critical of her nephews involvement in detective work.
Instantly she said, “Be burglars! The idea! Why, suppose you fall off that house—I”
“Gertrude, please!” Mrs. Hardy broke in. “Don’t even mention such a possibility. I know the boys will be careful.”
“Of course,” said Joe. “Let’s go, Frank!”
The brothers hurried to the garage where their shiny convertible gleamed in the light of a street lamp on the corner of High and Elm streets. Frank took the wheel and drove to within a block of Mr. Wright’s rambling, old-fashioned house. The boys walked to it and were glad to see that the building stood in deep shadows.
They reconnoitered the grounds in silence. No one was around. Finally Frank whispered, “I guess our best bet to the second floor is that trellis. It looks sturdy. We’ll go across the roof over the kitchen door and edge around to the unlocked window.”
“I’ll stay close by and hold onto your legs until you make it,” Joe answered.
They followed each other up the trellis and crossed the narrow roof. Fortunately there was not much pitch to it. Joe crouched and grasped his brother’s right leg.
“All set,” he announced in a whisper.
Frank stretched over to the window ledge but could not reach the top of the sash to raise it.
“Give me a push upward,” he murmured to Joe, who hoisted his brother until his fingers reached the top of the sash.
The window lifted easily. Frank pulled himself sideways through it. “Your turn, Joe.” He reached out and grasped his brother’s outstretched hands.
Joe, a little shorter than Frank, found he could not reach the window without swinging precariously in space. If Frank couldn’t hold his brother’s weight, he would be dragged outside. Both boys would plunge to the ground!
“No use being silly about this,” Frank said. “I’ll open the rear door for you.”
Joe was about to climb down the trellis when a strong light suddenly lit the area.
“A car!” Frank exclaimed as the driver beamed a searchlight on their side of the street. “Maybe the thieves are in it! Duck!”
Frank quickly closed the window, while Joe flattened himself face down on the roof. He did not stand up until the area was in darkness again. Then he hurried down the trellis and through the rear door.


“Duck!” Frank exclaimed. “Maybe the thievesare in that car!”
“Close call!” said Frank.
Joe nodded. “I thought maybe it was a police car, but I guess not. It had no revolving top light.”
His brother agreed. “I’m sure Mr. Wright’s enemies are casing this place!”
“Yes. And they’ll probably be back soon! We’d better get moving.”
Holding their flashlights low to the floor, the boys sped up the stairs and found Mr. Wright’s study. A large walnut desk stood in the center of the room. Frank and Joe walked to the front of it, where there were drawers to left and right of the wide kneehole.
“The secret compartment may be in one of them,” Joe suggested.
“They’re not locked,” Frank whispered in amazement.
The boys searched diligently, lifting aside letters and other papers. They found nothing.
“Now what?” Joe asked.
Frank had an idea. “I’ll look in the kneehole while you hunt for movable panels on the outside of the desk.”
Again there was silence as the two boys began to finger the woodwork. Minutes went by, then Joe said, “I’ve found something that moves.”
Frank crawled out and watched as his brother slid open a panel, revealing a long, narrow space.
“Anything in it?” Frank asked.
Joe beamed his flashlight inside. A look of disappointment came over his face.
“Nothing,” he announced. “There might have been at some time, though.”
“You mean the invention?”
“Maybe. How are you making out?”
“Something in the kneehole looks suspicious,” Frank answered.
Just then the boys heard the crash of glass and immediately clicked off their flashlights. Someone had broken a windowpane, and at this moment was no doubt reaching inside for the lock. Any minute one or more men might mount the stairs and enter the study!
The boys looked for a hiding place. There were no draperies, sofa, or large chairs, and no closet.
“Let’s hide in the kneehole,” Frank whispered, “then use our hand signals.”
Some time before this, the Hardys had devised a series of hand-squeeze signals. One hard squeeze meant, “Let’s attack!” Two indicated caution. Long, short, long meant, “We’d better scram.” An ordinary handshake was, “Agreed.”
“If there aren’t more than two men, let’s attack,” Joe said in a barely audible tone.
“Okay.”
Quickly the two crawled into the kneehole and pulled the desk chair into place. The boys were well hidden when they heard footsteps on the stairs, then voices.
“No failing this time or Shorty’ll take us on our last ride,” said a man with a nasal voice.
Frank and Joe wondered if the men had tried to break in earlier but failed.
The man’s companion spoke in lower tones of disgust. “Oh, you’d believe Shorty invented fire if he told you he did. He ain’t so great. Takes orders from the boss, don’t he?” The other did not reply.
The two men entered the room and beamed flashlights around. “Where did Wright say he kept the invention?” the deep-toned man asked.
“I got in late on the conversation when I tapped that telephone call to the Hardy house,” the other answered. “But I did hear the words ‘secret compartment.’ Where would that be? The desk?”
Frank and Joe froze. Were they about to be discovered?
“No, not the desk,” the other man said. “The safe.”
For the first time the boys noticed a small safe standing against the wall opposite them. Frank and Joe were fearful the men would detect their hiding place, but the attention of the burglars was focused on the safe. In a moment they squatted and the boys got a good glimpse of their faces. Both were swarthy and hard-looking.
At that moment the tower clock of the town hall began to strike. It was midnight!
The men waited until the echo of the twelfth stroke had died away, then the one with the nasal twang put his ear to the dial of the safe and began to turn the knob.
After a few moments his companion asked impatiently, “What’s the matter? That safecrackin’ ear of yours turned to tin?”
“Tumblers are noiseless,” the other said. “Guess we’ll have to blow it.” He began to take some wire from his pocket.
Frank and Joe were trapped. If the door of the safe were blown off, it might head right in their direction!
Quickly Joe felt for Frank’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze, meaning, “Let’s attack!”
Instantly Frank answered with the “Agreed!” handshake.
In a flash Joe flung the desk chair at the two men, then the boys jumped them!

CHAPTER II
Amazing Invention
TAKEN by surprise the burglars were at a disadvantage. Frank and Joe knocked them to the floor and sat on their backs.
“Ugh! What’s going—?” one mumbled.
The men were strong and with great heaves they tried to shake off the boys. Frank and Joe pressed down hard.
“Who are you?” Frank demanded.
No answer. Then suddenly the man Joe was holding rolled over and tried to sit up. Joe kept him down and the two, locked in a viselike grip, twisted to and fro across the floor.
Frank, meanwhile, had found his deep-voiced opponent a kicker, who viciously jabbed his heels into the boy’s back. Angry, Frank sent two swift blows which grazed the man’s chin.
The other two fighters bumped into them. In the mix-up the burglars were able to throw off their attackers and scramble to their feet. The four began to exchange punches.
“Finish off these guys!” the nasal-voiced man rasped.
For several seconds it looked as if they would. Their blows were swift and well-aimed. Then both men, breathing heavily, relaxed their guard. In a flash Frank and Joe delivered stinging upper-cuts to their opponents’ jaws. The burglars fell to the floor with thuds that shook the house. They lay quiet.
The boys grinned at each other and Joe said, “Knockouts!”
Frank nodded. “We must notify the police to get out here before these men come to.”
“We can wait,” Joe answered. “They’ll sleep for at least half an hour. Let’s find that invention first!”
“Good idea.”
Though bruised and weary the boys eagerly searched the side of the kneehole where Frank thought he had found a clue. There was a slight bulge in the wood. After pressing it in several directions, a panel began to slide counterclockwise. There was a click.
Just then one of the burglars groaned. The Hardys tensed. Was the man coming to? Joe leaned forward and beamed his flashlight on the two figures. Both were still unconscious.
Meanwhile, Frank had lifted out the panel. The space behind it contained a small metal box. Written on the box was: Property of Malcolm Wright. Valuable. Reward for return.
“I’ve found it!” Frank exclaimed.
“Then let’s go!” Joe urged.
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “You’ll find a phone in the lower hall. Call the police while I slip this panel back. Take the box.”
In a minute Joe was dialing headquarters. Without giving his name, he said, “Come to Malcolm Wright’s house at once. There are burglars in it.” He hung up.
Frank joined him and the boys dashed out the rear door. They took a circuitous route to their convertible to avoid being questioned by the police. At a cross street they saw a police car apparently speeding to the inventor’s house.
“Where do you suppose the burglars’ car is?” Joe asked. “You’d think they’d have a lookout.”
“Maybe it’s cruising,” Frank suggested.
The boys hopped into their convertible. As an extra precaution against a holdup and possible loss of Mr. Wright’s invention, they locked themselves in.
“Boy, a lot can happen in an hour,” Joe said, looking at the car clock. He reached over and turned on their two-way radio to police headquarters. “I wonder if there’s any news yet from the Wright house.”
The boys were just in time to pick up a broadcast. An officer was saying, “Send the ambulance to Wright’s house.”
“Ambulance?” Frank echoed. “Joe, we didn’t hit‘em that hard—or did we?”
The policeman went on, “These guys aren’t bad off, but they sure got knocked out. Looks like a gang feud. The men who kayoed them may have done the stealing.”
Frank and Joe chuckled. “Someday we’ll tell Chief Collig,” Frank said, “but right now—”
He stopped speaking as a loud crack of static burst from the radio and a vivid flash of lightning made the night turn to day momentarily. A long roll of thunder followed.
“Looks as if we’re in for a bad storm,” Joe commented, and Frank put on speed.
A few minutes later the car was parked in the Hardys’ garage. They were mounting the steps of the back porch when the storm broke. Quickly Frank inserted his key in the kitchen door and turned the knob. At once the burglar alarm rang loudly and all the first-floor lights went on.
Joe chuckled. “That’ll bring Mother and Aunt Gertrude down in a hurry.” He flicked off the alarm.
“And bring the police, too,” Frank added. He picked up the kitchen phone and dialed headquarters. “This is Frank Hardy. Our alarm went off by accident. Forget it.”
“Okay. You sure everything’s all right?” the desk sergeant asked.
“Yes. Thank you. Good night.”
By this time the two women had appeared and Mrs. Hardy said, “I didn’t know the alarm was turned on.”
“Well, I did,” Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “I wanted to be sure to wake up and see how you boys made out. You must be starved. I’ll fix some cocoa and cut slices of cake while you tell—Frank, look at your clothes! Your jacket’s torn. And you, Joe, where did you get that lump on your forehead? And your faces—the two of you look as if you’d been rolling in the dirt.”
“We have.” Joe grinned. “Had a big fight. But we saved this!” He pulled the box from his pocket.
As the boys related their adventure, crashing thunder lent a booming orchestration to the story.
“This is the worst storm we’ve had in years,” Mrs. Hardy remarked. “I’m glad you boys didn’t have to be out in it.” When Frank and Joe finished eating, she added, “And now you must get a good night’s sleep.”
“But first I’d like to open Mr. Wright’s box and see just what we have to guard so carefully,” Frank said.
Everyone watched excitedly as Joe unwrapped the package. Inside was a small transistor radio.
“Is that all it is?” Aunt Gertrude burst out. “You risked your lives to get that?”
The boys were puzzled. Surely their father would not have made such a request if this invention were not unusually valuable.
“Let’s turn it on,” Frank suggested.
Joe clicked the switch. A man was speaking in Spanish from Madrid, Spain, and announcing the start of a newscast. His voice was very clear.
Frank grabbed his brother’s arm. “Do you hear that?” he cried. “The receiver is not picking up one bit of static!”
“You’re right!” Joe agreed. “It must be designed to work in the high-frequency bands.”
“But how can we be receiving a broadcast direct from Madrid? That Spanish station must be transmitting by short-wave. Yet, we’re hearing it loud and clear. This is amazing!”
Joe gazed at the miniature radio with great interest. “I’ll bet there’s a lot more to Mr. Wright’s invention than just being able to hear overseas stations without static,” he observed. “After all, why is he so anxious to keep it a secret?”
Just then there was a loud knock on the back door and a voice from outside said, “Let me in! I’m a ham! I have a message for you!”

CHAPTER III
Warning Message
FOR a few seconds none of the Hardys spoke. They were trying to decide if the caller at the kitchen door really was a radio ham with a message. Or a member of the burglary gang?
Finally Mrs. Hardy said, “We can’t let the man stand out there in the rain.”
Frank called, “Where’s the message from?”
“Mr. Hardy in San Francisco.”
“Open the door,” Mrs. Hardy said quietly.
Joe hid the box containing the invention, then he and Frank stood on either side of the door, poised for any attack. Aunt Gertrude had armed herself with a broom. Joe turned the knob and a water-drenched figure in raincoat and hat stepped into the kitchen.
“Thanks,” the man said, removing his hat. “What a night! My wife told me I was crazy to come out.”
The speaker was an honest-faced man of about thirty-five. He noticed Aunt Gertrude’s broom and smiled. “You can put that away,” he said. “I’m harmless.”
Miss Hardy looked embarrassed. “Take off your coat,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
The man nodded. “I could use it. I got cold walking over here. My car wouldn’t start.”
“Did you come far?” Joe asked.
“About five blocks. I’m Larry Burton, 69 Meadowbrook Road. I’ve always wanted to meet the Hardy boys. This all came about in a funny way. I have a short-wave set. Tonight I picked up your father. He said he couldn’t get through to you or the police on the phone—lines tied up—and you didn’t answer his signal on your short-wave set.”
“We weren’t expecting a call,” Frank answered. He did not say that the boys had not been at home and that their mother and Aunt Gertrude rarely paid attention to the set unless specifically asked to do so.
“By the time I phoned you, the lightning was fierce,” Burton went on. “My wife’s scared to death of lightning. She wouldn’t let me use the phone, so I walked over.”
Aunt Gertrude served the caller coffee and cake as they all sat around the big kitchen table.
“What was the message, Mr. Burton?” Joe asked.
“That you boys are in great danger. A gang is after you and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “Did my husband name this—this gang?”
“No. That’s all there was to the message,” Burton replied. “I’m sorry to bring you bad news, but I guess that’s to be expected in a detective’s family. Well, I must get along.” He stood up.
Frank shook the man’s hand. “We sure appreciate this. Maybe some time we can return the favor.”
“Forget it,” Burton said. “I only hope that gang doesn’t harm you fellows.”
Joe helped him with his coat and he went out. The storm had moved off.
For a few minutes the Hardys discussed the caller and confirmed his address in the telephone directory. Joe was a bit skeptical, however. “Either he made up the whole story, or else Dad is really concerned for our safety.”
Frank was inclined to think Burton had told the truth. Had he and Joe already encountered two members of the gang at the Wright home?
Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “How in the world did my brother Fenton hear this in California?”
“News travels,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Especially among detectives and police.”
“Hmm!” Aunt Gertrude murmured, then announced she was going to bed.
Ten minutes later Frank and Joe were asleep and did not awaken until ten o‘clock. At once Frank got up and opened a wooden chest of sports equipment under which he had hidden the box containing Mr. Wright’s invention. It was still there.
“Where do you think we should keep this?” he asked Joe as they were dressing. “Dad said not to leave the box at home.”
“A tough problem, Frank. With that gang after us, we can’t take the chance of carrying it around with us,” Frank answered.
“Right. And they may not be after us, but after the invention,” Frank answered.
While they were having breakfast, Frank came up with the idea of a unique hiding place for the invention. “Let’s put it in the well under the spare tire in the trunk of our car,” he said.
Joe laughed. “Now you’re using that old brain of yours. Best place you could have picked. The car’s vibrations can’t hurt the radio and no one would think of looking there.”
Mrs. Hardy asked her sons what their plans were for the day.
“Dad told us to drop into the antique airplane show and see if we could spot anybody who seemed overly interested,” Frank replied. “He thought the person who stole Mr. Wright’s old plane might be planning another theft.”
“Tonight,” Joe continued, “we’re going to Chet’s party and stay until tomorrow. Okay?”
“Of course,” his mother answered.
Chet Morton, an overweight, good-natured schoolmate, lived on a farm at the edge of Bayport. A group of boys and girls had been invited there to a barn dance and late supper. Frank and Joe would pick up Callie Shaw, a special friend of Frank’s. His brother’s date was usually Chet’s sister Iola.
Mrs. Hardy remarked that since the boys would be away, she would spend the night with a friend. “Your aunt plans to visit Cousin Helen in Gresham, anyhow.”
During the conversation Aunt Gertrude had left the table. She returned holding the local morning newspaper. “Well, you boys are in for real trouble!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this!”
Miss Hardy read an account of the captured burglars at the Wright home and the mysterious summons to the police. The item stressed the fact that the men’s assailants, when caught, should be dealt with severely.
“When caught, eh?” Joe burst into laughter. “We’re going to be mighty hard to find, aren’t we, Frank?”
His brother grinned, but Mrs. Hardy looked worried. “Maybe you boys should explain everything to Chief Collig.”
“Not without Dad’s and Mr. Wright’s permission,” Frank answered. “For the time being—”
“I haven’t finished,” Aunt Gertrude interrupted. “It says here that the police think this incident might be part of a gang feud.” She removed her reading glasses and gazed at her nephews. “You two are now considered to be part of a gang and the rival gang is about to harm you.”
“Wow!” said Joe, pulling his hair over his eyes and striking the pose of a belligerent “bad guy.” “We’d better look the part!”
Since the antique airplane show did not open until two o‘clock, the boys did various chores during the morning. They also hid Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well and bolted the spare back into place.
After lunch Frank and Joe drove Aunt Gertrude to the train. From there they went directly to the Bayport Air Terminal where the antique airplane exhibit was housed in the spacious lobby. The first person they saw was Chet Morton.
“Hi, fellows!” he greeted them. “Say, take a look at those old planes. Aren’t they beauties?”
“Sure are,” Frank agreed. “I notice that most of them are biplanes. It must have been fun flying in the days of the open cockpits.”
“You can say that again!” Chet declared. As he stepped back for a better view, his foot slammed down on the toe of a man standing directly behind him.
“Ow!” the stranger yelped.
The boys turned to see the man hopping around on one foot. “You stupid, overgrown kid!” he screamed.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Chet said apologetically.
The tall, muscular man, who had blond hair and hard features, looked at the youth menacingly. “You idiot!” he snarled.
Frank and Joe stepped in front of Chet as he stammered, “Who—who are you calling an idiot?”
“Now just a minute!” Joe interrupted. “It was an accident. No sense getting upset about this!”
“Can I be of any help?” the boys heard someone say. They looked around to see a lanky young man walking toward them. He had rust-colored hair and leathery skin that was deeply tanned.
“What are you butting in for?” snapped the stranger.
“This boy didn’t step on you intentionally,” the young man insisted. “I saw the whole thing. You were trying to listen to their conversation and got too close.”
The tall stranger was about to say something, but hesitated. For a moment he glared at Chet and his companions, then stomped out of the lobby, swinging his brief case.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. Why had the man been listening to their conversation? Did he belong to the gang they had been warned about?
Meanwhile, Chet was saying, “Thanks for your help, Mr.—”
“My name is Cole Weber,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m president of the Central Antique Airplane Club. We own the exhibit and are taking it to several airports. We’re trying to encourage public interest in vintage aircraft.”
“Sounds like a great club,” Joe remarked.
“We think so,” Weber said. “The majority of the models you see here are replicas of real airplanes owned and operated by our members.”
“You mean that some of those old crates still fly?” Chet asked.
Weber grinned. “Well ... we don’t think of them as crates. When properly rebuilt, most antique planes are as safe and reliable as the day they were originally made. I own one myself. It’s outside on the ramp. Would you like to see it?”
“Would we!” Joe exclaimed.
Mr. Weber led the boys to the airport ramp. A short distance ahead stood an orange-and-white biplane. The boys peered into the two open cockpits.
“This is cool!” Joe declared.
The pilot smiled. “Compared to modern planes, mine doesn’t have many instruments. But since we fly the antiques only for fun, we don’t need elaborate equipment, such as that required for all-weather operations.”
The boys looked closely at the diagonal pattern of wires stretching between the wings. Then they examined the plane’s radial engine and the long, slender wooden propeller.
“How many passengers can you carry?” Frank asked.
“Two in the front cockpit,” Weber answered. “Say! Would two of you like to go for a ride?”
The boys’ eyes widened with excitement. Then Frank and Joe remembered the sleuthing they had promised to do for their father.
“Thanks just the same,” Frank said, “but I’m afraid Joe and I can’t go this time.”
“But I’d like to,” Chet spoke up. “Say, fellows, could you drive me to the farm afterward?”
“Farm?” Weber interrupted. “Are there any level stretches of ground in the area?”
“Plenty of them. Why?”
“I’ll fly you home if you’d like.”
Chet tingled with excitement. “Great! Thanks.”
The flier opened the baggage compartment and took out a parachute, helmet, and goggles. “Put these on and climb into the front cockpit.”
“Mr. Weber, do you know Mr. Malcolm Wright?” Frank asked.
“Yes, indeed. He’s a member of our club.”
“Did you hear that his antique plane was stolen?” Joe put in.
Weber nodded. “Too bad. I understand he has some secret invention he was trying out in the plane. I hope that wasn’t stolen too.”
The boys caught their breath in astonishment but said nothing. They had not heard this. Weber did not seem to notice. He donned his own parachute and summoned a mechanic to twirl the propeller and start the engine. Then he climbed into the rear cockpit.
“Brakes on! Switch off!” the mechanic called.
“Brakes on! Switch off!” Weber echoed.
The mechanic pulled the propeller through several times. Then he stepped back and yelled:
“Contact!”
“Contact!” the pilot responded.
The engine caught on the first try. A staccato popping developed into a steady roar. Chet’s goggled face turned toward the Hardys. He waved wildly as Weber taxied out for take-off.
“See you at the party!” Chet shouted over the roar of the engine.
Minutes later the plane, looking like a box kite, was climbing above the Bayport field. As the Hardys turned to leave, Frank caught his brother’s arm.
“There’s that man Chet stepped on! He’s watching us from the doorway! This time I mean to find out why.” Frank started to run. “Come on, Joe!”

CHAPTER IV
The Cold Trail
As soon as the man saw Frank and Joe, he turned to hurry off. In doing so, he hit the doorframe and dropped his brief case, which burst open. At a distance the boys could not read any of the printing on the letters that fell out, but one had red and blue stripes at the top.
The tall, blond man snatched up the papers and stuffed them into the brief case. He quickly zipped it shut and began to run.
“He sure isn’t on the level,” Joe remarked, “or he wouldn’t race off like that. We can’t let him get away!”
The stranger’s long legs and agility helped him cover a wide stretch in a short time. Before the Hardys could catch up to him, he reached the exit and jumped into a waiting car which zoomed off.
Frank and Joe stopped short, puzzled. Was the man afraid of them? And if so, why?
“Maybe that brief case had something to do with his running off,” Frank said.
The boys went inside the terminal building. They continued to look at the planes while keeping their eyes open for any other suspicious characters. They saw none and finally returned home.
“You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I have hot apple pie, but it’s getting cold.”
Joe patted her shoulder. “Shall we eat dessert first?” he teased.
Later the boys went upstairs to change for Chet’s barn dance. Both put on jeans, plaid shirts, and big straw hats. They packed overnight bags, then joined their mother who was waiting to be driven to her friend’s home.
Just before leaving the house, Frank heard a signal from their private short-wave set. “Dad must be calling,” he said, and raced to Mr. Hardy’s second-floor study.
“FH home,” he said into the mike. “Over.”
“Frank,” said his father, “how’s everything?”
“Okay, Dad. How about you?”
“Fair,” the detective said. “But I have a new lead to follow. You won’t be able to get in touch with me for a couple of days. Did you get my message from the ham operator?”
“Yes, Dad.” Frank told him all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, including the wiretapping.
Mr. Hardy whistled. “Then the gang knew where you were going.”
“Shall Joe and I tell Chief Collig we were the first burglars?” Frank asked.
“I guess you’d better,” the detective agreed. “But warn him the information is confidential and don’t tell him what the invention is you were after.”
He now explained that he had been tipped off by Chicago police that a gang suspected of robbery there had suddenly vanished. A “squealer” had reported they were out to “get” the Hardy detectives. The boys’ father did not know why, but surmised it might concern Mr. Wright’s invention.
“And now let me speak to your mother,” Mr. Hardy said.
Half an hour later Frank and Joe stopped at Chief Collig’s home and made their report. The chief burst into laughter. “So you’re the ones who knocked out those men. I guess they had a real scare. They haven’t talked since.”
By the time the boys reached the Mortons’ farm with Callie Shaw, the dance was under way. A Bayport High School combo was playing.
“Hi, masterminds!” Chet shouted as the Hardys strolled in. “I thought you’d never get here. Boy! Wait till I tell you about my flight!” He began to describe the adventure, supplementing his words with swooping motions of both hands.
His sister Iola joined Callie and the boys. She was a slim, dark-haired girl and very pretty. “Hi, Joe, Frank, Callie!” Then hearing her brother, she said laughingly, “Oh no! Is Chet talking about his flight again? He hasn’t stopped since he landed.”
“You just don’t know anything about real flying,” her brother said, “until you’ve been in one of those old biplanes.”
“Our turn’s next,” Joe reminded him.
The following hours passed quickly. When it was time for supper, Joe and Iola decided to eat outside. They filled their paper plates with sandwiches, chocolate cake and cups of lemonade, and went to sit on the steps of the Mortons’ front veranda.
As they ate, Iola glanced toward the driveway in which many of the guests had parked their cars. The Hardys’ convertible was near the end of the long queue.
Suddenly Iola touched Joe’s arm. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I saw someone lurking behind your car,” Iola replied. “Yes. There he is.”
Joe peered into the darkness. He saw a man, his hat pulled low, pop up from behind the car, then duck down again. At once the young detective sprang to his feet and ran toward the mysterious figure. The fellow might be after the secret radio!
“Who are you?” he shouted, seeing the trunk lid rise and the light go on. “What are you doing?”
The intruder ran from behind the car and disappeared into the darkness. Joe dashed after him.
“Keep your distance or you’ll get hurt!” the man shouted. But Joe went on.
Iola screamed for help. Frank, Chet, and their classmates, Biff Hooper and Jerry Gilroy, raced from the barn.
“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.
“We saw a man lurking behind your car,” Iola answered in a trembling voice. “Joe ran after him through the woods but was warned away.”
At once Frank and his companions rushed in that direction. The boys had not gone far when they heard a muffled cry for help, followed by the roar of a car speeding off.
Coming to a halt, Frank signaled to his friends for silence. The sounds of the car faded away. Everything was still, except the big grandfather clock in the hall of the Morton home. It began to strike. Midnight! Frank thought of what had happened just twenty-four hours earlier.
“Joe!” he shouted. “Joe! Where are you?”
His call went unanswered. The young detective stood frozen in his tracks. Had his brother become the victim of the gang?
By this time everyone at the party had raced outside to learn what had happened. They joined in a frantic search but without success.
“I’m afraid he was kidnapped,” Frank said grimly.
“In the car we heard roar off?” Biff Hooper asked.
“Yes.”
Jerry Gilroy chimed in, “But by whom? And for what reason?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. He turned and rushed back to the convertible. Seeing the trunk open, he immediately looked in the tire well. The secret radio was still there.
“Joe must have blocked an attempted theft and been taken away so he couldn’t identify the man,” Frank thought.
He slammed the trunk shut, asked his friends to guard the car, and ran to the house. He scooped up the telephone and dialed the home number of Chief Collig.
“What!” the officer exclaimed when Frank told him about Joe’s probable kidnapping. “I’ll call the FBI and also get some of my own men out there right away! And I’ll come myself.”
He and three officers arrived shortly and were given a briefing. The place was carefully examined, but searchlights picked up little.
There was such a profusion of tire tracks on the main road that those of the mystery car could not be detected. Iola, the only one except Joe who had seen the suspect, could give little information other than that he was tall, heavy set, and wore gloves.
“Then we won’t find any fingerprints on your car,” the chief said to Frank.
Frank nodded. “He could be the man who ran from Joe and me at the airport.” Frank told the police about him and gave a fuller description.
“We’ll be on the lookout for him, as well as for Joe,” Collig said. “There’s nothing more we can do here, but I’ll leave two of my men.”
Solemnly the group left the barn dance and each guest expressed a hope for Joe’s speedy return. The Mortons tried to comfort Frank and discussed whether or not they should call Mrs. Hardy and tell her the disturbing news.
“I don’t see that anything can be gained by that,” Chet’s mother said. “Let’s wait.”
She insisted Frank try to get some sleep, but he lay wide awake, hoping the phone would ring with good news from Collig. But none came. Chet, in the same room, was restless.
Finally at five o‘clock he said, “Where do we go from here?”
“I’m not sure.” Frank sighed. “We’ve absolutely no clue. In fact, we don’t even have a description of the car we heard drive off last night.”
“Joe could be miles from here by now,” his chum remarked.
Frank thought for a moment. “Let’s drive down the road and make some inquiries at the farm-houses along the way. There’s a slim chance someone may have spotted the kidnap car.”
The boys left the house quietly and jumped into the Hardys’ convertible. They waved to the patrolling police guards. Frank drove along the narrow, tree-lined road. As they feared, all their inquiries were fruitless. Most of the farmers they questioned had retired long before midnight, and had neither seen nor heard anything.
“Guess we may as well go home,” Chet suggested.
But Frank was not ready to give up. “Let’s drive on a little farther,” he said.
About six-thirty the boys spotted a farmer cutting weeds by the roadside and stopped to question him. He rubbed his chin dubiously while listening to their story.
“Quite a few cars go past my place every night,” he said. “Now you come to mention it, there was an automobile come whizzin’ along and stopped here right after midnight. It woke me up, what with two men in it shoutin’ at each other.”
“Did you see the car?” Frank asked.
“No. I didn’t get up. Course my home is right beside the road, and I couldn’t help but hear some o’ what the men were sayin‘. The car come along at a mighty lively clip, but when it got in front of the house, the driver slammed on the brakes and stopped.
“There was an argument. I heard him tellin’ somebody they must have gone past the crossroads in the dark. The other man started jawin’ at him and they had quite a row. Finally they turned the car around and went back.”
“To the crossroads?” said Chet.
“Yes. That’s about two miles back.”
“I remember. One road goes to Gresham, the other heads up through the truck farms.”
Frank and Chet returned to the crossroads. But which way should they go? Right to the farms, left to Gresham?
“The kidnappers might have hidden Joe on one of the truck farms,” Chet suggested.
“Yes, except that all those farms are close together and everybody knows everybody else’s business,” said Frank. “I’d rather tackle the road to Gresham. If we don’t find Joe, we can come back and try the other road.” He took the turn to the left.
As they sped along, the boys spotted the wreckage of a black car in a roadside ditch. Afraid this was the kidnap car, Frank pulled up.
“Some accident!” Chet observed.
The license plates had already been removed from the badly smashed-up car.
“If anybody was hurt,” Frank said, “they’ll know it in Gresham. We’ll ask the police there.”
Suddenly a black sedan swung out of a lane some distance ahead and roared off toward the town. Frank stared fixedly at the rear seat.
“Look!” he exclaimed, gripping Chet’s arm. “Do you see what I see?”
“What?”
“A hand. Isn’t that someone signaling?”
Chet gazed ahead and saw a hand wave frantically for a moment at the rear window, then suddenly withdraw.
“You’re right!” Chet snapped. “Joe!”
Frank started the convertible and sped off in pursuit.
The other car had a good lead and was increasing speed. It was almost obscured by a cloud of dust, but Frank memorized the out-of-state license number.
“We’re gaining on them!” Chet declared.
Frank nodded. Inch by inch the intervening distance lessened. Trees, farms, and hedges flashed by. At times the boys could hardly see the sedan through the swirling clouds of dust.
Suddenly the steady hum of the convertible’s engine changed its rhythm. The motor sputtered. 
Chet groaned. “Now what?” he muttered as the car slowed down.
The boys’ hearts sank when the engine quit completely. They looked dismally at the other car as it disappeared around a distant bend in the road.

CHAPTER V
The Hunt
FRANTICALLY Frank flung open the hood and examined the engine. In a few minutes he discovered the trouble.
“Fuel pump,” he announced.
“Oh—oh!” Chet sighed. “And we’re miles from a service garage.”
“We’re not stranded,” Frank assured him. “I suspected the pump was going so I put a spare in the trunk. But it’s going to take fifteen or twenty minutes to change the pump, and—”
“And by that time the kidnap car will be far away,” Chet finished.
“I’d better notify Bayport Police Headquarters.” Frank turned on the car’s two-way radio to the proper frequency and gave the license number of the suspect’s car.
“We’ll get busy on it right away,” came the answer. “Incidentally, FBI men have been here and out to the Morton farm. I’ll contact them. There’s no news so far.”
Frank replaced the mike. He and Chet worked feverishly to install the new fuel pump and soon had the engine running.
“No chance of our catching up with the sedan now,” Chet remarked as the boys once again got under way. “It has nearly a half hour’s head start.”
“I’ll bet that the kidnappers won’t stop at Gresham, now that they’ve learned we’re after them.”
Ten minutes later Frank stopped the car. He backed into a side road, pulled out again, then turned to retrace his route. “I want to go up that lane the kidnap car came out of and see what we can find.”
Reaching it, Frank turned in. The ground was stony and full of holes. Progress was slow.
Half a mile farther on, an old inn, apparently closed, came into view. It was a long, low white building with a wide veranda. The boys got out of the car and Frank knocked several times, hoping someone might be inside. There was no response.
“Nobody’s home,” Chet mumbled.
Just then the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard. The door sprang open and a surly-faced man confronted them.
“What is it?” he growled.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Frank said, “but have you seen a black four-door sedan within the past hour?”
“You’ve got nerve waking me up to ask such a stupid question!” the man snapped. “I don’t know anything about a sedan!”
“Have you had any visitors recently?” Frank persisted. “There’s a wrecked car lying in a ditch close to the spot where your lane leads in from the road. Did anyone come here for help?”
The man looked at the boys suspiciously. “Get out of here before I kick you off the porch!”
“Have it your way!” Frank retorted. “I’m certain there were kidnappers in that sedan I asked you about. If you know anything, you’d better tell me, or be held as an accessory!”
“Kidnappers?” the man cried out. “Okay! So there were some guys walked in here late last night.”
“How many were there?” Frank demanded.
“Three. One said they’d had an accident, and asked if they could stay at my place for a while. They paid me real good, so I let ‘em come in.”
“Please describe these men.”
“One was tall, one short,” the proprietor replied nervously. “The big guy said they’re brothers named Wagner. They were carrying the third guy—he was wrapped in a blanket ‘cause he got knocked out. I couldn’t see his face. The big guy made a telephone call to Gresham. A car picked ’em up about an hour and a half ago. I can’t tell you any more!”
He stepped back inside the house and slammed the door in the boys’ faces.
“Sociable guy,” Chet commented as the boys drove off.
“He did give us one lead,” Frank said. “The wreck was theirs and the pickup car came from the direction of Gresham. Chet, I’m afraid Joe was hurt. We’re going to Gresham. I’ll call Collig and tell him what we just heard.” He tuned in Bayport headquarters and left the message.
On reaching Gresham, Frank cruised up and down the side streets flanking the main boulevard, hoping to spot the sedan but had no luck. He then headed for the local police headquarters. “Dad introduced me to Police Chief Stanton when we were passing through this town several months ago,” he said.
The boys entered the neat, red-brick building and Frank introduced himself and Chet to the desk sergeant on duty. They were ushered into the office of the chief.
“Frank Hardy, how are you?” Stanton said, extending his hand in greeting. “Sit down.”
“Has Chief Collig in Bayport been in touch with you?” Frank asked.
“Yes. So far we have no word on the sedan or the men traveling in it, one of them injured. You’re sure your brother was kidnapped?”


“Get out of here!” the man growled
“Without a doubt!”
“Hmm!” Stanton muttered. “The sedan’s probably miles away by now with a different license plate. But our men will keep on the lookout.”
Realizing they could do no more here, Frank and Chet decided to return to Bayport.
“What’s our next move?” Chet asked.
“Whoever kidnapped Joe might ask for ransom, Chet. I’d better stick close to the phone at home in case someone tries to establish contact.”
Then Frank’s heart sank as he thought of having to tell his mother and father and aunt that Joe was missing! When he pulled into the Hardy garage some time later, Frank shut off the ignition and sat quiet for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.
He had no sooner entered the house when Mrs. Hardy rushed to meet him. “What happened to Joe?” she cried.
Frank was startled by her question. Before answering, he hugged his mother and led her into the living room.
“I just got home, and decided to telephone the Morton farm. I spoke to Iola,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “She seemed terribly upset and started to tell me something about Joe, then stopped. She said you were on your way here and would explain.”
Frank related the whole story of Joe’s disappearance. Mrs. Hardy was stunned by the news and tears filled her eyes.
“I would have told you sooner,” Frank said “but I was hoping to find Joe before this.”
Although Mrs. Hardy worried about the dangers involved in her family’s sleuthing activities, she rarely displayed her concern openly. But now she could not hide her anxiety. She began to tremble.
“We must do something!” she pleaded. “Have you notified the police?”
“Yes,” Frank answered. “And the FBI.”
“Your father! He should be told about this at once!”
“But we can’t reach him,” Frank reminded her.
The hours dragged on into early evening. Mrs. Hardy continually walked the floor, saying over and over, “This is dreadful, dreadful!”
Frank paced around nervously, mulling over in his mind the events that had taken place during the past two days. The telephone rang. Was it the kidnapper calling? Frank rushed to answer the call.
“Frank, this is Chief Collig!”
“Yes, Chief! Any news?”
“Not much. The police managed to detect the scratched-off serial number on the engine block of the car lying in the ditch. It was traced through the State Bureau of Motor Vehicles. The car was stolen yesterday evening from a man in Lewiston. No one saw the thief.”
“Well, we’re right back where we started,” Frank said.
After a light late supper, Frank settled himself into a wing chair within reach of the telephone. The hours ticked by with no word from Joe or his abductors. Finally, through sheer exhaustion, Frank dozed off.
When he awoke, the sun was already sending bright, warm rays into the room. Frank got up and began to pace back and forth. He and his mother ate a sketchy breakfast. They grew more uneasy when the morning passed without any news of Joe.
Shortly after noontime a taxi stopped in front of the Hardy home. A tall, angular woman, carrying a small suitcase, got out of the cab and hurried toward the house.
“It’s Aunt Gertrude,” Frank announced to his mother.
“I’m glad to be home!” Miss Hardy exclaimed as she entered the house like a rush of wind.
She glanced at Mrs. Hardy and immediately sensed that something was troubling her. “Laura! You look exhausted. Haven’t you been getting enough sleep? What’s wrong?”
“We have something to tell you,” Frank declared. “You’d better sit down.”
He broke the news about Joe’s disappearance as gently as he could. His story, however, sent Aunt Gertrude springing from her chair.
“That’s terrible! Poor Joe! Call the police!” she cried. “Call the FBI! Do something!”
“Try to be calm,” Frank pleaded. “The police and the FBI have already been notified.”
“I felt it in my bones!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “Something like this was bound to happen.”
“Now, Gertrude, please,” Mrs. Hardy interrupted.
Aunt Gertrude continued to rattle on. “You can’t be too careful these days. The world is full of rude and nasty people. Now you take this morning, for example, when I was walking on the platform at Gresham. Suddenly this big fair-haired man stepped right in front of me, carrying a bulging brief case. Part of its zipper was torn and some of the papers inside were sticking through.
“Well, this clumsy ox gave me a hard bang on my arm with that dirty, beat-up brief case. I was about to give him a piece of my mind, when he deliberately pushed me aside!”
Her words had seized Frank’s attention. The man sounded like the one that Chet had stepped on in the airport terminal and Frank and Joe had chased later. He might be one of the kidnappers! The suspects’ car had gone toward Gresham!
“Then came the crowning insult,” she went on. “He called me—he called me—an old whaler! Can you imagine? I never fished for a whale in my life! Next, this big fair-haired lummox walked over to two other men and handed them the brief case,” Aunt Gertrude continued. “I was so furious, I decided to demand an apology. I went up to the big man and tapped him on the shoulder. He must know me because just then he said ‘Hardy.’ Well, he turned and glared at me, then hurried off with his friends. The nerve, indeed!”
Frank had already jumped to his feet. He was obviously excited. “Did you see what was written on the papers in the brief case?”
“I wasn’t close enough to read them. But one had red and blue stripes on it.”
“He’s one of the men we suspect!” Frank cried out. “Aunty, did you hear any more of the men’s conversation? Anything at all?”
“No, not really,” she answered, somewhat puzzled by her nephew’s questioning. “I only caught a word or two. The fair-haired man said something about caves. Yes, that’s it—caves! I remember because it struck me at the time that with his bad manners, he should be living in one.”
Frank darted to the telephone and called Chet. “I’m sure I’ve latched onto an important lead,” he told his chum. “I’ll need your help.”
“I’m ready to go any time you say.”
“Okay! I’ll be right over!”

CHAPTER VI
Fogged In
FRANK leaped into the convertible and headed for the Morton farm. He began piecing together the details of Aunt Gertrude’s story about the fair-haired man at Gresham. He had said, “Hardy!”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean Aunt Gertrude. He could have meant Dad or Joe!”
Then the man had made a reference to caves! There were many to be found in the cliffs which formed the north shore of Barmet Bay. Was Joe being held in one of them? Frank smiled, recalling his aunt’s indignation at being called an “old whaler” by the big fair-haired man.
“He might not have been referring to whales at all,” Frank thought. “There’s a small, flat-hulled motorboat known as a motor whaler. Maybe that’s what he had in mind.”
Frank told himself that using such a term would be unusual for any person unless he was familiar with boats. The young sleuth was certain that he had a real lead at last!
As Frank drew up before the Morton house, Chet came down the steps on a run. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly.
Frank repeated Aunt Gertrude’s story of the man mentioning the name Hardy and making the mysterious reference to whaler and caves.
Chet whistled, then suddenly his eyes widened. “You mean Joe might be a prisoner in a shore cave?”
“Exactly!” Frank answered. “And I’ll search every one of them if I have to!”
“I’m with you! How about the other fellows? Let’s get Biff and Jerry to come along. They’d be mad as hornets if they weren’t in on the search.”
“Okay!” Frank replied. “We’ll use the Sleuth.” This was the Hardys’ sleek motorboat.
“Let’s go!” Chet said briskly. Then the ever-present problem of food occurred to him. “If you’ll wait a few minutes I’ll ask Mom to fix up a lunch for us. We may get hungry. At least you may, but I’m sure I will.”
Both boys dashed into the house. While Mrs. Morton was making up a package of sandwiches and cake, Frank reached Jerry and Biff by telephone and gave them an inkling of what was afoot. They were eager to help and promised to be at the Hardy boathouse within twenty minutes.
In a short time Chet was ready and scrambled into the convertible beside Frank. At the boathouse Jerry and Biff were waiting for them. Biff was a tall, lanky blond whose perpetual good humor was indicated by the slight tilt to the outer corners of his lips. Jerry, medium height and dark, was wiry and more serious. Both boys were agog with curiosity.
“What’s the clue?” Jerry asked, and Frank gave the details as he unlocked the door of the boathouse.
The boys quickly unmoored the Sleuth and jumped aboard. The engine sputtered spasmodically a few times, then burst into a roar. Frank opened the throttle and the craft shot into the bay, gradually increasing speed.
“If we don’t find Joe, then what?” Jerry asked.
Frank answered promptly, “Go down the coast tomorrow. There are a few caves along the beach. You fellows game?”
“You bet,” they chorused.
There were clouds in the sky and far off toward the open water at the distant end of the bay was a hint of fog. Frank eyed the mist doubtfully. It would take some time to make a close search of the caves on the north shore, and if fog came up, a hunt would be difficult. Chet, thinking the same thing, mentioned it aloud.
“We’ll just have to hope for the best,” Biff spoke up.
As they zipped along, the boys talked over Miss Hardy’s encounter with the fair-haired man.
“He may be tall,” said Biff, “but he sure sounds short on brains!”
“He’ll need all the brains he has if we get on his trail,” Chet affirmed.
“But why would he be mixed up in Joe’s disappearance?” said Biff. “Surely he wouldn’t kidnap Joe just because Chet stepped on him.”
“There’s something deeper behind it,” Frank said, thinking of the secret radio, “but I’m not at liberty to tell you fellows. Sorry.”
The Sleuth sped on toward the north shore and gradually drew closer to the high cliffs that rose sheer from the waters of the bay. The fog was coming up the bay now in a high, menacing gray wall.
Chet grimaced. “We’re not going to make it. That fog will be on us before we get within a quarter of a mile of the caves.”
“I’m afraid so,” Frank said. “But I hate to give up now that we’ve come this far.”
“I’ve had a few experiences in fog out on this bay,” Biff Hooper remarked, “and I don’t want to repeat ‘em if it can be helped. You never know when some other boat is going to come along and run you down. You can’t see it until the boat’s right on top of you. Let one of those big ships wallop you and you’re done for!”
“A horn isn’t much good,” said Jerry, “because the fog seems to make the sound come from a different direction than the true one.”
The fog swirled down on the boys, hiding the shore from view. It enveloped them so completely they could scarcely see more than a few yards ahead. Frank had already turned on his yellow fog light and suddenly they saw a small tug a short distance up the bay. The craft was heading toward the city, but now it vanished. Frank reduced speed and pressed the horn. No sound!
“This,” said Jerry, “is bad. If it weren’t for Joe, I’d say go home. I wonder how long the pea soup will last.”
No one ventured a guess. Frank said tensely, “Watch for that tug, fellows. My horn won’t blow.”
As the Sleuth groped blindly through the clammy mist, Frank thought he heard the faint throb of the tug’s engines. His light did not pick up the craft and it was impossible to estimate its distance or direction.
Then came the blast of the tug’s whistle, low and mournful through the heavy fog. It seemed to be far to the right, and Frank hoped to avoid it by going straight ahead.
When the whistle sounded again, it was louder and seemed to come from a point just to their left. It was drawing closer!
“That old tug must have traveled about two miles clean across the bay in half a minute,” Chet remarked. “Frank, 1-look out!”
As he spoke, the whistle sounded again. This time Biff straightened up in alarm. The tug seemed to be directly ahead.
“How do you figure its position, Frank?”
“I think the tug is mighty close. It’s hard to tell where the sound’s coming from. We’ll just have to go easy and hope we see it first.”
Biff could hardly make out the stern of the Sleuth. “This is worse than a blackout,” he commented.
Once more the whistle blew, this time so terrifyingly loud that the tug seemed to be only a few yards away. The boys could hear its engines. Still their light revealed nothing.
“Up in front, Chet!” snapped Frank. “If you see it, sing out!”
Chet scrambled onto the bow and peered into the gray gloom ahead. Suddenly he gave a yell of terror.
“It’s bearing right down on us!”
Even as he shouted, a heavy dark shadow loomed out of the fog. The Sleuth was about to be rammed!
The tug was sweeping down on the boys. It was only a few yards away! The boys could see a man on deck, waving his arms wildly. The whistle shrieked.
No time to lose! The engine of the Sleuth broke into a sudden clamor as Frank opened the throttle wide. At the same instant he swung the wheel hard to port. The motorboat swerved and shot directly across the bow of the larger boat.
For a breathless second it seemed that nothing could save the boys. They waited for the jarring impact that seemed only seconds away!
But the Sleuth had speed, and Frank handled his craft masterly. His boat shot clear!
The tug went roaring astern. It had missed the Sleuth with less than a yard to spare! The Hardys’ boat was caught in the heavy swell and pitched to and fro, but rode it out.
Chet Morton broke the silence. “Wow, that was a close call!”
Jerry Gilroy, who had been thrown off balance when the Sleuth altered its course so suddenly, scrambled to his feet, blinking. “I’ll say! Were we hit?”
“We’re still here.” Biff grinned. Nevertheless, he had been badly frightened. “That’s the last time I’ll ever come out on the bay when there’s a fog brewing,” he announced solemnly. “That was too narrow a squeak!”
Chet, now that the peril had passed, leaned down from the bow. He shook hands with the other three boys, then gravely clasped his own.
“What’s that for?” Jerry asked.
“Congratulating you—and myself on still being alive.” The others smiled weakly.
Frank steered the Sleuth back to its previous course. Again the boat crept toward the north shore, invisible beyond the wall of mist. Frank did not dare venture close for fear of piling his craft onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He cruised aimlessly back and forth, but within half an hour the fog began to lift. It thinned out, writhing and twisting like plumes of smoke.
“The cliffs!” Chet cried in relief as the boys caught sight of the land rising sharply just ahead. They were less than two hundred yards off shore and already far down the bay, abreast of the caves.
“We can make our search after all,” Frank said.
He brought the Sleuth as near the base of the cliffs as he dared, skillfully avoiding the menacing black rocks that thrust above the water.
Jerry, who had scrambled out on the bow, gestured toward an outcropping of rocks about a hundred yards away.
“Here’s our first cave,” he announced.
“I remember it,” said Frank. “Joe and I went into that one when we were on a car-theft case. It looks like a cave, but is only a few feet deep. No use looking here.”
The searchers passed several shallow openings, but at last Chet gave a jubilant shout. “Here’re the deeper ones!”
They had rounded a little promontory and the boys saw a ragged row of gaping holes in the face of the rock. Most were just a few feet above the waterline.
Chet said, “I know them. Some are small but others are big enough for an elephant to walk through sideways.”
Frank brought the Sleuth in still closer to the base of the two-hundred-foot-high cliffs.
“Great place to hide someone,” Biff commented. “I bet there are hundreds of those caverns.”
“We have our work cut out for us,” Frank agreed.
Some distance on, he spotted the first of the larger holes in the rock. The cave was six feet wide and high above the water. Frank ran the boat in close enough so that by scrambling over its bow one could land on the tumbled heaps of rocks and boulders just beneath the opening.
“Let’s take a look,” he said eagerly. “Jerry, will you hold the boat here?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Within a few minutes the others were climbing up the boulders toward the cave mouth. Presently they vanished into the dark interior.

CHAPTER VII
The Escape
JERRY held the nose of the Sleuth inshore and maneuvered so that the propeller remained in deep water. He waited impatiently for news of Joe.
It did not take the others long to find that the big cave they had entered was unoccupied. They reappeared a few minutes later.
“Did you find him?” Jerry called.
“No luck,” Biff reported.
Chet was discouraged and said so. “We’re working on the slimmest of clues,” he said. “The fair-haired man and his friends might not have meant the Shore Road caves. Don’t forget, there are hundreds of subterranean caverns between Gresham and Bayport.”
“But the caves here are the best known,” Frank remarked. “Let’s look some more. I’ll cruise along the shore and pick out the more likely caves to hide a prisoner.”
The motorboat edged its way along the face of the cliff. Whenever the boys noticed one of the larger openings that could be reached easily from the shore, Frank ran the boat in among the rocks. Then, while one boy stayed in the Sleuth, the others would scramble up to investigate the cave.
The hours dragged by. Finally they navigated to a place where the cliff sloped and began to give way to sandy hills and wooded inclines.
Biff gave a sigh. “Guess we’ll have to give up. There’s only one small opening left to investigate.”
“But why would kidnappers go way up to that cave when there are so many that are easier to reach?” Chet protested. “They’d have to climb fifty feet up to the mouth.”
“It isn’t so steep as it looks,” Frank remarked thoughtfully. “And I can see a sort of winding trail up the slope.”
“I’m game,” Jerry said.
“Me too,” Biff added.
Frank brought the Sleuth in toward the rocks. The boys craned their necks to look up at the tiny opening in the face of the cliff above.
“I guess you’re right, Chet,” Jerry admitted. “Joe’s kidnappers wouldn’t climb all the way up there, with so many better caves to pick from.” 
Chet gave a loud groan. “I’ve lost about three pounds already, climbing these cliffs.”
Despite the worry over Joe, Biff could not refrain from saying, “Then, Chet, you’d better tackle about fifty more caves.”
Frank, meanwhile, had seen something that had gone unnoticed by his friends. A piece of newspaper was lodged among the stones under the cave’s mouth. The scrap of paper might be significant! The fact that it was within a few feet of the cave was suspicious and warranted investigation.
This time Chet volunteered to stand watch and maneuvered the boat around so the others could reach the shore from the bow. Frank went first. Biff and Jerry followed.
They climbed the slope, following the trail Frank had spotted. But the incline was so steep and winding that they could make only slow progress in a diagonal direction. The path ended abruptly at a ledge some fifteen feet below the cave. From there they had to climb directly upward over the rocks.
When Frank reached the piece of newspaper, he picked it up. The sheet was wet and soggy from the fog, but he recognized it as a copy of the Gresham Times, dated the previous day.
His hopes rose with this discovery. Gresham! For the third time since Joe’s disappearance the name of that town had come into the mystery! Excited, Frank thrust the paper into his pocket and scrambled up toward the entrance of the cave.
“What did you find?” Jerry demanded, panting.
“Newspaper. It looks like a clue.”
Frank reached the cave mouth and stepped inside. The interior was larger than he had thought. Though the entrance was small, the cave widened and seemed to be very deep.
The young detective took a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it. He played the beam on the rugged, rocky walls, the fairly level floor, and finally focused on a wooden box like those used for shipping food.
“Someone’s been here!” he shouted eagerly as the others entered the cave. “Look at that box! Fresh bread crusts around it!”
“Don’t see anyone now,” Jerry observed. “Listen!”
The boys heard a peculiar sound, which seemed to have come from the back of the cave. The sound was repeated. They listened, staring at one another in surprise.
“Someone’s groaning!” Frank exclaimed.
Biff pointed a trembling finger toward a large section of rock about twenty feet away. “From there.”
Again they heard groaning.
“Somebody’s behind there!” Frank declared.
He ran toward the mass of rocks and directed the light into the shadows beyond. Frank gasped as its radiance fell upon a figure lying bound and gagged on a crude pallet of sacking.
“Joe!” Frank shouted. He sprang forward and removed the gag.
His brother answered feebly, “Frank!”
Biff and Jerry gave a joint yell of delight. They scrambled in behind the wall of rocks and bent over their friend.
Joe looked white and ill. He could scarcely talk to them. His feet were bound together with rope and his hands were tied behind his back.
“To think that we weren’t going to search this cave at all!” Biff exclaimed. “And wait until Chet learns we found you. He’s down guarding the Sleuth.”
Frank had already opened his pocketknife and was hacking at the ropes that bound his brother’s ankles. Jerry was working at the other knots.
“I’m hungry,” said Joe, when all the ropes had been loosened and he was able to sit up. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday noon.”
The boys helped him to his feet. “They drugged me,” Joe went on shakily, “and I can still feel the effects. But tell me, how did you find me?”
“Aunt Gertrude gets the credit.” Frank quickly told of her encounter with the fair-haired man at Gresham, and his reference to “Hardy” and “caves.”
“But Frank put two and two together,” Biff spoke up, and mentioned the newspaper clue.
“It was lucky for me you saw the paper,” Joe declared. “One of the kidnappers had some food wrapped in a newspaper yesterday. He must have dropped one of the sheets.”
“Was the big fair-haired man really mixed up in it?” Frank asked.
Joe nodded. “He was in it, all right. But there were others. They were after that secret in our car. It’s a long story. Let me tell you about it later.”
The boys refrained from asking more questions.
“Do you feel strong enough to come with us now?” Frank asked.
Joe, with a flash of spirit, started to walk. He wavered a moment and would have fallen if Frank had not caught him.
“If you can’t make it, we’ll carry you,” Jerry offered.
Joe shook his head and sat down weakly. “My legs are so numb from being tied up, I don’t seem to have any strength in them. I’d better wait a few minutes.”
At that moment they heard a loud noise. It was a clattering, rolling sound, as if a rock had been dislodged and gone tumbling down the steep incline.
“What was that?” Biff whispered.
Joe got to his feet. “My captors are coming back! Quick! We’ll have to clear out!”
“Can they get in here through the rear of the cave?” Frank wanted to know.
“Yes, a passage leads down from the top of the cliff.”
Frank and Jerry each slipped an arm around Joe’s shoulders and helped him toward the mouth of the cave. Biff ran on ahead.
When Chet saw Joe, he gave a war whoop of joy. The others motioned frantically for silence, but their jubilant chum did not understand their urgent signals. He proceeded to put on a noisy celebration. He yelled, waved his arms, and then, to their horror, began whistling shrilly.
The men coming down the passage into the cave would certainly hear the commotion and hurry to investigate. The boys must flee quickly!
Frank and Jerry scrambled down the slope with Joe. They reached the first ledge in safety, with Biff slipping and sliding along the path ahead of them. As they commenced the second half of the descent the boys heard a yell behind them.
Frank looked back. A man was standing at the mouth of the cave. He glared at the boys a moment, then turned and shouted to someone behind him. Two other men quickly joined him.
“Go on!” Joe cried. “I’m holding you up! If they catch us, we’ll all be in trouble.”
“Leave you, my eye!” Jerry growled.
By this time Biff had nearly reached the boat. He called out to Chet, who apparently had not seen the men in the mouth of the cave. At Biff’s warning, Chet stopped his noise. Frank and Jerry clung to Joe on the narrow path, with loose rocks sliding treacherously beneath their feet.
Frank glanced back again. One of the men had drawn a revolver from his pocket and was pointing it at them. Another had stooped and was snatching up stones.
The revolver barked. A bullet whistled overhead. Frank and Jerry ducked and almost lost hold of Joe. A heavy stone hurtled past them and splashed into the water beside the boat.
A hail of stones followed. The man with the revolver fired again and again and several bullets came dangerously close to their mark.
Chet had revved up the engine, ready to take off as soon as his passengers climbed aboard.
“Hurry!” Biff yelled. “Only a few yards more!”
Frank and Jerry scrambled to the bottom of the incline with Joe. One of the three men was stumbling down the path in pursuit.
Jerry leaped onto the bow. With Frank on the shore and Jerry helping from the boat, Joe was hauled aboard. Frank was about to jump onto the bow when he felt a heavy, sharp blow on his left leg. He lost his balance and fell partly into the water. When he tried to rise, his leg doubled beneath him. One of the rocks hurled by the men had found its mark!
Shots sounded again. A splinter flew from the bow of the boat.
“Hurry, Frank!” Chet urged.
“Give me a hand,” Frank said grimly.
Biff scrambled over the side, seized Frank, and laid him on deck. Frank’s leg throbbed and he could scarcely keep from crying out.
The man on the path was only a few yards away now! He showered the air with rocks!

CHAPTER VIII
An Astounding Report
SMACK! A large rock hit the water with a resounding crash only inches from the Sleuth. A deluge of spray drenched the boys.
Chet, at the helm, could hardly see. Wiping the water from his eyes, he gunned the motor and took off. The Sleuth made sternway from shore.
“Gadzooks!” cried Jerry, mopping his face and looking toward the kidnappers. “They’ve gone!”
“They sure disappeared in a hurry,” said Jerry. “I wish we could have captured them. Frank, how’s your leg?”
“Oh, it’ll be all right, but it sure hurts.” He gave a wan smile. “Never mind that, though. The main thing is we found Joe.”
“Yes, thank goodness,” his brother said weakly.
Chet had taken the Sleuth into deep water and was now speeding toward Bayport. Jerry and Biff were busy trying to make Frank and Joe comfortable on one of the long seats.
“To think I missed finding Joe!” Chet said in disgust. “I climbed those cliffs every other time and searched. When Joe was found, where was I? Sitting in the boat!”
“Good thing you were,” Jerry retorted. “It’s lucky for us someone was here to have the Sleuth ready for a fast getaway.”
“Why did it have to be me?” Chet complained. “Some fellows have all the luck. Joe, tell me about your capture. Who were those men who shot at you and heaved all those rocks? When did they take you to the cave?”
“Better let Joe rest awhile,” Frank advised.
“I think we ought to go back and clean up on that gang!” Jerry put in.
“I’d like to learn more about them myself,” Frank said, “but I think we’d better leave it to the police. Those kidnappers are a tough outfit, and we have Joe to look after. He’s in bad shape. We should get him home.”
“He looks hungry,” Chet observed sympathetically, as Frank tuned in their radio and called police headquarters to report the rescue.
Joe opened his eyes. “You bet I’m hungry.”
Chet grabbed the package of sandwiches he had brought with him and handed them to his chum. “I knew these would come in handy,” he said. “Dig in.”
“Hold it!” Frank warned. “No solid food until the doctor says it’s all right.”
“Then how about the milk in this Thermos?”
“Okay.”
Joe drank the milk slowly and gratefully while Jerry satisfied Chet’s curiosity about their experience in the cave rescue.
Chet whistled. “That was a close squeak.”
When the Hardys reached home, their mother was overwhelmed with relief at seeing Joe safe.
Aunt Gertrude hugged her nephew and said, “Well, this time you deserve sympathy. At least you didn’t do something harum-scarum and propel yourself right into a mess of trouble.”
Dr. Bates, the family physician, was summoned to examine the young detectives. “No internal damage,” he declared. “Just exhaustion. Joe’ll be fit in just a day or two. Frank has a deep bruise which will be sore for a while.”
Joe was given a steaming bowl of hot soup, then put to bed. He immediately fell asleep.
Frank related the story of the rescue and gave Aunt Gertrude credit for the clue. She smiled and blushed but said nothing.
It was not until late that evening, after he had been refreshed by a long, sound sleep, that Joe was able to tell the others what had happened to him. He still looked pale, but good food and rest were beginning to do their work and a trace of color had returned to his cheeks.
“As you know,” he said, “at Chet’s party I chased into the woods after that man who was looking in our car trunk. As I got near, someone reached out and grabbed me. I couldn’t see his face.”
Joe said a gag had been jammed into his mouth and a hand clapped over his mouth. Then he was dragged to a car.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude.
“But why did he kidnap you if he was only after the secret radio?” Frank asked.
“There’s another reason,” Joe replied. “I’ll come to that. When we got to his car I tried to fight him, but he’s strong as an ox and managed to tie me up and put me in the back seat.
“Then he drove away. We went down the road for some distance and stopped. Two men came out of the bushes and walked over to us. One said, ‘Is that you, Gross?’ and my captor growled at them, ‘No names.’ When they saw me in the car, the men wanted to know who I was. It seems they didn’t know Gross was going to kidnap me.”
Joe said there had been a row about it. The other two men had wanted Gross to bring him back, but he was stubborn. “This kid knows too much,” Gross had said. “He saw the rocks. Besides, his father is a detective.”
“The other men called him a fool and said he should have left me alone and let the other thing go.
“One of them told Gross they didn’t want the authorities after them for kidnapping. Then they realized it was too late to let me go, because there would be trouble when I got back to Bayport and told my story.”
Joe said that the two men got into the car and they all rode for about two miles. Then one of the men climbed out and headed across a field toward the bay.
“We went on, but we hadn’t gone far when Gross lost control of the wheel and we crashed into a ditch. The car was wrecked but no one was hurt. Gross and the other man seemed worried because they were afraid somebody would come along and find them. They took off the license plates.
“Gross knew there was an old inn nearby. They agreed to go to it and telephone a friend of theirs to bring a sedan. They took a blanket out of the car. We walked up the road and into a lane where the inn was. Without any warning one of them slugged me from behind.”
Frank said, “And put you in the blanket.”
Joe said that later, as he started to come to in the inn, a drug was forced into his mouth and he was made to drink some water. He passed out, and did not wake up until morning, when they were carrying him in the blanket to their friend’s sedan.
“Just as we drove out of the lane and onto the Gresham road,” Joe continued, “I heard a car coming and managed to raise up. It looked like ours, so I tried to signal. Then Gross shoved me down.”
Joe had been driven to Shore Road and taken to the cave through an abandoned shaft.
“You were there nearly two whole days!” Frank said.
“Most of the time I was alone. They fixed up a few sacks for me to lie on, but they didn’t pay much attention to me. Once in a while they would bring in sandwiches and water and feed them to me.”
“Did you find out what they’re up to?” Frank asked.
“At night, when they thought I was asleep, I overheard enough to learn one of the gang’s secrets. They’re smugglers!”
Aunt Gertrude opened her mouth wide. “Smugglers!” she gasped. “What kind?”
“Diamonds and electronic equipment. That’s probably why they wanted to get Mr. Wright’s special radio.”
Joe paused and Mrs. Hardy asked if he were too tired to go on. “No, I’m okay, Mother. I also learned that one of the top men is named Chris. From what was said, I’d guess he’s that big fair-haired man who’s been watching us.”
Frank was excited by this news. Now they had something definite to go on! If Joe were right, they could concentrate on finding Chris and turning him over to the police.
Joe spoke up. “There are four or five in the gang working with Chris, and others offshore. Chris delivers smuggled diamonds. His pals in the cave—one tall and dark, one red-haired, and one short—mentioned that he had diamonds in his brief case. Chris thought we had seen them when the case burst open. Gross saw a chance to kidnap one of us to keep us from talking.”
“A stupid move,” Frank commented. “Even if we had seen the diamonds, we wouldn’t have known they’d been smuggled. What about Mr. Wright’s secret radio? Did they talk about that?”
“I’m not sure,” Joe answered. “Gross mentioned a secret gadget, but since they smuggle electronic equipment, it could be anything. Do we still have the transistor?” he asked.
“Yes. But it’s my guess someone connected with the smugglers figured out we have the radio and thought it might be in our trunk. Do you know the names of any of the others in the gang?”
Joe shook his head. “I’m sure there’s a big boss, but they never mentioned him. One man who came to the cave had a nasal voice. He sounded like one of those burglars at Mr. Wright’s house.”
“And he’s afraid of someone named Shorty,” Frank added. “This is a real clue.” After a moment he said thoughtfully, “So we’re up against a gang of smugglers.”
“I think,” Aunt Gertrude said firmly, “that you boys should leave well enough alone. Joe is back safe and sound, and we ought to be satisfied. If you try tracking down those smugglers, you’ll only end up in trouble. Leave it to the police.”
The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Frank answered the call.
“Are you one of the Hardy boys?” a strange voice asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“The inventor of the secret radio.”
“What’s your name?” Frank asked.
“You know I don’t want to mention it on the phone. All I want to find out is whether you still have it,” the man replied.
Frank was suspicious at once. He beckoned his mother and wrote on the telephone pad, Go next door and try to have this call traced. Then call the police and give them Joe’s clues to the kidnappers.
Aloud Frank was saying, “Why are you so interested, sir?”
“ ‘Cause I’m the inventor and I want the radio back.” The stranger spoke sharply.
A long parley followed. Finally, when Frank was sure his mother had had time to call the police, he said, “Sorry not to help you, sir, but you’ll have to get your information from my father. He isn’t here right this minute.”
“Your father!” the man shrieked. “Why, you impudent young pup! I’ll be right over and you’ll give me that radio or I‘ll—I’ll—”
The caller hung up.

CHAPTER IX
Smuggler’s Trail
THE evening passed with no further word from the mysterious caller who had phoned from a public booth but had disappeared before the police could track him down. Frank and Joe discussed the situation.
“Maybe he was scared off,” Joe suggested. “And what about the secret radio? Someone may look in that trunk again.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “I’ll bring it in here. But each time we leave the house let’s take the invention along.”
Before the family went to bed, Mrs. Hardy turned on the burglar alarm, which was connected to every door and window in the house and garage. There was no disturbance during the night.
“We’re safe so far,” Frank remarked at breakfast. “Maybe the police have caught Chris and the others. I’ll phone Chief Collig.”
“Sorry, Frank,” came the report from headquarters. “None of my men has picked up a clue.”
Almost a week passed. Still there was no news. The kidnapper-smugglers had covered their tracks well.
Joe had recovered from his experience and Frank’s injured leg had healed. The brothers were ready to continue their sleuthing. They asked Chet, Jerry, and Biff to help them.
“Gross and the others may sneak back to Bayport,” Frank prophesied. “They’ll get nervy soon and we may have a chance to trip them up.”
“Where do we go from here?” Biff asked.
“A tour of the docks,” Frank answered, “to hunt for a whaler.”
A long but wary search of Bayport’s busy waterfront yielded nothing. Finally all the boys went home.
Frank and Joe found that Aunt Gertrude had been shopping. “Who is that new young man working in Bickford’s jewelry shop?” she asked abruptly.
“I never saw a young man working in there,” Frank replied. “The only clerk I know of is elderly and he’s in the hospital right now.”
“A young man, I said,” Aunt Gertrude repeated in a tone that did not invite contradiction. “A very suspicious-looking young man. He wasn’t there the last time I went in.”
“He’s new to me,” Joe remarked. “What happened?”
“You see this diamond pin I’m wearing?” Aunt Gertrude pointed to a small one on the shoulder of her dress. “Well, this clerk kept eying it while I was looking at some inexpensive watches.”
“He was probably just admiring it, Aunty,” Frank suggested.
“Admiring it, yes. With the thought of stealing it!” Aunt Gertrude was warming to her subject. “You can’t fool me about young men. Besides, I’ve seen that clerk somewhere before.”
“Where?” Joe asked.
“I’m not sure, but I know I saw him.”
“Is that all you have against the poor fellow?” Frank asked jokingly.
“It’s enough. Mark my words, that young jewelry clerk is bad. Next thing we hear of him he’ll be in the penitentiary for robbing his employer!”
This dire prediction left the Hardy boys wondering. Aunt Gertrude’s intuition was amazing. They would drop into Bickford’s tomorrow and talk to the clerk.
The following morning the boys decided to walk downtown. They made sure their mother and aunt would be at home to guard Mr. Wright’s invention.
On the way Frank said, “I wonder why those smugglers operate in Bayport. Wouldn’t you think they’d pick one of the larger cities?”
“Perhaps they are known in those places,” Joe suggested. “I wish I could have heard more when I listened to them in the cave—like where the diamonds and electronic stuff came from and where they make their headquarters.”
Suddenly Joe gripped his brother’s arm. “Look!” he said tensely.
He gestured toward a man walking on the other side of the relatively deserted street and Frank almost shouted with excitement. The man was tall and muscular, with a shock of fair hair protruding from beneath his hat. He was the person who had been at the airport—the one they now suspected might be part of the kidnap-smuggler gang.
“I’ll bet his name is Chris!” Frank whispered.
“Let’s trail him and see where he’s going.”
“We’d better cross the street. He may catch sight of us.”
Excitedly the Hardys hurried to the opposite side and fell in behind the fair-haired man. “Chris,” apparently unaware that he was being followed, strode along at a rapid gait.
“Perhaps he’s going to meet some of his pals,” Joe said.
“We won’t let him out of our sight,” Frank said, “and if we meet a policeman I’ll ask him to notify headquarters.”
They were careful to remain far enough behind so that there were always several people between them and their quarry. The fair-haired man did not look back. He seemed to be in a hurry.


“You’d think Bayport has no cops,” Joe complained when the boys had gone several blocks without meeting one.
The Hardys trailed the big man for several blocks. Abruptly he struck off down a side street. The boys had to run in order to keep him in sight.


“Perhaps,” Joe said, “he saw you and me and is trying to shake us.”
“I don’t think so. I believe he’s going to the railroad station.”
“Good night! If he takes a train out of town, we’ll lose him.”
“I don’t intend to lose him,” Frank declared. “How much money do you have with you?”
Joe groped in his pockets. “About seven dollars.”
“Luck’s with us. I have thirty. We can take the train if he does, but I hope he won’t go far.”
It was soon evident that Chris was indeed bound for the station. When he came in sight of the big brick building, he broke into a run and disappeared through the massive doorway.
The Hardys hastened in pursuit, still looking for a policeman. Just before reaching the station, they saw one of their father’s friends. Quickly Frank told him the story and added, “Call headquarters and my mother.” He dashed after Joe.
When the boys entered the station they saw Chris just leaving one of the ticket windows. He ran across to an exit, raced through it, and darted toward a waiting train.
Frank stepped up to the window which the fair-haired man had just left.
“Where to?” the agent asked.
“We wanted to meet a man here,” Frank explained. “He’s a big fellow with blond hair. Have you seen him?”
“Just bought a ticket to New York City a minute ago.”
Frank was taken aback. He had not anticipated that Chris would be going as far as New York. However, having once picked up the trail, the young detective decided to follow it.
“Two one-way tickets,” he said.
“You’ll have to hurry,” the agent said. “The express is due to leave right away.”
Frank grabbed the tickets. He heard a whistle and saw that the train was beginning to move.
The boys dashed to the platform. Joe, in the lead, scrambled up the rear steps of the last coach. Frank followed.
When the boys had recovered their breath, they went through to the coach Chris occupied. They halted in the rear doorway and made a quick survey of the occupants.
Alone in a front seat they saw a familiar thatch of yellow hair. Chris was unaware that he had been followed.
The boys took seats at the rear of the car, and settled down for the journey.

CHAPTER X
Elevator Chase
“I hope the Bayport police communicate with the authorities in New York,” Frank remarked. “If they meet the train and arrest Chris, our worries will be over.”
“And if they don’t?” Joe asked.
Frank gave a wan smile. “Our troubles will just be starting. There’ll be crowds and it’ll be tough to keep track of him.”
The train did not make many stops, but each time it did, Frank and Joe were ready to hop off in case Chris should alight. At length the train reached the suburbs, clattering past miles of factories and houses, and finally lurched to a halt in the underground station in New York City.
The boys watched Chris intently as the passengers prepared to leave. The fair-haired man did not look back once. He put on his hat and strolled toward the front of the car.
“We’ll get out at the back and keep an eye on him from there,” Frank said.
The Hardys scrambled onto the platform where passengers were just beginning to file up the ramp to the waiting room. Chris had not yet appeared, so the brothers, shielding their faces, made their way quickly to the exit gate.
“I don’t see any police,” Frank remarked, disappointed.
“No,” Joe replied. “I guess we’ll have to take over.”
The boys emerged into the concourse. There, in the enormous, high-vaulted station, booming with hollow echoes, they waited for Chris to appear.
He stalked through the gate, looking neither to right nor left. The boys quickly fell in behind him. He towered above the throng, and they had little difficulty following him. Despite the crowds that jostled them, the Hardys managed to keep Chris in view and pursued him out into the street.
“What’ll we do if he hops into a taxi?” Joe asked.
“Hop into one ourselves and hope we can trail him,” Frank said.
“I’d feel better if we had more money with us,” Joe mumbled.
The man they were trailing still seemed unaware that he was being followed.
“It’s going to be mighty hard for one taxi to follow another in this traffic,” Frank remarked.
“Maybe we won’t need one,” his brother suggested. “Anyhow, these New York taxi drivers are pretty clever. I think if we tell one to follow a car we point out and make it worth his while, he could do it.”
“Going to cost a lot of moolah,” Frank said.
They were relieved when their quarry continued walking.
“Come on!” Frank called.
The two sleuths had a twofold problem: to follow Chris and be careful he did not suspect they were after him. Twice he swung around while they hurried along the crowded sidewalk, and it seemed as if he were suspicious.
On these occasions the boys dodged back of passers-by. After two momentary surveys, Chris hastened on again.
“I don’t believe he saw us,” Frank murmured as they again took up the chase.
“No, evidently not. But we’re coming to heavy congestion. Look at the crowd and there are traffic signals. If he gets across the street ahead of us and you and I are held up by a red light, we’ll lose him.”
The boys were anxious as they approached a busy corner where a policeman was directing the flow of automobiles and pedestrians.
“Shall we ask his help?” Joe asked.
“I doubt he could leave his post,” Frank answered.
Just what Joe had feared took place. Chris was among the last to slip across the thoroughfare before the lights flashed from green to red and the officer blew his whistle sharply. Joe groaned.
“Just our luck!” he cried.
“Look!” Frank exclaimed. “We’re in luck!”
Chris was speaking to a man on the other side of the street. Evidently the stranger had asked directions and Chris had halted to explain and point out the location of a certain street. He took such pains with the man that by the time he finished, the traffic light had again flashed green.
“Let’s go!” Joe cried.
They trailed Chris along the street for several blocks, then he turned into a large office building. Inside was a row of elevators opposite the entrance. Frank and Joe hesitated a few seconds about following Chris.
“Come on!” Joe urged. “If he gets in an elevator, and we aren’t there, we won’t know what office he’s going to.”
“You’re right!” Frank agreed.
They hurried into the lobby just as Chris stepped into one of the cars. The door closed and he shot upward. Fortunately he was the only passenger and the boys watched the dial. The car stopped at the tenth floor.
“I hope he doesn’t get away,” Joe murmured excitedly.
“We never would have dared get into the same elevator with him,” Frank said. “He’d have recognized us.”
The boys stepped into the next car. It soon filled and shot up leaving passengers off at various floors. The boys left it at the tenth. Each wondered if they could locate Chris in the maze of offices.
Again luck was with them. As Frank and Joe looked down a corridor, Chris was just entering an office. Evidently he had been delayed looking for his destination.
The Hardys hurried to the door as it closed behind the suspect. It was a green-painted steel door with an open transom. The sign read:
SOUTH AFRICAN IMPORTING COMPANY WHOLESALE ONLY
“I wonder what he’s doing in there,” Joe murmured.
Frank put a finger to his lips. The sound of muffled voices could be heard from the office. Apparently Chris and the others inside were so far from the door that their conversation was indistinct.
A moment later Chris’s voice came loud and clear. He must be walking toward the outer door!
“We’d better scram,” Frank advised.
“When he comes out, shall we grab him?” Joe asked.
Frank shook his head. “If those are buddies of his in there, they may grab us.”
The boys scooted up the corridor and watched Chris over their shoulders. He did not notice Frank and Joe. The suspect was looking intently at some papers in his hand as he went to the elevators and pushed a button for an ascending car. He was going to a higher floor
“Shall we follow him?” Joe whispered.
“Too risky. Let’s go down and wait in the lobby, then take up the trail again.”
After Chris had gone up, the boys took a Down car. On the ground floor they watched each descending elevator. After half an hour had passed, their patience was rewarded. Amid a carload of businessmen, they saw the burly form of the big blond man towering above all the others.
“Come on!” Frank whispered to Joe as Chris moved toward the street doors.
Again the chase was resumed in the crowded street. For several blocks Chris maintained a straight course. Then he swung around a corner and stalked down a side street. The sleuths hurried after their quarry and saw him dip beneath a restaurant sign below street level.
“Oh—oh!” Joe muttered. “If we follow him in there, he can’t miss us.”
“Let’s see if there are many customers inside,” Frank suggested. “If so, we just might be able to get away with it. Could be he’s meeting someone there.”
Frank went down the steps leading to the restaurant and made a quick survey of the place through the door. It was almost full.
“Chris is taking a table in the rear, and he’s not facing the door. Come on, Joe! We’re not letting him out of our sight.”
Boldly Frank and Joe entered the place. It was a cheap restaurant, with a row of booths along one side. The boys slipped quickly into one of the compartments. They could watch Chris but he could not see them.
“This is a break!” Joe whispered.
An untidy-looking waiter came over and they gave their orders. After he had gone to the kitchen, the boys put their money on the table.
“There’s enough to pay for a hotel room if we have to stay over, and a few more meals.”
“We can’t afford to hang around New York long,” Joe remarked, eying their available cash. “I guess we’d better tell the police about Chris and forget trying to spot his buddies.”
Suddenly Frank sat bolt upright. “Chris is getting up from his table.”
“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “He’s heading right for us!”

CHAPTER XI
Discovered !
JOE pretended to be searching for something he had dropped and quickly ducked his head underneath the table as the fair-haired man approached. Frank snatched up a menu and held it in front of his face.
There was a tense moment as Chris drew nearer. To the boys’ relief, he brushed past without noticing them and walked directly to the cashier’s counter. The Hardys got ready to pursue him, but he only stopped to glance at a newspaper lying there, then returned to his own table.
“Whew, that was close!” Joe murmured as he raised his head.
“It sure was,” Frank agreed. “But we have one thing in our favor. We’re the last persons in the world Chris would expect to find trailing him in New York City.”
The Hardys watched as a waiter walked up to the big man’s table. Apparently Chris was well known in the restaurant, for the two exchanged a few words laughing all the while. Presently a slim, sharp-featured man emerged from a door to the kitchen and went directly to Chris. He sat down, then began to talk.
“I think,” Joe whispered, “it’s time for some action. How about my going outside and looking for a policeman?”
“Good idea, Joe. I have a feeling the man with Chris should be investigated, too. He may be one of the smugglers.”
Joe slid from the booth and went outside. No officer was in sight, but there was a public-telephone booth nearby. “I’ll call headquarters from here,” Joe decided and dialed the number.
He was connected with a lieutenant, who said they had been alerted by Chief Collig, but the boys’ message to him had been delayed, and the call to New York had come too late for the police to meet the train from Bayport. “I will send two officers to the restaurant. If this man Chris hasn’t started to eat yet, he’ll be there a while. By the way, we got a message that you are to phone your home at once.”
“Thank you,” said Joe and hung up.
He immediately dialed the Hardy house. Aunt Gertrude answered. “My, you boys certainly take off fast! You ought to be right here taking care of the secret radio mystery.”
“What do you mean, Aunty?”
“I mean that I can’t understand your father. He sent a telegram saying, ‘Inventor will phone. Do as directed.’ Well, the inventor called and said we should leave the radio on the front steps at ten o‘clock tonight.”
Joe was astounded. After a moment’s thought he said, “I think the telegram was a hoax. Dad would never do such a thing. Somebody may be listening in on this call, but I’ll take a chance. Put a package on the steps but not the radio. Then ask the police to shadow the house and pick up this fake inventor. I have to say good-by now. Frank and I have one of the gang almost nabbed. Give my love to Mother. Tell her we’re sorry we couldn’t call before this.”
Joe returned to the restaurant and in whispers repeated his whole conversation. Frank nodded, then pointed to Chris’s table.
“I heard that thin guy call him Chris, so we know for sure we’re on the right track.”
The smuggler and his companion were busily engaged with pencil and paper. Chris seemed to be explaining something that did not please the other man, for he shook his head doubtfully and crossed out what Chris had already jotted down.
“I’d give anything to know what those two are talking about,” Frank said in a low tone.
“So would I,” Joe replied and started to eat.
At that instant the boys’ attention was diverted to a stocky man who had just entered the restaurant. He glanced in their direction, then made his way toward them. He planted himself in front of their table and glared at the Hardys.
“What’s the idea of sittin’ at my table?” he demanded.
“Your
table?” Frank asked in surprise.
“Yes. This is my table you’re sittin’ at. You’d better clear out!”
“There are lots of other tables,” Frank retorted in a low voice.
“Sure. And you can have any one of ‘em you want.”
Frank decided that nothing would be gained by arguing with the stranger. Both boys returned quietly to their meal and did not look up.
“Well,” the man roared, “are you gonna move?”
“As soon as we’ve finished our lunch,” Joe snapped.
“You’ll move now! This is my table you’re sittin’ at, and I mean to have it!”
The young sleuths were infuriated by the intrusion. Unknowingly the man was putting them in a difficult position. If they stood up to walk to another table, Chris would surely spot them and might escape before the police arrived! If they remained where they were, they probably would be discovered, since the incident was beginning to attract attention.
Frank signaled a waiter standing nearby.
“What’s the trouble, Mr. Melvin?” he asked.
“These kids are sittin’ at my table,” Melvin protested. “Make‘em move!”
The waiter looked uneasy. “I can’t ask these young men to move, Mr. Melvin. They were here first.”
“Ain‘tIagood customer of this restaurant?”
“Yes, indeed. But there are plenty of other tables, sir. If you don’t mind—”
“I do mind. These boys can get outta here or I won’t come back to this restaurant again!” Melvin shouted.
Frank saw that Chris and his friend had turned and were looking in the Hardys’ direction. At once Chris spoke to the sharp-featured man, who nodded. Then both darted toward the kitchen door and disappeared through it.
Joe said to the waiter, “We’re not afraid of this fellow, but we’ll leave just to save trouble.”
The boys got up. Melvin, breathing defiance and declaring that no person could sit at his table and get away with it, promptly sat down in the seat Frank had just vacated.
Joe dashed to the back of the restaurant and whirled into the kitchen. Chris and his friend were not in sight, but a back door was open and Joe assumed the men had ducked outside and up a delivery alley to the street. He hurried back into the restaurant.
Frank had hastened to the cashier’s desk and paid the boys’ check. Then he ran up the front steps and into the street. The police had not arrived.
Joe joined his brother. “Chris left by the back door,” he said. “He should be coming up that alley.” When the two men did not put in an appearance, he added, “You stay here, Frank. I’ll run down.”
Joe returned in a short time. “Come on!” he cried, and explained that the alley joined another one that led to the busy street beyond. They followed it to the sidewalk, which was teeming with pedestrians. Chris was not in sight.
“We’ve really lost him this time,” Joe commented in disgust.
“I have an idea,” Frank said. “Let’s walk along this street in opposite directions for about ten or twelve blocks. I’ll head downtown, you uptown. There’s a slight chance one of us might spot Chris.”
“But he might have gone cross town,” Joe argued.
“You’re right. But what have we to lose?”
“Okay, Frank, I’m game. But there’s just one hitch. If I should see Chris, how do I let you know and vice versa?”
Frank looked around and pointed to a public-telephone booth. He walked over and jotted down the number.
Rejoining his brother, he said, “We’ll meet back here in half an hour. However, if one of us gets back and the other isn’t here, I say stay by the phone and wait for a call.” He handed Joe a copy of the number and took one himself.
“Here’s hoping!” Joe declared with a grin as the boys went their separate ways.
Frank walked along slowly, dividing his attention between weaving among pedestrians and searching for his quarry. When he had covered nearly fifteen blocks, Frank decided to work his way back on the opposite side of the street.
He stopped for a moment at an amusement arcade to watch the people playing the various coin-operated machines.
As Frank was about to continue walking, his eyes widened in surprise. Toward the rear of the arcade a big fair-haired man was engaged in conversation with three ominous-looking characters. Frank carefully edged his way inside the arcade for a better look. He was certain now.
The man was Chris!

CHAPTER XII
Tunnel Scare
FRANK mingled with the crowd in the arcade and cautiously worked his way toward the spot where Chris and his companions were standing. He kept glancing toward the street, hoping a policeman would come along. Soon the young sleuth was close enough to overhear the men’s conversation.
“Sounds like you got in with a gang that’s going places,” declared one of Chris’s companions. “How about talkin’ to your boss and gettin’ us in on the action?”
“Sorry, but I can’t help you guys,” the fair-haired man answered. “The big boss has all the men he needs.”
“Keep us in mind if anything comes up,” one of the trio chimed in.
Just then a man who had been playing one of the game machines alongside Frank shouted, “Whee! I’ve won ten in a row. I musta broke some kind o’ record!”
The outburst caused Chris and his friends to look in the man’s direction—and therefore right at Frank. The boy turned quickly and gazed into one of the coin-operated machines. In its highly polished surface he could see Chris’s reflection.
“He must have recognized me!” Frank thought, noting a look of surprise on the smuggler’s face.
Frank watched while the fair-haired man whispered something to his friends, then turned to go back to the street.
Determined not to let the big man out of his sight, and to contact the first police officer he met, the young detective started off in pursuit. To his dismay, he was intercepted at the entrance by Chris’s three companions.
“Where d‘you think you’re goin’, kid?” one of them growled.
Another said, “We don’t like the idea of our pal being shadowed.”
“Get out of my way!” Frank demanded.
One man stepped behind the youth. The other two each grabbed an arm and led him out of the arcade.
“We’re goin’ for a little walk,” one of them snarled, “and if you make one sound, it’ll be curtains for you!”
Frank was forced to walk about half a block, then he was led into a dark, narrow alley.
“You need to be taught a lesson, kid,” the man behind Frank said. “We don’t like snoopers.”
Frank was in a desperate situation, but he did not panic. With catlike speed he thrust out his leg and tripped the man on his right, then flung him down so hard the grasp on the youth’s right arm was broken. With his free arm Frank jabbed an elbow into the midriff of the man behind him.
“Ouch!” his opponent grunted loudly.
The third man, who still had a firm grip on Frank’s left arm, was unable to dodge the boy’s blow. It caught him on the chin and he crumpled to the ground.
Frank had only a second to collect his wits. One of his stunned opponents had recovered quickly, scrambled to his feet, and lunged at him. Just as Frank dealt the man a staggering blow, he heard a noise behind him. Before Frank could turn, he was struck on the head with a hard object.
Several minutes passed before Frank regained consciousness. He slowly got to his feet and looked around. The three men were gone. Frank grimaced as he felt a large swelling on the back of his head. Then he noticed that his wrist watch and wallet were missing.
“Chris has some rough playmates,” he thought. “And they’re petty thieves to boot.”
Still a bit unsteady on his legs, Frank finally started uptown to rendezvous with his brother. Frank’s body ached, but a light rain which was falling seemed cool and refreshing to him.
When Joe saw Frank’s condition, he exclaimed, “Leaping hyenas! You look as if yuu’d fallen into a cement mixer!”
“Not quite,” Frank replied. “I ran into some of Chris’s pals.”
“What! You mean you caught up with the smuggler?”
“Yes, but lost him again. I’ll tell you all about it later. But first let’s find some shelter from this rain. I’m cold.”
They ducked into a doorway. Frank straightened his tie and brushed off his clothes in an effort to look more presentable.
“My wallet was stolen,” he said. “How much money do you have left?”
Joe dug into his pockets. “Exactly six dollars and thirty-seven cents.”
“I’m starved,” Frank announced. “And we’ll need most of that to get a good meal. Anyway, it’s not enough for our fare back home. Let’s find a restaurant and a phone. We can call Mother collect and let her know what has happened so far. Hope she can wire us some money.”
The rain lessened and the boys hurried along the street in search of an eating place. They examined the menus posted in the windows of several restaurants, hoping to find one that would not exceed their budget.
“Here’s a possibility,” Joe said. “The menu looks good and the prices are reasonable.”
The boys entered the restaurant and sat down. Shortly a waiter walked over to them. He eyed Frank’s rumpled clothes and the man’s manner became abrupt. The Hardys had already selected a dinner listed on the window menu and ordered immediately.
“I have a feeling he’s in a hurry to get rid of us.” Joe grinned as the waiter walked off.
“Did you see the way he stared at me when he came over?” Frank laughed. “I admit I look a little shabby. He probably thinks we’re not going to pay our bill.”
After finishing dessert, Frank rose. “Give me some change and I’ll place a call home,” he told Joe. “Meanwhile, you take care of the check.”
Locating a phone booth at the rear of the restaurant, the young detective deposited the coin and dialed the operator.
“I’m sorry,” said a feminine voice when Frank tried to make a collect call to Bayport. “Violent storms up there have temporarily affected the service. I suggest you try again in about an hour.”
Disappointed, Frank returned to the table. To his surprise, Joe was involved in an argument with their waiter.
“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.
“There seems to be a misunderstanding about our check,” Joe declared. “It’s almost double the amount listed on the menu we saw in the window.”
“I already told you,” the waiter growled. “Those prices are good only up to three o‘clock. After that, you pay more.”
“I’ll say you do,” Joe retorted. “But how were we supposed to know?”
The waiter picked up a copy of the menu the boys had seen in the window and thrust it at them “Can’t you read?” He pointed to a line of fine print at the bottom of the menu:
THIS MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE PRIVILEGE TO CHANGE LISTED MENU PRICES AFTER THREE P.M.
“Wow! You almost need a magnifying glass to read it!” Joe snapped.
“Don’t try to squirm out of this,” the waiter said harshly. “I had you kids sized up the minute you walked in here. I’m going to get the manager!”
The waiter reappeared shortly with a short, stocky man wearing a dark suit and a bow tie.
“I hear you boys can’t pay your check,” he said.
Joe started to explain. “We can pay you half of it now and ...”
“We don’t sell meals on the installment plan,” the manager stated tersely.
“Give us a little time,” Frank pleaded. “Just as soon as we can get a call through to our home, we’ll have some money wired.”
“A lot of good that will do me,” the manager answered. Suddenly his expression changed. His face broke into a wide grin. “Tell you what! I’m in need of a couple of dishwashers right now. Each of you work for three hours and I’ll call it square. You keep your money.”
The Hardys were reluctant, but being short on funds, with no place to go, and unable to get through to Mrs. Hardy yet, they agreed.
After working a while Joe said in disgust, “A couple of private detectives end up in New York as kitchen police!”
“I wouldn’t complain too much,” Frank said, grinning. “What if we had to wash these dishes by hand!”
“Why do we have to do them at all?” Joe complained. “Dad has several friends here in the city. They’d be willing to help us out with some money.”
“I know! But I think we should go to them only as a last resort.”
Frank waited nearly four hours before getting a call through to Bayport. Finally the lines were repaired, and a long-distance operator connected him with Mrs. Hardy.
“Your Aunt Gertrude and I have been worried sick about you and Joe,” she said. “There’s been a bad storm here. Where are you?”
“Still in New York. But guess what? Joe and I are washing dishes to pay for our dinner.”
Mrs. Hardy laughed and promised to wire them money right away.
“Send it to the telegraph office at Grand Central Terminal,” Frank requested. “And don’t worry about us. We’re fine, and we’ll probably be home tomorrow. Now tell me, did that fake inventor show up?”
“No. I guess the storm was too bad. The detectives stationed here were needed elsewhere and had to leave. The box on the steps is soaked. We turned the lights off and have been watching from the window. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of whoever comes.”
“Good. ‘Bye now. I hope nobody tapped this call.”
When Frank and Joe finished their work, they hurried from the restaurant. It was still raining when they stepped onto the street. “It’s almost midnight. What now?” Joe asked.
“Let’s take the subway to Times Square,” Frank said. “Then we can get the cross-town shuttle to Grand Central. At least we can keep dry there until our money arrives.”
There were only a few people waiting for the shuttle train when the boys arrived at Times Square. Several minutes passed, then suddenly Frank clutched his brother’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.
“That man behind the post!” Frank whispered. “He’s one of Chris’s friends!”
Just as Joe glanced up, the man brushed against one of the strolling passengers on the platform. The young detectives’ keen eyes saw him lift a wallet from his victim’s pocket.
“Hey! You!” Frank shouted, rushing toward the pickpocket with Joe close behind him.
Startled at Frank’s outcry, the thief quickly removed the money and dropped the wallet. He leaped off the platform onto the tracks and disappeared into the dark tunnel. The boys took off in pursuit.
“Watch that side rail!” Frank warned his brother. “It’s charged with high-voltage electricity!”
The young detectives had run a considerable distance into the yawning tunnel when they halted abruptly.
“What’s that rumbling noise?” Joe asked.
“It’s the shuttle train!” Frank screamed. “And it’s coming our way!”
Seconds later the fast-moving train loomed from around the bend. Would the Hardys escape in time?

CHAPTER XIII
Exciting Assignment
“RUN for it!” Joe yelled.
The boys whirled and dashed through the tunnel. As the train rapidly gained on them, its headlight illuminated the walls. Stretching along one side was a power line encased in metal piping. Frank spotted it.
“That’s a conduit line!” he shouted. “Grab it and flatten yourself against the wall!”
They made a desperate leap, caught hold of the narrow piping, and stiffened themselves hard against the wall. Seconds later the train sped past them. The roar was deafening and the mass of air that was pulled along lashed the Hardys like a gale. The sides of the cars were barely inches away as the lighted windows passed by in a blur.
Soon the last car disappeared around a bend. The youths jumped onto the tracks and made their way back to the Times Square station plat form. Both were trembling.
“What do you think happened to the man we were chasing?” Joe asked finally.
“Probably he’s used this tunnel before as a means of escape,” Frank replied, “and knows the layout well. I’m sure he’s heading for Grand Central station.”
Arriving at the platform, the boys spotted the man Chris’s pal had tried to rob. He was talking to a police officer.
“These are the two boys who chased the pickpocket into the tunnel,” the man told the policeman as the brothers walked toward them.
The officer turned to Frank and Joe. “This man claims someone stole his wallet.”
“That’s right,” Frank said, “and he’s probably the same one who lifted mine this afternoon. We chased him but he got away.”
“By now he has no doubt reached Grand Central,” Joe added.
“I’ve alerted a couple of the men on duty there,” the policeman said. “They’ll be on the lookout for him.” He stared at the boys curiously. “Say, that was a risky job for you fellows to take on!”
The boys introduced themselves to the officer and showed him their credentials.
“So you’re the Hardys,” the policeman remarked.
“I’m Reilly. Your father’s name is something of a legend around the department.”
“Dad is a great detective,” Joe said proudly.
At the officer’s request, the boys gave him a description of the pickpocket. Reilly then took the name and address of the man who had been robbed.
Shortly the next train arrived and the Hardys stepped aboard. When they got off at Grand Central station, Frank and Joe noticed a commotion at the far end of the platform. A group of spectators had assembled.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” Frank suggested.
As the boys walked forward, Joe’s eyes widened. “Hey, look!” he yelled. “There’s the pickpocket we chased!”
“He’s being questioned by two policemen,” Frank observed. “That was quick work. They must’ve nabbed him coming out of the tunnel.”
The boys pressed their way among the spectators.
“I ain’t done nothin‘,” they heard the pickpocket snarl.
“That’s not true!” Joe declared. “He tried to steal a man’s wallet. My brother and I saw the whole thing!”
“And I suspect he took mine and is a pal of some smugglers,” Frank added.
“Who are you?” one of the policemen asked.
The boys identified themselves once more, then related the incident at the Times Square station.
One of the officers nodded. “We were alerted to be on the lookout for this guy.”
“We know all about him,” the second policeman said. “His name is Torchy Murks. Has two convictions for petty larceny. We had reports of a pickpocket that looks like him working the subways recently.”
“You’re crazy!” Murks growled. “I’m being railroaded!”
“We’ll see about that.”
The officers requested the boys to accompany them. At the precinct Murks was marched off to the interrogation room.
A few minutes later a tall, muscular, square-jawed man emerged from the squad room. He walked directly to the Hardys and extended his hand in greeting.
“One of the officers just told me you’re the sons of Fenton Hardy,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Detective Lieutenant Danson. I joined the force as a rookie just before your father left the department. A great detective. Come into my office.”
The youths were ushered into a small but comfortable office, where Danson offered them chairs and seated himself behind his desk.
“I hear you fellows had a scrap with Torchy Murks,” he said. “Slippery character. Well, tell me, what brings the famous Hardys to New York City?”
The boys related their experiences of the past two weeks, ending with an account of how they had trailed the smuggler-kidnapper Chris to New York.
Lieutenant Danson sat thoughtful for several moments. “That’s strange,” he mumbled to himself.
“What is?” Joe inquired curiously.
“It might be just a coincidence,” Danson muttered. “Then again ...”
The boys watched with interest as the lieutenant thumbed through his private list of telephone numbers. “An FBI agent I know, named Emery Keith, dropped into my office a couple of days ago and told me about two suspects his office wants for questioning. From his description of the men, one of them sounds like this big blond fellow Chris. Of course our men have been on the lookout, but I’d like Keith to hear your story.”
Twenty minutes later two neatly dressed men arrived at the lieutenant’s office.
“I’m Agent Keith,” the tall, light-haired one said to the Hardys. Then he introduced his shorter, dark-haired companion. “And this is my assistant, George Mallett. I’ve heard a lot about your father. Some of our agents have worked with him.”
After the formalities, they all sat down to discuss the case. Frank and Joe told their story about the kidnapping and smuggling.
“Hmm!” Keith muttered. “Interesting lead!” The agent eyed the Hardys for a moment before speaking again. “Does the name Taffy Marr ring a bell with you fellows?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Frank replied.
“Taffy Marr,” Keith said, “is one of the slickest crooks in the country. He’s the leader of the smuggling ring and I suspect is the boss of Shorty, Chris, and their pals. Marr is young—the innocent-looking type—but as clever and cold-blooded a crook as you’ll ever come up against.”
“What else can you tell us about his looks?” Frank asked.
“Not much. Taffy is slender, of average height, and uses a lot of disguises, so we’re not exactly sure what he does look like. One of our men did spot a triangular scar on Marr’s left forearm. No doubt he’s self-conscious about this identification and he usually wears long sleeves.
“Taffy came from the West Coast a few months ago and organized a gang,” Keith went on. “The group’s been flooding the country with smuggled diamonds. It’s so bad that the Jewelers Association is offering a sizable reward to anyone who can trip up Marr. As for me, I’d give a year’s salary to put him in prison.”
Joe volunteered the information that the gang also smuggled electronic equipment, and added, “Have you any leads on Marr’s whereabouts?”
“The last report shows he was here in New York,” the agent answered. “Before that, it was Florida, then Virginia, Connecticut, New Jersey, and the Carolinas.”
“He certainly gets around,” Frank commented.
“Apparently he’s confining his operations now to the East Coast,” Keith said. “But the problem is where. He has dropped out of sight completely.”
“How long do you two plan to be in New York?” Keith asked the Hardys.
“Not much longer,” Joe said. We called home for money, and it should be at the Grand Central telegraph office by now. We plan to take the first train back to Bayport.“
“Tell you what,” Keith said. “Why not let us put you up at a hotel tonight at our expense? Then you can catch the morning train. I’d like to have breakfast with you fellows and discuss the possibility of your working with us. But I’ll have to talk with my chief first.”
Frank and Joe were excited at this prospect and quickly consented. Lieutenant Danson drove them to Grand Central, where they found their money waiting, then they went to a nearby hotel. Completely exhausted, Frank and Joe were sound asleep within minutes.
Early the next morning they met Keith in the hotel restaurant and enjoyed a breakfast of sausage, wheat cakes, and fruit. Then the agent reviewed the facts on Marr and his gang.
“I realize our information is sketchy,” the agent said. “But you’ve given us some good leads and maybe you can dig up a few more.”
“We’ll certainly try,” Frank said.
“I’d like you fellows to be on the lookout for Marr in the Bayport area. The same goes for Chris. He may turn up there again—perhaps to meet Marr, if they’re in the same racket.”
“You can count on us!” Joe said eagerly.
Keith reached into his pocket and took out a small business card. On the back he jotted down a series of digits.
“I suggest you memorize this telephone number,” he said. “You’ll be able to get in touch with me or my assistant Mallett at any time.”
“Right!” The Hardys repeated the digits several times until both were sure they would not forget them.
Frank telephoned to check the trains and learned that one would depart for Bayport within half an hour. Keith drove them to the station and shook hands.
“Good luck, and good hunting,” he said with a smile. “I can assure you that the entire Bureau will be grateful for whatever help you can give it.”
When the boys arrived home, Joe jokingly stuck out his chest and said to Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, “Meet a couple of Federal men!” 
“Whatever do you mean?” his mother asked.
Frank told of Keith’s request and the women smiled. “It’s a big assignment,” Mrs. Hardy remarked, and Aunt Gertrude added, “You’d better watch your step. This Marr fellow sounds pretty dangerous for you to tackle.”
“Now tell us,” Joe requested, changing the subject, “about that fake inventor. Did the mysterious caller ever come for the box with the secret radio in it?”
“Yes,” their mother replied.
“Was he caught?” Frank asked eagerly.

CHAPTER XIV
Identification Diamond
AUNT Gertrude answered Frank’s question. “Of course that crook was caught. The police came back and nabbed him. Inventor, nothing.”
“Hurrah!” Joe shouted. “Who is he?”
“He won’t talk and he had no identification on him. But I’ll bet he belongs to Chris’s gang,” Miss Hardy said.
“You’re probably right,” Frank agreed. “And they may all belong to Marr’s racket.” After a few moments’ thought, he added, “I think I know a way to find out.”
“How?” Joe asked.
Frank grinned. “I’ll pretend I’m a fellow gang member and go talk to him.”
The young detective telephoned Chief Collig, who gave his consent to the plan.
“What can you tell me about this man?” Frank asked.
Hearing that the prisoner was very short and strong, Frank instantly thought of the man the burglars at the Wright home had mentioned.
“Sounds like Shorty,” he said. After hanging up, he asked Mrs. Hardy, “Have you an unmounted diamond?”
“Yes. One that fell out of a ring. Why?”
“I’d like to borrow one as a sort of identification with the gang.”
“Swell idea,” said Joe. “I’ll help you get fixed up.” The boys went upstairs and rummaged through their father’s supply of disguises.
When Frank emerged from the house, his best friends would not have recognized him. He wore a long cut wig and beard, tight-fitting slacks, and a turtleneck sweater. He roared off on his motorcycle, and on purpose went past the cell block.
As prearranged Chief Collig met him at the entrance to headquarters and escorted Frank to the prisoner, who looked idly through the bars.
“Friend of yours to see you,” said the chief. “Maybe he can persuade you to unbutton your lips.”
Frank gazed through the bars. “Like nuttin’ I will,” he whispered to the prisoner in a tough voice as soon as Collig had moved off. “Hi, Shorty! I’m sorry the dicks got yuh. But yuh didn’t tell ‘em nuttin’, did yuh?”
“Naw.”
Frank was jubilant. He had scored one point The man’s nickname was Shorty.
“Did yuh hear my new motorcycle?” he asked.
“Yeah, I heard it,” Shorty answered. “Whad daya pay for it with?”
Frank pulled the diamond from his pocket. “With some o’ dese.”
Shorty seemed impressed. “Say, what’s yer name?”
Frank assumed an air of annoyance. “Ain’t Taffy told yuh ‘bout me yet?”
“Naw.”
The young sleuth’s heart was thumping with excitement as he said, “Name’s Youngster. I got a bonus on the last haul. Just joined up with Marr-when smacko!—I run into the toughest setup.”
Shorty, apparently convinced by Frank’s story, said, “I was lookin’ fer some chips, too. But Marr’ll probably have me rubbed out for gettin’ in here.”
“Did the dicks take the Hardys’ package from yuh?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. Before I could open it.”
“How’d yuh like me to lift it? I could do it easy,” Frank boasted.
“From the dicks?” Shorty asked, astonished.
“Naw. The Hardys. The chief’ll give it back to ‘em.”
Shorty’s thin lips broke into a smile. “Then Taffy’ll think I didn’t bungle after all?“ His face clouded again, however. ”Lessen yuh double-cross me,“ he added.


“Name’s Youngster,” Frank told the prisoner
“I won’t squeal,” Frank said. “I’ll tell Marr yuh give it to me to deliver. Say, where’s he holin’ up now? I seen him in New York an’ he told me to come here an’ wait till I heard from him.”
“Guess he’s still at Bickford‘s,” Shorty answered, and added with a smirk, “Best place to hide out with a wad o’ rocks.”
At that moment a voice called, “Time’s up for visitors.” A guard came in Frank’s direction.
“Okay, but don’t rush me,” the elated boy said in a tough voice.
He swaggered out of the police station and walked toward his motorcycle. What should he do now? Divulge the information to Collig at once and have the police pick up Taffy Marr?
“I’ll call him, anyway,” Frank decided, “and he can notify Keith.”
Collig said he would stake plainclothesmen at the shop. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
When Frank reached home, Aunt Gertrude met him at the door. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said excitedly. “We must do something at once about that young clerk at Bickford’s.”
“We are going to,” her nephew assured her. “That is, the police are.”
“Well, I can tell them something,” Aunt Gertrude said. “I was going to tell you what I remembered about him.”
“You know something about him?” Frank asked.
“I’ll say I do. You recall the tall, fair-haired man who bumped into me at the Gresham railroad station and called me an old whaler? Well, it suddenly came to me that one of the men he was talking to was the very same young man who’s working at Bickford‘s!”
“What!” Frank exclaimed. “You’re sure?”
“Now listen here,” his aunt said sharply. “When I’m sure, I’m sure.”
“Aunty, this is great news!” Frank exclaimed.
Her announcement changed the whole scheme of attack. “Does Joe know about this and where is he?” Frank asked.
“He hasn’t heard my story because I just remembered. Joe went—Here he comes now.”
As Joe came in, he asked, “Frank, how did you make out?”
“Great! Listen ! Taffy Marr is working at Bickford‘s!”
“No kidding?”
“It’s straight. I got the tip from Shorty, the prisoner,” Frank answered. “And listen to this. Aunt Gertrude saw Marr with Chris in Gresham! While I remove my disguise, will you call Chief Collig and tell him this?”
“Okay, and let’s go down and watch the fun when Marr is arrested,” Joe urged.
It took Frank only five minutes to take off his costume and makeup. Since Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude planned to leave the house, Joe put Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well of the boys’ car. Then he and Frank rode downtown in the convertible. When they reached Bickford‘s, there was a good-sized crowd in front of the jewelry store.
“What’s going on?” Joe asked a bystander.
“Don’t know. An attempted holdup, I guess. Police arrived and circled the building. We’ve been waiting for them to bring somebody out.”
A siren began to wail and seconds later an ambulance raced up the street. It stopped in front of the jewelry store. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited for the victim to be brought out. Would it be Taffy Marr, or a policeman who had gone in to arrest him or would it be the shop owner?
A stretcher was carried in and a little later it was brought out bearing a man. His eyes were closed and his face ghostly white.
“It’s Mr. Bickford!” Joe exclaimed.
Instantly the boys pushed through the crowd and rushed up to an officer just emerging from the store. He knew the Hardys and beckoned to them.
“We were just a little too late arriving to catch Marr,” he said. “Marr must have attacked Mr. Bickford and cleaned the place out before he skipped.”
“A complete haul, you mean?” Joe asked.
“Took everything.”
“How bad off is Mr. Bickford?” Frank inquired.
The officer shrugged. “He’s unconscious and his pulse is weak.”
Joe spluttered angrily, “If I get my hands on Marr, I‘ll—I’ll—”
“It’s going to be rough tracking him down,” Frank predicted. “I’ll bet by this time he’s wearing a disguise and has already left town.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “If he owns a suitcase full of disguises, he probably went back to wherever he’s living to pick them up. Officer, have you any idea where he’s living?”
“No, but our men are questioning people in the neighborhood.”
As the ambulance pulled away, the boys asked permission to check out the jewelry shop for a clue to Marr’s address.
The officer smiled. “Go ahead. You fellows may manage to pick up a lead before the police check. I’m to stay on duty outside so take all the time you want.”
Frank told his brother he was sure Mr. Bickford had some kind of records concerning his assistant. No doubt they were under an assumed name. “Let’s have a look.”
The boys found a drawer full of papers. Under them was an account book. They read each name listed in the book and at last came to one with recent, regular notations of payments.
“This might be his new clerk,” Frank observed. “Ray Stokeley, 49 New Street.”
“It’s worth following,” Joe said.
Frank and Joe briefly told the officer on duty they might have a lead and dashed off to their car. They soon reached New Street, where most of the old-fashioned houses had “Rooms for Rent” signs in windows. Number 49 was a large run-down mansion, set far back from the street.
Frank and Joe climbed the high steps and rang the bell. A neatly dressed, middle-aged woman opened the door.
“Is Mr. Stokeley at home?” Frank inquired.
“No, he has left-moved out, not ten minutes ago.”
The woman started to close the door, but Frank, smiling at her, said, “We think he’s the man we’re looking for, but we’re not sure. Would you mind describing Mr. Stokeley for us?”
Her description fitted Marr. Frank nodded. “He’s our man. Do you know where he went?”
There was no answer for a few seconds, then the woman said, “Who are you? Boy detectives?”
“Yes,” Joe replied promptly, “and Mr. Stokeley is wanted by the FBI and police. You’d be doing them a great favor if you tell us all you know.”
“Oh!” she gasped. “I know very little about Mr. Stokeley. But I did hear part of a phone call he made early this morning. He said, ‘Then to the airport.’ Does that help you?”
“Yes indeed. Thanks,” Frank answered as he and Joe raced down the steps.
They arrived at the airport in record time. As they rushed through the terminal lobby, the boys glimpsed the pilot, Cole Weber, looking at the antique craft and waved.
“If Marr’s wearing a disguise, how can we spot him?” Frank said.
Joe was staring at a man with gray hair, mustache, and a beard. He stood near a counter, talking to a red-haired fellow.
“Frank, look! That guy the gray-haired man’s talking to looks like one of the kidnappers!”
“Sure?”
“Positive! And I’ll bet Gray Beard is Taffy Marr!”
The men turned and went out to the field. Frank and Joe followed. The suspects started running toward a small white single-engine plane that was ready for take-off. They climbed aboard quickly.
“Now what’ll we do?” Frank asked.
“Only one thing we can do,” Joe replied. “Follow them!”

CHAPTER XV
Pursuit
“BUT how can we follow Marr?” Frank asked. “If only Dad’s plane were here, we could do it easily.”
He was referring to the sleek, six-place aircraft owned by their father. However, Mr. Hardy and his pilot Jack Wayne had flown it to California with Mr. Wright.
“Keep an eye on that white bird,” Joe ordered. “I’ll run into the administration building and telephone Agent Keith. Then I’ll go to Manson’s Charter Service and see if we can rent a plane.”
“You’d better make it quick!” Frank warned.
Joe rushed to a phone booth inside the administration building and dialed Keith’s code number. It took only seconds to make the connection.
“Agent Mallett speaking!” crackled a deep, firm voice.
“This is Joe Hardy. Is Agent Keith there?”
“No, but he should be back in a few minutes.”
“Can’t wait!” Frank declared. “Tell him my brother and I are trailing a man we’re sure is Taffy Marr. We’re at Bayport field. The suspect and another man are about to take off in a white single-engine job. We’ll try to follow them. I’ll keep you posted!”
“Good work!” Mallett said. “Try to get the registration number of their plane so we can trace its owner.”
“Right!”
Joe hung up quickly and went directly to one of the terminal’s counters. Behind it stood a plump ish, pleasant-faced man. On the wall hung a sign which read:
MANSON’S CHARTER SERVICE
“Well, if it isn’t Joe Hardy!” the man declared.
“Hello, Mr. Manson.”
“Where have you been keeping yourself? Haven’t seen you around the airport lately.”
“We’ve been sleuthing,” Joe answered with a wink. “I’d like to charter one of your planes right away!”
“Gosh, Joe, I’m sorry, but all my aircraft are out on flights,” Manson said apologetically. “Haven’t had such a busy day in months.”
Suddenly Joe had an idea. How about Cole Weber? He rushed off and in a few moments found the lanky owner of an antique plane.
“Nice to see you again,” the pilot greeted him. “What’s the rush?”
“I’m looking for a ride.”
“You’ve come to the right man. I’ll be glad to fly you wherever you want to go,” Weber told him.
Joe drew the pilot aside and in a low voice briefly explained the situation to him. “Could your aircraft keep up with a fast plane?”
Frank rushed into the lobby. “Marr and his friend are getting ready to take off!” he exclaimed.
Followed by his brother and Weber, Joe ran to a window overlooking the field. They spotted the small, single-engine plane taxiing to the active runway for take-off. Frank jotted down the registration number.
“Is this the one you want to follow?” Weber commented. “That type isn’t too fast. I’m sure I could keep up with it.”
“Great!” said Frank.
“We’ll have to make it snappy!” Joe urged.
“Maybe not,” Weber answered. “There’s a long line of planes waiting for take-off clearance. It’ll be at least ten minutes before those men can clear ground. That’ll give me time to telephone the control tower. Since my plane is not equipped with radio, they’ll have to okay me for take-off by flashing a green light.”
Frank said, “How about warning the control tower not to let Marr take off?”
Weber looked surprised. “Are you completely sure that one of those passengers is Marr?” he asked.
“Well, no, we’re not,” Joe confessed.
“Then I think we’d better not make such a request,” the pilot advised. “All of us might get in trouble.”
The boys nodded and Joe said, “We’ll just make a chase of it.”
Weber went off but soon returned. “Everything’s set,” he said. “And we’re in luck! The control-tower boys are going to let us take off from the grass shoulder of Runway Six. It means we won’t have to wait in line for clearance. Chances are we’ll be off the ground ahead of your friends.”
The Hardys followed the pilot to his orange-and-white biplane. He drew three parachutes from the baggage compartment and instructed Frank and Joe to put them on while he fastened his own.
“Climb aboard!” he said.
The boys seated themselves side by side in the front cockpit. Weber signaled a mechanic to help start the engine, then jumped into the rear cockpit.
“Brakes on! Contact!” the mechanic shouted.
“Brakes on! Contact!” Weber replied.
With a single whirl of the propeller, the engine roared to life. The boys were so thrilled by the chance to fly in an old biplane that for a moment they had almost dismissed Taffy Marr from their minds.
Weber began to glide his wood-and-fabric craft down the taxiway. Nearing Runway Six, he veered onto the grass shoulder which paralleled it.
“All set?” the boys heard him shout over the sound of the engine.
“All set!” Frank and Joe answered.
Their pilot pivoted the craft around and pointed its nose into the wind. Shortly a bright disk of green light beamed from the control tower. The engine emitted a loud, steady roar as Weber advanced the throttle. The plane bounced across the grass surface, then cleared it. Frank looked down and spotted Marr’s craft just taxiing into position for take-off.
After reaching a couple of thousand feet, Weber circled the airport. He and the Hardys watched intently as the other plane sped down the runway and became airborne far below them.
Weber maneuvered his craft a safe distance behind Marr’s plane, which was now heading on a northeasterly course.
“So far so good!” Frank exclaimed, noting that their quarry was not outdistancing them. The boys waved at Weber, who responded with a wide grin.
Nearly half an hour had passed when they noticed a build-up of haze ahead. It seemed to thicken as they drew closer. Soon the antique craft was skirting an ocean of milky-white mist which obscured the countryside below.
“What a cloud!” Joe shouted.
“And we’ll head right into it on our present course!” Frank observed.
Weber signaled that he would try flying above it. By now Marr’s plane was also climbing. To the Hardys’ dismay, their quarry vanished behind a screen of whiteness.
Weber signaled that he was going to turn back. But as he banked the biplane, it suddenly plunged into a misty void!

CHAPTER XVI
Bail Out!
WEBER struggled to keep the aircraft under control in the fog. He shifted his attention to the turn-and-bank indicator mounted on the instrument panel. What the dial showed would help prevent the pilot from rolling into an uncontrollable spiral.
Then, suddenly, the plane broke out into a cavity of clear air. The boys spotted the other aircraft and saw that it had altered its course. It was now heading south. Weber immediately banked and took the same direction, hoping to close the gap and come in on the tail of the other plane.
It was then that the Hardys realized the extent of the fog bank. Already obscuring a great area of the coast, it stretched far out to sea. Ahead they saw their quarry flying directly toward a looming wall of thick mist.
Weber altered course again and headed northwest in an effort to skirt the edge of the fog bank. But the mist built up rapidly in swirling clouds.
“I guess if we hope to keep the other plane in sight, we can’t go too far to the west,” Frank observed.
Weber began to climb, hoping to get above the fog. But as he turned north to meet the advancing cloud, his craft was enveloped in mist before he could gain altitude. Marr’s plane had vanished.
“The other ship is equipped to fly on instruments !” Weber shouted. “We’re not!”
Their pilot held to a straight course and increased his speed, hoping to run through the fog and pick up the other plane when visibility improved. The great bank of mist evidently extended over a greater area than he had first supposed.
Minutes ticked by and still the opaque grayness persisted. Frank and Joe turned to watch the pilot. Weber was peering at the instrument panel.
“At least we’re flying straight and level,” he announced.
Frank and Joe tried to remain calm but inwardly they were worried. Their craft might ram another plane at any moment!
Weber continued on into the limitless white wall. Not a glimpse of blue sky. Not a patch of earth to be seen.
“I guess we’ve lost Marr for sure,” Joe remarked.
“Yes,” Frank agreed. His voice showed his disappointment.
Suddenly the roar of the engine stopped. The only sound was the hum of the rigging. The nose of the plane dropped sharply and the craft went into a dive.
“The engine quit!” Joe yelled.
The pilot waved to them in an encouraging gesture. He had thrust the stick far forward and the plane was plunging through the fog at terrific speed.
On and on it went. The boys were alarmed. They knew engine trouble had developed and a forced landing in the fog would be perilous. But there must still be some hope; otherwise their pilot would have signaled to abandon ship.
The rush of air took their breath away. Then, as abruptly as it had ceased, the roar of the engine broke out again.
“Boy, what a welcome sound!” Joe exclaimed.
Weber eased the stick back slowly and the plane gradually recovered from the dive. It flattened out and began to climb again. Frank took a deep breath. Joe grinned.
But their relief was short-lived. Again the engine began to act up. It sputtered, balked, misfired, and picked up again. No longer was it throbbing with its previous regularity.
The boys looked back at the pilot’s anxious face. They all knew a blind landing could be disastrous! For a moment the Hardys stiffened as the engine died, then coughed once more.
“Carburetor ice, I’ll bet,” Frank said to himself.
The plane they had been pursuing was forgotten. Their whole concern now was safety—to escape the gray blanket. If only they could sight ground to attempt a forced landing!
Frank felt for the harness of his parachute. “We may have to jump,” he thought, not relishing the prospect. To leap from a crippled plane, with fog blanketing the earth below, was an experience he could do without.
Joe was alarmed too. “If only the fog would lift!”
The pilot was desperately trying to revive the engine’s old steady clamor. But it was useless.
The engine quit again. The nose of the machine dropped and the plane repeated a long, swift dive. It straightened out, banked, then dived again at screaming speed.
Coming out of the second dive, the nose rose abruptly. They all waited for the reassuring catch of the engine but it remained mute.
The speed gained in the dive steadily decreased as the craft soared upward in a steep climb. Then it fell off on one wing and went into a descending spiral.
“I have a feeling we’re going in circles!” Joe shouted to his brother. “I think Weber is becoming disoriented.”
“We’re sunk!” Weber yelled at the boys. “You’ll have to take to the chutes!”
“Jump?” Joe shouted.
The man nodded. “The engine is done for. Choked up. I don’t dare try a landing in this fog. We’ll crack up sure. Hurry! I’ll keep her under control as long as I can. Crawl out on the wing, watch for my signal, then jump clear! Count ten, then yank the rip cord!”
The boys scrambled out on the swaying wing in dead silence as the plane coasted through the gray mist.
“Jump clear!” Frank reminded his brother.
“It’s not the jumping that worries me,” said Joe. “It’s the landing.”
The boys knew that they had no control over their direction and had no idea of what lay beneath. They might be plunging directly toward a lake or into a city street!
Out on the wing Frank and Joe clung for a moment, their eyes on the pilot. Weber raised his hand, then brought it down sharply.
“Jump!”
Since the parachutes could easily become entangled if the boys jumped together, Frank went first. He leaped away from the swaying plane and plummeted through the fog. Then Joe shot downward.
Twisting and turning through the air, the boys plunged toward the earth. Desperately Frank groped for the rip cord. It eluded his grasp. Sudden panic gripped him.
He was falling toward the earth at terrific speed and could not find the parachute’s Dee ring!
Every second was precious. He knew that even if he found the ring, it would be a few moments before the parachute opened. By then he might already have reached an altitude too low to permit the chute to billow out in time!
Then his groping hand found the ring and he tugged. Nothing happened. He was still tumbling through the clouds of mist!
About to give up hope, Frank heard a crackling sound above him. There was a sudden jerk as though a gigantic hand had grabbed him. Frank found himself floating gently through space.
Through the wreaths of mist he glimpsed another object. It was a parachute similar to his own, dropping slowly through the fog. Joe, at least, was safe.
But what of the pilot and the crippled plane? Where were they?

CHAPTER XVII
The Trapped Pilot
FEAR gripping them, the Hardys drifted down silently through the fog. The only sound was an occasional flapping of the canopies looming above their heads.
“The ground can’t be too far below!” Frank thought. “What kind of terrain? Sharp rocks? Trees? Open water?”
He and Joe heard a muffled explosion some distance away.
“Weber’s biplane must have crashed!” Joe concluded. “Hope he bailed out in time.”
Suddenly the milky void vanished. The Hardys blinked in relief. They were less than a hundred feet above a farmland area.
They settled down in a plowed field a short distance from each other. Frank tumbled across the soft ground a couple of times, then hauled in a section of shroud lines to spill the air from the canopy of his chute.
“You all right?” he shouted to Joe, throwing off his harness and running toward him.
“I’m okay! That was wild! But I wouldn’t want to do it again under the same conditions!”
Frank pointed to a plume of smoke rising behind a hill about half a mile away.
“That must be the explosion!” he yelled. “Let’s see if it’s Weber’s plane.”
They raced toward the spot. In a few minutes they came to a charred, twisted mass of wreckage. A pool of oil still burned.
“At least Weber wasn’t in the crackup,” said Joe. “But where is he?”
At that instant the pilot called out to them. “Hey, fellows!” he shouted. “Give me a hand!”
The voice seemed to come from a small clump of trees located about five hundred feet away. When the boys reached it, they saw Weber dangling in his harness high among some branches.
“Are you hurt?” Joe asked with concern.
“No—only my pride,” the pilot answered. “I’m supposed to be an expert at handling a parachute. And where do I land and get trapped? In the only grove of trees within a mile!”
“You’re too far above the ground to try dropping free,” Frank warned. “We’d better get help.”
People from the surrounding farms who had seen the smoke began to arrive at the scene. When the boys asked for some rope, one of the farmers rushed off. He returned in a few minutes with a coil of one-inch hemp.
Joe took it and began shinning up the tree in which Weber’s chute had been snagged. Everyone watched the rescue as he edged out along a branch directly above the pilot and tied one end of the rope to it. Seconds later they both were sliding to the ground.
The farmer on whose property they had landed stepped up. “My name is Hank Olsen,” he said. “Was anybody injured?”
“No,” Frank replied. “Sorry about the plane coming down on your land.”
“That’s all right. I haven’t done any planting in that section yet,” the farmer explained.
Weber spoke up. “I’d like to telephone a report of the crash.”
“You can use the phone at my house,” Olsen offered. “I’ll drive you there. My pickup truck is just on the other side of the hill.”
When they arrived at the farmhouse, the pilot called the control tower at Bayport field to report the accident. Frank phoned Mrs. Hardy to let her know where he and Joe were, and then got in touch with Chet Morton for a ride home.
“What!” Chet exclaimed in disbelief when he heard about the Hardys’ adventure. “Say that again.”
“I said we had to bail out of Weber’s biplane,” Frank declared.


Everyone watched the rescue
“Aw, come on,” his chum muttered, unbelieving.
“It’s true,” Frank replied. “We need a ride home. Do you think your jalopy would hang together long enough for you to pick us up?”
“Hang together?” Chet retorted. “That’s no way to talk about one of the finest pieces of machinery going. Where are you?”
Frank asked the farmer for their exact location. Olsen unfolded a road map and pointed to a spot about ninety miles northeast of Bayport. Frank traced the route with his finger and relayed instructions to his friend.
“Okay! I’m on my way!” Chet answered.
Nearly three hours passed before the Hardys spotted their chum’s yellow jalopy bouncing along the narrow road leading to Olsen’s house. Weber and the boys thanked the farmer and his wife for their hospitality, then started for Bayport.
As they rode along, the Hardys and Weber discussed their pursuit of Marr’s plane. “I wonder if he ran into any trouble,” Joe mused.
“When I called control tower, I asked if they knew about the stretch of fog north of them,” Weber explained. “They did, and said it was only two or three miles across, with clear air on the other side.”
“And since Marr’s plane was equipped with radio,” Frank interrupted, “the pilot would have received the latest weather reports. He knew he could fly through the fog bank and be in the clear again within a few minutes.”
“Do you think Marr knew he was being followed?” Joe asked.
“My guess is he didn‘t,” Weber said. “At least his pilot wasn’t attempting any evasive action.”
“Sorry about your plane,” Joe said sympathetically.
“It was a great ship,” Weber declared sadly. “But I have enough parts to rebuild another one. That’s some consolation.”
Chet dropped off Weber and the Hardys at Bayport field, where the pilot made arrangements to fly home. After expressing their thanks to him for his help and saying good-by, the boys walked toward their car.
“We’d better call Agent Keith before we go home,” Joe suggested, and they went inside to telephone.
“Too bad Marr got away,” the agent said when Frank told him about their recent adventure. “But I’m glad you and your brother are safe.”
Frank drew a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “I have the registration number of the getaway plane.”
“Good!” Keith said. “Let’s have it. I’ll check it out with the Federal Aviation Agency.”
Frank gave it and hung up. The boys went to the parking lot. In a moment Frank frowned. “I thought I left our car here.”
“You did,” Joe said with a sinking feeling. “It—it’s been stolen!”
The Hardys were momentarily paralyzed. Not only their fine convertible, but Mr. Wright’s highly secret invention was gone!
Frank spoke first. “Come on, Joe! We must call the police.”
The boys ran to the administration building and telephoned. They were told by the sergeant on duty that state troopers had picked up a car fitting the convertible’s description. “Will you Hardys go out to the end of Pleasantdale Road and look at it?” the officer requested.
Frank hailed a taxi which took them to the spot, then back to Bayport. The convertible was a sorry sight. Every bit of the upholstery had been slashed and the contents dumped out. Articles had been removed from the front compartment and the trunk. The spare tire had been ripped open.
“Too bad, fellows,” a trooper said.
“Yes,” Frank answered, testing the rack.
It was still bolted in place, but he winked at Joe, a signal he wanted to be alone for a further search. On a pretext Joe got the trooper around to the front of the car. Quickly Frank looked under the tire well. The box and invention were still there
Frank slammed the lid shut. He called out, “Joe, if this baby still runs, let’s go home.”
The engine started promptly and the steering mechanism was undamaged. Frank signed a paper for the police, saying he was the owner of the car, then the boys rode off. As soon as they reached home, Joe carried the invention to the boys’ room and hid it.
“I’m afraid that next time the gang’s going to find this,” he told his brother.
“I agree,” Frank answered. “What say we ask Mother to put it in her safe-deposit box? I’m sure Dad would agree.”
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude approved this idea and as soon as the bank was open the next morning took the invention downtown. A little later the phone rang. Mrs. Hardy was calling to assure her sons of its safety.
A few moments later Agent Keith telephoned. “We’ve lost Marr again,” he said. “The FAA looked up the registration number of his plane. It belongs to a fixed base operator at a small airport in Connecticut. Marr’s pilot rented the plane for the day.”
“Did the owner see the pilot’s flying license?” Frank inquired.
“Yes,” Keith replied. “The name listed was Harold Clark. It’s a forgery! Such a license was never issued!”
“What about the plane?”
“It was returned sometime last night. The owner found it tied down on his ramp when he went to the airport early this morning.”
The Hardys were downcast by the situation. Marr had vanished and they did not have the slightest lead on him. Furthermore, their car was a wreck. They reported the damage to the insurance company and waited for an investigator to come.
“We’ll have to rent a car while ours is being repaired,” Frank said.
He made the arrangements by phone and within half an hour a car stood in the driveway.
The boys had just sat down to lunch in the dining room when the telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude went to the kitchen to take the call.
“Yes, they’re at home,” the others heard her say. Presently she darted into the room. “It’s about Mr. Bickford!” she said quietly.

CHAPTER XVIII
Outsmarting the Enemy
MRs. HARDY and her sons lowered their eyes. They were sure Aunt Gertrude was about to announce that the kindly jeweler had died because of Marr’s beating.
“Mr. Bickford is—is—?” Frank asked.
“He wants to see you at the hospital,” his aunt replied.
“Then he’s alive!” Joe exclaimed.
“Of course he’s alive,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Very weak naturally, so I don’t think you boys should stay long.”
“When are we to go?” Frank asked.
“Mr. Bickford got permission for you to come any time. He has something urgent to tell you.”
Curious as to why they were being summoned, Frank and Joe left immediately to see the elderly man. Mr. Bickford was partially propped up in bed. He looked ill, but he gave his visitors a warm smile.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “The doctor said a ten-minute visit so I’ll get right down to business. Sit down, please. I feel it my duty to warn you boys.”
“Warn us?” Frank asked. “About what?”
“That clerk who slugged me and his pals are determined to get you,” Bickford answered. “Stokeley thought he was in the shop alone, but I came in the back door quietly. He was talking on the phone and seemed to be giving orders.”
Mr. Bickford stopped speaking and closed his eyes. He began to gasp a little. Frank jumped up and pressed a cup of ice water to the man’s lips. Mr. Bickford sipped it gratefully.
“Perhaps we should go,” Frank suggested.
“No, no, not yet. This won’t take long,” Mr. Bickford insisted, opening his eyes again. “I must tell you. Stokeley was saying, ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t help your bonehead mistakes. Just don’t make any more! I want the Hardys on the whaler.’
“Just then Stokeley caught sight of me and hung up the phone. He turned livid, and before I could defend myself, he punched me, kicked, hit me with a stool, and acted like a crazy man. I blacked out and awoke here.” He closed his eyes and shuddered a little.
Frank and Joe stood up, sensing that Mr. Bickford was exhausted and had told all he knew.
“Thanks a lot,” Frank said. “Joe and I are certainly sorry we were the cause of the attack on you.”
“And we’ll profit from your warning, you can bet,” Joe added. “Now take care of yourself.”
When Frank and Joe reached home, they at once told their mother and aunt about Mr. Bickford’s report. “So you see, Aunt Gertrude,” said Joe, “that man Chris wasn’t calling you an old whaler. He was talking about trying to get us boys on their motor whaler.”
“Hmm!” said Aunt Gertrude. “Well, just the same he has very bad manners. Doesn’t know how to treat a lady.”
Mrs. Hardy was extremely concerned and said so. “I believe if Joe hadn’t been rescued from that cave, those dreadful men would have put him aboard the whaler and taken him far away. Frank would have been next.”
“Exactly,” said Aunt Gertrude, “and I’m sure your father never intended you boys to become so deeply involved in this horrible case. I believe my brother would thank you, Laura, to forbid these boys from any further detective work against such men as Taffy Marr.”
Frank and Joe were fearful their mother might take Aunt Gertrude’s advice. After several moments of silence, Mrs. Hardy answered. “Fenton expects his sons to follow through and see justice done. He doesn’t want me to pamper them into being cowards. However,” she added, “I expect them to be cautious and alert. Frank and Joe don’t deliberately run into trouble.”
The boys were relieved. Each kissed their mother and thanked her for her confidence. Now that the tension was over, Joe grinned and said, “Mother, we should have been born with extra eyes in the back of our heads, so we could see in all directions.”
“You could wear those special spectacles that reflect what’s in back of you,” Aunt Gertrude suggested.
“But they don’t work at night,” Joe replied, “and that’s when most of the sluggings take place.”
The conversation was interrupted by the door-bell. Frank answered and was handed a special-delivery letter.
“It’s for you, Mother. From Dad,” he called.
Mrs. Hardy opened the envelope quickly. Presently she said, “Good! Your father’s coming home. That will solve a lot of problems.”
She read farther. “But not right away. He and Mr. Wright have to testify against two men suspected of stealing the antique plane.”
“Dad found it?” Joe burst out.
“Yes. Listen to this: ‘I have good reason to believe the hijackers are part of the gang I’ve warned the boys about. I’m sure these men have pals who are watching me, tapping my phone, and intercepting radio messages, so I decided to use the mail. In an emergency you can contact me in care of Elmer Hunt, president of the Oceanic Electronic Company, San Francisco.’” The rest of the note was for her personally.
Frank and Joe went upstairs and discussed their next move. Both agreed they should do everything possible to learn where the whaler was moored.
“I guess it wouldn’t be too smart to use our Sleuth to hunt down the whaler,” Frank remarked. “We’d be spotted in a moment. And anyway we haven’t fixed the horn yet.”
“I don’t think it’d be good to take Tony’s boat, either,” Joe said. He was referring to their school friend Tony Prito.
“How about arranging with somebody who has a cabin cruiser to help us make a search?” Frank suggested.
Joe’s eyes twinkled. “Pretty expensive. How about the tug that nearly rammed you in the fog. Was there a name on it?”
“I’m not sure, Joe. I was pretty busy getting out of the way! But it seems to me I saw the word Annie on the side.”
The boys decided to go to the docks on their motorcycles. These were easier to maneuver and hide than their rented car.
Soon after they left, Frank and Joe noticed that a car with three men in it was following them. None of the passengers looked familiar.
“We’d better do something fast and shake off those men!” Frank advised.
“Guess we’ll have to play hare and hounds,” Joe observed. “What do you suggest?”
“Head for Biff Hooper’s and pretend to be staying there,” Frank answered. “We can sneak out their rear door before those men have a chance to go around to the garden.”
Joe nodded. “And take a back street to the docks. Score one for us!”
They explained their plan to Mrs. Hooper, who let them out the kitchen door. Frank and Joe hurriedly crossed the rear lawn, which was out of sight of the street. They jumped the hedge. Twenty minutes later the Hardys were in Harbor Master Crogan’s office inquiring about a tugboat named Annie.
The man flipped open a large ledger and ran down a list. “I guess you mean the Annie K. She comes in here once in a while.”
“Is she docked now?” Joe asked.
“I’ll see.” Crogan consulted a chart on the wall. “Yes, she is. Waiting for some kind of shipment that’s been delayed.”
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. There might be a chance of chartering the tug!
“Does the captain own the Annie K?” Frank inquired.
“Yes, and a real nice man he is too. Name’s Captain Volper.”
The Hardys got directions on where to find the tugboat, thanked Crogan, and left. Captain Volper was seated cross-legged on the deck of the Annie K, reading the morning paper. He was a ruddy- complexioned, slightly plump, good-natured man.
“Howdy, boys!” he greeted the brothers. “And what can I do for you?”
Frank made their request.
“So you want to take a cruise around the bay, up and down the coast, eh? Well, I guess I could do it.” He laughed. “You fellows got some money with you?”
“Sure thing,” Frank replied. “Can we cast off now?”
“Soon’s I can get my crew out o’ the coffee shop across the street.”
He ambled off down the gangplank and was gone nearly fifteen minutes while the boys walked up and down impatiently. Then Volper returned with two sailors, whom he introduced as Hank and Marcy.
A few minutes later the old tugboat pulled away from the dock. The boys decided to stay in the cabin so as not to be seen by anyone going past in other boats.
“Captain Volper, did you ever notice a motor whaler around here?” Frank asked.
“Yes, about two weeks ago. Then I got caught in the fog and plumb near run somebody down.” Frank and Joe glanced at each other.
“Does the whaler have a name on it?” Joe asked.
The captain tilted back his cap and scratched his head. “Seems to me it did. That’s harbor regulations, you know. Let me see now.” Unable to recall the name he summoned Hank and Marcy and asked them.
“Sure I remember it,” Marcy replied. “Man alive, I wish I could own one o’ them plastic boats. They got speed. The name o’ this one I seen anchored up near the caves was Water Devil.”
“I’ll bet it is, too,” Joe commented, but did not explain the double meaning in his remark.
The tug went directly to the spot and the boys gazed at the sleek whaler, which was anchored in shallow water. No one seemed to be around.
“Ship ahoy!” Volper shouted. There was no answer.
“I’m going aboard,” Frank announced. When the captain reminded him that the law dealt harshly with snoopers, the young detective said, “Did you know smugglers are operating in this territory?”
Volper and his crew were amazed.
“And you think this is their boat?” the captain asked.
“We suspect so,” Frank replied. “We’d like to go aboard and hunt for clues.”
The captain sighed. “Boys today are too smart for me. Go ahead.”
He pulled up close to the whaler and the Hardys jumped down onto the deck of the Water Devil. At first they made a casual surveillance. Seeing nothing suspicious, the boys began opening lockers.
“This is the gang’s boat all right,” Joe sang out, holding up a piece of paper with red and blue stripes on it. A few figures had been scrawled on it.
“Say, Frank, do you suppose there are any diamonds or electronic equipment hidden aboard?”
“Let’s look!”
Nothing came to light until they opened a dashboard compartment. A sack lay inside. Both boys reached for it at once. The next second they were hurled violently across the deck. They blacked out and toppled into the water.

CHAPTER XIX
Anchor Pete
ON the deck of the Annie K, Captain Volper and his crewmen stood stunned by the sudden accident. But not for long. Instantly Hank and Marcy jumped into the water.
“I’ll get this one,” Hank called, indicating Joe as the boy’s limp form bobbed to the surface.
Marcy set off with fast strokes to rescue Frank. In less than a minute the two Hardys were lying on the deck of the tugboat and being given first aid. They did not respond.
“We’d better get these boys to the hospital as soon as possible,” Captain Volper said worriedly.
He set the ship’s engines to maximum capacity and sent a radio message for an ambulance to meet him at the dock. By the time Frank and Joe regained consciousness, they were in a Bayport Hospital room and Dr. Bates was there, as well as Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.
Relief spread across the watchers’ faces as the boys managed wan smiles. “I guess we gave you all a good scare,” Joe remarked. “Say, where are we?”
When the boys were told, Frank said, “Joe and I must have been out a long time. I remember we touched a sack in that whaler and then-wham! What happened to us?”
“You fellows got a bad electric shock,” Dr. Bates explained, “and were thrown into the water. If Captain Volper hadn’t been there, you would have drowned. Hank and Marcy rescued you.”
“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Hardy murmured.
“The person who rigged up that device got a shock of his own,” Aunt Gertrude said crisply, “and I’m glad he did.”
“He was caught?” Joe asked. “Who is he?”
“Your kidnapper—at least this is what the police think from your description of him,” Aunt Gertrude said. “When you feel well enough, you’re to go down to headquarters and identify this man you call Gross.”
“How was he captured?” Joe asked impatiently.
The boys sat open-mouthed in astonishment as they listened. Captain Volper had notified the Coast Guard and the Harbor Police. Both had gone out at once to the spot where the Water Devil was moored. Nothing had been disturbed and the men were sure no one would show up until the launches moved away.
“The police decided to leave a couple of their skin divers to watch,” Dr. Bates told Frank and Joe. “Soon after the others had left, a rowboat came from shore. The man in it boarded the whaler. He looked worried at seeing the compartment open, but seemed relieved that the sack was still there. He clicked off a switch, then picked up the sack with no harm to himself. As he reboarded the rowboat with it, the man was overpowered by the two skin divers.”
“What was in the sack?” Joe queried.
“Exactly what you might expect,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Diamonds and valuable electronic equipment.”
Mrs. Hardy told her sons that both the Water Devil and the rowboat had been impounded by the authorities and were being examined for further clues since the prisoner would reveal nothing.
Joe wanted to go right down to headquarters and see the man, but Dr. Bates forbade this.
“May I call Chief Collig?” Joe asked.
A phone was brought to the room and plugged in. Soon Joe was talking to the chief, who was amazed and delighted that the Hardys had recovered.
“I want to see the prisoner,” Joe told him. “Dr. Bates says I can’t come down. Could you possibly bring him here?”
The others in the room gasped at the request, but Dr. Bates nodded his approval after the chief had said, “If the doctor thinks it’s okay.” The physician left but Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude remained.
Twenty minutes later the prisoner arrived with two officers, one of them with a tape recorder already turned on.
“He’s Gross all right!” Joe burst out. “My kidnapper!”
The man was sullen. He murmured defiantly, “You can’t prove a thing.”
“Proof?” Joe scoffed. “I heard plenty in the cave. And somebody else besides me got a look at you when you were snooping in our car.” He did not mention Iola’s name.
When Gross made no answer, Aunt Gertrude cried out, “You ought to be horsewhipped! Jail’s too good for people like you. Kidnapper, smuggler, and goodness knows what else!”
As she paused to take a deep breath, Frank spoke up. “Gross, you tried to starve my brother and you doped him.”
The prisoner finally began to talk. “I—I had to do what I was told or risk being killed myself.”
“You mean by Taffy Marr?” Frank shot at him.
Gross winced. “Yes. I shouldn’t tell you, but it don’t matter now. I got nothing to lose. Marr takes away every diamond and electronic gadget we steal and smuggle in and threatens us besides. I’m better off in jail.”
One of the officers remarked, “Things will go a lot better for you if you tell everything. Where is Marr now?”
“I don’t know. He was watching me from shore with binoculars. When I got caught I’m sure he ducked into hiding. That’s the way he does. When things get too hot, every man for himself. Then in one month we meet up again.”
“What’s the next place?” the officer asked.
“Portland, Maine.”
“No plans until then?”
Several seconds passed before Gross answered. Finally he said, “Each man was ordered to get the Hardy boys one way or another. Maybe some of ‘em will still stay around here and try it.”
“Oh, I hope not!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.
Frank asked the prisoner, “Who do you think will get after us first? And where?”
Gross did not answer directly. “I don’t want to see you guys get hurt, but I can’t help you. Chris might decide to stick around or Anchor Pete.”
“Anchor Pete?” Joe repeated.
“Yeah—he’s a sailor and a smuggler. Used to pitch an anchor like you’d pitch horseshoes and bet he could throw one farther’n anybody else. He could, too. You guys had better watch out.”
Gross, who finally said his first name was John, had no record. Marr had saved him from being beaten up by a gang, so Gross had felt indebted to him. “But I was wrong. He made a no-good out o’ me. And what do I get? Jaill”
The bitter prisoner was led away. A nurse came in with food for the boys and announced that as soon as they had eaten they were to go to sleep.
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude kissed Frank and Joe good night and left. As the boys ate, they discussed the latest developments in the case and how they should tackle them when they resumed their detective work.
“I have an idea,” Frank said. “How about asking Chet and Biff and Jerry to shadow us while we let ourselves be seen around?”
Joe grinned. “Hoping to be attacked, you mean?”
“Right.” Frank thought it doubtful this would occur in daylight. “We’ll reverse our schedule—sleep in the daytime and roam at night.”
From his bed Joe shook hands with himself, indicating, “Agreed.”
Three days went by before Dr. Bates told the boys they were “as good as new. And stay that way!” he advised with a meaningful laugh.
Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had arranged with their friends to carry out the sleuthing program.
“Okay,” said Chet, “but I think your scheme is pretty risky. Taffy Marr may have shadows following his men and they could be behind the other fellows and me.”
“We’ll just have to take that chance,” Biff had said.
The first night was spent along the waterfront where the Hardys were sure Anchor Pete would be stationed. Frank and Joe walked together at times, then would separate. They deliberately went into dark areas and deserted spots. No one bothered them and later their friends reported having seen nothing suspicious.
“Tomorrow night,” said Frank as the group separated, “we’ll try the high school and athletic grounds and football stadium.”
Again the boys were not disturbed and so far as they could judge were not followed.
“What’s next?” Biff asked.
Joe felt that perhaps Marr’s gang had learned the Hardys’ friends were helping them and suggested he and Frank try the sleuthing alone.
“Nothing doing,” Chet spoke up.
It was decided that the third night would be spent in the heart of town and would last only until just before midnight. It rained, but once more Frank and Joe led the way through dark streets and up and down deserted alleys. Finally, at ten minutes to twelve, they heard Biff whistle, Jerry give the sound of a hoot owl, and Chet yip like a dog.
“Quitting time,” Frank remarked.
“Yes,” Joe said. “Three nights of walking and not one thing happening. By this time Marr and the rest of his gang could be halfway around the world.”
Frank sighed from weariness and disappointment. “Let’s take a short cut across the square.”
They headed for the small park which lay in the center of Bayport. Various municipal buildings, including the town hall with its large illuminated clock, outlined the four sides.
Frank and Joe reached the square and took a diagonal path through it. The place seemed empty. Part way across, Joe suddenly said, “I just saw someone dodge behind that big tree ahead.”
“We’d better wait,” Frank answered.
The Hardys jumped back of a wide-trunked maple. When no one ventured toward them, the boys peered out, looking in opposite directions for a possible attacker. Seconds later there was a shuffling sound behind them.
“Look out!” a voice yelled.
Frank and Joe turned in time to see a masked sailor swinging a heavy anchor. He was about to crash it on Frank’s head!

CHAPTER XX
Captives’ Hideout
THE sailor’s diabolical move was accompanied by the midnight striking of the clock, shouts from all directions, and a prolonged war whoop that could come from no one but Chet Morton. As Frank and Joe dodged the anchor, footsteps pounded in their direction.
The boys grabbed the sailor and held him tightly. In a moment Chet, Biff, Jerry, and Mr. Hardy rushed up.
“Dad!” his sons cried. “When did you get home?”
“I haven’t been home yet,” the detective answered. “Came from the airport and dropped off Mr. Wright. As I rode past here, Chet hailed me.”
Frank stared at the other boys and said, “I thought you’d gone.”
“What do you take us for?” Chet asked. “Did you think we’d run out on you? We were planning to follow you to your house.”
All this time the sailor was wriggling, trying to break away from his captors.
Joe looked at him hard. “Hold still, Anchor Pete!” he ordered. “You’ll stay right here until the police come for you.”
“And his pal,” Biff put in. “I kayoed him back by that tree.”
The sailor’s jaw dropped. “Ben?” he said unbelievingly. “And you know my name too?”
“Sure,” Frank answered. “Your buddy Gross squealed.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Hardy had pulled his two-way short-wave set from a pocket and began talking to police headquarters. He told what had happened and asked that Keith and Mallett of the FBI be notified. The sergeant agreed and said he would send a squad car and four men to the park immediately.
While waiting, Frank and Joe asked the other boys to hold the captive sailor so they could go look at Biff’s victim. When Joe beamed his flashlight on the man’s face, he exclaimed, “This guy was in the cave with my kidnapper!”
The boys dragged the man back to where Anchor Pete was standing. The sight made the sailor blanch and the Hardys figured that maybe he was so frightened he might talk if quizzed.
“Pete, the game’s up!” Frank said. “You can tell us about Taffy Marr now.”
The sailor squinted his eyes and looked into space, as if trying to make up his mind what he should do. At last he said, “I’ll talk. Marr’s gone to make a pickup.”
“Diamonds? Electronic parts?” Joe asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Along the bay. Maybe near the caves.”
At that moment the police car arrived and the two prisoners were put inside. Before the driver pulled away, he said to the Hardys, “Sergeant asked me to give you a message. Keith and his assistant Mallet are already in town. They’re at your house.”
The Hardys said good night to Chet, Biff, and Jerry, thanking them for their fine work.
“Any time,” the three responded.
On their way home Frank and Joe asked their father how he had learned about the gang. “I got a tip from a detective friend in Chicago, but he wasn’t sure just which gang it was.”
When the three reached home they found Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude with the two FBI agents. They had already briefed the men on the latest developments in the case.
“Our night’s work isn’t finished,” Frank spoke up. “We have a new lead to Taffy Marr.”
“We’ll go right after him,” Keith said.
“As soon as we put on dry clothes and get raincoats,” Mr. Hardy said.
Within ten minutes the five were ready to leave the house. Mr. Hardy drove his car. The gentle rain had now changed to a severe storm. Thunder boomed and vivid flashes of lightning streaked down from the black sky.
When the Hardys and the two agents reached the area of the caves, the detective parked and the searchers groped their way down the hillside.
“There’s a narrow path between the cliffs just ahead,” Frank told the others. “It leads directly down to the water.”
He led the way to the path and started down it. The teeming rain made the footing treacherous. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated the entire hillside, forcing the sleuths to crouch low to avoid detection.
During one of the flashes, Joe pointed to the shore below. “I saw a man standing down there! He could be Marr!”
The searchers continued to stalk their way along the steep path. When they were a little more than halfway to the bottom, Mr. Hardy signaled for his companions to stop.
“Keith, how about our sitting here for a while and seeing what that man is up to,” Mr. Hardy whispered. “This spot is a good vantage point, and there are enough bushes to provide cover.”
“Good idea.”
As they watched the shore below, the watchers suddenly saw a flashlight beam flicker on and off several times.
“Marr must be signaling to someone,” Mallett said.
“What’s that?” Keith snapped, pointing off into the distance.
There had been an answering gleam from far out in the bay. The light flashed once, twice, then out completely.
A few minutes later there was a flash of lightning that bathed the entire area in a livid glare. In that moment the boys and their companions caught a glimpse of a small rowboat making its way inshore across the choppy waters.
“Did you see that?” Frank cried. “Four men in that boat.”
“Let’s go down for a closer look,” Joe suggested.
They descended cautiously, edging their way through the bushes toward the spot where the man was standing. Through the storm they heard a faint shout. Again the suspect signaled with his flashlight. He was guiding the boat inland.
As it drew closer, the sleuths heard the rattle of oarlocks and advanced a bit. Then, about forty feet away, they could clearly distinguish the waiting figure near the water’s edge.
The gangleader switched on his flashlight again. The rowboat was approaching. It rocked to and fro with its bow high.
“That you, Marr?” someone called.
“Yes, but shut up!”
At last they were going to confront Marr!
“We can’t risk letting those men get away,” Keith muttered. “When the boat lands, we’ll arrest them!”
The agents drew their pistols. With Mr. Hardy they poised for action. The detective ordered his sons to step back.
The rowboat was now in shallow water. Two of the occupants leaped out and pushed the craft onto the beach.
“This is it!” Keith declared. “Let’s go!”
He sprang from the bushes with Mallett and Mr. Hardy.
“Put up your hands!” the agent shouted. “And don’t make a move!”
There was a yell from the dim figures on the beach. One of the men was about to push the rowboat back into deep water, when Mallett fired two shots over his head.
As the agents ran toward the suspects, Frank caught sight of a man running down the beach and raced after him. Behind him he could hear shouts, another shot, then the sounds of a struggle.
The fleeing man plunged on into the darkness, but the young detective overtook him quickly. His quarry suddenly turned, crouched low, and as Frank came up he lashed out with his fists.
The boy dodged the blow, then grappled with the man. A clenched fist struck the young sleuth in the face and sent him sprawling.
Frank recovered instantly and scrambled to his feet. His opponent turned and fled. Again Frank overtook him and brought the man down with a flying tackle. In a tight clinch they rolled across the beach and into shallow water. Finally Frank managed to get in a blow that knocked his opponent unconscious. He dragged him out of the water.
Joe, meanwhile, had plunged knee-deep into the water and grabbed a man who was trying to haul the boat away from shore. They lashed out at each other. Joe was knocked down. He struggled to his feet, choking and gasping, and followed his tall, muscular opponent onto the beach. The man aimed a blow, but Joe side-stepped it, then rushed in and drove his fists into the other’s body. The gangster grunted and doubled up with pain.
Joe noticed that Mallett was sprawled on the ground apparently unconscious and that Mr. Hardy and Keith were still battling two men.
Joe suddenly realized that Taffy Marr had escaped and was now rowing off in a sheet of rain.
“Marr is getting away!” he shouted.
“What!” Keith yelled. “And we don’t have a boat to go after him!” He fired a shot in the air, but the suspect did not halt.
Mallett recovered and got to his feet just as Frank arrived, shoving his prisoner ahead of him. 
“Marr escaped in the rowboat!” Joe told his brother, and picked up the flashlight Marr had dropped. He directed its beam on the prisoners.
“I recognize three of these guys!” he exclaimed as Keith and Mallett handcuffed the men. “They visited Chris in the cave when I was there.”
They were frisked and bags of diamonds and small electronic equipment removed from their pockets.
“Where’d you get these?” Mr. Hardy asked.
“They’re legit,” one man said.
“We know you’re smugglers,” the detective said, “and we can trace these.”
“Okay. They were dropped to us off a ship. In this storm I didn’t see the name of it.”
“Where’s Marr going?” Frank asked one prisoner.
“You’re not gettin’ anything more out of us!”
“That’s not being smart,” Keith said. “After all, Marr left you behind to face the music. It might help you get off with lighter sentences if you cooperate.” Silence.
“Why don’t you tell us what you know?” Frank queried.
“I—I want to,” the man stammered. “But I’m afraid of—of the boss.”
“You mean Marr? Where is he?”
“I guess up on the north shore of Barmet Bay. Place called Rocky Point. Marr had me rent an old shack there. He uses it as a hideout.”
“Where’s Chris?” Joe questioned.
“Probably waiting for Marr.”
Mr. Hardy radioed Bayport Police Headquarters again and said they had captured more of the smugglers. The sergeant promised to notify the Harbor Police to pick them up.
“I hope they come soon,” Joe said. “We must go after Marr before he skips.”
The launch arrived in an incredibly short time and the prisoners were handed over. Then Frank said to the captain, “We may need you again soon. Up at Rocky Point.”
“Let us know,” the skipper said and chugged off.
The Hardys and the FBI agents climbed the cliff, then rode along Shore Road to Rocky Point. In this area the bluff was not so steep and the sleuths had no trouble descending it. They were just in time to see a man with a lantern meeting an arriving rowboat.
“That’s Chris!” Frank whispered.
“And Marr,” Joe added. “Let’s rush ‘em!”
“Not yet,” Keith said. “I have a tape recorder in my pocket. We may find their conversation useful.”
As Keith had hoped, the two smugglers talked freely.
“I guess now we clear out of Bayport for good,” Marr said. “Chris, when we get to Portland, you set up a whole new gang. Make friends with the crew of a new ship and pick out one like Beef Danion on the Rizzolo. Too bad to chuck him.”
“But, Taffy,” said Chris, “you goin’ to leave here without getting Wright’s secret radio? You said that if you used that, nobody could ever catch us. It would scramble messages among the gang and from ship to shore. And the dicks couldn’t interfere, or a bad storm stop your orders from reaching us.”
“I know,” Marr answered, “but right now our skin’s more important. Maybe I shouldn’t have hung around after I slugged Bickford. But I needed tonight’s haul.”
“What about your stealin’ Wright’s antique plane?” Chris asked.
Marr gave a sardonic laugh. “It served its purpose—kept Mr. Wright and Mr. Hardy away from here. But those kids, Frank and Joe, are pests. All the Hardys are too clever.”
The boys were smiling. Marr did not know that one of the secret radios was hidden in Wright’s plane, and now it had been recovered!
By this time Marr and Chris had reached the one-room shack and went inside. Again the boys wanted to rush the place, but their father held them back.
“You watch through that window,” he ordered.
Going off a little distance, the detective radioed the Harbor Police.
Then he and the FBI men got set to burst open the unlocked door. Inside, the smugglers were busily packing suitcases. They had stopped talking.
At a signal Keith opened the door and dashed into the room with Mallett and Mr. Hardy. Taken by surprise, Marr and Chris had no chance to put up any resistance and were handcuffed to await the Harbor Police. When Frank and Joe came in, they received looks of furious resentment from the prisoners.
Meanwhile, the smugglers’ tricky suitcases were examined. Many secret pockets and a false bottom were found, each containing a fabulous quantity of jewels and electronic equipment.
Joe broke the silence. “Wowee, these smugglers could have retired rich!” he remarked.
Presently the police arrived and the two men were taken away. Keith and Mallett went with them. As the launch departed, Frank and Joe realized that another mystery had also departed. They were to experience a “lost” feeling until their next case, While the Clock Ticked, came along.
On the way home, the boys and their father filled in the gaps of the present mystery. “Mr. Wright is very pleased with your work,” said Mr. Hardy, “but he’s ready to sell his antique plane.”
“We know who will buy it,” Joe spoke up. “Cole Weber.”
“What about the special radio, Dad?” Frank asked. “Surely there’s more to it than what we know.”
Mr. Hardy chuckled. He did not answer directly and they guessed the secret was a highly classified one. Instead, he said, “Someday how would you boys like to own pocket radios that can pick up signals from outer space?”
“You mean that’s what Mr. Wright has done?” Joe cried out.
The detective gave his sons a broad wink.
Hardy Boys 11 While the Clock Ticked
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
A Mysterious Tip
“I WONDER who that man is, Frank,” whispered blond Joe Hardy, peering curiously from a second-floor window of their home. “He looks worried.”
His brother glanced down at the stranger just departing from the front door. “Let’s ask Aunt Gertrude. She talked with him.”
Joe, a year younger and more impetuous than his eighteen-year-old, dark-haired brother, bounded downstairs. Frank followed.
“Aunt Gertrude,” Joe cried excitedly, “who was the man who just left?”
Fenton Hardy’s sister shrugged. “I don’t know,” said the tall, black-haired woman. “He wanted your father to solve a mystery. I told him Fenton was away.”
The boys waited to hear no more. As they
2
 dashed out the door, Frank said, “Why, Auntie, we’re detectives too, remember?”
Joe was first to reach the stranger, who was about to drive off in a convertible. “Sir,” he said earnestly, “please wait!”
As Frank caught up with his brother, the tall, vigorous-looking man stared at them through rimless glasses. The boys saw a wary look come over his face. “Well, what is it?” he demanded impatiently.
Quickly Frank explained. “We’re Frank and Joe Hardy. Our aunt told us you wanted Dad to solve a mystery. Since he isn’t at home, we thought maybe we could help you.”
“Mr. Hardy’s sons!” the man burst out. “Listen! I’m in real trouble, and I must see your father. I’ll pay any amount to contact him. Just tell me where he can be reached.”
Joe shook his head. “No use, Mr.—?”
“Dalrymple. Raymond Dalrymple of Lakeside. I’m in the banking business. Look here, why can’t I get in touch with Fenton Hardy?”
“Dad and Mother have gone on a camping trip up in Maine. They can’t be reached by telephone or telegraph.”
A look of desperation came into the banker’s eyes. “I can’t entrust this business to boys,” he muttered, as if thinking aloud.
“It’s not as if we were beginners at sleuthing,” Joe said persuasively. “Frank and I have helped
3
 Dad on many cases.” He gave a sudden grin. “Even Aunt Gertrude would admit we’ve had some success, too.”
Mr. Dalrymple smiled faintly, then gave the boys a swift, penetrating look. “Like to follow in your world-famous dad’s footsteps, eh—be detectives yourselves, would you?” His keen eyes took in the hiking boots and khaki outfits they wore. “Fine summer morning for a hike.” He added abruptly, “Which direction are you taking?”
Before either boy could answer he went on:
“Try Shore Road, past the harbor. Turn off and follow Willow River Road out into the country.”
“Why?” Frank queried, intrigued.
“You’ll pass the old Purdy place. Know the one I mean?”
“Big stone house,” Joe answered. “Slate roof. Stands back from the road a way. Nobody’s been living there for some time, though.”
“You’re observant,” the banker commented. For a moment he was silent, as if trying to make a decision. He pulled nervously at his hatbrim. “Okay, boys,” he said finally. “You want to be detectives. Take a look around there on your hike.”
The brothers waited expectantly for further explanation. But instead of giving any, the banker started his car and drove off.
“Boy, oh boy!” Joe exploded. “We have a mystery, and we don’t know what it’s about!”
4
Frank, too, was baffled. “Well, let’s get back to the house. The fellows will be here soon.”
The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude waiting for them in the living room. “Well, I suppose you’re head over heels in another case. I can tell by your faces. What did that man want?”
Frank and Joe gave her a quick report. “We didn’t find out why he wanted to see Dad,” Frank admitted. “But one thing’s certain. We’ll hike right to the Purdy place.”
Miss Hardy cast her eyes upward. “Well, if you’re bound to get yourselves involved in another risky case, I should know there’s no stopping you until you solve it!”
The boys exchanged knowing winks. Beneath her peppery manner, their aunt was actually very proud of her nephews’ sleuthing abilities.
Suddenly there came a loud banging from the back of the house and a clomp, clomp of heavy footsteps through the kitchen. The next moment a chunky, jolly-looking boy marched into the living room. He had a knapsack on his back, and wore big high-top boots.
“Ready?” he sang out. “Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching! I got the provisions, so don’t worry.”
“My only worry is, Chet, that you’ll eat ‘em before the rest of us have a chance.” Joe laughed. Chet Morton was one of the Hardys’ best friends.
“Decided where you want to go?” inquired Biff
5
 Hooper, another chum, who had come in behind Chet.
“Let’s try Willow River Road,” Joe suggested offhandedly.
“Suits me,” lanky Biff agreed readily.
With a hasty farewell to Aunt Gertrude, the four pals set out. Brisk walking brought them swiftly out of town on the Shore Road, which followed horseshoe-shaped Barmet Bay. Looking back, they could see the docks of the harbor.
Some distance ahead of them was the bridge which spanned the mouth of Willow River where it emptied into the bay. The boys turned right down the river road, which had deep ditches on both sides. They rounded the sharp corner Indian file, Frank leading, then crossed to the left-hand side of the road so they would be facing any oncoming traffic.
Suddenly there was a screeching of tires behind them. The hikers whirled to see the gleaming chromium grille of a black limousine. The big car had swerved wide around the turn, hugging the left shoulder of the road.
“Jump!” shouted Frank. He shoved Chet Morton into the ditch and landed on top of him. Joe and Biff dived to the side also.
Even in the instant of leaping to safety, Joe had taken a penetrating glance at the driver of the car. Now, as the boys picked themselves up, he was able to report.
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“Mean-looking customer—husky, with a big jaw. Close crew cut.”
“Well, he nearly flattened us!” complained Biff. “What’s a tough guy like that doing in a limousine?”
“Running down innocent hikers,” Chet answered indignantly.
They climbed back to the road, and started out
7
 once more. Presently they came to a section of large houses, set back on extensive grounds. Some of the estates were well kept, but a few had fallen into disrepair. Those on the left, the boys knew, were bounded in the rear by Willow River.


Half an hour later, as they rounded a sharp bend, a long, high stone wall came into view. A tangle of ivy clung to the stones, and close-growing young trees partially screened the wall from the road. Here and there, however, the boys caught a glimpse of a bluish slate roof.
“The Purdy house,” said Joe, looking with intent curiosity.
“Gone to seed, since the old man died,” Biff Hooper added. “I hear he was a queer fellow.”


8
Something in Joe’s lingering tone had warned the easygoing Chet Morton that there was an underlying significance to the remark.
“Wait a minute, fellows,” he began. “Something tells me we didn’t come this way just by accident. If it’s another mystery, you can count me out! I’m not over the last one yet!”
“Well, to be honest, Chet,” Frank said with a chuckle, “we did have a visitor, just before you showed up. He suggested we look over this place.”
“No fooling!” Biff exclaimed eagerly.
The boys had reached the main gate to the place. To their surprise, they found it open, with the marks of automobile tires in the driveway.
As the four walked up the drive, which was lined with the dense green foliage of thick bushes and trees, the silence was broken by a gruff voice:
“Hey, you fellows!”
A figure in the white helmet and black boots of a motorcycle patrolman strode toward them.
“It’s Mike DiSalvo,” said Joe, recognizing the officer. “What’s up, Mike?” The Hardy boys, through their father’s detective work and their own, knew all the Bayport policemen.
“Harbor thieves,” said the officer briefly. “I was driving up Willow River Road when I spotted them roaring toward me. Then they hit that sharp bend, and I lost sight of them. I was sure they’d ducked in here, but I can’t find the car. It was a big, black limousine.”

9
CHAPTER II
Puzzling Clues
“A BLACK limousine! One nearly killed us half an hour ago, Mike!” Frank exclaimed.
As they walked on to the high, rambling gray stone house, Joe gave a description of the tough-looking driver. Mike DiSalvo nodded thoughtfully.
“Sounds like one of the gang,” he agreed. “They’ve been stealing goods from the ships and warehouses for months. We suspected they’d been using that black car, but today was the first time I had a chance at them. Well, that limousine is hot now!”
The officer straddled his motorcycle, which stood before the entrance of the old mansion. There was a deafening roar as he started the motor.
“Thanks for the tip, boys!” Mike shouted. “By the way, what are you doing out here?”
10
“Hike!” shouted Frank in reply.
“Case?” the policeman guessed, grinning.
“Maybe. Know anything about this place?”
The officer throttled down. “Not much, except it’s been closed for years. Peculiar that gate being open, though. I still think I saw the limousine duck in here. Couldn’t be, I guess, since the car is nowhere around.”
As the motorcycle rumbled out the driveway, Frank called, “We’ll close the gate!”
The roar of the motorcycle died away, and the boys were left in the brooding silence of the rundown, neglected estate.
“Funny,” commented Biff Hooper, looking around him. “I never heard of anything mysterious about this place. It’s not even supposed to be haunted.”
“Well, let’s have a look around,” Frank suggested. “Mr. Dalrymple acted as though something funny might be going on out here.”
“You do have a case then!” declared Biff.
“Not exactly,” Joe admitted wryly. “I have a hunch that since he couldn’t see Dad, Mr. Dalrymple is testing us. He doesn’t really expect us to turn up anything.”
“He doesn’t!” Biff echoed incredulously. “Doesn’t he read the newspapers?”
Frank and Joe, though still in high school, had already earned a name for themselves as sleuths. They had been trained by their father, who had
11
 been a crack detective in the New York City Police Department. After retiring to go into private practice in the city of Bayport, Fenton Hardy had enhanced his reputation by handling difficult and dangerous cases for the government, large corporations, and private individuals.
From him Frank and Joe had learned the need for careful observation and the importance of laboratory work. In fact, they already had a small but well-equipped lab of their own in the loft above the Hardy garage.
The Tower Treasure, the first mystery the brothers had solved on their own, was one that had puzzled all Bayport and baffled the police. As Fenton Hardy became busier, he allowed his sons to help on his cases. But they worked best on their own, following their own clues and meeting dangers resourcefully. Recently, the young sleuths had encountered several harrowing adventures before they rounded up a gang of jewel thieves in What Happened at Midnight.
Frank shrugged. “I guess Joe and I will just have to prove ourselves to Mr. Dalrymple.”
“Right. Let’s get started,” Joe urged. “How about Biff and me checking doors and windows?”
Frank agreed. “Meantime, Chet and I will look over the grounds.”
The boys separated. Frank and Chet, examining the earth carefully, moved around the big house until they came to the back.
12
“Whoops!” Frank exclaimed suddenly, bending down.
“What? I don’t see anything,” Chet said. “Just matted grass!”
Frank pushed aside the limp blades and pointed out the distinct impression of a footprint in the earth.
“Somebody came through here last night,” he said. “The grass was flattened and broken when it was dewy.”
“Pal, you sure have X-ray eyes,” Chet marveled.
By tracking carefully, Frank followed the prints down the yard and into a belt of thick woods where a path, apparently a well-used trail, led to Willow River.
“Whoever was here probably came to do some fishing,” Chet remarked.
“Could be,” Frank murmured. To himself he added, “Or the person might have been after something besides fish.”
Presently the four boys met once more.
“Find anything?” Frank asked his brother.
“All the doors and windows seem to be locked,” he replied. “But there are scratches around the front-door lock. Somebody must have tried to open it in the darkness.”
Briefly, Frank described his own findings. “Doesn’t add up to much,” he admitted. “Not enough to impress Mr. Dalrymple.”
“Well, thank goodness!” declared Chet.
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 “That’s one mystery we’re rid of! Now let’s do what we started out to do.”
“Chet means let’s eat.” Biff grinned.
But Joe stood silent, looking up at the rambling stone house. “It’s such a big old place,” he mused. “For all we know, somebody could be inside it right now, watching every move we make.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “I wouldn’t write off the footprints and key scratches. Take them together, with Mr. Dalrymple’s queer hint—I’ll bet they do mean something.”
Chet cast an uneasy glance at the blank dark windows above his head. “Let’s go! Are we hiking, or aren’t we?”
“So good for your appetite,” Biff teased.
“Okay, okay. I just don’t like the idea of something peeking at me out of windows,” the stout boy blurted.
Frank grinned. “All right. We’ll get away from the spooks.”
With his knapsack jiggling up and down, Chet eagerly turned and marched down the driveway to the road. Laughing, the other three boys followed. Secretly, the Hardys felt a strong urge to investigate further, and hoped they would have the chance to do so.
As they left the driveway, Frank closed the heavy wooden gate behind them. But there was no way for him to lock it, since he did not have the key. Soon the four friends again reached the
14
 sunshine of Willow River Road and resumed their hike.
“I don’t understand why a sensible banker like Mr. Dalrymple would be interested in a run-down place like that,” said Joe.
“Forget it!” Chet begged. “Think about something pleasant. Forget mysteries!”
“Concentrate on important things,” Biff needled him. “Eating and sleeping, for instance.”
“Yes, eating and sleeping.” Chet defended himself. “Who can live without food? Luscious, delectable food! And sleep—soothing sleep! We grow when we sleep.”
“You grow much more, and you’ll be a giant beach ball.” Biff grinned.
But Chet was now scanning the countryside. The boys had left the estates behind. A heavily wooded hill rose up on their right. A field of fresh-cut, drying hay fell away on the left. At the bottom of the field a huge oak tree spread its shading limbs invitingly.
“Now there is the place for both,” Chet said. “First our lunch. Then, refreshing sleep—before our walk home.”
Frank, Joe, and Biff looked at one another, eyes twinkling. There remained a full hour until lunchtime!
“No,” said Biff. “Thumbs down.”
“Why?” Chet pleaded.
“No water. What’s a picnic without water?”
15
Another half hour went by. Chet sighted a clear stream, flashing in the sun, pouring through a green meadow. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph.
“Uh-uh!” said Joe, poker-faced. “No shade. I can’t eat in the blazing sun. Hurts my digestion.”
“Oh-h,” the stout boy moaned, but proceeded doggedly ahead. Presently the woods closed in on both sides, and the road crossed a small creek.
“Now?” Chet sighed hopefully.
“No.” Frank shook his head.
“Oh-h! Now why?”
“Too many trees. No sun. Can’t eat without a little sun.”
But at last, when Frank, Joe, and Biff had agreed, by a wink at one another, that the proper time for lunch had come, they simply jumped into a ditch at the side of the road. “Chow time!”
“But …” Chet stammered. “There’s no water!” Biff pointed to a trickle in a culvert nearby.
“Well, there’s no shade!” Chet argued. Joe grinningly indicated a tree twenty feet away.
“And under this bank, it’s not even really sunny!” Chet pointed out.
“Just right.” Frank chuckled and dug into Chet’s knapsack.
“Say, cut it out!” Chet bellowed. “I have half a mind not to give you fellows any lunch at all!”
“Ho! Now you want us to starve!” Biff laughed
16
 as he and the Hardys lifted out succulent sandwiches, a jar of home-preserved peaches, a gallon Thermos of chilled milk, and slabs of chocolate cake.
“Lucky for you, Chet,” Joe teased, “you brought enough so there’s some food left for you.”
The heavy-set boy, though pretending indignation, settled down to enjoy his share of the lunch. Then the Hardys and Biff followed Chet’s example and took a nap after the hearty meal. “Not a bad idea,” Joe murmured as he dozed off.
An hour later, however, the four chums were hiking back to Bayport.
Once in town, Frank and Joe said good-by as Chet and Biff went off toward their own homes. When the brothers reached home, they were met at the door by Aunt Gertrude.
“About time!” she greeted them impatiently. “Get in here, quick!”
Bewildered, the boys followed her into the living room. To their astonishment, Mr. Raymond Dalrymple was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.
The tall man wheeled as they entered. “You boys still want to handle my case for me?” he demanded gruffly. “Well, it’s yours!”

17
CHAPTER III
Grim Warnings
“I ASKED people about you,” the banker said as the startled Hardy boys took seats. “Mind you, I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t desperate. You looked like a pair of inexperienced kids to me.”
“And what did you find out, Mr. Dalrymple?” Joe asked politely.
“That you really have done some fine work on problems like mine. In fact, the police here told me that if Fenton Hardy were out of town, I couldn’t do better than to call in his sons.”
Although Frank and Joe were proud to hear this, both remained quiet and attentive.
“You say nothing,” Mr. Dalrymple noted. “Good. I like that. Now, to business. Did you stop at the Purdy estate on your walk today?”
“Yes,” Frank answered.
18
“Well—notice anything?” Dalrymple eyed him narrowly.
“When we got there,” Frank explained, “the gate was open. A motorcycle policeman looking for harbor thieves was in the driveway. After he left we found some footprints—”
“Footprints?” Mr. Dalrymple interrupted, suddenly very agitated. “When were they made?”
“Sometime in the night, after the dew fell.”
“But the gate!” the banker broke in. “I locked that gate when I left the place last night!”
At this the boys sat bolt upright with surprise. “You were out there, sir?” Joe burst out.
“Of course. I own the house.”
“You!” Joe exclaimed.
“Yes. I was out there yesterday until shortly before dark. Now, from what you tell me, someone else was there later—perhaps to injure me!”
“Wait a minute!” Frank said. “Why don’t you tell us your whole story, Mr. Dalrymple?”
“Right. You’re absolutely right,” the banker agreed, regaining his composure. After a moment’s thought, he began:
“Mr. Jason Purdy was a wealthy and eccentric man, as you no doubt know. His estate was left to the Bayport Library. I recently purchased the house and grounds on speculation—hoping to sell them later at a higher price. However, when I inspected the house, I discovered a strange thing!”
19
Frank, Joe, and Aunt Gertrude leaned forward excitedly. “What?” Joe pressed.
“A secret room on the second floor,” the man replied. As the boys listened intently he went on, “It was built right into the middle of the house. When Mr. Purdy inherited the property, he had the hidden chamber fixed up like a bank vault, fireproof, with insulated walls and no windows. Air is provided by hidden ventilators. The only door is made of heavy steel, and is closed with a time lock.”
“But why would Mr. Purdy have wanted a room like that?” asked Joe in amazement.
“He was eccentric, remember?” Mr. Dalrymple smiled. “He didn’t trust banks. He kept all his valuables in the secret room. He used it as a kind of retreat, too. I looked for any hoard of valuables that might be hidden there, but found none. Purdy’s servant, who knew of the room, had faithfully turned over everything to the executors.
“Well,” the Hardys’ visitor confided, “I did not plan to live in the house, or use the other rooms, but I liked the hidden retreat. Many times I have to handle propositions that demand close figuring and solitary work. As soon as I discovered that secret room, I realized it would make an ideal private office. So I decided to use it.
“I moved in a small table, a typewriter, and my private files. When I left the room, I would set the
20
 time lock, and then no one, not even myself, could get in until the appointed hour.”
“Of course,” Frank agreed. “That’s the principle of a time lock.”
The banker looked at him sharply. “What would you say if I told you that this room has been entered several times—in my absence?”
“Is the lock reliable?” Joe questioned.
“I’m sure of it! I know these locks.”
“I’d say,” Frank deduced, “that you couldn’t have expected us to find out much about a secret room in a house we couldn’t enter.”
Mr. Dalrymple nodded his approval. “I see you’ve earned your reputation. I’ll have duplicate door and gate keys made for you.” He looked somber. “You see, there have been threats to my life!”
“Where? How?” Joe cried, springing up.
In grim silence, Mr. Dalrymple removed two small, carefully folded sheets of paper from his wallet and handed one to each boy. Joe opened his first. Written in pencil was a warning:
“You must leave this house forever or death will overtake you.”
Frank, with a puzzled expression, read the other threat:
“Death while the clock ticks!”
He looked up. “What does this mean?”
“That,” replied Mr. Dalrymple somberly, “is what I need a good detective—like your father—to find out. But there is one further point.
21
 Where do you suppose I found those messages?”
“In the secret room with the time lock!” Frank answered promptly.
The visitor gasped. “How did you know?”
“That was the one place which would make the whole mystery a tough one,” Frank replied.
“When did you find these notes, Mr. Dalrymple?” asked Joe, undaunted.
“The first one, four days ago. The second, about eight o’clock last night. That’s why I came here this morning.” Mr. Dalrymple’s face paled. “If there was a man on the grounds last night, he may have come to kill me!”
Frank frowned. “At any rate, whoever wrote this note seems to know when you’re there and when you’re not. Could someone with whom you’re acquainted be out for revenge?”
“I have no enemies, so far as I know. I have always been scrupulously fair in my dealings.”
Joe tried another tack. “There’s no other way into this room, Mr. Dalrymple? Have you checked the walls? What else is in it?”
“Nothing but my things, and a fireplace. But the flue is barred, and besides, the chimney is altogether too narrow to admit a man.”
Joe suggested that the notes might have been dropped down the chimney. Mr. Dalrymple shook his head. “I found the messages on the rug in the exact center of the room.”
“Who else but you knows about the room?”
22
 Frank put in. “Can anyone else but you operate the time lock?”
“I have told no one about the room,” the banker retorted somewhat irritably. “So nobody knows of the lock, either! Purdy’s servant is dead. It’s a fantastic story, but true.”
“We certainly want to help you,” Frank said. “For safety’s sake, why don’t you stay away from the house, until you hear from us?”
“All right. I’ll let you know when the keys are ready.”
After their new client had left, the Hardys discussed the mystery. “He’s sincere, I guess,” Joe concluded. “But the whole thing doesn’t make sense.”
“I vote we go out to the Purdy place tonight, at least for another look,” his brother said.
Although Aunt Gertrude gloried in her nephews’ reputations as detectives, she was inclined to worry a great deal about the boys. Nevertheless, she grudgingly agreed to the proposed expedition.
Darkness found Frank backing the boys’ convertible out the Hardy driveway. Five minutes later they had stopped for a traffic light on the main street of Bayport.
Suddenly there was the roar of another engine, a rattle of tin, the raucous bark of an air horn. An old jalopy drew up beside the Hardys.
23
“Get a load of the fancy machine!” shouted a familiar voice.
The face of Tony Prito, a high school friend, grinned at them. Another pal, Jerry Gilroy, seated at the wheel of the jalopy, added, “Nothing like this old crate.”
The brothers grinned back, “Where’re you all heading?” Joe asked.
“Party, over at Chet Morton’s. Tried to get you. Your line was busy. Come on!” Tony urged.
“Can’t,” Frank called over.
“What do you mean—can’t! What are you fellows up to? Callie, Frank says he can’t come!”
Through the back window of the jalopy, Frank caught sight of the sparkling brown eyes and pretty face of his favorite date, Callie Shaw.
“Don’t give us that!” Phil Cohen, another friend, stuck his head above the old car’s roof on the other side.
“What’ll we do?” Frank asked his brother.
“Joe, Iola Morton’s expecting you!” Tony shouted coaxingly.
“We’ll go,” Joe decided. “But we can’t stay long.”
The two cars drove to the Morton farm, about a mile outside Bayport. Several other cars were parked there already. The Hardys’ friends marched the brothers into the house.
“Here they are—the sleuths themselves!” Phil
24
 announced triumphantly, as the group entered a large room filled with young people. “Caught red-handed, trying to make a getaway!”
“What is it, another mystery?” demanded a pretty, blue-eyed girl, coming over to Joe. “You weren’t trying to get away from me, were you?” she asked teasingly.
“You know better than that, Iola!” Joe laughed. “May I have this dance?”
The couple swung into a lively step as someone started a record player. Frank danced off with Callie. In a moment the party was in full swing.
About an hour later Frank managed to nudge his brother while dancing. “Move to the French doors, and meet us on the porch,” he directed.
“You Hardys are certainly romantic,” observed Callie, as the two couples stepped onto the moonlit side porch. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
“We have to leave—work to do,” said Frank. “Honest, Callie and Iola, we hate to go. But we have to. We’ll explain when we can.”
“You are on detective business!” Iola exclaimed. She sighed. “Well, be careful. We’ll see you one of these days!”
The brothers said good-by, leaped from the porch, and ran to their car. Soon they had passed through Bayport again and were driving rapidly out along the shore onto Willow River Road.
“Don’t look now,” Joe said tensely, turning slightly in his seat, “but a car’s tailing us!”

25
CHAPTER IV
Stormy Sleuthing
FRANK glanced in the rear-view mirror at the trailing car, which was some distance behind. “We’ll test to find out if he’s really after us.”
He braked the convertible, slowing quickly. For a moment the strange headlights rushed nearer, then dropped back. The other car was keeping the same speed as the Hardys were!
“Okay,” said Frank with determination. “We’ll settle this right now.” Quickly he swung off the road and stopped. The two boys sat watching, with the car top down.
An ordinary-looking sedan rolled toward them. Watching it approach, Joe caught sight of a high aerial at the back.
“Police!” he announced with a surprised laugh. In a moment the brothers were looking into the round, cheerful face of Officer Callahan of the
26
 Bayport Police Department. The officer shook his head in mock disgust.
“I was just saying to Tomlin, here,” he remarked, “that’s a suspicious car speeding out Willow Road. So it’s you Hardys, is it? And us expecting a pair of fleeing harbor thieves!”
“Don’t think we’re any happier than you are about it,” Joe joked in return. “We thought you were a couple of crooks following us.”
“Harbor thieves still busy?” Frank asked. “We met Mike DiSalvo chasing them this morning.”
“Busy!” Officer Tomlin exclaimed. “Day and night they’re busy, and not a lead on ‘em yet, except that big, black car. We’re sure they’ve given up using it now, so we have no lead. For that reason, we’re tailing everything we see on this road.”
At that moment a large, cream-colored sedan pulled around the unmarked police cruiser and roared into the country.
“Here we go,” barked Callahan, as Tomlin pulled away to pursue the car. “Maybe that’s the one!”
“Good luck!” the Hardys called.
Frank and Joe now noticed that the moon had been obscured by clouds. The grounds of the nearby estates were completely dark. The air had become hot and sticky.
“It’s going to storm,” said Frank. “We’d better get going.” As though in answer to his remark, there came a faraway rumble.
27
The boys decided to walk to the Purdy place, since it was only a quarter of a mile away, and they would attract less attention. After switching off their parking lights and putting up the convertible’s top, the young detectives walked along the dark road. Soon they came to the high wall of the Purdy estate.
They skirted it until they reached the big wooden gate. It was open.
“Wait!” said Frank in a low voice. “We closed that gate this morning. Somebody’s been here since then and might still be around.”
“The driveway may be watched,” Joe warned. “We’d better find some other way in.”
They walked back a distance to a place where the wall was heavily overgrown.
“Shall we climb it?” Joe whispered, testing the vines with a pull.
“No. I had a look at that wall this morning. There are pieces of old jagged, broken glass all along the top. Apparently Jason Purdy didn’t like company!”
Frank grasped one of the young trees that had sprung up next to the stone fence. In a moment he had shinned up higher than the wall. The tree bent with Frank’s weight, swinging him clear of the dangerous glass. Then Frank dropped to the ground on the other side and the tree snapped back into place.
“Come ahead!” he directed Joe in a whisper.
28
In a moment Joe was beside Frank, crouching among the bushes along the inside of the wall. The rumble of thunder was closer now. A brief white flicker passed over the black sky, showing the bottoms of thick clouds and the big Purdy mansion off to the left.
Creeping slowly and carefully through the dark brush, no longer daring to talk to each other, the two young sleuths gained the open yard in front of the house. They halted at its edge.
By now the rumble in the sky had given way to cracking, booming thunder. A gusty wind was rushing through the leafy trees over their heads. Flickers of lightning, some bright and some faint, played across the open sky and caused weird, momentary shadows on the walls and roof of the silent mansion. The storm was about to strike.
“Listen!” Frank clutched Joe’s arm. “Sounded like someone running.”
The brothers strained their hearing to the utmost. Despite the strong wind, the thunder, and the sharp patter of raindrops hitting the leaves like a shower of pebbles, Frank and Joe could hear footsteps. Someone was running, now stepping on a dead branch, now kicking a stone.
A tall man’s silhouette crossed the open space in front of the boys and mounted the porch. There a flash of lightning revealed him, bent a little, inserting a key in the lock.
“Dalrymple!” breathed Joe in amazement.
29
“Are you sure? We warned him to keep away from here! Seems to be having trouble getting in.”
The man was turning the key and pulling on the knob. Finally the door opened and he went inside. Expectantly, the boys waited in the rain, which had begun to fall in a heavy rush. To their surprise, the house remained in darkness.
“Why doesn’t he turn on a light?” Joe muttered impatiently. “Is he afraid somebody will see it? He said he owned the house. Why should he care?”
“Maybe it isn’t Dalrymple.”
“Sure looked like him. I got a glimpse of his face. Same build, too. Funny we didn’t hear a car coming in. He must have gotten here before we did.”
“Well, he must know the place pretty well to move around inside without a light,” Frank observed. “Unless,” he suggested, “he has gone up to the secret room!”
“Or maybe something’s happened to him,” Joe said in concern. “The secret room was where he found those threatening messages. The person who wrote the notes might have been there waiting for him!”
Alarmed for the safety of their client, the boys started to make a rush for the house.
But Frank stopped abruptly. “Hold on!” he cautioned. “That man might not be Dalrymple.
30
 He could be the person who’s been threatening him. This fellow seemed very calm as he went in. You remember how nervous Dalrymple was. Let’s wait and see.”
“Okay,” Joe agreed. “But if it is Dalrymple, I’d like to know what his game is.”
The boys waited by the edge of the brush while the rain, illuminated by lightning, fell in silver sheets.
“Sh!” signaled Joe suddenly. “I heard something. Footsteps again.”
As the boys listened they were startled by a light suddenly turned on in a large room with a bay window.
“Come on!” Frank urged. Bending low to avoid being seen, the boys raced across the lawn. The rain pelted their backs, drenching them. In a moment Frank and Joe reached the side of the house and stood under the lighted bay window. Here the Hardys were sheltered from the rain, and invisible to anyone in the room.
Cautiously they moved underneath one of the smaller windows in the bay. Frank made a cradle of his hands. Joe stepped into it with one foot and was hoisted up. Warily, Joe raised his head above the sill.
“What do you see?” Frank hissed.
“A living room—the overstuffed furniture’s covered with sheets. Walls are paneled. Big glass chandelier. Nobody’s there!”
31


Warily, Joe raised his head above the sill
32
“Who turned on the light?”
“Could be the storm caused a temporary power failure, and the current just came back on,” Joe surmised.
“Where’s Dalrymple or whoever it is we saw? What else is in the room?”
“Big heavy doors—and wow! An enormous grandfather’s clock near one corner. Glass front with a swinging brass pendulum. I can hear the clock ticking from here!”
“Ticking?” Frank repeated, shifting under Joe’s weight. “A clock ticking in a vacant house!” The same thought flashed through the brothers’ minds at once.
“Death while the clock ticks!” was the second threatening message Mr. Dalrymple had received.
“Let me look,” Frank said eagerly, and Joe dropped to the ground. They quickly reversed positions.
“I wonder who started the clock and when?” Frank said quietly. “It’s the right time,” he added, glancing at his wrist watch.
Suddenly, as Frank peered in, the room was plunged into darkness once more. In the same instant the whole house was lit up by a vivid sheet of lightning. A resounding clap of thunder smashed directly overhead. Then an unearthly, bloodcurdling scream rang out from within the mansion!

33
CHAPTER V
Stolen Treasure
As THE scream died away, footsteps scuttled across the wooden porch. A figure, visible to Frank and Joe in the lightning, leaped into the yard and sprinted down the driveway.
“After him!” shouted Frank, springing to the ground.
But already the fugitive had disappeared between the dark trees bordering the drive. The Hardys heard his heels click on stones, and his heavy breathing. Suddenly Joe tripped in his headlong sprint and went down. Frank doubled his speed. Before he knew it he had run into the fleeing man’s back.
“Got you!” he cried, locking his arms about the man’s body. Joe came pounding up.
There was a groan of terror from the man. At that instant a streak of lightning made everything
34
 bright as day. The boys saw a frightened, familiar face staring at them wildly.
“Mr. Applegate!” the brothers exclaimed.
They could not have been more astonished if the fugitive had been Aunt Gertrude! Their elderly captive was Hurd Applegate, a wealthy collector of art objects and one of Bayport’s most eccentric characters. Once Frank and Joe had recovered a valuable stamp collection for him, and he had been their friend ever since.
“The Hardy boys!” Applegate gasped, and went limp with relief in Frank’s grasp.
“What are you doing here at this hour of the night, Mr. Applegate?” Joe asked in amazement.
The old man, recovering his strength, lurched forward as though eager to put distance between himself and the Purdy house.
“Oh… Frank, Joe …” He begged, almost incoherently, “home, get me home … it’s terrible, awful!” The old man shuddered violently as they supported him down the driveway.
When the three reached the wet, glistening road, he hastened unsteadily across it to his car, parked behind some high bushes. It was a big, old-fashioned automobile. Trembling, he started to open the door.
“Hold on, Mr. Applegate!” Frank commanded. “Can’t you tell us what happened? Maybe we can do something about it.”
One thing the boys were sure of: Hurd Applegate
35
 was not mixed up in anything dishonest. But he was too distraught to do more than stammer over and over his desire to go home.
“Oh! Terrible! Never should have come … my jade … dreadful. Couldn’t just let it go. …”
“It’s something about his jade collection,” said Joe. “But we’ll never get a thing out of him at this rate.”
“What’s more, he’s in no shape to drive,” Frank said quietly.
“And we should find out about that scream,” Joe reminded him. “Mr. Dalrymple may be inside—and in trouble.”
“I’ll go back and investigate,” Frank offered. “You drive Mr. Applegate to our house in his car. He’s chilled to the bone. Aunt Gertrude will look after him. I’ll follow in our car as soon as I can.”
The boys helped Mr. Applegate into his car. As Joe started the motor, his brother ran back through the downpour toward the Purdy mansion.
When Frank reached the driveway he saw that the house was dark. He raced to a front window and looked in, but could see nothing. He sounded the big brass door knocker, and when there was no answer, pounded on the door and shouted for Mr. Dalrymple. Frank tried the handle but it was locked. He hurried around to the rear of the
36
 house and tried first the back door, then the cellar door, calling continuously. Still there was no response. The house remained dark and silent.
Realizing his efforts were useless, Frank went to his car. The rain had abated and he drove swiftly back to town.
In the meantime, Joe, anxious to get his badly shaken passenger home, chafed at the moderate speed which was the best the old car could do.
When he finally pulled up in front of the Hardys’ house he was surprised to find the downstairs brightly lighted. Quickly he assisted Mr. Applegate up the front steps.
“Goodness gracious!” cried Aunt Gertrude, when she opened the door. “Coming home half drowned in the middle of the night!” But at sight of the white, drawn face of the old man, the goodhearted lady changed her tone instantly.
“Here, Joe, bring Mr. Applegate into the kitchen,” she ordered crisply. “Luckily I have some hot coffee.”
Mr. Applegate was seated in a chair in the cheerfully lighted room. Joe went off for towels and a blanket, while Aunt Gertrude persuaded the elderly man to sip the hot coffee. Mr. Applegate seemed to revive instantly. His eyes cleared. He sat straighter.
“Have to be a regular nurse in a household like this.” Miss Hardy smiled. “Where’s Frank?” she asked suddenly, but before Joe could answer, she
37
 said, “Oh, and here I am, forgetting. There’s a man to see you. You go right into the living room. I’ll take care of Mr. Applegate.”
Surprised, Joe was about to go when the back door opened and Frank entered. Aunt Gertrude whirled to survey her dripping nephew.
“Don’t bother to explain,” she said wryly. “That man is waiting.”
“What happened at the Purdy house?” Joe put in quickly.
“Nothing,” Frank replied. “I couldn’t get in and got no answer when I called.”
“There is a man waiting for you boys in the living room,” their aunt interrupted firmly.
Joe beckoned to Frank. Puzzled, they went into the living room. There, turning to greet them, was the tall figure of Raymond Dalrymple!
“Mr. Dalrymple!” gasped Joe. “You’re all right!”
“Of course I’m all right!” snapped the banker. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Well … that’s good,” stammered Frank. “But how did you get here so fast?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t get here fast at all. I took my time. I always take my time, even in emergencies.”
“We didn’t see you leave the Purdy place,” Joe blurted out. “And nobody passed me on the way back here.”
“Purdy place!” repeated the banker, incredulous.
38
 “Why, I’ve been waiting right here for you two boys an hour and a half.” Mr. Dalrymple looked sharply at the brothers’ drenched clothes. “Is this your method of handling a case?” he demanded.
“Why, we’ve just been out on your case,” Joe retorted heatedly. “We saw someone resembling you go into the Purdy house, which was pitch dark. Then a light went on—and off again. The next instant somebody screamed inside, as though he was being murdered. We were afraid it was you. One man ran out—we caught him. He’s right here.”
The tall banker looked from Frank to Joe in openmouthed amazement. “I assure you, I haven’t been near there. You yourselves told me to stay away.”
“You came straight here from Lakeside?” queried Joe.
“Directly from the bank. I was working late.”
As the boys exchanged baffled glances, Aunt Gertrude appeared, leading in a considerably stronger Hurd Applegate. The old man’s eyes traveled around the room until they rested on Raymond Dalrymple.
“You!” shrieked Hurd Applegate in sudden fury. He leaped across at the astounded banker, who quickly retreated behind a chair. “You, you sneak thief! Give me back my jade! Give it back, I say!”
39
“Calm yourself, whoever you are,” responded the banker with dignity, but obviously angry. “I’m sure I have nothing whatever of yours. Be careful. I’ll have the law on you for slander!”
“All my beautiful carvings,” Mr. Applegate pleaded, turning to Joe. “Make him give me back my jade figures!”
“I tell you I haven’t got your infernal jade!” roared Mr. Dalrymple.
“Now, sir,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly, “that’s enough! Hurd Applegate,” she snapped, fixing him with her eye, “sit down and tell your story.” Calmed by her tone, the excited man sank meekly into an easy chair and began:
“A fellow I never saw before—looked just like this man—came to my house to examine my rare jade collection. He said he was a dealer and might be able to get me some fine pieces. I was alone in the house.”
“Where was Adelia?” asked Aunt Gertrude, referring to the sister who lived with Mr. Applegate.
“Visiting, out of town,” he explained. “I showed the man all my figurines, and he asked if I had more. I went into the next room and got my greatest treasure out of the safe, a carved jade chess set, worth a fortune. When I came back in the room, all the figurines were gone and so was he!
“I rushed outdoors and saw him get in a car on the road. Mine was in the drive, so I took after
40
 him. I couldn’t keep up with the man but I saw him turn down Willow River Road and later into a gate. I parked behind the bushes so he wouldn’t spot me. I waited several minutes, then got out and walked right after him.”
“That was a risky thing to do,” Frank said with a frown.
“I know,” Mr. Applegate replied, “but all I could think of was getting back my jade. Well, his car was nowhere in sight, but there was a light in the house. I was scared he’d run if I knocked, so I went around back. The rear door was open, and I went in. I was in a hall. There was a light ahead in one room. I was sneaking up. Then it was pitch black all of a sudden; and right behind me, there was that scream!”
Hurd Applegate trembled violently at the memory. But when Aunt Gertrude eyed him once more, he went on, “I just ran, I didn’t know where. I thought it was right behind me, going to get me! Then I got caught—by you boys!”
Frank looked at the others. “Well, that clears up a lot. You have a double, Mr. Dalrymple, and he stole Mr. Applegate’s jade!”
“I don’t like it,” said the banker, shaking his head. “A double who’s a thief.”
“This is a case for the police,” Frank said, picking up the telephone.
“Do we have to drag my trouble into it?” Mr. Dalrymple asked quickly.
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“For now,” Frank replied, “we won’t mention your case. We’ll just report the theft of the jade.”
When he hung up he told the others that Chief Collig was going to send men out to search the Purdy house and grounds for the thief.
A few minutes later, as Mr. Dalrymple was getting ready to leave, he said, “I came by tonight to see how you boys were getting along with my problem and to ask you to meet me at the house tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock. The lock on the secret room is set for that time.”
“We’d be glad to,” Frank replied. “After tonight we’re especially eager to get inside the place ourselves.”
As soon as the banker was gone, the boys helped Hurd Applegate into his car. Frank took the wheel and headed the old-fashioned automobile toward the big stone house on the bluff where Mr. Applegate lived. Joe followed in the Hardys’ convertible.
As Frank started up the driveway, he noticed the front door was wide open and the lights on.
“Oh,” Mr. Applegate said with alarm, “I remember now. I left it open when I ran out.”
The boys parked the two cars, and shaken as he was, the old man hurried up the steps into the house ahead of them.
As he led the way into the library he stopped with a cry. “The chess set!” he gasped, clutching his heart. “I left it on the table! It’s gone!”

42
CHAPTER VI
Waterfront Chase
JOE helped the shocked man sit down, then got him a drink of water. Frank, meanwhile, called the doctor.
While Joe stayed with Hurd Applegate, Frank entered the next room to check on the open safe he had spotted there. As he came back into the room, he heard Mr. Applegate, his eyes closed, whisper, “Rest of the jade in the safe.”
Frank looked at Joe and shook his head. “Cleaned out,” he said softly. “We’d better not tell him till after the doctor comes.”
While they were waiting, the older boy called Chief Collig and reported what had happened.
“I think this second theft may be a cleverly planned part of the first one,” Frank told him. “The thief got Hurd Applegate to open the safe and bring out his jade figurines. Then when he
43
 went back for the chess set the man fled, knowing Mr. Applegate would come after him. Once he was out of the house, it was easy for the thief’s confederate to move in and take the chess set and rifle the open safe.”
“Jade figurines!” the chief’s voice crackled. “Reminds me of the harbor thieves. They’ve switched to small valuables. Anything they can slip into a pocket, or hide under a coat. They’re still boarding the ships and getting into the warehouses. And this kind of loot is more precious than the bulky stuff.”
“Yet they get off the piers with it,” Frank put in.
“That’s what beats us!” declared the chief angrily. “We frisk every person leaving the docks, and still the stuff gets out.”
“But how can that be?” Frank asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know. We spotted their black car, so they stopped using it,” Chief Collig replied. “We’re still watching all roads. Yet the stealing is worse than ever!”
“Hm,” Frank considered. “This has been going on for months now, Chief. Has any of the loot turned up on the contraband market?”
“Nothing,” the chief replied. “Still too hot to peddle. They’re storing it some place.”
While Frank had been talking to the police chief, the doctor had arrived and Joe had explained the situation quietly.
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As Frank hung up, the medical man told the boys, “Mr. Applegate will be all right after a few days’ rest. It’s been a shock, though. I’ll tell him about the rest of the missing jade tomorrow. No need for you to stay longer.”
The boys thanked the doctor and promised the sick man they would help him get his property back. When they walked out to their car, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared.
“You know,” Frank said thoughtfully as he got behind the wheel, “Chief Collig says the harbor thieves are lifting small valuables now. There’s a slim chance there might be a connection between the jade thieves and the harbor gang. What do you say we go down to the docks and have a look around?”
Joe agreed readily, and Frank headed the car along Shore Road toward town.
“Seems queer, so many things going on around the Purdy mansion all at once,” Joe said. “First, Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery, and next Hurd Applegate traced the jade thief there. Maybe those two cases are connected.”
“Maybe all three mysteries are hooked up,” said Frank thoughtfully.
In a short time the boys arrived at the waterfront. At least half a dozen freighters were tied up at the long piers that extended like fingers into the waters of Barmet Bay. In front of one vessel huge piles of freight were stacked on the dock in
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 the glare of floodlights. The ship’s cranes were busily swinging more cargo onto the pier.
“Must be a rush job,” Frank commented as he parked the car.
The boys walked over to watch. There was a cool breeze from the sea and the tangy smell of salt water in the air.
Joe sniffed appreciatively. “Boy! Where are those harbor thieves? I’m ready for ‘em!”
“Yes, but are they ready for you?” Frank said with a chuckle.
“You know the one I’d like to get my hands on,” his brother added in high spirits. “The guy that almost ran us down yesterday!”
“Yes? What would you do to him?”
Joe considered his choice of punishment carefully. “Get him behind bars,” he declared.
As the boys started to walk out on one of the docks, they were stopped by a weary-looking, steamship company guard in a gray uniform.
“Okay, you fellows. Where d’you think you’re going?”
“We’re just looking,” Joe replied in a friendly tone.
“Well, you can’t look here,” the watchman said in a loud voice, which attracted a blue-shirted policeman nearby.
“Catch some of ‘em, Charlie?” he asked, coming over. It was Officer Callahan. “Oh, it’s the Hardy boys again. Let ‘em in, let ‘em in, Charlie!”
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The boys thanked the policeman and started toward the black-hulled freighter. Frank and Joe watched the burly longshoremen moving some of its cargo away on hand trucks to the warehouses.
“The man who drove that limousine was husky,” Joe recalled. “He easily could have been a longshoreman.”
But Frank noticed that even these men were searched by Officer Callahan as they came off the pier. The boys boarded the freighter, and learned from the officers posted there that nothing had been missing that day.
Unhurriedly the Hardys moved from ship to ship. Police and company guards were on the alert everywhere. Frank and Joe walked back to the freighter from which merchandise was still being unloaded.
Several men on the deck were busy operating the huge cargo derrick. Suddenly, as the crane swung dockward with its load, a short, square-built man with a white sailor cap perched on his black, curly hair, leaped ten feet from the deck to the pier and dashed toward the warehouses.
“Hey!” cried the other men. “Stop!”
Instantly the whole area rang with the shrilling of police whistles. Frank noticed a suspicious bulge at the back of the man’s baggy trousers.
Luckily, he and Joe were near enough to give chase. At the same time, Callahan and the watchman named Charlie came dashing onto the pier.
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 All four piled into the fugitive at once! Everybody went down. Arms and legs thrashed. Callahan got up first, dragging the laborer, wild-eyed and breathless, to his feet.
“Now,” growled the officer. “Talk, you! Where is it?”
“Talk?” stammered the man in confusion.
“What’s that in your back pocket?” Frank demanded.
“Why were you running away?” Joe asked tersely.
With a look of intense discomfort and dismay on his face, the man reached gingerly behind him. As Frank, Joe, and the two policemen watched eagerly, he brought out a brown paper bag, sodden and squishy.
“I’d promised to call my wife long-distance at seven o’clock and had forgotten. I was having a late supper, so I just put the rest of the food in my back pocket,” he explained dolefully. “Three big, ripe pears. Sat down on it. Please, fellas, let me off. I’ve got to change my pants!”
In complete disgust Officer Callahan waved the man away. Frank and Joe, grinning at the ridiculousness of the scene, left the big commercial docks.
“Let’s take a spin in the Sleuth,” Frank proposed, referring to the brothers’ motorboat. “Maybe we can pick up a clue by cruising around the harbor.”
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The boys pushed open the boathouse door, switched on the light, and looked with pride at their sleek craft. The Sleuth rocked gently on the water. The far door, opening on the bay, was down.
“Warm in here,” Joe complained. “Funny, the sun’s been gone for hours.” He jumped into the boat and called, “Get the key, will you, Frank?”
Joe, proud of the craft, put his hand affectionately on the big motor. Quick as a flash he withdrew it.
“Hot!” he exclaimed, amazed. “Frank, somebody was using the Sleuth not long ago!”

49
CHAPTER VII
Crafty Thieves
QUICKLY Joe unscrewed the gasoline cap and peered into the tank of the Hardys’ speedboat.
“Almost empty,” he reported.
“That’s not so strange,” Frank reminded him. “Chet or Biff or one of the other fellows might have taken the Sleuth for a spin. Funny they didn’t replace the gas, though.”
As he spoke, Frank walked to the back of the boathouse and felt around on a small shelf, placed high up. Here the Hardy brothers had hidden a key for friends who might want to use their boat.
“Gone!” he exclaimed.
Meanwhile, Joe saw that the boat was, as usual, secured with its chain and padlock.
“Lucky I have the spare key in my pocket,” said Frank. “We’d better gas up, then report this to the police.”
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“You think the Sleuth may have been ‘borrowed’ by the dock thieves?” Joe queried excitedly.
“Good chance, unless some pal of ours took a real long ride.” Already Frank, kneeling, had unlocked the padlock and removed the chain.
“But why would the thieves keep the key?”
“Because our boat would always be available to them. Very handy, if you’re a thief and need transportation in a hurry!”
Joe walked quickly to the front of the little building, and by pulling a rope, raised the door fronting on the bay.
“Suppose we look for some signs of the ‘borrower’ before we rush off,” Frank advised.
He stepped into the front seat of the craft, and examined the compartments in the dashboard. Joe, meanwhile, checked every inch of the interior of the boathouse. But he found nothing. Turning, he saw his brother on his hands and knees under the rear seat of the Sleuth.
“What’re you up to?”
“Here, steady the boat,” was the reply. “Everything’s sloshing around.”
Like all such boats, the Sleuth had a wooden rack placed a few inches above the real bottom of the vessel, so that a certain amount of wash could be collected without the passengers’ getting their feet wet. Frank was probing the murky water under the bars of the rack.
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Suddenly he snatched up something. “Got it!”
With a triumphant smile, he handed his brother an empty matchbook.
“‘Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company,’” read Joe from the cover. “It’s a clue, all right!”
The younger boy joined Frank and took the wheel of the craft. He switched on its powerful lights, and with a low purr the Sleuth headed out into the calm waters of Barmet Bay. The Hardys steered first for the dock of the Bayport Yacht Club, where they had the night pump attendant fill the fuel tank.
“Wait here!” said Frank, and he jumped to the dock, then dashed away and entered the clubhouse.
About fifteen minutes later Frank was back. Joe had spent the time checking the motor, which seemed to be in perfect condition.
“I called every single person who knew where that key was,” Frank reported. “Nobody has used the boat in the past week, let alone tonight! It’s a case of thievery, all right!”
Joe nodded, and started the motor. “Where to now?”
“Commercial docks.”
Joe opened the throttle with a roar. The trim craft lifted her head and sprang forward. Twin arcs of white spray fell away from her bows. Heavy suds churned at her stern.
The whole bay was bathed in bright moonlight.
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 Far ahead they could make out the black line of rock marking the edge of the harbor, and the open gap revealing its entrance from the ocean.
A short distance from shore lay the imposing white hulk of the Sea Bright, a passenger vessel which had just come from the Far East. Here and there floated buoys marking the channel for the ocean-going freighters. As the boys advanced, the whole harbor spread out astern of them. They could see the big ships in their piers, and over on the right, the wide mouth of Willow River, with the bridge crossing it.
“Where did the guy who borrowed our Sleuth take it?” Frank called to his brother above the sound of the motor. His eyes swept the horizon. “That’s a big harbor!”
“You’re not kidding!” Joe shouted. “Where else could they go?”
Frank pointed toward the mouth of Willow River. “Up there. It’s navigable for miles and miles. And don’t forget all the tributary streams.”
“Whew! You think they went up there tonight in the Sleuth?”
“Could be!”
Joe piloted the craft out to the middle of the bay, then headed in toward the black hull of the freighter which was being unloaded. He nosed the boat smoothly in between two jetties. On one
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 side was the pier where they had caught the laborer with the squashed lunch.
“We’re in luck,” Frank cried suddenly. “There’s Chief Collig with Tomlin and Callahan!”
Bayport’s chief of police had come to take charge of the case which had been vexing his department for months. He was pacing along the dock when he heard Frank shout:
“We picked up a lead, Chief!”
Carefully Joe brought the speedboat over to one of the huge piles, where Frank made her fast. In another moment the Hardys and the three policemen were standing in eager consultation.
“Somebody’s been using our boat,” Joe explained quickly as he handed over the matchbook. “We’ve a hunch it could be your thieves. One of them left this behind.”
Chief Collig, a big, bluff man, tipped back his cap and examined the matchbook thoughtfully. Suddenly he made a wry face. With a broad palm he smacked his forehead.
“Great Scott!” he declared. “You’re right, of course! Know why we haven’t found these crooks on any boats, Officer Callahan?”
“No, sir,” answered the policeman.
“Because they’ve taken to the water in wellknown Bayport boats. We’ve been looking for strange craft! Frank and Joe, you’ve given us a
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 real break. I’ll get police launches out on the bay immediately!” He went off to phone orders and soon returned.
“See any unfamiliar people in pleasure boats around here?” Frank asked Officer Tomlin.
“Well,” responded the policeman thoughtfully, “one or two launches I know were around earlier. There were men in them, but I didn’t pay any particular attention—thought they were guests of the owners.”
“Would you consider our boat suspicious?” Frank continued.
“Of course not.”
“But that’s the crooks’ idea!” Chief Collig said. “I gave orders to check all boats and the people in ‘em. I don’t care if they’ve been cruising the bay for twenty years!”
At that moment a steamship company guard came over to the group. Seeing Frank and Joe, he gave a friendly nod. “Came back, eh?”
“We’re back,” Joe admitted with a sheepish smile. “Catch anybody else escaping with a ruined lunch?” He had mistaken the guard for Charlie, the one they had met earlier. But when the man looked mystified, Joe realized his mistake.
“Don’t know about anybody’s lunch,” the guard said. “Weren’t you two around here before, while it was raining, in that blue-and-white speedboat?” He peered at the brothers closely. Then he shrugged. “No, I guess it was a couple
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 of older fellows. They waved to me when they were pushing off.”
“Did you hear that, Chief Collig?” Frank exclaimed. “Whoever took our boat was snooping around here with it tonight, looking for a chance to steal something from one of the ships or warehouses.”
Chief Collig immediately quizzed the guard. The man replied that the Sleuth had lingered in the harbor for some time. The two men had come on the docks briefly. “I didn’t see ‘em leave with anything,” he concluded.
“Better check the warehouses and ships,” advised Joe.
“Good idea,” agreed the chief.
With that, he strode off the pier, and the other officers resumed their posts.
Frank turned to his brother. “I’ll walk back to the car and drive home,” he volunteered, “and bring back a new padlock for the Sleuth. That’ll keep the thieves from using our boat, anyhow. This time we won’t leave the key on the shelf.”
“Right. I’ll poke around here and see what I can dig up,” Joe proposed.
Frank Hardy knew that his father, as a detective, had found it necessary to keep a supply of all sizes of locks—types that could not be opened by ordinary skeleton keys.
When he reached home Frank saw that all the windows were dark, except for a dim light in
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 Aunt Gertrude’s bedroom. He let himself into the house quietly and tiptoed down to his father’s basement workshop and chose a suitable lock. Suddenly the boy was startled by a voice demanding sharply:
“And just what do you think you’re up to, young man?”
“Why—I was getting a lock, Aunt Gertrude.”
“Lock! At this unearthly hour? What for?”
“To change the lock on the Sleuth.”
“Is that where you two were? On a boat ride? Frank Hardy, it is one-thirty in the morning!”
“I know, Auntie,” he said cheerfully as he started for the stairs. “We’ll tell you about it later. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry!” she echoed tartly. “I’ll only die of it!”
Frank grinned. “In a nutshell—thieves borrowed the Sleuth and took the key. We’re going to lock them out—with this!” He held up the gadget. “We’ll be home soon.”
When he arrived at the harbor, Frank parked the convertible and strode swiftly onto the pier where he had left his brother. Only a few workers were left on the dock, but he could see no sign of Joe.
Frank hurried to the end where the boat had been moored, and peered into the water. The Sleuth was missing, too!

57
CHAPTER VIII
A Perilous Plunge
“LOOKING for your buddy?”
Frank whirled to face the same steamship company guard who had spotted the Sleuth hovering near the docks earlier.
“Yes! He’s my brother. Have you seen him? Joe was supposed to wait for me.”
“I kind of wondered about that,” said the guard. “First he went all the way out to the edge of the pier and sat down. Just looking. All at once—about ten minutes ago—he comes running back here like crazy. Jumped in the blue-and-white boat and took off like a shot, straight out into the bay.”
“Was Joe alone?” Frank asked quickly.
“All by himself.”
“He must have seen something suspicious,” Frank decided.
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At that very moment Joe Hardy was bending tensely over the steering wheel of the Sleuth, which was cutting along at top speed. Her prow stuck far out of the water. Great waves of spray were thrown up on both sides.
But Joe seemed unconscious of the tremendous speed of his craft. His eyes were fixed with determination upon a powerful motorboat running several hundred yards straight in front of him. Two men were seated aboard, one at the wheel, the other looking back frequently as if nervous.
Ten minutes before, as Joe had sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling, he had noticed this same boat bobbing beside the big white hull of the Sea Bright. One man had already boarded the motor craft and a second was climbing toward it down the ladder of the passenger vessel.
Suddenly Joe had leaned forward with sharp interest. In the moonlight he had seen the name on the prow of the motorboat. It was the Napoli, which belonged to Tony Prito’s father. Joe had seen that neither of the pair in the boat was Mr. Prito or his son.
Now Joe heard a loud, whining roar, as the boat ahead picked up speed. Apparently the men realized they were being followed. The Napoli was showing her power.
“Come on, girl,” Joe urged his own trusty
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 craft affectionately. He jammed the throttle wide open. The race was on!
Skimming over the smooth surface, throwing showers of glistening white spray, neither craft could gain on the other. Dark shapes of buoys marking the harbor channel shot by them. The wet, black rocks at the harbor’s entrance came nearer and nearer, with the water of the Atlantic Ocean, lined with white crests of waves, just outside.
Squinting through the windshield, Joe considered his strategy. The fleeing boat was a swift one. But it would doubtless turn soon, and then, he knew, the lighter, easier-to-handle Sleuth would have the edge. He would cut them off without trouble.
To his amazement, however, the men held straight toward the mouth of the harbor. “They know their boat is heavier,” Joe reasoned. “They’re going out to sea, hoping I’ll have to slow down or swamp among the swells!”
Already the big rocks were closing in on both sides. Ahead, the ocean waves broke with a resounding smash along the barrier. The Napoli veered crazily in and out among the closely placed harbor buoys.
“He doesn’t know the channel!” flashed across Joe’s mind. “He’ll tear out the bottom on those submerged rocks.” Frantically the boy sounded
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 three long warning blasts on his own horn.
Too late! The other boat, trying to cut round the rocky point into the Atlantic, abruptly stopped short in the water as though a brake had been applied. A harsh grinding noise reached Joe’s ears. Immediately the Napoli’s hull settled stern first into the deep water.
Approaching the spot, Joe slowed down the Sleuth. But the two men had already jumped overboard, and after swimming a few strokes, splashed to shore and scrambled to the top of the breakwater. There, for a moment, they were silhouetted against the sky: a short, burly fellow and a slender man almost a foot taller.
“That short one looks like the man who drove the limousine!” Joe exclaimed, as both men quickly scampered off the embankment and disappeared.
Carefully Joe marked the position of the sunken boat. Then he turned the Sleuth back toward the piers. As he pulled in, Frank hailed him in relief.
“Say! What made you take off, anyway?”
“Plenty!” Joe gasped. “Wait’ll you hear!”
The tide was coming in, and he scrambled onto the dock unaided. Breathlessly Joe poured out the story of the chase.
“And the short, burly man,” he added, “was the driver of the limousine that almost ran us down!”
“Are you sure?” Frank asked.
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“He looked back and I saw his face in the moonlight,” Joe said.
“We must find Chief Collig,” Frank said. “Maybe his men can still catch them.”
Joe shook his head doubtfully. “Too easy for those fellows to lose themselves among the rocks along shore. They’re free for the moment. But I know the spot where Tony’s boat is!”
Just then Chief Collig walked onto the pier. The boys hurried over to him and described Joe’s adventure.
“We’ll salvage the Napoli first thing by daylight,” the chief said. “How about coming along? Meet me at the police wharf.”
The boys agreed at once and volunteered to call Tony Prito and tell him what had happened. Then Joe returned the Sleuth to her berth while Frank drove the car there to meet him. Together, they put the new lock on their craft.
In a short time they were both in the convertible and heading homeward through the deserted streets. A few minutes later they crawled wearily into bed.
But in a few hours the boys were up. Frank called Tony, who gasped in dismay. “The Napoli! That’s a crime! … Yes, I’ll go with you to see it.”
The Hardys picked him up and they rode to the police wharf.
Chief Collig was waiting for them. “Sorry about
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 your boat, Tony. Those thieves are getting nervier by the minute.”
“What about the Purdy place?” Joe asked him eagerly. “Did your men find anything when they searched last night?”
“Nothing,” Collig replied wryly. “No thieves, no cars, no loot.”
Just then a police boat equipped with a winch and cable for minor salvage operations came alongside the pier. The three boys and Collig clambered in, and the vessel headed for the mouth of the harbor.
Frank said, once more picking up the thread of the case, “Do you suppose Tony’s boat was stolen by the same men who were seen in our boat earlier last night?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Chief Collig answered.
“Anyhow,” Joe spoke up, “we’re pretty sure the short fellow in Tony’s boat was the man who drove the limousine, and one of the harbor thieves. Sure like to know where he and his pal are hiding out.”
By now the police boat had reached the mouth of the harbor. The officer at the wheel eyed the nearby shore warily.
“You’re lucky you didn’t stave your own boat in,” he told Joe. “The underwater rocks are really treacherous along here.”
“Don’t I know it!” Joe agreed.
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The officer throttled down and slowly approached the place that Joe indicated to him. A red harbor buoy bobbed nearby.
“I’m not going inside that marker,” announced the pilot flatly, slowing to a halt.
“Where is the Napoli from here, Joe?” Tony asked.
“Just the other side of the red buoy, I’m afraid.”
Around the police craft the water was clear and bluish green. Its surface was broken and dancing slightly from the effect of the waves outside the harbor. By leaning forward, the boys and Chief Collig made out a long white shape on the bottom.
“My boat! Can we get her up, Sergeant?” Tony questioned anxiously.
The second policeman assigned to the cruiser had been estimating their chances. “If we get her to the surface we can tow her in. The question is, can we get her to the surface? Looks pretty deep here to me. How are we going to put a line on her?”
Regretfully, the chief agreed. “You’re right. We’ll have to go back for a skin diver.”
Here Joe broke in with a suggestion. “If I go down and attach a line, can you raise her with the winch?”
“But we haven’t any diving equipment,” protested the sergeant. “Not even a face mask.”
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“Faces were made before face masks,” Joe observed, grinning. Already he had kicked off his shoes. Now he was pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his tan, lithe body. “Got your line ready?”
“You Hardys sure won’t give up.” Chief Collig nodded. “Okay. Try it.”
The sergeant readied the salvage equipment. He extended the boom of his winch, then handed Joe a steel cable with a heavy steel hook at the end.
The boy was now stripped to a pair of white shorts. “I’m ready.”
“I figure it’s about twelve feet down,” the sergeant told him gravely. “There’ll be some pressure.”
“And look out for the tow,” Tony cautioned.
Joe accepted the cable. “I’ve done a lot of skin diving, and had experience with both,” he assured them. “Any special place I should attach this?”
“Loop it around something solid on the Napoli, then snap the hook around the cable like this,” the sergeant replied, demonstrating.
“Right.”
With the cable in one hand, Joe climbed to the rail of the launch. There he balanced for a moment as he took a series of tremendous deep breaths. Then he plunged into the water.
Those on board the launch watched anxiously,
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 while the pilot tried to hold the boat steady. Joe soon became an indistinct blur against the sunken white craft.
Once submerged, Joe drove himself forward with powerful kicks. He kept his hands free for the cable. He began to feel the increasing pressure, mostly on his temples and chest. Joe penetrated deeper. Finally he could touch the Napoli.
Now he felt around it for a place to attach the cable. He moved forward and explored the front seat. There was no likely place—the steering wheel might rip out. Joe felt a pounding in his ears and he began to yearn for a breath of air. Still he groped around, feeling for something solid under the dashboard of the craft.
At this point Joe was directly under the steering wheel, the cable beneath his body. As he rolled over on his back to investigate the under part of the dashboard, the cable wound around his body. Suddenly and painfully, the cable had tightened against his flesh. The hook, that dangled from a length of cable in Joe’s hand, had caught around a slat of the floor boards.
Joe yanked at the hook, but was unable to loosen it. He thrashed to release himself from the cable. But he was bound fast under the steering wheel, twelve feet below the water’s surface!

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CHAPTER IX
The Secret Room
BACK on the launch, Chief Collig, Frank, Tony, and the sergeant waited tensely.
“Hold this boat still!” Collig barked at the pilot.
“Sorry, Chief. She’s drifting.”
“The cable’s gone taut,” noted Tony. “Do you think Joe has attached it?”
“If he has, he ought to be up any second,” Frank answered hopefully.
But the glittering surface of the water gave no sign of the swimmer underneath. More seconds passed.
“Something’s wrong!”
As the words burst from Frank he, too, slipped out of his shoes and quickly stripped. In spite of anxiety for his brother, he was too wise to dive fully clothed.
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Frank knifed into the cold water. With a powerful breast stroke, he swam quickly down to the Napoli. Almost immediately Frank spotted his brother’s legs kicking from under the dashboard, and the steel cable encircling Joe’s waist, holding him fast.
Shooting downward to the floor of the boat, Frank groped till his hand found the hook caught in the floor boards. With a tug he released it, flung away the line, grabbed Joe, and propelled him to the surface.
As Joe’s head and shoulders popped above water, he exhaled, then gasped in a lungful of air, too exhausted to swim. The strong arms of Chief Collig and Tony hauled Joe into the boat. He lay on the deck, breathing heavily.
Meanwhile, Frank’s head bobbed into view. “Joe okay? Hold steady. I’ll fix the cable.”
“You come out of there,” Chief Collig roared, “before you almost drown!”
But Frank was already well under water. Seizing the hook, he stroked toward the prow of the Napoli. There he detected a steel eye for mooring. Passing the hook through it, he looped the cable again, and surfaced.
“Grind away,” he called cheerfully to the sergeant at the winch. Then he climbed aboard.
By this time Joe was sitting up and slapping the water out of his ears. Chief Collig shook his head. “It’s lucky there are two of you left!”
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“I second that,” Joe said weakly. “Thanks for the rescue, brother.”
Now the engine of the winch began grinding. The steel cable was reeled in steadily. The Napoli rose toward the surface like a big, inert fish. Quickly the pilot started the launch’s engines and pulled away. The disabled craft trailed behind, half under water.
Back at the police wharf, Tony was informed that his boat could be repaired, although he would be without the use of it for a while.
“I wonder if the gang used the Sleuth to steal anything,” Joe said, in a worried voice, as he, Tony, and Frank left the wharf with the chief.
“Prepare yourself for a shock,” advised Chief Collig. “Last night there was a big theft from the captain’s cabin on one of these passenger ships. We’ve been keeping it quiet, hoping for a lead.”
“Whew!” Frank gave a whistle. “What ship?”
“The Sea Bright, under Captain Stroman’s command.” Here Chief Collig paused deliberately. “That ship is owned by the Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company.”
Instantly Joe remembered the matchbook. “Then it was our Sleuth they used,” he declared.
Frank observed a familiar look in their old friend’s eyes. “Chief,” the boy asked suddenly, “what did the gang steal?”
“They stole,” Collig pronounced slowly, “a
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 very valuable jade necklace, which the captain had bought for his wife.”
It took a split second for this information to hit home. Both Hardys exclaimed together:
“Hurd Applegate! His stolen collection!”
Chief Collig signified agreement. “First thing I thought of. Two thefts of jade within a few hours. It’s only logical the same person is responsible.”
“Where’s Captain Stroman now?” Frank asked. “Can we talk to him? Does he know what the thief looked like?”
“Whoa! He’s gone to New York to consult with the insurance company. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“All this begins to fit together,” Joe pointed out thoughtfully. “Mr. Applegate’s case is tied up with the old Purdy mansion.”
“Yes,” Chief Collig agreed. “But how?”
“Getaway by water!” Frank answered excitedly. “The Willow River runs right behind the Purdy property. These crooks can go there from the docks without touching dry land.”
“And that’s where they transfer the loot to cars or trucks!” Joe finished eagerly.
“Look, Chief,” Frank said, “Joe and I are going out to the mansion at five o’clock.” The youth checked his watch. “It’s almost noon now. We’ll see if we can turn up anything there, and get in touch with you afterward.”
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On the way home the boys dropped Tony Prito off at his father’s construction company. As he got out of the car he thanked the Hardys again for their help in raising the Napoli, and Frank and Joe wished him good luck with the repairs.
When they reached home, Aunt Gertrude was waiting in the living room. “I never know when you’re coming back, or if you’re coming back at all,” she complained at once, heading for the kitchen. “So you needn’t be surprised if there isn’t much lunch ready!”
Frank winked at Joe. A moment later Miss Hardy entered the dining room with a tray of sandwiches, relishes, potato salad, chocolate milk, and a whole fudge cake.
“This is all there is,” she announced, and sat down with her nephews.
The boys grinned. During the meal Frank and Joe told her in detail about their adventures the night before and that morning. She snorted and clucked and shook her head, but the boys knew she was enjoying every word of it.
The brothers spent the afternoon making and studying notes about the case. At four thirty they headed the yellow convertible toward the Purdy mansion.
When they reached the estate, Frank parked his car behind the high bushes on the other side of Willow River Road, where Hurd Applegate had hidden his old automobile.
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“No use being conspicuous,” Joe said approvingly.
The brothers got out and walked to the heavy wooden gate. Frank gave a low whistle of surprise. “We left this open last night. Now it’s closed.”
Cautiously the Hardys slipped through.
“I want to check for footprints behind the house again,” Frank said as they kept to the trees along the drive. “That shut gate means somebody’s been coming or going.”
“Probably the police closed it after they searched last night,” Joe said.
“That’s true,” Frank replied. “But I want to look, anyway.”
He made his way to the path in the woods where he had first seen footprints. Frank stooped to examine the ground.
“New footprints,” he announced. “Quite a few of them. Look at those deep ones. A heavy-set fellow must have made them. Could be the limousine driver—the one you saw in the Napoli!”
“You’re sure those aren’t the same tracks you found yesterday?” Joe inquired doubtfully.
“Couldn’t be—not after all that rain. No, these are fresh.”
The young sleuths followed the trail among the trees down to the water. At this point the river was fairly wide. The boys looked for signs of a boat. A minute later they heard the sound of an automobile engine coming from the driveway.
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“It may be Mr. Dalrymple,” Joe said tersely. “But it could be the harbor thieves. We’d better sneak up.”
The boys left the path and picked their way noiselessly through the thick green brush until they had reached a spot at the side of the house. From there, they could see the front porch.
A tall man in a lightweight suit and straw hat, obviously impatient, stood in the yard before the house, glancing around. Several times he looked directly at the boys’ hiding place but failed to see them.
“Dalrymple?” Joe breathed. “Or his double?”
Next time the man turned his back, they ran silently forward and stopped just behind him. Joe touched his shoulder.
“What!” the man spun around.
“Mr. Dalrymple,” Joe greeted him. “Sorry! But we wanted to be sure who you were.”
“You boys did give me a start,” the banker confessed. “I didn’t see your car, so thought you weren’t here. But come along. We can’t waste a minute. The time lock is set for five o’clock exactly. We have to get in now, or lose our chance.”
The banker opened the front door with his key. After a hasty look into the living room, which contained the grandfather’s clock the Hardys had seen through the window the night before, they hurried upstairs.


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“Another warning! he cried out, snatching up the paper
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“The secret room is down the hall,” Mr. Dalrymple explained.
Briskly the banker entered a sitting room. While the boys watched, fascinated, he pushed aside a small framed photograph and put his fingernail into a tiny hole behind it. A very small round door opened, revealing the dials of a time lock!
After twirling these, Mr. Dalrymple stepped back. Before the boys’ eyes, what had seemed a line in the wallpaper now developed into a crack that grew wider and wider as a door swung outward.
“The entrance to the secret room!” Frank thought.
Mr. Dalrymple stepped through into a small, windowless chamber. Frank, then Joe, followed closely. Joe was the first to spot a folded sheet of white paper in the exact center of the rug.
“Another warning!” he cried out, snatching up the paper.
In stunned silence, Frank, Joe, and Mr. Dalrymple read the penciled warning:
“Death while the clock ticks!      This is your last warning!”

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CHAPTER X
The Shadowy Figures
FRANK examined the threatening message for fingerprint smudges, but there were none. The lettering was like that of the first two warnings.
“We’ll keep this note if you don’t mind, Mr. Dalrymple,” he said. “May need it as evidence.”
The banker nodded gravely. “You know, boys,” he said, “it’s not so much the threat of death that bothers me. It’s the idea that somebody hates me enough to want to kill me! Who could it be?”
Frank and Joe, too, wondered about the motive behind the strange notes.
“What about robbery?” Joe ventured. “Has anything been disturbed?”
Quickly Mr. Dalrymple riffled through the papers on his table, and then checked his filing cabinet.
“No,” he muttered. “Same as before—a mysterious
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 note in the middle of the floor. But nothing has been touched.”
Frank Hardy looked carefully around the square, windowless room. “Well,” he said, “if someone is going in and out, we ought to be able to find out how! Please close the door, Mr. Dalrymple. Let’s get busy, Joe.”
The banker pressed a switch, turning on an overhead light. Then he pulled shut the heavy, steel-plate door.
The Hardys went into action. First, Frank walked to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.
“You’re right, sir, it’s barred,” he observed. “The opening’s too small for even a baby to come down. No intruder came in this way.”
Joe took a small mallet from his pocket and tapped the walls gently for a hollow sound. Meantime, Frank rolled up the rug and checked the floor for a trap door or movable boards. The entire room, however, seemed perfectly tight.
“It doesn’t make sense!” Frank declared. “Somebody got in here with those notes.”
“I know.” Mr. Dalrymple sighed.
“One more possibility,” said Frank abruptly. He pulled a tape measure from his pocket and quickly took the dimensions of the room. Then he said, “Now, Mr. Dalrymple, will you let us out?”
The banker opened the secret door and Frank
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 took a measurement of the wall’s thickness. After they left the secret room, Mr. Dalrymple closed the door, set the time lock, and replaced the photograph. Meanwhile, Frank was measuring the sitting room. Then he slipped into the hall and measured that.
“What’s the idea?” the banker asked.
For a moment the boy calculated swiftly in his head. “I thought there might be some kind of secret passage behind the vault,” he explained. “But it’s impossible. All the measurements check out.”
“I guess we’re stumped,” Joe admitted ruefully. “But you’d better take the warning seriously, Mr. Dalrymple. Stay away from here unless we’re with you.”
The three descended the long, wide stairway in silence. Pausing at the bottom, they were startled by the only sound audible in the big, empty house.
Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Tick-tock!
“‘Death while the clock ticks’!” Joe exclaimed, and bolted across the hall into the living room. There stood the tall grandfather’s clock, its pendulum swinging steadily. Tick-tock!
Mr. Dalrymple wrinkled his forehead. “I never wind that clock,” he declared.
“Somebody has,” Joe said. “It was going last night when we were here. Maybe the same person who’s writing the notes winds it. He says he’s
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 going to kill you while the clock ticks and he might mean this very one! We’ll spoil his game whatever it is!”
Joe looked into the glass door of the lower case where the pendulum hung. Nothing lay inside. He cautiously opened the upper door and peered into the works behind the face.
“Nothing here,” he announced.
Suddenly Frank remembered something. “Mr. Dalrymple,” he said, “do you have a set of keys for us?”
The banker looked dismayed. “Oh, tosh!” he exclaimed. “I’ve so much on my mind. I forgot all about it. I’ll have them made first thing tomorrow.”
A short time later the boys’ yellow convertible rolled up the Hardy driveway and into the garage. From directly overhead came the sound of loud laughter, people talking, and a series of heavy bumps on the floor.
“What’s going on!” Joe exclaimed. The brothers rushed upstairs.
The door of the Hardys’ laboratory opened on the spectacle of Jerry Gilroy rolling about on the floor. Chet Morton seemed about to step on Jerry with his whole weight. Tony Prito and Biff Hooper were howling with delight, and Phil Cohen was photographing the scene with one of Joe’s cameras.
“Strong stomach muscles, you say?” Chet
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 roared. “Hold still, and I’ll test ‘em for you.”
“No! No!” pleaded Jerry. “Not that. They’re weak. I give in!”
Phil Cohen was the first to notice the newcomers.
“Gentlemen!” he cried out. “There will be a moment of silence while we all observe the arrival of the Hardy boys! Look at them closely, gentlemen! Feast your eyes! Do not neglect this opportunity. For the Hardys come, and the Hardys go, but what they’re up to, does anybody know?”
“Hear, hear—poetry!” Tony applauded.
“Does anybody know what the Hardys are up to?” repeated Phil, gesturing like an orator. “I wait for a reply.”
“I have one, and it’s not about the harbor thieves.” Jerry grinned. “I think Frank and Joe are going romantic. Did you see ‘em ducking out with their girls in the moonlight last night?”
“Sure enough,” Chet drawled. “I also heard from Iola that soon as they were on the porch, Frank and Joe made a break for the car. Iola says she and Callie don’t know what it was all about, but it had better be mighty important!”
Joe looked noncommittal. “Well, you can tell her it was.”
Their stout friend moved closer, with a glint in his eye. As the Hardys well knew, Chet’s curiosity was almost as great as his appetite.
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“Sure, pals,” he went on. “If I can just get a few details, I’m sure the girls will—er—be very much interested. Let’s see—you couldn’t stay at the party because you had to go out to the old Purdy place …”
Frank and Joe smiled at Chet’s effort to coax information from them. Though he was sometimes afraid, he liked nothing better than to be included in their adventures.
“Is that right?” Frank inquired casually. “Tell us more, Chet.”
“You went to the Purdy place because … because … uh … old Purdy buried all his money out there and you’re looking for it!” Chet had to grin at his own bluff.
“Nice try!” Joe laughed.
“Oh, leave ‘em alone,” Jerry Gilroy said good-naturedly. “We’ll wake up some morning and read all about it in the papers.”
But Chet Morton persisted. “Aw, come on, fellows. Aren’t you going to let me in on your case?”
“Guess you’ll have to turn detective yourself,” Joe teased, shaking his head.
“You look out,” Chet warned them. “I might just do that! Meanwhile, it’s suppertime. Let’s go, everybody.”
When he and the other boys had departed in Jerry’s jalopy, Frank and Joe stayed in the lab and discussed the mystery until Aunt Gertrude summoned
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 them to eat. Afterward, the brothers decided to visit the Purdy house.
“Even if we don’t have a key, we’ll see if there’s any activity out there tonight,” Joe said.
Frank agreed. “Let’s walk. We can take a short cut.”
The brothers waited until it was dark. After equipping themselves with flashlights, they started out at a rapid pace in the bright moonlight. Soon they had left the town behind. Once on Willow River Road, they hugged one side, and when cars passed, the boys melted into the brush to avoid detection.
As they reached the Purdy gate, Joe crouched and looked back. The road lay clear and pale in the moonlight, but the long ivy-covered wall was shadowy and dark.
“Hey, Frank!” he whispered. “Somebody just ducked from one tree to another back there. We’re being trailed!”
“Let him follow,” Frank answered. “We’ll hide in the bushes near the house and spy on him.”
Quickly the brothers scrambled over the gate. Soon they were well concealed in the same spot from which they had first seen Mr. Dalrymple that afternoon. They could see both the front and back doors of the high old house, with its slate roofs gleaming in the moonlight.
Minutes passed in silence. Then a heavy-set figure sneaked across the open space in front of
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 the house. Frank and Joe watched tensely. The figure slipped stealthily around to the back. Here the windows were closer to the ground. As the intruder raised his head to peer in, moonlight fell full upon his face.
“Chet Morton!” Joe hissed, astonished. “We’d better get hold of him before—”
“Sh!” Frank signaled tersely. “Somebody else coming!”
A white-shirted figure now came from the woods and approached the back of the house. The man walked swiftly, as though sure of his way. At the same time, Chet backed cautiously away from the window—until he had backed right into the stranger!
“Eeek! Help!” Chet cried shrilly.
At this outcry the white-shirted figure turned and dashed for the woods.
“After him!” Frank shouted, breaking cover. “He’s heading for the river!”
Frank and Joe plunged down the path they had discovered earlier. But already an outboard motor was kicking into life. The brothers raced to the river’s edge in time to see a small green boat carrying one man put-put out onto the bright, moonlit water.
The man crouched in the stern, anxiously watching the shore. The moonlight revealed his features.
“The limousine driver!” Joe exclaimed.

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CHAPTER XI
A Suspicious Captain
BOTH boys stared after the motorboat, now only a dark spot in the distance. It was headed down the river toward the bay. Soon it had disappeared around a bend.
“Are you sure it was the limousine driver?” Frank demanded.
“Positive. It’s the third time I’ve seen him. This proves our theory, Frank. The harbor thieves are using this house. Are they responsible for the scream and the warning notes?”
Just then they heard a rustle of brush from the top of the wooded path. “Frank … Joe?” called Chet’s quavering voice. “Is that you I hear talking?”
“No!” Frank shouted laughingly. “We’re two ghosts!”
Switching on their flashlights, the brothers
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 climbed back up the path. “Hi, detective!” Joe greeted a somewhat crestfallen Chet Morton revealed in the beam of his flashlight. “What’s the big idea of scaring off our quarry?”
“Oh-h,” Chet moaned. “Me—scaring him! I was standing here, and this ghostly white thing—”
“What you’re talking about is a man in a white T-shirt,” Frank wryly informed him. “And, thanks to you, he’s made a clean getaway down the river.”
Joe made a grimace of mock despair. “What were you up to, tailing us?”
In a meek voice Chet explained. “When you said I’d have to turn detective to find out about your case, I took your advice. So I shadowed you out here all the way from your house.”
“Okay, you win, Chet,” Frank sighed.
The three boys started together down Willow River Road for home. “You might as well work with us. Better give us a day or two, though. By then we should have an assignment for you— Detective Morton.”
The chunky boy agreed with alacrity. A block from their house Chet picked up his jalopy.
“We’ll keep you posted,” Frank promised him.
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, the boys drove downtown to the Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company offices.
“Captain Stroman?” repeated the secretary at the reception desk. “Yes, he’s here, boys,
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 but I’m afraid he’s too occupied to see you.”
“Tell the captain it’s about a jade necklace,” Frank said.
The girl gave the Hardys a startled look and retreated to an inner office. She returned shortly and directed them to go in.
A tall, red-haired man, wearing the black uniform of the merchant marine, with gold bars and stars on the sleeve to indicate his master’s rank, stood behind a heavy mahogany desk. Before the Hardys had a chance to speak, Captain Stroman demanded gruffly:
“What do you boys know about the jade necklace?”
“Nothing yet, sir,” Frank answered. “We were hoping you would tell us about the theft.”
“Why should I? Who are you, anyhow?”
Quickly Frank introduced himself and Joe, then went on, “We have a motorboat here at the harbor, a blue-and-white outboard called the Sleuth.”
“What?” the captain’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A blue-and-white boat? Just a minute!” Watching the boys closely, he picked up a telephone. “Give me police headquarters. Chief Collig.”
“Wait! You don’t understand!” Joe protested.
Frank restrained his brother. “Maybe it’ll be easier this way.”
“Chief Collig?” the captain spoke into the
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 phone. “Two boys named Hardy are in my office. Say they own that boat my mate spotted hanging around the Sea Bright the night of the theft. They’re asking about the jade. I’ll hold them till you get here. … What? What’s that you say?”
By the captain’s change of expression from suspicion to amazement, Frank and Joe could tell that Chief Collig was setting him straight on the events of the day in question.
“Right, Chief,” said Stroman and hung up. He turned to the boys and said, “Seems I’ve made a mistake. When you lose a rare collector’s item that has taken you a lifetime to find, you’re apt to be suspicious of people. I apologize.”
“Chief Collig told us you’d gone to the insurance company,” Frank said.
The captain nodded. “They’re putting a private detective on the case immediately.” He paused. “By the way, what is your interest in this matter?”
“A friend of ours had a jade collection stolen the night before last,” Joe explained. “We think your necklace may have been taken by the same man. Did you happen to get a look at him?”
“Unfortunately, no. It was the busy time of night and I was superintending the unloading of cargo. Several new dock workers were on board. Any one of them might have slipped unnoticed into my cabin.”
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“But what’s this about the Sleuth?” Frank queried.
“My mate saw your boat, but thought nothing of it at the time. There were two men aboard. The mate had only a brief glimpse of them.”
Though disappointed at the captain’s lack of further information, Frank and Joe promised to do all they could to recover the precious jade. When they were outside, Frank suggested that they make the rounds of the art and jewelry stores in Bayport to see if the thieves had tried to sell any of the jade. They started near the docks where there were a number of shops specializing in imported and unusual goods. The two made queries in one after another. None of the dealers, however, had bought any jade objects within the past two months.
“We’ll move uptown,” Joe said.
Doggedly they went to two large stores of the same type in the center of Bayport. Still no results.
“If I’d stolen a valuable collection,” Joe said suddenly, “I wouldn’t try to sell it here, either.”
“Well—where would you go?”
“To Mr. Swarts!” Joe declared.
“Of course!” Frank exclaimed. “Just the place! Let’s go!”
Quickly he headed their car across town to a little out-of-the-way antique shop which the
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 boys had checked for stolen goods on several occasions. Frank parked in front of the drab brick building, and the boys hurried down the steps to a small store below street level. In the window piles of odds and ends were jumbled with genuine treasures.
As they entered, a gray-haired man with steel-rimmed spectacles looked at them across a wooden counter.
“Hello, boys!” he called in greeting.
“Good morning, Mr. Swarts,” said Joe. “Say, has anybody tried to sell you some fine jade lately?”
The man started. “Funny you should ask that. Fellow was in just this morning, early. He had a nice set of chessmen and a necklace with him.”
“Did you buy them?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Ho, ho! No.” Mr. Swarts laughed. “He wanted too much for them. Needed money, he said. So? Am I supposed to overpay him out of charity?”
“What did he look like, Mr. Swarts?”
The owner considered a moment. “Oh, big tall fellow, middle-aged, wore rimless glasses. Had on a summer suit and straw hat.”
“Sounds like Mr. Dalrymple!” Frank exclaimed.
“Oh—you know him?” asked the proprietor, mistaking the reason for their outburst. “Good. I just remembered these.”
He fished in his pocket, then laid on the counter
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 a little chain with three keys. “See that he gets these back, will you?”
Joe glanced at the keys quickly and pocketed them. “I certainly will!”
After thanking the man, the Hardys hastened from the store to the convertible.
“How do you like that!” Joe exclaimed. “Must have been Mr. Dalrymple’s double. He had the chessmen and the necklace! That proves one gang pulled both thefts!”
“Let’s see those keys,” Frank said, starting the car. “Hey! I recognize one.”
“You bet!” his brother crowed. “It’s the key to the old lock on the Sleuth! We’ll soon find out about the other two. Make tracks fast to our laboratory, driver!”
“Yes, sir!” responded Frank in high spirits.
Soon the car pulled into the Hardy driveway. Before they could start upstairs to the lab, however, the kitchen door slammed. The thin, energetic figure of Aunt Gertrude fairly flew at them.
“There you are! What are you up to? Oh, I knew when your parents went to Maine, there’d be trouble. Don’t stand there gaping. Out with it!”
“Aunt Gertrude,” Frank begged, “out with what?”
“No use trying to hide it. A private detective has just been here—to investigate you boys!”

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CHAPTER XII
Meteor Special
SPEECHLESS, Frank and Joe could only stare at each other. Nervously Aunt Gertrude continued:
“Imagine! A strange man coming to this house and asking all kinds of questions as though you were criminals!”
The boys piloted their excited aunt into the kitchen and made her sit down.
“What kind of ‘investigation’ do you think this is?” Joe asked his brother with keen curiosity.
“Maybe the fellow was from the insurance company,” Frank suggested. “Captain Stroman probably reported the Sleuth incident to him. Can you tell us more about it now, Auntie?”
Miss Hardy composed herself. “I was dusting the living room when the doorbell rang. A young man stood there and said his name was Mr. Smith.”
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“Mr. Smith!” Joe hooted. “How phony can you get?”
Aunt Gertrude continued, “He said, ‘I’m a private eye.’ Then he flashed a wallet at me and showed his credentials.”
“Private eye!” Joe repeated indignantly. “He’s been reading too many corny detective stories.”
“What does this Mr. Smith look like, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.
“Well he’s about thirty, I’d say. Not tall, not short. He wore a nice suit, and a gray fedora hat. And … he had a little toothbrush mustache!”
“Was it false?” Joe queried.
“How should I know?” their aunt snapped, her energetic self again. “I didn’t study him through a magnifying glass!”
“That’s what we need now,” said Frank. “A magnifying glass.” He looked at Joe significantly. “Because I think we have the keys to this mystery!”
In answer, Joe jingled his pocket. “Let’s go!”
“Don’t you dare!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “No detective work until you have a decent lunch.”
The brothers were famished, and gladly complied. Twenty minutes later there was not a crumb left of the roast-beef sandwiches and the apple pie Miss Hardy had made.
“Delicious, Auntie,” Frank declared.
“Thanks for stopping us,” Joe added.
Their aunt beamed. The boys excused themselves
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 and hastened to their lab. Joe brought out the three keys for examination.
“The first is the key to the Sleuth all right,” Frank confirmed, fitting it to the original lock. “This second one is the kind used in ordinary door locks.”
“The third is an automobile ignition key,” Joe reported. “We’ll soon find out what kind of car it’s for.”
In Fenton Hardy’s laboratory next to the boys’, he kept a photograph file of ignition keys for all automobiles of domestic and foreign manufacture. Frank and Joe went to compare these to the key dropped by Mr. Dalrymple’s mysterious double at Swarts’ shop.
“Start with the American makes,” Frank proposed, “and take this year’s models first.”
The suggestion proved a good one. In less than five minutes the key had been identified as belonging to the current year’s Meteor Special.
“The Special—that’s the big Meteor—the limousine!” Joe noted with excitement. “Frank, it could have been the car that nearly hit us!”
“And there probably aren’t too many of them around,” Frank reasoned. “The next step is to find out who owns Meteor Specials in this area. We’ll need police help.”
Joe agreed. He suggested that Frank make the trip to headquarters. “I want to stay here and do some lab work. Mr. Dalrymple lent me those first
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 two threatening notes. Let me have the third one. I’ll do a handwriting analysis on it.”
Accordingly, Frank drove to the handsome stone building that housed Bayport’s police headquarters. He was allowed to see Chief Collig immediately.
“Anything new on the harbor thieves?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” the chief replied tersely. “As you recall, Joe reported he’d seen a man climbing down from the Sea Bright into the Napoli just before he went after it. I had Captain Stroman check his ship to be sure that nothing more was gone. None of the crew reported anything missing, so we assumed the thieves came away empty-handed that time.”
“Didn’t they?” Frank asked.
“They did not. They took a diamond ring and several fine gold gifts from one of the crew members.”
“Why wasn’t it noticed before?” Frank queried.
“The night the jade was stolen, the sailor was taken ill suddenly and removed to sick bay. He had left his locker standing open when he was stricken. Of course he didn’t miss his valuables until he returned to his quarters this morning.”
Frank looked serious. “The thieves must have spotted that open locker when they took the jade, but were afraid to take the time to go through it.”
The chief nodded. “So they came back. They’re
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 getting bolder and bolder!” Collig frowned deeply. “Well,” he said, “you wouldn’t be down here, Frank, unless you’d turned up something.”
Frank told him what they had found out at Swarts’ antique store, and of the keys dropped by the man resembling Mr. Dalrymple.
“Good work!” exclaimed Chief Collig. “So the fellow was trying to peddle Stroman’s necklace and Applegate’s chess set! That certainly links the two thefts.”
Frank nodded. “Look at this key. It’s the ignition key to a late model Meteor Special.”
Chief Collig understood immediately. “Very likely the car the harbor thieves used!”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “Could we get a list of all the owners of such cars in the area? Then we can check them out, one by one.”
“I’ll call the State Motor Vehicle Bureau right away.” The chief looked troubled. “With all my men in the harbor, I can’t spare anybody to run down this lead.”
“We’ll take care of that,” Frank promised, “as soon as you can give me the owners’ names.”
Relieved, Chief Collig remarked with a smile, “So Captain Stroman suspected at first you were crooks?”
“That’s not all.” Frank laughed and briefly told of “Mr. Smith’s” call on Aunt Gertrude.
Here the chief eyed Frank with a twinkle. “And how’s your other business coming?”
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“What other business, Chief?”
“The appointment you had yesterday at the Purdy place—”
He was interrupted by the buzzing of the desk telephone. The policeman picked up the instrument and listened a moment.
“For you,” he said, handing over the phone.
“Frank?” Joe’s tone was insistent.
“What’s up?”
“Can’t tell now. Just get home—fast.”
Frank drove back as rapidly as he could through the afternoon traffic. He found Joe and Aunt Gertrude in the living room.
“One thing after another,” Miss Hardy was complaining. “First that private eye, and now this! It’s enough to make a person wish she didn’t have a detective in the family.”
“What happened?” Frank demanded. Joe’s face was serious as he handed his brother a sheet of stationery.
“Came in the mail just now,” Joe said, “addressed to Aunt Gertrude.”
Frank read the warning scrawled on the sheet.
“If you value your nephews’ lives, tell them to mind their own business.“
“A death threat,” Aunt Gertrude declared vehemently. “Now maybe you’ll give up chasing harbor thieves!”
“Not a chance, Auntie!” Joe exclaimed. “I checked the handwriting. This note was written
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 by the same person who threatened Mr. Dalrymple!”
“Oh, my lands, what’s the difference? It’s still a death threat!” Aunt Gertrude cried.
“There’s a big difference,” Joe stated. “I’m glad you got this letter.”
His aunt stared at him in bewilderment but Frank nodded understanding. “I get it,” he said. “We thought we weren’t making headway on Mr. Dalrymple’s case. This note proves that we are. We have somebody worried!”
“You have me worried.” Aunt Gertrude sighed. “Mr. Dalrymple is in danger and so are you!”
At that moment the telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude started. “If it’s another threat—” She broke off as Frank took the call. He picked up a pencil from the stand and jotted something on a pad.
“That was Chief Collig,” Frank announced after he had hung up. “The motor vehicle office has eight owners of Meteor Specials registered in this area. Here’s the list. One is a Mr. Henry Nichols, who lives closest to us. Come on, Joe. Let’s go!”

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CHAPTER XIII
The Eavesdropper
MR. HENRY NICHOLS’ home turned out to be a large one in Bayport’s most attractive residential section.
“Frank!” Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed to the garage. Showing through the open door were the black fenders and shining grille of a new Meteor Special!
“Good afternoon, boys!” called an old man seated in a rocking chair on the front porch. “Hot weather.”
“Sure is,” Frank agreed. “Are you Mr. Nichols?”
“Yes sirree.” The old man was very thin and weak looking, but his light-blue eyes were lively.
“I’ve been Henry Nichols seventy-nine years, now; eighty next April. Never minded it either, ‘cept when I was young. Then I used to wish I was somebody famous—”
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“Henry!” called a voice just inside the screen door. “That’s enough!” A small, white-haired woman stood there. “What is it you boys want?”
Frank said politely, “We came to ask about your car.”
“Don’t drive those machines myself,” Mr. Nichols piped up. “I drove a team of horses and did some harness racing.”
Mrs. Nichols interrupted proudly, “Boys, I drive the car.”
“How do you like your Meteor Special?” Joe asked her.
“Rides nice. And it’s fast. I love a speedy car!”
Frank and Joe were amused by the couple, but did not smile. “Do a lot of driving?” Frank asked.
“Well, shopping downtown, and to church.”
Mr. Nichols chuckled. “When Ma gets to going, I say to myself, ‘Henry, buckle your seat belt!’”
Frank and Joe grinned, but thought Mrs. Nichols’ Meteor clearly was not the one they were after. “Thanks for your time,” Frank said to the couple. “We’re very much interested in Meteor Specials.”
Back in their convertible, the Hardys looked at the seven remaining names on the list. It was now late in the afternoon.
“We’d better split up, if we’re going to cover these people,” Frank advised. “I’ll drive you home, so you can get Dad’s car.”
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When the Hardys returned home from their quest, each reported no luck. None of the owners of Meteor Specials had resembled Mr. Dalrymple.
“There’s one possible answer,” Frank deduced. “The car this key belongs to may have been brought here from a distance. Probably it’s using stolen plates.”
“Yes, but where is it?” Joe wondered.
The young detectives were forced to go to bed with the question unanswered.
The next morning after breakfast Frank and Joe found a bright and eager Chet Morton seated on the Hardy doorstep. “You said to give you a day or two, so here I am!” he announced.
“Right on schedule.” Joe grinned as the brothers sat down with their friend. They told him of their efforts to catch the harbor thieves, solve Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery, and find the missing jade articles.
“Wow! I can hardly keep ‘em all straight!” said the stout boy. “Well, I’ll be on the lookout for that Meteor Special!”
“Good,” responded Joe. “If you spot it, let us know on the double.”
“Count on me!” Raising his right hand, and placing his left over his heart, Chet declaimed, “Let it never be said that Chet Morton forsook his companions in the hour of distress. Let the thieves do their worst! Chet Morton defies them!”
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“Okay, okay!” Frank laughed. “Is Chet Morton ready to go now?”
“Lead on,” Chet said, waving. “I follow. But where?”
“To see Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank replied. “It’s time he knew his property’s being used by the harbor thieves.”
“And we’ll show him the warning that was sent to Aunt Gertrude,” Joe added.
Soon the Hardys’ convertible was carrying the three boys along the highway from Bayport to Lakeside. Once in town, they drove to the leading bank, of which Mr. Dalrymple was an officer.
He received the boys in his office, and listened intently as the Hardys told of their suspicions.
“Criminals using my house!” he exploded. “Outrageous! But it explains the notes. Those thieves are trying to scare me away, and you boys, too!”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain how the messages were put into the time-locked room.”
“That’s true,” the banker admitted. “What else have you found?”
Frank described the theft of the jade necklace Captain Stroman had purchased for his wife in the Orient. “Probably by the same thief who stole Hurd Applegate’s collection.”
To the boys’ surprise, Mr. Dalrymple disagreed sharply. “No connection at all!” he snapped.
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 “I’m convinced that Applegate is suffering from hallucinations. His whole story is preposterous!”
The boys rose to leave, promising to keep the banker posted. To their disappointment, he had again forgotten to have a set of house keys made. Back on the road to Bayport, the young detectives considered Dalrymple’s remark about Mr. Applegate.
“What do you think, Frank?” Joe asked. “Did Hurd Applegate really lose any jade?”
Frank said emphatically, “I think Mr. Dalrymple’s still angry about being called a thief. But it won’t hurt to have another talk with Mr. Applegate.”
Suddenly both Hardys noticed that Chet’s attention had been diverted. He stared longingly ahead.
“What’s so interesting?” Joe asked.
“Don’t pass it,” pleaded Chet.
“Pass what?”
“That milk bar up there. They serve a terrific sundae, covered with whipped cream, cherries, and nuts. It’s called a Bigloo Igloo. Come on, fellows. It’s lunchtime.”
“Okay.” Frank laughed.
The yellow convertible turned in and stopped before the little white building. Soon the boys were seated together in a booth.
“Four Bigloo Igloos,” ordered Chet, when the waitress came over.
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“But there are only three of you, sir,” the waitress protested.
“Four sundaes, miss,” Chet repeated grandly. “Never fear—we shall dispose of them!”
The waitress shrugged and went off. The place was filled with people on their lunch hour, and there was a lively hubbub. A juke box was playing continuously. Suddenly, through the noise, Frank heard a voice behind him say:
“… it will happen while the clock ticks.”
The youth abruptly stood up, whirling, for a look at the speaker. His foot swung out into the aisle, tripping the waitress, who was returning with the boys’ order!
Crash! Down went the girl. Up went four enormous Bigloo Igloo sundaes. Chet Morton stared aghast as two of them came down on his head. The others had found resting places on the floor.
Above the shrieks of the waitress, and the roars of laughter from the other customers, Frank cried, “Joe! Those two men who just went out—we must catch them!”
Pushing through the clogged aisle, the brothers paid the disconcerted waitress, then emerged from the milk bar in time to see a black car carrying two men speed away in the direction of Bayport.
“The fellow driving was tall—looked a lot like
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 Dalrymple!” called Frank as he sprinted for the convertible.
Joe followed, hurrying Chet, head still streaked with ice cream, along in front of him. They climbed into their car and gave chase.
The convertible slewed into the road with a squeal of rubber on concrete. By this time the other car was only a black dot on the highway ahead. Grimly, Frank pressed the accelerator to the floor.
“If it’s the Meteor Special, you’ll never catch it,” Chet grumbled.
“That car wasn’t a Meteor,” Frank told him.
The highway rose, dipped, and turned. Sometimes the black dot was visible, sometimes not. Then, with a long straightaway in sight, it seemed to have disappeared altogether.
“They’ve ducked into the Willow River Road!” Frank guessed.
In a moment he made the turn himself, and raced along the familiar route. At the Purdy estate the gate was closed, and no car stood inside. Frank went on. He reached Shore Road without seeing a sign of the strange car.
“Lost them,” Frank muttered in disgust.
Joe, too, frowned dejectedly. “Well, we may as well go see Mr. Applegate at Tower Mansion,” he suggested. “It’s right on this road.”
The boys continued driving for some distance
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 until finally they glimpsed an immense stone structure high on a hill, overlooking the bay. The palatial building had the appearance of a feudal castle because of the two huge stone towers which arose from the far ends of it. Joe and Frank never failed to be impressed by the enormity of the old Tower Mansion and its well-kept, fence-enclosed grounds whenever their car climbed the wide driveway that led to the front entrance.
The elderly Mr. Applegate looked sad as he opened the door, yet he seemed glad to see the Hardys and their friend. He invited them into his living room.
“Boys,” the old man said, “you helped me when my stamps were stolen, and I would have been lost without you the other night. If you can possibly get back my jade, I’ll see that you’re rewarded.”
“You mean you want us to take the case, Mr. Applegate?” Joe asked.
“You can find my jade collection, if anybody can!” the elderly man declared firmly.
Suddenly Joe, Chet, and Hurd Applegate stared at Frank Hardy in astonishment. He had risen quietly from his chair and was tiptoeing stealthily toward the side window!
“What—what is it?” Chet gasped.
“Somebody in the yard—listening to us!” Frank whispered. With that, he raced through the house toward the rear door.

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CHAPTER XIV
Sudden Attack
As FRANK burst from the back door, a man hurdled the hedge at the end of the Applegates’ garden and sprinted through the rear of the property. The eavesdropper’s tan sports jacket flapped behind him as he ran. He scaled the iron picket fence with the agility of a monkey and dropped to the roadway beyond. The man glanced backward, and Frank saw that he was heavily bearded.
“Up we go, fellows!” Frank urged.
In seconds the young sleuth, too, had cleared the fence. Behind him came Joe’s pounding footsteps. Chet Morton, panting audibly, brought up the rear. They, too, scaled the fence.
Frank was looking up and down the roadway, puzzled. His quarry was no longer in sight. A young man wearing a striped blue jacket stood
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 on the opposite side of the road, staring at two large, newly constructed houses.
Instantly Frank called to him. “Hey! Seen a man with a beard?”
“Right there … between those houses.” The young man pointed. “Was he running away from you?”
Frank and his companions did not reply, but raced on between the houses. Still no sign of the stranger. The boys were in the midst of a housing development.
While Frank hurried forward to inspect the next street, Joe and Chet searched every possible hiding place in the yards. But it was no use. The boys had lost the eavesdropper completely.
“Bad break for us,” Joe grumbled.
As the breathless trio retraced their steps, they noticed that the stranger in the blue jacket had disappeared. “Do you suppose he was telling the truth?” Chet asked. The Hardys shrugged.
Hurd Applegate was waiting for them on his back porch. “No luck, Mr. Applegate,” said Joe to the old collector. “But we’ll take your case. We’ll find the stolen jade!”
Ten o’clock the next morning found the Hardy boys on the sidewalks of downtown Bayport. They were on their way to police headquarters to check on any new developments in the harbor mystery.
It was a hot, sunny day. Already the stores were lowering awnings over their display windows.
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“Frank, look!” Joe pointed to a tall figure in a straw hat. His back was turned as he inspected the contents of a store window across the street. “It’s Dalrymple. Wonder what’s he doing in town?”
“We’d better speak to him,” responded Frank. “He might be on his way to the Purdy place in spite of our warning.”
Crossing at the corner, the boys went up and touched their client’s shoulder. As the man whirled, Frank and Joe stepped back in surprise. He was not Mr. Dalrymple!
“What d’you want?” the stranger demanded roughly.
“You’re the man who stole Hurd Applegate’s jade!” Joe fearlessly accused him.
“What jade? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never saw you before! You watch your tongue. I could sue you!”
Shoving past the boys, he darted around some pedestrians and threw himself into the front seat of a black car parked at the curb. At that moment the light changed to green. The stranger’s automobile was sucked into a river of traffic which surged forward until the light changed.
“Why did we let him go?” Joe stormed.
“We could be wrong,” Frank told his brother. “Anyway, I got the license number. We’ll give it to Chief Collig.”
“It wasn’t a Meteor Special,” Joe noted.
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 “Maybe that’s the car we chased yesterday!”
Eagerly the boys hurried to headquarters.
“So you think you may have seen the thief!” Collig exclaimed. “Your friend Dalrymple just called. He doesn’t believe such a man as his double exists.”
“He exists all right,” answered Frank. “Here’s the number of the car he was driving.”
Immediately the resources of a modern police department were brought into play. The strange car was found to be registered in the name of James Black of Bayport. When questioned on the telephone, Mr. Black said he was about to call the police himself—to report that his car had been stolen!
“Better come down and tell us about it, Mr. Black,” said the officer into the phone. Within half an hour a well-dressed, slight, middle-aged man was escorted by a patrolman into the chief’s office. Frank and Joe, meanwhile, had concealed themselves in an adjoining room.
“Tell us about your car, Mr. Black,” the chief began. “Where do you keep it?”
“Why … in my garage.”
Frank and Joe noted that, while facing the chief, the man kept averting his eyes.
“Mighty bold thief, to take your car from your garage,” Chief Collig remarked.
“As a matter of fact, it was parked at the curb in front of the house.”
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“When? Last night?”
“Yes—that’s it—last night.”
“So, Mr. Black, your car was stolen sometime last night. Must have upset you!”
“Yes,” the man stammered. “I—I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since I discovered it was gone—right after I got up this morning.”
“Of course. What time do you get up?”
“About seven.”
“And you noticed the car was gone then?” pursued the chief. “It was ten-thirty when I called you, Mr. Black. You say you were upset about your car being stolen, yet you let three hours go by before reporting it to the police!”
For a moment James Black blinked in silence, obviously disconcerted.
“Here, you can’t browbeat me this way,” he blustered. “I—I just didn’t realize my car was actually stolen, that’s all. You act like you’re trying to accuse me of a crime!”
“If you ask me, Mr. Black, you act like a man who’s been accused of a crime.”
“Well, you haven’t anything on me,” the stranger snapped suddenly. “I don’t have a record. You can’t hold me without charges.”
“Charges?” said Collig politely. “I thought you came to make a complaint, Mr. Black. Now that you’ve made it, you may as well go.”
As soon as the man had left, Frank and Joe stepped into the office.
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“That guy might be on the level,” declared Joe. “But he sure doesn’t give me that impression.”
Chief Collig nodded agreement. “We’ll watch him,” he promised. “Best way to catch a crook is to make him believe you’ve decided he’s innocent.”
When the brothers reached home, Aunt Gertrude was on the phone talking with Chet. “Here they come now,” she said. “But no sleuthing this afternoon. Our grass is high enough to turn a herd of cows into, and the flower beds are full of weeds. Frank and Joe aren’t going off this property until the place looks respectable again.”
As Miss Hardy turned the phone over to Frank, she gave him a look which plainly meant, “No arguments!”
For this reason dusk was falling before the two detectives were free to leave. As the street lights winked on, a ten-year-old car pulled up in front of the Hardys’ house. Flashlights in hand, Frank and Joe came down to join Chet Morton, who sat at the car’s wheel.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Tonight we try out the third key on the chain the jeweler gave us,” Frank replied as they drove off. “My guess is that it fits the front door in the Purdy homestead.”
It was totally dark when the friends concealed Chet’s car a distance down Willow River Road,
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 and walked to the Purdy grounds. They crept stealthily along the wall. Finding the gate unlocked, they slipped through it.
The old mansion looked up, solid and dark, against a star-filled sky. The moon had not yet risen. Silently Frank tiptoed up the front steps and tried the key.
“Doesn’t fit,” he whispered, rejoining the other boys. “Wish Dalrymple hadn’t forgotten the spare set of keys.”
The three slipped around to the back door. But again the key would not fit.
“Cellar door,” suggested Joe, feeling his way to the bulkhead nearby.
Frank inserted the key. “It works!” he whispered excitedly. “The fellow must keep the front-door key separate.”
Silently he and Joe raised the heavy doors. Frank pocketed the key, and the three cautiously went down the steps into the blackness below.
The boys dared not use their flashlights, lest the beams be seen through the chinks in the flooring overhead. Frank and Joe led the way across the dank, musty cellar. Chet, shuddering a bit, followed as closely as possible. Suddenly the plump boy gave a choked cry and sprang sideways.
Crash—clatter!
Silence. At once the Hardys turned on their flashlights. In the circle of light was Chet, lying
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 half underneath a jumble of wooden boxes.
In a hoarse, terrified voice he gasped, “S-s-some-thing alive ran over m-my feet!” Frank looked about quickly. Then he pointed. “There it is—in the corner. A rat!”
Even as he spoke, the creature scurried out of sight. Chet, a bit shaken, was hauled to his feet, and the three advanced toward a stairway.
“Wait!” Frank commanded. “Someone’s upstairs!”
There were the sound of voices and the creaking of floor boards above them.
“The—thieves?” Chet gulped.
Joe started up the steps. “Let’s find out!” he said grimly.
The three boys found the door at the top of the stairs locked.
“All right,” Frank whispered. “If we can’t get in, we’ll get them out. Make all the racket you can. We’ll nab whoever comes out.”
Instantly the three boys pounded on the door, hammered the walls, shouted, and stamped on the steps. In a minute, above the pandemonium, came loud voices from inside.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on? Cops! A raid! Beat it!” Heavy footsteps tore through the house.
Still shouting, the three youths clattered down the steps and dashed across the cellar. As they emerged from the bulkhead, two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river.
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Two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river
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“Come on!” cried Joe. “We’ve got ‘em now!”
Pell-mell the brothers raced into the woods and onto the path. Chet followed as best he could. At the river the Hardys found a big, empty motorboat floating on the dark surface.
“The men are still around here,” said Frank tensely. “I—”
He never finished the sentence. The brothers were grabbed from behind by powerful arms and knocked to the ground. Their flashlights flew from their hands. A moment later Frank and Joe were gagged and bound tightly. Then they were dragged off and tumbled into the boat.
There was the sound of a man grunting. Then the motor whirred, caught, and roared.
The boat moved out on the water. Joe and Frank saw the black, receding shore on their right, and realized they were heading upriver. The brothers hoped fervently that Chet had escaped. The outlines of their captors rose above the prostrate boys. Against the stars they saw that one was tall. The other, at the tiller, was broad and husky, with a huge jutting jaw.
“The man who drove the limousine!” Joe told himself.
“What’ll we do with ‘em?” muttered the tall man, crouching down.
Frank and Joe waited with pounding hearts for a reply. It came.
“Dump ‘em overboard!”

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CHAPTER XV
The Vanishing Car
TO FRANK and Joe, lying bound in an inch of water at the bottom of the boat, it seemed they had been speeding up the dark river for hours. The boys’ arms and fingers were numb where the coarse ropes bit into their flesh, cutting off circulation. The tall man sat guard over them on a middle seat. At long intervals he would argue with the tough, large-jawed man steering the boat.
“We’d be crazy to dump these kids, Sid,” he muttered. “Kidnaping’s bad enough—it’s a Federal offense.”
“Shut up, Benny. You’re yellow,” sneered his companion. “We’ll sink ‘em right along here somewhere. Get the sea anchor ready. That’ll do it.”
A chill went through the Hardys. Joe’s head
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 was jammed between the side of the boat and the middle seat. Frantically he rubbed his head against both, hoping to loosen his gag.
“I tell ya I won’t have any part of it!” said Benny.
“Don’t then. I’ll do it myself!”
The muscular crook throttled down and stood up to move forward. Just as he did, Joe finally worked his gag loose.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help! Quick!”
As the two thieves advanced on the boy, powerful lights flashed on along shore. The full-throated roar of a big launch was heard. A siren wailed, and the motorboat was caught in the long beam of a spotlight.
Instantly the heavily built man leaped back to the stern and jammed his throttle wide open. The boat raced into the darkness.
“That won’t save you,” yelled Joe, fearful that the two desperate men might throw their captives overboard to slow up their pursuers. “The police have stations all along this river. You’re as good as caught.”
In answer, the big-jawed driver slammed the tiller from side to side. The craft lunged crazily, trying to escape the search beam.
“You’ll wreck us!” screamed the tall man in terror.
“Yes—just like you two wrecked the Napoli in the bay,” cried Joe on a sudden hunch. “You
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 don’t know this river any more than you knew the harbor. It’s night and you’re running without lights. The water’s deep here. You won’t get out of this wreck alive!”
“He’s right—we haven’t a chance, Sid,” the tall man pleaded. “Stop her!”
There was a quick warning burst of machinegun fire. Muttering, Sid killed his motor. A white glare bathed the whole boat. The heavy hull of the police launch drew alongside, and a stout figure jumped into the thieves’ craft.
“Chet!” Joe cried joyously.
“You’re here—and safe!” Chet cried out in relief. Quickly he freed his two chums, while their captors were handcuffed by two officers and taken aboard the launch.
As the launch turned and headed for Bayport, the Hardys leaned back in relief. Frank said, “Good work, Chet. You and the police got here just in time!”
“I saw those toughs jump you and start up-river,” the plump boy explained. “I ran like mad for the car and raced to the police substation up here. They radioed for a launch. Soon as it arrived, I got on. We started checking all boats and docks. Then we heard you yell, Joe.”
“Lucky for us, partner,” Frank declared gratefully, rubbing his wrists.
The police launch docked briefly at the up-river substation.
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“You boys pick up your car here,” said the commander of the boat. “We’ll meet you at Bayport headquarters with these two customers.”
After a bracing cup of hot broth at the substation, Frank, Joe, and Chet left for Bayport in Chet’s car. At police headquarters they found Chief Collig and the officers with him thwarted by the thugs’ refusal to admit anything.
“We don’t know nothin’ about any waterfront robberies,” Sid snarled. “You got evidence? You can’t touch us without evidence!”
“We’ll charge you with kidnaping!” snapped Chief Collig. “That’ll do for a start.”
The man called Benny looked uncertain, but his accomplice taunted, “Yeah? That won’t tell you what you want to know.”
At this point Frank spoke up. “Chief, I have a strong hunch there’s evidence at the Purdy place. Let Chet, Joe, and me get it!”
“Good idea,” agreed the chief. “Tomlin, take a prowl car and go with them.”
For the second time that night the friends drove out to the old house. On this visit they rode up to the house, following Officer Tomlin, and let themselves in through the open window from which the thugs had escaped.
Soon lights were blazing in every room of the old mansion as the three boys and the policeman went from room to room, searching.
“Look here!” Chet yelled, as he pulled open
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 the door of a corner cupboard in the dining room and revealed a number of cardboard cartons.
Tomlin and the Hardys lifted them down and opened one. It proved to contain carefully wrapped pieces of solid silver imprinted with a foreign hallmark.
“It’s part of the stolen loot, all right,” Tomlin pronounced. “But it wasn’t here the last time we searched.”
Eagerly the four peered into the other boxes, and found an assortment of fine china, expensive jewelry, and a diamond ring and gold articles which matched the description of the crewman’s missing valuables.
Joe frowned. “I don’t see Hurd Applegate’s collection or Captain Stroman’s jade necklace.”
Again the searchers went to work. They examined the third floor, the attic, and the cellar, but found nothing more.
“This is enough evidence to confront those two crooks with, anyhow,” said Tomlin finally. “They must’ve stowed the stuff here right after the chief’s search. I’ll run it in now.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “We’ll follow you as soon as we pick up our flashlights. We lost them on the riverbank.”
They retrieved the two flashlights at the foot of the river path. The three boys passed the big house, now dark and silent once more, and walked down the driveway.
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“That place gives me the willies,” muttered Chet, as Frank closed the gate. “I still have the creepy feeling that somebody’s in there, watching everything that goes on.”
They reached Chet’s car and piled in. While Chet was digging for his keys, the boys heard the roar of an approaching automobile. The vehicle raced toward them without lights, veered sharply, and sped up to the Purdy gate. The driver leaped out, yanked open the gate, jumped back into the car, and drove through.
“After him!” urged Joe.
In a moment Chet had his ancient motor running and his headlights on. He made a quick U-turn and sped in pursuit through the gate, up the driveway to the house, and around to the other side where the road apparently ended.
Quickly the boys jumped out. Before them was the dense brush which covered most of the estate. Saplings, heavily draped with leafy vines, rose up like a wall in the glare of the headlights.
Frank got down and examined the ground. “Tire tracks leading straight into the brush,” he reported, puzzled.
Joe impulsively stepped up to the leafy wall. He grasped a hanging vine and pulled hard. The whole green tangle slid along a tree branch, like a drapery!
“A hidden road!” declared Chet in wonder.
He turned out the lights of his car. Then, cautiously,
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 the three set out on foot along the mysterious road.
At intervals they could make out bits of sky through the leaves overhead. They halted abruptly when something black and solid loomed up ahead of them. After listening carefully and hearing nothing, Frank risked the use of his flashlight.
In its beam they saw a small tumble-down barn with a gaping doorway. Frank stooped to examine the ground. Tire tracks led straight to the dilapidated building!
Joe flicked on his flashlight and the three boys stepped warily inside the barn. The front of the old structure was empty to the roof, but in the far half of the barn was an old haymow.
The front beam supporting the loft was sagging, and the dusty hay, closely matted together, spilled forward over it like a stationary waterfall. The cascade of hay formed a curtain reaching almost to the floor of the barn.
“Boy!” said Chet. “Bet that hay’s been here since Jason Purdy died.”
“Then why is this pitchfork so new?” Joe pointed to a tool nearby with three slender steel tines, and a clean-grained wooden handle.
“And where’s that car?” asked Frank.
He had a sudden inspiration. Frank pushed his arms through the hanging of old hay. His knuckles rapped wood. Tearing the hay aside, the
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 boy laid bare a broad sheet of plywood with a handle.
Eagerly Frank grasped the handle. A door rolled smoothly open.
Joe and Chet gasped. There, in a secret garage underneath the hayloft, was the back end of a late-model Meteor Special!
Frank already had penetrated to the other end of the garage. “Motor’s still hot,” he called back. “She must have just been driven in.”
Chet and Joe rushed over. “I get it,” said Joe. “After the car’s in, they pull down some more hay from the loft to hide the plywood. That’s what the pitchfork is for.”
“Sh!” Chet put a warning finger to his lips. “Hear something? A kind of moaning?”
Frank played his light around the garage. Nothing. He shone the flash into the back seat of the Meteor Special.
“Good night!” he exclaimed, staring.
On the floor of the car a man lay bound and gagged.

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CHAPTER XVI
A Missing Client
CHET gulped. “S-somebody got him, too!” While he and Joe held the flashlights, Frank reached into the car and cut the groaning man’s bonds. Slowly and painfully he clambered out, smoothing his rumpled clothes.
“Say!” Joe cried. “We’ve seen you before!”
He was the young man in the striped blue jacket they had encountered while chasing the eavesdropper. At this moment, instead of being grateful for the rescue, the man glared angrily. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his glistening forehead. As he did, something fell to the ground.
Joe recognized the object instantly and scooped it up. “A false beard!”
“You were the one listening under Hurd Applegate’s window!” Frank accused the stranger. “Okay. Now spill it! Why the disguise—what’s your game?”
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The Hardys gripped the man’s arms. His angry manner changed to one of sullen defeat. “All right, all right. Let go of me,” he muttered. “So I was the eavesdropper. A fat lot of good it did me! Even this jacket didn’t help except once.” He pulled open the jacket. “See? Tan on the inside. When you guys came after me I just reversed it and took off my beard.”
“And sent us on a false trail,” Joe scowled. “Keep talking!”
“I’m a private detective—at least, I thought I was. After this, I feel like giving up the business!”
Frank’s mind raced. “Private detective, eh? You’re the ‘Mr. Smith’ who questioned our Aunt Gertrude!”
The young man nodded. “Sam Allen is my real name. I’m supposed to find out about Captain Stroman’s stolen necklace. I heard you’d been to see him—that’s why I was checking on you. Well, I learned old Applegate had lost some jade, too. That big guy with the glasses—Arthur Jensen—was the one who took ‘em. That much I found out.”
“Arthur Jensen?” repeated Frank, exchanging glances with Joe. It was the first time the Hardys had heard the name. But each wondered if Jensen and Mr. Dalrymple’s double were the same man.
“Yeah. I’ve been tailing him all over town,” Allen went on. “Finally I hid under a rug in the back seat of his car. I thought he’d lead me to
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 Stroman’s necklace. Then I sneezed. Next thing, Jensen conked me and I was out like a light. When I came to, there I was all trussed up, with a lump on my head. Some detective!”
“Nobody’s perfect.” Frank smiled, satisfied that Sam Allen was telling the truth. “Let’s combine forces and search the estate for Jensen.”
Allen brightened. “You bet!”
The three boys and the humbled “private eye” entered the Purdy house through the still-open window, and made a thorough, but unsuccessful, search of the interior.
“He could be hiding anywhere in the underbrush,” Frank observed as they left the house. “We probably wouldn’t find him tonight. I suggest we report this to headquarters.”
The four drove back to town in Chet’s car.
“You can let me off at my motel,” Sam Allen told them. “I’ve had all the detective work I can stand for one night.”
Frank, Joe, and Chet headed for police headquarters. They found Chief Collig and his officers considerably more cheerful. The two thugs, Benny and Sid, sat uncomfortably on straight chairs in Collig’s office. A police clerk was taking notes rapidly in shorthand.
“These birds have been singing ever since I brought in the loot we found,” Officer Tomlin told the Hardys in an undertone. “The husky one is Sid Bowler. The string bean is Benny Vance.”
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The boys took seats and listened intently.
“Yeah, we used to ‘borrow’ motorboats,” Bowler was saying. “We used ‘em to see if the coast was clear, and then to steal from the ships.”
“Steal what?” Collig prodded.
“Everything.”
“Including jade?” Frank Hardy suddenly broke in.
Bowler gave him a baleful glare. “Jade, too.”
“Who’s your leader?” Joe demanded.
“There ain’t any leader,” was the sullen answer. “There’s just me and Benny.”
“You mean you and Benny stole thousands of dollars’ worth of jade and other stuff on your own?” Joe snorted. “What a laugh! We know all about your big boss—Jensen.”
The two prisoners almost jumped from their chairs. “H-how did you find—”Benny began.
Sid turned on him. “You fool! Shut up!”
As Benny slumped in his seat, Frank pressed, “No use denying it, Bowler. Now, where’s Jensen—and the jade?”
“Find out yourself,” Bowler muttered. “If you do, you can pin the whole idea on Jensen.”
Chief Collig and his men were looking at the Hardys in amazement. The chief signaled them to continue questioning, if they wished.
Joe nodded. “What were you doing in the boat the night I chased you and Bowler?” he demanded of Benny Vance.
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“We—we were looking for a chance to get on board the Sea Bright again that night and steal some stuff we’d missed.”
“Stuff you missed when you borrowed the Sleuth?”
“Yes. It was a double job, see,” Benny Vance explained, evidently eager to co-operate. “We stole Stroman’s jade necklace and old Applegate’s collection, too. Sid and I robbed the Sea Bright, Jensen and Black went to Applegate’s.”
“So Black’s in your gang?” Joe interrupted.
“Sure. Jensen went in and got Applegate to show him some of his best jade. Then he ran off with it, see? The old man chased him, and left his house empty.”
Sid Bowler put in with disgust, “That’s when Black was supposed to sneak in and get the rest. But he chickened out, so Jensen went back and got it just before you guys brought Applegate home. Black was supposed to meet us at the docks, but never showed. We had your blue-and-white boat ready to take him upriver to the Purdy place.”
Joe nodded. “And you met Jensen out there. He had the jade and you had the other loot.”
“Yeah.”
“Whose idea was it to start using privately owned boats?” Chief Collig asked the prisoners.
“Jensen’s,” Vance replied. “Soon as the cops started patrolling the roads, he had us ‘borrow’
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 different boats so we couldn’t be identified and the owners would be suspected.” The thief shook his head. “Things were getting hot, with the cops and these Hardy pests here. When we heard ‘em in the cellar tonight we thought for sure it was a raid.”
On Chief Collig’s orders, Bowler and Vance were led back to their cells. Then the officer turned to the boys and grinned. “Bring me up to date. How’d you unearth all this about Jensen?”
While the chief and other officers listened in astonishment, the Hardys poured out the story of the hidden garage and private detective Sam Allen. Frank handed over the ignition key.
“This practically wraps up the case!” declared Chief Collig enthusiastically. Rapidly he issued orders to one of his captains:
“Take every man available. Wait till daylight, and then search the house and grounds with a fine-tooth comb for Jensen and Black and the loot! Bring in the black Meteor when you come back.
“But in case those two thieves have already skipped town,” the chief turned to another officer, “I want a dragnet out beyond Bayport. Contact the county sheriff patrols and state police. We’ll send out an interstate alarm for these men.”
After the policemen had hurried off to carry out orders, Frank, Joe, and Chet were left alone with their old friend.
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“You boys have done a job Fenton Hardy will be proud of,” Chief Collig told them. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. By tomorrow we’ll have this case wrapped up. Check with me tomorrow afternoon.”
The chief then proposed assigning a twenty-four-hour police guard at the Purdy place. The Hardys felt that this might hamper them in solving Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery.
“It may keep the crooks from returning,” Frank said quietly.
“True. I’ll let the place appear to be deserted,” Collig agreed. As the friends drove home through the quiet streets of the sleeping city, both Frank and Joe expressed misgivings.
“I don’t know,” said Frank, troubled. “Jensen and Black are still on the loose. And we don’t know where the jade is.”
“Also,” Joe reminded him, “the notes threatening Mr. Dalrymple haven’t been explained, or that weird scream we heard from the Purdy house the first night we went there.”
“Yes,” mused Joe. “I have a feeling this case is a long way from closed.”
“Some sleep will help,” grumbled Chet, yawning.
Early the next morning Frank telephoned to Mr. Dalrymple’s home in Lakeside. He wanted to report the previous night’s events at the old house, and also let him know about the cellar key.
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 Receiving no answer, he called their client’s bank.
“Sorry, sir. Mr. Dalrymple hasn’t come in this morning. No one here knows where he is.”
All morning the two brothers remained at home, calling Lakeside at intervals. Shortly after lunch they drove down to police headquarters.
There they found Chief Collig weary from lack of sleep, and much less optimistic than he had been the previous night. He said Black had been picked up in a motel in another town. He was being brought to Bayport.
“We went over every inch of the Purdy place,” the chief complained. “Got the Meteor, but not a trace of Jensen, nor of the loot, either. The gang must have it hidden some place else. As for Jensen, we can only hope our dragnet will work.”
After the brothers left headquarters, Frank stepped into a public telephone booth to make another call to Dalrymple’s home. No answer. Then he tried the bank again. An assistant reported:
“Sorry, sir. Nobody has heard from him yet.”
“I don’t like it,” Frank told his brother with a frown. “We’d better get over to Lakeside.”
By late afternoon the Hardys’ yellow convertible was parked in front of the banker’s residence in the nearby city. But their knocks and calls went unanswered. All the doors were locked.
“We’d better get the police,” Frank said gravely, as he and Joe drove off.
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Half an hour later the young detectives returned with a squad of policemen. “We suspect something’s happened to Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank told the sergeant in charge. “You’d better search the place.”
Two big policemen quickly forced the door. The handsome rooms of the house were in perfect order. There was no sign of Mr. Dalrymple.
The police sergeant promised to notify the boys of any new developments, then he and his men left. The Hardys somberly climbed into their own car. As they drove off, Frank confessed his worst fears. “I’m afraid Mr. Dalrymple’s been decoyed to the Purdy place, and is in danger. We’d better head for there.”
By now it was early evening. The Hardys’ car raced through the countryside. Storm clouds were piling up in the west. Suddenly, without warning, the car’s engine coughed and died.
In disgust, the Hardys got out and pushed the convertible to the side of the road. When a quick examination failed to locate the trouble, Frank said, “We can’t wait. We’ll have to walk.”
Dusk came on rapidly, as the two boys hurried along the highway. An hour’s hike brought them to the Willow Road turnoff. Finally they reached the darkened Purdy mansion. No police stopped them, nor were any in sight. Frank and Joe went to the cellar entrance.
“Lucky we have this key, anyhow,” said Frank.
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Thunder rumbled in the black sky above as he unlocked the bulkhead. To their surprise, the brothers found the door to the kitchen unlocked. They opened it and tiptoed inside.
As the Hardys moved forward in the darkness into the living room, they were suddenly seized and thrown to the floor by someone of enormous strength. Though weary from their long walk, the boys fought back, but were overpowered by blows on the head. Frank, semiconscious, was dragged across the floor, shoved into a chair, and bound to it. A piece of cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. Then the sounds of struggling near him ceased. Joe too had been over-powered. There was silence, broken by a single repetitious:
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
There was something ominous about the steady, measured sound. Frank, still half dazed, wondered if his brother was in the same room, or had been taken to another part of the house.
Suddenly Frank became aware of stealthy footsteps approaching and heavy breathing. The boy felt the hairs on his scalp stiffen as he sensed the presence of someone next to his chair.
Was the person the boys’ attacker? Frank seethed with chagrin at being unable to defend himself. He tensed, expecting the worst.

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CHAPTER XVII
A Dangerous Ticking
FRANK HARDY’S spine tingled as he waited for the unknown person’s first move. Then from the darkness came a gloating voice.
“So, we have trapped the young snoopers! How fortunate that we were ready for your arrival!”
Suddenly a low light was turned on, illuminating the living room. In a flash, Frank took in the whole scene. The old draperies had been drawn shut.
There was the immense grandfather’s clock in the corner. Nearby was his brother Joe, tightly lashed, like himself, to an old-fashioned high-backed chair. Confronting both boys was a tall, rather heavy-set man wearing glasses.
The brothers recognized him instantly—the person who resembled Mr. Dalrymple. He introduced
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 himself as Arthur Jensen, ringleader of the harbor thieves!
“He must be the one who clobbered us when we came in,” Joe told himself. “The sneak!”
Now the man looked from one of his captives to the other. “Surprised you, didn’t I? Ha! That’ll teach you to meddle in other people’s business!”
Joe felt a sudden surge of anger. “Business!” he exclaimed to himself. “If we ever get out of this mess, I’ll show him!”
Meanwhile, Jensen went on triumphantly, “Yes, my young sleuths, we have many more surprises for you this evening. Your friend Dalrymple will be surprised, too. And, I might add, my resemblance to him has come in very handy.”
He gazed at the brothers mockingly. “You Hardys thought you were so bright. Yet you never dreamed that every time you and the police came in here, we were watching you.”
Although Frank and Joe gave no visible indication of fear, both realized that they were at the mercy of a clever, unscrupulous gangster. In spite of their predicament, however, the boys wondered who else had been “watching” them with Jensen, and from what point in the house.
Just then there came a squeaky noise from the direction of the clock. Jensen whirled around.
“Oh, Amos!” he called. “Come on out. We have visitors.”
While Frank and Joe stared in utter amazement,
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 the huge clock and the wall section behind it began sliding to one side.
“Why,” Frank gave an inward gasp, “it’s a door, hidden by the clock attached to it!”
In another moment there emerged from the opening a gaunt, white-haired old man. He was clean shaven, and had kind blue eyes. He started forward, then stopped upon noticing the two boys.
“Mr. Jensen,” he said uncertainly, “these young men—visitors? But why are they bound up in this fashion?”
Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Was this gentle-mannered, elderly man connected with Jensen’s racket? Somehow, he did not seem the type, they thought.
“You’ll understand in due time, Amos,” the gangster leader said with a sneer. Then, noticing the Hardys’ curious looks at the old man, Jensen added with mock courtesy, “Oh, excuse me. You haven’t been introduced. This, boys, is Mr. Amos Wandy, an inventor. Very clever, too. Amos, these young men are the Hardy brothers.”
Mr. Wandy nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember having seen them here. You said they were out to wreck your project. But really, they seem like harmless lads. I don’t think—”
“Never mind what you think!” Jensen told the old inventor in a ruthless tone. “Have you finished your job?”
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“Yes, yes, I have.” Amos Wandy looked at Jensen with a perplexed expression. “It’s finished. No need to get excited.”
“Who’s excited!” snapped Jensen. “Bring that gadget out here!”
Mr. Wandy hastened through the opened wall section. Arthur Jensen turned to the Hardys. “One of the surprises I mentioned,” he told them with a leer. “Even you didn’t figure there might be two secret rooms here, did you? Or that I was sitting behind the clock while you or the police snooped around. Only this morning I waited in there, while half the Bayport force inspected the place.”
Silently Frank berated himself. “Why didn’t I think there might be a hiding place behind that clock! Especially after those threatening notes to Mr. Dalrymple.”
In the meantime, Joe was trying to make sense of what was taking place. Was Arthur Jensen the one who had sent the threatening notes to Dalrymple? And was Wandy in league with him? Joe could not imagine the elderly inventor causing anyone harm.
At that moment Amos Wandy reappeared, gingerly carrying a heavy object that looked like a black box, except that it had a number of electrical terminals on one side.
“Ah, good!” declared Jensen, rubbing his
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 hands. “Know what this is?” he asked the Hardys, pointing to the black box.
Frank and Joe realized at once what the object was. A time bomb! The brothers felt a mounting apprehension.
“I see you are familiar with this type of apparatus,” Jensen went on, chuckling. “Well, old Amos here knows all about bombs, too, don’t you, Amos?”
The old man answered readily, “Yes, I told you that, Mr. Jensen. In the course of my work with electronically activated devices, I naturally—”
“Cut the fancy talk,” the other man broke in roughly. “All I care about is whether that bomb you’re holding has enough ‘juice’ in it to wipe this pile of bricks right off the map!”
A hideous wave of panic swept over the Hardys. “Does Jensen mean to blow us up?” Frank asked himself unbelievingly.
It was then that the boys noticed Amos Wandy’s face. It had turned deathly pale. For a moment he swayed, as if about to faint. Then he clutched the deadly looking device tightly.
“What did you say, Mr. Jensen?” he quavered. “You told me this bomb was for some construction work. I—I don’t understand—”
“You soon will, Amos,” said the gang leader in a sinister voice. “Put down the bomb. I’ll take over.”
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But the old inventor did not comply. He retreated a few steps backward. “No, Mr. Jensen,” he objected. “I fear you are going to use this for some other purpose. An evil purpose. What’s more, you have lied to me about these boys—they are your prisoners. In fact, you’ve lied to me about everything—you never intended to help me market my new invention, as you promised!”
Without warning, Jensen made a lunge for the elderly man and ripped the box from his grasp. The next instant, he knocked the inventor to the floor with a sweep of his big arm. Amos Wandy lay still, stunned.
Jensen then put down the bomb and whipped from his pocket a length of rope. He bound the white-haired man’s arms and legs securely.
“Yes, Amos,” he taunted. “These boys are my prisoners. And now, so are you—you have been all along. Only you were so wrapped up in your precious invention you never suspected it. Lucky I found you here, and had you hoodwinked long enough to put this bomb together.”
The big man straightened up and, his eyes burning strangely, went on, “Now all three of you will have the privilege of sharing the success of the explosive—at the proper time.”
Amos Wandy had recovered sufficiently to murmur brokenly, “You—you’re insane, Jensen. You—you can’t get away with it.”
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“Can’t I? You’ll see. But I’d better shut you up before I get to work.”
Jensen dashed from the room and was back with a piece of cloth with which he gagged Mr. Wandy.
“Now, I will proceed with my—er—operation.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad my pals got caught. I could sure use their help now.”
The three silenced prisoners watched in growing horror as their captor took several wires from another pocket. He squatted down over the heavy black box. His fingers worked swiftly, attaching the wires to the terminals. He then moved the whole device closer to the clock and ran the wires up into the works.
“You see, Amos,” he looked slyly over his shoulder, “I’m pretty good at this sort of thing myself.”
Jensen stood up, smirking. Dramatically he pointed to the face of the huge timepiece and faced his captives.
“You will note the hour,” he said. “I have arranged that when the hands of this clock reach three, the bomb will be set off!”
The Hardys stared at the clockface. It was already past one o’clock in the morning! For a second both boys were engulfed by a wave of panic. Through their minds flashed the words of the ominous notes:
“Death while the clock ticks!”
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But their natural instinct of keeping cool in crises asserted itself. Frank and Joe furtively tried to move their wrists to loosen their bonds.
In the meantime, Jensen continued to talk, growing more pleased with himself by the minute. “You remember what you boys overheard in that restaurant?” he reminded them. “Of course, I didn’t expect you’d be my guests—or that you’d found my key ring. But you’ve asked for it. You’ll never interfere with me again after tonight. Nor will that pest Dalrymple.”
“Dalrymple!” the name echoed through the boys’ minds. What had happened to the banker? Was he too a captive somewhere in the shadowy old mansion?
All this while Frank, Joe, and Amos Wandy were acutely aware of the inexorable swinging of the clock’s pendulum as the minutes ticked by.
Again the brothers wriggled their wrists and fingers in an effort to loosen the ropes. But the result was only to rub their skin raw. The bonds were cruelly tight.
If only, they thought desperately, someone would become anxious because of their long absence, and figure out where they were! “Aunt Gertrude must be frantic by now,” Joe thought hopefully.
In the meantime, Arthur Jensen had been eying his prisoners smugly. “Well,” he said, “I suppose
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 you wonder how I came to discover the hidden room behind the clock, and how nicely it has served my purpose—thanks to Amos, here.”
The gangster went on to explain that when he had first started to use the Purdy place to hide stolen valuables, he had come upon Mr. Wandy in the house.
“You see,” Jensen went on, “Amos told me he was Jason Purdy’s cousin. They played here as youngsters—that’s how he came to know about both secret rooms. All these years he kept a key to the place. When he retired, old Amos still wanted to fool around with inventing, so he decided to come here and work on some gadgets. He thought nobody would bother him.
“Well, we met here by accident. I thought his talents would be useful to us, so I told him I’d help him get his inventions on the market when they were ready, if he’d do some work for us.”
Jensen looked scornfully down at Mr. Wandy, whose blue eyes blazed with anger.
“So,” the thief continued, “I set up the clock room as a lab—and also a storage place for our loot. Everything went smoothly until that Dalrymple guy came along and bought this place. It was a pain in the neck with his nosing around. That’s why I left those notes in the secret room upstairs. Then he had to drag you kids here.”
The man paused and a cunning gleam came
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 into his eyes. “Bet you boys would like to know how I got the notes in there. Well, that’s something you’ll never find out now!”
At least, Joe was thinking bitterly, Jensen was not getting away with most of the stolen goods. “He must have the jade stashed behind that clock section,” the boy surmised.
“No doubt you’d like to know about that scream you heard one night. Well, I did that—pretty effective, wasn’t it? Sure scared the wits out of that old fool who came after me. Serves him right.”
“He means Hurd Applegate,” Frank thought, thinking wryly that not only were he and Joe unable to help themselves, but in their present state were of no use to Applegate or Dalrymple. “Wonder how Dad would get out of such a mess!”
At this point Jensen ceased his narrative and glanced at the big clock. The hands stood at quarter past two.
“Well,” he said briskly, “time is fleeting. I’m going to get out of here but fast.”
He hastened to the hidden room behind the clock. The Hardys could hear muffled thumping, as if Jensen were moving cartons. Finally he reappeared, with a heavy canvas sack slung over his shoulder and an armload of small boxes.
Suddenly they all became aware of vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the deafening boom of thunder. Then came a torrential downpour of
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 rain. “Storm’s hit,” Jensen said. He added meaningfully, “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ll see at three o’clock!”
He gave a triumphant laugh when he noticed the Hardys staring at his bag and boxes. “Oh, yes,” he went on, “you didn’t think I’d leave all this precious jade behind! Not after the trouble I went through to get it. The police can keep that other stuff!”
Jensen’s eyes swept the room, and came to rest on the three bound and gagged figures. “I’ve enjoyed your visit.” He laughed again. “I’ll leave the light on so you can watch the time. Good-by!”
He left the room. In another moment the boys heard the front door open, then slam shut.
Almost automatically, the three captives turned their gaze toward the grandfather’s clock.
“A quarter to three!” Joe’s mouth felt parched and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
He and Frank and Amos Wandy could only wait and listen to the deadly sound of the clock.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

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CHAPTER XVIII
The Slippery Rooftop
“THE fiend!” Frank gritted his teeth. “Jensen’s really left us here to be blown sky-high!”
Desperately he strained his arms and legs against the rough ropes that cut into his flesh. It was to no avail. Then he lurched forward, trying to overturn the chair with the thought of working himself across the floor toward the time bomb. This attempt proved futile, too.
Joe, meanwhile, was squirming and twisting his body in an effort to get his penknife. But his fingers would reach no farther than the edge of his pocket.
Old Amos Wandy lay still, as if resigned to their horrible fate. The clock ticked on relentlessly. With a shudder the Hardys noted the time.
Five minutes before three!
The boys sank back, exhausted from their struggles. Only a miracle could save them now!
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A tremendous crashing of thunder shook the entire house. As it died away, Joe stared in fascination at the big front window. Strangely, one of the panes continued to rattle. Was it his imagination or did he see a face pressed against the streaming glass where the draperies had parted a little?
Joe squinted his eyes, hardly daring to believe them. There was a face peering in—a familiar one!
Chet Morton!
Frank had seen him, too. The brothers looked at the clock. Less than two minutes left!
“Please, Chet!” Frank begged silently. “Get in here!”
The stout boy did not hesitate. He pushed with all his weight upward against the sash. The window flew up. Chet clambered over the sill.
In seconds, his sharp jackknife had sliced through Frank’s ropes. Without a word Frank dived forward, seized the wires running from the black bomb to the clock, and tore them away.
For a moment he stared at the wires, lying tangled on the floor. Before either Chet or Frank could say anything, the clock struck. Bong! Bong! Bong!
“Three o’clock!” Frank gasped, weak with relief. “Chet, you sure got here in time to save our necks.”
Chet, who had set to work cutting away Joe’s
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 bonds, did not yet realize the disaster he had averted. Frank, by now, had pulled out his own knife, and freed Amos Wandy. The old man sat up with a groan, shaking from the recent ordeal.
“Thank heaven!” he said fervently. “Your friend is indeed a lifesaver!”
Joe rose from his chair and yanked the cloth from his mouth. “Chet!” he pounded his pal on the back. “If we said thanks a million times, it wouldn’t be enough. Whew! That was the closest squeak we ever had!”
Heaving a deep sigh of gratitude, he asked, “How’d you know we were here, partner?”
“Well,” the chunky boy said, “since I hadn’t heard from you fellows by late afternoon, I went to your house right after supper. Aunt Gertrude was real worried—said you hadn’t come home to eat. I waited with her until after midnight. Then she called the police. All of a sudden, I had a funny feeling you were here, and in trouble, and thought I’d better come pronto to see what was up. So I did.”
“And are we glad you had that funny feeling,” Frank pointed. “See that black thing? It’s a time bomb. If you’d been a minute later, we’d all have been blown to bits.”
Chet’s ruddy face went white. He stared at the bomb, goggle-eyed.
“Oh—oh!” he squeaked, leaping backward as
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 though fearful it would go off. “Let’s get out of here! Quickly! Miles away!”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said Amos Wandy wryly, slowly getting to his feet. “But first I must retrieve my invention.”
Frank rushed to assist him. “Are you all right, Mr. Wandy? Jensen gave you a hard knock before he tied you up.”
“Don’t worry about me, young man. I’m just glad you two boys weren’t—were saved!” The elderly man looked troubled. “To think, it really would have been my fault—I constructed that terrible bomb.”
“But you didn’t realize what it was for—that those crooks would use it on people who got in their way, and would destroy this house and all the evidence of what they’d done,” Joe assured him solemnly.
“Hey, you detectives,” Chet broke in. “About time you filled me in on the latest doings in this zany place.”
“We will. But first we’d better take cover. Dollars to dimes Jensen’ll be back when he realizes the bomb didn’t go off. Remember,” Frank added, “the police have his car—so he has no means of escape except on foot.”
Joe nodded. “That low-down guy’s really out of his mind, too. He may come back armed.”
Chet looked worried. “Where do we hide?”
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For answer, Frank pointed to the secret room behind the clock. Chet, noticing the open wall section for the first time, gaped in astonishment. “Whoever thought of that?”
Amos Wandy turned off the overhead light, and the boys clicked on their flashlights. Then the old inventor led the way into the concealed room. Joe, who was last, clicked off the living-room light, then pulled the wall section after him, leaving it open a crack.
The boys glanced around the room. It was fairly large and well ventilated with air ducts. The Hardys figured it was directly under the secret chamber on the second floor. Their flashlight beams shone on a few pieces of furniture, a workbench, some tools, a hot plate, and a tiny refrigerator.
“All the comforts of home,” Joe quipped.
“It did make a fairly good lab,” Mr. Wandy recalled wistfully.
As the group crouched in waiting at the door, the Hardys gave Chet a rapid account of the evening’s adventure.
“Ee-yow!” their friend whistled in a stage whisper. “I hope Mr. Dalrymple appreciates all the necks that have been risked on his case.”
Again the Hardys pondered the possible whereabouts of the banker. But they dared not search the mansion for him at present. Eventually the four became silent as they kept their vigil.
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The thunder and lightning had diminished. Through the darkness came the familiar tick-tock. Tick-tock. But now, to Frank, Joe, and Mr. Wandy, it was no longer a dreaded sound.
Suddenly the four tensed. They had heard the front door being opened stealthily. Footsteps entered the living room, and the light came on. Joe put his eye to the crack.
“Jensen!” he reported softly.
The others crowded behind to peer out as well as they could. The ringleader had stopped short in his tracks and was staring fixedly at the disconnected bomb with its torn wire. Slowly his gaze traveled to the two empty chairs and the cut ropes that had held his captives.
“Shall we jump him?” Joe asked eagerly.
Frank shook his head. “Wait.”
All of a sudden Jensen seemed to go into a frenzy. His face was livid with rage as he lifted one of the chairs and smashed it to the floor.
“Escaped!” he shrieked. “How could they—”
Beside himself with anger, the man pulled a revolver from his pocket. Aiming it at the ceiling, he shot repeatedly, until the bullets were expended.
“Good place for ‘em!” Joe whispered.
Panting, Jensen looked about him wildly, dropping the pistol to the floor. Then suddenly he laughed. “There’s one thing they can’t prove—that is, if I destroy the invention!” His voice took
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 on a note of cunning. “Amos Wandy—I’ll smash his precious invention. Smash it to bits.” With that the man wheeled, dashed out of the room, and raced up the stairs.
“No!” gasped Mr. Wandy. “I won’t let him do it. I must stop him.”
“We all will. Come on!” Frank gave the signal and the four quickly emerged from their hiding place. They raced into the front hall. From the dark stair well they heard Jensen’s voice bellowing:
“Those snoopers! They’ve ruined everything. I’ll show ‘em. Can’t get the best of me that easy!”
The four pursuers ascended the steps, with Amos Wandy in the lead. So eager was the elderly man to rescue his invention that he even outdistanced the boys.
“Mr. Wandy! Be careful!” called Joe in warning.
“I—I must stop that scoundrel!” returned the inventor, “before he reaches the roof.”
On the third-floor landing he had to pause for breath. The boys soon caught up to him. Above stretched the flight of stairs leading to the attic.
Frank aimed his flashlight upward into the inky blackness. Its beam revealed Arthur Jensen standing at the top, his back to them.
“Okay, Jensen. You’re outnumbered. Get down here and make it snappy!” Frank shouted.
Their enemy jerked around. For a split second
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 the man looked at them almost incredulously.
“Come on, Jensen!” snapped Joe. “You’re finished!”
Unexpectedly, the big man plunged down the stairway toward them. He came at such terrific speed that the sheer force of his weight and descent knocked them all down. He landed on top of the heap, grabbed the banister, got up, and pounded down the steps.
“We mustn’t let him get away!” Frank yelled. “Chet, you and I will go after him. Joe, you rescue Mr. Wandy. He’s heading for the roof! We can’t let him climb out there! He’s in no condition to do that!”
The boys scrambled apart, and went in two directions. When Joe reached the attic it was empty. But a damp breeze blew in from an open window. He rushed over and peered out.
The rain was still falling steadily, and a cold wind had sprung up. Flickers of distant lightning cast a pale light across the sky.
“Jeepers!” Joe thought. “The poor old man must be out there already. It’s very slippery, too!”
The open window faced the ridge of one of the steep slate roofs. In the faint light, halfway out along the ridge, Joe saw a brick chimney.
“Mr. Wandy!” Joe gasped.
Clinging to the chimney with one arm was the drenched, gaunt figure of Amos Wandy. Feet upon
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 the sharp ridge, the old man stood in the chill wind and pelting rain, his free hand reaching for something.
“He might fall!” the boy thought. “I must save him!”
Joe did not wait. He stepped out onto the rainsoaked ridge. Balancing himself carefully, he trod as swiftly as he dared toward the inventor.
“Mr. Wandy!” he shouted. “Wait! I’ll help you. Don’t move.”
The elderly man looked up. “All right. I—I guess I can’t get it now.”
Finally, Joe was at Amos Wandy’s side, “Easy,” he cautioned. “Hang on to me. We’ll go back slowly.”
No sooner had the pair turned away from the chimney, than a powerful gust of wind struck the ridge, catching the inventor off guard. He lost his footing and fell, pulling Joe with him.
Man and boy went tumbling down the slick slate surface toward the edge of the high roof!

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CHAPTER XIX
A Narrow Escape
FRANK and Chet had raced pell-mell after Jensen in his flight from the old Purdy mansion. Once outside, the boys trained their flashlight beams in every direction. But the fugitive had already been swallowed up in the darkness beyond.
Chet sighed. “Looks as if Jensen had enough headway to give us the slip,” he said in disgust.
Frank nodded. “Afraid so. His bulldozer charge at us gave him a break.”
Nevertheless, the boys ran over the grounds, aiming their lights rapidly at trees and shrubbery. But everything appeared serene and quiet in the slackening rain.
Suddenly there came the sound of an automobile roaring full speed up the driveway. With a screech of tires it came to a halt, its headlights on high, in front of the house.
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“Police!” Chet cried as six officers leaped from the car and came toward them.
Leading the squad was Bayport Police Chief Collig. “Am I glad to see you!” he exclaimed when he spotted the boys. “We started out as soon as I could get enough men together. Your Aunt Gertrude—”
Frank broke in hastily. “I know. Chet told me she’s mighty worried. But we were—er—slightly delayed.”
Quickly he related what had taken place that evening to the astonished and horrified chief. “Now,” Frank concluded, “I’m convinced Jensen’s still on the grounds, hiding. We’ve had our flashlights on continuously. And if he saw you come in, he probably won’t dare try escaping right away.”
Chief Collig instantly barked orders to his assistants to begin a hunt for the gang leader. “Search the area all around the house. Just to be sure he hasn’t sneaked back inside,” he went on, “you, Callahan, turn on every light in the place and scour it from top to bottom.”
“Be on the lookout for Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank urged, explaining his fears about the banker.
Chief Collig had reassuring news. “Don’t worry about him. He telephoned us just before we left. He’d been out of town all day, and called your home. Your aunt told him that you boys were missing. Dalrymple probably will show up here.”
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By this time the big house was ablaze with lights. The police chief moved off to direct his search detail. Suddenly Frank noted an expression of terror on Chet’s face. The stout boy pointed wordlessly toward the roof of the house. Frank turned and froze.
Two figures, swaying back and forth, were hanging onto the edge of the mansion roof.
“Joe! Mr. Wandy!” Frank cried, noting that Joe had one arm around Amos Wandy, and, with his other, was clinging to the gutter.
In a twinkling he was inside the house and taking the steps to the attic two at a time. Chet pounded close behind him.
“If they can only hang on!” Frank thought.
Finally the two boys reached the attic window. “I’ll go down for ‘em. You straddle the ridge and grab my ankles,” Frank directed Chet tersely.
“Got you.”
They clambered out onto the rain-slick slates. A dank mist had settled down. Frank crept along the ridge to a spot which he judged to be just above where his brother and Amos Wandy were clinging to the gutter. Chet, directly in back of him, anchored himself on the peak by clamping his legs and heels against either side of the roof.
“Here goes!” Frank maneuvered himself into position, headfirst, on the steep slope. Now Chet grasped his friend’s ankles and Frank began his downward slide.
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“Joe!” he shouted. “I’m coming after you. Hold on!”
Frank’s eyes strained against the blurry mist. Fortunately, the glow from the house lights enabled him to see a little distance ahead. With Chet maintaining an iron grip, Frank Hardy stretched his body full length and reached out toward his brother. He could dimly discern the hands of the dangling pair clutching the roof edge.
But, with a stab of despair, Frank found them inches beyond his grasp. “Chet!” he called. “I—I can’t make it.”
Above, the chunky boy shifted his position so that he could lean to one side. This gave Frank the needed leeway. Now he slid forward and secured a hold on his brother’s hand.
“Joe!” he gasped. “Grab my wrist. See if you can hoist Mr. Wandy up.”
He felt Joe’s fingers groping, then encircling his lower arm. Joe placed his other hand on the elderly man’s elbow and pushed while Frank pulled him by the arm. Slowly and painfully the inventor was dragged up and over the eaves.
Then Joe, with Amos helping despite his weakened state, was hauled back onto the roof. Chet’s powerful hold never once failed. For a minute all four remained motionless, catching their breaths.
Then the arduous ascent began. A sort of human chain was formed. Joe held onto Frank’s arm,
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 and the inventor onto Joe’s ankle. Each had a hand and foot free to help ease the strain on Chet, as they hoisted themselves.
Another inch, and another. Six inches—a foot. At last Frank sat on the ridge beside Chet. A moment later Joe had hooked one leg over the top, and all three assisted Mr. Wandy until he too was astride the peak.
Utterly exhausted, they were silent for several minutes, breathing deeply of the damp air. Finally Joe managed to gasp:
“Guess we put on a real circus act. Trapeze artists have nothing on us.”
Mr. Wandy groaned. “I’ve brought you boys nothing but trouble. I never should have come back here.”
“None of us should have come here—ever,” was Chet’s emphatic comment.
“Just be thankful we’re still in one piece,” Frank put in dryly. “Let’s get going. Collig and his men are below, searching for Jensen—he got away from Chet and me.”
Fortunately, the wind had died away, so the trip across the ridge to the attic window was not so hazardous. In vast relief, each of the four clambered back inside.
Mr. Wandy turned to the boys. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to help me—at your own peril.”
“And don’t think I’m not grateful you two got
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 to us when you did,” Joe told Frank and Chet. “I thought Mr. Wandy and I were on our way down—and out.”
Frank smiled at Chet. “Remind me to remind you to keep on eating sirloin steak! You’ve got arm muscles, pal!”
“You’ll buy me a steak after tonight,” the stout boy retorted. “Especially if we’re going to tangle with loony Jensen again.”
The boys started down. As they did, Joe saw Mr. Wandy give a wistful backward glance over his shoulder. Joe suddenly realized that the old man had not yet recovered his invention. In their narrow escape on the roof, the boys had completely forgotten it.
“He doesn’t want to bother us again,” thought Joe with a pang of pity.
Before anyone could object, he dashed back into the attic, and soon was out on the roof. Back across the ridge he went, straight to the chimney. He felt around it, as Mr. Wandy had done.
Finally Joe’s fingers touched a coil of wire with some kind of contraption at the end. Quickly the young detective slipped them into his pocket. Then he hustled back through the window. The others waited for him with perplexed looks.
“Say, haven’t you had enough roof travel for one night?” demanded Chet indignantly.
Joe reached into his pocket. “Mr. Wandy—”
The next moment, to the boys’ consternation,
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 the inventor slumped unconscious to the floor.
“We’d better get him downstairs,” Frank said worriedly. “He’s been through too much.”
He and Joe lifted the elderly man and, between them, carried him to the first floor into the living room. Gently they lowered the inventor onto a draped sofa.
Just then Chief Collig strode in, followed by a familiar, straw-hatted figure. “Mr. Dalrymple!” Joe exclaimed.
The banker hurried forward, his face lined and haggard. “Thank heavens you boys are safe!” he cried out. “I’d never have forgiven myself if—”
“We’re all right,” Frank assured him hastily. “Right now, Mr. Wandy needs help. He fainted.”
The police chief instantly summoned one of his men to administer first aid. Briefly, the boys recounted their harrowing experience on the roof. Joe patted his pocket. “I found Mr. Wandy’s invention. We’ll give it to him later.”
Chief Collig, in turn, reported that so far there had been no sign of Arthur Jensen. “I’ve thrown out a roadblock, too. He’s a slippery customer, I must admit.”
“To think a would-be murderer was using my property!” Mr. Dalrymple shuddered. “The chief told me everything that happened here. That bomb—awful, awful!”
Assured that Mr. Wandy was rallying satisfactorily, Frank said to Chief Collig, “Okay if we
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 have a try at locating Jensen? I’d like to settle a few scores with him.”
“Me too,” Joe added grimly.
Chief Collig assented readily. “I can tell you two have a hunch. My men will be on the alert if you need help.”
The Hardys and Chet hastened out into the chilly air. The lighted windows of the house became eerie rectangles of hazy yellow in the drifting mist as the trio skirted the dense bushes edging the lawn.
“You figure Jensen eluded the police and circled back to the hidden barn where the gang kept their car?” Joe asked his brother.
“Right,” said Frank. “It’s worth a look, anyhow.”
Chet shivered as they left the lighted house behind and entered the darkness of the road. “Some light would help,” he suggested, pulling out his flashlight.
“It would,” said Frank in a whisper, “but it might also warn Jensen. We’d better make this trip without lights if we want to take him by surprise.”
The three boys stealthily made their way along until they came to the wall of tangled vines where the road ended. Joe pulled aside the vine “curtain.” Cautiously they stepped beyond it and moved forward, every sense alert for sound or movement of any kind.
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Jensen came toward the boys, lowering the three-pronged tool threateningly
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By now the first faint hint of dawn had lightened the sky. It made the going easier, but at the same time, the Hardys hoped it would not enable Jensen to spot them.
Shortly the boys reached the big hulk of the ramshackle barn. They stopped to listen. Except for the chirping of crickets, all was silent.
At Frank’s signal, the three stepped into the black interior. “We’ll have to risk flashlights now,” Frank whispered.
Three circles of light stabbed the darkness. The mound of dusty hay was still in the loft above the sagging beam. But most of the camouflaging hay had been thrown aside. The plywood door was open, so the boys peered into the alcove in which the thieves’ car had been kept.
A sudden clatter against the wall of the barn caused them to whirl. Chet swung his flashlight swiftly around. Its beam rested on the tall form of Arthur Jensen!
The man’s suit was rumpled and soaked. On his face was an expression of mingled rage and hatred. Clutched in his hands was the pitchfork. This was what had caused the clatter—when Jensen had pulled it from its hook.
He came toward the boys, lowering the three-pronged tool threateningly.
“You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” the gang leader cried in a voice filled with menace.

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CHAPTER XX
Hidden Loot
THINKING quickly, Chet shone his flashlight straight into the eyes of the gang leader as he advanced on the boys with the deadly pitchfork.
Blinded by the glare Jensen stopped.
“Let’s separate,” Frank whispered. “He can’t get all three of us at once!”
The brothers dropped their flashlights and rushed to opposite sides of the old barn. They wheeled and jumped the man from both directions.
Joe came in with a hard-driving tackle that caught Jensen just below the knees. As the man crumpled, Frank stepped in, snatched the murderous pitchfork, and threw it to one side.
Chet had stayed rooted to the spot, keeping his light trained on their would-be attacker. Now he rushed forward, flinging the flashlight away, to help subdue Jensen.
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In the darkness a terrific struggle took place. The boys’ opponent seemed possessed of an iron strength. Just when they believed they had overpowered him, Jensen would yank loose, flailing his fists violently.
“Don’t let him get away!” shouted Frank.
Joe frantically groped in the darkness for the flashlight. He found it and flicked it on. The unexpected beam of light caught Arthur Jensen staggering up the ladder to the haymow. In an instant the boys had pounced on him.
“We’ll take no more chances,” Frank cried out, whipping off his belt.
Joe quickly unbuckled his also. As Chet held their prisoner in a viselike hold, the Hardys lashed the man’s hands firmly behind him with their belts before dragging him out.
The man was sputtering and threatening. “Keep still or we’ll gag you!” Frank warned.
Frank and Joe pocketed their flashlights, and the boys marched Jensen along the hidden road back to the house. The old Purdy place was still blazing with lights in the gray dawn. More police cars had arrived, and men were hurrying about in every direction. Chief Collig stood on the front porch directing search operations.
“Good news, Chief!” Frank greeted him as the boys came forward with Jensen.
Collig stared in pleased astonishment. Then he turned to Officer Tomlin, “Call in the men!”
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A police whistle shrieked. Immediately the boys were surrounded by officers, two of whom handcuffed Arthur Jensen. The ringleader stood in sullen silence, his eyes burning with hate.
Fleece-lined storm coats were thrown around the chilled boys when the entire group entered the living room. There they saw Mr. Dalrymple looking thoughtfully upon the face of Amos Wandy, who was now sleeping peacefully.
The banker turned to the Hardys. “I thought I recognized Mr. Wandy. I remember him years ago as a brilliant inventor. He came to me once for money to finance an electrical invention of his. I was glad to lend it, knowing that the device would be beneficial to many people. To think he was forced to work on an instrument of destruction by this despicable person.”
Mr. Dalrymple gave Jensen a withering look. “But at least,” he added, “I’ll give Amos any monetary help he may need now, and he can work here any time he wishes, undisturbed!”
The Hardys were pleased to hear this. Joe then said, “We thought something had happened to you today, sir. That’s what brought us out here tonight.”
The banker explained that he had been called out of town on a business emergency early that morning and had no chance to notify his office. “I didn’t return until after midnight. When I learned about the Lakeside police having
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 searched my home and why, I contacted your aunt and Chief Collig right away.”
The banker addressed the handcuffed Jensen. “How did you—you thugs get into my house?”
“Simple.” The gang leader gave a short laugh. “We took wax impressions of the locks, and had keys made in town.”
“Yes. But how did you manage to leave threatening notes in my secret room?”
“As I told these snooping kids—find out yourself,” was the sullen answer.
Joe had a sudden idea. He drew from his pocket the coil of wire with the mechanism at one end, and examined them for a moment.
The others in the room crowded around. “So this is the invention Amos was keeping on the roof,” Frank said, “I wonder why.”
The device consisted of a pair of weatherproof batteries mounted side by side on a little platform about three inches long. The platform had wheels, and at one end a pair of little movable jaws.
“If I’m right,” Joe observed, “the jaws will open after so many revolutions of the wheels.”
He clicked a switch. With a little hum, the metal wheels turned. After a few seconds the jaws opened, and the wheels stopped. When the jaws closed together once more, the wheels turned again—but in the opposite direction!
“Clever,” Mr. Dalrymple said. “I think our
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 government’s intelligence department would be interested in this.”
“Very clever,” Joe replied, “and it’s also the method used for delivering those warning notes to your secret room!”
“What!” the banker cried.
Everyone listened intently as Joe explained his theory. “You see, the message was placed in the jaws. Then the whole contrivance was lowered by wire down the chimney. The gadget is small enough to fit through the bars. As soon as it reached the bottom of the fireplace, this platform rolled out into the room and deposited a note! Then it rolled back into the fireplace and was pulled up the chimney by Jensen, on the roof.”
Raymond Dalrymple’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “No wonder we couldn’t figure it out,” he declared. “Nobody but myself was entering my secret room!”
Frank wheeled on Jensen. “You convinced Mr. Wandy you wanted to try out his invention. Of course, he didn’t know for what purpose.”
The prisoner remained stubbornly silent. But Frank’s guess was backed up by Amos Wandy himself, who had awakened.
“Mr. Jensen told me he was conducting an experiment,” said the inventor. “What a fool I was!”
The captured thief gave a derisive snort. “That’s true.”
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“Quiet!” thundered Collig. “You’ll have plenty of time to laugh where you’re going.” The chief signaled two patrolmen, who stepped up to lead Jensen away.
“Wait a moment!” Frank spoke up. “What about the jade? Jensen had it all when he got away from us.”
Chief Collig strode over to the gang leader. “Spill it. Where did you stash that jade?”
But no amount of prodding would elicit any reply from Jensen. Finally the chief, in disgust, ordered him to be taken off to jail.
“Looks as if another search operation’s in order,” Officer Callahan spoke up. “Shall I get the men started, Chief?”
“Right. Also, better douse that disconnected bomb.”
“Great jumping Irishmen!” Callahan exclaimed. “I’ll say. No use taking any chances!”
Immediately a respectful space was cleared around the formidable black box, and two men carried it outside. Frank, Chet, and Joe followed.
The three boys, although dog-tired, had already determined to conduct their own hunt for the precious jade.
“Where to start?” Chet inquired of his friends.
The Hardys scanned the grounds, still wet from the rain. The sun had risen and was starting to burn off the mist. Frank pointed to a bush area about five hundred yards from the mansion.
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“That would’ve been a good spot for Jensen to hide and watch us get blown up,” the boy reasoned.
“Dandy,” Joe agreed. “Come on!”
The trio trudged through the wet grass and up the slope. They circled the bushes, and poked among the branches. But there were neither boxes nor a canvas sack. Disappointed, the searchers cast around for another likely place.
Joe’s eyes lingered on a huge old maple tree, with low, spreading limbs. “I think I’ll climb up,” he murmured.
Sprinting to the tree, he swung himself onto the lowest branch. Standing up, he could see the mansion clearly. He then reached out to a stout limb above him and ran his hands along it toward the trunk. His heart leaped as his fingers touched something that felt like canvas!
“Found it!” he shouted.
Frank and Chet dashed up and waited excitedly below. Joe shinned up the trunk. There, tucked in the forked space, was the sack and a pile of small boxes.
“Yippee!” Joe yelled triumphantly. Quickly he lowered the sack and the boxes to his brother and Chet, then jumped to the ground.
Joyfully the Hardys and Chet sped back to Chief Collig. One look at the boys and what they were carrying told him of their success.
“Congratulations!” he said warmly.
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“Thanks, Chief,” Frank said modestly, then grinned. “We don’t like to disappoint clients.”
The recovered treasures were taken into police custody. Hurd Applegate’s collection and Captain Stroman’s jade piece proved to be intact. Their property would be returned to them the following day.
“Oh!” Frank clapped a hand to his head. “I forgot about our stranded car!”
Chief Collig promised to send a tow truck to pick it up. “You fellows had better get some sleep,” he advised.
“Swell idea.” Chet smothered a huge yawn. “Come on, you detectives! My jalopy still runs.”
It was seven o’clock that morning when the Hardys wearily entered their home. They had an affectionate reunion with Aunt Gertrude, who had been informed by telephone of their safety.
“Not a word more!” she ordered. “Off to bed! I’ll have a good meal ready when you wake up.”
Frank and Joe did not argue. They were too tired to be hungry. Soon they were deep in slumber.
The boys were jolted awake in what seemed only a short time by the telephone jangling insistently.
“Oh!” moaned Frank groggily. “Somebody answer the phone!”
But the ringing continued. Joe was still sound asleep. Finally Frank reached out his arm and
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 lifted the receiver of the extension on the night table. “Hello?”
“It will happen while the clock ticks,” came a low, menacing voice, “on the dot of six this evening. At the old Purdy place.”
“What?” cried Frank, instantly wide awake. “Who is this? Hello! Hello!” The caller had hung up.
“Joe!” he shouted, and shook his brother awake. “Sounds like trouble.”
Quickly he told of the sinister phone call. The boys glanced at their clock.
“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “It’s five-fifteen! Almost suppertime!”
Hurriedly the two boys dressed and went downstairs. Aunt Gertrude was not around. They rushed outside to the garage.
“We’ll have to use Dad’s car,” said Joe.
Soon Fenton Hardy’s sedan was speeding out Willow River Road. The dashboard clock showed a few minutes before six.
Frank, at the wheel, turned sharply through the open gate and sped up the drive. The old house waited, silent as usual. They went up and tried the front door. To their surprise, it was open!
Cautiously the brothers tiptoed across the empty hall to the closed door of the living room. Frank and Joe paused. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock came the sound of the clock from within.
“Ready?”
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“Ready!”
They set their shoulders to the door and burst into the room.
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Six o’clock!
“Hooray for the Hardy boys!” came a chorus of voices. “Three cheers for Frank and Joe!”
A crowd of familiar smiling faces confronted the utterly astounded young detectives.
“Aunt Gertrude!” Frank cried out, as his aunt came forward.
“Yes, we’re all here.” She beamed. “I told you there’d be a good meal waiting for you.”
She led the way to the dining room. The long table in the center of the room was fully set with glittering glass, china, and silver. Two huge, golden-brown turkeys rested upon oval platters at either end of the table.
At the head sat Raymond Dalrymple. At his right was a happy Amos Wandy. Also present were Chief Collig and Chet Morton, who was grinning from behind one of the turkeys, Hurd Applegate, Captain Stroman, and others of the Hardys’ best friends. Among them were Biff Hooper, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, and Jerry Gilroy. Pretty Iola Morton and Callie Shaw smiled and waved to Frank and Joe.
Speechless with surprise, the brothers were escorted by Aunt Gertrude to chairs beside the girls, then Miss Hardy took her own place.
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“All I can say,” Joe burst out, “is that this is the best ending to a mystery a fellow could want.”
Frank agreed. “There’s one more mystery.” He grinned. “Who telephoned us today?”
Both boys stared meaningfully at Chet. His suddenly reddening face gave them the answer, and everyone laughed.
“You’re not only showing promise as a detective,” Frank said with a chuckle, “but you’re not a bad actor, either, Chet!”
At this point Mr. Dalrymple, growing serious, stood up. First he read a telegram of congratulation to the boys from Mr. and Mrs. Hardy. Then he said, “I’d like to extend my great appreciation, and that of many others, to the Hardy brothers for helping to rid not only my property, but this whole area, of the harbor thieves. Also, to Chet Morton for his assistance. And all done despite my bad memory about keys. The only one they had was the key they got from the thieves!”
“Hear! Hear!” Captain Stroman and Hurd Applegate led the loud applause.
Mr. Dalrymple continued, “I’d now like to introduce the new permanent resident of this house—Mr. Amos Wandy.”
Smiling, he turned to the inventor, who was almost overcome with emotion. Finally, in a trembling voice, Mr. Wandy said, “I can hardly believe my good fortune. A large part of it is due to my three young rescuers.”
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Amid the excited chatter that ensued, Frank and Joe learned that the banker planned to outfit a regular laboratory for Mr. Wandy. Chief Collig then reported to the boys that Jensen had broken down and given a full confession.
“Was he the rascal who sent me that warning?” Aunt Gertrude demanded.
“Yes, Miss Hardy. But he won’t be sending any more threats for a long, long time.”
Iola Morton, her eyes dancing, said to the Hardys, “This is one party you won’t run out on!”
Callie giggled. “They can’t. There’s no more mystery.”
The boys laughed, and gazed up at the huge clock. Silently, they wondered when another case might come their way. Sooner than they expected, they were to find out, when Frank and Joe spotted strange FOOTPRINTS UNDER THE WINDOW.
Mr. Dalrymple rapped for order. “The time has arrived for action. “Do you know what’s going to happen—while the clock ticks?”
“We eat!” Chet piped up.
Everyone roared with laughter. Then Mr. Dalrymple said, “Hurd Applegate and I are ready to give the Hardy boys their well-earned reward—a fine vacation trip whenever they can take it.”
There was loud applause as Frank and Joe stepped up to receive a check made out to the Bayport Travel Agency.
Hardy Boys 12 Footprints Under the Window
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  Shots Offshore
 
 
 
“FRANK—I’ve never seen so many guards at Micro-Eye before! And that steel wire fence is new. Think something is up?”
Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy, at the convertible’s wheel, had stopped for a red light. His brother, dark-haired and a year older, peered out at Bayport’s sprawling photographic plant.
“Must be a special project,” Frank suggested.
The traffic light showed green and the Hardys’ car moved past the block-long complex of buildings. Three uniformed guards were inspecting a departing Corporated Laundries truck at the gate.
Frank whistled. “Micro-Eye must be working on something that’s top secret,” he said. “I wonder if Dad knew about it before he left—” Frank broke off as the boys approached the rear of the main plant. A man was crouched on the outside of the fence. He was trying to cut through it with a pair of powerful shears!
“Joe! Stop!”
Joe instantly braked. Even before the car screeched to a halt alongside the curb, Frank had opened his door. He jumped out and sped toward the crouching figure. Joe swiftly followed.
“Guards!” Frank shouted.
Startled, the broad-nosed, stockily built man whirled to his feet, then glanced quickly back at the alerted guards. The next instant he hurled the shears directly at Frank.
“Look out!” Joe yelled in horror.
His brother ducked as the lethal blades spun crazily past, missing his head by inches! Frank and Joe sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing man. A guard’s voice rang out.
“Stop him!”
But the fugitive was darting across the street, heedless of the heavy traffic. When the boys reached the other side, Joe spotted their quarry leaping into a black sedan a block away. It roared off in a cloud of gas fumes.
“Did you get the license?” Frank panted.
Joe shook his head. “There was another man at the wheel and the motor was running.”
Three security guards ran up to the Hardys.
“We certainly owe you boys our thanks,” a tall, round-faced officer said, holstering his pistol. “Confidentially, it’s internal security that seems to be our problem.”
“You mean there’s a security leak at Micro-Eye?” Frank asked as the group walked back toward the main gate.
“We have reason to think so,” a burly guard replied, “despite the careful screening and clearance of all plant workers.”
Two other guards had already retrieved the wire cutters but admitted they probably had no fingerprints, since the man had worn gloves. At the Micro-Eye guardhouse Frank and Joe gave a detailed description of the escaped man, who had sideburns and a dark complexion.
“He may be foreign-born,” Joe remarked.
At this, the round-faced officer glanced at the other guards, then turned to the Hardys. “We already suspect that aliens who entered the country illegally are operating in this area. Your description may be a great help to us.”
“You mean—spies?” Frank inquired.
The officer nodded, but did not reveal any more details. He thanked the boys for their vigilance, then the Hardys returned to their car and headed homeward.
“Spies!” Joe exclaimed. “Just our luck to let one get away! He had some nerve, trying to cut through the fence in broad daylight.”
Frank grinned. “Maybe we can pick up another clue for Micro-Eye.”
A sharp eye for clues came naturally to the brothers. They were sons of Bayport’s renowned private detective, Fenton Hardy, formerly of the New York police force. Joe was impetuous by nature, Frank more deliberate. Ever since solving the mystery of The Tower Treasure, they had helped their father track down criminals and proven their courage and abilities as independent sleuths. Recently they had faced a dangerous challenge in a case known as While the Clock Ticked.
“Too bad Dad isn’t here,” Joe said. “He’d certainly be interested in what happened at Micro-Eye.”
“Yes. His new case really must be hush-hush. He didn’t even leave an address.”
The car turned into the drive of the Hardys’ attractive, tree-shaded house at the corner of High and Elm streets. The boys lugged two huge boxes of groceries into the kitchen.
“Whew! I’ll be glad when Mother gets back!” Joe exclaimed. “We keep running out of everything.”
Mrs. Hardy was away visiting relatives, and was expected to be gone for two weeks.
“I wonder how Aunt Gertrude’s enjoying Rio,” Frank mused. Their peppery maiden aunt, Mr. Hardy’s sister, had been in South America since earlier in the summer.
“Brazil will never be the same again,” Joe quipped, “but I can’t wait until she’s back. If I have to live through any more of your cooking—”
Frank laughed, and went for the mail. He returned with a stack of envelopes. “Guess we can’t forward these to Dad.” He held out four letters addressed to their father.
There was also a blue envelope for the boys. When Frank read the enclosed note, his hand flew to his head.
“What’s the matter?” Joe asked in alarm.
“It’s from Aunt Gertrude! She says she’ll arrive in Bayport on the Dorado in eight days. This is postmarked eight days ago!” 
“Today!” Joe groaned. “And this place looks as if a hurricane hit it!”
Frank phoned the North Lines office and learned that the Dorado, a freighter, was due to dock early that evening. “Joe! The dishes and beds! Where’s the furniture polish? If Aunty finds the house in this shape, we’ll really get a lecture!” 
The whisk of brooms, the whirring of the vacuum, and the clang of pots and pans filled the air as the boys feverishly cleaned the house from attic to basement.
“Well, that should do it.” Frank sighed as the exhausted pair sat down to a light supper. But suddenly Joe jumped up.
“The laundry! There must be a mountain of it upstairs in the hall closet!”
The boys charged up the stairs and gathered the crumpled garments and linen. While Joe tied it up, Frank checked his father’s closet and removed two pair of slacks which needed cleaning. As he did so, Frank noticed some papers bulging from the inside pocket of one of Mr. Hardy’s suit coats.
“Looks as if Dad forgot these,” he called. “Hope they weren’t important. Say, we’ve only ten minutes before the cleaner closes!”
“We can go from there to the pier.”
Frank drove into town and parked in front of Corporated Laundries’ large new shop which handled dry cleaning.
As Joe ran in with the bundle, a burly, middle-aged man pushed ahead of him to the counter.
“I want these shirts done special. Charge it to my account,” he announced loudly.
“Yes, sir, Mr. North!” said the clerk, a thin, man with bushy eyebrows. But the overbearing customer had already stalked outside. Joe left his bundle, then rejoined Frank.
“Some nerve!” Joe growled. “Orrin North just elbowed me out of the way in there,” he told his brother as they headed toward the Bayport waterfront. “Even if he does own a shipping line, he could use some manners!”
“They say his passenger business isn’t doing so well these days,” Frank said. Both boys knew North as a prominent Bayport resident who prided himself on being a successful man.
When the Hardys reached the waterfront, Frank parked at the North Lines pier where the Dorado would dock. The customs area bustled with officials. At several piers the boys noticed watchful plainclothesmen. 
“There must be something to what that Micro-Eye guard said about illegal immigrants,” Joe observed.
“A person would have to be pretty clever to get through all these precautions,” Frank said. He turned to a customs inspector and learned that the Dorado was expected in an hour. The man added that the ship was taking very few passengers these days. 
“I guess Aunt Gertrude was lucky,” Joe said. “What say we take a spin in the Sleuth? We can watch the Dorado coming in and still be back here by the time she docks!” 
“Good idea!”
In minutes the brothers reached the boathouse where their sleek craft was berthed. Frank started the motor and pulled out into the sunset-golden waters of Barmet Bay.
Darkness was falling by the time they headed down the coast. Soon Frank sighted the big hulk of an approaching vessel, plying lazily through the long swells. Joe grabbed the binoculars.
“She’s the Dorado all right. Maybe we can spot Aunt Gertrude on board.” 
Frank circled nearer the lighted ship, and followed a parallel course, hugging the coast. The boys looked in vain for the tall, straight figure of their aunt. Above the deck a ghostly plume of smoke curled up into the night sky.
“She may still be below,” Frank began. “If—”
Crack! Crack!
“Joe! Those sounded like pistol shots!”
“From the Dorado! Look, there’s a commotion at the stern!” 
The boys saw several men scuffling at the fantail of the freighter. The next instant a figure leaped over the rail and plunged into the dark waters!
Instinctively Frank sent the Sleuth speeding to the rescue. Soon Joe spotted a bobbing form, and a few minutes later pulled a gasping, sputtering man aboard. 
Slender and dark-complexioned, with a thin mustache, he was dressed in a crewman’s blue uniform. A quick examination showed no wounds, but the stranger seemed too exhausted to speak. The boys made him comfortable and Frank sped past the Dorado and in the direction of Barmet Bay. 
Joe shouted above the noise of the engine, “I wonder who he is and what all the excitement was about.”
“Beats me. But we’ll have to contact authorities on shore pronto,” Frank said worriedly. “Let’s just hope Aunt Gertrude’s all right!”


  
Frank sent the
Sleuth speeding to the rescue
Instead of going to their own boathouse, he pulled into the end of the public dock. The crewman revived, and the boys helped him out of the Sleuth.
Frank said, “I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother Joe. We don’t know what—”
“Hardy—you said—Hardy?” The man, speaking broken English, was plainly startled.
Before he could say more, a stranger strode briskly up to the trio. He was short and bald, and he wore a badge on the lapel of his black raincoat. He grasped the crewman’s arm and snapped:
“The Dorado radioed us about you. I’m an immigration officer. Come along! You kids can beat it now.” 
Suddenly the crewman shook loose and his fist rocketed against the stranger’s jaw! The officer staggered back with a grunt.
Frank grabbed at the sailor, but the man dodged and ran, turning only for a fraction of a second to hiss, “Footprints will get—”
He raced off the dock onto the road and was swallowed up in the darkness.

CHAPTER II  
  Night Prowler
 
 
 
“AFTER him!” Frank shouted.
He and Joe ran from the dock and down the road in pursuit of the crewman. They heard footsteps pounding rapidly ahead, then Joe saw a shadow dart between two small bay-front buildings.
“There—to the right!”
The Hardys dashed through back lots and a deserted alley. But the man had vanished. Finally Frank and Joe gave up the chase and hastened back to the docks. “We’d better see if that immigration officer is hurt,” Frank said.
When they reached the dock, there was no sign of the short man with the badge.
“Maybe he went to alert his office that the man escaped,” Joe said.
“If he was from the immigration office,” Frank cut in. “There was something phony about his telling us to ‘beat it.’ ” 
Joe agreed. “At any rate, we’ll report this.”
“ ‘Footprints’!” Frank mused, recalling the crewman’s strange words. “What could that mean? And whom are they going to ‘get’—us?”
Joe shook his head. “That man seemed to know our last name! Where did he find out? Did you notice his accent? Sounded like South American Spanish.”
The Hardys hurried to the customs office and gave a detailed account of the recent events. The man in charge took down the information. When Frank described the bald man who had claimed to be immigration officer, the customs man made a quick telephone call. He hung up, puzzled.
“No one like that works for Immigration,” he said. “We’ll look into this. Thanks, boys.”
The Hardys hurried to the pier where the Dorado had just docked. Only a handful of passengers debarked from the gangway, but Miss Hardy was not among them. Worried, Frank and Joe spoke with a uniformed customs inspector. 
The official consulted a short list of passengers. “We have no such person listed.”
Frank and Joe exchanged dumfounded glances. “Are you sure there’s no mistake? We’re expecting our aunt,” Frank insisted. Just then a heavy-set man wearing a blue cap approached.
“Boys, here’s the Dorado’s skipper—Captain Burne. You can ask him.” 
The newcomer seemed to be distressed as he hurried up to the inspector.
“Mr. Clark, we have a missing stowaway thief to report!” the captain announced. “We tried to stop him but he jumped overboard, and—”
“We picked him up but he got away again,” Joe put in quickly. He and Frank introduced themselves, then related their experience.
The captain stared in surprise at the boys.
“Captain,” said Frank, “isn’t there a Miss Gertrude Hardy on your ship—from Rio de Janeiro? She’s our aunt, and wrote us she’d arrive tonight on the Dorado.”
Burne shook his head. “Nobody by that name aboard. Only nine passengers this trip—the last time we’ll take on passengers.”
“Maybe your aunt decided to stay longer in Rio,” Mr. Clark suggested. “Don’t worry, boys.”
“I guess she must have changed her mind,” Joe said, relieved that their aunt had not been exposed to the shooting incident. The Hardys now asked the captain about the escaped stowaway.
“Is he really a thief?” Frank asked.
“You bet he is!” Burne fumed. “Stole a crew uniform, cleaned out a cashbox in my office, then shot at us when we went after him. He must have sneaked aboard in Cayenne.” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Did you boys get any leads on where he went?”
“No.” Frank signaled Joe with a glance not to mention the stowaway’s peculiar warning to them about “footprints.”
The captain shrugged. “Well, at least you got descriptions of him and that phony immigration officer. If you two get any clues, will you inform Mr. North’s office?”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Frank promised.
Still a bit uneasy about Miss Hardy, the brothers returned the Sleuth to their boathouse, then drove home. 
“Aunt Gertrude must be having a ball,” Joe ventured.
Frank laughed wryly. “All that housecleaning for nothing! But,” he went on, “this stowaway thief puzzles me. Why was he so startled at hearing our name? I think we’d better find out more about it before we mention ‘footprints’ to anybody.”
The boys decided to try getting word to their father by phoning Sam Radley. Sam was an ace detective and assistant to Fenton Hardy.
“I’ll do my best to contact him, Frank,” Sam promised. “Sounds very strange. Keep me posted.”
After a snack of milk and crackers, the brothers went to bed. A fresh summer breeze came through the window of their second-floor room in the quiet house.
Sometime later, Joe awoke from a sound sleep. He squinted groggily at the radium clock. “Two A.M. What—” He stiffened. Was it his imagination or did he hear a noise downstairs?
A muffled, scuffing step was barely audible, then there was silence. Joe sat up and listened. Clump, clump! This was followed by the creaking of a floor board! 
Joe shot out of bed and roused his brother, who was awake in a flash. They stood poised at the doorway.
Scuff, scuff!
Silence again. 
“A prowler!” Joe whispered.
“Let’s jump him—quiet!”
With fists tightly clenched, both boys inched out into the hallway. Peering into the darkness downstairs, Frank could barely make out a tall figure starting up the stairs! Crouching forward, Frank and Joe waited, tensing their bodies like taut bowstrings.
“Now!”
Instantly the two thundered down the stairs. As Frank grabbed the shoulders of the intruder, a high scream filled the hallway.
“Eek!
Stop! Help! Murder! Bandits!” 
Utterly astounded, Joe darted to a wall switch. Light flooded the scene, revealing a disheveled, struggling woman wildly swinging her pocketbook.
“Stop! Let go of me—my goodness! Frank Hardy!”
“Aunt Gertrude!”
Wordless with amazement, the two boys helped Miss Hardy into an easy chair.
“Gee, Aunt Gertrude, we thought you were a prowler!” Joe said sheepishly.
“Are you all right, Aunty?” Frank gulped. “Can we get you anything?”
“Of course I’m all right!” their exasperated aunt puffed, fanning herself with a ribboned straw hat. “Through no thanks to you, Frank and Joe Hardy! A prowler—humph! Fine greeting from my two nephews after all these weeks!”
The boys apologized profusely, and Frank added, “We’re sure happy to see you home safe. We’ve been pretty worried about you.”
Joe spoke up. “Aunty, when and how did you get here? We met the Dorado tonight but you weren’t on it.” 
“I should have cabled you that I wasn’t coming on that run-down old freighter,” she explained. “They wouldn’t take any more passengers than they had already booked.”
Miss Hardy had sailed instead on a North Lines passenger ship, the Capricorn, which had docked just before midnight. The ship had been due the following day but had made better time than expected. Her traveling companion, Mrs. Berter, had driven her home. 
“I tried not to disturb you boys, but look what happened! I thought I was being attacked by Amazon head-hunters!”
“You pack a pretty mean pocketbook yourself, Aunty.” Frank laughed. “Did you have a good time? How was Brazil?”
“Wonderful,” replied Miss Hardy. She arose and gave the room an appraising glance, then nodded slightly, as if pleased to see no dust on the furniture.
Joe grinned. “Pretty good housekeepers, aren’t we? But we still had time for running into some mysteries.”
“Mercy! I should have known!” Aunt Gertrude pretended to disapprove of her nephews’ sleuthing, but secretly was proud of their successes.
Frank and Joe described the day’s events, concluding with the escaped stowaway. “You missed all the excitement, Aunty, by not sailing on the Dorado,” Joe added. 
“Not exactly,” Miss Hardy said in a mysterious tone. “I had an adventure on shipboard myself.”
No amount of persuasion would induce her to explain further. “It’s far too late. You’ll have to wait until I’m rested.”
With that, Aunt Gertrude marched upstairs. The boys, bursting with curiosity, picked up her bags and followed.

CHAPTER III  
  Missing Papers
 
 
 
AUNT Gertrude had another surprise waiting for her when she entered the kitchen the next morning.
“Breakfast is served!” Joe’s voice rang out. She stared in astonishment as her younger nephew turned away from the stove. “Morning, Aunty! Here’s bacon. Frank will have your eggs ready in a minute.”
“Less than that!” Frank lifted a skillet from the range. He grinned. “Sizzling omelet!”
“Well, you two must be up to something,” she said as Joe pulled out her chair and she sat down. “But this is thoughtful of you,” she conceded. “You must have awakened early!”
Their aunt was customarily the first one up in the morning. Frank stifled a yawn as he served the slightly burned omelet, then winked at his brother.
“Of course this is temporary, isn’t it, Joe?”
“You bet. We wouldn’t put one of the world’s best cooks out of a job—no sir!”
Aunt Gertrude eyed the boys suspiciously as they took their places. The two immediately besieged her with questions. “Was South America exciting?” Joe began.
“Very. And perilous,” she replied. “Full of animals, insects, spies—” She picked a piece of shell out of her omelet and sniffed.
“Aunty,” Joe coaxed, “what about this—er—adventure you had on board ship?”
Miss Hardy put down her fork. “Well, first of all,” she said, “there were those luggage thieves.”
“Luggage thieves?” Joe echoed.
“Yes. I met poor Mr. and Mrs. Taylor at a stop-over in Cayenne—the capital city of French Guiana. They’re from around here—Harper-town, and were traveling by plane. Almost the minute they arrived at the airport, all their bags were stolen. The thieves got away.”
The discussion was interrupted by the squeal of brakes outside.
“Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “He’s never up this early during vacation!” But a rap on the back door and the appearance of a plump boy with a round, freckled face affirmed the fact that the caller was the Hardys’ best friend, Chet Morton.
“Howdy, breakfasters!” he sang out. “Why, Miss Hardy, welcome home!”
“Thank you, Chester.” Aunt Gertrude smiled and invited the newcomer to join them.
“What brings you out of the sack so early?” Joe asked him.
Chet explained that he was on an errand for his father at Oak Hollow, where a housing development was nearing completion. Mr. Morton, a realtor, was handling prospective sales.
“But I sure worked up an appetite on the way,” Chet added, looking hopefully at Miss Hardy. He sniffed the aroma of toast and bacon. “Any crumbs left over?”
“Aunt Gertrude’s our guest this morning,” Frank informed him, handing over three eggs, “but you’re welcome to cook your own grub.” In a flash Chet had eggs scrambling in the pan.
Joe asked him, “Say, have you seen any stray stowaways floating around?”
“Wha-at?” Chet stared at his pals. “Oh, no! You’re not mixed up in another mystery!”
The stout boy was not fond of danger, but had often become involved with the brothers’ cases, and always proved a loyal assistant. While Chet ate, the Hardys brought him up to date.
“I’d like to track down that fellow who jumped overboard,” Joe said. “Something tells me he was trying to give us a message.”
Miss Hardy, obviously enjoying herself, continued her story. “Even stranger doings on the Capricorn, though. A man disappeared.” 
“Disappeared!”
The boys waited patiently while Miss Hardy paused for a sip of coffee. Then she told of having met a very nice gentleman on the homeward trip, a Mr. Ricardo. She had not learned his first name. “He had heard of your father and asked me questions about Fenton’s latest case—even wanted to know where he was.” Miss Hardy described the man as tall, with an angular face and wearing a white suit and dark glasses.
“He was very pleasant,” she continued, “but of course I couldn’t answer his questions. Then—all of a sudden—he vanished.”
“From the ship?” Joe asked, incredulous.
“Yes. I went to say good-by to him a few hours before we docked and he was gone!”
“Maybe he was ill,” Frank suggested. “Did you try the ship’s infirmary?”
“Yes—not a sign of him. And the stewards weren’t very helpful. I’ll never travel North Lines again,” she added. “I only hope nothing awful happened to the poor man.”
“Sounds weird to me,” Frank mused, recalling the Dorado stowaway’s familiarity with the name Hardy. Was there any connection? 
Their aunt stood up. “Before you start sleuthing, I have some work for you to do.”
“But, Aunty,” Joe protested, “we’ve already cleaned the house!”
“We’ll see about that.”
Chet chuckled as the brothers shrugged helplessly. After the dishes were rinsed and put in the washer, Chet grabbed an apple and the trio trailed Miss Hardy through the downstairs rooms. Armed with a dustcloth, she probed with eagle eyes into every corner and under the cushions of the living-room furniture.
“Well,” she conceded, “maybe you did touch the high spots—tsk, look at this dust!” She ran a finger along a chair leg and held it up disapprovingly. The boys exchanged grins. 
“We even swept out the closets,” Frank defended himself.
Next, Miss Hardy inspected the rooms on the second floor.
A little later Frank opened the closet in his father’s room. Suddenly he stared at the suit coat which had contained the papers.
The inside pocket was empty!
Frantically the boys checked the entire closet, but the papers were not there. Aunt Gertrude said she knew nothing about them.
“Are you sure they were here?” Chet asked.
“Positive!” Frank said. “Joe and I both noticed them yesterday. Somebody else has been in this house!”
Immediately a thorough search was begun. Finding no clues to the intruder, the boys went outside.
“Whoever he was, he’s a pretty slick operator,” Joe said, “but he may have dropped something on our grounds.”
While he looked around the garage, Frank and Chet inspected the area near the house. Suddenly Frank yelled, “I’ve found something!”
The others rushed to where he was kneeling beneath a window. Frank pointed to the ground.
Several impressions were visible in the soil directly beneath the sill of a dining-room window.
“Footprints!”
“Just the front part of the soles,” Frank observed. “These marks look fresh, and neither Joe nor I was out here recently. The prowler had an easy time getting in since the window’s unlocked.”
Joe ran up to their lab over the garage and returned with a fingerprint and cast kit. Together, the three boys checked the window sill and the dining room, but the thief appeared to have left no clues.
“He must have been wearing gloves,” Frank said, recalling the man they had chased at the Micro-Eye plant. In the next instant another thought struck him. “Joe! The Dorado escapee!” 
“Jimminy, I forgot all about him!”
“What do you mean?” Chet asked, puzzled.
Frank repeated the cryptic reference to “footprints.”
“You think he’s the one who stole your dad’s papers?” Chet asked.
“It’s just a guess,” Joe replied. “He’s been accused of stealing money on the freighter, and besides, he did seem to know our name.”
“But why would anyone warn us in advance if he meant to break into the house?” Frank argued. “It could have been a warning about somebody else. But it sounds crazy that he could’ve known what sort of clues that person would leave, when he had just jumped off a ship from Cayenne.”
The others watched as Joe took a moulage of the shoe tip. The Hardys were dissatisfied. “If only he had left a heel print!” Joe complained.
“It looks like about a size ten shoe,” Frank remarked, making a mental note of the distinctive cracks in the sole.
Chet shrugged. “That narrows it down to a few million men. Were your dad’s papers important?”
“We don’t know,” Joe said. “They must have been for somebody to steal them. We’ll be lucky if we can get in touch with Dad to tell him.”
They took the completed cast to the garage lab, then went to the house. Frank telephoned Sam Radley again, but was disappointed to learn that Radley had been unable to locate Mr. Hardy.
After telling the operative about the theft of the papers, Frank asked, “Shall we notify the police?”
“I’ll talk to them,” the assistant said. “If I hear from your dad, I’ll call you.”
As Frank reported the conversation to the others, the brothers became apprehensive. Had anything happened to their father?
“Well, I certainly hope not,” Aunt Gertrude said. “But don’t you worry about any more desperadoes getting into this house! I’ll be on guard!”
The boys smiled. “We’ll Ieave that to you,” said Joe, “while we pursue the mystery.”
Chet sighed. “Look, fellows, I’ll help. But first, how about you driving out to Oak Hollow with me?”
“Okay!”
The three boys piled into Chet’s jalopy and in minutes were heading toward the outskirts of Bayport. Oak Hollow was a small, shrubbed valley which had lain remote from the town’s progress for many years.
The construction of attractive, medium-priced homes there had been undertaken by the father of another close pal of the Hardys, Tony Prito. Frank and Joe had not visited the site since the early stage of development, and were interested to see the completed houses.
“When will owners be able to move in?” Joe asked as they wound up a hill road.
“In a week or so,” Chet replied. “This development will be great for Bayport, and Dad’s real excited about it.”
They turned down a muddy road past large construction vehicles and a row of handsome frame houses, each separated by wide, newly seeded lawns.
“Wow!” exclaimed Joe, impressed.
“And they’re not all alike,” Chet added. “I’ll show you a model.”
As the jalopy neared the end of the street, the boys were startled to hear a chopping sound, followed by the tinkle of glass!
“That sounded like a windowpane!” Joe cried out. “Hey! Look!”
Astonished, the boys saw two men in dungarees outside one of the houses. They were hacking at the wood with machetes!
“Vandals!” Chet gasped, skidding to a stop.
He and the Hardys jumped out and rushed the men. As Frank tackled one, Joe side-stepped a swinging blow and grabbed the other around the neck. But the thug threw him off. Joe lost his footing in the mud and went down on his back.
Stunned, he looked up to see an ugly face and an extended arm. Sunlight glittered off a raised machete!

CHAPTER IV  
  Peril in the Air
 
 
 
AN instant before the man swung the machete down in a vicious chop, Joe rolled aside.
Thwack!
The blade crunched resoundingly into the ground. 
Joe immediately kicked out at his attacker. The man dodged, but Frank and Chet grabbed him, and Joe scrambled to his feet. The next instant the man’s partner, swinging his machete, forced the three boys back.
“Come on. Let’s beat it!” he snarled.
The two vandals ran behind the house and disappeared into thick woods covering the slope. The three boys took off in pursuit. But as they emerged from the woods, a motor roared to life from around a bend in the dirt road.
“We’re too late!” Frank groaned. He pointed to automobile tire tracks and a cloud of dust.
Back at the development, the boys found Mr. Prito and two other men inspecting the damage. Jagged holes gaped in numerous windows, and splintering slashes had been made in the walls and moldings of many houses.
“The windows are easily replaceable,” Mr. Prito said, his face grim, “but repairing the other damage will take time. We’ll have to delay occupancy for weeks!”
“What a vicious trick!” Joe stormed, stepping over broken glass and fingering a huge notch in a freshly painted door.
“But why would they do it?” Chet said, equally disconsolate.
“I don’t know. The whole thing is senseless,” Mr. Prito said. “We’ll have to put on a watchman.”
When Mr. Morton and the police arrived, the boys provided descriptions of the hoodlums and pointed out the tire prints. The motive for the vandalism was a puzzle to everyone.
“I know of no rival contractors who might be bitter at not having landed this job,” Mr. Morton said. “If this was malicious mischief, it’s pretty expensive mischief for us.”
On a hunch Frank inspected several footprints left by the thugs, but there was no similarity to the partial ones found under the window at their home. The Hardys had just climbed into Chet’s jalopy when a man’s smirking face peered in at them.
“The early bird gets the worm, eh? Any clues?”
Oscar Smuff, a plump, would-be detective, was well known to Frank and Joe. Keen on proving his ability to Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, he actually succeeded more in muddling cases than in solving them. Although he was meddlesome, the Hardys good-naturedly humored him.
“Nothing much yet,” Joe replied.
Smuff cocked his head knowingly. “Well, I’ll take a look around and try to clear this thing up. Call me if you need advice.”
“Oh, sure.” Joe stifled a grin.
Chet’s motor started with a whine, and the jalopy headed east from Oak Hollow.
Joe spoke up. “Now to get down to business. First, we must trace the guy who took Dad’s papers, then look for that stowaway, and—”
Chet broke in. “Okay. You two can hunt crooks. I’m off to study the clouds.”
“The clouds!” Joe echoed. “You’re kidding!”
“I am not. Listen, clouds are really interesting—and I want to learn more about them.”
The Hardys grinned. They were accustomed to their friend’s taking up one hobby after another. “But why clouds?” Joe asked.
“For weather forecasting. What else?”
Frank had a suggestion. “Say, Chet, you’ve given me an idea. Maybe we can go for a plane ride. You could study clouds, while Joe and I look at the Micro-Eye setup from the air.”
“Great!” Joe said eagerly. “Let’s see if Jack Wayne can take us.”
Jack was a young charter pilot who often flew Mr. Hardy on long trips. Chet needed no persuasion and drove west toward the airfield. Presently Joe noticed a shabby green sedan behind them. Two turns later it was still in sight.
“Chet, double back at the next corner—I think we’re being tailed!”
Chet obeyed. “Creeps! I hope it isn’t those machete men!” he said nervously.
But when the jalopy rounded the block, there was no sign of the sedan. “Guess I was wrong,” Joe apologized. They drove on to the airport.
The boys spotted Jack’s blue, silver-winged plane inside its hangar. They met the lean, tanned pilot near the end of the field.
“Be glad to take you fellows up,” he said after greeting them warmly. “You’re lucky to catch me between taxi jobs.” Jack explained that he had been flying scientists in and out of Bayport.
“For Micro-Eye’s secret project?” Frank asked.
“Yes. What’s going on over there is really hush-hush. Give me twenty minutes to finish some flight reports. Be right back.”
As Jack disappeared into the building, the boys strolled over to the terminal. They noticed an elderly man complaining to an official about a stolen suitcase. The Hardys’ keen ears caught the phrase “in Cayenne.”
“That’s where Aunt Gertrude’s friends had all their luggage taken,” Frank said.
Minutes later, the four were airborne in Jack’s sleek Skyhappy Sal. Chet chattered excitedly and pointed out various cloud formations. 
“They’re cumulus clouds,” he said, indicating large fluffy masses extending eastward. “And to the south is the stratus layer. The wispy, curly ones you see way up high are cirrus.”
“Sounds like a fruit,” Joe teased. “But I must say you talk like a scholar, Chet.”
The chubby boy beamed as Jack banked into a smoky, towering bulge of cloud. “Boy, at sunrise it must be like diving into cotton candy!”
When the Sal emerged into the clear ocean of air again, they spotted the Micro-Eye plant below. The panorama revealed long roofs, multiple fenced-off areas, and numerous moving dark specks—workmen and guards. 
“Looks just as secure from up here,” Frank remarked. “How about a quick pass above Oak Hollow, Jack?”
“Roger! If we start buzzing Micro-Eye, they’ll have me on the carpet—and I don’t mean a cloudy one!”
High over the outskirts of Bayport, the boys saw the new houses nestled among the wooded slopes, along which ran a winding dirt road. Jack took the plane lower, and Frank and Joe scanned the surrounding terrain. Except for a private, fenced cemetery in the valley and a few picnic areas, there were only woods.
“Do you have some special interest in the housing development?” Jack asked.
The boys told of the vandals, and the pilot whistled. “I wouldn’t buy a house there,” he remarked, “until those thugs are caught.”
Frank said thoughtfully, “That’ll be hard on Chet’s father. Do you suppose the men using machetes are from a tropical country?”
“Like somewhere in South America?” Joe guessed. “The guy that spoke had an accent.”
Jack was now flying south along the coast. He dropped down and circled a large inlet surrounded by a pine barren. Whitecaps washed against countless black rocks which barely projected from the water.
“Cobblewave Cove—and there’s the wreck of the old Atlantis.” Joe recognized the tilted hulk of a freighter which lay in the midst of the rocks. 
Cobblewave Cove had been a danger to incoming vessels for years. When the Atlantis had foundered on the sharp rocks during a violent gale, the wreck had been left as both a memorial to its crew and a warning to other seamen. 
“I’d like to explore that wreck someday,” said Chet. “Maybe we’d find treasure aboard.”
“What!” Joe said in mock horror. “You don’t believe the legend of the Atlantis?”
Chet waved a disdainful hand. “You mean about wails of dying mariners inside the hold? I don’t believe that ghost stuff.”
“Brave words, pal.” Joe grinned.
Jack began circling to turn northward. “I’m due back at the field, fellows.” But when the craft banked steeply into a stiff wind, they all felt a sudden lurch. Then another!
“What’s wrong?” Joe exclaimed, alarmed.
“Don’t know—she’s not flying right!” Frantically Jack worked the controls. Despite his efforts, the plane snapped to the left. The boys peered out and gasped with horror.
Shredded pieces of metal were streaming from the outboard section of the left wing. A bend appeared about three feet in from the tip.
The outer section then began to flutter violently in the wind, as if making ready to separate itself from the airplane!

CHAPTER V  
  Suspect at Large
 
 
 
“The wing!” Frank cried out. “It’s breaking up!”
Simultaneously the Hardys and Chet were flung against their seat belts. The engine screamed. The plane plunged into a downward spiral. After four turns, the gyrations tightened into a spin.
“We must be losing nearly a fourth of our lift on the left wing!” Jack shouted. “Our aileron is almost useless!”
He chopped engine power, shoved full right rudder, and snapped the stick forward. Recovery was slow, but Jack finally maneuvered the plane back to straight and level.
Looking out, the boys saw the damaged wing section still attached. But jagged ribbons of metal were trailing from its lower surface.
“Will we make the airport?” Joe asked.
Jack stared tensely ahead, then glanced back. “We’ve already stretched our luck, but if we take it slow, we should make it. Don’t move around!”
Carefully he guided the craft back to the outskirts of Bayport. Chet, his face white, crouched next to Joe with his fingers crossed. “M-me and m-my big hobbies!” he groaned.
In silence Jack maneuvered the plane skillfully out over Barmet Bay. Descending, he banked west toward the airport. Minutes later, he brought the craft to a safe landing. Relieved, everyone climbed out.
Jack and the boys looked at the damaged wing. The pilot frowned. “I don’t understand how it could’ve happened.”
The outer section of the wing hung slightly awry from an uneven breach in the metal. Aghast, Joe spotted several dents around the cut.
“This was no accident—the wing was slashed!”
Jack grimly affirmed Joe’s suspicion of sabotage. “One clean blow—clean enough for us not to notice it before taking off. The wind did the rest. It could have been an ax—”
“Or a machete!” Frank broke in. “That green sedan behind us on the way here—maybe those vandals were tailing us, and did this job.”
“For revenge!” Chet said, rolling his eyes in fear.
Frank disagreed. “That’s a pretty strong dose of revenge coming from vandals—unless they aren’t just vandals.”
Jack led them back to the hangar. “Whoever slashed the wing was willing to take me into the nose dive too. I’m wondering if it had any connection with my taxiing scientists who are working for Micro-Eye. I’ve flown several of them.”
“You mean somebody intended to put a cog in the plant’s project—to slow it down?” Joe asked.
“It’s possible,” the pilot said grimly. “I hope he doesn’t try again.”
At the hangar one of the ground crew informed Jack and the boys he had seen two swarthy strangers leaving the field in a run-down green sedan. His descriptions fit the vandals.
Joe whistled. “You’re right, Frank. Those two are mixed up in something worse than house-wrecking.”
Frank nodded. “All we have to find out is—what?”
Jack promised to notify them of any leads, then the three sleuths returned to the jalopy and headed back to Bayport.
Chet spoke up glumly. “From now on, I’ll study clouds from the ground!”
Frank nudged his brother. “We can always use a weather prognosticator. Right, Joe?”
“You bet. How’s the forecast for sleuthing?”
“Stormy! That I can tell you.” Hopefully Chet changed the subject. “Say, don’t forget about our going to Cobblewave Cove!”
“Okay, we’ll make it soon,” Joe said.
Chet dropped the brothers off at Elm and High and chugged along homeward. Frank and Joe headed up the walk to their house.
“Maybe there’ll be some word from Dad,” Frank said. “We’ve—” He broke off abruptly. A man was peering at them from behind a large spruce tree across the lawn. The Hardys started toward him, but the man ran off.
“He’s the stowaway!” Joe cried out. “Stop!” But the slender fugitive leaped a hedge and tore across the street. Joe bounded off the curb in pursuit, but was grabbed by Frank just as a car swerved to avoid hitting him. By now their quarry had disappeared. After searching the neighborhood for twenty minutes without luck, the brothers returned home.
“Boy, he’s a slippery eel,” Joe said as they went inside.
“I can’t figure him out. Was he spying on us, or—”
“Spies!” Aunt Gertrude sailed into the hall “Who? Where?”
Frank quickly explained. Miss Hardy’s lips tightened. “More desperadoes!” she exclaimed. “What is this house coming to?”
Frank and Joe had decided not to mention the machete attack or plane sabotage. Their aunt told them Sam Radley had called. “He still hasn’t heard from your father,” she added..
Disappointed, the boys followed their aunt to the luncheon table. Joe sighed. “Well, if we wanted a mystery, we sure got one. Do you think that fellow was casing our house?”
“He acted that way. I wonder if he took Dad’s papers, and came back to steal some others,” Frank speculated. “Could be he’s part of a plot against Dad.”
“But why? Dad’s not even home. But maybe the guy doesn’t know that.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “The Dorado thief’s from South America,” he reasoned. “And maybe those vandals are, too.” 
“I wouldn’t bet against it. Sure wish we could consult Dad.”
“First thing we’d better do is report to the immigration people,” said Frank.
When the meal was over, the brothers drove to the dock area and pulled up at a small building which housed the office of the United States Customs and Immigration departments. The boys were directed into an inner office where a young immigration officer named Scott sat at a desk.
The Hardys introduced themselves and Frank explained their two contacts with the Dorado’s escapee. 
The officer nodded. “We’ve been giving your first report close attention. You’re sure it was the same man you saw this morning?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe replied. “Dark-complexioned, slender, with a thin mustache. But this time he had on old faded clothes.”
Scott snatched a sheet of paper and quickly took down the information. Suddenly Joe noticed two well-dressed men standing at a nearby desk, obviously taking an interest in the boys’ statements.
The young officer, meanwhile, knit his brows and drummed his pencil. “Very odd,” he said. “The switchboard operator reported a man came here this morning to see me. I was out. Her description of him matched the one you gave of the stowaway last night—except today’s caller wore no uniform, and was poorly dressed.”
The revelation was perplexing. “It sounds crazy,” Frank remarked. “A wanted thief daring to show up at your office. What did he want?”
“Information, apparently. He mentioned several South American names and asked if any such persons from the Huella Islands had ever sought political asylum in this area.”
The Huellas, Frank and Joe recalled, were an island group off the coast of French Guiana, South America. The largest of them, Baredo, had been in the news recently due to the repressive actions of its ruler, Juan Posada, a dictator known to be unfriendly to the United States.
“But we have no record of anyone arriving from the Huellas,” the officer added. He showed the list of names to the Hardys, but they recognized none of them.
Mr. Scott shook their hands. “We appreciate your help. We’re concerned these days with illegal entrants, since some of them may be sent here for espionage purposes. This escaped man could actually be assigned to spy on Huellan refugees, some of whom may be in or near Bayport without our knowledge.”
He added that the bald immigration officer the boys had met was an impostor. “The authorities would like to get hold of him too.”
“We’ll keep a sharp lookout for both men,” Frank promised.
The Hardys said good-by and hurried across the office. “We must find out more about this ‘footprints’ business,” Joe muttered.
As they reached the doorway, the Hardys were astonished to find their path suddenly blocked by one of the two strangers they had noticed.
“Just a minute!” he said. “You boys aren’t going anywhere!”

CHAPTER VI  
  Waterfront Sleuthing
 
 
 
THE HARDYS stood dumfounded as the tall, expressionless stranger rooted himself firmly in the doorway.
“There must be some mistake—” Frank began. A voice from behind cut him off.
“No, there’s not, boys. Come with us. We’d like to have a word with you.”
They turned to face a distinguished-looking, gray-haired man, the other stranger Joe had seen. The boys started to protest, then saw Scott nod reassuringly. Puzzled, the Hardys followed the two men into an unoccupied file room.
As the taller man closed the door, the other held out a leather identification case. “Roy Dykeman, United States Intelligence.”
Frank and Joe examined the credentials, then handed them back. Dykeman introduced his companion as Mr. Crothers, also of Intelligence.
“I’m sorry to detain you, but something you said to Mr. Scott caught our attention.” Dykeman looked directly at the Hardys. “What do you two know about ‘footprints’?”
“Footprints?” Frank glanced at Joe. “Not much, sir. We heard the word last night, and then we found something at our house later that made us wonder whether there was a connection.”
“Will you give us complete details?” Mr. Crothers asked. “It’s important.”
Frank told the men of their experience with the Dorado stowaway, including his mysterious “footprints” warning. “We didn’t mention this in our statement. We thought it might have to do with a private case of our father, Fenton Hardy.” 
“Fenton Hardy?” Mr. Dykeman glanced at Crothers. “Please continue, boys.”
Joe related the theft of Mr. Hardy’s papers.
“We’ve been trying to put two and two together,” Frank explained, “but we haven’t been able to contact Dad. The papers must be important, if somebody wanted to steal them!”
Mr. Dykeman paced the floor. “You were right not to reveal anything that could be detrimental to your father,” he stated.
“Do you know where Dad is?” Joe pressed. 
“Not exactly,” the agent replied. “Let me explain. I am here in Bayport to supervise security for a vitally important project.” He paused and smiled. “We owe you two boys a debt of thanks for your alertness yesterday.”
“You mean—at Micro-Eye Industries?” Frank exclaimed.
“That’s right. I know you both can be trusted to keep this matter confidential. Micro-Eye is in danger of espionage by aliens, internally as well as externally. We are counting heavily on your father’s help.”
“Then Dad’s assignment is for Micro-Eye?” Joe asked excitedly. 
“Yes—but as a field agent. Even Mr. Crothers and I don’t know where he is. The plot we are up against appears to be extensive geographically.”
“You believe that somehow ‘footprints’ are involved with this plot?” Frank queried.
The intelligence officer glanced at his associate, who nodded slightly. “I can tell you this much—we are aware of a conspiracy to uncover, and perhaps steal Micro-Eye’s secret work. We believe it to be centered in South America, and directed from there, and it operates, we think, under the code name Footprints.”
“Footprints!” Joe echoed. “Then the stowaway may be part of this plot! And that phony immigration officer too!”
“We’ll have to track them down before we know,” Mr. Crothers replied. “We’ve had our men constantly watching incoming ships and planes for people entering the country illegally, but they manage to slip in, nevertheless.”
Frank and Joe promised their full cooperation. After giving the boys a card with their secret telephone number, the two agents thanked them for the assistance. Outside the building, the Hardys hurried to their car.
“Well, at least we’ve found out what Dad’s working on,” Joe remarked. “Hey! Do you think he’s in South America?”
“Could be. I wonder if the Footprints members may have infiltrated Micro-Eye. Question is, where do the stowaway and the immigration impostor fit into the scheme?”
“And the machete men,” Joe added.
Frank remembered Scott’s mention of the Huella Islands. “I’m wondering if those South American names that the stowaway asked about belong to spies or refugees.”
“Either way, he sure took a risk showing up at the immigration office,” Joe stated.
“We’d better warn Aunt Gertrude to keep an eye out for suspicious-looking South Americans,” Frank suggested.
Joe grinned. “Or vice versa.” They reached the car and headed home.
As they turned the corner at a warehouse, Frank’s attention was suddenly caught by a tall, white-suited stranger crossing the street.
Frank pulled over to the curb. “That man matches the description Aunt Gertrude gave of the vanishing Mr. Ricardo!”
Joe peered out the window as the stranger stepped onto the sidewalk a few yards ahead. Suddenly the man glanced at them through dark glasses and hurried past the car.
“You’re right!” Joe whispered. “Angular face and all! Do you think it’s just a coincidence?”
“Maybe, but let’s see where he’s heading!”
The boys waited a few moments, then stepped out and followed the man. They kept a block’s distance. But the stranger looked back again, and pulled his panama hat lower over his hawk-nosed face. His pace quickened.
“Looks as if he’s on to us. Let’s go!” Frank urged.
The white-suited man suddenly cut sharp right and disappeared down a narrow side street.
“Don’t let him get out of sight!” Joe urged.
Pretense abandoned, the boys broke into a run. With Frank at his heels, Joe nimbly dodged two laborers shouldering a long metal pipe and whipped around the corner.
Wham!
Joe had collided full tilt with a man, and he fell backward onto Frank. Both boys landed in a sitting position on the pavement. They looked in astonishment at the roly-poly figure of the man, who was slowly getting to his feet.
Oscar Smuff!
“Oowwww!” Groaning, the would-be investigator glared at the Hardys. “You! You! You would get in my way!”
Smuff, muttering furiously, snatched up a notebook from the sidewalk. He continued to sputter. “You Hardys! Who else would interfere just when I was on the track of conspirators!”
“Of consp—” The boys stared in dismay past the self-styled detective. Their own pursuit seemed hopeless. The side street was deserted.
“What conspirators?” Frank asked, gritting his teeth to hide his irritation.
“Don’t know yet,” Smuff raged, “but I’m hot on their trail—or was until you two meddling amateurs bumped into me.”
“You sort of got in our way yourself,” Joe retorted.
Smuff ignored him. He peered around the corner, then darted off after the workers carrying the pipe. Despite their annoyance, Frank and Joe were curious and followed.
“What’s up?” Joe asked. Smuff gave him a reproving look, then whipped out a pencil. His round face glowed with importance.
“The code of the underworld!” he whispered, and waddled faster. “I’m trying to break it!”
Frank frowned. “The what?”
“You’ll see. Stick with me and learn something about detecting!” Smuff motioned them ahead to overhear the laborers’ conversation.


  
Frank sent the
Sleuth speeding to the rescue
“If they don’t take the pennant this year,” one was saying, “they’ll never win it. The league is getting too tough.”
“Say,” the other replied, “I’ve got peanut butter and jelly today. What’d you bring?”
“Sardine, and a bacon and tomato.”
Smuff, perspiring heavily, frenziedly wrote in his notebook.
“Don’t you get it?” he asked the boys. “That’s all a secret lingo. ‘Pennant’ is a munitions plot—and ‘league’ is the explosive! ‘Tough’ means it’s hard to get!”
Frank bit off a smile. “I see. But how about the peanut butter and jelly?”
“Haven’t figured ‘em out yet—the ‘sardine’ means the plot’ll take place at sea.” He detected Joe’s grin and grimaced. “You won’t laugh when I crack this case wide open.”
The workmen placed the pipe in a truck, then leaned against it and opened paper bags. Smuff edged closer as the men took out thick sandwiches. They now noticed the pudgy fellow peering curiously at them. “Want somethin’, Mac?” one of the workers called out. Smuff flushed and backed away. The men shrugged and bit into their sandwiches, resuming their conversation.
Joe clapped Smuff’s shoulder. “Good luck on the bacon and tomato! Hope they’re not too dangerous.”
Smuff stalked off indignantly, and the Hardys returned to their car. Joe roared with laughter. “Wow, talk about wild-goose chases! ‘Underworld code’—in sandwiches!”
“Think what Oscar the Sleuth could make of a whole menu!” Frank said, chuckling.
The brothers still chafed over the disruption of their chase.
“If only we could have found out where that man was headed!” said Joe. “And if he actually is the Mr. Ricardo from Aunt Gertrude’s ship.”
“He certainly wanted to get away from us,” Frank added. “It’s possible Ricardo planned to disappear from the ship. And I don’t like it that he quizzed Aunt Gertrude about Dad.”
The brothers’ discussion ended abruptly as they approached their car and Frank said, “Flat tire!” He pointed to the scraps of rubber near the left-rear wheel. There was a gaping gash in the tire.
“Somebody did this on purpose!” he exclaimed.
Joe yanked open the front door and gasped with alarm. “Frank, look at this!”
Rolls of gouged-out stuffing covered the entire seat. Driven deeply into the driver’s seat was the long blade of a black-handled machete!
As Joe grimly whipped out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the handle, a piece of paper fluttered from the seat. Pasted on it were bits of newsprint forming the message: 
A warning: Mind your own business.
Joe asked angrily, “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”
“If you mean the vandals are responsible—Yes.” Frank opened the trunk and grabbed a jack. The boys rolled out the spare, changed the tire, then headed home.
“Ricardo—or whoever that stranger is—saw us park here,” Joe pointed out. “Do you think he could have doubled back and done the damage?”
Frank doubted this. “I’m sure the man wasn’t carrying a machete.” He looked at Joe. “It’s possible Ricardo and the vandals are in cahoots, though.”
The Hardys reached home and hurried inside. Frank glanced into the living room and gave a cry of alarm.
Aunt Gertrude lay motionless on the floor!

CHAPTER VII  
  Reward or Bribe?
 
 
 
“AUNT Gertrude!”
The boys rushed to her side. With a slight shriek Miss Hardy jumped to her feet.
“Aunty, what happened?” Frank asked with relief. “Are you all right?” The tall spinster quickly removed a curtain rod stretched between two chairs.
“Of course I’m all right!” she snapped, apparently flustered at the boys’ sudden entry. “Just—er—slipped and lost my balance. Knocked the wind out of me a moment.”
“Whew, you gave us a scare!” said Frank.
Aunt Gertrude walked quickly to the hi-fi set, snatched a disc from the turntable, and slipped it into an album. Frank peeked at the garish orange-and-purple cover.
“‘Limbo for Hot-spirited Latins!’ Wow!”
The boys glanced at the curtain rod in their aunt’s hands and grinned widely.
“Aunt Gertrude! You weren’t trying to do the Limbo!” Joe exclaimed, referring to the “dance” in which one arched backward beneath a horizontal bar held lower and lower.
“The what? Nonsense!” Miss Hardy picked up a dustcloth and began vigorously polishing a table. “Silly voodoo music! I was just playing that record out of curiosity.”
Joe and Frank winked at each other as their aunt propped the curtain rod in a comer. “How about a Limbo lesson, Aunty?”
“Never you mind, Joe Hardy,” she remarked, and changed the subject. “Why, look at that dirt all over your trousers! Where on earth have you two been?”
The boys told of having seen the man they thought was Mr. Ricardo, and of their futile pursuit. Aunt Gertrude was astonished.
“You mean he really didn’t disappear?”
“It’s possible he just wanted it to seem that way,” Frank reasoned.
“You boys have too much imagination,” Miss Hardy scolded. “I suppose you think Mr. Ricardo is a pirate in disguise or some other kind of villain.”
The boys asked if there had been any word from Mr. Hardy.
“No. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added. “There was a telephone call for you boys.”
“Where from?” Frank asked.
“Mr. North, the shipping magnate, of all people. He called three times, and was very brusque. I almost told him a thing or two about how inefficiently his ships are run!”
“Did he leave a message?”
Miss Hardy reported that North wanted the brothers to come to his office the next morning at ten o’clock to discuss some “important business.” The boys were puzzled.
“Maybe he wants some information about the Dorado stowaway,” Joe said. 
After supper the boys checked the machete for fingerprints. There were none.
“But look at this!” Joe exclaimed. “A Cayenne trademark on the blade! This is from South America! We must report our find to Mr. Dykeman!”
Frank took a world atlas from a bookshelf, flipped to the back index, and ran a finger down the list. “The Huella Islands,” he said, “are off the coast of Cayenne!”
“The stowaway got aboard there,” Joe said. “He could be one of the higher-ups in the gang. Anyhow, we’d better get our car fixed.”
The Hardys drove to an auto accessories place, and were told that repairs would be finished by morning.
The next day the brothers picked up their car and drove to the grimy North Lines Building. They were ushered into Orrin North’s large, plushly furnished office on the top floor. The bulky magnate was relaxing behind a mahogany desk near a picture window overlooking Barmet Bay.
“Glad you could come. Have a seat.” Without getting up, North waved the Hardys toward a small sofa. “Like my setup, boys?”
“Very comfortable, Mr. North,” Frank commented. Both he and Joe were at once struck by the disparity between the lavishness of the office and the run-down exterior of the building. They recalled the reports of North’s failing business.
“Like it myself,” the shipowner admitted proudly. “And it’s all mine—planned by me, earned by me, and preserved by me. Shows what incentive will do. Smart kids like you could do as well—if you play your cards right.”
Frank and Joe made no comment. It was rumored in Bayport that North’s rise to wealth had not been entirely honest. Each boy wondered what he was leading up to.
The husky tycoon leaned back in his chair. “I understand you boys ran into that thief who jumped ship from my Dorado.”
“We did,” Joe affirmed.
“That’s why I called you in. The hoodlum not only stowed away, but stole a good deal of money. The whole business could give my line a bad name! You two got a good look at him and I’ll make it worth your while if you can find him for me. By the way, did the fellow say anything?”
Frank replied cautiously, “Not much. He was too weak to talk.”
North seemed satisfied. “Too bad. We might have had more luck if you had gone straight to Captain Burne.” His voice showed irritation. “Let me hear first if you get any leads.”
“Do you know the stowaway’s name—or background?” Joe countered.
The burly magnate shrugged. “Not me. Burne thinks he sneaked on at Cayenne. Personally, I have a feeling he’s a spy!”
“It’s possible,” Frank agreed, a bit startled. Had North a motive in saying this? Or was it merely an offhand remark?
North escorted the brothers to the door, where Frank reservedly said they would “keep in touch.”
“I guess you boys know the ropes, being sons of Fenton Hardy.” He smiled. “What’s your dad up to these days? Haven’t seen him around. Big case?”
“He’s always busy,” Frank answered.
Mr. North nodded. “Well, boys, don’t forget about that reward! By the way, I’d like to keep this thing out of the newspaper.”
As the boys walked back to the car, they mulled over the meeting. “Something about Orrin North rings false,” Frank concluded. “He doesn’t seem to want the authorities to get to that stowaway before he does. Why?”
“Good question,” Joe answered. “I’ll bet the stowaway stole something besides money, or maybe he’s got something on North!”
“Like what?”
“North himself might be part of the Footprints plot Mr. Dykeman told us about.”
Frank looked doubtful. “He may be involved in some shady financial dealings, but North’s too prominent to risk being in a spy racket.”
“Guess so,” said Joe. “Did you notice how he tried to fish something out of us about Dad?”
“I sure did! Come on. We have some checking to do.”
The Hardys drove to the freighter pier. Here they learned that the Dorado was on its way back to Cayenne and other South American ports. At the passenger office they found that the name Ricardo was not on the Capricorn’s manifest, nor on that of any other ship arriving recently. 
The boys returned to their car. “He must have registered under another name,” Joe said.
Frank slipped behind the wheel. “We’ve got to find that stowaway! He’s the key to this whole thing.”
“Fine, but we haven’t any kind of lead.” Joe hopped in beside his brother.
Frank snapped his fingers. “Our boathouse! He learned about our owning the Sleuth and might have gone there to hide out—or to snoop!”
“Roger!”
Frank followed the road which wound around the bay to the dock area. Suddenly the boys noticed three men in black raincoats stealthily approaching a run-down boathouse. As Frank and Joe watched, two of the men disappeared around the far side of the building. When the third moved along the near wall, they recognized the short, bald man!
“That phony immigration officer!” Frank jolted the car to a halt. “It looks as if they’re after someone!”
The impostor by now had scurried inside. At once the Hardys jumped out. Frank signaled Joe to head left. He went to the right of the boathouse. Cautiously they stole through the high weeds surrounding the building.
A harsh voice was audible from within. “You won’t get away this time, Gomez! We’ll teach you to run out on us!”
Joe was the first to reach the waterside of the boathouse. He inched along the narrow walkway and peered cautiously inside the entrance.
Three men, spread out on the catwalk, were facing a solitary, slender figure crouching on the rear platform. One of his opponents slowly pulled a rope from his pocket. Together, the men converged on the cornered man. 
The Dorado stowaway!

CHAPTER VIII  
  Cobblewave Cove
 
 
 
THE men’s steps echoed eerily in the shadowy boathouse as they advanced on the stowaway. Joe glanced over at Frank, who had posted himself at the other side of the entrance.
The fat, bald man paused and rasped out, “Don’t give us trouble. Valdez, Walton, and I are going to take real good care of you!”
The speaker’s two companions—one stocky, the other huge and bushy-haired—kept stalking their prey. The stowaway braced himself defensively. Frank nodded to Joe and shouted, “Hey!”
Startled, the attacking men whirled. “Greber! It’s those Hardy kids! Get ’em!” snarled the stocky thug. The boys recognized him at once as the swarthy-faced Micro-Eye trespasser!
His bushy-haired partner lunged at Joe. The youth dodged nimbly and tripped the man, who fell sprawling onto the rickety dock. But he grabbed Joe’s leg and pulled the boy down. The two grappled, rolling perilously close to the water.
Frank, meanwhile, had charged inside the boathouse. He landed a blow in the midriff of the stocky man, who staggered, half-stunned. A second later the stowaway raced outside!
“Wait!” Frank’s cry was choked off by a rope whipped around his throat from behind. Gasping, he tried to get his fingers inside the rope, but it was drawn tighter!
Desperate, Frank jabbed his elbow full force into his assailant’s stomach. Taken off balance, the pudgy man teetered, let go the rope, and landed in the water with a splash.
But the next instant something heavy crashed down on Frank’s head. He sank to the floor, unconscious.
The young sleuth had no idea how much time passed before he revived and saw Joe’s worried face looking down. “Frank, are you all right?”
“Guess so, except my head hurts.” Frank stood up and touched a swelling bruise.
“No wonder! You got conked with this.” Joe picked up a brick.
“Oh great!” Frank grimaced. “Hey—the stowaway and those other men—where are they?”
“Gone,” Joe said glumly. “All three lit off after Gomez. I started to chase them, until I realized you weren’t following me.”
The Hardys hurried outside. There was no sign of Gomez or his pursuers.
Frank said, “At least we know there’s some link between Gomez and the wire-cutter fellow. He must be the one called Valdez—and the big guy is Walton. The other’s Greber.”
“But why the attack on Gomez by the others?” Frank asked.
“My guess is he cut out from the gang and wants to blow the whistle on his pals. That could explain his stowing away and jumping ship. Also his warning about Footprints.”
“But why would he have stolen Dad’s papers?”
“Maybe somebody else did.”
“Another puzzler. If Gomez does want help, why run away from us?”
The brothers returned to the car and Joe took the wheel. “Better get you home to take care of that bump,” he advised his brother.
“Okay. But we’ll make some reports on the way. What do we tell Mr. North?”
“Just let him know we saw the stowaway. Maybe we can get some information out of him.”
A few minutes later they stopped at a drugstore and hurried inside to the two phone booths. Joe dialed the secret number of Mr. Dykeman, and told him of their experience at the old boathouse. The agent was doubly alarmed when Joe mentioned the earlier machete warning.
“At least we know the four men are in the vicinity,” said Dykeman. “We’ll redouble our efforts to track them down.”
Frank, meanwhile, had phoned Orrin North.
“Humph!” the magnate sounded displeased at the boy’s report. “Too bad you didn’t get Gomez—can’t pay you for no results.”
“Joe and I aren’t worried about the money,” Frank said coolly. “We’d like to find out what’s at the bottom of all this.” Hoping to draw the man out, he described the trio pursuing the runaway. “Do you know any of them?”
“Of course not!” North snapped. “If you get something new on that thief, post me at once.”
Frank hung up thoughtfully. Did North have another reason for wanting the stowaway captured other than the thefts from the Dorado? 
Back at the house, the boys told Aunt Gertrude a mild version of how Frank had received his bump. She looked worried, however, and insisted Frank apply a cold compress to his head.
Just after lunch they heard the loud squawk of a horn outside. A moment later Chet bounced jauntily into the house. “All aboard for Cobblewave Cove—in the Sleuth, I hope!” 
“Not today,” Joe protested. “We have a few spies to catch up with.”
Chet was crestfallen. “Oh, come on, fellows. You prom—” He stopped and stared at Frank. “Wow, what collided with you?”
“A large brick and a few thugs.”
Chet’s eyes bulged as the brothers brought him up to date. “Whew! Sounds like a fistful of ugly customers! Say,” he added coaxingly, “some fresh salt air is just what you need!”
“Well, all right,” Frank agreed finally. “We’ll take a run out to Cobblewave Cove.”
Joe grinned. “What’s the weather outlook from the Morton Cloud Bureau?”
Chet held his palm upward and eyed the ceiling intently. “Excellent! All clear!”
Aunt Gertrude cautioned the boys, “Now don’t take chances climbing around that old shipwreck. It’s dangerous.”
Chet drove the boys in his jalopy to the Hardy boathouse. They were greeted by dark-haired, good-looking Tony Prito. He hurried over from where his motorboat, the Napoli, was moored. 
“Hi, mates! You missed the excitement!”
“What? Where?”
Tony explained that police and plainclothesmen had been combing a deserted boathouse up the road. “Must have been some kind of trouble there,” Tony said.
“We can vouch for that,” Frank said ruefully.
Tony whistled at the Hardys’ account of their struggle. “Spy suspects!”
The Hardys asked him if there had been any more vandalism at the Oak Hollow housing development. “No,” Tony replied, heaving a sigh. “But Dad is sick about it. Making repairs is costly.”
He looked somber upon hearing of the suspected machete sabotage on Jack Wayne’s plane. “What does your dad think?”
Frank explained that his father was working incommunicado for the present.
“So you and Joe are prime targets, apparently,” Tony said.
“Looks that way.” Joe scowled. “Those thugs must be hiding out around Bayport.”
Chet impatiently urged that the boys start for the cove, and Tony gladly accepted an invitation to join his pals aboard the Sleuth.
Twenty minutes later the sleek craft, with Frank as helmsman, was streaking into a brisk wind down the coast. Its bobbing bow cut blue waves into jewels of salt spray and left behind a foamy, meandering wake.
While Frank, Joe, and Tony discussed the mysteries, Chet stretched out in the stern. “A perfect cumulus!” he announced, pointing to a white fluffy cloud as he munched a chocolate bar. “Yes, it’s fair weather ahead, my friends.”
Frank throttled down for the turn into Cobblewave Cove. “Too bad Iola and Callie didn’t come along.” Iola, Chet’s sister, was Joe’s favorite date, while pretty Callie Shaw was Frank’s.
Chet sat up and grinned. “You two detectives have competition—sea shells.”
“What?” Joe pretended indignation.
“The girls wanted to go combing for some old shells. Besides, they’re scared of the spooky legend about the shipwreck.”
By now the Sleuth had entered the cove, and was approaching the hull of the foundered ship. 
“You don’t mean Iola and Callie are really scared by that ghost business,” Joe said.
The chunky boy gestured dramatically. “Listen! Just yesterday Iola said she heard reports of horrible cries from deep inside!”
“I thought you didn’t believe that hogwash, Chet,” Joe said, chuckling.
“Of course I don’t!” Chet retorted, but he shifted uncomfortably.
“Ship ahoy!” Frank sang out.
He guided the Sleuth past glistening black rocks, banking around the bulky, weather-torn stern of the half-sunken freighter. Beneath thick rust the name Atlantis was faintly visible. 
The barnacled hull leaned to the north, shored up by a small sand bar beneath the gashed-in port bow. The foreship hung against a toothlike rock formation. Above, two toppled booms angled over a crushed deck rail. The wreck lay some hundred yards out from shore.
“Old man North must have had a fit when this crate cracked up,” Tony remarked.
The Hardys were surprised. “The Atlantis was a North Lines ship?” Frank asked. 
Tony nodded. “My dad was talking about it the other day. He said the wreck happened shortly after Mr. North started in business.”
Frank cut the engine as they inched between the rocks near the bow of the ship.
“Let’s see if we can board her and have a look around,” Joe said eagerly.
He and Tony clambered forward. Tony was first to spot a rusted ladder against the freighter’s prow. “We can go up there!”
But Joe had seen something else. “Oh—oh!” He pointed to a warning sign which hung from the bow anchor: 
DANGER—DO NOT BOARD THIS VESSEL TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED ORDER OF U.S. COAST GUARD 
“Guess that’s official,” Frank observed, nudging the Sleuth near the ladder. The rung crumbled into flakes. 
“It’s pretty dangerous all right,” he admitted. The boys were disappointed.
Chet shrugged. “There probably isn’t any valuable cargo. We’d better go back.”
The other boys exchanged winks. “Let the ghosts have the treasure, eh?” Tony needled.
Chet opened his mouth to retort. But instead his eyes widened in fear. “Listen!” Chet squeaked. “I—I heard a scream.”
The four listened intently. But the only sound was the gentle lap of the waves. Chet sank back. “Guess it was only my imagination.”
The Hardys and Tony laughed as Frank guided the Sleuth toward the cove entrance. A white yacht, churning northward, arced slowly to turn in. Frank steered out of its path. Suddenly the boys noticed the yacht swing about, and at increased speed head directly toward them! 
“The skipper must think this is a drag strip!” Frank said, and honked the Sleuth’s horn. Still the powerful boat bore down on them. 
“What does he think he’s doing!” Joe cried out.
Frank signaled again, steering closer to the rocky shore of the cove mouth to make way for the yacht. But still it churned relentlessly toward them, the sleek jaw of its prow slicing out wings of froth. Forty yards! Twenty!
Frank frantically swerved the Sleuth to the left, past jagged rocks. Joe, Chet, and Tony waved desperately to the heedless pilot.
Then with horror Tony saw a swirling, shadowed eddy dead ahead of their bow. A massive ledge of rock! “Frank! Look out!”
But the waves kicked up by the onrushing yacht rolled against the Sleuth, driving it straight for the submerged rock! 

CHAPTER IX  
  Thief in the Crowd
 
 
 
“THE rock!” Joe shouted. “We’re going to hit!”
Grimly Frank swung the wheel hard right, and the Sleuth missed the deadly rock by inches. The yacht curved away at the last minute. Now it approached the Sleuth at slackened speed. 
The craft was handsomely trimmed in brass and about forty feet in length. The boys saw the name of the ship in red letters: Northerly.
“Orrin North’s yacht!” Joe shouted.
A man in blue uniform stepped out on the bridge as the craft drew parallel with the Sleuth.
Frank cupped his hands. “What were you trying to do—run us into the rocks?”
“No, I was trying to warn you about them.”
“Warn us!” Frank yelled angrily.
“Yes. Sorry if I shook you up. You ought to keep away from that old wreck. This isn’t a safe place to go boating.”
“With you around it isn’t!” Chet piped up.
There was no response from the Northerly. Instead, it swept around in a wide circle and plowed out of the cove southward. Frank revved up the engine and steered the Sleuth into the open sea. 
“Whew!” Chet breathed out. “I could just feel us scraping Davy Jones’s locker. You sure did some smart piloting, Frank.”
Joe burst out, “Does Mr. North think he owns the whole ocean?”
Tony’s eyes widened. “Maybe his crew has orders to keep anyone from getting hurt near the Atlantis.”
“To keep him from getting sued you mean,” Joe said, still fuming. “‘Warn us’! I’d like to go back and ‘warn’ him!”
“I didn’t notice North on deck,” Chet observed.
Tony nodded. “But I’ve seen him at the helm sometimes, plowing around Barmet Bay as if he were a fleet commander!”
The Hardys were perplexed. Why had the Northerly’s helmsman risked a collision in order to “warn” the boys? Why not signal? 
“There’s sure something fishy about North.” Joe scowled. “Especially his asking us to find that stowaway.”
Frank had steered the Sleuth into the mouth of Barmet Bay and cut speed. Now he said thoughtfully, “I have a hunch we should scout around Cobblewave Cove again.” 
Chet perked up. “Iola and Callie want to do some shell hunting near there tomorrow, at Barren Sands. Why don’t you fellows come along?”
“It’s a date,” Frank agreed.
Tony said he could not join his friends because he would be helping his father at Oak Hollow.
“Call us if there’s any more trouble,” Frank urged.
“Will do!”
The Sleuth was soon docked, and Chet drove the Hardys home. “See you tomorrow.” The plump boy waved and the jalopy chugged away. 
Later, Frank phoned Jack Wayne at the airport. The pilot reported he had been in touch with Micro-Eye Industries about the plane sabotage. No clue to the culprits had yet been found, but his plane had been repaired satisfactorily. “And just in time. I’m due to fly to South America in about two days to investigate luggage thefts in Cayenne!”
“Cayenne!” Frank echoed.
“That’s right. The airline people here are concerned about the pilfering of baggage there. I know some French, was available, and—thanks to my detective training working with you Hardys—the investigators here think I can handle it.”
“Need any help?” Frank asked hopefully.
Jack laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have some extra space. Would you and Joe like to come along? Chet Morton, too.”
“Count us in!”
Frank at once spoke to Aunt Gertrude, who gave her consent for the trip. Next, Joe called Mr. Dykeman, then Chet, whose response was excited, although apprehensive.
“Don’t we have enough danger around here?” he argued. But in a few minutes their friend reported he had obtained permission to go.
“Swell. Lucky we all have up-to-date health certificates and passports.”
“Passports to trouble!” Chet prophesied.
During supper the brothers elatedly discussed the prospective trip. Aunt Gertrude said with a sigh, “I don’t know what your father will say about your flying recklessly into the wilds.”
Joe grinned. “Dad wouldn’t stand in the way of our solving a mystery. Besides, Aunty, you were in Cayenne, and got home okay.”
Aunt Gertrude looked at her nephews. “Never mind. I wasn’t trailing thieves—or spies.”
The boys feigned surprise. “What makes you think we are?” Frank asked.
“Humph. The trouble at Micro-Eye—the stowaway from South America—that man you think is Mr. Ricardo—” Her nephews laughed.
After supper the boys tried to fathom what the Micro-Eye project could be.
“It must be a camera of some kind—a real powerful one,” Joe surmised, “or else a telescope.”
“Whatever it is, I wish we knew,” Frank said. “Everything we’ve run into points to this Footprints spy plot. Yet we don’t even know what it is they’re after!”
Later the boys drove around the waterfront, hoping for a glimpse of the escapee, Gomez. But there was no sign of him. They returned home at ten o’clock and went to bed.
The next morning Frank and Joe drove to the Morton farm to meet Chet and the girls for their shell-hunting date. As the Hardys pulled up the broad drive, Chet and pretty, blond Callie Shaw came to meet them.
“Hi!” Callie smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I hear you boys are off for South America!”
Joe looked around. “Where’s Iola?” he asked.
Chet said his sister had driven into town earlier with Mr. Morton to do some errands. “We’ll meet her at the dry cleaner’s.”
The Hardys noticed that Chet seemed downcast. “What’s up?” Joe asked him.
“Trouble at the agency,” Chet explained. He referred to the Voyager Travel Bureau of which Mr. Morton was part owner. The office had been broken into during the night but nothing had been stolen. “It’s happened to other agencies, too,” Chet added.
“Sounds queer,” Joe noted, intrigued. “Wonder what the intruder was after.”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” said Chet as the four young people piled into the Hardys’ convertible.
“Try not to worry,” Callie told Chet. “Just think of the luscious picnic your mother and I packed.”
The plump boy brightened and everyone laughed. Later, Frank parked not far from the Corporated Laundries store. Joe spotted Iola hurrying up the street and went to meet the attractive, dark-haired girl. She carried a large shopping bag filled to capacity.
“Hi, Iola! Here—I’ll take that.”
“Thanks, Joe. It weighs a ton.”
They headed back to the car. Chet’s brown-eyed sister chatted excitedly about the sea shells she and Callie had already collected.
“You’ll probably find lots more at—Hey!” Joe suddenly felt a jolt from behind. The shopping bag was snatched from his grasp!
Joe whipped around. A stocky man in a black raincoat was running down the street, the bag clutched in one hand. Iola screamed.
“Stop, thief!” Joe yelled, and instantly took off after the fleeing figure, who darted in and out of the throng of pedestrians, and sprinted over a crowded crosswalk.
Leaping ahead, Joe just made the yellow light. The fugitive had spun around the corner onto State Street. Dodging waves of shoppers, Joe ran full steam along the curb, skirted two parked cars, then made the turn. People kept surging into his way, but he squeezed through the startled crowd and broke into the open. By now the thief was out of sight.
Joe stopped. The bag snatcher could have taken any direction. Disgusted, Joe ran back to Iola. The others were grouped around her.
“Did you get a good look at him?” Frank asked his brother quickly.
“Not his face. From his build, he could be the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye.”
With a nervous look around, Chet muttered, “No matter where we go, those spies turn up.”
At this, the girls were visibly upset. “Spies!” Iola gasped.
The Hardys explained as much as they felt was politic. Then Frank asked, “Iola, what did you have in the bag?”
“A box of clothes from Corporated Laundries—mostly Chet’s, some things for Mother, and a magnifying glass,” she murmured nervously. “I think that’s all.”
“Too bad to lose them,” said Joe. “But why would anyone else want them?”
Two policemen arrived on the scene and were given an account by Joe and Iola. The officers, whom the Hardys knew, were especially interested to learn that Joe thought he recognized the thief. “Let us know if you spot him again. We’ve been working on that boathouse investigation,” one policeman said.
Callie put a comforting arm around Iola and the group returned to the car.
Chet groaned. “He would have to filch my duds.”


  


  
“And our magnifying glass,” Iola added, managing a smile. “Callie and I were going to use it to study sea shells. Joe, we’ll have to depend on your eagle eyes instead!”
Joe called Mr. Dykeman. Chet telephoned home. His mother was disturbed by the incident, but she insisted the group not cancel their plans.
Soon they were driving south toward Barren Sands. They talked of the theft.
“Why should he pick on me?” Iola complained. “Did he figure I had a treasure in the bag?”
“Maybe he took the bag because Joe was carrying it,” Frank suggested. “He might have hoped to get some clue to what we’re doing.”
Half an hour later Frank turned off Shore Road and parked in a little-used dirt lane. The boys and girls trekked through high, coarse grass and came out on the wide, deserted beach of Barren Sands. Just south of it they could see the mouth of Cobblewave Cove.
Callie and Iola immediately kicked off their shoes and began prowling through the surf to find interesting shells. The boys, meanwhile, walked farther down the beach toward the cove. A brisk wind had come up, lashing the breakers. Thunder-heads reared up on the horizon.
“Oh, oh,” said Chet. “Storm’s brewing. But it’ll blow over.”
Presently Callie called, “Boys, help us search!”
“Let’s eat first,” Chet insisted.
After a hearty lunch the teenagers spread out, meeting occasionally to inspect one another’s discoveries—ark shells, clam shells, channeled whelks, snail shells, and many more varieties.
“This is probably a New England Nassa.” Iola excitedly held up a yellowish, spiraled shell.
Joe grinned. “You sound like a professor.”
“Look at this one, everybody!” Callie waved from atop a slope that led down to the water. The others ran up and admired an unusual, conelike shell she had plucked from the sand.
“That’s a honey!” Chet said. “What kind is it?”
Callie studied the whitish univalve, about two inches wide with a keyhole groove in its blue interior. Neither girl could identify it.
Just then Frank looked down and noticed something that aroused his curiosity. A circular pattern of large, barefoot prints surrounded the spot where the shell had lain. Before he could comment, someone ran up behind them. They turned to face a swarthy stranger, unshaven and wearing patched clothing and sandals.
He cried out angrily, “Give me that shell! It’s mine!”
To everyone’s astonishment, he snatched the shell from Callie’s grasp!

CHAPTER X  
  Discreet Intruder
 
 
 
“IT’S my shell—I found it!” Callie protested. But at the unkempt stranger’s savage expression, she stepped back in fright.
“She did find it,” Joe asserted firmly. “What’s the big idea, mister?”
The man’s eyes gleamed suspiciously at the teenagers. Gripping the shell tightly, he started down the slope.
Frank blocked his path.
“Just a minute,” he said evenly. “What right do you have to this shell? Who are you?” 
“I’m called Sandy,” the man said sullenly. He jammed the object into his pocket. “I found this shell earlier and put it here.”
“That’s not likely,” Frank disagreed, pointing toward the incline. “Those footprints up there are too big to be yours. Besides, why would you have left the shell here?”
As the others stepped closer, the man shifted uneasily, as if groping for an excuse.
“Please,” Iola spoke up, “my friend Callie and I collect shells. There are lots of other pretty ones left on the beach.”
Sandy shook his head stiffly. “No. I must take this to Mr.—” He broke off, then continued, “You see, I sell shells to get enough money so I can eat. It’s my only job.”
So sudden was his change of manner that Callie relented. “All right, you may keep the shell.”
She had scarcely finished speaking when the man marched quickly away. He soon disappeared around a bend in the beach.
“You shouldn’t have given it to him, Call” Chet insisted. “He as much as admitted he was lying!”
Callie sighed. “Well, he’s evidently very poor, and needs the shell more than I do. Maybe we can find another!”
Both Frank and Joe were studying the circle of footprints. “They’re damp,” Frank observed. “What strikes me is the perfect pattern, as if to mark where that shell was.”
Joe then noticed a jumbled series of prints leading toward the water. The brothers followed the trail down the slope. Here they diverged into two distinct sets of tracks—one coming and one going. Both ended at the water’s edge.
“Let’s separate and see if there are more prints along the beach,” Frank suggested.
The Hardys combed the surf in opposite directions. When they rejoined the others later, neither boy had spotted any further trace of footprints.
“Whoever made the prints must have either swum a long distance,” Joe said, “or come ashore from a boat.”
Chet glanced at the Hardys. “I’ll bet you two have some theory cooking,” he said. 
Frank nodded. “That beachcomber’s fishy story, these footprints—I’ll bet something important was inside that shell.”
“A message?” Callie asked.
“It’s a good guess,” Frank replied.
Secretly he and Joe were wondering if the mysterious prints and shell had a connection with the Footprints plot! “Wild hunch,” Frank told himself. “But I’d like to know who’s buying that shell.”
For the next hour the young people hunted shells, but found none like the beachcomber had taken. Frank and Joe scanned the area in vain for any further sign of the stranger.
Suddenly Chet shouted, beckoning to the others. “Storm’s coming up fast!”
The sky was rapidly filling with black clouds. Rumbles of thunder could be heard. Iola gathered the collection of shells into a large kerchief. By this time drops of rain had become a downpour.
The girls and boys dashed to the car and clambered in. Torrents of rain drummed on the steaming roof as they rode homeward. Joe reminded Chet of his optimistic weather forecast.
Chet, in back with Joe and Iola, asked innocently, “So what am I, a barometer?”
After dropping Chet and the girls off, the Hardys stopped at the immigration office to inquire about Gomez. No trace of him or of the three thugs had been found.
“We’ve been turning this town upside down,” Scott told them. “If the gang hasn’t left Bayport, it has certainly found good hideouts.”
Back home, the Hardys determined to return to Barren Sands and watch for another possible “pickup” by the beachcomber.
After supper an urgent phone call came from Mr. Morton. The realtor asked the brothers to hurry to the Voyager Travel Bureau. Frank and Joe lost no time in driving downtown.
Mr. Morton quickly let them into the street-level office. He looked worried.
“Frank and Joe! Glad to see you! Somebody has broken in here again!”
“When did you find out?” Frank asked.
“Just before I called you. We’d closed up, but I came back for some papers. I was just in time to spot a stocky, flat-nosed man dropping out the back window. I couldn’t catch him.”
Joe whistled at the description. “Frank! Sounds like the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye—and tangled with in the boathouse!”
Frank asked what had been taken. Mr. Morton led them into the back office, switched on a light, and looked around, perplexed.
“That’s just it—nothing. Same as before.” The police, he added, had found no fingerprints.
“Was anything disturbed tonight?” Frank asked. 
“Yes.” Mr. Morton pointed to a thin sheaf of papers on top of a desk. “Records of our travel customers this week. I found the papers flipped over when I returned from chasing the intruder.”
Frank sat down and studied the booking list. It included destinations, tour plans, prices, and means of travel. Most of the clients were Bayport residents.
“What use could these be to an outsider?” Joe wondered, peering over his brother’s shoulder.
Mr. Morton sank wearly into a chair. “I can’t imagine. That’s why I called you boys.”
Frank continued reading the list. Suddenly he pointed to an entry near the bottom:
Mr. Raymond Martin. Cayenne. Jetliner.
“Hmm.” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the only South American destination listed for tonight!”
“Do you think this is significant?” Mr. Morton asked quickly.
“Possibly,” Frank replied. He asked Chet’s father about Mr. Martin.
“I don’t know him personally. I believe the arrangements were made by phone.” Mr. Morton sighed. “The Oak Hollow trouble and now this!”
“It’s a puzzle,” Frank agreed. “I have an idea, but I’m going to let it simmer until we do some legwork.” He asked Mr. Morton to notify Micro-Eye Industries of the prowler he had seen.
“Sure will. Thanks for your help, boys.”
Outside, Joe started to ask Frank about his idea, but his brother rushed him into the car. “I’ll tell you on the way to the airport.”
“The airport!”
Frank slipped behind the wheel and headed west. “Raymond Martin,” he explained, “is scheduled to leave by plane tonight. We might be in time to get a look at him.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “You figure the intruder was after something in particular—like Mr. Martin’s name?”
“Right—and that could be an alias.”
Frank recalled the luggage thefts Jack Wayne was to investigate. “This plane stops over in Cayenne. Martin could either be slated as a possible victim of the thieves—or in league with the spy ring!”
The Hardys parked near the main terminal at Bayport Airport. Inside the spacious building, they quickly found the passenger gate for Flight 54.
“Martin should come through here,” Frank whispered, checking his watch. “The plane takes off in ten minutes.”
Frank asked the gate attendant if a Mr. Martin had yet boarded the plane. The man shook his head. “I doubt it. Nobody by that name has shown me a boarding pass. But he’d better hurry—plane’s readying for take-off.”
The attendant agreed to nod to the Hardys if Martin appeared. Frank and Joe went to stand inconspicuously against a baggage locker nearby and watched boarding passengers file through the gate. Beyond a steel-laced glass wall, landing planes blinked like huge fireflies.
Both boys felt tense. Would they recognize Raymond Martin? Was he an ordinary traveler, or could his name be an alias for Gomez or any of the other elusive suspects?
Five minutes passed. The jets of the silver Brazil-bound liner screamed to life.
“No, you haven’t missed him,” the attendant assured the Hardys. “Mr. Martin’s the only passenger not aboard.”
“It looks as if he’s not going to show,” Joe concluded, disappointed.
“Maybe he spotted us here,” Frank said. “Quick! Let’s pretend to leave.”
The boys hurried off through the crowd. Joe turned his head casually. The next second he grabbed Frank’s arm. “Look!”
A middle-aged, well-dressed man was rushing toward the Flight 54 gate, trailing a white raincoat from his arm.
“Wait!” he shouted. “Hold the plane!”
The Hardys were close enough to see that the man’s face was completely unfamiliar. As the passenger darted through the gate, his coat hem caught on the end of the metal railing. The man snatched the coat free, but a large piece of lining was torn off and dropped to the floor.
The man did not stop. He ran to the landing ramp and climbed into the jetliner. A minute later the huge craft taxied off and soon rose into the night sky. Frank and Joe stood at the gate staring in chagrin after the plane.
“That was Mr. Martin, all right,” the attendant affirmed. “Too bad you boys didn’t get a chance to visit with him.”
Frank retrieved the piece of bright plaid lining, and the brothers walked back across the terminal. “Well, I guess I led us on a wild-goose chase,” Frank apologized.
But as he examined the torn material, he noticed a glossy, black edge protruding from a ripped seam.
“Joe, look at this!”
Frank pulled at the edge. A small roll of celluloid fell to the floor!

CHAPTER XI  
  A Secret Revealed
 
 
 
FRANK stooped and picked up the celluloid coil from the floor of the air terminal.
“Joe, it’s film!”
The Hardy boys examined the torn patch from the stranger’s raincoat. A tiny pocket, now ripped, was visible in the plaid lining.
“Pretty clever,” Joe murmured. “The film must have been sewn in to avoid detection.”
“Something tells me we’d better take a good look at this film,” said Frank.
The brothers hastened to a quiet corner of the terminal. Frank unfurled the strip of small film and held it up to the overhead lighting.
“What does it show?” Joe asked excitedly.
“It’s hard to make out.” Frank squinted up at the tiny frames. “Machinery of some sort—maybe a factory interior—wait! Jumping crickets, look at this!”
Joe grabbed the bottom of the strip and inspected the frame near his brother’s thumb. It was an outdoor view showing a high, steel fence and two uniformed figures. Joe gasped.
“The Micro-Eye plant!”
“You bet it is—and taken from inside the fence!” 
Half-incredulous, the Hardys scrutinized the film’s other frames—close-ups of the complex and labeled diagrams.
“Blueprints!” Joe whispered as Frank quickly wrapped the spool in the scrap of raincoat.
The boys had no doubt of the importance of what they had come upon: chilling evidence of espionage at Bayport’s top-secret project!
“But if Raymond Martin is a spy,” Joe wondered, “why didn’t he stop to pick up the torn piece?”
“He may not have realized it contained the film. Come on! We’re going to get this to Mr. Dykeman pronto!”
Frank and Joe surveyed the terminal. Satisfied that nobody had been watching them, they walked to an outside telephone booth where Frank contacted Roy Dykeman.
He urgently related what had happened, but, as a precaution, omitted precise details of the film. The intelligence agent reacted immediately.
“Stay right where you are,” he directed tersely.
Minutes later, the Hardys were greeted by two plainclothesmen, who quickly identified themselves with credentials as Miller and Kyle. The boys followed the men out to the parking lot.
Inside the agents’ sedan, the boys related what had happened. The men rapidly jotted down notes. When Frank turned over the film, both agents were impressed.
“Great going, boys! Too bad Martin slipped by, but he’ll be watched when he lands. This evidence could shed light on the Footprints plot. Be careful! We’ll be in touch.”
The sedan roared off, and the Hardys went to their car. Back home, Joe checked the Bayport telephone directory. A Raymond Martin was listed at a residential address. The brothers took turns dialing the number at intervals, but there was no answer. They found that Mr. Hardy’s criminal files had no record of the suspect.
The brothers tumbled into bed, but neither fell asleep immediately. Speculations raced through their minds. Who was the mysterious Mr. Martin, now airborne to South America?
The next morning after breakfast the Hardys had a phone call from Mr. Dykeman. He asked them to come at once to the photographic plant.
Excitedly Frank and Joe dashed outside to their car and in twenty minutes drew up at the Micro-Eye gate. Agent Kyle, to whom they had given the film, looked in their window, then nodded to the guards.
“Mr. Dykeman’s expecting these boys,” he said.
The Hardys were waved through. They parked in the employees’ lot and were escorted by a guard to a second-floor office adjoining the main plant.
Mr. Dykeman, looking tired, rose from his desk in the small, map-lined room. His expression was grave as Frank and Joe took seats.
“What you two came upon at the airport last night is a major breakthrough for us,” the agent said. “But it’s also given us cause for serious concern.”
“Then that film was taken by a spy?” Frank asked.
“No question about it. This is proof of an internal security leak at Micro-Eye.”
Joe told of the boys’ futile efforts to phone Raymond Martin’s home.
Dykeman smiled. “It seems he is a highly respected insurance executive who was recently transferred to Bayport. He has no family.”
“So he probably isn’t knowingly involved in the film business?” Frank queried.
“We believe that’s the case,” replied Dykeman. “He is going to Cayenne supposedly on business. Of course, Martin could be a courier for the espionage ring in Bayport, told to wear the raincoat but not why.” 
“Which would mean,” Joe put in, “that the film was meant to be picked up in Cayenne.”
“Yes.” Dykeman went on, “We’ve wired our people there to watch for Martin, and also, for anyone who tries to get his coat. We’re hoping the spies won’t learn of our recovering the film until after Martin’s arrival.”
The Hardys were also told that no trace of Gomez or the other three men had as yet been uncovered. The intelligence officer walked to the window and looked across at a long brick building. He turned and smiled at the boys.
“I imagine you’re curious about the nature of the Micro-Eye project.”
Joe and his brother exchanged glances. “I guess we’d have to admit that!” Frank grinned.
The agent nodded. “We’ve already had you cleared. You have a right to know the basics of the project, considering your involvement and cooperation in the Footprints case. And because your own lives stand in considerable danger.”
Frank and Joe waited tensely.
“In simple terms,” Dykeman continued, “Micro-Eye is building a powerful satellite camera.”
The boys leaned forward, their interest doubly aroused. “How powerful?” Joe inquired.
“One so strong in range and definition it will be capable of telescoping terrain from the highest altitudes. Even”—he chuckled—“a baby’s footprints on a gravel path.”
“Wow!” Joe repressed a whistle. “A camera like that would have terrific military value! No wonder spies are after it.”
Mr. Dykeman explained that after secret project drawings were found missing, the satellite camera’s completion had been delayed by “decoy” work undertaken at the plant.
Dykeman held up the familiar spool of film. “Fortunately, whoever took these pictures fell for some phony blueprints. But we cannot delay the project any more. The government is pressing us.”
Frank spoke up thoughtfully. “Since the code name of this spy ring is Footprints, maybe there is a link with the Huella Islands.”
“Huella,” Joe repeated, then snapped his fingers. “You’re right. Huella is Spanish for ‘footprint’!” 
Mr. Dykeman and the boys studied a detailed map of South America. Like jagged footprints, the small Huella island group extended north off French Guiana.
Since the dictator there is unfriendly to the United States, he may well be a party to the plot,” Joe suggested.
“Perhaps,” Dykeman agreed. “We’ve discovered that there is great dissatisfaction among the people, even though Posada did away with the infamous prison colony on the island as a concession to them.”
“Have you any idea who took the pictures?” Frank asked Mr. Dykeman.
The agent motioned the Hardys to accompany him. He led them downstairs and across the yard some distance from the building.
“To answer your question, Frank,” he said in a low tone, “we’re turning this place upside down for clues. There are several hundred employees, including engineers and technicians. We’re running a check on everyone. So far, no suspects. The outside concessions for food and laundry service are kept to restricted areas, and there are constant spot checks at the gate.”
“How about the guards?” Joe inquired.
“Thoroughly screened, and all trustworthy,” the agent declared. He added that the men’s posts were frequently shifted as a double check.
“You think we could have a look around?” Frank asked, glancing over at the main plant.
“I was just about to suggest that.” Mr. Dykeman fastened visitors’ badges to the boys’ lapels.
“These will allow you the run of the place,” he said, smiling. “Stop back at my office if you come up with any hunches!”
Minutes later, Frank and Joe were touring the interior of the one-story plant, which hummed with intense activity throughout its extensive interior. Technicians, intent on their work, scarcely looked up at the boys.
The Hardys were impressed by the steady vigilance of the guards stationed in every department. “How could anybody take unauthorized pictures with them around?” Joe murmured.
“Seems impossible,” Frank agreed.
Next, the young sleuths walked through the grounds of the complex. At the isolated maintenance building they were stopped by a heavy-eyebrowed, mustached security guard. He apologized.
“Sorry, boys. Didn’t see your badges at first.”
After examining the steel fences, the Hardys went back through the main plant.
Joe shook his head. “I can’t see a kink in this whole setup,” he remarked as they entered the design and drafting section. “This place is as tight as a drum!”
“Sure looks that way,” said Frank. “Mr. Dykeman has—Joe, look! Up there!”
At the end of the room a security captain and two guards had just seized a slender man in overalls. Draftsmen gaped in astonishment and the Hardys rushed to the scene. The technician was protesting violently.
Grim-faced, one of the guards snapped, “I just found this in your work jacket, Pryce! You’ll have some explaining to do.”
He held out a tubular, glass-capped object, then turned to a second guard.
“It’s a camera!”

CHAPTER XII  
  “Stranger” Sighted
 
 
 
“BUT I know nothing about this camera!” the technician protested. He tried to wrench free from the guards.
The Hardys looked on tensely. Each had the same thought. Had the film they had found come from this odd-looking camera in the employee’s jacket? Was he in league with the spies?
The security captain turned the device over in his hands. “Clever disguise. It looks like a tool. All right, Pryce. Come along!”
“Somebody put it into my pocket!” the technician insisted. “This is all a horrible mistake!”
Mr. Dykeman was summoned and given a full report. The intelligence agent inspected the camera, then nodded to the guards. Pryce was led away, still maintaining his innocence.
The men went back to their drawing boards, and Mr. Dykeman beckoned the Hardys to one side. “Could be a big break in our case.”
Frank whispered, “Do you think Pryce is the security leak?”
“Good chance,” the agent replied. “But we’ll check out the camera for prints and see if we can find anything to indicate it held the film you boys found. Right now, we’ll interrogate Pryce. Keep everything you’ve seen here today strictly confidential.”
“Will do!” Frank agreed. “By the way, sir, have you any word from Dad?”
Mr. Dykeman shook his head. “But I’m sure he’ll be contacting us.”
“One more question,” Frank said. “Do you know Mr. Orrin North?”
“North—the shipping magnate? Not personally. I understand he’s prominent in town. Why?”
The Hardys told the agent of North’s reward offer for finding Gomez. Mr. Dykeman seemed interested but puzzled. He looked at the boys keenly. “You suspect he has an ulterior motive?”
“Yes, we do,” Frank replied promptly. “We’ll play along with his request and see what happens.”
The boys said good-by and left. On the way to their car they saw the Corporated Laundries truck parked near the maintenance building.
“Guess they have the concession here,” said Joe.
At the gate the Hardys turned in their badges. They noticed the laundry truck behind them. It was stopped, inspected, and logged out.
“Those security guards would find a needle in a haystack!” Joe commented as he turned into the street.
“If one is in the haystack,” Frank quipped. 
On the way home the young sleuths excitedly talked about Raymond Martin, the suspected employee Pryce, and the secret Micro-Eye project.
“Some camera!” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet the Footprints gang will try anything to get it.”
“Speaking of prints, I vote we return to Barren Sands right after lunch.”
“Me too! That beachcomber may come back for another pickup. Let’s buzz Chet.”
Aunt Gertrude had plates of sizzling hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes ready for the boys at home. They grinned in anticipation and ate hungrily.
“This hits the spot, Aunty!” Joe said.
Miss Hardy unfolded her napkin. “Glad to hear that,” she remarked. “I suppose you two are up to your ears in more mysteries.”
Frank laughed. “Over our heads, I’d say.”
“Ran into a mystery myself today,” Aunt Gertrude announced a bit smugly.
“A mystery!” Frank echoed. “Where?”
“Downtown, while I was shopping. I met Mr. Ricardo.”
“Mr. Ricardo! You’re sure?”
“Of course. I never forget a face.” She paused. “But that’s not all. Guess whose car he was getting into?”
Joe groaned. “I give up. Whose?”
“Mr. Orrin North’s,” she replied. “And do you know—Mr. Ricardo said he had never seen me before!”
The boys plied their aunt for details. She told them the South American had seemed uncomfortable at her greeting, brusquely insisting she had made a mistake. The two men had driven off quickly.
“The cheek of him!” she huffed. “And here I had thought he was so well-mannered!”
“Then it was Ricardo we chased the other day!” Frank exclaimed. 
Aunt Gertrude went on indignantly, “I should have realized there was something suspicious when he asked me on the Capricorn about your father.” 
After lunch the boys traded ideas. “Two bits says this Ricardo is in the country illegally,” Frank ventured. “And another two says he’s from the Huella Islands!”
“And North helped him disappear by smuggling him off the ship!” Joe exclaimed. “But why? Oh, there’s the phone.”
Orrin North’s voice came harshly through the receiver when Joe answered. The shipowner asked if the boys had any news of the missing stowaway.
“No.” At a signal from his brother, Joe added, “We have a hunch Gomez is from the Huella Islands—a refugee, maybe.”
“Refugee!” North snorted. “I’m convinced he’s a dangerous criminal. You boys had better nab him, and quick!”
Joe hung up, saying to Frank, “I was tempted to throw Ricardo’s name at him.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” Frank cautioned. “We’d better not show our full hand. Now let’s call Chet and get out to Barren Sands!”
The Hardys had decided to reach the area before two o’clock, the time the beachcomber had arrived the day before.
Chet was waiting outside when the Hardys drove up and jumped into the car. Soon the three were heading south along the coast.
When Chet learned of his friends’ trip to Micro-Eye, he looked at his pals in awe. “You really rate!” he exclaimed.
Although curious about the project, he realized that the Hardys could tell him nothing further for the present.
Half an hour later Frank parked the car in the lane leading to Barren Sands. The trio made their way swiftly through the tall grass onto the deserted beach. Soon they reached the spot where Callie had found the sea shell.
“No circle of footprints today,” Joe said.
“Let’s scout the rest of the beach,” Frank suggested.
Farther along it, the boys stopped short. A double path of fresh, damp footprints, ending at the water, led to and from a circular pattern of prints!
“Look!” Joe pointed to the circle. In the center lay a small spiral shell.
“The same kind Callie found!” Chet observed. “Now what?”
“Get out of sight before the beachcomber shows up,” Frank decided. He stooped and picked up the shell. “Come on. Let’s have a look!”
The three boys backtracked, brushing over their own footprints. They hid in a sandy hollow, screened by reeds and coarse shrubs.
Frank took out his penknife. As the others watched closely, he carefully worked the small blade into the shell opening. Then he heard the crisp scratch of paper.
“Something’s inside.”
Slowly Frank extracted a rolled-up piece of white paper. Joe and Chet stood by breathlessly as he unfolded it.

CHAPTER XIII  
  Ragged Caller
 
 
 
“IT’S a message!” Joe cried as Frank held up the paper from the sea shell.
“What does it say?” Chet asked eagerly.
Frank read the handwritten message aloud: 
“‘To Huellas
—Finally got something: Santilla, Colombo’ ”
Joe jumped at the first words.
“The Huella Islands!”
“But what could ‘Santilla’ and ‘Colombo’ mean?” Frank murmured. “They’re not the names Gomez inquired about at the immigration office.”
“Beats me.” Chet shrugged. “Maybe they’re—”
“Down! Get down—quick!”
At Joe’s whispered warning they all ducked low. “Wh-who’s coming?” Chet quavered.
“Sh! Sandy, the beachcomber.”
Cautiously the boys peered from the hollow. The ragged figure was scuffing along the beach past their hiding place. Occasionally he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.
The boys watched intently as the man started up the slope. Reaching the top, Sandy feverishly combed through the sand near the circle of footprints.
“It’s—Where is it?” he shouted, looking frantically in every direction.
Finally the beachcomber scrambled down the incline. He stopped for a moment as if trying to decide where to search, then headed for the hollow. Frank quickly pocketed the shell and the boys crouched, motionless.
They could hear the man muttering as he drew near, and the sound of bushes being slapped angrily aside. Presently the muttering ceased.
Frank raised himself stealthily and looked out. Sandy was hastening up the beach.
“Come on! Let’s see where he goes!”
“Whew, that was close!” Puffing hard, Chet climbed out of the hollow behind the Hardys.
Bent low, they ran forward, keeping shielded from view by clumps of high grass. Suddenly the beachcomber veered up the beach toward the road, and the next moment dropped out of sight behind a dune. Seconds later the boys heard a car start. They raced to the top of the dune and saw a red-and-white hardtop pull away from the side of the road and head in the direction of Bayport.
“There he goes!” Joe cried out.
The three dashed to the convertible. Frank took the wheel and spun out of the lane after the hardtop. He kept far enough behind so its driver would not suspect pursuit.
“That’s a jazzy wagon for a beachcomber to own,” Joe remarked. “He must get good money for his sea-shell pickups.”
“I’ll bet he’s heading straight to the person who hired him,” said Frank. “And that person must know something about the Huella Islands.”
“And the spy plot!” Joe finished. “This note clinches it.”
Chet was skeptical. “That beachcomber doesn’t seem smart enough to be a spy.”
“Maybe he isn’t,” Frank replied. “Could be he doesn’t even know what’s in the shells.”
“You mean the gang is using Sandy as they probably did Raymond Martin,” Joe said.
Frank nodded, keeping his eyes on the red-and-white car. Soon it turned into the street which ran to the center of Bayport. The trail led through the business section of town and finally into a wealthy residential area. To the boys’ surprise, their quarry turned into the drive of a hedge-bordered estate.
Frank, now a block away, pulled to the curb and the boys hopped out. Joe pointed to a gold-lettered sign at the front of the driveway which read “North Manor.”
“Orrin North’s home!” he exclaimed.
Excitedly the trio hurried along the quiet street and stopped at the estate’s winding drive. They saw the unkempt beachcomber rush to the front door of the brick mansion.
The boys ducked back and peered around the hedge. The door was flung open and the angry face of Orrin North appeared. “You—you fool!” he rasped. “I told you never to come here!”
He irately surveyed the grounds, then pulled the man inside and slammed the door.
“For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed. “North is tied in with the spies!” 
“Apparently the shells are delivered to him at some other place,” said Frank. “Wonder where.”
The boys crept up to the house. The first-floor windows, high off the ground, were shut.
“Shall we take a peek in?” Joe proposed.
“Better not risk it—we can’t overhear anything,” Frank replied.
Chet agreed. “Come on, fellows! They might spot us.”
“Wait!” Frank whispered. He went over to scrutinize a jumble of footprints in the soil beneath a side window overlooking the drive. The others joined him.
“They’re probably our prints,” Chet said.
“No, they’re not. Look at those cracks near the front of the sole, Joe. They’re just like those of the intruder at our house!”
“You’re right! Think they’re North’s?”
“No—unless he sneaks around his own house,” Frank murmured. “Whoever left these was trying to get in through that window.”
The Hardys were baffled. “Which means,” Joe said, “the person who took Dad’s papers must also be up to something in connection with North. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Figure it out later,” Chet said nervously. “Let’s go!”
Before the boys could move, footsteps came from the rear. The three friends darted behind some ornamental evergreens in front of the house. A moment later the beachcomber shuffled down the driveway to his hardtop.
“Let’s grab him!” Joe whispered impulsively.
Frank shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to alert North we suspect him.”
After Sandy had left, the young sleuths waited, wondering if Orrin North would emerge. Half an hour went by with no sign of the shipowner, so the boys returned to the convertible.
“What next?” Chet asked.
“The sea-shell note,” Frank replied. “We must find out who Santilla and Colombo are.”
“I’ll make a wild guess,” Chet offered. “They’re men North wants kidnapped and shipped to the Huella Islands!”
“Not bad,” Frank conceded. “One of the names could even be an alias for Gomez.”
Joe took up the speculation. “Or the words ‘To Huellas’ could mean the note itself is to be sent there.”
“In which case, the names might refer to people now on the islands,” Frank reasoned. “If we only knew who wrote the note!”
“Maybe Mr. Ricardo,” Joe ventured. “Another puzzle—do those names belong to spies or refugees?”
The Hardys decided to report to Mr. Dykeman and drove directly to Micro-Eye. Chet waited in the car outside the gate while the Hardys hastened into the agent’s office. They showed him the shell, handed over the note, and gave complete details, including their suspicions of the man called Ricardo.
“Good work!” the agent said, returning the shell to Frank. “I’ll have the note analyzed.” He frowned. “We have records of every South American refugee in the Bayport area, but Santilla and Colombo don’t ring a bell.”
“Then unless they’re in hiding here—they may still be on one of the islands,” Joe suggested.
“Yes. Unluckily, the dictator, Posada, is not cooperative with United States Intelligence—we’ll have a rugged time finding out.”
“Are you going to question Orrin North?” Frank asked.
“Not at present. I suggest you boys play it cool We’ll keep a tail on him, in hope that he’ll lead us to the whole spy nest if he is guilty. But North will be doubly alert, since he knows someone else picked up the shell.”
Joe asked about the suspected Micro-Eye employee, Pryce. Dykeman shook his head.
“The camera discovered in his jacket took the pictures on the film found in the torn piece of Martin’s raincoat. Certain defects on that roll showed up on a fresh film we ran through. But Pryce still claims he knows nothing and we gave him a thorough grilling.”
Dykeman added that the camera had revealed no fingerprints. “Of course Pryce could have worn gloves. Then, again, the camera could have been planted.”
The agent had shocking news for the Hardys: Raymond Martin had disappeared.
“Disappeared!”
“Yes, in Cayenne. Martin was kept under surveillance, but nevertheless he vanished from a small hotel yesterday after he checked in.”
“Spies in Cayenne may have seized him when they found out about the torn raincoat,” Frank said.
The Hardys spoke of their planned flight to Cayenne with Jack Wayne. “We’ll try to uncover some clues to Martin and to his captors.”
“Fine. You may find out more than our department could, since you can pose better as tourists. Meantime, I’ll circulate a description of Ricardo. He’s here illegally, I’m sure, and for no good reason.”
Back at the car, Frank handed the sea shell to Chet. “Thanks!” He grinned. “Callie and Sis will be happy.”
On the way home Joe voiced another idea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Huella Islands are headquarters for this Footprints gang.” 
Frank agreed. “I have another theory, too. We’re pretty sure North smuggled Ricardo in—so he may be smuggling in spies from Cayenne, too.”
Chet shifted uncomfortably. “Golly, fellows. You still want to go there?”
“You bet!” Joe replied. “And to the Huellas, if possible.”
Chet heaved a sigh. “I smell trouble already.”
That evening Frank and Joe packed. Aunt Gertrude hovered about them, offering a constant stream of advice and warnings.
“Don’t worry, Aunty,” Joe assured her. “We four will stick together down there.”
Frank in turn offered his aunt a suggestion. “Aunt Gertrude, maybe you’d like to visit your friend Mrs. Berter while we’re gone, and compare notes on your trip.”
Miss Hardy gave him a sharp look. “You think I can’t take care of myself? I’m not afraid to stay here alone, young man!”
Nevertheless she finally agreed to the idea, and made plans to leave the following day. The boys were getting ready for bed when the telephone rang. “Maybe it’s Dad!” said Joe, picking up their extension phone.
The caller was Chet Morton. “Guess what!” he exclaimed. “Sis and Callie looked up that shell in a book. It’s unusual all right—it’s the shell of a Cayenne keyhole limpet!”
“Cayenne!” Joe repeated.
“Right. ‘Diodora cayenensis,’ and it’s not native to this area!” 
The Hardys were excited. One more link in the chain of espionage!
Would their visit to Cayenne reveal others?

CHAPTER XIV  
  Blind River
 
 
 
FRANK, Joe, and Chet clambered excitedly out of a taxi at Bayport Airport the next morning. They tipped the driver and scooped their suitcases out of the trunk.
“There’s Jack!” Joe announced, spotting the plane at the end of a runway. The boys trotted across the field.
“All set?” the pilot greeted them.
“You bet!”
The luggage was hoisted aboard, then the Hardys and Chet climbed in. Jack swung behind the controls and turned to Chet. “How’s the weather forecast, Mr. Morton?”
“Doing just fine!” Chet parried. “Undercast, with blue clouds expected by dayfall.”
Amidst the laughter, the propeller clacked over, then spun at top speed. The craft took off, steadily gained altitude, and leveled off at ten thousand feet. Jack said he would land it in Cayenne the following afternoon.
Then Frank asked about the repaired wing, Jack replied, “I had her carefully checked out this morning. Also, I’ve been keeping a sharp lookout for visitors with machetes.”
“That’s a relief!” Chet said emphatically.
Joe asked Jack if he had had any leads on the luggage thefts at Cayenne.
“Only that the victims so far have come mostly from the Bayport area.”
Hours passed as the plane flew southward through a bright, clear sky. The boys talked about what to expect in Cayenne. At noon they broke out sandwiches and a thermos of lemonade.
Jack landed that evening at San Juan, Puerto Rico, and they spent the night at an airport motel. Shortly after sunrise they were airborne again.
“Next stop—French Guiana!” Chet mumbled as he dozed off. When he awoke later, he sat up, yawned, and squinted out the window. Instead of endless, gray sea, lush green terrain drifted slowly beneath them.
“Wow!” Chet’s eyes flew open. “Jungles!”
When the plane headed briefly out to sea, the Hardys recognized a line of staggered islands below. “The Huellas!” Frank exclaimed. “That big one must be Baredo.”
Jack banked inland over dense jungle broken only by twisting brown rivers. There seemed to be no sign of life.
When the Cayenne airfield came into view, the Bayporters fastened their seat belts. There was a wait while a jet from the United States landed; then Jack touched down and brought his craft to a smooth stop.
Joe pushed open the cabin door and caught his breath. It was like stepping into an oven!
Chet grimaced. “I feel like a broiled hamburger already.”
The boys dropped onto the glaring, sunlit field. After Jack had handed down the baggage, they went quickly through customs.
Passengers from the jetliner thronged outside toward waiting buses and taxis. Around the small airport only wild, green jungle could be seen. The air seemed dead with heat.
A woman’s shrill cry startled the boys. Frank wheeled around to see two ill-dressed, swarthy men break out of the crowd, each carrying a blue suitcase.
“Help! Help! Thief!”
“Joe! They’ve stolen that woman’s luggage!”
Like lightning, the Hardys tore after the thieves. A police whistle shrieked. An officer fired two warning shots in the air, then joined the chase.
“Attendez! Attendez!”
The thieves skirted the control tower and ran across the airfield. Frank and Joe soon outdistanced the pursuing policeman. But the thieves reached the end of a runway and in a moment disappeared into the jungle.
“Come on!” Joe plunged into the thick growth. The next instant he felt a crashing blow on the head, toppled over, and lay half stunned.
“Okay, monsieur?”
“Joe! Are you all right?”
The policeman’s and Frank’s voices pierced a ringing blackness. Groggy, Joe was helped to his feet. “The thieves—”
“They got away,” Frank told him grimly. The officer said he had tracked the men for a short distance, but lost them in a tangle of vines.
“How’s your head?” Frank asked.
“I’ll be all right after the ache stops. One of those lugs must have landed a suitcase on me.”
The Hardys and the officer emerged from the jungle. Jack, Chet, and two more policemen joined them and they all walked back to the terminal.
Chet wiped his moist face and groaned. “I tried to catch up with you but no go.”
Later, the boys and police officers spoke with the victims of the robbery, a middle-aged American couple named Griffin. Mr. Griffin could not add much to the thieves’ description, except that he judged them to be natives.


  
Joe felt a crashing blow on the head
“Alice had expensive jewelry in her bag,” he said disconsolately. His wife wept quietly.
The police were apologetic, and assured the Griffins that anyone spotted trying to sell the stolen items in Cayenne would be arrested.
Jack explained his mission to the police, who promised full cooperation. He and the boys then hailed a taxi. On the way to the city they mulled over the incident.
“Five minutes here and we’re right in the thick of the luggage thefts,” Jack said. “Did you know the Griffins were from Taylorville?”
“Near Bayport?” Joe asked.
“That’s right.”
Frank said thoughtfully, “Why are people from our area the only targets? There must be a good reason!”
Jack’s plan was to confer with local airline people and try to trace possible suspects. The boys would work independently. Soon the taxi turned into a dirt road on the outskirts of Cayenne and pulled up at a modest hotel.
Chet brightened. “Civilization at last!” he rejoiced.
The four checked into comfortable rooms overlooking palm-covered slopes. Chet immediately rushed into the shower and turned on the cold water full blast. The Hardys followed in turn.
After changing into fresh clothes, the boys walked down to the center of Cayenne. Jack had already headed back to the airport.
“Say, how about some chow?” Chet suggested.
“After we scout around,” Frank said.
The boys had decided first to seek some clue to Raymond Martin’s whereabouts in Cayenne. The next day they would go to Baredo. Frank inquired about transportation and learned that a launch ferried passengers to and from the island.
The trio reached the centrally located Place des Palmistes, and strolled through the cool park, shaded by towering palm trees. Botanical gardens and a sports stadium were visible to the east.
The Hardys recalled that Cayenne, populated by a mixture of peoples, lay at the mouth of the Cayenne River, which curled inland through wild, heat-drenched wilderness.
Presently the boys came to the beach, along which stretched a row of summer homes. To the north they could barely make out the forbidding Huellas. Frank and Joe looked for the Dorado, but the freighter was not in port. 
At a restaurant, shaded by a grove of bamboo trees, the visitors stopped for fruit drinks. On the way back to town they purchased straw hats from a vendor and asked directions to the hotel from which Martin had disappeared. They found it without difficulty.
“Dykeman’s already checked this place,” Frank said. “But let’s see what we can find out.”
The young sleuths entered the dim, stuffy lobby and went up to the desk. Casually Frank asked the clerk if Mr. Martin had returned. The thin-faced man looked sullen.
“I already tell everybody—he just disappear—poof! And not pay his bill either.” 
Further questioning proved futile and the boys left. “Our best bet now is to keep looking for him in town,” said Joe.
Hindus, Arabs, natives, and Europeans milled past the boys. Flies buzzed at fish stands and butchers’ meat stalls. Near some gray stone public buildings Chet gasped as a huge bull-like beast with curved horns clopped by hauling a cart.
“A water buffalo!” Frank exclaimed.
“If he’s taking to land, I’ll take to water!” Chet shuddered.
“There are piranha—flesh-devouring fish—in the river,” Joe informed him challengingly.
“Flesh-devouring!” Chet’s eyes bulged.
“—Not to mention centipedes, poisonous snakes, scorpions, and crocodiles in the jungle,” Frank added somberly.
The Hardys grinned as they strolled on. The Bayporters paused beneath a handsome mahogany tree. A scar-faced vendor was hawking cheap garments at a nearby shop front. The vendor, spotting the boys, held up one piece after another.
“Pants—shirts—cheap?” he offered in broken English.
Joe shook his head. The peddler shrugged and next proffered a wrinkled white raincoat.
Suddenly Frank hastened over. “Joe! Chet! Come here!” Frank had flipped over the coat to reveal a bright plaid lining and a large jagged hole at the hem!
“Raymond Martin’s raincoat!” Joe gasped.
“This hole matches the piece we found at the airport!”
Frank asked the puzzled vendor where he had obtained the coat. The man summoned a tall ear-ringed Guianan from the shop and spoke with him in rapid French.
“La fleuve,”
the peddler told the boys, pointing to the river. “Down two, three mile. You buy?” 
“Oui.”
Frank brought out several francs and handed them over. 
“But how will we get down the Cayenne River?” Joe whispered. “That’s real jungle.”
“He take you—for price,” the vendor confided, motioning to the native.
Arrangements were made for the trip and the boys followed their guide toward the river. On the way Chet bought some tropical fruit.
Soon they came to a short wooden dock. Next to it was a dugout canoe with hornlike stern and bow curving upward. The native beckoned the boys to climb in. “To coat man—I take you.”
Chet was uneasy. “Do you think we can trust him?” he whispered to the Hardys.
“I think so,” Frank replied. “We haven’t much choice if we want to find Martin.”
With Frank and the guide paddling, and Joe and Chet seated in the middle, the canoe glided out into the motionless, mud-colored water. A searing sun burned down as they slipped past lush green jungle banks. White clouds were mirrored in the still river surface.
Presently they passed a clearing of thatch-roofed Indian huts. Farther along, several native women were beating laundry with flat sticks at the waterside. After a while the only sound was the chatter of birds from the depths of the jungle. Something in the primeval stillness prompted the boys to speak in whispers.
“It’s like another world!” Joe said, awed.
Past a bend a flock of beautiful flamingos scattered at the canoe’s approach. Several crocodiles lay sleepily along the banks. Chet held his breath until they had left the ugly creatures behind.
Several miles farther, the native pointed to a channel off to the right. Frank nodded and they steered in. Enormous mangrove trees arched overhead, blocking out the sun. Gnarled vines hung in trailing loops. The travelers ducked as low-hanging branches tore at their shirts and faces.
“Here!” The guide steered toward a bank covered by thick roots. The boys sat breathlessly, their hearts pounding. Were they about to meet the missing Raymond Martin?
The canoe glided against the bank, where the Guianan pointed to a long, overhanging branch, then at the torn raincoat. Frank understood.
“He means he found the raincoat hanging from that branch!”
“A distress signal by Martin!” Chet guessed.
“The coat man—where is he?” Joe asked the guide.
The native hopped out, secured the craft, and motioned the boys to follow. They clambered after him up the bank into the jungle. Something in his expression made the boys uneasy. Was he leading them into a trap?
“Stick together,” Frank cautioned Joe and Chet.
Patches of blue sky broke through the dense foliage. The guide stopped at a small clearing and the boys peered ahead at the remnants of a campfire. A laceless black shoe lay nearby.
Joe picked it up and read the faded brand name, one familiar to the boys. The clearing seemed eerily deserted. The Guianan led them to a patch of thick shrub. “Here—coat man!”
With a sweep of his arm he threw back the dropping mass of leaves, disclosing a long white form. The Hardys and Chet gasped.
A human skeleton!

CHAPTER XV  
  City of Silence
 
 
 
THE three boys peered, shocked at the skeleton. Frank stepped back as a centipede slithered out of the skull.
Chet backed away, shuddering. “L-let’s get out of here!”
The Hardys, too, had instinctively recoiled, but now inspected the skeleton more closely.
“This can’t be Raymond Martin.” Frank pointed out the parched discoloring and cracks in the bones. Several fragments were missing. “These are old—maybe a year or more. Look how the grass has grown around them!”
Joe also recalled their fleeting glimpse of Martin. He was a taller man than the skeleton would indicate. Frank turned to their puzzled guide and said, “Not coat man.”
The native looked disappointed and shrugged. Through gestures he indicated that he knew nothing more.
The boys searched for clues. Finding none, they returned to the dugout. Joe took the bow paddle this time and they headed back upriver.
Frank said he felt that the raincoat had been left there as a trick by the person or persons who had kidnapped Martin; also, that the shoe and campfire were part of the scheme.
“You think he’s still alive?” Joe asked.
“Yes, though it’s just a hunch. Spies may be holding him to find out what happened to their missing Micro-Eye film.”
“Or to keep him from telling Dykeman’s men how the film got into his coat—if he even knows that,” Joe ventured.
Chet had a guess. “Maybe they sneaked into his house the way the intruder did at Dad’s travel agency,” Chet suggested.
Frank snapped his fingers. “If he wanted the names of persons flying to Cayenne, maybe Martin was to be a victim of the luggage thieves—only they planned to take his coat instead of his suitcase.”
Chet whistled. “Then the suitcases stolen down here may carry spy messages?”
“That’s right—brought in by innocent people.”
‘A sudden wind came up and the bright blue skies turned to a smoky leaden hue. The paddlers increased speed and reached the dock at Cayenne just as the clouds opened in a blinding downpour.
The boys and their guide leaped ashore and dashed to a nearby shop for shelter. Torrents of rain drummed on the roof like thunder, and the tall coconut palms swayed and bent in the gale.
“Chet, you didn’t forecast this cloudburst,” Joe needled.
“How could I? Tropical storms come up out of nowhere!” Chet defended himself.
In several minutes the squall ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Frank paid their guide, who grinned widely and ambled off. The boys walked back through the town to their hotel, where they dried off and once more changed clothes.
Refreshed, the boys joined Jack at supper in the hotel restaurant. He listened with interest as they recounted their adventure in low tones. When Frank presented his theory on the luggage thefts, the pilot was intrigued.
“It’s possible,” he admitted, frowning, “that travelers from Bayport and nearby towns unwittingly transmit Micro-Eye secrets. But how are the films or devices put into the suitcases?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Joe confessed. “Somebody probably sneaks into the person’s home and conceals the information in the baggage.”
“Could be,” said Frank.
“My conferences today didn’t bring me any clues,” Jack told the boys. “But if you’re right, fellows, this is a job for United States Intelligence. I’ll case Cayenne tomorrow, myself, and try to follow out this new angle. We’ll have to fly back the day after.”
The Hardys reviewed what they must learn: the real identity of Gomez, the meaning of the names in the sea shell, some clue to North’s tie-in with the Huellas, and the whereabouts of Martin.
“It’ll be a tight schedule,” Frank said. “We’ll catch the earliest launch for Baredo tomorrow morning.”
Jack said, “Let’s report to Mr. Dykeman.”
He cabled the intelligence officer, using guarded language. Later, as they again discussed the mystery, Jack expressed concern over the boys’ proposed trip to Baredo.
“Be extremely cautious,” he warned. “Dictator Posada has lookouts all over the place.”
At his suggestion the boys signed a statement that they were entering Baredo the following day. “At least this will be evidence if we’re—er—detained,” said Frank, handing the paper to Jack.
“What a cheerful thought!” Chet muttered.
The young sleuths soon went to bed, and despite the sultry heat, slept soundly. Chet had a nightmare. He was trying to step into the river for a swim, but hungry fish nipped his toes.
Suddenly he awakened with a violent start. Something was on his right foot! He reached down and touched a furry object.
“YYYYoooowwwww!”
At Chet’s howl the others leaped out of bed, and Joe switched on the light. Chet was hopping up and down, shaking his foot. A dark winged creature flew out the window.
Jack examined Chet’s foot and smiled with relief. “No blood. Fortunately, you shook him off in time. I think it was a vampire bat.”
“A v-vampire b-bat?” Chet clapped a hand to his brow. “Oh man! That’s all I need!” With a groan he got back into bed and wrapped himself tightly in the sheet.
The boys rose at six and breakfasted quickly downstairs. Then they walked to the coastal docks. Frank said he had promised Jack they would be back by ten that evening.
Chet, apprehensive, followed the Hardys to the dock where the tourist launch was berthed. The boys were met by a fat, thick-lipped man in uniform, evidently a Huellan official.
“American tourists?” he said, sneering. “You go just for day to Baredo?”
“Yes.”
The official scrutinized the travelers, then their passports. “Very well,” he said finally. “See you mind your own business and no pictures.”
“Friendly guy,” Chet whispered as the boys climbed aboard.
The whistle blew and a few minutes later the launch moved away toward the mist-covered Huellas. There were no other passengers.
The thickset helmsman and his assistant were taciturn. After a sharp glance at the boys they paid them no further attention.
The Hardys and Chet stood at the rail as they approached the palm-lined shore of Baredo. A hill of green jungle rose above the roofs of the capital town. Was their destination the stronghold of the Footprints spy ring?
The boat’s whistle tooted three times, and chugged into the harbor. This consisted of several weather-beaten piers and a few small docks. The launch pulled alongside one of them.
When the boys clambered onto the dock, the helmsman grunted, “Up there.” He pointed to a small guardhouse at the foot of the dock. Here a surly port officer studied their passports at length. “Tourists only allowed on Baredo one day!” he snapped. “You must leave tonight!”
“Gracias,”
Frank murmured, and the trio headed up the bleak main street. 
“With that kind of welcome, they must do a crashing resort business here,” Joe remarked.
The boys had noticed numerous motorboats marked Policia cruising about the island, apparently to control passage out of the Huellas. 
“No wonder the people here want to leave,” Chet whispered.
Impressive public buildings fronted the harbor. But in the town itself the boys saw rows of tottering, unpainted shacks along unpaved roads. Shabbily dressed people wandered past dingy stores, many of which appeared to be closed. The atmosphere was both tense and depressing.
“Boy, this place gives me the willies,” Chet murmured as he noticed a gray-uniformed man watching them from one of the few cars.
“Never mind. Let’s just try to look like happy tourists,” Joe advised.
They climbed to the top of a hill outside town and surveyed the harbor. Only their launch and a battered fishing vessel were tied up.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “It would be impossible for a big freighter to dock here.”
“You mean like the Dorado,” Joe said. 
His brother nodded, then suggested they try to track down the names Colombo and Santilla, and also ask about Gomez.
Back in town, the boys located a rickety public telephone booth. Casually Frank entered it and opened a thin directory. None of the names he sought was listed. “There can’t be more than a hundred or so names in here,” he reported. “I guess most of the citizens can’t afford phones, or else Posada’s tight on giving them out.”
“Doesn’t leave us much of a starting point,” Joe said. “Let’s try asking around.”
They stopped an elderly man and mentioned the three names, but he shrugged, stared blankly, and walked away. The boys continued their quest. But they always met the same response.
“Let’s try a different part of town,” Joe recommended. They headed into a small market place and made more inquiries without success.
“Colombo—Santilla—Gomez?” Frank repeated to a poorly dressed boy.
The youth’s expression stiffened. He shook his head and quickly hurried off.
“I don’t get it,” Joe fumed. “Are the people so afraid of something that they won’t talk at all? Or is there something special about Colombo, Santilla, and Gomez that scares them?”
“It’s the secret police!” Chet declared uneasily. “Why else would everybody clam up?”
The boys noticed another man in a gray uniform striding past. He eyed the boys suspiciously. The trio immediately pretended to be sightseeing. Chet whistled shakily as they nonchalantly left the market place.
“We’d better call it quits for a while,” Frank whispered. “And—” He broke off. “Look!”
Crossing the main street, not far from the boys, were two men carrying blue suitcases.
“The luggage thieves!” Joe gasped.
“Come on! We’re going to find out where they’re headed!” Frank urged.

CHAPTER XVI  
  The Gate of Doom
 
 
 
THE Hardys and Chet walked faster, keeping the two thieves ahead in sight. When the men turned swiftly up a hilly, sun-baked street, the boys paused briefly at the corner, then followed.
“Wherever they’re going, they mean business!” Frank said.
The men hastened up the hill. At the top they made a beeline to a large white stone building, surrounded by a spiked iron fence with a huge gate in front. The pair stopped and spoke briefly to an armed guard, who let them in. The men hurried through and disappeared around the side of the building.
“There’s probably a rear entrance,” Joe murmured as the guard slammed the gate shut.
The boys approached the building. Carved over the portal was: EDIFICIO ADMINISTRATION DE LAS HUELLAS
“Huellas Government Building!” Frank translated. “And I’ll bet a cool shower it adds up to ‘Footprints Intelligence Bureau’!”
“The spy headquarters!” Joe added in a low voice.
A chill went up Chet’s spine. “You think those men really are delivering Micro-Eye secrets hidden in the suitcases?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “This must be the receiving end for the security leak at the plant!”
The Hardys speculated about the two thieves—were they Colombo and Santilla? Noticing the guard, who eyed them with mistrust, the boys sauntered nonchalantly toward the rear of the building.
“Where do we go from here?” Joe asked. “We can’t break in.”
Chet agreed heartily. “And we sure can’t hang around waiting for those spy agents.”
At his urging they stopped at a dingy restaurant to have lunch. But the trio felt too edgy to eat much. Back outside, the afternoon sun burned down on the perspiring boys. Two oxcarts rolled lazily down the dusty street.
“If only we could get some lead on these names!” Joe chafed. “Time’s running out.”
The trio walked on to a section they had not visited before—consisting mostly of small shops and rickety dwellings. The three separated in order to appear less conspicuous while they continued their inquiries. After an hour they met. Each reported no luck.
Just then the boys noticed a dark, well-built man in khakis resting beneath a palm tree across the road. They went over and Frank once more repeated the three names. The Huellan’s eyes focused intently on his questioner, then studied Joe and Chet.
“No, lo siento,”
he said finally, quickly moving away. He looked back once, then disappeared into a ramshackle store. 
“At least we got an answer,” Joe said wryly. “He’s ‘sorry.’ ”
“He didn’t act frightened like the others,” Frank observed. “I have a feeling he knew the names, all right, and was trying to size us up.”
They renewed their inquiries. But after another sweltering hour, the boys had reached a dead end. They had covered the town itself, and now found themselves on the western outskirts.
“I’m ready to throw in the towel,” Chet announced. “This is no man’s land.”
The Hardys did not reply. They had noticed the door of a small building slowly opening. A face peered out. It was the same khaki-clad man Frank had approached earlier!
“Maybe he’s tailing us!” Joe whispered.
The stranger stared at the boys for a second, then suddenly burst outside and sprinted for the nearby jungle. Joe and Frank sped after him, with Chet following reluctantly.
In minutes the boys found themselves on the bare semblance of a trail. There was no sign of the Huellan.
“He’s probably waiting to jump us!” Chet declared.
Frank set his jaw. “Let’s follow this trail. It may be risky, but we can’t give up any possible lead.”
The three were forced to proceed single file. Progress was slow and arduous over twisting roots and through masses of hanging vine. A dense cloud of mosquitoes enveloped them, attacking Chet in particular.
“Ouch!” Swat! “Get away from me!” Chet flailed desperately at the buzzing pests. 
“Ssssh!”
“I can’t help it. They’re eating me up.”
Frank, in the lead, stopped abruptly and held up his hand. There came a faint rustling ahead. Cautiously the boys crept around a bend in the trail. To their surprise, a large section of jungle was hacked away. In the middle was an abandoned quarry.
“Looks like an old bauxite deposit,” Frank whispered.
Chet pointed to several rusted pickaxes on the ground. “Wonder what happened to the workers.” He shuddered.
The boys skirted the yawning pit, treading over crumbling red rock, then re-entered the jungle. There was still a barely perceptible path. The high grass growing along it was freshly trampled.
“Bet that guy’s right ahead of us,” Joe said softly. “He must be used to trekking the jungle.”
Chet was all for turning back, but the Hardys persuaded him to press on. The trail ended abruptly at a high, crudely constructed stucco wall. Farther along it was an arched gateway with a faded splintered sign: LA PUERTA DE LA MUERTE.
“‘The Gate of Doom’!”
Joe translated. “The old prison!” 
Reluctantly Chet trailed the Hardys along the wall and through the gateway. Interspersed among towering bamboo trees which blotted out most of the sunlight were long, thatch-roofed shacks.
“Probably the old prison barracks,” Frank whispered. “That man may be hiding out in one.”
They advanced cautiously, catching occasional glimpses through the foliage of the encircling wall. Lonely bird caws echoed around the deserted compound. The air hung hot and still. Pickaxes and broken machetes littered the ground. Looking up, the boys saw several ugly vultures hunched in the trees.
Chet gulped. “Ugh!”
The trio paused behind a bamboo tree, then slipped between two shacks facing a large clearing. In the center of this stood a platform and atop it was a guillotine.
Chet stood rooted to the spot, quaking with fright. Frank pointed to a shack across the clearing. At his signal the boys darted over to it and crouched low. A trail of footprints ended beneath the single small window.
“They’re fresh!” Joe whispered.
The boys crept to the window and Joe slowly arose to peer inside. His eyes had just reached the window level when gasps from the others made him spin around.
A dozen armed, grim-faced men in khaki stood spread out in the clearing.
“Don’t try to run,” Frank said in an undertone. “Act calm.”
“Oh, s-sure,” Chet stammered, white as a sheet.
The men advanced threateningly. Some wore bandoliers and battered straw hats, and several carried gleaming machetes. Among them the boys recognized the man they had pursued. The Hardys felt a cold chill of terror, but stood outwardly calm.
Were these men soldiers of Dictator Posada? An older, bearded man with a military bearing stepped forward and uttered a brisk command in Spanish.
The boys were marched off toward the guillotine!
Chet’s knees almost buckled, but he relaxed as the Bayporters were led past the gruesome platform and into an isolated shack. The first objects they saw were cots and old leg irons which were attached to a center bar the length of the hot, dusty room.
The Hardys and Chet were prodded to a wooden table. Lighting a kerosene lantern, the bearded man sat down and addressed the prisoners brusquely in English.
“Who are you? What is your business here?”
Frank hesitated. He must choose his words carefully!
“We’re Americans, just visiting here for the day. I’m Frank Hardy, this is my—”
“Americans—” The man’s steely eyes relaxed for a moment, then tightened. “You ask in town for Colombo, Santilla, Gomez. Why?”
“We don’t really know,” Frank said. “We came across the names in our town of Bayport and thought—”
“Names—in Bayport!”
The leader’s astonished exclamation was accompanied by a rapid stream of excited Spanish conversation among his followers.
“Do you know the three men?” Joe spoke up.
“My friend who led you here is Carlos Santilla,” the bearded man replied. “I am Miguel Colombo.”
Despite their dangerous position, Frank pressed further. “Are you under orders from Dictator Posada?”
Suddenly the table rocked under Colombo’s fist. “Posada—that mercenary spy—that tyrant robber of our people? No! We of the underground will unseat him one day!” 
The men roared approval.
Frank shot a look of relief at Joe and Chet. An underground movement! They were among friends! Colombo and Santilla then shook the boys’ hands cordially.
“I am sorry for your unpleasant reception,” said Colombo, “but we have always to be careful.”
“Then you thought we might be working for Posada?” Frank asked. 
Santilla nodded. “One is always afraid these days in the Huellas. That is why the lips are closed in town. If Posada knew we meet here, he would send his army to crush us!”
Colombo then directed one of his men to go outside and stand guard. “We do not wish to be caught by surprise,” the leader said. “Posada’s soldiers often search the jungle.”
Joe asked the Huellans whether or not the dictator was the power behind the Footprints ring.
“Indeed he is.” The leader leaned forward. “But I am troubled. My name, Santilla’s—how do you young men learn these? And what do you know of Gomez?”
Omitting confidential details, the Hardys related the events which had led them to Baredo.
“And in that sea shell, you found my name and Santilla’s?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Frank answered. “Later, a beachcomber led us to the house of a rich American in Bayport. We suspect this man to be involved in the Footprints plot. His name is North.”
“North! Orrin North?”
“Yes, the shipowner. You’ve heard of him?”
“Heard of him!” The bearded leader of the underground held up his hands with pride. “Senor North is our greatest ally!”

CHAPTER XVII  
  Homestretch
 
 
 
THE Hardys and Chet could scarcely believe Colombo’s words. Orrin North—an ally!
“Then North is not in league with Posada—but is in your underground movement?” Frank asked.
“Certainly. For months he has helped our people to escape on his ship Dorado to America.” 
Joe looked at Frank. “So Gomez isn’t a spy!”
“No,” Colombo said. “He is one of our best men, sent to rally American support. Days back, he by himself escaped to North’s ship. But from what you say, he is in bad trouble.”
Carlos Santilla’s face showed alarm. “Something is wrong! These people Gomez asked about at your immigration office are Huellan refugees who escaped earlier on Senor North’s Dorado!”
“They never reached the immigration office!” Joe exclaimed.
Colombo walked to the window, stunned. “It cannot be!”
“Have you heard from any of the refugees since they escaped?” Frank asked.
“No. For a while we thought it is because of Posada’s mail censorship. But now,” Colombo added gloomily, “I am not so sure.”
The Hardys and Chet exchanged looks. Their suspicions of Orrin North were confirmed!
“North is double-crossing you!” Joe burst out.
Colombo and Santilla stared in shocked disbelief. “He deceives us?” Santilla said hoarsely.
“Señor Colombo,” countered Frank, “have any of your men been arrested lately by Posada’s police?”
“Si, two last week,” Colombo said grimly. “We do not know how Posada found them out.” 
It was the answer Frank had dreaded. “I think I do—from the Footprints spies! North got the names for Posada from the refugees.”
“And Gomez must have found out about it on the Dorado—that’s why he jumped ship,” Joe added. 
“But,” Colombo protested, “our compatriots would never betray us!”
“They may have been tricked into revealing the names!” Frank said.
The leader’s face was pale. “Posada may have ordered them—killed!”
The Hardys did not agree. “I think it’s more likely they’re prisoners, and that North will ship them back for Posada to deal with!” Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “We’ve got to find those refugees before it’s too late!”
Joe said, “That explains why Gomez wanted to keep out of sight—to find the refugees North has sold out.”
Santilla relayed the boys’ words in Spanish to the other men, who had been looking on intently. Angry mutters ran through the group.
The boys learned that Colombo and his lieutenant did not know about Raymond Martin or the luggage thefts. But at Joe’s description of the mysterious Mr. Ricardo, they both gasped.
“Manuel Bedoya is his real name!” Colombo almost shouted. “He is the feared mastermind of Posada’s spies.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive! We know Bedoya left the Huellas a week past.” The underground chief added somberly, “He is a dangerous and cruel man. It is not good for your government’s secret project, amigos!”
“But why would the small Huellas be after the Micro-Eye secret?” Chet wondered. “Doesn’t figure.” to
Joe had a theory. “Maybe to sell the information to a larger power—as part of a deal.”
Colombo agreed, adding that Posada was known to be friendly with certain anti-American regimes.
Suddenly the lookout came bursting into the cabin and spoke rapidly to his leader. Colombo scowled and extinguished the lantern.
“Everyone be silent!” he commanded.
The Bayporters and the Huellans obeyed. Voices could be heard faintly in the distance, then they died away. The chief relighted the lantern.
“Who was that?” Joe asked.
“Posada’s men,” Santilla replied.
A few more minutes elapsed in tense waiting, but there was no further disturbance. Colombo then bade the visitors relax, and had simple rations of bread and dried beef served for supper. The boys ate hungrily. When they finished, it was growing dark.
“We have to get back,” said Frank, remembering their promise to Jack.
Colombo, Santilla, and two other Huellans led the boys through a jungle route toward the docks. The hot tropical night was silent, speckled by fireflies. Miguel Colombo and his aide stopped at the jungle’s edge. They thanked the boys fervently for their support.
“But what about you and Señor Santilla?” Frank asked in concern.
“We shall be all right,” Colombo assured them, smiling. “We shall soon escape to the mainland. But one day we will return triumphant.”
After hearty handshakes with their new friends, the boys hurried to board the waiting launch.
“I’d like to get my hands on that skunk North right now!” Joe muttered with fierce resolution.
“We will,” Frank declared. “But we’ve also got to find Gomez and stop Bedoya’s plot against Micro-Eye!”
In relief the boys finally stepped off the launch in Cayenne. At the hotel Jack Wayne listened to their story in amazement. “So Posada may be behind these suitcase thefts,” he exclaimed, “and be selling the smuggled information to a major power hostile to the United States!”
Jack whistled. “You fellows have done the work of a squadron. Ready to head back tomorrow?”
“You bet!” Chet gingerly touched his mosquito-bitten face.
Jack reported that he had uncovered no leads to Raymond Martin, but that Dykeman’s men would continue the search in French Guiana.
After a satisfying night’s sleep, the four reached the airport early the next morning. As Jack zoomed into the sun, the boys looked back at the trail of green islands. Could they find, and save, Colombo’s missing friends?
Following an overnight stop, they landed in Bayport the next afternoon. The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude back home from her visit. She sighed with relief at seeing her nephews safe.
“Thank goodness!” she gasped. “The newspapers are full of Posada’s villainous threats.”
She informed the boys that Mrs. Hardy would be home in a week. There was still no clue to the whereabouts of their father.
“But that rude Mr. North!” she fumed. “Somehow he found out that I was at Mrs. Berter’s. He phoned me there and demanded to know where you boys were!”
“Did you tell him?” Frank queried.
“I should say not!”
After unpacking, Frank and Joe decided to inform Mr. Dykeman at once about their trip. On their way to Micro-Eye the brothers stopped at Corporated Laundries and Joe took in a bundle of soiled clothing. As he was leaving the counter, he noticed a man with thick eyebrows in the back working room who seemed familiar.
“Funny,” he mused. “I have a feeling I’ve seen him recently somewhere else, yet something’s different.”
At the Micro-Eye gate the Hardys were quickly admitted, and escorted to the intelligence office. Roy Dykeman welcomed them cordially.
“Glad to see you back! Mr. Wayne’s report of your theory about spies smuggling secrets in luggage may break our case wide open!”
Mr. Dykeman listened attentively as the brothers related all that had happened in Cayenne and in the Huellas. At hearing the information on Orrin North and Manuel Bedoya, the intelligence officer grabbed a pencil and jotted down notes.
“Posada’s master spy—on our soil!” he exclaimed. “He must have been whisked off Orrin North’s Capricorn!”
“Can North be arrested now?” Joe asked.
“No. We don’t have an ounce of tangible proof—yet. He’s acted clean as a whistle since we’ve been watching him. But more important, we want to get the whole bunch without risking the lives of these missing Huellans!”
“How about Bedoya, alias Ricardo?” Frank asked.
“I’m sending out an alert to find him at all costs—also to apprehend Captain Burne and crew immediately in South America.”
The agent reported that Gomez’s whereabouts were not known, and the Micro-Eye security leak was still a mystery. His men failed to locate the United States headquarters for the Footprints conspiracy.
“Pryce may be our man,” he admitted, “though I’m not convinced of it. At any rate, we’ve reached the homestretch. Micro-Eye’s satellite camera was completed this morning!”
The project was finished! Frank and Joe were elated. The top-secret instrument was to be moved under heavy protection to Washington late the following day.
“We don’t want anybody to get wind of it,” Dykeman added, “so we’re running the usual guard shifts and concession deliveries. Once that camera is on the truck, Micro-Eye’s problems are over.” He gave a dry chuckle. “But not mine!”
The Hardys vowed to continue their search for Gomez, but the agent cautioned them: “Wherever Gomez is, the Footprints gang is looking for him too. Until we have Bedoya, be very careful!”
Frank and Joe gave their assurances and drove home. The boys enjoyed a delicious dinner, but all the while were trying to figure out a way to track down Gomez. Later Chet arrived and insisted that they drive out with him to Oak Hollow. The damage to the houses had been repaired.
“Dad says Mr. Prito’s men finished and left after supper tonight,” Chet said as they rattled along in his jalopy. “Occupancy in a week!”
It was dusk when the boys reached Oak Hollow. They parked and got out to survey the houses at close range. The hacked doors and windows and broken windows had been completely replaced.
Frank looked puzzled. “It still beats me why those machete fellows picked on this place.”
The night watchman strolled by with a wave, then the trio walked to the rear of one house. It overlooked the valley, now in black shadows except for brilliant patches of moonlight.
“Nice view,” Joe observed.
Suddenly the boys saw a clump of bushes stir below them to the left. A man’s face looked out, then vanished.
Gomez!
“Wait!” Frank yelled.
They rushed down to the bushes. But there was only silence. Frank called Gomez’s name several times. No response.
“It’s useless,” Chet muttered. “He has probably high-tailed it into the woods.”
Just then, through a grove of trees to their right, Joe spotted several upright white objects. “Come on!”
The others followed him through the grove, emerging at the foot of a grassy hillock. Frank bumped into an iron fence before he recognized the objects as gravestones. “The cemetery!”
Finding the gate, the boys slipped through and crouched near a large gravestone. Was Gomez hiding somewhere within the cemetery itself? Atop the slope stood a square building with no windows and a single door of bronze and glass. Chet shuddered. “A mausoleum.”
“This must be a private cemetery,” Frank whispered. “But what’s Gomez doing around here?”
“W-what are we doing around here? Let’s go!” Chet begged.
“Nothing doing. If Gomez is here, it’s for a reason.”
Suddenly Frank felt Chet tug at his arm. “What is it?” he asked.
The chunky youth pointed up the slope, his eyes glazed with fear. His words would hardly come.
“Th-that tomb up th-there! The d-door is opening!”

CHAPTER XVIII  
  A Sinister Meeting
 
 
 
As if hypnotized, the three boys watched the tomb. Slowly its metal door opened wider.
They froze as a tall, shadowy figure emerged and walked in long strides to the edge of the hill. The boys crouched lower. Chet tried to swallow the lump of fear in his throat.
The gaunt figure stood in ghostly silhouette. There was no mistaking the dark-spectacled, hawk-nosed profile.
Manuel Bedoya!
The three boys were dumfounded. Had he actually appeared from the tomb! Or were they seeing things?
“He’s no ghost!” Joe whispered finally.
The spy appeared to be waiting for someone. He glanced frequently at his wrist.
Moonlight painted the cemetery in an eerie, silvery glow. As the boys huddled behind the large gravestone, Joe squinted to make out its inscription. He nudged the others. They gaped at the name beneath the birth and death dates:
JAMES NORTH
“This might be Orrin North’s private family cemetery! Maybe James was his father.”
“And North lets the gang hide out in the tomb!” Frank exclaimed. “That would explain the Oak Hollow sabotage.”
“To keep people from occupying the houses!” Chet added, “until—”
The boys spoke in whispers, keeping an eye on Bedoya. Soon they heard faint voices from beyond the cemetery. The gaunt spy disappeared down the other side of the slope.
“He’s meeting someone!” Frank said.
“Now’s our chance!” Joe urged. “If they go inside the tomb, we’ll never hear anything.”
Chet gulped. “You m-mean we go inside?” 
“Yes!”
“But—but somebody else may be in there,” Chet objected. “We’d better get the police!”
“Bedoya might leave in the meantime,” said Frank. “Even if two of us stayed, there’d be no car to follow him. I say we chance it!”
They looked up the hill at the half-opened tomb door. A red glow from within was visible. The boys decided that one of them should remain as lookout at the gravestone. Frank turned to Chet. “Would you rather wait here?”
“Alone? Not on your life!”
“I’ll stay,” Joe offered.
Frank and Chet started cautiously up the slope. Chet, his heart pounding, kept close at Frank’s heels. At the top Frank paused, then broke for the tomb. Reaching it, he signaled Chet, who quickly followed. They peered around one corner toward the rear. Voices still drifted up from below. There was not a sound from inside.
“Okay, here goes!”
Frank slipped through the door, then Chet. They stopped and looked around the square, stone chamber.
The air in the vault was dead and musty. In the middle of the room stood a wooden table strewn with newspapers in Spanish. The reddish glow came from a kerosene lamp on the table. Several machetes lay near a locker stocked with canned foods. A small short-wave set stood in one corner.
“The last place anybody’d suspect of being a hideout,” Frank murmured. “But no Gomez, or Huellan refugees.”
Voices could be heard approaching. “Bedoya’s coming back!” Chet quavered. “And he’s not alone!”
It was too late for the boys to slip out unseen! They looked desperately around for a hiding place. Frank’s keen eyes spotted a small descending spiral stairway in the shadows.
“Down here!”
Quickly the boys swung down the metal steps, Chet first. Frank’s head dropped below floor level just as the first man entered the tomb. The two boys crouched tensely.
In a moment a jumble of voices echoed from above, some speaking in Spanish, others in English. The talking died down as the heavy door clanked shut. Chet’s throat went dry, and Frank felt a twinge of fear. Below them, they discerned several cots in the dimness, but no sign of any prisoners.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said a suave, accented voice. “Everyone accounted for? Bueno. Let us begin.” 
The voice was undoubtedly Bedoya’s! It continued:
“Everything is ready to carry out Posada’s order—to get the satellite camera at all costs. By eight tomorrow morning Dykeman’s precautions will have been for nothing and our Footprints mission completed!”
“Not soon enough for me,” a gruff voice commented. “I’m sick of this bone house!”
Frank caught his breath. A plot to steal the government camera itself—tomorrow!
“Never mind that,” the first voice said coldly. “Decker, will 41 be offshore for delivery at the given time?”
“Precisely. I reached them by radio from the Northerly two hours ago. There will be room for all of you.” 
“Good. We cannot fail! With this fool Pryce under suspicion, the plant may have false confidence in their security. Are your plans set, Valdez?”
“Si.
The smoke bombs are ready. We will knock out the guards. Mr. North has two cars for us—Rodriguez and I will take one, while Greber and Walton will use the other.” 
A voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Frank added, “The uniforms are ready, Senor Bedoya. The change will take only an instant.”
Frank racked his brain. Where had he heard the voice before? Carefully he mounted the steps until he could just see into the vault. 
Bedoya, alias Ricardo, wearing a white suit, stood at one end of the table, encircled by seven men. Hunched over the flickering red lantern, Posada’s chief spy seemed poised like a vulture. Frank looked over the rest of the group.
Of three, ill-kempt, swarthy men, he recognized two as those who had vandalized the Oak Hollow houses. One must be Rodriguez. The third was the stocky man with sideburns—Valdez.
The huge, bushy-haired thug, Walton, was present, and a short, bald man whom Frank also recognized—the impostor who had tried to arrest Gomez.
To Bedoya’s left, near the door, sat the pilot of North’s yacht. “He must be Decker,” Frank reasoned, “since he has the ‘offshore’ job.”
The boy’s attention was finally riveted on a thin, heavy-browed man speaking at the opposite end of the table. His was the voice Frank had recalled hearing before.
The man complained, “This luggage business has been too sticky—and now we find out from the boss those blueprints we photographed were phonies!”
“That camera will be no phony,” Bedoya remarked gloatingly. “You are sure it will fit into our waterproof bag, Al?”
“Certain of it,” was the reply.
Suddenly Frank visualized a mustache on Al’s clean-shaven face and stiffened. Of course!
“He’s the guard who stopped Joe and me near the plant’s maintenance building on our tour!” Frank recalled. “He’s the Micro-Eye security leak. We must stop them!”
Bedoya and his henchmen spoke for some time in Spanish. Frank caught the name “Martin” several times. Now the chief spy leaned forward.
“One unpleasant item,” he said, raising his voice. “I received word tonight that those meddling sons of Fenton Hardy went to Baredo seeking Gomez, and two subversives, both of whom I regret to say escaped to French Guiana. Posada is not pleased.”
The men muttered uneasily. Chet had crept up behind Frank. The two boys felt a surge of joy. Colombo and Santilla had gotten away!
“Those young punks,” Walton growled. “Too bad Greber and Valdez and me didn’t finish ’em off at the boathouse.”
Bedoya’s lips curled scornfully. “You were all fools to muff the chance!”
“Next time I get my hands on the Hardy pests and their fat friend—” Walton clenched and unclenched his huge fists. Chet felt a trickle of sweat running down his brow.
There was a sudden sharp cry from outside the tomb. Manuel Bedoya straightened up. “That was José! He must have caught somebody snooping!”
An icy chill went through Frank and Chet. Was Joe in the enemy’s clutches? The next instant Bedoya doused the lantern and the eight men rushed outside.
“Chet! Come on!”
Frank whipped up the stairway and leaped for the closing tomb door, but too late. It clanked firmly shut! Frantically the boys pushed against it to no avail. They were sealed in!
Chet gasped. “We’ll never get out alive!”
Frank noticed a fine slot near the door handle. “Bedoya must have had a key!”
Suddenly a click sounded from outside, and the door began to open. The two boys braced themselves for battle.
“It’s all right—it’s me!”
“Joe!”
“Thank heavens!” Chet sighed, faint with relief.
Frank started to speak, but his brother motioned them out of the tomb. In the woods to their right, the boys could hear a commotion of voices. They circled to the back of the vault and ran down the slope into a stand of pine trees.
“They’ve—got—Gomez,” Joe panted.
“What?”
“Yes. Bedoya had two guards hidden near the cemetery. I saw Gomez a second before they captured him. The others rushed out of the tomb before I could do anything!”
“Joe, they’ve hatched a plot to get the Micro-Eye camera tomorrow morning!” Quickly Frank recounted all they had heard. “We’ve got to tell Dykeman—but we can’t leave Gomez helpless!”
The boys listened intently. Now only silence met their ears. Swiftly and silently, the Hardys and Chet circled the cemetery. Still no sounds, or sign of anyone.
“Funny,” Joe muttered. “I didn’t hear a car start up.”
Chet again urged they go for the police.
“Guess we’ll need help,” Frank agreed. “And we have to warn Micro-Eye!”
They pushed through the dark woods, Chet plowing ahead like a tank in a thicket. “Boy, am I glad to get out of here!”
Joe had just started up the rise toward the housing development when a beam of light flashed out from the right. Then another! To their left, still another!
“Look out!”
Before the boys could retreat, rough arms seized all three from behind. Frank and Joe bucked and kicked at the men holding them. Joe grimaced with pain as his captor applied a vicious arm lock. Frank, helpless in a choking grip, saw Chet had been thrown to the ground after a valiant struggle against two assailants.
The boys, hopelessly outnumbered, were gagged and dragged a short distance. Frank was first to sight the limp, gagged form of Gomez at the feet of a white-suited figure.
Manuel Bedoya’s voice uttered one menacing word. “Strike!”
The next instant blows crashed upon the boys’ heads. They sank down, unconscious!

CHAPTER XIX  
  Ghost Ship
 
 
 
SLOWLY Joe revived. His arms were bound tightly behind his back.
He felt the steady throb of a motor and a rocking motion. As a splash of water hit his face, he sat up but fell back as a strong gust of salty wind hit him. Joe now realized he was in the stern of a boat moving at top speed through the darkness.
Frank and Chet, also tied up, lay inert on deck next to him. As a wave leaped the rail and doused them, they both sat up groggily.
Frank winced. “My head—where are we?”
Joe whispered, looking around, “I think we’re aboard the Northerly!”
Two Huellan thugs, whom the boys recognized as the machete men, glared at the trio from the taffrail. Nearby lay the unconscious form of Gomez. To starboard, the boys could just see the mainland. They were heading south, but where? The Hardys strained futilely against their bonds. Prisoners! And a sinister spy scheme to be executed against Micro-Eye within a few hours!
“Watch the rocks!” a voice called out. The boys spotted Bedoya standing on the bridge above. Chet’s teeth chattered.
Presently the yacht turned into a slow arc, then the engines stopped. The Northerly’s lights were cut, except one beam to the fore. 
The shoreline was in complete blackness. Suddenly, ahead, the three boys made out a huge, hulking outline. They drew closer to the enormous shadow.
Frank gasped. “The Atlantis!”
Moments later, the captives were rudely pulled to their feet and untied. The Huellan, Rodriguez, prodded them with a blunt instrument.
“One sound and you are finished.”
In grim silence the Hardys and Chet were thrust into a dinghy with one man at the oars; then Gomez, still unconscious, was lifted in. The two thugs climbed in and the oarsman pushed off. Bedoya and his other henchmen followed in a second boat.
The two craft made directly for the old wreck. Nearer and nearer it loomed, until the tilted hull hovered over them. A rope ladder was lowered from the portside.
“Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths.
Frank, Joe, and Chet gripped the swaying ladder and climbed to the freighter’s deck. The three men seized and handcuffed them.
Chet crouched against the strong wind, trying desperately to keep his balance on the slanted deck. A shaft of light pierced the darkness as one of the men opened a hatch.
“Down there!” he barked.
The trio obeyed, with their captors following. Below, the boys were led aft through a dim passageway lined with broken rusted piping to an open doorway. Here an olive-skinned muscular man yanked the boys inside.
They found themselves in a large compartment, illuminated dimly by several lanterns. Cots and chairs were scattered about. A battered desk stood near a rack of rifles. On the desk lay a crate of fruit, several sea shells of the keyhole limpet variety, and a riding crop.
The boys’ attention was quickly drawn to a group of weary-looking people seated on blankets at the rear of the hold. The eight men and three women looked Latin American. Their wrists and ankles bound, they seemed too exhausted to show much surprise at the new arrivals.
One of the men moaned. Seeing lash marks across his face, Frank grimaced. “The Huellan refugees!” he whispered. “Thank heavens they’re alive!”


  
“Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths
“Not by much!” Joe commented, appalled. “Bedoya must have them beaten. I wonder how long they’ve been kept here.”
“Weeks, probably,” Frank estimated. “We’ve got to get all of us out of here!”
“Then I really did hear voices out at the cove that day!” Chet whispered, nudging both Hardys. “Probably these prisoners’ cries!”
Frank nodded. “With Bedoya at work here, it would explain the Atlantis ‘ghost screams’!” 
Gomez, now conscious, was led in by the muscular man. The refugees cried out joyously:
“Gomez!”
“Luis!” “Pedro!” “Amigos—”
Gomez’s greeting to his captive countrymen was cut short by a brutal slap from the thug. Reeling, Gomez was thrust next to the boys, who in whispers quickly established friendly terms with him.
“We owe you some apologies,” Frank said, and briefly explained what they had learned.
Gomez was astonished upon hearing of the boys’ visit to Baredo. “If only I had not become frightened and run away from you!” he muttered ruefully to Frank and Joe. “I was afraid to trust anybody before finding my missing friends.”
The news of Colombo and Santilla’s escape cheered Gomez. He had not been aware of the plot against Micro-Eye, nor of Bedoya’s presence in Bayport. Gomez had learned of North’s double-dealing while on the Dorado and also overheard Captain Burne speak of “the investigator, Fenton Hardy.” The Huellan added that the search for his betrayed compatriots had finally led him to the cemetery at Oak Hollow and his capture.
The four stopped talking as Manuel Bedoya entered, followed by a heavy-set figure with his coat collar up. As the second man faced them, they gasped. Orrin North!
The magnate squinted balefully at the boys and Gomez. “You three have been a headache to us,” he rasped angrily. “And you!” He strode over and shook his fist at Gomez. “You almost wrecked my ‘refugee’ business!”
“Business!” Joe retorted. “You mean kidnapping and treason!”
“Shut up!” North snapped, his eyes blazing. “You Hardys will regret not cooperating with me. Too bad you would not heed the machete warning of Rodriguez and his friend.”
“What’s your motive in this spy game, North?” Frank asked coolly.
“Let’s just say money.”
Frank went on, “You pretended Gomez was a thief, provided the tomb hideout, plus the Atlantis for Posada’s Footprints plot?” 
“You catch on fast,” North said mockingly. “The warning sign I put up here, and the ghost legend helped keep people away—but not you nosy kids. My pilot saw you snooping around the cove last week. I’ll bet you copped that sea shell, too!”
North went on, boasting that leaving messages in the sea shells had been his idea. He pointed to the brawny thug. “Musco here swam the shells ashore.”
“After you tricked these Huellans into giving names of underground friends,” Joe accused him.
“Not me personally,” North qualified, “but you’ve got the idea. Sometimes Bedoya had to be more—persuasive.” He chuckled. “Nice system, eh? The shells were picked up, the names and other information hidden in clothes, and sent to Cayenne. How do you like my title: Orrin North, Liberator of the Huellas?”
Gomez’s eyes blazed and he kicked at the magnate. “You dog!”
North stepped back, laughing raucously. He turned to Bedoya. “Manuel, I’m not hanging around here any longer than I have to. Everything ready for this morning?”
“Everything—if the Northerly is.” 
“It’s shipshape.” North rubbed his hands and said to the boys, “Too bad you’ll miss seeing us pull off our big job today. Manuel, they’re all yours!” he added, and left.
Chet nervously watched as Bedoya leaned against the desk and fingered the riding crop. Frank glanced up at a clock on the wall. Four A.M.! He decided to take the offensive.
“So Posada sneaked you in here via the Capricorn to get the Micro-Eye camera!” he said. 
“Yes,” Bedoya said, cracking the whip against the desk. Chet jumped.
The master spy continued, “I failed to learn from Miss Hardy on shipboard of your father’s whereabouts, but I understand he is far from here, unfortunately for you!”
“You think you’re going to break into Micro-Eye?” Joe taunted. “You don’t have a chance!”
“I think we have a perfect chance,” Bedoya countered blandly. He laughed.
Frank suddenly recalled Al, the spy, he had seen at the tomb meeting.
“We know you have an inside man,” the young detective spoke up. “How did he get clearance as a guard?”
“Oh, but Al Raker’s not a guard,” Bedoya said, raising his brows. “He’s a laundryman.”
“A laundryman!”
“Of course!” Joe burst out. “The man I thought I recognized at Corporated Laundries! And I saw North in there—probably leaving a message!”
“Corporated Laundries!” Frank exclaimed. “So that’s how Raker took photos inside the plant. But the maintenance building is isolated—where did Raker suddenly get a guard’s uniform?”
Bedoya cracked the riding crop again, close to Frank’s face. “You are very inquisitive.” He smiled. “But I can afford to tell you.”
The Huellan reached into a foot locker and pulled out a white work outfit. Stitched over one of the jacket pockets in red was the word “Corporated.”
“Simple,” he began. “Raker rides with Gale—also one of our men—in the truck to Micro-Eye. Raker sits in the back with the clean laundry. They are admitted by the gate guards. Then”—the chief spy grinned—“comes our little miracle.”
Bedoya quickly turned the white jacket and trousers inside out. The boys gasped. They were identical to a Micro-Eye guard’s uniform!
“The rest is easy,” Bedoya continued. “Raker dons a mustache and forged badge, then he is let out at the maintenance building by Gale. Next, he walks to the main plant. Dykeman’s guard-shifting plan helped—Raker goes about unsuspected.”
“And with a miniature camera!” Joe cut in.
“Correct. Raker then returns to the maintenance building and Gale sneaks him back into the truck, where he once more reverses the uniform.”
“But,” Frank interrupted, “the gate has logged in two laundry employees in the truck. If Gale handles the laundry alone, wouldn’t any guards watching be suspicious?” 
“Gale doesn’t work alone,” Bedoya said smugly. “Since our laundrymen collect and deliver regularly at the maintenance building, the gate guards do not inspect the bundles.”
“Inside one of which is another spy!” Joe finished. “He takes Raker’s place until he gets back!”
“Ingenious, no?” Bedoya boasted. “Our third man comes in as ‘clean’ laundry and leaves in a pickup bundle. But today that bundle will leave with the satellite camera.”
“Then why did you have Valdez try to cut through the fence that day?” Frank asked. “He didn’t have a chance of getting in.”
“Of course not,” Bedoya agreed. “But it helped to make Dykeman think we were working from outside.”
Frank pressed further. “And you used the luggage—and clothing—of innocent travelers to smuggle out the films and stolen data to Cayenne?”
“Correct,” Bedoya affirmed. He admitted that Valdez had broken into travel agencies and obtained names of tourists flying to Cayenne.
Their agents at Corporated Laundries would wait for the travelers to leave dry cleaning there, the Huellan added. The Micro-Eye secrets were then cleverly sewn into some of the garments which the customer indicated he would take on the trip. In certain cases Valdez would have to risk entering the person’s home to make sure the information was in the suitcase. 
“And what happened to Raymond Martin?” Joe demanded.
“Oh, we have him safely tucked away.” Bedoya would explain no further. Just then Musco whispered something in his ear. Leaving two armed thugs with the boys, the men left the compartment.
Frank, Joe, and Chet looked around for some means of escape. Their heads throbbed with pain. Gomez and the refugees slumped into dejected silence.
Suddenly clanking sounds from below and the gurgle of rushing water aroused the four prisoners. Frank again looked at the clock.
“Six-thirty!” he thought. “We have to get free!” 
At that moment Bedoya re-entered with Musco. The boys and Gomez were unhandcuffed and pushed through the door toward a companion-way.
“And now, we must part,” Bedoya said jeeringly.
The Hardys, Chet, and Gomez were jostled down the rusted stairs. Musco, Rodriguez, and Bedoya followed closely. The sound of rushing water became louder. The group came to a halt outside a watertight door.
“I would have enjoyed testing your endurance at greater length,” said the spy leader. “But time is short. All right, Musco!”
Musco threw open the steel door to the thundering din of gushing water. It was a dark aft compartment flooding from gashes in the hull!
“You’ll never get away with this!” Frank shouted.
But the next instant the boys and Gomez were thrust savagely into the turbulent chamber. Torrents of ice-cold sea water enveloped them as Bedoya’s mocking voice rang out. “If you are found, it will appear as an accident. Remember—this is a ghost ship!” 
His laughter reverberated. Then the heavy door swung shut and clinked. The icy water rose higher and higher, swirling about the foursome.

CHAPTER XX  
  Countdown
 
 
 
THE Hardys, Chet, and Gomez floundered in the darkness, trying to keep their heads above the rising water. They clawed around, groping blindly for a way out.
“This whole stem section must be submerged!” Frank realized.
The Hardys tried yanking at the steel door, but it would not budge. By now, none of them could stand. “I—I can’t stay up much longer!” Chet gasped. As a furry rodent brushed his cheek, he choked on a mouthful of salt water.
Frank said, “Try to find out where the water’s coming in! It’s our only way out!”
The three dived again and again, desperately seeking a breach in the hull large enough for them to squeeze through. Their breathing grew labored.
Gomez groaned. “It is no use! The openings are too small!”
“Keep looking!”
Joe, bursting above water, touched the overhead with his hand. There was almost no room left!
Then suddenly Frank felt a strong pressure against his feet. He plunged beneath the surface, fingering the bulkhead. An inrushing stream of water led him to a jagged hole about two feet high and a foot wide. Frank shot above.
“I’ve found the opening!” he shouted. “But we’ll have to widen it!”
Joe and Chet wrenched loose a section of rusted pipe near the overhead and swam toward Frank’s voice. “Here!”
With not a second to lose, the two boys dived and battered at the side of the opening. As they came up for air, Joe gasped, “We can’t get enough force behind the pipe!”
Desperate, the four prisoners submerged again, each gripping the pipe. They pushed it against one end of the gash and tried to bend out the edge. Suddenly, to their amazement, the lever began to jockey with new force.
Someone on the outside was trying to help them!
The opening grew wider!
The boys felt as if their lungs would burst, but finally Gomez wriggled through, then Joe. He pulled Chet outside, and Frank followed.
When they broke the sunlit surface of Cobblewave Cove, the four drew in long, shuddering gulps of air. Utterly exhausted, they floated to a large hump-shaped rock and collapsed onto it.
Who had been their rescuer? Frank sat up.
“Fellows, look!” From the shadow of the Atlantis, somebody was swimming toward them! As the figure neared the rock, the Hardys cried out in astonishment: 
“Dad!”
“Frank! Joe!”
Fenton Hardy grasped his sons’ hands and climbed up. He wore old, torn clothes.
“Dad! How?—Where?—”
The well-built, keen-dyed detective was equally amazed at seeing his sons. Catching his breath, he explained, “I spotted Orrin North’s yacht out here an hour ago from a motorboat I’d rented, and swam to the Atlantis. Are you all right?” 
“Barely,” Chet said with a weak smile.
Gomez was quickly introduced, then Mr. Hardy continued his story. Upon hearing men’s voices from the wrecked freighter, he had dived near the stern. “When I saw the pipe coming through the hole, I knew someone was trapped, so I pitched in, not dreaming it was you at the other end!”
“You saved our lives!” Frank said. “But, Dad—you haven’t been away? You’ve been in Bayport?”
“Yes, in order to watch North’s activities. But tell me what you’re doing here.”
The boys tersely recounted their involvement with Micro-Eye, and explained Bedoya’s imminent plot to steal the camera.
“At eight o’clock!” the detective repeated, shocked. “I saw the Northerly start up the coast a short while ago.” 
“With Bedoya and his men aboard!” Joe guessed. “Come on!”
Overcoming their fatigue, the five swam to shore. They raced across the beach, through the pine barrens, and up a dirt road.
Fenton Hardy looked at his waterproof watch. “It’s almost eight now!”
Frank urged, “Let’s flag the first car!”
Gomez, concerned for his imprisoned friends, was reluctant to leave. “You wait here,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll notify the Coast Guard and have them send a boat to the Atlantis.”
“Gracias!”
A sedan approached, and the boys signaled frantically. The car stopped, and the Hardys and Chet jumped in.
“Micro-Eye Industries! Quick! Emergency!”
The young driver recognized the Hardys, and though puzzled at their bedraggled appearance, reacted instantly. “You bet!”
The sedan shot north along the coast. It was now ten after eight! Reaching town, the driver sped up a boulevard leading directly to the Micro-Eye plant. They heard sirens wailing. Eight-fifteen!
As the plant came into view, they gasped. Billowing smoke almost obscured the buildings. Squad cars idled along both curbs. Policemen and armed plant guards seemed to be everywhere.
“Bedoya’s smoke bombs!” Frank exclaimed. He directed the driver to stop at the main gate, as Joe yelled, “There goes the laundry truck!”
The brown vehicle was just turning the comer at the far end of the block!
“They’ve stolen the camera!” Joe cried out.
“Chet,” Mr. Hardy snapped, “find Mr. Dykeman! Have him call the Coast Guard!”
“Yes, Mr. Hardy.”
As Chet hopped out, the detective addressed the driver. “We need to borrow this car. Will you trust us with it?”
“Sure thing!”
The young man alighted and Frank slipped behind the wheel. He sped off, heading directly for the waterfront. As they neared Bay Street, the Hardys saw the laundry truck ahead. It swerved around a corner. Frank followed just in time to see a large white bundle tossed from the rear of the truck. It landed in an empty lot!
“The camera!” Joe cried out.
“This may be a trick!” his father argued.
Frank had already screeched to the curb. Joe sprinted over and tore open the bundle. Empty!
In a flash he was back in the car, and Frank made for the boathouse area. He braked to a halt at the Northerly’s dock. The yacht was nearing the mouth of Barmet Bay. 
“They’ve made the pickup!” Joe cried out. “Let’s get the Sleuth!”
The boys and their father leaped out and started for the Hardy boathouse. Suddenly, from behind a green car parked nearby, two figures rushed toward them. The hulking Walton, and behind him Greber, wielding a machete!
The huge man lunged for Mr. Hardy, but the detective side-stepped nimbly and jarred him to the ground with an uppercut. Frank and Joe tackled Greber. Two punches to the midriff sent the machete flying and he sank to his knees.
“Leave them for the police!” Mr. Hardy said.
He and his sons rushed into their boathouse and boarded the Sleuth, with Frank at the wheel. He sped across the bay. The yacht had already reached the open sea. 
“They’re going to transfer the camera to another boat!” Joe shouted, recalling the spies’ planned “offshore pickup” by “41.”
“Probably in international waters!” the investigator guessed as the Sleuth streaked from the bay. 
The Northerly now raced full speed ahead, some hundred yards to port. In the distance the pursuers saw a small, net-draped sailing vessel. The Northerly plied directly for it, cutting speed. 
“A fishing trawler!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “‘41’!”
“I’ll try to get between them!” Frank steered straight for the tip of the Northerly’s bow. 
The yacht’s pilot swung left to avert a collision. The maneuver had worked! But as Frank looped back toward the yacht, the larger ship veered sharply, and came at the Sleuth. The Hardys could see Manuel Bedoya, enraged, shouting to the pilot, Decker. 
Joe yelled at his brother, “Look out, they’ll cut us in two!”
Frank was forced to turn aside, and the Northerly resumed course for the trawler. Suddenly there came a thunderous boom! 
The Hardys looked south at a rising patch of smoke. Two sleek, gray cutters with forward guns were advancing at full steam.
“The Coast Guard!”
Instantly the trawler’s motors chugged to life. It headed out to sea, away from the Northerly. Bedoya’s frantic shouts could be heard.
“Stop! You cannot desert us! Wait!”
But already one of the cutters blocked the Northerly’s path, and a stern voice blared out: 
“Heave to!”
The yacht throbbed to a halt. At the same instant, Bedoya darted to the rail and flung a bundle overboard.
“The camera! Frank, quick!”
The Sleuth shot to where the object splashed into the sea. Joe dived and grasped the sinking bundle. He brought it up and was helped aboard by his father. By this time the trawler was a speck on the horizon. 
Meanwhile, six Coast Guard men had boarded the Northerly and ordered Decker to head back. Manuel Bedoya stood sullenly in the grip of two officers. 
With a Coast Guard cutter on either side, the Northerly returned to Barmet Bay. The Sleuth kept close behind. Within an hour after docking, Bedoya and all his cohorts had been arrested, and the camera found intact in a waterproof bag. 
Soon afterward, a large jubilant group sat in the Hardy living room, awaiting lunch. Aunt Gertrude was spellbound by the whole story.
Mr. Dykeman arose from a chair. “Fenton,” he said warmly, “words can’t express what you, your sons, and Chet Morton have done for our government.”
The boys beamed, then Joe remarked, “The great ‘liberator,’ Orrin North, is out of business for good, I guess.”
“I should think so,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly. “And to think that I actually was on board ship with Posada’s head spy!”
Dykeman reported that the smoke bombs had caused little damage to Micro-Eye and no one had been injured. “But the confusion did allow the phony guard Raker to take the camera—supposedly to safety, then to knock out two plant guards before he put the camera in the truck.
“By the way, Pryce has been exonerated,” the intelligence man said. “Raymond Martin was found half-starving but alive in a remote shack outside Cayenne. The two suitcase thieves were with him. They confessed to having left ‘his skeleton’ to fool any prowlers.”
Captain Burne and the Dorado crew had been apprehended in South America. The boys were pleased to learn that Gomez and the Huellan refugees had been assured of homes and a new start in the United States. 
“Let’s hope the spies’ failure puts a big dent in Posada’s power,” Frank said. “By the way—that fishing trawler—does it just get away?”
“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Hardy replied, “but empty-handed, at least. Authorities believe the vessel belongs to a large, anti-American country—and, as you and Joe suspected, that Posada did plan to trade the satellite camera for money and arms.”
Mr. Dykeman chuckled. “Not even I suspected your whereabouts, Fenton.”
Chet was still puzzled by the theft of Iola’s shopping bag. “I can explain that,” Mr. Dykeman said. “When your dry cleaning was left at Corporated Laundries, Bedoya’s spies mistakenly sewed the film into your clothing. They confused Morton for Martin, so Valdez had to get them back.”
“One more unsolved mystery,” said Joe. “Those footprints under the window, both at our house and North’s.”
Mr. Hardy burst into hearty laughter. “Remember, you weren’t the only sleuths around here.”
“Dad! They were your footprints?” 
“Guilty.” The detective’s eyes twinkling. He added, “To crack this spy plot, it was important that no one knew I was in town.” The “stolen” papers, he revealed, were part of a dossier on North which he had to pick up.
Joe gaped. “Well, if that doesn’t beat everything!” Unknown to him, however, the Hardys would soon be challenged by an even more baffling case, The Mark on the Door. 
“Anyway,” Chet said, sighing and relishing the prospect of a titanic meal, “one thing’s sure about this mystery. There was an awful lot afoot!”
The others laughed heartily.
Perfect Getaway (Hardy Boys Casefiles #12)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly," Frank Hardy chanted ironically, looking around at the palm trees fringing the deserted white beach on which he and his brother, Joe, stood.
"Fa-la-la-la-la-la Flor-i-da!" Joe joined in as he pushed sweat-dampened blond hair off his forehead. The sun was hot on his face. The jeans and sweatshirt he had put on in Bayport that morning were threatening to cook him. But then, when the two boys had left the North for Miami, they had taken off in a blizzard.
Frank was dressed like his younger brother, except that his sweatshirt bore two Chinese characters--his karate dojo's logo--instead of an orange varsity football letter. Frank's martial arts specialty wasn't a school sport at Bayport High, but he was very proud of his brown belt.
2
"This sure won't be a white Christmas for us unless we get this case wrapped up fast," said Frank. He, too, was sweating after the five miles they had walked on this beach to leave swimmers and sunbathers far behind.
"I'm asking Santa for a swimsuit--delivered early," said Joe. He looked up at the clear southern sky and stretched his arms wide, trying to unkink muscles still stiff from the air trip. "Are you sure we don't have time for a swim?"
"Forget it," said Frank. "This isn't a vacation."
"Don't remind me. We never take vacations. That trip to Colorado was the closest we've come in at least a year, and that was certainly no joyride," Joe said. The Hardys' last case had led them deep into the Colorado Rockies in pursuit of a hit man.
"You know, we could actually make this a vacation if we wanted," Joe continued, his blue eyes twinkling. "We could definitely afford a beach house if you'd just shake loose a little of that cash--"
"Get serious, Joe," said Frank.
"That's the problem with you, Frank," Joe said. "You're always serious. If you'd go with the flow--"
"We'd both have gone down the drain long ago," Frank said, cutting him off. "One of us has to take care of business, and it sure isn't you."
"Yeah," said Joe. "I saw the way you were
3
holding that bag on the flight down here." He looked down at the expensive leather attaché case that was lying on the sand next to their duffel bags. "Were you afraid I'd grab it and go on a shopping spree when we hit the Gold Coast?"
"No sense tempting you." Frank grinned. "One of the local girls might want a night on the town."
"You're right." Joe grinned back at his older brother. "But just let me take one more look inside. That's the stuff that dreams are made of."
Frank hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "But just for a second." He squatted next to Joe in front of the case, clicked open both locks, and lifted the lid.
For a few seconds both Hardys stared at the bundles of bills neatly stacked in the case.
"Enough," said Frank, abruptly snapping it shut.
Joe was about to protest when he heard a car horn blare from behind the palm trees: once, twice, three times.
Frank looked at his watch. "Right on time," he said, his brown eyes suddenly wary.
He took a whistle from his pocket and gave three shrill blasts. The two Hardys waited. Silent. Still. A minute later a small man in a tan chauffeur's uniform appeared among the palms. With one hand he motioned for Frank and Joe to approach. In his other hand was something that turned his gesture into an absolute command: a
4
large nickel-plated automatic, glinting in the bright afternoon sun, pointed straight at them.
When the Hardys reached him, the man with the gun spoke in a clipped British accent. "Joe and Frank, I presume."
"That's right," Frank said.
"I apologize for the informality of addressing you gentlemen by your first names, but it's company policy," the man said.
"And what's your name?" Frank asked.
The man smiled, his lips a straight, tight line. "You may call me Jeeves." He motioned them closer with his gun. "Now, if I may see your tickets, we can move on."
"Our tickets?" asked Frank.
The gun gestured toward the attaché case.
"Oh, I get it," said Frank and snapped it open.
Jeeves glanced at the contents, then nodded. "Very good, sir," he said. "We may proceed with our journey."
"Just out of curiosity," said Joe, trying not to watch the gun pointing at him, "what would have happened if we didn't have our, er, tickets? The, uh, train would have left without us?"
"Not at all, sir," Jeeves replied. "But your final destination would not have been the one you originally intended."
"I get it," Joe said, managing a grin. "A oneway trip, huh?"
"An elegant way of putting it, if I may say so, sir," said Jeeves. "And now, if there are no more
5
questions--" He motioned for them to walk ahead of him through the palm trees.
Beyond the palms ran a blacktop road. Parked beside it was an enormous gray stretch limo. Its chrome was beautifully polished, and its dark windows gleamed.
"Climb in, gentlemen, and we'll be on our way," Jeeves said as he held open the rear door with one hand. The other hand still held the silver automatic--not pointing at them but not away from them, either.
Frank and Joe looked into the spacious interior. They could see soft leather seats, a television set, and even a built-in bar.
"You do give your customers their money's worth," said Joe. "Battleships like this are for big wheels only."
"If you'll climb in," Jeeves repeated with a hint of impatience.
"Sure, sure," said Joe, and he tossed his duffel bag into the dark interior of the car. As soon as both boys were inside, the door behind them slammed, and they heard the click of its lock.
A second later a light came on, and they could see that the two side windows, the rear window, and the plastic shield that separated the driver from them were opaque.
"I thought windows like this were supposed to keep people from looking in while you could still look out," said Joe. "You know, part of the lifestyle of the rich and famous."
6
"These windows must have been custom-made for the rich and infamous," said Frank, pressing his nose against the glass as he tried to look out the side window. He could see nothing. "Somebody doesn't want us to see where we're going."
"Actually, the rich and famous aren't the only ones who use limos like this," Joe said.
"Who else does?" asked Frank.
"Funeral directors."
Frank grimaced, then finished Joe's thought. "Let's just hope this limo isn't being used for our funeral."
7
Chapter 2
The day before, a ride to their own funeral had not been one of the Hardys' worries. Their main concern was that Christmas was just a week away, and they still hadn't bought any gifts.
In the morning, after breakfast, they were in Frank's room, planning their shopping.
"Agreed, then," said Joe. "What you get for Callie is your business." He was talking about Callie Shaw, Frank's steady girlfriend.
"Right," said Frank. "And what you get for half the girls in Bayport is your problem."
"It's the price of success," said Joe with a mock sigh.
"And of course we won't talk about what we're getting for each other," said Frank.
"Because it won't be worth mentioning," said Joe with a grin. "Personally, I've budgeted two
8
dollars and ninety-eight cents, tax included, for your present."
"You shouldn't have told me--it makes me feel like a tightwad. Anyway, that leaves Dad and Mom and Aunt Gertrude. We'll buy gifts for them together."
"Maybe that computer of yours can come up with some gift ideas," suggested Joe. "We need some help. In fact, I need some help. Can you supply a little financial first aid? Maybe make me a small loan?"
"No way," said Frank. "The last upgrade I did on the computer put me near bankruptcy."
"Yeah, like that new engine in the van did to me," said Joe.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Frank said, "Maybe you're right. Let's see if my computer can come up with some brilliant solution."
But before he could begin, the telephone in his room rang.
"Must be Callie," he said, going to answer it.
The person on the phone was a girl, but not Callie.
"Hi, Frank, it's Marcie Miller," she said. "Hope you don't mind my calling, but I needed to talk to you. Callie didn't want to give out your number at first, but I told her it was an emergency." She hesitated. "I told her it was a life-or-death situation."
Frank was instantly alert. Callie wouldn't have
9
urged someone to call for no reason. She was the most levelheaded person he knew.
"What's up?" he said.
"I'd rather tell you in person, at my house," Marcie said. "Please, could you come over right away? You and Joe. I need you both. I have to have some help, or--" She broke off. The desperation in her voice made it clear how urgently she needed them.
"We'll be right over," Frank promised.
"Thanks. Please hurry," she said and hung up.
"Come on. We have to get to Marcie Miller's place. Fast," Frank said. He headed for the closet to get his coat.
Joe didn't waste time asking questions. He could see from the gleam in Frank's eye that something interesting was cooking, and his appetite for action was as keen as his brother's. He raced to his room for his coat, beat Frank downstairs, and was already behind the wheel of the van warming up the motor in the icy morning air when Frank slid into the seat beside him.
On the drive to Marcie's, there was time to talk.
"Wonder what the problem is with Golden Girl?" said Joe, using his favorite nickname for Marcie.
"I always think of her as the rich little rich girl," said Frank. "But I guess that isn't fair. It isn't Marcie's fault that she has everything."
"Yeah," said Joe. "Looks, brains, personality,
10
plus all the things that her platinum card can buy."
"Everything except a mother," said Frank, looking thoughtful. Marcie's mother had passed away when Marcie was born. "Maybe that's why everybody likes her. She definitely hasn't had all the breaks."
"She's lucky to have the kind of dad she has," said Joe, keeping his eyes on the road. Although the road had been plowed, there were still treacherous icy patches. Joe liked to drive fast, but he also drove well.
"Yeah, Mr. Miller is a real good guy--especially for a big-shot executive," said Frank. "He spends a lot of time with Marcie, talks with her, listens to her. He really tries to take the place of her mom."
"Marcie always says that she thinks he's tops," Joe agreed.
Joe parked the van beside the curb in front of Marcie's home, an imposing colonial mansion set back on a huge lawn blanketed with snow.
"We haven't been here since Marcie's Halloween party. Do you think the maid will remember us?" asked Frank.
Joe grinned as he rang the doorbell. "After the way you scared her with that fake skeleton, I don't think she'd want to remember you."
A young woman opened the door. It was Marcie--but this wasn't the Marcie that Frank and Joe knew. This girl was pale and unsmiling, and
11
her movements were quick and nervous. She ushered the boys inside, then closed the door and leaned back against it. Her body sagged with relief. "Boy, am I glad to see you," she exclaimed.
"What's going on?" asked Frank.
"Come into the library and I'll show you," she said. Marcie led them down the hallway, continuing to talk as they followed her. "I never realized how big this house is until today. I can practically hear my footsteps echoing. Maybe it's because I'm almost never in it all alone. Dad's not here today, though, and I sent the maid home."
On an antique oak table in the library was an expensive leather attaché case. Marcie snapped it open, and the Hardys' mouths dropped open.
Frank leaned closer. "Hundred-dollar bills. Are they all hundreds?"
"All of them," said Marcie. "I checked."
"That's a lot of cash," Joe finally managed to say. "What'd you do, rob a bank?"
Marcie caught her breath on a choking sob.
"Hey, sorry if I said anything wrong," Joe said hurriedly.
Marcie tried to pull herself together. "It's not your fault. You couldn't know. Nobody knows-- not yet, anyway."
"Knows what?"
"About my dad," she said and buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
12
Frank and Joe waited. As active as they were, they knew that sometimes all they could do was wait.
Marcie calmed down after only a moment. She lifted her head from her hands, her eyes red and damp, but her face resolute. "I'm sorry. I know I can't help my dad if I go to pieces." She bit her lip, then continued in a steadier voice. "I'll tell you what happened. Then maybe you can help me make some sense out of it. And figure out what to do."
She sat down in one of the high-backed oak chairs by the table, and the Hardys sat down, too. In front of them the attaché case lay open like a question demanding an answer.
But Marcie didn't start with the money. She started with her dad.
"Let me say it fast, so I can get it out," she said. "My dad's in jail. Two plainclothes police officers came here and arrested him yesterday." She took a deep breath. "They've accused him of stealing--'embezzling' is the word they used-- a fortune, millions and millions of dollars, from Maxtel. That's the company he's vice-president of. And--"
"Your dad?" said Frank, thinking of the distinguished-looking yet down-to-earth man who was Marcie's father.
"No way," said Joe, remembering when Marcie's dad had given not only money but also a lot
13
of his own time and effort to help Marcie's high school class establish a shelter for the homeless.
"I know it, and you know it, but the law doesn't," said Marcie. "And this attaché case full of money makes it even worse."
"How so?" asked Frank, hoping the answer wasn't what he thought it might be.
"Dad called from jail early this morning and asked me to bring him some clothes and stuff, since they were holding him without bail," said Marcie. "Seems like a whole lot of big-time white-collar crooks--the same kind they say he is--have been doing vanishing acts lately, and they're not taking any chances."
"Yeah, I read about one the other day," said Joe. "Karl Ross, the takeover king. He took off."
"But what does that have to do with this money?" asked Frank.
"When I went to my dad's closet to get the clothes, I found this attaché case," said Marcie. "Normally I wouldn't have opened it, but I thought it might have something in it that he needed and forgot to tell me about. So I did. And it was a good thing. Because twenty minutes later, some cops showed up with a search warrant--and if I hadn't hidden the case in my room, they would have found it. You can imagine what it would have looked like to them."
"Yeah, I can imagine," said Frank, staring at the money.
14
"But you don't think--I mean, you can't think--" Marcie could go no further.
"Look, Marcie, he's your dad and all," Frank said gently. "But you have to see how it looks to somebody who isn't as involved."
"Don't worry, Marcie," Joe said, cutting in. "Frank always starts with the worst case. We both know your father well enough to know he's not a crook."
"Thanks, Joe," Marcie said, putting her hand on his arm. Then she turned to Frank. "Frank, I know you're not being unfair. It does look bad. Dad has a lawyer who can help him in court, but he needs somebody working on the outside to prove his innocence. That's why I called you two. Can you help? Will you?"
"We're not miracle workers, Marcie," Frank told her. "We'll try to find out what's going on, but we can't promise what the results will be. And if it turns out that you don't like what we find, we'll still have to tell the authorities."
"I'll take that chance," said Marcie with a glimmer of hope in her eyes for the first time.
Suddenly she frowned. "The trouble is, there's practically nothing to go on. Dad says the only person who can clear him of the charges against him is the company president, Adolf Tanner. He and Tanner were trying to buy some company in South America. First the money vanished, and then Tanner vanished. What's even worse, the police think my dad had something to do with
15
both things. They hinted to Dad that he could have wanted Tanner out of the way before Tanner discovered the money was gone." She paused. "The charges against him are a lot worse than theft."
"Then our first job is to find Tanner," said Frank.
Marcie shook her head. "That's what everybody, including Dad, has been trying to do for the past week. No luck. It's as if Tanner disappeared into thin air."
For a moment silence hung over the room. Abruptly the telephone rang, and Marcie sprang to answer it.
"Hello," she said, then listened for a second. "Hold on, please." She covered the mouthpiece with the palm of her hand as she turned to the Hardys.
"It's for my dad. What should I do?"
Frank reacted instantly. "Give me the phone."
He spoke into the receiver, making his voice sound deeper and slower. "Hello, Gregory Miller here."
The woman's voice on the other end was the polite voice of a sales representative, the kind that sounded as if it had been programmed by a machine. "Hello, Mr. Miller. This is Perfect Getaway Travel, Limited. I am returning your call about our special Perfect Getaway Travel plan." She paused. "I am correct, am I not, Mr. Miller? You do want a Perfect Getaway, don't you?"
16
Chapter 3
"That's right, I want to know about a Perfect Getaway," said Frank, keeping the rising excitement out of his voice. He motioned for Joe and Marcie to keep quiet as he switched on the speakerphone to let them listen in.
"Well, we here at Perfect Getaway realize that our clients are usually very pressed for time. I'm happy to say that we've arranged your reservation, and I'm calling to give you your itinerary," the voice said. "First of all, though, we must go over the matter of payment once again, to make sure it's completely understood."
"If we must, we must," said Frank.
"As I mentioned in our last conversation, the fee for our club will be seventy-five thousand dollars, to be paid in bills no larger than one-hundred," the woman continued smoothly.
17
"Needless to say, we cannot accept checks or credit cards."
"Of course," Frank agreed. "Now, if you'll tell me what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to go."
"We will be sending you by messenger a map of southern Florida," said the woman. "On the map you will find a spot marked on a beach. That is where our representative will rendezvous with you tomorrow afternoon, if that is convenient for you."
"It's fine," said Frank. "The sooner the better."
"Most of our clients feel that way," the woman said. "Now, just one more detail. What will your name be?"
"Name?" said Frank.
"An essential part of our special Perfect Getaway plan is to leave your old self behind, including your name," said the woman. "From the moment you join us, we don't even want to know your old name or anything about you. In fact, we prefer to have merely a new first name for you. We and our clients have found that this is the best possible arrangement for all of us. In fact, after this call is completed, all record of your present name will be deleted from our files."
"I get it," said Frank. "What nobody knows can't hurt anybody."
"Exactly," the woman said. "Now, if you'll give us a name we can use for you ..."
18
"What about--Frank? I think that has a nice ring to it."
"Fine, Frank," said the woman. "Well, if there's nothing else--"
"Uh, there's one other thing," said Frank.
"What's that?" asked the woman.
"I've got a partner," said Frank. "He's looking for a Perfect Getaway, too. In fact, he needs one very badly. May I bring him with me?"
"Please hold, sir, while I check with my supervisor," said the woman. A few moments later, she came back on the line. "Yes, we can accommodate your partner. That will be a total of one hundred fifty thousand dollars. And remember, nothing larger than hundred-dollar bills."
"No discount?" asked Frank indignantly. "A group rate, perhaps?"
"Wait a moment, I'll have to check," said the woman. Another pause followed. "Yes, we are able to offer you a special rate of one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars for two."
"That's more like it," said Frank.
"And what is your companion's name?"
"His name now or his new one?" asked Frank.
"His new one, of course," said the woman.
"Of course," said Frank. "What about, er, Joe? That should be easy for him to remember."
"Joe it is," said the voice. "Now, do you have any more questions?"
"Just one," said Frank. "What kind of clothes do we wear?"
19
"Dress as casually and inconspicuously as possible, for obvious reasons. And don't bother bringing much luggage. Perfect Getaway will provide you with a new wardrobe suitable for wherever your Perfect Getaway will take you."
"All included in your fee?" asked Frank, doing his best to sound like a suspicious customer.
"Of course, sir. One payment covers all."
"That sounds fine," Frank said.
"We'll do our best to take care of your every need," said the woman. "A satisfied customer is our best advertisement. As you said yourself when you contacted us, you got our name through a personal recommendation."
"Yes, that's right, I did," said Frank. "Well, so long. And thank you."
"Thank you," said the voice. "And we hope you have a Perfect Getaway."
There was a click, then a dial tone. Frank stared thoughtfully at the speaker in the middle of the desk before he hung up the receiver.
"So we're heading down to Florida," Joe said finally. "Great. We'll go home, pack our duffel bags, and get to the bottom of this Perfect Getaway stuff."
"Not so fast," said Frank. "I set up that meeting in Florida to keep our options open--but maybe we should tell the police about this."
Frank turned to Marcie, then hesitated. "Look, Marcie, I hate to say it, but this doesn't look good for your dad. I mean, apparently he
20
got in touch with this Perfect Getaway outfit right before he was arrested. Plus, he had that attaché case filled with the hundreds. We may be breaking the law if we don't inform the authorities. It could be important evidence in their case against him."
Much to his relief, Marcie didn't get mad. But she also didn't give up her position.
"Dad would never try to run away from anything," she said with absolute certainty. "There has to be another explanation. And I'm not saying that just because I'm his daughter."
"Frank, let's keep our options open, as you suggested," Joe said. "There has to be something we don't know. And I say we go down to Florida and find it before we present the cops with more evidence that makes Mr. Miller look guilty."
Frank still looked doubtful. "I appreciate the way both of you feel. But feelings aren't facts."
"Right," said Joe. "That's why we should go down to Florida--to get the facts."
"You have to," pleaded Marcie. "You two are the only ones who can help clear my dad."
Frank shrugged. "Okay. We'll go for two reasons. First, I can't picture your dad as a crook. And second, I wonder if Mr. Tanner called Perfect Getaway, too."
Joe grinned at Marcie. "I had a feeling he'd go. He doesn't like sitting around doing nothing any more than I do. And if it means taking a few
21
chances--well, it's not the first time we've done it."
Frank couldn't dispute that. But he said soberly, "I want one thing understood. If we do find out that your dad was planning on vanishing, or if we find out anything else against him, we'll have to go to the cops with what we dig up. We can't be part of a cover-up."
Marcie nodded and said, "I understand, but I know there isn't a chance in the world you'll find out anything bad about him."
"Great, we're all set," said Joe. "We've got enough cash to convince Perfect Getaway that we're genuine and even to buy our airline tickets."
"I'll take care of the tickets," said Marcie. "I'll pay for them with a credit card. I'd go down with you, except that Dad might need me around, and I'm sure you two know what you're doing."
Frank was already leafing through a telephone book looking for the phone numbers of airlines with Florida routes. "Let's hope we can get a flight. Bookings over Christmas are tight."
"You can travel first class," Marcie said. "There are always seats available there."
"Money," said Joe, picking up the attaché case. "Wonderful what it can do."
* * *
The next day, though, as Joe sat with Frank in the locked backseat of the limo speeding toward
22
an unknown destination, he wasn't so sure about the power of money.
He patted the attaché case on the seat between Frank and him and said, "This money got us into this dungeon on wheels. Let's hope it can get us out."
Frank signaled Joe to be quiet while he turned on the car's television set. Turning up the volume, he leaned over and whispered to his brother, "Be careful. The driver may be listening to make sure that we're the right guys."
Joe nodded his understanding.
Frank continued, "Things are happening faster than I expected. I thought we'd just make contact with Perfect Getaway, then wait while they made plans. Whatever we did, I thought we'd have time to call Marcie and fill her in. That way if something went wrong, we could count on some help showing up."
"Too late for that now," muttered Joe. "One item this limo lacks is a phone in the backseat." He shivered, and it wasn't because of the airconditioning. "We've worked without a backup before, but when we climbed into this car, I felt as if we were entering another world. Like we were cutting all ties to the past, to everything we know. Creepy, huh?"
"You're not the only one who's spooked." Frank nodded in agreement.
"I wish we'd had time to let Dad know what
23
we were doing," said Joe, referring to their father, the famous private detective Fenton Hardy.
"I know what you mean," answered Frank. "But it's too late now--too late to tell anyone where we are."
Joe glanced at his watch. "We've been traveling for more than an hour. Wonder how much longer it'll be?"
"Not much--unless this limo can go underwater," said Frank. "We started out going south, and the car hasn't made any turns. That should put us at the tip of Florida--or beyond."
"What do you mean, 'beyond'?" asked Joe, glad to see that Frank's powers of observation and deduction hadn't been left behind.
"This highway continues as a causeway, linking all the tiny islands that form the Florida Keys, all the way to Key West," said Frank, looking at the map of the area that Perfect Getaway had sent.
Suddenly Joe stiffened. "The car's turning," he said.
"And slowing down," added Frank as he turned off the television. "We must have left the main highway."
The car continued at a slower speed. Then, after about ten minutes, it came to a stop. They heard the driver's door open.
The Hardys waited in tense silence for the car's back door to open or for the locks to click open.
24
"Why isn't Jeeves letting us out?" Joe asked nervously.
"Maybe he's gone to check with his boss. Or to get some help. Or both," Frank said speculatively.
Another three minutes of silence passed, while Joe watched the numbers on his digital watch change.
Then the lock clicked and the car door swung open.
Jeeves was there, and with him was a tall man with his hair shorn in a military crew cut. His clothes were military, too: sharply pressed green fatigues and polished army boots, and he carried a standard M-16 infantry rifle. But when Frank looked closer, he saw no insignia of rank or unit on the man's sleeves, and no name was stenciled on the strip of white material above the shirt pocket. Whatever army he belonged to was a private one.
Frank glanced sideways at Joe. Joe was checking the guy out, too, and doubtless had reached the same conclusion.
"If you will leave the car now, gentlemen, and accompany Bob here," Jeeves said, stepping aside to let them out.
Frank and Joe climbed out of the car and found themselves standing in front of a white-columned mansion that looked like it came straight off a movie set of the old South. But there was one thing different in this set. Through the breaks in
25
the tropical mangrove trees edging the property, the Hardys could see a high wall topped by barbed wire.
Bob saw them trying to get their bearings, and motioned with his rifle. "Let's go. No sense in you looking around here. You ain't staying. This is just your jump-off spot."
Jeeves, gun in hand once more, couldn't resist adding, "Bob is quite right. You won't be staying--unless, of course, you are here under false pretenses." He smiled, clearly pleased with himself. "In that case, this place will be your final destination." His grin grew more ghoulish. "Or should I say, your eternal resting place."
26
Chapter 4
"First we take care of business," Bob told the Hardys as he pressed the buzzer to the door of the mansion. Another man in fatigues and carrying an M-16 opened the door and waved them through.
The interior was a surprise. The outside of the mansion looked straight out of the South before the Civil War, but inside everything was strictly contemporary. The lighting was indirect, the walls were painted in soft pastels, the carpeting was thick and springy underfoot, the furniture was modern and sleek. It was like walking into an expensive international-style hotel.
Bob herded the Hardys into a room that had been turned into an office, where a pretty young woman was sitting behind a free-form desk. Its top was uncluttered except for a computer.
27
The young woman looked up at them, smiling automatically. When she saw two teenage boys approaching her instead of the middle-aged men she had expected, the smile wavered for an instant. She quickly replaced it. "Hi. I'm Sally," she said coolly. "If you'll tell me your names, we'll get you checked in."
Frank recognized her voice. She was the one he had talked to on the phone at Marcie's.
"Hi," he said. "I think I spoke to you before. I'm Frank. And this is Joe."
"Hi, Frank and Joe," Sally said suspiciously. She punched their names into the computer and looked at the monitor screen, which Frank and Joe couldn't see. Then she said, "Glad you arrived on time. Everything is so much simpler when our clients obey instructions. That will be one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars, please."
Frank put the attaché case on the table and opened it. "Shall I count it out, or do you want to?"
"I'd be happy to, sir," Sally said.
As she picked up the first bundle of bills, her whole manner changed abruptly. The unconvincing smile vanished from her face, her eyes focused like high-intensity lights on the bills, and her fingers moved as quickly as if they were [Machine parts, flipping through the bills amazingly quickly. After she had counted the bundle, she separated several bills from the rest and
28
examined them with a penlight and a magnifying glass, which she took from a drawer.
"What's the matter, don't you trust us?" Frank asked quickly, suddenly wondering himself about all those hundreds. Were they funny money?
"Nothing personal, sir, just routine," said Sally automatically, not bothering to look up. She took another bundle of bills from the case and repeated the counting and checking.
Frank and Joe waited. The only sounds in the office were the rustling of the bills and Bob clearing his throat behind them. Neither Frank nor Joe turned around, but both could picture the M-16 in his hands. And they could be sure he was holding it ready.
Finally Sally looked up from the bundles of bills piled neatly on the desk in front of her. Her smile was switched back on. Whatever doubts she might have had about Frank and Joe seemed to have vanished.
"Everything seems to be in order," she said. "Now, what do you want to do with your remaining cash?" She pointed to the bundles of bills still in the attaché case. The case was still about threequarters full. "Would you like to deposit the money in an account with us? Or do you prefer to keep it with you?"
"If it's all the same, we'll keep it with us," said Frank.
"I understand perfectly," Sally said. "In fact,
29
most of our clients prefer to keep their cash on hand. We cater to a very self-reliant kind of person. Survivors, that's how we like to think of them."
"Yes, well, it's a hard, cruel world out there. That's why we want to get away from it all," said Frank, fishing for information. "Just like all your other customers, right?"
But Sally only smiled politely and said, "Bob will show you to your suite now. I'm sure you'll want to freshen up. I hope you don't mind, but you two will have to share a suite, since you're being given a discount. Of course, if you wish to pay a bit more--"
"One suite will be fine," said Frank.
"Well, then, I hope you enjoy your stay." Sally snapped shut the attaché case and pushed it toward Frank.
Frank tried one last probe as he picked it up. "I hope this stay won't be too long. I mean, we've got to be moving."
"All in good time," she said. "There are a few formalities. But don't worry, I assure you that you won't be disturbed here. We are very secluded."
"Yes," said Joe. "I saw the fence out front. Can't say I liked it, though. Reminded me too much of a prison."
"It's for your own protection, sir." Sally smiled. "Bob, if you will escort our guests to their suite."
30
"Let's move it," said Bob. None of Sally's good manners had rubbed off on him. "You've got half an hour before your interview."
"Interview?" said Frank.
"What kind of interview?" asked Joe.
Bob cut off further conversation with a gesture of his gun.
He led them up a curving stairway and along a hall to a door on the second floor. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said. "I'll be back for you in half an hour."
Frank and Joe entered their room, and the door closed behind them. They weren't surprised to hear it being locked from the outside. They had already gotten the idea that they weren't totally trusted.
As soon as they were inside, Frank caught Joe's gaze, put his finger to his lips, then tapped that finger against his ear.
Joe got the message: just like the limo, the room might be bugged.
"You know, this place is gorgeous," Joe said in a loud voice as he began to check out one side of the room for listening devices, looking behind paintings, on the backs and bottoms of pieces of furniture, in vases, and under rugs.
"perfect Getaway is really giving us our money's worth," said Frank, checking out the other side.
Working their way around the room, they met
31
on the far side, where they both shrugged and gestured to signify that they had found nothing.
Frank's eyes darted around the room, checking to see if they had missed anything. Then he glanced up and pointed at the old-fashioned chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Joe nodded.
"I think I'll get some exercise," Frank said. "I need to work out some kinks from the trip."
"Good idea," said Joe. "Me, too."
He watched Frank get a chair and position it under the chandelier. Frank stood on the chair, then squatted down and made a stirrup with his hands. Joe nodded, recognizing a gymnastic stunt they had worked up the year before in a skit for a school show. Joe backed up a couple of steps, propelled himself forward, and leapt when he was about a yard from Frank, his right foot landing in Frank's linked hands. Frank heaved upward as Joe pushed off from his hands, and a second later Joe was standing on Frank's shoulders. Careful not to lose his balance on the chair or disturb Joe's balance on his shoulders, Frank straightened up slowly. It worked. Joe was up high enough to inspect the chandelier. He peered into it and saw a miniature black receiving device.
Joe leapt down, hit the carpet, and did a neat somersault, just to finish the routine off right. "Good workout," he said loudly. He pointed to the chandelier, put his finger to his lips, and nodded.
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"Time for a nice, hot shower," said Frank. He went into the bathroom, and Joe followed him.
"Great shower, needle-point spray!" Frank shouted, as if Joe were still in the other room.
He then closed the door and turned the shower up full force. The din of the water hitting the aqua-colored plastic shower stall filled the bathroom.
Frank put his mouth close to Joe's ear. "Whisper. I don't think any bugs they might have in here could pick us up."
"This looks bad for Marcie's dad," Joe whispered back. "This operation sure seems to be set up to help crooks skip out."
"Right--and maybe it does even more than that," Frank answered. "It looks too elaborate for just an escape outfit. But we can worry about that later. Right now we have to worry about ourselves. We're in these people's hands, and unless we convince them we're their kind of guys, they're going to start squeezing really hard."
"Yeah, we've got to get our story together," whispered Joe. "I bet that's why they put us in here before the interview, so that if we tried to come up with some story, their bug would pick it up."
"You just figured that out?" whispered Frank.
"Okay, okay," Joe said with more than a trace of annoyance in his whisper. "If you're so smart, how do we explain how a couple of teens like us
33
are loaded with cash and on the run from the law?"
"They were expecting Marcie's dad," whispered Frank. "So I think we should tell them that we were in on his embezzlement scheme."
"Sure, we really look like corporate types," Joe hissed sarcastically.
"Come on, Joe, the answer was sitting right there on Sally's desk."
Joe sat patiently, waiting for his brother to get to the punch line of what he was sure was a joke.
"I'm not kidding. We can claim that we were hackers for hire," Frank told him. "We can say we helped Mr. Miller rig his company's computers so he could get the money out of the country."
"And that when the cops grabbed him, we grabbed our share of the money--" Joe exclaimed.
"And ran," said Frank, finishing his brother's sentence.
Frank turned off the shower and opened the bathroom door. "Hey, that was great, Joe," he shouted into the other room. "You want to take one?"
Joe left the bathroom, then called back toward Frank, "Nah. You took too long. We're going to have our interview in a few minutes. Hope it doesn't drag on--I want to clear out of here fast.
I can practically feel Uncle Sam breathing down my neck."
34
"What could they want to find out?" Frank asked as he came out of the bathroom. "The color of our money should have been enough."
"You can't blame them for checking us out," answered Joe. "In an operation like this, you have to be extra careful."
A minute later Bob opened their door without bothering to knock and beckoned to them to follow.
"Wait a sec," said Frank, and went to pick up the attaché case. "We'd better keep this with us."
Bob shrugged and said impatiently, "Let's go."
He led them down a hall to another room and opened the door. "Here are the two you wanted to see, sir," he said and gestured with his M-16 for the Hardys to go inside.
As they stepped into the room, they heard Bob leave and close the door behind them.
In front of them was a short, squat, balding man with a mustache. He, too, was wearing unmarked fatigues, but his whole presence indicated that he was an officer in whatever kind of force this was. He wasn't sitting behind his desk, but on top of it. One gleaming boot was tapping against the desk front as he looked the Hardys up and down.
"So you are Frank and Joe," he said. It was not a statement but a challenge.
"Right," said Frank.
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"And who are you?" asked Joe.
The man smiled. "You can call me Alex."
"Glad to meet you, Alex," said Joe, extending his hand. "Now, how soon can you get us out of here?"
"Ah, you young people, always in such a hurry," Alex said with a sigh, ignoring Joe's outstretched hand. "In fact, you seem quite young to want to take one of our vacations, much less be able to afford it."
Frank had decided that the best way to weather this confrontation was to get this guy on the defensive, so he started talking fast and loud. "Look, I don't see why we have to go through this third-degree. The lady on the phone said there'd be no questions about our past."
Alex smiled. "It wouldn't be good for business to allow any undercover cops to travel along our underground railroad, would it?"
"If you lied on the phone," said Joe, "how can we trust you about anything?"
Alex sighed. "Come on, kid, you might be young, but you can't be that dumb. Who can you trust in this world? Nobody. But if it makes you feel any better, we'll keep our part of the bargain once we clear you. Not out of any sense of honor, but because it's good business. The only way we can keep getting customers is to have them pass the word that we give good value--a new start with a new name in a new place."
Frank pretended to think it over. Then he nodded.
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"Makes sense. Okay. Marcie Miller is a friend of ours. We met her father at a Halloween party, and he and I got to talking computers. When I told him about how some friends of mine had managed to get into the phone company's computers--"
Joe interrupted, continuing the story. "--he said that such a thing could never happen to his company's computers, that they were state-of-the-art. Later that night we tried it, and they were easy. They had a mainframe set up to take orders over the phone lines, and their security system was a joke. We could have wiped them out."
"But we didn't," interjected Frank. "We just got into the interoffice e-mail--that's electronic mail--system and left Miller a message. The computer wouldn't work for anyone in his company that day until--"
"--they said please," said Joe, laughing out loud.
"Sounds good," said Alex. "But that's nothing to make you start running."
"What came afterward wasn't just fun and games." Frank's face sobered. "Miller told us we were the answer to a businessman's prayer. Working together, with us slipping bogus orders into the computer at night and him moving the money during the day, we really took a bite out of the company. But it looks like he got too greedy and careless. We picked up our last payment just before the cops came to take him away.
37
When you called, it sounded like the answer to our prayers."
Frank smiled at Alex, then at Joe. When he and his brother were on the same wavelength, it felt as if nothing and nobody could beat them.
"Well, Frank and Joe, you seem to have--" Alex began.
Just then the phone rang. Alex picked it up and listened. Then his eyes narrowed and he said, "Thanks. I'll take care of it."
Without even a glance at the Hardys, he put down his phone, slid off the desk, and opened a drawer. Frank and Joe looked at each other uneasily. Alex's mood had clearly just changed-- and it didn't look as if it had changed in their favor. When they looked back at Alex, they saw a .45 in his hand, pointed at them.
"There's one thing you didn't mention, Frank and Joe," he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "Maybe you wanted to be modest. But let me tell you, it's a great big thrill to meet the famous Hardys."
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Chapter 5
"Who're they?" said Joe with a puzzled look.
"Come on, you must have heard of them," said Alex. "They're Fenton Hardy's kids, and they like to play at being detectives like their old man."
"Oh, those Hardys," said Frank.
"What do we have to do with them?" asked Joe.
The door to the room opened. In walked Bob, his M-16 in one hand and a magazine in the other.
Alex glanced at its cover. "Hmm, Advanced Computer Abstracts. So, you're into computers Frank?"
"What if I am?" said Frank defiantly, then stopped. He suddenly had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"You're not even going to ask me how I knew
39
this magazine was yours?" asked Alex with a gloating smile. "But I suppose you don't have to. You must realize that your name is on the address label pasted on it. A little careless, Frank. But I guess even the brightest boys make mistakes."
Frank didn't have an answer. He said feebly, "You went through our bags while we were down here."
"Too bad you didn't think of it sooner," said Alex.
"What are you going to do with us?" asked Frank, trying not to look at his brother. He could imagine the look that Joe was giving him.
"Do you have to ask?" inquired Alex, lowering his gun so it was pointed directly at Frank's heart.
Frank refused to give Alex the satisfaction of seeing him cringe. He kept his face expressionless and braced himself.
"Relax," Alex said. "You have a few more hours--until it gets dark. Then you can take a trip with a couple of our men to a neighboring key. It doesn't have a fine mansion like this one on it. In fact, it doesn't have anything on it but quicksand. We find it very handy. It's as though Mother Nature has given us the perfect disposal machine."
Then he turned to Bob. "Take them away."
"The cellar?" asked Bob.
"The cellar," said Alex. "You can leave that attaché case here. Money won't do you any good where you're going."
40
Bob herded Frank and Joe at gunpoint down the broad stairway to the first floor, then down a much narrower set of steps to an underground passage lined with wooden doors. It was dimly lit by a few light bulbs crudely installed on the ceiling.
"Surprise, huh?" said Bob. "Upstairs was where the owners lived the good life in the old days. Down here is where they used to stick slaves who got too uppity. To teach them a lesson, if you know what I mean."
They reached the end of the passage. Bob made them stand against the damp plaster wall next to the last door.
"Turn your pockets inside out," he instructed sharply. After they had dumped the contents of their pockets onto the floor, he said, "Open that door and get in."
They heard him slide the outside bolt shut.
"Hey, it's pitch black. What about some light?" Joe shouted.
"Get used to the dark. Pretend it's quicksand," Bob said, his voice muffled by the thick door.
Long minutes passed in the silent darkness.
Then Frank heard Joe whisper, "Think he's gone?"
"Probably," Frank whispered back. Then he said in a more normal tone, "I don't think we have to worry about bugs down here."
"I don't know if I should trust your judgment
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after your brilliant move with that magazine," Joe said sourly.
"Look, I'm sorry," Frank said. "I was in the middle of an article, so I packed the magazine, intending to finish it and then chuck it. But things happened too fast, and it slipped my mind."
"Which leaves us slipping into quicksand-- unless we can find a way out fast," said Joe. "Let's start looking."
A light flashed in his hand.
"Good, you've got your penlight," said Frank. "I knew you'd manage to palm something when that goon made us empty our pockets."
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "What'd you get?"
"This," said Frank, and showed Joe his Swiss army knife.
"We're in business," said Joe.
Frank knelt in front of the door. He examined it, his brow furrowed, concentrating. "Too bad it doesn't have a lock. There's nothing to pick. We have to get at that bolt."
He tested the wood with the tip of the longest blade on his knife.
"We're in luck," he said. "It's old and soft. I could pick it away with my fingernails if I had the time."
"But we don't," said Joe. "Get to work."
"Right," said Frank, and began gaining access to the outside bolt, while Joe provided light with his penlight. With the blade, Frank gouged out Wood on the edge of the door; then he used the
42
miniature saw on the Swiss army knife to remove larger chunks. Half an hour later, the metal of the outside bolt was exposed.
"Let's hope they've kept it well oiled," he said, and used the tip of his strongest blade to try to slide the bolt open.
It wouldn't budge.
"Back to work," said Frank, gritting his teeth and cutting at the wood again to widen the opening.
"Hurry it up," urged Joe. "They'll be coming for us any second."
"Thanks for the information," said Frank, wiping away the sweat that beaded his forehead.
Finally the hole looked large enough. "Let's see if I can reach it now," Frank said.
He managed to insert a couple of fingers into the hole and make contact with the metal of the bolt. The surface was rough and rusted. He tried to move it. It wouldn't budge. Finally he gave one last try--and felt it move just a fraction.
"I think I've got it going," he said. "But my fingers are starting to cramp."
"Let me take a crack at it," said Joe.
They exchanged places.
"It's moving, all right, but not much," Joe grunted. "It's really stiff." He withdrew his fingers and shook them to relieve the ache.
They traded places three more times, until Joe finally said, "That does it." He gave the door a push, and it swung open.
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"Whew," said Joe. "That's cutting it close."
"I hope not too close," said Frank. "Let's see if we can make it out of here."
Swiftly they moved down the passageway and up the narrow stairs to the first floor. Joe went first, eager to be on the move. But he was cautious enough to stop midway up the stairs, and listen. At the top of the stairs, Joe slowly eased his head around the corner.
"Coast's clear," he whispered over his shoulder. "Let's go."
He raced for an open door. Frank was right on his heels.
They entered a recreation room that held a Ping-Pong table, a pool table, card tables, video games, a giant-screen TV, and soft-drink and snack machines. It, too, was deserted.
"Nice setup," remarked Joe. He went to a softdrink machine and pressed a button. A plastic cup descended and was filled. "You don't even need change for it," he said, taking a long swallow. "They live pretty well here."
Frank shook his head impatiently. It was good to keep cool in tight spots, but sometimes Joe overdid it.
"We've been lucky so far," Frank said, "but let's get out of here before our luck runs out." Then he exclaimed, "Hey! What the--"
In one lightning motion, Joe had dropped his soda, grabbed a ball from the pool table, and let the ball fly--right at Frank.
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There wasn't time for Frank to duck. He barely had a chance to blink as the ball whizzed by his ear. A clunk followed, and Frank wheeled around to see a young man in a white uniform toppling like a felled tree. Behind him, in the doorway of the room, another man in white stood with his mouth open in surprise.
The second man didn't get a chance to make a move. Frank connected with a karate chop. The man dropped to the floor, out like a light.
"Not a bad fastball, considering I haven't pitched since August," said Joe, crossing the room to join Frank near the two unconscious men.
"Glad your control was on," said Frank, rubbing the ear the pool ball had almost brushed.
"Trust me," Joe said. "They came through the door too suddenly for me to warn you. I had to move fast."
"And we have to get out of here just as fast," said Frank, but then he stopped himself in midmovement. "On second thought, let's take time for a quick change."
He bent down to unbutton the clothes of the man at his feet.
"Got you," said Joe, nodding and following Frank's lead.
Minutes later Frank and Joe were clad in white suits that were a little too large and black patent shoes that pinched. Their own clothes had been
45
torn into strips and used to tie and gag the two unconscious men.
"Now, let's find a way out of here," said Frank.
"Easy," said Joe as he raised a large window.
Although it was dark out, a full moon lit the cloudless sky, and the Hardys had to be careful to stay in the shadows of the shrubbery that bordered the side of the mansion.
"What now? The fence around this place is going to be tough to get over. Bet that wire on top is electrified," Joe said as they edged around the mansion toward the rear.
"Quick," Frank whispered suddenly. "Hit the ground!"
Joe had heard the same noise Frank had. They lay on their stomachs, holding their breath, as a group of about twenty men came out of the darkness on an asphalt path fifteen yards from them.
The men passed the spot where Frank and Joe were lying and entered the mansion through a rear door. Frank and Joe lay quietly for a couple more minutes before getting to their feet.
"That explains why the mansion was deserted," whispered Joe. "Most of the help was back there. Wonder what they were doing?"
"As long as they're not hunting us, I'm happy," Said Frank. "Whatever they're doing, we have to get moving. In a little while, all those guys will be hunting us."
"Let's see how fast you can go," challenged
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Joe. "Bet I can still beat you in the two hundred."
"You're on," said Frank, assuming a sprinter's crouch.
The two of them tore over the open lawn behind the mansion toward the asphalt path, and then raced along it.
At the point where the path entered a grove of mangrove trees, Joe came to a halt with a threeyard lead over Frank.
"As slow as ever," Joe panted as Frank stopped beside him.
"Make it five miles, and then see who's ahead," Frank answered automatically, looking behind them. There was still no sign of pursuit. And no fence ahead of them. He looked at the path. No telling where it led.
"Come on," Frank said, and they walked through the grove and emerged from the trees.
"Wow! Look at that," said Joe, stopping to stare at the view that opened out before them.
The path descended to a wharf that jutted out into the sea. Beyond the end of the wharf, the moonlight formed a ghostly ribbon on the smooth water. Ghostly in the moonlight, too, was a sleek white yacht, moored to the wharf.
"Maybe we won't have to swim for it after all," said'Joe. "Not with a beauty like that to take us over the water."
"It's worth checking out," said Frank. "I
47
don't see any sign of life aboard. Maybe we can hijack it."
"Sounds good," said Joe, already moving toward the wharf.
"Careful, this wood is old--watch out for squeaks," whispered Frank when they reached the pier.
"Okay," Joe whispered back. "But there's no danger that I can see. Nobody is--"
A sudden beam of light froze him with his mouth open. Almost as quickly as the light had gone on, it went off.
It took just a second for the Hardys' vision to readjust to the moonlight.
And then they saw the figure of a man dressed in a uniform the same ghostly white as the yacht he was standing on.
But there was nothing ghostly about the man's voice. His shout shattered the stillness.
"Freeze, you two!"
The boys were trapped in the open, the moon hitting them like a spotlight, their moment of freedom over.
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Chapter 6
" 'Bout time you two showed up," said the man, speaking more softly. "Another five minutes, we would have left without you. They finished loading the ship a good ten minutes ago. and the tide's about to change."
"Uh, we can explain," said Frank quickly, hoping that he or Joe could come up with something fast.
"Save it for when we're below decks," the man said, then squinted at them. "Hey, Where's your gear?"
"We sent it down with one of the guys on the loading detail," Frank said. "Didn't he bring it?"
The man gave a snort of disgust. "I can see they sent me a couple of goof-ups for this trip. Nobody brought your gear here--and it's too late to go back to find it. Doesn't matter, anyway.
49
There's plenty of uniforms on board, real pretty ones. So, you get aboard, too."
"Okay, okay," said Joe, picking up on this new game. "But isn't this a lot of fuss over us showing up a couple of minutes late?"
"We stick to the rules in this outfit, and don't you forget it," snapped the man.
"Yes, sir. Right, sir," said Frank, and jumped from the wharf onto the deck of the yacht. Behind him came Joe, and then the man in the white uniform.
Joe stumbled over a rope on deck as they headed for a hatchway. "I could have broken my ankle," he complained. "Why don't you turn on some lights?"
"I can see it's going to be real fun teaching you morons the routine," the man said. "What can I expect, though, with last-minute replacements? If only my two regular stewards hadn't eaten those spoiled anchovies." He paused, then said, "Why do you think we don't have any lights? Security. Same reason everything on this trip is done the hard way, like not even using our radio. Nobody sees us, and nobody hears us. I wasn't even supposed to use my flashlight, but I had to check you out."
He opened the hatchway, and bright light shone out from the inside. All the windows and doors must have been blacked out. The man closed the door the moment they were in, then led them down the stairs going below decks.
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"In here," said the man, and they entered a large wood-paneled cabin.
Joe uttered a low whistle of approval as he looked around at the luxurious surroundings.
"Yeah, this used to be some millionaire's yacht," said the man. "This cabin is mine, but yours is almost as nice. This ship is good duty. Do your jobs right, and maybe you'll get a permanent assignment."
"Hey, what do we call you?" said Frank.
"My organization name is Sam. What're yours?"
"Well, aboard this ship, I'm Frank," he said.
"And I'm Joe," said Joe.
"Frank. Joe. I'll remember that. And you do, too," said Sam.
"We'll do our best," promised Frank.
"First we have to get you outfitted," said Sam. As he led them out of the cabin and down the passageway, the yacht engine came to life. Under their feet, they felt the ship begin to move.
"We're in our own private world until landfall," said Sam. "This is my fifth trip, and I still haven't gotten used to it. Just like I can't get used to not knowing where we go. We just dock there and stay aboard." He shook his head. "Well, we don't want to know too much in this organization.;'
Sam took Frank and Joe to a supply room, where an attendant handed them uniforms consisting of black trousers, white shirts, black ties,
51
white formal jackets, an extra pair of black shoes each, and enough socks, underwear, and toilet articles to replace the lost ones in their duffel bags.
Next, Sam took them to their cabin.
"Stow your gear and report to my cabin in ten minutes," he ordered and left them alone.
As they quickly changed into clothes that fit, Frank remarked, "Looks like we're going to be oceangoing waiters."
"I hope we wait on the captain's table," said Joe. "We could find out where we're headed."
"I'd sure like to find out something," said Frank. "The deeper we get into this Perfect Getaway outfit, the more questions I have. I mean, this all looks too big and elaborate just to help a handful of rich crooks skip the country--but maybe I'm underestimating the power of money."
Joe finished knotting his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. "How do I look?"
"You can serve me caviar anytime," said Frank. "Come on, let's get back to Sam and find out what we do next."
When they got to Sam's cabin, he looked them over, straightened Joe's tie, and said, "Okay, you two'll do. I know you're not experienced, but you can learn on the job. This trip'll be easy. We just have one passenger aboard. There were supposed to be three, but an hour before we sailed, the
52
reception center called to say that the other two weren't coming."
"They missed the boat, huh?" Joe asked innocently.
"Maybe they'll catch it on the next run you make," Frank suggested.
"Doubt it," said Sam. "When somebody's crossed off our passenger list, it doesn't mean his trip's canceled. It means he's canceled."
"So we've got only this one passenger to take care of," said Joe, to change the subject. "A VIP, huh?"
"All our passengers are VIPs," said Sam, smiling. "They think so, anyway--until they find out different."
"So, we give him special attention," said Frank.
"That's right. Extra special attention," said Sam, and his smile grew wider. He opened a drawer and took out a metal object the size of a pack of gum. He handed it to Frank. "I hope you know how to handle this."
Frank did. He looked at it and nodded. "Best miniature camera on the market. I've used this model lots of times." He didn't mention that he had learned to use it from the Network, a top-secret government agency that Joe and he occasionally helped.
"What do we do with the camera?" asked Frank.
"You wait until our passenger leaves his cabin,
53
and then you go through his stuff and photograph any papers you can find," said Sam.
"What kind of stuff are we looking for?" asked Joe.
Sam shrugged. "Beats me. The orders are to photograph any and all papers, period. I don't ask questions. I never find out why I'm doing anything."
"I couldn't care less," Frank said in a bored voice. "All I'm interested in is my pay."
"Right," said Joe. "What you don't know can't hurt you."
"That's a healthy attitude," Sam said. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the passenger. Igor is what we're supposed to call him. Some of these guys come up with really weird names for themselves."
Sam led the way to a door at the end of the passageway and knocked.
"Wait a minute," said a voice from inside. A key was turned in the lock, and the door swung open.
Facing them was a balding, moon-faced, middle-aged man in a rumpled white tropical suit. He looked like a marshmallow, but there was nothing soft about the icy blue eyes behind his rimless glasses. They were sharp and never rested as he looked over the three men at his door.
"No need to lock your door, sir," Sam said genially. "You're among friends here."
"That's for me to decide," the man called Igor
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snapped back. His voice was cold and contemptuous, the voice of a man used to giving orders. "What do you want?"
"I want to introduce Frank and Joe here," said Sam, keeping the genial smile on his face with some effort. "They'll be here to serve your every need, twenty-four hours a day. Bring your drinks, launder your clothes, tidy your cabin when you take your meals at the captain's table or go on deck."
"I'm not eating at the captain's table, and I'm not going on deck," Igor said. "I'm staying in here, with my door locked. Although that really won't protect my privacy. I'm sure you've got keys to the lock."
"Of course not," Sam said indignantly. "You requested all the keys when you were brought aboard, and we gave them to you."
"I bet," Igor said, his voice still flat and hard. "Anyway, these two kids can serve me my meals in here--not that I'm expecting to have many. This trip can't take too long, can it?" For the first time, a faint note of uncertainty crept into Igor's voice--an uncertainty born of not being in complete control, possibly for the first time in his life.
"Not long at all," Sam assured him. "Just tonight, then the day after, and the following night. We reach our destination at dawn on the second day."
"I don't suppose I get to find out where that destination is?" said Igor.
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"Not right now," said Sam. "You know the rules."
"Yeah, I found them out--too late," said Igor. "I had already gone too far to back out."
"I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction," Sam assured him.
"I'm sure," Igor said sourly. "Okay, you can clear out now. I'll ring when I get hungry. Then you can bring me two chicken sandwiches on white toast with white meat only, and a bottle of diet soda. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," said Frank.
"Anything else?" asked Joe.
"Yeah, my privacy," said Igor. "Clear out until I ring."
As they walked back along the passageway, Frank murmured to Sam, "Well, there goes our chance to do the snooping."
"Are you kidding?" said Sam. "He thinks he's smart. I have something to cut him down to size. Come to my cabin."
In his cabin, Sam pulled out a brown glass vial of pills. He took one out, handed it to Frank, and replaced the jar in his desk drawer.
"When Igor rings for his diet soda, crush this Pill and put it in the drink," Sam said. "In about thirty minutes it'll take effect. After that, he'll be out like a light for at least five hours. You'd be able to break his door in and he wouldn't notice."
Then Sam snapped his fingers and said, "Oh,
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yeah, I almost forgot." He opened another drawer. "Here's the key to his cabin."
"So he was right--you did hold out on him," said Frank.
"He knows how the game is played," said Sam with a shrug. "The thing is, he doesn't know he's a sure loser, because we have all the cards."
"I'd almost pity him--if I hadn't met him," said Frank.
An hour later Igor rang for his food, and Joe brought the sandwiches and drugged soda.
"Bread's stale," Igor complained, testing it with his finger. "Not much fizz in the soda. And your jacket isn't buttoned up all the way, boy."
"Sorry, sir," said Joe.
"If you think I'm giving you or your sidekick a tip, you're crazy," said Igor, and waved him away.
As soon as Joe was back in the passageway, he heard Igor lock the door to his cabin again.
Joe went back to his cabin.
"I wonder what Igor did in the real world, other than bully anyone who crossed his path," Joe said to Frank as he climbed up to the upper bunk to rest before they went into action.
Frank looked at his watch. "We'll give him an hour. By that time he'll be out of the picture, and we can start finding out about him."
"Real nice of Sam to give us the go-ahead to do some investigating," said Joe. "Makes it easier.:
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"It sure does, and we need all the breaks we can get," said Frank. "While you were gone, I went down to the wardroom. Nobody on this crew seems to know anything about anything--or if they do, they're not talking."
"That never stopped you from learning anything before," replied Joe.
Frank thought for a moment. "My guess is that they really don't know anything," he went on. "Whoever set up this operation has fragmented it so that nobody knows the whole picture. From what Sam said, there's no communication between Florida and this ship, and there's no communication between this ship and wherever it docks. Anyone following the trail would hit one dead end after another."
"Look, do me a favor and don't use the expression 'dead end,' " Joe said wryly.
"Okay," said Frank, grinning. "At least we've got one door we can open." He tapped the key to Igor's cabin in the palm of his hand.
Half an hour later they stood in front of that door.
"First we check to make sure the pill has taken effect," whispered Frank.
He knocked loudly on the door.
They waited. No answer.
"Sam was right," said Joe. "Igor must be dead to the world." He grinned. "Oops--there's that dirty word again."
"Anyway, this looks like it'll be safe enough,"
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said Frank. He inserted the key, turned it, heard the lock click, and pushed open the door.
Joe went in first.
"It won't hurt to turn on the light," he said, flicking the switch.
The light came on. Igor lay motionless, a huddled lump beneath the blankets.
"Sleeping like a baby." Joe grinned as he moved forward and let Frank enter.
Frank stepped in--and stopped abruptly.
Not because he wanted to. He had no choice.
An arm had snaked out from behind the door and wrapped around his neck, right under his chin, jerking his head back.
At the same moment, something cold and sharp pressed lightly but firmly against his exposed throat, directly over his jugular vein.
Igor's voice hissed in his ear.
"This knife is razor-sharp. The slightest move--and you're dead."
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Chapter 7
The day Frank earned his brown belt, his teacher had given him a piece of advice: "You have attained a certain level of skill, but do not let pride blind you to its limits. There are times when you can do nothing but wait for the moment to strike."
The cold steel of the knife against his throat was all Frank needed to confirm that the slightest move on his part, no matter how fast or smooth, would leave his throat slit wide open.
"Joe, don't move or I'm dead," he said, trying not to disturb the razor-edged blade.
Joe turned slowly, his hands away from his body so Igor could see that he had no weapon.
"Mister, I'm not going to try anything," said Joe.
"I'm glad to know that you two are not entirely
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stupid," said Igor. "I couldn't be sure. After all, you were idiotic enough to think I'd allow you to drug me so you could search my things."
"How'd you catch on to it?" asked Frank. He wanted to keep Igor occupied talking. The more he talked, the better Frank's chances for figuring an escape. He knew that the least increase in pressure on the blade would set off a geyser of blood.
"How do you think?" Igor said contemptuously. "I haven't survived in this world by trusting people. I've done it by staying one trick ahead of them. Like the way I kept this knife concealed in my umbrella handle when you searched me for weapons. You're like a bunch of children playing a game of double-cross with me. I've played and beaten masters at it."
Igor chuckled, and the knife jiggled.
"Hey, watch it," Frank gasped.
"You mean you don't want to die?" Igor asked, chuckling louder as Frank winced and Joe watched in helpless horror. "I knew you people would try to squeeze every cent out of me--the money I'm carrying as well as everything that I've hidden around the world."
"Look, mister," said Frank desperately, "we're just hired hands. We get orders and we follow them."
"I know that," said Igor in a bored voice. "And that's the only reason I'm going to let you live. In fact, I'm going to offer you the chance to
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live very well indeed. What would you two say to a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus? That's twenty thousand dollars apiece."
"For what?" asked Joe.
Frank cut in quickly. "What does it matter? For twenty grand, I'll do anything you can dream up."
"That's what I thought you'd say," said Igor with satisfaction. "One good thing about dealing with hired help--you can always hire them yourself if you pay the right price."
He let Frank go. Frank let out a long breath of relief, touching his throat gingerly, then glanced at his fingertips. No blood.
"Let me show you something, so you'll know you can trust me, and so then I can trust you," Igor said. He went to his bunk and pulled away the blanket. Under the blanket was a pile of clothes bundled up to give the illusion of someone sleeping there. He reached under the clothes and pulled out an attaché case.
The attaché case looked familiar.
So did its contents.
Hundred-dollar bills.
The only difference between this case and the one that Frank and Joe had left back in Florida Was that this one had many more bills left in it. It Was still packed full.
"In case you have any idea of trying to take the whole bundle, forget it," said Igor. "If you do, I'll report you to your superiors. And also
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forget any idea of shutting my mouth before I can do that. I'm sure your bosses would deal very harshly with anybody who killed their golden goose."
"Boy, you don't trust anybody, do you?" asked Joe, shaking his head.
"Should I?" Igor replied. "The only thing I trust is the power of money. It's gotten me this far, and it will get me my freedom."
"But aren't you worried?" Frank asked. "I mean, if they take that, it's all over for you."
Igor snickered. "You think this is money? But I suppose you do. It must look like a lot to guys like you. It's small change. Pocket money."
"Big pockets," commented Joe.
"I'm a big man," said Igor proudly. "I hope you realize that by now."
"We do," said Joe.
"And with the cash you're laying out, we're your boys," said Frank. "What do you want us to do?"
"Tell me where your bosses are taking me, what they plan to do with me," said Igor. Despite his show of bravado, he was unable to hide his uncertainty.
"We'd be glad to, only there's a hitch," said Frank.
"They don't tell the hired help anything," finished Joe.
Igor didn't seem surprised. He nodded. "Makes sense. Whoever runs this outfit is smart.
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I'll give him credit for that. He doesn't trust anybody, either. Okay, here's the deal. Sniff around, find out what I want to know, and warn me about any other dirty tricks your bosses plan to pull on me. Do that, and I'll give you each the twenty thousand I promised, plus a bonus." Igor took a handful of bills out of the attaché case. "Here's a thousand apiece to whet your appetites for what's to come if you deliver."
"You've got yourself a deal, mister," said Joe, pocketing the bills.
"Yes, sir, we'll start investigating right away," said Frank. "We'll get back to you as soon as we learn anything."
"Okay, buzz off," said Igor, waving his hand dismissively. "And when they ask you what you found in here, tell them about the attaché case and say there was nothing else you could find. That should satisfy them."
"Thanks, sir," Frank said, still working on buttering him up. "You think of everything."
"That's why I have everything," said Igor. He pulled out a cigar and was lighting it with a gold lighter as the Hardys left.
Out in the passageway, Frank turned to Joe. "I don't feel like I'm on a boat. I feel like I'm swimming in the middle of a sea--a sea full of sharks."
"Yeah, and they're all ravenous," said Joe.
"Well, let's go feed Sam the line that Igor
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cooked up," said Frank. "Hopefully, it'll keep him from snapping at us."
To their relief, Sam swallowed the story. He shrugged and said, "Well, at least we did our job. They can't blame us if we didn't come up with anything. It won't be the first time."
"What will they do, without the extra information on the passenger?" asked Frank.
"Beats me," said Sam. "They'll pick him up with the rest of our cargo, and that's the last we'll see of him."
"And where will they take him?" Frank persisted.
Sam grimaced wearily. "I already told you, our job is to deliver stuff. After that, we don't have anything to do with it." He looked sharply at Frank. "Hey, what makes you so curious, anyway?"
Joe interrupted hastily. "Frank is naturally nosy. Gets him in trouble, I always say. All I want to know is what we're supposed to do now. Do we get some time off?"
"You alternate shifts waiting in the galley," said Sam. "One of you has to be on call in case Igor rings. The other can sack out in the cabin, or play cards or whatever in the rec room. But watch out for the off-limits sign. It's not for decoration. On this ship, if you break a rule, you don't just say goodbye to your job. You say goodbye, period."
"Got you," said Frank.
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"No problem," said Joe.
"Me, I'm going to get some shut-eye," said Sam, stretching and yawning. "Don't wake me unless there's an emergency. There won't be much time to sleep. We'll be unloading in less than twenty-four hours, and then clearing out in a hurry."
Frank glanced at his watch in surprise. "I didn't realize it was day already. With everything blacked out, I can't tell night from day."
"Yeah, it is weird, huh," Sam agreed as he went to lie down in his bunk. "The bosses love to keep us all in the dark."
By the time Frank and Joe reached the door, Sam was already snoring. Frank closed the door softly, then said, "I'll take first shift in the galley. I'll try to find out if the cook knows anything. The way this operation is set up, I don't have much hope, though."
"I'll do some nosing around myself," said Joe.
"Hey, be careful," said Frank.
"Sure, you know me," said Joe.
"That's the trouble," Frank said with a grimace.
Joe slapped Frank on the shoulder and watched him head for the galley. Then Joe made a beeline for the one thing he always found irresistible--an off-limits sign.
Sam had made sure to point it out to the Hardys on their fast tour of the ship. But even if he hadn't, there was no way to miss it. Posted right
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next to a stairway, it was three feet by three feet with bright red letters: caution, off-limits, no UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PAST THIS POINT. ALL VIOLATORS PUNISHED SEVERELY! The word "severely" was underlined in black.
Joe glanced quickly up and down the passageway to make sure nobody was coming, then darted down the stairway.
He descended into a dimly lit cargo hold. Several dozen unmarked wooden crates filled it. He shone his penlight on a few. As Joe walked around the cases, the smell of Cosmoline, the sweet, sticky grease that arms manufacturers use to pack their wares, filled his nostrils. The hold smelled like the National Guard Armory back in Bayport.
I have an idea what these things hold, he thought as he took out the Swiss army knife that had come with his steward's uniform. He pried open a crate and reached inside.
Yuck, he thought, and pulled back his hand. His fingers were covered with the dark grease that he had been smelling.
Well, my hands can't get any greasier, he decided, and pulled the partially opened lid wider so that he could shove in both hands. He took a firm grip on the grease-covered metal he felt and pulled it out. He was holding a submachine gun. He quickly replaced the weapon and put the lid back on the crate, then wiped his hands on a rag. He looked around the hold at the other crates.
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"There must be a whole arsenal down here," he muttered. As he looked around one last time, he noticed a group of fiberglass and steel boxes sitting in one corner of the hold.
What else do they need? he wondered as he moved to open the top box. There, nestled in a foam cradle, was a machine that so surprised Joe that it took him one long moment to recognize what it was--a lie detector.
"Guns and gadgets! What is going on here?" he whispered. "I've got to tell F--"
Just then he heard a sound. He squeezed himself into a perfect hiding place made by a gap between two crates.
He could just make out the high-pitched voices of two men who seemed to be stationary. They were clearly arguing about something.
Joe carefully edged his way between the crates toward the voices. He rounded the last crate in the row and found himself facing a steel door. The door was open a crack, and the voices were coming from inside.
"I'm starving," said one voice. "I'm going upstairs to get some chow."
"You know the orders," said a second voice. "No mingling with the crew. We're supposed to keep out of sight until we get off-loaded tomorrow."
"Just my luck to be stuck with a by-the-book partner," said the first man.
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"I'm making the same money you are," said the second. "And I'm not going to risk losing it."
"Well, there's no way I'm going to wait one minute more to get fed," retorted the first man. He pulled open the door and stepped out.
It happened too suddenly for Joe to hide. The man and Joe stared each other in the eye.
Joe opened his mouth, searching for some kind of explanation. But the man wasn't waiting for an explanation. Before Joe could blink, the guy launched a savage left hook.
Before the fist connected with his jaw, all Joe had time to do was form a single word in his mind. Caught! he thought, and then the punch sent him spinning into a pitch-black night streaked with multicolored shooting stars of pain.
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Chapter 8
Joe was down but not out. Even with his mind teetering on the brink of consciousness, his body reacted instinctively. The moment he hit the floor, he started rolling, away from the fist that had sent him heading toward dreamland. At the same time, Joe shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs.
The next couple of seconds seemed like hours as he stopped rolling, tensed his legs to get to his feet, and forced his eyes to open, although that Was the last thing he wanted to do.
Through a blur, he saw that the man had followed him. What Joe could see all too clearly, but couldn't do anything about, was the tip of the man's boot heading straight toward his chin.
It never made it.
There was a clang so loud that for an instant
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Joe thought someone was pounding a gong inside his head. Then there was a series of crashing noises, like the sound of dishes breaking.
On his hands and knees, still dazed, Joe watched helplessly as Frank lifted the steel tray and brought it down on the back of the man's head again. Then he whirled around to face the other man, who was coming out of the room.
He swung the tray in a level arc so that the edge caught the second man in the stomach. Then, as the man doubled over, Frank lifted the tray up and--crack--it hit the bottom of the man's chin, snapping his head back. He toppled backward, hit a wall, and crumpled to the floor.
Frank gave both fallen men a glance to make sure they were unconscious. Then he went to Joe, who was still trying to struggle to his feet.
"You okay?" he asked, helping Joe up.
Joe touched his chin gingerly and winced slightly. "Bruised but nothing broken," he said. "Thanks for showing up in time. The tip of that guy's boot could have done a lot more damage than his fist. How did you get here, anyway?"
"Bit of luck," said Frank. "While I was sitting around in the galley, the cook told me to rouse Sam. Seems it was Sam's job to deliver chow to these guys down here. Nobody else was supposed to talk to them. But when I told the cook that Sam was sacked out and would get real mad if I woke him up, the cook decided it wouldn't hurt for me to bring the food down, if I did it real fast
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and kept my mouth shut. Needless to say, I was glad to oblige. It seemed like a terrific chance to find out more about what's happening. I didn't realize it'd also be a chance to get you out of a jam."
Joe couldn't argue. "No risks, no rewards," he said weakly. "And for this risk, I discovered that this hold is filled with crates of weapons and some really weird stuff. I thought we were dealing with arms smugglers until I found a lie detector and a bunch of other electronic equipment over in the corner. Now I don't know what's going on here."
"Neither do I," said Frank. "We keep uncovering more questions than answers."
"I did learn one thing," Joe replied. "I overheard these two guys talking. Seems they've taken jobs with whoever is running this show. From what they said, they're supposed to be picked up with the cargo."
"Hey, that is good," said Frank, looking at the two unconscious men with new interest. "Come on, let's tie them up fast, before they come to. Then we can find out what they know."
They took some rope off one of the crates and used it to tie up the men. But by the time they had tied the last knots and were waiting for the men to regain consciousness, Frank was having second thoughts about their chances of getting information.
"I'll bet they don't know any more than anybody else," he said. "Every part of this operation
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is kept separate from every other part. These guys wouldn't be told anything until they moved on to the next part of the operation."
"Right," said Joe. "If we want to find out what's going on and where, we'll have to do it by ourselves."
"Too bad we're not in these guys' shoes," said Frank. Then he paused, looking at the pair with new interest.
Joe was quiet, too, as he looked at them. Then he asked, "Are you thinking what I am?"
"Probably," said Frank. "The idea is crazy enough."
"Crazy enough to work," Joe said. "These guys are about our sizes."
"And their hair coloring is close to ours, too," said Frank, warming to the idea. "One's got brown hair like mine; the other is blond like you. We could pass for them if we managed to dodge the crew members who've seen us already."
"Should have known you'd be ready to go for it," Joe said, grinning. This was more like it, he thought. He and Frank were swinging into action. It was time to stop running from danger, time to launch an attack.
Meanwhile, Frank was thinking out loud.
"Getaway's policy of keeping its employees in the dark is its strength, but also its weakness," he said. "It's impossible to trace them from Florida to wherever headquarters is. But on the other hand, each time we get past one of the roadblocks
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they've set up, nobody can chase us or call ahead to warn anybody about us. Because nobody knows where we're going after we leave their particular operation."
"So the same shield that protects the higherups protects us, too," said Joe, grinning.
"Not exactly," said Frank. "Sooner or later, we're going to run into somebody who knows enough of what's going on to know that we don't belong here. And we are a long way from any sort of backup. When we run out of places to go, we have a problem. A real problem."
"So, we make sure that we always have an escape route open," said Joe, shrugging. "As long as we keep moving, I think we're in good shape."
"I hope so," said Frank, then turned back to the problem at hand. "First thing we have to do is see Igor."
"Why?" asked Joe. "You don't trust him, do you?"
"No," said Frank. "But we have to make sure he doesn't give us away when he sees us. He's going to be picked up at the same time as the cargo and us."
Frank and Joe hauled the two limp men into the back room and made sure the ropes that bound them were secure. Then they put gags in the men's mouths. They planned to come back when the ship neared the shore, and put on the men's khakis.
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Then they went to Igor's cabin.
He was glad to see them.
"What did you find out?" he asked. "Remember, no info, no more money."
"Sorry, pal," said Joe, shrugging. "Nobody knows anything."
"I should have known," said Igor with disgust. "I was dumb to give you two a penny. In fact, I want my money back."
"What are you going to do if we don't hand it over?" Joe sneered, acting the part of a young thug. "You figure on taking it from us?"
"I won't have to," said Igor smugly. "I'll simply report that someone stole two thousand dollars from me, and your superiors will take it from you for me."
"You're a real nice guy, aren't you," said Joe, waving a clenched fist in front of Igor's eyes. "I've got half a mind to--"
Frank cut in on his tirade. "Cool it, Joe. Use that half a mind of yours. Igor's got a lot more than two thousand dollars for us if we treat him right."
Frank turned to the balding businessman and apologized. "Don't let my buddy bother you. We know that we didn't come up with much, but we think we can give you your money's worth. Actually, we can do something that's worth a lot more than the twenty thousand that you offered us."
"So far we agree on one thing--neither of you
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has earned the thousand I gave you," Igor said angrily. "What do you propose to do to earn any more of my money?"
"We made a deal with two guys we ran into," said Frank. "They're new recruits who are going to the same place you are. We gave them a thousand apiece to let us go in their places. That way, we'll be able to look out for you, keep you posted, and keep you protected."
"For a price," said Joe in a harsh voice. "A bigger one than you offered. We had to pay off those two guys, and we're taking more risks. We want our payoff doubled."
"Highway robbery," snapped Igor.
"Take it or leave it," said Frank.
Igor looked at their faces. Both of them kept their expressions flat and cold. Igor shrugged. "Okay. I'll pay. You can't blame me for wanting to negotiate a bit, though. Lifetime habits are hard to break."
He gave them a big, friendly smile that was about as convincing as the sun rising in the west.
"Sure," said Frank, giving him the same kind of smile in return. "No hard feelings."
"So long as we get the cash," said Joe, concluding the negotiations.
After they left Igor's cabin, Frank said, "That worked fine. The one way to convince him we're on the up-and-up was to convince him we'd do anything for money. That's the only thing he believes in."
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Then he added,"I'm heading back to the galley before they come looking for me. We don't want anybody wandering down in the hold and spotting those two guys we tied up. We'll make the clothing switch as close to landfall as we can. Cut down our chances of being caught."
"Right," said Joe. "I'll get some sleep and then relieve you. Wake me when you get tired."
They parted in the passageway, and Joe went to their cabin.
He hadn't realized how tired he was until he saw his bunk. He didn't bother taking off all his clothes, just his white steward's jacket and his black shoes. He lay down in the bunk and was sound asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
His sleep was deep--so deep that even when he started dreaming he knew it was all a dream, as if he were standing a safe distance outside of himself, so that nothing could really hurt him.
He saw Jeeves, the chauffeur, pointing a gun at him and saying in his British accent, "Better start running now, sir, better start running fast, faster than my bullets."
He saw himself running, stumbling over sand that kept slipping beneath his feet, so that he didn't go forward but just kept digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.
Finally he was at the bottom of the hole, looking up at the light of the sky above. And then the light was blotted out by a face that belonged to
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Alex, the man who had grilled him and Frank at the Florida mansion.
Alex was smiling a sneering, triumphant smile and saying, "I didn't have to put you in quicksand, after all. You've dug your own grave."
Then Alex began kicking sand down onto Joe's upturned face, and Joe heard himself shouting desperately, "Frank, come on, time to get going! Move it!"
Then Alex's face was gone, and there was Frank's, close to him, right above him.
"Frank, I knew you'd show up. You know I'd do the same for you," Joe said in relief. Then he saw that Frank's face wasn't smiling, but tight-lipped and grim.
And he suddenly realized that Frank's hand was on his shoulder, shaking him.
Shaking him awake.
He sat up in bed and looked groggily past Frank, and saw Sam standing in the doorway with a gun in his hand and a look of vicious anger on his face.
And Joe knew that this was no dream.
It was a nightmare made real.
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Chapter 9
"Get on your feet--fast," said Sam in a snarl that shredded the last doubts Joe had that he was awake and that this was all real.
Joe sat up, swung himself down out of his bunk, and stood beside Frank. He needed no prompting to follow Frank's lead when his brother put both hands in the air.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I was in the galley about half an hour ago when Sam rang and told me to bring him some coffee. When I did, he shoved this gun in my face and told me to lead him to you. I didn't have any choice."
"And now you don't have any chance," said Sam. "You two kids got your nerve, trying to play me for a sucker."
"How'd you find out?" asked Joe.
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"How do you think?" said Sam. "When I woke up from my little nap, I remembered I was supposed to bring those guys down in the hold their chow. I went to the galley and found out that Frank had already gone. After I chewed out the cook for breaking the off-limits rule, I went down to make sure Frank kept his mouth shut about what was down there. I guess you know what I found."
"I guess I do," said Joe, his stomach sinking.
"And I guess you know what's going to happen to you now," said Sam.
"I really don't want to find out," said Joe, searching desperately for a way out of this jam. He hoped Frank was doing the same.
Frank shrugged, apparently unconcerned, and said, "I suppose our luck had to run out sometime. You have to admit, though, we got pretty far."
"And you're going to keep going far--all the way to the bottom of the sea," said Sam.
"What're you going to do?" asked Frank. "Make us walk the plank?"
"No, that would be too public," said Sam. "You won't leave this room alive. After I shoot you two, the only ones who will notice are the fish when you sink past them in the water."
"Gee," said Frank, "I hate to make you miss any sleep while you're waiting for a chance to toss us over the side undetected. You've had so little rest since we left port."
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"Yeah, well, I can sleep all the way back to Florida on the return trip. Not that I wouldn't mind a little sack-time right now, but--" Sam paused to give a big yawn. "Yeah, wouldn't mind a"--he gave another yawn--"nap. Funny, I feel kind of--" He shook his head, as if trying to clear it.
"Maybe you should sit down," Frank suggested. "You look tired. Really tired."
"Maybe I will," said Sam, sitting down. "But don't you two get any--" Another yawn. "Remember, I still got this--" And as his eyes closed and his head slumped forward, the gun dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Whew," said Frank with relief. "Thought that stuff would never get to work."
"Stuff?" said Joe. "What stuff? What happened?"
"On my way back to the galley, I figured I'd look in on Sam to make sure he was still napping," said Frank. "He was gone, so I decided to use the opportunity to lift some sleeping pills from that bottle he put back in his drawer. I figured we could use them to knock him out before we jumped ship, since he was the only one who might stop us. Then, when I got back to the galley and he rang for coffee, I saw my chance to knock him out of action. I put in a triple dose. Luckily, he gulped down the coffee while he was questioning me back in his cabin. From then on,
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I had to hold my breath and pray he'd drop off before he knocked us off."
"Think he'll sleep until we're off the ship and beyond his reach?" said Joe, looking down at Sam, who had slipped off the chair and lay snoring on the floor with a peaceful smile on his face.
"From what he said about those pills, we stand a good chance," said Frank. He stooped down to pick up Sam's gun and concealed it in his shirt. "Come on, help me lug Sam back to his cabin. From what the cook said, he's known for liking lots of shut-eye. We have to hope that nobody thinks it too strange if he stays sacked out."
As they hauled Sam down the passageway, they passed a crewman, who glanced at them curiously.
"Sam here had a few too many," Joe told him. "I warned him, but he wouldn't listen."
"Yeah," said Frank. "He's out like a light, and he weighs a ton. Wouldn't be surprised if he sleeps right through the unloading. Leave us to do his work for him."
"It wouldn't be the first time Sam pulled a stunt like that," said the crewman. "The guy drinks like a fish and sleeps like a log." The man looked at Sam, who by now was snoring loudly. He shook his head with disgust and continued on his way.
"This may actually work," said Joe as they deposited Sam onto his bunk.
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"Don't my plans always work?" Frank replied with a grin.
"I won't answer that," said Joe. "I want to stay optimistic."
"You've got to keep the faith," chided Frank. "Now, let's go after those two guys in the hold. They should still be where we found them, since they're not supposed to show themselves to the crew."
Again Frank was on target. When he knocked on the door of the cabin in the cargo hold, a voice answered from within, "Who's there?"
"Sam," Frank answered.
The door swung open, and a minute later the two men were backed up against a wall, their hands over their heads, their eyes fixed on the gun in Frank's hand.
Upon questioning, they gave their names as Dave and Mike.
Frank could have gotten their last names, too-- the fear in their eyes told him that. But their last names weren't what he was interested in. He wanted to find out just one thing.
"Does either of you know where you're supposed to be going?" he demanded in a harsh voice. "Don't play games. Tell me the truth. I get very upset when people lie to me."
"Hey, guys, cool it," Dave said hurriedly. "No sweat. I'll tell you anything I can."
"Me, too," Mike seconded. "I'm just in this
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for the money. And there's no amount of money worth dying for."
"Good to see that both of you are using your heads," said Frank. "Now, talk."
"Trouble is," said Dave, "there's not much I can tell you. All I know is I answered an ad for adventurers only, and I was promised really good pay for two years' work if I followed orders and didn't ask any questions."
"Same with me," said Mike. "The guy who hired me wouldn't tell me where I was going. I was just supposed to be picked up on a beach near Miami, which I was, by limo, along with Dave here. We couldn't even see out the limo windows. Next thing we knew, we were being grilled by some guy in a big old house, and then we were stuck down here and told to stay here until we were off-loaded. Honest, we're in the dark about this whole deal."
"You've got to believe us," pleaded Dave, staring at the revolver in Frank's hand, sweat beading his forehead.
"I don't know why I should, but I do," Frank said in a grudging voice.
"You guys are lucky we're such trusting souls," said Joe, silently agreeing with his brother that the guys' stories made sense. "But don't push your luck. One wrong move, and we'll turn out your lights for good."
"Yes, sir," said Mike.
"Anything you say," said Dave.
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They were as good as their word. Frank and Joe quickly traded clothes with them, then tied them up and gagged them once again.
"Luckily, they don't know where we're going, so they can't help anyone find us," said Joe.
Frank nodded, then stifled a yawn. "Maybe we ought to join Sam in dreamland for a couple of hours. There's nothing to do now but wait for landfall at dawn."
Joe found himself yawning, too. "Guess you're right."
"I'll set the alarm on Mike's watch to wake us at five," said Frank.
"Hope there are no rude awakenings before that," said Joe soberly, climbing up into the upper bunk in Dave and Mike's quarters. Frank lay down in the lower one.
It seemed like only minutes before the beeping of the watch woke them. They had barely washed up in the lavatory connected with the cabin when they heard the sound of men and machinery outside in the hold.
"Let's get out of here before somebody comes and sees these two tied up," said Frank. He started to hide the gun in his shirt again, then stopped and shook his head. He thrust it under the mattress of the bottom bunk. "We're better off without this. Dad always says that carrying a gun usually gets you into more trouble than it gets you out of. What we need is brainpower, not firepower."
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"Right," agreed Joe. "Anyway, we promised Dad we'd leave guns alone unless it was life or death." Then he added, smacking his fist in his palm, "Though muscle power can come in handy, and Dad can't complain about that."
"Spoken like a true muscle-head," Frank said, then ducked a mock punch that Joe threw at him. Then sounds outside the cabin jerked them back to reality. This was no time for joking. It was time to save their skins.
Frank opened the door and looked out cautiously. Crewmen were loading the crates in the hold onto wooden pallets, attaching the pallets to cables descending from the open cargo hatch above, and standing aside to watch them being lifted up and away.
"Wonder where the stuff is going?" Frank muttered, leaving the cabin and signaling to Joe that it was safe to follow. Everyone was too busy to notice them.
"We'll find out quickly enough," said Joe. "Let's get up on deck fast, before the activity slows down."
Minutes later they stood on deck in the faint early-morning light. The yacht was anchored close to shore in a natural deep-water cove. On the shore, a tall crane was lifting the loaded pallets out of the hold and depositing them on the ground. There, men driving forklifts were picking UP the pallets and carrying them into an opening in a thick tropical forest.
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"I can see why they picked this time of day to unload," said Frank. "There's enough light to see, but it's still dim enough for them to avoid easy detection. Their security never lets up."
Just then a voice from behind made them wheel around. "Mike? Dave? About time you two showed up."
A man in crisply pressed khakis with a gleaming leather belt around his waist stood facing them. He was slapping his hand impatiently against his thigh below a holster that hung from his belt. The expression on his face told Frank and Joe that his eyes, invisible behind dark aviator sunglasses, were glaring at them. Although he wore no sign of rank, it was clear who was in command.
Both Hardys snapped to attention.
"Sorry, sir," Frank said.
"The guy on the ship was late waking us," said Joe.
"I haven't got time to listen to your excuses," the man said. "Which of you is which?"
"Mike here," said Frank.
"Dave here," said Joe.
"Okay," the man said. "Continue using first names only, but now you're Mike Seven, and you're Dave Eleven, to avoid confusion among personnel. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Frank and Joe responded in unison.
"Now, lift your arms above your heads, both of you," the officer ordered.
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Frank and Joe instantly obeyed, and the officer quickly frisked them.
"Good," he said, stepping back and indicating that they could lower their hands. "Some recruits disregard instructions and arrive armed, which is bad news for everybody. Some guys are too dumb to live."
"Not us, sir," said Frank fervently.
"We know how to obey orders," Joe seconded.
"That's a very healthy attitude--healthy for you," said the commander. "Now, let's move it."
He led the way off the yacht onto the gangway that stretched between the ship and shore. As soon as they were on land, the commander nodded to a crew of men in nearly identical khakis, who started unhooking the gangway, getting ready to wheel it away.
The commander marched Frank and Joe toward the opening in the forest where the cargo was being taken. The light was still too dim for them to see what was in the jungle shadows.
Only when they reached the edge of the forest could they see what was waiting for them.
Waiting among the trees was a train--a small diesel locomotive with a passenger car and a string of five boxcars.
"Put your eyes back in your heads--it's real," snapped the man. "All aboard."
Frank and Joe climbed into the passenger car. It was the kind seen in old black-and-white
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European movies, with a passageway running beside several separate compartments. Each compartment contained seating for six, three seats facing three more.
As they passed the first compartment, they saw Igor sitting inside, flanked by stone-faced men in khaki. He was trying to look at ease, but sweat was pouring down his face.
"You two are in luck," the commander said. "You get a compartment all to yourselves. There aren't many passengers this trip. Make yourselves comfortable. See you in a couple of hours when we reach the ranch. Your orientation starts there."
Frank and Joe sat facing each other on the faded blue plush seats of the compartment. Both peered out the window. All they could see was a thick rain forest of very tall trees.
Frank slid open the window, stuck his head out, and looked upward. After several moments, he pulled his head in again. "Pretty clever. They've extended nets between the tops of the trees on both sides of the tracks and covered the nets with foliage. Looks like they've laced the top branches together, too. They've made sure that nobody can spot the tracks from above. It's as if we're in a tunnel."
There was a gentle lurch, and the train started moving.
"Remember how Alex mentioned their underground railway, Joe? I read about the original
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one--the operation that helped runaway slaves escape from the South before the Civil War," Frank said. "Guess you could call this the underworld railway."
"Yeah, the Crime Rail Express," said Joe. "Just wish I knew where it was heading."
Frank nodded in agreement as he squinted out the window, but he could see less and less as the light at the opening of the tunnel faded behind them. The train sped on, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the unknown.
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Chapter 10
"Bet you all are a mite curious about this railway," said the tall man in a cowboy hat and the now-familiar khakis. He had met them as they got off the train at a distant corner of the ranch.
But even if the Hardys had not been told, they would have been able to guess that this man, introduced only as "Chief," was in absolute control of this huge highland ranch at the edge of the jungle.
"Yes, Chief," Frank and Joe answered as they had been instructed to do.
"Real interesting story, that railway," said the man. He was smiling with his mouth, but his eyes stayed hard. He kept Frank and Joe standing at stiff attention while he paced in front of them, the jungle a backdrop. He was making sure they knew who was in charge there. "It was built by an
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American about ninety years ago. He saw those little countries here in Central America all split by civil wars and fighting with each other, and he figured that a good, enterprising American could come down here and take charge. Carve out his territory, just like a man used to be able to do in the West before all the land got settled. Well, this fellow came down here and did just that. Built this ranch, declared it an independent country with himself as president for life, ran a railroad to the sea, and had himself sitting pretty. Trouble was, the folks down here got their act together and put this fellow in front of a firing squad, and that was that. The ranch, his little kingdom, went to seed, and the railway tracks were overgrown by jungle--until I came along. You might say I'm following in that fellow's footsteps, except I'm not making his mistakes. You see, I know how to protect myself. I know what to protect myself with. And you boys know what that is?"
He looked at Frank and Joe, demanding an answer.
"Guns?" said Joe.
"Sure, I got them," said the chief. "But I'm talking about something more powerful. The most powerful thing in the world."
"You don't mean atomic weapons?" said Frank, trying not to shudder.
"Nah, don't need them with what I've got, though I expect I could get some if I wanted to," the chief said, his grin widening. "What I'm
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talking about is money. Money and information. That's all I need."
Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance. Once again, just when they thought they'd found the answer to some of their questions, they'd discovered that all they had was a new set of questions.
"Yes, sir, money nearly does it all," the chief went on. "But I don't have to tell you two that. Money is what got you down here, right?"
"Yes, Chief," Frank and Joe answered.
"But I've got news for you," the chief went on. "All the money in the world can't get you out of here, and you remember that. Nobody leaves here before I say they can. Nobody leaves here alive, that is. You got that?"
"Yes, Chief," the Hardys responded again.
"Glad you got the message," said the chief. "Now, you boys follow orders, keep your noses clean, and maybe when your two years are up I'll figure I can trust you and let you go home. But remember--one little foul-up and you two ain't going nowhere, except six feet under the ground."
"Yes, Chief," said the Hardys, beginning to feel like broken records.
"Okay, you can go now," the chief said. "Dimitri!" he called. "Assign these boys their duties." He turned and strode away.
Dimitri, the man who had ridden on the train with them, walked over and joined them.
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"Did the chief give you his orientation speech?" Dimitri asked.
"Yeah, if that's what you call it," said Joe.
"That's what I call it," Dimitri said in a voice that made it clear that he didn't like wisecracking. Then he commanded, "Come with me. Time to get that cargo off the train."
He drove Frank and Joe in a jeep to the boxcars, where men were loading the weapon crates onto a large flatbed track.
"Start sweating," he told the Hardys, and they joined the others working in the broiling heat. Even there in the highlands, on a plateau above the rain forest, it was clear that this was Central America. They could feel the sun directly overhead, beating straight down on their backs as they worked.
When all the crates had been loaded, Frank and Joe climbed into the back of the truck with the other men, and the truck started rolling. It bounced along a dirt road that cut through lush grassland dotted with herds of cattle until it reached the bank of a wide, slow-moving river.
Dimitri climbed out of the front of the truck and told the men to climb down from the back. He pulled a walkie-talkie and snapped it on. Frank and Joe, standing close to him, could hear him speaking in Spanish.
After he had finished, he said, "Okay, men, we Wait here. Shouldn't take long for them to cross over."
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Joe peered toward the other side of the river. Jungle grew down to the opposite bank.
"Who are we expecting?" he asked.
"Bandits. Guerrillas. Freedom fighters. Call them whatever you want," said Dimitri with a shrug. "They're our first line of defense and the main reason that no prisoner ever gets very far. We keep them supplied with arms and ammunition, and they guard our perimeter. What they do with the guns the rest of the time is their own business."
Two large, flat-bottomed boats were crossing the river, propelled by loudly chugging engines. Aboard them were bearded men in jungle camouflage uniforms.
When they had reached the near bank, Dimitri turned to his men. "Load the stuff aboard."
Frank and Joe teamed up to haul crates aboard the boats. They were able to talk in whispers as they worked.
"They've sure got this place sewn up tight," muttered Frank, grunting as he bent to lift one end of a heavy crate. "Thick jungle all around, bandits hiding behind trees."
"Kind of a funny setup for the Perfect Getaway," Joe agreed as he lifted the crate's other end. "I mean, what do they need a ranch for? A couple of plastic surgeons and an acting coach ought to be enough." The two boys carefully boarded the first boat, lugging the crate between them, and set it down at the feet of a surly-looking
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bandit. Keeping silent until they were once again on land, they continued their conversation as they loaded several more crates.
"Something smells rotten here," Joe murmured. "And I don't think it's the river water, either."
"What has me worried is how we'll manage to get out of here," Frank answered. "The only way I can think of is to somehow get word to Dad or the Gray Man."
Joe frowned. The Gray Man was the Hardys' contact in a top-secret American intelligence operation and a hard man to get hold of. They'd helped the operation out more than once. But the only way they knew of to contact him was via Modem from Frank's home computer. They were a long way from that computer now.
"Well, it's only a two-year enlistment," Joe joked lamely as they loaded the last crate onto the boat. "It'll fly before we know it."
"Yeah, sure," Frank muttered.
After the loading was finished and the boats Were heading back across the river, Dimitri told Frank and Joe to climb into his jeep while he sent the other men back to the truck.
Dimitri sat in back with the Hardys and told his driver, "We're making a tour of the ranch so our new men here understand the layout. You know, the standard orientation tour."
The man said, "Yes, sir," and started the jeep back over the dirt road.
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Again they passed the grazing cattle, and Dimitri explained, "That's where we get our beef. Not to mention that the chief likes to play cowboy. He rides a horse and lassos steer, brands them, that kind of stuff." Dimitri smiled, as if at a private joke. "It's one of his favorite hobbies."
The jeep turned onto another dirt road, and they drove to where the grassland turned into fields of corn and grain and vegetables.
"This is where we get the rest of our food," Dimitri explained. "The chief has made this ranch practically self-supporting."
"How many people live here?" Frank asked.
"Oh, plenty." Dimitri gazed off into the distance. "And they stay a long time."
"Is it expensive?" Joe exchanged glances with Frank. They needed information, but weren't sure how far they could push Dimitri without his getting suspicious. At the moment, he seemed not to notice how curious these two young recruits were.
"You never saw anything so expensive in your life," he bragged. "See that?" He pointed toward a large complex that had just become visible in the distance, at the edge of the surrounding jungle. "That's the ranch house. Only the truly elite can afford to stay there. A suite in the big house costs fifty thousand a month, and that's just for a room and continental breakfast, no more. You pay for extras. A good meal costs a thousand
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bucks. Clean sheets, five hundred. Laundry and dry cleaning, a grand a week."
"Why would anyone pay that much?" Frank asked incredulously. "How ritzy can the place be?"
"Oh, it's ritzy, all right. But that's not why people stay. See, the catch is, it costs five million dollars in cash to check out."
"Five m--" Frank started to say, but Joe stopped him with a nudge in the ribs and a gesture toward the cornfield to one side of them. There, a group of men and women chopped wearily at some weeds. A man in khakis with a rifle in the crook of his arm was overseeing them. As the jeep drew closer, Frank and Joe could see that, while most of the workers were probably locals, a few among them were middle-aged, paunchy, sunburned, and obviously not accustomed to fieldwork. All wore ragged clothing and frayed straw hats that did little to keep out the burning sun as they hacked methodically at the soil. They were clearly bone-weary.
Suddenly there was a small commotion. One of the workers had fallen to the ground and lay still, face down. The other workers gathered around him.
Dimitri told his driver to head over to the scene of the trouble so that he could check it out. When the jeep arrived, Dimitri climbed out, followed by Frank and Joe.
By now the man who had collapsed was being
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helped to his feet by fellow workers, while the guard looked on in a bored way.
Frank and Joe could see that the man was in late middle-age, with a stubble of beard on his hollowed-out cheeks and dark circles of fatigue under his watery blue eyes.
Something stirred in Frank's memory. He was sure he had seen that face before. But he couldn't remember where.
Dimitri, though, knew who the man was. "Hans? Causing trouble again? Won't you ever learn?"
Something inside the man seemed to snap. He straightened up, his nostrils flared with anger, his eyes ablaze. For a moment he was no longer a cowering field-worker. His voice was the voice of someone who was used to being in command. "Stop with this 'Hans' nonsense! I am sick of these silly games you play here. Call me by my right name, at least. Karl, Karl Ross. A man who could buy and sell you a million times over!"
A shiver ran through Frank. Karl Ross. Now he remembered where he had seen that face: on the front page of the newspaper when the financier had mysteriously disappeared, just before he was to be indicted for stealing millions in the stock market.
Dimitri's voice was laced with sarcasm as he said, "Hans, maybe that was true once, but you're broke now. And the ranch is your home. Don't you like it here? Maybe you should try to
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escape again. Next time you get lost in the jungle, the guard might not find you and bring you back. You might get away and keep going until the jaguars or snakes or alligators finish you off. Or you could cross the river and have our friends over there nab you."
Dimitri turned to Frank and Joe. "I heard that Hans here was a real smart operator on the outside. But he's acted real dumb around here. After he went broke, he had a real nice job in the ranch kitchen washing dishes. But he gave it all up when he tried to get away. Guess he thought escaping from here would be as easy as escaping from the States."
"What do you want me to do with him, sir?" the guard asked Dimitri.
"Get him back to work," said Dimitri. "If he drops, let him lie in the dirt. He's not going anywhere--are you, Hans? And remember, if you cause any more trouble, we cut your rations in half."
The fire had faded from Karl Ross's eyes. His voice was a whimper. "But it's such a very little bit already. Maybe if I ate a little more, I could work better. Nothing much. Some extra margarine, maybe. It makes the bread taste so much better."
"Well, if you're very good, we'll see about that," said Dimitri, smiling. "We might even give you some meat on Sundays. How does that
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sound, Hans? You don't mind my calling you 'Hans,' do you, Hans?"
"No, no, not at all," Karl Ross said. "Please, forget my little outburst. It was the sun. Yes, a touch of sun. A little meat, you said? Maybe this Sunday? It has been so long."
Karl Ross picked up his hoe and began hacking at the weeds with as much vigor as his bent body could muster. Dimitri watched with a smirk on his face, then climbed back into the jeep. Frank and Joe, both feeling queasy, followed him, and the jeep drove off.
"Guess you've seen enough," Dimitri said. "You get the idea how we operate here."
"Yeah, we've got the idea," said Frank, masking his disgust.
" Sure do," agreed Joe.
"Anyway, you won't be working out here," said Dimitri. "You've been assigned to the ranch house staff. Easy duty. You even have your living quarters there, so you don't have to live in the barracks. I'll take you there now to be briefed."
When they reached the ranch house--a rambling, two-story, colonial-style structure built around a central courtyard--Dimitri offered a few words of caution. "Like I said, it's easy duty, but there is one hitch. You're going to be working right under the chief, and sometimes he's--well, a little extreme. The guys before you made the mistake of acting surprised at some of the stuff he did--and they're out guarding the jungle now,
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fighting mosquitoes. So, if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your noses clean and do exactly what you're told."
Dimitri left Frank and Joe with the front door guard, who said to them, "You can pick up your gear and bedding and get settled later. The chief wants you right now. On the double."
"Where do we go?" asked Frank.
"Down that hall there and through the door at the end," said the guard. "It leads to the courtyard."
"What do you think?" asked Joe as he and Frank started down the wide, high-ceilinged hall. "Is it worth fifty thousand a month?"
"It's not bad," Frank said as the two brothers looked around at the sweeping Spanish-tiled stairways, huge oil paintings, and antique carpets. "But even that much money isn't enough to keep an organization like this going. Think about it. The house in Florida, the yacht, the private railroad, the ranch--it's got to cost more than a small country."
"The world's greatest scam for the world's biggest crooks." Joe shook his head in disbelief. "Can you imagine how Karl Ross reacted when he got here and found out what he'd laid out his money for? A prison a lot worse than the one he was escaping. Not such a Perfect Getaway."
"At least they haven't killed him," said Frank.
"Yeah--but that's the question. Why haven't they? They've gotten all they can from him." Joe
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paused to straighten what looked like a small but genuine Rembrandt painting.
"Lucky we got assigned to headquarters," Frank said. "This'll make it a lot easier to fill in all the blanks about what's going on here."
"There's one blank I want filled in right away," said Joe.
"What's that?" asked Frank.
"What Dimitri said, that bit about the chief acting extreme," said Joe. "What could be more extreme than what we've already seen and heard around here?"
Suddenly, through the half-open door leading to the courtyard, there came a hideous human scream.
"You know, Joe," said Frank, "I've got a hunch we're about to find out."
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Chapter 11
The only inhabitants of the large central courtyard were half a dozen bright green parrots cackling at one another in the branches of a twenty-foot palm tree. The entire courtyard was filled with lush, tropical trees, flowers, and plants in an apparent effort to bring some of the jungle into the heart of the ranch complex. In the center of this miniature jungle, an elaborate fountain paved with hand-painted tiles sent streams of water up into the humid air.
Frank and Joe were in no mood to enjoy the scenery, though. Another horrible scream pierced the air, and this time it was clear that the sound was coming from behind a closed door at the opposite end of the courtyard.
"Come on," said Frank, and he led the way
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through the trees, causing the parrots to squawk indignantly overhead.
"Frank, maybe we should--" Joe said as they reached the far door.
"Ssh," Frank warned him and cracked the door open to peer inside. Just then another nerve-shattering scream washed over them.
"I told you, I don't have any!" a voice cried out. Frank hesitated. The voice was familiar. He motioned to Joe, and the two boys slipped through the door.
This section of the ranch was radically different from the main entry way, and something about it made the Hardys' skin crawl. The narrow, low-ceilinged hall was painted antiseptic white. The lighting was fluorescent. The floor was green linoleum.
"Looks like the infirmary at school," Joe whispered.
Voices came from a room at the end of the hall, where a door had been left ajar. The two voices were too low now to decipher, but they sounded familiar. Frank and Joe moved toward them and cautiously looked into the room.
Igor, his clothes torn and muddy and his face cut, was sitting in a dentist's chair. An IV plugged into his wrist fed what looked like a glucose solution into his bloodstream.
The other man was the chief. He wore his khakis and cowboy hat and was standing on the other side of the chair. Near him was a table
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loaded down with a lie detector, a voice-stress analyzer, and other complicated electronic equipment that even Frank had never seen before. The chief held a syringe in one hand and was adjusting his equipment with the other, while talking to Igor in a low monotone. When he saw Frank and Joe, he stopped talking.
Remembering Dimitri's warning, Frank and Joe were careful to show no surprise at the scene. Keeping their faces expressionless, they entered the room, saluted, and said in unison, "Reporting for duty as ordered, sir."
"Glad you're on board, boys," the chief said, his western accent more pronounced than ever. "I was just warming up Igor here a little bit. Seems he's a bit shy about telling me where he's stashed his cache."
"I told you, I have no cache," Igor protested, unable to take his eyes off the syringe, whose tip bubbled with an odd-looking blue liquid. "Please, you have to believe me."
"Sure I believe you, partner," said the chief, smiling. "Just like I believe all the folks who come visiting us here. All those poor, poor fellows. None of them with a red cent stashed away, except for what they brought with them. And you, you don't even have that anymore, do you?"
The chief checked the level of the IV solution. Then he held up the syringe and squeezed it until a tiny blue bubble dripped down the side. "Yep, poor old Igor here had the unfortunate idea of
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trying to cut out once he saw it wasn't quite the palace he'd envisioned," the chief said, reaching for Igor's free arm. "Seems he jumped the train as it was slowing down outside the ranch. The guards caught him, naturally. And if they hadn't, the snakes sure would have. The penalty for an escape attempt at Rancho Getaway is the forfeiting of all a man's available money. Sad to say, Mr. Igor here doesn't seem to have the extra savings for even one more night alive."
"I liquidated all my assets before I left the States," Igor babbled frantically, watching in horror as the chief prepared to inject him with the poisonous-looking blue chemical. "Gave it all away. I didn't think I'd need it anymore--"
"That plus a dollar will get you a cup of coffee," the chief said impatiently. "Now, this won't hurt much. You'll just feel a cold shiver up your spine. Kind of like a rattlesnake bite. Hold him down, boys, will you? He's squirming around too much."
Frank and Joe stepped forward hesitantly and placed their hands on Igor's shoulders, ignoring the desperate, mute appeal for help in his eyes. The chief brought the syringe closer to the surface of Igor's skin and lined up the needle with a vein. Joe's eyes sought out Frank's in alarm. Each knew what the other was thinking. How long could they let this go on? Igor might be a crook, but nobody deserved this.
The chief pulled back his finger to plunge the
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needle in. Joe tensed his legs, ready to tackle him in an instant.
"Okay, okay, you win!" Igor's voice was hoarse with fear. "I've got savings. Swiss bank accounts. You can have it all. Just get that thing away from me!"
The chief smiled and stepped back. Relieved, Frank and Joe released their hold on Igor. "I knew you'd come to your senses," the chief said, setting the syringe on the table and reaching for a pad and pencil. "If you'll just give me the account numbers, I think we might have ourselves a deal."
As Igor, half-mad with relief and fear, rattled off a string of account numbers from memory, Joe and Frank exchanged glances. "Extreme" wasn't the word for the chief. "Crazy" was closer.
Except that if the chief was crazy, it was like a fox.
A rabidly cruel fox.
"That's all?" the chief mumbled as he copied down the last of the account numbers. There were almost a dozen, all in Swiss and offshore banks, the kind that operate by number only instead of by name, appearance, or proper ID. "You wouldn't be holding out on me again, I hope, Igor."
"Are you kidding? Money's not everything, you know."
The chief chuckled. "Untie him," he
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commanded the Hardys as he started out of the room. "We'll go inside and get these funds transferred so Igor here can relax and take a shower in his room. You two come along, to keep guard."
The chief's office was ultramodern, except for pictures of the Old West and the mounted head of a longhorn steer that jutted out of the wall behind his chrome-and-marble desk.
The chief motioned for Igor to sit down facing the desk and ordered Frank and Joe to stand guard near the door. "Make yourself comfortable," he said to Igor. "I'm going to check these little old numbers out. We've got a communications setup here that can do that in no time flat." He started to leave, then paused. "I forgot," he said to the Hardys. "You two haven't been issued weapons yet. Until that happens, you can use this."
The chief took a pearl-handled six-gun out of a cabinet near the desk and tossed it to Joe. Then he left the room.
As soon as he was gone, shutting the door behind him, Igor turned eagerly to the Hardys.
"You two have to help me escape," he said. "That money I promised you before--well, I'll triple it. Quadruple it. Anything."
"What are you going to pay us with?" said Frank, keeping up a show of suspicion. No sense in blowing his and Joe's cover.
"Yeah," Joe seconded him. "Looks like the chief has all your cash."
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Despite his sorry state, Igor looked at him with contempt. "You think I gave him all my bank account numbers? Don't be a fool. With crooks like him, you've always got to keep your highest cards back, just in case he threatens you again. Those accounts I gave him were chicken feed. I've got something worth more than all of them put together. Millions, I tell you, millions."
"Millions?" Frank said, pretending to think it over. "What could be worth that much?"
"Information, my friend." Igor leaned toward him, and the Hardys again saw the look of raw desperation they'd witnessed when the chief had threatened to put him out. He was a cornered animal, they realized, and he'd fight tooth and claw before allowing himself to become someone else's prey. "Stock tips. Insider scams. Who's going to make the next takeover bid and when. I put half the people in the top five hundred where they are today. I can even do a little blackmail if I have to. Why do you think I'm on the run? Because I've got a direct line to the really big money, boys, and I know how to redirect it."
While Igor was trying to persuade the boys to help him, Frank was thinking fast. He and Joe had to get out of this place, anyway, had to report this ranch to the authorities. There were valid reasons for taking Igor along. They could hand him over to the law, which would make him pay for his crimes. Whatever those crimes were, they
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couldn't be bad enough to justify leaving him to the chief.
"Sounds good," he said cautiously to Igor. "But I have to see what my buddy here thinks."
"It's a deal," said Joe. "But remember, we don't let you out of our sight until we have the money in our hands. And I'll have this in my hand all the time." He indicated the six-gun he was holding.
"Afraid that gun's not much good to you," said the chief's voice. They whirled around to see him standing in the doorway. In his hand was another six-gun, the twin of the one he'd given Joe. "That gun I tossed you isn't loaded. But the one I have is."
Frank realized instantly what had happened. "You've got your office bugged!"
"Smart boy," said the chief, and made a brief gesture with his gun toward the mounted steer head on the wall. "That steer has ears. But you should have been smarter sooner. You two boys made the same mistake as the two boys you're replacing. They stood here in this very room with that big-deal financier from New York, Karl Ross was his name, and they listened to him when he talked about the money he was holding out on me. You won't be seeing them around anymore. And as for Ross, he's not going to be bribing anybody else, because he's got no money and no special contacts left to bribe them with."
"A setup," Igor murmured, unable to believe
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he'd been had. "You were planning this all along."
"Sure I was, partner." The chief swung his icy gaze to the exhausted man. "Even your liquid assets aren't enough to make a profit on a place like this. What I need is power. Knowledge. Leverage. I need to own people. That's what gives the ranch the sweet smell of success."
Slumped in his chair, Igor looked like a deflated balloon. The presence of lie detectors and similar equipment in the back room clearly made more sense to him now. With a gesture of defeat, he picked up a pen and starting writing down names on a piece of paper.
"That's right," the chief said, peering over his shoulder. "Whatever you can give me. Just make sure I can make it stick. You already told me what I can get out of this--'millions, I tell you, millions.' "
Igor didn't answer. He continued writing, lost in silent despair.
"Now that our business is over with, I get to deal with you two boys," said the chief, smiling. "That's the fun part. I figure we can have a little lassoing contest in the corral out back. I used to be a pretty fair cowhand years ago. I grew up on a ranch like this, but smaller. I'll tell you what. If you can make it to the corral gate, you'll get to work in the fields. If you don't make it, you're going to fertilize them. I'm afraid the two boys before you were a mite slow--disappointing,
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really. I'd hoped for more of a challenge. But you two look very fit. Maybe you'll give me a run for your money. Or I guess I should say, a run for your lives."
The chief looked Frank and Joe up and down as though he were inspecting livestock. "I'll take you one by one. Who wants to be first?"
"Me," Frank and Joe said at the same time.
"Believe me, my buddy is as slow as molasses," Joe added quickly, before Frank could say anything. "He's strictly long distance, not a sprinter like me."
The chief said nothing, just continued to size them up. Then he nodded. "Okay, I believe you. You first, boy. And remember, I want to see some speed."
"You'll get it," said Joe with a show of bravado. "No way you're going to get that rope around me, old man."
The chief grinned, looking delighted. "That's what I like to see, a little spunk. Roping you in is going to be the most fun I've had in a month of Sundays." He turned to the others. "You two can wait here while I play my little game with your friend."
Holding his gun on Joe, he motioned him out of the office, then locked the door as he left. He and Joe walked back to the large corral behind the ranch house, an elaborate construction with high walls of corrugated metal, an attached
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stable, and all the paraphernalia necessary for a real big-time rodeo.
"Go on, get in there," the chief said, pushing Joe into the corral and locking the gate after him. "I don't figure you're going to make it to the gate," he explained. "But even if you do, if my horse stumbles or something, you're still not going to get away. The only thing you're going to escape is the cemetery."
"Fair enough," said Joe, doing some stretch exercises to loosen up his muscles. "Just watch my dust."
The chief shook his head. "It will be fun cutting you down to size. Maybe I'll even put my brand on you." There was a nasty edge to his voice. "I wonder where I should put it. The center of your forehead might look good. Move on out to the middle, now. I'll be there in a minute."
Joe watched the chief head for the stable, then turned and surveyed the large corral. Halfway across it was a long distance for a sprint. Joe started across, slowly. From the stable, he heard the whinny of a horse. Then suddenly, behind him, he heard the crack of a gun.
The chief sat astride a palomino in a cubicle near the gate. The six-gun in his right hand was pointed in the air, and his left hand rested on the lasso that was wrapped around the saddle horn. "Coming out of chute number three!" the chief shouted in a rodeo announcer's voice, and shoved
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the gun into the holster at his hip. The door of the cubicle shot up, and the horse raced right for Joe as the chief gave a wild, ear-shattering whoop.
At the first sound, Joe started moving, as fast a start as he had ever made. His feet were pumping beneath him, his heart was pounding in his chest, and his lungs felt as if they would burst. He rounded the corral, approaching the gate from the opposite side, steadily getting closer.
Then he felt the rope drop down over his shoulders and tighten.
And he heard the chief's cry of triumph. "You lost, boy. You're dead!"
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Chapter 12
That was what Joe had been waiting for.
As soon as he felt the rope tighten around him, he came to an abrupt halt. At the same moment he grabbed the rope in both hands and yanked with every ounce of his strength, praying that he had made his move fast enough to stop the chief from bracing himself in the saddle.
It worked, just as Joe had gambled it would. Caught by surprise, the chief didn't have time either to brace himself or to let go of the rope. Instead, his hands instinctively tightened on the rope, and he flew out of the saddle, hitting the ground flat on his face.
Before the chief could roll over and draw his gun, Joe straddled him and grabbed the gun from his holster.
Joe stood up, shrugging off the rope that still
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hung loosely around him. "Okay, Chief, on your feet. The game's over, and guess who won? In case you don't know, keep your hands in the air--or as you'd say, reach for the sky, partner."
The chief looked at the gun, and followed orders. But his eyes were blazing. "You're not going to get away with this, boy," he snarled. "You're going to pay."
"Unless you follow orders, you're going to get paid off--with this," said Joe and raised the gun so that it was pointing right between the chief's eyes. He wanted to make sure the chief believed he would use it--because Joe had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to, even in a pinch.
"Okay, okay, boy," the chief said hurriedly. "Just be careful of that piece. The trigger's kind of sensitive. The least little thing will set it off."
"Fine," said Joe. "Make sure you don't supply that least little thing."
The chief didn't have to be told where they were going. He unlocked the gate and headed out of the dusty corral and back to his office, where he unlocked the door without being told.
Igor's mouth dropped open when he saw the chief enter, with Joe following, gun in hand. "How did you--" he started to ask.
But before he could finish, Frank grinned and said, "I figured you'd pull it off."
"You should have seen it," Joe said.
"Both you boys better fasten onto one idea now," said the chief, careful not to make any
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sudden moves but not hiding the menace in his voice. "No way you're getting away with this. You can't escape. There's jungle all around. And the longer you hold me, the rougher I'm going to be on you when you realize you can't escape and have to give up."
"Maybe he's right," Igor said. "Perhaps we can make a deal."
"You never learn, do you?" said Joe with disgust. "You can't make a deal with someone like him."
"Besides, we won't have to make a deal--not when we can make tracks," said Frank, his eyes lighting up.
Joe recognized that light. Frank had an idea.
"What kind of tracks?" asked Igor.
"Railroad tracks," said Frank. "We arrived by train, and we can leave the same way."
By now Joe had the idea. He pointed at the chief with his gun. "Yeah, we've got our ticket right here."
"What makes you boys think--" the chief began.
"We don't think, we know," said Frank. "We know that you're going to pick up that phone and order the train to get ready. We know that you're going to order that all your 'guests' be rounded up and put in a ventilated boxcar. We know that the train's going to pull out of here in a couple of hours, with us and you aboard. And, oh yes, we know that there'll be enough provisions on it to
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feed everybody until that yacht arrives on its regular run to the coast and you can give orders for it to take us back to the States."
"You want to know how we know all that?" Joe chimed in. "We know that you know what'll happen to you if you don't do just what we say."
The chief looked at the gun staring him in the face, and picked up the phone.
He made three calls, never taking his eyes from the gun. With the first call he ordered that the train be readied; with the second, that the boxcars be loaded with all the guests from the ranch; and with the third, that four days' worth of food and drink be loaded in another boxcar.
When he was asked if any men would be required to go along as guards, the chief gave a glance at the gun and said, no, the two men he had with him would be enough.
That was the only question he was asked. Frank, listening closely for any signs of trickery, wasn't surprised. The chief was the kind of boss who gave orders and demanded unquestioning obedience.
Meanwhile, Igor was rejoicing. "Great work," he said. "When we get out of this, I'll give you that bonus I promised. Or, if you prefer, you can give me that money to invest, and I'll make you really rich."
"Thanks, we might consider that," said Frank, barely able to suppress a grin. Igor simply
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couldn't pass up an opportunity to try a scam, even under these circumstances.
"Yeah," said Joe, keeping a straight face, too. "We could use the help of a financial whiz like you."
Igor gave them a genial smile. Then his expression clouded. "There's one thing I don't understand. Why are we taking along those others? They all must be broke by now. What good are they?"
Frank tried to think of an explanation that would satisfy Igor. "They might have money still hidden away. You never know."
"I doubt it--but I'll leave that to you," said Igor. "I believe in the free enterprise system." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Frank and Joe knew that this wasn't the time to let Igor know that he and the others were heading back to the States to be put into the hands of the law. Frank did figure, though, that it was time to find out more about Igor.
"Say, Igor," he said, "since we're going to be partners, we should know your real name."
"I understand. It never hurts to be prudent," said Igor, still smiling his oily smile. "Perhaps you've read about me. My name is Tanner. Adolf Tanner."
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Adolf Tanner, Gregory Miller's boss. The guy who had disappeared, leaving Marcie's father holding the bag.
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"Adolf Tanner," said Frank, wrinkling his brow, pretending to try to remember the name. "Seems to me I did read something about you. You vanished, but somebody working with you got caught."
"Some guy called Muller or Milner or something like that," added Joe.
"Miller," Tanner said. "Gregory Miller. He worked under me, not with me. Your typical Boy Scout. Before I left, I doctored my books to make it look like he was the one milking my company. For insurance, I had one of my men stick a briefcase full of cash in his closet to make it look like he was planning to escape. If I'm lucky, the police will also suspect him of doing away with me to cover his thefts. He'll wind up in jail, and I'll be in the clear. Beautiful, you have to admit."
"I have to hand it to you, you are one shrewd operator," said Frank.
Now, especially, both Hardys couldn't wait to get back to the States. They had solved the mystery they had set out to solve. They had found out the truth about Marcie's father. They had caught the real crook, and it should be simple enough to prove that Mr. Miller had only called Perfect Getaway in an effort to track down Tanner. How he had heard about it, they'd have to ask him later. Now all they had to do was deliver their catch.
They didn't have long to wait for the delivery mechanism to start operating.
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In half an hour the chief's phone began ringing.
Each time it rang, the chief picked up the receiver and merely listened to the caller. Then he said, "Very good," hung up, and relayed the information.
The train was made ready and turned around to head back toward the sea.
The supplies were loaded into a boxcar.
Finally, the prisoners were loaded aboard.
"Time to move out," said Joe. "I'm putting this gun in my pocket, but my hand's going to be resting on it. One wrong move from you, Chief, and you'll find out how fast I can pull the trigger. Hope I'm coming through loud and clear."
The chief nodded. With Joe right behind him, he led the way out of the room. He looked neither to his right nor his left as the group passed the guards at the entrance of the ranch house and climbed into a waiting jeep, Joe sitting close beside the chief. The sun had set, and a full moon was just rising, bathing the land in a silvery glow.
The jeep drove them to the ghostly train, shimmering in the moonlight. Only a dim light from the train's interior added to that illumination. Security, as always, was tight.
Dimitri was waiting with a squad of men. He opened the jeep door and stood at attention as the chief climbed out, followed by the others, with Joe in the lead.
"Hey, where do you think you're going, Igor?"
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Dimitri barked. "You go back in the boxcar with the other prisoners."
Tanner opened his mouth to protest, then caught himself. It was clearly all he could do to keep from winking at Joe and Frank as he responded meekly, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
After he was led off, the chief and the Hardys entered the passenger car, followed by Dimitri.
"Will there be anything else, Chief?" Dimitri asked.
The chief's eyes flicked around to meet Joe's hard gaze. Then he looked at Dimitri and said, "No. You're dismissed. Tell the engineer to get the train moving."
After Dimitri left, the chief and the Hardys sat silently in their compartment until the train started rolling.
"Glad to see you're being sensible," Joe said. "That means you're going to stay alive. Don't look so mad, though. Life in jail won't be so bad. I'm sure you'll be out in twenty or thirty years."
"You--" began the chief. But when Joe pulled out his gun, the chief swallowed the rest of his sentence.
"Time to make some changes," said Frank, checking out the window to make sure that the ranch was out of sight. "Let's pay a visit to the engineer."
Herding the chief ahead of them, they moved forward through the passenger car and then
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through a door that connected it with the engineer's compartment.
The engineer had the train controls set on automatic. He was sitting back in his seat with his eyes closed.
Frank tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, saw the chief, and leapt to his feet.
"Sorry, sir," he babbled. "Just taking a little break. Won't happen again, I--"
Then he saw the gun in Joe's hand.
"We want you to do us a favor," Joe said. "Show us how to run this thing. We want to expand our occupational skills."
A half hour later the chief and the engineer were tied up in the passenger car, and Joe and Frank were at the controls.
"Tanner seemed a little disappointed that he had to go second-class."
"I'm afraid Tanner has a lot of disappointments coming up," said Joe as he moved a lever to speed up the train. "This is fun. When I was a kid, I always wanted to drive a train."
"Okay, Casey Jones, just keep your eyes on the tracks and don't lose your head," said Frank.
"You know me," said Joe, increasing the speed still more.
"That's the trouble," said Frank. "I don't want to have survived all of this only to wind up in an old-fashioned train wreck."
"No problem," said Joe. "Clear track ahead."
Frank couldn't argue. The front lights of
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the train had come on when the train entered the tunnel formed by the foliage overhead. The gleaming rails stretched unbroken into the darkness.
After a while Joe rubbed his eyes. "I have to admit, this job is tougher than it looks. Those rails are almost hypnotic, and we haven't had a decent night of sleep since we left Bayport."
"You're right about that," said Frank. "Good thing we're practically at the end of the tunnel." He couldn't stop his mouth from opening in a wide yawn.
Then his eyes widened, and his yawn froze. For a second all he could do was make a gasping sound.
Then he choked out, "Put on the brakes--or we'll crash!"
He didn't really have to say anything. Joe, too, had spotted the felled trees lying across the track. He yanked on the brakes and started breathing again only when he felt the train come to a stop with a loud hiss and an ear-piercing screech.
"Let's get out and see--" Frank began.
But he and Joe only had to glance out the window behind them to see what had happened.
Dimitri was standing there, gun in hand.
And from the darkness behind Dimitri came a voice that they recognized all too well.
"Hello, Hardys. Long time, no see."
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Chapter 13
Frank and Joe instantly recognized the squat man with a mustache who held them at gunpoint.
"Alex!" Frank managed to say.
"How did you get here?" said Joe in a stunned voice, remembering their last sight of Alex in the mansion on the Florida key.
Alex smiled. "Me, explain anything to brilliant detectives like the Hardys?" he said sarcastically. "I wouldn't be so presumptuous. I'll let you try to figure it out, until we get you back to the ranch. If you still don't know, the chief can explain--before he tells you what he's decided to do with you." Alex's smile widened. "I want to be around for that. Should be fun."
A half hour later Frank and Joe were back at the ranch, along with the chief, Alex, and a squad of armed guards. They had all been flown there
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in the same helicopter that Alex and the guards had used to beat the train to the end of the tracks. A few men had been left behind to turn the train around and return its human cargo to captivity.
When they were all in the chief's office, Alex asked the two boys, "Well, have you figured out how I got here yet?"
Frank had been thinking about it the whole trip back. "You must have had some kind of emergency plan, in case somebody got through your security shield," he said. "I should have thought of that. The chief would want to cover his bases in case somebody goofed up."
"Now you're talking horse sense, boy," said the chief. "Too bad you thought about it too late. As soon as that fool you put to sleep on the ship woke up, he found those two recruits tied up and reported what had happened to the captain. The captain then went to his safe and got out a sealed envelope he'd been told was to be used only if somebody slipped past what you call our 'security shield.' There was a phone number in there. As soon as the ship got to the nearest island, he made the call and talked to Alex, who took it from there. The captain never even had to break radio silence."
"All according to the chief's faultless plan," said Alex, shamelessly flattering the old man. "The chief thought of everything. All I had to do was open my own sealed envelope, which gave me a flight plan to the ranch. I flew down in a
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company plane, and when I arrived here and heard that a couple of new recruits named Mike and Dave were with the chief and the prisoners on a train trip to the coast, it was easy to see what was happening. All I had to do was load up the ranch helicopter with men and cut you off." He slapped his thigh with boisterous amusement. "Sure did get a kick out of seeing the look on your faces. You looked like you'd seen a ghost."
"And now we'll see what's going to happen to you," said the chief, enjoying the look that now appeared on the Hardys' faces. "We could just kill you. A couple of bullets in the back of the neck and that would be that. But after what you've done to me, that's not enough. I think you need to sweat a little."
The old man pulled off his cowboy hat as he walked close to the two boys. His voice hardened as he wiped the sweat from his face and said, "Fact is, boys, I want to see the two of you sweat blood. And I know how to make you do it."
As he watched the brothers' faces tighten in apprehension, his booming laugh filled the room. "I don't think I'll tell you how. I'll let you start sweating now, and you can sweat the whole night through. Then tomorrow I'll let you in on my little surprise. We'll see if you boys can really take it."
He turned to his guards. "Put them in the lockup. And turn up the heat."
* * *
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The lockup was a windowless white room. There was no furniture--not even a crude cot or bolted-down chair such as one would expect to find in the lowliest jail cell. Hanging down above the door was a 500-watt light that could have driven away the shadows on a city block. In that small room, the glare reflected off the stone floor and the steel door and turned the tiny chamber into an oven.
Joe used the palm of his hand to wipe away the sweat pouring down his face. "Whew! Must be a hundred degrees in here."
Frank was sweating just as hard. "Right, and they didn't leave us a drop of water."
"Then that means we've got to get out of here--fast. But how?" asked Joe.
Frank started to say something but then, grinning ruefully, put a finger to his lips to indicate that they'd have to work in silence. They couldn't afford to let the chief overhear their plans. Then he realized that he had no plan. Shrugging his shoulders, he sat down on the floor to think. And sweat.
Joe wouldn't join him. He couldn't. His restless nature demanded that he do something. He paced around and around the cell. Finally he dropped to the floor beside Frank and said in a whisper, "I hope you've figured a way out of this box. I've looked over the doors, the walls, the floor--every inch of it--and I think they've really got us this time."
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Frank replied in a voice no louder than his brother's, "Sometimes all we can do is wait and save our energy for when there's an opening."
"Listen, Frank," snapped Joe, "waiting I can put up with, but baking's too much. I'm going to knock out this light, at least. Much more of this heat, and come morning all they're going to find are a couple of crispy critters."
Joe backed up against the far wall and charged full speed at the door. The instant before he would have crashed into the weighty steel sheet, he leapt skyward like a basketball player going up for a slam dunk. At the top of his jump he caught hold of the heavy steel pipe from which the light was suspended. Slowly, feeling the heat of the scalding globe only inches away, he pulled himself up until he could brace one arm over the bar.
As he reached out to smash the bulb Frank suddenly jumped to his feet. "Wait," he said sharply.
Joe stared disbelievingly at his brother.
"Frank, if you have an idea, it better be a fast one. I don't know which I'm going to do first-- fry or fall down."
"Then be quiet and listen," Frank said softly. "Don't unscrew the bulb, unscrew the fixture. There should be some slack in the wire. If we can pull it down as far as the door, then maybe we can give the guards a hot welcome."
"All right," whispered Joe enthusiastically.
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"Then we can arrange for one of those openings you were talking about."
With no tools and only their thin khaki shirts to protect them from the searing heat of the light, it took Frank and Joe hours to set their trap. By the time they were finished, they figured it was only a couple of hours before dawn.
"Now, how do we issue invitations to this party?" asked Joe.
"Easy," Frank answered. He wrapped his hands in the scorched remains of his khaki shirt and, grasping the now-dangling wire close to the bulb, he smashed the globe against the door and began screaming.
After the hours of silence, Frank's cries tore open the night. The two boys could hear the sound of running footsteps.
"What's going on in there?" a gruff voice demanded.
"The light exploded and I think my brother's all cut up!" Joe said urgently.
"He's going to be worse than that if he doesn't shut up," the man growled. Frank's screams continued.
"Your boss won't like it if Frank's hurt when he comes for him," Joe said pleadingly.
"Okay, but both of you stand back while I open up the door," the guard grumbled.
The boys listened to the sound of a key turning in the lock. The minute it clicked open, Frank, still holding the wire, jabbed the metal base of
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the shattered bulb against the steel door. The darkness was illuminated by a blue flash! And the boys heard a single, choked cry as the surge of electricity flowed through the steel door and into the man behind it.
Frank jerked the bulb back, and Joe reached for the door handle. When the door swung open, the cool night air tasted like springwater to the two parched prisoners.
After carrying the unconscious guard into the cell, they bound and gagged him with the remains of their shirts. Locking the door behind them, they took his keys and set out to explore the house.
"The first thing we have to do is find some weapons," Joe whispered. "I won't go back in that room. And I don't want to know what else the chief has planned for us."
"Me, neither, but if we want to get out of here alive, we have to get some help," Frank replied as he opened the outer door and inched carefully into the courtyard. The sky was the hazy gray of the last hours before dawn.
Across the courtyard, the boys could see the ranch-house guard, tipped back in one of the easy chairs sleeping.
"I'd hate to be in his shoes when the chief finds us gone," murmured Joe.
"Be quiet or we won't be." Frank eased open the door to the main hall of the house.
Once they were inside, Joe indicated that they
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should go upstairs, but Frank shook his head. He pointed up and mouthed the word "guests." Then he pointed at the heavy oak door at the end of the hall and pantomimed the words "the chief." An angry look appeared on Joe's face and he began striding toward the door.
Frank grabbed him by the arm and whispered fiercely, "We don't want him now, Joe. What we want is a way out of here. He has to have some way of communicating with the outside world. If we can get a message out, we can hide in the jungle and wait until the cavalry arrives."
Joe kept going, almost dragging Frank down the hall. Just before they reached the chief's door, they came to a much less impressive oak door bearing a sign that read: restricted-- staff only. It was locked, but the keys they had taken from the unconscious guard let them in.
There, in a tiny alcove, they found themselves facing three doors, each bearing a lettered sign. When they read them--LOUNGE, ARMORY, COMMUNICATIONS--Frank punched the air and whispered a heartfelt, "All ri-i-ight!"
Joe turned to him and said in a barely audible voice, "I think Santa has just delivered, even if he did forget the swimsuit."
A moment's celebration was all they could afford. As soon as Joe had the armory door open, he tossed the keys to Frank, who entered the communications room.
The armory was a policeman's nightmare--a
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terrorist's dream come true. Joe was surrounded by racks of M-16s. Crates of .223 caliber, full-metal-jacketed ammunition lined the wall. And in a cabinet at the back of the storeroom were enough C-4 plastic explosives to move the ranch house and all its occupants into another country. Joe realized that for the first time in many hours he was smiling. He cleared a space on the table in the center of the room and went to work.
When Frank walked into the communications room, it was like coming home. Low counters lined the walls, and sitting on them were two computers and an extremely sophisticated radio setup.
When Frank booted up the two computers, he immediately discovered two things. First, one of the computers was used to do nothing except direct a rooftop microwave antenna that linked the ranch to the nearest phone system. Second, the other computer--the one used to assemble a message to go out over the antenna--required a password. A password he didn't have. He settled in before the computer, determined to use every hacker trick he knew.
When Joe walked in about forty minutes later, he stared over his brother's shoulder at the CRT. He watched as the words please enter password appeared on the screen, followed by the key clicks of Frank trying one stunt after another.
"Why do you always try the hard way, Frank?" Joe asked. "Let me go get the chief.
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He'll tell us his password if I ask him just right." Frank knew how his brother would ask--with his fists.
"Give me a few more minutes. So far I've figured out that the password is six characters long and that the only person who uses this computer is the chief himself." Frank didn't look up from the keyboard as he spoke.
"Well, don't let me rush you," Joe said calmly, "but I've planted a few surprises around the house that are due to go off in about--let's see-- eight minutes."
Frank's fingers froze as he turned to gaze at his grinning brother.
The look on Joe's face told Frank all he needed to know. As he turned back toward the computer, he said, "And I guess we don't want to be anywhere nearby when your 'surprises' go off, do we?"
"Nope."
Frank mentally reviewed the list of words he'd tried, the ways he'd attempted to bypass the computer's security system. For once, he was sure that the chief had been too confident. He felt as if the answer to this puzzle was right on the tip of his tongue. Yes!--he had it.
"Hey, Joe, if you wanted one word to describe the chief, what would it be?" he asked. He answered the question himself as he typed in the six letters needed to control the computer, C-O-W-B-O-Y. The screen went blank for a moment, and
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then a menu of all the computer's functions and files appeared.
Frank was totally in his element now. As Joe counted off the seconds, he scanned a file here, set up a short program there, and set up a message that would end up on his hacker friend Phil Cohen's computer back in Bayport.
"Frank, if we don't go right now, we are going to get caught when the fireworks go off," Joe said, his voice tight with tension.
"Just one more thing," Frank replied. "I want to see this file called 'auction.' I think that it has the answer to a lot of our qu--"
"Look, answers won't matter in just about one minute." Joe grabbed his brother's arm and literally dragged him out of the room and into the hallway. Speed, not silence, was what was important now. The sound of their footsteps must have awakened the guard, because as they tore through the courtyard they could hear him shouting behind them.
Joe led Frank through the gate at the back of the courtyard and toward the corral. Standing there was the chief's palomino, saddled and waiting. "Sorry about this, but I could only find one horse," Joe panted.
Two shots whistled past as Joe leapt into the saddle and Frank mounted behind him, taking a firm grip on Joe's shoulders.
"Let's go," Joe shouted, and kicked the palomino's sides. The horse got the message. It was
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off like a shot, racing across the grassland toward the jungle. "We'll follow the tracks," Joe shouted.
There was more gunfire coming from behind them. Just then, Frank heard a tremendous explosion. Looking back, he saw the trucks burst into flames and watched the locomotive rise up off the tracks and fall over in almost slow motion. The chief's men were all scrambling for cover.
"It'll take them a while to come after us," Joe shouted.
"It'll take them a while to figure out they're all in one piece," Frank answered. The two brothers began laughing, relieved to be, at least for the moment, safe and free.
About half a mile down the track the horse began to slow down. Joe pulled on the reins and brought it to a halt. He knew that a good horse could burst its heart running, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen to this animal. The two boys climbed off it. Joe looked at the horse's heaving flanks and the froth coming from its mouth. "Sorry to have worked you so hard, pal," Joe said. "But it was for a good cause. You can take off now." He gave it an affectionate pat on the flanks and grinned as the horse trotted easily away down the track, relieved of its double burden.
"Time to get off these tracks," said Frank. He looked at the mass of jungle on both sides of them.
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"Hey, you didn't really believe that stuff they told us about this jungle being filled with alligators and snakes and jaguars, did you?" Joe said.
"Not a bit," said Frank. "Scare talk."
They pushed their way into the foliage, but it was hard going. The ground was soft, the trees thick, and vines lay like trip wire all around. A hundred different kinds of insects buzzed around their heads, all of them having a feast on every inch of exposed flesh.
"We're not leaving much of a trail," said Joe, looking behind them. "It's as if the jungle grows right back as soon as we've passed through it."
"As if it were swallowing us," said Frank. "As soon as we reach civilization, we can get hold of the police or the army or whatever they have down here, and tell them what's going on at the ranch," said Frank. "We can also contact the U.S. embassy. That'll cook the chief's goose, if it wasn't cooked already."
"Nah. I set the charges in the house small enough to just make noise. The others blew up the trucks and train," said Joe, pausing to wipe sweat off his face and brush away a cloud of gnats. "I can hardly wait until--" He suddenly gave Frank a violent shove, sending his brother sprawling.
"Hey, what the--" Frank demanded, then followed where Joe's finger was pointing.
The black snake lay where Frank had been about to step. It raised its head and looked at
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them with glittering, unblinking eyes. Then it hissed softly and slithered away.
"Thanks," said Frank. "I owe you one."
"Anytime," said Joe. "Here, let me help you up."
He bent over to help Frank out of the tangle of foliage in which he lay.
Before Joe could straighten up, Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him down to land face forward in the same foliage.
Joe rolled over on his back, lifted his head, and saw what had caused his brother to react with lightning speed.
The body of a jaguar, leaping from a tree branch.
The jaguar now stood motionless a few feet away, its balance restored instantly after its miss. Its eyes flicked from Joe to Frank and back again, picking its prey.
Then it let out a vicious snarl. Frank and Joe saw its haunches tensing, ready to spring. It bared its fangs and extended its claws for the kill.
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Chapter 14
Desperately Frank and Joe tried to scramble to their feet, even though they knew they didn't stand a chance of escaping so fast an animal.
The jaguar snarled again--but this time its snarl was obliterated by the crack of a rifle and the whine of a bullet.
The bullet missed, thudding into a tree behind the big cat. But it was enough to send the animal disappearing into the jungle in two giant bounds.
By this time the Hardys were on their feet. They looked around and saw the man who had saved them. Half concealed by a tree was a darkskinned man wearing the loose cotton pants and shirt and wide-brimmed straw hat of a local farmer. But the gleaming semiautomatic rifle in his hands wasn't designed for raising crops.
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Joe grinned and waved his hand. "Hey, thanks, pal!"
The man merely stood and stared at them, his face and dark eyes expressionless.
Frank looked at his brother. "You expect him to understand you? Let me try my Spanish on him."
"What Spanish?" asked Joe.
"Listen and find out," said Frank. He turned toward the man. "Muchas gracias, amigo," he said, almost using up his entire command of the language.
The man continued to stand and stare at them. Suspicion shone in his eyes.
"Maybe he thinks we're bandits or something," Frank said to Joe. "I'll straighten him out." He turned to the man, pointed at Joe and then at himself, and said, "Americanos."
Instantly the man's gun was up, pointed straight at Frank's chest.
"Uh, Frank, I think you said the wrong thing," Joe muttered.
The man indicated that they should raise their hands in the air, which they did.
Then he took a length of cord from his pocket, and gestured to indicate that Frank and Joe should lie face down on the ground, with their hands behind them, to be tied up.
Again Frank and Joe instantly obeyed.
It was Frank whose hands the man started to tie first. Which meant that it was Frank who had
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the chance to kick back with his feet, knocking the man off balance, and sending his rifle flying.
Instantly Joe was on his feet, finishing the job with a right to the man's jaw.
Frank stood up and looked down at the unconscious man. "That was almost too easy," he said.
"Guess the guy wasn't used to people fighting back when he had them under the gun," said Joe, kneeling down to tie the man up with his own cord.
"Well, not too many people have had the practice we've had," said Frank. He stooped down and drew the man's machete from his belt. "We can use this to hack through the jungle."
Joe retrieved the rifle. "I don't think even Dad would object to us taking this, too. This is one spot where a gun will come in handy."
"Right," said Frank. "Jaguars aren't an endangered species around here. We are."
They tied the man up and propped him against a tree. Then they revived him.
"He should be able to work himself free in an hour or two," said Frank as he started to slash a trail through the undergrowth with the machete. Then he said, "Hey, what do we have here?"
"Some kind of path," said Joe. "This trip gets easier and easier. Now we can really make time."
"What say we try jogging?" said Frank. "See how a sprinter like you can do over the long run."
"Okay, marathon man," said Joe, breaking into a jog. "First one to run out of steam is a--"
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A burst of semiautomatic weapon fire plowed a line of bullets right in front of Joe's feet, bringing the two of them to an abrupt halt.
Out of the undergrowth stepped four soldiers in camouflage uniforms and helmets. All carried semiautomatic rifles.
Frank and Joe didn't have to be told to drop the machete and rifle and raise their hands high.
"They probably think we're guerrillas," Frank muttered to Joe.
"Yeah, that rifle I was carrying didn't help," said Joe. "Guess Dad was right, after all. Guns do get you in hot water."
The soldiers advanced toward them, weapons at the ready. The expressions on their faces made it clear that they were not only ready but eager to shoot first and ask questions later.
"I'll give the magic word one more try," Frank said to Joe. Then he called out to the soldiers, "Americanos."
This time it worked. Their faces broke into smiles.
"Speak English?" Frank asked them hopefully. "Inglés?"
Still smiling, a soldier with three stripes on his uniform shook his head, but waved for them to follow him, while another soldier scooped up the rifle and machete.
Half an hour down the trail and then twenty minutes along another trail, they came to a jungle
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army outpost surrounded by barbed wire and machine-gun emplacements.
The soldiers led Frank and Joe through the front gate and into a tent where an officer with silver bars on his shoulders was sitting.
The sergeant spoke to him in Spanish, and then the officer said to the Hardys in perfect, unaccented English, "So you're Americans? What happened? How did you get here?"
Frank and Joe were happy to tell him, beginning with the man they had knocked out in the jungle.
The officer nodded. "A local bandit, though they call themselves guerrillas. We're stationed here to try to control them. I'll send a couple of men to pick him up. But you still didn't tell me what you were doing in this jungle originally. And I'm afraid you're going to have to. This isn't a place for tourists, you know."
"You may have a hard time believing our story," warned Frank. "But you will when you check it out."
By the time Frank and Joe finished telling him about the ranch and what was going on there, the officer's face was serious.
"You do believe us, don't you?" Frank said.
"Honest, we're telling the truth," added Joe.
The officer nodded. "I believe you. It's too incredible a story for you to have made up. And to think we believed that the ranch was an agricultural experiment."
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Then he stood up. "Please wait here. I have to radio headquarters to find out how to move against this vipers' nest. It's too important for me to decide alone."
After he left, Joe said, "Hope the captain lets us come along when they go after the ranch. I'd really love to see the chief's face when they close him down."
"I just want to get my hands on Tanner and take him back to the States," said Frank. "I hate to think of Marcie's dad sweating it out in jail."
There was a smile on the captain's face when he returned. "Good news. They're sending a helicopter right away to take you to headquarters. Then, after you give them the details of how the ranch is set up, they'll move in on it immediately."
"Great," said Joe. "Think we can go along?"
"I'm sure it can be arranged," the captain said, "considering all the help you've been. Now, perhaps you'd like a bite to eat while you wait."
"Wouldn't mind," said Joe. "I could eat a horse."
"Or even a jaguar," seconded Frank with a grin.
"I'm afraid you'll have to settle for steaks," the captain said. "But I don't think you'll find them bad."
The captain's promise was an understatement. When Frank and Joe sat down in the mess tent, the steaks that were set before them were filet
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mignons, three inches thick, tender and juicy. With them came baked potatoes and salad. And, afterward, chocolate ice cream.
"Great," said Joe, spooning up the last of his dessert in a hurry, since he had just heard the sound of a helicopter descending outside.
"Sensational," said Frank. "Thanks a million, Captain."
"It's the least we could do," said a voice from behind them. "Condemned men are entitled to a hearty last meal."
They didn't have to turn their heads to recognize who had spoken.
Alex.
They turned to see Dimitri standing beside him. Both men were holding .45s.
Frank was the first to say what he and Joe realized at the same moment.
"You're in on this," he accused the captain.
The captain shrugged and leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile playing across his face. "I like to think of it as hardship pay. Jungle duty is no picnic. Earning a little extra from the chief eases the discomfort, and catching idiots like you relieves the boredom. Besides which, the ranch furnishes us with those excellent steaks that you so enjoyed."
"You'll earn an extra bonus for these two," Alex promised him. Then he said gloatingly to the Hardys, "I told you there was no place to go. We warn everyone about all the dangers of fleeing
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the ranch without mentioning the captain here. That way we can weed out the ones like you who refuse to abandon hope of escape."
Dimitri gestured with his gun for Frank and Joe to get to their feet. "Come on. The chopper is waiting--and so is the chief," he added with a nasty grin.
Prodding them with his gun barrel, Alex steered Frank and Joe into the helicopter. The Hardys took seats, trying not to think about what was in store.
The trip back to the ranch passed in silence except for the roar of the motor and the thump of the blades. Frank and Joe sat between Alex and Dimitri. Each of the Hardys had a gun barrel pressed against his side the whole way.
Waiting for them at the helicopter pad were ten guards with their guns drawn. The chief was taking no chances that Joe and Frank might spoil his fun again.
"You don't know how glad I am to see you boys," the chief said. His jaw was tight, his face pale with anger. He looked like a spoiled child who'd had his toys taken away.
Frank and Joe looked around at Joe's destructive handiwork. A pall of smoke still hung over the ranch from the burning trucks. The locomotive lay alongside the tracks like a toppled giant. When they looked back at the chief, he appeared even angrier than before. The chief waved the
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guards away and drew his pearl-handled revolver to cover Joe and Frank.
"Boys, we're going to have us a party. And you're going to be the entertainment," the old man said bitterly. He gestured back at the house. "Everybody'll be here. Because every last one of them has got to learn that nobody crosses me and lives."
As the boys watched, the guards began driving the men--all the men--from the house, from the barracks, in from the fields to the clearing beside the helipad. The prisoners formed a semicircle around the trio. Behind the prisoners stood the guards, guns up, ready for anything.
"We don't need trouble here," the chief shouted. "And these boys are trouble. Every once in a while, I think that you people need to be shown just exactly what can happen if we think that you're trouble!"
He stepped close to the two brothers, an evil glint in his eyes, and spoke softly, so softly that only they could hear him. "You two have any last words before I put a bullet through your brains?"
Frank looked at his brother and said, "Joe, it's been--" But he never got to finish that sentence. Joe finished it for him, shouting, "Fun!" And then the world seemed to explode around them.
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Chapter 15
Frank was alive, but he didn't know why. He kept trying to walk until he realized that he was lying flat on his back, deaf and dizzy. All he could see was dust and smoke--and Joe sticking the muzzle of a pearl-handled revolver in the chief's ear.
What he could see of Joe's face was grim. As Frank got to his knees, he saw that the prisoners and their guards were as confused as he. But when he looked back at the ranch house--no, where the ranch house had been--he began to understand. And when Frank looked at Joe and the chief, Joe nodded happily. The chief simply stared, stunned by the blast and the loss of his little kingdom.
Joe was shouting something at Frank, but all Frank could do was shake his head from side to
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side and point at his ears. Finally, Joe dragged the chief closer to his brother and screamed at him from inches away. "Look behind you! There's the cavalry!"
When Frank turned around, he saw three large troop-carrying choppers coming in low over the tree line. They were close enough now that the men on the ground who couldn't hear them could feel them. There was no fight left in any of them. A couple of the men started a dash for the jungle, but when one of the choppers circled around to head them off, they slowed to a walk, then stopped to await their captors.
As soon as Frank and Joe saw the troops pouring out of the helicopters, they shouted as loudly as they could, "Amigos, amigos!"
Frank nudged his brother and muttered, "Get rid of that gun before one of these trigger-happy commandos decides to shoot you."
Joe dropped the gun like a hot potato, but kept the chief well away from it.
When the two boys saw who was walking alongside the strike force's commander, their jaws dropped. "Dad!" they shouted together.
"Hello, sons," a grinning Fenton Hardy said. "I thought I was going to get to rescue you this time, but it looks like I'm a little late. Your friend Phil got me up in the middle of the night with a wild story about you sending him somebody's secret files, and I've been flying ever since."
"Dad," said Frank, "I don't even know what
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happened here, but I think that maybe Joe has some explaining to do."
Joe laughed at his brother's amazement, as well as at the sight of the chief being herded into the corral with the rest of his men. He groped inside his pants pocket and pulled out what looked like a miniature walkie-talkie. "Well, when I spotted this in the chief's armory, I figured that if we ran into any real trouble during our escape, we could bluff our way out with this radio detonator."
Joe stopped for a moment to look at his father and the brother who had been through so much with him. A wide grin spread across his face as he continued, "And I figured it would work even better if it wasn't a bluff, so I rigged a whole case of plastic explosives to go off if I pressed the button. I think that everything in the place went off instead."
Frank peered at his brother, not yet certain whether he was serious. "Why didn't you tell me about that thing? We could have been blown to bits!"
"Frank," Joe said a little heatedly, "we were about to be blown to--"
"Calm down, guys. You can argue later. Right now, there's a gentleman over here who'd like to meet you and thank you." Fenton Hardy took one son under each arm and walked the two of them over to the lead helicopter. Sitting inside was a dignified gentleman in his late fifties. He
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introduced himself to them as General Juan Rodriguez of the Special Forces.
"Gentlemen," he began in his softly accented English, "I bring you personal greetings from my president. We have known about this place for some time, but were unable to move against it. You have cured a cancer on our land."
He stepped out of the chopper to survey the ranch. As he turned, staring intently at the charred rubble that had been the beautiful ranch house, at the toppled locomotive and the smoking ruin of the ranch's rolling stock, he muttered, "But we did expect to get to help in the treatment."
"General," Frank said inquiringly, "how did the chief get away with this for so long?"
"Frank," the general said with a sigh, "men are weak when it comes to money. I am certain that we will discover that a number of our young officers currently in the field have been corrupted."
"Sir," Joe said, thinking of the captain in the jungle with his juicy steaks, "there may not be all that many bad apples in your barrel. But we can show you one very bad one." He smiled at the thought of that man's arrest.
"But if you couldn't shut down the chief before," asked Frank, "why now?"
"Did you read any of the computer files you sent out to Phil?" Fenton asked his son. "They were dynamite--economic, social, and political
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dynamite for this country and a number of others. The chief had been using them for blackmail or simply selling the information he got out of these men to the highest bidder. The underworld railway was an equal-opportunity corrupter."
"Let me finish this part of the story," interjected the general. "One of the files that your father shared with me detailed not only the fact that the ranch was the major source of arms for the rebels who have been plaguing our country for years, but also that many of their raids had been planned at this very ranch. One of those raids cost the life of my wife." The general stopped for a moment to collect himself. "So I thank you as much as my country thanks you."
"It looks like all you have to worry about now," said Joe, trying to lighten the mood, "is whether you have enough jail cells for all these guys."
The general smiled. He took one more look around and then silently, seriously shook hands with each of the boys. "Now, my young friends, the least that my country and I can do to repay you is to put you on a helicopter and then onto a plane and fly you home for Christmas."
As soon as he said the word "Christmas," Frank clapped his hand to his forehead. "Ouch!" he said. "I just thought of something."
"What's that?" the general asked, concerned. It was apparent that he was worried that some essential part of the case that they were building
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was missing. Perhaps one of the important crooks had gotten away.
"Christmas!" said Frank. "Joe and I still haven't done any of our Christmas shopping!"
Joe was the first to grin in relief, followed by the other two.
"Son," said Fenton Hardy, "don't worry. There are still four more shopping days. And besides, this Christmas I think that we'll all be happy with the gift you've already given us--the two of you back home and alive."
Hardy Boys 13 The Mark on the Door
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
The Attack  
“LOOK! A periscope!” Joe Hardy shouted.
“Are you sure?” asked his brother Frank, who was at the wheel of their motorboat.
“You bet. Look over there!”
The Hardys were skimming across Barmet Bay in the Sleuth, checking it out before going on a fishing trip to Maine with their father.
Frank spotted the thin, tapered metal mast to starboard, generating a tiny wake as it moved through the water.
“I see it now, Joe!”
“Let’s take a closer look!” his brother cried.
Frank turned the wheel and advanced the throttle as they sped toward the periscope, but suddenly it sank beneath the waves!
Frank looked disappointed, and cruised around in a tight circle. “It must belong to the U.S. Navy.”
“Maybe not,” Joe replied.
The blond boy was seventeen, one year younger than dark-haired Frank. Both had learned from their detective father to be constantly on the alert.
A better instructor in police matters was nowhere to be found. Fenton Hardy, a former member of the New York City Police Department, was renowned as a super-sleuth.
Frank and Joe had become so preoccupied with the periscope that they failed to take notice of a speedboat approaching them from the rear. The craft made a close pass, then suddenly turned away so sharply that its stern skidded and struck the bow of the Sleuth. The boys hung on as sheets of water showered over them. 
“What does that cowboy think he’s doing?” Joe sputtered.
Frank rammed the throttle ahead and raced off in pursuit of the other boat. The Sleuth gained at first, enough for the Hardys to glimpse the name Ira Q painted on the stern. But the pilot of the fleeing craft applied more power and pulled away. 
“That boat is too fast for us!” Joe shouted.
“I know,” his brother agreed. “But I managed to get a good look at the guy behind the wheel. He looks Spanish. But the boat’s name isn’t.”
“Ira
Q? Never heard of it,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s a transient.” 
“Perhaps. Anyway, I’m sure that speed demon is heading back to shore,” Joe replied. “Let’s go in and make some inquiries.”
“We’d better telephone the Coast Guard station and tell about that periscope, too,” Frank added.
The boys arrived at their private boathouse and tied up the Sleuth. An examination showed that she had a dent in her side. Then Frank went to a telephone booth and dialed the Barmet Coast Guard Station. 
A man’s voice crackled from the receiver. “Coast Guard. Lieutenant Parker speaking.”
Frank told him what he and Joe had seen.
“Thank you for the information,” the lieutenant replied. “Since no sub is expected here, I’ll have one of our cutters start an immediate search!”
The respect and cooperation extended to the Hardys was typical of all who knew them. Frank and Joe often worked with their father on his cases, and their ability in solving baffling mysteries had won the youths an enviable reputation of their own.
After Frank had hung up, the boys made a reconnaissance of the piers and docks stretching along the shore of Barmet Bay.
Presently Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “I see the speedboat!” he said excitedly.
“Where?”
“At Sandy MacPherson’s place!”
The boys ran to the dock of MacPherson’s Boat Rental Service, where Sandy, an elderly Scot, seemed to be talking to himself.
“The brigand!” he stormed. “He bashed in the stern of me new boat! I’ve had the Ira Q but three days, and already it’s damaged! He’ll pay for this!” 
“Who?” asked Frank.
“That Mexican fellow!”
“We’re after him, too,” Frank said. “He damaged your boat when he ran into ours.”
“What!” MacPherson exclaimed. “He’ll no get away with this!”
“Calm down, Mr. MacPherson,” Joe pleaded. “You say the fellow was Mexican?”
“Yes,” the proprietor answered. “Pancho Cardillo was the name he gave me. He seemed to know quite a bit about boats. So I paid no mind when he asked me to rent him the Ira Q.”
“Did he give you an address?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” MacPherson said. “He’s at the Hotel Bayport. That’s where he is.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “Joe and I’ll go there right away. This Cardillo fellow might suddenly get the idea to leave town.”
After learning that Cardillo had driven off in a car, the boys hastened to their own convertible, which they had left near the boathouse. Frank headed for downtown Bayport. He parked in front of the hotel, then the young detectives darted into the lobby and approached the desk clerk.
“May we have Pancho Cardillo’s room number, please?” Frank asked.
“You mean Senor Cardillo,” the clerk replied. “He checked out just a few minutes ago. Paid his bill in pesos. Highly irregular. I had no alternative but to accept. Figuring out the exchange is always a nuisance.”
Frank interrupted the clerk. “What address did he list in your register?”
The man glanced at his card file. “Tampico, Mexico,” he answered. “And that’s all I can tell you. The gentleman paid his bill and hurried to a car that was waiting for him outside.”
“Can you give us a description of the car?” Frank prodded.
The clerk became irritated. “What do you fellows think I am—the FBI?”
“Well, thanks anyway,” Frank said, and the boys hurried back to their own automobile.
Night had come on quickly, but Frank and Joe decided to make one more inquiry about Cardillo’s car. If they had a description, Police Chief Collig could issue a bulletin to pick him up.
“I’d like to get my hands on that wise guy, if only for Sandy MacPherson’s sake,” Joe said. “He works hard to keep his boats in good condition.”
Frank brought the car to a stop in front of a telephone booth. “I’m going to phone Sandy now. Just by chance, he might be able to give us a description of the car.”
Frank dialed the boatman’s number, but there was no answer. “That’s funny,” the boy remarked. “MacPherson doesn’t answer—and he lives in the rear of his office.”
“Maybe he’s out on the dock and can’t hear the phone ringing.”
“Perhaps,” Frank said. “Let’s drive back there.”
In a few minutes the boys arrived at MacPherson’s dock. They noticed a dim, irregular pattern of light streaming through his office window, as if from a lamp that had been overturned. The boys hastened to the small building and peered inside.
MacPherson was lying face down on the floor.
“I think he’s unconscious!” Frank exclaimed.
The Hardys rushed inside to help him. As they turned him face up, the boatman groaned. “That brigandl He was here again!”
“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.
“Cardillo came back! He wanted me speedboat. I told him no. That devil said he would take the Ira Q, anyway.” 
“Easy now,” Frank told the distraught man. “Then what happened?”
“I told him he’d have to step over me to get to it. He must’ve had friends with him, because I was suddenly hit from behind!”
Sandy MacPherson rose shakily and rubbed his head.
“Call the harbor police, Mr. MacPherson!” Frank said quickly. “Joe and I’ll take the Sleuth and search for your boat. There’s a chance it still may be out on the bay.”
“Watch out for fog!” MacPherson said. “It’s forecast.”
“We will,” Frank assured him.
The boys drove to their boathouse, untied the Sleuth, and sped out onto Barmet Bay. Joe manned a portable searchlight, and swept the beam back and forth across the water.
“MacPherson was right about the weather forecast,” Frank observed. “Fog is beginning to move in.” Joe used the portable light intermittently so as not to be dazzled by its glare.
Nearly an hour passed. By now the Hardys were far out in the bay. They were about to turn back when Joe directed the beam of his searchlight slightly off the port bow.
“I’ve spotted something!” he exclaimed. “It looks like a boat!”
Frank swung the Sleuth toward the object. It presented a ghostlike image through the haze. 
“It’s the Ira Q!” Joe yelled triumphantly. 
“Nobody’s aboard!” Frank responded.
The boys guided the Sleuth alongside the craft. Joe was about to board it when three men suddenly sprang from behind the gunwale. One struck Joe on the head with a blow that sent him crashing back into the Sleuth. A split second later two of the men clobbered Frank. He slumped unconscious. 

CHAPTER II
The Missing Witness  
“WHAT—what happened?” Joe moaned as he regained consciousness.
Frank, still groggy, had already managed to get himself to his feet. “We were jumped by three men hiding aboard the Ira Q.”
“Cardillo must’ve been one of them,” Joe surmised.
The boys reached into the salty water and bathed their bruises. Then they scanned the dark sea.
The mist had thickened and there was no sign of the Ira Q. Before they could start their stalled motor, the Hardys heard the piercing sound of a foghorn. It was followed by shouts. 
“Ahoy! Ahoy! Is anybody out there?”
“Must be the harbor police!” Joe said.
The boys yelled in reply. Soon the running lights of the police boat loomed out of the fog. A small radar antenna revolved atop a mast on the cabin roof.
“You must be the Hardys!” an officer cried. “MacPherson said you were out here! We found his boat!”
The boys glanced over the stern of the police craft. In tow was the Ira Q.
“Did you find anyone aboard?” Frank asked.
“No. The boat was abandoned. We almost ran it down!”
Frank and Joe were mystified. Where could the three men have gone?
After telling the harbor police officers what had happened, the Hardys followed them back to MacPherson’s dock. Sandy, along with Police Chief Collig, greeted them.
“What’s all this about?” Chief Collig asked, and was promptly brought up to date on the Cardillo case.
“There’s not much to go on,” the chief commented. “But I’ll alert my men. Chances are those scoundrels will show up again.”
The boys thanked the harbor police, berthed the Sleuth for the night, and drove home.
They were met at the door by their mother, a slim, attractive woman. “We’ve been worried about you—out in this fog,” she said. “Oh, look at those awful bruises! What happened?”
“Nothing serious, Mother,” Frank told her. “Joe and I just tangled with some crooks and came off second best.”
“Crooks? Criminals, you mean!” The voice was that of Aunt Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman who breezed into the room. “Good gracious! I hope you’re not involved in another mystery!”
“Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said with a grin. “Don’t worry about us. We can take care of ourselves.”
“Indeed!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “What about those bruises on your heads?”
“We just forgot to duck,” Joe quipped.
“Oh! Teen-agers!” Aunt Gertrude scolded. “Your mother and I have been keeping a fine dinner warm. Come on. Sit down.”
Gertrude Hardy, unmarried sister of Mr. Hardy, had come to live at her brother’s home. She was fond of her nephews, but thought that detective work was too dangerous for them.
The boys’ mother smiled affectionately. “Yes. Come eat. Aunt Gertrude made you an apple pie for dessert.”
Frank and Joe had just finished their second helping of pie when Fenton Hardy arrived home.
“Hi, Dad!” Frank said cheerfully.
“Hello, boys. You look well-fed.”
“How was your visit to New York?” Joe asked as they went into the living room.
“Fine,” replied the tall, middle-aged detective. “I’d have been home earlier, but I had to take the train. The airport was fogged in.”
Mr. Hardy, youthful looking for his years, greeted his wife, then sat in a large wing chair.
“Wait till you hear what happened to us today,” Joe said. He recounted the stories about the periscope and the Ira Q.
“Very mysterious,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “And you say you saw the periscope in the bay? Maybe it had something to do with Cardillo.”
Joe frowned in disbelief. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“We’d have an awful time proving it,” Frank said, “unless the Coast Guard comes up with something.”
“What about the Sleuth?” their father asked. “Was it badly damaged?” 
“A dent, that’s all,” Joe replied. “But not serious enough to keep us from our fishing trip.”
The detective leaned forward, slapped both his knees, and looked disappointed. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to go.” He sighed. “I must start working on the New York case right away.”
“Oh nuts!” Joe exclaimed.
“Can you tell us about your case?” Frank asked.
Mr. Hardy’s brow creased. “It seems that a group of scoundrels has been peddling worthless stock in New York and New England. It has been sold in the name of a Mexican firm called Costa Químico Compañia. That’s Spanish for Coast Chemical Company.”
“I read something about that fraud,” Frank interrupted. “Didn’t several Bayport people buy some of the stock?”
“Yes. Like others, they were extremely gullible people who can be talked into a fast deal.”
Mr. Hardy told the boys that the authorities were not certain as yet how the fraud was being worked. However, the Securities Exchange Commission had filed indictments against three men in New York.
“But to get a conviction,” the detective explained, “the authorities are depending on the testimony of Elmer Tremmer, a Bayport bookkeeper, who kept records for the swindlers. Tremmer’s not too bright, but he’s honest. It’s believed he was innocently involved in the fraud.”
“What’s the problem?” Joe questioned. “Won’t he cooperate?”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m told he was eager to testify. Four days ago he went to New York and checked in at a hotel. He was scheduled to appear at a preliminary hearing the following day. However, Tremmer disappeared shortly after his arrival and hasn’t been seen since. My job is to try and find him.”
“Do you think he was kidnapped?” Frank asked.
“Perhaps,” his father replied. “Or scared off.”
After Mr. Hardy finished outlining his new case, it was late and the boys went to bed. Early the next morning they received a telephone call from their buddy Chet Morton.
“Hi, Chet!” Joe said. “This is a great honor—your getting up so early to phone us.”
“Stow the funny talk. I called to ask if you and Frank are going out in the Sleuth today?”
“We didn’t plan to, but we can. Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. It’s a surprise!” Chet announced excitedly. “Meet me at your boathouse in an hour, and you’ll witness the marvel of the century!”
As the Hardys drove off to the rendezvous, Joe said, “What do you think Chet is up to?”
“He probably has some new hobby,” Frank replied. “Whatever it is, we can be sure of one thing. It’ll be good for a laugh.”
Chet, plump and jovial, lived on a farm outside Bayport. He was always experimenting with one hobby or another. Many were short-lived, but once in a while they were useful for the Hardys in solving a mystery.
The young detectives arrived at their boathouse just as Chet came rumbling along in his father’s farm truck. On the rear of it was an odd-shaped contraption hidden under a tarpaulin. Chet pulled up and hopped out.
“Now for the unveiling!” he announced. “If you fellows were wearing hats, I’d tell you to hold onto them real tight. You’re in for a whale of a treat!”
He flung aside the tarpaulin with one swoop. Resting on top of two metal pontoons was a bare wooden frame, triangular in shape. At the apex was a delta-wing of thin, light fabric.
“Well, what do you think of it?” Chet asked proudly.
Joe stared at the contraption. “It’s neat. But what is it?”
“You’re looking at the Marvelous Morton Water Kite!” Chet said.
“Sounds impressive,” Frank commented. “What does it do?”
“That should be obvious! My masterpiece will float on the water—see the two pontoons? You guys are supposed to tow me around the bay. Then, when we get up enough speed, the delta-wing will carry me into the air like a sea gull.”
“Pretty dangerous!” Joe muttered.
“Nothing doing!” said Frank. “That gadget looks too tricky to be handled by an amateur.”
“Aw, come on,” Chet pleaded. “I’ve spent a lot of time building this.”
Chet was so persistent that the Hardys finally consented to tow him. But they urged their friend not to try anything fancy until he acquired some experience in controlling the kite.
While the Hardys untied the Sleuth, Chet changed into his swim trunks and extended a long line of nylon rope from the kite to the Sleuth’s stern. Then he strapped himself to a small seat aboard the winged contraption. 
“All set?” Joe yelled to his friend.
“Haul away!” Chet responded.
Frank advanced the throttle and the Sleuth moved ahead.
“Faster! Faster!” Chet shouted.
Frank increased speed, then he glanced back to see how the experiment was progressing. The fabric wing became rigid and the kite bounced a couple of times, then lifted a few feet off the water.
“Leaping lizards! Look at that!” Joe exclaimed.
“More speed!” Chet ordered.
Frank increased the power. Suddenly the kite went into an abrupt climb high above the water.
“Chet! Be careful!” Joe shouted.
At that instant the towline went limp and fluttered down toward the water.
“Help!” Chet shouted as the towline snapped.
“He’s in free flight!” Frank yelled. ‘And gliding toward the shore!“
As the kite passed over land, a warm, vertical air current carried it up even higher. The boys watched helplessly as Chet vanished over the crest of a hill.


  
“Help!” Chet shouted as the towline snapped
Speeding back to the boathouse, they leaped into their car and drove off in pursuit. Five minutes later Joe pointed to a knot of people peering at a factory chimney. Cries for help were coming from the stack. Chet was hanging on courageously.
Sirens wailed as the Bayport Fire Department and Police Emergency Squad vehicles screamed to the scene. Reporters and photographers rushed to record the rescue as Chet and his kite were untangled and brought to safety on a towering aerial ladder.
Chief Collig arrived to make sure the situation was under control. When he spotted the Hardys, he hurried over to talk to them.
“I tried to contact you boys a couple of hours ago,” the chief said. “One of my men came across an unlocked car in a parking area near MacPherson’s dock. No one knew who owned it, so we decided to run a routine check. The car was sold by a dealer in New York to a man named Pancho Cardillo! The address on the registration is fictitious.”
“I’ll bet Cardillo is not his real name either,” Joe commented.
“If you boys would like to take a look at the car,” Collig said, “you’ll find it at the police garage.”
“We’ll do that,” Frank answered.
The Hardys drove a subdued and badly frightened Chet back to his truck, then hastened to the police garage. There they examined the car minutely. Frank noticed a small object jammed underneath the gas pedal. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a broken finger ring with a strange insignia on it.
“Look, Joe. Indian craftsmanship, I’ll bet.”
“Aztec, I’d say,” Frank said.
The insignia was a cluster of faggots from which a flame issued, with a large letter P in the center of the design.
“Maybe it’s a family crest,” Joe suggested.
Frank dropped the ring in his pocket. Then he and his brother drove home. As they entered the house, intending to show the ring to their father, he summoned them to his study. Mr. Hardy was holding a white sheet of letter-size paper.
“This just came a few minutes ago,” he said. “Frankly, I’m baffled. I don’t know what to make of it.”
He handed the letter to his sons. Their eyes widened when they saw the typewritten message: 
BEWARE OF THE MARK ON THE DOOR!

CHAPTER III
The Strange Symbol  
“WHAT mark on the door?” Frank asked. Joe hastened out to examine their front and back doors and the garage as well.
“No signs there,” Joe said when he returned.
“The envelope was postmarked Bayport,” Mr. Hardy said, “which brings the mystery right to our doorstep.”
“It could be a prank,” Frank said.
“You might be right,” their father replied. “But I suggest we all be very careful.”
As the boys took comfortable chairs in their father’s study, Mr. Hardy filed the mysterious warning and turned his attention to a thick dossier on his desk.
“I’ve been going over the information given me concerning the stock-fraud case,” he said. “Very interesting. I’m sure you boys would like me to fill you in.”
“We sure would!” Frank answered quickly as he and Joe pulled their chairs closer.
“I’ve already told you,” the detective went on, “that the worthless stock was sold in the name of the Costa Químico Compañia.”
The boys nodded.
“According to this information, the plan to start the chemical firm was the idea of Señor José Marcheta, a retired chemical engineer and a highly respected resident of Vivira, Mexico.”
“What made a man with his reputation go wrong?” Joe queried.
“That’s just it!” the detective answered. “The facts indicate that Marcheta is not really part of the fraud.”
He explained that the engineer was sincere in his efforts to create a firm for the refining of chemicals. His principal aim was not only to develop one of Mexico’s great natural resources, but to bring work to the people of the area. It appeared, however, that Marcheta had become the target of extremely clever swindlers, who used his efforts as a front for a stock fraud.
“What does Senor Marcheta have to say about all this?” Frank asked.
“He was questioned by the United States consul in Guadalajara, Mexico,” Mr. Hardy explained. “He denied knowing anything about the scheme, or any of those involved.”
“But he must know something about the men behind the plot,” Joe insisted.
“I’m sure he does,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Nevertheless, Marcheta isn’t saying anything. And it’s obvious why. The consul’s report states that he appeared badly frightened. Whoever’s behind the fraud must have come up with a strong enough threat to keep him from talking.”
Frank and Joe mulled over the situation until bedtime. The next morning, Sunday, was chilly and rainy. The boys planned to do nothing more that day than to attend church, catch up on their reading, and ponder the mysterious events of Friday and Saturday.
After a leisurely dinner, the Hardys began to skim through the voluminous Sunday newspaper. Joe burst out laughing when he saw that Chet’s water-kite escapade, complete with pictures, had made page two.
Frank was scanning another section when he suddenly sat bolt upright. “Wow!” he exclaimed, and quickly tore out a small news item. “Take a look at this!”
Joe’s eyes widened in amazement at what he saw. The news story, datelined Mazatlan, Mexico, read: 
A local fisherman has reported sighting an unknown submarine off the Sinaloa coast, approximately 140 miles northwest of Mazat-Ian. The sighting, according to police here, took place on Friday, but the report was not released at that time, pending an investigation by the Mexican Coast Guard.
Questioned by the authorities, the fisherman described an insignia painted on the conning tower of the craft. In his words, it “appeared to be flames issuing from a bundle of sticks, with the letter P in the center.”
A spokesman for the Coast Guard said that a search revealed no evidence of a submarine in the area.
“It sounds impossible!” Joe said as Frank dashed to get the broken ring he had found in Cardillo’s car. The boys showed it to their father, along with the clipping.
The detective was amazed as he examined the ring. “Why, the design is similar to the one the fisherman described!”
“Exactly!” Joe exclaimed. “There must be some connection between Cardillo and the sub. Maybe he escaped in the one we saw in the bay.”
“Now hold on a moment,” Frank said. “If Cardillo did escape from Barmet Bay by submarine, it couldn’t possibly be the same craft the fisherman spotted. It would take weeks for it to sail there!”
“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “But there could be more than one. What if Cardillo is a member of a gang that uses submarines?”
“Intriguing theory,” Mr. Hardy mused.
As they continued to discuss the mystery, the telephone rang. Frank scooped up the receiver. “Oh, hello, Chief Collig.... What’s that you say?” Frank listened for a few seconds, his expression taut with excitement. “Okay, Chief. I’ll tell him. Good-by.”
Frank whirled around. “Dad! Joe! Listen to this! The chief said that one of his men from the crime lab examined Cardillo’s car for fingerprints. It was clean except for one clear specimen on the handle of the right rear door. The print belongs to Elmer Tremmer!”
“That’s a tremendous clue!” Mr. Hardy cried. “This means Cardillo might have had something to do with Tremmer’s disappearance!”
“Which suggests,” Frank added, “that Cardillo could be mixed up in the stock fraud!”
“But what about the submarine angle?” Joe said. “There are faster and easier ways of escaping.”
Mr. Hardy rested back in his chair to think. “I’m beginning to believe there’s more to all this than a missing bookkeeper and the peddling of worthless stock,” he said finally. “Also, the various bits of information we’ve collected so far have one thing in common—their connection with Mexico!”
Joe sighed. “That’s a long way off.”
“True,” Mr. Hardy said. “But it might prove worth while for us to go to Mazatlan.”
“Us?” Frank cried out. “You mean Joe and me?”
“Of course. This is an important case. How about it, Joe?”
“Roger, Dad!”
“Señor Marcheta’s home in Vivira is not far from Mazatlan,” Mr. Hardy went on. “I’d like to take a crack at talking to him myself. Perhaps I could get Marcheta to give me some useful information.”
“And Joe and I can check on the fisherman’s story,” Frank suggested. “If we can track down the sub, you can be certain the trail will lead us to Cardillo ...”
“And Tremmer!” Joe interjected.
“Exactly what I had in mind,” Mr. Hardy said. “Your lead is strong enough to make it worth the try. But since I’m working with the investigators of the Securities Exchange Commission, I’ll have to get their okay.”
Next morning Mr. Hardy made a telephone call to a man in New York. He then joined his sons at breakfast to tell them that he had been given the green light to go to Mexico. Frank and Joe let out a loud cheer.
“Fiddlesticks!” Aunt Gertrude snapped as she placed a heaping platter of hot wheatcakes on the table. “Rushing off to the ends of the earth again! I just don’t know what to make of this family.”
“They’re certainly on the go,” Mrs. Hardy said, serving the griddlecakes.
Joe laughed. “Mexico isn’t so far off.”
“But enough to cause your mother and me a lot of worry,” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “I should think there’d be plenty for detectives to do right around here.”
Mr. Hardy planned to use his own sleek, single-engine airplane for the trip. He instructed his sons, both fliers themselves, to contact Jack Wayne, their pilot, to make arrangements. “Let’s try to get off today,” he said.
Joe rushed to the telephone. Soon he had Wayne on the line.
“Mazatlan, Mexico, you say? Hold on while I get my air charts.” There was a brief silence, then the pilot’s voice came on again. “As I see it, we’ll have to make two refueling stops. The first at Memphis, Tennessee, and the second at Brownsville, Texas.”
“How long do you estimate the entire trip will take?” Joe asked.
“Roughly, about fourteen hours of flight time to Mazatlan,” Jack replied. “If we leave within the next couple of hours, we can be in Brownsville by eleven or twelve o‘clock tonight, Texas time. Then we’ll hole up there till morning. It’ll not only give us a chance to get some sleep, but also we won’t have to tackle those Mexican mountain ranges in the dark.”
“Good! We’ll see you at Bayport field as soon as we pack.”
“One more thing,” the pilot added in conclusion. “Mexico requires that everybody have a tourist card to visit the country. Also, I’ll have to file a special flight plan to Mazatlan. But we can take care of all that in Brownsville.”
Frank rushed into the room just as Joe finished his telephone call. “Guess what?” he said. “Dad suggested we ask Chet to go along.”
“Great idea!”
Chet readily accepted and received permission from his father.
The Hardys began packing. Finally they were ready to leave for the airport. Mrs. Hardy kissed her husband and sons as they said good-by. She was aware of the dangers involved in their work, but seldom allowed her concern to be known to them.
Aunt Gertrude shook her head dolefully. “No good will come of this! Mark my words!” she prophesied. “But please be careful,” she added, pecking the embarrassed boys on their cheeks.
Chet was ready when the Hardys drove up, and soon the group arrived at Bayport field. They found Jack Wayne seated in the plane. Within minutes the craft took off. The weather was exceptionally clear, and the terrain below presented a vivid picture in the sparkling sunlight.
The refueling was made without incident, and it was nearly midnight when the Hardy plane touched down on the runway at Brownsville. Jack and the others wasted no time checking in at a nearby hotel.
After breakfast the next morning they went directly to the Mexican Tourist Bureau to obtain their tourist cards. Jack Wayne filed the necessary flight plan to Mazatlan and soon the travelers were winging off on the final leg of their flight.
Frank and Joe were particularly awed by the country over which they were flying. Beneath them was a mixture of open plains and bleached deserts. Mountains jutted up on all sides, and some of these seemed to Chet to be higher than their own altitude.
As they neared their destination the group gazed down on a solid layer of stratus clouds.
“Looks like bad weather rolling in from the coast,” Frank observed.
Jack agreed. “I’ve been watching it. I’d better contact Mazatlan and see what’s up.”
The pilot switched on the radio. It crackled for an instant, then was silent. He turned on the stand-by radio. Nothing! Jack tapped the radio compass and other navigational equipment vigorously. “Oh, no!” he muttered.
“Trouble?” Mr. Hardy queried.
“All our radios have gone out!” the pilot replied anxiously. “We must have a short in the electrical system.”
“And we don’t know what the visibility is like below that cloud layer!” Frank declared. “If it’s zero-zero, we’d have to make an instrument approach. That’s something we can’t do without our radios!”
“At least we’re west of the Sierra Madre Mountains,” Joe commented. “We don’t have to worry about running into those.”
“What about turning around and going back?” Mr. Hardy suggested. “The weather is clear east of the mountains.”
Jack turned and scanned the area behind him. “I’m afraid that’s out! Take a look yourselves!”
The Hardys and Chet turned to see a frightening sight. Towering cumulo-nimbus clouds—thunderstorms—were already developing along the windward side of the mountains.
“We could never climb high enough to get over those storms!” the pilot said. “And to fly through them would be suidde!”
“Then we’re trapped!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER IV
The Hostage  
FRANK frantically tried to get the radios working, while Jack Wayne flew in a continuous circle to maintain their position over Mazatlan.
“No good!” Frank finally declared, “We’ll have to do the best we can without the radios!”
Chet groaned and Mr. Hardy looked grim. Jack suddenly straightened the plane out on a westerly course. “I’m going to try something,” he said.
“What?” Joe questioned nervously.
“The cloud layer doesn’t extend too far out to sea,” Jack answered. “I’m going to let down over the water in the clear. From there, we can see whether there’s enough of a ceiling for us to get into Mazatlan.”
The boys stared ahead as the pilot began his descent. After they had passed beyond the edge of the cloud layer, he dived the plane as low as he dared, then turned east toward the coast.
“We’re in luck!” Frank exclaimed. “There’s a ceiling of at least two or three hundred feet!”
“Yes,” Jack agreed. “But the visibility isn’t too good. However, if we’re careful, we should be able to make it. Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.”
The plane was now flying just above the surface of the water. Frank and the others peered ahead into the mist.
Suddenly Joe pointed off to his left. “I see something out there! Or is it just a band of dark clouds?”
The pilot leaned forward in his seat. “That’s the coast of Mexico!” he cried jubilantly.
As they flew closer, various features of the terrain became more clearly defined. Frank unfolded a chart and compared the coastline they were approaching with the map profile.
“That wide inlet directly ahead, with a peninsula of land jutting out from the left, matches the shape of the coastline on the map where Mazatlan is located!” he exclaimed.
Gradually a sprawling city began to appear out of the mist.
“It is!” Mr. Hardy shouted. “Congratulations, Jack! You’ve hit it right on the nose!”
“Lucky again,” the pilot said jokingly. He rolled the plane into a left turn. “The airport should be a couple of miles north of the city.”
In less than a minute they spotted a bright, white rotating beam from a beacon atop a building. Immediately adjacent to it, the outlines of runways began to take shape.
“There’s the field!” Jack declared.
“I was never happier to see anything in my whole life.” Chet sighed with relief.
“Since our radios are out, I can’t communicate with the control tower,” Jack explained. “I’ll circle the field and wait for a green light.”
The pilot had just completed two circuits of the airport when a disk of green light glared from the tower. The pilot responded by banking the wings of the aircraft to the left and right several times. He then checked the wind tee to determine which runway was being used for landings. Shortly thereafter the Hardy plane touched down at Mazatlan.
In the terminal building the group underwent a routine check by customs officials, then Mr. Hardy called for a taxi.
“There wasn’t time to make hotel reservations in advance,” he announced. “But we shouldn’t have too much trouble this time of year.”
Soon the group was in a cab heading for the city proper. Despite the gray skies, the vivid green of the lush tropical scenery raised their spirits. As they sped along the Avenue del Mar, they could see the choppy waters of the Pacific and the mouth of the Gulf of California. People strolled slowly along the streets, men wearing colorful sarapes and women with rebozos draped over their heads and shoulders.
Arriving at a hotel, Mr. Hardy dashed inside. He reappeared after a long wait. “The hotels are busier than I thought,” he told Jack Wayne and the boys. “We’ll have to take a suite. The clerk phoned several other places for me, but they don’t have anything else either.”
When they were ushered into the rooms, Chet plunked himself into a comfortable chair. “Now this is what I call real luxury,” he said “When do we eat?”
“Just as soon as we freshen up,” Frank answered.
“Good! I’m not used to going without food this long,” Chet complained. “We missed lunch, and my watch tells me it’s almost time for supper.”
Joe glanced at his chum’s corpulent waistline. “You’re stocked with enough reserve to last for weeks!”
Frank turned to his father. “What’s first on your agenda, Dad?”
“A talk with Senor Marcheta,” Mr. Hardy replied. “In the morning I’ll rent a car and drive to Vivira to see him.”
“Meanwhile,” Frank said, “Joe, Chet, and I will try to locate the fisherman who reported sighting the sub. Perhaps the police will tell us where we can find him.”
“I have my work cut out for me too,” announced Jack Wayne. “I’ll head for the airport first thing tomorrow to see about getting the radios repaired.”
When they left the hotel to find a restaurant, the weather had improved and a magnificent sunset was visible. Palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze and the chatter of myna birds and parrots could be heard.
As the group strolled along, Chet gazed at the first seafood restaurant they came to with such a hungry expression that the others permitted him to lead them into it. After a hearty meal they walked back to the hotel. Chet, burdened down by the two large lobsters he had devoured, trailed behind the others at a snail’s pace.
As they entered the lobby, the desk clerk handed Mr. Hardy a message. The detective ripped open the sealed envelope, read the letter inside with a startled expression, and quickly handed it to Frank and Joe. They were equally surprised. The hand-printed message read: 
GET OUT OF MAZATLAN, ALL OF YOU! YOU’RE IN GREAT DANGER!
Mr. Hardy turned to the desk clerk. “Who gave you this message?”
“A boy came in with it about twenty minutes ago, sir,” the clerk answered. “He said some man paid him two pesos to deliver it.”
The Hardys and their companions hurried to their suite.
“Who could possibly know we’re here?” Frank muttered as he examined the message again.
“Perhaps someone at the airport saw the flight plan I filed to Mazatlan,” Jack Wayne suggested. “I not only have to list the number of passengers aboard, but also your father’s name and address as owner of the plane.”
“Even so,” Mr. Hardy commented with a puzzled expression, “no one here knows who I am.”
“Tremmer does,” Joe stated. “And that means Cardillo would also.”
“I thought you fellows said that those guys left Bayport by submarine,” Chet interrupted. “They’d have to travel like a rocket to beat us to Mazatlan.”
“You’re right,” Frank said with a sigh. “But hey! What if Cardillo didn’t stay with the sub? He might have traveled just a short way, then gone ashore near an airport where he could catch an airliner to Miami. From there, he could fly direct to Mexico City, then by private plane, or feeder line, to Mazatlan.”
“But if Cardillo intended to fly,” Joe queried, “why bother with the sub at all?”
“That’s a question I can’t answer right now,” Frank admitted.
“Maybe he suddenly discovered that he had claustrophobia,” Chet quipped, “and couldn’t stand to be boxed in.”
“In any event,” Mr. Hardy announced, “we have to assume that Cardillo and Tremmer know we’re here. And that calls for an immediate change in my plan! I’m going to try and see Senor Marcheta tonight. I hope it isn’t too late already!”
“We’ll go with you,” Frank declared. “There may be trouble.”
Jack Wayne was instructed to tend to the plane’s radio repairs, while the boys leaped into a rented car with Mr. Hardy.
“Vivira is less than forty miles north of Mazatlan,” Frank said, examining a road map. “Just off the main road.”
A little over an hour passed before the Hardys and Chet arrived in Vivira. It was a quiet little village with many trees, and a fountain in the center of a small plaza. Standing near the fountain was a young man.
“Donde esta el hacienda
de Señor Marcheta?” Frank asked the Mexican in his best high school Spanish. 
The man did not answer. He eyed the Hardys and Chet for a moment, then pointed toward a large hacienda surrounded by a high stone wall, at the far end of the street.
“Gracias!”
Frank said. 
“Adios!”
Chet called from the rear window. 
At the spot the man had indicated, Mr. Hardy and the boys got out of the car and walked toward a decorative wrought-iron gate. Set in the wall beside the gate was a metal handle. Joe gave it a hard yank and a bell tinkled. Shortly a slim, tall man appeared, silhouetted in the doorway of the hacienda.
“Quién es ello?—Who
is it?” he asked. 
“Are you Senor Marcheta?” Mr. Hardy asked.
“Si!”
“We’re visitors from the United States. My name is Fenton Hardy. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Norte Americanos? You wish to talk to me? Why?”
“Please, Senor Marcheta,” the elder detective pleaded. “I won’t take much of your time. It’s important!”
The senor slowly walked toward his visitors. As he approached in the dim light the boys saw that he was an elderly, gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. He had a kindly face and a manner that immediately commanded respect.
Mr. Hardy introduced his sons and Chet. Marcheta studied them for a moment. “I cannot deny you the hospitality of my home,” he said finally. “Come in.”
He led the visitors into his hacienda and motioned to them to be seated. “Now what is it you wish to speak to me about?” he queried.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m working on a case connected with a stock fraud involving the Costa Quimico Compañia.”
Marcheta turned pale. “I have already been questioned by members of your consulate in Guadalajara!” he cried. “I tell you, as I told them, I have no information to give!”
“Señor Marcheta, please be patient,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We’re only trying to help you. If you can tell me anything at all—”
“No! I cannot!” the elderly man retorted. “You must understand. It is not for myself that I am afraid. I fear for the life of my son Juan. They have taken him away! I ...” His words trailed off. He buried his face in his hands and sank into a chair.
“So that’s it,” Mr. Hardy muttered. “Those scoundrels are holding your son as a hostage!”
“That should be reason enough for you to give us your cooperation,” Joe put in.
“No, no!” Marcheta exclaimed. “I did not know what I was saying! You must go now!”
“We realize the situation you’re in,” Frank said solemnly. “But if you think you’re going to help your son by keeping this to yourself, you‘re—”
At that instant a large stone came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the room.
“What’s that?” Chet cried.
“Everybody get down!” Frank shouted.
Mr. Hardy pulled Marcheta out of his chair to the floor. Then Frank, followed by Joe and Chet, ran out of the house.
“Spread out and search the area!” Frank ordered. “Yell if you see anything!”
The boys groped their way through the darkness. As Frank neared the rear of the hacienda, a man suddenly sprang from behind a bush several yards away and pulled what looked like a coiled bullwhip from his belt. Then a long raw-hide tentacle lashed out toward Frank!

CHAPTER V
Danger Path  
SWISH! The end of the whip stung Frank’s ankles and wound tightly around them! The man gave a sharp tug, and the boy crashed to the ground.
Quick as a cat, the man retrieved the whip and lashed out at a branch of a nearby tree. The slender tentacle coiled around the branch to form a clove hitch. As Frank scrambled to his feet, the intruder used it to swing himself, trapeze-fashion, to the top of the wall. The next instant he was gone!
The other boys came running. “What happened? Are you all right?” Joe shouted.
“I ran into the man we’re looking for,” Frank explained, rubbing his ankles. “And he’s mighty handy with a whip.”
The three boys returned to the hacienda to find Marcheta in a state of panic. “All is lost!” he cried. “I shall never see my son again!”
When Mr. Hardy heard Frank’s story, he handed the boys a piece of paper. “This was wrapped around the rock,” he said.
On it was a drawing of flames issuing from a cluster of branches with the letter P in the center. The symbol again! Under the drawing was a message written in Spanish. Translated, it read: 
We are aware you have visitors! This could mean Juan’s doom!
“Señor Marcheta,” Frank said quickly, “do you know what this symbol stands for?”
“I do not! Nor do I care! The safety of my son is all that concerns me!”
“If you really mean that,” Mr. Hardy said, “you’ll let us help you.”
“It is because you are here that my son is in greater danger than ever!” Marcheta insisted.
Mr. Hardy stroked his chin thoughtfully, and turned to the señor. “There’s one way we might be able to protect your son—fight fire with fire. Señor Marcheta, you must go into hiding!”
“You mean leave here? Never! Never! Not while Juan is in their hands!”
“But it’s for your son’s sake,” Mr. Hardy urged. “If you were to disappear, the kidnappers would begin wondering what you’re up to. Until they knew, I’m certain they wouldn’t harm your son. He’s their only insurance that you won’t go to the authorities.”
The senor nervously shifted in his chair. After thinking the plan over, he said slowly, “Perhaps you are right. But I will not leave Mexico.”
“How about Mexico City?” Joe suggested. “It’s easier to hide out in a populated place.”
“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy agreed.
“What about Señora Marcheta?” Frank inquired.
“I sent my wife away for her own protection. Only I know where she is. As for your plan, it is a fine one. How do you propose to do it?”
“We’ll have to figure out how to get you away without being seen,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Then you can be flown to Mexico City in my plane.”
“But we can’t risk going to Mazatlan Airport,” Frank warned. “We already suspect that the gang has a spy there.”
“How about having Jack fly here?” Joe said. “There must be lots of level country nearby.”
“There is a large cattle ranch approximately six miles north of Vivira,” Marcheta replied. “It is very flat and would be ideal for your purpose.”
“Then it’s settled!” Mr. Hardy declared. “But to insure absolute secrecy, we’ll have Jack fly to the rendezvous point after dark. It’s too late now, so it will have to be tomorrow night.”
The Hardys outlined their plan. The detective and the boys would remain with Marcheta that night to make sure no harm would come to him. In the morning one of the boys would drive to Mazatlan to give Jack Wayne his instructions, then return to the hacienda to take Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta to the cattle ranch.
“But there’s still the problem of getting Senor Marcheta out of the hacienda without being seen,” Joe commented.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Frank said. “And I have an idea.”
“How about letting us in on it?” Chet urged.
“I’m almost the same height and build as Senor Marcheta,” Frank declared. “If you will lend me some of your clothes, senor, I’ll improvise a disguise that might fool whoever’s spying on us.”
“Could such a plan work?” the señor asked.
“It’s worth a try,” Frank replied. “Joe and Chet should go with me to make it appear that I’m in need of protection. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
The Hardys and Chet took turns standing guard during the night. In the morning Frank donned a suit of clothes Marcheta gave him, then ground some white chalk into powder and sprinkled it into his hair.
“Very clever,” Marcheta commented with a grin. “Your hair is now almost as white as mine.”
Next, Frank pulled a bit of stuffing from a worn chair, whitened it with chalk, and fashioned a mustache and a goatee for himself. A straw hat completed the disguise.
“You’ve done a terrific job,” Mr. Hardy said.
“Thanks, Dad. Keep your fingers crossed. I hope it works.”
“Just one question,” Joe interposed. “Whoever’s watching the hacienda must know that there are five of us here. Won’t it look suspicious if we don’t all leave together?”
“I’m hoping he’ll think that two of us stayed behind to nab him if he shows himself,” Frank explained. He pulled the brim of the straw hat low over his eyes. “I’m all set to go! Hope this disguise works!”
The three boys hurried out of the house and made a beeline for their car. As they sped away, Joe, who was behind the wheel, glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw a man leap out from behind a tree.
“At least one villager is interested in our departure,” Joe said. “I wonder if he’s our man.”
“We can’t take the time to find out,” Frank answered, and removed his disguise. Within the hour they arrived at the airport and quickly located Jack Wayne.
“Hi, fellows!” the pilot exclaimed. “You’ll be glad to hear the plane’s radios are working again. There was a defective circuit breaker in the system.”
“Good,” Joe replied. “We’re going to need you and the plane.”
The Hardys described their plan for the evening to Jack. When they had finished, the pilot told them how to set up the rendezvous point.


  
“Hope this disguise works!” Frank said
“Find a long, level stretch of ground. Make sure there are no obstructions near the spot. Then aim the headlights of your car in the direction you want me to land. Once I’m lined up, the plane’s landing lights will show me the way.”
“Try to make your departure as inconspicuous as possible,” Frank said.
“I’ll file a flight plan back to Brownsville, Texas,” Jack replied. “That should confuse anyone who’s curious. I can always cancel it later.”
The boys drove into the city for a leisurely lunch. Then they went to their hotel to wait until dark. It was well into evening when Frank, Joe, and Chet joined Mr. Hardy and Señor Marcheta at the hacienda.
“Your disguise worked like a charm,” the detective told Frank. “Shortly after you left, a man with a coiled bullwhip in his belt rode off on a horse. He certainly was in a hurry, judging by the amount of dust he was kicking up.”
“We’d better get out of here,” Joe warned. “He might decide to come back.”
The Hardys and their companions got into the car and took the road leading north from Vivira. Soon Senor Marcheta pointed to flat areas of land flanking both sides of the narrow road.
Frank pulled the car to a stop and got out, followed by Joe and Chet. Together, they searched for a suitable landing spot, and found one that was flat and as smooth as a table. Frank returned to the car and maneuvered it to point in the direction Jack Wayne was to land.
Several hours passed before the droning sound of a plane’s engine was heard. Frank switched on the headlights, then flicked them on and off several times. Minutes later the plane’s landing lights illuminated the area ahead, and the craft touched down in a gentle landing.
Jack Wayne taxied the plane in and Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta climbed aboard. Soon they were airborne. Chet and the young detectives watched as the plane disappeared in the night sky.
The Hardys and Chet drove back to their hotel in Mazatlan and turned in for several hours of sleep. After breakfast they went to the police station and asked for the name of the fisherman who had sighted the submarine.
The officer in charge told them that the report had not been kept on file and he himself had never seen it. He suggested, however, that they inquire along the docks.
The boys hastened to the area and made some inquiries. They had little success, until a Mexican youth, about Joe’s age, approached them.
“Señores,” he said, “excuse me, please, but I understand that you are looking for the fisherman who saw a submarine.”
“That’s right,” Joe answered.
“My name is Tico,” the Mexican boy extended his hand in greeting. “The man you seek is Senor Ricardo. He is now fishing and will not be back for two or three days.”
The Bayporters introduced themselves and Frank asked if Tico knew anything about the fisherman’s report.
“Only that he says he saw a submarine. I believe him, for I am sure that I have seen it too.”
“You’ve seen a sub?” Chet blurted. “When? Where?”
“My father, who is also a fisherman, and I took our boat up the coast as far as Ensenada del Pabe lion about two weeks ago,” Tico explained. “On the way back I was certain that I saw what looked like a submarine in a cove.”
“Why didn’t you report it?” Frank asked.
“I had too small a glimpse of it to be sure what I saw,” the youth replied. “It was nearly sunset, and my father insisted the shadows were playing tricks with my eyes. I forgot about it until Señor Ricardo said he saw a submarine a few days ago.”
“You speak very good English,” Chet commented.
“Thank you,” Tico said with a smile. “My father sends me to a fine school in Mexico City. He does not wish me to become a fisherman, but perhaps a lawyer. I study English.”
Frank thought for a moment. “Do you think you could find that cove again?”
“Yes—yes, I think I could do this,” Tico assured him. “The cove is best reached by boat. Unfortunately my father is away fishing, and I’m on my own for about a month. We have a small craft with an outboard that will serve our purpose. The journey will take about four or five hours.”
“Good. Wait here for us,” Frank said.
The Hardys and Chet first went to the Mazat-Ian shopping district to buy clothes suitable for their intended expedition. By the time the boys returned to the dock, Tico was in his boat, ready to depart. They hopped in, and the Mexican boy set off.
Frank and Joe marveled at the scenery along the coast. It was extremely craggy, and geysers of white foam shot up from the sea splashing against the jagged rocks.
Soon the wind became more brisk. The surface of the water grew choppy, and Tico had to increase the power to keep from drifting toward shore.
“It’s blowing up a storm!” Joe warned. “We’d better beach this boat!”
“Too rocky!” Frank disagreed. “The boat would be smashed to pieces.”
As the small craft was being tossed violently about, the motor mount suddenly pulled free from its fittings. The entire unit disappeared into the water!
“Caramba!”
Tico cried. 
Frank and Joe found two paddles stowed underneath the seats. They grabbed them and made a valiant effort to keep the boat away from the craggy shore. But their attempt was futile. Despite their frantic paddling, the boat continued to be swept toward the jagged rocks!

CHAPTER VI
Mysterious Vigil  
Joe’s paddle suddenly was ripped from his hands by the raging sea. The small boat was carried to the crest of a wave, and went skimming down the lee side toward the jagged rocks.
“Hang on!” Frank shouted as water spilled over the gunwales.
Suddenly the craft capsized and the four boys were tossed into the sea.
“Swim for it!” Frank cried. “Head for—!” He swallowed a mouthful of brine and coughed violently as he struggled through the maelstrom.
For a while the boys bobbed like corks in the turbulent sea, progressing for a few strokes, then being tossed back again. With arms flailing, they finally made it. Frank and Joe were the first to be hurled onto solid ground. Chet came next, followed by the Mexican youth.
Tico lay panting for a few minutes. “I am happy to see that everyone is all right,” he finally said.
“Sorry about your boat,” Joe remarked.
“It could not be helped,” Tico said philosophically. “Do not worry.”
The boys walked a short distance inland. There the wind was less brisk, and a warm sun began to send shimmering waves of heat up from the bleached sand and rocks.
“It’s very desolate around here,” Frank observed. “Where are we?”
Tico took a moment to orient himself. “We are not far from the cove I spoke about,” he said. “It is less than an hour from here on foot.”
“No sense in turning back as long as we got this far,” Joe commented.
The boys agreed to continue on. With the Mexican youth in the lead they trekked ahead, and arrived at their destination in the time Tico had predicted.
“There it is!” he exclaimed. “I know by that tall point of rock. It looks over the cove.”
They slowly worked their way down a steep incline of rock to the shore. At once the young sleuths began searching the area for clues.
“If a sub was here,” Chet said, “you’d never know it. There’s not a trace of anything but fish!”
He held his nose and pointed to a half-eaten sea trout that had been washed ashore.
Frank, passing a large rock nearly buried in the sand, noticed deep scratches on its surface. “Take a look at this, fellows,” he called out.
“Hm! Looks like some kind of heavy objects were dragged over the ground,” Joe stated as he studied the marks.
“Notice that they continue,” Frank replied, “in a straight line toward that big boulder at the base of the incline.”
As the boys began walking toward the spot, a shot suddenly rang out! Then another! Splinters of rock sprayed in all directions.
“Jumping jackals!” Chet yelled. “Hit the dirt!”
Frank and Joe whirled to look up at the high rim of rock surrounding the cove. Two men, one taller than the other, mounted on horses, were silhouetted against the sky. Each carried a rifle, aimed in the boys’ direction.
Bam! Bam!
Two more bullets struck nearby as the boys scrambled along the craggy shore of the cove.
“Quick!” Frank ordered. “In here!”
Followed by his companions, he darted into a narrow crevice. It led up the side of a steep hill, and eventually opened into a place which served as an excellent vantage point. From there, the boys could look up and see their attackers clearly.
“Why did those men shoot at us?” Joe hissed angrily. “Are they bandits?”
Chet crouched low behind a rock. “I’m not curious enough to go out and ask them,” he declared.
“Everybody be quiet!” Frank commanded.
They watched as the two men, dressed in ragged clothes and sombreros, got off their horses and scurried down the rocky incline to the cove.
“They’re coming after us!” Tico whispered nervously.
“There are many crevices along the shore,” Frank muttered. “Let’s hope they don’t find the right one.”
Minutes ticked by slowly as the men searched. Once they came uncomfortably close to the boys’ hiding place. The taller man, his voice barely audible in the distance, said something to the other in Spanish. Then, apparently giving up the search, they climbed back up the rocky incline to their horses.
“Did you hear what that fellow said?” Frank asked Tico.
“It was difficult, but I heard most of what he said,” the Mexican boy answered. “He told the other man that we were scared off by the shooting. They think we have run far from here by now.”
“I wish I was far from here,” Chet mumbled.
Frank suddenly pointed toward the men. “Look!” he blurted. “They’re not getting on their horses and leaving. They’re just sitting on the ground!”
“What are they up to?” Joe queried.
“Waiting for us to come back,” Chet said ruefully.
“Maybe they’re not waiting for us at all,” Frank said. “But whatever the reason, we’ll have to stay here till they leave.”
Huddled in their hiding place, the boys spent several agonizing hours under the hot sun. By now their clothes were practically dry. But they were hungry, thirsty, and exhausted by the intense heat. Even after sunset the armed men maintained their vigil.
“Are they going to sit there all night?” Chet grumbled. “I want something to eat!”
“When it is very dark,” Tico said, “perhaps we can sneak away without being seen.”
Frank now appeared less anxious to make an immediate getaway. “I’d like to stick around a little while longer and see what those two guys are up to,” he announced. “We might learn something interesting.”
Another hour had passed when a muffled, rumbling sound drifted in from the sea just beyond the cove.
“What’s that?” Chet asked, craning his neck to look out.
“Sounds like engines,” Joe said. “Get down, Chet!”
Suddenly a point of light began flashing from the position where the men were sitting.
“They’re signaling someone!” Frank observed.
Carefully they turned to look out into the cove. A flashing light pierced the darkness in response.
Gradually the rumbling became louder. Chet’s eyes popped and Joe gasped as the faint outline of a submarine slowly approached the cove!

CHAPTER VII
Night Rendezvous  
THE BOYS gazed fascinated as the submarine drew closer to the shore.
“It’s hard to believe,” Frank whispered excitedly, “but there it is!”
“Leaping lizards!” Chet gasped.
“So that’s what those two bandits were waiting for,” said Joe.
All at once there was a burst of activity on the deck. Flashlights, carried by members of the crew as they scurried about, looked like a swarm of agitated fireflies.
“Pronto! Pronto!”
a crewman barked. Then came an incoherent mumbling of many voices. 
Beams of light were directed at the big boulder which Frank and Joe were about to examine when the two armed men had fired at them.
“Come on! Push this thing aside!” shouted a crewman in English. “Hurry it up!”
Four husky fellows shoved the rock to one side. Behind it was a large cavity in the incline. Despite their distance from the hole, the boys could clearly see stacks of wooden boxes in the hiding place.
“The cove is a rendezvous for picking up some sort of supplies,” Joe said.
Frank remarked that it was too dark to see whether the strange symbol was painted on the conning tower, but Joe had an answer for that.
“I’ll sneak down to the cove for a closer look.”
“I’ll go with you,” Chet offered.
“No, it’s better if only one of us goes.”
Joe slowly worked his way down through the crevice, then quietly stole along the craggy shore toward the submarine. Crawling on hands and knees, he made his way to a jumble of rocks near the water’s edge. Joe crouched down and peered over the damp rocks.
“Keep movin‘. Get that stuff aboard!” ordered a bearded, heavy-set man wearing a battered visor cap. It was obvious to Joe that he was not a Mexican. Neither were most of the other crewmen, who carried the wooden boxes to the sub.
Then one of the riflemen approached the bearded man. “Qué tal van las cosas—” the Mexican was saying. 
“Talk English!” the other snapped. “You know I can’t speak much Spanish.”
“Sentirlo
—sorry. I do as you wish, senor.” 
Loud enough for Joe to hear, the Mexican told of spotting the boys in the cove. “But we scare ‘em off. We have no trouble.”
“That’s what you think!” Joe told himself.
“It doesn’t matter,” the bearded man went on. “We’ve got all the supplies we need and won’t be comin’ back here any more.”
“What about me and my amigo?” the Mexican inquired. 
“The boss needs more men back at headquarters. He said you and your friend were to go back with us. We’d better get goin’ cause the trip takes about twelve hours.”
The crewmen hurried to load all the boxes aboard. The beam of one flashlight swept across the conning tower and Joe squinted intently to get a glimpse.
There it was! The same mysterious symbol!
Joe tingled with excitement. The identical sub, or a sister ship at least, both here and in Barmet Bay!
Satisfied that he had seen and heard enough, he decided to rejoin his companions. As Joe moved, his hand brushed against a loose rock. It splashed into the water loud enough for the crewmen to hear the sound.
“What was that?” one man shouted.
Joe froze, waiting anxiously while beams of light crisscrossed the shore.
“See anything?” another asked.
“Naw. It must’ve been a fish.”
“Okay!” the bearded one shouted. “Let’s get goin‘! Cast off the lines!”
The two riflemen unsaddled their horses and sent them galloping off on their own. Then they quickly boarded the submarine.
Joe gave a sigh of relief and crept off. By the time he returned to his companions, the sub was already on its way out of the cove. Breathlessly, Joe related his findings to the others.
“I wonder where it’s headed,” Chet said.
“That’s anybody’s guess,” Joe replied.
“The bearded guy said it would take twelve hours to get where they’re going?” Frank queried.
“Right,” Joe replied. “But in that time the sub could be anywhere from one hundred to more than two hundred miles away, depending on whether the trip is made submerged or on the surface.”
“What do you think are in those boxes?” Tico asked.
“Hard to tell,” Joe said, shaking his head. “They appeared to be heavy. I’d say they contain metal tools, or maybe parts for machinery.”
“This is one of the craziest situations I ever saw,” Chet declared. “A sub sneaks into a cove at night to pick up a lot of wooden boxes hidden in the rocks. Why not use a regular boat?”
“Secrecy for one thing,” Frank replied. Obviously it’s a renegade sub. And—“
“And you can be sure,” Joe interjected, “that it’s being used for something more than just hauling cargo around.”
“And then there’s the question of Cardillo,” Frank said. “How does he fit into the picture, if at all?”
“Before you masterminds begin building up a case,” Chet interrupted, “how about giving some thought to our food and water problem?”
Joe glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. “It’ll be light in a couple of hours. We’d better wait till then before we go trekking around the countryside.”
“That is wise,” Tico agreed. “We would gain little by trying to make our way through the darkness.”
The four boys stretched out in the shelter of some scrubby bushes and fell fast asleep. At the first light of day they awakened and began climbing up the steep, rocky incline. They rested at the top for a moment and peered across the parched and barren plain.
“There isn’t much to eat and drink out there,” Chet muttered.
“There’s lots of cactus around,” Frank said. “That’ll take care of our water problem.”
“And we are sure to find plants which can be eaten,” Tico added, “such as acerolo.”
“Acerolo?”
Chet blurted. 
“That’s Spanish for hawthorn,” Joe explained. “It’s a plant which bears small red and yellow apples. They’re very good.”
As the sun rose higher, the boys’ hunger and thirst grew more intense. Tico led his friends to a cactus plant, removed a fisherman’s knife from his belt, and sliced off the top. He dug out some of the pulp from which he squeezed a small quantity of water.
“You certainly picked a good one,” Frank remarked with a grin.
As Tico began digging out more pulp for his friends, he saw Chet, a sharp stone in his hand, working on another cactus plant.
“Caramba!”
the Mexican youth screamed. “Do not touch that plant! It is muy malo!”
Chet was startled. “It’s what?”
“Very bad!” Tico shouted. “The liquid is poison!”
“Poison?” Chet muttered nervously. His face turned pale. “Why—why I’ve already drunk some of it!”

CHAPTER VIII
Bullfight  
Tico and the Hardys rushed to Chet. He staggered around, as if in great pain, and gripped his chest. “I don’t feel too well,” he said in a quavering voice.
“We must do something!” Joe yelled frantically.
“The nearest doctor will be miles away!” Frank said.
Suddenly Tico pointed to a figure in the distance. “I see something! I believe—Yes, it is a man on a horse!”
“Oh, oh!” Joe muttered. “Maybe he’s a friend of those two guys who shot at us.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take!” Frank said.
The Hardys and Tico waved their arm wildly and called out to the distant rider. Finally he headed in their direction.
“Buenos dias!”
the horseman shouted as he rode up and dismounted. He was short and wiry and had a handsome face. 
“Necesitamos un doctor!—We
need a doctor!” cried Tico. 
“Qué pasa?
What is going on?” the stranger asked. 
Tico quickly told the man what Chet had done and pointed to the cactus plant. The man walked over to it, studied the plant for a moment, then he scooped out some of the pulp and squeezed the liquid into his mouth.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Joe yelled.
The man grinned. He glanced at the Hardys, then at Chet, who by this time was rolling on the ground. “Americanos?” he inquired.
“Yes!” Frank replied, and added, “You speak English?”
“I do,” was the calm reply.
Chet moaned and his eyes rolled. “Please help me!” he pleaded. “Just don’t stand there and talk.”
Tico turned excitedly to the horseman. “Why did you drink from the poison cactus, senor?”
“The water is good,” the man said. “The plant looks like a poisonous kind. But it is not.”
They all sighed, and Chet blurted, “Are you sure?”
“I am,” the man answered.
Chet recovered quickly and got to his feet. “I— I guess I am all right, after all,” he said. “Boy! That was a bad scare! Thank you, Señor—”
“Alvaro Cortines Garcia,” the horseman announced with a courtly bow.
“How do you do, Señor Garcia?” Frank said. He introduced himself and the boys.
“We never expected to see anyone out here in the desert,” Joe remarked. “You certainly surprised us.”
“I am returning to my ranchero from the town of El Dorado,” Garcia said. “My hacienda is about six miles from here, near the village of La Brecha.” 
Garcia told the boys that he bred horses and burros on his small ranch. He had gone to El Dorado to close a business deal involving the sale of some of his stock.
“I would like to offer you muchachos the hospitality of my home,” the horseman added. “You all look very tired.” 
The boys did not have to be coaxed. They immediately accepted the offer.
By taking turns riding Señor Garcia’s horse, the travelers had time to rest their exhausted bodies. Nearly two hours later they arrived at the adobe-walled hacienda. It was set in a green patch of semidesert, surrounded by poplar trees nearly as high as the twirling windmill.
The dusty boys hastened to a trough of sparkling clear water at the base of the windmill. After gulping handfuls of water, they splashed their arms and faces.
As they finished refreshing themselves, a pretty woman and a good-looking boy of about sixteen came from the house. Señor Garcia introduced them as his wife and son Alfredo.
Tico and Alfredo began to chatter in Spanish. The visitors were ushered past the corral and inside the cool hacienda. Here Señora Garcia asked a maid to set the dining-room table and prepare food for the visitors.
Garcia sat with the hungry boys while they were eating. Presently he said, “We must give a little fiesta tonight to celebrate my success in El Dorado!”
“Bueno!”
declared Alfredo. “We will invite some of our amigos from the village.” His father turned to the boys. “And you, muchachos, must stay as my guests.” 
“I’m all for that!” Chet exclaimed, beaming. “Muchas gracias!”
After a long nap, the Americans spent the rest of the afternoon watching preparations for the fiesta. They helped set up large wooden tables on the patio. Bananas, oranges, limes, and avocados were heaped on some of the tables. Food that was cooking gave off tantalizing odors.
“This will be a gastronomic adventure!” Chet exclaimed as he viewed the preparations hungrily.
Joe grinned. “We might never get Chet to leave this place!”
Guests from the village began coming shortly after sunset. As the festivities got underway, torches were lighted to illuminate the area. One man arrived leading a bull and put it in the corral. Many of the younger villagers swarmed around the enclosure to see it.
“What’s going on?” Chet asked Alfredo.
“Some of our amigos like to show their skills as matadors,” he replied. 
“Bullfighting?” Joe asked.
“They are not real matadors,” Alfredo explained laughingly. “It is just a game. The bull does not have sharp horns, and he is not harmed in any way.”
The boys hurried over to the corral and saw that one young man had already leaped into the enclosure. He waved a muleta, a small red cloth draped over a stick, in front of the bull. 
“Toro! Toro!”
shouted the would-be matador. 
The animal rushed toward him, but the young man side-stepped gracefully.
“Olé! Olé!”
the spectators cheered. 
The boys watched the fun for several minutes. Then as Frank and Joe walked back to the tables they suddenly became aware of Chet’s absence. “Toro! Toro!” came their chum’s voice from the corral. 
“Oh, no!” Joe yelled. “Don’t tell me Chet’s playing matador!”
As the Hardys ran back they saw their hefty pal inside the enclosure waving a muleta.
“Get out of there!” Frank shouted. “Or we’ll have to carry you out in pieces!”
At that instant the bull rushed toward Chet, who side-stepped. But he lost his footing and fell to the ground. The bull sped on past and turned to make another charge.
Chet scrambled to his feet, dropped the muleta, and began running. The bull raced after him and the spectators cheered. 
“Head for the fence!” Frank yelled.
Chet did not hear. Instead, he kept running in circles with the bull in pursuit. Finally he made a dash for the fence and tried to force his way between the wooden slats, but he got stuck!
“Watch out for the bull!” Joe warned.
He flung himself over the fence, picked up the muleta, and attracted the animal’s attention away from the panting Chet. Several spectators leaped into the enclosure to help. 
With the bull diverted, Frank and Tico pulled Chet loose. The only damage was a couple of buttons missing from his shirt.
“Do you still want to be a matador?” Frank asked with a frown.
“I’ll stick to football,” Chet muttered.
“That waistline of yours almost got you into real trouble with the fence,” Joe added.
“Yes, and now I’m hungry again,” Chet said. “Let’s have some chow.”
It was after midnight when the fiesta ended. After the villagers had left, the boys and their hosts sat on the patio of the hacienda to chat.
“We enjoyed the fiesta very much, Senor Garcia,” Frank said.
“Gracias,”
the man replied. “And you are all welcome to stay here as long as you wish.” 
“We’d like to,” Joe said apologetically, “but we must get back to Mazatlan as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry you cannot remain longer,” Garcia said. “But if you must leave, I will help you. There is an autobus which travels to the city along a road about fifteen kilometers east of here. I will furnish you with horses and take you there myself.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “Could we leave in the morning?”
“Of course,” Senor Garcia replied.
“Senor, are you familiar with the Sinaloa coast near the spot where you found us?” Joe queried.
“Yes, I travel along it many times on my way to El Dorado,” Garcia answered.
“Have you ever seen a submarine in the area?” Joe continued.
“A submarino?” the man muttered with a quizzical expression on his face. “No, I have not.” 
Frank grinned. “I know it sounds like a strange question, but we have good reasons for asking.”
“I do not think it strange,” Garcia assured the boys. “I am certain the navies of many countries sail into our waters from time to time. Why do you ask?”
“We’d rather not say at present,” Frank replied. “But we’re sure the submarine we asked you about does not belong to any navy.”
“This sub has a mysterious insignia painted on its conning tower,” Joe explained. He leaned down and outlined the symbol in the sand.
Señor Garcia studied it in the light of the flickering torches. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “Caramba!” he cried, and an expression of fear spread across his face. 
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, startled.
“You must leave here at once!” the man shouted.
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“I say you must go!” Garcia demanded. “You might have brought the curse of the symbol to my home!”

CHAPTER IX
The Trail to Baja  
“CURSE of the symbol?” Frank blurted. “What do you mean?”
“I do not wish to talk about it!” Garcia snapped. “You must all leave!”
“But you can’t just order us out into the desert in the middle of the night,” Joe said angrily.
At that moment Garcia’s wife intervened. She pleaded with her husband to let the boys stay until morning and he reluctantly agreed.
The four companions were led to a jacal, a hut, which contained several empty bunks. Chet and Tico dozed off immediately, but Frank and Joe remained awake for some time discussing Garcia’s strange behavior. 
“What could be bothering him?” Joe questioned. “He looked scared out of his wits when I outlined the symbol.”
“Obviously it has some connection with a fright he’s had,” Frank surmised. “I wish we could get him to tell us about it.”
“From his reaction, I’d say our chances are nil,” Joe said.
In the morning the Hardys were relieved to find that Senor Garcia had calmed down considerably. He even invited them and their friends to have breakfast with him.
“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. “As I promised, I will guide you to the road where you can board the autobus to Mazatlan.”
After eating, Garcia and the boys started out on their journey. It was early afternoon when they arrived at their destination, a narrow, unpaved road stretching north and south through a lonely expanse of desert country.
“Only one autobus a day travels this road to Mazatlan,” Garcia explained. “It should pass this way within the next hour or two.”
While they waited, Frank decided to take another chance at questioning their host.
“Señor, I don’t want to upset you again,” he said, “but is there nothing you can tell us about the symbol?”
Garcia glared. “No! There is nothing!”
Then, without mentioning Marcheta by name, Frank described how the engineer’s son had been kidnapped. “He is about your own son’s age. And we suspect that there’s some connection between the symbol and the kidnapping. If you tell us what you know, it may solve this mystery.”
Garcia did not reply. He stared blankly into space for a long moment, then said, “I am a coward for not speaking. Perhaps I should have gone directly to the authorities.”
“What do you mean?” Joe queried.
“You must first promise that you will not reveal who told you what I am about to say,” the rancher declared.
The Hardys nodded.
“Several weeks ago,” Garcia continued, “I went to visit my cousin who lives in the village of Montaraz in Baja. But when I arrived there I was told that he had mysteriously disappeared the day before. Painted on the door of his hacienda was the symbol you described to me.”
“Did you speak to any of the villagers about your cousin’s disappearance?” Frank asked.
“Yes, I tried to. But they were all badly frightened and refused to speak.”
“What were they frightened about?” Joe asked.
“I learned that five other men in the village had also vanished in the same way,” Garcia answered. “And the symbol was painted on the doors of their haciendas!” 
“Why didn’t you notify the police?” Frank questioned.
“I intended to do so, of course,” the man answered. “But there are no police in Montaraz. I therefore planned to go to the city of Ensenada the following day to notify the authorities. I went to my cousin’s to spend the night and the next morning found a message under the door.”
“What did it say?” Tico asked.
“It warned me that if I talked to the authorities,” Garcia said nervously, “the curse of the symbol would find me wherever I go!”
“Leaping lizards!” Chet exclaimed.
“I am not a cowardly man,” the rancher continued, “and it is not for myself that I am frightened. I fear for my family!”
“We understand,” Frank said sympathetically.
Soon the bus arrived. The boys thanked Señor Garcia for his hospitality, then boarded the bus for the bumpy, dusty ride back to Mazatlan. When they reached their hotel, the desk clerk handed the Hardys a telephone message. It read: 
Remaining with our friend for a while. Will contact you later. F.H.
“Dad’s staying with Senor Marcheta in Mexico City for a while,” Frank said as he handed his brother the message.
“I hope he’s not running into trouble,” Joe replied.
“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “He’s probably hoping to worm more information out of Marcheta.”
“When do we eat?” Chet interrupted.
Frank grinned. “Tell you what. The hotel has room service. Why don’t we have supper in our suite?”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed. He turned to Tico. “And you must join us as our guest.”
“Thank you,” the Mexican youth answered. “I would like to very much.”
The boys had a hearty dinner, after which Frank unfolded an air chart of Mexico.
“Here’s Montaraz, the village where Senor Garcia’s cousin disappeared,” Joe said eagerly. He inspected the map more closely. “Sure is rugged country. The desert area covers about six thousand square miles I understand.”
“And many of the mountains to the east are comparatively unexplored,” Tico added. “One could easily disappear in that area and, perhaps, never be found.”
Frank took out a pair of measuring dividers and calculated the distance to the village. “Hm! We might be on to something,” he said, and thought for a moment. “Let’s assume that the sub we saw in the cove maintained an average speed of twelve to fifteen knots. In twelve hours it would reach a point on the east coast of Baja not too many miles from Montaraz.”
“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “This could be an important lead!”
“At least it’s worth checking out,” Frank concluded. “Why don’t we go there and see what we can find?”
“Too bad Dad’s plane is in Mexico City,” Joe remarked. “We could fly there in two hours.”
“There aren’t any airports near the village,” his brother observed as he examined the chart. “Anyway, it would be less conspicuous if we went by boat.”
“Maybe we can rent one,” Joe suggested.
“I can be of help to you,” Tico put in. “A friend of my father’s has a boat rental service. He can provide you with a small cabin boat. But you must let me come with you. I have some knowledge of the waters in the area.”
“It’s a deal!” said Frank.
Early the following morning the boys prepared for their trip. Before departing, the Hardys left a message for their father with the desk clerk. It read: 
Gone Fishing. Wish us luck. We should be back in two or three days.
Tico proved to be an excellent seaman and navigator, and they made the journey in record time. As the craft neared its destination, the boys scanned the craggy coastline for a place to land.
Joe examined a map. “Montaraz is about six miles inland from our present position. We’d better find a place to tie up around here.”
Just then Chet pointed toward the shore. “I see a little hut! And a small boat’s tied up to a dock in front of it!”
“There’s a man, too,” Joe said.
The boys headed toward the spot. As they drew nearer, they saw that the dock was in a run-down condition. The hut was also decrepit, and appeared undecided as to which way it was going to fall.
“Buenas dias, amigo!”
Frank shouted to the elderly man who was resting against a cirio tree. 
The old fellow raised the brim of his sombrero and peered at his visitors.
“Do you speak English?” Joe called out.
“He does not understand,” Tico observed. “I will talk to him.”
The Mexican youth chatted with the man for several minutes. He then returned to his friends. “The old man lives here by himself,” Tico explained. “He says we may use his dock for eighty pesos a day.”
“Did you ask him the way to Montaraz?” Frank inquired.
“Yes. There is a trail behind his hut which will take us to a road leading to the village. But I am afraid we will have to walk, since there is no transportation available.”
“Oh, no!” Chet bellowed.
The boys started off on their journey, taking with them an emergency kit of camping equipment, food, and water. It was almost sunset when they reached Montaraz. The village, consisting of about sixty adobe-walled houses, appeared quiet and peaceful.
Most of the structures surrounded a wide, circular piece of ground which served as the plaza. On the south side of the plaza was a sun-baked mud-brick building that served as a cantina and general store. There were no villagers in sight. 
“Where is everybody?” Joe queried.
“I don’t know,” Frank muttered with a puzzled expression.
“Perhaps we will find someone in the cantina,” Tico suggested. 
The boys strolled over to the structure and found two of the villagers inside. They were middle-aged men and wore sombreros and colorful sarapes. Tico conversed with them in Spanish. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet.
“The men say that the people of their village all remain in their haciendas from sunset to sunrise,” the Mexican youth said. “It is because they fear Pavura!”
“Pavura?” Joe questioned. “What’s that?”
“It means ‘terror,’ ” Tico said. “The men also say that we should leave because strangers are not welcome here. Anyway, there is no place for us to stay.”
“That’s hospitality for you,” Chet grumbled.
Tico tried to question the villagers further, but he and the other boys were ordered out of the cantina.
“It’s a cinch we’re not going back to Mazatlan without trying to get some information,” Frank said angrily.
“Why don’t we make camp for the night,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the morning.”
The boys pitched their tent on the outskirts of the village, then prepared supper from a variety of canned foods included in the camping kit. Soon after eating, they all fell asleep. The following morning the young sleuths got ready to return to the village.
“Chet,” said Frank, “you stay here and break camp. Tico, Joe, and I will go in town and see what we can find out.”
Several villagers were walking about when the boys arrived in the plaza. It was impossible, however, to get any of the people to talk.
“Whatever, or whoever, this Pavura is,” Joe remarked, “it sure has these villagers scared.”
As they continued walking, Frank suddenly pointed to one of the houses. “Look!” he declared. “That must be the home of one of the villagers Señor Garcia told us disappeared. There’s the symbol painted on its door!”
They walked forward to examine the door more closely when a stocky Mexican man seemed to appear from nowhere and blocked their path.
“Who are you?” Joe demanded.
The man did not reply. He drew a large, gleaming machete from his belt and raised it threateningly!

CHAPTER X
A Villager Speaks!  
“Váyase ustedes!
—Leave here!” the man with the knife shouted. 
“Por qué?—Why?”
Frank retorted. 
The Mexican pointed to the symbol painted on the door. He then let go a volley of words so rapid that even Tico had difficulty understanding him.
“What’s bothering him?”
“He says that the presence of strangers in the village will bring Pavura down upon them,” Tico explained. “He wants us to leave at once.”
The man wielded the machete menacingly.
“Let’s not push the issue,” Frank advised. “It would only make things more difficult for us if we got involved in any trouble.”
The man glared at the boys as they walked off.
“I don’t think we’re going to get any information out of these people,” Joe concluded, disappointed.
“But there must be at least one villager with enough courage to talk,” Frank said.
“Garcia said there aren’t any policemen here,” Joe commented. “How do they keep law and order?”
“Usually the elders of a village appoint a man to be, what you call in your country, a sheriff,” Tico explained.
“Then why don’t we find out who he is and ask him some questions?” Joe suggested.
“Good idea!” his brother replied.
At the Hardys’ suggestion, Tico approached an old man they spotted walking across the plaza. After a brief conversation, the Mexican youth returned to his friends.
“He says the man we seek is Senor Miguel Santos,” Tico said. “But luck is not with us, for Senor Santos is one of the villagers who disappeared. Only his wife remains at home.”
“Where is it?” Frank asked.
“On the south side of the plaza, the one with the strange symbol painted on its door.”
The boys quickly located the house. They examined the painted symbol for a moment, then Frank rapped on the door. It creaked open, revealing a thin, handsome woman. Her face was taut and pale.
“Senora Santos?” Frank asked.
“Si,”
she responded with a bewildered expression. 
The boys introduced themselves, and after stating their business, asked the woman if she would help them.
Señora Santos seemed eager to discuss her husband’s disappearance. She announced, much to the delight of the Hardys, that she spoke a little English.
“My husband and I once live in Mexicali,” she said, forcing a smile. “We have much opportunity to learn your language there.”
Senora Santos invited the boys inside and asked them to be seated in the tall wicker chairs that were scattered about the room.
“What can you tell us about your husband’s disappearance?” Frank questioned.
“I know very little,” Senora Santos informed her visitors regretfully. “One night he returns from a hunting trip and tells me he see something strange in the mountains.”
“What sort of thing?” Joe asked.
“He says that he see a group of men walking through the mountains,” she explained. “Many were dressed like the Aztec warriors of old days. They were all chanting mysterious music.”
“Did your husband talk to any of them?” Frank inquired.
“No,” the woman replied. “But then some of the men see my husband. They chase him, but my Miguel escapes.”
“When did you last see your husband?” Joe queried.
“The night he return from the mountains,” she answered. “After eating his supper, he went to the cantina to tell his amigos about the men he see.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “My Miguel never come back. In the morning I find mysterious symbol painted on the door.” 
“What about the other villagers who vanished?” Frank asked.
“They are my husband’s amigos,” the woman said. “Each of them go to search for Miguel and never return. The doors of their houses are also marked with the symbol.” 
“And now the people of the village are too scared to do anything about it,” Frank commented.
“That is right,” Senora Santos agreed. “I should have notified the authorities myself, but I do not wish to endanger the others in the village. Then when you boys ask me to help, I decide not to remain silent any longer. I know you try to help. I trust you.”
The boys thanked the señora and returned to their camp, where Chet had already finished packing the equipment. “It’s about time you masterminds got back,” he blurted. “Did you pick up any information?”
The Hardys told about Senora Santos. “As I see it,” Frank said, “the mystery is somehow linked to those men Señor Santos spotted in the mountains. It’s a slim lead, but I’m all for going there and having a look.”
“I’m game,” Joe announced.
Frank turned to Chet and Tico. “Of course it’s not fair of us to ask you fellows to come along on such a dangerous mission. If you want to ...”
“What!” Chet exclaimed. “Me stay here without you? And who’s going to keep you out of trouble? Count me in!”
“Me too!” Tico chimed in.
“Good,” Frank said with a grin. “But well need more supplies.”
“Maybe we can buy them at the general store in the village,” Joe suggested. “Let’s hope they’ll let us in.”
“If we are going into the mountains,” Tico said, “I would recommend we use burros.”
“Hold on!” Joe commanded. “We might not have enough money with us to swing it.”
“Perhaps we can pay in traveler’s checks,” Frank remarked jokingly.
The Hardys quickly examined their funds. Chet and Tico offered to chip in what cash they had.
“That should be more than enough to buy what we need,” the Mexican youth observed. “Burros are not expensive here.”
The boys returned to the village and headed directly for the store. Much to their surprise, the proprietor seemed too eager to assist them. He not only sold them the supplies they needed, but he also arranged for the purchase of burros at a reasonable price.
“The proprietor certainly went out of his way to help us,” Joe commented.
“Naturally,” Frank replied. “He and the villagers are glad to get rid of us.”
Shortly the boys were off on their journey toward the distant mountains. As they jogged along, the terrain became more difficult to travel.
“This must be the slowest form of transportation in the world,” Chet said as he tried to get his burro to move faster.
“These animals are slow,” Tico explained. “But they are reliable and sure-footed.”
The air became cooler as the riders moved higher into the mountains. Near sunset, Frank suggested that they stop and make camp.
“There’s a flat piece of ground over there,” Joe observed.
It was dark by the time they had pitched their tent and gathered firewood to cook supper.
Chet struck a match and was about to light the tinder when Frank suddenly hissed, “Put that out!”
“What’s the matter?” Chet asked, flicking out the glow.
“I see a campfire!”
“Where?” Joe asked.


  
The proprietor seemed too eager to sell them supplies
“On the other side of that gully. About half a mile away!”
“Maybe it’s a party of hunters,” Tico suggested. “There are mule deer, antelope, and mountain lions in this area.”
“Could be,” Frank answered cautiously. “Then again, it might not be. We’ll have to check it out. Chet, you and Tico stay here and guard the camp. And don’t light a fire. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
“Be careful,” Tico warned. “The ground is dangerous.”
Frank and Joe started off, moving slowly across the craggy terrain. In places the ground was gouged with narrow crevices and holes. They worked their way up a slope, then across a level stretch covered with tangled brush. Finally they dropped to hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way.
“There’s the campfire in that clearing just ahead,” Joe whispered. “Keep your head down!”
As the excited boys crept closer, a weird sound of chanting voices drifted to their ears.

CHAPTER XI
Mountain Pursuit  
THE SOUND sent a chill through the Hardys! Was this the strange music Santos had told his wife about?
More cautious than ever, Frank and Joe crawled forward on elbows and stomachs. In a few minutes they had the campfire in sight. Seated around it were eight men. Two, who wore sombreros and sarapes, were not Indians, but the others appeared to be Indians. Their colorful garb looked like that worn by ancient Aztec tribes.
Beyond the fire and barely perceptible in its glow stood an Indian, with a rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. He seemed to be guarding the prone figure of a man, wrapped in a blanket and lying on the ground beside him.
Suddenly the two men wearing the sombreros got to their feet and began walking toward the spot where the boys were hiding. Quickly Frank and Joe moved behind a clump of brush and waited, their hearts pounding.
The two men came to a stop within a few feet of them. “No me queda bien,” one said. 
Fearing they might have been discovered, the Hardys poised themselves for action.
“Sh—speak English, amigo,” the man’s companion ordered. “If the others hear us, they will not know what we talk about.” 
“I do not care,” the first man replied defiantly. “Pavura does not frighten me. He has broken his promise. We were to be paid for our work. Yet I have not seen a single peso.”
The boys gave inward sighs of relief! The men were unaware of their presence!
“Let us speak to Pavura when we return with the American,” said the second man. “We will demand payment!”
The two men returned to the campfire, and the Hardys crept back to their own camp and reported what they had learned.
“You say they have an American with them?” Chet said.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “He must be the one we spotted lying on the ground.”
“I wonder who he is,” Chet said.
“Will you try to rescue him?” Tico inquired.
“Not right away,” Frank replied. “First we’re going to follow those men and see where they’re going.”
“In rough country like this?” Chet countered. “Impossible.”
“I can be of help to you,” Tico said. “My grandfather was Indian. As a young child he taught me much about tracking. I am sure I can follow their trail.”
Frank outlined a plan. He, Joe, and Tico would go to keep an eye on the men. When their quarry made ready to leave, Joe would return to their own camp and tell Chet.
“Tico and I will mark a clear trail for you two as we go along,” Frank told his brother. “You can then follow us at a safe distance with our burros and equipment.”
“Sounds like a workable plan to me,” Joe commented. “By the way, I noticed those fellows didn’t have any horses or burros. They must be traveling on foot.”
“That’ll make it a lot easier for us,” Frank concluded.
Since the situation prevented them from lighting a fire, the boys had a cold supper of canned meat and vegetables. Then Frank started back across the gully with his brother and Tico. When they spotted the encampment, they saw that the men had gone to sleep. One Indian remained awake to stand guard.
“We have a long night ahead of us,” Frank said in a hushed voice. “Let’s rotate a watch. I’ll take the first shift. You two get some sleep.”
At dawn the camp suddenly became alive with men scurrying about. Tico, who was the last to keep watch, shook his companions awake.
“I believe the men prepare to leave,” he whispered excitedly.
Frank and Joe spied on the activity. One of the two men, wearing a sombrero and sarape, walked over to the prone figure wrapped in a blanket.
“I think you have enough siesta, senor,” the man snapped sarcastically. “We go now.” He pulled off the blanket to reveal a thin, gray-haired bespectacled man, tied hand and foot.
Elmer Tremmer!
The Hardys gasped at sight of the pathetic figure, whom they recognized from a photograph in their father’s dossier. 
“Why did you tie me up?” Tremmer complained timidly. “I wasn’t trying to run away!”
The man with the sombrero bent down and untied him. “I take no chances. Pavura would not like it if we return without you.” He then pulled his prisoner to his feet.
According to plan, Joe hurried off to rejoin Chet. Frank and Tico watched as their quarry broke camp and headed in a direction that would take them deeper into the mountains.
“We’ll give them a head start,” Frank remarked.
Tico proved to be an excellent tracker. He quickly picked up the trail and followed it with ease. Frank marked their course by forming directional arrows on the ground with stones and twigs.
It was just about midday when Tico suddenly came to a halt. “Look!” he said in a low voice. “There are the men!”
Just ahead Frank saw their quarry. The men were seated on the ground. One Indian was distributing dried maize among them.
“They’ve stopped to eat,” Frank said. “We’d better do the same, Tico.”
The boys pulled several cans of rations from their pockets and ate quickly, then waited until the men set off again. It was almost dark before Frank and Tico had their quarry in sight once more.
The men were assembled in a clearing surrounded by steep, rugged hills. At the base of one hill was a large boulder which several Indians shoved aside. Behind it was the entrance to a cave. The men entered, pushing Tremmer ahead of them. Several Indians remained outside to replace the boulder and stand guard.
“This is their hideout!” Frank said excitedly. “Let’s backtrack and meet Joe and Chet before they reach this spot. The burros are likely to make noise and give us away.”
Returning along the trail, the two boys traveled nearly a mile before they met the others.
“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed as his brother told where the trail had led. “You say they went into a cave?”
“That’s right,” Frank answered. “Let’s reconnoiter the area in the morning. Maybe we can find out what they’re up to.”
The boys made camp close by and ate supper. All slept soundly. Shortly before dawn, Frank awakened and aroused the others.
“We’ll go back to the place where Tico and I spotted the cave,” he said. “It’ll be better if we go before daylight. Also, one of us will have to stay here and guard the camp and burros.”
“I guess I’m elected again,” Chet grumbled.
Tico observed his expression of disappointment. “I shall stay here,” he announced with a smile.
The Hardys started out with Chet along the marked trail. When they arrived at their destination, they selected a hiding place from where they could view the cave. Within the hour the sun began to appear above the crest of the mountains.
“There are the Indian guards,” Frank whispered as light spilled into the clearing.
“They’re all asleep,” Joe observed.
“Those guys don’t seem to be taking their jobs seriously,” Chet added.
“Obviously they don’t expect outsiders to be roaming around these mountains,” Frank said.
Finally the guards began to awaken. They scrambled to their feet and rolled aside the boulder covering the cave entrance. Soon, about forty Indians emerged and hurried off as if on an urgent mission.
“Look at all those men,” Joe hissed. “Where could they be headed?”
The boys watched as the guards went into the cave and, seconds later, reappeared with Tremmer. They marched off after the others, leaving only one man behind. The Indian found a shady spot at the edge of the clearing and promptly went to sleep again.
“Now’s our chance to take a look inside,” Joe whispered.
The boys crept from their hiding place and across the clearing. They froze in their tracks when the sleeping Indian grunted, but he did not wake up.
When they reached the cave entrance, Frank whispered, “Be careful. There might still be someone in there.”
The searchers crept cautiously through the entrance. Inside, they found a spacious cavern. Through the gloom, faintly illuminated by several nearly burned-out torches, the boys saw that the cave was empty.
Joe suddenly grasped his brother’s arm. “Look! In the center of the floor! It’s the symbol!”
They all stared in awe at a large stone altar. On it was carved a cluster of branches or faggots. And mounted on top was a stone inscribed with the letter P.
Quietly Joe climbed up the side of the altar. At the top, he saw that a deep, circular channel had been cut into the stone. Charred bits of wood indicated that the channel was used to hold a fire.
“Holy crow!” he said to himself. “I wonder if this is some kind of cult.”
Frank, meanwhile, in searching for clues, came upon a large section of damaged stone at the base of the altar. The broken fragment had been set back loosely into place. He pulled it away slightly and peered in through the opening.
The lower portion of the altar proved to be hollow.
“Hey, fellows!” Frank whispered. “Take a look at this.”
“Caramba!”
Chet exclaimed. “And see this, Frank.” He moved toward the far corner of the cave. In the shadows was a stack of empty wooden crates marked MACHINERY. 
“These look like the same type of boxes we saw being loaded aboard the submarine in the cove,” Frank said.
Nearby were a number of small, wooden barrels with the word muestra painted on their sides. 
“Muestra!”
Joe remarked. “That means ‘sample’ in Spanish, doesn’t it?” 
Frank nodded, then sniffed at one of the barrels. “Smells like crude oil to me,” he muttered.
“What a discovery!” said Chet. “Come on. Let’s look around some more.”
At the rear of the cave, Frank found a cavity in the wall. Its opening was covered by a door of metal bars.
“Looks like a prison cell,” said Joe.
At that moment Frank spotted a small fragment of paper on the floor. He picked it up. There was a single line of print: 
The practicability of the draco
... 
“This must have been part of a page from a magazine,” he said, handing the fragment to his brother.
Joe examined it. “You might be right,” he agreed. “Too bad we don’t have the rest of it.”
“I’d like to see the complete spelling of the last word which begins with draco,” Frank commented. “Something about it rings a small bell! I‘m—”
“Listen!” Chet interrupted. “I hear something!”
The boys remained perfectly quiet for a moment.
“I hear it too!” Joe said finally. “Men talking!”
The three darted toward the entrance but halted abruptly when they saw the shadows of three men on the ground outside.
“Oh, oh!” Frank whispered. “It must be the guards!”
“And they’re armed,” Joe added. “It would be too risky to try and make a break for it now.”
“But we can’t stay here!” Chet whispered nervously. “That crowd of Indians might come back any time now.”
Chet’s fears were warranted. Soon many men could be heard approaching the cave entrance. The boys frantically searched for a place to hide.
“Quick!” Frank commanded, remembering the altar. “Follow me!” He pulled aside the broken fragment of stone at its base. “Inside! Hurry!”
The boys squeezed through the opening and into the hollow portion of the altar. A split second later the Indians poured into the cave.
“Fuego!”
one of them shouted. “Fuego por Pavura!”
The boys were horror-stricken. The Indians were about to build a fire on top of the altar!

CHAPTER XII
The Search  
“WE’LL be roasted alive!” Chet quavered.
“Quiet,” Joe warned, nudging Chet with his elbow.
Frank fully realized their desperate situation. If they left their hiding place—capture! Yet to remain—destruction!
The fire was started, and the boys waited tensely for the temperature to rise. But much to their surprise, the heat was not intolerable.
“Of course!” Frank said to himself. “The altar is made out of volcanic rock. It is radiating the heat of the fire too rapidly to get very hot itself!”
From outside came the same kind of weird chanting they had heard the previous night.
“They must be performing some kind of ceremony,” Joe whispered into his brother’s ear.
Suddenly the chanting stopped.
“Pavura! Pavura!” the Indians shouted in unison.
The deep voice of a man, obviously that of their leader, addressed them in Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” Chet hissed.
“I can only pick up a few words,” Frank whispered. “He thanks them for their work, and says they’ll be rewarded soon.”
After the ceremony the Indians left. Their footfalls faded away. Frank was about to push the broken stone aside when he suddenly stopped at the muffled voices of two men speaking in English.
“Why am I being treated like a prisoner?” one man asked.
“You tried to run away, Senor Tremmer,” the other replied. “Perhaps you go to the authorities. I do not like that.”
“You’re wrong, Vincenzo! I didn’t try to run away! Didn’t I come to Mexico with you of my own free will? I just went out for a walk and got lost.”
“Odd, then,” Vincenzo replied, “that my men find you more than a day’s journey from here. I do not believe you. However, I will give you one more chance. But if you run away again, I shall send my men after you with orders not to bring you back.” 
“Don’t threaten me, Vincenzo!”
“Ah, but I will. And do not speak my name in the presence of my men. To them I am known only as Pavura!”
Vincenzo and Pavura! One and the same! The boys quivered with excitement. And Vincenzo was the leader of the Indians, who worshiped him.
More footsteps. Then silence.
“They’ve gone!” Joe whispered.
The boys cautiously crawled from their hiding place, and edged toward the cave exit. Seeing no sign of the guards, they dashed across the clearing and headed back to their own camp. After eating and taking a short rest, the young detectives mulled over the situation and discussed a new plan.
“Tico, you take one of the burros and go back to Montaraz,” Frank instructed him. “Ask Senora Santos to help you get in touch with the authorities. Tell them what we’ve found out.”
“Si,
I will do as you say,” the Mexican youth promised. “But what do you plan to do?” 
“Chet will guard the camp, while Joe and I re connoiter the area,” Frank explained. “We’d like to find out what those Indians are up to.”
After Tico departed for the village, the Hardys began a systematic search of the surrounding territory. They carefully threaded their way across the difficult, lunar-like terrain.
“When the Indians leave the cave,” Joe said, pointing off to his right, “they go in that direction.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “But let’s stay close to this ridge. The rocks will give us good cover.”
Nearly an hour had passed before the boys heard sounds of activity somewhere ahead of them.
“What’s that?” Joe asked curiously.
“Sounds like men digging,” Frank replied.
The Hardys continued on slowly. Soon they came upon a startling scene. In a small clearing ahead, Indians were working busily. Some were digging with picks and shovels. Others carried heavy wooden crates.
“Looks like some kind of mining operation,” Frank said in a hushed voice.
The boys crept ahead for a closer look. They saw several Mexicans, not dressed as Indians, assembling various pieces of machinery. Nearby was a narrow-gauge railroad that stretched out of sight down an incline to the east. Resting on the track was an unusual-looking vehicle. It was an elongated wooden platform with sides that angled outwards and was set on eight small rail road-type wheels.
“What’s that?” Joe blurted.
“I’ve never seen anything like it used in mining,” Frank whispered. “It must be ninety feet long.”
“And about six feet wide,” Joe added.
“Let’s work our way around to the other side of the clearing. Be careful. We don’t want to run into any of these guys.”
The boys edged their way along, studying the scene with increasing interest. Then Frank began to sniff the air. “I smell crude oil.”
“I do, too,” Joe said.
Just then the Hardys heard a man shout from somewhere behind them. “Fare—Halt!”
The boys whirled to see an Indian with a rifle standing at the top of a knoll.
“We’ve been spotted!” Joe gasped.
A shot rang out, and the Hardys ran. More shots. A bullet ricocheted off a rock close by.
“Head for the ridge!” Frank cried.
By now the Indians in the clearing had dropped their tools and were racing off in pursuit of the boys.
Joe stumbled and fell. Frank stopped and yanked him to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“Yes—I’m okay! Let’s keep going!”
In the next instant the Hardys were startled to see several more Indians blocking their path to the ridge.
“This way!” Joe shouted as he started down a slope to the right.
The boys zigzagged through the craggy terrain. After a grueling race, they gradually outdistanced their pursuers.
“We’re losing them!” Frank shouted.
Despite their exhaustion the boys forced themselves to maintain their rapid pace. But they had traveled only a little farther when they suddenly came to a halt.
“It can’t be!” Joe yelled, pointing directly ahead.
There was the clearing where they had spotted, the Indians.
The youths had run in a complete circle. Soon shouts began to come from all sides.
“We’re surrounded!” Joe cried out in dismay.

CHAPTER XIII
A Charging Donkey  
As THE Hardys ran toward the clearing, Joe moaned, “We’re trapped!”
“Hold on!” Frank shouted. “We might have one chance—that railroad car! Maybe we can ride it out of here!”
Amid shots from their pursuers, the Hardys darted to the odd vehicle, which was anchored by two heavy chains. They quickly unfastened the car and pushed it down the slope with all the strength that they could muster. Once it had picked up momentum, the boys leaped aboard.
Bam! Bam!
Frank and Joe ducked as bullets thudded into the sides of the wooden platform. The car gained speed. Indians appeared along the sides of the track, shouting and waving their arms, but they were helpless to do anything. Soon the pursuers were left far behind.
The boys raised their heads to look about. They were traveling downhill at breakneck speed.
“Now how do we get off this thing?” Frank shouted. “We’re moving too fast to jump!”
Joe pointed ahead and gasped. “Look!” Farther down the slope the track came to an abrupt end. Fifty feet from there lay a stack of rusting rails, directly astride the car’s path.
“There must be a brake system somewhere on this!” Frank said. 
The ground rushed by in a blur as the boys frantically searched for a way to stop the car. Joe stumbled to the rear and looked over the side. Spotting a long metal lever just within reach, he grabbed it and pulled upward with all his strength. The rear wheels of the car locked, throwing up a shower of sparks.
“I found it!” he exclaimed.
Frank discovered a similar lever on the right side and yanked up on it hard. The center wheels of the car locked, also producing a geyser of sparks.
Anxious moments followed as the car continued to coast down the slope, but slower and slower. Finally it came to a stop a few feet short of the track’s end.
“Whew!” Joe sighed. “That was close.”
Frank mopped his brow. “If we hadn’t found those brake levers, we’d have ended up in little pieces.”
The boys leaped out and trotted over to the stack of rails.
“Apparently they’re still in the process of building this road,” Joe observed. “I wonder where the track will lead when it’s finished.”
“That’s something we’ll try to figure out later,” Frank said. “Right now, we’d better get out of here. Those Indians are probably on their way!”
They set off at a brisk pace, and after about a mile, stopped to rest.
“Our camp shouldn’t be too far from here,” Frank commented. He took a compass from his pocket to estimate the direction they should head. “We’d better get back before Chet starts worrying.”
When they reached their camp the Hardys found Chet propped up against a rock, whittling a stick of wood. He appeared dejected.
“I’m bored,” muttered Chet. “When are you going to let me in on some action? I’m tired of playing baby sitter to a bunch of burros,” he complained.
Joe laughed. “We want to keep all you donkeys together.”
Moving like a charging lineman, Chet dropped his whittling and tackled Joe below the knees. The blond boy hit the ground with a thud, then rose grinning.
“I guess I asked for that,” he admitted ruefully, and added, “Chet, did you ever think of playing pro football?”
The horseplay lifted Chet’s spirits, and he listened eagerly as the Hardys told him about the runaway rail car. Then he opened some cans of food and they ate, seated on the ground.
“I hope Tico had luck contacting the authorities,” Joe remarked.
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” said Frank. “Meanwhile, we’ll stay here and keep an eye on the Indians.”
It was late afternoon when the Hardys crept back to the spot from where they could view the cave.
“Oh, oh! They have more guards,” Joe observed.
“Just a precaution,” Frank surmised. “Vincenzo isn’t taking any chances after his men reported a couple of outsiders in the vicinity.”
“One thing is sure,” Joe added, “we’re safe here. This is the last place they’d expect to find us.”
As darkness came on, the Hardys saw Tremmer emerge from the cave. He strolled casually around the edge of the clearing and sat down on a boulder.
Frank leaned close to his brother. “I’m going to crawl down there and try to speak to him.”
“But he might give you away.”
“I have a feeling he won‘t,” Frank said. “But if anything does happen to me, get back to our camp and wait for Tico to return.”
“Okay. Be careful!”
Frank crept cautiously toward where Tremmer was seated. He maneuvered himself into a position directly behind the boulder, checked to see if the guards were at a safe distance, then called out in a low voice.
“Elmer Tremmer!”
“Who—who’s that?” stammered the startled bookkeeper.
“Sh—I’m a friend,” Frank assured him.
“Qué pasa?
—What is going on?” one of the guards shouted. 
“Er—er—nothing! Nothing at all!” Tremmer answered, turning his head away from Frank.
The guard appeared satisfied and resumed his conversation with a companion.
“Who are you?” the bookkeeper whispered excitedly.
“My name is Frank Hardy.”
“Hardy? The Bayport detective?”
“I’m his son. My brother and I are here to help you.”
“Help me? How?”
“To escape.”
Tremmer shifted uneasily. “No! I don’t want to escape!” he said in a frightened voice.
“If you’re afraid to go back to the States,” Frank whispered, “don’t be. The authorities only want you to testify as a witness in the stock-fraud case.”
“But Vincenzo told me I’ll go to jail. I ...”
“Who is this man Vincenzo?” the young detective queried.
“He’s a very dangerous man,” the bookkeeper warned. “He leads these Indians under the name Pavura. They’re very superstitious and think he’s some kind of god. When I first met him, he used the alias Cardillo.”
The young detective was startled. Another alias! So Cardillo, Pavura, and Vincenzo were really one! Frank pushed himself closer to the boulder.
“What is he using the Indians for, Mr. Tremmer?”
“I—I can’t tell you. And I’m not going to try to escape again. If Vincenzo caught me ...” His words trailed off. He got up and walked toward the cave.
Greatly disappointed, Frank rejoined Joe.
“Any luck?” Joe whispered.
“I’m afraid not,” Frank answered, then told him about the conversation with Tremmer.
“He might go straight to Vincenzo and warn him about us,” Joe said worriedly.
“I don’t think he will. My guess is that Vincenzo scared him into coming to Mexico. He probably told Tremmer he’d go to jail with the rest of them if they were caught.”
“While all the time he just wanted to get Tremmer out of the way so he couldn’t testify,” Joe declared.
“Right!”
“Do you think he’ll stick with the gang?”
“I’ve given Tremmer reason to doubt Vincenzo,” Frank said. “If he realizes he’s only wanted as a witness, he might come over to our side.”
The Hardys decided to return to their camp. It was dark when they arrived.
“Funny,” Frank murmured. “I’m sure this is where we had our campsite.”
The boys exchanged puzzled glances.
“Chet!” Frank called in a subdued voice. “Chet!” No response.
“Where are you?” Joe called louder.
“This has got to be the right spot,” Frank said in alarm. He pulled a pencil flashlight from his pocket and played its beam on the ground. “Look!” He quickly bent over and picked up a small object. “This is the stick Chet was whittling!”
“But there’s no sign of him or the burros and equipment!”
Joe spotted footprints in the soft dirt. Their pattern was scrambled, indicating that a struggle must have taken place.
Meanwhile, Frank made another discovery. Revealed in the bright, narrow beam of his light was a small heap of ashes. “Chet must have built a fire after we left,” he called out to his brother.
Joe felt the ashes with the palm of his hand. “Cold!” he declared. “This fire has been out at least a couple of hours.”
“That means it would still have been daylight.”
“But the smoke! The Indians must have spotted it!”
There was a hollow feeling in the pits of their stomachs. The boys knew that there was only one explanation for Chet’s disappearance. He was in the hands of Vincenzol

CHAPTER XIV
A Threatening Message  
“WE MUST rescue Chet—and fast!” Joe exclaimed. “No telling what Vincenzo will do to him!”
“Simmer down. Let’s keep our heads,” Frank advised. “If we end up getting captured ourselves, we won’t be able to help anybody.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “But we can’t stay here without food, water, and equipment. I’d say our best chance is to start back to Montaraz as soon as it’s light. We might even meet Tico on the way.”
The boys cut some brush to improvise beds, and fell asleep. At dawn they began the long journey to the village. At one point they crossed a wide, parched stretch of desert plain. Their thirst became unbearable.
“I don’t even see a cactus plant around,” Joe said weakly. “We’ve got to have water.”
“Try not to think about it,” Frank advised. “Just keep moving.” They plodded on.
A few minutes later the boys spotted an abandoned vehicle partially buried in the sand.
“It must be a mirage,” Joe said.
“Mirage nothing. It’s a jeep.” Frank observed, and hastened to it.
“This thing’s as hot as a griddle,” Joe remarked as he touched a portion of metal exposed to the sun.
“Looks as if the driver got bogged down in the sand and had to leave it,” Frank said. “This thing must’ve been here for months.”
On the rear floor of the vehicle, Joe found several wrenches wrapped in a large plastic sheet.
“If only we could squeeze water out of these,” he commented, trying to force a smile. He flung the plastic aside.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Frank commanded. “Don’t throw that plastic sheet away. It might be the answer to our problem!”
Joe eyed his brother curiously. He retrieved the plastic sheet and handed it to him.
“Yes! This might just do the trick,” Frank muttered as he examined it.
“Are you sure the heat hasn’t gotten to you?” Joe asked.
“I’m fine,” his brother assured him. “I just remembered an article I read some time ago in a science magazine. It described a water generator which uses a plastic sheet just like this.”
Joe’s eyes widened. “Say! Now that you mention it, I remember you showing me the article. You start by digging a hole three or four feet across and about half that deep. Then you spread the plastic sheet over it and set a stone in the center. This causes the sheet to sink and form an inverted cone.”
“Exactly,” Frank replied. “It’s based on the principle that even the driest soil contains some moisture. As the sun evaporates it, the water vapor condenses on the underside of the plastic sheet. The droplets then begin to trickle down to the point of the inverted cone and fall into a container.”
The boys grabbed a couple of wrenches and began scraping a hole in the soft earth. Frank removed a headlight from the jeep and broke off its stem to serve as a container. He placed it at the bottom of the hole.
“Now help me spread the sheet over it, Joe.”
When the job was finished, Joe picked up a stone and laid it in the center of the sheet, which sank down toward the container in the shape of a cone.
“Now all we have to do is wait,” Frank said.
“How long will it take?”
“According to experiments, about a quart is produced every twelve hours. But we should have enough water to quench our thirst long before that.”
The Hardys sat beside the jeep. Removing their jackets, they spread them over their heads in order to ward off the hot rays of the sun. After several hours they checked on the progress of their water generator.
“It worked like a charm,” Frank said, pointing to the clear water that had collected in the container.
Joe grinned. “There must be at least a pint there.”
Frank took the first swig. “Finest water I ever tasted,” he quipped, and handed the container to his brother.
“You’re right. Great stuff!” Joe glanced at the position of the sun. “It’ll be dark within a couple of hours,” he continued. “Let’s try to cover a little distance by then. We’ll take the water generator with us.”
The boys got underway. Soon they found them selves moving into an area where they saw increasing signs of plant life.
“I see hawthorn bushes!” Joe exclaimed. “They have those small red and yellow apples Tico told us about.”
The Hardys picked a supply of the fruit and ate heartily.
“It’s a far cry from Mother’s or Aunt Gertrude’s home cooking,” Joe commented, “but at least it’ll keep us from starving.”
Exhausted, the boys fell asleep and did not awaken until dawn. As they continued their journey, Frank and Joe saw that they were moving into cactus country.
“We won’t have to depend on our generator for water after all,” Joe observed. “There’s enough in those cactus plants to fill a lake.”
As the Hardys were plodding over the top of a sandy knoll, Joe suddenly stopped and pointed. Frank looked down at the bottom of a shallow gully to see two Mexicans wearing sombreros. Nearby was a canvas lean-to for shelter, and over a fire was suspended a black kettle in which something was cooking.
“Just campers,” Joe muttered.
“Maybe,” Frank whispered. “But we’d better not take any chances. They might be members of Vincenzo’s gang.”
Unaware of the Hardys, one of the men picked up a walkie-talkie and began speaking into it. Under cover of the brush, Frank and Joe crept closer to eavesdrop.
“Montaraz! Montaraz!” the Mexican exclaimed. “No comprendo! Repita, por favor!-I do not understand! Please repeat!” There was a moment of silence. “Bueno! Bueno!” he continued. “Pavura aguardar!-Goodl Good! Pavura awaits!” 
“Did you hear that?” Joe hissed. “He’s talking to someone in Montaraz. And he mentioned Pavura!”
Frank did not reply. He signaled for Joe to withdraw a safer distance away, and they crept back across the knoll.
“What do you make of it?” Joe inquired. “We’re still several miles from Montaraz. That walkie-talkie can’t transmit so far.”
“My guess is that Vincenzo has a string of men, spaced just within range of one another, extending from his headquarters to the village,” Frank replied.
“You mean a chain of communication?” Joe asked.
“Right! Pretty clever, too. If Vincenzo used a single transmitter at his headquarters, it would have to be more powerful. That would increase the danger of his messages being picked up by the authorities. This way the signal range is very limited.”
“Why don’t we grab those two guys?” Joe snapped.
“No,” Frank answered. “It would cause a break in the chain and warn Vincenzo that something is wrong.”
“Well, at least we’ve learned one fact. He must have a spy in the village.”
The boys resumed their journey, estimating that they would reach Montaraz by nightfall.
“We’d better change our course slightly,” Frank advised, “so we don’t stumble across any of Vincenzo’s men.”


  
“They might be members of Vincenzo’s gang!” Frank whispered
Tired and dusty, the Hardys trudged into the outskirts of the village shortly after dark.
“There’s only one person we can trust in Montaraz,” Frank said. “That’s Señora Santos. But we must be extra careful. Now that we know there’s at least one spy in the village, we can’t risk being seen.”
The boys crouched low and headed for Senora Santos’s home. At that hour the streets were deserted, but as the young detectives skirted the plaza, a man emerged from the cantina. The boys darted behind a tree until he walked by. When they reached the Santos house, Frank tapped lightly on the door. 
“Quién vive?
—Who is there?” came the muffled voice of a woman from behind the door. 
“The Hardys,” Frank said.
“Ah, los muchachos!
One moment. I shall open the door,” announced Senora Santos. 
“Put out your light first,” Frank replied. “We don’t want to be silhouetted in the doorway.”
The woman obeyed. Then she admitted the boys and relit the small oil lamp.
“Do you bring news of my husband?” she asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not,” Joe said sympathetically.
“Has our friend Tico been here?” Frank inquired.
“No, I not see him,” Senora Santos answered.
The Hardys glanced at each other worriedly.
“I do not think I see you again,” she muttered nervously.
“Why not?” Frank questioned.
“This morning I find a note under my door. It say I no speak with you if you come to our village. I not obey!”
“Is that all the message said?” Joe queried.
“No,” the woman replied. Her face turned pale. “It say that your two friends are in hands of Pavura. If you try to contact police, you never see them again, and I will not see my husband!” She burst into tears.
“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “Vincenzo has Tico as well as Chet!”

CHAPTER XV
Tunnel Escape  
“Now we’re really in trouble!” Joe declared.
“It’s a cinch we can’t go to the authorities,” Frank said nervously. “We’d be risking the lives of Chet, Tico, and Señor Santos.”
The woman continued to sob and the Hardys tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll figure out some way to rescue them.”
“I’m for going back to the cave,” Joe said.
“So am I,” Frank agreed. “It would be better if we had some help, but we’ll have to do without it.”
“What about supplies?” Joe said.
Señora Santos turned to the boys. “I give you food, and my husband has things to make camp. You may take what you need.”
She led the way to another room and pointed to a large wooden chest. Inside it, the boys found a pup tent, canteens, a small hatchet, and other useful items. Joe selected some rock-climbing tools, pitons and a coil of rope, and tucked them into his belt.
“My uncle lives three miles north of the village,” Senora Santos said. “He is elderly and cannot help you. But he has horses which you may borrow.”
“Thank you, señora,” Frank said with a bow.
The woman jotted a note in Spanish, which she handed to Joe, along with a golden locket. “Give my uncle this,” she instructed. “He will know I have sent you.”
The Hardys decided to start immediately. They stalked out of the village and headed north. An hour later they found the hacienda of Senora Santos’s uncle without any difficulty. The old man took the note and locket, spoke rapidly to the boys in Spanish, and beckoned them to follow him to the corral. There he provided them with two chestnut-colored horses. The Hardys mounted and rode off, smiling and waving their thanks.
“This is sure better than walking,” Joe declared.
“You can say that again,” Frank replied. “But we’d better not try traveling too far in the dark. We’ll put a little more distance between us and Montaraz, then stop to rest.”
After they had ridden an hour, the Hardys made camp and feasted from a supply of tortillas and dried fruit Señora Santos had given them. 
The next day the journey continued in a direction designed to avoid the men in Vincenzo’s chain of communication. The ride was dusty, hot, and fatiguing. The boys pushed on, however, at a rapid pace and reached their destination late that afternoon.
“We’d better not get any closer to the cave than this,” Frank advised. “Vincenzo is certain to have extra guards watching for intruders.”
“Here’s a good place to make camp,” Joe said as he examined a deep cleft in the rocks surrounded by heavy brush.
“Good,” Frank answered. “And there’s enough vegetation around for the horses.”
Next day, before dawn, Frank and Joe started out on foot toward Vincenzo’s hideout. Cautiously they crept to the spot from where they could view the cave entrance in secret.
“They’ve doubled the guard,” Joe observed.
“That complicates matters,” Frank whispered. “But first we’ll have to find out where Chet and the others are being kept before we can plan a rescue.”
Just as the sun began to rise above the crest of the mountains, the Indian workers emerged from the cave.
“Right on schedule,” Joe remarked in a low voice.
“And some of the guards are going with them,” Frank said.
The workers were immediately followed by six Mexicans who were obviously captives. Two guards prodded them along with their rifles.
“They must be the men who disappeared from the village!” Joe whispered excitedly.
“I’m sure of it,” his brother agreed. “One of them must be Senor Santos.”
Suddenly something attracted Frank’s attention. “That’s odd,” he muttered. “I hadn’t noticed it before.”
“What?”
Frank pointed to a ledge farther up the slope above the cave. Two Indians had just appeared from behind a curtain made of twigs and brush.
“It looks like the entrance to another cave,” Joe muttered in surprise.
“Maybe that’s where Chet and Tico are being held prisoners,” Frank surmised. “If we could reach that ledge, we could crawl along it without being seen.”
The boys decided to make an immediate attempt. They scanned the area and elected to work their way around the east side of the clearing, then up the craggy face of the slope.
“There are plenty of rocks to give us cover,” Frank concluded.
The Hardys inched their way along. Progress was painfully slow when they reached the slope and began the grueling climb to the ledge. The boys’ pulses quickened as one of the guards in the clearing below looked up in their direction. But he turned away without spotting them.
Finally the Hardys reached their goal. They flattened themselves out on the ledge and pushed their way toward the place from which they had seen the Indians emerge. Frank carefully lifted up the lower corner of the curtain woven from twigs and brush.
“What do you see?” Joe whispered.
“It’s a cave all right,” Frank answered in a hushed voice.
“Carefull There might be more Indians inside.”
“I don’t see any. We’re in luck!”
The boys cautiously crawled in through the entrance. Then they got to their feet and examined their surroundings in the dim light. They were in a spacious chamber which narrowed toward the rear to form a corridor about the size of a subway tunnel. It appeared to lead deeper into the center of the mountain.
“This must be another of Vincenzo’s storage rooms,” Joe remarked, noticing several rows of wooden crates.
Frank gazed curiously at a number of strange-looking, elongated objects stretched along one wall of the cave.
“These seem to be rubber-coated nylon containers of some kind,” he said, examining them more closely.
“And they’re about as long as that crazy rail car we took a ride on,” Joe added.
Suddenly the curtain covering the entrance moved aside. Two Indians walked into the cave. Unable to find a hiding place in time, the boys crouched low.
“Cuando estará listo?
—When will it be ready?” one of the Indians asked his companion. 
The other was about to answer, when the two men came to an abrupt halt. They stared directly at the Hardys with startled expressions.
“After them before they warn the others!” Frank exclaimed.
The boys sprang up and hurled themselves toward the Indians. They crashed into the midriffs of the men and sent them tumbling to the ground. Frank lashed out with a right that knocked his opponent unconscious. The second Indian broke from Joe’s grasp. He darted to the cave entrance and shouted a warning to his companions. Joe rushed after him and dealt the Indian a blow that sent him sprawling.
“How do we get out of here?” Joe cried as he and his brother heard the sound of shouting men drawing closer.
Frank peered at the long, dark corridor leading from the rear of the cave. “That way!” he ordered.
The boys stumbled through the inky blackness of the tunnel for a short distance. Then they pulled out their pencil flashlights and examined the path ahead.
“This tunnel might lead to a dead end!” Joe declared.
“We have no choice but to go on!” Frank replied.
Already many Indians could be heard entering the tunnel in pursuit. In desperation, the Hardys broke into a frantic run. Finally they had to stop for a moment to catch their breath. As the boys did so, they gradually became aware of a new sound.
“Do you hear that?” Joe asked. They listened more intently.
“Sounds like flowing water!” Frank replied.
Continuing on, they noticed that the sound became louder. At a point where the tunnel grew wider, the boys directed the beams of their flashlights a distance ahead.
Joe gasped. “Look! It’s an underground river!”
They whirled to see the flickering glow of torches approaching from far down the tunnel.
“Let’s chance it and try swimming downstream!” Joe suggested frantically.
“Okay!”
The Hardys quickly removed their shoes, tied the laces together, and draped them around their necks. They jumped feet first into the water. No sooner had the icy current swept them away, when several Indians arrived on the scene.
“They’re not coming after us!” Joe sputtered.
The boys fought hard to keep their heads above the churning water as the river carried them through a dark tunnel. Minutes later, they saw a bright circle of light ahead.
“Sunlight!” Frank shouted, but his joy suddenly froze to horror.
The underground river gushed through the opening and cascaded out of sight with a thunderous roar!

CHAPTER XVI
Face to Face  
THE SWIFT current tumbled the Hardys toward the river’s drop. They were about to be swept through, when Joe, in the lead, grabbed a segment of rock projecting from the wall of the tunnel about three feet above his head.
“Hang on to me!” he shouted.
Frank clung to Joe’s waist and gazed through the opening. The water cascaded to jagged rocks below.
“Don’t let go!” he screamed, “or we’re finished!”
“I’ll hang on as long as I can!” Joe shouted.
The water pounded against the boys and threatened to carry them with it into the chasm.
“The rock-climbing tools!” Frank cried out.
Joe hooked his left arm around the projection of rock and pulled a piton from his belt. Using the small hatchet in his right hand and holding the pin in the other, he hammered the piton into the tunnel wall. Then he took the coil of rope and threaded one end through the eyelet of the piton to form a double line.
Grasping it firmly with both hands, Joe let go of the rock and slowly fed out line. With the current pulling the boys’ bodies forward, they were swept outside the opening. They dangled precariously above the chasm as water gushed over them.
“There’s a narrow ledge to our left!” Frank yelled. “It looks just big enough for us to stand on if we can get close enough to reach it.”
He kicked out hard and the boys started to swing back and forth like a human pendulum. Frank, with only one hand around his brother’s waist, reached out for the ledge with the other.
“Almost!” he called as they arched up toward it.
Finally, after a hard swing, Frank managed to grab hold of the ledge. He and Joe pulled themselves up onto it. Then Joe released one half of the double line and pulled the rope free from the piton inside the tunnel.
“It’s about two hundred feet to the bottom of this waterfall,” Frank remarked. “And another two hundred to the top of the mountain,” he said as he peered at the sheer rock wall stretching above them.
“And it’s too far to the bottom for the amount of rope we have,” Joe observed. “Our best chance is to try making it to the top.”
Joe took one of his four remaining pitons and hammered it into the rock wall above the ledge. Using it as a foothold, he carefully lifted himself up. Then he drove another piton into the wall and repeated the procedure.
Frank began the dangerous climb immediately behind his brother. When Joe had used the last of his pitons, Frank reached down, loosened the lowermost one from the wall, and handed it to him. Each time the cycle was repeated, the boys edged a few feet closer to their goal.
Finally they reached the top and dragged themselves onto a level stretch of ground. “Whew!” Joe gasped. “I was beginning to think this hill was higher than Everest.”
The Hardys rested for a moment to regain their strength. Several minutes had passed when suddenly they were startled to see the shadows of two men fall across the ground from behind.
“Oh, oh!” Frank muttered. “We have company!”
Turning around, the youths saw two Indians standing just a few feet away.
“You come!” one of them demanded. “Pronto! Pronto!” He made a menacing gesture with his rifle. 
“Some of Vincenzo’s men must’ve spotted us climbing the wall,” Frank said to his brother.
“And planned this little reception for us,” Joe added. “It looks as if they mean business.”
The Indian repeated his order, then forced the boys to march in front of him. They slowly made their way down a steep, treacherous slope on the opposite side of the mountain. When they reached the bottom, the Indians took the captives back to their leader’s hideout.
The Hardys were prodded into the cave and led directly to the chamber which served as a prisoners’ cell.
“Chet and Tico are in there!” Joe exclaimed as one of the Indians unlocked the door of metal bars.
Frank and his brother were shoved inside and the door slammed behind them. Two Indians posted themselves outside as guards. Despite the boys’ predicament, they were overjoyed by the reunion.
“Sorry I messed up your plans, fellows,” Chet said apologetically. “But I didn’t think a small campfire would raise much smoke.”
“It’s too late to think about it now,” Frank replied.
“What happened to you?” Joe asked Tico. “How were you captured?”
“I had almost made it to Montaraz,” the Mexican youth explained, “when I came upon two men camped in the desert. They took me prisoner. One of them brought me back here after contacting Pavura on a small radio.”
“You ran across a couple of men in Vincenzo’s communication chain,” Frank said. The Hardys then told the others about their own adventure.
“Juan, Marcheta’s son, is being held prisoner here,” Chet announced. “And also six men from the village of Montaraz.”
“And one of them is Señor Santos,” Tico added.
“That’s what we figured,” Joe said. “We saw them being taken from the cave.”
“Did they say anything about what Vincenzo and his workers are up to?” Frank queried.
“They know only that they are made to work with the Indians on a small railroad,” Tico answered.
“Why aren’t you two forced to go along?” Joe asked curiously.
Tico grinned. “I overheard one of the guards say that Vincenzo thinks we are cleverer than the others,” he said. “He does not feel it is worth the extra guards it would take to watch us.”
“I’d say Vincenzo is a good judge of character,” Chet muttered proudly.
Later, the Indian workers began to swarm into the cave. Then Juan Marcheta and the six prisoners from Montaraz were returned to the cell. Tico introduced them to the Hardys.
Juan, a lean, dark-haired boy, told the young detectives how he had been kidnapped by Vincenzo in order to stop his father from cooperating with the authorities.
“Your father is in hiding,” Frank told him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you where he is, but he’s safe.”
Santos, a tall, pleasant-looking man with a thick mustache, anxiously asked the Hardys if they had any news of his wife.
“We saw her just two days ago,” Joe said. “She’s well.”
“Ah! That is good!” he replied with a sigh of relief.
“Why did Vincenzo take you prisoner?” Frank asked him.
Santos said he had accidentally stumbled upon the gang leader’s hideout while on a hunting trip. When he returned to Montaraz, he told some of his friends about his discovery.
“Upon leaving the cantina that night,” the Mexican continued, “I was struck on the head and knocked out. I was brought here.” He pointed to the other five men. “My amigos came to look for me and were also captured.” 
Joe remarked, “Obviously Vincenzo wanted to keep you from telling anyone about his hideout.”
“And he put the strange symbol on the doors of your houses to terrorize the other villagers,” Frank surmised. “It was meant to discourage them from getting curious.”
An Indian appeared and handed each of the prisoners a plate of dried maize. When they had finished eating, the weary captives fell asleep.
They were awakened the next morning by the sound of the Indian workers as they left the cave. Several guards came and escorted Santos and the other five men from the cell.
The Hardys’ thoughts turned to the possibility of escape. With Tico acting as their interpreter, they made an attempt to cajole their two guards into releasing them.
Joe creased his brow. “We’re not going to get anywhere with those guys,” he said.
At that instant two men entered the cave and approached the boys’ cell. One of them was a tall, angular man with thinning black hair. His close-set eyes and sharp features gave his face an expression of evil. The Hardys recognized him as the Mexican they had encountered in Bayport.
“It’s Cardillo!” Joe declared.
“You mean, Vincenzo!” his brother retorted.
The gangleader’s companion, a short, wiry Mexican, stepped forward. “You are in the presence of Pavura!” he exclaimed. “You do not speak unless he bids you to do so!”
“Don’t give us that Pavura stuff!” Joe snapped. “We know his real name!”
Vincenzo glared at the boys. “You think you are clever,” he snarled. “But what you have learned will not do you any good.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Frank retorted.
“I have no time for idle talk,” Vincenzo growled. He stepped closer to the cell door. “You will tell me the whereabouts of Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta!”
“They went fishing in Tampico,” Chet interrupted with a laugh.
“You will advise your fat amigo to be quiet!” shouted Vincenzo’s companion. 
“I order you to answer my questions!” the leader barked impatiently. “Does your father know you are here in Baja?”
“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself!” Frank replied.
“You force me to take stronger measures,” Vincenzo announced. “Perhaps the fiery brand of Pavura will loosen your tongues!”
The gangleader signaled the two guards, who immediately prepared a small pit of hot coals. Into it, one of the Indians thrust what appeared to be a branding iron. Minutes later he withdrew it from the pit. On the end of the iron, glowing white hot, was the mysterious symbol.
“Now!” Vincenzo cried. “Which one of you would like to be the first to know the terror of Pavura?”

CHAPTER XVII
A Hot Melee  
“You won’t get away with this!” Joe shouted.
“Oh, no?” Vincenzo snarled. “And since you are so quick to speak, I think you should have the honor of being first.”
Joe was led out of the cell and his hands were tied behind his back.
“He’s not bluffing!” Chet cried in a quavering voice.
The gangleader signaled the Indian holding the branding iron, who then walked slowly toward Joe.
“Stop!” Frank demanded angrily.
Suddenly, in a lightning move, Joe darted forward. Head low, he smashed into the midriff of the Indian, who jackknifed onto Joe’s shoulder. Then, snapping to an upright position, he flung the man to the floor.
“Grab the others!” Frank shouted to his companions.
The guards had neglected to relock the cell door. Flinging it open, the boys sprang into action. Frank caught the second guard squarely on the chin and knocked him unconscious, then he quickly untied his brother’s hands.
A wild melee followed. Vincenzo lashed out and sent Tico sprawling to the ground.
“Socorro! Socorro!—
Help! Help!” screamed the gangleader as he started to flee from the cave. 
Frank gave chase and downed Vincenzo with a flying tackle. They rolled across the ground, locked in a fierce struggle.
Chet, who had selected Vincenzo’s companion as his opponent, had pulled the Mexican’s sombrero down over his eyes. The stocky man ran around the cave frantically trying to pull up the hat.
“I hear men shouting outside! They’re coming to help Vincenzo!” Tico exclaimed.
Several Indians appeared in the cave entrance. Joe grabbed one of the small barrels marked MUESTRA, and hurled it at them. The barrel smashed against the rocky wall above their heads and drenched the men with crude oil.
“Nice going!” Chet yelled.
Joe picked up another barrel and threw it onto the pit of hot coals. It shattered, throwing up a huge orange ball of flame and thick smoke.
“Aheee!”
screamed an Indian in terror as he saw the fire. 
Frank pulled Vincenzo to his feet and flung him into the path of two Indians about to attack. The men crashed to the ground in a tangled mass of arms and legs.
Meanwhile, Joe threw another barrel into the pit. The fire and smoke became more intense.
“Salga! Salga!
—Get out! Get out!” Vincenzo shouted to his men. 
Choking from the smoke, the Indians followed their leader out of the cave. Chet’s opponent finally managed to pull his sombrero free and raced out after the others.
The boys threw themselves down and placed their faces close to the ground where there was a shallow layer of clear air. When the fire and smoke subsided, they got to their feet.
“Come out! There is no escape!” they heard Vincenzo shout from outside the cave.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Chet asked nervously.
“Vincenzo and his men have us cornered,” Frank admitted. He glanced around. “And there’s no way out of this place except by the entrance.”
“Come out at once!” the gangleader screamed. “Or I shall send my men in after you!”
With no alternative but to obey, the boys walked out of the cave. As they emerged, the captives saw that Vincenzo was in a mad rage.
“You’re too troublesome to be kept here! I shall have you all sent to a place from which you will never escape!” he growled. “You’re going to take an undersea voyage!”
The boys were marched off with several guards prodding them along with rifles. Soon they were walking down a steep slope close to the narrow-gauge railroad the Indian workers had built. Frank and Joe noticed that the track now extended well beyond the point where they had stopped the speeding rail car.
“Hm! They’ve finished the project,” Joe commented.
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “We wondered where it went. I guess we’re about to find out.”
“You no talk!” shouted one of the guards.
Finally they came to a cove on the east coast of the Baja Peninsula. The Hardys noticed that the track continued to the water’s edge. Nearby a group of Indian workers was seated on the ground as if waiting for something.
The boys’ captors ordered them to sit down. Two guards were posted to watch them.
It was almost sunset when the Hardys and their friends were startled to see a submarine come to the surface out at sea. It slowly made its way into the cove.
“I can see the symbol on the conning tower,” Joe said in a hushed voice.
“It must be the same sub we spotted in the cove in Sinaloa,” Frank added.
At that instant there came a rumbling sound. The boys looked to see several of the odd-looking rail cars come rolling down the track. Each of them carried a sausage-shaped object measuring about one hundred feet long.
“They must be the rubber-coated nylon containers we found in the other cave!” Joe whispered to his brother.
Frank suddenly sat bolt upright. “Say! Do you remember the scrap of paper we found in Vincenzo’s hideout?”
“Yes, I have it right here.” Joe pulled a fragment of paper from his pocket. They again looked at the printed words which read: 
The practicability of draco
... 
“The word draco must be dracone!” Frank declared. 
Joe’s eyes widened. “You’re right! That must be it! I recall your showing me an article about dracones several months ago. They’re rubber-coated nylon containers designed to carry oil. A whole train of them can be towed behind a ship!”
“Except in this case, they’re being towed by a submarine!”
“So that’s what Vincenzo is up to. He must be smuggling oil out of the country,” Joe surmised. “But where is he getting it from?”
Frank thought for a moment. “My guess is that he got his hands on an oil well. He’s keeping it a secret to prevent the Mexican government from taking over control.”
Chet was wide-eyed. “Vincenzo wants it all for himself! So he’s selling oil to whoever will pay his price!”
The boys watched as the Indian workers began attaching triangular-shaped metal plates to the front and rear sections of the containers. The devices looked similar to the diving planes of a submarine.
“Very clever,” Frank whispered. “Those gadgets are used to keep the dracones under water when the sub is submerged.”
The Indians eased each of the containers into the water and linked them together by means of a special cable. The long train looked like a huge floating sea serpent.
The boys were now ordered to walk toward the submarine, which had tied up at the shore of the cove. Then they were forced to get aboard.
“Lock ‘em in the aft cabin!” shouted a bearded crew member.
After climbing down through a hatch, the Hardys and their friends were led along a narrow passageway, then ordered into a small compartment. The door was slammed behind them and locked. A guard was posted outside.
“Where could they be taking us?” Chet asked worriedly.
“We’ll soon learn if we don’t figure out some way to escape!” Joe declared.
“Let’s think fast!” Frank urged.
Suddenly the boys felt a vibration and heard the rumbling sound of the craft’s diesel engines.
“It is too late to do anything now!” Tico cried.
A feeling of panic gripped the four boys as the sub got underway. Where were they going? And what was in store for them when they arrived?

CHAPTER XVIII
Outwitting a Crew  
THE BOYS searched frantically for an answer to their dilemma.
“We must escape before the sub gets too far out to sea!” Frank declared.
Just then they heard the muffled voices of two men talking outside the cabin door.
“The boss wants you to stay here on guard,” a man said. “I don’t know why he picked you. You’re always falling asleep.”
“What’s the difference?” the guard snapped. “Those kids are locked in. And even if they got out, where can they go aboard a sub?”
“Keep awake just the same,” the other man warned.
Then silence. The boys waited and listened. Less than an hour had passed when they detected the sound of snoring.
“He’s asleep,” Joe whispered. “Here’s our chance.”
“But the door’s locked,” Chet said in a hushed voice. “We can’t break it down—every crewman on this tub would hear us.”
Frank glanced around. “We won’t have to,” he answered. “Our captors forgot one thing. The door hinges are on our side. All we have to do is force the pins out!”
Frank took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the base of the hinge pin to reduce noise. Then he removed one shoe, and using the heel as a hammer, began to tap away lightly. Joe went to work on the second hinge.
The job was slow and demanded all the patience the Hardys could muster. Finally the pins were loose enough to be pulled free of the hinges.
Cautiously the boys eased the door aside. Outside they saw a grubby-looking man in a sailor’s cap and jacket propped up against a bulkhead. He was sound asleep.
The boys pounced on him at once, and before the surprised guard could utter a sound, he was gagged, then bound, and dragged into the cabin.
“Set the door back in place,” Frank whispered to Chet and Tico, “in case any of the crewmen come along.”
“What’s our next move?” Chet asked.
Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Somehow we must force the crew to turn around and go back to Baja.”
“Maybe we can disable the sub,” Joe suggested.
“Leaping lizards!” Chet exclaimed. “Don’t do anything to sink us!”
“If only we could put the electric motors out of commission,” Frank remarked.
Tico looked at the Hardys with a quizzical expression. “How could we then return to Baja without power?”
“Submarines have two sources of propulsion,” Joe explained. “Diesel engines are used when traveling on the surface, and battery-operated motors when under water.”
“If we could sabotage the batteries somehow,” Frank said, “I’m sure the crew would turn back. They wouldn’t risk going on without being able to submerge.”
Joe glanced down at their prisoner. “I have an idea!” he declared. “The guard is about my size. I’ll put on his jacket and cap and try to work my way aft. None of the crew expects to see any of us outside the cabin. I might just get away with ruining the electric motors.”
“It’s worth a try!” Frank agreed. “But we’ve got to work fast. Somebody might check on the guard.”
Quickly donning the man’s jacket, Joe stepped out into the passageway. He pulled the cap low on his forehead and cautiously moved toward the rear of the submarine. There was not a single crewman in sight. As he edged his way along, the humming sound of the craft’s diesel engines gradually grew louder. Then the young detective spotted a compartment door directly ahead. It was partially open.
“That must lead to the engine room,” he thought.
He crept closer to the door and peered through the crack. There he saw a single crewman checking gauges and making control adjustments.
Realizing he had to act instantly, Joe leaped in through the doorway. The startled crewman whirled and hurled a wrench at him. Joe ducked, then sprang toward his opponent. He caught the man with a sharp uppercut that sent him crashing to the floor and left him unconscious.
“Now, to put the motor batteries out of commission!” Joe thought.
He glanced about until he spotted a drum of lubricating oil. Joe shoved it close to the long row of batteries that operated the sub’s electric motors. After quickly removing the caps which covered the battery cells, he pushed the drum over on top of them. Oil gushed into the batteries, and soon a thick, acrid smoke began to billow up.
At the same instant Frank, Chet, and Tico were confronted by a crewman who had been sent to check on the guard. But before he could warn his cohorts, the fellow was seized. In the brief struggle which followed, Frank kayoed him.


  
Joe sprang at his opponent
“Let’s get out of here!” Frank whispered to Chet and Tico. “Head aft!”
They raced down the narrow passageway. The three had not gone far when they saw Joe coming to meet them.
“Go the other way!” he warned. “The engine room will be swarming with men in a minute!”
Already the smoke from the oil-soaked batteries was beginning to cause a commotion aboard the sub. The frantic shouts of crewmen could be heard echoing through the passageway.
“We must find some place to hide!” Joe declared.
Frank pointed to a compartment door just ahead of them. “That’s the forward torpedo room,” he said. “Quick! Inside!”
The boys dashed into the small room and eased the door shut behind them. Seconds later they heard crewmen scurrying through the passageway outside.
“The captain wants everybody to report to the engine room!” a man shouted. “Make it snappy!”
Joe clutched his brother’s arm. “Do you feel a change in the sub’s motion?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes!” Frank replied excitedly. “They’re turning around. We must be going back to Baja!”
“Leaping sailfish!” Chet blurted. “Your plan worked!”
Tico creased his brow. “That is good,” he agreed. “But we are still prisoners. How do we escape from here?”
At that instant the boys again heard shouts from the crewmen.
“The kids broke out of the cabin!” one of them yelled. “They’re still aboard somewhere. Start searching every inch of this sub. Begin aft and work forward.”
The boys grew tense as the crewmen began their hunt through the various compartments. Gradually the men drew closer to the youths’ hiding place.
“After you guys check the cabins, take a look in the forward torpedo room,” someone ordered.
“We’re trapped!” Chet muttered nervously.
Joe glanced around. “Wait a minute! There might be a way out of here!”
Frank immediately sensed what his brother had in mind. “You don’t mean the torpedo tubes?”
“Why not?” Joe insisted. “By now we can’t be too far from shore. I’ll fire you fellows out through the tubes. I understand there’s nothing to it.”
“But it means leaving you behind,” Frank retorted. “Nothing doing!”
“Don’t worry about me,” Joe replied. “I’m sure I can get away.”
“How?”
Their discussion was suddenly interrupted by sounds of the crewmen getting closer.
“No time to explain now,” Joe said. “This is our only chance. Hurry! Get into the tubes!”
Reluctantly Frank, Tico, and Chet selected one of the four torpedo tubes and climbed inside. Joe slammed the hatches shut behind them, grabbed the release lever, and fired. There was a loud whoosh of compressed air.
“What was that?” came the voice of a crewman from the passageway outside.
Joe flattened himself against the bulkhead adjacent to the compartment door. A split second later it was flung open and three crewmen rushed past the youth and into the torpedo room. Joe dashed out into the passageway unseen. He adjusted the cap and jacket and made his way amidships.
“Take it easy!” he mumbled to himself. “Don’t look conspicuous!”
Joe located the control room, then climbed a narrow ladder leading up to the conning tower. Several crewmen saw him, but in the confusion, they obviously thought he was one of their group.
“The kids have escaped!” came a voice from below.
All the deck hatches had been opened to help clear the air inside the sub. Joe climbed out, jumped from the conning tower onto the deck, and dived into the water. The craft glided on in the darkness, with the dracones slithering past like giant sausages.
Joe swam quickly toward the shore, which was silhouetted darkly against the night sky. It was not long before he sloshed out of the water onto the pebbly beach.
“I hope the others are all right,” he thought, peering along the shoreline.
Joe began walking in a direction away from the cove where he knew the sub was headed. His concern for his brother and friends increased. Then he heard a familiar bird call in the distance.
Joe cupped his hands over his mouth and returned the call. Shortly three figures loomed out of the darkness.
“Is that you, Joe?” came Frank’s voice.
“Yes,” his brother responded. “Are you fellows okay?”
“Just fine!” Frank answered.
“Speak for yourself, mastermind!” snapped Chet. “So being shot out of a torpedo tube is easy, you said. Next time I’ll try it from a cannon.”
“Chet just swallowed a bit too much water,” Frank remarked, laughing. “So we rode on one of the dracones for a few minutes until he got his breath. Then we swam ashore.”
After Joe had told of his escape, Tico said, “There are some awful mad men out there.”
“Right! Now we must plan our next move,” Joe said.
“I’d like to sneak back to the cove and see what’s going on aboard the submarine,” Frank replied. “But this time let’s not get caught. Some of Vincenzo’s Indians may still be around.”
The boys edged their way along the coast toward the cove. Gradually they began to detect the jumbled voices of many men talking from some distance away.
“It’s the sub’s crew,” Joe whispered.
Frank peered through the darkness. “The cove must be just beyond that low ridge of rocks ahead. If we climb to the top, we may be able to see what’s going on.”
As the boys started up the side of the ridge, they suddenly heard a metallic, clicking sound behind them.
“Pare!
—Stop!” a man ordered in a hushed, but determined voice. 
The Hardys and their companions froze in their tracks!

CHAPTER XIX
The Trapper Trapped  
Tico turned around, then looked straight ahead as the man uttered a rapid volley of words in Spanish.
“Who is he?” Frank demanded.
“I saw only the outlines of two men behind us,” Tico said. “One of them has a rifle. He orders us not to turn around and to walk where he directs.”
The boys were forced to comply. But much to their surprise they were instructed to walk away from the cove.
“If those guys are a couple of Vincenzo’s men,” Joe remarked, “we’re going the wrong way.”
“Silencio!”
the man ordered. 
The boys were marched toward a dense thicket slightly inland from the coast. On the other side was a small clearing. In the darkness the boys could make out the faint shapes of four horses. Nearby were three men dressed in military uniforms. One of them stepped forward.
“Quién están ustedes?
—Who are you?” he demanded. 
Tico told him that his friends were Americans.
“Ah, Americanos!” he said. “What are your names, please?”
When the Hardys identified themselves and Chet, the man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are the sons of Señor Fenton Hardy?” he asked.
The boys were startled by his question.
“Why—er—yes, we are,” Frank stammered. “But how did you—?”
“I am Lieutenant José Arandas of the Mexican Army,” the soldier announced, adding that he was leading one of several units sent to Baja on special assignment.
He explained that several reports had been received about a mysterious submarine in the area. The Army had been asked to cooperate with the Mexican Coast Guard in an investigation.
“We were just about to make camp for the night,” Arandas continued, “when one of my men saw a submarine offshore. I sent out two scouts to watch it, and now they return with you muchachos.”
“But how did you come to know our father’s name?” Joe asked.
“Señor Hardy recently arrived in Mazatlan to find that you were missing,” the lieutenant explained. “The only information he was able to obtain was that you were last seen sailing off in a boat. But no one knew where you were going.” The soldier said that Mr. Hardy had notified the police, who in turn contacted the Army. All units were alerted to be on the lookout.
“We’re sorry we caused Dad a lot of worry,” Frank sighed, “but we didn’t expect to be away for more than a couple of days. We’d like to get word to him as soon as possible.”
“Sí, sí,”
Arandas said. “A helicopter will be in this vicinity tomorrow. We have a radio to talk with the pilot. He will relay a message to your father.” 
“Thanks,” Frank replied. “And now, Lieutenant, I believe we can help you.” The Hardys told the officer about their recent adventures in Baja.
“Caramba!”
Arandas exclaimed. “And you say this hombre Vincenzo is smuggling oil out of Mexico?” 
“We’re certain of it,” Joe assured him.
The lieutenant barked an order to his men. He then turned to the boys. “I go to the cove to seize the submarine and its crew!”
“Wait a minute!” Frank urged. “That would only serve to warn Vincenzo. He’d be sure to escape.”
“Anyway, the sub is out of commission for a while,” Joe added. “You can grab it later.”
“Then you must lead me to Vincenzo’s hideout,” Arandas stated.
“We will,” Frank agreed. “But you’ll need more men than you have now to capture him and his gang.”
The officer thought for a moment. “I shall contact our helicopter in the morning,” he said finally, “and have the pilot instruct all other scouting units in Baja to rendezvous with us. Perhaps Montaraz would be the place to meet. I have already sent two of my men there to question the villagers.”
Frank stiffened. “What?” he shouted. “You sent two men to the village? This means trouble!”
“I do not understand,” Arandas said.
“We believe Vincenzo has a spy in Montaraz,” Joe explained. “News of soldiers arriving there will surely send Vincenzo running!”
“Our only hope is to find the spy!” Frank declared.
“How?” Joe queried.
Frank quickly outlined a plan. They would rig up a directional antenna on Arandas’s walkie-talkie and use it to obtain a bearing on the spy’s radio signals if he should communicate with Vincenzo’s headquarters.
Early the following morning the loud, fluttering sound of a helicopter was heard approaching the coast. When it came within sight, Lieutenant Arandas picked up the walkie-talkie and contacted the pilot. He first requested that a message from the boys be relayed to Mr. Hardy in Mazat-Ian. Then he asked that the other scouting units rendezvous with him approximately one mile west of Montaraz.
When he had finished transmitting, Arandas handed the walkie-talkie to the Hardys. They quickly improvised a directional antenna from a length of wire and attached it to the radio.
“That should do it,” Frank commented as he observed the rig. “Now we’d better start out for Montaraz.”
The soldiers mounted their horses. Each of the boys doubled with a rider and galloped off. Within a couple of hours the group arrived at the spot where Arandas was to meet with the other units.
“We’ll go the rest of the way on foot,” Frank informed the lieutenant. “If we come up with anything, we’ll let you know right away.”
“Buena suerte!
—Good luck!” Arandas said. 
Together with Chet and Tico, the Hardys rapidly walked the remaining mile to Montaraz. They did not enter the village, but posted themselves on the outskirts.
“Since we don’t know what frequency the spy is transmitting on,” Frank remarked, “we’ll have to keep sweeping through the entire band. We’re close enough to the village to pick up a strong signal.”
The boys patiently and slowly worked the frequency knob of the walkie-talkie back and forth. An hour passed. Then suddenly a conversation between two men crackled from the speaker.
“Can you make out what they’re saying, Tico?” Joe asked anxiously.
“Yes!” the Mexican boy answered. “One man says he has an urgent message for Vincenzo. He warns that there are soldiers in the village asking questions!”
Frank quickly turned the walkie-talkie until the axis of the circular directional antenna pointed toward the village. He then maneuvered the radio to the left and right until the signal faded completely. At that instant Joe recorded the direction of the bearing with his magnetic compass.
“Hurry!” Frank ordered. “Let’s go to another spot and take a second bearing!”
The boys circled the village for some distance, then repeated the procedure. Now the voice of another man came from the speaker. “Stay there and keep an ear open. Find out what they’re up to and report to me.” Seconds later the transmissions ceased.
The Hardys drew a rough sketch of the village to scale. Then they plotted the two bearing lines.
“They intersect at the extreme southeast corner of the village,” Joe said.
“And there are only two haciendas in that area,” Frank stated. “That simplifies our search. The spy has to be at one or the other.”
Frank instructed Tico to hurry back to Arandas. “Ask him to meet us here with some of his men as soon as possible.”
It was already dark by the time Tico returned with the soldiers. The Hardys told the lieutenant about their discovery.
“We must search the haciendas at once!” Arandas declared.
The boys and the three soldiers made their way toward the southeast corner of the village. As they edged toward their goal, they saw two rundown houses. They were in darkness and there was not a sound.
“Nobody home,” Joe whispered.
“Let’s split up into two groups and search each of the homes,” Frank said.
Chet, Tico, and two of the soldiers crept toward one structure, while the Hardys and Arandas headed for the other. Frank carefully lifted the latch on the door and it eased open. He and the others stepped into an untidy room.
They pulled out their pencil flashlights and began a search. Arandas posted himself at the door.
After they had searched for several minutes, Joe sighed. “There’s nothing here to give us a lead.”
Frank walked over to a large earthen jar resting in a corner of the room. Reaching inside, he let out a cry of surprise.
“We’ve come to the right place!” he exclaimed. “Look what I found!” He pulled out a walkie-talkie.
“Tell the others to call off their search,” Frank told Joe. Soon Chet and the others arrived to inspect Frank’s discovery.
“I wonder where the spy is now,” Tico said.
“Maybe he flew the coop,” Chet suggested.
“Possibly,” Frank replied. “But we’ll wait for a while and hope he shows up.”
The watchers sat quietly in the darkened room. Less than an hour had passed when they heard the door latch being lifted. Then a short, stocky Mexican entered the room.
“Grab him!” Joe yelled.
The startled man cried out as two of the soldiers seized him. The boys directed the beams of their flashlights into the frightened man’s face.
Frank blurted out, “He’s the guy who threatened us with a machete the first time we came to the village!”
Arandas was about to question him when the Mexican, slithering like a cornered snake, broke away from the soldiers. He leaped through an open window and headed for the center of the village, with the boys after him. Arandas pulled out his pistol but held his fire as the fugitive and his pursuers became blurred in the darkness.
The fleeing man raced across the plaza toward the cantina. In front of the building were two saddled horses. The fugitive leaped onto one and galloped off. Frank, who was closest to him, quickly mounted the second and started after him. 
It was a bright moonlit night, so Frank had no difficulty keeping the escapee in sight. Gradually he closed the gap between them. As the chase continued, the young detective was startled to see about a dozen horsemen appear on the crest of a hill. Before Frank had a chance to wheel his mount around, he and his quarry were surrounded by the riders.
“They look like some of Vincenzo’s men!” Frank thought. The man he had been chasing was obviously known to the riders. He whispered something to a lanky horseman, who then approached Frank.
“You are one of zee Hardeez,” he said. “Pavura weel want to see you! You come!”
He grabbed the reins of Frank’s horse and started off. The other riders trailed behind.
“We are going to Vincenzo’s headquarters,” Frank mused. “That’s the first place Joe will look for me. He can lead Arandas and his men right to it.”
But Frank’s hope was suddenly shattered when he noticed that they were going in a direction away from the hideout that he and his brother had discovered.
“Vincenzo has relocated his headquarters!” he thought, trying not to panic.
Several of the riders behind him were dragging clumps of brush along the ground to erase the hoofprints. Not even Tico’s tracking abilities could help him now!

CHAPTER XX
Helicopter Capture  
FRANK ruled out making a break for it. The odds were too risky, since many of the men were armed. Others carried walkie-talkies.
“These men must have made up the communication chain to Vincenzo’s old headquarters,” Frank thought.
With only a short rest in between, they rode all night. By morning their journey had taken them into a flat, dusty desert area. The sun was already intensely hot. Many of the men drank from canteens, but not one of them offered Frank a drop of water. By now he felt faint from thirst and hunger.
Presently the leader of the horsemen held up his hand. “Stop!” he shouted. “Oigal—Listen!” 
They heard a faint, fluttering sound. Gradually it became louder. The men turned and looked back apprehensively. A helicopter shot into view from over the crest of a hill.
“Caramba!”
one of them screamed. 
The craft circled the group several times, then made a low pass overhead. Many of the horses reared up and began to mill around, stirring up thick clouds of dust. The startled riders completely forgot about Frank and galloped off frantically in all directions.
“Nice going!” the young detective yelled.
Shortly a second helicopter appeared. It hovered over the scene for a moment, then gently settled to the ground. Frank rode toward it as two of the occupants scrambled out of the cabin. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized them.
“Dad! Joe!”
“Are you okay?” his brother asked anxiously.
“I’m fine.” Frank nodded wearily. “But, Dad! How did you—?”
“I received the message you boys relayed to me in Mazatlan,” Mr. Hardy interrupted, “and Jack flew me to Baja right away. There the Mexican Army had a helicopter waiting to take me to Arandas’s camp.”
“Dad arrived just in time to take part in our search for you,” Joe said. “When the other helicopter pilot spotted the horsemen he radioed us and we flew here to see what it was all about.”
The pilot of their craft, a young Mexican officer, called out to Mr. Hardy and the boys.
“I am in contact with the other helicopter,” he announced. “The pilot says that some of the horsemen are heading toward what appears to be a large encampment in the hills east of here.”
“Vincenzo’s new hideout!” Frank exclaimed.
“He is flying back to report to Lieutenant Arandas,” the pilot continued. “He says we should return also.”
Frank left his horse and the Hardys climbed aboard the craft. In less than fifteen minutes they arrived at Arandas’s camp, which was now crowded with soldiers.
Chet and Tico ran to meet the helicopter as it landed. They were elated to see that Frank was all right. Then the boys and Arandas discussed plans for the capture of Vincenzo and his gang.
“I shall have the helicopters fly my men to the encampment,” the lieutenant declared. “Several trips will be required, but we will save much time.” He ordered the airlift operation to begin at once.
“How about letting us go with the first group?” Joe asked excitedly.
Arandas grinned. “I know you are very eager to capture this Vincenzo,” he said. “But I am now responsible for your safety. First let me transport my men, then you shall follow.”
While the boys waited their turn, Mr. Hardy opened a large carton of fried chicken. “I had this prepared in Mazatlan,” he told them. “It’s the nearest thing to home cooking I could think of.”
“Let me at it!” Chet shouted jubilantly. The appetites of Frank and Joe, as well as Tico, equaled that of their hefty comrade. As they ate, Frank asked his father about Senor Marcheta.
“He’s still in Mexico City,” Mr. Hardy replied. “And while I was with him, he told me what he knew about Vincenzo.”
The detective stated that Senor Marcheta had met Vincenzo in Spain several years before. The gangleader at that time was posing as a buyer for a Mexican textile firm.
“It wasn’t until the stock-fraud case came up,” Mr. Hardy explained, “that Senor Marcheta discovered Vincenzo was actually a very clever confidence man. He has been involved in everything, from selling stolen goods on an international scale to peddling worthless stock in a diamond mine.”
Then the boys related their own adventures. Mr. Hardy was surprised to hear about the oil-smuggling operation.
“That’s a new one even for Vincenzo,” he remarked. “He’ll have a lot to answer for.”
Finally Arandas announced that the Hardys and their companions could fly to the encampment. When they arrived, they saw that the soldiers had moved in on the gang. Indians were being lined up and questioned.
“Where’s Vincenzo?” Frank asked quickly.
“He fled before we could surround the encampment,” one of the soldiers replied. “We have men searching the area for him now.”
Another soldier whispered something to Arandas. The lieutenant turned to the Hardys. “One of your countrymen is among the captives,” he said.
“It must be Elmer Tremmer!” Joe declared.
The boys and Mr. Hardy were led to a tent. Inside they found Tremmer in a state of panic.
“You’ve got to help me!” he pleaded. “I don’t want to go to jail!”
“Then why did you run away?” Mr. Hardy asked.
Tremmer nervously mopped his brow. “I was frightened! Vincenzo said I would go to prison if I testified. Please, Mr. Hardy. I’m not a member of Vincenzo’s gang! After all, it was I who sent you that note to beware of the mark on the door!”
“How did you know what it meant?” the detective queried.
“To be truthful, I wasn’t sure,” Tremmer replied. He explained that before leaving Bayport, he had overheard one of Vincenzo’s men say an enemy had been dealt with—that he had received the mark on the door!
“I feared for you and your sons,” Tremmer went on. “And again I sent a warning note to you at your hotel in Mazatlan.”
Interrogated about the oil deal, Tremmer said the gangleader had learned of an old Indian legend which described thick “black water” of the mountain. Vincenzo guessed correctly that it was crude oil. While searching for the deposit, he had stumbled upon an isolated band of Indians. Being part Indian himself, Vincenzo quickly gained their confidence.
“Eventually they showed him the source of the black water,” Tremmer continued. “It was a rich pool of oil which oozed to the surface and did not have to be drilled.”
When Frank asked who was buying the oil, he was told that several Latin-American groups were bidding for it.
“The price was low,” the prisoner said, “but still Vincenzo was making a big profit.”
“Quite an operation,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “It must have cost a lot of money to set up.”
“Most of it came from the Costa Quimico stock fraud,” the bookkeeper admitted.
Leaving Mr. Hardy to continue his detailed questioning, the four boys left the tent and were greeted by the villagers who had been kidnapped from Montaraz. With them was young Juan Marcheta. Amid voluble expressions of their gratitude, a rifle shot sounded, and soldiers ran toward the place where the helicopters had parked.
Suddenly rotor blades of one helicopter began to whirl. Seconds later it was airborne.
“Caramba!”
screamed Arandas. “Vincenzo is a clever scoundrel!” 
“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.
“Vincenzo was hiding nearby,” the lieutenant answered. “He has just forced one of our pilots to fly him away!”
“We can follow them in the other helicopter!” Joe suggested.
Arandas pointed at the fuel tank of the craft. “Vincenzo thought of everything. He shot a hole in the tank. The fuel has already spilled away.”
“Where could Vincenzo be headed?” Joe said.
“That helicopter doesn’t have enough range to take him very far,” Frank replied. “I’ve a hunch he’s going to the cove to rendezvous with the submarine.”
“Let’s plug up the tank and go after him,” Joe urged.
Arandas creased his brow. “It would not help to make such a repair. We do not have any more fuel available here.”
“Then we must do it the hard way,” Frank declared. “We’ll use horses.”
“But it’ll take us hours to reach the cove,” Joe argued.
“Maybe the sub crew hasn’t finished repairing the damaged batteries,” Frank spoke up. “The delay might be long enough for us to catch up with Vincenzo.”
The Hardys, Arandas, and twelve of his soldiers galloped off. It was already dark when they arrived on the coast a short distance south of the cove.
“Hadn’t we better go the rest of the way on foot?” Frank said in a hushed voice.
“Yes,” Arandas replied.
They crept toward a low, rocky ridge, then scrambled up the slope to the top, with an excellent view of the cove.
“The sub is still there,” Joe whispered.
“But it looks as if the crew is busy getting ready to leave,” Frank observed as he watched men, carrying flashlights, scurry around the deck. Their voices could be heard plainly in the still, night air.
“We must leave at once!” came Vincenzo’s voice.
“But we haven’t finished replacing the batteries,” shouted a crewman.
“You can complete the work at sea,” the leader insisted. “If we wait here until morning, the whole army will be on us!”
“There’s not a moment to lose,” Frank urged. “We must stop them.”
“I shall have my men spread out and converge on the submarine from all directions,” Arandas declared.
Cautiously they stalked toward the shore of the cove. Then, at Arandas’s signal, the soldiers charged ahead. The crewmen were caught completely off guard. Chaos followed.
“There’s Vincenzo!” Frank yelled. “He’s climbing out of the rear deck hatch! Don’t let him get away!”
He and Joe rushed after the thief. Two crewmen who attempted to intercept the boys were bowled over by Joe, and all three splashed into the water.
Frank kept after Vincenzo, who leaped off the deck onto the shore. As the youth closed the gap between them, the man picked up a small boulder and hurled it at his pursuer.
Frank ducked, then lunged ahead and struck Vincenzo on the chin with a straight right. The man crumpled to the ground in a daze.
“This is the end of the line for you!” Frank cried, yanking Vincenzo to his feet.
The action stopped as quickly as it had started. Arandas and his soldiers were lining up the crewmen on the shore of the cove.
“We found Arturo, the pilot of the helicopter, locked in a cabin aboard the submarine,” the lieutenant told the boys. “He said he landed with Vincenzo just north of the ridge. I suggest you fly with your captive back to my camp near Montaraz when it’s light enough.”
The boys rested the remainder of the night. At dawn they took the handcuffed Vincenzo to the helicopter. The pilot started up the engine, engaged the rotor blades, and made a quick take-off. When they arrived at their destination, Arturo was dispatched to pick up Mr. Hardy and the others.
“Hello, Dad!” the young detectives chorused as their father, Chet, and Tico were delivered back to the camp.
“I hear you boys did a great job,” Mr. Hardy said.
“We were lucky,” Joe replied.
“Did you get any more information from Tremmer?” Frank inquired.
“Yes,” Mr. Hardy said. “And he’s eager to return to Washington to testify. We’ll have to wait our turn with Vincenzo, though. The Mexican government gets first crack at him.”
“There’s still one thing I can’t figure out,” Joe said. “How did Vincenzo get his hands on a couple of submarines?”
“Tremmer told me about that too,” his father answered. “He bought two obsolete subs in the States for scrap metal. Then he smuggled them out of the country for reconditioning. It wasn’t difficult for him to dig up a few ex-submariners who weren’t particular how they earned their money.”
“By the way,” Chet said, “I wonder what happened to the other sub you spotted in Barmet Bay.”
“My guess is that it’s headed here by way of Cape Horn,” Frank said. “The trip will take several weeks.”
“We’ll notify the Mexican government to be on the lookout for it,” Mr. Hardy announced.
Leaving their prisoners with the soldiers, the Hardys, Chet, Tico, and Juan Marcheta were taken by helicopter to the small airport, where Jack Wayne was waiting.
“I just heard a flash you’ll be interested in,” the pilot told them. “The Argentine Navy boarded an unidentified submarine they spotted off their coast. The only markings it had was a strange symbol painted on the conning tower with the letter P on it. They seized the sub and its crew.”
“That winds up the case,” Joe said with a wide grin. But he was looking forward to another challenging mystery to solve. In the near future, the young detectives would tackle The Hidden Harbor Mystery.
Soon the Hardy plane was winging back to Mazatlan with happy news for Señor Marcheta.
“I’m sure Father will want to celebrate with a feast,” Juan said.
“We’re all for it,” Joe said, laughing. “But don’t have any bulls around. We don’t want Chet getting more ideas about becoming a matador.”
Hardy Boys 14
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  The Libel Suit
“Wow! That fellow sure was in a hurry to get past us!” exclaimed Joe Hardy, who had been pushed against the railing of the cruise ship’s gangplank.
“Practically knocked us overboard!” agreed his brother Frank.
The two boys, descending the gangplank from the brightly lighted deck, looked curiously after the young man who had shoved them aside.
Joe, fair-haired and seventeen, and dark-haired Frank, a year older, heard the stranger cry out to a deck attendant:
“I tell you, I must come aboard!” 
“Sorry, sir,” was the firm answer. “It’s past midnight. We sail at dawn. No more visitors.”
The Hardys continued down to the pier. Suddenly they stopped and whirled. The visitor was saying excitedly, “I must see Mr. Hardy before he sails!”
“Maybe it’s about a mystery,” Frank remarked.
The brothers had just said good-by to their parents, the well-known detective, Fenton Hardy, and his wife Laura, who were leaving from New York City on a Caribbean cruise. Mr. Hardy was making a combination business and pleasure trip, since he planned to see a client in Jamaica.
While Frank and Joe listened intently to the conversation on deck, a powerfully built man came from behind a stack of baggage and sauntered to the foot of the gangway. The Hardys’ attention was attracted by the man’s heavy, wheezy breathing and his flat face turned upward to the deck.
“All right, all right. I give up,” came the dejected voice of the stranger above. As he came down the gangplank, the rough-looking man gave him a swift glance, then shuffled off quickly.
By now the young man had reached the pier. He was slim in build, with reddish-brown hair. Nervously he kept slapping his palm with a rolled-up newspaper, as if in utter frustration.
“Excuse me,” said Frank, stepping in front of him. “We heard you mention Fenton Hardy. We’re his sons, Frank and Joe.”
“You are?” The man’s eyes brightened. He had a soft, slow way of speaking that marked him as a Southerner.
“I just about knocked myself out, trying to speak to your father,” he continued. “I have a case he must handle!”
“He won’t be back for ten days,” said Frank.
“I know.” The young fellow sighed. “I called your home in Bayport. A Miss Hardy there told me about the cruise but begged me not to pester your father!”
“That’s Aunt Gertrude.” Joe chuckled.
“I rushed here to New York, thinking I might at least talk to him for an hour,” the man went on. “You see, I’ve read in the newspapers of Mr. Hardy’s great successes—”
The stranger paused, apparently suddenly recalling something.
“I’ve also read,” he continued, “that his sons often help him out, and that they have solved some tough cases on their own. How about it? Would you all be willing to help me?”
“We’d like to. But,” Joe replied doubtfully, “we’ve promised to go camping soon with a buddy.”
“Let’s hear your case, anyway,” Frank suggested eagerly. “Maybe we can take it, Mr.—”
“I’m Bart Worth,” the man said, his face showing relief. He looked about him.
“Is there a place near here where we can eat and talk?” he asked. “I was in such a hurry to catch your dad before he sailed I didn’t have time for my supper.”
“Sure. We’ll listen while you eat,” Joe said.
The Hardys led Mr. Worth up a side street. They stopped at a wide, steamy window bearing the lettering: 
CHARLIE’S CLAM HOUSE
“I hear the food’s good,” Joe remarked, and the trio entered the restaurant.
It was a typical waterfront eating place, with sawdust on the floor. The place was crowded with diners, despite the late hour. In one corner sat a group of well-dressed people who, like the Hardys, had just left a farewell party on board the liner. But most of the customers were rough-looking men of the waterfront district. The noise of lively conversations and the odor of frying fish filled the air.
Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth seated themselves at a plain wooden table in the middle of the room. As soon as the waiter had taken a dinner order for Mr. Worth and sandwiches for the Hardys, the Southerner began his story.
“I’m owner, publisher, and editor of the Larchmont Record. You all probably never heard of us, but it’s the only newspaper in the town of Larchmont, Georgia, on the Atlantic coast. Pretty soon there won’t be any Record, though, if a certain man named Samuel Blackstone has his way!” 
“How so?” Joe queried, as he and Frank leaned forward, deeply interested.
“Mr. Blackstone’s suing me for libel,” Worth answered. “He”s about the wealthiest businessman in Larchmont—the leading citizen.“
“So his influence is considerable?” Frank prompted.
“You might say he about runs the town,” admitted Bart Worth. “Besides, he’s trying to ruin me and my newspaper.”
“Why? Does Mr. Blackstone have a grudge against you?” Joe asked.
“I’ll tell you more about Blackstone first,” said the editor. “He lives on a large estate which is only half the original Blackstone property. Professor Ruel Rand, another Blackstone descendant, lives on the other half in the old family mansion. Clement Blackstone, the great-grandfather of both men, started the whole trouble. In his will, he divided the plantation between his son Benjamin and his daughter Blanche, who married a Rand. The difficulty began with the boundary line he set up.”
Using a paper napkin, Bart Worth made a quick sketch.
“The only landmark mentioned in the will to indicate the property line was ‘the great oak beside the big pond,’ ” the newspaperman pointed out. “Unfortunately there were two great oaks—one on either side of the pond.” 
“So both heirs claimed the pond!” Joe deduced.
“You’ve hit it exactly. The heirs bickered and feuded and went to court for years, but nothing was ever settled. Finally, in the time of Samuel Blackstone’s grandfather, they gave up the dispute. Nobody in the family was interested in the pond any more. The Blackstones went into business and made money, and the Rands—well, they’ve been going downhill financially ever since. The old plantation house is pretty run-down now, although I guess Professor Rand doesn’t mind it, being a bachelor.”
“What about the libel suit, Mr. Worth?” Frank asked, intrigued.
“Well, a few weeks ago, I heard a rumor that Professor Rand had become interested in the disputed property all of a sudden, and that the old feud was on again!”
“You couldn’t print a rumor, of course,” Frank observed.
“No,” the editor agreed, “but I went to the courthouse, where I learned that Rand had come in to examine old Clement’s will. Then Jenny Shringle came to see me. Jenny’s a seamstress, who worked many years for the Blackstones. Samuel’s wife, who had been very fond of her, died about two years ago. Recently Jenny was discharged. Just before that, she told me she had personally overheard a quarrel between Blackstone and Professor Rand over the pond. Well, I acted very cautiously. I simply wrote a story that there was a rumor circulating—nothing more. That was a true fact, you see.”
“And it’s not libelous,” Frank commented. “So you shouldn’t have any problem there.”
“That’s not all,” said the editor with increasing agitation. “When the story appeared in the Record it mentioned another rumor—a rumor that the Blackstone family fortune had been built on smuggling, and receiving stolen goods from pirates!” 
“You didn’t put that in?” Frank asked quickly.
“I certainly didn‘t!” Bart Worth exclaimed. “I wrote the original story myself. Everyone on my staff denies changing it. This pirate rumor has been common talk around Larchmont for years. Now that it’s been printed in my paper, though, Blackstone is suing. He’s touchy and proud—vain of his family’s position. My only chance is to prove that the pirate rumor is true, which I honestly believe it is. If you fellows can’t help me do that, I’ll lose my newspaper!”
“Why not just apologize?” Frank asked. “Can’t you explain things to Mr. Blackstone?”
The editor shook his head. “No. I’ve opposed his views and policies in the past in my paper, which has infuriated him. Now he has a motive for destroying it. Besides”—here the young man looked up with fire in his eyes—“Samuel Blackstone has called me a liar. I don’t take that from anyone without a fight! And if he succeeds in ruining the Record, he’ll have Larchmont completely bullied.”
Just then the waiter arrived with the food. While the editor went to wash his hands, Joe sounded his brother out:
“What do you think? Shall we take the case?”
“I don’t like it,” Frank answered thoughtfully. “After all, this apparent libel was printed in Worth’s paper. His claim that he doesn’t know how it got there seems pretty weak. An editor should know what comes off his press.” 
“You don’t trust him?”
“I think we should know more about this business before we commit ourselves, that’s all,” Frank declared.
Suddenly a huge hand and burly forearm stretched across the Hardys’ table. “How about the ketchup?” demanded a rasping voice from the next table just behind Joe.
For the second time that night the boys heard heavy, wheezing breathing. They looked up and saw that the hand belonged to the husky man they had noticed near the gangplank.
“Sure. Help yourself,” Joe said.
The stranger grunted and took the bottle.
A few moments later the young editor returned, and the three began to eat. Later, as they left the restaurant, Worth asked, “Well, will you take my case?”
He and the boys stood together on the sidewalk in front of the lighted window. A few customers, including the powerfully built man, came out the door and then disappeared down the dark street.


  
“Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed
“We’ll have to think about it, Mr. Worth,” Frank answered, “and let you know.”
Immediately the Southerner’s face registered his disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said a little stiffly. “I had hoped at least that Mr. Hardy would give me some advice. Since I couldn’t reach him, I thought you’d help me. However, here is my New York address.” He wrote it on a piece of paper from a pocket notebook.
Then he said good night and walked away briskly. The Hardys started off in the opposite direction.
Huge warehouses lined the street on both sides. A single street light burned dimly on a distant corner. Suddenly, as the brothers came abreast of a dark doorway, a hoarse groan from inside reached their ears.
“Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed.
The boys stepped cautiously into the building. No sooner had they entered than the door slammed abruptly behind them. Four strong arms seized the Hardys, and rough palms were clapped over their mouths. The boys heard heavy, wheezy breathing.
“I’ll teach you to mind your own business!” a threatening voice rasped.
Then came two quick, hard blows. Frank and Joe had been struck on the head. They slumped, unconscious, to the floor!

CHAPTER II  
  A Vanishing Victim
JOE was first to revive in the pitch-black warehouse. He listened tensely for the wheezy breathing of one of their attackers. Hearing nothing, Joe groped for his brother and shook him slightly.
“Joe ... you all right?” Frank stammered, still groggy.
“Sure. We were decoyed in here by that groan and then knocked out. Remember?”
“Of all the greenhorns!” Frank murmured in disgust. “Caught by a trick like that!”
Joe rubbed his head gingerly. “At least it didn’t leave a lump,” he reported. “The fellows were experts. And did you hear that rasping breathing? Sounded like the tough guy we saw at the pier and in the clam house. He must have overheard Bart Worth talking to us, and tried to scare us off the case. But why?”
“Don’t know. He picked the best way there is to encourage us,” Frank retorted grimly. “We’ll make that gorilla and his pal sorry they ever tangled with the Hardy brothers!”
This was no empty threat. Since solving their first mystery, The Tower Treasure, the brothers had built up a solid reputation as detectives by their shrewd sleuthing and resourcefulness in the face of danger. A recent case, The Mark on the Door, was their thirteenth successful adventure. 
The boys picked themselves up, and made their way from the warehouse into the street. Luckily, an all-night cruising taxicab came by in a few minutes, and took them to their hotel.
Ten o‘clock the next morning found Frank at the room telephone. “We’ve decided to accept your case, Mr. Worth,” he told the editor. “We’ll start by car for Larchmont early tomorrow, and probably arrive in two days.”
“Fine! And thanks. I’m flying back tomorrow. Come to my office when you get there.”
Next, Frank called the telegraph office and dictated a cable to Fenton Hardy in Jamaica: 
STARTING NEW CASE TOMORROW FOR MR. BART WORTH, LARCHMONT, GEORGIA
Joe now took over the phone and dialed the Bayport number of their plump, good-natured friend, Chet Morton. His cheerful voice answered. “Ready to go camping, now that your mother and dad have left?” he asked.
“Sure thing, Chet,” Joe replied heartily. “Only, instead of Maine, we’re going to the coast of Georgia. How’s that sound?”
Several seconds of silence followed. Then came a suspicious query, “How come the switch?”
“A little business matter turned up.”
“Business matter!” exploded Chet. “You don’t fool me. Another mystery is what you mean. Another crazy, dangerous wild-goose chase that you’re trying to drag poor ole Chet into!”
Chet Morton always insisted he hated danger, though he had shared most of the Hardy boys’ hair-raising adventures.
“Then we can count you out?” asked Joe with a smile.
“Well ...” came the grudging answer. “I’ve never been to Georgia. I could lie on the beach and leave you two to your narrow escapes.”
“We’ll pick you up at dawn tomorrow.”
After a late breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, Frank and Joe, eager to start their sleuthing, took a train to Bayport. As soon as they reached home, the boys kissed their tall, angular aunt, then told her the plans. Aunt Gertrude, at times sharp-tongued and peppery despite her pride in her nephews, gave her opinion of the whole expedition.
“Foolishness,” she declared. “It’ll end in trouble, you mark me. And then Fenton will have to rush away from the Caribbean to help you. My poor brother!”
“Oh, Auntie! You know Dad wouldn’t want us to turn down a challenging case!” Joe said.
“Humph! I guess not. Well, you’d better have a good meal, anyway. And maybe you’d like to invite Chet.”
This was done, and it was decided that Chet and his gear would spend the night at the Hardys’ because of the early start. Then Frank backed the boys’ powerful yellow convertible into the driveway. He and Joe packed sleeping bags, tents, cooking equipment, spare clothing, and the Hardys’ skin-diving equipment into it.
Aunt Gertrude prepared one of her delicious dinners. Chet, as usual, had second helpings of everything.
“You’d better know,” Miss Hardy told them later, “that there was a big, tough-looking man hanging around here this afternoon before you boys returned. He even came up our driveway. I called out to see what he wanted. Apparently that scared him away.”
“For good, I hope,” Frank said. The same thought occurred to him and Joe. Had their hoarse-voiced attacker preceded them to Bayport? The boys changed the subject, however, not wanting to worry Aunt Gertrude unnecessarily.
Just at dawn the next morning, after breakfast and good-bys to Miss Hardy, the yellow convertible, with Frank, Chet, and Joe in the front seat, purred through the quiet Bayport streets. Soon it entered the superhighway heading north.
“Now,” said Frank, who was driving, “if anybody’s watching us, he’ll think we’re still going to Maine!”
“I wish we were,” declared Chet. The brothers had given him the details of their new case.
About ten miles farther, however, Frank sent the car down an exit ramp, passed underneath the thruway, and entered the highway on the other side. Now they were bound for Georgia!
The remainder of that day, and the next, they sped along the smooth concrete under a warm sun and blue sky. About noon on the last day of the boys’ journey, a cluster of police cars, with red lights winking, warned of an accident ahead. Passing by slowly, the brothers and Chet saw a yellow convertible, the same model as the Hardys‘, turned upside down on the center grass strip.
“Gives me the creeps!” Chet shuddered. “It might have been us!”
When Frank reached the next service area, he pulled in to have lunch at the counter. The boys had just finished eating when two state troopers came in and took seats nearby.
“A bad smashup,” said the first officer. “The driver and passenger thrown clear, lucky for them. It was deliberate, too. A blue sedan forced them right off the road. The driver of the car behind them saw the whole thing, but didn’t catch a glimpse of the license number.”
“Can’t our boys stop the sedan farther along?” asked the other trooper.
“No. It must have turned off at the next exit. The witness caught a glimpse of the driver, though. Big, flat-faced fellow. Had a blond-haired man with him.”
Frank, Joe, and Chet paid their check and filed out quietly. They climbed into the convertible with serious faces.
“That ‘accident’ was meant for us!” declared Joe as they started once again. “The driver sounds like our suspicious friend with the wheezy breathing.”
Constantly alert, the young detectives continued their journey. Joe, now at the wheel, turned off the highway and continued south on the secondary road, to throw off pursuit.
Late that afternoon they rolled into Larchmont, an old town built around a main square containing the courthouse and a Civil War monument. Stores lined the edges of the square, and the boys soon spotted the building which housed the Record’s offices, which were on the second floor. While Frank and Chet waited in the car, Joe ran inside and came back with a smiling Bart Worth. 
“Glad to see you!” said the young editor. He was, introduced to Chet and shook hands with him. “Joe says you all want to camp. I’ll take you out now and show you the best spot.”
He directed Frank to follow the same road by which the boys had entered town. About a mile out of town, he said, “Turn right on this lane. It leads to the beach about a mile away. Only fishermen use the lane.”
Bart Worth explained that half a mile farther along the main road was the entrance to the Blackstone home. “It’s about halfway between the shore and the public road. Professor Rand has his own driveway some distance from Blackstone’s.”
The lane made its way among scrubby pine trees. Finally the car came to the beach where the fishermen’s road, barely discernible, turned left.
“Boy, that ocean smells good!” Chet declared.
Presently Bart Worth said, “This road ends at the dunes ahead. They spread along the shore and I figured it would be an ideal spot for you all to camp out. Nobody will know you’re around.”
The boys selected a secluded spot between two high dunes, then quickly pitched their camp. Leaving Chet to unpack provisions, Frank and Joe drove the editor back to town.
A tall, pale man with blond hair, wearing a linen suit and straw hat, stopped them as they entered the newspaper office.
“Hello there, Mr. Worth,” he said. “I see you have company.”
“Yes, a couple of visitors from up North,” Worth responded. “Boys, this is Mr. Henry Cutter—a Yankee like yourselves. Mr. Cutter and his partner, Mr. Stewart, are in the antique business. They’re down here looking over business opportunities.”
“That’s right,” agreed Cutter, appraising the Hardys with hard blue eyes. “Once in a while we put an ad in the Record for people interested in helping us start a profitable business. We make trips into the countryside around Larchmont.”
After shaking hands, the Hardys followed Worth into his private office. Here they discussed the Blackstone case and how the young sleuths would first tackle it.
“We’ll take a little tour of the grounds tonight,” Frank decided.
“Okay,” Bart said. “Keep me posted.”
When the brothers were driving back on the lane, Joe asked, “What did you think of Mr. Cutter?”
“Seemed to me we got a good once-over from Cutter for just a casual meeting,” Frank commented.
Back at camp, Chet and the Hardys took a swim. Then, using their camp stove, they prepared a tasty meal of hash and brown bread. After eating, and burying the debris, the three sat and talked in low tones until dusk came on. The continually moving sea had darkened, as the sunset’s afterglow gave way to stars. The air grew close and murky.
“I think it’s time to inspect the Blackstone property,” Frank proposed. “It’s dark enough now.”
“You two go,” Chet suggested quickly. “I’ll stay and guard camp.”
A few minutes later the brothers set off on foot among the dunes toward the Blackstone house. It was difficult walking through the high grass and loose sand. Here and there a lone scraggly pine endeavored to exist.
Presently the earth became less sandy. The scraggly pines gave way to thick vegetation, more and more tangled.
“According to Bart’s directions, we ought to come to the pond soon,” muttered Joe, beaming his flashlight ahead.
The thick, forbidding tangle made hard going, even with flashlights. At last the brothers struck a path through clumps of swamp grass, matted vines, and huge rotting trees. Then an open space appeared ahead. Their lights shone on an expanse of still, brackish-looking water.
“Blackstone’s place should be to the right,” said Frank, plunging forward in a northerly direction.
Some distance beyond, the brothers discerned house lights ahead. There was a narrow path which they followed through swampy ground. An ominous growling reached their ears, and they skirted a pen containing two big, fierce-looking dogs.
“Look, Joe!” Frank exclaimed, pointing to the large, imposing white-pillared mansion before them.
The boys stopped and stared at a brightly lighted, partially open window. Through it they saw three men. One, facing them, was large and portly. The other was tall, dark, and gangling. A Negro servant, wearing a white butler’s coat, stood near the door.
As the Hardys approached stealthily, the men’s voices reached them.
“Rand, you’ll get it over my dead body!” shouted the heavy-set man.
“The big one’s Blackstone, no doubt,” Joe whispered. “Wonder what Rand is after.”
The tall man, obviously furious, said something indistinguishable. Suddenly Blackstone, his face livid, seized a heavy china vase from a desk and smashed it against the professor’s head!
Instantly the light went out. Frank and Joe dashed up the steps and pounded on the door. Within twenty-five seconds it was opened.
“Yes?”
The Negro servant who had been in the room stood looking at the boys calmly from the hallway.
“We’d like to see Mr. Blackstone—right away!” Frank cried.
Without a word, the servant ushered the brothers into the bay-windowed room. There, comfortably seated in an easy chair and reading a book, was the large man. To the Hardys’ profound astonishment, they found no trace of Professor Rand.
Even more astonishing was the fact that the china vase which had been smashed against his head stood whole upon the desk!

CHAPTER III  
  Water Monster
FOR A moment Frank and Joe remained too astonished to speak. The heavy-set man put down his book and stood up.
“You want to see me?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes. You are Mr. Blackstone?” Frank spoke up. 
“I am. What do you want?”
“We ... we heard a cry, and thought maybe there had been an accident!”
“Accident?” The man gave the brothers a steely look of suspicion. “No, there’s been no accident that I know of. I’ve been spending a quiet evening reading. You’re the first visitors I’ve had tonight. By the way, what are you doing on my property?” 
“We’re visiting the area,” Joe answered promptly. “We’ve just been exploring the beach and came up here.”
“Treacherous swamp around here,” Mr. Blackstone commented. “Incidentally, my dogs are usually let loose at night, so I wouldn’t advise your getting lost in this direction again. Minnie! Show these young men to the door.”
A young Negro maid entered the room. The Hardys were surprised. They had expected to see the somewhat elderly man who had answered their knock. They looked around for him on the way out. But he, too, was gone.
“If we hadn’t both seen that fight I’d think I was crazy,” Joe muttered, as he and Frank left.
“Oh—oh,” Frank whispered. “Mr. Blackstone has another caller.” A linen-suited figure was approaching on foot up the drive.
“Mr. Cutter!” Joe exclaimed.
A moment later tall Henry Cutter mounted the steps. He glanced at the boys sharply, but merely nodded as he went past them into the house.
“Wonder what he’s here for,” Frank mused.
For a few minutes the brothers lingered under a huge spreading cypress near the house. They saw Blackstone draw the curtains across the bay window, but still his gruff voice could be heard clearly.
“Those boys? Just a couple of nosy Northerners. I got rid of them. Look here, Cutter, it’s no use coming around. I won’t sell.”
The men apparently moved away from the window, for the young detectives could hear no more. As quickly as possible they retraced their steps to the pond, and toward camp.
“What happened to Professor Rand?” asked Joe. “I thought he got a knockout wallop. And how did Blackstone mend that broken vase so fast?”
“I couldn’t even see a crack in it,” Frank added.
“I wonder what Cutter wants to buy from Blackstone,” Joe said. “Something for his antique business?”
“Wish I had an answer,” his brother replied wryly. “Let’s try our luck at Rand’s home tomorrow.”
As they ate an early breakfast, Chet pointed out a dilapidated fishing smack some distance off shore. “Wonder what’s running,” he murmured.
Frank and Joe did not reply. They set off for the pond. Reaching it, they turned left.
“We’ll get Rand’s story about last night,” Frank declared.
Huge live oaks, hung with Spanish moss, partly hid a stately white Southern mansion in need of paint. Wisteria blossoms hung bell-like from vines climbing the walls. The Hardys mounted the steps of the still stately portico, supported by high, once-white round columns.
Frank knocked repeatedly on the door. There was no response. As they circled the neglected structure, they rapped on windows, called out, pounded on side and back doors, with no results.
“The professor’s not here—or he just doesn’t want visitors,” Joe concluded. “All right, then—back to Blackstone‘s!”
Samuel Blackstone’s estate, with its carefully tended flower beds and pruned shrubbery made a sharp contrast with his cousin’s run-down property. When Frank spotted a young gardener pushing a power mower, he strolled over to him.
“Lookin’ for somebody?” The pleasant-faced young man squinted at them in the bright sunshine.
“Yes—the elderly butler who works for Mr. Blackstone,” Joe answered. “We can’t find him.”
“Grover?” the gardener drawled. “Well, now, he’s gone on vacation—just this morning, I hear. First one in thirty-five years. Don’t it beat all?”
“Sure does.” Joe laughed. But the minute he and Frank were alone, Frank noted, “Mighty sudden vacation, if you ask me.”
“Very,” Joe agreed tersely as he followed the drive, which looped around the house before leading to the road. The route took them past the dog pen. The police dogs leaped and whined as though eager to attack the boys.
“I’d sure hate to have them at my throat!” Joe remarked, grinning.
Meanwhile, Frank had been thinking out the boys’ next step. “We’d better head for Larchmont,” he advised, “and look up Jenny Shringle. She overheard Rand and Blackstone quarreling before, and according to Bart, she also told him the rumor that the Blackstone money originally came from smuggling.”
“Why did she tell Worth all this?” Joe wondered, as he and Frank hurried toward their camp.
“Revenge,” Frank reasoned. “She’d been a seamstress in the family for years, and just lately Blackstone fired her. She probably wanted to get square with him.”
The brothers brought Chet up to date on the news, then set off in the convertible for Larchmont. Frank consulted a slip of paper, then watched the street signs until he found the one he wanted. He turned onto an unpaved road that ended in a steep railway embankment. The houses along the road were small and dingy.
“Here we are,” Frank announced, pointing to a boxlike cottage overgrown by scraggly bushes. The Hardys went to the door and knocked.
“Meow!” A black-and-white cat came around the corner and rubbed herself against the boys’ legs. Once more Frank rapped urgently.
“Meow,” was the only answer.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” sang a voice nearby.
Turning, the Hardys saw a heavy, middle-aged woman calling from the porch of the house next door. In her hands she held a saucer of milk.
“Miss Shringle?” Frank inquired.
“No. And I don’t know where Jenny is,” replied the woman, who appeared willing and even eager to talk. “But it’s right strange about her going. She left here without providing for her cat.”
After placing the saucer on the ground, the neighbor continued, “Now this is why it’s funny. She left the house yesterday morning just after dawn. That’s not a time for law-abidin’ folks to be about. Jenny had no suitcase, and not even a pocketbook. Just slipped out in her best dress—really a little old shabby black one—and an old flowered hat.” 
“Do you know where she went?” Joe asked.
The woman shrugged. “I reckon she walked out to the main road. Maybe somebody sent for her. Maybe not. But why be so sneaky about it?”
The Hardys were noncommittal in order not to arouse the woman’s suspicions. Soon the brothers said good-by and returned to camp for lunch.
After eating, and telling Chet about the strange disappearance, the chums rested under some pines near the tent.
“Three people involved in this case have disappeared,” Joe summed up in exasperation.
“And no leads as to where they might have gone!” Frank added.
Chet yawned. “Maybe we should report these disappearances to Mr. Worth or the police.”
“Let’s wait one more day,” Frank urged. “I want to explore the pond tonight. After all, it’s the central issue in this whole case. If we don’t turn up anything, we’ll call in the authorities.”
“Well, I’ll hold the fort here,” Chet offered cheerfully. “Fishing’s great.”
That evening, the hazy light of dusk found the two detectives advancing quietly among the sand dunes and the tall grass. Because of the insects, they had smeared their arms and faces with repellent. Also, as a precaution against an onslaught by Blackstone’s dogs, Joe carried a stout club.
In the dim light the dead trees and hummocks of swamp grass assumed fantastic shapes. Frogs croaked, and now and then one would slip with a gurgle into a brown, stagnant pool. At last the boys reached the pond between the two properties.
“This way,” whispered Frank, turning left. “Let’s try Rand’s side first.”
He and Joe pushed through the dense growth around the pond’s edge. It was totally dark when they emerged at a flat, open space. Before them rose the branchless trunk of an ancient oak tree, nearly twenty feet high. It was silhouetted against a moonlit but partly clouded sky.
Carefully the boys examined the remains of the old tree. “This must be one of the trees mentioned in the will,” Frank said, as the boys made their way back along the pond until they came to the Blackstone side of the water. Here the oak stump was shorter.
Disappointed, Frank and Joe switched off their lights and looked around. Overhead, moonlight glowed silver around the fringe of a cloud. Suddenly Joe grasped Frank’s arm and whispered, “Over there!” The yellow beam of a flashlight could be plainly seen on the far rim of the pond.
The light moved around the oak stump like some giant firefly. Once, when the moon sailed free of clouds, the boys caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure, pacing back and forth.
“He’s looking for something!” Frank whispered.
“Suppose it’s Rand?”
The light began moving around the edge of the pond toward them. Nearer and nearer it came. The boys waited breathlessly. But before they could make a move, heavy, crashing steps retreated through the underbrush and died away.
“We should’ve nabbed him!” Joe said in disgust.
“At this distance?” Frank said. Then he pointed in amazement toward the middle of the pond.
The white moon, thinly veiled by a few mackerel clouds, showed up a sudden roiling disturbance on the glassy surface. Large circles of rippling water were expanding outward. At their center a gleaming row of finlike humps slid into view. A fantastic, monstrous head rose briefly, dripping, into the moonlight. Then it sank beneath the dark waters!

CHAPTER IV  
  Skin-Diving Sleuths
THE Hardy boys could almost believe they had beheld a prehistoric creature with its jagged fin and enormous head. Frank and Joe peered in fascination at the swamp-bordered pond.
“There it is again!” Joe whispered in awe.
The grotesque shape had again surfaced, and now cut through the water to the rear bank. Here it wriggled up and disappeared.
“Come on!” Joe cried, switching on his flashlight. “Let’s go after that thing!”
They found the swamp at the rear of the pond almost impassable. Stumbling over roots, dodging under hanging moss, sinking in the rank mire, the two boys doggedly made their way along.
“That monster must have come out near here!” Frank panted, shining his light around.
In this spot the thick vegetation grew right to the water’s edge. The Hardys plunged through the tangle until they felt the tepid water lap over their sneakers.
Their flashlight beams picked out crushed leaves and stalks where something large must have dragged itself ashore. But the trail ended a few feet from the water, in the thick growth. No further signs of the strange creature could be found.
“Maybe the monster slipped back into the pond,” Joe whispered apprehensively.
Suddenly Frank snapped off his flashlight and signaled his brother to do the same. At the edge of the gloomy pond, where the big swamp stretched toward the main road, a light was moving!
In a moment the Hardys were fighting their way through the dense undergrowth toward the figure. The moon was their only light, as they crept forward silently and swiftly. Soon a glow about fifty yards ahead of them lit up a grove of weird, moss-covered cypress trees. Underneath one of them, Frank and Joe discerned a tall figure in a long coat and floppy hat, his back to the boys.
Scarcely breathing, Frank and Joe slipped forward. In one hand the strange figure carried a small lantern. He frequently stooped to examine the ground. Once he crouched for a long time looking at something. The boys crept closer.
Suddenly the figure stood to his full height, as if listening keenly. Then, like a shot, he went off at a swift, long-legged run through the swamp.
“He’s heading for Rand‘s!” Frank whispered tensely, as the boys raced forward.
A protruding root suddenly sent Joe sprawling. Frank, behind, piled on top of him. Ahead, the figure with the swinging lantern gained ground. Leaping to their feet, the boys ran on, out of the swamp and up a slight hill toward the Rand estate. Presently, a high, solid hedge, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, came into view. At the same moment, the pursued man and his lantern disappeared into the dense shrubbery. Panting, the boys pounded up and plunged through it.
“Whoa!” cried Frank.
Beyond the hedge the ground dropped off sharply about seven feet. Below them lay a broad meadow. The man with the lantern was not in sight.
“Given us the slip,” Joe admitted.
Still breathing hard from the chase, the brothers walked directly toward the ocean. They found Chet at camp, lying on his stomach, munching an apple and reading a mystery story.
“Hi! Good night! Where have you been? Swimming in mud?” he needled, looking at their soggy, spattered clothing.
Joe grinned. “Chet, you must go up to the pond and see the monster!”
“The—what? No, thanks. But you’re kidding?”
“We mean it,” Frank replied, and he told the story, exaggerating it a bit to tease Chet. “You’re really missing all the excitement, Chet.”
“It’s okay with me. I’ll pull a fish out of the water—that’ll be monster enough for me.”
He arose, lighted the camp stove, and prepared mugs of steaming cocoa. Suddenly he said, “Wait a minute, fellows! Did you really see some kind of prehistoric ... dinosaur ... in that pond?”
“Well, not quite that big.” Frank had to laugh. “But the thing was as big as a man, at least.”
Chet looked around fearfully. “Do you think the monster might be connected with the mystery?”
“Search me,” Joe shrugged. “I wonder if that prowler out there tonight saw the creature.”
“Funny business.” Chet shook his head.
The campers finished their cocoa, then crawled into their bags and slept soundly. After breakfast next morning, the boys attended Sunday church service. They had lunch in town, then Frank said, “Let’s drive to Professor Rand’s house. If the professor isn’t there, we’ll go to the police. I don’t care what Blackstone says. We saw Rand take a nasty crack on the head. He may be seriously injured, or worse!” 
When the three boys reached the run-down plantation house, they found it as empty as it had appeared the day before. They headed at full speed for Larchmont and went to Bart Worth’s home.
“You have news?” he asked expectantly.
Joe related the fierce quarrel the Hardys had witnessed in the Blackstone mansion two nights before. “Bart,” the boy went on, “has anyone mentioned having seen the professor lately?”
The young editor shook his head and grabbed his hat in one movement. “It’s a case for the police now,” he said, rising. But Frank restrained him.
“You’d better not become involved,” the boy advised. “After all, Joe and I were the witnesses. The police know you have a feud with Blackstone, and might not believe you. Also, we don’t want Blackstone to know we’re working for you.”
Bart agreed, and the boys left to make a report to the authorities.
Larchmont’s police station was a trim building of whitewashed brick, just across the square from the courthouse. A desk sergeant led the three into the office of Police Chief Gerald. Frank gave an account of the attack to the middle-aged law officer, who listened intently.
“Hmm ... by the time you entered the room, the vase had been mended,” the chief repeated. He stared ahead in deep thought. “What do you young fellows want me to do?” he asked.
“We think you should procure a warrant and search Blackstone’s house,” Frank urged promptly.
The chief smiled, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number.
“Hello?” he began politely. “Mr. Blackstone, this is Chief Gerald. Some visitors to our town have been telling me about a fight at your place two nights ago. One of the men-Professor Rand, by the sound of it—is supposedly missing. I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to get a warrant and make a search of your place.”
The three boys watched the officer’s face eagerly for some hint of Blackstone’s reaction. But they could tell nothing until the chief hung up. He looked at the boys quizzically and reported, “Mr. Blackstone says I don’t need a warrant. Told me to come on out there right now, and bring the visitors with me—that he hasn’t anything to hide.”
Chief Gerald summoned one of his patrolmen and led Frank, Joe, and Chet to a police car outside. Within twenty minutes they were parked in front of the large brick house. Samuel Blackstone stood waiting on the porch.
“This way, Chief,” he greeted the law officer, not waiting for an introduction to Chet Morton. “I want you to see everything.” The heavy-set man did not address the boys directly.
Mr. Blackstone conducted them to every part of his house. Frank and Joe kept a sharp watch, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, he led the group to the front door.
“You’ve seen the house,” said Blackstone. “Now read this.”
He produced a note written on Professor Rand’s stationery. The chief read it aloud:
“ ‘Dear Samuel, if you want me I’m at the Storm Island Lighthouse for a few days, doing some research. Ruel.’ ”
“My cousin is an archaeologist,” Blackstone explained. “His specialty is American Indian civilization. He’s always looking for old relics.”
“Well, this note sounds friendly enough,” commented Gerald as he handed it back.
“And are you satisfied?” The big man suddenly turned hard, antagonistic eyes on the Hardys.
“Not yet,” Joe spoke up without flinching. “We’d like to talk to your man, Grover. He saw that fight, too.”
“Grover’s older brother in Chicago is very ill,” Blackstone returned promptly. “He begged me to let him go to see him, and I did. It’s his first vacation in many years, and I won’t have him brought back for any such nonsensical reason.”
Blackstone accompanied the boys and the police officer when they returned to the waiting patrol car. “Chief Gerald,” he said warningly, “these boys have already trespassed on my land. Now they practically accuse me of something underhanded. If they ever set foot on my property again, or annoy me in any way, I’m going to ask you to arrest them!”
Turning quickly, he strode back to the house. Then the police car drove out of the long private road and back toward Larchmont.
“Well, boys,” the chief told them, “you’ve made a powerful enemy.”
“That doesn’t bother us,” Frank said. “Not if we find out the truth.”
That afternoon, back at their camp, the three young detectives held a conference. “We must find out why that pond is so important,” Frank insisted. “I’m for going back there tonight with our skin-diving gear, and tracking down the monster!”
That evening, as a big, round yellow moon rose above the trees of the dark swamp, the three boys stood at the pond’s edge. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, held diving face masks and flippers. Each had an aqualung strapped to his back. Chet stood by with a Thermos of hot broth.
“Well, here goes,” said Frank quietly. He put on his mask, adjusted his breathing hose, and slipped into the black water.
The next instant Chet and Joe were startled by a sudden crash of brush on the far side of the pond. As the boys stared almost hypnotized, a huge shape making remarkably little noise wriggled off the bank into the water.
Seconds later, a saw-tooth fin broke the smooth moonlit surface of the pond and headed straight for the spot where Frank had gone under!

CHAPTER V  
  Marooned!
“THE monster! It’s after Frank!” cried Joe as the creature’s long serrate fin disappeared beneath the pond’s surface.
Quickly adjusting his own face mask and breathing tube, Joe plunged into the dark, menacing water. He kicked powerfully with his flippers, and shot down through the water. The bottom of the pond was absolutely black, but just enough of the moon’s pale light filtered down through the murk for him to distinguish violent thrashing motions dead ahead.
Instantly Joe encircled his brother’s shoulder with one arm. At the same time, he came to grips with something cold and slippery that was tugging Frank’s limp body deeper into the pond.
Fearlessly Joe attacked. But the creature possessed great power and gradually wrestled him down into the thick ooze at the bottom.
Joe gritted his teeth but never let go his hold on Frank. In a moment he wrenched himself loose from the monster. It closed in again. Desperately, Joe shook off his flippers and kicked with all his might against the cold, slimy body of the attacker.
This propulsion speeded the boys upward through the water to the surface. With a frantic one-arm stroke, Joe swam to the shore, still grasping his unconscious brother. Chet waded out and helped pull them in. A few minutes later Frank was sitting up and shaking his head groggily.
“Drink this,” ordered Chet, handing over the Thermos of beef broth. “What happened?”
“That thing got me from behind,” Frank reported, after a gulp of the hot broth. “My air line was nicked. Started to get a trickle of water. I held my breath till I blacked out!”
Joe, meanwhile, had removed his own equipment and was examining his brother’s air hose. “A jagged cut,” he told them. “Could be from several things—knife, claws, shears, teeth.”
“Teeth!” echoed Chet. “You mean—an alligator?”
Joe shook his head. “The monster’s head we saw was no alligator’s.”
Chet shuddered. “That’s enough sleuthing for one night,” he declared firmly. “Let’s go!”
The Hardys agreed, but they were more determined than ever to discover the pond’s secret.
In spite of his close call, Frank awakened fit and alert the next morning. “Let’s hire a boat and go out to Storm Island today,” he proposed at breakfast. “I want to see if Rand is really there. I don’t trust Blackstone’s ‘friendly note.’ Anybody might have written it.”
After cleaning up camp, the three friends headed for town in the convertible. As they drove through to the far side of Larchmont, they saw masts, cables, and booms of fishing boats, with sea gulls flapping their wings among them.
“Larchmont docks,” Frank announced.
They had no trouble in hiring a boat for the day. While Frank was settling a deal with the owner of a motorboat, Chet and Joe bought some bread, cheese, and cold cuts at a nearby grocery. Just as the boys were ready to shove off, a tall, familiar, pale-faced man approached them.
“Where to, fellows?” Henry Cutter asked. His tone was friendly, but he watched them sharply. Another man, whom the boys assumed was Cutter’s partner, Mr. Stewart, joined him.
“Oh, it’s such a swell day,” replied Frank, casually squinting overhead, “we thought we’d take a sightseeing cruise.”
“Hmm. Well, have fun. Come along, Stewart.” The two men walked off.
“They’re a nosy pair,” Chet complained, settling back in the boat, an old wooden craft with deep sides and a high windshield. Eagerly Joe took the wheel, which resembled a ship’s helm. Frank and Chet sat on the wooden box housing the engine. Soon the craft was moving toward the mouth of the inlet into the Atlantic.
“Storm Island is a little south of here,” explained Frank, opening a chart. “It’s nothing but a pile of rocks in the sea, according to Worth. The light hasn’t been used in years, since there’s no more shipping from Larchmont.”
They left the harbor and headed the boat south on the blue-green sea. The white dunes of the beach were far over to their right. The horizon was a line where the powder-blue sky met the darker hue of the ocean. Then a pile of jumbled rocks came into view.
“Must be Storm Island,” Frank said briefly.
As they came closer, they saw that the islet was indeed nothing but a mass of rock, about a hundred yards long. From its center rose a conical wooden tower with a black roof and gaping windows.
They landed at a little stone jetty and tied up the boat, then mounted some stone steps that apparently led to a path to the lighthouse. Quickly the boys looked around for the gangling figure of the professor. No one was in sight.
“Professor Rand!” Joe called out. No answer.
The boys walked around the islet, peering into crevices of jagged rocks, and calling out periodically. There was no response.
“Maybe he’s inside the lighthouse,” Chet said.
The young sleuths entered the deserted rooms at the bottom of the now run-down tower, where lighthouse keepers had made their home in years past. Finding nothing, they climbed the winding enclosed staircase. At one point two steps were missing and the three friends had to reach up to the third one above.
At the top of the lighthouse was a round platform with the large, old-fashioned light in the center of it. Several of the broad glass window-panes had been broken.
Suddenly Joe cried out. “Hey! Our boat!”
He pointed down to the landward side of the islet. Drifting rapidly away from the jetty was their rented craft! In the distance, a pleasure speedboat plowed away from the island.
Turning, Frank and Joe clattered down the old wooden steps. Chet followed close behind. “Our food’s aboard!” he groaned.


  
The trio emerged from the lighthouse and dashed down to the jetty. By this time their boat had already drifted a distance too great to swim.


  
“I’m sure I tied those lines tightly!” Frank declared. “They were cut—by somebody in that speedboat, I’ll bet.”
“But why?” Joe burst out. “Boy, what a mess! Not only have we come way out here on a wild-goose chase, but to top it off, we’re marooned!”
Chet was so dejected at this thought he could only groan again, “All our food gone!” The boys returned to the lighthouse and took stock of their situation. From every point of view it seemed desperate.
“We have one quart of drinking water in my canteen,” Chet informed them, “and one package of cookies I brought in my pocket. Oh, all that wonderful cheese, meat, and—I can’t stand it!”
“No ocean-going vessels pass anywhere near here,” Frank put in glumly. “And I guess this isn’t a popular spot for pleasure cruising. The water’s too rough!”
“The boat owner thinks we’re on a pleasure ride,” Joe added, “but he doesn’t know where. And somehow I doubt that Cutter and his pal will advise anyone if they find out we’re missing.” 
Frank jumped up. “Let’s go outside and see if there’s anything on this island we can rig for a signal!”
All afternoon the youths explored their sea-locked prison. The island was composed of sharp, craggy rock faces with steep drops in between. The surf on the ocean side had made a network of shelving ledges and hollow caves.
At suppertime they sat down on the rocks and Chet doled out to each boy a ration of two chocolate cookies and two swallows of water. As they chewed their meager meal, staring idly at the old tower, Frank burst out:
“I know what! We always carry match packets with us when on a camping trip, so let’s light the beacon tonight as a distress signal. All these old-fashioned lighthouses used acetylene beacons. If we can’t make this one work, what good is the chemistry we’re learning in high school?”
Eagerly Frank led the way into the lighthouse. Sure enough, in a small ground-floor room directly at the center of the tower, they found a big tank with a pipe rising up toward the light.
“But where will we get the gas for the tank?” Chet wanted to know.
At that moment Joe pried the lid off an old drum. “Here we are—calcium carbide!”
Frank explained. “We put some of this chemical in the tank and pour sea water over it. The chemical reaction produces acetylene gas, which burns with a bright white light.”
Already dusk was falling. They sent Chet out with a bucket for sea water. Meanwhile, Joe climbed the staircase to the beacon. There he found a big metal ring with multiple jets. Looking out one of the broad, paneless windows, he saw Chet returning with his bucket of water.
Then Joe heard the tinkering of metal far below. He took a packet of matches from his pocket and held one ready to strike.
“Okay!” came the muffled signal. “Light her!”
Crouching, Joe held his flaring match to the jets. The stiff breeze, whipping through the wide window, snuffed it out. Again and again he brought a flame over the holes, but without result. Finally, all his matches were gone. At that moment the boy heard the floor creak nearby.
As Joe turned, something lifted him up and rushed him toward the wide-open window. With a wild cry of “Help!” Joe felt himself plunging into space!

CHAPTER VI  
  Signal Fire
DEEP in the tower, Frank and Chet were electrified to hear a wild cry for help, and then another fainter call, which seemed to come from outside the lighthouse.
“Fra-ank!”
“It’s Joe!” cried Frank. He sprinted up the rickety staircase so fast that the structure shook underneath him. Chet ran behind.
The two piled into the empty beacon room. For a moment Frank and Chet heard only the strong wind sweeping through and the sound of the sea breaking on the rocks below. Then came a kicking sound outside.
Frank rushed to the window. Two tanned hands clung to the sill. Over the side, in the early evening darkness, he could see Joe dangling ninety feet above the sharp rocks.
“Chet! Over here!” Frank yelled, at the same time seizing his brother’s wrists. The hefty boy was at his side in a second. Together, they hauled Joe in to safety.
“Somebody—threw me—out!” the boy gasped as he sank to the floor to rest. “I managed to grab the sill.”
“Thank goodness you did,” said Frank.
Chet said in astonishment, “But there’s nobody on the island!”
“Wait!” Frank signaled abruptly. “Quiet!”
Speechless, the three boys listened. The sea crashed over the rocks. The wind hummed through the room. Did they also hear creaking on the old staircase below?
Frank hurried stealthily halfway down the steps. But he neither saw nor heard anything and returned to the platform.
“You sure the wind didn’t blow you out?” Chet asked Joe. “It’s pretty strong.”
“No.” By now Joe had recovered from his close call. “I was grabbed and pushed through the window. No doubt about it.”
“But how could anybody have climbed the stairs without our knowing it?” Frank frowned.
“There’s got to be an answer,” Joe returned. “Let’s have a look at the stairs. Anybody got a flashlight?”
Chet produced a tiny one from a pocket, but it would not light. “Guess it needs new batteries,” he apologized.
Frank brought out a packet of matches and lighted their way down. When he reached the two missing steps, Frank cautiously leaned down into the open space and struck another match. A network of thick diagonal supporting beams was revealed in the flickering light.
“A risky place to hide,” he said. “But it could be done by a strong and agile person.”
“We’d better face up to it,” Joe said somberly. “We’re being dogged by a dangerous enemy, and he’s on this island with us!”
“Yes,” Frank agreed, swiftly piecing together recent events. “He must have been dropped off by that speedboat we saw heading away. Then he untied our boat and hid among the rocks until he heard us mention lighting the beacon.”
“You mean he slipped up to the tower ahead of us?” Chet asked.
Frank nodded. “He stayed behind these supports until Joe climbed to the beacon, then followed. He slipped down the stairs while we were pulling Joe in. That was the creaking we heard.”
“All right,” agreed Joe. “But we’ll have a hard time finding him at night if he’s hiding out in those rocks. We have nothing but matches.”
Frank and Chet pulled out their packets, which were only partly filled.
Most of these matches were used to hunt for the fourth person who, they learned, was not inside the lighthouse.
“Only one thing for us to do,” said Frank. “We’ll lock the door and bunk in the keeper’s quarters. Whoever our enemy is can spend the night on the rocks! Then in the morning we’ll find him.”
“Good plan,” Joe assented. “We’ll take turns standing guard.”
As Frank took the first watch, Joe and Chet stretched out on the floor to sleep. At midnight Frank awakened the stout boy. Joe took the early-morning shift. There had not been a disturbing sound during the night.
At dawn the three stranded sleuths emerged from the lighthouse. A red ball of sun was coming out of the steel-gray sea. A light mist hung over the water.
“The third straight meal I’ve missed,” moaned Chet in a voice of genuine suffering.
Manfully, however, he handed round a breakfast of cookies and two gulps of water apiece. “Just enough for lunch and supper,” he said, and carefully stored the provisions again. “Maybe I can catch a fish later.”
“Now, let’s find our enemy,” said Frank. “And stay together, so we can handle him when we do!”
All morning, as the sun rose higher, the boys combed the deep cuts and passageways in the rocks.
“How could anybody hide here?” Chet wondered.
“He couldn‘t,” Joe assured him. “I believe someone came back here in a boat and took the intruder away. Probably turned off the motor and used oars so we wouldn’t hear what was going on.”
Chet now asked, “Why didn’t the beacon work last night?”
“Gas didn’t get up to the light,” Joe reported. “I never did smell it. Probably there’s a break in the old line.”
“How about the lamps up there?” suggested Chet. He referred to a circle of oil lamps, backed by once-shiny tin reflectors, extending all around the tower platform.
“No oil,” Frank said. “Those go back to the days when this light was built—long before it was converted to acetylene.”
At that moment Joe, in his dark-blue jersey, gazed at the tower. Frank looked at his brother, then at his own maroon shirt. Finally he stared with sudden hope at Chet’s white garment, which blazed with a wild, colorful design.
“Say, what are you up to?” the chunky boy asked uneasily.
“We need your shirt,” replied Joe. “It’ll be a perfect distress flag.”
With a martyred air, Chet pulled off his shirt, and the Hardys rigged it on the shaft of an old broom in the lighthouse. They mounted the signal on the tower.
“So far, so good,” Joe said when they were on the ground once more. “What about a signal for tonight? Let’s find something to make a fire.”
Another tour of the island turned up only a few sodden bits of driftwood. After a cheerless lunch of water and cookies, Frank and Joe went to scour the lighthouse for fuel, while Chet tried his best to snare a fish but failed.
After a time the brothers dragged out a heavy armchair with the stuffing about to burst from the seams. While they kicked this apart, Chet looked curiously at a little brick structure about the size of a dog kennel.
“Hello—an old brick oven,” he thought.
The opening had been sealed up with brick and masonry. Chet worked at the mortar with his pocketknife. It crumbled, and Chet pulled out the bricks. He peered inside.
“A tin box!” he yelled. “Treasure!”
Instantly Frank and Joe left their demolished chair and rushed over.
“There’s more than treasure,” Joe said excitedly, peering in. “Look at that pile of newspapers! Now we’ll get a fire going tonight!”
He yanked out a great stack of old papers, somewhat damp and moldy with age.
“What’s new in the world?” quipped Chet. “Say, these are funny newspapers. No headlines.”
“ ‘The relief of General McClellan from command of the American Federal armies has been announced,’ ” Joe read from one of the small-print columns. “Hey! It’s all about the Civil War. These papers were published in London.”
“Our history teacher will shoot us if we burn these,” Chet objected.
“If we don’t burn them, we may never see our history class again,” Frank reminded him. “Let’s just hope we won’t have to. Open that tin box, Chet.” 
Using his knife, the stout boy complied. Inside was a package of papers, carefully tied with a printed note on top.
“It says these papers were saved from the Sally Ann, an English ship returning to America, when she was wrecked on the reef,” he announced. 
“Dull stuff, probably,” commented Joe. With Chet’s help, he began spreading the old newspapers in the sun to dry, weighting them with bricks from the oven.
Frank, meanwhile, leafed through the little package of documents. They were mostly shipping invoices and insurance papers for the ship’s cargo. Dull stuff, as Joe had said. But then, tucked among them, a note on plain white paper caught his attention. Suddenly he leaped to his feet.
“Joe! Chet! Listen to this! It’s a memo from the Sally Ann‘s captain to himself!” 
When the other two had dashed over, astonished, Frank read the memo:
“ ‘Last voyage—my friend, Clement Blackstone, embarked with his entire family for England, from Hidden Harbor. Before sailing, Clement informed me, as his boyhood friend, that the family fortune and papers were hidden nearby, and gave me directions for finding them, in case he should never return. Memorized directions in order to avoid committing them to writing.’ ”
Joe gave a whistle. “Maybe you didn’t find a treasure, Chet, but you’ve given us a clue to one. But where’s Hidden Harbor? There’s nothing hidden about Larchmont’s inlet.”
“Hidden Harbor,” Frank mused. “Wherever it is, the Blackstone fortune is nearby.”
Joe sighed. “If we don’t get off this island, we’ll never find it,” he reminded the others. “Let’s spread out the rest of these papers to dry, and then get the chair stuffing out in the sun, too.”
They waited hopefully throughout the day for their distress signal to be noticed, but no one appeared. Finally, when evening came, the three boys carried the stuffing, the papers, and pieces of the wooden chair-frame to the highest point on the rocks. A starlit sky spread overhead, but a hard wind and a heavy sea had set in. The high-dashing spray was caught by the wind and whipped over the little island like gusts of fine rain. While Frank and Chet acted as shields, Joe lighted one of their few remaining matches. A feeble flame began to lick at the crumpled papers, only to be extinguished by the driving spray. Another match was used, with the same result.
“Shall we use our last two matches?” Joe asked.
“Try one more,” Frank answered.
This time a bluish-yellow finger of flame climbed, spread out, caught at the chair stuffing, and began to lick at the wood.
At that moment a shout, followed by the sudden roar of a motor, brought the boys to their feet.
“It came from the jetty!” cried Joe.
Racing around the lighthouse, they saw a dark figure leap into a motorboat, which then churned out from the island.
Frank and Joe ran at top speed to the end of the stone dock, plunged into the rough water, and struck out after the fleeing boat.
For a while the heavy waves slowed the boat more than the swimmers. But just as Joe came within grabbing distance, it suddenly spurted ahead and roared off into the darkness.
“Where
was that guy hiding?” Frank asked himself dismally. 
Thoroughly soaked and chattering with cold, the Hardys returned to their fire, only to find darkness.
“I did my best to keep it alive,” Chet apologized.
The heavy spray had quenched the flames, and the high wind had scattered the remaining paper all over the wet rocks.

CHAPTER VII  
  Amusement Park Trouble
MISERABLY, the three boys plodded back to the shelter of the lighthouse. Hunger and the lack of dry clothes combined to make a fitful night’s sleep. Next day, as the marooned trio stepped into the morning sunlight, a faint droning sound alerted them to a silvery object passing high overhead.
“A seaplane!” Joe cried wildly. “Hey! Help!”
Stripping off their shirts, Frank and Joe waved madly, while Chet bellowed at the top of his lungs. The plane continued toward the mainland.
“No breakfast ration today, boys,” Chet said grimly. “No cookies, no water. I won’t put up with it. There are fish in this ocean, and I’m going to get one somehow!”
While the stout boy lumbered off with a determined frown, Frank and Joe discussed the case once more.
“Who’s trying to get rid of us?” asked Frank. “Blackstone? Then he sure will go to any length to keep Bart from proving the rumor.” 
“It must be Blackstone,” Joe decided. “He deliberately let us think Rand was out here. He must have faked that note.”
“He could have been fooled by it,” Frank commented. “Who else might have guessed we’d come here? Cutter? Stewart? The boat owner?” 
“Maybe Cutter and Stewart,” Joe agreed. “That pale-faced Cutter seems mighty interested in us. Maybe he’s working for Blackstone.”
A shout from Chet interrupted their speculations. Dripping wet, the stout boy hustled toward them. In his arms gleamed a big mackerel!
“It was washed into a tide pool,” he cried excitedly. “I waded in after it!”
A few minutes were enough to rip out part of the railing of the wooden staircase and build a fire. “Here goes my last match,” said Chet. Soon he had planked the mackerel in fine style. Using sea water for salt, the boys regaled themselves on the tasty fish.
As they finished, a drone overhead announced the return of the silver seaplane. The boys signaled frantically. This time the craft circled once, then settled down on the calm water.
“Hot dog!” yelled Chet in fervent relief.
The seaplane taxied up to the stone dock, and the cabin door opened. “Hello, there,” called the slim, sunburned young pilot, leaning out. “I didn’t see your signals earlier, but my passenger did. He didn’t tell me until we landed—thought it was a joke.”
“Some joke!” said Chet as the boys clambered in.
“Figured ”I’d better check,“ said the pilot. ”My name’s Al West. I’ll take you to Larchmont Airport and drive you to town, if that’ll help.“
“Thanks a million!” Joe said gratefully.
“Same here!” Frank exclaimed. “We thought we were stuck on that rock pile for good!”
Exactly one hour later the Hardys and Chet, who was still shirtless, stepped from Al West’s car, waved good-by, and trooped into the Larchmont Record office. 
Bart Worth stared at them, flabbergasted, and upon hearing their story, expressed still further amazement. “You come home with me for a change of clothes and a solid meal,” he ordered. “And you’d better forget my case. This newspaper isn’t worth risking your lives.”
“We’ll accept that meal,” Frank answered for the three, “but if you think anything could keep us from this job now, you’re mistaken. We have several scores of our own to settle.”
While the hungry youths feasted at Worth’s bountiful table, the editor paced the floor.
“The lawsuit against me is coming up for trial, and I haven’t a shred of proof that some outsider tampered with my editorial,” he said. “Jenny Shringle first told me that story. She may have something to back it up, if we could find her.”
“Somebody
besides her neighbor must have seen her leave,” Frank reasoned. “We’ll comb the town.” 
“Good!” said Worth. “I’ll come along.”
The boys set out, accompanied by the editor. First, Chet bought a blazing yellow shirt with a pattern of zigzag lightning on it.
“This’ll make a swell distress signal”—he grinned—“if we need one again.”
They started from the town square and questioned everyone who might have noticed the seamstress departing a few mornings before. No one had. Gradually the four worked their way to the docks, where the man from whom the boys had rented the boat eyed them suspiciously.
“Where’s my boat?” he asked.
“Drifted off,” Frank answered.
“Drifted off! Then you all will pay for her!”
Bart Worth immediately drew out his checkbook. “You boys were working in my interest when you lost it,” he insisted, despite the Hardys’ protests.
Once more they pressed the search. Suddenly Frank halted before a small gift shop not far from the docks.
“Those two oriental vases,” he said, pointing to the window. “They’re the same kind as the one Blackstone used to hit Rand!”
Eagerly the party went into the store. Chet noticed a small, shy-looking Negro boy, who had been tagging them constantly, enter after them.
“Oh, those china vases,” the shopkeeper said in answer to Frank’s question. “Yes, they’re always sold in pairs.”
“That explains how Blackstone replaced his,” Frank murmured to the others, as they turned to go. Quickly the little lad slipped out in front of them.
“That kid’s been eavesdropping on us for half an hour,” Chet finally remarked.
“That youngster?” Bart shook his head doubtfully. “He’s doing no harm, I’m sure.”
Next, the Hardys and their friends stopped at an open-air fish market. While Frank, Joe, and Bart questioned the paunchy vendor, Chet watched the little boy sneak up behind the high wheel of a loaded cart of fish, and listen with bright, inquisitive eyes.
“Jenny Shringle?” the vendor repeated. “Sure, I saw her. Just the other day, early—”
Crash!
Chet had made a frantic dive at the little eavesdropper. The boy had dodged nimbly, but Chet had caused the whole cartload of fresh, wet fish to tip forward on its two wheels. The fish cascaded in a heap on top of Chet! 
“My fish!” cried the vendor.
“My new shirt!” Chet wailed.
“Get that kid!” cried Joe to others on the street. But the little boy disappeared.
After Chet had been helped to his feet, and the Hardys had paid for the fish, the vendor, mollified, went on with his story.
“I was settin’ up my stall t‘other morning. Pretty soon I saw Jenny come by and get on the six-o’clock bus for Sea City. She’s got kin there, you know, Mr. Worth. Right funny, though, she didn’t carry a suitcase.”
“That settles it,” said Frank with satisfaction. “We’re off for Sea City!”
They hurried back to the Record’s parking lot, where the four got into Worth’s green sedan and sped out to the boys’ camp among the dunes. Here Chet quickly changed his fishy shirt, and the party drove off. 
They traveled at the highest legal speed toward Sea City. Suddenly Bart slowed down.
“That parked car back there on the shoulder!” he exclaimed. “Professor Rand was in it!”
“Really?” asked Frank, amazed. “Cutter was at the wheel!”
Impatiently Bart sped forward looking for a chance to turn back, but traffic was heavy in both directions. At last he found a chance, but when they retraced their route to the spot, the parked car was gone.
“You’re sure it was Rand?” Frank asked as they headed for Sea City once more.
“Yes,” Worth stated. “He saw me, too.”
“Well, why doesn’t he want anyone to know he’s still around?” Joe wondered.
Nobody could answer this question. When they reached the main street of Sea City, Frank hopped out and went into a drugstore with a phone booth.
Returning, he reported, “Only one Shringle listed in the telephone book,” and gave Bart the address.
Soon they pulled up before a little white bungalow on a side street. The Hardys and Bart alighted and knocked on the door.
A bald, middle-aged man answered. “Oh, you all want to see my cousin Jenny?” he said. “Yes, she’s staying here, but she’s gone for the day to the amusement park on the boardwalk.”
Now the trail was getting hot! When they reached the amusement section, Bart parked his car, and the four walked onto the crowded boardwalk.
It was just after lunchtime. Crowds of vacationers were just leaving a cluster of tables shaded by great beach umbrellas near a boardwalk restaurant.
“There!” cried Bart, pointing.
A middle-aged woman with gray hair was seated at one of the tables. She was sipping an ice-cream soda. As Worth called to her, she looked up at him. Instantly she jumped up, grasped a black purse, and scuttled away.
“Jenny! Wait!” called the editor, as he and the boys dashed after her.
With surprising speed, Jenny Shringle dodged in and out of the throng. Frank gained on her.
“Miss Shringle!” he cried out.
She glanced back with a panicky look but did not slow down.
Suddenly she darted off the walk and halted at one of the amusement ticket windows. The next minute the four friends, running toward her, saw her disappear into a brightly painted “fun house” billed as Bluebeard’s Palace.
At one side of the high, bizarre building, a well-greased wooden slide shot the screaming customers down to the boardwalk.
Chet folded his arms. “Well,” he said, “all we do is wait here till Jenny Shringle comes out. She can’t stay in there forever.”
Bart shook his head. “This fun house is too rough for a woman of Jenny’s age.”
“We’d better go in,” Frank agreed, “before she gets hurt. Bart, you wait here.”
He quickly purchased admission tickets, and the three boys entered the fun house. Frank led the way through a dark, narrow tunnel. Chet followed, then Joe.
As fast as possible, they stumbled forward. Weird screams startled them. Hanging cobwebs brushed their faces. Slithery, snakelike forms writhed underfoot. Finally reaching a level place, they walked ahead rapidly—only to find themselves on a treadmill carrying them backward!
At last, Frank, stepping off the treadmill after the others, entered a dimly lighted chamber with distortion mirrors around the walls.
Suddenly he stopped short. Confronting him was a wide-shouldered, giant figure with a very narrow waist. Frank burst out laughing. It was his own image, greatly exaggerated! Then, reflected behind him loomed another figure of gorilla-like proportions, with a familiar flattened face.
“I warned you!” a hoarse voice rasped.
As the huge arms grabbed for him, Frank ducked nimbly into the next room. In the weird half-light the boy saw that the floor tilted sideways, and the walls were tipped crazily. Frank found that he was forced to run downhill without being able to stop himself.
In another instant he bowled, helpless, into Chet and Joe, who had just picked themselves up at the far wall. The next second, the heavy bulk of the flat-faced man hurtled into their midst. All four went down on the floor in a heap.
Frank, who had been struck hard in the pit of the stomach, gasped for breath. As the four rolled about in a violent struggle, he caught the gleam of a knife in the big man’s hand!

CHAPTER VIII  
Campfire Eavesdropper  
“LOOK out!” Frank yelled. “He has a knife!”
The boy threw himself on the man’s brawny forearm, seized his wrist, and clung to it grimly.
As their antagonist struggled for a foothold, Joe dived under the blade for an ankle-high tackle. The man smacked heavily into the inclined floor, where Chet pounced on his chest.
All this time Frank had clung to the man’s arm. Now he gave the thick wrist a sudden twisting wrench. The man gave a roar of pain. His big fist opened, and the knife slid harmlessly away over the tilted floor.
“This fun house isn’t much fun any more!” Joe exclaimed.
Savagely the big man kicked and lashed out. The boys gave hard, chopping blows in return.
New customers paused at the entrance to the tilted chamber. With one desperate heave, the flat-faced man shoved the boys aside and fled.


  
“Look out!” Frank yelled. “He has a knife!”
Recovering, Frank, Joe, and Chet plunged into a dark passage in pursuit. Excited screaming reached their ears from the blackness ahead. Suddenly they found themselves clambering on hands and knees, for the passage now sloped sharply upward. Above them appeared a round hole with the bright daylight showing beyond.
“It’s the exit with the steep chute!” Joe warned. “Hurry!”
Suddenly the short, pudgy figure of a woman teetered in the opening at the top of the slide.
“Oh, oh!” she shrieked in terror. “Please, somebody please help me!”
Just ahead of the boys the hoarse-voiced man climbed into the light. Hastily he dived for the chute, knocking the frightened woman off balance, and going ahead of her. With a scream, she too began to slide down backward.
Frank, quick as lightning, stretched forward, grabbed the woman, and hauled her back to safety.
“Where’s the man?” Joe asked, reaching the top.
“Just went down,” Frank answered.
Immediately Joe, followed by Chet, whisked down the chute to continue the chase.
“I can’t do that!” sobbed the woman. 
“It’s all right, Miss Shringle,” Frank said soothingly. “You are Miss Shringle?” She nodded, as he went on, “There must be a stairway nearby.”
As other customers pressed behind them, the boy detected a camouflaged door just beside him. He guided the shaken seamstress through it onto a well-lighted flight of steps. They led down behind the façade of the building.
As Frank, supporting Jenny, returned to the boardwalk, Joe, Chet, and Bart Worth hurried up. “Lost that big guy in the crowd,” Joe reported. “How’s Miss Shringle?”
“She’ll be all right,” Frank assured them as he led Miss Shringle to a bench.
“Yes, yes—thank you so much,” the seamstress mumbled. But she avoided meeting their eyes—especially Bart Worth’s.
“Why did you run away from me, Jenny?” he asked presently.
The woman folded her hands in her lap and stared ahead. “Because—because I’m not allowed to speak to anyone now.” She spoke the words defiantly, but there was fear in her voice.
“Not allowed by whom?” the editor prompted. “Did you come here only to visit your cousin?”
The seamstress shook her head emphatically.
“Is it Blackstone—something to do with the rumors you told me about?”
The woman simply pressed her lips together in stony silence.
“All right. Have it your way.” Bart sighed. “If you want to freshen up, we’ll wait and drive you back to your cousin’s.”
Miss Shringle nodded and hurried off.
“Anyway, we’ve learned something,” Frank pointed out, “just from the questions she won’t answer. We know she’s trying to keep certain information from us.” 
“Yes. The name Blackstone is the signal for Jenny to clam up completely,” Joe remarked.
“Did you notice her dress?” Frank went on. “It was new—nothing like the ‘best dress’ her neighbor described. The same with her handbag and hat. Somebody paid her to get out of Larchmont and keep still!”
“Blackstone,” Worth put in with satisfaction. “It must mean he knows my story can be proved!”
Riding back to her cousin’s with them, Jenny Shringle preserved an obstinate silence.
“Jenny, you’ve got to understand how serious this is,” the editor pleaded. “Professor Rand disappeared right after these boys saw Blackstone strike him during an argument.” 
“That’s right,” Frank said. “Yet, when we brought back the police for a search of Blackstone’s place, your former employer showed us a friendly note from the professor—to prove the two of them are on good terms.”
A flicker of surprise showed in the woman’s gray eyes. Abruptly she addressed Frank.
“You helped me,” she said, “so I’ll tell you this much. In all the thirty years I worked in that house, the Blackstones had nothing to do with the Rands. Oh, they weren’t feuding. They just ignored each other—never even sent greeting cards. Ruel Rand would as soon write Blackstone a friendly note as jump into that pond I heard them quarreling about!”
“Then you don’t think Rand wrote it?” Frank asked as he escorted the woman up to her cousin’s little white house.
“Impossible,” said Jenny, slipping inside.
In thoughtful silence the young detectives and their client drove back to Larchmont. Night had fallen before they reached the high dunes around the campsite. As the sound of Bart’s car died away on the road back to town, the boys busied themselves with supper preparations.
The camp stove was lighted. Meanwhile, Chet broke a dozen eggs into a bowl and beat them furiously. Joe heated a greased deep skillet over the flame. While the Hardys watched, Chet poured his omelet mixture, muttering all the time like a witch over her brew.
“Ah ... bits of ham—so. Chopped onions ... potatoes ... salt ... Now, with the turner, flip!”
A few minutes later, each boy was balancing a tin plate filled with a huge steaming third of the puffy omelet, and eating by flashlight.
Finishing, Chet gave a sigh of appeased hunger. At that moment, in the rays of the light, Joe saw a pair of white eyes in a dark face. Quickly he signaled the others to remain still. After a moment, the face disappeared.
“It’s the boy who was eavesdropping on us today,” Joe whispered. “Now our campsite is known.” He and Frank decided to trail the lad.
The small figure proved easy to follow among the dunes, for the moonlight was already bright.
“He’s carrying a package,” Frank noted.
The boy had struck across the sand toward the pond. With the help of the moon, the young sleuths kept him in sight all the way.
“He’s heading for the Rand place,” Joe observed as the lad turned left at the pond.
The little boy, however, merely skirted the water and went into the swamp.
“I’ll bet he knows we’re following him,” whispered Frank. “He’s trying to throw us off.”
The lad took the same trail over which the Hardys had chased the tall figure in the long coat a few nights before. The hedge loomed up at the end of the path. The boy disappeared through it.
“Let’s wait here,” Frank suggested. “He’ll think he’s rid of us and come back.”
The brothers crouched behind a bush. Presently a light rustling in the hedge alerted them. In a moment the small boy passed by them. Without his package, he scuttled alongside the pond and over to the Blackstone property. Frank and Joe saw him pause near the big house and look back. Then he vanished into its cellar.
“That’s funny. He sure knows his way around here. Wonder who he is,” Frank muttered.
“Mysterious character number seven.” Joe chuckled. “Let’s have another look at the pond.”
Noiselessly the two boys walked on until they reached the westerly edge of the still water. Suddenly, in the moonlight, a ripple marred the surface very near them.
“The monster!” Joe whispered excitedly.
The saw-tooth fin emerged eerily in the moonlight. The huge creature remained visible for a few seconds, then slipped out of sight into the depths of the pond.
“Back to camp,” Joe said excitedly. “We’ll get our diving gear and bring underwater lights. We’ll find out what that thing is yet!”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “Let’s cut through Blackstone’s property and go to the beach that way. It’ll be easier going, and we’ll save time.”
When the Hardys reached the wealthy man’s well-kept yards, they silently sprinted across the dark lawns, keeping away from the lighted house. But as they raced toward the beach, two enormous, bounding black shapes suddenly flew at them from the side. Blackstone’s two ferocious watchdogs had been turned loose!
With a vicious snarl, the larger of the police dogs leaped at Frank and knocked him to the ground.

CHAPTER IX  
Fishing Boat Clue  
THE huge dog bared its teeth as it hovered over Frank. Rolling to the side, he seized the animal’s throat to hold the fangs away from his body.
Joe had already whipped off his sweat shirt. He rushed in and bagged the dog’s head with it.
While the baffled animal leaped about, giving short, confused barks, the brothers sprinted toward the ocean. They expected the smaller dog to streak after them, but it remained with its pal.
“That was close!” Joe panted. “You okay, Frank?”
“Yes, but I sure had a good scare. Say, wonder if somebody inside told Mr. Blackstone we were around, and he deliberately set his dogs on us.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Joe grumbled.
In camp once more, the young sleuths told Chet their plan, then loaded aqualungs, masks, weighted belts, Frank’s flippers, and underwater lights into rucksacks. With Chet carrying their fishing spears, they set out for the pond.
To avoid Blackstone’s dogs, the boys went by way of the tangled underbrush directly to the pond. The Hardys rigged themselves out for their plunge. Each brother grasped a spear in one hand and an underwater lamp in the other.
“Chet,” Frank said, “if anybody comes, or if you see that monster surface, knock two stones together under water to warn us.”
“Check.”
The two divers submerged. For a while Chet could see their lamps moving in ever-widening arcs away from him. Soon the lights grew dim and finally vanished altogether. Chet felt very much alone with the gloomy swamp across the pond, a mysterious, deserted mansion to his left, and fierce dogs to his right.
A splash startled him. An unearthly looking creature suddenly reared up from the water close by and came toward him.
“Yi! Help!” he bellowed.
“Keep still, for Pete’s sake!” came Joe’s calm voice. “I got some mud on me, that’s all.”
Soon Frank, also looking like some sort of monster in his mud-covered equipment, waded ashore.
“Nothing,” he reported. “No sign of the prehistoric critter. We covered the whole pond.”
Quickly the brothers washed and dressed. Shouldering their packs, they hiked back to camp for a well-earned night’s rest.
In the bright sunshine of the next morning, the waves rolled in from the blue Atlantic. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, dashed across the beach and dived into the breakers.
“Terrific!” Joe yelled, riding in on the crest of a wave. “Where’s Chet?”
“Getting breakfast!” Frank shouted as he swam. “Since when can he wait to eat?”
Suddenly Frank swam over to Joe. “There’s that fishing smack again,” he said, glancing seaward. “It’s closer this morning.”
Joe nodded. “I just realized that boat’s been out there ever since the morning after we set up camp. Once in a while I’ve spotted a figure on deck, but mostly the boat looks deserted.” Suddenly he stared at his brother. “You don’t think somebody’s anchored out there to spy on us?”
“That’s a good hunch,” Frank answered as the boys swam ashore. “Let’s look into it later,” he proposed. “First, though, we’d better see if we can locate Grover or Professor Rand. I’m convinced both know something important to Bart’s case.”
Later, as the chums ate breakfast, Frank said, “I wonder if that little boy is a relative of Grover‘s, and was taking that package to him?”
“Mm.” Joe pondered this. “What do you suppose was in the package?”
“Food,” Chet said promptly. “What else?”
Though the Hardys laughed, they considered Chet’s conclusion a good one. “If Grover is in hiding for some reason,” Frank said, “maybe the little boy brings him his meals. Let’s go over to Professor Rand’s this morning and scout around that hedge.”
An hour later Joe was slipping through the hedge opening where the Negro boy had disappeared the night before. He slid down to the meadow beneath. Frank and Chet followed.
Once in the field, they saw that the high bank of shrubbery extended from the back of the old mansion deep into the swamp. The boys moved along the base of the seven-foot rise toward the house.
A thick blackberry patch choked the end of the meadow. Picking and eating the fruit as he tramped through the patch, Chet suddenly called out, “Say, here are some bricks, fellows. Looks like a chimney. And here’s a corroded copper pot. Must be the ruins of an old kitchen.”
“That’s it!” Frank cried, running over.
“What?” Joe asked.
“We’re right behind the big house,” his brother pointed out. “Chet has just found the remains of the old plantation kitchen.”
“So?”
“That’s how the prowler in the long coat vanished! There must be an underground passage from this spot to the house which was used for carrying the cooked food in olden days.”
“Come on!” cried Joe. “Let’s find it!”
Carefully the boys scoured the surrounding terrain, but they saw no evidence of any passage.
“We’ll come back tonight,” Joe proposed, “and watch for the little boy. He’ll lead us to it.”
“Right,” Frank said. “Our next move is to investigate the fishing smack.”
Once more the friends returned to camp. After lunch they mapped out careful plans for their sleuthing maneuvers. Then the Hardys piled their skin-diving gear into the yellow convertible and, with Chet, drove to the Larchmont docks.
“Another boat!” repeated the man at the boat livery. “Why, you fellers didn’t bring back the first one you rented!”
“We will this time,” Frank assured him. “We’d like to buy some fishing tackle and bait, too.”
The transactions were completed. Soon the young detectives were chugging over the blue-green water past the buoys. When the boat had left the inlet behind, it turned along the shore line.
As planned, Chet at the wheel guided the craft gradually in the direction of the fishing smack. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe put on their diving gear and lay down out of sight below the gunwales. Presently Chet anchored a few hundred yards from the suspicious fishing vessel. Quietly the Hardys slipped over the side into the ocean, hoping they had not been seen. Nonchalantly the plump boy began to fish.
A short time later Frank and Joe came noiselessly to the surface beside the smack’s hull. Treading water, they listened intently as hot, angry voices reached their ears.
“We’ve given you every opportunity, Jed,” came one voice louder and sharper than the others. “You muffed them all. First the warehouse trick, then you wrecked the wrong car. They got away from the lighthouse alive and slipped through your fingers in Sea City. What good does it do for Stewart and me to watch their movements and inform you?”
“I couldn’t help it,” complained a familiar hoarse voice. “Those kids are a tougher job than I expected.”
Excitedly Joe whispered, “So the flat-faced guy is named Jed—and he’s in cahoots with Cutter!”
Frank nodded tensely. The argument aboard continued. “Well, see that you don’t fail next time,” barked Cutter. “We’ll never get what we want if we don’t stop those meddling snoopers!”
The speakers lowered their voices, making it impossible for the boys to hear more. Submerging, Frank and Joe stroked back to their own boat.
“Boy, have I got fish,” Chet announced proudly as he helped his friends aboard. “Look at these!”
“We made a catch, too.” Joe told him what they had overheard at the fishing vessel as the little boat chugged back to harbor.
“All of which means,” Frank added, “that Cutter is out to get us, and that hoarse-voiced fellow is in league with him, and was the ‘ghost’ on Storm Island!”
Chet looked mystified. “You think Cutter’s antique business is just a cover-up and he’s in Blackstone’s pay?”
“Could be,” Frank replied. “Also, he could be in Rand’s pay, for that matter. Though I still have a hunch the professor isn’t a crook. Maybe Cutter’s working some game of his own.”
After returning the boat, the boys drove straight back to the dunes.
“Out of the way!” Chet ordered as the Hardys offered to help with supper. “These are special fish. Ole Chet caught ‘em, Ole Chet will cook ’em, and Ole Chet will serve ‘em!”
“Okay.” Frank laughed. “Just so Old Chet doesn’t do all the eating, too.”
“Time to work!” Joe grinned, as they finished supper. “On we go to Professor Rand’s.”
Though it was still daylight, the boys took their flashlights and set off. When they reached the meadow, they hid in the berry patch and settled down to wait for the little Negro boy to appear.
Frank’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the surrounding area. “You know,” he whispered, “these old kitchen fragments may have been moved here. This may not have been a kitchen at all. Let’s try those other bushes—at the base of the bank.”
“Good deduction,” said Joe.
The youths arose and searched carefully behind the thick screen of brush Frank had pointed out.
“Here!” Joe signaled, his fingers touching a stone frame set into the steep rise under the hedge. The other boys joined him.
Elatedly, the three stared at a heavy wooden door. “The entrance to the passageway, I’ll bet!” Chet exclaimed.
“Sh!”
Frank warned. “Someone’s coming!” 
The three shrank into the bushes and waited breathlessly. There was faint rustling, and the little boy came by with a newspaper-wrapped package. He went through the door!
As soon as they dared, Frank, Joe, and Chet noiselessly followed, and entered a dark brick-walled passageway. Ahead and to their left, a dim shaft of light knifed into the darkness, then vanished as the small boy went through a low door.
The youths crept forward. Chet and Joe tensed expectantly as Frank placed his hand on the door ready to shove it inward.
“Here goes!” he whispered.

CHAPTER X  
Hidden Passageway  
AT FRANK’S push the heavy door swung inward and banged against the wall.
“Oh—oh—go away, sir. Go away!” sang out a child’s dear voice.
The Hardys and Chet stared in astonishment at the scene before them. The yellow light of a kerosene lamp on a small wooden table revealed the seated figures of the little Negro boy and the old servant, Grover. In the man’s hands, partially opened, was the small package, containing meat and bread.
In his confusion the lad almost tipped over backward in his chair. He leaped up and scampered into the shadows of several huge wooden barrels ranged sideways upon racks.
But the elderly man stood up calmly and faced the boys across the glass chimney of the lamp. “What is it you want?” he asked in a low voice.
“You must know, Grover,” Frank answered as Joe and Chet stepped into the light. “You saw Mr. Blackstone strike Professor Rand, and you saw us come to ask about it. We know there’s something peculiar going on, and we are trying to find out what it is.”
“I’m not talking to you.” The thin old man’s eyes flashed in sudden anger. “You’ve got no business here. Timmy!” He turned to the lad. “Did you show these folks where to find me?”
An eye and a forehead peered around a cask. “No, Grandpa,” came Timmy’s small voice.
“You come on out here,” Grover ordered. “We’ve been found. There’ll be a heap of trouble for you and me now.”
“We’re sorry,” Frank said kindly, as the little boy crept timidly to his grandfather’s side. “We don’t intend any harm. I don’t think you realize how important it is for us to talk to you. Somebody’s been trying to kill us, or at least scare us off this case. Professor Rand might tell us why, but he has evidently disappeared. Unless you help us, we haven’t a chance of straightening things out.”
As briefly as possible, Frank explained to the elderly retainer why the boys had come to Larchmont. While he spoke, the old servant watched him closely. The anger faded from his eyes, and the lines of his face deepened with concern.
“I just knew, if they started that feud up again there wasn’t any good going to come of it!” Grover sighed. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you folks what I can. I don’t like trouble. The faster everything’s cleared up, the happier lots of folks will be.”
“Did Mr. Blackstone send you here to hide from us?” Joe queried.
“Yes, sir, he did,” Grover admitted. “From Mr. Worth, too. And he sent Miss Shringle some money to go off and visit her relatives.”
“So you were here the whole time, instead of in Chicago,” Joe continued.
“Mr. Blackstone wanted me to go out there,” Grover admitted. “But when a body gets as old as I am, he’s kind of scared to ride in trains or airplanes way off a thousand miles away from where he’s been living all his life. So I said I’d keep snug in this beverage room, instead. I suppose you guessed this is the old plantation kitchen passage. Both sides of the family know about it.”
“You’ve been with the Blackstones a long time?” Chet spoke up.
“All my life, sir. My father served the Blackstones, and his father did, too. Used to be a grand family, way back.”
“But why did this Mr. Blackstone make you hide out?” Joe prompted. “Because we’d ask you about the quarrel we saw?” 
“Yes. The two gentlemen are fighting over that pond again. But somehow they don’t want people to know they’re fighting over it. Soon as Mr. Blackstone hit Mr. Rand with that vase, I switched off the lights—in case somebody was watching.” 
“But how did you cover it up so fast?” Joe wondered.
“Oh, Mr. Blackstone and I carried Professor Rand into the next room. Then we swept the broken pieces of the vase under a rug. Mr. Blackstone put on his relaxing jacket and set that twin vase on his desk. He opened up his book. Then I went and let you boys in.”
“Professor Rand’s all right, then?” Frank inquired.
“Yes, he came round after an hour, mad as a wet hen. Couldn’t complain much though, because they didn’t want to attract anybody’s attention about their arguing over the land. After Professor Rand left, Mr. Blackstone said that he wanted me to go to Chicago for a while.”
“Do you know where the professor is staying?” Frank asked.
Grover shrugged. “If he’s gone, I don’t know where he’s keepin’ himself. Timmy, have you seen Mr. Rand around lately?”
“No, Grandpa,” replied the lad meekly. With round eyes, he watched the boys.
“Timmy’s been sort of shadowing you,” the old man explained. “He was afraid you’d make trouble for me if you found me.” Grover smiled at his grandson. “These gentlemen are all right, Timmy. No need to fear.”
At this point Joe decided to try a new lead. “Grover,” he began, “do you know why the Rands and Blackstones are fighting over the border line property again? Is it because the Blackstone family fortune is buried on it somewhere?” 
“Also, where’s Hidden Harbor?” Frank added.
For a moment Grover blinked at the boys in amazement. “How’d you all know about that?”
Quickly Joe recounted the discovery of the captain’s note while the boys were marooned at the lighthouse.
“You all know about as much about it as I do,” Grover informed them. “Old Mr. Clement Blackstone, they say, buried his money and family papers before he sailed away to England. That was while the Civil War was going on. Mr. Clement never came back. He died over there—after the war. Then the Rands and Blackstones started feuding about that land.”
“Where was the treasure buried, exactly?” Joe pursued. “Didn’t anybody ever dig it up?”
“Seems they kind of lost track of things, somehow,” the old man answered, obviously puzzled himself. “My daddy told me when I was a boy he once heard it was buried at the mouth of Hidden Harbor, but I don’t know any Hidden Harbor.” 
“Hmm, that’s something new, anyhow,” Joe observed. “At the mouth of the harbor.” 
“It’s the key to the whole case,” Frank declared earnestly. “Not the money, but the papers. They’ll tell us how the fortune was made. They might prove Bart’s story!”
After a moment’s reflection, he injected a new idea. “You say everybody ‘lost track’ of the fortune, Grover,” Frank said. “Didn’t the feud die down just about the same time? There must be some connection.”
“You mean,” Joe put in, “both families wanted the disputed land in order to locate Clement’s buried fortune. But after they ‘lost track’ of it, the land wasn’t important to them any more?”
“Right,” Frank said. “The feud has started up again because somebody found a clue to the fortune.”
“I can’t be rightly sure,” Grover suddenly declared, “but it seems to me Professor Rand is kind of looking for that money. Fact is, he was the one started up this feuding. Mr. Blackstone, he’s a rich man—he doesn’t need any more money than he’s got. But Mr. Rand—well, you boys have seen his house. He sure could use a fortune.”
“That’s a logical idea,” Joe agreed.
“Then what is Blackstone making such a fuss about?” demanded Chet, bewildered.
“Oh, Blackstone may not want the money,” Joe pointed out. “It’s those family papers he doesn’t want found, because they contain proof of something he doesn’t want publicized.”
“I get it! The piracy and smuggling charges!” Chet exclaimed. “The evidence Bart needs!”
Frank nodded decisively. “All this boils down to one thing, fellows: We must find Hidden Harbor and find it fast, before Bart’s case comes to court!”
Suddenly Joe held up his hand, warning for silence. From outside the room, the sound of leather heels striking upon brick reached them.
“Somebody’s comin’ down the passage,” Grover whispered nervously.
Quickly the old man bent over the lamp chimney and gave a strong puff. The old beverage room was plunged into total darkness. The footsteps passed by, unhurried, in the direction of the plantation house.
“Who could it be?” Frank asked Grover.
“I don’t know, sir,” was the answer. “Nobody knows this place except the family and the servants.”
“Joe, you and I will follow that man!” Frank decided quickly. “Chet, stay out in the passage by this room. Just make sure the fellow doesn’t slip back and escape.”
Cautiously Frank pulled back the door, and the three slipped into the dark passageway. Ahead, the footsteps sounded on the brick floor with a regular, hollow ring.
“Knows his way,” Joe murmured as the brothers crept along in pursuit.
Abruptly the sharp heel taps ceased. A moment later came a steady scraping sound.
“He’s climbing stairs,” whispered Frank.
Hurrying forward, the young sleuths found that the passage branched into two corridors. One led to a narrow brick stairway.
“Must go to the second story,” Frank deduced. “The other branch probably leads to the kitchen of the house.”
Afraid to turn on their flashes lest they be detected, the boys mounted the steps. A narrow slit of light indicated a door slightly ajar above them. After listening carefully a moment, Frank pushed it lightly, and he and Joe stepped into an empty closet.
At the front of the closet was another door, opened a crack. Warily, the brothers stepped into a lamplit room.
As the young detectives looked curiously around them, a sudden sound on their right caused them to whirl sharply.
The hall door to the room they had entered was just closing. The Hardys heard the metallic click of a key turning, and a lock bar sliding into place.
Fearing trouble, Joe raced to the tunnel entrance. It was locked.

CHAPTER XI  
  Acrobatic Detectives
“LOCKED in!” exclaimed Joe, rattling the door handle. “What’s the idea?” He and Frank heard the booted footsteps retreating along the hall and down a stairway.
The boys surveyed their little prison. A narrow bed and broad writing table were the extent of the furniture, except for well-stocked bookshelves that covered two walls from floor to ceiling.
“This must be Professor Rand’s study,” Frank whispered. He examined the volumes briefly. “They’re all on ancient Indian civilizations,” he noted. “And look! Here are some written by Professor Rand.”
“Very interesting,” Joe said wryly. “Right now I’m more interested in getting out of here.”
“Let’s try the window,” proposed Frank.
He pulled open two narrow french doors. A gust of cold wind from the sea struck the boys as they stepped onto a railed balcony.
“No ground supports,” Joe noted, leaning out over the rail. “We’re too high to jump.”
The brothers looked around from their perch, located on the front face of the mansion. The huge trees were out of reach, as was the roof above them.
Suddenly, below them, the Hardys distinctly heard the sound of a door closing.
“Over there!” Joe pointed toward a tall man’s figure. The man paused to jerk a flashlight from his pocket. In the same motion, something white fluttered to the ground. Then the man, carrying a spade, slipped around the corner of the house..
“Must be Professor Rand!” Joe hissed excitedly. “I wish we could get hold of that paper he dropped.”
Frank nodded. “Wonder if he locked us in.”
Just then a swift gust of wind carried the white square upward. It wavered, and spiraled around directly toward the boys!
The Hardys clutched and pawed the air. Maddeningly the paper swooped high, sideslipped, and landed on another little balcony two window widths from their own.
“Too far to jump,” Frank judged. “See if we can bridge it. We must get that paper. I’ve a hunch it’s important!” he declared grimly.
They stepped over the top rail together. As Frank wedged his toes under the bottom rail and grasped the lower sections of two of the sturdy spindles, Joe, facing outward, bent down and took hold of his brother’s ankles.
“Ready!” he called.
Frank loosened his foothold but held fast to the spindles as Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air. Joe, finding he could reach the next balcony, hooked his knees over its railing, let go his grip on Frank, and pulled himself up. But just as he stepped to safety, a fresh gust of wind whirled the white paper upward and away.
The paper sailed farther and farther. Finally it disappeared around the corner of the house.
Now, trying the french windows on his own balcony, Joe found them locked securely. The boys groaned and Frank said, “This would have been a swell time to follow the fellow in the raincoat.”
“I’ll bet he locked us in,” Joe reasoned. “He left the secret door through the closet open and the light on in the study, to trap us.”
Frank had another theory. “Maybe it wasn’t Rand whose steps we heard. Someone else could’ve set the trap. The professor might’ve been here the whole time and never realized what was going on.” 
Suddenly, between rushes of wind, a faint whistling came to the boys’ ears from the grounds.
Who could that be? the Hardys wondered.
Again the whistling came. Then a white-shirted figure crept cautiously out in front of the house.
“Chet!” called Frank with relief.
“Here I am,” came the reply. “Got tired of waiting in that old passage. What are you two doing up there, anyhow?”
“We’re locked out,” Joe told him. “See if you can get into the house and free us.”
The stout boy marched up to the front door, and tried it. “Locked,” he muttered. Almost automatically he stooped and looked under the mat. “Yes. Here we are—a key.”
Inserting it in the lock, Chet opened the heavy door and vanished inside. In two minutes he freed Joe, then Frank. “That was easy,” he said. “Where do we go now?”
“Back outside,” Frank answered. “We have a flying clue to bring down!”
After bolting the room door, the three raced downstairs, locked the front door, replaced the key, and ran around the house. By now the dusk had deepened.
“No flashlights,” said Frank. “We’ll have a better chance to see the paper against a dark background.”
Frank turned his gaze upward. “There it is!” he announced.
High in the wisteria covering the wide chimney, fluttered the white square of paper.
“Oh-h,” moaned Chet. “Three of us standing on each other’s shoulders couldn’t reach that high.”
“No, but if the top man had a stick, he might,” Frank pointed out.
While Chet and Frank kept watch on the unpredictable paper, Joe found a fallen branch.
“You’re elected anchor man, Chet,” Joe said, returning. Frank hauled himself up to stand on the stout boy’s shoulders. Then Joe hoisted himself up onto his brother’s. He clutched the wisteria vine for balance and began to fish upward with the stick.
“Can’t ... reach it.” Joe grunted, extending to his utmost length.
“You’re stepping on my ear,” warned Frank.
In desperation, Joe took aim and flung his branch upward. With a rustling of leaves, the paper came free. The human ladder collapsed, the Hardys breaking their fall by somersaulting. The trio dashed after the white square, which now sailed toward the back of the house.
Here the wind was not so strong. The paper lost altitude, and Joe, rushing up with a cry of triumph, made a neat two-handed catch.
While Chet held his flashlight, the Hardys examined their find. Two sheets of white paper were stapled together. The one on top appeared to be a carefully hand-drawn map.
“It’s the Rand property,” said Frank. “Here’s the house, with the pond and swamp behind. But what’s this encircled area?” Squinting closer, he read the small printed words which covered the pond and part of the swamp: 
SITE OF ANCIENT INDIAN VILLAGE
“What’s on the second page?” Joe asked.
“It’s a letter to Professor Rand from State University,” Frank reported, after scanning the document briefly. “It says they have no funds for excavation of the site indicated, without more proof that something of archaeological value exists.”
“So that’s
what Rand wants to find!” Joe exclaimed. “An ancient Indian village—not the buried family fortune!” 
“Don’t be too sure,” Frank cautioned. “He may be trying to kill two birds with one stone. Maybe he wants the money to finance the excavation.”
After tucking the two papers in his pocket, Frank led the way toward the pond. A light moved slowly among the big, moss-hung cypresses of the swamp.
As the boys crept nearer, they spotted the tall figure digging, and stooping to examine each spadeful.
“That must be Professor Rand!” Joe whispered. Impetuously he started forward, but Frank pulled his brother back.
“What’s the matter? We’ve been trying to catch up with Rand for days!” Joe argued.
“It’s not the right time,” Frank countered. “He’s doing his best to hide his activities, besides dodging us! Do you think we’d learn anything from him at this point?”
“Well, I guess he wouldn’t be very friendly,” Joe admitted.
“He’ll be more on his guard than ever,” Frank went on. “It would be better to let him think we’ve given up. But we’ll spy on him, starting right now.”
“Still, we can’t wait too long,” Joe insisted. “The trial against Bart Worth is getting closer, and we haven’t turned up the evidence he needs.”
All this time the boys had been moving forward and presently were in an advantageous position to watch the digger. To their disappointment the man stopped his work almost immediately, swung the shovel over his shoulder, and started back in the direction from which he had come.
“I guess he’s through for tonight, and we didn’t learn a thing,” Chet complained, sloshing in and out of the mucky swamp.
The digger, familiar with the area, outdistanced them. When the boys reached the Rand house, it was in darkness.
“Let’s get back to camp,” Chet begged. “I’ve had it. Besides, there’s food back there.”
The Hardys, feeling they could learn nothing more at the moment, agreed. Next morning found them driving to Larchmont on a new angle.
“Guess Joe and I will have a history lesson at the library,” Frank told Chet, “while you stock up on food.”
They stopped at the town’s public library and the Hardys went inside. Chet continued on to shop for food. Soon Frank and Joe were engrossed in a thickly bound stack of yellowed newspapers dating back before the Civil War.
“Plenty of piracy and smuggling going on along this coast just before the war,” Frank observed.
“Yes,” Joe corroborated. “Officials couldn’t tell where all the stolen goods and contraband were coming from.”
“The name Blackstone seems to have become more and more prominent in business, social, and civic events,” Frank went on. “Anything else interesting?”
“This paper reports a tremendous hurricane just after the Civil War ended. Nothing to do with our case, I suppose.”
The boys finished their research and left the library. Chet was waiting outside in the convertible.
“Saw Mr. Cutter hanging around the supermarket,” he reported. “Think he saw me but didn’t let on.”
“He’s so busy keeping tabs on us he doesn’t have time for his own business,” Joe stated.
“Why don’t we trail him?”
Frank had another idea. “I think now we ought to look for Hidden Harbor—from the air, where we’ll have a better view. The Blackstones could have done all the smuggling mentioned in the newspapers by means of such a secret harbor. That would explain their sudden prosperity, and also why Rand and Blackstone, despite their differences, are so hush-hush over everything.”
“You fellows go on,” Chet said. “I’ll take this stuff back to camp. What’ll you do for a plane?”
“Engage Al West,” Joe answered. “I’ll check with the airport.”
The boy made his call from a booth in a store. He learned that the young pilot would be glad to take them up. “Come right over,” Al said.
When Joe left, he spotted Mr. Stewart seated in the adjoining booth! “Did he overhear me?” Joe wondered.
Chet drove the convertible back to camp with the supplies, while Frank and Joe hailed the rather antiquated yellow-and-black town taxi. Soon they were heading along the main road to the airport. Frank watched carefully, but nobody seemed to be following them.
At the airport Al greeted the Hardys affably and invited them to lunch in the airport cafeteria. Afterward, the three boarded Al’s trim amphibian. Frank sat beside the pilot, Joe behind him in a comfortable leather seat. After getting clearance from the tower, Al gunned the plane down the runway, eased back on the wheel, and they were air-borne. For some minutes the ship gained altitude. Then, without warning, it lurched violently to portside and nosed down.
Frank was thrown against the pilot, who slammed sideways against the cockpit window.
“What’s wrong?” Joe shouted.
“Don’t know,” Frank replied, then suddenly he said, “Al’s out cold! We’ll crash!”

CHAPTER XII  
  Alligator!
WITH engines roaring, the amphibian was heading toward the ground at a steep angle.
“Good night!” Joe yelled.
Frank sprang into action. He pushed Al back into the seat with his left arm, seized the wheel with his right hand, and pulled back. No response !
Joe reached forward, grasped Al’s shoulders, and straightened the limp pilot in his seat. Frank, with both hands on the wheel now, strained to level the faltering plane. Sweat stood out on his forehead as the wooded swamp beneath them seemed to rush upward.
Barely at treetop level, the craft recovered from its sickening dive.
Al’s eyes fluttered open. He shook his head, then he came fully alert as several branches scraped the bottom of his craft. He grasped the wheel from Frank, and with his jaw set grimly, fought for altitude.
Nobody spoke until Al banked toward the airport.
“Thanks,” he said, “I think we’ll make it.”
“What happened?” Joe asked.
“Control failure. Something went haywire.”
Al radioed for emergency clearance.. and brought the plane in for a rough landing. When they climbed out, shaken by their close brush with death, Al summoned the maintenance crew. Together they went over the controls.
“Here’s your trouble,” one of the mechanics said finally. “A stabilizer cable has been cut!”
“Sabotage!” Joe exclaimed.
Frank nodded understandingly. “Stewart must’ve heard you telephone the airport. But how did he have time to get here and cut the cable before we arrived?”
Joe, seeing a puzzled look on Al’s face, told him of Cutter’s and Stewart’s apparent attempts on the boys’ lives.
The pilot frowned. “What road did you take out here?” he asked.
“The main highway from Larchmont.”
“There’s a shorter way, over back roads. That old taxi probably crawled like a snail, too. Stewart could easily have beaten you here, and tampered with the ship while we ate lunch.”
Al brought out his tool kit and quickly fixed the damaged cable. He threw a calculating glance at the sky, where dark clouds were forming in the west.
“Storm’s coming up,” he said. “But I guess we still have time to look around before it hits.”
Once more, the silver amphibian raced down the runway and lifted into the air.
“I hope Chet nails things down at camp,” Frank remarked.
“He’d better. Haven’t you heard?” Al asked. “Hurricane warnings have been out since last night. There’s a big one working up from the Gulf of Mexico, but she shouldn’t arrive here for several hours.”
The craft passed high over Larchmont, then winged above the ocean. The choppy water was a deep, black-tinged green. White lines of foam stroked far up on the beach.
“There’s our tent!” Joe called out.
“Yes, and there’s our enemy’s observation post.” Frank pointed to the fishing smack bobbing at anchor on the rough water.
Al West banked the ship inland across the pale, high-peaked sand dunes. From this height, all the huge ancestral Blackstone plantation was visible at once. On the right, the shiny slates of Samuel Blackstone’s home peeped through well-spaced trees. Rand’s mansion, nearly overgrown, was harder to pick out. Between the two houses, the pond reflected the troubled gray sky. At the edge of the water on the ocean side, black-cypress foliage indicated the swampland.
“You say you’re looking for a harbor?” Al was perplexed. “A harbor means a break in the coast, fellows. It’s solid beach and dunes along here.”
Frank was eying the fingers of water leading from the pond, some wide, some narrow, which lost themselves among the dunes or stretched into the swamp among the cypresses.
“Go lower, Al,” Frank directed. “Let’s see where some of those bayous lead.”
“Okay,” said Al. “But none of those little inlets reaches to the ocean or ever has so long as I’ve been around here—and that’s all my life!”
A closer view appeared to upset a theory Frank had that at one time there might have been a channel leading to a harbor. But now every finger of water was choked by stumps or ended in a mass of vegetation.
The amphibian spiraled slowly upward again, then made another run over the area.
“Say,” Frank cried out suddenly, “the pond does have a big loop in it directly in the center of the ocean side, and one of these fingers runs straight toward the sea.”
The others agreed. Then Frank added, “I see something else. That finger of water is of a lighter shade than the pond. There may still be an underground stream running from the ocean to the pond—but not enough to cause any perceptible rise and fall of the pond with the tide.”
“Why is the inlet lighter?” Joe asked.
“Probably a different kind of soil underneath,” remarked Al. “Well, fellows, do you all want to head back now?”
“Hold it!” Joe cried suddenly. “There’s a boat! On one of those strips of water!”
Al kicked his ship into a sharp wing over that brought his craft low over the spot. A rowboat was quickly pulled out of sight in the hanging moss.
“What would a boat be doing in there?” Frank wondered.
“Yes,” Joe put in. “I’d like to go down and find that man!”
“Maybe we can,” Frank suggested. “How about it, Al? Could you set us down on the pond?”
Apprehensively the pilot checked the clouded skies. He looked at his watch.
“Okay,” he agreed. “But don’t make it long. When that storm hits, she’ll be a honey. I want this ship safe in her hangar long before then!”
Veering round, the silver craft came in just over the cypresses, glided onto the pond, and floated toward shore.
Quickly the Hardys rigged mooring lines. Then the brothers waded ashore and plunged into the swamp.
Ducking under vines and hanging moss, leaping from one solid foothold to another, they pushed toward the spot where they had seen the rowboat disappear.
Under the cypresses, silence prevailed. In spite of the unsettled weather above, the thick mossy curtains scarcely moved. Frank and Joe forged ahead and presently found themselves beside a wide stream, which was running toward the pond.
Frank tasted the water. “Fresh,” he announced.
Narrowing and branching, the little stream led them deeper into the treacherous area. At last Joe halted, crouching, behind a huge fallen tree trunk. Ahead, through the moss, he had spotted the rowboat.
A blue-shirted, slightly built man with his back to the boys leaned over the stern. He wore gloves. Hand over hand, he brought up a dripping object in a net.
“A baby alligator!” Frank whispered.
The man dropped the reptile into a deep box on his boat, and lowered his net again. Twice more the Hardys watched him bring up a similar catch.
“That’s illegal,” Frank commented quietly. He slipped over the huge tree trunk and crept ahead. Joe, following, supported himself against one of the tree’s low-hanging limbs. Suddenly the branch gave way with a loud crack.
Instantly the stranger dropped low in his boat. The next moment he came up again with a blue shotgun barrel trained in the Hardys’ direction. A blast and a puff of gray smoke followed rapidly. Deadly pellets ripped shreds in the hanging moss and leaves just beside the brothers.
Frank and Joe were hugging the mucky earth when the second blast sounded. This time the shot rattled into a fallen tree trunk right behind them.
“Keep down!” Frank warned. “He may have another shell ready!”
But now the stranger was bending low over his oars. With quick pulls on them he sent the boat up the little stream, and in a moment was out of sight around a bend.
“Better let him go if we don’t want to get shot,” Frank said. “Let’s look at the alligator nest.”
Frank and Joe clambered forward to the mud-bank.
“Besides poaching baby alligators,” said Frank, “he was stealing the eggs, too. Look. There’s the nest he was rifling.”
The boy pointed to a freshly dug mound of mud at the very end of the oozy bank. Half sunk in the muck and water was a fallen tree trunk. Balancing themselves, the boys walked out on it for a look.
“I guess these poachers sell the baby alligators to tourists and pet shops,” Joe said.
“Well, the fellow should be reported,” Frank stated flatly. “Alligators in this country are protected by law against poaching. That’s why he shot at us.”
Stooping, Frank peered into the muddy hole, but no eggs were visible. He straightened up, then looked around, puzzled.
“Say, which way is the plane? We couldn’t have come far, but I’ve lost my sense of direction in this place.”
“Yell,” Joe suggested. “When Al answers, we’ll know which way to go.”
“Al! Al West!”
The boys’ voices echoed through the silent swamp. 
“Louder!” Joe urged, cupping his hands and taking in a tremendous breath. “Hey Al! Where are you?”
In his strenuous effort, the boy lost his balance on the slippery trunk. With a splash he went down into the water. Grabbing the trunk with both hands, he tried to hoist himself out.
“My legs! They’re caught in some vines!” he gasped.
Stooping to aid his brother, Frank spotted a sudden movement on the surface of the stream. Then he recognized the snout of an alligator. The angry reptile was swimming straight toward Joe!

CHAPTER XIII  
  Hurricane
JOE, trapped, blanched when he caught sight of the oncoming alligator. Frank balanced himself on the fallen trunk and glanced quickly about for a means of rescue. A stout log about four feet long floated by. Seizing the log, Frank lifted it over his head in both hands.
When the alligator’s ugly snout came into range, Frank hurled his weapon with a mighty thrust. A solid crack told him that the heavy log had struck the animal’s head. The huge reptile rolled over, its short legs flailing helplessly and tail lashing from side to side.
Meanwhile, Frank jumped into the water beside his brother. Three quick slashes with his jack-knife severed the underwater vines, and the two boys scrambled onto the trunk in safety.
“Whew!” Joe gulped. “Thanks, lifesaver! Let’s go.”
The brothers once more started off in the direction they judged the seaplane to be. “All” they kept shouting. “Al West!”
No answer from the pilot came through the dim swamp. But now, the tops of the cypresses swayed and the hanging moss quivered as the advance winds of the storm began to pick up. Suddenly, from some distance behind the Hardys, an airplane engine roared.
“We’ve been heading in the wrong direction!” Frank cried out. “Come on! Hurry!”
The treacherous, boggy ground prevented quick progress, however. All around the light was quickly dimming. Frank and Joe forged doggedly on, and finally the throb of the plane’s engine grew louder.
“We’re getting there!” Frank panted in relief.
At last they broke through to the shore of the pond. Overhead, dark shreds of clouds were being driven across the sky like streams of smoke. A light rain slanted across the water and Al West, with a worried frown, was just about to take off.
Upon seeing Frank and Joe, he gave a joyful shout. “You were gone such a long time,” he called, “I got scared, and revved up the motor for a signal. Storm’s arriving ahead of schedule. If we take off now, we’ll just about make it!”
Quickly the boys climbed aboard. Turning the plane, Al ran it down the pond until she rose, bucking, into the stiff gusts of the approaching storm.
Now the lead-gray sea, crossed with white foam, was running high up the beach below.
“Chet!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. “He’s had no warning of the hurricane. We must get to him. Al, can you set us down near our camp?”
The pilot looked out his window, against which the rain was beating hard. “Sea’s getting too mean for this ship,” he said. “Even that fishing smack has run for shelter somewhere. I know! There’s a flat, firm beach a little way up from your place.”
Minutes later, the skilled pilot brought his plane down in a neat landing only yards from the big breakers now crashing higher and higher up the sand.
“So long—good luck!” the Hardys called as Al lifted his craft into the buffeting air currents once more, and winged for the airport.
Frank and Joe plowed through the sand toward camp. “Wow!” Joe exclaimed, struggling against the wind. “It must be blowing at forty miles an hour already!”
Whirling sand and gale-driven rain slashed at the boys as they raced along the beach and rounded the big dune. Just as they did, Frank gave a shout.
“Our tent!”
Their canvas shelter, straining from its one remaining rope, suddenly jerked loose and was carried off by the howling wind.
Fearfully the brothers looked around the devastated camp, now a confusion of ropes, poles, and blowing sand. There was no sign of Chet.
“Maybe he’s taken shelter,” Joe yelled above the screaming gale. “We’d better find some ourselves!”
“Let’s try the underground passage to Rand‘s,” Frank decided quickly. “It’s the safest place.”
As the winds increased to hurricane force, making a continual eerie wail in the scrubby pines, the boys set out on a loping run from the beach toward the pond.
The storm rose to full fury. The sky had become pitch dark, although it was only about six o‘clock. Cold, heavy sheets of rain drove in sideways from the sea. The wind pressed relentlessly at the boys’ backs.
They were forced to break into a fast run along the pond toward Rand’s. Suddenly, above them, came an explosive splintering sound.
“Look out!” Frank yelled, yanking Joe aside.
The next instant an enormous dead oak, throwing up its network of roots, landed right in front of the boys!
“Close call!” cried Joe.
They skirted around the fallen tree, and pounded uphill toward the hedge. Then they rolled down the steep embankment on the other side, and groped their way until they found the heavy wooden door. At last, exhausted, they stumbled into the dry darkness of the old brick passage.


  
The winds increased to hurricane force
The sound of voices and a flickering light came from the old beverage room ahead. As the Hardys dashed in, a bulky, comical-looking person was taking off hat after hat, coat after coat, blanket after blanket, shirt after shirt. Looking on and laughing were Grover and his grandson Timmy.
“Chet Morton!” Frank cried with mingled relief and amusement. “Clowning it up in the middle of a hurricane!”
Their friend turned his grinning face to them. “Had to do something to keep from worrying about you fellows. Thank goodness you’re okay!”
Then he explained cheerfully, “Couldn’t waste time carrying clothes. Had more important things to carry.” Chet pointed to a well-packed carton of groceries. “So I just wore everything I could.”
“Why didn’t you wear the tent, too?” Joe needled. “We just saw it blow away!”
Chet had rescued enough shirts and trousers for Frank and Joe to change into dry clothing.
“Guess you all could use a bite to eat,” said Grover. Immediately Chet went into action. The stout boy dug into his supplies, and using Grover’s little stove, soon had a steaming supper of stew, bread, and hot coffee for everyone.
Afterward, the five drew chairs up to the wooden table and listened to the shrieking of the wind outside.
“Man, that’s some storm!” Chet commented.
“Yes, sir, it sure is,” Grover agreed. “But I reckon it’s not so bad as the one grandpappy used to tell about when I was just a mite of a boy. That big storm came when he was a young fellow, just after the Civil War. Waves were as big as houses, he said. Knocked down so many trees and blew things so every which way, nobody could recognize this place after it was over!” 
“It must have been the same blow we read about this morning in the old town newspapers,” Frank said.
The old man took a thoughtful look at his ceiling. “Yes, sir,” he went on, “that old storm did such a powerful lot of damage, it was all folks could do to straighten things out.”
While Grover went on to tell of other bad storms, little Timmy listened with wide eyes. Now and then he fingered some little trinket from his pocket.
“What have you there, Timmy?” Joe asked curiously. “May I see it?”
Shyly the boy lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“Come on,” Joe coaxed. “I won’t hurt it, cross my heart.”
But the youngster retreated behind his grandfather and plunged both hands into his pockets.
“I have an idea,” said Frank in a short time. “Let’s play a game. Each person has to take two things he doesn’t especially want out of his pocket, and put them on the table. He must tell where he got them. Afterward, each player chooses one thing from somebody else and keeps it.”
Chet and Joe exchanged comprehending glances with Frank. “Here’s a chocolate bar and a lucky rabbit’s foot,” said the stout boy. “I bought the candy and the rabbit’s foot at a stationer’s.”
Soon the wooden table was covered with small articles. Timmy, eying them excitedly, laid out a chipped arrowhead and a flat stone blade.
“That’s a hide scraper,” Frank thought excitedly. “An Indian one!”
“Found‘em in the dirt,” Timmy said hurriedly, “near the pond by a big old dead oak.”
“Okay, Timmy,” said Frank, trying to conceal his excitement. “You’re sure you want to part with these?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Okay. Now you choose something you’d like.”
Eagerly the little boy snatched up a flashlight key chain that Joe had put down. Joe picked up the chipped arrowhead and Frank chose the hide scraper. The boys offered the rest of the items to Timmy, who scooped them up happily.
Later, Chet, sensing that the Hardys wanted to examine their “winnings,” encouraged Grover to reminisce some more about local events.
Frank and Joe bent over the artifacts. “These must be from the lost Indian village Professor Rand is looking for,” Joe surmised.
Frank agreed. “If we could only find the actual site,” he said, “maybe we could bargain with Rand. We’ll trade him relics for information about the Blackstone family.”
The storm continued unabated. As the night wore on, old Grover and Timmy lay down on cots at the back of the beverage room. Frank, Joe, and Chet, not sleepy, sat up around the kerosene lamp and talked in low voices. At last the sound of the wind dropped off, and finally stopped altogether.
“Must be about over,” said Joe. He checked his watch. “It’s almost morning.”
Leaving the old man and the boy asleep, the three blew out the lamp and slipped into the passage. Cautiously they pushed open the heavy door and emerged into the meadow.
A light rain still fell, with short gusts of wind. But overhead, the first light of dawn was showing in the gray-white sky.
“The worst is past,” Frank announced. “It’ll clear off later.”
The boys made their way with difficulty toward the pond. Enormous uprooted trees lay on the ground, some crisscrossed atop one another. Logs and leafy debris floated on the surface of the pond.
The boys headed for the beach. Even from a distance they could see huge waves still running up much farther than usual.
“Where’s our campsite?” Chet gasped. “And the two big dunes?”
A completely flat beach lay around them for hundreds of yards.
“Vanished!” declared Frank, astounded. “You’d never know they’d been here!”
Suddenly his own words seemed to electrify the youth. Frank whirled and began to run. “Back to the pond,” he called to the others.
Mystified, Joe and Chet raced after him. Soon, breathing hard, they gazed again on a completely changed scene of fallen trees, uprooted brush, and new pools of water. Portions of the bank had been broken down and washed into the pond.
“Yes, of course!” Frank exclaimed. “This is it!”
Joe’s eyes lit up with excitement as he, too, suddenly understood.
“Is what?” Chet asked blankly.
“Hidden Harbor!” Frank exulted. “We’ve found it!”

CHAPTER XIV  
  A Revealing Argument
“WE’VE found Hidden Harbor?” asked Chet, eagerly looking around. “Where is it?”
“Right here!” Frank answered jubilantly. “The pond is Hidden Harbor!” 
The stout boy appeared more puzzled than ever.
“It just occurred to me,” Frank explained, “if the hurricane we had last night could wipe out those big sand dunes and knock over trees the size of these around here, what a terrific amount of damage the tremendous Civil War storm must have caused. It could have changed the topography around this whole bay! Probably closed up the channel from the ocean with silt, trees, brush, and sand. If pirates did use Hidden Harbor, they had to stop their smuggling into it.”
Excitedly Joe snapped his fingers. “Remember the wide strip of lighter water we spotted from the air? That’s part of the old channel! After the Civil War hurricane it became clogged with sand.”
“Whoopee!” Chet cried, elated at the discovery. “When do we start looking for the buried fortune? Grover said it’s at the mouth of the harbor. That would be the side of the pond nearest the ocean.”
“Yes,” Frank confirmed. “We start right away. But first we’ll need our skin-diving equipment.”
“I hope there’s something left of it,” Joe said gloomily.
“Oh, I put the gear in the trunk of the car,” Frank reminded him. “It ought to be all right. Say! Where is the car, Chet?” 
“Parked in some pines a few hundred yards from the beach.”
“I’ll bring back the equipment,” Frank offered. “Meantime, why don’t you two take a half hour’s rest? I’ll see you at the pond.”
Accordingly, Frank hiked to the pine trees alone. He found the yellow convertible undamaged, but half covered by drifting sand. Frank cleared the car, and took out the diving gear. It was intact. He hoisted the rucksack containing the outfits to his shoulders and headed for the pond.
As he neared it, Frank passed the huge fallen oak. He looked about for Chet and Joe. He was about to call out when the sound of an angry voice made him duck behind an old gnarled tree. The harsh tones were those of Samuel Blackstone!
With a crash of brush the heavy-set man broke into the open space in front of Frank’s hiding place. Behind him trailed the beanpole figure of Henry Cutter.
“No!” roared Blackstone. “I positively will not sell my rights to this pond. Can’t you get that through your head, Cutter?”
“You’ll have to admit, though, the pond has been nothing but trouble to you,” Cutter said unctuously. “Indirectly, it has damaged your family name, and led you into bringing a lawsuit. Why, it’s even caused you to reopen the old family quarrel with Rand. What good is it to you?” 
“And what use is it to you, sir, may I ask?” Blackstone retorted. 
“Mr. Stewart and I,” Cutter said patiently, “as I’ve told you, would like to purchase this water, with the surrounding land, to set up a small private fishing club. We would stock the pond, open a channel to the ocean, and bring parties in by motorboat.”
“Fishing club!” snorted Blackstone. “Do you think I was born yesterday, Cutter? What’s your real game? You’re in with Rand, aren’t you? The two of you—trying to get my property. That intellectual thinks he knows where to find the lost fortune, and wants it for himself!”
Infuriated, Blackstone seized his pale companion and shook him.
“No one is getting a square inch of my land or a drop of this pond while I’m alive!” he thundered. “You hear? Not while I’m alive!”
With that, he released the thinner man and strode off. Cutter, paler than ever, glared after the retreating Blackstone. Then he turned abruptly and disappeared into the swamp.
“Wish I had time to follow Cutter,” Frank thought. “But right now I have another job.”
After waiting a few minutes, Frank emerged from behind the tree. A familiar low whistle came from above. He looked up. Peering at him from a strong tree limb, sat Joe and Chet! Quickly the two boys dropped to the ground.
“We heard Blackstone shouting,” Joe told his brother, “so we shinned up out of sight.”
“Saw the whole thing,” Chet added.
“Some hot argument!” Joe remarked. “Seems to prove Cutter isn’t working for Blackstone. Do you make anything else out of it?”
“Only this,” Frank replied. “The old feud was caused by both the Blackstones’ and the Rands’ knowing about Clement’s buried treasure. The feud started not just because of the division of land, but because each side thought the treasure was buried somewhere between those two oak trees, and wouldn’t give up one foot of ground.”
Chet sighed. “Boy, this thing’s sure getting complicated. Well, are you ready to go diving?”
“Ready.”
Chet helped Frank and Joe put on their diving equipment.
“This will be the first time we’ve been down in daylight,” Frank noted. “Visibility ought to be a lot better.”
“You’d better take your spears in with you,” Chet warned, “in case that monster is lurking underwater!”
Soon the boys submerged off the ocean side of the pond. The sun had broken through, and Chet, straining his eyes, could see the boys kicking along with their flippers, testing the bottom. But finally they moved off into deeper water.
For two hours the search went on. The swimmers dug into mud and sand, and poked their spearheads into caverns formed by twisting cypress roots. Occasionally, they surfaced to rest.
During one of their pauses, Frank said, “The money and papers are probably in a metal chest. Hard to guess the size, since we don’t know how much is in it.”
“A tremendous amount of silt could have settled over it since the stuff was buried.” Joe remarked.
The brothers continued the underwater search but were unable to find any metal object.
“There’s a mess of sand down there,” said Joe as the divers removed their gear. “What we need are some real digging and scraping tools.”
“Yes, and a metal detector,” Frank added. “We ought to be able to pick up one in Larchmont.”
“We’ll go shopping later,” Frank said, “if we can get our car started.”
“Why don’t we go right away, fellows?” Chet complained. “We haven’t eaten in ages. I’m all hollow inside.”
“Why, Chet!” Joe grinned, fully dressed once more. “Who wants to eat when we can spend profitable hours looking for Indian relics?”
“Relics,” Chet lamented. “You can’t eat a relic.”
Joe took the arrowhead from his pocket and examined it. “Timmy says he found it right near the dead oak at the left of the pond,” he said.
“Sounds logical,” Frank reasoned. “The tree probably stood there for a couple of centuries. If there ever was an Indian village in this spot, it might have been a favorite place for the men to sit and chip arrowheads.” 
“I’d like to chip my teeth on a nice big steak!” muttered Chet.
Frank took pity on their suffering friend. “We’re hungry, too. We’ll eat soon, honest. But as long as we’re here, let’s dig around the tree.”
“All right!” Chet sighed. “But you still haven’t any tools.”
“We won’t need tools,” Frank assured him. “The hurricane’s done our digging for us.”
He led the way along the pond toward the Rand property to the upper branches of the fallen oak. They followed the enormous trunk to the huge round hole in the earth, where the tree had stood. The pit, nearly five feet deep at the center, yawned open in front of them.
Stepping down into it, the boys began to sift the still-damp earth through their fingers.
“Found something!” Joe called after a few minutes. “Thin and flat, like a dime.”
“It’s a bird point,” Frank announced after a brief examination. “A small, fine arrowhead for killing birds.
“We’re getting somewhere, all right,” Frank said cheerfully. As he shifted his position in the pit, his canvas sneaker seemed to catch on something solid. Stooping, he loosened and drew out the muddy fragment of a curved surface.
“Pottery!” he exclaimed. “Here’s another piece. There seems to be more stuff at this lower level!”
Working swiftly, the boys unearthed several more large pieces of old clay vessels. In addition, Joe found a wedge-shaped stone that might have been used as an axhead.
He straightened up suddenly. “Fellows, I think we’ve found the site of the ancient Indian village!”

CHAPTER XV  
  Sea City Hoax
THE HARDYS and Chet felt a thrill of discovery. “So this is the lost Indian village!” Frank said as the three climbed from the relic-filled depression.
“Now,” said Joe, “we’ll have something to offer Professor Rand in exchange for information.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “Also, Rand, or a trained archaeologist, will consider our find more valuable if it’s relatively undisturbed. We’ll take these arrowheads and pottery shards as proof we’ve found the site.”
The boys carefully covered over the place they had dug up. After cleaning the relics in the pond, Frank asked Chet to get a bag or carton from Grover in which to carry them.
“If it means we’re heading for town—and food,” the hungry boy said, “I’ll do it.”
When Chet returned with a carton, they packed it and started back for the beach. Chet and Joe carried the diving gear while Frank clutched the precious relics.
They reached the yellow convertible and Frank opened the door to place the carton on the rear floor. He groaned. “There’s a ton of sand in here!”
The hard-driven sand had filtered into the vehicle and piled up regular mounds on the seats and floor !
“Hope the engine isn’t full of sand, too,” Joe said, after the boys had cleaned out the interior. He took the wheel and tried to start the car. Nothing happened.
The mechanically minded Hardys wasted no time in getting the hood raised. Joe cleaned and wiped the spark plugs, then checked the wiring for short circuits. Meantime, Frank and Chet, drawing some gasoline from the tank, bathed the parts which had become clogged by the driving sand.
Soon the pistons were operating smoothly. Slipping into low gear, Joe gunned the engine. With Frank and Chet pushing, the convertible plowed steadily through the drifted sand to the road.
“We’d better report to Bart Worth first thing,” said Frank.
They found Larchmont in the midst of mop-ping up after the hurricane. Power-line crews were busy, and throughout the town fallen trees were being cut up with roaring power saws, and hauled away.
The boys parked and went up to the offices of the Larchmont Record. “What a madhouse!” Chet exclaimed. 
The place was filled with the din of clacking typewriters and typesetting machines, jangling telephones, and shouting between copy-desk editors and reporters. Printers with ink-smeared aprons rushed in and out of the composing room. Bart Worth, looking exhausted, moved about in shirt sleeves giving directions.
He hailed the Hardys and Chet with a shout of relief and hustled them into his private office. “I was sure worried about you fellows. Hope you found shelter. We’ve been busy all night covering this storm.”
“We made out okay,” Joe assured him.
“Good.” Bart gave a weary sigh and began pacing the floor. “I have more trouble. Blackstone’s used his influence with the court, and had the trial moved up! If I don’t get proof soon, I’m sunk.”
“We may have some helpful news for you,” Frank announced quietly. “In the first place, we’re convinced that the smuggling story is true.” 
He and Joe went on to give a full account of their experiences and discoveries since they had last seen Bart.
The editor’s eyes brightened with amazement and hope. “So,” he said, “the Rand-Blackstone pond was once a secret harbor, connected to the sea by a channel! What a perfect setup for the Blackstones to conduct their smuggling operations.”
Then Bart Worth’s face clouded. “But how can we prove all this?”
“By finding the family papers,” Frank replied. “They’re buried at the mouth of the old Hidden Harbor. The only problem is,” the boy admitted, “how to locate that.”
At this point Joe held up the box of ancient Indian artifacts.
“We’ll try to set up a trade with Professor Rand,” he explained, “by telling him where to find the Indian village, providing he’ll tell us where to find the proof we need—if he knows.”
Bart nodded. “It’s the way to Rue! Rand’s heart, all right,” he agreed. “But can you catch up with him in time?”
“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.
“Say! I have another lead,” the editor burst out suddenly. “Almost forgot with this hurricane business. This morning I received a call from a man who claimed to be Jenny Shringle’s cousin in Sea City. According to him, Jenny has changed her mind—wants to tell me something important about the case. I’m supposed to meet her late this afternoon in the lobby of the Surfside Hotel in Sea City, and bring you fellows with me.”
“Sounds phony to me!” was Joe’s prompt reaction. “A convenient way to get us all in one place, then get rid of us!”
“Still, it may be a real lead,” the editor insisted. “We can’t afford to pass it up.” 
“Then why the secrecy?” Joe demanded. “And why does she want Frank and me along?”
“She may be afraid of Blackstone,” Worth argued. “Besides, I think she’s grateful to you boys for rescuing her in the fun house.”
“We’ll go, then,” Frank assented, “but I wouldn’t be too hopeful about it, Bart.”
While Bart Worth toiled feverishly to get his hurricane edition on the presses, the three hungry friends went to a restaurant which Chet Morton had selected well in advance. After a hearty steak and dessert of fresh peach shortcake, Chet revived noticeably.
“One little thing bothers me,” he said. “We don’t have a camp any more. No tent, no food. Our clothes and blankets are at Grover’s hide-out, and most of our utensils were buried in the sand. Besides,” he added, “you fellows need digging tools and a metal detector.”
“In other words,” Frank said, laughing, “you’re volunteering to stay here, buy what we need, and set up camp again.”
“You’ve guessed it!” Chet admitted. “I’m more sure of regular meals and sleep, too.”
Soon the trio separated, and Chet took the yellow convertible to do his errands. A little later Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth set out for Sea City in the editor’s green sedan. Clouds had covered the sun again, and gusts of wind shook the car as it sped along the highway.
“We’re early,” Frank noted. “We may as well pick up Jenny at her cousin‘s, Bart.”
The three went up and knocked at the little white bungalow. The same middle-aged man they had met previously opened the door.
“We’ve come about your phone call this morning, Mr. Shringle,” Bart explained.
“Phone call?” the man repeated, bewildered. “Jenny! Did you telephone and ask these folks to come here?”
Now the short, plump woman appeared at her cousin’s side. She peered at the visitors suspiciously.
“I told you all once—I’m not allowed to talk to you,” Jenny said.
The Hardys and Bart Worth exchanged meaningful glances. The phone call had been a hoax! 
Frank turned to the seamstress. “Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Shringle. Guess it was a mix-up.”
When the three returned to the car, Joe urged, “Let’s go to the hotel, anyway. Maybe we can turn the tables and nab the gang we told you we heard on the fishing boat.”
The others agreed and soon Bart parked near a long, two-story wooden building that was badly in need of fresh paint. Old-fashioned, high-backed rocking chairs, mostly empty, were distributed along a front porch which was as wide as the old hotel itself.
“Bart, you go up on the porch and wait,” Frank proposed, “Joe and I will circle the place to see if anybody’s lurking outside.”
Quickly the Hardys moved around the run-down hotel. In the rear were several wings, also with porches, looking toward the beach. No one was in sight.
“Must have been quite a place in its heyday,” Joe observed. “Sure is dead now, though.”
The brothers returned to the porch to look for Bart Worth. But the editor was not in sight. A bald old man, seated in a rocking chair next to the main entrance, eyed them with open curiosity.
“Maybe Bart went back to the car,” Joe suggested. “I’ll check.” He soon came back, shaking his head.
“Let’s go into the lobby,” Frank said.
Perplexed, the two boys walked into the dark shabby foyer, with its worn carpets. A curtain of hanging strands of bright-colored beads covered a doorway at the back of a hall next to a stairway. The place seemed empty; even the room clerk’s desk was deserted. Frank and Joe strolled out to the porch, where the bald man in the rocking chair stared at them once more.
“Was there a man with reddish hair waiting here when you sat down?” Joe asked him.
The elderly man did not answer immediately and continued to gawk at the boys. Finally he drawled, “Yes. One was standing here. Bellman came out—said the stranger had a phone call. Must still be talkin‘, I reckon.”
“Where’s the phone?” Joe asked quickly.
“Go though the hangin’ curtain,” the man directed. “Phone’s in the corridor there—right beside the back stairs.”
“Bart must have walked right into the snare!” Frank whispered worriedly as the brothers stepped to the entrance.
Suddenly Joe grasped Frank’s arm and pointed into the dim lobby. A man had appeared behind the reservations desk. The boys recognized him instantly: Mr. Stewart, Henry Cutter’s partner. Now Stewart leaned across the counter to talk to a uniformed bellman.
“What’s he doing here?” Joe muttered. “Working? Antique business must be bad.” 
The next moment, to the boys’ surprise, the bellman came striding out to the porch.
“Frank and Joe Hardy?” he asked them. “Telephone call for you in the back hall. It’s by the stairs.”

CHAPTER XVI  
  Enemy Tactics
QUICK as a flash Frank decided on a plan of action. “I’ll take the call,” he told the bellman.
As the employee walked off, Frank murmured to Joe, “If it’s a trap, I’ll chance it alone. You stay free in case I need help.”
“Okay. I’ll go up the main staircase in the lobby,” Joe volunteered, “and look for the back steps next to the phone.”
Re-entering the lobby, the boys noted that the room clerk’s desk was vacant once more. Joe climbed the wide stairway, while Frank ducked through the curtain of hanging beads.
He found himself in a dim hallway lighted only by a tiny window at the end. Near the rear, Frank spotted an old-time wall telephone, with the receiver dangling almost to the floor. Warily, he approached it.
Frank noted that all the room doors were closed except one just across from the phone. This was slightly ajar. Watching the door carefully, he reached the telephone. Frank stood listening intently. The old hotel was almost unnaturally quiet. Suddenly the young sleuth stiffened. From behind the open door came the familiar sound of hoarse, wheezy breathing!
“Jed!” Frank thought.
Deliberately, the boy turned his back. At the same time, he grasped the telephone cord in his right hand.
His straining ears caught a footfall on the carpet. Whirling, Frank swung the heavy receiver by its cord and caught the flat-faced man a smashing blow on the ear. With a cry of pain, the angered thug lurched forward and seized Frank’s right arm in an iron grip. Frank immediately sent three chopping left jabs into the fellow’s midriff. Now another figure came racing down the dim hallway. Stewart!
“Got him!” he cried, reaching Frank and pinning the boy’s arm behind his back.
At the same instant there was a screeching whoop from above! Both assailants’ heads jerked upward. Joe Hardy had vaulted onto the backstairs banister, and slid down full speed, crashing feet first against the burly man’s chest. Frank wrenched free and landed a stiff uppercut on Stewart’s jaw. The two boys bounded up the staircase and along the second-floor corridor.
“Here!” cried Joe, ducking into an open, vacant room. From the staircase came the pounding steps of their pursuers. Then the boys heard the opening and slamming of doors along the hall.
Passing from one suite to another through connecting doors, the boys dodged their enemy. When the chase was over, and it was quiet in the corridor, they cautiously tiptoed outside.
The next instant Joe cocked his head. “I’m sure I hear groans—in here!”
He yanked open the door to a large linen closet. Bart Worth, bound and gagged, lay on the floor. Quickly Frank and Joe released him. Overhead, the ceiling shook under heavy running footsteps up and down the third floor.
“Good! Those crooks are looking for us upstairs!” Joe said.
But before the trio could slip out of the hotel, they heard Stewart and Jed dashing downstairs. Pulling the closet door shut, the three friends lay low while the men rushed past and down to the lobby.
Frank, Joe, and Bart stepped into the hall. Frank, carrying a large hamper of clean linen, went to the second-floor landing and looked around. The floor boards creaked loudly beneath him.
“There they are!” cried Stewart from the foot of the stairs.
As the thugs, followed by the bellman, charged up the wide staircase again, Frank suddenly heaved the big hamper at them. A blizzard of white sheets, towels, and pillowcases billowed down upon the men. While they struggled to disentangle themselves, Bart cried, “Leave them alone. We’ll get the police!”
He and the boys sprinted for the front door. They ran to Bart’s car and roared away from the old hotel.
“Sorry to get myself caught like that,” the editor apologized. “But I’d told my office to reach me here if I received an important phone call I’ve been expecting. So I really fell for it, when the bellman paged me.”
“Who jumped you?” Joe asked. “Stewart and his crony Jed?”
“Yes. I heard them talk about somebody they called ‘the boss,’ who wanted the ‘three troublemakers gotten rid of this time without fail!’”
“We were sure Blackstone wasn’t behind this scheme,” Joe remarked. “Now, I don’t know what to believe, after that faked call from Jenny Shringle.”
By this time Bart had pulled up at the Sea City police headquarters. Inside, the editor reported the assault on himself and the boys. Two squad cars were dispatched with sirens screaming. The chief asked the Hardys and Bart to remain in case they should be needed to identify their assailants.
Frank and Joe, however, felt sure that Stewart and Jed had already left the hotel. Their conclusion proved to be correct. When the officers returned, they reported that the thugs and the bellman, whom the men evidently had bribed, had fled. The manager, who doubled as clerk, had been away during the fracas.
“We’ll find those hoods!” Frank declared as Bart and the Hardys drove off. “They can’t get away with this!”
Bart said he would treat the Hardys to supper in Larchmont. As they ate, the brothers tried to cheer the young editor, who appeared greatly depressed.
“I’ll bet Blackstone was behind this ambush,” Bart insisted. “He’d be most apt to use Jenny Shringle’s name. But I can’t prove that, either!” 
“Somehow I doubt he’d go to such lengths to win a libel suit,” Frank stated. “Even if his family’s reputation is at stake. Don’t forget,” he reasoned, “Cutter’s men worked this trap. We did overhear Cutter in a real argument with Blackstone this morning. Of course, they could be working together to get rid of us, and still fighting among themselves.” 
“In any case, the three of us are in real danger,” Bart stated grimly.
“Yes, the three of us,” cried Frank, rising suddenly from the table, “and Chet! He’s all alone! Those hoods know we’d do anything to rescue Chet if they kidnaped him!”
Hastily Bart paid the check and they ran to the car. All maintained an anxious silence as they sped for Larchmont. At last the sedan was on the fishermen’s road, heading for the campsite.
When they reached it, Frank, Joe, and the editor leaped from the car and turned on flashlights. A scene of devastation such as that caused by the hurricane met their eyes. Food, clothing, equipment lay strewn around. A brand-new tent slashed in ribbons hung from its pole. In the sand was a confusion of footprints.
“We’re too late!” Joe groaned. “Chet’s gone!”
Suddenly, on the shore road, two yellow headlights approached the stunned trio.
“They’re coming back!” Frank said.
Quickly the three put out their lights and ducked behind a clump of small pines. The car drew up and stopped. The door slammed. Someone shuffled across the sand. An unmistakable tuneless whistle warbled on the night air.
“Chet!”
Frank, Joe, and Bart rushed forward in joyful relief to greet their friend.
“Sure it’s me,” replied the stout boy. “Who else? Hey!” He clapped a hand to his head. “Leapin’ lizards! What went through this place? The new tent ruined! My pots and pans! My food!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “The main thing is, you’re okay. Where did you go?”
“Got lonesome and went to the movies. I’m sorry, fellows. Guess I’m a punk guard.”
“You did the right thing,” Frank assured him. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance against those crooks! They wrecked this place.”
The boys then told their friend of the Sea City adventure.
Chet gulped. “I sure was lucky. We can always get a new tent—and more food!”
Everyone laughed, including Bart, whose spirits seemed to have lifted. Some minutes later, the editor said good night.
As the taillights of Bart’s car disappeared down the road, Chet and the Hardys set about restoring what order they could. Suddenly Joe called out, “Hey—a light! Way in the distance. Might be in the swamp around Rand’s property!”
Immediately Frank ran over to his brother. “Maybe it’s the tall fellow we think is the professor! Let’s take the Indian relics and have a talk with him!”
Fortunately, the valued artifacts had been locked in the convertible’s trunk. The boys lifted out the carton and set out. Soon, with flashlights off, they were treading carefully around the pond.
“Sh!” Frank warned the boys and stopped. “I thought I saw something move in the swamp!”
The searchers peered intently ahead. Everything appeared motionless. Again they went forward. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a gleam of light darted about in the swamp just ahead. As the boys crept steadily closer, they made out a familiar hat.
“Must be Rand!” Joe hissed. “He’s examining something in his hand.”
Wordlessly Frank motioned Joe to move up on one side of the man, and Chet the other. The boys set themselves to surround him in hopes of preventing a sudden flight.
“Help—help!”
A strangled cry followed by a heavy splash came from the dark pond behind them!
The long-coated man straightened up and started forward. But he stopped when the three boys broke from cover and dashed toward the pond in the direction of the cry. Now a child’s terrified scream rent the night air.
Joe, in the lead, reached the bank of the pond first, and beamed his flashlight full ahead. To his astonishment, Grover and little Timmy were running back and forth, wailing and looking in panic toward the water.
“Quick, quick!” cried Timmy as Joe came up. “Some devil just pulled Mr. Blackstone under the water!”

CHAPTER XVII  
  Underwater Prison
“WHERE did Mr. Blackstone go down?” cried Joe. At the same time, Frank and Chet crashed through the bushes onto the bank of the pond.
“Th-there!” Timmy pointed to a swirl in the dark water about twenty feet from shore.
Chet held two flashlights while the Hardys plunged in. They submerged and stroked downward. Joe, groping his way through the underwater darkness, suddenly grasped what felt like clothing.
He could barely make out the shape of a heavy-set person. Samuel Blackstonel Seizing one of the big man’s arms, Joe tried to push upward. But he could make no progress. Blackstone was being dragged deeper!
While Joe kept tugging, Frank spotted his brother, glided in, and grasped Blackstone about the waist. Suddenly the boy came in contact with something soft and slippery, that was tightly clamped around the victim’s body and holding him down!
“The monster!” Frank thought.
With all his might he wrenched at the slimy form until its grip was loosened. Though it wriggled back threateningly, Joe pulled Mr. Blackstone free.
Their lungs bursting, the swimmers bore the unconscious man to the surface. Chet quickly waded in and helped haul all three to shore.
“Timmy,” ordered his grandfather, “you run up to the house and bring back help. Git, now!”
Meanwhile, Frank loosened Mr. Blackstone’s clothing and administered artificial respiration. Joe, Chet, and Grover worriedly looked on, watching for signs of life.
Finally, to everyone’s vast relief, Mr. Blackstone gasped, sputtered, and began breathing.
“Easy, sir,” Frank cautioned him. “Just lie still and rest.”
Joe turned to the elderly servant. “Did you see what happened? Tell us everything.”
“I was taking my walk, as I do every night, when me and Timmy met Mr. Blackstone on the path. He hurried to the edge of the pond like he saw something. Next thing we knew, he gave a yell, and something dragged him right into the water!”
Now the waiting group heard excited voices, then a series of lights could be seen winding toward them through the brush.
In a moment three of Mr. Blackstone’s servants, carrying flashes, blankets, and axes, and led by little Timmy, reached the bank.
“Quick! Cut two saplings,” Frank directed.
When this was done, the Hardys and Chet constructed an improvised stretcher, and Blackstone was lifted onto it and carried up to his house.
“Rand,” he muttered incoherently as the boys and Grover waited in his spacious bedroom for the family physician to arrive. “Rand—did it.”
Frank, Joe, and Chet stared at one another in puzzlement. They listened as Blackstone rambled on, “Rand—sent note—meet him at pond—talk over our differences—Rand did it.”
At that moment the doctor entered and hurried to the man’s bedside. After a quick examination, he warned, “Mr. Blackstone mustn’t talk or be questioned. I must ask you all to leave.”
The boys and Grover filed out. Joe whispered, “But Professor Rand couldn’t have been responsible! He wasn’t near the pond.”
“Grover,” Frank asked, “where does Mr. Blackstone keep his mail? We’d like to see that note from Professor Rand he just mentioned. I assure you we’re trying to help Mr. Blackstone.” 
“He might not like it if I do what you ask,” the butler objected.
“We’ll have to take that chance,” Frank said.
The servant nodded and led them downstairs to the study where the Hardys had witnessed the quarrel between the cousins. Grover handed Frank a spindle of papers from the desk. On top was a hand-printed note signed, “Ruel.”
“I’ll keep this for evidence,” the boy told Grover. “I’ll write a receipt for it.”
After doing this, the three boys hurried back to camp. There Frank drew Professor Rand’s map from the glove compartment of the convertible, and compared the printing to that on the note.
“Not the same!” Joe explained. “The note’s a fake! Whoever sent it probably thought forged printing wouldn’t be detected. But on this map Rand uses a little flourish at the beginning of each word.”
“We must find Rand,” Frank said soberly. “He’s innocent, but not in Blackstone’s eyes.”
The boys headed for the pond. Off in the swamp they noticed the solitary light still moving about.
Joe started forward, but Frank restrained him, saying, “No—leave him there. Follow me.”
The boy led the way to the Rand property and into the underground passage. They then entered the beverage room and lighted the lamp. Frank took care to leave the door ajar.
“Now,” he said, “we’ll wait for the professor here. He’ll probably come home this way.”
Some time later the boys heard the door to the passage creak open. Slow, weary footsteps came along the corridor. Abruptly, the steps stopped in front of the beverage room.
“He’s seen the light!” Joe whispered.
The Hardys and Chet shrank back behind the door, which moved inward. A tall figure in a raincoat and a floppy hat stepped toward the table.
Quickly Frank pushed the door shut, and the boys stood against it.
“Wh-what!” The man whirled.
“Please sit down, Professor Rand,” said Frank. “We’re sorry to startle you, but it’s very important that we have a talk with you.”
The tall man sank into a chair. Recovering his composure somewhat, he exclaimed, “Talk with prowlers and intruders! Never!”
“You are Professor Rand?” Frank queried. 
“Of course I am. Who are you? And why are you snooping around?”
Pleasantly Frank made introductions, and explained that the boys had been retained by Bart Worth. “He asked us to help him prove that a certain story printed in his newspaper about the old Blackstone family was the truth.”
Rand nodded. “What has that to do with me?”
Joe replied, “Mr. Blackstone nearly drowned in the pond tonight. Somebody or something pulled him in, and he’s blaming you!”
The professor looked shocked. “How terrible! I did not realize that cry I heard was Samuel’s. I was about to see who it was when I spotted you boys going toward the pond.” Rand added emphatically, “Samuel and I may be at odds, but I would not resort to such tactics.” 
“You may be in danger yourself from the same thing,” Frank told Rand. “You and Mr. Blackstone both claim this pond and the land around it. We boys have a hunch your cousin’s assailant may be a person who has a nefarious interest in this property.”
The boys then told of someone’s locking them in Rand’s room. The professor’s startled reaction convinced them he had not done it. “To think the scoundrel followed me in and out of the house,” he said worriedly.
“His accomplice must have locked the closet door from the tunnel side,” Frank added. “They probably planned to harm us later, and didn’t expect us to escape!”
“It was a close shave!” Joe murmured.
“We believe the person is doing all he can to block us,” Frank said. “As you know, Professor, we must prove that the Blackstone fortune was made originally by smuggling. We understand the bulk of it is buried at the mouth of a hidden harbor.”
“Humph! It’s true,” Professor Rand broke in, “if that’s what you want to know. The pond between our properties was old Clement’s harbor.”
“So we’ve learned. But we need proof,” Frank told him. “If you’ll furnish some, we may be able to give you a start toward unearthing the Indian village you’re looking for.”
The scholar’s eyes lighted with interest and surprise, although he asked dubiously, “How do I know you can do what you say?”
In answer, Frank handed over the professor’s own map, while Joe held out the arrowhead and hide scraper.
This time Rand did not restrain his enthusiasm. “Wonderful! Perfect! Where were these found?”
“In a spot not far away from where we found plenty of other relics,” Joe spoke up. “But we left most of them undisturbed.”
There was a moment’s silence while the professor weighed the offer. Finally he said, “I agree to the trade. And I’ll carry out my end of the bargain first.”
The Hardys and Chet listened eagerly as the professor went on. “I never had the slightest interest in the disputed property until I realized the area near the pond was probably the site of an old Indian village. Before excavating, I wanted a clear title to the land, and that started my quarrel with Samuel. He claimed I actually intended to dig for the buried fortune.”
“Didn’t you?” Joe asked.
“Not at first. But when nobody would underwrite the excavation, I decided I would have to find the treasure myself in order to finance it. Then, because I wanted no interference, and Samuel is so touchy about his family name, we agreed to cover up our disagreement. I ‘disappeared’ so I could hunt undisturbed for the money I hope to find.”
“Both of you want the property for different reasons,” Frank said. “Mr. Blackstone’s mainly concerned about anyone else finding the treasure, because of the family papers concealed with it. Is our deduction right?”
Professor Rand nodded. “Exactly.”
“Do you know where the fortune is, sir?” Joe asked suddenly. 
“I’ve known it all my life, but it hasn’t done me any good.”
“Why not?” Chet burst out.
“I once read in a letter of my grandmother’s that it was buried beneath a giant cypress at the mouth of the Hidden Harbor. The problem is, where was the cypress?” 
For a moment, all four frowned in deep thought.
“I know!” Frank exulted.
Professor Rand, Joe, and Chet turned to him eagerly. “Tell us, pal!” Chet begged.
“Each time we’ve made a search of the pond, I’ve noticed a section of tangled root ends,” Frank explained, “and, way underneath, a long irregular outline I knew was a huge fallen tree. That must have been the cypress which once stood beside the old channel at the harbor’s mouth!”
“What are we waiting for?” Joe cried out.
The professor, as excited as the boys, hurried with them toward the beach. Soon the four, carrying tools, lights, diving equipment, and a metal detector, made their way eagerly back to the edge of the pond. Frank offered to dive first.
“Look out for the monster!” Joe warned.
Quickly Frank put on his outfit. He attached the lamp to his forehead and slung the metal detector at his belt. Then, taking a long-handled spade, he submerged.
Deeper and deeper Frank stroked. His lamp showed up the enormous fallen tree’s mass of roots. Suddenly the detector began to click!
Frank swam under the huge roots and jabbed the spade into the silt. The steel tool thudded against something solid. Adjusting his lamp, Frank saw by its murky gleam what appeared to be the corner of a wooden chest.
“The treasure!” he thought elatedly. “The box is probably made of cypress wood to protect a metal chest!”
The object proved to be out of Frank’s reach. Tough, gnarled roots well over a hundred years old had grown so closely around the chest that try as he might, Frank could not move it by hand or shovel.
Disappointed, he turned back through the tangle of roots. As Frank twisted in and out, his air line became fouled. It was tightly snagged between two roots! Frank struggled to free the line, but to no avail.
“Joe and the others expect me to stay down for a while,” the trapped boy thought frantically. “Unless I can signal, they won’t come after me until it’s too late!”

CHAPTER XVIII  
  Dangerous Cargo
HOLDING his breath, Frank again fought desperately to free his air line from the binding roots. He thrashed his arms and legs in a futile effort to jerk it loose.
At last he worked one hand down to his lead-weighted belt, where his fingers tore open a small plastic compartment. From it he plucked a white ping-pong ball, which he sent bobbing through the roots toward the surface of the pond. This ball was a trouble signal the Hardy brothers had worked out.
“If only Joe’s light picks it up!” Frank thought.
At the pond’s edge, meanwhile, Joe, Chet, and Professor Rand watched the smooth surface.
“I’m actually going to see the long-lost family fortune,” the professor declared. “I can hardly believe it!”
“Also,” responded Joe, who stood by in his diving apparatus, “we’ll have this case licked!”
Suddenly Chet exclaimed, “A white bubble!”
The next instant Joe spotted the ping-pong ball. “Frank’s in danger!” he cried out and plunged underwater. He stroked down, his light beam piercing the dark water. As he approached the fantastically twisted cypress roots, Joe caught sight of Frank, struggling to free himself.
Joe drew his knife and moved in, cutting a path as he went. The two stout roots holding Frank gave way before the razor-sharp blade. Seizing his brother’s limp arms, Joe maneuvered him through the roots to the surface.
For a moment the treasure was forgotten completely, while Chet and the professor worked to revive Frank. Luckily he had held his breath a long time, and had swallowed very little water. In a little while he was sitting up and being rubbed vigorously with a towel.
“I saw part of a chest,” Frank told the others. “It’s enmeshed in the silt and tree roots. We’ll have to blast it out.”
The boys suggested that they obtain dynamite and return the following day. Professor Rand agreed to the idea but reminded them that the next day was Sunday. “No stores will be open. We’ll have to wait until Monday.”
The group agreed to keep the matter a secret, then separated. The boys went back to their campsite, had a late snack, and bedded down on the sand under the open sky.
Monday morning was clear and sunshiny, as they headed for town in the yellow convertible.
First, Frank parked in front of a drugstore and went into the phone booth to call the Sea City police. In a few minutes he came back and reported, “They’ve had no luck tracking down those thugs who attacked us in the hotel.”
The trio decided to enlist the editor’s help in obtaining the dynamite. They went to his office and told of their discovery at the pond. Highly excited, Bart was glad to accompany the trio to make the purchase.
“Anything to retrieve that chest,” he exclaimed as they entered Larchmont’s only hardware store. Bart made his request to an elderly clerk.
“Dynamite, hey!” the shopkeeper repeated in a loud voice of surprise. Other customers turned to look. “One thing we don’t have. Just a minute, though.”
The clerk went to the cellar doorway and shouted down the stairs. “Henry! Folks here need some dynamite! Know where they can get some?”
Uneasily, the Hardys, Chet, and Bart glanced at the curious faces peering at them.
“What say?” came a voice from the cellar.
“Dynamite,”
roared the clerk. “Folks here want to do a little blasting!” 
“Oh, dynamite!” Henry shouted back. “They can get it in Dobbsville!” 
“Thanks very much,” said Bart, and the four hastily left the store.
As they stepped into the car, Joe noted ruefully, “Well, if anyone in town doesn’t know we need dynamite, they will in a few minutes!”
“You said it. Around here they don’t need a loud-speaker!” Chet grinned.
Bart Worth directed the way to Dobbsville. Once there, he and the Hardys entered the hardware store, while Chet went off to make a purchase of his own. He returned with a paper bag just as the others were gingerly placing a small wooden case marked dynamite on the rear floor of the convertible.
“Dangerous cargo,” Chet remarked.
“It sure is,” Bart agreed, then asked the Hardys, “Do you fellows know how to handle this stuff?”
Frank nodded. “Dad has taught us about explosives.”
“Right now,” Chet put in, “let’s eat!” Happily the stout boy pulled out some huge sandwiches filled with several layers of ham, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. “I got four of these for our lunch.”
“Looks like a seven-course meal!” Joe teased.
Bart smiled. “I’d like to join you boys, but I have to do an errand, You go on ahead. I’ll take a taxi back and meet you at the pond in an hour.”
A few minutes later the Hardys and Chet were heading for Larchmont. The car crossed a crystal-clear brook winding through a shady stand of pines set back on a knoll.
“Stop!” ordered Chet. “Here’s the place for our submarine sandwiches.”
Laughing, the boys parked off the road and got out. Soon they were sprawled on the soft pine needle carpet of the grove, where they could just see the sunlight flashing on the front of the convertible.
To Chet’s amusement, the Hardys relished the four hearty sandwiches as much as he.
“Wow! I must’ve been hungry!” Joe chuckled.
A short time later they were en route again. Suddenly Joe exclaimed, “I smell something burning. Whew!” The next instant he cried, “Pull over, Frank! Quick!”
Frank swerved the big car onto the shoulder. It lurched to a stop. “Look in the back!” Joe shouted. “The dynamite!”
To their horror, a crude string fuse, inserted into the box, was sputtering up to the lid. Joe leaped over the seat, yanked the string, and flung it from the car.
“I thought I heard a car slow up while we were eating,” he said grimly. “But it never came into view.” 
“It probably dropped someone off,” Frank reasoned. ‘‘He,could have put in that fuse, working on the road side of the convertible to keep out of our sight.“
“He waited until he saw us coming back,” Joe added. “Then he lighted the fuse and slipped into the woods across the road.”
“Yes. Where his pal in the car will pick him up again,” Frank concluded. “Remember, everybody in Larchmont knew we’d gone to Dobbsville for the explosive. Some of the gang followed us, although there was no car in back of us before we parked.”
Shaken, the boys went on. Soon they were speeding along the fishermen’s road toward their camp.
Here they encountered the tall figure of Professor Rand pacing nervously up and down. “I’m so excited, I couldn’t sit at home and wait!” he confessed.
“We’re all set. Operation Dynamite’s under way!” Joe announced.
In a matter of minutes the small procession headed for the pond. Chet toted the rucksack of diving gear. Professor Rand carried digging implements and the metal detector. Frank and Joe took turns carrying the box of dynamite.
At last they reached the water’s edge. The professor had already concurred with the Hardys that it would be best to attempt raising the chest first. Later the boys would show him the place where they had unearthed the Indian relics. “I realize,” he said, “that by now the gang knows you lads have escaped their malicious trap. They may try something worse at any time.”
The Hardys had just put on their underwater gear when Bart arrived. Then Frank opened the wooden case and checked the paper-wrapped sticks of dynamite.
“We’ll rig one stick,” he decided quickly. “It may be all we need. Besides, it’s safer that way.”
With Frank carrying the explosive, the brothers submerged. Joe swam ahead, cutting a path through the cypress roots. Frank followed, and carefully planted the charge near the base of the tree trunk, but at sufficient distance not to damage the chest. While Joe stood by, Frank took a blasting cap from his belt and quickly inserted it into the dynamite. He then connected the cap’s wires to a battery. This done, the brothers struck out swiftly to the surface.
Swimming ashore, the Hardys led Rand, Worth, and Chet around the bank away from the blasting area. Frank checked his waterproof watch. “Any minute now.”
Tensely the five stared at the placid waters.
“There she blows!” Joe sang out as a muffled rumble shook the ground. A sudden agitation showed on the water’s surface as if a geyser had gushed up from below. A grotesque, clawlike root rose into the sunshine, then sank back into the muddy waters.
Anxiously the onlookers wondered if the explosive had freed the chest. “We’ll let things settle down a bit,” Frank advised.
When the water had cleared somewhat, many old, long-submerged trees could be seen pushed up into shallow water.
Frank and Joe, after another minute, plunged in. Knifing downward, they darted nimbly between and under loosened logs and chunks of rotted trees. To the impatient boys, the pond seemed bottomless.
Determinedly the brothers sought out the site of the ancient cypress. Eagerly they scanned the muddy area, still churning from the blast. Simultaneously Frank and Joe spotted the square wooden box protruding from the silt. They tugged and finally lifted it out. The boys carried it between them, as they swam to the surface.
On shore, Professor Rand leaped with excitement, while Chet gave a whoop of joy. Bart Worth shouted, “Nice work, fellows!”
At last Frank and Joe placed the old chest safely on the pond’s bank. The professor grabbed a hammer ready to knock off the sturdy cypress lock!

CHAPTER XIX  
  Sinister Absence
“WAIT!” Frank ordered. The boy placed one foot on the lid of the box. “Nobody opens this chest now!”
“Why not?” Bart Worth asked in amazement. “This is what we’ve all been working for!”
“Bart,” Frank explained, “your libel suit is involved. The chest has been found on disputed ground. If we break the lock, Blackstone can claim we inserted the papers that prove your case.”
“But Professor Rand is a witness!”
“Not a very good one, from the court’s point of view,” Frank answered. “He has a quarrel of his own with Blackstone, who could claim some of the money in the chest had been stolen. If we open the box now, both of you stand to lose what you want from it.”
The professor seemed unwilling to take his hands from the valuable chest. “Surely the law will allow us at least to open it and look inside.”
“It will,” Frank assured him, “as long as we do so in Blackstone’s presence. There’s no other safe way.”
“Frank’s right,” agreed Joe.
Although Professor Rand continued to protest, Bart Worth gave in with a sigh. “I see the point,” he admitted. “After all, I don’t want to damage my own evidence. But suppose the papers aren’t there?” he added anxiously.
“We’ll have to take that chance,” Frank replied.
Soon the yellow convertible was heading back swiftly toward town. The cypress box rested on the front seat between Frank and Joe.
Accompanied by Bart and the professor, the boys carried the chest up to the Record office. Meantime, Chet ran off to the hardware store. Soon he returned with a new padlock, which Frank promptly snapped on the box, slipping the key into his pocket.
“Now, Bart,” he asked, “will you open your safe and put the chest inside, please?”
Silently, the young editor complied. Then Frank picked up the telephone and called Blackstone’s residence.
Everyone in Bart’s little office was silent as Frank waited for an answer. Finally the receiver at the other end was picked up.
“Hello. This is Blackstone.” The big man’s voice sounded considerably weaker than usual.
“Mr. Blackstone, this is Frank Hardy,” the boy began.
“Hardy—yes, yes, the young fellow who pulled me out of the water.” The businessman hesitated, then added gruffly, “Have to thank you.”
“Glad we could help, sir,” Frank replied. “I have some news for you. We’ve found the chest which I believe contains your ancestor’s hidden fortune and family records.”
“Found it! Where?”
“At the bottom of the pond, this afternoon.”
Instantly the merchant’s tone grew aggressive. “You must have trespassed on my property. If you’ve opened that box, or taken anything from it, I’ll have the law on you!”
“Don’t worry. We haven’t opened it,” Frank told him calmly. “The box has just been placed in a safe here at the Record office. A new padlock has been put on. I assure you the chest won’t be opened until you’re here to watch. How soon can you come, sir?”
Blackstone’s voice faltered. “Look here, I—I’m still a bit shaky from the close call I had. My doctor insists I can’t leave the house for another day.”
“Tomorrow night, then?”
“At nine-thirty,” Blackstone agreed.
Frank went on, “A disinterested person will stay at the office until then to guarantee that nobody tampers with the chest.”
As soon as Frank had hung up, Bart protested hotly, “I wouldn’t dream of tampering.”
“I know,” Frank calmed him. “But we must give Mr. Blackstone a safeguard, so he can’t dispute your evidence later.”
“Who’s this ‘disinterested person’?” Chet spoke up suspiciously.
Frank and Joe simply grinned at him.
“Oh, no!” the stout boy protested. “All day and all night I have to stay in this little office?”
“You’ll learn the newspaper trade,” Joe told him.
“Sure, sure. What will you two be doing all this time?” Chet demanded.
“First,” Frank replied, “we’ll show Professor Rand where the Indian village is. We’ll be back here about nine-thirty to keep you company.”
“That’s better,” Chet said, mollified.
At a signal from the Hardys, Bart Worth lifted out a cardboard box from behind his desk and set it on top.
“Here’s a treasure you can open,” he said to Professor Rand.
The others stood by smiling as the professor undid the wrapping and examined with delight the Indian artifacts unearthed by the boys.
“Excellent! Marvelous specimens!” he exulted. “I’d like to see the Indian site right away!”
Accordingly, Frank, Joe, and Rand left the building. Rand climbed into the convertible, but suddenly Frank remembered something. “We’ll need a good rake for sifting.”
The brothers hurried up the street to the hardware store. Several minutes later they came out with the tool. At the same time, the boys saw a familiar figure leaning over the convertible door. He was carrying on a heated discussion with Rand.
“Cutter!” Joe exclaimed, and the Hardys hurried forward.
“No, no,” the professor was saying in a loud voice. “I’ll positively not sell my rights to the pond. Especially not now. That’s final!” 
Cutter’s face took on an ugly look. Before the Hardys could reach him, he caught sight of the boys. He ran down the street, and disappeared around the corner.
“Let’s go after him!” Joe urged. “I want to ask him a few questions about his partners, Stewart and Jed!”
Frank held his brother back. “We’ll catch up with him later, after we keep our promise to the professor.”
As they drove toward the beach camp, Joe said casually, “Sounded like Cutter was offering to buy your claim to the pond, Professor Rand.”
The gangling scholar nodded impatiently. “Yes. He wants to make it into a fishing club, or some such nonsense. The man’s an infernal nuisance! Just another of Samuel’s hirelings.”
“That’s funny,” Frank mused. “Mr. Blackstone thinks Cutter’s working for you, and you think he’s working for Blackstone. And he gave both of you the same line about the fishing club.”
The professor looked up, startled. “What! How do you know that?” he demanded sharply.
“We overheard Cutter try to buy Mr. Blackstone’s rights,” Frank explained. “Your cousin gave him a final No, and a shaking besides. That was the same night Mr. Blackstone was dragged into the pond!”
“You suggest I should be afraid of that pest Cutter?” asked Rand with contempt. “Absolute nonsense. I have one enemy in the world: Samuel Blackstone. Even he wouldn’t go so far as to—er —harm me, either with his henchman’s help or without it.”
The boys did not mention having seen Blackstone strike Rand. But Frank said, “Someone else might—the person who nearly drowned Mr. Blackstone.”
“Samuel should keep away from the water,” Rand stubbornly retorted. “He always thinks somebody’s out to get him.”
They had no sooner reached the camp than, to the Hardys’ great surprise, Rand asked them to drive him home.
“I do want to see the Indian site,” explained the professor in some agitation. “But—well, I want to explore it without interruption. If we go there now, this fellow Cutter might show up and start badgering me about the land. I’ll meet you boys by the pond tonight, at seven-thirty. We’ll go then.”
Shrugging, the Hardys agreed, and took the scholar to his house. “Be on your guard,” Frank warned him.
It was just seven-thirty when Frank and Joe, equipped with digging tools, arrived at the pond. They also carried diving gear, in case they should need it.
“Professor Rand!” Joe called out.
There was no reply. The boys waited. The sun sank lower. Presently bullfrogs began croaking from the pond and deep within the swamp. Still the tall man did not arrive.
When almost an hour had elapsed, the young detectives felt a twinge of concern. What was delaying the professor? He had been so eager to visit the Indian spot.
“Maybe he’s at home and forgot the time,” Joe said hopefully. “I’ll check.”
He made his way up toward the old house. But in a few minutes he returned alone.
“I called and knocked,” Joe reported. “No answer.”
A sudden thought crossed Frank’s mind. “Suppose the professor was so eager he came early,” he suggested.
“And the same thing happened to him as happened to Blackstone!” Joe finished.
Feverishly the boys stripped off their clothes and donned their flippers, lungs, and face masks. Then Frank took an underwater light in one hand and submerged.
He swam steadily along the pond’s shore line. His light showed up the usual stones and sunken trees, but no trace of the missing professor. Frank turned and worked back deeper along the bottom.
Joe stood waiting tensely as the moon climbed over the swamp trees. Finally Frank’s head popped above the surface and he stood up in the shallows.
“What luck?” Joe called. “Did you—”
But horror choked off the words. A dark, slithery creature had loomed out of the water behind his brother. Now, with sharp fins glistening and fantastic head waving from side to side, it advanced on the unsuspecting Frank.
“Look out!” Joe shrieked. The next moment something struck him on the back of his head, and he fell, unconscious.
Just as Frank whirled, the monstrous creature sprang upon him.

CHAPTER XX  
  Feud’s End
SLOWLY Joe opened his eyes. He found himself lying on the floor of a small room. The boy thought he must be dizzy from the blow, for he felt a rocking motion. Then he became aware of a soft lapping noise and sat up gingerly.
Despite his throbbing head, Joe’s keen eyes took in his surroundings. A dim light was burning in the room. In one wall were two round windows.
“A boat’s cabin!” he thought.
Somebody groaned beside him. Frank raised himself up and shook his head. “Where are we?”
“Wish I knew,” Joe answered.
Frank made a face. “From the smell, I’d say we’re in the fishing boat Cutter’s been using to spy on us. Say! Professor Rand is here too!”
A long, angular figure on the floor beneath the portholes stirred, then sat up also. The professor blinked at the Hardy boys in bewilderment.
“Are you all right?” Joe asked him.
“Yes—I think so, considering I was struck on the head.”
“I was conked, too,” said Joe. He turned to his brother. “Did that monster knock you out?”
“Must have,” Frank replied. “Last thing I remember is when it grabbed me. Hmm. I wonder—”
Frank crawled over to a black foot locker with a pool of water spreading out from it.
“I thought so,” he muttered, peering inside.
The boy pulled out a large black rubber diving suit, with a sharp serrate fin and enormous rubber head attachment!
“Here’s our ‘monster’!” he announced. “I thought I smelled rubber when it got me.”
“Some costume!” Joe exclaimed wryly. “But who was wearing it?”
“I was!” came a voice from the doorway. 
“Mr. Cutter!” gasped the professor.
The tall, pale man sneered at them as he entered the cabin. “Better come down, Jed,” Cutter called. “The prisoners are awake.”
A moment later the burly, flat-faced man shuffled into the cabin. “You kids won’t be so cocky after this!” Jed rasped triumphantly.
The Hardys kept cool heads. Now Frank said, “Why not tell us your real scheme, Cutter, since we’re your prisoners?”
The erstwhile antique dealer answered readily. “I’m after the Blackstone fortune, too. Read about it in a book of lost American treasures. The money, plus the main value of the pond, make it a desirable body of water!” 
“Main value,” Joe repeated. “You mean for your fishing resort?”
“Won’t tell you that.” Cutter laughed. “But thanks for raising the buried chest. One of my helpers saw you carry it into the Record office and heard you make that nine-thirty date. Through him, too, I kept constant track of you three, your fat friend, Worth, and Blackstone. 
“I made up my ‘monster’ suit to search the pond and frighten away any curious intruders,” he went on. “That included you Hardys the night I made my second dive. See this rope with the weights on both ends? That’s what I used to drag Blackstone into the water. By the way, I was a printer by trade. I managed to sneak into the Record office’s composing room and insert the extra bit in Worth’s story. Thought I’d make Blackstone so tired of the pond he’d be glad to sell.
“And now,” the man said, as he flashed a self-satisfied smile, “I’m on Easy Street. You’ve done it. At nine-thirty tomorrow night, Stewart, Jed, and I go to that meeting at Worth’s office, settle Blackstone, tie up your friends, and come out with the money!”
“What happens to us?” Joe demanded tersely.
“By then you’ll all be out of the picture—permanently. With Rand here, and Blackstone gone, I’ll buy up the pond area. Neither man has heirs. The executors will be glad to sell.”
“Guess again,” Joe retorted defiantly. “Chet will miss us and think of this boat!”
“Let him,” said Cutter. “We’re far from our usual anchoring place. Stewart has sent a note to Bart Worth, supposedly from you Hardys, that you’re in a nearby town and will be back for the meeting.”
“So Stewart’s the one who did the other phony notes,” Joe broke in.
Cutter nodded. “Too bad they didn’t work, and that you escaped when we ‘fixed’ the plane, and lit the dynamite fuse in your car; also at the lighthouse—that was Jed and Stewart’s job. You were lucky getting out of Rand’s house before Jed and I returned. But this time we’ll be very thorough!”
For the remainder of the night and into the following day, Frank, Joe, and Professor Rand sat on the cabin floor. They were given only a little water and stale bread. Desperately the boys waited for a break. But their guards were vigilant. At noon, and again as the light faded outside, the captors spelled one another for meals.
“Okay, Jed,” Cutter signaled later that evening. “Get busy!”
The powerful man left the cabin. Soon the boys heard several sharp, splintering blows. “All set!” called the hoarse voice.
“Good-by. Enjoy yourselves!” said Cutter pleasantly, as he stepped out and locked the cabin door.
In a few minutes the three captives heard the put-put of a motorboat.
“The gang’s pulled out and we’re not even tied up!” Joe exclaimed.
Simultaneously the cabin tilted over to one side. “The boat’s sinking!” Frank cried out. “That’s why! They mean to drown us and destroy the evidence!”
The Hardys’ minds raced for a way out of their predicament. One chance occurred to Frank. “Help me with this foot locker, Joe!” he cried.
The brothers swung the heavy chest with all their strength at the door, so that its sharp corner smashed through the wood. Joe reached through the jagged hole and turned the lock.
The Hardys, followed by Professor Rand, rushed up on deck. Here they found sea water filling the afterpart of the vessel.
“I can’t swim!” cried Professor Rand.
“I have a plan,” Frank assured him. “Joe, take the fire axe and knock loose whatever pieces of wood you can.”
Frank, meanwhile, ran to the cabin, now ankle-deep in water, and returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. On deck, where the gang had apparently eaten, was an opened five-pound box of sugar.


  
Soon the ocean was pouring over the gunwales of the sinking boat
As Joe whacked off the big chunks of wood, Frank sprinkled them with sugar and saturated them with alcohol. As he worked, the boy asked the professor to ignite the pieces.
Feverishly Rand struck one match after another. As the wood flared up, Joe slid the eerie, green-burning floats onto the dark surface of the sea.
“Hope somebody spots them,” Joe said tensely. “It’s our only chance, and maybe Chet‘s!”
Soon the ocean was pouring over the gunwales of the sinking boat. Joe launched his last green flare. The boys heaved the cabin door overboard, and plunged after it with Professor Rand. Behind them, the fishing smack settled quickly below the sea.
“Hold on to the door, Professor,” Frank directed. “Joe and I will stay on either side of you. All we can do now is wait.”
The strange, green-flaming floats bobbed all around them. Stars twinkled overhead. Suddenly Joe sighted red and yellow lights moving in the distance. As the vessel drew closer, he shouted in relief, “Coast Guard!”
Soon the long, trim cutter bore down on them, its powerful searchlight sweeping the water.
“Ahoy!” shouted a crewman. “We’ll drop a ladder. Hang on.”
Within minutes the exhausted trio had been hauled aboard.
“Larchmont!” Frank gasped. “We must get there right away. It’s a matter of life or death!”
The cutter plowed through the water at full speed. As it glided alongside the dock at Larchmont, Frank, Joe, and Rand leaped over the side and set out at a dead run for the town square. Frank’s watch showed nine-thirty!
The three raced along the sidewalk toward the newspaper office. As they reached it, a car sped up and screeched to a stop.
“Get them!” called a firm voice.
Two men jumped from the automobile and grabbed the Hardys. “Police!” cried Joe. “What—?”
“Frank! Joe!” came a familiar voice behind them. “You here, and all right?”
“Dad!” burst out the astounded brothers as Fenton Hardy stepped forward.
“It’s okay,” he said to the officers. “These are my sons.”
“We’ve no time to lose, Dad!” said Frank. Briefly, he brought his father up to date. With revolvers drawn, the men followed as Frank and Joe tiptoed upstairs.
They were just in time to see four masked men backing away from Bart Worth’s office! One, a brawny, broad-shouldered fellow, carried the cypress chest. The tall, thin leader was in the doorway, his pistol leveled at Samuel Blackstone!
Frank and Joe dived forward and brought the armed man to the floor. A shot rang out. A bullet whacked into the ceiling. Then Joe tore off the fellow’s mask. Henry Cutter lay glaring at them. The other thugs turned to flee.
“Drop your weapons!” Fenton Hardy ordered crisply. “You’re covered. You there—put down that chest!”
Chet, Bart, and Blackstone rushed from the office.
“You got my SOS, Mr. Hardy!” cried Chet. “I knew when Bart showed me that note it wasn’t from Frank and Joe!”
Quickly the policemen unmasked Cutter’s henchmen. They proved to be Jed, Stewart, and the man the Hardys had seen catching alligators. The prisoners were handcuffed and led away.
“How did you get here so fast, Dad?” Frank asked. 
“Fortunately I got a reservation on a jet from Jamaica as soon as I got Chet’s wire,” the detective explained.
The Hardys clapped their stout friend gratefully on the back, and the others thanked all three boys for the rescue.
Now Samuel Blackstone stepped forward. “I wish to settle the matter of the chest. Remember, whatever is in it belongs to the Blackstone family.”
“Not at all,” Rand returned hotly. “The money was made by smuggling through Hidden Harbor, which is at least partly my property!”
Blackstone thundered, “Ruel, you’ll find yourself up against a slander suit if you insinuate that my side of the family was dishonest!”
“They were smugglers of pirate goods!” the professor insisted vehemently. 
Bart Worth spoke up. “Open the chest. If the papers are there, you won’t be suing anybody, Mr. Blackstone.” 
Frank quickly opened the locks and raised the lid, disclosing another, smaller chest. Unlatching this, the boy untied a cloth pouch and opened it.
“Money!” Chet whooped. “Millions!”
Mr. Blackstone and Professor Rand both reached for the bag. “Mine!” they cried together.
Suddenly an odd expression crossed Frank’s face. He held up one of the packages of bills. “Confederate States of America,” he read slowly.
A stunned silence followed. Wordlessly, Frank and Joe removed the stacks of worthless Civil War bills. Then Frank drew out a flat oilskin envelope. Inside was a leather book. Swiftly the boy leafed through the pages.
“Well?” Bart Worth asked tensely. “What does it say?”
Frank looked up. “Everything: dates, amounts, and prices for stolen goods received from pirate ships at Hidden Harbor. Look for yourself, Mr. Blackstone.”
The big man quietly took the ledger. His face darkened as he read the notations. His aggressive manner disappeared.
“I’m a proud man,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’ve always suspected this was true, but I—I couldn’t admit it, even to myself.” He turned to Worth. “I apologize to you, sir. Of course, I’ll cancel my suit.”
“So there was no treasure in the pond after all,” Rand concluded sadly.
“Yes,” Frank said unexpectedly, “there is!”
Everyone stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?” Chet asked.
Frank’s amazing announcement came as a surprise to Chet. He had been deep in thought wondering when he would be involved with the Hardys in another mystery. Sooner than he expected, THE SINISTER SIGNPOST was to be their next challenge. 
In answer to Chet’s question, Frank said, “When I was searching for Professor Rand in the pond last night, I noticed that all the trees exposed by the blasting were cypress. Most of them have stood there for centuries, and will bring a huge fortune in valuable wood—to persons who can get it out and market it!”
“So that’s what Cutter meant!” Joe exclaimed. “The cypress is the pond’s ‘main value’!” 
Frank nodded, and turned to the cousins. “You know where your treasure is.” He smiled. “You’ll both profit from it by working together.”
“I have some money,” Blackstone objected, “but not enough for a project this size. Besides, I don’t think I could work with Ruel as a partner.”
“Same here!” snapped Rand.
“Try this idea,” Fenton Hardy suggested suddenly. “My client in Jamaica deals in valuable lumber. He’d like to branch out in this country, and I know he’d make a third partner for you both. He would contribute the necessary capital, but not unless you two settle your squabble.”
“I’ve no money,” Professor Rand said thoughtfully, “but we could build the working plant on my land, and I’d give my home over for business offices. But the Indian village must be excavated first. State University will certainly finance it, when they see what the Hardy boys have dug up!” 
“Well—” grumbled Blackstone, “all right. But I’ll bet we can’t work together!”
“You can make the deal work,” Bart spoke up. “Don’t forget, Frank and Joe saved both your lives. The least you can do is make peace.”
“That’s so,” Blackstone admitted.
Silently, he reached across and shook Rand’s outstretched hand. The old feud was over. Hidden Harbor had given up its secret!
Hardy Boys 16: A Figure in Hiding
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  A Blind Lead
 
 
 
 
EXCITED fans were still milling about the Bayport High athletic field as the Hardy boys came out of the dressing room after their team’s post-season win over the Alumni All-Stars.
“Great pitching, Frank!” a. schoolmate yelled. “You really bore down in the clutches!”
Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy grinned and waved. “Don’t think that double of Joe’s with the bases loaded didn’t help!”
As the boys reached the street, a blind peddler approached them. He was wearing dark glasses and tapping a white cane. “Buy a pencil, please?” he mumbled.
Joe Hardy, blond and a year younger than his brother, fished in his pocket for a coin and dropped it into the man’s tin cup.
“Thank you, sir!” The peddler pressed a pencil and a small white card into Joe’s hand as the boys hurried past him toward their red convertible, parked several yards up the street.
Joe glanced at the card as they were climbing into the car. “Hey! What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“Take a look. The blind man gave it to me.”
Frank’s joking smile changed to a bewildered frown as he studied the card. It bore the picture of a human eye and a printed plea for better eye care from a national health society.
The picture had pencil marks over it. The pupil had been changed to a catlike oval shape with zigzag spark lines radiating from it. Some of the words in the printed heading had been crossed out: 
WATCH OUT FOR THE FIRST SIGNS OF BAD EYESIGHT! 
Frank turned the card over. Scribbled in pencil on the blank side was the notation: Tell FH!
“‘FH’ must mean Dad!” Frank exclaimed.
Fenton Hardy, the boys’ father, had been an ace detective on the New York City police force before he retired to the coastal town of Bayport and became a famous private investigator.
“But what about those crossed-out words?” Joe queried. “This way, it reads ‘Watch out for bad eye!’ ”
“Let’s try to find that blind man!” Frank suggested.
The boys dashed back down the street, but the peddler was already lost to view among the throng outside the field. Frank and Joe circled the block without catching sight of him.
“I’ll bet he’s one of Dad’s underworld informers,” Frank stated. “He didn’t want to be seen talking to us, so he got lost in a hurry.”
“That’s probably the answer,” Joe agreed as the boys headed back to their parked car. “But if the peddler was so afraid of being spotted, why didn’t he phone his message?”
“Maybe he tried and got no answer, so he tracked us down. Let’s go home and see if Dad’s back from his trip yet.”
Frank and Joe hopped into their car and Frank drove off.
Two blocks farther on, as they stopped for the traffic light, a truck owned by the Prito Construction Company pulled up alongside. Tony Prito, a lanky, black-haired school chum, was at the wheel.
“How’d the game come out?” he called.
“Frank handcuffed ’em! Three-nothing shut-out!” Joe waved his clasped hands in a victory sign.
“Nice going! Wish I could’ve seen it!” As Tony shifted gears to start up again, he added, “If you fellows want to see something pretty, take a spin out on the bay. Bill Braxton has his Sea Spook on a shakedown run.” 
“Hey! That’d be worth watching,” Joe said.
Frank toed the accelerator. “Maybe we can catch it if we hurry.”
The Sea Spook, a new, rakish hydrofoil craft, was the talk of Barmet Bay. Bill Braxton, a young mechanic and stock-car racing driver, had designed and built it in his spare time. 
A few minutes later the convertible turned up the driveway of the Hardys’ pleasant, tree-shaded house. Frank and Joe leaped out and bounded up the front steps. The door was locked. Frank quickly opened it with his key.
“Anyone home?” he called. His voice echoed emptily through the house.
“I guess Mother and Aunt Gertrude aren’t back from that bazaar yet,” Joe said. “We can leave a note for Dad.”
He hurried to the hallway telephone stand and began jotting a message on the memo pad.
“Tell him we’ll be out in our boat so he can call us,” Frank suggested. “Then we can give him the details over our radio.” The Hardy boys’ motorboat, the Sleuth, was equipped with a powerful marine transceiver.
After pausing in the kitchen for glasses of milk and a handful of cookies, the brothers locked up and headed in the convertible for the Bayport waterfront. As they rolled along through the hot June sunshine, Joe flicked on the dashboard radio. A newscaster was saying:
“A daring robbery in New York City last night netted thieves a small Oriental idol called the Jeweled Siva, valued at over twenty thousand dollars. The owner of the art curio shop from which it was taken said the ivory figure stood only six inches high but was studded with valuable gems.”
“Wow! That’s some haul!” Joe murmured. “I wouldn’t mind working on a case like that.”
The two boys, who had inherited their father’s zest for crime puzzles, had already solved a number of baffling mysteries starting with The Tower Treasure. On one of their most challenging cases, The Sinister Signpost, they had restored a stolen race horse to its owner. 
When they reached the waterfront, Frank pulled into a parking lot and the brothers strode off toward the Hardy boathouse. In a few minutes the Sleuth was knifing through the harbor toward open water. 
Joe grinned in delight at the feel of their boat leaping along through the waves. Frank was scanning the blue expanse of the bay through binoculars. Presently he picked out a fast-moving hull that was throwing up plumes of spray.
“There’s the Sea Spook! Man, look at that baby go!” 
Joe gunned the Sleuth. Soon it was close enough for them to view the Sea Spook clearly without the glasses. The hydrofoil was streaking over the surface at a speed that made the boys’ eyes pop. 
“She must be doing fifty knots!” Joe gasped.
The Spook’s hull stood well above the waves, on struts connected to her curved foils. They were planing along through the water. 
“Watch your course!” Frank cautioned Joe.
The Sea Spook began to execute a graceful figure eight, so tightly and smoothly that the Hardys could scarcely believe their eyes. It rounded the final turn, then headed seaward again. 
Joe opened the throttle wide, trying not to lose the other craft, but it sped off. “It’s hopeless!” he groaned.
A moment later the hydrofoil reversed course again. Apparently its pilot was going to do another figure eight. This time, the execution was not nearly so smooth.
Frank snatched up the binoculars. “That’s not Braxton at the wheel,” he reported. “He turned it over to another fellow.”
The new pilot was sweeping a much wider curve that brought the Sea Spook almost abeam of the Sleuth. He closed the top half of the eight so erratically that Joe was taken by surprise. 
“Look out!” Frank yelled. “We’re on a collision course!”
The hydrofoil was bearing down on the Sleuth at blinding speed. Joe glimpsed two frantic faces at the cabin window. Frank could see Braxton pushing his shipmate aside to take over as Joe swerved the Sleuth hard a-starboard. 
In the nick of time, the Sea Spook banked to port. But the turn threw up a sheet of spray that hit the Sleuth like the slap of a giant hand. Already heeling, the motorboat turned turtle and both boys were thrown into the water! 
Frank and Joe swam to the surface, gasping and blinking. The hydrofoil’s hull was slowly settling into the waves as Braxton reduced speed. He brought the craft around and halted it near the Hardys. Then he dashed out of the cabin to the open afterdeck, his passenger at his heels, to haul Frank and Joe aboard. In a few moments they stood on deck.
“Are you okay?” Bill Braxton asked anxiously. He was a tanned, muscular young man, wearing a seaman’s jersey and faded dungarees.
“Sure. No harm done,” said Frank. “Just soaked to the skin. Good thing it’s such a hot day.”
Braxton started to apologize for the accident, but the man with him interrupted. “What in blazes is wrong with you punks?” he stormed at the Hardys. “Haven’t you got brains enough to keep out of the way? This thing isn’t a paddle boat, you know!”
Joe’s quick temper flared. “A paddle boat’s all you should handle, mister!” he retorted.
“Relax, Joe,” Frank cut in. “We probably did come closer than we should have. Got too interested in watching, I guess.”
“Let’s all forget it,” Braxton said hastily. “We’d better do something about your boat.”
He maneuvered the Sea Spook close to the Sleuth and helped the brothers right it. But the motorboat had shipped too much water to be used again immediately, so a towline was attached and the hydrofoil started back to port. 
“By the way,” Braxton told his passenger, “these two boys are Frank and Joe Hardy. Their dad’s a famous detective. Maybe you’ve heard of him.... Boys, meet Mr. Lambert.”


  


  
The man gave a surly grunt. Frank and Joe nodded coolly. Lambert was about forty, with a gaunt, hard-looking face that seemed strangely pale. His long, thin nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken.
On the way into the harbor, the Hardys asked Bill numerous questions about his interesting craft. He explained that as it got up speed, the water exerted an upward lift on the foils, just like air on the wings of a plane.
“Is this an ocean-going job?” Joe asked.
“Sure, except that it jolts a bit’ in heavy seas,” Braxton replied. “Most designers use submerged foils for that type of service, but I’ve worked out ones that are pretty smooth.”
He added that Mr. Lambert was interested in buying the craft and that today’s run had been a demonstration.
After they had pulled alongside the dock, Lambert said curtly, “I’ll get in touch with you later, Braxton.” He picked up his sports jacket which had been flung on one of the seats, put it on, and scrambled up the dock ladder.
“Nice guy,” Joe muttered. “Not even a thank-you for the ride!”
Bill grinned wryly. “He’s a possible customer, so I had to be nice to him. Actually, it was his fault your boat got swamped. He froze at the wheel.”
“I know—I saw you take over,” Frank said. As he spoke, Frank saw something glittering on the deck and stooped down to pick it up. “Say, is Lambert blind in one eye?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Someone dropped a glass eye. It isn’t yours, is it?”
Braxton shook his head. “Good grief, no. That thing doesn’t even look wearable!”
He stared at the object in puzzlement. So did Joe. It seemed larger than a glass eye should be and had a queer-shaped pupil with reddish vein lines radiating outward.
Suddenly Joe gasped. “Jumpin’ catfish, Frank!” he exclaimed. “That looks just like the eye on the blind man’s card!”

CHAPTER II  
  Trouble on the Wire
 
 
 
 
FRANK was startled. “You’re right, Joe. The eye has the same oval-shaped pupil.”
“And these veins are just like the spark lines penciled on the picture.”
Braxton was mystified. “I suppose you two know what you’re talking about,” he said dryly, “but it makes no sense to me.”
The Hardys grinned. Frank explained briefly about the blind peddler’s card. Then he asked if the young mechanic knew Lambert’s address.
“No, and he doesn’t live in Bayport,” Braxton replied. “He came here just to see the Spook. I believe he’s staying at the Bayview Motel.”
“Joe and I will take the glass eye there and see if it’s his,” Frank said.
The Hardys changed into swimming trunks, which they got from their car, then wrung out their drenched clothing and spread it to dry while they bailed out the Sleuth. By the time they were ready to start for home, the boys looked fairly presentable again. 
“Good thing this wash-and-wear stuff dries so fast,” Joe said, “or we’d get a lecture from Aunt Gertrude.”
Frank chuckled. “She’d have us turning blue with pneumonia, and then bawl us out for going near such a crazy contraption as the Sea Spook!”
The boys parked in the Hardy driveway and hurried into the house. Their pretty mother and tall, angular Aunt Gertrude Hardy had returned. Mrs. Hardy informed her sons that their father had sent a telegram saying he would not return home until the next morning.
Aunt Gertrude, though strict, was very fond of her nephews and always interested in the mysteries they were solving. “What’s that card you boys left on the telephone stand?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing very important,” Frank said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s just something a peddler gave us for Dad.”
“Humph.” Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips.
The boys smothered grins, knowing she had already gleaned as much from Joe’s note and was curious to know more.
Mrs. Hardy laughed. “Now stop teasing, you two,” she admonished.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Laura,” her sister-in-law said airily, and started for the kitchen.
Frank and Joe followed her and related the whole episode of the blind peddler.
“The fellow probably spotted a one-eyed murderer in town,” Miss Hardy said. “In fact, the killer may be after him and he wants your father to rescue him.”
The boys became serious. “Honestly, Aunty,” Joe said soothingly, “we did pick up a clue. It’s sort of gruesome.”
Curiosity overcame Miss Hardy. “I don’t scare easily. Show it to me.”
Joe took out a folded clean handkerchief and unwrapped it, disclosing the glass eye. Aunt Gertrude gasped, but quickly demanded, “Where did you get that?”
When Frank explained, Aunt Gertrude wagged her head. “This is a sinister omen. You two be careful.”
After supper the boys drove to the Bayview Motel. The manager, a fat, balding man, shook his head when they inquired for Lambert.
“Sorry, boys. You just missed him. He checked out not more’n fifteen minutes ago.” The manager frowned. “Certainly looked upset.”
“How come?” Joe asked.
“Search me. When he stopped in after dinner and told me to get his bill ready, he looked calm enough. Then about half an hour later when he came to check out, he was red in the face and acted sore at something. Kind o’ worried, too.”
“Maybe he got a disturbing phone call,” Frank suggested.
Again the manager shook his head. “No—if he’d had a call, I’d know it because they all come through this switchboard here.”
Frank explained that he and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the private investigator, and asked if Lambert had left any forwarding address.
The manager leafed through the card file of registrations. “No. He left that space on his card blank.”
The boys thanked him and walked out. As they drove away, Frank said, “When Lambert went to pack, he may have discovered he’d lost the glass eye. That could be what upset him.”
“Maybe,” Joe agreed. “But so what?”
“He may go back to Braxton’s boathouse to find out if he dropped it on the Sea Spook.”
“Hey, that’s an idea! Step on it, Frank!”
“There’s an easier way.” Frank swung off the road toward a hamburger drive-in. “I’ll give Bill a ring. He’s probably still tinkering.”
Setting the brake, Frank jumped out of the convertible and hurried to the small building. He thumbed through a directory, then dialed the number on a pay telephone. Braxton answered.
“Bill, this is Frank Hardy. Has that fellow Lambert been back to your boathouse asking for the glass eye?”
“Lambert? No. I haven’t seen him. Why?”
Frank hastily explained.
“You want me to stall him if he shows up, eh?” Bill said. “Okay, Frank, I’ll—”
Braxton’s voice broke off with a groan. There was a crashing noise as if the phone had fallen from his hand. A moment later came a click. Frank jiggled the hook frantically, but the line was dead.
He dashed out to the convertible and told Joe how the call had been cut short.
“What do you suppose happened?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know—but someone hung up and I doubt if it was Bill!”
Frank sent the car roaring out of the lot. As it sped back into Bayport, the summer evening traffic seemed even worse than usual. Three red lights in a row left both boys fuming with impatience at the delay.
When they finally reached the waterfront, Frank parked and they ran to Braxton’s boathouse. The shedlike structure extended over the water on piles. The dockside door was unlocked. The brothers burst in and gasped when they saw the young mechanic sprawled face down near his desk. Frank reached him first.
“Is he alive?” Joe murmured fearfully.
“Still breathing.” Frank fingered Braxton’s scalp. “There’s a big lump on the back of his head. Someone must have sneaked up and conked him while he was talking to me.”
The Hardys noticed signs of a hasty search. Desk drawers had been yanked open and ransacked. Blueprints lay scattered about.
“Bill’s attacker wanted something pretty bad,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if it was that glass eye.”
Using a handkerchief so as not to smudge any fingerprints, Joe phoned the police and asked for an ambulance. Meanwhile, Frank was working on Braxton and soon revived him.
“You didn’t see who hit you?” Frank asked.
Bill shook his head painfully. “It became stuffy in here so I opened the door. I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the guy come in.”
Beyond the working platform, the Sea Spook lay rocking gently in its berth, enclosed by a wooden walkway on each side. The Hardys went aboard and saw that Braxton’s storage lockers in the cabin also had been rifled. 
A police car and an ambulance soon arrived. The intern insisted that Braxton be taken to the hospital for X-rays and observation. The police then took charge, and the boys went home. No report came during the evening and finally the brothers went to bed.
Next morning when Frank and Joe came down to breakfast, they found their father already at the table. Fenton Hardy, a tall, big-shouldered man, greeted his sons with a grin.
“When did you get back, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Flew in about an hour ago. I hear you fellows had some excitement yesterday.”
“It was pretty grim,” Frank said. He and Joe gave their father all the facts.
Mr. Hardy had the blind man’s card on the table near his plate. “This must have come from Zatta,” he remarked. “Henry Zatta.”
“One of your regular informers?” Frank asked.
“Yes, he picks up a good many underworld tips for me. In fact, he’s an ex-con himself.”
“He must have heard our names and spotted us as your sons,” Joe said. “That is, if his blindness is phony.”
Fenton Hardy nodded. “It’s partly an act, although he is missing one eye.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances, then Joe excused himself to hurry out to the boys’ laboratory over the garage. He brought the glass eye back to the table. “Could this be Zatta’s?”
Mr. Hardy studied it, then shook his head. “Too large and grotesque to be wearable.... Hmm. This eye business may have something to do with the Goggler gang. They wear spectacles with bulging eyes on all their—Say, wait! Did you say Lambert had a crooked nose?”
“That’s right,” Frank answered. “Why?”
“Sounds like a hoodlum named Spotty Lemuel.”
As soon as the Hardys finished breakfast, the boys accompanied their father to his study. He leafed quickly through his criminal file and soon produced a photograph.
“That’s Lambert, all right!” Joe exclaimed. “No wonder he’s called Spotty. His face here is covered with freckles.”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “He probably had them bleached off by a dermatologist.” The detective suggested that the boys try to locate Zatta, since he himself would be busy on a new case. Joe asked hopefully if this had anything to do with the theft of the Jeweled Siva. Mr. Hardy said No, saying he had been engaged to run down a swindler named Pampton.
Soon afterward, as Mr. Hardy left the house, Frank called the hospital and learned that Bill Braxton was better. A moment later the doorbell rang loud and long.
“Sufferin’ cats! Who’s that?” said Joe.
The boys went to answer it. A startling sight greeted them. Their visitor was a thin old man with a hearing aid. Bare from the waist up, he wore Bermuda shorts and a floppy straw hat and carried a Malacca cane.
“Out of my way, boy!” Nudging Frank aside with his cane, he rushed in and rasped, “Quick! Shut the door! They’re after me!”
Frank looked out in astonishment. “There’s no one after you-just a station wagon cruising along the street.”
With a moan, the old man fainted.

CHAPTER III  
  The Gatepost Eye
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe carried the old man to the living-room sofa.
“Who in the world is he?” said Joe.
“And who was after him?” Frank added.
Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came from the kitchen. Both women gasped in alarm at sight of the old man, who was breathing heavily.
Mrs. Hardy felt his pulse and Aunt Gertrude said, “Get some water.”
As Frank hastily brought a glass, the man began to revive. With one of his bony hands he fumbled in a pocket of his shorts and plucked out a bottle of pills.
“Sh-sh-shake me out t-two, son.”
Frank obeyed and the old man gulped them down. Presently his color returned and he struggled to sit up. Aunt Gertrude attempted to make him comfortable, but the old man yanked the sofa cushion from her hand.
“Leave me alone, woman!” He added in a mutter, “Confounded females! Just like my daughter! I wouldn’t be in this fix if she hadn’t shanghaied me to that blasted farm!”
“You’re very independent,” Laura Hardy said with a smile.
The elderly man glared at her. Then, as she continued to smile, a twinkle came into his watery blue eyes and he cackled, “Yes, I am. But I can see that doesn’t impress you.”
Glancing out the window, Frank saw the station wagon cruise past again. The gold lettering on it read: DOC GRAFTON’S HEALTH FARM. He remembered hearing of the place—a luxurious resort overlooking Barmet Bay where older men of means came to regain their health.
“Say, is that where you’re staying?” Frank asked. “Doc Grafton’s Health Farm?”
The man’s face darkened with wrath. “Doc Grafton’s Vegetable Farm they should call it—or loony bin! Figured I’d go loony myself if I had to sit around there listening to my arteries harden. So I sneaked off.”
The man snorted and fished a large cigar from his pocket. He unwrapped it, bit off the tip, and lit the cigar with a gold lighter.
“You say you sneaked away from the health farm?” Joe asked.
“Uh-huh. Had my chauffeur meet me outside. Then some fellow down at the harbor told me to get in touch with the Hardy boys.... You two are the Hardy boys, I presume?” 
“Yes, sir.” Frank introduced everyone, and the old man explained that he was Zachary Mudge, a financier and businessman from New York.
“My daughter and her husband claimed I needed a rest,” Mudge went on, “so like a fool I let ’em ship me down here to this vegetable farm. Claimed I’d have a heart attack if I didn’t stay away from that stock-market ticker tape.” The elderly man’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “Which reminds me! Have to call my broker! You, boy”—waving to Joe—“help me to the phone!”
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude retired to the kitchen while Frank and Joe waited for their eccentric visitor to make the call. Finally he returned to the living room, contentedly trailing clouds of smoke.
As he sat down, Aunt Gertrude marched into the hall. She flung open the front door and stood vigorously fanning the hall air. Mudge grinned merrily and took another deep puff.
“You—er—were saying that you wanted to get in touch with us, sir,” Frank reminded him.
“Oh, yes. About that—what did you call it?—hydrofoil.” Mr. Mudge explained that he had watched the Sea Spook through binoculars the day before, and had heard several people talking about it. “Looks to me like the coming thing for water travel—maybe a good investment opportunity.” 
He explained that he had had his chauffeur drive him to the waterfront to talk to the craft’s designer. But someone near the boathouse had told him about the assault on Braxton and advised him to see the Hardys. Mudge said he had looked up their address and told his chauffeur to drive him to their house.
“Then I noticed that health-farm station wagon on our tail—somebody at the place must have spotted me leaving. I slipped out of the car when we stopped for a traffic light and hoofed it the rest of the way.” The elderly tycoon grimaced. “Guess I overdid things a bit.”
“Bill Braxton is still in the hospital,” Frank said. “We called just before you got here. But he should be out in a day or two. By the way, another man is interested in the Sea Spook.”
“What’s that?” Mudge stiffened, his eyes glinting suspiciously. “Who is he?”
“He gave his name as Lambert,” Frank said.
Mudge scowled. “Never heard of him.”
At this point, a limousine pulled up in front of the house. Zachary Mudge explained that he had ordered his chauffeur to pick him up here.
“Appreciate your help, boys.”
They grinned. “Glad to give it.”
As soon as Mudge had gone, Frank and Joe drove off in search of Henry Zatta. They cruised back and forth through Bayport without catching sight of the pseudo-blind man.
“Dad did say he works in other towns along the coast,” Frank reminded Joe.
“Right. Let’s try Ocean City next.”
A couple of miles outside the town limits of Bayport they sighted a pudgy figure in a heavy sweat suit jogging alongside the road.
Joe gasped. “Don’t tell me that’s Chet Morton!”
“Working out off-season, too!” Frank chuckled. “Boy, now we’ve seen everything!”
Although Chet made a good lineman on the Bayport eleven, he was not noted for his physical activity. Chet’s chief hobbies were food and relaxation whenever he had a chance.
The Hardys pulled up and their chum stopped to greet them. His moonface was lobster red and dripping with perspiration. Chet pulled out one end of the thick towel draped around his neck and mopped his forehead.
“You out of your mind?” Joe teased. “I thought you’d engaged a hammock for the summer.”
“I’m getting in shape,” Chet retorted. Plopping himself down on a boulder, he plucked out a candy bar, peeled off the wrapper, and began munching it hungrily.
“That chocolate bar will put you in shape,” Frank said with a grin, “like a lead balloon.”
“Aw, cut it out! I have to have some quick energy, don’t I?”
“Listen, what’s this roadwork all about?” Joe asked. “You’re not doing it for fun.”
Chet looked smug. “Just wait and see, wise guys. Certain people needed a powerfully built young fellow for an important athletic post, and I was their natural choice.”
“Choice for what?” Joe gibed. “A before-and-after model for one of those diet ads?”
“Okay, pal. Have your laugh.” Chet got up, and this time set off at a brisker pace.
The Hardys grinned and drove on. They spent the day searching Ocean City and a number of other places but found no trace of Zatta. Finally they returned to Bayport for a late supper.
Just as they were leaving the table, the telephone rang and Joe answered. The caller was the manager of the Bayview Motel.
“That fellow Lambert just came back here and left a forwarding address for mail,” the man said. “I thought you boys might want to know.”
“We sure do!” Joe said eagerly. He copied down the address and was surprised when it turned out to be a street on the outskirts of town. “Thanks a lot.”
Joe showed the address to Frank. “Let’s go see what Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel—has to say.”
“Okay, but we’d better pass this information along to Chief Collig in case he wants to follow up on what happened to Bill Braxton.”
Police Chief Collig was an old friend of the Hardys. After leaving a message for him with the police operator, Frank and Joe hurriedly started off in their convertible.
The address was on Malabar Road, a quiet street of old houses which were set well back from the pavement and screened by big trees and heavy shrubbery. Dusk had fallen as the boys cruised along slowly, aiming their spotlight at the house numbers. The one they sought—25—was visible in brass letters on a tall gate.
“Look!” Joe gasped, and Frank pulled over.
The spotlight glow revealed a large eye chalked on the gatepost!
In seconds the boys were out of the car. To their surprise, a FOR SALE sign was posted on the fence. The house looked dark.
“Apparently Lemuel hasn’t moved in yet,” Joe murmured. “But what about that eye?”
As the brothers walked to the gate, a figure moved on the front porch and came down the drive. He was a boy about sixteen—a wiry, cocky-looking youth in tight jeans and motorcycle boots.
He leaned on the gate and stared up and down at the Hardys with a mocking grin, his jaws chomping on a wad of gum. “Know what that means?” he said, pointing to the chalked eye.
“Maybe,” Frank said evenly. “Who are you?”
“The checker, stupid. Who d’you suppose?” the boy retorted. “Look, are you guys here for the meeting or just snooping around?”
Joe glanced at his brother. “We’re here for the meeting.”
“Then let’s see your pass.” As the brothers hesitated, the youth pointed to the eye again and rasped, “Come on, don’t try to con me. Have you got one or haven’t you?”
On a sudden hunch, Frank took the glass eye from his pocket. The boy nodded. “Okay. Go on around to the back and knock twice.”
As he spoke, he opened the gate. The Hardys entered and walked up the drive.
“Looks as though we made the grade!” Joe whispered triumphantly.
The boys’ hearts were thumping as they went to the rear of the house. Here the weed-grown yard was shrouded in gloom. Joe was about to knock on the back door when Frank stopped him.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know exactly, Joe, but there’s something about this setup I don’t—”
He broke off with a cry of alarm as two figures sprang at them out of the darkness! Both boys were seized and rough hands were clamped over their mouths!

CHAPTER IV  
  Muscle Man
 
 
 
 
THE brothers struggled wildly to break loose from the steely hands that clutched them and dug into their faces. As the two boys twisted around, they saw that the thugs were wearing nylon stocking masks drawn tightly over their heads.
Joe managed to brace himself long enough to deliver a stinging kick on the left shin of his foe. The man yelped with pain and loosened his hold. Joe promptly jerked his face free and let out a volley of piercing yells.
“Help! ... Help! ... Help!”
Frank’s attacker was a thickset, barrel-chested brute. The man was scrabbling at Frank’s pockets as if groping for the glass eye, which gave Frank an opportunity to wrench one arm loose. He swung a chopping right hook that caught his assailant on the side of the head.
Furious, the man let go of Frank and dealt him a stunning backhand cuff that left the boy’s right ear ringing. But Frank, too, was able to shout for help.
The Hardys’ cries seemed to throw their attackers into a frenzy. Joe’s opponent had tried to rip his pockets, but now bent all his efforts on silencing the youth. The other man clutched Frank’s neck in his huge paws and tried to throttle his yells. The brothers fought back like wildcats, kicking, punching, and clawing.
Suddenly a police siren shrilled nearby. Brakes screeched to a halt and footsteps came pounding up the drive. The thugs hurled the boys aside and raced across the yard. Vaulting a back fence, they vanished into the night. Two policemen dashed up to Frank and Joe.
“They went that way!” Frank panted. “A couple of masked men!” The officers plunged in pursuit.
“Hey, Frank! Let’s not forget that kid out front!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys ran around to the front of the house, but the “lookout” had disappeared. By now, neighbors’ doors were opening and heads were popping out of windows along the street. The officers soon came running back.
One said to the Hardys, “Hop in with us and we may be able to nail those hoods before they get too far away.”
Joe went with the driver while the other policeman accompanied Frank in the convertible. On the way, each of the boys gave an account of what had happened and the police driver turned in a radio alarm.
Frank kept in touch with the prowl car via the Hardys’ own two-way radio. The searchers sped up and down streets, crisscrossing the whole surrounding area. But after the officers had stopped to question a number of people, the pursuit was finally given up.
“How did you get to us so fast?” Joe asked the police driver.
“Chief Collig told us to go to 25 Malabar Road and pick up a man calling himself Lambert for questioning,” the driver replied. “Some neighbor must have heard you two yelling, because we got another emergency call on the way.”
The car returned to the scene of the attack and the policemen entered the house, using a strip of celluloid to open the door lock. The place proved to be empty. Frank and Joe were asked to accompany the two officers to police headquarters and report to the chief.
Collig, a big, grizzled veteran of the Bayport force, listened intently to the boys’ story. “You think this whole caper was arranged by Spotty Lemuel, alias Lambert, to get hold of the glass eye?” he asked.
“Sure looks that way,” Frank said. “Assuming he was the one who conked Bill Braxton, he must have heard enough of the phone conversation to guess that we had the eye. He also knew we were already looking for him, so he gave that phony address to the motel manager in hopes we’d fall for it.”
Collig nodded. “That figures, all right.” He asked to see the glass eye and studied it for a moment. “Any idea why Spotty’s so eager to get this back?”
“Not yet,” Frank said, “but Dad got a lead that may give us the answer. We’d like to hang on to the eye till we find out for sure.”
“Okay. I’ll have to admit it’s got me stumped.” As the boys walked down the stone steps of headquarters, Frank said, “How about a milk-shake?” 
Joe grinned. “You read my mind. I can sure use one!”
They drove several blocks to the Hot Rocket, a favorite eating spot of their high school crowd. A familiar yellow jalopy was parked outside.
“Well, well! Look who’s in there!” Frank said.
The chunky figure of Chet Morton, the jalopy’s owner, was seated in one of the booths. He was poring over a magazine and munching a hamburger.
“Hi, fellows!” he mumbled.
The Hardys gave their order and slid onto the seat across from him. Frank flipped up the cover of Chet’s magazine and saw that it was Muscle Man. A weight lifter with bulging arms and torso decorated the cover. 
“Wow! You really are going in for physical culture!” Frank chuckled.
“And he-man food,” Chet said, as the Hardys milkshakes were served. “That stuff you’ve got is for sissies. From now on, I’m sticking to ground beefsteak, milk, raw fruits, and leafy vegetables. No more candy.”
He paused to flex a bicep and compare it to a photograph in the magazine.
“Boy, this is serious!” Joe said. “What’s suddenly made you so hip on body-building?”
“Just for that wisecrack, I’ll tell you,” Chet said proudly. “Meet the new Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training at Doc Grafton’s Health Farm!”
Frank and Joe stared in astonishment. “Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training!” Frank echoed. “Are you kidding?”
“Do I sound like it?” Chet bragged. “The chef there comes to our farm and buys all his vegetables. He told the doc about me and he offered me a job bouncing medicine balls to the guests and helping them work out. I start tomorrow morning.”
Joe burst out laughing. “Now I get it. You mean they hired you as an exercise boy!”
Chet scowled. “Well ... I’ll be helping Doc Grafton train the people who come there, so Assistant Supervisor is what the job amounts to. The doc used to be a real boxing trainer!”
Joe winked at his brother. “Can you picture Chet putting Zachary Mudge through the exercise bit?”
At Chet’s puzzled look, the Hardys told him of their eccentric visitor. They also briefed him on their new mystery, ending with the recent attack on them.
The chubby boy whistled. “Glass eyes! Strong-arm crooks on the loose! Not for me!”
Frank grinned. “We may have to call on your muscles for help!”
“Oh, I’ll be too busy for detective work,” Chet said hastily. Although not eager to get involved in any dangerous situations, he had often joined the brothers in their sleuthing, and was a loyal friend.
“If you start tomorrow morning, Chet, how come you aren’t home and asleep?” Frank asked. “Muscle men need their rest.”
“Aw, I got roped into picking up Iola and Callie after the movie,” Chet explained. “They went to the Bijou to see some creepy love picture.”
The Hardys perked up. Joe liked Chet’s sister, Iola, and her friend Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite date.
“Uh—look, old buddy,” said Joe, “why don’t you stay put and study some more valuable health tips? Frank and I can pick up the girls and bring them back here.”
Chet looked up slyly. “Will you guys treat?”
“What a chiseler!” Frank groaned. “But okay.”
“Then sure—go ahead.”
“What time does the show let out?” Joe asked.
“Ten-fifteen,” said Chet, and signaled the waiter for another hamburger.
Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Twelve minutes. Let’s scram, Joe.”
The Bijou, a small neighborhood theater, closed its box office early and the marquee lights were already out. The Hardys found a parking spot down the street. Then they walked toward the theater.
As they approached it, a weird figure came dashing out the lobby. The man was clutching a tin box under one arm. His head was covered with a stocking mask. Over this was hooked a pair of comic-disguise glasses with bulging eyeballs that glowed in the dark!
“Good grief! Who’s that nut?” Joe gasped.
Almost at the same moment came a scream from somewhere inside the lobby. The boys dashed forward just in time to see the woman cashier rush out of the office, waving her arms hysterically. “Stop him, someone!” she shrieked. “He’s a thief!”
The masked man was already leaping into a car -a sleek, racy-looking blue hardtop. Before the Hardys could reach him, the engine roared and the car shot away from the curb.
“That was one of the Goggler gang!” Frank shouted. “Come on, Joe!”
The boys ran back to their convertible, jumped in, and sped in pursuit. They could see the hardtop’s taillights twinkling in the distance. Luckily the street was almost deserted.
“Radio the police!” Frank said, hunching over the wheel. Joe did so.
The hardtop shot through a red light ahead. Frank had to slam on the brakes as a car turned in front of him. Then he gunned after their quarry. Rounding a corner on screeching wheels, the getaway car sped eastward.
“He’s heading for the Willow River bridge!” Joe exclaimed.
The river gleamed in the distance as the boys entered a wooded park section at the town’s edge. Suddenly there was a deafening bang in front of them.
“A punctured tire!” Joe cried out.
The car ahead lurched and spun out of control, then careened into a ditch!

CHAPTER V  
  The River Spy
 
 
 
 
FRANK swung off the road and braked to a screeching halt. Both boys sprang out.
The blue hardtop was lying on its side, the wheels still spinning. Before the Hardys could reach it, the upper door swung open and the holdup man climbed free. But it was clear he was dazed or injured. He took a few staggering steps and toppled face forward.
The boys were at his side in a moment. The man moaned, then lifted his head painfully. The faint moonlight revealed a swarthy, hook-nosed face. Apparently he had jerked off his spectacles and stocking mask while driving.
“Are you hurt?” Frank asked.
“I ... I don’t know.” Wincing, the man struggled to push himself upright.
Frank hastily frisked him. “Grab his arm, Joe, and help me swing him over so I can search his other coat pocket.”
The boys noticed that the man was wearing gloves. As they maneuvered him into a sitting position, he screeched in agony. “Ow! ... My knee!”
“Sorry,” Joe murmured.
The boys propped the stranger as comfortably as they could against a nearby tree. Frank felt in his other pocket and found no weapon. Noticing the youths’ calm, expert manner, the holdup man snarled, “Who are you punks, anyhow?”
“Frank and Joe Hardy, if that makes any difference,” Frank replied evenly. “Our dad’s a private investigator.”
The man’s eyes gleamed as if in recognition.
“I’ll watch him, Joe. Go give the police another call.”
“Right!”
But as Joe turned away, the man plucked at his trouser leg. “No! Wait!” the thief exclaimed desperately. “I’ll make a deal with you! This job didn’t amount to much—the cash box is in the wreck somewhere. But if you guys let me go, I’ll put you onto something big—really big! I’ll tell you who copped the Jeweled Siva!”
“The Jeweled Siva?” Joe paused in surprise.
“We’ll listen, but we’re making no deals,” Frank said. As the holdup man glared at them, Frank jerked his head toward the convertible. “Go ahead and make that call, Joe.”
His brother strode back to their car. The thief was groaning and clutching his knee. Frank glanced up the road to see if any other cars were approaching.
Without warning, one of his feet was yanked off the ground! Frank landed heavily on his back. “Joe! Help!” he yelled.
The thief sprang up and raced toward the bridge.
“Stop him!” Frank scrambled to his feet and both boys sprinted after the fleeing holdup man.
But the fugitive reached the bridge far ahead of them. In one swift movement he hoisted himself to the steel railing and dived headfirst into the water.
The Hardys reached the spot moments later. By now, the moon had clouded over again and the river was shrouded in darkness. Nothing could be heard except the lapping of the water against the bridge piers. The boys were furious at themselves.
“We would have to fall for that hurt knee gag!” Joe stormed.
“I sure fell,” Frank said in disgust. 
The police soon arrived and a search was made along both banks, but without success. Then the boys went to headquarters to check over the mug shots, but the thief’s picture was not among them. By the time Frank and Joe got back to the Bijou, the show was long over. Eventually they found Iola and Callie with Chet at the Hot Rocket.


  
“Joe! Help!” Frank yelled
“Well! At last!” lola, a slender, dark-haired girl, greeted the Hardys with an eager smile. “Instinct tells me you two got involved in that movie holdup!”
“How’d you guess?” asked Joe.
Chet groaned. “I knew it! Send these two on a perfectly innocent errand and they get mixed up with a gang of crooks!”
“Not a gang.” Frank smiled. “Just one—and he got away.”
“Sounds exciting! Tell us about it!” begged Callie, a pretty brown-eyed blonde.
The Hardys related what had happened and apologized for leaving the two girls stranded. “You’re excused.” Iola giggled. “It didn’t take us long to locate my brother!”
“Listen, I should be in bed by now, getting my rest,” Chet complained.
“Okay,” Joe said. “But at least give us time for a hamburger if we’re going to foot the bill.”
When the brothers reached home, their mother and Aunt Gertrude had already retired for the night. But Fenton Hardy was going over some case reports in his study. Frank and Joe told him of their exciting adventures.
“You boys have had a full night,” Mr. Hardy commented. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and added, “It’s odd that a member of the Goggler gang should rob a small movie theater.”
“How come, Dad?” Frank asked.
“That gang has pulled some of the biggest jobs in this part of the country—bank stickups and jewel thefts. A petty crime like this is something new for them.”
“Do you suppose that deal he offered us was on the level—to tell us who stole the Jeweled Siva?” Joe put in.
“Hard to say,” the investigator replied. “It almost sounds as if he’d broken with the gang and was out for vengeance. Incidentally, I’ve been asked to take on that Jeweled Siva case.”
The boys were elated. But their father told them he would be unable to handle the case until he found the swindler, Ace Pampton, whom he had been engaged to track down.
“Pampton’s trail led here to Bayport,” Mr. Hardy went on, “but I found out this evening he hopped a plane for St. Louis, so I’m going there myself on the first flight tomorrow morning. Suppose you boys go to see the owner of the Jeweled Siva and get all the preliminary facts.”
“Do you mean it, Dad?” Joe said eagerly.
“Certainly. That would be a real help. The owner’s an elderly woman named Mrs. Lunberry. She lives at a little place called Brockton up Willow River.”
“Great! We’ll go there on the Sleuth first thing tomorrow,” Frank promised.
By eight o’clock the next morning the Hardy boys were steering their motorboat out of Barmet Bay into the mouth of the river. As they neared the bridge, the brothers saw a tow truck hoisting the movie thief’s getaway car out of the ditch.
“Let’s see if there’s any news of the holdup man,” Frank proposed.
Joe swerved toward shore and they moored the boat to the bridge abutment. A police detective named Reilly was supervising the hoisting operation.
“Find any clues?” Frank asked.
Reilly shook his head. “The cash box was in the car with the money spilled out, but I guess you fellows know that. No fingerprints.”
“We noticed the thief wore gloves,” Joe remarked.
“His gun must’ve been lying on the seat—it fell out the window when he tipped over,” the detective added. “It was under the car.”
“Lucky break for us, I guess,” Frank said. “Have you traced the car yet?”
“It was stolen from a new-car storage lot. The company is Izmir Motors over in Ocean City.” Reilly gestured toward the tow truck which bore the name of the same firm. “The license plates were stolen too.”
The car was a brand-new Torpedo V-8.
“Too bad it had to get banged up that way,” Joe said, admiring its sleek lines.
As the Sleuth proceeded upriver, Frank noticed a shiny green sedan parked on the road overlooking the shore. Farther on, he saw it cruising along slowly. As their boat passed a grove of trees, he was surprised to find it parked again. 
“That car must be tailing us!” he exclaimed.
As Joe gunned the Sleuth toward shore for a closer look, Frank snatched up binoculars. The car sped off and he had time to spot only the first part of the license number—DZ 7. 
“That’s odd,” he muttered, lowering the glasses.
“What’s odd?”
“Joe, it may be just a coincidence, but that job was a brand-new Torpedo V-8!”

CHAPTER VI  
  Oriental Curse
 
 
 
 
“Did you get a look at the driver?” Joe asked.
Frank shook his head ruefully. “I was trying to focus on the license, but got only part of it—DZ 7. I think there was a man at the wheel waiting, and another fellow jumped in.”
Puzzled, the Hardys continued upriver. Forty minutes later they reached the little village of Brockton and tied up at the public boat landing. A little boy with a sunburned nose who was fishing off the dock with a bamboo pole scowled at them.
“Can you tell us where Mrs. Lunberry lives?” Frank asked him with a smile.
“That gray cottage over near the woods.” The lad indicated the direction with a jerk of his head and kept on scowling. “You guys realize you just scared off a big fat bluegill?”
Joe grinned. “Sorry, pal. Next time we’ll keep our big fat boat out of your way.”
The Hardys strode to the cottage. Their knock was answered by a silver-haired, elderly woman, bent and careworn.
“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank explained. “You called our father about the Jeweled Siva.”
“Oh, yes! Come in, come in!” she replied. “Will Mr. Hardy be able to take the case?”
“Not yet. But he asked us to get the facts.”
Mrs. Lunberry invited the boys to sit down. Frank and Joe glanced about the small living room. The furnishings were comfortable but meager. They noticed well-worn books, some antique-looking pottery, and framed photographs of people apparently in outdoor foreign scenes.
“I can imagine what you’re thinking,” said Mrs. Lunberry as she seated herself on the faded chintz-covered sofa. “You’re wondering how someone as poor as I am ever happened to own such a priceless object as the Jeweled Siva. Well, there’s a long story attached to it.”
“We’d like to hear it,” Joe murmured.
“My late husband, Clarence Lunberry, was an archaeologist,” the woman began. “He went on expeditions all over the world, to dig among ancient ruins. Often I went with him.”
“Did he bring the Jeweled Siva back from one of his expeditions?” Frank asked.
“Yes, from a remote jungly part of India called Tripura. He had heard of a lost temple there and after many hardships he found it. The temple had fallen into ruins, but a beautiful little jeweled carving of the god Siva was still inside. The natives told him a curse would fall on anyone who disturbed the figure, but Clarence ignored their warnings and got permission to take the idol with him.”
“The curse didn’t come true, I hope,” said Joe.
Mrs. Lunberry shook her head sadly. “Indeed, it did. Two members of the expedition died—one from malaria and one from being mauled by a leopard. Clarence himself had all sorts of bad luck after that. He was crippled in an accident and had financial troubles, but he always refused to give up the Jeweled Siva.”
The widow said that she had kept the figure after her husband’s death. But with her funds almost gone, she had finally been forced to put it up for sale. The tiny idol had been on display in the shop of an art and antique dealer named Fontana in New York City.
“Won’t Fontana’s insurance company pay you for the loss of the figure?” Frank queried.
“Ordinarily the company would pay for such a theft, but not in this case,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “You see, when I arranged to let Mr. Fontana handle the sale of the Siva, a business contract was drawn up to cover our agreement. But I know little about such things and I was slow in getting the papers signed.”
“You mean, there was no contract in force when the Jeweled Siva was stolen?” Frank asked.
“Exactly. And the insurance company requires one on all items that Mr. Fontana takes into his store to sell for an outside owner. So, I shan’t get a penny. I don’t know what I’ll do if your father or the police don’t find the Siva!”
Mrs. Lunberry’s voice broke and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear! I almost believe there is a curse on that figure!”
Frank and Joe did their best to comfort her.
“Dad will certainly do everything he can, Mrs. Lunberry,” Frank promised. “And so will we.”
Suddenly the woman’s face went white. She sucked in her breath sharply, then gave a piercing scream!
“What’s wrong?” Joe cried out. Both boys sprang up from their chairs.
“The window! I saw something!” she gasped hysterically. “Like a head with no face! It was horrible!” The elderly woman was trembling.
“We’ll see who’s out there!” Frank told her, and the boys dashed outside.
“There he goes!” Joe yelled, pointing as they rounded a corner of the cottage.
A man with a stocking mask over his head was running toward the woods! Frank and Joe sprinted in pursuit. They plunged in among the trees. At first they were guided by faint sounds of rustling shrubbery and steps trampling dry leaves. Then, as the Hardys groped and darted about in the forest gloom, the sounds faded. The boys were forced to slow down and search the crushed underbrush for signs of the fugitive’s trail.
“It’s hopeless,” Frank groaned at last. “He could be a mile from here by now!”
Disgusted, the Hardys walked back to Mrs. Lunberry’s cottage. Frank stopped short.
“Look there, Joe! Under the window!”
The crude drawing of an eye had been chalked on the gray clapboard siding! The oval pupil and spark lines were instantly recognizable.
“Just like the glass eye and the drawing on Zatta’s card!” Joe said grimly.
When the brothers went back to the cottage, they found Mrs. Lunberry pale but much calmer. She offered the boys some tea.
“No, thanks,” said Frank. “We’d like to show you something if you’re feeling all right.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Lunberry sounded a bit apprehensive, but she accompanied the boys outside. The sinister drawing of the eye seemed to frighten her again.
“Ever seen anything like it before?” Joe asked.
“Yes, I’m almost certain I have,” she said shakily. “Perhaps it was in connection with my husband’s work, but—oh, dear, I just can’t think right now. It may come back to me later.”
Frank promised that their father would get in touch with her as soon as he was free to work on the case. He also asked Mrs. Lunberry to let them know if she recollected where she had seen such an eye.
“I’m sure it signifies something terrible!” she said uneasily. “It’s probably connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva!”
Frank and Joe said good-by and walked back to the boat landing. They hoped the fisherboy would be there. The mysterious man might have quizzed him. But the lad was gone. The Hardys got into the Sleuth and headed for Bayport. 
“Do you suppose that guy in the stocking mask was the same one who trailed us in the green Torpedo car?” Joe mused.
“I don’t know,” Frank replied, “but let’s check on that auto dealership in Ocean City.”
When working on a case, the brothers usually kept the Sleuth’s radio turned on to pick up any calls from home. Just as they neared the mouth of Barmet Bay, Tony Prito’s voice came over the speaker: 
“Napoli
calling Sleuth! ... Come in, please.” 
The Napoli was Tony’s own speedy little craft. 
“Sleuth
at mouth of river,” Frank replied, picking up the microphone. “What’s happened, Tony?” 
Their chum asked, “When will you be back?”
“We’re on our way now. Why?”
“Somebody was asking for you. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,” Tony replied. “Over and out.”
“Hmm. Wonder what that was all about,” Frank muttered as he put down the mike. Joe shrugged. 
Rounding out of the river into the bay, the Sleuth bounded over the waves toward their boathouse. As they neared it, another motorboat put-putted out to meet them. 
“It’s the Napoli!” Joe remarked. 
Tony drew alongside. “Chet Morton wants to see you two as soon as possible,” he reported.
“He’s the one who was asking for us?” Frank inquired.
“Right. Chet says it’s urgent. He wants you to meet him at Doc Grafton’s Health Farm at eleven-thirty.”
Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Only a quarter to eleven. What say we stop at the hospital first and see how Bill Braxton’s making out?”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed as he berthed the Sleuth.
The boys drove to Bayport General Hospital and went to Braxton’s room.
“Hi, fellows!” he greeted them. The mechanic was lounging in a chair, reading a magazine.
Frank grinned. “You don’t look very sick.”
“Me? I’m rarin’ to go. Luckily I have a very thick skull—from being a racing driver, I guess.”
“No aftereffects from that clout on the noggin?” Joe asked.
“Not a bit. The doctor was afraid I might have suffered a concussion, so they kept me for observation. But they’re discharging me today.”
The boys discussed with Bill the mysterious attack on him. “So Lambert’s a crook named Spotty Lemuel,” Bill said. “Wonder why he picked on me!”
Frank asked, “How did Spotty first hear about your hydrofoil, by the way?”
Bill wrinkled his forehead. “Don’t know exactly. I met him at the track once in Ocean City. I drive stock cars over there, you know—for Izmir Motors.”
lzmir Motors!
Frank and Joe looked startled at hearing the name of the auto dealership. 
“Something wrong?” Bill asked, puzzled.
“We’re not sure,” Frank said. “But it happens we were planning to check on that same place.”
Leaving the hospital, the Hardys drove out of town to the health resort. It was located on a hillside overlooking the bay. Its wooded rolling acres were enclosed by a high wire fence. Brass letters arching over the driveway proclaimed: DOC GRAFTON’ S HEALTH FARM.
Chet was waiting at the entrance for the Hardys. His usually calm face looked excited.
“I just found out you guys are going to be kidnapped!” he said.

CHAPTER VII  
  Beach Battle
 
 
 
 
“KIDNAPPED?” Joe echoed. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious!” Chet retorted.
The chubby youth was wearing white trousers and a green gym shirt with the name of the health resort in white letters across his chest.
“Okay, tell us,” Frank said.
Chet gave a worried glance behind him. “I can’t talk about it here,” he whispered. “I quit at noon. Wait and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“If you’re not going to tell us till twelve o’clock,” Joe said, exasperated, “why’d you get us up here at eleven-thirty?”
“‘Cause you two are always chasing around on some goofy mystery case, that’s why. I wanted to make sure you’d be here in plenty of time.” Chet regarded the young sleuths somberly. “Boy, if this tip I got is right, you fellows have really got yourselves in a spot. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes!”
“Stop looking so smug,” Frank said. “What are we supposed to do—park here and just worry?”
“Come on inside and I’ll show you around,” Chet invited. “Wait a second.”
He hurried over to a small stone gatehouse and spoke to the uniformed gatekeeper. The man gave Frank and Joe a brief once-over and nodded. “Okay. Just this once.”
The Hardys hopped from the convertible and the three boys started up the curving graveled drive.
“How come you get off so early?” Joe asked.
“Well, it’s my first day,” Chet replied, “so all they had me come in for was to learn my way around and get a uniform and stuff like that. Besides, I have an after-dinner athletic period tonight.”
The emerald lawn swept upward to a large white porticoed building. On a stone-flagged terrace in front, guests were sunning themselves in deck chairs. Several outbuildings could be glimpsed, set back among tall oak trees.
“Some layout,” Frank murmured admiringly.
“You bet! It’s strictly for guys with big bankrolls,” Chet boasted.
As the boys stood chatting and looking around, a burly man with a shock of thick black hair came toward them. He also wore a green gym shirt, revealing sloping, muscular shoulders and furry, apelike arms. His nose was flat and almost shapeless. Cauliflower ears stuck out of his bulletlike head.
“Good grief, who’s he?” Joe muttered.
“The bouncer, probably,” Frank said. “I’ll bet he’s coming to give us the heave-ho.”
“Relax—he’s harmless,” Chet assured them.” ”His name’s Rip Sinder. Used to box heavyweight when Doc Grafton was a fight manager and trainer. Now he’s sort of a general handyman. Incidentally, don’t be surprised at the noises Rip makes. He got punched in the Adam’s apple and it damaged his vocal cords so he can’t talk.”
The ex-pug approached and handed Frank a note penciled in spidery handwriting. It read: 
 I’d like to talk to you about Braxton’s hydrofoil.
Z. Mudge  
Frank looked surprised. “Where is Mr. Mudge?”
Rip Sinder gave a guttural grunt and made stabbing gestures toward the terrace.
“Thank you.” Frank restrained a start as he took in the boxer’s huge, sausage-fingered hands.
“Come on. Let’s go see him,” Joe said. He whispered to his brother, “What’s wrong?”
“Did you get a look at Sinder’s hands?”
“Big, aren’t they?” Chet said.
“I’ll say they’re big,” Frank retorted under his breath. “Just like the pair of hands that tried to throttle me last night!”
Chet shuddered. “You don’t mean Rip did it?”
Frank shrugged. “Probably a coincidence. But I’d like to get my hands on the person—whoever he is.” 
The pudgy lad groaned. “Remind me to keep away from you two. You attract trouble!” 
Zachary Mudge was seated in a deck chair with his spindly legs stretched out. As before, he was clad only in shorts and a straw hat.
“Did you want to see us, sir?” Frank said.
“What? Speak up, boy!” As Frank repeated his words in a bellow, Mr. Mudge fiddled with his hearing aid. “All right, all right! You don’t have to shout—I’m not deaf. Certainly I want to see you. Why do you think I sent for you?”
“Well, here we are, sir,” Joe said, grinning.
“What about that fellow Braxton? Is he out of the hospital yet?”
“He’s getting out today, sir.” Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “Frank! We forgot to tell Braxton about Mr. Mudge!”
The elderly man snorted contemptuously. “Typical! You young whippersnappers wouldn’t remember to come in out of the rain if someone didn’t remind you. How about Lambert? Has he made Braxton an offer yet?”
“No, sir. Braxton hasn’t seen him,” Frank replied.
Mudge cackled and rubbed his hands in glee. “Fine! Then there’s still time to sew things up! All right, sonnies.” Settling back, Mudge pulled his straw hat down over his face.
“What a character!” Chet Morton whispered as the boys walked away.
Chet hurriedly showed Frank and Joe through the splendid gymnasium building. This included a pool, steam room, tiled showers, and handball courts. The main room was equipped with exercise mats, trampolines, pulley weights, and other apparatus. Chet dropped several broad hints about his prowess as a gymnast.
“Okay, let’s see you perform on that,” Joe challenged, pointing to a leather horse.
“Not now. I have to change.” Seeing the Hardys’ grins, Chet burst out, “Okay, if you think I can’t! I’ll show you!”
Seizing the steel grips, he hoisted himself off the floor, getting somewhat red in the face. Then he tried to swing his legs around the horse. But as he let go with one hand, his grip with the other loosened.
“Oops!” Frank cried, and Chet landed heavily on the mat in a sitting position.
“That doggone handgrip was slippery!” Chet explained, wincing as he got up.
“Sure.” Joe repressed a smile. “Anyhow, it was a good try.”
Chet changed clothes in the locker room and the three boys walked back down the drive.
“Well, it’s noon and you’re through here,” Frank reminded Chet. “How soon do we get briefed on that kidnapping tip?”
Just then Chet’s yellow jalopy drove up outside the gateway. Two girls sat in the front.
“Hey! Iola and Callie!” Joe exclaimed.
The girls waved gaily and the trio hurried to meet them. Chet was chuckling as he ran.
“Well, fellows, it’s like this,” he said. “You’re about to be kidnapped by two dangerous dolls—for a beach party!”
Frank and Joe stopped short, their jaws dropping open in surprise. Chet, Iola, and Callie burst into peals of laughter.
“Man, did I ever have these guys going!” Chet informed his two conspirators. “They were expecting some big underworld trap!”
“Who’s complaining?” Frank retorted with a grin. “Callie can kidnap me any day.”
“They even brought our surfboards!” Joe said.
“And your trunks and two picnic hampers!” Chet added, peering into the back seat. “Let’s go!” 
Callie rode with Frank in the convertible, while Joe piled in with Iola and Chet. They drove to a spot just north of Barmet Bay, called Gremlin Beach, which had become popular for surf-riding because of its high swells.
“What a day for surf-birds!” Joe cried as the foursome jumped out onto the clean white stretch of sand. An onshore breeze was blowing, and the waves from some distant storm were piling into high-crested breakers. Two boats came into view, kicking up plumes of spray.
“Tony and Biff!” Frank exclaimed. Biff Hooper was another Bayport High pal.
The Napoli and Biff’s boat, the Envoy, soon arrived. Both boys had brought dates. In a few minutes the young people were frolicking in the water. Frank and Joe, expert surf-riders, brought screams of delight from the girls. They soared and dipped like skimming sea gulls. 
Biff tried and did a “wipe out,” coming up from the spill with a mouthful of salt water.
Presently the girls went ashore to broil hamburgers and frankfurters. Joe, glancing shoreward, noticed a youth with sun-bleached hair talking to Iola. She looked annoyed. Suddenly Joe’s pulse skipped a beat.
“Hey, Frank!” he called. “It’s that wise guy who checked our ‘pass’ at the empty house last night!”
The Hardys bounded out of the water. The stranger saw them coming and beat a hasty retreat. But Joe grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Buster! You have some explaining to do!”
In answer the youth swung a surprise blow at Joe’s jaw, knocking him off balance. But Frank darted after the attacker and tackled him.
“Now start talking!” Frank ordered, letting him get up.
The youth said his name was Fred Hare and that he was spending a week at a resort hotel in Bayport with his parents. He told the Hardys he had been paid five dollars to act as lookout at the house on Malabar Road.
“By whom?”
“Some man I met on the street. I never saw him before,” Fred Hare whined. His description of the man was vague.
“Could have been Spotty Lemuel,” Joe said.
At a call from Tony, the Hardys turned their heads. Fred seized his chance and sprinted toward a sand dune. Frank and Joe took after him, but as they topped the dune they saw him leap into a boat.
“I fed you guys a pack of lies!” he jeered, and gunned the motor. “I know plenty more!” The boat sped off.
Joe was furious, but Frank calmly strode back to their convertible to call Chief Collig. As the radio warmed up, the Hardys were startled to hear Aunt Gertrude’s voice over the speaker.
“Boys! Come home at once!” she said. “I’ve caught the scoundrel who’s behind this mystery!”

CHAPTER VIII  
  DZ7—
 
 
 
 
“THIS is Frank, Aunt Gertrude! Who is the fellow you’ve caught?”
“I’ve no time to explain!” Miss Hardy’s voice snapped back. “Just get home here at once and help me attend to him! Your mother is out. Over and out!”
The Hardy boys looked at each other in stunned surprise.
“Good night!” Joe gasped. “I wonder who it is she’s nabbed.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Whoever it is, we’d better blast off in a hurry!”.
Iola and Callie looked stricken when the Hardys announced they had to rush home. But Iola quickly recovered her impish good spirits. “Even detectives must eat!” She quickly handed hamburgers to Frank and Joe.
The Hardys ate quickly, then sped off along the highway. Reaching town, they wove their way through traffic to the house at Elm and High.
Frank and Joe dashed inside. The place seemed strangely quiet.
“Aunt Gertrude! Where are you?” Joe yelled.
The boys hurried downstairs to the basement where the Hardys’ short-wave set was located. No one was there.
“Something must have happened to her!” Frank said fearfully.
They ran up from the basement, then mounted the hall stairway two steps at a time. Faint noises drew Frank to their father’s study. He burst in and stopped short with a gasp.
“She’s in here, Joe!” he called.
Miss Hardy was bound to a chair. Her mouth was covered with a man’s handkerchief, but her eyes flashed fire. A warning had been lettered on a piece of paper and clipped to the collar of her blouse: 
TAKE MY ADVICE AND KEEP THIS BLABBERMOUTH GAGGED ALL THE TIME! 
Frank and Joe hastily untied their aunt.
“Well! It’s about time you two got here!” she fumed as the handkerchief was removed. “Thank heavens you finally did!”
“What happened, Aunty?” Frank asked.
Miss Hardy was not ready to tell her story just yet. Declaring that she felt faint, she sank into an easy chair and called for smelling salts and a cup of strong tea. At last she began to tell what had happened.
“Your mother went downtown this afternoon,” Aunt Gertrude began. “Then a bit later a meter reader from the lighting company knocked at the back door and went down into the basement. I was busy straightening up and didn’t hear him go out. But I assumed he had left after a couple of minutes.”
“Go on!” Joe urged.
“Would you believe it, I discovered him here in your father’s study trying to crack open the safe!”
For the first time, the boys looked over at the steel safe.
“Leapin’ lizards!” Joe cried.
Chalked on the door was the same drawing of an eye that Frank and Joe had found under Mrs. Lunberry’s window!
The safe door seemed to be securely closed, but the metal showed deep gouge marks and a broken drill bit lay on the floor nearby amid fragments of metal and some pottery.
“Looks as though he never did manage to get into the safe,” Frank remarked.
“Indeed he didn’t!” Gertrude Hardy retorted. “I snatched up a vase from the hallway table and struck him over the head with it. The man was—out cold, I believe you two would say.”
Frank’s and Joe’s faces broke into broad grins. “Nice work, Aunty,” said Frank. “Is that when you went downstairs and called us over the radio?”
“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude went on, “but when I came back up to check on him, the scoundrel had revived. This time he waved a small bottle of nitroglycerine that he’d brought to blast open the safe, and threatened to blow up the house. I—well —became faint with nervous shock and that was when he tied me up. But not before I gave him a good piece of my mind!”
The two boys darted a glance at each other. They admired Aunt Gertrude’s spirit, and pictured her scolding the intruder roundly as long as she could. No wonder he had clipped on the blabbermouth sign!
“I guess he cleared out suspecting you’d called for help,” said Frank. “What did he look like?”
Miss Hardy replied promptly, “The man was clearly a criminal type—I could tell that from the shape of his ears!”
Joe smiled. “And the fact that he was cracking a safe,” he said innocently.
“Never mind the jokes, young man. Features do reveal character.” Miss Hardy asked for pencil and paper and sketched the intruder’s ears. She added, “He was about five feet eight, blond, broad-shouldered, and had a tooth missing in front.”
“You’re very observant, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said sincerely. Turning to his brother, he remarked, “It sure wasn’t Spotty Lemuel.”
Joe agreed, suggesting the intruder might have been the masked man who had eavesdropped at Mrs. Lunberry’s house. Suddenly Joe slapped his forehead. “Boy, we’re really batting a thousand today! We never did call the chief about Fred Hare!”
“We’d better phone him right now.” Frank made the call, giving Collig a complete rundown.
The brothers, although eager to resume their sleuthing, decided to stay at home for the day in case the safecracker returned.
The next morning after breakfast the Hardy boys drove to Ocean City and asked directions to Izmir Motors. The automobile dealership was located in a low, white, modernistic building with a glass-fronted showroom. At one side was the used-car display lot. Parked in an open field at the rear were row upon row of gleaming new Torpedo sedans, station wagons, and convertibles awaiting sale.
“This outfit must do a big business,” Joe remarked.
The boys prowled around, peering at the license number of every green Torpedo sedan. Those on the new-car lot had no plates, but there was one on display among the used cars and another—evidently a salesman’s demonstrator —standing near the building. Neither checked out. Around the corner, however, they spotted a third green sedan parked at the curb.
Its license number was DZ 736-421!
“Wow! Maybe we’ve struck oil!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys hurried into the showroom and were greeted by a dapper-looking salesman.
“We’d like to speak to the manager,” Frank said.
“Right over there in the office.”
The manager, a balding and middle-aged man with rimless glasses, was speaking on the telephone. A desk name plate identified him as H. J. Sykes, Sales Manager. As he finished talking, he gave the Hardys a cold, narrow-eyed stare. Finally he hung up. “Something I can do for you?”
Frank then began, “We’re trying to trace a car, sir.”
“What for?” Sykes broke in curtly.
“Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a private investigator—it’s in connection with one of his cases,” Frank explained. “I think the car we’re after is parked right around the corner. It’s a new green Torpedo sedan, license number DZ 736-421. Can you tell us who owns it, please?”
“No, I can’t!” the manager snapped. “My time’s valuable. I have other things to do than to help amateur private eyes.”
His rudeness stung Joe into retorting, “Maybe you’d rather have us go to the police!”
“The police?” Sykes cleared his throat uncomfortably and finally stood up. “Oh, very well. Wait here. I’ll check our files.”
He strode to an adjoining office and returned a few minutes later. “Sorry, I can’t help you. None of our personnel owns the car.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances and Frank said, “Thanks for your trouble.”
They walked out of the showroom, feeling Sykes’ eyes on their backs.
“Think he was keeping something back?” Joe muttered.
“I’d bet on it,” Frank said. “Let’s go take another look at that car.”
They rounded the corner and stopped short. The green sedan was gone!
“That creep tricked us!” Joe blurted angrily. “I’ll bet he had someone drive it away while he was pretending to check license numbers!”
Frank scowled. “Maybe the car will come back, once they think we’re gone. Let’s stake out the place and see what happens.”
“Good idea!”
The boys drove off, past the showroom. Frank kept going until they were sure no one was tailing them. Then he circled around and parked on a side street near Izmir Motors.
“I noticed a diner right near where the green sedan was standing,” Frank said to Joe. “How about you going in there and keeping watch? I’ll take that drugstore right across from the showroom.”
“Roger!”
The morning dragged by. The boys met each other from time to time to exchange reports, and switched positions occasionally. All day long they kept up their dogged watch. The showroom remained open in the evening.
At last their vigilance paid off. Shortly before nine o’clock both boys noticed the green sedan they were watching for cruise slowly around the block. In the dusk it was difficult to make out the driver’s face.
Frank and Joe hastily got their convertible. As they drove back toward the showroom, they saw the green sedan suddenly speed away.
“He must have spotted us!” Joe exclaimed.
Frank gunned in pursuit and kept the car in view. The driver wove his way through the mid-town traffic. Near the outskirts of Ocean City, the Torpedo increased speed and lengthened the distance between the two cars. Frank and Joe saw by its taillights that it had turned up a side road.
By this time, darkness had fallen. Frank had switched off their headlights as they left the trafficked streets behind, so as not to be seen in the sedan’s rear-view mirror.
The turnoff taken by the Torpedo was an unpaved road, with only a few widely separated street lights. One side of the road was wooded. On the other could be glimpsed the skeleton frames of several new houses under construction.
“Where’d he go?” Joe said, straining his eyes in the darkness. “Has he given us the slip?”
Frank toed the accelerator. “May as well turn on the lights,” he muttered.
As the yellow head beams illumined the road, both boys gasped. Just ahead was an open excavation!
“Look out!” Joe yelled.
Frank tried to brake and swerve but there was no time. The convertible plunged downward, its front wheels landing with a jolt as the body banged against the frame! Shaken, the Hardys climbed out onto the road.
Frank groaned. “What a mess! It’ll take a tow truck to—”
Both boys whirled suddenly at the sound of rushing footsteps. Two stocking-masked figures had darted from behind the trees fringing the road! Up-raised arms swung hard, and Frank and Joe sank to the ground, unconscious!

CHAPTER IX  
  A Cruise in the Sea Spook
 
 
 
 
WHEN Joe opened his eyes he found himself looking up at the night sky. It took him a moment to collect his wits. Then he realized he was lying in the road and struggled upright.
“Sufferin’ snakes!” he muttered to himself. “How long have I been out? ... Oooh!” His head throbbed from the blow he had received.
A faint moan nearby drew his attention.
“Frank!” Joe sprang to his feet and hurried to his brother’s assistance. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, I—I guess so.... Whew! I’m still seeing stars, though.”
Joe gave Frank a hand while he got up. Ruefully the brothers took stock of their position. Their car was nose down in the huge pothole.
“Boy, are we ever a couple of bird brains!” Frank said in disgust. “Take a look.”
He pointed to several overturned wooden barriers beside the road. Evidently they had been used to block off the excavation. Nearby lay lanterns and warning flares—all extinguished.
“The whole setup was arranged beforehand—and that green sedan led us right into the trap,” Joe said.
“Which means someone must have spotted us during the day when we were staked out at Izmir Motors,” Frank speculated.
“Right. And it could have been Sykes himself.”
The Torpedo sedan, the boys reasoned, had pulled off the road and among the trees before reaching the excavation. Then the thugs had waited for the Hardy’s car to appear, hoping it would plunge into the hole.
“What do you suppose they were after?” Joe asked his brother.
“I can guess,” Frank said. “The glass eye.”
“Lucky we left it home.”
Frank tried their convertible’s two-way radio and found it undamaged. He contacted the Ocean City police operator. A prowl car arrived, followed soon after by a tow truck from an all-night garage. The convertible was hauled out of the excavation and examined. Its front wheels had been jarred out of alignment and the frame needed straightening, so the Hardys had to return to Bayport by bus.
It was after midnight when they walked into their house. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had already gone to bed. Frank found a note in his mother’s handwriting on the telephone pad.
“Hey, look at this, Joe!”
It said: Bill Braxton tried to reach you twice this evening.
“Wonder what’s up,” Joe said.
“It’s probably too late to get him now. We’ll have to wait until morning.”
Next day, before breakfast, Frank called Braxton’s boathouse.
“Boy, I’m glad you called early!” Bill said. “How’d you two like to take a cruise to Long Point with me on the Sea Spook?”
“Sounds terrific!” Frank said. Then he asked, “By the way, Bill, have you heard from a man named Zachary Mudge?”
“I sure did, and he told me he’d talked to you fellows. That’s what this cruise is all about.”
Braxton explained that Mr. Mudge was interested in forming a partnership to put the young mechanic’s hydrofoil design into production. The craft would be built by one of Mudge’s present companies—the Neptune Boatworks at Long Point. First, however, he wanted Braxton to take the boat there to be looked over and tried out by Neptune’s chief engineer.
“There’s to be a conference at one o’clock and a trial run at three—so we ought to shove off pronto. I’d like to get there by noon and have time to grab some lunch.” Braxton added, “There’s a swell beach at Long Point. You two could have a swim while I’m at the boatworks.”
An idea popped into Frank’s mind. “Swell, Bill —count us in!”
Frank hurried to the table, where he and Joe excitedly discussed the cruise over breakfast. “Look!” Frank proposed. “We could hop a train at Long Point and be in New York City in less than an hour. That would give us a chance to talk to that art dealer about the Jeweled Siva and still get back in time for the trial run.”
“Keen idea!” Joe agreed.
Mrs. Hardy had no objection to the trip, but Aunt Gertrude expressed grave doubts about the seaworthiness of Braxton’s “contraption.” “And what’s all this about the Jeweled Siva?” she inquired, giving the boys a piercing stare.
“The Jeweled Siva is a valuable little idol from India. It was stolen,” Frank explained. “Dad’s going to take the case and we’re doing some preliminary legwork for him.”
“The idol has a curse on it, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe said. He proceeded to give her a blood-chilling version of the story the boys had heard from Mrs. Lunberry.
“Humph,” said Miss Hardy. “If you think I believe one word of that nonsense about a curse, you’re mistaken.” But the boys could tell she was disturbed when she almost poured maple syrup into her coffee.
“What Joe told you is true, Aunty,” Frank said, straight-faced but with a twinkle. “When we were at Mrs. Lunberry’s a faceless figure peered in the window.”
Mrs. Hardy became worried and begged the boys not to have anything more to do with the case. After much wheedling and reassurance, however, she was persuaded that they should continue.
“Whew!” Joe breathed as the boys started off for the boathouse. “Next time I start teasing Aunt Gertrude with any chills-and-thrills stuff remind me to keep my big mouth shut!”
“Ditto!” Frank said, grinning.
The Sea Spook was fueled and checked by the time they reached the bay. Soon it was scudding out of the harbor—rising on its hydrofoils as it picked up speed. 
“Is the deal with Mr. Mudge all set?” Joe asked the Spook’s skipper. 
“Well, not quite. The slide-rule boys at the boatworks are going to look over my blueprints with a fine-tooth comb. Then the chief engineer will probably give this job a real workout on Long Point Sound.” Braxton added with a confident smile, “But I think I can convince him.”
The sun beat down hotly out of a cloudless sky and the Atlantic was running in calm swells as the Sea Spook tooled along the coast at thirty knots. Frank and Joe enjoyed the cruise immensely. 
It was not yet noon when the craft docked at Long Point. The Hardys hurried off to catch their train. By ten minutes to one it was pulling into New York City. They taxied through skyscrapered canyons to Fontana’s art shop in Lower Manhattan. A sign in the window said: 
OBJETS D’ART Federico Fontana
Inside, the store was filled with paintings, pieces of sculpture, and tapestries. A clerk directed the boys to Mr. Fontana, a tall, distinguished-looking man with graying dark hair and beard.
“Of course I have heard of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy!” he said, shaking hands with Frank and Joe. “And I am most happy to hear that he will be taking the case.”
“Will you tell us about the theft, please?” Frank asked.
Fontana related that the shop’s burglar alarm had been cunningly disconnected by the thief or thieves, who had jimmied the back door.
Joe remarked, “Whoever did it must have cased this place pretty thoroughly beforehand.”
“Exactly. No doubt he was one of the many people who came into my salon to browse around during the past few weeks.”
“But you didn’t notice anyone who struck you as suspicious?” Frank asked.
Fontana frowned and stroked his beard. “I recall one dark-skinned man. He wore a turban and appeared to be an East Indian. He asked many questions and fingered the Siva as if he hated to put it down. But unfortunately”—Fontana threw out his hands in despair—“I have no idea who he was.”
“Nothing was taken except the Siva?”
“Nothing at all. A policeman passing by on his beat thought he saw a glimmer of light in the shop and tried the door. He went inside, but found the place dark and empty.”
“Do you think the thieves could sell the Siva anywhere?” Joe asked.
“Definitely,” Fontana replied. “There are many collectors who would buy such an exquisite object with no questions asked. The gems alone would bring ten thousand dollars.”
Frank suddenly took out the glass eye. “Have you ever seen anything like this, sir?”
“But how intriguing!” The art dealer examined the eye with keen interest. “No, I have never seen such an object before. It is a most beautiful piece of craftsmanship—like the fine quality of Murano glass. Would you care to sell it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Frank replied. “Have you any idea where it may have been made?”
Fontana shrugged, but suggested that it might have come from Venice, Italy. He asked the boys where they had obtained it. Frank said merely that they had found it and politely evaded any further questions. He and Joe thanked the art dealer and prepared to leave the shop.
As Joe was opening the door, he stopped short with a gasp. “Frank! Look!” he hissed.
A blind man with dark glasses and a tray of pencils was standing just across the street!
“That’s Zatta, all right!” Frank exclaimed. “Let’s go talk to him!”
The boys waited for a break in traffic and darted across. The blind man hastily walked away, tapping with his white cane. Joe plucked his sleeve.
“Get away from me!” Zatta snarled under his breath. “Go on! Beat it! ... I’ll get in touch with you later!”
Joe looked at his brother. Frank gave a puzzled shrug and the two boys dropped back among the other pedestrians. Frank flagged a taxi and told the driver, “Penn Station.”
On the way, they continued to puzzle over the blind man’s reaction. “Zatta sounded scared to death,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if he was on the level about getting in touch with us.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s afraid of having talked too much already.”
The brothers arrived at Long Point in plenty of time for the trial run. Bill Braxton, Frank, Joe, and the engineer Kurt Rummel started off in the Sea Spook on the dot of three. Boaters gaped as the hydrofoil streaked across the Sound. 
Rummel seemed much impressed. “If she can perform anything like this in heavy weather, you really have something here, Braxton!” he said.
Bill put the craft through a series of tight maneuvers. Plumes of spray flew in the air as the Spook pirouetted about gracefully. Suddenly she refused to come out of a turn. 
“What’s wrong?” Rummel asked with a frown.
“I don’t know,” Braxton muttered anxiously. “The rudder must be jammed!”
He dashed out of the cabin toward the fantail. Frank went aft with him to help. Braxton bent over the rail to peer down at the rudder linkage. At that instant the craft lurched and swung sharply to port! As it heeled over, Frank and Braxton were hurled into the water!
Terror chilled Joe. His brother and Bill Braxton might be mangled by the propeller or the foils!

CHAPTER X  
  Dangerous Dobermans
 
 
 
 
THE Sea Spook was spinning around Frank and Bill Braxton in a tight circle—completely out of control! 
“Stop the engine!” Joe yelled to Rummel, and made his way out onto the tilting afterdeck.
The engineer flung an angry retort over his shoulder. He had already closed the throttle and was probing at the steering controls, hoping to get some response to the helm.
Joe could see the two figures floundering in the water. Flying spray from the Spook was blinding and half-drowning them. Joe was slipping and teetering on the wet deck, but he managed to unhook a life ring from the rail and toss it into the water.
The craft had so much way on from the high speed that it took the Spook some time to slow. Gradually her hull settled into the water. In a few moments the Spook came to a dead stop. 
Frank and Bill Braxton, apparently unhurt, stroked their way over to the hydrofoil, blinking water out of their eyes. Joe and Rummel hauled them aboard.
“What went wrong, Bill?” Frank asked as they dried off with towels from the storage locker.
The young mechanic shook his head gloomily. “I don’t know yet, except that the steering system failed. The rudder must have broken and slapped over to one side.”
Kurt Rummel refrained from making any comment, but his face showed professional disapproval. A harbor patrol launch had observed their difficulties and was speeding out to their aid.
“Give us a towline!” Bill called over.
The Sea Spook was towed to the dry dock of the Neptune Boatworks. Here, Bill and the engineer gave the craft a thorough inspection. 
“Well, there’s the answer,” Bill said angrily. “A sheared rudder pintle. It doesn’t look to me like an accident, either!”
Rummel looked skeptical. “Your hydrofoil design is new enough to be revolutionary, Braxton. Those high-speed turns may put more stress on the steering than you realize. I think this calls for a whole new study of your design.”
A new pintle was installed and the Sea Spook started home to Barmet Bay. Braxton was downcast over the outcome of the test. 
“You really think it was sabotage?” Joe asked.
“Sure. But I can’t prove it,” Braxton replied.
“When was it done?” Frank asked. “It was docked in plain sight during your conference at the boatworks, wasn’t it? There probably were people gawking at it every minute of the time.”
“The dirty work could have been done right in my own boathouse,” Braxton said bitterly. “The pintle was probably sawed partway through, but it took a few hours of operation to break off.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” Frank asked.
Braxton shook his head. “Not a clue—unless it was someone who doesn’t want the Sea Spook to go into production.” 
Frank and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances. “A figure in hiding!” Joe declared, and Frank added, “Who must be found!”
Nevertheless, both boys were wondering if the sabotage might have been committed for a different purpose—to injure them! Had someone guessed—or overheard—that the Hardys would go along on the Spook’s next cruise, and had this person tried to cause an accident at sea? 
Frank and Joe arrived home in the evening and learned that Chief Collig had telephoned. Frank called back but was unable to reach him at headquarters until the next morning. The chief reported that he had had word from the Ocean City police on the green Torpedo sedan.
“That license number you gave was registered in the name of Malcolm Izmir, the owner of Izmir Motors,” Collig informed Frank. “But the car had already been reported stolen.”
“When did that happen—the theft, I mean?”
“The police weren’t sure. Izmir’s butler reported the theft the same evening he found the car missing. But he said it hadn’t been used for a couple of days, so it might have been taken from Izmir’s garage a day or two earlier.”
Frank was disappointed. This left the question still unanswered as to who had been driving the green sedan on Wednesday during their trip upriver to Mrs. Lunberry’s.
“Another thing,” Collig said. “We called the hotels and found that kid, Fred Hare. He’s staying with his parents at the Summerfield.”
“Does his story check out?” Frank asked.
“It seems to. That crack about knowing more than he told you was just bragging. His father promised to give him a good talking to.”
Frank grinned and thanked the chief. When Frank discussed the news with Joe, however, neither was satisfied with the story that Izmir’s car had been stolen.
“Somehow it sounds phony,” Frank said. “Especially the butler’s not being sure when the car was taken!”
“It strikes me the same way,” Frank agreed. “I vote we do some more checking when we go to Ocean City to get our car.”
Frank called the repair garage and was told that their convertible was ready for pickup. Meanwhile, Joe had had a sudden idea.
“We’ve been passing up an easy lead on this case!” he exclaimed.
“What’s that?” Frank queried.
“Checking the calls Lambert made from his motel. The manager said all calls passed through the central switchboard, remember?”
Joe promptly leafed through the telephone directory and dialed the number of the Bayview Motel. His hunch paid off.
“Sure, we keep a record of all outgoing phone calls,” the manager said. “The time and the number go right on the guest’s bill after the desk clerk gets his party for him.”
“Will you please look up and see if Lambert placed any calls while he was staying there?”
“Easy. Hold the phone.” There was silence, then the manager’s voice returned to the line. “Well, according to his bill, he made three calls—all to the same number.”
Joe copied it down, thanked the motel manager, and hung up.
“That looks like an Ocean City listing,” Frank remarked as he read the number. “Hmm. I wonder ...”
Frank dialed Information and asked for the number of Izmir Motors in Ocean City. It checked with the number on the pad!
“Now we’re getting some place!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s hop over to Ocean City right away!”
The boys caught a bus which dropped them not far from the repair garage. They got their car and drove to Izmir Motors.
This time, the Hardys walked straight through the showroom to Sykes’ office. His face seemed to turn a shade paler as he caught sight of the brothers. He gave them a smile, took off his glasses, and began polishing them nervously.
“Come in, boys! ... Please sit down.”
Frank and Joe were struck by his change in manner.
“I suppose you’ve heard what happened to us the other night,” Frank said coolly.
“Why, yes—yes, I did. The police informed me. A terrible thing! It upset me very much.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that was your boss’s car when we gave you the license number?” Joe demanded.
Sykes looked embarrassed. “Believe me, I didn’t know. Our office only keeps a record of the licenses of salesmen’s cars and demonstrators—and Mr. Izmir wasn’t here at the time.”
“You sure weren’t very cooperative.”
“To tell the truth, I’d had a call about you two fellows,” Sykes said sheepishly.
“What sort of a call?” Frank asked.
“An anonymous phone tip the previous afternoon—Wednesday, that is. It was a man’s voice. He warned me that two young fellows might drop in, trying to trace a license number. He said you were really a pair of gyps—shakedown artists. You were just setting things up to make a fake accident claim against a car owned by someone connected with Izmir Motors.”
Joe gave the sales manager a scornful look. “You didn’t even try to get his name?”
Sykes shrugged. “He hung up before I could ask. But I was still on my guard when you two walked in. Naturally I wasn’t going to go out of my way to help you.”
“Well, maybe you can help us now,” Frank said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel?”
The sales manager shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Here’s a picture of him.” Frank held out a photograph, borrowed from Mr. Hardy’s files.
Sykes looked at it and again shook his head. “Never saw him in my life. Why?”
“Because he’s mixed up in the case we’re working on,” Frank said, “and we have proof that he called Izmir Motors three times recently.”
Sykes seemed startled and offered to check the firm’s file of customers and prospects. But he soon came back and reported that his clerks could find no record of either name.
“We’d better speak to Mr. Izmir,” Frank said.


  
The savage guard dogs raced toward them!
Sykes gulped. “Uh—I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not here.”
Joe started to ask where they could get in touch with him, but Frank quickly interrupted and said they would call back later. When they got outside, Frank explained, “I figured it might be better if Sykes didn’t know our next move. He might tip off Izmir we’re coming.”
“Quick thinking,” Joe approved. “Maybe we can catch the boss man when he’s not expecting us.”
The boys checked Malcolm Izmir’s name in a phone directory and drove to his home address. This proved to be a palatial walled estate in the hills overlooking Ocean City. Joe jabbed the gate bell repeatedly, but no one answered.
“You game to go over the top?” he asked Frank.
Frank sized up the situation warily. “Okay. At least we can find out if he’s home.”
The boys shinned directly over the gate.
“Good thing we didn’t try climbing the wall,” Joe muttered, pointing to a cheval-de-frise of broken glass strewn along the top. 
Dropping down inside, they walked toward the house, which could be glimpsed beyond the trees. Suddenly the Hardys were chilled by ferocious snarls. They whirled, then froze in terror. Four sleek, fierce-eyed Doberman pinscher guard dogs were racing toward them!
“They’re killers!” Frank cried out.

CHAPTER XI  
  A Midnight Deal
 
 
 
 
THE Hardys looked around wildly. There was no chance of getting back to the gate—the dogs were already cutting off their line of escape.
“That tree!” Frank yelled, pointing to a nearby copper beech with low-hanging branches.
The boys sprinted madly. Each grabbed a limb and swung himself off the ground.
The Dobermans came on like demons. Although lean and long-legged, they were powerful, deep-chested brutes. The dogs hurled themselves at the lower branches, baying and straining every muscle to reach their prey.
“Sufferin’ catfish!” Joe quaked. “Those babies mean business!”
“If we fell out of this tree,” Frank agreed uneasily, “we’d be hamburger in two minutes!”
“Just don’t let go, that’s all,” Joe advised.
“Great. But what do we do for food and water?”
Both boys were perspiring as they stared around for signs of help.
“Ah! Thank goodness! Here comes someone!” Joe said.
A man—evidently a servant, wearing a house-boy’s white jacket—was striding toward them. He was carrying a braided whip which Frank and Joe assumed was to use on the dogs in case they got out of hand.
“Heel!” he called sharply.
The Dobermans stopped barking and slunk close to his side. Then he glared up at the boys.
“What’re you two doing up that tree?”
“Boy, there’s a foolish question if I ever heard one!” Joe muttered. Out loud he retorted, “What does it look like?”
“Get down out of there and beat it before I call the cops!” the houseman ordered.
“Wait a minute—we’re not burglars,” Frank said. “We rang the bell at the gate but no one answered, so we had to climb over. We came here to see Mr. Izmir—on important business.”
The servant studied the boys suspiciously. “That’s out of the question,” he said. “Mr. Izmir can see no one. He has suffered a nervous breakdown. He’s living in complete seclusion under a doctor’s care.”
Frank thought fast. “What we have to see Mr. Izmir about is very important,” he said. “It has to do with a glass eye.” 
The servant’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He wet his lips slowly, then said in a more respectful voice, “Your names, please?”
“Frank and Joe Hardy.”
“I’ll inquire inside. Wait right there.”
He turned and walked toward the house, leaving the dogs behind. The four Dobermans sat watching the boys in eager silence, tongues lolling.
“Wait right here, he says,” Joe echoed resentfully. “What does he think we’re going to do—climb down and play tag again with those four-legged meat grinders?”
In a few minutes the servant returned. “Mr. Izmir will see you,” he announced. Turning to the dogs, he said simply, “Guard!”
Frank and Joe climbed down warily, keeping an eye on the Dobermans. The servant accompanied the boys to the house and led them inside to a richly furnished drawing room. There was a white, thick-piled carpet on the floor and modernistic paintings on the walls.
A man who was pacing back and forth restlessly turned abruptly to face the boys. He was of medium height, with a thick neck and bulging froglike eyes.
“Mr. Izmir?”
“Yes.” He gave them each a quick handshake and waved them to a sofa. “Sit down, boys!”
Frank and Joe obeyed while mentally sizing up their host. They both thought Malcolm Izmir looked healthy enough, although he seemed rather tense and jumpy.
“I understand you fellows want to see me about a—a glass eye?”
“That’s right, sir,” Frank said. “Also about a man named Lambert—or Lemuel.”
Izmir’s hooded eyes blinked. “Lambert? Lemuel? ... Who’s he? Does he have something to do with this—er—glass eye?”
“We’re not sure. We think the eye may belong to him.” Frank told briefly how he and Joe had found the eye aboard the Sea Spook and what had happened later when they tried to trace Lambert through the Bayview Motel. 
“That’s interesting. Very interesting,” the auto dealer commented. “But what makes you think I might know anything about this fellow?”
“We know he called Izmir Motors from his motel three times,” Joe said. “But your sales manager knows nothing about him and says he’s not a customer or a prospect.”
“Strange.” Izmir frowned. “I can’t imagine what his business with us would be—unless he knows someone who works for me. I’ll have Sykes check into it. Do you have this glass eye with you?”
Frank shook his head. “No, sir. We left it back home for safekeeping. You see, the thieves who stole your car waylaid us the other night—and we think they were after the eye.”
The Hardys watched Izmir’s reaction closely. Again his reptilian eyes blinked. He seemed disappointed. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping it might give us a clue—in fact, I had hoped you boys might even be able to help me.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other.
“How do you mean, sir?” Frank asked.
“No doubt you were wondering about my watchdogs,” Izmir replied, “and the fact that no one answered your ring at the gate. Well, it’s because I’ve been receiving threats lately.”
“What sort of threats?” Joe asked.
“Messages threatening my life. They come unsigned—except for a drawing of a horrible-looking eye.” Izmir licked his lips. “That’s why I agreed to see you at once when I heard you’d mentioned a glass eye. I thought there might be some connection.”
The Hardys were startled.
“Our dad’s a private detective,” Frank said. “He’s going to look into all this as soon as he winds up another case. We’ll certainly let you know if we find out anything, Mr. Izmir.”
The auto dealer nodded. “I appreciate that. But I won’t be here after tomorrow.”
“You’re going away?” Joe asked.
“Yes, on a long cruise.” Izmir stood up and began pacing about restlessly. “These threats have left my nerves all shot. I can’t eat or sleep. So my doctor has advised a complete rest and change of scene. I’m sailing from New York Monday on the ocean liner Cristobal.”
The Hardys thanked him for his time, and the houseman escorted them back to the gate.
“What do you make of Malcolm Izmir?” Joe asked his brother as they drove away.
“He must be scared of something, all right,” Frank mused, “or else he wouldn’t be holed up with those dogs guarding the place. Also, how did that car thief get past them? Anyhow, I’d like to know more about Izmir. Maybe Chief Collig can help us.” 
As soon as they reached Bayport, the boys drove to police headquarters. They told the chief what had happened at Ocean City and asked him if he knew Malcolm Izmir.
“I’ve heard of him,” Collig replied. “He’s one of the biggest businessmen in Ocean City—and quite a community leader. Has all sorts of projects. Izmir Motors is just one.”
Joe shot his brother a puzzled glance. “He doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would be mixed up in anything crooked.”
Collig chuckled. “Not likely. I’ll check on him, though, with Ocean City police.”
Frank and Joe had a postponed picnic supper with Iola and Callie and it was close to midnight when they reached home. The hall telephone was ringing. Frank answered it as Joe waited.
“You’re one of the Hardys?” a muffled voice asked.
“Yes—Frank Hardy. Who’s speaking, please?”
“Never mind that. You know a peddler named Zatta? He’s a stoolie for your father.”
Frank was instantly alert. He signaled Joe to listen in. “What about Zatta?”
“I’m offering you Hardys a chance to save his life—if you promise not to call in the cops.” 
“What do you mean ‘save his life’?” Frank said.
There was moment’s silence. Then another voice, which Frank recognized as the one-eyed peddler’s, came on the line.
“These guys are holding me prisoner!” Zatta croaked fearfully. “You’ve gotta help me! They’ll kill me if you don’t! Do what they ask you—please!”
Zatta’s voice was choked off suddenly, as if he has been yanked away from the phone. The muffled voice returned. “Okay. You heard him. We’re offering you his life for that glass eye.”
Frank tried to stall for time, but the voice cut him short. “Yes or no? Is it a deal?”
“What are the terms?” Frank asked.
The voice instructed the Hardys to drive to a certain spot atop Lookout Hill, leave their car, and walk down to a meeting spot on the open hillside. The transfer would then be arranged.
Frank looked at his brother. Joe nodded. “Okay, we accept,” Frank said.
“Remember—no double cross! You bring in the cops and Zatta’s a dead pigeon! Be there in fifteen minutes—after that, it’ll be too late.”
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had awakened and asked what the message was. After a family conference it was decided that the boys would call Sam Radley, a trusted operative of their father’s. He agreed to approach the hillside cautiously from the opposite direction and be ready to cover them in case of trouble.
Frank went upstairs for the glass eye, then the brothers hurried outside to their convertible and drove to Lookout Hill. They parked at the appointed spot near a narrow turnoff which led steeply downward to Shore Road, bordering Barmet Bay.
Frank and Joe left the car and made their way cautiously through a screen of trees. A dark figure on the hillside waved his arms. Hearts thumping, the Hardys walked toward him.
The figure had glowing eyes!

CHAPTER XII  
  Doom Ride!
 
 
 
 
As THE Hardys came close enough to make out the figure, they saw the reason for the glowing eyes. The man was wearing spectacles with bulging phosphorescent eyeballs. His head was shrouded in a stocking mask.
“Someone from the Goggler gang!” Joe hissed.
In the midnight silence the boys’ footsteps crunched loudly in the grassy underbrush. Far below them, moonlight glinted on the waters of the bay.
“Okay. Stop right there!” the man ordered.
Frank and Joe obeyed. Both thought the masked man’s voice sounded faintly familiar. They wondered if he might be Spotty Lemuel, but neither could be sure.
“Did you bring the glass eye?”
“We brought it,” Frank said, “but we’re not handing it over till we have Zatta.”
The man turned and shone a flashlight down the hillside. He flicked the beam on and off twice.
The Hardys watched tensely. They saw an answering glow from Shore Road.
The masked man removed a pair of binoculars which were slung around his neck. He handed them to Frank and pointed toward the light. Frank raised the glasses to his eyes, then gasped.
“What is it?” Joe whispered.
“Zatta! They have him tied up down there at the foot of the drive!”
Frank passed the binoculars to Joe, who peered through them. The light on Shore Road was evidently coming from a bull’s-eye lantern. It was aimed to illuminate the captive peddler. Zatta was lying bound and gagged.
“It looks as if he’s unconscious!” Joe muttered. “His eyes are closed!”
“Don’t worry—he’s alive,” the masked man said.
“He’d better be,” Frank said. “You’ll get the glass eye when we have him in the car and we’re sure he’s all right. Not before.”
“And you two had better not try pulling any fast ones,” the masked man retorted. “Wait right here till I get down the hill. Then drive your car there. You can load Zatta aboard and hand over the glass eye. After that, clear out and don’t look back. Get me?”
Frank nodded. “Check.”
The gangster strode off into the darkness, picking his way down the incline.
“I wonder if Sam got here,” Joe whispered.
“I sure hope so,” Frank replied. “Goggle Eyes could be pulling us right into a trap!” He added, “We’d better go through with it, though, for Zatta’s sake. He must have stuck his neck out, giving Dad that tip.”
Crickets chirped in the stillness. The eerie call of a night bird sounded somewhere overhead. Presently the light on Shore Road went out.
“That must be the signal,” Frank murmured. “Let’s go!”
The boys hurried back to their convertible and climbed in. The engine roared to life. Frank swung out from the curb, then turned right into the long, steep drive leading to Shore Road. Beyond was nothing but a gleam of water as the cliff sheered abruptly into the bay.
The car headlights revealed Zatta’s motionless figure still lying across the foot of the drive. The masked man and whoever had come with him were nowhere in sight.
Joe glanced over at the grassy hillside. In the distance his eye caught a darting figure.
“Sam Radley!” Joe guessed.
Frank toed the brake pedal as he turned to look. The pedal caught for an instant—then sank to the floorboard without slowing the car!
Horrified, Frank pumped the pedal. No response! He yanked the hand brake and it gave easily without the slightest effect! 
“Joe! Something’s happened to our brakes!”
The convertible was gathering speed—hurtling straight down toward the helpless peddler!
“You’ll go right over him!” Joe gasped.
“And off the cliff!”
The boys were paralyzed with fear. With no way to slow the car, it would be impossible to negotiate a turn onto Shore Road.
Frank shifted into low gear. The car bucked and lost a little speed. Noticing that the narrow drive was high-banked on either side, Frank swung right, scraping the convertible’s side against the grassy slope.
Zatta lay less than fifty feet ahead!
As the bank flattened, Frank spun the wheel hard right. The car leaped from the drive onto the grass, bumping and jolting over the uneven ground. It shot across the corner of the hillside, slowing bit by bit. Then it slewed out across Shore Road.
Frank kept it parallel to the pavement, but suddenly there was a hard jolt as the left rear wheel went over the edge of the cliff. With a shudder, the convertible came to a dead halt—its body quivering on its springs!
The two boys sat still, white-faced and gasping. Then Frank slumped over the wheel.
“Whew!” he breathed. “I thought sure we’d had it!”
“We would have,” Joe said, “if you hadn’t downshifted and grazed that bank! Man, that was fast thinking!”
Frank shook his head dazedly. “I wouldn’t even have known the brakes were gone if you hadn’t called out about Sam!”
A streak of light shot up from the hillside, exploding into a starburst of red fire!
“It’s Sam firing a Very pistol!” Joe cried out.
Gingerly the boys crawled out of the car, fearful of dislodging it from its poised position on the edge of the cliff. Another spray of light burst overhead revealing the road and the hillside with daytime brilliance. Three figures could be seen, far down the road past the foot of the drive, sprinting toward a parked car. They leaped in and sped away.
Sam Radley came running toward the boys. The muscular, sandy-haired detective’s face was taut with worry. “You two all right?” he exclaimed.
“Shaken up but okay,” Frank said. “What about that masked guy and his pals? Can we go after them?”
Sam shook his head “My car’s a quarter of a mile back—I didn’t dare park closer. By the time we could get to it, we wouldn’t stand a chance of catching them. Better call the police!”
Joe hastily radioed an alarm. Then he hurried to join his brother and Sam who had gone to untie Zatta. The one-eyed peddler was unconscious but bore no visible marks of injury.
“Maybe he fainted,” Frank said.
“It’s more than that,” Sam murmured. “Looks to me as if he’s been drugged.”
The operative went off to get his car and brought it to the spot. They lifted Zatta into the back seat, then sped to the Bayport General Hospital.
While the unconscious man was being examined, the three sat tensely in the waiting room.
“We really walked into a neat setup,” Frank said. “One of those two guys with the masked man was standing by Zatta with the lantern. The other must have been hiding up on the hill, waiting to sabotage our brakes.”
“Right,” Joe agreed. “That screen of trees gave him perfect cover, once we went off to talk to his partner.”
While they waited, the boys gave Sam Radley a complete account of the events leading up to the night’s excitement. Sam asked, “Do you have the glass eye with you?”
“Right here.” Frank took the eye out of his pocket and handed it over.
Radley examined it closely. “Hmm. And you have no idea why Lemuel—or whoever’s behind all this—is so eager to get it back?”
Frank shook his head thoughtfully. “The thing’s fairly light. It could be hollow. I’ve been wondering if something’s hidden inside.”
Radley held the glass eye close to his ear and shook it. “Nothing rattles. Of course that doesn’t prove much. It could be wadded in.”
“Trouble is, there’s no way to unscrew the eye or pry it apart,” Joe remarked. “The only chance to find out would be to break the glass.”
Conversation stopped as a white-coated intern came into the waiting room to report on Zatta’s condition. “He was definitely drugged,” the medic informed Sam and the Hardys. “There’s a puncture mark from a hypodermic needle on his right arm. Otherwise he’s in good shape, so I think we’ll let him sleep it off.”
Radley agreed to stand guard in Zatta’s room. He told the boys he knew of another operative with whom he could take turns in shifts.
Frank and Joe left the hospital and found a twenty-four-hour service station open a block away. Luckily it had a tow truck available. The boys rode with the mechanic to Shore Road and had him tow their convertible to his garage. The boys walked home.
“That’s funny,” Joe muttered as he tried to turn his key in the side door.
“What’s funny?” Frank asked.
“The lock has been jimmied!” he exclaimed.
The Hardys stared at each other in alarm.
“Whoever did it may still be here!” Frank whispered.
Joe gave his brother a startled look, then hastily pushed the door open and snapped on the light.
The boys began a cautious search of the house, switching on the lights in each room as they went along. The first floor was empty. Tensely they mounted the stairs.
When they came to Aunt Gertrude’s room, Frank gave a gasp. “She’s gone!”
They dashed to their parents’ room. Mrs. Hardy, too, had apparently left the house! The brothers’ room was also empty—no figure in hiding. Last, they tried their father’s study.
“Oh, great!” Frank groaned. “Dad’s safe has been cracked!”

CHAPTER XIII  
  Airport Vigil
 
 
 
 
MR. HARDY’s safe door had been blown open. The door hung lopsided and the contents lay strewn about. Frank and Joe rushed to examine the situation.
“Anything missing?” Joe asked.
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Frank replied.
Joe said worriedly, “I wish we knew what happened to Mom and Aunt Gertrude. You don’t suppose they—were kidnapped?”
“No,” Frank said. “My hunch is they were lured away by some phony message—to give the safecracker a clear field. If they don’t come back soon, though, we’d better phone an alarm. Now we’d better check Dad’s list of secret papers.”
The brothers got this from Mr. Hardy’s desk, and when they had gathered up the scattered documents, took inventory. “They’re all here,” said Frank in relief. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Wait! Dad stowed some cash in the safe when he left town, but I sure don’t see it now!”
“The safecracker probably took it,” Joe said, “but I’ll bet that’s not what he came for.”
Frank agreed. “Ten to one he was after the glass eye.”
Joe hurried to their garage laboratory and returned, bringing their fingerprint kit. He and Frank dusted the safe carefully but found no traces of prints.
“It has been wiped clean,” Joe said in disgust.
Just then they heard a car pull up outside the house. Frank dashed to the window.
“It’s a taxi,” he reported. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude!”
The boys, vastly relieved, went down to meet them.
“Oh! Thank goodness you’re safe!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed, as first she, then Aunt Gertrude gave Frank and Joe a hug.
Frank said, “We were worried about you.”
“We received a phone call from a man at about twelve-thirty that you boys had had a car accident over in Riverville,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “I knew that wasn’t where you planned to go and we were frightened out of our wits.”
She said that after taking a taxi to Riverville, she and Aunt Gertrude had been unable to find any trace of the boys. Finally, after checking by telephone with the Bayport police, the women had learned about the Shore Road incident and had returned home at once.
Upon hearing of the blown-out safe, the boys’ mother and aunt were greatly upset. Frank telephoned headquarters and gave a full report. It was almost three A.M. when the weary family at last retired for the rest of the night.
“Joe, it’s a cinch what happened here at the house and that business on Lookout Hill were all part of the same plan,” Frank remarked thoughtfully as the brothers undressed for bed.
“Sure. The timing proves that,” Joe agreed.
Frank frowned as he went on, “Lemuel, or the Goggler gang, was out to get rid of us tonight and also seek revenge on Zatta. But I still don’t see how the glass eye figures.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if they’re really after the glass eye, they must have sent the safecracker for it in case we hadn’t brought the eye along.”
Joe stretched out on the bed and clasped his hands under his head. “So?”
“So it doesn’t make sense. For all they knew, we had the glass eye with us. And if we’d gone over the cliff, the glass eye would’ve wound up at the bottom of Barmet Bay.”
“Hey, that’s right!” Joe sat up. “Then maybe it’s not the eye they’re after!” 
Frank took the glass eye out of his trouser pocket and studied it again. “That wouldn’t explain the attack on us at the empty house,” he reasoned.
“Okay!” Joe exclaimed. “So maybe it is the glass eye they’re concerned with—but not because it’s valuable.”
“Then why so much trouble to get hold of it?”
“Because there may be something about it that would incriminate them—evidence that would put the gang behind bars! That way, they’d be just as happy to have it sunk in the bay!”
Frank gave his brother a startled glance. “Joe, you may have hit the answer!” He held the glass eye up to the light. “If there is something inside,” he speculated, “the opening may have been covered up with the iris. Then the whole thing was glazed over smoothly.”
Joe switched off the light and settled back. “When Dad gets home, maybe he’ll agree to breaking the eye open.”
“Right. In the meantime, I’ll keep it under my pillow at night until the safe is repaired.”
Exhausted by their strenuous activity, the Hardys slept late Sunday morning and awoke just in time for church. After that, Frank and Joe went to the service station. Their car was ready. They were told that both the hydraulic brake lines and the hand brake cable had been cut.
As they reached home, Mrs. Hardy came out to tell them their father was radioing from St. Louis.
“We’ll be right there,” Frank said, and dashed inside.
Fenton Hardy listened with keen and worried interest as his sons related everything that had happened since he had left Bayport. “Be on guard at all times, boys,” he advised.
The private investigator told Frank and Joe that Ace Pampton, the swindler whom he was after, might be doubling back to Bayport.
“An airline clerk says a man answering Pampton’s description bought a ticket to Bayport via New York,” Mr. Hardy explained. “He took off on the noon flight. I hate to leave here in case it’s a false alarm. So I’d like you boys to cover the airport and keep watch.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” said Frank. “What does he look like?”
“Medium height—quite bald—and he’s been growing a brown beard as disguise. He was wearing a light-blue summer suit and no hat.”
“Should be easy to spot,” Joe put in. “What time is he due in Bayport?”
“Three-ten if he makes the connection in New York,” Mr. Hardy replied. “If he doesn’t show up, stick around and watch for the next flight.”
“Roger!” Frank acknowledged.
The brothers set off for the Bayport airfield minutes later and arrived at 2:57. Presently a loud-speaker blared:
“Flight 401 from New York is now arriving at Gate 12.”
Frank and Joe joined a stream of people hurrying out to the apron to watch the plane discharge its passengers. Suddenly Frank spotted a burly, mash-nosed figure in a chauffeur’s uniform.
“Hey, Joe,” he muttered, “that’s Rip Sinder from the health farm!”
“He must be here to meet a new guest,” Joe whispered.
The apelike ex-pug saw them looking at him. He nodded and casually scratched his jaw with an odd gesture, using the forefinger and little finger of his clenched hand.


  


  
The Hardys nodded in return and shifted their gaze. The next instant Joe gasped. “Frank! There’s that guy who held up the Bijou!” he exclaimed.
The swarthy, hook-nosed man had been standing just inside the doorway to the terminal building. Apparently he had spotted the Hardys, for he turned and quickly strode away. Meanwhile, the disembarking passengers were already coming down the plane’s ramp.
“Go after him, Joe!” Frank said. “I’ll keep watch for Pampton!”
Joe darted into the building. The holdup man was disappearing into the crowd. Joe sidestepped and elbowed his way through the jostling throng. But he made little progress. In a moment his quarry was lost from sight.
“Gangway, please!” A skycap was pushing a hand truck loaded with baggage directly across Joe’s path. The boy groaned.
In desperation Joe yelled, “Stop, thief! Stop that man!”
People sprang up from benches to gape in all directions and the crowd began to mill even more excitedly. By the time airport guards made their way to the scene, the whole terminal was in wild confusion.
A thorough search was made, but the darkcomplexioned man had vanished. Joe rejoined his brother to report failure. Meanwhile, Frank had seen no sign of Pampton. As they walked up and down outside the terminal building, they saw the health-farm chauffeur, Rip Sinder, drive off. His station wagon was empty.
“Looks as though his man didn’t arrive either,” Joe remarked glumly.
Two more flights were due from New York that afternoon—one at five-thirty and another at seven-fifteen. The Hardys waited for both. But no one resembling Ace Pampton arrived on either flight.
“Great. This is what I call a well-spent afternoon,” Joe grumbled as they drove off.
“Let’s stop at the hospital,” Frank proposed. “Zatta should be conscious by now.”
Joe agreed, eager to learn whatever information the peddler might be able to provide.
The brothers had a quick supper in town, then went on to the Bayport General Hospital. They took the elevator from the lobby to the fourth floor. Zatta was in Room 410.
The Hardys stopped outside with puzzled frowns. A crudely drawn sign had been taped to the closed door. It showed a hand with the fore and little fingers raised, middle fingers clenched over the thumb.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe said.
Suddenly Frank’s eyes widened. “That’s the same gesture Rip Sinder made at the airport!”

CHAPTER XIV  
  Sinister Flower Gift
 
 
 
 
“WHAT gesture?” Joe said to his brother.
“Don’t you remember when Sinder nodded to us, the way he scratched his jaw—with two fingers?”
Joe’s eyes kindled thoughtfully. “That’s right -I do remember now! It could be just a coincidence, though.”
“Maybe,” Frank said. “Let’s find out who put this sign up—and why.”
The boys opened the door and went into the room. Sam Radley was watching the doorway warily, but at sight of the Hardys he relaxed and grinned.
“Hi, Sam!” Frank greeted him. “Did you find someone to spell you on guard?”
“Yes, an operative named Vickers—he’s worked for your dad before,” Radley replied. “I just came on again at four.”
Zatta sat propped up in bed, with a black patch over one eye instead of his usual dark glasses. He had been playing checkers with Sam, and the board lay on the bed beside him. He seemed tense and fearful, and his one good eye stared at Frank and Joe with feverish intensity.
“Hi, Mr. Zatta!” Joe said cheerfully. “Feeling better?”
“Naah! I feel terrible!” the peddler croaked. “If I get out o’ this alive, it’ll be a miracle!”
Frank shot a questioning glance at Radley. “What about that sign on the door?”
The operative indicated Zatta with a slight jerk of his head. “He wanted it up—drew it himself. Then he raised a rumpus till the nurse agreed to stick it on the door.”
“But why?” Joe said.
Radley shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. Said he’d talk to you fellows or your dad—no one else.”
The Hardys turned toward the peddler. The talk about the sign seemed to have stirred up his fears. Zatta’s good eye darted anxiously from one to another of the trio.
“Do you feel like talking to us now, Mr. Zatta?” Frank asked gently.
“Sure, I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything,” the peddler said in a shaky voice. “Come closer so I don’t have to speak so loud.... Yeah, that’s better.... Now, about that sign on the door—the hand with the two fingers stickin’ out—”
Someone rapped on the door. Zatta broke off with a fearful jerk that sent the checkerboard and checkers clattering to the floor.
Radley strode to the door and opened it—only a crack at first, then wide enough for a nurse to enter. She came into the room holding a large circular bundle wrapped in florist’s paper. “For you,” she said, handing it to Zatta. Surprised, the peddler tore off the paper, disclosing a wreath of white lilies. Their heavy perfume filled the air with an almost sickly fragrance.
“Lilies!” Zatta screamed. “This-this looks like a funeral piece! Where’d it come from? Who sent it?” He shoved the wreath at the nurse.
She took the wreath with a shocked look. “Well, I-I don’t know,” she faltered. “The florist’s deliveryman brought them up to our station. There’s an enclosure card here addressed to you, Mr. Zatta.”
She detached a small white envelope from the ribbon on the wreath and handed it to the patient. With trembling fingers he opened it and plucked out the card.
Zatta took one quick look at the card, then let out a hoarse screech. His gaunt frame began to quiver, as if with a sudden chill.
“What is it?” Frank exclaimed. “What’s wrong?” He took the card from Zatta’s shaking hand. Joe and Radley pressed close to see it.
The card bore the drawing of an eye. It had a catlike oval pupil with zigzag spark lines!
“What does it mean?” Joe gasped. All three looked at Zatta.
“I’m not talkin’!” he whined. “I’m not sayin’ another word, see? They almost got me once, but I ain’t stickin’ my neck out again!”
“Who are they?” Frank asked. Seeing the peddler’s look of stubborn panic, he pleaded, “You must tell us. How can we find the people who sent this and turn them over to the police if you won’t help us?” 
But Zatta shrank back in terror, huddling among the bedclothes. “I told you I’m not talkin‘! So stop askin’ me!” His unpatched eye rolled wildly. “Don’t let anyone in here! Lock the windows and lock the door and keep ’em locked!”
Seeing the patient working himself into a frenzy, the nurse hastily called a doctor. Zatta was given sedation and the medic advised the Hardys to break off the interview. Frank and Joe reluctantly went back to their car, leaving Sam Radley on guard.
“What a break! Just when he was going to tell us what that sign meant!” Joe grumbled.
“It’s pretty clear what the eye means,” Frank said ruefully. “It must be a warning from the same gang that captured him before—probably the Gogglers.”
Joe agreed and added, “Those funeral lilies were warning enough, but the eye really sent Zatta up in smoke. That reminds me—the eye drawn under Mrs. Lunberry’s window must have been meant as a warning, too, for her not to talk any more to us.”
Frank nodded. “It was bound to scare her, even if she didn’t know what it meant. For that matter, the guy was probably trying to scare us, too.”
As Frank slid behind the wheel of their convertible, he went on, “There’s one thing we can check out right now, Joe.”
“You mean, who sent the flowers?”
“Right. The card said Barmet Bay Floral Shop.”
The two boys drove to the shop, which was near the hospital and remained open on Sundays. They arrived just as the owner was about to close for the evening. Frank explained who the boys were and mentioned the wreath of lilies.
“We’d like to know who sent it.”
The shop owner shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, boys—I don’t know myself.”
“How come?” Joe queried.
“The order was stuck under the door while I was at lunch.”
“No name or return address on it?” Frank said.
“No. None on the envelope and none inside. Just a twenty-dollar bill and a printed note saying to send a wreath of lilies to Mr. Henry Zatta at the Bayport General Hospital.” The florist scratched his head thoughtfully and added, “Oh, yes. There was something else on the note, too—a funny-looking drawing of an eye. The note asked me to copy that on a gift card and enclose it with the wreath.”
“Do you still have the note and the envelope around somewhere?” Joe asked eagerly. “We’d like to see them, please.”
“Sorry. They got burned up in the incinerator less than ten minutes ago when I cleaned up.”
Frank and Joe thanked the shop owner and went back to their car. They were completely disgusted.
“There goes another good lead,” Joe said.
As soon as the Hardys arrived home, they hurried to the basement and warmed up their short-wave radio. Frank sent out a code call and soon made contact with their father, who always carried a small but powerful pocket transceiver with him when traveling. Frank reported the hospital incident and also the fact that no one resembling Ace Pampton had arrived at the airport.
Fenton Hardy was surprised and disappointed. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “Since I talked to you this afternoon, I’ve picked up other clues which convinced me the man who bought the airline ticket here was Pampton. Of course he may have stopped over in New York. The last lap of his flight may have been a red herring to throw us off his trail.” 
“Or he may have used the stopover time in New York to disguise himself, Dad,” Frank suggested.
“Sure,” Joe put in. “He could have gone into the washroom at the airport terminal and changed to different clothes—or maybe even changed his facial appearance in some way.”
“That’s a thought,” the investigator agreed. “The name he used in buying the ticket was Brown—Otto Brown. I should have told you before. Better call the airport and find out if he was on any of those incoming flights from New York.”
“Right. We’ll check and let you know, Dad,” Frank promised.
Joe hurried upstairs to make the telephone call and returned a few minutes later, looking glum. “Pampton fooled us, all right,” he reported. “The airline clerk said Otto Brown landed on the three-ten flight.”
Mr. Hardy received the news without losing his good humor. “Just one of those setbacks a detective has to expect, boys,” he said. “I’ll explore his trail here for another day or so. I may turn up a clue to what he’s after in Bayport. Keep your eyes open for him.”
Next morning Frank and Joe set out for the airport again with the faint hope of tracing Pampton’s trail from the terminal. On the way, they stopped off at Bayport Police Headquarters to find out if Chief Collig had anything to report on Malcolm Izmir.
“Yes, I received a written report from the Ocean City chief about half an hour ago. Then I talked to him on the phone. As I told you, Izmir is a respected businessman and quite active in community affairs. But there was one odd discrepancy I noticed.”
“What’s that?” Frank asked.
“You said he told you he had received a number of threatening messages. If so, he must have clammed up about them to the police—they knew nothing of any such threats.” Collig paused to pull an envelope from his drawer. “However, a prowler was caught several days ago, trying to break into his house. Here’s a mug shot of him the police sent over.”
Collig held out the photograph of a dark-haired, hook-nosed man. Frank and Joe were thunderstruck.
Frank cried out, “That’s the Bijou holdup man!”

CHAPTER XV  
  The Brass Crescent
 
 
 
 
COLLIG looked hard at Frank. “Are you certain this is the theater thief?” he asked the Hardys.
“Positive,” Frank replied. “We spotted the man at the airport yesterday. Joe chased him, but he got away. We thought the airport guards would report it.”
“It’s possible they did,” the chief replied. “I haven’t gone over all this morning’s reports.”
Joe noticed that the name on the photograph was Nick Cordoza. “If he was caught trying to break into Izmir’s pace, how come the police didn’t hold Cordoza? Joe asked.
“Izmir refused to press charges, so they had to let him go,” Chief Collig replied. “Cordoza has a record—he served time for armed robbery—but he wasn’t wanted for anything else when they picked him up at Ocean City. However, we’ll put out a general alarm for him on the Bijou job.”
As the boys came out of headquarters, Frank remarked. “That makes two things about Izmir that need explaining.”
“Name them,” Joe said.
“First, why didn’t he report those threatening letters to the police?”
“Maybe he never got any,” Joe theorized. “He may have been lying to us.”
“But we know he’s frightened,” Frank pointed out. “Why else would he have those savage Dobermans? Which brings up the second question,” he went on. “Why did Izmir let Cordoza go?”
“Maybe he was afraid of gang revenge,” Joe said. “Remember, Cordoza wore a Goggler disguise on the movie holdup.”
“Could be,” Frank said doubtfully. “But if Izmir’s already in fear of his life, what has he got to lose by putting Cordoza behind bars?”
Just then a horn tooted across the street.
“There’s Tony Prito,” Joe said.
A smart-looking white panel truck made a U-turn during a break in traffic and pulled up behind the Hardys’ car.
Tony stuck his head out, grinning proudly. “How do you like our new panel job?”
“A real beauty!” Frank said as the Hardys looked it over. “When did you get it?”
“Saturday. She’s not even broken in yet.”
“What’re you doing with that brass crescent over the grille?” Joe asked. “You had that on your old panel truck, didn’t you?”
Tony chuckled. “Sure—we always mount it on one of our trucks. Dad brought it over from Italy with him as a keepsake. He used it as a hood ornament on the first car he owned.”
“What’s it supposed to be?” Frank put in.
“It’s a corno. That means—well, I guess you’d call it an amulet.” 
“An amulet?” Joe echoed. “You mean, like a lucky piece?”
“That’s right. It’s for warding off the malocchio— the evil eye.” 
In spite of themselves, Joe and Frank were startled by Tony’s remark. Both were reminded instantly of the “blind” peddler’s warning: “Watch out for bad eye!”
Tony continued, “There are people called jettatori, see? That means ‘throwers’—they’re the ones who have the evil eye. Sometimes they know it and sometimes they don’t. But everyone else knows it, or at least the word soon gets around.” 
“How come?” Frank asked.
“Because these jettatori put the double whammy on everyone they look at. For instance, you let a jettatore look crooked at you and the next thing you know, you break a leg or come down with measles or flunk your exams!” 
The Hardys stared at their friend and shook their heads. Tony burst out laughing.
“Look! I’m not saying I believe it, pals. But a lot of people over in the old country still do-especially around Naples. If they meet a jettatore, they make a quick sign to foil the whammy—like, say, the mano cornuta.”
Tony held out his hand with the fore and little fingers extended and middle fingers clenched over his thumb. Frank and Joe gaped.
“Hey, relax, you fellows!” Tony exclaimed. “I don’t really believe you two have the evil eye. Of course Joe does look a bit—” 
“What did you call that sign?” Frank broke in.
“The mano cornuta,” Tony said, making it again. “It means the ‘horned hand.’ Why?” 
“Jumpin’ goldfish!” Joe gasped. “That’s the sign Zatta made for his hospital-room door!”
As Tony gave him a baffled look, Joe hastily told him about the one-eyed peddler.
“You mean Zatta is really trying to keep off the evil eye?” Tony inquired.
“He’s trying to keep off something, but it may not be the same kind of evil eye you were telling us about,” Frank said. “I’ll bet this explains what happened at the airport yesterday!”
“How do you mean?” asked Joe.
“You remember that gesture Rip Sinder made, scratching his jaw?”
“You mean when Sinder spotted us he made that ‘keep away’ sign to warn Nick Cordoza!”
“Could be,” Frank said, “but I was thinking of Ace Pampton. Sinder came to meet somebody on that three-ten flight and yet we saw him drive away with his station wagon empty.”
“You mean he came to meet Pampton?”
“Yes. Cordoza was inside the terminal and could see us before we saw him—he didn’t really need a warning to make him scram. But Pampton was coming off the plane and would have to walk right past us. So Rip made the ‘keep away’ sign to warn Pampton not to approach him. He didn’t want us to see the two of them together.” 
Joe was excited. “That adds up. Pampton walks into the airport building, and Sinder drives off, as if the person he came to meet never arrived.”
“Cut out the double-talk, you detectives,” Tony pleaded. “What’s this all about?”
The Hardys told how they had gone to the airport the day before to keep a watch for the swindler their father was hunting.
“If you’re right, Frank, that explains why Pampton came back to Bayport,” Joe said. “He was planning to check in at Doc Grafton’s Farm—and hide out until the heat’s off.”
Tony whistled. “Chet will sure have a shock when he hears this!”
“There’s a way we may be able to find out quickly,” Frank said.
“How?” Joe asked.
“Pampton probably took a taxi out to the health farm.”
“So we can check the cab companies!” Joe exclaimed. “Swell idea, Frank!”
“If it works,” said Frank, “we’ll have your info to thank, Tony.”
Their pal grinned. “You two ‘private Evil Eyes’ go to it! I have to pick up a set of blueprints from an architect.”
He gunned the truck’s motor, made a U-turn, and sped off down the street.
The Hardys hurried to a phone booth in a nearby drugstore and called each of the three taxi-cab companies which operated in Bayport. Joe suggested a soda while the dispatchers were checking their drivers’ log sheets from the day before. Then Frank called each company again.
On the third call, to the Eagle Cab Service, the dispatcher said:
“Yeah, one of our drivers picked up a fare at the airport at three-fifteen Sunday and drove him out to Doc Grafton’s Health Farm.”
“Who was the driver?” Frank asked. “Could I get in touch with him?”
“Sure, he’s out at the airport right now, in fact. A little man named Mike Doyle. Cab twenty-two. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”
“Thanks a lot!”
Frank and Joe drove quickly to the airport. They soon found the driver.
“The health farm ... yesterday afternoon ... lemme see now.” Mike Doyle shoved back his cap and scratched his head. “Oh, sure. I remember now. A red-haired gent, soft-spoken. Wore big horn-rimmed glasses.”
Frank snapped his fingers. “I remember him, Joe! I saw him get off the plane.” Turning back to the driver, he said, “Clean-shaven fellow, wasn’t he?”
Mike nodded. “That’s right. What’s he done?”
“If it’s the man we’re after, he’s wanted for swindling,” Frank replied.
“Wow!” Mike exclaimed. “Glad I could help.”
The two boys sped home excitedly.
“Pampton must have shaved off his beard at the New York air terminal and put on a red wig and glasses,” Joe reasoned.
Frank gave a tense nod. “And if Rip Sinder knew Pampton was dodging the law, the health farm may be a regular hideout for criminals!”
Reaching their house, the boys hurried down to the basement and tried calling their father by radio. Luckily he was in his hotel room and responded at once.
Frank informed him of what they had learned, then said, “Dad, Joe and I have a plan we think you should try!”

CHAPTER XVI  
  The Walking Mummy
 
 
 
 
FENTON HARDY was eager to hear the boys’ plan. “If it’s as good as some of the other stunts you two have dreamed up for cracking a case,” he told Frank, “I might give it a whirl.”
“Well, here goes,” Frank began. “If Doc Grafton is running a criminals’ hideout on the side, you sure can’t walk right in and arrest Pampton.”
“Probably not,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “They may have a clever warning system in case of a raid, and no doubt some foolproof hiding places on the grounds. In fact, Grafton would be crazy not to, if your theory’s correct.”
“Then it might help if you could case the layout from the inside first. Right, Dad?”
“No doubt about it. What do you suggest?”
Frank said, “By checking into the health farm yourself—say, posing as a tired businessman from St. Louis.”
Fenton Hardy was instantly taken with the scheme. To avoid suspicion that he might be a detective on Pampton’s trail, Mr. Hardy decided that he would first fly to Cleveland.
“I’ll make the arrangements from there over the phone, then hop a plane to Bayport and check in at the health farm under a disguise. I’ll call myself—hmm—let’s say, Foster Harlow.”
Frank said, “Try to keep in touch with us by radio. We’ll tell Chet to be on the lookout, in case you need any help there at the farm.”
The talk with their father made both boys eager for another look at Doc Grafton’s health resort. Frank also hatched an idea for gleaning further information on Malcolm Izmir.
“Remember what Bill Braxton was telling us about Zachary Mudge on the way to Long Point?” he remarked to Joe.
“You mean about Mr. Mudge being a big wheeler-dealer in the financial world?”
“Right. With his contacts, he could probably find out plenty about Izmir.”
Joe gave a puzzled nod. “Maybe so, but what makes you think he’d tell us? Businessmen are pretty closemouthed about that sort of thing.” 
“Usually, but I think I know how we can get Mr. Mudge to help us.” As Frank explained his plan, Joe grinned approval.
As soon as lunch was over, the brothers drove to the health farm. Frank told the gatekeeper who they were and asked if they might see Mr. Zachary Mudge. “It’s about a boat he was thinking of buying, called the Sea Spook,” Frank said. 
The gatekeeper relayed their message over the telephone. After a few minutes he received Mudge’s reply and turned back to the boys.
“Okay. Mr. Mudge says he’ll be waiting for you on the terrace. Go straight up the drive.”
On their way up, the Hardys saw Chet heaving a medicine ball back and forth to several guests on the lawn. The men looked cool and relaxed in shorts and summer shirts, but Chet was red-faced and puffing.
Joe grinned as they waved to their chum. “Looks as though poor Chet is getting more of a workout than the patients,” he murmured.
Zachary Mudge was pacing with his cane on the stone-flagged terrace, a large cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Finally got here, did you?” He shook hands briskly with the boys. “Took you long enough to get up that hill. Could’ve made it twice as fast myself.”
“I guess we haven’t your energy, sir,” Frank said with a smile.
Mudge grunted, then followed Joe’s gaze toward two men standing near the front door of the building. One was Rip Sinder. The other was a small, foxy-faced man wearing a large diamond ring. They had been watching the Hardys, but as they saw Mudge looking at them, the smaller man broke into a gold-toothed smile and waved.
“Who’s that man?” Joe asked.
“That weaselly little twerp? He’s Doc Grafton, the quack who runs this vegetable farm.” Mr. Mudge sneered. “Nosy, too. Let’s take a stroll.”
The trio walked out across the lawn.
“Now then, what’s all this about the Sea Spook?” Mudge asked. “The engineer who checked her out says she broke down on the test.” 
“That’s partly what we came to tell you about,” said Frank. “Braxton believes she was sabotaged and we think he may be right.”
“Y’ think so? My man Rummel doubts it.”
“Well, we can’t prove it,” Frank admitted. “But don’t forget, Braxton was attacked at his boathouse and knocked unconscious. There may be no connection, but—well, something mysterious is going on.” 
Mudge paused and peered at Frank from under bushy eyebrows. “What’re you suggesting, son?”
Frank shrugged. “You remember us mentioning a Mr. Lambert who was interested in the Spook?”
“Are you saying he was behind the sabotage?”
“We don’t know,” Frank said. “We’ve been doing some investigating, though, and the trail seems to lead to a wealthy businessman over in Ocean City. His name is Izmir.”
“Malcolm Izmir?”
“That’s right,” said Joe. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard the name.” The old man’s eyes kindled with interest as if he sensed a hint of financial skulduggery. Suddenly Mr. Mudge was right in his element. “Let me get this straight, boys—do you think Izmir could have had the Spook sabotaged to keep me from investing money in Braxton’s design?” 
Again Frank shrugged. “We didn’t say that, sir.”
But the financier had already made up his mind —exactly as the Hardys had hoped.
“So Izmir thinks he can put one over on me—Zack Mudge, does he?” The old man cackled and thumped his cane on the ground. “Well, we’ll see about that. You leave it to me, sonnies. In twenty-four hours I’ll know all there is to know about Malcolm Izmir, including what he eats for breakfast!”
The Hardys escorted Mr. Mudge back to the terrace, then said good-by. A smile was twitching at Joe’s lips as the brothers started down the drive. He muttered to Frank:
“I’ll bet Mr. Mudge is a whirlwind when he goes into action! You sure revved him up with that line you gave him!”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Frank replied. “For all we know, there may be some connection between Spotty Lemuel and Izmir.”
“Guess we’d better post Chet on the latest,” said Joe.
The medicine-ball session was over and Chet was now leading his group of guests in a series of push-ups.
“Eleven-uh ... twelve-uh ... Ummh-thirteen -uh ...” The last came out in an agonized grunt as Chet, beet-red, barely hoisted himself off the ground.
Joe chuckled. “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”
He and Frank caught their pal’s attention and he quickly struggled to his feet. “That’s f-f-fine, gentlemen,” he panted. “You’re doing great. I hate to interrupt these exercises, but I have to see what these two fellows want. Just keep going, please, or take a short rest period.”
Chet trotted gratefully over to join the Hardys.
“Looks as if we came just in time,” Frank said.
“Boy, you’re not kidding!” Chet mopped his forehead. “Whew! I’m not sure I like this job as well as I thought I would! Handball, water polo, body-building, and now this! And the lunch they feed you wouldn’t keep a flea alive. Boy, am I ever sick of cottage cheese and lettuce!”
“You’ll be down to a mere two-hundred-pound shadow by the time summer’s over,” Joe said.


  
Joe chuckled, “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”
“Lay off, Joe,” Frank said with a smile. “Assistant Morton is really earning his salary.” He lowered his voice and added, “Listen, Chet, did you see a red-haired man check in here yesterday?”
The stout boy shook his head. “I wasn’t here Sunday. Why?”
Joe hastily told their chum about Ace Pampton and their suspicion that the health farm might secretly be a hideout for wanted criminals. Chet’s face was a picture of consternation.
“Good grief!” he gulped. “Don’t tell me I’ve got myself mixed up with a nest of crooks! I’m going to quit right now!”
When he learned, however, of the role Mr. Hardy was to play, Chet promised to stick it out and keep his eyes open for the fugitive swindler, as well as to be on the lookout for the detective.
As the two young sleuths drove back to town, Joe remarked, “Do you remember Mrs. Lunberry saying she had seen something like that chalked eye before?”
Frank nodded as he steered the car. “She thought it might have been somewhere in connection with her husband’s work. Why?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about what Tony told us, and the ‘horned hand’ picture Zatta put up. Do you suppose that drawing of an eye could represent the evil eye?”
“Maybe. Let’s check with Mrs. Lunberry.”
The boys drove to their boathouse, took out the Sleuth, and headed up the Willow River to Brockton. Mrs. Lunberry was happy to see them and listened eagerly to Frank’s report of their visit to Fontana’s art shop. 
“That really isn’t why we came, though,” Frank said. “We’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of a superstition about the evil eye.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “That’s a very old—” Suddenly she broke off in surprise. “Of course! That’s what that eye chalked under my window reminded me of!”
She explained that when on digging expeditions with her husband she had often seen similar eyes. “They were carved in mud-brick walls or inlaid in mosaic on ancient ruins.”
“You mean people would carve evil eyes on their own houses?” Joe asked, puzzled.
The elderly woman smiled. “It’s hard to explain, but Clarence told me once that it’s a very common kind of superstitious thinking. The idea is that a harmless form of the thing you’re afraid of can help to ward off the real thing.”
The boys instantly thought of Zatta and the drawing on the hospital door. Aloud Joe asked, “Is there any chance the evil eye could be connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva?”
“I’m sure it must be,” she said. “Superstitions about the evil eye have existed in many parts of the world, probably including India.”
Mention of the curse seemed to upset Mrs. Lunberry, so Frank changed the subject and asked the woman how she had happened to make arrangements with Fontana to sell the precious idol.
“I wrote to several dealers before making up my mind,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “In the meantime, I was keeping the Siva in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Then one day Mr. Fontana came all the way to Brockton to see me, and I decided to let him handle the sale.”
“Did he bring references?” Frank asked. “Or persuade you that he could sell it for the highest price?”
“Nothing like that, I’m afraid.” The boys asked for a description, which fit the man they had seen in New York. Mrs. Lunberry smiled. “He seemed like such a nice man. Why, he even took me for a ride in his brand-new car. He’d bought it that very day in Ocean City.”
“Not a new Torpedo?” Joe asked sharply.
“Why, yes—I believe that was the make.”
The boys were startled but said nothing, about this new development until they were aboard the Sleuth, heading downriver. 
“This proves to me that Malcolm Izmir, or someone at Izmir Motors, is mixed up in the theft of the Jeweled Siva,” Joe declared.
“And maybe Fontana himself,” Frank speculated.
That evening Chet Morton stopped at the Hardys’ house in his jalopy and honked his horn urgently. Frank and Joe rushed outside.
“What’s up?” Frank asked.
“Plenty!” The stout youth’s eyes were wide with fear. “I j-just saw a walking mummy!”

CHAPTER XVII  
  Secret Signals
 
 
 
 
“A WALKING mummy?” Joe echoed. Then he grinned. “Seems to me I recall we were going to be kidnapped once. What’s the joke this time?”
“It’s no joke!” Chet retorted indignantly. “I tell you I saw a walking mummy!”
“Okay, okay. Where?” Frank asked.
“At the health farm, that’s where. It was all on account of you guys, too.”
“How come?” Joe said.
Chet explained that he had had no luck in finding out if a new guest had checked in at the health resort on Sunday, nor had he seen anyone answering Ace Pampton’s description. And so he had purposely hung around on the job until long after his usual quitting time.
“I figured I might be able to do some snooping while dinner was being served,” Chet went on. “There was one particular building I wanted to get a look at.”
“Which one?” Frank put in.
“I don’t think you fellows have seen it. An old, two-story frame building, set back among the trees on the north side of the grounds.”
“What’s special about it?” Joe asked.
“The place is always kept locked. I’ve seen only one other person at the farm besides Doc Grafton and Rip Sinder ever go in there—in fact, today Doc told me it was off limits.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other with rising excitement.
“Well, go on! What happened?” Joe urged as Chet paused to munch a candy bar.
“For Pete’s sake, don’t rush me!” Chet retorted. “I’m half starved. I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
He went on, “Anyhow, I thought I’d try to peek inside, so I sneaked up through the trees. And then all a sudden this—this mummy walked past the window!” Chet’s face turned paler at the recollection. “The—the head was all wound around with bandages!”
The stout boy shuddered and his voice shook with fear. Joe tried to reassure him. “Easy, Chet! You’ve been seeing too many horror movies, like ‘The Creature from the Tomb’!”
“This was worse than any movie!”
“Who’s the other person allowed into the building?” Frank asked Chet.
“Some old man named Dr. Vardar. He’s the health-farm physician.”
Joe chuckled. “Chet, I think you’ve been working too hard out there.”
“Okay. Don’t believe me.” The stout boy gunned his engine. “Count me out of this case!” he exclaimed. “You two can investigate that creepy joint alone next time!”
“Come on, Chet,” Frank said soothingly. “We appreciate your help. You can’t back out now. Dad might arrive at the farm any time.”
Somewhat mollified, Chet consented, and a moment later the yellow jalopy roared off.
Frank and Joe gazed after it. Both were mystified at Chet’s story. “I’d like to have a look at that ‘mummy’ myself,” said Joe.
“Me too. But we’d better wait until we hear from Dad.”
Shortly before ten o’clock that evening a loud buzz from the basement announced an incoming call over the Hardys’ short-wave. Frank and Joe hurried down to receive it.
“Fenton calling Elm Street!” a low voice crackled from the speaker.
“Elm Street to Fenton,” Joe responded over the microphone. “We read you. Come in, please.”
“Hi, fellows!” said Mr. Hardy. “Just wanted to let you know that I arrived safely.”
“You’re at the farm now?” Frank put in.
“Right. I flew in on the eight-forty-five plane from Cleveland, got picked up by the chauffeur, and checked in under the name I gave you. This is the first chance I’ve had to get in touch. I’m calling from my room.”
The boys quickly reported Chet’s story.
“Good lead. I’ll follow it up.” Mr. Hardy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think someone’s coming. Over for now!”
Late that night Frank awoke from a sound sleep. He lay drowsily for a few moments, wondering what had aroused him. Suddenly he became aware of a muffled clicking sound.
“Where’s that coming from?” Frank wondered.
He sat bolt upright in bed. The clicking sounds seemed to fade out. Puzzled, Frank lay back on his pillow. At once the clicks became louder!
“Under my pillow!” Frank realized.
He pulled it aside and the clicks became still louder and clearer. Something on the bed glittered in the moonlight streaming in. The glass eye! Frank snatched it up with a stifled cry and held it to his ear.
The clicks were coming from the glass eye!
“Joe! Wake up!” he exclaimed, switching on his table lamp.
His brother raised up sleepily from his bed across the room. Joe blinked in the sudden glare. “Wh-what’s up?” he muttered.
“Signals are coming over this glass eye!” Frank whispered. “There must be a miniature receiver inside! Sounds like Morse code!”
As Joe came dashing across the room, Frank held out the eye so his brother could hear it. In a moment the signals ceased.
“Did you get anything?” Joe asked.
“Numbers and letters—but they didn’t make any sense to me, offhand,” Frank replied.
“Maybe there’ll be more!” Joe hastily got pencil and paper from his desk.
The signals began again. The transmission seemed slow and amateurish, and Joe copied down the message easily. It read: 
12PM 4112N 7059W 13K 080 1227
As the glass eye fell silent, the Hardys stared at the numbers and letters in puzzlement.
“Get anything out of it?” Joe asked.
“Not much,” Frank admitted. “The ‘twelve PM’ must stand for a time—twelve o’clock midnight. The rest looks like some sort of secret code.”
Abruptly the glass eye resumed its ticking. Joe again copied down the Morse signals and found that the same set of numbers and letters were being repeated. While the boys were excitedly discussing the mysterious message, another transmission began with the same contents.
“Frank, that ‘N’ and ‘W’ could stand for ‘North’ and ‘West,’” Joe mused. “Maybe a position.”
“Right! In latitude and longitude!” Frank exclaimed. “That would be forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”
“Let’s see where that is.” Joe bounced up from his chair and strode to a map of the world which the boys had tacked to one wall. His finger traced out the nearest parallel and meridian. “Well, what do you know! It’s in the Atlantic Ocean—about halfway between Montauk on Long Island and Nantucket Island, Massachusetts.”
“In that case, it must be a ship’s position,” Frank reasoned. “But what about the last part?”
The Hardys stayed up for another hour, puzzling over the message, but could deduce nothing further. The radio signals being picked up by the glass-eye receiver had long since stopped when the two young sleuths finally went back to bed. It was two o’clock.
Early the next morning Chief Collig telephoned the Hardy home. “I have a follow-up on Izmir that may interest you fellows,” he said when Joe answered. “Last night two more men tried to break into Izmir’s estate. His watchdogs trapped them and both were caught.”
“Who are they?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Their names are Kane and Yaddo. They’re both dangerous hoods with police records.”
“What’s their story?”
“They have none. Neither one will talk.”
“Does Izmir know them?” Joe inquired.
“The Ocean City police couldn’t tell me that,” Collig replied. “It was some servant on the estate who turned them in. Yesterday morning Izmir left for New York to go on a European vacation cruise.”
“That’s right—I’d forgotten,” Joe replied. He frowned for a moment, then added, “Just for the record, are you sure he did leave?”
The police chief chuckled. “I thought you might ask me that, so I called the shipping line in New York and checked. Izmir definitely sailed on the Cristobal yesterday afternoon.” 
“Okay. Thanks a lot for letting us know.”
Joe relayed the information to his brother as the two boys sat down to breakfast. The morning newscast was just coming on over the Hardys’ portable television set. The family grew silent at the announcer’s first words.
“A late bulletin states that a prominent East Coast businessman has been lost at sea. The ocean liner on which he had embarked Monday on a Scandinavian cruise, the Cristobal, reported by radio that Mr. Malcolm Izmir of Ocean City was missing this morning. His cabin had not been slept in, and he is presumed to have fallen or jumped overboard sometime during the night.” 

CHAPTER XVIII  
  News of a Racket
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe were stunned by the news flash on Izmir’s disappearance. As they looked at each other in amazement, Frank’s eyes suddenly kindled with suspicion.
“Lost at sea!” he exclaimed to his brother. “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”
“Probably. This could have something to do with that message we picked up on the glass eye last night!”
“Message? Glass eye?” Aunt Gertrude darted an inquisitive glance at the boys. “What’s all this nonsense?”
“The glass eye started talking last night, Aunty,” Frank explained with a wink at his mother.
Miss Hardy’s voice was barbed with suspicion. “Are you trying to scare me, young man?”
“No. It’s on the level. That glass eye must have a miniature radio receiver inside it. Last night Joe and I heard it picking up signals in Morse—”
The telephone jangled in the hallway. Joe bounded up from the table to answer it.
“Are you one of the Hardy boys?” someone asked in a croaking voice.
“Yes, sir. Joe Hardy. Is this Mr. Mudge?”
“Certainly, I’m Mudge! Zachary Mudge. Who do I sound like?”
“Well, nobody, sir. That is, I mean—”
“Never mind nattering at me!” Mudge rapped out. “I have news for you two. On Izmir.”
“Malcolm Izmir?” Joe was startled.
“Yes, Malcolm Izmir.” The elderly man added in a burst of exasperation, “Do you know of any other Izmir we’ve been talking about?”
Joe grinned. “No, sir. It’s just that I—”
“Then stop talking so much. You think I have nothing better to do than waste my time answering tomfool questions?” Mr. Mudge seemed to pause for breath and then rattled on, “Now, listen. If you and your brother want to hear what I have to say, you’d better get up here right away. Understand? ... Can’t talk over these phones at the vegetable farm. Probably ears flapping all over the line.”
“Right, sir,” Joe said. “We’ll drive right over.”
The Hardy boys hastily finished their bacon and eggs under a barrage of questions from their mother and Aunt Gertrude, then backed their convertible out of the garage and took off.
“Wonder if Doc Bates’ office would be open yet,” Frank remarked as they sped down Elm Street.
“Sure, I guess so—it’s after nine,” Joe said with a glance at his wristwatch. “He’d see us, even if it wasn’t. But why?”
“I’ve been wondering if he might be able to tell us anything about that Dr. Vardar who Chet mentioned last night.”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Let’s stop off and ask him.”
Dr. Bates, the Hardys’ family physician, had his office at home, a rambling stone house a few blocks from Elm Street. The boys found the office entrance open, and the secretary-nurse allowed them to see the doctor at once. Frank explained why they had come.
“Hmm. Dr. Vardar.” The physician frowned thoughtfully. “Seems to me I’ve heard the name, and yet he’s not a member of our local medical society. I can look him up in the medical directory and inquire about him later on today.”
“That’ll be fine, Doctor,” Frank said. “Thanks a lot.”
The Hardys drove on to the health farm. After stopping at the gatehouse, they were told to walk on up to the main building. Zachary Mudge was pacing the terrace with his cane.
“Half an hour it took you,” the elderly financier complained. “I’d still be grubbing for small change if I moved as slowly as you young whippersnappers move these days.”
“Sorry, sir,” Frank said, deciding it would be better not to mention their stop at Dr. Bates’ office. “We’re eager to hear what you’ve learned about Malcolm Izmir.”
Mudge shot a glance over his shoulder at Rip Sinder, who appeared to be watering some potted plants on the terrace. “There’s ape man over there, dying for an earful. Got so he follows me around like a confounded lap dog. Probably hoping for a tip on the stock market.” Mr. Mudge broke into a pleased cackle. “I gave him a bum steer on Consolidated Steel yesterday, just for kicks. Anyhow, let’s move on.”
They strolled off across the lawn toward the tennis courts, where several guests were lobbing balls back and forth.
“Had a call from New York this morning, just before I phoned you,” Zachary Mudge began. “My man there gave me the whole picture on Izmir.”
“He has quite a financial empire, doesn’t he?” Frank asked.
“He did have,” Mudge said. “Got his finger in a dozen or more pies. His different companies and enterprises are all linked together under a setup called the Izmir Syndicate. But here’s the rub—the whole structure’s about to tumble down around his ears.”
“You mean he’s gone broke?” Joe asked in surprise.
“I don’t know if he’s gone broke, but the Izmir Syndicate certainly has,” Mudge replied. “My agent says it’s near bankruptcy. Apparently Izmir’s been defrauding his investors and rigging the books for the past year or so. Now the government’s on his trail and he’s likely to wind up behind bars.” 
The elderly financier rubbed his hands gleefully. “If Izmir was interested in the Sea Spook, more than likely he was hoping to float a new company and raise a packet of money on the strength of Braxton’s hydrofoil design. But just let him try it now! I’ll soon cut him down to size!” 
“You won’t have to, sir,” Frank said. “Izmir was lost at sea last night from an ocean liner.”
Mudge stopped short and stared at the boys as Frank told him about the news flash. “Well, well, well. Can’t say I’m surprised. Man gets in his position, I dare say jumping overboard seems like the best solution.”
The Hardys considered this gruesome thought as they walked back toward the terrace with Zachary Mudge. The boys noted a tall man in swim trunks with a towel draped around his neck, striding across the lawn. Apparently he was returning from a swim in the outdoor pool. He was gray-haired, wore glasses, and had rather prominent teeth.
Joe looked at him casually and caught a wink. Then he did a quick double-take and exchanged a startled glance with Frank.
“Did you see who that swimmer was?” Joe asked his brother later, as they started down the drive.
Frank nodded. “Dad—or rather, Foster Harlow. Pretty neat disguise! Those phony teeth and the dyed hair changed his appearance completely.”
Joe suggested that they stop off at the Bayport General Hospital and check on Zatta. Sam Radley opened the door of the peddler’s room in answer to their knock.
“You two got here at just the right time,” Sam muttered as they entered. “I’ve been working on Zatta. I think he’s about ready to talk.”
The one-eyed man regarded the Hardys fearfully as they advanced toward his bed.
“How about it, Mr. Zatta?” Frank said. “Don’t you think it would make sense to tell us what you know? I promise you the police will give you complete protection from the men who tried to kill you. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner those thugs can be put behind bars.”
The peddler gulped and ran his tongue nervously over his lips. “All right,” he rasped. “I sure can’t stay holed up here for the rest of my life.” His eyes darted over his three listeners. “You guys ever heard o’ the Goggler gang?”
The Hardys and Sam Radley nodded.
“The Goggler gang is what the newspapers call ‘em,” Zatta went on. “Guys in the rackets call ’em the Evil Eyes or the Bad Eyes.”
“How come?” Joe asked.
Zatta shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe on account o’ them eyeballs and glasses they wear when they pull a job. Anyhow, that name ain’t no joke —they’re bad medicine. Every other mob on the East Coast is scared to death of ’em.”
“What about that horned hand you stuck up on the door?” Frank put in.
Zatta flushed. “That’s a ‘lay off’ sign they use. They’re in the protection racket, too, see? Every merchant who buys protection from ’em has a sign like that showin’ somewhere in his shop. And there ain’t a hood dumb enough to touch a place when he sees that hand ‘cause he knows the Bad Eyes would carve him up in a hurry if he tried muscling in. I figured if I stuck one of ’em signs up on my door, they’d think I was keepin’ my mouth shut and leave me alone.”
“Who’s the head of the mob?” Radley demanded.
“Nobody knows. I don’t even think the Bad Eyes themselves know who their boss is. All I heard is they work for some really hush-hush setup called the Eye Syndicate.”
“Okay. Now how about that card you gave us for Dad?” Frank inquired.
“It’s like this,” the peddler explained. “I been hearin’ rumors that something big was about to pop with the Bad Eyes. I don’t know whether it’s a job they’re plannin’ to pull or trouble in the gang or what. Anyhow, I spotted one o’ the Bad Eyes right here in Bayport.”
Joe tried a random shot. “Spotty Lemuel?”
“That’s right.” Zatta looked at the two boys in astonishment. “I didn’t know you kids were wise. When I saw Spotty, I figured the tip might be worth something to your old man. I tried to phone him and got no answer. Then I heard some kids talkin’ about you two bein’ in that high school game, so I went lookin’ for you at the ball field.”
Later, Zatta went on, he had heard a remark passed in a dive frequented by gangsters and hoodlums that the Bad Eyes were mixed up in a job involving Fontana’s art shop. So he had decided to keep watch on the place in the hope of picking up a further lead.
“But someone must have spotted you two talkin’ to me,” the peddler ended, “because that night two hoods cornered me and took me for a ride. You know what happened after that.”
Leaving Sam Radley on guard, Frank and Joe went down to the hospital lobby and telephoned Collig. The chief promised to send a squad car to the hospital at once and to keep the peddler in protective custody until the case was cleared up.
As the brothers walked out to their car, Frank remarked, “I’ll bet the man who spotted us talking to Zatta was Fontana himself.”
Joe nodded. “And try this for size. What if the Eye Syndicate is the same as the Izmir Syndicate? The word ‘eye’ standing for the letter ‘I’ in Izmir -get it?”
“I get it,” Frank said excitedly. “Joe, I believe you’ve hit the nail right on the head. What say we take the Sleuth out on the bay and talk this over? Maybe we can come up with a few more answers if we think it all out!” 
“Swell idea!”
The two boys drove to the harbor. As they walked toward the boat dock, Bill Braxton hailed them excitedly.
“Just the guys I’m looking for!” he exclaimed.
“What’s up?” Joe inquired.
“I have a new mystery for you two to solve!”

CHAPTER XIX  
  The Figure at the Window
 
 
 
 
“A NEW mystery?” Frank said wryly. “We have our hands full now! But let’s hear it!”
“Someone took the Sea Spook out of her shed last night,” Braxton informed the boys. 
“You mean she was stolen?” Joe asked, wide-eyed.
“Well, let’s say borrowed. That’s the funny part of it. She’s back in her berth right now. But I’m sure she was taken out during the night.”
“How come?” Frank said.
“For one thing, the lock on the waterside door was busted. For another, the bilge is full of sea water—and she was dry as a bone when I left here yesterday.”
Intrigued, the two boys eagerly accompanied Bill Braxton to his boathouse. Here they boarded the hydrofoil. Its afterdeck was still wet. Bill also showed them a tin dish from the locker.
“This was on the chart bench,” he explained. “Someone used it as an ash tray. You can still see the stain. The person probably emptied it over the side and gave it a quick wipe-off, but I found a stray butt that fell on the deck.”
“If the bilge is full,” Frank said thoughtfully, “your boat must have shipped a lot of water. Would she do that on the bay?”
Braxton shook his head. “Not a chance. It was calm as a millpond last night. The only way that could happen would be in a fairly heavy swell-maybe along the coast somewhere.”
“Did you check with the Coast Guard?” Joe suggested.
Braxton snapped his fingers. “That’s a thought.” He climbed out onto the catwalk, strode to his desk, and picked up the telephone. After calling the Barmet Bay Coast Guard Station, he hung up and turned back to the Hardys. “Well, that cinches it. Their lookout saw the Spook sail out of the bay around ten o’clock last night. The watch that came on at midnight is off duty now, so they’re not sure when my boat returned.” 
Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.
“How about the fuel tanks?” Joe asked.
“I think they’re down a bit, but I’m not positive what the level was when I left,” Braxton replied. “That wouldn’t tell us much about the range, anyhow. Whoever took the Spook could have filled her tanks and burned it all up before he brought her back.”
“Have you a chart of the coast around Nantucket?” Frank asked. “I’d like to see it.”
“Sure.” Bill Braxton climbed back aboard and led the way into the cabin. He removed a chart from a drawer and spread it out on the bench.
Frank fingered a spot about midway between Montauk and Nantucket. “Would your tanks have enough capacity to get the Spook there and back?” 
Bill nodded. “Sure. Easy.”
“How long would the run take—say at top speed?” Frank inquired.
“Three hours each way. Maybe less—say two and a half if I really opened her up and didn’t run into any heavy seas. Why?”
“Joe and I have the same wild hunch, I think.” Frank told about the news report that Malcolm Izmir had been lost overboard from the Cristobal, and also about the mysterious radio signals he and Joe had picked up over the glass-eye receiver. “Izmir’s loss overboard at sea could have been faked to get him out of a financial jam,” Frank reasoned. “Someone could have taken your hydrofoil, picked Izmir up near the Cristobal, and brought him back to shore.” 
“And the ‘someone’ could have been Lemuel,” Joe added. “That would explain why he pretended to be interested in buying the Spook and then never showed up again. All he really wanted was for you to take him out on the bay and show him how to operate this job.” 
Bill Braxton was stunned. “Could be, all right,” he said slowly. “But to pull a trick like that, Izmir would need the cooperation of the master and crew of the Cristobal, wouldn’t he? That’s pretty hard to swallow.” 
Frank was not so sure of this. “Would you, by any chance, know who owns the Cristobal?”
Braxton shook his head.
“Never mind,” Frank said. “We’d better notify the police, anyhow, and see if they can lift any fingerprints off the Spook.”
All three climbed off the hydrofoil and Frank telephoned Chief Collig. He reported the overnight theft of the Sea Spook and obtained the name of the company the chief had called to inquire about Izmir’s sailing. 
“Thanks, Chief.” Frank hung up and turned back to the others. “He’s sending a detective right over. Joe, let’s blast off for home. I have an idea I’d like to follow up.”
Driving back to Elm Street, Frank explained, “The Cristobal is owned by the Trans-Ocean Line. Dad handled a case for them once, rounding up a gang of card sharks, remember? I think they should be willing to help us.” 
As soon as they arrived home, Frank made a telephone call to the office of the Trans-Ocean Line in New York. After listening to his story, an executive of the company assured him that Captain Rowley, the master of Cristobal, had a long, spotless record of service. He could be considered above suspicion. The executive promised, however, to call the liner by radiotelephone and arrange a short-wave interview between the Hardys and the captain. Within an hour, the boys made contact. 
“When was Izmir last seen, sir?” Frank asked him.
“Soon after midnight last night,” Captain Rowley replied. “He came up on the bridge and chatted with the officer on watch.”
“What about?”
“Oh, the usual things passengers talk about. He asked the ship’s position and course, what the weather outlook was, and so on.”
Frank glanced excitedly at Joe. “What was the ship’s position, sir?” 
“Hold on a moment.” A short while later Rowley’s voice came back on. “Our midnight fix put us at forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”
Joe had a sudden inspiration. “Could you give us your course and speed at that time, sir?” he put in eagerly.
“According to the log, our course was 080, speed thirteen knots.”
“Is there any indication that Izmir went back to his cabin after that?” Frank asked.
“Apparently not, since his bed wasn’t slept in, although we don’t know,” Rowley replied. “He may have fallen over the rail or jumped right after leaving the bridge.”
The Hardys thanked the captain and signed off.
“I’d say that’s it, Joe!” Frank exclaimed. “The midnight position was the same as the one we picked up over the glass eye!”
“And the next two groups in the message tell the ship’s speed and course,” Joe pointed out.
Frank went on breathlessly, “And the last numbers—twelve twenty-seven—could be the time Izmir went over the side. Knowing the Cristobal’s course and speed, Lemuel could plot the exact spot where Izmir jumped.” 
“Right. But did he stay afloat until the Spook arrived?” 
“He probably had a life jacket, or even an inflatable raft,” Frank guessed. “It would be risky, all right, but not too risky if Izmir felt he was in a real jam and might wind up facing a long prison term.” 
“Sure,” Joe agreed. “He and Spotty could easily have figured out beforehand, from the Cristobal’s sailing time, about where she’d be around midnight. All Izmir had to do was radio his exact position and shine a flashlight every so often. The Spook could have picked him up in fifteen minutes.” 
Just then Mrs. Hardy called to her sons that Dr. Bates was on the phone. Frank hurried from the basement to answer, with Joe close at his heels.
“I’ve just found out about Dr. Vardar,” the medic reported. “He was a prominent plastic surgeon in New York City up until two years ago. Then he became involved in some sort of scandal. I couldn’t find out the details, but his license was revoked for malpractice.”
“Thanks a lot, sir. That tells us all we need to know.” Frank hung up and turned excitedly to his brother, who had been listening in. “Did you get that? Vardar was a plastic surgeon!”
“No wonder Chet thought he saw a mummy!” Joe replied. “Vardar must have operated on someone’s face and the patient was still wrapped in bandages.”
“Do you realize what that means?” Frank said. “Doc Grafton’s Health Farm isn’t just a hideout for criminals on the run—it’s even a place where they can buy a new face. What a racket!”
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “That malpractice bit just gave me an idea, Frank.” 
“Like what?”
“Remember Tony said the Italian name for the evil eye is malocchio?”
“So?”
“Well, mal must mean ‘bad’ or ‘evil.’ And if you shorten Malcolm Izmir’s name to one syllable plus a letter, you get ‘Mal I.’ That could be where the gang got its name—the Evil Eyes!” 
“Wow! We’re really hot today!” Frank said, socking his fist into his palm. “I’ll bet anything the Sea Spook brought Izmir back to Bayport and he’s hiding out at the health farm right now, getting his face changed!” 
“Great, but all this is just theory,” Joe reminded his brother. “We have no proof.”
“Right,” said Frank. “But if Dad can get a peek inside that building Chet told us about, he may be able to wrap up the case. Let’s see if we can raise him on the radio!”
The boys hurried back downstairs and tried to contact their father by short-wave, but got no response. After lunch they tried again without success. They continued calling throughout the afternoon, but Mr. Hardy failed to answer. By dinnertime Frank and Joe were worried.
“Let’s find out if Chet knows anything,” Frank suggested.
He telephoned the Morton farm and hung up a few moments later with a shrug of disappointment. “Chet’s mother says he doesn’t finish work this evening till nine o’clock. I don’t want to risk a phone call to him at the health farm.”
“Listen. If we can’t reach Dad by that time,” Joe said, “let’s go meet Chet and do a little scouting.”
“Okay with me.”
Soon after nine o’clock Chet came ambling through the arched gateway of the health farm. A slight honk drew his attention to the Hardys’ parked convertible. He trotted over.
“Hi, fellows!” he exclaimed. “I thought Iola was coming to pick me up.”
“We volunteered,” Frank said. “Hop in.”
As the car drove off, the Hardys gave Chet a quick fill-in. “I think your dad’s okay,” he assured them. “I saw him. He gave me a wink. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known him.”
“What time was that?” Joe asked.
“Around five-thirty. Just before chow.”
“Let’s try him again,” Frank said hopefully.
He pulled over to the side of the road and Joe beamed out a call over their short-wave. This time Fenton Hardy responded. After hearing their story, he said, “Good work, boys. I’ve already got hold of a key to that building and I’m going to try slipping in after lights-out at ten P.M. But it may be dangerous. Think you fellows could climb over the fence?”
“Sure. What do you want us to do?” Joe said.
“Keep watch for a signal—just in case I run into any trouble.”
“Roger!”
Chet was nervous but agreed to help. The boys waited until after ten o’clock, then parked the convertible on the north side of the wooded estate. Scaling the fence, they made their way silently among the trees toward the suspicious two-story frame building. The health farm lay shrouded in darkness. Other than faint gleams from a few shaded windows, most lights on the estate were out. Only the chirping of crickets broke the silence.
“Seen any sign of your dad?” Chet whispered as the three youths joined one another after circling the building.
“Not yet,” Frank murmured.
Suddenly they heard the noise of a violent scuffle inside the house—then a muffled cry! The boys’ hearts thudded. A light flashed on in an unshaded upper-story window.
“Good grief! What happened?” Joe exclaimed.
Fearing for his father’s safety, Frank darted closer to the building. Joe and Chet followed. All paused in the shadow of a dead, gnarled elm tree.
“I’m going to take a peek in the window!” Frank whispered. He scooped up a stone. “Also try to find out with this who’s up there. Give me a boost, Joe. Chet, you watch the door!”
Joe laced the fingers of his hands together for Frank to step on, then gave him a quick hoist. Frank grabbed a tree limb and swung himself upward. Meanwhile, Chet had crept to a position which gave him a clear view of the front door.
Frank hurled the stone at the lighted window. Crash! Chunks of glass from the broken pane tinkled to the ground. The next moment a figure stepped into sight at the sill—a thick-necked man wearing a dressing gown. He was partly silhouetted against the light, but Frank recognized him. 
Malcolm Izmir!
At that instant the door of the house burst open! Two men came rushing out!
Chet hastily retreated, but stumbled over a rock and fell. Scrambling up, he fled toward the trees and shrubbery.
“Get him!” yelled one of the men.
Frank slid down the tree trunk and he and Joe dashed to their pal’s aid. As the men whirled, the Hardys tackled them full force. But the man who had not spoken thrust the boys back with the force of a battering ram, then seized them in a crushing grasp. His partner now dealt the brothers several stunning blows.
“Inside!” he snapped. “Quick!” Squirming and kicking, the Hardys were dragged into the building.
Their captors were Spotty Lemuel and Rip Sinder!
Lemuel’s lips twisted in a cruel sneer. “Now you’ll get the same treatment your father got—in our steam room!”

CHAPTER XX  
  Mystery Madhouse
 
 
 
 
SINDER released Frank and Joe, but the ex-pug stood glaring at them watchfully, his huge hands clenching and unclenching.
“You can’t get away with this!” Joe panted. “Our friend will have the police here in two minutes!”
Lemuel’s eyes glittered in his pale face. “Don’t kid yourself, junior! The fence around this joint is electrified—and Sinder turned on the juice as soon as we spotted you punks.” He gestured toward a wall switch. “Your buddy will sizzle the second he tries to climb out!”
Frank and Joe went white with fear at the thought. They were in the vestibule of a gloomy, high-ceilinged hallway which appeared to split the large, rambling house into two wings.
“Okay, upstairs, both of you!” Lemuel ordered. He gestured toward a steep staircase just beyond the vestibule. “And no funny business! We’ll be right behind you, every step of the way!”
The Hardys obeyed, but their minds were working at top speed. As they mounted the stairs, side by side, they could hear Sinder and Lemuel clumping behind them.
Suddenly Frank sagged, as if still stunned from the blows he had received. He seemed to miss his footing, and sprawled wildly against the steps.
“Hey, on your feet, punk, before I crease your skull!” Lemuel snarled. The gangster prodded Frank with his foot.
Frank moved like lightning. His hands grabbed Lemuel’s upraised foot while the man was still off balance and jerked it high in the air! With a scream the man went flying down the staircase!
Sinder grunted with rage and tried to seize Frank, but Joe whirled and gave him a terrific kick on the shoulder. The thug toppled backward, wide-eyed with terror. He clawed vainly for the stair rail, but rolled, thumping and pounding, down the full flight.
“Come on, Joe!” urged Frank, springing to his feet.
The boys bounded to the top of the stairs. The upper hallway was dark and lined with doors. Frank and Joe ran through it, heading toward the rear of the building. Joe suddenly spotted a side passage on their right.
“This way!” Joe hissed, tugging his brother’s sleeve. As they turned, they could hear confused sounds coming from the stairwell.
The passage connected to another corridor. Frank sighted a flight of steps leading downward and steered his brother toward it. “We must get back to that switch and turn off the electricity to the fence!” he whispered hoarsely.
The brothers plunged down the stairs to the first floor, then along a corridor that turned right and opened into the main hallway. It appeared empty and the Hardys raced along. They could hear pounding steps on the second floor, fading toward the rear.
“Whew! Let’s hope we’re not too late!” Joe breathed as they darted into the vestibule.
Frank flicked off the fence power switch.
“If only we could find Dad!” Joe muttered. “This place is like a maze!”
“Maybe Izmir will tell us!” Frank headed back to the stairs, with Joe at his heels, and ran lightly up the steps.
This time, instead of going straight through the second-floor hall, they turned toward the front of the house. A connecting corridor branched both ways. The Hardys followed it to the right.
Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe’s arm and pointed to a doorway at the corner of the hall. A thin line of light seeped out below the door.
“That’s the room I saw from the tree,” Frank explained in a whisper. “Izmir’s in there!”
The boys crept closer. Frank put his hand gently on the knob and flung the door open.
Inside, Malcolm Izmir was standing at a bureau, putting a small jeweled ivory figure into a pouched money belt. He whirled and his jaw dropped in surprise.
Before he could cry out, Joe snatched a pillow from a bed near the door and flung it at him. Izmir ducked, but the pillow caught him in the face. In a split second the Hardys were on him like tigers!
Frank crooked an arm around the startled man’s neck and threw him heavily to the floor. Joe knelt on top of him, pinioning Izmir with knees and hands. Meanwhile, Frank poised a hard-knuckled fist directly over Izmir’s face. “One yell out of you and—” he warned. “Just tell us where we can find the steam room.”
“Second floor back,” Izmir croaked. “Last door to the left—main hallway!”
“Tear up some sheets, Joe. Quickly!” Frank ordered. “We’ll tie him up!”
In a few minutes the fugitive lay bound and gagged. The boys hurried from the room, and dashed back to the main hallway. At the end, Frank opened the last door on the left. A glare of light dazzled their eyes.
“Dr. Vardar’s operating room!” Joe exclaimed.
The white-gowned surgeon stood at an operating table on which a patient lay outstretched. Another man in white, evidently the doctor’s assistant, stood near the foot of the table. Both wore surgical masks. Above these, their eyes stared in complete astonishment at the Hardys.
Frank slammed the door before either man could make a move. “Izmir tricked us!”
The boys fled down the back stairs. They could hear running footsteps now in several parts of the house. “We must find Dad!” Frank said grimly. 
Desperately he and Joe dashed down a rear hallway. At the end of the corridor were a pair of swinging doors. The boys burst through them and stopped short with exclamations of horror.
A row of steam cabinets stood along one wall of the white-tiled room. From one cabinet protruded the head of a gray-haired man. It was drooping to one side. His eyes were closed and his red face was dripping with perspiration.
“Dad!” Frank cried in a choked voice.
While Joe turned off the steam, Frank quickly opened the front of the cabinet and raised the top flaps so they could pull out the unconscious investigator. He had been thrust inside fully clothed, his arms tied behind him.
“Look at this lump on his head,” Joe said. “They must have knocked him out first!”
The boys untied their father’s hands, then Frank got some cold water from a nearby basin and bathed the detective’s head. After the brothers had worked over him for a few minutes, Mr. Hardy began to regain consciousness. Soon he was able to talk and stand up. Frank and Joe briefed him quickly on all that had happened.
“Thanks, boys,” the detective said tensely. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer in there.”
“You won’t last much longer—period!” a voice snarled. The three Hardys whirled in dismay as a group of men burst into the room.
At their head was a small, foxy-faced individual clutching a gun. With him were Lemuel, Sinder, and Dr. Vardar’s surgical assistant.
“Better not try anything, Grafton,” said Fenton Hardy in a taut voice. “Your number’s up. You won’t stand a chance of getting away.”
Doc Grafton’s face twisted into a gold-toothed smile. “Don’t make me laugh, Hardy!” he jeered. But at this moment a siren wailed outside.
“The cops!” gasped the surgical aide. “Let’s blow!”
“Not till I take care of these three rats!” Grafton snarled. He started toward the detective and his sons, but Lemuel grabbed his sleeve frantically.
“Don’t be a sap! We don’t want a stretch in prison!”
As Doc’s gaze shifted for a moment to Lemuel, Fenton Hardy snatched up a wet towel and hurled it at Grafton. It caught the criminal in the face and chest, checking his advance.
Lemuel and the others were already dashing from the room. Before Grafton could regain his wits, two more towels caught him in the face. Joe brought him down with a flying tackle and Frank pinned his arms.
While the two boys quickly subdued Grafton, Mr. Hardy raced in pursuit of the other criminals. They were running out the front door when they blundered straight into the arms of Chief Collig and a trio of husky policemen!
In a few minutes the fight was over. Doc Grafton and his cohorts stood panting and handcuffed, facing the Hardys and the police.
“How did you get here so fast?” Joe asked the burly chief.
“Well, for one thing, your father radioed us to stand by,” Collig replied.
“That was right after I heard from you fellows,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I figured the case was about to blow wide open, and as soon as I had the evidence, it would be time for Chief Collig to take over.” He added that he had been seized by Lemuel and Sinder soon after entering the building. Upon close examination the men had recognized the detective’s features.
“Then we got a second call from Chet Morton to get here in a hurry,” Collig told the boys. “He contacted us over your car radio.” The chief turned as Chet himself came bustling in through the front door. Frank and Joe pounced on him joyfully with bear hugs and handshakes.
“I’m glad you’re okay!” Frank exclaimed.
“Chet, old buddy, you’re the greatest!” Joe told him.
“I’m glad you fellows realize it,” their chum said, his moonface splitting into a wide grin.
“Incidentally, we caught Nick Cordoza tonight and he talked plenty,” Collig went on. “Seems he was a member of the Goggler gang—or the Evil Eyes, as they call it—and Malcolm Izmir was the head. Izmir had also been acting as banker for the gang’s loot. But suddenly he told them it was time to break up—and then double-crossed them by paying them off in counterfeit money. No wonder they were trying to get him!”
Collig was astounded as the boys told him how Izmir had been picked up at sea by Lemuel and brought back to hide out at the health farm and have his face altered by Dr. Vardar.
“You two were way ahead of us,” the chief commented wryly to the boys. “But that was a great job of detection, Frank and Joe. And you helped a lot, Chet.”
A search was made of the building and half a dozen wanted criminals were taken into custody. All had been staying at the health farm—unknown to the regular guests—and were in process of recovering from facial surgery. The patient whom Frank and Joe had seen on the operating table turned out to be Pampton.
A figurine found in Izmir’s money belt was indeed the Jeweled Siva. Also secreted, in other waterproof pouches, were diamonds and thousand-dollar bills.
Glumly the captured ringleader told his story. Lemuel, whose help he needed to stage his fake drowning at sea, was the only member of the gang not included in the double cross. Doc Grafton, Sinder, and the surgical aide—an ex-convict named Frosh who had worked as a prison orderly —knew all about the Evil Eyes and Izmir’s plan. He had promised them fat sums for their services.
“Some of the mob found out who I really was,” Izmir said, “and my business investments were about to collapse. That’s why I had to clear out. I figured I could start a new life with a new name and a new face.”
“And become a figure in hiding,” Frank remarked.
Izmir said that before sailing he had converted all his remaining funds into cash and diamonds. He had learned through Fontana about the Jeweled Siva being for sale and had concocted a scheme with the art dealer to get hold of it through a fake robbery.
“I paid Fontana with a new car,” Izmir went on, “and he was also going to keep the insurance payoff for the theft. He lied to Mrs. Lunberry that his insurance didn’t cover it.”
All members of the gang possessed glass-eye receivers. Izmir had had them made in Japan as a means of signaling instructions to his men on criminal jobs. But Spotty Lemuel had dropped his glass eye aboard the Sea Spook and had returned to the boathouse to inquire about it. 
“So Spotty did overhear Bill Braxton talking to us on the phone and knocked him out,” Frank put in.
“Yes.” Izmir went on to say that Lemuel had then guessed that the Hardy boys had become suspicious of him. Unable to find the eye after a frantic search, he realized it must be in the Hardys’ possession.
This had thrown Izmir into a panic. He feared the boys or their father might foil his scheme to jump off the Cristobal with an inflatable life raft by picking up his radio signals once overboard. Frantic efforts had been made to get back the glass eye before he sailed—first by luring the boys into the ambush at the vacant house, later by having Frosh, disguised as a meter reader, attempt to crack the Hardys’ safe. Finally he had tried the midnight summons to Lookout Hill. 
Rip Sinder and Doc Grafton had assisted Lemuel at the Lookout Hill rendezvous while Frosh had decoyed Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude into leaving the house in order to blow open the safe.
After learning that one of the double-crossed gang members had held up the Bijou in a car stolen from Izmir Motors, Malcolm Izmir had come to keep watch on the police’s activities near the crash scene. While there, he had spotted the Hardy boys, trailed them to Mrs. Lunberry’s home, and left the warning sign chalked under her window. Fontana had reported the Hardys’ attempt to talk to Zatta and this had led to the peddler’s kidnapping.
Izmir guessed that the boys might trace the green sedan and had had a fake call made to his sales manager so that Sykes would get rid of them. Izmir himself had been in the automobile showroom that day and had spotted the boys approaching. He had left by a rear door, and later had had Lemuel and Sinder lure them into the road trap.
Hoping for a lighter sentence, Izmir willingly identified all members of the Evil Eye gang. Two of them were the men who had tried to break into his estate.
“We should be able to round up the rest of them without too much trouble,” Collig said. “And that art dealer, Fontana, too.”
Mr. Hardy accompanied the police and their prisoners to headquarters. Frank and Joe, with Chet, drove off in their convertible. As they passed through the arched gateway, Joe remarked, “Boy, it sure was lucky we got the juice to the fence switched off in time!”
“Juice? What do you mean?” Chet queried.
When their stout friend learned of his narrow escape from the electrified fence, Chet’s face went white. “You mean ... you mean ...” He gulped and slumped back on the seat.
“Good grief! Chet’s fainted!” Joe cried out.
Frank winked and said sadly, “Too bad Chet had to pass out. I was all set to buy him all the banana splits he could put away.”
Chet’s eyes opened and he sat up indignantly. “Well, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say so?” he complained.
Joe grinned. “No more rugged diets, eh pal?”
“You said it! And no more getting mixed up in any dangerous Hardy cases!”
But this resolution of Chet’s was soon to be forgotten when Frank and Joe were confronted with THE SECRET WARNING.
“Come on!” Chet urged. “My mouth’s dry as cotton. Let’s get over to the Hot Rocket!”
The Secret Warning (Hardy Boys #17)
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
A Ghost Walks
A
LOUD ring of the doorbell startled the Hardy boys as they sat watching a TV mystery. Joe tuned down the volume. "Who could that be at this time of night?" the blond, seventeen-year-old youth wondered aloud.
"Maybe a client of Dad’s. It can’t be Mom and Aunt Gertrude—they have a key." Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother, got up and strode to the door.
A telegraph messenger was standing on the front porch. "Cablegram for Fenton Hardy."
Frank signed for the message and took it back to the living room. "For Dad," he reported. "Coming from overseas, this may be urgent."
"We’d better open it," Joe suggested.
Frank slit the yellow envelope and read the contents. "Good grief!" he exclaimed. " ‘Beware the Pharaoh’s head. Doom to all who seek it!"’
"The Pharaoh’s head? What does that mean?"
Frank shrugged. "Search me."
"Well, who sent it?"
"I don’t know that, either," Frank said, perplexed. "There’s no name on the message, but it came from Cairo, Egypt."
Joe took the cablegram, studied it intently, then hurried out to the hallway telephone and called the local telegraph office. When he hung up, he frowned in puzzlement.
Frank, coming into the hall, queried, "What did they say?"
"The message was received just that way—unsigned. Apparently there’s no rule requiring a sender to include his name."
"I think we’d better contact Dad right away," Frank decided.
Fenton Hardy, formerly a detective in the New York City Police Department, had retired to the seaside town of Bayport and soon had become nationally known as a crack private investigator. His two sons, Frank and Joe, who had inherited their father’s sleuthing talents, often helped out on his cases.
The boys hurried upstairs to switch on the powerful short-wave radio in the detective’s study. Mr. Hardy always carried a compact transceiver in order to be able to communicate with his home in cases of emergency.
Frank beamed out the usual code call repeatedly. But the only response was a jumble of static.
"He must be away from his hotel, or wherever he’s staying," Joe said.
"Could be." Frank glanced at the window as a flash of lightning brought an extra loud crackle from the speaker. "Or maybe we’re not getting through. That storm brewing out there may be interfering with our transmission."
After a few more minutes, the boys gave up for the time being and went back downstairs. A loud clap of thunder sounded as they reached the living room.
"Boy, looks as if we’re in for a real cloudburst," Frank remarked anxiously. "I sure hope Mom and Aunt Gertrude don’t get caught in it."
He was about to resume his seat in front of the television when he heard Joe gasp.
"Thought I saw something at the window."
Frank stared quizzically at his brother. "You mean a person—or what?"
"I don’t know," Joe said. "It was just a fleeting impression. May have been my imagination. Is the prowler alarm on?"
"Not yet. Mom said to leave it off till they got home." Frank added with a grin, "You know Aunt Gertrude—she’d really pin our ears back if the alarm system went off just as they were coming up to the house."
Joe chuckled as he imagined his tall, peppery aunt’s reaction to being caught in a blaze of floodlights, accompanied by a shattering alarm signal. "Think I’ll take a look outside, anyhow," he told Frank. "It won’t hurt to make sure."
Joe was just starting into the hallway when the doorbell rang. "Now what?" he muttered as he switched on the porch light. He yanked open the front door. A man stood clutching a cane. He wore a felt hat and Navy officer’s raincoat.
"Captain Early! Welcome aboard, sir!"
The man’s ruddy, weather-beaten face broke into a wide grin. "Howdy, Joe!" He saluted and gave the boy’s hand a brisk squeeze as he limped inside.
Hearing their voices, Frank hurried to greet the visitor. "Dad will be sorry he missed you," he said as they shook hands.
Captain Phil "Pearly" Early was an old friend of the Hardys. Now retired, he lived alone in a house on the coast, north of Barmet Bay, and devoted his time to writing books on sea lore.
"I probably should have phoned," the captain apologized, "but I had to come to Bayport on an errand, anyhow, so I took a chance." He doffed his hat and coat, revealing a crisp gray crew cut and a slight but wiry build.
As Joe took his things, there came the sudden sound of a drenching downpour. Rain pelted the roof and splattered against the windows.
"You got here just in time," Frank said.
Captain Early nodded and tapped his thigh. "Hurricane weather. My game leg always tells me when we’re in for a blow." His ruddy face turned serious. "By the way, did you boys just have a visitor?"
Frank shook his head. "No, sir. Why?"
"When my taxi drew up here, I saw a man standing just outside the hedge around your grounds. He darted off as the headlights beamed on him."
Joe exchanged a quick, startled glance with his brother. "What did he look like?"
"Rather odd," said Captain Early. "I suppose that’s really why I mentioned him. He had a black cloak or coat, a bushy red beard, and—well, something strange about the eyes."
The boys escorted their visitor into the living room. As Frank turned off the TV, Captain Early asked, "You fellows home alone?"
"We are just now," Joe replied. "Mom and Aunt Gertrude have gone to a concert." Seeing the captain’s thoughtful frown, he added, "Did you want to see Dad, sir?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. But I might as well put the case in your hands."
Frank settled eagerly into a chair. "You have a mystery you want investigated?"
The captain nodded as he filled his pipe. "Doesn’t amount to much, probably, but all the same I’d like to know what’s behind it. Twice recently, my house has been broken into at night."
"Was anything stolen?" Joe inquired.
"No, because both times I woke up and scared the intruder off." The first time, Captain Early related, his study had been ransacked. On the second occasion, the burglar had come into his bedroom.
"Did you see him well enough to give us a description?" put in Frank.
"No, I hardly saw him at all. By the time I switched on the light, he was out the window and away over the back porch roof."
"When did this happen?" Joe asked.
"The first time was on Friday, and the second attempt was just last night—Sunday."
Frank said, "Any idea what the thief was after?"
"None at all. I never keep any large amount of money in the house." Captain Early puffed on his pipe for a moment. "Incidentally, I’ve had a strange feeling of being followed several times lately—including tonight on my way to Bayport. But that may be pure bosh."
Again the boys exchanged glances. Captain Early, with his brilliant war record, was certainly not a man given to fearful flights of imagination.
"Jumpin’ Jupiter, you really have given us a mystery to work on," said Joe. "Have you told the police about the break-ins?"
"Yes, but naturally there wasn’t much they could do, except check for fingerprints—and there weren’t any."
"Look," Frank said. "We were trying to contact Dad earlier on another matter. Suppose I try again."
Leaving Joe to entertain their guest, Frank hurried to the short-wave set in their father’s study. This time, his code call brought an immediate response. Mr. Hardy, speaking from Philadelphia, explained that he and his operative, Sam Radley, had just returned to their hotel.
When Frank mentioned the mysterious cablegram, the sleuth reacted with keen interest. "That message relates to the case we’re working on, son, and it could provide an important lead. I’ll fill you and Joe in on all the details as soon as I return."
Next, Frank told about Captain Early’s visit.
"Hmm. Certainly sounds as if something more is involved than an ordinary case of breaking and entering," Mr. Hardy said. "But there’s not much I can do from here. You and Joe will have to handle it for the time being. Say, there is one thing you can do for me."
"Yes, Dad?"
"Ask Captain Early what he knows about the legend of Whalebone Island."
Mystified, Frank signed off and returned to the living room. At the mention of Whalebone Island, Captain Early’s ruddy face paled.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "It can’t be!"
"What’s wrong, sir?" Frank asked.
The Navy man hesitated before replying. "Whalebone Island, as you probably know, lies off the coast, south of here. In colonial days it was the hideout of a ruthless pirate named Red Rogers. Of course you’ve heard the term ‘Jolly Roger’?"
Frank said, "The skull and crossbones?"
"Right. And the same name was sometimes given to Red Rogers because of his bloodthirsty sense of humor."
Captain Early went on slowly, "Red Rogers always wore a black cloak and had a bushy red beard and a scar which pulled down the corner of one eye."
"Wow!" Joe gasped. "Just like that fellow you saw outside tonight!"
Captain Early nodded. "Exactly. After Rogers was killed in a sea fight, the island was pretty much avoided. In fact, it was said to be haunted."
At that moment the captain’s story was interrupted by a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening clap of thunder which seemed to shake the whole house. A second later the darkness outside was lit up by a blinding flash of lightning.
"Look!" Joe yelled and pointed.
A red-bearded figure in a black cloak was peering through the window!


A ghostly figure was peering through the window! 

CHAPTER II
Close Combat
T
HE lightning flickered out, and the ghostly figure was gone almost instantly. Frank and Joe leaped to their feet and rushed to the front door, followed by Captain Early hobbling on his cane.
Ignoring the gusty torrents of rain, the boys dashed out into the stormy darkness and around the corner of the house. Not a soul was in sight. The Hardys separated to search the whole yard, but even when another jagged flash of lightning lit up the night with daylike brilliance they could see no sign of the figure which had appeared at the window.
"It’s hopeless!" Frank groaned. "Let’s get back inside before we drown!"
Drenched to the skin, the brothers changed into dry clothes before resuming their conversation with Captain Early.
"Did anyone live on Whalebone Island in those old days that you were telling us about?" Frank asked.
"No, except for fishermen who camped there overnight or put up temporary huts from time to time. I suppose the stories of ghosts on the island may have arisen because members of Red Rogers’ crew were said to be returning there secretly."
"Maybe to dig up buried treasure!" put in Joe.
"Possibly," the Navy man agreed with a smile. "Or fugitives from the law may have hidden there occasionally. At any rate, the spooky legends of Jolly Roger and his cutthroats finally died out, and sometime in the eighteen-hundreds a lighthouse was erected on Whalebone Island. Then, in the closing days of World War II, a lighthouse keeper there named Tang went out of his mind."
"How come?" Frank asked.
Captain Early gave a shrug. "He claimed the island was being haunted again by Red Rogers’ ghost. More likely, he’d just cracked up under the loneliness and isolation, I suppose. Anyhow, soon after that the lighthouse was closed down."
"Because of what happened to Tang?" Joe asked.
"No, no. The equipment was outdated and a new light, much more powerful, had been built on Dory Point to serve that same general coastal area."
"What’s on the island now?" Frank inquired.
"Nothing. It’s abandoned as far as I know."
The brothers were greatly intrigued. Any hint of mystery attracted them, and many times had plunged them into exciting sleuthing adventures. One of their first had been locating The Tower Treasure. Recently, they had successfully uncovered the secret of A Figure in Hiding.
Captain Early tucked his pipe into his pocket. "Well, boys, it’s been a pleasant visit, but I’d better be starting back. As a matter of fact, this is far later than I intended to linger in town."
The navy officer explained that he had had motor trouble while driving to Bayport. "I had to call for a tow car from a garage. That’s why I arrived here by taxi. By the way, may I use your phone?"
"Of course. Help yourself," Frank replied.
The captain checked with the garage and hung up, frowning. "Drat the luck, my car needs a new distributor, and they can’t get one till morning."
Frank and Joe immediately urged Captain Early to stay overnight. Grateful but embarrassed, he accepted. Frank showed the captain to the first-floor guest room and laid out pajamas and bathrobe, while Joe wrote a note to his mother and aunt telling them about the unexpected overnight guest. He stuck it on the hall mirror.
Then the boys went upstairs to bed, leaving only a hallway light burning for their mother and Aunt Gertrude. Soon the household was dark and silent, except for the steady patter of the rain.
Some time later Frank awoke with a start. From below came confused sounds, topped by a shrill angry voice and punctuated by the sudden clash of china being broken. The latter noise roused Joe.
"Good night!" he muttered. "What’s going on?"
"That’s Aunt Gertrude’s voice!" Frank exclaimed. "Come on! We’d better get down there!"
The boys dashed downstairs, almost colliding with their slim, attractive mother, who was on her way up.
"What’s wrong, Mom?" Joe cried out.
"G-g-goodness, I hardly know!" Mrs. Hardy stammered. "Somebody peeked out of our guest room as we entered the house, and Aunt Gertrude went after him."
Gulping with dismay, Frank and Joe ran to the scene of combat.
"Take that, you scoundrel!" they heard Aunt Gertrude shriek. "I’ll teach you to break into houses."
Frank groped for the wall switch and instantly the guest room was ablaze with light. Captain Early was backing toward a closet, striving to protect himself, while the boys’ tall, angular maiden aunt poked at him with her wet umbrella.
"Aunt Gertrude! Please!" Frank exclaimed. "This is Captain Early—our guest!"
"Oh, my goodness, it is!" said Aunt Gertrude, adjusting her spectacles. "Why on earth didn’t you say so?"
"Madam, I’ve been trying to," the captain replied, slipping into his bathrobe.
He explained that when he had heard footsteps in the hall, he thought it might have been the intruder they had seen at the window.
"So I peered out the door," he said, "and—wham!" Then, to the relief of the Hardys, Captain Early burst into hearty laughter. Even the women had to chuckle at his predicament, and when Joe mentioned the note on the mirror, Miss Hardy confessed she had not seen it.
When the hilarity quieted down, the captain had tea with his hosts before retiring again.
The next morning at breakfast time, the doorbell rang in loud, persistent spurts.
"I’ll get it," said Frank, rising from the table and hurrying to the front door.
The caller was a large, burly man with iron-gray hair. "Where’s Fenton Hardy?" he demanded roughly.
"My father’s not home," said Frank. "May I—" 
"Get out of my way!" The man shoved him aside and started into the house.
Frank reacted angrily. "Wait a minute!" he said, grabbing the man’s arm. "Just who are you and what do you want?"
The man’s jaw jutted. "You’ll find out—and mighty soon!"
The two might have come to blows, if the sounds of their altercation had not reached the dining room. Joe came hurrying to see what was wrong, the captain limping after him.
At sight of the Navy man, the visitor stopped short. His threatening snarl changed to a sullen scowl. For a moment there was dead silence, then the stranger muttered to Frank:
"You tell Fenton Hardy that if Gus Bock ever finds him, he’s in for trouble!"
Without another word, the visitor turned and stalked out the door.

CHAPTER III
Mystery Map
B
OTH the Hardys and Captain Early were too taken aback to speak for a moment.
"What the dickens was that all about?" Joe said finally.
"This man wanted to see Dad about something and got sore when I said he wasn’t home." Frank turned to the captain. "The sight of you seemed to quiet him, sir. Do you know him?"
Captain Early shook his head slowly. "No. He did look a bit familiar, but I can’t seem to place him—Wait a minute."
Suddenly the Navy man snapped his fingers. "Gus Bock! Of course! He was a bos’n third on the last destroyer I commanded. Always did have an ugly temper. Had him up before the mast many times. Believe I heard later he was court-martialed for threatening an officer."
"Any idea what he’s doing now?" asked Joe.
"Hmm. Well, I know he put in for frogman training—he and another young chap who served under me on the Svenson. And much later I heard he was working as a commercial diver—but that was several years ago."
"Wonder what he has against Dad," Joe mused.
"Nothing serious, I hope," said Captain Early. "That fellow’s a bad customer."
"Dad can take care of himself," Frank said confidently. "Let’s go finish our breakfast. Sorry for the interruption, Captain."
Their aunt peered at the boys inquisitively as they returned to the table. When neither spoke, she said, "Sounded like some troublemaker. Who was he?"
Frank and Joe assumed blank, innocent expressions. Although their aunt would never admit it, she secretly followed the Hardys’ mystery cases with avid interest, and both boys could see that she was consumed with curiosity over the caller.
"Just someone to see Dad," Frank said casually.
"I assumed that. I asked who he was."
"He said his name was Gus Bock."
Miss Hardy fixed Frank with a gimlet stare, then turned to Joe. The boys’ eyes were twinkling. Captain Early ahem-ed awkwardly.
"Oh, very well. The matter’s of no real concern to me." Gertrude Hardy sniffed. "But if anything serious happens as a result of that fellow’s call, don’t come to me later for advice or sympathy!"
The boys choked with laughter, and Frank hastened to explain all to his offended aunt. When he had finished, she commented, "Humph! So Bock is a diver. That probably means your father is on the trail of some sunken treasure, and Bock is trying to scare him off. This modern underwater craze is entirely too dangerous, anyhow. If Fenton is wise, he’ll have nothing to do with the case."
With a slight smile, the boys’ mother gently changed the subject. After breakfast Joe suggested to his brother that they check outside for footprints of the person they had seen in front of the window the night before. As they expected, however, the few faint traces had been all but obliterated by the rain.
"Tough luck," Frank said. "Well, at least the storm’s over and the sun’s out. Hey, here comes the mail!"
The postman was just ambling up the walk with his leather pouch. He greeted the boys with a cheery hello and handed over a sheaf of letters. Joe thumbed through them.
"Anything for me?" Frank asked.
"No. Just ads, mostly, and business stuff for Dad." Suddenly Joe stopped to stare at one envelope. "Say, here’s a queer one—Leapin’ lizards! Look at the sender’s name on this, Frank!"
The older boy examined the envelope. It was addressed to Fenton Hardy in crudely printed, red-inked letters. Far more startling was the sender’s name and address in the upper left-hand corner:
R. ROGERS WHALEBONE ISLAND
"Good night!" Frank gasped. "The same name as the pirate Captain Early told us about!"
"Whose ghost we saw at the window!" Joe added. "And don’t forget, Dad wanted to know about the legend of Whalebone Island. This may tie in with the case he’s working on!"
"It’s postmarked Seaview," Frank noted. "That’s the town on the mainland right across from the island. Come on, Joe. Let’s try to raise Dad on the radio!"
The two hurried to their father’s study. By luck, they were able to make short-wave contact almost at once. Fenton Hardy listened to their account of the previous night’s events and exclaimed when he heard of the letter.
"Go ahead and open it, boys! This should be interesting!"
Joe slit the envelope and pulled out a rumpled, stained piece of paper. Both boys gasped when they saw what was on it.
"It’s a map of Whalebone Island, Dad!" Joe reported. "No writing, except for the label—and a red X mark at one spot!"
"Any indication of what the mark stands for?"
"Not a hint. But if you want a guess, how about pirate treasure?"
"Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "For all we know, this map may be a fake—or somebody’s idea of a practical joke."
"Could be," Mr. Hardy agreed, "but I think it should be investigated—promptly. Tell me, were you two planning to go back with Captain Early to check his house for clues?"
"Yes, Dad," Joe said. "He’s downstairs telephoning the garage to see when his car’ll be ready."
"All right, here’s a suggestion. You fellows cruise along the coast in the Sleuth, and then proceed on to Whalebone Island. I’ll meet you there this evening."
"Swell! You’ve got a date, Dad!"
After signing off, the boys hurried downstairs to inform their mother. Captain Early was just hanging up the telephone.
"They have the distributor and the car will be ready in half an hour," he said.
"That’s great," Frank remarked. "Joe and I will drive you to the garage and then take our motorboat to your place. We’re going to meet Dad later on Whalebone Island."
The boys hastily packed some supplies and camping gear in the trunk of their convertible, amid a stream of advice and dire warnings of pirate peril from Aunt Gertrude. A short time later they drove off with Captain Early to the repair garage on the outskirts of Bayport.
"Ah, there’s my car! Must be all set," said the captain, pointing to a blue sedan parked on the adjoining cinder lot.
After dropping their guest, the boys drove to the Bayport harbor. They parked and locked the convertible. Then, shouldering their camping equipment, they headed for the boathouse where the Sleuth was berthed.
As they neared the waterfront, a sleek, bright red motorboat came put-putting up to the pier.
"Hey, that’s the Napoli!" Joe exclaimed. "Hi, Chet! Hi, Tony!"
Dumping their gear on the boardwalk for the moment, the Hardys hurried out to greet their two friends. Tony Prito, at the wheel of his craft, was an agile, dark-haired youth. His passenger, stowing away some tackle, was Chet Morton, chubby-faced and solidly built.
"How was the fishing?" Frank called.
Tony turned thumbs down. "Terrible!"
"We didn’t catch a thing," Chet added, climbing out on the dock. "And I had my mouth all set for some nice broiled bass for lunch, too!"
"Pretty sad, pal." Joe grinned and patted the stout boy’s midriff. "But think of the pounds you’ve saved!"
Before Chet could protest, Joe said, "Look! How would you fellows like to come with us on a search for pirate treasure?"
Tony swung eagerly up onto the pier. "You kidding?"
"See for yourself," said Joe, taking out the map.
Chet stared at it, round-eyed. "Whalebone Island! Is this really on the level?"
"The map came through the mail," Frank explained. "We don’t know anything about it, but we want to find out."
Tony, whose father owned a construction business, hesitated, then shook his head. "I’d sure like to come, but my dad needs me to drive the truck."
"Well, I’m game," said Chet. "Let’s hear the whole story."
"We’ll tell you on the way," Joe promised.
Chet sped home to the Morton farmhouse in his jalopy to get some items of clothing and supplies. By the time he returned, the Hardys had fueled the Sleuth and were ready to shove off.
"Okay, now fill me in," Chet demanded as they cruised out across the calm, blue waters of Barmet Bay.
Frank scratched his head and shot a glance at Joe. "Where should we begin?"
"Let’s start with us seeing the Jolly Rogers’ ghost last night," Joe suggested mischievously. "You see, Chet, he haunts Whalebone Island."
"H-h-haunts?" Chet paled a bit and he looked from Frank to Joe, hoping for signs of a joke. "I knew there was some catch to this. But go on."
As the story unfolded, Chet gulped and grew more nervous. His enthusiasm for the expedition seemed to be fading fast.
"Oh boy, this is just great," he complained. "Not only a ghost, but probably crooks too, if this is connected with some case your father’s working on! Why is it that every time I get mixed up with you Hardys, I run smack into—"
At that moment a familiar voice crackled from the speaker of the Sleuth’s short-wave marine radio. "Aunt Gertrude calling Frank and Joe! You must come home at once!"

CHAPTER IV
Danger Signal
F
RANK seized the microphone. "Sleuth to Elm Street! What’s wrong, Aunt Gertrude?" He added with a sudden pang of fear, "Has anything happened to Mother?"
"To Laura? Certainly not!" Miss Hardy snapped. "Your mother’s right here in the house with me. In fact, she was the one who found it."
"Found what?"
"Captain Early’s cane."
"Captain Early’s cane?" Frank repeated, mystified. "But he took his cane with him."
"He took a cane with him," Miss Hardy corrected. "Your father’s walking stick, to be exact—the one Fenton had to use last month when he sprained his ankle."
"You mean the captain got them switched somehow?"
"Of course. What else would I mean? Your father slept in that room when he couldn’t get up and down stairs—don’t you remember? His stick was hanging on the back of a chair in there. It’s that rough, knobbly brown wood, so I suppose it was easy for the captain to confuse it with his own carved cane."
"Especially with all the excitement in there last night," Frank muttered, grinning.
"What was that?"
"Er, nothing, Aunty."
Joe gave his brother an exasperated look. "Nuts! Do we have to go back, Frank? We’ll lose at least an hour."
Frank thought for a moment. "No, I guess not." He spoke into the microphone. "Aunt Gertrude —the switch in canes isn’t important if the captain himself didn’t notice any difference. We can take the cane to him some time later or even send it."
"Humph. Well, suit yourself. At least I’ve informed you of his mistake."
The Sleuth cruised on out of Barmet Bay into the sweeping rollers of the Atlantic, then turned northward along the coast. It was nearing one o’clock when the boys finally sighted Captain Early’s snug white villa perched on a bluff, amid a grove of gigantic, silvery-green poplar trees.
At the foot of the bluff was a wooden dock, to which the captain’s motor cruiser was moored. As the boys brought the Sleuth alongside and tied up, the captain emerged from the villa and waved excitedly.
The trio scrambled onto the dock and hurried up the flight of stone steps which led from the beach to the villa.
Captain Early greeted the boys hastily and acknowledged the introduction to Chet with a quick handshake.
"By the way," Frank added, "we had a radio call from Aunt Gertrude saying you left your cane at our house and took—"
"Yes, yes, I’ve already discovered my mistake," Captain Early cut in. "But something more important has happened. Please come inside!"
The boys stepped into the comfortably furnished front room and saw at a glance the reason for their host’s disturbance. Books had been yanked from shelves, drawers pulled out of an antique writing table, and a painting plucked down to expose a small wall safe—the door of which hung open.
"Wow!" Joe gasped.
"As you see, the place was ransacked," said Captain Early. "The study and my bedroom upstairs seem to have gotten an extra-thorough going-over."
He led the boys to the various other rooms to show them the havoc.
"Have you taken inventory yet to see what’s missing?" Frank asked.
"Just a hasty one. But that’s what’s so strange—apparently the burglar took nothing."
"What do you keep in the house that is of value?" Joe put in.
The captain gave a perplexed shrug. "Can’t think of anything, really, except the silver—and that wasn’t touched. Of course there are notes and manuscripts of books that I’m working on. But they’d hardly be of value to anyone except me."
Frank said, "What about the safe?"
"Just personal papers, diaries, documents—such as my will—and two insurance policies. I had the combination jotted down in a notebook in my desk."
Joe, who had brought along the Hardys’ detective kit, looked at his brother. "Let’s try for some prints."
The two young sleuths dusted a number of spots in several rooms, but the only fresh prints were found to belong either to Captain Early or to Mrs. Calhoun, his part-time maid who came in on Tuesdays and Fridays.
"I’d say it’s pretty obvious that the intruder wore gloves," Frank concluded.
"Well, thanks anyhow for your efforts," said the captain. "At least the fellow didn’t leave me any poorer."
"This may be locking the barn after the horse is stolen, sir," said Frank, "but it might be a good idea to install a burglar alarm, or at least get a watchdog—just in case the intruder comes again."
"Hmm. Good suggestion." Captain Early nodded. "Meantime, how about some lunch?"
Chet brightened immediately. "Sure thing, sir, if you insist!"
The boys enjoyed plump lamb chops served by Mrs. Calhoun, and listened with keen interest to the captain’s exciting sea yarns.
"By the way," said Captain Early as he sat back and filled his pipe, "a rather odd thing happened this morning."
"After we left you?"
"Yes. On the way home, my car ran out of gas."
Chet paused in polishing off the last morsels of lemon meringue pie. "That’s happened to my jalopy three times. I found out my gas gauge was stuck."
"Well, there’s nothing wrong with my gauge," said the captain. "The needle showed empty. But it happens that I filled up yesterday, so there should have been quite a bit of gasoline still left in the tank."
"Sure your tank wasn’t leaking?" Joe inquired.
"Positive. I checked that later."
The Hardys exchanged puzzled glances. Their father had taught them to disregard no possible clue, however slight, when working on a mystery.
"What happened, sir?" said Frank. "I mean after you ran out of gas."
"Oh, no trouble, luckily. I was picked up almost immediately by a motorist who gave me a lift to the next gas station. Then one of the station hands drove me back in a tow truck with a can of gas."
Frank’s forehead creased thoughtfully. "If the garage mechanic parked your car on the outside lot overnight, someone could have drained most of the gas."
"Why should anyone do that?"
"I don’t know. But it might have been done to give someone a chance to get at your car after you stalled and left it parked along the highway."
Joe objected. "That doesn’t add up. If someone was able to drain the tank during the night, he could have got at the car right then and there."
"Maybe he did, but couldn’t find what he was after," Frank argued. "Captain, when you went for gas, did you leave anything in the car that wasn’t in it last night?"
Captain Early shook his head. "No, nor can I think of anything valuable that I’d be likely to leave in the car at any time."
Another mystery—and again the Hardy boys had to confess they were baffled. However, Frank and Joe promised to continue work on the case after they returned from Whalebone Island.
Captain Early stumped down the stone stairs to the dock with the three Bayporters and waved good-by as the Sleuth headed on up the coast.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached the town of Seaview. The boys put in to a commercial dock to replenish their fuel, then turned seaward toward Whalebone Island, which lay about twenty miles offshore.
Dusk settled over the ocean and a few stars came out.
Presently the vague mass of Whalebone Island loomed ahead through the darkness. The tower of its old stone lighthouse stood out against the velvety purple sky.
"Where do we land?" Chet inquired.
"Dad said there’s a little natural cove or harbor around on the southern side," Joe replied. "He’s going to meet us there on the beach."
Suddenly a red glow flashed from the lighthouse tower. It disappeared—to be followed by two shorter blinks, then others. The boys were startled.
"That’s no ordinary light!" said Chet. "Red means danger!"
"It’s a code signal," Frank murmured. He spelled out the letters of the message as they were flashed in Morse blinker:
D-A-N G-E R! K-E-E-P A-W-A-Y H-A-R-D-Y-S!

GHAPTER V
The Golden Pharaoh
A
WESTRUCK by the weird red-light signals, the boys sat hunched in their seats as the Sleuth plowed onward through the darkness toward Whalebone Island. Joe was the first to break their stunned silence.
"I don’t get it. Was that meant as a warning for us to stay away from the island—or an order to someone to keep us away?"
"What’s the difference?" moaned Chet. "Either way, we’re asking for trouble if we go ahead and land at that spooky place!"
Joe—who knew his friend’s sterling qualities could be depended upon in a tight spot—reached out and gave Chet a reassuring whack. "Relax, Strongheart!" Joe chuckled. "A spook wouldn’t stand a chance against a beefy bruiser like you!"
"Oh, no? Well, I still vote we head back to the mainland."
"Take it easy," Frank said soothingly. "Remember, Dad will be on the island to meet us."
The Hardys knew, from the mystery map and their chart, that Whalebone Island was shaped like a crescent. It curved from southwest to northeast, with the outward bulge to the north. Frank steered for the southern horn of the crescent. As the splash of breakers told him they were nearing land, he cut the engine and allowed the Sleuth to drift the rest of the way to shore.
An eerie silence lay over the island. It was broken only by the faint sighing of the night breeze and the sounds of the surf. When they had reached the shallows, Joe kicked off his sneakers and climbed over the side to help beach the boat among some reeds.
When they were safely ashore, Chet said, "Now what?"
"We’ll cut across the tip of the island to the cove," Frank said, "and meet Dad."
The boys made their way over a ridge of dunes, topped by scrub. On the other side lay the inward curve of the crescent, indented by a sheltered cove near the center. A small blaze flickered on the beach.
"Dad’s campfire!" Joe exclaimed.
The boys hurried along the shore, but as they came closer, they could see no one at the fire. Vaguely alarmed, they broke into a sprint, forgetting all caution.
Reaching the campfire, they saw that a stoutly built boat with an outboard motor had been drawn up on the sand. Near the fire lay a sleeping bag, supplies, cooking utensils, and a short-wave transceiver.
"That’s Dad’s radio!" said Frank.
The boys stared about through the darkness. If Mr. Hardy was concealed among the scattered trees and brush, he gave no sign of his presence. Joe gave the Hardys’ special whistle, and repeated it several times, but there was no reply.
"Hey! Maybe he saw those signals and went to the lighthouse to investigate," Joe said in a hushed voice.
"Perhaps he sent the signals himself to warn us away," Chet conjectured.
"Could be," said Frank. "We’d better go there and take a look."
The brothers had brought powerful flashlights, but used them as little as possible in making their way across the island. The terrain was humped with low hills, fringed with patches of stunted oak and pine. At the northern horn of the crescent, the land rose to a rocky eminence topped by the Whalebone Light.
Cautiously the trio approached the forbidding stone tower, trying to keep their feet from scrunching on the grit and gravel. Frank tried the door, then pushed it open. Something blocked it partway—an obstruction that yielded slightly as he shoved harder.
Frank inserted his head and right shoulder into the opening and switched on his flashlight. "Dad!" he cried out.
Joe squeezed in behind his brother, and Chet followed. The beam of Frank’s flashlight revealed the figure of Mr. Hardy sprawled on the concrete floor. A thin trickle of red from his scalp had clotted across the left temple.
"Somebody knocked him out!" Frank said worriedly.
The three squatted down anxiously and Frank checked his father’s pulse. It was beating strongly. Joe hurried outside, scrambled down to the water’s edge, and returned a few moments later with his handkerchief soaked with cold brine. After the boys had applied it to their father’s forehead and chafed his wrists, Mr. Hardy began to revive.
"Joe—Frank—Hi, Chet." The detective gave them a rueful smile, then slowly raised himself to a sitting position.
"What happened, Dad?" asked Frank.
Mr. Hardy frowned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Let me see—Oh, yes, those red-light signals from the tower here."
"We saw ’em too!" declared Chet.


"Somebody knocked out Dad!" Frank said worriedly
"So did I—from my campsite on the other side of the island," Mr. Hardy went on slowly. "I came over to investigate, entered this doorway, and—wham!"
"How do you feel now?" Joe inquired.
"Not too bad, except for this throbbing lump. Lucky for me I have a thick skull."
The boys helped Fenton Hardy to his feet, then began a search of the tower. They checked every floor, up to the lantern room, but the assailant had vanished. Warily, the detective and the three youths tramped back across the island to his camp on the cove.
The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers. After it had been replenished with drift-wood and dry brush, Frank showed his father the cablegram from Egypt and the map which had been sent through the mail by "R. Rogers."
"What’s this Pharaoh’s head you’re supposed to beware of, Dad?" asked Joe.
"It’s a solid gold bust of the Egyptian Pharaoh, or Emperor, Rhamaton IV—valued at one million dollars."
Chet let out an awed whistle. "A million bucks! Wow! Where is this head, Mr. Hardy?"
"A good question, Chet," the detective replied wryly. "I’d better start at the beginning. About two weeks ago, a freighter named the Katawa sank off the coast. Maybe you fellows recall hearing about it in the news. Several of the crew, including the purser, drowned."
"It was rammed in a fog by some cruise liner, wasn’t it?" said Frank.
"That’s right—by the Carona. Well, the spot where the freighter went down is just a couple of miles north of Whalebone Island."
Mr. Hardy explained that the Katawa had been carrying not only cargo, but also a dozen passengers—one of them a foreign art dealer named Zufar, who had boarded the ship at Beirut in the Middle East.
"Zufar was bringing the golden Pharaoh’s head with him," the detective continued, "to sell to a customer in New York. And the head was allegedly in the ship’s strong room when the Katawa sank. Zufar has lodged a claim with Transmarine Underwriters, the line’s insurance company, for a million dollars."
"The news stories on the sinking never mentioned the Pharaoh’s head, did they?" Joe asked.
"No. As a security precaution, Zufar had purposely avoided any publicity about the treasure, and since the sinking, the line has also tried to keep the matter out of the news for the same reason."
"You said the head was allegedly in the ship’s strong room," said Frank. "Is there some doubt about it?"
"That’s where the mystery comes in, and that’s why Transmarine has engaged me to investigate the case," Mr. Hardy replied. "They’ve been tipped off that a gold head of Rhamaton IV is secretly being offered for sale."
"Was the tip on the level?" Joe asked.
"So far we don’t know. I’ve been checking it out, but may not know the answer until divers get at the Katawa’s strong room. Meantime, the tip brings up a number of interesting possibilities."
"Right," Frank said. "The head being offered for sale might be a fake. Either that, or the one that went down with the Katawa was a phony."
Mr. Hardy smiled at the rapid-fire deductions, as Joe added, "Maybe the treasure already has been salvaged from the sunken hulk."
Chet joined in. "Hey! The head might not have been on the ship at all!"
"Exactly," said Mr. Hardy. "It may have been filched from the Katawa back in Beirut—or even in Le Havre, France, where she stopped before the crossing to New York."
Frank grinned and inquired, "How come you were so interested in the legend of Whalebone Island, Dad?"
"Because I have a feeling it may tie in with this case." Fenton Hardy stirred up the fire, adding, "Before we do any more talking, let’s have another look at that map."
Joe handed him the paper.
"Hmm. The X mark appears to lie between two hills directly back of this cove," said the detective.
Frank bent close to peer at the map. "And these trees form a sort of arrowhead triangle pointing right at the spot."
Mr. Hardy rubbed his jaw. "I’m wondering if we should investigate now or wait until morning. I’d feel a lot better knowing who knocked me out —and just where he’s lurking."
"If you ask me, that’s a good reason for checking out the X mark right now," said Joe. "Suppose something valuable is stashed there, Dad. The person who conked you may be after it—and he might just snatch it during the night."
"You have a point there, son," the detective conceded. "Very well. If you’re all willing, let’s go look."
Dousing their campfire, the group headed inland. Beyond the screen of trees sheltering the cove, the ground rose slightly, then flattened again amid a tangle of brush that made their going difficult in the darkness.
Presently Frank halted and touched his father’s arm. "Look! Those must be the three trees, Dad!"
His beam, moving back and forth, showed three scrubby trees, positioned like the points of a triangle.
Mr. Hardy nodded. "No doubt about it. Those humps on the skyline up ahead are two shallow hills."
The four advanced cautiously past the trees. In a few moments they came to the brink of a steep ravine, cupped between the hills.
They began clambering down the slope into the gully. Joe shifted his flashlight to his left hand in order to seize hold of some underbrush and steady his descent. As the yellow beam veered toward the left bank of the ravine, he let out a sudden startled yell.
"Look! There’s somebody!".
The others turned hastily, but the figure had darted out of sight.
"Where did he go?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Among that shrubbery. I didn’t get a good look, but he—"
Joe’s words were drowned out by a terrific blast! The left wall of the ravine exploded with a shattering force!

CHAPTER VI
A Madman’s Scrawl
T
HE blast knocked the sleuths flat against the bank of the ravine as fragments of rock and earth showered down upon them.
"Are you all right, boys?" gasped Fenton Hardy.
Three voices reassured him. Frank lay on his flashlight, and when he pulled it free, the beam still shone. Joe’s light had been buried somewhere in the debris.
"Whew!" Chet gulped as he struggled upright. "Feels like I just got creamed by a whole football line!"
"Let’s get out of here," Mr. Hardy said.
Shaking the dust from their clothes, the four clambered back up to level ground. Frank turned and shone his beam down into the ravine, the bottom of which was heaped with rubble.
"That fellow you saw, Joe—what did he look like?"
"I hardly had time to see his face at all," Joe replied, "but two things I did notice were—a red beard and a black cloak!"
Chet groaned. "The Jolly Roger ghost again!"
"I doubt if ghosts are capable of planting explosives," Mr. Hardy said dryly. "It was probably the same person who hit me."
"Think we should try to hunt him down, Dad?" asked Frank, aiming his flashlight beam toward the brush-covered hillside left of the ravine.
"No. We wouldn’t stand a chance of finding him in this darkness. Worse yet, we’d make easy targets. Better switch your light off, son."
"For that matter, we’d be sitting ducks around a campfire," Joe reasoned.
"True enough—which is why we’re not going to risk it," said Mr. Hardy. "Our safest bet is to hole up in the lighthouse until morning. After that, we can decide our next move."
Under cover of the darkness, the group made their way slowly northeast toward the Whalebone Lighthouse, using the dim outline of the tower as a direction guide.
Not until they reached the lighthouse did Joe realize that one of their party was missing.
"Hey! Where’s Chet?" he exclaimed, wheeling about.
All three Hardys peered back anxiously the way they had come. The glow of the misty half-moon, low in the sky, revealed no sign of Chet.
They exchanged glances of dismay. Had somebody bushwhacked Chet?
"Joe and I’ll go back and find him," Frank said.
"Not without me," their father replied.
Stealthy as Indians the trio began to retrace their steps. Frank and Joe moved along cautiously at their father’s side—sick with fear that at any moment they might discover their pal’s motionless body.
They had just reached a dense thicket of shrubbery near the ravine when a crackling noise caused them to halt abruptly.
"Hit the ground!" Mr. Hardy murmured. Silently the three sleuths flattened themselves in the brush.
The noise came closer and the form of a man materialized out of the gloom. Without hesitation, Joe hurled himself through the darkness. There was a grunt of impact, and as he butted against solid flesh, Joe felt a heavy stick swish past his ear and whack him hard on the shoulder. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs just as Frank snapped on a flashlight.
"Hey, what’s the big Idea! You guys trying to ambush me or something?"
"Chet!" Frank gasped.
Grinning ruefully, Joe got up while Frank helped Chet to his feet. Mr. Hardy was already retrieving several cans, a squashed loaf of bread, and other supplies which lay scattered over the ground.
"Where the dickens have you been, Chet?—as if we couldn’t guess," Frank said.
"And what’s the idea of trying to brain me with that stick?" Joe added.
"You think I’d be dopey enough to let that red-whiskered nut jump me, without being set for him?" Chet retorted.
Mr. Hardy found it difficult to restrain a smile. "Good for you, Chet—but you did have us pretty badly worried, disappearing like that without a word of explanation."
Chet gulped. "I was afraid you wouldn’t let me if I asked to go back for grub. But—well, gosh, how could we get through the whole night without something to eat? I haven’t had a thing since lunch."
Joe chuckled. "You put away enough lamb chops at Captain Early’s to hold you for a week!"
"Oh, yeah? I only had four of those little bitty things."
"All the same," said Mr. Hardy, putting on a straight face, "it was a foolish risk going back to the campfire after what happened."
"Oh, I didn’t go back there," Chet explained. "I got this stuff off the Sleuth."
"Okay, I guess we can all use some food," Frank said. "Now let’s make tracks for the lighthouse."
Although the Whalebone Light had been abandoned years before, the keeper’s living quarters still contained various furnishings—a battered table and chairs, a cast-iron stove, and a glass-chimneyed kerosene lamp. The storeroom below contained two rusty lanterns and several tins of oil and kerosene, evidently left behind for the use of stranded fishermen.
With the tower door securely barred behind them, the group soon cooked a tasty supper and fell to with keen appetites. Afterward, they sat around the table talking.
"Can you tell us more, Dad, of why you were interested in the legend of Whalebone Island?" said Frank.
"A good detective," Mr. Hardy replied, "should always be concerned when something odd happens at or near the scene of a case he’s investigating."
"You mean, something strange went on here before tonight?" Joe asked.
"Yes. Several days ago I saw an item in the newspaper about a fisherman who’d reported being scared out of his wits by the ghost of Whalebone Island when he put in one evening."
Frank said, "So you suspected that something funny might be going on here."
"Exactly. It seemed far more likely that the so-called ‘ghost’ might be someone who was using the circumstances of the legend as a cover-up for some secret activity—and also, of course, to scare people away from the island."
"What kind of secret stuff?" Chet asked.
"Somebody might be using the island as a base for diving operations to the Katawa."
"Which would explain why the golden Pharaoh’s head was secretly being offered for sale!" Joe declared.
"Not only that," said Mr. Hardy. "The Katawa’s hulk is vitally important for another reason. You see, there’s a fortune in lawsuits at stake over the losses and injuries suffered in the collision, particularly claims being brought by relatives of those who lost their lives."
"But how does that make the sunken hulk so important?" Joe questioned.
"The Katawa’s master claims his ship was stopped dead in the water after they picked up an approaching vessel on radar. If he’s right, Transmarine is free and clear of responsibility. But the captain of the Carona alleges that the Katawa was proceeding at full speed in spite of the fog—in which case Transmarine could be liable for several million dollars in damages, not even counting the loss of the gold Pharaoh’s head."
"And the answer lies aboard the sunken freighter?" put in Frank.
"Right—with the engine-room telegraph and tachometer," Mr. Hardy answered. "If the telegraph shows ‘Stop’ and the tachometer reads ‘Zero,’ the Katawa was not at fault. If they indicate full speed ahead, it’s a different story—a difference worth several million dollars."
Joe gave a low whistle. "Some difference!"
Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers. "That mention of diving reminds me, Dad—in all the excitement about the pirate map, we clean forgot to tell you about the visitor you had this morning!" He quickly described Gus Bock’s appearance at the Hardy home and the threat which the diver had uttered before leaving.
Mr. Hardy took the news calmly. "I think I have the answer to that." He explained that Transmarine Underwriters had asked him to run a security check on several competing diving companies before letting the contract to salvage the Katawa.
"Gus Bock," the sleuth went on, "is chief diver for an outfit called the Simon Salvage Company. They tried hard to get the contract, even put in a ridiculously low bid. But the company has a shady reputation. They’ve been involved in outright fights and several other unsavory incidents on salvage jobs, so I advised against them."
Instead, Mr. Hardy told the boys, he had recommended that the contract go to the Crux Diving Company. As a result, Gus Bock was no doubt out for revenge.
"How about what happened tonight?" Chet said, looking around the table uneasily. "Do you think Bock or Simon Salvage was behind that explosion in the ravine?"
"It’s a cinch the map was just bait to lure us there," Joe declared.
"I agree," said Fenton Hardy. "The real question is who sent it—and who has been posing as Red Rogers’ ghost."
"What’s our next move, Dad?" Frank asked.
"Come daylight, we’ll search the island for clues to the person who tried to kill us. After that, we’d all better return to the mainland. I have to get back to work with Sam Radley, tracing that tip on the Pharaoh’s head."
Next morning, while Chet Morton and Mr. Hardy were preparing breakfast, Frank and Joe started up the winding stairway of the tower to check the lamp room for possible traces of the person who had sent the red warning signals.
As they neared the top, Frank suddenly halted and pointed to the wall. "Take a look at that, Joe!"
A message—faded and almost illegible—had been scrawled in pencil on the whitewashed surface of the stone. It said:
I’ve seen Rogers again. No mistake this time. He’s come back and he’s trying to drive me out of my mind. Heaven help me!
R. H. Tang
4/17/45

CHAPTER VII
The Midnight Wrecker
"T
ANG!" Joe gasped. "The lighthouse keeper who went out of his mind!"
"I wonder," Frank said slowly, "if he was suffering from hallucinations."
Joe stared at his brother. "Are you implying that Tang wasn’t crazy?"
"Suppose we told a doctor we’d seen the Jolly Roger ghost—a red-bearded spook in a black cloak. And not just here on Whalebone Island, but even back in Bayport. Would he call us crazy?"
"The explosion last night wasn’t our imagination!" Joe said flatly.
"Maybe. But that wouldn’t prove we had or hadn’t seen a ghost."
"Still," Joe persisted, "Tang must have been examined before he could be declared insane."
"True, but the question is what really drove him out of his mind?" Frank argued. "Suppose you or I were cooped up in this tower alone for weeks and months, not another soul on the island —so far as we knew. Yet every time we went for a walk to stretch our legs, that spook kept popping out at us—especially at night. Maybe even inside the lighthouse. I’ll bet we’d be flipping our wigs too before long!"
Joe frowned reflectively, then blurted out, "But, good night, Frank! All that was years ago. The person Tang saw couldn’t have been the same one we saw—"
As Joe’s voice trailed off, Frank gave a wry chuckle. "You mean—or could it? That’s the same question I’m asking myself."
The lamp room had been empty ever since the Whalebone Light was taken out of service. The boys inspected it thoroughly, but found no clues to the signaler.
"He must have used an ordinary bull’s-eye lantern. Let’s try the outside platform and see if—" Joe broke off with a gasp. "Hey, Frank!"
"What’s the matter?"
"Look there—out to sea!"
Lying off the southern shore of the island was a small steamer. Larger than a tug, it was equipped with cargo booms.
The two boys dashed to the floor below and outside to the railed platform around the light tower.
"It’s not under way," Joe observed. "What do you think it’s doing out there?"
"Could be a fishing vessel," Frank said doubtfully, "but it sure doesn’t look like one. Let’s get Dad."
On hearing the news, Mr. Hardy and Chet hurried topside. The detective broke out his powerful binoculars and focused on the mysterious vessel.
"It’s a salvage ship!" Mr. Hardy said tensely. "It belongs to the Simon Salvage Company."
"Gus Bock’s outfit!" exclaimed Joe.
Mr. Hardy passed the binoculars to the boys. Each of the three in turn examined the vessel. The name at its stern read:
SIMON SALVOR NEW YORK
On deck, a diver had apparently just suited up. Helpers were closing the glass ports of his helmet and checking the air hose and telephone cable. As Frank watched, the diver strode to the side of the ship and climbed down a ladder into the water.
"That must be Bock himself," Frank muttered. "But what’s he diving for there, Dad? You said the Katawa went down north of the island, didn’t you?"
Mr. Hardy frowned. "That’s right. And I can’t figure Simon Salvage engaging in a diving operation just for the fun of it."
"I wonder when the ship arrived," Joe mused, "We didn’t see it last night."
"Maybe it was on the other side of the island," put in Chet. Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. "Oh—oh! You think maybe somebody off that ship was the dynamiter last night?"
"Sure, and also the one who flashed those red signals," Joe replied.
"It’s possible, all right," Mr. Hardy agreed.
"Dad, I have an idea!" Frank exclaimed.
"Let’s hear it, son."
"When you go back to the mainland, why don’t we three stay on the island? We can watch the Simon Salvor and maybe find out what it’s up to—and also keep a lookout for the ‘ghost’!"
Mr. Hardy looked troubled. He shook his head. "That would be dangerous, Frank. There’s no telling what might happen with a possible killer at large."
Frank and Joe pleaded earnestly. Mr. Hardy finally promised to wait until they searched the island before making a final decision.
After breakfast they scoured the Whalebone crescent from tip to tip, but the ghostly dynamiter had apparently slipped away during the night. The detective was now half inclined to let the boys stay.
When they approached the cove campsite at the end of their search, Fenton Hardy stopped short and blanched.
"My camp’s been ransacked!"
The four rushed forward. Scattered across the sand were the smashed fragments of what had been his transceiver.
"Who—" Joe began, appalled. The sleeping bag was burned to a charred crisp. All food supplies were violently trampled.
The detective’s boat, too, seemed to be gone. But suddenly Frank’s sharp eyes spotted the craft.
"There it is!" he said, pointing offshore.
The boat lay bottom-up in a few feet of water, a gaping hole in its hull!
Fenton Hardy’s jaw tightened grimly. "That settles it," he said. "You boys are not staying on the island. We’re going back in the Sleuth together—if our ghost hasn’t wrecked that, too."
Anxiously they trekked back to the southern tip of the island. All four heaved sighs of relief when they found the sleek motorboat still safely hidden among the reeds.
Before leaving, they cruised back to the cove to salvage the outboard motor from Mr. Hardy’s stove-in craft. Chet, using the binoculars, saw a man on the bridge of the Simon Salvor watching them intently through a telescope.
Later, as the Sleuth put-putted out of the cove, the Salvor moved away from shore. "Not taking any chances on us coming out to snoop," Joe observed.
The Bayporters headed to the mainland at a fast clip.
Ashore, Mr. Hardy reported the loss of his rented craft to the boat livery and returned the water-logged outboard engine.
The owner took the news philosophically. "Don’t matter too much—she was insured," he said. "Have to hold your deposit, though, till I settle with the insurance company."
The detective nodded, then asked, "By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know if any boat put in here during the night—or maybe early this morning?"
"You figure that mighta been the party who scuttled your boat?" The liveryman squinted shrewdly at Mr. Hardy. "So happens I did hear o’ one comin’ back last night. Try Lawson’s Livery down the wharf a ways—it’s the only other boat rental place in town."
Mr. Hardy thanked him, then strode along the wharf with the three boys. At the other boat livery, the investigator repeated his question to the proprietor, Eli Lawson.
"Sure, there was a boat come in," Lawson said grumpily. "Must’ve been sometime between midnight and four o’clock. It was a boat that’d been stolen from me the night before."
"Stolen!" Mr. Hardy exclaimed.
Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. More than likely, the boat thief had been the island ghost!
"How come you’re so interested?" Lawson asked the detective.
Mr. Hardy told briefly how his rented boat had been sabotaged on Whalebone Island, but said nothing about the rest of the night’s events.
"Say! By any chance, is your name Fenton Hardy?" the proprietor inquired.
"That’s right. Why?"
Lawson went into the boathouse and emerged a moment later holding a soiled envelope. "When I found the boat this mornin’, this was lyin’ on one o’ the seats."
The envelope bore the name "Fenton Hardy" lettered in pencil. The detective opened it and took out the enclosed note. His face hardened as he read. Then he handed the message to the boys. It said:
Keep away from Whalebone Island. Next time you won’t escape.
Instead of a signature there was the crude drawing of an Egyptian-looking head surmounted by a Pharaoh’s headdress.
"The Pharaoh’s head!" Chet gulped.
Frank and Joe silenced him with warning looks, and Mr. Hardy thanked the liveryman. The four walked away under Lawson’s inquisitive gaze. 
"Is that what the golden head of Rhamaton looks like, Dad?" Frank inquired when they were out of earshot.
"Yes, almost exactly. I’ve seen a photograph of it."
The boys accompanied Mr. Hardy to the parking lot where he had left his car overnight. It was decided that Frank and Joe would return to Bayport with Chet and wait for the arrival of Sam Radley.
"I’ll send Sam back from Philadelphia as soon as I can spare him," the investigator promised. "Then he can go to Whalebone Island with you."
"Right, Dad!"
Mr. Hardy climbed into his car and sped off in the direction of the turnpike. Frank, Joe, and Chet embarked in the Sleuth and were soon cruising down the coast toward Barmet Bay.
It was late in the day when the Hardy boys arrived home. Aunt Gertrude’s face was anxious as she greeted them.
"Well! Thank goodness you’re home at last! Why didn’t you answer my radio call last night?"
"Sorry, Aunty," Frank apologized. "We were away from the Sleuth most of the time."
"Anything wrong?" Joe asked.
"Indeed there was! Someone tried to break into the house!"

CHAPTER VIII
Egyptian Fake
A
rt attempted break-in while they were gone! Startled, Frank and Joe wondered what the thief had been after.
"Tell us about it, Aunt Gertrude!" Frank said.
"Well, to begin with, I was all alone in the house—"
"Alone! What about Mother?" Joe broke in.
"She was called away yesterday afternoon," Miss Hardy explained, "to stay with a sick friend over in Bartonsville, Mrs. Filer. Gloria Filer, that is—Laura’s old schoolmate. Well, I was sound asleep and suddenly the burglar alarm went off full blast!"
The boys’ aunt shuddered at the recollection. "Heavens! It must have wakened the whole neighborhood—that shrill racket and all the floodlights blazing on!"
"Did you get a look at whoever touched it off?" Frank asked.
"No, I rushed to stick my head out the window, but the rascal was nowhere in sight. Probably ran off the instant the lights went on."
Miss Hardy eyed her nephews severely. "I tried at once to contact you two or Fenton on the radio, but got no answer."
"We were holed up in a lighthouse with a spook after us," Joe explained.
"Humph." His aunt gave him a suspicious glare through her spectacles. "Be that as it may, I was here alone—helpless. I might have been murdered in my sleep!"
The boys managed to mollify her by complimenting her on her courage and presence of mind.
"Did you call the police, Aunty?" Frank asked.
"Naturally. But they found no footprints, no clues of any kind."
Suddenly she again looked annoyed. "Which reminds me. The curator called from the new Howard Museum."
"Mr. Scath?" said Frank, immediately interested. "What did he want?"
"Wouldn’t tell me. Just asked to speak to Fenton or one of you." Miss Hardy sniffed. "I suppose he thought not being in the detective business I wasn’t bright enough to take a message."
"I doubt that, Aunt Gertrude." Grinning, Frank went to the phone and called the Howard Museum. In a few moments he reached Mr. Scath.
"Glad you called, Frank," the curator said. "Something rather odd has come up. Since your father serves as our security adviser, I thought I’d better pass the word along."
"What’s it about, sir?"
Mr. Scath explained that he had received a telephone call just before lunch. "The man wouldn’t give his name, but he warned me that someone might contact the museum soon and try to sell me a fake Egyptian art object."
Frank’s eyebrows shot up. "Did he say who this phony was, or what the object would be?"
"No hint at all. In fact, he hung up before I could ask any questions."
"Thanks for letting us know, Mr. Scath," said Frank. "Dad’s out of town right now, but that tip could be very important. If any such art faker does show up, I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know right away."
"I’ll certainly do that."
After completing the call, Frank told his brother the news.
"Wow! A fake Egyptian art object!" Joe exclaimed. "It could be an imitation of the Pharaoh’s head Dad’s looking for."
"Just what I was thinking," Frank said.
The Hardy boys decided to sleep downstairs, in case the unknown prowler might make another attempt to break into the house. But the night passed without incident.
The next morning the two boys decided to go to the beach for a swim.
"Let’s stop off at Chet’s and see if he wants to come," Joe suggested.
Under a blaze of dazzling sunshine they started off in their convertible. Presently they turned up a dirt lane that led to the Morton farmhouse, just outside of Bayport. Two girls were seated on the front porch.
Iola, Chet’s pixie-faced, dark-haired sister, was Joe’s favorite date. She hopped up from the porch swing to greet the visitors. "Hi, you two ghost hunters!"
Her friend, Callie Shaw, a pretty brown-eyed blond girl, chimed in, "What’s the latest on the Whalebone spook?"
"Last we heard, he needed a shave," said Frank, climbing out of the car and smiling at Callie, whom he liked very much.
"Where’s Strongheart?" Joe asked.
At that moment Chet burst out through the screen door, munching on a large Danish pastry.
"Somebody call me? Oh, hi, fellows!"
"What’s that—breakfast or lunch?" Frank asked with a grin.
Iola laughed. "With Chet, there’s no hard and fast distinction."
"Aw, cut it out," the chubby youth said good-naturedly. "I’m just finishing breakfast." He added to the Hardys, "Slept late, that’s all. Who wouldn’t after that rugged expedition you guys roped me into!"
"Okay, you’re excused," Frank said. "But get your trunks. We’re going to the beach."
"You girls like to come?" Joe asked casually.
"We’d love to, but how can we?" said Callie. "We have to put our hair up for the party."
"What party?" Frank asked.
"What party! This afternoon, at Biff Hooper’s. Don’t tell me you forgot!"
The Hardys exchanged blank looks, then recalled Biff’s word-of-mouth invitation during a sandlot baseball game last Monday afternoon.
The Hoopers were leaving Friday on a two-week vacation trip to California, so Biff had decided to have a going-away party on Thursday. The affair was to be an early barbecue supper, since he and his parents had to pack and prepare for a seven-o’clock take-off the next morning.
"I guess we did forget," Joe admitted. "We’ve been sort of busy."
"Sure, sure, we know," Iola said, dimpling. "Incidentally, Biff told us yesterday he has a surprise announcement to make at the party."
"Announcement about what?"
Iola threw up her hands. "Don’t ask us. It all sounded very mysterious. Maybe he was just trying to whet our curiosity."
"Just as long as he doesn’t whet Chet’s appetite," Joe needled.
Everyone laughed and Chet went back into the house to get his swim trunks.
The Hardys could hear the sound of a telephone ringing. A few moments later, as they were chatting with the girls, Mrs. Morton put her head out the back door.
"Frank and Joe—"
"Yes, Mrs. Morton?"
"Your aunt just phoned. She asked me to tell you that Mr. Scath from the museum called again —some man is on his way to the house to see you."
The boys jumped to their feet. "Did Aunt Gertrude say who he was?" Frank asked.
"No, but I guess it must be urgent. She advised you both to come home at once."
As they were thanking Chet’s mother for the information, Chet returned, holding a rolled towel under one arm. "What’s the matter?" he inquired plaintively. "Is the swim off?"
"Maybe not," said Frank. "Come on back to the house with us. We can whip over to the beach as soon as Joe and I talk to this visitor, whoever he is."
The three boys climbed into the convertible and sped back to the Hardy home at High and Elm streets, where they hurried into the kitchen.
"What’s up, Aunty?" Joe inquired. "Did Mr. Scath tell you who’s coming to see us—or why?"
Miss Hardy looked up from the pie dough she was rolling and pursed her lips. "He didn’t, and I’m sure I have no idea of the reason for his visit, since none of you has seen fit to take me into your confidence about this mystery."
The boys’ grins faded as the front doorbell rang. Frank and Joe hurried to answer it.
The caller was a fat, balding, dark-complex-ioned man in a white silk suit. "Is this the Hardy residence?" he asked.
"Yes. Please come in," Frank said.
The man stepped inside and handed the boys an ornate visiting card, which read:
Mehmet Zufar Dealer in Middle Eastern Antiquities and Objets d’Art
Cairo, Egypt
Frank and Joe glanced at the card, then looked at each other excitedly. Their visitor was the owner of the golden Pharaoh’s head!

CHAPTER IX
The Shattered Cat
"I
SHOULD like to see Mr. Fenton Hardy, the detective," said the stout visitor.
Joe found himself staring with fascination at the man’s tiny black mustache, which twirled upward at each end.
"Our father’s out of town just now, working on a case," Frank explained. "If you’ll have a chair and tell us why you came, perhaps we can help."
Mehmet Zufar glared irritably, but nonetheless seated himself in the living room. Plucking out a handkerchief, he dabbed the beads of perspiration from his large forehead.
"My dear young man," Zufar snapped, "Fenton Hardy was recommended to me as the ablest private investigator in America. In fact, I was referred to him on a matter of the utmost importance by Mr. Scath, the museum curator. I did not come to deal with boys!"
Frank said evenly, "I just thought we might help."
"If you’ll tell us what you want," Joe put in, "we’ll inform Dad as soon as we can get in touch with him."
Zufar glared for a moment, then said abruptly, "My card, please!"
The art dealer fished a gold pencil from an inside pocket and jotted something on the back of the card. "When Mr. Hardy is free," he said, "please have him contact me at this address in New York."
With a final swipe of his handkerchief, Zufar clapped his straw hat back on his glistening dome and rose to depart.
"May we call you a taxi?" Frank offered.
"No, thank you. My car is outside." The stout man stalked off without another word.
As the door closed behind him, Frank and Joe dashed to the front window for a better view. They saw Zufar climb into a black limousine. A hulking, granite-faced chauffeur slammed the car door, returned to the wheel, and drove off.
"Who was that sourpuss?" inquired Chet, coming up behind the Hardys.
"The owner of the golden Pharaoh," Joe replied. "I’d sure like to know what he was so worked up about—he wouldn’t tell us."
"Maybe Mr. Scath can give us the lowdown." Frank glanced at his watch. "Come on! We can stop off at the museum on our way to the beach!"
Ten minutes later the Hardys’ convertible turned into the curving driveway of the Howard Museum, which stood well back from the street among landscaped grounds. The three boys hurried up the broad marble steps of the ivy-clad building and went straight to the curator’s office.
Mr. Scath, a slender man with wispy strands of hair and rimless pince-nez, rose to greet his visitors as they entered.
"Come in, boys, and sit down. I take it you’ve just talked to Mr. Zufar."
"That’s right, sir," said Frank. "But he insisted on seeing Dad and wouldn’t tell us what he wanted. We hoped you might fill us in."
"Hmm, yes. Well, he came here this morning and introduced himself as an art dealer specializing in Middle Eastern antiquities. Then he tried to interest me in a blue faience Egyptian cat, dating back to the Twentieth Dynasty."
"Faience?" Joe repeated. "What’s that?"
"Earthenware, coated with an opaque glaze."
Frank then asked the curator, "Did you tell Mr. Zufar about the warning you received—that someone would try to sell you an Egyptian fake?"
"Indeed, I did. I told him so bluntly." Mr. Scath gave a shrug of distaste. "The result was quite upsetting."
"What happened?" Frank asked.
"Zufar became very emotional. He said that some enemy—he didn’t know who—was trying to ruin his reputation."
"Meaning," Joe guessed, "the anonymous tip you received?"
"Yes. And he said someone had evidently spread a similar rumor about a much more valuable object which he had hoped to bring to this country."
Frank bent forward eagerly. "Did he mention what the object was?"
"Not then," Mr. Scath replied, "But he did later—a solid gold head of the Pharaoh Rhamaton IV, valued at one million dollars."
Chet’s eyes bulged.
The curator went on, "However, as I say, that came later. At the moment he was too worked up trying to convince me of his spotless reputation." Mr. Scath sighed. "Anyway, Zufar gave me various personal references to call and urged me to inspect the faience cat as carefully as I pleased."
"What did you do?" Joe asked.
Mr. Scath looked uncomfortable. "I didn’t quite know what to do. Finally I called two of the references he gave me—another museum and a private collector. They both assured me that their dealings with Zufar had been entirely satisfactory. They both felt he was too keen to be taken in by a fake and wouldn’t risk trying to palm one off."
"How about the cat?" said Frank. "Did you test it in any way?"
"No. It seemed authentic. Zufar offered to let me keep it for a detailed examination, but I told him we had no funds available for such a purchase at this time."
The curator paused to polish his glasses. "Then came a dreadful piece of bad luck. Zufar went to put the cat back in the carrying case—but, in his disturbed state, he let it slip from his fingers."
"Did the cat break?" Chet blurted out.
"Shattered to bits." Mr. Scath shook his head unhappily. "What followed was even worse. Zufar himself went all to pieces."
The curator related that Zufar had then begun pouring out his troubles. He told of the golden Pharaoh’s head which had been lost when the Katawa sank, and said he had heard that the shipping line’s insurance company thought he was trying to defraud them, because of some false rumor about a duplicate head.
"Did he strike you as putting on an act?" Frank asked.
"I don’t believe so. He said he’s had nothing but bad luck ever since the gold treasure first came into his possession. Then he asked me to recommend a good detective agency to run down the scoundrel who was defaming him. Naturally," Mr. Scath ended, "I suggested your father."
"Zufar still seemed pretty tense when he came to our place," Joe mused. "How much is the Egyptian cat worth, Mr. Scath?"
"Hard to say. But at least five hundred dollars."
"Wow!" Chet broke in. "That’s a high price for butterfingers."
"Incidentally," Mr. Scath went on, "Zufar’s tale of bad luck may well be true if you accept superstition."
Frank said, "How so?"
"When the tomb of Rhamaton IV was opened, a curse was supposed to fall on those who had violated the royal crypt," Mr. Scath explained, "and the curse actually seemed to be fulfilled. The newspapers made much of it at the time."
"What happened?" Joe asked.
"Soon after the discovery, the leader of the excavating party died of a heart attack. And several others in the party became ill or suffered accidents."
Chet shifted uneasily.
"The Rhamaton head eventually came into the possession of a wealthy Lebanese businessman in Beirut," Mr. Scath went on. "He was later ruined financially. Then when Zufar bought the head and was bringing it to this country, the ship sank."
Frank said dryly, "Seems to bear out the curse all right, except I don’t believe in ancient curses."
"Well, I’m not so sure I don’t," Chet said.
After thanking the curator, the boys left the museum and drove to the beach. An hour of swimming and sunbathing, topped off by a lunch of hamburgers, soon put even Chet in a more cheerful mood.
At four-thirty that afternoon the Hardys picked up Iola, Chet, and Callie for Biff’s barbecue.
The Hoopers’ wide yard, which sloped down to a pleasant, woodsy creek, was already noisy with the gay chatter of boys and girls when the Hardys’ group arrived.
Eager shouts greeted them. Chet was promptly given a chef’s hat and apron.
"This is my style!" he said laughingly, and soon was busy stoking the portable grill.
Biff, a tall, blond, and rangy youth, ambled among his guests, handing out soft drinks. Then he cupped his big hands and bellowed for attention.
"Now hear this, you guys and gals!"
Suddenly :Biff’s jovial expression turned to one of dismay. Startled gasps and squeals came from the other guests.
"Joe, look out!" warned Tony Prito.
Before Joe could react, something struck him hard in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground!

CHAPTER X
A Four-legged Menace
"H
EY! What gives?" Joe spluttered. He tried to get up, but felt paws trampling his back.
As he turned his head, a large wet tongue licked him across the face. His assailant was an ungainly Great Dane!
"Down, Tivoli! Here, boy!" Biff shouted as he ran to his guest’s assistance. Everyone else was roaring with laughter.
Joe finally struggled to his feet. "For Pete’s sake," he gasped, wiping his face, "where’d that monster come from?"
"He’s no monster—he’s my big surprise," said Biff, hanging on to the huge dog with both hands. "I’ll have you know this magnificent creature comes from champion—Oof!"
Biff broke off with a grunt as the Dane pulled free from his grip and went bounding off among the young people. "Hey, come here! I said, come, Tivoli!"
The dog paid no attention. He pranced happily about the lawn, barging into several teen-agers and spilling their soda pop. Biff pursued his pet, but the Great Dane eluded him as nimbly as a swivel-hipped quarterback.
"Watch it, Chet!" Tony Prito shouted. "He’s going for the hot dogs!"
The party was in an uproar. Phil Cohen, at Biff’s frantic request, ran into the house and got a chain-link training collar.
With Frank helping, Biff finally put the collar around Tivoli’s neck—but not before the dog had gulped five frankfurters and a package of hamburger meat.
"Don’t you ever feed the poor thing?" Tony joked.
"Feed him?" Biff said indignantly. "Listen, he’s had three big meals today already!" Then he added hastily, "Tivoli’s not really such a terribly big eater—"
A chorus of disbelieving laughs greeted his words.
"He’s not!" Biff insisted. "It’s just that he got half-starved when he was being shipped here, so now he’s making up for lost time."
Iola giggled. "And how! I’ll bet even Chet has a canary’s appetite by comparison!"
"You still haven’t told us how you got him, Biff," said Jim Foy, a Chinese youth.
"I won him in a mail-order contest." Biff explained that he had submitted the winning slogan for a new cereal and had received Tivoli as first prize.
"How old is the mutt?" asked Jerry Gilroy.
"Mutt my eye!" Biff retorted. "This dog comes from purebred stock. His father and mother were both international champions—and Tivoli will be, too, someday. He’s just nine months old."
"Nine months?" Chet echoed. "Good night, he’s as big as a colt already! How big will he be when he’s full grown?"
"Big enough to make the best watchdog in Bayport," Biff said proudly. He cleared his throat. "Ahem! It just happens that Tivoli—er—arrived at a bad time, with us going on vacation. So as I was about to announce, one of you lucky people can have the privilege of keeping this future champ while I’m gone."
Another chorus of laughter arose.
"Did you say lucky?" teased Callie.
"Does the offer include a cage?" Phil added.
" ’Fraid you’re wasting your time, Biff old pal," added another boy. "You’ll have to board him at a kennel—if you can find one big enough."
Summoning up a hearty pitchman’s smile, Biff went on, "Listen, gang. Think what an impression Tivoli will make when you take him out on a leash."
Tony chuckled. "He’ll make an impression all right. Everybody’ll run for cover."
"You’ll have to admit he’d make a great guard dog," Biff persevered.
Frank turned to Joe and remarked thoughtfully, "You know, he’s right. I’ve been worried about us leaving Aunt Gertrude alone when we go back to Whalebone Island—in case that prowler shows up again. Tivoli might be just the answer!"
Joe nodded. "You have a point there."
"Okay, Biff," Frank said in a louder voice. "You’ve got yourself a deal."
"You mean you’ll take him?"
"For two weeks."
Biff gave a whoop of joy and the other teen-agers began crowding around the Hardys to offer joking words of warning and advice.
When the party broke up at seven-thirty, Frank and Joe drove Tivoli home in their convertible with the top up and the windows raised.
"We’d better go in first and break the news gently," Frank said as they parked in the driveway.
Joe chuckled. "We may need Tivoli to protect us."
As the boys went in the front door, Aunt Gertrude came into the hallway. "Do either of you know if your father was expecting some sort of shipment?" she asked.
"A shipment?" Joe said blankly. "Of what?"
"That’s just what I’m trying to find out. A crate came for him while you were gone. I didn’t know what else to do with it so I had the truck driver and his helper carry it down to the basement."
"It’s news to us, Aunty," said Frank. "Let’s take a look."
Miss Hardy led the way down the cellar stairs. She pointed to a large wooden crate standing against the wall. It was about four feet high. Stenciled on one side was the name FENTON HARDY and the address of the Hardy home.
"What about the receipt?" Joe suggested. "Wouldn’t that tell us the contents?"
"Oh dear! I forgot to ask for the carbon copy when I signed it," said Miss Hardy. "But, anyway, the handwriting on the receipt was illegible."
"Didn’t the driver even know where the box came from?" Frank asked.
"He said he’d picked it up at some New York warehouse. That was all he could tell me."
Frank eyed the mysterious crate. "Maybe we should call Dad."
"Oh, I didn’t neglect that," said Miss Hardy. "I tried to contact Fenton over the radio but he didn’t answer."
"No wonder—his radio got smashed on Whalebone Island," Joe explained. "But we can probably call him at his hotel."
As Joe picked up the basement extension telephone, his aunt said, "Will you also tell him a man phoned about five o’clock? He didn’t leave any name."
Joe placed the call to Philadelphia, but hung up with a shake of his head a few minutes later. "No luck. Dad and Sam Radley are both out of their rooms. I left a message for them to call back."
The Hardy boys looked at each other and took deep breaths.
Trying to sound casual, Frank said, "Er—we’ve brought a visitor, Aunt Gertrude."
"A visitor?"
"Uh—yes. He’s coming to stay for a couple of weeks. We’re sure you’re going to like him."
Detecting something odd in Frank’s tone, Miss Hardy swept her nephews with a suspicious glance. "Well, speak up. Who is he and where is he?"
"He’s out in the car," Joe said. "Aunty, he’s a Great Dane."
"A Great Dane?" Miss Hardy echoed unbelievingly. "You mean one of those—those huge dogs?"
Frank tried to be reassuring. "Actually, he’s not full grown. Only nine months old."
Gertrude Hardy launched into a vigorous tirade against the problem of tending large, untrained animals. Frank finally managed to explain why they had brought Tivoli, stressing that he would serve as a watchdog while he and Joe were away.
"And just where do you expect me to keep the creature?" Miss Hardy demanded. "Certainly not in the house."
"Oh, don’t worry about that, Aunty," Joe said, chuckling. "Tivoli can stay out in the yard or down in the cellar."
"Well, he’d better earn his board and keep," Aunt Gertrude commented tartly.
With that, she marched upstairs to the kitchen. Joe glanced at his brother and rolled his eyes expressively.
"Well, let’s bring in our visitor," Frank said, grinning.
When the boys returned to the car, they found Tivoli comfortably lolling on the back seat, fast asleep. Joe jerked the ring on the end of his training collar. "Come on, boy. We’re going to introduce you to Aunt Gertrude."
Tivoli preferred not to be disturbed. Only the combined physical persuasion of Joe and Frank succeeded in dislodging him, and even then he proved skittish. Moments later, as they were hauling him in the door, the boys heard a shriek from their aunt.
"What’s wrong?" Frank called out. Tivoli now lunged for the kitchen, tugging the boys behind him.
"That prowler—he’s back again!" Miss Hardy’s eyes widened in fright at the sight of the Great Dane, but she went on, "I heard a noise out back and saw a man dask across the yard!"
"It’s your big chance, Tivolil Go get him!" Joe commanded.
The two boys and the dog dashed out the back door. But the prowler had vanished in the gathering dusk. Now Tivoli strained toward the house and the boys were forced to follow.
"Maybe the fellow dropped something or left a clue, and Tivoli’s spotted it by scent!" Joe said hopefully.
The real reason soon became evident as the Great Dane headed for the kitchen. Once inside, he strode toward the refrigerator and began sniffing at the door.
Aunt Gertrude gave the boys a withering glance. "A fine watchdog he’ll make!" Resolutely she advanced on Tivoli. "Outside this instant!"
The dog regarded her with its pale-yellow eyes. He made no move to obey, but a faint rumble sounded in his throat. Miss Hardy stood her ground. "Frank and Joe," she said, "take this creature out of the housel Immediately!"
Her nephews complied, and coaxed Tivoli into the back yard once more.
Joe laughed. "He’s as iron-willed as Aunt Gertrude."


Aunt Gertrude’s eyes widened in fright at sight of the Great Dane
"Time will tell," Frank said philosophically. He got a length of chain from the garage and secured one end to Tivoli’s collar and the other to a tree.
Back in the kitchen, the boys had just fixed a snack for themselves and Aunt Gertrude when a mournful howl assailed their ears. They looked at each other, then glanced at Miss Hardy. Her face spoke volumes but she said nothing.
Tivoli continued to bay at the rising moon. Aunt Gertrude winced. The baying persisted without letup. After several minutes she pursed her lips and got up from the table.
"Very well. You’d better bring that so-called watchdog inside before the neighbors complain. But put him in the cellar, mind you!"
Frank and Joe did so. As they came back upstairs, Aunt Gertrude gave an indignant sniff. "Now perhaps we’ll be able to get some rest. I, for one, am retiring."
She swept out of the room.
The boys finished eating, then tried several times to reach their father. No luck. They were just about to go upstairs when Tivoli came trotting into the hallway!
Joe burst out laughing. "He must be able to turn the doorknob with his jaws!"
"Oh, no, you don’t!" Frank said hastily. He caught Tivoli just in time to deter the huge dog from settling himself comfortably on a newly upholstered sofa in the living room.
"You know, I’m beginning to think Aunt Gertrade is right about this pooch! He may be more hindrance than help."
"Let’s give him a chance." Joe grinned. "It’s only his first day here."
Frank took the Great Dane back to the cellar.
Yawning, the boys switched off the lights, turned on the burglar alarm, and went to their room.
Some time later came the sound of paws padding up the staircase. Joe raised his head from the pillow incredulously. "Good grief! Tivoli again!"
Apparently sniffing out his two protectors, the dog stalked into the boys’ room. He leaped onto Joe’s bed with a single bound and draped himself across the middle.
Joe groaned. "Oh great! Well, I guess you might as well stay here so we can get some sleep. But at least give me a little room, you big lummox."
Frank shook with stifled laughter.
It was past midnight when the boys were suddenly awakened by the loud barking noise of Tivoli from downstairs. They heard the dog snarl —then the sounds of a violent struggle.
"Come on!" Frank exclaimed, jumping out of bed. "Let’s find out what’s going on!"

CHAPTER XI
A Clever Dodge
T
HE boys sped downstairs in their pajamas to investigate the commotion. As Frank switched on the light, Joe let out a gasp. "Look! Tivoli!"
The Great Dane lay sprawled across the threshold of the guest room! The brothers ran to the dog.
Frank and Joe experienced pangs of fear upon seeing that Tivoli was motionless. But closer examination showed the Dane was breathing. Then Joe’s eyes fell on Captain Early’s carved cane lying on the floor nearby. "Someone beaned him with that stick!"
"And got away!" Frank said, pointing to the open window of the guest room. Both boys dashed toward it and Frank thrust out his head.
The stillness was unbroken except for the thrum of crickets. There was no sign of the intruder.
As the boys turned back to the unconscious dog, Aunt Gertrude arrived on the scene, wearing a bathrobe and hair net. "Mercy! What on earth has happened?"
Frank said, "Someone broke in. Tivoli went for him, but got conked."
Miss Hardy drew in her breath sharply. "The nasty brute!"
"Tivoli?"
"No, the dreadful person who struck him!"
"Poor old fellow!" Joe squatted down beside the Great Dane. "Wonder what you do for an unconscious dog. Give him smelling salts?"
"Don’t be ridiculous," Aunt Gertrude said tartly. "I’ll attend to this brave creature."
Joe rose to his feet and exchanged amused glances with his brother. Aunt Gertrude’s change of attitude toward Tivoli was a pleasant surprise.
"What I’d like to know," Frank said thoughtfully, "is how the prowler got inside without touching off the burglar alarm."
"It’s still on!" Joe reported, after glancing at the wall switch in the hallway. "That must mean the alarm system is dead!"
The boys rushed to the cellar to inspect the master control panel. When Frank opened the switch box, the answer was immediately evident. A wire had been disconnected!
"Who did that?" Joe exclaimed.
"It sure didn’t come loose by itself." Frank frowned. "Remember that fellow Aunt Gertrude saw running across the back yard? He may have been coming from the cellar, after having yanked this wire loose so he’d have a clear field tonight."
"Hmm. Could be, if one of the cellar windows isn’t fastened."
The boys examined each of the four windows. The catch on one in the rear was unhooked!
"This is the way somebody got out," Frank said. "But how did he get in? I checked all these windows when you were telephoning Philadelphia—and they were locked."
Joe looked baffled and leaned against the crate. "Maybe he just oozed through the walls."
Frank had to admit he couldn’t figure out an answer, but added, "There is a way, and we’re going to find out."
The young sleuths went back upstairs. In the kitchen they halted in astonishment. Tivoli was devouring a pan of stew. Aunt Gertrude occasionally would bathe the bruise on his head with a damp cloth. The dog stopped eating long enough to give the boys a brief look of content.
"Poor thing," Aunt Gertrude murmured. "Such a stouthearted protector deserves a good meal."
Tivoli happily continued gulping the stew.
As the boys went back to the guest room to search for clues, Joe said with a chuckle, "Boy, what a change! Aunt Gertrude can’t do enough for him."
Frank smiled. "I guess she’s convinced his heart’s in the right place."
Neither the room nor the carved cane yielded any fingerprints, nor had the intruder left any trace of his identity. Presently the boys and Aunt Gertrude returned to their rooms. Frank and Joe noticed with amusement that their aunt had said nothing further about putting the Great Dane back in the cellar.
Early the next morning while Miss Hardy was preparing breakfast the telephone rang. Fenton Hardy was calling from Philadelphia. "Sam and I didn’t get back to the hotel until one this morning," he explained, "so I decided to wait till later to phone you fellows back. What’s up?"
Joe hastily reported the midnight break-in and the delivery, earlier, of the mysterious crate.
Mr. Hardy was perplexed. "I’ve no idea what’s in it," he said. "You and Frank had better open it right away. Then call me back."
Eagerly the boys went down to the basement, where they got a claw hammer and pry bar to rip open the crate. To their amazement, one side of the box suddenly dropped like a trap door! Empty!
The Hardys stared at each other, speechless; then at the crate. "Are you thinking what I am?" Joe asked.
"There must have been a man hiding in here!" Frank exclaimed, indicating the hinged side of the crate, which had an inner hook. "After he got out, he wedged the side in place."
"Then he was all set to rob the house!"
"Sure," agreed Frank. "But when he heard you telling Aunt Gertrude the dog could stay down here, he decided to scram before Tivoli could detect him. So he ducked out the cellar window."
"You’re right!" Joe said, snapping his fingers. "But first he disconnected the burglar alarm so he could get back in later."
With a puzzled look, Joe added, "This crate gag seems like an awfully elaborate dodge for a house-breaker."
"It was an ingenious way to sneak past our alarm system," Frank pointed out. "He learned about that when he tried to break in while we were away on Whalebone Island."
Frank promptly telephoned his father to report the boys’ discovery.
"You’re sure nothing was taken last night?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Not as far as we could find out, Dad," Frank replied. "I think Tivoli jumped the fellow too fast. Then he heard us coming and had to scram." 
"Hmm. So we’re still in the dark about what he was after."
The detective was keenly interested when Frank went on to describe Mehmet Zufar’s visit. "I’d certainly like to know more about this alleged defamation of character he complains of," Mr. Hardy mused. "It might open up some new angles on the Pharaoh’s head mystery."
"Then why not take the case for Zufar?" Frank proposed. "He’s eager to engage a top-flight detective."
"That wouldn’t be ethical, son. I could hardly go to work for Zufar when he’s already under suspicion in the matter I’m investigating for Transmarine Underwriters. From what you say, he evidently doesn’t know about my assignment."
Joe, who was listening with one ear close to the phone, broke in. "But, Dad, why should there be any conflict? If Zufar is on the level, he wants the Pharaoh’s head mystery cleared up as much as you do."
Mr. Hardy was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Tell you what. Suppose you fellows go to New York and talk to Zufar again. Tell him I’m not at liberty to take his case just now, but I’ll try to help as soon as possible if he’ll give you fellows all the facts."
"Swell idea!" Frank agreed. "Maybe we can pick up some good leads!"
"Incidentally," Mr. Hardy added, "I think Sam should be free this afternoon. He’ll fly to Bayport and the three of you can go to Whalebone Island as we planned."
"Great!"
Both Frank and Joe were eager for the trip to New York. After a hasty breakfast they drove to the railroad station and caught an early train. By ten minutes after eleven they were stepping out of a taxi at Zufar’s address in Lower Manhattan.
The address proved to be a grimy loft building. On the card Zufar had given them he had also written the name "Fritz Bogdan, Curio Dealer." The same name was lettered on the windows of a ground-floor shop.
Frank and Joe entered the shop and found themselves in a long, dimly lighted room filled with Oriental carpets, statuary, paintings, and curios.
A tall, hawk-faced man with iron-gray hair eyed them curiously.
"May I help you?"
"Are you Mr. Bogdan?" Frank asked. When the man nodded, he went on, "We’re looking for Mr. Mehmet Zufar."
"Oh, yes. I’m his American agent. He occupies office space here on his visits to this country."
Bogdan led the boys past a huge green Buddha figure to an inner corridor and pointed to an office doorway bearing Zufar’s name. Frank thanked Bogdan and rapped on the door.
"Come in!"
Zufar looked up startled from his desk as the Hardys entered. He listened with obvious impatience as Frank repeated what Mr. Hardy had said. Then he pounded a fist on the desk.
"Now listen! Something has come up that changes everything. Your father must help me!"

CHAPTER XII
Key 273
T
HE mustached art dealer’s reaction took the Hardys by surprise.
"Do you have some kind of clue?" Frank asked.
Zufar’s eyes narrowed. "A good deduction." His fingers nervously plucked an envelope from his desk. "This letter came in the morning mail," he said, handing it over. "See for yourself."
Frank took the envelope, which bore a typewritten address and was postmarked New York, N. Y. Inside was a note and a small key stamped with the number 273.
The note, which also was typed, read:
We have the gold head of Rhamaton IV. We will sell it back to you for $100,000. Be ready with your answer. SHOW THIS NOTE TO NO ONE IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE!
The Hardys exchanged baffled glances.
"If the gang who sent this have the Pharaoh’s head, Mr. Zufar," said Joe, "why should they offer to sell it back to you?"
The dealer mopped his brow with a lavender silk handkerchief. "Who knows? Maybe the thieves have been unable to find a private buyer willing to pay such a price for a stolen art object. Do not forget—the deal would entail great risk on both sides, and the buyer would never be able to display his acquisition."
"Maybe," Frank suggested, "the thieves think you’re aiming to collect from the insurance company, then sell the head secretly for much more than a hundred thousand."
Zufar shot him a sharp glance. "It is possible," he admitted grudgingly.
"Do you think it’s likely that the persons who sent the note really have the authentic head?" Joe inquired.
The dealer threw up his hands in despair. "Alas, I fear so. The head may have been salvaged from the Katawa’s strong room, or stolen or switched by some trickery before the ship left port."
"Would there have been time for anyone to do either?" Frank asked.
"Of course. I purposely arranged to have the head brought aboard several hours before any passengers embarked, in order not to attract attention. That was in Beirut. Again there was a chance for trickery when we stopped at Le Havre. If the purser was dishonest—who knows?"
Zufar shrugged unhappily. The purser, he added, had been lost in the sinking.
Frank replaced the note in its envelope, then said, "Personally, I think you should take this note to the police, Mr. Zufar."
The art dealer’s eyes bulged fearfully. "You think I am a fool?" he said shrilly. "If I did, my life would be in danger!"
"But you’ve showed the note to us," Frank pointed out.
"That is different. Your father is not the police. If these—these thieves contact me, I can say simply that I have hired him to act as my go-between."
Dabbing his face with the handkerchief, Zufar went on, "Furthermore, once this became an official matter for the police, the news might leak out. I cannot afford to endanger my reputation any further!"
The telephone on Zufar’s desk rang. "Excuse me."
He scooped it up. "Hello? ... Yes, this is Mehmet Zufar speaking."
Suddenly the dealer’s face grew pale. He beckoned frantically to the Hardys and held the telephone away from his ear so they could listen in.
"You heard me! Speak up!" a harsh voice was saying on the other end of the line. "I asked if you’re ready to make a deal."
Zufar looked pleadingly at the boys.
Frank and Joe hesitated. Then, with a glance of mutual understanding, reached a quick decision. Frank nodded emphatically.
Zufar gave a sigh of relief. "Very well," he said into the receiver. "What do you wish me to do?"
"Listen carefully. Have the money ready in small bills. Take that key to the Philadelphia Airport. Use it to open a public-storage locker there and stand by."
There was a sudden click as the caller hung up. Zufar, too, put down the phone and turned his eyes to the Hardys. "You keep the note and the key, and you will inform your father immediately?"
"We’ll get in touch with him," Frank promised, pocketing the envelope. "Good-by."
Frank and Joe left the office. In the corridor they almost bumped into Fritz Bogdan. The proprietor gave them a thin smile and walked on quickly down the hall to a rear storage room.
As the boys went through the display area, their gaze swept over the exotic assortment of merchandise. A tigerskin rug hung on one wall between dusty carpets and tapestries. Near the green Buddha, the painted face of an Egyptian mummy case stared back at them sightlessly. Both boys felt there was something sinister about the dingy place.
An employee was moving a large, murky-colored landscape painting in a gold frame. The Hardys recognized him as Zufar’s granite-faced chauffeur.
When they reached the street, Joe muttered, "Do you suppose that fellow Bogdan was eavesdropping?"
"Don’t know. I was wondering the same thing," Frank replied. "You know, I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before."
"Me too. I thought his face seemed sort of familiar."
Neither of the Hardys could explain the impression.
"Well," Frank said, "we’d better get in touch with Dad and then get a bite to eat. I could sure use a couple of hamburgers."
Sighting a drugstore on the next corner, the boys went inside where Frank phoned their father. Mr. Hardy readily approved of his sons’ action.
"Don’t worry, you and Joe used good judgment," he said. "The Philadelphia Airport angle strikes me as a good omen, too."
"How so, Dad?"
"There are only a few private collectors in the eastern United States who might be avid enough and rich enough to buy something like the gold Pharaoh’s head, even if it was stolen," the detective explained. "The two most likely purchasers live within fifty miles of Philadelphia. That’s why Sam and I have been concentrating on this area."
"Sure hope this lead pays off," Frank said. "What’s our next move, Dad?"
Fenton Hardy instructed the boys to take the letter with the key to La Guardia Airport and leave it with a friend who worked for one of the airlines. Sam Radley, he went on, would fly there, pick up the envelope, and bring it back to Philadelphia.
Frank asked, "Does that mean Sam won’t be coming to Bayport this afternoon?"
"I may need his help on this new development with Zufar," Mr. Hardy said. "Anyhow, I’ve made a slight change of plans for you fellows." Excited, Frank signaled Joe close to the receiver.
"The Crux Diving Company’s salvage ship is leaving New York today to begin operations on the Katawa. Captain Rankin has agreed to take you and Joe along and drop you on Whalebone Island."
The vessel would be close at hand in case of emergency, the detective added. They could pursue the Jolly Roger’s mystery and keep in touch with the salvage operations.
"That’s great, Dad!" said Frank. "But wouldn’t it be better if we had the Sleuth along with its radio?"
After a hasty discussion, they decided that Joe would board the Crux ship alone. Frank would return to Bayport, get Chet and the Sleuth, and then proceed to Whalebone Island.
After a quick lunch at a coffee shop, the Hardys split up. Frank headed for La Guardia Airport, while Joe went straight to the pier where the Crux ship, Petrel, lay berthed.
The dock was bustling with activity as supplies were loaded aboard. Joe hurried toward the gangplank to announce himself to the deck officer.
A heavy oil drum, slung from a cargo hook, was just being hoisted from the pier. Joe passed underneath as the boom swung inward toward the ship’s hold.
"Hey! Watch it!"
Joe whirled at the sudden cry of alarm. In that instant the oil drum plunged straight toward his head!

CHAPTER XIII
A Lost Anchor
A
s JOE whirled around, somebody rammed him hard. He reeled backward under the impact, and together with his tackler sprawled on the dock as the oil drum crashed inches from them.
"Sufferin’ snakes!" Stunned, Joe sat up limply. His thumping pulse almost blurred out the ensuing shouts and confusion.
The man who had rescued him—a husky, middle-aged six-footer in dungarees—called over reassuringly, "Take it easy, lad. No harm done." He got up nimbly and helped Joe to his feet.
"Thanks. . . thanks a lot," Joe gasped. "You saved my life."
The man’s freckled face broke into a grin. "Maybe you saved mine. I was rushing across the dock and had to slow down when you got in my way. If you hadn’t, I’d have been right under that drum myself!"
Meantime, stevedores had captured the dented rolling drum and were wrestling it back into position while a crewman examined the hoisting sling.
The captain shouted wrathfully from the ship, "How’d it happen, bos’n?"
"Chine hook seems to have fractured, sir! Never seen one give like that before!" Red-faced, the bos’n aimed a torrent of salty comments at the loading crew for not having spotted the cracked hook when they rigged the sling.
"You there, young fellow!" the captain called down to Joe. "You one of Fenton Hardy’s boys, by any chance?"
"Yes, sir! I’m Joe Hardy—my brother won’t be making the trip." Accompanied by his rescuer, Joe mounted the gangplank and shook hands with the tall, lean officer.
"Welcome aboard! I’m Captain Rankin. Sorry about the accident."
"Guess I should’ve kept a sharper eye out."
"Cargo handling can be as dangerous as salvage work sometimes," the skipper acknowledged. "This bucko who saved you, by the way, is our master diver, Roland Perry. He’s used to danger. That’s how his hair got so thin."
Perry chuckled and touched the sun-bleached reddish fuzz on his freckled pate. "Don’t believe him, Joe. It’s the chow they serve and the hard time he gives us salvage boys that made my hair fall out."
Joe laughed, and soon he and Perry were engaged in friendly conversation. The diver had first learned his trade at the Navy’s Deep-Sea Diving School in Washington, D. C.
Late that afternoon, the ship, secured for sea after loading, churned away from its pier. Captain Rankin allowed Joe to come up on the bridge and watch as they sailed out through the busy waters of the Port of New York.
The next day Perry gave Joe a guided tour of the Petrel. The steel salvage vessel, he explained, was of a type specially designed by the Navy for offshore salvage work and carried equipment for handling any imaginable marine emergency.
Its electronic gear included radio, radar, loran, radiotelephone, fathometer, and radio direction finder. On its main deck was a salvage workshop with a forge, welding machine, lathe, pipe-threading machine, and various other equipment. In the engine room was a complete machine shop.
"Our towing engine has a forty-thousand-pound-line pull capacity—we can make lifts over the bow sheaves up to a hundred and fifty tons," Perry went on proudly. "We can pump more than a million gallons of water an hour—furnish electric power to a disabled vessel—and there are two miles of steel cable in our wire stowage room."
"Wow! Some setup!" said Joe, much impressed.
The diver chuckled. "We’re really a floating construction warehouse. We carry everything from nuts and bolts to a concrete mixer—not to mention timbers for making patches to seal off holes in ships’ hulls."
Joe was fascinated when Perry showed him the diving locker, forward on the main deck. It held several sets of diving suits, scuba gear, submarine telephone equipment, underwater burning torches, and a full stock of spare parts.
"Does Captain Rankin boss the diving operations?" Joe asked.
"No. When we reach the salvage scene, Matt Shane, our salvage master, takes over. Under him is a salvage foreman, myself, my tender, a pump engineer, a carpenter, and nine wreckers—the specialized salvage workers, that is."
It was nightfall when the Petrel reached curving Whalebone Island and dropped anchor in the cove. Another ship—which Joe recognized immediately as the Simon Salvor—was lying to the southward. But the Salvor was now in a different position from where it had been when the Hardys first visited the island.
"What do you suppose they’re doing?" Joe asked, scanning the Salvor through field glasses.
"Good question, son." Matt Shane, the grizzled salvage master, chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. "There’s no wreck in that area, or we’d know about it. Salvage men keep pretty close tabs on such matters."
Roland Perry growled, "Something phony about them being here, if you ask me. Could be they came to throw a monkey wrench into our operations. I wouldn’t put anything past Bock!"
"Take it easy, Rollie," said Shane.
Joe was startled by the mention of the Simon Salvage Company diver. "Do you know Gus Bock, Rollie?" he asked.
"Do I know him?" Perry snorted. "We were shipmates once on a tin can, the Svenson. Later on, we went through Navy diving school together. When we finally got out of service, we worked for the same salvage outfit. I actually thought we were buddies—till the time I caught him trying to split my air hose!"
The incident had occurred when both men were on the bottom, searching for a sealed cashbox aboard a sunken hulk.
"You could’ve been mistaken, Rollie," Shane cautioned. "Just because he had his knife in his hand—"
"I tell you I saw him going for my air line! He’s a slimy shark, that Bock!"
Joe put in, "If you were on the Svenson with him, you must have served under Captain Phil Early."
The diver nodded. "For a while, right at the end of the war. The skipper was transferred to another command a few months after I joined the ship. Good old Pearly Early!"
"How’d he get that nickname?" Joe asked with a grin. "From his first initial and last name?"
"That was part of it." Perry chuckled. "Ever been in Greece?"
"No. Why?"
"Over there, you’ll see Greek men fussing with what they call ‘worry beads.’ They carry these beads and finger them all the time. Captain Early did the same thing—only he used pearls."
"Real ones?" Joe asked in surprise.
"Sure, he collected them. Had some beauties he’d picked up in the South Pacific. In fact, when he was transferred, the crew gave him a cane—"
"A cane?" Joe cut in. "How come?"
"To carry the pearls in. The handle unscrewed, you see, and there was a hollow space inside. It was specially made, and handsomely carved by our old quartermaster."
Joe’s brain was in a whirl, thinking of the burglary attempts.
"What’s the matter, lad?" Matt Shane asked, noticing his odd reaction.
"Funny coincidence. Captain Early’s a family friend of ours, and I’ve seen that cane. In fact, he left it at our house."
Since there was no sign of a campfire on the island or any light in the Whalebone tower, it was apparent Frank and Chet had not yet arrived, so Joe did not ask to be put ashore.
At daybreak the next morning, when he awoke in his bunk, Joe heard the muted throb of the ship’s engines and sounds of frenzied activity on deck. He hurried topside to see what was going on.
In the water nearby was one of the ship’s life-boats. While two seamen rowed it slowly, Roland Perry peered over the gunwale into a glass-bottomed box, which enabled him to see the shallow ocean floor.
"What’s Rollie doing?" Joe asked Shane.
"Looking for our bower anchor. We lost it during the night."
"Good grief!" Joe exclaimed. "How’d that happen?"
Shane grinned wryly. "That’s what the old man would like to know."
Joe could see Captain Rankin standing on the wing of the bridge, tight-jawed with fury over the mishap.
After a while Perry located the anchor. Donning scuba gear, he went down to reconnect the anchor to its chain. By the time the job was completed, almost half the morning had been spent.
"Someone took apart the detachable link on the swivel shot of the chain!" Rollie explained to Joe after returning topside.
"But who?"
"Who do you think?" the diver retorted with an angry scowl seaward at the Simon Salvor. "It could only have been done by a frogman. Captain Rankin has already been on the radio to the Salvor, but all he got was a horselaugh."
Joe mulled over the mystery. Were Gus Bock and his mates responsible for the loss of the anchor —or had someone else been the saboteur and swum out from the island under cover of darkness? If the latter was the case, Joe reflected, Red Rogers’ "ghost" might have returned to Whalebone!
Much as he would have liked to watch the search for the Katawa get under way, Joe asked to be put ashore. He waved good-by from the cove as the Petrel sailed out around the island toward the scene of the sinking. Then he began to scout cautiously for possible traces of another occupant on Whalebone.
Shortly before noon Joe heard the put-put of a motorboat engine. He dashed to the cove in time to see Frank and Chet just beaching the Sleuth.
"Hi, you guys!" Joe shouted to them.
"Hi, Joe!"
"What cooks, Robinson Crusoe?" Chet asked.
"Not lunch, if that’s what you were hoping," Joe replied with a grin. "How come it took you so long to get here?"
Frank explained that Chet had been unable to leave until late Saturday afternoon. "I figured we could stop off overnight at Captain Early’s, but he wasn’t home so we had to sleep on the beach."
"Did you bring the captain’s cane?" Joe asked, his voice suddenly tense.
"Sure, I wanted to give it back to him, but—say, what’s so special about that cane?"
As Frank and Chet stared in surprise, Joe told what he had learned about the captain’s collection of pearls and the hollow receptacle in the cane. "That’s what the burglar must have been after all the time!"
Frank hastily fished the cane out of the Sleuth. Sure enough, a metal ring showed where the cane came apart in two pieces!
Joe and Chet watched eagerly as he unscrewed the handle, then peered into the hollow.
"Well—?"
Frank turned the cane barrel upside down and shook it. "Empty. The pearls are gone!"

CHAPTER XIV
A Cave Clue
A
DISMAYED silence followed Frank’s discovery that the captain’s cane was empty.
Then Chet spoke up. "Are you sure the pearls were in there?"
"All I know," Joe said, "is what Roland Perry told me—that the captain collected pearls and his crew had that cane specially made for him to keep them in. Besides, don’t you remember last Tuesday after his house was broken into, he said there was nothing in it of value except the silver?"
"If you’re right," Frank said thoughtfully, "whoever broke into our place Thursday night must have had time to remove the pearls before Tivoli attacked him!"
"Sure," Joe reasoned, "and that would explain the mystery of what our intruder was after."
Gloomily Frank screwed the cane together again. "Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to tell Captain Early as soon as we get in touch with him."
Frank put the cane back in the boat and began unloading sleeping bags, supplies, and scuba gear. "First of all, let’s lug this stuff over to the lighthouse. We can use that as our base."
"Fine," Joe agreed. "And we’d better hide the Sleuth again, too—just in case."
The boys could not carry the entire load in a single trip, so after leaving Chet at the tower to prepare lunch, the Hardys returned to the cove for the remainder of their gear. Then the three ate with hearty appetites all the frankfurters and beans which Chet dished out, sizzling, on tin plates.
Afterward, Frank proposed another systematic search of the island. "If that fake ghost stayed here," he pointed out, "we ought to be able to find some evidence."
"Good idea," Joe said.
Starting out from the headland, the boys began slowly working their way around the shore of the entire crescent-shaped island.
They found no trace of other boat landings, so they started combing the inland areas.
"Hey! Fresh water!" Joe announced as they came to a tiny spring trickling out of a hillside. Hot and perspiring from the trek, he cupped his hands and bent down to scoop up a drink.
Chet couldn’t resist some fun. "How about a good face-wash, too?" Gleefully he gave Joe a prod with the toe of his sneaker.
With a cry of surprise, Joe tried to catch his balance. No luck. He lurched forward, lost his footing, and plunged headfirst out of sight into a mass of brush on the other side of the spring.




"Hey! Where’d he go?" Chet exclaimed. He and Frank ran to the spot where Joe had vanished. Up popped a blond head through the thick vegetation.
"Look here!" Joe shouted, beckoning excitedly. "I landed in a cave. Come on. Let’s look this over."
All three crowded into the well-concealed cavern mouth and Frank took out a flashlight. Its beam revealed a cavity about twenty feet in length.
"Oh—oh!" Joe gasped. "Someone has been here, all right!" He pointed to the charred remnants of a cooking fire. Nearby was a scatter of small bird bones and rusty food cans.
"Boy, this place gives me the willies!" Chet muttered.
As Frank played his light upward from the floor, the boys saw a series of whitish marks on the wall of the cave—evidently scratched there with a piece of limestone.
"Tally marks!" said Frank. The scratches were in groups of six, each group crossed with a seventh line. "Whoever stayed here must have kept count of the days and weeks that way."
"Wow!" Chet said. "He must have lived here quite a while!"
Frank nodded. "Yes, but from the looks of things, it must have been a long time ago, so he couldn’t have been the ‘ghost’ who tried to blow us up."
"You’re right," Joe said. "Still, this might explain the spook that drove the lighthouse keeper Tang out of his mind."
"Could be," Frank agreed. "Maybe some fugitive from the law hid out here."
"Or some hermit," Joe added, "who only wanted to get away from it all."
Chet shuddered. "Imagine being alone at night in that lighthouse with some creep prowling around."
"You
think about it," Joe quipped. "It’ll give you food for thought when we turn in tonight, in place of your usual bedtime snack."
"Cut it out," Frank advised, grinning, "or all three of us may start seeing things."
By the time the adventurers pushed their way back through the entrance of the gloomy hideout, it was late in the afternoon, and gathering clouds in the southwest hid the sun. The boys marked the location of the cave with a stake, which Chet drove into the sand. Then they decided to cruise out to the Petrel before supper to check on the progress of the salvage operations.
Hauling the Sleuth out of its hiding place, they launched it into the surf and Frank started the motor. The sleek craft put-putted out of the cove, then around the island and northward to the ship.
"That sky’s getting darker," Joe commented.
"Wind’s whipping up, too," said Frank. "We’d better not stay out too long. We might have a rough time getting back."
Soon the Petrel came sharply into view and the companions saw that a boom for a diving stage had been rigged out. Frank brought their motorboat alongside and Joe made fast a line.
"Ahoy there! Coming aboard!" Chet called up. When a head popped over the side, they climbed a series of steel rungs onto the deck.
Captain Rankin greeted them cordially and shook hands with Frank and Chet as Joe made the introductions.
"Have you located the Katawa yet, sir?" Joe asked.
"Not yet. Rollie’s down on the bottom right now. Follow me."
He led the boys around to the portside where the diving crew was standing by, under the command of Matt Shane. Here the young sleuths met Perry’s tender, a husky Negro named Sid Carter, who was manning the undersea telephone. The return phone lead was plugged into a loudspeaker.
Carter smiled at the boys and jabbed a finger toward the bottom. "Rollie’s been down long enough to have found Davy Jones himself."
"It’s slow going," Matt commented, his eyes glued to the bubbles erupting on the sloping green waves.
Suddenly Perry’s voice came through: "Think I see her! ... Wait—yes! It’s the Katawa, all right!"
"Nice going!" said Joe.
Matt hastily donned a headset. "How is she positioned, Rollie?"
There was a moment’s hesitation. "Way over on her portside—almost bottom up. Looks like quite a mess. The Carona really sliced her!"
Silence again as the diver made his way closer to the wreck. Suddenly there was a startled exclamation, and Perry’s voice crackled over the speaker:
"Matt! Someone got here before us."
"What do you mean?"
"There’s a hole cut in her side!"

CHAPTER XV
Trouble Ashore
S
o the Katawa had been raided by an unauthorized diver! Frank’s and Joe’s eyes widened. Did this explain how the golden Pharaoh’s head had come into the possession of the thieves who sent the ransom note to Zufar?
"Where was the hole cut, Rollie?" the salvage master called down.
"Can’t see too clearly, Matt, till I get closer—but it looks from here like the engine room."
The Hardys and Chet clung tightly to the rail as a gust of wind swept the ship. The sea was getting rougher by the moment. They saw the radioman emerge from his shack and hurry across the deck to speak to Captain Rankin. The captain listened and glanced at the threatening sky, then came over and spoke to Matt Shane.
"That hurricane’s veering our way, Matt. We’ll just get the fringes, I think, but it may be pretty hard to hold our station. Can you secure from diving for now?"
"Sure, Cap’n. We’ve found the wreck—that’s the main thing. Rollie can start fresh in the morning and get the lay o’ things inside."
Orders were called down for the diver to come aboard the stage, or platform. After the Petrel dropped a marker buoy, the slow process of raising Perry to the surface began.
Being experienced scuba divers, the Hardys knew that this was done gradually to prevent a diver from suffering an attack of the bends, caused by nitrogen bubbles forming in the blood when a diver is decompressed too quickly.
By the time Perry stepped aboard from the diving stage, the sky was almost as dark as night and the ship rolled and pitched violently.
The Sleuth, meanwhile, had been hoisted aboard. At Captain Rankin’s invitation, the boys had decided to return to the island on the salvage ship.
Perry sat on the diver’s stool while his tender unsuited him. Joe introduced Frank and Chet to Perry as soon as his helmet was removed.
"From the looks of this weather, I should have stayed at the bottom," Perry remarked.
Bucking heavy seas, the Petrel plowed back to Whalebone Island. Soon after it had dropped anchor in the cove, the Simon Salvor also put in for shelter. Gale-force winds were now bending the trees on shore, and within minutes solid sheets of rain came lashing down on the two ships.
Frank and Joe enjoyed a hearty dinner in the crew’s mess. But, for once, Chet seemed to lack appetite. He said nothing, but his pals guessed the heaving motions of the ship were responsible.
"Say, I wonder if Captain Early might be home by now," Joe mused.
"Maybe," Frank said. "Why?"
"We might be able to contact him by ship-to-shore telephone. I’d like to find out for sure about those pearls."
"So would I—if we can get along the deck without being blown overboard."
"Wind’s died down quite a bit," Sid Carter spoke up. "Go ahead—you can make it to the radio shack without any trouble."
Chet, welcoming the chance for fresh air, accompanied the Hardys as they scooted forward, hugging the deckhousing for shelter. The rain, too, had abated, and the boys reached the radio compartment without much difficulty.
The radioman, Harry Egner, readily agreed to put through their call. In a few moments Captain Early was on the line.
Frank related their theory that the pearls might have been the object of the burglary attempts and told how they had found the cane to be empty.
"Don’t worry. I haven’t carried any pearls in the cane since I retired from the Service," Captain Early replied. "You fellows deserve credit for a smart guess, though."
The captain explained that the pearls which he had collected had been made into a necklace for his late wife, and now were owned by one of her relatives.
Frank, somewhat letdown, observed, "Even so, the burglar must have thought the cane still held a fortune in pearls, just as we did."
"Hmm. I suppose that’s possible," Captain Early agreed, "if he’d heard about me from some acquaintance in the Navy."
"One thing has us stymied," Frank went on. "How did he know the cane was still at our house? If he trailed you there Monday night and saw you leave the next day, I should think he would’ve been fooled by seeing you carry Dad’s walking stick."
"Hold on! Maybe he was!" Captain Early said excitedly. "You remember my telling you about that motorist who picked me up?"
"Yes."
"The fellow seemed interested in my cane—even asked to take a look at it after I got into his car. It was then I first noticed I’d taken the wrong one, and I mentioned the mix-up."
"Wow! That could mean he drained the gas tank Monday night!" Frank exclaimed. "He may have counted on picking you up when you ran out of gas, swiping your cane, and pushing you out of the car!"
Joe, who was listening in on the conversation, broke in, "So he knew where to look for the cane—at our house."
"Well, boys, your theory seems to explain all the angles of the case," Captain Early said. "At any rate, the burglar hasn’t come back. And I hope he doesn’t."
Frank ended the call after getting a description of the motorist and his car.
The rain ceased and the skies began to clear soon after the boys emerged from the radio shack. Roland Perry met them out on deck.
"Looks as though we’re in luck," he remarked. "Captain says the hurricane’s moving out to sea again."
"Hmm! That air sure smells good," said Chet, who was rapidly regaining his usual healthy appetite. "Think I’ll go see if the cook has any leftovers."
"Watch it. He may put you to work washing dishes," Joe joked.
"Who cares? It’ll be worth it!" Chet said breezily, and trotted off toward the galley.
Stars were now twinkling brightly and the cove lay silvered with moonlight. Voices carried across the water from the Salvor anchored nearby.
Perry eyed the other boat suspiciously. "I’d sure give a lot to know what those bilge rats are after."
The Hardys, recalling Bock’s threat to their father, expressed the same interest. Frank then told the diver about the cave on the island. "It looks as if somebody lived in it."
"And it may be the answer to a ghost mystery," Joe stated. "You want to have a look at it?"
Perry, intrigued, quickly agreed to accompany the Hardys ashore. The Sleuth was lowered over the side and a few spurts of her motor brought them quickly to the beach.
When they reached the cave, Frank led the way inside. He shone his flashlight beam over the campsite traces on the floor, then upward to the tally marks scratched on the wall.
"Poor guy. Must have had a pretty rugged diet," said Perry, toeing the scattered bird bones. "I’d say he was probably a shipwrecked sailor or a stranded fisherman."
"In that case, why live in a cave when there’s a perfectly good lighthouse handy?" Joe countered.
"Hmm, you have a point there." The diver rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "What’s this ghost mystery you mentioned?"
"A lighthouse keeper here years ago claimed he saw—" Suddenly Joe broke off and pointed to the mouth of the cave.
A glow of light was visible outside!
Perry strode through the cave entrance, Joe and Frank pressing close behind. A dazzling glare struck their eyes. The boys countered with their own flashlights, revealing two figures in the darkness. One was a lanky, baldheaded man with tufted, sandy eyebrows.
The other was Gus Bock!
"Well, well! I might’ve known," Perry said coldly. "Sneaky as ever—eh, Bock?"
The burly diver’s face took on an ugly scowl. He shot a glance at Frank and Joe and grunted. The boys saw his hamlike fists clenched.
"Stow it, Perry!"
"Maybe you’d like to tell us what you’re doing here," Perry retorted. "Besides eavesdropping, that is."
Bock advanced, his jaw jutting furiously. "Maybe you’d like a mouthful of knuckles!"
"Nein,
Bock! Lass das!" With a guttural growl, the baldheaded man tried to hold back his companion. "We do not want trouble!"
"He’s asking for it!" Bock shook off the man’s restraining hand.
"Looks as if we don’t have to ask," Perry said evenly. "Someone slipped our anchor for us last night."
Bock let out a hoot of raucous laughter, but it broke off abruptly, as Perry added, "At least that’s a change from cutting air hoses."
With a snarl, Bock hurled a punch at his former shipmate. Perry ducked fast enough so the blow only grazed his jaw. Then his own fist smashed out at Bock and the burly diver went sprawling on the ground.
Bock’s face was contorted with rage as he picked himself up. "Okay, Perry! This time you really get the works!"
"Hold it!"
Everyone turned at the barked-out order. Captain Rankin had materialized out of the darkness, accompanied by his brawny bos’n.
"That’ll be enough!" Rankin’s tone of command had the desired effect. Bock froze sullenly. "On your way, you two."
"We’ll go—for now," Bock snarled. "But I ain’t finished with you, Perry." He glared at Frank and Joe. "And you better watch it, too."
He turned and slunk off with his companion.
Perry watched until they were out of earshot, then said to Captain Rankin, "What’s the idea, skipper? You on shore patrol?"
"You might call it that, Rollie. I saw Bock and his friend go ashore after you three did and figured there might be trouble. Seems I was right."
Perry retorted dryly, "Bock and I are in for a showdown sooner or later."
Frank told the men of the hostile diver’s visit to their home. Rankin looked concerned and suggested, "Maybe you boys had better bunk on board tonight—just to be on the safe side."
The Hardys accepted, eager to learn what Perry would find on his next descent to the Katawa.
The next morning they tried to persuade the diver and Matt Shane to let them accompany Perry down and help search the hulk.
Shane shook his head. "Not a chance, lads. The engine room’s one of the most dangerous places for a diver to go on a wreck. It’s a regular tangle of pipes and machinery, and the spilled oil makes it twice as hazardous."
"At least let us watch," Frank pleaded. "We’ve had plenty of experience scuba diving, and we’ll promise not to go aboard."
Shane and Perry finally gave consent. The Hardys made a quick trip ashore with Chet to retrieve their scuba gear from the lighthouse. Then, in the Sleuth, they sped out to the marker buoy, where the salvage ship had already taken up its position.
Chet stood by, fascinated, while Frank and Joe donned rubber suits, flippers, masks, and breathing apparatus. Roland Perry was already encased in his diving dress on the stool, a red wool cap on his head.
"You’re going in through the engine room?" Joe asked.
"I’ll have to. The top hamper’s all smashed and half buried in silt, the way she’s lying. Remember now, you fellows take care."
"Aye, aye, sir." Frank grinned and saluted.
Perry’s helmet was screwed on, the glass faceplate attached, and the air supply checked. Then he clumped onto the diving stage in his lead-weighted boots and was lowered into the water.
Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had pulled down their masks, inserted their mouthpieces, and tested their regulators. Both leaped over the side.
The Hardys cleaved their way steeply downward into the cold depths, trying to keep Perry in sight. The water darkened to a murky gray-green as they descended. At last the shattered hulk of the Katawa came in sight.
Both boys felt a chill of awe at their first view of the dead ship. Already coated with barnacles and scum, it lay upended on the ocean floor, stacks and superstructure rammed deeply into the mud. The high bow of the Carona had knifed clean through into the Katawa’s bridge and deckhousing, and the resultant wreckage had evidently crumpled further under the weight of the foundered vessel.
"No wonder Rollie has to go in through that hole in her side!" Joe thought.
The diver waved to them as he stepped off the platform, then plodded slowly toward the hulk, trailing his air hose and lifeline. The Hardys saw him close his outlet valve slightly to make his suit more buoyant so as to float himself upward toward the gaping hole. A startled school of fish came darting out as Perry made his way cautiously inside.
Frank and Joe swam closer. Dark swirls of oil were rising from the engine room, churned up by Perry’s movements, and they could see little except the glow of his portable undersea lamp.
Meanwhile, the boys were flutter-kicking their way around the ship, peering at it from all sides. Somewhere in the sunken freighter was the strong room—did it still contain the gold Pharaoh’s head?
The Hardys’ air supply was getting low when Perry finally emerged. He made a thumbs-up gesture to return topside. Pausing at intervals to decompress, they made the ascent.
As soon as Frank and Joe were hauled aboard, they could see from the excited faces of the diving crew that Perry had telephoned important news from the wreck. The young sleuths waited impatiently until his helmet was removed.
"What’s the dope, Rollie?" Joe asked eagerly.
"Whoever cut that hole in the Katawa stole her engine-room telegraph and tachometer—the only evidence that can prove who’s responsible for the collision!"

CHAPTER XVI
Double Disappearance
"T
HE telegraph and tachometer—gone!"
Joe gave a startled whistle and glanced at Frank. The discovery of the missing instruments below boded ill for Transmarine Underwriters and could result in heavy claims!
Chet had already heard the diver’s telephoned report from the bottom. "Say!" the stout lad spoke up. "Isn’t there another telegraph and tachometer on the bridge?"
"Sure," said Perry, "but they wouldn’t amount to much now, except scrap metal—even if I could pry them out. The bridge is nothing but a mass of junk, and the whole ship’s perched right on top of it."
"How about the strong room?" Frank asked.
"That’s probably pretty badly smashed, too," the diver said. "I couldn’t get to it from the engine room—at least not yet. A lot of debris will have to be cleared away first."
The Hardy boys went below to change out of their scuba dress.
"What do you suppose Rollie will find when he gets to the strong room?" Joe mused aloud. "Think the gold Pharaoh’s head is still there?"
"I don’t know. Looks as if we’ll have to wait a while to find out. The question is, Why were those indicators stolen?"
Joe shot his brother a surprised look. "That’s obvious, isn’t it? Whoever took them was trying to cover up responsibility for the collision."
"Maybe. It could also be a red herring—to cover up the theft of the head! Remember, the thief knew that hole in the Katawa’s side was bound to be seen by any salvage diver later on."
"Yes!" Joe said excitedly. "Then, if nothing was touched in the engine room, that would practically prove the thief had gone down for the head. Which, in turn, might touch off a big search by the police!"
"Right. So he may have figured that by misleading the insurance company, he’d have more time to dispose of the head safely."
"But all this is assuming the thief could get to the strong room," Joe pointed out.
"Rollie said the way to it is blocked."
"From the engine room it’s blocked," Frank corrected. "Maybe there’s some other way to get at the room."
When the Hardys returned topside, they learned that Shane, Perry, and Captain Rankin were holding a meeting in the captain’s cabin to map salvage plans. The three Bayporters were invited to attend.
Around the oval wooden table, Frank told his theory that the instrument thief’s real objective might have been the Pharaoh’s head.
"Is there any other way he could have reached the strong room?" the young sleuth asked.
Roland Perry hesitated. "He might have worked his way in through a deck hatch or companionway—I’ d have to check. But offhand I doubt if that would have been any easier."
"Besides, lad," Captain Rankin put in, "would he have bothered to cut the hole in her side? The hole is the only tip-off that a thief was down there at all."
"That’s true," Frank conceded.
"There could still be a reason," said Joe. "Maybe he figured the hole would throw us off the track for a while—at least long enough for him to sell the head."
Shane remarked wryly, "I’d say we’re up against a pretty shrewd operator."
"Rollie," said Frank, "is there any chance the thief could have gotten the head—and then himself blocked access to the strong room?"
The three salvage men were startled by this idea.
"By George, I guess that’s possible," Perry admitted. "With a small explosive blast, he might have shifted the debris inside the ship quite a bit. It’d be hard to tell now."
The Hardys and Chet exchanged quick glances. They had already found out—almost at the cost of their lives—that someone on Whalebone Island knew how to handle explosives!
"Well," Frank said, "to sum up, it looks as if there are four possible answers to the question of who cut that hole in the Katawa."
"Let’s hear ’em," said Matt Shane.
"One: the thief may have been someone hired by the owners of the Carona, to help them duck responsibility for the collision. Two: he may have been a free-lance diver after the head—or maybe just after brass scrap. Three: he may have been hired by Mehmet Zufar, the owner of the head, to help him gyp the insurance company."
"You don’t have to name the fourth," Perry broke in. "That I can already guess."
Joe nodded. "You mean Gus Bock?"
"I do. Bock’s been my candidate for the thief ever since I first saw that hole."
"I realize Simon Salvage is not famous for square dealing," Captain Rankin said, frowning. "But do you believe even they’d risk such a maneuver?"
"Sure," Perry reasoned. "What else can they be doing around Whalebone Island? We know they wouldn’t pass up any chance of big loot."
Before the discussion could continue, there was a knock on the door of the captain’s cabin.
"Come in!" Rankin barked.
A deckhand stepped inside. "Sparks says there’s a radiotelephone call from shore for the Hardy boys, Cap’n."
Frank and Joe excused themselves and hurried to the radio shack, Chet puffing along eagerly behind them. The call was from Sam Radley in Philadelphia.
"What’s up, Sam?" Frank asked his father’s operative.
"A couple of news items I thought I’d pass on to you fellows. For one thing, your dad has found out, through Interpol, who sent that warning cablegram from Egypt."
Frank’s eyes lighted with interest. "Who?"
"The Egyptian police traced it to a Dutch goldsmith named Van Hoek who was living in Cairo."
"Was
living?"
"That’s right. He seems to have disappeared."
Frank glanced at Joe and Chet, who were listening in. Chet gulped.
"A goldsmith!" Joe exclaimed. "Sounds as if there might’ve been some funny business with the Pharaoh’s head. Van Hoek may have made a duplicate!"
"And he may also be another victim of the Pharaoh’s curse," Chet croaked gloomily.
"What’s the rest of your news, Sam?" Frank asked, turning back to the telephone.
The detective hesitated before replying. "The truth is, your dad’s missing, too. At least I haven’t heard from him for over twenty-four hours."
"What! Haven’t you any idea where he went?"
"None," Radley admitted worriedly, "except that he was following up on that lead from Zufar. Look, I’d rather not talk too much over the phone. Do you think you boys could break off what you’re doing and fly here to Philadelphia?"
Alarmed for their father’s safety, the Hardys readily agreed. Radley promised to arrange a special charter flight with the Ace Air Service, which would be standing by as soon as the youths could get back to Bayport.
Chet was sympathetic and immediately offered whatever assistance he could give his pals.
Frank gave him a grateful slap on the back. "Thanks, Chet. You’ve been a swell sport to help us this far. You deserve a break. We’ll drop you off in Bayport, but stand by."
"You bet."
After a hasty farewell to their friends on the Petrel, the boys embarked in the Sleuth.
It was evening when they finally reached home. Here Frank and Joe ate a quick supper with Aunt Gertrude. Not wanting to worry her, they made no mention of Fenton Hardv’s disappearance, saving only that they were needed urgently in Philadelphia to help on his current case.
"Any word from Mother?" Joe asked.
"Her friend is better, but Laura plans to stay on in Bartonsville a few days," Miss Hardy replied. "Don’t eat so fast, boys! You’re as bad as Tivoli."
Frank grinned. "How’s Tivoli’s appetite these days?"
"Humph! He does eat rather a lot, but he’s proving to be a very well-behaved dog. I’m seeing to that!" Aunt Gertrude added with pride.
The two boys sped to the airport in their convertible and were soon taking off into the dusk aboard the charter plane.
Sam Radley met them at the Philadelphia air terminal, but waited until the Hardys were settled in a hotel room before telling them the whole story
"When your dad and I opened that airport locker," he began, "we found a walkie-talkie inside."
"A walkie-talkie!" Frank exclaimed.
"Yes—with a note saying to keep listening in. But it wasn’t till Saturday that anything came through."
"What did you hear?" Joe asked.
"Not much the first time. The voice that spoke sounded pretty suspicious—wanted to know why Zufar himself didn’t answer. Your dad said he was acting as Zufar’s agent or go-between for the pickup of the head."
"Then what?" Frank inquired.
"He was told to stand by for instructions—while the gang did some snooping around, I suppose, to make sure there was no trap."
"Then," Sam went on, "early yesterday morning another message came. Fenton was told this time to grab a taxi immediately, have the driver go down Market Street, and then turn north onto Johnson Avenue. The voice said he would receive further instructions en route."
The sandy-haired, muscular detective rose from his chair and paced anxiously about the room.
"I tried to follow him in another cab, but lost him in traffic. I haven’t heard a word from him since."
Frank said, "Have you told the police?"
Radley nodded. "Yes, your father kept them informed all along, but there was no time to rig a trap. A police operator was tuned in on the same frequency, but he heard nothing."
"Some of the gang probably got close behind Dad’s cab and broadcast at very low power, so the transmission wouldn’t carry far," Joe declared.
Both boys felt sick with worry, but knew there was little they could do except await developments. Frank told Radley about Captain Early’s cane and passed on the description of the "helpful" motorist and his car. Radley promised to have this circulated by the police.
"Better get some rest, fellows. We may need all our energy tomorrow," the operative advised after they had listened to the eleven-o’ clock news report on TV.
Radley left to return to his own room. Frank and Joe undressed and went to bed. Exhausted by their strenuous day, they fell asleep quickly.
Joe awoke suddenly some time later. Was the floor creaking—or had he only imagined it? He raised his head from the pillow and peered around.
A shadowy figure was darting toward the window!

CHAPTER XVII
Secret of the Mummy Case
J
OE was out of bed in a flash. He sprang clear across his brother’s bed and leaped at the intruder in a flying tackle.
With a snarl, the man kicked backward. His heel connected full force with Joe’s jaw and the boy crashed to the floor in a daze.
By this time Frank had awakened. He jumped out of bed just as the man was disappearing through the window. Frank ran over and stuck out his head. "Stop! Thief!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. The intruder was already darting down the fire escape into the pitch-dark alleyway below.
Frank raged in frustration. He had started to put on his bathrobe, in order to give chase. But he checked himself, not daring to leave Joe alone.
Dashing to the room telephone, he signaled the operator. "A man just broke into Room 3211 He got away down the rear fire escape and went through the alley!"
Hurrying to his brother’s assistance, Frank was relieved to find Joe groggily raising himself from the floor.
"Whoa! Easy, boy! Better stay put for a bit," Frank advised. He switched on the light, got Joe a glass of water, then helped him onto a bed.
"Feel okay?"
"Guess so. Slightly foggy, that’s all." Joe waggled his jaw. "I guess it’s not broken."
His eyes widened and he sat up again as Frank reached for a sheet of white paper propped on a table. "Our visitor left a message," said Frank.
"What’s it say?"
Frank read aloud: "‘Leave town at once or there’ll be trouble!’ "
"More on the other side, isn’t there?" Joe said.
When Frank turned the sheet over, his jaw tightened. Without a word, he handed the paper to Joe. The remainder of the message was:
AND DROP THE PHARAOH’S HEAD CASE IF YOU HOPE TO SEE YOUR FATHER AGAIN—ALIVE!
"If only I could’ve nailed that creep!" Joe complained bitterly.
"Did you get a look at him?"
"No, it all happened too fast." Joe scowled. "But—there was something familiar about him, at that. Just his general shape, or the way he moved, I’m not sure what."
Frank went down the hall to rouse Sam Radley, whose room was several doors away. On the way back, they encountered the house detective.
"A couple of scout cars are cruising around, looking for likely suspects," the hotel security man reported. "Can you give us any description to go on?"
"Not a very good one, unfortunately," Frank said. "The man was tall and had on a dark suit, that’s about all. He was pretty much in shadow going down the fire escape."
The house detective took down a complete account of the incident from both boys and offered the services of a doctor for Joe, who vigorously declined. "I’m fine, now."
Radley, meanwhile, had been prowling about the room, looking for clues. A moment after the hotel detective had left, Radley bent down and plucked something from behind the wastebasket near the window.
"Did either of you throw this away?"
The Hardys shook their heads. "What is it?" Frank asked.
"A notice of an art auction sale," Radley replied, holding out a small brochure, "from the Holt-Hornblow Galleries in New York."
"An art auction sale!" Joe exclaimed, looking at his brother excitedly. "The fellow must have dropped it going out the window."
"That would figure, all right," Frank said. "If the men who kidnapped Dad really have the gold Pharaoh’s head, they may be in the art business!"
They found no marks or jottings on the brochure which might provide a further clue.
"You know something?" Frank said suddenly. "There’s an angle to this business we’ve been overlooking all along."
"What’s that?" asked Radley.
"The gang behind all this must have had some real inside knowledge if they salvaged the head from the Katawa’s strong room. Remember, no story about the head being aboard was ever published in the newspapers."
Radley nodded. "True."
"One of the Katawa’s crew may have let the secret slip out," Frank went on. "Then word was passed along, either to a museum, or an art dealer —maybe someone who knows Zufar."
Joe suddenly leaped up off the bed as if he had been stung. "Sufferin’ snakes!" he blurted. "Bogdan! Fritz Bogdan!"
"What?" Frank exclaimed.
"I mean, he was the man I saw—the guy who broke in tonight!"
Radley and Frank stared at Joe.
"How can you be sure," Radley asked, "if you didn’t see his face?"
"I’m not sure," Joe admitted, "but at least I’m positive that’s why the figure looked familiar. Tall, slightly stooped, right shoulder higher than the other—just like Bogdan!"
Frank was impressed by his brother’s theory. "That definitely adds up," he said. "Bogdan could have learned from Zufar about the head going down on the Katawa—maybe heard about it the same day that it happened. So he decided to steal a march on the insurance company and hire somebody to grab it before they could send down a diver of their own."
"And remember, we suspected Bogdan was eavesdropping on us at Zufar’s office," Joe said.
Sam Radley paced back and forth worriedly. "Boys, if you’re right, we’d better move fast," he decided. "We might be able to nail Bogdan on his way back to New York from here."
"What’s your plan, Sam?" Frank asked.
"We’ll have police cover the airports, and the train and bus stations," the operative replied. "Meantime, we’ll fly back to New York in our charter plane. If he’s driving, we’ll still get to New York before him."
The Ace Air Service pilot had planned to stay overnight at a motel near the Philadelphia airport. Sam telephoned him and arranged to have the plane readied for take-off immediately.
In less than an hour Radley and the boys were bound for La Guardia Airport.
As soon as they landed, they checked telephone directories to find Bogdan’s home address, but could find no listing.
"Wait a second," Frank said. "Maybe Zufar can tell us."
He plucked out the art dealer’s calling card. Zufar had jotted two telephone numbers on the back, along with the address of Bogdan’s curio shop. One was the shop’s number. The other proved to be that of Zufar’s hotel.
A few moments after Frank had dialed it, Zufar’s voice came hoarsely over the line, sounding as if he had just been awakened. "Yes? Who is calling?"
Frank explained the situation hastily. Zufar seemed to be flustered and incredulous at the idea that Bogdan might be involved in the Pharaoh’s head plot. But he gave Frank the curio-shop proprietor’s unlisted home number and address, which he said was an apartment not far from the shop.
"Let’s try Bogdan by phone first," Joe suggested.
Frank called the number but got no response. Nor was there any answer from the shop number. The three sleuths hailed a taxi and sped into Manhattan.
Bogdan’s apartment was on the first floor of an old converted brownstone. Its windows were dark, and the doorbell could be heard ringing hollowly inside.
"Maybe he hasn’t come back from Philadelphia yet," Frank conjectured.
"We’d better keep a stakeout," said Radley. It was decided that he would remain on watch outside the brownstone while the Hardys covered the curio shop.
The boys taxied to the address and settled down to wait in an all-night drugstore across the street, which commanded a clear view of the shop entrance. The early morning passed slowly with no sign of Bogdan.
By ten o’clock neither the proprietor nor any of his employees had appeared to open the shop.
Finally Sam Radley arrived on the scene. Frank and Joe hurried across the street to meet him. The operative reported that he had called the Holt-Hornblow Galleries and confirmed the fact that a notice of the art auction sale had been sent to Fritz Bogdan. "I think we’d better call the police," Radley told the boys.
"Hold it!" Joe said. "Here’s Zufar!"
The art dealer was just stepping out of a taxi. He looked upset at sight of the trio and twiddled his mustache nervously as they apprised him of the situation.
"Do you have a key to the shop?" Radley asked. When Zufar nodded, he went on, "Then suppose we go inside and search the premises."
"B-b-but we have no right to do that!" the dealer spluttered. "I merely occupy office space here as a favor from Bogdan."
"Look," Frank said angrily, "our dad was kidnapped carrying out a dangerous assignment for you. Your friend Bogdan may be behind the whole thing—including the theft of your golden Pharaoh’s head."
Joe broke in. "We’ll call the police and get a warrant."
Zufar fished out a silk handkerchief and daubed his perspiring face. "No, no—please! Let us do as you wish." He unlocked the front door of the shop and they went inside.
Radley made a hasty survey of the premises—showroom, offices, and storage space at the rear—to make sure that no one was about.
"What do you expect to find?" Zufar asked.
"Evidence," said Radley. "If Bogdan did mastermind this plot, the Pharaoh’s head may be hidden here somewhere!"
The three sleuths began a thorough search. Would they find solid evidence linking Bogdan to the plot—and would it lead them to their missing father?
The boys and Sam probed into closets, crates, desks, rolled-up rugs—all in vain. Their hopes began to dwindle.
In the dusty showroom Frank paused and stared around despairingly. Once again, the faded, upright Egyptian mummy case caught his eye. On a sudden hunch, he strode toward it.
"Joe! Sam!"
His cry brought the others rushing over. Frank pointed to several tiny borings in the case. "These look like air holes!"
Together, the three pried at the mummy case, until Joe found a catch. When Frank and Sam wrenched off the lid, the trio gasped.
Wedged inside, with eyes closed, was the bound and gagged form of Fenton Hardy!

CHAPTER XVIII
Danger Below
T
HE boys were shocked at the sight of their father in the mummy case.
"Dad!" Joe cried in great alarm.
Frank felt Mr. Hardy’s wrist and found a weak pulse. Carefully they eased the unconscious detective from the case.
"There’s a sofa in Bogdan’s office," said Sam. "Let’s carry him in there."
They had taken only a few steps when Joe’s eyes suddenly bulged. "That green Buddha!" he exclaimed.
"What’s the matter?" Frank asked.
"Wait till we attend to Dad and I’ll show you!"
The three laid Fenton Hardy on the sofa in Bogdan’s office. Mehmet Zufar, visibly shaken, watched as Radley loosened the investigator’s collar, then checked his respiration.
"I’d say he’s been drugged," Sam declared. "We’d better get him to a hospital!"
While the operative telephoned for an ambulance and notified the police, Joe led Frank back to the Buddha figure.
"Take a look at that. Does anything about it strike you as odd?"
The large figure was coated with the pale-green patina of weathered bronze. It was seated in the "lotus" position, legs crossed, hands cupped in the lap.
Frank studied the Buddha intently for a moment. "Hmm. The head doesn’t seem to match somehow—it’s canted slightly to the left."
"Exactly. As if it was made separately from the body and then fitted on."
Frank’s face suddenly lit up. "Jumpin’ Jupiter! You think—?"
"I think this Buddha needs his skull X-rayed, that’s what!"
As Joe seized the statue’s head with both hands, Zufar came rushing up to the boys.
"Ya khabar!"
he gasped. "What are you doing? You may damage the—"
"Relax, Mr. Zufar. If this is one-piece bronze, I can’t damage it. If not—" As he spoke, Joe applied a slight twisting pressure to the statue’s head.
Suddenly the neck seemed to move inside its tight-fitting necklace. An instant later the whole head came off in Joe’s hands!
"You were right!" Frank shouted.
The lower portion of the neck, which had fitted inside the necklace, showed none of the greenish bronze patina of the rest of the figure. Instead, it appeared to be hard-baked clay!
Frank lifted the head. "Wow! Heavy as lead!" he exclaimed. "The weight alone proves it was never part of the original hollow bronze casting." He turned it upside down to examine the base of the neck.
"Looks like solid clay," said Joe.
"It’s clay, all right," Frank agreed. "The surface has been bronzed over and doctored with paint to give it the same weathered look as the body. But whether the clay’s solid or not is another question."
"Let’s find out!" Joe urged.
He lugged the head back to the storage room, followed by Frank and Zufar. Here Joe laid the head on a worktable, then picked up a hammer and chisel, evidently used for prying open crates.
"Wh-wh-what are you going to do?" Zufar stuttered, wringing his hands anxiously.
"See if this Buddha has a split personality." Joe poised the chisel on the head and gave it a sharp rap with the hammer. The face cracked and the clay fell away. They saw a yellow gleam of metal.
"The golden Pharaoh!"
the boys cried out.
Zufar stared in stunned silence as the boys extricated the head from its broken clay shell. Frank and Joe were awed by the sheer beauty of the centuries-old statuette.
A tiny vulture and cobra protruded side by side from the Pharaoh’s headdress. A long, slender goatee hung from the chin of the masklike golden face.
"Great Scott! What’s going on!"
All three turned as Radley strode, wide-eyed, into the room. He told the boys that an ambulance was on the way, then they quickly related what had happened.
"The Pharaoh’s head!" Sam exclaimed in astonishment. He turned to Zufar and asked, "Is it authentic?"
The perspiring art dealer lifted the object in trembling hands and examined it carefully.
"I should say it is unquestionably the same head that I was bringing to America—or, if not, the cleverest imitation I have ever seen. Of course, only a detailed examination by an expert Egyptologist—"
"Even that wouldn’t prove it was the same one that went down on the Katawa, would it?" Joe broke in. "What if Rhamaton IV had two of these heads made—is that possible?"
Zufar shrugged. "Who can say?" Mopping his brow, the dealer added, "Anything is possible if my trusted friend and associate, Bogdan, could be party to such a villainous plot!"
The piercing wail of a siren came from the street outside. In a moment two ambulance attendants strode in, carrying a stretcher. Soon afterward, the police arrived.


"The golden Pharaoh!" the Hardys cried out
Frank and Joe insisted on accompanying their father to the hospital. Radley elected to stay behind to acquaint the police with the situation.
"After we turn the Pharaoh’s head over to the proper authorities, I’ll meet you at the hospital," the operative promised.
It was past one o’clock in the afternoon and the Hardys had just finished eating a long-delayed breakfast in the hospital coffee shop when Radley finally rejoined them.
"How’s your dad?" was his first question.
"Okay," Frank replied, "although he’s still unconscious. The doctor says he was definitely drugged and he may not come out from the effects for hours."
Radley breathed a deep sigh of relief. The golden Pharaoh’s head, he told the boys, had been entrusted to the Egyptology Department of the Metropolitan Museum for expert examination.
"Whew! This mystery is a real cliff-hanger!" Joe remarked. "I can hardly wait to find out what Perry will discover aboard the Katawa, too!"
The boys were torn between wanting to stay near their father and to keep an eye on the salvage operations as Mr. Hardy had wished.
Finally Radley convinced the two young sleuths to return to Whalebone Island.
"There’s not much you fellows can do here except wait," he said. "So don’t worry. I’ll stick around till your dad revives."
Frank and Joe taxied to La Guardia where Sam’s pilot was standing by. Soon they were winging their way to Bayport. Back home, Joe phoned Chet to bring him up to date and make plans for the island trip. Frank, meanwhile, told Aunt Gertrude of the recent events, then the brothers tumbled into bed.
The alarm clock awakened them at three o’clock the next morning. The boys showered, dressed, and hurried down to the kitchen to find a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs awaiting them.
"You’re a swell sport to get up just on our account, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said. "We sure appreciate it."
"Humph! Somebody has to see that you two get the proper nourishment," Miss Hardy said tartly, yet with a pleased look in her eyes.
The boys sped off in their convertible to the boathouse, where Chet soon joined them.
"I m-must be out of my mind to c-crawl out of the sack at this time of night!" he complained, shivering in the brisk, cool breeze of the bay.
"You wouldn’t want to miss out on all the excitement, would you?" Joe said with a chuckle. "This may be the day we ferret out the final answer to the whole mystery—including the riddle of the Jolly Roger’s ghost!"
Chet groaned loudly. "Now I know I should have stayed in bed!"
The Sleuth streaked out across Barmet Bay through the pre-dawn darkness. Late in the morning, they reached the Petrel, lying at the scene of the sinking, just north of Whalebone Island.
Roland Perry was resting on deck before going down for his second dive of the day.
"What’s the picture, Rollie?" Joe asked.
"Better than we had any right to hope, fellows! I discovered the cargo had shifted enough so that I was able to cut a way through from the forward hold. Barring trouble, I should be able to get into the strong room itself on my next trip down!"
The Hardys and Chet were elated at the news.
"That’ll be terrific!" Frank said enviously. "I wish we could be down there watching. Say, Rollie, did you do any salvage work for the Navy after the war?"
The diver nodded. "All along the coast here. A lot of ships are still resting on the bottom out in those waters. In fact, I remember seeing one enemy raider that your friend Captain Early accounted for."
"He must have been quite a skipper," Joe said admiringly.
"A real tiger, from the stories I’ve heard about him," Perry agreed. "Had four enemy ships to his credit—in the Atlantic. On that cane we gave him when he left the Svenson, the quartermaster carved the latitudes and longitudes of all four sinkings."
The Hardys stared at the diver.
"Latitudes and longitudes?" Frank echoed.
"Sure. You know—same as a fighter pilot painting his kills on the plane. We figured old Pearly Early had as much to boast about as any sky jockey."
The diver broke off as his tender and Matt Shane approached. "Looks as though it’s time for my next dunk, fellows," Rollie said. "Stick around. I may have good news before the day’s over."
The Bayporters walked off toward the rail while Sid Carter fitted the diving helmet over Perry’s head.
Chet shot a quizzical glance at the Hardys. "What’s up? I saw the way you both looked just now when Rollie mentioned the cane."
"Don’t you get it?" said Joe.
"No," replied Chet. "Let me in on the secret."
"If Joe’s thinking the same thing I am," said Frank, "the burglar who did those break-ins may have been after that information carved on the captain’s cane—not his pearls at all."
"The location of those sinkings!"
"Right!" Joe turned to his brother. "You brought the cane along, didn’t you, Frank?"
"Yes, it’s in our boat. We’ll take a look pronto!"
The three boys hurried across the deck and climbed down into the Sleuth, which was moored alongside. Moments later, they were exclaiming in surprise as they studied the markings on the cane.
Joe reached into a locker and pulled out a map which he unfolded.
"Now we’re getting somewhere," Frank remarked as he held the cane close and studied the latitude and longitude of Captain Early’s first sinking. He read the numbers off carefully and Joe’s finger swept across the map.
"Here it is! Off Newfoundland."
Frank read the next set of markings and Joe translated the position into a spot off North Carolina.
The next prey to the firepower of Captain Early’s destroyer had been sunk ten miles off the New Jersey coast.
"Wow!" said Chet. "My history book says that was called the graveyard of the Atlantic!"
Frank had a little difficulty making out the latitude and longitude numbers representing the fourth sinking. Inscribed near the handle of the cane, they were dim from wear. Frank relayed the position, and as Joe pinpointed the location, he suddenly exclaimed, "Good night! That’s right where we are!"
"Those lines nearly dissect Whalebone Island!" Chet said excitedly.
"I wonder what kind of craft the captain sent to Davy Jones’s locker here," Joe remarked.
"Let’s get hold of him on the radiotelephone," said Frank. "He can give us the answer."
At first there was no response. After several tries, however, Frank finally reached the officer.
"Captain Early!" he said excitedly. "That last bag made by your destroyer—was it off Whalebone Island?"
The boy heard the captain chuckle. "Yes, I guess it was. Our radar picked up that U-boat in the dead of night."
"A submarine?" Frank asked.
"Right! We dodged her torpedoes and sank her with ashcans—depth charges, that is. The enemy left an oil slick bigger than a circus tent. We found debris the next morning. A certain kill."
"Thanks a lot," said Frank. "That’s great news, Captain. We’ll tell you all about it later and return your cane, too."
Frank signed off and dashed out of the radio shack.
"You look as if you’re about to jump out of your skin," said Joe.
"Boy, I am!" Frank exclaimed, and told about the German sub.
"Then you mean—?" Joe’s question was broken off by the high-pitched voices of excited crewmen running toward them.
"What’s wrong, Sid?" Joe asked Perry’s tender.
"An explosion down below!"
"Good night! Was Rollie hurt?"
"Doesn’t seem to be from what he said on the phone," Carter replied. "We’re not sure just what happened. He’s on his way up now."
Tension ran high on the Petrel as the crew waited out Perry’s gradual ascent. Finally he was hauled out of the water.
"Sure you’re okay, Rollie?" Matt asked as the diver’s helmet was removed.
Perry’s face was flushed with rage. "Not a scratch—but it was sheer luck!" The diver related that as he was about to enter the Katawa’s hold, he had sighted a huge squid which had apparently come prowling into the hulk. Perry had backed off to give it a wide berth. As he waited outside the sunken freighter for the squid to swim away, a sudden small explosion blew the creature to fragments!
Perry went on, tight-lipped, "Must have been a booby trap planted near the edge of the hold —gelignite, probably—and the squid brushed against it. Could’ve been me—which was probably the idea of whoever set the trap. Or, if I hadn’t touched it off myself, my air line would have, while I was moving around inside. You know what that would have done!"
The boys grimaced. With a sudden loss of compression from a ruptured air hose, the diver would have been crushed to a jelly inside his helmet by the ocean pressure! 
"Get this suit off me fast, Sid!" Perry directed, grim-faced.
Matt Shane looked apprehensive. "What are you going to do, Rollie?"
"I’ve got a score to settle with someone, Matt, and I aim to do it right now!"
"Hold on!" Captain Rankin stepped forward and gripped the diver’s shoulder. "If you’re implying Gus Bock’s responsible for the explosive, you have no proof!"
"I don’t need proof!" Perry growled. "You heard him threaten me the other night. Who else could’ve set that booby trap—the squid?"
Both Shane and Rankin pleaded in protest, but Perry refused outright to continue diving until he had dealt with Bock.
Finally the two older men agreed to accompany him to the Simon Salvor for a showdown. The Hardys volunteered to take them to the other salvage ship in the Sleuth. Chet, too, went along.
Moments later, they drew up alongside the Salvor. There was no attempt to block the party from the Petrel as they climbed aboard.
But the boys noticed a strange air of tension and anxiety among the Salvor crewmen who faced them.
"We weren’t expecting visitors, Mr. Rankin," said the Salvor’s skipper coldly. "What’s on your mind?"
"An explosive was planted on the Katawa by someone who wanted to kill our master diver," Rankin replied. "Perry here thinks Gus Bock had something to do with it."
"Where is he?" Perry spoke up harshly. "I’ll tell him what I’ve come to say—face to face!"
"Not on this deck you won’t," the skipper said. "Gus is not here."
"Then where is he?"
The eyes of the Salvor captain focused on the water. "Trapped on the bottom. He’ll be lucky to see daylight again!"

CHAPTER XIX
Strong-Room Surprise
G
US BOCK trapped! The Hardys and Chet were startled. Roland Perry stared in disbelief.
"Don’t give us that," the diver snarled. "Bock may be on the bottom, but he’ll come up again. We’ll wait till he does."
"You’ll have a long wait, then," the Salvor’s captain retorted.
"We’ll wait," Perry maintained.
"Anyhow, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The only way one of our hands could have gotten to the Katawa is with scuba gear. And neither Bock nor anyone else has been off this ship except in a hardhat at the end of an air hose—not since the night he went ashore on Whalebone with Kraus."
As he spoke, the captain jerked his thumb toward the baldheaded man with sandy eyebrows whom the Hardys had seen outside the cave with Bock. "Go ahead and talk to Gus on the phone if you don’t believe me."
"Might as well, Rollie," Frank advised.
Perry scowled uncertainly for a moment; then, accompanied by the others, strode around the afterdeck to the opposite side of the ship where the diving crew was stationed.
He took a headset from one of the tenders and spoke into the microphone.
"This is Perry, Bock. You in trouble down there?"
Bock’s voice came back weakly over the speaker, "What do you care?"
"Answer me!"
"All right, I’m pinned, if you want to know. Come on down and help me feed the fishes."
"I’ll be down, don’t worry—just so I can settle a score with you, once we get topside again!"
Perry turned to the Simon company’s salvage master. "What happened?"
"Like Gus told you—he’s pinned. Our apprentice diver Ryan is trying to help him, but it looks hopeless."
"Got another diving suit aboard?" Perry asked.
The Salvor’s captain said brusquely, "Forget it, Perry. You’re not going down there."
"There is nothing you can do," Kraus added in his guttural accent.
Frank sensed another reason for the men’s strange attitude. "If you aim to keep us from finding out what you’ve been working on," he spoke up, "you’re out of luck. We’ve already learned there’s a German sub down there."
Frank’s words seemed to fall like a bombshell. Kraus and the Salvor’s skipper gaped at him in dismay.
"Now how in thunder do you figure that, son?" asked Matt Shane.
"From the American captain who sank her," Frank said. "I guess you never knew it happened so close to Whalebone, Rollie," he added. "That was before you joined the Svenson."
Perry turned to the Simon salvage master, Fosburg. "Okay, you heard him. What’s the picture?"
Fosburg explained that the shattered U-boat had been lying on its side. Its stern was sunk deep in the muck and its bow was tilted upward, resting on the ledge of an undersea reef. But an explosive charge which Bock had set off inside the sub earlier that morning had partially dislodged it.
On his next dive, the wreck had suddenly slipped off the ledge completely. Bock had been pinned under a flap of hull metal.
"It’s gradually squashing him downward as the ship settles into the silt," Fosburg ended grimly. "Ryan says it’s only a question of time till he’s crushed or his suit punctures."
"Can’t you take a purchase on the bow and hoist it enough to free him?" Perry asked.
The salvage master shook his head. "Bock’s lying under the after edge of the flap. Raising the bow would just push him down worse. The only way would be to parbuckle the whole U-boat so’s to raise the keel—but there’s not a chance of getting wires under her. Not in time, anyhow."
"Then what about cutting away the flap with a torch?"
"Too dangerous. Bock was carrying another charge of explosive and dropped it when the hulk fell on him. Dynamite and primacord, all set to blow if the flame comes anywhere near it!"
"Then what’re you going to do—let him die?" Perry flared angrily.
The salvage master shrugged. "Ryan’s afraid to risk it. Personally, I don’t blame him."
"Then break out a cutting torch and another diving rig—I’ll do it myself!" Perry snapped.
Fosburg called down to Bock to ask if he would agree.
"You kidding?" the trapped diver called back. "What have I got to lose!"
Perry dropped the phone and instantly suited up.
The Hardys and Chet waited, tense and silent, as Perry made his descent. For a time there was no word from him after he reached the bottom.
Then his voice came over the deck speaker!
"There may be another way to do this, Fosburg. Ask Frank and Joe Hardy if they’re willing to come down with face masks and air lines."
Both boys quickly volunteered to do so, and were informed the air lines also contained a phone connection.
Perry went on, "Have each of them bring down an iron needle with a hoisting wire attached to it."
Removing their clothes, Frank and Joe donned skin-diving suits from the Sleuth and special face masks from the Salvor’s diving locker. Meanwhile, the needles had been laid out on deck—each a huge iron rod with a wire rope shackled to an eye at one end. The rods were lowered over the side, with Frank and Joe clinging to them. Then the wires were payed out slowly.
The green ocean water grew darker and dimmer as they descended. At last, like a still, ghostly monster, the long, slim hulk of the dead U-boat could be made out on the bottom.
Perry and Ryan—the Salvor’s apprentice diver —stood waiting for them.
The Hardys felt an ominous chill of fear as they saw Bock’s helmet and shoulders extending out from under the jagged flap of metal below the keel.
Fosburg transmitted Perry’s orders over the boys’ phone lines. "He wants those needles jammed way under the flap. Frank, you help Ryan with one rod—and, Joe, help Perry."
With grunting effort, the four divers at last got the needles wedged into position. Then Perry’s voice reached the crew on deck:
"Okay, put a strain on those wires!"
As winches heaved the wires taut, the rods slowly came upright, levering the metal flap upward. In moments the rescuers had pulled Bock free!
Then came the long, slow ascent back to the Simon Salvor. Safe on deck with his helmet off, Bock gasped out his thanks.
"Still want to break my neck, Rollie?"
Perry, somber-faced, shook his head. "Not yet, anyhow. Too much trouble saving it. Just tell me one thing—did you have anything to do with a gelignite booby trap on the Katawa?
The rescued diver swore fervently that he knew nothing about it. "Haven’t been near her. I’ll admit I was the frogman who slipped the Petrel’s anchor—but that’s all. And listen, Perry. About that old score you’ve been wanting to settle—believe me, I didn’t try to cut your air line."
"Okay, Gus. I’ll take your word."
Bock stuck out his huge paw. "I’m willing to call it quits."
"Guess I go along with that," said Perry, shaking hands.
"Now," Frank said to Bock, "how about telling us what you fellows are after aboard the U-boat?"
The diver opened his mouth to reply, but Kraus cut him off sharply. "Tell them nothing, Bockl Nothing—do you hear?"
"Shut up, Kraus!" Bock retorted. "These guys saved my life. I’m not only gonna tell ‘em—we’re gonna cut ’em in, see?"
Ignoring Kraus’s protests, he turned back to the boys and Perry. "You know what’s down in that sub? Five hundred grand in American currency—that’s what—a cool half million!"
Chet’s eyes grew big as saucers, and the Hardys were just as startled as their chum.
"A half million—how do you know?" Perry asked Bock.
"Kraus here was a torpedoman on it!"
Bock went on to explain that in the closing months of World War II a group of top Nazis had fled Germany aboard the U-511 with a fortune in American currency.
"Heading where—to South America?" Frank broke in.
"Right—until steering trouble and dogged pursuit by Allied sub-killers took them far off course."
The U-boat had then hove to off Whalebone Island for repairs one night and sent a reconnaissance party ashore.
"Kraus got separated from the party and was stranded when his mates were suddenly called back to the ship."
"Because of the Svenson!" Chet spoke up.
Bock nodded. "The Germans sighted Captain Early’s destroyer. Then the Svenson engaged the U-511 and sank her, but Kraus thought it got away."
"So Kraus was the red-bearded apparition who scared the wits out of Tang, the lighthouse keeper!" put in Joe.
Bock chuckled. "You guessed it, kid. He hid in a cave and finally got to the mainland in a boat swiped from a fisherman."
Kraus, the boys learned, had met Bock by chance years later. An exchange of information between the two had led to the present salvage effort.
"I remembered the sinking," Bock went on, "and knew that Captain Early’s cane gave the exact location."
In response to further questioning by the Hardys, Bock admitted his group was responsible for the various break-ins and the highway incident involving Captain Early’s car. But their search for the sunken submarine had been fruitless until their prowler came upon Early’s carved cane at the Hardy house.
"That’s the guy right over there," Bock said, pointing to a muscular member of the salvage crew. "You won’t hold it against him, will you?"
Frank and Joe shook their heads. "No hard feelings as long as you’re giving us the whole story," said Frank. "But Kraus will have to square himself with immigration authorities."
Bock, however, denied any knowledge of the "ghost" at the Hardys’ house or the island explosion trap.
"Then why did you threaten Dad?" Joe asked.
"I was plenty sore that he kept us from getting the salvage contract for the Katawa," Bock admitted. "It would’ve given us swell cover for this job and kept you guys out of our hair. Right now, I’m sure glad you were around!"
The Petrel party, eager to resume their own diving operation, soon headed back in the Sleuth to their ship.
It was nightfall when Perry telephoned electrifying news from the bottom: He had succeeded in forcing an entry to the Katawa’s strong room!
"What about the head?" Frank called down tensely.
"It’s here, all right. At least there’s a case that looks like the one the insurance company described—and there’s something heavy inside!"
Some time later, a breathless group gathered in Captain Rankin’s cabin. On the desk lay a metal carrying case. Frank, acting for his father as the representative of Transmarine, was allowed to open it. Inside was an object wrapped in green velvet cloth.
"J-j-jeepers! Unwrap it quick!" Chet urged.
Frank stripped away the velvet cloth, revealing a gleaming gold head.
"Is it the real McCoy?" Perry asked.
"Sure looks like it," Frank murmured. He hesitated, then took out his jackknife and made a tiny scratch in the base of the statuette.
Grayish metal could be seen beneath the gold!
"It’s gilded lead!" Joe cried out. "A fake!" He stopped short as sudden confused noises and shouts were heard on deck.
"What’s going on out there?" Captain Rankin exclaimed. He and the others sped from the cabin. As they reached the deck, the five shielded their eyes and staggered. Dense clouds of fuming vapor were billowing over the deck!
"Tear gas!" Frank gasped. "Look—those men!"
Near the glowing deckhouse, ghostly figures with gas masks could be seen darting about, swinging clubs and blackjacks! Petrel crewmen rushing topside were promptly clubbed as they came on deck.
"We’ve—got—to stop them!" Joe yelled, his eyes stinging with pain. He groped forward past a fallen sailor, then felt himself roughly thrown to the deck.
Frank and Chet battled valiantly. But an instant later they were seized from behind in a grip of iron. Half-blinded and choking, the boys were helpless!
Soon the entire Petrel crew was subdued. Many, including Roland Perry, were unconscious. Frank, Joe, Chet, Captain Rankin, and one other man stood on deck with their hands tied.
"But who—?" Frank murmured to himself.
Dazed, the captive group squinted through the darkness as two of the mystery raiders approached them.
When they removed their masks, the Hardys gasped.
"Mehmet Zufar!" Joe cried out. "And Fritz Bogdan!"
The fat, mustached art dealer rubbed his hands and sneered triumphantly. Then he commanded, "Captain, you will now hand over the head which your diver brought up from the sunken Katawa before—"
"Before what?" Captain Rankin snapped back.
Zufar chuckled and glanced over the rail at the dark water.
"Before," he whispered, "we—as you say—scuttle this ship and send you all to the bottom!"

CHAPTER XX
Rhamaton’s Curse
"T
HIS is piracy!" Captain Rankin exploded. "Piracy and murder! You’ll all pay for it with your lives!"
Zufar twirled his mustache smugly. "Ah, but no, my dear captain—not with all the evidence lying on the bottom of the ocean. Your ship will disappear without a trace."
"Don’t count on that!" Rankin stormed. "Chances are my radioman got off a call for help before you thugs took over."
"I hate to disillusion you." Zufar smiled. "But your radioman has been in my pay all along. He has been most useful to us."
"Harry Egner? I don’t believe it!"
"It is true, nevertheless. He, of course, will die with you, now that his usefulness is at an end."
The Hardys clenched their fists, forgetting fear in their anger at being trapped. Chet Morton threw them a despairing glance.
Frank’s jaw tightened. He thought, "We’ll have to play for time." In a loud voice he asked Zufar, "How did you and your gang get here?"
"From a coastal hideout," Zufar replied with a gloating smirk. "As soon as Egner radioed us that the Rhamaton head was on the way up from the Katawa, we lost no time."
Bogdan put in boastfully, "Thanks to my idea of using tear gas, our task was made easier."
Frank ignored the curio dealer and kept his eyes fixed on Zufar. "You had to keep the fake head from coming into the hands of the insurance company, is that it?"
"Exactly. Even though you and your brother detected the authentic head in New York, I still look forward to collecting one million dollars insurance from Transmarine Underwriters, you see."
"But why were you shipping the fake in the first place?" Chet asked. "You couldn’t have known beforehand the Katawa would sink in a collision."
"To palm it off on somebody!" Joe put in.
"Quite so. I intended to sell the—er—reproduction to a wealthy South American collector—whose agent had examined the original in Beirut." Zufar laughed. "Clever? At any rate, I felt the chance of doubling my profits was worth the risk."
Meanwhile, Zufar explained, the real head had been sent on to Bogdan to sell secretly elsewhere.
"Then came the sinking." The art dealer shook his head sadly. "But it enabled me, of course, to claim a million dollars in insurance—if the fake head were never salvaged."
"So you sent down your own diver?" Frank interjected.
"Exactly. But unfortunately our man was unable to get through to the strong room before the Petrel arrived."
Captain Rankin, who had been standing grim-faced, now broke out in an angry voice, "Then Frank and Joe were right! You took out the telegraph and tachometer instead—as a cover-up for the hole in the Katawa hull!"
At this, Bogdan stuck his face close to the Hardys. "Smart kids! We’ll see how smart you are when we sink you forty fathoms under!"
Chills crawled up the boys’ spines, but Frank, undaunted, pressed further. "Who was your diver?"
Zufar pointed to a swarthy, thickset man. One of Bogdan’s employees! He chuckled. "And also the ‘ghost’ who gave you such a hard time on Whalebone Island."
Joe glared at the diver. "So you blinked the signals, conked our Dad, and set off the explosion."
It was further learned that he also had stolen Lawson’s rental boat, left the warning note, ransacked Mr. Hardy’s camp, and stove the hole in his boat.
Zufar went on, "Our diver’s ‘ghost’ camouflage was quite useful, since he had to stay on the island while working on the Katawa. He returned, you see, after you left the island the first time."
"What about the ghost we saw at home?" Joe put in.
"That was me," Bogdan spoke up.
"So there were two of you playing the ghost game," said Frank.
"Yes," Bogdan replied. "It was another of my brilliant ideas. I had heard the legend of Whalebone Island, and thus thought of reviving Red Rogers’ spirit."
"No wonder you looked familiar the first time we saw you at your shop!" Frank muttered.
Joe glared at the grinning art dealer and his cohorts. "You’re a slick actor, Zufar! I suppose the broken-cat business with Mr. Scath was just an act to set the stage for my father’s kidnapping."
"Mostly that—but also, partly, to make myself appear innocent of any hint of fraud."
Frank spoke up, "That gelignite booby trap on the Katawa this morning—did your man plant it?"
Zufar nodded. "Thanks to Egner’s timely warning by radio that your diver was close to the strong room. A pity it failed."
"How about the warning cablegram from Cairo?" Joe said. "Was Van Hoek in your pay too?"
"Not only that—he made our counterfeit Pharaoh’s head. We hoped the cablegram might serve as a false lead, perhaps even frighten your father off the case." Zufar sneered. "Unfortunately, Van Hoek himself is a superstitious fool! The thought of the Pharaoh’s curse began to prey on his mind and he finally fled from Cairo. We have lost track of him."
"We’re wasting time, gabbing with these brats, Zufar!" Bogdan snarled. "Let’s open the seacocks and sink this tub!"
"Quite right, quite right, my friend. But first we must have these five drag their shipmates below. It will be much better, I think, if no bodies float to the surface."
"Oh yeah?" a harsh voice broke in. "Maybe that’s what you bilge rats will be doin’ when we get through with you!"
Men were suddenly swarming over the rail!
Joe let out a yelp of joy. "It’s Gus Bock and his buddies!"
The burly diver leaped aboard, with fists swinging. Kraus, Fosburg, Ryan, and the Salvor’s captain joined the fray. Bock paused long enough to free the Hardys and the others.
Zufar’s henchmen, stunned by the swift turn of events, fought back, wildly brandishing their weapons.
"Stop them! Stop them!" the fat ringleader shrilled, his voice rising hysterically. The next instant Bock seized him and drew back a mighty fist. Zufar begged for mercy. "D-don’t hit met I give up."
Frank spotted Bogdan about to swing himself over the rail. The young sleuth leaped toward him and pinioned the curio dealer’s arms. Kraus, nearby, sent a rocketing uppercut to the jaw of the "ghost" diver, who crumpled to the deck.
Joe and Chet had succeeded in disarming and capturing two more of the enemy.
Finally Zufar’s gang were completely subdued. By this time most of the Petrel’s unconscious crewmen had revived. Roland Perry also had come to.
With Zufar, Bogdan, and the other prisoners tied and locked in a cabin, warm handshakes were exchanged between the Petrel’s men and their rescuers.
"Looks as though we’re all square now—eh, Gus?" Perry said with a grin.
"Who says, bubblehead?" Bock retorted. "I told you we were gonna cut you guys in on the U-boat dough and we are! In fact, we were just bringin’ it over to you when we got wind of what was goin’ on aboard."
He emptied a canvas bag onto the captain’s desk. The Hardys and Chet gasped as bundles of water-soaked green currency came tumbling out!
"There you are, pals! Your share—a hundred grand. Divvy it up any way you like. The stuff got a bit water-logged in the chest, but you can still spend it."
Perry and his mates stared in astonishment, unable to find words. Then Frank peeled off a soggy bill and held it up.
"Careful," Bock advised. "That dough’s been down in Davy Jones’s locker so long it almost comes apart in your fingers."
Frank nodded, kneading the fibers of the bill. "I know—that’s what I want it to do. Gus, unless I’m off-base, this money’s counterfeit, probably manufactured by the Nazis themselves."
"What!" Bock seemed on the verge of apoplexy.
Joe inspected the bill. "I think Frank’s right," he said. "We once helped our dad in a case involving counterfeit money and learned a few pointers about detecting phony currency. One way is from the paper itself. I’ll bet anything this isn’t the same composition as paper used for American money."
Bock stared glassy-eyed at his companions. At first the Hardys thought he might put his fist through the bulkhead in sheer rage. But suddenly the big diver tossed his head back and burst into bellows of laughter.
"What a bunch of saps we are! All that trouble we went to, and the dough turns out to be fake!"
Kraus could only shake his head and mutter, "Ach du lieber Himmel!"
"We could be wrong," Frank said.
"Somehow I got a feeling you ain’t." Bock slapped him on the back. "But never mind, we’ll all hang onto this funny money till we find out for sure."
A little later the Hardys contacted Sam Radley. They were overjoyed to learn their father had fully recuperated and would be out of the hospital the next day. Sam assured the boys he would give Mr. Hardy full details of their sleuthing success.
"Splendid work, fellows," the operative added.
Two days later Fenton Hardy confirmed his sons’ verdict about the money when he and Sam Radley boarded the Petrel at its pier in New York.
"Bock and Kraus aren’t the only ones who were misled," Mr. Hardy added. "That goldsmith Van Hoek is now under arrest."
"No kidding!" Joe exclaimed. "Where’d they nail him, Dad?"
"In Amsterdam, on several counts of art forg. ery. He stepped off the plane from Cairo and walked straight into the arms of the Dutch police."
Chet flashed a wise look at his two chums. "When you received the secret warning I had a hunch the Pharaoh’s curse was no laughing matter. It sure caught up with Zufar and his gang." He hooked his thumbs into his belt. "Now that this case is closed," he said with an air of satisfaction, "we can relax a little. Hey! How about going to Captain Early’s place and—"
"Eating more juicy lamb chops, I suppose," Joe put in with a quick smile.
"Aw! Quit reading my mind!"
"Wait! I Chet has a point," Frank concluded. "I think Captain Early should get a firsthand report of the final salvo."
"And I’ll present the cane," Chet said.
With a victory whoop, the boys set off, unaware at the moment that The Twisted Claw, their next mystery, soon would plunge them into another harrowing adventure.
Hardy Boys 18: The Twisted Claw
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  Shadowed!
“CONGRATULATIONS!” Frank Hardy shouted to his brother Joe as the track meet ended. “You’ve won the trophy for Bayport High and set a new record for the hundred-yard dash!”
“You helped, too,” Joe called, jogging along the cinder track. “What about your gold medal in the 440?” he said as he came to a halt.
“Don’t forget me!” exclaimed Chet Morton. He was a stout, round-faced youth and a good friend of the Hardys. “I collected a few points in the shot-put.”
“You were great, Chet,” Frank said with a grin.
The trio had taken part in the annual track-and-field meet with Hopkinsville at a stadium near their home town of Bayport. The contest also marked the beginning of summer vacation.
“Well, are we going over to the soda shop to celebrate?” Chet asked.
“Sure, some of the other guys want to come, too,” Joe replied. “Let’s go and change—”
He was interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker. “Frank and Joe Hardy to the telephone, please.”
“Oh, oh. We’d better forget about the celebration,” Frank said. “Let’s go, Joe.”
They went to the manager’s office, who handed Frank the phone. “It’s your father,” he said.
Frank scooped it up. “Hello, Dad. We won!”
“Nice going.” There was a pause. “Frank,” Mr. Hardy went on, “I’d like you and Joe to come home soon. It’s important.”
Within minutes the boys had showered and changed and were in their convertible, driving toward Bayport.
“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Joe remarked anxiously.
“I don’t think so,” Frank answered. “I have a hunch it has something to do with a new case.”
Their father, Fenton Hardy, had once been a member of the New York City police force. But now he was engaged in private practice as a detective and was often assisted by his sons. Working as a team, they had solved many baffling crimes, beginning with The Tower Treasure. Their last case was The Secret Warning, which had added even more renown to the Hardy name. 
“Hi, Mother,” the boys called when they arrived home.
Mrs. Hardy, an attractive, soft-spoken woman, greeted her sons with a smile. “How did the meet go?” she inquired.
“Just great!” Joe declared. “We won the trophy!”
“We’ll tell you about it later,” Frank interrupted. “Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs. He’s waiting for you.”
The boys rushed to the second floor and entered their father’s study. He was seated at his desk. Mr. Hardy was a distinguished-looking man who appeared much younger than his years.
“We came as fast as we could,” Frank said.
“Thanks,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. I’m going to need your help in connection with a new case.”
“What did I tell you!” Frank exclaimed as he playfully slapped his brother on the shoulder.
“What kind of a case?” Joe asked eagerly.
“I can’t go into detail at this point. Besides, I’ll be leaving on a trip shortly,” his father said. “Here it is briefly. Right now there is a ship in Bayport Harbor called the Black Parrot. I know nothing about it other than it might have some connection with my case. I’d like you to keep an eye on the freighter while it’s in port. Record anything about the crew or cargo that looks even slightly suspicious.” 
Frank, dark-haired and eighteen, a year older than his blond brother, looked at his father quizzically. “That sounds sort of tame, Dad.”
“I know. But it could turn out to be a pretty wild case, as you boys say.”
“Should we contact you if we find any information ?”
“No. I’ll get in touch with you.”
At that instant Mrs. Hardy entered the room. “Fenton,” she said nervously, “I’m worried. There’s a man across the street. I’m sure he’s watching our house. He’s hiding behind a tree, but I caught several glimpses of him.”
Joe, the more impetuous of the brothers, jumped to his feet. “Let’s go and have a talk with that guy. We’ll soon find out what he’s up to!”
“Hold it!” Mr. Hardy ordered. “It’s possible he has been assigned to shadow me. I don’t want him to know he has been spotted. It’ll put his cohorts on guard.”
Joe nodded. “This must be quite a case. Wish you could tell us more about it.” 
The detective did not answer. He glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the airport soon. Somehow I’ve got to get out of the house without being seen.”
“How about the back door?” Joe suggested.
“No good,” his father said. “Chances are there’s another man posted behind the house.”
“Maybe some kind of a disguise would work,” Frank said.
“I’m afraid it would be a bit too obvious under the circumstances,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Unless someone—” His words trailed off as he reached for the telephone book, looked up a number, and dialed. “I’m going to call Mr. Callahan and ask him to come over right away.”
“Our plumber?” Joe asked.
The boys glanced at each other in bewilderment. What could their father possibly want with a plumber at this time?
“You’ll see,” Mr. Hardy said with a wink. About ten minutes later a small panel truck came to a stop in front of the Hardy home. Mr. Callahan, a middle-aged man wearing a visor cap and overalls, climbed out. He had a rather large nose and bushy eyebrows.
He walked toward the house, carrying a tool kit in his right hand. The young detectives led him to their father’s study, where Mr. Hardy quickly told him of his predicament.
“Now this is my plan, Mr. Callahan,” Mr. Hardy continued. “You and I are about the same size and weight. If you’ll lend me your cap and overalls for a while, I can disguise myself well enough to pass as your double—at least at a distance.”
The plumber was an old acquaintance and readily agreed. They left the study and went to the master bedroom. A few minutes later they reappeared. With a putty nose and false eyebrows Mr. Hardy looked amazingly like Callahan.
“A good makeup job, Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “You and Mr. Callahan could be twin brothers.”
At that instant Gertrude Hardy entered the room. She was the tall, angular, peppery sister of Mr. Hardy. “My word! I’m seeing double!” she exclaimed. “Two Mr. Callahans in this room!”
“You’re not seeing double,” Joe assured her with a laugh. “One of them is Dad in disguise.”
“And a pretty good likeness too, don’t you think?” Frank added.
Aunt Gertrude turned to face the plumber. “Fenton, what on earth are you up to now? Something to do with a new case I take it. One day something awful is going to happen. I’m sure of it!”
Mr. Hardy stepped forward. “I’m afraid you’re scolding the wrong man.”
Aunt Gertrude shook her head and marched out of the room. The boys roared with laughter.
“Now back to the business at hand,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll leave here in Mr. Callahan’s truck. You boys take him to the airport in an hour to pick it up. Please bill me for the time, Mr. Callahan.”
“I won’t think of it. It’s a favor,” the plumber said.
“I insist,” said Mr. Hardy, then addressed his sons, “Any questions before I leave?”
“No, Dad,” Joe replied.
“Let’s hope,” the detective continued, “that our friend across the street falls for my trick.”


  
“The trick worked!” Frank exclaimed triumphantly
After saying good-by to his family, he picked up the plumber’s tool kit, took a deep breath, and left the house.
The boys cautiously peered through a window. Across the street they saw a man’s head pop out from behind a tree, then vanish again as their father drove off. Obviously the stranger was remaining at his post.
“The trick worked!” Frank exclaimed triumphantly.
“Right,” Joe agreed. “But I wonder how long that guy is going to stick around.”
Frank chuckled. “One thing is certain. He’s in for a long wait.”
While Aunt Gertrude prepared a cup of tea for Mr. Callahan, Frank and Joe discussed the case.
“The Black Parrot,” Joe mused. “Sounds eerie.” 
“Let’s go down to the harbor first thing in the morning,” Frank said. “Right now we’d better keep an eye on that fellow across the street.”
The boys hurried downstairs and peered through one of the living-room windows. Minutes passed.
“No sign of him,” Joe muttered. “Maybe he’s gone.”
“Could be,” his brother replied. “But let’s wait awhile longer, just to be sure.”
While Frank kept his post at the window, Joe paced up and down impatiently. Finally he could not suppress his curiosity any longer. “I’m going to see if that spy’s still there,” he said and ran out of the house. He looked behind the tree across the street, then signaled Frank that the coast was clear.
When he came back Frank met him at the door. “You shouldn’t have run out like that, you know.”
“Sorry. I thought it was about time for a show-down.”
“You might have—”
Frank was interrupted by a terrifying scream from the kitchen.

CHAPTER II  
  The Black Parrot
“HOLY crow!” Joe exclaimed. “That was Aunt Gertrude!”
The boys rushed into the kitchen and almost collided with their mother who had heard the scream, too.
They found Miss Hardy shaking like a leaf. She pointed to an open window. “A-a strange man was looking in at me! Call the police! Do something!”
Frank and Joe spotted a man running down the street. They dashed out of the house and gave chase, but before they could close the gap, their quarry leaped into a car and sped off.
“There were two men in that car!” Frank declared. “One of them must have been watching the rear of the house as Dad suspected. He tried to get a look inside and frightened the wits out of Aunty.”
“I wonder what he was up to,” Joe put in.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank replied.
They returned to find their mother pressing a cold wet towel on Aunt Gertrude’s forehead.
“How do you feel?” Joe inquired.
“Awful! Simply awful!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude. “Who was that cutthroat?”
“Probably just a peddler,” Frank replied, hoping not to upset her further. “Your scream frightened him more than he frightened you.”
“Some nerve!” Aunt Gertrude snapped. “Imagine! Peering into people’s houses.”
Frank looked at his watch. “I think we can leave now,” he said to Mr Callahan “Come We’ll take you to the airport to pick up your truck.”
“Okay.” As they got into the boys’ convertible, the plumber said, “Tell me, is there always that much excitement at your house?”
Frank winked at his brother. “This is a rather quiet day, wouldn’t you say, Joe?”
Mr. Callahan shook his head and asked no more questions.
The boys retired early that night and were up at six the next morning. After breakfast they drove to Bayport Harbor. They found the area bustling with activity.
“There’s the Black Parrot,” Joe said, pointing. 
They watched as stevedores pushed handcarts, loaded with wooden crates, up a gangplank to the ship. A hoist was putting heavier cargo aboard.
“We won’t be able to get much information for Dad unless we can board the ship,” Joe remarked.
Frank did not speak. Instead, he signaled Joe to follow him and walked toward a crewman who was standing at the base of the gangplank checking a manifest.
“My brother and I are very much interested in ships,” Frank began nonchalantly. “Do you think your captain would let us go aboard for a few minutes?”
The man glared at them in surprise. “Get outta here!” he roared.
“Why get mad at us?” Joe queried. “We were just—”
“You heard mel Get outta here before I take a club to ya!”
Joe was about to challenge the man, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm and led him away from the ship.
“That guy’s about as pleasant as a rattlesnake,” Joe said angrily.
“Take it easy,” Frank warned. “We can’t risk getting involved in a row. We’ve got to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”
“What’ll we do now?”
“Wait and hope for a break.”
The young detectives watched the Black Parrot from a distance. Then came a stroke of luck. A crewman placed a sign at the base of the gangplank announcing that more help was needed to load the ship. The Hardys were among the first to volunteer. 
“So! It’s you two again!” growled the man they had encountered earlier. He stared at them for a moment. “Well—you kids look pretty strong.” He named a price for every crate carried aboard and told them to take it or leave it.
“We’ll take it,” Frank said quickly. “But what about union cards?”
“Forget the union and get movin’!” the crewman ordered. “We haven’t got any more handcarts, so you’ll have to bring the crates aboard one by one.”
“Thanks a lot,” Joe muttered.
The job was extremely hard. The boys stuck to it most of the day, hoping to learn something, but their sleuthing was hampered by the constant surveillance of the crew.
That afternoon, while carrying a crate aboard, Joe tripped and fell. The wooden box crashed to the deck. At that instant the first mate of the Black Parrot appeared and demanded to know what was going on.
“Just an accident,” Frank explained. “My brother tripped and—”
“I’m not interested in excuses!” the officer yelled. He gave Joe a shove. “Now pick that up. And be quick about it!”
“Pick it up yourself!” Joe retorted as he scrambled to his feet.
The first mate was about to lash out with his fist, but Frank stepped in and grabbed him by the arm. As he did, he noticed that the man was wearing a strange ring on his finger. It consisted of a heavy silver band with what looked like a red, twisted bird’s claw on top.
“Let go of my arm,” the man demanded. Frank released him. “Now get your pay and get off the ship!”
“We haven’t finished our work,” Joe said.
Several crewmen moved toward the Hardys. “You heard him,” one of them snarled. “Get goin’.”
The boys had no choice but to comply.
Joe sighed. “I certainly messed things up.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Frank said. “Anyway, we couldn’t have done much investigating with all those guys around.”
As they walked down the gangplank to the pier, they heard a familiar voice call out, “Hi, master-minds !” It was Chet Morton. “Your mother said you were down here,” he went on. “What’re you doing?”
Frank and Joe drew the stout boy aside and told him about their assignment and their adventure onboard.
“And you fellows were ordered off the ship, eh?” Chet reflected. “Let me see.” He began walking toward the Black Parrot. “I’ll get some information for you.” 
“Wait a minute!” Frank said. “Come back here!” His words went unheeded.
“Ahoy, mates! Make way for a real seaman!” Chet shouted to a group of crewmen as he hurried up the gangplank.
“Oh, oh. Now we’re really in for trouble,” Joe muttered anxiously.
Chet disappeared into the midst of the group. Shortly scuffling broke out among the men. Before Frank and Joe could aid their friend, he came rolling down the gangplank like an oversized bowling ball.
“Are you all right?” Frank cried as he and Joe rushed to Chet.
The stout youth got to his feet and began brushing off his clothes. “I’m—I’m okay. Those guys aren’t very friendly.”
Frank frowned. “Right now, our chances of getting back aboard the ship are nil. Let’s go home and try to figure out another plan.”
The boys had an early supper, then went to their father’s study to discuss their next move.
Joe thought for a moment. “I’ve got an idea,” he said finally. “Why don’t we disguise ourselves as a couple of crewmen and just board the ship?”
“I don’t know,” Frank muttered, rubbing his chin dubiously. “Then again, it might work if we try it after dark.”
“I’ll dig up the caps and seamen’s jackets we used on that sailing trip last year.”
“Okay. But let’s disguise ourselves in the car. We don’t want Mother and Aunt Gertrude to see us. They’ll only worry.”
The boys lost no time putting their plan into action. Within half an hour they had completed their disguise.
“You look as if you’ve been at sea for years,” Frank said laughingly as he gazed at his brother.
Joe grinned as he started the car. “And no one would take you for a landlubber either.”
It had been dark for nearly an hour when the Hardys arrived at the harbor. They were startled to find the Black Parrot gone. 
Frank leaped out of the convertible and approached a watchman who was walking along the pier “Where’s the Black Parrot?” he asked. 
The man eyed the young detective. “Sailed about an hour ago. Were you supposed to be on board?”
“Er—no,” Frank replied. “Heard the ship was in port. Just wondered if the captain needed a couple of extra hands.”
“Then you ain’t missed nothin‘,” the watchman told him. “Strangest crew I ever did see. Weren’t friendly toward nobody. You’d be better off signin’ on with another ship. Try the Nomad. It’ll be dockin’ here in the mornin’.” 
Frank hurried back to the car. “Well, that’s that.” He sighed. “The ship’s gone and we have nothing to report to Dad.”
“This was a tough assignment,” Joe commented. “If only we had had more time.”
They removed their disguises and returned home. Aunt Gertrude had a message for them. “Your father telephoned while you were gone. He wants you to get a book for him.”
“Sure,” Frank said. “What is it?”
“It’s called Essays in Criminology, by Weaver. He said you might have some trouble finding it since it’s out of print.” 
“We’ll try. How’s Dad?”
“Fine. He’ll call again in a few days.”
The boys spent the following day canvassing the second-hand bookstores in Bayport. Their search was unsuccessful, however.
“Let’s go to New York City,” Frank suggested. “If there’s a copy of the Essays anywhere, we’re likely to find it there.” 
That evening Joe telephoned Jack Wayne, pilot of Mr. Hardy’s single-engine aircraft. The plane was based at Bayport Airport. Wayne readily agreed to fly the boys to New York.
“By the way, I understand your father recently left on a trip by airline,” the pilot said jokingly. “What’s wrong? Doesn’t he like his own plane any more?”
“Not necessarily,” Joe answered with a laugh. “Maybe he thought you needed a vacation. We’ll see you in the morning.”
The following day was crisp and clear. Jack Wayne was already warming up the plane’s engine when the Hardys arrived at the airport. Soon they were off the ground and headed for their destination. A little more than two hours later the pilot made a smooth landing at La Guardia Airport.
Frank and Joe got on a bus that took them into the city. There they looked in the classified telephone directory and made more than a dozen calls to various bookstores, but to no avail.
Finally they went to a street well known for second-hand bookstores. After hours of searching, they finally discovered a copy of the book their father wanted.
“What luck!” Frank exclaimed as he flipped through its pages.
Joe, meanwhile, glanced casually toward the rare-book section. Suddenly his eyes fastened on a certain volume. He grabbed Frank’s shoulder. “Look! Over there!”

CHAPTER III  
  Trapped at Sea
“IT’S the symbol!” Frank exclaimed. “Just like the one I saw on the first mate’s ring!”
The boys stared at an old volume entitled Empire of the Twisted Claw. The strange, red-colored insignia was stamped on its cover. Thick glass doors with sturdy locks prevented the Hardys from examining the book more closely. 
At that moment the proprietor of the shop appeared. “Find something that interests you?” he inquired.
“How much are you asking for that book?” Joe asked.
The man adjusted his eyeglasses and peered at the volume. “I’ll have to look up the exact price. But nothing on this shelf goes for less than fifteen hundred dollars.”
Frank and Joe looked glum. Buying the book was out of the question.
The proprietor saw that they were greatly disappointed. He regarded them for a moment, then smiled. “Tell you what. Promise to be careful, and I’ll let you see the volume.”
The Hardys were elated. They thanked the man as he pulled the book from the shelf and placed it on a reading table nearby.
“It’s dated 1786,” Frank observed as he and Joe examined the opening page.
The text that followed revealed a fascinating story. It concerned the adventures of an early eighteenth-century pirate named Cartoll. The sight of his ship, the Black Parrot, struck fear into those who sailed the Atlantic trade routes of that era. 
“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “Whoever named the freighter we tried to investigate must’ve known about Cartoll.”
“Kind of weird. What do you make of it?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s go back to the story.”
Reading on, the boys learned that Cartoll discovered an island somewhere in the Caribbean. He used it not only as a base of operations for his pirating activities, but also for the creation of a private kingdom. Cartoll referred to his realm as the Empire of the Twisted Claw.
“Wow!” Joe declared. “He certainly was an ambitious guy.”
“It says here,” Frank stated as he ran his finger along the page, “that the few natives on the island were forced to become his subjects. Later, his kingdom was enlarged by bringing captives there from the ships he had plundered.”
The story also revealed that Cartoll had formed an elite personal guard. Each of the men had the symbol of the twisted claw on the breastplate of his armor.
As the Hardys turned the next page, they found that the remainder of the text was so faded it was impossible to read. Apparently the last section of the volume had been damaged by seawater.
“Bad luck.” Frank sighed. “I was hoping we’d learn more about Cartoll and where his island was located.”
“If we could take the book to our crime lab,” Joe suggested, “the rest of the text might show up under ultraviolet light.”
“The owner will never go along with it,” Frank replied.
“What’ve we got to lose? Let’s try, anyway.”
The proprietor flatly refused their request. He quickly placed the book back on its shelf. “You fellows must think I’m crazy!”
“Not at all, sir,” Frank said apologetically. “We can’t tell you why at the moment, but it’s important that we see the rest of the text.”
“Only the buyer of that book will leave my shop with it!” the man snapped. “Anyway, I’d never permit it to be exposed to chemicals and lights.”
The young detectives decided not to press the issue any further. They paid for the volume of essays and started back to the airport.
“I wonder if there’s another copy of that Twisted Claw book around somewhere,” Joe remarked as Wayne lifted the plane off the runway at La Guardia.
Frank glanced at his brother. “The bookshop owner claimed that it’s the only one known to be in existence. If there is another one, it could take years to track it down.”
It was early evening when they arrived home. After supper Frank settled down to look at the book they had bought for their father. Joe, meanwhile, leafed through the evening newspaper.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his chair. “Frank! We’re due for a break! This is great!”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s an item here which says the Black Parrot has developed engine trouble and is returning to Bayport Harbor for repairs!”
“When?”
“Sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Joe replied, tossing the paper to his brother.
Frank read the article. “According to this, the captain doesn’t expect repairs to take more than twenty-four hours.”
“This might be our last chance to investigate the ship,” Joe said. “We’ll have to work fast.”
The following afternoon the boys drove to Bayport Harbor, hopeful that the ship would arrive as scheduled. Their spirits soared when they spotted the Black Parrot easing into a dock. 
Members of the crew spilled down the gangplank to help secure the lines.
“Let’s stick to our original plan,” Frank sug gested. “We’ll disguise ourselves as seamen again and board the ship after dark.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll call Chet and ask him to meet us here later,” Joe said.
As night approached, the young detectives began putting on their disguise and facial makeup. They finished just as Chet arrived. Their friend was dumbfounded when he saw his two chums.
“How do we look?” Joe asked him.
“Great!” Chet declared. “You’d fool anybody into thinking you’re a couple of old salts.”
The Hardys then told him what they wanted him to do. “And remember,” Frank urged, “stay out of sight and keep your eyes open. Don’t run for help unless we really get into a tough spot.”
“Roger. You can count on me,” Chet replied. The boys braced themselves and started down the pier toward the Black Parrot. They climbed the gangplank and stepped onto the deck. 
A crewman came toward them. He stopped and glanced at the youths. “I ain’t seen you guys aboard before.”
Frank mumbled in doubletalk.
“Better check with the first mate then,” the fellow advised. “You’ll find him in the forward galley.”
“Thanks,” Joe replied.
The crewman continued on his way. Casually the boys walked along the deck for a short distance, then dashed down a passageway.
“Whew!” Joe sighed. “That was close. I was afraid that guy would insist on taking us to the first mate.”
Frank creased his brow. “There’s a chance he might check later to see if we did report. We’d better not risk staying aboard too long.”
“What should we investigate first?”
“The cargo hold. I’d like to see what sort of load they’re carrying.”
Stealthily they made their way midships, pulled open a hatch, and descended a ladder into the cargo hold. Taking out their flashlights, the boys began to scan the area. The room was filled with wooden crates. They carefully pried the top off one of the boxes and found that it contained a coil of electric cable.
Examination of the labels on other crates indicated that the merchandise varied from leather goods to automobile parts. Most of the shipments were slated for Iceland.
“So far,” Frank remarked, “there’s nothing suspicious about this cargo.”
“Maybe it’s all a cover-up for some kind of an illegal operation,” Joe said.
As they continued their search, the beam of Joe’s flashlight fell upon a metal enclosure. It formed a small, separate room at the far end of the hold.
“Wonder what’s in there,” Joe said.
“Let’s take a look,” Frank suggested.
The Hardys unlatched the door of the enclosure and went inside.
Joe let out a low whistle. “More crates. And they’re marked ‘Explosives’!”
Frank tugged at the top of a box. “We’d need a long crowbar to break into one of these.”
Suddenly the area outside the enclosure was filled with light and crewmen descended the ladder into the hold.
The boys listened anxiously as one of the men shouted an order to the others. “Double check to see everything is secure!”
Frank and Joe held their breath. The door of the enclosure was partially open. They stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Hey!” a man yelled. “Someone left the door to the special storeroom unlatched. Won’t you guys ever learn?”
An instant later the door was slammed shut. The Hardys were left in total darkness.
Frank switched on his flashlight. “Oh, oh. Now we’re in for it. There’s no latch on the inside. We’re trapped!”
“Wh-what’ll we do?” Joe stammered.
“Either yell for help and get caught, or wait until the hold is clear and try to find a way out. What say?”
“Let’s wait.”
Ten minutes later they heard the men leave.
“Okay, let’s move some of this stuff to see if there’s another exit,” Frank suggested.
He placed his flashlight on the floor near the door and with Joe’s help moved the heavy crates away from the walls. The work was backbreaking, but to no avail. There were no other doors!
Dripping with perspiration, the Hardys sat down on the floor and leaned against a crate to ponder their next move. As Joe made himself comfortable, his fingers touched an object and he picked it up.
“Hey,” he cried out, “look what I found!”
Frank beamed his light on a large screwdriver which Joe held in his hand.
“Maybe we can open the latch with this,” Frank said. “Here, let me have it.” He scrambled up and tried to ram the tool through the narrow slit between the door and the wall. No luck. The screwdriver was much too thick.
“Oh, nuts!” Joe said.
“Let’s see if we can’t locate something else,” Frank said hopefully.
They shifted the crates again and scoured the floor. Their hands were black with dirt, and they coughed as dust assailed their nostrils. But not another tool was to be found.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone comes down again, and then play it by ear,” Joe muttered.
Presently the boys sensed a strong vibration. The engines of the Black Parrot had been started. 
“The ship’s getting underway!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER IV  
  Good Old Chet
“WE’VE got to get out of here!” Frank declared.
The Hardys tried to force the door, but their efforts were useless. They thought of Chet. Would he give the alarm? Perhaps he’d send the Coast Guard to free them.
Finally, drowsy because of the lack of fresh air, they dozed off. Hours passed before they awoke.
Frank glanced at his watch. “The ship must be eighty or ninety miles out of Bayport by now,” he said weakly.
“We can’t stay in here much longer,” Joe answered. He was breathing heavily. “Our only chance is to let them know we’re in the storeroom.”
“You’re right. Start pounding on door. We’re bound to attract someone’s attention
Each of the boys removed one of the shoes and used it to hammer away at the door. But no one heard them.
“It’s no use,” Joe muttered in despair.
They were ready to give up, when Frank suddenly whispered tensely, “Wait! I hear footsteps!”
An instant later the door was pulled open. The boys found themselves facing three startled crew men.
“Who are you?” one of them demanded. “Watcha doin’ in here?”
The Hardys did not answer. Hungrily they gulped in fresh air.
“Stowaways, eh?” the man snarled. “The cap’n will know how to deal with you!” He stared at the youths curiously. “What’s that you got on your faces?”
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. They realized with dismay that the hours they had spent in the warm, stagnant air of the enclosure had caused their makeup to streak. They had no choice but to remove it completely.
“Why, they’re a couple of kids!” one of the men shouted in surprise.
The boys were ordered to march off with one of the crew members leading the way to the captain. He was a middle-aged man with a thin beard and skin that looked as tough as an elephant’s hide. His eyes were deep-set and piercing. The Hardys felt uncomfortable in his presence.
“Cap’n,” the crewman reported, “we found these two guys hidin’ in the special storeroom.”
“What were you doing there?” the officer demanded. “How did you get aboard?”
At that moment the first mate appeared on the scene. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the Hardys. “What are those troublemakers doin’ here?” he thundered.
“You know them?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir. Had to run them off the ship when we were takin’ on cargo in Bayport Harbor. They asked for work and I hired them to help load. Then that blond-haired one tried to pick a fight with me.”
“You’ve no right shoving people around!” Joe said.
“Quiet!” the captain shouted. “Now that you’re aboard, you’ll stay. And you’ll work without pay
“We demand you let us off this ship!” Frank exclaimed.
The first mate roared with laughter. “It’s a long swim back to Bayport!”
“What’s your next port?” Joe asked. “We’ll go ashore there.”
“None of your business,” the captain retorted. “What’s more, if you give us any trouble you won’t eat. Now I’m turning you over to my first mate. His name is Marik. You’ll be responsible to him.”
“I warn you,” Frank protested. “You’ll regret it if you try to keep us aboard!”
Marik stepped forward and shoved them on ahead of him. “Stow the talk and get goin’. We can use a couple of hands in the galley. Some hard work will take the starch out of you.”
When they arrived in the galley, the first mate ordered the Hardys to begin scrubbing the floor. “I want the job finished before the cooks come on duty to start breakfast. That gives you only an hour.”
“But we need some sleep and food!” Joe protested.
“No back talk!” Marik growled.
Frank and Joe were given brushes and pails. They finished their task just minutes before the cooks appeared.
“So you’re the stowaways Marik told me about,” one of the men boomed. “I’ve got orders to see that you’re kept busy. Look lively now!”
As soon as one galley chore was completed, the boys were assigned another. The aroma of food nearly drove them mad with hunger. Finally they were permitted a few moments to eat.
When they had finished, one of the cooks shouted to Frank, “Hey, yout Take this tray of food to the skipper!”
Frank picked it up. As he approached the captain’s cabin he heard voices inside. Cautiously he pressed his ear against the door.
“I don’t like havin’ those kids aboard, Cap’n,” a man grumbled. Frank recognized the voice. It was Marik. “They might be a couple of snoopers tryin’ to find out about the setup.”
“Stop worrying,” was the reply. “They’re just stowaways looking for a free ride. Well, that’s what they’re going to get. They won’t get off this ship till we reach the island.”
“You’re takin’ ‘em all the way?” Marik asked. “I hope you know what you’re doin’.”
“Leave it to me. But just to be safe, lock the kids up in the storeroom when we put into Stormwell tomorrow morning.”
“Stormwell!” Frank thought. “That’s a port on the Canadian coast!” He waited a few seconds before knocking on the cabin door. Summoned by the captain to enter, he delivered the tray, then hurried back to the galley.
It was late evening before the boys had an opportunity to talk. Frank told his brother what he had overheard.
“So! They intend to keep us prisoners!” Joe said angrily.
“Yes! Somehow we’ve got to make it ashore when the ship docks at Stormwell!”
“Slim chance of that if we’re locked in the storeroom.”
Frank thought a moment. “We’ve one thing in our favor,” he said finally. “The captain and Marik don’t know we’re onto them. And they’re not planning to lock us up until the ship docks, or shortly before—”
“I get it!” Joe interrupted. “We’ll wait till the last minute, then make a break for it.”
Just then the boys heard footsteps. They whirled around to see Marik and four crewmen walking toward them.
“I’ve been watchin’ you guys,” the first mate growled. “You’re up to somethin’.”
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“Shut up!” Marik shouted fiercely. “The cap’n gave me orders to lock you up in the mornin’. But I’m not takin’ any chances. You’re goin’ to the storeroom right now!”
“That’s what you think!” Joe protested. He flung himself at the first mate and together they went crashing to the deck.
Frank joined in the fight. He bent low and rammed his shoulder into the midriff of one of the crewmen. Then he struck out with a blow that sent another hurtling against the bulkhead. The melee attracted more members of the crew. Outnumbered, the Hardys were finally subdued.
“Take ’em to the storeroom!” Marik yelled as he struggled to his feet.
The boys were marched off to the cargo hold and shoved into the metal-walled enclosure. Then the door was slammed shut and locked.
“It’ll take a miracle to get us out of this,” Joe said.
Though hours dragged by, Frank and Joe were only able to sleep for short periods. They were anxious about what would happen next. Glumly they talked of Chet. Maybe something had befallen him, too. Perhaps he never had a chance to report where they were!
Frank glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. “Holy crow! It’s morning. Nearly eight o’clock!”
“Listen!” Joe said. “The ship’s engines. They’re slowing down.”
“We must be putting into Stormwell.”
“If only we could get out of here!”
For a while there were sounds of activity on the deck above. Then, almost an hour passed before they heard footsteps again.
The storeroom door was pulled open. A crew man ordered the youths to follow him and led them up on deck. Two Canadian policemen were standing with the captain of the Black Parrot.
“Are you the lads from Bayport?” one of them asked.
“Yes!” the Hardys answered excitedly.
“Stowaways, you mean!” the captain barked. “I locked them up to teach them a lesson. We were going to put them ashore later.”
“Liar,” Joe muttered.
The policemen ushered the boys down the gangplank and toward a waiting car.
“Hello, sons,” came a familiar voice from inside the vehicle. “Climb in.”
“Dad!” Frank cried out, nearly speechless.
“What—what are you doing here?” stammered Joe. “How did you know where we—?”
Mr. Hardy grinned. “Get into the car and I’ll explain.”
As they drove off, the detective told his sons that he had been working in Montreal in connection with his case. By coincidence he had telephoned home only seconds after Chet had arrived to inform Mrs. Hardy that Frank and Joe had sailed off in the Black Parrot.
“Good old Chet!” Joe exclaimed.
“He didn’t take immediate action,” Mr. Hardy said, “because he thought it might be part of your plan to sail with the ship a short distance, then dive overboard. But he began to worry after an hour and decided to tell your mother what had happened.”
“Lucky for us,” Frank commented.
Their father went on to say that he checked with Bayport Harbor and learned that the Black Parrot was to make a stop in Stormwell. 
“And so,” Mr. Hardy concluded, “I requested the help of the Canadian police, just in case the captain had any ideas about making you boys permanent members of the crew.”
“And he decided to turn us loose,” Joe added, “rather than risk an investigation.”
“That’s just what I hoped would happen,” Mr. Hardy said.
He noticed Frank’s eyelids start to droop. “Try to catch a few winks,” he went on. “We’ll continue our discussion when we get to Montreal.”
When they arrived, the detective obtained accommodations for Frank and Joe at the hotel where he was staying. The boys slept for a few hours, then had dinner served in their room. Their father entered as they finished eating.
“Feeling better?”
“I’ll say,” Joe assured him.
“And now, Dad, we’d like to tell you what information we dug up,” Frank began, and they described their adventures aboard the Black Parrot. Then they informed their father that they had found the book he wanted and about the rare volume they had looked at in the New York bookstore. 
Mr. Hardy was stunned. “An island kingdom called the Empire of the Twisted Claw, you say?”
“Yes,” Frank answered. “It was ruled by a pirate named Cartoll.”
The detective began to pace the floor. Finally he spoke. “What an amazing story. And it seems to tie in with my case!”
“How?” Frank asked.
“I’m not certain yet. But from what you told me, this might prove to be one of the strangest mysteries we’ve ever encountered!”

CHAPTER V  
  Solo Assignments
FRANK and Joe waited in anticipation as their father settled into a chair opposite them.
“Boys,” Mr. Hardy began, “I’ve been engaged by the Reed Museum Association to investigate a series of thefts. Four museums have been robbed within a few days, three in the United States and the Abbey Museum here in Montreal.”
“What were the thieves after? Gems? Precious metals?” questioned Frank.
“That’s one of the strange facts about the case,” the detective explained. “Each of the museums had a portion of the DeGraw collection on display. It was only those items that were stolen. Nothing else in the buildings was touched.”
“What’s the DeGraw collection?” Joe queried.
Mr. Hardy explained that Elden DeGraw was a wealthy financier who took an interest in archaeology. Several years before, he had discovered a sunken galleon in the Caribbean. The ship was filled with priceless royal treasure, including scepters, crowns, and orbs. Of particular interest were suits of armor which had red, twisted claw symbols on their breastplates.”
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “The armor might have belonged to Cartoll’s elite guard!”
Mr. Hardy leaned forward. “That’s why I was a bit stunned when you told me the story about the pirate and his Empire of the Twisted Claw.”
“Are there any other museums that have portions of the collection?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” his father replied. “DeGraw divided up the items and donated them to ten different museums—the Abbey Museum here and nine in the United States.”
“Do you think the thieves will try to rob the other six?” Joe inquired.
“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Hardy said.
He then told his sons that he had a hunch the loot was being taken out of the country, but how was mystery. Each portion of the collection was bulky and would be difficult to smuggle.
“I considered the possibility of a ship being involved,” Mr. Hardy continued. “Checking, I learned that the freighter Black Parrot and its sister ship Yellow Parrot were suspected of carrying on some sort of illegal operation. But no one has ever come up with a shred of evidence. That’s why I asked you to investigate.” 
“Without much success,” Frank muttered dejectedly.
“At least we know Dad’s hunch was right,” Joe put in.
“Hold it,” Mr. Hardy ordered with a grin. “There’s lots to learn about the case before making any conclusions.”
The boys accompanied their father to the scene of the recent theft. The curator of the Abbey Museum was greatly upset over the loss of the collection. “I don’t understand how they could have gotten into the building without setting off the alarm,” he said.
“I don’t either,” Mr. Hardy admitted. “The system wasn’t tampered with and is in perfect working order.”
At that moment the telephone rang. The curator picked up the instrument, then handed it to Mr. Hardy. “It’s for you. Mr. Hertford of the Reed Museum Association.”
The detective stiffened when he heard what his caller had to say. Finally he hung up and turned to the boys. “We’re flying to New York immediately! The Standon Museum has been robbed. Its portion of the DeGraw collection is gone!”
The Hardys quickly made airline reservations and were on their way within the hour. When they arrived at the museum, the young detectives assisted their father in searching for clues.
“Hm! This robbery is like all the others,” Mr. Hardy observed. “The alarm system is intact, and there’s been a clean sweep of the collection.”
“How does the system work?” Frank asked.
“When turned on,” his father explained, “invisible beams of light crisscross the exhibit rooms from all directions just inches above the floor. It operates on the photoelectric cell principle.”
“I get it!” Joe interrupted. “Anyone walking into the room would break the light beams and set off the alarm.”
“Pretty effective,” Frank added. “A thief would have to be able to float through the air like a balloon to escape detection.”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “I’d give anything to know the gang’s modus operandi.”
After completing their investigation, the Hardys spent the night in New York, then returned to Bayport the following morning. The boys joined their father in his study to hear a plan he had in mind.
“Five museums still have their DeGraw collections,” Mr. Hardy said. “And we don’t know which is next on the thieves’ list. The local police can’t spare men to be on constant surveillance, and the museum guards need help. My plan is to have each of us cover one and prevent a robbery, if possible.”
“We can have Chet help us out, too,” Joe suggested.
Mr. Hardy appeared somewhat dubious. “Do you think he can handle an assignment like this?”
“I’m sure he can,” Frank replied.
“All right.” The detective unfolded a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of the museums. Four of them are in neighboring states. The fifth is in California. I’ll have Sam Radley take care of that one.”
Frank and Joe had often worked with Radley, their father’s assistant, and knew he would do a good job.
Then Frank telephoned Chet to tell him about the plan. The stout boy was jubilant.
“I’m ready to leave any time!” he declared. “It’ll be a sorry day for those crooks if they try to rob the place with me on guard!”
By evening Mr. Hardy had completed all the necessary arrangements. Early the next morning Frank, Joe, Sam Radley, and Chet met in his study for a final briefing. After reviewing his plan, Mr. Hardy gave a word of warning. “Remember, we don’t know where the thieves will strike next. They’re clever and dangerous. So don’t take any chances.”
After wishing each other luck, they started out on their individual assignments. Frank was to cover a museum in Philadelphia. He arrived in the afternoon and introduced himself to the curator, Bruce Watkins.
“Ah, yes,” said the scholarly looking official. “Your father phoned that you were coming. I feel comforted that such famous detectives as the Hardys are investigating the recent robberies.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your DeGraw collection.”
The curator led him through a series of exhibit rooms. It was a magnificent old building with marble columns and floors. They entered a large room filled with ancient artifacts. One section of it contained the DeGraw collection.
“Here we are,” the curator announced.
Frank stared in awe at the scepters, crowns, and orbs displayed in a large glass case. Then his attention was drawn to a suit of armor with a red, twisted claw symbol on the breastplate.
“This is our most popular exhibit,” the curator said proudly.
Frank examined his surroundings. “What kind of an alarm system do you have here?” he queried.
“The windows, doors, and most of the glass cases are well-protected,” the man answered. “We are planning to install a photoelectric cell just as soon as appropriations are made available to us.”
“What about guards at night?”
“We have four, but will get more from an agency as soon as we can.”
At that moment a staff member told the curator that he was wanted on the phone. He excused himself and hurried off.


  
“This is our most popular exhibit,” Watkins said
Frank returned to the DeGraw collection and examined it more closely. Then he strolled around the other rooms. He entered one which contained large monoliths from a Pacific island, and stopped for a moment to admire the exhibit.
As he stood there, one of the stone columns behind him silently began to topple forward. Frank was directly in its path!

CHAPTER VI  
  A Desperate Moment
FRANK suddenly spotted the reflection of the falling column in the highly polished floor of the room. He gasped, and in a lightning move, he threw himself to one side.
Crash!
The column hit the floor with an ear-splitting impact. 
Frank was sprayed with bits of shattered rock as he tumbled across the floor. The curator, a guard, and several staff members came running.
“What happened?” one of them shouted.
Frank sprang to his feet. “I was almost flattened by that column,” he said grimly. “It toppled over.”
The curator stared in disbelief. “How could such a thing happen?”
“The column had rather a broad base,” a staff member interjected. “It stood firmly in the upright position.”
“Someone must have pushed it over,” Frank remarked.
“Nonsense!” Watkins exclaimed, obviously startled by the suggestion He hesitated for a moment. “Although I suppose it could be done by a man with exceptional strength.”
“See here!” another staff man interrupted. “Are you suggesting that someone deliberately toppled the column?”
“Under the circumstances,” Frank mused thoughtfully, “I must consider it a possibility.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“For reasons I can’t divulge right now,” Frank replied.
He drew the curator aside. “I have a hunch this museum is next on the thieves’ list. Somehow the gang must have discovered who I am, and why I’m here. Pushing that column over could have been an attempt to get me out of the way.”
“Oh, come now,” Watkins retorted. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? I’m sure the whole thing was just an accident.”
“All the same, we’d better assign more men to guard the DeGraw exhibit,” Frank urged.
“I’ve already decided on another course of action,” the curator said. “The entire collection will be taken to our basement storeroom immediately. It’ll stay there until this whole affair of museum robberies is ended.”
Watkins ordered all available staff members to begin work at once. Nearly two hours went by before the last item of the collection was carried into the storeroom and the door securely locked by Watkins.
“I still recommend that guards be posted,” Frank said. “A locked door alone is not going to stop the thieves.”
“Well—all right,” Watkins agreed, shrugging his shoulders. “But I can spare only two men. The rest will have to go about their regular duties.”
“We can ask the local police to help,” the young sleuth suggested. “Perhaps they can spare a couple of—”
“Out of the question!” the curator declared indignantly. “Policemen attract newspaper reporters. I’m not going to risk wild rumors being circulated that something is wrong here at the museum.”
Frank was annoyed by the man’s attitude. Watkins was more worried about his personal image than about the protection of the collection.
“Anyway,” the curator continued, “you’re only acting on a hunch.”
“Have it your way,” Frank said tartly. “I hope you won’t have reason to regret your decision.”
“Hardly,” Watkins assured him. He grinned. “You detectives tend to be overly suspicious. I doubt if the thieves are within a thousand miles of this museum.”
At that moment a tall, muscular, hard-faced man entered the basement. He was carrying a pair of shears which he placed in a tool chest. Then he hurried away. Something about the man made Frank uneasy.
“Who was that?” he asked the curator in a low voice.
“Our gardener,” replied Watkins. “He takes care of the grounds around the building as well as other odd jobs.”
“How long has he been employed here?”
“Less than a week, actually. We’re lucky to have him. We can’t pay very much and it’s difficult to find someone to do the work.”
The curator added that the man’s name was Starker, and that he had excellent references.
After the guards were posted, Watkins invited Frank to his home for dinner.
“Thank you. But I’d better stick around here. I’ll have a quick meal at one of the local restaurants later.”
As night approached, Frank had the guards help him check all doors and windows. Then he decided to have some food. One of the men recommended an eating place about seven blocks from the museum.
Frank strolled out of the building and down the street. He had not walked very far when he realized that two men were following him.
As he quickened his pace, so did his pursuers. Gradually they gained on him. As the gap between them narrowed, Frank arrived at the restaurant and dashed inside.
“Soup’s all gone, and so are the menu specials,” a waiter announced as Frank quickly sat down at a table. “We’re closing in half an hour.”
Frank did not speak He stared at the door apprehensively. The men did not follow him into the restaurant. Obviously they wanted to avoid being seen, and were waiting for him outside.
“How about a sandwich?” the waiter went on as he glanced at his watch impatiently. “Best I can do.”
Frank made a selection and was quickly served. As he ate, he desperately tried to think of a way to escape his pursuers. He finally decided to call the police.
“Where’s the telephone?” Frank asked the waiter.
“There’s none here in the restaurant,” the man replied. “You’ll find a public booth on the corner half a block down the street.”
“But you must have a phone here somewhere!” the boy insisted.
“Sure,” the waiter said icily, eyeing Frank with suspicion. “We have one in the kitchen. It’s strictly for business, not for customers.”
“This is an emergency! You must let me make a call!”
“Don’t give me that,” the man snarled. “What’s wrong? Too lazy to walk half a block?”
The situation was becoming more desperate. It was now closing time and several of the employees were preparing to leave.
Frank did not like what he was about to do, but he had no choice. “I—I don’t think I could walk that far. I feel sick. It—it must’ve been the sandwich I just ate.”
“Just a second, kid,” the waiter fumed. “Don’t accuse us of serving bad food. All our stuff is the best.”
Frank settled into a chair. “Maybe,” he groaned. “But I felt fine till now. Ugh—this is awful.”
The waiter rushed off and returned with the proprietor of the restaurant.
“What’s going on here?” the man demanded. “I hear you don’t feel good. I’ve been in this business twenty years and never poisoned a customer yet!”
“There’s always a first time,” Frank muttered weakly. “Somebody get me a taxi.”
The proprietor turned to the waiter. “Call him a cab,” he ordered. “This kid must be some sort of mental case. The sooner we get rid of him the better.”
Minutes later a taxi rolled up in front of the restaurant. The owner and several of his employees accompanied Frank as he trudged toward it and climbed in.
“Take me to the museum,” he told the driver. As they sped off, he peered out the rear window in time to see two men leap out from a dark alley-way.
Arriving at his destination, Frank went to the basement to check on the storeroom. There the two guards were engaged in idle conversation.
“Everything okay?” Frank asked.
“Yeah,” one of the guards replied. “Our only problem is trying to stay awake.”
“Whatever you do,” Frank warned, “don’t fall asleep. I’ll get a couple of the other men to relieve you in two hours.”
He then hurried to the curator’s office to telephone his father and report what had happened.
“You had a close call,” Mr. Hardy commented. “From what you tell me, I don’t think the column fell over by accident, either. And what about the men who followed you?”
“No sign of them,” answered Frank. “But I did catch a glimpse of one man. He was tall and muscular. I’m sure he was Starker, the museum gardener.”
“Get help,” his father urged. “Call the police in on this. Never mind what the curator said. This could be serious!”
Just then a loud noise echoed through the museum. Frank asked Mr. Hardy to stand by for a moment and quickly placed the phone down on the desk.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
No answer. Frank raced down into the basement. The two guards were on their feet, poised for action.
“We heard a noise!” one of them said excitedly. “What was it?”
Frank was about to reply when his attention was seized by a hissing sound. Then a white, odorless smoke began to filter into the room.
“What’s that?” a guard shouted.
In the next instant several men wearing gas masks appeared. Frank lunged at the intruders, but his body seemed to be drained of energy. He fell to the floor, unconscious!

CHAPTER VII  
  Mysterious Cargo
“WHAT—what happened?” Frank asked groggily as he regained consciousness. He found himself staring into the face of a police sergeant.
“You were knocked out by some kind of gas,” the officer replied. “So were all the guards in the building.”
Still dazed, Frank struggled to sit up. “But how come you’re here?” he inquired. “Who notified you?”
“Your father called headquarters,” the sergeant explained. “He said you’d heard a noise in the museum and went to check it out. When you didn’t return to the phone, he suspected something was wrong.”
Frank glanced around. He saw several policemen inspecting the area. Others were helping to revive the two guards posted at the storeroom door.
Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. “The DeGraw collection!” he cried. “Is it gone?”
“The storeroom is empty, if that’s what you mean,” the sergeant replied.
At that instant the curator arrived on the scene. “I received a telephone call to come here at once. What’s—?” His words trailed off as he peered into the empty storeroom.
“The collection’s been stolen,” Frank said.
Watkins’s face turned pale. “This is outrageous!” He glared at Frank. “Why didn’t you stop the thieves?”
Frank fought hard to control his temper. “I warned you, sir. We should have called in the police.”
“Are you trying to blame me for what happened ?”
Frank said nothing. He did not want to waste precious time by getting involved in an argument with Watkins. Instead, he began to search the area for clues.
On the floor he spotted a short piece of rope. He examined it closely, then showed it to the police sergeant. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asked.
The officer looked at it, then returned it to Frank. “We might need it later.”
“Certainly.”
“I have a couple of men coming over from the crime lab to check for fingerprints,” the sergeant went on. “You get some sleep. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
“Think I will,” Frank agreed wearily. He went to the curator’s office and settled down into a comfortable chair.
He slept several hours before he was gently shaken awake. “Hello, son,” came his father’s voice.
“Dad! When did you get here?”
“A couple of hours ago. I decided to let you sleep a while longer.”
Frank grimaced. “Then you know about the robbery.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I had a talk with the curator. Never met such a stubborn man. He should have given you more cooperation.”
Frank filled his father in on all the facts. Then Mr. Hardy said, “We’re dealing with a shrewd ring of thieves. But they must know we’re on to their game. I have a hunch the gang will wait for a while before they pull off another robbery.”
“What’s our next move?”
“Breakfast and then back to Bayport. I’ve already called Joe and the others. The local police have agreed to take over in the other towns and will guard the museums heavily for an indefinite period of time.”
Fenton Hardy and Frank arrived in Bayport in the early afternoon. Joe had just come home and was in the study with Chet.
“Hi!” Chet greeted them. “Heard you had a run-in with the museum thieves.”
“And they won,” Frank replied ruefully.
“By the way,” Joe said, “Sam Radley telephoned from California. He had trouble getting an airline reservation and won’t be here till tomorrow morning.”
At Joe’s request, Frank repeated the story about the robbery. Then he produced the piece of rope he had found on the floor of the storeroom.
“Looks like ordinary rope to me,” Chet muttered.
“It does,” Frank agreed. “My guess is that it’s part of the rope the thieves must have used to tie up the loot. But here’s what I find particularly interesting. Notice that it’s neatly spliced.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders. “So what?”
“Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?” Frank questioned.
Suddenly Joe’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. Experienced sailors are usually good at splicing ropes. Maybe the crew of the Black Parrot have been committing the robberies!” 
“Could be,” said Mr. Hardy. “But I have a hunch that they’re only involved in transporting the loot.”
Frank agreed. “The thefts seem to be the work of a skilled gang.”
Joe eagerly suggested that they try again to investigate the Black Parrot. Their father was reluctant. He warned the boys that they would surely be recognized by the captain and most of the crew. 
“We won’t attempt to board the ship,” Frank explained. “We’ll observe it from a distance. With luck, we might pick up some useful information.”
There was a long pause. “All right, I’ll go along with your plan,” Mr. Hardy said finally. “But you must be extremely careful.”
“We will,” Frank promised.
Joe was jubilant. But an instant later his enthusiasm disappeared. “Wait a minute. We’ve overlooked something. Where do we find the Black Parrot?”
“I have a hunch that the ship will be back at the East Coast sooner or later,” Frank said. “Let’s try all the ports up to Canada.”
During the next few days the Hardys checked the shipping schedules in the newspapers, and kept in constant contact with the various harbor authorities. A week went by before Frank’s prediction proved to be correct.
“You were right!” Joe said. “The Black Parrot is due to dock at Stormwell again day after tomorrow.” 
“We’ll leave for Canada in the morning,” Frank decided. “Too bad we can’t use Dad’s plane. But Jack’s flying him to Philadelphia tomorrow. He wants to have another talk with Watkins.”
Chet needed no persuading to go along. They arrived at their destination late the following afternoon and checked in at a hotel near Stormwell.
“How about something to eat?” Chet suggested.
“Okay,” Frank answered, smiling. “I noticed a dining room just off the lobby.”
“So did I,” the stout youth admitted.
“You didn’t expect Chet to miss any spot where food is served,” Joe said to his brother jokingly. “He has a built-in compass that would lead him to all the restaurants within fifty miles.”
“Cut it out, fellows,” Chet said.
They entered the dining room and sat down at a table. A waiter handed each of them a menu. While they were trying to decide what to order, Frank could not help overhearing a conversation between two men sitting at an adjacent table.
“The Black Parrot wasn’t due in till tomorrow,” one of them said angrily. “So what happens? The ship shows up a couple of hours ago. It’s forcing me to rearrange my docking schedule.” 
“I don’t like those Parrot ships, anyway,” the other man commented. “There’s something strange about them. Wish they’d stay away from Stormwell.” 
“Luckily the Black Parrot won’t be in port long. It isn’t picking up much cargo, and the crew looked as if they were in a big hurry to get underway again.” 
Frank leaped to his feet. Followed by Joe and Chet, he rushed past the startled waiter and out of the restaurant.
The hotel manager quickly secured a rental car, and the boys headed for the docks.
As they approached the waterfront, Joe pointed toward the pier. “There she is! What’s that they’re hauling aboard?”
“Looks like a pile of logs,” Chet said. “I’d say about a dozen.”
Frank’s attention was focused on a flatbed truck from which the cargo was being lifted. On the side of the vehicle was the name Norland Lumber Company, Cloud Lake, Canada.
The boys watched as the logs were lowered into the hold of the Black Parrot. Then crewmen began to scurry around the deck. Shortly the ship’s engines rumbled and a boiling caldron of foamy water appeared at the stern. 
“That was a short visit,” Chet muttered as he and the Hardys watched the freighter glide away from the pier.
“Odd,” Joe remarked. “Why would the ship come here just to pick up a dozen logs?”
Frank’s thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. “Norland Lumber Company,” he said to himself. “This might be worth investigating.”
The boys saw two men climb into the truck and drive off.
“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Frank said. “But right now, I think we’d better check out that lumber company.”
After returning to the hotel, Frank phoned the local police.
“Yes. I can tell you something about the Norland firm,” an officer said in response to his question. Actually, it’s a lumber mill. I hear it may close down.”
“Where is it located?”
“Thirty miles northwest of here—just off the Old Pine Road.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. He hung up and turned to his companions. “Let’s drive out to the mill.”
“But it’ll be dark when we get there,” Joe pointed out.
“I know, but time is important.”
They hurried to the car and started off. The Old Pine Road was unpaved and driving was difficult.
Suddenly the car began to wobble. Frank stopped and jumped out. Seconds later he gave a cry of dismay, “We have a flat!”
“Great!” Joe muttered in disgust. “Just what we need!”
He and Chet helped Frank to take out the spare tire. While Frank jacked up the car, Chet flopped down on the spare. Pffft! The tire collapsed under his weight. 
“Oh, no!” Joe shook his head. “The spare’s no good!”
“We’re stuck,” Frank admitted. He furrowed his brow. “The mill can’t be more than a mile from here. Let’s walk.”
Chet did not think much of this suggestion, but he did not want to stay in the car, either. “I’d better go along,” he mumbled. “Somebody has to see to it that you guys don’t get into trouble!”
The trio trudged on. Darkness had settled over the trees and progress was slow.
Joe took out his flashlight and scanned the area. “Look,” he said. “Tire tracksl”
“They were made by a heavy truck,” Frank concluded. “Like the one we saw at the pier.”
He motioned Joe and Chet to halt, and listened intently.
“What’s the matter?” Joe whispered after a few minutes of tense silence.
“I thought I heard something in the underbrush.”
“Like what, for instance?” Chet quavered.
Frank shone his light at the trees, but all was still. “Maybe it was just a squirrel.”
“I think we should wait till tomorrow,” Chet suggested. “This looks like trouble!”
“Why don’t you walk back to the car and Joe and I’ll go alone,” Frank said.
Chet shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “No,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
Proceeding cautiously, they finally spotted a small group of wooden buildings ahead. Light came from a window in one of them.
“That must be the mill,” Joe whispered. Frank nodded, then signaled to his brother and Chet to follow.
All at once the ground gave way beneath them. A split second later the boys plunged into a deep hole!

CHAPTER VIII  
  Fire!
THE boys lay stunned. Shortly, beams of light pierced the darkness from the rim of the hole above.
“We have visitors,” a man’s voice snarled.
“Three, to be exact,” said another.
“Who are you?” Frank demanded as he struggled to his feet.
There was no response. Instead, a rope was tossed down into the hole.
“Start climbin’ out of there!” one of the men ordered. “And don’t try anythin’. We’re armed.”
Frank helped his brother and Chet to their feet. Then they hoisted themselves up out of the hole. The boys could only make out the vague images of three men holding pistols and powerful flashlights.
“Now talk!” one of the men growled. “What’re you kids doin’ here?”
“Sightseeing,” Chet said innocently.
“The fat one’s a comedian!” the fellow boomed. “He won’t think it’s so funny when we throw them back in the hole.”
They stepped closer and the tallest of the three stared at Frank and Joe. “I recognize these two!” he shouted. “They were taken off the Black Parrot by policemen in Stormwell.” 
“They’re snoopers!” the man to his right exclaimed nervously. “We’d better get outta here. They might be workin’ for the police!”
“Okay. But first, let’s take these kids to the shack and tie ‘em up. We don’t want ’em trailin’ us.”
The Hardys and Chet were herded to one of the wooden structures and shoved inside. Then their arms and legs were tightly bound with ropes. When the job was finished, the three men left. For a few seconds they stood outside talking in the dark.
Joe rolled over and pressed an ear to the wall.
“What’ll we do now?” one man whispered.
“Head for Port Manthon. The Yellow Parrot’s docked there for repairs,” said another. “We’ll board it and sail out of the country. Let’s get the truck. We can make it in three or four hours if we hurry.” 
When they moved on, Joe excitedly relayed the conversation.
Frank said, “Port Manthon is about a hundred miles farther up the coast. If only we could get loose and—” His words were interrupted by the sound of a truck’s engine being started.
“They’re leaving!” declared Joe.
As the men drove off, a shower of glowing carbon sparks spouted from the vehicle’s exhaust pipe. The red-hot particles landed in some dry brush. Smoke appeared, then flames.
Unaware of what was happening, the boys tried to free themselves.
Chet suddenly yelled, “I smell smoke!”
“So do I!” Joe said.
“Fire!” exclaimed Frank.
Outside, the flames were spreading at a furious rate. Soon the boys could feel the heat radiating through the thin, wooden walls of the shack.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Joe cried. He rolled across the floor toward the door of the structure and kicked it open. “Come on!” he urged his companions.
Frank and Chet quickly followed. Outside, Joe found the sharp edge of a partially embedded rock and used it to cut the ropes binding him. Then he freed the others.
The boys looked around in horror. They were completely encircled by a raging inferno. The heat was almost unbearable.
“We’re done for!” Chet shouted.
“The mill is beginning to catch fire!” Frank cried.
Desperately the Hardys sought some means of escape. There was none!
Then Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “Listen!”
A flapping noise came from the distance. As the sound grew louder, they looked up to see a Royal Canadian Air Force helicopter hovering overhead.
“Wh-what’s going on?” Chet stammered weakly.
“We’re getting out of here!” Frank shouted to him.
The boys waved their arms wildly. A rescue sling was lowered from the chopper, and, one by one, they were hoisted aboard.
Then the craft hovered over the site of the fire, pouring ribbons of white foam on the blaze. Another helicopter joined it, and together they extinguished the fire.
“We reached you just in time,” said one of the crew members. “What were you fellows doing in the middle of a forest fire?”
The Hardys told him what had happened. They said that they were not sure how the fire had started.
“Perhaps one of the men threw a match, either carelessly or intentionally, on the dry brush,” Frank concluded.
“Looks that way,” the crew member agreed. “Anyway, the glow was sighted all the way from Stormwell. We were asked to help.”
After several minutes the helicopter landed on a small airfield well beyond the scene of the fire. Provincial police were on hand when they arrived. The young sleuths identified themselves and repeated their story.
“What you fellows told us fits in with an arrest we made an hour ago,” explained one of the officers. “Three men were stopped for speeding outside of Stormwell in a truck. I recognized two of them as being wanted for larceny and fraud. They’re already on their way to Montreal for questioning.”
Then Frank, Joe, and Chet were driven back to their hotel. They had a quick meal, after which Frank placed a telephone call to his father. Mr. Hardy listened to his sons’ adventure with great interest.
“You’ve really come up with something,” he said. “I’ll have Jack fly me to Montreal tomorrow. I want to interrogate these three men.”
“Meanwhile, we’ll go to Port Manthon to check on the Yellow Parrot,” Frank told his father. 
“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy replied.
Next morning Frank rented another car and arranged for the first one to be recovered. Then they started off. The trip took a little more than two hours. When they arrived in Port Manthon, they drove along a road looking down onto the water. Frank pulled into a turnoff and parked. Then the boys got out to scan the waterfront.
Joe spotted the Yellow Parrot tied to a pier. 
“There she is,” he said.
Frank nodded. “Port Manthon is not very big. Doesn’t appear as if it could accommodate more than two or three ships at a time.”
“That might be the reason she came here,” his brother said. “More privacy.”
The boys observed the freighter for a while. There was a gaping hole in its hull near the bow. Several crewmen were repairing the damage.
“Strangers around here, aren’t you?” came a voice from behind them. “Interested in ships?”
They whirled around to see a bewhiskered old man who had walked up quietly behind them.
“Why—er—yes,” answered Joe.
“We were just passing through,” Frank added, “and stopped to take a look at the port.”
“Not much to see these days,” the man replied with regret. “Used to be mighty active around here years ago.” A smile spread across his face. “But it’s always good to meet up with lads who like the sea.”
“Not me!” Chet interrupted. “I’m—”
His words were cut off by a sharp nudge of Joe’s elbow.
“Are you from this area?” Frank put in quickly.
“Born in Port Manthon, and sailed my first ship from here nearly sixty years ago,” the man said proudly. “Name’s Falop. Captain Falop.”
There was an exchange of handshakes. The boys gave only their first names. Then Frank pointed toward the Yellow Parrot and asked, “What happened to that ship?” 
“Don’t quite know,” Falop answered. “Never saw it in here before. Odd crew. Don’t want to talk much. Different from my day.” He rubbed his chin dubiously. “I asked one of ’em about the damage. Can’t understand why he’d try to get away with such a lie.”
“Lie?” Joe echoed. “What do you mean?”
“The fella told me their ship’d run aground,” explained the man, “and that the hole was caused by a sharp rock. Nonsense!”
“Why do you say that?” Frank asked.
“The hole’s well above the water line and is too neat,” Falop replied. “If you ask me, I think it was done by a shell.”
“You mean the ship was fired on?” Chet questioned excitedly.
“As far as I’m concerned it was.”
“Wonder how long it will take to repair the damage,” Frank remarked, trying to act nonchalant.
“I’d say at least two or three days,” Falop replied.
The boys continued to watch the activity aboard the Yellow Parrot. After a while they said good-by to the captain and checked in at the only hotel in Port Manthon. That evening Frank telephoned the authorities in Montreal and asked if his father had arrived there. A police officer stated that he had, and gave Frank the number of Mr. Hardy’s hotel. 
When Frank reached him there, his father said, “Hope you had better luck than I did, so far. If those three men know anything about the museum robberies, they’re certainly not admitting it. I’m going to try again tomorrow.”
Frank then told him about the ship, and what Falop thought had caused the damage to her hull. “Hm! Very interesting,” said Mr. Hardy. “Perhaps I’d better request a complete investigation.”
“I’ve another idea,” Frank went on. “If it works, we might learn once and for all if the Parrot ships are involved in the case.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Joe and I want to sail aboard the Yellow Parrot!”

CHAPTER IX  
  A Daring Plan
MR. HARDY strongly objected to Frank’s plan. “It’s too dangerous!” he insisted. “You and Joe have been seen by crew members of the Black Parrot. What if some of them switched ships in the meantime?” 
“I doubt it, Dad,” his son answered. “Their sailing schedules were such that they never came within miles of each other during the past few weeks.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“We’ll be careful.”
There was a moment of silence. “Okay,” Mr. Hardy finally said reluctantly. “But make sure your plan is foolproof before going ahead with it.”
“We will,” Frank promised.
Chet tingled with excitement as he listened to the plan. “This is going to be fun!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to get aboard!”
Frank patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, old friend,” he said sympathetically. “No reason why you should risk your neck. You’ll have to go back to Bayport.”
“What?” the chubby boy shouted. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”
“We know how you feel,” Joe said. “But two of us will have a better chance of getting jobs than three.”
Chet’s pique gradually changed to a feeling of great disappointment. He continued to plead with the Hardys without success.
“Okay, have it your way,” he muttered. “When do you want me to leave?”
“After the Yellow Parrot sails,” Frank replied. “We might come up with some useful information for Dad in the meantime. Then you can give him a report.” 
Next day they went to the pier and watched the ship from a distance. Repairs were progressing well. Some crewmen were working with acetylene torches, while others were positioning new metal plates over the gaping hole in the hull.
“Looks as if the job is almost finished,” Joe observed.
“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “We’d better start putting our plan into action.”
They found a general store in town and purchased work clothes, then returned to the hotel to eat and change.


  
“We’d better put our plan into action,” Frank said
“I hope there’s no one from the Black Parrot aboard,” Joe remarked as he pulled on a denim jacket.
“I’m sure there isn’t,” Frank said.
Chet listened quietly to their conversation. He grunted a couple of times to let his friends know he was still unhappy about being left out.
Frank and Joe had finished dressing and the three went back to the pier.
“What do you want me to do?” Chet muttered.
“Keep an eye on the ship when we go aboard,” Frank instructed. “I don’t expect trouble, but it’ll be good to know you’re around to help—just in case.”
Chet could not suppress a slight smile. “You can depend on me.”
The Hardys walked toward the Yellow Parrot and climbed the gangplank to the main deck. 
“What are you fellows doin’ aboard?” called out a stocky, tough-looking man.
“We’d like to see the first mate,” Joe said.
“What about?”
“Jobs.”
The man laughed. “Hey, Rawlin!” he shouted sarcastically. “Here’s a couple of old salts wantin’ to sign on.”
The young detectives turned to see a tall, wiry man march down the deck toward them. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Frank and Joe ... Karlsen,” Frank replied.
“From around here?”
“No,” Joe said. “We’ve been traveling and doing odd jobs. But what we really want is a chance to go to sea.”
Rawlin was hesitant. “I’ve got to think about it first. ”
“Why not sign ’em on?” the crewman suggested. “The king can always use a couple of more hands—”
“Shut up!” Rawlin growled.
“King?” asked Frank. “What king?”
“Well—er—I meant the cap’n,” stammered the crewman. “Sometimes I call him the king.”
Much to their surprise, Frank and Joe were hired and ordered to report the next morning. Elated, they hurried to tell Chet of their success.
“Dad should be home by the time you get to Bayport,” Frank told his friend. “Tell him our plan is going well. We’ll try to establish contact as soon as we can.”
Still disgruntled, Chet departed for home that evening. Early the next day Frank and Joe reported aboard the Yellow Parrot. Rawlin was the only one on deck when they arrived. 
“So you two were serious about going to sea,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”
“We wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Joe replied.
“I’m assigning you to general duties,” Rawlin went on. “We’ll be sailing in two hours.” He shouted through a hatchway. “Evans! Get up here!”
A thin middle-aged man appeared. “Yes, sir?”
“Find a couple of bunks for these two up forward. Then take ’em to the cargo hold with you. Make sure everything’s secured.”
Evans led the boys down a passageway and into a small cubicle which was to serve as their quarters.
“Not much room,” Frank observed.
“Barely enough space to breathe,” Joe replied.
“Don’t complain,” Evans snapped. “There’s a lot of things you won’t like aboard this ship.”
The Hardys exchanged glances. Then they stowed their gear and followed the crewman to the cargo hold.
“Look!” Joe whispered. He pointed to a pile of logs tied down at the far end of the hold. “They’re just like the ones we saw hoisted aboard the Black Parrot.”
“Start checking this stuff!” Evans yelled. “Make sure it’s all battened down!”
The boys did as they were told. Gradually, during the course of their inspection, they edged their way toward the pile of logs. Frank began to examine them closely.
“What are you doing?” Evans shouted in annoyance.
“Checking the cargo,” Frank answered.
“Then keep moving!”
“You want us to do a good job, don’t you?” Joe retorted.
“None of your back talk!” Evans gave Joe a hard shove.
Frank stepped in and the crewman lashed out with his fists. The young detective grabbed his opponent’s left wrist, and with a lightning move, pinned the man’s arms behind his back.
“Let go of me!” Evans yelled.
“Not unless you calm down.”
“Okay! Okay!”
Frank released him. “Now I suppose you’re going to report us to the captain.”
Evans was embarrassed by having been overpowered. “Naw,” he growled. “I’ll get even with you two later. Go to your quarters and wait for further orders.”
“This should be a pleasant voyage with him around,” Joe said, shaking his head.
“We’ll just try to stay out of his way,” Frank replied. “Trouble is what we don’t want.”
When they arrived at their quarters, Frank spotted a note on his bunk. He snatched it and a cold chill quivered down his spine as he read aloud:
“ ‘Get off this ship before it’s too late!
’ ” 

CHAPTER X  
  Deck Watch
“WHO could have written this note?” Joe exclaimed.
“I don’t get it!” Frank said. “I’m sure none of the crew knows who we are. Yet someone’s trying to warn us.”
The ship’s engines started and the hull vibrated.
“We’re getting underway,” Joe observed. “That was a pretty quick repair job.”
Frank stuffed the note into his pocket. “Too late to worry about this now. We’ll have to take our chances.”
“You kids!” came Evans’s voice. “Get up on deck and help haul in the lines!”
The Hardys hastened topside, where they saw the bow of the Yellow Parrot swerving away from the pier. 
“Come on! Come on!” Evans barked. “Get working!”
Frank and Joe assisted the other crewmen. Soon the heavy lines were pulled aboard and stacked in neat coils.
The job was hardly finished when Evans began shouting orders again. “Now get below and report to the ship’s carpenter. Ask him to give you some paint. There are a few vents around here I want redone.”
“We won’t have time to do any investigating with him around,” Joe said under his breath.
“We’ll have to be patient and hope for a break,” Frank replied.
The Hardys were kept busy painting. Later that day Joe was high on a ladder daubing the top of a door when his paint can slipped.
Splat!
It hit the deck with a thud, spattering a gray mess in all directions. 
What was worse, Rawlin walked past the spot at that very moment. He was decorated with gooey blobs.
Enraged, he looked up and shouted at Joe. “Hey, you! Come here!”
Joe quickly climbed down the ladder. Frank, who had been working nearby, ran over to see what had happened.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Rawlin roared.
“It was an accident,” Joe said.
The man’s face reddened. “I don’t believe you! I think you saw me coming and dropped that can on purpose. You’ll—!”
“Now wait a minute,” Frank interrupted.
“Shut up! You stay out of this!” Rawlin shouted. He turned to Joe and grabbed the boy by the lapel of his jacket. “I oughta wipe up the deck with you!”
In a sudden move Joe broke away from the man’s grip.
“What’s going on here?” a voice boomed.
The boys turned to see a burly man of medium height approaching. He had a large graying mustache and cold blue eyes.
“Hello, Cap’n,” Rawlin said. “These two kids just signed on. The blond-haired one almost hit me with a can of paint.”
“That true?” the officer demanded as he glared at Joe.
“It was an accident, sir.”
“That’s what he says,” snarled Rawlin. “And what’s more, he tried to get tough with me just now.”
“Oh, yeah?” the captain growled. “Lacks discipline, eh? A couple of days on bread and water in the brig will take the fight out of him.”
Frank pleaded with the men on his brother’s behalf. It was useless. Joe was taken to the brig below decks. It was a small enclosure with a door of metal bars. No guards were posted.
Late that night Frank secretly made his way to the ship’s galley and collected some food. Then he sneaked quietly to the brig.
“Joe!” he whispered. “I brought some chow.”
“Great! I’m starved.”
Frank passed the food through the bars and watched as Joe ate heartily. Then they discussed the situation.
“I hate leaving you in there,” Frank said. “But if you were to break out, it would only rile the captain further and possibly ruin our chances to investigate the ship.”
“Don’t worry,” Joe replied. “I won’t upset the applecart.” He forced a grin. “Just keep the food coming every night and I’ll be able to put up with anything.”
“It should only be for a couple of days,” Frank assured him. In the meantime, I’ll get our investigation underway.”
“What do you plan to do first?”
“Examine those logs we saw in the hold. I’ve a hunch that’s not an ordinary pile of lumber.”
“What about the warning note? Any idea who wrote it?”
“No, not yet,” Frank admitted. “But if we were recognized by someone aboard this ship, then I think the note was meant to be a friendly warning. Otherwise he would have turned us over to the captain by now.”
“If you’re right, I wish that that someone would come out into the open. I don’t like having mystery friends for too long.”
Frank agreed. “Now I’d better be on my way. See you tomorrow night.”
“Good luck.”
Frank began to edge his way in the direction of the cargo hold. As he rounded the corner of a passageway, he suddenly found himself face to face with Rawlin.
“What are you roaming around for?” the first mate demanded.
“Well—er—I was just getting acquainted with the layout of the ship,” Frank stammered.
“Get back to your quarters!” Rawlin commanded.
Crestfallen, Frank obeyed, but decided that he would try again the following night. He fell into his bunk and was soon asleep. To him, it seemed only seconds later that he was being shaken awake.
“Up on deckl” a hefty crewman yelled.
Frank pulled on his pants and quickly followed the man up the ladder. Dawn was just breaking as Rawlin’s voice boomed through the crisp, fresh morning air.
“Everyone’s to carry on with his regular duties! Frank Karlsen is to report to me!”
Frank went up to the first mate.
“I’m assigning you to deck watch,” Rawlin told him. “Four hours on, and four hours off. Now report to the bridge.”
Frank was bored with his new duty. But what bothered him even more was the fact that he had to remain in one spot and could not wander about to search for information.
It was well after midnight when he was relieved from his third watch of the day. He hurried off and repeated his secret journey to the brig with food for Joe.
“I thought you’d forgotten me, Frank,” Joe said jokingly.
“Never, old buddy.” Frank told him about his new assignment and his encounter with Rawlin the night before.
“That guy seems to be everywhere at once,” Joe remarked. “When do you plan to try again?”
“Now. I noticed a storm to the east when I left watch. Rawlin is on the bridge keeping an eye on it. He won’t be back this way tonight.”
The ship began to roll gently. “The sea is beginning to get a bit rough,” Joe commented.
“I’d better head for the cargo hold,” Frank said. “There’s no telling how much weather we’re in for.”
“Be careful,” Joe warned. “And if this storm gets too rough, ask the captain to let me out of here.”
Frank nodded. As he went down the passageway toward the cargo hold, he heard the clamor of footsteps ahead and looked around for a place to hide. He spotted the door of a small equipment locker, opened it, and ducked inside.
“Come on! Come on!” a crewman yelled. “Rawlin wants us forward. Looks like we’re in for some real weather!”
Frank estimated that about half a dozen men rushed past his hiding place. Fortunately they were headed away from the cargo hold.
He crept out of the locker and reached the cargo hold. By now the intensity of the storm had increased and the ship rolled violently.
Frank took out his flashlight and directed its beam toward the pile of logs. As he did, the ship lurched under the impact of the heavy sea. The logs broke loose from their bindings and came avalanching toward him!

CHAPTER XI  
  Unknown Ally
LOUD, crashing sounds thundered through the hold as the logs hurtled across the deck.
Frank looked up and spotted a steel girder that spanned the beam of the ship. Making a desperate leap, he grabbed it and swung his body upward. The logs rolled beneath him.
Crash! Bang!
They collided with the bulkhead on the portside, then tumbled back across the deck in the opposite direction as the ship listed to starboard. The cycle was repeated again and again —solid thuds with an occasional hollow boom. 
As Frank clung to the girder with all his strength, the storm seemed to become even more violent.
“Can’t hang on much longer,” he said to himself. “But if I let go—”
The lights in the hold were turned on. Several crewmen poured in through the hatchway. For a moment they stared at the logs hurtling back and forth across the deck. then set about tying them down again.
Frank watched as they gradually brought the situation under control. Then he released his grip on the girder and dropped to the floor.
“What are you doin’ in here?” shouted one of the men.
At that instant the captain entered the hold. “Everything under control?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. But we were wonderin’ what this kid’s up to. He was hangin’ from that girder when we got here.”
The captain glared. “Your place is up forward!”
Frank frantically searched his mind for an explanation. “I’d just gotten off deck watch and couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So I decided to take a walk.”
“In this storm?”
“The weather wasn’t too bad when I started out,” Frank answered. “Then it got worse. I heard a lot of noise here in the hold and wanted to see what it was.”
“Why didn’t you call for help when you saw that the logs had broken loose?”
“I was going to, sir,” Frank replied. “But when the logs rolled toward me, I jumped for the girder.”
The captain rubbed his chin dubiously for a few seconds. Finally he accepted Frank’s explanation and ordered him to return to his quarters.
By daylight the storm had subsided and the Yellow Parrot was churning its way through calm waters. Frank was returning from deck watch when he saw his brother walking down the passageway toward him. 
“Hi, Joe!” he called out. “When were you sprung from the brig?”
“A few hours ago. But they put me to work right away in the engine room. I’m bushed.”
“I don’t have to be back on watch till midnight,” Frank said. “Let’s get some sleep. Then we’ll plan our next move.”
The boys slept soundly for several hours. After a late lunch in the galley Frank told his brother that he was still determined to examine the logs.
“I’m with you,” Joe said. “But you’ve already been caught there once.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Frank told him. “Come on.”
They edged their way toward the hold and were elated to find no crewmen in the area.
“It’s pitch black in here,” Joe whispered as the two entered the hold and closed the hatch behind them.
“We don’t want to turn on the lights,” Frank said. “Use your flashlight.”
They directed their beams of light at the pile of logs.
“Funny thing,” Frank muttered.
“What’s that?”
“I might have just imagined it, but when the logs rolled back and forth across the deck, some of them sounded as if they weren’t completely solid. They sounded hollow.”
“You mean,” Joe began, “that the—” A faint noise caused him to stop abruptly.
“Switch off your light!” Frank hissed.
The boys’ pulses quickened as they stood motionless and waited in the darkness. Then they heard the noise again. This time it came from a point directly behind them.
The Hardys whirled around. At the same instant they were blinded by an intensely bright flash of light.
“I’m trying to help you!” a man said. “Stop your investigation. Get off this ship as soon as you can!”
Before either boy could question the man, there was the sound of the hatchway door being slammed shut as he exited from the hole.
“What now?” Joe asked.
“We’d better get out of here,” Frank said. “That guy might’ve been spotted leaving. He could bring someone to check this place out.”
The boys hurried to the hatch. They eased open the door, saw that the area was clear, and darted out. Back in their quarters, they discussed what had happened.
“Whoever it was,” Joe remarked, “he must be the one who wrote the warning note.”
“Without question,” his brother replied. He paused for a moment. “But I’d like to know what his game is. If he knows who we are, why is he being so mysterious about it?”
“Could be he’s holding out for money,” Joe suggested. “I mean, he might be planning to demand payment in exchange for being quiet.”
Frank pondered this. “I doubt it. If that was his motive, he certainly would have approached us with a deal by now.”
“What’s our next move?”
“Let’s go on deck and take a walk around the ship. We might come up with a lead.”
Strolling along in a nonchalant manner, the Hardys watched as the sailors went about their duties. As they were passing the radio room, Frank suddenly grabbed his brother’s arm.
“Listen!” he whispered excitedly.
The door was partially open. Inside, two men were engaged in conversation. One of the voices belonged to the stranger they had encountered in the hold!
“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed in a low tone. “That must be the guy we’re after!”
“Looks that way!”
A few seconds later the two men appeared in the doorway, still talking. One of them looked like an ordinary sailor. The other was a lean, red-haired young man with pleasant features. Apparently he was the ship’s radio operator. It was his voice the Hardys had identified.
“Okay,” the crewman told him. “I’ll have the antenna checked right away.”
“Good.” The young man turned and went into the radio room. Before he could shut the door, the boys dashed in after him.
“Hello,” Frank said. “Mind if we have a few words with you?”
There was a pause before the startled operator spoke. His face had turned pale. “You—you want to talk to me? What about?” he stammered.
“What’s your name?” Frank asked.
“Clay—Clay Ellis. I’m the ship’s radioman.”
Joe got straight to the point. “Writing warning notes and creeping around dark cargo holds must be a hobby of yours.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Ellis countered.
Frank, meanwhile, had peered around the room and spotted a camera flash gun on a shelf.
“Is this yours?” he asked, picking up the object.
“Er—no—one of the crew must have left it here,” the operator said nervously.
Frank looked closely at the base of the flash gun and noticed the letters C.E. scratched on the metal surface. “This is a coincidence,” he commented. “These seem to be your initials.”
Perspiration oozed from Ellis’s forehead. “All right! It’s mine. So what?”
“You took our picture in the cargo hold a little while ago,” Joe accused.
The young man let out a deep sigh. “Guess there’s no sense in trying to lie to you,” he muttered. “I didn’t take your photograph, just wanted not to be seen. That’s why I blinded you with the flash gun. You see, I know you’re the Hardy boys.”
“How did you learn that?” Joe asked.
“I’ve been interested in crime stories and the work of famous detectives for years,” Ellis explained. “Photographs of you and your father have appeared in many publications I’ve read. I recognized you the minute you boarded the ship.”
“Why are you trying to warn us?” Frank questioned impatiently.
“You fellows are here to investigate the Yellow Parrot, I’m sure,” the operator went on. “But believe me, you’ve walked into a lion’s den. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 
“We appreciate your concern for our safety,” Joe put in sarcastically. “What’s your game? Why haven’t you reported us to the captain?”
“I—I can’t give you my reasons,” Ellis said apprehensively.
“Are there any other crew members here who know who we are?” Frank asked.
‘I’m sure I’m the only one. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “Isn’t there any more you can tell us about yourself, or the Yellow Parrot?”
An expression of fear spread across Ellis’s face. “I’ve nothing to say,” he insisted. “Anyway, you don’t realize what you’re getting into. Take my advice and get off this ship just as soon as you can. I’ll help you.”
“You seem anxious to get rid of us!” Joe stated.
At that instant a sailor entered the room and handed a folded sheet of paper to Ellis. “The cap’n wants you to send this out right away,” he announced.
As he hurried off, the operator read the message. Then he walked over to the radio and flicked a switch.
“I’d better start warming up the transmitter,” he said. “This message looks important.”
“What does it say?” Joe asked quickly.
Ellis gazed at the boys for a moment. Then he handed them the sheet of paper. “You realize that I’m not supposed to do that,” he said quietly. “But I trust you.”
Frank took the message while Joe looked over his shoulder. After he had finished reading it, he said gravely, “Oh, oh. This could mean real trouble.”
Ellis stared at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?” he inquired. “It only says that I’m to contact the captain of the Black Parrot and arrange for a rendezvous with the ship tomorrow off Tambio Island.”
“That’s just it,” Frank muttered.

CHAPTER XII  
  Swim to Freedom
Nor without some misgivings on Frank’s part, the Hardys took Ellis into their confidence, telling him briefly about their adventure aboard the Black Parrot.
The radioman was amazed. “This does mean trouble. We’re bound to be visited by some of the Black Parrot’s crew.” 
“Maybe we can hide somewhere during the rendezvous,” Joe suggested.
“That won’t work,” Ellis warned. “Any time we put into a port, or get close to a landfall, the captain double-checks to make sure all crew members are accounted for. You’d be missed immediately.”
Frank began to pace the floor. “We’ve got to think of something. There must be a way out of this.”
“You’d better go back to your quarters,” the operator urged. “Meanwhile, I’ll get this message off to the Black Parrot. Meet me in an hour on the main deck, amidships on the portside. I should have more information by then.” 
The boys left and made their way forward.
“What do you make of Ellis?” Frank asked.
“First impressions can be misleading,” admitted Joe, “but I like the fellow and feel we can trust him. Anyhow, we haven’t much choice.”
“I agree. But if he is on our side, why doesn’t he tell us more about himself?”
“He is frightened of something. I think he’s being forced to sail aboard this ship.”
Time passed slowly for the Hardys. Finally an hour went by, and they headed amidships for their meeting with the radioman. He was already waiting when they arrived.
“The situation is worse than I thought,” Ellis announced in a low voice. “The Parrots are going to exchange a few crew members.” 
“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “We’re bound to be recognized.”
“Your only chance is to get off this ship at Tambio Island.”
“And be marooned?” Frank protested.
“You won’t be,” Ellis assured them. “I hear there’s a hermit, or some kind of nutty guy living on the far side of the island. He’s said to be friendly. I’m sure you could stay with him until you flag down a ship.”
“That would be taking a long chance,” Frank said.
“Your chances are nil if you don’t get off this ship,” the radioman warned.
“When does the meeting take place?” Frank inquired.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Oh, oh.” Joe sighed, eyeing his brother. “Something tells me we’re in for a swim.”
“I don’t see any other way out,” Frank admitted.
“Good,” Ellis put in. “I’ll meet you fellows here tomorrow night and help you get away. Make it about ten o’clock. That’s when we’re scheduled to arrive.”
The Hardys were kept busy all the following day, and it was well after dark before they were released from duty.
Ding! Ding!
came a tinkling. 
“Two bells,” Joe said. “It’s nine o’clock.
“Only an hour to go,” remarked Frank. “Let’s try to get a few minutes’ rest before we meet Ellis.”
The boys were walking to their quarters when the first mate shouted to them. “Hey! You kids! Come here!”
“I wonder what he wants,” Joe whispered apprehensively as they obeyed Rawlin’s command.
“You two are spending the night in the brig,” Rawlin growled.
“Why?” Joe demanded angrily. “What’ve we done?”
“Shut up!” He summoned four members of the crew. “Take them to the lockup.”
The men escorted the Hardys below, secured them in the brig, and hurried off.
“Now we are in a spot!” declared Joe. “Do you think Rawlin found out about our plan?” 
“I doubt it. He’s probably being cautious. He’s not sure we can be trusted not to jump ship.”
A few minutes later a faint shuffling sounded outside the brig. Frank and Joe made out the vague figure of a man approaching.
“Frank! Joe!” Clay Ellis whispered.
The boys sighed in relief.
“I saw what happened,” Ellis went on. He produced a small crowbar. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
The radioman pried away at the door, and it finally sprang open.
“Follow me,” Ellis ordered. “The meeting is working out slightly ahead of schedule. We’re about a quarter of a mile off Tambio Island.”
“Clay—thanks a lot,” Frank murmured.
“Any time.”
Ellis led the Hardys up on deck and to their previous meeting point amidships. At that instant the Yellow Parrot’s engines stopped. 
A shout came from the bridge. “Let go the anchor!”
There was a clatter of heavy chains, followed by a loud splash as the anchor plunged into the water.
“You’ll have to swim for it,” Ellis said. “The shore isn’t far off. Think you can make it?”
“Easily,” Joe said.
Ellis pointed to a coil of rope he had stowed near the rail. “It will be better if you lower yourselves into the water. If you dive overboard, the crew might hear you.”
Frank nodded. “We appreciate all you’re doing for us and won’t forget it. But I think you’re in some kind of trouble.”
“You don’t seem to belong aboard this ship any more than we do,” Joe put in. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“I—I can’t,” the radioman stammered.
Frank pulled a pencil from his pocket and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. He handed it to Ellis. “We have a radio setup in Bayport. Can you transmit on this short-wave frequency?”
“Yes,” Ellis replied. “Why?”
“We’ll listen in every evening from seven to midnight,” Frank told him. “If you should need help or want to give us any information about the activity of the Parrots, will you promise to contact us?” 
Ellis hesitated for a moment. “I—I promise,” he muttered finally.
The Hardys removed their shoes, tied the laces together, and hung them around their necks. Then they knotted one end of the rope around the railing and fed the balance over the side.
“Good luck!” Ellis said in a hushed voice as Frank and Joe quietly lowered themselves into the water.
They waved in response, then began swimming toward the island. In less than half an hour they were trudging up onto a sandy beach.
“Well, we made it,” Joe said triumphantly.
Frank gazed silently at his surroundings. The island was covered with trees and thick brush. Finding a couple of fallen branches, he handed Joe one of them. “We’d better start erasing our tracks. Otherwise they’ll stand out like road signs when daylight comes.”
When the job was finished, the boys walked into the brush and found a clear spot where they could rest. It was not long before they were sound asleep.
Morning was ushered in by a bright, hot sun. The boys woke up to the sound of chirping birds and the rustling of palm trees stirred by an offshore breeze.
Then they became aware of another sound. Men’s voices!
“Hear that?” Joe whispered excitedly.
Frank nodded. Stealthily they crawled toward the edge of the brush. On the shore they spotted a dinghy. Several men were scattered along the beach nearby.
“I don’t see any sign of ’em!” one of them said to his companions. “No tracks, either. I doubt that they came ashore. They’re probably hidin’ on the Parrot somewhere.” 
“Yeah!” said another. “Rawlin worries too much. So the kids escaped from the brig. Who cares? And even if they did make it here to the island, what’s the difference? They can’t cause us any trouble.”
“I’m hungry!” exclaimed another man. “We had to miss breakfast because of those brats. Let’s go back and get some chow.”
The crewmen piled into the dinghy and began rowing toward the Yellow Parrot. Frank and Joe looked out to see its sister ship the Black Parrot anchored a short distance away. 
“Those guys must’ve been looking for us while we were still asleep,” Joe said.
“Lucky you don’t snore,” Frank quipped.
Eager to locate the hermit, they immediately started trekking easterly across the island.
“Shouldn’t take us too long,” Joe stated. “Tambio doesn’t seem to be very big.”
But the thick brush made the going extremely rough. More than three hours passed before they came to the opposite shore. Barely five hundred yards away stood a crude hut, set well back from the high-water mark.
It looked no larger than four by four feet and its door was of sturdy oak.
“What do you think of that?” Joe asked as they came closer.
“It’s strange, all right,” Frank admitted.
“Should we call out?”
“No, we’d better not. If we startle the guy, he might react violently, especially if he’s some kind of unstable recluse.”
Frank and Joe walked cautiously around the hut. To their surprise, it had no windows.
“There’s no sign of a human being here anywhere,” Frank remarked.
“Maybe our hermit left a long time ago.”
Frank stopped short in his tracks. “Look, Joe, footprints,” he said, pointing to the sandy soil partly covered with tufts of coarse grass.
Joe bent over. “They’re headed toward the beach. Maybe the fellow’s out fishing!”
Frank grinned. “In that case, perhaps we could peek inside.” He took hold of the door handle and pulled. It did not budge.
“Here, Joe, give me a hand!”
Joe grabbed the handle, too, and they both tugged. With a creaking noise, the door came open. It took a few seconds for the boys’ eyes to adjust to the dim interior. There was nothing but a flight of steep stairs leading into the ground.
“Hey! What’s this?” Joe asked.
“Come on. We’ll find out.”
With Frank in the lead, they carefully descended ten stairs until they came to another door.
Frank knocked gingerly. No one replied.
“Let’s go in,” Joe whispered.
Frank nodded and opened the door. At the same instant, lights went on in a large room. The boys gasped!

CHAPTER XIII  
  Trouble on Tambio
ON the far side of the room sat a man in a huge high-backed chair. He did not move, did not even bat an eyelash.
“Hello!” Joe blurted out. There was no reply. 
Joe looked at Frank. “Is he for real?”
Frank shrugged, and they walked closer.
There was a frozen grin on the man’s ebony face and he did not seem to breathe at all. He was attired in a red-and-white-checkered sport shirt, ragged slacks cut off at the knees, and white tennis shoes.
“Wow!” Frank whispered. “He must be right out of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum!” He stepped forward and touched the man’s face. The next moment he yelled, “Joe! He’s alivel”
“Of course,” said the man. “What made you think I was not?” The grin disappeared from his face and suddenly he looked menacing.
Despite their usual coolness and presence of mind, the Hardys shrank back before the recluse.
“Please do not break into my home again,” he said.
With that, a trap door sprang open and the boys were dropped into a shallow pit. Half stunned, they were set upon by the powerful hermit, who sprang at them like a cat. He tied their hands with a piece of rope which he pulled out of his pocket, then brought them back into the room.
It was filled with all sorts of modern appliances. There was an electric stove, a refrigerator, ventilation system and many other devices.
After he had tied the boys by one wrist to sturdy oaken chairs, their captor said, “You are impressed with my home, yes? Perhaps you are wondering how I receive the electrical power for all my treasures? Well, there is an underground generator located just behind the hut.”
“Why are you holding us prisoner?” Joe asked.
“As a precaution. First let me ask what you are doing on this island,” the man countered.
The Hardys did not want to tell him that they had escaped from the Yellow Parrot. There was a possibility, after all, that he was connected somehow with the ship. 


  
A trap door sprang open and the boys were dropped into a pitl
“Er—we were sailing our ketch on a long voyage,” Frank replied. “A storm came up, blew us off course, and finally shipwrecked us not far from here.”
“Ah, I see,” the man said. “My name is Katu.”
The Hardys introduced themselves by their aliases, Frank and Joe Karlsen.
“It is not often that I have guests,” Katu went on. “I am about to prepare lunch. Will you eat with me?”
Eagerly the boys accepted his invitation. They watched with mixed feelings of surprise and amusement as Katu took a package of hamburgers from the freezing compartment of his refrigerator, then switched on the electric stove.
Joe was overwhelmed with curiosity. “How did you come by all these gadgets?” he asked.
“That is not for you to know,” Katu answered, displaying annoyance.
He avoided further conversation during the meal. When he finally spoke, it was to announce that they would remain prisoners until his amphibious friend returned.
“Amphibious friend?” Frank repeated. “What do you mean?”
“He flies a plane that can float on the water like a boat,” Katu explained proudly, “or roll on the land with wheels.”
“An amphibian aircraft!” Frank exclaimed. “It comes here to the island?”
A blank expression spread over Katu’s face. He looked as if he had unintentionally revealed some deep, dark secret.
Before Frank and Joe could ask any more questions, they heard an airplane overhead. It passed low, then seemed to turn toward the sea. Katu left in a hurry.
“Must be the amphibian he told us about,” Joe declared.
Frank sighed. “I sure hope he’ll let us out of here!”
Twenty minutes later the door to the room opened. A tall, wiry man with sandy-colored hair entered. He was wearing coveralls and leather flight boots.
“Hello,” he said, smiling broadly. “My name’s Dan Tiller. Katu tells me you fellows were shipwrecked.”
The boys nodded. “You must be the pilot of the amphibian,” Joe put in.
“That’s right,” said Tiller. “And who are you?”
Frank and Joe introduced themselves. On a hunch they decided to play it straight and did not use their aliases.
The pilot’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you the sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”
“Yes,” Frank replied. “But—”
“Say!” Tiller interrupted. “I’ve heard lots about the Hardys. An airline friend of mine met you and your father once. It was on one of his flights that you caught a couple of smugglers aboard the plane.”
“Oh, yes. I seem to remember that,” Frank muttered, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion of the case.
“Sorry about the way you were treated. Katu was being a bit overcautious,” Tiller said as he loosened their bonds. There was a worried expression on his face.
“Were you fellows really shipwrecked?” he asked. “Or did you come to Tambio to investigate me?”
“Investigate you?” Joe asked curiously. “Why? Have you done anything wrong?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. But I don’t pay any real-estate taxes.” Tiller explained that two years before he had been caught in a storm and was blown off course. When the weather finally cleared, he had spotted a capsized dugout canoe below him. A man was clinging to the craft.
“I landed the amphibian to rescue the fellow,” he continued. “It was Katu. I flew him back to my base on Cambrian Island, which is about six hundred miles north of here.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Joe interjected. “It’s become a popular place for tourists, and its capital is one of the most modern cities in the world.”
“Right. Katu liked it there and stayed for a year and a half. He went to school, learned English, and worked in a hotel. We became great friends and flew a lot. One day we discovered this island and decided to make it our Shangri-la, some place where we could get away from the world. It’s pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Terrific!” Joe said.
“But I don’t know if this land belongs to anyone. This underground complex was already here you see. We might be trespassing on someone’ property. But I thought as long as we’re not being chased off, it’s ours.”
“I don t believe you’ll have any trouble,” Frank assured him.
Now Katu joined them. He grinned as the Hardys praised him for his tricky defense of Tiller’s hideout.
The boys took a liking to the pilot and decided to tell him about their escape from the Yellow Parrot.
He listened to their story with great interest. “I’ve never heard of the Parrots before,” he said. “Ships are a bit out of my line.” 
“There’s something fishy going on with those two,” Joe told him. “They’re anchored near the west side of Tambio right now.”
“How soon will you be flying back to Cambrian?” Frank asked.
“This afternoon.”
“Will you take us with you?”
“Of course. From there you can get one of the scheduled flights to Florida.”
The Hardys talked a while longer to Tiller and Katu, until the pilot finally said, “Come on, fellows. I want to make it back before dark.”
Katu paddled them out to the amphibian, and waved good-by.
“All aboardl” Tiller cried as he led the young detectives through a small hatchway and into the cabin of the plane.
Then he climbed into the cockpit and started the first of the craft’s two engines. When it was running smoothly, he fired up the second.
“Here we go!” he shouted and eased the throttles forward. The idling engines erupted into a loud steady roar. The plane bounced across the water and then lifted gracefully into the air.
As the amphibian gained altitude, Frank dashed into the cockpit. “I know you’re in a hurry to get back to Cambrian,” he said to Tiller, “but I just had an idea. Would you fly to the other side of the island? We’d like to see if the Parrots are still there.”
“Sure,” Tiller answered as he turned the plane to a westerly heading.
Soon they had reached the coast. A look of disappointment spread over Frank’s face when he saw that the ships were gone.
“Too bad,” he mumbled. “I thought we might pick up some kind of clue.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe exclaimed, and pointed to an object in the distance. “That looks like a ship over therel”
Tiller swung to the direction Joe had indicated. As the distance closed, Frank shouted, “It’s the Yellow Parrot!”
As they started to circle the ship, thin trails of smoke streaked past the aircraft.
“Tracers!” Joe cried out. “They’re shooting at us!”
An instant later a column of thick black smoke began to stream from the plane’s left engine!

CHAPTER XIV  
  Morton’s Geyser
“FIRE!” Frank exclaimed.
Tiller turned the plane sharply away from the Yellow Parrot. Then he pulled a knob marked “Extinguisher.” Immediately faint trails of frozen carbon dioxide streamed from beneath the engine cowling. The boys were relieved to see the black smoke gradually disappear. 
“Are you going back to Tambio?” Joe asked.
“No!” replied Tiller. “We can make it to Cambrian on one engine. However, it’ll take longer than usual because our speed is reduced.”
Hours ticked by. The young detectives were dozing off when Tiller leaned forward for a closer look at one of the instruments on the panel.
“Oh, oh,” he muttered. “The right engine’s starting to overheat.”
“Is it serious?” Joe inquired anxiously.
“Not yet,” the pilot answered. “But I’ll have to reduce the power setting slightly.”
As he eased back on the throttle, the amphibian gradually began to lose altitude.
“We’re going down,” Frank observed nervously.
“I’ll let the plane settle,” Tiller decided. “The air is thicker below. It will help to develop a bit more power and lift. Also, we’re getting lighter every minute as the fuel burns off.”
This statement was of little consolation to the Hardys. They watched the altimeter slowly unwind. Then, at 1,000 feet, the plane acquired new life. The instruments no longer indicated a descent and the engine was now operating at normal temperature.
“Whew!” Joe sighed. “For a while I thought we were going to have to paddle the rest of the way.”
“We can relax,” Tiller remarked with a wide grin. “The worst is over. I estimate we’ll reach Cambrian in about another hour.”
It was dark by the time the island came into view. The lights of its capital city twinkled like a small cluster of stars on the horizon.
“I’ll use the wheels and land at the airport rather than set down on the water,” announced the pilot. He contacted the control tower and was cleared for a straight-in approach.
The landing was smooth, and after parking the aircraft, Tiller obtained a ladder. He climbed up to the left engine, removed the outer cowling, and inspected the damage.
“We’re awfully sorry about what happened,” Frank said apologetically. “It’s our fault and we’d like to pay for repairs.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the pilot. “As far as I can see, we received one hit in the crankcase. Oil was being splashed over the engine. That’s what caused the smoke.”
Tiller escorted the boys to the airport terminal building. There they were told that a shuttle flight to Miami would be departing within the hour. After a quick bite to eat, Frank and Joe bid their new friend good-by and took off on the first leg of their journey back home.
They stayed overnight in Miami and arrived in Bayport the following afternoon. Aunt Gertrude let out a cry of surprise when they entered the house.
“Mercy! It’s been days and days since we’ve had any word from you!” she exclaimed. “Where were you? Chasing after some awful criminals, I suppose.”
The commotion brought Mr. and Mrs. Hardy to the living room. The boys’ mother gave them affectionate hugs and Mr. Hardy greeted them warmly.
“You’ve had me worried,” he said. “I was going to notify the authorities and request a search.”
An early dinner was prepared while the boys showered and changed their clothes. During the meal they described their adventures aboard the Yellow Parrot.
“You placed yourselves in a very dangerous position,” Mr. Hardy remarked with concern. “I’m thankful you decided to escape.”
“And, Fenton,” Aunt Gertrude interjected, “you should also tell them not to go running off for days at a stretch without letting us know where they are. Even a postcard would be of some consolation.”
“Sorry,” Joe quipped, winking at his brother. “There wasn’t postal service where we were.”
“The situation was sort of grim,” Frank admitted to his father. “And, the worst of it all is that we didn’t come up with any real evidence to link the Parrots with the robberies.” 
“But I wouldn’t say our trip was a complete loss,” Joe said. “Remember, we do have a possible contact in Ellis. He might still change his mind and tell us what he knows.”
The boys talked to their father about the tentative arrangement they had made with the radioman.
“We’ll have to set up a listening watch,” commented Mr. Hardy. “Count on me to do my share. I’ll stand by the radio tonight. You two get some rest.”
“I’ll take my turn tomorrow night,” Joe volunteered.
“And we can get Chet to pitch in,” suggested Frank.
The brothers retired early and slept until late the following morning. After breakfast they drove to the Morton farm to see Chet.
They were startled to see a geyser of water spouting thirty or forty feet into the air near Chet’s home. A police car and an emergency truck were parked nearby.
“What’s going on?” Joe exclaimed as they leaped from their convertible. They were met by Iola Morton, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl. She was Chet’s sister and a favorite date of Joe’s.
“I’m so happy to see you two!” she cried out. “Isn’t this terrible?”
“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.
“Chet became interested in archaeology,” explained Iola. “This morning he said that he was on the brink of a great discovery and began digging with a pick. I’m afraid he struck a water main!”
“Oh, no!” Joe shouted.
The boys ran to the scene. There they saw Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a close friend of the Hardys. He was standing transfixed at the sight of the column of water as it gushed upwards.
“Hello, Frank and Joe. Well, your buddy really did it this time. Lucky for him that his parents are visiting friends in Clayton today.”
“Where is Chet?” Joe asked. 
“On the other side of the geyser,” Collig replied.
Frank and Joe edged their way around and looked down into the deep hole that Chet had dug. He was kneeling near the water main at the point where it had punctured, and was trying to step the flow with his hands.
“Chet! Get out of therel” Joe yelled. “You can’t stop it that way!”
Their friend looked up with a startled expression. Then he scrambled out of the hole, dripping wet.
“Hi, fellows,” he said, embarrassed. “When did you get back?”
“Never mind that,” Frank answered. “What’s the archaeological discovery you were digging for?”
Chet glanced about sheepishly. “I—I read that there are lots of old Indian artifacts in our area. I was on the brink of finding something that would’ve astounded the scientific world.”
“Cheer up. You might still have accomplished something,” Joe said jokingly “If that leak isn’t fixed soon, you’ll have created one of the greatest tourist attractions in Bayport.”
“Right,” Frank added. “Morton’s Perpetual Geyser!”
“Aw, cut it out,” Chet said.
At that instant truck from the water department rolled to a stop. The driver leaped from his vehicle.
“We’re shutting the water off at the main junction!” he shouted to Chief Collig.
Then he walked toward the boys. “Which one of you is Chet Morton?”
“Well—er—I guess that’s me,” Chet stammered nervously
“I understand you’re responsible for this. What were you doing? Digging for gold? Or trying to sabotage the water company?”
“It was an accident,” Frank interrupted.
“Just wait till his father gets the bill for repairs,” the man went on. “This kid will look like an accident!”
“There goes your allowance for the next two years,” Joe needled.
Dejected, Chet strolled slowly to the house and sat down on the porch steps. The Hardys felt sorry for him and followed.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Frank said sympathetically. “Things could be worse.”
“That’s what you think,” Chet countered.
“Snap out of it,” Joe urged. “We’re going to need your help.”
Chet appeared to perk up a bit. “What kind of help?”
The young detectives told him about their arrangement with Ellis aboard the Yellow Parrot.
“You can count on me!” their chum declared. Then he hesitated. “That is, you’d better wait until my parents come home tonight. I don’t know how my father will take the water-main business. He might not give me permission.”
“Well, I’m sure he will,” Joe said. “This is an important assignment.”
The Hardys returned home. After dinner they had just sat down to read the evening newspaper when the telephone rang. Frank answered.
“I’m off the hook!” Chet said jubilantly. The water company found several defects in the pipe I punctured. They said they would have had to make repairs soon, anyway.”
“That is good news!”
“I’ve a good mind to charge them for services rendered,” Chet went on. “After all, I did part of the work for them by digging the hole.”
“If I were you,” Frank advised, “I’d leave well enough alone.”
“Okay. How soon do I begin my assignment?” Chet inquired eagerly.
“We’ll let you know.”
Frank hung up and rejoined his brother. Later Mr. Hardy came bounding down the stairs from the study.
“I just received a phone call!” he exclaimed. “Another museum has been robbed of its DeGraw collection!”

CHAPTER XV  
  Impostors
“WHERE?” Frank asked excitedly.
“The Shillman Museum in Connecticut,” his father answered. “Mr. Sedley, the curator, said the guards were knocked out by some kind of gas.”
“Again! Just like in Philadelphia,” Frank put in.
“Right. I’ll have to leave at once. I’d like at least one of you to come with me.”
Joe turned to Frank. “You go,” he said. “I’ll stay here. It’s my night to stand radio watch.”
Jack Wayne was notified to have the plane ready at the airport. Soon the pilot and his two passengers were airborne.
It took less than an hour to reach their destination. When they landed, Frank and his father took a taxi directly to the museum.
“The alarm system failed to work, yet it showed no signs of having been tampered with,” Mr. Hardy explained on the way.
When they arrived at the museum, there were no patrol cars or policemen in the area.
“This is odd,” remarked Mr. Hardy. “If a major robbery took place here less than two hours ago, where are the police?”
“Strange,” Frank agreed. “But there must be an explanation. At least the curator must be here. He’s probably inside waiting for us.”
Father and son pounded on one of the large metal doors at the front entrance of the museum. Minutes went by before a door was eased open and an elderly guard peered out.
“What do you want? The museum closes at five o’clock,” he said testily. “Come back tomorrow!”
“I received an urgent telephone call from the curator,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’re here to see him.”
“The curator? Mr. Sedley?” the guard replied, eyeing the Hardys suspiciously. “He went home shortly after we closed for the day. Who are you?”
The detective produced his credentials. Suddenly the guard straightened his cap and gave an informal salute. “Mr. Hardy!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Jeremy Turner, chief of the night guards. What can I do for you?”
Bewildered, Frank stared at the man. “Wasn’t there a robbery here a couple of hours ago, Mr. Turner?”
“A robbery?” the guard queried with a look of astonishment. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“I assure you it is not,” Mr. Hardy answered impatiently. “I’ll have to call Mr. Sedley at once! Take me to a telephone!”
Turner quickly led the detectives to one of the museum’s offices. There Mr. Hardy pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it to a list of telephone numbers, and began to dial. Seconds later he had the curator on the line.
“You say I called about a robbery at our museum?” Mr. Sedley said, after hearing the story. “Preposterous! I did no such thing!”
“That’s all I need to know,” the detective replied. “Forgive me for being abrupt, but I must leave right away.”
He put the phone down, then picked it up again and dialed another number.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“I’m calling home,” his father told him. “I want to talk to your brother.”
Joe answered the telephone. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “What about the robbery? Did you—?”
“There wasn’t any!” Mr. Hardy quickly told Joe what had happened. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he went on. “Call the other museums that still have their DeGraw collections and warn them. Frank and I are flying back to Bayport right away.”
“Okay, Dad. Will do.”
Frank and his father hurried back to the airport. When they landed at Bayport, Joe came running toward them as Jack taxied the plane to the parking ramp.
“Dad!” he cried. “We’re too late! The State Museum in Delaware was robbed of their collection around ten-thirty!”
Frank cried out in dismay.
“I was afraid of this,” Mr. Hardy said angrily. “As soon as I learned the call from Mr. Sedley was a phony, I suspected it was a trick to draw us away.”
He turned to the pilot. “We’ve got to fly to Delaware right away. While you refuel the ship, I’ll check with the curator and the police down there. One wild-goose chase is enough.”
“Sure, Mr. Hardy.”
The detective rushed off to a telephone. Minutes later he returned. “This time it’s the real thing!”
“May I go along?” asked Joe. “Chet’s at our house standing by the radio.”
“Climb in,” his father replied.
The sleek Hardy plane streaked down the Bayport runway on take-off for the second time that night. After an hour plus a few minutes they landed at their destination and headed for the State Museum.
There they found the building swarming with uniformed police and plainclothesmen. As the trio walked inside, a tall, neatly dressed man blocked their way.
“Sorry,” he announced. “Only the police are allowed in here.”
Mr. Hardy presented his credentials and introduced his sons. A broad smile appeared on the man’s face. “This is a pleasure,” he said. “Never thought I’d have an opportunity to meet you. I’m Seth Spencer, chief of detectives.”
There was an exchange of handshakes, then Frank spoke up. “Have you uncovered any leads?”
“Not yet. The thieves seem to have made a clean getaway.”
“What about the guards?” Mr. Hardy queried.
“All were knocked out. Since gas was used in the other robberies, they wore masks. But every single mask was punctured!”
“Was the alarm tampered with?”
Spencer rubbed his chin dubiously, “No,” he replied finally. “And that’s something I can’t figure out.”
“Were there any eyewitnesses?” Joe asked.
“None who saw the robbery being committed,” the officer replied.
“Who notified the police?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
“A passer-by became suspicious when he spotted a trailer-truck race out of the museum drive-way with its lights off,” Spencer explained, “so he called headquarters. Unfortunately he was unable to give us the license-plate number or a detailed description of the vehicle.”
“One thing is certain,” Joe remarked. “It was carrying the stolen DeGraw collection.”
“Our men and the State Police are checking all trailer-trucks leaving the area,” the detective chief said.
After the museum and police officials had completed their investigation, Spencer and the Hardys questioned the guards.
“That’s all any of us remember,” one of the guards declared. “There was what seemed to be a cloud of gas, and then—”
“By the way, how is Mr. Fosten?” another asked. “Is he all right?”
Spencer looked at the man quizzically. “Mr. Fosten, the curator?”
“Yes, of course.”
“My men have been trying to reach him since we learned about the robbery. He’s not home and none of his friends know where he is at the moment.”
The guard seemed surprised. “He was in his office last time I saw him,” he said. “That was right before the robbery. He came back here about an hour after we closed for the day. Said he was going to spend the evening catching up on some paperwork.”
“Good night!” Spencer shouted. He summoned his men. “I want you to go through this place again with a fine-toothed comb. Mr. Fosten might be lying unconscious in the building somewhere!”
A thorough search, however, revealed nothing. The detective chief scratched his head in bewilderment.
“Maybe the thieves took the curator along with them,” Frank suggested.
“If so,” Spencer said, “they’ll have a kidnapping charge added to their crime.”
Nearly an hour had passed when the telephone rang in the curator’s office. A policeman scooped it up, then shouted to Spencer, “You’d better take this call, Chief!”
“I’m Avery Fosten,” a voice crackled from the receiver. “Just heard a TV newscast saying the museum was robbed. What’s going on?”
“Where are you?” Spencer demanded. “We’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”
“My wife and I are spending a couple of days at a friend’s summer home in Maryland,” the curator replied.
“How long have you been there?”
“Since about seven o’clock. The drive took less than two hours.”
“But one of the guards here told us he’d seen you working in your office up until the time of the robbery,” Spencer said.
“That’s absurd!” the curator insisted. “My wife and I left immediately after the museum closed.”
“You’d better come back right away. There’s something fishy going on here.”
After hanging up, Spencer told the Hardys about Fosten’s call.
“If he’s telling the truth,” Frank put in, “there’s only one explanation. The man the guard reported seeing in the curator’s office was an impostor!”
“You’re right,” his father agreed. “And a clever plan, too. Disguised as the curator, the impostor had no trouble entering the building after hours. Then he was free to let his cohorts inside without attracting attention.”
At that moment a patrolman rushed up to Spencer. “Sir, a trailer-truck was found abandoned on a side road twelve miles north of here,” he said. “The crime lab has been checking for fingerprints and other clues. So far they’ve uncovered nothing.”
Frank turned to the detective chief. “Would you issue an alert requesting a check of any flatbed trucks carrying logs?” he asked.
Spencer was a bit puzzled. “Sure—I can do that. But why a truck carrying logs?”
“I can’t explain now,” Frank replied. “It’s only a hunch of mine and may not amount to anything.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer walked to a telephone, called headquarters, and ordered a general alert.
Exhausted, the Hardys went to the curator’s office and settled down into comfortable chairs. Soon they were asleep.
It was nearly dawn when a policeman awakened them. “Chief Spencer is back at headquarters,” he said. “He just called. The State Police in New Hampshire stopped a flatbed truck hauling logs outside the town of Newland. It was headed north. They checked and found that the license plates were phonies.”
“Where’s the truck now?” Frank asked quickly.
“At the police garage in Newland. They’re also holding the driver and another man who was with him.”
The Hardys were driven to the airport in a patrol car. They found Jack Wayne sleeping soundly on a sofa in the operations room.
“Jack!” Frank said as he gently shook the pilot awake. “We’ve got to fly to Newland, New Hampshire, right away. Is there a field nearby?”
“New-Newland, New Hampshire,” Jack murmured as he rubbed his eyes wearily. “I’ll check my chart.”
He unfolded a map and examined it. There was a small airport located two miles north of the town.
“I’ll call the police in Newland and ask if they can have one of their men pick us up at the field,” Mr. Hardy said. “How long will it take to get there?”
Jack measured the distance and made a quick mental calculation. “Approximately two hours.”
They had a quick breakfast at the airport before taking off.
When they landed, a uniformed policeman was waiting for them. He led the Hardys to a patrol car and drove to Newland Police Headquarters.
There they were shown the flatbed truck. About a dozen huge logs were piled aboard it.
Frank stared for a moment, then picked up a large stone and walked toward the vehicle.
“What are you up to?” Joe asked.
“If my hunch is correct,” his brother replied, “you’ll see in a minute!”

CHAPTER XVI  
  An Unfortunate Scoop
FRANK began to hammer away at each of the logs in turn. Suddenly he struck one that gave off a slightly hollow sound. Then he found another, and another.
“They’re not solid!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy.
After close examination Frank gripped the end of one of the logs and began twisting it.
“Give me a hand!” he said to Joe.
Together, they worked on the log. Presently its butt started to turn like a threaded bottle cap. Soon it dropped free.
“Good grief!” Joe cried. “It is hollowl”
“Exactly.”
Mr. Hardy looked on in amazement as his sons reached inside the log and pulled out crowns, orbs, and several jeweled scepters. Labels on the items proved they were from the DeGraw collection.
“Now we know,” Frank said excitedly, “how the thieves transported their loot right under the very noses of the authorities.”
“Congratulations!” his father interjected. “Your hunch has solved one aspect of the case.”
Arrangements were made to place the truck and its cargo under strict guard. Then the Hardys asked to see the driver and his companion. The policeman who had picked them up at the airport led them into the interrogation room, and the prisoners were brought in.
The driver, who gave his name as Gaff Parkins, was a stocky, tough-looking man. The second man identified himself only as Miker. He was tall, lean, and the deep lines on his face emphasized his hard features. The men were asked if they wanted a lawyer, but both shook their heads.
“Why are we bein’ locked up in a cell?” Parkins demanded. “We don’t know anythin’ about bad license plates. We’re just a couple of hired hands.”
“Yeah!” Miker added. “Tell us what the fine is and we’ll get outta’ here.”
“You’re involved in more than just a motor-vehicle violation,” Mr. Hardy informed the prisoners.
“What do you mean?” snarled Parkins. “We ain’t done nothin’.”
“Except help to rob the State Museum!” Joe snapped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Miker declared. “We didn’t steal anything. Our job is to haul logs.”
“Filled with stolen loot?” Frank put in.
The prisoners glanced at each other with startled expressions.
“I knew there was more to this than we were told,” Miker addressed his companion nervously.
“Shut up!”
“I won’t!” Miker exclaimed in defiance. “This sounds like big trouble, and we’re caught in the middle. Before we get in any deeper, I’m for telling what we know.”
Parkins settled back in his chair and sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
“Understand,” Mr. Hardy told him, “you’re not being asked to give a confession. But if you help us, it’ll go in your favor.”
“Okay,” Miker agreed. “A little over a year ago Gaff and I tried to break into the freight-hauling business. Money was a problem, and the only thing we could afford was one flatbed truck.”
He went on to explain that recently they ran out of funds and were unable to renew their vehicle registration and to pay for other annual fees necessary to operate the truck.
“Then late yesterday afternoon we got a call from a stranger,” Miker continued. “He asked if we could pick up a pile of logs that had been shipped to Wilmington. The money he offered would’ve put us back in business for at least a year.”
“Didn’t that make you suspicious?” Frank questioned.
“I was too excited to think straight,” the man answered. “He offered to pay us half in advance. But then I remembered we couldn’t legally run the truck. I asked the stranger if he could wait a day or two so that I could clear up the matter. He said not to worry, he would give us a special set of Canadian license plates that would get us through.”
“I didn’t like the whole thing from the start,” Parkins put in. “But the guy said the job had to be done that night, or the deal was off.”
“Finally we decided to take a chance because the money was just too good to turn down,” Miker added. “So we picked up the logs at a dock in Wilmington.”
“Where were you supposed to deliver them?”
“To Stormwell, a port in Canada. But first we were to meet a van outside of Wilmington.”
The Hardys looked knowingly at one another. Frank asked what took place at the rendezvous.
“When the van arrived, some guy told us to take a walk and return in an hour,” said Miker. “We started out, then doubled back to see what was going on. We spotted those guys loading all sorts of junk into the logs. I was ready to call the deal off right then and there.”
“Why didn’t you?” Mr. Hardy inquired. “Since it looked crooked, you should have called the police.”
“I talked him out of it,” Parkins admitted. “I know hoods when I see them. Those guys would never let us quit!”
“And that’s all we know,” Miker insisted.
“Can you give us a description of any of the men you saw?”
“No,” Parkins replied. “It was too dark.”
The prisoners were led out of the room. Then the Hardys discussed the situation.
“I’ll call the police in Wilmington,” Mr. Hardy said. “I would like to find out how the logs got to the dock.” He put through a call and the police chief of Wilmington promised to track it down.
“The logs were to be taken to Stormwell,” Frank said. “That means one of the Parrot ships must be heading there for the pickup.”
“You can bet on it,” agreed his father. “And our first concern is to prevent information about this from leaking out. We don’t want to alert the thieves before the ship docks.”
The desk sergeant called out to the Hardys as they hurried from the interrogation room. “It looks as if you fellows are going to get your names in the newspaper today,” he announced with a grin.
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“Ed Watts, the police reporter for the Newland Record, was here about half an hour ago,” the sergeant replied. “He checked the police blotter as he usually does. Sure got excited when he learned that you had found the museum loot inside those logs. Didn’t even wait for an interview. You should have seen him dash off to make the morning edition with his scoop.” 
Mr. Hardy rushed to telephone the managing editor of the newspaper. He pleaded with the man not to print the story.
“Sorry,” the editor informed him, “but the presses are already rolling. Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good. The wire services have picked it up.”
The boys were crestfallen when their father told them the situation. He suggested they all return to Bayport and plan a new course of action.
The drivers were released in bail and drove away with their truck, but the logs were kept as evidence.
It was evening by the time the Hardys arrived home. Too exhausted to think clearly, they decided to retire immediately after supper, since Chet had agreed to stay on radio watch one more night.
Before they undressed, a telephone call from the Wilmington police advised that there had been no record of the log shipment. “It obviously was strictly illegal,” the officer reported.
Next day the boys rose early and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then joined their father who was already at work in his study.
“The morning edition of the Bayport News came a little while ago,” he said with a frown. “Take a look at the front page, third column.” 
Frank and Joe looked glum when they saw the headline:
 
HARDYS FIND MUSEUM LOOT IN HOLLOW LOGS
 
It read in part: “The Hardys did it again! Officials of the State Museum in Delaware were astounded to learn that the famous Bayport detectives had uncovered an invaluable collection recently stolen from the institution. The loot was cleverly hidden in hollow logs which were being hauled aboard a flatbed truck with Canadian license plates. Police are looking for a possible Canadian contact....”
“This ruins everything!” Joe declared angrily.
Mr. Hardy picked up the phone and placed a call to the Port Authority in Stormwell. He requested any recent information they might have concerning the Parrot ships. From the expression on their father’s face, the boys concluded that the news was not encouraging. 
“You’re in for another letdown.” Mr. Hardy sighed as he hung up the phone. “The Black Parrot was due to dock last night. So far there’s no sign of her.” 
“Someone must have radioed the captain,” Frank said, “and told him about our finding the loot.”
“He must be making a run for it,” Joe added. “And you can be sure Stormwell has seen the last of the Parrots.”
“If only we had more leads,” Mr. Hardy said. “The Stormwell authorities tried to find the location of the ship but to no avail. And where to look next is a problem, because the Black Parrot did not report its last position.” 
“Too bad Parkins and Miker couldn’t give us more information about the gang,” Joe muttered. He glanced at his brother. “I wonder where the thieves are now.”
“Scattered like geese in a hurricane, if they read the newspapers,” Frank said glumly.
“As I see it,” Mr. Hardy announced, “our only hope of ending this case quickly depends upon one thing.”
“What’s that, Dad?” Frank asked.
“That your friend Ellis contacts us.”

CHAPTER XVII  
  An Unexpected Visitor
“By this time,” Joe said dejectedly, “Ellis might not even be aboard the Yellow Parrot any more.” 
“Possibly,” Frank agreed. “He might have decided to escape from the ship. Or the captain could have found out that he had helped us and took him prisoner. But we’re just guessing. We have nothing to lose by sticking close to the radio.”
That afternoon Chet’s jalopy screeched to a halt in front of the Hardy house. The stout youth leaped from his car and jabbed at the doorbell excitedly.
“What’s going on?” Joe asked as he admitted his friend to the house. “You look as if you’ve just discovered the secret of perpetual motion.”
“Everybody brace themselves for the unexpected!” Chet declared. “I’ll be acclaimed by archaeologists in every corner of the globe!”
“You haven’t been digging again?” Joe questioned apprehensively.
“Well—er—yes,” his pal admitted with a certain aloofness. “But I made sure there weren’t any water mains around.”
The commotion brought Mr. Hardy and Frank to the scene. It was then that Chet pulled a small, weathered bowl from his pocket and displayed it proudly.
“Consider yourselves privileged to be among the first to set eyes upon this ancient artifact,” he announced. “Study its lines closely.”
“Where did you find it?” Frank asked, trying to suppress a grin.
“On the farm,” Chet replied.
“How old do you think it is?” Mr. Hardy queried.
“Probably dates back to the preglacial period,” Chet replied with a confident air. “A Carbon 14 test will determine its age more exactly.”
Aunt Gertrude appeared and stared at Chet’s discovery curiously. “Oh, I see you’ve found it,” she said finally.
“Found what?”
“My little sugar bowl,” Miss Hardy answered. “Don’t you remember? The boys borrowed it when they had a family picnic at your parents’ farm.”
“I remember now,” Joe said. “That must’ve been two or three years ago. You were awfully upset when we told you it had been lost.”
“Impossible!” Chet shouted indignantly.
Aunt Gertrude hurried away, then reappeared with a bowl in her hand a moment later. It was almost identical in size and shape to Chet’s. “You see, it was part of a set. Mercy! Imagine finding the bowl after all this time. But, of course, it’s too weathered and cracked to be of use to me now.”
Chet’s face turned a ruby red. “I—I don’t feel too well,” he stammered.
The Hardys howled with laughter. Chet dashed out of the house and sped off in his jalopy before the boys could stop him.
“Poor Chet,” Joe said with regret. “He took it pretty hard.”
“We’ll call him up later and apologize,” Frank suggested.
After supper the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy went to answer it and came back seconds later.
“Fenton, there’s a man to see you,” she said. “Gertrude doesn’t like his looks and is watching him from behind a drape.”
Mr. Hardy and the boys accompanied her to the door. Standing on the porch was a man of medium height and weight. He had removed his hat and was clutching it nervously.
“Mr. Hardy?” he quavered.
“That’s right.”
“You gotta help me. I’m in serious trouble.”
The Hardys led the caller to the study and offered him a chair.
“Now suppose you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in,” asked Mr. Hardy, “and how I can help you.”
“My name is Barney Egart,” the man started. He seemed reluctant to go on for a moment, but then continued. “I got myself into a terrible mess.”
“What mess?” Frank questioned.
“Going with those guys to the State Museum,” Egart replied. “You’ve got to believe me! It was my first job with the gang!”
His statement struck the Hardys like a thunder-bolt.
“You mean you were in on the robbery?” Joe exclaimed.
“Where’s the rest of the gang?” Frank wanted to know.
“On their way to Canada. After the stuff was loaded inside the logs, we split up. Orders were to meet in Stormwell for the payoff.”
“Go on,” Mr. Hardy said quietly.
Egart shifted in his chair nervously. “When I saw all the news about the robbery, I chickened out of the Stormwell meeting. So I decided to come here.”
“Why?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
“I don’t have any friends who can help me. No money. Nothing!” came the reply. “Your reputation is well known. You see that a guy gets a break. So when I read you were connected with the investigation, I decided to talk to you.”
“How did you get involved with the gang in the first place?” Joe asked.
“I was in Wilmington a few days ago looking for work,” Egart explained. “Things were pretty bleak. Then I ran into a guy I’d met in California once. Name is Starker.”
Frank turned to his father. “That’s the big fellow who was employed at the museum in Philadelphia as a gardener!”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Egart commented. “All I know is that the guy asked me if I wanted to make some easy money. Said his friends needed an extra man for a job coming up. I was too broke to turn it down.”
At Mr. Hardy’s request, Egart gave him a description of six other men who made up the gang. He said that since it was his first meeting with them, he knew nothing about their operations, or if they had a permanent hideout.
“Do you know anything about two ships named the Yellow Parrot and the Black Parrot?” Frank queried. 


  
They gazed at the message excitedly
The man appeared surprised by the question. “I overheard a couple of the guys talking about them,” he said. “They pick up the loot and make the payoffs. And I can tell you this. From what I’ve heard, the gang doesn’t know any more about the ships than I do. They’re hired to steal the stuff and deliver it, that’s all.”
“It’s a safe setup,” Frank said. “Whoever wants the DeGraw collection doesn’t risk getting caught at the scene.”
When the questioning was over, Mr. Hardy said, “I promise to do whatever I can for you. But the first thing is to turn yourself in.”
“You—you mean to the police?” Egart stammered.
“Yes. Otherwise there’s nothing I can do to help. Also, the fact that you surrendered on your own will be to your advantage.”
Reluctantly Egart agreed. The Hardys drove him to Bayport Police Headquarters, where he officially gave himself up. Chief Collig was off duty, but quickly appeared in response to a telephone call.
“I’ll get this out on the teletype right away,” the chief said when Mr. Hardy gave him Egart’s descriptions of the men.
When they returned home Frank elected to stand by the radio. He carefully tuned the receiver to the prearranged frequency, then settled back in his chair with a book.
It was almost midnight when a faint signal in Morse code crackled from the receiver. Frank sat bolt upright in his chair and copied down the dots and dashes. Deciphered, the message read: Ellis 0200 GMT tomorrow.
Frank rushed to awaken his father and Joe. They gazed at the message excitedly.
“It must mean that Ellis is going to contact us at oh-two-hundred hours Greenwich Meridian Time tomorrow,” Joe concluded. “That would be nine o’clock our time.”
The following day dragged on slowly for the boys. Then, as the appointed hour arrived, the Hardys crowded around the radio receiver. Soon they began to hear: dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dit ... 
Frank jotted down the message: Ellis need help. Urgent. Will transmit 200 KC 1700 CW to 2100 GMT daily. Should pick up at Cambrian. Must go.
“He’s in trouble!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XVIII  
  A Hidden Target
FRANK transmitted an immediate reply, but there was no response from Ellis.
“Maybe our equipment isn’t powerful enough to reach his receiver,” Joe said. “We don’t know how far away he is.”
Mr. Hardy studied the message. “Ellis will be transmitting on a frequency of two hundred kilocycles,” he observed. “But for what reason? And I’ve forgotten what the CW means.”
“Continuous
or Carrier Wave,” Frank explained. “It’s the modulation of these waves that make it possible to transmit.” 
“Quite right.”
“What it amounts to, Dad,” Joe put in, “is that Ellis will be transmitting a continuous signal on which we can take a directional bearing or home in with an aircraft radio compass.”
“And ‘Should pick up at Cambrian,’ ” Mr. Hardy concluded, “must mean that you can begin receiving the signal in the vicinity of that island.”
“Exactly,” agreed Frank.
“Then there’s no time to lose,” his father decided. “We must go there as soon as possible.”
“Shall we use your plane?” Joe asked.
“I’ve another idea,” Frank said. “Dan Tiller’s amphibian is better suited for an over-the-water search. We can offer to hire his services when we get to Cambrian. If he’s not available, there’ll be other amphibians for charter.”
“Good,” Mr. Hardy said. “Right now, I’d better telephone the airline and make reservations. By the way, ask Chet if he wants to come along. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I’ll get a seat for him too.”
“Great!” Frank said. “I’ll call him as soon as you’re finished.”
Chet was still a bit miffed at the way they had laughed about the sugar bowl. But his attitude quickly changed when he heard of the proposed trip to Cambrian Island.
“When do we leave?” he shouted excitedly.
“We’ll let you know just as soon as Dad has our reservations confirmed. It’ll be tomorrow morning some time.”
Soon the phone rang and the boys hurried to Mr. Hardy’s study. He was just putting down the phone. “Everything’s set,” he said. “We’ll depart tomorrow at eight A.M. from La Guardia. Jack can fly us there.”
The atmosphere at breakfast the next morning was charged with suspense. Although Mrs. Hardy did not share her family’s excitement regarding the trip, she gallantly took it in stride.
Aunt Gertrude, however, could not restrain herself. “Mark my words!” she exclaimed brusquely. “Don’t press your luck too far. Nothing good can come of this foolish trip!”
“Where’s your spirit, Aunty?” Frank teased.
“Humph!” was her only answer.
After urging the two women not to worry, Fenton Hardy and his sons drove off to pick up Chet at the Morton farm, then hastened to Bayport Airport. Jack Wayne was already waiting, and soon they were in the air, heading for New York.
“There will be a slight delay because of heavy air traffic,” Jack announced as they neared their destination.
Upon landing, the Hardys and Chet hurried to the terminal building. Their flight to Miami was being announced over the public-address system. They checked in their luggage and boarded the jet.
“I didn’t think we’d be seeing Cambrian again so soon,” Joe remarked as the aircraft lifted off the ground.
“Let’s hope we’ll find Tiller there,” Frank added.
In Miami, the four changed planes as scheduled and departed on the last leg of their journey.
It was midafternoon when the plane touched down on the runway at Cambrian. By telephone Mr. Hardy made arrangements for them to stay at a new hotel located near the airport.
“Dad,” Frank said, “Joe and I would like to go to the other side of the field to see if we can locate Tiller. We’ll meet you at the hotel later.”
“Certainly. Go ahead. Chet can stay with me and help with the luggage.”
The boys dashed out of the terminal building and headed toward the south side of the field. It was in that area that Tiller had parked his amphibian after they had returned from Tambio.
“There he is!” Joe yelled, pointing.
“Boy, am I glad we found him,” Frank said and called hello to the pilot.
Tiller was surprised to see the Hardys.
“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked with a wide grin. “I thought you were back in Bayport hunting criminals!”
“We were,” Joe replied.
“Have any trouble repairing the engine?” Frank inquired.
“None at all,” the pilot assured him. “Spare crankcases are one thing I’m not short of. It was just a matter of replacing it.”
“That’s great,” Joe put in, “because we’d like to hire your services.”
“I’m available. What is it you want me to do?”
The boys told him about Ellis’s message and of the possibility of using his signal to locate the Yellow Parrot.
“And you say he’ll be transmitting on CW between the hours of 1700 and 2100 Greenwich Time?” Tiller queried.
“Right,” Frank answered. “What’s the time zone difference here?”
“Cambrian is three hours earlier than Greenwich,” Tiller replied. “So that would make it two P.M. to six P.M. local time.” He glanced at his watch. “If your friend is keeping to his schedule, he should still be transmitting. Want to take a trial hop in my plane and see if we can pick up the signal?”
“Sure. That’s a good idea,” Frank said.
“I’ll go and give Dad a ring at the hotel,” Joe volunteered. “Be right back.”
Ten minutes later they were streaking down the runway on take-off in the amphibian.
Tiller climbed to five thousand feet, leveled off, then tuned his radio compass receiver to two hundred kilocycles. There was no response.
“If the ship’s a great distance away,” Frank remarked, “the signal will be very weak.”
Tiller increased power and eased the nose of the plane upwards. “I’ll climb to a higher altitude,” he said.
The amphibian was approaching ten thousand feet when the indicator needle on the radio compass began to flicker. A low, steady humming sound came from the speaker of the receiver.
“We’re getting something!” Joe exclaimed.
“It must be the signal from the Yellow Parrot,” Frank said. 
The pilot watched the instrument. “The needle is reacting sluggishly,” he observed. “The ship’s quite a distance away. But we can determine the direction.”
“Have any idea about how far?” asked Joe.
“No. But I’ll fly a time-distance problem. It will only give us a rough estimate. However, that’s better than nothing.” 
As Tiller began the maneuver, he explained that the procedure involved flying in a direction which would be exactly at right angles to that of the ship. “The heading is then maintained until the radio compass shows at least a 10-degree change in relative bearing,” he said. 
The boys listened eagerly as Tiller went on, “This change in bearing, together with the time flown in order to obtain it, is used in a very simple mathematical formula to get the distance to the source of the signal, or in this case, the Yellow Parrot.”
Several minutes passed. Then the pilot jotted down some figures.
“According to my calculation,” he announced finally, “the ship is from three hundred and fifty to four hundred miles away.”
Joe let out a low whistle. “Does your plane have enough fuel to make it there and back?” he queried.
“Barely,” Tiller replied. “But I have a long-range tank I can install in the cabin. It’ll give us plenty of reserve.”
“There’s one snag,” Joe interjected. “Won’t the tank cut down the number of passengers you can carry?”
“Yes,” the pilot agreed. “I’ll be limited to two.”
“Dad and Chet won’t be happy to hear that,” Frank muttered.
Tiller returned to the airport. After parking his airplane, he asked, “When do you want to make this flight?”
“Tomorrow, if possible,” Frank said. “But I want to be sure you realize the danger. The crewmen aboard the Yellow Parrot are rough customers. If we should run into trouble and get caught—” 
“Don’t worry about me,” Tiller interrupted.
The boys rejoined their father and Chet at the hotel and told them about their flight.
“And you say the long-range tank will permit only two passengers,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ve a feeling you’ll suggest that Chet and I go and you two stay behind.” He winked at Frank.
Chet let out a whoop and patted Mr. Hardy on the back.
“Well, not exactly,” Joe said.
“We know the Yellow Parrot,” Frank explained. “It’s better that we go.” 
Chet sat down, looking disappointed.
“If you locate the ship, you must promise to be careful,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “Don’t try boarding the freighter. Get what information Ellis has and return here as soon as possible.”
“We will,” Joe promised.
It was late the following morning when Tiller telephoned the boys to tell them that he had just finished installing the long-range tank.
“That’s great,” Frank said. “Let’s plan to take off a few minutes before Ellis is scheduled to begin sending his signal.”
“Okay.”
Mr. Hardy and Chet accompanied Frank and Joe to the airport. As departure time neared, Tiller started the engines and his two passengers climbed aboard the plane.
“Good luck!” Mr. Hardy shouted above the noise of the propellers. “And remember what I told you!”
His sons waved from side window as Tiller taxied toward the active runway.
Soon the amphibian was climbing out to sea. Then it turned on a southerly heading.
“It’s exactly two o’clock,” Joe announced, glancing at his watch. “Ellis should be transmitting.”
The pilot switched on his radio compass receiver and tuned to the proper frequency. A low, humming sound crackled from the speaker. Gradually the needle of the instrument started to seek out the source of the signal.
“A course of 165 degrees should take us in the right direction for the moment,” Tiller said. “The indication will become more accurate as we get closer to the ship.”
Three hours went by. The boys watched the radio compass as it grew more and more sensitive to Ellis’s signal.
“I’m going to work another time-distance problem,” the pilot declared. 
He swung the plane onto a new heading, and within a few minutes, completed his calculation. “We’ve got about eighty miles to go,” he concluded.
The boys tingled with excitement. Less than half an hour had gone by when Frank pointed directly ahead.
“Cumulus clouds!” he exclaimed. “That could mean an island or a group of islands.”
“Right,” Tiller agreed. “And according to our radio compass, we’re headed toward them.”
As they continued, small rocky islets began to slide beneath them. Ahead, a mass of somewhat larger islands came into view.
“We’re getting a strong signal,” the pilot said. “We must be very near the ship.”
“Stay on your present course and keep going,” Frank said. “If the crew spots our plane, we don’t want them to know we’re searching for the Yellow Parrot.”
An instant later the needle of the radio compass whirled around and pointed toward the tail of the aircraft.
“We’ve just passed over the ship!” Tiller shouted.
The boys quickly scanned the islands below. They saw no sign of the freighter, but noticed an odd-shaped island with a narrow inlet that was heavily covered with vegetation.
“I’ve a hunch the Yellow Parrot is hidden down there,” Joe said. 
“So do I,” Frank agreed. “Let’s land and take a look.”
Tiller continued on his original course for a few more minutes, then descended to within a few feet of the water and turned back toward the islands.
“We’ll stay down low to avoid being spotted,” he told them. “Then I’ll land about a mile out and taxi the rest of the way.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “The island we want is in the center of the group. After dark, Joe and I will use your rubber raft and paddle to the inlet we saw.”
After a smooth water landing, Tiller and the boys settled down to await sunset.
Tiller reached behind his seat. “Here’s some chow I brought,” he said. “And over there are cans of soda.”
“Am I glad you thought of food,” Joe replied with a chuckle. “This flight sure stimulated my appetite!”
After they had eaten, they talked until it was dark. Then the pilot inflated the raft and eased it over the side.
“Lots of luck,” he said in a hushed voice as Frank and Joe started toward their objective.
The next hour was spent weaving in and out of a series of small islands. Finally the Hardys had the inlet in sight. They could make out the vague image of a ship anchored beneath a camouflage net covered with vegetation.
“It’s the Yellow Parrot!” Joe said excitedly. 
“Let’s paddle closer,” Frank whispered. “But we’d better stay near the shore for cover.”
They came within a hundred yards of the ship and Frank’s right hand, gripping the paddle, dipped deep into the water. Their eyes were strained at the figures moving about the deck.
“We can’t make a sound,” Frank whispered. “Feather your paddle in the water, Joe, don’t lift it out!”
“Roger. I see they have guards posted near the rail.”
Just then a sharp whack hit the side of the raft. There was a swishing sound in the water, and something grabbed Frank’s paddle just below his fingers.
“A shark!” he cried out. He had hardly uttered the warning when a huge dorsal fin knifed under the bottom of the raft, half-lifting it out of the water. The boys tried to hang on, but were hurled over the lip and into the briny sea.
Silence was now out of the question. Frank and Joe knew that they must kick, scream, and flail their arms in an effort to scare the shark away.
“Swim for it!” Joe shrieked.
The shark made another pass, brushing past him with a tail slap which made Joe feel as if the end of the world had come.
The Hardys were too terror-stricken to notice what was going on at the ship’s deck. The noise had alerted the crew. Bright beams of light pierced the darkness and swept toward the raft.
“Do you hear something?” yelled a crewman aboard the freighter.
“Someone’s out there!” shouted another. “And a shark’s after him!”
“Get a rifle!” came a third voice.
As Frank and Joe struggled frantically to reach the shore, a shot whizzed past Frank and hit the shark with a thud.
Joe, who was behind his brother, saw the monster roll belly up and stain the sea with red, in the glare of the spotlight.
An instant later the boys reached a patch of sandy beach. They scrambled ashore and glanced around for a place to hide.
“Head for cover!” Frank whispered, pointing to a clump of rocks nearby.
Before they could make a run for it, a group of bronze-skinned natives seemed to appear from nowhere. They quickly surrounded the youths. There was no escape!

CHAPTER XIX  
  The Pirate King
THE Hardys were seized and marched off. The group walked along the beach for a short distance, then turned onto a trail leading inland.
“Where are you taking us?” Joe demanded.
The natives did not speak. Instead, they gestured to the boys to keep moving.
After traveling about a mile, they came to a village tucked in a valley ahead. The community was comprised of small stone buildings, boxlike in shape. Coconut palms dotted the area.
In the center of the village was a medieval-looking structure. The boys were led toward it.
“Look!” Joe exclaimed in disbelief.
Two guards flanked a set of heavy wooden, arch-shaped doors with massive iron hinges. They wore conquistador-type helmets and breastplates, which bore the bright-red symbol of the twisted claw!
At a signal from one of the natives, the guards pushed open the doors and ordered the prisoners inside.
The interior of the building was magnificent. The walls soared upwards and met in a series of gentle arches. These, combined with towering columns and polished stone floors, gave the area a palatial appearance.
“Amazing!” Joe whispered.
“I could do without it!” Frank muttered.
They were marched toward another set of wooden doors flanked by helmeted guards. On the wall above were carved the letters ETC.
“Empire of the Twisted Claw!” Frank muttered, recalling the rare volume they had seen in the New York bookstore.
The doors were pushed open to reveal a large room which looked much like a medieval banquet hall. Seated on the far side on a throne was a man wearing a fur-collared red robe. His aquiline nose jutted out from between a set of dark, glacial eyes. Standing to his right was Rawlin, first mate of the Yellow Parrot!
The man rose and stared at the boys menacingly. “What have we here?” he shouted. “Prisoners?”
Rawlin gazed at Frank and Joe as if he were seeing ghosts. “I know those kids!” he yelled. “They’re the Hardy boys!”
“Sons of Fenton Hardy the detective?” asked the man in the robe.
“Yeah!” Rawlin answered. “They sailed aboard our ship once. I didn’t know who they were at the time. Then we got the message from the Black Parrot saying that the loot from the State Museum heist had been found by the Hardys.” 
“Tell me more!” the man in the robe said in an ice-cold voice.
“Well, I put two and two together. I asked for their descriptions and, sure enough, it checked with the kids who jumped ship at Tambio.”
“News travels fast, doesn’t it!” snapped Joe.
The red-robed man seated himself again in chilly composure. “I am Cartoll, king of this island,” he announced. “I demand to know how you got here!”
“You don’t really expect us to tell you!” Frank shot back.
“We were sightseeing,” Joe wisecracked. “It’s a nice island.”
Rawlin fumed. “Let me take care of these guys!”
“Calm yourself,” Cartoll ordered with a smirk. “I admire audacity. However, I’ve no time to question them now.” He clapped his hands.
Two guards responded. “Take the prisoners to the east tower room!” Cartoll commanded.
“I still think we oughta find out how they got here first!” Rawlin protested. “There might be others!”
“It’s obvious they came by boat or plane,” Cartoll concluded. “Have your men conduct a search of the area as soon as it is light.”
“If only there was some way to warn Tiller,” Frank thought frantically as he and his brother were led away by the guards.
The east tower room was situated at the top of a long, winding stone stairway. One of the guards unlocked the door and ordered the boys inside. The other one brought some bread and a jug of water, then the door was shut behind them.
When their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they were startled to see an elderly man with shaggy gray hair and a beard seated at a wooden table.
“Are you prisoners of Cartoll too?” he asked in a weak voice. “I have not seen you before.”
“Yes,” Frank replied glumly. “And who are you?”
“Leroy Ellis.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other in surprise, then Frank introduced himself and his brother. “Any relation to Clay Ellis?” he added.
“He’s my son. You know him?”
“We’ve met him not long ago. Why are you a prisoner?”
“Because I refuse to help Cartoll with his crazy schemes. And I’m being used as a hostage so my son won’t go to the authorities.”
“So that’s why Clay wouldn’t tell us anything,” Joe said, munching on a piece of bread.
“Perhaps you can tell us what’s going on around here,” Frank said. “Who is this Cartoll?”
The old man explained that Cartoll was the great-great-great grandson of a notorious eighteenth-century pirate who had established a kingdom on the island.
“We read about him and his Empire of the Twisted Claw in an old book,” Joe interrupted.
“If you’re familiar with that part of the story,” Ellis said, “I’ll bring you up to date.”
He explained that he came upon the island more than a year before while sailing his ketch around the Caribbean. He was accompanied by his son, who was on vacation from his job as radioman for a reputable shipping firm. They were impressed with the old buildings of the village and the friendliness of the natives.
During their stay, Cartoll arrived on the island and declared himself heir to his ancestor’s kingdom. He forced the natives to be his subjects and revived the Empire of the Twisted Claw.
“He’s mad and must be stopped!” Ellis insisted.
“What about the Parrot ships?” asked Frank. 
The old man scowled. “Cartoll owns the ships and uses them for smuggling purposes. It’s that scoundrel’s way of financing his so-called royal enterprises.”
Frank went on, “Do you know why he’s so determined to get his hands on the DeGraw collec tion?”
“It’s another of his crazy quirks,” Ellis replied. “The items in that collection were owned by the original pirate king. They were being brought here to the island by a galleon when a sudden storm came up and sank the ship.”
“And now Cartoll thinks the stuff belongs to him by reason of inheritance?” Joe queried.
The old man nodded. “Of course the idea is absurd. But such things are meaningless to a person of his mentality.”
After their talk, the Hardys’ thoughts turned to the possibility of escape.
“Your chances are slim,” Ellis warned. “There are too many guards inside the palace.”
Joe pointed to the only window in the room. It was a small, lancet-shaped opening covered with metal bars. “Maybe we can get out through there,” he suggested.
Ellis smiled. “I had the same idea once.” He reached inside his sleeve and pulled out a pointed piece of metal about the size of a pencil. “I began using this to dig away the stone around two of the bars. After that, I could stick my head through and realized escape was hopeless. There’s a forty-foot drop to the ground.”
The boys examined the window and saw where Ellis had scraped away the stone at the base of the bars. He had cleverly filled the depressions with loose dirt to prevent his work from being discovered.
Joe pushed away the bars and gazed down. “It is quite a drop,” he said.
“I have an idea,” Frank put in. “We’ll tie our jackets and belts together to form a line. It won’t reach all the way to the ground, but at least it’ll lessen the height.”
“I have a blanket you can use,” Ellis added.
The boys quickly knotted the articles together. Then Frank estimated its length. This will take us within fifteen feet of the ground.”
“A cinch,” Joe commented with a grin.
Frank glanced at his watch. “It’ll be daylight within a couple of hours. We’ll have to work fast.”
Frantically the Hardys dug away the stone until the lower ends of two more bars were exposed. Then they pushed and pulled with all their strength until the upper ends loosened and tore free.
“All set?” Joe asked as he secured the line to one of the remaining bars.
“I—I’d like to go with you,” Ellis said shakily. “But I don’t know if I can make it.”
“We’re not leaving you behind,” Frank said firmly. “You can do it. My brother and I will go first. We’ll be waiting to help break your fall.”
The Hardys slid down their makeshift line, then dropped the remaining distance to the ground.
Next, Mr. Ellis emerged from the window above. He gripped the line and started to descend.
But at the halfway point he came to a halt. The man obviously was frightened.
“Don’t stop now,” Frank muttered anxiously.
There was a short pause. Then Ellis continued and finally made a soft landing with the boys’ help.
“Now what?” Joe asked in a hushed voice.
“Let’s head back to where the Yellow Parrot is anchored,” Frank urged. “Somehow we’ve got to get hold of a raft or a boat and warn Dan Tiller.” 
Dawn was breaking as the trio dashed out of the village and along the rugged trail leading to the beach.
Upon reaching their destination, they were stunned by what they saw. Tied to a mooring close to the Yellow Parrot was Tiller’s amphibian! 
“Dan’s been captured!” Joe exclaimed.
Frank was too shocked to speak. He stared at the plane, realizing that their only means of escape had fallen into the hands of Cartoll!

CHAPTER XX  
  Island Rescue
AT the sound of men approaching from behind, the boys and Mr. Ellis quickly hid in some brush.
“I don’t like what you’re planning to do,” came Rawlin’s voice. “It’s too risky.”
“Your opinion couldn’t interest me less,” a second man replied.
“That’s Cartoll!” Joe whispered.
“But you already have most of the DeGraw collection,” Rawlin went on. “And the gang you hired has been arrested. Why take chances?”
“You don’t understand,” Cartoll countered. “That portion of the collection at the Norwood Museum in Connecticut is of special interest to me. The armor was made for my ancestor’s exclusive use. I must have it.”
“So you’re bent on stealing the stuff yourself,” Rawlin said in disgust.
“Not exactly. You and some of the crew are going to help me. And thanks to the Hardys, we have a plane at our disposal. We’ll be there in no time!”
The men walked by the hidden trio. They halted when they reached the beach. The Hardys could still overhear their conversation.
“But I’ve never done anything like that before,” Rawlin protested.
“There’s always a first time,” Cartoll said sarcastically. “Don’t worry,” he added. “With the gang captured, the museum will surely be off its guard. We won’t have any trouble.”
Rawlin shouted to a crewman on the deck of the Yellow Parrot and ordered him to bring a dinghy ashore. Soon the men were being rowed out to the ship. 
Frank’s and Joe’s pulses quickened as they waited and watched. Suddenly Tiller appeared on the deck. He was being pushed along by two hefty crewmen. They ordered him over the side and into another dinghy. Then they took him to his amphibian.
“Tiller’s removing the long-range tank,” Joe observed after a while.
“Right. He’s making room for Cartoll and his cohorts,” Frank added. “But he still has enough reserve in his main tanks to reach Cambrian and refuel before going on.”
“Maybe he’ll try to make a break for it there,” Joe said.
“I doubt that your friend will get a chance to escape,” Mr. Ellis warned. “Cartoll is clever. He’ll be watching like a hawk!”
More than two hours had passed when the Hardys saw Cartoll, Rawlin, and three other men leave the ship and board the plane. Then Tiller started the engines and taxied out to clear water. He applied take-off power and the craft left a churning wake behind as it sped along. Soon it rose off the water and disappeared to the north.
Frank sighed. “We’re in bad shape! Tiller and his plane might never come back here, and even if Cartoll brought him back, how could we contact him?”
“Might as well resign ourselves to being hermits from now on,” Joe quipped in dark humor.
Mr. Ellis turned to the boys. “I’ve got an idea,” he said slowly. “There’s a good chance it might work.”
“What’s that?” Frank inquired.
“I have earned the respect of many of the natives, including the village leader. Their fear of Cartoll prevented them from getting together and ousting the tyrant. Now that he’s away, maybe I can talk them into action!”
“If only you could!” Joe said excitedly.
“It’s awfully chancy,” Frank warned.
“But it’s our only alternative. I’m going back to the village,” Ellis declared. “At least it’s worth a try.”
“We’ll go with you,” Frank said.
“No, it’s better I go alone,” the man insisted. “You fellows keep an eye on the Yellow Parrot. Maybe you’ll spot my son.” He scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the trail. 
The Hardys grew more impatient as the hours dragged by. All was quiet aboard the ship. Sunset was less than an hour away when the boys heard sounds of commotion from the direction of the village. They sprang to their feet just as two guards in shiny breastplates came running down the trail. The young detectives flung themselves at the men and caught them above the knees. Their opponents somersaulted into the air and crashed to the ground.
A split second later two more guards appeared. The boys attacked. Locked in a struggle, they and the men tumbled down the trail and onto the sandy beach. A crowd of natives arrived and seized the guards.
“It worked!” Mr. Ellis shouted joyfully as he pushed his way through the group. “We’ve got the scoundrels on the run!”
“Look!” Joe yelled to his brother as he pointed toward the Yellow Parrot.
Frank turned to see the ship getting underway.
“My son is still aboard!” the old man cried out.
A minute later an amphibian, much larger than Tiller’s, roared low overhead. It turned and landed on the water nearby.
As the plane taxied toward the beach, its aft cabin door sprang open. The boys were startled to see their father’s head appear. “Hello, sons!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
“Starved, but okay otherwise,” Frank called back.
A rubber raft tossed over the side. Mr. Hardy climbed into it. Then Chet emerged and joined him. Together they paddled ashore.
“Are we glad to see you!” Joe declared with relief. “But how did you know we were in trouble?”
“I have an excellent view of the airport from my hotel room in Cambrian,” the detective explained, “and happened to spot Tiller’s amphibian come in for a landing. Naturally, I thought you had returned. When Chet and I went to the field, we were startled to see the plane taking off again. I knew something was wrong.”
The detective said that he then contacted air-sea rescue and an aircraft was made available for an immediate search.
“Luckily,” Mr. Hardy added, “Ellis hadn’t stopped sending his signal.”
“Looks as if you’ve had a bit of excitement around here,” Chet observed. He stared at the captured guards. “Who are these characters in the tin coats?”
Frank and Joe told him about their recent adventure. Then they introduced Mr. Ellis
“We owe a lot to you and your son,” Mr. Hardy told the gray-haired man.
“Thank you,” Mr. Ellis replied. “But Clay is still aboard the ship. What can we do?”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m going to request an international alert. The Parrots will be seized wherever they try to put into port. Your son will be all right.” 
Darkness was approaching rapidly. Frank glanced at his watch. “We still have Cartoll to deal with,” he interjected. “He and his men have several hours head start on us. We’ll have to move fast!”
Mr. Ellis joined the Hardys on the flight back to Cambrian. While en route, the pilot contacted Miami on his high-frequency transmitter at Mr. Hardy’s request. He asked that a message, warning about the intended robbery, be relayed to the authorities in Norwood. A full description of the thieves was included.
Upon arriving at their destination, Mr. Hardy and his party quickly gathered their luggage. After saying good-by to Mr. Ellis, they boarded the last shuttle flight of the evening to Miami.
“I’ve never traveled so many miles in so short a time before,” Chet remarked wearily as the plane approached the Florida city.
In Miami, Mr. Hardy telephoned Jack Wayne and instructed him to meet them at La Guardia. Then he and the boys boarded a jetliner and were soon speeding northward.
The flight to New York was smooth and fast. Jack was waiting when they arrived and flew them directly to Norwood. There a patrol car was standing by to take Mr. Hardy and the boys to the museum.
“We caught all but one of the thieves,” the policeman announced as they drove, “thanks to the information you sent us.”
“Which one of them got away?” Frank asked quickly.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the chief,” the officer replied. “They were real amateurs. Broke open a door at the rear of the museum and set off an alarm hooked up to headquarters.”
“The gang forced a pilot by the name of Tiller to fly them here,” Joe said anxiously. “Any news from him?”
“He landed his plane on the lake near here. Later a state trooper happened to spot it anchored close to shore. He investigated and found the pilot tied and gagged in the cabin. The fellow’s okay and is at headquarters.”
When they arrived at the museum, several patrol cars and a police van were parked at the curb. Inside the van were Rawlin and the three crewmen. Cartoll was missing!
“Where’s your boss?” Joe demanded.
“I don’t know,” Rawlin snarled. “And don’t ask me any more questions because I’m not talking.”
Frank rubbed his chin dubiously. “Cartoll couldn’t have vanished into thin air!” He turned to the police chief. “Mind if we go inside the building and have a look around?”
“Go ahead,” the officer answered. “But I doubt that you’ll find anything.”
Joe and Frank entered the museum and hurried to the exhibit room where the DeGraw collection was displayed.
The room was dark. Frank found the switch and turned on the lights. The boys looked around. Everything was intact. On the far side of the room, armor engraved with the symbol of the twisted claw stood on a pedestal.
As they turned to leave, Joe suddenly grabbed his brother’s arm. “Hold on!” he whispered. “I might be seeing things, but I’m sure that figure on the pedestal moved!”
Cautiously they walked toward the spot. Frank stepped forward and lifted the visor.
A face stared at him. Cartoll! With a curse, the man sprang at the youths. A violent struggle followed. Joe screamed for help. The noise brought Mr. Hardy and several policemen to the scene. 
“What’s going on here?” one of the officers demanded.
The boys hauled the metal-clad man to his feet. “Meet Cartoll!” Joe declared.
Frank pulled the helmet from their captive’s head. “Clever way to avoid being captured. And he almost got away with it.”
Cartoll was furious. “You’ll regret having meddled in my affairs!” he shouted. “Too bad Starker didn’t succeed in squashing you like an ant in the Philadelphia museum.”
“That’s another charge against you,” Joe said. “Attempted murder.”
As the police marched the prisoner away, Mr. Hardy held up a box-shaped object. At one end was what appeared to be a photographic lens.
“What’s that?” Frank inquired.
“It’s the secret as to how the museum thieves avoided setting off the photoelectric alarm systems during some of their robberies,” his father replied. “Rawlin and his cohorts were carrying a supply of these when the police caught them.”
“How does the gadget work?” asked Joe.
“You know that the alarm system operates by aiming a beam of light at a photoelectric cell,” Mr. Hardy began. “The cell and light source are on opposite sides of the room. As long as the beam is not interrupted by someone walking through it, nothing happens. But if the beam is broken, off goes the alarm.”
Joe nodded. “I get it,” he said. “That box you’re holding is a device which produces a beam of light. If aimed at the photoelectric cell, it simply replaces the original light source across the room.”
“Exactly,” his father said. “Then the thieves were free to move around the area without setting off the alarm.”
“Simple,” Frank muttered. “But not all the museums had this type of system!”
“True, but one of the gang’s members was an expert in alarm technology. They tackled each one according to how it was set up.
“Once that problem was solved,” Mr. Hardy continued, “the rest was comparatively easy. Some of their hirelings got jobs at the museums they planned to rob. They punctured the gas masks, making sure the knockout fumes would be effective.”
“Like Starker, who worked as a gardener,” Joe interjected.
“Right. In other cases they threatened the guards to let them in. They used a different approach each time, and that’s what made the case so hard to crack.”
“There’s one more thing that bothers me,” Frank said. “What caused that shell hole in the Yellow Parrot?”
Mr. Hardy grinned. “I found that out, too. She was shot at by a Central American smuggler patrol boat one night, but got away without being identified.”
At that moment Chet wandered into the museum. He had been dozing in th squad car and was rubbing his eyes. “Find any clues?” he asked with a yawn.
“A few,” Frank quipped. “You’re a little bit late.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? I was supposed to help you with this case.
Mr. Hardy smiled. “We’re all pretty tired. Let’s head for home. The mystery is ended.”
The boys nodded. Frank and Joe had no idea at that time that a new mystery would soon take up all their time, namely The Disappearing Floor.
It was morning when they arrived in Bayport. Mr. Morton greeted them when they dropped off Chet at the farm.
“I’m glad to see my son’s back,” he said. “I’ve lots of work for him.”
“But I need a chance to recuperate!” Chet protested.
“Okay,” his father replied. “I’ll give you till tomorrow. Then you’d better start turning over a patch of crabgrass on the front lawn.”
“That should be right down your alley, Chet.” Joe laughed. “You might be lucky and discover another sugar bowl!”
Hardy Boys 19: The Disappearing Floor
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
  Weird Screams
“HEY, Frank! Isn’t that the black car Dad told us to watch for?” exclaimed Joe Hardy.
A sleek foreign sports car with a dented trunk had just whizzed past the Hardy boys’ convertible as they drove through the downtown section of Bayport.
“Sure looks like it!” Frank speeded up in pursuit.
Dark-haired Frank Hardy, eighteen, and his blond brother Joe, a year younger, had been cruising the streets on an errand for their detective father. The August evening was warm, and the boys had put down the top of their convertible.
A few blocks farther, the sports car stopped for a red light. The Hardys pulled up behind the trim vehicle. In the glow of a nearby street light they were able to scrutinize the automobile more closely.
“That must be the right car,” Frank muttered. “It’s not likely there would be two of the same model in Bayport with dented trunks.”
The lone occupant of the sports car was the man at the wheel. He wore a dark hat. Frank and Joe could see only the back of his head.
“Did Dad give you any details on the case when he phoned?” Joe asked, as the sports car spurted forward on the green signal.
Frank toed the accelerator and shook his head. “No, he didn’t have time—it was just a hurried call from New York.” Mr. Hardy had said that before leaving Bayport he had spotted a car like the one the boys had just seen. He thought he had recognized the driver as a notorious jewel thief named Noel Strang, and had told his sons to look up the criminal’s photograph in Mr. Hardy’s private criminal file.
The boys’ father formerly was an ace detective in the New York Police Department. He had moved to the town of Bayport to open his own agency and soon had become known as the ablest private investigator in the country. Frank and Joe had inherited Fenton Hardy’s detective abilities and often helped him on his cases.
The boys drove on, staying behind the sports car which now sped into a residential area. The streets here were less well lighted, but the boys were able to keep their quarry in view without tailing it too closely.
“Looks as though he’s heading out of town,” Joe remarked.
“Did you get the license number?”
“Yes. I jotted it down at the traffic light.”
In a few moments the black sports car shot out of the Bayport area. Soon it disappeared from view around a bend in the road. Frank switched off his headlights, hoping to make the convertible less noticeable. But the driver of the other car seemed wary of pursuit. As the convertible rounded the bend, its driver increased his speed. The distance between the cars was widening.
“He must have spotted us!” Joe said.
“He’s sure opening her up,” Frank agreed. “That baby looks powerful! Good thing we tuned up this engine last week.”
The convertible’s speedometer needle rose as Frank gunned the engine. Slowly the gap began to close. They were approaching another bend in the road. Suddenly the sports car’s exhaust belched out a thick purplish mass.
“It’s a smoke screen!” Joe cried out. “He’s using a fogger attached to the exhaust pipe!” A split second later the boys’ eyes began to smart and water.
“Good night!” Frank exclaimed.
Hastily he switched on their headlights again, but the beams could not pierce the thick pall of acrid smoke that enveloped the road. The convertible was almost at the sharp bend!
Frank slammed on the brakes. Half blinded, he could only guess at the location of the white line. He spun the steering wheel and the car slewed wildly across the pavement. With a jarring thud it finally came to rest on the far shoulder of the road.
“Jumpin’ jiminy!” Joe sat quivering with shock, trying to steady his nerves.
Frank, also shaken, drew a long breath. “Good thing there was no car coming the other way or we’d be junk by now!”
“Can we risk getting back on the road?”
“We’d better not,” Frank decided. “I can’t see a foot away from us. If there’s any traffic coming, we’d be asking for a crash.”
Joe agreed and added, “Let’s make sure we’re clear of the pavement.”
Clutching handkerchiefs over their noses and their tear-streaming eyes, the boys climbed out. In the smoke and darkness, it was impossible to determine their exact position, but Frank checked with his foot and found that they were well off the pavement. The convertible had landed against a hillside bordering the road.
Frank and Joe chafed at the delay, but there was nothing to do except wait for the smoke to clear. Meanwhile, they clambered up the hillside, coughing and choking, to reach clear air.
“Did you notice the smoke’s color?” Joe gasped. “That was no ordinary smoke screen!”


  
“It’s a smoke screen!” Joe cried out
“Right. Sort of a combination of smoke and tear gas.”
After a few minutes the murk had dissipated enough for the boys to return to their car and swing back onto the road.
“Not much chance of finding that man now,” Joe said glumly.
“Let’s keep our eyes open, anyhow. There are houses along here and a few turnoffs. We might spot the car parked somewhere.”
The Hardys followed the road for several miles but did not see the sports car. Disappointed that they had lost their quarry, Frank and Joe turned around and headed for Bayport.
Halfway back to town, they saw a flashlight being waved frantically from the roadside. “Wonder if there’s been an accident,” Frank said.
“I don’t see any car,” Joe replied. “Must be a hitchhiker.”
Frank slowed to check. The person who was signaling immediately jumped into the glare of their headlights. He was a chunky, round-faced youth about their own age.
“Chet Morton!” Joe exclaimed in surprise.
The stout boy looked excited as he flagged them down. Frank braked to a halt and Joe flung open the car door. “What’s wrong, Chet?”
“Joe! Frank! Boy, what a lucky break you two happened along!” Chet was puffing and trembling and looked pale. He was wearing hiking shorts and had a knapsack slung over his shoulders.
“Just see a ghost?” Frank asked as their friend climbed into the back seat.
“I d-d-didn’t see a ghost—but I sure heard one! ”Chet replied. 
Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you mean, you ‘heard’ a ghost?” Frank asked.
“Just what I said. It screamed at me.” Chet shuddered. “O-oh, it was horrible!”
“Are you kidding?” Joe put in.
“Do I look as if I’m kidding?”
“No,” Frank said. “You look as if you’d been scared out of your wits. How about telling us the whole story?”
Chet explained that he had been on a rock-collecting hike. Late in the afternoon he had stopped to eat a picnic snack and then had dozed off.
“Snack my eye!” Joe chuckled. “You probably stuffed yourself so full you couldn’t move, and dreamed about this ghost.”
“All right, all right,” Chet retorted indignantly. “So I like to eat. Do you want to hear my story or don’t you?”
“Go ahead,” Frank urged.
“Well, I slept longer than I expected to,” Chet went on. “When I woke up, it was dark. I was somewhere over in the hills west of here. I had trouble finding my flashlight. Then I saw a funny-looking tiled surface.”
“Tiled surface?” Joe repeated. “What do you mean by that?”
Chet shrugged. “I don’t know what else to call it. It was flat—like a floor, about ten feet square—and inlaid with little colored tiles. But the funny thing is, there was nothing else around except trees and shrubs.”
The colored tiles, Chet added, formed a curious design resembling a dragon.
“I went over to get a closer look at it,” Chet continued, “and wow! Out of nowhere came a horrible bloodcurdling shriek!”
“So you scrammed, I suppose,” Frank said, grinning.
“You bet I did! The voice shrieked after me, but I didn’t catch what it said.” Chet’s eyes bulged with fright at the recollection. “I kept running till I hit a dirt lane, and followed that out to this road. I was hiking home, then you guys came along.”
“How about taking us back there?” Joe said.
“You think I’m nuts? Honest, if that wasn’t a spook, it must have been some bloodthirsty lunatic!”
“Oh, come on!” Frank urged. “Maybe it was just someone playing a trick on you. Let’s find out.”
Chet was unwilling, but finally gave in. He directed Frank to a dirt lane turnoff which the Hardys had passed about fifty yards back. Frank drove slowly along the lane until Chet said, “Right here! I remember that big oak tree!”
Frank stopped the convertible. The boys took flashlights and climbed out. They went up a slope which gradually flattened. The area was wooded with hemlock and cypress trees, and the ground between them was overgrown with weeds and brush.
“There’s Chefs trail,” Joe said, shining his flashlight on some trampled grass. “It leads over that w—”
A hideous scream split the darkness! Then came a weaker scream, followed by a hoarse, croaking voice. “Th-th-the floor!” It sounded like the gasp of a dying man! 
Chet froze in terror, but Frank and Joe immediately ran toward the sound, playing their beams back and forth amid the undergrowth.
“Over here, Joe!” Frank exclaimed suddenly.
Joe ran to his brother’s side and saw a man lying face down on the ground. Frank turned him over gently. The man was big and balding, with thin, sandy-colored hair. His face looked deathly pale. Frank tried his pulse as Chet came lumbering up.
“Is he d-d-dead?” Chet stammered.
“No, but his pulse is weak,” Frank murmured. “His skin feels clammy, too. Looks as if he’s suffering from shock.”
The Hardys could detect no signs of injury or broken bones.
“What’ll we do with him?” Joe asked his brother.
“Better get him to a hospital.”
The boys carried the limp figure to their car and laid him on the back seat. Chet sat up front with the Hardys. Frank swung the convertible around and sped toward Bayport.
As they reached a wooded area on the outskirts of town, their passenger revived and sat up. “Please—stop the car!” he begged weakly.
Frank pulled over. “We were taking you to the hospital,” he explained.
“You were unconscious,” Joe added. “What happened?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell you in a moment,” the man said. “Right now I feel woozy. I think the motion of the car was making me sick. Would you mind if I get out and walk up and down a bit?”
“No—go ahead,” Joe said sympathetically.
Chet leaned back and opened the door. As soon as the man’s feet touched the ground, he slammed the door. His face contorted into an ugly expression.
“If you boys know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouths shut about this!” he snarled. “And I’m warning you—don’t try to follow me!”
He darted off into the darkness of the surrounding trees!

 CHAPTER II  
  Telephone Tip
THE three boys were stunned by the man’s unexpected threat and actions.
“Of all the creeps!” Chet spluttered when he found his voice. “How’s that for gratitude?”
“I’m going after that guy!” Joe exploded. He yanked open the door and started to jump out, but Frank stopped him.
“Hold it, Joe! You’ll never catch him now. Besides, he may be armed.”
Joe realized the wisdom of his brother’s advice and reluctantly climbed back into the car. The neighborhood was run down. It was poorly lighted and had numerous vacant lots and small factory buildings. The stranger already was out of sight and doubtless could find plenty of hiding places if pursued. 
“I’d sure like to know what that fellow was afraid of,” Joe muttered as they drove off. “Also, how he came to be lying back there, unconscious.”
“So would I,” Frank said. “We’d better notify the police.”
“Look, fellows, I—uh—I’m pretty tired,” Chet said uneasily. “Could you drop me off home first?”
“What’s the matter?” Joe teased. “Afraid the police may hold you as a suspect?”
“I told you I’m bushed!” Chet retorted. “Besides, you Hardys are always getting mixed up with crooks and mysteries. That kind of stuff makes me nervous!”
Frank and Joe grinned in the darkness. It was true that they had worked on a number of exciting cases since their first one, The Tower Treasure. On their most recent adventure they had solved the mystery of The Twisted Claw.
After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the Hardys drove to Bayport Police Headquarters. Here they found Chief Collig working late. The husky man smiled broadly as they walked into his office.
“You boys busy on another case?”
“We’re helping Dad,” Frank explained. “But something else came up.” He told about the unconscious man who had later revived in their car and fled after threatening them.
Collig agreed that while the episode was strange, apparently no crime had been committed. He telephoned the fugitive’s description to the police radio dispatcher to be flashed to all prowl cars, with orders that the man be picked up for questioning.
Frank told him about the boys’ pursuit of the black sports car and the smoke grenade that had forced them off the road.
“Noel Strang, eh?” The chief frowned. “I’ve heard about him. Slick operator, but he’s not on the ‘Wanted’ list right now. Do you know why your father is after him?”
“No, we don’t,” Frank said. “Dad just asked us to trail him and try to get a line on what he’s up to.”
“We got the license number,” Joe added. “But we’d like to know if the man we were following was Strang. We didn’t get a good look at him.”
Collig jotted down the number. “I’ll check it with the Motor Vehicle Bureau. I appreciate your stopping by.”
The boys went outside to their convertible. As Frank felt in his pocket for the car keys, his expression changed to one of annoyance. “I’ve lost my pocketknife, Joe. Wonder if it dropped out back there when I was bending over that fellow?”
“Could be,” Joe said. “We can search for it tomorrow. I want to take a look at that tiled square Chet told us about.”
“Same here!”
Frank took the wheel and drove off through the late-evening traffic. Suddenly a red light flashed on their dashboard short-wave radio. Joe picked up the microphone.
“Joe Hardy here.”
“Good evening, son.” Fenton Hardy’s voice came over the speaker.
“Dad! When did you get home?”
“Just arrived. Where are you fellows now?”
“We’re downtown in the car. In fact, we’re headed for home.”
“Good. This case I’m working on looks pretty tough and I may need your help. I’ll have to leave again first thing in the morning, so I’d like to fill you in on the details this evening.”
“We’ll be there pronto, Dad!”
A short time later the convertible pulled into the driveway of the Hardys’ large, pleasant house on a tree-shaded street. The boys jumped out and hurried inside.
Fenton Hardy, a tall, rugged-looking man, was in the dining room having a cup of coffee. Seated at the table with him were Mrs. Hardy and the boys’ Aunt Gertrude, his unmarried sister.
The detective greeted Frank and Joe with a warm smile. “Sit down, boys, and I’ll tell you what this case is all about.”
Mr. Hardy explained that he had been asked by a group of insurance underwriters to investigate a series of jewel thefts. The latest had occurred in New York the day before.
“We heard a news flash on that, Dad!” Joe exclaimed.
“Undoubtedly all the thefts have been pulled by the same gang,” the detective went on. “And there’s an odd feature. On every job, the guards or other persons involved seem to have lost their memory for a short period of time while the robbery was taking place.”
“You mean they passed out?” Frank asked.
Fenton Hardy shrugged. “None of them recalls passing out. But they all report a sensation of coming to, or snapping out of a deep sleep, as if they had lapsed into unconsciousness without realizing it.” 
Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman, pursed her lips and frowned shrewdly. “If you ask me, they were gassed,” she declared. “Some kind of nerve gas, probably—squirted at the victims through a blowpipe.”
Frank and Joe tried hard not to grin. Their aunt had definite opinions and never hesitated to express them.
“They may have been gassed,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But if so, it’s strange that police experts were unable to discover any traces in the atmosphere afterward.”
“Maybe the crooks sucked it all back into their blowpipes,” Joe said mischievously.
Aunt Gertrude gave him a withering look. “Making fun of me, are you? Well, maybe you have a better theory, young man!”
Laura Hardy, a slim and pretty woman, exchanged a fleeting smile with her husband. Both knew that Aunt Gertrude loved to talk about detective cases with her brother and the boys, even though she pretended to disapprove of such dangerous work.
“Matter of fact, we got gassed ourselves tonight,” Frank put in quietly. He told about their chase of the black sports car, but glossed over the part about skidding across the road.
“Hmm.”
Fenton Hardy knit his brows. “Do you think the driver could have recognized you—maybe from seeing your pictures in the paper?” 
Frank shook his head. “I doubt it, although he may have glimpsed us in his rear-view mirror when we passed a street light. I think that when he spotted a car tailing him, he used the smoke screen to shake us.”
“Why, that man’s a menace!” Aunt Gertrude blurted out indignantly. “Why didn’t you radio the police at once? Mark my words, you’ll—”
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Aunt Gertrude’s prediction. Joe jumped up to answer it.
“Let me speak to Fenton Hardy,” said a curt, muffled voice.
“Who’s calling, please?” Joe asked.
“None of your business! Just tell him to get on the phone if he wants to learn something important!”
Fenton Hardy strode quickly to Joe’s side and took the receiver. “All right, I’m listening.”
“Another jewel heist has been planned. It’s going to be pulled aboard a yacht named the Wanda. She’s due in at East Hampton, Long Island, late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Got that?” 
“I have it,” the detective replied. “But who is this speaking?”
“A friend. And don’t bother trying to trace the call!”
There was a cutoff click at the other end of the line. Mr. Hardy hung up thoughtfully and told the boys what the informer had said.
“I’d better follow up that tip-off,” he added. “I’ll drive down to East Hampton.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Dad?” Frank asked worriedly. “The call may be a trick.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take, son.”
Mr. Hardy telephoned Suffolk County Police Headquarters on Long Island to report the tip. Before leaving the house, he suggested that the boys restudy the photo of Strang in his file, and also the typewritten data on the reverse side of it.
“Mind you, we have nothing on him,” the detective said. “But I think he’s one of the few jewel thieves in the country capable of master-minding a series of robberies like the ones I’m investigating.”
“Do you want the police to take him in for questioning?” Joe asked.
“No, that would only put him on guard. But I would like to know what he’s doing in Bayport!” 
“We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Frank promised.
Mr. Hardy then placed a long-distance call to his top-flight operative, Sam Radley. Sam had flown to Florida with a charter pilot named Jack Wayne to wind up another case. Fenton Hardy instructed Sam to join him at East Hampton the following day.
Next morning, Frank and Joe ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade muffins, then started off in their convertible to pick up Chet Morton. After some grumbling, the stout boy agreed to help them search for the curious tiled square he had seen the night before. Frank pulled up on the dirt lane near the big oak tree.
“I don’t know why I let you two talk me into this,” Chet complained as they started up the slope. “I can’t seem to stay out of danger when you’re around.”
Joe laughed. “Stop griping. You don’t expect to hear any spooks in broad daylight, do you?”
When they reached level ground, Frank remarked, “Say, I see a house over there!”
Joe and Chet looked in the direction he was pointing. A large, weather-beaten mansion was visible through the trees some distance away.
“Didn’t notice any lights over that way last night,” Joe said. “Wonder if anyone lives there.”
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Looks pretty run down.”
For half an hour the boys searched among the tall weeds and overgrown shrubbery. They failed to sight the tiled surface Chet had described, or to find Frank’s knife.
“Sure you weren’t just seeing things last night?” Frank asked Chet.
Joe chuckled. “Maybe just hearing things, too?”
Before Chet could reply, a voice barked out, “Stand right where you are! Now turn around, all three of you!”
The boys whirled in surprise. A tall, hawk-faced man with a thin, prominent nose was standing among the trees watching them. He had one hand in his suit-coat pocket, as if concealing a gun.
Frank and Joe gasped. The man looked like the one in the photograph of Noel Strang their father had in his files!

 CHAPTER III  
  The Purple Stone
“DON’T stand there gawking!” the man snarled. “What are you kids looking for?”
Chet gulped. “W-well—uh—you see, 1-last night—”
“I lost my pocketknife,” Frank spoke up. “We were trying to find it.”
“Your pocketknife, eh?” The man scowled at the boys suspiciously. “You had no business nosing around here last night or anytime. This is private property. Now clear out!”
Chet, overcome with jitters, hastily started walking back to the car. Frank and Joe did not budge, and continued to stare at the man.
“You heard me!” he said in a loud, belligerent voice. “Beat it! And don’t come back!”
He took a few steps toward the Hardys and crooked his arm as if he were about to jerk his gun hand out of his pocket. Without a word, the brothers turned and followed Chet.
“That is Noel Strang!” Joe whispered. “Think we should call his bluff?’” 
Frank shook his head. “Not now. Remember what Dad said.”
“He may not own this property,” Joe argued. “If he does, maybe we can find out what he’s doing here.”
“I intend to,” Frank said. “But let’s try to do it undercover, without making him suspicious.”
Chet had already climbed into the car. He was sitting stiffly in the back seat—still pale and nervous, but whistling off-key and trying to look casual.
Frank slid behind the wheel and Joe got in beside him. As they glanced back up the slope, the boys could see Strang watching them intently.
“Oh—oh,” Joe muttered. “I just thought of something!”
“Like what?” Frank asked.
“If he’s the one who used that smoke screen last night, he may recognize our convertible.”
“Smoke screen!” Chet gasped. In the rear-view mirror, Frank could see that the fat boy’s eyes were bulging with fear. “You mean that guy’s a gangster?”
“Not exactly,” Joe said, as Frank turned the car around. “Just a notorious jewel thief named Noel Strang.”
Chet groaned as the Hardys told him the details. “Oh, this is great! I don’t want to get mixed up in another one of your cases! You’d better take me home.”
The Hardys grinned. “Chet, you know you eat up excitement as well as food,” Frank said.
“It helps to keep your weight trimmed down,” Joe suggested.
“Listen! I’ll probably lose ten pounds just worrying about this thief,” Chet retorted. “Strang may even send his men after us!”
Joe chuckled. “Just threaten to sit on ’em—that’ll be enough of a scare.”
Frank suddenly looked troubled. “Now I just thought of something, Joe.” 
“Bad?” Joe glanced at his brother.
“Not good. That knife has my name engraved on it. If Strang finds the knife, he may connect us with Fenton Hardy.”
Joe gave a low whistle. “Let’s hope he doesn’t find it!”
A short time later Frank swung up the graveled driveway leading to the Mortons’ farmhouse. Chet’s pretty, dark-haired sister Iola was seated on the front porch with her blond, brown-eyed friend Callie Shaw.
Iola bounced up from the porch swing as the boys stepped from the car. “Hi!” she exclaimed. “Wait’ll you see the surprise Callie and I have to show you!” The girls’ eyes sparkled with excitement.
Joe grinned at Iola, whom he considered very attractive. “Sounds pretty important.”
“Aw, it’s probably some new doodads for their charm bracelets,” Chet scoffed.
“Like fun!” Iola retorted. “It’ll make you turn green with envy—I mean purple!”
As the boys followed the two girls into the house, Callie explained that she and Iola had been rock hunting the day before. With a giggle, she also whispered to Frank that Chet and Iola were rivals at rock hounding.
In the dining room, Iola went straight to the old-fashioned punch bowl on the buffet and took out a stone about the size of a grape. It was pale violet and roughly crystalline in form.
“Feast your eyes!” she said, waving the stone under Chet’s nose.
“Well, hold it still so I can see it.” The chubby youth stared in grudging admiration.
“It’s beautiful,” Frank said. “Is that an amethyst?”
Iola bobbed her head proudly. “A real one!”
“We took it to Filmer’s Gemstone Shop this morning to make sure,” Callie added. “Mr. Filmer identified it for us.”
Chet’s eyes bugged out in awe. “Wow! A real jewel!” he gasped. “Where’d you find it?”
Iola and Callie blushed with embarrassment. “We don’t remember,” Iola confessed.
“You don’t remember?” Chet echoed. “How goofy can you get! Why, there might be a whole lode of amethysts around the spot!”
“But we picked up oodles of stones in several places,” Callie explained. “The light wasn’t good in the late afternoon and we didn’t realize that this one might be valuable.”
“We’re not even sure which one of us found it,” Iola put in. “We didn’t get excited until we sorted the stones this morning.”
Chet was about to make a wisecrack when Joe happened to glance out the window.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Your barn’s on fire!”
The others stared and gasped. Black smoke was billowing out through the open barn door!
“Good grief!” Chet shouted. “And Dad’s over at the vet’s this morning! Quick! Get some fire extinguishers and buckets of water!”
The five teen-agers dashed outside, followed by Mrs. Morton, who had hurried upstairs from the cellar when she heard their cries.
There was no sign of open flames from the barn, so Frank and Chet plunged inside to get a pair of fire extinguishers hanging on the wall. Joe and the girls, meanwhile, prepared to form a bucket brigade from the pump.
“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Morton cried distractedly as she hovered outside the barn. “Shall I call the fire department?”
“Don’t bother, Mom!” Chet shouted back. “This looks like a false alarm!”
Soon the smoke began to clear and the two boys emerged, grimy from the thick fumes. “A bucket of oil was burning,” Frank explained, coughing.
“Sure beats me how it started,” Chet added. “I wouldn’t think heavy tractor oil could ignite by spontaneous combustion.”
Relieved, they all trooped back to the house. Mrs. Morton provided soap and towels so Chet and Frank could wash in the kitchen. Joe and the girls returned to the dining room.
Iola went to pick up the amethyst but could not find it. “Callie, did you take our jewel outside with you?” she asked.
“No, you left it on the table, didn’t you?”
“I thought I did.” Iola hastily checked the punch bowl, then turned an anxious face to the others. “It’s not here!”
A frantic search followed, with Joe scrabbling on the floor and the girls going through every drawer and compartment of the buffet. The amethyst was gone! Frank and Chet heard the news as they came into the dining room.
“Oh, fine!” Chet groaned. “First a fire, and now you girls lose the only valuable stone we’ve ever found!”
Frank and Joe looked at each other with the same thought in mind.
“I’ll bet that fire was a trick to get us out of the house!” Joe exclaimed.
“You mean the stone was stolen?” Iola gasped. 
“I’m afraid so,” Frank said. “By the same person who set fire to that bucket of oil.”
Callie’s eyes glowed with a sudden recollection. “I heard a car start up down the road just as we came back to the house!” she said. “I’ll bet that was the thief getting away!”
Chet plumped himself down in a chair. “Boy, this is turning out to be one swell day.” He grunted, then brightened. “Guess we may as well have lunch.”
Frank telephoned a report of the theft to the police and then called home to notify his mother that he and Joe would be lunching at the Mortons’.
Aunt Gertrude took the message. “By the way,” she said, “Tony Prito has called twice, trying to get hold of you and Joe. Wouldn’t tell me what he wanted, but he did say it was urgent.”
“Where can I call him?” Frank asked. “At his dad’s office?”
“Mmm
—no, I believe he said he was phoning from the boat dock.” 
“Okay, Aunty. Thanks.”
Frank and Joe apologized to Mrs. Morton for hurrying through the hearty lunch she served them. As soon as they had finished, the brothers excused themselves to go and find Tony Prito.
Tony, a dark haired, good-looking boy, was a close pal of the Hardys and they often went out on Barmet Bay with him in his motorboat, the Napoli. Frank and Joe drove quickly to the boat basin but could not see Tony anywhere. 
“I’ll bet he’s out in the Napoli,” Joe said, staring out across the harbor. 
“Probably so.” Frank glanced up at the sunny sky and then at the gently white-capped blue waters of the bay. “Let’s get the Sleuth, Joe, and try to find him.” 
“Suits me.”
The Hardys hurried off to the boathouse where they kept their own motorboat.
At that moment Tony was just driving up to the Mortons’ house in his father’s pickup truck.
“Hi, Chet! Have you seen Frank and Joe today?” he called to the stout youth, who had come out to the porch.
“Sure. They had lunch here. Left about fifteen minutes ago, heading for the boat dock to find you.”
Tony suddenly went pale. “Man, I hope they don’t go out in the Sleuth!”
“Why not?” Chet asked, puzzled.
“Hop in and I’ll tell you. We’d better get there fast!”
Chet hardly had time to get into the cab before Tony threw the truck into reverse and backed up. As he swung the vehicle around and sped down the road, he explained, “I saw two tough-looking guys sneak out of Frank and Joe’s boathouse. Somehow I have a hunch those men were up to no good!”
“Did you recognize them?” Chet asked, wide-eyed.
“No, but I’m afraid those men may have sabotaged it!”
“Didn’t you warn Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude?”
“Guess I should have,” Tony said ruefully. “But I didn’t want to alarm them.”
As the truck pulled up on the quay, Chet exclaimed and pointed toward the water. “There they go now!”
The Sleuth, with two figures aboard, was put-putting out across the bay. 
“We’re too late,” Tony groaned.
The boys leaped out of the truck and began shouting and waving frantically to their friends. But the Hardys’ boat was too far out for the brothers to hear the cries.
Suddenly a loud explosion shook the Sleuth!

 CHAPTER IV  
  The Jigsaw Face
THE force of the blast jerked the bow of the Sleuth up out of the water! Both its occupants were hurled overboard and the boat itself overturned. Smoke billowed from the scene. 
“Come on!” Tony cried to Chet. “We must get out there and pick them up!”
“Where’s the Napoli?” Chet puffed as they ran along the quay. 
“I left it tied up at the North Dock.”
People were already gathering excitedly along the waterfront. The two boys reached the North Dock and leaped into the motorboat. Chet cast off and Tony gunned the outboard into life. In a moment they were speeding out on the bay.
Chet, who was seated in the bow, shouted in relief, “Looks as if Frank and Joe are okay!”
The Hardys had been struggling in the water, but could now be seen clinging to their overturned craft. The Napoli came alongside. 
“Boy, this is what I call service!” Joe said as he and Frank were hauled aboard.
Tony explained, “We came to give you a warning.”
“Tony, we came out here looking for you,” Joe replied. “Your boat wasn’t in the basin.” 
“No, I took it out this morning and tied up at the North Dock when I came back.”
“What did you mean about warning us?” Frank put in.
Tony hastily told about seeing the two men sneak out of the boathouse. Just as he finished, a Coast Guard rescue launch reached the scene. Other boats were approaching also.
“Everybody okay?” the chief petty officer called out from the Coast Guard launch.
“They’re okay but plenty wet,” Chet replied.
“What happened?” the officer asked.
“Some kind of explosion in the forward compartment,” Frank told him. “We suspect sabotage.”
The chief ordered his coxs’n to maneuver the launch closer to the overturned craft. A hole had been blown in the hull near the bow, but the boat’s special flotation apparatus in the forward space had kept it from sinking.
“Can your friends tow the boat to a repair dock all right?” the chief asked the Hardys.
“We can manage, if someone will give us a hand,” Tony spoke up.
“I’ll help you, lads!” called a man from a nearby motor cruiser.
“In that case, I’d like you fellows to come back to the Coast Guard station with me and make a report,” the officer told Frank and Joe.
The Hardys transferred to the Coast Guard launch, which immediately sped off to its base. Meanwhile, Tony and Chet tackled the job of putting a towline onto the Sleuth, with the help of the man in the motor cruiser. 
At the Coast Guard station Frank and Joe told their story to a lieutenant named Anson. “You’re Fenton Hardy’s sons, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Joe answered.
“Is this sabotage connected with one of his cases?”
Frank hesitated. “We think so, sir, but we don’t know yet.”
Lieutenant Anson asked, “Any theories?”
“Someone was trying to kill us, or at least scare us off our investigation,” Frank said. “My guess is the bomb was detonated chemically in some way by the salt water. But I have a hunch it went off too soon—the saboteurs hoped we’d be farther out in the bay.”
“Right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll bet the blast was supposed to swamp the boat fast, drown us, and send all our evidence against them to the bottom. But luckily for us, the boat overturned and stayed afloat, giving us something to cling to—”
Lieutenant Anson took down their statements, then said, “For the record, I’ll say you’re carrying out your own investigation. But please keep us informed.”
He had an enlisted man drive the boys back to their car. Frank and Joe went home, where Aunt Gertrude greeted them with clucks of disapproval.
“Well, I never! It’s a good thing your mother has gone to the library board meeting!” Miss Hardy ordered the boys to take off their soaked shoes to avoid tracking up the carpet, then went on anxiously, “What happened? Did that crook you’re after make you walk the plank?”
Frank chuckled and gave her a damp hug, which Miss Hardy tried to fend off. “Slight accident, Aunty—a dunking we didn’t expect.”
The boys had just changed into dry clothes when the telephone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Chief Collig.
“Got a report from the Motor Vehicle Bureau on that sports-car license number,” he said. “It’s registered in the name of Aden Darrow.”
“Never heard of him,” Joe replied.
“Nothing on him in our files, either.”
“What about the address?”
“A street number in Eastern City,” Collig said. “I checked with the police there but they couldn’t help. The whole street’s been demolished for an expressway.”
“Dead-end clue. Well, thanks a lot, Chief.”
A short time later Tony Prito and Chet arrived. They reported that the Sleuth had been safely towed to the repair dock. Frank telephoned to determine the cost of repairing the boat, then the boys gathered to discuss the day’s events. Frank and Joe quickly told Tony about the case. 
“You figure the men who planted the bomb were working for Strang?” Tony asked.
“Could be,” Frank said. “Especially if he found my knife and learned our name.”
“I’ll bet he recognized us last night!” Joe put in.
“How about that sneak who took Iola and Callie’s amethyst?” Chet asked. “Maybe Strang did that too. You said he’s a jewel thief.”
Frank frowned. “That’s true. But he’s a big-time operator. I doubt if the amethyst’s worth enough to tempt him.”
“Anyhow, Strang’s definitely got business in this area,” Joe said. “Do you think he could be hiding out at that old house—the one we saw him near this morning?”
“Could be,” Frank said.
Tony asked where the place was located. When Joe told him, Miss Hardy exclaimed, “Why, that’s the old Perth mansion!”
“Do you know who lives there?” Frank asked.
“No one, far as I’ve heard,” she replied. “Hasn’t been occupied for years. The place had what you might call a sinister reputation.”
“How come?” Joe inquired.
“Seems someone died there under mysterious circumstances. Don’t recollect just who. But there was talk about the place being haunted.”
“Haunted?” Chet swallowed and turned pale.
Miss Hardy sniffed. “All stuff and nonsense. Some folks will believe anything. That was years ago—even before you boys were born.”
“Tell us some more, Aunty,” Frank urged.
Gertrude Hardy settled into her favorite chair. “Well, the house originally belonged to a man named Jerome Perth. Not a nice person at all, from what folks used to say.”
“Who was he?” Frank asked.
“Some sort of big business tycoon—but a shady operator. People accused him of all sorts of things—stock swindles, patent infringements. I don’t know what all. But I guess no one ever pinned anything on him.”
“Must have been pretty slick,” Tony remarked.
“Oh, he was,” Miss Hardy agreed. “And he made a lot of enemies—in fact, some of the people he’d cheated even tried to kill him. Finally he retired to that mansion he built and lived there in fear of his life.”
“So his swindles didn’t bring him any happiness,” Joe remarked.
“No, indeed. I recall hearing he had his study on the ground floor fitted up with a bed and hardly ever stirred out of that one room.”
“But you still don’t remember who died there under mysterious circumstances?” Joe said.
Aunt Gertrude shook her head. “Some relative, I think. But I don’t recall the details.”
Frank, meanwhile, had a sudden hunch. He telephoned Iola Morton to ask if anyone else had been in the gemstone shop when the girls showed the proprietor their amethyst.
“Why, yes, there was,” Iola replied. “Another customer came in right after we did. I remember he asked us where we had found our stone.” Suddenly Iola gasped. “Oh! You mean maybe he was the one who stole our amethyst?”
“Could be,” Frank said. “He might have shadowed you back to your house. Is Callie still there with you?”
“Sure. Want to talk to her?”
“We’ll come out.”
Five minutes later Frank, Joe, and Chet were on their way to the farm in the Hardys’ convertible. Tony had to go back to work at his father’s construction company.
When the boys arrived at the Mortons’ house, Frank carried in his father’s facial identification kit. Besides an illuminated viewing screen, the kit contained strips of film showing hundreds of different hairlines, eyes, ears, noses, chins, eyeglasses, and hats.
Iola and Callie were fascinated as the Hardys began asking them to describe and identify the features of the stranger at the gem shop.
“It’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle!” Callie exclaimed.
Bit by bit, the film strips showing the man’s features were laid together over the viewing screen until a whole face had been assembled.
“For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed. He and Frank stared at each other. “That’s the guy we picked up unconscious last night!”
Chet peered over their shoulders, open-mouthed with surprise. “It is for a fact!”
“Joe,” Frank said, “suppose you take that face to the gem shop and ask Mr. Filmer if he knows the man.”
“Okay. How about you?”
“I want to go to the Bayport Times office and see if I can dig up any stories on the Perth mansion from their back files.”
Joe dropped his brother off at the newspaper office and a few minutes later pulled up in front of Filmer’s Gemstone Shop. He carried the kit inside and spoke to the proprietor.
Mr. Filmer, a skinny man with thick bifocal eyeglasses, seemed oddly nervous. “I—uh—rreally don’t recall anyone else being in the shop when Iola and Callie were here,” he stammered.
“Please try to remember,” Joe begged.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“All right. At least let me show you a picture of the man’s face and see if you—” Suddenly Joe broke off. The door to the back room was ajar and he had just seen it move slightly.
Someone was eavesdropping behind the door!
“So that’s why Filmer won’t help me!” Joe thought. “I’ll bet he’s afraid of the person hiding back there!”
The young detective wondered what to do. If he asked Mr. Filmer’s permission to look into the back room, it would forewarn the eavesdropper. But if he acted on impulse—Joe darted behind the counter and yanked open the door.
A tall, sandy-haired man, who looked like the one in the picture, streaked across the back room toward a window! Joe rushed forward and lunged at him. The stranger grabbed a stool and hurled it at Joe.
The stool struck Joe on the temple and he sank to the floor unconscious!

 CHAPTER V  
  Spook Hound
As JOE regained consciousness, he felt something cold and damp on his forehead. He was propped in a corner of the gem shop’s back room and Mr. Filmer was bending over him, applying a wet towel to the bruise.
“Feel all right?” Mr. Filmer asked anxiously.
“I—I guess so, except for a sore head.”
“Dear me! You have quite a lump there!”
“Never mind that.” Joe struggled to his feet. “What about that guy who slugged me with a stool?”
Mr. Filmer pointed helplessly to an open window. “He got away and ran off down the alley.”
“I suppose he’s the one who was here when Iola and Callie brought in their amethyst?” Joe said, repressing an angry comment.
Mr. Filmer reddened. “I’m terribly sorry I had to lie to you. He was hiding back here all the time, listening. I was too frightened to talk.”
“Well, he’s not here now—so who is he?”
“I really don’t know,” Mr. Filmer said, looking bewildered. “He often drops into the shop to talk to the local rock hounds, and always seems especially interested in amethysts. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“When did he get here?” Joe asked.
“Just a few minutes before you did. He asked me if anyone had been inquiring about him. When I said No, he warned me to keep my mouth shut or else he’d have me beaten up. Then he saw you coming and ducked into the back room.”
“If he ever shows up again,” Joe said, “will you try to notify the police right away?”
“I certainly will!” Mr. Filmer nodded vigorously, eager to make amends.
Joe thought of trying to lift some fingerprints, but he remembered that the man had been wearing gloves. Before leaving, Joe telephoned a report of the incident to Chief Collig.
When Joe reached home, his mother insisted upon applying a soothing dressing to his swollen temple. Aunt Gertrude hovered close by, supervising the treatment and muttering darkly about the dangers of detective work. Joe merely grinned at her sharp comments.
Soon afterward, Frank arrived home. He took one look at Joe, who was curled in an easy chair watching TV, then let out a whistle.
“Where’d you get that decoration?”
“I connected with a stool,” Joe said wryly. He told Frank what had happened at the gem shop and added, “I still can’t figure how that man knew we’d go there to check on him.”
“Probably followed the same line of reasoning we did,” Frank replied. “The girls just picked up the amethyst yesterday—so the shop is the only place where an outsider could have learned about their find. Besides, he had quizzed Iola and Callie about the stone, and you say Filmer knew of his interest in amethysts.”
“In other words, he guessed we might put two and two together. Rather than take any chances, he decided to bulldoze Filmer into silence.”
Frank nodded, and Joe added, “Now how about telling me what you found out.”
“I got the full story,” Frank said eagerly. “The person who died at the Perth mansion under mysterious circumstances was Old Man Perth’s nephew. Must have been quite sensational. The Times had a flock of old write-ups on it.”
Joe’s eyes brightened with interest. “What happened?”
“Well, the nephew—Clarence Perth—moved into the mansion after Jerome Perth passed away from a heart attack. He took over the old man’s bedroom-study. But he lived only a few days to enjoy his inheritance.”
“How come?”
“One night, long after midnight, the servants heard him scream in terror,” Frank continued. “They broke into the room and found him lying on the floor with his skull fractured. And get this—just before he died, the nephew muttered something which sounded like ‘the floor’!”
Joe gave a whistle. “Wow! When Chet hears that, he’ll be positive it was a ghost that screamed at us last night.”
“There’s more,” Frank went on. “Both the door and the windows of the room had been locked from the inside and none of them broken—so there was no way a killer could have entered the room or escaped.”
“How about trap doors or trick wall panels?”
Frank shrugged. “The stories said the police looked for secret exits but didn’t find any. Of course, criminal-detection methods then weren’t what they are today.”
“What about the ghost angle?” Joe queried.
“There are several follow-up news items. They said that a number of persons had reported seeing a ghostly figure prowling about the Perth estate.”
“Humph! No doubt there’ll always be gullible simpletons!” said a peppery voice. Aunt Gertrude planted herself in an easy chair and began darning socks. “Don’t mind me.” She sniffed. “Just go right on with your wild talk.”
Frank and Joe exchanged grins, knowing their aunt was eager to hear more. She looked gratified when Frank repeated the information he had gleaned from the Bayport Times.
“Yes, I remember now about Perth’s nephew,” Miss Hardy said reminiscently. “Poor fellow! Almost seemed as if Fate had marked him out to pay for his uncle’s misdeeds.”
At dinner Frank and Joe were silent and thoughtful. Neither believed that the weird screams they had heard near the Perth mansion could have been made by the nephew’s ghost. Nevertheless, it was an eerie notion!
“I’d like to go back to that mansion,” Joe said as the family finished dessert. “I have a hunch we’ll find some answers there—about the ghost and Strang too.”
Frank agreed. “We’ll go as soon as it’s dark.”
Two hours later the brothers climbed into their convertible and headed toward the outskirts of Bayport. Their tires hummed in the still, moonlit night air and wispy clouds covered the sky. When they turned onto the dirt lane, Frank switched off their headlights and soon afterward pulled in close to a screen of shrubbery.
“Better take our flashlights,” Joe murmured.
The boys got out and headed up the slope. In the distance they could see a few gleams of light from the house.


  
“Come on! Don’t argue with it!” Frank muttered
“Someone’s in the haunted house!” Joe remarked. “Maybe Strang. We’d better watch our step!”
The Hardys threaded their way among the trees and underbrush. Suddenly a ferocious snarl made them whirl to the left.
A huge, savage-looking hound stood facing them, its eyes glowing in the dark like coals of fire!
Again it snarled, and seemed about to spring at the two intruders! 
“Come on! Don’t argue with it!” Frank muttered. He started to back away hastily, but Joe clutched his arm.
“Wait, Frank! That thing’s not alive—it’s just a mechanical dummy!”
Incredulous, Frank did a double-take. Then he realized that Joe was right. “Well, I’ll be a moldy dog biscuit!” he gasped. “That hound sure looks real enough to bite your head off!”
“We must have crossed an invisible beam that made it light up and snarl,” Joe surmised. He reached out a hand to touch the device, as if to reassure himself that the “dog” was not flesh and blood.
“Hold it, Joe!” Frank jerked his brother’s hand away. “That thing looks like metal—it may be electrically charged.”
Stripping off his belt, Frank held the leather end and swung the buckle lightly against the mechanical hound. A hissing blue-white spark illuminated the darkness as metal touched metal!
“Wow!” Joe gasped. “That really would have given me a jolt! Say, Frank, do you suppose the guy we found here could have been shocked unconscious by some electrified gadget?”
“Sounds like a good guess. And that gives us another reason for watching our step.”
More cautiously than ever, the Hardys approached the old mansion. The house, covered with fading clapboards, was fronted by a low veranda and topped off with turrets and decaying latticework. Ragged clumps of shrubbery grew close to the walls.
“Let’s try those lighted windows on the first floor,” Frank suggested.
The boys crept close enough to peer inside. Bookshelves, a desk, chairs, a bureau, and a bed lined the walls of the room.
“This must have been Jerome Perth’s bedroom-study,” Joe whispered.
He brought his face up closer to the pane for a better view, then gave a cry of astonishment. “Frank, look! The room has no floor!”

 CHAPTER VI  
  Symbol in Brass
FOR a moment Frank thought his brother must be joking. Then he, too, put his face to the window-pane. Beneath the room’s furniture he could see only gaping darkness!
“This is crazy!” Frank muttered. “That furniture can’t just stand in mid-air!”
“If only we could see better,” Joe said, flattening his nose against the glass in an effort to peer downward. Suddenly Frank gave a warning hiss and yanked Joe into a crouched position.
“What’s wrong?” Joe whispered.
Frank pointed off beyond the rear of the house. In the distance a tiny light could be seen moving among the trees. The boys shrank back into the shadows of some shrubbery.
As they waited, Joe’s eyes fell on what looked like an old coin. It was lying on the ground in the patch of light outside the window. Joe reached out and pocketed it.
Meanwhile, the oncoming beam was zigzagging slowly about the grounds. Minutes went by. A night breeze sighed eerily among the hemlocks and cypresses. Bit by bit, the light moved closer to the boys’ hiding place.
Frank strained his eyes in the darkness. Suddenly his scalp prickled. “Joe!” he gasped. “Do you see what I do?”
“I sure do!” Joe gulped.
The light was being carried by a ghostly white-robed figure!
But common sense told the boys the figure must be human. 
“This is our chance to lay that spook story to rest once and for all,” Frank whispered.
Joe glanced at his brother. “You mean we rush the ghost?”
“Right—but not yet. Wait till I give the word.”
The white figure flitted along, pausing every so often amidst the tall underbrush. For a time it seemed to be approaching the house. Then the light moved off in another direction.
Frank put his mouth close to Joe’s ear. “Let’s sneak up and take Mr. Spook by surprise now!”
Silent as shadows, the Hardys darted out from the shrubbery. Moving with swift steps, they closed in toward the phantom figure. But Joe, overeager, caught his foot in a tangle of underbrush and thudded to the ground.
The “ghost” whirled, evidently startled by the noise. The flashlight it was carrying raked the two boys, then winked out abruptly. An instant later the figure had slipped away into the darkness!
Frank halted only long enough to make sure his brother was unhurt, then raced in pursuit. Joe scrambled to his feet.
By now the white-robed figure was nowhere to be seen. Then Joe suddenly glimpsed something pale among the trees. Was the spook trying to evade them by doubling back toward the house? Joe sprinted to intercept it.
He saw the phantom figure pass between two trees. Instantly the faint ringing of an alarm bell could be heard from inside the mansion!
“There must be another electronic-eye beam between those trees!” Joe realized.
Floodlights blazed on around the house. The front door burst open and three men dashed outside. The ghost, meanwhile, had veered to the left and was disappearing into the darkness again—this time toward the road, but away from the Hardys’ car.
Joe halted, uncertain what to do next. If he continued the pursuit, he would risk being cut off by the men from the house before he could get back to the convertible.
“For all I know, they may be the ones who blew up our boat!” he said to himself.
As the men came closer, Joe made a fast decision and darted off among the trees. A moment later he was startled by a rustle of shrubbery close by. A shadowy figure was running alongside him! “You okay, Joe?”
“Yes. But wow! Don’t give me heart failure like that!”
The sounds of pursuit grew fainter and presently the two boys reached sloping ground and headed toward their car.
Both boys hopped into the convertible. Frank keyed the starter and the engine came alive with a roar. Spinning the wheel, he sent the car zooming down the lane. “Talk about fast getaways—!” Joe panted as they reached the highway.
“Did you get a look at those men from the house?” Frank asked.
“Not too good a look, but I think one of them may have been Noel Strang.”
As the brothers came in the kitchen door of the Hardy home, they heard a loud buzz from the basement.
“The short-wave radio signal!” Frank exclaimed. He and Joe hurried downstairs and switched on the powerful set which the Hardys used for secret communications.
“Fenton H. calling Bayport. Come in, please.” The last words swelled to stronger volume as Joe tuned the receiver.
“Bayport to Fenton,” Frank said. “We read you loud and clear!”
“Good! I hoped I’d catch you boys in.”
“How’d that telephone tip pan out?” Frank inquired eagerly.
“It hasn’t so far,” Mr. Hardy reported. “The Wanda didn’t arrive until six this evening. Its passengers are all wealthy people, and there’s a fair amount of jewelry aboard. But as yet we haven’t turned up a single clue that might indicate a robbery is planned.” 
“Do you think the tip was phony?”
“Too early to tell yet. The police have a dragnet out but they haven’t spotted any likely suspects. Of course it’s possible the jewel thieves called off the job for some reason.”
“Dad, it’s also possible the gang wants you stymied there in East Hampton while they prepare to pull a job somewhere else,” Frank pointed out.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Meanwhile, Sam and I can’t do much. What’s the picture there in Bayport?”
Frank rapidly briefed his father on the day’s developments. Mr. Hardy was stunned to hear about the bombing of the Sleuth and the attack on Joe at Filmer’s Gemstone Shop. Also, he was intrigued by the Motor Vehicle Bureau’s report. 
“I’m sure I’ve heard that name, Aden Darrow, but I can’t place it,” the detective said. “Try checking my criminal file.”
After a hasty conference with his operative, Sam Radley, Mr. Hardy added, “Son, the way things are popping there in Bayport, I think Sam had better fly back and help you boys with your investigation. I’ll get hold of Jack Wayne. He should be able to land Sam there by midnight.”
“Okay, Dad. We’ll meet Sam at the airport.”
After signing off, Frank and Joe hurried upstairs to their father’s study. A thorough check of his file revealed no criminal listed under the name of Darrow.
“Dad must’ve been mistaken,” Joe concluded.
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were watching a movie on television. The brothers joined them.
“I suppose you boys would like a snack,” their aunt said after the program ended.
“We wouldn’t object,” Frank replied with a grin.
As Miss Hardy went out to the kitchen, Joe suddenly remembered the coin he had picked up near the mansion window. As he examined it the young sleuth gave a cry of excitement.
“Frank! Take a look at this!”
The coin appeared to be a brass lucky piece. On both sides it bore the design of a dragon!
“Wow! The same design Chet saw on that tiled square!” Frank exclaimed.
The boys began to discuss their new clue excitedly. Mrs. Hardy also looked at the lucky piece and pointed out the design of a violet above the dragon’s head. Soon Aunt Gertrude returned to the living room, carrying a tray of sandwiches, cookies, and milk. She, too, became curious and asked to see the brass coin.
“Why, this belonged to old Jerome Perth!” she announced triumphantly.
“How do you know?” Joe asked.
“From the design—that’s how,” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “It was his personal trademark.”
“Aunty, you’re wonderful!” Frank exclaimed.
“That swindling old reprobate used to hand out these pieces right and left,” she went on. “Especially when anyone asked him to contribute to charity! Used to say these would bring the holder luck, which was more important than money.” Miss Hardy sniffed. “The dragon was appropriate!”
“Well, since this is the design Chet described—the one he saw on the tiled square—we know he didn’t imagine it,” Joe said to Frank.
“But we still don’t know its purpose,” Frank pointed out.
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were keenly interested when they heard of Chet’s experience. Mrs. Hardy puckered her brow thoughtfully. “Gertrude, wasn’t there once a summerhouse near the Perth mansion?” she asked.
“I believe there was, Laura. Seems to me it fell into neglect and was torn down. Why?”
“I was just wondering if that tiled surface might have been the floor of the summerhouse.”
Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “I’ll bet you’ve hit it, Mother!” he exclaimed.
Frank nodded in agreement. “But in that case, why couldn’t we find it this morning?” he mused.
Before anyone could answer, the TV late news came on. “A bulletin just handed me,” said the newscaster, “states that a daring jewel robbery was pulled in Chicago at ten o’clock tonight. More than one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of uncut gems were stolen from the Spyker Jewelry Company. No further details as yet.”
“Wow! That phone tip of Dad’s must have been a fake!” Joe exploded. “I’ll bet Strang wanted to make sure Dad was safely sidetracked on Long Island before the gang pulled this new job!” 
Frank sprang to his feet. “Come on, Joe! We can do some more detective work tonight!”

 CHAPTER VII  
  A Fast Fade-out
“WHAT do you have in mind, Frank?” Joe asked.
“You weren’t sure Noel Strang was one of those men at the mansion tonight,” Frank explained, “but we do know we saw him this morning.”
“So?”
“If he was involved in this latest jewel robbery, he must have flown to Chicago. It’s the only way he could have reached there in time. Maybe we can check that out at the airport.” 
“Smart idea!” Joe agreed. “Wait—I’ll get the photo of Strang—we can use it if we need to ask the airlines’ personnel whether or not they’ve seen him.”
The Hardys reached the airport a few minutes before twelve. Joe said, “Let’s start by checking the passenger lists for today’s flights to Chicago.”
“Strang wouldn’t have used his own name if he were en route to commit a crime,” Frank objected.
“Maybe not, but how about one of his aliases?” Joe pointed to a paper with typewritten data pasted on the reverse side of Strang’s photo.
“Hey! That’s a thought!”
At each of the airline desks, the boys asked to see passenger lists for all flights to Chicago since that morning. Neither Strang’s name nor any of his known aliases was listed.
Joe showed one desk clerk the photo of Strang, but the man shook his head. “All the airline employes who are here now came on duty within the last hour.” Then he pointed to a porter who was lounging near a flight gate. “You might ask that skycap over there. And try Benny at the newsstand.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that.”
The boys showed their photograph to the porter and the newsstand operator. Neither recalled seeing such a man.
“How about charter flights?” Joe asked, “Let’s check on that at the information desk.”
The attendant on duty told the boys that they would have to inquire about this at the control tower. “That’s where the flight plans are filed,” he explained.
Before the Hardys could visit the tower, Joe spotted a plane coming in. “Skyhappy Sal!” he exclaimed. 
This was a charter ship of the Ace Air Service, operated by Jack Wayne. Jack was a veteran pilot who often flew assignments for Fenton Hardy. The brothers were soon shaking hands with Jack and his passenger, Sam Radley.
“Good flight?” Joe asked the wiry investigator.
Sam nodded. “Fast and smooth. Your dad thought you boys might brief me right away so we can plan some action.”
“We can start now,” Frank told him, then gave an account of the events that had taken place in Bayport. He told of the jewel robbery in Chicago, and added, “Joe and I were about to ask the tower if Strang might have taken off for Chicago on a charter flight.”
“I can do that,” Jack offered. “I know the dispatcher.”
“Swell,” said Frank. “Here’s a photo of Strang—one of the men in the tower may recognize him, if he took a special flight out of here today. In the meantime, there’s something the rest of us can be doing.”
“What’s that?” Radley asked.
“Check the airport parking lot and see if Strang’s foreign sports car is here.”
“Good thinking, Frank,” Radley said approvingly. “Your dad will tell you that a smart detective never takes anything for granted.”
While Jack Wayne started off to the control tower, the Hardys and Sam Radley headed for the parking area. Although it was now past midnight, there were still several cars on the lot.
As Sam and the boys began their inspection tour, a man stepped into view from between two rows of parked cars. Bull-necked and powerfully built, he had crew-cut hair and was wearing a loud sports jacket. At sight of the detectives, he hastily turned and retreated.
Sam Radley was startled. “That was Duke Makin!” he whispered.
“The racketeer and con man?” Joe asked, having heard his father mention the name.
“Yes,” Sam replied. “I wonder what he’s doing here.” His sleuthing instincts aroused, the detective strode forward to investigate. Frank and Joe followed eagerly.
Suddenly an engine roared and a car came zooming out of the darkness. Sam and the Hardys had to leap out of the way as it screeched past!
“That’s Strang’s sports car!” Frank shouted.
Makin was hunched at the wheel. A figure appeared to be huddled in the space behind the front seat, but the car whizzed by too quickly for a clear view. It swung out onto the road.
“Come on! Let’s follow him!” Frank urged.
The Hardys and Radley ran to the boys’ convertible, leaped in, and took off. But the chase seemed hopeless from the start. Makin, speeding recklessly, already was out of sight.
Frank gunned the convertible along for a few miles, but after they had passed several crossroads and turnoffs, all three agreed to abandon the pursuit as hopeless. Glumly, Frank headed back to the airport.
“What do you suppose Makin was up to, Sam?” he queried. “Think he could be in with Strang on the jewel robberies?”
Radley frowned and shrugged. “Must be some kind of tie-up, if he’s using Strang’s car. Trouble is, we don’t even know for sure that Strang’s involved in the robberies.”
“Looked to me as if someone was hiding in the car,” Joe remarked. “Maybe that was Strang himself, trying not to be spotted.”
“Could be,” Radley agreed. “But if so, why was he hanging around the airport parking lot at this time of night?”
When they arrived back at the airfield, Jack Wayne had important news. A charter plane—owned and piloted by a man named Al Hirff—had taken off at 9:37 P.M. The flight plan listed its destination as Chicago, and the ship was carrying a passenger named Norbert Smith.
“One of the tower operators was down on the field at the time,” Jack went on, “and he saw the passenger getting aboard. He says the guy looked just like this photograph of Strang!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Joe exclaimed. “For one thing, Strang wasn’t the fellow hiding in his own car.”
“Do you know this man Hirff?” Frank asked Jack.
“I’ve seen him,” the pilot replied. “He rented hangar space here about a week before I flew Sam down to Florida.”
“Jack,” said Radley, “could you stick around here and let us know when the plane gets back?”
The pilot nodded. “Sure. I have a cot in the office. Maybe I can get chummy with Hirff and pick up some information for you.”
“Good idea,” said Frank. “One thing more, Jack—keep an eye out for a black foreign sports car with a dented trunk. It may come here to pick up Strang when he gets back.”
“Wilco!” the pilot promised.
Radley was to bunk in the Hardys’ guest room overnight. As they drove home, the boys discussed the situation with him.
“The plane took off at 9:37,” Joe mused. “And the robbery took place at ten o’clock. It’s a cinch Strang couldn’t have made it to Chicago in time to pull the job!”
“Maybe he planned it that way,” Frank reasoned, “so he’d have a clear alibi in case his movements were checked. He could have had confederates steal the jewels. Then Strang showed up in Chicago immediately afterward to take charge of the loot and give the robbers a fast lift out of town.”
“You may have the answer,” Radley agreed.
When they arrived home, Mrs. Hardy greeted them with the news that her husband had radioed again. “He heard about the Chicago jewel robbery right after you left Long Island, Sam. He wants you to contact him at once.”
Radley and the boys hurried downstairs and warmed up the transmitter. Soon Fenton Hardy’s voice came over the speaker. Frank and Joe quickly reported the latest developments.
“Great work, sons!” the detective congratulated them. “This is the first solid clue we’ve had that may link Strang with the jewel thefts.”
“Want us to have him picked up for questioning if he comes back to Bayport?” Frank asked, taking the microphone from Joe.
“No, the local police would have no jurisdiction. Anyhow, they’d need a warrant from Chicago,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Besides, unless Strang were foolish enough to be carrying the loot with him-which I’m sure he isn’t—we still have no real evidence against him. Until we do, there’s no sense tipping our hand.”
“How about me, Fenton?” Sam Radley put in.
“I’ll probably need your help to cover all the angles in Chicago. Tell you what, Sam. If Strang is back in Bayport by eight tomorrow morning, stay there and work with the boys. Otherwise, hop the eight-thirty commercial flight to Chicago and I’ll meet you at O’Hare Airport. Tell Jack to stick around and give the boys a hand.”
Radley breakfasted early with the Hardys next morning, then the brothers took him to the airport. Hirff’s plane still had not returned, so Radley boarded the eight-thirty flight to Chicago.
Frank and Joe drove home and looked up Duke Makin in their father’s crime file. They learned that Makin had served time on three different convictions, and recently had been released from Sing Sing. Since then, so far as the dossier showed, no charge was pending against him.
Next, Frank called a real-estate agent who was a friend of Mr. Hardy’s and learned that the Perth estate had been handled by a realtor named Cyrus Lamkin. The boys drove to his office.
Lamkin sat at an old-fashioned roll-top desk. He was a pudgy white-haired man, whose vest was littered with cigar ash. “You’re the Hardy boys, eh?” he said, rising to shake hands. “Fine man, your father! What can I do for you?”
Frank asked guardedly if he could tell them the present status of the Perth mansion.
“Why, I sold that just a few months ago,” Lamkin replied. “Good price, too. I imagine the owners were glad to get that white elephant off their hands! They’re distant relatives of the original owner. Live out in Ohio.”
“Who bought it?” Joe asked.
“Man named Aden Darrow.” Frank and Joe gave a start of surprise as Lamkin went on, “He’s rather quick-tempered, but a very brilliant man apparently. Used to be a professor at Western State University.”
The Hardys looked at each other in amazement. Why would a college professor associate with a known crook like Strang?
Lamkin went on, “Funny how a piece of property can suddenly arouse interest in the real-estate market,” he mused conversationally. “Take that Perth place. Vacant for years. Then Darrow comes along and buys it. And now you lads are asking about the place. Second inquiry I’ve had in just a few days.”
“You mean someone else besides us has been asking about it?” Frank inquired.
“Yes, a prospective tenant came in the other day. He wanted to rent it.”
“Someone local?” Joe asked.
“No, from New York.” Lamkin paused to consult his calendar pad. “A Mr. Delius Martin.”
Again Frank and Joe were startled. The name was one of Duke Makin’s aliases!
After a short further conversation with Mr. Lamkin, the boys thanked the realtor and went out to their convertible.
“What do you make of it, Frank?” Joe said.
“Nothing—the puzzle’s getting more complicated all the time. A college prof rents the place, a notorious jewel thief moves in with him, and now we have to fit Makin in somewhere!”
The boys decided to check into Darrow’s background. But first they drove to the repair dock to see how work was progressing on the Sleuth. The manager promised to have the boat ready in three days.
Frank and Joe spotted the Napoli moored nearby. They were hailed by Tony Prito, who suggested they all go for a brief swim. 
“How about it?” Joe said, turning to his brother. “Our trunks are in the car.”
“Okay with me!”
Tony took the Napoli down the bay a short distance and they anchored at a pleasant spot in a sheltered cove. A cabin cruiser lay at anchor not far away. Frank and Tony took a quick plunge, then climbed back aboard to sun-bathe. Joe continued swimming by himself. 
Like a seal, Joe cut his way down through the cool, refreshing water. Then he swirled back toward the surface.
Suddenly he felt himself seized from underneath. A brawny arm clamped itself around his neck in a choking grip and pulled him down!

 CHAPTER VIII  
  Rock Hounds’ Shadow
JOE struggled desperately. He had already used up most of the air in his lungs even before he was attacked. Now he was being gripped beneath the surface, unable to call or signal for help!
Joe kicked and threshed, but he could not free himself from his attacker’s iron grip. The only result was a tightening of pressure against his Adam’s apple and a vicious jab in the ribs. When Joe tried to squirm around to face his assailant, the man rolled with him.
Joe’s lungs were soon near the bursting point. If only he could reach the surface!
Aboard the Napoli, Frank began to worry. “What’s Joe doing down there?” he muttered. 
“Maybe he met a mermaid,” Tony quipped lazily.
As Frank scanned the waters, he noticed an uprush of air bubbles about a hundred yards away. Wordlessly, he plunged over the side.
Cutting his way downward, Frank peered intently through the wavering transparent greenness. His heart pounded at what he saw. Joe was helpless in the grip of a goggled frogman!
As Frank stroked swiftly toward them, the frogman released his victim and swam off.
“Good grief! I hope I’m not too late!” Frank thought frantically.
Joe was limp, his head sagging as he slowly floated upward. Frank grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to the surface.
“Tony! Give us a hand!” Frank shouted as he broke water.
Tony had been watching anxiously for a sight of the Hardy boys. At Frank’s call, he sent the Napoli gliding toward them. In a few moments they had Joe safely aboard. 
“Get back to the dock! Fast!” Frank exclaimed. He positioned Joe as best he could in the bottom of the boat and quickly began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
The Napoli went planing over the water toward shore. The jouncing made Frank’s efforts doubly difficult, but by bracing himself against the side he managed to hold Joe fairly steady. 
Tony cut the engine and yelled for help as he brought the boat alongside the dock. Four men assisted the boys in lifting Joe out of the Napoli, then laid him full length on the dock. Frank quickly resumed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. 
“I’ve called an ambulance!” someone shouted.
But Joe was already reviving. Frank breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
“Boy! You sure had a close call!” Tony said, squatting down beside Joe.
“You’re telling me.” Joe grinned weakly. “I must’ve swallowed half of Barmet Bay!”
By the time the ambulance arrived, Joe was on his feet. He allowed the intern to examine him but refused to be taken to the hospital.
“Nothing doing. I’m okay,” he insisted.
“Well, I can’t force you.” The intern grinned and turned to Frank. “At least take him home and put him to bed for a while.”
Once they were seated in the convertible and the ambulance had departed, Joe protested, “Listen, I’m not sleepy! Why should I go to bed?” he argued. “Then we’d have to tell Mom what happened. And think of the fuss Aunt Gertrude would make!”
“Okay, if you’re sure you feel all right.”
As the boys walked back to the dock, Joe said, “The frogman who attacked me must have come from that cabin cruiser in the cove,” he reasoned.
“I think that cruiser pulled out before Frank and I started sun-bathing,” Tony objected.
“Joe could still be right. The cruiser could have left and arranged to pick up the frogman somewhere else,” Frank pointed out. “It’s a cinch he couldn’t have been lurking on shore, just waiting for us to show up. We didn’t even know, ourselves, that we’d be going to that particular spot to swim.”
“I guess you’re right,” Tony agreed, frowning thoughtfully. “Must’ve been just bad luck. The cruiser spotted us, and whoever was aboard decided this was a perfect chance to nail at least one of the Hardys.”
The boys boarded the Napoli and made a quick scouting trip back to the cove. The cruiser was nowhere in sight. Neither Tony nor the Hardys had paid enough attention to the craft to be able to identify it. Nor had Frank seen the frogman clearly enough to provide the police with a useful description. 
The boys dressed aboard the Napoli and headed back to the dock. Frank and Joe then said good-by to Tony and drove home. Chet Morton’s tomato-red jalopy was parked in front of the house. A girl was seated in one of the porch rockers. 
“That’s Iola!” Joe exclaimed as they drove up.
She came running to meet them as they got out of the car. “Oh, thank goodness!” Iola said excitedly. “I was afraid you might not get back in time!”
“Something wrong?” Frank asked.
“I think we’ve found the man who stole our amethyst—at least we think we know where he is!”
“Where?” Joe blurted.
Iola explained that she, Callie, and Chet had gone rock hounding again that morning in the hills outside Bayport. While they were trying to locate the spot where the girls had picked up the amethyst, they had glimpsed a man trailing them at a distance.
“Did he look like the fellow who questioned you at the gem shop?” Frank put in,
“He was skulking too far behind—and ducking out of sight whenever we looked back,” Iola said, “so we couldn’t be sure.”
“Where are Chet and Callie?” Joe asked.
“They stayed behind. We made a fire and now they’re having lunch—acting as if nothing’s wrong. But Chet told me to sneak back to the car and get you two.”
“Okay. Hop in your jalopy and lead the way,” Frank said. “We’ll follow you.”
Iola drove into the hills west of Bayport. Frank and Joe stayed close behind in their convertible. Finally the jalopy pulled off the road. The Hardys parked nearby.
“We’ll have to do some walking,” Iola said.
A five-minute hike brought them to a hill overlooking a narrow ravine. Iola explained that Chet and Callie were waiting just beyond. “And the man who’s been shadowing us is down there somewhere among all those rocks and shrubs—at least, he was when I left to get you.”
“A perfect setup,” Joe gloated. “Frank, suppose you and I go into the ravine at this end and flush him out? Then he’ll either have to break for high ground or go right out past Chet.”
Frank agreed to the plan, and the boys wound their way down the hillside and up the floor of the ravine. Iola headed along the brow of the hill to rejoin Chet and Callie.
The Hardys spread out, searching among the brush and boulders. Twenty minutes later they emerged at the opposite end of the small canyon, their faces registering disappointment. Chet and the girls ran to meet them.
“Did you find him?” Chet asked.
Frank shook his head. “No, but there are signs he was there.”
“We spotted a trail of broken brush where someone climbed out of the ravine,” Joe added.
Chet’s moonface sagged. “Rats! I thought sure we could nab him!”
“I’ll bet he guessed that Iola went for help,” Callie put in, “so he decided he’d better not stay around.”
The Hardys drove home, eager to tackle their investigation of Aden Darrow. Mrs. Hardy informed them that Jack Wayne had telephoned from the airport. Frank called him back.
“Strang landed about an hour ago,” Jack reported. “I tried to reach you, but couldn’t.”
“Anyone with him?” Frank inquired eagerly.
“Just the pilot, Al Hirff. That black sports car didn’t show up, but another car did. A tough-looking guy met them and drove off with Strang.”
“What about Hirff?”
“Still here at the airport. I tried to strike up a conversation with him, but no luck.”
“Good work, Jack,” Frank said. “Keep trying.”
Frank passed the news to Joe. The boys ate a quick lunch of sandwiches and lemon pie, and then prepared to place a long-distance call to Western State University. Before they could do so, the telephone rang. Joe answered.
“This is Mr. Filmer at the gem shop,” said the voice at the other end.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Filmer. Is anything up?”
“Well, a man came into my shop a while ago with three stones that he wanted me to appraise. I don’t know what sort of mystery you boys are working on, but I thought you might want to know—the stones were amethystsl”

 CHAPTER IX  
  Secret Cruiser
JOE’S pulse quickened when he heard of this promising new lead. “We’ll be right over to talk to you, Mr. Filmer!” he exclaimed.
Hanging up, he told Frank what the gem-shop proprietor had said.
“Maybe we’re onto something,” Frank agreed.
Aunt Gertrude paused in the midst of trimming a pie crust as they rushed out through the kitchen door. “Land sakes! Where are you boys off to now?” she scolded. “Don’t you realize you’ll ruin your digestions?”
“On your cooking? Why, Aunty!” Joe grinned and ducked out before she could retort.
The boys hopped into their convertible and drove to the shop on Bay Street. Although Mr. Filmer again looked somewhat nervous, and obviously had no desire to become involved in a criminal case, he seemed eager to be helpful.
“This man who brought the stones—had you ever seen him before?” Frank inquired.
“No, and he gave no name,” Mr. Filmer replied. “The amethysts were uncut stones—quite large.”
“Genuine?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.”
“Did you ask where he got them?” Joe put in.
“Well, I tried to find out where they came from, but he was very evasive. And he wouldn’t leave the stones for cutting and polishing, although I offered to do it very reasonably.”
“What did this fellow look like?” Frank asked.
“Oh, he was big and husky.” The proprietor’s Adam’s apple bobbed as if the thought made him uneasy. “And he was dressed rather sportily. His hair was bushy and he had on a plaid sport coat.”
Frank darted a surprised glance at Joe. The description clicked!
“Sounds like Duke Makin,” Joe muttered. Hoping for a further lead, he asked Mr. Filmer, “Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”
“I don’t think he came in a car,” the proprietor replied, “although someone may have dropped him off, I suppose. But I watched when he left and I saw him get into a taxi at that stand across the street.”
“How long ago was that?” Frank asked.
“Mmm,
say half an hour.” 
“Thanks, Mr. Filmer! You’ve been a big help!”
“Don’t mention it, boys.”
Frank and Joe hurried across the street. A taxi driver was slouched in his taxi, reading a newspaper. The boys described Makin to him and asked the man if he had seen what cab driver had driven off with him.
“That was Mike, I think. Should be back here soon, unless he picked up another fare.”
The Hardys returned to their convertible to wait. They fidgeted impatiently as twenty minutes went by. At last another taxi pulled into the stand. The first driver looked up from his paper, gave the boys a two-fingered whistle, and jerked his thumb toward the other taxi. Frank and Joe strode across the street and questioned the man who had just arrived.
“Sure, I know the guy you mean,” he told them. “I took him out to some little picnic ground on Shore Road.”
“Picnic
ground?” Joe echoed in surprise. 
“Yeah, it did seem like a funny place for him to get out,” the driver said. “I figured he probably planned to meet someone there.”
At Frank’s request, the driver described the spot and sketched a map. Frank tipped him, and the boys hurried back to their own car.
“Let’s take a look at the spot right now,” Joe proposed. “We might pick up a clue.”
“Right!” Frank took the wheel and soon their convertible was rolling along Shore Road.
In a few minutes they came to the spot the driver had described, a small clearing laid out for picnickers. A family was eating at one of the tables. Otherwise, the site was deserted.
The Hardys got out to look around. Beyond the clearing, the ground was wooded and sloped steeply down to the shore of Barmet Bay.
“I wonder what Makin was doing around here,” Joe said.
“He must have had some reason,” Frank said. “Maybe we can find it.” 
The two boys wandered around the fringes of the picnic area, peering among the trees and shrubbery. Suddenly Joe gasped and pointed toward the water.
“Look, Frank!”
Far below, and about a hundred yards to seaward from the point of the bay at which they were standing, the shore was indented by a reedy inlet. A cabin cruiser lay anchored close to shore.
“Oh—oh! I’ll bet that’s the answer, all right,” Frank agreed. “Maybe it’s the same cruiser the frogman came from!”
The Hardys scrambled along the brow of the slope until they were overlooking the inlet. Even here the cruiser was not completely visible. Its hull was screened by heavy clumps of reed and rushes, and the boys’ view was further blocked by the thick growth cresting the slope.
“Sure picked a good place to hide,” Joe muttered. “Let’s go down closer.”
The Hardys began picking their way cautiously down the steep hillside. But as the trees and brush thinned out, they themselves were exposed to view as they moved close to the cruiser. Suddenly they saw a man emerge from the cabin and cock one arm.
“Look out!” Frank cried out. “That may be a bomb he’s throwing!”
The boys flattened themselves in the underbrush as an object spun through the air.... Whoosh!
“A gas grenade!” Joe yelled to his brother. The boys sprang to their feet and hurried back up the slope as the throb of a boat engine reached their ears. In seconds the hillside was filled with billowing purple smoke!
Gasping, choking, and with tears streaming from their eyes, Frank and Joe finally reached the top of the hill and ran toward the picnic ground. The family at the table stared at them in wide-eyed excitement.
“What’s happening?” the man shouted.
“Some prankster in a boat down there threw a tear-gas grenade,” Frank said, so as not to alarm the group.
“Why, that’s terrible! Someone should call the police!” the man’s wife said.
“We’ll report it,” Frank promised.
Fortunately, an offshore breeze was blowing the smoke away from the picnic ground and out onto the bay. But the smoke screen hid the cruiser completely from view.
The Hardys hurried to their car and warmed up the short-wave set. Frank contacted the Coast Guard station and the radio operator on duty promised that an effort would be made to spot the cabin cruiser. There seemed little hope of identifying it, however, among all the other craft on the bay, especially since the boys had noticed no special features, not even the cruiser’s name.


  
Frank and Joe were glum as they drove home. “Do you suppose Makin was aboard?” Joe asked.
Frank shrugged and frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know. That inlet was practically a swamp—it sure didn’t look like an easy place to get on or off the cruiser. But the purple smoke was the same kind we ran into the other night. That would seem to link the cruiser itself to Strang.”
Joe glanced at his brother. “Incidentally, why did you ask Mr. Filmer if those amethysts were genuine?”
“Makin’s a confidence man plus his other rackets—remember? I thought he might be planning to use the stones for some con game.”


  
As soon as the brothers arrived home, Frank placed a call to Western State University. He explained that he wanted information about a former professor named Aden Darrow.
“I’ll connect you with Dean Gibbs,” the switchboard operator replied.
Frank identified himself to the dean.
“Oh, yes. I’ve often heard of your father,” Gibbs said. “What can I do for you?”
Frank explained that Darrow’s name had come up in connection with a case the Hardys were investigating. He asked if the dean could tell him anything about Darrow’s background.
“Up until last term, Professor Darrow taught a special course in crime-detection methods here,” Dean Gibbs replied. “He has a background in both physical and organic chemistry. Before he joined our faculty, he worked in police crime labs in several western cities.”
“Why did he leave the university?”
“Well, that was rather unfortunate,” Gibbs said. “You see, he had been trying to raise funds for research on a project which he claimed would be of great value to the police.”
“What sort of project?” Frank inquired.
“To be honest, we know very little about it. Professor Darrow had become secretive and suspicious. In fact, we felt he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. After the school refused to allot any money for his project, Darrow became extremely upset and resigned.”
“I see.” Frank was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “We were told he recently bought a house here in Bayport. Did he say what his plans were when he left the university?”
“No, not a word. In fact, we had no idea of his present whereabouts before you called.”
Frank was just hanging up when a plane roared low over the house. The boys could hear it turn and zoom back as if it were buzzing the Hardy residence.
“That may be Jack Wayne!” Joe exclaimed. He rushed to look out a window. “It’s Skyhappy Sal, all right. Maybe Jack wants to talk to us!” 
The boys dashed downstairs and switched on their two-way radio. Joe took the microphone.
“Hardys to Sal.... Can you read us?” 
The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker, “Loud and clear, Joe! Listen, I think I’ve picked up a hot lead from Hirff. It may tie in with those jewel robberies your dad is—”
Jack’s voice was drowned by a sudden burst of static. When it came through again, it was so faint the Hardys could catch only a few words:
“If the tigers bite
... amethyst ...” 
There was another burst of static. The radio message died out completely!

 CHAPTER X  
  The Ghostly Figure
JOE tuned the receiver anxiously, trying to restore a clear signal.
“Hardys to Sal! Come in, please! ... Hardys calling Sal!”
There was no response. The two boys looked at each other, worried and mystified.
“What do you suppose went wrong with the transmission, Joe?” his brother muttered.
“Search me. What I’m wondering is whether Jack’s okay!”
The brothers ran up the basement stairs and dashed outdoors. Shading their eyes, they scanned the sky. Jack’s plane was now a mere speck in the blue, rapidly dwindling from sight. It was heading on a southerly course.
“At least he’s still up there!” Frank said, half under his breath.
Joe added, “Let’s hope he makes it all the way—wherever it is he’s going!”
The boys went indoors and tried for a while longer to re-establish radio contact with Skyhappy Sal, but their efforts were unsuccessful. Frank and Joe returned to the living room and slumped into comfortable chairs. 
“I’d sure like to know what Jack was trying to tell us,” Frank brooded.
“So would I. That message was weird!” Joe furrowed his brow, trying to make sense out of the few words that had filtered through. “If the tigers bite ... What could he possibly have been referring to, Frank?” 
“Don’t ask me. It’s strictly Greek as far as I’m concerned.” Frank scowled in deep thought. “‘Tigers’ might refer to animals in some zoo, I suppose. Or maybe to tigers being brought into the country by some animal importer.”
Joe shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched. Jack was flying south. That might mean he was heading for the Caribbean area.” 
“Maybe. So what?”
“Well, they have jaguars down in Central America. And, in Spanish, the jaguar is called tigre.”
“For that matter, what about tiger sharks?” Frank broke off abruptly and sprang up from his chair. “Wait a minute! We must be getting daffy with the heat. We can find out where Jack’s going just by checking with the airport tower!”
Frank strode to the telephone in the front hall and dialed. He talked for a few moments, then hung up and returned to the living room, wearing a frustrated expression.
“The tower operator says Jack didn’t file a flight plan—which probably means he’s just making a brief local flight.”
“Then we should be hearing from him soon,” Joe suggested.
“We hope!” Frank added, crossing his fingers.
Just then a car pulled up in front of the house with a squeal of tires and a series of loud backfires.
“Don’t tell me—let me guess. It’s Chet Morton,” said Frank.
Joe grinned and glanced out a window at Chet’s red jalopy. “Who else?” He went to open the front door as their chunky friend came bounding up the walk. “Hi, Hercules! How’d you make out on the amethyst trail?” Joe asked.
“We didn’t.” Chet went on into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. “Those girls still can’t remember where they picked up the stone—and we didn’t find any new ones, either.”
“Tough luck,” Frank sympathized.
The Hardys gave Chet news of the latest developments, including Jack Wayne’s radio message.
“Tigers?” Chet’s eyes bulged. “I hope you’re not going to be bumping into any of those on this case!” He paused to sniff the aroma wafting from the kitchen. “Mmm! Do I smell chicken?” 
“Fried chicken.” Mrs. Hardy had paused at the door and smiled as she glanced in. “And there’ll be honey to go with Aunt Gertrude’s hot biscuits. Would you like to have dinner with us, Chet?”
“Would
I? Boy, and how! But I’d better call Mom and let her know.” 
An hour later, the meal just over, the doorbell rang. Frank went to answer it.
“Telegram for Frank and Joe Hardy,” said a messenger.
Frank signed for it and ripped open the yellow envelope as he brought it into the living room.
“Hey! It’s from Dean Gibbs at Western State University!” He read the telegram aloud: 
PROFESSOR DARROW’S SISTER EAGER TO FIND HIM. IF POSSIBLE PLEASE CONTACT PROFESSOR. ASK HIM TO CALL HER.
“Wow! What a break!” Joe exploded.
Chet looked puzzled. “How do you figure that?”
“This gives us a perfect excuse to go right up to the Perth mansion and find out what’s going on!” Frank explained. “Want to come along?”
“Well, I dunno.” Chet squirmed uncomfortably. “Maybe you’d better count me out.”
“Don’t be chicken. You’re coming with us!” Joe said, slapping the plump youth on the back.
Frank said, “I just thought of something. If Professor Darrow taught crime-detection methods, maybe we can find some articles by him in Dad’s journals. That’ll give us material to work up a conversation with him. It might even furnish us a clue to his research project!”
“Good idea!” Joe agreed enthusiastically.
In their father’s study the Hardys checked the annual index of each of the three criminology journals to which their father subscribed. They could find only one article authored by Aden Darrow. It dealt with new data on the power of light beams.
Although the article gave no hint of Darrow’s present field of research, it did include a photograph of the professor demonstrating some ultraviolet equipment. He wore eyeglasses and was bald, with a rumpled fringe of gray hair.
“Well, at least we know what he looks like,” Joe remarked.
The boys hurried to the Hardys’ convertible. A red glow of sunset suffused the western sky as they drove out of Bayport’s residential district and into the wooded outskirts of town. Soon they pulled up on the dirt lane directly in front of the Perth mansion.
“You fellows handle it,” Chet said. “I’ll stay in the car.”
Grinning, Frank and Joe walked up the tree-covered slope to the house. Joe pressed the doorbell. Moments passed. He was about to ring again when the door suddenly opened. A tall, dark-haired, hatched-faced man confronted them.
Noel Strang!
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded, giving the boys a hard stare.
“We have a message for the man who lives here,” Frank said boldly.
“I
live here,” Strang retorted. “What is it?” 
“We mean Professor Aden Darrow,” Frank said, displaying the telegram.
Strang reached out to take it, but Frank made no effort to give him the paper. “Sorry, but the message is personal. It’s from his sister.”
“Too bad!” Strang snapped. “Professor Darrow suffered a breakdown from overwork and had to leave on a long vacation. I have no idea how to reach him.”
“Did he go out of the country?” Joe spoke up. “If so, maybe we could—”
The door slammed in the boys’ faces!
Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly then turned and started down the veranda steps. In the gathering dusk a light suddenly blazed on in an upstairs window. Joe glanced up over his shoulder, then clutched Frank’s arm.
“Look!” he exclaimed.
Through the window curtain, they glimpsed a man who seemed to resemble Professor Darrow! An instant later he moved out of sight.
“Strang’s probably watching us,” Frank muttered. “Let’s go!”
At the car they discussed their next move.
“Let’s drive around till it gets dark, and then come back and keep watch on that window,” Joe suggested.
“Okay,” Frank agreed.
Leaving the dirt lane, the boys cruised back and forth along the main road until darkness had closed in. Then they returned and parked their convertible well out of range of the house. Taking flashlights, the boys started up the slope. Chet was not enthusiastic but agreed to accompany them.
Suddenly Frank paused as moonlight glinted off something on the ground. He switched on his flashlight cautiously, covering the lens with his fingers to shade the glow.
There lay the square tiled surface Chet had described to them!
The dragon design was formed in colored mosaic. 
“That’s it!” Chet whispered excitedly.
“How come we couldn’t find it before?” Joe said.
“Maybe sometimes it’s covered over with brush and loose shrubbery—on purpose,” Frank reasoned.
Before they could examine the spot more closely, Chet gasped and pointed off to the left. A white figure was moving slowly among the trees!
“It’s that spook again!” Joe exclaimed. “This time, let’s nail him!”
Chet moved his lips in speechless terror, but rather than be left behind, he went lumbering off after the two Hardys.
Frank and Joe sprinted straight toward the ghostly figure, determined not to let it elude them a second time. But the phantom had already seen them and went darting off like a vanishing wisp of mist.
The pursuit circled and zigzagged about the mansion grounds. Chet soon lost all fear as he became convinced that the fleeing specter was only flesh and blood. He joined in the chase with zest, his sturdy legs pumping as if he were pursuing a rival team’s ballcarrier on the Bayport High football field.
Frank was in the lead, with the other two boys on either side searching swiftly among the trees.
“Joe! Can you see him?” Frank called back. “I think he went that way!”
There was no answer. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then gasped.
Joe had disappeared!

 CHAPTER XI  
  A Parcel of Gems
FRANK skidded to a halt and peered intently through the darkness. “Joel” he called in almost a whisper. “Joe! Where are you?”
Chet hurried to Frank’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know. Joe was only a few yards from me just a minute ago. Now I can’t see him.”
Chet glanced around. The white phantom had also disappeared—swallowed up in the gloom.
Suddenly Joe’s muffled voice reached their ears. “This way, you guys! But watch your step! I fell down a hole!”
Frank and Chet hurried toward the sound, with Frank beaming his flashlight over the ground in front of them. Both boys stopped as the yellow glow revealed a large, square hole.
“Hey! There’s that tiled thing!” Chet exclaimed. “But it’s open!”
Frank saw that the whole tiled surface had flapped downward. It was now hanging flush against one side of the hole, its colored mosaic glistening in his light.
“I’m down here,” called Joe. “That tiled square must be hinged like a trap door. Either its supports gave way, or someone must’ve opened it by remote control. And that’s not all—there’s a tunnel down here!”
Frank shone his flashlight down the hole. It was brick-walled and about twelve feet deep. In the side opposite the flap-down tiled surface was an opening just large enough for Joe to enter without stooping. Alongside this opening, a metal ladder was attached to the wall, for climbing in or out of the hole.
“Wow!” Chet dropped to his knees and peered below. “Where do you suppose that opening leads?”
“I’ll bet there’s a tunnel going all the way to the house,” Joe answered, shining his own beam through the opening.
Frank told Chet of Mrs. Hardy’s theory that the tiled surface had been the floor of an old summerhouse. He added, “The summerhouse was probably built on purpose to hide this end of the tunnel.”
“That’s quite a drop,” Frank said anxiously. “Are you hurt, Joe?”
“No! I managed to break the fall. It was easy after some of those judo slams we’ve taken! Besides, this floor feels spongy. It must have been padded in case of an accident.”
Frank peered in all directions. “Looks as though we’ve lost our spook for good.”
“Then let’s search this tunnel,” Joe proposed.
Chet gulped uneasily. “How do you know what we’ll find at the other end?”
“We don’t. That’s why we want to find out.”
“B-b-but you said yourself that someone may have opened this by remote control,” Chet said shakily. “How do we know the crooks aren’t using the tunnel right now? And—and they may even be trying to lure us into a trap!”
Joe chuckled and aimed his flashlight into the tunnel entrance. “There’s some kind of phone in there, hanging on a hook—probably an intercom to the house. Want me to call and ask?”
Frank looked serious. “I think Chet has a point, Joe. Maybe one of us should stay here—outside the tunnel—in case of emergency.” 
“Okay, you two flip a coin. Me for the tunnel!”
Frank spun a nickel, caught it, and slapped the coin on the back of his other hand. “Winner goes with Joe. You name it, Chet.”
“Uh—well—heads.”
Frank shone his beam on the coin. “Heads. Guess you’re elected, Chet. But look—you don’t have to go! Why don’t you stay here and I’ll—” 
“Nothing doing,” Chet protested bravely. “I won the toss, so I’ll go.” With the look of a condemned man en route to the electric chair, the pudgy youth climbed down the metal ladder. He could smell the dank, musty passageway.
Joe was already inside the tunnel entrance. “Come on!” he called back over his shoulder.
As Chet followed Joe into the tunnel, his bulky form brushed the intercom phone off its hook. Instantly a red light flashed on, evidently a signal to indicate that the circuit was now “live”—no doubt a buzzer was ringing at the other end of the line!
Chet clutched Joe. They stared at the unit as if it were a rattlesnake about to strike.
Suddenly a voice crackled from the phone. “Hello ... hello!” Joe snatched up the instrument as the voice went on, “Is that you, Waxie?” 
Joe responded in a curt, flat tone, “Yeah?”
“Well, what do you want now?” the voice inquired irritably. “What did you come back for?”
Joe glanced helplessly at Chet; then, snatching at the first inspiration that came into his head, he replied nasally, “Orders.”
“Orders? What’s the matter with you, Waxie? You gettin’ absent-minded? The boss gave you all the dope—about the disappearing floor—” The voice broke off as if the speaker had suddenly become suspicious. “Wait a minute! What’s going on out there? Who is this?”
Joe dropped the phone and gave Chet a shove. “Come on! Let’s go!” he muttered urgently. “Now we’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest!” 
The boys scrambled up the ladder and told Frank what had happened. All three ran for the car. In moments Frank was gunning the motor and the convertible was roaring off down the lane.
“What a bad break!” Joe grumbled as they turned onto the main road.
“It was my fault,” Chet admitted, “and I’m sorry. But I sure learned something—namely, not to get mixed up in any more of your nutty cases! So next time count me out!”
The Hardys chuckled and Joe apologized for his remark. Between them, the two young sleuths managed to make Chet change his mind by telling him they could not get along without him.
The mantel clock in the living room was just chiming nine when Frank and Joe arrived home. A note propped on the dining-room table explained that their mother and Aunt Gertrude had gone to visit a neighbor down the street.
The boys got apples and milk from the refrigerator. Frank poured two glasses and they sat down in the kitchen to discuss their case.
“Think we should notify the police?” Joe said.
“About Darrow?” Frank shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know. We’re not sure it was he that we saw. For all we know, he may have told Strang not to admit any visitors. Remember, Dean Gibbs said he had become very huffy.”
Joe nodded. “I sure wish Dad or Sam Radley were here to advise us.”
A moment later the radio signal buzzer sounded from the basement. “Maybe that’s Dad now!” Joe exclaimed, setting down his glass and tossing his apple core into the garbage can.
The boys rushed downstairs and soon established radio contact with their father, who was calling from Chicago.
“Sam and I are still sifting leads here,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The thieves seem to have covered their tracks pretty well. Incidentally, the same method was used as on all the other jobs. The private patrolman guarding the place blacked out and has no recollection of what happened.”
The detective listened as Frank and Joe brought him up to date on events in Bayport. He, too, was baffled by Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message. When the boys asked what to do about the situation at the Perth mansion, he was silent for a moment, then said:
“That window at which you think you saw Darrow—was it barred or heavily screened in any way?”
“No, it was partly open,” Joe replied.
“Then if the man was Darrow, it hardly sounds as if he’s being held against his will. Strang undoubtedly has some kind of undercover setup there at the mansion. Darrow may not be aware of it. And we still have no proof Strang’s involved in these jewel thefts. Proof is what we need before we move in on him. Meantime, I have another job for you boys.”
Mr. Hardy explained that he had just received another anonymous phone tip. “The caller simply said ‘Go to Haley Building—Bayport’ and then hung up. Sounds to me like another fake lead, but I wish you boys would check it.”
“We’ll do it right away, Dad,” Frank promised.
Two minutes later the brothers’ convertible was speeding downtown. It pulled up in front of a new office building on Main Street.
An elderly night watchman was seated at a desk in the lobby. As Frank and Joe entered, he glanced up at the wall clock, which read 9:41.
“Kind o’ late, you fellers. This place’ll be closin’ up in about twenty minutes—in fact, the building’s practically empty now. Someone you wanted to see?”
When Frank showed his identification, the watchman’s face brightened. “Oh, Fenton Hardy’s boys, eh? Well, I’m pleased to meet you!”
Frank told why they had come and asked if anything unusual or suspicious had happened that evening. The watchman shook his head.
“No. Except a parcel o’ gems was delivered to Paul Tiffman up on the fifth floor ‘round eight-thirty. But I knew beforehand that was comin’. Tiffman’s a diamond merchant, y’see. When he stays late like tonight to receive a delivery, he always tells me. Most nights, everyone’s gone by six.”
Both Frank and Joe had stiffened at the mention of gems. Before they could comment, the elevator signal rang. The watchman rose.
“ ’Scuse me, boys. I have to double as elevator operator after six o’clock. That must be Tiffman now, wantin’ to go home.”
The Hardys asked to ride up. When the watchman opened the elevator door on five, they saw a worried-looking man, plump and dark-mustached. “Hasn’t that messenger arrived yet?” he asked.
The watchman looked surprised. “Why sure, Mr. Tiffman. He was here at eight-thirty. I took him up, and then brought him down again later after he delivered those gems to you.”
Tiffman’s jaw dropped open. “Are you crazy?” he spluttered. “I haven’t received any gems. No one has come to my office this evening!”

 CHAPTER XII  
  The “Seacat” Clue
THE watchman stared at the diamond merchant. Both their faces were turning an angry crimson.
“Mr. Tiffman, I don’t know what kind of a joke you’re playin’,” the watchman said, “but I saw that messenger with my own eyes!”
“And I don’t know, Mike, what kind of a joke you’re playing!” Tiffman roared back. “I tell you no messenger came to my office!” 
“Can’t help that! He came here and left!”
“I think you’d better call the police at once,” Frank put in quietly.
“Who are you?” Tiffman snapped.
“We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detective.” Frank explained about the anonymous phone tip. Tiffman’s attitude promptly changed.
The watchman called the police. A prowl car was at the building within moments, and Chief Collig arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by a plain-clothes detective.
“You boys watch the door,” Collig told the two prowl car officers. “The rest of you come upstairs to Mr. Tiffman’s office.”
The five crowded into the elevator and rode up. Tiffman’s office door was flush-paneled with a pane in one corner. It was marked “507” in modernistic metal numbers, and the name plate below said: PAUL TIFFMAN, Gemologist.
After the Hardys had told Collig about the anonymous tip-off and the two men had told their stories, the police chief commented, “Sounds to me as if that messenger pulled a fast one.”
“You mean he simply walked off without delivering the gems?” When Collig nodded, Tiffman frowned and shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. If he were planning to flee with the diamonds, why bother coming to Bayport at all?”
“Is there any chance he could have been waylaid between the elevator and this office?” Joe put in. “If so, the thug might have dragged his body somewhere out of sight, and then gone down in the elevator posing as the messenger.”
Collig turned to Mike. “How about it? You sure the man you took down was the same man you brought up here?”
“Sure was,” the watchman said tartly, “unless he was awful good at disguises. That messenger had red hair, freckles, and a wart on his cheek. So did the man who rode down.”
“Have you ever seen this messenger?” Collig asked Tiffman.
“Wouldn’t know him from Adam.”
“Who sent him?”
Tiffman named a firm of diamond importers in New York City.
“Ever had deliveries from them before?”
Once again Tiffman shook his head. “Normally I make buying trips to New York once a month and select my gems right there,” he explained. “But it happens I want to show a special selection to a wealthy client out in Dorset Hills tomorrow. The New York firm was expecting a new shipment from South Africa today, so they promised to make up a parcel and rush it down here tonight.”
“How was the messenger traveling?” Collig inquired.
“By train—at least they told me he’d get in on the eight-fifteen.”
Collig picked up the phone and called New York City Police Headquarters and asked them to watch the incoming trains. He also called Bayport Headquarters and told his desk sergeant to put out a statewide alarm for the messenger. Finally he tried to contact the diamond importers, but evidently their office was closed for the night.
“Well, that’s about all we can do now,” Collig said, hanging up. “But we’ll have that messenger here with some answers tomorrow morning or my name’s not Clint Collig!”
Frank and Joe hurried home, intending to radio their father immediately and report the mystery. But their mother, who had returned with Aunt Gertrude, told them he could not be reached.
“Your father called while you boys were gone,” she explained. “He and Sam Radley had to rush down to Gary, Indiana, to follow up some urgent clue, and they probably won’t get back to Chicago before tomorrow afternoon.”
Next morning, the Hardys still had no further word from Jack Wayne, so they drove to the airport to make inquiries about him. At the office of the Ace Air Service, they found a young freelance pilot named Tom Lester, who often handled charter flying assignments for Jack.
“Are you boys looking for Jack, too?” he asked.
“We sure are,” Frank replied. He told Tom about the puzzling interrupted radio message.
Tom could offer no explanation. “It certainly sounds strange. What worries me is that Jack filed no flight plan. Ordinarily, under those circumstances, I would have expected him to be back last night.”
“Do you think he may have crashed?” Frank inquired anxiously.
“It’s possible—especially if his radio conked out. That would explain why he hasn’t called for help.” Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you boys feel like telling me any more about this case you’re working on?”
Knowing the young pilot could be trusted, the Hardys filled him in on the mystery. Tom Lester’s keen blue eyes showed interest at once.
“Sounds to me as if Jack’s onto something big,” Tom surmised. “Maybe he even managed to worm himself into Hirff’s confidence. If he went to meet some of the gang, maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to contact you again.”
“That makes sense, all right,” Joe said.
“He didn’t leave any message for you on his desk?” Frank asked Lester.
The pilot shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything. Let’s take another look.”
Almost at once Frank pounced on Jack Wayne’s phone pad. “Look at this!” he exclaimed.
The pad bore a scribbled notation in Jack’s handwriting: Amethyst calling Seacat.
Tom read the message with a frown. “That word ‘amethyst’ ties in with his radio call!”
“Do you know this guy Al Hirff?” Frank asked.
“I know of him, and I’ve seen him,” Lester replied, “but I’ve never met him.” 
“Let’s look for him,” Frank suggested. “If we could work him into a casual conversation, we might fish out a clue.”
The private rented hangar in which Al Hirff kept his own plane was locked. The Hardys and Tom Lester wandered around the airport, looking into other hangars and the passenger terminal, but could not find Hirff. When Frank and Joe finally left, Tom promised to keep his eyes open for the pilot.
From the airport, the boys drove straight to Bayport Police Headquarters for news on the previous night’s diamond mystery. On the way they discussed the curious notation on Jack’s phone pad.
“That word ‘Seacat’ sounds to me like the name of a boat,” Joe speculated.
Frank agreed. “You know, Joe, it might even be the name of that mystery cabin cruiser!”
At headquarters the desk sergeant told them to go on into Chief Collig’s office. A red-haired man, freckled, and with a wart on one cheek, was seated in front of the chief’s desk.
“Glad you’re here, boys,” Collig told them. “This is Dan O’Bannion, the messenger.”
The Hardys listened to O’Bannion’s story.
“Like I told Chief Collig,” the messenger said, “I took that parcel of gems straight up to Tiffman’s office. I delivered them to him and went right back to New York on the next train.”
“Did you get a receipt?” Frank asked.
“You bet I did! It’s on the chiefs desk.”
Collig held up an official receipt form. It was signed “Paul Tiffman.”
“I’ve called Tiffman and asked him to come over here,” Collig added.
When the diamond merchant arrived, O’Bannion looked astonished. “This isn’t the man I gave the gems to!” he exclaimed.
“And I’ve never seen you before, either,” Tiffman said tartly. 
“You certainly weren’t in the office when I arrived,” the messenger agreed.
“I was in my office every minute of the evening. And nobody could have taken my place!”
Tiffman added that the signature on the receipt form was not his, and proved it by displaying his driver’s license and other identification cards. O’Bannion shrugged, tight-lipped.
Frank suggested they all go to the Haley Building. “If we reconstruct what happened last night, it may throw a new light on the mystery.”
“Good idea, Frank!” Chief Collig said.
In ten minutes they were on their way to Tiffman’s office. As they stepped off the elevator, the messenger’s expression changed.
“What’s the matter?” Joe asked him.
O’Bannion pointed to a large, unsightly crack in the wall plaster. “I’m positive that crack wasn’t there last night,” he said.
“It’s been there for the past two weeks,” Tiffman said. “Some careless workmen banged into the wall when they were delivering furniture.”
When they entered Tiffman’s office, O’Bannion looked more bewildered. “This wasn’t the office I came to!” he exclaimed. “The furnishings were altogether different!”
“Maybe you need glasses!” Collig snapped. “Didn’t you look at the sign on the door?”
“I did look!” O‘Bannion flared back. “The office number was 507 and the sign said, ‘Paul Tiffman, Gemologist’!”
Chief Collig’s face took on a tinge of purple. “I’m sending for the county polygraph expert!” he roared, thumping his fist on the desk. “You and Mr. Tiffman and the night watchman are all going to get lie-detector tests!”
“That suits me fine!” O’Bannion snapped.
Frank and Joe were mystified as they drove away from the Haley Building. Both boys would have liked to go out in their boat to sift through their thoughts in the fresh salt air and sunshine. Since the Sleuth was not yet repaired, they settled for a drive to the harbor. 
The Napoli was moored at the dock. Tony was touching up worn spots with varnish, while Chet Morton lolled on a thwart, practicing knots. Frank and Joe strolled out to chat with them. 
“Anything new on the case?” Tony asked.
“Plenty,” Joe grumbled. “The problem is how to unravel it all.”
“Rats!” Chet muttered. “I just can’t seem to tie a bowline on a bight!”
Suddenly Frank let out a gasp. “Maybe that’s what Jack Wayne’s message meant!”

 CHAPTER XIII  
  Snoop Camera
JOE gave his brother a puzzled look, at first seeing no connection between Chet’s remark and Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message.
“What do you mean, Frank?”
“Look! We’ve been assuming all along that when Jack said ‘tigers’ bite’ he meant the kind of biting that’s done with teeth,” Frank observed.
Joe exclaimed, “I get it! You think he was talking about the kind of bight spelled b-i-g-h-t!”
“Exactly.”
“You mean the message had something to do with a rope or line?” Chet asked blankly.
Frank shook his head. “That wouldn’t make much sense. But remember, ‘bight’ can also mean a sort of bay or indentation in a coastline. In other words, maybe Tigers’ Bight is the name of a place.”
Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “Sure! Tigers’ Bight could be the name of the place Jack was heading when we saw him fly south!”
“Any of you fellows ever hear that name before?” Frank asked.
Chet shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Not me.”
Joe also had to admit that the name was new to him. But Tony frowned thoughtfully. “That rings a bell. I have a hunch I have heard it.” 
“Where?” the Hardys asked in chorus.
“I don’t know. But if you’re right, it must be some place along the coast. Maybe I’ve been there in the Napoli. Why don’t we look on a map?” 
Tony opened his boat locker and took out a sailing chart of the Barmet Bay area. He and Chet then climbed up onto the dock, and the boys spread out the chart. But after poring over it for several minutes, they could find no such name as Tigers’ Bight.
“Another clue conked out!” Joe muttered.
“Let’s not give up too soon,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s not important enough to show on the map—or maybe the name’s not official.”
“Why don’t you ask old Clams Dagget?” Chet suggested.
“That’s an idea,” Joe said. “He’d certainly know if anyone would.”
Dagget was a retired seafaring man, who now operated a ferry service to Rocky Isle in Barmet Bay.
Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Clams won’t be here to pick up any more passengers before one-thirty. Let’s go home and have lunch, Joe. We can stop by later and ask him.”
“Okay. I can sure use some chow!”
Each of the boys ate two hamburgers and a generous portion of French fried potatoes. They were just finishing helpings of Aunt Gertrude’s old-fashioned strawberry shortcake when the telephone rang. Tom Lester was calling from the airport.
“Al Hirff just showed up,” the pilot told Frank. “If you want to talk to him, now’s your chance.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Right now he’s in the hangar, checking his plane. He has a pug nose and wears his hair in long sideburns. You can’t miss him.”
“Okay. Thanks, Tom.” Frank hung up and told Joe. “It’s not one o’clock yet. Let’s whip out to the airport before we see Clams Dagget.”
“Suits me. And say, why don’t I take my new camera along and snap Hirff’s picture? Dad might recognize him.”
“Good idea.”
Joe had recently bought an ultraminiature camera from money he had saved. It could be attached to his lapel for taking secret photographs. Both boys slipped on sport jackets to allay suspicions on Joe’s maneuver.
A short time later they pulled into the airport parking lot and headed for Hirff’s hangar. The door was open, and inside they could see a big, twin-engined amphibian plane. But the pilot was not in sight.
The boys walked cautiously into the hangar to look around for him. Joe shot an inquisitive glance at the airplane’s cabin, but the fuselage was too high for a full inside view. He climbed up and noticed a folded navigation chart, with penciled markings, clipped above the pilot’s seat.
“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “I see a chart of the Bayport coastal area—and it has some markings on it!”
Frank warned, “Watch it, Joe! Here he comes now!” A man who answered Tom Lester’s description of Hirff was striding toward the hangar!
Joe quickly unhooked his lapel camera, held it up, and snapped a picture of the map. Then he jumped down.
“What’re you punks doing here?” the pilot yelled, charging into the hangar almost at a run.
Joe calmly snapped Hirff’s picture, then slipped the camera into the sport-coat pocket. The pilot, livid with rage, tried to hurl Frank aside and get at Joe.
Instead, Frank met the attack. He spun him around with a judo grip and followed with a punch to the jaw that landed the man on the floor. Hirff sat up and blinked in surprise.
Frank repressed a grin. “If you want me to step out of the way, just ask politely.”
Hirff got to his feet, scowling. “All right, wise guys! Suppose I call the cops!”
“Go ahead,” Frank said coolly. “The hangar was open so we walked in to say hello. Didn’t touch a thing.”
“When the police get here,” Joe added, “maybe we can chat about Tigers’ Bight.”
The remark was a shot in the dark. Joe had hoped it might startle Hirff or provoke some interesting reaction. But the effect was out of all proportion to what Joe had expected. Hirff’s face paled and all the bluster seemed to go out of him.
“I ... I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hirff faltered. “Sorry if I lost my temper. Thought maybe you kids had sneaked in here to strip the plane or something. Go on now, scram, and we’ll forget all about it!”
“Sure, if that’s the way you want it.” Frank turned to his brother. “Come on,” he said.
Joe could not resist a parting taunt. “If you change your mind about calling the police,” he needled, “they can find us at the boat dock.”
Both boys could feel Al Hirff’s eyes burning into their backs as they walked toward the parking lot. Driving away, Frank remarked, “Boy! You sure struck gold that time ! But I hope it wasn’t a mistake, telling him our next move.”
Joe shrugged. “I doubt if the gang would try any dirty work in broad daylight. Anyhow, if they do, so much the better. That’s one way to draw ’ em into the open!” 


  
Frank met the man’s attack
At the boat dock a few passengers had already boarded the Sandpiper. But Clams Dagget was leaning against a bollard, smoking his corncob pipe, apparently in no hurry to shove off. He greeted the Hardys with a nod. “Hi, lads! How’s the detective business?” 
“Booming,” Frank replied with a smile. “Maybe you can help us. Ever hear of a place called Tigers’ Bight?”
“Sure. Down south of the bay. I once lost an anchor there.”
The Hardys became excited.
“We couldn’t find it on the map,” Joe said.
“Ain’t surprised,” Clams said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. “That’s just a nickname. ’Bout ten years ago there was a coupl’ attacks on swimmers by tiger sharks that come in the bight, so folks thereabouts took to callin’ it Tigers’ Bight. No one goes there much any more. Pretty desolate now.”
Frank took out a pencil and a scrap of paper, and asked Dagget to draw a map so he and Joe could find the place. The old ferryman obliged.
The Hardys thanked him and started back to their convertible, which they had parked in a vacant lot on the opposite side of the road. As the two boys passed a roadside stand facing the road, Joe let out a startled yelp.
“Frank! Look!” Their car door was open and a man was pawing through the glove compartment!
Frank and Joe started to dart across the road but had to pause for a break in traffic. The man glanced around warily, saw them, and immediately fled through the lot. By the time the Hardys crossed the road, he was leaping into a waiting sedan. It sped off with a roar.
“Let’s go!” Frank shouted, rushing toward the convertible. He slid behind the wheel and Joe slipped in beside him. Frank whirled the car around, sent it bumping and bouncing across the lot, then shot out onto the road.
The chase continued for over a mile, with the sedan clearly in view. Then the Hardys saw it turn off to the right.
Moments later, the convertible reached the same spot and Frank swung the wheel. The car took the turn with a screech of rubber. They were now in a winding dirt lane with woods on both sides, and the sedan was out of sight.
Bang!
The convertible suddenly spun out of control. Frank jammed on the brakes, seesawed the wheel, and managed to bring it to a lurching stop just before it crashed into some trees. 
“Whew!” Joe let out a gasp of relief.
Somewhat pale and shaken, the boys climbed out to survey the damage.
“Left front tire’s flat,” Frank announced.
“And there’s what did it.” Joe pointed to a wicked-looking array of tacks, bent nails, and broken glass scattered across the lane. “Those crooks must’ve tossed the stuff out of their car before we turned into the lane.”
Disgusted, the Hardys got a jack out of their trunk and set about changing the flat tire.
Suddenly a small object flew spinning from the trees across the lane. It landed near the convertible and sent up a gush of purple smoke!
Frank stiffened in anger. “Look out, Joe!” he warned. “We’re being attacked!”
Three men wearing gas masks had burst out of the woods and were charging toward the boys!

 CHAPTER XIV  
  Tigers’ Lair
As THE smoke bomb burst and Frank yelled his warning, Joe was getting the spare out of the trunk, his back turned to the lane.
Joe whirled at Frank’s cry and saw the gas-masked men only a few yards away. He struggled to hoist out the spare wheel and hurl it at them, but two of the thugs pounced on him.
Frank rushed to his brother’s assistance, clutching the lug wrench. The third man grabbed his arm, twisted the wrench away from him, and knocked Frank sprawling in the ditch.
In moments, purple smoke blanketed the area. The Hardys gasped and their eyes watered.
Joe’s assailants overpowered and searched him, one yanking the lapel camera from his pocket.
Frank was vainly trying to scramble to his feet, but every attempt met with a kick or blow that sent him toppling again. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the gas-masked thugs darted away through the smoke.
Joe picked himself up, clawed out a handkerchief to hold over his eyes and nose, and groped his way toward his brother. Frank met him, and hand in hand they ran from the smoke area. In the distance they heard a car start and drive off.
Frank and Joe finally reached clear air. Coughing, the boys slumped against a tree and looked at each other through swollen, red-rimmed eyes.
“Wow! We fell into a trap that time, Frank!”
“Sure did. Joe, we ought to get back to the car and radio the police.”
“Okay, but let’s wait till the smoke clears.”
Presently they were able to return to the convertible. Frank warmed up the short-wave radio and gave the police a description of the sedan.
Joe, meanwhile, was mounting the spare. “Sorry I got us into this, Frank,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Hirff about Tigers’ Bight.”
“Never mind. They still wouldn’t have nailed us if we’d used our heads.”
“How do you figure?”
“That guy rifling our glove compartment was probably a decoy,” Frank reasoned. “If he didn’t find what he was after, I’ll bet his orders were to let us spot him. They knew we’d go after him, so they had the tire-puncture trick and the gas attack all set up beforehand.”
Joe shook his head ruefully. “Boy! Now I really feel like a chump!” 
“Did they get your camera?”
“Yes. I’m glad it was insured!” Joe grinned. “But there’s one thing they didn’t get.” 
“What’s that?”
“Take a look in the glove compartment.”
Frank did so, then turned in astonishment. “The film ! How did that get in here?”
“Simple. I unloaded the camera while you were wheeling after ’em.” Joe chuckled as he wrestled the spare into the trunk. “I had a hunch there might be trouble if we caught up with those characters——and the glove compartment looked safe because it had already been searched.”
“Nice going, Joe!”
As they were driving home, Joe remarked, “Hirff called the signals on that attack.”
“Sure, but try and prove it. He probably phoned his pals the second we left the airport and has a nice, clear-cut alibi for himself.”
As soon as they arrived home, the boys developed the film and made an enlarged print of the chart. As expected, it showed the Bayport coastal area. A notch in the coastline south of Barmet Bay had been circled in pencil.
“It’s the place on Clams Daggett’s map—Tigers’ Bight!” Frank exclaimed, then frowned. “I don’t get it, Joe. Hirff knew we’d heard about Tigers’ Bight, and we were bound to locate it. So why was he so eager to get the film back?”
“You’re overlooking something, Frank—right here.” Joe pointed to an X mark near the bight, barely visible on the print.
Frank gave a whistle. “Wonder what’s there!”
“Maybe enough evidence to put the gang behind bars,” Joe surmised. “This photo would link them to whatever that X stands for.”
“Wow!” Frank was jubilant. “I have a feeling we’re really getting somewhere now, Joe!”
“If only we knew what those words on Jack’s phone pad meant—‘Amethyst calling Seacat.’ ”
“Sounds like a radio call,” Frank mused. “It would tie in with our guess about ‘Seacat.’ ”
“In other words, a radio call to a boat.”
“Right. But the ‘Amethyst’ part stumps me—unless that’s the name of another boat—or maybe of a plane that’s doing the calling.”
“That’s it, Frank!” Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “It could be a code name for Jack’s own plane—or even for Jack himself!”
“Right. Let’s assume Tom Lester’s hunch is correct—that Jack managed to worm his way into Hirff’s gang. And let’s assume your hunch is correct that he was flying to Tigers’ Bight.” 
“Okay. So what then?” Joe asked.
“Don’t you see? Maybe Jack was flying there on Hirff’s instructions. Hirff told him to contact a boat named the Seacat by radio and then rendezvous with it in Tigers’ Bight!” 
“Perfect!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, if Jack was flying a mission for the gang, that radio message wasn’t sabotaged. It must have been interrupted accidentally.”
“I’ll check right now!” Frank said. He called the Bayport radio station and learned that it, too, had experienced freakish transmission difficulties the day before—apparently due to sunspots.
“Frank, let’s go to Tigers’ Bight and find out what that X stands for,” Joe proposed. “While we’re at it, we may spot Jack’s plane!”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let’s call Dad first. He may be back at the hotel by now.”
The boys were able to contact Fenton Hardy. “How’d you make out in Gary, Dad?” Frank asked.
“We ran into a blank wall,” the detective replied. “The getaway car was traced there. But I’m sure now it was just a false scent to make us think the thieves had fled to that area to hide out.”
When Mr. Hardy heard about the Haley Building mystery and the vanished diamonds, he concluded that the same jewel thieves had struck again.
“Sam and I had better fly back there as soon as possible,” he told Frank. “We’ll try to be in Bayport sometime tonight.”
Mr. Hardy listened with keen interest to Frank’s report about Al Hirff, the notation on Jack’s phone pad, the gas-bomb attack on the boys, and their theory about Tigers’ Bight.
After concluding the conversation, the boys drove to Bayport harbor. They rented a motorboat and started into the bay. As they passed the jetty, they sighted the Napoli, with Tony and Chet aboard. 
The boys hailed one another, and brought their boats alongside. Frank told them where he and his brother were heading.
“Why pay rent on that job?” Tony exclaimed eagerly. “I’ll take you there in the Napoli!”
Frank considered a moment, then shook his head. “There’s another job you can do.”
“Name it.”
“We have a hunch that ‘Seacat’ may be the name of the gang’s cabin cruiser,” Frank explained. “How about cruising all the coves around here and see if you can spot a boat by that name?”
Tony and Chet agreed, and the Hardys resumed their course. Reaching the mouth of Barmet Bay, they headed southward along the coast. After a half hour’s run they sighted Tigers’ Bight.
“If Tigers’ Bight is just a local nickname, I wonder how the gang picked it up,” Joe mused.
“They must have heard it from some local boatman or fisherman,” Frank reasoned.
Joe slowed the motor as they cruised into the bight. The cove was wooded on all sides, with a strip of flat sandy beach extending for about a quarter of a mile. The rest of the shore was rocky.
“Frank, that beach would have made a good landing strip for Skyhappy Sal,” Joe suggested. “What say we take a look for plane tracks?” 
“Good idea.”
Joe brought the motorboat in close and anchored. The boys pulled off their loafers and socks and waded ashore. The sand appeared unmarked.
“You could still be right,” Frank told his brother. “The tracks may have been washed out during high tide.”
Returning to their boat, the Hardys consulted their photographic blowup of Hirff’s chart. The X mark lay inland from the bight on a narrow creek which flowed not far from the beach. Aside from a few gulls screeching overhead and the noise of the surf outside the bight, the area was calm and silent.
Frank frowned at the racket of the motor as Joe steered toward the creek. “If any of the gang’s around here, we sure won’t take ’em by surprise,” he remarked.
Joe nosed the boat gently into the creek. Frank moored it to a rock and they headed inland on foot. The brothers had hiked only a short distance along the winding stream when they sighted a dilapidated cabin nestled among trees.
“So that’s what the X mark stood for!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys advanced cautiously to reconnoiter the cabin. Suddenly they were startled by the sound of a plane engine revving up along the bight. A moment later the plane soared into view among the trees.
“It’s Skyhappy Sal!” Frank yelled. 
The craft was heading seaward. To the boys’ astonishment it banked and circled sharply, then came swooping in low—straight toward them! The pilot cut the motor, and the Hardys caught a fleeting glimpse of Jack Wayne and another man in the plane’s cabin. Jack waved to them frantically.
“Don’t go into that cabin!” he shouted.
The pilot gunned the engine, trying to work up flying speed again—but the plane dipped and went into a stall.
“He’s going to crack up!” Joe yelled.
An instant later the boys heard a terrific impact and the crash of crumpling metal!

 CHAPTER XV  
  Puzzling Reports
FEARING the worst, Frank and Joe ran along the creek bank. As they emerged from the trees, they saw that the plane had hit the beach about two hundred yards away. Its nose was high in the air and one wing had crumpled.
The Hardys ran toward the crashed aircraft. Jack was evidently still in the plane, but his companion had been hurled from the cabin by the force of the impact. He was getting dazedly to his feet and brushing off the sand that smeared him from head to foot. At the sight of the boys, the man began groping frantically on the ground.
“He may be hunting for his gun!” Frank warned. “We’d better nail him fast!”
Frank’s guess seemed to be correct, for as the Hardys closed in, he gave up his search and fled into the woods. Joe would have chased him, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed to Skyhappy Sal. Flames were licking the fuselage! 
“Never mind that guy! Help me get Jack out!”
The right side of the plane, from which the gunman had been thrown, was uppermost. The door was hanging wide open. Frank climbed inside, careless of the sizzling flames. Jack lay wedged behind the control column, bleeding and motionless.
“He risked his life to signal us!” Frank thought. “I sure hope he’s still alive!”
There was no time to be gentle. Frank maneuvered the limp form out as best he could. Legs first, Jack was passed through the cabin doorway Both the Hardys were streaming with perspiration as they lurched away from the plane, lugging the pilot between them.
At a safe distance from the wrecked aircraft, they laid Jack down on the sand and turned back to stare at Skyhappy Sal. The blaze was now crackling furiously. 
“Some of the electrical gear must have shorted,” Joe said.
“We’ll never know,” Frank muttered. “Once the fuel tank blows, she’ll—”
His words were cut short as the plane exploded into a ball of fire. A column of smoke and flame shot high in the air.
“Wow! We made it just in time!” Joe gasped in a shaky voice.
The boys turned their attention to Jack Wayne. His face and shirt were streaked with blood from a scalp wound. Frank felt the pilot’s pulse and knelt to listen for a heartbeat.
“Thank goodness! He’s still alive!” Frank reported tensely.
Joe ripped off a piece of his own shirttail to make a bandage. Fortunately, although the pilot’s hair was matted with blood from the wound, active bleeding appeared to have ceased.
Frank wiped off Jack’s face with a scrap of cloth moistened with water. Presently the pilot stirred and opened his eyes. As he saw Frank and Joe bending over him, his lips twitched into a smile of relief.
“Sure glad you boys are safe,” he murmured.
“Glad we’re safe!” Joe echoed. He flashed his brother a puzzled glance. 
“Must have something to do with the cabin,” Frank said. “You were trying to warn us—is that it, Jack?”
Their friend gave a faint nod. “I was waiting there with that other guy ... to meet the boss. Then he ... he got word by radio that you two might show up. Radio message said to booby-trap the cabin w-with explosive ... and pull out.”
“Wait, let’s get this straight,” Frank put in hastily. “You flew here because Hirff offered you a chance to join the gang?”
Again the pilot nodded.
“And your plane was hidden in the brash so no one would spot it?” Joe added.
“Th-that’s right,” Jack mumbled. “We were just about to leave when your boat pulled in. Barney, he’s the guy who was with me ... he said we should lie low till you were out of sight ... then take off ...”
Jack’s voice was getting weaker. Frank urged him not to talk, but the pilot, now lapsing back into unconsciousness, seemed not to hear.
“B-Barney was holding a gun on me ... test ing me to s-see what I’d do. Only way I could warn you was to—”
Suddenly Jack’s head lolled to one side.
“He’s passed out again, poor guy,” Frank said, checking the pilot’s pulse.
“He saved our lives, Frank,” Joe murmured. “With that cabin deserted, we’d have walked inside and been blown sky-high if Jack hadn’t—”
The wilderness quiet was suddenly shattered by the staccato noise of a boat engine. The Hardys leaped to their feet and saw their own motorboat shoot out from the creek! Aboard was the man who had been hurled clear of the plane—the man whom Jack had called Barney.
“What a couple of nitwits we are!” Joe burst out furiously. “While we were talking here, we let him circle through the woods and grab our boat!”
There was no possible chance of retrieving the craft. It was already picking up speed—heading out of the bight toward the open sea.
“The prize boner of all time!” Frank groaned. “We’re stranded here, Joe! And Jack needs medical attention!”
The photographic print of the map was in the boat, and neither boy could remember any inland details, but Joe felt sure the nearest road was at least ten miles away.
“Looks as though we have two choices, Joe,” Frank said thoughtfully. “We can wait here till the folks back in Bayport get worried and come looking for us. Or one of us can try to find a road and flag down a car for help.”
Joe shook his head. “Pretty long shot. Whoever went might not be able to find his way through the woods before dark. But there’s one other possibility, Frank.”
“Such as?”
“Try to get into the cabin without exploding the booby trap and use the gang’s radio.”
“You’re right! I never thought of that.” Frank rubbed his jaw worriedly and considered.
The boys’ debate was cut short as they saw a small cruiser heading into the bight. Frank and Joe jumped up and down, yelling and wigwagging their arms, but they soon realized the signals were unnecessary. The cruiser evidently had been attracted to the scene by the smoke and flame of the burning airplane.
The skipper of the cruiser brought his craft in close to the boys and shouted through cupped hands, “What happened? Do you need help?”
“We sure do!” Frank yelled back. “A plane crashed and the pilot’s injured! We’re stranded here! Can you get us to Bayport?”
“You bet I will!” the skipper replied heartily.
Normally the Hardys would not have risked moving a man in Jack’s condition. But they felt they had no choice. Using a tarpaulin from the cruiser as a makeshift stretcher, they carried him through the shallow water and loaded him gently aboard the boat.
Mr. Webb, the elderly, white-haired owner of the cruiser, revved his engine and they started out of the bight.
“Too bad I have no radio, boys, or we could call ahead and have an ambulance waiting.”
“We’re mighty grateful, anyhow, sir,” Frank replied. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what we would have done.”
There seemed little chance of sighting or overtaking the stolen motorboat. But as they approached the bay, Joe thought he glimpsed the craft and asked to borrow Mr. Webb’s binoculars.
“That’s our boy, all right!” he said a moment later, passing the glasses to Frank. “He’s heading somewhere near Sea Gull Cove!”
Minutes after they docked, an ambulance came screeching to the scene in response to a phone call by Frank. An intern gave Jack emergency treatment. Then the injured pilot was transferred from the boat on a stretcher. The Hardys followed in their convertible as the ambulance sped off, siren wailing.
From the hospital, Frank telephoned Police Chief Collig and made a full report. The chief promised to have state troopers dispatched at once to the cabin to disarm the booby trap and search for clues. He also promised an immediate search for the stolen boat.
“Incidentally, Frank,” Collig went on, “Tiffman, the messenger, and the watchman were all given lie-detector tests this afternoon.”
“How’d they make out?” Frank asked.
“Believe it or not, all three are in the clear.” Collig sounded thoroughly irritated and baffled. “I don’t know what kind of trick was played, but I’ll get to the bottom of this yet!”
After hanging up, Frank called the boat livery and explained what had happened. “I’m sure the police will recover it,” he added.
A few minutes later a doctor stepped out of the emergency ward. “Your friend seems to be in fair shape—no broken bones,” he told the boys. “However, he’s still unconscious and may have a concussion.” The Hardys felt relieved that the news was no worse.
It was now past six o’clock, and the boys were due home for dinner. But Frank had an idea which he urgently wanted to check out with Mike, the night watchman at the Haley Building. He telephoned home, then the brothers drove from the hospital.
“What can I do for you, boys?” Mike greeted them. “Still huntin’ clues to what happened here last night?”
“Well, sort of,” Frank said. “I’d like to ask you some questions and find out exactly what took place before and after the messenger came.”
“Okay, shoot!”
Probing insistently, Frank had the watchman go over everything that had happened the night before. It turned out that Mike’s recollection was hazy for two periods of about twenty minutes each—one around seven o’clock and the other around eight-forty-five.
“Guess I must’ve dozed off,” the watchman admitted a bit shamefacedly. “I remember comin’ to with a start both times.”
As the boys left the building and got into their car, Joe remarked, “So he blacked out twice! That sounds like the same method used on all the other jewel robberies!”
“Which backs up Dad’s hunch.” Frank’s voice was tense. “Joe, I think I can explain the mystery of what happened here last night!”

 CHAPTER XVI  
  Riddle With Three Answers
JOE glanced eagerly at his brother as their convertible pulled away from the curb. “Let’s hear your theory, Frank!”
“Chief Collig says the lie-detector tests show that all three people involved are telling the truth,” Frank began. “The watchman, the messenger, and Mr. Tiffman.”
“So?”
“Therefore,” Frank continued, “we can assume the watchman did take the messenger up in the elevator—but not to the fifth floor. And O’Bannion did deliver the gems—but not to Tiffman’s office.”
“Now wait a minute,” Joe said. “If O’Bannion didn’t take the diamonds to Tiffman’s office, where did he take them?”
“To an office on the sixth floor—or possibly the fourth.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The watchman blacked out twice,” Frank replied. “During that time, someone could have tampered with the elevator controls and also with the office numbers.”
Joe frowned. “So Mike thought he was letting the messenger off on five. But actually it was one floor higher or lower.” 
“Right ”
“Could the elevator setup actually be doctored to fool the operator that way?” Joe asked.
Frank nodded as he braked for a red light. “I’m sure it could, Joe. That elevator is a push-button job with solid doors—not an old-fashioned cage with manual control. A smart mechanic could make the elevator stop at the wrong floor just by switching a few wires beforehand—and the person inside wouldn’t know the difference-even the watchman himself—unless he timed the ride.” 
“How about when the messenger rang to go down?” Joe asked.
“That makes a light flash on the control panel,” Frank replied. “But let’s say the wiring had been tampered with. O‘Bannion rings from Six, but the light shows Five. Mike pushes the button for Five—but the elevator actually goes up to Six, where O’Bannion is waiting. Neither one realizes anything is wrong.”
“Wow! Pretty slick!” Joe exclaimed. “And the office numbers were switched too, eh?”
“Yes—probably by a confederate, to speed up the job. The doors aren’t glassed, with the numbers and names painted on them. They have metal numerals and name plates screwed on.”
“Which would be easy to change,” Joe agreed. “The crooks could have had duplicate name plates made up beforehand to match the ones on Five.”
“And they wouldn’t have needed to substitute all of them,” Frank added as he swung off Main Street into the residential area of Bayport. “Just on the doors the messenger would see. And, of course, substitute fives for the sixes.”
“Sounds foolproof,” Joe said. “One of the crooks waits in the phony office and takes the gems. Then after the messenger leaves, they black out the watchman again and switch everything back the way it was before.”
“Right,” Frank replied. “Now the question is—how do the crooks do their blackout trick?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joe brooded. “Frank, that may be where Professor Darrow and his scientific know-how come into the picture.”
“You mean he’s in cahoots with Strang?”
“Maybe.” Joe shrugged. “Perhaps he’s even trying to work off a grudge against society because no one would back his research, or he may have been brainwashed.”
“Could be,” Frank agreed. “He sounded a bit odd from what Dean Gibbs told us.”
Frank swung into the Hardys’ drive. “Another thing, Joe—what did that remark you heard on the tunnel phone mean?”
“About the ‘disappearing floor’? I have a hunch it referred to the Haley Building job.”
“That’s one possibility. Actually, there are three ‘disappearing floors.’ One—that phonily numbered floor at the Haley Building. Two—the hinged tiled summerhouse floor. And three—that invisible floor of Old Man Perth’s bedroom-study at the mansion.” 
Joe chuckled. “A riddle with three answers!”
Aunt Gertrude suddenly thrust her head out the side door. “Are you expecting dinner to be served in the car? Food’s cold already!”
“Sorry, Aunty,” Frank said. “It’s my fault.”
Miss Hardy was curious about the latest developments in the case. At the table she listened eagerly as the boys told about the startling events at Tigers’ Bight. Both she and Mrs. Hardy expressed concern over Jack Wayne.
“Oh, I hope there won’t be any aftereffects,” said the boys’ mother.
Before the brothers could be served dessert, Tony and Chet arrived with more exciting news.
“We found a cruiser called the Seacat!” Tony announced breathlessly. “It looks like the one we saw before that frogman attacked Joe!” 
“Where is it now?” Frank asked.
“In one of those coves just off Shore Road,” Chet blurted out.
Aunt Gertrude sputtered indignantly as Frank and Joe hurried away without waiting for any pie à la mode. They jumped into their convertible and followed Chet’s jalopy.
Dusk was falling as the four friends pulled up near the cove. An old, rather battered-looking coupé was parked among the trees.
“Must belong to someone on the cruiser,” Tony speculated. “There’s nothing else around here.”
“I have an idea,” Joe said. “Let me take the convertible, Frank. Chet, you park in that next grove, and I’ll meet you fellows in a few minutes down in that clump of willows on the cove.”
The others agreed, wondering what he had in mind. After Joe had made a U-turn and driven off, Chet parked his own car, then started down the hillside toward the cove with Frank and Tony.
The three boys hid among the willows and looked out across the water. The cruiser lay silently at anchor amid the deepening twilight, with a dinghy tied alongside. A faint, wavering light came through the cabin portholes.
Ten minutes went by. At last Joe joined them.
“I borrowed Dad’s radio signal-sender,” he explained, “and attached it to the axle of that coupé so we can trail it.”
“Smart idea,” Frank said approvingly.
A few more minutes passed. Then the light aboard the cruiser went out. Presently a shadowy figure emerged from the cabin, but it was now too dark for the boys to make out the man’s features. He glanced around furtively, then climbed into the dinghy and began rowing ashore.
“He sure acted sneaky,” Tony whispered.
“He’s probably not the owner,” Frank surmised. “I’ll bet he had no right to be aboard.”
The man rowed across the cove, moored the dinghy to a tree, and started up the hillside.
“He must be the person who parked that coupe,” Joe muttered excitedly.
The boys hurried back to their own cars. Joe had parked in the grove, close to Chet’s jalopy. Almost instantly they heard the coupé start up, and a moment later it drove past. Joe switched on the special receiver for the radio-tailing device. A low, steady whirring wail issued from the speaker.
“Okay, let’s go!” he told Frank.
The convertible swung out onto the road. Chet’s jalopy followed. Frank kept his headlights dimmed and stayed a safe distance behind the coupe. It circled Bayport and turned onto the road the black sports car had taken three nights earlier. Joe traced the coupé’s course by manipulating a loop antenna.
“He’s going to the Perth mansion!” Joe exclaimed as a sudden fade in the radio howl announced a turn by their quarry.
The boys pulled off the road and waited a few minutes so as not to betray themselves. Then they, too, entered the dirt lane. After parking in some shrubbery, they began searching for the coupe. Frank soon spotted it standing half-hidden among some trees farther down the lane.
“Looks as though he’s trying to stay undercover himself,” Tony muttered.
“I’m sure he’s not one of Strang’s men,” Frank agreed as Joe jotted down the license.
“How are we going to find him?” Chet asked.
“Scout around and use our eyes,” Joe replied.
The four boys started up the slope. They all swung around with a start as a bloodthirsty snarl sent their pulse rates skyrocketing. Frank had to clamp a hand over Chet’s mouth to prevent the stout youth from shrieking.
“Steady, pal! That’s just a mechanical spook hound—to scare off people like us.”
Chet gulped as the fiery-eyed hound snarled again.
“It just succeeded with one person!” the fat boy announced and started back down the slope. Frank calmed him and they went on. Tony and Chet waited in the shadows as Frank and Joe made their way to the house. They had just reached the porch when they heard a muffled “Ssst!” from Tony and turned.
A white phantom was moving toward the house.
“The galloping ghost!” Joe gasped.
The boys went racing toward it, but the ghostly figure detected their approach and fled.
“That ghost must have eyes in the back of his head!” Joe muttered angrily, still running.
The specter soon disappeared from view among the trees. Frank acted on a hunch. He shortcut back to the coupé and hid among some bushes. A white figure suddenly loomed out of the darkness. It headed straight for the car and yanked open the door. Before the phantom could climb inside, Frank pounced on him!
The spook-masquerader battled wildly, but the other three boys quickly arrived on the scene and helped Frank pin him against the car.
“Pretty solid for a ghost!” Chet remarked.
“Not as solid as you,” Joe quipped. “But there’s flesh under that spook costume!”
“Let’s have a look at him,” Frank added, and pulled off the prowler’s hood.

 CHAPTER XVII  
  The Second Specter
CHET let out a gasp of surprise as Tony shone a flashlight at the man’s face. “It’s that creep we picked up unconscious the other night!”
“And also the thief who stole Iola and Callie’s amethyst,” Frank added.
The man cowered in the glare of Tony’s beam. “Please, boys,” he whined, “I meant no harm. This ghost masquerade was just intended as a hoax. Nothing more than a joke.”
“Some joke,” Tony said dryly.
“How about stealing that amethyst?” Chet growled. “That was a joke too?”
The man’s face turned pale. “No, it—it was wrong of me, tricking you with that oil smudge and snatching the stone right out of your house.” He wet his lips nervously. “But I had to have it! By rights, the stone belongs to me.”
The boys were puzzled.
“How does it ‘belong’ to you?” Joe asked.
The man squirmed uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, “You’ll find what you’re after in my right-hand coat pocket.”
Joe reached inside the white robe. A moment later his hand emerged holding a purple stone.
“The amethyst!” Chet exclaimed. Joe turned it over to him to give back to the girls.
“You still haven’t answered my brother’s question,” Frank said in a cold voice. “Why did you say the amethyst belonged to you?”
The prisoner had an angry look, like that of a trapped animal. “I told you it doesn’t matter!” he retorted. “I know what you boys are up to! You’re trying to worm information out of me, hoping you can get all the stones for yourselves!”
“Now listen,” Frank snapped, “I don’t know what you mean by that remark, but you’d better talk fast or we’ll call the police! I think we should, anyhow.”
“No, no! Please!” The prisoner seemed to crumble. “I can’t afford to go to jail now—there’s so much to do! I can explain. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“You can begin by answering Joe’s question—and then tell us why you’ve been prowling around in that spook getup.”
“All right.” The man gulped and tried to pull himself together. “My name is Karl Nyland Jr. Years ago, my father discovered an amethyst lode somewhere near Bayport. He went to old Jerome Perth for financial backing—they even signed a partnership agreement. But that swindler, Perth, double-crossed him!”
“How so?” Frank asked.
“Perth bought the site in his own name, then kept stalling my father off—said he was waiting for a geologist’s report. Finally my father got fed up. They quarreled and Perth had my father thrown out of the mansion. But first Perth taunted him. He said the partnership papers, and some amethysts my father had brought him, were kept in a place outside the mansion where anyone could get at them—but my father wouldn’t be smart enough to find it.”
“Boy! Sounds as if Perth was a real snake in the grass!” Tony muttered.
“That man was evil,” Nyland declared, “but he got his just desserts. The quarrel brought on a heart attack and he died the next day.”
“Didn’t the partnership papers turn up when the old man’s estate was settled?” Frank asked.
“No, his lawyers claimed that no such papers, nor the amethysts, were among Perth’s effects. My father kept searching secretly for a long time after that, but he never could find the hiding place.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “He must have been the ghostly figure that people thought was haunting this place!”
“Yes, he was searching here the night the nephew died,” Nyland admitted. “That’s what gave him the idea of dressing as a ghost. He thought it might help to scare tenants away and keep the mansion unoccupied until he could locate the secret cache. But he never found it.”
“At least his scheme to scare people away worked,” Chet put in. “And now you’ve been trying the same stunt?”
Nyland nodded guiltily. “I received a bad electrical shock when I was searching here the other night. That’s when you boys found me unconscious. Since you’d seen my face, I decided I’d better use a ghost costume as a disguise, in case you came back to look for me.”
“How come you waited so long to begin searching?” Joe inquired.
“I was a child living with relatives in another state when Perth swindled my father,” Nyland explained. “It was only recently that I ran across my father’s diary and read the whole story. My wife’s been very ill, and I was in debt from the hospital bills—so I decided to come to Bayport and try to find the lode and the partnership papers.”
“Sounds like a wild-goose chase,” Frank said.
The man nodded. “That’s just what it’s been. All I have to show are these.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a dozen small metal disks. Each bore a picture of a violet above a dragon’s head I
“Perth’s lucky pieces!” Joe exclaimed. “We found one near the mansion—you must have dropped it there!”
“Could be,” Nyland admitted.
“Do you know what the design was supposed to signify?” Frank asked.
“Not really,” Nyland said, then added ruefully, “To me, the dragon is Perth—and the violet’s a symbol of the lovely purple stones he tricked my father out of.”
Joe frowned. “Was there only one copy of the partnership agreement?”
“Exactly. Perth was sly about that. My father foolishly trusted him and didn’t insist on two copies being drawn up.”
“Then why wouldn’t Perth simply destroy the agreement when the deed was in his name?”
“He was using it to soft-soap my father and keep him quiet—also to keep him on a string. You see, my father had made two earlier gem strikes for a mining company. Perth no doubt hoped he might make other valuable finds. And I’m sure Perth was cruel enough to keep the agreement after their quarrel—just to tantalize and torment my father.”
“You have no idea where the amethyst lode was located?” Joe asked.
Nyland shook his head dejectedly. “No, Perth owned a great deal of property, but it was all sold off after his death. And the diary didn’t say. That’s why I shadowed those two girls after I overhead them telling the gem-shop proprietor about finding a large amethyst. I hoped they might lead me to the lode.”
“What were you doing aboard that cruiser tonight?” Tony inquired.
Nyland shrugged. “Just a hunch. There’s something strange about those people living at the mansion now. This afternoon I saw two of them in town and heard them mention the word ‘amethyst.’ I thought maybe they had found the papers relating to the lode, so I shadowed one of them. He went to that boat, and after he left, I climbed aboard myself. But it was a waste of time—I found nothing.”
Nyland’s shoulders sagged. Half sobbing, he began to tell the boys about his wife’s illness and the debts that had made him desperate. He pleaded with them not to turn him over to the police. The Hardys, Chet, and Tony felt perplexed and embarrassed. They decided to leave the decision to Mr. Hardy.
Suddenly a light went on in an upstairs window of the mansion. Joe exclaimed, “It’s the window where we spotted that man who looked like Professor Darrow! Frank, let’s stay here—we may see him again!”
Frank glanced at Chet and Tony. “Dad’s due in tonight. Would you two take Nyland to our house and keep him there till Dad arrives?”
“Sure. I can call my folks,” Tony replied.
“Same here. And maybe your Aunt Gertrude will make us all a snack,” Chet said hopefully.
Nyland, anxious to avoid arrest, agreed to accompany them with his hands tied and to make no trouble. All three went off in Chet’s car.
“The man’s odd, but I think he was telling the truth,” Frank said. “He sure sounds as if he’s been under a nervous strain.”
The Hardys started back up the slope. Cautiously they began making their way through the wooded grounds toward the mansion.
Suddenly there was a weird scream from close by—then another, weaker scream, ending in the same gasped-out words they had heard before:
“Th-th-the floor!”
Frank and Joe froze. “It’s only a trick,” Frank muttered as they started forward again.
They were nearing the house when both boys went cold with shock. A glowing white figure had risen from the ground!
“We caught the spook already,” Joe whispered.
“It’s a fake, Joe.... It must be a fake!” Frank stared in horrified fascination.
The thing was moving toward them, flapping!
Resisting an impulse to run, the Hardys closed in. They clutched at the specter. Joe gave a chuckle of relief as he felt the wire framework underneath. It was covered with some kind of synthetic cloth, which evidently had been dipped in white phosphorescent dye.
“Just a pop-up scarecrow, Frank! We must have stepped on the release mechanism back there.”
“Right, Joe. And look at the wheels. The breeze blew it toward us!”
They went on. In the shadow of a tree they paused and looked up at the lighted window. Shelves with bottles and test tubes, and some electrical apparatus, could be seen.
“A laboratory!” Joe murmured.
Behind the shaded windows on the ground floor a radio was blaring dance music.
Suddenly a man moved into view at the upper-floor window. Bald and bespectacled, he was holding an open book in one hand.
“There he is!” Frank whispered.
“That’s Darrow, all right,” Joe agreed. “If only we could talk to him!”
“Fat chance with Strang and his gang around. Anyhow, we’ve seen all we need to. Let’s go home and wait for Dad.”
Turning, the brothers started back across the grounds to their car. Halfway down the slope, they heard the screams and the choking voice again.
“Hold it, Joe,” Frank hissed. “That tiled floor’s around here somewhere. Did you notice that we always hear the screams near here?”
The boys shone their flashlights carefully about the ground. Suddenly Joe’s beam disclosed a small metal object sticking up from the grass.
“I’ll bet that’s it, Frank! Must be some kind of sensor—maybe infrared—that triggers off a tape recording when anyone comes near.”
Joe moved closer to examine it. Again the voice shrieked! Startled, Joe backed off hastily and his foot struck a rock.
Frank gave a cry of dismay as the ground gave way under his feet. Down he plunged!
“The tunnel exit!” Joe exclaimed. “My foot hit a rock—same thing that happened last night. That must be what opens it from the outside.”
“Right. And look at all this sod and brush that fell in with me—they do camouflage the tiled floor.” Frank shone his flashlight into the tunnel. “Wonder if we could get into the house this way, past Strang and his henchmen, and talk to Professor Darrow?”
Joe leaped down beside Frank. “I’m game! Let’s find out where the tunnel leads!”

 CHAPTER XVIII  
  A Strange Machine
FRANK had been only half serious when he spoke of trying to enter the house through the tunnel but Joe’s excitement communicated itself to him. This might be a chance to get information or a clue that would break the case!
“Okay. Let’s take a look.”
They started into the tunnel, one behind the other. Frank led the way, probing the darkness with the yellow beam of his flashlight.
“Watch that intercom!” Joe warned. “We don’t want another chat with Waxie’s pal!”
The brick-walled passageway went on for hundreds of feet. The boys came at last to a door. It had a lock but opened freely when Frank tried the knob. “It must unlock automatically when the tiled floor opens,” he whispered.
“In that case, why the intercom?”
Frank shrugged. “Someone might want to hide in the tunnel but still be able to communicate with the house. Or maybe they post a lookout at the tunnel exit sometimes and have him report back by phone.”
The boys played their flashlights around. “We must be in the basement of the mansion,” Joe murmured.
The huge, cement-floored area was dank and musty. There was a coalbin, a grimy-looking, cobwebbed furnace, and an air-conditioning unit that looked brand new. Far at the rear was a flight of stairs leading upward.
Frank asked his brother, “Should we risk it? Or turn back?”
“Don’t be silly! We’re going to talk to Professor Darrow, remember?”
The boys walked cautiously toward the stairway and tiptoed up. They found that the first flight ended at the kitchen of the sprawling mansion. From here another flight led upward. The stairs creaked under the boys’ tread, but fortunately the radio music racketing in the ground-floor front rooms covered their noise.
Reaching the upper floor, the boys went along a corridor toward the front of the house. The hallway twisted and turned as if the mansion had been designed with an eccentric floor plan. After passing several doors, the Hardys stopped at one which showed light underneath.
“This must be the laboratory,” Frank whispered.
Joe held up crossed fingers. “Okay. Let’s find out.”
Frank opened the door. Professor Darrow was holding a test tube of colored liquid up to the light. He turned as the boys entered—and gave such a violent start that the liquid splashed on his workbench!
“Professor Darrow—?” Frank inquired. Joe closed the door softly behind them.
The scientist’s hand trembled as he placed the test tube in a rack. He stared at the Hardys through his steel-rimmed eyeglasses and his eyes were full of fear.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he blurted out in a shrill, staccato voice.
The muffled strains of the radio music could be heard through the floor.
“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy, sir,” Frank began. “Our father is Fenton Hardy.”
He assumed the name would be familiar to a crime-detection expert. But Darrow glared at them, giving no sign of recognition.
“Fenton Hardy—the private investigator,” Joe emphasized. “Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Maybe.” The scientist’s eyes bored through the boys. He wore a white lab coat and his wispy fringe of gray hair frothed out wildly around his narrow skull. “Why did you come here?”
“Dean Gibbs of Western State asked us to locate you and—” Frank started to explain.
“He would! You’ve come here to spy on me!”
“That’s not true!” Frank exclaimed.
“The dean wired us on behalf of your sister,” Joe put in hastily. “She’d like you to get in touch with her. She’s probably worried because she hasn’t heard from—”
Joe broke off suddenly as he noticed the professor’s hand inching toward a strange device on his workbench. It looked somewhat like a round, portable electric heater.
“Look out, Frank!”
Joe leaped clear in the nick of time as Professor Darrow snatched up the device. But Frank did not react fast enough. A dazzle of light flared from the machine. Instantly Frank stiffened and froze statuelike.
He had blacked out!
An electric cord ran from the machine to a wall socket. Joe yanked the plug before Darrow could aim the device at him.
“Help! Help!” the professor shouted.
Joe glanced around frantically. The radio music from below had stopped. A moment later came the sound of feet pounding up the stairs!
“Strang and his boys!” Joe thought. “I’ll have to duck fast! But where?”
Suddenly Darrow lunged at him and tried to pin the boy’s arms. Joe wrenched free and gave the professor a hard shove that sent him reeling backward. Darrow crashed into a corner of the workbench and went down in a cascade of glass tubing, retorts, and other laboratory apparatus.
Like a flash, Joe darted out through a doorway that led to an adjoining room. The door slammed behind him just as Strang and several henchmen came surging into the laboratory.
“That way!” Darrow shrilled, pointing in the direction of Joe’s flight. “Through that door!”
The gang rushed through a maze of connecting rooms. Joe, concealed behind the heavy, dark-red window drapes in the room next to the lab, could hear Strang barking out orders.
A moment later the master jewel thief strode past Joe’s hiding place on his way back to the laboratory. Through the open doorway, Joe heard him talking to the professor.
“Yes, I know the boy. Recognized him at once,” came Strang’s voice, evidently referring to Frank. “He and his brother are the sons of a clever spy who must have been sent to Bayport purposely to steal your invention.”
“Just what I feared!” Darrow replied. “Then it’s not true that they’re connected in any way with Fenton Hardy?”
“Certainly not! In fact, Hardy’s now on my payroll, working undercover to safeguard your research.” Strang’s voice became firm and persuasive. “Don’t worry, Professor! My men are bound to catch the other boy. Then we’ll hand them both over to the FBI.”


  
“Frank, look out!” Joe yelled
“I certainly hope you’re right!” Darrow sighed heavily. “First the university authorities and jealous colleagues blocked my research grant at school! And now spies hounding me!”
“By the way,” Joe heard Strang ask, “how deeply did you black this kid out?”
“Just a light dose. But it should hold him long enough to—”
A loud alarm bell rang on the first floor, cutting short the professor’s words. Both Strang and Darrow dashed from the lab.
Joe waited until he heard their steps fading down the stairs. Then he burst from the drapes and rushed into the laboratory. Frank was still rigid. Joe filled a beaker with cold water from the workbench sink faucet and flung it in his brother’s face. Frank seemed to shudder.
“Frank! ... Frank, can you hear me?”
Joe shook his brother and gave him several light slaps. Gradually Frank came out of the trance but appeared to have no recollection of what had happened. Joe explained hastily, adding, “Strang has the prof convinced that he’s surrounded by spies—including us. An alarm just went off downstairs, and they’ve gone to investigate.”
Frank was still a bit dazed. “I must have been blacked out by the same device used in the jewel thefts, Joel”
“Sure, and Darrow thinks we came to steal it. We must find a way out of this place!”
“Wait a second, Joe! That alarm you mentioned could have been Dad coming here—maybe even the police!”
“Right,” Joe agreed. From the sounds he had heard, he knew there must be a front stairway. The Hardys soon found it and strained to hear what was going on below.
“Here they come now!”. Strang was saying. ”Looks as though they’ve nabbed whoever triggered the alarm!”
Frank and Joe leaned around the corner of the stair well and peered down into the front hall. Strang was at the front door with Professor Darrow. Presently three of Strang’s henchmen came in, prodding a burly prisoner at the point of a gun. Their captive had crew-cut hair and wore a gaudy plaid sport coat.
“Duke Makin!” Joe whispered in amazement.
“No sign of that kid who got away, boss,” the gunman reported. “But we caught Makin here snooping around outside.”
“Good work, Barney!” Strang said approvingly.
“Barney’s the man who was with Jack Wayne at Tigers’ Bight!” Frank murmured in Joe’s ear.
Duke Makin looked self-assured, which appeared to infuriate Strang.
“I warned you once before, Makin, to keep out of my hair!” the jewel thief rasped.
Makin laughed contemptuously. “And I told you, Strang, that I’m dealing myself in on this jewel racket of yours.”
“You’re not muscling in on anything, Makin, except big trouble.”
Again Makin laughed. “You’re the one who’s got trouble. After you learned Fenton Hardy was on your case, a pal of mine in Chicago found out he was there. I asked my pal to tip off Hardy about the Haley Building job. How did I know about it? I overheard you blokes talking after you cased Tiffman’s office. And there’ll be more tip-offs if I don’t collect a share on every jewel haul you make from now on. I want to know what your blackout gimmick is, too.”
“What’s he talking about?” Professor Darrow asked Strang. “What does he mean by ‘every jewel haul you make’?”
“Get back up to your lab, Professor!” Strang ordered roughly. “This man is another foreign agent—he’s simply trying to pull the wool over your eyes. I’ll handle him!”
Darrow obeyed meekly, but he looked bewildered as he started up the steps. Frank and Joe shrank back into the shadows. Darrow reached the top of the stairs and turned toward his laboratory without noticing them.
Meanwhile, Makin had resumed his sneering argument with Strang. “I mean business!”
“Shut up!” Strang exploded. “We know you conked Waxie at the airport and swiped those amethysts from my car—but it’s the last trick you’ll pull, Makin! Take him to our ‘guest room,’ boys. I’ll attend to him later, after we find the other kid!”
They herded Makin off toward the rear of the house. Frank and Joe tiptoed cautiously down the stairs, hoping to make a break through the front door.
But suddenly Darrow called from his laboratory, “That boy we left in here—he’s gone!”
With a snarl of rage, Strang came charging back into the front hall toward the stairway. Before the Hardys could retreat, he had spotted them!

 CHAPTER XIX  
  Jewel Cache
FRANK and Joe ran wildly up the steps, two at a time—then fled down the corridor to their right, away from the laboratory. Below, Strang had just gained the stairway and was starting up in pursuit, bellowing to his men for help.
Selecting a room at random, Joe flung open the door and the boys darted through, slamming the door behind them. Here, too, the rooms seemed to interconnect in mazelike fashion.
“Good thing Perth built such a crazy house!” Frank panted, as they darted from one room to another.
The pounding footsteps of their pursuers could be heard from various directions as if the men were spreading out. But the mansion was immense, and the boys managed to reach the back stairway and dart down to the ground floor without being seen. Joe tugged at the back door which led to a rear porch, but it refused to budge.
“They must have locked it when they were searching for us earlier—to keep us from getting out!” he muttered to Frank. The tunnel now seemed to be their best hope.
Halfway down the stairs to the basement, the boys saw A1 Hirff entering through the tunnel door. With a shout, he ran toward them. Frank and Joe fled back up the stairs. In the kitchen Frank grabbed up a garbage container and flung it toward the stair-well doorway. Then the brothers raced through a side hallway toward the front of the house.
Crash!
They heard Hirff stumble over the garbage container. 
A moment later an angry voice began shouting orders. It sounded like that of Strang. Steps came pounding down the front stairway, cutting off hope of escape through the front door.
“In here!” Frank urged, pausing at a room on the left. He turned the doorknob and the brothers slipped inside, went through a small room, opened another door and entered a larger chamber.
In a few moments the door to the Hardys’ hiding place was jerked open again. Noel Strang flicked a switch and glanced hastily around. “They must have made it out the front door!” he exclaimed to someone in the hallway. The light went out again, the room door was shut, and footsteps hurried off.
Frank and Joe emerged from behind the heavy window draperies. They dared not switch on their flashlights, but gradually their eyes became accustomed to the darkness.
“It’s Jerome Perth’s room,” Frank said. “The same one we saw from outside!”
“But now the floor feels solid,” Joe murmured.
Frank was frowning as he peered about the room. “Joe, do you notice anything funny about this furniture?”
“No. What?”
“Except for that chair at the desk, every single piece of furniture in the room is placed smack up against the wall—even the armchairs.”
“That is odd, Frank,” his brother murmured. “Does that suggest something to you?”
“It sure does. It suggests that the furniture may be bolted to the wall!”
Frank tried to move an armchair, the desk, and a wardrobe. None budged!
“Well, this explains one thing,” he remarked. “We know now how the furniture was able to stay suspended in mid-air when the floor wasn’t there.”
“Wasn’t there?” Joe echoed. He was examining the way in which the headboard of the bed fitted flush to the wall. He spoke over his shoulder. “You mean you think the floor of this room really does disappear?”
As Joe turned to face Frank, his elbow rubbed against some ornamental carving in the wall paneling. The next moment both Hardys gasped.
The floor was sinking straight down under their feet!
“What did you do, Joe?” Frank exclaimed.
“Search me! My elbow just brushed the wall somewhere up there by the light switch. There must be a hidden push button or something that operates this floor!”
By this time, the whole floor had descended like an elevator to basement level, carrying the boys and the unbolted desk chair with it. A familiar, musty odor came suddenly to the boys’ nostrils.
Frank turned on his flashlight and beamed it about the walls. To his right was a moldering wooden door. This was the window side of Perth’s room.
“An entrance to the tunnel!” Joe whispered.
“Did you say there’s a light switch up there by the bed?” Frank inquired.
“Yes, probably a two-way switching arrangement, so the light can be turned on or off either from the doorway or from the bed.”
“Joe, I think I can explain how Perth’s nephew was killed!” Frank said excitedly.
“How?”
“Remember, the nephew only lived in the mansion for a few days before his death. He probably never discovered the secret of this sinking floor.”
“Wouldn’t he have been curious when he saw that the furniture in his room was bolted to the walls?”
“Maybe—if he noticed. But his uncle had been a queer old cuss, anyhow. And evidently the servants didn’t know the secret of the room, either.”
“No, I guess they didn’t, if they never told about it,” Joe agreed. “But I wonder how come they never touched the switch accidentally—say while they were cleaning the wall paneling.”
Frank shrugged. “Maybe Old Man Perth told them not to clean it—or to use only a feather duster.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. Go on.”
“We know that Nyland’s father, Karl Nyland, was snooping about the grounds the night the nephew was killed. It could be that he made a noise outside the windows, and the nephew heard him and woke up.” 
Joe nodded. “Sounds reasonable. So?”
“So the nephew gropes in the dark to turn on the light switch—and in doing so, accidentally presses the floor button, but doesn’t know it.”
“Wow! I get it!” Joe blurted out. “The floor starts sinking, but since the furniture is still up there, he doesn’t realize what has happened!”
“Right. So he jumps out of bed, falls clear down to the basement, and fractures his skull, poor guy! Then later, when the servants came to investigate, the opening of the anteroom door raised the floor back to its normal level.”
“I’ll buy that.” Joe nodded. “But what if Perth had to get the floor back up from the basement? How would he do that?”
“Easy, I think. He probably had a timer set that automatically raised the basement floor if the anteroom door was out of action.”
“Sure,” Joe agreed. “That would be a natural feature if Perth designed this setup as an emergency escape system—living in fear of his life as he did.”
“Exactly,” Frank said. “If any of his swindle victims ever forced their way into the mansion to get revenge, Perth could lower the floor to the basement and duck out through the tunnel. If the assassin actually broke into his room, he’d find it empty, the windows locked from the inside, and no trace of Old Man Perth!”
“Frank, I’ll bet you’ve solved the mystery!” Joe said enthusiastically. “Everything fits—even the nephew’s dying gasp about the floor. He was trying to tell the servants what had happened.”
“The—the floor! It’s going up!” Frank cried excitedly. “Into the tunnel—fast!”
The boys leaped out through the tunnel doorway and began making their way along the brick-walled passage to the summerhouse outlet. Frank was in the lead. They had gone about two-thirds of the way when he halted suddenly.
“Hold it, Joe!” Frank whispered. “Maybe this way out isn’t so smart after all!”
“How come?”
“Strang knows now that we got into the house through the tunnel.”
Joe gave a low groan. “Which means there may be a guard posted near the tiled floor!”
He mulled over the possibilities. “Boy, we wouldn’t have a chance to spot anybody in the dark, either. Unless we used our flashlights—which would give us away!” 
The boys quickly decided the risk was too great.
“I vote we try sneaking back up the basement stairs and see if we can talk Professor Darrow into helping us,” Frank said.
“He was the one who gave us away in the first place,” Joe objected. “And he shouted to Strang that you had escaped from the lab.”
“I know, but we’d given him quite a surprise,” Frank argued. “The way he looked coming up the stairs after hearing what Makin said—well, I have a hunch he’s been doing a lot of thinking.”
“I guess we have no choice,” Joe said. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Say, Frank! Take a look at that brick your light’s shining on—the one that’s a little darker than the others.”
“What about it?”
“Looks to me as if the mortar is loose around it,” Joe said tensely. “Didn’t Nyland tell us that Old Man Perth boasted the partnership papers were stashed outside the mansion—in a place that anyone could get at?” 
Frank gave his brother an excited look. “Give me your jackknife, Joe!”
The knife blade passed easily around all sides of the loose brick. In a moment Frank had removed it. Behind the space where the brick had been was a deep recess. It was crammed with papers and small cloth pouches!
Frank fished them out, one by one. The pouches contained a dazzling assortment of gems, cut and uncut—diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires. 
There were also stock certificates, bonds, and papers relating to various business deals. Among the latter was the partnership agreement between Perth and Karl Nyland, and a map of the lode site, signed with Nyland’s name.
“Wow!” Joe muttered. “Do you suppose those jewels were Old Man Perth’s and did Strang locate this cache, as Karl Nyland Jr. thinks?”
“Nyland’s right. Strang found it and he’s also using the tunnel as a place to hide his loot till the heat’s off. One of those bags of diamonds is labeled for delivery to Paul Tiffman.”
“This would also explain about Karl Nyland’s amethysts—the ones his father brought to Perth,” Joe reasoned. “Strang found them here and decided to peddle them, since they weren’t ‘hot.’ But Makin stole them from the glove compartment of Strang’s car.”
The boys crammed their pockets with part of the loot, and stuffed the rest inside their shirts. They also took the partnership papers. Then they headed back through the tunnel to the basement.
The house was quiet. Frank and Joe wondered if the men were searching the grounds. The boys tiptoed up the back stairway to the top floor, then made their way down the corridor to the laboratory.
Professor Darrow was seated at his workbench, holding his head in his hands. He looked up with a start as the boys entered. His face was drawn and pale. To the Hardys’ relief, he showed no sign of hostility, and made no effort to call for help.
“Are you really Fenton Hardy’s sons?” he asked, then brushed aside the boys’ attempt to show him identification from their wallets. “Never mind—papers of any kind can be forged. The important thing is, I believe now that you and not Strang are telling me the truth.”
“I suppose what Duke Makin said convinced you,” Frank said quietly.
Darrow nodded listlessly. “I’ve been a terrible fool. Strang led me to believe that he would finance my work for the public good. Instead, he was only interested in using my paralyzing-ray device to commit crimes.”
“If you need any other proof,” Frank said, “we found where he had hidden the loot from his jewel thefts, and we have it all right here.”
“The main thing now,” Joe said, “is to call Dad and the police. Can I use that phone over there?”
Again Darrow nodded. “Do so, by all means.”
Joe lifted the telephone from its cradle and started to dial. Suddenly a cold, menacing laugh came over the receiver and the line went dead!

 CHAPTER XX  
  Trapped!
JOE hung up with a gasp of dismay and turned to Frank. “Someone just broke in and cut me off!” he exclaimed. “It sounded like Strang!”
“Would Strang know what room the call was coming from?” Frank asked the professor.
Darrow looked at the boys unhappily. “Yes. My phone line evidently is tapped—perhaps a signal device warns Strang when I lift the receiver. Sometimes when I’d attempt to make an outside call, he would cut me off. His excuse was that he was keeping me safe from detection by foreign spies.”
“Come on!” Joe broke in. “Run for it!”
Darrow made no effort to escape, but the Hardys darted down the corridor toward the back stairs. Strang, Barney, and another henchman already were on their way up. Frank and Joe fled toward the front of the mansion, only to find Hirff and two others dashing up the front stairs.
“Into the lab!” Frank urged. “We’ll try the window—maybe we can slide down the drain-pipe!”
The boys hastily retreated to the laboratory. They were just flinging up the window sash when the criminals burst through the door and aimed two small, portable ray guns at them.
“Hold it or we’ll freeze you stiffer than iced mackerels!” Strang shouted as the boys turned to confront their captors. “These little rods we’re holding are miniature models of that fancy gadget the prof used on you before. We’ve found them extremely handy on jewel heists.”
“Please!” Darrow protested weakly. “These boys have done you no harm. Let them go. Perhaps they’ll agree not to turn you in.”
“Shut up, you sap!” Strang’s voice cracked like a whiplash. “You’re in this as deep as any of us! Do you think we can let these kids go now, knowing all about our racket?”
Darrow shrank back as Strang proceeded to jeer at him.
“I conned you from the start, you egghead! Did you really think I’d sink good money into this setup just so you could develop these blackout guns for national defense? And you swallowed all that junk about spies.
“What you were really doing here, Darrow, was getting us ready for the biggest jewel-theft operation in history. Those purple tear-gas grenades you cooked up were an extra bonus!”
Strang’s henchmen roared with laughter. Their response spurred him to greater boasting and he answered Frank’s and Joe’s questions freely. The first hint that the Hardys might be on his trail had come when the boys had followed him in his car.
The ghostly screams had warned the gang that someone was prowling near their tunnel exit, so next morning they had camouflaged the tiled floor with sod and brush. In doing so, they had found the jackknife bearing Frank’s name. Then later, one of the men had used the exit and had left the tiles uncovered. When Strang had found Frank’s pocketknife, he thought the Hardys had seen the floor.
Knowing from newspaper accounts of their earlier cases that the boys owned a boat, Strang had ordered two of his men to sabotage it. “I figured then it was time to scare you punks off or get rid of you for good,” Strang went on. The brothers had escaped with their lives—but later, when the Napoli had happened to anchor near the Seacat, one of the gang, known as Moose, had attacked Joe in the bay. 
As the Hardys had suspected, Strang had sent two of his men, Kelso and Trigger, to Chicago to pull the Spyker robbery, after telephoning a false clue to Mr. Hardy.
Strang had arranged to be aboard the chartered plane at the time of the robbery, in order to establish an alibi in case he was charged with the theft. He had arrived in Chicago in time to organize the transfer of the loot, stowing it in a secret compartment of Hirff’s plane and later taking it to the Perth mansion hideout.
Kelso and Trigger had gone to Gary, Indiana, to plant the decoy getaway car, then returned to Bayport by commercial airliner.
“How did Makin happen to be at the airport the night of the robbery?” Frank asked.
“He trailed Waxie, who was waiting for me to fly in from Chicago. But he didn’t wait long before Makin jumped him, and made him unlock Hirff’s hangar so he could search it.
“Then he took Waxie back to the car and found the amethysts in the glove compartment. He knocked Waxie out and was going to leave him there, unconscious, as a warning that we should cut him in. But when you kids and that private eye showed up and spotted him, Makin took off. And when I came in, I had to leave the loot in Hirff’s plane and take a taxi back to the mansion.”
The gang had rented the cabin at Tigers’ Bight as an emergency hideout, intending to flee there in their cruiser if the police should close in. Jack Wayne had been taken there by Barney after he had contacted the Seacat by radio. 
“What were you planning to do with Jack?” Joe asked.
“He told Hirff your dad owed him money and wouldn’t pay up—so now he was sore at you Hardys and looking for some quick dough. We thought if he was telling the truth, he might tell us how much you knew. If not, we’d get rid of him fast. Barney was keeping him at the cabin till I got a chance to question him.”
After Joe had photographed the chart found in Hirff’s plane, Hirff had phoned the news to Strang, and the gang had tried to snatch the film. When that move failed, Strang had radioed Barney to booby-trap the cabin and take off in Skyhappy Sal before the Hardys could get there. 
On the Haley Building job, Kelso had learned about the delivery from a stooge in the jewelry company. Kelso had entered the building during business hours and had hidden in a washroom. Later, he had let Waxie in by the fire-escape door.
The two had sneaked downstairs to the lobby, where the watchman had been seated at his desk with his back to the stairway. They had blasted him with the ray gun.
Kelso then had tampered with the elevator and Waxie had installed duplicate fifth-floor numbers and name plates on the sixth-floor offices. Kelso had posed as Paul Tiffman to receive the diamonds from the messenger. The robbery accomplished, they had again blacked out the watchman and removed all traces of their ruse.
“How did Makin learn you were planning to pull the job?” Frank asked.
Strang chuckled. “We squeezed that out of him before we blacked him out. He was watching the mansion that day and trailed Kelso to the building. When Kelso never came out, he figured we were planning to pull a job there.”
“How about that voice I heard over your tunnel intercom?” Joe put in, to keep Strang talking.
The jewel thief laughed. “Pretty fast thinking on your part, kid—I’ll hand you that much. Trigger thought Waxie had forgotten his orders and was calling for a quick fill-in.”
“Good thing I realized the guy on the line wasn’t Waxie,” Trigger said. “He’s a nut! Crazy about the gadgets in this place. Calling on the intercom. Pushing the floor release in that rigged-up room.”
“Maybe Waxie forgot to put the floor back in place the night we first saw it through the window,” Frank suggested, still playing for time.
“Waxie forgot once too often,” Strang grunted. “Last time, I about broke a leg. Got fed up. Lucky for Waxie he scrammed when he did.”
Meanwhile, Professor Darrow had furtively plugged in his blackout invention. Suddenly he snatched it up and aimed the machine at the thieves. But Trigger saw the maneuver.
“Look out, boss!” the gangster yelled, whipping out his own ray gun to fire.
Strang jumped clear in the nick of time. But Trigger had no chance to use his own gun. The blaze of brilliance from the professor’s machine paralyzed all five of Strang’s henchmen.
Strang’s own leap had left him momentarily off balance. The Hardys seized their chance. Frank stunned the gang boss with a hard right to the jaw. Joe wrested away his blackout gun, and in a few moments the two young sleuths had punched Strang into submission.
“It would be safer, if I blacked him out,” Professor Darrow suggested to the boys. “The rays from my device do no permanent damage. They simply affect certain brain centers and temporarily immobilize the subject until the neural circuits have time to clear themselves.”
“Maybe he has a point there,” Joe remarked to Frank with a grin. “We have no handcuffs.”
As the professor was blacking out Strang, Frank spotted car headlights through the trees surrounding the mansion. A short time later Fenton Hardy, Chief Collig, and a squad of police rushed into the house to take over. They stared in amazement when they saw the helpless members of the gang.
“Looks as though we missed the preliminaries and the main event,” the tall investigator remarked to Collig with a chuckle. “They’re all out cold.” 
The chief and his men grinned in satisfaction. “I’d say six KO’s are enough of a show for any evening!” Collig quipped.
“Seven.” Joe grinned. “I think you’ll find another KO in the ‘guest room.’ ”
After hearing the whole story, Mr. Hardy and the chief were warm in their praise of Frank and Joe. But the boys pointed out that it was Professor Darrow who had brought victory at the last moment.
“I’m afraid you’ve been badly misled, Professor,” Mr. Hardy said. “Some facts you may not know are these: Strang and his men had their eye on the Perth mansion as a hideout. When you bought it, they arranged to move in with you and used the ray gun as an excuse.”
Frank added, “And Makin, in trying to worm his way into the gang, offered to rent the place. He only wanted to find out if Strang’s group were just helping themselves to the mansion.”
Mr. Hardy went on, “But, Professor, you certainly turned the tables on the gang! I’m reasonably sure that any charges against you, for your part in Strang’s operation, will be dropped.”
“How did you happen to get here, Dad?” Frank asked as the police were removing the prisoners.
“After I heard Tony and Chet’s story, and you two failed to return, I decided it was time to blow the whistle on this setup at the mansion,” Fenton Hardy replied, throwing an arm around each of his boys.
“What I’d like to know is who rigged all those spooky alarm devices,” Joe spoke up.
Professor Darrow gave a wan smile. “I did, partly to keep off intruders and partly for my own amusement,” he explained. “It was while I was wiring them into the mansion’s electrical system that I stumbled on the bedroom-study’s disappearing floor and told Strang about it.”
Next day the stolen, rented motorboat was located, and the Hardys went to the hospital to see Jack Wayne, who had regained consciousness and was rapidly recovering.
“So you’ve wrapped up the case, eh?” the pilot said.
“Frank and Joe have,” Mr. Hardy answered. “But we all feel bad about the loss of Skyhappy Sal.”
Jack grinned. “Don’t worry. She was insured, so I’ll have a new Sal pretty soon.” 
“Dad says there’ll be a good bit of reward money,” Frank put in, “and you’ll get half, Jack. That should buy your new Sal a lot of fancy trimmings.” 
“We’re still curious about that interrupted radio message of yours, Jack,” said Joe. “How about spelling the whole message out for us?”
Jack thought for a moment, then asked for pencil and paper and wrote down the message as nearly as he could remember it. The boys bracketed the words which had been lost in transmission. The result read: 
[I’M FLYING DOWN TO TIGERS’ BIGHT TO SEE A GUY HIRFF TOLD ME ABOUT. HE SAYS THAT] IF THE TIGERS’ BIGHT [SETUP CAN USE A PILOT, I COULD MAKE A LOT OF DOUGH. I’M TO USE THE CODE NAME] AMETHYST [TO IDENTIFY MYSELF].
A few days later the stones Makin had stolen were recovered, and an expert survey of the amethyst location showed that the lode, while not highly valuable as a source of ornamental gems, was worth developing for commercial purposes. The story was repeated at the Morton farm to Tony and Chet.
“That’s a break for Nyland,” Frank commented. “Joe and I had decided to use part of our share of the reward money to pay his wife’s hospital bills—but now—”
“My share’s going to help my folks buy a new car,” said Tony.
“You guys have no imagination,” Chet retorted.
“Listen, Chet, how about using your part to buy some detective equipment so you can help Frank and me on our next case?” Joe teased, not knowing that they would soon be called on to solve THE MYSTERY OF THE FLYING EXPRESS.
“Oh yes?” Chet retorted. “Hop over to the Bayport Soda Shop with me, and I’ll show you what I’m investing in—a year’s supply of the biggest banana splits you ever saw!” 
Thick as Thieves (Hardy Boys Casefiles #29)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Go away," said the thin man who stood between Frank Hardy and the single open entrance to the darkened Bayport Museum.
Caught off-guard, Frank took a step back and blinked in the harsh artificial light from overhead. The man in front of him folded his arms and smirked, almost begging Frank to try to push by.
Frank knew that look, from other bullies he'd run across. At first glance, this one didn't have the usual bully equipment--he was almost a head shorter than Frank, who stood just over six feet tall, and much older, with dark, thinning hair that had worked back on both sides into a widow's peak. His thick glasses magnified his eyes, making them look far too large
2
for his head. An ill-fitting suit hid his physique. The man might have been athletic once, but had long since let himself go--a small potbelly spread out from under his thin chest. Frank had no doubt he could push past the guy without any effort.
But there was that smirk, the smug grin of a man who had a rule book behind him, if not muscle. It was the look of a clerk who could use the power of a large company--or government --to make himself feel big.
"Who does this guy think he is?" an angry voice burst out from the darkness behind Frank. It was his younger brother, Joe. He was seventeen, a year younger than Frank, with blond hair and a powerhouse build, in contrast to Frank's brown hair and lean frame. Joe's approach to problems was different from Frank's too.
"We're supposed to be here," Frank explained. "Chief Collig hired us to handle security for one of the museum exhibits."
"Who cares?" the man snapped back.
Joe moved into the light beside his brother, clenched his fists, and glared at the guy.
One look at Joe's angry, flashing blue eyes and the man's smug mask cracked. With a frightened gasp of breath, the guy stepped back, opening his hands in front of his chest to ward off any possible punches.
3
Frank put an arm out to hold Joe back. "Cool down," he said to his brother. Then he turned his attention back to the man and stared coldly into his eyes. "Mind telling me why we can't go in?"
The man returned his level gaze, his confidence returning. From his pocket he drew an ID card. "Elroy Renner, American Insurance Investigators. You're interfering with official business. Now move off."
Joe snatched the card from Renner, glanced at it, and grinned. "I guess you're here with the new exhibit."
Angrily Renner grabbed the card back and slid it into his pocket. "Listen, kid. I'm in charge of security around here, and if you know what's good for you--"
"Who's in charge?" a deep voice boomed from inside the museum. Chief of Police Ezra Collig stepped through the door, his face red with rage. "Renner! What have I told you?"
Renner glared at the chief, the two men locked in a duel of stares. "The insurance company left operations in my hands, not--"
"This is my town," Collig interrupted. "No one tells me what to do in my town. The insurance company sent you to work with me, not to run the show."
Renner's jaw dropped. "I'm not going to
4
leave the protection of valuable gems in the hands of some hick-town cop."
"Hick town!" Joe yelled, and Renner spun toward him. The thin man's eyes darted from Joe to Frank to Chief Collig, then back to Joe. Sourly rolling his eyes, he gave up the argument and slunk into the museum.
Collig chuckled. "He's a good man, really-- but a real pain in the neck to work with sometimes." In a grand gesture, the chief swept his arm toward the open museum door and winked at the Hardys. "After you, boys."
Frank drew a deep breath and looked up at the front of the building before entering. He always found the museum inspiring. An old mansion, it had four spires rising to the sky like corner towers on a castle. The spires were being rebuilt as part of a plan to renovate the museum. Scaffolding rose up around them, making the museum look like a castle under siege. The building was set back from the street and separated from other houses by woods and a huge lawn.
Inside, a short foyer opened into a parlor the size of a normal house. The walls were lined with heavy gold-framed paintings, and in the center of this main room was a giant sculpture of bronze and chrome. Frank wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to be. The last time
5
he'd been in the museum, a statue of a Greek warrior had stood there.
He remembered it well--the statue had fallen and almost killed Tessa Carpenter back in The Borgia Dagger case.
"Could use your help," he heard Chief Collig say as they left the room and walked down the carpeted hall. He realized Joe and the chief had been talking while he'd been deep in thought.
"I don't know," Joe was saying. "I thought the Bay port police didn't like working with us amateurs."
Collig smiled apologetically. "Sure, I prefer not having to look over my shoulder for you two whenever a crime happens in this town. But this is different. We need security guards to watch the Star of Ishtar exhibit. I don't have the manpower to staff a special detail like this twenty-four hours a day."
"I read about the exhibit in the paper," Frank said. "The Star is one of the largest sapphires in the world."
"Right. And I need people I can trust."
"You can trust these two?" Renner had reappeared almost magically and was leaning in a doorway, his arms tightly crossed.
"I'd rather trust them than all your electronic gadgets," Collig snapped back. "I've
6
known these boys for years. They're smart, honest, and they've got great instincts." 
"Electronics don't need instincts," Renner replied. He pushed open a door, and the four of them walked through it. The relatively dark space on the other side was large. It was a corner room, and one of the spires rose a hundred feet above it. The floor was a rich marble, and exhibit cases lined the brocaded walls. In the center, surrounded by electric eyes and vibration alarms, was an eight-sided glass case. 
"There," Renner said proudly, "is the Star of Ishtar!" 
Frank's eyes widened. 
There was nothing in the case. 
"It's empty," Joe said. For a moment Frank thought Renner was going to collapse like a balloon with the air let out. His face went chalk white, and his mouth flopped open, then shut without a word coming out. 
Chief Collig stepped forward with his usual no-nonsense attitude and tested the defenses. When his fist passed through the electric-eye beam and pounded on the glass, alarms began to shriek. 
"Well, that ought to bring reinforcements," Collig muttered, his eyes darting around the room. 
"This is your fault!" Renner screamed. 
7
"There was supposed to be someone in this room at all times!" 
"There would have been!" Collig answered. "If you hadn't been playing drill sergeant and stopped the Hardys from coming in. I had to come find you to see what was taking so long." 
"So you admit it!" Renner bellowed. "The loss is your responsibility." 
"Let's worry about getting the stone back before we decide who's to blame," Frank suggested. "How could anyone manage to steal the Star without tripping the alarms?" 
He studied the case, and then the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Puzzled, he glanced up into the darkness of the spire. 
About sixteen feet up a flicker of motion caught his eye. 
"A rope!" Frank cried. "Someone hit the lights. Joe, come here." 
As Collig hit the switch that lit the spire, Joe reached his brother's side. "Get me up there," Frank said. Joe cupped his hands together, and in seconds Frank stepped from Joe's hands to his shoulders and was leaping for the rope. 
It was just within his grasp. Quickly Frank started to work himself up hand over hand. As his eyes adjusted to the lights, he looked straight up. 
Almost at the top of the spire, also climbing the rope, was a woman in a black jumpsuit. 
8
When she glanced down at him, Frank saw she was young and beautiful, with reddish blond hair sweeping over her shoulders. 
"I don't believe it," Joe said when he caught a glimpse of the woman's face. "It's Charity." 
"Who's Charity?" said Collig, bewildered. 
"Don't ask," Joe muttered, shaking his head. The beautiful young jewel thief had made a fool of him once. Could Frank even the score? 
"Get outside and have the building surrounded," Frank called down. "I'll keep climbing. Let's give her nowhere to go." Already he could hear the sirens of reinforcements arriving outside. They had Charity trapped. 
For what seemed an eternity, Frank continued to pull himself up. He was almost within reach of the woman dangling above him. She was peering out through a skylight at the top of the spire as if she were waiting for something or someone. 
"Why, Frank Hardy," she said, finally deciding to acknowledge him. "I haven't seen you since when? San Francisco? Is your brother still as cute as ever?" 
"Give it up, Charity." Frank's voice was gravelly from the exertion of the climb. "We've got you surrounded." 
"That may be," Charity admitted, the lovely 
9
smile never leaving her lips. Her hand slipped into her jumpsuit and came out a second later with a glint of silver. 
Charity moved so fast, Frank hardly saw the knife as she slashed the rope. 
Frank sucked in a last breath and pictured with horror the long plunge to the marble floor below. 
10
Chapter   2 
after a couple of inches Frank's fall stopped. The shock jarred the rope from his grasp. He desperately grabbed for it and tightened his grip around the heavy cord. 
Swaying one-handed in midair, he was holding on for dear life. 
After he had caught his breath, Frank looked up to see why he hadn't plunged all the way to the floor below. Charity hadn't cut the rope all the way through. A single strand had him dangling in the air. If he remained perfectly still, the strand might support his weight until help came. If he moved, the strain on the rope would snap it, and he would plummet to the hard floor. 
11
But if he stayed where he was, Charity would escape, and Frank couldn't let that happen. 
Slowly he eased himself up, putting as little strain on the strand as he could. The rope slipped another inch, and he froze to stop its swaying. After a moment he started working his way up again, but the strand kept untwining. 
Frank knew he wouldn't make it. 
From above he heard a metallic creaking, and looked up to see Charity opening one of the glass skylights at the top of the spire. A blast of cool night air gusted in, sending the rope swaying again. Another fiber popped loose from the strand. 
Frank closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to make his move and get up past the raveled strand. 
He gathered his strength. Then, in a flurry of movement, he pulled himself up in a couple of rough, rapid motions. The rope dropped by another inch. His hand was almost past the split when the last fibers pulled loose and the strand broke. 
Frank lashed out, his fingertips grazing the top rope, but he couldn't get a grip on it. His fingers slid along the rough fibers, then closed on empty air. 
No! They'd caught on the tail end of the frayed strand. Frank's fingernails dug into his 
12
palm as he clung to it. The pain in his fingers blotted out all thought. By instinct he threw his free hand up and caught hold of the rope. Ignoring the burning in his shoulders, Frank pulled himself the rest of the way to the window in the spire. 
As he crawled out the window, the pain caught up to him, and Frank collapsed on the scaffolding. The cool air washed over him, and he opened his eyes to see what looked like a giant bat standing over him. 
Frank shook the pain from his head and stared. It was no bat. 
Charity smiled down sweetly at him and blew him a kiss. Before Frank could reach her, she leapt off the scaffolding. The wind caught the hang glider she had strapped herself into, and she was gone, a shrinking, winged dot vanishing into the dark. 
A spotlight hit Frank, blinding him, and from the ground came a voice through a megaphone: "You're surrounded. Give yourself up." It was Elroy Renner. Frank yelled back and pointed to Charity, but they were too far away to hear him and in the wrong location to see Charity's flight. Frustrated, Frank began the long climb down the scaffolding. 
"Where is she?" Chief Collig asked as Frank reached the ground. 
"Gone," Frank said on the run. "She took 
13
off in a hang glider." He had Joe by the arm now. "Come on."
"Wait!" Renner shouted. "You can't just run out! You have questions to answer!"
"Later," Frank shouted back as he and Joe raced to their black van in the museum parking lot. "When we catch Charity, we'll have all the answers."
"How are we going to catch her?" Joe asked, climbing into the passenger's seat. He yanked the seat belt around him. "If you lost sight of her, she could be anywhere."
The van had roared to life, and with a screech peeled out of the parking lot and onto the street. They headed for the west end of Bayport.
"She took off over the west woods," Frank said. "If she plans to make a safe landing--and there's no guarantee of that--there's only one place she can do it."
Joe snapped his fingers. "The old Miller farm. It's the only clear, flat land for miles."
"Right," replied Frank. "I can't wait to bring her in."
"You?" Joe said. "I'm the one she made a fool of in San Francisco."
"She did a pretty good job of that with both of us, brother."
Joe grinned. "That'd really be something, wouldn't it? Us capturing the greatest jewel
14
thief of the decade--" He stopped as the gates to the old Miller place appeared in the headlights.
The Miller farm had been one of the many in the Bayport area, but times had changed. Farmers had moved out, and more and more of their land had been built up with new housing developments. Yet, even as the city swallowed up so much land, this old farm remained untouched, even after the last Miller died. Now it was a slowly collapsing monument to a way of life that had all but vanished from that part of the country.
The lock that should have been on the gate wasn't there. Frank killed the headlights as Joe got out of the van and pulled open the barrier. The van roiled onto the farm.
"There's a light on at the house," Joe said. He stood on the step of the van, hanging out the open door. Something dark spread out across the road in front of them. "Watch it."
Frank brought the van to a stop. "Charity's hang glider," he said, getting out of the van. "If we run over that, it'll make so much noise that she'll know we're here. Let's leave the car and not move the glider. It'll be quieter approaching on foot."
Joe grinned. "I can't wait to see the look on her face when we burst in on her."
Quietly they crept through the tall weeds and
15
then across the grass to approach the house. The curtains were drawn, but a woman's shadow fell on them, moving back and forth. Frank squinted. There was something odd about the silhouette, but he couldn't put his finger on what. 
"Let's hope she's alone," he said. "I'd hate to run into someone toting a gun." 
Joe reached the house first and flattened his back against it. Inside, the shadow still walked back and forth. "If she's got the Star, she'll have already dumped any partner she might have had. Charity uses people, but she never splits the loot with them." 
"Looks like she's waiting for someone," said Frank, who had flattened himself against the wall next to Joe. "Let's not disappoint her." 
They reached the door. It was solid wood, but years of decay had splintered and weakened it. It gave slightly against Joe's testing shove. 
"Ready?" he whispered. Frank nodded. 
Joe threw down one finger, and then a second. On the third finger, the Hardys stepped away from the door, then hurled their shoulders into it. 
The door cracked open with a sound like a sudden thunderclap. It fell away, and the Hardys rushed into the farmhouse. All the furni- 
16
ture was still there, covered with a thick layer of dust. There was no sign that anyone had lived there in recent months.
Frank didn't hang around to check out the decorating. They ran for the living-room door and rushed into the lit space.
In the middle of the living room was a lamp, trained on the window. Between the window and the light was a record player, its turntable moving round and round. Riding around was a cardboard cutout shaped like a woman's head and shoulders. The shadow cast by the light seemed to move back and forth across the curtains. Cords from both the light and the record player ran to a small portable generator in a corner of the room.
That was it--there was no sign of Charity.
"A trick!" Joe roared. "She's not here at all."
"What's that noise?" Frank cut across Joe's yelling. From somewhere came a low hum, like that of a giant electric fan that was growing louder and louder.
"Outside!" Joe dashed for the front door.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Frank said, following on the heels of his brother. "Remember old man Miller, back when we were kids? How he used to entertain at fairs?"
"Barnstorming," Joe recalled. "He did flying tricks in an old biplane."
17
"And his barn is built to store a plane," Frank said, leading the way now, to the barn. "That's how she's going to get out of here! She has a plane stashed here."
They flung open the barn doors, and a blast of air hit them in the face. The single engine of a biplane roared in their ears. The boys rushed in, raising their arms to keep the blowing dust out of their eyes. They could just make out a woman sitting in the pilot's seat.
"Charity," Joe yelled, but his voice was drowned by the engine noise. There was a grinding of machinery behind him, and he turned--too late--to see the barn doors closing. There wasn't enough space for them to get out.
"Frank!" Joe shouted. "The doors!"
They rushed over and pressed their hands against the doors, struggling to keep them open, but strong motors forced them shut. Charity stuck a remote control out the side window, and on her lips she plastered a smile.
Bits of straw were sucked into the propeller and were shredded. As Frank and Joe pressed back against the barn door, the plane began to move forward.
The propeller, slicing everything in its way, was aimed straight at them.
18
Chapter  3 
"scramble," frank yelled, diving to the ground to avoid the whirling blade. Joe rolled under a wing as the plane passed over him. 
With a laugh, Charity aimed the remote control at the barn doors again and pressed a button. They swung wide open, and the plane rolled away from the Hardys and out into the night. 
"Stop her!" Joe yelled. He leapt for the tail of the plane, which rolled along on a single wheel. He was too late. The biplane was already in the air. 
Charity was out of reach. 
"It figures she'd be able to fly a plane," Joe said, brushing himself off after his hard land18
19
ing. "She's an expert at everything else. We'll never catch her." 
"Maybe," Frank said, every bit as annoyed as Joe by the escape. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. She's obviously been using this place as her base of operations. Maybe she left something behind to trace her by." They went back to the house. 
A search of the bedrooms and kitchen turned up nothing. Neither did a check of the record player. 
As Joe moved the lamp that had shone on the window, a tiny scrap of paper fluttered out from under the bottom of it and settled near his shoe. He picked it up and studied it. It looked like a duplicate from an order form, with serial numbers on it. 
"I think I found something," he called to Frank. 
Frank walked over to Joe and took the paper from him. "I'd say it was a piece of a receipt. It looks vaguely familiar, but I'm not sure why or where it's from." 
Joe sighed. "One thing I am sure about is that there's nothing else to find here. We'd better get back to town and give them the bad news." 
The mood back at the museum was bleak. A line of police officers barricaded both ends of 
20
the street that the museum was on, keeping reporters and TV camera crews out. Frank and Joe were let through the barricade and shortly found themselves in the museum curator's office, where Chief Collig sat on a couch, with Officer Con Riley nearby, leaning against a wall. Both sets of eyes were on Renner. Renner was speaking on the phone, but he talked too quietly to be heard across the room. Though good friends, Collig and Riley didn't speak. Right then there was nothing to say.
Riley's eyes rolled up as the Hardys entered the room. Unlike Chief Collig, he had never minded the Hardys helping out on cases, but he also knew that wherever Frank and Joe were, trouble was sure to follow. "Your father know you're here, boys?"
The Hardys' father was Fenton Hardy, a former New York police detective who had become a world-famous private investigator. It wasn't unusual for him to take off across the globe at the drop of a hat--which Frank and Joe sometimes did as well.
"Mom and Dad are in Boston for the week," Joe said. "Dad recommended us for this security gig because he couldn't be here."
Riley grinned. "I suppose he thought it would be easy."
"Wipe that stupid grin off your face," Renner growled as he slammed the phone down.
21
He pointed to the chief. "I want this man arrested." 
All four stared at Renner, stunned. Chief Collig bounced to his feet, angrily asking, "And what am I to be arrested for?" 
"You stole the Star," Renner said, glaring at Collig. "You stole it while I was out front talking to these kids." He waved a hand in the direction of the Hardys. "Then they concocted this story about a jewel thief to cover your tracks." 
"She was there!" Frank protested. 
"Says you," Renner said bluntly. "I didn't see anyone. Suddenly you three were tripping alarms and pulling stunts, till I couldn't tell what was what. But the thief had to be someone who knew how to turn the alarms on and off and who could get to them. That means Collig or me. And I was with the boys." 
"It was Charity," Joe said. "We have proof." He held up the scrap of paper. Renner snatched it, studied it for a moment, then crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it back to Joe. 
"Stray garbage," the insurance man said. He pointed a finger at Collig again. 
Con Riley glared at Renner, his hands on his hips. "There's no evidence against the chief, and he's too fine a man for you to accuse." 
"I should have figured you hick-town cops 
22
would stick together," Renner snarled back. "But I know what my report is going to say." 
"If you think you've got something on me, do whatever you have to," Chief Collig said. "But don't you speak to my officers like that. And don't forget that I'm still chief of police in this town." 
"You won't be much longer if I have anything to say about it," Renner said. "And I will. The insurance company I work for has lots of pull in this state. No yokel cop is going to make fools of them. Collig, you can kiss your job goodbye." He eyed the Hardys. "Now, what about these two?" 
"They're free to go," Riley said. 
"No, we're not free." Joe gave Renner a look so menacing the insurance guy jumped a step back. "We're going to find Charity, bring back the sapphire, and wreck this little frame you're trying to put around the chief and Frank and me." 
"I've got it!" Frank cried. "Joe, where's that scrap of paper?" 
As Joe handed him the numbers, Frank went behind the curator's desk and dug out a phone book. "Airlines, airlines . . ." he mumbled, running a finger down a column in the Yellow Pages. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. 
"Hi," he said in a cheery voice. "I'm afraid 
23
I've destroyed my plane ticket, and all I have left of it is the order number. I think it was with your company. Could you check? . . . Thank you." He rattled off the number on the paper.
"Oh. Transcontinent Air. ... I see. Thank you. And that flight was to . . .? Sorry, but my appointment book was destroyed at the same time. I go so many places on business, I can't keep track of them. . . . Thanks.
"Of course. Thanks. And the flight is leaving ... It just left. Oh, dear. Is there any other flight I can-- When? . . . Tomorrow morning? That'd be great. Two tickets, please. . . . Hardy. . . . Yes. You've been very helpful."
Frank hung up the phone, cold determination on his face. "Let's go, Joe. We have some packing to do."
"Where do you think you're going?" Renner snapped.
"San Diego," Frank said, trailing Joe out of the room. They slammed the door behind them.
Joe Hardy woke the minute the plane touched down on the runway in San Diego. He and Frank both knew that that might be the last time they'd have to sleep in days. They had drifted off as soon as they left New York.
24
Joe almost wished he hadn't. His rest had been constantly interrupted by nightmares of Charity.
He nudged Frank awake. "I've been thinking --" he began, as the plane rolled up to the terminal, but Frank interrupted him.
"Me, too. Something's not right here." Frank yawned and stretched. "It strikes me that Charity could've escaped from us several times. Why was she so slow?"
"Slow?"
"Sure. First, she dangles on that rope until we see her, then she stays on the scaffolding outside until I get there."
Joe nodded. "And she was way ahead of us in the barn. She could have flown away before we got anywhere near her."
"But instead she closed the doors and played with us," Frank agreed. "Sounds a little like she was trying to make sure we stayed on her trail, doesn't it?"
"You think she left the number for us to find?"
"I don't know. There's only one way to find out."
"Right," Joe said. "Catch Charity." The flight attendants opened the doors, and the passengers started filing out of the plane. Trapped in their seats until the flood of people passed, Frank and Joe watched each of them
25
move by. Finally, when the plane was almost empty, the Hardys got up. 
"Here's something else that's funny." Joe lowered his voice. "I just recognized about half a dozen of the people on this plane." 
"Me, too," Frank said, frowning. "We've seen their faces in those investigator's updates Dad gets. They're criminals." 
"Thieves," Joe added. "Just like Charity. What are they all doing in San Diego at the same time?" 
"Do criminals have conventions?" Frank asked jokingly. Then his face grew serious "Something's going on. The question is, what, and what are we going to do?" 
They stepped into the terminal. Already the passengers were dispersing, but just ahead Joe saw a familiar hairless head, polished to a shine. "That's a second-story man out of Baltimore, named Chrome Lasker. Why don't we ask him what's going on?" 
The Hardys pushed through the crowd, closing in on Lasker. The bald man didn't notice them. He was busy speaking to a guy in a white suit. In profile, the second man had a thick mustache and what looked like tiny, ratlike eyes. 
"Lasker," Frank said, clamping a hand on the bald man's shoulder. Without missing a beat, the mustached man clipped Frank with a 
26
massive hand, knocking him down. The two men took off running. 
"They're heading for the exit," Joe said as he helped Frank to his feet. Frank looked down the corridor where the two men had gone. It ended in double doors. 
"That's not an exit," Frank said. "It leads to a service area. We've got them cornered. Come on." 
They pushed through the double doors into darkness. As the doors slammed shut behind them, each of the Hardys felt something thin and cool wrap around his throat. Frank and Joe felt hot breath raise the hairs on the backs of their necks. The men behind them were taller than they were, and, if they could go by the grip the men had, they were a lot bigger too. 
Wires held in strong hands tightened and began to bite into the Hardy s' throats, slowly squeezing the life out of them. 
27
Chapter  4 
joe hardy raised a foot and brought it down as hard as he could on the toes of the man strangling him. The man howled and loosened his grip on the wire. Joe rammed an elbow into the man's stomach. 
Pain shot through Joe's arm, as if he'd just smashed into a rock. With a grunt and a laugh, the man rapped Joe on the side of the head, knocking the younger Hardy off his feet. The wire caught him around the neck again and tightened. 
Joe dangled there, trying to brace his feet again, feeling his weight drag him into the strangling wire. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his lungs burned for air. Nearby, he 
28
watched Frank struggle, with no more success than he was having.
Something--a foot, Joe figured--smacked into the back of his knees, knocking his legs out from under him. He knew the man holding the wire wasn't about to let him get his balance again.
There was a click, and instantly light streamed through the darkness and widened. A woman's shadow fell across them, but Joe, almost unconscious, could see nothing. He heard two dull thuds, and air rushed into his lungs as he fell to the floor and the wire slid from his neck.
"Frank!" Joe called as he wobbled to his feet. "You all right?"
Next to him, Frank rolled over and sat up, coughing and rubbing his neck. "I'm okay. What happened?"
Joe looked at his and his brother's attackers lying at their feet. They weren't the men the Hardys had been following, but rather tan, muscular giants. One had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. Both were unconscious now, sprawled on the floor.
"Sailors of some sort, I'd guess." Joe's voice croaked out of a throat that still stung from the bite of the wire. "When the doors opened, there was this shadow, and--"
"Charity!" they said at the same time.
29
"I'm starting to get real tired of her." Frank fumed. 
But Joe wasn't listening. He was out the door and back in the main terminal, looking for any sign of Charity. Other planes had unloaded passengers, and the terminal was filled. If Charity was there, Joe realized, she would be well hidden by the crowd. 
"Kid!" a voice nearby called out, followed by murmured protests from the passersby on Joe's left. He turned to see what the commotion was about. 
A heavyset man with a round face was pushing against the flow of the crowd, jostling people in his hurry to get to Joe. He smiled and waved, and Joe thought about turning tail and running. But it was too late. The cheery man clasped Joe's hand and shook it fiercely. Joe stared at the man, puzzled. 
"Kid!" the man cried. "Don't you recognize me? It's Jolly!" 
"Jolly?" Joe replied. 
The man named Jolly nudged him in the ribs and lowered his voice. "Sure. You remember. That job we pulled on the French Riviera?" 
"Oh," Joe answered, smiling nervously. "The French Riviera job. How've you been?" 
Jolly winked at him. "I don't blame you for not recognizing me. We only met once, and that was a good ten years ago. But I never 
30
forget a face, kid." He ran a finger along Joe's cheek and nodded admiringly. "Great lift job. I can only just make out the scars. 
"As for how I've been, well, it's been slow. I was thinking of getting a real job when this came up." For a moment Jolly's face fell into a frown, but then the smile returned. "A score like this should put us both on easy street for the rest of our lives. You want to ride with me to the meet?" 
Joe glanced over his shoulder. Frank stood against a wall, watching them with the same puzzled expression that Joe felt he must have. Joe shrugged slightly and caught Frank's eye. Nodding, Frank faded back. 
"Sure," Joe said. 
Jolly led him out of the airport to the taxi stand, talking about old times and old scores. Joe decided to let Jolly do the talking, since Joe didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. 
He settled back in the cab, listening to Jolly and wondering where they were going. 
The cab pulled up in front of a warehouse along the docks on San Diego's Embarcadero. "Sure this is where you want to go?" the driver asked. "This place has been shut down for years," 
"Sure I'm sure," Jolly said, handing the 
31
driver a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change, pal."
As the taxi drove off, Joe looked around. The street was all warehouses, but to the northwest Joe could see the tall buildings of downtown San Diego. Behind the warehouses was the shining blue of San Diego Bay; he could smell the ocean in the air.
"This way," Jolly said, gesturing toward a warehouse with a steel door painted red. "Didn't they give you instructions?"
"Let's just say I had to leave the dump where I was staying in a hurry," Joe lied. "Everything got left behind, including my luggage and the instructions."
"Well, that's one of the hazards," Jolly said. He pulled open the warehouse door.
Joe was expecting darkness inside, but instead the warehouse was filled with a soft blue light. "Come in," said a deep voice. They went in, letting the door close softly behind them.
A tall man stood just inside. He wore an expensive gray silk suit, white-on-white shirt, and a deadly gleam in his eye. A razor-thin scar, dead white, traced a line on his tanned face from the bottom of his left ear to the corner of his mouth. As he turned to face the newcomers, the outline of a large gun in a shoulder holster showed in the fabric of his suit coat.
31
t
32
"Names?" he asked with a faint Hispanic accent.
"I'm Jolly," Jolly said. He clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. "This is my main man, the Kid. We're expected."
The scarred man nodded but didn't smile. "You're the last. Go in."
Joe and Jolly stepped past him, and the man followed them into the warehouse. A dozen or more men stood there, or sat on crates. No one spoke. Their eyes were riveted on a five-foot projection television screen that hung from the ceiling. The screen, empty of any picture but still on, was the source of the blue light.
The scarred man stepped in front of the screen and clapped his hands twice. All eyes were on him. "Greetings," he said. "I am Chavo. Your host, my employer, will join us shortly.
"You, gentlemen--and lady--are the world's finest thieves. Perhaps the best that ever were. You all know why we are gathered here. If we are successful, we will all be rich beyond our wildest dreams. This means that we must work together, without fear of betrayal. Is there anyone here who feels he can't do that?"
A short man with red hair piped up. "I don't trust anyone I've never met. The name's Brady."
33
"Everest," the man next to him said.
The next man stood up, the blue light bouncing off his shiny skull, and Joe swallowed hard. It was Chrome Lasker. But Lasker stared straight at Joe and identified himself. There was nothing in his face. Their two-second encounter at the airport hadn't been enough for him to recognize Joe.
" `Cat' Willeford," said the man sitting on the crate with him, and Joe recognized Willeford as the mustached man who'd been talking to Lasker at the airport.
It went on and on, until everyone had identified himself.
Then Jolly stepped forward, bowing to the crowd as if they were an audience. "The name's Jolly," he said, "specialist in all things crystal and silver. And this"--he pointed at Joe--"is the Kid."
Everyone was growing bored by then, but at the mention of the Kid's name, all heads popped up, eyeing him.
"You got to a score just before I did," Everest growled.
"Sorry about that," Joe said, clenching his fists. He could feel a fight coming on.
"Forget it," Everest replied, and his scowl turned to a smile. "Just don't cut me out of this one, or . . . " He ran a fingernail across his throat, leaving a bright red streak. Joe nodded. 33
34
"Don't let him throw you, Kid," Brady said admiringly. "You're a legend. We study your capers.
"Now," Chavo continued, "if there's nothing else ..."
"Don't forget me," said a melodic voice, and Joe's blood ran cold. From the shadows stepped Charity, dressed now in a blouse and skirt. Calmly she strolled across the room, moving toward Joe.
He stood still, not knowing what to do as she said, "Someone here is hiding something." The rest of the thieves in the room began to
move, some nervous, some scowling. Several slipped things out of pockets--knives, blackjacks, brass knuckles--the weapons of their trade. Joe knew that when Charity fingered him, the others would descend on him and tear him to pieces. She kept walking, moving steadily toward him.
"I know," she said as she put her arms around Joe's neck, "who you really are."
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Chapter
5
JOE'S STOMACH KNOTTED as if a fist had been driven into it, but to Joe's surprise, Charity leaned over and kissed his cheek. Putting an arm around his waist, she swung back to face the others. A shiver ran through him, and he tried to breathe, but he couldn't. He could feel the hot breath of death on his face.
"The Kid and I pulled a caper together once. We got very close. I even learned his real name." She flashed him a catlike smile.
"You can't," Joe muttered, but he knew she wouldn't listen. He flexed his fingers, determined to take as many of them with him as possible.
"The Kid's real name is Crawford Laird Pulansky."
36
For a moment Joe couldn't understand what he had heard. She had lied for him! Why? Relief and shock washed over him, and his legs grew rubbery, but he locked his knees and forced himself to stand.
"Crawford." One of the thieves let out a guffaw. Then everyone in the room was roaring with laughter, until Chavo clapped his hands again. "If we are done with the entertainment portion of our program . . . "
Joe leaned over to Charity and whispered, "Is that the Kid's real name?"
"How should I know?" Charity whispered back. "I never met the guy."
Chavo hit a switch. A tiny dot of light formed in the center of the video screen and spread out until it formed a picture. It was a head and shoulders, but Joe couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. The face on the screen was covered by a brown hood. Joe guessed that eyeholes had been cut into it, because the brown hood had dark glasses over the eyes. The voice was scrambled electronically, so it came out sounding like a robot's voice.
"Welcome," it said. "Welcome to the perfect crime. You may call me the Director." The crooks began to murmur, but Chavo
shouted, "Silence!" and they turned their attention back to the screen.
"For reasons of security, I can't tell you
37
where we are going to strike, or when. The operation will be divided into sections. Chavo will tell you who is needed, and for what.
"I want to thank everyone for being here. I can guarantee that if you follow instructions, this venture will be satisfactorily profitable for everyone.
"Now, go have a good day, see San Diego if you wish, stay out of trouble, and be back here at nine this evening. That is all."
The light blinked out, and the screen went dead.
Joe stood there for a moment, staring at the screen in bewilderment. What have I stumbled into? he wondered. He decided that, for the moment, it wasn't important. The first thing he had to do was bring in Charity. She was right beside him, and he could walk out with her now and she wouldn't be able to say a word. If this band of cutthroats ever got the idea that she had lied to them, she'd be dead. He had a hold on her.
But when he turned to grab Charity, she was gone.
He joined the others as they filed out into the street and looked all around. Again, no sign of Charity.
But he did notice something he'd missed before. On top of the warehouse was a satellite television dish.
38
"So, want to hang out with me today?" he heard Jolly say.
"Thanks," Joe replied. "But I've got a lot of things to do. Buy some new clothes, rent a room--"
"Yeah," Jolly agreed. "I understand. That would take up a lot of time. Well, I'll see you again tonight." He walked off.
Joe hoped Frank had managed to follow them. He wished he could talk to Frank now, but the others were still too close. If Frank contacted him now, it could be fatal for both of them.
He walked down the street, heading for the buildings in the distance. No sign of Frank on the empty streets. Here and there he passed other people, but they paid no attention to him.
Only one man nodded at Joe as he passed, a man in slacks and shirtsleeves, with his coat draped over his arm. Looking at the guy, Joe realized for the first time how hot he was himself. The weather had been cooling off in Bayport, but in San Diego it was just like summer.
Joe continued looking for any sign of Frank but saw none. He did see the man with the coat over his arm again. There was something strangely familiar about the guy.
No one I've met, Joe decided. The guy was blond haired and blue eyed, just over six feet
39
tall, broad and muscular. From a distance he looked like a teenager, but as he came closer, Joe saw the man's looks could be the result of cosmetic surgery. Joe knew he was much older than his unlined face would indicate.
"Excuse me. Do you have the time?" the man asked, stopping next to Joe.
Joe raised his arm to look at his watch, and started to say, "A little after--" when he felt a heavy nudge in his ribs.
"That's a Smith and Wesson persuader in your side," the man said in a low, deadly calm voice. Out of the corner of his eye Joe caught the dark polished glint of gunmetal. "Walk."
"I don't have much money on me," Joe began, but another nudge shut him up.
"This isn't about money," the man said. "Make a move and I'll blow you away. Just do what I tell you." The man shoved Joe toward a car parked at the curb.
"I'll make any move I want," Joe threatened. "You wouldn't dare shoot me in front of other people."
The man sneered. "I'm a little crazy, see? Someone takes my name, I don't care what I have to do to deal with it."
Joe's heart jumped to his throat. It was the real Kid!
"You drive," the Kid said as they got into the car. "It's a nice day for a trip to the zoo."
40
Joe studied the Kid as they drove off. The Kid was good-looking, but Joe couldn't understand how anyone would mistake the two of them.
Frantically, Frank Hardy flagged down a cab after his brother had been forced into a waiting car. Frank had been tailing Joe since the airport, but he hadn't been able to get close enough to figure out what was going on.
"Follow that car," he told the driver as he got into the cab. He bit down lightly on his tongue when he heard himself say it. He pointed out the Chevy.
When the driver heard Frank's order, he cried, "Far out, man! I've been waiting to have someone say that all my life." The cabbie had long, stringy hair and a set of beads around his neck. Frank thought he looked like something out of the 1960s.
The San Diego Zoo was one of the largest in the world, set in the middle of the twelve hundred acres of Balboa Park, just north of downtown San Diego. The zoo contained more than thirty-two hundred animals, separated by moats and fences from the thousands of people who visited the park daily. Much of the environment looked like a tropical jungle.
Joe Hardy wasn't interested in the animals.
41
The Kid had herded him through the main entrance, toward the aerial tram ride that ran above the park from this side to the other, a third of a mile away. The trolley cars held only two people each. The cars were so light that they swayed on the thin cable they hung from.
"Get on," the Kid muttered in Joe's ear as he handed their tickets to the young woman who loaded the trolleys. She opened the car door and closed it after them. Then, with a jerk, the cable pulled their car up into the air and out over the zoo.
"Nice view, isn't it?" The Kid brought the gun out into the open, his finger still wrapped around the trigger. The nose was pointed at Joe.
"Are we up here for my health?" Joe asked. "Yeah," the mid replied. "Time to improve your physical fitness. You're going to practice high dives."
Joe looked down, his stomach pulling tight. They were at least seventy-five feet up, swaying between the concrete path below and the animal pens on either side of them.
"You're crazy," Joe said.
"Never say that to the man with the gun," said the Kid. "The way I figure it, you're big, but not too big for me to toss into a bear or tiger cage as we go over. The fall will probably
42
kill you, but if it doesn't, the animals will get to you before help can."
Joe gripped the safety bar and held on tight. "What if I just promise never to use your name again?"
The Kid shook his head. "Too late."
The butt of the gun suddenly smashed into Joe's jaw. Hold on, he told himself as a gray cloud fogged into his mind. Hold on!
Strong hands gripped Joe diagonally around his waist and shoulders. He tried to move his arms to fight, but they wouldn't work. The gray cloud moved in, swallowing all thought.
Standing up in the trolley, the Kid lifted Joe over his head as if he were a doll, ready to heave the younger Hardy into the bear pits far below.
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Chapter
6
FRANK HARDY GOT OUT of the cab and followed his brother and the blond guy. He'd been trying to catch Joe's eye, but the other man always got between them.
The stranger looked more like Joe's brother than Frank did, Frank realized suddenly with a shock. They obviously weren't identical, but in the right light, facing someone who knew neither of them very well, they could easily be mistaken for each other.
The two of them got into a tram car and lifted off, heading for the other end of the park. Frank jogged along the walkway beneath the trolley line, keeping his eyes on the car overhead.
44
"Joe!" he called out, but the trolley was too far up. There was no way Joe could hear him.
The car began to sway too violently to be caused by the wind. Something was happening up there, but Frank couldn't tell what. He sprinted ahead of it, turning and looking up to get a glimpse of the inside of the car. The angle was all wrong. He couldn't see.
Then a dark mass tipped over the lip of the car. It struck the pavement with a dull thud and rolled over once, landing in a position impossible for a living man.
All the color drained from Frank's face. He recognized the body.
It was Joe.
Frank sank to his knees next to his brother. He didn't care about anything, not Charity, the Star of Ishtar, Chief Collig, or the people gathering around them. All that mattered was that his brother was dead.
As tears filled his eyes, he froze, startled. There were little marks next to Joe's ears, tiny, almost invisible scratches he assumed were caused by the fall. He looked at them more closely, and his heart raced.
The marks were old scars. Joe never had any scars around his ears.
It was the other man, he realized with a thrill. It wasn't Joe! 
His eyes darted up at the trolley car that was
45
vanishing into the distance. Frank sprinted past the people coming to stare at the body, shaking off hands that reached out to stop him.
"You can't go," someone shouted. "What happened?"
"He fell," Frank yelled back over his shoulder. He didn't want to talk. He needed the air for running. "Call the police."
He reached the trolley car as it was coming to a stop at the far end of the line. Joe, still woozy, staggered out of the car, and Frank, still running, threw his arms around Joe and hugged him.
"You sound a little winded," Joe said as Frank tried to keep his legs from buckling under him.
Puffing, Frank said, "I've just run three hundred-yard dashes back-to-back, and I think I set records. What happened? Who was that guy?"
"That was the Kid--the crook that guy Jolly took me for. He was about to throw me off the car, but I managed to get a grip on the roof. I held on. He lurched forward, but I stayed where I was, and he pitched off the car. I barely made it back into the seat before I blacked out."
"We don't have to worry about the Kid anymore," Frank said. "But we'd better get out of here before the police arrive."
46
"Good idea," Joe said. Hiding behind bushes, they scaled the tall back wall and dropped down to the street behind the zoo. As police cars roared past, sirens blaring, they walked calmly down the sidewalk, heading back downtown.
Relaxing, Frank asked, "So how did you get mixed up with the Kid?"
"A gang I ran into at the warehouse thinks I'm him," Joe said. "He didn't like that." He looked over his shoulder, checking for the police before continuing. There was no sign of them.
"So what did you learn? What's going on?" "It's all pretty confusing," Joe replied. "Apparently all those thieves we saw at the airport have gotten together for a big heist. It's being planned by someone calling himself the Director, but I don't know who he--or she is. He wears a mask and talks to us on television." Joe's face brightened. "Hey! You're good with computers and electronics. Is there any way we could trace where the TV signal's coming from?"
Frank shook his head. "Only if it's a direct cable feed. If he's using a satellite dish, he's bouncing the signal off a satellite. It could be coming from anywhere."
"Then the only way to crack this scheme is for me to keep pretending to be the Kid."
47
"No," Frank said. "It's too dangerous. You'd be completely on your own."
"You'll be nearby," Joe protested. "Besides, Charity's in with them."
When he heard that name, Frank gave his brother a look. He let out a weary sigh, and, after thinking a long time, said, "All right. But be careful." He thought a moment more. "Let's get a hotel room and some food. Then later we should go to the warehouse and check it out before the gang gets back."
"Outside of this TV projection screen and the cable leading to the dish on the roof, it's an ordinary warehouse," Frank said. He and Joe had been there for several hours, scouring the place from top to bottom. It was clean. "We'd better get out of here."
Joe stiffened just then, listening. A dozen pairs of footsteps were headed their way outside. "Too late," he said. "They're here. Better hide."
Frank glanced around. The only place to hide in the warehouse was behind the crates, and Joe had told him that the gang would be sitting on them. He needed a hiding place they wouldn't find, somewhere they wouldn't go.
Moments later the gang entered the room, with Chavo bringing up the rear. Chuckling, Jolly walked up to Joe as the others seated
48
themselves around the projection TV. "I take it we're about to embark on our little project."
Charity pressed herself between them and slipped her arm into Joe's arm. "Mind if I borrow him?" she asked Jolly, batting her eyes sweetly at him. Then, before the heavy man could answer, she pulled Joe away. They sat down together in front of the screen, his arm firmly locked in hers.
"Mind yourself and don't say a thing," she whispered in his ear. "There's a big surprise coming." Joe clenched his jaw angrily but kept quiet.
Chavo switched the screen back on, and once again the covered face of the Director appeared on it. "We are about to begin," the electronic voice droned.
"By tomorrow morning you will all be millionaires. Half of you will receive instructions from Chavo for later tonight. The other operatives, whose names I am about to read, will assemble at the boat moored behind this warehouse. On the boat, you will get your orders for an invasion of the Point Loma Naval Station."
Several of the criminals stood up, yelling in disbelief. Chavo stepped in front of the screen and stared at them with those cruel, piercing eyes. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and pressed the shape of a pistol against the fabric
49
so everyone could see. The criminals quieted down.
"Now," the Director continued, "the assault group will be co-commanded by Charity and Willeford. It has been carefully planned, and if all the instructions are followed to the letter, no one will be hurt." He rattled off a list of names, and, after a long pause that sent a shiver down Joe's spine, ended the list with "the Kid."
"Go now," he said. "And good luck." Charity pulled Joe out of the warehouse toward the mooring, with the rest of their crew following them. Joe still said nothing, but now his silence sprang from anger.
"Cheer up," she said as if she had read his mind. "It'll be fun."
They climbed onto the boat, a small cabin cruiser.
Behind the screen, Frank listened and waited for all the footsteps to die away. He realized he'd been sweating. All through the meeting, he had been pressed up against the screen, hoping not to be noticed. But what he had heard alarmed him. He had to warn the police and the navy of what was about to happen, and he hoped Joe would be able to protect himself. Cautiously Frank stepped to the front of the screen.
It came on with a loud click, and he found
50
himself face-to-face with the TV image of the Director. A gun barrel nuzzled against the back of Frank's neck.
"You're caught, spy," the Director said. "Hands up," Chavo said. Frank put them up.
"I thought you were on tape," Frank told the man. "You sure fooled everyone."
"They think what I want them to think," said the Director. "What's your connection with the other spy?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Frank said.
"The one who claims to be the Kid," the Director replied. "The real Kid was found today in the San Diego Zoo. I'm afraid he's in no condition to help our little operation. The impostor, I'm afraid, will be in for a rude surprise--after he has outlived his usefulness."
"Why, you--" Frank began, but before he could move, Chavo punched him in the small of the back, doubling him over. The scarred man waved the barrel of a silenced .45 in front of Frank's nose.
"Take him out back," the Director told Chavo, "and shoot him."
The boat pulled away from its mooring and sped out into the dark night. Moodily Joe
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leaned against the back rail of the boat, staring back at the well-lit dock they had just left. I've got to figure a way out of this, he thought. But he could think of nothing except leaping overboard, and then he'd never be able to stop the caper that was going down.
Joe's jaw dropped and a tiny cry burst from him. From out of nowhere, Charity appeared. Joe shouted, "We've got to go back. Right
now. Look at the dock!" He turned his eyes back to the land, but he knew he would be too late already.
Chavo had marched Frank to the end of the pier, overlooking the water. "11irn around," he ordered. Frank turned, his heels over the edge of the pier.
With a chuckle, Chavo pressed the silenced gun against Frank's chest. A noise that sounded like a loud sneeze erupted twice from the gun.
Frank toppled backward, hit the water, and slowly sank beneath the waves.
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Chapter 7
JOE WOULD HAVE SCREAMED, but Charity had clamped her hand over his mouth. He felt like leaping off the boat and swimming to his brother's side, but Charity whispered to him, "It's too late for Frank. There's nothing you can do to help him."
He tore himself free, wanting to strike out at something, anything, to avenge his brother. Joe clenched his fists, calculating how many men were on board and what chance he'd have against them if he took them all on.
None, he realized. He might take down one or two, but the rest would get him, and they'd have no qualms about killing him as Frank had been killed. Joe had to stay in the game if he
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wanted to nail the ones really responsible for Frank's death.
Beside him, Charity was shaking, a look of horror on her face. Like Joe, she was still staring back at the one brightly lit dock, at the last place they had seen Frank.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "It wasn't supposed to go like this."
"What did you have in mind?" Joe snarled, not really interested.
"We can't talk here," she said. "Things aren't what they seem." Almost as an afterthought she added, "You'll have to trust me."
On a boat full of killers and thieves, Joe knew he had no other choice.
Frank Hardy struggled woozily, spitting water from his mouth. He had a dull ache in his chest, and he was soaked to the skin. Where was he? His hands were clinging to something round and wooden, so damp that the wood was flaking off in wads of soggy pulp. He opened his eyes.
He remembered the pier, and the last words Chavo had spoken as they walked to the end of it. "This will hurt, but go along with it. Act like you've been shot. Stay under the pier until I can come for you. You'll have to trust me."
Now Frank was under the pier, hidden by it, clinging to one of the poles holding it up, water
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up to his ribs. Above, he heard slow, deliberate footsteps, then a cold Hispanic voice. "Frank Hardy?"
It was Chavo.
Frank thought about hiding there, waiting until Chavo had gone. What did he know about the man? Nothing. Why should he trust him? There was no reason.
Except Chavo had saved his life. Why? What was Chavo's game?
Frank climbed up the rough planks that had been nailed onto the pole as a makeshift ladder. As he reached the top of the pier, Chavo reached down and offered him a hand.
"Are you all right?" Chavo asked as Frank knelt on one knee and caught his breath.
"I've been better," Frank said. "You didn't need to use the rubber bullets. If you weren't going to shoot me, you could've aimed a little to my left."
Chavo laughed. "Yes, but it wouldn't have been as convincing. The director had to be convinced."
"Do you have some special reason for double-crossing your boss?"
Chavo produced a badge. "Don't you want to thank me for saving your life?"
"Thanks," Frank said as he studied the badge. "Federales. Mexican National Police.
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Does our government know you're working out of San Diego?"
"No. You understand my position. I infiltrated the Director's gang months ago. I must go where I am sent, and no one knows who I really am."
"Pretty good infiltration job," Frank said. "You made it all the way to number-two man." "Si. I recruited the others on his orders. But
he does not trust me. Like the others, I receive my orders in pieces. No one but the Director knows everything he is planning."
Frank stared at the Mexican lawman. "How do you know who I am? You called me by name."
"The other one was identified as Joseph Hardy," Chavo replied. "I don't think you could be your illustrious father, so who else would you be but Frank?"
"You know Dad?"
"I know of him," Chavo said. He led Frank toward the land. "Come. The others have been sent to Tijuana, in Mexico, to wait for more instructions. We must hurry."
"I'm soaking wet!" Frank protested.
Chavo looked grim. "You'll find a change of clothes in my car. We must warn the Naval Station of the coming attack. There is no time to waste."
Frank studied the face of the scarred man,
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but it told him nothing. Was Chavo an undercover agent, trained to keep himself a closed book? Or simply a clever crook looking to double-cross his boss?
Frank had no way to tell, but he agreed with Chavo on one thing: the navy had to be warned. With doubts he followed Chavo up the pier to the waiting car.
Willeford stepped onto the deck as the boat cruised in toward the rocks under Point Loma Naval Station. The entire area was fenced in, and from high towers, spotlights swept across the water. The cabin cruiser came to a halt just outside the range of the lights, and Willeford cut the motor. The boat drifted silently on the waves.
"How are we supposed to crack that place?" someone asked.
Instead of answering, Willeford took a sealed envelope from his pocket and ran a thumbnail through the seal. Pulling a paper out, he whispered, "Everyone quiet. Want the whole navy to hear us?" The criminals sat in silence as Willeford carefully read the instructions.
"There are two inflatable rubber rafts being dragged behind the boat. They're fitted with outboard motors, and are small and quick enough to dodge the spotlights." He held up a
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small photograph and passed it around. "This is where you go ashore."
The photo reached Joe, who saw that it showed the rocks under the base, with one area marked by an arrow drawn with a felt-tip pen.
"Climb up those rocks. You'll find specially drilled hand-and footholds. At the top, you'll meet a sailor." Willeford rubbed his fingers against his palm and grinned savagely, and Joe got the idea. Someone had been paid off to get them into the base.
"What happens then? What are we doing?" one of the guys asked.
"You'll learn more as you need to know it," Willeford answered, staring the guy down. "Everyone ready?"
There was some murmuring, but it wasn't long before everyone was set to go. If this operation worked out the way the Director planned, it would be a cinch, and even Joe knew it.
The rubber rafts cut the water like speedboats, leaving nothing but waves for the spotlights to light up. Their motors were specially muffled to keep the sound to a minimum, and it wasn't long before they were at the rocks. The holds were exactly where the Director had said they'd be, and one by one the gang climbed the rocks to the base.
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A guard stood there, glaring down at them, aiming his rifle. "Who goes there?" he asked menacingly.
The criminals froze, faced with the gun muzzle.
Willeford piped up, "Blackjack."
A nervous smile crossed the guard's lips, and he lowered his rifle and stepped aside. "Pass." The guard had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and Joe recognized the anchor tattoo on his forearm. He was one of the two men who'd tried to strangle him and Frank at the airport.
The guard stepped back to the fence and pulled out a section.
In a line, like commandos, the raiders scrambled onto the sleeping base. They clung to the shadows as the occasional jeep went by, but they met no one.
"The fleet's out on maneuvers," the guard explained as they approached a gray metal hut with No Admittance stenciled on the door in huge letters. "The base is working with a skeleton crew." He jangled keys, then put one in the lock. The door swung open.
Swiftly they swarmed inside and shut the door behind them and flipped the light switch to on. "What you're looking for is over there," the guard said. Following the beam from the guard's flashlight, Joe saw racks and racks of metal drums.
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"Some of this is poison gas," Joe said, dread creeping into his voice. "You breathe this long enough and you're dead."
"We need some of that poison," Willeford replied, looking at his orders. "This stuff has been stored here because no one could figure out what else to do with it. Everyone grab a canister and let's move out."
The criminals scrambled through the hut, lifting the drums off the racks. Joe was worried. Nerve gas was something he didn't want to fool with. In the darkness, he looked for another way out. There was none but the door, where the guard now stood.
"Where's Charity?" Joe asked, realizing she wasn't with them.
"Forget her," Willeford ordered, but he scowled as he spoke. "Do your job."
Joe spotted a different canister, one marked Knockout Gas. Quickly he plucked it off the rack, covering the name with his arm, and carried it on his shoulder.
"Come on!" Willeford barked, checking his watch. "We're running behind schedule. Move it." As one, they started for the door.
It swung open suddenly, and there stood a sailor. He was young and bewildered by the activity. "What's going on here?" he asked.
The guard grabbed him and punched him once in the stomach, doubling him over. As the
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guard twisted the sailor's arm behind his back and dragged him into the hut, Willeford came forward and put a gun to the back of the sailor's head.
"Too bad you stumbled into this," Willeford said, and cocked back the trigger.
"You can't!" Joe shouted, before he realized what he was saying.
All eyes were on him, and Willeford's eyes turned to dark, murderous slits in his face. "Going soft, Kid?" He pulled another gun from his belt and tossed it to Joe. "I think you'd better take care of him."
Joe hesitated, staring at the pleading eyes of the sailor.
Angrily Willeford aimed his gun at Joe. "I don't think you understand me, Kid. You don't have a choice. We can't afford to have this sailor boy running around to tell about our business. Kill him."
His eyes were icy cold. "Or I kill you."
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Chapter
8
"OF COURSE he has to die," Joe growled angrily.
Willeford hesitantly lowered his gun.
"But a shot might bring the whole base down on us. How about we run a little test on him?" Joe raised the canister he held, keeping the label against his chest. He knew the gas wouldn't cause severe injury to the sailor. "How about we give him a sniff of this?"
"Please, no!" the sailor pleaded. "I won't say anything. I swear."
"I like your style, Kid," Willeford said. "Everybody out."
Joe handed the gun back to Willeford as he passed and lifted his canister so the nozzle on it was aimed at the sailor. Turning his head
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away, Joe opened the valve, and a thin spray of white gas rushed into the sailor's face.
"Close that thing," Willeford said from outside, fear in his voice. His eyes were on the sailor, who gasped and clawed at his throat, trying to get words out. They stuck in his throat.
The sailor toppled forward, to land facedown on the floor. Willeford walked back in and nudged the body with his toe: the young seaman didn't move.
"Good work, Kid," Willeford said, going back out. "I misjudged you."
Cautiously the guard led the criminals from the hut. Before he left, Joe looked back at the sailor, who still hadn't stirred. In the dark, Joe could just see the sailor's chest steadily rise and fall. The man was breathing, and Joe felt a wave of relief.
Now all he had to do was keep himself alive and figure out what had happened to Charity.
"The admiral's not available," the military policeman at the front gate of the naval base said.
Chavo held up his badge, and the MP grinned. "This isn't Mexico, pal. Come back tomorrow."
"You don't understand," Frank said. "Your base is being robbed."
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That raised the MP's eyebrows. He rested his hand on the automatic in his holster. "I think you two had better wait here. The officer in charge will want to talk to you."
The MP went into the little booth at the gate and spoke briefly on the phone, keeping his eyes on Frank and Chavo. Moments later a jeep rolled up to the gate, and two MPs leapt out, followed by a white-haired man in a uniform marked by the silver-eagle insignia of a navy captain. The MPs stood at ease as the captain approached the gate.
"Let them in," the captain said, and the MP on guard swung the gate open. Chavo and Frank tensely walked in. "I'm Captain Hammond. You were saying something about a burglary on base?"
"There's a gang of men stealing something here," Frank said, but Chavo stepped between him and Hammond and held up his credentials again.
Captain Hammond shook him off. "You understand that I'll have to call your superiors and learn if you're who you say you are. There are procedures to follow."
"There's no time," Frank insisted. "The heist is happening right now."
"I cannot permit you to check with my superiors," Chavo admitted. "I am on special undercover assignment. It is essential that my
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cover not be blown. This matter must remain strictly between us."
"That's not possible," Captain Hammond replied. "Frankly, I don't believe either one of you. There's nothing on this base worth stealing. We have no real money, and all the weapons are stored over on North Island." His eyes widened slightly. "Unless--"
"Sir?" an MP said, noting the look of concern on the captain's face.
"Into the jeep," Captain Hammond suddenly ordered. He pointed at Chavo and Frank. "You too." They clambered in.
"Where to, sir?" the MP who was driving asked, shifting the jeep into low gear.
"The gas depository," the captain said gravely. "If someone got his hands on that ..." "Nerve gas?" Frank said. "I thought the government didn't make that anymore."
"This is old, but just as dangerous as it was when it was created," Hammond replied. "We store it here because there's no safe way to get rid of it." He turned to look at Frank. "Who are you, anyway? You don't look Mexican."
"I'm American, sir," Frank replied. "I ran into this business from a different direction than Chavo."
"And you don't want to identify yourself either," Captain Hammond interrupted.
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"Plenty of time for that later, I suppose. You two aren't going anywhere."
The jeep approached the hut where the nerve gas was stored, and the captain's face turned to stone. The door to the hut was wide open, and just inside, lit up by the jeep's headlights, a sailor lay flat on the floor.
Frank leapt from the jeep and ran into the hut. He crouched and laid a hand on the sailor's neck. "I'm getting a pulse." Gently he patted the sailor's cheek. As Captain Hammond, Chavo, and the two MPs entered and stood above them, the sailor's eyes fluttered open.
"What happened here, man?" Captain Hammond demanded.
The sailor told the story as if he couldn't believe he was alive.
"They couldn't have gotten far," Captain Hammond said. To one MP he said, "I want the entire base on alert. Do a full perimeter check. Well, what are you standing there for? Go!"
He scowled as he looked at Chavo and Frank, and as he faced the other MP, he waved his thumb at them.
"Place these two under arrest."
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Joe had barely climbed back in the rubber raft, setting his cargo on his lap, when an alarm sounded on the base.
"We've been discovered," Willeford shouted. "Move it." The man handling the outboard motor pulled on the crank and brought it to life. The raft zipped across the bay, heading back to the cabin cruiser. Nearby, Joe could see the other raft, keeping pace with them.
Then a spotlight caught the other raft, and Joe looked over his shoulder at the shore. All along the cliff, men were lining up, and in the moonlight Joe caught the glint of rifles in their hands.
"Stop those craft immediately!" commanded a booming voice over a loudspeaker. "Do not move. This will be your only warning!"
"Keep going," Willeford shouted.
Joe ducked down as a hail of bullets rained down around them in the water. In the other raft, still caught in the spotlight, one man clutched at his shoulder, screamed, and tumbled into the black water. Suddenly there was a blast like a gigantic balloon popping.
A shot had punctured the other raft. One whole side had blown open, and the raft began to sink. The desperate criminals threw their canisters overboard and abandoned ship. They
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swam off the sinking raft and moved toward Joe's raft.
"We don't need them," Willeford said, and they took off, leaving the stranded criminals behind. Joe realized the raft had moved out of firing range.
Moments later the raft reached the cabin cruiser, and Willeford climbed aboard while everyone else stayed in the raft. One by one, the others climbed the rope ladder leading to the boat, leaving only Joe in the raft. He handed the canisters up to them, and they handed them man to man like firefighters handing off buckets of water, until all the canisters were on board.
"Stay there," Willeford called down to Joe, as he pulled the ladder up.
"What's going on?" Joe asked, and Willeford popped his head over the edge of the cabin cruiser and beamed a friendly smile down at him. Joe shivered.
Willeford held out a package. "This is the last of the Director's orders for this operation. Catch." He dropped the package, and Joe caught it.
It was small, about the size of a roll of film, and tightly wrapped in brown paper. "Take it back to the warehouse and give it to Chavo," Willeford continued. "You'll get your next order there. We're heading out.
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Joe acknowledged the order with a brief nod, then turned the raft away from the boat and sped off into the night toward the dock. He was glad he'd finally gotten away from the others. Now he'd have a chance to face Chavo and make him pay for what he had done to Frank.
The cabin cruiser sped out of the bay and into the Pacific Ocean. Back at the base, the shooting had stopped. The night was quiet now, as if nothing had happened.
The outboard motor hummed a deep staccato tune, uneven enough to keep Joe from being lulled to sleep. As he listened, he began to notice a second, higher-pitched whine of another motor.
Someone was following him.
"Joe!" a woman's voice cried. He looked over to see Charity pulling alongside, piloting a speedboat. Between the noise of the two engines, nothing else could be heard. Charity signaled for Joe to shut off his motor. He did.
"You have to get off the raft!" she yelled. "What?"
She gritted her teeth and waved at him to jump. "They know who you are. You have to get off that raft--"
"They're gone, Captain," the MP told Hammond, and Hammond frowned. He stood on the cliff, looking down at the frantic scene
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below. Half a dozen men were splashing in the water below, waiting for help.
"Call the Coast Guard and have them search for the boat," Hammond said. "Fish those men out and have them arrested."
A sailor with a pair of binoculars waved them at Hammond. "There's something else out there, sir. Some kind of a raft."
Captain Hammond reached for the binoculars, but Frank, who had been brought there with Chavo so Hammond could keep his eye on them, stepped forward and grabbed them. Hammond started to give another order, but Frank explained, "My brother's out there somewhere. I have to know what happened to him."
He scanned the sea. Joe wasn't among the men in the water, and Frank turned his gaze on the raft. He grinned with excitement.
Joe was standing up in the raft.
"It's Joe," he said happily, and handed the binoculars to Hammond.
A few minutes later there was a thunderous explosion, and when Frank looked through the binoculars again, the raft was a ball of fire, flying apart above the waves.
When the smoke and debris settled, Frank studied the water in horror. Joe was gone.
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Chapter 9
"JOE!" FRANK SCREAMED, starting for the edge of the cliff. Two MPs grabbed him and dragged him back.
"Take them both to the guardhouse," Captain Hammond commanded, pointing to Frank and Chavo. "I want some questions answered."
"Joe!" Frank screamed again, still struggling as he was pulled to the jeep. It was no use. The guards had him in an unbreakable grip, and he was shoved roughly into the jeep's backseat as Chavo quietly took the seat next to him.
"Stay there and be quiet," an MP growled. The guards climbed into the front seat and started up the jeep.
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"I'll get him," Frank muttered as they sped through the base. "I'll get the Director if it's the last thing I do."
"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?" the MP barked.
Chavo raised a finger to his lips, signaling Frank to stay silent. With his other hand he jabbed a finger three times at the MPs and nodded slowly to Frank.
After a long moment Frank nodded back. This was their only chance, he realized. Chavo held out three fingers and started flashing the count.
On the third count, Frank and Chavo jumped into action, clipping both MPs on the back of the neck. The men pitched forward, unconscious.
Chavo stood and reached over the driver, grabbed the steering wheel, and switched off the ignition. The jeep rolled on even after the power had been cut, sideswiped a hut in a shower of sparks, and then slowed to a halt. Frank and Chavo pulled the MPs out and propped them against the hut.
"They'll be all right when they wake up," Chavo said. He climbed behind the steering wheel.
"Let's get out of here," Frank said, seated in the passenger seat.
They sped for the main gate. The MP there
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stepped into their path, his rifle ready. "Stop!" he yelled. He dived to one side, though, as the jeep zoomed past him and smashed through the gate.
Once outside, Frank and Chavo scrambled to Chavo's car. As the MP started firing at them, the car roared off into the night.
"Now what?" Frank asked.
"We dump this car," Chavo said. "The police will be looking for it, and for us. I'll leave you in San Diego and rent a new car."
"Forget that," said Frank. "Where you go, I go. Where are we going?"
Chavo gave Frank a long look, then said, "Tijuana."
Joe woke on the floor of Charity's speedboat and wondered what he was doing there. Then it all came back to him.
He had jumped from the raft just as the night exploded in a shower of flames. But the shock waves that had pushed the still speedboat away from the scene of the blast had tossed Joe down, and he smashed his head on the wooden deck.
How long had he been out? he wondered, and decided it had been only a few seconds. Charity hadn't started the motor yet. Joe stared at the thick column of black smoke that was all that remained of the rubber raft.
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"That could have been me," he said, trembling slightly as the realization caught up with him.
Charity looked at him oddly, as if surprised to see him moving. "It wasn't."
"Thanks to you," Joe replied. "Where did you get the boat?"
Charity smoothed her hair. "I borrowed it from the U. S. Navy. I figured it might come in handy. "
"And here I thought you'd run out on me." "Joe, I had to do something. They found out who you really are," Charity said.
Joe frowned. "How?"
"Well," Charity said, flashing her cat smile, "I told the Director."
"I knew it!" Joe raged. "I knew it!"
"Calm down," said Charity. She took a deep breath. "It's time I told you everything."
Joe fumed but said nothing. He stared at the misty sky and waited skeptically for her explanation.
"Oh, don't look like that," she said. "I had to turn you in, to establish my credibility." "Sure. Your credibility. I suppose you stole
the Star of Ishtar to establish your credibility." "As a matter of fact, I did." She pulled a small wallet from her pocket, flipped it open, and held it up where Joe could see. "I'm a federal agent."
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Joe read the card without interest. "No, you're not. You're a thief. This is another one of your tricks."
Charity shrugged and put the wallet away. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm telling you the truth. I'm an undercover agent. I've worked for years at establishing a reputation as a master thief. It's the sort of rep that comes in handy when you're dealing with crooks."
"You were sure operating as a thief when we met you in San Francisco," Joe said, his voice still full of doubt.
"Whom did I steal from in San Francisco?" she asked.
"That was government property."
"Right," she said. "I work for the government. They set up things for me to steal, and I steal them. Then I give them back."
Nothing changed on Joe's face to indicate he believed a word she said.
"Don't look at me like that, Joe. I'm telling the truth. You could check it out yourself if we were going back to land, but we have to catch up to that cabin cruiser."
"The government didn't own the Star of Ishtar. Thanks to you, a friend of ours has his reputation and maybe his freedom on the line."
Charity lowered her eyes as if ashamed. "Yes, that's true. But I had to steal it. The
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Director gave each of us an assignment to prove we were qualified to take part in his caper. I had to steal the Star and give it to him, but we'll get it back when we capture him."
She looked at Joe. "When I realized you and Frank lived in Bayport, I knew I could bring you into it. I needed you for backup. Why do you think I made sure you had a trail to follow? Everything's going to work out fine. Trust me."
Frank's name stirred up Joe's anger all over again. He had, for a second, forgotten about his brother. I shouldn't trust her, he told himself, but she's the only one who can lead me to the Director and Chavo, and she might be on the level. If he was going to get his revenge, he'd have to go along.
"What was the Kid's assignment?"
"Pretty impressive," Charity replied. "He managed to get into the Soviet Historical Institute and get out of Russia with some of the czar's crown jewels. Not all of them, but enough to convince the Director he had what it took."
"So who's the Director?" Joe asked.
"I don't know. It's my mission to find out. He stays away from everyone, communicating only by television or radio."
"What's he up to?"
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Charity dug under her seat and came back with a map of North America.
"Ever hear of Puerto de Oro?" she asked. Joe thought briefly. The name was very familiar. "It's an island somewhere off the coast near Tijuana, isn't it?"
Charity nodded. "It's been billed as the perfect paradise. It's become quite a jet-set hangout. Tropical weather, gambling casinos, great beaches. A combination of Monte Carlo and Acapulco."
"The Director's going to knock over a casino?"
"You're thinking too small," Charity said, shaking her head. "He's planning to knock over the whole island. "
"Impossible!" Joe answered.
"Hardly," she continued, undaunted. "It's high season for the resort, but the nights are cooling off, so almost everyone stays inside then. The place has a token force of security guards, but there aren't any other real police on the island."
"And with that gas we stole from the navy tonight, the Director can knock the whole place out," Joe said, beginning to put it all together.
"You've got it," Charity said. "Cash, jewels, gold, all kinds of riches. They'll be just lying there for the taking."
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Joe heard the engine of another boat and saw a dark mass ahead of them. "There's the cabin cruiser. Let's get them."
"That might be a little hard," Charity said. "They're turning."
It was true. The larger craft was circling around, until it was aimed back at them.
"It's going to ram us!" Charity warned. She spun the steering wheel and shifted gears.
The speedboat sputtered and came to a dead stop.
"What's the matter?" Joe said urgently. The cruiser bore down on them.
Charity turned the ignition, which made a sickly grinding noise. "It's stalled," she said. "But I think I can get it started."
Before Joe or Charity could move, the cabin cruiser plowed into the side of the speedboat. When the larger craft resumed its course to Puerto de Oro, it left nothing but scrap metal and driftwood in its trail.
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Chapter 10
"GET OUT OF the car," Chavo said.
Frank Hardy, fueled by a thirst for revenge against his brother's killers, shook off his exhaustion. He was seated in the new car that Chavo had rented. They were stopped dead in traffic, with a long line of cars in front of them. In the distance Frank could see the bright lights of the Tijuana border station. "What's going on?"
"There's usually no trouble getting from the United States to Mexico," said Chavo. "Something's up. They're checking cars."
"Maybe they're looking for someone." "Like us," Chavo agreed. "Time for another plan."
As car horns behind them began to honk,
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Chavo pulled the car to the curb and parked it. Quietly he and Frank left the car and under cover of darkness stole toward the footbridge that ran across the border. There was little traffic on the footbridge, and Frank could see most of the customs officers over at the auto entrance. There was only one guard on the footbridge.
"Be nonchalant," Chavo warned him. "If you're not nervous as you walk past the officer, he'll pay no attention to you."
Frank nodded and walked ahead by a few feet. The officer was standing, reading a magazine. Apparently he wasn't noticing anything at all. As Frank passed him, he glanced up and smiled as if by rote. "Welcome to Mexico, senor," the officer said. "Have a good time."
"Thank you," Frank said, and walked on. Chavo came up behind, and again the officer smiled. But now there was a cleverness in the grin. Chavo returned the grin, but as he passed the officer, he heard, "Buenas noches, Senor Chavo."
Chavo spun to swing at the officer, but the officer grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back. "How is the most famous criminal in all of Mexico tonight? We have heard much of you from our neighbors to the north."
"Frank!" Chavo called.
Frank had no choice. He whipped around,
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catching the officer in the ribs with a karate kick. Frank felt as uncomfortable about attacking a policeman as he had about fighting the MPs, but Chavo was his only connection to the Director. As the officer staggered, Chavo turned and drove a fist into his stomach.
The officer flew back and landed, stunned, in the dust.
By now other officers had noticed the scuffling on the footbridge, and Frank saw them running toward them through the darkness. "Come on," Chavo yelled. "It's only a short way to the city."
Together they ran into the night, leaving the policemen behind.
Frank wasn't prepared for Tijuana. It was a thriving city with modern buildings and shops. As they walked down wide, newly paved streets, they passed manufacturing plants, shopping centers, and racetracks.
There was the Avenida Revolucion, a bustling avenue of restaurants, nightclubs, and small shops where, even at that time of night, tourists wandered, snapping photographs. But Frank didn't have time to be a tourist. Everywhere he looked, he saw his brother's face, and the only thing on his mind was how to nail the Director.
He also remembered Charity. It was her fault they'd gotten involved in this. Frank promised
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himself that she, too, should finally pay for her crimes.
"In here," Chavo said as they came to the door of a bar. It was a dingy place. The bar was long, lined with rickety stools, and the rest of the place was a dance floor, where only a few couples moved lazily to Spanish guitar music played by a decades-old jukebox. At the far end of the bar a curtain of beads covered the entrance to another room. Perhaps two dozen men were on the barstools.
"What are we doing here?" Frank asked. "Trust me," Chavo said. As they walked in, he called out, "Hey! Amigos!"
As one, the men on the stools turned around and stared balefully at Chavo. Silently they fingered their drinks, and several of them pulled large knives from their belts and set them on the bar.
"El jefe!" Chavo demanded in a loud voice. "Do you want us to die?" Frank whispered to Chavo with some exasperation.
The scarred man called out something in Spanish, and the bead curtain swirled aside. A slender man stood there, and as he neared, Frank could see he had a carefully trimmed beard and mustache, and wore a white suit. There was a red handkerchief in the pocket.
At the sight of Chavo, he raised his arms and spread them wide, with a big smile. "Chavo!
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Amigo!" he shouted. Throughout the bar the frowns relaxed and men went back to their drinking. The slender man put an arm around Chavo and hugged him like a long-lost relative. "Who is this?" Frank said.
Chavo looked at Frank as if he had forgotten he was there. "Where are my manners? Frank, this is Benito. Benito, Frank."
The man called Benito extended a hand and said, "Put 'er there, fellow American."
Frank blinked in surprise and shook his hand. "You're American?"
"Sure am," Benito said, winking at him. "Name's Benny. A Coney Island boy."
"We have no time for this," Chavo said. "Benito, we must get to the waterfront at Las Playas de Tijuana."
"See, Chavo and me, we pulled quite a few jobs together in the old days," Benito continued. "As a matter of fact, I seem to remember you owing me some money, Chavo."
"Not now, Benito--"
Benito snapped his fingers, and five men at the bar stood up. Four brought their knives, and the fifth smashed a bottle to a jagged edge against the bar. Slowly they moved toward Chavo.
"Now," Benito said, "about my money ..." Frank jumped Benito and got behind him, wrapping an arm around the slender man's
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neck. "Put them down," he said to the men with the weapons. He tightened his grip on Benito. "Put them down or I'll break his neck."
Hastily Benito spoke a phrase in Spanish, and the men, their eyes dark and suspicious, turned away and returned to the bar. Chavo laughed.
"Very good, Frank," he said. "As I was saying, Benito, we need transportation." "Give him all the money in your wallet, Chavo," Frank said.
Chavo blinked as if he didn't understand the words. Then he laughed again. "Good joke, Frank."
But Frank wasn't smiling. "Shut up, Chavo. I've just about had it with you. Now, give him all your money, or whatever you owe him, or we won't get anywhere tonight."
Chavo stared at Frank for almost a minute. Finally he sighed and took from his wallet five one-hundred-dollar bills. "We'll forget the interest?" he said to Benito with a wink.
"Sounds good to me," Benito said, and Frank released his grip on him. "What kind of transportation were you looking for?"
Ten minutes later Frank was sitting in a sidecar on a motorcycle that Chavo steered down the Las Playas road. The motorcycle was a leftover from the Second World War, but
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Frank found the sidecar quite comfortable. Chavo hadn't spoken to him since they left the bar. Now the scarred undercover man said, "Never do that to me again."
Frank lolled back in the sidecar, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around himself to keep out the cool night air. "I'd like to know why everyone down here thinks you're a criminal. Sure you were telling me straight about being a Federale?"
Coldly, Chavo replied, "I built a good cover. The local police and the border guards have no need to know what I really am. Why would I lie to you?"
"I don't know," Frank said. "Maybe you're planning to rip off the Director and keep all the loot for yourself. Maybe you're setting me up to help you."
Moodily Chavo said, "Believe what you will," and didn't speak the rest of the trip.
Las Playas de Tijuana was a seaside community, less built-up and also less congested than Tijuana. It had a tranquility that masked what was happening on the fishing barge moored in the harbor. The motorcycle roared up to the gangplank, and Frank and Chavo got off.
"Who's the kid?" Brady asked Chavo as they walked out to the barge on the plank.
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Brady sat at the ship end of the gangplank and greeted them with a pistol on his lap.
"Replacement," Chavo replied. "We lost some men on the navy raid. The Director had me sign this one up."
"I don't like it when plans get changed at the last minute," Brady replied as the barge got under way. "By the way, someone's waiting for you in the hold."
"I'll go down in a minute." Chavo and Frank caught their breath and watched the shore lights wink out as the barge moved away from land.
Finally they left Brady and climbed down the ladder into the ship's hold. Frank followed after Chavo and noticed that as soon as he had passed, Brady flashed a signal to Chrome Lasker, who was standing in the control tower. The barge lurched forward and began chugging out of the harbor. Brady followed Frank into the hold.
As Frank's feet hit the floor, a pair of hands grabbed him, yanking him off his feet. Everest had hold of him, and then red-haired Brady reached the floor and helped. The two of them pinned Frank against a wall.
Catching his breath, Frank saw that Chavo was similarly held. There were several crates in the hold, and two of them were pushed
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together at the center of the room to form a makeshift table.
At the table was Jolly.
Jolly sat next to a radio that was glowing softly and ran the blade of a knife through a candle flame. "Welcome," came the Director's voice from the radio. "Chavo, you are a disappointment to me. I trusted you.
"My friends inside the government have informed me that you are a Federale. Tell me what you've told them about my plans.
"No," Chavo said.
"We could torture you," the voice from the radio continued. "But you might not crack. Instead, let's torture your young friend. Perhaps you'll talk to spare him pain."
"Only one way to find out," Jolly suggested. He stood up, holding out a red-hot blade. Brady tore Frank's shirt open.
As Frank struggled uselessly, Jolly moved the blade closer and closer to his chest.
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Chapter 11
How LONG had he paddled? Joe wondered. It seemed to him that he had been floating for hours. He could no longer tell time. His watch had been smashed in the wreck, and overhead the timeless moon just hung there, not moving. He was far from land now, and the ocean, dark and unchanging, spread out in all directions.
With nothing else to do, Joe thought back to the collision. He remembered grabbing Charity as the impact hurled him from the boat. The next thing he knew, he was struggling against the cold, churning waters of San Diego Bay. With a burst of energy he had sputtered to the surface, gasping for air.
Pulling himself onto a large piece of floating
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fiberglass, he looked for Charity. But she was nowhere to be seen.
In the distance Joe spotted the cabin cruiser, speeding southwest across the Pacific. Even with the mist on the ocean, the moon was bright enough to show Joe the men on the cruiser's deck, laughing and pointing back at the wreckage. But before he could wonder if the men had spotted him, something else caught his eye. It was dragging behind the cruiser, hanging off one of the ropes that had once towed a rubber raft. It was flat and shiny, like a piece of glass, and in its center was a dark woman-shaped mass.
Charity! After his strength had finally returned, he flattened himself on the fiberglass and started to paddle with his hands and feet, like a surfer swimming out to meet a wave. He was going to Puerto de Oro, the Port of Gold, no matter how long it took.
He had a brother to avenge.
Joe didn't know where he was. All around him was nothing but empty ocean. He felt sure that somewhere ahead must be the island of Puerto de Oro, but there were no lights, no sounds, only the silent darkness of the ocean on a moonlit night.
Then small waves beat against the fiberglass,
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moving against the waves of the ocean. Joe looked around.
A boat was moving toward him, pushing the water before it. A fishing barge.
"Hey!" Joe yelled as the barge neared. Forgetting how tired he was, he paddled toward the boat. "Hey!"
His voice was lost under the sound of the engine. The barge plunged on with no sign of stopping. He waved, trying to get the attention of the two men who had wandered onto the deck. No one noticed him.
He pressed on, pushed back by a wake that grew stronger the nearer he got to the barge. The boat was so close he could smell the stench of fish that it gave off. There was no longer anyone on the deck, but he kept moving.
Water splashed into his face, almost knocking him off the fiberglass hunk, and he flailed to get a grip on it. His hands caught it, and he pulled himself back up.
The barge was right in front of him, moving in a straight line for him.
On the side of the barge, sticking out at right angles to it, was a series of iron bars leading down to the propeller that drove the boat. They were there so fishermen could climb down to the propeller for repairs, Joe realized. But he had another use for them. As another wave
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rushed at him, he leapt off the fiberglass and dived over the wave, splashing into the water behind it. For a second he was in still water, and he swam as hard as he could for the barge.
Another wave hit him, and he rolled to his side to slice through it with his body. He was almost to the barge. He reached out, fingers grasping for the lowest rung on the ladder of iron bars. They struck air, and he fell back.
If I can't go this way, Joe decided, there's only one thing I can do.
Taking a big gulp of air, he forced himself up as high as he could go, until he was straight up in the water. Then he plunged down, dropping like a stone into the inky depths of the ocean. There, he knew, there were no waves. It was his only chance to get near the barge.
Joe's mouth filled with water, but he forced himself not to breathe or swallow. The barge blotted out a lot of the moonlight, and he couldn't see what he was doing very well, but he managed to stay under the side of the barge, feeling along the edge with his hands.
But then something grabbed his legs and quickly pulled him toward the back of the barge. There the moonlight glistened, and he could see the flash of the propeller blade as it whirled. Joe realized suddenly he was caught in the undertow. It was steadily pulling him straight into the propeller.
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Panicked, he swam, but the undertow had him. It came to him in a flash that he wanted to be back by the propeller. Joe stopped struggling and let the undertow pull him back.
As his feet inched closer and closer to the whirling blade, he reached around the side of the barge. His fingers finally locked around an iron bar.
Slowly Joe pulled himself free of the undertow. His head broke the surface of the water, and he took a deep, cool breath of air. As it hit his throat, he choked and coughed up seawater, but the next breath brought clear, sweet air.
Joe climbed the bars and rolled into the barge, landing in a pile of nets that had been stored there. He lay there laughing quietly to himself and staring up at the stars.
"I made it," he announced triumphantly. Finally he sat up and looked around. The deck was empty. He recognized the kind of boat he was on. It wasn't the type of fishing craft that gets taken out by sportsmen for a long weekend. Professional fishermen who used barges like these usually went out early in the morning and were back at sundown.
What, he wondered, was this barge doing out in the middle of the night with no crew?
Just then, from below, he heard the muffled sound of a radio. It sounded like a man's voice
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coming from it, but Joe couldn't be sure. He wanted no one to know he was on board until he could check it out.
Crouching, he peered into the captain's tower. It was more of a little room set on top of the deck than a tower. A man stood there, steering the boat, and slowly Joe crept around the edge of the deck for a better look at him.
"Oh, no," Joe gasped as he saw the man's face.
Chrome Lasker stood behind the wheel in the captain's tower.
Joe scrambled out of sight. He had to think. If Lasker was steering the boat, then the boat was being used by the Director, probably on its way to Puerto de Oro.
Anyone else who was on the boat must be in the hold, Joe concluded. If he could capture the boat, he could bring the Director's schemes to a halt.
He crawled on his stomach across the deck, moving toward the hole cut into the deck that led down to the hold. Now he could hear more voices, and these not from a radio. But he couldn't make out what they were saying. He raised himself into a low crouch, checking to see that Lasker hadn't spotted him. Then he reached out for the hold cover.
Joe slammed it shut as muffled cries erupted from below. He grabbed a nearby fishing rod
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that had been carelessly abandoned on the deck and jammed the handle into the latch, locking the latch in place. No matter how hard they pounded, he knew pounding wouldn't get them out.
Joe sprang to his feet and raced for the door of the captain's tower. He sprinted up the two stairs and hurled himself against the door, hoping to take Lasker by surprise.
But the door was unlatched, and Joe tumbled in, his feet slipping out from under him. Before he could get up, Lasker had pressed a heel against Joe's Adam's apple, pinning him down. The bald-headed villain had drawn and was aiming a gun right between Joe's eyes.
"Well, well. The Kid," Lasker said in surprise. "Good to see you again."
He gave Joe a lopsided smirk. "Too bad you had to come this far to die."
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Chapter
12
"WAIT," said the voice from the radio.
Jolly lowered the knife, frowning as he glanced at the radio.
When he finally answered the voice, he meekly said, "Yes, sir?"
But Frank saw contempt in Jolly's eyes as he looked at the radio and his fellow crooks. Scanning the room, Frank saw the contempt on every face there. It occurred to him that, given half a chance, each of them would turn on the others and walk off with all the loot. He filed the insight away, in the hope that he would have a chance to use it.
The radio came alive again. "Let's give Chavo one last chance to come clean, now that he understands the gravity of the situation."
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One of the men holding Chavo landed a fist in Chavo's stomach, and the Mexican dropped to his knees, gasping. Another man lifted up Chavo's head.
"Talk," the man said.
Chavo curled his lip into a sneer.
"No go," Jolly told the radio. "Now can I cut?"
"By all means," the radio said. "Be my guest."
Jolly lifted the candle and ran the knife blade up and down the flame. "You know," he told Frank as he approached, "if a knife is hot enough, any wound that it opens will burn shut." Jolly spat on the end of the blade, and Frank heard a quick sizzle. "Unfortunately for you, my young friend, a mere candle will never make a blade that hot."
He stabbed the knife at Frank's bare chest. As the blade moved, Brady and Everest flinched, and for just an instant Frank felt their grips loosen. Before they could react, he kicked out, catching Jolly in the elbow.
Jolly howled, and the knife flew out of his hand. At the same time, Frank threw his arms straight up in the air, and dropped, using his weight to pull himself out of the grip of Brady and Everest. As he dropped, he grabbed their collars, and they jerked forward. Their heads smacked together with a loud thud.
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Frank let go and rolled, knocking Jolly's feet out from under him. The heavyset man, still smarting from the kick in the elbow, collapsed to the floor of the hold.
Then Chavo hurled himself backward, dragging his captors off balance. He rolled into a backward somersault and was free. He sprang to his feet, driving an uppercut into the jaw of the man closest to him.
Frank drove a right hook into the other--and both men fell.
Brady and Everest were already scrambling to their feet, murder in their eyes. Jolly crawled along the floor, frantically trying to find his blade.
Frank rushed forward, head down, and caught Brady in a football tackle, shoving him back against the wall. As they broke apart, Frank clamped his hands together and drove a two-fisted smash into Brady's jaw. The criminal sagged and slid down the wall. He was too dazed to react to anything.
In the meantime Chavo had grabbed Everest around the leg and shoulder and, as the man sputtered in disbelief, lifted him up in the air. Then Chavo lurched forward, body-slamming Everest to the floor. Everest flattened out.
"Pretty impressive," Frank said.
"I watch a lot of wrestling on television," Chavo replied.
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Jolly shook the fog from his eyes and lurched to his feet. He waved his knife in front of him as he faced Chavo and Frank. But the heavyset man's confidence was gone.
"Should we flip a coin to see who gets to take the knife away from him?" Frank asked. With a feeble grin, Jolly flipped the knife
around and handed it to Frank hilt-first. "I believe I'm outnumbered."
Chavo tapped his knuckles against Jolly's jaw, and the heavyset man gave out a soft cry, more of surprise than of pain, before he fainted. Frank folded the knife and put it in his pocket.
From above there was a sudden banging sound, as the hold hatch was slammed down. "They're locking us in," Frank said. He
raced up the ladder and started pounding on the hatch cover, but it was no use. Someone had bolted it in place.
"Who?" Chavo asked. "Everyone's down here except Chrome, and he's steering the ship. Who could have put that hatch cover in place?"
"Beats me," Frank said. He eyed the men sprawled unconscious throughout the hold. "I'm more worried about them. When they wake up, they're going to want our hides. We sort of took them by surprise, and I don't think that's going to happen again.
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"Si," Chavo agreed. He began to tear open crates. "We must get that hatch open or find something to tie them with. Help me."
Feverishly Frank and Chavo pulled open crates. There was nothing in them that would help their situation. "What'd you find?" Frank asked.
"One of the crates is filled with guns, another with gas masks." Chavo paused, stroking his chin and staring thoughtfully at nothing. "Gas masks. I begin to understand."
As Chavo grabbed two masks from the crate, Frank pulled out a pouch-size plastic wad. "Look at this. Inflatable life raft." He lifted two small plastic oars from the same crate. "If we ever get out of here, we can use this to get off the boat."
"We will not get out," Chavo said. Already, Brady was beginning to stir. "We need a lever to pry the hatch open."
"Why didn't I think of that?" Frank asked, and leaned back against a crate. It slid away from him, and he turned to see why. The box had been resting on something, and when he pushed against it, it rolled off. The metal something was a crowbar--probably there to pry open the crates.
"Will this do?"
Chavo grinned and dashed up the ladder. He jammed the bar into the small space between
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the hatch cover and the deck, and with all his strength, using his weight for leverage, Chavo strained at it.
"Hurry!" Frank shouted, picking up the life raft. Brady was on his feet, and the others were moving and groaning. Chavo also groaned as he strained, but the hatch cover stayed in place.
Brady staggered forward, almost blindly, and grabbed at Frank. Frank kicked him away, and the man staggered back to sit again.
"Almost!" Chavo said. He squinted and strained with the effort. The hatch budged.
It flew open all of a sudden, almost knocking Chavo off the ladder.
They emerged onto the deck, tensed and ready for action. There was no one there. Where was the person who had locked them in? Frank's eyes drifted toward the captain's tower, where Chrome Lasker was standing, talking with someone.
Frank shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He was imagining things. The man in the captain's tower with Lasker looked like Joe.
"Jump," Chavo ordered. They could hear the others stirring down below. Chavo leapt over the railing, and Frank followed, pulling the inflation cord on the life raft. It expanded as he fell.
They splashed into the water, and he and
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Chavo pulled themselves into the life raft and began paddling away from the barge.
To the west, Frank could see the lights of the island of Puerto de Oro. It shimmered on the sea like a giant jewel, a fantasyland unaware of what was coming to it. All the lights reminded him of Fourth of July fireworks, and he imagined that he could hear the loud popping.
They're shooting at us, he realized.
He crouched down, making himself less of a target, and paddled harder until they were out of sight. The moon had cooperated and was now hidden behind a heavy cloud cover.
"It's good to see you, too, Lasker," Joe said.
Lasker laughed at his joke and tossed the gun on the control panel. Then he took his foot away from Joe's throat, and offered him a hand to help Joe to his feet. "Why are you crashing into my control room, Kid? I thought you were on the other end of the mission."
"I was," Joe explained, half-telling the truth. "In all the action on the other ship, I got thrown overboard. I drifted for a long time, until I spotted this ship, and I climbed aboard. I figured I'd capture it and get to Puerto de Oro that way. How did I know it belonged to the Director?"
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"Well, you know now," Lasker said. "Some people are just born lucky, Kid."
As Joe stood, movement outside the window caught his eye. Someone had leapt over the side of the railing. "There's something going on down there." Then in a minute he saw the others, gathered at the railing, shooting into the ocean. Almost as one, they turned and raced to the captain's tower.
"Trouble," Jolly began to tell Lasker. He spotted Joe, and a pleased smile crossed his face. "Kid! Where did you come from?"
"What's the problem?" Lasker asked. "Chavo has escaped." To Joe he explained, "He double-crossed us. And now he's escaping. We can't see his raft anymore, and our guns won't shoot far enough."
Lasker gave a big belly laugh and reached under the control panel. He pulled out a pair of night binoculars and a flare gun. "Let him escape this. This baby's got a range on it you wouldn't believe, and the flare on it'll burn that raft right off the sea."
"Chavo," Joe muttered, and again he pictured his brother being shot by the Mexican. He grabbed the flare gun.
"That direction, Kid," Jolly said, and he raised the special binoculars to Joe's eyes. Joe could make out a life raft, barely visible against
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the ocean. A man was in it. Yes, it was Chavo, all right.
Chavo, the man who had killed his brother. Joe knew this might be his only chance to make his brother's murderer pay for that crime.
Carefully he took aim at the raft.
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Chapter
13
WHAT AM I DOING? Joe thought with a jolt just before he pulled the trigger. He was about to kill a man, and killing wasn't his style. He wanted to bring Chavo to justice, real justice.
That's what Frank would have wanted, he told himself.
He lowered the nose of the flare gun as he fired. An arc of flame shot across the night and exploded in fire and smoke on the ocean. In the blaze, he could no longer see the tiny life raft.
Jolly raised the binoculars to his eyes. "As near as I can tell, a perfect hit." He set them down and patted Joe's shoulder while the others cheered. "Welcome back, Kid. Now we've
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got to prepare for the main event. The world, as they say, is ours."
Something burst on the ocean.
Frank raised his head in alarm, to see that the sea was on fire just behind the raft. "What was that?" he asked.
Chavo ignored it. "Flare. We were the target. Let's use it to our advantage, as cover for an escape." He took one of the oars from Frank and began paddling. "So that's how he's going to do it."
"You mean the Director? You've figured out the caper?"
"Si," said Chavo. "Puerto de Oro is a selfcontained island. It has few police and few buildings. If one were to take, say, the gas stolen from the naval base, and flood the buildings with it, then--"
"Then once you've knocked everyone out, you could wander through the buildings at will and take whatever you wanted," Frank continued. "Everyone would be dead. No witnesses."
"And they'll have plenty of time to leave the island without anyone contacting the mainland police. It's the perfect crime."
"Good thing you waited to figure this out until there's no possibility we can get help," Frank said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
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"I'd hate to think we might need some backup to invade an island that's entirely cut off from the outside world and might be controlled by criminals."
"When we reach Puerto de Oro," said Chavo, "there I will get help."
"Chavo," Frank asked, "can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"Are you really a cop, or what?"
A burst of laughter erupted from the Mexican, and he said nothing else the rest of the way.
"Welcome to Puerto de Oro," Chavo said as they stepped onto the land ahead of the group on the barge. They had left the life raft in a massive harbor filled with private yachts and walked the rest of the way to the beach. Frank marveled at the sight of casinos and hotels styled like medieval castles, yet gleaming white, even at night. Electric lights made the streets of Puerto de Oro almost as bright as day.
But there was no one on the streets.
"This way," Chavo said, motioning down a street. "We must reach the police station and warn them. There's a radio, too. Men are waiting on the mainland for my orders."
As he ran, Frank's feet slid and skidded
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across cobblestones moistened by the sea air. Which men did Chavo mean? Was he really going to call the Federales, or did he have some gang of his own stashed in Tijuana, waiting to come and horn in on the Director's master plan?
Frank resolved he would not turn his back on Chavo until he had the answer.
The police station was plainer than the other buildings, a simple box of stucco and stone. There were bars on all the windows. From inside came the tinny sounds of a mariachi band, played either on an old record player or a cheap radio. It seemed as peaceful and quaint as the rest of the island.
Chavo knocked on the door, yelling something in Spanish. From inside, a voice yelled, "Que desea usted?" Chavo shook his head.
"He asked us what we want," Chavo said. Frank pushed past him. "Your problem is that this is a resort that caters to rich Americans. Let me give it a try." He pounded on the door, shouting, "Help! Robbery!" Frank looked at Chavo. "How do you say `I want to report a theft'?"
"Quiero denunciar un robo, " Chavo replied. "Quiero denunciar un robo," Frank repeated, pounding again at the door.
Finally the door opened a crack and a single brown eye peered out. "Come back tomor106
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row," a Hispanic voice called. "We cannot help you now."
Chavo hurled himself into the door, shoving it open. The figure at the door fell backward, and Frank and Chavo pushed their way in.
Frank helped the man on the floor to his feet. He was in his twenties, scrawny, and dressed in the uniform of a Mexican police deputy. Quickly he pulled his hand away from Frank and nervously brushed some dust off his khakis. In the meantime Chavo began to rummage frantically through the office. It was as small as it looked from outside, but it was packed with file cabinets. Next to the main desk was a teletypewriter. Chavo ripped pages from the teletypewriter, scanned them, and scowled.
"The radio," he insisted. "Where is your radio?" When the deputy refused to answer, Chavo stormed into the next room, toward the jail.
Frank expected the deputy to be angry about the break-in, but instead there was nothing but fear in his eyes. Those eyes weren't focused on Frank, but on the room that Chavo had just entered. He wondered why the deputy was so uneasy. There could be only one reason.
"Chavo!" Frank yelled as he flung the deputy aside. "It's a trap." He sprinted toward the door, but a man appeared in his way. The
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man was dressed in a white suit. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, and grim mirth danced in the man's black, ratlike eyes.
It was Cat Willeford.
"Come in," he said, waving a gun at Frank. He motioned to the deputy. "You too."
"You won't shoot us," Frank said. "You'd bring the whole island down on you." Willeford raised the pistol and fired at the
ceiling. Powdered plaster rained down like a dust storm as the deafening roar echoed through the police station.
"Coming?" Willeford asked, and Frank and the deputy filed past him to the jail area.
Two others of the gang were also in there, tossing an unconscious Chavo into a cell. "Too bad," said Willeford. "I had to quiet him down." He flagged Frank and the deputy into the cell and slammed the door.
In the next cell Frank saw the chief of police and another deputy. He assumed that was all the law on the island.
"You're going to leave us here?" he asked Willeford.
"Not quite," the rat-eyed man answered before he vanished with his cronies into the outer office. Willeford returned a moment later, wearing a gas mask and holding a canister. He lifted up the mask. "Pleasant dreams." It sounded like a farewell.
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Then he slipped the mask back on and crouched down. With a flip of his thumb he knocked open the valve on the canister. A white gas began spraying into the police station.
With a cheerful motion, Willeford dropped the cell-door keys on the floor outside Frank's cell, and then left.
As soon as the door closed, Frank was on his stomach, reaching through the bars. He stretched to grab the keys, but Willeford had dropped them just outside his reach. They lay there, tantalizing him, as the white cloud filled the room.
Coughing, his eyes stinging from the gas, Frank slapped Chavo. He wouldn't wake up. Frank slapped him again. Finally, the cell blurring before his eyes as the gas threatened to overcome him, Frank clamped a hand over Chavo's mouth and pinched his nose shut.
Chavo gasped awake, choking from the lack of air to his lungs. Before Frank could explain, he sized up the situation. The police chief and the deputies were flat on the floor, trying to reach the keys.
Chavo gave it a try and failed. He started to stand up, and then he sniffed at the gas. His eyes widened in terror, and he dropped back to his knees. Frank thought he looked sick.
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"Knockout gas?" Frank asked, but he saw by the look in Chavo's eyes it wasn't so.
"Poison gas," Chavo replied weakly. "To kill us."
He threw himself against the bars, straining for the keys just out of reach as the cloud of death descended. Chavo slumped and shook his head. "It's no use."
They were trapped.
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Chapter 14
FRANK PEELED OFF his shirt, holding it over his nose and mouth. Chavo ordered the others to stay down, breathing the air that remained under the thickening cloud. But Frank knew the dense gas would eventually force all the air out of the building. He had to reach the keys.
He got on his stomach again and stretched for the keys. Three inches, he thought. If only his arm would stretch three more inches!
He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. The gas stung his nostrils, choking him. He flattened against the floor, trying to stay beneath the cloud.
Something hit against his leg. Frank patted the floor with his hand, but there was nothing under his leg. He reached into his pocket.
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There, forgotten, was the knife he had taken from Jolly on the barge.
Quickly he flicked the knife blade and stretched out again. The tip of the knife touched the edge of the key ring. He pulled it toward him. The knife blade slipped away. He tried again, slipping the blade under the ring this time. Slowly, so slowly Frank felt as if he wasn't moving at all, he lifted the knife, catching the ring.
The key ring slid down the length of the knife until it was in Frank's hand.
He pressed his face to the floor as far as he could, took one last breath, and stood up. As long as I don't breathe in, Frank thought, it won't get me. The thing that worried him was how long he would be able to hold his breath.
Frank worked the keys in the lock until the jail door swung open. He could see nothing but the white cloud. His ears and eyes stung as he staggered to the canister, but he held his breath as he tried to close the valve.
Willeford had broken it.
He lifted the canister, and the effort made him exhale, then inhale, without meaning to. Gas rushed into his lungs, and he felt himself weakening. With a loud cry, he lunged forward, into the front office, and smashed the canister through a window.
The bars stopped the canister, bouncing it
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back into Frank's arms, but the window shattered. The rush of cool air cleared his head. Frank opened the front door to let in more air.
Standing outside on the steps was one of the men who had been with Willeford in the jail. Like Willeford, he now wore a gas mask. The gun he held was aimed at Frank.
Frank swung the canister like a baseball bat. It slammed into the side of the man's head, knocking him flat. Frank let go of the canister and fell to his knees next to the gunman, ripping at the thug's mask.
In seconds Frank had it on his own face. Then he rushed back into the deadly cloud in the jailhouse and, one by one, dragged the others to safety.
He sat on the ground in front of the police station, catching his breath as the others recovered. Finally he had the energy to remove the gas mask. He decided not to let it out of his sight. It might come in handy, now that the Director's scheme was in motion. Chavo entered a heated conversation in Spanish with the police chief, and when it was over he grabbed Frank by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
"The first thing Willeford did was smash the chief's radio," Chavo said. "We have one other chance." He jerked his head in the direction of the main hotel. "Brendan Buchanan,
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who owns the big casino on the island, has a two-way radio in his office."
Frank flashed Chavo a cocky grin. "Then we'd better get there before someone destroys that one too."
They moved stealthily and kept low. Frank noticed activity down by the docks. They crept closer for a better look, staying in the shadows.
The fishing barge was in, and the Director's gang was marching away from it. Each of them carried a large bag, and each wore a gas mask. The seven men marched toward the hotel.
"Seven?" Frank whispered to Chavo. "Where did they get a seventh from? There were only six on the boat."
"Don't forget the one who closed the hatch." Chavo watched grimly as the men blocked their path to the hotel. "We are beaten. There are too many of them, and we cannot get past them without them seeing us."
"Stay here," Frank said. "I've got an idea." He slipped on the gas mask to conceal his identity and ran up to the line of criminals, trying not to make any noise. Without a sound, he slipped an arm around the neck of the last man in line, dragging him back. The man struggled, but the mask muffled his cry.
Chavo jumped up, ripped the man's gas mask off, and knocked him out. He slipped the
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mask on as Frank took the man's belt off and bound him with it.
"Perfect," Frank said, eyeing the masked Chavo. "You look like a master criminal again."
The hotel was filled with a bright pink gas that wafted in streams around Frank and Chavo as they entered. Elegantly dressed people littered the hotel lobby and stairs, an eerie stillness clutching their fallen bodies. Men in gas masks moved, taking watches, jewelry, and wallets from them and dropping the items in their bags.
They're breathing, Frank realized, relieved that here, at least, the thieves had not used poison gas.
They started up the stairs, and for a moment Chavo paused, looking back. Frank saw his eyes narrow. "What's the matter?"
"The seventh man from the dock," Chavo said. "The one we couldn't identify. I thought I saw him in the corner of my eye. I was mistaken."
They continued up. More bodies were on the stairs, lying where they'd fallen when the gas hit. From above them came the cry, "It's about time you got here. Let's go. The top floor hasn't been touched."
It was Everest. For a moment Frank froze,
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sure they'd been spotted. Then he remembered the masks. Everest couldn't see who they were.
Chavo nodded, and Everest vanished back up the stairs.
"Let's go," Frank said. "According to the guide we passed on our way in, the manager's office is on the top floor."
They stopped on a balcony and looked at the activity below. The balcony opened out over a large casino, and masked figures scurried from table to table, robbing the gamblers and looting the money on the tables. For the first time, Frank fully understood just how big this crime really was.
He and Chavo continued up the stairs. Here and there men in gas masks popped in and out of hotel rooms. "There are more here than I recruited," Chavo said. "The Director must have had other scouts over here already in place."
"For a job like this, I can understand that," Frank replied. They reached the top of the stairs. On this floor there were no guest rooms, only offices. Frank went from door to door, until he found a plaque that read Manager.
"Here it is," he called to Chavo.
Gingerly he turned the knob. The unlocked door swung open.
The room was dark, and they dared not turn
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on a light. Wisps of pink gas hung in the air, but it smelled sweeter than the air downstairs. Against the back window, which overlooked the harbor, was an antique desk.
A man sprawled with his face on the desk. Frank raised the man's hand, and it dropped back to the desk without pause. "Unconscious," Frank said. "I assume this is the manager."
"Never mind him," Chavo said. "Find the radio." He pulled books off the shelves and knocked open file drawers.
There was no sign of a radio.
"It's got to be here somewhere," Chavo insisted. He scratched his head. "Maybe it's one of those new miniaturized jobs. He could have it in his desk."
Frank stepped behind the desk and gently moved the unconscious manager to one side. He pulled open the desk drawers and rifled though them. Only papers. Exasperated, he slammed the top drawer shut.
His knuckle brushed against a button underneath the lip of the desktop. Curious, he pressed it.
A bookcase swung away from the wall, revealing a small room inside.
"The radio!" Chavo exclaimed, and rushed into the room. In seconds he was working the controls of the shortwave, repeating into the
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microphone, "Mayday! Mayday! Please acknowledge."
Frank stepped in, studying the hidden room. Why would a hotel manager install one? he wondered. He pressed his hand against the smooth white wall, and it gave way. As he heard Chavo speaking to the mainland police, he said, "I think we have a problem."
Behind the second wall was a small television studio.
"You do have a problem," the hotel manager agreed. He stood outside the door, very much awake, a pistol in his hand. "Yes," he said in answer to the shocked looks on their faces, "I am the hotel manager and owner."
Frank studied the man's face. There was something strangely familiar about him, though Frank was certain he hadn't seen him before. Under the man's nose, almost invisible, were nose filters. That, Frank realized, was how the manager had kept himself safe from the gas.
The manager gave them a tight smile. "Of course, you may call me the Director."
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Chapter
15
WEARING HIS GAS MASK, Joe Hardy strolled through the casino. He had walked off the barge with the others, but since then had not joined them in their activities. He only watched as the criminals stripped Puerto de Oro of its wealth. Across the casino, at the roulette tables, two men were cleaning out the cash.
One crook picked up a diamond necklace and held it up to the light, checking its quality. The thief wiped the lenses on his gas mask with a sleeve, and when he still couldn't see well enough, he slipped the mask off and held the diamonds to the light again.
A satisfied smile crossed the man's lips. On the other side of the room, Joe's blood began to boil.
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The man with the diamonds was Cat Willeford.
A thick hand clapped down on Joe's shoulder, startling him. He was at the point when he wanted to hit someone who deserved hitting, and his first thought was to spin around and start swinging. He held himself back. Like the others, this guy's face was masked, but Joe couldn't mistake the voice or the shape.
"You'd better do your share, Kid," Jolly said. "We wouldn't want you to miss out on your cut of the take, now, would we?"
"Someone would have to turn me in," Joe replied. "You wouldn't do that."
Jolly sighed. "I might hate to, that's true. But if the money was right . . . "
"What do we do with all this stuff once we get it?"
"Didn't they tell you, Kid? There's a central collection point, a truck out in the town square. We take everything there."
"And?" Joe asked. "I don't get you."
"How do we get paid? And how's a truck going to help us? This is an island."
"You worry too much," Jolly replied. "The Director wouldn't be dumb enough to run out on us. There are enough guys here who'd be glad to track him to the ends of the earth to make him pay.
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"On the other hand ..." Jolly rubbed the back of his neck, still thinking about Joe's question. "That point about the truck is welltaken. I hope nothing is wrong. I get most unpleasant when someone betrays me."
"Sorry to hear about that," Joe said. Whipping around, he swung up, knocking the gas mask from Jolly's face. His fist landed in the heavyset man's stomach, and Jolly sucked in a lungful of pink gas.
"Kid," Jolly said softly, sadness in his voice. He opened his mouth again, as if to shout, and then dropped to the floor. The gas had taken effect.
Joe glanced around the room. No one had noticed his scene with Jolly. He stashed Jolly under a blackjack table, then picked up the bag of loot Jolly had been carrying. The heavyset man had been right about one thing. Joe would be a lot less conspicuous if he were carrying a bag.
He wanted to stay inconspicuous--he had a lot of scores to settle, starting with Cat Willeford.
A big bag tossed over his shoulder, Willeford left the casino and headed into the dining room next door. Joe followed. None of the others paid any attention to them. And if they found Jolly lying there? Would they raise the alarm?
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No, Joe decided. They'd probably rob him of any valuables he had left.
Willeford was in the kitchen when Joe caught up with him. Joe called his name, and the rateyed man looked up.
"I've been looking forward to this," Joe said.
"Who are you?" asked Willeford.
Joe lifted his gas mask for a moment, and Willeford smiled. "Kid, you've got almost as many lives as I do."
"The name's not Kid. It's Joe Hardy. You should never have tried to kill me." Joe clenched his fists and took a step toward Willeford. "You're out of lives now, Cat."
Willeford ran. He and Joe left their bags sitting in the kitchen, and Joe chased him into the main hallway. Other criminals watched them as they ran, and Joe could hear them laughing. He knew none of them would lift a hand to help Willeford. They were too interested in their loot.
Joe stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the hallway. Two masked figures were starting up the stairs, and one of them turned his face just enough for Joe to recognize the eyes. He'd never forget those eyes.
That was Chavo, the guy who'd killed his brother. Joe started after Chavo.
Willeford took advantage of Joe's shift of
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attention, catching Joe under the chin with his forearm. The blow knocked Joe off his feet and sent him crashing on his back on the floor. Willeford dropped down like a piledriver, smashing both fists into Joe's chest.
Joe tried to shake off the haze that was swallowing him. Somewhere he was dimly aware that Willeford was clawing at his face, trying to slip his mask off. Struggling to keep the mask on, Joe tried to stand. Willeford went for a new hold, wrapping an arm around Joe's head while Joe was still bent over.
Joe stood suddenly, locking one hand under Willeford's shoulder and the other in the man's belt. He kicked backward, and Willeford was in the air as Joe tucked himself into a roll. They both crashed to the floor on their backs.
Willeford hit first, and he hit hard. While the crook thrashed around, trying to pull himself together, Joe punched him again. Willeford stopped moving and lay still.
Joe turned his eyes to the stairs. Now it was Chavo's turn.
"You're robbing your own resort?" Frank said in disbelief.
"Certain financial setbacks make it necessary," the Director said. "Everything was planned, except for the interference from you and your brother."
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As the Director spoke to Frank, Chavo inched toward him. The Director calmly turned and pointed the gun at Chavo's heart. "Uhuh," he said. "Please don't interrupt."
Frank and Chavo stood back as the Director continued.
"Take Mr. Chavo here, a Federale operating undercover as a criminal. He was the perfect tool. I could use him to recruit the people I needed and set up the operation. And he fell right in line, eager to arrest large numbers of crooks in the commission of a crime."
"You knew about Chavo all along?" Frank asked.
"My boy, he's the most important part of my plan. When the Mexican authorities raid this island and capture the army of criminals I've assembled, I won't have to pay any of them. I, and the millions of dollars collected here tonight, will simply disappear."
"That's why you relayed everything through radio or television," Frank said, "and why you appeared fully masked. Why would anyone associate a hotel manager with the mastermind who robbed the place? You're in the clear."
"Except for us," Chavo said tensely. "We know who you are."
The Director picked up a shoebox, pressed a button on it, and slid it across the floor of the secret room. "I was coming to that. The final
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part of my plan is for my office to be bombed. It's the perfect way to cover my tracks. Of course, it would appear to all as if I'd been killed in the blast--"
"Of course," Frank said.
"Now it seems your bodies will be found in the wreckage. The thief who planted the bomb"--the Director gestured to Frank, then to Chavo--"and the brave policeman who tried to stop him. How tragic."
The Director checked his watch. "Five minutes. I really must be going." He stepped back, and the secret door began to close.
Frank leapt for the Director, but he was too slow. The man swung his gun, cracking Frank on the skull. He fell back, unconscious, but Chavo moved, knocking the Director back before he could pull the trigger. They tumbled together out of the radio room, and the pistol slipped from the Director's grip, skittering across the floor. When they stopped rolling, Chavo was on top of the Director, pinning his arms down.
"It's all over," Chavo said.
But another masked figure appeared from nowhere and slammed the back of Chavo's head. He slumped weakly to the floor. The Director scrambled to his feet, racing out the door as Chavo, clutching his head, looked up.
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Joe Hardy stood over him, ready for business. "You killed my brother, you slime."
Beneath the gas mask, Chavo's eyes widened at the sound of Joe's voice. He tried to get to his feet, but Joe held him down. Then Joe grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, knocking the gas mask from Chavo's face.
Joe planted a punch on Chavo's jaw, and Chavo staggered back but remained on his feet. "Your brother's alive."
Joe could barely hear Chavo's voice. "What?" Joe said. He couldn't believe his ears. "You're just saying that to save your skin."
"No. Please. You must listen if you want to save him." Chavo half-raised a hand and pointed to the secret room. "Behind that wall-I was just with him." He took a faltering step forward, dread written all over his face. "He's in there with a bomb."
He's lying, Joe told himself. But there was a look of true panic on Chavo's face, and Joe knew he couldn't pass up even the slightest chance that Frank still lived. He lunged for the secret door.
It was too late. The wall disintegrated from the force of the blast.
He flew back into darkness, hoping against hope that Chavo had been lying about Frank.
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Chapter
16
SOMETHING STUNG JOE'S CHEEK. He tried to wave it away, but it stung him again. Finally he opened his eyes a crack--then he parted them wide.
Frank was kneeling over him, gently bringing him around. He saw dark smudges on Frank's face, and his clothes were tattered, but he was alive!
"You're still breathing, brother," Frank said, smiling. "We both made it."
Joe sat up and saw Chavo standing impatiently behind Frank. Frank turned to the Mexican and said, "Go ahead. We'll catch up in a few minutes." As Chavo left, Frank helped Joe to his feet.
"What happened?" Joe asked. "That bomb
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knocked me clear across the room. You couldn't have survived if you'd been right on top of it."
"You should have seen all the great electronic equipment in there." Frank laughed. Then his face turned serious. "A fan's dream, all this radio and TV stuff--very bulky. When I realized I couldn't get out of the room, I put the bomb in one end and pushed the equipment to the other."
Joe began to grin. "And you hid behind the equipment when the bomb went off." He shook his head. "It's just like you to leave me to take the worst of it."
"The equipment took the worst. There's not much of it left," Frank said. His face grew grim. "I'm really glad to see you, Joe. I thought you were dead."
"I thought you were, too." Joe gave his brother a big hug. "Let's try never to go through that again, okay?"
"Deal," Frank said. "Now let's find Chavo."
When the Hardys caught up to him, Frank asked, "Do you trust us to get the Director while you try to reach the police?"
"I suppose I do not have a choice," Chavo replied with a grin. "I will have to find another working radio at another hotel."
"Good." Frank cocked his head toward the
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door and glanced at Joe. "Now, why don't we go round up the Director."
The hotel was empty, except for the stillunconscious guests and staff. Every room had been stripped, every safe-deposit box looted. The Director's plan had worked almost flawlessly.
"Get back," Frank said. They both jumped for the shadows as two criminals, loaded down with bags, walked by. "They'll probably lead us to the Director as well as anyone." Staying out of sight, they followed the two thieves to the town square, where everyone had lined up to pour jewelry and money into an old dump truck.
"A truck?" said Frank:
"Jolly said something about this," Joe explained. "It's supposed to get all this stuff off the island."
"How can a truck get out?" Frank said in disbelief. "It doesn't look very seaworthy." "That's what we were told," Joe said. "I
guess we'll find out soon enough."
"Come on." Frank glanced around. "I've got an idea." Quickly he led Joe to the nearest building. Frank jumped up, catching the fire escape. They climbed up three sets of metal stairs, until they were on a roof overlooking the bizarre scene.
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They watched for a while.
"Look," Joe said, breaking the silence.
Out on the ocean, a fleet of lights grew brighter and brighter as they approached the island. A high-pitched whine became louder, then softer, then louder still.
"It's the police," Joe said.
"Then Chavo did find another radio." Frank nodded. "But the Director planned on this. Hang on, little brother. I think we're about to catch the ride of our lives."
On the ground, the criminals were reacting to the oncoming sirens. Joe watched in amusement as they frantically pointed out to sea. Several rushed the truck and tried to get into the driver's cabin, but the doors were locked.
"That's not the Director driving," Joe said. "No, but I bet he'll be where the truck's going," Frank said, watching it careen down the street. "Get ready."
"What are we supposed to do from up here?"
"Jump," said Frank. "Jump?"
"Jump!" Together, they leapt.
The Hardys fell three stories, to smash into a lumpy pile of loot. They were in the back of the old dump truck, speeding through Puerto de Oro at a breakneck pace.
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As he bounced around on the jewelry and cash, Frank imagined the look on the Director's face when he got to his destination and found them waiting for him.
The truck turned off the street and onto a dirt road, heading for the heart of the island. Far behind were the casinos, criminals, and police. Now the scenery was tropical forest so thick that it was almost jungle, and the road turned to a trail barely wide enough for the vehicle. It looked as if no one had ever lived on this part of the island. It was almost wilderness.
The police would never look for the Director here.
They rode up a mountain, then down the other side. Joe stood and looked out over the hood of the dump truck. The truck was heading toward a small inlet, lit orange and purple by the rising sun. There was a long stretch of beach beside the water, and on the sand, a dark winged object.
"You're not going to believe this," Joe said. "I guess you can get anything from government surplus if you try hard enough."
Frank took a look. "I believe it. It's the only way his plan could work."
The truck rolled onto the beach and into the fuselage of the cargo plane waiting there.
The Hardys lay flat on the loot as the air131
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craft's engines started one by one. The truck door slammed, and Frank could hear the Director barking orders. The ramp up to the airplane was pulled in, and the entrance bay closed. Then the plane started to move. Frank and Joe began to slide over the loot as the plane rose into the air.
"Frank," Joe began as the plane leveled off, but Frank clapped a hand over Joe's mouth, silencing him. The Director's triumphant laughter echoed in the belly of the plane.
Then came a grinding noise. "Oh, no!" Frank yelled, no longer caring if he were heard or not.
The front of the dump truck began to tip up. Frank and Joe crawled through the loot, trying to reach what was now becoming the top of the mound, but the farther they crawled forward, the more the slipping pile of riches carried them back. The back gate of the truck opened, the loot spilling onto the floor of the airplane. The Director danced around the pile with joy.
Then he saw the Hardys, and his face changed. "Nick! Charlie!" he called, going for the pistol stuck inside his belt.
Joe dived, tackling him. A shot rang out, ricocheting off the wall of the plane. Then Joe reached the Director, grabbed his gun hand, and tore the pistol from his grip.
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"Drop it," a voice snarled. "Hands where we can see them." Joe spun, pistol ready, to find himself facing two unshaven men with automatic rifles. The one who spoke wore a T-shirt, and his black hair was cut close to his head, almost like a skullcap. His gun was aimed straight at Joe. The second gunman trained a rifle on Frank.
Sagging, Joe dropped the pistol and raised his hands.
"This one's no problem, Nick," the other man said as he shoved Frank to Joe's side. The Director picked up his fallen pistol.
"The Hardys," the Director said. "Is there no getting rid of you?"
"Smarter guys than you have tried," Joe answered defiantly.
A slow smile spread over the Director's face. "That may be true. But I'll be the one to succeed." He signaled the two other men, who nudged Frank and Joe toward the bay door.
"Let me introduce Nick and Charlie," the Director went on. "They've had quite a bit of experience with smuggling by air. For instance, do you know what they do with contraband when the police are closing in?"
He hit a switch, and the bay doors opened. Frank and Joe looked out over the dark Pacific, half a mile below.
"We dump it," Nick said with a grin.
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The Director grinned back. He pointed to the bay door, then turned to the Hardys. "To have gotten into the truck, you must be good at jumping."
The smugglers cocked their automatic rifles and pressed them in the Hardys' ribs.
"I'd like to see a demonstration," the Director said. "So jump."
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Chapter
17
"A HIGH-DIVE COMPETITION is no fun with just two people, Director," a woman's voice said. "Maybe you should join them."
The Director and the Hardys all turned at once, shock on their faces.
"Charity!" Joe yelled.
"Get her!" the Director shouted to the smugglers. Nick just turned where he was, training his rifle on his supposed boss.
Charity stepped from the cockpit. "I don't think your men will follow your orders anymore, Director. I've bought them off."
"Imp--p--ossible." The Director stuttered over the word. "I offered them a cut of the loot! How could you top that?"
Charity shrugged. "I offered them half the
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loot. Once we take it from you, of course. Now, if you'd be so kind-" She waved them toward the open bay door.
"You can't!" Joe said.
She laughed. "True enough." To the Director she said, "Close that door. I've never killed anybody, and I don't want to pick up bad habits."
"Any more bad habits?" Joe sneered. Charity feigned a brokenhearted look. "Why, Joe. And after I just saved your life. How ungentlemanly." She signaled, and the two smugglers shoved the Hardys and the Director into the plane's interior. Charity reached into her pocket, pulling out two pairs of handcuffs.
"Souvenirs from police I've run into," she explained.
The smuggler named Nick opened the driver's door of the dump truck, lowering the window. He stuck Joe on one side of the open door and Frank on the other, holding their hands up. Then Charity snapped the cuffs over their wrists. They were stuck, trapped by the door. The smuggler named Charlie handcuffed the Director to the truck's rear bumper, just out of reach of the loot.
"You lied to me," Joe accused Charity. "You're no government agent."
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She began to laugh. "Of course I lied. I'm a thief. It worked out so much better this way."
"I can understand why you wanted to rip off the Director," Frank said, looking back at the loot. "But why bring us into it?"
"The oldest reason in the world, Frank," Charity said. "Misdirection--keeping the enemy off guard. You were the wild cards. While the Director was busy watching you, he couldn't keep an eye on me."
"So you pulled that heist in Bayport just to lure us in." Frank was talking out loud to explain it to himself.
"I think you'll agree it worked out well." She studied Joe's angry scowl. "Or maybe not. We don't have to agree on everything."
The Director sat on the floor, his tear-filled eyes fixed and staring. "How did you know? How did you know?"
"You're going to think this is funny," Charity explained. "I was in Puerto de Oro six months ago, when you were planning this caper. You write everything down, did you know that? It's the sort of thing that will get you in trouble one of these days."
"I destroyed all those notes!" the Director burst out. "No one ever saw them except me." "And the woman who robbed your safe,"
Charity added, to the man's surprise. "Me. It was a good plan, but I think mine was better."
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The Director sank into silence, his face gray with shame.
"What are you going to do with us?" Frank asked. "You can't let us go. We know too much."
"What do you know?" Charity countered. "You don't know who I am or where I'm going. No, you really can't do me much harm at all." She looked wistfully out the window. "We'll be in Guatemala before too long. The plane will land there, we'll take the loot out, and leave you with the plane. How's that?"
"Just great," Joe said sourly.
She patted him gently on the cheek, trying to raise his spirits. "Don't take it like that, Joe. You'll get free pretty quickly. I'll see to that. Then all you have to do is find the Guatemalan police and explain everything to them, and by the time you do that, I'll be long gone.
"It's a shame, really," Charity said, looking at the Hardys. "We made such a good team. Maybe we can work together again someday." "Over my dead body," Joe muttered.
"Don't say things like that," Charity scolded him. "Someday you'll run into someone who'll take that suggestion seriously."
Like the Director, Joe sank into silence and fumed. He couldn't believe it. Charity had outwitted them again.
The plane dipped, and Frank saw light com138
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ing from around the front end of the plane, streaks of bright red. The sun was almost up, but it had risen to the right of them.
She's lying again, he thought to himself. If the sun is to the right, we're flying northeast. That means we're over the United States.
"This is where I get out," Charity said. The plane landed, skidding along a landing strip crudely scratched out of the desert. When the plane came to a halt, Nick opened the bay doors.
A man stood at the bottom of the ramp, halfhidden in the morning grayness. He was short and thin, with thinning dark hair that formed a widow's peak. His thick glasses reflected the lights from inside the plane. Behind him was a rent-a-van, the kind used by millions of people throughout the country. Once they got on the highway with that, Frank knew, the thieves would vanish without a trace.
The man walked up the ramp, into the lit area.
"Renner!" Joe shouted. Forgetting the handcuffs, he lunged for the insurance investigator but jerked back abruptly, stopped by the end of his chain.
Renner frowned. "What are they doing here? This ruins everything. They'll destroy my career."
"You'll be rich, remember?" Charity re139
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minded him. "You won't need a career. Let them be."
Nick went outside and backed the rent-a-van to the cargo-bay doors. A third smuggler, the pilot, came out of the cockpit and, with Renner, Charity, and the others, shoveled the loot into boxes, piling them in the back of the van.
Frank and Joe watched this without comment. The Director, on his knees with one hand cuffed to the truck, desperately scratched and clawed at any loose baubles or money that fell as they were loaded. Laughing, the smugglers let him keep whatever he could grab.
Renner, though, snatched the loot away from the Director and stuffed it into the last box. When the final box was in the van, Charity
blew goodbye kisses to the Hardys. "Thank you, boys," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you." She walked down the ramp out the bay door to the van.
Renner called the smugglers into the cockpit of the plane. There were three dull thuds, and moments later, Renner reappeared alone.
In his hands were two containers of gasoline. "Charity!" he called pleasantly. "Could you come back here a moment?"
Joe could see her against the spreading morning light. Now that Charity's schemes were finished, it seemed to Joe that all the
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energy had gone out of her. She yawned with disinterest and started up the ramp again.
Renner pressed his back against the wall next to the bay door and pulled a revolver from under his coat. He cocked the hammer.
"Run!" Joe yelled. "It's a double cross!" Angrily Renner spun and snapped off a shot at Joe. It hit the driver's mirror on the dump truck and shattered it. Renner leapt onto the ramp. Charity had just reached the van when Renner fired a shot over her head.
"The next one goes in your back, Charity," he said.
Charity stopped. Putting her hands behind her head, she walked back into the plane. Keeping his gun at her back, Renner cuffed her to the Director, wrapping the handcuff chain around the dump truck's back bumper.
"Congratulations," she said to Renner. "You win."
Renner sneered. "But I'm not safe. I won't be, until none of you can threaten me." He went back to the gasoline containers, uncapped them, and splashed gas throughout the plane.
With a theatrical bow, Renner faced the Hardys and Charity. "I want to thank everyone for making me very, very wealthy. I'll never forget you." He hit the bay-door switch and ran outside.
Just before the bay door closed, Renner lit a
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match and tossed it back into the plane. The match landed in a pool of gasoline, and in a flash the plane was in flames.
Frank and Joe struggled against the handcuffs as the fire raced toward them, but the chain held. There was nothing they could do.
The plane was going up in smoke, and it would take them with it.
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Chapter
18
"JOE, PULL DOWN on your end of the chain," Frank ordered.
Joe dropped to his knees. On the other side of the door, Frank pushed himself through the truck window and somersaulted to his feet on Joe's side of the door.
"Very good. And here I thought I'd have to do all your thinking for you," Charity said.
"I supposed you had this planned all along," Joe chided. Charity flashed him a sly grin. "We haven't got time for clever chatter,
Joe," Frank said as the flames grew near. With his free hand he pulled on the bumper holding Charity and the Director down. "We've got to get them out of here. Where's the handcuff key, Charity?"
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"Save me," pleaded the Director.
"I'm afraid Renner has the key," Charity said coolly. "But if you'd take that pin off my lapel . . ." Frank undid the gold lapel pin and handed it to her. With her free hand she inserted the sharp point of the pin into the handcuff lock-freeing both herself and the Director.
"Where do you think you're going?" Joe said as Charity bolted for the bay-door control. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.
"Nowhere, from the looks of that," she said, pointing out the fire that blocked the exit. "Get into the back of the truck," Frank
ordered Charity and the Director. "Come on, Joe."
The Hardys dashed to the cockpit. The three smugglers sprawled in the pilot seats, unconscious. Joe slapped Nick awake, and as the smuggler woke, the smoke filling the cabin told him the situation. "Help us get your friends out of here," Frank told Nick. "Or you won't get out either."
They dragged the other two to the back of the truck. Fire devoured the cargo bay. Still handcuffed together, Frank and Joe climbed into the driver's cab. Frank started up the engine.
Seconds later, the burning truck smashed through the side of the plane. The truck tum144
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bled to the ground and rolled, spilling its passengers. It took one more tumble, then came to a stop on its side.
Frank and Joe, bruised, crawled out together. They ran across the sand and fell in the flash of heat as fire roared over the truck and plane. Exhausted, Frank sprawled out on the ground.
Joe raised his head. For the first time he realized they were in a desert, and as he watched, Charity and the others spread out and ran off. Joe tried to spring to his feet, but the handcuff pulled him down again. "They're getting away!" Joe said insistently. "We've got to stop them!"
"We don't need to," Frank said, his eyes closed. "Listen."
Overhead there was the familiar thwipping of helicopter blades. Three choppers descended in a triangular pattern, and armed police officers leapt out. In seconds the police led Charity, the Director, and the smugglers back to Frank and Joe. The Hardys stood up to face a scarred Mexican agent who was with the police.
"Chavo," Frank said in surprise. "Glad you could make it."
"Si," replied Chavo. "As you can see, I really am a policeman. We caught all the others on Puerto de Oro, all except these." He swept
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his arm at Charity and the Director. "Once we find the stolen jewels and cash, the case is, as you say, all wrapped up."
"Mind if we borrow a helicopter and some cops?" Joe said. He held up their cuffed wrists. "And could we get out of these things? There's no key, but the cops have experience with this sort of thing, don't they?"
Chavo went to speak to the police, and a second later came back with an officer, who had Charity in tow. She poked her pin into the locks, and in seconds the handcuffs popped open.
"This lady has something to say to you," Chavo said.
The smile on Charity's face was warm and sincere, without a hint of deceit. "Looks like you won this one, Joe. Maybe next time it'll be my turn again."
"There's not going to be a next time," Joe said. He put the handcuffs on her and handed her over to the policeman. "Don't let her out of your sight, officer. She's tricky."
Dust and sand were whipped around by the wind from the blades of a helicopter as it set down a dozen yards from Chavo and the Hardys. On the helicopter were the markings of the U.S. Border Patrol. "Come," Chavo said. Sprinting, he led the Hardys to the chopper. A door flew open, and a border patrolman
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reached out to help them inside. There were two other patrolmen on board, as well as the pilot. As the door clicked shut behind them, the helicopter rose twirling into the sky, to fly in ever-widening circles over the desert.
"There's San Diego," Joe exclaimed, spotting the downtown area off in the distance.
"Is that what we're looking for?" Chavo asked.
"No," Frank replied. They sped across the sky, and Frank scoured the roads that led across the desert. One led north and petered out after a mile. Most of the others ran toward San Diego, but there was no sign of a van on any of them. "Head east," he said to the pilot over the pounding of the blades.
On the road to the east, a plume of dust rose. At the tip of the plume was the rent-a-van. "That's him," Joe said. As the helicopter
flew over the van, Chavo opened a footlocker inside the police helicopter and took out several shotguns. He handed one to Frank.
Frank shook his head. "I'd rather not use a gun if I can avoid it."
"Renner won't give us any more trouble," Joe said as he settled in the seat next to the pilot. He snatched a microphone from the dashboard and asked the pilot, "Is there an external loudspeaker on this thing?" The pilot nodded and switched it on.
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"You might as well give up, Renner," Joe said into the microphone, and he was thrilled to hear his voice boom back at him from the outside. "You can't get away."
"Good job, Joe," Frank said, his eyes on the road. "He's speeding up."
"Take it down," Chavo ordered with a sigh. He cocked the shotgun. "Get ready."
The chopper set down on the road, blocking it. As the van began backing up, the three border guards charged out of the chopper, firing warning shots into the air.
The van came to a dead stop. Renner stepped out, gun in hand. Spreading his arms wide, he crouched down and dropped the gun to the sand, then stood with his hands up. The border patrolmen rushed him.
"What's the matter?" Joe asked Renner as the police pushed the insurance man to the helicopter. "How come you're not throwing your weight around now?"
Feebly Renner looked at the patrolmen and said, "My name is Elroy Renner. I'm an insurance investigator, and you're interfering with a case. You'll all be in big trouble."
"Save it," Frank said. One by one, he emptied Renner's pockets.
A large sapphire fell from his pants pocket to the sand. Joe crouched to pick it up.
"Well, well," Joe said, holding the Star of
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Ishtar up for examination. "I guess this gets Chief Collig off the hook. You stole it all along."
"Get him out of here," Chavo told the patrolmen, and they loaded Renner into the chopper. They watched as it took off.
Turning to the van, Joe said, "I guess we'd better take it back."
"Perhaps ." Chavo said in a dreamy voice. His eyes glazed over, and a hungry smile came to his lips. "So much wealth in this van. Split three ways, it could make some people very rich."
"Are you sure you're a cop?" Frank asked. Laughing, Chavo gave a happy-go-lucky shrug. "A man can dream, my friend." He climbed behind the steering wheel of the van. "Do you need a lift anywhere?"
Frank and Joe got in. "How about back to what's left of the plane?"
Chavo shrugged again, and in silence they drove to the west.
The van pulled up beside the charred remains of the plane, near a cluster of policemen who had gathered around the criminals. Joe noticed their agitation. He hopped out of the cab and ran to them, scanning for a face that was missing, feeling his own face flushing with
anger
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"Where's the woman?" he shouted. "Where's Charity?"
The police officer Joe had left Charity with turned red with embarrassment, and Joe felt his temper rising. "I can't explain it," the officer said. "I was handcuffed to her one minute, then there was this commotion and I turned away, and the next minute the handcuff was open and she was gone." Seeing Joe's growing rage, he hastily added, "But she can't have gotten far in this desert. As soon as we're in the air, we'll spot her."
"You won't," Joe assured the policeman. He realized Frank was now standing beside him, and exclaimed, "I don't believe it! She got away again." He shook his head, the anger flooding out of him. Somehow there seemed no point in staying mad.
"Look on the bright side," Frank said. "At least this time she went away empty-handed. We'll get her in the next round."
"Oh, no," Joe said as they walked back to Chavo, ready to begin the trip home. "We are never having anything to do with that woman ever again."
Frank nodded his agreement. But deep down, both of them knew that Joe was wrong.
Blood Money (Hardy Boys Casefiles #32)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Who said crime doesn't pay?" Joe Hardy asked.
Frank Hardy turned and shot his younger brother, sitting directly behind him in the backseat, a disapproving look.
"Oh, it's not that it doesn't pay." Their father, the famous private detective Fenton Hardy, spoke up from the driver's seat. "If money is all you count, then crime certainly does pay."
"But ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't pay for very long," Frank added.
"I give up," Joe said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "All I meant was, this is a pretty elegant neighborhood for a crook to live in."
"Well, Moran didn't spend all his time
2
here," Fenton Hardy said, backing his car into a parking spot. "In fact, he spent the last ten years of his life in a cell about the size of your van." Looking out the back window, he glanced at Joe, who nodded sheepishly.
"I get the message, Dad."
"I knew you would," Fenton said, nosing the car up to the curb. He turned the key and slid it out. "Better lock the doors, boys. We're not in Bayport anymore."
As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Frank had to admit his brother was right about one thing. It was an expensive-looking, elegant neighborhood. Immaculate three-story townhouses, with bay windows and elaborate ironwork fences, lined both sides of the block they had parked on. The street itself was clean and quiet, with large trees (bare now that it was the middle of winter) planted at regular intervals along the sidewalk. Past the last of those trees, at the end of the block, the Manhattan skyline was clearly visible.
Since the building of these Jefferson Heights townhouses twenty years earlier, this area had become one of the most exclusive residential districts in Brooklyn. Apartment space was at a premium because the area was just over the river from Manhattan, convenient to the subways, and the neighborhood was safe.
All in all, it looked like a model for the perfectly planned urban development. But
3
from what Fenton Hardy had been telling them on their drive from Bayport, this model of urban development had a major flaw. The beautiful townhouses had been bought by one of the country's largest criminal organizations.
"I remember when some of this block was a park," Fenton Hardy reminisced. "In the summer there were a half-dozen ball games going at one time." He was silent for a moment, then shook his head, clearing out the memories. "I don't understand this invitation. I helped to get Moran sentenced to jail twenty years ago. He delayed going for ten years, of course. But the last thing I ever expected was an invitation to Josh Moran's house."
"He can't hurt you now, Dad," Frank pointed out. "He's dead."
Which was the reason they were there. Fenton Hardy, much to his surprise, had been notified that he had been named a beneficiary in Josh Moran's will. Along with the notification had come a request to attend the reading of the will that afternoon. Frank and Joe, on break from school, had been only too eager to accompany him.
"I wonder what Moran could have left me," Fenton Hardy said.
"Probably a time bomb," Joe replied.
Frank laughed. He and Joe followed their dad across the street and up the steps of one of
4
the few townhouses that had not been split up into apartments.
"This whole building was all Moran's," Fenton Hardy said, stepping forward and ringing the bell.
Joe whistled in admiration, just as the front door swung open and a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a fashionable, expensive-looking suit, was revealed. He appeared to be about thirty and had the solid, trim build of an athlete.
The man smiled expectantly at Fenton. It was obvious the two didn't know each other.
Joe, on the other hand, recognized the dark- haired stranger instantly.
"I'm Fenton Hardy—these are my sons, Frank and Joe."
The man shook hands with Mr. Hardy. "Glad to meet you, sir. I'm Tommy Poletti."
Joe managed to shut his mouth, which had dropped open when the man answered the door, and mumble a quick hello.
"I'm glad you could make it today," Poletti continued, opening the door wide for them and motioning them inside. As he took their coats, Joe nudged Frank excitedly.
"Do you know who that guy is?"
Frank shook his head. "One of Moran's goons, right?"
"One of Moran's goons?" Joe shook his head excitedly, his eyes wide. "That's Tommy
5
Poletti. He was a quarterback for the University of Southern California—and won the Heisman trophy about ten years ago."
Joe was something of a fanatic about football—not surprising, considering that he played for the Bayport High football team.
"I never heard of him," Frank whispered to his brother.
"Never heard of him? He used to hold all the single-season collegiate passing records!" Joe exclaimed, a little louder than he'd intended.
"Except touchdowns in a season." Poletti turned and smiled. "But that was a long time ago."
"Joe's a running back for his high school team," Fenton Hardy put in. "A pretty good one, if I say so myself."
"Dad—" Joe protested, flushing slightly.
"Fullback, right?" Poletti asked, looking Joe up and down.
Joe nodded. "Yeah."
"We never had a good fullback at USE when I was playing," Poletti said. "Might've won a few of those Bowl games if we had." He leaned forward and spoke directly to Joe. "You want my advice, bulk up a little. They're growing linebackers bigger every year."
"I'll try," Joe said, smiling. As Poletti turned away, a sudden and obvious question occurred to Joe.
6
What was Tommy Poletti, a former Heisman trophy winner, doing mixed up with a gangster like Moran?
The question echoed in his head as Poletti led them down the hall and through a set of double doors into a large living room. About twenty people were standing there, talking to one another.
Joe recognized none of them.
This time, his father did.
"Hugh!" he called out.
A thin, dark-haired man standing by himself near the fireplace turned. When he saw Fenton Hardy, his eyes lit up.
"Fenton!"
The two men met in the middle of the room and embraced.
"Looks like your dad found an old friend," Poletti said. Just then the doorbell rang again.
"Excuse me." Poletti disappeared through the double doors.
The man their father had recognized looked somewhat older than Fenton Hardy. There were huge bags under his eyes, and as he'd crossed the room to greet Fenton Hardy, Joe noticed that he walked with a slight limp. He wore a wrinkled, ill-fitting green sport coat and baggy gray pants that hung loosely from his skeletal frame. In one hand he was carrying a drink.
7
Joe, with Frank a step behind, crossed the room to stand beside their father.
"It's good to see you again, Fenton," the man said, his eyes glistening a little. "These are your sons?"
Fenton Hardy nodded. "Boys, this is Hugh Nolan. He worked with me on the force."
"A long time ago. I retired more than fifteen years ago."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Nolan," Frank and Joe said almost simultaneously.
"You look a little like my son Ned," Nolan said to Frank, shaking hands with each of the boys. "I tried to get him to come with me today, but he just got out of the army, and ..." He shrugged. "What's this all about, Fenton?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Hugh."
"I don't have one," Nolan said. "To tell you the truth, I don't understand why I'm here at all—"
Nolan stopped talking abruptly, and stared over Joe's shoulder at the double doors. His face tensed.
"What's wrong, Hugh?" Fenton asked.
Joe followed the thin man's gaze.
A tall, powerfully built black man, dressed in a navy blue suit and white shirt, had just entered the room and was scanning the crowd.
"Chief Peterson!" Frank called out.
The man turned at the sound of Frank's voice and began heading toward them.
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Police Chief Samuel Peterson's appearance there was no surprise to any of the Hardys. Immediately after he'd been named a beneficiary in Moran's will, Fenton Hardy had called the chief and discovered that his old partner (the two had been detectives together) had been named a beneficiary as well.
"Whatever Moran wants to leave me I guess applies to Sam as well," Fenton had said. "After all, we're the ones who put him away." The two men had talked, and both had agreed to show up for the reading.
Peterson crossed the room quickly, nodded hellos to both Frank and Joe, and shook hands warmly with their father. Fenton Hardy was clearly glad to see the chief.
Nolan, just as clearly, was not.
When the chief turned to shake hands with him, Joe felt the temperature in the room drop.
Nolan ignored Peterson's extended hand, and the chief finally lowered it and spoke.
"Hugh," he said, nodding. "It's good to see you."
"Good to see me, is it?" Nolan asked, biting off each word. "That must be it. You didn't return any of my calls fifteen years ago when I needed your help—because you were waiting to see me in person."
"I told you I had nothing to do with that decision, Hugh," Peterson said calmly.
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"You could've helped me!" Nolan spat out, with such bitterness that Joe took a step aside.
What did Hugh Nolan have against Chief Peterson, anyway?
Joe glanced at his father and received a look that told him to save his questions for later.
"You've got to try to understand that was a long time ago, Hugh," Peterson was saying.
"Oh, I understand," Nolan said bitterly. "I understand, all right." He stepped closer to Peterson, till the two were only inches apart. The top of Nolan's head barely reached the collar of Peterson's jacket.
"Now you try and understand this," Hugh Nolan said.
He drew his arm back and before anyone could stop him, threw the entire contents of his drink in Chief Peterson's face!
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Chapter 2
Frank and Joe were shocked as Nolan turned and stalked away angrily.
"Hugh—" Fenton Hardy began, then sensed it was useless to start after the man. He turned to Peterson. "Sam, are you all right?"
"Fine," Peterson said, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his face. "Just fine."
"He has no right to blame you," Fenton Hardy said.
The expression in his father's eyes told Frank he'd have to save his questions for later.
He and Joe hadn't seen the chief since the events that had resulted in Fenton Hardy's kidnapping several months before, in the case Edge of Destruction. At that time Peterson had just entered the mayoral race in New York
11
City. Since then, he had withdrawn from the campaign after suffering a mild heart attack.
The chief was supposed to be taking it easy now, Frank knew, and this situation with Hugh Nolan, whatever it was, couldn't be helping matters any.
"I hate to break up the party," Fenton Hardy said. "But look who just walked in."
He nodded over his shoulder.
In the doorway at the far end of the room stood a group of five men, all in dark suits. One, clearly the leader of the group, looked as thin as Hugh Nolan, and somewhat older. But where Nolan's clothes and demeanor had indicated a man who was having trouble making ends meet, this man's bearing spoke of someone who was used to money—and knew how to enjoy it.
With him was a younger man, as powerfully built as Tommy Poletti, but with a cruder, meaner face. The other three—Frank guessed they were bodyguards—formed a rough circle around them.
"The old guy is Johnny Carew. The one talking to him is his son Daniel," Peterson was saying. "They're—"
"You don't have to tell us who they are," Frank said. The Carew crime family was the most powerful on the East Coast, and Johnny was its head—a man who had supposedly controlled 
12
judges, congressmen, and even a vice- president.
At one time, Frank knew, Josh Moran had been Carew's most trusted crime lieutenant. That was before he broke away to start his own crime "family." The two groups had been feuding since then—for about twenty years. About the time that Dad got Moran convicted, Frank realized.
"Say," Joe said, nudging Frank. "Who's that?"
A pretty dark-haired woman had just entered the room from another door and was scanning the crowd.
"That's Moran's daughter, Emily." Peterson smiled. "She's a little old for you, Joe." A big heavyset man came over and spoke briefly to Emily. "Billy Delaney," the chief continued. "Moran's second-in-command. He's been running the gang the last few years, and the word is, he's not unhappy that the old man died. The big question is, now that Moran's dead, can he prevent Carew from taking back the territory Moran stole from him?"
Daniel Carew, who had been talking softly to his father, suddenly caught sight of Emily Moran. He called her name and quickly crossed the room to her side.
Carew had barely begun to talk when Emily started to move away. He grabbed her arm. An
13
expression of anger crossed Emily Moran's face, and she coldly removed Carew's hand.
It looked as if, at least as far as she was concerned, the feud between their two families was to continue.
"If I could have your attention, ladies and gentlemen." A tall thin man, wearing wire- rimmed glasses and a bow tie, stood behind a large, antique mahogany desk at the far end of the room.
"My name is Vance Johnson, and I was Mr. Moran's lawyer. I'm here in that capacity to execute his estate—beginning with the reading of the will. If you will all take seats—"
Tommy Poletti crossed the room to sit with Emily Moran. Johnny and Daniel Carew took seats next to each other. Frank and Joe remained standing with their father and Chief Peterson. Across the room, Hugh Nolan also stood.
"Thank you for coming today." Johnson picked up a stack of papers from the desk and began reading.
" 'I, Joshua Sean Moran, being of sound mind and sound body, do hereby bequeath the entire body of my estate, its assets and capital, to my only daughter, Emily—' "
"No surprises there," Daniel Carew interjected. Tommy Poletti shot him a dirty look.
" 'With this exception. I have set aside in a safe-deposit box ten million dollars in cash.
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This money is to be divided equally among the following individuals: Hugh Nolan, Johnny Carew, Daniel Carew, Samuel Peterson, Fenton Hardy, Thomas Poletti, and William Delaney.' "
There was a moment of stunned silence. Frank and his father exchanged a puzzled glance. Johnson continued reading.
" 'These shares will be payable three months from the date of the reading of this will. They may not be transferred or assigned, nor may they be renounced, except in the single following instance.' "
Johnson looked up over his glasses. " 'The only way one of the named beneficiaries shall not receive his due share of this money is if he meets his demise before the aforementioned date. In that event, the shares of the remaining beneficiaries will increase proportionately.' "
Fenton Hardy didn't look pleased—nor did any of the other people named as beneficiaries.
"Say it again—in English, Van," Daniel Carew said.
"It's simple enough," Tommy Poletti interjected. "Everyone whose name was called is due a share of ten million dollars—if he can stay alive for the next three months."
"This is why Moran wanted you all here," Frank said, his eyes wide. "Revenge."
Fenton Hardy nodded grimly. "He's made it open season on every one of us."
15
Chapter 3
Joe studied the collection of gangsters assembled in the room. It wasn't hard to figure what the next three months would be like.
With ten million dollars at stake, murder would be in the air.
Chief Peterson rose, his face twisted in anger. "I don't know about anyone else, but I don't want any part of this will—or that ten million dollars."
"I don't intend to become involved either," Fenton Hardy said.
"We should all refuse to take part in Moran's sick little exercise," the chief added.
At that precise moment, Joe turned and saw Hugh Nolan's face. Clearly, he wanted his slice of Moran's fortune.
"If you're so uncomfortable with your
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share, you could give it to me, Chief," Daniel Carew offered. "In three months, of course."
"I'd rather burn it," Peterson said.
"That's against the law," Daniel said, smiling wickedly. "I'd have to report you. Besides—if some screwball wants to leave me a share of ten million dollars, who am I to argue?" He smiled at Emily. "No offense."
"Watch your language, Carew," Poletti said. "How about a little respect for the dead?"
"You're a fine one to talk about respect for the dead," Carew replied. His eyes went to Emily. "Why don't you give the lady a decent amount of time to mourn her father before you marry her—"
"You need to learn some manners, pal," Poletti said, springing to his feet.
"From you?" Carew asked. "Don't make me laugh."
Emily put a hand on Poletti's arm. He shrugged it off, and stood waiting, his eyes blazing.
Joe wondered if the former Heisman winner knew how dangerous it was for him to be threatening the son of one of organized crime's biggest kingpins.
"Tommy, Mr. Carew, please—" Johnson began.
"Daniel!" Johnny Carew, who had remained virtually silent during the reading of the will and the exchanges that followed, now spoke up
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for the first time. "Apologize to Mr. Poletti—and to Miss Moran."
The elder Carew's voice was clipped and couldn't hide the fact that Carew was furious with his son. Daniel mumbled a reluctant apology, first to Poletti, who accepted reluctantly, and then Emily.
The two men sat down again.
"I, for one, intend to honor Joshua's wishes regarding the disposition of his estate," Johnny Carew continued. "If he wanted all of us"—he raised a hand and held it out palm up—"to share equally in his wealth, that is how we will share it."
"You can't be serious," Peterson said. "You know Moran wants us to kill each other for that money—"
"I am perfectly willing to accept my share of Josh's estate," Carew continued, ignoring the chief. "I hope everyone else here will do the same."
"None of us wants any trouble, Chief," Delaney added. "But I'm not giving up my share, either."
Peterson shook his head in disgust.
"I'm afraid the whole question is beside the point. It's quite impossible for any of you to renounce your shares." Johnson placed the papers he'd been reading from into a manila folder on the desk. "Mr. Moran has written his will so that it will be impossible for any of you
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to step aside as a beneficiary. The shares of the other beneficiaries only increase if—"
"If we die," Daniel Carew said.
"Yes, that's essentially correct." Johnson cleared his throat. "If there are no other questions . . ."
Joe shook his head. Why had Moran made Poletti a target? For that matter, why was Delaney, Moran's right-hand man, a beneficiary as well? He doubted that Johnson had the answers to those questions.
The lawyer cleared his throat again and looked around the room. "I thank you all for coming. We'll meet back here in three months—at which time we'll discuss the formal distribution of Mr. Moran's estate."
The gathering broke up quickly after that. The Hardys, after seeing Chief Peterson off, found themselves outside on the street just as Hugh Nolan emerged from the brownstone.
"Don't say it, Fenton," Nolan said as he reached the bottom of the steps. His limp was much more pronounced now, and he was clearly straining with each step.
"You know I've got to, Hugh," Fenton Hardy said. He stepped forward to give Nolan a hand, but the older man waved him off. "Sam did everything he legally could to see that you got your money. He got outvoted—"
"I don't want to hear it!" Nolan snarled. He bit his lip then and was silent a moment. When
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he spoke again, he was much calmer. "Sorry, Fenton. I shouldn't have snapped at you—or thrown the drink at Sam. Just lost my temper again." He checked his watch. "Anyway, I've got to go."
"It was good to see you, Hugh." Fenton took Nolan's hand and shook it vigorously.
"And you, too, Fenton. But I'm afraid I've made a bad impression on your sons," he said, turning to Frank and Joe. "Maybe I can make it up to you next time by telling you some stories of when your father was a rookie cop."
"Next time?" Joe asked.
"Why—three months from now."
And with that, Nolan turned and walked off down the street.
"Looks like he's anxious to get his share of Moran's cash, Dad," Joe said as they climbed into the backseat of their gray four-door sedan.
"I'm afraid things haven't gone well for Hugh for the past twenty years since he was charged with taking bribes," Fenton replied. "His wife left him, there were problems over his pension, and he had to retire early without getting it."
"So I gathered," Frank said. "And he blames Chief Peterson for those problems."
"That's right." His father checked the rearview mirror and pulled out into traffic. "I wouldn't doubt Hugh Nolan could put his share of that money to good use."
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"Who couldn't?" Joe asked. "Seven people, ten million dollars, that's—"
"Almost a million and a half each," Frank said.
"I for one don't intend to share in any of that money," Fenton Hardy said firmly. "As soon as we get home, I'm going to put in a call to my lawyer and see what we can do."
"Johnson said you couldn't change the terms," Frank pointed out.
"Then I'll give the money to charity," Fenton Hardy said. "And that will be the end of it."
Joe, in the backseat, watched out the rear window as the skyline of Manhattan disappeared. He thought about the group of people they'd seen that day and the amount of money at stake.
Somehow, he knew his father was wrong. That wouldn't be an end to it.
* * *
A month and a half passed.
It was a blustery morning, two days into winter break, and Frank and Joe had come to New York City to do some research at the public library. They were browsing through a subway newsstand, waiting for a subway train: Frank bought a computer magazine; Joe, one of the New York City papers. They had just sat down in the subway when Joe tossed the paper
21
he was reading onto Frank's lap, right on top of his magazine.
"Take a look at this," Joe said.
"Crime Kingpin Murdered," the headline screamed. Beneath it, in bold print, the article continued.
Daniel Carew, reputed heir to the crime family run by his father, Johnny Carew, was gunned down late yesterday evening in front of his Brooklyn home.
Frank looked up.
"Read on," his brother said. "There's a lot more."
Frank picked up the paper.
The police discovered Carew's body on the stoop of his Brooklyn brownstone. He had been shot once in the chest. The police are holding Tommy Poletti, former Heisman trophy winner, who, according to police reports, had argued violently with Daniel Carew earlier that day.
Frank shook his head. "Tommy Poletti—a killer?"
"I don't believe it either," Joe said.
Frank continued reading and learned that the police had found no gun. However, Carew's
22
own revolver, which "he always carried with him," according to sources, was missing.
The paper suggested that the shooting might be the start of a gang war over Joshua Moran's territory, now that he was dead.
But Frank knew there was another, better motive for Carew's murder.
It seemed that the game of killer-take-all that his father had predicted was beginning.
"I bet Chief Peterson has involved himself in this case," Frank said.
"And I bet you're right." Joe nodded. "Which makes me think we ought to take a little detour."
Frank nodded. "They're holding Poletti at the eighty-fourth precinct house in Brooklyn," he said. "And I bet that's where we find Peterson."
They got off at the next stop to change trains and an hour later were standing in front of the precinct house on Gold Street.
"This is the place," Joe said. "Now, how do we get in to see Chief Peterson?"
"I'll think of something," Frank said, just as a limousine was pulling up next to them. Emily Moran emerged.
"Miss Moran," Frank called out.
She turned and stared at Frank and Joe, a puzzled expression on her face.
"I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother
23
Joe—we were at the reading of your father's will. . . ."
"Of course," Emily said distractedly. She looked exhausted: dark circles formed half- moons below her eyes, and her skin was sallow, as if she hadn't slept all night. "You'll have to forgive me— This whole business with Tommy—that the police think he's involved in murder ..." She shook her head.
Frank smiled understandingly. "It seems a little unlikely to us, as well."
Someone cleared his throat behind the threesome. "And who are the two of you?"
A thin man with a close-cropped black beard, who must have just emerged from the precinct house, was standing on the steps, eyeing the Hardys suspiciously.
Frank approached him, leaving Emily standing next to the car with Joe.
"I'm Frank Hardy," he said, extending his hand.
"Detective Mike Lewis," the man said, shaking Frank's hand firmly. He looked at Frank closely, then snapped his fingers. "You're Fenton Hardy's kid, aren't you?"
Frank nodded, somewhat surprised. "How did you—"
"You look just like him," Lewis said. The detective nodded in Emily Moran's direction and lowered his voice. "I can guess what brings you here."
24
"You'd probably guess right," Frank said. "We want to know if this shooting ties in to Josh Moran's will."
Lewis hesitated. "You know, I really can't talk about the case with you. ..." His voice trailed off.
"I understand," Frank said. "But if Chief Peterson okays it?"
Lewis smiled. "Anything's okay then. He's just inside. If he doesn't have a problem talking about the case with you there, then I—"
"Good," Frank said. "Lead the way."
The four of them entered the precinct house together.
"First I've got to pick up Poletti," Lewis said. He pointed to his right. "The holding cells are this way. Miss Moran?" She nodded that she wanted to accompany the detective.
"Actually, I'd like to talk to the chief first," Frank said. He wanted to find out just how strong the case was against Tommy Poletti—information he didn't think he'd get with both Poletti and Emily Moran present. Joe indicated he'd go with Lewis and Emily.
"The chief's in the office at the top of the stairs—follow this corridor—you can't miss it."
To Joe, the precinct house looked like his high school. The cinder-block halls were painted the same dull beige and decorated
25
(more accurately, not decorated) in the same dull style.
Off to the right was a sign that said Holding Cells, with an arrow pointing down the stairs. Lewis, who had obviously been to the station many times before, led them down a flight of stairs and then into a long, narrow basement corridor. They were about halfway down it when Joe stopped short.
"Did you hear something?" he asked.
Lewis and Emily Moran looked at each other and shook their heads. "I didn't," Lewis said.
"Wait." Joe held up his hand. "There it is again." He listened closely for a second, then turned back the way they'd come and stopped in front of a door marked Utility Closet.
Faint thumping noises could be heard coming from inside.
Joe tried the knob. It wouldn't budge.
"Hey!" He banged loudly on the door, then threw his weight against it.
In response, there came a renewed series of thumps, louder and more insistent than before.
"In here!" Joe said excitedly. "There's somebody trapped inside!"
26
Chapter 4
"I don't believe it," Chief Peterson said. He was sitting behind a large gray metal desk, a lot of papers fanned out in front of him that he had obviously been studying until Frank interrupted him. Now he was staring up at the source of the interruption with a half-shocked, half-pleased expression on his face.
Frank Hardy stood in the doorway of the chief's borrowed office, looking slightly ill at ease.
"This case isn't twelve hours old, and the boy genius is here to help already." Chief Peterson gathered up some of the papers he'd been studying and slipped them into a manila folder. "Where's your brother? Working with the detectives?" the chief asked, smiling to let Frank know he was kidding.
27
Frank smiled back and nodded. "He is. Joe's downstairs with Lewis and Emily Moran."
"I give up!" Peterson threw up his hands. "What took you so long?"
"We just got into town."
"Well, you might as well have a seat," the chief said. He indicated a chair in front of the desk.
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the shooting?"
Peterson laughed out loud and shook his head. "Matter of fact, I was just going to call your dad and tell him about this."
"So you also think this has something to do with Moran's will?" Frank leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the police report on the shooting, which lay open on the desk. Poletti's record was the top sheet of the file.
"No, I think this has nothing to do with the will," Peterson replied.
"But I thought you said—"
"I was going to tell your dad not to worry when he read about this. As far as we can tell, this is a case of jealousy. Two men fighting over the same girl."
"The papers thought that it might be the start of a gang war," Frank said.
Peterson pursed his lips. "I don't think so. Poletti's only involvement with the Moran crime family seems to be with Emily."
28
Frank nodded. "The papers also said you hadn't charged him with anything yet."
"That's true," the chief said. "But Lewis and I are hoping he'll confess—the evidence is pretty convincing."
"I don't know," Frank said slowly. "I just can't see Poletti killing Carew—"
"Why? Because he's a former Heisman winner? A lot of things could have happened to him since then. We don't really know anything about him," Peterson said.
Frank nodded a little sheepishly.
Just then, a bell began ringing outside in the hall. Frank raised his eyebrows. "What's that?" he asked.
"That," Peterson said, standing up, "is the coffee cart—more popularly known around here as the 'roach coach.' " He smiled at Frank. "Come on—I'll buy you a soda."
Frank rose and followed him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to eat anything from a "roach coach."
* * *
"How could anyone get locked inside a closet—inside a police station?" Emily asked.
"I don't know if it is a 'someone,' " Lewis said, shaking his head. He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles, then stood for a moment with his ear pressed to the door, listening. "But something's in there, all right. I'll
29
see if I can find some keys." He disappeared down the hall.
"Hang on!" Joe yelled at the door. "We'll have you out of there in a second!"
In fact, it took more than five minutes for Lewis to return. All the time Joe and Emily Moran stood, listening to the muffled thumping on the other side of the locked door.
Finally Lewis arrived with a ring of keys about the size of a softball; the fifth key opened the door.
A man, hands and feet bound behind his back and a gag stuffed into his mouth, lay on his stomach next to the door.
Lewis rolled him over.
"It's Ed!" Lewis said, bending down and undoing the man's gag. Joe helped Lewis untie the man's bonds and get him into a sitting position. The man began taking in huge gulps of air.
"Take it easy," Lewis said, kneeling down by him. "Are you all right?"
"What happened?" Joe asked.
"Beats me," Ed said, his words punctuated by faint gasps. "I was coming out of the service elevator when I hear this noise behind me. Next thing I know, I'm lying in this closet all tied up—with a whopper of a headache. Somebody thumped me over the head but good!"
Lewis looked puzzled. "What would anyone
30
want to knock you out for?" he asked, shaking his head.
"What do you do around here?" Joe asked, kneeling down next to Ed.
"Him?" Lewis spoke first, before Ed could answer. "He's from the food service company. Runs the coffee cart."
* * *
"What can I get you today?"
The coffee cart, Frank saw, was similar to the pushcarts that were rolled up and down the aisles of airplanes. This one had sandwiches and an assortment of beverages and snacks.
"Where's Ed?" Chief Peterson asked.
"Oh—he called in sick today," the man pushing the cart said. He was a couple of inches shorter and a few years older than Chief Peterson, with graying hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He had on a white button-down shirt and black pants.
"Anything serious?" Peterson asked, rummaging through the contents of the cart. He picked up a sugared doughnut and looked at it longingly.
"Might be—I wouldn't count on seeing him for a while," the man said, shrugging. "That's fresh," he said, pointing at the doughnut the chief had picked up.
"Looks it," Peterson said. "But I'm on a diet." He patted his stomach and put down the doughnut. "Give me a decaffeinated coffee—
31
black. And I'll take one of these." He picked up a small bran muffin and shook his head ruefully. "Good for the old ticker, they tell me," he said.
The man behind the cart nodded and handed Peterson his coffee. "That's what I hear, too. You got heart problems?"
Peterson shrugged. "Nothing serious."
"Good. Just make sure you take it easy," the man behind the cart said.
"I plan to," Peterson said. He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. "That's good coffee. Almost tastes like the real thing."
"I'm glad you like it," the man behind the cart said. "It's a fresh pot." His eyes were the most piercing shade of blue—almost a purple, really—that Frank had ever seen. They were also remarkably unlined for a man who otherwise looked to be in his late forties.
"You want something?" the chief asked Frank.
"A cup of coffee, maybe?" the man asked.
Frank shook his head. "Joe and I had a big lunch."
"Okay, then." The chief nodded to the man behind the cart. "See you later."
"Take it easy," the man said, and disappeared down the hall.
Frank and Peterson returned to the office the chief was using and sat down again.
Peterson took a bite of the muffin, and then
32
another sip of his coffee. "Anyway, no, I don't think this has anything to do with the will. We have about fifteen witnesses who saw Carew and Poletti get into a shoving match on the Brooklyn Heights promenade early yesterday evening. Poletti threatened Carew in front of all of them."
Frank nodded. "One of the other beneficiaries could be setting Poletti up—"
"In order for somebody to get a lot more money, he'd have to knock off Johnny Carew and Billy Delaney—the heads of two of the largest East Coast crime families. Nobody's that dumb." Peterson wiped a hand across his forehead and grimaced. "It feels hot in here all of a sudden. Did they turn up the heat?"
Frank shook his head. "Feels the same to me."
The chief loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Anyway, not only would they have to kill Carew and Delaney, they'd have to get at yours truly, the chief of police. And how are they going to do that?"
"I see your point, but—"
Frank looked at Peterson. The chief was really sweating now, and he also looked very gray. "Are you all right?"
Peterson shook his head. "I'm not sure. I feel dizzy, I—" He stood suddenly and gasped, swaying on his feet.
Frank was at his side in an instant to help
33
ease him back down in his chair. The back of Peterson's shirt was drenched in sweat.
"Frank," the chief said slowly, a look of horror spreading across his face. "I'm having a heart attack!"
34
Chapter 5
"I just hope whoever's got the cart hasn't wrecked it," Ed said, leading Lewis down a long, narrow hallway. Joe trailed a few paces behind; they had left Emily with one of the officers in charge of the holding cells. "I'm responsible for whatever happens to it, you know."
"Let's just find the guy," Lewis said. "Then we'll worry about what he's done."
And why, Joe added silently.
The basement of the police station was a maze of identical cinder-block corridors. Again, Joe was reminded of high school: any second, he expected to hear bells ring and to see students pour out of classes into the halls. There were even lockers along one wall, he saw.
35
As they crossed another corridor, Joe heard a noise off to his left..He turned and looked in that direction.
About fifty feet away a man in a white shirt had his back to them. He had long gray hair and was stooped over, and he was pushing a food cart with a coffee pot on top. A police officer was walking next to him, and the two were talking animatedly.
"Hey," Ed said, stopping so suddenly Joe almost crashed into him. "That's my cart!"
"Hey!" Joe yelled. The man in the white shirt and the police officer both turned.
"Stop that man!" Lewis called out.
The officer recognized Lewis. With a puzzled look on his face, he reached for the man walking beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder to detain him.
The man in the white shirt straightened up, and it was as if he'd shed twenty years. He moved like lightning, spinning to free himself from the policeman's grasp. He continued his spin into a side-kick. His foot slammed into the officer's chest, sending him crashing against the wall.
The officer slumped to the ground and lay still.
The man in the white shirt shoved the cart out of his path and raced off down the hallway. The cart smashed into the wall, spilling plastic- wrapped pastries and coffee all over.
36
"Hey!" Ed yelled." "Look what that guy did!"
"Forget it—go get help," Lewis told Ed, physically turning him around and pointing him in the direction they'd come from.
The second the officer hit the wall, Joe was racing full tilt after his assailant.
As he sped through corridors, Joe quickly realized two things. The man he was chasing was fast—and he couldn't be as old as his stooped-over posture had suggested. Or if he was old, he was in fantastic shape, because Joe, who was anything but slow, was losing ground.
He bore down harder. The corridors were deserted. As Joe ran, the only sounds he was aware of were his own labored breathing and the squeaking of his sneakers on the linoleum floor.
He was still losing ground, though he told himself that all he had to do was keep the man in sight—after all, he was trapped in a police station. How could he possibly escape? Up ahead, Joe saw his quarry disappear to the left, as the corridor they were running down ended.
Joe slowed. Lewis jogged up beside him, breathing heavily.
"He turned down here," Joe said as they came to the end of the corridor.
Off to their left, about twenty feet away, was a bank of elevators—and the mysterious man
37
in the white shirt, who stood there, waiting silently.
"You can't get away," Lewis called out. "Why don't you make it easy on yourself?"
The man said nothing. He seemed completely unconcerned by their presence—as if they couldn't do a thing to stop him, whatever he decided to do.
"Give it up," Joe added, continuing to move toward him. Behind them, he could hear running footsteps—more police, no doubt, coming to help them. "You're outnumbered."
The ghost of a smile crossed the man's lips— and at that second the elevator doors opened.
The man stepped inside quickly.
Joe, who was about five feet away, sprang toward him, just as the door was starting to slide shut.
The man spun into another side-kick. But Joe was ready for it. He sidled out of the way, so the kick only caught him a glancing blow.
It still felt as if he'd been struck with a lead weight. He bounced off the closing elevator door and landed on the floor just outside the car.
Joe struggled to his feet and launched himself into the elevator. Something hard slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. He reached up, trying to grab the man to stop him from getting away. He did manage to clasp
38
something—just as another kick sent him spinning backward through the open elevator door.
Whatever he'd grabbed came with him.
Joe landed on the ground, flat on his back. He looked at what he was holding in his hand, then up at Lewis.
"It's a wig," Joe said, holding up a clump of gray hair. "The guy was wearing a wig."
* * *
"Stay calm, Chief," Frank said.
"My pills, Frank," Peterson gasped. He was having trouble catching his breath now. "Nitroglycerin—my coat pocket." He reached up with his right arm and shakily pointed to the back of the door.
Frank unhooked the coat and reached into the pocket to pull out a small bottle.
"That's it," the chief said. "Give them to me—quick." He took the bottle from Frank and tried to pop the cap off. But his arm was shaking so badly now that he dropped it on the floor.
"Hurry!"
Frank picked up the bottle and got a pill out. He placed it beneath the chief's tongue.
"It's not working," Peterson said, and now there was panic in his voice.
From his CPR course, Frank knew that whatever panic the chief was feeling was only making his condition worse.
"Try to stay calm," Frank said. "I'll get
39
help." A group of three officers was standing just outside the door. "Call an ambulance!" he yelled. "The chiefs having a heart attack!"
They stared at him for a second, trying to place him.
But before Frank knew it, they were inside the office, snapping out orders. Two pulled the chief to his feet; the third spoke to Frank.
"We'll take a squad car."
The two officers carrying Chief Peterson held him as easily as if he were a baby and practically ran through the station and outside with him.
Would they get to the hospital in time to save him? Frank wondered as he climbed into a squad car. They were following the one carrying the chief. His mind ran on that treadmill until they arrived at the hospital emergency room. He and the police officers he'd ridden with spent half an hour in the waiting room, not knowing anything.
Finally one of the emergency room technicians emerged.
"He's over the worst of it," the man told them. "We seem to have stabilized his heartbeat. Took a long time to do it, though," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway, if you hadn't gotten him here so quickly—"
Someone tapped Frank on the shoulder just then.
Joe was standing there, looking concerned.
40
"Heard all about it at the station," he said. "How's the chief?"
"He's going to make it." Frank studied his brother, who looked somewhat disheveled. "What happened? Did you run all the way?"
"We had a little excitement of our own," Joe said. He told him about the intruder at the police station. "Anyway, by the time we got out to the street, the guy was gone. And nobody had seen him or anything." Joe shook his head. "Lewis is still trying to figure out why this guy was so anxious to impersonate a coffee vendor. ..." His voice trailed off suddenly as he caught the look in his brother's eye.
In Frank's mind, things were starting to click into place. "The chief started having his attack a few minutes after drinking his coffee," he said.
"You think he might have been poisoned?" Joe asked.
"All we can do is find out."
They waited until Peterson's own doctor had arrived and finished briefing the police. Then they pulled her aside and told her about their suspicions.
"Chief Peterson's been very good about taking care of himself," she said thoughtfully. "I'm surprised that this attack came on so suddenly. Let me run a blood test, check for poison. It'll take a couple of hours," she added. "So make yourselves comfortable."
41
By this time a large crowd of police officers and relatives had assembled outside the emergency room. Among them, Frank caught sight of Detective Lewis and Chief Peterson's wife, Anne. He and Joe crossed to her side and sat down with her, to wait for the test results. Almost two hours to the minute, they had their answer.
"The chief was definitely poisoned," his doctor said. "We found traces of an amphetamine in his system. The drug would have simulated all the symptoms of a heart attack— palpitations, shortness of breath, chest pain, and would probably have been fatal to him, without his nitroglycerin pills and prompt treatment. If you hadn't gotten him here so quickly ..." Her voice trailed off.
Frank thought of the unexpected circumstances that had led him to Brooklyn and to his talk with the chief and what might have happened if he hadn't been there to reach those nitro pills when the chief started having his attack.
"You think this might have something to do with the will?" Joe asked, pulling his brother aside.
Frank pursed his lips. "I do. Granted, there are probably a lot of people who'd like to see the chief dead, but this, right on the heels of Carew getting shot—"
42
Joe broke in. "I think we'd better call Dad to make sure he's okay."
Frank nodded grimly. "And then we'd better find out a lot more about that man in the white shirt—before he strikes again."
43
Chapter 6
Frank spent the next forty-five minutes on the phone to Bayport.
The first fifteen minutes he spent reassuring his aunt Gertrude that he and Joe were fine. Then he spent fifteen minutes reassuring his mother that their schoolwork wasn't suffering. Finally he was able to speak to his father and reassure himself that Fenton Hardy was all right. Frank briefed his father on the mysterious goings-on at the police station that afternoon. When Fenton heard Chief Peterson was in the hospital, he decided to drive down to see him. By nine o'clock all three Hardys were assembled in Peterson's hospital room.
"I got here as quickly as I could," Fenton Hardy said. He laid a hand on Samuel Peterson's shoulder. "And I'll have you know I had
44
to miss one of Laura's foreign film festivals to get here."
Peterson laughed. "It's good to see you." The chief still looked a little weak, but he was in good spirits. "And I'm flattered you came just to make sure I was all right."
"I didn't," Fenton said. "I came to see Anne, too." Peterson's wife was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, holding her husband's hand. Frank thought she looked a little worse than the chief at that point. "And my boys, of course."
"If it wasn't for that one boy of yours," Peterson said, nodding toward Frank, "I might not be here now."
Frank flushed beet red.
"And if it wasn't for the other"—Peterson nodded at Joe now—"we wouldn't have found out that I was poisoned."
Now it was Joe's turn to blush.
"They'll make good detectives someday," Fenton said. His expression turned serious then. "There's actually another reason I rushed in," he said. "After hearing about Daniel Carew, and now this—"
"I know," Peterson said, looking at Frank. I may have been wrong. The Carew killing might have something to do with Moran's will."
"So Poletti has to be innocent," Joe said,
45
thinking fast. "He couldn't have drugged you."
"Maybe. He could have hired someone to poison me," the chief pointed out.
"Or there could be more than one killer among the beneficiaries. More than one person willing to commit murder to increase his share," Fenton put in.
"That's a scary idea," Peterson said. His brow creased as he thought. "First thing tomorrow, I'll see about getting some kind of report together on where all those beneficiaries are—"
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Anne Peterson said. She looked angry. "Sam Peterson, you're supposed to be taking it easy!"
"You're right, dear. I'll have someone else take care of it." He and Fenton exchanged a hurried glance, and Fenton nodded, indicating he'd pick up the slack.
"You be careful, Fenton. It couldn't hurt to take precautions—"
"I will," Mr. Hardy said. "And I'll call Hugh Nolan, if you like," he offered.
"Good," Peterson said. "Any warning from me and he'd be likely to disregard on principle."
"All right," Fenton said. "We'll get started right away. Good night, Sam. Good night, Anne."
When they got out into the hall, Fenton
46
spoke privately to his sons. He'd rushed right in to see the chief as soon as he'd gotten to the hospital and hadn't had a chance to talk to them yet.
"I'm very proud of both of you" was the first thing he said. "Now, what can you tell me about this man who poisoned the chief?"
"Not much, I'm afraid," Frank said. "He was pretty well disguised."
"Yeah," Joe said. "First time I saw the guy, I thought he was about fifty. But he moved like a young guy. Whoever he was, he was really well trained in karate—or something."
"Something?" Frank asked.
"You know—kung fu, tae kwon do—one of those martial arts. I knew what he was going to do, but I couldn't stop him. It was like I was moving in slow motion the whole time."
Fenton turned to his eldest son. "Frank? Anything else?"
"Not really. Just like Joe, I thought he was a lot older at first, but then—" He shook his head. "I don't know. He could have been twenty-five or fifty-five, I really couldn't tell."
"You said he had blue eyes," Joe offered.
"That's right—I noticed them right away," Frank said. "They were so—" He looked up at his dad. "They were too blue," he said suddenly. "I think we were supposed to notice them."
47
Fenton nodded. "Probably tinted contact lenses. Sounds like a pro."
"What do we do now?" Frank asked.
"We don't do anything," Fenton said. "I'm going to make sure Hugh Nolan's all right— and then do a little detecting on the case. And you two are getting on the last train back to Bayport."
"We did come into the city to use the library," Frank pointed out. "And it's a little late to do that now."
Joe smiled. "Looks like you're stuck with us—at least until tomorrow."
Fenton nodded. "All right," he said. "Let's find a hotel. But first, I want to call Hugh Nolan. There's a phone down the hall."
"Dad, wait," Frank said.
Fenton faced his eldest son.
"What happened between Nolan and Peterson that Nolan hates him so much?" Frank asked hesitantly.
"Hate isn't the word I'd use." Fenton shook his head ruefully. "It goes back twenty years— to that case Sam and I had, the one that eventually put Moran away."
"You've never told us anything about it," Frank said.
"For good reason," Fenton replied. "It was a particularly ugly case—one I don't like to think about too much. A fire happened in what used to be one of the worst sections of Brooklyn. 
48
Where the Jefferson Heights townhouses are now."
"That neighborhood where Moran lives?" Joe asked incredulously. "That was a bad section of town?"
"It sure was," his father replied. "But the townhouses were planned to change all that. They were supposed to revitalize the whole neighborhood. But there was one small problem—there were already apartments there, with families living in them." He sighed deeply. "It was a mess. The developers were fighting to have the apartments condemned, the families living in them were fighting to stay. All the papers followed it for months. For a while it looked as if the whole deal might fall through.
"Then one night, there was a fire. Half a block of those tenements burned to the ground. Twelve people died. And the Jefferson Heights townhouses got built after all."
"How did you get involved?"
"Sam and I were assigned to the case about two days after the fire, when evidence of arson was discovered. We found out immediately that a lot of the families had been complaining about harassment by the developers for weeks, but nothing had been done. Hugh Nolan was the officer in charge of investigating the original harassment charges.
"I went to Hugh—we'd known each other
49
for some time—and he assured me there was no harassment. Sam felt differently. He thought the developers had paid off Hugh to look the other way. He said as much."
"And you? What did you think?"
"Well—there were a lot of suspicious incidents, but I'm from the old school. Innocent until proven guilty. And we never found anything linking Hugh with the developers. Then later, Hugh came forward with evidence that helped us prove Josh Moran had ordered those fires, and even Sam had to admit he'd been wrong to accuse Hugh. But it was too late to salvage Hugh's career—the damage had been done."
Joe frowned. "Was that when Moran still worked for Carew?"
Fenton nodded. "That's right. The townhouses were Carew's project—from start to finish. He bankrolled the developers, and we know he had to have ordered Moran to set the fires. Of course, we could never prove any connection there. With all the legal delays and stalling tactics, it took ten years for Moran's case to come to trial. But he did end up behind bars. As for Hugh ..." Fenton sighed. "He took early retirement and missed out on his pension. He wanted Sam to intercede on his behalf, but.
Frank nodded silently.
"Anyway," Fenton said, checking his
50
watch, "I'd better make that call before it gets too late."
* * *
Hugh Nolan was fine and happy to hear from Fenton. When he heard they were in town, he insisted on putting them up for the night in his small Lower East Side apartment.
"It's not much," he said, smiling as he led the Hardys into the living room after giving them a brief tour. They all took seats. "But it's home."
"It's a lot better than staying at a hotel," Fenton said. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome. Now—you never did tell me why you were in town."
Fenton leaned forward in his chair. "Hugh— have you heard about Daniel Carew?"
Nolan grunted his assent. "Sure. Someone should have plugged him ten years ago, if you ask me."
"Be that as it may," Fenton said. He took a deep breath. "There was another incident today. Someone tried to poison Sam Peterson."
"What!"
"Frank and Joe were with him when it happened. That's why I'm here—they called me."
Nolan's face had gone pale. "Sam was poisoned? Is he all right?"
Fenton nodded. "He'll be fine. We just left him." He took a deep breath. "Hugh, we think both incidents might be connected."
51
"Moran's will, you mean."
"Exactly. Our murderer may be someone who wants to increase his share of that money very badly."
Nolan was silent for a moment. "I won't kid you, Fenton. I could really use my share of that money. But anyone who'd do something like this ..."
Fenton nodded. "We all—all the beneficiaries—have to be especially careful. It might not be a bad idea for you to get out of town for a while."
"I guess you're right—though I'm not sure where I'd go—"
"Well," Fenton said, "I think we ought to talk to the police about that. If you like, I'll speak to them tomorrow."
Frank saw Nolan's face tighten involuntarily. Then he relaxed.
"All right," he said. "I'll leave the details to you." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to turn in now. You three can stay up if you want—"
"No, we'll turn in, too," Fenton said. He looked pointedly at Joe and Frank. "The boys have to get an early start tomorrow—they have work to do at the library."
Frank checked the clock on the wall. It was after eleven, so he decided not to argue with his father—in spite of his desire to talk about the case some more.
52
They all said good night. Fenton Hardy and Joe each took a twin bed in the smaller bedroom, while Frank settled in on the living room couch.
But he wasn't ready to sleep just yet. He wanted to sort through the day's events before going to bed. That story his father had told— about the arson in which twelve people were killed, and Moran's will—he'd bet the two incidents were somehow connected.
Frank yawned. Suddenly he was having trouble staying awake.
He thought about Hugh Nolan. For someone who supposedly hated Chief Peterson, he sure looked concerned when we told him that the chief had been poisoned. . . .
Frank's eyes snapped open. I must have drifted off, he realized. The clock on the wall said 1:30.
He was thirsty. He got out of bed and walked down the hall to the bathroom to get a drink of water. Then he stepped back out into the hall.
An arm snaked around his neck.
"Don't move," a voice whispered in his ear. "Don't speak. Don't even breathe."
The man's grip tightened, the crook of his arm pressing into Frank's neck. Two or three seconds of pressure, Frank knew, and he would pass out.
Any more than that—and he'd die.
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Chapter 7
Frank's first thoughts were that he'd stumbled into the person who'd been killing the beneficiaries and that he was about to become the killer's next victim.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" The man's viselike grip tightened slightly, prompting Frank to answer.
"My name is Frank Hardy—I'm a guest here," he choked out.
"Hardy?" Frank heard the question in the man's voice, which suddenly sounded much less threatening. "Hold on." The man pulled Frank back a few steps, his grip not slackening for an instant.
A click and the living room lights were snapped on. Frank found himself face-to-face
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with his attacker: a young man a few years older than himself.
"Frank Hardy," the man said. "Fenton Hardy's oldest son. I've heard a lot about you." He spoke in a clear, unaccented voice and in the light didn't look at all threatening. He had dark hair just like Frank's—a little longer, maybe—and his face seemed somehow familiar. . ..
That was it. Frank snapped his fingers.
"You must be Hugh Nolan's son," he said.
"That's right," the man said. "Ned—Ned Nolan."
He stuck his hand out, and the two of them shook. Frank's other hand went to the back of his neck, to rub some feeling back into the place where Ned had grabbed him.
Ned saw and smiled. "Sorry about that," he said. "But if you walked into your father's apartment after midnight and found somebody tiptoeing around—"
"I understand," Frank said. "You have even more reason to be suspicious today."
Ned frowned. "I don't understand."
"This afternoon, someone tried to kill Chief Peterson."
"What?" Ned's eyes grew wide with surprise.
Just then one of the doors leading into the hall opened, and Joe Hardy stepped through.
55
His hair was tousled, and he wore only the bottom half of a pair of pajamas.
"Hey," he whispered, glaring at Frank. Keep it down, would you? Between Dad's snoring, and the racket out here ..." His voice trailed off as Joe caught sight of Ned.
"This must be your brother Joe," Ned said smoothly.
"Who're you?" Joe asked.
"I'm Ned Nolan," he said. "Hugh's son." He raised his eyebrows. "The owner of your pajama bottoms. Glad to meet you."
Joe laughed slightly, then nodded. "Glad to meet you, too."
Ned turned back to Frank. "Is that why you two are here? Because Chief Peterson was attacked?"
Frank nodded. "Not just us—our father's asleep back there, too."
"Your dad invited us to stay tonight," Joe said. "He's the one who lent me your—uh, pajamas."
"Your father's here as well? Good," Ned said firmly. "The more people around, the better. Especially if one of them is Fenton Hardy." He eyed Frank and Joe questioningly. "But I don't quite understand your role."
"Well—" Frank shrugged. "Joe and I were in town, we read about Daniel Carew getting shot, and we just got involved."
"Just like that? You got involved in a murder
56
case?" Ned asked. He didn't seem to believe it.
"Sometimes we try to help our father out," Frank replied. He didn't bother to mention the fact that he and Joe had also handled numerous cases on their own.
"Well, I suppose I can understand it, in this instance," Ned said. "I should probably get more interested in this case myself— seeing how deeply it affects my father. Come on," Nolan turned and headed for the kitchen, motioning Frank and Joe to follow. "Let's sit down and talk. There's a fresh bag of potato chips in the bread drawer if you're interested."
Joe smiled his thanks and opened the drawer Ned pointed to.
"So, tell me about this from the beginning."
Frank started by recounting what had happened when he, Joe, and their father had gone to the reading of Moran's will. He had gotten as far as the shouting match between Tommy Poletti and Daniel Carew when Ned interrupted him.
"I was thinking about going with my father that day, but—" Ned shook his head. "I wasn't sure I could be responsible for my actions with all those people there. After they stymied his career—" He broke off in midsentence and looked across the table. "I guess I'm not making much sense, am I?"
Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance.
57
"Yes, you are—we heard about what happened to your dad from our father."
"He got a raw deal," Ned said angrily. "You know, after my mom left, he did everything for me. Everything. So when those people start calling him names ..." His voice trailed off.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Frank offered.
"Yeah," Joe said. Frank saw he was about halfway through the big bag of potato chips already.
"Thanks." Ned smiled. "Anyway, that was all a long time ago. So—you were at Moran's house. What do you think? Are both these killings related to that will?"
"Both these attacks—Chief Peterson didn't die," Frank said, correcting him. "And my gut feeling is—yes, they're related, somehow."
"I don't think Tommy Poletti killed Carew," Joe said. "But it does seem like an awfully big coincidence for the two incidents to come so close together—and at this particular time."
Ned was silent for a moment. "All right—if it isn't a coincidence," he asked, "then who's doing it? Which one of the other beneficiaries?"
Frank ticked off the list on his hand. "We started with Hugh Nolan, Johnny Carew, Daniel Carew, Samuel Peterson, Fenton Hardy, Thomas Poletti, and William Delaney. Daniel Carew is dead, Peterson's been attacked—"
58
"So—Delaney, then," Joe cut in. "It's got to be him."
"I don't know very much about any of those people," Ned said. "But my money's on Johnny Carew."
"You think he'd shoot his own son?" Frank asked dubiously.
Ned shrugged. "No, I suppose not. But from what my father's told me, he seems like the most coldhearted of the bunch. And don't forget," he said, "there could be more than one killer."
"Boy, we've been down this road before." Joe yawned and pushed his chair back from the table. "I think I'm going to hit the sack, guys. See you in the morning."
"Good night, Joe," Ned said.
"Good night." Frank leaned forward over the table. "I think the police are going to get a lot more serious about this case—and its connection to Moran's will—now that Chief Peterson's been poisoned."
"I hope so," Ned said. "Have they found any trace of the man who attacked him?"
Frank shrugged. "I don't know yet, but I doubt it. I probably got a better look at him than anyone, and I don't think I'd recognize him if he walked up to me and shook my hand."
"I suppose that's understandable," Ned
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chuckled. "A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark."
Frank vainly tried to stifle a yawn. He was falling asleep at the table. "I guess I'm a little tired, too."
"It is late," Ned said, nodding. He cleared the table and led the way back into the living room.
"I think your father has my bed," Ned said, staring down the hall.
"I'll flip you for the sofa," Frank offered.
"That lumpy old thing?" Ned shook his head. "It's all yours." He picked up the sofa's back cushions and arranged them into a makeshift mattress. "I'll make do with these."
"Good night, then." Frank said. He settled back onto the couch—and within minutes was fast asleep.
* * *
Frank woke to the smell of frying bacon and the warmth of the sun in his eyes. He showered, dressed, and went into the kitchen.
Hugh Nolan, Ned Nolan, and Frank's father were sitting around the breakfast table, eating, and reading the morning paper. Joe was there as well, but he had pushed his chair about three feet back from the table and was keeping his eyes away from anything that looked like food.
"Morning, everybody."
"Morning, Frank. Help yourself to bacon and eggs," Hugh Nolan said.
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Frank nodded his thanks, even though he wasn't particularly hungry yet.
Joe groaned. "It feels like there's a lead weight in my stomach. I don't think I'll ever be hungry again."
"That's why you're not supposed to eat after midnight," Frank said.
"The papers say the police have released Tommy Poletti," Fenton Hardy said, sipping his coffee.
"They finally figured out he's not guilty," Joe said. "I guessed that all along."
"That also means the police are back to square one in their investigation," Fenton said. "Poletti was their only suspect."
"So they don't know any more about who the killer is," Ned said thoughtfully. "Or who might be next."
The doorbell rang.
Frank and his father exchanged a quick glance.
"You expecting anyone, Hugh?" Fenton asked.
Nolan shook his head.
"I'll get it, Dad," Ned said, standing.
"Careful," Fenton Hardy said, instantly serious. Frank noticed the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his father's sport jacket.
Ned returned with two men, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky. Both were dressed in suits.
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"Fenton Hardy? Hugh Nolan?"
Fenton and Hugh stood.
"I'm Detective Martin," the smaller man said, flashing a badge. "This is Detective Stevens. Could we talk to you for a moment? In private?"
Fenton and Hugh led the men to the living room.
"What's this all about?" Ned asked.
Frank shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
When the four men returned a couple of minutes later, Fenton Hardy spoke first.
"These men have just come from a meeting with Chief Peterson and the mayor, boys. The word's come down from the top on this one. It's been decided that the three of us—that is, Hugh Nolan, myself, and Chief Peterson—should disappear for a while." He smiled. "I think I know the perfect place, but we'll have to stop at home first."
"Where's that, Dad?" Frank asked.
Fenton shook his head. "It's better that we keep the location secret," he said. "I'll tell your mother that a case has come up for me but that she should expect you and Joe home tonight."
"But, Dad—" Joe began.
Fenton Hardy shook his head firmly. "No buts. You two get to the library and get to work."
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"Anytime you're ready," the smaller of the two detectives said. "We'll take you to the chief."
The two older men said their goodbyes—and then, just like that, they were gone.
"I don't like this at all," Frank said, staring out the living room window. On the street below, he saw the four men get into a squad car and drive off.
"Me neither," Joe said.
"What can you do about it?" Ned said. Then, assuming the subject was closed, he switched to another. "So, are you two going to the midtown library today?"
Frank met Joe's eyes, then shook his head.
"We're not leaving the city."
"But your father said—"
Now Frank stared at Ned.
"Whoever's behind the killings—if we assume for the moment that it's one person— he's already managed to infiltrate a precinct station and almost kill the chief of police."
"So?" Ned asked.
"So, what if the killer has a contact inside the police department? There's a great chance he could find our fathers, no matter where they hide." Frank shook his head. "We're not leaving until this killer is caught."
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Chapter 8
"All right," Ned said. "What can I do to help?"
"Well," Frank said, "I think a good place to begin is with that list of beneficiaries."
"Motive and opportunity?" Joe asked. That was where they usually began when they had a list of suspects—narrow it down by checking to see who had the motive and who had the opportunity.
"They all have the same motive," Ned pointed out. "Moran's money—ten million dollars. That leaves us with opportunity."
Frank shook his head. "The police are probably doing that right now. And they have a lot more than three people to check out alibis," he said.
"Well—if we can't check opportunity, and they all have the same motive—" Joe smiled
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suddenly. He saw what Frank was getting at. "They might not all have exactly the same motive, right?"
"Right," his brother replied.
"What do you mean?" Ned asked.
"We're talking about ten million dollars here," Frank said. "Which is admittedly a lot of money. But to, say, Tommy Poletti, it's worth more than to Johnny Carew, who's probably got at least that much already."
"I see," Ned replied. "So what do we do now?"
"We find out how much they're worth," Joe said.
Frank nodded. "Exactly."
"How are we going to do that?"
"I've got a couple of ideas," Frank said. "I'll tell you on the way."
He stood to go.
"On the way where?" Ned asked.
"Just north of the Wall Street area," Frank said.
"Hold on," Joe said. "Let me get a little something to eat."
"I thought you were never going to be hungry again," Frank said.
"Well," Joe said, piling a few slices of bacon and a big spoonful of scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Detective work always gives me an appetite."
* * *
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An hour and a half later the three boys were in the waiting room of Vance Johnson's office.
It had been Frank's idea to start digging at the lawyer's for information: impartial information on the people they were most interested in—Billy Delaney and Johnny Carew.
"Mr. Johnson will see you now," Johnson's secretary called out. She led them into the lawyer's office—a large, airy room with high ceilings and a wall of bay windows that looked out onto lower Broadway. Thick, meticulously arranged law volumes lined the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall. Another wall was dominated by oil portraits of several very distinguished-looking individuals, and the fourth wall was almost completely hidden by a line of massive oak filing cabinets and an old- fashioned water cooler.
It all seemed very proper and respectable. Yet Joe wondered how much of that respectability Johnson had was genuine. After all, he had been Joshua Moran's lawyer.
Johnson was seated behind the massive oak desk, scanning a single sheet of paper. Other than a small stack of papers piled neatly in front of him, his desk was bare. He rose as the three boys entered.
"Mr. Johnson," Frank said, stepping forward, "thank you for agreeing to see us." He nodded in Ned's direction. "This is Ned Nolan."
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"Hugh's son, I assume," Johnson said crisply, shaking hands with all of them. "So, I gather this is about Mr. Moran's will."
"That's right," Joe said. "We—"
"Well then, gentlemen." Johnson laid his palms flat on the table and stared directly at them. "My time is valuable—how may I be of service to you?"
Frank seemed slightly taken aback at his formality. Joe, too, knew that was a bad sign, but Johnson's attitude was understandable. He'd probably been grilled by the police more than once during the last few days and obviously wouldn't welcome more questions—especially from three people he probably saw as little more than overly enthusiastic teenagers. Check that, Joe told himself with a glance at Ned, who was past his teens. Two teenagers.
Joe was trying to think of something witty and charming to say when he noticed a large, framed photo. In the photo Johnson was standing with another, much younger man, whom Joe recognized instantly.
"Hey," Joe blurted out. "That's Tommy Poletti."
"Why, yes. That picture was taken the day after the Rose Bowl, the year Tommy was Heisman winner." Johnson nodded. "USE lost, but Tommy was magnificent."
"Five touchdown passes, nineteen straight completions," Joe said. "I remember watching
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it." Truthfully, he did. It was one of the first football games he'd seen on television—and still one of the best.
"Greatest single game a quarterback has ever had—in my opinion," Johnson said. "But then, Tommy wouldn't settle for doing any less, once he got to the Rose Bowl. That's just the kind of boy he was. Is. I've been close friends with the family for years—worked for his late father for almost four decades."
Joe had a sudden hunch. "The Poletti family—that's how you came to work for Mr. Moran, isn't it? Tommy's relationship with Emily?"
"Why—yes," Johnson said. He seemed somewhat surprised. "When the two of them first started seeing each other in college, Tommy asked me to keep an eye on her family's affairs."
Joe glanced questioningly at Frank, who nodded. Joe knew that that nod meant, Go ahead—it's your show. "Mr. Johnson, we'll try not to waste your time. I'm sure the police have already asked you questions, but we're"—he indicated the three of them—"personally interested in this case in a way that they can't be. It's our fathers' lives that are at stake."
"I see," Johnson said. He crossed to a group of armchairs in the far corner of his office and
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sat down, indicating that the Hardys and Ned should follow suit.
"I understand your particular closeness to this case, but I'm not sure what I can do to help you."
"Well. . ."
Frank broke in. "We're trying to find out a little more background—financial background—on some of the people Mr. Moran named as beneficiaries. Especially Johnny Carew and Billy Delaney."
Johnson thought for a moment. "Well, as I was telling the police, I know very little about Mr. Carew's activities. I can only make inferences, based on conversations I had with Mr. Moran before his death."
"Every little bit helps," Ned said.
Johnson nodded. "Mr. Moran felt that Mr. Carew's various real-estate holdings were worth upward of one hundred million dollars. His own personal fortune, he estimated at somewhat less than half of that."
"So ten million dollars would still be a lot of money for him," Frank said.
Johnson nodded.
"But would he kill for it?" Joe asked.
"That's the thing about money," Ned put in. "No matter how much you have, you always want more."
"What about Delaney?" Frank asked.
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Johnson snorted. "Ten million dollars would be a fortune for him."
"But I thought he'd been running Moran's"—Joe was about to say gang, but stopped himself in time—"businesses for him while Moran was in jail."
Johnson nodded. "Running them into the ground."
"I noticed he and Tommy didn't get along too well."
"Nor do he and Emily," Johnson said. "She's particularly uncomfortable having him live in that townhouse with her."
"They live together?"
"It was her father's request. But now that he's gone—well, I expect Delaney will be moving out shortly."
"How does she feel about all this—the killing, I mean?"
Johnson sighed deeply. "She's quite upset. She has me working to find a way to invalidate her father's will."
Joe was surprised. "Why? Won't that affect her share of the estate?"
"Perhaps," Johnson said. "That's uncertain. But she really has very little interest in that money, if you can believe it."
"I do find it a little hard to believe," Ned said quietly.
Johnson glowered at him. "Emily wants only to marry Tommy, and she would just as soon
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never see a penny of her father's wealth. She was never close to him."
Joe decided he'd bet money that Johnson had gotten involved with Joshua Moran only at Tommy Poletti's prompting—and quite reluctantly, at that.
"What do you think?" Frank asked. "Is there a chance of getting Moran's will set aside?"
"I hadn't thought so until recently. However, I think I may have found something. ..." He pulled out a manila folder.
"Ah, yes," Johnson said, thumbing through the pages. "It occurred to me that if we can prove that Mr. Moran lacked testamentary capacity at the time he made out his will, we may be able to have the entire document declared void."
"Testamentary capacity—you mean, whether or not he was in his right mind?" Ned asked.
"Exactly," Johnson replied.
"Your ten-thirty is here, Mr. Johnson," his secretary said over the intercom.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hunter. I'm afraid that's all the time I can spare, boys. I hope I've been of some help."
"You have, Mr. Johnson," Joe assured him. "And thanks."
They shook hands all around, and Johnson promised to keep them up-to-date on his efforts to have Moran's will nullified.
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Back down on the street, they talked about the information the lawyer had given them.
"He had a lot to say," Ned said. "Especially after you recognized that picture, Joe."
"True," the younger Hardy replied. "It seems to me that he's anxious to put this whole affair behind him."
"One thing seems certain," Ned said. "From what he told us, Delaney needs the money a lot more than Carew."
"With Josh Moran dead, he could begin to lose control of his gang," Joe said. "Add that to his financial problems—"
"And you get a prime suspect," Ned said, finishing Joe's thought. "Delaney could be our man."
"Johnson doesn't like Delaney very much, though," Frank said thoughtfully. "We have to consider the possibility he's not giving us entirely accurate information."
"That's true," Joe admitted. "And Delaney can't be the actual killer—he's a lot bigger than the man I ran into in the hospital."
"On the other hand, Delaney could have hired someone to do that," Ned suggested.
Frank nodded. "I think it's worth our paying Mr. Delaney a little visit."
* * *
To their surprise, Delaney himself answered the door at the Moran brownstone.
"Yeah?"
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He obviously wasn't in a good mood. It didn't make his face, which Joe had remembered as rather homely, any more attractive. But Joe had forgotten the man was so big.
"This'll just take a second, sir," Joe said. He slid his foot inside the door so Delaney couldn't slam it on him.
"It'll take less than that, sonny," Delaney said. "You're Hardy's kid, ain't you? What're you doing, nosing around here?" He tried to shut the door and failed because Joe's foot was in the way.
"We just have a few questions—" Frank began, moving up next to Joe.
"Trouble, boss?" Another man came to the door behind Delaney. Joe recognized him as one of the mob who'd gathered around Delaney at the reading of the will.
The newcomer saw Joe, then Frank, and his eyes widened.
"It's the Hardy kids, boss," the man said. "Both of them."
"You two got a lot of nerve, showing your faces around here," Delaney continued.
Without warning, Delaney's arm shot out and grabbed Joe's coat collar. Delaney began dragging him forward, as easily as if he were a rag doll. The man was incredibly strong.
Joe realized suddenly that he might be in a lot of trouble.
"I guess we're going to have to teach you
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some manners, smart guy," Delaney said. By now, he had pulled Joe so close that their noses were almost touching.
"Yeah," the other man chimed in menacingly. His eyes never left Frank as he slowly moved in on him. "Starting now. Right now."
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Chapter 9
"Mr. Delaney, you don't need to do this, Frank began, sidestepping to throw his would- be assailant off balance. The man behind Delaney couldn't maneuver close enough to Frank to grab him now.
"I don't have to," Delaney growled. "But I want to." He drew his arm back as if he was going to swing at Joe.
"Let him go, Mr. Delaney," Ned said, moving into the space Frank had left.
Delaney snorted. "Who are you?"
"Ned Nolan—and I'm telling you—"
"Hugh Nolan's kid? That weasel?" Delaney barked out a laugh. "If you're anything like your old man, I could just—"
Things happened fast then. There was a flash of movement, and suddenly Delaney wasn't
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holding Joe anymore. He was holding his own hands and rubbing them.
"Watch what you do to my friends," Ned said. "And especially watch what you say about my father."
"Oh," Delaney said, looking up. "So you want to play rough." He stepped forward, and swung at Ned. Frank could feel the air move with the force of his blow, which was surprisingly fast for a man of his size. Ned ducked it easily and threw a punch of his own. The big man staggered on his feet, gasping for breath.
"That's it, pal." Delaney's hood moved forward with a drawn gun. "Beat it."
Frank held both his hands up and stepped in front of Ned again. "All right, things got a little out of hand, but—"
"I said beat it!" Delaney's hood slammed the door in his face, leaving the three of them standing on the stoop.
"That settles that," Frank said.
"Wow," Joe said, staring at Ned. "What did you do to Delaney?"
"Taught him some manners, I expect," Ned said, smiling. He laid an arm on Joe's shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Joe said. He paused a moment. "You didn't have to do that, Ned."
"It was my pleasure."
"No, Ned," Frank said quietly. "Joe means you shouldn't have done that."
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Ned turned to face him, a surprised look on his face.
"You cost us a chance to talk to Delaney," Frank said.
"What should I have done, Frank? Let him strangle your brother?"
Joe shook his head. "He wouldn't have strangled me."
"Really? We're talking about the man who probably killed Daniel Carew—and tried to kill Chief Peterson," Ned said coldly. "Need I point out that your father—or mine—could be next?"
"We don't know that Delaney killed anyone," Frank said. "Ned, you can't let your emotions run away with you if—"
"If I'm going to be a detective, is that it?"
The two of them stood silently staring at each other.
"Yes," Frank said finally.
"Well, then maybe I shouldn't be a detective," Ned said angrily. "I'll leave the field to you two."
"Ned, wait." Joe grabbed his arm. "You don't have to—"
Ned threw Joe's grip off and stalked off without looking back.
"Let him go," Frank told his brother. "He just needs to cool off."
They stood on the bottom step of Delaney's brownstone, staring after him.
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"Hey!"
Frank turned. The voice belonged to Delaney's friend, the man who'd pulled the gun on them. He was leaning out the front door of the townhouse, glaring down at them.
"Didn't I tell you guys to beat it?"
Joe turned toward him angrily, but Frank laid a hand on his shoulder before he could speak.
"We're on our way," he said, pulling Joe away. "We're not going to get anything accomplished here, that's for sure," he muttered under his breath.
"So what's next?"
Frank looked at his watch. It was almost one o'clock. "Well—there is one thing we do have to do this afternoon."
"What's that?"
"Our research at the library."
Joe groaned.
* * *
Joe actually did have a very productive afternoon at the library.
He finished his work early and decided to look into the incident that seemed to be at the heart of the case. He watched microfilms of newspaper articles from twenty years ago, when the Jefferson Heights townhouses had been built—when that terrible fire, which killed twelve people, had taken place.
It was all there, just as his father had told
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them. And the more Joe read, the more suspicious that fire looked. He dug back farther, searching for more information on the deal that had been struck to tear down and "renovate" the Jefferson Heights area.
The earliest mention he found came complete with pictures of Josh Moran himself. One showed Moran at city hall, during discussions regarding the Jefferson Heights project. The photographer had caught Moran in midsentence, making a point. He was probably in his early forties then—a handsome man, with jet black hair and precise, angular features, which his daughter Emily had clearly inherited.
Joe recognized few other people in the picture, identified as city officials, including the then-mayor of New York, a few police officers—
His heart stopped.
He moved the viewer in closer, enlarging the photographed image.
There, directly behind Moran, his face partially obscured by that man's arm, was Hugh Nolan. His presence there was proof of nothing, of course, but Nolan was smiling in the picture, and Joe got the sense that he and Moran were connected in some way.
Suddenly he wasn't sure Ned's father had gotten a raw deal after all. He and Moran clearly knew each other.
He looked through a few more articles on
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the project but found nothing else of interest. After returning the microfilms, he found Frank and sat down to tell him about his afternoon's work.
"So Hugh Nolan may be a suspect, too," Frank said thoughtfully. "Which leaves us with the question of how this all fits together. It's got to relate back to what happened twenty years ago."
"It seems pretty obvious to me," Joe said. "Moran took the fall for Carew, so he was mad at him. He was mad at Dad and Chief Peterson for putting him away, and he came up with a very creative way of getting back at all of them."
"But what about Tommy and Hugh?" Frank asked. "And who's doing the killings now— and why?"
Joe shrugged. "That I can't help you with."
"But that's what we've got to figure out," Frank said. "And we've got to find someplace else to do our figuring, I guess. We're probably not going to be too welcome at the Nolans' anymore."
But when they returned to the Nolans' apartment to return the keys Hugh had given them, they found a note waiting for them.
Frank and Joe,
Sorry I got so angry with you earlier. Please feel free to stay and use the apartment. 
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I may be out late tonight, but I'll catch up with you tomorrow.
Ned
"Well," Joe said, slumping down on the couch. "That's good. At least we have a base of operations. So, what do we do tonight?"
"Well ..." Frank sat down next to him. "We can't go back and see Delaney—"
"Or Emily, since she lives in the same place." Joe thought a moment. "Maybe we should try Johnny Carew."
Frank shook his head. "How about we talk to a friendly face this time?"
"Whom did you have in mind?"
"Tommy Poletti."
Joe nodded. "That's a good idea. But how are we going to find him? I don't expect a former Heisman trophy winner has a listed address."
"I know where he lives," Frank said. "I caught a glimpse of the police file on him when we went to see Chief Peterson that first time."
"He's got a record?" Joe asked, clearly upset. "Why? What for?"
"I couldn't see that part of the file," Frank said.
Joe shook his head. "I don't believe it."
"You can ask him about it when we get there, then," Frank said, grabbing his coat. "Come on."
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"Where're we going? Where does he live?"
"Where everybody connected with this case seems to live," Frank replied. "Brooklyn."
After grabbing a bite to eat, the brothers took the subway back to Brooklyn. They got off at the first stop, and from there it was just a five-minute walk to Poletti's apartment.
Tommy lived right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, in a beautiful neighborhood of brownstones. As they turned onto his block, a figure emerged from one of the brownstones ahead of them and walked out onto the street. A tall, dark man who looked in both directions before heading directly toward them.
It was Tommy Poletti. Frank pretended not to notice him.
"Wait," Joe said. "That's him. Let's catch up and—"
"No," Frank said, grabbing hold of his brother's arm and dragging him across the street. "He obviously doesn't want to be followed."
"So?" Joe asked.
"So let's see where he's going before we announce ourselves."
"All right," Joe said reluctantly. "We'll tail him for a while."
Frank studied his brother closely. Was Joe letting his admiration for Poletti cloud his judgment? He hoped not.
Frank began tailing Poletti, keeping on the
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opposite side of the street and half a block behind the man. Joe fell back a half block behind his brother. As Frank walked, he pulled a wool ski cap out of his pocket and put it on. Whenever he and Joe did a two-man tail, they used the hat, or something like it, as a signal. If Frank felt the quarry was getting suspicious of him, he'd take off the cap and fall back, letting Joe pick up the man's trail. His brother would then follow the same procedure.
But in this case, all their precautions turned out to be unnecessary. For Poletti walked straight across the Brooklyn Bridge at such a brisk pace that Frank had trouble keeping up with him. Poletti was clearly on some kind of schedule—he kept checking his watch—and didn't even look back once. Halfway across the bridge, Joe caught up with Frank.
"He's sure in a hurry," Joe said, breathing heavily.
"To go where?"
"Maybe this is how he keeps in shape," Joe suggested with a grin. "This feels like a waste of time to me, Frank."
Frank shook his head. "Let's just see how it develops before we do anything."
Joe nodded resignedly and fell back behind Frank again.
Poletti continued his rapid pace as he left the bridge and crossed into Manhattan. He strode by City Hall and continued north, past all the
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government buildings. Just before Chinatown, Poletti took a left and headed west, toward the Hudson River. Within a few minutes Frank was trailing the man through a maze of four- and five-story commercial buildings in an old manufacturing district.
Then Poletti stopped. In the middle of the block ahead of him a long line of limousines was parked, and a crowd of people were gathered at the entrance to a building.
Frank crossed to the other side of the street and continued walking, past Poletti and directly toward the crowd. As he passed them, he heard an insistent, thudding beat coming from inside the door. And a small sign above the door, white letters on a black background, read simply Cosmos.
Suddenly he felt very foolish. The place was a nightclub. Joe had been right after all. Poletti was simply going out, probably meeting someone here.
Another limousine pulled up in front of the club, and an older man emerged from the driver's seat. He walked around the car, opened the rear passenger door—and Billy Delaney stepped out.
The two doormen immediately parted the crowd to let Delaney's men and Delaney pass through the entrance to the club.
Was this what Poletti had been waiting for? As soon as Delaney entered the club, Tommy
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started walking again—this time past the entrance, toward the end of the block.
Frank shook his head. Why, if Poletti had come here to meet Delaney, wasn't he going inside?
Frank could think of only one reason.
Poletti hadn't come here to meet the man. He'd come here to kill him.
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Chapter 10
Frank had to make a quick decision—should he follow Poletti, or see what Delaney was up to inside the club?
As he thought about it, he decided he didn't have much choice. Poletti may have been preoccupied, but Frank had walked directly past him. He must have been seen—and it would look too suspicious if Poletti saw him again.
Frank took off his ski cap and joined the crowd waiting to get into Cosmos. As he pushed toward the front of the mob, he saw Joe race down the corner after Poletti.
"Cover charge is twenty dollars tonight, kid." Frank looked up to find one of the doormen, a large black man with a shaved head, studying him from behind the roped-off
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entrance to the club. "And I'm going to need some ID—with a picture."
Frank groaned. ID—he'd forgotten all about it. In New York, you had to be twenty-one to get into the clubs. Now what was he going to do?
Improvise.
"I just came from in there," Frank began, "and I think I left my wallet inside—"
"Hey, look, kid," the bouncer said, turning his full attention to Frank. "If you don't have an ID, step out of the way." The man folded his arms across his chest and glowered threateningly at him.
"Never mind," Frank said, turning away. Now what was he going to do? He had to get inside to find out what Delaney was doing— and if necessary, warn him that Poletti was after him.
He trudged away from the club, so deep in thought that he almost missed the iron fence blocking an alleyway that ran right next to the club. He took a quick look around. The only people on the street were those at the entrance to Cosmos, and the only thing on their minds was getting into the club.
Taking a deep breath, Frank jumped up, caught the top of the fence, and carefully boosted himself up and over the spikes on top. He jumped, bending his knees to land quietly on the other side.
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A door from the club was pushed out into the alley just then.
Frank dropped to the ground and lay still.
A man, wearing a white apron over a plain white T-shirt, stepped through the door carrying a large trash bag in each hand. Whistling happily, he dropped the bags in the alley next to a pile of about twenty others, wiped his hands, and went back inside. The door swung shut behind him.
Frank got up slowly and dusted himself off. This must be my lucky day, he said to himself.
He was right. The door was unlocked—and when Frank cracked it slightly, he heard whistling and the muffled thump of noise from the club.
He pulled the door open a hair farther and peered in.
The man he had seen take out the trash was at a sink off to the left, about twenty feet away. His back was to Frank, and he was scrubbing a large pot and singing along with the music coming from inside the club.
Directly opposite Frank was a set of double doors with small square windows. Through them, he could see pulsing lights.
Frank eased the door back and slid inside. He strode quickly and quietly toward those lights, taking off his jacket as he walked.
Walking into the club was like being on the
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fifty-yard line during the Super Bowl halftime show.
The first thing that hit him was the music— the song playing had a thudding, droning, synthesized beat and was turned up so loud he could actually feel the thump of the bass drum in the pit of his stomach. Lights flashed on and off, making the white shirt he was wearing change colors, from orange to green to red— and back to orange again.
Inside, Cosmos was one huge round room, broken up into different levels with what looked, almost like construction scaffolding. And standing on that scaffolding were some of the strangest looking and most strangely dressed people he had ever seen.
In the center of the room was an enormous, sunken dance floor. Across the room, almost directly opposite Frank, was a horseshoe- shaped bar.
In the crowd at the bar, Frank saw the man who'd pulled the gun on them at Delaney's.
As Frank watched, he took two bottles of what looked like champagne from the bartender and headed up some metal stairs toward the rear of the club.
Frank circled around the dance floor and followed the guy up the stairs. They seemed to go on forever, leading Frank away from the club. As Frank got closer to the top, the noise
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from below faded, and the stairs dead-ended on a large landing at a plain gray metal door.
Private, it read. No Admittance.
Frank tested the knob. It turned silently in his hand. He nudged the door open slightly and risked a quick peek behind it.
He caught a glimpse of a large, comfortable- looking room, with wood paneling, skylights, and a desk on the far wall. Seated on a large couch in the center of the room was Johnny Carew, smoking a cigar. Two men in turtlenecks and dark sport coats stood behind the couch, flanking him. Billy Delaney sat with his back to Frank on a chair in front of the couch; the two men he'd brought with him to the club sat in chairs behind him.
Frank eased the door back, leaving it ajar an inch, his ear up against it, and listened.
"And I want to assure you I had nothing to do with Daniel's death." That was Delaney speaking.
"If I thought for a moment you had killed him," Carew said, his voice clear and ringing, "you would have been dead within an hour, Billy."
"Maybe," Delaney said. "And maybe if you'd come gunning for me, you'd have been the one to end up dead."
There was an uncomfortable few seconds of silence. Even through the door, Frank could
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sense the two glaring at each other, each waiting for the other to back down.
Delaney cracked first.
"Look, Johnny, there's no sense in our fighting," Delaney said. "Especially with Emily trying to have the whole will nullified. You know that'll turn it into a free-for-all."
Carew still said nothing.
"The only way to make sure we keep control of the situation is if you let me remain in charge of Josh's concerns," Delaney continued. "I'll see you get a percentage, of course."
"A percentage?" Carew demanded loudly. Frank heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. "All right, I'll take a percentage. How about one hundred percent?"
"Johnny, you have to negotiate with me," Delaney replied.
"I don't have to do nothing," Carew said. "You've got no power, Billy. It all dried up and blew away when Josh Moran died. You don't even have Emily Moran to count on. So I'll take back the territory Josh stole from me, sure—but I won't give you anything for it."
Delaney's voice hardened. "Then maybe we should be talking about fighting, Johnny. Because I won't—"
Suddenly there was a sharp crack!—followed instantly by the tinkle of shattering glass.
Frank risked another peek inside.
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Four of the men in the room had drawn guns. All of them were staring straight up at a skylight.
And on the floor, lying motionless at Johnny Carew's feet, was Billy Delaney.
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Chapter 11
Joe trailed Tommy Poletti around the block to an abandoned building, his thoughts paralleling Frank's. He'd watched Delaney arrive at the club, and Poletti had obviously timed his arrival to coincide with that of Josh Moran's former lieutenant.
The big question was why?
Huge letters painted on the side of the building, now long since faded, announced it as the home of Schickelman Importers—New York's Largest. But Schickelman, whoever he had been, was obviously long gone, along with his importing business. Now as Joe watched Poletti lift himself up and over the sill of a window and disappear into the building, he grew even more suspicious. He hoped his suspicions would turn out to be misplaced.
Giving the man a few seconds' lead, Joe
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boosted himself up and in, landing in a pitch- black space.
When his eyes adjusted to the small amount of light filtering through the filthy windows, he saw that the inside of the former warehouse had been completely gutted. Toward the back, he just made out Poletti climbing the only staircase. Joe stole across the vast floor, his feet scratching the gritty dirt against the hardwood. He climbed up after Poletti and found himself on the roof of the building itself.
He scanned the adjoining rooftops. Nothing. There was no sign of Tommy Poletti. Had the man managed to slip behind him? Joe turned to head back down into the warehouse.
Then a sudden, all-too-familiar crack echoed behind him. The crack of a gunshot.
Joe whirled. The sound had come from off to his left. And running straight toward him from that direction was Tommy Poletti.
Joe ducked behind a chimney. As Poletti ran even with him, Joe tackled the former football player.
They rolled over on the hard rooftop together. Poletti might not have played football for several years, but he was still in excellent shape—beneath the jacket he was wearing, the man was solid muscle.
He threw Joe off easily and sprang to his feet.
"What did you do?" Joe asked shakily, also
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standing up. He couldn't believe it. Poletti was the killer after all. "Where's the gun?"
"Gun? What are you talking about?" Poletti was furious. "What did you tackle me for?"
"That gunshot," Joe said, his voice shaking. "Who did you kill?"
"Kill? Are you nuts?" Poletti said. He looked at Joe for the first time. "Hey—you're the Hardy kid. You were at the reading of the will, weren't you?"
"That's right," Joe said. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Poletti said.
"I'm following you," Joe said. "And I just heard a gunshot and saw you running away—"
"I don't have to tell you what I'm doing here," Poletti said defensively.
"Maybe not," Joe said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "But you'll have to tell the cops."
"Cops?" Poletti shook his head. "Oh, no, I'm not talking to any more cops."
"I'll tell them about this," Joe said fiercely. "Unless you kill me, too."
"All right," Poletti said, shaking his head. "But you're wrong about this, kid."
"Maybe I am," Joe said, but he didn't believe it. As far as he was concerned, the evidence was doing all the talking.
* * *
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For what seemed like forever, Frank watched as no one in Carew's office moved.
Finally one of Delaney's men bent over his boss's body.
"He's dead," the man announced.
"The shot came from up there," Carew said, pointing up at the skylight. He turned to a couple of his men.
"Monk, Moses, you two check it out."
Both nodded and turned toward the door.
Frank started to ease the door shut, preparing to step away from it and rush back down the stairs.
"Hey—what are you doing up here?"
Frank turned. A lean, sharply dressed man with straight blond hair was standing a few feet to the side of him, glaring.
"I guess I got lost," Frank said. He smiled and shrugged.
The man wasn't having any of it. "And I guess you just decided to listen in to what Mr. Carew was saying, is that it?" He clenched his hands into fists. "We'll see what he has to say about this."
Frank shook his head slowly and pretended to look scared. "Please," Frank said. "Don't—"
When the man was just a foot away, Frank sprang into action. Backing up, Frank grabbed the stair railing with both hands. He kicked
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at the man approaching him, slamming both feet into his chest. The man tumbled back, stunned.
Frank turned and tore down the stairway.
"Hey! Stop that guy!"
At the next landing another man was standing, blocking the stairs going down. He made a snatch at Frank, arms wide. Frank ducked and caught the man in the side with his elbow as the man lunged past. Frank bolted down the next flight of stairs, to the next landing—the one closest to the club floor.
This landing was packed with people, talking and staring down at the dance floor below. The stairs leading down were so crowded that it would take him a full five minutes to travel that one flight, and his pursuers would be all over him by then.
As he was figuring out how to negotiate his way down, a man forced his way up through the crowd on the stairs to the landing. It was the bouncer from the front door. When he caught sight of Frank, he did a double take.
Clearly the man remembered Frank from earlier. Anger darkened his face, and he began heading straight for Frank, parting the crowd between them with no more effort than he would have expended wading through a creek.
Frank looked up and behind him. The two men he'd fought with earlier were down the stairs, closing on him.
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He pushed his way to the edge of the landing and looked out over the railing and down the scaffolding to the dance floor a good twenty feet below him.
It was too far to jump, so he swung over the railing and began climbing down the scaffolding, hand over hand, toward the floor.
It was actually an easy climb—there were plenty of handholds and joints in the scaffolding where he could rest his feet. He got about halfway down before he looked up to check on his pursuers.
Carew's men were leaning over the railing, yelling. But the music was so loud, no one on the dance floor could hear them. One of them drew a gun, but the bouncer grabbed his arm, and shook his head. Then Frank couldn't see them anymore—they had disappeared from the railing.
He guessed they were going to try to beat him down the stairs to the dance floor.
Redoubling his efforts to reach bottom quickly, Frank noticed that a lot of people were now aware of him. Several had even stopped what they were doing to look up at him. As he swung to the floor, many of them started applauding.
So much for trying to be inconspicuous, Frank thought.
"Cool, man," one dancer said. "I never saw anybody climb up that high before."
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"Or down," the girl with him said. "That was really neat."
Frank nodded, breathing heavily. The crowd blocked his view of the staircase, but he was certain he'd beaten Carew's men down. Now to get out of there . . .
He began threading his way through the crowded dance floor. But it was jam-packed with people, and it was impossible to move very fast. By the time he reached its edge, he knew that whatever time he'd picked up on Carew's men was lost. His only hope was that he'd lost them in the crowd.
He broke through—and suddenly, right in front of him, was the entrance to the club.
The bouncer was standing directly in front of it, looking right at him.
Frank scanned the room desperately. The double doors he'd entered from the kitchen—
One of the men he'd fought on the stairs was standing there, blocking that exit, too. Frank was trapped.
There was no way out. No way at all.
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Chapter 12
Frank decided to head for the front door. It was closest to him, and if he was lucky, the bouncer wasn't on Carew's payroll. . . .
The bouncer saw him coming and grinned.
Then Frank broke into a grin of his own.
Detective Mike Lewis was standing at the door, just behind the bouncer. Joe was just behind Lewis. Frank didn't know what either of them was doing there, and at the moment he didn't care.
Frank walked straight toward the front door as Lewis reached up and tapped the smiling bouncer on the shoulder.
He turned.
"Detective Mike Lewis, NYPD," he said. "Mind if we come in?"
"This guy's really keen on getting ID, Detective 
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Lewis," Frank said. "Better show him yours."
Lewis flashed his badge.
The bouncer growled in frustration and motioned the detective forward.
* * *
"We found the gun right behind the skylight—up on the roof," a uniformed officer said, handing a revolver to Lewis. Twenty minutes had passed, and the detective, several uniformed officers, and Frank and Joe were gathered on the street outside Cosmos. Delaney's body had already been taken away by an ambulance. Carew was inside the club, refusing to answer any questions.
"And that's where you say you traced Poletti to?" the detective asked Joe. Lewis, along with a squad car, had been assigned to watch Johnny carew—and so he had been in perfect position to grab Joe and Tommy Poletti after the shot had been fired. They'd been expecting this "summit" between Carew and Delaney for months, Lewis explained.
"That's right," his brother nodded glumly. "Although I didn't actually see him fire it."
"Of course he didn't!" Poletti shouted. "Because I didn't have anything to do with this!"
"Maybe you'd better wait till your lawyer gets here before saying anything, Tommy," Lewis said, not without a touch of sympathy in his voice.
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"I don't need any lawyer," Poletti said fiercely. "Why would I have come with the kid"—he indicated Joe—"so willingly if I shot Delaney, anyway? Huh? Answer that!"
Lewis shook his head. "That's not my job, I'm afraid." He opened the rear door of the squad car. "My job is to get you downtown now."
Poletti exhaled and climbed in the backseat—but not before shooting Joe an angry look.
"I'll let you know what happens," Lewis said.
Lewis nodded. "Good work, boys," he said.
"Yeah—" Joe stood shaking his head as the police car drove off. Right then he didn't feel as if he'd just done anything that anyone would call "good work."
* * *
"Well, I'm just not sure, that's all," Frank said. It was morning and he was sitting in the Nolans' living room, discussing the case with Ned and Joe. Delaney's killing had happened too late to make the morning papers, but the news had been all over the radio.
"How can you not be sure, Frank?" Ned asked. "They've got the murder weapon, and the killer."
"Think, though," Frank said. "Why? Why would Tommy Poletti kill to increase his share of ten million dollars when he's going to get a
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lot more than that once he marries Emily Moran?"
"Murderers don't reason that way," Ned said firmly. "Or maybe he's not going to marry Emily—I don't know. What I do know is that this seems to be over. We can tell our fathers to come home now."
The phone rang. Ned answered it.
"It's for either of you," he said, holding out the receiver.
"I'll take it," Frank said. He grabbed the receiver.
"This is Frank Hardy."
"Frank, this is Detective Lewis. Just thought you and your brother would want to know. We ran a ballistics test on that gun. It's the same one that killed Daniel Carew." Lewis was silent a moment. "We're charging Tommy Poletti with murder one."
"You're sure?" Frank asked.
"Sure as we can get without a confession."
Frank sighed. "All right—thanks."
He hung up the phone and turned to his brother, who'd been unusually quiet all morning. The news of Poletti's guilt had hit him pretty hard.
"They say they're going to charge Poletti," Frank told them.
"It's over, then," Joe said.
"I don't think so," Frank replied firmly. "What about this, Joe? Johnson said Emily
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Moran had asked him to find a way to invalidate the will—don't you think Poletti knew about that? Why would he risk his neck killing Carew and Delaney when the whole document might be nullified?"
"It's over, Frank—face it," Joe repeated. "We're not going to find some magic clue the police overlooked this time."
"I'm not looking for any magic clue," Frank said. "I'm looking for the truth—and if you're going to sit here moping all day, I guess I'll have to look myself." He stood up and grabbed his coat.
Joe didn't move.
"I'm going to try to talk to Emily Moran," Frank said. Without another word, he stalked to the front door and threw it open. He sucked in air and gave a low whistle.
Framed in the doorway were two men. Carew's goons. He recognized one of them from the club.
"Oh," the man said, smiling. "Now this is a pleasure we didn't anticipate." He drew a gun with one hand, and with the other he roughly shoved Frank back into the apartment.
"I've been looking all over town for you— and you show up here." He pointed his gun at Frank. "I guess this is going to be my lucky day.'
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Chapter 13
His companion stepped in behind him and shut the door.
"So you're Ned Nolan," the man said to Frank.
"No, I'm Ned Nolan." Ned and Joe had appeared in the arch between the hall and the living room. "What's going on here?"
"Frank, who is this guy?" Joe asked.
"I'm his fairy godmother," the man said. "It don't matter who I am. What matters is this," he said, flicking his gun. He motioned Ned and Joe toward the door. "Let's go, all three of you."
Joe shrugged and stepped forward, then suddenly stopped and planted his feet. He swung his elbow to the side and knocked the goon's gun out of his hand.
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In a flash his hand was inches from picking it up. He stopped half bent over when he heard the unmistakable sound of a trigger being cocked.
Joe looked up. The second gunman had a revolver to Ned's head.
"Leave the gun alone," the man said simply.
Joe had no choice. He stepped back.
"One more trick like that, kid," the first guy said, bending over to pick up his revolver, "and you'll be staying here—permanently. Now let's go."
The three of them were taken back to Cosmos—and to the office Frank had seen the previous evening. Johnny Carew was there himself, waiting.
"What's going on, Terry?" Carew asked the man who'd brought them there.
"This"—he waved his gun at Ned—"is Nolan's son. And this"—he indicated Frank—"is that punk who was in here last night. I don't know who the other one is."
"Ah, but I do," Carew said, carefully scrutinizing first Frank, then Joe. "You're Hardy's two boys, aren't you?"
"That's right," Frank said.
"Playing detective, are you? Hope to follow in your father's footsteps?" Carew asked the question with a smile, but there was underlying malice to his words.
"Why are we here?" Joe demanded.
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"Feisty, eh? I like that." Carew laughed and sat down behind his desk. "All right, I'll tell you."
"It has to do with Josh Moran's will, doesn't it?" Frank asked.
"It does at that," Carew nodded. "Moran's will—and my son's death." He silently stared off into space for a moment. When he began talking again, his voice was lower, more intense.
"I had a funny thought last night, when the police were hounding me with questions about Billy Delaney." He lifted his gaze to Frank's. "I was thinking how funny it would be if one of the people the police would never think of questioning—one of the 'good guys'—had actually killed my son. Somebody who could really use Josh Moran's money—somebody like Hugh Nolan, for instance, or maybe even Fenton Hardy.
"So I sent Terry and Monk"—he nodded at the men standing guard at the door—"to find those two and bring them here for a little talk. Instead, I got you."
He nodded to Terry, who moved forward and laid a hand on Frank's shoulder and guided him, none too gently, into a chair in front of Carew's desk. Joe and Ned were also marched over and made to sit in chairs next to Frank.
"So," Carew asked, folding his hands and
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leaning forward on his desk. "Where are they?"
"We don't know," Frank said.
"Come now—that won't do," Carew said, shaking his head. "Where are they?"
"He just told you," Ned said. "We really don't know. Besides, haven't you been paying attention? The police have your son's killer— and Delaney's—in custody. Tommy Poletti."
Carew waved a hand in dismissal. "That's a load of garbage."
Joe did a double take. "You don't think Poletti killed your son?"
Carew shook his head. "Tommy Poletti? A killer? Never. The police will figure that out soon enough. If they don't, they're even bigger fools than I thought."
Frank leaned back in his chair and exchanged a look with Joe.
"I don't know where my father is," Frank said. "That's the truth. But you're wrong if you think he's had anything to do with the killings."
"Your father's a man of principle—is that it? Well, we're talking about ten million dollars here, sonny," Carew said. "That much money buys a lot of principles."
"Not my father's," Frank said firmly.
"Or mine," Ned added.
At that, Carew laughed harshly. "Hugh
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Nolan? Not interested in money? You don't know him very well—do you, sonny?"
"What do you mean by that?" Ned asked angrily, rising from his chair. He was upset enough to attack Carew with his bare hands.
The gang lord studied Ned calmly for a second, then shook his head. "Never mind. All right, you say you don't know where your fathers are. I'll accept that—for now." Now Carew looked directly at Frank. "But the next time you want to play detective, you play with someone else, okay?"
"We don't play at being detectives, Mr. Carew," Frank said calmly. "Especially where our father's life is concerned."
"And I don't play around when it comes to whoever killed my son!" Carew slammed his fist down on the desk. "You make sure you understand that."
He glowered at Frank for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Get them out of here."
Terry and Monk escorted them down to the street.
"Carew doesn't think Poletti did it either," Joe said, more to himself than anyone else. "Guess I'm beginning to believe the killer is still on the loose."
"I told you," Frank said. "I'm going to see Emily Moran. You two coming?"
Joe grinned. "You bet. Ned?"
Ned shook his head slowly. "No, I don't
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think so." He was still clearly upset by Carew's accusation—an accusation Joe decided might be right after his discovery in the library.
But in Ned's mind they were still just doubts—and Joe didn't want to upset Ned any further without real proof.
"Well, we'll see you back at the apartment later," Frank said. "Come on, Joe—let's go play detective."
* * *
This time, their reception at Emily's was slightly more pleasant. Emily Moran, even though she looked even more tired and upset than the last time they'd seen her, was happy to talk with them.
"We appreciate your taking the time to see us, Ms. Moran—especially today," Joe said. Delaney's death had apparently enabled Emily to rid herself of the man's entourage as well. The house seemed deserted except for the three of them.
She nodded distractedly. "Yes, I talked to Vance, and he said you were trying to find the killer." She forced a grin. "Besides, there's not much else I can do right now. The police are questioning Tommy again."
"I hope you don't think this is rude," Joe began, "but—why did your father put Tommy Poletti into his will?"
"Dad didn't exactly like Tommy," Emily said. "He was in jail of course when I first met
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Tommy, and he never approved of him. I think my dad wanted me to see someone who could help run his business." She stopped suddenly to look at her watch. "The police are supposed to call me when they're finished questioning him," she said, apologizing.
"They take a long time sometimes," Joe offered sympathetically.
"Don't I know it," Emily said, smiling. "You're talking to Josh Moran's daughter, after all." It was the first time Joe had seen her genuinely amused at something, and it made her look about five years younger.
Suddenly Joe wanted very much for Tommy Poletti to be proven innocent.
"I just wish there was something I could do to help him," Emily continued.
"There may be," Frank said. "Announce that you've found a way to have your father's will nullified."
Emily looked confused. "How will that help Tommy?"
Joe explained. "By flushing out the real killer."
"So you don't think Tommy's guilty?" Emily asked, her eyes glistening.
Frank and Joe both shook their heads. "No," Joe said.
"All right," she nodded firmly. "Give me a minute—I'll get my coat. Then we'll go talk to Vance to have him make the announcement."
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It was just after two o'clock when they reached Johnson's office. The place was completely deserted.
"That's strange," Frank said, shaking his head. "I wonder where everybody is."
"Out to lunch?" Joe suggested.
"I don't think so," Frank said. "Look." He pointed at a half-eaten sandwich lying on the secretary's desk. Next to the sandwich, her computer was still running.
The brothers exchanged a puzzled glance.
Emily Moran crossed to Johnson's office door and rapped on it loudly.
"Nobody in there either," she said.
"I guess we come back later," Frank said. He turned to go.
"Joe! Frank!" Emily Moran screamed. "Here!"
She was standing next to a copier and pointing at the floor. Both brothers rushed to her side.
Johnson's secretary—Mrs. Hunter—was lying on the floor, still and unmoving.
Frank bent down and felt her wrist. "She's alive."
"Get her some water," Emily Moran commanded, lifting Mrs. Hunter's head onto her lap.
Frank scanned the area for a refrigerator or a water fountain. Nothing. Then he remembered the water cooler in Johnson's office. He
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ran for the door, reached out to yank it open— and pulled his hand back instantly.
The doorknob was hot.
"Look!" Joe said, pointing at the space around the door. A thin wisp of smoke was wafting out.
"Oh, no," Emily said, a look of horror spreading across her face. "It's on fire!"
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Chapter 14
"You two get her out of here," Frank said to Joe and Emily, taking off his jacket. "I'll see how bad the fire is."
"Frank!" Joe yelled. "Wait—"
Whatever else his brother had to say was lost to Frank as he grabbed the doorknob with his jacket and burst into Johnson's office.
There was smoke everywhere. He'd barely opened the door before it was in his eyes, his nose, his throat. Frank coughed once, covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, and pushed into the room, closing the door behind him.
From the right, waves of intense heat washed over him. He staggered toward his left, where he remembered the huge bay windows were. Frank groped along the wall, searching.
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His right hand touched glass, then the metal frame and the window crank. He turned the crank and opened the window. He leaned out and took a deep breath of fresh air.
Looking down at the street below, he saw Johnny Carew's goons, Terry and Monk. They were standing on the sidewalk opposite the office, looking straight up at him. In the distance, he could hear the wail of fire engines approaching.
The two men turned and quickly disappeared down the street.
"Carew," Frank whispered, his eyes still tearing from the smoke. He must have had the fire set. Frank had to tell Joe. But first things first . . .
He turned back to the office only to discover the heat and smoke were stronger than ever. The fire was spreading—partially because he'd fed it by opening the window and letting air into the room.
He and Joe would never be able to put the fire out themselves.
Taking a last, deep breath, he shut the window, and turned back toward the office door. He bumped into something heavy and solid behind him.
The water cooler.
Frank rammed it with all his strength, pushing the cooler toward the right of the room and the source of the heat.
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The huge glass tank hit the floor with a loud plop. Instantly the seams ripped and Frank heard water lapping out. Suddenly the room was full of billowing smoke.
That's the best I can do, Frank told himself, and he dropped to the floor, where the smoke was less damaging. He moved on all fours toward the door.
He was so intent on focusing on the doorway that he crawled directly into a body on the floor.
"Oh, no," Frank said, rolling the man onto his back. Vance Johnson's eyes were shut, and Frank couldn't tell if he was alive or not. Frank struggled to his feet and backed out of the burning office, dragging Johnson under his arms.
Joe was rushing down the hall toward Mrs. Hunter's office, carrying two small fire extinguishers. Behind Joe, next to the entrance to the stairwell, Frank could see Emily Moran sitting with Mrs. Hunter, who was now conscious and talking.
"Forget it!" Frank yelled to his brother. "It's out of control! Just get out of here!"
Joe dropped the extinguishers and gave Frank a hand with Mr. Johnson as the first of the fire fighters were arriving.
* * *
A half hour later the blaze was under control, and both Johnson and Mrs. Hunter were
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conscious and being attended to by emergency personnel.
"They'll be fine," one technician assured Joe. "We just want to take them to the hospital to make sure there's no real harm done."
The EMS technicians stepped in front of Joe and lifted Johnson's stretcher.
"I'll go with them to the hospital," Emily volunteered, climbing into the ambulance.
Joe and Frank silently watched as the ambulance drove away. "We've got to find out who's doing this," Joe said angrily.
Frank shook his head. "I know who did it— well, the fire, anyway." He told Joe about Carew's two thugs.
Joe snapped his fingers. "Before he died, Delaney told Carew that Emily was trying to have the will nullified. If Carew didn't want that to happen, he might try to kill Johnson. Come on, let's find out what he's up to."
"Wait a minute, Joe," Frank said. "I don't think it would be too smart to go charging into Carew's office by ourselves."
"Who said anything about charging into his office?" Joe grinned. "I've got an idea."
"So do I," Frank said.
* * *
"That's right," Carew said, putting his feet up on the desk. "You can deal directly with my boys from now on—not Delaney's." He listened to whoever was on the other end of the
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line and laughed. "Don't worry. Moran's lawyer had an unexpected visit from the fire department today." Carew laughed. "I'll talk to you later. So long."
He hung up the phone and leaned back, taking a long, satisfied draw on his cigar.
From the skylight twenty feet directly above him, Frank was disconnecting the contact microphone they'd used to listen in on Moran's conversation. He turned to Joe.
"It was him," Frank said to his brother, who was sitting next to him, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. At Joe's suggestion, they'd sneaked back into the old Schickelman building and onto the roof over Cosmos to eavesdrop on Carew.
"And listen to this. Not only did Carew have his thugs start that fire so Johnson would never be able to challenge Moran's will in a court of law, he also thinks the fire destroyed some very special business contracts Moran had. He's going to take away Moran's territory without having to fire a shot."
"All right," Joe said. "That solves one mystery. But what about the murders and the attack on Chief Peterson?"
Joe was cut off by a crunching sound directly behind him—the sound of someone stepping on rooftop gravel.
Both boys turned.
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Terry and the bouncer from Cosmos were standing there, guns raised.
"I wouldn't be too concerned about those murders right now, if I were you," Terry said. "You've got problems of your own—like how you plan on staying alive."
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Chapter 15
"You kids must think I'm dumb," Carew said. "Somebody took a shot through my skylight, and I'm going to leave it unguarded after that? Give me a break."
"I guess that it was kind of stupid of us," Joe agreed. He and Frank had been marched into Carew's office, where they were now standing, side by side, in front of Carew's desk. "Maybe as stupid as you were to leave that skylight unguarded in the first place."
"Hey!" Terry said, moving toward them. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll—"
"No, no, Terry, it's all right," Carew raised a hand, and his employee backed off. "I'll chalk up that outburst to his youth."
"Of course, Frank, there is another possibility," 
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Joe said. He raised a finger to his lips and pretended to be deep in thought. "Maybe Mr. Carew never left that skylight unguarded at all."
Frank stopped to consider this. "Why—then how could anyone have gotten up there to kill Delaney? Wouldn't he have been seen? Oh, I get it," Frank said. "You're saying Carew did have someone up there guarding that skylight—someone who was up there to shoot Billy Delaney."
"That's right," Joe agreed. He turned away from his brother now and faced Johnny Carew directly. "What about it, Mr. Carew? Is that how it happened? Is that how you killed Billy Delaney?"
The man's face went through a series of expressions, from surprise to anger to shock, and back again. Finally he just started laughing.
"You really are Fenton Hardy's sons, aren't you?" Carew said. "So what? So what if it was me who had Delaney killed. You'll never prove any of it."
"I guess not," Joe said. "But tell me, where did you get the revolver—the one the police found up on the roof?"
Carew raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval. "What? Even you don't know the answer to that one, sonny?"
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"Maybe you could help us out with it," Joe suggested.
Carew looked at Joe strangely for a second and then burst out laughing all over again.
"Help you out on it?" he asked, shaking his head. "Sure. Why not? I found that revolver at the scene of my son's death. I decided to hold on to it—thought it might come in handy."
"Guess it did, huh?" Joe asked, leaning forward on Carew's desk.
"Yes, it did at that," Carew said. "You know, suddenly I'm tired of you two," he said, all traces of his good humor suddenly gone.
He waved Terry forward.
"Take care of them, will you?"
Terry grinned. "With pleasure, boss." He drew his gun and motioned the Hardys back, away from Carew's desk.
"Come on, fellas," Terry said. "We're going for a little trip."
"What are you going to do—kill us?" Frank asked.
Carew nodded. "You got it, smart boy. We're going to kill you."
"Good," Joe said. "That's what I was waiting to hear."
The old man looked at him strangely.
Then, without warning, the door to Carew's office banged open, and a half-dozen uniformed police officers charged in, their guns
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drawn and raised high. Detective Lewis strolled in just behind them.
"What's this?" Carew roared. "Breaking and entering! You'd better be prepared for—"
"We're prepared, Johnny," Lewis said, holding out a folded piece of paper. "Here's our warrant."
"Suspicion of murder?" Carew asked, reading off the paper. "You got no proof of any of this." He sneered. "What're you going to do— hold me downtown on some half-baked charge—"
"Not half-baked, Johnny," Lewis said. "Not this time." He held up a small box for Carew to see. "It's all down on tape."
Joe stepped forward and began pulling off the hidden microphone he'd been wearing.
Involving Lewis in their plan had been Joe's idea. And when the detective had suggested he wear a wire, thinking that the crime lord might be looser with his tongue in front of a couple of teenagers, Joe had readily agreed.
Now he stood in front of Johnny Carew, holding up the recording device for the gang lord to see.
"Surprise," he said, smiling at Carew.
The old man shook his head, his mouth moving wordlessly.
Lewis snapped the cuffs on him.
"You have the right to remain silent," the detective began, leading Carew away. "Anything 
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you say may be used against you in a court of law. ..."
* * *
Two hours later Frank was fixing himself a cup of tea in the Nolans' kitchen and listening to the news on the radio. He was waiting for the news to break about Johnny Carew. Right then the day's big story involved the weather. Experts were predicting the arrival of the decade's worst blizzard sometime the next day. Joe was sitting at the table behind him, finishing off the bag of chips he'd started the other night.
It was early evening, and they were waiting for Ned to come home. It looked as if he hadn't been at the apartment all day.
"He was really upset after what Johnny Carew said this morning," Frank said. "It'd be nice to pass on some good news to him."
Joe nodded his agreement. "You'd be upset, too, if someone accused Dad of being a crook."
Frank had a sudden thought. "Joe, could Hugh Nolan have been the guy at the police station—the one in the wig who poisoned Chief Peterson?"
"No," Joe said decisively. "The man at the police station had to be a lot younger, and he didn't have Nolan's limp. And I'll bet the police have checked all the beneficiaries' movements that day a thousand times. If Nolan was
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anywhere near that station, they'd know about it."
Frank shook his head. "If we could only find out who that man at the station was."
"Well, we don't have a lot to go on," Joe pointed out. "A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark."
Frank laughed. "You know, Ned said the same thing the other night—"
The shock of realization struck him like a physical blow. He almost dropped the mug he was holding.
"Frank?" Joe asked. "Frank, are you all right?"
His head was spinning. Frank sank down heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, next to his brother.
"Two days ago—I should have seen it two days ago," Frank said.
"What?" Joe asked.
Frank shook his head, still lost in his own world. "How could he have known?"
Joe frowned. "Frank, you're talking nonsense. What are you trying to say?"
Frank slowly turned to his brother. "That first night we stayed at the Nolans'," he began, his voice growing firmer. "That first night we met Ned."
"Go on," Joe urged.
"After you went to sleep, we stayed up a little while longer, talking—"
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In his mind, Frank could hear their conversation replaying itself, word for word. . . .
"Have they found any trace of the man who attacked the chief?" Ned asked.
"I don't know yet, but I doubt it. I probably got a better look at him than anyone, and I don't think I'd recognize him if he walked up to me and shook my hand."
"I suppose that's understandable. A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark. ..."
"A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark," Frank repeated. "Ned said the same thing you did."
"So what?" Joe asked.
"So this," Frank said. "It was the night of the attack. We'd barely discussed the incident at all, and there weren't any reports of it in the news. So how did Ned know the guy was wearing a white shirt?"
Joe let out a long, low whistle. "I see what you mean," he said.
"It was Ned, Joe," Frank said. He laid his palms flat on the table and looked at his brother. "Ned is the killer."
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Chapter 16
"I don't know, Frank," Joe said, shaking his head. "It feels right, but—it's awfully thin. We'll need a lot more proof to make it stick."
"Okay—what about this?" Frank stood and shut off the water he'd been boiling for tea. "Who needs the money more than Hugh Nolan?" he asked. "Look at this place. Look at the way Nolan lives. And if it is Ned, he had a good reason for getting Daniel Carew—he's Johnny's son. And a better reason for getting Chief Peterson. He was the one who slandered his father's name and ruined his career."
"If it was slander," Joe pointed out. Then he had another thought. "What if Hugh and Ned are working together?"
"What if," Frank agreed, nodding grimly. "If that's the case, Dad's in a lot of trouble."
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He thought a moment. "I think we need to find out a little bit more about Ned before we go to the police."
"Agreed," Joe said. "His father mentioned he'd just gotten out of the army. Let's start with that."
Frank picked up the phone—and within a few minutes he was speaking with an army lieutenant he and Joe had met on a previous case.
"I can't get you the man's complete service record," the officer said.
"What can you tell me about him?" Frank asked.
"What it says here is that Ned Nolan served in the special forces and was an expert in unarmed combat. He was honorably discharged last year."
"Thanks, lieutenant," Frank said. He hung up and told his brother the information.
"Nothing conclusive there," Joe said. "But that guy in the white shirt was certainly an expert in unarmed combat."
"All right," Frank said. "Let's go tell Lewis."
Even at that time of night they found the detective hard at work in his office. His desk was swimming in paperwork, but he welcomed them just the same.
"Good news, fellas," Lewis said. "We got
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the D.A.'s office to recommend no bail for Carew and his friends."
"That's great," Frank said. "Detective Lewis, we have something we'd like to talk about with you—" Frank began.
"Let me guess," Lewis interrupted. "You want us to bring back your father, too?"
"Too?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, Hugh Nolan's kid was in here earlier today. Wanted to know if the old man could come home yet."
"What did you tell him?" Frank asked.
"I said the case wasn't closed yet. We don't know if Carew was behind the chief's poisoning—and it doesn't seem likely that Carew would kill his own son, does it?" Lewis shrugged. "Anyway, Ned talked to his dad when the chief checked in today and found out where they are. He's going to visit them."
Frank turned pale.
Just then, Lewis's phone rang. "Excuse me a second," the detective said. He picked up the phone and started talking.
"Frank," Joe began, "if Ned knows where they are—"
Frank shook his head and quieted his brother with a glance.
Lewis finished his call and turned back to the Hardys. "So, anyway—unless you can tell me who the killer is, I'm afraid we're going to have to keep your dad out of sight."
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"I understand," Frank nodded. "We just want to talk to him, though. You wouldn't happen to know where they're staying—or have any way we could get in touch with him?"
Lewis shook his head. "Not till tomorrow, when they check in again. Sorry." He looked at Frank more closely. "Say, there's nothing the matter, is there?"
Frank shook his head. "Not a thing. Thanks anyway."
"You're welcome." Lewis sat back down at his desk. "Sorry I couldn't be more help," he said, picking up another stack of papers and sifting through them.
Joe waited till they got outside before he spoke.
"Why didn't you want to tell him about Ned?"
"Think about it," Frank said. "Ned's probably killed one man already and seriously injured another. Now he's looking for his father. Why? Because he's just found out that one of the basic truths in his life, that his father got a raw deal from the police, might be a lie." Frank shook his head. "He's a time bomb, just waiting to go off. If that happens while he's with Dad and Chief Peterson—"
"But how are we going to find them?" Joe asked. "We don't even know where to start."
"You're wrong—we've actually got a pretty good idea," Frank said, pulling a train schedule
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out of his back pocket and checking it over carefully.
"Come on, if we hurry, we can get the last train out of Bayport."
" 'I think I know the perfect place—but we'll have to stop at home first,' " Frank said, repeating the words his father had said just before he, Hugh Nolan, and Samuel Peterson had gone into hiding.
" 'Home' has to mean Bayport, but 'the perfect place'?" Joe shook his head. "You've got me there."
They were sitting across from each other on the train, trying to figure out what their father's cryptic words had referred to.
"And why would he have to come home first?" Frank added.
"Mom would have talked to him," Joe said. "She'll know."
The boys got in late and slept in their own beds until almost seven in the morning. Their mother was up by then working, trying to fix the faucet in the kitchen sink.
"Hi, Mom," Frank began. "Have you—"
"What in the world—" Laura Hardy turned to face them, an expression of shock on her face. "Where have you two been?"
"We meant to call, but—"
"Your father told me to expect you a couple of days ago!" Laura Hardy yelled, throwing
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down the pliers she'd been using. "And all you can say is you meant to call?"
"Mom," Frank said, "we need to find Dad."
"I don't know where he is. He came home in a rush—" She stopped yelling suddenly and looked closely at her two sons. "What's the problem? Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No, Mom, that's not it at all," Joe said quickly. "We have a message for him."
He hated lying to his mother, but he didn't want her worrying—or calling in the police.
"Two days ago your father rushed through this house like he had a tiger on his tail," she said. "All he told me was that he had some kind of urgent case that was going to take him out of town for a while—he didn't know how long."
"And he didn't say where he was going?" Frank asked.
"Not to me."
"Thanks, Mom." Frank turned to Joe. "Let's check his office."
"Wait a minute," their mother said, smiling. "What are you going to do now—just run off again without telling me where you're going?"
The brothers exchanged a quick glance.
"Mom," Frank said, "when we find out where we're headed, you'll be the first to know." With that, he and Joe disappeared into their father's office.
An hour later, though, they were no closer
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to finding out where their father, Chief Peterson, and Hugh Nolan were hiding—and where Ned Nolan was heading.
"Nothing," Frank said, shutting down his father's computer. "Whatever that perfect place was, there's no record of it here. We're going to have to split up—comb the town—and find anyone who might have seen Dad leave or might have talked to him."
"Don't go far," their mother said as they were walking out the front door. "They're expecting a big storm later this afternoon— might even turn into a blizzard. I want you home before that happens."
"We'll be back before long, Mom, don't worry," Joe said.
"And if you find your father, remind him about that foreign film festival he promised to take me to. It's only running another couple of days, and I want to see it!"
"We'll do that," he assured her.
* * *
Frank's first stop was Callie Shaw's house.
"I've been all over town the past few days, Frank, and I haven't seen your dad anywhere," his longtime girlfriend said. The two of them were in the Shaws' den, standing in front of the fireplace. Callie was wearing a green sweater, jeans, and the thick gray socks Frank had given her for Christmas. She'd been
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curled up in front of the fireplace, reading a book, when Frank had rung the doorbell.
"In fact, I haven't seen your dad since Christmas, Frank," she continued. "Not that I've seen much of you since then, either. What's going on? You and Joe were supposed to be back from New York a couple of days ago."
"I can't talk about it now," Frank said. "But if you do see my dad, or talk to anyone who has seen him in the past few days, call my house and let me know. Thanks." He kissed her on the cheek and headed for the front door.
"Wait a minute!" Callie chased him as far as the front door, then stopped. She wasn't wearing any shoes.
"You could at least say goodbye!" she yelled.
"Goodbye!" he yelled back. "I'll call you later!"
She stood there in the front door for a minute, hands on her hips, staring after Frank as he drove off down the street.
* * *
Chief Collig hadn't seen their father.
Fenton Hardy's poker partners hadn't seen him.
Even Chet Morton, who practically lived downtown, where their father usually worked, hadn't seen him.
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Joe was trudging down Bayports main street when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, Joe. What's the matter? You look like your best friend died." Joe turned to see Officer Con Riley—the one member of the Bayport Police Force he and Frank always got along with.
"It's not that serious," Joe said. Yet, he added silently.
"Good," Con replied. He glanced up at the sky and shook his head. "Say, you'd better get back home. That blizzard is supposed to kick in about an hour from now. And when it does, the roads around here are going to be just about impossible to drive on."
"The blizzard," Joe muttered, shaking his head. "Terrific." He'd forgotten all about it. More good news.
"It will be—for anybody who wants to get some skiing done," Con said. "You really ought to try to make it up to my cabin sometime."
Despite his black mood, Joe managed to smile. "I will—that's a promise." Con Riley had a little cabin way back in the Vermont mountains, right near a beautiful set of ski trails, that he just loved to get away to for weekends. He'd issued an open invitation to the whole Hardy family to join him up there "whenever you all aren't too busy solving crimes," as he put it.
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"Say—how come you're not up there now, Con?" Joe asked.
"It's a little too crowded at the moment," Con said, a mischievous smile on his face.
Joe stopped suddenly in his tracks and stared at the man.
"Whoops," Con said. "Guess I let the cat out of the bag, huh?"
Joe grabbed the older man by the shoulders. "Con—that cabin. Is my dad up there now?"
Con must have sensed something in his voice, because he immediately turned serious. "That's right, Joe. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Joe said. "Not anymore. Not as soon as you give me directions to your place."
"You're not going to go up there today? Not with the blizzard coming?" Con asked incredulously.
"I've got to," Joe said grimly. "That blizzard's not the only trouble heading their way."
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Chapter 17
Joe called Frank, who had just returned home, and told him what he'd found out.
They were on the road within the hour.
"Based on the directions Con gave us, we ought to be there around dinnertime," Joe said. He reached into the cooler on the seat between him and Frank and pulled out a soda. Before they'd left home, they'd completely stocked the van with enough food, drink, and supplies for a very long trip, which Joe sincerely hoped this would not be.
"Sit back and relax," he told Frank. "It should be smooth sailing from here on out."
The blizzard hit about five minutes later.
It was as if someone was standing in the road in front of them shoveling snow onto their windshield. Within seconds it was coming
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down so hard Joe had to cut their speed in half. He was thankful for the new snow tires he'd put on the van and the extra set of wiper blades he had in the glove compartment. At their highest speed, the blades could barely keep the windshield free of snow long enough to give Joe a look at the road fifty feet ahead.
"Can you see okay?" Frank asked.
"Just barely," Joe said. "At this speed, we ought to be pretty safe." He didn't bother adding that at this speed, they'd be lucky to reach Vermont by dinnertime, much less Con Riley's cabin.
This stretch of the interstate was almost completely straight, well-lit, and not at all crowded. Had it been anything but all three of those, Joe would have had to slow down even more. As it was, at several points during the day he had to stop completely and wait for the storm to ease up a little,
"Decade's biggest blizzard," Frank said during one of those stops. "You can't say they didn't warn us."
"Weather forecasters," Joe grumbled. "They're never right—except when you don't want them to be."
They soon lost track of the passing time— the storm was so fierce, it kept playing havoc with their radio reception. They were never able to keep one station coming in clearly for very long at all. It was almost midnight when
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they finally crossed over into Vermont and left the interstate.
Joe pulled the van off to the side of the road and shut down the engine.
"It's all small roads and mountain driving from here on out," he told Frank. "And we can't go up one of those ridges in the middle of a blizzard, in the middle of the night."
"Agreed," Frank said, yawning. "Let's get some shut-eye." They unrolled their sleeping bags and slept on the floor in the back of the van.
* * *
In the morning Frank didn't have a single muscle that wasn't sore.
"My neck," he muttered, climbing out of his sleeping bag and stretching. "That's the last time I sleep in this van."
He opened the back door of the van and stepped outside.
It had stopped snowing. The air was clean and crisp and still; the entire world looked as if it had been outlined with a white paintbrush. A few hundred feet back from the road they had parked on, huge power lines stretched off toward a range of snow-capped mountains, just barely visible in the distance.
"That's where we're headed," Joe said quietly. He had woken silently and was standing behind Frank, leaning out the back of the van.
"All right," Frank said. "Let's get going."
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Sleeping in the van had given them one advantage; they were able to get right back on the road. They hadn't gone far, though, before they ran into another problem.
Their route up into the mountains was completely blocked by a huge, overturned tree.
"It'll take us half the day to clear that away," Joe said.
"Maybe we don't have to," Frank told him. "Look." He pointed to a signpost on the side of the road that had been partially bent by the falling tree. " 'Ranger Station—Two Miles.' They ought to have a tow truck or something."
The station, a small concrete building, was a short, fairly painless half-hour hike up the mountain road.
"Hello?" Frank called out, banging on the front door. "Is anyone here?"
Joe bent down and picked up a piece of paper off the ground. He handed it to Frank.
" 'Back at eight a.m.,' " Frank read. "It's dated today."
"And it's after eight o'clock," Joe said. "Let's try the door."
It swung open at his touch. Exchanging a worried glance with his brother, Joe pushed through and inside.
The building was set up just like a police station: a front desk, with a small, open office area behind it. Two other doors led off the main room.
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"Where is everybody?" Joe asked.
"They did just have a blizzard," Frank said. "They're probably out helping people." Joe opened one of the doors that led off the main room and stepped inside; Frank decided to try the other.
He found himself in a bedroom, with a bunk bed and sink in the corner.
"Nobody in here," Frank called out, swinging the door shut behind him. "You find anything—"
The question died on his lips as Ned Nolan stepped out from the other room, carrying a revolver in his right hand.
"Frank Hardy," he said, smiling and moving forward. Frank unconsciously backed up a step.
"What an unexpected pleasure."
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Chapter 18
"Where's Joe?" Frank asked. "What have you done with him?"
"He's all right," Ned said, nodding behind him. "I expect he'll be awake again shortly." He shook his head. "I must admit, I really didn't expect to see you ever again," he said.
"You killed Daniel Carew," Frank said. "And the coffee vendor in the police station— that was you, too."
Ned smiled. "That was me," he said and nodded. Frank's guess had been right. Ned was the mystery killer.
Ned was keeping the gun down at his side— too far down to use at close quarters, Frank noted. If he could get near enough .. .
"I didn't get Peterson the last time, thanks
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to you," Ned continued. "But I'll get him now."
Frank took a step forward. "Why are you doing this, Ned? The money?"
"For one thing," Ned agreed. "My father deserves the inheritance more than any of those crooks, wouldn't you agree?"
"All right," Frank nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead, willing Ned not to notice him inching ahead. "But isn't one and a half million dollars enough for him?"
"No!" Ned said angrily. "No amount of money can ever compensate for what they did to him—"
"And that's why you're trying to kill them all?" Frank asked.
"That's right," Ned said. "I think it all ties together rather nicely, actually." His voice turned cold and hard. "Don't try to stop me. I don't want to hurt you or Joe, but I will if I have to." He smiled quite suddenly, and Frank saw that his eyes were totally bloodshot.
He looked as if he'd gone insane.
"I will if I have to, Frank," Ned repeated. "Make no mistake about that."
"All right," Frank said. He took another step closer. "What if—"
Without warning, he launched himself at Ned, his arms outstretched, reaching for the gun.
Ned spun in a sudden side-kick and slammed
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Frank square in the chest. Frank stumbled backward and lay sprawled out on the front desk.
Ned was standing over him, his hand raised like an ax, poised to chop down.
Frank rolled out of the way, just as Ned's punch connected with a loud crack on the desktop.
Frank drew both his arms forward and jammed his elbows into Ned's side.
Ned backhanded him viciously across the face; Frank felt his lip split and tasted blood.
Ned raised his hand again, and Frank tried to step aside, to dodge the blow. But he was moving too slow, too slow. . . .
The world went black.
* * *
Frank groaned and struggled to his feet.
His lip was swollen; he could still taste blood in the cut. That meant he hadn't been out long.
Ned was gone.
Frank rushed into the other room. There, he discovered Joe and a young woman in a Park Ranger outfit lying on the floor. Joe looked like he'd be all right, but she had a nasty-looking cut on the back of her head.
Frank found some smelling salts and brought Joe around first, and then the ranger.
"Ow," his brother said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. "What hit me?'
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"Ned Nolan," Frank replied. He filled Joe in on what had happened.
Next to them, the park ranger was also trying to get to her feet.
"Who are you?" she asked, looking up at Frank. "What are you doing here?"
Frank introduced himself and Joe. Then he told the woman—whose name was Kathleen Little—why she'd been attacked and why they needed her help.
"We have to get to that cabin first," Frank said. "Or someone else could be killed."
"Yeah," Joe said. "We need help moving a tree that's blocking the road a couple miles back, so we can get to our van."
"Forget your van," the forest ranger said, climbing to her feet. "I'll show you how we get around up here."
She led them around to the back of the station—where two snowmobiles were sitting.
"We usually have three," she said, frowning. "It looks like your friend's taken the other one. These machines are better, though."
"Then we'll catch him," Frank said positively.
"I hope so," the ranger said. "The trail will be covered over, but you should be okay if you just follow the line where trees have been cut. Good luck—and be careful. I'll get down the mountain and send up some help."
"Thanks," Frank said. He turned to Joe,
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who had already mounted one snowmobile. "You know how to drive these things?"
"Sure," Joe said. "Just like a motorcycle. Throttle on the left hand, brake on the right."
"All right," Frank said. "I'll follow you."
They gunned their motors and set them to go forward, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed.
They rode along the silent snow-covered path through an endless sea of evergreens. The only sounds were the shush of the front skis as they cut through the snow and the low rumble of the snowmobile's tread.
"There it is," Joe said, turning around to shout at his brother. Frank couldn't hear him, but he followed the line of Joe's arm pointing at the bottom of the next ridge. Just barely visible through the forest, Frank could see a little cabin, smoke pouring out of its chimney.
If they were lucky there was still a chance Ned hadn't reached the house.
Suddenly there was a loud crack, then something clanged off Frank's snowmobile. Another crack, and something hit home on Frank's vehicle. It was as if someone had thrown rocks—
Or fired bullets.
Frank's snowmobile sputtered. He watched as a trail of gasoline streamed out of the tank. The engine coughed one last time and died,
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Frank turned in his seat to see another snowmobile roaring up the slope behind him.
Joe took in the situation and flashed back to his brother.
"It's Ned," Frank yelled, racing for Joe's snowmobile. He hopped on behind Joe, clapping him on the shoulder. "Go—he's got a gun!"
Joe kicked the snowmobile into overdrive.
Within seconds they were shooting through the woods, far faster than Joe would have liked to go. He had to forget everything but driving, concentrating on following the path where trees had been cut—or they'd crack up and end up just as dead as if Ned had shot them.
A bullet clanged off Joe's snowmobile now— then another.
"He's gaining," Frank said. "I thought this was supposed to be a faster machine."
Joe shook his head, keeping his gaze forward. "Must be the two of us, weighing the machine down."
Suddenly they burst out of the woods and into the open. For a second Joe was dazzled by the glare of sunlight on the snow. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw a ridge stretching out ahead of them. On the left it was bordered by more forest—on the right, the ridge overlooked a sheer thousand-foot drop to the valley floor below.
And just ahead, a hundred feet ahead, the
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ridge bent sharply to the left, at almost a ninety-degree angle.
At their present speed, they'd never make the turn.
"I can't hold it!" Joe yelled. "Jump!"
A second later, the snowmobile flew off the ridge and landed hard, ten feet down the steep slope. The gas tank exploded. The machine rolled over once, slowly, and then again, faster—and again, and again.
It burned all the way to the bottom.
Ned Nolan brought his snowmobile to a halt at the edge of the ridge to study the wreckage below.
A smile of satisfaction crossed his face.
* * *
From behind a large snow-covered boulder a bit farther up the mountain, Frank and Joe Hardy watched Ned view their supposed deaths.
"He bought it," Joe said.
Frank nodded. They'd just managed to get off the machine before it crashed. "There he goes," Frank said, watching the snowmobile head off toward the cabin. "Come on."
The brothers set off in a dead run. Ten minutes later Frank burst through the front door of the cabin.
His father and Samuel Peterson were sitting on a couch in front of a roaring fire, Hugh Nolan in a chair beside them.
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Ned was kneeling by the fire, turning a log.
They were all staring at Frank with varying degrees of surprise on their faces.
"Frank!" Fenton Hardy rose from the couch. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a long story, Dad," Frank said. Then he raised his arm and pointed at Ned. "And he can tell you most of it."
"Once again, I'm very surprised to see you, Frank," Ned said. "Very surprised indeed."
Fenton Hardy's eyes went back and forth between the two of them.
"What's going on, boys?"
"What's going on is simple," Frank said. "You're looking at the man who killed Daniel Carew—and tried to poison Chief Peterson!"
"Hold on a minute, Frank," Samuel Peterson said, standing. "That's a serious accusation."
"But I'm afraid it's true," Ned said. Without warning, his arm snaked out, and he grabbed Fenton Hardy in a stranglehold.
"Ned!" Hugh Nolan stepped forward, shock registering on his face. "What are you doing?"
Ned pulled out his gun and pressed it to Fenton's head. "What I have to do," Dad—to make sure you get what you deserve."
"And to stop the lies—isn't that right, Ned?"
"Yes, Frank," Ned said. "To stop the lies."
"Lies?" Peterson asked. "What lies?"
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"He's talking about the money Josh Moran gave Hugh Nolan to keep quiet about the fire in Jefferson Heights," Frank said.
"That never happened!" Ned shouted. He cocked the gun and pressed it against Fenton Hardy's temple. "That never happened!"
"Frank," Chief Peterson said, circling around next to him and whispering, "I sure hope you know what you're doing."
"Oh, Ned," Hugh Nolan said, shaking his head slowly. "They're not lies."
Ned's gun hand wavered slightly. "I don't understand."
"They're not lies," Hugh Nolan repeated. He faced his son. "I did take that money from Moran, and I've regretted it every day of my life. Those people who were killed . . ." He shook his head. "I still see their faces at night. I couldn't sleep for the next few years—I mean, literally. I started drinking, I—" he stopped talking and buried his face in his hands.
Frank stepped forward.
"Give me the gun, Ned," he said.
"I don't think so," Ned said, backing slowly toward the front of the cabin, dragging Fenton. He reached behind him and opened the door.
A snowball slammed into his head, knocking the gun from it.
Another caught him in the head. His grip slackened—and Fenton Hardy broke free.
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Ned moved like lightning. Before the gun had even hit the ground, he was halfway into a side-kick, his foot aimed for Fenton Hardy's head.
But Fenton Hardy was even quicker. He caught Ned's foot with one hand and, before Ned could react, delivered a crushing right- hand punch to the younger Nolan's jaw.
Ned dropped as if he'd been poleaxed.
Rubbing his neck with one hand, Fenton Hardy bent down and picked up the gun with the other.
"Sorry, Hugh," he said.
"Not half as sorry as I am," Nolan answered.
Joe Hardy walked forward, carrying a snowball in each hand. "How'd I do?"
Frank clapped his brother on the back. "Tommy Poletti couldn't have thrown a more accurate snowball, Joe."
Fenton Hardy smiled. "And here I thought you wanted to be a running back."
"Who knows?" Joe asked. "Maybe I'll take up another position."
* * *
"Johnson succeeded in getting Moran's will set aside—provisionally," Peterson said, hanging up the phone. They had returned to the ranger station to see Ned delivered into police custody—and to wrap up a few loose ends. "I
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suspect the money will all wind up in Emily Moran's hands eventually."
"And I suspect she'll end up giving a lot of it away," Frank said.
"You might be right about that," Peterson said. "I don't know how to thank you boys. You saved my life—twice."
Frank smiled. "Believe it or not, it was our pleasure."
Peterson snapped his fingers. "I know. You can all come back with me to New York—my treat. I'll get us tickets to a hockey game—"
Frank shook his head. "After that snowmobile ride, no more winter-related sports for
me."
"All right," Peterson said. "How about a basketball game?"
Joe grinned. "Now you're talking."
"The boys can't go, I'm afraid," Fenton Hardy said. "They have work to do at home. Some papers they've been putting off writing for quite a while, I think."
Joe's face fell.
"Though if you're dead-set on seeing a game, Sam, I wouldn't mind going."
"Uh-uh, Dad," Frank said. "You can't go either."
"Oh?" Fenton Hardy said, raising an eyebrow. "And why is that, young man?"
"The foreign film festival, remember? You
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promised Mom you'd take her. I'd hate to tell her you chose a basketball game over that."
Their father opened his mouth to protest, then shut it.
"I think you're licked, Fenton," Chief Peterson said.
"All right," Fenton Hardy said. "But we wrap up this case, see the game, and go home. That's it."
"Absolutely," Joe said. "We promise."
"Then that settles that," Fenton said. He turned to go.
"Unless, of course, something else comes up," Frank whispered.
"What was that, Frank?" Fenton Hardy asked, turning. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing, Dad," Frank said. "Nothing at all."
Hardy Boys 32: The Crisscross Shadow
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
A Strange Sale
"I WANT to speak to my nephews Frank and Joe Hardy at once," said an excited voice on the telephone. "It’s urgent."
"Yes, Miss Hardy," replied the manager of Bayport High’s football team. "They’re out on the field. I’ll get ’em."
Meanwhile, on the thirty-yard line Coach Devlin was saying, "Okay, team. Let’s run through our defensive play once more."
The eleven lined up—the regulars on defense, the scrubs facing them.
"86X," barked Frank Hardy, captain and quarterback, as the opposing center moved over the pigskin.
The ball was snapped. At the same instant, stocky Chet Morton, the regulars’ stalwart center, pulled out of the line to cover the left flank. The scrubs’ halfback darted up and over the line of scrimmage.
"Tackle him, Chet, tackle him!" shouted Frank.
Chet plowed into the second-string ball carrier and brought him to the ground for no gain.
"Good going, boys," said Coach Devlin. "I think you’ve got that defensive play down pretty well. Once around the field and then into the showers," he said, dismissing them.
Frank and his brother Joe, a year younger, jogged along together. Lithe, blond-haired Joe, who played left halfback, was puffing.
"Coach really had us working on that 86X, didn’t he?"
"I’ll say he did," tall, dark-haired Frank replied. "But it’s going to come in mighty handy when we play Hopkinsville—"
"Frank! Joel" the manager called out. "Telephone call for you. Better hurry. Your aunt seems very excited!"
The brothers looked at each other wonderingly. Sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective, they were accomplished sleuths in spite of their youth. They had often received urgent calls but never in a locker room!
Joe hurried to the phone. "Hello," he said anxiously.
"Joe, is that you?" asked a crisp feminine voice. "This is Aunt Gertrude."
"What’s up?"
Aunt Gertrude, who was staying at the Hardy home, was the boys’ favorite relative. Though she did not hesitate on occasion to reprimand her nephews, they had great respect for her insight into human nature.
"There’s a strange salesman in the house," Aunt Gertrude reported. "He’s trying to sell your mother some leather goods, but I don’t like his looks. I’m sure he’s a swindler. I’ve seen his picture somewhere in the papers."
Joe whistled softly. "We’ll come right home, Auntie," he promised.
The boys did not wait to shower or change their clothes, but hurried to their convertible.
Since their father was in San Francisco on a secret mission—so secret that he had not even told the boys its nature—Frank and Joe felt a protective responsibility toward the two women at home.
As he maneuvered the sleek car through Bayport’s busy streets, Frank looked puzzled.
"I don’t like this at all, Joe," he said.
"Let’s take a look through the window before we go in," Joe suggested. "You know what Dad says. A little undercover sleuthing in advance is better than barging in head-on."
"Good idea."
When they reached the tree-lined neighborhood where the Hardy home was located, Frank proceeded cautiously.
"We’ll park here," he said, quietly turning off the motor and gliding to the curb about three hundred feet from the house.
The boys went up a neighbor’s driveway, crossed the back yard, and approached their own house from the rear.
"How about looking in the side living-room window?" Frank whispered. Joe nodded.
The boys flattened themselves against the side of the house below the window. Cautiously they lifted their heads until their eyes were on a level with the sill. A strange man, his back to them, was there alone.
Suddenly Joe gave a start and said, "He just took something off Mother’s desk!"
"What is it?" Frank asked. "I can’t make it out—oh, yes—it’s Dad’s key case!"
As the youthful detectives watched, the man, unaware that he was being observed, opened the case and quickly slipped a key off one of the rings.
The boys did not wait to see any more. They dashed around the house, unlocked the front door, and ran into the hall.
"Why, hello, boys," a pleasant feminine voice said. Mrs. Hardy was descending the stairway. "What brings you home so early from practice—and in your football uniforms?"
"Hello, Mother!" they answered together as they followed her into the living room.
Joe burst out, "This man is what brings us here."


"He took Dad’s key case!" Frank exclaimed
"I don’t understand," she replied as the stranger stared at them with an air of surprise.
"Why did you pick up my father’s key case and take a key from it?" Frank asked sharply.
"What do you mean?" the stranger demanded angrily.
"Frank! Joe!" their mother exclaimed, taken aback by her sons’ actions. "You’d better apologize to Mr. Breck. I bought a new key case from him for your father."
"And I was merely transferring the old ones to the new case while your mother went upstairs for her pocketbook," Mr. Breck said triumphantly.
Embarrassed, the boys looked at the two cases. There were three keys in the new one.
"Here is a letter of introduction that Mr. Breck brought from Mrs. Wilson," their mother quickly explained as she handed them a folded sheet of paper.
Her sons scanned the typewritten letter, which told what a reliable man Mr. Breck was and how reasonably he was selling fine handmade leather articles. At the bottom of the page was a signature which the boys recognized as that of an old friend of their mother and father.
As they looked up, Mr. Breck gazed straight at the boys. A taunting smile outlined the lips of the dark, burly man who was about thirty-five years old.
"No reason to get excited," he said smoothly. "I’ve just been showing your mother some beautiful hand-tooled leather—"
Breck stopped speaking and looked flustered when he saw Miss Hardy in the doorway. Tall, stern Aunt Gertrude stood there glaring in unfriendly fashion. But the salesman recovered himself quickly.
"Oh another customer," he said.
"Indeed not," stated the boys’ aunt firmly. "Laura," she addressed her sister-in-law, "are you sure this man is—?"
"Oh, please," Mrs. Hardy begged, greatly distressed.
Meanwhile, Joe had been silently counting the keys. He did this twice to make certain how many were there. He knew the exact number there should be because Mr. Hardy, shortly before he left, had given the keys to his wife in Joe’s presence. The boy’s sleuthing instinct had prompted him to count them at that time. Now one key was missing!
"Mr. Breck," he demanded, his eyes flashing, "what did you do with a thin brass key that was in this old case?"
"Why ... why ..." the stranger stammered, hunting for words. "How dare you accuse me of stealing!"
"There’s a key missing—a special one. Hand it over!" Joe insisted.
"I haven’t got it, you young whippersnapper," the man replied indignantly.
"Please!" Mrs. Hardy interrupted. "Mr. Hardy, no doubt, removed the key himself."
"I’m not going to stay here and be insulted any longer!" Breck exclaimed in anger.
He moved to his small suitcase, tossed his samples inside, and snapped it shut.
"I’m getting out of this house," he said hotly. "I’ve had enough of your insinuations."
Joe made a move to detain the salesman. But his mother forbade it.
"Let him go, Joe," she advised. "No key is worth such a scene."
"But, Mother, it’s the one to the file in Dad’s study—"
"We still don’t know that your father didn’t take it."
The boys were reluctant to let the man go, but their mother’s word was law. Breck then stalked out, slamming the front door behind him.
Mrs. Hardy, still looking distressed, commented:
"I know you don’t trust the man, Frank and Joe. But I did hate to have a scene, especially since there was no proof against him."
"Sure, Mother, I understand," Frank answered. "Though the way he acted was mighty suspicious."
"I’ll say," Joe agreed. "He’d better not show his face around here again."
The boys went upstairs, removed their football gear, and showered.
Five minutes later, while they were dressing, they heard Aunt Gertrude cry out. As the boys were speculating about what had happened, she knocked on their door.
"Hurry up! Go find that man Breck. He’s stolen your father’s picture!"
Pulling on sweaters, they opened the door and followed her downstairs. Mrs. Hardy was staring at the top of the baby grand piano where her husband’s photograph had stood for nearly a year.
"I guess you were right after all about that salesman," she said. "He’s taken Dad’s picture. But why?"
"We’ll find out!" Frank cried.
They raced from the house and down the street to their car. They had little hope of locating Breck, but to their relief Joe spotted him in the center of town walking hurriedly along the sidewalk.
The convertible pulled up even with him. As it came to a stop, he glanced at the boys, then started to run.
Leaping from the car, Frank and Joe gave chase. But Breck had a head start. He turned the corner. When the Hardys reached it, the man was not in sight!

CHAPTER II
A Clever Alibi
"WHERE’D Breck go?" Joe cried, dismayed that their quarry had eluded them.
He and Frank glanced at both sides of the deserted street, seeing nothing but a few parked cars.
Suddenly Joe cried out. "Look, between those two parked cars. Isn’t that a suitcase? And a man? Come on, Frank."
The boys dashed across the street. Joe approached the space between the cars from the sidewalk, Frank from the street.
"There he is! Grab him, Joe!" Frank exclaimed as Breck tried to make a getaway.
Joe, executing a perfect tackle, stopped the man dead in his tracks. Grunting and panting, Breck tried to shake him off, but Frank, coming up from behind, pinned the husky salesman’s shoulders to the ground, while his brother clung grimly to his legs.
"Get off!" Breck cried, struggling to rise.
"Not until we’ve searched you," replied Frank, holding him even more tightly.
Just then Joe caught sight of a policeman sauntering along on the other side of the street.
"Hey, Casey!" he shouted to the officer, whom they had known for years. "We can use some help!"
Seeing the boys and their struggling captive, Casey broke into a run.
"What’s up, fellows?" he cried as he reached them.
Frank and Joe released their grip on Breck, who now made no effort to break away.
"This man stole a picture of my father and the key to his file cabinet," Frank replied, pointing to Breck, who glowered at the boys.
"Yes, we want him searched," Joe chimed in.
"All right," the officer’s voice was stern. "Come along to headquarters, mister."
"Our car’s around the corner," Frank said.
Breck started to object, but the policeman silenced him with a gesture.
"I never question Frank and Joe’s judgment," he stated as they walked to the boys’ convertible. "I guess you don’t know that they’re sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy. And they’re right smart detectives themselves. Solved lots of cases, like The Tower Treasure. And not long ago they went out West and tangled with some bad characters in The Secret of Wildcat Swamp."
At police headquarters the group was met by Chief Ezra Collig, grizzled veteran of many a battle with Bayport’s criminal elements. He and the Hardys had often worked together in rounding up underworld characters.
"Well, now, who’s this man, boys?" the chief asked briskly. "What’s he been up to?"
The Hardys quickly explained the mysterious activities of Breck.
"We can prove it, tool" Joe exclaimed, referring to the thefts of the picture and key. "All you’ve got to do is search him."
"No, you don’t," Breck protested. "I insist upon calling my lawyer. You’ve got to permit that. I know my rights," he added threateningly.
"Okay," the officer agreed. "Who’s your law yer?"
"Miles Kamp," Breck replied quickly.
"Miles Kamp, eh? I’ve never heard of him. Must be a stranger to Bayport."
Frank and Joe looked at Breck suspiciously as the man dialed the phone on the chief’s desk. After a few guarded words to Kamp, he hung up, a look of satisfaction on his face.
Ten minutes later Miles Kamp strode into the chief’s office. He was a short, heavy-jowled man with a wide thin-lipped mouth that suggested a nasty streak in his character. He peered at them nearsightedly through thick-lensed glasses.
Frank turned to Joe. "I don’t like his looks, do you?" he whispered as the salesman shook hands with the lawyer.
"No," the younger Hardy replied. "He looks even more suspicious than Breck."
"Now, what’s going on here?" the lawyer said in an annoyed voice. "Why are you holding my client?"
"Calm down, Mr. Kamp," Chief Collig said to him sternly. "Mr. Breck is accused of stealing a key and a photograph belonging to Fenton Hardy. These are his sons, and they want this man searched."
"Searched? Why, certainly, my client will gladly agree to this," Kamp replied pompously. "Mr. Breck," he said, turning to the leather-goods salesman whose face wore a smug look, "I advise you to let the police search you. We know you have nothing to fear."
At Chief Collig’s order the policeman went to work. He turned Breck’s pockets inside out and made him remove his shoes. Then he looked through the man’s suitcase.
"Nothing suspicious here, boys," he reported.
Frank’s eyes were intent on a bulge under the man’s shirt. "What are you hiding there?" he asked.
The policeman investigated and found a framed photograph of Fenton Hardy.
"What was the idea of taking that?" Joe said accusingly.
Breck’s face began to redden. "Well ... well, you see ..." the salesman stammered in embarrassment. "You’re right. I did take your father’s picture, and I apologize," he confessed sheepishly. "But I can explain."
"You’d better have a good reason," the chief interrupted.
"You see, I’ve always been a great admirer of Fenton Hardy," Breck went on rapidly, "and I’ve followed his exploits for years. So today, when I saw his picture on the piano, I couldn’t resist picking it up as a souvenir."
"Well, that puts things in a somewhat different light," said Chief Collig.
"I knew you’d understand," Breck continued hastily. "And I hope the boys do. I’d like to keep the photo. It would mean a lot to me." There was a note of sincerity in his voice.
"I don’t know," Joe replied slowly, looking at his brother questioningly.
"Please let me have it," Breck pleaded. "I’ll give you back the frame. All I want is the photograph of Mr. Hardy."
"Humph—" Chief Collig began, as all looked to him for advice. "The picture isn’t autographed, is it?" he asked, scanning the photograph.
"No."
"Well," the officer continued soberly, "as long as it’s not signed, and since Fenton Hardy’s picture has appeared so frequently in newspapers anyway, I don’t see what harm there’d be if this man keeps it. Since Mr. Breck didn’t take the key, we have no special charge to hold him. But it’s up to you boys to decide, of course," he concluded.
Breck turned to Frank and Joe, a hopeful expression on his face. There were several moments of silence, during which Miles Kamp pulled out a handkerchief and made a great show of polishing his glasses. All eyes turned to the Hardys.
The boys looked at each other again. Years of working closely together had given each one the uncanny ability to know at a glance what the other was thinking.
Frank spoke. "I guess it’s all right for him to keep the picture, as long as he’s such a great admirer of Dad."
"All right. He can have it," Joe agreed. "I don’t think Mother would mind."
"Thank you, thank you. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. It’s very generous of you," Breck said effusively.
He moved impulsively to grasp the hands of the Hardy boys to show his gratitude. Frank and Joe acknowledged his thanks coolly, their dislike of the man by no means lessened.
"Well, Chief Collig," Kamp interrupted in his pompous voice, "are you satisfied that my client has done nothing wrong? If so, I suggest you release him immediately."
"All right, you can go," the officer replied. Then he added sternly, eyeing the salesman with disfavor, "But I’m warning you, Breck, in the future you’d better not be helping yourself to pictures in people’s houses."
"Thank you, Chief Collig," Kamp said unctuously. "We appreciate your cooperation. Good day, boys."
With a bow he strutted from the room, Breck at his heels.
"Breck won this round," remarked Frank. "But I still don’t put any stock in his explanations."
"I know what you mean," agreed Collig. "We don’t have a thing to hold him on, though."
A little while later, driving home in the convertible, Joe turned to Frank.
"Did you notice the back of Breck’s hand as he was packing his suitcase?" he asked.
"Yes," Frank replied. "He had a strange-looking scar on the back of it in the shape of a W. You couldn’t miss it."
"If he were a thief, it sure would be easy to spot him," Joe replied. "By the way, remember what Aunt Gertrude said about having seen his picture somewhere identifying him as a criminal?"
"That’s right. We’ll have to check with her on that."
Reaching home, the boys hurried up the steps. They were famished and were looking forward to a delicious steak dinner.
"Hope Aunt Gertrude has apple pie to go with it." Joe grinned, anticipating the tasty meal that had been promised.
"I could eat at least two helpings," declared Frank as they entered the hall.
There they found Aunt Gertrude, greatly agitated. She was waiting for them.
"Joe! Frank! I was right about that so-called salesman all the time!"
"You mean about having seen his picture somewhere?" Frank asked.
"No, not that. But I just called Mrs. Wilson, the one whose name was on the reference Breck showed us."
"Yes?"
"Just as I suspected," their aunt said triumphantly. "Mrs. Wilson said that she never heard of the man in her life. That reference was forged!"

CHAPTER III
A Dangerous Visit
"WHAT!" Frank cried out. "Mrs. Wilson never heard of Breck?"
Aunt Gertrude shook her head.
"Then he forged the signature," Joe added. "Well, we sure were taken in. That guy probably had the key all the time—in his mouth maybe."
"And slipped it to Kamp. Joe, how could we be so dumb?"
"Anyway, we can try to find him. I want to question him further."
"Not until we get a new lock for Dad’s file," Frank said emphatically. "After going through all that trouble to get the key, Breck might try to use it!"
The boys excused themselves and hurried to a trusted locksmith with whom their father dealt. He supplied them with a new lock and instructed them how to install it.
After Frank and Joe had arrived home and had just replaced the old lock, a voice behind them said:
"Neat job, fellows!"
The boys whirled. "Sam Radley!" they exclaimed, and hurried across the room to greet their visitor.
Radley was Fenton Hardy’s able assistant, and the boys knew him well because he had helped them solve many tough problems. They had not seen him in several weeks and knew that he had been on the top-secret assignment with their father. They hoped he had news of Mr. Hardy.
"You’ll stay for dinner, Sam?" Mrs. Hardy invited, coming into the room. "That will give us a chance to hear about your case."
"Thank you. I’d like to."
"How’s Dad?" Joe asked after they sat down.
Sam smiled. "Your father’s fine."
"What’s the case about?" Frank put in. "Or can’t you tell us?"
"Just a little," the detective replied, choosing his words carefully. "Your dad and I are working for the government. There have been several cases of sabotage in important industries throughout the country.
"It looks as though these cases are part of some master plan. We think the same gang is involved in all of them, but so far we haven’t been able to find any clues that point to the guilty persons. That’s about all I can tell you," Sam concluded.
Frank gave a long, low whistle. "Sounds like an important and dangerous—case."
"We’re working on a mystery of our own," put in Joe.
Briefly the boys recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with Aunt Gertrude’s report of the forged letter of reference.
"That man Breck!" their aunt exclaimed. "I just know I’ve seen his picture in connection with something dishonest. Land sakes, I’ve been around detectives long enough to know a suspicious character when I see one!"
"You’re better at it than I am," Mrs. Hardy remarked ruefully. "But then, you’re Fenton’s sister."
"And just the person to help us find Breck," Frank said. "We’ll go to police headquarters in the morning and look at their rogues’ gallery."
Right after breakfast the next day the boys drove her downtown. She marched purposefully into headquarters, followed by her nephews. It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude meant to find out where she had seen the thief’s picture. The boys knew that it was wise to keep in the background when she was in that mood.
"Good morning, Chief," she greeted Collig as the trio was ushered into his office.
"Aunt Gertrude wants to look at your mug file to see if she can identify Breck," Frank informed the officer.
"Well, well, so they’re making a detective out of you, too," he joked, showing Aunt Gertrude several albums of pictures which lay on a table.
Miss Hardy leafed through the pages slowly. Suddenly she gave a start. "That looks as if it might be Breck," she said excitedly.
"It might be," replied Joe, peering over her shoulder, "except that it’s Jerry ‘the Character’ Slocomb, and he’s now serving time in the federal penitentiary for counterfeiting."
"Gracious sakes," responded Aunt Gertrude. "Well, what about him?" she asked, pointing to another photograph. "He certainly looks like Breck."
"Yes, he does," admitted Frank, "but that man was picked up a couple of days ago on the West Coast for forgery. That’s ‘Fancy Fingers’ Finley."
Collig laughed. "Miss Hardy, you’ve got to do better than that."
"I’ll find him yet," Aunt Gertrude said with determination.
"Maybe if you come along with us to find him—" Joe suggested half-jokingly.
"And don’t think I wouldn’t capture him if I did!" she retorted. "Just the same, good detectives can stay right at home and solve certain mysteries. They don’t have to gallivant all over the countryside."
For the next hour she pored over the pictures. Every once in a while she would pause at one which resembled Breck. Finally she closed the last album with a sigh of disappointment.
"He’s just not here," Aunt Gertrude said dejectedly. "But I know I’ve seen his picture somewhere," she vowed.
"Maybe he was in disguise, Aunt Gertrude," Joe suggested. He was disappointed, too, that she had not been able to put her finger on a photograph of the mysterious man, and neither he nor Frank could find him.
After telling Collig of the man’s forgery, Frank asked for Breck’s address.
"We’d better work quickly before he decides to leave town," Frank said.
The officer consulted his files for a moment. "Breck’s registered at the Excelsior Hotel," he informed them, mentioning the name of a third-rate hotel in the waterfront section of Bayport.
After dropping off Aunt Gertrude, who wanted to do some shopping, the boys drove to the Excelsior.
"Have you a man named Wylie Breck staying here?" Frank asked the clerk.
The man consulted the register. "We did," he replied after a moment, "but he checked out."
The young detectives looked at each other in disappointment.
"I know," said Frank. "Let’s phone his lawyer Miles Kamp. Maybe he can tell us where Breck is."
The boys hurried to a telephone booth. After a few moments, Kamp answered.
"Yes, this is Miles Kamp," came the familiar pompous voice. "May I be of service to you?"
Frank asked where he could find Breck.
"I’m dreadfully sorry, my boy, but I can’t help you at all. I haven’t the vaguest idea where he went."
As Frank hung up, he wondered if this were true. "No help from that source," he said to Joe in disgust.
As they passed the desk again, the clerk beckoned to them. They hurried over.
"Aren’t you Frank and Joe Hardy?" the man asked.
The boys admitted that they were.
"I thought so," the clerk continued in a low tone. "I recognized you from your newspaper pictures. I didn’t care much for that guy Breck. If you’re tracking him down, I’ll let you look through his room for any possible clues. Follow me."
"Thanks," Frank said.
A minute later the clerk let them into the vacant room, then started back downstairs.
The boys searched thoroughly, looking into drawers, the wastebasket, even under the mattress, but found nothing that might help them locate the mysterious leather-goods salesman.
"Looks as if we’re stuck," Joe said dejectedly as they came out of the room.
"Maybe not. There’s a chambermaid. Let’s see if she knows anything about Breck," Frank suggested when he saw a woman coming down the corridor carrying a pile of linens.
The boys approached her and Frank explained that they were looking for some trace of Breck.
"Breck, Breck," repeated the woman slowly. "Seems like I recall the feller. Hard-looking type. Shooed me out of the room once. Acted very strange."
Suddenly her face lit up. "I do remember something!" she exclaimed. "A bit of brown wrapping paper."
Going to a closet, she began to dig through a pile of trash. Presently the chambermaid gave a triumphant cry.
"Here it is!" she called. "I emptied this out of Breck’s room."
The boys scanned the paper hurriedly.
"I can make out a name! Philip York!" Frank exclaimed. "But the address is blurred!"
"Philip York," his brother repeated. "I wonder if he could be a friend of Breck."
Taking the paper to a window, Frank held it to let the light strike it obliquely. In this way, he had often deciphered smeared or smudged writing.
"I’ve got it," Frank went on, reading haltingly. "Twenty-four Dock Street, Southport," he concluded triumphantly.
The address was that of a town several miles from Bayport on Eagle Bay, where the boys had often gone cruising.
"Come on, Frank!" Joe urged excitedly. "Let’s go and call on this Philip York!"
Within half an hour Frank was guiding their convertible through the crowded streets of the grimy waterfront section of Southport. Reaching Dock Street, Joe began to look at the house numbers.
"There it is!" he exclaimed. "Pull up, Frank."
Twenty-four Dock Street was a ramshackle tenement. As the boys walked through the open front door, a stocky man dressed in dirty work clothes brushed rudely by them into the hallway.
"Frank," Joe whispered, "he might be York."
With a bound, the boys followed the man up the rickety stairs.
"Say, mister," Joe called out, "we want to ask you some questions."
The man turned around and faced them. "Who do you think you’re following?" he demanded angrily.
"We want some information," Frank said boldly.
"So you want info, do you?" the man replied. "Well, who are you and what’s your business here? Get out of here before I throw you out." He raised his arm in a threatening motion.
Undaunted, the boys held their ground.
"You’ll throw nobody out," Frank said in a quiet but determined voice. "Do you know a Wylie Breck?"
"No."
"Are you Philip York?"
The man surveyed the boys standing shoulder to shoulder. "No, I’m not," he answered. "What’s the racket?"
Frank shrugged. "We heard they lived here. Thought we’d look ’em up."
"Oh, that’s different. Well, I never heard of Wylie Breck, but there’s a Philip York on the first floor," the stranger went on, somewhat calmed down.
The man pointed down the stairs. "He lives in that apartment. But I advise you kids to scram. You don’t belong here. You’ll get into trouble." He went up the stairs without explaining further.
Frank and Joe descended the stairs. The hallway was dark and had a musty odor. They rapped on the door of York’s apartment.
After a few moments’ wait they heard footsteps approaching the door.
"Get set, Frank, in case it’s Breck and he slams the door in our faces," Joe whispered.
As the door was flung open the boys tensed themselves.
"What do you want?" An unshaven man, wearing a royal-blue sweater, challenged them. He was not Breck.
"We’re looking for Wylie Breck and Philip York," Frank replied quickly, edging closer to the door.
"Breck? York?" the man rasped in a foggy voice. "Never heard of ’em. What business you got in this place, anyway?" he asked.
"We want to talk to them, that’s all," Frank replied. "Maybe you’ve seen Breck around."
Frank described Breck, adding that he carried a suitcase full of leather goods.
"Never saw him," the man said.
Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked beyond the boys. Alert to danger, the boys turned.
As the door slammed behind them, they saw two dark shapes coming swiftly toward them.
"Look out!" Joe cried out.

CHAPTER IV
The Telltale Moccasin
THE Hardys were only half turned to meet the attack when the two men crashed into them, chest-high. Joe was knocked out, Frank stunned.
Frank instinctively lashed out at the men with both fists. One of the attackers sank to his knees, but the other thug, coming from behind, got a strangle hold on the boy which rendered him helpless.
The Hardys’ assailants dragged them down the hallway, pushed them into a closet, and locked the door.
"Leave the key in," a voice ordered.
It was several seconds before Joe regained his senses and remembered what had happened.
"Who could those guys have been?" Frank rammed his body against the door to open it.
"Beats me. Let’s try pounding first," Joe advised. "We don’t want to pay for a broken door." 
They thumped on the panel and waited. All was still. Then they began yelling:
"Help! Help!"
Presently they heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Was he friend or foe?
"I’m going to tackle him whoever he is," Joe said.
Before Frank could warn against it, the door opened and Joe charged the man outside. The two of them rolled on the floor in a heap.
"I’ve got him, Frank!" Joe yelled.
"Hey, lay off, fellows!" a familiar voice shouted.
"Chet Morton!" Frank exclaimed, recognizing their friend and helping him to his feet.
"Chet, how the dickens did you get here?" Joe demanded. "Gee, I’m sorry. I thought you might be one of the thugs who threw us in the closet."
"Hm!" said Chet as he dusted himself off. "I thought you would get in trouble, so I followed you from Bayport. My jalopy can’t tear like yours. I nearly lost you, but a kid on the corner told me where you went."
"Good thing you came, Chet," Joe replied. "Sorry I was rough with you."
"That’s okay," Chet said lightly. "Centers ought to be ready for surprise tackles."
"Let’s talk again to that fellow in the blue sweater," Frank proposed. "Maybe he knows who hit us."
The trio hurried down the corridor, and Joe rapped on the door. No one answered. He pounded.
"Mighty mysterious," Frank commented. "That fellow knew we were in trouble. If he isn’t in league with them, why didn’t he help us out?"
"He must be a friend of Breck," Joe replied. "And that’s why he didn’t tell us that he was Philip York."
No one came to open the door. Either the man had gone out, or for reasons of his own would not answer.
"Let’s report this whole business to the Southport police," said Frank. "There’s nothing more we can do here."
"Now you’re talking," agreed Chet. "This is a good place to stay away from."
After they had made a full statement at headquarters, and asked the sergeant to report any developments to Chief Collig, the boys drove back to Bayport.
Frank and Joe were puzzled by the day’s events, but their determination to find Breck was stronger than ever.
Arriving home, they were greeted by their mother.
"Come on, boys," she said. "Hurry and wash. We’ll eat in a few minutes."
After dinner, which included a second helping of chocolate walnut cake, Frank said:
"Joe, I have an idea. Why don’t we try tracking down the manufacturer of that key case Mother bought from Breck? In that way, perhaps we’ll be able to find out who he really is."
"Good idea. Let’s start now."
They went into their father’s study, where Mrs. Hardy had put the new key case. Joe turned it over carefully in his hand. There was no name on it.
"But here’s something inside," he announced.
Imprinted on the leather, in a corner of the case, was an odd mark:


The boys gave a sigh of satisfaction.
"Now we’ve got something definite to go on," Frank said, smiling. "Tomorrow we’ll show it to a leather-goods dealer and ask him what manufacturer uses this mark."
After football practice the next afternoon, they hurried straight to the shop of their white-haired friend Mr. Nobbly.
"We’d like to find out who made this," Frank explained, showing the key case. "Here’s the imprint. Can you tell us who uses this trademark?"
Mr. Nobbly examined the mark closely. He shook his head slowly. "Sorry, boys, I never saw nor heard of that mark in all my thirty-five years in this business."
"Then it’s probably some private maker’s?" Frank asked.
"No doubt. It’s fine, hand-tooled work. But it would be like hunting for a penny in the mud of Barmet Bay to find him."
Frank looked at Joe in disappointment. Another clue gone up in smoke!
"Come on," Joe said. "We’ll keep checking."
They thanked Mr. Nobbly and left the store. For the next few days the Hardys called at every possible place in their quest for the maker of the key case.
They went to all the leather-goods shops in Bayport and examined key cases, wallets, handbags, and luggage. They even checked with shoe stores. But no one had ever seen such a mark.
Finally the boys had to postpone their search and settle down to hard football practice. Saturday came with the big game against Hopkinsville.
Frank was gloomy as the team donned their uniforms in the locker room.
"I guess it’s no use trying to trace that symbol," he said dejectedly to Joe, pulling on his jersey.
"Looks as if you’re right," his brother replied. "Well, let’s forget about it for a while. We have a game to play, and you know what a whale of a team Hopkinsville has this year."
As they trotted along the corridor of the field house, Frank spied a moccasin lying on the cement floor. Ordinarily he would not have done any more than kick it out of the way. But being interested now in everything made of leather he bent down and picked it up.
"Joe, look!" he exulted. "The telltale mark!"
"Sure enough," Joe cried. "I wonder who dropped this." He queried the members of his team as they came from the field house. None owned the moccasin.
"Must be someone from Hopkinsville," Frank mused. "We’ll find out later."
He took it along to the bench. The warm-up period was over and they were waiting for the whistle when one of the Hopkinsville players ran by. He noticed Frank holding the moccasin.
"Say, what are you fellows doing with that?" he asked. "It belongs to one of our ends—George Parks."
"Where is he?" inquired Joe. "We want to ask him about this moccasin."
The Hopkinsville player pointed. "He’s the tall guy there."
At that moment the referee blew his whistle, signaling that the game was to begin.
The biggest crowd in years had gathered to watch the contest. Hopkinsville won the toss and elected to defend the north goal with the wind at their backs. Frank and Joe waited tensely in their positions as the Hopkinsville booter carefully placed the ball for the kickoff.
"Here it comes!" Frank cried. "Joe, it’s headed right for you!"
Joe caught the end-over-end kickoff on the ten-yard line. Twisting and dodging, he carried the ball to mid-field. The Bayport stands cheered loudly.
Frank gained a couple of yards on the next play on a smash-through tackle. Then, on the following play, Joe faded back and tossed a short pass to the left end, Tony Prito. The dark-haired, wiry youth, a close friend of the Hardys, took the ball for a first down on the Hopkinsville thirty-five.
A couple of line bucks by Biff Hooper, another of their special friends, gained a few yards, and finally on the fourth down Joe faded back for a long pass.
Frank shot down the field like a streak of lightning, the ball sailing straight toward him. But just as he was reaching for it, a Hopkinsville player batted it down, and the opponents took over.
Frank moved along behind his linemen, grunting words of confidence to each in turn.
But in three plays Hopkinsville was on the Bayport four!
"This is the big one," Frank thought. "We’ve got to hold. This is the time to call the secret defensive play we’ve been practicing all week."
As the teams lined up for fourth down, Frank called out crisply:
"86X!"
Both Bayport tackles, instead of making the usual defensive charge, remained fixed in their positions and let the offensive linemen come to them. Through the tiny space created by this forward motion, Chet and Frank knifed into the enemy backfield and made havoc of the play, Chet making the tackle and stopping Newman, the Hopkinsville ace, in his tracks. The secret play had worked! The threat was halted! The remainder of the period was chiefly a punting duel between Frank and Newman. Each would run two ground plays and then punt. After several such exchanges, it became clear that Frank was getting more yardage with his high booming kicks that spiraled deep into enemy territory every time.
The Hopkinsville coach changed his strategy. He called a fresh end off the bench, briefed him with an arm around his thick shoulders, and sent him into the game. The team seemed to get a new life as he came trotting on. This meant their favorite pass play!
Joe, just before he dropped back to his safety zone, got a quick glimpse of the replacement. He recognized him as George Parks!
"Now I’ll be able to find out about the moccasin," Joe thought, but his excitement was lost in the barking of signals by the Hopkinsville quarterback.
Parks drifted down-field, got by Chet, and was lengthening his stride to take a long pass over his right shoulder, when Joe came racing across and knocked the ball right off his fingertips.
Joe ran back a few steps to pick up the ball. Tossing it to the referee, he turned quickly to talk to George Parks about the moccasin. But Parks had left the game and was almost off the field! He had been sent in for one play and that was all.
The first half ended in a scoreless tie. Each team went directly to its locker room.
As the Hardys came running side by side onto the field for the second half, Frank whispered to Joe, "We’ll speak to Parks right after the game. That moccasin is a vital clue."
After the half-time interval Joe fastened his headgear a little more securely, took a reassuring look at George Parks on the Hopkinsville bench, and signaled for the kickoff.
The second half was a seesaw affair, with each team getting breaks and losing them.
With seconds to go in the last quarter, the Hopkinsville team suddenly fanned out in a widespread formation. Bayport shifted with them. Newman called his signals. Suddenly Joe noticed that Chet had not shifted. He was standing with a dazed look on his face. Then it dawned on Joe!
Each pass had been made into Chet’s zone. He must have been hurt on that line smash. No doubt Newman would be throwing in there again!
The ball was snapped to Newman. He began to fade way back. He threw a long, lazy pass that soared over Chet’s head toward the Bayport goal line.
The timekeeper’s gun sounded as the ball was in flight. As soon as the ball was dead, the game would be officially over!
Joe, who had anticipated the play, was at the goal line, a step ahead of the Bayport pass receiver. He leaped up, wrenched the ball out of the grasp of his opponent, whirled, and scooted across the field, just outside of his own goal line.
At the fifty-yard line Frank threw a vicious block at the fastest enemy tackler, and Joe sprinted into the clear, with the wild uproar of the Bayport stands in his ears, straight down the sideline to the Hopkinsville goal.
The score was Bayport 6, Hopkinsville O! Pandemonium reigned!
As Frank sent the ball straight through the crossbars, the gun sounded the end of the game.
Bayport had won 7-0 on Joe Hardy’s one-hundred-yard dash for a touchdown! Frank hugged his brother, delirious with joy.
"What a run! There’s never been a touchdown run that long in the history of Bayport High!"
"Yea, Hardy boys!" the Bayport fans shouted as they poured onto the field.
With cheers and singing, Frank and Joe were borne off the field on the shoulders of their teammates. When at last they were set down, more fans crowded around to pommel the boys and shake their hands.
"Joe! Joe!" Frank shouted over the tumult. "We must see George Parks before he gets away!"
But the boys were trapped by their admirers as the Hopkinsville team dejectedly disappeared from the field. Fifteen minutes went by. But finally the Hardys broke loose.
They raced toward the parking lot, but when they reached it, they saw the Hopkinsville bus pulling out!

CHAPTER V
Buried Treasure
FRANK and Joe gave chase, but it was too late. In a cloud of dust, the bus disappeared down the road, leaving the young detectives panting in the roadway.
As they trudged back toward the field house, Joe said, "I wonder what Parks did about his moccasin. It was still under our bench a few minutes ago."
The boys retrieved it.
"What say we return this to him tomorrow?" Frank asked.
"You bet."
They would have driven over that evening, but there was a school dance. Chet’s attractive dark-haired sister Iola was going with Joe, and pretty blond Callie Shaw with Frank.
Sunday afternoon the boys looked up Parks’ address in the telephone directory, then drove to Hopkinsville.
"There’s the house, Frank," Joe called out as they came to a tree-shaded ranch-style dwelling.
The tall, good-looking ballplayer answered the door.
"Hello, George," Joe greeted him.
"Joe and Frank Hardy!" the boy replied. "Come on in. Say, I’ll never forget you fellows after yesterday’s game."
"It sure was close," Frank said.
"What brings you to Hopkinsville?"
"We’re returning some of your property." Frank held out a bag containing the moccasin.
"Thanks," Parks said, after Frank had explained about finding the shoe. "I hated to lose that. Those loafers are the most comfortable shoes I own. I had to wear my football shoes home."
Taking off their overcoats, Frank and Joe quickly outlined their special reason for coming and pointed to the R mark inside the moccasin.
"What we want to know," said Frank, "is where you bought them."
"Golly," George replied quickly, "I know where I got them, but I can’t tell you where they were purchased."
"You didn’t buy them yourself?" Joe asked.
"No. My uncle gave them to me as a present for my birthday last spring. All I know is that the moccasins were made by an Indian tribe. But what tribe I couldn’t tell you," he concluded.
"Could you find out, George? It’s important. It may help to catch a thief!"
"Good night!" Parks exclaimed. "That’s right. You fellows are detectives, aren’t you? Well, my uncle lives a couple of blocks from here. I’ll ask him."
He went to the phone, but the line was busy, so he suggested that they walk over. His uncle Ben was intrigued by the Hardys’ story of their quest for the maker of the leather goods.
"I remember those moccasins well," he said, drawing on his pipe. "I bought them from a stranger on a train. I never saw him before, and I’ve never seen him since."
"An Indian?" Frank asked.
"No."
"Did he mention the name of the tribe?"
Uncle Ben shook his head. "No, he didn’t—just said he’d bought them from an Indian and that they were too small for him."
The Hardys thanked Mr. Parks and George and started back to Bayport.
"It looks as though we’re up a blind alley again. All of our clues lead us nowhere," Frank muttered.
"You know," his brother said thoughtfully, "if that mark means anything, the name of the tribe may begin with an R. Maybe we ought to do some research on Indians."
"Good idea," Frank agreed. "I wonder," he added thoughtfully, "if Breck can be an Indian."
"He didn’t look like a full-blooded one."
"No, I meant a half-breed."
"I’ll settle for a quarter."
Presently a familiar house came into view.
"Let’s stop at the Mortons’," Joe suggested. "I’m getting hungry, anyway."
Chet and Iola were home. Iola was mixing a batch of waffles under her brother’s direction.
"We’re just in time." Joe grinned. "Hope you’ve got plenty."
"Sure," Chet answered. "Iola, make twice as much batter. That’ll be enough for a starter."
"I don’t know about that," his sister replied teasingly. "Perhaps I’d better mix three times as much."
The chunky football center was known for his appetite, and despite needling from his friends, never reduced his intake of food.
Supper was a jolly affair, but eventually the talk got around to the mystery of Wylie Breck. Frank told of the slim clue they had picked up from Mr. Parks.
He concluded the story by telling them that the moccasin had been made by an Indian tribe. As he was saying, "If only we knew the name of a tribe that begins with R," Iola and Chet looked at each other strangely.
"You know of one?" Joe asked.
"N-no," Chet replied, and in a moment disappeared from the room.
The Hardys continued to eat waffles with syrup.
As Joe got up to get more butter from the refrigerator, he gave a strangled cry. Frank turned to see what had startled him.
Standing in the doorway was an Indian in battle regalia!
He raised his hand commandingly. Then a deep but strangely familiar voice intoned: "I am Chief Wallapatookunk."
"Chet!" whooped the Hardys, roaring with laughter as they recognized their buddy.
"Where in the world did you get that outfit?" Frank asked.
Chet himself was struggling to maintain a dignified and fierce look.
"This Indian warrior’s suit," he replied solemnly. "Chief say you his prisoners." He pointed to Iola. "Bring um white girl to Wallapatookunk."
Iola now was giggling but pretended to be alarmed and shrank toward Joe.
"I will defend this maiden to the last arrow!" Joe said, then added, "Have a heart, Chet, before I die laughing. Where did you get that Indian costume?"
"It’s this way, fellows," Chet began, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping some of the red, black, and white crayon from his face. "My great-grandfather was a member of the Pashunk tribe."
"What!" Frank cried.
"Honest Injun," Chet insisted, "my great-grandfather belonged to the Pashunk tribe."
"He’s right," Iola chimed in.
"Great-grandfather Ezekiel Morton was honorary Chief Wallapatookunk of the Pashunks. This getup I’m wearing is a ceremonial outfit used only on special occasions. It’s been in our family for generations, and I just thought of it again when you mentioned those Indian moccasins."
"What does Wallapatookunk mean?" Frank asked.
"Gee, fellows," Chet stammered, "you really don’t want to know, do you?"
"We certainly do," Frank insisted.
"Well, it means ‘Eat-a-Whole-Moose,’ " Chet answered reluctantly.
"Boy, your great-grandfather must have had some appetite. Say, why didn’t your folks call you Ezekiel?"
"Whoever heard of a center called Ezekiel?" Chet countered, ignoring the gibe.
"We don’t know exactly how our great-grandfather got the Indian name," Iola spoke up, "but we do know a very strange legend that he used to tell. It has been handed down in our family."
"What is it?" Joe asked eagerly.
"According to the legend, a fabulous treasure is buried in the territory where the Pashunks used to live!"
"Buried treasure!" The Hardys whistled in amazement.
"Where?" Joe inquired.
"No one knows."
"But there must be some clue," Frank insisted.
"Yes," Chet assented. "The legend says the treasure is buried in a crisscross shadow!"
"The shadow of what?" Joe asked.
"That’s what we don’t know, but I sure wish we could find the treasure," Chet concluded.
Just then the doorbell rang and Iola excused herself to answer it.
"Hi, Frank! Hello, Joe! Chet! What in the world!" cried Callie Shaw as she saw the boy’s costume and his multicolored streaked face.
"Callie," Joe said solemnly, with a sweep of his arm, "let me present Great Chief Walla—er —anyhow, heap big wheel among Indians!"
Callie, though still puzzled, joined the outburst of laughter at Joe’s introduction of the disguised Chet.
Then Frank brought her up to date on news in the Morton household and also what he and Joe had learned at Hopkinsville.
"You’ve really made progress in your detecting," Callie commented. "If you could only find out something further about that R imprint."
"Say, why don’t we get out our collection of old Indian books, Chet?" Iola spoke up. "Maybe we’ll find some tribes that begin with R."
"And then we’ll check on whether they’re the ones who do leatherwork," Frank added enthusiastically.
Iola excused herself and returned a few minutes later with an armload of old volumes.
Immediately all the young people started thumbing through the books, intently scanning the fine print. The pages were yellowed with age.
There were dozens of tribes that no longer existed—names that had meant so much in the early days of the country—Abnakis, Shawnees, Narragansetts, and others that reminded the Bayport High students of the exciting days of the early colonists.
"This tribe we’re looking for is probably so small that it didn’t even make history," remarked Joe, breaking the silence. Everyone nodded agreement, but kept on leafing the pages determinedly.
But there was not a single tribe that began with an R!
Finally it was time for the Hardys to start home, since they did not wish to break football training rules. Frank rode with Callie as far as her house, with Joe following, then transferred to the convertible.


"Come on! He mustn’t get away!" Joe cried
"I guess we’re at the end of the Indian trail with that moccasin," Joe remarked.
"We may still find the R tribe," Frank said more hopefully. "I’m not giving up yet."
"I’m with you on that score," Joe agreed as they turned the corner near the Hardy home.
Suddenly Frank gave a start and sat bolt upright. "Look!" he whispered excitedly. "Coming out of that window!"
Joe followed his brother’s gaze to the second floor of the Hardy house. In the moonlight they could see a man climbing out!
Frank cut the engine and stopped at the curb. The boys leaped from the car and dashed up the driveway.
As they looked up again, the intruder was dropping to the roof of the kitchen porch. Then a cloud passed in front of the moon and hid the scene in darkness.
"Come on! He mustn’t get away!" Joe cried.
The boys heard a thud on the ground, and reached the porch just as the moon broke through the clouds.
They could see no one!
In the second that the clouds had obscured the moon, the intruder had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up!

CHAPTER VI
An Elusive Suspect
WHERE had the man who had climbed out the second-story window gone?
"Quick!" Joe said to his brother. "I’ll circle this side of the house. You take the other."
Finding no one, they searched the neighboring yards. It was no use. The intruder had disappeared.
"Let’s go inside and see if he took anything," Frank urged.
Noticing that several lights had been turned on upstairs, the boys dashed to the second floor.
"It’s Frank and Joe," Frank called. "Are you all right, Mother?"
"Oh, boys, what a relief to see you!" Mrs. Hardy cried as they reached the hall.
Aunt Gertrude stood menacingly, an umbrella clutched in her hand.
"We saw a man crawling out of the second-story window," Frank told them.
"Then why didn’t you catch him?" Aunt Gertrude bristled.
"We tried," Frank confessed, "but he got away."
"Did he steal anything?" Joe put in. "Did you see him?"
"See him?" Aunt Gertrude echoed with indignation. "We saw him, and if I ever get that fellow, I’ll give him the thrashing of his life."
"Aunt Gertrude and I came home from the movies. When we got upstairs we heard a noise in your father’s study," Mrs. Hardy explained. "We looked in and saw a masked man. As soon as he spotted us, he dived for the window and climbed out."
"What was he doing?" Frank asked.
"He was standing in front of the file cabinet with a key in his hand!"
The boys rushed into Mr. Hardy’s study and examined the file carefully. Apparently it had not been disturbed.
"Good thing we changed that lock," Joe said.
"Right. But the criminal might have forced it open." Frank turned to his mother and aunt. "I guess you frightened him off in time."
"I wonder what he was after," Joe pondered.
"It could be almost anything," Frank replied thoughtfully. "Let’s fine-tooth-comb this room. Maybe the fellow left a clue that may help us track him down."
They examined the study from wall to wall but found nothing. As Joe leaned against the cabinet, a disappointed frown on his face, suddenly something caught his eye. Reaching down, he pulled at a bit of wool snagged on the corner of one drawer.
"We missed this," he said. "Oh boy! What a clue!"
Triumphantly he flashed a strand of royal-blue wool! "That man in the house in Southport! Remember? He was wearing a royal-blue sweater!"
"Correct." Frank beamed. "Now we’re beginning to get somewhere on this case!"
"That proves Breck did take the key!" cried Joe. "After he skipped Bayport, either he or his lawyer gave it to the man in the royal-blue sweater and he came here tonight."
"Maybe those two guys who slugged us in that Southport tenement house were Breck and Kamp!" Frank reasoned. "They were just arriving to give Mr. Blue Sweater the key."
"Everything ties together." Joe nodded in satisfaction. "But the important question’s still not answered. What did this gang want from Dad’s file?"
"Let’s go back to Southport tomorrow and call on that blue-sweater guy again," Frank proposed.
Since the football squad was excused from practice on Monday, the Hardys were able to start for Southport as soon as classes were over.
"How about coming along, Chet?" Frank asked as they got ready to leave.
"Sorry, fellows. I promised Dad I’d help around home. But listen, you two, don’t get yourselves in the hospital. We’ve got a tough game to play on Saturday and—"
"Where’re you going?" Tony Prito spoke up. "Maybe I can be your bodyguard."
"Swell."
The three boys drove to the dock where the Hardys’ small powerboat the Sleuth was moored. They would make the trip to Southport by water.
When they arrived, Frank and Joe asked Tony to guard the Sleuth while they were gone. Then they headed up a steep cobblestoned alley to the street and walked into the main entrance of the tenement where Philip York lived.
Joe rapped on the apartment door while Frank kept an eye on the dim corridor to avoid another surprise attack.
The door was opened by the man they had come to see. He was wearing the telltale blue sweater.
"What do you want?" he asked roughly.
"To talk to you."
The man’s eyes widened when he recognized his callers. "You boys are going to get hurt coming around here," he said threateningly. "I can’t give you any information."
"Oh no?" Joe retorted skeptically, then shot the question, "What were you doing in our house last night?"
"Your house? I’ve never been near the place in my life," York replied angrily.
"That’s your story," Frank spoke up. "Here, take a look at this," he said, forcing his way in and suddenly confronting the man with the piece of blue yarn. "It came from that sweater you’re wearing," he declared, pointing to a tear in the front of it.
The man looked blank, then recovered. "Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. Anyway, it ain’t my sweater," he said defensively. "I borrowed it."
"We don’t believe you," Frank answered firmly. Both boys were in the room now. "You’d better start talking."
"Look, fellows," York said meekly. "Take it easy on a guy that ain’t to blame, will you? I’ll do anything you ask. You’ve got the goods on me."
The Hardys had not expected to get a confession that easily. They looked at each other with satisfaction. At last they were making headway on the case !
"Come along to the police station with us," Frank said sternly. "They’ll want to hear what you have to say."
"Okay," the man replied nervously. "I’ll have to get my coat out of the bedroom. Wait here."
Before they could object, he turned, went into an adjoining room, and closed the door.
"We’d better keep a close watch on him," Frank advised. "He may try to get away."
Joe agreed, and called, "Say, you in there!"
There was no reply.
"Let’s see what he’s up to!" Joe exclaimed.
The boys burst through the door. Their eyes took in the shabbily furnished bedroom in a glance.
No one was in sight!
"There’s no way out except by the windows and they’re locked from the inside," Frank stated. "He’s got to be here somewhere!"
They began a careful search of the room. When Frank crawled under the bed he found a trap door that opened downward.
"Here’s how he got out!" he exclaimed. "Joe, you guard the hall and I’ll go after him this way."
"Okay. Give our whistle if you need me."
Frank squeezed through the opening onto a rope ladder which swung down from the edge of the trap door.
"This must be the basement," he told himself as he reached the end and stepped onto the floor.
He whipped out his pocket flashlight and flicked it on. He saw no one.
Inch by inch Frank went over the cellar. But the man in the royal-blue sweater was not there.
"How you coming?" Joe called down.
"He got out of here somehow." At that moment Frank heard a familiar sound—the put-put of a motorboat.
"This basement must be very close to the dock!" he shouted up to Joe. "There’s a door. I’ll let you know what happens."
He hurried over, twisted the knob, and pushed. The door opened easily.
Blinking in the bright sunlight, Frank looked around. He was standing alone on a small dock that poked its nose into Eagle Bay.
Joe was peering from the living-room window. Now he raised the sash and called:
"See anything?"
"Nothing but the Sleuth."
Joe looked in the direction his brother was pointing.
"Tony! Hey, Tony!" Frank shouted across to the next dock.
Their friend’s head appeared over the stern. "Hello. I’ll come and get you."
"Did you see anybody walk out of here?" Frank called.
"Sure. A few minutes ago two men came out."
"Where’d they go?"
"They boarded a speedboat and headed off toward Bayport."
"Did one of them have on a blue sweater?"
"No. But come to think of it, one man had something blue rolled up under his arm."
"He’s the guy we’re looking for!" Frank exclaimed. "Joe, come on down! We’re going after them!"
Tony brought the Sleuth up and the Hardys hopped in. Then the boat shot out into Eagle Bay and headed for Bayport.
Scanning the bay, his hand shading his eyes from the sun, Tony suddenly shouted, "There they are, Frank. Give ’er the gun!"
The other motorboat was plowing through the choppy water at a fast clip. Frank turned on full speed and the Sleuth fairly leaped across the waves. Gradually it began to close up the distance that separated them.
"We’re catching up!" Tony exulted.
In a few moments the boys could clearly see two figures in the stern and a third at the wheel.
"There’s the fellow with the blue sweater, all right," Joe announced. "But he’s masked now!"
"Say—the other one might be Breck," guessed Frank, gripping the wheel tensely.
"Could be," returned Joe. "He’s got a mask on, too."
Relentlessly the Sleuth plowed on, closer and closer to the fleeing craft. Finally Frank narrowed the gap and began to edge in toward the boat ahead.
"York’s trying to hide!" yelled Joe as he discerned a figure hunched over in the rear seat. Just then the man beside York jerked his head around toward the pursuers and shouted something to the pilot of the fleeing speedboat.
Instantly the craft swerved sharply to the left. But just as swiftly Frank turned the Sleuth.
From then on it was a zigzag chase. The fugitive boat veered crazily from side to side. Nevertheless, the Sleuth clung to the course, and Tony shouted encouragingly:
"Atta boy, Frank! Stick to ’em!"
York’s companion turned around. Standing up, he shouted back:
"Scram outta here, you fool kids!"
The man at the wheel now resumed a straight course, making a beeline for Bayport.
The Sleuth roared up behind the speedboat. Suddenly York’s companion bent down. As he straightened up, he raised a heavy log of wood and heaved it. The log soared through the air, directly in the path of the onrushing Sleuth.
"Frank! Look out!" Joe cried.
Frank swung the wheel with all his might. But it was too late. With a splintering crash the Sleuth rammed the log!

CHAPTER VII
A Lucky Break
THE shock of the collision was so violent that the boys were catapulted into the cold water of Eagle Bay.
In a few seconds three heads emerged from the waves.
"Joe! Tony!" Frank shouted out. "Are you all right?"
"Okay, here!" Joe called.
"I’m all right, too," Tony answered.
To their amazement the Sleuth was still afloat, drifting aimlessly some yards away. As the boys swam to it, they noticed that an immense hole had been torn in her bow at the waterline.
"She’s going to sink!" Tony cried woefully.
They clambered aboard and Frank discovered that the impact had switched off the engine. He tried to start it, but it was dead!
"This is a fine pickle," he said in disgust.
"Where did the other boat go?" Tony asked.
The boys scanned the bay, but could see only a cluster of small craft near the shore. The men had made their escape!
‘ There’s one clue, though, that they’ve given us," Frank put in. "Did you notice that huge scar on the fellow’s hand before he tossed the log at us?"
"Say—that’s right!" exclaimed Joe. "I did see it. It was W-shaped, too! That means it was probably our friend Breck!"
"We practically had him!" Frank groaned. "Fine time to be stuck like this."
"And we’re drifting with the tide," Tony pointed out as he noticed the shoreline receding.
Half an hour later he motioned toward a low-slung cabin cruiser that was bearing down on them.
"Look, fellows, isn’t that the Coast Guard cutter Mallimuk?"
The three boys shouted and waved their arms to signal the cutter. The captain saw them and drew alongside. When Frank explained the reason for their predicament, Captain Barnes shook his head in anger.
"I’ll send out an alarm for those men right away," he assured them. "Meanwhile, we’ll give you a lift and some dry clothes."
While he radioed headquarters, a guardsman threw a line from the cutter. Joe fastened it to the Sleuth, and the craft was towed to its dock.
The boys thanked the men and went to their car. After dropping Tony off at his house, they made arrangements to have the boat repaired, then drove home. Mrs. Hardy was waiting anxiously.
"Mother," Joe asked, "is something the matter?"
"Yes, there is," she replied. "It’s Sam Radley. He’s been injured!"
"What happened, Mother?" Frank asked. "One of the saboteurs get him?"
"Yes. Sam caught up with a suspect and they had a tussle. The man got away, but Sam was thrown and broke his leg."
"Where is he now?"
"In Bayport Hospital."
"We’d better go to see him right away," Frank declared.
The boys were at the hospital in a few moments. They found their father’s associate with his left leg in a plaster cast.
"We’re sorry about this," Joe said. "How do you feel now?"
"Pretty well, boys. But I sure hated to lose my man."
"What happened?" Frank asked.
Briefly, Sam Radley told them he had received a tip to look along the waterfront for certain characters and had trapped one of the suspects at a boathouse outside Bayport. While he was taking him to his car, the man had made a break for it. In the fracas that followed, the saboteur had pushed Sam into a deep ditch. The detective pointed to his cast.
"This was the result."
"At least you’re making headway on the case," Joe remarked.
"I was." Sam smiled ruefully. "This sets me back. But without question your father and I are getting closer to cracking the case. On the other hand, the saboteurs are becoming bolder. They’re likely to strike anywhere, any time!"
"Gosh," Joe said, "I hope you’ll get them soon before they do any real damage." Then he asked, "Sam, what did the man who escaped look like?"
"He’s heavy-set," the assistant detective replied. "Dark-haired and swarthy-complexioned."
Frank leaned forward tensely.
"Were there any distinguishing marks on this man that you tussled with?" he asked.
"Yes. He has a large W-shaped scar on the back of his right hand."
"Scar on the back of his hand!" Frank exclaimed, and told of their recent adventures. "The man who threw the log at our boat had a W-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. And what’s more," he continued eagerly, "Breck, the phony leather-goods salesman, had the same scar on his hand. I’ll bet that Breck, the man in the boat, and the saboteur are all the same person!"
"You’re right," Joe agreed.
Sam Radley stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked down at his injured leg. "Maybe you’ll catch him before I do. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Those fellows are dangerous. The one who got away from me is known as Killer Johnson."
"Was he hiding in the boathouse or had he just arrived there in a boat?" Joe asked.
"He was just coming out of the boathouse when I got there," Sam answered. "I didn’t see a boat, though."
The boys talked a few moments more with Sam, then said good-by, promising to watch for clues that might help on the sabotage case.
On the way home Joe said, "I wonder where that boat disappeared to after the log was thrown at us."
"There are a lot of little coves and inlets along the shore that it could have ducked into without being seen," his brother replied.
"Maybe we ought to look along the shore," Joe suggested.
After an hour of fruitless searching the boys turned homeward.
"Those fellows probably left town. They may have seen the Coast Guard pick us up. I’m sure that after they dropped Breck they went into hiding," Frank pointed out.
"I think our best bet right now is to follow up the clue of the moccasin," said Joe. "It’s a clue to the real identity of Breck and might lead us to his pals."
When the boys arrived home they found dinner ready. During the meal they told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about Sam Radley’s condition and their suspicion that he had been after the same man they were.
"I guess we’ll have to do Sam’s work," Frank observed with a sidewise look at his aunt, knowing she would object.
"Sam’s work, indeed!" she cried out. "You leave the saboteurs to the big detectives!"
"Tall, you mean? I’m as tall as Sam."
"Now, boys," Mrs. Hardy cautioned, hoping the banter would not get out of hand.
"Solving crimes certainly gives them a good appetite for food and wit," Aunt Gertrude declared as each was served a second helping of fricasseed chicken and dumplings.
When they finished, the young sleuths leaned back with a sigh.
"Aunt Gertrude," said Joe, "sometimes I’d rather eat one of your meals than solve a mystery!"
At that moment the telephone rang. Frank picked it up. It was Iola. "Callie and I have been looking through some more Indian books and we’ve come across something important."
"What is it?"
"We’ve found the name of an Indian tribe that begins with an R!"
Frank whistled in amazement. "Great work, Iola. What’s the name?"
"The Ramapans."
"Ramapans?" Frank repeated. "Listen, we’ll be right over."
Twenty minutes later the Hardys arrived at the Mortons.
"Iola and I decided to check some other books that Chet remembered were in the attic," Callie explained. "We’d just about given up our search when we came across the Ramapans."
"That’s great," said Joe. "Where are they located and what are they like?"
He pulled out a notebook and pencil ready to take down all the information.
"Well, the Ramapans are a small tribe. They live on a reservation about five hundred miles from here," Callie replied.
"Yes. Go on," Frank urged eagerly as the girl paused.
"They are skilled in making small trinkets and leather articles."
"Skilled in leatherwork!" Frank exclaimed.
"I thought that would make you sit up and take notice." Chet grinned. "Just come to Morton and Company for the best in detecting."
"Can you show us on the map where the Ramapans live?" Frank asked.
Chet brought out an atlas and opened it. After turning several pages, he pointed.
"Here it is. Not many people live around this region."
The Hardys recognized the area as rugged territory made up mostly of mountains and forest.
"Say," Chet called out suddenly, "that’s right around where the Pashunks used to live!" His face lit up with expectation. "Fellows," he said, "I have a wonderful idea. Let’s go there and search for that buried treasure!"
"Sounds good, Chet," Frank replied. "But the Ramapans might not agree. They own the land where their reservation is located. And you’ve forgotten something else—school. How would you get time off from classes?"
"And even if we could, how about the football games?" Joe asked. "Bayport High might get along without Frank and me, but our big center —no!"
Chet beamed at the compliment.
"Right now, we have a mystery to solve," Joe said.
"And we do have a good clue to the maker of the key case and the moccasin," Frank added.
The young people spent the rest of the evening poring over the story of the Ramapans, learning their history and customs. As the Hardys were leaving, Frank said:
"I certainly hope we can put all this knowledge to some good use."
The next afternoon, between the end of classes and football practice, he and Joe dropped in to see Police Chief Collig and ask if there was any news from the Southport police about Breck and the man in the blue sweater.
"Nothing good," the officer replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. "They’ve disappeared. An alarm has been sent out for them. Don’t worry, boys," he went on encouragingly. "Those two will turn up again, and when they do, they’ll be arrested."
Frank looked at his watch. "Well, it’s time to get over to football practice. Thanks for the information, Chief."
During the next two hours they worked hard, under the watchful eye of Coach Devlin. Finally, when the sun was setting over the empty stands, he dismissed the squad.
The Hardys trotted to the showers side by side.
"You know," Joe said, "I’d like to follow up the key-case clue in the Ramapan country right away. We might fly up there for the weekend."
"That wouldn’t be enough time to make a thorough investigation," his brother pointed out. "How about Christmas vacation?"
"Gosh, Frank, I’d hate to wait that long to call on the Ramapans. But maybe we’ll figure out a way."
When they arrived at school the next morning, a crowd of boys and girls were gathered around the main entrance. The Hardys hurried up, curious to find out what was going on. Usually students lingered outside only briefly, then went to their classes. Seeing their friend Biff Hooper in the group, Frank and Joe walked over.
"Hi, Biff!" Frank greeted the rangy fullback. "What’s all the excitement?"
"Have a look for yourself," Biff replied, pointing to a sign tacked on the entrance.
The boys edged over for a closer look, but knew from the animated conversations what it said.
"Because of a breakdown in the heating plant, all classes and sports have been suspended. You will be advised over the radio when school will reopen."
"Pretty neat, eh?" Biff said delightedly. "Now I’ll have time to work on that sailboat I’m building for next summer."
Joe’s face broke into a wide grin. "One guess, Frank, what we’ll do with the time."
"Go up to the Ramapan country!"
"Right. Let’s tell Chet. He’ll probably want to come along and hunt for that buried treasure!"
Their stout friend, who never reached school until the very last minute, arrived at that moment in his rattling jalopy.
"What! No school! Do I want to go!" he exclaimed when he heard the news. "Yippee!"

CHAPTER VIII
A Desperate Attempt
"OKAY, Chet. Let’s go to the station and find out about trains," Frank suggested.
The agent informed them that a through train for Lantern Junction, the nearest village to the Ramapans, stopped at Bayport at eleven o’clock.
"Don’t be late!" Frank warned Chet as he dropped them at the house. "Remember, we don’t have all day to make that train—just a couple of hours!"
"Say, whose treasure is this, anyway?" Chet called. "I’m practically at the station now!" And his ancient car lurched and clattered down the street.
Reaching home, Frank and Joe told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the heating-plant breakdown and their plan to visit the Ramapans.
Mrs. Hardy was somewhat taken aback by their announcement of the proposed trip. But she resolved not to voice the anxiety she felt.
"Take plenty of warm clothes," she advised. "It’s very cold up there at this time of year. And I’ll get some money for you."
"If I were the school principal, I’d give you plenty of homework so you couldn’t go gallivanting!" Aunt Gertrude said.
"Zingo! I’m glad I never had you for a teacher, Auntie!" Joe cried.
He fled upstairs before she could reply, Frank following. They had barely started pulling out ski clothes when their aunt came into their room.
"Shoo!" she ordered. "I’ll do the packing. Go get your bags!"
"We will," Joe agreed cheerfully. "There’s no better packer in Bayport."
At that moment Mrs. Hardy entered the room. "Here’s a letter for you," she said, handing it to Joe. "A boy brought it."
"Thanks, Mom." He studied the envelope for a moment.
"Who’s it from?" Frank asked.
"I don’t know," Joe replied. "There’s no return address and the handwriting’s not familiar." He ripped open the plain white envelope. As he read the message, his eyes widened in surprise. He gave the letter to his brother. Frank’s eyebrows shot up at the warning it held: 
Don’t meddle. Stay home if you value your life. R.
"What is it?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
"Yes, something mighty peculiar’s going on, judging from the look on your faces," Aunt Gertrude added.
Frank read the note aloud. The women gasped, and instantly asked the boys to cancel the trip.
"But, Mother," Frank said, "I’m sure Dad would want us to carry through. If we told him someone was trying to get his secret papers and didn’t follow it up, he wouldn’t think much of us as detectives."
"Of course," Joe said, "if you and Aunt Gertrude are afraid to stay alone—"
"Such talk!" Their aunt bristled. "Didn’t I chase that burglar away singlehanded?"
Finally, consent to the trip was given and the packing went on. Frank and Joe left the room. Out in the hall Frank whispered:
"I guess that Breck or York must have been spying on us and heard our plans."
"Yes, and those fellows really mean business."
Frank set his jaw. "Now that we know we’re dealing with a gang that’s desperate, it’ll be all the more exciting tracking them. What say we take this note to Chief Collig and have it analyzed for fingerprints, et cetera. We haven’t time to do it ourselves."
"Okay. Let’s get moving. We don’t want to miss that train."
When the boys arrived at police headquarters, the desk sergeant greeted them. "Chief Collig’s in his office. Go right in."
Frank handed over the letter and told about their coming trip.
"This is serious," Collig declared after reading the message. "I warn you boys to be on the alert every minute."
"We’ll do that," Joe promised.
Pointing to the envelope, Frank asked, "Don’t you think a lab check of this letter would be in order, Chief Collig?"
"Right you are, Frank. Come on. We’ll do it right away," he replied, beckoning them toward the police department’s crime laboratory.
A check of the fingerprints on the letter did not tally with those of any known criminal, and there were no identifying marks to tell from whom the letter had come.
"It’s not a whole sheet, and it’s written on heavy paper, we know that much," Chief Collig determined. "I’d say it was cut from a long, narrow sheet."
Frank picked up the letter. "I wonder—" he began slowly, "I wonder if it could be legal paper." He held one edge of it to the light. "Yes, it is!" he exclaimed, seeing the semblance of a blue line where the paper had been cut.
"Fine deduction, Frank," the chief complimented him. "But what person who uses legal paper might be mixed up in this business?"
"Miles Kamp!"
"Of course!" the officer agreed. "He’s Wylie Breck’s lawyer!"
Picking up his telephone, Chief Collig said. "Sergeant, I want two men detailed to watch Miles Kamp. Shadow him day and night and give me a full report on everything he does."
He replaced the instrument in its cradle and turned to the Hardys.
"I think we’re getting somewhere at last, thanks to you. That note tipped the gang’s hand." He looked at his watch. "Don’t miss your train. And good luck," he called.
The boys stopped at the house just long enough to collect their bags and say good-by to their mother and Aunt Gertrude.
The railroad platform was crowded, but they had no trouble finding Chet among the throng. He was surrounded by enough luggage for a month.
"That’s rugged country, and a fellow can’t be too well equipped," Chet insisted.
The three made their way to the edge of the platform when they heard the whistle of the approaching train. Chet leaned over the track to try to look around a bend beyond the station.
"Here she comes, fellows!" he cried, catching a glimpse of the engine.
The train came closer. As it turned the bend, a shrill scream from the street cut the air.
At the instant that everyone’s attention was diverted, the Hardys suddenly felt themselves shoved toward the track by strong hands. They struggled against the pressure but were thrown off balance.
"You will horn in where you have no business, will you?" a rasping voice muttered in Frank’s ear.
"Stop!" Frank cried out.
But the plea was useless. Their arms flailing the air, both boys went tumbling off the platform directly into the path of the oncoming train!

CHAPTER IX
Conflicting Reports
THE train bore down on the Hardys who were sprawled across the track. Men shouted. Women screamed and covered their eyes. Brakes shrieked.
Instinctively Frank rose and jumped back. But Joe was stunned, the breath knocked from him. Chet was the first onlooker to make a move. Quickly he leaped from the platform, lifted Joe, and lunged out of the path of the train as it rushed by them!
"Oh! Thank goodness!" someone cried out.
Still trembling, Frank and Joe stood stock-still, unable to believe they had been saved. Then Joe looked at Chet and murmured:
"Thanks, pal."
As the train came to a stop, everyone excitedly began to talk at once. What had happened? Had the surge of the crowd pushed the boys onto the track?
"No," Frank answered, recovering his wits. "We were shoved."
Just then the conductor rushed up. After a brief explanation, Frank asked him to hold the train for a few minutes.
"I want to find the men who caused all the trouble," he said.
The conductor nodded, and announced:
"There will be a five-minute stop. All passengers for this train please remain on the platform."
The Hardys and Chet hurriedly asked persons on the platform whether anyone had seen the men responsible for pushing the boys onto the track. But none of the crowd had noticed anyone running away from the scene. They had been looking toward the street to see who had screamed.
"I guess it’s no use," Frank declared. "Those guys have probably skipped out."
When the three boys were seated in the train, Chet remarked, "Do you think the person who screamed had anything to do with the shove?"
"Yes," Frank answered. "The whole setup was planned."
"The writer of that note meant business!" Joe exclaimed.
"What note?" Chet inquired. When he learned of the warning, he whistled and asked, "Who do you figure signed himself R?"
The Hardys shrugged, saying the initial most likely stood for Ramapan, but might have been borrowed by someone not connected with the tribe.
"Hm!" said Chet, cupping his face in his hands. "We may be running right into danger. Maybe—"
"You don’t mean you want to go back and not look for the treasure!" Joe exclaimed in mock disgust.
"Well, not exactly, but you fellows have a habit of getting me into tight spots."
Frank said grimly, "Those platform pushers will have their hands full if they try to pull any more funny business."
"Let’s forget about the mystery for a while and enjoy this trip," Chet interposed half an hour later.
"Okay," Joe replied. "I’ll switch on the radio."
He snapped open the small portable set he was carrying and adjusted the dials to a program of hit tunes.
As they sat watching the countryside speed by, they listened idly to various programs. At last a newscast came on.
Suddenly Frank sat bolt upright. "Listen to that!" he exclaimed.
The announcer’s voice came clearly.
"—serious case of sabotage in Chicago. An important government project has been bombed by saboteurs, leaving the place in ruins.
"Fenton Hardy, the famous investigator, is on the scene at this very moment. When interviewed, Mr. Hardy said that he is following up scattered clues, but that so far none of the culprits has been captured. And now for news on the international front—"
Frank clicked off the set. "The gang has struck again!"
Chet’s face wore a puzzled look. "I thought your dad was supposed to be in California. Now he turns up in Chicago."
"That is strange," Joe agreed, frowning. "He must have flown there in a big hurry."
"But I’m sure Mother just heard from him in California," Frank insisted. "As soon as the train arrives, we’re supposed to call home. Let’s ask her about it."
The train was now moving along more slowly, ascending the rugged mountainous country where the Ramapan community was located. At last the big Diesel pulled into Lantern Junction.
The Hardys and Chet were the first to alight and hurried to the telephone booths in the station. Joe put in a long-distance call to Bayport while Chet called a local hotel for reservations.
"Hello, Mother," Joe said. He decided not to mention the episode at the Bayport station. "Have you heard from Dad since we left?"
"Yes."
"There was a report on the radio," Joe went on, "that he’s working on a sabotage case in Chicago. Is that right?"
As she was replying, Frank crowded into the booth with Joe. He could hear her answer plainly.
"I heard the report too. I’m baffled by the whole thing. Your father can’t be in two places at once, and I just had a wire from him. It was sent from California!"
Just then Chet sidled up to the boys. "We can stay at the Grand Hotel," he reported. Joe passed the news along to his mother, then said, "I guess there’s nothing we can do about Dad. But keep us posted of any new developments."
"I will, and take care of yourselves."
"Okay. Bye now."
Despite the fact that Mrs. Hardy did not seem concerned about her husband, Frank was uneasy.
"Let’s call his hotel in San Francisco," he suggested. "That will clear up this whole business."
"Good idea," Joe replied. "But we should register at the Grand first."
As soon as they were in their room Frank gave the operator the call. When the connection was made, he said:
"I’d like to speak to Mr. Fenton Hardy."
"One moment, please," the operator at the hotel replied.
Then a man’s voice broke in. "Who is it you want?" he asked.
"Is Mr. Fenton Hardy there?" Frank repeated, leaning close to the receiver. "This is his son, Frank Hardy."
"I can’t tell you!" the man replied and hung up.
Frank replaced the receiver, frowning thoughtfully.
"‘Can’t tell you,’ " he echoed slowly, after telling Joe and Chet the strange reply.
"What did the man mean?" Chet asked, puzzled.
"I’d say the hotel actually doesn’t know where Dad is," Joe answered.
"Or it could be that they’re obeying instructions from Dad not to disclose where he is," Frank reflected.
The boys began unpacking in their neat but simply furnished quarters. Frank and Joe would bunk together, with Chet in the adjoining room.
"Boy, wouldn’t I give anything to go hunting or fishing up here," Chet remarked. "But we have to find the treasure first."
"Not we," Joe corrected. "Frank and I came here to follow up the key-case clue."
"Have it your own way," Chet replied.
The three put on warm, sturdy attire for their hike through the woods to the Ramapan village, then went downstairs and asked the clerk for directions. They were told that the trail through thick woods to the isolated community, which lay miles from any habitation, was a rough one. 


"I your friend," said the Indian
The clerk strongly advised them not to attempt it until morning.
His words were not exaggerated, as the boys learned the next day. The trail to the Ramapans was narrow and twisting, making it necessary for them to walk single file. Occasionally the stillness of the forest was broken by the cry of an animal or the fluttering of a startled bird.
Eventually the boys found themselves in a small clearing. Pausing to catch their breath which made white clouds in the crisp air, they heard a crackling in the underbrush in the woods beyond.
Suddenly the branches on the other side of the clearing parted and an Indian stepped out to face them! No one spoke.
The man was wearing suede pants and coat with fringes. Long, shiny black hair hung down over his shoulders.
He broke the silence. "No be afraid. I your friend," he addressed them in a strange accent.
"You’re a Ramapan?" Frank asked him.
The stranger did not reply. Instead, he said:
"I give warning. You boys walk to bad country."
"What do you mean?" Joe demanded.
"You come to unfriendly tribe. Very dangerous people."
"Dangerous?" Frank said skeptically. "What’s so dangerous about an Indian tribe these days?"
"You listen to warning, paleface," the man continued, anger in his tones. "Tribe guard deep secret. No want visitors."
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared among the trees. The boys looked at each other dumbfounded.
Chet paled. "S-a-a-a-y, fellows," he said shakily, "maybe we’d better take his advice and turn back."
"Not on your life," Joe replied determinedly.
Frank agreed, adding, "I’ll bet that fellow isn’t even a member of the tribe. That accent he had was too thick. No real Indian talks like that these days. I’m sure he’s a phony."
"You mean he faked everything—the Indian rig and the accent?" Chet demanded.
"Sure."
"Then who is he?"
"One of the gang we’re trying to track down."
"You’re right, Frank!" Joe exclaimed. "Quick! Before he gets away, let’s follow him!"

CHAPTER X
Tom-toms
THE boys crashed through the thick brush in pursuit of the strange Indian.
"Where’d he go?" Chet puffed.
"Here are fresh footprints!" Frank exclaimed. "Come on!"
They raced along, following the tracks Frank had observed. The narrow, rocky path wound deeper into the dim, silent forest.
The trail suddenly twisted sharply to the right. Frank, still in the lead, held up his hand, signaling a halt.
The trio stood still, looking intently for any indication of which way the man had gone. They came to the conclusion that he had jumped from stone to stone, losing his pursuers completely.
"We may as well continue on to the Ramapan village after we have a snack," Frank decided.
The boys quickly ate sandwiches they had brought along and drank from a sparkling mountain spring.
As they set off again, Chet cried out tensely: "Listen!"
The Hardys paused. The sound that came to them was a muffled, regular beat.
"Tom-toms!" Frank exclaimed.
Chet turned pale and looked nervously about him. "S-a-a-a-y, fe-l-l-ows, those tom-toms—maybe that man we just met was right. What if those Indians are getting ready to attack us!"
Frank and Joe broke into laughter.
"Aren’t you young Chief Wallapatookunk?"
Chet blushed furiously. "Come on," he said with a sudden show of bravery. "Let’s go."
They moved along another quarter of a mile without further disturbance. Then a fawn loped swiftly across their path as if in frightened flight. As it disappeared, the reason became evident. An Indian boy about their own age came out of the woods. He stopped short upon seeing them.
He was dressed in clothes similar to theirs, but had coppery skin and straight black hair.
"Hello," he said pleasantly. "What are you fellows doing so deep in the woods? Lost?"
Neither Chet nor the Hardys answered at once. They were staring at the moccasins the boy was wearing. On each toe section was the mysterious R, outlined with multicolored beads.
"No, we’re not lost," Frank replied finally. "We’re heading for the Ramapan village."
The Indian noticed the boys’ eyes riveted on his moccasins. "What is it?" he asked with a puzzled air.
"Where did you get those moccasins?" Joe questioned him excitedly.
"Why, right here," replied the youth. "We Ramapans make them."
"You are a Ramapan?" Frank asked.
"Sure."
Joe seized the Indian’s hand joyfully. "Are we glad to see you! We’ve been trying for days to find out who makes those moccasins!"
"Well, follow me, then," the boy said, smiling. "I can show you plenty more like these. By the way, I’m Ted Whitestone. My father is Chief Oscar Whitestone of the Ramapans."
The Hardys and Chet introduced themselves. Then Ted turned in the direction of his village.
"Quite a difference between Ted and that man we met on the trail," Joe whispered to his brother as Chet asked Ted questions about his tribe.
"No, we don’t live in teepees," the Indian boy replied with a smile. "Just regular houses like everybody else. And we don’t dress up in feathers and big war bonnets, either. I hope I’m not disillusioning you fellows," he added with a grin.
"But we heard tom-toms," said Chet.
"One of the men was practicing for our ceremonial dance that we always perform this time of year," Ted explained.
"And we saw an Indian dressed in fringed leather just a few minutes before we met you," Chet told him. "He had a peculiar accent."
Ted’s eyes widened in surprise. "That’s funny. I can’t imagine who it might be. Nobody in our tribe dresses like that or talks with an accent, except old Long Heart, and he’s all right. What did the man want?"
Frank told him of the stranger’s warning about the Ramapans and how they would resent the boys’ presence because the tribe was guarding a secret.
"That’s crazy," Ted declared. "I can’t understand why a stranger would want to keep you from coming here. I’ll speak to my father about this."
The young detectives glanced at one another. Were they bringing trouble to the Ramapans, or were they running into some?
"Here we are," Ted announced as the path suddenly widened and opened into a spacious cleared area.
The Ramapan village consisted of a main street with stores and several side roads with small, neat houses, most of them painted white. Off to one side stood a long, low building with many windows in it, and in the other direction was a large field which Ted said was used for athletics and tribal conferences.
"This is my home," Ted said, stopping before a small white house with green shutters.
A tall, distinguished-looking man, whom the youth resembled, met them at the door.
"Dad," Ted addressed him, "I’d like you to meet Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton."
The boys and Chief Oscar Whitestone shook hands, then smiling warmly, the man added, "Come in, boys. You’ve had a long hike. We don’t often see strangers this deep in the forest."
When Frank told briefly why they had come, Chief Whitestone was greatly interested.
"We’ll show you the factory where we make our leather products," he said.
The boys followed Chief Whitestone and his son outside. As the group walked toward the factory, the villagers gave cheery greetings to the head of their tribe. Reaching the long, low building which the boys had noticed before, the chief led the way inside.
"Here’s where we do our handicraft work," Ted spoke up proudly, his arm encompassing the long room with a single broad sweep.
As they walked down one of the aisles, Ted’s father explained the various kinds of work the craftsmen were doing. "This man is making moccasins," he said.
The visitors peered over the shoulder of an old Indian who was carefully molding strips of leather over a wooden block. They could see the outlines of the footwear taking shape.
"Those workers over there are sewing key cases," Chief Whitestone pointed out. The boys watched as one of them punched a hole in the leather with an awl and expertly drew the thread through.
Frank produced the key case their mother had bought from Breck. "Ever see this before?" he asked Chief Whitestone.
The Indian examined the leather article carefully. "Certainly. It was made right here," he answered. He was about to hand it back when he took another look inside. "Just as I thought, Ted. This is made of that special leather we had. It was in that suitcase full of our work that was stolen a few weeks ago." Turning to Frank, he added, "Where did you come across this?"
The boy explained that they were amateur detectives and related the events of the past few days concerning Breck, who had sold the key case to Mrs. Hardy, Kamp his lawyer, and the man in the blue sweater who had tried to gain access to Mr. Hardy’s secret file cabinet.
"I suppose you have no idea who took the suitcase, Chief Whitestone," Joe said, unable to hide his disappointment.
"I’m afraid I haven’t," the chief replied. "You see," he explained, "all our work is carried out of here in suitcases, since we can’t get a truck or car through the trail. Then it’s taken by train to Williamsville, where it’s turned over to a distributor. He markets everything for us."
The boys listened carefully as the chief went on, "A couple of weeks ago our messenger left a suitcase unguarded in the railroad station, and when he came back to get the bag, it was gone. That’s all we know about it."
"I’d say we ought to leave here at once and track down Breck," said Frank, "if it weren’t for that strange man we met in the woods. He’s probably connected with this mystery. I think we’ll stay around Lantern Junction for a few days and try to find him."
"I wish you luck," Chief Whitestone said. When they were outside again, he turned to face Frank and Joe.
"So you’re detectives," he remarked. "And you’re staying around here for a while."
"That’s right," Frank replied, wondering what the chief was leading up to.
Smiling at them, he asked, "How would you like to solve a mystery for me—an old mystery of the Ramapans?"

CHAPTER XI
A Jeweled Dagger
ANOTHER mystery to solve!
"We’ll do our best, Chief Whitestone," Frank said.
"And when he tells you that," Chet spoke up, "it means they’ll solve it."
Ted and his father smiled as the young detectives blushed at the compliment.
"When can we start?" Joe asked. "We’d like to begin right now because we’re due back at school in a week or so."
"Yes, and it depends a little on where we’ll have to go," Frank added. "Is it far away?"
"You can begin right here and now," the chief replied. "In fact, you’ll have to solve the mystery in the next few days or else wait a whole year."
With this baffling introduction he invited the boys to go back to his home and hear the full story. Seated before an open fire in a cozy room filled with Indian relics, he began the strange tale.
"We Ramapans are an old tribe. We were once a great and powerful nation, a leader among the Indians in this part of the country.
"But as the years passed, and the white men spread out, our territories grew smaller. Our people became fewer in number as tribal warfare and sickness took their toll. Gradually the Ramapans’ power was so weakened that we were forced to move north. This was many generations ago.
"Then, finally the wars stopped, and modem medicine cut down our death rate. We became prosperous, but still we were small and missed our former greatness," he said with a faraway look.
"The tribe carefully held on to its savings from fishing and trapping. Then fifty-nine years ago the leaders made a decision. With my father as chief, they decided to pool their resources and move down from the wild north country. The place they chose was this very acreage, the site where our ancestors had lived."
The boys had scarcely moved as the fascinating tale unfolded.
"My father and the tribe bought this land from the estate of a man named York."
York! The name of one of the suspected gang!
"Was his name Philip York?" Frank asked.
"No," Chief Whitestone replied. "It was Amos York. But after the tribe set up their new home, they didn’t find the peace and security they had expected."
"What happened?" Joe asked.
The chief had paused to strike a match to his long pipe. He puffed a few times, then continued. "A neighboring tribe started to raid the Ramapans. They came every night, stealing and destroying our property and striking terror in the hearts of our people. But the Ramapans fought back even against heavy odds.
"My father was fearful the enemy would steal our deed to the property, as well as other valuable tribal records. So he buried them secretly, together with a jeweled dagger worth thousands of dollars that the Ramapans had had in their possession for generations. They had confiscated it after a battle with a French army two hundred years previously."
"Where did your father bury the papers and the dagger?" Frank asked him.
Chief Whitestone shook his head. "That’s the mystery. Shortly afterward, he became ill and finally we realized he was dying.
"According to the laws of our tribe, I would become chief. Everyone knew my father had buried the papers and the dagger, but the place was a secret. So I asked him where they were.
"He was sinking rapidly, but he opened his eyes with great will power and whispered: ‘My son—my son—papers—dagger—buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon."
As the chief stopped speaking, there was complete silence for several seconds, then the Hardys looked at Chet. His face wore a smug look, as if to say: "There is a treasure buried in a crisscross shadow!"
Chief Whitestone continued after a moment. "That was the only clue my father gave and I’ve never been able to find the place."
"It doesn’t sound like an easy task," Frank remarked. "We—"
"That’s not all," Chief Whitestone interrupted. "Not long ago two strangers appeared in the village. They said they wished to buy our land and were prepared to offer a fair price.
" ‘No,’ I told them, ‘we wouldn’t sell for all the money in the world. This is our home. The tribe has grown and prospered here after many generations of hardship. Our land is not for sale.’ "
"But that didn’t end it," Ted took up the story. "The men were insistent. Finally, one of them got mad and started to yell. ‘Look, Chief,’ he said to my father, ‘I’m warning you! You’d better sell to us if you know what’s good for you.’ "
"That’s right." Chief Whitestone nodded. " ‘What do you mean?’ I asked them.
" ‘Just this,’ the man replied. ‘This land isn’t yours.’
"I laughed at that, but he said, ‘You think it’s funny, eh? Well, we can prove you haven’t got a clear title!’ Then they stomped out of the house and disappeared.
"I’m afraid those men will find the deed before we do and steal it," Chief Whitestone said. "Unfortunately we have no other proof of ownership. The courthouse where our deed was recorded burned a few years ago and the papers were lost."
"Then those men can make it very hard for you," Joe said.
"Yes. After the fire, ads were run in the papers for people to bring in their deeds and have them recorded again, but we couldn’t do that, of course."
"So it was easy for those men to find out your deed is missing," Frank surmised. "Well, we’ll certainly try to find it for you."
"Haven’t you any protection?" Chet interposed.
"Yes," the chief said. "After sixty years of possession, the tribe will own the land automatically —even without a deed. It’s a state law. But we have several months to go before the time is up. Until then, we’re at the mercy of anyone who finds those papers! And we can’t be certain someone hasn’t already taken them, of course."
"I doubt it," Frank commented. "If they had, either the papers would have been returned by honest people, or you would have had trouble before this with real thieves."
"How about those men who were here?" Chief Whitestone asked.
"I don’t think that they would have offered to buy the land if they could have gotten it free."
"But I’ll bet they’re looking for the deed," Joe remarked. "So it’s going to be a race. Let’s get started!"
"I like your enthusiasm." The chief smiled. "But first I suggest we have something to eat. And later, why don’t you move in here so you can be handy to your work?"
"Thank you," Frank replied. "We’ll do that. Along with solving your mystery, we’ll do some sleuthing on our own case."
By the time they had finished a meal of roast deer, corn bread, and fried apples prepared by Mrs. Whitestone, it had grown dark.
"You’d better make do tonight," Ted suggested. "You can go back and get your things at the hotel tomorrow."
The boys accepted Ted’s hospitality and slept on cots in his room.
After breakfast the next morning, Joe said, "First thing we’ll have to do is move our belongings in from town."
"Right you are," Frank agreed. "But there’s no need for all of us to go back. I’ll go and put all we need in one bag and check the others."
"Then Chet and I will start hunting around here for clues," Joe declared.
Chet went to question some of the older men of the tribe. Joe ambled along the street until he reached the leathercraft building. Nonchalantly he walked around it, to observe the layout of the structure.
"Guess I’ll go inside," Joe told himself. "Maybe if I talk with some of the workers—"
The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. He stood motionless as he saw one of the craftsmen emerge from the rear entrance. Joe ducked behind a tree and watched as the man looked intently in every direction.
"He acts as though he doesn’t want to be seen," Joe thought.
Abruptly the man turned and set out briskly through the forest. Joe trailed him noiselessly.
Suddenly the Indian stopped and Joe concealed himself behind an evergreen. The man began stripping bark from a tree, all the while whistling in a carefree manner.
Joe, puzzled, arose slowly from his hiding place. "If that’s all that guy came here for," he mused, "why did he act so leery of being seen?"
The next moment the Indian lighted a cigarette. After a few puffs he stamped it out and started back for the crafts building.
Joe grinned as he recalled a No Smoking sign in the building.
"So he just slipped out to have a smoke. He sure had me fooled."
Joe started walking back toward the village. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was that strange scraping noise behind him off to the right?
He stealthily retraced his steps in the direction of the sound, which led him to a small clearing. Joe barely restrained an exclamation when he saw a man digging in the hard-packed earth.
It was the stranger in the suede-fringed suit whom the boys had met the day before!
Without hesitation, Joe approached the digger. "Now I’ll find out what his game is," he was thinking when a twig snapped behind him.
Joe looked over his shoulder in time to see a man leaping toward him, brandishing a stick.
He tried to duck, but the man brought the stick smashing down on the boy’s head.
Without uttering a cry, Joe crumpled to the earth!

CHAPTER XII
A Puzzling Telegram
A QUARTER of an hour passed before Joe stirred. Opening his eyes, he was conscious only of a severe pain in the top of his head. Feeling the damp earth against his cheek, the young detective realized he was lying on the ground.
With what seemed like a superhuman effort, Joe lifted himself on one elbow and saw the trees about him. Only then did he remember what had occurred. He put his hand to his head and felt a large bump.
"I’d better get back to the Ramapan village," he muttered. "Got to warn Chief Whitestone about those men."
His head throbbed. Swaying from side to side, Joe took a few uncertain steps. It was hard going but finally he reached the edge of the village. There he saw a familiar figure hurrying up the street.
"Chet!" He tried to shout, but his words were barely audible and his friend turned a corner out of sight. Joe started for the Whitestone house, stopping frequently to rest.
Suddenly he heard a cry behind him. "Joe! What happened?"
"Ted! Oh, gosh, I’m glad to see you."
"Who hit you?" Ted exclaimed, seeing a huge, bloody lump on the top of Joe’s head.
"Don’t know," he gasped as the Indian boy steered him toward his house.
As they reached the steps, Chief Whitestone came out. He helped Ted lift Joe and soon the injured youth was resting on a couch.
Ted hurried for the village doctor. After a thorough examination the physician concluded that there was no skull fracture, but told Joe that he might have a headache for a few hours and to call him if anything else developed. He dressed the wound and left.
A sigh escaped Ted’s lips. "Thought you were a goner when I saw you staggering down that street, Joe," he said, and smiled in relief.
But Chief Whitestone was not smiling.
"That fellow tried to kill you!" he exclaimed. He clenched his pipe, the knuckles showing white against the dark bowl.
"Ted," he went on, "I’m very much concerned about this business. I want you to make inquiries around the village while Joe takes it easy."
"Don’t worry about me, Chief Whitestone," Joe insisted. "We detectives are used to some roughing up now and then."
"Did you get a good look at the man who hit you?" Ted wanted to know.
"Yes. But I’ve never seen him before. I couldn’t identify him," Joe said ruefully.
At that moment Chet hurried in, having heard from a child that the doctor had been calling on "the sick white boy."
"Joe!" he exclaimed, pale with fright. "What happened?"
While Chet was listening to Joe’s story, Frank Hardy strode briskly down the forest trail and finally reached Lantern Junction. He went at once to the Grand Hotel.
"We’re moving out," he told the pleasant clerk.
"Going home so soon?"
"No. We’re staying with the Ramapans. If any messages come here, we’ll pay to have them delivered up there in care of the chief."
"Glad to oblige you," the clerk said.
After paying the bill, packing, and arranging for all the bags but one to be checked at the hotel, Frank decided to telephone his mother.
She herself answered. "Frank? What a relief to hear from you!"
"Anything wrong?" he wanted to know, detecting a note of agitation in Mrs. Hardy’s voice.
"Yes. I was afraid those men might have been after you and Joe again. There’s been another attempted burglary of our house!"
Frank grabbed at the mouthpiece. "Are you and Aunt Gertude all right? Did you see the burglar? Did he get anything?"
"We’re all right," Mrs. Hardy replied quickly. "But the burglar got away. I can’t tell you whether he stole anything or not. Chief Collig is working on the case right now.
"There’s more news of your father," his mother went on.
"Is it good news?"
"Well, I don’t know. Another case of sabotage," Mrs. Hardy told him. "This time in St. Louis. A laboratory was swept by flames last night and the reports of secret experiments went up in smoke. Dad was reported on the scene."
"Good!" Frank exclaimed. "At least the investigation’s in capable hands."
"But I’m worried, son. I tried to get in touch with your father in St. Louis through the police, but the authorities there told me he had disappeared."
"Disappeared!" Frank repeated anxiously, then said, "Maybe he’s only gone underground to track down the gang."
"I don’t know what to think, Frank," Mrs. Hardy replied. "Just a little while ago I got a message that has me completely baffled."
"Message from Dad?"
"Yes. And it came from California! All the telegram said was ‘Detained in California. Will wire again.’ "
"But the report of the sabotage placed Dad in St. Louis."
"Exactly." Mrs. Hardy sighed. "I think the wire from California is a hoax!"
"Something’s fishy, that’s sure," Frank agreed. "But don’t worry. I have an idea. I’ll let you know when I learn something."
"All right, dear, and give my love to Joe."
Frank clicked the phone, then asked the operator to connect him with John Bryant in San Francisco. The man was a detective friend of Fenton Hardy and could be depended upon.
"Hello, Frank. Glad to hear from you. Great things your father’s doing these days."
"That’s why I’m calling. We’re worried about reports that he’s in two places at once."
Mr. Bryant chuckled. "I didn’t think even a Hardy could do that."
Frank quickly explained the mystery of his father’s seemingly double appearances.
"This is my plan," he said, speaking guardedly. "Will you check on Dad at his hotel, and then wire the result to Sam Radley at the Bayport Hospital? It’s important that you send the message to Sam. One to us would probably be intercepted or tampered with. Mother’s been getting some, but she thinks they may be phonies."
Assuring Frank of his fullest cooperation, Mr. Bryant said good-by.
"I’d better warn Sam Radley to expect a message from Mr. Bryant," Frank thought, and hurried to a writing desk.
After penning a few lines to his father’s injured operative, Frank folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which he addressed in plain block letters to disguise his handwriting. He sealed the envelope, stamped it, and deposited the letter in a mailbox at the end of the lobby.
"Nobody will dare tamper with Uncle Sam’s mails," he told himself in satisfaction.
Waving to the desk clerk, Frank walked out of the hotel with his suitcase. As he turned down the street that led to the Ramapan trail, he saw a familiar figure hurrying toward him. It was Chet Morton!
Frank ran to meet Chet, who was gasping for breath from his exertions.
"Raced most of the way," he panted, "to tell you about—about Joe. Attacked by stranger—knocked out!" Chet heaved as he tried to regain his wind.
"Knocked out! By whom? Tell me!" Frank shook Chet in his excitement.
Sitting down on the curb, and pausing frequently to get his breath, Chet recounted Joe’s experience in the woods.
"The doctor’s seen him. He’ll be okay. I came to town for the police."
"Go on," Frank urged.
Chet arose, his breathing restored. "Ted and I went to find Joe’s attacker," he said.
"Any luck?" Frank asked. He was seething at the thought of his brother’s being brutally assaulted.
"We located the spot where the man attacked Joe," Chet replied, "and searched the area. Finally we saw tracks leading to the main trail and followed them for a few yards until they were lost."
"Did you find any other clue?" Frank asked, disappointed that they had not caught Joe’s assailant.
Chet grinned in satisfaction. "We found this."
Digging inside his jacket, he produced a package wrapped in cloth.
"What is it?" Frank asked, puzzled.
Chet unwrapped the cloth. "A piece of the stick used on Joe!"
"Good work, Chet!" Frank cried.
Carefully he examined the piece. One end was splintered, showing that it had been broken by a violent blow.
"You’re taking this to the police?" he asked.
"Sure. For fingerprints!"
The boys went at once. Frank gave the desk sergeant their names and asked for the chief. The visitors were ushered into his office.
"Frank Hardy, eh?" he greeted them. He was a short, plump man, who gave the boys a warm smile and told them to call him Mike. "Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?"
"His son. My brother’s at the Ramapan village."
"Well, well," the officer said. "What brings you boys up to this neck of the woods? Some mystery?"
Quickly Frank explained their mission to find a thief named Breck. When he told the officer what had happened to Joe, the police chief looked grave.
"Any clues?" he asked.
Chet produced the stick and told about finding it near the spot where Joe had been attacked.
"I thought the fellow’s fingerprints might be on it," he added hopefully.
"It won’t take long to find out," Mike replied, then carried the piece of wood into a back room.
While he was gone, the boys talked over the various aspects of the mystery, and Frank whispered the latest news about his father.
"Good night!" Chet exclaimed.
A short while later the officer returned, a satisfied look on his face. In one hand he carried a Manila folder.
"Well, Chet," he said, "you hit the jackpot. We found a jailbird’s fingerprints on this stick!"
A broad grin broke over the boy’s face. Frank congratulated him.
"Whose prints are they?" he asked.
Mike opened the folder and took out some papers. "Fellow by the name of Smirkis," he told them. "About forty years old. Small-time crook. Got a year for robbery some months back. He was released a short time ago for good behavior. Lives right here in town."
"Smirkis, eh?" Frank mused. "I wonder if he’s connected with the gang we’re after."
"I couldn’t say. He wasn’t too bad a fellow, but he may have met someone in prison who put ideas in his head," Mike said.
"Where does he live?" Frank asked.
"We just checked with the landlady of his rooming house, but she said he hasn’t been home in a couple of days. I’ve sent out an alarm for him.
"We’ll need your brother to identify Smirkis as the assailant when we catch up with him. Meanwhile, take care of yourselves," Mike warned.
The boys thanked him, ate a light lunch, and then headed back to the Indian village. Frank was anxious to see Joe and was glad to find him feeling better.
Next day, while Joe was recuperating, he discussed the clue to the missing papers and the jeweled dagger with Frank, Chet, and Ted. Chief Whitestone had gone to Lantern Junction on business.
" ‘Buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon,’ " Chet mulled over the chief’s statement. "Wonder what made the crisscross shadow."
He and Joe made several suggestions that were immediately discounted by Ted because they did not jibe with the legend.
"The story goes this way. ‘And the chief buried the dagger of the many bright eyes and the papers of the paleface writing while at his hunter’s dwelling in the early moonrise.’ "
"Hunter’s dwelling!" Frank cried. "I have it!"

CHAPTER XIII
The Hunter’s Moon
"WHAT?" Joe, Chet, and Ted chorused in surprise.
"A hunter’s dwelling," Frank explained, "could be a teepee. The crisscross shadow was made by the poles!"
"Of course!" Ted exclaimed. "Why didn’t we Ramapans think of that?"
"And the hunter’s moon is in October, isn’t it?" Chet asked.
"Yes, it’s the full moon of October and it rises early just like the legend says," Ted answered. "In October the angle the moon makes with the earth is very slight, so it rises as the full moon very soon after sunset."
"We’re going into the hunter’s moon right now," Frank said. "That’s what your father meant, Ted, when he urged us to solve the mystery soon!"
"Yes."
"First thing to do," Frank went on, "is to find out where the chief’s teepee stood when he buried the treasure. Have you any idea where that was?" he asked Ted.
"It was near where the tribe used to hold its ceremonials," Ted replied. "The records say that the ceremonial rock was located where a stream, forked like a serpent’s tongue, cuts through the warrior’s place of honor."
"What does that mean?" Chet questioned.
"Long ago, returning warriors were honored for a whole day by feasting and—"
"Sounds good." The stout boy beamed. "They probably had roast moose and—"
"Let’s get going," Frank interrupted.
Ted led the way to the area where the old ceremonials had been held. He said that it had not been used in his lifetime.
"Then we’re going to have a hard job locating the rock in this overgrown tangle," Joe remarked, looking around.
He had insisted upon going along but the others made him sit on the side lines and not exert himself. Disgusted, Joe sat down on a log which had fallen across what once had been the fork in the stream mentioned in the legend.
"Looks as if we’re stumped," he said ten minutes later when the boys found no evidence of a large flat rock.
Frank, who had squatted down near him and was staring in the direction of the main stream, suddenly gave a shout.
"There it is, fellows!"
He ran toward a little mound of silt and moss that they had overlooked in their search. Digging excitedly for a few seconds, and scraping away the incrustation of many years, he exposed a huge, flat rock to the light.
"And now to find out where the chief’s teepee stood," Joe said.
"It’s beyond me," Chet commented, and wearily sat down on the rock.
"Paleface boy want to know where old chief’s teepee stood?" a voice behind him said.
Chet jumped in surprise and whirled to look at an elderly Indian wearing a leather shirt and leggings.
"Hello, Long Heart," Ted greeted the old man.
The boys had seen him around the village, dressed in the outmoded costume of the Ramapans. Ted introduced him as the oldest member of the tribe.
"He’s always telling us stories of the old days," Ted said, smiling.
"We do want to know where the old chief’s teepee stood," Frank said. "Can you help us?"
"My memory not so good—for I am many moons old," Long Heart answered. "But maybe remember where teepee of great brave stood."
With that, he started walking back and forth, muttering to himself. Finally he stopped two hundred feet from the ceremonial rock.
"Here," he said with finality. "Here teepee of chief. Why paleface want know this?" he asked Ted suspiciously.
After the boy told him the palefaces were trying to find the lost deed in order to save the tribe’s land, the old brave’s eyes lighted up.
"Me help," he said simply. "You build teepee with pole fifteen feet long. Me come tonight at rise of moon." Saying no more, he turned his back and went toward the village.
"How do you build a Ramapan teepee?" Chet asked. "Is it any different from the ones we made at camp?"
"Probably not." Ted grinned. "I guess you palefaces learned how from us Indians."
Nevertheless, he instructed them as they began their work. They cut down six saplings fifteen feet long and tied them together three feet from the top. Then they raised the poles and spread the legs to form a firm base, pressing them into the ground.
The next step was to lash short, flexible saplings horizontally across the slanting poles. After that, they fastened sections of birch and hemlock bark over them with tough vines and trailing roots. Short poles were used to cover the bark to keep it from curling.
Finally they cut a smoke hole at the top and another for an entrance. The boys stood back proudly to view their work.
"Pretty swell," Chet remarked. "Now if that old moon’ll just come out, we’ll find that deed for your dad in no time, Ted," he boasted.
"I suppose it’s expecting too much to keep this operation a secret from our enemies," Frank remarked. "But let’s come here separately tonight and watch for any spies."
"Agreed," they all said.
Just before sunset the Hardys, Chet, Ted, and Chief Whitestone, going by separate routes, arrived at the old ceremonial rock. They found Long Heart waiting impassively for them.
"The weather’s holding up," Frank said to Joe.
Slowly the sun sank below the horizon. Then a few minutes later the hunter’s moon of the legend shone from behind some clouds. Eagerly six pairs of eyes followed the clouds until they blew away.
Suddenly Joe whispered excitedly, "There it is —the crisscross shadow!"
It was true. The poles atop the teepee made crisscrossed shadows on the moonlit ground.
"Let’s dig!" Ted cried, grasping one of the shovels they had brought along.
With grim determination the group sank their spades into the earth and started working.
Would they uncover the missing papers and the jeweled dagger? each one wondered, the silent chief most of all.
The mound of earth beside the hole swiftly grew higher as the pit widened and deepened under the eager labors of the treasure hunters.
Finally Frank paused and leaned on his shovel. "Whew!" he said. "It may be cold by the thermometer, but I’m sure hot."
"Me too," Chet puffed. "This digging is getting harder the farther down we go." He stood in a wide hole up to his knees.
"It’s very rocky in this country," Chief Whitestone remarked.
After a rest, the four plunged their spades into the hard-packed earth with renewed vigor. The bright hunter’s moon cast an eerie light over the scene, with stalwart Long Heart standing guard.
Joe, regretting that he was not in condition to help the others, stationed himself in the shadow of the teepee, keeping alert for any intruder—accidental or planned.
Suddenly he tensed. He strained his ears to catch a sound over the hard breathing of his friends and the soft thuds the earth made as it was shoveled from the pit. The sound came again.
"A twig being stepped on in the woods," Joe told himself. "I’d better have a look!"
Quietly he slipped among the trees from which the mysterious crackling had come. Joe peered through the maze of moonlight and shadows. Ahead he thought he could detect a man moving silently among the trees!
He tried to follow the ghostly figure. But it kept eluding him and finally disappeared. Wondering who it could have been, Joe retraced his steps to the clearing where the others were still working.
"Find anything yet?" Joe called out.
Chief Whitestone tossed his shovel aside and clambered out of the hole. The others followed.
"Not a thing!" he replied to Joe.
"We’re getting no place here," Frank said. "I guess it’s useless to dig any more. There are certainly no buried papers in this spot."
"Looks as if you’re right," Ted agreed. "I guess we had the wrong spot for the teepee, or the wrong crisscross shadow."
In the moonlight the disappointment on everyone’s face was easily seen.
"Buck up, fellows," Joe said encouragingly. "Maybe after a good night’s sleep we can figure out where we failed to interpret the clue in the legend correctly."
"Right you are, Joe," the chief said. "Let’s return home. We’ll all have hot drinks, then go straight to bed."
As the others gathered up their tools, Joe took Frank aside. Swiftly he told him of the incident in the woods, and his suspicions that the group had been spied upon by a prowler.
"No use worrying the others about it," he said. "Listen! Let’s stay overnight in the teepee and keep watch for intruders."
"Great idea," Frank agreed. "The teepee’s weathertight, and we’ll bring some blankets."
Chief Whitestone and Ted protested strongly when they heard the plan, but the Hardys insisted.
As the others trooped slowly out of the clearing back to the village, Frank glanced at the moon. "Look!" he pointed. "Clouds up there. Bad weather ahead."
"Let’s hurry and get things ready for the night," Joe suggested. "We’ll need a fire."
Quickly they gathered dead pine limbs and brush and in a short while had a small, cheerful fire blazing inside the teepee. Chet returned with several blankets, then said good night.
As the boys finished adjusting the bark door, Joe held out his hand. "Snow," he said. "Well, I’ll take the first watch. You get some sleep."
In a few moments Frank’s regular breathing indicated he was asleep. Bundling warmly, Joe took up his guard duty. The early snow began falling more thickly. After a couple of hours, he woke his brother.
"How’s the weather?" Frank asked.
"Snowing pretty hard. Nothing stirring out there. But keep your eyes open," he warned.
During Frank’s watch the snow gradually turned to fine rain, but by the time he changed watches, it had stopped.
"Starting to turn mighty cold out there," he said as Joe took up his post.
Morning finally came. The temperature was way down, and when the dawn broke, the clearing and the woods were covered with a dazzling glaze of ice.
There was a rustling at the bark door to the teepee and Ted poked his head through the opening.
"Good morning, fellows. Anything happen during the night?"
"Not a thing," Frank replied.
But Joe was staring intently at a man who was emerging stealthily from the underbrush. As the stranger reached the clearing, Joe cried out in startled recognition:
"That’s my attacker!"
With a leap, he charged the mysterious fellow and tripped him.
"Good going!" Frank cried.
In a moment Ted pinned his hands behind his back, and the man was their prisoner.
"You’re the guy who whacked me—Smirkis!" Joe said accusingly.
"All right, I’m Smirkis. But I never whacked any of you," the man protested.
"No? Well, your fingerprints were on the stick. What’s more, I saw you sneaking around while we were digging last night!"
"No, I didn’t spy on you." Smirkis shook his head vigorously, but he had paled at Joe’s mention of the fingerprints.
"You’d better come with us to police headquarters," Frank said.
"Wait a minute!" Smirkis cried out anxiously. "I’ll make a deal with you."
"What kind of deal?" Joe asked.
"If you’ll let me go, I’ll give you some vital information. How about it?" he whined.
The boys looked at one another questioningly. It was attractive bait that Smirkis was offering. His vital information might lead to the solution of the mystery!
Joe and Frank moved out of the man’s hearing to talk it over. "I don’t trust him," Joe whispered.
Frank nodded. "Let’s try to trick him."
He turned to Smirkis. "I know what you’re going to tell us. That the men who want to buy this property hired you to get rid of us!"
"How’d you know that?" Smirkis gasped.
No sooner had he uttered the words than a strange voice behind them cried, "Shut up!"
Frank and Joe wheeled around to face three masked men, poised to attack!

CHAPTER XIV
A Rough Trip
As the Hardys leaped at their attackers, one of the masked men side-stepped them to clamp a hand over Ted’s mouth as he started to give the Ramapan war cry for help. Locked in a fierce struggle, Joe and Frank hurled their opponents to the ground. The boys fought with every bit of strength they could muster, but the odds were against them.
"Okay, tie ‘em up and blindfold ’em," ordered one of the men, who seemed to be the leader.
The arms of the young detectives and their Indian friend were tightly bound and their eyes covered with kerchiefs.
"All set?" the same voice asked. "Let’s go! You know the plan, men."
Frank and Joe were roughly grasped by the shoulders and pushed.
"Start walking," the leader ordered.
As they trudged off, the Hardys heard sounds heading in another direction.
"They’re separating us from Ted," Joe whispered to Frank.
"Keep quiet!" the leader commanded.
"You won’t be so anxious to stick your noses in other people’s business when we get through with you," one of the men sneered.
"You can’t win, anyway," the leader said. "In a short while the Indians will be gone!"
"You’re trying to bluff us," Frank spoke up boldly.
"Bluffing, you say? Just wait and see. This land’s going to change hands, and you can’t stop it!"
After a long silence, one of the men said, "What about Smirkis? He talks too much!"
"The boss’ll take care of him after he does that job for us."
So Smirkis was the one who had taken Ted away!
Presently the boys were halted. Then hands lifted them up and lowered them into a canoe.
"Okay," the leader said. "Let’s shove off."
After a silent trip of an hour or so the bottom of the canoe scraped against sand, and in a moment the boys were jerked to their feet and dragged across the ground. Next, they were lifted into a vehicle with its engine running. They started off over a rough road.


"Start walking!" the leader ordered
Joe and Frank were ravenous, not having eaten for many hours, but the men made no offer of food. The car rumbled on for what seemed an eternity.
"We must be a long way from the Ramapans by now!" Frank thought. "Where are we going?"
Almost an hour later the car stopped. The prisoners were hauled out. The wind was blowing in gusts as if a storm were brewing.
"What next?" the Hardys thought, then heard a plane’s motor being tuned up. They were hoisted into the craft and it took off.
Judging by the way they were being jounced in the air, Frank and Joe realized that they had been stowed in the tail section.
It was a rough trip, with no chance for them to try to loosen their bonds. The plane rose and fell with dizzying speed as it was buffeted by the wind. The drumming of hail indicated that the storm was becoming more violent, and the swift changes of pressure on their eardrums were sickening.
When the plane finally landed, the prisoners were gagged. Then they were carried out, thrown into a car, and driven a distance. After a while the car halted and the boys were pushed up a flight of stairs.
"Okay," the leader ordered curtly, "cover your own faces and then take off their blindfolds."
The Hardys blinked as the light, though dim, struck their eyes. Peering around, they found themselves in a gloomy, shabbily furnished room. Their masked captors surrounded them menacingly.
Suddenly the young detectives caught sight of a transparent curtain near one end of the room. A figure was seated behind it, half turned toward them.
The boys gasped. "Dad!" they cried out, shocked by what they saw.
Mr. Hardy looked badly mauled and mistreated. His clothes were mussed and dirt-streaked. His head hung in an attitude of complete defeat!
The masked leader addressed the boys. "You’ve been wondering about your father. Now you know. Mr. Hardy, your sons are here. Speak to them."
"Boys," he said, without moving, "you can’t beat these men. Give up!"
Astonished, Frank and Joe tried to break loose and rush to him. But quickly the strong hands of their captors reached out and halted them. They were whisked into an adjoining room and flung violently onto the floor.
Their blindfolds were replaced and tape was fastened over their lips in place of the gags.
"That ought to hold you," the leader snarled as they struggled in vain, "until you go on your next trip."
The boys wondered what he meant, and an explanation was immediately forthcoming.
"We’ll be back to put you on a freighter," he went on, "and when it reaches its destination, you won’t be in a position to bother anybody!"
The door slammed and footfalls told the Hardys that the men had gone. After waiting to make sure that a guard had not been posted, they struggled with their bonds, grunting and panting behind their sealed lips. But their captors had done their work well. The ropes would not budge an inch! Exhausted, they sprawled on the floor.
Suddenly Frank got an idea. "It might work," he told himself hopefully.
Crawling over to Joe, he raised himself erect, using his brother’s body as a prop. Slipping his bound wrists over the doorknob, he wriggled his hands round and round.
Finally one of the bonds loosened, then another. Frank twisted his hands violently. The ropes slipped. He was free!
Quickly he ripped off the blindfold and the adhesive tape, then released his brother.
"Thank goodness!" Joe whispered. "Now to break out of here!"
Rubbing their chafed wrists, the boys surveyed the dingy little room. The only exit was the door. When it refused to open, Joe said:
"Come on. Let’s crash it!"
Rearing back, they heaved against the door. Once, twice, then a loud splintering noise and the door gave way.
Crashing into the other room, they looked for their father. But he as well as the men had vanished!
"They’ve taken Dad with them!" Joe cried.
"Come on," Frank urged. "Let’s get out of here. We have work to do to save him!"
The boys dashed down the stairs and into the street. They gazed around them.
"This place looks familiar," Frank said, then added excitedly as he saw a store sign, "We’re in Southport!"
"Let’s get to the police fast, Frank," Joe urged, "before those men get too far away with Dad!"
"Hold on a minute!" Frank exclaimed, a strange look coming over his face. "There’s something mighty queer about this whole deal. Before we see the police, I suggest that we get in touch with Mother and with Sam Radley."
"You suspect something?" Joe asked.
"I sure do!"

CHAPTER XV
The Hideout
"THAT wasn’t Dad at all," Frank told Joe.
"What!"
"Bet you anything! He’d have given us some sign."
"But it was his voice," Joe protested.
"That’s the only part which puzzles me," Frank confessed. "Before we go to the police, let’s check with Sam Radley and find out whether he’s heard from Mr. Bryant."
"Good idea. But how about some food?"
"You find a taxi and I’ll grab some sandwiches."
"With what?" Joe asked.
Frank realized ruefully that they did not have any money and knew no one in town but the police.
"I guess we’ll have to go to them after all and borrow some money."
They walked to headquarters and told their story. The captain said he would investigate the place at once. By the time the boys had washed, combed their hair, and brushed their clothes, the officers had returned. They reported that they could find no trace of the kidnappers.
"I’m sure they won’t return," the captain commented, adding that Breck and York had not been seen in Southport.
The boys asked for a loan of ten dollars, then left. Munching sandwiches and drinking soda on their way in the taxi, they soon reached the Bayport Hospital.
Sam Radley was lying in bed reading. He looked up over the top of the paper.
"Why, hello, Frank and Joe. Where’d you come from?" the detective asked in astonishment.
"It’s a long story," Frank replied. He briefly outlined their adventures, ending with his suspicion that the man at Southport was not Mr. Hardy.
"You could be right," Sam conceded. "Here’s a telegram from Mr. Bryant." The message read:
STOP WORRYING AROUT YOUR BOSS.
"That practically proves the man in Southport wasn’t Dad," Frank said.
"Not necessarily," Sam replied. "It’s just possible your father allowed himself to be captured on purpose to get closer to the gang and its operations."
"But why did he warn us to lay off?" Joe asked.
"For two reasons: so you wouldn’t get hurt, and also so you wouldn’t interfere with his sleuthing."
"That might be, but I still don’t believe the man we saw in Southport was Dad."
"I don’t agree with you, Frank," his brother declared. "I’m sure even an actor couldn’t imitate Dad’s voice so perfectly."
A gong sounded, and a nurse appeared. "Visitors must leave now," she said, and to be sure they did, she waited until the boys bid Sam good night and hurried down the corridor.
When they reached their home, Joe suddenly grinned. "Mother and Aunt Gertrude will certainly be surprised to see us. They think that we’re still up in the mountains."
"Who’s there?" a suspicious voice called from behind the door.
"It’s us, Aunt Gertrude," Frank answered.
The door swung open wide. "Joe! Frank!" she cried. "I’m glad you’re home!"
"Who’s there?" Mrs. Hardy asked, coming to the hallway. "My boys!" she exclaimed, hugging them.
The reason for their sudden appearance was soon told. The women’s eyes widened in amazement, and they asked them not to return to the dangerous area.
"But we don’t know what happened to Ted Whitestone!" Joe said. "He may be a prisoner."
"I understand," Mrs. Hardy replied. "How about telephoning his father?"
"We’ll do that, anyway," Frank said. "But if we’re going to solve the Ramapan mystery, we must work before the hunter’s moon is gone."
When he talked to Chief Whitestone, the man said a search had already been started for all three boys. He was amazed to hear what had happened, and was glad that the Hardys had escaped. The chief said grimly he would notify the police about Smirkis and the other men and that efforts to find his son would be redoubled.
"We’ll be back as soon as we can," Frank promised.
"That’s fine, but I’m afraid Ted is miles away by this time," his father said woefully.
Joe called the airport and learned that a plane which left Bayport early in the morning stopped at Lantern Junction. He quickly made reservations.
Meanwhile, Frank had begun to worry about the safety of his mother and Aunt Gertrude. He was afraid that when the gang found out the boys had escaped they might come to the Hardy home and seek revenge.
"I’m going to ask Chief Collig to post plainclothesmen at the house day and night," he said, and dialed the police headquarters.
Collig was not there, but he left the message with the sergeant who promised cooperation.
"A man will be here in a few minutes," Frank reported to his family.
He and Joe set an alarm clock and tumbled into bed. The next morning they found it hard to awaken when the buzzer sounded, but they got up and dressed quickly. After kissing their aunt and mother good-by, the boys left the house. They stopped for a moment to talk with the detective on guard, then started for the airport.
Arriving just in time, the Hardys took their seats in the small plane that serviced the mountainous region of the Ramapan country. An hour later they landed near Lantern Junction and were driven to town. After a hearty breakfast at the Grand Hotel they set out once more for the Indian village.
"We’d better keep our eyes open for anybody lying in wait for us," Frank advised. "I’ll lead off and look in front and to the right. You check what’s on our left and in back of us."
But they saw no one and reached the Ramapan village without incident. When Chief Whitestone opened the door he grasped their hands eagerly.
"You’re back! But there’s no word of Ted! You have no idea where he might be?"
"I’m afraid, Chief Whitestone," Frank said, "that he’s a prisoner of the people who are trying to get your land away from you."
The Indian stared unbelievingly. "You mean they’re holding him as a hostage?"
"Probably."
"I had no idea what danger you’d get into when I asked you to find the deed," the chief said. "We’ve looked in vain for Ted so far. Chet and some of the villagers as well as the police are out now hunting for him. Have you anything to suggest?"
The boys said they were so sure that Smirkis was holding Ted prisoner, they would base their efforts on that assumption.
"Let’s phone Mike right away," said Frank.
He dashed to the telephone. Seconds later he realized that the wire was dead.
"More of the gang’s work," Frank said in disgust. "They cut the line!"
Joe suggested that he and Frank hurry to town and tell their story to the police. Without waiting for Chet, they returned to Lantern Junction and went to headquarters.
"We think Ted was taken away by Smirkis," Joe said. "Can you tell us anything about his haunts so we can look for him too?"
Mike ran his fingers through his hair before replying. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.
"The cabin!" he exclaimed. "That’s the place. It just came to me. Smirkis once had a hunting cabin in the woods. He sold it, but I’ll bet that’s where he’s hiding."
The Hardys were on their feet in an instant. "Come on!" said Frank. "Let’s have a look right away!"
The officer got his car and they drove a couple of miles out of town. Mike parked and they started off through a heavily overgrown area.
After a twenty-minute trek Mike suddenly held up his hand and motioned them to be quiet.
"It’s just through those trees," he said, pointing.
Treading carefully the three moved silently toward the cabin. There was no sign of life.
Joe ducked down and moved to a spot underneath a window. The others followed. Raising their heads, they peered inside.
In the dusky room they could see nothing at first, then suddenly each received a shock.
Ted Whitestone was trussed up and propped against the wall!

CHAPTER XVI
A Moonlight Search
SMIRKIS was standing in front of Ted, a whip held menacingly in one hand.
"You’d better tell me!" he snarled. "If you don’t, you’ll get more of this whip!"
"You can’t get me to talk by torture!" Ted answered defiantly.
The onlookers could see several ugly welts on the boy’s arms.
"Where’s that buried treasure?" Smirkis demanded, using the whip on the boy’s hands. "You know all right, but you and your father are trying to keep it for yourselves!"
Mike signaled the Hardys. "Okay," he whispered. "Time to move! Circle the cabin!"
Frank and Joe took strategic positions so Smirkis could not escape. Then, with a tremendous crash, Mike assailed the door and burst into the room!
The police officer dived for Smirkis. Though taken off guard, the wily swindler was not to be caught so easily. He slashed at his opponent with the whip, then leaped through a window.
But he was trapped. Frank and Joe converged on him from either side.
"Okay. I give up, but I can explain everything," the man declared as they led him into the cabin.
Meanwhile, Mike was releasing Ted from his bonds. The Hardys turned their prisoner over to the police officer and rushed up to Ted.
"It’s sure good to see you fellows," the Indian boy said, chafing his wrists where the ropes had been fastened.
"Are you all right?" Frank asked.
"I guess you just got here in time," Ted replied soberly. Then they all turned their attention to Smirkis.
"You’d better come clean," Mike told him. "Who’s paying you and what do they want?"
Smirkis hung his head. "A stranger hired me."
"What was his name?"
"He didn’t tell me. He just said, ‘Call me Al. I’ll pay you well.’ "
"For what?"
"To spy on the Ramapans. He said they had a fabulous buried treasure."
"A spy, eh?" Frank broke in. "Find out anything?"
"No," Smirkis muttered.
The Hardys wondered if he were speaking the truth.
"Where is this Al now?" Joe asked.
The prisoner shrugged.
"Where did he stay when he was in town?" Mike prodded him.
Smirkis looked at his captors sheepishly. "I let him stay in this cabin. I knew the owner wouldn’t come here. Al told me he couldn’t be seen in town."
"Wanted, eh?" the officer remarked.
"What did Al look like?" Frank asked.
"He’s a dark, heavy-set man. About thirty-five, I’d say. He has a bad scar on the back of his right hand. Looks like a W."
"Breck!" Joe exclaimed. "Boy, does that explain a lot!"
"Good work!" the police officer said admiringly to the Hardys. "This Al or Breck—whatever his name is—we’ll set a watch on this cabin, and if he shows up, we’ll bring him in."
Mike took the prisoner back to town, and the boys set out for the Ramapan village.
"Did that guy talk to you all the time?" Frank asked Ted.
"No. He slept a lot, and once he went off for several hours."
"To cut the telephone line at your house," Joe deduced.
"At first he wasn’t bad to me and gave me food regularly. But this morning he started whipping me ’cause I wouldn’t talk."
Chief Whitestone was relieved to see his son, and Chet bubbled over with joy at seeing all three safe.
"This mystery gets more complicated," the chief remarked. "Since you’ve been gone, I’ve received a letter from that man you asked me about —Philip York."
"Philip York?" the Hardys chorused.
"He claims to be the grandson, by a former marriage, of the Amos York who once owned this land. You recall we bought it from his estate."
"What did he want?" Frank asked.
"He says his father didn’t get his share of the money when the property was sold."
"Has he any real claim?" Chet put in.
"If he has, we’re in trouble," Chief Whitestone replied, "because all heirs have to be accounted for when any land is sold."
"Didn’t the lawyers know about him?" Joe wanted to know.
"Philip York claims his father knew nothing about the deal. If that’s true, then the sale of the property was illegal and the transaction has to be made all over again."
"Whew!" Joe whistled. "And you’d have to pay anything extra they might ask?"
"Yes," the chief said, frowning. "York claims he has half brothers and sisters to be paid in addition. They could insist we give them a small fortune to sign off. And we just haven’t got the money."
There was silence for a few moments, then Chief Whitestone continued. "The second thing I’m worried about is a little closer to home."
"What is it?" Frank asked anxiously.
"Someone has been digging around the spot where we were looking for the buried treasure!"
"When did you discover it?" Joe questioned.
"I found bootmarks and freshly turned earth this morning, which means someone must have been there last night."
The boys gasped. "I wonder if the digger found anything!" Ted exclaimed.
Chief Whitestone tapped his pipe on the table, then replied, "It’s hard to tell, Ted. Whoever it was dug quite deep, though."
"Father, we must find out whether he was successful!"
"But how?" Chief Whitestone asked.
Almost immediately Frank came up with a plan. "We’ll fool him and use a decoy."
"What kind?" Ted asked.
"The best decoy in the world," he told them. "The whole Ramapan tribe! They can put on their hunter’s moon ceremonial dance this evening instead of waiting."
"I see," said Joe. "If the digger didn’t find the treasure, he’ll be back."
"Exactly. While everyone is watching the dance, he’ll count on being alone. But you and I, Joe, will keep watch by the teepee."
"Great idea, Frank," Chief Whitestone responded, slapping the youth on the back. "I’ll get the preparations for the ceremonial dance started right away."
"Say," Chet remarked eagerly, "that’s really a corker of a plan after all, Frank!"
The Hardys became restless as they waited, but finally darkness fell and the brilliant hunter’s moon rose like a flaming ball. Under its bright, glowing light the weird ceremony started.
First came the beat of the drums, beginning slowly, but growing more insistent. Then the dancers, dressed in war paint and feathers, started their elaborate rhythmical movements. They chanted, leaped, and twisted, as they circled the soaring flames of the great bonfire.
The dance soon got into full swing, with Indian faces reflecting the blaze of the fire and the drums pounding wildly. Although the boys found the strange ritual fascinating, Frank finally whispered to his brother:
"We’d better go. We have work to do."
Walking stealthily they went straight to the place of the crisscross shadow. No one was around. They slipped inside the teepee and waited.
Presently Joe peeked out of the opening. For a moment all he could see was the frozen ground and the dark forest trees, still in the silver moonlight. Then he gave a sudden start.
"Someone’s coming!" he reported excitedly. "Let’s grab him!"
As the man came nearer, the boys rushed outside. At that moment something whizzed over their heads. A second later a large knife struck the side of the teepee.
Frank seized Joe by the shoulders and jerked him to the ground.
"That guy is trying to kill us!"
Terrified, the boys waited, their faces pressed into the cold earth. Then they heard the sound of running footsteps.
Joe stood up. "I guess the knife thrower’s gone. Whew! That was a close shave! Well, at least we know the gang hasn’t found the treasure yet!"
They walked back to the ceremonial dance, but found that the rite had been completed and the members of the tribe were returning home. The chief was talking soberly with a group of elderly men. Joe caught his eye and he came over in a few minutes.
Briefly, the boys recounted the experience with the knife thrower.
"I’ll keep guards posted here day and night," the chief said gravely.
He beckoned to a couple of sturdy young men. After a few short commands from their leader, they stationed themselves near the teepee.
"I can use a good night’s sleep," said Chet, coming up to them. He yawned.
The Hardys grinned. "All worn out from dancing" Joe teased. "You should have been dodging daggers as we were."
"Wh-wh-what!" Hearing the story, Chet said, "Wow! We’d better cut out this night work."
"We will," Frank agreed. "I’m going to phone Sam Radley to find out if he’s heard anything from Dad and then hit the hay."
He picked up the phone, which had been repaired earlier.
"Mr. Sam Radley, please," he said to the hospital operator. "What! He’s disappeared! With a broken leg!"
Frank hung up and turned around. "Sam vanished from the hospital very mysteriously this morning. Left a check on the bureau for his bill. No one saw him leave."
The boys looked at one another in amazement. Then Joe said, "Try his hotel. Maybe he’s there."
But Sam was not at the hotel and the clerk had not heard from him.
"Maybe he’s gone after the saboteurs," Chet suggested.
"More likely the gang has taken him captive," Joe said worriedly.
The three sat lost in thought for several minutes, then Frank said, "I know somebody who might throw some light on his whereabouts."
"Who?"
"Jack Wayne. Maybe Jack took Sam on a secret plane flight!"
"You’re right. Let’s phone him."
Jack Wayne was a close friend of the Hardys. He owned a plane, and often piloted the boys, their father, or Sam on errands when speed and secrecy were needed to crack a case.
In a short time Frank was talking to Jack.
"W-e-l-l," Jack began, as if reluctant to reply. "I have seen Sam. Flew him on a secret mission to Chicago this afternoon."
"Did he give any details?" Frank wanted to know.
"He didn’t volunteer much information, and he swore me to secrecy. All I can tell you is this: continue your investigations at the Ramapan village, and don’t worry about a thing!"
Frank repeated the conversation to his brother and Chet.
"Continue our work, eh?" Joe said.
"But where?" Chet asked. "We’ve dug at the site of the crisscross shadow for the buried treasure, and all we have to show for it is a big pile of earth!"
"We’ve sure gone deep enough," Joe declared. "You know what I think? That we haven’t been digging at the right shadow!"
"You’ve hit the nail on the head." Frank thumped the arm of his chair. "There’s only one thing to do. Find the real crisscross shadow. We must do it tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, it may be cloudy. With the moon blotted out, we’ll really be stuck."
"Count me in!" Chet exclaimed. "I can always catch up on lost sleep later."
Ted and Chief Whitestone helped the Hardys in their preparations. Ted wanted to go on the search, but his father forbade this because of his exhausted condition.
Finally, equipped with hooks, picks, shovels, rope, and flashlights, the boys started off for the clearing where the teepee stood. When they arrived, Frank surveyed the area in the moonlight.
"The crisscross shadow has to be around here somewhere," he stated firmly. "If it wasn’t made by teepee poles, then there must be another object which casts a shadow of the same type."
Joe pointed to the sheer side of the mountain that rose out of the clearing.
"Let’s climb up there and have a look," he suggested. "We’ll be able to see over a wider expanse from that height, and we may catch something we haven’t noticed before."
Picking their way carefully up the steep slope, they finally reached the top of the mountain. The boys paused to catch their breath as they surveyed the whole panorama.
Their eyes swept back and forth across the scenic view below them. Intently they took in every detail, seeking the sign of the buried treasure.
"Nothing here," Frank said. "Let’s look on the other side."
They walked across the level summit which was barely a hundred feet wide. The far side dropped off in a sheer cliff. Across a narrow ravine rose another steep rocky slope.
Suddenly Joe clutched the other boys’ arms.
"Look!" he cried, his voice rising in excitementment. "Down by that crevice in that cliff over there!"

CHAPTER XVII
A Parted Rope
"THE crisscross shadow!"
"We’ve found it at last!"
"Hurrah!"
The three boys stared at a perfect crossed shadow just above a cleft in the rock wall of the mountainside facing them. It was made by two overhanging slender pinnacles of rock.
"Wait a minute," Frank said. "We’ve found the shadow, but it would be suicide to try climbing down to it."
"One misstep and we’d be goners." Chet shivered.
"We’ve got to get down there somehow!" Joe said with determination. "The future of the Ramapan tribe depends on the deed to their property! There’s a narrow ledge just below us. If we could only—"
"Let’s try a rope," Frank suggested, uncoiling one he was carrying over his shoulder.
He flung the end far out over the edge of the cliff. It wriggled down the stone face. The tossed coil apparently swung to the floor of the ledge, although from where they were standing the end of it was not visible.
"Quick! Tie the rope around a tree," Frank called out. "I’ll go down first."
"Say, whose idea was this treasure hunt?" Chet objected. But as he gave a look downward, he added, "On the other hand, I’d hate to be selfish."
The Hardys grinned as Joe securely tied one end of the rope to a large tree trunk. Frank tested it to be sure it would hold; then, clutching it firmly, he let himself over the edge of the cliff and hand over hand started his descent.
Reaching the place where he thought the ledge continued under a sharply jutting overhang, he was doomed to disappointment. Instead of a flat surface, there was a pinnacle upon which it would be impossible to land.
"It’s no use," he called up.
The climb back was more difficult. The rope creaked and Joe and Chet feared it might fray apart from the constant rubbing against the rocks and toss Frank into space. But he finally made it and was hauled up the last few feet.
"Chet," Frank said, "how about your going back and telling Chief Whitestone what we’ve found out? He’ll certainly want to throw a guard around this place until proper equipment can be brought to get down there. Meanwhile, Joe and I’ll keep watch."
Chet immediately crossed to the wooded side of the mountain and began to climb down. Hindered by his bulky figure and heavy clothes, he slipped and slid, making a great deal of noise.
Rising, Chet started the trek through the woods. Suddenly he halted. He had heard a sound in the brush. The palms of his hands turned clammy as he listened intently. But he did not hear the rustling again.
Shrugging his shoulders, though his heart was hammering, Chet walked on, trying to tread as noiselessly as possible. In a moment he heard the sound once more. This time it was directly behind him!
As he swung around he was grasped roughly and thrown to the ground. A hand was clapped over his mouth. He struggled violently, but in vain.
His masked captors bound and gagged him, then carried him to a large tree.
"Okay," one of the attackers said gruffly. "You know what to do with this pest!"
"Yeah, but he weighs a ton," another protested as Chet was hoisted up to the first limb.
In a few minutes he was tied to the upper part of the tree trunk, out of sight of the ground.
"Next we’ll take care of those meddling Hardy boys!" the leader declared.
When Chet heard the ominous words, he was terror-stricken. As the men moved off, he struggled to free himself, but he could not budge an inch. His heart sank as he realized that he was powerless to warn his friends.
In the meantime, Frank and Joe found a spot some fifty feet farther along the mountain where they thought they could get down to the ledge.
"Let’s try it!" Joe urged. "Maybe we can hop across from there to the side where the shadow is."
They tied the rope around a tree.
"My turn this time," Joe declared.
He went down carefully, landed on the narrow ledge, and calculated the distance to the other side.
"Okay, I’ll start down," Frank called.
When he was within eight feet of the ledge, he felt the rope quiver. He looked up. His blood froze.
High above him, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, a masked face peered down at him. Alongside it was a hand holding a knife.
"Frank!" Joe cried in horror. "Somebody’s going to cut you off!"
Frank reached out desperately to save himself, but it was too late. With a single swipe of the knife, the strands were severed.
Frank went tumbling through the air!
With superhuman effort Joe braced himself and caught Frank as he came hurtling down the cliffside.
But for several moments it was nip and tuck between life and death as they swayed and teetered near the rim of the ledge. Then Frank was able to regain his own balance.
Near exhaustion, Frank and Joe sat down, oblivious even of the taunts being called down by the man at the top of the cliff. But finally his raucous voice broke in on their thoughts.
"Now what are you going to do?" he snarled.
Another joined him and jeered at the boys, "You can’t go down. You can’t go up. You’re trapped!"
"That’s Breck!" Frank whispered excitedly.
"And York!" Joe added.
"Well, that definitely ties Dad’s and our cases together!"
"Guess we’ll just have to sit it out until help comes," Joe said. "Chet ought to be back soon."
But as the minutes passed and none of their friends arrived, the Hardys began to grow uneasy.
"Maybe Chet was captured," Joe remarked apprehensively.
The thought sobered them still more. Waiting made them nervous and fidgety. Finally Frank stood up.
"As long as we’re here, let’s cross over to the other ledge and look for the hidden papers and the dagger," he suggested.
By inching along the narrow strip they came to a place where the leap across was not too hazardous. In a few moments they were on the other side and hurrying to the spot where they had seen the crisscross shadow.
Frank chuckled. "Those men on the top of the cliff may think we’ve escaped."
"Let ’em think so! We’ll be well screened!"
Reaching the place where the two rock pinnacles were casting their shadow in the moonlight against the cliffside, the boys could now see a narrow opening just below it.
"The papers are probably hidden in here somewhere," Frank remarked.
They took out their flashlights. Shielding the beams from any prying eyes above them, they began to search.
The two young detectives went over every inch of the rocky surface. For several minutes there was only the sound of their boots scraping the floor of the narrow opening. Then suddenly Joe gave a low cry!

CHAPTER XVIII
A Perilous Ruse
FRANK pulled a small rusty chest from a miniature cave hidden among the rocks. He turned his flashlight on it.
After trying unsuccessfully to open the lock, Joe finally pried off the lid. From inside gleamed a million beams of light.
"The jeweled dagger!" he cried excitedly, picking up the fabulous weapon. The handle was studded with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds.
"A regular pirate’s treasure!" Frank exclaimed.
"The papers are here too," Joe said, digging down for a yellowed bundle.
"See if the deed is there," Frank told him.
Joe opened a legal-looking document. He scanned it rapidly.
"This is it, Frank. The deed to the Ramapans’ land!"
Just then they heard voices.
"We’d better hide this again," Frank advised.
Joe reached up and replaced the chest. Then quickly the boys scrambled out to the ledge. As they hurried along toward where they had leaped, the voices grew louder.
"Frank! Look over there! They’re coming down!"
Breck and York were dangling on a long rope almost across from where the boys were standing.
The Hardys’ first thought was to jump across and try to overpower their enemies, but they realized that a fight on the ledge would mean destruction for all of them. Frank and Joe decided to wait and see what the men’s intentions were.
The pair had removed their masks and were cautiously making their way down the face of the cliff. The boys waited tensely.
"Maybe they’re going to bargain with us," Joe said hopefully.
Frank did not agree, but replied, "We’ve got to outwit them. Let’s try stalling them off until help comes."
"How?"
"I’m thinking," his brother answered. "We might—"
He had no chance to finish his sentence, for at that moment Breck dropped onto the ledge, and his companion followed a moment later. They jumped the span and faced the Hardys menacingly.
"Keep your distance, Breck!" Frank warned.
The boys had their shoulders to the wall of the ledge, alert for any move their enemies might make.
"Don’t worry. We’re not going to touch you. We’ll let starvation take care of that."
"What we want to know," the other man spoke up, "is where the treasure’s buried." He guffawed. "You found the crisscross shadow for us."
"What treasure?" Frank asked in a surprised tone of voice.
"Don’t give us that innocent stuff," Breck growled. "You know where it is and you’re going to tell us!"
"How about a little exchange of information?" Frank countered. "You give us some, we’ll give you some in return."
Joe clutched his brother’s arm. "You’re not going to tell them, are you?" he whispered anxiously.
Frank pressed Joe’s fingers in a negative signal.
"A deal, eh?" Breck sneered. "You want to make a deal when you’re cornered? What’s the game?" He turned to his companion. "What do you think?"
"Sure," the other replied. "What have we got to lose?"
"Okay. Shoot," Breck said to the boys.
"Tell us, then," Frank asked, "what are you really after?"
"Very simple," Breck replied. "I’m only helping Mr. York here regain his rightful inheritance."
"What inheritance do you mean?" Joe spoke up.
"This land belongs to him."
"And what’s more, we don’t intend to let Chief Whitestone produce any papers to disprove it," York chimed in.
"We were getting along fine until you young meddlers came into the picture," Breck went on. "You almost ruined things for us, but now we’ve got you and your fat friend too."
"Chet Morton’s been captured?" Frank cried.
"Yeah."
Joe moved forward. He wanted to choke this ruthless scoundrel. But Frank held him back.
"We warned you to lay off," Breck sneered. "But you didn’t pay any attention. Thought you were smart detectives, but look where it got you."
The boys remained silent, seething as Breck recounted the story of the plot to deprive the Ramapans of their land.
"Now, you’ve come to the end of the line," Breck said, his voice becoming cold as steel. "You and your father."
"Where’s Dad?" Frank cried.
"That you won’t find out. And now how about your end of the bargain? Where’s the treasure hidden?"
When the boys did not answer at once, he cried, "Come on! It’s almost daybreak and we’ve got to clear out of here before it gets light!"
Joe looked at Frank, who was clenching his fists.
"You want the treasure, eh?" the older boy parried.
"Hurry up!"
"Walk along this ledge. You’ll find a slab of rock sticking out. Turn in there and keep going. Feel around for more sharp-pointed rocks and start counting. When you get to the twelfth one, reach up."
Joe could hardly keep his face straight. How plausible Frank’s story sounded!
The two men in their eagerness forgot to be cautious. While they followed directions, arguing all the way, the boys waited till they were out of earshot before speaking.
In a moment they were far enough away. Frank whispered to Joe, "The rope! Let’s use it now!"
Swiftly and silently the boys jumped to the other ledge. They grasped the rope, and reeling it as they climbed, worked their way to the top of the cliff.
Suddenly there came a shout of anger from below. "Hey, you double-crossers, come back!"
As the boys scrambled to the top, Breck and York yelled curses from below.
"We’ve made it!" Joe exclaimed, throwing his leg over the top of the cliff and dragging himself up. Frank quickly followed.
"You have, eh?" a voice cried out.
They looked up. Three strange men, obviously armed, had them ambushed!
"If you value your lives, don’t run!" one yelled.
The unequal struggle lasted only a minute. The boys were once more prisoners. Getting a close look at one of the trio, Joe whispered to Frank:
"Look at the one in the Indian suit! He’s the man I shadowed that day I was attacked by Smirkis!"
"Shut up!" the man ordered.
A second one said, "You guys have given us a lot of trouble. We ought to drop you over the cliff. What say, gang?"
Meanwhile, the rope which was tied around a tree had been let down. At that moment Breck and York appeared at the rim. It was daybreak now and in the light the boys could see their angry faces plainly.
"You lied about the treasure!" Breck yelled. "We don’t go for things like that! Come on, York! We’ll show them!"
He grasped Frank by the shoulder while York grabbed Joe. With the others helping, the boys were slowly but surely pushed toward the edge of the cliff!

CHAPTER XIX
Mousetrapped
WHEN Frank and Joe were only twenty feet from the edge, struggling with all their might against the men who were shoving them backward toward certain death, Frank suddenly shouted:
"Time out!"
He had caught sight of two figures racing toward them. Chet and Ted!
Chet had escaped from his enemies, they thought thankfully. But now in his desire to rescue the Hardys, he was running straight into danger.
At Frank’s outcry Chet stopped short and grabbed Ted. He was not exactly sure what Frank had meant by his signal call, but he interpreted it to mean that he should wait. Anxiously he and Ted slipped behind a boulder to await further instructions.
The assailants, surprised at Frank’s strange words, halted also.
"What’s the idea?" Breck demanded.
Frank looked him squarely in the eye. "If you still want that treasure, for Pete’s sake don’t push us over the cliff. You don’t know where it is and we do."
"That’s right, boss," one of the men said.
"They double-crossed us once. They’ll do it again," Breck replied.
"We didn’t double-cross you before," Frank said. "We just didn’t tell you to go far enough. Listen. You have nothing to lose. We’re still your prisoners."
Breck thought this over a moment. "What are you driving at?" he asked finally.
"We want to live," Frank answered.
"I say give them a chance," York spoke up. "We want those papers."
"Okay." Turning to his henchmen, Breck said, "You stay here with them. If they give you any trouble, you know what to do! York and I will go down the cliff again." He glared at the boys. "You’d better be telling us the truth this time! Where’s the treasure?"
Frank had a desperate plan in mind.
"Continue from where you were before. A few yards to your left you’ll see a narrow opening in the rocks. Walk five feet in there, reach up above your head, and you’ll find a box."
The eyes of Breck and York gleamed with excitement. Quickly they began to descend the rope to the ledge below. The three men who stayed behind took positions in a triangular formation to guard the Hardys.
All this time Joe had been listening dumbfounded to Frank. Like the other two boys, however, he had realized that Frank had some plan. Watching closely and waiting with every muscle tense for a signal, Joe was rewarded a moment later.
"34—86X!" Frank yelled.
The secret play! Chet’s number was 34. The center poised for action!
"Hey, what’s the—?" the guard on Frank’s left started to say.
He got no further. The four boys rushed at their enemies. Frank, veering to the left, tackled one guard, throwing him to the ground. Joe mowed down the man on his right in a flying leap.
Chet, running pell-mell, neatly cut off the third guard who had started to the aid of the fellow Frank had attacked.
Again the secret defensive play had worked!
With the assistance of Ted’s strong arms and lightninglike movements, they soon brought the fight to a close and disarmed the criminals. The captors were now the captives!
As soon as he dared leave, Frank hurried to the edge of the cliff and quickly pulled up the rope, to keep Breck and York below. Coming back to the others, he said tersely:
"Give me a hand tying these fellows up."
"We ought to take them to your father, Ted," Joe suggested.
"That won’t be necessary. I’ll summon help," the Indian youth answered.
Cupping his hands to his mouth, he gave a weird cry. "Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! That’s the Ramapans’ war cry," he explained. "Listen!"
From the valley below came an answer. "Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay!"
"Help will be here in a few minutes," Ted told them.
The captives, fearful of what the Indians might mete out in the form of punishment, fought like wildcats in a desperate battle to gain their freedom. But although they loosened their bonds, the boys quickly subdued them and wound the rope tighter about them.
"Well, Chet," Joe said as they dropped to the ground to rest, "tell us who captured you and how you got away."
Chet pointed to the roped-up men, then told the story of his capture.
"Ted rescued me from the tree," he concluded. "I managed to get the gag out of my mouth and then started hollering."
Ted grinned. "You certainly can yell, fellow!" 
A few minutes later a band of eight Ramapans burst into view, ready for battle. They looked disappointed upon learning that their enemies already were prisoners. Ted asked six of the Indians to take the men to their village to await the police.
"You two stay here," he directed the others. "There are more of the gang below." He pointed over the cliff wall.
When the rope was removed from the prisoners, who were marched off, Frank lowered it over the rim.
"I forgot to tell you, Ted," he said, "that Breck and York will be bringing the dagger and the deed up with them."
"What!"
Frank explained the desperate chance he had taken, but there was only praise from the Indians for his action.
Joe, meanwhile, had been inching forward on his stomach until he came to the edge of the precipice. He peered over.
"They’re coming!" he reported in a hoarse whisper. "Breck has the box tied to his belt!"
The impatient boys got set to grab York, who was in the lead. As his head appeared over the rim, they grasped him under the arms and yanked him up.


"They’re coming!" Joe reported
"Okay," he said cheerfully before he realized who his assistants were. Then, seeing them, he yelled, "Breck, they’re loose!"
Breck’s head jerked upward. Catching sight of the boys, he instantly started climbing down the rope.
"Stop!" Ted cried.
"You’ll never get me!" screamed Breck from ten feet below them.
Frank and Joe grabbed the rope and began pulling it up. The movement caused Breck to sway out into space. He glanced downward, and a sickened look crossed his face. Then his courage returned.
"Cut it out!" he shouted. "You’ve got me but you’ll never use these papers!"
Holding on with one hand, he began unfastening the box from his belt.
"You can’t do that!" Ted cried.
"Oh no!" Breck sneered. "Watch me!"
At that instant the Hardys gave a powerful yank on the rope. With Chet guarding York to avoid a slip-up, the three Indians, holding hands, made a human chain. With one man grasping the tree, they strained forward. Ted leaned out over the cliff and snatched the box from Breck just as he was about to drop it.
"You fiends!" he screamed.
A moment later he reached the top of the cliff, too wrathful to speak further. He looked around wildly for his confederates. Not seeing them, he turned to York. But York remained silent.
"Thanks for getting the treasure for us," Chet said, relieving the tension.
The men looked on sullenly as Ted opened the box. Nothing had been disturbed, and everyone gasped upon seeing the jeweled dagger.
"And the deed—it’s here!" Ted exclaimed jubilantly. "Frank and Joe, you’ve saved the Ramapans’ home for them!"
"We couldn’t have done it without you and Chet," Frank replied.
"No, indeed," Joe agreed. "We sure were in a tight spot a few minutes ago."
"Let’s get started for your home with these prisoners, Ted," Frank urged. "Joe and I still have work to do."
"You mean you haven’t solved the whole mystery?" Ted asked, amazed.
"There’s a friend of these men I’d like to talk to."
"Who’s that?"
"Miles Kamp, the lawyer," Frank replied.
The boys’ prisoners flinched. Breck broke his silence.
"He’s too slick for you!" he boasted. "Kamp’s one of this country’s cleverest lawyers."
"For certain characters," Frank shot at him. "Get moving!"
The prisoners were marched off, surrounded by their bodyguard. When they reached Ted’s house, Chief Whitestone was overwhelmed. After meeting his erstwhile enemies, and being presented with the box, he fervently shook hands with the Hardys and Chet.
"My gratitude can never be adequately expressed," he said. "The Ramapans will always remember your fine and courageous work to help them. By adoption I pronounce you Hardys members of the Ramapan tribe! I understand you, Chet, already have inherited an Indian title."
"That’s right," Chet replied.
"This is a great honor," the brothers said in unison and accepted their adoption with a bow.
State troopers, who had been summoned by Chief Whitestone, arrived soon afterward and took the five captives away. Then Joe went to the telephone and called Chief Collig in Bayport. He briefly told of the recent arrests and the officer shouted his congratulations into the phone.
"That’s great work, boys."
"We want you to arrest Miles Kamp at once," Joe said.
There was a snort on the other end of the wire, followed by a long throat-clearing sound.
"Joe, I’m sorry to say Kamp gave us the slip," Collig confessed.
"What!"
"My men were covering him day and night. Then, one evening, he just disappeared from his office like a puff of smoke."
"No clues?"
"None."
Disappointed, Joe hung up and reported the conversation to Frank.
"Maybe we can find out something from Breck and York!" Frank cried.
Calling a hasty good-by to the Whitestones, they dashed for the door.
"If you don’t need me," Chet spoke up, "I think I’ll stay here a little longer. I want to find out some more about Chief Wallapatookunk."
Joe laughed. "Enjoy yourself!"
Frank and Joe raced after the troopers and their prisoners and twenty minutes later caught up with them. The group paused while the boys questioned Breck and York. At first the men refused to give any help as to where the wily lawyer might be found.
"You want Kamp to defend you, don’t you?" Frank asked. "How are you going to find him? He’s not at his home or his office any more."
"The skunk! Why not?" York shouted.
"Well, where can we locate him?" Joe prodded.
Without stopping to analyze the situation, York burst out, "He’d better come across! I’m not going to take this rap without a fight! Tell him to come here! Look for him at his boathouse."
"Where is it?" Frank asked.
"He never told me. He said it was his special hideout when he wanted to get away from people and work on a case. But I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere in Southport."
The Hardys waited no longer. They hurried to Lantern Junction, where they learned that a plane for Bayport would stop in an hour at the nearby airport.
The boys spent most of the interim at the hotel, satisfying their appetites which had been neglected for too many hours. Then they rode to the airport and boarded the plane.
Reaching Bayport, they taxied home to pick up their car. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude greeted them in surprise. The women were thrilled to hear that Breck, York, and their henchmen had been captured but were dismayed to hear the boys were about to go after Kamp at his boathouse.
"Why don’t you let the police do it?" Aunt Gertrude said. "I’ll bet that waterfront is full of all sorts of wicked people."
"We’ll dodge ’em all," Joe said, grinning.
The young detectives drove off, going as fast as the speed limit allowed. Reaching the Southport waterfront, they parked and started walking. The first quarter mile contained only large piers; the second quarter, the tenement district the boys had visited before.
"I guess the private boathouses are all up farther," Frank remarked.
They plodded on. As they reached the area where private boats were kept, he and Joe began questioning all the fishermen and craft owners they met. First, they would ask them if they knew where Miles Kamp’s boathouse was, then inquire if they had ever seen a short, heavy-jowled man who was very nearsighted. At last they were rewarded. One workman said that although he did not know the man’s name, he had seen a person who fitted the description.
"I’ve noticed him going in and out of that green boathouse with the apartment over the water," he said, pointing down the shore a short distance.
"Thanks."
The boys hurried along the dirt roadway back of the boathouses. Coming to the green one, they paused.
"Look!" Joe whispered. "On the window sill."
Frank turned. On it lay a pair of thick-lensed glasses.
"I guess this is it, all right!"
Suddenly a burly man appeared from a board-walk running along the side of the apartment.
"What do you want?" he asked in a gruff voice. 
"We want to see Miles Kamp," Frank said boldly.
"A message from Breck," Joe added in a confidential whisper.
The other’s eyes widened. "Okay. Didn’t know you were friends of his." He stood aside to let them pass and indicated the door. "Go right in."
As Frank slowly turned the knob, he and Joe exchanged glances.
This was the big test! Would they win or lose?

CHAPTER XX
A Victory Feast
THE boys entered the room and found Kamp lying on a sofa. A quick glance around the grimy shack convinced them that the bombastic lawyer was alone.
"Who is it?" the man asked, rising to peer at them nearsightedly. He blinked several times, then reached for his glasses on the window sill, but Joe moved them out of his reach.
"Your game is up," Frank declared grimly. "Your gang has been taken prisoner!"
"What are you talking about?" Kamp cried.
"You’d better confess," Joe said as he bound the lawyer’s wrists and ankles with ropes they had carried in their pockets. The boys were running no risks that Kamp might slip through their clutches.
"Help! Help!" he cried loudly.
The guard outside heard it and rushed in.
"What are you guys up to—?" he began. Then, catching sight of Kamp’s bound wrists, he roared with anger. "You tricked me."
The Hardys leaped at him. In a moment he was their captive along with his boss.
Frank now picked up Kamp’s horn-rimmed glasses and adjusted them over his ears.
"The Hardy boys!" the lawyer screamed. "How did you—? What—?" He turned pale.
"Tell us your story," Frank prodded. "What was your connection with Breck and York?"
Having recovered from the shock at seeing the Hardys, he said blandly, "I don’t know what you’re after," he said.
"What’s your connection with York?" Joe countered.
"York?" Kamp asked. "You want to know about him? Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll tell you what little I know. Take this rope off."
"Not yet. You talk."
"York came to me with a story about having been cheated out of some property rights by an illegal sale to the Ramapans. I thought he had a legitimate case, so I took it. There’s nothing wrong with a lawyer taking a case, is there?"
"It depends on the client," Frank replied skeptically. "What’s Breck’s part in the case?"
"Breck? Why, he works for me. Kind of an errand boy. I had him on this case. That’s all."
"That’s all, eh? We’ll see about that!" A familiar voice came from the doorway.
All eyes turned to see who the speaker was, although the boys recognized the voice instantly.
"Dad!"
"Sam Radley!"
They rushed over to greet their father and his assistant, who was using crutches.
"What a relief to see you two!" cried Joe. "Dad, you don’t look beat up. We were worried about you."
"I know you were, but I couldn’t tell you anything." The famous detective smiled warmly at his sons. "I’m in pretty good health," he added, winking broadly.
"How’d you know where to find us?" Frank asked.
"We stopped off at the house, and your mother told us where you’d be, so we traced you here. And not a minute too soon, I see." He surveyed the two prisoners, who glared at him.
Joe turned to Sam. "Say, why did you leave the hospital so quickly?" he asked.
"Because," Sam answered with a meaningful look at Kamp, "I had a little visit from a so-called bone surgeon. These crooks sure thought of every angle, all right!"
"You mean," Frank said, amazed, "that someone from the gang came to see you, disguised as a physician?"
"Exactly," Sam declared. "In that way he gained entrance to the hospital, having persuaded the authorities there that my doctor had asked him to examine my leg.
"It was a clever attempt at worming information from me," the assistant detective went on. "But from his conversation, I soon knew he was no doctor. I managed to evade his questions so that he wouldn’t suspect I was on to his game."
"No wonder you made such a fast exit," Frank put in.
"I had to get out of there before the gang sent someone back to try more desperate means to make me talk," Sam continued. "With the help of my own doctor I was able to get some crutches and hobble away in time."
"Kamp was lying to you boys," Mr. Hardy said as all eyes focused again on the glum-faced lawyer. "Want to tell the truth, Kamp, or shall I?"
The man looked sullen and did not reply.
"Don’t believe a word of that fairy tale Kamp was telling you," Fenton Hardy began. "He’s no small-city attorney. He’s the legal brains of a gang of saboteurs that has been terrorizing the country! But no longer. They’ve been rounded up."
Frank and Joe grinned triumphantly. They had been right about the connection between their case and the one on which their father had been working.
"The gang wanted the Ramapans’ property," the detective continued, "to carry out a great plan. It’s so secluded it would have made a wonderful hiding place for big-time saboteurs.
"Kamp, you hired a man named York to help you, but his real name is Philip Varry. He’s a small-time crook." Mr. Hardy paused to let this sink in. Then he went on:
"You got Varry to pose as Philip York, a missing heir to the Ramapan land."
Kamp studied the floor for a moment, then he raised his eyes.
"I might as well tell you everything. We planned to have Varry force a sale of the property," he said. "Whitestone refused to sell, so we had to take stronger measures.
"When we learned that the records had been burned and the Ramapans’ deed was missing, I sent Varry up there to try to find it. Then you Hardy boys got involved in the case."
"Did you send us the threatening note?" Frank asked.
"Yes."
"And your men pushed us onto the railroad track?"
"That was our work. I had a friend of mine yell from the street to distract everyone’s attention."
"How did you know where we were going?" Frank asked the lawyer.
"I had someone shadowing you," Kamp replied. "The morning you found the school closed he heard you talking about it. But we couldn’t win.
"While Phil was in the Lantern Junction station, he stole a suitcase full of leather articles. He gave them to me, and when Breck came to make his report, I turned them over to him to use as a ruse to get into your house."
"So he did steal the key and hand it over to you," Joe said. "Where’d he hide it—in his mouth?"
"Yes, he gave it to me at police headquarters."
"Why did you want to get into our house?" Frank asked.
"There were letters and other documents in your father’s file cabinet that the saboteurs wanted. We could have broken in, of course, but that would have set the police on us at once."
Frank told his father about the trick that had been played on them, and how puzzled they were by the voice.
"I can explain that," Mr. Hardy said. "I was on the West Coast making an anticrime movie. Part of the recording was stolen."
"Did the record say something about ‘You can’t beat these men. Give up!’ " Joe asked excitedly.
His father smiled. "Yes, it did. The whole record went like this: ‘The American law enforcement agencies are the best in the world. You can’t beat these men. Give up. Go home to your local communities and forget the idea that crime pays!’
"I didn’t know who had stolen the recording, but you’ve solved that mystery too, boys. They played a vital part of the record to make you believe I was a captive. Thank goodness they didn’t succeed in scaring you off the case!"
"The masquerade had us fooled for a while. We thought you were in two places at once," Frank said.
"Well, when I heard about the photograph that had been stolen from our house, it was clear that someone made up to look like me was entering plants in order to sabotage them, so I went after him.
"I didn’t want to be traced, so I swore the hotel clerk to secrecy, and also the detective you put on my trail. I couldn’t afford to let anyone know my plans," Fenton Hardy explained. "We can discuss the case at home, boys. Right now we’d better turn our prisoners over to the police."
At dinner Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude listened eagerly to the outcome of the mystery.
"I told you right from the start Breck was a criminal!" Aunt Gertrude said smugly. "I’ve been working on that myself all this time."
She went for her purse and produced a clipping several years old.
"The newspaper found this for me," she said. "Breck’s never been any good. Once he was sent to jail as a confidence man."
"Nice evidence," Joe said admiringly.
Miss Hardy was pleased by the compliment and was about to reply when the telephone rang. Frank answered. He listened a few moments. Then, after hanging up, he turned to the others:
"It was Chet. Joe, you and I are to go up to Lantern Junction tomorrow to testify against Breck and Varry."
Joe grinned. "Never a dull moment."
The boys phoned Jack Wayne and made arrangements for him to fly them. Upon arriving at Lantern Junction the next morning they went straight to court, where Chet met them. The hearing was in progress. Later the Hardys gave testimony which the prosecutor said would send the swindlers to prison for long terms. And their trial for sabotage was yet to come!
After the hearing, Ted invited the boys and Jack Wayne to a farewell dinner with the Ramapans. "A real Indian feast," he promised. At the Whitestone house, he made an announcement.
"We understand Chet’s great-grandfather, Ezekiel Morton, was an Indian agent here and was made honorary chief of the Pashunks who used to live nearby. We Ramapans want to honor young Chief Wallapatookunk, which we believe means Eat-a-Whole-Moose."
Everyone smiled.
"And now, Chet," Ted continued, "we hope you won’t have any trouble imitating your great-grandfather."
A whole side of venison was carried in and set before Chet! Everyone in the room roared with laughter.
Frank and Joe were surrounded with gifts the Indians had presented in gratitude for their work in locating the deed and the jeweled dagger. The Hardys had never received a greater ovation for solving a mystery. But another was to come when they had concluded The Yellow Feather Mystery.
"Well, I guess it’s back to the old dull school and football for us now." Chet sighed as he finished a third helping of venison.
"Dull? Football? Remember our defensive play 86X," Joe reminded him.
"That play pulled us through a dangerous adventure," Frank said. "Without it, the Ramapans might not be feasting us so happily tonight."
Hardy Boys 34: The Hooded Hawk Mystery
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  Sender Unknown
 
 
 
 
“Frank, come here!” Joe Hardy called excitedly to his brother from the front porch of their home.
It was early afternoon on a hot August day, but tall, eighteen-year-old Frank ran down the stairs at top speed. He knew from the tone of Joe’s voice that something unusual was happening.
When he reached the porch, Frank stopped short and stared in amazement. An expressman, who stood there, grinning, had just delivered a burlap-covered crate and a package. Joe, blond and a year younger than Frank, had already removed the burlap. In the crate was a fine, proud-looking hawk.
“What a beauty!” Frank remarked. “Is it for us?”
“It says ‘Frank and Joe Hardy, Elm Street, Bayport,’ ” the expressman answered, holding out a receipt for the boy’s signature. As Frank wrote his name, the man added, “This is a peregrine falcon and you’d better take good care of the young lady. She’s valued at five hundred dollars.”
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s an expensive bird!”
“Who sent her?” Frank asked. He looked at the package and read the name and address aloud, “‘Rahmud Ghapur, Washington, D.C.’ Never heard of the man.”
“Nor I,” said Joe. “We’ll ask Dad when he gets home.”
As the expressman left, Frank opened the package. It contained several items which the boys knew were falconry equipment.
“Looks as though Mr. Ghapur expects us to become falconers,” Frank declared. “But why?”
They searched for a note in the wrappings but found none. “We’ll probably get a call or a letter of explanation,” said Joe.
Frank agreed. “In the meantime, let’s learn something about falcons. Dad has some books on the subject in his study.”
All this time the blackish-blue hawk, with a black-barred creamy breast, had been sitting quietly in the crate, eying her new masters. Now she raised up, fluttered her wings, and cried keer, keer, as if she wanted to be released. 
The boys carried the bird and her trappings through the hall and upstairs to Mr. Hardy’s study. Here the famous detective had several file cabinets of criminal cases and photographs of underworld characters. Frank and Joe, endowed with natural sleuthing ability, had had many opportunities to work with their father. Frank was serious and an honor student at Bayport High, while Joe was rather impulsive but always dependable. Though they had different temperaments, the boys made an excellent team.
Joe found two volumes on falconry in his father’s bookcase.
He handed one to Frank and began to flip through the pages of the other book. When he came to a series of pictures of the articles that the expressman had delivered, he said:
“Look, Frank, this is the leather hood. It’s put over the hawk’s head, so she’ll sit quietly when she’s being carried. And one of these bells is fastened to each of her legs so the owner can keep track of her movements.”
Frank nodded and looked at an illustration in his book. “Here are those two leather straps. They’re called jesses. One end of each jess is looped and tied around each of the hawk’s legs. The free ends of the straps are fastened to a swivel, which consists of two rings connected by a bolt that allows each ring to turn separately. Both straps are tied to one of the rings and this long leather leash to the other ring. Pretty clever, Joe, because in that way the leash never gets tangled or twisted with the jesses.” 
Joe’s eyes darted toward the crate. “Think we should try these trappings on Miss Peregrine?”
Frank laughed. “Maybe. But first, let’s find out some more about falcons.”
Joe, reading on, remarked, “She prefers pigeons to all other foods. But she can be brought back from a flight with any kind of meat or even the lure, if she’s well trained.” He picked up the lure, a short stick on the end of which was a thick bunch of feathers.
Frank, meanwhile, was studying the falconer’s glove which had come in the package. “Joe,” he said, “this glove must belong to someone from India or the Far East.”
“How do you know?”
“My book said that in those countries falconers use right-handed gloves, while Europeans and Americans wear left-handed ones.”
“Come to think of it,” said Joe, “the name Rahmud Ghapur sounds Indian—or Far Eastern.”
Frank agreed. “But the whole thing’s still a mystery. Well, let’s put the hawk’s gear on.”
As Frank held the equipment ready, Joe carefully opened the crate door. Although not sure how to handle the falcon, he quickly grabbed both legs so that the bird could not use her talons. She struggled while Frank fastened the jesses, then tied the straps and leash to the swivel. The boys kept a wary eye on the hawk, in case she should


  
Joe held the falcon by both legs so she could not lash out
suddenly slash at them with her beak. But the bird made no such attempt. 
“I guess the book was right when it said a falcon seldom uses its beak for defense,” Joe remarked.
After Joe attached the little bells to the hawk’s legs, Frank pulled on the glove, grasped both jesses, and lifted the falcon to his wrist. She sat there proud and defiant—a truly noble bird.
“So far, so good, Frank,” Joe said. “Now what?”
“We’ll take her outside and let her fly around a bit,” his brother replied. “And let’s get that old block perch Aunt Gertrude once used for her parrot. It’s in the cellar.”
“Good idea,” replied Joe. “Miss Peregrine can rest on it when she’s not flying. By the way, the book said that hawks should get plenty of exercise.
As they started downstairs, Joe suggested they show the bird to their Aunt Gertrude, who was in the kitchen.
The boys and their pet got only as far as the first-floor hall when suddenly the falcon yanked free and made a beeline for the living room. Just then the doorbell and the telephone rang. Frank sprang toward the door and Joe headed for the phone.
At that instant the kitchen door at the end of the hall opened and a tall, angular woman rushed forward. She was Mr. Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family.
“Aunt Gertrude, watch the hawk in the living room, will you?” Joe requested, picking up the phone.
“Watch what?” his aunt exclaimed. But the bewildered woman received no further explanation. Joe was already speaking on the phone. 
“Hello, Chet. Say, someone sent us a peregrine falcon.”
“Great! What’s that?” was the reply.
When Joe told him it was a hunting hawk, Chet said excitedly, “Bring it out to the farm, will you? I’ve never seen one.”
“We will. Got to hang up because the bird’s loose. See you later.”
When Joe went into the living room, Aunt Gertrude was standing motionless staring at the hawk, which was now alternately rising and diving from windows to furniture.
“Joe!” Miss Hardy finally managed to exclaim. “Get that bird out of here at once!”
Frank stepped to the doorway of the living room and reported to Joe that the mail had come. There was a registered letter for Mr. Hardy, but nothing about the mysterious bird.
“What’s going on here?” Aunt Gertrude demanded. “Where did you get that monstrous creature?”
“Well, we don’t know the person who sent her—” Frank began. As he told Aunt Gertrude how the bird had arrived, the hawk suddenly lunged at her and grasped at her hands.
“Help! Take it away!” she cried frantically.
Joe yelled, “It’s that piece of meat you’re holding, Aunty! She thinks it’s a lure!”
Aunt Gertrude looked at the raw meat she had absentmindedly brought from the kitchen. Frank took it from her hand and immediately the falcon returned to his glove to eat the meat.
Joe put his arm around Aunt Gertrude. “The falcon was only doing what she has been taught to do. Pieces of raw meat are used as lures for training these birds. The falcon didn’t intend to harm you.”
“Well, maybe you’re right,” Aunt Gertrude conceded grudgingly. “But falconers don’t train their birds in a living room! Take her out of here.”
With this ultimatum, Aunt Gertrude turned on her heel and stalked back to the kitchen.
Joe looked at Frank, grinned, and told him of Chet’s invitation. “Let’s take Miss Peregrine out to the farm,” he said.
Chet Morton, a school chum, lived on a farm outside Bayport. A chubby, good-natured boy, he had frequently shared in the Hardys’ adventures.
Frank took the hood from his pocket and attempted to put it over the head of the peregrine. The bird flew off his gloved hand, but the jesses and leash held her. She soon stopped flapping and perched on the glove.
“Boy, this is harder than I thought,” said Frank.
Joe, recalling what he had read in the falconry book on how to “break” a falcon to the hood, said, “We ought to lay a small piece of meat inside the hood before putting it on her.”
Frank nodded. He said that the falcon is also fed a choice morsel of food after the hood is put on. Thus she connects a pleasant experience with hooding and does not struggle or fear the temporary blindness that the cover imposes.
After Joe had coaxed several scraps of raw meat from Aunt Gertrude, Frank managed to hood the hawk. He was awkward at it and resolved to practice until he could do it deftly.
As he carried the bird to the back yard, Joe ran to the cellar for the block perch. When he reappeared, Frank took the perch and said:
“I’ll get the convertible and meet you in the driveway. You bring the hawk.”
“Okay,” Joe agreed, taking the glove and bird.
He paused to call good-by to Aunt Gertrude, then started toward the driveway.
A man, masked by a red-and-white bandanna and wearing a battered felt hat pulled low on his forehead, darted around a corner of the house and crashed into him!
The boy whirled and swung his free fist. But the short, heavy-set stranger dodged and gave Joe a shove that sent him sprawling on the ground. At the same instant the man grabbed the leash, snatched the falcon, and sped down the driveway.
Quickly Joe got to his feet. Yelling to Frank to follow, he dashed off in pursuit of the thief!

CHAPTER II  
  Peregrine’s Prize
 
 
 
 
BY the time Joe had reached the foot of the Hardy driveway, the thief was half a block down Elm Street. The man forced the bird into a cloth sack as he ran. Then, seeing Joe in pursuit, he leaped a hedge and sprinted up a driveway between two houses.
As Joe reached it, a woman, leaning out a side window, gave a startled shriek. The masked man, evidently frightened, looked back to check Joe’s progress. The side of his neck struck a clothes-line, throwing him off balance, and Joe closed some of the gap between them.
“Drop that bird, you thief!” he shouted furiously.
The man staggered a few paces, then regained his balance. He jumped a low fence to the adjoining property and sped down its driveway, back to the street, still holding the bagged falcon!
Joe’s shout and the woman’s scream had attracted the attention of a policeman on Elm Street. As the thief reached the sidewalk, he slammed into the portly figure of Patrolman Smuff and dropped the sack.
“Grab him!” Joe yelled to the officer.
But the masked man, recovering himself quickly, side-stepped Smuff. Forgetting the bird, he cut across the street and disappeared into the dense, flower-covered foliage behind a house. Just then Frank swung the convertible alongside the curb. Joe picked up the sack and thrust it in beside his brother.
Patrolman Smuff had taken up the chase, and now Joe joined him. They searched the area thoroughly for two square blocks but were unable to find the fugitive or anyone who had seen him. As they retraced their steps to the convertible, Smuff asked:
“What’s this all about, anyway?”
“That fellow tried to steal our bird.”
“What kind of bird is it—a parrot?”
“No,” Joe replied. “A peregrine falcon—a hawk.”
“One of those hunting birds? I didn’t know they had them around this part of the country.”
“This one was sent to us. It’s valuable.”
The patrolman nodded. “Valuable, eh? Did you notice anything special about that thief?”
“Well,” Joe replied, “his face was masked. But this might help. When he grabbed the falcon, I got a good look at his hands. They were deeply tanned, so I guess he spends a lot of time outdoors. And he was wearing a carved ring with a ruby in it.”
Patrolman Smuff jotted down this information. When they reached the convertible, he said good-by to the boys and hurried off.
As Joe climbed into the car, Frank gently lifted the falcon from the sack. Apparently, because the hood had prevented the bird from seeing, she had not become frightened by the experience.
“Since Miss Peregrine seems to feel okay,” Frank said, “let’s go on to Chet’s as we planned.”
With the falcon perched on Joe’s wrist, the boys rode out of town. A short time later they arrived at the Morton farm. They saw Chet near a corner of the barn, making repairs on a door. The stout boy was alternately munching on an apple and hammering.
“Wow!” Joe grinned. “Chet’s working!”
Although the Hardys needled their easygoing pal a great deal, they were close friends. Chet had been helping them ever since the days of their first mystery, The Tower Treasure. Just recently, in the boys’ latest case, The Yellow Feather Mystery, his skill with machinery and the operation of his motor sled had been instrumental in rescuing the Hardys from death in a sealed-up ice fort. 
As Chet hurried over to see his friends, he called cheerfully, “Hi, fellows! Did you bring the hawk?”
The Hardys slid out of the car, and the falcon was transferred to Frank’s wrist.
“Pretty neat!” Chet remarked. “Let’s see her without her hat.” He reached out to remove it.
“Wait a minute,” said Frank. “She’s been through a rugged experience this afternoon,” and he told Chet what had happened.
Chet’s eyebrows lifted. “Sounds like the beginning of another mystery for you fellows.”
“Sure does,” said Joe.
Chet looked at the hawk. “She seems really tame,” he commented.
“She is,” Joe replied as Frank removed the hood from the falcon.
Chet studied the notched beak and the long, tapered wings, which Frank said were characteristic of all falcons. “She’s streamlined, all right,” he declared.
“Yes, and she’s a powerful flier,” Joe added. “According to one of Dad’s books, she’s very courageous-but gentle, too. Notice her dark eyes and the way she holds her head up. The ancient falconers called the peregrines noble and gentle birds. This breed was the prize of medieval kings.”
Chet was visibly impressed. “How about a trial flight?”
At that moment his sister Iola, appeared on the back porch of the farmhouse and called, “Hi, boys! Would you like some lemonade?”
Frank waved and said that he would have some later. But Joe immediately hurried toward the house. The slender, pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, was his date on many occasions as well as a capable sleuthing assistant.
Meanwhile, as they walked toward an open field, Chet asked Frank to let him fly the falcon.
“Better let me try it first,” said Frank. “I’m not sure how successful I’ll be, since all I know about falconry is what I read in the book.”
He stopped, unfastened each jess from the swivel, and then, with a somewhat awkward movement of the glove, he threw the hawk into the air. With long, powerful wing beats the falcon circled, rising higher and higher until she was merely a dot above them in the sky.
“Now what?” Chet asked.
“See this,” said Frank, holding out the feathered lure.
“What on earth is that?”
“According to the book, the falconer waves this lure in the air and the falcon immediately drops earthward and strikes it.”
“You mean she’ll come back to that thing?” Chet asked incredulously.
Frank nodded, watching the hawk intently. “See how she keeps circling us!” he exclaimed. “That’s called ‘waiting on.’ She’ll maintain her pitch there until I call her back, either by waving the lure or flushing a bird.”
Frank swung the lure several times, then let it drop to the ground. Immediately the falcon turned and plummeted toward them at terrific speed.
“She’s stooping!” yelled Frank. “Listen to the wind whistle through her feathers!”
The falcon came within a foot of striking the lure, then swung upward and mounted almost to her previous height in the sky.
“That was sensational!” breathed Chet.
The falcon made a wide circle and then headed off with deep, powerful wing beats.
“Hey! She’s flying away!” Chet cried out.
“No,” said Frank. “Look! She’s after something!”
“It’s a pigeon!” Chet gripped his friend’s arm.
“I’ll call the falcon to the lure,” Frank said tersely.
But it was already too late. With unbelievable speed the falcon closed the distance and then streaked earthward, striking the pigeon in mid-air.
The boys saw a tuft of feathers fly and heard the sharp report of the impact. The pigeon dropped to the ground, and the falcon, after mounting from her stoop, dropped down again to claim her prize.
Frank and Chet went toward the two birds, hoping to rescue the pigeon. Slowly, in order not to frighten the hawk, Frank reached for the jesses. With wings and tail spread, the bird looked defiantly at him but made no attempt to fly off. The boy secured the jesses and put on the leash.
“Too bad,” said Frank, “but the pigeon’s dead.”
He stroked the hawk, and then slowly lifted both the pigeon and falcon. As he did, he saw a small red capsule on one of the pigeon’s legs.
“Gosh, it’s a carrier pigeon!” exclaimed Chet.
Frank, concerned that the falcon had killed someone’s prized bird, asked Chet to twist the cap off the small container. Chet did so and shook it gingerly over the palm of his hand. To the boys’ amazement, instead of a message, out fell two glittering red stones.
“That’s strange,” Frank remarked.
Joe, who had been watching the falcon’s performance, joined his brother and Chet. The trio bent over the stones in Chet’s hands. Frank asked Joe to check the pigeon’s other leg for an identification band.
“Nothing here,” he reported.
Frank rubbed his fingers over the stones and recognized an oily feel to them.
“I believe that these are rubies—valuable rubies!”

CHAPTER III  
  Smugglers
 
 
 
 
“RUBIES !” Chet exclaimed in amazement. Then he laughed. “You’re fooling, Frank. In fact, if those stones are anything but colored glass, I’ll treat you both to a dinner.”
Joe grinned. “We couldn’t refuse an offer like that!”
“Let’s get a jeweler’s opinion!” Frank urged.
Wrapping the stones in a handkerchief, he put them into a pocket of his sports jacket. The boys buried the pigeon, then drove to the center of Bayport and parked close to Bickford’s Jewelry Store. While Joe stayed with the falcon, Frank and Chet went into the shop. The owner, Arthur Bickford, knew them well. He looked up and smiled.
“Well, what brings you here?”
Frank opened the handkerchief and revealed the two red stones. “We found these,” he said, “and we’d like you to tell us whether or not they’re genuine.”
Bickford studied the gems for a moment, ran them through his fingers, then picked up his eyepiece. He peered at the stones one at a time, then marveled, “I’ve never seen more flawless rubies. They’re quite valuable. Where’d you get them?”
Frank evaded the question but remarked, “If they’re so valuable, we’d better turn them over to the police.”
The two boys thanked the jeweler and returned to the convertible. As Frank and Joe were discussing their great find, Chet reminded them that the rubies had been found on his farm.
“That’s right,” Joe admitted, “so it means you’ll have to help solve the mystery.”
Chet winced at the thought of the work involved, but said, “Sure, and then I’ll get my share of the reward for the rubies.”
Frank chuckled. “And you can use the money to treat us to dinner.”
“Okay, okay,” Chet said with a grin. “Any time you say.”
“Let’s make it right after we turn these gems over to Chief Collig,” Joe said. “Chet, will you stay here to mind the falcon?”
The Hardys crossed the street to police headquarters, and five minutes later were seated in Chief Ezra Collig’s office.
“What mystery have you boys turned up now?” the officer asked with a smile.
Frank handed over the rubies. “Mr. Bickford told us these are valuable stones. Have you had a report of any robbery involving gems like these?”
Chief Collig said he could not recall any, but would ask one of his detectives, and buzzed for him.
“Nothing like that has been reported missing,” the detective replied to Frank’s inquiry. “And we’d sure hear about such a theft from other departments.”
The chief thanked him and the man withdrew. They talked about the stones and the carrier pigeon for some time but could come to no conclusions.
The boys left the rubies with Chief Collig for safekeeping. When they rejoined Chet, they decided to forego his dinner treat for the time being and return home, since it was time to feed the hawk. Chet suggested that they let him off at his father’s real-estate office. Mr. Morton would drive him back to the farm.
When Frank and Joe reached home their mother was setting the table for dinner. Mrs. Hardy was a small, slim woman with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes.
“What a noble-looking bird!” she remarked. “Your aunt told me all about her.”
Aunt Gertrude appeared from the kitchen just as Frank noticed there was a plate at his father’s place.
“Dad’s home from Washington!” he cried out.
“He’s in town all right,” Aunt Gertrude replied, adding with a frown, “And when he hears about that vicious hawk you boys have, he’s not going to like it.”
“Perhaps he won’t mind when we tell him about the rubies our bird got for us,” Frank said, grinning.
When the boys related the story, the women gasped in amazement.
At Aunt Gertrude’s insistence, Frank and Joe took the falcon to the garage. They set up the block perch and put the falcon on it. The boys fed her some parrot seed, set the burglar alarm, and locked the door.
Fenton Hardy arrived a few minutes later. He was a tall, dark, distinguished-looking man. His sons loved his keen sense of humor and admired his brilliant mind. Mr. Hardy’s preoccupied manner as the family sat down to dinner could mean only one thing. He was busy on an important case.
Sensing his sons’ curiosity, he said, “I’ve been asked to help on an interesting problem which has the authorities baffled. Immigration officials have learned of the large-scale smuggling of aliens from India into the United States somewhere along the Atlantic coast. One suspected spot is Bayport.”
“Bayport!” Frank repeated in astonishment, adding, “Any other clues?”
“None. But maybe you boys can find some,” Mr. Hardy replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m working on another case right now that I’ll have to finish before I can concentrate on this smuggling racket.”
“In other words, Dad, you’re asking Joe and me to start from scratch. No leads or anything?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that, son,” Fenton Hardy replied, smiling. “I have two possible leads.
“While I was in Washington, I called on an old friend—an Indian importer. I talked with him about the illegal entry of aliens from his country and told him I was going to ask you boys to work on the case. He naturally frowns on anything that will detract from his country’s good reputation, and has offered to assist in every way he can.”
“Did he give you any leads?” Frank asked.
“No, but I mentioned to him that there must be some means of communication between the smugglers and their confederates on shore. We eliminated radio and telegraph because they could be monitored. But it occurred to me that secret messages, instructing the contact here to pick up the smuggled men, might be sent by carrier pigeons from the ships offshore to the racketeers’ hideout on land. Ghapur agreed.”
“Ghapur!” Joe burst out. “Dad, is your Indian friend’s name Rahmud Ghapur?”
“Why, yes, son,” Mr. Hardy answered.
The boys told their father about the falcon they had received from Ghapur, the attempted theft of the bird, and the ruby-bearing carrier pigeon which the peregrine had downed.
“That’s very interesting,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll phone Ghapur at once.”
Fortunately the importer was at home. The detective talked with him for some time, then returned to the table.
“Mr. Ghapur says he sent the falcon to aid you boys in bringing down pigeons you might be suspicious of. He mailed a letter of explanation. Didn’t it arrive?”
“No,” Frank replied, adding thoughtfully, “The letter could have been intercepted by the smugglers if they suspected what the falcon was to be used for.”
“True,” Mr. Hardy declared. “Ghapur asked you boys to get in touch with a fellow countryman of his who lives here in Bayport. He’s Ahmed, the rug dealer. You know him. He’ll teach you how to handle the falcon properly.”
This statement caused Aunt Gertrude to speak up sharply, deploring the fact that the boys were getting involved in such a cruel sport.
“Aunty,” said Frank, “it’s in the line of duty. And anyway, wild hawks eat ten times as many pigeons and other birds in a year than we’d let a trained falcon like Miss Peregrine go after.”
“Humph !” Aunt Gertrude was unconvinced, and was about to continue her tirade when Mrs. Hardy arose and started clearing the table. Her husband and sons got up too and went to the garage to see the falcon. After examining her trappings, Mr. Hardy said with a smile:
“It will be rather unique to solve a mystery with a hooded hawk.”
“Yes,” agreed Frank. “Dad, do you think there might be a tie-in between the smugglers of aliens and the rubies?”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Hardy replied. “And I have a hunch we’ll find that carrier pigeons are the link between our two mysteries.”
They talked for a while longer, then Fenton Hardy concluded with, “Well, boys, it will have to be your job for the time being to solve these mysteries. I must get back on my other case. From time to time I’ll be in touch with you, though.”
“You’re leaving?” Joe asked.
“Yes. I’m flying back to Washington. Will you drive me to the airport?”
“Certainly, Dad.”
After the boys had dropped Mr. Hardy at the airport, Joe suggested, “Let’s phone Ahmed. It’s not too late, and I’d like to get to work.”
“Good idea,” replied Frank. “We should know more about training and flying the bird. We were just lucky this afternoon.”
He put through a call to the elderly rug merchant. After identifying himself, Frank told him about the message from Rahmud Ghapur.
Though surprised, Ahmed gladly consented to teach the Hardys how to handle the falcon. He said that they must first obtain permission from the State Fish and Game Department to fly the hawk. It was agreed that the boys would do this the next morning, then the three would drive out to the country.
“The Morton farm is a good place,” Frank suggested.
At the Bayport office of the Fish and Game Department the next day, the clerk looked quizzical when the boys made their request. But when they explained it was in connection with one of their father’s cases, he gave them each special hunting permits.
With their falcon and a bag containing its equipment, the Hardys drove to Ahmed’s place of business. The rug dealer was standing in the doorway, waiting for them. He was close to sixty years old, but straight as a spear and lithe in his movements.
When the elderly man was seated in the car, he turned his attention to the hawk. Putting on the gauntlet, Ahmed wristed the bird. As he stroked it, he remarked:
“This hawk is well trained. As a fledgling she was probably lured into a net, then hooded, and carried constantly on the glove until she lost her fear of man and became tame. This is called ‘manning.’
“The trainer strokes her, talks gently to her, and feeds her. The falcon becomes completely dependent on her master and learns that he intends no harm. Gradually she is made hungry or ‘keen’ and thus learns to respond to the falconer. At first she jumps a short distance to the glove for food. Gradually the distance is increased until she is flying several hundred yards on a string. Finally she can be flown free.”
“Then she’s actually trained through her appetite ?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Ahmed replied. “And a young bird’s instincts are channeled so that she performs in a natural way for her trainer. She is never taught to do anything that she would not normally do in the wild.”
“Will she bring her quarry back to her master?” Joe queried.
“No,” Ahmed replied. “She goes to the ground with her kill, then the falconer hurries to his bird. The hawk does not come to him. However, if the bird misses her quarry, she will return to the lure to be fed.”
“It’s a complicated sport,” Frank remarked. “And I can see why it requires lots of time and patience.”
“Well, one thing we do know,” Joe spoke up. “Pigeons are a hawk’s favorite food.” He grinned “But we didn’t have a squab in our refrigerator, so I gave her raw oatmeal and parrot seed for breakfast.”
Ahmed smiled. “You’ll have to feed her starlings, sparrows, mice, and lean beef. It’s obvious that she is used to people and normal sounds, since neither of these bother her.”
When they arrived at the Morton farm Iola informed them that Chet had gone to market with a load of sweet corn. She promised to tell him where the Hardys were as soon as he came in.
The visitors strolled to one of the large open fields and Ahmed began his instruction. He suggested that Frank undertake flying the hawk first. Compared to Ahmed’s dexterity, the boy felt very clumsy in putting on and taking off the jesses and the hood. He also felt that due to his inexperience the hawk must be tiring from the procedure.
“Let’s give the poor bird a rest,” he suggested. “In the meantime, I’d like to learn more about the history of falconry.”
Ahmed agreed, and holding the falcon, he walked around the field with the Hardys. As they strolled along, the rug dealer told them about the short-winged hawks that are flown from the fist at such quarry as game birds and rabbits.
“These birds,” Ahmed said, “such as the goshawk, the sharp-shinned hawk, and the Cooper’s hawk are the best ones for a beginner to practice with.
“In my country, and in yours too, the peregrine falcon is considered the prize bird and only experienced falconers capture and train them. It is an unwritten law that novice falconers start on the less noble birds, and as they gain experience, they earn the right to train the peregrines.”
“We’re fortunate to start off with a trained one,” said Joe,
“Indeed you are,” replied Ahmed.
As the three walked back across the field, Ahmed gave the boys additional pointers on the care of their falcon, advising them to keep the bird with them at all times, so that she would recognize them as her masters.
“Remember,” he said, “to put water out for her bath, to keep her in the shade, and to place her perch where she can’t get tangled up. Above all,” he cautioned, “be kind and gentle to her and she will reciprocate. Always bear in mind that she puts great trust in you; don’t fail her.”
Frank and Joe were assuring him that they would certainly do their best when they heard a loud yell.
“Hey, fellows!” It was Chet, standing at the edge of the field and waving at them. “Quick! I’ve got news!”
“Good or bad?” Joe shouted back as he and Frank started running toward their friend.
“Don’t know. But you’ll find out at police headquarters!”

CHAPTER IV  
  A Suspicious Sailor
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe sprinted across the field to where Chet was waiting for them.
“What’s this news from police headquarters about?” Joe demanded excitedly.
“All I know,” said the stout boy, “is the department called and said you should report there pronto!”
The same thoughts flashed through the brothers’ minds: Was it news of the rubies or of Joe’s masked assailant?
“We’re on our way,” said Joe as Ahmed caught up to them, the falcon still on his wrist.
They hurried to the convertible and drove to Bayport. After leaving Ahmed at his shop, the boys headed for police headquarters. Frank remained in the car with the falcon while Joe went inside. Officer Smuff was waiting for him.
“You have news for us?” Joe asked.
Smuff nodded. “I saw a man lurking around your house. Swarthy complexion, red-and-white bandanna around his neck, and wearing a battered felt hat.”
“You mean you’ve caught our hawk thief?”
“I don’t know if he’s the one, Joe. You’ll have to identify him. But he certainly fitted your description!”
Smuff led the boy into a small room. A sun-tanned figure slouched on a bench. When the man saw Joe, he jumped up.
“Am I glad you’re here,” he said with a slight Italian accent. “I went to your house and looked for the lawn mower, and this cop took me down here for I don’t know what!”
Joe grinned. “Sorry, Nicolo. It’s a case of mistaken identity!”
Nicolo looked at the policeman defiantly. “See? I told you!”
“Nicolo is our gardener,” Joe explained to Smuff. “He comes every week to cut the lawn.”
Smuff shrugged and apologized to the man.
“That’s okay,” Nicolo said when he heard about the hawk thief. “Now can I go back to work?”
Since it was nearly lunchtime, the boys drove Nicolo to the Hardy home. As Joe carried the falcon toward the back door, Mrs. Hardy appeared and said:
“Please don’t bring the hawk into the house. It will only upset your Aunt Gertrude.”
Frank took the hawk to its perch in the garage, set the burglar alarm, and locked the door. He had just sat down at the table for lunch when Joe appeared, carrying a volume of the encyclopedia with him.
“It says here, ‘Most hawks, peregrines especially, require a bath,’ ” Joe read. “‘The end of a cask, sawed off to give a depth of six inches, makes a good tub. Peregrines which are used to “waiting on” require a bath at least twice a week.’ ”
“‘Waiting on’! You certainly do have to wait on them!” Aunt Gertrude retorted.
Frank and Joe exchanged grins, then told their aunt what the term meant. Frank read on from the book in his brother’s hands. “‘If the bath is neglected, the falcon is inclined to soar when flown, and may even break away in search of water, and so be lost.’ ”
Miss Hardy cleared her throat with a loud harrumph, which ended further conversation about the hawk. 
After lunch the boys made a cask tub for the falcon and let her bathe. Then they laid plans for beginning their work on the case Mr. Hardy had outlined for them.
“My guess is,” said Frank, “that anyone smuggling immigrants into the country would probably do it after dark. Let’s take the Sleuth out in the bay this evening and scout around for a few hours.”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “But remember, Miss Peregrine has to go along.”
About seven-thirty the boys changed to old pants and sweaters, then hurried to the garage. Joe put on the gauntlet and signaled for the hawk to come to his wrist. When the bird was in place, he hooded it, and Frank drove to their boathouse.
After climbing aboard the sleek motorboat, Joe attached the bird’s leash to the jesses on her legs and set her on a short horizontal pole in the wheel cabin, which was intended for raincoats and jackets. The bird accepted the roost readily.
Moments later Frank had the Sleuth under way. As the craft knifed smoothly through the water, the boys were pleased to see that the falcon remained quiet. Presently Joe asked: 
“What kind of boat do you think we ought to look for out here?”
“I surmise that the smugglers would come close to the twelve-mile limit in a large boat,” his brother replied. “Then they contact the shore and make arrangements to have the immigrants transported the rest of the way in a speedboat.”
“Sounds logical,” Joe agreed.
Feeling a drop of rain, Joe looked up at the sky. In the distance he spotted a pigeon flying toward land. Grabbing binoculars, he trained them on the bird. Frank, too, had seen the pigeon. Both boys wondered if it were a carrier.
“Suppose we let the hawk bring it down on the beach,” Joe suggested.
“It might help us more to know where the bird is going, so we can locate the owner,” Frank asserted. “Get the pigeon’s direction, Joe.”
He handed his brother a pocket compass. Joe balanced it on his hand, and compensating for the bobbing of the speedboat, studied the movements of the settling needle carefully.
Frank and Joe were well aware that carrier pigeons’ actions are fairly predictable. When turned loose at their departure point, they fly straight up into the air, circle, pick up the beam to their home cote, and set off in a straight line.
By the speed and assurance with which the pigeon overhead was flying, the boys were convinced that it was making a beeline for home. When the bird was finally out of sight, Joe remarked :
“The pigeon was heading straight southwest. The question is, How far inland is it going?”
“We have a starting point for our search, anyway,” Frank commented. “Hey, that pigeon at Chet’s farm was headed in a southwest direction, too.”
“Right. And now, with a possible clue to the smugglers’ mainland hideout, let’s do a bit of aerial sleuthing.”
“First thing tomorrow.”
Presently Frank turned the wheel over to Joe. He was just about to head into the ocean when Joe said:
“We have company.”
A deep-sea fishing cruiser was coming toward them from the open sea. Frank picked up the glasses and read the name Daisy K. The Hardys recognized this as a weather-beaten sports fishing craft used for charter trips. It was frequently tied up in Bayport. But they knew nothing about its owner. 
“Think she’s suspicious?” Joe asked.
“Take a look at the sailor leaning over the rail on the starboard side,” Frank urged excitedly.
As the Daisy K approached, Joe adjusted the glasses and peered at the heavy-set, dark-skinned man, who had piercing black eyes. Both of the man’s hands were resting on the rail, and at first glance he appeared to be just a tired sailor relaxing after a long, wearing day’s work. 
“What do you think, Joe?”
“Same as you do.”
For a reason they could not explain, the boys felt sure that this was the mysterious masked man who had tried to steal the falcon! But on neither of his hands was the telltale ruby ring. In a moment the Daisy K had passed the Sleuth.
“I don’t suppose,” said Joe, “that we ought to suspect every sun-tanned stranger. I have a funny feeling, though, that he is our man. Shall we follow him?”
“We haven’t a shred of evidence against the fellow, Joe—and anyway, we know where to find him if we want him. I’d rather keep looking out here for clues to the smugglers.”
“Okay.”
It was choppy on the open sea, and as darkness settled, the wind grew strong.
“I guess we’d better go back,” Frank proposed. “The waves are getting pretty high and I don’t think Miss Peregrine likes it!”
The hawk was finding it hard to retain her perch and finally Frank took the bird on his wrist. “Too bad we couldn’t continue our sleuthing,” he remarked. “But then, it would be impossible for us to get near another boat on a night like this.”
About half an hour later the Hardys nosed the Sleuth into the slip of their boathouse. Frank set the falcon back on her pole perch, and had just closed the door behind them when there was a low rumble in one corner of the boathouse. The next instant there came a blinding flash, followed by a sharp explosion that rocked the building!
A sheet of flame roared up the walls and across the boathouse directly toward the Sleuth!

CHAPTER V  
  Indian Intrigue
 
 
 
 
STUNNED, the Hardys could see no escape from the flash fire which had trapped them in their boathouse. As the initial shock wore off, Frank cried:
“Open the door, Joe!”
The youth swung it up as Frank gunned the boat’s motor. The Sleuth shot backward into open water a split second before the fire reached its prow. 
“Whew!” said Joe. “Sabotage!”
His brother nodded as he docked nearby. Joe quickly fastened the hawk’s leash to a rowboat painter while Frank grabbed a fire extinguisher from the Sleuth. Both boys raced back to their boathouse. 
Behind them, the boys could hear a watchman shout, “What’s wrong over there?”
“Fire!” Frank yelled. “Give us a hand!”
One glance around the boathouse told the Hardys that a single fire extinguisher would do little good. Nevertheless, Frank played it around until it was empty.
Joe ran outside and called the fire department from a public phone. Then he looked for some clue to the fire’s origin. Near the side door he noticed a small wad of newspaper on the floor. He put it into his pocket.
At that moment the watchman ran up with a hand line from a nearby hydrant, and the blaze was soon extinguished. But the boathouse was badly damaged.
The Bayport fire engines turned into the waterfront street. When the chief discovered that things were under control, he sent his men back but remained himself to talk to the boys.
“How did the fire start?” he asked.
“There was an explosion,” Joe replied and told what had happened. After a quick inspection, the chief agreed that an arsonist was responsible.
When the fire chief had left and the watchman had returned to his shack, Joe pulled the wad of paper from his pocket. “This might tell us something,” he said to Frank. “But it’s too dark to read here.”
The boys went to their boat and got a flashlight. To their amazement they saw that the printing was in a strange, oriental-looking script.
“It might have been printed in India,” Frank said, “and if so, one of the smugglers could have set the fire.”
“There’s one man who can tell us if you’re right,” Joe reflected. “Ahmed.”
“Think he’ll be up this late?”
They decided that it would be worth a try. As they were about to leave, Joe suddenly halted and exclaimed, “Wait! We almost forgot the hawk!”
While he went to retrieve the falcon, Frank made arrangements with the watchman to leave the Sleuth at another dock. Then they drove to the small bungalow where Ahmed lived. The house was brightly lighted. They rang the bell, and the rug dealer admitted the boys and their falcon. He led them into an attractive living room, furnished in oriental style. 
Frank and Joe took turns supplying Ahmed with the details of their exploits. Frowning in concern, he spread the sheet of newspaper on a bronze table. He scanned the lines closely, then turned to his callers.
“It is part of a story which reports that Tava, the son of Satish Nayyar, a well-known industrialist from the Province of Hatavab where I come from, will visit the United States. The boy is eighteen and is to finish his education in this country. Satish Nayyar is one of the richest men in India and has a reputation of being a great humanitarian as well. Incidentally, the dateline on this paper is Delhi, two months past.”
Ahmed glanced over the rest of the newspaper but found nothing in any of the other items that could be interpreted as a clue to the identity of the arsonist.
Frank asked, “How many persons around Bayport would be likely to read a newspaper from India?”
“A dozen, perhaps. I have six men from Delhi working for me, and there must be an equal number employed on the fishing boats in the vicinity.”
“Thank you very much, Ahmed,” Frank said, rising. “This information may shed some light on our case.”
The Hardys said good night, returned to their car, and headed for home.
They were up early the next morning. After breakfast Frank telephoned a builder, who agreed to start repairing the boathouse shortly. Then Frank called the local airport and found that they would have to postpone their aerial search for the smugglers’ hideout, since the helicopter pilot was busy for the rest of that day.
Later that morning, Frank and Joe had a conference with Chief Collig about the fire and left the sheet from the Delhi newspaper with him. The chief promised to look into the matter.
“Joe,” Frank said as they left police headquarters, “if we’re going to use our hawk to help solve the mystery, we’d better do some more practicing.”
“Right. Let’s go out to Chet’s after lunch.” The Hardys decided to walk and carry the bird, since this would give the falcon an opportunity to become accustomed to them. Frank hooded Miss Peregrine as Joe picked up the falconer’s bag, and they started out.
The boys talked all the way, knowing that it was important for the falcon to become familiar with their voices and thus obey them more promptly. By now, she came readily to either boy’s fist for food, as well as to the lure.
When they arrived at the Morton farm, Mrs. Morton told them that Chet had gone to town but was expected back soon. They left a message for Chet to join them, and immediately set off for the isolated spot where they would release the falcon. There, Joe unhooded the bird and removed the leash. He then directed her attention to several crows which were flying over a clump of trees and threw her off.
Instinct seemed to warn the crows, however, for almost as soon as the falcon had left Joe’s glove, they flew into a thicket. The hawk circled for a while, then climbed upward into the sky until she appeared no larger than a swallow.
“Maybe we’re going to lose her,” Joe said, worried.
“I don’t believe so,” Frank reassured him. “She’s ‘waiting on,’ expecting us to flush more suitable quarry for her to strike.”
“Well, we’ll give her some,” said Joe, taking the lure from the falconer’s bag and waving it.
“She’s coming back!” Frank cried.
Both boys watched a tiny speck hurtling toward them, growing larger by the second. In a long, graceful swoop the falcon came in and struck the lure with a smack. Joe held it firmly and the hawk came to rest. He offered her some raw meat, then hooded her and set the bird on his wrist.
Just then Frank spotted Iola Morton running toward them. When she reached the Hardys, she paused for breath, then blurted out:
“Your father’s home! He’s been trying to reach you. Something important has come up about your new case !”
Surprised to learn that their father was back so soon from Washington, the boys dashed to the Morton house and called home.
“What’s up, Dad?” Frank asked excitedly.
“I’ve just received a phone call from Mr. Ghapur. He’s coming here from Washington with a friend from India who has a strange story to tell us.”
“What is it?”
“The matter was too confidential to discuss over the telephone, Frank. The men will arrive tonight. I thought you boys would want to be on hand.”
“We’ll be there,” Frank promised.
As Frank put down the phone, Chet appeared with a huge container of ice cream. Frank told Chet of the meeting to be held at the Hardy home that evening.
“Maybe it’s about our rubies,” their stout friend suggested.
As dinnertime approached, Chet drove the Hardys and their falcon home in his jalopy.
“Let me know what happens, fellows,” he called, waving good-by.
Fenton Hardy was waiting. “Our callers will arrive about nine o’clock,” he said.
Night had closed in and they were waiting for the front doorbell to ring, when a knock sounded on the back door. The boys and their father hurried to the kitchen and Fenton Hardy opened the door. Two men were standing there.
“Mr. Ghapur!” the detective exclaimed.
“We thought we were being followed,” the importer explained, stepping in. “Please pardon this strange way of entering your home.”
Rahmud Ghapur was a dark-complexioned man, about fifty years old, with lines at his temples that indicated a normally jovial disposition. Right now, however, his expression was tempered by the seriousness of the situation. His companion, about ten years younger, was introduced as Mr. Delhi, a trusted emissary and cousin of Satish Nayyar.
Ghapur added that the Indian, who retained a high government post, had assumed the name Delhi because he wished to remain incognito while in the United States.
“My real name is Bhagnav,” Mr. Delhi said.
Mr. Hardy shook hands with him and introduced his sons. “We’ll go up to my study,” he said, “where we can be sure that our discussion will not be overheard by possible eavesdroppers at our doors or windows.”
He led the way to the second floor. After everyone was seated, Frank offered to bring the falcon to Mr. Ghapur, but the man advised against it.
“If the bird were to see me,” he said, “the fine progress you have made with her might be undone.”
Ghapur turned to his companion. “Please tell your story,” he requested.
Mr. Delhi began with a question. “Had you heard that Tava Nayyar was on his way to the United States in order to complete his education?”
“We learned it last night from a newspaper clipping,” Frank replied, and told of their adventure in the boathouse.
“He arrived in New York all right,” Mr. Delhi went on. “Then he was kidnapped!”
“Kidnapped!” chorused the Hardys, and Joe added, “When?”
“About a month ago. Ransom was demanded in rubies. We received orders to leave the gems in a certain place in India. The orders were carried out and the rubies picked up. But Tava has not been released.”
“You haven’t heard anything?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes. We have received a new ransom note which demands that more rubies be left at the designated spot. The note, like the first one, threatens Tava with death if payment is not made or if the story of his kidnapping is published.”
Mr. Delhi paused. “I—I I am afraid Tava may not even now be alive,” he said somberly. “But his father has not given up hope.”
Rahmud Ghapur picked up the story. “Satish Nayyar sent Mr. Delhi to this country to see if he could track down the kidnappers. Since I am a native of the same province, he came to me for help. I suggested that we get in touch with you. Can you and your sons look into this matter for us?”
“We’ll be glad to,” Fenton Hardy assured them. “In fact, my boys may have picked up a clue already.”
“Yes? How so?” both visitors asked in amazement.
Frank and Joe told them of the precious rubies from the carrier pigeon brought down by the hawk.
The Indians were astounded to hear this news and agreed that the rubies might very well be part of the ransom. They thought, too, that the missing youth might be held at the place from which the pigeon had been released or where it was heading.
“More likely it’s the latter, since the pigeon came in from the sea.” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll do our best to find the spot.”
Mr. Ghapur leaned forward in his chair. “Nothing must happen to Tava. He is like one of my own family. When he was just a small child, I was the guest of Satish Nayyar.” Turning to Mr. Delhi, he asked, “Do you remember the cheetah hunt?”
“I certainly do,” Mr. Delhi recalled, “and my cousin will never forget how you saved Tava’s life, at peril of your own, when the boy was attacked by the cheetah.”
“It was a great honor,” Ghapur said quietly. He turned back to Fenton Hardy and concluded, “I guess we’ve finished our mission here. Mr. Delhi will return with me to my home in Washington. His enemies must not know where he is, so we will leave the way we came. We are deeply grateful to you all.”
“We’ll try to justify your gratitude,” Fenton Hardy promised.
Mr. Delhi asked that they spare no expense in tracing down every possible clue. “Incidentally,” he added, “Tava brought along his favorite goshawk on this trip. This might help you locate him.”
When he and Rahmud Ghapur had left, Mr. Hardy said to his sons, “I believe there’s a connection between Tava’s kidnappers, the rubies on the pigeon, and the smugglers of aliens from India. You boys made a start checking the coast-line for clues. You might follow up on that, as well as try to locate the carrier pigeons’ cote while I’m away. I’m due back in Washington tomorrow.”
“We’ll keep after the waterfront angle,” Frank assured him. “We’re going to do some sleuthing from the air, too, to track down the pigeon’s owner.”
The family was up early the next morning so that Fenton Hardy could catch the first plane to Washington. While the boys were feeding and watering the falcon, their mother brought them two hundred dollars cash and asked that they deposit it in the bank before three o’clock. They drove their father to the airport, then looked for their friend George Simons, who owned a helicopter.
“No passengers ahead of us today, I hope,” said Frank.
“You’re the first. Climb in. What are you fellows chasing this time?” the pilot asked with a smile.
“Carrier pigeons and their home cotes,” Frank told him.
First they flew to the end of the bay and from there headed in the southwesterly direction which the two carrier pigeons had followed. The pilot kept the helicopter at low speed while Frank scanned the land below.
Meanwhile, Joe was watching the horizon behind them for any slow-moving boat that might be plying between some ship and the shore. He saw none but suddenly cried out:
“Here comes a pigeon northeast of us!”
Simons held the helicopter stationary until the bird had come alongside and moved ahead of his craft. Then he trailed it. For about eight miles the pilot kept the pigeon in sight while Frank plotted its course on a map he had brought. Then, suddenly, the bird made a dive for a sparsely wooded area.
Simons stopped his forward flight and lowered the helicopter to get a better look. The boys carefully scrutinized the area, but there was no sign of a house or barn with a cote. Frank and Joe were puzzled, but finally concluded it must have been a wild bird that had just happened to take the southwesterly route.
Although the Hardys spent most of the morning scouting the Bayport environs, they saw no other pigeons.
At the airport, as the boys climbed into their convertible, Joe asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“We ought to go to the bank,” his brother replied, starting the motor. “But let’s scout around the waterfront first for the heavy-set, sun-tanned man wearing a ruby ring.”
Joe nodded. “How about looking for that suspicious sailor on the Daisy K? If he’s the fellow, he may be wearing the ring now.” 
They parked their car a block from the shoreline, then walked briskly to the dock area, where fishing boats, excursion steamers, deep-sea charter cruisers, and pleasure craft tied up. As the two headed for the Daisy K, Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed toward an outdoor lunch stand. 
“Look at the ring on that fellow on the second stool!” he said excitedly.
A stocky, dark-skinned sailor sat there eating. As he lifted a hamburger to his mouth, the sun sparkled on a ruby ring—the same unusual ring the falcon snatcher had been wearing!
The boys passed quickly and ducked behind a building.
“What’ll we do now?” Joe asked.
“Let’s confront him and see how he reacts,” Frank urged. “We’ll move in on either side.”
“Okay.”
They took seats next to the man and Frank looked him straight in the eye. “What did you want with our falcon?” he asked.
The man looked up, startled. “Falcon? You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he mumbled and backed off the stool.


  
“Let’s confront him and see how he reacts,” Frank urged
Joe gripped him by the shoulder. “If you won’t tell us, you can explain it to the police!”
“The police? Say, what’s going on? I don’t know anything about a falcon, I swear!” The sailor’s voice grew loud and he shook off Joe’s hand.
“Where did you get that ruby ring?” Frank broke in, stepping in front of the suspect.
This question brought a curious reaction. Apparently the man thought the boys intended to steal it, for he yelled, “Oh, no, you don’t!” and plunged headlong at Frank, trying to move past him.
Frank thrust out a leg in front of the sailor, who tripped over it and fell. Instantly Joe came down on his back, pinning him to the ground.
“Now maybe we’ll get an answer!” he said.

CHAPTER VI  
  A Big Boner
 
 
 
 
BYSTANDERS had gathered around the Hardy boys and the sailor.
“All right, talk!” Frank ordered, dragging the man to his feet.
The heavy-set, dark-skinned sailor straightened up. Glaring at the Hardys, he asked, “What do you want to know about my ruby ring?”
“Where did you get it?” Joe asked.
“Well, I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you think,” the man said sullenly. “I bought it from another sailor just last night.”
“What did this man look like?” Frank pressed.
The sailor suddenly reddened. “Why—er—I don’t know, but he also was Indian. Say, I can prove everything I told you!”
Turning, he yelled to the counterman to verify his story. To the Hardys’ chagrin the counterman did so, saying he had seen the transaction.
“We’re sure sorry,” Frank apologized. “We—we made a mistake. We’d like to make up for it.”
The sailor grinned. “Well, all right, you can pay my lunch check,” he said. “I’m broke.”
“Maybe we can do even better,” Joe said. “Want to sell the ring?” he asked, recalling that Mr. Delhi had said to spare no expense in following up clues.
The sailor hesitated, then took off the ring, named the price he had paid for it, and said he would sell for a small profit. Frank paid him, as well as the lunch check, from his mother’s two hundred dollars. The sailor saluted crisply and hurried away.
Shaking their heads ruefully, the Hardys resolved to be less hasty in jumping to conclusions. They went to the bank to deposit Mrs. Hardy’s remaining bills, then continued on toward the dock where the Daisy K tied up. She was not in port. 
“As long as we’re here,” said Joe, “we may as well make some inquiries about the crew.”
They quizzed supply men and ships’ captains. Finally one of the captains declared:
“That sounds like a fellow named Ragu, first mate on the Daisy K. Heavy-set. Piercing black eyes. Came from India. I’ve seen a ruby ring on him.”
Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune. That sailor they had seen leaning on the boat’s rail must have been the original owner of the ring! The captain said he had just seen him in the Sea Foam Restaurant. The boys hurried there and spotted Ragu at a table in the far corner.
As the Hardys approached, Ragu glanced up and half rose from his chair, then slowly settled back.
“You’re Ragu, aren’t you?” Joe asked.
“Of what importance is that to you?”
“We’d like to know something about a ruby ring you’ve been wearing,” Frank told him.
“I own no ring,” the sailor said belligerently.
Frank displayed the ring he had just bought. “You don’t own this ring now,” he said evenly, “but you did. Where did you get it?”
Ragu snatched the ring and hurled it away.
“You are evil boys!” he almost screamed.
Instinctively Frank and Joe turned to recover the ring. Frank picked it up. When the boys whirled back, Ragu was dashing out a side door.
The Hardys started after him, but suddenly Frank stopped and said, “Joe, let him go. I’m sure that Ragu’s the fellow who grabbed the falcon from you. If he doesn’t think we’re after him, and if he’s connected with the senders of those rubies, maybe he’ll lead us to them.”
“Guess you’re right, Frank.”
They went back to their convertible. As Frank was about to pull away from the curb, a vivacious voice said:
“What a beautiful ring you’re wearing, Frank.”
Frank and Joe looked up into the smiling face of Callie Shaw, a close friend of Iola’s. Blond, quick-witted, and carefree, she appealed particularly to Frank. Although interested, and frequently very helpful in the boys’ sleuthing, the pretty brown-eyed girl loved to tease the Hardys.
“Is the ring a gift?” Callie asked.
“No,” Frank replied with a smile. “It’s a clue in a new case we’ve taken on.”
Iola Morton had joined the group now and was talking to Joe. She said gaily, “Don’t forget the fish fry at the farm this afternoon.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the mysteries in Bayport,” Joe replied.
“The whole gang will be there,” Iola said. “Why not bring along your hawk and give us a demonstration?”
“Sure thing!” Frank agreed.
“Be there about three,” Callie said. “Games first and we’ll eat at five.”
The girls waved good-by and headed for a waterfront fish shop.
“If we’re going to exhibit Miss Peregrine,” said Joe, “we’d better go home and groom her!”
When they reached the house, the boys showed their mother the ring and told her how they had paid for it. “Mr. Delhi will reimburse us,” Frank explained. “I’ll put the ring in Dad’s safe.”
After lunch he and Joe fixed a bath for the falcon. Then they changed their clothes, picked up the bird, perch, bells and lure, and set off for the Morton farm. They found a lively gathering of a dozen couples playing spirited games of softball and badminton. 
But the moment the young people saw the falcon, they focused all their attention on the bird. Joe set the perch on the ground and said they would let her fly later. The hawk remained quiet as he and Frank joined in the games.
Finally Chet, who was wearing a flashy dark-green shirt splotched with brown and white, said, “Show them what Miss Peregrine can do, fellows.”
Frank looked around for a quarry. Suddenly a jay flew across the field at the edge of a woods. Frank picked up the hawk, yanked off the hood and flung the hawk in its direction. As the guests excitedly watched her fly toward the jay, a short-winged goshawk came rifling in from the woods and dived toward the jay.
“That’s a trained bird!” Frank exclaimed.
Instantly the two hawks began to fight over the jay. Joe started forward, calling excitedly to the falcon. Frank held him back, saying:
“It’s too late now. They’ll fight to the death.”
But the falcon abruptly shifted to avoid the vicious talons of the goshawk and then climbed up where she would have the advantage. While the hawks were maneuvering for position, the jay disappeared in the brush.
Frank and Joe whistled and shouted to Miss Peregrine, hoping to stop the fight. Suddenly the goshawk took flight and disappeared into the shelter of the woods. The falcon oriented herself, located the boys by the sound of their voices, and came down obediently to the feathered lure.
“Hey! You’re pretty good!” Chet exclaimed admiringly, and the other young people applauded.
The Hardys smiled, relieved that their falcon was safe, then looked inquiringly toward the woods into which the goshawk had vanished.
“Come on, Joe and Chet!” Frank urged. “Let’s find the owner of the hawk! It could be Tava.”
Frank hooded the peregrine and placed her on her perch. Then the three boys hurried into the woods.
Joe spotted a trail of recently trampled grass. Eagerly the trio followed it. They had gone only about a hundred yards when they were confronted by a large red sign with white lettering: 
DANGEROUS AREA! KEEP OUT!
The boys were puzzled, especially Chet, who was well acquainted with the woods. “Gosh, I never saw that before,” he said. “What’s going on here?”
The land looked undisturbed. There were no signs of digging, tree-felling, or other hazardous operations.
Farther ahead the boys came across similar warning signs.
Frank turned to Chet. “What could make this a dangerous area?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” his puzzled friend replied. “Old Mr. Smith who owns these woods used to encourage the public to picnic here.”
“If any big project were under way, everybody in Bayport would have heard about it,” Frank remarked.
“Let’s split up and see if we can find out what’s going on,” Joe suggested.
He and Chet searched a wide sweep on either side of the trail, while Frank followed the trampled path. The boys lost sight of each other as the foliage became more dense. But Frank could check the others’ positions from the sounds of their passage through the undergrowth. Soon these sounds were muffled, and the woods became a silent, twilight world.
Suddenly from Chet’s direction came a cry for help.
“Chet’s in trouble!” Frank yelled.
Instantly he and Joe were crashing through the underbrush to their friend’s aid.

CHAPTER VII  
  Dangerous Explorations
 
 
 
 
FOR several anxious moments Frank and Joe could not locate Chet. But finally they came upon him huddled in a clump of brush near a brook.
“He’s unconscious!” gasped Joe.
They knelt beside Chet, then carefully carried their friend out of the thicket to a clearing. As the boys gently placed him on the ground, they noticed blood oozing from a wound near the back of his head.
“This was no accident,” Frank declared.
“Someone gave him a heavy blow!”
Both boys glanced around cautiously to make sure none of them was in immediate danger, then they gave Chet first aid. As Joe chafed the boy’s wrists, Frank started for the brook to soak a handkerchief to bathe Chet’s wound and brow.
He had gone only a few feet when he heard a slight rustling sound. Looking around quickly, Frank spotted a movement in some bushes about fifty feet away. Without turning, he whispered:
“Joe, take care of Chet. I see someone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Frank headed for the bushes, but almost at the same moment, someone went crashing through the underbrush. The young detective increased his own pace, following the fugitive by the sounds of flight.
Several hundred yards farther on, Frank spotted the back of a tall, thin man for a fleeting second.
Frank put on a burst of speed which brought him closer to the man. They were both making considerable noise now, as twigs and leaves crackled under their feet. For this reason Frank was not immediately aware of footsteps behind him. When he heard them, the boy started to turn, but the next second a heavy blow caught him on the side of his head. Knees buckling, Frank pitched forward and blacked out!
Back at the clearing, Joe had heard the sounds of the chase, but he was confident that his brother would be more than a match for any adversary. Then he went to the brook, soaked his handkerchief in the cool water, and bathed Chet’s wound. The boy’s eyes flickered open and he looked up dazedly.
“Take it easy,” Joe advised. “Someone knocked you out. But Frank’s after him now.”
“I remember. Someone rushed up behind me and I yelled for help. He conked me.” Chet relaxed and closed his eyes.
Joe sat down on a log to wait for Frank’s return. Glimpsing the sky through the trees, he could see that the afternoon was waning. It struck him that their friends at the fish fry probably were wondering about the boys’ long absence. Should he try to get Chet back and not wait for Frank? But Joe decided against this.
“Chet should take it easy,” he thought.
As time passed and his brother still did not return, Joe grew worried. “Chet, I’d better look for Frank,” he said. “Do you think you can make it back to the farm alone?”
“Guess so.”
Joe helped him to his feet. The stout boy took a few steps, then stopped, admitting that he felt dizzy.
“You better rest a while longer,” Joe said.
He rummaged in the undergrowth and found a strong, heavy stick. Handing it to Chet, he said, “You ought to be able to defend yourself with this. I’m going to hunt for Frank.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
Joe moved off into the woods, trying to follow the general direction Frank had taken. Several times he gave the Hardys’ secret birdcall whistle, and listened eagerly for his brother’s response. But it never came.
Joe trudged on, following the trail of trampled grass he had found. As he reached a dense section, he heard someone moving just ahead of him. Joe stopped and gave the whistle again. There was no reply, but the rustling grew louder. He looked about for a weapon, found a heavy stick, picked it up, and went forward.
As Joe crept around the bole of a large tree, he saw Frank staggering along!
“Frank, you’ve been hurt!” Joe cried. He gripped his brother around the shoulders and gently lowered him to the ground. As Frank looked up at him, Joe noticed that his brother was clutching a small pouch.
“Where did you get this?” Joe asked.
Frank blinked, looked down at the pouch as if seeing it for the first time, and muttered, “Don’t know. Maybe the fellow who attacked me dropped it. Guess I picked it up.” He sank back, exhausted.
Joe opened the small pouch and saw that it contained several reddish-brown nuts. He had never seen any like them and concluded they might be a good clue to the identity of the boys’ assailant.
Right now, Joe faced a dilemma. Should he go for help and leave Frank and Chet? But he discarded the idea at once. Their enemy might return. He had to get both boys away as soon as possible!
“Suppose you rest for a few minutes, Frank,” he suggested. “Then we’ll take off.”
Frank closed his eyes. He opened them ten minutes later, declaring he felt much better. Joe was seated beside him, gazing at the pouch.
“It’s possible that we’re close to the smugglers’ hideout, Frank,” he remarked.
A few minutes later Frank said that he felt strong enough to start back. Joe helped him up, and they moved off slowly in the lengthening shadows toward the spot where Chet waited. Because of the dusk and the condition of the two boys, further sleuthing was out of the question for the time being.
‘But we’ll pick up the trail first thing in the morning,” Frank said with determination.
As they walked on, they discussed their experiences of the afternoon. When they reached the spot where Joe had left Chet, the Hardys did not see him.
“I hope he wasn’t attacked again,” Joe cried out.
“No such thing,” came a voice so close to them that the Hardys jumped.
The next instant, Chet’s perspiring head emerged from his splotched dark-green shirt, which blended well with the underbrush. The stout boy got up from his hiding place, grinning.
Frank and Joe roared with laughter. As their mirth subsided, Chet explained that he had felt too weak to fight anyone, even with the clublike stick Joe had given him. When he thought someone was coming, he had ducked into the bushes and put the shirt over his head as camouflage.
“But I guess it was my imagination,” he said. “Haven’t heard a thing since. Let’s go!”
The boys made their way back to the trail and headed for the Morton farm. All the young guests had left except Callie. She and Iola were seated with Mr. and Mrs. Morton near the falcon’s perch, keeping a close watch on the valuable bird.
At sight of Chet and Frank, the whole group ran forward. Mr. Morton asked, “What happened?”
“Got banged up a bit,” Chet replied. “But there’s nothing wrong with us that some food and a night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“You bet,” Frank spoke up, also trying to make light of their ordeal. “Anything left from the fish fry?”
“Come and get it!” Iola said.
While they were eating, the boys told the others of their strange experiences in the woods. Chet’s father said that he would try to find out if Mr. Smith had posted the warning signs and why.
“Tomorrow we’ll go back and investigate the place, anyway,” Joe declared.
The Mortons and Callie begged the boys to be on their guard.
The following day was a cold and dreary one for August, but after breakfast Frank declared he felt well enough to further investigate the woods near the Morton farm. He proposed that they take Ahmed along on their exploration.
“If we do run into a group of Indians, his knowledge will come in mighty handy.”
Joe agreed. “I’ll phone him. You get the car.”
Ahmed, amazed to hear about the incident with the goshawk and the attacks on the boys, was eager to go. The boys asked Mrs. Hardy to keep an eye on the falcon, then set off in the convertible to pick up Ahmed at his bungalow. The rug dealer was hardly seated when he said tensely:
“If you have really found the hideout of these despicable smugglers and can bring them to justice, India will never be able to repay you.”
Remembering the small pouch he had found in the woods, Frank pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Ahmed. “I picked this up in the woods yesterday. Do you think it might be a clue?”
Ahmed’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the bag and its contents. Then he said cryptically, “I believe this is indeed a clue in your search. These are betel nuts. Only lower-caste Indians chew them.” Ahmed turned to Frank. “The person who attacked you and your friend may be one of the smuggled men or a servant to an Indian of wealth.”
The Hardys looked at each other. The kidnapped Tava, perhaps? He was indeed one of great wealth. They wondered whether to tell Ahmed of Tava’s disappearance, but decided not to do so unless it became necessary. “At least we should ask Mr. Delhi’s permission first,” they reflected.
A short time later Frank turned the car into the Morton driveway and Chet joined them at the barn. The foursome set out for the woods, taking a different route from the trail they had followed the previous day which Frank thought was closer. But a new obstacle presented itself—a long, impenetrable wall of vines and branches.
Ahmed paused and studied the barrier carefully. “These vines and branches,” he said, “have been woven together by master craftsmen. Whoever had this constructed is indeed anxious to keep out strangers.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Frank. “Have you, Ahmed?”
“You have heard tales of the beaters who go out to stir up the tiger and the wild boar? They often use this weaving technique to make sure the animals will not escape while the hunter is moving in with his elephant, or the pig-sticker with his lance.”
“What we need is a machete!” Joe remarked.
Ahmed and the three boys picked up stout pieces of fallen tree limbs and started to beat their way through. Now and then they stopped to listen for sounds that might indicate trouble. But apparently they were alone in the woods.
Presently a disturbing thought came to Frank. “It looks,” he said, “as though we may have frightened our attackers away from the woods permanently.”
Joe nodded but made no comment. Finally the searchers broke through the thick mesh of vines, spotted a fairly well-marked trail, and went ahead.
They walked for some time, searching carefully for clues, but saw nothing suspicious. Presently the foliage began to thin out. Frank held up a hand for silence. Then, dropping to his knees, he crawled forward.
“There’s a hunting lodge ahead,” he whispered. “And smoke is coming from the chimney.”
Chet explained that Mr. Smith had built the lodge to entertain his friends during the hunting season, but that he never used it in the summer.
For several minutes Ahmed and the boys observed the lodge. Then Frank said:
“It looks deserted, though someone must have built a fire recently. Let’s see what we can find out. But be careful!”
Did the lodge conceal dangerous smugglers—or the kidnappers? the Hardys wondered.

CHAPTER VIII  
  A Strange Lead
 
 
 
 
THE searchers warily circled the hunting lodge, but they came upon no one, nor was there any sign of activity inside. Still cautious, however, Frank whispered:
“Keep an eye on me, will you, while I get close enough to look through the windows?”
Frank hurried forward, zigzagging so that he would be an elusive target. At last he reached a corner of the low, wide veranda which ran around three sides of the building. Crossing to a large window, he looked into a handsomely furnished living room with a log fire burning. The room was unoccupied.
Frank moved stealthily from window to window. There were several rooms in the lodge, all well furnished. The bedrooms and kitchen showed evidence of a hasty exit of several people. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and bureau drawers were open.
Frank signaled to the others and they came forward. Moments later all were inside the lodge, looking for clues to the vanished occupants.
Joe, who was more interested in where the occupants had gone, went through the kitchen and out to the back yard. At the edge of the woods he discovered a spring which flowed into a small creek. In the muddy earth around it were a number of footprints.
“Hey, come here!” he called. Ahmed, Frank, and Chet joined him. “Let’s see where these tracks go.”
“And look!” cried Chet, pointing in turn to several bright-red splotches on the ground.
“Looks like blood!” Joe exclaimed.
“Dried blood would be dark,” Frank said. “That is brilliant red.”
“This is a real clue,” said Ahmed. “A user of betel nuts spits a bright-red fluid.”
Their hopes raised by these latest discoveries, the searchers dashed into the woods, following the footprints Joe had discovered. When that trail ended, the boys spotted crushed leaves and broken twigs that marked the recent flight of several people. Red splotches made by the betel-nut user were here and there.
The foursome followed the trail to the edge of a rock-filled brook. There it was lost. Frank and Joe knelt at various points along the opposite bank, looking for some sign to indicate where the fleeing group had come out. But they found nothing and concluded that the fugitives had gone far downstream.
Convinced that there was no way of picking up the trail beyond the stream, Frank suggested that they all return to the lodge and try to find some clues to the occupants’ identities.
In the rambling log structure each of the quartet took one of the bedrooms. There were visible fingerprints everywhere but not one clear set.
Suddenly Ahmed called out, “In here, boys! Look what I’ve found.”
The others ran to a bedroom which was furnished more luxuriously than the others. Ahmed was holding a dark-brown object the size of a robin’s egg. It looked like a salt shaker, was delicately carved, and had a number of colored bands for decoration. The initials T.N. were engraved on the bottom.
“What is it?” Frank asked, puzzled.
“A sandalwood scent box,” Ahmed replied slowly.
“And the initials could stand for Tava Nayyar!” Frank cried.
“This must have been his ‘prison’!” Joe said.
Frank nodded, then said, “I guess now we’d better tell the others about Tava.”
Completely astounded, Ahmed and Chet listened to the story of the kidnapped Indian and the Hardys’ suspicion that he had been held here.
“But where have they taken him?” Chet asked.
“Wherever Tava’s been taken,” said Frank, “you can be sure the place won’t be so easy to find as this one was. His captors will see to that and will make it dangerous for anyone trying to find him.”
“Then what’s next?” Chet asked.
“I guess we’d better follow up the pigeon angle for further clues,” Frank replied as all of them sat down to rest before starting back through the forest. “I haven’t seen any signs of cotes around here. I thought for a while that maybe pigeons were kept here, both as food for the goshawk and as carriers for the smugglers. But I guess that the pet goshawk was given other food.”
Chet sighed, “Let’s go home. I’m hungry.” He went into the kitchen, helped himself to a box of crackers, and passed them around.
Both Frank and Joe felt that the lodge and grounds should be guarded, in case Tava’s kidnappers returned. As soon as they reached Chet’s home they would phone Mr. Hardy’s operative, Sam Radley, to take on this job.
Radley and the boys worked closely together. He admired Frank and Joe’s sleuthing abilities, and encouraged them in every way he could.
Feeling rested, Ahmed and the boys started back through the forest. Several hundred paces later Frank spied a movement in the bushes and halted his companions.
“Who’s there?” Frank called out.
No response. When he repeated his call, a boy about twelve years old stepped into the open.
“It’s me, Gene Moran,” the youngster said.
Relieved, the three sleuths pushed forward to meet the boy, who lived near the Hardys. Joe asked what he was doing in the woods.
“Looking for tree toads for my Boy Scout merit badge,” Gene replied.
Chet grinned. “Find any?”
“Sure, a whole pocketful,” the boy said, laughing.
“By the way,” Frank put in, “did you see anyone else in these woods today besides us?”
“Yes, a bunch of dark-skinned people. They looked sort of like your friend.” Gene bobbed his head at Ahmed.
“Where?”
Gene pointed in a southwesterly direction. “They were in a big hurry. Say, one fellow—about the same age as you, Frank—had a pet bird on his right wrist. And it had a funny cap pulled over its head.”
“Were any of the people wearing foreign clothing?” Joe queried.
“No. They all had on regular American suits.”
“Did they have a leader?”
Gene thought for a moment. “Guess you’d call the lightest one the leader. He was tall and cruel-looking. Wore a cap like a ship’s captain and a dark-blue coat. Bet he is a captain, because I heard one of the other men ask him, ‘Cap, got the stones?’ ”
Stones! Frank’s and Joe’s eyes flashed. Elated, they thanked Gene for his information. The boy looked at them curiously. “You working on a case?”
“That’s right.” Joe winked at Frank. “We’re after a couple of toads ourselves. Big ones.”
Gene grinned. “Hope you catch ’em.”
“And good luck on your merit badge,” said Frank.
Once more the Hardys, Chet, and Ahmed headed for the Morton farm.
“One thing I don’t understand,” said Chet. “Why didn’t Tava escape yesterday when he was evidently within sight of us?” Chet asked.
Joe suggested that perhaps the youth was not being held against his will.
“It could be,” said Frank, “that he has been given some phony story, believes it, and isn’t even trying to get away!”
When they arrived at Chet’s house, Frank telephoned Sam Radley. He related all the happenings in the woods and described the location of the hunting lodge. Mr. Hardy’s operative assured him that he would start guarding the place at once.
“But I doubt that those people will return,” he said.
Iola insisted that the Hardys and Ahmed stay for lunch.
“We don’t need a second invitation,” Joe said with a grin.
When the meal was over, the Hardys drove Ahmed home. They thanked the rug dealer for his help. He bowed politely and replied:
“It is you who are helping my friend Gaphur and my people. I shall be forever grateful to you.”
Frank and Joe waved good-by, and the convertible moved away. As Frank turned into the Hardy driveway, Joe declared, “Boy, am I tired and hot! A shower will feel good!”
“That goes for me, too,” Frank admitted. “About the liveliest thing I’m going to do the rest of today is make up a list of pigeon fanciers nearby and try to find out if one of them has lost any carrier pigeons recently.”
Before locking the garage, they stopped to talk to the falcon. She was bobbing back and forth on her perch as though in welcome. Joe brushed his fingers along the bird’s back between the shoulders and on the feathers of her wings.
“We sure deserted you today,” he remarked.
After they had showered and put on clean clothes, Frank and Joe went to their father’s study and started to check the classified telephone directory for pet shops.
“The owners ought to know something about pigeon fanciers,” Joe declared.
They made a series of telephone calls which netted no information. There were only four listings left when Frank and Joe heard a noisy car coming down Elm Street.
“Sounds like Chet’s jalopy,” Joe said, getting up to look out a window. “And it is!” he added.
Usually the stout boy nursed along his prized possession as though it were made of solid gold. But today he was evidently in a hurry. He slammed on the brakes and rushed into the house and up the stairs so fast that he was out of breath for several moments.
“Hey, Chet, somebody chasing you?” Joe quipped.
Without replying, Chet held out his hand in which lay a capsule, similar to the one containing the rubies.
“Where did you get this?” Frank asked quickly.
Chet finally calmed down enough to speak. “I was standing outside the barn when I heard a plane. At the same time I spotted a pigeon overhead. Suddenly the pigeon flew directly toward the craft and crashed into its windshield.”
“Wow!” Joe said. “That must have been the end of the poor bird.”
“It was,” Chet went on. “It plummeted right down into the middle of a field!”
“And you found it?” Frank queried.
Chet nodded. “This capsule was on its leg. Wait till you see what’s in it!”

CHAPTER IX  
  A Harsh Skipper
 
 
 
 
ALTHOUGH Chet had opened the capsule when he had removed it from the pigeon, he would not reveal the contents to the Hardys. Instead, he waited as Frank removed the top.
Inside was a tightly rolled bit of paper.
Frank smoothed out the note. A message, printed in block letters, read:
CAUGHT L ABOUT TO SQUEAL. HOLDING HERE.
NO DELIVERIES UNTIL REPLACEMENT ARRIVES.
Frank slapped Chet on the back. “Good work, pal. This may help to speed up our case.”
As Chet beamed with pride, Frank turned to Joe. “I guess we’d better forget those pigeon fanciers for the time being and concentrate on this new clue.”
“You bet!”
They examined the paper to see if it held any further clues. Holding it to the light, Frank studied the watermark. It looked like a fouled anchor insigne with several other figures that might be porpoises or sea horses.
“Look at this, fellows,” he said. “The next step is to see if we can trace the origin of the paper.”
From a list in Mr. Hardy’s files, they selected the best-known paper manufacturers and called them asking if it belonged to a special customer.
They were told in each case that the company would check and let them know.
“Now all we can do is wait,” Frank said.
The next day the boys stayed at home all morning, but no telephone calls came from the paper manufacturers. At lunchtime Joe said, “While we’re waiting, let’s investigate that man Gene Moran told us about yesterday—the one who might be a ship’s captain.”
“Okay. How about trying the Bayport waterfront again? Maybe the owner of that restaurant where we saw Ragu can give us a clue.”
The Hardys drove to the docks and headed for the eating place. When they questioned the proprietor about a tall, cruel-looking sea captain, he grinned and shouted to two men who were busily eating steaks at a table in a far corner of the room.
“These boys are looking for a tall, cruel-looking captain, men. Either one of you like to take the job?”
“What’s it for?” asked one. Then laughing loudly, he said, “A high school play?”
Chagrined, the Hardys headed for the door. To their amazement they heard the restaurant man remark, “The Hardy boys. Their pop’s a big-time detective.”
“Hey, Zeke! We’ll have to watch our step!”
Raucous laughter followed as the boys left. They visited other spots along the waterfront but saw no likely suspect. Finally they paused near a small fishing craft. A jovial-looking man called down to them from the upper deck:
“Are you the lads who are huntin’ for a cruel-lookin’ skipper?”
“How’d you hear about it?” asked Joe.
“Joke’s all up and down the waterfront,” the man told them. “Just the same, if I was lookin’ for a fellow of that stripe, I’d check with Captain Flont of the Daisy K.”
The Daisy K again, the Hardys thought excitedly. 
“Was Captain Flont’s boat out at sea yesterday?” Frank queried.
“No. She was tied to her bollards all day. I can swear to that, since I didn’t leave port either.”
“Was the captain aboard the Daisy K?” Joe asked.
“Not until late in the evening.”
The Hardys thanked the man and hurried to the anchorage of the Daisy K. As they drew closer, they spotted Captain Flont in the deckhouse. Ragu was lounging on the rear deck.
Frank and Joe halted at the gangway, and with nautical courtesy, Frank called, “Ahoy, the Daisy K. May we come aboard?”
Captain Flont leaned out the window and said harshly, “If you’ve got business with us, come aboard. But make it snappy!”
When the boys stepped onto the deck, Ragu looked up with an insolent stare. They peered at him intently in return, but the mate did not flinch.
As Captain Flont approached the Hardys, Frank decided that the best way to obtain information was through a ruse. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “We’re trying to locate a couple of our friends who were going fishing with you yesterday.”
“We didn’t go fishing yesterday,” Captain Flont replied quickly.
“Oh, then maybe you were the captain who was in Smith’s woods yesterday,” Joe broke in.
Flont scowled. “I wasn’t in any woods. Now get off this ship!”
The Hardys held their ground. “How about your man Ragu?” Frank asked. “Was he there?”
At this, Ragu stalked up behind them. “I was with Captain Flont yesterday,” he growled. “We were on ship’s business.”
“Now you have your answers,” the skipper shouted. “Get off my ship!”
Frank and Joe did not move quickly enough to suit the captain. His shout had aroused the other two crew members, who came up from below. They gripped the unwanted callers by the elbows and rushed them off the vessel. The boys were thrown forcibly onto the dock.
As the sailors returned to the gangplank, Frank and Joe heard one of them mutter, “It’s lucky they didn’t show up for the moonlight ride!”
The Hardys brushed themselves off and walked back to their car. As Frank drove off he said wryly, “We found out one thing—those men sure don’t want us around.”
Joe nodded. “It’s strange that it takes a captain, a mate, and two crew members to run a fifty-foot fishing cruiser. What do you think that fellow meant about a moonlight ride?”
“I don’t know, but we ought to find out if he meant tonight. There’ll be a full moon. Let’s take the Sleuth out and keep an eye on the Daisy K.”
At home the boys found a telegram from one of the paper mills. Frank read it and said:
“Joe, did you ever hear of the Mediterranean Steamship Line? The records of this paper company show that the fouled anchor stationery was made for them and is used on all their ships. It was sold through the London office.”
Joe said he had never heard of the line, but went to one of his father’s bookcases and brought back a book containing ships’ registries. He thumbed through it, then stopped at one page.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Some of their ships ply between New York and the Middle East. I’ll check recent arrivals and departures.”
“Good idea.”
As Joe scanned the shipping news in the Bayport Times, he said, “Here’s an item on one—the Continental. She arrived in New York early this week. Her normal course would have taken her close to the coast at Bayport. Say, do you think the Continental might be the ship that’s bringing aliens to the United States?” 
“Could be,” Frank said. “But it might just be a ship on which one of the gang was traveling.”
Determined to track down every possible clue, Frank called the Mediterranean Line’s New York office. He explained that the Hardys were detectives, working on a government case, and asked for a list of Indian passengers on recent voyages to New York. The passenger agent assured him that it would be mailed at once, together with any other helpful information the line could give.
“With that cooperation, it sounds as if the company’s on the up and up,” Frank remarked.
Just as the moon was rising that evening, Frank and Joe headed for the Sleuth, which was still moored at the dock they had left it the night of the fire. They paused to note the progress of repairs on their boathouse. 
“It’ll be at least two weeks before we can take the Sleuth back,” Frank commented.


  
The boys were thrown onto the dock
“Yes, and the firebug hasn’t been caught yet,” Joe said as Frank took the wheel.
Soon they were speeding out of Bayport harbor. There were a number of islands near the inlet where they could wait for their quarry. Frank chose one that lay in shadows, cut the motor, and turned off their running lights.
“I feel like one of those falcons ‘waiting on’ until its prey comes along,” Joe said, grinning.
In the moonlight the boys could see boats moving up and down the harbor, but all of them were pleasure craft. Finally, however, Frank whispered:
“There’s a boat with the Daisy K’s lines.” 
Both boys positively identified Captain Flont’s craft as it chugged past them. They gave it a reasonable lead, then started after it. The chase continued for about five miles, then the Daisy K slowed down. Frank cut his engine. 
A few minutes later a large motor dory appeared beyond the fishing boat and pulled alongside. A rope ladder clattered over the rail of Flont’s ship and two men scrambled down the rungs into the dory.
As the smaller boat pulled away toward the open sea, the Daisy K started up again, turned in a wide arc, and headed back toward Bayport. 
“We’ve got to find out where that dory’s going!” Joe said.
The Sleuth took up the chase! 

CHAPTER X  
  Hunting a Hawk
 
 
 
 
THE Hardys had been following the mysterious dory for some time when the Sleuth’s motor began to sputter and the craft lost way. 
Joe, seated on the forward deck as lookout, whirled around and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Sounds as if we’re out of gas,” Frank replied.
“Impossible,” Joe said. “The gauge read full when I checked at the dock.”
Frank unscrewed the tank cap and beamed his flashlight inside. “I have news for you, Joe,” he said. “It still reads full, but there isn’t a drop of gas in the tank!”
The Hardys examined the gauge and discovered that it was jammed.
“This didn’t jam by itself,” Frank declared. “Someone tampered with it!”
“Someone from the Daisy K!” Joe guessed. 
By this time the motor dory was out of sight. In disgust the boys brought out the emergency fuel can and emptied its contents into the tank. Since there was little hope now of locating the dory with their limited gas supply, the Hardys headed for home. While Frank fixed the gauge, they speculated about where the dory had come from. Perhaps from a ship waiting at sea? The boys could see no lights to indicate any vessel, however, and concluded that the dory might be planning to meet a passing ship later.
“I wonder who those two men were who climbed off the Daisy K,” Frank said thoughtfully. 
Joe shrugged. “I guess our only hope of solving that is to keep the Daisy K’s crew under close observation,” he commented. “When we get back to town, let’s ask one of Dad’s operatives to watch them.” 
“Jeff Kane’s in town,” Frank suggested.
When the boys reached Bayport, Frank telephoned the detective. Kane readily agreed to take over the assignment.
Early the next morning, after feeding the falcon, the boys took turns phoning the pet shops which they had not had time to call the day before. This time they were more successful. Two of the owners supplied them with the names of carrier pigeon fanciers. Some of these were in Bayport, while the others were a distance away.
With Frank at the wheel of the convertible, the Hardys started on their quest. The first place was only a half mile from their home. The pigeon keeper, a young man about twenty-five, proved to be a squab breeder who kept a few carrier pigeons as a hobby. He showed them to Frank and Joe.
“I enter these in cross-country races,” he said. “My birds have brought me several cups and ribbons,” he added, stroking one of the racers fondly.
In reply to a question from Frank, the young man said he had never taken his birds out on the water and released them.
“In fact, I don’t know anyone around here who would have reason to,” he said, “because the contests are always from inland cities to the coast.”
The Hardys thanked him for the information and went on their way. Both of the other local men proved to be above suspicion as well.
The next name on their list was Reed Newton, who lived five miles away. When Frank and Joe reached his home, they found him to be a retired carpenter in late middle age, who had flown pigeons as a hobby for many years. He had a large cote and several breeding cages.
“You raise more pigeons than you train and fly, don’t you, Mr. Newton?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes,” the fancier replied. “I sell them.” He smiled boyishly. “I may sound a bit vain, but my pigeons are becoming known all over the world.”
“Has anyone purchased a large number of birds from you recently?”
Reed Newton wrinkled his brow for some moments, then replied, “Not recently. But about two years ago I had a big order. A young man from India, named Bhagnav, bought a whole flock of pigeons.”
“Bhagnav!” Joe exclaimed, but recovered quickly and added, “That’s an unusual name.”
“Can you describe this man?” Frank asked.
“Well, as I remember, he was a tall, slender, rather handsome fellow of about twenty-five. One thing I particularly remember was a scar at the base of his chin. It stood out clearly because it was a slightly lighter shade than the rest of his face.”
Frank and Joe could hardly believe their good fortune in picking up this clue. Was the Bhagnav who had purchased the pigeons related to the Indian government official who was now using the name of Delhi?
After the Hardys had left Mr. Newton, they speculated about the man named Bhagnav who had bought the pigeons.
“It’s possible,” said Frank, “that he was an impostor who had planned this smuggling racket as far back as two years ago.”
“Right. Figuring that if anyone uncovered the plot, the real Bhagnav would be blamed. We must phone Mr. Delhi about this as soon as we get home.”
The drive to the farm of John Fenwick, the last pigeon fancier on the boys’ list, was long. On the way they stopped at a roadside restaurant to have lunch.
When Joe spotted a sign with the name FENWICK. at the foot of a lane, he exclaimed:
“What a weird setup for a pigeon fancier!”
On the lawn inside the cyclone fence that lined the property were several perches. Each of them held a hooded hawk!
“Fenwick must be breeding fighter pigeons!” Frank grinned as he turned into the drive.
A pleasant-looking man in his middle thirties strode briskly from the back yard. He was dressed in rough clothing, had on a tight-fitting cap, and held two coils of nylon rope over his arm.
“We’re looking for John Fenwick,” Frank announced.
“That’s me,” the man said with a smile.
“We’re interested in your pigeons,” Joe said.
Mr. Fenwick laughed and remarked, “You’re about two years too late for that. As you can see from the perches on the lawn, I’ve switched my interest to falconry.”
“We have a peregrine falcon,” Joe replied. “That’s the reason we came to talk to you. Our falcon brought down a pigeon and we were trying to find the owner so we could settle accounts.”
“Fine attitude, son,” Mr. Fenwick declared. “Since you’re interested in the birds yourself, you might like to come along with me today. I’m going to Cliff Mountain to get a young hawk from an eyrie—that’s a nest—I’ve been observing.”
Frank and Joe were thrilled at this idea. Frank suggested that Mr. Fenwick put his gear in their car and let them drive him to Cliff Mountain. He accepted, and as they drove along he explained that he was particularly interested in peregrines.
“I spotted one of their nests out on the mountain, and have been watching the tercel and the falcon. The eggs have been hatched now. There are four of them. I’ll take only one young hawk out of the eyrie and leave the rest to fly away and raise broods of their own. The parent birds will return next year to nest again.”
When he and the boys arrived at Cliff Mountain, Frank parked the car and Mr. Fenwick led the way up the trail to the precipice that had given the mountain its name. The going was rugged, but the boys’ enthusiasm for hawking and adventure spurred them on.
When they reached the edge of the shaly cliff, Mr. Fenwick tied a heavy rope around a sturdy oak which seemed to be growing out of the rocks. The loose end was dropped over the side of the cliff, its entire one hundred and twenty-five feet hanging down.
“Usually,” Mr. Fenwick explained, “it’s a good idea to have a rope that will reach all the way to the bottom of the cliff. Then, if you can’t climb back to the top safely, you can at least get to the ground without injury. But this cliff is too high for that. No alternative but to come back up.”
Mr. Fenwick went over the edge of the cliff. He lowered himself about sixty feet, then called to the boys:
“There are three fledglings. One egg didn’t hatch.”
The mother hawk was not in sight. But Mr. Fenwick wasn’t taking any chances and called up again, “Keep your eyes open for the mother. She’s likely to resist an invasion of her nest. I don’t want any trouble, if I can help it. I’ve been attacked before and it’s no fun.”
In a few minutes Mr. Fenwick announced that he had one of the young birds in his packsack and was coming up. He signaled to be lifted to the rim. As he came over the edge and the rest of the line was pulled up, Mr. Fenwick said:
“Funny, I haven’t seen any sign of the tercel, either. Usually he’ll do the hunting for food for the young. Then the falcon will take the quarry from him in mid-air, pluck it, and feed the fledglings.”
“Do you think someone might have shot the tercel and the falcon is getting the food?” Frank asked.
“That’s possible,” Mr. Fenwick replied. “And she will have to do all the work herself until the young ones can fly.”
Then the hawk hunter displayed the fledgling. The falcon’s tail and wing feathers were short because the bird was so young. Small tufts of down clung to them. The bird’s feet were a light greenish gray instead of brilliant orange like the adults’.
Both Frank and Joe noticed how large the feet were. They were already fully grown, even though its feathers were still developing.
The thing that amazed them most was that the young falcon was brownish black instead of blackish blue like their own hawk. Mr. Fenwick explained that the young birds never have the same plumage color and markings as the adults.
“Next spring this bird will begin to molt—that is, drop her old feathers and grow new ones. Those will be adult plumage like your peregrine’s.”
“Is that true for all hawks?” Joe asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Fenwick replied as he put the fledgling back in the pack to begin the return journey.
When they reached Mr. Fenwick’s home, the falconer extended a cordial invitation to return soon.
Back at their own house, they found Sam Radley waiting. He was seated in the garden with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. The falcon sat on the perch beside them.
As Radley began his report, the two women arose and went into the house.
“No one returned to the hunting lodge and I doubt that anyone will, since they’ll figure it’s being watched. But as I was leaving Smith’s woods, I met Mr. Morton. He told me that Mr. Smith’s lawyer informed him that the property was leased for the summer to a dark-skinned man by the name of Sutter. I have a feeling he’s one of our Indian boys.”
Frank and Joe agreed.
At that moment a special-delivery letter arrived for the boys from the Mediterranean Line. It stated that no Indians had arrived on any of their vessels’ recent trips to New York.
“This information may interest you, however,” the letter went on. “A couple of years ago there was an Indian member of the Continental’s crew named Bangalore. He jumped ship. This company is particularly disturbed, because the immigration authorities hold us responsible for such things.” 
As he folded the letter, Frank said, “I wonder if we could get a photograph of Bangalore.”
“I’ll try to locate one,” Radley offered.
Frank then told him of the clue about the pigeon fancier using the name Bhagnav, and the boys’ decision to phone Mr. Delhi. Joe put in a call, but there was no answer at Mr. Ghapur’s home, where the emissary was staying.
“Anything more I can do for you boys?” Radley asked. “I’ll continue to keep an eye on the lodge.”
Frank and Joe could think of nothing else. They mentioned Kane’s shadowing the Daisy K’s crew and that they expected a report from him soon.
“And I think we should talk to the Coast Guard,” Frank remarked.
“I did that while I was waiting for you,” Radley said. “The local men have found nothing suspicious on boats or ships in the area they cover. Of course they don’t go out far beyond the twelve-mile limit. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“You bet it does!” Joe spoke up. “For one thing, it seems to back up our idea that a large ship anchors offshore, receives some sort of signal —or maybe sends its own message by carrier pigeon. Then the smuggled Indians are taken off in boats like the motor dory we trailed last night.”
“But why couldn’t the Coast Guard fly out there and spot such a transfer?” Frank pointed out. “When the dory reaches our waters, it could be nabbed.”
“I suppose they might,” Radley agreed. “But if the smuggled Indians swam a distance from a large ship to the smaller boat at night, the Coast Guard sure would have trouble spotting them.”
“And it’s impossible for them to cover every bit of shore line at once,” Frank added, “especially at night when a dory could slip in. It might even be that the aliens swim the last half mile.”
After Radley left, Frank and Joe talked over their next move. “I suggest that we use Miss Peregrine for a little sleuthing,” Frank said.
“How?”
“Let’s take the falcon out to the Morton farm and have George Simons meet us there with his copter. It’s a shorter drive for us there than to the airport and maybe Chet would like to go along. We’ll go up in the chopper and keep watch for a pigeon coming from the ocean and heading southwest. If we spot one, we’ll follow it until the bird starts down to its cote. Then we’ll turn the falcon loose and let her trail the pigeon right to its cote. That way we ought to be able to intercept any message it may be carrying.”
“You mean we’ll kill two clues with one bird?” Joe grinned.
Frank first phoned Chet, who said, “Count me in. I sure would like to go along.”
Then Frank called George Simons, who agreed to meet them at the farm in half an hour. Joe got the hawk’s equipment, hooded and wristed her, and the boys drove off. When they reached the farm, the helicopter was already settling in an open area behind the barn. The boys headed for it to tell Simons their plan.
Chet, seeing them from the kitchen window, came outside and followed them. As he ambled past a corner of the barn, a masked figure moved up behind him. Chet’s arms were pinned behind his back and a hand was clamped over his mouth!
In a low, fierce whisper, the masked man ordered, “Bring that falcon to your barn and leave it there. If you don’t, you and the Hardys will be in serious trouble! And don’t tell anyone why you’re doing it!”
Desperately Chet squirmed and twisted in the grasp of his assailant but could not free himself!

CHAPTER XI  
  A Ruse
 
 
 
 
THE masked man tightened his grip.
“Listen, fat boy! Get that hawk if you value your life and the Hardys’!”
“All right,” Chet finally said. “I’ll do it.”
The masked man pushed Chet along until they were close to a small door in the barn. Then he turned him loose and darted into the darkness of the barn, closing the door behind him.
Chet walked toward the Hardys with trembling legs. As Frank and Joe explained their plans to Simons, Chet interrupted, saying:
“Sounds swell. M-mind if I hold the f-falcon on the trip?”
“But the bird isn’t accustomed to you,” Frank said. “She wouldn’t respond to your commands.”
“Well, can’t I at least h-hold her until you s-spot the pigeon?” Chet pleaded.
Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. They both sensed something was wrong with Chet, for he was not usually so nervous.
“That wouldn’t work too well, either,” Frank told him.
Chet cast an anxious glance over his shoulder in the direction of the barn, then stared at the hooded falcon. She was standing quietly on Joe’s gauntlet. He was checking the jesses to make certain that they were firmly fastened to the bird’s legs. Then he unsnapped the swivel hook, so that he could release the falcon quickly.
Suddenly Chet dived at Joe and grabbed for the bird! With a startled cry Joe stepped back and the falcon flapped her wings to hold her balance.
Frank clutched the stout boy’s arm. “What’s wrong with you, Chet? You act as though you’re crazy! This bird can be ruined if she’s disturbed. You mustn’t make a pass at her like that! Move gently and slowly or she will bate off the hand.”
Finally Chet decided the Hardys must be told about the threat. He glanced again at the barn, then said in a hoarse whisper:
“L-listen, fellows. A masked man stopped me at the barn a couple of minutes ago and ordered me to get the falcon from you. He told me to leave it inside the barn. If I don’t, your lives and mine won’t be worth a nickel!”
Simons, who had heard Chet’s explanation, leaned out of the cockpit in amazement and said:
“Trouble! Can I help?”
Frank and Joe were grim, realizing that the only way out was through a ruse.
“You sure can,” Frank told the pilot. “We’ll give the hawk to Chet. He can take his time about getting it to the barn. In the meantime, Joe and I will pretend we’ve gone off with you in the copter, but we’ll sneak out the other side, double back, and try to nab this guy and anyone who might be with him.”
Joe helped Chet put the gauntlet on. Then he switched the falcon to the youth’s wrist and handed him the end of the leash. In a loud voice he called “Good luck!” as though Chet had asked to borrow the hawk for an afternoon’s hunting.
Simons jumped to the ground and the Hardys entered the passenger compartment. Then, while Chet and the pilot stood close together beside the helicopter to cut off any view from underneath the craft, Frank and Joe quickly slipped out the far side and took cover in back of some bushes. From there they made their way toward the barn as the copter rose and headed toward the woods.
Chet, who had started for the barn, was having trouble with the falcon. She bobbed up and down on his wrist, turned toward the throbbing sound of the rotors on the helicopter, and flew out to the end of the leash several times.
Chet, however, managed to get her to the barn. He rolled open the big door and placed the bird inside.
“Pretty rough on the hawk,” Frank whispered to Joe. “But I guess Chet is scared plenty, too.”
The frightened boy turned and hurried to the house. After he had climbed the rear steps and slammed the kitchen screen door behind him, the masked man slipped furtively out of the barn with the hawk under one arm.
Instantly the Hardys were upon him, and at a shrill whistle from Joe, Chet dashed back on the double. As Joe took the hawk, Frank pinned the prisoner to the ground and ripped off his mask.
Ragu!
The first mate from the Daisy K stared insolently at the boys. 
“Well,” said Frank grimly as he let the sailor up but kept hold of him, “suppose you talk.”
“You threatened me and the Hardys,” Chet growled.
“That was just to make you get the hawk,” Ragu answered. He watched Joe sullenly as he took the gauntlet from Chet and wristed the falcon.
“I know someone who will pay me well for a trained bird,” Ragu went on.
“You’ll have to give a better reason than that,” Frank told him. “How did you know we would have the falcon out here?”
“I—I was hiding in your back yard this afternoon and overheard you making plans to bring the hawk here.”
“Keep talking,” said Joe.
“I’ve told you all I know,” the sailor insisted.
“It will go easier with you if you tell the truth,” Frank said. “What do you know about the smuggling and kidnapping rackets around here?”
Ragu winced but remained silent. Joe burst out, “I’m sure you can tell plenty about Captain Flont and the Daisy K.”
The sailor’s muscles twitched nervously. “Let me go!” he shouted. “I don’t know anything.”
The boys marched the man to the kitchen porch. Frank and Joe kept a close watch on him while Chet went to phone Chief Collig.
“Tell him,” Frank said, “that we have a prisoner for him. He can book Ragu for assault on you today and Joe the other day, and attempts to steal the falcon.”
The group waited until they saw the Bayport patrol car turning into the Morton driveway. Then, with Frank and Chet holding the sailor firmly by the arms, they started toward the police car.
Chief Collig and Patrolman Smuff climbed out. As they eyed the hawk, Frank explained the circumstances of the capture, and told Smuff that Ragu was the thief they had been looking for.
Before Smuff or the chief had a chance to comment, Frank suddenly cried out:
“Joe, there’s a pigeon! It’s winging from the same direction as the other ones we’ve spotted. Let the hawk loose!”
Hearing this, Ragu began to cry out oaths in his native language. The Hardys were sure he must know that the pigeon was carrying a message or more rubies!
Joe unhooded the falcon. She spotted the pigeon, took off into the air, and climbed toward it.
“Chief, I’m sure Ragu is guilty of a lot more than he’s admitting,” Joe said.
“It seems that way,” the officer said.
“We’ll be in to prefer charges against him sometime tonight,” Frank said.
“Good enough,” Chief Collig agreed.
Smuff hustled Ragu into the patrol car and the three rode away.
The boys, shading their eyes, were following the flight of the bird. The peregrine and its prey had moved off over the wooded area and a moment later the pigeon was lost to view.
The Hardys’ hearts sank. Had the bird escaped?

CHAPTER XII  
  Intercepted Ransom
 
 
 
 
“THE hawk mustn’t lose that pigeon!” Joe cried.
As the boys watched tensely, the peregrine poised for a second, then dived like a miniature rocket. Frank, Joe, and Chet ran across the fields, their eyes still following the hawk.
Suddenly, through a rift in the trees, they could see both birds.
“The hawk’s got it!” Frank exclaimed a moment later as the two birds dropped into the woods.
“Come on!” Joe shouted, starting to run.
When the boys did not immediately find the spot where the pigeon and the hawk had fallen, they spread out and searched the bushes for some time, but without success.
“Your falcon’s got to be here some place,” Chet said.
Just then they heard the whirring of the helicopter and hurried to a clearing, where they could spot the aircraft. They saw Simons beckon them to follow him.
The boys nodded and moved along the edge of the woods, guided by their friend in the sky. Presently he turned the craft and flew directly over the trees. Now Simons whirled up, then lowered quickly.
Frank interpreted the maneuver. “He’s trying to tell us the birds are right around here.”
Joe held out his gloved hand and whistled sharply. There was a movement in the brush a few yards ahead of the boys. Then they spotted the peregrine falcon and her quarry.
The younger Hardy moved in slowly and picked up the falcon and the mangled pigeon.
“This time she earned a meal,” Joe said, spotting a telltale red container fastened to one of the pigeon’s legs.
Frank removed the capsule and opened it. As he shook it gently, two rubies fell out.
“More of the ransom gems!” he declared.
Excitedly the trio ran toward the Morton farm. The helicopter was still hovering overhead when they came out into the clearing. Joe waved their thanks. Then the pilot headed for the airport to keep another appointment.
When Frank and Joe reached their car they said good-by to Chet and drove home. After putting the falcon in the garage and setting the burglar alarm, the boys went into the house. A message was waiting for them to phone Jeff Kane. He had shadowed the captain and crew members of the Daisy K, and had investigated their reputations, but could find nothing suspicious in their activities. He learned that Captain Flont ruled them with an iron hand and they seemed to fear him. 
“If anything crooked is going on,” Frank said to Joe, “it’s well concealed, that’s for sure.”
Joe put through another call to Rahmud Ghapur, who answered at once. When he told Mr. Ghapur that the Hardys had two important pieces of information for Mr. Delhi, the importer asked that Joe not reveal them on the phone.
“I’ll pass along your message to Mr. Delhi,” Ghapur promised. “He’ll probably want to fly up to Bayport sometime tonight.”
“We’ll be waiting for him.”
The Indian arrived about eight o’clock, and he and the boys went to Mr. Hardy’s study.
As Mr. Delhi settled himself in a chair, Frank unwrapped the two rubies and the ring, and explained how the Hardys had gotten them. Mr. Delhi examined them, then finally said:
“I could almost swear that these are some of the ransom rubies. This poses a serious problem.”
He looked from one boy to the other and they felt that something had displeased him. “I do not want to seem ungrateful,” Delhi said, “but if these are part of the ransom, and are not received by the fiends who are holding Tava, he may come to harm.”
Frank and Joe were thunderstruck.
“I’m afraid we didn’t realize that,” Frank replied. “But we may be close enough to these kidnappers to catch them before they attempt anything drastic.”
The Hardys told Delhi about the goshawk and the hunting lodge in the woods and the possible flight of Tava with his captors.
Then Frank showed him the sandalwood scent box that Ahmed had found at the lodge. Tenderly Delhi cupped the box in his hands.
“My friends,” he said with emotion, “this box was given to Tava by his father at a ceremony I myself witnessed. May I keep it until Tava is found?”
“Of course,” Frank replied.
Delhi asked, “You have someone watching this hunting lodge at all times?”
The Hardys reassured him on this point. Then they concluded with the story of the man who had purchased carrier pigeons from Mr. Newton under the name Bhagnav.
“My real name!” Delhi exclaimed. “But not one of my relatives has ever been in this country.”
“We thought he was an impostor,” Frank said.
“What does this man look like?” Delhi asked.
“We were told he is tall, slender, handsome— about twenty-five years old. He has a prominent scar on his chin.”
As the Indian weighed this information, his brow furrowed. Then he said, “The description sounds vaguely familiar. I shall speak to Rahmud Ghapur about this. Perhaps he will recognize the man. In any case, I’m sure the impostor is an enemy.”
Joe changed the subject. “Does the name Ragu mean anything to you?” he asked.
Mr. Delhi thought this over, then said, “No. Can you describe him?” he asked.
But the description of a swarthy, short, heavy-set man did not help.
Frank said, “Ragu works here on a fishing boat called the Daisy K. Right now, though, he is in jail. We promised to go there tonight and prefer charges. Will you come with us and see if you know Ragu?” 
“I shall be glad to go,” he said. “But I suggest, in case we should be followed, that we try to throw off any pursuers.”
Driving to police headquarters, Frank took every precaution to be sure that no one trailed them.
They learned, when they arrived, that Chief Collig was at home for a late dinner, but would return in a few minutes. The sergeant on duty assisted them in filing charges against Ragu. When the boys explained the reason for Mr. Delhi’s presence, he took the callers to the cell where Ragu was being held. On the way the sergeant said that the prisoner had been informed of his rights, had refused a lawyer, and had admitted nothing.
When Ragu saw the Hardys he stared at them balefully. He was about to say something, but suddenly his glance rested upon Mr. Delhi. A look of awe and fright spread over his face and he staggered backward.
“Mr. Bhagnav!” he cried.
Mr. Delhi gazed at the prisoner, then said to the boys, “I do not know this man, but apparently he recognizes me from newspaper photographs or public functions.”
Following up the advantage of the prisoner’s discomfiture, Frank asked him whether he was ready to talk. Ragu did not answer.
Just then Collig arrived. After the police chief was introduced to Mr. Bhagnav, the boys turned the ransom rubies over to the officer for safekeeping.
When Ragu saw the gems he gasped but made no comment. The police chief ordered the jailer to unlock the cell door. They all went inside. Forming an arc about the prisoner, they began to question him.
Ragu remained defiant and uncooperative, but the Hardys felt he was almost frightened enough to make a full confession.
Chief Collig asked him to explain the reasons for the attempted thefts of the falcon and the threats to Chet and the Hardys, then added, “And tell us all you know about the operations of the Daisy K.”
Again the mention of Flont’s ship had a visible effect on the first mate. Eyes wide, he stared at Chief Collig for a long moment. Then, abruptly, his shoulders sagged and he looked at the floor.
All further questions about Captain Flont or the Daisy K aroused no response. 
Finally Mr. Delhi asked Ragu probing questions about the smuggling of aliens from India into the United States, and more particularly about the kidnapping of Tava Nayyar.
Ragu looked up, eyes flashing, and uttered one brief phrase in his native language. Mr. Delhi nodded, then turned to the others.
“Ragu wishes to talk to me alone,” he said.
The boys and the police chief left the cell and waited at the end of the corridor.
Ten minutes later Mr. Delhi called, “It is settled.”
When the others returned to the cell, Mr. Delhi said, “Ragu has convinced me that he knows little. But he is willing to tell us that much.”

CHAPTER XIII  
  Attack in the Night
 
 
 
 
CHIEF Collig called in a police stenographer to take down Ragu’s statement. As Mr. Delhi nodded to Ragu, the Daisy K’s first mate began his story.
“First, I know nothing about any smuggling of my countrymen into the United States. I—I did join the group that was planning a kidnapping. But you must believe me—I did not know until too late who the victim was going to be.”
“But you know that kidnapping is a criminal act!” the police chief said severely. “Just what was your part in it?”
“A very small one,” Ragu insisted. “I ran errands. Once a man that came to our ship gave me a letter. He told me to deliver it to the Bayport Hotel.”
“What was the name of the man who came to the Daisy K?” Chief Collig broke in. “And what did he look like?” 
“I do not know his name,” Ragu said emphatically. “He was short, and had brown hair. The man at the hotel was called Mr. Louis.”
Frank and Joe exchanged knowing glances. Mr. Louis probably was the “L” mentioned in the note Chet had found attached to the downed carrier pigeon.
“How did you expect to get paid for the job, if you didn’t know the name of the man who hired you?” Frank asked Ragu.
“He promised to pay me with a ruby ring. It was left in a secret place,” Ragu replied. “The only time I wore it was when I came to your house to take the falcon. After that, I was afraid and sold the ring. You know about that.”
Frank confirmed this, then Joe asked, “Who hired you to steal our falcon?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Ragu replied. “I got a phone call at my rooming house. An unfamiliar voice said if I could steal the falcon, I would receive another ruby in payment.”
“What part do the pigeons play in this racket?” Frank asked the prisoner.
“They carry messages, but I don’t know where they go. And I don’t know what the notes say.”
Chief Collig turned to Mr. Delhi and asked him if he had any further questions. He had none.
Frank spoke up. “Ragu, tell us about Captain Flont and his activities. He’s more than a fishing boat captain, isn’t he?”
Ragu bit his lip. He looked at Mr. Delhi, then settled back on his cot.
“I don’t know much about Captain Flont,” he said. “I’ve only worked for him a short time.”
No amount of persuasion could elicit any further information from the first mate. It was evident, as Kane had learned, that the crew of the Daisy K was afraid of their captain. 
“I guess we’ve found out all we can tonight,” said Chief Collig when the visitors left the cell.
On the way back to the Hardy home, Mr. Delhi was silent, but just before they turned into the driveway, he asked, “How will you boys proceed now? When Captain Flont hears of Ragu’s arrest he may make trouble.”
“We’ll have to take that chance,” Joe replied. Then he snapped his fingers. “Frank, how about you and I disguising ourselves and joining a fishing party on the Daisy K for a day?” 
“To do some detecting?”
“Right.”
Joe decided to take the falcon indoors for the night. Ragu’s arrest might mean trouble, as Mr. Delhi had said. At any rate, the smugglers would be doubly determined to get the hawk.
Mr. Delhi followed the boys through the kitchen door and into the living room where Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were reading.
While Joe took the hawk to the boys’ room, Frank introduced their visitor to the women. Mrs. Hardy said, “Mr. Delhi, it’s much too late for you to start back for Washington. We should like to have you spend the night with us.”
“I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness,” the man declared. “Thank you. I will accept.”
By eleven o’clock the boys and their guest found it impossible to keep from yawning, despite the interesting conversation about the differences in customs between India and the United States. Mrs. Hardy suggested that they retire.
“I shall wait for my husband,” she said. “He’ll be back about midnight ”
The boys were pleased to hear that their father was coming and would have liked to talk to him as soon as he arrived. But they were very sleepy, and also they had to rise early for the fishing trip.
They kissed their mother and aunt good night, then escorted their visitor to the guest room. The boys provided him with pajamas, robe, and slippers.
The three said good night and within half an hour Frank and Joe were sound asleep. But some time later Frank awoke with a start. He glanced at the luminous dial of their alarm clock. It was almost two o’clock.
Joe awoke a moment later and called from his bed, “What’s the matter? Is it time to get up?”
“No, it’s only two o’clock. But do you hear someone moving around downstairs?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“An intruder couldn’t be in the house,” Frank mused. “Mother and Dad would have set the burglar alarm before going to bed.”
Joe got up and tiptoed across to the door. He opened it and listened for several seconds.
“Not a sound,” he reported.
“That’s good,” Frank replied, stretching and relaxing again. “Now let’s go back to sleep.”
Joe closed the bedroom door, then walked over to the side window and opened it wider. As he did, he saw something move on the lawn.
“Psst
—Frank! Come here quick!” His brother was at his side in a second. 
“What’s up?” Frank asked.
“Someone’s down at the edge of the lawn,” Joe said. “Over by the hedge.”
“Let’s throw the spotlights on him,” Frank suggested.
The Hardy home had a bright spotlight under the eaves on each side of the house—a precaution occasioned by too many prowlers interested in the detectives’ work. The lights were controlled from switches in the upper and lower halls.
“Okay,” Joe agreed.


  
“He’s going to throw something!” Frank whispered
Frank dashed from the room to snap on the second-floor switch. Instantly the front lawn was flooded with light. Outlined against the hedge was a hooded figure with one arm raised above his head. In that position, he froze for a moment, evidently blinded by the glare.
Frank had rejoined his brother at the window. “Looks as if he was going to throw something!” he whispered.
Before Joe could make a reply, the hooded figure hurled a large, round object straight toward them.
Both boys jumped back. The man missed his mark and the object crashed into a side window of the living room directly below them.
Instantly the burglar alarm clanged, then was drowned out in a deafening roar! The spotlights went out and the Hardy home shuddered on its foundation!
Frank and Joe were flung violently to the floor!

CHAPTER XIV  
  Doubting a Friend
 
 
 
 
DAZED by the explosion, Joe Hardy picked himself up in the pitch-dark bedroom and groped about.
“Frank, you okay?” he asked.
There was no reply. Fearful, Joe felt around the floor for his brother but could not find him. Bumping into the bureau which had been shifted out of place by the impact of the blast, Joe opened the top drawer and found a flashlight.
Its beam revealed Frank’s unconscious form between the beds.
“His head must have hit the bedpost,” Joe decided as he knelt beside his brother.
Frank stirred and opened his eyes.
“Our house was bombed,” Joe told him. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yes,” Frank replied weakly. With Joe’s assistance he stood up.
They opened the door to the hall. A wave of acrid smoke rolled toward them. Through it, they could see their father with a flashlight coming from his room. “I just called the fire department,” he said.
“Is everybody all right?” Joe called.
“Your mother is. I don’t know about the others.”
Behind him, they could now see Mrs. Hardy. A moment later Aunt Gertrude’s door flew open. She began to sneeze and cough.
A police siren shrilled and minutes later two fire trucks arrived. Mr. Delhi appeared and everyone went downstairs to survey the damage.
There was no sign of a blaze, but part of one wall in the living room gaped open and the room was a shambles. The boys told the fire chief what they had seen and he checked the house thoroughly for safety.
Since there was no blaze, the trucks left, and the fire chief followed after taking down all the details. By now a crowd of neighbors had gathered and all offered their sympathy and the accommodations of their homes.
“Thank you,” Mr. Hardy said to each, “but since the damage is so extensive, I think we’d better move to the Bayport Hotel. It looks as though it will be quite a while before our home will be habitable.”
When the neighbors had dispersed, Mr. Delhi addressed the family. “I’m no doubt responsible for what has happened,” he began. “Apparently my identity is known to my enemies, regardless of our precautions last evening. I feel I cannot subject you to further damage and wish to relieve you from the case at once. You have already suffered enough in trying to help me and my country.”
Mr. Hardy looked first at his sons, then at their guest. “Mr. Delhi,” he replied, “we will see this thing through with you. We can’t bow out of a case, especially one that’s so near a solution!”
“And I don’t believe,” Joe put in, “that the bomb was thrown into our house because of you, Mr. Delhi. I saw the fellow aim it directly at Frank and me as we were looking out our bedroom window.”
Frank suggested that he and Joe stay at the house to guard it from looters while the others took rooms in the hotel.
Mr. Hardy grinned. “You’ll be needed for sleuthing elsewhere. I’ll put Jeff Kane here.”
After everyone had dressed, and the Hardys had packed a few clothes, they gathered outdoors.
Chief Collig was at the scene now, having been summoned from his home. He had ordered searchlights set up and had stationed men around the Hardy house.
The chief reported that the hard ground had yielded no footprints and that his men had found no clue to the person who had thrown the bomb. However, in the living room they had found parts of the bomb. The remnants had been collected for the police laboratory to examine.
Satisfied that the situation was under control, Mr. Hardy and the others went to the hotel. It was dawn when they were finally settled in their suite.
By that time all desire for sleep had vanished for everyone except Mr. Hardy. The detective said he had worked late the previous two nights and needed a few hours’ rest before tackling several important problems. Not the least of these was the attempt on the lives of himself, his family, and their visitor.
After he had gone to bed, his sons talked with Mr. Delhi about the mystery bombing incident. One thing was certain. The hooded man certainly was not Ragu, since he was still in the Bayport jail.
When the hotel coffee shop opened at six o’clock, the three went in to have breakfast. Half way through the meal, Mr. Delhi excused himself to make a phone call. He returned, much disturbed.
“Forgive me,” he began nervously. “I have just learned that I must fly to New York at once. Should you want to reach me, call Mr. Ghapur. He will know of my whereabouts. And please make my apologies to your family.”
“Let us drive you to the airport,” Frank offered.
The Indian said quickly, “Thank you, no. You have been most kind to me. I shall take a taxi. Good-by.”
With that, he strode out the door of the coffee shop. The boys followed him to the hotel entrance. As he climbed into a brown-and-white taxi, they waved farewell.
“What do you suppose upset him so?” Joe said as they returned to the coffee shop.
“He sure acted strange,” Frank agreed.
When the boys finished eating, Frank suggested that they drive to their house to search for a clue to the person who had thrown the bomb. Perhaps the police had overlooked something.
It was shortly after seven o’clock when they turned into Elm Street. The story of the explosion had spread all over Bayport, and scores of people had gathered outside the police barricades. One of the officers on guard approached the Hardys and said:
“There’s a young fellow over there by the barrier who says you boys would want to see him.”
Turning, Frank saw Chet waving at them excitedly and urging a police officer to let him through. Chet hurried to the Hardys, his eyes popping as he studied the damage to their home.
“Gosh, fellows, I’m sorry this happened,” he said. “Is everybody all right?” At a nod from Joe, he went on, “How’d Miss Peregrine take it?”
Frank’s and Joe’s mouths dropped open. In the excitement they had completely forgotten the prize bird!
They dashed up the porch steps two at a time and ran pell-mell up the stairway. There was only a slim chance that the falcon would still be alive. The door to their room stood ajar and one glance inside revealed the bird’s perch lying in a corner.
But the falcon was gone!
After the initial shock was over, Joe said, “She couldn’t have flown away, Frank. Her leash was fastened to the ring at the base of the perch stand. It would have to be twisted or broken to free her. Someone took her!”
Frank nodded. “With all the police and bystanders around here, someone must have seen who it was. Let’s ask them.”
By this time Chet had caught up to the boys and was saying, “I asked you about Miss Peregrine and you acted as if you’d been shot.” When the Hardys explained, Chet said, “Maybe the house was bombed so those smugglers could get your bird.”
“That might have been part of the plan,” Frank conceded, but he was convinced there was much more behind it than that.
The three boys headed back downstairs. They checked with Jeff Kane and the policemen guarding the house, but none of them had seen the hawk, nor had any one of them entered the house since the second shift of men had come on duty at seven o’clock.
“Let’s ask some of the people in the crowd if they saw anyone carry off the bird,” Joe suggested.
The boys separated and began questioning the bystanders. Finally a woman neighbor approached Frank and said:
“I saw your falcon. About six-thirty this morning, when I was walking my dog, a man in a taxi came up and spoke to the policeman on duty at the front door. He went upstairs with him and they came down a few minutes later with the falcon. The man drove off in the taxi with it.”
“Which policeman was it?” Frank asked.
“I don’t see him around just now, so I guess he’s gone off duty.”
“Can you tell us the kind of taxicab the man who took the bird came in?” the boy asked.
“It was a brown-and-white one belonging to the Bayport Taxi Company, I think.”
Frank thanked the woman for her information and relayed it to Joe and Chet. Then they got into Chet’s jalopy and drove to police headquarters.
They traced the officer and learned that he was at his home. Frank reached him by phone. The man said that the stranger had told him the Hardys wanted him to get the falcon, and he knew just which room the bird was in.
“No, he didn’t give his name,” the policeman said. “He was dark-skinned and seemed to be in an awful hurry.”
The Hardys were astonished. Dark-skinned man. Brown-and-white taxi. Taking the falcon during the time they were finishing breakfast. It all seemed to piece together—unfortunately. Could Mr. Delhi have taken the hawk? Had his phone call to New York prompted this? He certainly had been very much disturbed.
As Frank started to ask the policeman for a fuller description of the thief, the connection was broken. He was about to call the officer again when Joe suggested that they get it from the taxi driver, as well as information on his passenger’s destination.
The boys headed for the office of the Bayport Taxi Company, a modern outfit with a fleet of radio-equipped taxis. Convinced of the importance of the Hardys’ request, the dispatcher willingly contacted his various drivers.
The one they sought appeared at the office about ten minutes later. Frank explained about the missing falcon and their desire to apprehend the thief. The taxi driver’s eyebrows went up.
“I remember the guy all right,” he said. “I picked him up in front of the Bayport Hotel at six-thirty this morning.
“After the man collected the falcon from a house on Elm Street,” the driver went on, “he ordered me to drive him down to a wharf on the waterfront. I was curious about why he wanted to go there at that early hour. The guy said that someone was going to pick him up in a boat.”
“Could you give us a description of this man?” Frank asked excitedly.
The taxi driver furrowed his brow for a moment, then replied, “Well, he was young and good-looking and dark-skinned, like one of them Indian rug makers down at Ahmed’s place. And he had a scar on his chin. I mean a scar that really stood out—looked lighter than the rest of his skin.”
Frank exchanged glances with Joe. They both heaved a sigh of relief. The falcon thief was not Mr. Delhi after all! It must have been the Indian who had bought pigeons from Mr. Newton two years before—the impostor who had used Mr. Delhi’s real name of Bhagnav!
The driver noticed the boys’ amazed expressions and asked, “Does that description help you?”
“It sure does,” Frank said. “Thanks a lot. Now will you drive us to the wharf where you took this passenger? He may still be there.”
The three boys climbed into the taxi. Moments later the driver let them out on one of the wharves and promised to wait. They hurried down the length of the dock, but the dark-skinned man was not in sight. No one they questioned on the small boats at the dock had seen anyone carrying a hooded hawk.
“Looks like a dead end,” Joe declared in disappointment.
Frank agreed, but Chet tried to cheer them up, saying:
“Listen, fellows, you’re due for a real break. Wait and see!”
The Hardys smiled at Chet’s words of encouragement and Frank said, “We’d better go to the hotel and brief Dad on this latest development. He ought to be awake by now.”
The taxi driver took them back to Chet’s jalopy, and Chet in turn drove the Hardys to pick up their car at their home. Then Joe and Frank headed for the hotel.
Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude listened in amazement to the boys’ story. When it was finished, their father leaned forward intently in his chair and reached for the telephone.
“I think we have our man,” he said as he lifted the phone and waited for the operator. “The light-colored scar on the chin is the giveaway. The description fits an Indian by the name of Nanab. He is Rahmud Ghapur’s personal servant!”

CHAPTER XV  
  A Nautical Clue
 
 
 
 
TEN minutes later Mr. Hardy placed the phone in its cradle and turned to his sons. “Well, boys, the pieces are beginning to fall into place. Ghapur says that his servant Nanab quit his job very suddenly the day before yesterday and has disappeared.”
“Wow!” cried Joe, adding, “Why didn’t Mr. Delhi identify him from our description. He must have seen Nanab at Ghapur’s home?”
“Nanab apparently kept out of his sight on purpose,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He may have feared he might be recognized. The only relative in India that Nanab wrote to while he was in Washington was a brother whose name is Bangalore. So far as Ghapur knows, Bangalore is still in India.”
Frank said excitedly, “No, he isn’t, Dad. You were away when we learned that Bangalore was the name of an Indian who jumped ship on the Continental while the vessel was docked in New York. That happened two years ago.” 
As he finished speaking, Radley came in, holding an envelope. He said he had been to the house and was amazed to learn of the bombing and was relieved to see that the Hardys were safe. He handed over the envelope, saying:
“I got this in the mail. When I opened it, I knew you boys would want to see it.” He held up a photograph. “It’s a picture of that fellow Bangalore. The steamship line sent it.”
“Bangalore!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “He’s Nanab’s brother all right. Looks just like him, except that he has no chin scar. Good work, fellows. It certainly seems as if Bangalore is one of the ringleaders in this smuggling and kidnapping business. Nanab has probably been working with him part of the time and is now spending full time on the rackets.”
“Dad, do you think he could have been the one who intercepted Mr. Ghapur’s letter to us?” Joe asked.
“No doubt of it. Unfortunately, Ghapur trusted Nanab implicitly and always confided in him. Nanab destroyed the letter, but why do you suppose he let the falcon get through to you?”
“That does seem strange,” Frank agreed. “Anyway, we know he learned all the plans and developments in the case by eavesdropping on Ghapur and Mr. Delhi.”
“There’s one bright side to this whole thing,” said his father. “You boys must be much nearer a solution than you think, or I doubt that Nanab would have left his job at Ghapur’s. He probably knew the net was closing around him.”
Frank and Joe, certain that part of the solution was to be found on the Daisy K, determined to carry through with their fishing plan. Since it was too late for the trip scheduled for that day, Frank phoned the booking office for Bayport’s charter boats to find out if the Daisy K was going out the following morning. He was told there would be a trip. 
Mr. Hardy said he would make the necessary arrangements for repairs to their home, then he must return to Washington on urgent business.
The phone rang and Joe answered. The caller was Chet, who said, “How about you fellows coming out here to live until your house is repaired? The folks say it’s fine with them.”
“Sounds good, Chet. Wait till I ask Dad and Mother.”
The family agreed that the boys would find it far more enjoyable staying with Chet than living in the hotel, so Joe promptly accepted. Then, at their parents’ request, Frank and Joe worked nearly all day at the bombed house storing away pictures, lamps, and other small furnishings, and moving clothes to the hotel. It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Morton farm.
“Before it gets dark today,” Frank proposed, “let’s go over to the deserted hunting lodge and see if Radley has anything new to report.”
After the Hardys had deposited their luggage in the Mortons’ guest room, the three boys set off for the lodge. Radley said there was no evidence that anyone had returned to the lodge and felt further watch of it was useless. He remarked that he would like to tackle the mystery from another angle.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think out here,” he said, “and I came up with an idea. Maybe these smugglers don’t send their pigeons from a boat at all. They may be working from an island.”
“An island! Could be!” Joe replied enthusiastically. “When we get back to Chet’s, let’s take a look at a map to see what’s northeast of here.”
“And,” said Radley, “why not let me take a plane and see if I can spot something out there.”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Joe and I are planning a fishing trip on the Daisy K early tomorrow morning. Among the three of us we may uncover something either on the sea or from the air.” 
Radley and the boys walked back to the Morton home where they pored over a map.
“Hm!” said Radley. “Islands galore northeast of here. The closest ones are Shoals, Pine Haven, and Venus, but that doesn’t mean they’re the ones. The smugglers may be taking no chances and using an island quite a distance away. I’ll look over as many as I can from the plane, though.”
That evening, after Radley had left, Frank and Joe got their fishing gear ready and tried out their disguises. Their father, an expert in that field, had taught his sons many of the techniques, and they kept all the prerequisites on hand. Hair dye, cheek pads and sideburns changed the countenance of the boys. Dyed eyebrows and a small beard for Frank completed their outfits.
Iola and Chet laughed when they saw Frank and Joe. “You look rather cute as a redhead,” Iola told Joe, who had tinted his hair a reddish brown.
Before dawn the next morning, the Hardys set out through a drizzle for the wharf where the Daisy K was tied up. Four other sports fishermen already were there, waiting to go aboard. Frank and Joe kept a wary eye on Captain Flont, who did not give any indication that he recognized them. In fact, he paid little attention to his passengers. 
The day’s fishing went along with reasonable success. All of the Daisy K’s passengers managed to net a fair-sized catch of tuna and mackerel. Under various pretexts during the trip, both Frank and Joe wandered around the ship, but the falcon was not aboard. The boys had also made a point of trying to pick up conversations between the captain, his crew of two, and any passengers that might be in league with him, but learned nothing. 
In the late afternoon, when the Daisy K started back for Bayport, Frank and Joe were seated inside the deckhouse as close as they dared to Captain Flont, who was at the wheel. 
Suddenly, above the throbbing of the motors, they heard him say to one of his crew, “It beats me where Ragu went.”
“I’m afraid he’s in trouble,” the man replied.
“It’s going to be hard to take care of things at windward without him,” the captain said, then shifted the conversation to another subject.
The Hardys got up and walked out to the stem of the boat. When they were alone, Frank whispered, “Did you have the same thought I did? That it was strange for a nautical man to say ‘at windward’?”
“I sure did,” Joe replied. “If he had meant a direction, the captain would have said ‘to windward.’ ”
“Right. Windward must be a place!”
The Daisy K reached port just before dinner. As Frank and Joe walked along the waterfront with their day’s catch of fish, they questioned sailors from other boats about Windward. No one had heard of it. Finally they headed for the hotel, deciding to have supper with the family before going to Chet’s. 
The young detectives, still in their disguises, turned their mackerel over to a startled bellhop and asked him to deliver them to the hotel chef. Then, learning from the desk clerk that Radley was waiting for them, they went at once to their room. The detective grinned at their disguise. While they were removing the make-up, he said:
“I flew all over the coast for about five hours, but I couldn’t spot any activity that would indicate smuggling operations. I did see several deserted sections along the shores of some of the islands that would make good hideaways. Guess we’ll have to investigate all of them.”
“Ever hear of a place called Windward?” Frank inquired.
“No,” Radley replied. “What about it?”
Frank repeated the conversation that he and Joe had overheard on the Daisy K. Radley nodded thoughtfully, then remarked: 
“Let’s go down to the Skippers Club. I know some of the seafaring men who stay there. Maybe one of them will be able to help us out.”
After dinner with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, the three went to the saltbox building near the waterfront, where many of the old-timers played cribbage, chess, and billiards in between spinning sea yarns about the good old days. Sam Radley was hailed by several of the captains. He quizzed some of them about Windward. The name meant nothing to the first half dozen he spoke to, but finally a grizzled man of the sea looked up from a game of solitaire.
“Sure, I know the place. Windward was our old-timers’ name for the windside o’ Venus Island,” he said. “The lee side’s green an’ right pretty. Folks live there. But Windward’s rocky an’ barren. Broken up by stretches o’ pine woods here an’ there.”
Radley thanked the old salt and the three left the club. Outside, Frank remarked, “That sounds like an ideal spot for smuggling operations!”
“Let’s check on it right away,” Joe proposed. “Maybe we can round up some of the fellows to help us.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Frank, “Biff Hooper and Tony Prito were planning to go out to Chet’s tonight. Let’s put all three of them to work on the case.”
Radley was eager to go along. They stopped at a drugstore with a couple of phone booths. Joe called Chet to explain their plan to take the Sleuth out to Venus Island for a reconnoitering expedition. 
“Sounds like a dangerous job,” said Chet, “but I’ll come and bring Tony and Biff. I expect them here any minute.”
“Meet us at our boathouse,” Joe said. “And make it as soon as you can.”
Frank, meanwhile, had called the hotel from the other booth to apprise his mother of their plans. Next he put in a call to Chief Collig to tell him of their new lead and to ask if Ragu had had any visitors.
“No, and it doesn’t look as if he’s going to have any, either,” Collig replied. “He refuses to see anyone, even an attorney! And he’s made no attempt to raise the bail money. Frank, that fellow is plenty scared of somebody!”
“My guess,” Frank said, “is that it’s Captain Flont!” He said good-by and hung up. Then he drove to the boathouse with Radley and Joe. A quick look around showed that repairs were well under way and that the Sleuth could be returned to its berth before long. 
Presently Chet’s jalopy rattled up the street and pulled to a stop. Lanky, good-natured Biff Hooper swung his long legs over the side, and Tony Prito followed. Chet squeezed himself out of the driver’s seat and joined the group. They all walked to the Sleuth and went aboard. Frank took them across Barmet Bay, out through the inlet, and into the swells of the ocean beyond. It was just past midnight when Frank outlined the Hardys’ plans. 
“When we get to Windward, we’ll cruise around and find out what we can,” he said. “If we don’t learn anything, then Joe and Radley and I will go ashore to investigate.”
Tony, who owned a boat of his own, would be left in charge of the Sleuth.
Two hours later the forbidding rocky slopes of Windward were etched in black against the moon-lit sky. The motor of the Sleuth was throttled down and a search of the waters began. They found no boats anchored and none were visible in any of the many inlets among the rocks. 
At three-fifteen Radley and the Hardys decided to go ashore. They donned their swim trunks and slid over the side without a sound.
Treading water beside the boat, Frank said in a low voice to the boys in the Sleuth, “You fellows cruise back and forth, keeping your eyes open for anything that might be stirring. We’ll swim out again just at daybreak and meet you.” 
Chet, Tony, and Biff wished them luck, then started off. They cruised around for some time without seeing another boat or sighting anything suspicious. Finally, as the first streak of dawn appeared in the east, Tony moved the Sleuth to the spot where they had left the swimmers. 
After what seemed like a long wait, Tony said, “Fellows, I’m worried. Frank, Joe, and Radley are overdue.”
The three in the boat could not see anyone along the shore or in the water that lay between the Sleuth and the rocky beach. Tony moved the boat a little closer and got out the binoculars. There was not a sign of anyone on the rocks. 
“I’ll—I’ll bet the smugglers got them!” Chet said nervously. “What’ll we do now?”
“Give them fifteen minutes,” Tony advised, “and then storm that island!”

CHAPTER.XVI  
  Forbidding Island
 
 
 
 
FRANK, Joe, and Radley had swum easily to the narrow, rocky beach on the windward side of Venus Island. The water was chilly, but their brisk strokes had kept them from feeling the cold. 
A jagged cliff that rose abruptly about twenty feet back from the shore was clearly outlined in the moonlight. Before emerging from the surf, the swimmers had made sure that no guard was on duty on the beach. They gazed around the desolate shore but could see no evidence of anyone having been there recently.
Frank mused, “Footprints or signs of beaching a boat could have been washed out by the waves.”
They climbed a trail that wound up the face of the cliff and turned their attention to a woods of windswept pines, which came to within a hundred feet of the cliff’s edge. The three sleuths peered ahead.
Frank spied a light among the trees. “I wonder if that light is coming from a house. I thought this area of the island was uninhabited.”
“Let’s find out,” Joe urged.
They found a path among the trees and followed it until Joe held up his hand in warning.
“I think I hear voices!”
He and the others paused to listen. Not far from them several men were talking, part of the time in English, part in a foreign tongue the trio had come to recognize as a dialect of India.
The Hardys and Radley crouched behind a clump of bushes, trying to fathom the conversation. The voices carried clearly on the night air, and the listeners were provoked at not being able to translate the foreign words. Presently the watchers were electrified upon hearing:
“Cap’s late. I hope he didn’t run into trouble. A motorboat was cruising around here a while ago. Better go take a look.”
There was no verbal response to the command, but a blond man began to walk toward the watchers’ hiding place. After he had gone a short distance, they followed silently, hoping the Sleuth was now far enough from the island not to be noticed. 
“If that fellow has a boat hidden nearby and decides to set out for the Sleuth,” Joe whispered tensely, “we’ll jump him!” 
“Right!” Frank replied.
The man paused briefly at the edge of the cliff, then gingerly made his way down the trail to the beach. Radley and the Hardys crept to the brink and peered below. They did not see the Sleuth, but a surprise awaited them. A large motor dory, its engine off, was being propelled by oars toward the beach. As they watched, it glided to a stop just beyond the rocky shore. The watchers could see two men in the dory, but the figures were not close enough to be identified. 
“Say, Frank,” Joe whispered, “that sure looks like the same dory that met the Daisy K the night of the moonlight ride.” 
The blond man on the stony shore gave a low whistle. Almost instantly Radley and the boys became aware of tramping feet and a few moments later a dozen dark-skinned men, carrying trousers and shoes, came down the trail, passing just a few feet from the three in hiding. They were followed by a light-haired man. When they reached the beach, he pointed to the dory and immediately the men splashed through the waves toward it.
“Smuggled Indians!” Joe said in a hoarse whisper. “Let’s try to stop them!”
Radley gripped Joe’s arm. “That would only mean our capture. They outnumber us almost six to one!”
Joe calmed down as the aliens climbed aboard and the oars dipped into the surf. The dory was some distance from shore before its engine was started.
As the two islanders came up the path and moved off among the trees, Frank whispered to Joe:
“Those men obviously are guards here,” he said. “Do you suppose they’re the two we watched being transferred from the Daisy K to the dory?” 
“Come on!” Joe urged. “Let’s collar them!”
He sprang into action. Without a backward glance to see if the others were following, he set off on a run among the trees after the blond men.
Frank and Radley tried to stop Joe. They hurried after him, but within a few seconds, they heard sounds of a struggle.
“Joe ran into trouble,” Frank said in a tense whisper.
Minutes later they spotted the two guards prodding Joe toward a group of small buildings set deep in a grove and almost hidden from view. One of the men kicked open the door of the nearest building and Joe was thrust into a lighted room.
“We’ve got to free him!” Frank said. “This gang will stop at nothing!”
Radley restrained him. “Hold it, Frank,” he said sternly. “Look what happened to Joe. The thing to do is to outwit these men.”
“You’re right,” Frank replied. “Tell you what,” he said, noticing that the sky was lightening. “Tony, Chet, and Biff will be waiting offshore. Suppose you swim out to the Sleuth and try to follow the dory with the aliens in it. See where it goes. Then bring help back here. In the meantime, I’ll try to think up a way to free Joe and maybe pick up more evidence.” 
His companion nodded and left at once. Frank waited until he heard the familiar roar of the Sleuth’s engine as it took off at high speed, before he started his own work. Moving swiftly and cautiously, he edged in close to the building where Joe was imprisoned. 
Through a closed window he saw that his brother had been bound to a chair. A coil of rope and a knife lay on a nearby table.
As he watched helplessly, the two middle-aged guards began cuffing Joe’s face. Quickly Frank moved to another window which was open. He heard one of the guards say:
“This kid just won’t talk. Put the gag back in.”
“I don’t buy his story,” the other man said as he replaced the gag, “that he came to Windward to swim all by himself in the middle of the night. He’s a spy. We ought to check the area to see if there are any pals of his lurking around.”
Frank ducked around the corner just in time. For, an instant later, the door of the cabin burst open and the two men rushed out. Frank, desperately realizing he must conceal himself, dodged behind a tree.
One of the guards announced he would circle the cabin. Frank held his breath, as the man passed without noticing him. The other zigzagged through the woods between the house and the beach, looking for trespassers, but shortly returned to report there was no evidence of other intruders.
The two men re-entered the house. Frank returned to the open window. There was no possible way he could move in on Joe’s captors without being seen.
A few minutes later one of the guards said, “Keep an eye on our prisoner while I go to eat breakfast. I’ll spell you later, after I’ve talked to Cap. I’ve got a hunch about this kid!”
Frank wondered what he meant by the last statement, then smiled triumphantly. This was his chance to free Joe!
He ducked into hiding again as the guard came out, closed the door behind him, and walked toward one of the other buildings. Frank waited until the man had entered the cabin, which stood about a hundred yards away, then quietly moved to the door of Joe’s prison and slowly turned the knob. The door was unlocked!
Picking up a piece of shale from the path, Frank threw it at a windowpane. When the piece of rock crashed through, Joe’s guard whirled away from the boy’s side and dashed to the window. At the same time, Frank flattened himself against the door, his hand on the knob. As the guard gingerly leaned out the shattered window, Frank eased open the door and entered the room, his bare feet making no sound.
With lightning speed Frank whipped the gag from Joe’s mouth with one hand, and with the other grabbed a knife from the table and slashed at the rope which bound Joe’s hands.
This was barely accomplished when the man at the window pulled his head in. Before he could turn, Frank gripped him around the throat, stuffed the gag in his mouth, and caught one of his arms in a judo hold. Then he threw him to the floor. Joe quickly bound the guard with the rope that had seconds before secured him.
The prisoner glared at the Hardys as they consulted in low tones. “I sure messed this deal up,” Joe remarked ruefully. “Thanks for turning the tables.”
Frank grinned understandingly. “I’ll keep a lookout in this room while you investigate the rest of the cabin,” he said. “If that other guard heard the glass breaking, he’ll come to see what happened.”
Joe picked up a flashlight from the table in order to explore the dark rooms beyond. Frank posted himself at the door. In a few seconds Joe was back at his brother’s side.
“There are two more rooms in this building,” Joe reported. “One’s locked and—what do you know?—in the other there are five carrier pigeons in cages!”
Frank was excited at this news. “That clinches it. We’ve come to the right place. Let’s go see if we can find out if Cap is who I think he is.”
The boys checked the bonds on their prisoner, then rolled him under one of the bunks which lined two walls, and left the cabin. As they approached the building which the other guard had entered, Frank pointed out a high radio aerial that rose from the roof. “They have a powerful set,” he said.
Both boys peered cautiously in a window, and noted that it must be the building where the guards and the aliens ate their meals. At one end was an old-fashioned cooking stove. Two long dining tables, capable of seating a large number of people, stood at the other side of the big room.
Seated at a smaller table which stood against the far wall was the guard. In front of him was a short-wave sending-and-receiving radio. Over it, he was sending the startling message:
“We’ve captured a spy. From your description, I think he’s one of those Hardy boys!”
Frank and Joe gulped. The news was out! But no more must be sent!
Joe sprang through the doorway and threw himself at the man, knocking him away from the instrument and clipping him soundly on the jaw. The man sprawled on the floor, unconscious.
With the mike switch released, the transmitter was cut off. Frank, who had followed his brother into the room, instantly turned on the receiver. The cold, hard voice of Captain Flont was saying:
“We’re being followed! I’m going to open fire!”
Terror in their eyes, Frank’s and Joe’s hearts sank.
“The Sleuth!” both boys thought. “It must be the Sleuth that Captain Flont has spotted!” 

CHAPTER XVII  
  An Escaped Prisoner
 
 
 
 
A FEELING of hopelessness swept over Frank and Joe. There was no way to warn their friends that Captain Flont intended to fire on them!
Frank paced up and down the cabin, clenching his fists. Then, suddenly, he thought of a way in which Captain Flont might be tricked.
Grabbing a paper napkin from one of the dining tables, Frank wrapped it around the mouthpiece of the short-wave microphone. Perhaps the napkin would muffle his voice enough to prevent its being recognized. He pressed the mike switch.
“Flont! Don’t shoot! Orders from the boss!”
Frank clicked on the receiver but there was no answer. He kept repeating “Come in, Flont.” Still no reply. As Joe looked on tensely, Frank continued this call intermittently for ten minutes. Finally, receiving no response from the captain, he gave up.
“Maybe Flont had turned off his set before I started sending the order,” Frank said, worried. “Or he may have recognized my voice.”
“You tried the only thing possible,” Joe said. “Besides, even though there wasn’t any answer, Flont might have heard it and been fooled. All we can do is hope.”
Joe suggested that he hurry across to the other side of the island and contact the local police. “In the meantime, you stand by the radio, just in case Flont should call in again.”
“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let’s tie this fellow up first.”
They bound the captive’s ankles and arms, and put a gag in his mouth. Joe found a pair of shoes and a sweater, put them on, and started off.
He located a rocky trail and followed it a couple of miles, until he came out of the woods. Finally, nearly an hour after leaving the smugglers’ cabin, Joe spotted a farmhouse and dashed up to it.
Fortunately the residents were awake. They listened with some skepticism to the boy’s story. But they permitted Joe to use their phone and offered to drive him to the chief of police in Venus Village.
But Joe could not get through to either Chief Collig or his mother at the Bayport Hotel, due to the inadequate service between the island and Bayport. After several attempts, however, he finally contacted the Coast Guard. The young detective was told that men would be sent out at once to apprehend Captain Flont and learn what had happened to the Sleuth.
On the drive to town the farmer remarked, “This is the first time I remember anything happening around here which needed the police. Chief Barton’s appointment was kind of an honorary one.”
When the farmer stopped at the police chief’s home in Venus Village, Joe thanked him for the lift, then rang the bell.
Chief Barton was a man past middle age, with a paunch and a good-natured smile.
“Well, what brings you around here so early in the morning, stranger?” the man asked.
“I’m Joe Hardy from Bayport. My brother and I have located the hideout of a ring of smugglers here on Venus Island. We’ve got two of them tied up. We’d like you to come and make the arrests.”
“Smugglers on Venus Island!” The chief roared with laughter. “Who you trying to kid, son?”
“It’s true,” Joe insisted, trying not to show annoyance. “The Coast Guard and the immigration authorities have been trying to track them down for months. The State Department’s interested, too!”
“How does the State Department figure in this?” the officer asked curiously.
“These smugglers are also kidnappers,” Joe said. “They’re holding a young Indian captive.”
The man finally seemed to realize the seriousness of the situation and said, “Well, no one can say that Chief Barton doesn’t tend to business. I’ll phone my deputy and we’ll be right with you. Just sit down in the parlor.”
It seemed an eternity to Joe while Barton made the contact with his deputy and dressed. But at last the chief brought in a tall, lanky man whom he introduced as Al Richards. The deputy studied Joe for a moment, then commented:
“So you’re one of the Hardy boys, eh? I’ve heard about you fellows down around Bayport. What’s this wild-goose chase we’re going on?”
“Smugglers!” Joe said tersely. “And let’s get going before it’s too late.”
The three drove part way back to the smugglers’ hideout in a jeep. They stopped about a mile from the cabins, and Joe led the men the rest of the way on foot. A fork in the path brought them to the first cabin.
Frank, who had found shoes and a shirt, heard them coming and went to meet the group. He said he certainly was glad to see the police, and reported that no radio messages had been received.
“One of the smugglers is in here,” he told the men as they paused at the cabin door.
“Well,” drawled Deputy Richards, “we’re ready for him. Let’s see what a smuggler looks like.”
They opened the door and Joe walked across to the bunk. He knelt down to pull out the trussed-up man.
The prisoner was not there!
“He’s gone!” Joe cried.
“Gone!” echoed Frank. “But how?”
Deputy Richards remarked laconically, “Told you this would be a wild-goose chase!”
The chief shook his head slowly and shrugged, eying the Hardys dubiously. Frank and Joe were staring at each other, blaming themselves for the prisoner’s getaway. Apparently they had not tied him securely enough.
But perhaps he had not had time to go far, the boys thought. In fact, he might still be in the building! They dashed into the adjoining room. The escaped man was not there and only three of the pigeons were left in the cages.
Frank tried the door to the next room—the one Joe had reported locked. It was unlocked now.
As the door swung open a wholly unexpected scene met their eyes. Joe cried out, “Here he is!” and Frank yelled, “Stop!”
The police chief and his deputy rushed in. At an open window stood the man who had been the Hardys’ prisoner. He was releasing two carrier pigeons.
Joe, noticing there were capsules on the birds’ legs, leaped forward to stop their flight. But he was too late!


  
“Here he is!” Joe cried out
“Where are those messages going?” he demanded, but the man made no reply.
Frank spotted a large perch in a corner. On it rested a hooded hawk. Certain that the falcon was their own, he picked up a heavy leather gauntlet from a window sill. Quickly donning the glove, Frank took the bird on his wrist. As he removed the hood, Frank spoke softly to her. The hawk recognized him instantly and uttered a joyful keer, keer.
Frank turned to the police officers and said, “Here is support for our story. This is a prize hunting hawk, and it was stolen from our home in Bayport.”
“Arrest this man!” Joe said. “He’s in cahoots with the thief and he’s one of the smugglers.”
Chief Barton made no move to take the man into custody. Instead, he stared at the smuggler. “Why, John Cullen, what’s going on?” he asked.
Frank was puzzled by the chief’s friendliness, but he did not take time to ask questions. He was afraid that the pigeons might be carrying messages which would alert the men holding Tava Nayyar. If so, harm might come to the youth. Frank hurried outside with the falcon and unhooded her.
Looking up, he saw that the carrier pigeons were circling above the cabin, picking up their directional beam preparatory to making a beeline flight to their destination.
Frank turned the falcon loose. To his dismay, she responded sluggishly. Her reactions were considerably slowed down as a result of being imprisoned for so long. There was nothing the impatient young detective could do to hasten matters. He must wait until she regained her keenness.
At that moment Chief Barton and Deputy Richards came out of the cabin with John Cullen and Joe. In an angry tone the chief of police said to the Hardys:
“If your whole story’s as phony as this part of it, I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“What do you mean?” Joe demanded.
“This so-called smuggler, Mr. Cullen, is one of the leading citizens on the island, though he has only lived here a couple of years. He’s a pigeon fancier and has been racing birds for a year or more. His cote’s on the mainland.”
The Hardys were not impressed. Turning to Cullen, Joe asked suspiciously:
“How do you account for our stolen falcon being in your cabin?”
“My assistant got furiously angry about the whole deal, I’m afraid,” the man replied suavely.
“What deal?” Joe probed.
“He knew that a number of my best pigeons had been killed by a hunting hawk. Someone told him that your falcon was responsible.”
Frank’s and Joe’s minds were racing. Suddenly a thought came to them. Nanab! He had doubtless brought the falcon to the island! 
“Go on!” Frank said icily to Cullen.
“My assistant brought the bird here, so that I could use it as evidence in my damage suit against you,” the man concluded triumphantly.
It was obvious that both Chief Barton and Deputy Richards believed the story and were about to reproach the boys when Joe challenged Cullen with:
“That sounds smooth enough. Now try to explain why the other man we captured was talking by short-wave to a boat with smuggled aliens on it.”
“You’re crazy,” Cullen retorted. “Chief Barton, these boys are the ones who ought to be arrested!”
All this time Frank had not taken his eyes off the falcon. She had finally aroused from her lethargy and was now winging after the two pigeons. The hawk was still some distance from the birds, who were lining out for the mainland. Completely confident of the falcon’s skill, Frank remarked:
“Chief Barton, maybe our hunting hawk will prove to you that Mr. Cullen is not merely racing pigeons. She may prove he is aiding smugglers and kidnappers!” 
All eyes turned toward the three birds in the morning sky.

CHAPTER XVIII  
  The Falcon’s Victory
 
 
 
 
THE falcon was only a tiny speck in the sky. The pigeons were out over the water but well below the climbing hawk. Frank turned to Joe and said:
“I guess this is what those old-time falconers called a ‘ringing flight.’ I’m going to the beach to watch it.” The others followed him.
At the height of her pitch, the falcon plunged toward the pigeons in a long, angling stoop. Faster and faster she dropped—until the onlookers saw only a blur of moving wings. At a speed approaching a hundred and eighty miles an hour the hawk struck one of the pigeons. It plummeted into the water.
The peregrine mounted from her stoop and gave chase to the remaining pigeon.
Frank shouted, “Joe, take this and watch Cullen!” He thrust the hawk’s hood into Joe’s hand, kicked off his shoes, and ran into the surf. He set off at a strong, fast crawl toward the floating pigeon and soon reached it.
As Frank swam toward the beach with it, he glanced up. The second pigeon had reversed its course and was heading toward the brushy cover of the island. With awe and admiration he and Joe watched their falcon overtake her prey in a tail chase and bind to it in mid-air. In a long glide Miss Peregrine came to rest with her quarry in her talons.
“Good girl!” Joe cried. He ran forward and picked up the pigeon.
At that moment Frank came out of the surf and joined Joe. John Cullen cried angrily, “Leave those birds alone! They’re my property!” With a vicious lunge he grabbed for both of them.
To the boys’ dismay Chief Barton said, “I guess he’s right, fellows. Let him have the birds.”
Frank and Joe were nonplussed. “I’ll give them to you, Chief, but not to this man,” Frank said firmly.
Frank quickly flipped the capsule off the leg of the pigeon he was holding, while Joe removed the one on the other bird. Cullen tried to snatch the capsules, screaming in a hysterical voice that this was thievery and against the law. He demanded that the policemen do something.
But the chief and his deputy were stunned by the swift-moving events. Before the men could collect their wits, the Hardys had twisted open the tops of the capsules.
Two rubies dropped into Frank’s hand! 
Joe’s capsule contained a tightly folded note, which he opened and read aloud:
“‘Twelve a’s gone. Spies here. We’re leaving island. Advise you move at once.”’
Chief Barton stared in amazement. Turning to Cullen, he demanded, “What does this mean?”
But Cullen was already fleeing pell-mell over the rocks.
“I guess that proves he’s guilty!” Joe exclaimed. “Twelve a’s must mean those aliens who left here in the dory!”
Stuffing the note into his pocket, he dashed after Cullen, with the police at his heels. The chase was soon over. As the fugitive attempted to get away in a motorboat hidden in a cove, he was caught and marched back.
“I guess you’re not innocent after all,” said Chief Barton. “But you sure had me fooled.”
Cullen looked with hatred at the Hardys. “You idiots!” he snarled. “I’ll get you for this!”
Frank suggested to the officers that they pick up the other smuggler at once. Silently he and Joe hoped the man had not been able to loosen his bonds and send a radio message!
Joe hooded the falcon and led the way to the second cabin. They found the man on the floor, still bound and gagged. Chief Barton stared at him, then exclaimed in amazement:
“Arthur Daly! You’re mixed up with the smugglers, too!” He turned to the boys and remarked, “Mr. Daly owns one of the most successful lobster businesses in this area.”
The Hardys did not comment, but Frank said, “I suggest you handcuff these men.”
At a gesture from Barton, Deputy Richards took care of this detail. Then the chief advised his prisoners of their rights. Both sullenly declared they did not want a lawyer.
“How about telling us the truth now about this whole thing!” Barton said. “We’ll find it out anyhow.”
The men refused to talk, but the Hardys explained what they knew of the illicit entries of the Indians, the kidnapping of Tava Nayyar, and the ransom demanded in rubies.
“The pigeons carried the stones and notes from here to their home cote,” said Joe. “And that’s the next place we’ll have to locate.”
Barton shook his head in amazement. “And we had no idea that something like this was going on at Windward!”
His deputy nodded. “You two have done quite a job!”
“We’ll take these men to jail and notify the Federal authorities,” Barton said. He suggested that they all proceed to town at once. Carrying the falcon and the three remaining pigeons, the group headed for the jeep.
Barton promised to station men at Windward to arrest any smugglers who might show up.
Back at Venus Village, the once respected islanders were put in cells, then Barton dispatched special deputies to the Windward area. Next, he talked by phone to the immigration authorities. Ten minutes later, a broad smile on his face, he leaned back in his chair and said:
“Things are moving along fine. Federal men will be out soon to take over.”
“Good,” said Joe. “And now may I phone the Coast Guard? I want to find out what happened to the friends who came out here with us.”
“Go ahead,” the chief replied.
At the first words of Lieutenant Commander Wilson, who answered, Joe looked relieved. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Frank, “They caught Flont and his two crewmen as well as those twelve smuggled aliens! They’re at the Coast Guard station now.”
As Joe listened intently to the lieutenant commander he sobered. When he hung up the phone, he reported that there was no news of their friends. Flont would not say whether he had fired on them before his capture. A Coast Guard helicopter was out now searching for the Sleuth.
The Hardys were worried. Frank asked, “Chief, could someone take us back to the mainland right away?”
“Sure thing,” Barton agreed. “I’ll run you to Bayport myself in my own motorboat. And, say, will you fellows take these pigeons? I don’t know what to do with ’em and you might find the birds useful.”
“Okay. We will,” said Frank.
Barton kept his boat in good shape, and a little over an hour later, the chief, Frank and Joe, the hooded hawk and the three pigeons were speeding across Barmet Bay toward Bayport.
Joe, who had been scanning the water through binoculars, suddenly called, “There’s the Sleuth now, Frank!” 
About a quarter of a mile ahead was the Hardys’ boat. Barton sounded his siren and minutes later he drew alongside the Sleuth.
“You all right?” Frank and Joe asked.
Upon being assured that Chet, Tony, Biff, and Radley were unharmed, Frank introduced the police chief.
Chet, his eyes bulging, exclaimed,“You got the falcon back! And are those the smugglers’ pigeons?”
“They sure are,” Barton replied. “And we got the ringleaders behind bars, too!”
Frank and Joe let the last statement go un-challenged, even though they knew the hardest part of the case——catching the real ringleaders— still faced them. They told their friends that Captain Flont had been captured, then asked what had happened to the group in the Sleuth.
“We g-got fired on,” Chet answered promptly. “The captain missed, thank goodness, and he didn’t try again. I don’t know why.”
“Because Frank short-waved him not to,” Joe said, and explained about the radio message. “Then what happened?”
Tony, Chet, and Biff tried to tell the story at the same time. Quickly Radley summarized the situation.
“We picked up the trail of the Daisy K shortly after I swam back to the Sleuth. Flont had already taken aboard the smuggled Indians from the dory. He had a long-range rifle and we were his target! I think Flont fired the first shot to scare us, because I don’t see how he could have missed! 
“Before he could follow it up with another, Frank’s message must have reached him. Anyway, he stopped firing and started off, full speed ahead. When we followed, he kept the rifle trained on us. We finally gave up the chase, deciding to make a wide sweep around him, then race to shore and send the Coast Guard out for the Daisy K.”
Radley went on to say that as they headed for a cove, the Sleuth ran out of gas. “And to make matters worse,” he continued with a wry smile, “the emergency fuel can was empty.” 
The operative said that another boat had finally come by. As it was transferring fuel, the Coast Guard helicopter flew over, hovered above them, and dropped a note instructing them to proceed to Bayport.
When Frank and Joe finished comparing notes with their friends on the night’s adventures, the Hardys climbed into their own boat, taking the birds with them. The police chief promised to keep them informed of developments on the island.
As soon as they reached Bayport, Radley and the Hardys headed for the Coast Guard station. There Lieutenant Commander Wilson was questioning the prisoners, who had been properly advised of their rights. He had been in touch with Washington, and was impressed with the importance of the capture. He looked up as Frank, Joe, and Radley entered and motioned them toward empty chairs alongside his desk.
Captain Flont glared at the Hardys as he was asked to repeat his statement.
“I’ve told you a dozen times I’m innocent,” he declared. “I didn’t know those Indians were aliens. Someone radioed to me that a party of picnickers had been stranded on Venus Island. They offered to pay me my usual fishing fee to bring them back to Bayport.”
Radley asked, “Why did you fire on the Sleuth?”
Flont was ready with an answer. “You were following us, and it made my passengers nervous. I just fired in the air to scare you.”
Frank walked over to the group of aliens and asked if any of them spoke English. One young man came forward.
Before he could say anything, Flont’s face turned purple with anger and he shouted, “You men keep your mouths shut!”
The Indian looked frightened, turned, and talked with the other aliens for some time. Then he faced Frank with determination. “We pay these men lot of money for bring us to this country. Now bad trouble. We want to go home!”
Frank said to the lieutenant commander, “I guess you’ve got your evidence.”
“One more question,” said Joe, looking at the young Indian. “While you were with these men who were trying to smuggle you in, did you ever hear anything about the kidnapping of Tava Nayyar?”
The spokesman shook his head. “Know nothing. What bad men do this?”
Joe did not answer the question. The Coast Guard officer thanked the Hardys and Sam Radley for their help, then the three departed. The operative decided to return to Windward. He would wait for the Federal authorities and give them all available information on the case.
The boys went to the Bayport Hotel and immediately got in touch with their father in Washington. He was delighted with the turn the case had taken, and promised to fly home at once. He would ask Mr. Delhi, who had arrived from New York the day before, to accompany him. Working together, the detective said, they ought to be able to locate Tava and wind up the case.
When the call was completed, Frank said, “Joe, I have a hunch we can find the mainland hideout by the time Dad and Mr. Delhi get here.”
“How?”
Frank indicated the three cages with the pigeons in them. “We’ll turn these birds loose from three different parts of the surrounding country-side and keep an eye on them with our glasses. If we map their lines of flight, they’ll serve as bases for a triangulation fix.”
“That’s a swell idea,” Joe agreed, “but first let’s have lunch. I’m starved.”
Immediately after a hearty meal, the boys began their work. Joe found a piece of paper, similar to those on which the other messages had been written, and printed: 
SIT TIGHT. EVERYTHING OKAY THIS END.
He folded the message and inserted it in one of the capsules they had collected.
Meanwhile, Frank had hurried to see their jeweler friend. Mr. Bickford supplied him with four imitation rubies that would lull the suspicions of the kidnappers until the showdown.
When Frank returned, he and Joe went to the roof of the hotel. From there they released the first pigeon with the message capsule. The boys watched the bird circle, then they lined up its course with a compass and marked the exact direction.
They divided the rubies between the two remaining pigeons. Joe took one bird five miles north of Bayport while Frank went five miles south with the other. When the boys returned to the hotel they compared notes and marked the chart again. Both grinned in satisfaction as they looked at the spot where the three lines crossed.
“I guess we’ve pinpointed the hideout,” said Frank. “It’s at the top of Lion Mountain.”
The almost inaccessible spot was about twenty-five miles from Bayport, and it was reputed that mountain lions once had inhabited it. A few years ago the boys had climbed to the top and knew that it was a rugged hike.
“Frank,” Joe said, “I think you and I should investigate Lion Mountain at once.”
“You mean not wait for Dad?”
“We can’t wait, Frank. If Bangalore and Nanab learn that Flont has been captured, and realize their whole plot is falling apart, I’m afraid they’ll take revenge on Tava!”
“You mean kill him?”
“Yes.”
Frank nodded. “We’ll go at once.”

CHAPTER XIX  
  Confessions
 
 
 
 
THE boys told their mother of the proposed plan and gave her the pinpointed map for Mr. Hardy. She said she would agree to their going only on one condition. They were to do nothing more than try to get word to Tava and help him to escape.
“Leave the capture of those smugglers and kidnappers to your father and the police,” she said.
Frank and Joe promised they would. As they were about to depart, a telephone call came from Radley, who reported that the two men who ran the dory had been captured while docking it at Daly’s lobster pound.
“Well, that settles everything at this end,” the operative said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
The boys told him their plan, and he wished them luck. When they arrived at the near side of Lion Mountain, Frank parked the convertible where it would not be spotted and they started off on foot.
“I wonder how near the top the hideout is,” Frank remarked. “Think we’d better circle the mountain to see if we can pick up a clue?”
“Yes. But I’ll bet it’s near the summit,” said Joe.
“On the other hand,” Frank said, “they might be nearer the bottom so that they could get away in a hurry if necessary.”
The boys had nearly completed the circle before they found a clue. It was an indistinct trail and led upward.
Frank and Joe proceeded cautiously, constantly on the lookout for any traps. Half a mile up the trail, Frank spotted a suspicious-looking pile of leaves and twigs in the path. Picking up a long stick, he gently poked at the leaves and uncovered a bear trap.
“Wow!” Joe said softly as Frank threw a stone at it, springing the trap. “Did the smugglers or some trapper set that?”
Frank thought that probably the smugglers had. Farther on, they came across an uprooted tree cleverly braced into position, with its roots and a taut rope stretched across the trail, covered with earth and leaves. But it was ready to fall on anyone who might happen to trip over the rope.
About a half mile from the top in an open section, the boys came to a barbed-wire fence. It was about eight feet high and the upper strands were tilted outward, making it almost impossible to scale.
“Look!” whispered Joe from the shelter of the trees. “That fence is electrified!”
“It probably has a charge heavy enough to knock a fellow out,” Frank remarked. “I’ll bet it sets off an alarm, too.”
“What a way to be stymied,” said Joe.
Frank looked through the fence, his eyes probing the trees beyond. No one was in sight.
“What do you say we pole-vault over, Joe? Eight feet isn’t too high.”
“We’ll do it,” Joe said with determination. “About a hundred yards back I saw some saplings that had blown down. We can use them.”
He located two stout saplings which suited their purpose. One he tossed over the fence to use when coming back. Meanwhile, Frank had dug a heel hole just short of the fence and braced it with fiat stones.
“I’ll go first,” said Joe.
“Be careful,” Frank warned. “Don’t hit that fence!”
Joe ran forward lightly, hit the heel hole with a slight thud, and whipped up and over the fence. Frank grabbed the pole to keep it from striking the barrier.
Frank’s jump was a bit trickier than Joe’s, because he had to thrust back on the pole to keep it from hitting the fence and sounding the alarm.
The boys knew the hardest part of their job lay ahead. Through the scrubby bushes and trees they could see several crudely constructed huts. Near one of them stood a handsome, pensive-looking youth about eighteen years old. He was holding a hooded goshawk. From the color of his skin and his characteristic features the Hardys were sure he was an Indian.
The boy must be Tava!
Some distance from the youth were several dark-skinned men. They were no doubt some of the smuggled Indians.
In the shelter of the trees, the Hardys crawled toward Tava. When they were close enough to talk to him without revealing themselves to the others, Frank called in a whisper:
“Tava!”
As the young man turned and stared, Frank smiled and went on quickly, “We are Frank and Joe Hardy, American friends sent here by your cousin Bhagnav.”
The youth moved slowly toward the boys and asked in a low voice, “Why does Bhagnav send you here?”
“To rescue you from your kidnappers.”
“But I was not kidnapped,” Tava explained. “Evil men are after me, and my friends are protecting me.”
“That’s not true,” Frank insisted. “Your father has already paid a fabulous ransom in rubies for your return, but these people continue to hold you and demand more payment.”
Tava still did not seem to be convinced. Finally Frank said:
“Your cousin and your friend Rahmud Ghapur are very much worried. Mr. Bhagnav has engaged my father and brother and me to search for you. Mr. Ghapur told us of the time when he saved you in the cheetah hunt. He’s afraid that you’re in much greater danger now.”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. He whispered the name Ghapur several times. Then he replied:
“If Rahmud Ghapur and my cousin sent you, then I will go with you.”
“Act as if you were just strolling around and follow us,” Frank directed.
The Hardys crawled away. The Indian followed slowly, laughing and talking to the goshawk all the while. When the three were well out of sight of the buildings, and close to the fence, Joe said:
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the goshawk here for now. When your abductors learn of your disappearance, they’ll start a search. We may become separated. If this happens, take our car and meet us at the Bayport Hotel. My mother and aunt are staying there. Ask for Mrs. Hardy.” He added detailed directions about the location of their hidden car and directions for reaching the hotel.
Tava regretfully fastened his goshawk’s leash to a tree, picked up the pole, and gracefully vaulted the fence. He moved off quickly into the shadows of the trees beyond. Joe, pole in hand, was getting set to make his jump when Frank heard someone running.
“Jump, Joe!” Frank whispered tensely. The next second, a lariat slapped over his shoulders and he was pulled back.
As he hit the ground, Frank caught a glimpse of his brother halfway up in his leap. But suddenly Joe was snatched violently in mid-air. Frank, his heart sinking, knew Joe had been lassoed, too.
A half-dozen fiery-eyed men gripped both boys roughly and dragged them toward one of the buildings. They were thrust through the doorway into a well-furnished room, and confronted by two young Indians who resembled each other strongly. One, however, had a scar on his chin.
Bangalore and Nanab!
“The Hardy boys!” Nanab gloated. “A fine catch indeed.”
“What were you trying to accomplish here?” Bangalore demanded.
Joe tried to act casual as he replied, “We came to get details of your smuggling and kidnapping plot. But I don’t suppose we’ll find that out now.”
Nanab smiled and said, “Why not? We’re proud of what we’ve done. We’ve fooled your authorities for a long time. Except for you two young snoops, everything has run smoothly. But since you are our prisoners, we can tell you the full story, then arrange a convenient accident for you.”
Bangalore nodded agreement and Nanab began his revelation. “Captain Flont and his crew used the Daisy K to smuggle aliens into Bayport.” 
So Ragu had been lying all the time!
“Captain Flont,” Bangalore went on, “is a clever man and will not betray us.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, the Hardys could hardly keep from smiling. It was plain that the two ringleaders were not aware of any of the arrests that had been made. Frank’s message sent by the pigeon must have arrived. Now, if the boys could only keep the men talking long enough, their father and the police would have time to get there.
“We started making plans two years ago when my brother Bangalore came to America,” Nanab went on. “We spread word to dissatisfied citizens of our country that legal entry into the United States was impossible. However, by paying us a large fee they could be brought in surreptitiously and protected by us.”
“How could you protect them?” Frank asked.
“We got them jobs and arranged for their social activities,” Nanab explained.
“The kidnapping was my idea,” Bangalore declared. “Both rackets were worked with Windward as the relay station. The property was bought cheap by our American friends John Cullen and Arthur Daly. They fed and housed the aliens who came in on a special American-Far East freighter, the Red Delta. It made an unscheduled stop outside a port in India to pick up the men, and another a few miles from Windward to discharge them onto a dory.” 
“And who is the Mr. L who was going to squeal?” Frank asked.
Bangalore and Nanab bristled at this. Then Nanab remarked, “Mr. Louis is a friend of Captain Flont’s. He owns the dory.”
“How did you get the ransom to this country?” Frank asked. “Not by the Red Delta, too?” 
“Oh, no,” Nanab answered. “The ransom rubies were picked up in India, flown by private plane to Europe, and brought to America on an ocean liner which passed in the vicinity of Windward. To avoid customs, small pouches containing the stones were thrown off into Louis’s dory by a ship’s officer who is one of our group.
“Unfortunately, Louis kept too many of the second shipment for himself. When we exposed him, he threatened to squeal. That is why we are holding him a prisoner here.”
“You leased Mr. Smith’s hunting lodge under the name of Sutter,” Frank accused Bangalore.
Bangalore nodded. “I wanted to impress young Nayyar and make him comfortable. When you boys discovered the place, we left it, telling him that this was to avoid the evil men who were after him. He readily agreed to the move.”
“You were staying at the lodge, too?” Joe asked.
“Oh, yes,” Bangalore leered. “I was the one who knocked out your fat friend. One of the guards did the same to you,” he said, looking at Frank. “When you found out too much, Nanab quit his job in Washington and came up here.”
“And you, Nanab, destroyed the letter Mr. Ghapur sent us, but why did you let the falcon be shipped to us?” Frank queried.
Nanab smiled with self-satisfaction. “I was in charge of sending it. I could have destroyed the bird, too, but Ghapur would have realized I was responsible if you never received it. So I let it go through, then commissioned Ragu to steal it. He failed! He is a fool!”
“You also threw the bomb into our house and stole the falcon,” said Joe. “But who set our boathouse on fire and jammed the Sleuth’s gas gauge?” 
“I did,” Bangalore admitted. “And now that you know the whole story, we will carry out our original plan.”
He clapped his hands and several men stepped into the room. In their hands were sturdy raw-hide whips!
“You’re going to flog us first?” Frank shouted. An evil smirk on his face, Bangalore said, “We usually plan a quick death with a sleeping potion for our enemies. But because you boys have caused us a great deal of trouble, Nanab and I have decided we will not make it so painless. Before you are put to sleep, we will use these whips and watch you squirm!”
“You’re a bunch of sadists!” Joe cried out in protest.
“You won’t get away with this!” Frank added.
Bangalore raised his hand, looked at the boys with a sinister smile, and said, “Flog them!”

CHAPTER XX  
  A Touch-and-Go Triumph
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe were seized by four guards, while two others raised their whips. But the boys did not flinch.
Instead, Frank leaned toward Joe. “Here we go again!” he whispered.
A knowing smile crossed Joe’s face. Frank’s statement was their secret signal for action. Before the whips could descend, the Hardys, using a jujitsu twist, flung their would-be floggers to the floor and tore the whips from the men’s hands. The guards shrank back as the boys raised the whips.
Bangalore’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?” he asked, amazed, then added, “I like your courage. My men are skilled in wrestling, but you took them by surprise. It will entertain me to have you demonstrate your skill. Perhaps it can save you a flogging—or maybe even your lives.”
Frank and Joe knew that Indians are great lovers of the sport of wrestling. If they could prolong a match, their father might arrive in time to rescue them.
“We accept,” Frank said. “But let’s not decide our fate on a single fall. That’s not sporting. We’ll make it two out of three.”
Bangalore laughed raucously. “You are prisoners, yet you make the terms!”
Nanab spoke up. “Let our men punish them in the manner they suggest,” he said. “We’ll teach them that Indians are the greatest wrestlers.”
“Two out of three falls it is!” Bangalore conceded. “We will go outside,” he said, leading the way.
As Frank and Joe laid aside the whips, the smugglers selected two lithe, smooth-muscled guards. In a crouched position they moved forward quickly, hands outstretched. But Frank and Joe were ready. Playing for time, they moved carefully, darting in, and then leaping back in an effort to catch their adversaries off balance.
Joe was first to find an opening. Seizing his opponent’s left wrist, he spun him around, and pulling with all his strength, sent the man flying over his shoulder. The guard landed on his back, groaning as Joe leaped on him and applied a pinning hold that in a moment gave Joe his first fall.
Frank’s foe cast his eyes on his defeated partner for a fraction of a second. With the speed of a stooping falcon, Frank charged, catching his adversary in a leg trip. The man hit the ground hard but jumped up quickly. Before he recovered, Frank caught him in a headlock that sent both sprawling in the dirt. There was a flurry of dust as the two fought savagely for the advantage.
Suddenly the guard’s powerful legs closed about Frank’s stomach in a crushing scissors grip. Frank tried in vain to break the tightening hold. As the guard pressed Frank’s shoulders nearer and nearer the ground, it appeared that the boy would lose his first fall.
Then the guard shifted his hold slightly to make the pin. Frank, in spite of his weakened condition, saw his advantage and using all his strength he twisted free. Before his surprised opponent could recover, he spun around and seized the guard in a powerful cradle hold and drove him into the ground for a fall.
“Ready for the second fall?” Frank asked, breathing deeply.
The beaten man looked toward Bangalore and jabbered imploringly. The ringleader scowled and replied in their native tongue. Then, while the boys were resting, the Indian leader called forward two more guards.
The Hardys were to have new opponents for each fall! They realized it would be senseless to object.
When time was called, they approached their new rivals, and from the start it was apparent that the Hardys had the upper hand through their knowledge of the ancient Japanese art of jujitsu. In the midst of the second fall, a guard ran up, shouting:
“Tava! He is gone! I cannot find him anywhere!”
For a moment everyone froze. Then Bangalore screamed, “This is a trick! And you Hardys are responsible. You must die at once. Nanab, the potion!”
Guards swarmed around Frank and Joe, pinning the boys’ arms back, so that they would be unable to resist. Nanab passed one of the poison pellets to his brother. He and Bangalore took up positions before the Hardys, forced their heads back, and pried open their jaws.
With all eyes on the scene, it came as a shock when a voice commanded, “Hands up!”
Fenton Hardy stood at the edge of the clearing. With him were Mr. Delhi, Ghapur, and Radley and several police officers. As everyone turned, a State Police captain announced:
“You’re all under arrest!”
The ringleaders and their guards were quickly seized and handcuffed. Then the officers went to round up the smuggled Indians.
Mr. Hardy ran up to his sons. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Frank assured him. “And we rescued Tava. He’s on his way to the hotel.”
“Wonderful!” cried Mr. Delhi and Ghapur.
A search of the premises was instituted at once. Under the floorboards in Bangalore’s bedroom they found the cache of rubies.
“Amazing!” Ghapur commented.
“Enough evidence for a conviction on the kidnapping charge!” Mr. Hardy declared.
After the police left with the prisoners, the Hardys picked up Tava’s goshawk and with their friends hurried to Bayport. When they reached the hotel, Tava was in the Hardy suite with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. Hugs, handshakes, and bowing followed with fervor and profusion. During the happy celebration Mr. Delhi and Rahmud Ghapur expressed their relief at finding Tava healthy and unharmed.
After the Indian youth had recounted his adventures, he motioned his countrymen aside and conversed in their native tongue. Rejoining the others, he explained that they were trying to decide on some fitting reward for the Hardys other than the usual fee for services, plus expenses which Mr. Hardy would be paid.
The entire family protested, but Tava turned to Mrs. Hardy and bowed. Then he took off his handsome ruby ring and presented it to her.
“Please accept this token of my deep gratitude,” he said with a gentle smile. “I give it to the mother of the two bravest boys I have ever known.”
Mrs. Hardy accepted the gift graciously. Later the whole group went to dinner in the hotel dining room. Even precise Aunt Gertrude enjoyed the victory celebration.
Early the next morning Chet Morton burst into his friends’ room, demanding to hear the whole story. As they finished it, a cablegram was delivered to Frank and Joe.
“Listen to this,” Frank cried excitedly. “It’s from Satish Nayyar!” He read aloud:
“‘Cannot thank you enough for aid to my son. Tava is to continue his schooling. When he returns home next summer, will you accompany him and bring the boy who helped you?’ ”
“That’s me!” cried Chet. “Wow, some reward!”
The three boys beamed. “We’ll go!” Joe declared. “What a whale of an invitation!”
When the group gathered for breakfast, Frank and Joe told their parents about the cablegram. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy heartily approved of their sons accepting the invitation. Silently the boys wondered if the next mystery they would solve would be in India. But long before the following summer arrived, they became involved in The Clue in the Embers.
After the excitement died down, Mr. Bhagnav said, “I must explain something to Frank and Joe. I understand my leaving in such a hurry after the bombing gave you cause to wonder about my motives.” He laughed. “My trip to New York was to meet another cousin of mine before he could be kidnapped!”
Frank and Joe smiled broadly. After a pause, Mr. Ghapur said:
“I have a gift of my own to offer—the falcon. I want you boys to keep the noble, courageous bird.”
Frank and Joe accepted with alacrity, and added, “It would have been pretty hard to part with our hooded hawk.”
Chet grinned. “Well,” he said, “I guess the least I can do is treat you fellows to that dinner I promised. How about all of you coming out to the farm for a big celebration?”
Everyone accepted.
“And bring the falcon with you,” Chet urged.
Joe grinned. “We will, if you’ll have a pound of raw beef ready for Miss Peregrine as her reward.”
Chet readily agreed. “But for all she did, the falcon deserves the best steak money can buy!”
“You’re right,” Frank said. “Without her, we couldn’t have solved the mystery.”
“Bravo, Miss Peregrine!” Joe said.
And Tava echoed, “Shabash! Bravo!” 
Danger Zone (Hardy Boys Casefiles #37)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Big help you are. We're going to miss the second half," Joe Hardy grumbled to his brother, pushing a lock of blond hair off his face. He looked down to make sure he'd removed all the glass from a broken soda bottle from around the left rear tire of the Hardys' black van. Then he gripped the handle of a green car jack and pumped. With a series of sudden jerks the van fell back to the parking lot of the supermarket.
"Hey, I offered," Frank replied, standing beside his brother and slowly crumpling an empty potato chip bag. There was a sly glint in his dark brown eyes as he smiled at his younger brother. "I seem to remember someone insisting on doing it himself so we'd get out of here
2
faster." He opened the rear door of the van and tossed the empty bag into a sack of groceries they had just bought.
Joe slipped the jack off, picked up the flat tire along with the jack, and tossed them in the back of the van. They made a loud thunk as they hit the floor next to the groceries. "And another thing," he said, retrieving the empty potato chip bag and balling it up. "These were supposed to be for the second half of the game." Joe and Frank's friends were joining them in fifteen minutes for the second half of the NFL game.
To Joe, solving crimes was probably the most important thing in his life. But on a Sunday afternoon in the fall, with the maples blanketing Bayport in a fiery display of color, the pro football game of the week was a close second. Unlike sleuthing, football was simple. There were no terrorists involved, no codes to crack, no bomb threats, no high-speed chases. Just grown men knocking together over a piece of pigskin. Simple. Elegant. At a solidly built six feet, Joe sometimes wondered if he shouldn't try to be a pro player after school.
Frank, an inch taller but leaner than his brother, enjoyed football, too. He wasn't in love with the game itself—it was okay—but he was in love with the way the games worked his brother into a frenzy. Their detective father,
3
Fenton Hardy, who was away on some mysterious "security gig in southwestern Massachusetts," was the major calming influence on Joe. Without him it promised to be a better show than usual, Frank decided.
"Joe, there are four more bags in there— family size. Not to mention the pretzels, the popcorn, the burgs, the dogs, the kielbasa, and the ice cream. I think we'll survive for two quarters of a game.''
Glowering, Joe stepped around to the driver's door and climbed in.
Frank leaned in through the passenger window. "But it you're really worried about it, I can always go back in and—''
"Very funny, Frank," Joe said. "Come on, let's get out of here. I don't want to be slaving over a hot barbecue when the game's on." As Frank got in he put the key in the ignition and gunned the engine.
Frank nodded. "I can just see it now. The quarterback sweeps around the line for a ninety-eight-yard end run. The crowd is on its feet, screaming. Biff Hooper is so excited he crushes his soda can, sending a geyser of grape soda all over Phil Cohen's new T-shirt. Chet Morton stops feeding his face for a record three full seconds and bursts into hysterics. And where's Joe Hardy during all this action? Out
4
side by the grill, helping Aunt Gertrude arrange hot dog buns around the kielbasa."
The only answer to Frank's scenario was a squeal of tires as the van tore out of the parking lot.
Frank gripped the door handle. "Whoa, ease up! We run over one more soda bottle, and we're walking! That was our only spare."
Joe slowed down as he scanned the asphalt parking lot. "I still say that bottle wasn't there when I pulled in. I would have felt it."
"Maybe some kids smashed the bottle when we were inside."
"Nope. That wouldn't explain how the tire blew unless the kids slashed the tire. Maybe those new shock absorbers Dad put in are doing one unbelievable job, and we just didn't feel it."
Joe turned left out of the lot and drove through the familiar suburban streets of Bayport, taking a strategic route that avoided all the traffic lights. Within minutes they were pulling into the gravel driveway of a large, handsome stone house.
Joe leaned on the horn. "We're home, Mom and Aunt Gertrude! Fire up that grill!"
Frank and Joe climbed out and ran around the back of the van. They yanked the door open, pulled out the four grocery bags, and carried them across the front to the walkway.
5
Suddenly Frank stopped in front of Joe, almost causing him to drop his bags. "Hey, what are you . . ."
Joe's question trailed off when he saw what Frank was staring at.
The inner front door was wide open. On a warm late-September afternoon, that wasn't unusual.
It was the storm door that caught Frank's attention. It was open, too.
"What—" Frank muttered under his breath, sensing that something was wrong.
The brothers dropped their bags and raced inside. A bottle of ketchup cracked dully on the path behind them.
They stopped short in the living room. Beside the fireplace a marble coffee table lay on its side. Next to it lay the shattered pieces of a glass paperweight.
"Mom! Aunt Gertrude!" Joe called into the house. He and Frank bolted into the dining room, then the kitchen. There the table had been pushed against a wall, toppling two of the chairs.
"Oh, no." Frank's voice caught in his throat. He was staring at the cutlery drawer by the refrigerator—or, rather, the open space where the drawer had been. On the floor was a gleaming mass of silverware spilled out on the floor.
6
Joe ran to the back door. It was open. He went outside, calling his mom's name. The deck furniture, the garage, the lawn—everything back there was in place.
Meanwhile Frank checked the den and Mr. Hardy's office. Nothing was suspiciously out of place there. Next he bounded upstairs. Joe's bedroom looked ransacked, but that was normal. In the other bedrooms Frank saw no signs of a struggle, but there were no signs of his mother or aunt, either.
The brothers arrived back in the kitchen at the same time. Joe's brow was creased. His eyes darted from object to object, following the inner rhythm of his thoughts. "Frank, we've got to figure this out," he said, pacing the floor. "Who would do this? What if something has happened to them?"
Joe's last question was an anguished shout.
Frank gripped Joe firmly by the arm. "We can't let our emotions take over, Joe. We owe it to Mom and Aunt Gertrude to treat this professionally."
The words were coming out, but they didn't sound convincing. Joe looked into his brother's eyes and saw the same fear that was in his. But somehow it made Frank's thoughts slow down and focus.
"Okay. If Mom was attacked, she'd know
7
enough to leave a trace of something. Wouldn't she?"
Joe didn't like the tone of doubt in Frank's voice. "Right," he said. "Right." He knelt beside the spilled silverware, looking for something—anything.
Frank turned toward the dining room. He took a step into the room and stopped cold.
"Frank, what if—"
"Ssh!"
Joe let the question fall off. He froze, listening for whatever Frank had heard.
In the silence, it came. A barely audible bumping noise. Once . . . twice . . . the third time it was accompanied by a muffled crack.
"The den closet!" Frank shouted. The brothers sprang into action. They sped past the stairs and into the den. Joe got to the closet first and yanked it open.
A cloth bag five and a half feet high toppled toward him. It was obvious that inside the bag was a human form.
"Mom!" Joe yelled, and he caught her in his arms. He dragged the bag to the sofa and untied a knot at the top. Frank immediately pulled the bag down.
Bound with a heavy rope, her hair matted with perspiration and her mouth gagged was Aunt Gertrude!
8
Frank pulled off the gag as Joe struggled to untie her.
"Oh!" Aunt Gertrude cried out. "Oh!"
"Are you all right?" Frank asked.
Aunt Gertrude nodded weakly as Frank picked her up and set her gently on the sofa. "I—I think so," she gasped. "It—it was so awful—that man—that terrible, evil—I tried to—I couldn't—"
Joe removed the last of the binding. "It's all right, Aunt Gertrude. Everything's all right."
"Oh, thank you, boys. I tried to knock, but my hands were tied. All I could do was bump my body against the door. I thought you'd never hear me!"
"We're here, Aunt Gertrude," Frank reassured her. "It's all over. Can you tell us what happened? Where's Mom?"
"I—I tried to get a knife from the drawer," Aunt Gertrude barreled on, "but one of them— one of them just pulled the whole drawer out!"
"One of whom, Aunt Gertrude?" Frank asked.
"I don't know! They were wearing masks. Terrible black masks! Ohhh—how could those beasts have done that to her—"
Aunt Gertrude's eyes started to well with tears. Frank and Joe exchanged a terrified glance. -—
9
"Aunt Gertrude,'' Frank said softly, "where's Mom?"
A rapid set of snuffles was all the answer Aunt Gertrude could give. Her trembling right hand reached up to her heart, and she closed her eyes.
When she opened them they were shot through with cold, naked fear.
"Boys, your mother—" Aunt Gertrude's lips began quivering, and Frank was afraid she wouldn't finish her sentence.
But she did.
"Your mother has been kidnapped!"
10
Chapter 2
"Are you sure, Aunt Gertrude?" Joe said urgently. "Did you see them?"
Aunt Gertrude nodded. "Yes, yes. Of course I'm sure. Oh, the poor dear. There was nothing I could do." She shook her head, fighting back tears, starting to get angry now. "You boys—I always told you this detective nonsense would amount to no good! Look at what's happened."
"Please, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said softly, "describe what happened. You were in the house when—"
"I was not in the house," Aunt Gertrude contradicted him. "I was out taking a walk. It seemed so splendid outside, and the old maple tree by the Remsens' house is one of the first
11
to turn, so I figured I'd go there to check it out and chat a bit. I brought them some jam—"
"And you came back," Joe pressed on impatiently.
"Yes. I came back and noticed both front doors open. Well, of course, I thought, That's not like Laura to leave the doors open, even on a beautiful day. You know flies and mosquitoes are still thriving. ..."
Frank realized that Aunt Gertrude couldn't have been hurt too much. She was rambling on like her old self. Frank felt himself getting as impatient as his brother.
"Then I repeated to myself, Laura just wouldn't leave both doors open like that!" Aunt Gertrude continued. "So I went inside, and the first thing I saw was the mess in the living room. Well, I was shocked. Then I heard noises inside—rough male voices. I called out, 'Laura?' and walked to the kitchen. And that's when I—saw her." Aunt Gertrude shuddered. A small sob escaped, and her eyes began to mist over.
"What happened?" Joe demanded, his eyes on fire. "Was she—"
"Alive?" Aunt Gertrude cut in. "Yes. At least I think she was. She—" Suddenly she began sobbing violently, and tears started to flow down her cheeks. "To tell the truth, boys, I don't even know for sure! She was on the
12
floor, and they were—oh, it was so barbaric!— they were stuffing her into a sack like that one!" She pointed to the bag that had been covering her.
Frank handed her a tissue from a nearby box. "How many of them?" he pressed.
Aunt Gertrude's fingers fluttered nervously as she dabbed her cheeks. "Two. Yes, there were two men holding the bag. They both looked up as I walked in. I screamed—oh, I thought I'd lose my voice—"
"And then they turned on you," Joe interjected.
"Well, no, they didn't. They were both just staring at me when that horrible old bag was pulled over my head."
"So there had to be at least three of them," Joe interrupted. "One to pull the bag over your head."
"Yes, I suppose there were three."
"What did they look like?" Frank asked.
"I—I couldn't tell. ..." She looked away as her thoughts wandered back. "The blond one was wearing a ski mask—"
"Blond one?" Joe repeated. "How could you tell his hair color if he wore a ski mask?"
"It was tucked up in back, and I saw a blond fringe," Aunt Gertrude answered.
"Did you notice anything else about him?" Frank asked.
13
Her eyes lit up. "Come to think of it, I did notice something else. Yes—in fact, I know who he was!"
Frank gave her a strong, encouraging smile. "Way to go, Aunt Gertrude! Who?''
Aunt Gertrude looked at her nephews with renewed confidence. She set her chin triumphantly and said, "A forest ranger."
Frank's face fell. He could see his brother's shoulders slump. "A what?"
"Am I not enunciating clearly, or do you both have cotton in your ears? A forest ranger! Yes, that must be who it was. I knew I'd seen one of those shirts before. It was exactly like the shirts those rangers wore on my trip to Yellowstone National Park—oh, about ten or twelve years ago, do you remember? Probably not—you were so young at the time. Back then I had hoped that you boys might become rangers. But will you listen to me ramble on and on? You'd think I was an old lady."
"It's just the shock. Shock makes us all act differently," Frank said, trying to soothe his aunt.
Joe gave his brother an exasperated look. Shaking his head, he stood up and walked to the other end of the room.
A forest ranger in a coastal town like Bayport, New York, could be a lead. But Gertrude could have been wrong about the shirt, or the
14
guy could have bought the shirt at a secondhand shop.
Aunt Gertrude finally fell silent, then began to rise. "Well, I can't look for your mother, but I can pick up. That kitchen is such a terrible mess." As she stood her legs buckled beneath her.
Frank reached out and grabbed her hand. "Please, Aunt Gertrude, just try to rest. Besides, it's best to leave everything the way it is. The police will want to search for clues." He got up and turned to Joe. "I'll be right back."
Frank went into the kitchen so his aunt could rest and stepped over a fallen chair to get to the phone.
As soon as he reached for it, it rang.
He snatched it off the hook. "Hello, who is this?"
There was a brief pause. "Well, aren't you being a little presumptuous? You haven't yet told me who you are."
The voice sent a chill up Frank's spine. It sounded as if it were being programmed letter by letter through a computer voice sampler.
No, that couldn't be, Frank immediately realized. The voice had answered his question, so it couldn't have been recorded in advance.
"This is Frank Hardy. Now get to the point, pal. I need to use this phone."
15
'We are dispensing with the formalities, are we, Frank Hardy?" the voice replied. "I can go along with that."
A scrambler. That's what he was using, Frank realized. An electronic device held up to the receiver that disguised the voice by filtering it through different frequencies.
Frank moved toward the den. Behind him the extra-long telephone extension cord was stretched taut. He could just see his brother sitting on the couch next to Aunt Gertrude.
"In fact, perhaps I can alleviate your sense of urgency," the eerie voice went on. "You see, you will not be needing to use the phone after our conversation."
Frantically Frank signaled to Joe by waving a hand over his head.
"Yeah?" he said, stalling for time. "I think I'm the one who'll decide that!"
Joe looked up. Gesturing, Frank mouthed the words the phone in Dad's den. Joe immediately stood up. Frank then twisted his arm as if turning a knob and mouthed tape recorder.
Joe bolted from the room.
"Have it your way," the voice replied. Through the odd, disjointed tone Frank could hear an undercurrent of threat. "I would be terribly disappointed if you didn't do what I suggest. It would be a shame to see a noble
16
woman like Mrs. Hardy suffer because of her son's stubbornness."
Frank froze. In the silence he heard an almost imperceptible click as Joe picked up Fenton's phone.
"What did you do with my mother?" Frank asked through clenched teeth.
"Your mother, I'm pleased to say, is enjoying quite pleasant accommodations. And you do want to keep it that way, don't you?"
Hoping that Joe was recording the conversation, Frank said, "All right, let's cut the phony politeness. You'll be dead meat if my mom is hurt, buddy, so you might as well tell me what's going down right now."
"Dead meat," the voice repeated. "A colorful but rather repulsive image, don't you think? What's going down, my hotheaded young friend, is simply this: Fenton Hardy must be back at your house in twenty-four hours to answer a phone call. In person. Is that clear?"
Instinctively Frank looked at his watch, which read five-thirty. "And what if he's not?"
"Must you ask so many questions?" the voice answered. It chuckled malevolently, making a sound not unlike broken glass scratching a blackboard. "If he's not, your beloved mother will die."
17
Chapter 3
There was a hollow click at the other end of the phone. Frank stared at it unseeing for a few seconds before he hung up.
Joe appeared in the hallway outside the den. He looked over his shoulder to check on Gertrude, then walked toward Frank. "That slime- ball," he hissed. "If he laid a finger on Mom—"
"Did you get the voice on tape?" Frank interrupted, his face taut with concentration.
"Yeah, but a lot of good that's going to do us. The guy was using a scrambler, so we can't run a voice-pattern test. There's no way we can involve the police after what he said."
"We're just going to have to find Dad. Obviously this guy doesn't want to talk to us."
"Great," Joe retorted. "Only Mom knows
18
where he is. What do we do, call information for the state of Massachusetts and say, 'Fenton Hardy, please. He's on a secret intelligence trip somewhere in the southwestern part of your state. Can you locate him?' Frank, this guy's got us over a barrel."
"I'm not so sure," Frank said. He cast a concerned glance toward the den. "Let's get Aunt Gertrude upstairs. Then I want to hear that tape again."
They went into the den to find Aunt Gertrude still sitting on the couch, her head back, her eyes shut. "No . . . no," she mumbled. "Leave my sister-in-law alone. She has two youngsters. If you must take someone, take me!"
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Youngsters?" he repeated under his breath.
Frank reached out and gently folded his hand over his aunt's. "Come on. I think you need a rest, Aunt Gertrude."
Her eyes fluttered open. "Frank! My goodness, did I fall asleep?"
Frank nodded.
"Who was on the phone?" she asked with sudden hope. "Was it Fenton?"
"No," Joe replied, thinking fast. "It was— uh—an electronic voice. You know, one of those tape recordings that tries to sell you things."
Aunt Gertrude nodded absently. "And for
19
that the two of you had to rush off, leaving me all alone?" Joe opened his mouth to answer, but she waved him off. "Never mind. I suppose I can't expect you to act normally when your dear mother has been—" Her voice choked in the middle of the sentence.
"Please, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said, urging her toward the stairs. "We'll get in touch with Dad. Why don't you have a little nap? I'm sure you'll feel better."
Protesting feebly, she allowed her nephews to take her up to her room. They sat her down on her bed, and before they were out of the room she had curled up and fallen asleep.
They quietly skittered down the stairs, walked into their father's office, and sat down.
"Now we know for sure we didn't run over that soda bottle in the parking lot. The kidnappers punctured the tire to keep us occupied while they took Mom," Joe said.
"You're right," Frank agreed. "I think we should study the tape, listen to this guy's accent, listen for background noise. Did you set the ticker when you turned it on?"
"What do you think I am, an amateur?" Joe rewound to 000 and played the tape back:
"Your mother, I'm pleased to say, is enjoying quite pleasant accommodations. . . ."
It was impossible to detect an accent, Frank
20
thought. The voice was so garbled it could have come from Mars. But there was another sound.
"And you do want to—"
"Stop there!" Frank said.
Joe already had. There had been two high- pitched squeals in the background. He rewound and played again. They listened closely to the squeals.
"They sound like screams!" Joe said.
Frank shook his head. "My guess is the scraping of a table leg against the floor, or some feedback into the mike."
"Or a dog barking, or an elephant bleating, or the squeak of grease as this nut twirls his handlebar mustache." Joe slumped into the brown leather chair by his father's desk. "It could be anything! That scrambler is mixing up any noise that comes through the mike."
Something was dawning on Frank, but he couldn't tell Joe. Not just yet. "I guess we're going to have to do what the man says, Joe," he said in a loud voice.
Joe looked at him as if he'd just lost his mind. "But we don't know—"
"We'll find him. I've got to go check the secret phone file."
"Secret phone—"
Joe's answer was interrupted by the loud tramping of footsteps on the living room floor.
"Hey! What's going on?" a voice boomed.
21
Frank ran out of the room, leaving a bewildered Joe to follow him. "Chet!" he called.
When he got to the living room Chet Morton was standing there, dumbfounded. His broad shoulders had gone slack, making his potbelly jut out even more than usual. Drooping from his left hand was a half-eaten slice of pizza. "What did you guys do to this place?"
Behind him Phil Cohen was squeezing his thin body behind an armchair to unplug a lamp whose bulb had shattered. Biff Hooper was standing on the opposite side of the room from Chet. Together they looked like two useless pillars of a building that had collapsed around them.
"I wish," Frank said with a rueful smile. He quickly told them what had happened. They listened with a mixture of dread, disbelief, and anger.
"We'll trace the call!" Chet said, jutting his pizza forward to emphasize his point. "My dad knows a guy who works for the phone company—"
"Phil," Frank said, cutting Chet off, "can I talk to you out in the backyard?"
Tilting his head quizzically, Phil said, "Sure."
Frank turned to his brother. "Joe, you and the guys straighten up. We'll be right back."
Frank moved through the house with Phil
22
close behind. Together they stepped into the backyard.
"What's this all about?" Phil asked.
"I need your expertise," Frank replied. "About electronics."
He pulled open the garage door and reached around to flick on the light. Mrs. Hardy's car stood on the left side, dwarfed by the shelves that reached upward all around it. Each shelf was stuffed with boxes and boxes of tools, gadgets, and equipment. Frank reached into an unmarked metal box on a bottom shelf.
"I can't believe you can find anything in this mess," Phil commented, shaking his head.
"Actually, it's very easy," Frank replied. "The trick is living in this house for eighteen years." He pulled out a long, sturdy metal loop with a rubber handle and a small white gauge.
Phil asked, "What are you going to do with an inductance coil?"
"Can it detect a current hidden behind a hard surface, like a wall?"
Phil shrugged. "Sure. It's a closed electric circuit with no juice of its own. But if you hold it near an electric circuit, it picks up current, and the meter jumps. What do you need it for, Frank?"
"Follow me," Frank answered.
He ran back to the house. Holding the coil,
23
Phil followed him to the living room. There, Joe, Chet, and Biff were setting up furniture.
"What's going on?" Joe asked.
"No clues back there," Frank answered.
"I could have told you that,'' Joe said, giving Frank a bewildered look.
But Frank was walking away from him toward a small table by the couch. On the table was a message pad, a pen, and a telephone. Wordlessly, Frank looked at Phil and pointed to the wall behind the table.
Phil nodded knowingly and began to run the inductance coil along the wall.
Before anyone could ask any questions Frank said, "The place looks much better. Let's get started on the kitchen."
Realizing that something was up, Joe led the others into the kitchen. Frank stayed behind and watched as Phil passed the coil along the wall behind the phone table . . . the couch . . . the armchair. . . .
Suddenly the needle on the meter jumped, then settled back. Phil's eyes lit up. He began to say something, but Frank held out his hand, signaling him to be quiet.
Phil slowly brought the coil back. When the needle jumped again Phil held it at the spot. He turned to Frank with a triumphant smile.
Frank nodded, then immediately indicated Phil to follow him again. The two of them went
24
into the kitchen, where Frank waved everyone outside. "Let's put the barbecue grill away, guys, okay?"
"Barbe—" Chet began, but Frank grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out the back door.
One by one, with mystified looks on their faces, they stepped out into the backyard. Frank led them to a secluded spot under an oak tree.
"Okay, what's all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?" Chet demanded. "Don't tell me there's a bomb hidden inside or something."
"Not a bomb, Chet," Frank replied. "A bug. Whoever this kidnapper is, he was listening to every word we said in the house!"
25
Chapter 4
"You mean we were on 'Candid Microphone'?" Chet remarked. "If I'd known, I would have really said what was on my mind!"
"I just hope we didn't let out anything important," Phil said.
Joe shook his head. "What's there to hide? We don't know where Dad is. Maybe they'll believe us."
"That's weird," Phil said.
"What's weird?" Joe replied.
"Your dad just left town without telling you where he was going?" Phil asked.
" 'Southwestern Massachusetts' was all he said," Frank replied with a shrug. "That's the way it goes—sometimes he has to keep things secret."
26
"I can't believe he wouldn't leave a number," Chet said.
"My mom knows,'' Frank replied.
"Doesn't do you and Joe a whole lot of good," Biff said. "It's not like you can call her and ask."
Joe furrowed his brow. "No, but I do remember them talking about my dad's assignment a week or so ago. They were upstairs, and I was passing their room. I could hear them."
All eyes focused on Joe. "What did they say?" Frank asked.
"The usual stuff," Joe said, running the hazy events over in his mind. "Mom sounded a little annoyed. She asked if he had to go. Dad said unfortunately yes. Mom mentioned how much work there was to do around the house, Dad said he'd do most of it before he left. Mom asked if he'd call her once he got to ..." His voice trailed off.
"To where, Joe?" Frank pressed.
Joe put his hand to his forehead. "I wasn't really paying attention! I wanted to get back to my room. Now, let's see. What was the name of that town? Mar something."
"Marbury," Phil suggested.
"Marshalltown," Biff said.
"Marmalade!" Chet blurted out.
27
Biff rolled his eyes. "You marshmallow," he muttered.
Frank ran into the house to get a New England map as the others continued to suggest names. Scurrying back outside, he opened to a list of towns at the bottom of the map.
"Marfield," he called out, reading from the Massachusetts section of the list. "Marion, Marlborough, Marstons Mills—"
"Wait!" Joe interrupted. "Marfield—that rings a bell. I think that was it. 'Fenton, will you call me as soon as you get to Marfield?' I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that's what she said!"
"That's as good a lead as any," Frank responded.
"And Dad told her he couldn't call—he had to remain strictly incommunicado. That much I do remember clearly!"
Frank looked levelly at Phil. "Joe and I are out of here. Can you destroy the bug? I don't care what you do to the wall."
"You got it," Phil answered, running inside.
"Great. The rest of you guys stick around, guard the house, make sure Aunt Gertrude is all right. We'll call from the road and give you a progress report."
While he was speaking Frank looked from Phil to Biff to Chet. Only Chet's face reflected the doubt they were all feeling.
28
"The fridge is full. Help yourselves," Frank added. All three of them nodded their agreement.
Frank and Joe ran inside and up to their rooms. They each threw some changes of clothing and a toothbrush into a duffel bag, checked to see that their aunt was still asleep, then headed back downstairs. As they barreled toward the back door Phil's voice called out from behind them, "Wait a sec! Take this. You may need it."
Frank turned around to see Phil holding the inductance coil out to him. "What about the other rooms in the house?"
"I checked the kitchen, the dining room, and your dad's office," Phil answered. "I did it quickly, but I'm pretty sure they're all clean. Biff found a hole hidden behind the living room couch, which is how they got the bug in. Obviously these guys didn't have time to cover their tracks; I have a feeling they only planted the one bug."
"Okay," Frank said, taking the coil. Calling out a hurried goodbye, he and Joe climbed into the van and took off.
Frank stopped briefly at the end of the driveway before pulling into the street. Instinctively he and Joe cased both sides of the street. There were four parked cars.
"Do you see any drivers?" Frank said.
29
"Nope, they all look empty to me," Joe said.
"We'll see about that." Frank stepped on the gas and took a left. He trained his eye on the rearview mirror, but none of the parked cars followed them.
"Looks like we're alone," Joe said, glancing up and down the quiet intersections they passed. "But just in case, let's take the scenic route."
"Aye, aye, captain," Frank replied, taking a sudden right turn. As he wound quickly through the streets of Bayport Joe hung on to his armrest.
Ten minutes later Frank finally pulled onto a road that would lead them to the expressway.
"There," he said. "If anyone could follow that, I'll burn my driver's license."
Joe looked behind them. About thirty yards back was a dark blue Buick. "You'll burn it, huh? I wonder if there are any matches in the glove compartment."
"What?"
"Maybe I'm being paranoid, but check out the rearview mirror.''
Frank glanced up just as Joe spotted an abandoned gas station ahead of them. In the center island were two covered-up holes with dusty wires and hoses sticking out.
"Slow down," Joe suggested. He pointed to the entrance. "Turn in there."
30
Frank stepped on the brake, then turned. Gravel bounced on the cracked and broken concrete as the car rolled in.
Behind them the Buick quietly pulled over to the shoulder and waited.
"If there aren't any matches, I guess we could use the cigarette lighter on your license," Joe commented.
Without saying a word Frank floored the gas pedal and tore out onto the street. Tires screeched behind them as the Buick pursued.
"I don't know how this guy found us," Frank said, "but his luck is about to run out."
He took a sharp left onto a deserted road that ran past a cornfield. The Buick followed. Frank floored the gas pedal, putting distance between them and their pursuers. As the road curved to the left he momentarily lost sight of the car in his mirror.
Up ahead was a fork. Frank went right, then immediately turned right again onto a side street. He barreled down this road, then went left at a light that turned red just after he went through. A commercial area lay ahead, with shops lining either side of the street. Beyond it five roads fed into a traffic circle. Frank chose one of them, which trailed off into a residential area.
Keeping his eyes trained on the empty road
31
behind them, Joe let out a whoop of excitement. "No way that guy can find us now!"
"Check the map," Frank said. "They're going to expect us to take the main expressway. Find us a different route."
A cry of disgust from Joe cut Frank off. "I don't believe it!"
Frank looked up and caught a glimpse of the Buick in his rearview mirror. "How did he—"
Before he could finish Joe reached for the glove compartment. Yanking it open, he pulled out a pen and an old white envelope. In seconds he had scribbled a note and handed it to his brother. Frank held it up so that he could read it without taking his eyes off the road: "We're being bugged! The coil's going nuts."
Frank stole a quick look at his brother, who began rolling his arms as if to say keep talking.
"This guy's going to follow us all the way to North Carolina!" Frank said. Joe gave him an okay sign as he crawled into the rear of the van. "But I think I know a way to lose him. We'll take Kirkland Road and shoot into one of those dirt paths near the academy. I think I can get us back to the highway from there."
Joe plopped down into the passenger seat, holding a small electronic box with wires dangling from it. "Got it!" he said.
In the rearview mirror Frank saw the Buick
32
suddenly speed up. He swerved onto a sandy side road that cut between two marshes.
'You know what I think?" Joe said. 'This thing isn't a bug, it's a homing device! That would explain how he's been able to tail us so perfectly."
"Well, there's only one way to find out for sure," Frank said. "Let's ask him. It's time we confronted this guy, Joe."
With that, he stepped on the brake and forced the van into a ninety- degree skid. When it stopped it was blocking the road broadside.
"Let's get this guy, Joe," Frank said.
As Frank reached for his door handle he heard the Buick's tires squealing. He looked up to see the car careening toward them and then coming to a sudden, lurching stop. The sun, beginning to set in the western sky, glinted off a shiny metal object in the passenger window of the Buick.
"Duck!" Frank shouted.
Before the word left his mouth the van windows were being shattered with a barrage of machine-gunfire!
33
Chapter 5
Frank dropped to the van floor, protecting his head with his arms. Above him shards of glass were being spit into the van. There was a sickening tuck-a-tuck-a-tuck of metal against metal as bullets raked the sides of the van. The guy with the machine gun didn't know it, but he would never penetrate the interior of the van. The sides were lined with thick sheets of metal.
Like a trapped animal Frank hunkered as low as he could with the pedals in the way and waited for the attack to be over. For a moment he forgot about Joe, forgot about their mission, forgot about everything except the possibility that the attacker would move in and shoot them.
34
When the attack finally stopped Frank was first aware of the immense silence. Then he noticed that his jaw ached from gritting his teeth, that his brother was alive beside him, and that the Buick was making a getaway.
He rose cautiously and peered out the driver's window. Its tires spinning on the sandy road, the Buick was in the middle of a U-turn. Frank stared, focusing on the small rectangular plate between the two taillights.
As it sped away Joe scrambled up from a crouch and joined Frank. "Did we make it," he asked, "or is this the big van in the sky?"
"We were lucky, Joe," Frank said. "They didn't aim for the tires."
"Yeah, that's because they were aiming higher—at us!" Joe replied. "We'd better check out the engine." Frank turned the key as Joe popped the hood. "Looks and sounds okay. We were really lucky. By the way, did you get the license number?"
"You bet." Frank reached for the dashboard and grabbed the note that Joe had given him. "Where's that pen you were using?"
Joe uncurled his fist to reveal a cracked ballpoint pen and his fingers smeared with dark blue ink. "Uh, right here."
A smile curled up on Frank's lips. "You weren't too nervous there, were you?"
"Cool as a cucumber," Joe remarked, holding 
35
out the pen. "Nothing more relaxing than a little late-afternoon strafing."
Frank took a rag from the back of the van, wiped off the pen, and wrote down NZE-809. "It was a Massachusetts plate."
"The plot thickens," Joe said. He rubbed his fingers with the rag, trying to wipe off the blue stain. "Unfortunately, so does this ink."
"There's got to be a way to find out whose plate that is." Frank tapped the pen agitatedly on the steering wheel. "Too bad we don't know any Massachusetts cops. They could give us access to the Motor Vehicle Department computer list."
"Well, we're near Chartwell Academy. Maybe there are some genius hackers there still." Joe smiled slyly, remembering how he and Frank had broken a criminal computer ring at the school.
Frank's face brightened. "That's it, Joe!"
"Hey, I was joking. We don't know anybody there. They've all been expelled—"
"Right. But we do know a pretty amazing hacker, and he happens to live in Cambridge, Massachusetts!"
"The Beast!" Joe exclaimed. "Of course!"
"Larry Biester, the pride of the Harvard computer science department," Frank said, grabbing the mobile phone. "He helped us
36
crack an international spy ring, and I think he just might be able to help us with the DMV."
Quickly he dialed the Beast's number from memory. The phone rang twice.
"Hello," Larry's voice said. "I'm not in right now, but if you leave your name ..."
Frank exhaled with disappointment. "He's out."
"... number and time of day you called, I'll get back to you. Just wait for the beep."
After a faint beep tone Frank said, "Hi, Larry, this is Frank Hardy. It's seven-thirty on Sunday. Call me back right away at—"
"Oh, hi, Frank," Larry's voice interrupted. Frank frowned. "Larry?"
"Yeah, it's me, live. Sounded like a real machine, huh? I'm trying to keep the administration off my tail for a couple of days. They're after me for some money.''
"Oh," Frank said. "Listen, Larry, we need your help. I know it's a long shot, but do you think you can break the computer code on the Massachusetts Department of Motor Vehicles? I want to find out who owns a car with plate number—"
"Whoa, whoa! Stop right there!" Larry said. "I'm in enough trouble as it is. If any one of the university bigwigs finds out I've been— uh—free-lancing with the state government, I may be taking a semester off."
37
"It's important, Larry."
"Yeah? So's my diploma, at least to my parents."
"This has to do with my parents," Frank pressed on. "My mother, to be exact. Someone's kidnapped her. Whoever it is is trying to get my father, too—and they just came after us with a machine gun!"
There was stunned silence on the other side. "Whoa. When do you want the info—yesterday? You got it. Just give me two numbers— the license and your phone."
Frank passed on the numbers, thanked him, and said goodbye.
* * *
The illuminated digital clock on the dashboard read 12:33 a.m. as Frank exited off onto Marfield Road from the highway. It seemed as though the rest of the world had folded up for the night. The chirping of birds had long since faded away, and all he could hear was the monotonous trill of crickets and the engine's quiet hum. He felt as though he'd be lulled to sleep if it weren't for the cold night air that washed in over him from the shot-out driver's window. Beside him Joe had already fallen victim, bundled up in his jacket. His head lolled lazily to the left against the headrest, and his body bounced slightly with every dip in the road.
38
Joe had promised not to fall asleep during the five-hour trip, and Frank fought the urge to whack him on the shoulder as a reminder. But he knew that at least one of them should get some rest, so he left his brother alone. Besides, they were bound to reach a motel eventually.
"Eventually" turned out to be about ten minutes. As Frank drove along a sleepy section of Marfield Road a neon sign flashed "Marfield Motor Hotel" in the distance. He blinked twice to make sure it wasn't a mirage, then slowed down.
"'Vacancy,'" he muttered, reading the sign's bottom line.
There was a grunt from Joe's side of the van, then a muffled, slurred voice: "Don't worry. I've got my eyes on the exit signs."
"Well, no need to work so hard anymore," Frank replied. "We're here."
"Huh?" Joe sat up. "Marfield Motor Hotel? How did we—did I fall asleep?"
Frank pulled into the motel's driveway. "Halfway through Connecticut," Frank answered. "But it's okay. I've been enjoying the scenery and the nice, brisk windstorm."
"Arggh!" Joe arched his back as he stretched. "I feel like I've been in a trash compactor."
"I'm sure this place will feel like the Taj Mahal by comparison," Frank remarked. He
39
parked the van far from the entrance so the owner wouldn't see the condition of the van. It could be hard to explain why they were riding in a car riddled with bullet holes.
Joe staggered out of the other side and looked around. The parking lot was nearly empty, and the windows of the squat white building stared blankly at them. Every few seconds, when the neon light flashed, the motel glowed purple.
"I'm not so sure about this place," Joe said. "You know, the back of the van isn't that uncomfortable."
"Come on," Frank insisted. "We won't get too far tomorrow if we don't get some sleep." He walked toward the door to the motel office. Above it hung a smaller sign. This one said "Open 24 Hours".
On the road behind them a lone car whizzed by in the dark.
Frank pulled open the screen door and walked into a small, empty room. A dozen or so keys hung from a pegboard behind a long, wood-paneled counter. On top of the counter was a metal bell with a button on top and a squeaking metal fan that blew a weak stream of air.
"Hello," Frank called out, slapping the button. A loud ding pierced the air.
40
"Yeeaahhh!" came a sudden scream from behind the counter.
"Down, Frank!" Joe shouted.
An unexpected bolt of fear shot through Frank. The two brothers ducked.
Above them a meek voice said, "What's going on? Is anybody there?"
Frank and Joe stood up. Peering over the counter was a short, slender man with wispy hair combed to cover a bald spot. "Uh, sorry about that," Joe said sheepishly. "You scared us. You see, we're kind of tired—"
"Well, that makes three of us," the man said crossly. "Do you boys realize it's almost one in the morning?"
Frank pointed toward the door. "But your sign says twenty-four—''
"Never mind," the man interrupted, pulling out a frayed, vinyl-covered ledger book. "Do you have a reservation?"
"No," Joe answered, "but it doesn't seem like we need—"
"You know, you're lucky. This is the only place in town that has any vacancies tonight." He opened the book and placed a pen inside it. "Sign here."
As Joe picked up the pen the man narrowed his eyes at him. "Say, you're not the fella who called a couple hours ago asking about vacancies, are you?"
41
"Nope," Joe said, signing two aliases, Peter and Jules Mansfield, just in case.
"All right," the man replied doubtfully, taking a key off the pegboard behind him and throwing it on the counter. "You're in room J. Checkout time is ten. Pay me when you return the key."
"Thank you," Frank said. As the two of them left Joe pointed to the mat in front of the door. The words Courtesy Is Contagious stared up at them.
"I guess the disease has been cured around here," Joe remarked.
Frank peered in the window to see the man disappearing behind the counter again. He followed Joe to room J, which was directly behind the large neon sign. When they shut the door, the room glowed a hideous shade of purple and then darkened as the sign did. Frank flicked on the light to reveal a square room with beige cinder-block walls, two beds, and a table with a phone.
"Taj Mahal, huh?" Joe said, his face suddenly purple. "I'm not so tired."
"Good," Frank replied, opening a drawer in the phone table. "Then you can help me figure out where we're going to look for Dad tomorrow."
He pulled out a phone book and dropped it on the bed. It hardly bounced. "I can see it's
42
going to be a comfortable night," Joe mumbled.
Frank and Joe riffled through the phone book. It wasn't hard to find potential places; most of the industry in the area was centered around a few big technological companies. Before long Frank had compiled a short list of names and addresses on a sheet of Marfield Motor Hotel stationery.
"Foreman Aerospace ... the Center for Experimental Research . . . Prometheus Computing," Frank said, reading the list. "I think that'll be a good start."
"Anything to get us out of here," Joe yawned. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for some shut-eye, even if my dreams end up looking purple
Frank put away the phone book and lay down on one of the beds. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah," Joe replied, flopping down on his bed. And as his head hit the pillow he was asleep.
* * *
Brriing!
As Monday's early light broke through the windows Frank dreamed his dad was trying to reach him by phone. It rang and rang, but no one answered it. No matter how hard he tried,
43
Frank couldn't move. His arms were pinned beneath him, his mouth was locked shut. . . .
Brriiing!
Frank reached out and grabbed the phone off its hook. "Hello?" he said, his voice groggy and muffled.
"Rise and shine, lazybones!" a reply came.
Frank shot up in bed. Every last ounce of sleepiness had suddenly vanished.
"Who is it, Frank?" Joe asked, sitting up, too.
"Don't you think you fellows ought to get a move on?" The voice was warbly and mechanical, exactly like the one Frank had heard the day before.
"Who are you?" Frank blurted out.
The answer sent an icy chill up Frank's spine. "Don't waste your time with foolish questions. Your mother has only ten hours left to live."
44
Chapter 6
Before Frank could say a word a sudden click sounded in his ear.
He slammed the phone down and shot to his feet. "We're out of here!"
"Was it him?" Joe asked, his face taut with disbelief.
"Believe it or not," Frank said, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder.
Joe picked up his bag and followed Frank out the door. "How could he know where we were?"
"Remember what Mr. Congeniality in the motel office told us last night? This was the only place in Marfield with vacancies—and someone just happened to call asking about vacancies a few hours before we arrived. Guess
45
who that must have been. It wouldn't take a genius to realize we'd be staying here."
"Yeah, but there's one problem. How could that guy have known we were in Marfield— unless he bugged our backyard? That's the only place we talked about it!"
"Maybe not," Frank said, rushing down the concrete path to the motel office. "Maybe we talked about it in the van before we knew it was bugged."
Joe shook his head. "No, Frank. I'd remember!"
"Or maybe they tailed us somehow." Frank's voice had an edge now. He was at the office door, and he turned to face his brother. "It doesn't matter, Joe, does it? The most important thing is to get Dad back to Bayport within ten hours. That means we have only about five hours to find him!"
With that he pulled open the screen door. The thin man was still behind the counter, but awake this time. On the wall behind him a clock read 7:45. "Yes, gentlemen, would you like a room?"
Frank put the key on the counter. "Uh, we have one already, sir. Remember? Last night? You were the one who gave us the key. We'd like to check out now."
The man raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yes, of course!" He looked at the keys and gave a
46
little chuckle. "I gave you room J, eh? Oh, dear, I mustn't have been in a very good mood. Sorry about the sign, fellows." Giggling, he reached behind him for his receipt book.
"No problem," Joe said dryly. "It was very—colorful."
That made the man giggle even more. "Oh, yes, I'll bet it was!" He looked at the reservation card. "Please pay this amount, Peter—or are you Jules?"
"Huh?" Joe said.
"Peter," Frank quickly answered, remembering their aliases. He quickly counted out the money and put it on the counter. "Do you have a map of the area?"
Barely containing his mirth, the man took the money with one hand. With the other he pointed to a rack in the corner and turned away. As he went into an inner office behind the counter Frank could hear a little explosion of laughter.
"A comedian," Joe mumbled. "Let's get out of here, Peter."
"Okay, Jules," Frank replied. He grabbed a map from the rack and gave it to Joe. "You're appointed navigator."
They raced out to the van and jumped in. From the passenger seat Joe checked the map. "Hang a right," he said as Frank started up.
The van's rear wheels kicked up gravel.
47
Leaving the Marfield Motor Hotel behind gave Frank and Joe a fleeting sense of relief that was buried in a stronger, darker anxiety. It was a feeling both boys shared but didn't dare speak about.
For all their skills, they could never hope to match the cunning of one other detective— Fenton Hardy, their father. When Fenton decided to solve a crime no one could do it faster or better.
And when Fenton Hardy decided to remain incognito it was practically impossible for any human being to find him.
* * *
'A cheerful little place," Joe said, looking out the van window.
A jagged spiral of barbed wire glinted in the morning sunlight on top of a grim, ten-foot- high brick wall that stretched ahead of them for a quarter mile. Frank followed it until he came to a stop sign. There the otherwise solid wall gave way to a metal gate. Beside the gate was a Plexiglas booth with a small white-on- black sign that read "Foreman Aerospace/Authorized Personnel Only."
Frank turned into the gate, prompting the guard in the booth to lean into his desk microphone.
"Can I help you?" The guard's voice sounded distant and tinny as it squawked out
48
over a small loudspeaker next to Frank and Joe. Next to the loudspeaker was a grating with the words Speak Here printed underneath.
"Two cheeseburgers, one large fries, a root beer, and a shake," Joe said under his breath.
"I'm sorry," the voice returned.
Frank gave his brother a sharp glance. "Uh, we're here to see Fenton Hardy. We understand he's here on a business trip."
"Who's he visiting?" the guard asked.
"I'm not sure," Frank replied. "But he came in Thursday. I'm sure his name is on the sign-in sheet."
The loudspeaker fell silent for a few seconds. "No, I'm checking all the way back to Monday now, and I don't see any Hardy. That's H-A-R-D-Y."
"Is it possible he could have gotten through another way?" Joe called out.
"No, sir. If the President of the United States came to visit, he'd have to come through this gate, just like you. I'm sorry, but I can't let you in. If there's someone inside you can call—"
"No, thanks," Frank said, cutting him off. "We'll call him at his office. I guess he hasn't left yet. But if he does show up, could you tell him to call the van immediately?"
"Just—the van, sir?"
"He'll know what it means. Thank you."
49
Frank backed onto the street, staring dully behind him.
"What if he's in there, Frank?" Joe said. "He could be using an alias, he could have pulled some strings ..."
Frank heaved a sigh. "Let's try our luck at the other places before we start second-guessing."
Using the map, Joe guided Frank to the Center for Experimental Research, a boxy, ten-story office building made of glass and steel. They parked at the curb of the building's small, well-kept lawn and walked inside.
A guard stood behind a gray metal desk. On his green khaki uniform was a name tag that read "R. Muldoon." He doodled with a pen in the margins of a half-finished word-hunt game. A telephone and a closed sign-in book sat at one edge of the desk.
"Excuse me," Joe said, "we're here for a meeting with Fenton Hardy. Has he come in today?"
Muldoon didn't look up from his puzzle. "You got a clearance pass?"
"Uh, I'm sure Mr. Hardy will give us clearance. Would you check?"
"No clearance, no entry."
Frank stepped forward. "Can't you at least tell us if he's here?"
50
'No clearance, no entry." Muldoon circled a word that went diagonally across his puzzle.
Joe casually turned the sign-in book around to face him and started flipping through.
Instantly Muldoon's arm shot out and slammed the book shut. "Hey, what do you think this is, some kind of game? I got a job to do, understand? Now get out of here before I call the authorities!"
"Hey, I wouldn't want you to do that," Joe said, looking at him levelly. "You might lose your concentration—then you'd never see the word defective running down the right side of your puzzle."
Muldoon smacked his pen again. "That does it." He lifted the phone and said, "Muldoon here. I've got a situation four at the front desk."
Within seconds a tall, trim man with a mane of silver hair emerged from a door beside the elevators. Walking briskly toward them, he gave a calm, confident smile. "Gentlemen," he called out in a booming bass voice. "What can I do for you?"
"These guys are trying to get in here without no clearance, Mr. Straeger," Muldoon said.
"Without any clearance, Robert," the older man said. "Double negatives fell into disrepute after Shakespeare's time."
51
Muldoon frowned and looked back at his puzzle.
"Karl Straeger, head of security," the gray- haired man said. He gestured toward a corner of the lobby. "This way, please, gentlemen."
As the three of them walked over Frank said, "Sorry to cause confusion, Mr. Straeger, but we need to talk to Fenton Hardy immediately. We have reason to believe he's in a meeting here."
Straeger mulled over Frank's request. "Hardy—Hardy—the name isn't familiar."
"If you'd just let us look at the sign-in book," Joe insisted.
"Of course," Straeger said. "But I can tell you right now, all visitors' names are logged in my office, and I make it my job to learn every one. After thirty years in this business I've learned how to remember. I assure you that the person you mention has not entered this building."
"He told us he would be in an important research meeting," Frank insisted. "I'm sure this is the place he mentioned."
Straeger smiled. "Ah. He probably said the Center for Environmental Research. Often people confuse us. You see, we're not actually a research organization, but rather a clearinghouse of sorts. We evaluate research proposals for the government."
52
Before Frank could reply, Straeger held up his hand. "It certainly isn't my job to make your search difficult, though. And in my advancing years my mind has been known to slip." He led them back to the desk, where he told Muldoon, "Let these two young men read the logbook."
With a wink Straeger walked back to his office.
Frank and Joe scoured the book's entries for the last week, but Straeger was right. Fenton Hardy had not signed in.
"What'd I tell you?" Muldoon grumbled as the brothers turned to walk away.
* * *
Next stop was Prometheus Computing, a small complex of squat brick buildings connected to one another. Over the entrance of the main building was a carving of a man chained to a rock on the top of a mountain. Above him vultures wheeled in the air, preparing to pounce. But the man was oblivious to them as he hunched over a computer and typed furiously. The word Prometheus was carved underneath him.
"The Beast would be at home here," Joe remarked.
As at Foreman Aerospace, the buildings were surrounded by a fence with a guard booth. Frank and Joe drove up to see a young
53
uniformed guard fiddling with a laptop computer on his table.
"Checkmate!" the man shouted, punching his fist in the air.
"Uh, excuse us," Frank said.
The man's face reddened when he saw Frank and Joe. "Sorry. I just beat the machine at chess for the first time in my life!"
"Great," Frank said without enthusiasm. "Listen, we need to see a man named Fenton Hardy. Is he here today?"
The guard fell silent for a moment. His eyes darted from Frank to Joe. "May I ask why you're here?"
Joe practically lunged over to the driver's window. "He's here, isn't he?" he said, his voice charged with excitement and relief.
The man stared back warily. "Uh, just a minute. Don't go away." Keeping his eyes on Frank and Joe, he picked up a phone and mumbled something into it. He nodded twice, then hung up.
In front of them the gate swung open. "Take a right, then a left into courtyard B," the guard said.
Frank followed the instructions, coming to a solid metal gate marked B that lifted slowly. A quadrangle of grass was revealed, surrounded by four ivy-covered walls. It was completely empty.
54
From behind them another guard appeared as if from nowhere. "Go ahead," he urged. "Someone'll meet you inside."
Frank gave his brother an uncomfortable look. Joe shrugged back, and they drove inside.
The van jounced as it went over the grass. In the middle of the quadrangle Frank turned the engine off.
"What is this?" Joe asked, looking around. "Where's Da—"
They both spun around at a loud metallic boom behind them. The metal gate had crashed to the ground, sealing off the exit.
Then came the slapping noises. Each window in the building was being thrown open, and from the second floor up long ropes flopped to the ground.
"I think we have visitors," Frank said.
Suddenly the walls of the building came alive. Clutching the ropes, a dozen people rappeled downward. Within seconds they dropped to the ground and surrounded the van.
Frank gulped. The commando uniforms weren't very welcoming, nor were the flak vests and gas masks.
But the worst—definitely the worst—were the submachine guns pointed at their heads!
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Chapter 7
"Come out of that van with your hands up!" a voice bellowed out of a small black speaker behind them. Then the echo off the courtyard walls spoke the same words again.
Frank and Joe reached for their door handles, but before they could open them one of the commandos had stepped forward. "What are you doing here?" he demanded."
Frank and Joe turned toward the man as he ripped off his gas mask in one easy gesture.
Joe's eyes widened. Frank felt his heart skip a beat.
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a puny-sounding "Dad?"
Fenton Hardy had a look that defied definition. It was amused and baffled and angry.
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"What are we doing here?" Joe repeated. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, uh, to tell you the truth, that's what we wanted to ask you."
A half smile crept across Mr. Hardy's face. He looked to his right and left and gave a hand signal. "It's all right," he said. "These are my sons."
Around him the black-clad figures slowly lowered their guns.
Frank and Joe nodded awkwardly to them as they climbed out of the van. Many of the guards mumbled greetings as they turned back toward the building.
"Special security force," Mr. Hardy said to Frank and Joe. "Not bad for a few days' training, eh?"
Before either of them could answer, another voice boomed in the courtyard. "May I ask what on earth's going on?"
To their left, an overweight man in a three- piece suit trotted awkwardly toward them on obviously flat feet. His face was red with exertion, and the bottom of his white shirt bulged from under his vest.
Mr. Hardy exhaled with resignation. "That's Winthrop, the security chief. He's still sore because the Prometheus top brass went over his head to hire me as an independent contractor." He turned to face the approaching man.
57
"False alarm, Mr. Winthrop. My boys decided to come for an unexpected visit."
"I see," Mr. Winthrop said, giving Frank and Joe a cursory nod. "Perhaps, Mr. Hardy, your little SWAT team is being a bit overzealous. Besides, I thought your agreement was to remain incognito."
Joe blurted out, "This is a family emergency, sir. Something has happened to our mother. We'll explain in a minute, Dad," he said, trying to reassure his father.
Fenton Hardy cocked an eyebrow at his son and wrinkled his forehead, but he knew he had to wait until Winthrop left for his explanation.
Mr. Winthrop fidgeted, looking from Fenton Hardy to his sons. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to be suspicious or sympathetic.
He made up his mind quickly when he saw the van.
Narrowing his eyes at Joe, he said, "It looks like you had a little trouble on the way here."
Joe looked back and cringed. In the haste to reach his dad he hadn't thought of the van's appearance. Its side, riddled with bullets from the previous evening's attack, looked as if it had come through a war zone.
While he searched for an alibi Mr. Hardy stepped in. "I'm surprised at you, fellas. When
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you said you bought a van at an auction, I didn't think it was going to look like this!"
"Sorry, Dad," Frank said, taking his lead. "We're still waiting for the shop to give us an estimate."
"Well, never mind," Mr. Hardy replied, urging his sons toward the van. "There are more important things to think about. Excuse us, Mr. Winthrop."
"Wait—you're not going to—just a minute!" Mr. Winthrop sputtered as the three Hardys jumped into the van. "I can't be responsible for all your personnel! Why, I don't even know them!"
"Introduce yourself!" Fenton Hardy called from the van with a grin. "I'm sure you'll all get along. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"This is highly irregular!" Mr. Winthrop shot back. "It's not in my contract to play nursemaid to your—your commando troops!"
Mr. Winthrop's final words were lost in the van's engine noise as Frank did a quick U-turn and headed toward the metal gate. Mr. Hardy pulled a remote-control device out of his pocket and aimed it out the windshield. As Frank sped through the opening gate he caught a final glimpse of a furious Mr. Winthrop in his rearview mirror.
* * *
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'So we figure they jabbed glass into our tire so they could get Mom." Frank and Joe had just finished detailing their mom's kidnapping and the events surrounding it. The van was on the highway heading south now. The boys had taped clear plastic over the open window so the trip back would at least be warm.
"All we can do is get back on time and hope for the best," Fenton Hardy said, looking at his wristwatch. "We'll make it if we don't hit traffic."
"Does any of this make sense to you, Dad?" Frank asked. "Could it have anything to do with whatever you're doing up here?"
Mr. Hardy nodded. "I'm sure it does. Prometheus is sitting on something very hot right now. One of their teams has devised a revolutionary computer chip using a new superconductive material. It'll make the most powerful chip of today look like a rusty abacus—and it'll be smaller and cheaper. 'Battlechip,' they call it. Hard to believe, but the future of artificial intelligence is right here in Marfield."
"And it was being guarded by good old Mr. Winthrop. No wonder the company hired you," Joe said, trying to get his dad to talk and keep his mind off his wife's kidnapping.
"Actually, Winthrop is one of the best around," Mr. Hardy said, "so when an intruder managed to get by his people in the
60
research building, the head office got nervous. They called me the next day, and my arrival turned out to be just in time. We got there in the middle of a raid. We sent the goons running. They didn't know what had hit them."
"Did you find out who they were?" Frank asked.
Mr. Hardy shook his head. "As soon as they knew the odds were against them they left in a hurry. It was obviously a well-planned operation. The only clue we have is a couple of phone calls from the same voice that called you. He sounded like Frankenstein in a blender."
"That's the guy," Joe replied. "And whoever it is has been on our tail since we left Bayport. We did our best to shake him—ripped out his bug, took all kinds of crazy routes—"
"I guess it isn't too tough to track down a van with a left side that looks like Swiss cheese," Mr. Hardy said.
He fell silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. Above them loomed a large green-and-white sign that said "Springfield Next Four Exits." "Get off here," he whispered.
"In Springfield?" Frank asked, perplexed. "Dad, we don't have a whole lot of—"
"Never mind, Frank, just get off—now!"
The exit was only thirty yards ahead, and
61
the van was in the center lane. Frank flicked on his turn signal, changed lanes, and leaned into the exit ramp.
Behind them a fanfare of car horns heralded a silver Toyota doing the same thing.
"Uh-oh," Frank said under his breath.
"You can never be too careful," Mr. Hardy replied as the van plunged into the heart of the city.
"Now what?" Frank asked.
"Hang a left toward the train station," Mr. Hardy said.
Frank did as he was told and found himself in the middle of a traffic jam. Horns blared, and shoppers threaded their way between the stalled cars.
Unfazed, Fenton Hardy said, "I'll meet you in the parking garage across the street." He grabbed the door handle.
Frank glanced at a four-story building to the right, which had a sign reading "Train Parking." "We're taking the train?"
"No," Mr. Hardy answered. "Just try to shake this guy. Maybe he'll follow me, and I can lead him away from you. If you have to leave the van, do it. I'll find you."
With that, he opened the door and climbed out into the traffic.
"But, Dad—" Joe protested.
It was too late. Fenton Hardy had disappeared 
62
into the crowd of pedestrians. At that moment the traffic began to move. Frank inched into the right lane and rolled slowly toward the parking garage entrance.
As they turned into the driveway a mechanized gate swung open. All the spaces on the first floor were taken, but the lanes between the parked cars were wide open. Frank stepped on the gas.
They spiraled to the second level, then the third. Frank peeked into the rear view mirror.
Coming around the last turn was the Toyota, its windows tinted black.
"Can you make out the driver?" he asked Joe, who was looking in his sideview mirror at the Toyota.
"Not a chance," he said.
Frank accelerated as he took the turn to the fourth level—right into the path of a station wagon in the wrong lane.
Frank yanked his steering wheel to the right. With a screee of brakes the station wagon slammed into a ninety-degree skid.
It just missed the van, but now it sat broadside to the lanes, almost blocking both of them.
The Toyota roared around the last corner, and the driver slammed on his brakes. Joe gritted his teeth. Frank felt his eyes squint, anticipating a crash.
Spinning wildly, the Toyota smacked against
63
the right wall and came to a dead stop. Its left rear bumper nicked the front of the station wagon.
"Hey, what's going on here?" a voice shouted. The driver's door of the station wagon flew open.
Taking advantage of the situation, Frank took off. At the end of the lane was a down ramp marked by an exit sign with an arrow.
"I guess it's downhill from here," Joe said.
"Yeah, right into the traffic again," Frank replied. "You know, that Toyota isn't going to just hang back, and I'm definitely not in the mood for a Shootout in crowded downtown Springfield."
Joe suddenly pointed. "There's a parking place!"
"So?"
"Let's ditch the van."
"What?"
"Remember what Dad said," Joe pressed. "It doesn't make sense to me, either, but you know Dad. He must have a reason."
Frank thought of protesting, but he knew Joe was right. He pulled into the spot. In an instant he and Joe were out of the van and sprinting down a nearby stairwell that led to the street.
On the first floor was a metal door with a long horizontal handle. Joe flung his body
64
against it. The door crashed open onto the sidewalk.
"Which way?" Joe said.
Frank pointed right. "I think Dad went that way."
Frank and Joe both began to run on the sidewalk back toward the entrance to the garage.
Joe stopped short. Frank almost crashed into him. It took only a split-second to regain his balance. But when he did, his eyes widened in shock at the sight of the silver car lurching to a stop inches from them!
65
Chapter 8
Frank's instincts took over. He spun around and grabbed his brother's arm. "Come on!" he shouted.
Before they could take off they were stopped by the sound of a familiar voice. "Get in!"
They turned back to the car. Waving from the front seat was Fenton Hardy.
"Dad!" Joe said. "It's you!"
"Sorry if I scared you," Mr. Hardy said with a smile. "Silver was the only color they had. If you were on your toes, you'd have recognized that this is a Mazda, not a Toyota."
"Oh—right," Frank said, too relieved to be embarrassed. He ran around to the passenger side while Joe climbed in the back.
With a hum of acceleration Mr. Hardy pulled
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into the traffic. "That's a great place," he said, nodding in the direction of the car-rental agency across the street. Above the front door was a sign that said "Mendez Rental: SpeeDee Check-Out." "You just give them your credit card number, and by the time they fill out the form, that car's waiting."
"I'll have to remember that for future reference," Joe remarked.
Mr. Hardy laughed as he inched toward an intersection and turned right. "Any sign of our friends?"
Frank cautiously looked out the back window. A grin spread across his face. "Guess who just came to the intersection."
Joe turned just in time to see the silver Toyota turning left at the light, moving away from them.
The traffic was thinner on this street. They were finally moving faster than they could by walking. "I don't know what they're so nervous about—why they're trying to stop us," Fenton Hardy said with a bitter edge to his voice. "We're doing exactly what they want us to do."
Frank settled back in his seat. His dad was right—much as he hated to admit it. They were playing into the plan of a sadistic stranger. Someone who quite possibly held their mother's life in his hands.
67
At least they were out of danger now, Frank thought. All they had to do was get out of Springfield, get back on the highway, and make tracks for Bayport. He looked at his watch. It was half-past noon. The voice had called at five-thirty, so there were five hours left.
He sighed with relief. Judging from the ride up, five hours would probably do it.
At the end of the street an orange sign said "Construction Detour to Highway." It pointed to a narrow road on the right—a road brought to a standstill with stopped cars and trucks.
As their car ground to a halt Frank felt beads of sweat form at his hairline. He couldn't help looking at his watch again. Only thirty seconds had passed since the last time he checked, but this time the sight of it made his heart sink.
Five hours suddenly didn't seem like a whole lot of time.
* * *
When Fenton Hardy turned into the family driveway Joe almost fell out. In his eagerness he had pressed the door handle early.
On his watch the liquid crystal display read 5:41.
He managed to stay inside until Mr. Hardy braked to a sudden halt. Wordlessly, the three Hardys bolted out of the car and up the front lawn.
Joe fumbled for his keys, then unlocked the
68
door and pushed it open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. Another time the fact that the door had been fixed would be foremost on his mind. Another time he would have noticed that the house had been put back together. He should have been amused that Phil, Chet, and Biff were still there, gorging on a dinner cooked by Aunt Gertrude.
But none of those things registered much as he and Frank stormed into the kitchen. The words "Did anyone call?" flew out of his mouth.
"Nice to see you, too!" Phil said, his mouth full of spaghetti with white clam sauce.
"You're here, Fenton!" Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. "Thank goodness. I've been worried sick."
Biff let out a groan of mock disappointment. "You mean we're going to have to share the spaghetti?"
"Biff, this is important," Mr. Hardy said, entering the kitchen behind his sons. "We were expecting a call at five-thirty."
Chet looked at Phil, who looked at Biff. "Well, we were outside until just a minute ago. If the phone rang—"
"Aunt Gertrude, you were here, right?" Frank interrupted.
"Yes, I was," Gertrude replied, serving up three more plates of spaghetti. "And you did
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get a call, right on the dot of five-thirty. It was ... beastly."
Frank felt his stomach churn. Beside him Joe's shoulders slumped and Fenton Hardy turned away.
"What do you mean?" Frank asked. "Sort of garbled and electronic-sounding?"
Taking her ladle out of the pot of sauce, Aunt Gertrude paused. For a moment her brow scrunched with a puzzled expression. She looked as if she was about to ask a question, then stopped. A smile flashed across her face. "No, no! That was the boy's name—Beastly!"
Now it was Frank's turn to be puzzled. He looked around at Joe.
The younger Hardy's eyes lit up. "Biester! Was that the name, Aunt Gertrude? Larry Biester?"
Aunt Gertrude frowned as she reached for the silverware drawer. "Oh. Yes, I suppose that was it. A nice young man. He said he was calling from Yale—"
"Harvard," Joe corrected.
"Well, you know, they're all the same to me. He said he'd call back later." She brought two of the plates to the table. "Scoot over, fellows. I think the three Hardys deserve a place at their own table."
"Gertrude," Mr. Hardy said, "I'm not very
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hungry right now. I'd like Frank and Joe to show me exactly what happened here."
With a loud sigh that clearly indicated her disapproval Aunt Gertrude said, "Fortunately, there's nothing to show. In case you hadn't noticed, the boys and I have tried to restore the house to a semblance of normality."
"That's not true," Chet countered. Swallowing, he pointed to the den. "We saved the evidence in there."
Mr. Hardy went into the den, followed by Frank, Joe, and Aunt Gertrude. In a neat pile in the center were pieces of the splintered door frame, which had been replaced; plaster from the hole in the living room wall; and the cloth bag and rope that had bound Aunt Gertrude.
Mr. Hardy rummaged through them, examining each item and placing it back in the pile. One of the broken shards of wood caught his eye, and he held it up. Caught in its jagged edges was a three-inch square of green material.
"Cotton twill," Mr. Hardy said, fingering it. "Did you catch a skirt on this, Gertrude?"
Aunt Gertrude looked insulted. "I don't own a skirt made of that material. That must be from the forest ranger's shirt."
"The forest ranger?" Mr. Hardy repeated.
"Yes, the barbarian who tied me up! Didn't the boys tell you?"
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Frank and Joe gave their father a meaningful look that said, "Drop it for now."
"I see," Mr. Hardy said. He put down the thread, then picked up the rope with two hands. "Hmmm. Must be quite some forest. There's an ocean in the middle of it."
"Huh?" Joe said.
Frank grabbed the rope and examined it. "Of course! It's nautical line, isn't it, Dad? The kind you use to tie a boat to a dock,"
Mr. Hardy smiled. "Exactly."
"Exactly," Joe repeated with a shrug. "I knew that."
Mr. Hardy was about to say something when a telephone ring sliced through the air.
For a split second they all froze.
Mr. Hardy moved first. He ran into his office and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?" he said, practically shouting.
In the dead silence that followed he nodded vigorously to his sons. Frank and Joe bolted into the kitchen, where they picked up the phone and shared the earpiece.
"Who—" Chet began to say, but a look from Frank was enough to cut his sentence off in midstream.
"You will leave the second window from the left unlocked and disengaged from the alarm system," the electronic voice was saying. "Through this window you will drop three
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Prometheus uniforms into the hedge. At exactly three-thirty p.m. you will report a bomb threat in the mailroom. Section Two is to be cleared of all personnel, giving access to the research building."
"You must be out of your mind!" came Mr. Hardy's incredulous voice. "You expect me to let you into the building?" A strange, almost desperate laugh escaped from him. "No way, pal! You're going to have to do it yourself— over my dead body!"
"Yours?" the voice replied with a chilling undercurrent. There was a sudden clicking sound. The phone had not been hung up, but the electronic buzz that had accompanied the voice stopped. The silence hung heavy in the air.
"Fenton?"
It was Mrs. Hardy. "Mom!" Joe exclaimed before he could stop himself.
"These men—these men mean what they say, darling," she said.
Frank felt the blood drain from his face as the phone went dead.
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Chapter 9
Frank's hands were coiled around the phone receiver as if it were a lifeline to his mother. For a few seconds he and Joe could only stand, stunned.
When he finally did hang up Frank noticed that his knuckles were white.
He looked at Joe and saw an expression on his face he'd never seen before. Was it terror? Fear? Anger? He wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he knew he was feeling it, too. Nothing they'd experienced before—multimillion-dollar heists, terrorist threats, computer scams—none of them compared to the kidnapping of their mother.
Everything that needed to be said was in the brief glance the boys exchanged. Biff, Chet,
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and Phil must have sensed it, too, because they didn't say a word. They watched with silent respect as Frank and Joe walked back to their father's office.
"Is she all right?" Aunt Gertrude called after them.
Frank and Joe didn't hear the question, and they were only vaguely aware of Aunt Gertrude rushing into the room behind them. All three of them stood watching Fenton Hardy, waiting for his reaction.
He sat, looking down, rhythmically tapping his pen on a legal pad. When he raised his head his face was taut and composed.
"Dad?" Joe finally said.
Fenton Hardy met his son's gaze. His eyes were burning. Frank and Joe knew he had a plan.
But it would have to wait. The sudden, cold jangle of the phone stopped him before he could say a word.
His arm shot out for the receiver. "Hardy!" he said, almost shouting.
Frank and Joe watched his features relax a bit. "Oh, sorry, Larry. . . . Yes, I'm fine. . . . Well, it's a long story. I'll let you talk to him." He held out the phone to Frank. "It's the Beast."
"Larry," Frank said, grabbing the phone. "I'll call you back in five, okay?"
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'Oh, sure, Frank," the Beast replied. "But it'll only take a sec—"
"Thanks," Frank cut in. "Don't go anywhere." He slammed the phone down.
"What'd you do that for?" Joe asked.
"I don't want to take any chances," Frank answered. "We found a bug in the wall, but how can we be sure they haven't tapped our phone line?"
"Good point," Mr. Hardy said. "But how did the Beast get involved in this?"
"We may have a lead on the owner of the car that attacked the van yesterday," Frank wrote on a piece of yellow lined paper. "I'm going to a pay phone." Then out loud he said, "Come on, Joe."
Frank and Joe ran out to the rented car and drove to Pie in the Sky, a pizza place five blocks from home. Through the window they could see it was crowded, but the pay phone by the door was unoccupied.
"Perfect," Frank said.
"I don't know, Frank," Joe replied, scanning the parking lot, which was full of cars coming and going. "Maybe I'm being paranoid, but at this point I wouldn't be surprised if someone was following us with a shotgun mike."
"That's why this place is so perfect. Even if
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someone was parked right outside, he wouldn't pick us up over the crowd noise."
By the time Joe parked Frank was already at the phone. He dialed Larry Beister's number.
"Hello, meester, this is Larry Biester!" came the Beast's voice.
"I think you've been sitting in front of a VDT too long," Frank replied. "It's warped your sense of humor."
"Ooh, you really know how to hurt a guy," the Beast said. "This is what I get for doing you a favor?"
"I take it back," Frank said with a laugh. "Did you get the info?"
"Hey, was there ever any doubt?" the Beast said triumphantly. "The plates are for a Buick registered under the name Todd Brewster, eighty-five Barrow Street, Marfield, Massachusetts."
"Todd Brewster, eighty-five Barrow Street," Frank repeated so that Joe could hear it. "Beister, you're a genius."
"Just do me one favor."
"What's that?"
"When it's all over, call and tell me what this was about."
"We'll come up and tell you in person," Frank said.
"Over a pot of my famous homemade baked beans!" the Beast added.
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"On second thought, maybe we'll call." With a laugh and a quick goodbye Frank hung up and raced back to the car.
* * *
In minutes Frank and Joe had returned to their house. They barged through the front door to see Mr. Hardy pacing the living room floor. Aunt Gertrude stood to the side, her face creased with concern. Biff, Chet, and Phil were nowhere to be seen.
"There's got to be a way to find her," he said without losing a step. "There was only about an hour between the time they took her and the time they called. They couldn't have gone far; my guess is they're still near Bayport."
"Dad," Joe said, "we found out the name of the guy who followed us. It's Todd Brewster, and he lives in Marfield."
Mr. Hardy stopped pacing. He cocked his head, deep in thought. "The name doesn't ring a bell, but it's a lead, and a strong one. One of us should go stake him out."
"I'll do it," Frank said.
"Good," Mr. Hardy replied. "I want to stick around to see if I can dig up anything about any newcomers in Bayport."
Joe was fiddling with the nautical rope, which Mr. Hardy had brought into the living
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room. "I'll check out the harbor area. Maybe they're hanging out down there."
"There's one problem," Frank said. "I know it's a rented car, I know we shook off a tail in Springfield, but they know we're here now. What if I'm followed to Massachusetts?"
Fenton nodded gravely. "I'll take care of it." He pulled a fistful of change out of his pocket and quickly examined it. "The phone company's going to love us today. Be back in a minute."
When Fenton Hardy returned from his drive to the pay phone he was carrying a sheet of paper with a hand-drawn map. He thrust it toward Frank. "Here's the way you'll get to Marfield. It's basically small highways all the way, with a couple of detours onto roads. Whatever you do, don't deviate from this route."
"Right," Frank said.
"And be sure to check in with Winthrop tomorrow."
"Right," Frank said again. He folded the map and put it in his pocket. After a quick goodbye he ran out to the car, armed with a cold soda and a couple of sandwiches that Aunt Gertrude had slipped him.
It was going to be a long ride.
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Halfway through Connecticut Frank was slowed down by a major accident and sat in traffic for over an hour while it was cleared. Following the route his father had given him, Frank had wound his way through the centers of many small towns.
Now Frank felt his eyelids getting heavy. The night's sleep at the Marfield Motor Hotel had obviously not been enough. He lifted his directions to eye level and stole a quick glance. He was to take the next exit and snake around a tiny town called Devaron, then get back on the highway at the next exit.
A tiny voice inside him grumbled that the trip would have been much faster if he had been able to stick to the highways.
Resignedly, he took the Devaron exit and made his way along a narrow, unlit road through a forest. On the winding turns his headlights shone white against the many tree trunks and bushes. Farther along there were clusters of small houses. Moments later the building gave way to forest again, and Frank realized he had gone through the town already. Below him weeds peeked out of the ruts. He felt as if no one had driven this way in months.
As the road straightened out he found himself hoping for an all-night gas station or convenience store where he could pick up some
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to drink. Maybe around the next bend ...
Frank sped into the next turn faster than he had intended. The curve continued for more than 150 degrees. His tires screamed as the car listed to the left.
When the road finally straightened out Frank was only riding two wheels—both on the left side. The first thing he saw in his headlights was four people, all dressed in blue, diving for the side of the road. Then he saw the flashing lights.
Frank's foot hit the brake as the car fell back on four wheels. He registered that there was something ahead of him, blocking his way. As he skidded from side to side Frank made out what the lights were for, and why those people were dressed in blue.
He was zigzagging straight at a police roadblock!
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Chapter 10
The sound of Frank's tires screeching grew louder and louder. Through the windshield the light blue sawhorses loomed larger, as if they were growing in crazy time-lapse photos. Behind the sawhorses two police cars were parked nose to nose, their lights flashing. Frank clenched his jaw and waited for the crash.
His fingers were locked around the steering wheel. His teeth were bared, and his eyes were closed to shut out the moment of impact. But there was no crash. His brakes held.
When Frank opened his eyes the bright white message "Property of Devaron Police Dept." painted on a blue sawhorse was about three quarters of an inch from his front grille.
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"Couldn't you get it a little closer?" came a gruff voice from the side of the road.
Frank spun around to see a broad-shouldered policeman strolling toward him. The reality of the situation came flooding back. Here he was on a strange road in the middle of northern Connecticut, dead tired at ten o'clock, trying to track down a man who might be following him. Now he was about to go to jail for almost wiping out an entire smalltown police department. "Sorry, officer," he said.
"You'll be even sorrier if you don't have your license and registration," the officer answered. Behind him three other officers stood impassively by the side of the road.
Frank took his license out of his wallet and opened the glove compartment for the rental registration. He handed them over. "I didn't expect something like this in the middle of—" He stopped himself, guarding his choice of words in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
"Nowhere? Is that what you were going to say?" The officer leaned down and pushed his face through Frank's window. There was a grin across his stubbled face.
"Well, I don't see roadblocks anywhere too often," Frank replied. He could see the other police officers sauntering closer.
The officer nodded silently. Frank fidgeted
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as the man's coal black eyes bore down on him. "You look a lot like your dad," he finally said.
Frank was sure he hadn't heard right. "Uh, excuse me?"
The officer stood and turned to the others. "Fenton Hardy's son. Pretty good resemblance, huh?"
Smiling, they nodded in agreement. Frank felt completely bewildered. "What's going on here? How do you know my dad?"
The officer stuck his hand out toward Frank. "Henry Singer, chief of Devaron Police. I'm an old colleague of your dad's from way back when we were on the New York City police force. He called a few hours back to warn me you'd be coming through here and might have a tagalong breathing down your neck. I told him to route you along this road and I'd make sure you got to Marfield alone."
In front of him one of the officers had climbed into a police car, and another was moving a sawhorse away.
Frank's grin now mirrored Officer Singer's. "Thanks," he said as a feeling of relief washed away his tension.
"All right, now, why don't you pull over to the side?"
Frank felt a shudder of dread. Was he going to give him a ticket after all?
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Officer Singer seemed to read Frank's mind. 'Don't worry. I brought my car for you to use." He indicated a small Firebird resting on the right shoulder. "In case anyone is' after you, this'll really throw them off. This car will be okay. Your dad gave me the address of the rental place, and I'll have one of my rookies return it tomorrow."
"But—your own car? I can't—"
"I've been trying to sell it for weeks," Officer Singer said, chuckling. "Hey, if you like it, maybe you can make me an offer."
Frank maneuvered his car to the side and got out. "I'll talk to my dad about it."
As Frank got in and started it up Officer Singer gave him a little salute. "Say hello to him for me," he said.
"You bet," Frank replied. He shifted into gear as the police car moved away, clearing the road.
"One other thing," Officer Singer added as Frank started off.
Frank stopped again and looked back out the window.
"Uh, keep it under the speed limit, okay, buddy?" the officer said with a wink.
Frank smiled and pulled away, obeying the advice.
Turning left around the next bend, he thought he could hear the screech of tires. It
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might have come from the highway, which he could see in the distance—or it might have come from behind him. But when he looked into his rearview mirror the roadblock was out of sight.
Either way, Frank had a good feeling as he drove up the ramp to the highway—a feeling that he was definitely on his own.
* * *
Number 85 looked like all the other houses on Barrow Street—two stories, white shingles, a sloping roof with a dormer, and a screened- in porch. In front there were neat hedges and a well-kept lawn. Sort of a disappointment, Frank thought. So average and unthreatening.
Except for what was parked in the driveway, that is. The outline of the familiar Buick sat there, its black-tinted windows shut for the night, its license number, NZE-809, the same that he had seen the night before.
Frank looked carefully at the house. Whoever this Todd Brewster was, he was asleep.
Which was good, as far as Frank was concerned. He nestled himself into as comfortable position as he could. It wasn't his bedroom, but it felt a whole lot better than driving. In fact, it felt pretty terrific at that moment. As he drifted into sleep he thought that maybe he
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would ask his dad to make Officer Singer an offer on the car.
* * *
The next thing Frank knew, he was squirming under the heat of some kind of spotlight. He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten there. He was only aware of intense orange light that was making his head throb and his neck ache.
Leering down at him was Todd Brewster. He had never seen the man, but somehow he knew it was him. Brewster's lean face looked like a skull with a thin layer of flesh. Behind him, screaming as she was engulfed by flames, was Laura Hardy. Frank tried to go after her but couldn't move. He tried to yell, but his mouth was frozen. A sharp, paralyzing pain began to shoot down his neck, spreading to his shoulders. ...
Frank's eyes flew open. A startled gasp escaped from his mouth. He squinted at the early-morning sun that was framed by his windshield.
Of course. He had parked facing east, and in his dream the rising sun had become a spotlight.
He grabbed his neck, which had stiffened during the night and now throbbed with pain. The nightmare was over, but waking up was no
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joy. He had to get out, walk around, shake out the cobwebs.
But the moment he grabbed the door handle he froze. Across the street a screen door had slammed. He looked out his window.
An athletic-looking blond man walked out of 85 Barrow Street. He was about six foot one, and he wore a neatly pressed dark suit. There was a leather briefcase in his left hand. With his right hand he waved to a neighbor and shouted a friendly greeting.
" 'Morning, Todd," the neighbor called as Brewster climbed into the Buick.
Frank felt a twinge of relief that Todd Brewster was not the cadaverous man he'd seen in his dream. In fact, Brewster's most outstanding characteristic was that he was so average. He was about the last person Frank would expect to be a hit man.
Frank waited until Brewster was a block away before he started up the Firebird. He followed him through the suburban streets and onto a busy main thoroughfare.
As the sun streamed in through his window Frank put down the visor and stifled a yawn. He had a sense of déjà vu about this street, but it left as quickly as it had come.
Brewster turned off the main road and onto a long street that curved sharply left. For a few
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moments Frank lost him, and his heart started to race.
But when he came around the bend he saw Brewster's car up ahead. Suddenly Frank knew where his déjà vu had come from.
He had been here before—the Marfield Center for Experimental Research!
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Chapter 11
That same morning, Joe walked along the Bayport harbor. He glanced at the sheet of paper his dad had given him and read "Captain Claes Rymond, Scandinavian Shipping, Slip 7" once again.
The ships started at number four. Where the first three had been there was now an enormous parking lot. A high concrete wall had been built along the southern edge of the lot and painted with a multicolored mural to hide the blighted docks. Joe had seen photos of the Bayport waterfront fifty years earlier, and it had swarmed with barges, ferries, steamers, and other trade ships. Longshoremen toted boxes and sacks from the ships to the warehouses just inland. Nowadays only four hulking
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wooden docks remained, each topped with a cracked concrete walkway, and each looking as if it were about to fall into the inlet.
The warehouses that hadn't been torn down were dilapidated, and only half were in use. One of them was marked with a rusted metal sign that said SC NDI AVI N HIPPIN .
Joe knocked three times on the front door, which was paneled with riveted metal sheets. He heard four hollow reports echo within the building and wondered if it was empty.
He was about to knock again when the door started to creak open. Out of the darkness within two small eyes glowed. Joe was faintly aware of a sweet burning smell.
"Yeah?" came a hoarse, reedy voice.
"J-Joe Hardy." Joe couldn't help feeling a little nervous.
The door opened all the way, revealing a short, hunched man with enormous shoulders. He continued looking at Joe through slitted eyes and sent out a puff of musty, fragrant smoke from the pipe in his mouth.
"Fenton's boy. Yeah, come in," he said in a barely audible mumble. "I'm Rymond, but you can call me Captain Claes."
As Joe followed him the clack-clack of their footsteps resounded through a room that stretched up at least fifty feet. Occasional bare light bulbs threw small pools of illumination
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every few feet. Aside from three clusters of boxes marked "Fragile" in one of the corners and a collection of tools on wall hooks, the room seemed almost empty to Joe.
The captain led Joe to a sturdy-looking wooden desk against the opposite wall. He plopped down in a green leather armchair, and Joe pulled up a folding chair.
"Captain Claes," Joe began, "as my father may have told you, I'm checking for any newcomers to this area—anyone who might own this rope or wear a shirt made of this material." He held out the nautical rope and green thread.
Captain Claes examined the two specimens and puffed on his pipe again. "I've seen this rope, all right—on just about every boat that's ever come through here. As for the thread, well, when I meet a fella I don't usually pay much attention to his wardrobe. That's just the way I am."
Joe could see he wasn't going to be any great help. "No unusual ships have come through?"
The captain thought for a moment. "Mike Merwin's tramp steamer, a couple of barge tugs. No, but I know those guys like I know me." He shook his head. "Nope, guess I can't help you."
"Okay, thanks." Joe sprang from his seat and began heading for the door, happy to be
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leaving. But Captain Claes's voice stopped him.
"You might try the marina, young fella. Seems there's a heck of a lot more pleasure craft these days than trade ships. Look up Paul Douglas in Bay port Marine Supplies. He keeps his eye on everything over there."
* * *
Bayport Marine Supplies was a sprawling glass building overlooking the marina, which was thriving with activity.
Joe quickly found Paul Douglas, a silver- haired, mustached man, behind the cash register. When he described what he was looking for Mr. Douglas looked at him as if he were crazy.
He repeated Joe's request. "You want to track down someone who just arrived at the marina? Is that all you're going to tell me? What color is his hair? How old? Is he bigger than a bread box?"
"The trouble is, I don't know," Joe said with exasperation. "But I'm sure most of the boat owners come in here a lot. Wouldn't you notice if someone a little . . . unusual started hanging around?"
Mr. Douglas looked out the window and drummed his fingers on the counter. "You know, there is that yacht that pulled in the other day. The guys on board haven't stopped
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in here yet. I don't think they're too friendly." He gave a short, sniffling laugh. "Either that or they're trying to hide something."
Joe's eyes lit up. Now they were getting somewhere. "What do you mean, 'hide something'? How can you tell?"
Mr. Douglas shrugged. "Hey, I'm only shooting off my mouth, but it seems kind of strange that they've docked so far out in the harbor." He gestured out the window with his arm. "You can barely see them. Can't figure out why those guys don't come in closer; there's plenty of spots this time of year. Maybe they like their privacy."
"You said 'guys,' " Joe pressed. "Have you seen them?"
"Well, two of them did come ashore once the other evening in a big old powerboat. They went to the grocery store and then right back out to the ship again." He looked toward the door and nodded to a young couple who had just walked in.
"Do you remember what they looked like?"
Now Mr. Douglas was beginning to get annoyed. "Hey, what is this? The third degree? No, I don't remember what they looked like. Look, if you'd like to buy something, be my guest. But if not, I'd be happy if you'd let me do my business here, all right?"
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Joe pointed to a rack of fishing rods along the wall. "I'll take two of those," he said.
Mr. Douglas smiled. "Okay, now we're talking."
* * *
Joe paced the dock impatiently, dragging the fishing rods along the wooden slats. He was about to check his watch for the tenth time when Tony Prito walked up beside him.
"Tony!" Joe called out. "What took you so long?"
"Hey, give be a break," Tony replied. "You only called fifteen minutes ago. I thought I did pretty well, considering I had to search around the house for my dad's binoculars."
He was holding the binoculars in one hand and a floppy, plaid porkpie hat in the other. When he put it on his head the brim sagged down over his eyes and ears. "My fishing hat," he said with a grin. "How do I look?"
"Like a dweeb. It's perfect."
"Thank you. Here's yours." He held out a wide-brimmed fedora with the hatband missing.
"Leather," Joe said flatly, running his fingers over the water-stained cowhide. "This'll be nice and cool." He put it on and immediately felt sweat form on his brow.
"Well, at least the mystery kidnappers won't
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see our faces," Tony remarked. "Did you rent a boat?"
Joe nodded and led him to a small motorboat tied to the dock near Bayport Marine Supplies. The rods he had bought sat on the floor.
"Where's the bait?" Tony asked, climbing in.
Joe gave him a sharp look. "This isn't a real fishing trip, Tony, remember?" He stepped into the boat and pulled the motor's starter. "It's more of a big-game hunt."
The engine roared to life. Joe throttled it down and steered the boat into the marina, taking a course to the right of the mysterious yacht. As they drew closer Tony remarked, "Wow. I thought they stopped making these after World War Two."
The boat was hulking and weather-worn, with patches on the side and an array of antennae and disks on deck. Joe was itching to use the binoculars. He cut the engine and tossed Tony a fishing rod. "Okay," he said. "Let's see what's biting."
They quickly cast their rods. While Tony pretended to troll for fish Joe propped his rod against the side of the boat with his leg. Then he held the binoculars to his eyes and aimed them at the yacht.
"It's old-fashioned, all right," Joe said. "It has steam engines instead of diesel. But take a
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look at the electronic equipment." He handed the binoculars to Tony.
Tony let out a low whistle. "Looks like they borrowed it from the space shuttle."
"It's state-of-the-art stuff," Joe said, taking the glasses back. "Satellite communications, radar—looks almost like a spy ship."
"No kidding," Tony said in awe.
Just then a flash of light caught Joe's attention. At first he thought it was glare off one of the ship's metal disks. But when he aimed his binoculars at the source he realized he was wrong.
It was another pair of binoculars, focused straight at him.
"Uh-oh," he muttered.
The whine of an outboard motor broke the peaceful silence. A powerboat was racing toward them from behind the yacht. Joe quickly stashed the binoculars under his seat and grabbed his fishing rod.
The boat didn't slow down as it approached. Instead it aimed straight for the stern of the small motorboat.
Tony's look said it all. "What is this dude trying to prove?"
The powerboat began circling Joe and Tony's boat counterclockwise, once—twice. It picked up speed, making its circle tighter and tighter.
In its wake Joe and Tony's boat pitched up
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and down violently. The fishing rods clattered to the deck.
"We're going to capsize!" Tony shouted.
"Hang on!" Joe shouted back, clinging to the side.
"What does he want?" Tony's voice had become a terrified wail.
As if in answer, the powerboat slowed down and sliced back toward the yacht.
From its deck a man in a windbreaker leaned out with a megaphone.
"Better stay away, kids," his voice blared. "Or next time we go through your boat!"
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Chapter 12
"See you later, honey," the man said, leaning in the driver's window of the station wagon.
Frank stiffened at the sound of the voice. It was Muldoon, the guard who had stopped him and Joe the day before in the lobby of the Center for Experimental Research. He was saying goodbye to his wife. In his right hand was a small box wrapped in birthday gift paper.
Frank ducked behind his car, pretending to check his tires. When he looked back up the station wagon was gone, and Muldoon was walking through the front door of the building.
It wasn't going to be easy getting in past Muldoon.
Frank left the car and began sauntering toward the back of the building. The center sat
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on a slope, at the bottom of which was a truck dock—and, Frank hoped, an entrance.
Walking downhill, he kept the dark-tinted windows of the center's first floor in his peripheral vision. They were all lit by overhead fluorescents, except for one that was pitch-dark. He was surprised to hear a flurry of whispers drift out of the dark room's half-opened window. He considered turning and walking around the building the other way.
Suddenly the lights in that office flickered on, and a chorus of "Happy Birthday" blasted out. Frank gave a glance and saw Muldoon, Todd Brewster, and a couple dozen others singing to an embarrassed-looking red-haired woman.
If he was going to get inside, this would be the perfect time. He ran to the truck dock.
There was a door there, a heavy steel door with no handle. Frank tried to pry the door open with his fingers, but it was obviously locked. The sliding truck doors were padlocked, too.
Frank ran a few feet to his right and looked around the corner to the back of the building. A solid wall of glass and steel stretched across its entire length.
He decided to try the front door. As long as Muldoon was in the party room, Frank might be able to bluff his way in.
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He had gone only a few steps when the steel door burst open. Thinking fast, he ducked behind a large white trailer that was parked at the dock.
"I can't believe she didn't know!" came someone's voice.
"She told me it was a total surprise." That voice was Muldoon's—and it was coming closer.
Frank felt the trailer begin to rock. Startled, he backed away. Did they know he was there?
From within the trailer a jumble of male voices was heard. He caught a few snatches: "Where's my shirt?" and "I knew they wouldn't get that oil stain out!" and "They really shrunk this thing!"
Frank realized the truck was used as some sort of makeshift dressing room. Suddenly it was clear to him how he could get into the center.
He waited for the men to leave, listening for the click of the metal door. Then he sprang into action, darting across to the front of the trailer. He reached out to test the doorknob.
It clicked open. Frank climbed inside and shut the door behind him.
He scanned the shelves along the wall, which contained neat stacks of kitchen whites, lab coats, and janitor uniforms. Then his eyes fell on a heavily starched and folded guard uniform. 
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He picked up the shirt, letting the sleeves drop down. It looked as if he was in luck—it was about his size, maybe a little big. The right sleeve was—ripped!
And the uniform was green.
Green cotton twill. Frank smiled. He had found Aunt Gertrude's "forest ranger." So one of the guys who kidnapped his mother worked at the Center for Experimental Research.
Quickly Frank changed into the uniform, stashing his jeans, T-shirt, and jacket in a large plastic hamper.
He stepped out of the trailer and walked to the front of the building. Just as Frank had hoped, Muldoon was hard at work on a crossword puzzle. Without looking up he grunted a greeting as Frank walked by.
Walking quickly and purposefully through the lobby, Frank headed for the elevator and pressed the up button. Behind him a few workers crossed from one hallway to the next. Frank paced back and forth, stealing a glance into the office next to the elevators, the room from which the security chief had emerged the day before. On the door were the words "Security/K. Straeger."
Just as he was about to peer in, the elevator door opened. Frank took a second to look inside the office:—no one was there. He glanced over his shoulder. The lobby was empty, too.
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Silently he slipped into the security office. Maybe there he could find answers to some of his questions—like what kind of organization the center was and where Brewster fit into it.
He found himself in a small outer office with a bulky wooden desk and four tall filing cabinets. Behind the desk was a locked door, probably leading to an inner office. He opened a file cabinet at random and began leafing through a folder marked "Correspondence." The first letter he saw was pretty boring: something about a service contract for an alarm system. As he put it back his eyes swept across the letterhead: Straeger Security, Subsidiary of MUX.
Frank's jaw dropped open. The name MUX was all too familiar. He hadn't expected to encounter that organization again—at least not with the same name. It had been a multinational front for a band of technology pirates in New York City, and he and Joe had sent them packing. The last Frank had heard, the leaders had been exiled overseas.
Now they were back, their tactics slimier than ever.
The click of footsteps on the marble lobby floor alerted Frank to someone approaching. He tucked the letter back into the file cabinet, closed it, and dived under the desk.
Frank could see two pairs of shiny black
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shoes enter the room. They stopped at the door, and Frank heard it click shut. Then he heard the unmistakable voice of Karl Straeger:
"If all continues to go well, we'll achieve our goal this evening."
"But what about Hardy?" a younger man's voice piped up. "You told me he wasn't cooperating."
"Fenton Hardy will have no choice, of course. Matyus is giving him a chance to stew a little, to think about the consequences of his stubbornness, to imagine the horrible things that might be happening to his beloved wife. I think he'll cooperate very soon. I've decided the raid is to be at three o'clock at Prometheus—with or without Hardy's help."
"I don't think it's a good idea to wait. What if he goes after Matyus?"
"I'm sure he's spent every waking hour trying." He chuckled. "But his chances of finding the Iron Maiden are slim, and even if he did, its defenses are state-of-the-art."
The Iron Maiden. Frank had no idea what Straeger was talking about, but if he could call his dad—
"So where do I fit in?" the younger man queried.
"You are to lead the raid at Prometheus at precisely three o'clock. By that time I'll have flown to Bayport. You'll supervise the transport 
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of the merchandise to me at the Iron Maiden, which sits far out in Bayport Harbor. Then, provided all has gone well, we'll take care of our—ah—collateral.''
Frank shuddered. So that was it. His mother was being held on a ship in Bayport Harbor! Did his dad know? Was it possible he or Joe could have found out? It didn't seem likely.
He had to get to a phone as soon as Straeger and his sidekick left.
But they didn't head out the doorway. Instead they circled around the desk, Straeger beside the young man. Frank saw the back of his trousers, then his shirt, then the silvery mane.
Don't turn around! Frank thought. If Straeger angled a couple of degrees to his right and looked down, Frank would be caught.
There was a jangle of keys. The door to the inner office swung open. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, Straeger and his young assistant disappeared into the other room.
Frank wasted no time. He scrambled out from under the desk and across the office to the outer door. Carefully he leaned against it and slowly turned the doorknob. It squeaked as he pushed it open—a tiny noise, but it sounded like a siren to him. He slid through, casting a final glance over his shoulder.
When he was in the lobby he pushed the
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door shut and heaved a sigh of relief. He was safe.
Or so he thought.
"Hey, you!" an angry voice barked from across the hallway.
Frank wheeled around to see a guard approaching him—Todd Brewster!
"What can I do for you?" were the first words that came out of Frank's mouth.
"For one thing," Brewster retorted, "you can tell me what you're doing in my uniform!"
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Chapter 13
Gliding away from the dock in a rented Laser sailboat, Joe adjusted his sail and tacked right. He had dropped Tony and the powerboat off and checked in with his dad before renting the Laser.
The steady wind filled his sail, and he picked up speed. The tide was coming in, and the water was high; he wouldn't need to worry about sandbars. He looked left to see the old yacht fading in the distance. Tacking back and forth, he set a circular course around the yacht, well out of its sight.
Before long he could barely see the dock. He was out past the yacht, just short of the narrow inlet that led to open ocean.
There he dropped anchor.
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"Time for a costume change," he said under his breath. He reached under his seat for the wet suit he had rented and slipped it on with his oxygen tanks. Fitting his mask into place, he rolled off the boat into the water.
He swam underwater toward the yacht, letting the incoming tide do most of the work. The thrum of the engines guided him, and in minutes he saw the ship's dark hull just before him.
Hang on, Mom, he thought. I'm almost there.
Joe was suddenly gripped by doubts. What if his mother wasn't aboard? What if the yacht had nothing to do with the kidnapping? Maybe it was a spy ship, or just some rich electronics whiz who treasured his privacy. Were the kidnappers holding his mother somewhere else?
And if the yacht did belong to the kidnappers, what then? A wet suit was great against the cold and wet, but it wasn't going to be much help against bullets.
Joe propelled himself forward, trying to cast those thoughts from his head. He swam alongside the starboard hull toward the stern. There he saw a long, taut anchor cable angling down and out of sight.
He followed it to the surface and emerged. The yacht was larger than it looked from a distance—at least fifty feet. There was no
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sound coming from the deck, but he wasn't high enough to see it.
He hoisted himself up the cable. The ship listed slightly with his weight, and Joe felt dread run down his spine.
No one seemed to notice. Joe swung his legs over and found himself on a secluded section of the yacht behind the wheelhouse. He silently removed his flippers and tanks, stashing them behind a stack of canvas folding chairs. Then he tiptoed across the deck toward some stairs. All around him the network of antennae felt like a spindly steel forest.
He looked down the stairwell. There was a well-lit hallway at the bottom but no sign of life.
The metal stairs felt icy cold on his bare feet as he climbed down. At the bottom the narrow corridor was lit by a string of bare light bulbs hanging from a jury-rigged electrical cord. The stark white walls were scuffed and dirty.
Some yacht, Joe thought. It was more like a prison barge.
He walked slowly down the corridor, his feet vibrating from the low, monotonous hum coming from the engine room. The door to the room was half-open. Eyeing it carefully, Joe walked slowly toward it. The doors to his left and right were closed.
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He had a feeling that if his mother was on the boat, she'd be somewhere down there.
He reached out to the door on the left. Slowly he curled his fingers around the knob and, bracing himself, pushed it in.
Stacks of cardboard boxes greeted him. Some were open, revealing cans of food, first- aid supplies, housewares, and books.
Joe shut the door and turned to the one across the hall. He could hear something inside—a rustling of papers; the crackle of radio static, maybe. Again he twisted the doorknob gently—slowly—
The latch made a hollow pop as he pushed the door open.
"Captain?" a gritty voice called out.
A chair scraped on the floor. Through the crack between the door and the frame Joe could see a pistol lying on a table across the room. He knew he couldn't get to it first; it was too far away.
He turned and ran into the engine room. As he pulled the door shut behind him he heard the clatter of footsteps in the hallway.
"Captain?" the voice repeated.
Now the mechanical hum from the engines closed around him like the noise from a nest of giant bionic wasps. Behind him a network of steam pipes stretched from floor to ceiling. He
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backed away from the door, looking for a place to hide.
There were more footsteps, all coming closer. Joe dived behind a dense thicket of gears and pulleys in the middle of the room.
The door swung open. Light poured in again, outlining the broad silhouette of a man. Joe waited, rock-still, as the shadow passed from left to right and disappeared into a corner of the room.
Instinctively Joe backed off to his left, making sure to stay out of sight.
A flash of searing pain ripped through him. A scream exploded upward into his throat, where he caught it and choked it back. There was a faint smell of burning rubber. For an agonizing moment his eyes saw a mottled pattern of red and black.
He spun around, his teeth clenched, and saw that he'd backed right into one of the steam pipes. A small section of rubber wet suit clung to the spot, melting.
From the opposite corner of the room he heard the voice. "What do you think I did, chewed my way through the metal?"
The shock of recognition made Joe forget his pain. It was his mother's voice!
"I left the door open so I could hear you," the male voice said.
"And it shut when the ship rocked," Mrs.
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Hardy said matter-of-factly. "It's not the first time it happened."
The shadow began to move left again. Without answering, the man walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Joe waited for the footsteps to recede, then sprinted around the machinery.
Trapped like an animal in a locked metal cell, Mrs. Hardy looked up.
"Mom!" Joe whispered.
"Joseph Hardy," his mother said, "that was the riskiest, most wrongheaded thing you've ever done." She smiled. "And I'm proud of you."
"Don't talk too soon," he said. "We have to figure out how to get you out of here."
Mrs. Hardy gripped the steel bars and peered out at her son. "It isn't going to be easy to get through this," she said.
Anger welled up in Joe. He looked around for something to help him open the door. Next to the cell was a metal table stacked with magazines. It might have made a good battering ram if it hadn't been bolted to the floor. Above them a cardboard box marked "Stemware" stood on a shelf. The side was ripped, exposing a small circle of glass. That wouldn't help, either.
"They told me your dad agreed to do what
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they wanted," Mrs. Hardy said ruefully. "Is that true?"
"I don't know," Joe answered. "That last time I talked to him—"
He was cut off by the sound of feet in the corridor.
"Hide!" Mrs. Hardy whispered. She grabbed a magazine and pretended to read it.
Joe dived behind the machinery, making sure to avoid the steam pipe.
With a heavy metallic clank the door crashed open. Footsteps thumped into the room, and a deep voice said, "Where is he?"
There was a momentary silence. "I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Hardy replied. "Where is who?"
"The young man in the wetsuit!"
Joe cringed. How could they have seen him? Closed-circuit TV? Joe immediately thought of the ripped stemware box. That wasn't the bottom of a glass sticking out—it was the lens of a camera! How could he have been so stupid?
He leaned to the left, hoping to see a path of escape. He could feel the heat of the steam pipes radiating behind him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mrs. Hardy said.
Joe slowly peered around the machinery. He could see a clock on the wall that said five after two, then the edge of the door.
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"Captain Matyus, looks like we didn't get rid of all the mice on board!"
A red-haired man stepped into Joe's line of sight. Joe looked up into his face, which was twisted into an unfriendly grin.
"A mouse, eh?" the deep voice of a man who must have been Captain Matyus said. The redheaded man laughed and stepped out of the captain's way. Joe began to get up.
By the time he was on his feet he was staring down the barrel of a revolver. Holding his finger on the trigger was the captain, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and the physique of an aging prizefighter.
"Looks more like a rat to me," Captain Matyus remarked. "It's too bad these mammals think with their emotions and not their brains. No matter what happens, they can always find their mothers."
"You sound just as phony as you did over the scrambler," Joe shot back.
"Ah, well," Captain Matyus said, ignoring Joe, "let's not let his efforts go unrewarded, gentlemen." He motioned Joe toward Mrs. Hardy with his pistol. As Joe walked across the room the red-haired man pushed him into the cage and locked it. Then he walked into the hallway, where four other men were peeking in.
Captain Martus backed into the doorway and
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grabbed the knob. "Quite a lovely family reunion. I must call Fenton Hardy and tell him about it," he said to the others just before he pulled the door shut. "I hope the brig will be cozy enough for the two of you. If it's not, don't worry. I don't believe either of you will be with us that much longer."
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Chapter 14
"Your uniform?" Frank said indignantly. "Just because we wear the same size, it doesn't mean—"
"Mr. Hardy!"
Frank spun around at the sound of Karl Straeger's voice. The silver-haired man stood in the doorway of the security office, smiling benignly.
"Remarkable that you got a job with us so quickly," Straeger continued. "And what a coincidence that you ripped your sleeve in the same place that Mr. Brewster did."
"Who are you, Straeger?" Frank said. "Or is that some sort of made-up name that MUX gave you?"
Straeger raised his eyebrows. "Well, it looks
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as if you've been doing a bit of research, have you? Perhaps we should have a talk." He gestured toward his office. "Come in. I believe you know the way around."
Before Frank could step toward the office Brewster gave him a shove. Frank stumbled and caught himself against the doorjamb.
"Curb your aggressions, Todd," Mr. Straeger snapped. He looked at Frank and shrugged. "He has a tendency toward violence, you see—and an unfortunate, murderous temper. Which can be a bit embarrassing but is often quite handy. Although I have an agreement to report all antisocial acts to his parole officer, Todd and I have an agreement of our own."
Brewster gave a low chuckle. "You make me sound like some kind of animal."
"I can see MUX is doing its usual job of hiring only the best," Frank said, calmly walking into the inner office and finding Straeger's assistant, a short man, waiting there.
Brewster turned from Frank to Straeger, confused.
"Rest your weary brain, Todd," Straeger said. He took a pipe off the desk and then sat in an armchair in the corner. "Yes, MUX is alive and well, thank you, and I am pleased to be a member of its espionage department—an organization that could give you a few pointers, I'm afraid to say."
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"Don't tell me this whole place is a front for MUX," Frank said.
Straeger laughed. "Nothing quite so grand. Only my little organization, Straeger Security, is involved."
"And who's your boss, Straeger?" Frank pressed. "What's his name, or don't you underlings know?"
"I believe we're ahead of ourselves," Straeger said, dismissing the question. He gestured toward his assistant, the short man with slicked-back dark hair. "Proper introductions have not been made. This is my right-hand man, Mr. Ciejki. He and a few others, including Mr. Brewster and Mr. Muldoon, make up my entire staff. Several months ago there was a series of break-ins that left the center's previous security staff completely baffled. When they decided to hire another firm, I applied."
"You also just happened to figure out how those break-ins occurred," Frank said, "because you staged them."
"I'm impressed. There may be a job for you here—depending on what we decide to do with you." Straeger smiled and began pacing the room. "My job has given me the opportunity to hear about many fascinating new technologies—including the wonderful new development called Battlechip at Prometheus."
Straeger stopped his pacing and snapped
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around to face Frank eye to eye. "With the bonus I make for delivering Battlechip to MUX, I'll be able to retire. When you reach my age you'll understand how important that
is."
With that he grabbed the phone off his desk and dialed a number. Lifting the receiver to his face, he frowned at the drumlike mechanical device attached to the mouthpiece. "I detest this thing." He stopped grumbling abruptly and smiled. "Greetings, Mr. Hardy. . . . No, we haven't spoken. Does my voice sound familiar?" He laughed.
"Well, I know you're struggling with an important decision," Straeger continued, "but I'm happy to say I have a proposition that will make it easier for you to decide. You see, we now have your wife and your son, Frank, who is quite a clever boy. We've given you plenty of time. . . . What's that? . . . Exactly as we discussed. . . . Yes, very good. . . . Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr. Hardy. Thank you and goodbye."
Frank didn't like the self-satisfied smile on Straeger's face. "What did he say?" he asked.
Straeger took a drag from his pipe. " 'I will unlock doors to let your men in, if I have to. Just don't hurt my family.' "
"You're bluffing!" Frank shot back.
Straeger raised an eyebrow. "I am? Perhaps
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you'd like me to call back so you can speak to him yourself."
Frank turned away. He knew Straeger was telling the truth. Humiliation washed over him. He had gone to Marfield to help out and ended up forcing his dad's hand.
"Now only one problem remains," Straeger said, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Where shall we keep this young firebrand?"
Brewster smiled. "I could give him a job."
"We can't let him wander around here," Ciejki said. "He'll blow our cover."
"I think the only safe place is right here in my inner office," Straeger said. "Mr. Brewster, I leave him in your capable hands. When I have obtained Battlechip I'll tell you to let him go."
"Right," Brewster said with a snicker.
"Why don't I believe you?" Frank asked.
"Do I detect a note of distrust in your question?" Straeger replied. He laughed. "Not to worry, Mr. Hardy. I always keep my promises. I've found it's the best way to insure that people will believe my threats."
"I'm impressed," Frank said dully.
Straeger turned toward the door. "Well, now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm off to Bayport. Mr. Ciejki will take my place while I'm gone."
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He opened the door for Ciejki, then gave one last wave as he stepped into the hallway.
Alone with Frank, Brewster reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He opened them and stuck the keys into his back pocket. "Okay, wise guy," he said, "sit down—now!"
* * *
Two hours later Frank was still in the office in a chair, his ankle cuffed to the desk leg, which was bolted to the floor. He had looked at all twelve pictures on the desk calendar, leafed through the desktop dictionary, and solved the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He was drowning in boredom.
For what seemed like the thousandth time Frank scanned the room. A couple of feet behind him was a wall unit that contained a few notebooks, statuettes, glass figurines, and other knickknacks.
This time an idea hit him.
He looked across the desk. Brewster was sitting there, staring at the sports page of the Marfield Sentinel. He was fighting to keep his eyes open. His head fell to his chest, then jolted up when he realized he was falling asleep.
Frank opened his mouth into a wide yawn. He stretched his arms up, rocking back on his chair. His fingertips extended to the wall unit,
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and he felt the cold, smooth surface of a glass figurine. He closed his hand around it as Brewster's head began to sag again.
With a sudden sweep of his arm Frank brought the statue down on Brewster's head.
"Wha—" was the guard's last utterance before he slid off his chair and lay crumpled on the floor.
Frank stood up and pivoted on his bound ankle. Supporting himself on his free leg, he leaned toward the body. He was able to reach into Brewster's back pocket for the handcuff keys and unlock himself. 
Shaking out his legs, Frank dropped the keys on the floor near Brewster. "Sorry I was such dull company," he said.
With that he sprinted for the window, lifted it, and had one foot out when he felt a tug on the right leg as Brewster's hand closed around his ankle.
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Chapter 15
Frank kicked back, his heel catching Brewster on the jaw. It was a soft blow but enough to finish the guard, who was really out this time. Frank sprinted for the center's exit.
After retrieving the Firebird and phoning his dad to say he had escaped, Frank drove straight to Prometheus.
"Mr. Hardy! I've been expecting you! Where have you been?" Mr. Winthrop greeted him.
"I was tied up for a while," Frank answered with a straight face.
The head of security was wearing a belted windbreaker and a pair of sun goggles as he greeted Frank at the gate to Prometheus
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Computing. He waved Frank into courtyard B.
Surprised by the friendly greeting, Frank drove in with Mr. Winthrop trotting behind him. In the same spot where he and Joe had been ambushed the day before a helicopter was waiting.
"What a difference from last time!" Frank said, stepping out of the Firebird.
Mr. Winthrop smiled. "This time we are working together." He signaled the pilot to start the engine, then directed Frank around to the passenger side. "Your father just called a couple of minutes ago to say I should expect you. He told me all the details. Apparently your brother and a friend did a little reconnaissance work, and they think they found the kidnappers' hiding place."
"Is it a boat in Bayport Harbor?" Frank shouted after he climbed in.
"Exactly," Mr. Winthrop shouted back to be heard over the roar of the turning rotors. "How did you know?"
"I've done a little reconnaissance of my own," Frank said loudly.
Mr. Winthrop nodded, then gestured toward the helicopter pilot. "Edward's a top-notch pilot; you're in good hands. Your father will be waiting for you when you arrive in Bayport.
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He's on the kidnappers' tail and may have located them by then."
"You mean Dad didn't arrange for a break- in at Prometheus after all?" Frank asked with cautious optimism.
Mr. Winthrop laughed. "You certainly have had your ears open, haven't you? Yes, he just called a few minutes ago to arrange for a break-in—with our full knowledge and help. My men and your father's special SWAT team will be waiting to give the intruders a very rude surprise!"
"All ri-i-ight!" Frank exclaimed, pulling the door shut. Rising slowly into the skies above Prometheus, he let out a whoop. Now if only his mom were okay . . . but he had to trust Joe and his dad to help her.
* * *
The helicopter covered the distance between Marfield and Bayport in a little over two hours. Fenton Hardy was waiting for them at a weed- strewn parking lot next to an abandoned train yard.
As they descended Frank looked at his watch, which now read two-thirty. He hoped they weren't too late. If Straeger had gotten there and found out Mr. Hardy wasn't home ...
When the helicopter touched down Mr. Hardy opened Frank's door. "Am I glad to see
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you all in one piece!" He gave Edward a friendly wave. "Come on," he urged as Frank climbed out. "We don't have any time to lose—they have Joe now, too! There's a boat waiting for us at the harbor!"
"I didn't tell you when I called, but Straeger works undercover for MUX at the Center for Experimental Research," Frank said.
Fenton Hardy cocked an eyebrow. "Good old MUX again, huh? Nice work, Frank—let's finish up!"
The two Hardys ran toward a rented van at the edge of the lot and climbed in.
In minutes they pulled up beside a slip on the Bayport waterfront. An ancient fishing boat bobbed in the water. In front of it Captain Claes stood waiting.
"Thanks for the use of your boat, Claes!" Mr. Hardy called out. "I don't know how I can repay you."
There was a sly glint in the captain's eyes. "Give me time. I'll think of something."
Mr. Hardy, carrying a loaded revolver in a holster, boarded the old boat first. Frank followed, stepping around the air tanks and masks that lay on the floor of the boat.
On Mr. Hardy's fourth tug at the engine cord, the outboard motor finally caught. The boat putted out into the harbor.
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"At this rate we'll be there by nightfall," Frank remarked.
"It's the best the old tub can do," Mr. Hardy replied. "They'll be on the lookout for something a little more sophisticated. The element of surprise will be on our side. Give me a hand," Fenton Hardy said, grabbing a fishing net. Frank helped him hook it over the side of the boat. "We have to look authentic."
"Right," Frank replied. "And anything we catch will be our dinner tonight."
Before long an abandoned sailboat came into view. "That must be Joe's," Mr. Hardy said. "Let's anchor here."
Frank threw out the anchor, then joined his dad and put on an air tank. Mr. Hardy sealed his gun in a watertight plastic pouch. Masks in place, they fell backward into the harbor and began swimming underwater.
Frank was the first to find the anchor cable. He climbed up, peeked into the yacht to see the secluded section of the deck behind the wheelhouse, then signaled his father to come aboard.
They huddled silently and listened to an agitated voice from inside the wheelhouse.
"Iron Maiden, Matyus calling. . . . Yes, I read you. ... It what? Speak slower. . . . No. Who was caught? . . . I'll report it to Straeger immediately!"
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They heard Matyus hang up the phone. Then his voice took on a hollow sound as he spoke into an intercom. "Mr. Straeger, that was Marfield—"
"Marvelous, Matyus," Straeger replied. "I can finally release these Hardys."
"Uh, well, not exactly, sir," Matyus said. "Frank Hardy has already escaped, and the raid on Prometheus has been turned back."
"What do you mean, 'has been turned back?' " Straeger asked, not concerning himself with Frank's escape.
"It seems that the raid has been ambushed, sir," Matyus said, his voice a little shaky. "Apparently it was all a setup—"
"Whaaat?"
"Most of the men were captured, including Todd Brewster, but two did escape."
"That's impossible! Fenton Hardy gave me his word the doors would be open and no one would interfere. He wouldn't have been foolish enough to pull something like this!"
"Would you like me to give you the details, sir?"
There was a long silence. Frank stole a glance at his dad, who nodded at him and gave him a confident wink.
"No, Captain Matyus." Straeger's voice, sounding sinister and tinny, came over the intercom system. "Set a course for the open
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sea. I would like you to join me down here in the engine room. At the moment I feel no bitterness or anger, only sadness."
"Sadness, sir?"
"Yes. It has turned out to be a very sad day—for Mrs. Hardy and her son Joe!"
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Chapter 16
Frank felt blood rise to his face. There was no time to lose. He turned to his father.
"Dad, I—"
But his father wasn't there. Frank crept to the stairway and looked down, then he peered around the wheelhouse cabin.
No Fenton Hardy.
Was he hiding, or had he raced down the stairs?
A sudden thought made him stay where he was. If his dad had wanted him along, he would have said so. Hadn't he jumped out of the van without explanation in the Springfield traffic the day before, only to return with the rented car that had saved them?
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Chances were that something was up his father's sleeve now, too.
"Stop gawking and pull up anchor, Farrell!" Captain Matyus's voice barked to another man. "Steer this tank out into the Atlantic, top speed. I'm going down to join Straeger."
Frank heard the wheelhouse door squeak open, then slam shut. He ducked around the cabin, taking care to stay low. Captain Matyus circled the other side and descended the stairs.
When the captain had disappeared Frank craned his neck to look into the wheelhouse above him. He could see only one person moving around.
Suddenly there was a loud groan inches from him. Frank jumped, his heart beating wildly.
He looked around to see a mechanized pulley slowly turning, pulling the anchor cable out of the water.
With a soft fooom the yacht's engines purred to life.
They were on their way—out to the open Atlantic, where getaways were cleaner, where bodies could be disposed of and never found.
Frank knew exactly what he had to do now. He slipped around to the wheelhouse door. This Farrell was alone inside, gripping the steering wheel. Frank pulled the door open. A gust of air rushing in blew two sheets off a stack of papers inside.
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Farrell let out a sigh of frustration. He bent down to scoop the papers off the floor, his back still to Frank. Frank edged forward.
Stuffing the papers in his trouser pocket, Farrell returned to the wheel. As the boat turned a flash of sun shone through a window and glinted against the chrome on the wheel's housing.
Frank was now three feet from him—two— Farrell stood stock-still, concentrating on his work.
Frank took a karate stance, poised for attack. He would make a statement, and when Farrell turned, he would—
Thwock.
"Oof!"
Frank felt a sharp pain in his gut. His breath whooshed out of his mouth as if he were a burst balloon. Stumbling backward, his arms flailing, he barely saw Farrell retract the backward kick he had just uncorked.
"Like to attack from behind, eh?" Farrell gloated. "You should check there aren't any mirrors first!"
Of course! Frank realized. The chrome. He was watching my reflection in the chrome
He scrambled to his feet—but not before Farrell took a roundhouse swing with his right fist. Frank jerked his head back but caught part
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of the blow on his jaw. He staggered into the side of a table.
Gripping the table, he yanked it back.
It wouldn't budge.
"Sorry, pal, it's attached," Farrell said, sending another punch to Frank's stomach.
Frank let his reflexes do the thinking. His left arm shot out and blocked the punch. Planting a foot, he let fly a kick that connected with Farrell's chest.
Farrell spun around and snatched a fire extinguisher off the wall next to the door. He pivoted, pointing the nozzle at Frank.
"Pretty wimpy weapon, if you ask me," Frank said.
"Who asked you?" Farrell replied. He squeezed the trigger, sending a jet stream of white chemical spray toward Frank.
Frank turned and dropped to the floor. The chemical soaked the area around him. He jumped to his feet and ran to the ship's controls. With a flick of the gearshift he put the engine in neutral. To the right of the shift was a switch labeled "Anchor." He turned it from "Up" to "Down." There was an abrupt grinding noise, then a hum as the anchor lowered itself. For now, the Iron Maiden wasn't going anywhere.
"Hey!" Farrell shouted, and he lost his footing 
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on the cabin floor, slick with white foam. He fell with his feet in the air.
"Well, one good turn deserves another," Frank said. As Farrell scrambled to his feet Frank connected with an uppercut to the sailor's jaw.
Farrell flew against the wall and sank to the floor. The fire extinguisher hit the floor with a loud clank.
Frank braced himself, but Farrell was motionless. He stepped back toward the ship-to-shore phone and snatched the receiver off the hook.
"Operator," a faint voice said.
Farrell's chest heaved calmly up and down. Frank unclenched his fists when he realized his adversary was unconscious.
"Operator," the voice repeated.
"Uh, yes," Frank spoke into the receiver. "I'd like the Bayport—"
Just then a menacing voice filled the room, and Frank fell silent.
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Chapter 17
"Ouch!" Joe winced as a bobby pin snapped in the lock and dug into his finger.
"Did you get it?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
"No, it got me," Joe replied. "I don't think this is going to work." He eyed the metal table. "Maybe if we can pry this thing out of the floor and use it as a wedge—"
The hastening rhythm of footsteps moving toward them made him stop. Instinctively he glanced up at the phony stemware box. The lens of the hidden closed-circuit camera was still covered by the magazine he'd put up there.
He knew Matyus would find out about it sooner or later. Joe sat down and waited for his men to come in and rip down the magazine.
The door made a resounding clang as it
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swung open and hit the metal wall. Captain Matyus glowered as he stormed in, but his expression was placid compared to that of the silver-haired man next to him.
It took Joe a moment to recognize who it was. "Hey, you're in on this thing, too, Straeger? I guess you're the stemware expert, huh?"
Immediately Joe wished he could swallow his words. Both men had pistols, and both were pointed straight at him.
Joe put his hands in the air and backed up. "Uh, sorry, fellas. Go ahead, take the magazines away. The camera's still in good shape; I didn't touch the lens."
Mrs. Hardy stood up and faced Straeger. "Who are you?"
"Mrs. Hardy, I hoped we would meet under happier circumstances," Straeger said, swinging the point of his gun to face her. "I had intended to come here as your liberator. I was prepared to have you escorted ashore with my apologies and a cheerful bon voyage. But clearly your husband regards your life—and your son's—with callous disrespect. He has failed to live up to his end of my simple bargain."
Joe stepped in front of his mother. "Put it down, Straeger. Before I came out here I notified people on shore, so it's only a matter of
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time before someone tracks you down. And you'd be better off with two prisoners than with two corpses."
Straeger's eyes were blazing with a rage that was just this side of sanity. "Unlike your father, I am a man of principle. I always live up to my promises. Therefore I have no choice." He released the gun's safety and aimed carefully between Joe's eyes. "You have your father to blame for this, not me."
"Put it down, Straeger!"
Straeger and Matyus wheeled around. Joe felt his breath catch in his throat.
Standing in the door was Fenton Hardy, his gun pointed at Straeger.
"Well," Straeger said, a smile creeping across his face, "look what the sea washed up. Nice try, Mr. Hardy, but I believe one triumph per day is quite enough for you."
"I'm not so sure, Straeger," Mr. Hardy said. "You know, your little group is a thing of the past. Most of its members have been captured, and the ones that got away aren't likely to stick around waiting for their paychecks. So I'd suggest—"
"That Captain Matyus and I give ourselves up?" Straeger laughed. "Like son, like father. You think the whole thing has been neatly tied up, resolved, don't you? I have unfortunate news for you. At the moment Captain Matyus's
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first mate is setting a course for the open sea. This ship's shabby appearance camouflages one of the fastest yachts on the East Coast. In minutes we shall be miles from anyone foolish enough to try to give chase. And without the three of you on board we will only go faster."
"You forget, Straeger," Mr. Hardy said, "I'm armed."
Now it was Matyus's turn to laugh. "Yes, but you're also outnumbered, two guns to one."
Fenton Hardy nodded. "True. I am outnumbered. But one of the first things I learned as a detective was that it's not the bullets that count, but where they go."
Four sharp cracks rang through the room, four flashes of light. The bullets embedded themselves in the corner steampipe.
Geysers of hot steam exploded into the room. Joe and his mother spun around and crouched to the floor.
"Duck!" Captain Matyus yelled, pulling Straeger down.
"In the corner!" Fenton Hardy shouted to Joe.
Joe took his mother's hand and stepped back into the brig, away from the door, but she yanked free.
"No!" she said, her eyes focused on the spot where her husband was disappearing
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behind a cloud of steam. "He's going to burn to death!"
"Come on, Mom!" Joe insisted, dragging her into the corner of their jail.
He looked back, but the room was nothing but hot white vapor. Two shots rang out, accompanied by two sharp flashes of light.
"Fenton!" Mrs. Hardy shrieked.
There was a dull clatter. Joe tightened his grip on his mother's hand. He was having trouble seeing her now. He walked back toward the door, trying to wave a clear path through the steam.
"Get them!" came Captain Matyus's voice.
Just then Joe felt an iron grip on his forearm. He planted his feet and pushed against the unseen adversary.
"Joe, it's me!" He heard his father's whisper. "I blew the lock on the gate. Come on!"
Led by Mr. Hardy, the three of them blundered forward through the steam. Joe gritted his teeth against the searing heat. He knew that if they got too near the pipe ...
"Get them," Straeger said, echoing Matyus. He was off to the Hardys' left. Fenton Hardy changed directions slightly and picked up the pace.
A moment later Joe felt the air temperature change. His skin began to cool.
They turned a corner, and the air began to
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clear. Ahead of them stretched a corridor Joe hadn't seen.
"Where are we?" Joe asked.
"Haven't the foggiest," his father replied. "No pun intended."
All three of them spun around as Straeger loudly announced their escape on the intercom. Just then the clonk of heavy footsteps sounded on metal. "Down here!" an unfamiliar voice called out.
"They're coming out of the woodwork," Joe said. "They must have heard the shots."
They backed up and looked into a passageway on their left. Three more crew members, their faces grim and determined, were dropping through a hatch at the end of it.
"This way!" Joe said. He led them toward the right instead.
At the end of the hall Joe could make out a faint square outline of light on the ceiling. A small hatch. "We're out of here!" he shouted, sprinting toward the ladder that led to the hatch.
Joe scampered to the top and pushed against the hatch, once—twice—
It wouldn't budge.
"They're coming!" Mrs. Hardy said.
"Get down, Joe!" Mr. Hardy demanded. He pointed the pistol at the hatch.
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Joe jumped down and stood back. Mr. Hardy took aim and fired.
Click. The sound was small and pathetic.
Fenton Hardy's eyes widened. "I shot the full round in the brig," he said in disbelief.
Joe climbed up the ladder again and rammed his shoulder against it. A jolt of pain shot through him, and the hatch stayed put.
"Is there another path?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
"The only thing we can do is backtrack—"
"There they are!" a voice echoed into their passageway.
Joe stood frozen on the ladder. On either side of him were his mother and father. He squeezed their hands and felt his throat turn to cotton as a battalion of six armed men charged toward them.
And he felt himself go numb as Straeger's voice pierced the humid air: "Shoot to kill!"
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Chapter 18
In a burst of energy, Joe tried the hatch one more time. There was a dull thud and a cracking sound.
I'm breaking it, Joe thought. Just one more shove.
"Get down!" Mrs. Hardy cried. "They're shooting at you!''
So that's what the crack was. Joe fell to the floor. A bullet whizzed just over his head.
Suddenly Straeger's voice could be heard again: "Ceasefire!"
The passageway fell silent except for a faint murmuring among the crew members. They stepped aside as Straeger pushed his way through to the front.
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He stood in the dimly lit corridor facing the Hardy family, his gun ready at his side.
"I want to see this," he said. "I want the pleasure of returning the humiliation I've received at your hands, Mr. Hardy. How does it feel to have your life's plan thwarted? How does it feel to stand in front of a firing squad and know your family is to be shot in seconds?"
"I thought you said we were moving out to sea!" Joe blurted out.
"Don't try to distract me," Straeger shot back.
"I didn't feel us accelerate," Joe continued.
"The engine is quite silent," Straeger said.
"Sure feels like it's idling to me."
"Ready ..." Straeger called out.
The crew members lifted their weapons.
"Don't you think this is overkill?" Joe tried in desperation.
Above him there was a sudden clomping noise on the deck.
"Aim ..."
The clomping turned into a knocking. A shaft of light slanted down into the corridor from the ceiling above.
"What the—" Straeger muttered.
Joe looked up. The hatch was moving!
Captain Matyus appeared behind Straeger.
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"Hold it!" he ordered. "Farrell, if that's you up there, knock it off, or you'll be shot, too!"
"Farrell, eh?" came a muffled voice from outside the hatch. "Close—both are two syllables and Irish. But you don't get a cigar, my friend!"
Joe couldn't believe what he was hearing. When the hatch flew open his disbelief flew out.
A familiar, beefy man in a blue uniform stared down at them, his hand clutching a revolver. "Riley's the name. Officer Con Riley, Bayport Police. Hands up, everyone, and drop those weapons. You're surrounded."
"Hi, Mom. Everything all right?" Frank smiled pleasantly over Riley's shoulder. "Seems a little warm down there."
"Frank!" Mrs. Hardy said, enjoying the sound of the name as if she were saying it for the first time.
Joe felt an unexpected laugh erupt. "Yeah, it's hot down here, all right. In fact, I think it's time we put old Straeger here on ice."
"With pleasure," Officer Riley said with a smile. Then his voice became a drill sergeant's bark. "All right, everybody out here—on the double. And don't try anything funny. I've got the entire Bayport Harbor Police with me!"
Straeger's face broke into a cheerful, slightly baffled smile. He handed his gun to one of the
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sailors. "Officer Riley, I must say I'm happy to see you, but I think you've been misled. It is we who require your services. These people are trespassing on our ship."
"I see," said Riley. "You just happened to be anchored way out here, playing idly with all this fancy equipment, when Fenton, Laura, and their sons decided to break in."
"I can't speak for them, officer, but Mr. Hardy did shoot holes in the ship's pipes. Steam is billowing through every hallway down here."
"Straeger, I believe you like I believe in the tooth fairy,'' Riley remarked.
Straeger laughed. "Well, then you may end up with a quarter under your pillow. With all due respect, I don't think you can arrest us if the evidence is in our favor."
Riley looked from Straeger to Mr. Hardy and shrugged. "I suppose you're right about that. And it follows you have nothing to hide." Then he shouted over his shoulder: "Wyman, Hastings! Come with me. The rest of you guard the deck and make sure no one leaves."
By this time Matyus and most of the yacht's crew had been herded upstairs and onto the deck. Officer Riley and two other police officers climbed down.
"You realize you won't be able to see a thing
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in the engine room because of the steam," Straeger said.
"We'll just have to do our best," Riley replied.
"This way, gentlemen," Straeger said, ushering the three men past him. Mr. Hardy began to follow, but Straeger held out his arm. "I must request that Fenton Hardy stay behind. I see no reason that he should be with us."
Officer Riley sighed. "Fenton, wait here a minute, okay? I'll be right back."
"Make sure you check the engine room!" Joe called out.
As Riley walked down the companionway Joe heard Straeger say, "Of course, the engine room is off limits. Hot steam is spewing out, and you're likely to get burned."
"Don't you have someone fixing it yet?" Riley asked.
"Of course. But it will probably take hours."
As they disappeared into the steam at the end of the passageway Frank called down, "Mom, are you all right?"
"Fine," Mrs. Hardy said. "They gave me nautical magazines to read while I was in their little jail. When we get out of here I'll be able to build a boat."
"Don't get your hopes up," Joe said. "If
146
Officer Riley can't see the brig, he may have to let them go."
"Come on, let's climb up," Mr. Hardy said. "At least we can wait in the fresh air."
Joe looked up to the open hatch. His brother was missing.
"Frank?" he called out.
One of the policemen gave a shrug and pointed to his right. "He ran off."
Joe climbed onto the deck, then helped his mother and father out. The afternoon had become cool. Joe shivered slightly from the abrupt change in temperature.
"Where's Frank?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
A moment later they heard Frank's voice over a loudspeaker. "Attention, please—this includes you, Mr. Straeger. This is Frank Hardy with a message for Officer Riley. The steam-powered engines have been turned off. You may safely enter the engine room. Be sure to visit the cage of the escaped prisoners on your left and see the marvelous hidden-camera-in-the-stemware-box trick!''
Joe, Mr. Hardy, and Mrs. Hardy ran into the wheelhouse. Frank greeted them with a smile. "Well, I give them about—oh, fifteen minutes!"
"Long enough for a little family time," Fenton Hardy said. "A little story-swapping about the last few days. What do you say we sit on
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the deck?" He put one arm around Frank and the other around his wife.
"I'm not sure I want three rubber wet suits next to me," said Laura Hardy, taking in the three men in her family all dressed in identical black rubber.
* * *
"So who aw na yur?" Chet Morton mumbled, his mouth stuffed full of Aunt Gertrude's Swedish meatballs.
Mr. Hardy cast a puzzled glance around the dining room table. "Would someone like to translate?"
"I think he said, 'Who's on your— something,' " Tony Prito tried.
"Talk, talk, talk," Aunt Gertrude said, shaking her head as she heated up a new batch of tomato sauce on the stove. "You're all talking a mile a minute about this awful adventure, and I can't understand a word of it! Swallow first!"
"Owned the yacht," Chet said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Who owned the yacht? Did the police find out?"
"Uh-huh," Joe replied, quickly swallowing his food. "It's registered under the name Matyus Shipping, which turns out to be a subsidiary of MUX."
"So by capturing Matyus and Straeger we've managed to smash two important MUX espionage rings," Frank went on.
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"What happens next?" Biff Hooper piped up. "Does the whole organization come tumbling down?"
Fenton Hardy exhaled. "Unfortunately, no. We wouldn't have even known Matyus and Straeger were connected if we hadn't found them together on that yacht. In fact, I believe they hadn't even known each other until this caper."
Laura Hardy looked puzzled. "Then who introduced them?"
"That's the big question," Mr. Hardy answered. "There's somebody at the top, somebody we've never been able to come close to. He's covered himself with layers and layers of umbrella organizations.''
"Straeger and Matyus both claim they don't know his name," Joe said. "They just accept his orders through anonymous couriers."
"It makes me shudder to think there may be more of those ruthless men out there somewhere,'' Aunt Gertrude said.
"Oh, we'll track them down," Frank said. He was speaking to Aunt Gertrude, but his eyes were looking into the distance. "As long as there's an MUX, we'll be right behind them."
A silence settled over the room, interrupted only by the clicking of forks on the plates.
"By the way," Mr. Hardy said, "tomorrow
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the Marfield police are auctioning all the stuff they found in Straeger's office. Anybody want to go?"
Phil Cohen's eyes lit up. "Any electronic equipment?"
"You bet," Mr. Hardy said. "A fax machine, a copier, an answering machine, a couple of printers, and—something else."
"Mmb awuhnuhk!" Chet blurted out, his mouth full again.
Mr. Hardy snapped his fingers. "That's what it was. The voice scrambler!"
As the table broke into laughter Chet Morton's face slowly turned the color of Aunt Gertrude's tomato sauce.
Fright Wave (Hardy Boys Casefiles #40)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter  1
"What was that?" Joe Hardy blurted out. Something had jolted him awake. He looked around quickly and saw his brother, Frank, sitting in the seat next to him.
"Just a little turbulence," Frank said. "Go back to sleep."
Joe started to do just that, but a second later he was sitting bolt upright, his blue eyes showing no sign of drowsiness. He remembered where they were headed. They had flown a long way from their hometown of Bayport, and now Joe was eager for a first glimpse of their destination.
Joe ran a hand through his blond hair and started to lean across Frank for a glimpse out the window. A sharp tug at his waist reminded him that he was still strapped into his seat.
2
"Whoa!" Frank exclaimed. "There's not much to see. From up here everything still looks pretty small." Just then Frank felt his ears pop as the plane dropped through the sparse cloud cover. He knew they'd soon be on the ground.
The wing outside Frank's window dipped down as the jet went into a tight turn, and the bright morning sun streamed into the cabin and directly into Frank's brown eyes. The bright light made his brown hair look lighter than it really was. He squinted and pulled down the shade.
"Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened," a female voice crackled over the intercom, "and return your seats to the full upright position."
"Why?" Joe asked nobody in particular. "What difference does it make what position my seat is in?"
"Well, it might make a big difference to me," a voice from behind them answered. It was the voice of their father, Fenton Hardy. "The back of your seat's been in my lap for about two thousand miles—and my legs have been asleep for the last five hundred. How about giving an old guy a break?"
Joe shifted his muscular, six-foot frame. The movement made him realize that his whole body was stiff, and there was a dull pain in his neck and shoulders that he vainly tried to rub away. "Airplane seats are definitely not designed for comfort," he mumbled.
3
"Not if your flight is over thirty minutes long or you're over five feet tall," Frank added.
There was a soft bump as the wheels hit the runway, and a loud roar as the pilot threw the huge jet thrusters into reverse. They all strained forward in their seats as the three-story-tall jumbo jet rapidly slowed from 200 MPH to taxi speed.
When the plane finally came to a complete halt and the seat belt sign winked off, Frank and Joe jumped out of their seats. They were at the door before the flight attendant had a chance to pick up the intercom microphone and say, "Aloha—and welcome to Hawaii!"
* * *
It took almost an hour to claim their luggage, pick up their rental car, and drive to their hotel. "It took only eight hours to go five thousand miles," Joe commented as his father unlocked the door to their hotel room, "but it took sixty minutes to go the last ten miles."
Fenton Hardy fumbled with the key, and Joe rolled his eyes at his brother. They were both loaded down with luggage, most of which belonged to their father. The older you are, the more stuff you have to drag around, Joe thought.
Finally the key turned and the door swung open. Frank and Joe staggered into the room and dropped the bags in the middle of the floor. Joe let out a low whistle as he looked around. "You didn't say your client was rich, Dad."
They were standing in the middle of a large
4
living room furnished with a leather couch, several expensive-looking upholstered chairs, and an antique writing desk. On two of the sides of the room was a door leading into a bedroom and private bathroom. They turned slowly, taking it all in.
Joe looked over at his father. "Who is your mystery client, anyway?"
"You could say it's a large nationwide company," Fenton replied vaguely. "And just remember— it's my client. You're here on vacation. The only thing you have to do is sit on the beach, enjoy the scenery, and stay out of my hair."
Frank walked out on the balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He looked down twenty-five floors to the waves lapping the shore of the world-famous Waikiki Beach.
Joe joined him and said, "What are we waiting for? It's time to hit the beach!"
"Right," Frank replied. "Let me just get out of these clothes and into my suit." He grabbed his suitcase and headed for a bedroom. "What about you?" he asked over his shoulder. "Don't you want to change first?"
"I'm one step ahead of you," Joe said, flashing a grin as he started to take off his pants.
Frank stifled a laugh when he saw what his brother was wearing under his clothes. "You're not seriously considering actually wearing those outside, are you?" he asked.
Joe glanced down at his bright, baggy Hawaiian
5
flower-print swim trunks and said, "You're just jealous because you don't have a pair."
* * *
A few minutes later Frank and Joe were on the beach, walking along the shore, letting the warm saltwater wash over their bare feet. High- rise buildings crowded right up to the edge of the long, thin stretch of sand known as Waikiki, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu.
"I was reading a guidebook on the plane," Frank said, scanning the skyline. "This beach is less than a mile long—"
"Lighten up!" Joe chided him. "We didn't come to Hawaii to study. We came to have fun in the sun!" He bent down, scooped up a handful of water, and splashed the back of Frank's head.
Frank whirled to face him, and a movement behind his brother caught his eye. "Yeah," he said, nodding toward the ocean. "Maybe we could even learn to surf really well."
Joe turned and watched a couple of obvious beginners floundering in the shallow water. Their rented surfboards were stenciled with the name of a nearby hotel. Then beyond them—out in the serious waves—he saw something else. A lone surfer, racing down a cresting wave, then swiveling around and swerving back up the rushing wall of water.
The board was almost vertical to the water as the front end edged over the lip of the breaking
6
wave. Then the surfer pivoted again, and the board flew out of the water, sending a spray back over the top of the wave. Joe thought the ride was going to end with the board and rider spinning off in different directions—but the surfer turned the board in midair, slammed back down into the water, and rode the dying wave all the way to shore.
Joe could hardly believe what he had just seen. As the surfer carried the board out of the water, he got an even bigger shock.
Frank noticed the look on his brother's face. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Joe kept staring and whispered, "It's a girl!"
She put down the surfboard and moved toward the Hardys, as if she had felt Joe's intense stare. Her hair was straight and black, glistening with saltwater. She looked faintly Asian, with brilliant green eyes. Even in her surfing bodysuit—a short-sleeved wet suit that covered her from her neck down to her knees—Joe thought she was beautiful.
"Aloha!" she called, smiling at Joe as she walked closer. "Do I know you from somewhere? I mean, the way you were looking—"
"No!" Joe blurted out. "I just ... um ... that is—"
"He just forgot that it's impolite to stare," Frank interrupted. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe."
"My name's Kris Roberts," she replied. "But all my friends call me Jade because—"
7
"Because of your eyes." Joe finished her sentence.
She looked at him more closely, a puzzled expression on her face. "That's right. How did you know?"
Joe shrugged. "Just a lucky guess." He wanted to say something else, but no words came.
There was a brief, awkward silence.
"Well, it was nice meeting you," Jade finally said. "Maybe I'll see you around," she added, looking right at Joe.
Then she was gone, walking down the beach toward a small group of surfers. All at once she stopped, turned back, and called out, "Hey! I don't suppose either of you malihinis knows how to surf, do you?"
"Mali-what?" Joe managed to get out.
Jade laughed. "Malihini. A newcomer, a visitor. I've lived here most of my life, and some islanders still call me a malihini."
"Really?" Joe responded, glad that his voice had finally returned. "You could have fooled me. I thought you were Hawaiian."
"With a name like Roberts? Not likely. My father still has relatives in Ireland, and my mother was Japanese. Almost everybody in Hawaii has come from somewhere else. There aren't too many native Hawaiians left.
"You didn't answer my question," she continued. "Do you know how to surf?"
"Not really," Joe admitted. "But I'll give it a try. How about you, Frank?" he asked.
8
"No thanks," Frank said. "I'll just sit here on the beach and admire your technique."
"Then I don't have to scrounge up another board," Jade replied. "We can use mine. Come on?"
The two of them waded out until the water was about waist-deep. It was fairly calm, with just a slow, rhythmic swell. Most of the big waves were breaking farther out. Every once in a while one did crash down around them, though, throwing Joe off balance.
Jade held the surfboard steady in the water. "The very first thing you need to do," she explained, "is play with the board."
"Play with it?" Joe asked doubtfully.
"That's right. Roll it around. Flip it over. Lean on it. Get the feel of it."
"Okay," Joe said. He took the board and flipped it over. It had three slight ridges running the length of the board, which ended in three sharp fins at the back. The front of the board tapered to a narrow point. He pushed one end underwater and felt the pressure as it popped back to the surface.
"That's good," Jade said just as Joe was concluding that surfing was a very boring sport. "Now it's time to learn how to paddle."
"That sounds easy enough," Joe remarked. "I bet you start by lying down on the thing, right?" He grabbed the edges of the floating board and tried to lie on top of it, his legs dangling 
9
off the end. But the back of the board sank under his weight, and the front angled up out of the water. Then the whole thing shot out from under him, flew into the air, and splashed down a few feet away.
Jade grinned and said, "Paddling is simple— staying on the board is the tricky part. Let me show you how."
As she started to wade toward the surfboard, Joe noticed a large wave rolling in. He realized it was going to break almost on top of him, and he started to duck and cover his head with his arms.
But as he did, he saw something else—a runaway surfboard tumbling through the rushing water, crashing straight down at Jade!
The roar of the surf made it impossible to shout a warning. There wasn't time to think, only time to react. Joe lunged through the water, desperate to reach Jade before the wild surfboard did. His arms strained forward, and he just managed to grab her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. He dug in and jerked her backward.
Jade barely got out a startled "Hey!" before Joe pushed her head under water, shielding her with his body.
Then the wave and the fiberglass missile slammed home, and Joe Hardy's world went black.
10
Chapter 2
Frank was in the water in a flash, splashing through the foamy remains of the deadly wave. He had watched helplessly as the surfboard landed on his brother. He reached Joe's limp form as Jade came spluttering to the surface, gasping for air.
Frank grabbed Joe under his arms, lifting his head and shoulders out of the water. Jade quickly took one of Joe's arms, and together they started to haul him out of the water. Before they reached the shore, two other surfers joined them and helped carry Joe.
They laid him down gently in the sand. Joe was breathing, but that was his only sign of life.
Frank knelt down next to him and looked at the bruise on the side of his brother's head. It was too early to tell how bad it was.
11
'Ugh," Joe mumbled in a minute, squinting against the bright sunlight. "What a horrible dream."
Frank smiled with relief. "Yeah? Why don't you tell me about it?"
Joe struggled to a sitting position, propping himself up with one hand and rubbing his forehead with the other. "I dreamed I was on the beach in Hawaii. But every time I met a beautiful girl, my brother would come barging in and wake me up."
He glanced around, and his eyes found Jade. "This dream seems okay," he said softly, starting to grin but stopping almost immediately to wince in pain. "Except for the extra-strength aspirin commercial booming in my skull," he added.
"What happened out there?" someone asked.
Frank noticed that a small crowd had gathered around them. "That's what I'd like to know," he replied. He stood up, pushed through a couple of people, cupped his hands over his eyes, and scanned the shoreline.
He spotted the surfboard, lying half in the water and half on the wet sand. It seemed harmless enough now. But a few minutes earlier it had been inches away from doing very serious damage.
Frank waited a minute to see if anyone would claim the abandoned surfboard.
Joe got up slowly—a little wobbly, but otherwise 
12
all right—and joined his brother. "I don't know about you," he grumbled, "but I think I'll go over and kick the stupid thing a couple of times. It'll think twice before it tangles with me again."
Frank looked at him. "Doesn't it seem kind of strange that whoever owns that surfboard just left it there?" he suggested.
"Not really," came the reply, but it wasn't Joe's voice.
Frank turned to see a big Hawaiian guy standing off to one side. His black hair hung in wet curls over his forehead. Joe figured he must be at least six foot five and probably tipped the scales at around two-fifty. Frank recognized him as one of the surfers who had helped carry Joe out of the water.
Frank studied him carefully. "Why do you say that?"
"Crazy haoles don't know the first thing about surfing," the big guy said, and snorted. "They rent some cheap board like that from a hotel, and then they think they can go out and get vertical or shoot inside the tube the first time out. Some of them even think the wax goes on the bottom of the board."
"Hay-oh-lees?" Joe repeated slowly. "Could you translate that?"
"Anybody who's not Hawaiian," Jade explained, joining them. "It usually means a tourist from the mainland. But sometimes he calls
13
me that when he thinks I'm cutting into his lane on a good wave.
"This is Al Kealoha," she continued. "Al's one of the few full-blooded Hawaiians you're ever likely to meet. So be nice to him. He really belongs here. The rest of us are just visitors. Al helped me pick out my first surfboard, and he taught me everything I know."
Al grinned broadly. "That's a good line—I think I'll use it after you take the Banzai. Then I'll start my own surf camp. Girls will come all the way from the mainland begging me to make them the next Jade Roberts. Yeah, I like it."
"The Banzai?" Frank asked. "What's that?"
"The Banzai Pipeline," Al replied. "It's one of the biggest surfing events of the year. Didn't Jade tell you? She's a top contender in the women's division."
Joe turned to Jade. "I knew you were good, but-—"
"It's really not that big a deal," she insisted. Joe thought she looked a little embarrassed. "There are lots of girls who are just as good as I am—better, even."
Al gave a low chuckle. "I can think of only one who even comes close."
Frank didn't hear Al's last comment. His mind was on something else. "Is there any prize money in this competition?" he suddenly asked.
"Sure," Jade nodded. "A few thousand dollars. No big deal. Why?"
14
"Oh, no reason," Frank replied casually. "Just wondering. That's all." He happened to glance over at Joe and saw how pale his brother was. "I think one surfing lesson a day is just about all you can survive. You need to rest."
Joe rubbed his forehead again. "I don't need rest, but I think you're right about the surfing for the day. What else is there to do in Hawaii?"
"Have you been up to Nuuanu Pali yet?" Jade asked. "You haven't seen Oahu if you haven't been to Nuuanu."
"Well, in that case, we'd better get going!" Joe insisted.
* * *
A few minutes later Jade and the Hardys were sitting in an old army surplus, camouflage green jeep. Jade was driving, and Joe sat next to her. Frank had to share the backseat with a surfboard. The sun beat down on their heads. If the jeep had ever had a convertible top, it was long gone.
"What do you do if it rains?" Frank asked.
Jade shrugged. "I get wet."
The wind whipped through her hair as they rumbled down the road, and Joe realized he was staring at her.
He tried to think of something to say—again. He frowned slightly and cleared his throat. "There's something I need to know," he began.
Her green eyes sparkled. "Just ask," she responded.
15
"If this is Oahu—Where's Hawaii?"
"Hawaii is the name of the state—and the biggest island in the chain," Jade explained. "But most of the population lives here on Oahu."
Joe noticed that they were headed inland, toward the lush, green mountains that shot up behind the city of Honolulu and hemmed it in. "You know," he said, "I have no idea where we are or where we're going. How about you, Frank?"
"Haven't a clue," Frank admitted.
"We're on the Pali Highway," Jade said. "It goes over the Koolau Mountains to Kailua on the other side of the island."
"You seem to know the island pretty well," Frank observed. "Have you lived here all your life?"
"Just about," she replied. "My father and I moved here when I was only two."
"Just the two of you?" Frank prodded.
Joe saw a troubled look pass over Jade's face. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't pay any attention to him," he told her. "He collects information like other guys collect comic books. He'll keep asking questions as long as you keep answering."
"It's all right," Jade replied. "I don't mind talking about it. We moved here from California right after my mother died." She paused for a moment. "I'm not sure how she died, and I don't know why we ended up in Hawaii.
16
"Not that I'm complaining," she continued, her smile slowly returning. "Not too many folks get to grow up in paradise!"
They had been moving steadily higher into the mountains. Jade pulled off onto an access road that didn't go very far before it dead-ended in a small parking lot.
"End of the line!" Jade shouted, bringing the jeep to an abrupt stop and jumping out.
Frank and Joe were right behind her. Frank stopped to look around. To the east and west rose the Koolaus, completely covered in a carpet of green growth. To the north and south blue ocean could be seen beyond the green.
Frank turned to say something to Joe but saw that his brother had followed Jade to a concrete platform. It was very out of place right there and more than a little ugly. Something obviously seemed to be holding their interest, and Frank jogged over to see what had captured their attention.
As he came up next to Joe, he said, "So what's the big—" He stopped in midsentence, sucked in his breath, and whispered, "Oh."
They were standing at the edge of a cliff that plunged almost a thousand feet straight down. The sheer side of the cliff was completely covered in green. Frank strained to make out the bottom.
"This is Nuuanu Pali," Jade said loudly. She had to raise her voice because of the wind gusting
17
around them. "Pali is the Hawaiian word for 'cliff.' We're standing above the Nuuanu valley. Down there"—she gestured—"is Honolulu. And over there"—she pointed in the opposite direction—"is Kailua, on the other side of the island."
"Nice view," Joe shouted over the roar of the wind. "Maybe we should come back on a nice, calm day, though."
Jade laughed. "The trade winds rip through here from the Kailua side almost constantly, trying to find a way through the mountains."
"I think I can see Waikiki Beach," Frank ventured, "and the hotel where we're staying."
"Yeah, and this wind is probably strong enough to carry you all the way back there," Joe observed. "If you get a good running jump and then flap your arms real hard ..."
Frank took another long look down the steep cliff. "You go first," he suggested.
"I've got a better idea," Jade said. "Let's drive back in my car. We can stop downtown and get something to eat. You may still be on mainland time, but around here it's lunchtime— and I'm starving."
* * *
Jade took them to a sidewalk lunch stand in downtown Honolulu. Joe thought it looked a lot like any other American city, except almost everybody wore Hawaiian shirts—and instead of hamburgers, fast food meant noodles in a Styrofoam cup with a plastic thing that wasn't quite a fork but wasn't exactly a spoon either.
18
They sat at a table near the curb and watched the cars buzz by while they ate. Finally Joe asked the question that had been following them around ever since they'd left the beach. "Do you really think that close call with the surfboard was an accident?"
"What do you mean?" Jade asked. "What else could it have been?"
"Maybe somebody doesn't want you to surf anymore," Frank suggested.
"Yeah." Jade nodded. "My father. But I don't think he'd throw a surfboard at me. What are you guys getting at?"
"Well, there is the prize money," Joe reminded her.
Jade shook her head. "I told you already. It's not a big deal. A few thousand dollars, that's all. Besides, the surfers around here are a pretty tight-knit group. We're like family. None of them would ever do anything to hurt me."
"Okay," Frank said. "So maybe it isn't anybody you know. But it could be—"
Frank didn't finish his sentence because that was when he heard a screech of tires. He watched mesmerized as a car swerved off the road, jumped the curb, and smashed into an empty table twenty feet from them.
It didn't stop there, though. It kept plowing ahead. And Joe and Jade were right in its path!
19
Chapter 3
"Look out!" Frank shouted, leaping from his chair at the same time. He would be in the clear, but what about his brother and the girl? Their backs were to the car. Joe, seated on the other side of the table, couldn't see the vehicle bulldozing a lane toward him.
Frank grabbed the table with both hands and pushed it as hard as he could—right into his brother.
Joe caught sight of the onrushing car when the edge of the table slammed into his stomach. He let out a startled "Oof!" as he toppled over backward. Instinctively, he grabbed Jade, yanking her out of her seat. She landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of him, but he managed to
20
wrap his arms around her and roll away from the path of destruction.
The next moment the wooden table was reduced to kindling and splinters, and a streak of blue metal and black rubber flashed by, inches from Joe's face.
The blue sedan didn't even slow down as it swerved back onto the road. Frank's heart was pounding, and the blood was rushing through his body at a furious rate. Without even thinking, he picked up a toppled chair and flung it at the car.
The flying chair smashed into the sedan's rear window and then rebounded, bouncing off the trunk and clattering to the pavement. The car kept moving—but Frank could see a spiderweb of cracks spreading across the shatterproof glass from the point of impact.
Frank watched as the blue sedan weaved frantically through the traffic and disappeared around a corner.
The people at the other tables were buzzing with excitement and concern. Frank heard someone behind him say, "What happened?" as another voice added, "Are you all right?"
It took a moment for Frank to realize they weren't talking to him. It was Joe and Jade they were asking about.
Joe was already on his feet, pulling Jade off the ground. "You know," she said, "my life was pretty normal until you guys showed up. Maybe you're bad luck or something."
21
"It's beginning to look that way," Joe agreed, brushing dust and splinters from his clothes.
"I don't think luck has much to do with it," Frank replied grimly.
"What do you mean?" Jade asked.
"I mean I might buy two accidents in one day," Frank said. "But this wasn't an accident. That guy was aiming at us. He never even tried to slow down."
"You don't know that for sure," Jade countered.
"No, we don't," Joe said. "But we will—once we find the driver of that car."
* * *
"What do you mean you didn't get the license number?" Joe demanded as they headed back to the hotel in Jade's jeep. "You're the one who's supposed to think of those things, remember?"
"I was kind of busy," Frank snapped. "Remember?"
"Oh, well," Joe said. "It's a small island. How many blue sedans can there be?"
"Lots," Jade said softly, as she pulled up to the front entrance. "There are almost a million people in Honolulu, and most of them have cars.
"But nobody I know owns a car like that one," she added, "and I know almost all the surfers in the islands. So let's just drop the jealous surfer theory, okay?"
The jeep rolled to a stop, and Frank climbed out the back. "Not jealous," he pointed out,
22
"just greedy. Besides, it could have been a rented car—like the surfboard."
Joe started to get out, too. Then he turned to look at Jade. "Will I see you again?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
A smile passed over her lips. "Maybe," she murmured. "Now get out of here. My dad will start to worry if I don't get home soon."
* * *
That night Joe dreamed he was surfing with a beautiful woman. At first she was a stranger, then she turned into Jade. They were having a great time until a blue sedan—with cheap, rented surfboards lashed to its wheels—came rolling across the waves, its horn blaring angrily.
There was something wrong with the horn, though. It made a kind of ringing noise instead of honking. Joe thought it sounded just like a telephone. Slowly he realized that it was the telephone, and the dream slipped away as he drifted back to the waking world, groping for the receiver.
"H'lo," he mumbled into the phone. "Whozit?"
"It's Jade," the voice on the other end whispered hurriedly.
Suddenly Joe was wide awake. "Jade! What is it? Where are you? What's wrong?"
"I'm down in the lobby, but we've got to get out of here fast!"
Joe was already reaching for a pair of jeans with his free hand. He cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder and used both hands
23
to wrestle his pants on. "We're on our way!" he exclaimed. "Hang on!"
He dropped the phone and shook his brother awake. "Come on, Frank!" he shouted. "Jade's downstairs—and she's in trouble!"
"Wha—" Frank replied drowsily. "What's the problem?"
Joe threw some clothes in his brother's face and raced out the door. "I'm going to get the elevator," he called back. "I'll hold it for thirty seconds, and then I'm out of here!"
"I'm right behind you," Frank assured him, swinging his legs out of the bed and onto the floor. He pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed the shirt Joe had tossed at him, and slipped his feet into his beat-up deck shoes. Then he was out the door. A second later, he was back, snatching up the shoes Joe had forgotten to put on.
Frank hit the hallway running, just in time to see the elevator doors start to slide shut. He put on a burst of speed, shoved his arm between the closing doors, and pried them open.
"Come on, come on!" Joe urged once both boys were on the elevator. He jabbed the button marked L over and over again.
Frank reached out and gently grabbed his brother's wrist. "Take it easy," he said. "Nothing's going to happen to her in the hotel lobby."
"Right." Joe nodded, relaxing a bit. When the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, he bolted out.
24
"It took you long enough!" Jade said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the door. "We've got to get going before it's too late."
They hurried out into the morning sunlight and climbed into the waiting jeep. Jade turned the key and the ancient engine coughed to life. Frank hopped into the backseat, which was occupied now by two surfboards. "Too late for what?" he asked, wedging himself in. "What time is it?"
"Oh, about eight-thirty, I guess," Jade responded. Her mood seemed to lift once they were on the road.
"You didn't answer my first question," Frank persisted.
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "What's up? Where are we going?"
Jade kept her eyes on the road and said, "We're going to Waimea, on the north shore of the island. That's where you get the really big waves this time of year."
Joe studied her carefully, his brain still a little sluggish from sleep. "You mean you rousted us out of bed because—"
Jade glanced at him and flashed a big smile. "That's right. Surfs up!"
If it had been any place other than Hawaii—and anyone other than Jade—Joe probably would have been furious. But the ride was beautiful, and so was she.
By the time they got to Waimea Bay, it looked
25
to Joe as if it were shaping up to be another great day in paradise.
Even though it was still early, there were already a lot of people on the beach. Jade found a place to park the jeep and hopped out. "Wait here," she said, "I've got to change. I'll be right back."
Frank and Joe got out, stretched, and took in the sights. Jade had been right about the surf—up was definitely the word for it. Some of the waves rose fifteen feet or more before curling over and crashing back down.
There were surfers everywhere, on the beach and in the water. Most of them wore the same kind of one-piece, short-sleeved wet suit that Jade had worn the day before. But Joe noticed the suits came in almost every possible color combination.
The suit that Jade came back wearing was subdued by the standards of Waimea. It was almost solid black, with a band of emerald green stripes running down each side. Joe thought she looked stunning, but he kept his cool. "Nice outfit," he said. "It matches your eyes and your
car."
She gave him a curious look. Then she glanced over at the old jeep with its faded camouflage paint job and smiled. "I guess I just like green."
"Good thing, too," Frank commented. "Because this whole island is green."
Jade pulled one of the surfboards out of the
26
back of the jeep. "Come on," she said, tucking the board under her arm, "let's hit the beach."
Joe took one step out onto the sand and quickly backpedaled, yelling, "Yow! That's hot!"
Jade looked down at his bare feet. "You get used to it after a while. But maybe you should put on your shoes," she suggested. "I'll meet you down by the water."
Frank waited while Joe got his shoes. He watched the surfers slashing down the towering blue cliffs in the deep water. He didn't think there were any tourists or amateurs taking on those waves. Out there, you had to know what you were doing, or you wouldn't be doing it for very long. Or anything else for that matter, Frank thought.
Joe strolled up, wearing his battered high-tops. "Where's Jade?" he asked, his eyes making a quick search of the beach. "Oh, there she is."
He took off at a jog, coming up behind the girl and grabbing her arm. She turned to face him—but it wasn't Jade. Same height, same build, same hair, even the same suit, but most definitely not Jade.
Like Jade, she had oriental features. Hers were more Chinese than Japanese, though—and she didn't have Jade's piercing green eyes.
"Oops," he whispered. "Uh, sorry. I thought you were someone else."
She gave him the once-over, smiled, and said, "I'm sorry, too. But if you don't find whoever
27
you thought I was, let me know. Maybe we can work something out."
"Well, I see you've already met Connie," a voice called out. It was Jade.
"Connie Lo, meet Joe Hardy," she said.
Connie grinned. "Wiped out by Jade Roberts again. This trophy's already yours, I take it."
Jade laughed. "You've already got a boyfriend, Connie. Besides, Joe doesn't really surf."
Connie frowned slightly, and her voice took on a serious tone. "I'm beginning to think that might be a real plus at this point."
Then she noticed what Jade was wearing and her grin was back. "Hey, cool suit, kiddo," she quipped, lifting her arms to reveal identical green stripes. "You've got great taste. And since I already have your suit," she continued, "how about letting me try out that new board of yours?"
"You've got it," Jade replied, holding out the surfboard for her. "What's mine is yours—any time. You know that."
"Thanks," Connie said. "I'll try not to get it wet." Then she turned to Joe. "You be good to her," she warned him, "or I'll break your legs."
Frank walked up in time to hear the last remark, before Connie sprinted off into the raging surf. "What was that all about?" he asked.
"Oh, that's just Connie's way," Jade said. "She's like a big sister. We surf together all the time. She's one of the best. Check her out."
Frank and Joe saw Connie as a black-suited
28
figure on a gleaming surfboard, starting to slide over the edge of a huge, breaking wave. Suddenly there was a muffled pop pop!
The board bucked violently, and the surfer started to pitch sideways into the raging surf, arms flung wide. The relentless wall of water slammed into the small dark figure and engulfed it.
29
Chapter 4
Frank whirled in the direction that the noise had come from. High on a cliff he saw another dark-clad figure. This one wasn't holding a surfboard—it was holding a high-powered rifle.
Frank squinted, tried to bring the figure into better focus, but it was too far away. He couldn't make out any details. He turned to tell his brother what he had seen, but Joe was gone.
Frank caught sight of him diving into the rough water and swimming toward something floating loose in the swells. It was Jade's new surfboard, the one Connie had been riding. Frank knew his brother was a strong swimmer, but he was wearing long pants. By now they would be totally soaked and very heavy.
Frank wouldn't have hesitated to follow his
30
brother even if he hadn't been wearing shorts. The fact that he was made him feel a little better]
as he kicked off his deck shoes and splashed into] the rolling water. Not much, but a little.
He started to close the gap, stroking through] the water strongly and evenly.
Joe had managed to power his way to the drifting board first. The nose was sticking out of the surf at a sharp angle, and the back was] buried beneath the blue water as if it were tied to an anchor. Joe knew that the anchor must be] Connie, dangling unconscious from the ankle: tether that a lot of the surfers used so they wouldn't have to chase their boards after a wipeout.
He dove beneath the surface and easily spotted Connie's limp form swaying upside down in the deep current. A few strong kicks took him the short distance. He wrapped his arms around her chest and strained to turn her around and haul her up to the surface. But it felt as if there were lead weights on his feet, dragging him down. Then he remembered his jeans. They might as well be lead weights, he realized.
Joe started to wriggle out of his water-logged pants, and as soon as he let go of Connie, something pulled her up to the surface like a fish being reeled in. Joe followed her up and found his brother struggling to get Connie onto the surfboard.
"The next time someone tells you to keep
31
your pants on, Frank said, "don't listen to them."
Together they flopped the unconscious girl onto the board. Frank didn't know how much water she had taken in, but he knew they had to wait until they got back to shore to find out. The waves crashing around them were tremendous. He clambered onto the wobbly board, knelt over her, and paddled quickly to shore.
On dry land he pressed his palms firmly into her back. A small trickle of water dribbled out of her mouth, and then her body was wracked by a torrent of wet coughs.
Her eyes fluttered open. "Awesome wave," she groaned. "But I didn't see the shark coming."
"Shark?" Frank repeated.
Joe nodded to the front of the board, near where Connie's head still rested. "The one with the big teeth," he said.
Frank looked down and saw what his brother was talking about—two neat holes drilled clean through the fiberglass.
A crowd had gathered around them now, and Frank slipped away from them, motioning Joe to follow. "You know those bullets were meant for Jade," Frank stated flatly when they were alone.
Joe glanced back to see Jade kneeling next to her friend. "Same hair, same build, same suit, same surfboard," he noted grimly. "Yeah, I know. So let's find whoever fired the slugs and break his arms. I'd break his spine, but he probably doesn't have one."
32
"Good idea," another voice chimed in. "I'll help." It was Al Kealoha, the massive Hawaiian surfer.
Seeing Al reminded Joe of something. "Just the guy I wanted to see," he began, before his brother could say anything. "I think you said something the other day about only one other surfer being almost as good as Jade. I was just wondering who she is."
Al jerked his head back toward the small crowd. "You just hauled her out of the Pacific."
"You mean Connie?" Frank asked.
The surfer nodded. "Connie's got all the right moves. She can still beat just about anybody in the women's circuit."
"Anybody but Jade," Joe added.
"You're real akamai for a malihini," the Hawaiian said.
"A smart tourist," Frank translated.
Joe glanced at his brother. "Since when do you speak Hawaiian?"
Frank shrugged. "There's a lot of useful stuff in those guidebooks."
"Well, do the guidebooks say where to find suspects after you discover that your number- one choice is the victim's best friend and almost ended up as another victim?" Joe muttered under his breath.
Al shook his head slowly. "You guys are wasting your time if you think a surfer's behind this. We stick together. We don't stick knives in our friends' backs."
33
As Al started to walk away from the Hardys, a guy with shoulder-length blond hair stopped him by clutching his arm. He had the tan and muscular build of a surfer, but he wasn't dressed for the water. He was wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts.
"Hey, Al. Wait up," Frank heard him say. "I just got here, and I heard that something happened to Jade. Is she all right?"
The big Hawaiian gripped the newcomer's shoulders. "Hang steady, Nick," he said calmly. "It wasn't Jade—it was Connie."
Frank saw the look of concern on Nick's face change to one of horror. "Connie," he croaked. "No ... it couldn't be ... I mean, I thought . . . Where is she? I've got to see her!" He broke away and pushed through the crowd.
There was a brief commotion, and then the Hardys saw him hustling Connie out of the circle of onlookers, his arm around her shoulder.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Joe asked.
"I'm thinking we should find out more about this Nick character," Frank answered.
It took a while for the police to arrive on the scene. By the time they finished interviewing everyone and filling out their endless forms, it was late in the afternoon.
Joe could see that Jade was pretty badly shaken. It was finally starting to sink in that someone wanted her in the past tense, and Joe knew how
34
hard that was to handle. So he decided to wait until she had calmed down a little before bringing up the subject of someone trying to eliminate her again.
Finally when they were in her jeep, driving back to Honolulu, he decided the time was right. "So who's Nick?" he asked casually.
"Nick?" Jade spoke distantly. Her mind was somewhere else—either on the road or replaying the events of the last two days. "Oh, Nick Hawk, Connie's boyfriend. Why?"
"His reaction seemed a little . . . strange," Frank suggested.
"Well, someone just took a couple of potshots at his girlfriend," Jade snapped. "How is he supposed to react? How am I supposed to react?"
"Hey, we're just trying to help," he assured her. "If you say the guy's all right, we'll just drop it. Okay?"
She nodded. They drove without speaking for a few minutes. Jade finally broke the silence and said, "Nick's a little edgy. He used to be a pretty hot surfer. But he shattered his knee a couple of years ago in a real serious wipeout.
"He can walk okay now," she continued. "He can even surf a little. But his competition days are over. So he channels all his energy into Connie's surfing. He's more like her trainer now than her boyfriend. I think winning means a lot more to him than it does to her."
"How badly do you think he wants Connie to win?" Frank prodded.
35
Jade shook her head. "Not enough to kill me. We may not all like each other, but we're still part of the same big family."
"Surfers are really important to you, aren't they?" Joe observed.
"Is your brother important to you?" she replied, not waiting for a reply. "Other than my dad, they're all I've got."
"You told us about your mother," Frank said. "But don't you have any other relatives?"
Jade shrugged. "None that I know of. I don't even know how my mom died. My dad doesn't like to talk about it. I think her death must have been very painful for him. I think we moved to the islands because he wanted to cut off the past."
A brief smile passed over her lips. "Sometimes I feel like we didn't exist before we came to Hawaii."
* * *
The sun was getting low in the sky by the time they got back to the hotel. Jade turned off the ignition and the engine shuddered and died. She shifted in her seat so she could take in both brothers. The tension on her face was evident, and Joe wanted to do something to make it disappear.
"Look," she began, "I'm sorry I yelled at you before. But this is all just a little too weird, you know? Who'd want to kill me? And why?"
"We'll find out," Joe promised. "But maybe
36
you'd be safer staying with us instead of going home. Our dad used to be a cop, and he still has some powerful connections."
Jade reached out and took his hand. "Thanks, Joe. But I really should go home. Besides, even if Nick Hawk is behind this—and I'm sure he isn't—I don't think he'd try anything at my house. I'll be all right."
"At least give us your address and phone number, in case we have to reach you," Frank urged.
She took a piece of paper out of the glove compartment, scribbled something on it, folded it once, and placed it in Joe's palm. Then she closed his fingers over it. "Keep it in a safe place," she said. "Our phone number is unlisted, and my father doesn't like my friends to come to the house. Not many people know where we live."
Reluctantly they let her go and watched as she pulled the jeep out into traffic.
Frank's eye was caught by a blue sedan pulling away from the curb just then. It moved in right behind the old green jeep. At first he thought the rear window of the car was frosted. No, he decided, that wasn't right.
With a jolt, he recognized the spiderweb pattern of cracks, snaking out from where the chair he had thrown had smashed into the glass.
37
Chapter 5
"That's the car," Frank said, grabbing hold of his brother's arm.
"What?" Joe said.
"That's the car," Frank repeated. "The car from yesterday. Look at the rear window. That's where I hit it."
"And now it's following Jade," Joe cried out. "We've got to stop him!"
"We need a car," Frank said.
He jogged over to a man in a red coat who was standing next to a sign that announced Valet Parking. "Can I borrow your jacket for five minutes?" he asked.
The man eyed him warily. "How do I know you'll bring it back?"
Frank waved Joe over, turned back to the
38
parking attendant, and said, "I'll leave my brother as collateral. Okay?"
The man took one look at Joe's wide frame moving toward him and stripped off the jacket. "Here," he said, handing it to Frank. "Keep it as long as you want. No sweat."
Frank darted into the parking garage, thrusting his arms through the sleeves of the attendant's red jacket as he ran.
He slowed down as he neared a door next to a large window that looked into the garage. Through the glass, Frank could see rows of car keys hanging on hooks on the wall. He also saw a fat, bald man leaning back in a chair, his feet propped up against a desk.
Frank tugged on the sleeves of the red jacket. They were a little short, but they would do. He walked through the door. "The guy in twenty-five-fifteen wants his car," he announced.
The bald head turned slowly. "Yeah? Where's his ticket?"
Frank smiled. "He lost it. But he says he'll pay the lost-ticket charge." Frank stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a key attached to a small metal tag with a number engraved on it. "He gave me his room key to prove it was his car."
"You carhops come and go so fast, I don't even know your names. I don't think I've seen your face around before." Finally the fat man grunted and tossed something at Frank. "It's in
39
stall thirty-eight. If anybody asks, you took it while I was in the John."
Frank snatched the key ring out of the air and headed for the door.
* * *
Joe was keeping the nervous parking attendant busy. His muscular build could make him look threatening even if he was smiling, and sometimes that worked exactly to his advantage. Behind his smile Joe was wondering what his brother was up to.
About two minutes later a white, four-door sedan cruised up next to him. The driver rolled down the window and tossed something out. Joe ducked, and it sailed past him. It hit the attendant square in the chest. It was his red jacket.
Frank poked his head out the driver's-side window. "Let's put this baby in gear and get out of here," he said.
Joe ran around to the other side and slid into the front seat next to his brother. The car was already moving as he slammed the door shut.
"I hope Dad wasn't planning on going out tonight," Frank said. "This is the car we rented at the airport."
At the end of the driveway, Frank turned in the direction the jeep had gone a few minutes earlier. "There should be a map in there," he said, nodding toward the glove compartment. "See if you can find the street Jade lives on."
Joe found the map, unfolded it, and spread it
40
out in his lap. His eyes scanned it carefully, comparing street names to the one Jade had written down. It was slow going. All the Hawaiian names looked the same to him—mostly vowels with a few consonants thrown in here and there. "Got it!" he finally announced.
He glanced out the window, spotted a street sign, and then looked at the map again. "Turn right at the next intersection," he directed his brother.
Frank flicked the turn signal and moved over into the right lane. In the rearview mirror he could see a black van behind them do the same. Frank turned the corner, and the van followed.
He didn't say anything about it to Joe. He wasn't sure yet, and he needed his brother to navigate without any distractions.
Joe looked up from the map and peered out the window. They passed a few more streets. "Whoa!" he suddenly yelled. "Back up! I think we were supposed to take that street back there."
Frank made sure there was no traffic in the oncoming lane, cranked the wheel hard to the left, and came around in a tight U-turn. The black van held its course, moving off in the other direction. Frank let out a small sigh of relief, but then he noticed that their unwanted shadow was pulling into a driveway. Maybe he lives there, he told himself, but the van backed out into the road. Pretty soon it was close behind them again.
They rolled up to a stoplight. "This is it," Joe said. "Turn right here."
41
Frank didn't move. He checked the rearview mirror. The van was still there. He checked the traffic on the cross street. There were a few cars in the distance, but the intersection was clear for now.
"Come on," Joe urged. "You can turn right on a red light. It's legal."
Frank flicked on the turn signal, but he kept his foot on the brake. He glanced left and right. Cars from both directions were almost at the intersection. A few more seconds ticked by.
Joe reached out and shook his brother's shoulder. "Frank? What's wrong? Why are we just sitting—"
Frank slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and the tires screamed. The car shot straight ahead. Horns on both sides blared a frantic warning. Frank ignored them, his hands gripping the wheel, his foot jamming the gas pedal into the floor.
They flashed across the intersection just before the cross traffic closed the gap.
"—here?" Joe finished his sentence on the other side.
Frank relaxed. He took his foot off the accelerator, and the car slowed down.
"What was that all about?" Joe demanded.
"We had company," Frank explained. "But I think we lost them."
There was a screech of rubber somewhere behind them. Joe snapped his head around to get a
42
look out the back window. "Was it a black van? Sort of like ours back home?"
Frank's eyes darted to the rearview mirror and saw it, tires smoking and the back end fishtailing as the van imitated his stunt.
"Hang on," he muttered through clenched teeth. Then he punched the gas again, trying to put some distance between them and the black van. At the first street he came to he turned left, then right a block later, and another left at the next street.
Frank kept his eyes locked on the road in front of him, but still he had to know. "Is it still there?"
"Yeah," Joe said. "But we're pulling away. He probably can't corner too well in that thing. A few more sharp turns should do it."
A steep hill loomed in front of them. The road didn't go up it or around it—it went through it. "Turn where?" Frank shouted as they entered the tunnel.
On the other side, the road ended abruptly. They were surrounded by a towering wall of rock splattered with brownish green plants and vines. On a small sign were the words Diamond Head Park.
Joe searched for another exit. "There's got to be another way out of here," he insisted.
Frank slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt. "Yeah," he replied, "over the top. This is Diamond Head—an extinct volcano. We're sitting at the bottom of the crater."
43
They could hear the van coming through the tunnel, the rumble of the engine echoing off the walls. "I guess it's too late to go back the way we came," Joe said.
They got out of the car and looked up the side of the ancient volcano. The sun was beginning to set, and deep shadows filled the crater. Frank could just make out a lazy zigzag pattern near the top, and his eyes traced its downward path. "There's a trail over there," he said, pointing off to the left.
Behind them, they heard a car door open, then another. Joe whirled around and saw the black van. There were two unfriendly-looking men standing next to it. One of them was wearing a gray suit. A ragged scar slashed down the left side of his forehead.
The other one was wearing a windbreaker over his shirt. Joe knew that guys who wear coats on hot days are usually hiding something inside them.
"We want to have a little talk with you," the man in the suit called out.
"So start talking," Joe said as he backed around the rented car. He wanted to put a nice, thick steel barrier between himself and the concealed "conversation piece" he was sure the man's hand was resting on under the coat.
"What now?" he whispered to his brother.
"Don't worry," Frank said in a low voice. "I've got a plan."
"Great. What is it?"
44
"Run," he said. Then he turned and bolted toward the trail.
Joe was right on his heels. "I was afraid that was the plan!" he shouted in Frank's ear. He glanced back and saw the two men lumbering after them. Frank and Joe had a good head start, and they were in better shape than their pursuers. They could easily stay out of firing range—as long as they had someplace to run.
Joe wasn't worried about himself. He was thinking about Jade. If they didn't find a way out of the crater soon, they might not be able to stop the driver of the blue sedan—if it wasn't already too late.
"What do we do when we get to the top?" Joe huffed.
Frank looked up. He figured the volcano was about seven hundred feet high, but it would take a while to reach the top on the switchback trail. "I haven't figured that out yet."
"Terrific," Joe muttered.
They jogged past a dark opening in the side of the volcanic wall. It looked like a cave. But Frank thought it might be something else. He doubled back and peered inside. It was pitch black.
His brother joined him, poking his head into the gloom. "Great place to get trapped," Joe said.
"Not if this is what I think it is," Frank said, stepping inside. "Come on. This could be our ticket out of here."
45
Joe shrugged and followed him. They moved slowly through the darkness, stumbling over invisible debris. Frank felt his way around a corner and found himself in a chamber filled with long shadows and an eerie orange glow.
"What is this place?" Joe asked.
Frank pointed at the source of the light. It was the last rays of sunlight streaming in through a long, narrow opening carved into the far end of the volcanic wall.
"It's an old gun emplacement from World War Two. They turned Diamond Head into a kind of armored fortress. After the war they pulled out all the hardware but left the holes. The crater is honeycombed with these old pillboxes."
"So you were hoping maybe we'd find some old guns, too?" Joe asked.
"No," Frank said. "I was hoping we could lose those guys in the maze of tunnels. But it looks like this is a dead end."
Joe wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Well, maybe if we double back before—"
"Hey, Pete!" a muffled voice shouted from just outside the tunnel. "I thought I heard something over here in this cave. Maybe we should check it out."
"Yeah," came the reply. "Let's get it over with."
46
Chapter 6
Joe scanned the chamber for any kind of weapon. A rock, a brick, anything to give them a fighting chance. A shadow high up on the wall cast by the setting sun caught his eye. He looked up and saw a rusty metal rod hanging from the cement ceiling.
Frank saw it, too. "Steel-reinforced concrete," he whispered. "This place was built to take a lot of shelling."
Joe jumped up and grabbed the rod. It sagged under his weight and then snapped off. Joe dropped softly to the floor, holding a four-foot chunk of solid steel.
Frank saw another metal bar suspended above the narrow entrance to the room. He didn't think it would break off so easily—but he had an idea.
47
He leapt up and grasped it with both hands. He swung his legs up and planted his feet on the wall above the doorway. Then he pulled himself up until his head was touching the ceiling. Anyone walking into the room wouldn't be able to see him unless he looked straight up.
Joe knew what his brother had in mind. He flattened himself against the wall next to the entrance and held the steel rod ready to swing.
They could hear footsteps in the dark corridor, scuffling toward them. A figure appeared in the doorway, and Frank pounced. His full weight came down on the man's shoulders, toppling them both to the floor.
Joe didn't budge. He didn't want to reveal himself. He was waiting for the second man. Seconds ticked by. Nobody came through the passage. Joe glanced from the doorway to the two figures rolling and grappling on the dusty floor. First Frank was on top. Now he was on the bottom—and the man above him was raising a rock over his head, about to bring it down in a crushing blow.
Joe moved out in the open and swung the steel bar. The blow connected with the man's forearm. He screamed in pain and clutched at his arm with his other hand.
"Hold it right there!" a voice boomed from the darkness.
Joe lifted the metal rod and spun around. The man in the dark gray suit stepped into the dim chamber.
48
Joe could see the scar more clearly now. It cut through the man's eyebrow and continued on down his cheek. Whatever had made the mark had barely missed his left eye. Then Joe noticed that he was holding something in his hand.
Joe could see it wasn't a gun. It was a badge.
"FBI," the man said. "Assaulting a federal officer is a serious offense. I think you two have some explaining to do."
Frank got up off the floor and helped the injured man to his feet. "Who are you guys?" he asked. "Why are you following us?"
The man holding the badge turned to him. "I'll ask the questions. You'll give the answers. Clear?"
"That depends on the questions," Frank said.
"Okay, try this one. What happened to Fenton Hardy?"
"Something happened to Dad?" Joe blurted out.
"Fenton Hardy is your father?" The agent's eyes narrowed as he turned to his partner, who was still holding his bruised arm. "Next time get all the facts first. We've just blown half a day."
He looked back at the Hardys. "Sorry about all this. Come on, let's get out of here, and I'll explain."
As they walked down the trail the FBI agent talked. "I can't tell you very much. I don't know a whole lot myself. We're just watchdogs. Your father is working on a sensitive case for the
49
Bureau, and my partner and I are supposed to make sure nothing happens to him."
Frank nodded. "I see. You knew the car was rented to him. So you followed it, thinking he was in it. Then when we tried to give you the slip, you figured something must be wrong—like maybe we kidnapped him or something."
"Say, you'd make a pretty good detective yourself," the man said. "You've got all the answers."
"Not all the answers," Frank said coolly. "I still don't know who you are."
The agent smiled thinly. "Well, I see we're at the end of the trail, and there's your car. Drive safely now. We wouldn't want you to get hurt, would we?"
Joe didn't notice the icy exchange between his brother and the man in the suit. He was worried about Jade, and he wanted to get moving. "Give me the keys," he insisted. "I'm driving."
Frank didn't respond. He was studying the two FBI agents. He watched them walk back to the black van, get in, and drive away. Then he turned to his brother. "I think we'd better go back to the hotel and talk to Dad before we do anything else."
"Not before we check on Jade," Joe demanded.
"Our little detour took almost an hour," Frank replied. "If nothing happened to her while we were running around in here, she's probably safe—for now."
"At least let me call her," Joe persisted.
50
"It will only take a couple of minutes to get back to the hotel," Frank pointed out. "You can call her from there."
* * *
Fenton Hardy was waiting for his sons when they walked through the door of the luxury suite. He glanced at his watch. "I was starting to get worried," he began.
Joe braced himself for a lecture—something about responsibility, letting your parents know where you are, and not taking the car without permission. "Before you say anything," he cut in, "I can explain ..."
His words trailed off when he saw the people sitting on the couch behind his father.
Fenton Hardy glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes." He nodded. "I'm sure you could, but I've already heard most of it. I'd like you to meet Kevin Roberts," he continued. "I think you already know the young lady sitting next to him."
Jade smiled at Joe. He thought she looked more exotic than ever.
"My daughter tells me some strange things have been happening since she met you," Kevin Roberts said.
"I spotted a car following me home today," Jade explained. "I think I shook him off, but it really spooked me. I told my father everything, and we decided to talk it out with you. I'm really sorry to drag you into this."
51
"You didn't drag us into anything," Frank assured her.
"That's right," Joe said. "We jumped in with both feet."
"I still don't understand why anyone would be after me," Jade said.
Frank exchanged a quick glance with his father and Joe. "I think I may have come up with something. There may not be much prize money in surfing, but what about illegal gambling? What if somebody has bet a bundle on another surfer in the Banzai?"
"It's a possibility," Fenton Hardy said. "There is organized crime in Hawaii, but not on the same scale as on the mainland."
Kevin Roberts nodded. "The big crime families from the mainland haven't been too successful in breaking the local mob," he said. "At least, that's what I've read in the papers," he added.
"Well, we all agree that there seems to be a definite threat to Jade's life," Fenton concluded. "What surprises me, Mr. Roberts, is why you came here instead of calling the police as soon as you found out."
Jade's father looked uncomfortable.
"We're talking about your daughter's life!" Joe snapped when Roberts didn't answer.
"I know," Kevin Roberts replied slowly. "That's why I think we shouldn't say anything to the police."
52
Joe was confused.
"If organized crime is behind this, there may be crooked cops on their payroll. I came to the same conclusion as Frank about heavy gambling involvement."
"So what do we do now?" Jade asked.
"You stay here tonight," Fenton replied. "Frank and Joe will sleep in one room, and you and your father can use the other."
Joe looked at his father. "What about you?"
"I have a hunch that I won't be getting much sleep," Fenton said. "I've got a lot of arrangements to make for you for tomorrow."
"While you're up," Frank said, "have one of your FBI friends run a check on a surfer named Nick Hawk."
* * *
At dawn Fenton Hardy hustled his sons and Jade onto an interisland commuter plane.
"Where are we going?" Joe asked.
"Maui," his father replied. "It's an island about ninety miles southeast of here. It's a little bigger than Oahu, but it's a lot less crowded."
"What do we do when we get there?" Jade wanted to know.
"Stay away from crowds," Fenton said. "There'll be a rental car waiting for you at the airport. Keep moving around until we can find out who's after you—and why."
He turned to his older son and handed him a slip of paper. "Frank, here's a number where I
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can be reached if I'm not at the hotel. Try to check in a couple times every day."
* * *
Just as Fenton Hardy had said, a car was waiting at the airport. Frank called his dad to let him know what their plans were. Joe got behind the wheel, and a few minutes later they were driving along a twisting, two-lane road. Jade was sitting next to him, and Frank directly behind him, looking out the window. On the left was a steep hillside, covered with tropical plants. On the right the ground fell away sharply, and the Pacific waited several hundred feet below.
"Jade should be safe," Frank said, "as long as we keep on the move."
"Well, we're moving right along," Joe observed, keeping his eyes on the curvy road ahead. "Although I'm not sure where we'll end up."
"This road follows the coastline south to the town of Hana," Jade explained. "But how long do we keep driving around?"
Frank shrugged. "A few days, maybe—maybe less."
"Do you really think your father can help?" Jade asked.
"With access to the FBI computers and the description of the blue sedan with the broken rear window," Joe said, "you'd be surprised what he might turn up."
Frank pounded the seat with his fist. "I knew I forgot something!"
54
"Your Bermuda shorts?" Joe ventured.
"No. I forgot to tell Dad about those two FBI agents."
"So what? We're all on the same side, aren't we?"
"I hope so," Frank muttered almost to himself.
Joe gestured out the window. "Relax. We're in paradise, remember? If that guy behind us would just stop tailgating, I could slow down and enjoy the view myself."
Then there was a loud, metallic crump, and the car lurched forward suddenly.
"Hey!" Joe yelled. "That guy just rear-ended us!"
There was another crump, and they surged forward once more.
"He did it again!" Joe shouted, struggling to keep the car on the road.
Frank spun around and got a good look at the other vehicle. It was a pickup truck, and this time he made sure to get the license plate number. But he didn't think it would do much good. The truck was larger and heavier than their car, and he guessed the driver wouldn't stop ramming them until he pushed them over the edge of the cliff.
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Chapter 7
Instinctively Joe slammed on the brakes, but when he did, the truck just rammed them harder. They skidded closer to the cliff edge. Then he switched tactics and hit the gas pedal.
But there were too many twists and turns in the road. He would barely pull away before he'd have to slow down for another curve. And then the pickup was right on top of them. Crump! The bumpers of the two vehicles smacked together.
"Is there any place up ahead where we can get off this road?" he shouted. Crump! His head snapped back and bounced off the headrest.
Jade shook her head. "How did they find us so fast?"
"I don't know! But I'm not going to stop and ask!"
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Crump! Joe knew that sooner or later one of those blows would be more than he could handle, and the car would tumble over the side and plummet into the ocean below. Up ahead, the road climbed sharply, but it was a pretty straight shot, and Joe figured it was the only one he'd get.
"Hang on!" he screamed, and punched the gas pedal to the floor.
The car pulled away from the pickup and sped up the road. At the top of the rise, there was a sharp bend to the right, but Joe didn't plan on making the turn. He yanked his foot off the accelerator and smashed it down on the brake. At the same time, he cranked the steering wheel all the way to the left.
The front tires screeched and smoked. The rear end swung out to the right, and the car spun around in the middle of the road. It skidded backward a few feet and softly bumped into the guardrail on the outer edge of the curve.
Then Joe was jamming the gas again, and the car squealed back down the road. The pickup truck was plowing up the hill, hugging the inside lane, away from the cliff. Joe stayed on the same side and aimed straight for the truck, his foot glued to the gas pedal.
He was grinning wildly. "Up for a little game of chicken?"
Now they were close enough to see the terrified expression on the truck driver's and passenger's 
57
faces. He tried to pull off the road, but the shoulder was too narrow. The tires on the left side hit the steep incline and rolled up it. The whole truck tilted crazily to one side. Joe swerved back into the outer lane and zipped past just as the pickup rolled and fell over.
Frank twisted around to see the wreckage. "We've got to go back and get them out of there," he said.
"Are you crazy?" Joe burst out. "They were trying to kill us!"
"Frank's right," Jade said. "We can't just leave them there."
Reluctantly, Joe stopped the car, put it in reverse, and started to back up. He could see someone trying to climb out of the pickup truck. Then there was a sharp crack, and the rear window of their car shattered.
Frank dove for the floor. Joe ducked, pushing Jade's head down with his right hand at the same time. "I don't think they want our help," he said.
Frank was staring at a brand-new hole in the window over his head. "I think you're right," he replied. "Let's get out of here."
Joe slammed the gearshift lever and pressed down hard on the gas pedal. The car shot forward, and they left the overturned truck far behind.
They didn't stop until they came to a gas station with a pay phone. Frank hopped out and ran
58
over to the phone. He punched in the number his father had given him.
After a few rings, a female voice came on the line. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, Honolulu office."
A few minutes later Frank hung up the phone and walked back to the car.
"Any news?" Joe asked.
"Well, there's good news and bad news," Frank said. "Which do you want first?"
"Let's start with the good," Joe suggested.
"Okay. The good news is those goons in the pickup truck were probably the last we'll run into."
"Did they find the owner of the blue sedan?" Jade asked.
"No," Frank said, turning to her. "But they didn't have to. That's where the bad news comes in. It looks like your friend Nick Hawk owes money to almost every bookie in town—and he's been putting down some heavy bets on Connie Lo to win the Banzai Pipeline. They arrested him about an hour ago."
"I can't believe it," Jade said. "Did he confess?"
"No," Frank admitted. "But the evidence is pretty strong. He was in deep. If he couldn't pay off his gambling debts soon, he was going to be shark bait. With you out of the way, Connie would be the top contender."
Joe looked at Jade. He could see that she was
59
fighting back tears. He reached out and touched her. Her arm felt stiff, and her fist was clenched tightly at her side. "I'm sure Connie didn't know anything about it," he said. "It's over. Try to put it behind you. You can go home now."
Jade looked at him. "I don't think I want to go back yet. I need some time to clear my head."
Joe smiled. "Hey, no problem. It's a sunny day, and we've got a full tank of gas. What do people do for fun on Maui?"
"I don't know," Jade said, perking up a little. "Play golf or hang out at the beach, I guess."
"Hmm, tough choice," Joe said, scratching his chin.
"Not really," Frank remarked. "We didn't bring any golf clubs."
"So that leaves the beach," Joe said.
"Okay," Jade nodded. "Just as long as we steer clear of surfboards. I don't even want to think about surfing today."
"No problem," Joe said, starting the engine and putting the car in gear.
"Yeah," Frank agreed. "Because we didn't bring any swimsuits either."
* * *
It was past noon by the time they rolled into Lahaina, a small town perched on the western coast of the island. A hundred years earlier it had been a major seaport for the islands, and it still had the look of an old-fashioned sailing port. Weathered clapboard buildings hung out over
60
the bay, suspended a few feet above the waterline by sturdy wooden beams.
Frank noticed that instead of seedy dockside bars and musty tackle shops, the port was now home to expensive boutiques and custom T-shirt stores. Outside one of the stores, Frank spotted a public phone.
"Pull over for a minute," he said. "I'd better let Dad know where we are."
After he made the call, they drove along the coast. Beyond the small town on the bay, the beach took over again. Swimmers, surfers, and strollers dotted the shoreline.
"Just stop wherever it looks good," Jade said. "All the beaches in Hawaii are public."
Joe saw something floating in the air over the water. "Is that a guy in a parachute?"
Jade looked where he was pointing. "He's para-sailing. See that motorboat out there? The parachute is attached to the boat by a long line. It's the closest thing to a roller coaster you'll see in Hawaii. I've heard it's a lot of fun, but I've never tried it."
Joe steered the car onto the sandy shoulder. "Well, let's find out."
Frank studied the billowing, rainbow-colored shape being towed across the sky. "I think I'll sit this one out. Parachutes are great if you're in a burning airplane. I don't feel like putting one on when I'm already on the ground. You two go ahead and try if you want."
61
Joe and Jade walked across the sand to the water. They watched the motorboat make a wide turn, slowing down as it headed toward the beach. As its speed dropped, the parachute in the air behind it glided down. The boat turned again. Now it was barely coasting, just a few feet from the shoreline. The parachute swung over the beach as it dipped down, and the man strapped into it landed lightly on his feet.
Joe could see two men in the boat. They both looked like native Hawaiians—dark skin and thick black hair. The skipper was standing, holding the wheel with his left hand. He worked the throttle with his right hand, easing it back slowly. Without throwing out an anchor, it was tricky to hold the boat steady in one place. It looked like he had had a lot of practice at it, though.
The other man jumped overboard into the waist- deep water and waded ashore. He gathered up the flapping parachute and helped the rider out of the harness.
Joe grabbed Jade's hand. "Come on, here's your chance."
"My chance?" she said. "What about you? This was your idea!"
"Ladies first," Joe insisted. "Besides, you were the one who said it was fun."
The smiling Hawaiian from the boat held out the parachute harness. "You want to give it a try? Only ten bucks."
62
Joe shook his head. "Two for fifteen," he haggled. "First her, then me."
The man's grin widened. "Okay. You hold the chute while I get her strapped in."
Joe wrapped his arms around the bundle of multicolored nylon, making sure not to tangle the lines leading to the harness. Jade stepped into the harness and put her arms through the shoulder straps. The Hawaiian checked the straps that crisscrossed her hips and chest, making sure they were all snug and secure. He patted her on the back and flashed another big grin.
"All set," he called to Joe. "Just wait until I'm back in the boat, and then let go." He ran into the water and splashed his way back to the motorboat.
Jade tugged at the harness. "I'm not sure this is such a hot idea."
"It's too late now," Joe replied. "I already paid him—and I don't think I could get you out of that thing, anyway."
Joe saw the Hawaiian climb back in the boat, and he got ready to let go of the parachute. But then he saw another boat pull up next to it. This one was a flat, sleek white speedboat. Painted on the side was a red lightning bolt. On the stern, Joe could see the name Big Deal.
Two men were on the speedboat. They shouted something across to the other boat. Joe couldn't make out the words, but he could see that the newcomers were backing up their argument with
63
a pistol. Then the long, thick line that ran between the boat and the parachute was untied and tossed over to the more powerful speedboat.
Jade glanced nervously at him. "Joe? What's going on?"
Joe dropped the parachute and ran toward her. He heard the deep growl of the diesel engine as it roared away. He saw the slack go out of the line. The parachute billowed and rose upward.
Just as Jade was jerked off her feet and into the air, Joe leapt up and grabbed the harness. The parachute dipped slightly from the extra weight. Joe's feet brushed the sand.
"Let go!" Jade screamed. "You'll be killed!"
Joe clutched tighter. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew Jade was in danger and needed his help. Suddenly there was no ground beneath his feet. The parachute started to gain altitude rapidly.
After catching his breath, Joe looked down. The Pacific Ocean sparkled far below him already. How high had they soared? Fifty feet? A hundred? It was impossible to tell. Either way, it was too late to change his mind now.
He'd never survive the fall.
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Chapter 8
The speedboat skimmed over the water, towing the parachute far from the shoreline. Joe's arms were starting to tire—the harness cut into his skin and burned the palms of his hands. He didn't know how long he could hold on, and he didn't want to find out the hard way.
"What do we do now?" Jade yelled.
With the wind rushing through his ears and the speedboat engine blaring below, Joe could barely hear her. "There's a Swiss army knife in my right front pocket," he shouted. "See if you can get it."
She reached around and managed to pull the knife out of his pocket. "Okay, I've got it. What next?"
"Cut the line!"
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Jade opened the three-inch blade and stared at it. "It's going to take a while."
"I know," Joe responded. "But it's all we've got—unless you have a better idea."
Jade shook her head and started sawing at the thick nylon line. Joe twisted his head around and looked back at the island of Maui. He had his doubts that they could swim that far—and he had even bigger doubts that whoever was in the speedboat would give them a chance to find out.
He scanned the area for nearby ships. In the distance, he thought he saw a few navy battleships. They were too far away to take notice of a lone parachute, though.
The speedboat was headed in the direction of a small island. Maybe, if they got a little push from the wind, they could make it there. If they came down on dry land, Joe thought they might stand a chance of getting out of this alive.
They could run. They could hide. They could make weapons out of sticks and rocks. It wasn't much, but it was better than floundering in the water, waiting to get picked off.
"Got it!" Jade suddenly yelled.
The feeling of being dragged through the air abruptly fell away—along with the rope that splashed down into the blue water below.
The parachute started to drift downward, but the stiff trade winds were much stronger out in the open water, giving them a little extra lift and pushing them right where Joe wanted to go.
66
The speedboat circled underneath, like a hungry shark, waiting to see where the parachute would come down.
* * *
Frank had seen the speedboat pull up next to the Hawaiians' boat, but he was too far away to see what was going on. He didn't know anything was wrong until he saw Joe lunge at the parachute harness just as it lifted Jade into the air.
He ran down to the water, but the boat was already far out to sea. He watched the brightly colored parachute grow smaller in the distance. Just like that, Joe was gone as the rumble of the big diesel engine faded away. All Frank could hear then was the high-pitched whine of jet-skis, droning along the shoreline.
The two Hawaiians in the small motorboat watched in silence as the speedboat raced away. Frank waded out into the ocean, waving frantically to get their attention, but they didn't notice.
Frank swam out to the boat, grabbed hold of the gunwale, and hauled himself out of the water.
That got their attention. "What do you think you're doing?" the man clutching the wheel asked sharply, twisting to face him.
The other man moved toward Frank, fists clenched. "Crazy haoles. First you steal our para- sail ride. Now you think you can steal our boat, too?"
Frank held out his hands. Both men were stocky and muscular. Although Frank was taller
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than they were, he doubted that he had a weight advantage over either of them. Even if he could take them out, he didn't want to start a fight.
"You've got it all wrong, guys," Frank quickly said. "When they stole your parachute, they kidnapped my brother and a friend of ours. So crank up the engine and let's get going."
"Go where?" the skipper replied. His anger had subsided, and now he looked at Frank with mild curiosity. "You can't take a boat like this into the interisland channel. It's too rough out there."
"Yeah," the other man agreed. "Besides, what would we do even if we could catch up with them? They had guns, man. Big guns."
"You can't just sit here and do nothing!" Frank yelled. "How about the coast guard—or the navy?"
"Good luck," the skipper said. "By the time you get to a phone and cut through all the red tape, that boat will be long gone."
"Terrific," Frank muttered.
He spun around to dive back in the water and saw something lashed to the side of the boat. He had climbed in from the other side, so he hadn't noticed it before. It looked like a cross between a motorcycle and a snowmobile—except it didn't have any wheels or treads.
Frank turned back to the two Hawaiians. He pulled a soggy wallet out of his soaking wet
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pants. "How much do you want for the jet-ski?' he asked.
"You'll never make it on that thing," the skipper said. "We just have it in case the engine breaks down and we have to ferry people back to shore. You can't take it out in the channel."
"That's my problem," Frank snapped. "How much do you want?"
The man shrugged. "Take it. Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky and catch those jerks. If you do, just remember to bring back our parachute."
"I'll bring it back," Frank promised. "But how will I find you?"
"We'll be here," came the reply. "If we're not, just ask around for Freddie or Mike Ahina. All the locals know us."
Frank bent over the side and untied the lines that secured the jet-ski. He climbed down onto it, holding the side of the boat with one hand to keep steady. He pressed the starter and twisted the throttle on the end of the handlebar. The small engine sounded like an angry swarm of bees.
"Oh, well," Frank told himself. "It sure beats swimming in wet clothes."
Even though the engine wasn't very big, Frank discovered the jet-ski was pretty quick. It was made of lightweight materials and designed to skip across the surface of the water. That was
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exactly what it did. Every time Frank hit a small wave, the jet-ski flew into the air.
It took some getting used to. It was like waterskiing and motorcycle motocross racing jumbled together. Frank almost lost it a couple times, coming down hard and wobbly on the front ski. But after a while he started shifting his weight whenever the jet-ski took off, keeping the front end up and forcing the back end down.
The water started to get choppy farther out from shore, and it was harder to control the machine. Frank knew it would get a lot worse before it got any better. The volcanic mountains of the islands acted as giant windbreaks, keeping the ocean calm along the coastline. The winds whipped the water into whitecaps out in the interisland channel, though, and that was where the speedboat had gone. So that's where Frank was going, too.
A wave smacked the jet-ski broadside. Frank fought for control. Saltwater sprayed over his face and shoulders. He couldn't jump these waves as he had the smaller ones near shore. They were too big—and getting bigger.
He tried to weave between them. This is like running a marathon in a minefield, Frank thought. Except these mines are moving.
He began to think the Hawaiians had been right—he'd never make it across the channel on the jet-ski. Dodging one wave after another meant he had to swerve off in one direction, then cut
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back to get on course again, only to veer off again to skirt another whitecap. His chances of catching the speedboat had been slim when he was moving in a straight line. Threading a twisted path through the rolling hills of water didn't exactly improve the odds.
Frank knew he'd never catch them this way. He was about to give up and try to make it back to Maui when he saw a bright shape flashing across the waves. It was a white speedboat, with a ragged streak of crimson on the side.
Frank looked at the red lightning bolt. He couldn't believe his luck. They were almost headed right at him. But where was the parachute? Where was Joe?
Frank pushed those questions out of his mind. One thing at a time. And the first thing, he told himself, is to get on that boat.
He aimed the jet-ski at the oncoming speedboat. Frank held his breath, waiting for them to change course to avoid him, but the speedboat cut a straight line through the water. Frank closed the gap between them. Still no reaction.
Why don't they do something? Frank wondered. Can't they see me? He glanced down at the blue-and-white jet-ski and chuckled. He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans. Perfect camouflage against the blue ocean and the white wave crests.
It suddenly occurred to Frank that he had no idea how he was going to get on the speedboat.
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they sure weren't going to stop and offer him an invitation. "I'll just have to wing it," he muttered to himself.
A wave started to rise up between Frank and his target. Frank saw his chance. He twisted the knob on the handlebar and hit the swell at full throttle. The jet-ski soared over the crest and became airborne. It hurtled toward the speedboat, but Frank could tell it was going to fall short. The combined weight of Frank and the jet-ski was too much.
So he let go of the handlebars and kicked off with his feet. The jet-ski dropped away, and Frank sailed right above the boat and thudded onto the deck, landing on his side.
There was a sharp pain in his hip, but Frank ignored it. He jumped to his feet and whirled around to face two hulking brutes. Both were wearing dark suits and sunglasses. They definitely didn't look like sailors.
They definitely didn't look Hawaiian, either. The one holding the wheel had short, light brown hair with a small bald spot in the back. He turned and gave Frank a cold, hard stare. "Get rid of him," he growled to his partner.
The second man nodded and reached into his coat, but Frank slammed his foot into the man's stomach before the gun had cleared the shoulder holster. He doubled over from the blow, and Frank's hand came down on the back of his neck
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with blurring speed. The man slumped to the deck.
Frank didn't stop to admire his work. The thug behind the wheel was turning, starting to make his move. Frank spun around, swinging his left leg up for a roundhouse kick. The side of Frank's foot smashed into the man's jaw. The thug's sunglasses flew off, and his head smacked the steering wheel.
Frank didn't give him a chance to fall. He pushed him up against the side rail and reached inside the man's coat. He felt cold steel and leather and pulled out a .45 automatic pistol. Frank thumbed off the safety and shoved the gun in the man's face.
"Where's my brother?" Frank rasped.
The thug sneered. "You mean the jerk with the girl?"
Frank pressed the gun against the man's skin. "The only jerk I see is the one with the barrel of a forty-five up his nose. Now, where are they? I won't ask again."
The man shrugged. "It don't make no difference anyway. There's nothing you can do. They're on Kahoolawe."
* * *
"What's wrong?" Joe asked. He was standing on a rocky beach, the parachute bunched up in his arms. "Those guys aren't coming after us. As soon as they saw us land here, they took off. They probably would have ripped the bottom
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out of that boat if they tried to bring it in here."
Jade didn't respond. She had the harness half off and was staring at a signpost stuck in the sand. Danger! it warned in big red letters. Keep Off! Beneath that was a single Hawaiian word, Kahoolawe.
"Hey," Joe said when he saw the sign. "I thought you said all the beaches in Hawaii were public. Who's this Kahoolawe guy?"
Jade turned to him. There was fear in her eyes. "That's the name of the island," she said. "The whole thing belongs to the navy."
"So we'll get arrested for trespassing on government property," Joe replied. "It's better than wrestling with sharks.''
Jade shook her head. "You don't understand. Nobody comes here—not even the navy.
"They use the island only for target practice."
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Chapter 9
The Big Deal raced toward Maui. Frank had the throttle wide open. Every time the boat hit a wave, the bow reared up out of the water and then crashed back down. Salt spray splashed the windshield.
Frank checked the fuel gauge. Almost empty. Barely enough to make it. If he had tried for Kahoolawe, he would have ended up stranded there with his brother and Jade. He glanced back at his two passengers, firmly tied up with the anchor line.
He pulled into the small marina in the harbor at Lahaina, ignoring the No Wake signs. He killed the engine and let the speedboat drift to the dock. He was already standing on the bow
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when it scraped against the pier. He jumped off and wrapped the bowline around a post.
"Hey, man!" a voice called out. "Where's our para-sail? You said you'd bring it back."
Frank turned and saw Mike Ahina, his brother Freddie behind him.
Frank nodded at the white speedboat with the red lightning bolt. "I got something almost as good," he replied. "The creeps that stole it."
Frank looked at the two hired thugs bound hand and foot on the deck of the boat. One of them was still out cold. The other was glaring back at him.
Frank turned back to the Hawaiian brothers. "Listen, could you keep an eye on those two until the cops get here? I'll call them right after I get through to Pearl Harbor."
"You know somebody at Pearl?" Freddie asked.
"No," Frank replied. "But my brother's stuck on Kahoolawe, and only the navy can get him off."
"Kahoolawe?" Freddie Ahina said. "You know what they use that island for?"
Frank nodded quickly. "Yeah, but I don't know when they plan to use it next. So I'm kind of in a hurry. Where's the nearest phone?"
Mike Ahina scowled. "You'd just be wasting your time, man. They won't call off a bombing run just because some kid calls them up and tells them to."
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Frank looked at him. "You mean they're going to bomb it today?"
Freddie shrugged. "They bomb it all the time, but they've got some big exercise going on right now. Lots of battleships out there. Only thing you can know for sure—Kahoolawe's going to get a brutal pounding before it's over."
"Then I've got to get back there now!" Frank burst out.
"I know the fastest way to get you there," Freddie said. "Let me make a call and set it up."
While Freddie Ahina was gone, his brother jumped into the speedboat to check on the two thugs. "Hey, what's this?" he called to Frank. "Looks like a picture of the girl who was with your brother."
"Let me see that," Frank said. It looked like a photocopy of a page torn out of a magazine. It was a picture of Jade all right—but she looked a few years younger. She was holding a surfboard. Standing next to her was her father, Kevin Roberts.
"Where'd you get this?" Frank asked.
"I found it on the deck," the Hawaiian responded.
* * *
Ten minutes later a helicopter swooped down out of the sky, hovered for a moment, then settled down gently on the end of the pier. Frank
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was surprised that the dock could hold all that weight, but he didn't stop to analyze it.
The door of the cockpit swung open. Frank ducked and ran over to it, the rotors whirling just a few feet over his head. He started to climb in, grabbing the door frame with both hands and stepping on the front of the skid bar.
The helicopter wobbled slightly. Frank looked down. The machine wasn't resting on the pier at all. It was hovering just a few inches above it. Frank glanced across the seat at the pilot.
The man flashed a wide grin through his bushy beard. "Welcome to Doyle Island Tours. I'm your pilot, Hank Doyle. Hurry up and get in. I charge by the hour."
Frank clambered into the copilot's seat and strapped himself in. "Let's go," he shouted over the deafening howl of the engine.
Doyle tapped his headset and pointed to a similar unit on a hook on the side of the copilot's seat. Frank put it on. The headphones covered his ears, cutting out some of the noise. A small microphone was attached on one side.
"So you're a friend of Freddie Ahina's?" a voice crackled in Frank's ear.
"Actually I just met him today," Frank admitted.
The pilot turned to him. "You mean I'm supposed to take on the U.S. Navy for some lousy tourist? I owe Freddie a favor, but this is really pushing it. Who are you, anyway?"
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Frank looked at him, trying to penetrate Doyle's aviator shades with his gaze. He chose his words carefully. "I'm a guy who needs your help. I can't make you help me—I can't even ask you. I wouldn't ask anybody to risk his life flying into a target area during a naval barrage."
Frank slapped the release button on the shoulder straps of the copilot's seat. "My brother's on Kahoolawe, and that's where I'm going. If you won't take me, I'll figure out some other way to get there."
He started to take off the headset. Doyle's voice came through the earphones. "Hold on a second. You didn't answer my question. Who are you?"
"What difference does it make?" Frank asked.
The pilot grinned. "If we're going to get killed together, we should be on a first-name basis, don't you think?" He took his right hand off the control stick and held it out. "My friends call me Skydog."
Frank grasped Doyle's hand. "Thanks," he sighed. "My name's Frank Hardy. Whatever it costs, I'll find some way to pay you."
Doyle pulled back on the control stick and the helicopter banked up and away from the pier. "Forget it." He laughed. "If I had a dollar for every grunt I pulled out of a fire zone, I'd be a rich man. Besides, I can't stand those armchair admirals and their pretend wars. Somebody should put some howitzers on that island and start shooting 
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back. That'd give them something to put in their reports!"
Frank watched as Doyle worked the controls. It looked a lot like flying an airplane—except there seemed to be an extra lever by the left side of the seat. All of the pilot's controls were also duplicated on the copilot's side. Frank glanced over to his left and saw a lever next to his seat, too. He reached down and touched the handgrip.
"You know anything about flying?" Doyle suddenly asked.
Frank shrugged. "I took a few lessons back home. I could land a single-engine plane if I had to, but this looks a lot trickier."
That was an understatement. The dizzying array of dials, gauges, and switches were a total mystery to Frank.
Doyle nodded. "It takes a special breed to be a chopper jockey. Helicopters can do a lot of things airplanes can't—like hover, fly backward, and take off and land vertically. So they need more controls. It takes two hands and two feet all working together to fly this baby."
He patted the control stick in front of him. "This is the cyclic pitch control. Moving this changes the angle of the main rotor blades. You push it forward and you go forward. You pull it back, and you go backward. Simple, right?"
"So far," Frank replied. "But how do you turn?"
The pilot pointed at his feet. "See those pedals? 
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They control the tail rotor. Press one and you increase the tail rotor thrust, and you turn one way." He pushed down on the left pedal and the helicopter banked to the left. "Press the other, and you decrease the tail thrust."
"And you turn right—right?" Frank said.
"You got it," Doyle replied. "Now all you need to know is how to make it go up and down."
Frank smiled. "I bet that lever next to the seat is the missing ingredient."
"Right again," Doyle said. "That's the collective pitch control. Pull it up, and up we go." He gripped the lever and pulled. The helicopter soared upward.
Then abruptly he pushed the lever down. The helicopter swooped in a steep dive. Frank's stomach felt as if it had just jumped into his throat. He clutched at the control stick in front of him. It was the closest thing he could hang onto.
The bearded pilot eased the lever up, and the helicopter pulled out of the dive just before they hit the water. "Yee-ha!" he yelled. "This is the only way to travel!" The waves rushed by just a few feet beneath them.
Frank realized a good-size swell could easily swamp them. "Shouldn't we pull up a little?" he suggested, trying to sound cool and casual. "Like maybe to an altitude where we might show up on the navy's radar?"
Doyle laughed. "Great idea, kid! Let's take
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her up where we can get a real close look at some of those sixteen-inch shells that the sailors like to throw at Kahoolawe."
"If they know we're here," Frank said, "they won't fire, right?"
"I wouldn't bet my life on it," the pilot answered. "Let's give them a call and see what happens." He thumbed a switch on the control panel and spoke into the microphone. "Mayday! Mayday! This is Victor Able one five niner. We have lost hydraulic pressure and are going down on Kahoolawe."
There was a long pause. Static hissed through the headset. Then another voice crackled in Frank's ears. "Ah, say again, Victor Able one five niner. We didn't copy that."
"Mayday!" Doyle barked. "We are making an emergency landing on Kahoolawe!"
There was another static-filled pause, and then, "Ah, negative on that, Victor Able. You are entering a restricted flight zone. There is a naval exercise in progress. Alter course immediately. Do not, repeat, do not land on Kahoolawe."
The pilot looked at Frank and shrugged. He reached over to the control panel and flipped the radio switch on and off rapidly as he spoke into the microphone. "Signal breaking up. We did not copy last message. Repeat—we are going down on Kahoolawe. Mayday! Mayday!"
He shut off the radio and turned to Frank.
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"Maybe that will confuse them long enough for us to get in and out."
Frank heard a hollow whistling sound, and something whizzed by overhead. He looked at the island ahead and saw a patch of ground erupt in a spray of dirt and smoke.
"I wouldn't bet my life on it," he replied grimly.
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Chapter 10
Joe and Jade huddled beside a small outcropping of rock. The ground shook every time one of the heavy shells exploded. Even though the action seemed to be focused on another part of the island, Joe didn't want to take any chances.
Jade put her hand on his arm. "Tell me again," she said, "about how somebody is going to find us."
Joe listened to the steady krump krump krump in the distance. He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought the noise was getting louder.
He patted Jade's hand and pointed to the beach. He had spread the rainbow-colored parachute on the ground, holding down the edges with football- size rocks. "From the air, anybody can see that. It's as good as a flare gun or a signal fire."
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A shell exploded close by with a deafening roar that left Joe's ears ringing. Jade's fingernails dug into his arm.
"Tell me how we're going to survive until then!" she shouted.
"That was just a stray shot," Joe tried to reassure her. "They're concentrating all their firepower inland. All we have to do is sit tight."
There was another earsplitting blast nearby. Sand and pulverized rock showered down around them. The air was full of dark smoke and dust.
* * *
Frank spotted something down on the rocky beach. He heard the telltale whistling again, and then another chunk of the island was smashed into a rain of pebbles and dust. When the smoke cleared, whatever had been there was gone. Still, he thought it was worth a look.
He tapped the pilot's shoulder and pointed. "Take us down there! I thought I saw something."
Doyle nodded and moved the control stick. The helicopter turned and raced down the shoreline. Frank scanned the beach. Nothing but sand and boulders. A splash of color caught Frank's eye.
"Hold it!" he yelled. "Go back! There is something back there!"
Doyle's feet shifted on the pedals. The helicopter circled around and set down on the rocky beach.
Frank jumped out and picked up a strip of
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yellow cloth. There were other scraps of material scattered in the sand. He recognized the rainbow colors of the parachute. There was nothing left but confetti. Frank shuddered. He prayed that Joe and Jade weren't anywhere near the parachute when the explosion ripped into it.
Somebody coughed. Frank whirled and saw a ghost—at least it looked like a ghost. The figure was grayish white from head to toe. It coughed again. "About time you got here," it rasped.
Another dusty figure crawled out from behind a small rock outcropping.
Frank stared at them. "Joe? Jade? Is that you?"
"Who else were you expecting?" Joe replied hoarsely. "The Ghost of Christmas past?"
"You look horrible," Frank gasped. "Are you all right?"
Joe looked down at himself. "Yeah, I think so." He tried to brush off some of the dust, and a small cloud puffed up around him. He coughed again. "I could use a bath, though."
* * *
"So where are we going?" Hank Doyle asked after Frank introduced Joe and Jade, and they had flown some distance away from the small, scorched island. "Back to Maui?"
Frank looked at Joe and Jade in the backseat of the helicopter. "We've got to figure out our next move."
"Let's fly back to Oahu," Joe suggested. "We'll go have a little talk with Nick Hawk."
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He cracked his knuckles. "I'll give him five or ten good reasons to call off the dogs."
Frank shook his head. "Something tells me this goes way beyond Nick's gambling problems. They were double-teaming us back on Maui—first the guys in the car, and then the two goons in the speedboat."
Joe could see where his brother was leading. "That means somebody with heavy mob connections or a lot of money to burn on hired guns."
"Or both," Frank said.
"So what do we do now?" Jade asked. "We can't stay in this helicopter forever."
"We need to buy some time to come up with a plan," Frank said. "We need a place where nobody can find us for a while."
"I know just the place," the pilot said. He looked at the fuel gauge and tapped it with his finger. "We might just have enough fuel to make it."
"Might?" Joe responded. "What happens if we don't?"
Doyle chuckled. "Then we get wet!" He worked the foot pedals, and the helicopter banked hard to the left.
Frank glanced at the fuel gauge. The needle was still close to F. The tank was almost full. Frank smiled. Doyle had a weird sense of humor, but he was beginning to like him. "Cheer
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up, Joe," he said. "You said you needed a bath, anyway."
* * *
They were in the air for over an hour. Frank checked the position of the sun and guessed they were headed northwest. They flew over the small island of Lanai. They saw Molokai in the distance. Oahu passed by on the right. After that, there was nothing but blue for a while. Blue sky above them, and blue ocean below.
Finally a lush, green island loomed ahead.
Jade pointed out the window. "That's Kauai. They call it the garden island. That must be where we're going."
"What makes you think that?" Joe asked.
"Because if it isn't," Doyle answered, "it's an awfully long way to the next island big enough to land on." He turned to Frank and grinned. "Hang on—we're going in hard!"
The helicopter banked to the right and swooped down toward the island. As they got closer, Frank could see a vast, tropical jungle.
"Yee-hah!" the pilot whooped, skimming the tops of the trees. "I love this job! It's the most fun you can have without getting shot at."
Frank spotted a small cabin in a clearing in the jungle. Doyle pulled back on the stick, and the helicopter slowed down. It hovered over the clearing for a moment. Then he pushed down on the lever at his side, and the flying machine eased to the ground.
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Doyle cut the engine power and unbuckled his safety harness. "One of the fringe benefits," he said, gesturing at the small cabin surrounded by forest, "is being able to live someplace where you never get uninvited visitors."
They all got out of the helicopter. Joe looked around. Something was missing. "Is there a road anywhere near here?" he asked.
"Depends on what you mean by near—and what you mean by road," Doyle replied. "There's an old dirt trail about a mile from here. I guess you could run a four-wheeler down it."
"So you can get here only by helicopter," Frank said.
"You got it," the pilot answered. He opened the cabin door. "Welcome to Chateau Doyle. Try to ignore the mess. It's been a while since any guests have been here."
They followed him inside. "Looks like it's been a while since anybody has been here," Jade said.
There were cobwebs everywhere, and a faint mildew smell filled the air. The sparse wood furniture looked handmade, Frank noticed. Probably carved from trees that grew in the area.
"Well, it has been a while since I was last here," Doyle admitted. "I don't really live here anymore. I just use it as a retreat—a place to chill out when the world gets too weird."
"Like now?" Joe ventured.
A grin spread across the pilot's bearded face.
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"Are you kidding? I can't remember the last time I've had so much fun."
"Well, all this fun is making me hungry," Joe said. "I don't suppose you've got anything to eat in the refrigerator. That is, if you have a refrigerator."
Doyle laughed and slapped Joe on the back. "Let me show you the kitchen. We've got all the modern comforts. Refrigerator, stove, trash compactor—"
'Trash compactor?" Jade echoed.
'Sure," Doyle replied. "There's not a lot you can do with garbage. You can either bury it in the yard and end up living next to a dump, or—"
"Or you can haul it away," Frank cut in. "And if you have to carry it away in a helicopter that doesn't have a lot of extra space, a trash compactor makes a lot of sense."
"What do you do for power?" Joe asked. "I bet the electric company doesn't run any lines out here."
"If they did," Doyle answered, "I'd have neighbors pretty soon, and then I'd have to move. There's a diesel generator out back. It's not much, but it'll give us all the power we need. Come on, I'll show you."
He started to walk to the door and then stopped. He scratched his beard. "Of course, it isn't going to start without any fuel in it." He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well, it doesn't matter. Any food in the refrigerator would be pretty rank by now,
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anyway. So I'll just have to jump in the old station wagon and drive down to the Food 'n' Fuel."
"You want any company?" Frank asked.
The pilot waved him off as he headed out the door toward the helicopter. "Nah. You just hang loose for a while. I'll be back before you know it."
* * *
For the next few hours, while Joe and Jade sat in the cabin, talking, Frank stared out into the forest and reviewed the case. He glanced at his watch finally and started to get worried. Doyle hadn't returned and the sun was getting low in the sky. He doubted that even Skydog could find the cabin in the middle of the jungle in the dark.
Joe didn't notice the time go by—he was too busy talking to Jade. Eventually he did notice that something was bothering his brother. He walked up behind him and put his hand on Frank's shoulder. "What's up?" he asked.
"Doyle should have been back," Frank answered.
Joe shrugged. "Maybe he had too many items for the express check-out lane. Besides, it's given me a chance to find out some interesting things."
"Like what?" Frank replied. "Jade's favorite rock band? Her shoe size?"
Joe put his hand over his heart. "You wound me." He glanced over at the girl and then turned back to his brother. "Let's go outside and get
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some fresh air." He held the door open for Frank and then followed him out.
"So what'd you find out?" Frank asked.
"Do you know why Jade's father doesn't like her surfing?" Joe answered Frank with another question.
"Because it's dangerous?"
"No. Because of the publicity."
Frank frowned. "Replay that for me."
"When Jade first started to get known in competition, some dinky surfing magazine did a feature on her. She gave them this old picture of herself with her first surfboard. It was a present from her father—and he was in the picture, too. When her old man saw the article, he almost grounded her for life."
Frank pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "You mean this picture?"
Joe looked at it. "Where did you get that?"
"Off one of those thugs that took you and Jade for a joyride," Frank replied.
"It all starts to fit together, doesn't it?" Joe said.
"Yeah," Frank agreed. "No family, no past, no publicity—sounds like Kevin Roberts has been on the run for the past fifteen years."
"And whoever he was running from finally caught up with him," Joe added.
Frank looked at his brother. "There's something else bothering me."
"What's that?"
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"How did those hoods back on Maui know where to find us?"
The whup-whup-whup of a helicopter cut through the air.
"Doyle's back," Joe said.
Frank looked up and spotted the helicopter close by. Something was wrong! It was weaving through the air, its tail swinging from side to side. Then it just dropped.
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Chapter 11
Frank could tell the helicopter was coming down too fast. It hit the ground hard. The landing skid on the left side smashed down first. The struts groaned and buckled. Then the machine rocked the other way. The right skid smacked the ground, bounced up, and finally settled down.
The whine of the engine died down. Frank and Joe bolted toward the cockpit. Frank yanked open the door. Hank Doyle grinned out at him. "Sorry I'm late," he said. The smile wavered. "But the traffic was murder."
Frank poked his head into the cockpit. "Are you okay?" he asked the pilot.
Doyle nodded. "Yeah, but I think I've dodged enough artillery for one day."
Joe peered in over his brother's shoulder and
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saw a single bullet hole in the windshield. "Something tells me this isn't the work of a disgruntled customer," he said. "So maybe you should tell us exactly what happened."
"I flew back to Maui to pick up some gear. A guy showed up at the hangar just as I was getting ready to head back here," Doyle replied. "He wanted to know where you were. I made a break for it, but he managed to shoot off a couple rounds before I got the chopper off the ground."
"Why'd you come all the way back here?" Frank asked. "Why not just head for the nearest police station?"
Doyle snorted. "Because he was the police. He flashed an FBI badge at me before he started asking questions.''
"FBI?" Joe echoed. "What did he look like?"
The pilot shrugged his shoulders. "He looked like a fed."
"That's it?" Frank prodded. "No distinguishing marks?"
"Oh, yeah," Doyle said. "He had a scar over his left eye. Do you know him?"
"We ran into him once before," Joe replied.
"I have a bad feeling we'll tangle with him again before this is over," Frank said grimly.
He glanced around the inside of the helicopter. Other than the bullet hole in the windshield, there were no signs of damage. "Will this thing still fly?" he asked.
Doyle chuckled. "I got here, didn't I?"
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"Just barely," Frank noted. 'The tail rotor controls are kind of stiff," Doyle admitted. "He must have hit one of the cables. But it's nothing I can't handle."
Frank turned to his brother. "Get Jade. We're leaving now. We've got to get back to Honolulu right away."
"Right," Joe said. "No wonder those goons were right behind us every step of the way. Every time you called Dad, that FBI agent tipped them off."
"If they knew where to find us," Frank added, "how long do you think it will take them to track down Jade's father?"
* * *
As the helicopter flew across the water, Joe told Jade what they had pieced together.
"Who was my father hiding from?" she asked. "What did he do?"
"We don't know," Joe said. "But a safe bet would be that it has something to do with the mob and the FBI—and it happened a long time ago."
"You mean before we moved to Hawaii," Jade said.
Joe nodded. "The government might even have relocated you as part of the witness protection program."
"It doesn't make any sense!" she protested. "Why now—after fifteen years? You can't tell me they've been looking for us all this time!"
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"It does sound kind of farfetched, doesn't it?" Joe admitted. "But maybe they weren't looking at all. Maybe they just stumbled across you by accident."
Jade's shoulders slumped. "It's all my fault."
Joe reached out and took her hand. "You were only two when it happened—whatever it was. How could it be your fault?"
"The magazine article," she said. "No wonder my father was so upset."
"You had no way of knowing," Joe assured her.
She turned and looked at him. "What do we do now?"
"We fly to Waikiki," Joe explained, "and grab your father out of the hotel before anybody else finds out he's there."
"And then?" she asked.
Joe cleared his throat. "We're still working on that part."
"How do you know we're not already too late?" she pressed.
Joe didn't answer right away. He looked into her green eyes. "We don't," he finally said. "But we've got to try, right?"
The sun had set, and a full moon sparkled on the water. The only other source of light lay straight ahead. "That's Honolulu," Doyle announced. "I'll take her down over Waikiki Beach. But you're going to have to jump the last couple
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of feet—I can't risk landing more than once on that skid I busted back on Kauai."
"After we jump," Frank said, "you better get out of here. I don't know what we'll run into, and I don't want you to get stuck in the middle again."
The pilot grinned. "I like the fireworks. They make me feel alive, but I don't think I'll be much help in this crippled chopper. We're coming up on the beach now. Get ready to bail out."
The helicopter hovered a few feet above the sand. Joe pushed the back door open and jumped down. Jade stood in the opening. Joe reached out, and she jumped into his arms.
Frank watched to make sure they were all right. Then he turned to the pilot. "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done," he said.
"I'd send you a bill," Doyle replied, "but I don't have your address. Now, get out of here so I can go find some paying customers."
Frank opened the door and climbed out. The wind from the rotor blades whipped his hair around, and he had to shield his eyes from the blowing sand that pelted him. He flashed a thumbs-up gesture to the pilot, and the machine lifted off. Frank ran up the beach to join his brother.
Frank led the way back to the hotel through the beach entrance. When he walked into the hotel suite, the first thing he saw was his father sitting at the writing desk.
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When Fenton Hardy saw his son standing in the doorway, he said, "I thought you were still on Maui. Why didn't you call and let me know you were coming back here?"
"It's a long story," Frank said.
"A very long story," Joe chimed in.
"Well, I dug up quite a story of my own," Fenton replied. He looked at Jade. "I got most of it from your father."
"Does it have anything to do with the witness protection program?" she asked.
Fenton looked surprised. "He told me you didn't know anything about it."
"She didn't," Joe said. "We just put it all together today."
"But we don't have any of the details," Frank added. "How about filling in the gaps for us?"
"Sixteen years ago," Fenton began, "an undercover FBI agent penetrated the heart of a West Coast mob bookmaking and loan-sharking operation. They took bets on anything and everything. They'd even lend you the money to bet with."
"Then break your legs if you couldn't pay them back," Joe said.
His father nodded. "Something like that. Anyway, this undercover agent broke the whole case wide open. His testimony sent the ringleader, Thomas Catlin, to prison. Catlin swore he'd get revenge.
"But criminals make threats like that all the
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time," he continued. "Nobody took it seriously until a bomb demolished the agent's house. The agent was in a nearby park with his daughter when it happened. The only person in the house was his wife."
"My mother," Jade whispered.
"I'm afraid so," Fenton replied. "She was killed instantly. After that, you and your father got new identities and moved to Hawaii to start a new life. It should have ended there. But two years ago Catlin got out of prison and took up where he left off. About a year ago he started expanding his operation into the islands."
"Wait a minute," Frank cut in. "Jade's father couldn't have known that."
"He didn't," Fenton said. "Until I told him. That's why he came to me—the Bureau told him I was his contact. That's the real reason I'm in Hawaii. Catlin imported some heavy talent from New York. I've busted a couple of them before, and I know how they work. So I was brought in as an adviser."
He turned to his sons. "All this is strictly classified information. Top secret."
"I'm afraid it's not much of a secret anymore," Joe replied.
"What do you mean?" his father asked.
"He means somebody inside the FBI is working for Catlin," Frank said. "Every time I called to let you know where we were, a couple of trained gorillas homed in on us."
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Fenton Hardy frowned. "The only person I told was Pete Gordon, the special agent I've been working with."
"I don't suppose this Gordon guy has a scar over his left eye," Joe said.
"Yes," Fenton replied. "How did you know?"
"Because a friend of ours saw him on Maui late this afternoon, trying to track Jade down," Frank explained.
All the color drained out of Fenton's face, and he slumped back in his chair. "Then it looks like we've got a very serious situation," he said gravely. "Gordon was supposed to be out setting up a safe house this afternoon—a place for Jade and her father to stay awhile."
"So we'll just get them out of here now," Joe said.
"Where is my father?" Jade asked. "He's all right, isn't he?"
Fenton Hardy raised his eyes slowly to meet hers. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. Gordon picked him up an hour ago."
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Chapter 12
"We've got to get Jade out of here," Frank said. "They could be back looking for her here. This is the most logical place for us to bring her."
Jade slumped down in a chair. "Why would they want me?" she asked glumly» staring at the floor. "They got what they wanted—my father."
"I'm not so sure about that," Frank answered. "They could have grabbed him anytime. Why now?"
Joe thought about it for a minute. "Because they couldn't get Jade."
Frank nodded. "All this time they've been trying to get her, not him."
Jade looked up. "But why?"
"I don't have the answer to that one," Frank
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said. "But I think I may know someone who does."
He turned to his father. "Are the police still holding Nick Hawk?"
Fenton shook his head. "They didn't have any solid evidence. After we found out about Kevin Roberts's connection to Catlin, that shifted the attention away from Hawk."
Joe glanced at his brother. "I don't get it. Do you think Hawk is mixed up with Catlin?"
"Think about it," Frank said. "Catlin's a kingpin of bookies and loan sharks—and Nick Hawk has some heavy gambling debts."
"Let's go find out what he knows," Joe said, glancing over at Jade. "Do you know where Nick lives?"
She nodded slowly. "I'll take you there."
Joe put his hand on her shoulder. "No, it's too dangerous. We'll have to find a safe place for you to stay before we go after Hawk."
There was a knock at the door. Frank's eyes narrowed. He put a finger to his lips and stepped silently to the door. He peered through the tiny peephole. He wasn't surprised by what he saw. He could clearly see the scar over the man's left eye. He tiptoed back to the others.
"It's Gordon," he whispered.
There was another knock on the door, this time sounding harder, more insistent.
Joe's eyes darted around the room. They stopped at the balcony overlooking the ocean.
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"There's only one other way out of here," he said in a low voice.
Fenton Hardy looked at the balcony. "Go for it," he said. "I'll try to buy you some time."
Joe glanced at Frank. His brother nodded. Joe took Jade's hand and led her out onto the balcony. He gripped the railing and looked over the edge. There was another balcony on the next floor down. But a misstep of a few inches would send him plummeting twenty-five floors to the ground. He took a deep breath and climbed over the railing.
He eased himself down until he was hanging from the bottom of the railing. His toes just barely touched the railing of the balcony below. But he couldn't get a solid footing.
The knock on the door changed to pounding. "Just a second!" Fenton Hardy called out. "I was in the shower! I'll be right there!" He had wet his hair in the sink and was now slicking it back.
Joe pumped his legs and started to sway back and forth. He let go of the railing as he swung in toward the lower balcony. Both his feet landed solidly on the cement floor.
Jade followed Joe. He grabbed her around the waist as she dangled from the railing, and pulled her safely in.
Above them, Frank glanced back at his father. "Go ahead," Fenton urged him. "As long as
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Gordon doesn't think I suspect anything, I'll be all right."
Frank grasped the railing with both hands and vaulted into the air. He swung over and down and dropped onto the balcony below.
There was no one else there. Joe and Jade were gone. The sliding glass door that led into the dark hotel room was open, but all the lights were out. Frank poked his head inside. "Joe?" he whispered. "Where are you?"
Someone grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him through the doorway. "Gotcha!" a voice said. It was Joe.
"What's the big idea?" Frank replied. He could barely make out his brother's features in the dim light.
Joe held something up. The moonlight filtering into the room glinted off the surface. It was a heavy, glass ashtray. "If anybody but you had come through that door, they would've gotten it."
"Well, let's get out of here," Frank said, moving toward the front door. He peered around in the gloom. "Where's Jade?"
"Right behind you," came the reply.
Frank whirled around. Jade was standing behind him, a table lamp in her hands.
Frank chuckled softly.
"What's so funny?" Jade asked.
"I was just thinking," Frank answered. "Most couples wait at least a week to start throwing furniture around."
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Jade glanced at Joe. "Just ignore him," Joe said. "He was born with a crippling handicap—no sense of humor." He poked his brother in the ribs with the ashtray. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
* * *
They drove away from the hotel in Jade's faded green jeep. Joe tried to persuade her to give him the keys. He didn't want her to be there when they questioned Nick Hawk, but she wouldn't budge. She insisted on driving. "It's my car, and it's my life," she stated flatly. "You never would have found his house without me," she added as she pulled over to the curb.
"We'll take it from here," Frank said. "Which house is it?"
"The white bungalow with the palm tree in the yard," she replied.
Joe looked around. In the dark, all the houses looked like white bungalows with palm trees in the yard. But only one of them had a half-dozen surfboards lined up on the front porch.
Jade started to get out of the jeep. Joe pushed her back down gently but firmly. "No," he said. "This is as far as you go. If there's any trouble, you take off as fast as this bucket of bolts will go. Understand?"
She looked up at him. "Joe, I'm responsible. If anything happens to my father ..." Her voice trailed off.
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"Getting yourself hurt isn't going to help your father," Joe pointed out.
"And standing around talking isn't going to help much, either," Frank cut in. "Take a look over there."
In the harsh glow of the porch light, Joe saw a tanned figure with long blond hair. He had a suitcase in one hand and a backpack slung over his shoulder. It was Nick Hawk.
"Looks like Nick's going on a long trip," Frank noted. "And just before the big competition, too."
"Those bags look kind of heavy," Joe said. "Let's give him a hand." He walked quickly across the street, Frank following.
Frank put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Slow down. Stay cool. He doesn't know who we are. We can take him by surprise."
Nick Hawk was throwing the suitcase and the backpack into the trunk of his car when Frank and Joe strolled up behind him. "Going on a trip?" Frank asked casually.
Hawk spun around. There was a switchblade in his hand. Frank could see that he was wound up tight. The blond surfer sized up the two brothers. "You guys don't work for Catlin," he said mostly to himself. "And you sure aren't cops. Who are you? What do you want?"
"We want some answers," Joe snapped. "And we don't have time to play around. So if you're
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going to use that blade, make your move now. I'd love an excuse to break your arm."
Hawk's arm dropped to his side. "I can't take much more of this," he said wearily. "You're the two guys that have been hanging around with Jade, aren't you?"
Frank nodded.
"I saw you once and Connie told me about you," the blond surfer continued.
"You mentioned the name Catlin earlier," Frank said. "Do you know Thomas Catlin?"
"Not personally," Hawk replied. "He controls half the bookies on the island, and I owe money to most of them."
"So that means you were in debt to Catlin," Joe said.
Hawk nodded. "He sent one of his trained gorillas to tell me I could pay off the debt with one little job. All I had to do was make sure Jade didn't compete at the Banzai Pipeline."
"So you tried to kill her just to pay off a gangster?" Joe burst out.
The surfer shook his head. "I just wanted to scare her off. I'd never kill her."
"The runaway surfboard at Waikiki and the shooting at Waimea," Frank said. "That was you, right?"
Nick Hawk stared at the ground. "I was desperate. These guys play rough, and they play for keeps. But after I found out I almost shot Connie, I just couldn't go through with it. So I sent
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word to Catlin that I would find some other way to pay him back."
"Now you're leaving town before his goons come knocking on your door," Joe said.
Hawk looked at him. "I got a phone call a little while ago. It was Thomas Catlin himself. He told me the debt wouldn't be paid until Jade was dead—or I was."
"Did he say anything else?" Frank prodded. "Anything about Kevin Roberts?"
"Jade's father?" Hawk replied. He shook his head. "No, nothing about him. But he did say something weird."
"What was that?" Frank asked.
"Catlin said his daughter had been waiting a long time for this, but Catlin doesn't have any kids."
Joe looked at the surfer. "So what are you going to do now? Run away?"
Nick Hawk shook his head slowly. "I was— but I guess I owe Jade more than that. Maybe it's time I told the police what really went down."
"Not yet," Frank said. "Not until Jade and her father are safe."
* * *
"What did Nick say?" Jade asked when Frank and Joe got back to the jeep. "Anything that'll help?"
"We don't know yet," Joe answered vaguely. He didn't think it would help Jade to hear proof
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of Catlin's grisly intentions. "We still don't have all the pieces."
Frank yawned in the backseat. "We're not going to find any of them tonight. We need to [find a place to get a few hours' sleep."
"We can go to Al Kealoha's house," Jade suggested. "I know we can trust him."
"Sounds good to me," Joe said. "Let's go."
"Stop at the gas station up ahead on the right," Frank said. "I want to call the hotel and make sure Dad's all right."
The telephone rang a few times before someone answered. "Hotel operator," a voice said.
"Give me room twenty-five-fifteen, please," Frank said.
"One moment," came the reply.
There was a strange clicking and humming on the line. Frank didn't know if it was a problem with the pay phone or the hotel switchboard. Finally, he heard his father's voice. "Hello?" Fenton said. "Who is this?"
"It's me," Frank said.
"Frank?" Fenton replied. "Are you all right?"
"Everybody's fine," Frank assured him. "We're going—"
"Don't tell me where you are or where you're going," his father cut in. "There may be a tap on this line."
As soon as Frank hung up, the pay phone rang. He stared at it for a moment. It kept ringing. He picked it up.
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"I hope you get a good night's rest," a voice murmured in the receiver. It sounded like a man with ice water in his veins. It sounded like Pete Gordon. "Because tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp you're going to deliver the girl to me at Sand Island Park."
"What if we don't show?" Frank snapped. "What can you do about it?"
"We can kill Kevin Roberts," came the cold reply. "Very slowly—and very painfully."
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Chapter 13
Frank didn't say anything about Gordon's threat when he got back in the jeep. He wanted to talk to Joe alone before telling Jade. He finally got his chance when they got to Al Kealoha's house.
"You guys don't mind waiting here a minute, do you?" Jade asked. "Let me just talk to Al alone first and make sure it's all right."
"No problem," Frank replied. "Take your time." After she was gone, he turned to his brother and said, "We've got a problem. We're running out of time."
"So what's our next move?" Joe asked after Frank told him about the phone call.
Frank looked at his watch. "I don't know—
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but we've only got about eight hours to come up with something."
Jade waved to Frank and Joe from the front porch of the house. They got out of the jeep and joined her.
Al Kealoha was standing in the doorway. The big Hawaiian surfer studied the Hardys for a moment. "Jade tells me you guys saved her life," he finally said. "I also saw what you did for Connie after that wipeout at Waimea. You can stay here as long as you want. Anything you need, just ask."
They followed him inside. Joe looked around and saw electronic equipment everywhere. Televisions, radios, videocassette recorders, even a couple of microwave ovens.
"How about a stereo?" he asked.
Al Kealoha smiled. "Don't get the wrong idea. This stuff didn't fall off a truck. Most of them are broken. Like this TV here. I buy it cheap, fix it up, and sell it. Surfing's my life, but it doesn't pay the rent."
Joe picked up a remote control for a garage door opener. "This isn't worth much all by itself."
"You'd be surprised," Kealoha replied. "You can change the radio frequency so that it works with almost any garage door opener."
Frank was inspecting a digital clock that showed the time as 88:88. He looked up at the Hawaiian. "What did you say?"
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"I said you can change the radio frequency so—"
"That's what I thought you said," Frank cut in. "You wouldn't happen to have an old radar detector around here, would you?"
"I had a couple," Kealoha said. "But they go fast. Maybe there's still one around somewhere."
The Hawaiian poked around inside a few cardboard boxes. "Got one," he finally said, holding up a small, black object.
"What are you going to do with it?" Jade asked.
"I'll tell you in the morning," Frank said. "But right now, you should get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow's going to be a long day."
It was still pitch black out when Joe woke up. He hadn't meant to fall asleep at all. He had dozed off in a chair while his brother and Al Kealoha puttered around with the insides of the garage door remote control and the radar detector. He glanced at a clock on the table. He thought he must still be asleep. According to the clock, the time was 88:88.
"What time is it?" he asked groggily.
Frank looked at his watch. "A little after two."
"How much longer?" Joe wanted to know.
"Almost got it," Frank replied. He took the back-plate from the remote control and screwed it back in place. "Okay, Al—ready?"
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"Go ahead," came the reply. "Hit the switch."
Frank aimed the remote control at the radar detector on the workbench across the room. He pressed the wide, rectangular button on the top. "Take that," he whispered.
The tiny red light on the radar detector winked on. Frank watched the numbers climb in the LED readout next to the indicator light: 2— 3—4—5. The display held steady at 5. Frank moved the remote control slightly to one side. The numbers started to fall. He waved it back, and they rose again. He took his thumb off the button, and the red light on the radar detector winked off.
"It works!" he shouted.
Joe put a finger to his lips. "Shhh! You'll wake up Jade!"
"It works!" Frank whispered excitedly. "You know what this means?"
The big Hawaiian smiled sleepily. "Yeah, it means we can go to bed now."
Frank aimed the remote control and pushed the button again. The light on the radar detector glowed red. "It also means we now have a radio homing device."
* * *
The next time Joe woke up it was because the sun was shining in his eyes. He sat up and squinted out the window. It looked like it was going to be another perfect day in paradise. Then he remembered they had an appointment, and
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suddenly the sun didn't seem so warm and bright anymore.
Al Kealoha was fast asleep in another chair. Frank was curled up on the couch, eyes shut tight. Joe shook his brother's shoulder. "Come on," he said. He grabbed Frank's wrist and checked the watch strapped to it. "It's six-thirty. We've got to roll."
The bedroom door swung open, and Jade shuffled out. "What's going on?" she asked.
Joe looked over at her. He didn't have the heart to tell her, but he didn't have the stomach to lie either. "Just give us a few more hours," he said. "Then I'll explain everything. Okay?"
She frowned. "Do I have any choice?"
"Not really," Frank mumbled as he got up from the couch. He picked up the modified remote control and the radar detector and grabbed a roll of black electrical tape off the workbench.
"Just a few more hours," Joe repeated as they headed out the door.
"Where are you going without a car?" Jade called out.
Joe gave her a sheepish grin and held up a set of car keys.
"How'd you get those?" she demanded.
"I kind of borrowed them from your purse while you were sleeping," he told her.
As the Hardys drove away in the jeep, Joe watched Jade in the rearview mirror. She was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. She
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looked beautiful. He hoped he'd get a chance to see her again. Reluctantly he shifted his gaze to the road ahead. They had a job to do, but first he had to make sure they got there in one piece.
He glanced at his brother sitting in the passenger seat next to him. "What do you think Gordon will do when he finds out we didn't bring Jade?"
"That's my problem," Frank said. He was busy wrapping electrical tape around the garage door remote control. "He's not even going to see you."
Frank wound the tape tightly over the wide button, making sure it was pressed down firmly. He kept the tape clear of the front end of the unit so it wouldn't interfere with the signal. After he was satisfied that the tape would prevent the button from popping up, he tore a few more long strips off the roll. He stuck them on the remote control unit, but he didn't wind them around it. Instead he left them dangling down like long, black spider legs.
"There's the entrance to the park," Joe said. "Are you ready?"
Frank switched on the radar detector and aimed the remote control unit at it. The red light glowed and the numbers crawled upward. He checked his watch. It was seven-fifteen. "Ready as I'll ever be," he answered grimly.
Joe drove into the empty parking lot. "There's only one thing wrong with this plan," he said.
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Frank nodded. "We don't know where Gordon will park." He looked around the parking lot. On one side, it was bordered by a small, open field. On the other, there were bushes and trees crowding in close to the pavement.
Frank pointed toward the bushes. "Park over on that side."
Joe backed into a space, and they got out of the jeep. Joe walked over to the bushes. "These will give me plenty of cover—if Gordon parks on this side, too."
Frank shook his head. "Gordon won't park here. He's cautious. He'll suspect a trap." Frank gestured toward the field. "He'll pull in over there."
"But there's no place to hide over there," Joe protested.
"Sure there is," Frank replied. He pointed at a large garbage can, sitting alone in the clearing. "Right there."
Joe glanced at his brother. "Why do I always let you come up with the plans?" he muttered.
"You don't have to get in it," Frank said. "Just crouch down behind it. And don't forget this." He handed Joe the remote control wrapped in electrical tape.
Joe had barely gotten into position when a black van rolled into the parking lot. Frank checked his watch again. It was only seven- thirty. Gordon had shown up early, too.
Frank leaned against the hood of the jeep and
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waited. The van paused in the entrance, and then slowly angled over to the far side of the lot, next to the clearing. A faint smile passed over Frank's lips.
Pete Gordon stepped out of the van. He glanced over at Frank. Then he turned around slowly, surveying the entire area. Finally his cold gaze returned to the jeep. He took a few steps forward to get a better look. "Where's your brother?" he asked.
Joe watched the rogue FBI agent step away from the van. It was time to make his move. He edged out from behind the garbage can and darted over to the van.
Frank kept his eyes on Gordon. "He couldn't make it," he said coolly. "He had other plans."
Gordon came closer. "Where's the girl?"
Frank shrugged. "She couldn't make it, either."
Joe slid under the side of the van and slapped the remote control unit onto its underside, using the long strips of tape to hold it in place. Then he quietly sneaked back to his hiding spot.
"You just signed Kevin Roberts's death warrant," Gordon growled.
Frank looked him right in the eye. "I don't think so. If you wanted to kill him, he'd be dead already."
The agent glared at him. "I'll give you two hours to change your mind. If you're not back here with the girl by then, the old man dies."
"I don't know if I could even find her in two
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hours," Frank replied. "My brother took off with her. I don't know where they are."
"Six hours, then," Gordon hissed. "No more. Tell the girl. Let her decide."
He spun around and strode back to the van. He opened the door and paused. He was looking at the open field. Had he seen something? Frank couldn't tell.
Suddenly Gordon whirled around and pointed a gun right at Frank. There was a fat silencer on the end of the barrel. One side of Gordon's mouth curled up in a menacing sneer. "Sorry, kid," he called out. "I just can't trust you."
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Chapter 14
There was a soft thwump and then a loud blam—right beside Frank's foot. The sudden noise made him jump. He spun around and saw the right front tire in shreds.
Gordon was laughing as he got back in the van. He pulled up next to Frank and leaned out the window. "Looks like you've got a flat tire," he said. "I hope you weren't planning on following me or anything like that." He laughed again and drove away.
As soon as the van was gone, Joe raced across the parking lot to inspect the damage. Frank was already unbolting the spare tire with a lug wrench. Joe grabbed the jack and stuck it under the front bumper. By the time Frank had the spare off its
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mounting, Joe already had the front end jacked up.
Two minutes later, they were ready to roll again. "We make a pretty good pit crew," Joe said as he cranked up the engine. "All we need now is a good race car."
Frank switched on the radar detector. He looked at the digital display and frowned. "Looks like we're going to need one if we want to catch Gordon. He's too far away. I'm not getting any signal."
"Hold on," Joe replied. "I'll get a signal." He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the jeep swerved out of the parking lot.
Joe peered up the road. There was no sign of the black van. "He must have turned off somewhere," he said.
"The only question is, where," Frank replied.
Joe shrugged his shoulders. "One street's as good as another." He turned the wheel suddenly, and the jeep veered off onto another street. There was still no sign of the van. Joe pressed down on the gas pedal, and the old jeep picked up speed.
Frank glanced over at the speedometer. It was edging past 50 MPH.
"Don't worry," Joe said. "You'll pick up any speed traps with the radar detector."
"We altered the frequency on both units," Frank replied. "This will only register the signal from the remote control."
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"So are you getting anything yet?" Joe asked.
Frank shook his head. "Nothing."
Joe made another sharp turn.
"Where are you going now?" his brother asked.
"To the Pali Highway," Joe responded. "Gordon picked the opposite side of the parking lot, why not the other side of the island, too?"
Frank thought about it for a moment and nodded. "It's possible. Anyway, we'll cover more ground that way. If we get within a half mile of that garage door opener, this thing should light up like a Christmas tree."
The jeep chugged up the steep highway and over the mountain pass. Joe kept his eyes on the road ahead, and Frank kept his on the radar detector. There was no sign of the black van and no sign of life from the little black box in Frank's lap.
They drove down into the town of Kailua. Frank studied his brother. There was fierce determination in Joe's eyes, but Frank knew there was almost no hope of finding the renegade FBI agent now.
Frank turned away and gazed out at the town.
"What's that?" Joe asked excitedly.
"What's what?" Frank replied.
"The box!" Joe exclaimed. "The light's on!"
Frank picked up the radar detector. Sure enough, the red light was glowing. The digital readout registered 2—3—2—1. Then it was gone, and the light blinked off.
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"Go back!" Frank shouted.
Joe slammed on the brakes and threw the jeep into reverse. He backed up to a side street they had just passed, and the red indicator light winked on again.
"Go down this way," Frank gestured.
They followed the winding road. As they slowly went downhill, the glowing numbers on the front of the black box climbed. The road ended at an ornate iron gate. Through the gate Joe could see a huge mansion at the end of a long driveway. Beyond that was the ocean.
Frank scanned the area. The compound appeared to be surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall. He nudged Joe and pointed to the top of the wall. Video surveillance cameras, silently rotating back and forth, cast a sleepless eye over the entire perimeter.
"This must be the place," Joe said.
Frank nodded. "Now all we have to do is figure out how to get in and out without being seen."
Joe shrugged. "I always wanted to be on television."
"How about on a game show where they shoot the losers?" Frank replied.
"Okay," Joe said. "Then we can approach it from the beach. It doesn't look like there are any cameras down there."
Frank shook his head. "They'd see us coming a mile away."
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"Maybe," Joe said. "But maybe a few surfers wouldn't attract too much attention."
* * *
Back at Al Kealoha's house, Jade was sitting on the front steps, waiting for them. Her elbows were on her knees, her chin resting in her hands. Joe had hoped to keep her out of danger, but now they needed her help to save her father.
Joe got out of the jeep and walked up to her. He reached down, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get your father."
Jade looked into his eyes. "Really?" she said hopefully. "You know where he is?"
Joe nodded silently.
"Let's talk about it inside," Frank said. "We're going to need Al's help, too—and anybody else's."
After Frank and Joe laid out their plan, Al got out a map of Kailua. "It's not going to be easy," he said, pointing to the cove where the mansion was located. "There's a small beach—but it's cut off by cliffs on both sides. We'll have to hit the water about a half mile away and paddle the rest of the way."
"Won't they see us coming?" Jade asked.
"That's why we need as many surfers as we can get," Frank answered.
Joe smiled. "We're just a bunch of surf punks looking for a good beach for a party."
The big Hawaiian ran his hand through his
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dark, curly hair. "Kind of short notice. How much time do we have?"
Frank checked his watch. "Three hours at the outside."
Kealoha frowned. "Almost everybody's up on the north shore. That's a long drive. The only person in town today is Connie. This is one of the days she works as a waitress."
Jade shook her head. "I don't want to drag Connie into this."
"You don't have any choice," a voice called out.
Frank whirled and saw Connie Lo standing in the doorway. "How did you know we were here?" he asked.
Connie shrugged. "I didn't. Nick told me everything last night. I wanted to help, and I figured Al would, too. Looks like I figured right."
Joe didn't give Jade a chance to argue. "And you're just in time for a little surprise beach party," he said to Connie. "Come on in. We were just about to get out the paper hats and the noisemakers."
* * *
On a lonely stretch of windswept beach, they unloaded five surfboards from Jade's jeep and Connie's car. Joe glanced over at Frank and grinned.
Frank shot him a look. "What are you smirking about?"
"I was just thinking," Joe said, his grin widening. 
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"None of those old beach movies was ever anything like this."
"Yeah," Frank replied. "The stars never did any real surfing."
"Just follow my lead," Jade said, "and don't try anything fancy."
"You mean I don't get to hang ten?" Joe said in mock disappointment.
"Get with the program," Connie said. "Nobody does that anymore."
They waded out into the water and paddled the surfboards out past a rocky point. On the other side of the point, Joe spotted the mansion nestled in the small cove. He let out a sigh of relief—the beach was deserted. There wasn't a guard or video camera in sight.
Jade paddled over next to him. "Ready to ride your first wave?" she asked.
"Sure," Joe said. "Do we get to shoot the tube?"
"You don't even get to do a bottom turn," she answered. "Just wait for the wave and ride it straight in. I'll be right next to you all the way."
Joe could see Frank between the other two surfers. He guessed his brother was probably getting the same instructions.
"Get ready," Jade said. She pointed the board toward the shore. Joe did the same. He glanced over at her. She was intently watching the ocean behind them. "When I give the word," she said, "start paddling like crazy."
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Joe could feel the water swelling up under the surfboard.
"Now!" Jade shouted. Her hands splashed into the water, and she shot ahead of him.
Joe felt the building wave rolling in beneath him. He suddenly realized that it was going to roll right on by him unless he got moving. He put on a burst of speed, his arms windmilling through the water. He managed to catch up with Jade just as she stopped paddling.
The next moment she was on her feet. "Come on," she urged. "This is it!"
The wave was just starting to crest as Joe tried to stand. He almost lost his balance, his arms waving around crazily. But then he remembered what Jade had said on that first day. Get the feet of it, he reminded himself. He stopped trying to fight the surfboard. He loosened up and let his body flow with it. He was surfing.
His growing smile of satisfaction froze on his lips when he looked toward shore, though. A man ran out of the mansion toward the beach. In one hand he had what looked like a walkie-talkie.
If he had any doubts about what the guy held in his other hand, they were shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire.
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Chapter 15
Frank knew that they would run into some kind of reception committee, but he didn't expect them to just start shooting wildly. Luckily, there was only one guard, and he had only fired a warning shot.
Al Kealoha reached the shore first, Connie Lo a moment later. By the time Frank hit the beach, the guard already had the two surfers covered.
Frank could tell the man was nervous. He wasn't prepared for an invasion of surfers. He spotted Frank and started waving the gun around, not sure where to point it.
Frank approached him, smiling and holding his hands up. "What's the problem?"
The guard turned toward him. "Hold it, right there!" he barked.
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"Hold what?" the big Hawaiian asked. "There's no law against surfing, is there?"
"And this is a public beach, right?" Connie Lo added.
The man eyed them nervously. "What are you doing here?" he asked sharply.
"Relax," a voice from behind him answered. "We're just here for a little beach party."
The guard whirled around to face the new threat. It was Joe.
"What's going on down there?" a voice crackled over the walkie-talkie in the guard's hand. He stared down at it blankly for a second.
A second was all Frank needed. He grabbed the guard's other arm from behind and yanked it back. He squeezed the wrist and twisted it sharply. The man cried out as he lost his grip on the gun.
The two-way radio squawked again. "What's going on?" it blared. Joe's fist smashed into the guard's face before he could respond. He fell to his knees. Frank let go of his arm, and the man pitched face first into the sand, out cold.
"What's the trouble?" the radio crackled.
Joe bent down and pried it out of the guard's hand. "No trouble," he answered. "Everything's under control."
Frank picked up the gun and handed it to Al Kealoha. Looking at the three surfers, he said, "You guys stay here. Joe and I will go in alone."
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"Wait a minute," Jade said. "It's my father in there. I should go."
Joe shook his head. "Too risky." He looked deep into her green eyes. "If he's in there, we'll get him out. I promise."
They reached the house without running into anybody else. The back door was wide open. The guard hadn't bothered to close it in his rush to intercept the surfers. Frank and Joe glanced at each other.
"It could be a trap," Frank said.
Joe shrugged. "There's only one way to find out." He walked through the doorway, and his brother followed.
Joe moved quietly through the kitchen and a large formal dining room. He stopped suddenly when his shoes hit the marble floor of the front hall, and Frank almost bumped into him. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the large entrance way.
"Looks like crime pays pretty well for some guys," Joe said in a low voice.
The place seemed deserted. Joe cocked his head to one side. He thought he heard a faint noise upstairs. He motioned to a wide, curved stairway, and Frank nodded. He had heard it, too.
"Vinnie!" a voice suddenly blared out right next to Joe. "Where are you? What's going on?"
Joe looked down at the forgotten walkie-talkie he had been carrying the whole time. He held it
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close to his mouth and pushed the talk button. "Ah—I'm still down on the beach. You should come down, too. The water's great!"
"What?" came the startled reply. Joe thought it sounded like stereo. He heard it coming from the two-way radio and from the second floor.
"Never mind," he muttered as he switched off the unit and set it down on a table.
They climbed the stairs slowly, silently. At the top was a long hallway. "This place has more bedrooms than a cheap motel," Joe whispered. "Where do we start?"
"At the beginning," Frank replied. He tried the door to the first room on his right. It was unlocked. He pushed it open and slipped into the room.
Joe was about to follow him when a man suddenly burst out of a doorway down the hall. He was clutching a short, ugly-looking submachine gun, and it was leveled at Joe.
"You're not Vinnie," he growled.
Joe threw his hands up in the air. "I could change my name if it would make you happy," he ventured as he moved away from the door.
"Shut up!" the man snapped. "Who are you? And where's Vinnie?"
Joe started to back slowly toward the stairs. "Come on, I'll show you where he is."
The man moved toward him warily, his eyes riveted on Joe, watching his every move. He
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didn't notice the partially open door as he passed it. "If you've done anything to Vinnie, I'll—"
He never finished the sentence because Frank had smashed a flowerpot over his head.
Joe whirled around to see his brother standing over the man's limp body, the shattered remains of the pot still clutched in Frank's hands.
He walked down the hall to the door the man had left open. Joe poked his head inside and found Jade's father gagged and tied up in a chair.
"Where's Jade?" Kevin Roberts blurted out as soon as Joe took off the gag. "Is she all right?"
"She's fine," Joe assured him. "She's down on the beach waiting for you."
"Where is everybody?" Frank asked. "We only ran into two of Catlin's goons. There must be more than that."
"Catlin and Gordon left with three or four men about two hours ago," Roberts said. "I think they were going to set up some kind of ambush."
Frank looked at his watch. "For us, I think."
"Gee, I'm sorry we had to spoil all their fun by not showing up," Joe said.
He looked at Jade's father. "What's going on here, anyway? If Thomas Catlin wanted you dead, how come you're still alive? And why are they after Jade? She didn't do anything."
"I didn't understand it myself until this morning," Kevin Roberts said. "That's when Catlin
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told me about his daughter. She was just a little older than Jade."
"Was?" Frank said.
"She died in a car accident," Roberts explained, "just before Catlin was released from prison. She was only sixteen."
"So what's that got to do with you and Jade?" Joe asked. "It wasn't your fault."
"Try telling that to Thomas Catlin," Roberts replied grimly. "He thinks that if he hadn't been in jail while she was growing up, his daughter would still be alive."
"And since you put him behind bars," Frank said, "he wants your daughter's life for his."
Kevin Roberts nodded silently.
"We better get out of here," Frank said. "By now they should have figured out we're not playing the game by their rules. They could be back any minute."
They hurried down the stairs to the front hall. Through a window they saw a long, gray limousine barreling down the driveway, followed by the black van.
"Looks like we've got company," Joe observed.
They hustled Kevin Roberts through the dining room and kitchen and out the back door. "You guys go on ahead," Joe said. "There's something I've got to do first."
Frank stopped and turned around. "I'm not going anyplace without you," he said firmly.
"There's no time to argue about it," Joe replied.
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"You're right," Frank agreed. He turned to Jade's father and pointed down to the beach. "Jade's waiting down there. Her friends will get you out of here."
"What about you?" Kevin Roberts asked.
"Don't worry," Frank answered. "We know what we're doing." After Roberts left, he turned to his brother. "What are we doing?"
"We've got to buy them some time to escape," Joe said. "We need to set up a diversion."
"Got any ideas?" Frank asked.
Joe grinned. "Ever take a ride in a limo?"
The two brothers sneaked around the side of the house. The limousine and the van had just pulled up in front. The limo driver got out and opened the back door.
A tall, slim man with silver-gray hair emerged. He was dressed casually in white shorts and a shirt. Pete Gordon jumped out of the van just then, and the man barked something at him. Joe couldn't make out the words, but it was clear the man in the white shorts was unhappy about something.
"That must be Catlin," Frank whispered.
"I wish I could see the look on his face when he finds out nobody's home," Joe said.
"I'd rather be a couple miles away," Frank replied.
They waited until Catlin and his men filed into the mansion. Then they dashed over to the empty limousine. The door was unlocked. Frank opened
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it and was greeted by a loud electronic beeeeep. He froze for a second, afraid that he had just set off a car alarm. Then he realized it was only the buzzer to alert the driver that the keys were still in the ignition. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
As Joe opened the door on the other side, he heard muffled shouting coming from inside the house. Then he clearly heard Pete Gordon's voice. "The back door's open!" he called out. "I think they headed for the water!"
Joe ran around the limousine and bounded up the stairs to the front door. "Hey!" he shouted. "Somebody's stealing the boss's limo!" Then he dashed back to the limo and jumped in.
Frank hit the gas, and the luxury car tore down the driveway. In the rearview mirror, he could see Gordon come running out the front door—with his gun already drawn. Frank turned the steering wheel left, then right, then left again, swerving the limo from one side of the pavement to the other. He heard a shot ring out, and then another. There was a loud thunk as one of the bullets thudded into the trunk of the limo.
Frank kept the gas pedal all the way down, and they sped out of range.
Up ahead loomed the iron gate. It was closed.
"Oops," Joe said. "I think we forgot one minor detail."
"What's this 'we' business?" Frank replied. "This was your plan, remember?" He spotted a
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small remote control unit—like the garage door opener he had turned into a homing device—stuck to the dashboard by a strip of Velcro. He grabbed it, pointed it at the gate, and pushed the button.
The gate began to swing open slowly. But it ground to a halt at about the halfway point. Frank punched the button again. Nothing. The opening was too narrow for the wide limousine.
They were trapped.
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Chapter 16
"WHAT'S WRONG?" Joe asked. He could tell there wasn't enough room for the limo to get through the gate. "Why did it stop? Why won't it open?"
"They must have cut the power back at the house!"
"Then I guess it's time for plan B," Joe said.
"Plan B? What's plan B?"
Joe jammed his left foot down on his brother's right foot, pushing the gas pedal to the floor. "Go for it!" he yelled.
The car rocketed forward and smashed into the gate. The iron bars held, but the bolts sunk into the brick wall didn't. The force of the collision snapped rusty old bolts and ripped others out of the brick mortar. The gate crashed to the
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ground, and the limousine rolled over it and out onto the road.
"Great driving," Joe said, grinning wildly. "Reminds me of the first time we borrowed Dad's car. Remember?"
Frank shot him a look. "Yeah." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Uh-oh, we've got company."
Joe twisted around to peer out the back window. The black van was closing in from behind. "Think we can lose him somehow?" he asked.
"Not on this road," Frank answered. "Too many twists and turns, and this limo is too long and wide. It doesn't have any maneuverability."
"Plenty of horsepower, though," Joe remarked. "Nice comfy seats, too." He glanced over at his brother. "I bet you could crank her wide open on the highway—and still have a real smooth ride."
"Let's find out," Frank said. He turned onto the Pali Highway, heading back toward Honolulu, the black van following. Frank punched the gas pedal. The limo shot ahead, widening the gap between them and the van.
Joe was right—it had a very powerful engine. Frank realized that Catlin probably had had it modified. He checked out the rear window again. The van couldn't keep up. It was dwindling in the distance.
Frank knew that the road would continue to climb upward until after they passed the Nuuanu
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Pali. He breathed a little easier as the van grew steadily smaller in the mirror.
Suddenly the engine began to cough. The limo lurched and hesitated, then lurched again. Their speed started to drop. What was wrong?
Frank looked at the control panel. He smacked the steering wheel with his fist and swore silently to himself. "You're not going to believe this," he said. "We're out of gas."
Joe pointed out the window. "There's a turnoff up ahead. If we're lucky, Gordon won't realize we got off the highway until we're long gone."
"Long gone where?" Frank replied. "Off a thousand-foot cliff? That's the turnoff for Nuuanu Pali!"
"Okay, so it's not the greatest choice," Joe admitted. "But it's the only one we've got."
"And if Gordon finds us?" Frank persisted.
Joe shrugged. "I don't know—grow wings and fly away?"
"Terrific," Frank muttered, but he knew his brother was right. They didn't have any choice.
They barely made it to the scenic overlook before the engine sputtered and died. They weren't alone. There was a mini van parked near the concrete observation platform. Two guys were busy taking something out of the back of the van and assembling it on the platform.
"What is that?" Joe asked.
Frank studied the metal tubes and wires. He couldn't make out what it was until one of the
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guys unfolded a wide and roughly triangular sheet of brightly colored material. The colors reminded him of the para-sail that had snatched Joe and Jade off Maui. But the shape told him it was something else.
"You wanted wings," he said. "There they are."
Frank and Joe hurried over to the platform. One of the guys working on the contraption looked as if he was at least thirty-five years old, but in good shape. The other one was just a kid, not much older than twelve or thirteen.
Frank realized they must be father and son. "Nice hang glider you've got there," he said. "Interesting design, too. Looks like a two-man model."
The older man looked up from his work. "That's right," he said. "That's what happens when you refuse to grow old gracefully around your kids. Pretty soon, they want to play with all your toys."
A stiff wind whipped around them. The sail flapped wildly, and the man struggled to keep the hang glider on the ground.
"Let me help you with that," Frank offered. "Joe, go around and grab the other side."
"Thanks," the man said. "There's a good wind today. We could stay up for hours—sail all the way to Waikiki if we wanted."
"I sure hope so," Joe muttered under his breath.
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"Dad!" the boy called from the back of the minivan. "I think we're going to have to repack the parachute."
"Parachute?" Joe asked.
"I've never needed it yet," the man said, "but why take chances?"
"I agree one hundred percent," Frank replied, "Go help your son. We'll take care of the hang glider."
"Thanks again," the man said. "This should only take a couple of minutes."
"Take your time," Joe said. "We're not going anywhere."
The man walked back to join his son. They had their backs to the Hardys, absorbed in the job of refolding the emergency parachute.
Frank quickly checked the hang glider's rigging. "She's ready to go," he told his brother. "Are you?"
Joe shrugged. "Why not? Sometimes you just have to take a chance."
Frank smiled. "I agree one hundred percent."
Joe held the sail steady while Frank slipped into one of the two harnesses. He glanced back over his shoulder. The father and son team hadn't noticed anything yet. But beyond them Joe saw something else—a black van was pulling into the small parking lot.
He ducked under the sail. Frank was still making a few final adjustments to the harness. A large triangular frame made of metal tubing hung
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down from the crossbar that supported the sail. Joe knew this framework controlled the flight of the hang glider. Suspended in the harness, the pilot made the giant kite go up and down by pushing and pulling the horizontal bar at the base of this control frame.
Joe grabbed the control bar and started running, pulling Frank along in the harness.
"What are you doing?" Frank yelled. "You've got to put on your harness first!"
Joe snagged one arm through the harness. "Hope this is good enough—because here we go!"
The hang glider sailed over the edge of the cliff, but then it nosed down sharply. Joe had one hand hooked in the harness while he clutched desperately at the control bar with the other.
"Let go of the bar!" Frank shouted at him. "You're putting us into a dive!"
Joe took his hand off the control bar and clutched at the harness. Frank shoved the bar forward, and the hang glider leveled out. They caught an updraft and started to climb.
Joe looked back and saw Pete Gordon standing on the observation platform, shaking his fist at the sky.
"Remind me never to complain about airplane seats again," Joe said as he tried to squirm into the harness. It wasn't an easy task. Every time he shifted his weight, the hang glider would pitch to one side. He could see that Frank was constantly 
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fighting the control bar to keep their flight steady.
As they sailed along, Joe thought they probably could have made it all the way to Waikiki if they hadn't gotten off to such a shaky start. But they lost too much altitude while he struggled into position. Now they were too low to catch any more updrafts, and they were gliding steadily downward.
The carpet of trees below them gradually started to break up with the intrusion of occasional houses. "We're going to have to put her down soon," Frank said. "Look for a good clearing."
Joe pointed down. "How about that big lawn over there?"
They were getting dangerously close to the treetops. "It'll have to do," Frank said grimly.
They just managed to clear the trees at the edge of the yard. Ahead there was a sprawling ranch house. And between them and the house was a large swimming pool. They touched down on the grass. But their momentum dragged them forward—right into the shallow end of the pool.
As they splashed around and untangled themselves from the hang glider, Joe looked over at Frank and said, "At least we wore the right clothes."
Frank laughed. They were still wearing the swim trunks they had borrowed from Al Kealoha. "Let's just hope whoever lives here will let a
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couple of pool-hoppers use the phone. We've got to make a phone call."
Joe nodded. "And unless these folks want a slightly used and very wet hang glider, maybe they can help us get it back to its owners."
* * *
Two hours later they were back in the hotel suite, dressed in their own clothes. Their father was there, and so were Jade and Kevin Roberts.
"As soon as you called and told me you were all safe and gave me the location of Catlin's headquarters," Fenton said, "I called the police and the FBI. A combined task force hit the place. They nabbed Catlin and four of his men just as they were trying to make their escape."
"Does that mean we're safe now?" Jade asked.
"It looks that way. Catlin will be behind bars for years," Fenton replied.
Jade looked at her father. "Then can I surf in the Banzai Pipeline competition tomorrow?"
"After what you've been through," Kevin Roberts answered, "how could I say no?"
"What about Pete Gordon?" Frank asked. "Did they catch him yet?"
Fenton shook his head. "No, but it's only a matter of time."
* * *
The next day Frank and Joe drove up to the north shore with Jade to watch her in the competition. The beach was jammed with spectators,
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reporters, and surfers. Some of them spotted Jade and rushed over to her.
Joe took her surfboard out of the back of the jeep. "Looks like you'll be busy signing autographs and giving interviews," he said. "I'll carry this for you."
They walked down to the beach and people crowded in around them. Frank found himself swept up in a small human wave. He got separated from Joe and Jade and tried to work his way back.
He caught a glimpse of Joe farther up the beach, holding Jade's surfboard over his head. Even though Frank couldn't see Jade through the crowd, he figured she was probably right next to Joe.
Then Frank saw someone else he recognized—a man with a scar over his left eye. He also saw the blue-gray glint of metal in the man's hand.
"Joe!" he screamed. "Jade! Get down!"
It was too late. Pete Gordon had already pushed his way through the crowd—and his gun was leveled right at Jade Roberts.
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Chapter 17
At the sound of his brother's voice, Joe whirled around and spotted Gordon.
"He's got a gun!" someone screamed. The crowd backed away from the renegade FBI agent, leaving him a clear shot at both Joe and Jade.
"I should have killed you back at Diamond Head," Gordon said.
Joe glared at him. "You should have tried," he growled.
He hurled the surfboard at Gordon. It slammed into his chest, knocking him over. Joe's foot stomped down on the agent's hand, grinding the gun into the sand. Then he was on top of Gordon, pinning him down.
"Had enough yet?" Joe screamed. "Your boss
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is already in jail! It's over! You're just too stupid to figure it out!"
Frank shoved through the crowd. He scooped up Gordon's gun and pulled Joe off the hired killer.
Gordon struggled to a sitting position. "You're the one who hasn't figured it out yet. Prison never stopped Thomas Catlin from getting what he wants. He still calls the shots even from behind bars. Lots of guys took one-way rides while Catlin was locked up before. This isn't the end of it. It won't be over until—"
"Until I'm dead," Jade cut in.
Joe turned to her. "I told you I wouldn't let anything happen to you, and I always keep my word."
She smiled weakly. "What can you do, Joe? Hover over me twenty-four hours a day for the rest of my life? They'd just kill you, too. I can't let that happen."
Frank looked down at Pete Gordon. The man was a sleaze and a traitor. He had sold his FBI badge to a gangster. He would go to jail, but for how long? Not long enough, Frank thought. He might even finish off this job when he got out—if Jade survived that long.
He knew Gordon was right. Catlin's goons would keep coming until Jade was dead. That gave him an idea and he stared at his brother. "I guess we'll just have to let Gordon finish the job
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"Say what?" Joe replied in disbelief.
Frank turned to the FBI agent. "What do you suppose would happen if Catlin found out you botched the job and then rolled over on him to save your own skin?"
The look on Gordon's face brought a smile to Frank's lips. "That's what I thought."
* * *
"It seems like we just got here yesterday," Frank said as they walked through the Honolulu airport. "I don't know if I'm ready to go home yet—I never even got a chance to work on my tan."
Fenton Hardy stopped at the departure gate and put down his suitcase. "At least the last few days have been uneventful," he replied. "And Thomas Catlin won't be getting much sun for a long time."
"Neither will Pete Gordon," Frank added.
"Pete Gordon won't be getting much sleep for a long time, either," Fenton said.
Joe was pacing the floor. "Do you really think it'll work?" he asked his brother. "Do you think Catlin will buy the story that Gordon killed Jade?"
"He only has to believe it long enough for Jade and her father to disappear," Frank reminded him. "When Catlin finds out the truth, Gordon's life in prison is going to be pretty miserable."
Frank put his hand on his brother's shoulder.
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"Jade will be safe from now on," he assured him. "Relax."
Joe stopped pacing. "I guess you're right, but I'll never get to see her again."
Frank smiled. "Oh, you never know who you'll run into."
Joe looked over his shoulder to see what his brother was smiling about. He saw a familiar face across the concourse. He walked over slowly and whispered her name. "Jade?"
She smiled softly and shook her head. "Not anymore. Jade's gone—I've got a new name now."
"Where will you and your father go now?" Joe asked.
"It's best if you don't know," she said. "I shouldn't even be here. I don't know if we'll ever really be safe."
Joe reached out and took her hand. "It's over. They won't find you again."
"How can you be sure?" she asked. "They found us once—and that was after fifteen years."
"That was just dumb luck," Joe said. "If Catlin hadn't expanded his operation to Hawaii and gotten involved in illegal gambling on surfing events, they never would have noticed you."
"I guess Nick Hawk didn't help the situation much either," she added.
Joe nodded. "That's right. He didn't know it—but all his betting on Connie focused a lot of attention on you. Catlin got greedy. He thought
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he could make even more money off surfing if he fixed the competition by taking you out of it. It was only later that he realized who you were."
"He saw the picture of me and my father in the surfing magazine," Jade said.
"Right," Joe said. "His goons were carrying around copies of it to identify you."
"Flight four-forty-four for New York now boarding at gate seventeen," a voice announced over the PA system.
Joe glanced over at the boarding area. Frank tapped his watch and pointed at the gate.
"That's my flight," he said. "I have to go."
"I guess this is goodbye, then," she said.
"I guess so," Joe said, but he didn't move.
She looked up into his eyes. "Jade asked me to give you something before you go."
"You don't have to give me anyth—" Joe started to say.
She leaned over and kissed him tenderly. "I'll never forget you, Joe Hardy," she whispered. There was the glimmer of a tear in her eye.
Then she turned and walked away, fading into the crowded airport.
Joe just stood in the middle of the corridor after she was gone.
Frank came up to his brother and waved his hand in front of his face. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Joe flashed his best smile. "Sure. She's a nice
151
girl, but it never would have worked out between us."
Frank arched his eyebrows. "Oh? You seemed to get along pretty well."
"Get real," Joe replied. "She's a surfer."
"So?"
"So the surfing is lousy in Bayport."
Highway Robbery (Hardy Boys Casefiles #41)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"How can you listen to that noise?" asked the blond young man. He snatched up a compact disk and held it out in front of him as if it were contaminated. "It's got no beat, it's got no soul." He regarded his companion with disbelief and disgust. "You've got no taste!"
"Oh, right! You're going to talk to me about good taste. Wonderful!" The tall guy who was now speaking had brown hair and a lean build. "You know, I think your ears have been blown out from all the junk you listen to."
The argument was taking place next to a rack of CDs in a music store at the Bayport Mall. The blond guy stood six feet tall, while the darker one was an inch taller. Both appeared to be in
2
excellent shape. If it came to a fight, they would be evenly matched.
Between them was another young man, about five inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than the two who were arguing. Glancing from one to the other, the small guy had his hands up, ready to separate them by force if he had to.
"Hey, whoa! Take it easy, you two. Remember brotherly love, and all that good stuff? Don't forget—I work next door. You two are going to scare away all our customers. So if you start getting rough, I'll just have to deck both of you."
The two Hardy brothers looked at him, then at each other, and burst into laughter.
"We're cool, Tony," said Joe Hardy, the blond, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to make him see the light. He doesn't know good music from garbage."
Joe's brother, Frank, eighteen and a year older than his brother, gave Tony a look of mock sorrow. "He's the one who's a hopeless case. He embarrasses the whole family. Joe wouldn't know good music if it bit him in the leg. But the thing that really gets me is that he insists on putting that noise on our CD player, and I have to hear it. Talk about pollution!"
"At least you two have a CD player," said Tony with a sigh.
Tony Prito was a long-time friend of the Hardy brothers. Though not big, he was wiry, with lightning reflexes. He was a standout second
3
baseman on their high school baseball team and a dangerous pass receiver in football. "I figure it'll be another month's work at Mr. Pizza before I can afford one, even with a special break on the price."
"How do you rate a special break?" asked Joe. "You have friends in high places?"
"Not high places, just the right places," Tony said, grinning back. "My uncle, Matt Simone, has a long-haul trucking company. One of his clients is Ultratech Electronics, and my cousin Mike, who drives for them, says he can get me an Ultratech at cost. You can't beat that, right?"
"Ultratech?" asked a new voice. The three boys turned to see Jeff Lanier, someone they knew slightly from Bayport High. Jeff's pale face was framed by black hair that he kept perfectly in place. He was very particular about his clothes and paid careful attention to what was in. He didn't have time for after-school activities because he spent all his spare time at the mall. He considered himself a big deal with the girls, although most girls wouldn't agree with him.
"I don't have a cousin to help me out, but I bet you won't beat the deal I got on an Ultratech CD player last week."
"How much?" asked Frank. He didn't like Jeff and hoped that it didn't show. A second later he decided Jeff wouldn't notice. It would never occur to him that anyone could dislike him.
4
With a self-satisfied smirk, Jeff told them what he'd paid. Tony let out a low whistle.
"Hey, that is a deal! At that price, I could buy one today! Where'd you pick it up?" he asked eagerly.
"At a place out on Route Nineteen," replied Jeff. "It doesn't look like much. Just a kind of grungy warehouse with a lot of stuff on the floor in boxes—CD players, tape decks, everything. But the prices are, like, unreal."
Joe and Frank exchanged a quick look. "So how'd you find this place?" asked Joe. As far as he was concerned, it did sound "unreal"—and probably more than a little shady. "Was there an ad in the paper, or what?"
"Ad in the paper!" echoed Jeff scornfully. "No way, Jose! That's how they keep their prices down. No advertising. And no fancy signs or decorations, either. I just heard about it from some dude, I can't remember who exactly."
"Where is it? How do I get there?" Tony cut in. He gazed expectantly at the Hardys. "Maybe we can take a drive out there sometime."
Jeff's directions were complicated so Frank jotted them down. The warehouse was outside Bayport in an area they didn't know very well.
"Hey, thanks!" called Tony as Jeff headed for the exit.
"No sweat," Jeff answered, not looking back.
" 'No way, Jose,' " mimicked Frank. "Now, there's a guy who'll never be lonely as long as he has a mirror."
5
"Right," agreed Joe. "The guy never wears the same clothes twice. He must have a three- acre closet. I heard he keeps a blow-dryer in his locker at school."
Tony was impatient, hopping from foot to foot. "What do you say? I don't work any more today. Let's head on over to this place, okay? Maybe there's something there you'd be interested in, too."
"Tony," Joe said quietly. "You said that your cousin could get you an Ultratech at cost, right?"
"Right."
"And Jeff said he paid a lot less than that, right?"
"Yeah," said Tony slowly. He was now frowning suspiciously. "What's your point?"
Frank took a quick look around. A number of other shoppers were within earshot. "Why don't we take this conversation someplace else?" he suggested.
The three young men walked out of the store into the busy traffic of the mall's arcade.
As they walked, Frank spoke. "One thing we've learned from our dad, Tony. Things that sound too good to be true usually are."
Fenton Hardy, Frank and Joe's father, had spent a number of years as a New York City detective before beginning practice as a private investigator. Now he was an internationally known detective.
6
A light dawned in Tony's eyes. "You think maybe . . ."
"Tony," Joe cut in, "think about it. When stuff like this is being sold for less than what the manufacturer gets for it, out of a grungy warehouse that doesn't advertise except by word of mouth, you have to figure that the stuff is probably hot."
Tony stared at Joe and then scowled. "Well— hey, maybe there's some other reason! Maybe these are models they've stopped making now and need to get rid of. Or they got some kind of special discount from the factory because—oh, I don't know! All I know is, I want to check it out. You have a problem with that?"
Frank shrugged. "I guess not." He turned to Joe. "You know, I am kind of curious about this setup. It might be interesting to see—especially if it is some kind of fencing operation. Why don't we take a ride out there and look around?"
Joe held up a hand in warning. "The whole operation sounds like it's probably illegal."
"Don't worry, Joe, if it's crooked, I'm gone. No way am I buying stolen goods," Tony said.
"The place will probably be closed by the time we get there," Joe said. "But, who cares, I've got nothing better to do. Let's hit the road. The van's out in G parking lot."
Joe got behind the wheel of the black customized van he and Frank owned. Frank sat beside him with Jeff's directions, and Tony rode in
7
the backseat. It was late afternoon on a perfect summer day, and they rode with the windows open.
The area they were driving through had clearly seen better days. Aside from a few gas stations and convenience stores, Joe noticed that most of the buildings were industrial and many were empty. Everything looked run-down.
"Talk about your basic low-rent district," he muttered as they turned onto Route 19. "This has got to be the lowest."
Frank nodded. "It may not be the end of the world, but I bet you can see it from here."
"That's how they keep the prices down," said Tony. But Joe didn't think Tony sounded so convinced anymore. It wasn't a likely setting for an honest retail business.
They'd been on the road almost an hour, when Frank looked up from the directions. "It should be up ahead, on the left. There it is!"
There was no sign identifying the place, but some numbers were hand-painted on a piece of wood that hung from a chain-link fence. The address matched the one in Jeff's directions.
Joe steered the van through an opening in the fence and into a parking area. Only two other cars were there, and beyond them stood a shabby one-story building.
"Business isn't exactly booming," Joe noted dryly as he parked the van.
"So, what does that prove?" demanded Tony.
8
"Nothing, that's what! Let's go in and see what's happening."
"It looks closed," Frank said.
Tony walked ahead impatiently. "There are lights on." He tried the door, and when it swung inward, he entered, followed by Frank and Joe.
By the pale light of two strips of hanging fluorescent tubes, Frank saw a large, mostly empty space with no windows. A door, possibly leading to an office, was off to one side. Other than a few cartons on the floor, there was nothing to be seen. No people. No stereo components. Nothing.
For a second the boys stood and stared silently. Then Tony said, "Could be it's the wrong place."
They paused at the sound of a noise from behind the office door. Frank pointed. "Maybe whoever's in there can tell us something."
They started toward the door, but before they reached it, the door opened and two men appeared.
"Excuse us—" Tony began, and then stopped short.
The two strangers froze at the sight of the three boys. In their jumpsuits, gloves, and heavy shoes, the men looked like warehouse workers, except for one detail—their startled eyes peering out from behind wool ski masks!
9
Chapter 2
The two intruders recovered and made a quick dash for the front door. The smaller of the two rammed a shoulder into Tony's ribs and knocked him flat.
The second man, who was as tall as the Hardys and more solidly built, carried a briefcase in one hand. He showed amazing quickness for his size and surprised the brothers by dodging between them instead of making an end run around them. Joe dived for the legs of the running man, but all he caught was the heel of a heavy shoe in his forehead. Dazed from the impact, he lay sprawled on the floor.
Coming to a stop, Frank checked on his brother and Tony. The men in masks were out the door and into their car.
10
"Joe?" asked Frank. He heard a car engine roar to life outside and tires squeal as the car sped away. "Hey, Joe! You hear me?" Nearby, Tony was slowly pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, wheezing painfully as he struggled for breath.
"I'm all right," Joe said weakly. "I'm okay. Where did they—did those guys get away?"
"They're gone," Frank replied, helping Joe stand up. "They should've known that the last way to hurt you is to kick you in the head. Tony?" Frank looked over at his friend, who was still on his knees, feeling his ribs and wincing. "You need a hand? How are you doing?"
"Whoof," gasped Tony. "I feel like I just got trampled by the Chicago Bears. All of them. But I don't think anything's broken, just bruised a little."
Once all three were standing again, Joe suggested, "We'd better see what they left behind. They were doing something in that room."
"And you don't need ski masks to do bookkeeping or sweep the floors," added Frank. He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped his hand in it. "It'd be better not to leave a lot of fingerprints around. We don't want to mess things up if the police get called in here," he explained to Tony.
Tony nodded slowly, his eyes widening. "Oh, yeah, good idea. What do you think they—"
"No point in guessing," Frank said. He gently
11
pushed against the door to open it fully, but it wouldn't move any more. Something was lying behind it. The room was unlit, except for what little light spilled in from the warehouse. Frank walked into the room and then stiffened, drawing his breath in sharply. He looked out through the doorway and called to his brother. "Joe, get the flashlight from the van, quick! There's a body in here!"
Joe raced outside. He returned quickly, carrying a powerful flashlight. Switching it on, he pointed its bright beam into the small dark room. Joe knew at once that the man lying sprawled on the floor was dead.
He played the light over the rest of the room and saw a metal filing cabinet with its drawers pulled out, apparently empty. A telephone lay by the dead man, its wires slashed.
"They may have cleaned out some papers," said Joe. "We'd better call the police."
"We're outside the city limits," Frank pointed out. "This is County Sheriff territory, not Bayport PD. We'd better find a phone." He noticed Tony's quizzical expression. "The phone in the van is broken."
"We passed a convenience store not too far from here," Tony said, his voice shaky. "There was a booth outside."
"I'll go," Joe said.
"I'll come too," said Tony, backing away from the office. "If—if it's okay with you, Frank."
12
"Go ahead, it's cool."
As he started out with Joe, Tony noticed an empty carton on the floor.
"It's for an Ultratech cassette deck," he said, pointing to it. "This was the right place after all."
"But the sale is over," replied Frank.
* * *
Joe and Tony returned just a couple of minutes before the first carload of sheriff's deputies rolled in. Frank and Joe had a few contacts and even a couple of friends among the Bayport police, but they didn't know anyone in the county force.
An officer took their statements, and then told the boys to wait while he talked to his superior officer.
The man in charge appeared to be in his late forties. He was tall and lanky, with a deeply tanned face and gray-tinted eyeglasses in silver frames. As he listened to the junior officer's report, he nodded and glanced over at the Hardys and Tony a couple of times. After the younger man had finished, he silently studied the three for a minute before walking over to them. He held their statements in one hand.
"I'm Chief Deputy MacReedy," he said. "Which one of you is Tony Prito?"
"I am." Tony stepped forward.
MacReedy looked Tony up and down, saying nothing. Finally he studied the notes in his hand.
13
"Frank and Joe Hardy, huh? Would you happen to be Fenton Hardy's kids?"
"Yes, sir," answered Frank. "Do you know him?"
"We've met," said the deputy. There was another silence, which was broken by Joe.
"Do you know who the dead guy is?"
MacReedy's head shot up, and he fixed Joe with a steely look from behind his glasses. He walked over to Joe and stopped when their faces were inches apart.
"Now, listen. We'd better get something straight here and now, son, or you and I won't get along at all. I'm the one who asks the questions, and you're the one who answers them. And those answers better be good. That clear?"
Joe's eyes flashed for a moment, but all he said was, "yes."
"That pretty van outside belong to you?"
"Yes, sir," said Frank. He gave Joe a look that conveyed the message stay cool. They knew the deputy was being a major jerk, but it wouldn't do to get on his bad side.
"Very nice. A real fancy set of wheels. Your daddy must be doing real well at the detective business to buy his boys a nice toy like that."
"He didn't—" Joe started to say, and the deputy cut him off with an upraised palm.
MacReedy began to pace back and forth in front of the three boys, speaking as he moved. "Now, I ask myself what three fellows like you
14
in that customized, souped-up machine are doing out here, on the wrong side of the tracks."
"It was my idea," Tony said. "Like I told the other officer—"
"That's 'deputy,' son."
"Yes, sir," Tony said nervously. "Like I told him, I heard that there was a place around here where you could get stereo equipment at a really great price."
"Yeah, I know what you said," snapped MacReedy. "But I bet you can come up with a better story if you try real hard. One I might actually believe."
"We're telling you the truth," Frank insisted.
"That so?" MacReedy abruptly stopped his pacing and turned to face them. "I have a buddy who's a Bayport cop. I've heard all about you two—how you always turn up at crime scenes— before the police as often as not. How you get underfoot and try to do their jobs for them.
"Well, I don't want you thinking you can get away with playing junior cop on a case of mine. Just because I've got no cause to bring you in right now doesn't mean I buy that line about shopping for stereos. I've got my eye on you."
Joe said, "Wait a—"
"Don't you dare interrupt me!" MacReedy's voice cut like a whip. He reached out a long arm and pointed a finger at Joe, Frank, and Tony in turn.
"Now listen up, and keep those lips buttoned.
15
If I hear that you've been snooping around, asking questions, sticking your noses in where they don't belong, I'm going to land on you with both feet. There won't be a thing your daddy will be able to do for you then. Now you three get in that van and get out of here. And stay out of my way! If I want you I'll send for you."
With that, the deputy wheeled around and stalked away. Frank watched a muscle twitch in Joe's jaw, and he reached out to steady him.
"Let's get moving," he urged. "There's nothing we can do here except buy into some major trouble."
Joe took a deep breath and slowly relaxed. But after they went outside and climbed back into the van, he whispered to Frank, "Wouldn't you love to solve this thing and rub his face in it?"
Soon after they pulled out of the parking lot, Tony leaned forward and asked, "Joe, would you stop at that phone booth again? I want to call home and let them know where I am."
They stopped a minute later, and Tony went to use the phone. "Did you get the idea that there's some kind of history between Dad and this MacReedy?" asked Frank.
"Loud and clear," Joe said. "I don't think they were good buddies, either. Let's ask Dad about him when we get home. Here's Tony."
Tony slowly climbed into the backseat. His face had gone pale, and he looked even worse than he had after they'd found the body.
16
"Tony?" Frank asked. "What's the matter? You look real shook up."
Tony didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said softly, "It's—my cousin Mike."
"What's the problem?" asked Joe, worried.
"He was driving a truckload of Ultratech components and a bunch of goons forced him to stop. When Mike realized that they were going to hijack his goods, he tried to fight them off. They beat him up—bad. He's in the hospital."
17
Chapter 3
"I want to get over there right away," Tony said anxiously.
"Sure." Joe started up the van. "We'll take you there right now."
Forty-five minutes later they arrived at the hospital and were directed to a room on the seventh floor.
Tony's cousin Mike Simone was a muscular man in his thirties, but lying in the hospital bed he appeared to be fragile. Some curls of black hair stuck out from the bandages wrapped around his head. His left arm was in a cast, and his face was swollen and bruised. In addition to his visible injuries, Mike had a cracked rib.
The boys noticed, though, that the look in Mike's eyes wasn't so much one of pain as it was of anger.
18
"If it had been two guys, I would've taken them," Mike muttered. "But four was too many.'
"How long will you be laid up?" Tony asked. He sat in a chair beside his cousin, while Joe and Frank leaned against a window sill.
"I may be out of here as early as the day after tomorrow once they're sure my head's okay." Mike sagged back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "But I don't know when I'll be able to drive a rig again. This arm won't be much good for maybe two months."
"How'd it happen, anyway?" Joe asked. "If you don't mind talking about it."
"No, I don't mind," said Mike. "I had just left Bayport, heading north. There's a shortcut I always use between two interstates, kind of a deserted stretch of road. About halfway along this, I see these traffic barriers and flashing lights. A guy was standing there in one of those orange vests, waving a red flag.
"I figure there's some kind of accident up ahead, so I pull over. Three guys in ski masks with blackjacks or clubs or something jump up on the cab and yank both doors open. Then the guy in the vest drops his flag and pulls a mask down over his face."
At the mention of ski masks, Frank and Joe exchanged a look. Mike went on.
"I had a baseball bat under the seat, and I grabbed it and tried to belt one of them, but they pulled me down from the cab and—the last thing
19
I remember was getting something real hard bounced off my skull. A woman driving a car found me lying on the road a little while later. The truck was gone."
"You could have been killed, Mike!" Tony stood up and stared down at his cousin. "Why go up against four guys like that? For what? A bunch of electronics?"
Mike nodded and sighed. "I won't argue, kid. I was stupid. But—see, there's things going on here that you don't understand."
"Like what?"
Mike was silent. He glanced at Frank and Joe.
Quickly Frank suggested, "Tony, why don't we wait outside for you?"
"No, wait, Frank," Tony said. "Mike, these are my buddies, and I trust them. I guarantee anything you say will be kept confidential."
Mike thought a moment and then said, "Okay, Tony, if you say so. Pop probably won't like me talking, but—this is just between us, right?"
"You got it," Joe said.
"All right. My dad owns this shipping outfit, Lombard Hauling. We're just a family company with a small list of clients we transport goods for. Our biggest client is Ultratech Electronics."
"And their shipment got taken today," said Frank.
"The thing is," said Mike, "this isn't the first Ultratech shipment to be hijacked. It's the third."
20
"The third!" echoed Tony with disbelief. "How come you haven't said anything—"
Mike held up his good hand. "Tony, if it was up to me, this wouldn't be news to you now. But Pop has played it real close for some reason. The company is really hurting, Tony. I'm scared that we could lose Ultratech as a client, and our insurance, too. And then Lombard Hauling would be out of business."
"What did the police say?" asked Frank.
Tony bit his lip. "We reported the first hijacking so we could get the insurance money for Ultratech. But Pop wouldn't go to the sheriff last time, and he won't go this time, either. When he was here earlier we had a big argument about it. He just won't go, and he won't say why, either. I tried to convince him, but—"
"That's crazy!" Tony burst out. "Uncle Matt can't—"
"Hold it, Tony," said Frank. "Mike, how do you think your father would feel about bringing in private investigators?"
"The kind of people who know how to find things out, and keep their mouths shut," added Joe.
"I don't know," Mike said, shaking his head. "Why? You have some in mind?"
"We do, actually," Frank said. "Our father, Fenton Hardy, is one of the best private operatives there is—"
21
"The thing is," said Mike, "we're sort of strapped for cash right now."
"Well, we have a kind of family business, too, and my dad wouldn't press you," Joe said. "Frank and I are sort of junior partners."
"Hold on a minute," Mike interrupted. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but this hijacking business is no game." He pointed to his bandaged head. "They play rough."
"No, really, Mike," said Tony. "Frank and Joe are for real. They've gotten into some heavy scenes, and they can take care of themselves."
"We're good at finding things out," Frank added with a smile.
Mike stared at the Hardys. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Could you figure out some way of setting us up with jobs at Lombard, as a cover?" Frank asked. "At least we could look around."
"It couldn't do any harm," added Joe.
Mike nodded. "Let me call Pop," he said. "He had to go back to the office. He's probably still there."
The phone conversation was short, and Mike didn't do much of the talking. When he hung up, he seemed to be shaken and disturbed.
"What's up?" Tony asked.
"Ultratech gave Pop a rough time," Mike replied. "They said they're thinking of finding another trucking company, one that does a better job of keeping its shipments safe. And
22
then, he said, the law just paid him a little visit."
"I thought you said the sheriff's office didn't know about the hijacking," Joe said.
"No, this was about something else. They found a body around five o'clock today, a guy who'd been murdered, somewhere near Bayport."
Tony was about to tell Mike about their experience at the warehouse, but he caught a warning look from Frank and kept quiet.
"What does the body have to do with Lombard Hauling?" Joe asked.
"The cops said the guy was a small-time gangster named Mickey Vane. He had a fairly long record. Well, he once worked for Lombard as a driver. Pop told the deputy that he didn't know anything about his record, but the deputy didn't seem to believe him. And Pop says the deputy's on his way over here to question me." Mike let out a sigh, then added, "Oh, he did say he'd talk to Frank and Joe about this investigation tomorrow morning at the office."
"What can you tell the law?" asked Tony.
"Me? Nothing," Mike said. "But it sounds like this cop who questioned Pop is a rough customer. He all but said that he suspected Pop of being mixed up with this Vane guy in some kind of dirty business. Pop almost threw him out of the office."
"Mike," said Frank. "You said that these hijackers 
23
stopped you on a pretty deserted road that you used as a shortcut, right?"
"Right. Driving a rig, you're always trying to save a little time and gas."
"The thing is," Frank went on, "if this was a shortcut, how many people could have known you'd be there?"
Mike gave Frank a troubled look. "You mean, is there somebody inside the company that's part of this gang? Yeah, I've thought the same thing. Maybe that's why Pop didn't want the police involved. Maybe he's scared that there's a crook at Lombard, and that it might even be one of the family."
"Impossible," said Tony flatly.
"Well, even the other employees are like family to Pop. If someone there is bent, he'd handle it quietly, without—"
There was a knock at the door, and a nurse entered, looking flustered.
"Mr. Simone, there's a-an officer here who insists on talking to you right now. I told him that you were resting, but he said—"
A brusque voice interrupted the nurse. "I said I didn't have time to waste. He'll talk to me, and talk right now."
A tall man in a khaki uniform brushed past the outraged nurse, and for the second time that day Tony and the Hardys found themselves looking into the hard eyes of Chief Deputy MacReedy.
24
Joe felt anger rise in him as he watched the officer's eyes narrow.
"You three again," MacReedy said, his lips compressing into a thin line. "The way I keep tripping over you, you boys are bound to end up in a jail cell!"
25
Chapter 4
"All right," said MacReedy, "let's hear your story this time. What are you boys shopping for at the hospital?"
"Just paying a get-well call on Tony's cousin," Frank said quickly.
"That's right, Chief Deputy," Joe added. "We're cheering him up with our presence."
"Well, boys, your presence doesn't work that way on me," MacReedy answered curtly. "I've had my fill of you. Visiting hours are over, so you three beat it while Mr. Simone and I talk."
"I have nothing to tell you," Mike said.
"Oh, you'd be surprised what you know," purred MacReedy. He glanced back at Frank and Joe and Tony. "You still here? I told you to move. Now do it."
26
"Take it easy, Mike," said Tony. He filed out of the room behind the Hardys.
Back in the van, Tony asked, "Why didn't you want me to tell Mike about finding that body?"
"Just being careful," said Frank.
Tony sounded insulted. "Hey, you think my cousin Mike is a crook?"
"Take it easy, Tony. We don't think anything like that," Joe assured him. "When we're working on a case, we like to keep information on a need-to-know basis. We trust Mike, but we don't know who he might talk to, or who they might talk to. See what I mean?"
"It's habit," Frank went on. "It keeps our cases more contained. Less chance for leaks."
"Well, all right, if you say so," Tony agreed.
Frank and Joe dropped Tony off at his house. Before driving away, they arranged to pick him up the next morning so he could introduce them to his uncle Matt.
Back at their house Frank and Joe found their father in his office, and they started to fill him in on their day. When they mentioned Chief Deputy MacReedy, Fenton narrowed his eyes.
"MacReedy?" he asked. "Kind of a rangy fellow with a bad temper?"
"That sounds like him," said Joe. "You two ever have a run-in of any kind?"
Fenton nodded. "When I first started in business here, I was hired to work on a fraud case.
27
MacReedy was investigating it for the sheriff's office. He seemed like a good man, but a little too—in those days we called him too gung-ho. You felt he might get carried away in a situation, forget about procedure, cut a corner—that kind of thing.
"Well, he made an arrest," Fenton went on, "but he tampered with some evidence in order to nail it down tight, so he lost the perpetrator and went up on charges. Somehow he got it into his head that I was responsible, and ever since he's held it against me."
"That's a long time to hold a grudge," Frank commented.
Fenton leaned forward. "You don't want to get on his bad side. But since he knows you're my sons, you're already there. Steer clear of him as much as possible, boys."
"We'll try," Joe told their father. "But it looks like what he's working on connects with our investigation."
"Are you sure?" asked Fenton.
Frank nodded. "First, the dead man once worked for Lombard Hauling. Second, the hot goods that were being sold at that warehouse were made by Ultratech, and that's what has been hijacked." As he spoke he counted off the points on his fingers.
"By the way, Dad, could you look into a couple of things for us?" Joe asked.
"If I can. What do you need?"
28
"We need to know the record of this Mickey Vane—he's the one who got killed today."
"It'd be good to find out who owns the warehouse where they were selling the stolen electronics, too," said Frank. "And who was renting it and for how long."
They gave Fenton the address. As they were about to leave his office, he called out, "Frank? Joe? I know that you know how to watch out for yourselves, but you should really stay away from Lamar MacReedy." Fenton sounded casual, but Frank and Joe knew that he was concerned. "He'd be happy to have any excuse to get at you, if only to get back at me."
"We'll keep our heads down, Dad," replied Joe.
* * *
The next morning Frank, Joe, and Tony drove over to Lombard Hauling. Joe pulled the van in through the open gate and parked next to a medium-size garage with a loading dock on one side. A few small buildings were attached to the rear of the garage. Probably offices, Joe decided. Near the loading dock he saw a couple of mechanics working on tall, boxy truck cabs. A few trailers with Lombard painted on the sides in red stood empty, ready to receive the next loads. The place smelled familiar to Joe—gasoline, oil, and grease—all blended.
Tony led them past the garage to an outdoor entrance to the first building. Just as he raised
29
his hand to knock, an angry voice pierced through the closed door and stopped him.
"You'll be hearing from us again, and you won't like it!" The door swung open and a middle- aged man in a lime green sports jacket and open- necked shirt stalked out. He was balding and stocky, with a pug nose and an angry flush on his face. He shoved between Frank and Joe and marched off.
"Uncle Matt?" called Tony.
"Come on in." Frank and Joe followed Tony inside to an office, where a tall, powerful-looking man was standing behind a desk. His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, showing muscular arms. He looked like an older version of Mike, with close-trimmed frizzy white hair.
Frank checked out the office curiously. It wasn't exactly a plush office. The scarred wooden desk was stacked high with papers and folders that almost hid the phone. Maps tacked to the walls had routes drawn across them in felt-tip pen. The only other wall decoration was a calendar with a color photograph of a flashy customized truck.
"Who was that?" Tony asked his uncle.
"Aah." Matt waved a hand in disgust. "Lou Gerard. The union's new business agent for the local our people belong to. Forget about him."
He looked curiously at the Hardys.
Tony quickly jumped in. "Uncle Matt, this is
30
Frank and Joe Hardy, the ones Mike told you about last night."
Matt sat back in his desk chair, his eyes still on Frank and Joe. "When Mike said something about detectives, he didn't mention you were kids. I don't know—"
"Uncle Matt," Tony said, "trust me. These two really get around. They may be young, but they aren't helpless. Go ahead, give them a try."
Matt shrugged. "How old are you two?"
"I'm eighteen," Frank answered, "and Joe is seventeen."
"Okay. Joe, legally you have to be eighteen to even start learning big rigs. I guess we can say you're an apprentice mechanic. Frank, you're too young to actually drive a rig, but you can be a driver's helper. You'll work with Pat Mulvaney, our top driver, until Mike gets back."
There was a knock at Matt's door, and a second later a man came in with a sheaf of papers. He had sandy hair and freckles, and several pens stuck out of a plastic pocket protector in his shirt.
"Frank, Joe, this is Felix Kinney," said Matt. "Frank and Joe are starting to work here, Felix. Felix is our numbers man—in charge of billing, schedules, bookkeeping."
Felix smiled and then said softly, "What there is of it these days, what with—"
"All right, Felix," Matt cut in gruffly. "Leave the papers and get back to work. And ask Pat to come in here."
31
After Felix had gone, Matt tilted his chair back against the wall behind him. "All right. What can I tell you?"
"Just fill us in on what's been going down," said Joe.
Matt nodded. "There have been three hijackings, all of Ultratech equipment. Every time the truck was completely cleaned out. On the first heist, I brought in the sheriff and my insurance paid Ultratech for the loss. The second time I was worried about how my insurance people would react, so I kept quiet and paid for the loss myself."
"What about this one?" Frank asked.
Matt sighed and shook his head. "I'll be able to cover this one, too—barely. But if there's another one—I don't know. It would just finish us. Some of my men are already talking about finding new jobs, before these are shot out from under them."
"This man Mickey Vane—" Frank began.
Matt glared up at him. "How do you know about him?" he demanded.
"We were at the hospital with Mike last night, when that deputy arrived," said Joe.
"Well, I can't tell you much," Matt said. "I hired him two years back, before I found out he had a record. If he'd told me about it up front, I might have kept him, but since he lied, I let him go as soon as I found out. I hadn't heard of him again till last night."
32
"Did MacReedy tell you that stolen Ultratech products were being sold out of the place where Vane's body was found?" Joe asked.
Matt's eyes widened. "No, he didn't. Unless— maybe he suspects I had something to do with it, but that's crazy!" His jaw clenched.
"Let that go for now," said Frank. "What's the problem between you and this man Lou Gerard?"
Matt's face took on a stony look. "Nothing. Forget about him. That's private business."
Frank shot Matt a probing look. "We can do our job only if you level with us."
Matt said nothing.
After an awkward silence, Tony said, "Well, I've got to get to work. I'll catch a bus outside. See you, guys, Uncle Matt."
"Tony!" Matt called out. "I'm trusting you not to tell your mother and father about any of this. There's no point in worrying them. Right?"
"If you say so, Uncle Matt," answered Tony, but he seemed a little uncomfortable with the idea.
Just after Tony left, a woman entered Matt's office. In her mid-forties, she was tall and fair with light brown hair. Her jeans and work shirt were grease stained.
Matt smiled. "Pat! Come in, sit down. This is Joe Hardy. He'll be learning the ropes in the garage. And his brother, Frank, here, is going to crew with you as your helper. Boys, meet Pat Mulvaney."
33
As they exchanged hellos, Pat noticed Joe staring at her. "Something wrong, Joe?"
Joe's face got red. "Well, no—I figured—that is, you're a woman!"
Matt laughed. "Say, you are a detective, aren't you! She's a fine driver, too. And she happens to be my wife's sister. She's someone I need and trust. So I want to let her in on why you two are here."
Pat listened, looking Frank over carefully as Matt explained. "You look healthy enough," she said with a smile. "It's about time Matt got someone to help get those crooks." Pat turned and headed back out the office door. "When you're finished talking with Matt, come out to the garage and I'll start your lessons."
After she'd gone, Joe said, "Mr. Simone—"
"Please. Make it 'Matt.' "
"Okay, Matt. I'm sure you're right to trust Pat about who we are, but—"
"Pat's my right arm around here," Matt interrupted, frowning.
Frank could see how defensive and gruff Matt was, but they had to get him to understand how important it was to maintain secrecy. Leaning forward, he tried to pick up where Joe had left off. "Matt, what you have to understand—"
Frank stopped abruptly as a shrill scream from the garage echoed through the room!
34
Chapter 5
Matt jumped up and ran out of the office into the garage, Frank and Joe at his heels. The workers inside were staring at Pat Mulvaney, who was comforting a pretty dark-haired girl. The girl was shaking and trying to hold back tears.
"I-I'm s-s-sorry, I—it was just that I didn't expect it. . . ." the girl stammered.
"What happened?" Matt demanded when he reached them.
Pat's face was grim. "Teri wanted some papers that I'd put in the cab of this truck. She opened it—and found this."
Pat reached up into the cab and pulled out a large rat with a paper tied around its neck. "Is this someone's idea of a joke?" she asked no one in particular.
35
Joe took the rat from her and handed it to Matt.
"Is it—is that—real?" Ten asked with a small shiver. "Is it—dead?"
"It's not real," Joe reassured her. Just then he took a good look and noticed how cute Teri was, even though she was still terrified. "It's just an imitation, the kind of thing you'd buy in a joke shop. But it does look gross, all right."
Matt opened the note and studied it. Frank and Joe leaned in to read what had been printed in large block letters. It said: "RATS GET HURT WHEN THEY WON'T WISE UP."
Matt crumpled the note in his fist, his face red with anger. "When was this put here? You have any idea?"
"It could've happened any time since I pulled in yesterday," said Pat. "There've been a lot of people around."
Matt turned to the girl. "Teri, are you all right? It was just someone's bad idea of a joke, that's all."
Teri smiled weakly. "I know, it just caught me by surprise. What does that note mean? It sounds like a threat. Is someone mad at Pat?"
Matt shook his head. "No, honey, it's supposed to be a joke, and the joke is supposed to be on me." Joe was hoping Matt would explain what the so-called joke was about, but he obviously didn't want to talk about it. Matt just smiled at Teri and changed the subject. "Oh, hey, let
36
me make some introductions, here. Frank, Joe, this is Teri Yarnell. She works with Felix on the books. Frank and Joe Hardy are our newest employees, Teri. Joe and Teri, you two come with me. Frank, stay here, and Pat can start showing you the inside of the cab of a big rig."
Frank didn't miss the sudden interest his brother was showing in Teri, and he smiled as Joe instantly struck up a conversation with her.
"Frank," said Pat, "hop up in the driver's seat, and I'll show you around."
Frank climbed up into the cab—and it was a climb. The seat was a good six feet off the ground, and Frank had to make his way up a series of metal rungs and footholds built into the cab wall. As he sat behind the wheel, he realized for the first time the wide view of the road a big rig driver has. On the dashboard in front of him was a bewildering collection of switches, knobs, dials, and lights.
Pat sat in the passenger seat. "Now, this particular truck has a standard or stick-shift transmission," she began. "You know what that means, right?"
Frank nodded. "It means you push in the clutch pedal to change gears." He tapped the pedal with his left foot.
"Right," said Pat. "Except in these rigs, you have to double-clutch—push the pedal once to get out of a gear and then again to get into the next one. Some trucks have automatic transmissions, 
37
but I don't care for them. Most truckers don't. Shifting is where we get one of the names we call ourselves—gearjammers. We do a lot of shifting. This truck has twelve forward gears. For the first six, you move the stick on the floor here, like this." She demonstrated the six gears. "And then you pull this lever and go through the same motions for gears seven through twelve.
"The cab is hooked to the trailer with what we call a fifth wheel—that big round thing you can see out the back window, there. See it? Okay. When you back this up into position in front of a trailer, a heavy pin in the trailer—the kingpin— locks into the notch in the wheel, and you're attached. Then you hook up a lot of cables and wires, so you can control the lights on the trailer from the cab. And the air brakes, too, of course."
"Whoa! Slow down a little," said Frank, holding up his hands. "I'm still trying to figure out twelve forward gears."
"Oh, don't worry, Frank," Pat told him. "You won't be driving an eighteen-wheeler for a long time yet." She pointed to some of the controls and gizmos and went on. "This light warns you if your fifth wheel connection is loose, and this shows the pressure in your air-brake cylinders. This toggle switch here controls—"
"Pat—"
"The safety lights. Over here—"
"Pat! Hold on a minute!"
"Am I going too fast?" she asked with a grin.
38
"Even airplane cockpits aren't as complicated as this," Frank said, shaking his head.
"Learning how to drive a truck like this one isn't like learning to drive your dad's car. It takes years to learn how, and a lot more years to get to be as good as I am."
"How long have you been at it?"
Pat laughed. "Never mind! Quite a while. I've got almost two million miles behind me, if you want to put it that way."
Frank whistled. "Two million!"
"Pat! Frank!"
Frank turned at the sound of the deep voice and saw that Matt was standing by his office door, motioning to them. "In here!"
Frank and Pat climbed down and went to the office. Joe was already there, standing beside Matt's desk.
"Ultratech has a shipment to go tomorrow," Matt told them. "The trailer will be loaded and ready by mid-afternoon. Pat, are you willing to take it out late tomorrow afternoon?"
She glanced at Frank. "Sure, if my helper is."
"I'm game."
Matt asked, "Got any ideas on how to keep the shipment from being swiped?"
Frank shrugged and thought a moment, then he asked, "Have all the trucks been stopped on deserted roads?"
"Yes."
39
"Will there be any deserted stretches tomorrow?"
Matt handed Pat a sheet of paper, which she studied for a moment before saying, "There are a few spots that are pretty deserted."
Frank met his brother's eyes. "If you and Tony could follow us in the van, we could keep in touch by CB. We might be able to trap this gang."
Joe nodded. "We'd have to stay far enough behind so we wouldn't be seen, but close enough to get to you fast if trouble happens. Maybe a mile behind you."
"Let's say two, just to be sure you won't be spotted. You could still get to us in a couple of minutes."
"Then what?" Matt asked, frowning. "Say there are four guys, like the other times. There'd be four of you against four of them. With the numbers even, how could you be sure they wouldn't get the shipment?"
"We figure the gang counts on overpowering a driver and getting away fast," Frank said. "The first time they run into organized resistance, they're likely to scatter. If we're lucky, we should be able to bag some of them. At the worst, we'll keep the shipment."
Matt didn't look convinced. "That's what you think, huh?"
"Right," Joe replied firmly. "That's what we're here to do, isn't it?"
40
"Well—okay," Matt finally said. "I just hope you—"
The door to Matt's office swung open, and Frank and Joe watched a man in jeans and a T-shirt stride in. He was tall and well-built, with reddish blond hair and a baseball cap pushed back on his head. His expression was angry and worried.
"What's this about Mike being in the hospital?" he demanded.
"You ought to knock, Hal," said Matt. "He's going to be all right."
"Matt, I told you I should be driving that Ultratech stuff!"
"Then you'd be in the hospital instead of Mike," Matt replied tersely. "Guys, meet Hal Brady, one of our drivers. Hal, Frank and Joe Hardy."
Frank stuck out a hand. "Glad to—"
Hal ignored him. "Well, I'm going to take the next shipment, right? Those creeps wouldn't take my truck, I can tell you that!"
"Pat's driving the next load, Hal," Matt told him. His tone left no room for argument.
Hal's face reddened, and his fists clenched at his sides. "Matt, this is crazy! A woman in a situation like this—"
"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself," Pat snapped.
Frank looked over at Joe, who gave a slight
41
shake of the head. It was obvious his brother felt just as uncomfortable as he did.
Hal's voice rose. "Matt, you've got to—"
Matt cut him off, slamming his hand down on the desk with a loud thwack. "Enough! As long as I'm running this business, I'm making the decisions around here. And I say Pat is going to take that shipment!" His jaw was clenched tight, and veins in his neck stood out.
For a second Joe thought Hal might leap across the desk at Matt, but he just growled, "You won't have a business if you keep making dumb decisions like this." He turned and left the office.
There was silence for a moment. Finally Pat said, "Well, I've got to get some work done on that engine. Frank, see me when you're done here." Then she, too, was gone.
Frank and Joe were left in the office with Matt, who was staring stonily down at his desk.
"What did you make of this business with the rat out there?" Frank asked after a moment, trying to get back to the case. "If that was meant for you, then you're being warned. What's it about?"
Matt folded his arms across his chest. "It's nothing—not worth worrying about. Just one of a series of bad practical jokes someone's pulling on me—phone calls late at night, that kind of stuff. Probably someone I had to fire who has a grudge, that's all."
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"But why did whoever it was leave the rat in the truck and not in your office?" Frank pressed. He wasn't convinced.
Matt shrugged. "Because they could sneak it into the truck easier than they could sneak it in here," he replied, sounding irritated. "They'd know that the message would get to me eventually."
"If you don't mind me asking," Joe said, "why not use Hal? He looks like he could handle himself pretty well in any situation."
"First of all," replied Matt, "Pat is every bit as good a driver as he is. Second, Hal has been giving me a hard time lately. Thinks he should be top driver around here, and I don't. Third—" He sighed and suddenly seemed very tired. "She is family. This gang is getting inside information somehow, and I hate not being able to trust my people, but—I have to go with family."
"Has Hal been with you long?" asked Frank.
"Five years," Matt answered. "Oh, he's not bad, but—"
The phone on Matt's desk rang. He picked it up. "Matt Simone . . . Yes . . . Right, we're taking it tomorrow afternoon. ..." The voice on the other end went on for a while. Matt tried to speak at first, but then he gave up and just listened, a grim expression on his face.
"I understand," he said at last. "Yes, you made yourself very clear. Yes—we will, you can count on it. . . . Right." Then he slowly set the receiver into its cradle.
43
"That was the head honcho at Ultratech," Matt said. "I sure hope you guys know what you're doing, because if this truckload doesn't get through, Ultratech is going to find another shipping company—and that'll be the end of Lombard Hauling."
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Chapter 6
Frank and Joe studied Matt's grim expression. "Somebody once said," Joe began, breaking the silence, " 'It ain't over till it's over.' Don't count Lombard out yet, Matt. It's our turn to call the shots."
Matt smiled wearily. "I just hope you boys know what you're doing."
The next day, by mid-afternoon, the Ultratech trailer had arrived, and Pat was backing her tractor up to hitch on. Her rig was a "cab-over," which meant that the motor was under the cab rather than in front under a hood. Frank watched as she expertly set the big machine in exactly the right place, then hopped out to see to the hookups.
"Before I go out on the road," she told Frank, "I want to be sure that everything is just the
45
way it's supposed to be. Stick around and watch. You might learn something."
Joe, who would be following in the van with Tony, was excused to leave early. It would take another hour or two before they were ready to go, so Joe took the time to talk with Teri Yarnell. Going over to her desk, he saw that she was writing down columns of numbers in a ledger.
"Are you a relative of Matt's?" he asked her. "It seems like half the people here are."
"Not me," she said, smiling up at him. "But I feel like I might as well be. Everyone here is so nice. Mr. Simone is so sweet, except lately, and that's because he's been real worried. And Felix—Mr. Kinney—well, he's been teaching me how to use the computer. He's very patient, and he says that once I know how to use it, I can take some courses and get a better job somewhere else. Although I don't know—I think I'd rather stay here."
"But if you could get a better job—"
"The thing is," she said, giving Joe a serious look, "a better job might mean longer hours, and I don't know if I want to spend so much time at a job. I mean, Mr. Simone works long hours. And Felix—well, it seems like he spends most of his evenings here lately, working with that computer."
"Doesn't leave much time for having fun, huh?" said Joe. "I guess your boyfriend wouldn't like it if you worked evenings."
46
"No, he sure wouldn't," said Teri.
Joe tried not to look disappointed but didn't quite succeed, and Teri seemed to suppress a giggle.
"If I had a boyfriend, that is," she added, closing the ledger.
Joe shot her a big smile. "Well, since you don't, and since you don't have to spend your evenings at a job ..."
He was interrupted when Felix Kinney stuck his head out of his office. "Teri, come in here, will you?"
"Be right there," she called. Then, turning back to Joe, she smiled and said, "Well—I'd better go. See you later."
"You can count on it," Joe replied.
* * *
Frank was astonished at how many details Pat dealt with before the truck was ready for the road. Every coupling, electrical system, and warning light had to be tested twice. She checked the brake cylinders, hoses, the eighteen huge tires, the oil and other fluids. Most important, Pat told him, was the way the trailer's cargo was stored and fastened down.
"If your cargo isn't tied down tight, or if it isn't balanced right, you could have some real trouble." She went through the trailer, tugging at the straps that held the stacked cartons in place on their wooden pallets. "These electronics could get damaged, or even worse, you could
47
lose control of your rig. That's never happened to me, and it won't happen this trip, either. But the only way to be sure is to check it all out yourself."
Finally, late in the afternoon, she was satisfied and told Frank to climb aboard. He watched curiously as Pat made some involved maneuvers with the pedals, gearshift, and steering wheel. The big diesel engine under their seats roared to life, and they slowly pulled away from Lombard Hauling. They were on the road.
A couple of hours later, when they were moving smoothly along a stretch of interstate highway, Frank called Joe on their prearranged CB channel.
"This is Big Brother calling Tailend Charlie. Do you read me, Tailend Charlie? Over."
There was some crackly static on the line, but Joe's voice could be heard over it. "This is Tailend Charlie, back at you. You're coming through, but there's some interference, over."
"We passed Exit Thirty-four a couple of miles back, are you in position? Over."
"Big Brother, we are just coming up to Exit Thirty-four now, we will close up the gap a little, over."
"I copy that. Big Brother over and out."
The truck raced through the fading light. "When will we get there?" asked Frank.
"This is a short run. We should pull in at
48
about midnight," answered Pat. "Unless we have an unscheduled delay, that is."
From the passenger seat, Frank sat and gazed out at the flat country dotted with factories and industrial parks. Soon the land they passed through was even less developed, and the traffic thinned out to almost nothing. It was nearly dark, and Pat had turned on all her lights. "We take the next exit," she said. "We'll be on a surface road for a while."
"Why not just use the interstates?" asked Frank.
"Because this way is shorter, takes less time and less gas. That way we keep our cost down. Otherwise, some other trucker would underbid us."
As she turned on her directional signal, she added, "Better make sure your friends know we're getting off here."
Frank picked up the CB microphone. "This is Big Brother calling Tailend Charlie, are you there? Over."
"This is Charlie, over," came Joe's voice. The interference was worse now.
"We're getting off at Exit Fourteen, do you copy? Over."
"Roger, Big Brother. Over and out."
There was almost no traffic, and Frank wondered whether any of the occasional headlights he saw belonged to someone who wanted to hijack their truck.
49
Pat must have picked up on his uneasiness. Even though she kept her eyes on the road, she said, "Take it easy, Frank. It'll happen if and when it happens."
"Sure," said Frank, "but this just strikes me as a great spot to do it, that's all."
"Could be," she said, "but—" She suddenly stared into the rearview mirror. "There are some headlights coming up real fast behind us, Frank. Grab that CB!"
Frank did. "This is Big Brother. Stand by. We may have company. Over."
The noisy static over the little speaker was much worse, and Joe's voice could be heard only in snatches. "... your position ... we are . . . keep us . . ."
"Tailend Charlie, your signal is breaking up, I can hardly hear you at all, over." Frank's voice was urgent.
A big, bulky step van pulled out directly in front of them from a side road and slowed to a crawl. Pat turned the wheel abruptly, and her truck swerved to the left. She tried to swing around the van, but it shot forward and continued to stay ahead of them. Then it slowed again as another vehicle pulled up beside Pat's rig. This was a large, powerful tow truck, the kind used to tow eighteen-wheelers. It swung its nose against the Lombard rig and tried to force it over onto the shoulder.
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"This is it," said Pat. "Hang on, Frank, we're in for a rough ride!"
"Tailend Charlie, do you copy?" said Frank urgently into the CB mike. "This is Big Brother, and we have bad company. Come and get us, over."
Pat turned the wheel and bumped the tow truck, sending it swerving out into the left lane. An oncoming car headed for the shoulder of the road, horn blaring, and then disappeared behind them.
"I'll hold these guys off as long as I can," said Pat. She wrestled with the steering wheel, her feet moving rapidly on the gas, brake, and clutch pedals. "But I hope Joe and Tony are nearby."
Frank fiddled with the CB. "I don't hear them. There's some kind of glitch in the CB. I don't know, they might be picking up our signal just fine—"
He collided with the dashboard as Pat banged into the rear of the bulky step van in front of them. The impact forced Pat to drop her speed. Meanwhile the tow truck continued to hem them in on the left side. Again Pat rammed the step van, and there was a solid thunk. This time Frank was ready and he braced himself with his arms.
The van pulled ahead slightly, but then its brake lights glowed as it slowed still more.
Pat shook her head. "That van has some kind of reinforced back bumper. If we hit it too hard, in a cab-over like this, we could total our engine,
51
maybe even turn over. I'm going to have to stop."
Again Frank spoke into the mike. "This is Big Brother calling Tailend Charlie. It is going down, right now. If you read me, join the party, over."
He heard only static over the speaker.
Pat pulled onto the right shoulder and stopped. The step van stopped right in front of the rig, and the tow truck parked behind them. Frank tried to keep cool as he checked out the window and sideview mirror. The doors to both vehicles opened, and two men got out of each. Two carried baseball bats, one had a tire iron, and one had a long, heavy crowbar. All four wore ski masks. They moved menacingly toward the big truck.
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Chapter 7
"Is your door locked?" Frank asked Pat as the four masked toughs split up and approached the truck's cab, two on each side.
"Yes, for whatever good it'll do," she said.
"Come on, open up, lady!" yelled one of the bandits, swinging his bat close to the window. Pat didn't react.
"Joe and Tony ought to be here any second," whispered Frank. "If we can hold them off for a minute or so—"
"Once they get to smashing windows, we'll be lucky to have a minute," Pat said. Frank saw her staring nervously down at the two large men on her side, and he didn't blame her for being scared.
Suddenly there was a loud clang of metal striking 
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metal on Frank's side of the cab. Spinning around in his seat, he saw a hijacker swing his crowbar into the metalwork of the cab just below his door.
"Open up, kid!" he called. "You know what we want. Make it easy on yourself and don't give us any trouble."
"Sorry, but I'm not allowed to talk to strangers," Frank called out.
"Oh, a wise punk, huh?" called the goon. He angrily climbed up toward Frank's door, raising his heavy bar to smash it into the window.
As he did, Frank opened the door and kicked it with his right leg, catching the man in the mask unprepared and knocking him to the ground. Quickly he slammed the door closed again and locked it.
Pat screamed as a baseball bat whacked loudly against the safety glass in her window, cracking it with a cobweb pattern. One more shot from the bat would shatter it. She tried what Frank had done on his side, using the door itself to jar the intruder loose. But her guy grabbed the door handle and tossed his bat down, catching hold of Pat's left arm. He pulled hard and managed to drag her halfway out of her seat.
Frank snatched up a large, heavy flashlight from the tool compartment behind his seat and brought it down hard on the man's hand. The hijacker yelled and let go of Pat's arm, but he still hung on to the door. Pat pulled on it but
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couldn't close it. Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw another hood appear in his window, tire iron poised to strike.
A horn blared and headlights suddenly lit up the whole scene. Frank let out a sigh of relief as the black van screeched to a stop within a few feet of the action, and Joe and Tony jumped out.
Frank watched Joe leap for the tough who was hanging on to the driver's side door and fling him to the pavement.
Meanwhile, Tony, holding a bat of his own, rushed around the front of the rig. He feinted and dodged one big goon, then hit the guy holding the tire iron behind the knee with his bat, so that the guy suddenly dropped out of Frank's line of vision.
Frank knew that the momentum had shifted. Opening his door, he dropped lightly to the ground, shouting for Pat to do the same.
"Let's get out of here!" came a shrill cry from one of the ski masks. The four men made a rush for their vehicles, two limping badly. The tow truck started to roar away, burning rubber, as its passenger dived for the seat and closed the door. Tony tried tackling one of the remaining two, but the beefy man shook him off and joined his buddy in the step van. That, too, took off fast, leaving the Hardys, Tony, and Pat standing in the quiet nighttime road.
"Should we go after them?" asked Joe.
"I don't think it'd be too hot an idea," Frank
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replied. "We had the element of surprise working for us just now, but who knows what they'll have waiting for us next. For now, let's just be satisfied that this hijacking didn't work."
"Hey, guys, I got the license number on that tow truck!" Tony shouted, his face still flushed from the excitement of the brief action. "That would help us nail them, right?"
Joe slapped Tony on the back. "Write it down, Tony. Nice work."
Pat smiled at her three guards. "You did a fine job on those apes. Maybe they'll think twice before going after a Lombard truck again."
"Maybe," Frank answered. "But if they do think twice, they might just be better prepared next time. Let's get back on the road."
"Tell you what," said Pat. "Why don't you head back to Bayport with Tony and your brother. I can take this baby the rest of the way. It's just a short hop."
"You sure, Pat?" Joe asked doubtfully.
"I'm sure. That bunch won't try anything again tonight. Go on back and tell Matt what happened. He's waiting to hear from us, and he's overdue for some good news. I'll be back tomorrow."
They said good night, and with Tony now in the backseat behind the Hardys, Joe turned the van around and started back.
As they drove, Tony spoke up. "It seemed to me like the guys we ran into the other day—you
56
know, at that warehouse—might have been two of these guys."
Frank glanced back and said, "There are a lot of ski masks around, Tony."
"Yeah," Tony agreed. "But the guy who ran over me in the warehouse sure felt about the same size and shape as the one I grabbed tonight."
"I wouldn't be surprised if you're right," Joe said, studying Tony in the rearview mirror. "There are so many connections between what went down there and what's happening to Lombard Hauling." He sighed. "I wish Matt would open up to us more. Tony, do you know why he won't bring the law into this?"
"He's afraid that someone in the family—"
"That's part of it," Frank said. "But I think there's more to it than your uncle's letting on. Let's get over there now. Maybe he'll still be there, and maybe he'll be ready to level with us."
"Let's hope Dad got some information on Mickey Vane and the owners of the warehouse," said Joe.
"And don't forget to check out who owns that tow truck," insisted Tony.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. The excitement of the fight with the hijackers had worn off, and they all felt exhausted. As they pulled up in front of Lombard, Joe noticed that the office lights were on.
"Great!" he said. "Matt is still here. He must
57
be waiting for news on the shipment. Let's give him the good word and try to pump him for a little more information."
As the three boys were walking toward the office, they suddenly heard something.
"Listen!" Frank said.
Loud voices were coming from Matt's office, as were thumps and banging sounds.
"Sounds like furniture is being thrown around," Joe said, a frown creasing his forehead.
He broke into a run, with the other two just behind him. But before he reached the office door, it flew open, and a pale and frightened Felix Kinney ran out.
He spotted the boys and raced up to them, wringing his hands.
"You've got to stop them!" he yelled. "Stop them right now. They're going to kill each other!"
Frank raced ahead and reached the door a split second before Joe. Flinging it open, he saw Matt Simone and Hal Brady battling inside. They couldn't move much in the cramped office, but Matt had the driver in a headlock, and Hal was landing chopping punches on Matt's stomach. Both men were breathing heavily. Furniture was knocked over, and papers were strewn on the floor.
Tony dodged past the Hardys, grabbed his uncle's arm, and tried to pull him away. "Uncle Matt, cut it out! Come on, this is crazy!"
Matt shook him off and dived back at Hal.
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Frank and Joe exchanged a quick look, then leaped into action. Each grabbing hold of a fighter, they dragged them apart. After a moment's struggle the three boys were able to separate Matt and Hal. The two men stood gasping for air. There was a cut at the corner of Matt's mouth, Frank noticed, and Hal was going to have a black eye.
"Get your gear together and get out of here," growled Matt when he'd caught his breath. "You're fired!"
"Fired, huh?" Hal glared at his boss. "Before I'm through, you won't have a company to fire anybody from!"
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Chapter 8
Hal stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
"What started that?" Tony demanded.
Matt wouldn't discuss it, other than to say, "Nobody tells me how to run my business."
Focusing first on Tony, then on Joe and Frank, he suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, what are you guys doing back here? Where's Pat? What happened to the truck?"
Frank quickly explained about the hijack attempt, and how it had been stopped cold. "Pat said she could make it the rest of the way without an escort. She ought to be there within an hour. Score one for the good guys."
Matt sat in his desk chair and let out a long,
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slow breath. "Oh, boy. You just took a big load off my mind."
Leaning forward, Joe said, "Matt, we need to talk some more."
Matt held up a hand. "Not tonight, okay? It's late, very late, we're all tired, and I want to close up here and go home. You should, too."
Joe frowned, but he knew Matt had a point. They'd all had a rough day. Saying good night, he, Frank, and Tony went out to the van. As they walked, Felix joined them.
"Thanks for stepping in back there," Felix told them. "They've both got such tempers, and they're too big for me—I couldn't have separated them if I'd tried."
Joe paused and faced Felix. "What's the story between those two?" he asked. "Do you know?"
Felix shook his head sadly. "Not really. Oh, I know that there's been trouble brewing for a while, a lot of bad feeling, but I don't know why. Matt won't say, although he usually talks to me about his business problems."
"You put in long hours," Frank observed.
"Not always," Felix replied with a wan smile. "But sometimes things just pile up. Well, good night. See you tomorrow."
As they drove toward Tony's house, with Frank behind the wheel, Joe said, "How does Hal Brady look as an inside member of a gang? He seems to have it in for Matt. That might be a motive."
"Could be," Frank said. "We'll check him
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out, find out if he has a record or anything." He flicked his gaze up to the rearview mirror. "Meanwhile, there's been a pair of headlights behind us ever since we left Lombard. I want to see if it's a coincidence."
He made a complicated series of turns, keeping an eye on the mirror the whole time. After a few minutes he said, "They're still on our tail."
"Lose 'em," said Joe. He called out to Tony in the backseat, "I hope your seat belt is fastened."
The van was equipped with a supercharged engine, and Frank floored the gas pedal, throwing the three of them back against their seats. They raced away from the trailing car, but it sped up, taking a sharp right turn with a squeal of tires as it tried to stay with the Hardys' van.
Frank had studied high performance driving. He knew just how fast the van could corner and when to downshift drifting into a tight curve. As he roared along, missing curbs and hydrants by a hairbreadth, the pursuing headlights gradually lost ground. After some more maneuvers, the gap grew to a couple of hundred yards.
Frank downshifted, swung sharply into an unlit alley, and turned off the van's lights. A moment later whoever had been following them went speeding past—in a large, powerful tow truck.
"Was that the one those hijackers had?" Tony asked.
"Either that," said Joe, "or an exact copy.
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But if it was the same guys, at least we know they didn't go after Pat and the truck again."
They waited a few minutes to make sure the tow truck would not reappear.
"We shook them," Frank said.
Joe yawned. "Let's call it a night. We'll be short on sleep as it is."
Frank nodded. He pulled back out into the street, dropped Tony off at his house, and then drove home. By the time he had pulled into the driveway and he and Joe were out and locking the doors of the van, Frank was yawning, too. He felt exhausted and ready to catch what sleep he could.
He came instantly alert, however, as a heavy- duty motor sounded in the night. Spinning around quickly, he saw a hulking tow truck pull across the entrance to their driveway. Behind it was a large step van, which stopped at the curb.
Two men got out of each vehicle and spread out. They were masked and carried heavy lengths of pipe.
Slowly they began to close in.
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Chapter 9
Frank and Joe set themselves back to back.
"Hi, there!" Frank said brightly. "You know, guys, we have to stop meeting like this."
The tallest of the four—was it the guy Tony had hit behind the knees earlier that evening? Joe wondered—spoke. His voice was a throaty whisper.
"You two been messing with the wrong people. You got a lesson to learn about minding other people's business."
"Folks keep telling me I'm a slow learner," Joe said. He shifted his eyes and his weight as the men moved closer.
The hood closest to the van was short and broad with a barrel chest. "Oh, a wise guy!" he said in a rough, nasal voice. "How'd you like some body work on your wheels, wise guy?"
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He turned and, gripping his pipe with both hands, he slammed it into the black surface of the van's rear door.
There was a harsh metallic crunch, and suddenly an earsplitting horn went off, filling the quiet night air. Up and down the street, lights went on in houses and the shadows of faces appeared in windows.
The taller goon snapped, "You moron, you set off their car alarm! Let's get out of here!"
"Leaving so soon?" asked Frank. "But we were just getting to know you."
The short, squat goon took a step toward Frank, pipe raised, before the taller guy yelled, "Move it, you idiot! The cops could show up any minute!"
They ran for their trucks, but the one who had hit the van turned back and shouted, "Next time you won't be so lucky, wise guy!"
Fenton Hardy came running out of the house in his robe as the gang barreled down the street and around the corner. Frank shut the alarm off. When he, Joe, and their father went inside, they found Mrs. Hardy in the living room, sleepy and worried.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing, Mom," replied Joe. "Some prowlers set off the alarm. Everything's under control."
Fenton turned to his wife. "I'm just going to talk to Frank and Joe for a few minutes."
Mrs. Hardy sighed. "The only thing worse for
65
your sleep than being married to a detective is having them for children!" she exclaimed. But there was a smile on her face when she left the room.
After settling down in Fenton's office, Frank and Joe told him of the day's events, up to the getaway of the gang moments before.
"It sounds as though those guys meant business," Fenton said. He let out a low whistle, then added, "Well, I have information for you. The warehouse is owned by a big outfit that has properties all over Bayport and rents them out through a realty office. That place was rented to an outfit called United Sales, Inc. They paid three months' rent in advance with a cashier's check.
"It turns out that United Sales is a phony. The address they gave is an empty lot, and the phone number doesn't exist. The man who handled the rental says he didn't check out the address because he knew the cashier's check was good. He might be able to recognize the guy who gave him the check, but he doubts it. As far as this part of your investigation goes, it looks like a dead end."
"How about Mickey Vane?" asked Frank.
Fenton shrugged. "A small-time hood, with a few convictions for assault and breaking and entering. He was once investigated for his supposed involvement in labor racketeering, but there wasn't any solid evidence. When he could, he got jobs driving trucks, but they never lasted
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long. Either he'd quit or get fired. Lombard Hauling hired him two years back and fired him five months later, so Matt's story checks out.
"Are you ruling Matt out as a possible suspect?" asked Fenton.
Frank looked at his brother. "My gut feeling is that he couldn't be involved," he said, "but I can't be absolutely certain."
"Well, I'm certain," said Joe. "He's not part of the gang. What could he gain?"
"Anything's possible," Frank countered. "Maybe his business was going under anyway, and he's working an insurance scam—you know, burn the place down, destroy the trucks, and then blame unknown villains while collecting the insurance."
Joe stared at him. "Oh, come on—"
"Okay, so it's a long shot, but it's possible. Maybe that's why he doesn't want the police brought in. Maybe he hired us because he hoped we couldn't do the job."
"Well, I like Hal Brady a lot better as a bad guy," Joe said emphatically. "He's more the type."
"Who's Hal Brady?" asked Fenton.
"He's a driver at Lombard," explained Frank. "He and Matt don't get along. They had a big fight tonight, and Matt fired him."
"And," Joe put in, "he made a threat as he was leaving. Something like 'You won't have a business when I'm through with you.' "
"Could you find out if he's got a record?" Frank asked his father.
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"I suppose I can. Any other suspects at the moment?"
"We haven't talked to everyone who works at Lombard yet," said Joe, "but I don't think we've eliminated anyone, really. Except for Pat Mulvaney and Matt," he added, giving his brother a defiant look.
"And Teri Yarnell, of course," Frank shot back, giving Joe a teasing smile.
"Right. And Teri Yarnell," Joe echoed. Seeing a questioning look on his father's face, he explained, "She's a girl who does office work there."
"And she's pretty, so she couldn't be involved in anything criminal," said Frank. "Right, Joe?"
"My instincts tell me that she's not a criminal," Joe said with mock indignation.
"Anyway," Frank said, getting back to the Lombard case, "we can be pretty sure there's some kind of connection between the warehouse that was selling stolen Ultratech products and what's been going down at Lombard."
"And the killing of Mickey Vane," added Joe. "But why was he killed? And why did they shut that warehouse operation down so suddenly?"
"Let's see what we can find out," Frank said, stifling a yawn as he got up and stretched. "In the morning, that is."
"Oh, Dad," Joe said as he got up, too. He handed his father a piece of paper. "Could you run a check on this license plate number for us? It was used by this gang tonight."
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"Chances are it was stolen," Frank said. "That's the way these types usually work."
"I'll look into it," Fenton promised. "And— one more thing. This gang didn't need to follow you tonight to know where you live, so keep watching your backs. They may know what you're really doing down there."
"Don't worry, Dad," said Joe. "We'll take care of ourselves."
His father gave him a tired smile. "Well, it's too late for me to start worrying now."
* * *
The next morning when Frank and Joe reported for work, they saw Teri Yarnell alone in Felix Kinney's office. Joe walked in to say hello.
"Where's Felix?" he asked her.
"When he works late at night, he comes in a little late the next morning," she answered. She studied him for a minute. "I've been thinking about you."
Joe smiled. "What a coincidence. I've been thinking about you, too."
"No, really. I can't help wondering—what are you doing here?"
Joe suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Doing? I'm working here. Just like you."
"Yes, but why?"
"To earn money." Joe didn't like telling Teri something less than the truth, but he knew that he didn't have a choice. "I don't get it. What's so strange about working here?"
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She shrugged. "I don't know exactly. You and your brother don't seem like the kind of guys who go to work at this kind of place, that's all."
"Well," Joe said, hoping he sounded convincing, "we are working at this kind of place." He grabbed a chair and pulled it over beside hers. "And you know, it has its advantages."
"You think so?"
"Right now I definitely think so," said Joe.
"Joe! Frank! In my office!" Joe recognized Matt Simone's voice even before he turned to see the tall, muscular man. Reluctantly, he stood up.
"One of these days we'll have a chance to finish a conversation," he told Teri.
"I'll look forward to it," she said, giving Joe a warm smile as he walked out of the room. Matt waved Frank and Joe to chairs in his office, and then sat down behind his desk. "We have a special order from Ultratech to go out today," he told them. "Pat is headed back with the empty truck—what we call deadheading. In the meantime we'll load up a trailer with stock we have in storage here. Frank, you ride with Pat, and Joe and Tony can follow, like yesterday. That okay with you?"
"Sure," replied Joe. "If it's all right with Tony."
"He'll be over here by noon," Matt replied. "I figure that—"
The office door opened and Hal Brady came
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in, followed by a short, stocky man Joe recognized as Lou Gerard, the union manager he and Frank had seen at the office two days before.
"Simone, you fired this man without cause," said Gerard, an angry look on his face. "Our contract doesn't allow it. You have to take him back."
"There was plenty of cause," Matt retorted. "He was giving me nothing but trouble and making threats. I still run this outfit!"
Gerard leaned over Matt's desk, and said, "Simone, either you put him back on the payroll today—or I pull every union employee out of here right now. Every driver and every mechanic."
Felix Kinney had come in behind the others, and now he spoke up. "He's right, Matt. You didn't have enough grounds to get rid of him. We can't afford to have a walkout, and you know it."
Matt glared at Gerard and Brady but then nodded. "Okay. You win. But I can suspend him, and that's what I'm going to do. Go home for the rest of the week, Brady. And remember, I call the shots around here."
Brady wheeled around and was gone. Lou Gerard stayed where he was. "We still have to talk, Simone."
"We have nothing to talk about, Lou. Beat it, I've got work to do."
Gerard turned and called out the door, "Turk! Get in here!"
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A barrel-chested man with a flattened nose appeared in the doorway. "Yes, sir, Mr. Gerard?"
Matt fixed Gerard with an icy glare. "Listen, Brady is back on the payroll. That's all you and I had to talk about. Take a hike, and take your gorilla with you."
Gerard slowly shook his head and said to the man in the doorway, "Let's go, Turk. Mr. Simone doesn't want us to talk." His voice was mocking, falsely polite.
"That's too bad, Mr. Gerard. People ought to talk to people," Turk replied.
Joe jerked his head around when Turk spoke and studied the beefy guy more closely. Turk returned his look with a flat stare.
"Yeah, it is," said Gerard. "Come on. Drive me back to the office." He looked back at Matt. "We'll see you around, Mr. Simone."
Matt left the office to make sure Gerard and his driver were really leaving. After he was gone, Joe leaned over to Frank and said quietly, "Did you notice anything about that guy Turk?"
"Just that he looked and sounded like an old boxer who's taken too many punches," Frank answered.
"Right," agreed Joe. "He also sounded like one of the guys who was wearing a ski mask last night. The one who smashed our van with a pipe."
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Chapter 10
Frank stared at his brother in amazement. "Are you sure this guy Turk was one of those guys?"
"Pretty sure. I remember that voice. He's the right size and shape, too."
Before Frank could ask Joe anything more, Matt returned to the office. "Sorry about that," he told them, sitting back down at his desk. "I just wanted to make sure those two went straight out of here."
Frank gave Matt a probing look and said, "It might make things a lot easier for us if you could tell us what's been happening between you and this Lou Gerard, Matt."
Matt still refused to respond to Frank's question. Changing the subject, he said, "You two
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can help get that trailer loaded with the Ultratech stock. We're on a tight schedule."
Before Frank or Joe could argue further, Matt had picked up a phone and begun to dial. Catching his brother's eye, Frank signaled that they might as well leave.
Once they were outside the office, Joe grabbed Frank's arm. "We can't just let this go, Frank. We have to make Matt tell us about Lou Gerard. If we tie Turk into the hijackings, and he works for Gerard—"
"Maybe his work for Gerard has nothing to do with the hijacking," Frank suggested. He was frustrated, too, but he knew they wouldn't get anywhere jumping to conclusions. "Maybe he has a straight job for the union, and hijacking is just a sideline."
"And maybe Gerard is in it up to his neck," Joe shot back.
"But what would Gerard's motive be in all this?" Frank asked. "He works for the union local, right? Putting Lombard out of business puts some of his people out of work. It doesn't figure."
"No. Something is missing, you're right about that, Frank. That's exactly why Matt has to open up. Let's go back and—"
Joe paused, hearing Felix call to him and Frank from the loading dock.
"We have to get that trailer filled and ready to go. Give us a hand, guys, we're fighting the clock here."
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As they walked over, Frank said quietly, "Okay, Joe. We'll talk to Matt soon, and we won't take no for an answer."
As the wooden pallets stacked with Ultratech equipment were piled aboard the trailer, Pat pulled her tractor in, backed into place, and hitched up the fifth wheel. While she started her lengthy predrive check, Frank tapped Joe on the shoulder.
"Now's as good a time as any. Let's talk to Matt."
When they entered his office again, Matt looked up from some paperwork. "What's up, guys?"
"Matt," said Joe. "If we're going to do the job right for you, we need your cooperation."
Matt frowned. "Listen, I've tried to be cooperative. I—"
Frank interrupted. "You're stonewalling us, Matt. There are things you won't talk to us about that could be important pieces of this puzzle. You may think you've got good reason to keep things to yourself—"
"I've told you about everything that relates to these hijackings," insisted Matt.
"You mean, everything you think relates to the hijackings," replied Frank. "We don't have to agree with you."
Joe began firing off questions. "Number one. Why do you refuse to bring in the police? Your company is about to go under, and you won't take the most obvious step to protect it. Number two. How did the trouble start between you and
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Hal Brady? Number three. What's the deal with Lou Gerard?"
Matt began to protest. "That stuff has nothing to do with—"
"Matt, you don't know that for sure," Frank cut in. "We have reason to think you're wrong. Now, you want us to do something, but we can't—unless you level with us. You know that anything you tell us is strictly confidential."
"Anyway," Joe went on, "here's the bottom line. Either you talk to us and give us the facts we need to do the job right, or we'll have to quit. We can't work when our hands are tied."
Matt stared first at Joe and then at Frank. It was clear that he hadn't expected a confrontation. "You two serious about this?"
"Joe speaks for both of us," Frank replied. "What's it going to be?"
Matt held up his hands. "Okay, okay. You win. Look, I'll tell you what. We don't have time to do it right now. As soon as you get back from this haul, we'll sit down and I'll tell you anything you want to know. Good enough?"
"Good enough," Frank answered.
"Okay, then. Good luck on this trip, guys."
* * *
Shortly after noon Pat and Frank were on their way in the big rig, with Joe and Tony a couple of miles behind in the van. It was exactly the same setup as on the previous day.
"Where are we headed?" asked Frank.
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"There's a map in the glove compartment with the route marked out," Pat said. "These components are going to a distribution center west of here, some outfit that delivers to a big chain of electronics stores. Never been there before."
Frank checked in with Joe on the CB radio. Reception was clear this time, and Joe confirmed that the van was in place.
"You think that bunch will try to stop us again?" Pat asked.
"Sooner or later, they will," replied Frank. "It could be this trip."
"Well, I bet they don't, not today. They need more time to regroup," she said.
"I hope you're right," Frank told her. He scanned the road ahead, vaguely aware of something not being quite right. The voice of experience was whispering that Pat would lose her bet. He felt restless, edgy.
"Anyway, if they do hit us, we can take care of them. Right, Frank? Just like the first time."
"We'll give it our best shot," he told her. "Just remember, we won't have the element of surprise going for us. Now they'll be expecting you to have escorts."
After a while they turned from a heavily traveled surface road onto a less busy one that went out into open country. Frank called Joe and told him they were turning. The van was still two miles behind them. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Frank was searching for possible
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ambush sites. There seemed to be an awful lot of them.
"Uh-oh, what's this?" said Pat, slowing the truck down. Up ahead were brightly colored traffic barriers, topped by blinking amber lights. In front of the roadblock, a Day-Glo orange sign said Detour, and beneath it an arrow pointed down a road to the right. Beyond the barriers, the road disappeared around a curve.
Pat took the right turn indicated by the arrow. "Must be repairs or maybe an accident," she mumbled.
The new road went up a slight grade and then became steeper. They went through a series of S-curves and found themselves climbing hills that were getting higher and higher.
An alarm bell went off in Frank's mind.
"Pat," he said, twisting around nervously. "Hold it a second. I think this could be the—"
Just then she rounded a curve and hit the brakes, hard. No more than a hundred feet in front of them, a tree lay across the road. It completely blocked their way.
Frank grabbed the CB microphone. "Come in, Tailender," he said urgently. "I think we have trouble, a little way past the detour—"
As he spoke, he saw the dense undergrowth beside the road part. Two men came out. As on the night before, they wore ski masks. But this time, instead of clubs, they carried guns.
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Chapter 11
Frank wanted to warn Joe and Tony about the hijackers having guns, but one of the toughs pointed his automatic straight at him.
"Put the mike down," he shouted. "Now."
Frank obeyed.
"Climb down from there." The speaker was the one Frank assumed was the leader, the tallest member of the gang. "No funny stuff this time. We'll just wait until your friends show up."
Pat glanced across at Frank, as though she expected him to have some kind of plan and wanted to know what it was.
"Just do what they tell you," he said quietly. "Don't make waves."
They climbed down, and Pat surveyed the winding,
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narrow road they were on. "You're going to have a tough time taking this rig down to the main road," she said.
The second gunman laughed. "Who says we're gonna do that, lady?"
"Shut up!" barked the first man. "Don't get sociable with these two. Or their friends. Just do your job."
A moment later the van appeared, with Joe at the wheel. Joe thought Tony might try taking the bad guys on, so he reached out to stop him.
"Not against guns, Tony. That would be a bad move. Be cool, all right?"
Tony nodded, but he glared at the gunmen as he climbed out of the van.
The other two members of the gang now drove up in a pickup truck. The traffic barriers and signs were now loaded in the back of the truck. One of the two walked up to the group of prisoners and stood in front of Frank.
"Hello again, wise guy."
Although the man wore a mask, Frank recognized his short, barrel-chested build immediately. He resisted the impulse to reply, "Hello, Turk," knowing that if he did so, it would be the end of him—and of Joe, Tony, and Pat. He remained silent.
"Stay and cover them," the head man called over to Turk. "Let's get busy."
Two of the gang members wrestled with the
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fallen tree, lugging it to one side of the road. The leader knelt down and went under the rig, where he started fiddling with the hookups between tractor and trailer.
"Can you tell what he's doing?" Frank whispered to Pat.
Pat nodded, suddenly looking pale and frightened. "He-he's cutting the hoses," she whispered back. "The ones that run from the cab to the trailer's air brakes. But there's a backup safety system. It cuts in whenever the regular air brakes fail. It's automatic, unless—"
She stopped as the tall masked man moved to the back of the trailer, having finished with the hoses up front. There he went to work with a small acetylene torch and a hacksaw.
"Oh, no," she whispered, biting her lip.
"What? What's going on?" asked Joe.
"That guy, whoever he is, knows trucks. He's wrecking the cylinders, so the backup brake system won't work, either. But I don't understand! They won't be able to drive the rig in that condition!"
"Cut the chatter!" ordered the short goon who was guarding them.
Climbing out from under the trailer, the boss of the operation now called the two who had been moving the tree. They had succeeded in shoving it over enough to clear a narrow passage on the road.
"Lose the van," he said.
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A gunman got into the Hardys' van and started it, then drove into the undergrowth beside the road, where it would be hidden from anyone driving by.
"Check the brakes," the second hood was told. Climbing into the cab of the truck, he got in the driver's seat and started the engine. He checked the readings on a couple of dials.
"Pressure is all the way down to zero," he called.
Joe had been watching their progress with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly he realized that with the boss's attention focused on the truck, there was only a single guard to contend with, the one he assumed was Turk. He flicked a glance at Frank, and his brother's slight nod showed that he agreed that this was their best chance to turn things around.
Joe saw Frank barely shift his eyes. Frank was signaling that he would go for the gun. Joe lay three fingers flat on his leg—go in three seconds.
Their sudden leap was perfectly coordinated. Joe hit the unsuspecting Turk just below the knees and drove him back and down. Frank wrenched the automatic pistol loose from his grasp. The maneuver worked perfectly.
Before Frank could move with the gun, however, a snarling voice came at him from behind.
"Turn around—slow, and hold it right there!"
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Frank saw that the hood who had been moving the van had finished his task and was now standing next to Pat Mulvaney, with his automatic pointed at her head.
"Put the gun down, or she gets it first," he said, cocking the gun with a threatening click.
There was nothing else to do. Frank dropped the gun and raised his hands. Joe did the same.
Turk jumped to his feet and pulled Frank around roughly by the shoulder.
"You asked for this, wise guy," he said in his raspy voice. He drew back his right fist, but before he could throw the punch, Turk's arm was seized in an iron grip by the leader.
"Cut it out," said the bigger man. "You shouldn't have let them jump you. Now, let's get this over with, and try not to foul anything else up. And you"—he pointed a finger first at Frank, then at Joe—"any more dumb stunts and we'll shoot the four of you and leave you right here. Don't think we won't."
"We know you would," replied Joe. "But you can't blame us for trying."
The gang marched their four prisoners over to where the Lombard truck stood.
"You and you," said the boss, pointing to Joe and Tony, "in the sleeping compartment. Come on, move it!"
As in most long-distance trucks, the space behind the seats in Pat's rig was big enough to hold a small bed. A driver on a long haul could pull
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over and crawl in for a few hours' rest, or one of a team of drivers could catch some sleep while the other drove.
Tony and Joe were a tight fit in the compartment. Handcuffs were used to fasten them securely to stanchions in the frame of the cab. Frank was forced into the right-hand seat and cuffed to the inside door handle. Finally, Pat was led at gunpoint to the driver's seat and shackled to the steering wheel.
One of the gang climbed up on the driver's side and shoved into the seat beside Pat, keeping the door open. The head man got up on the right side. His automatic was trained on the four prisoners in the cab.
The hood in the driver's seat started the truck. Slowly he drove it forward, climbing up a fairly steep grade. Eventually the road leveled off and made a bend. Frank saw that the road was beginning to descend the hill, twisting and turning, clinging to a sheer rise on the right side. To the left of the road was a steep drop. Some of the turns were very sharp.
The masked driver revved up the engine to build up some momentum. But before the rig could build up much speed, he and the leader jumped clear.
The truck had been left in neutral, and it began to roll faster, spurred ahead by the weight of a fully loaded trailer. From his passenger-side seat, Frank had a bird's-eye view of the steep
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hills and the rocky gorge that bordered the road. He fell against the door as the rig took a curve.
He thought to himself, I could really enjoy this scenery—if we weren't riding through it in a runaway eighteen-wheeler—with no brakes!
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Pat, shackled to the wheel, put the rig in gear and tried to control the huge, heavy machine to keep them from flying into the gorge on their left. Despite her best efforts, the truck continued to build up speed.
Frank strained at the door handle to which his handcuff was attached, but the handle held firm. He grabbed the chain with both hands and yanked, but he only succeeded in scraping some skin off his wrist. The door handle didn't give an inch.
"How are you doing?" he yelled to Pat over the noise of the engine.
She was staring grimly straight ahead. It was obvious that she was using all her strength and concentration, fighting to control the steering
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wheel and to keep the truck's speed down as much as she could with the transmission.
"The trouble is the trailer!" she shouted back. "All that weight—either it's going to push us off the road, or it'll fishtail and drop and pull us down after it."
"Can you unhitch the trailer?" Joe called from the sleeping compartment.
"Not from inside," she replied. "There's a hand-operated backup system, a crank that you turn to retract the kingpin from the fifth wheel, but—"
"Where is it?" Frank asked.
"Behind the cab, just below the frame that holds the fifth wheel in place."
"Could I get to it from here?"
"From here? You mean while we're moving?" Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. "Frank, that's crazy! It'd be suicide to try something like that!"
"It'd be suicide not to do anything at all!" Tony yelled. "When this truck goes over the edge, you know that's going to be bad for our health!"
"I'm going for it," Frank called out. He opened the door. "At least this cuff ought to keep me from falling under the wheels!"
As he swung his body out, the wind hit him in the face with powerful force. Close behind him was the steep rise of the hill. Trees and brush jutted out close to his body. A tree branch
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whipped across his back as he pressed his stomach flat against the body of the tractor. He hung on tight, feeling the harsh rumble and bumping of the huge vehicle, and made himself take slow, deep breaths to stay calm.
With his left foot Frank groped for the first foothold on the side of the cab. He gripped the door frame and lowered himself cautiously, while stretching to get a look behind and beneath, where tractor and trailer joined.
"I see a handle sticking out down there," he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the engine and the rushing wind. "That must be it."
His right hand was anchored to the door handle by the handcuffs, but he reached his left hand back, extending himself as far as possible. He missed the crank by a couple of feet. It was obvious that he couldn't possibly reach it that way.
The truck hurtled around a sharp turn, and Frank's door flew wide open. For a moment he dangled just above the onrushing asphalt road. Grabbing frantically for the door frame with his left hand, he pulled himself back against the side of the cab.
"I'll never get to it this way," he gasped. "Unless—wait a second ..."
"I can't hold us on the road much longer!" screamed Pat.
Again Frank stretched himself out as far as he could, but this time, instead of reaching with his
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arm, he extended his left leg as far as it would go. His foot hit the crank handle! He gave it a push, but the handle wouldn't budge. He shoved harder, trying to get all his weight behind it. Branches flew by, some hitting him. Finally, he kicked at the stubborn handle in frustration.
The crank turned! It moved an inch, and then, with Frank's next desperate lunge, it moved farther. When he had pushed it as far as his foot would reach, he hooked his toe around the crank near the pivot and pulled it around toward him again. Alternately pushing and pulling on the handle, he turned the crank around three times. It seemed to take forever, and his body was aching with the strain.
All of a sudden there was a bump, and a slight gap appeared between the tractor and trailer. They were unhitched! Frank hauled himself back up and into the seat.
"Got it!" he cried triumphantly. "We're clear!"
Pat gave the tractor a little gas, and a space widened between the two parts of the rig. As they swung around the next turn, Pat and Frank looked back just in time to see the trailer hurtle wildly off the road and crash down into the trees and bushes of the gully below.
Frank craned his neck around to watch the trailer fall as Pat, free from the trailer's weight, was now able to shift down into the lowest gears and slow the tractor.
"Frank! Brace yourself!" called Pat.
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He spun back around to face front, cushioning himself with his knees and free hand as the tractor bumped to a stop against an earth embankment. There was no serious damage to either vehicle or the four imprisoned passengers.
For a moment they all sat, silent.
"Oh, boy!" Tony whispered faintly.
"You're some kind of driver," Joe told Pat.
Pat pointed to the windshield, to where, not a hundred yards ahead of them, the road went into a hairpin turn.
"We would've gone over, right there," she said. "No way could I have made that turn."
No one had anything to say. Each of them just stared at the turn, until Pat spoke again.
"Frank, just behind your seat, there's a toolbox with a hacksaw in it. Let's see if we can't cut loose from all this hardware. Then we'd better head back to Bayport and get someone out here to deal with this rig."
* * *
An hour later they had freed themselves from the cab and made their way back uphill to where they had been ambushed. The van still sat in the bushes, and before long they were headed back to Bayport.
"Okay," said Joe from the driver's seat. "Who could have tipped that bunch off that we were coming?"
"How about Hal Brady?" suggested Frank.
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"Brady? He wasn't even around, was he?" Tony asked.
"Sure he was," Frank answered. "Remember, Joe? He and Gerard came into Mart's office just when Matt was telling us about this special order for Ultratech. Who knows how long they were hanging out by the door, just listening?"
"And another thing," Joe added. He quickly explained to Tony that Gerard's right-hand man, Turk, was probably the short, stocky thug in the gang. "Brady didn't have to waste much time letting the gang know what was going on."
"Could the whole special order have been a setup?" Frank wondered. "Something that was organized just to get us to a place where we could be trapped?"
"No way," Pat said. "There's too much paperwork involved. Unless there were Ultratech people in on it, too, and that's hard to believe."
"The thing is," Joe said, "that gang wasn't interested in the electronic gear on the truck. They were willing to destroy it, just so long as Lombard wasn't able to make a shipment. Those guys aren't thieves—their job is to put Lombard Hauling out of business."
"Right," said Frank. "And that's why I don't think Lou Gerard is part of the plot. I mean, he may have an argument with Matt, but he wants his people to stay employed."
Pat nodded. "If he's honest, he does."
"Pat, do you think Hal Brady could be the
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one passing inside information to this gang?" asked Frank.
They drove in silence while Pat thought about the question. At length, she spoke.
"I don't know. He's kind of wild. I could see Hal getting caught up with a bunch of thieves, maybe. But this crowd is worse than thieves— they wanted us dead back there, just now. I don't think Hal's that bad."
"Maybe he didn't realize how rough they'd play when he hooked up with them," Joe suggested.
"You're certain there's somebody who works at Lombard who's crooked?" Tony asked. He clearly wasn't happy with that idea.
Frank turned to him and said, "Look at the facts, Tony. You can't get away from it. Nobody knew about today's shipment for Ultratech until this morning. And yet that gang knew not only that it was going out, but what route we'd take and also when we'd get to that spot.
"Even allowing for their being prepared, with stolen trucks and traffic barriers, the hijackers had to have known not very long after Matt found out himself. It had to be someone who was able to get information right at the source."
Tony looked glum. "Uncle Matt's really going to hate that. He's always said that he feels everybody who works for him is like family."
"He didn't exactly feel brotherly toward Hal Brady," Joe reminded him.
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"Oh, that was just a temper thing," Tony insisted. "Matt blows up easy, but he cools down easy, too. I bet he'd have had Hal working again even without that union guy coming in."
"Tony's probably right," agreed Pat. "Matt can sound tough, and goodness knows he can be stubborn, but he doesn't hold grudges."
"Pat, do you know why there's been bad feelings between Matt and Brady lately?" Frank asked. "Felix Kinney says Matt wouldn't tell him, but you're his sister-in-law."
She shook her head. "Sorry, Frank. I can't help you there. Seems like a while back, Hal suddenly got real feisty with Matt, started giving him a lot of lip. But I never heard why."
"Well, we'll be back at Lombard in a few minutes," said Joe. "Then we're going to have a talk with Matt and get a few things straight, I hope."
"And I have to get my rig hauled in for repairs," Pat added. "And check to see how much damage was done to the shipment."
They arrived at Lombard and pulled into the parking area. Two patrol cars from the sheriff's office were parked nearby.
"I wonder what's going on?" Tony said.
"Let's find out," Joe said, getting out of the van.
As they walked toward the office, the door to Matt's office opened. Teri Yarnell walked out, crying. Seeing the approaching group, she ran up to Joe and grabbed his hand.
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"Oh, I'm so glad you're back, it's terrible, terrible! You've got to do something."
"Teri, slow down, take it easy," Joe urged gently. "What is it? What's happened?"
More people came out of the office. Felix Kinney appeared, looking shaken, followed by a sheriff's deputy.
Behind the deputy came Matt Simone, a look of helpless anger on his face.
Directly behind Matt, his hand gripping Matt's shoulder and a hard expression on his face, came Chief Deputy Lamar MacReedy.
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Joe stared at Teri, then at the group coming out of the office, and then finally at Frank. What was going on? MacReedy seemed pleased with himself, but Matt Simone's jaw muscles were clenched tight with anger.
When he caught sight of the Hardys, Tony, and Pat, MacReedy stopped short and stared. "Where'd you come from?"
"What is this?" Tony demanded, running up to his uncle. He whirled around to MacReedy. "Where are you taking him? What's going on here?"
"Tony, take it easy," urged Joe.
"That's good advice," MacReedy said, sounding pompous and smug. "You don't want to interfere with a law officer doing his duty, or
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you'll find yourself in hot water, just like he is."
Tony appeared ready to explode. Frank reached out to grab his arm, but Tony angrily shook him off.
"Tony!" Matt said sharply. "Don't do anything stupid! You'll just make a bad situation
worse."
His words did what Frank and Joe hadn't been able to accomplish. They settled Tony down.
"All right, Deputy," Frank said. "Where are you taking Mr. Simone, and why? Is he under arrest?"
"Not yet. He's going in for questioning, not that it's any of your business." MacReedy gestured to the other officer, who took Matt's arm and led him toward one of the patrol cars.
As he walked, Matt turned to the group and said, with a bitter smile on his face, "He thinks I'm trying to destroy my own company, that I'm working with a gang of thieves and killers! He thinks I had something to do with the murder of that guy Vane! Tony, call Mike and have him get my lawyer. This is crazy!" He uttered his last words as the officer helped him into the backseat of the cruiser.
"Okay, Uncle Matt! Don't worry!"
"Be calm, Matt!" called Joe as MacReedy opened the driver's door of the other cruiser. "He's got no grounds to charge you with anything! He's just blowing smoke!"
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MacReedy froze with his hand on the door and glared at Joe. "Just like your old man," he muttered angrily. Then he slid into the car.
"That's a compliment, MacReedy!" shouted Joe as the two cars began to roll.
Tony ran inside to call Mike. Frank and Joe stayed in the parking lot with Pat and Felix and Teri.
"Can you guys handle this?" Pat asked. "I've got a rig to tow in."
Frank nodded as she left. Then he turned to Felix. "Any idea why MacReedy took Matt in?"
Felix was staring off into space and didn't seem to have heard the question. He was pale, and he nervously ran a hand through his sandy hair. Abruptly he stopped and turned to Frank. "Sorry, did you ask me something?" Felix asked.
"Did you hear any of what MacReedy said to Matt? Why he suspects him?"
"He—they searched this Mickey Vane's apartment and found notes in Matt's handwriting, giving times and routes of Ultratech shipments, including the ones that were hijacked. There was also a check from a Lombard account made out to Vane.
"Deputy MacReedy says Matt was plotting with Mickey Vane to destroy Lombard Hauling and then collect the insurance. He thinks Matt and Vane were splitting the money from the sale of stolen Ultratech products. He all but accused Matt of having Vane killed to keep him quiet."
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"That doesn't make any sense at all," said Joe.
Felix went on. "Deputy MacReedy says that Lombard was in trouble anyway, money trouble and union trouble, and that Matt panicked and was trying to salvage what he could from a bad situation."
Tony came out of the building and joined them. "Mike is calling Matt's lawyer, and they're both going down to the sheriff's office right away. I'm going over there, too." He looked at Frank and Joe. "You guys coming?"
"We'll follow you," Frank assured him. "This is all going to be straightened out, Tony. MacReedy is way off base, and we're going to prove it."
Tony grinned at the Hardys. "I know you're in our corner, and I appreciate it. Now—let's get going!"
* * *
At the sheriff's office, they met Matt's lawyer and Mike Simone. The boys were glad to see that Mike, who'd gotten out of the hospital the day before, looked a little better. There weren't so many bandages, and some of the swelling had gone down. He hugged Tony with his good arm.
The lawyer was introduced as James Willis, a gray-haired man in a three-piece suit and gold- rimmed glasses. At Frank's request, he agreed to arrange a meeting for them with Matt while he and Mike worked to "clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding," as he put it.
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Willis was true to his word. Within fifteen minutes Frank, Joe, and Tony were sitting with Matt in an unused office. Quickly they filled Matt in on the latest hijacking attempt and the narrow escape they'd had.
"You said you'd tell us what we needed to know as soon as we got back from this trip," Joe said. "Well, we're back."
"Fair enough," Matt replied. "I agreed to answer your questions. So, ask away. I won't hold anything back this time."
"Start with Lou Gerard," Frank suggested.
"I always got along fine with the union people," Matt said, "until Gerard showed up in my office. He told me he was the local's new business manager. We made some small talk, and then all of a sudden he tells me that contract negotiations and grievance procedures would go a lot easier for me if I was to slip him some cash under the table now and then.
"I lost my temper and kicked him out. But he started calling me up, demanding to meet with me and making threats about the future of my company if I didn't play ball. 'You have to go along to get along,' he said. "I said, 'No way.' "
"You have any proof of this?" asked Frank.
Matt shook his head. "He was too smart. He never talked about it unless he was sure there was nobody around, and he arranged our meetings in places where I couldn't tape our conversations."
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"Why not bring in the law?" Frank demanded.
"With no proof?" Matt leaned forward. "Lombard Hauling is a small operation, Frank. We do all right, but we can't afford to shut down for long. So what happens if I blow the whistle on Gerard?"
Matt leaned forward, speaking emphatically. "First off, he tells the law that I was the one offering him bribes in exchange for special favors. His word against mine, right? Then he has the power to call everyone off the job. But I have to keep the business going, and it doesn't matter whether I was right or wrong, the result is the same—we'd be shut down. So I didn't holler for the cops or the sheriff."
"Maybe you should have," Joe suggested.
"Well, maybe. But that was my choice. And once I made that choice, I had to play it out. That's the way I saw it—and still see it."
"All right," said Joe. "Number two—what problem does Hal Brady have with you?"
Matt shrugged. "You got me. I don't know."
Frank leaned toward him. "Hey, you promised to level with us."
"I am," Matt protested. "Brady and I were never buddies, but we didn't have any beefs, either. Then all of a sudden, a few months back, he just took a dislike to me, started giving me a lot of lip and griping about this and that—generally getting on my case. Well, I admit I have a temper, 
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and I lost it sometimes. But why it all started, I don't know. You'd better ask him."
"Did you get to see the notes that were found in Mickey's Vane's apartment?" Joe asked.
"They showed them to me, yeah."
"Did you recognize them?"
"Recognize them?" Matt shook his head. "I recognized them as being my handwriting, sure. I'm always making notes on scratch paper like that. I don't know when or how I made those particular ones. But I can tell you one thing. I never gave them to Mickey Vane."
Joe nodded, then asked, "Any explanation for how they got to be where they were found? And that Lombard company check, you signed that, too, didn't you?"
"I never gave them to him. I never saw the man after I canned him a couple years ago. It wouldn't have been hard to steal blank checks from my desk. Vane got no checks I knew about after he drew his last pay."
"Matt," said Joe, "do you think that Hal Brady could be the one responsible for passing information to the gang?"
Matt thought for a moment. "He could be," he said, "if he knows anything about computers. We store everything on computers now, so he'd have to know how to retrieve the information."
Everyone turned as James Willis entered the room and sat down. "We'll have you out of here soon," he told Matt. "That chief deputy is giving 
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us some grief, but I've told him that if he isn't charging you, he can't hold you. And he hasn't got anything solid enough, just a lot of circumstantial nonsense."
"Great." Matt managed a tired smile. He turned to Frank and Joe. "Anything else you need to know?"
"I don't think so," Joe said. "Anything we can do for you?"
"Well, yes, if you don't mind. If Felix is still at the office, tell him everything is going to be fine and have him call up my insurance man. If he's gone home for the night, then you call him. You can get his name and number off my desk. Here, take my office keys." He handed them to Joe.
"Sure, no problem," Frank said. "Tony, want to come?"
"No, that's okay," Tony said, "I'm going to drive Mike home. See you guys later."
Joe and Frank shook hands with Matt and left. As they were driving the van back to Lombard, Frank said, "Maybe Dad has turned up something on Brady. He had the opportunity to leak information, and for whatever reason, it looks like he's mad enough at Matt to want to get at him."
"If he can operate a computer, then he had the means of doing it, too," Joe added. "Motive, means, opportunity. If Hal checks out in all three, we've got ourselves a prime suspect."
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When they arrived at the Lombard office, it appeared to be dark and deserted. "Felix must have called it a night," Frank said.
"I can't blame him," Joe replied, stifling a yawn. "It's late. We're putting in some crazy hours, too."
As they got out of the van, Joe noticed someone standing in the shadows near the office door.
"Who's there?" he called.
At first the figure didn't move, and Joe wondered if they were in for another fight. As he and Frank approached, the other person moved out into the open. It was Hal Brady, and he didn't look happy to see them.
"What're you doing here?" Brady growled.
"We could ask you the same question," said Frank. "We're here to do something for Matt Simone."
Brady snorted. "Something for Simone, huh? Beautiful. Well, I'm here to do something about Matt Simone."
"What are you talking about?" Frank asked.
"We're going to show Simone up for the rotten thief and liar he is," Brady said, his voice harsh with anger.
"You're not making sense, Brady," Joe said.
"No?" Brady stepped to within a foot of Joe and snarled, "Wait till we get those papers out of his desk! You'll see what a bum he is!"
"You said 'we,' Brady. You and who else?"
"Lou Gerard," Brady replied. "He told me to
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meet him here. Says there are papers in Simone's desk that'll prove how he's been cheating his employees, not paying into the pension fund, not keeping up with the health and welfare payments, just squeezing the company dry until he can take the money and run."
"Lou Gerard told you this?" asked Frank.
"That's right," Brady said. "And he asked me to help him nail Simone."
A car drove up to the Lombard gate and stopped, its engine still running. A voice called out, "Brady? Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Brady answered. "Lou?"
One of the car windows rolled down. Brady took a step closer.
Frank saw movement in the dark car. There was a brief glint of light as something metallic was raised to the open window.
"Brady, get down!" Frank yelled.
Shots rang out in the quiet lot!
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Chapter 14
Frank leaped at the astonished Hal Brady and bulldogged him to the ground. A bullet that would have caught the big driver squarely in the chest ripped through the sleeve of his shirt instead, just grazing the skin. The other shots passed harmlessly overhead.
From his position flat on the pavement, Frank heard the car doors open and then slam. Three men got out. Three flashlights snapped on and began to cut through the darkness, searching out their target—and anyone else who got in the way. Each man held a flashlight and an automatic pistol.
"Frank! Brady!" Joe's whisper came from behind a large metal trash container on wheels near the wall. "Over here!"
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Frank tapped Hal Brady's shoulder. "Stay with me! Stay low and keep quiet!"
He crawled toward the protection of the trash bin, with Brady just behind him. They ducked between the bin and the wall, where they found Joe crouched.
"What—" Brady started to say, but at a furious gesture from Joe, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Who are those guys? I don't understand!"
"It's your buddy Lou Gerard, or some of his friends," Joe said softly. "He's the one who got you to come here, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but—"
"He set you up, Brady!" Frank hissed. He carefully peered out from behind their cover, then ducked back. "One of them's headed straight for us."
"But—but why!" Brady was stunned. His eyes were wide, and he was shaking his head, trying to make sense of the mystery.
"Later for that," Joe said. "Right now, staying alive is our top priority."
The three gunmen had fanned out, and Frank saw that one was approaching the Dumpster.
"On my signal," Frank whispered to the others, "shove this thing forward, hard. Then we'll try to wheel it toward the office and use it as a shield until we get inside."
"Hey!" came the voice of the closest thug, only a few feet from the bin now. "I think I hear 'em!"
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"Go!" Frank snapped, not bothering to keep his voice down. He, Joe, and Brady pushed the big trash container forward, ramming it into the gunman. The man fell, and it sounded as if his flashlight broke as he went down.
Joe darted out to get the bulky bin moving in the right direction, then ducked back behind it as shots rang out from two guns. He heard the shots bounce off the metal, as the bin creaked toward the door to the offices.
The goons stalked them as Frank twisted the key in the lock and swung the door open. He and Brady dived in first, followed by Joe, who dragged the bin across the doorway, where their pursuers would use up a few seconds getting it out of the way. Brady grabbed an ignition key off a rack in the office. The group dashed for the garage, which stood dark and shut down for the night.
Once in the garage, they stopped to listen. They could hear the Dumpster being moved from the door, and then they heard footsteps in Matt's office. Joe risked a quick look back and said quietly, "There are two of them in there. They must've left one on guard outside."
The attack had taken Brady by surprise, but he caught on fast. "This is the key to my old rig. The tractor's three down, with the custom chrome work on the sides. If one of you can open the garage door to the outside, we might be able to break out of here."
The door was raised by a chain and pulley
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system, Brady explained. "I'll do it," said Joe. "How's the arm, Brady? Are you all right?"
Startled, Brady noticed for the first time a dark stain on the right sleeve of his shirt. "It's nothing, just a graze," he said. "I didn't even know I was hit."
Frank stationed himself next to the door that led to the offices, pressing himself flat against the wall. Joe went to the outside garage door and grasped the chain to raise it as Hal Brady quickly clambered up into the cab of his old semi.
When Joe gave him a high sign, Brady started the truck's powerful diesel engine. Then Joe pulled the chain, arm over arm, raising the corrugated metal door with a loud rattle.
A bright beam lit up Joe as a gunman holding a flashlight came through the entryway from the office. He had his gun leveled at Joe, ready to shoot, as Frank chopped at the man's wrist with the edge of his right hand. The gun clattered to the concrete. The man turned in surprise and was hit flush on the jaw by Frank's left hook. The man fell, landing on top of his gun.
The garage door rattled up, revealing a second gunman—one had been left outside. He, too, was poised to shoot as Hal started the truck forward and turned on his blinding headlights and leaned on the truck's deafening klaxon horn. The hood, who was standing directly in front of the oncoming machine, was forced to dive off to the side.
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Frank bent to move the man he had dropped to get his pistol, but he was knocked aside by a sudden impact. The third hood had slammed into him! Tucking into a shoulder roll, Frank somersaulted and sprang back to his feet. He was caught now between the gunman who had knocked him down and the first one, who was getting up. Joe was screened from the action by the truck, Frank realized, so he wouldn't know to come help.
With his airhorn still blasting the night silence, Brady gunned his engine and drove forward, smashing the gangsters' car broadside where it stood in the entrance to the Lombard lot. He shifted into reverse, and it looked as if he was going to ram the car again.
The guy outside, a tall, brawny type, yelled, "He's going to wreck the car! Let's beat it before we can't get out of here."
The three men made it to the car before Brady maneuvered back for a second attack. They took off, the car wobbling from the damage done to the chassis by the heavy truck.
Hal Brady climbed down from the cab. "Should we go after them?"
"No," Frank said. "They've still got guns."
Brady frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That big, burly one—I've seen him somewhere, I'm sure of it."
"We have, too," Joe said quietly to his brother. "Only tonight he wasn't wearing a mask."
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"They must have figured they wouldn't be leaving any witnesses," said Frank. Turning to Brady, he asked, "Can you remember where you saw him?"
After a few seconds the trucker sighed. "I'm drawing a blank, but it'll come to me." Then he stared at the Hardys with new interest.
"What gives here? Those guys wanted to kill me! And what's the story with you two? Don't tell me you're just a couple of kids who work for Simone—kids don't handle themselves like you did when they're up against professional muscle. Talk to me!"
Frank considered the situation a moment. "Okay, Brady," he said. "Just do this for us—go in the office and punch up the week's trip schedule on the computer. And we'll tell you what's going on."
"Punch up?" Brady sputtered. "What I know about computers you could write on a matchbook cover."
Again, Frank looked at Joe, who was grinning.
"Brady, you just passed the test," Joe said. "Let's talk. The only one who knew you'd be here tonight was Gerard, right?"
"But why would Gerard want me dead?"
"We don't know yet," Frank answered. "You probably know something that you shouldn't, something that could help put Gerard away."
Brady was looking at them as if they were
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crazy. "But I don't—put Gerard away? But it's Simone who—"
"Did Gerard tell you something about Matt being a crook a while back?"
"He told me that Simone was bleeding money out of the company, that he was messing around with the books. And that soon he'd take all this money and let the business go under and retire to some place in the sun, where they could never bring him back to face the music."
"Brady," Frank interrupted. "Gerard is bent. He's been trying to extort money from Matt, in exchange for going real easy on contract talks and so on. But Matt wasn't going along, so Gerard decided to up the pressure."
"You mean—" Light dawned in Hal Brady's eyes. "Like this hijacking business?"
"Right," Joe said. "Gerard has this driver called Turk—looks and talks like an old boxer who's been hit too often. We're pretty sure he's one of the hijackers. And these three tonight are probably the others."
Brady suddenly smacked a fist into his other hand. "I knew I'd seen that big guy before! I had a meeting with Gerard a week ago, and when I arrived, that guy was there. He left right after I arrived."
"That's probably why Gerard wanted you out of the way," said Joe. "Because you could tie him to the hijackers. And now we'll be on the hit list, too," he added.
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"Sure," Frank agreed. "He probably hoped that when your body was found, Deputy MacReedy might guess that Matt had had it done. Everyone knew there was bad feeling between you."
Hal Brady looked angry, then embarrassed. "Then I've been a fool, treating Matt Simone like a criminal."
"Matt'll understand, once you explain that Gerard suckered you," said Joe.
"Suckered me!" Brady looked angry again. "He almost killed me! I want to get face-to-face with that little creep. Right now!"
"Slow down, Brady!" Frank warned. "First we have to get proof." He turned to Joe. "Let's check in with Dad."
They called Fenton from Matt's phone.
"Sorry," came Fenton's voice from the other end of the line. "That tow truck was reported stolen last week, just as you suspected. And I couldn't find anything on this Hal Brady. He seems to be clean."
"That's okay, Dad," Frank replied. He motioned to another phone on a small table in a corner, and Joe listened in. "We already worked that one out for ourselves. But didn't you say something about Mickey Vane being suspected of involvement with labor racketeering?"
"Vane? That's right."
"Did you get anything more in that area?" They could hear Fenton going through some papers.
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"Here it is. Vane was mixed up with a man named Leonard Garry, who was wanted in California in connection with some missing union funds. Garry is still at large. Does that help any?"
"It sure does," Frank replied. "Thanks, Dad. See you later."
"What are the odds that Lou Gerard is Leonard Garry?" he asked Joe after they'd hung up.
"No bet," Joe answered. "If we could get Gerard's fingerprints and match them with Garry's, that'd pretty much be the ball game."
Brady's expression brightened. "There ought to be stuff with Gerard's prints in his office at the local," he said. "Let's get over there!"
Frank checked his watch. "It's pretty late, Hal. How do we get in?"
Brady pulled a key ring from his pocket and flipped through it until he found the one he wanted. "I was a shop steward there for a while, and they gave me this so I could get into the office if I needed to. If no one's around, so much the better. We can roust Gerard's office in private. Let me just put my rig back in the garage, and then we can get going."
But when they arrived at the union's local office in the Hardys' van, they were surprised to find lights on.
"Looks like Gerard is working late tonight," Brady said, disappointed.
They were parked across the street. "Let's
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hang out here a little," suggested Joe. "Maybe he'll knock off soon, and we can look around."
Half an hour went by before the lights in Gerard's office went out and the front door opened.
"Here we go," Joe murmured.
They watched as Lou Gerard appeared on the sidewalk, but he wasn't alone. He spoke briefly with another man before getting into a car and driving off. Joe couldn't quite make out the other man's features, since he was standing on an unlit part of the sidewalk.
The man stood there, nervously tapping his foot before he walked to his own car, which was parked under a streetlight. As he unlocked and opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, and his face was clearly lit from the lamp above. Joe sucked in his breath sharply.
There was no mistaking the face of Felix Kinney.
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"There's our informant," Frank said quietly.
Hal Brady was stunned. "Felix? I can't believe it! He's been with Simone for fifteen years! He's a nice guy, wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Maybe, but he's also a logical suspect," pointed out Joe. "Think about it. He has total access to the computer, he knows everything about Lombard's shipments, when and where they go and what's on them. And, come to think of it, Teri said he's been putting in a lot of late hours recently, even though business has been slow."
Felix had started his car by then, and pulled away from the curb.
"Let's tail him," Frank said. "Gerard's fingerprints will keep until tomorrow."
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Starting up the van, Frank made a U-turn to follow Kinney.
"Don't get too close," warned Joe. "Traffic is light, and we don't want him to spot us."
"Thanks for the hot tip, super sleuth," Frank said sarcastically.
But Felix appeared not to notice them, and before long it was clear where they were headed.
"He's going to Lombard," Frank observed as they made a left turn onto the road that led down to the trucking company.
A few minutes later Felix parked in front of the Lombard building and let himself in. Frank had dropped well back as soon as Felix's destination was obvious. He stopped the van at the corner of the block, where they weren't too close but could keep an eye on the building.
"We'll give him a couple of minutes and then go in to find out what he's up to," Frank said.
They waited in silence. A dim light went on in Felix's office. Another minute went by.
"Let's go," Joe said.
They were quiet, not wanting to warn Felix of their presence. Frank used Matt's key to unlock the front door, and the three of them crept to the door to Felix's office, which stood ajar.
Frank saw Felix sitting with his back to them, hunched over a computer console. As he worked the keys, figures flashed in neon green on the screen. He looked at a sheet of paper and scrawled
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notes on it from time to time, copying data from the display.
"Hi, Felix," Frank said, stepping into the room.
Kinney let out a startled noise and stood up, spinning around to face them.
"Working kind of late tonight, aren't you?" asked Joe, as he and Brady came in behind Frank.
"Oh, hi. You gave me a scare there for a second." Felix tried to smile but couldn't hold it and had to shift his eyes away. "Yeah, I was, uh—I forgot to enter some stuff on the computer so I thought I'd . . ." His voice trailed off and there was a brief silence.
"You're keeping some bad company, too, aren't you?" said Joe.
Felix backed up a step. "What do you mean by that?" He sounded shrill, and he wouldn't meet Joe's gaze. "I had work to do, I told you!"
"Work for who? Not for Lombard, I'll bet." Frank advanced very close to the edgy accountant. Felix backed up.
"Listen here, I don't know what you're talking about." Felix had an annoyed look on his face, but it couldn't mask his fear. "And it's not a good time for bad jokes, so just—go home and—"
"It's no good, Kinney," Frank said. "We saw you with Lou Gerard tonight at his office, and we followed you here. We know all about him— and you, too."
Hal Brady couldn't keep quiet any longer.
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"Why, Felix? Why did you do it? Gerard fed me a line of garbage and I bought it, but you—Simone treated you good! I just don't get it."
Suddenly Felix's knees gave way, and he collapsed into his desk chair, burying his face in his hands.
Frank squatted down beside him. "Felix?" He spoke gently, softly. "The game is up. We're taking everything we know to the sheriff. The best thing you can do for yourself is tell us what you know, and maybe that'll make things a little better for you. We can say you cooperated with us, at the end."
Felix raised his head and drew in a ragged breath. His face was pasty white. "What I did—I didn't have any choice. I had to!"
"Tell us," Frank urged.
"A couple of years ago I ran into heavy expenses and I didn't have the money to meet them. I panicked. I know, I know," Felix said, "I should have gone to Matt and he'd have given me what I needed. Well, I wasn't thinking, I was scared. I took some money from Lombard's expense account and fiddled with the computer to hide it for a while."
Felix took another deep breath before continuing. "I told myself, 'It's just a loan, I'll pay it back and no one will ever know.' But time went by and I couldn't get it together, and I knew I'd be found out. I wound up going to a—someone I heard about, who'd give me what I needed."
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"A loan shark?" Frank asked. "Felix, guys like that will lend you money, no questions asked, but will bleed you dry afterward."
Felix nodded. "That's what I discovered. I kept paying and paying, and the debt never got any smaller. Then one day, after I'd been paying this guy for months, he said he'd sold my debt to another man and that I'd deal with him from now on. And that man turned out to be—"
"Lou Gerard," Joe finished for him.
"Exactly," Felix said grimly. "Gerard came and said he wasn't interested in getting money from me. What he wanted was 'little favors' —that's what he called them. Information on Lombard, routes and schedules and cargo. And then he wanted other things—stuff off Matt's desk, in his handwriting, and some blank Lombard company checks—"
"Which wound up in Mickey Vane's apartment," Joe said.
"When they came to take Matt in for questioning," Felix went on, "and I heard what the evidence was against him, things that I had supplied, I almost blurted out the truth right then and there. But—I couldn't. Just didn't have the guts, I guess."
"Are you willing to tell the sheriff everything you've told us?" Frank asked.
"If I do, will I still have to go to jail?"
Frank leaned closer over Felix's chair. "Felix, I'm not going to lie to you," he said in a quiet
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voice. "You committed a felony, and that's probably going to mean a prison term. But if you have no previous record and you help us now and agree to testify against Gerard and his gang, they'll take that into account. You won't do as much time as you would otherwise."
"It doesn't matter," Felix said. "I'll do whatever you want. I owe Matt that much, anyway."
"That's the truth," muttered Brady. He had been glaring at Felix all during the painful confession.
"Lighten up, Brady," Joe cautioned. "Remember, you gave Matt some grief, too."
Brady flushed. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Kinney. So, what now? We call the sheriff and dump this in his lap and he grabs Gerard, huh?"
"That's one way to go," said Frank. "But there are a couple of things I don't like about it."
"Such as?" asked Joe.
"First, some of those hoods who tried to kill us might get away if they aren't all tied up in a neat bundle. And second," Frank said, grinning at Joe, "we're missing a chance to rub MacReedy's nose in it by handing him the whole thing on a platter. I mean, how sore is he going to be when we give him his collar?"
Joe grinned back. "He'd have to smile and say Thank you.' Beautiful! How do we set it up?"
"With Felix's help," Frank said, looking at the bookkeeper. "If he's willing."
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"I'm willing," Felix said. "What can I do?"
"You can tip Gerard off that a really major shipment of Ultratech products is going out of here tomorrow. Can you arrange that?"
"Sure!" Felix had lost his hangdog look, and now seemed eager to help. "I could fake a cargo manifest and route it anywhere you want."
"Then what?" asked Brady.
"We send out a truck as bait," Frank explained, "and pick a route with a likely spot for an ambush. Pat drives the truck, like on the other hauls, and we follow it—Tony, Joe, me—"
"Count me in on this one," growled Brady. "I want a piece of Gerard myself."
"The more the better," Frank told him. "Anyway, tomorrow morning, we call MacReedy and tell him to arrest Gerard at his office and then meet us where the ambush is likely to happen, with a load of deputies and a net. That way we get the whole bunch, and MacReedy has to thank us and apologize to Matt."
"That last part is my favorite," said Joe. "I might want to get that on videotape."
Felix sat down at his computer console. "I'll put that phony cargo manifest together now."
"Great!" Joe turned to Hal Brady. "You have an idea about the route? It should be mostly heavily traveled roads, except for one stretch that's a hijacker's dream. We want to pinpoint where they'll grab us as close as we can."
The trucker thought a bit, then smiled. "I got
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just the route for the job. I drive it a lot, and it's perfect. Mostly superhighway, except for five miles of local roads, made to order for a thief."
"Fantastic!" exclaimed Frank. "Felix can print it out for Gerard when he's finished with the manifest."
"This manifest won't take me long," said Felix. He bent over his console and began working the keyboard. "I'm putting enough audio equipment in this shipment to make Gerard's mouth water."
Frank sat on a corner of the desk, watching Kinney work and admiring his expert handling of the computer. Joe paced back and forth in the little room, and Hal Brady lounged by the window, staring out at the deserted street.
Suddenly Brady stiffened. Leaning forward, he pressed closer to the window. "Hey! We got trouble!" he whispered.
Frank, Joe, and Felix all stopped what they were doing.
"What's up?" Frank asked, standing quickly and going over to Brady.
Brady jerked a thumb out the window. "It's that bruiser of Gerard's—Turk. He just parked a car outside, and he's headed this way!"
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Frank glanced quickly out the window. The short, muscular hood was walking across the parking area! Felix jumped up nervously. "What's he doing here now?" he asked.
"We can't let him see us here!" snapped Joe. "Let's wait in the next office. You, too, Brady! Felix, just act natural."
"But—"
"Remember, Turk thinks you're on his side. As long as he thinks that, everything will be fine," said Frank.
Felix still looked shaky.
"Turk isn't exactly a brain surgeon," Joe told the accountant, pausing in the doorway. "String him along. You can do it, Felix. We're counting on you."
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Felix licked his lips and nodded. The other three slipped into the next office and quietly closed the connecting door.
In the dark room, Hal Brady muttered, "I sure hope he doesn't blow it."
"Sssh!" Frank hissed. A second later they heard Felix speak.
"Turk! What brings you down here this late?"
"Mr. Gerard wants some stationery with Lombard Hauling printed on it. He got an idea, and he said you'd probably be here."
"Stationery? Sure thing." A desk drawer slid open. "Here you go. Turk, wait a minute!"
"Uh-oh," Brady whispered.
"What is it, Kinney? I gotta get back. Mr. Gerard told me to hurry."
"I have big news for Mr. Gerard, Turk. He'll want to know."
Frank held his breath. What was Felix doing?
"Tell Mr. Gerard that we're sending out a big order from Ultratech tomorrow. I just heard about it. In fact"—there was a sound of paper tearing— "give Mr. Gerard this. It's a copy of the list of goods going out on the truck. Tell him I'll have the exact route the truck is taking later and I'll drop off a copy for him."
"Okay," said Turk, and a door closed.
Several seconds later Felix opened the connecting door. "Come on out. He's gone."
"Why did you tell Turk about the shipment
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now?" Joe demanded, stepping angrily into Felix's office.
"Why not?" asked Felix.
"Because it's the middle of the night, that's why not!" Joe was hot. "That's got to sound fishy."
Felix shook his head. "Not fishy," he said, "just urgent. And that'll make the hijack harder for Gerard to resist."
"All right, Felix," Frank said, giving Joe a look that said "Back off." "You did good work there. Now, let Brady give you that route so you can pass it on. Then we can finally get out of here and—"
The phone rang on Felix's desk. Felix picked it up. "Hello? Yes, Mr. Simone—just a second." He handed the phone to Joe, explaining, 'It's Matt Simone. He and Mike just got home."
"Let's set up a meeting here first thing in the morning to get ourselves organized," Frank suggested.
Joe nodded and spoke into the phone. "Hello, Matt? There's been a lot going on. If you can be here at seven tomorrow morning with Mike, Pat, and Tony, we'll fill you in and tell you what we're setting up. . . . No, it's too complicated to tell you now. . . . Let's just say we hope to wrap the whole thing up by late tomorrow afternoon. . . . Right . . . See you in the morning."
He hung up.
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"Seven a.m., huh? I'll be here," said Brady. "Guess I'll apologize to Matt for starters."
Felix sighed. "I'd better be here, too—if Matt will let me on the premises, that is."
"Hang in there, Felix," Frank said. "We will need you in the morning, and I'm sure Matt will see that you're trying to make up for what you did."
"Get some sleep, everybody," advised Joe. "I figure we're going to need it."
* * *
The following morning at seven-thirty the Hardys, Tony Prito, Matt and Mike Simone, Pat Mulvaney, and Hal Brady stood in a tight group watching Felix Kinney on the telephone.
"That's right, Mr. Gerard," said the bookkeeper. "Yes, sir, I figured you'd want to know about the shipment right away. . . . Yes . . . Thanks ... I will." He hung up the receiver and looked at the others.
"He said that this should be the last straw for Lombard Hauling, and he told me my debt is now paid in full."
Nobody smiled. Matt, who'd heard the whole story earlier, said, "Well, you've paid a piece of your debt to me, too. Not all of it, Felix, but some."
"Hal, you and Pat and Tony can start loading the truck," Matt went on. "We can use a lot of the Ultratech components that we salvaged from the trailer yesterday."
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"If this 'shipment' is just a dummy for bait,' said Joe, "how come we're actually loading up the truck? Why not just send it out empty?"
Pat Mulvaney replied, "Because at least a couple of the guys in this gang are experienced with long-haul rigs, Joe. They'd be able to spot an empty truck from the way it rides. We don't want to tip them off, do we?"
As the loading started, Frank noticed that Pat was being extra careful in her checkout procedure. He could see why. She wouldn't be driving her regular tractor, which was being repaired, so it was doubly important to check everything over.
As he helped Pat run through the list, Frank glanced over at Mike, who was leaning against the garage wall near the door to the office, watching the preparations. Mike had wanted to be in on the action, but Frank and Joe had persuaded him that his broken arm would make him a hindrance. He would wait at the office.
When Teri Yarnell arrived shortly before eight o'clock, Joe went over to say hello. She looked surprised to see so much going on.
"Everyone's off to an early start today," she commented.
"There's a lot to get done," Joe said.
Teri's brown eyes went wide when she saw Hal Brady walk by. "What's he doing here?" she asked. "I thought he was suspended after that fight with Mr. Simone."
"They worked everything out, and he's back
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at work," Joe said. "Listen, Teri, you like movies?"
"Love them," she said, smiling.
"Me, too," said Joe. "Do you eat dinner?"
"Every night."
"What do you know, so do I!" He gave her a big grin, and she giggled. "You want to eat dinner and see a movie together? Like, say, Saturday night?"
"Saturday? I'd love to. Wait a second." She grabbed a piece of notepaper and wrote on it. "Here's my address and phone number. Call me tonight, okay?"
Joe looked up as Matt stuck his head out his office door and called, "Joe! We need you in here a second."
"On my way," Joe answered. Then, turning back to Teri, he said, "At least we finally got to finish our conversation."
Joe was still smiling when he reached Matt's office, where the mood was all business.
"I just want to make certain that everything is set," Matt said. "That truck will be ready to go in fifteen minutes, and I'll be in it with Pat. Tony and Hal will follow in Hal's truck. I've rented a car for you two," he added, gesturing to Frank and Joe, "because the gang knows that van of yours by now and if it's anywhere around, it might make them suspicious. The rental car has a CB unit, so you can keep in touch. Anything I've forgotten?"
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"The only thing left to do is call MacReedy," Frank told him.
"Be my guest." Matt handed him the phone.
As Frank was getting the number, Joe asked, "Can I listen in?" Matt gestured to the extension, which Joe picked up.
"Sheriff's Department, Chief Deputy MacReedy," said the familiar hard voice over the line.
"Good morning, Deputy, this is Frank Hardy."
"Hardy? What do you want, boy? I told you to stay out of my hair."
"Sorry to bother you, Deputy. I just thought you'd like to know that we know who's responsible for the hijackings at Lombard Hauling."
"You what? Is this some kind of a joke?"
"It's no joke. If you listen for a minute, you can wrap up the whole business today."
There was a short silence on the other end of the line.
"All right," MacReedy said at last. "Say what you have to say."
"Okay. First of all, the man behind the whole scheme is Lou Gerard—"
"Gerard! Now, hold on, there! Where on earth did you get the notion—"
"It's not a notion, Deputy MacReedy. We have proof that'll stand up in any court that Gerard organized it. He was trying to extort payoffs from Matt Simone, but Matt wouldn't
pay."
"Is that it? Arrest Lou Gerard?"
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"Well, there's a little more, Deputy," Frank said. "We've set a little trap for the rest of the gang. We let Gerard hear about a shipment leaving here in a few minutes, and we're sure he won't be able to resist trying to grab it. We set it up so we know where and when they'll take the truck. So all you have to do is be five miles north of the intersection of Routes Seventy-four and One fifteen with some men at two-thirty this afternoon, and you'll have a nice collar for your record. And you don't even have to give us any credit. How does that grab you?"
There was another thoughtful silence from the deputy's end.
"Okay, Hardy. Maybe you've got something. How big is this gang, and how do you know they'll be where you think they'll be?"
Frank quickly told MacReedy the details and the sheriff's officer said that he'd take care of it.
When Frank hung up, Joe laughed. "I'd love to have seen the look on MacReedy's face when you gave him the word."
Frank nodded, but without much enthusiasm.
"For someone who's just solved a case, you sure don't seem too happy about it," said Joe.
Frank shrugged. "When all the bad guys are locked up and all the good ones are safe, then I'll feel like celebrating. Right now is too soon."
Matt stood up. "Let's get it on the road. I want to see this whole thing behind me, too."
A short while later Pat Mulvaney drove her
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eighteen-wheeler out of the yard, with Matt Simone sitting in the shotgun seat. A few minutes afterward Hal Brady got his rig out, too. Tony Prito sat beside him. Then Frank got behind the wheel of the rented car, and Joe joined him. They pulled out behind Hal, bringing up the rear of the parade.
As they drove away, Frank asked, "You think this'll work?"
"It better," Joe replied. "I have a date with Teri for Saturday night, and I plan to show up in one piece."
* * *
Two hours later Frank and Joe pulled off the highway and into a huge truck stop. Joe was impressed by the activity as they walked into the busy restaurant. Dozens of tables were filled with truckers who were chowing down, drinking strong coffee, making calls from the telephones placed at each table, exchanging news with buddies, and joking with the waitresses. Looking to the far end of the restaurant, Joe saw there was an area where some gearjammers were renting towels to take showers or catching naps.
He spotted Pat Mulvaney and Matt Simone in one of the booths. Matt gave them a high sign, and he and Frank went over. Pat was just finishing a piece of apple pie, and Matt had a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Everything should be ready to go," Joe told them.
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Pat pushed away her plate. "Hal must be in place by now." Hal Brady and Tony were supposed to be parked in a rest stop a few miles farther up the road. It had been decided that it would be better if all three vehicles didn't rendezvous together.
"Okay," said Matt. "The turnoff onto the local road is maybe ten minutes from here. Give us about that long before you get back on the road, and check in with Hal when you do. We'll see you a little later this afternoon."
"That's a ten-four," Joe replied, putting a CB twang in his voice. "Keep the metal side up and the rubber side down, now."
"I sure hope MacReedy's on time," Pat said. She seemed edgy but managed a laugh. "It's kind of funny. Here I am a trucker, and I'm actually looking forward to seeing Smokey. Must be a first."
Joe knew that "Smokey" was trucker's CB lingo for a law officer.
"Let's go, Pat," said Matt. He dropped a couple of bills on the table, gave Frank and Joe a quick thumbs-up sign, and walked out of the restaurant with his sister-in-law.
When the brothers got into their car a few minutes later, Joe picked up the CB mike.
"Mr. P., this is Tailend Charlie. Come in, Mr. P., over."
Tony's voice crackled over the loudspeaker.
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"Tailend Charlie, this is Mr. P. We are in position, and ready to move, over."
"When we pass your location, we'll give you a holler," Joe said. "Any questions?"
"Negative," Tony answered. "Over and out."
Frank moved out onto the highway. As he navigated through the traffic, Joe kept his eye out for the rest area where Hal and Tony were waiting. When it came into view, he picked up the mike again.
"Mr. P., we are passing your position now, over."
"Roger. Good luck."
Joe replaced the mike on its bracket. A short time later Frank saw his exit and turned off. There was very little traffic, he was happy to see. He didn't want anything to discourage the hijackers from their attempt.
Less than a mile after they'd left the highway, they heard the wail of a siren from behind them. A patrol car, lights flashing, appeared in their rearview mirror.
"Can't be for us," said Frank.
Joe craned around to look at the car as it rapidly overtook them.
"It's MacReedy!" he exclaimed.
The deputy drew up beside the Hardys, and he waved at them, signaling for them to pull over. Pressing down on the brakes, Frank eased the rental car over to the shoulder of the road and stopped.
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"Where are the rest of his men?" Joe wondered aloud.
"He must've sent them ahead," Frank guessed. "Or you know, we might be over the county line, out of his jurisdiction. Maybe he's called in the state police on this, and he's just coming to observe."
MacReedy pulled onto the shoulder behind them. Getting out of the patrol car, he strolled up to the Hardys. Frank rolled down his window.
"Hello there," said MacReedy. Casually he drew his service revolver from its holster and stuck its barrel under Frank's nose. He smiled thinly. "Looks like you two are in for a change of plan."
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MacReedy kept his gun trained on Frank's head. Easing open the rear door of the car, he slid inside.
"Just drive, son," said the deputy. "And if you think you can pull some kind of fancy maneuver with this car before I put a bullet in your head, why, you just try it."
Frank stared from the gun to MacReedy and back to the gun again. MacReedy was in it with Gerard! What had they gotten themselves into?
"Where are we going?" asked Joe.
"I'll give you directions," MacReedy replied gruffly. He rested the barrel of his gun on the seat back behind Frank. "You two aren't quite as smart as you think you are."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Frank said, although
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he knew very well what the deputy meant. Still, maybe they could get him talking, buy some time.
"Calling me up like you did and telling me everything. No sir, you boys aren't that bright after all. Your old man is going to be disappointed in you."
"Dad said that you were a good cop when he knew you," Frank went on, not taking his eyes from the road. He tried not to think too much about the gun a few inches from his neck. "He'll be disappointed in you, too."
"Good cop?" MacReedy made a harsh, ugly laugh. "Yeah, I was a good cop. I had what it takes. Guts, brains, ambition—the works. I ought to have gone a lot further than I did, but your daddy saw to it that it wouldn't happen that way. I busted a couple of crooks, and he blew the whistle on me, told my boss I'd cooked up a little evidence to make certain the bust would stick."
"Did you?" Joe asked.
"Sure I did! Those creeps were guilty, but they might've gotten off if I hadn't done what I did. But your old man—oh, no, mustn't bend a rule, better to let a couple of crooks get away than tamper a little bit with the evidence. He ruined my career. I'm lucky I made it this far—a lousy chief deputy in a county department."
Deputy MacReedy was really warming to his story now. "Well, I got tired of getting by on a chief deputy's pay, figured I could get my hands
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on more. And I did, too. Then you came along and tried to mess me up," MacReedy sneered, "just like your daddy did once before. Only now, it isn't going to work. It's payback time, boys. There's a driveway just up ahead on the right. Turn into it."
Frank swung the car into the driveway and felt it bump along on the uneven surface. The drive didn't look as though it was used much. It was covered with potholes and wild grass, and it opened into a cracked and weedy parking lot. At one end Frank saw a restaurant with shuttered windows. Obviously, the place had been closed for a long time.
They weren't alone. Frank noted the Lombard truck over to one side, and another tractor, without any trailer, not far away. Pat and Matt stood under the watchful eyes of Turk and the other three members of the gang, all of whom were armed. With them was Lou Gerard.
Joe's stomach lurched as he realized that none of the toughs wore masks. He and Frank had seen all the faces before. He breathed deeply, knowing that it was vital for him and Frank to keep their heads and not panic.
Joe read aloud from a faded sign in old English lettering that rested on the peak of the restaurant roof. "The Coach House. How's the food here, MacReedy? Did you and Gerard get together here for planning sessions over a steak and a baked potato?"
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"Always got time for a gag, huh?" said the deputy, opening the car's rear door. "Well, the last joke today is going to be on you. Get out, slow, and join your friends over there."
Seeing the new arrivals, Gerard walked over to meet them. "We've got some plans to work out," he told MacReedy. "Leave these two with the others and let's talk. We don't have much time."
"Relax, Gerard," said the deputy. "This place has been closed for years. Nobody's going to stumble over us while we're here."
"Bruno! Turk!" called Gerard. The tall thug who seemed to run the gang's operations came over with his short, squat assistant. "Take these two over to the truck. And don't let 'em pull any stunts!"
Bruno nodded and gestured with his pistol for the Hardys to walk in front of him. Turk couldn't resist gloating a little.
"Well, if it ain't the two wise guys! What's the matter, huh? Nothing to say? Cat got your tongue?" He laughed at his own cleverness. No one else did.
Matt's face registered his shock at seeing Deputy MacReedy holding a gun on the Hardys.
"MacReedy— You mean he's—"
"Crooked as a corkscrew," Frank finished. "And we went and called him up and dumped everything we knew in his lap. Are we a couple of dynamite detectives, or what?"
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"Don't be hard on yourselves," Pat said. "You couldn't have figured on the man being a criminal. Why did he do it, I wonder?"
"He says he got tired of living on a deputy's salary," said Joe. "My guess is he's getting a nice cut of this operation and that Gerard was planning on expanding the operation by squeezing every trucking company he could reach. Having a lawman on the payroll would be useful in a lot of ways. He could give you inside dope on what the police were doing. In a pinch he could tamper with evidence or deliberately screw up an arrest so a case would be dropped in court."
"Do you know any of these guys?" Frank asked Matt in a low voice, gesturing toward the hijackers. "We know who Turk is, but do these others all have trucking experience?"
Matt nodded. "That big guy, Bruno—he used to work for an outfit I worked for before I started Lombard. Everyone suspected he was padding his expenses and stealing stuff from his shipments, but nobody would face up to him—too big and too mean.
"One of the other two I've seen around, maybe at the truck stops getting a cup of coffee. But he's a trucker, I could tell from the way he moved my rig over here before. I figure they're all truck drivers who either couldn't get honest jobs or didn't want to."
They talked quietly until Lou Gerard came over and stood in front of them.
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"Leonard Garry, I presume," said Frank. There wasn't any point in concealing what they knew, and he was curious about a few things.
The union man smiled. "You did some homework. You're smart, kid, but you'd have been smarter to stay out of the deep water, where the sharks are."
"Why'd you knock off your buddy Mickey Vane?" asked Frank. "That kind of has me puzzled."
Gerard sighed. "The man was stupid and had a bad case of big eyes. It's a dangerous combination. His orders were to warehouse the components we stole and maybe eventually sell them overseas—a long way from here, in any case.
"Instead, he set up that warehouse to sell off the goods here, only a few miles from where they'd been stolen. See what I mean—stupid and greedy! So we shut him down. Permanently. Just like we're going to do with you."
Joe didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. "And the check to Vane—forged, right?" he asked quickly.
Gerard grinned and nodded.
Bruno had unhitched the Lombard trailer from its tractor, Joe saw, and was now backing the other tractor into place. Deciding to take advantage of Gerard's talkative mood, he tried to buy some additional time.
"What now, Gerard? Or Garry, or whatever
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your real name is? Are your bags packed for a quick getaway?"
Gerard looked sad for a moment. "I really thought I had a sweet setup here. Once Lombard went out of business, I figured every other trucking company in the area would line up to make their payoffs and avoid the same thing happening to them. It would've been nice—if you hadn't gotten in the way. But there are other cities, other false IDs, and lots of money floating around, if you know how to pick it up."
"What are you doing with the shipment on that truck?" Joe asked.
"I'm letting Bruno and his men have the contents of the truck," Gerard told him. "They deserve a little bonus, something more than we paid them. After all, now they have to start a new life somewhere else, and that can be expensive. So they can sell the electronics and split the take. Treat your help right, and they won't get mad at you. Isn't that right, Mr. Simone?"
Matt glared at him but refused to speak.
"Truck's just about ready to go, boss," called Bruno. "A couple of minutes more."
"Good," said Gerard. "The sooner we're out of here the better. MacReedy!"
The lanky deputy came over.
"We're just about set to go. You coming?"
"No," MacReedy said. "I think I'll stick around here. There won't be any witnesses to tie
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me to this whole thing, and I expect that I should do pretty well for myself from now on."
"Speaking of 'no witnesses,' MacReedy," Gerard reminded the deputy, "you have that one last chore to carry out, don't you?"
"You bet," the deputy replied. MacReedy replaced his service pistol in his holster, and reaching into a small traveling bag standing nearby, he pulled out a big Magnum revolver.
"This gun is cold," he said to Gerard. "There's no way to trace it back to me. I've been saving it for a special occasion, and this is it. Icing two nosy kids who happen to be Fenton Hardy's sons is my idea of a real special occasion. Turk!"
The burly gangster trotted over, gun in hand. "Turk asked if he could help out," explained MacReedy, "and I told him he could."
Frank knew it would be useless to make any kind of move. He watched helplessly as MacReedy cocked his big pistol with a loud threatening click and pointed it at Joe. Turk faced Frank with his gun. Frank could hear Pat Mulvaney begin to cry softly, although he didn't dare turn to look at her.
"So long, wise guy," said Turk. With that, he pointed the barrel of the automatic directly between Frank's eyes!
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Chapter 18
Frank couldn't help staring into the barrel of the gun, and as he did he wondered if it would be the last thing he ever saw.
Suddenly the deafening blare of a trucker's horn filled the air, breaking the tense silence. MacReedy and Turk looked over their shoulders, and Frank followed their gaze. Coming straight for the group, with a throaty diesel roar, was the huge bulk of an eighteen-wheeler! Chrome glittered on the cab, and Hal Brady's angry face, bent forward over the wheel, could just be seen through the tinted windshield as the truck charged across the parking lot.
MacReedy dived to one side. Turk tried to aim at the onrushing monster, but he couldn't keep his arm steady. His shot went wild, and a split
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second later the front of the truck struck him, knocking him several feet through the air and throwing his gun in another direction. Turk lay still.
Knowing that Turk was out of action, Frank looked quickly around. He saw that Bruno was pointing his gun at Brady's truck, which had come to a halt.
"Get MacReedy!" Frank snapped to his brother.
"It'll be my pleasure," Joe muttered. Making a dive for MacReedy, he grabbed his gun arm before the deputy could swing around for a shot at him.
Hal shoved his cab door open, intent on getting in his licks. Bruno raised his automatic and leveled it at Brady.
"Brady! Watch out!" Frank yelled. Even as he spoke he charged forward, hitting Bruno with a cross-body block behind the knees. The shooter's knees buckled, and his arm jerked just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot starred the glass of the truck window, just above Brady's head as he climbed down.
As Bruno fell, he dropped the gun, but he was quick as a cat. Spinning around, he lashed out with a kick that landed in Frank's stomach, and jarred him backward. He turned back for his gun—only to have Hal Brady land on his back and flatten him to the ground.
"No, you don't, you ape!" Brady growled, wrenching Bruno's arm around behind him.
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Tony Prito had been watching all of this from the cab. Grabbing a heavy wrench from the tool kit, he started down from the cab. When he was halfway down, Tony saw that one of the other gangsters had his gun trained on Frank. Before the goon could fire, Tony flung the wrench as hard as he could, shouting, "Frank! Behind you!"
The heavy wrench struck the hijacker in the side of the head with a clank, and he pitched forward. Tony dropped to the ground and scrambled for the guy's gun.
Frank flashed Tony a grin. "Good arm!" he called.
Meanwhile, Joe parried MacReedy's attempt at a kick to the midsection with his own knee. Grasping the deputy's gun hand with both of his own, Joe twisted it hard and jerked it backward at a painful angle.
MacReedy yelped and dropped the gun. He pivoted, then threw an awkward roundhouse punch with his left. Joe managed to duck under and step inside the swing, hitting the renegade lawman with a short right cross to the jaw. MacReedy reeled back, and Joe followed up with a left hook just under the rib cage and a looping right uppercut that connected with the deputy's chin.
MacReedy fell hard and lay still. Joe picked up MacReedy's Magnum, scooping up his service revolver as well. Breathing hard, he looked down
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at the unconscious deputy. "All right!" he said softly, smiling to himself.
Bruno had managed to buck Hal Brady off him, but as he got to his feet, Frank clasped his hands together and slammed them down as hard as he could on the back of the gangster's neck. As Bruno collapsed, Tony darted in and grabbed his gun.
The last of the hijackers, seeing his three partners down, became suddenly aware that he was outgunned and outnumbered. Hastily, he dropped his weapon and raised his hands.
"Where's Gerard?" growled Brady, looking around. "Where's the little weasel who tried to knock me off? I want a piece of him!"
"Everybody freeze!" Gerard shouted.
Joe looked up from the fallen MacReedy and saw that in the midst of all the action and confusion, Gerard had managed to slide over and pick up Turk's automatic. He now stood with his left arm wrapped around Pat Mulvaney's neck. With his right hand, he held the automatic to her head.
"I'm getting out of here, and this lady is going to drive me. Anyone tries to stop me and she's dead! Let's go, honey. Take it real easy, now."
Using Pat as a shield, Gerard pushed her over to the Lombard tractor, now "bobtailed"—without a trailer attached. He shoved her up into the cab and followed her.
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"Don't try to follow us," he warned. "I'll shoot her if you do!"
Prodded by Gerard's gun, Pat started the tractor and steered it from the parking lot, heading for the road.
"Are we going to let that creep get away?" Hal Brady demanded angrily.
"We can't risk Pat's life!" Matt shouted, equally angry.
"He's bluffing," declared Frank. "He won't shoot her while she's driving. Joe, let's move it!"
He raced for their rental car.
Joe quickly handed MacReedy's guns to Matt. "Frank's right. He won't risk crashing that rig. Take the guns and keep these goons on ice. Use some of the rope the cargo is secured with to tie 'em up."
Frank was already in the driver's seat and gunning the engine when Joe jumped in beside him. The car sped off even before his door was fully closed.
The car had more speed and maneuverability than the tractor, and before long Frank spotted the tractor ahead of them. He quickly closed the distance between them.
"Pull up alongside and match their speed!" Joe shouted.
"You going to board it?" Frank asked, accelerating and moving next to the tractor.
"You bet," Joe replied. His eyes were fixed
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on the wall of the cab beside him. Opening the car door, he reached out and took hold of one of the metal climbing rungs. Carefully he began to pull himself up until he was able to hook the bottom rung with his right foot.
Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of Pat's worried face as she stared at the road ahead. Joe pressed hard against the side of the cab, so Gerard wouldn't be able to get a shot at him. He groped for another handhold, toward the back, and a metal bar welded to the chassis provided it. Moving his left foot next to the right, he extended his right leg for a foothold behind the cab. The concrete was whizzing by below him, and seeing it, Joe tightened his grip.
Using the fifth wheel assembly and the hardware on the back of the tractor, Joe carefully worked his way across the back to the passenger side, fighting the bumping and swaying of the speeding tractor all the way. Then he started his climb toward the door.
Glancing up, he saw that Gerard had rolled down his window and had his gun outside. Joe ducked behind the rear of the tractor before Gerard could get a shot off.
Then, planting his foot in a step set into the cab body, Joe reached up for the narrow door that led to the sleeping compartment behind the seats, hoping that it was unlocked. It was, and he opened it. With one quick movement, he pulled
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himself up by the handle and lunged inside the cab.
Gerard twisted around and reached his gun over the seat back. When the pistol and hand appeared, Joe seized his wrist. Bending the gun away from Gerard, he yanked hard, pulling him close. Then Joe threw a straight right at Gerard's jaw. The punch traveled only a foot but packed enough power to stun Gerard, who sagged against the back of the seat.
Joe pulled the automatic from Gerard's unresisting hand.
"Pull over!" he yelled to Pat.
As she stopped the rig on the shoulder of the road, Pat scowled at Joe. "That was a dumb stunt to pull!" she exclaimed. "I was all set to jam on the brakes and slam his head into the windshield." Then she smiled. "But thanks, anyway."
"Don't mention it." Joe grinned back at her. "It's all just part of our regular service. No extra charge. Now let's see where we can find a phone and call some real cops to haul this bunch away."
"There's one thing I want to know," Pat said, with a thoughtful look. "How did Hal find us in that old restaurant parking lot? Didn't MacReedy grab you and Frank right after you got off the highway?"
"Yeah, he did."
"Well?" she demanded, looking impatient. When Joe still didn't answer, Pat said, "Are you
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going to talk, or just sit there with that self- satisfied smile on your face?"
"Okay, okay, don't get all feisty. MacReedy couldn't see under the dash on that car from the backseat. So I knocked the CB radio's mike loose with my knee and poked at it with my foot till I hit the transmitting button. Then I said the name of the restaurant and tried to signal Hal that MacReedy had us. I just had to hope Hal knew where the Coach House restaurant was."
"And that MacReedy wouldn't see your move with the CB and that Hal would hear what you were saying and that he'd figure out what had gone down." Frank had parked the car and climbed up on Pat's side of the cab in time to hear Joe's explanation. "Pretty thin stuff. I wouldn't pat myself on the back too hard."
"Hey!" exclaimed Joe. "The bottom line is, it worked, right?"
"Just barely," Frank replied. "We almost bought it today."
"Almost doesn't count," Joe said with a grin. "This isn't horseshoes. Help me haul Gerard out of here and get him into the back of the car, and then let's find that phone."
* * *
Leaving the truck where it was for the time being, the three took the rental car and drove ahead to a gas station to call the state police. By the time they got back to the parking lot of the Coach House, the first squad cars were rolling
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in. The troopers were busy taking statements from Matt, Tony, and Brady and replacing the ropes that had been used to tie up the thugs with handcuffs.
When the Hardys and Pat rolled into the lot, Tony and Matt left off talking to the officers and ran over to greet them.
"You all right?" Matt asked anxiously. "How did you do it?"
"Where's Gerard?" demanded Hal Brady, coming up to the car.
"Trussed up back there with Joe covering him," Frank answered, pointing to the backseat as he got out of the car. "Everything okay here?"
More troopers arrived on the scene, and two of them took charge of Lou Gerard. Two more were bandaging the groggy Turk, who had regained consciousness and seemed to have suffered nothing worse than severe bruises and scrapes.
Joe shook his head at Brady. "You sure took your time getting here. An old gearjammer like you, I figured you would burn rubber and be right on our tail when we pulled in here."
"Get off my case!" yelped Brady in mock rage. "I wasn't sure where the Coach House was, exactly. I had to try a few blind alleys before I lucked out. And I thought I did pretty well just to work out that message you gave me on the CB."
"You did just great," Matt assured the trucker.
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You can haul freight for me anytime. Both of you," he added, turning to include Pat. "You're both my top drivers—at least, until Mike is able to team a rig again."
"Fair enough," Brady replied. "I had you pegged all wrong, Matt, and I'm sorry about that."
"That's in the past, now," Matt assured him. Then he reached out and hugged Tony.
"Nephew," he said, "I owe you, too. You're responsible for bringing in Frank and Joe, and you pitched in and did your share when things got rough."
"Aw, hey, forget it," Tony said. He tried to appear casual, but he was clearly delighted by his uncle's compliments.
"Forget it? No way!" Matt hollered. "You have a reward coming, and I don't want to hear any arguments! Let's see, now—you couldn't by any chance use an Ultratech CD player, could you?"
Tony dropped his casual air, and his eyes opened wide. "Could I? That's—you're—"
"Cut it out," Matt said gruffly. "You earned it. I still have a business, thanks to you—and to these two here."
He turned to Frank and Joe. "What can I say? You saved my bacon, fellas. Anything I can do for you, you got it. All you have to do is ask. Go ahead, name it."
"Well—" Frank said after a moment. "We
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figure getting involved in a case like this is enough reward. Putting guys like MacReedy and Gerard and the rest behind bars is enough satisfaction."
"Joe, does that go for you, too?" asked Matt. "Or would you like to learn more about big rigs? We could teach you."
"Uh—I mean, trucks are really interesting and all, but to tell you the truth, I already know as much about trucks as I want to. And anyway," Joe went on, "like Frank says, we don't accept rewards.
"Besides," he added, smiling, "I figure a date with Teri is a nice bonus. So I guess we're all square."
"Well, there's one thing I want to do," Matt said, "and I'm not taking no for an answer."
"What's that?" Frank asked.
"You're coming to dinner one night next week. My wife makes the best chicken cacciatore in the state. That invitation goes for all of you," he added, looking at Pat, Tony, and Hal Brady.
Joe laughed. "You talked us into it," he said. "We'll be there."
"And bring your appetites," Matt went on. "We're celebrating the rescue of Lombard Hauling!"
* * *
The next day the Hardys were at the mall, splitting a pizza with Tony Prito.
"I hooked up that CD player last night," Tony
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told them, putting down his half-eaten slice. "I'm telling you, it sounds unbelievable!"
"That's great, Tony," said Joe. Suddenly, Joe caught sight of someone over Tony's shoulder. He nudged his brother, who was sitting next to him.
"Look who's here," he said quietly.
Frank looked around. Jeff Lanier had just come into Mr. Pizza. With a quick wink at Tony, Frank called, "Hey, Jeff! Over here!"
Jeff saw them, gave a casual wave, and strolled over.
"What's happening?" he asked. "Tony, did you buy one of those CD players at that warehouse? Were those prices unreal, or what?"
"They were unreal, all right," Frank said.
"But I didn't buy one," Tony went on.
"No? How come?" Jeff asked, smiling. "Still too much money for you?"
"It wasn't that," Tony told him. "I just don't like dealing in stolen merchandise."
Jeff's mouth dropped open. "Stolen—what— hey, come on, you guys, cut it out. That's not funny."
"No joke," Joe said, giving Jeff a serious look. "That's why the prices were so low. Everything for sale there was hot. You bought stolen goods, Jeff."
Jeff licked his lips, looking suddenly very nervous. "Well, I didn't know—I mean—"
"Ignorance is no excuse, Jeff," Frank said.
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"You could be in real trouble," Tony added, being careful not to smile.
Beads of sweat broke out on Jeff's forehead.
"You're seventeen, right, Jeff?" asked Joe.
Jeff nodded.
Frank let out a low whistle. "That means you can be tried as an adult."
Joe put on a solemn face. "Uh-oh. And you know, the stuff they make you wear in prison is really the pits. The worst."
Jeff's normally pale skin now looked gray. "I'll—I'll give it back. I didn't know! Honest!"
Tony couldn't hold it in any longer. He burst out laughing, and Frank and Joe joined in.
Jeff just stared at them for a minute. Then he got mad.
"Real funny, you guys!" he muttered, and stalked away.
"Hey, really, Jeff," Frank called out after him, "better turn that CD player in to the sheriff. It's evidence in a crime investigation."
Jeff stopped but didn't turn back. Then he walked out of Mr. Pizza.
When the laughter died down, Tony asked, "You think the police'll give it back to him?"
"No way," Joe answered. "If he'd thought about it at all, he'd have realized it was very suspicious."
Tony sat back. "So I wind up with a CD player, and he winds up with zip."
Frank picked up a piece of pizza. "It just goes
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to show you, it always pays to be on the right side of the law."
Joe nodded agreement. Then he said, "But I have to say, that was a 'hot' sweater Jeff was wearing."
The other customers in Mr. Pizza looked at them curiously as the three boys broke into loud laughter all over again.
Castle Fear (Hardy Boys Casefiles #44)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"This FOG gives me the creeps." Joe Hardy's broad, usually smiling face was creased in a frown as he peered into the thick murk around him. "Anybody could be lurking in this stuff five feet away from us and we wouldn't have a clue."
The narrow two- and three-story town houses along the cobblestoned lane were blurred in the heavy mist. The only tinge of color Joe caught came from the dozens of small lighted windows— yellowish rectangles floating in the air.
This was a fashionably old-fashioned section of London. The Hardys, eighteen-year-old Frank and Joe, who was a year younger, had parked their rented car just off Fulham Road and were heading for the temporary home of their latest 
2
client. The fog was rolling in from the Thames River, a few blocks to their right, causing Frank and Joe to zip up their lightweight windbreakers against the dampness.
"You could hide an army in this soup." Joe ran a hand through his slightly damp blond hair. "Why can't it just decide to rain? We'll probably be bumping into Jack the Ripper next."
His older brother's dark eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. "I sort of like the fog."
"Why?"
"Well, we're in London. And London is famous for its fog."
"It's also famous for its fish and chips. And I'd rather bump into a batch of those right now." Joe hunched his broad shoulders in his jacket. "This continual mist is getting me down."
"Maybe our new case will cheer you up."
"Right," said Joe. "But I was expecting some fun, at long last. We didn't have much, studying our brains out for those summer courses at Oxford—there were those guys trying to blow them out, too." In the Hardys' last adventure, Strategic Moves, they had not only studied at the famous university, they'd broken up a kidnap plot designed to destroy East-West relations.
"I know what you mean," Frank admitted. "But that old friend of Dad's out in Hollywood needed some help. Since Dad's got that case in
3
South America and we're right on the spot, it's up to us."
"Right, right. The family tradition."
Fenton Hardy, their father, was a private investigator of international renown. Frank and Joe were pretty good detectives in their own right, and they'd often handled cases their father was too busy to attend to. That was once again the situation tonight.
"Keep in mind that working on a case is also probably better for your health," Frank pointed out. "Since your idea of fun always includes eating an entire pizza by yourself and then topping it off with—"
He was interrupted by the harsh crack of a pistol shot somewhere nearby. A slug whizzed past, close enough for Frank to feel the breeze of its passing whip through his dark hair.
He dived to the sidewalk and rolled. Joe hit the ground and stretched out flat.
Another shot came whistling their way, but it passed harmlessly through the space where they'd been a few seconds earlier.
Very quietly Joe asked, "What was that you were saying about this being healthy work?"
Seconds passed, but there were no further shots. As Joe was pushing himself up off the damp pavement he caught a glimpse of someone running off about half a block away. The swirling fog swallowed up the dark figure an instant- after Joe had spotted it.
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"I think I see something." Joe got to his feet.
"Joe, don't go chasing after an armed attacker."
"Catch you later," Joe said as he started to run along the foggy London lane.
The heavy gray mist seemed to disperse as he ran through it, spinning away into wispy tatters and then closing in behind him again.
He was straining to hear. From up ahead he thought he could make out the sound of hurrying footfalls, but everything was muffled and indistinct.
Then the running footsteps abruptly died. Joe heard only the sound of his own feet slapping the sidewalk.
He kept running, staring into the mist, his blue eyes narrowed.
Suddenly he was falling.
Something unseen on the ground had tripped him. Joe's left knee hit the pavement first, sending a painful jolt up his thigh as he went sprawling.
He shook his head ruefully and started to get up. Halfway to his feet, he paused.
Joe pivoted, then went charging toward a shadowy doorway on his right. He hurried up the five stone steps and grabbed.
"I'd rather you didn't do that."
He let go of the dark-clad figure, moving back a pace. "Sorry. I didn't expect a—uh, young woman. What are you doing in there?"
5
"Minding my own business, which is more than I can say for you."
There was some light, though dim, coming through the stained-glass window in the upper half of the oaken door the young woman was leaning against. She was a pretty girl, about the same age as Joe. Her hair was a wild mass of red curls, and the angry flush didn't hide the sprinkle of freckles on her high cheekbones. Hazel eyes flashed at him. The girl wore a black raincoat and a navy blue scarf. Both of her hands gripped a huge black shoulder bag.
Joe glared right back at her. "Somebody took a potshot at my brother and me."
"Maybe he had a good reason. If you go around tackling innocent bystanders, you're bound to make enemies."
"I never saw an innocent bystander hiding out in a doorway before."
"Me? Hiding out?" the girl said. "I heard those shots and ducked in here."
"And what are you doing out here in the first place?"
"If you must know, I'm walking a dog."
Joe glanced around. "What dog?"
"His name is Bozo, and he belongs to the people I'm staying with," the girl replied. "But now he seems to have run off."
"Have you seen anyone else, somebody who went running by?"
"It's tough to see anything in fog like this."
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"Hear anything?"
"Just the shots, then you doing a bellyflop on the cement."
Joe was staring down at her shoulder bag. "I know I saw someone, a figure running this way."
Sighing, the red-haired girl yanked the bag wide open. "Take a look if you think I have a gun in here," she invited.
Joe leaned and looked. He saw a 35-millimeter camera and a small cassette recorder, but no sign of a gun. "Listening to you speak," he said, "I wouldn't say you sound British."
"Neither do you."
"I'm American. What's your excuse?"
"Same as yours. I'm from Connecticut, over here on vacation. Some friends of mine are putting me up at an apartment nearby." She looked anxiously out at the dense fog. "If all the excitement is over for the night, I'd better find poor Bozo."
"I don't know if you should be walking alone at this time of night, with a gunman on the loose," Joe said.
But the girl seemed anxious to leave. "I have friends expecting me, and I'm already late. I'd better hurry."
Joe nodded slowly. "I guess you'd better."
"Nice meeting you." She smiled faintly before brushing past him and starting along the sidewalk, calling, "Bozo, where are you? C'mon,
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boy. Wouldn't you like a nice bone? Bozo, Bozo . . ."
Very soon she was lost in the mist.
Joe watched until the girl had disappeared. Now, why do I have a hard time believing that Bozo really exists? he asked himself.
Shrugging, he retraced his steps. He walked a little slowly. Why rush when he knew he'd have to put up with a lecture from Frank about how dumb it was to go chasing gunmen?
Joe wasn't too happy with himself, either. He'd gone charging off after danger and had only caught a redhead—and an unfriendly one at that. She was cute, though, he had to admit to himself.
Too bad she was probably a liar. Joe had a strong suspicion she'd been putting him on, yet he couldn't believe she was actually the person who'd fired at him and Frank.
He got back to where they'd hit the dirt, but Frank wasn't around.
Moving along another quarter of a block, Joe spotted his brother in the doorway of a large brick town house. Frank seemed to be looking into the shadowy entryway and was hunched over oddly.
"Hey, Frank," Joe called. "Why are you standing that way? You hurt?"
"Not exactly." His brother answered without turning. "It's mostly because this gentleman here has a gun jammed into my stomach."
8
Chapter 2
Frank stared down at the gun, a flashy chrome-plated revolver. The man holding it with the barrel pressed into Frank's middle was about forty. He was short, deeply tanned, and not dressed for the chilly, misty London night. He was clad in prefaded jeans, a flamboyant yellow-and-red Hawaiian shirt, and white tennis shoes.
"Come where I can see you, kid," the man told Joe, looking out around Frank. "Don't make any sudden moves, don't try to pull a piece on me—or your pal here buys the farm."
Frank managed a glance over at his approaching brother. "I've been trying to explain to this gentleman that—"
"You can't con me," interrupted the guy with the gun. "I'm turning both of you over to the
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London Metropolitan Police. I'll prove these crimes aren't a publicity stunt. As if somebody of Larry Berman's stature in the industry would try the old 'somebody's threatening my client' bit."
He puffed up his chest. "Hey, does Larry Herman—one of the slickest agents in Hollywood— need cheapo publicity stunts to promote a respected young actor like Jed Shannon? No way, friends, nope, not at all. His last film, Slam Dan- cm' in Rio, broke all the records—"
"Mr. Berman," Joe managed to get in, "we weren't behind that shooting you heard."
"Oh yeah? Soon as I heard the shots—another of your cheap scare tactics—I grabbed my piece and ran out here. And who do I find skulking in the pea soup? This shifty-looking guy."
"Does the name Fenton Hardy mean anything to you?" asked Frank.
"Once I show you hoods to the cops, they'll realize Ted is in real danger and that I'm not— What was that name?"
"Fenton Hardy is our father." Frank pulled back a little from the gun barrel. "He's a well-known detective."
Joe added, "A producer friend of his named Norman S. Lenzer wanted him to—"
"Nonnie, sure. He produced Jed's latest blockbuster, A Punk at Oxford. That's why we're in this country—to promote the picture.
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But I'm telling you, almost as soon as we're off the plane—bam!—trouble begins."
"That's why we're here. Our father's busy with a case in South America, so Joe and I are going to handle this for you."
"How are a pair of London street hoods going to help Jed Shannon?"
Joe sighed. "We're not street hoods, Mr. Berman. We're not even from London."
Berman lowered his gun. "This isn't a scam you're trying to pull on me?"
"I'm Joe Hardy, he's Frank Hardy. We have an appointment to see you and your client, Jed Shannon, at nine o'clock tonight."
The tanned agent frowned. "We are supposed to be meeting with the Hardys," he admitted. "But why were you popping those guns off?"
"We weren't. Somebody shot at us, and I took off to chase the person. Meanwhile, Frank— What were you doing, Frank?"
"Approaching the house here, and hoping you weren't off getting shot. Dumb move, Joe."
"Not if I'd caught him—or her."
"Hey, fellas." Berman put down his gun. "Suppose I see some ID. You— Frank, is it?"
"I'm Joe."
"Fine. Slowly and nonthreateningly, slip out your credentials."
Joe took his wallet out of his hip pocket and opened it to his driver's license. "Here you go."
"From Bayport, huh? Sounds like a real hick
11
town." The agent tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. "Sorry I gave you guys a bad time. I've been pretty stressed out lately."
Frank shrugged. "Suppose we go inside and talk about why?"
"Good idea." Berman gestured at the door behind him. "Anything to get out of this London fog. Give me Hollywood any day."
* * *
Jed Shannon was a dark, handsome young man in his early twenties, slim and about five foot ten. As he paced the living room of his rented town house, his clenched fists were jammed in the pockets of a black jacket, which he wore over a white T-shirt and black jeans.
"It's reality time, Larry," he said to his agent.
"I'm a big boy now, and I don't need guarding like some—"
"Kid, you can't go running out into the street—especially in a strange city—to go chasing after a gunman. That's why I went."
"You sure didn't do such a great job." Shannon stomped past the glass and metal coffee table. "You act like I'm some ninety-seven- pound weakling. Then you drag home a couple of overgrown Boy Scouts to hold my hand."
"Well, Shannon, if you don't think you need us . . ." Joe began.
"He needs you, he needs you." Berman wrung his hands. "I want professional help. I don't want this guy's life in danger.'
12
"Larry, you forget that I grew up in the toughest part of Detroit." The actor slammed his hand on the mantelpiece. "I have street smarts. At least I did till you people started treating me like some kind of wimp who can't fight his own battles."
"I thought you grew up in Grosse Pointe," Joe suddenly said. "That's not exactly the toughest Detroit neighborhood. It's where the car- company millionaires and their rich kids live."
Shannon stopped pacing and scowled at Joe. "Okay, maybe my parents were pretty well off," he admitted. "But I learned from the tough kids I hung out with how to handle myself. If you care to test that, just let me know."
"Instead of everybody trying to prove who's toughest," Frank said calmly, "why don't you tell us what's been going on? At least then we could give you some advice."
The young actor glanced at him. "Which one are you—Tom or Jerry?"
"Frank Hardy."
Joe shot to his feet with a disgusted glare at Shannon. "C'mon, Frank, let's hit the road. This guy doesn't want us around."
"This is a job we told Dad we'd tackle," his brother reminded him. "We made a promise to protect him, not to become his best friend."
"But everybody likes Jed," insisted Berman. "Didn't you see the latest poll in Fanteen, where they voted him the—"
13
"I don't need protecting—or anybody to wipe my nose." Jed scowled at his agent.
"Jed, cool it," advised Berman.
"Just tell us what's been happening," suggested Frank. "Joe, sit down someplace."
"I'd rather be sitting down in a pizzeria on the other side of London." Joe stalked over to a large black armchair and sat down.
Shannon said to Frank, "Obviously, you're the rational one on the team."
Frank lowered himself into a white canvas chair. "Can you at least outline the problem?" he asked, glancing from the actor to the agent. "Then we can figure out what has to be done."
Berman glanced uneasily over at his angry client and asked, "You want me to tell them, kid?"
The younger actor shook his head. He walked over to stare into the empty stone fireplace. "I'm fairly sure this is just some crank thing," he began. "You two guys may not think much of me as an actor, but in the past year or so I've become what you'd call a celebrity. That means a lot of media hype. Interviews on the talk shows, photo sessions for the magazines ..."
"Celeb magazine just voted him one of the Ten Hottest Hunks in Hollywood," the agent cut in.
"I'll tell the story, Larry."
"Detectives need these little background details," Berman said.
14
Shannon sighed. "Stars get a lot of attention. Unfortunately, some of it comes from people who are borderline crazies. That means some hate mail, a nut phone call now and then, a few threats. Mostly it's harmless. Annoying, sure, but not all that dangerous."
"That's not always true," said Frank. "There have been cases, you know, where obsessed fans have killed or seriously hurt stars."
"Is that what's happening here?" Joe asked the agent. "Are we talking about a crazed fan?"
Shannon answered. "I'm not sure who this person is. We've been in London for five days to promote A Punk at Oxford. You know, dozens of half-witted radio and TV interviews, equally stupid magazine and newspaper stuff, personal appearances. Tomorrow night, for example, I've got a boring speech to make to a bunch of European movie distributors. By the way, Larry, the opening three paragraphs of that speech will have to be changed."
"Kid, Normie Lenzer himself okayed that speech. We can't change a word without his okay."
"So get his okay. I'll give you my ideas for a new opening, and you fax them to him in L.A."
Frank cleared his throat. "What about the threats?"
Shannon continued. "Three days ago, while I was driving my Jaguar, someone in a car tried
15
to force me off the road and down a rocky hillside. Could have been just a chance thing, but the next day somebody shot at me—three times with a rifle, by the sound of it—while I was out jogging on the Embankment."
"The phone calls." Berman sounded as though he were coaching the actor in a scene.
"I've also gotten two nasty phone calls."
"What sort of caller?" Frank wanted to know.
"Some whispering voice said I was marked for death unless I got out of London right away."
"Did they claim responsibility for the shots and the car business?" Joe asked.
The actor replied, "Yeah, the second call did. Something like, 'We'll keep trying until you get tired and head for home.' "
"The letter," coached Berman.
"Right. There was a letter, printed in pencil on cheap notebook paper. It had the same kind of message—that I'd get seriously hurt if I didn't leave town."
"Can we see the note?" asked Frank.
"Afraid not." The actor shook his head. "I tore it up and flushed it."
"I told him that was the kind of stuff the police needed. How else could they catch this nut case?"
Frank said, "You've seen the police, then?"
Berman nodded vigorously. "Twice. They did send a couple of detectives, but ..." He
16
shrugged. "I could tell they thought I was trying for some cheap publicity."
Joe glanced over. "Have you gotten free publicity out of these attacks and threats?"
"You saying we actually rigged this for some coverage?" Berman shot back.
"No, I mean, has any of this wound up in print or on television?"
"We've been able to keep it quiet," said the agent. "If people get the idea Jed has people around who don't like him, it hurts his image."
Frank leaned forward. "You didn't recognize this voice on the phone, Jed?"
"No."
"Man or woman?"
"I'd say a man."
"What about the handwriting on the note?"
"Just scribbling in block letters."
Joe stood up. "It's improbable that a fan could have known your phone number." He walked to one of the bow windows in the room, looking into the foggy night below. "The person who made those calls needed some way to get that number."
Berman blinked. "I never thought of that."
Shannon just shrugged. "We gave it to all kinds of media people. It's not exactly a secret."
"But to get it, you'd need a media connection," Joe pointed out.
Shannon's smile was bitter. "Some media
17
people would probably sell the number for a few bucks."
"Is there anybody you can think of—anyone you know personally—who might want to threaten you?" asked Frank.
"Hey." Jed raised his eyebrows mockingly and struck a pose. "Larry just told you that everyone on earth loves me." Then he shook his head. "I really can't come up with the name of anybody in England who's got a grudge against me."
Frank turned to the agent. "You don't suspect anyone?"
"I think it's more than just a disgruntled fan. Something more serious than that."
''About the shots tonight," Joe said. "Who knew we were due to come over here?"
"No one—except me and Jed."
Frank nodded. "Then I want to check the phones before we leave tonight."
"You think they're bugged?"
"That's one way to find out Jed's itinerary and know that we were coming here at nine."
"It could simply be that somebody was out there watching this place," Shannon objected. "When you two came by, they recognized you and took a couple of potshots."
Frank said, "Maybe, except—"
The phone rang.
Berman jumped to his feet and hurried to the glass-topped phone stand near the windows.
18
"Yes?" He listened for a second, then turned to Frank. "It's for you."
"Who is it?"
"Didn't say."
Frank got up and took the receiver. "Frank Hardy speaking."
A very cultured British voice came over the line. "We missed you and your brother this time, young man."
"Who is this?" Frank demanded.
The voice went on as if he hadn't spoken. "If you hope to live to become an old boy, don't help young Mr. Shannon. Tell him to give up his search for Jillian."
19
Chapter 3
Frank hung up. Then he lifted the receiver again, quickly unscrewed the mouthpiece, and removed a small electronic device—a bug. He looked toward Jed Shannon and said, "Can you tell me who Jillian is?"
The actor started as if the fireplace had suddenly burned him. "Who was that on the phone?"
"I have no idea. But whoever he was, he sure doesn't want us to help you find Jillian."
Joe asked, "Does this tie in with your gunman?"
"You got it," Frank replied. "Unless we drop the case, the next shots won't miss."
"Then suppose you tell us who she is," Joe said to the actor.
20
Berman sank low in his chair. "You might as well, kid."
"If any of this winds up in some scandal tabloid," warned Shannon, "I'll—"
"Before you go further," cut in Frank, "I'd better explain something. Unless you feel you can trust Joe and me, there's no use trying to do business with us."
"But if we do tackle your case," added Joe, "then you're really going to have to tell us the truth."
"Do it, kid," said Berman.
Shannon sat on a long, low black leather sofa and ran a hand over his face. "I shouldn't have been screaming at you guys. But this whole situation has me a little hyper."
He sighed. "I guess it began about ten months ago, doing the location shooting for A Punk at Oxford. I met a girl. Her name is Jillian Seabright—yeah, that's her real name. She's an actress, a very good one. Nobody's ever heard of her in the States because she's mostly done stage work and a little television here in London. Jillian had a small role in my movie, which is how I met her."
Frank asked, "Did you date her?"
"Not exactly. Nothing formal, anyway. We had lunch once or twice at an out-of-the-way inn she knew about, and we mostly just sat around and talked for hours. You know how it is when
21
you really hit it off with someone. We became friends, actually."
"Jillian really isn't like any of the actresses I've known," he explained. "She doesn't seem like a show business person at all. She's bright, caring, and—I just like her." He rose up, pacing again. "Fact is, it wasn't until I was back home in Los Angeles that I realized how much I liked her. So I started calling her long distance."
"Expensive," commented Joe.
"I can afford it, and Jillian is worth it." The actor gave them a sheepish shrug. "She's a very special sort of girl. Anyway, we agreed that when I came over here to promote the opening of my movie in England, we'd get together."
"I nearly had to tie him down to keep him from hopping over here weeks ago to see her," Berman chipped in. "That would have fouled us up with promoting A Punk at Oxford. We were nearly number four at the box office for almost—"
"Enough, Larry."
Frank asked the actor, "So what happened when you got to England?"
Shannon shook his head. "I didn't find her."
"Wasn't she expecting you?" Joe frowned.
"Sure she was. I talked to her on the phone just a few days before I left L.A."
"She didn't hint that anything might be wrong?"
"Nothing like that. We had a dinner date set
22
for my first night in town." Shannon dropped onto the sofa. "But I couldn't get any answer to my phone calls. Then I went over to her flat in the St. Marylebone district, and she wasn't there."
"What did they tell you at her building?" asked Frank.
"A neighbor said Jillian is still living there. I mean, she didn't move out or anything. But nobody had any idea where she's gone to."
"The kid's tried everything he can think of," said the agent. "The West End theater where she was doing a play, the—"
"What happened at the theater?" asked Joe.
Shannon replied, "Jillian had a small part in this Restoration comedy called 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd. But she'd been replaced, and nobody knew where she'd gone off to."
"When's the last time she was in the play?" Frank asked.
"She did the part till about three days before I got to town."
Frank said, "Does she have an agent?"
"Some seedy guy named Ian Fisher-Stone," said Shannon. "I checked with him, too, over the phone, and he didn't know a thing."
"You mean," said Frank, "he had a client working and didn't even wonder why she quit a play and disappeared?"
"Fisher-Stone told me Jillian was just off on a holiday. But he didn't know where she'd gone."
23
"How did he know she went on a vacation?"
"He wasn't very clear on that, but he gave me the impression it wasn't Jillian herself who told him."
Frank looked closely at Jed. "I don't want to set you off again, but is it possible she has another boyfriend?"
"She told me she didn't, not anyone serious."
"Did she mention anything else to you?" Frank continued. "Somebody who was annoying her? Or maybe some out-of-town acting job that might be coming up?"
Shannon started to shake his head, then stopped, frowning. "Wait now," he said. "She did tell me once or twice that maybe she was going to be a star, too. She didn't give me any details, but I had the idea she was probably being considered for a big part in a movie or play."
"You didn't know what it was, though?" Frank asked.
"She didn't give more than hints. Lots of actors and actresses are very superstitious, and they won't talk about a big part until after they've signed for it."
"Even if she has a part in a big-budget movie," said Joe, "that doesn't explain why people are threatening you."
"And Jillian is involved in the threats— right?" asked Frank.
Jed Shannon sighed. "Yeah. Both the phone
24
calls and the letter warned me to forget about Jillian."
Eyes narrowing, Frank glanced from Jed to Larry Berman. Something was wrong with this case, right from the start. 'There's got to be more to this than what I'm hearing here. This girl didn't just go off to star in a movie."
"I'll tell you what I'm afraid of," said Shannon. "That's she's been kidnapped or something, and that I'll never see her again."
Frank said, "This doesn't sound like a kidnapping."
"What do you mean? She's vanished, and nobody can find her."
Frank gave him a long, hard look. Shannon seemed sincerely upset, but actors—even bad actors—could be hard to read. "Kidnappers do it for money," he said, probing. "Here you are, a guy making a huge salary. Instead of trying to scare you off, the bad guys should be hitting you up for a fat ransom."
"What about her family and relatives?" said Joe. "Could be they've been approached about a ransom."
"No. Jillian's an orphan. There's no family at all."
Frank said, "All that's clear right now is that wherever Jillian Seabright is, there's somebody who doesn't want her found."
Shannon asked, "But why?"
"That's what we'll have to find out." Frank
25
rose up. "We'll need all those addresses. Her home, the theater, her agent."
"I've already checked all those out," Shannon said.
"But we haven't." Joe got to his feet, too. "And how about a photo?"
Shannon shook his head. "I don't have one," he said, a little embarrassed. "Well, I have a dozen, actually, but I left them all at my beach house in Malibu."
"What does she look like?" Frank asked.
"She's very pretty."
"Can you get a little more specific?"
Shannon closed his eyes. "Five foot four, about a hundred and ten pounds, blond hair, shoulder length. Jill's got a heart-shaped face, dimples, big eyes. They're . . . they're . . . well, sort of gray-green." He looked a little flustered as he opened his eyes. He took a big breath and said, "I really am worried about her."
"We'll find her," Joe assured him.
"Now, let's take a look at these phones," said Frank.
The fog was even denser when the brothers left Jed Shannon's town house. It closed in tight around them as they started walking back toward their car.
Joe said, "Think we'll be able to trace that bug you found in the phone?"
"Probably not."
26
"Maybe we ought to persuade Shannon to go to the police again."
Frank said, "You heard me suggest that to Larry Berman. But he's convinced the London police think he's just a publicity nut."
"We've got evidence now, since that bug was real."
"We've only got evidence that there was a bug on the phone." Frank shook his head. "There's no way of proving who planted a snooping device there."
"Meaning Berman himself could have done it?"
"I don't think he did, Joe, but the police might."
After walking a few paces in silence, Joe remarked, "I hope we find Jillian Seabright."
His brother grinned. "That's part of our job now," he said. "Find her, and we should find whoever is threatening Jed Shannon. But you sound like you have other motives."
"Hey, I'd just like to meet the lady," said Joe. "Think about it, Frank. A multimillion- dollar Hollywood actor like Jed Shannon must meet dozens of incredible girls every day. You know—actresses, models, heiresses, maybe even a princess or two."
"True." They'd reached their parked car, and Frank fished the keys from his pocket.
"But he flies all the way to London from faroff 
27
off California to see this one girl again," Joe said.
Unlocking the door on the driver's side, Frank said, "He had to come to London anyway. He's promoting his new movie." He slid in behind the wheel, reaching across to open Joe's door.
"No, I think he really is in love with Jillian. You could hear it in his voice."
"He's an actor. He can make you hear anything in his— What's the matter, Joe?"
Joe held out a file card to his brother. "I just found this on my seat."
Neatly lettered on the white card were six words.
This could have been a bomb.
28
Chapter 4
"Well, that was considerate of someone to give us such a break," Joe said with a smirk. "I wonder if this was put in the car before or after we were shot at."
"Whoever it was must have dropped it in through the crack in your window," Frank said as he started the car. "Maybe it was put there by the person I had that nice chat with on the phone."
"Or a certain red-haired girl who lost her dog," Joe mused.
Frank took his eyes off the road to look quizzically at his brother. "What are you talking about?"
As they made their way to the hotel Joe told
29
his brother of his encounter with the girl in the doorway.
When they let themselves into their room Frank took the card from Joe and inspected it. "Too bad Jed got rid of that letter telling him to leave town. We have no way of knowing if this was written by the same hand."
* * *
The Hardys left their hotel, a grand but faded palace just off the Strand, early the next morning. The new day was chilly and gray, and a light rain was falling. In search of a heartier meal than the continental breakfast their hotel offered, Frank and Joe followed the concierge's directions and, a few minutes later, were having breakfast in a quaint hotel restaurant on a street off Trafalgar Square.
The place was decorated in yellows and greens, and a thick, rich carpet kept things quiet, absorbing the clatter of knives and forks, teacups and plates, and the conversations of the numerous diners.
In spite of the grand surroundings, Joe frowned down at his plate. "This doesn't look much like an English muffin."
"We're in England, the headquarters of English muffins." Frank dipped his toast into the yolk of his fried egg. "They must know how to make the things."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Joe spread more marmalade on a muffin half. "But this isn't
30
anything like the English muffins you get at the supermarket back home in Bayport."
Frank cut a slice of bacon and grinned. "Joe Hardy, the well-traveled tourist."
"I happen to be an expert on English muffins." Joe spread more marmalade. "Any new thoughts on this case occur to you during the night?"
"No, I still think we have to start by locating Jillian Seabright. She's the key to all this."
"Jed's studio is going to have two security people going along with him on his round of interviews today," said Joe around a mouthful of muffin. "So we're covered on that."
Frank didn't look so sure. "The bad guys—if that's what they are—have been pretty good at getting around security measures."
Joe leaned back in his chair. "I don't think you're completely sure this isn't just a publicity gimmick."
"I'm just not a hundred percent certain Jed's in love with this missing girl."
"Maybe not, but if this was a publicity thing, they'd have gotten something into the papers," Joe pointed out. "I bought an armload of them, from stately to sleazy, when we got back to the hotel last night. Several mentions of Jed and his movie, sure, but not a word about Jillian."
"This is a natural for the Daily Yell. 'Star Searches for Lost Love. Fame and a New Film
31
Can't Ease Heartbreak.' You know the kind of headlines this story will generate," Frank said.
"I'm betting Jillian really is in some kind of trouble, and that Jed doesn't have any idea where she is."
Frank took his last mouthful of egg, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, and asked for the check. "After today, maybe we'll have some answers."
"Sure you're okay on the way we're splitting up the work?"
With a nod, Frank said, "I'll track down Jillian's agent and talk to him. You'll try talking with the other tenants in the building where Jillian lives. We might as well take the Underground. It's easier than finding a parking spot and can be quicker than driving."
Joe shifted in his chair for a moment. At last he finally burst out, "You know, I'm really more of a show-biz expert than you are."
Frank gave his brother a look. "Joe, this Ian Fisher-Stone doesn't sound like a big talent agent. I don't think he'll have a bunch of hot- looking girls hanging around his waiting room."
"Do you think I'd be distracted from my duties by a bunch of beautiful actresses?"
"Yes, I do." Frank picked up the check, pulled some bills from his pocket, and gave them to the silent waiter who'd materialized beside them.
Joe sighed as he pushed back from the table.
32
"I hate to admit it, Frank, but you're probably right."
* * *
The dirty brick building on the edge of Soho was narrow and tired-looking. The tiles in the entrance were all cracked, and so was the glass on the building directory. A shadowy stairway led up to Ian Fisher-Stone's third-floor office. It smelled of stale cigar smoke.
As Frank climbed past the tattoo parlor on the second floor he began to suspect that Jillian's agent wasn't high on the ladder of success. The dingy, tiny reception room he finally reached seemed to confirm that. Holes actually showed through the worn Oriental carpet, and the photos on the walls were faded from age. Piled high on a small reception desk were dozens of fat, dusty file folders.
Since there was no one seated behind the cluttered desk, Frank crossed the threadbare rug and tapped on the frosted glass door. Peeling gold letters spelled out Ian Fisher-Stone, Talent Representatives.
When Frank rattled the door, a muffled voice said something unintelligible.
Frank turned the dented brass doorknob.
The agent's inner office was no larger than the outer one. His desk was about the same size and equally cluttered. There were more piles of crammed folders leaning on a row of battered wooden filing cabinets along one wall. The
33
framed photos of actors and actresses on these walls weren't quite as old and faded as the ones outside. Frank noticed a gap in the lowest row. Unfaded wallpaper showed where a photo had been.
Fisher-Stone himself was something of a surprise. He was a heavy, red-faced man with slicked-down blond hair and a mustache, quite dapper in a tweedy suit and a silk ascot tie. "Yes, my lad, how can I be of service?" he asked, motioning Frank to a rickety chair facing his desk.
"My name is Frank Hardy," Frank said as he sat. "My brother and I want to locate one of your clients."
The agent said, "You look quite young—if you don't mind my saying so—to be a 'tec' "
Frank shrugged. "But we are investigators. And we're looking for Jillian Seabright."
"Our Jill, eh? Very fine girl." Fisher-Stone pronounced the word more like "gell."
Frank continued. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"
Fisher-Stone made a vague fluttering gesture with one hand. "Over the hills and far away," he answered, chuckling. "She's off on some holiday jaunt. Not sure exactly where, old boy."
"She simply dropped out of the play she was in?"
"Opportunity, don't you know, for an unexpected bit of vacation. Off she went."
34
"And this doesn't bother you?"
"Not a bit," answered the agent. "Well, no, I take that back. There has been a good deal of interest in our Jill the past week or so. Inquiries from movie companies and the like. Most inconvenient, not being able to say where she went."
"Movie offers?"
"Ah, yes. Her career seems on the brink of taking off, I'd say. Imagine those blokes have seen her in"—for a second Fisher-Stone's eyes went vague—"that play of hers."
Frank gave the man a sharp glance. "I keep forgetting the title. What is that play?"
Fisher-Stone flipped a fingertip along his mustache. "Truth to tell, dear boy, I can never remember it myself. Fine play, though, and Jill is splendid in it."
Frank nodded. "I've heard that she's especially good in the hospital scene."
"Yes, she got raves for that."
Frank said, "A photograph of her would be very helpful."
"Sorry, my lad, don't have a one left."
"How's that?"
"Well, with all this increased interest in our Jill, I've been sending a lot of them around." He gestured at the gap in the line of wall photos. "Even had to ship off my own autographed pic of the child."
"How about negatives?"
The agent fluffed his mustache again. "Off at
35
a photography shop. Pop by toward the end of next week and I'll have a likeness of Jill that I'll be happy to turn over to you."
He stood up, straightening his ascot. "Frightfully sorry, but I have an important meeting with the BBC very shortly. I'll have to ask you to run along."
Rising from his chair, Frank stepped over to the filing cabinets. "Why don't I just check Jillian's file—just to make sure there aren't any photos left." He found a drawer marked P-S and reached for the handle.
"Not too likely." The agent came swiftly out from behind his desk, whipping a wicked-looking blackjack from inside his expensive jacket.
Frank dodged the first swing and aimed a solid punch at the older man's ribs.
But Fisher-Stone showed he had some quick moves. He twisted, and Frank's knuckles only scraped along the man's side. The blackjack flashed, catching Frank at the elbow. His arm went numb.
He tried a chop with his other hand, but the man brought the blackjack up against the side of Frank's head.
Frank staggered back and was hit twice more, hard. He dropped to the floor, the man's voice ringing in his ears.
"You're much too curious, my lad. Too curious for your own good."
36
Chapter 5
Jillian Seabright's apartment was on the third floor of a gray stone building in a mews just a few blocks from Baker Street. The building was managed by a heavyset woman in her late sixties. She wore a long, heavy sweater over a flower-patterned dress. Her hair had been dyed a reddish shade of blond.
"I've been wondering somewhat about the poor dear myself," she confided to Joe after he'd explained that he was trying to find Jillian. "Come in, and I'll fix you a cup of tea."
Grinning, Joe followed her into the building and along a shadowy hall to her ground-floor flat. "Do you remember the last time you saw Jillian?"
"Well, now, it was ... let me see." The
37
woman shuffled into her parlor on slippered feet, nodding him toward a yellow chintz armchair. "Must be a good ten days. It was that night we had such a fearful rainstorm."
"I guess we weren't in London then." Joe sat as the woman disappeared into the kitchen.
"I'll just put the water on," the woman said. My name is Sharon Farnum—Mrs. Farnum, though I've been a widow nearly eight years now."
Returning to the parlor, she settled into a chair opposite Joe. "Is it some sort of trouble poor Jillian's in?"
"Someone is anxious to talk to her about some movie work."
"She's a very talented actress, is Jillian. I saw her in that play— 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd. Very good she was, although I didn't understand a word of the play itself."
"Could you tell me more about the last time you saw her?"
"It was a weeknight, about ten days ago, as best I can recall." Mrs. Farnum frowned, trying to drag up some memories. "She was on her way to the theater for that evening's performance. I'd just been marketing and saw her coming downstairs. She lives up on the third floor."
"Did you talk to her?"
"Just a bit of a chat—reminding her to take an umbrella—and she was off."
Joe frowned. "You haven't seen her since?"
38
The teakettle started to whistle. Mrs. Farnum shook her head and rose, and Joe followed her to the kitchen doorway. "Jillian didn't give you any notice that she was going away?"
"She didn't, no. Though at first I wasn't too concerned. I mean, her rent's paid for the month, and her things are still in her flat." Mrs. Farnum poured the boiling water into a blue teapot.
"Does she go away often?"
"Now and then, mostly to do a play out in one of the provincial theaters."
"Does she usually tell you when she expects to be gone for a while?"
Settling the teapot, two blue cups, and a bowl of sugar on a tray, Mrs. Farnum carried it back into the parlor. "Jillian always told me where she was off to and how long she'd be gone. She's a very considerate girl." She frowned. "That's why, I must admit, I've been a little concerned this time. It isn't like her to be gone so long without leaving word."
"Over the past few weeks, ma'am, has she had any unusual visitors?"
"Not that I—wait, I'm a liar. One night about two weeks ago I happened to stay up late to catch a special program on the telly. I noticed a very fancy car dropping Jillian off. Quite grand, it was—a Rolls-Royce."
"Did you get a glimpse of the driver?"
39
"That I didn't, Mr. Hardy." She shook her head. "Milk for your tea?"
"No thanks, ma'am," he said. "Did Jillian have any regular boyfriends?"
"Not recently, no."
"Any old boyfriends who might have made trouble for her sometime or another?"
Mrs. Farnum froze over her cup in mid-pour. "You suspect the child's come to grief, don't you?"
'We don't have any idea yet what's become of her," Joe said. "But when people disappear, it helps to know if anybody's been making threats."
"Oh, that's terrible." The teapot rattled against the cup as Mrs. Farnum's hand shook. She nervously bit at her lower lip. "Poor Jillian."
"We don't know anything yet. She may be perfectly fine someplace. Don't get upset."
Mrs. Farnum resumed pouring. "Did that person in that fancy car do her harm?"
"I don't know, but I'm curious about who might have been driving it."
She rose and handed him a cup of tea. "Help yourself to sugar."
"I'll drink it straight," he replied. "What about the other tenants here—how many are there?"
"At the moment there's just Miss Lore and Mr. Singh."
40
"Are they at home?"
"Miss Lore is over in Paris on business. Mr. Singh—a very nice young man from India—is at the bank where he works."
After taking a sip of his tea, Joe put the cup on a small table near his chair. "I'd like to have a look around Jillian's rooms."
"Well now, I don't know . . ."
"She might have left something behind—something that would help us find her."
"Yes, I can see where that's possible," Mrs. Farnum said. "Tell you what. I'll give you my passkey, and you can just trot up for a look. I'm expecting a phone call from my cousin Irene. I'm afraid I'll just have to wait here."
She pressed the key into Joe's hand. "Take your look around, then pop in here and return the key. And do tell me if you find anything."
"I will, ma'am."
"You sure you don't mind my not coming along with you?"
Joe smiled. "Not at all," he assured her.
* * *
The apartment was at the rear of the building on the top floor. A large, slanting skylight in the living room let in gray midmorning light. Rain spattered on the glass panes in a steady rhythm.
Joe went quickly through the whole place first, checking out each room and making sure the young woman wasn't there. He looked into all the closets, even under the bed. Jillian—or
41
worse, her dead body—wasn't there. The flat was very neat and tidy. After searching, he noted that he didn't see a single photo of the missing young woman.
"I don't think I've ever seen or heard of an actress who didn't keep pictures of herself around," Joe muttered as he passed from the kitchen to the living room, glancing around.
The antique trunk that served as a coffee table was bare. And although there were spaces on the bookshelves for little glass vases and knickknacks, there were no pictures frames.
Beyond the living room, Joe found a neatly made bed and a bedroom in perfect order. There was no sign of a struggle having taken place. He looked again into the clothes closet, which gave off a faint scent of flowery perfume.
Joe noticed that there was probably a suitcase missing. A set of matching luggage sat in a row on the closet floor. There was a gap between suitcases two and three—a space large enough to hold another suitcase. Fallen across the largest bag was an expensive-looking black evening dress. Not something a girl would leave lying, wrinkled, on the floor of her closet, he thought.
Joe frowned. Suppose it was a rush job—somebody grabbing clothes to toss into that missing suitcase so it would look as if Jillian had packed her bag. They wouldn't care about a wrinkled dress that had fallen off its hanger.
42
On the other hand, maybe Jillian was just sloppy. Joe shook his head. That didn't fit in with how neat she'd left the room—the whole apartment, in fact.
Joe checked the bureau drawers, the boxes on the top shelves of the closet, and under the bed—twice. But he turned up no pictures at all. None of Jillian, none of Jed Shannon, none of anyone. No letters, either.
He had the feeling that someone had been through the girl's flat fairly recently and done some careful editing of its contents.
In the living room, Joe did find something, but he wasn't sure what it meant.
Beside the trunk he found a small pile of magazines. Five of them were fashion or theater periodicals, all with recent dates. But the sixth was a British newsweekly that had come out five months earlier. Joe found a small red paper clip serving as a page marker. Opening the magazine, Joe found a piece about a young woman named Emily Cornwall.
According to the story, Miss Cornwall was the heiress to not one but two large fortunes and had been living abroad for several years in a warmer climate because of her health. Rumors had reached the magazine that the heiress would be returning to England in a few months. Under the will of her late, eccentric grandfather, Sir Danvers Talbot, she was due to receive "the
43
fabled Talbot emeralds" on her twenty-first birthday. That date would fall—
Joe glanced at the date on his watch. Just three days from today.
He examined a grainy black-and-white photograph, shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. It showed a slim young woman sitting on a sunlit patio next to a plump older woman. Emily Cornwall seemed pretty but looked frail.
Joe spread the magazine on Jillian's desk while he searched it. Every cubbyhole was empty. There wasn't even an unpaid bill to be found.
His back was to the flat's front door when he heard it swing open.
"Then he heard a voice say evenly, "I have a gun. Just stay right where you are."
44
Chapter 6
Joe looked over his shoulder, stared, then turned around to face the intruder. "Still looking for your lost dog, Red?"
Standing in the open doorway was the red- haired young woman he'd bumped into after last night's shooting. She still had her black shoulder bag, but this time she had her hand thrust inside it.
"My hair is auburn, not red. What are you doing here?"
"Funny, I was about to ask you the same question."
The young woman came into the living room, pushing the door closed with one leg. "I'm looking for Jillian Seabright."
45
"So am I. That could mean we're on the same side of whatever game's being played."
A thoughtful look came into the woman's eyes. "Who are you?"
"Joe Hardy. Sorry I didn't get around to introducing myself last night. And you?"
"You wouldn't have a brother named Frank, would you?"
Joe sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had a choice in that matter. But I have to admit I do."
"The Hardy brothers. You're sort of detectives."
"Sort of," Joe repeated, grinning. "And your name is . . . ?"
"Oh, I'm Karen Kirk." She pulled her right hand out of the bag, empty. "Really, I don't have a gun. But from the back you looked like you might be a burglar—or worse."
"Lots of people say that about me. You really are a friend of Jillian's?"
"Yes, I met her when I was in London last summer." Karen walked over to the sofa and sat down. "I interviewed her, in fact."
"You're a reporter?"
"Sort of." Karen grinned at him. "It was just an article on a promising young British actress for my high school paper back in Connecticut." Her grin faded. "This trip, though, I'm working for Teen Travel magazine in New York. It's a summer intern program, and I was supposed to
46
stay with Jillian for the two weeks I'm in London."
"When did you arrive?"
"Two days ago. I came right here, but she wasn't around. I checked into a youth hostel, and I've been trying to find her ever since."
"How did you get in today?"
"I finally managed to track down an actress friend of hers who had a spare key to the flat. But she didn't know where Jillian had gone." Karen shrugged. "Anyway, I came here today just to look around her flat. Hoping, you know, to find some clue as to where she is. Do you think she's in trouble, or in some kind of danger?"
Joe straddled the desk chair. "First tell me what you were doing hanging around Jed Shannon's place last night."
"I knew Jillian was planning to see him when he came to London," she answered. "I was intending to ask if he had any idea where I could find her."
"How did you get his address?"
"Oh, I know some people working for one of the teen magazines over here. It wasn't too tough to get his temporary address."
"It wasn't tough for whoever pumped a couple of shots at us, either." Joe got up, remembering something, and headed for the phone table next to the sofa. "Why didn't you go ahead and try to talk to Jed?"
47
"I was right across the street when that man shot at you." Karen shook her head. "It suddenly didn't seem like such a safe place to be. I decided I wouldn't want anyone linking me up with Jed Shannon. So I ran and hid—and then I met you."
Joe raised his eyebrows. "You mean there isn't any Bozo?"
Karen sighed. "I made up the dog."
"What kind was he?"
She thought about it. "A Great Dane, probably."
"Did you get a look at the guy who shot at us?" Joe picked up the phone receiver and began unscrewing the mouthpiece. "Keep talking."
"Do you expect to find a bug?"
"I want to check it out. Tell me about the guy."
"Well, he was crouching down behind a car almost directly across from Jed's house. I was about half a block away on the same side of the street. But because of the fog, I didn't see the man till he popped up and took two shots at you. Then he took off, and so did I—in the opposite direction."
"So it was you I saw running off." Joe gave Karen a piercing look. "Can you describe him?"
"Big, wide shoulders, wearing a pea coat— like sailors in the movies. A knit cap—dark clothes. I didn't get a good look at his face, but I think maybe he had a broken nose."
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"Young?"
"Not especially—maybe in his thirties."
Joe frowned in thought. Could have been the one who left us a note, he said to himself. He cut Karen off before she could bombard him with questions. "Somebody planted a threat in our car."
"Sounds like you should have locked the door."
"It was locked." Joe dug a small electronic listening device out of the phone and dropped it on the table. "This is how they knew about Jed Shannon." He picked up a heavy ashtray and smashed the bug.
Karen stared at the pieces as if they hid a great mystery. "This doesn't make any sense to me, Joe. Bugs in the phone, mysterious gunmen. It's like something out of a spy novel."
"More like someone with a very efficient staff is interested in Jillian."
"You didn't answer my question before. Is she in danger?"
"I'd say she is. But nobody's been killed so far."
"You don't know that for certain." Karen's voice rose. "Jillian might be dead right now."
"I don't think so." Joe responded. "The bad guys—whoever they may be—are working too hard to keep us from looking for her."
"That doesn't mean she's not dead."
"Forgive my being blunt, but if she were
49
dead, she couldn't tell us anything about her captors. So the fact that people are trying to stop us is a good sign." Joe picked up the news magazine, which he'd left on the desk. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Karen studied the marked story. "Not much, I'm afraid. As far as I know, Jillian didn't know this Emily Cornwall." She started to hand the magazine back, then stopped. "But there is one thing."
"What?"
"Well, this girl in the picture—Emily Cornwall, I mean. She does look incredibly like Jillian. Of course, she's a brunette, and Jillian's blond. And she doesn't look anywhere near as healthy as Jillian, but the resemblance is amazing."
"When's the last time you and Jillian talked?"
"Two weeks ago. I phoned to confirm the details of my visit."
Taking the magazine back, Joe folded it under his arm. "Did she mention a big movie role that was coming her way, or maybe a nice part in a new play?"
Frowning, Karen answered, "Yes, she did. She wasn't full of details, though. All she said was that there was a good possibility she'd soon be as rich as I was."
"You're rich?"
"Not me, actually, no." Karen looked down
50
at her hands. "But my father happens to be a millionaire."
"That's a nice sort of father to have. How was Julian planning to get rich?"
"It was from an acting job. But, as I say, she was reluctant to talk about it."
Joe gave Karen a skeptical look. So Jillian had a big acting job coming up—that seemed like a pretty poor time to disappear on a vacation. "Was she usually that closemouthed?" he asked.
"No, not Jillian. This time, however, I had the impression someone had cautioned her not to talk about this particular job. Show business people can be very secretive at times—'Don't tell anyone about this, or it might spoil the deal.' "
Joe shook his head. This whole situation made no sense. Threats against Jed, warnings not to look for Jillian. Jillian's disappearance—which might or might not be wrapped up with a secret acting job. Karen Kirk's appearance on the scene right after her friend disappeared. And where did the magazine article in his pocket fit in? There were altogether too many questions here, and far too few answers.
He checked his wristwatch. "I'm due to meet Frank for lunch in half an hour," he said. "If you came along, we could pool what we know."
"Are you inviting me to lunch?"
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'Yeah, in a purely businesslike way, understand," Joe said with a wide grin.
A quick ride on the London Underground brought them to the Bloomsbury area and the restaurant where Joe was supposed to meet Frank. A huge sign in the window read Real American-style Burgers. They grabbed a white Formica-topped table and settled in to wait for Frank. After fifteen minutes, Joe went ahead and ordered sodas and burgers for Karen and himself.
They took nearly half an hour to arrive. And after one bite, Joe stared at the shriveled-up beef patty in his bun. "American burgers, huh?" He glanced at Karen. "Does this taste like a Connecticut burger to you? It sure doesn't taste like a Bayport burger."
Karen put her bun down, too, giving Joe a lopsided smile. "Maybe it fools the British, but not two hungry Americans."
"Right now I'm more worried about lost Americans." Joe looked at his watch, frowning. "Frank should have been here when we arrived. Now he's almost forty-five minutes late."
He dug some money out of his pocket to pay for the almost-untouched burgers.
"Something's wrong here, very wrong. I think Frank's in trouble—and I know the first place to check."
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Chapter 7
The world was faded, woolly, and full of dust. At least, that's how it seemed to Frank Hardy as he came to. He sneezed on the dust and regretted it. Sneezing isn't smart when you're dizzy, sick, and have an awful headache.
Frank was just getting his face out of the old carpet when he heard footsteps approaching. He struggled to his feet.
Ian Fisher-Stone—or whoever it was—wasn't going to get away with it a second time. Catching a blurry glimpse of legs, Frank lunged into a tackle.
"Hey!" a voice burst out.
"Nice play, Frank," said another voice.
Frank was down on the rug again, where he
53
discovered he'd just tackled a young woman wearing jeans.
His brother, Joe, stood just beyond the tangle, grinning. He helped Karen up and said to Frank, "Glad to see you're conscious. Let me introduce you to Karen Kirk."
"Sorry about that," muttered Frank as Karen helped him up.
Karen looked at Frank and said, "That's okay. I'm getting used to being jumped by men I've never seen before. You take after your brother in that respect." Then she asked, "What happened? When you didn't show up for lunch, your brother and I hurried over here. Why were you on the floor?"
Frank touched his head carefully. "I was dumb," he answered. "So I got rapped on the skull because of it."
"By Fisher-Stone?" Joe asked.
"By a guy who wasn't Fisher-Stone but tried to convince me he was."
Joe looked carefully at his brother. "You'd better see a doctor. Maybe at the hotel ..."
"I'll be okay."
"You could have a concussion," said Karen.
"I've been hit on the head before, and this doesn't feel like a ... Hey, what's that?"
Lying on the rug where he'd been sprawled was a crumpled piece of paper. "Looks like a railroad timetable—whoa!" Bending to pick up the paper, Frank suddenly felt woozy.
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Joe caught his wobbly brother and guided him to a chair. "Even if you don't have a concussion, sit down for a while."
Karen gathered up the fallen timetable, straightened it out, and leafed through it. "This might mean something." She pointed to one of the station names—circled in pencil.
Joe squinted. "Whoever bopped you noted down the train departure times for Beswick."
"That's down in Kent, I think. About a hundred miles from London," Karen said.
"Beswick . . . Beswick," murmured Joe. He snapped his fingers, grinned, and tugged out the news magazine he'd slipped into his back pocket. "That's the town where Emily Cornwall is supposed to go— No, by now she's living there, at the Talbot estate."
"Maybe I'm groggier than I realized." Frank gave him a look. "I don't seem to know what the heck either of you is talking about. And who is this Karen Kirk?"
"Oh, she's the redhead—urn, the auburn- haired young woman I met last night," Joe said. "You know, the one who was walking a dog— except there was no dog."
"Oh, sure, that's clear so far."
"I'm a friend of Jillian Seabright's," Karen told him. "I'm looking for her, too."
"Karen's a reporter from Connecticut. She was supposed to room with Jillian while she's over here on vacation."
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Frank rubbed his forehead. "How long was I out? You learned her entire life story, and—"
"A good investigator asks the right questions," Joe told him. "You can get a lot of information quickly that way."
"Fine—so now suppose you tell me who Emily Cornwall is. And why Beswick is suddenly the hottest town in England."
"Read." Joe set the open magazine on the edge of the cluttered desk. "That's Emily Cornwall in the picture—the thin one."
"I can read the caption." Frank glared at his brother. "So?"
"If you bothered to keep reading ..." Joe said, pointing at another paragraph in the story. "See here? Emeralds. Heiress. Emily Cornwall seldom seen. Returns to England."
"And?"
"We found the magazine, with that particular story marked, in Jillian's apartment," Karen said. "This Emily Cornwall person looks quite a lot like Jillian."
Joe looked at Frank. "Does that fact suggest to you what it suggests to me?"
"It's a possibility," Frank said.
"Let's cut the mumbo-jumbo," Karen said. "You think Jillian may be impersonating Emily Cornwall?"
"I think it's worth looking into," Frank said.
"There's the big money Jillian was hoping to
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make," Joe pointed out. "But I'm not sure where the man in the Rolls-Royce fits in."
Frank rolled his eyes. "What man in the Rolls-Royce?"
Joe ran through what he'd learned from Mrs. Farnum. "So that's the whole story. Whatever's up doesn't sound very legal."
Karen cut in. "I know Jillian—she'd never do anything that was against the law."
"This Emily Cornwall business is just one possibility." Frank frowned. "It might even be some kind of curve ball to throw us off—pitched by the people who kidnapped Jillian." His frown deepened. "If, of course, she was actually kidnapped."
"I think that knock you took has put all sorts of weird ideas in your head," Joe said. "Maybe you should take the afternoon off."
"No, I can handle it. Besides, we have an appointment at the theater this afternoon." Frank tested his sore head again and winced. "There's a matinee of 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd, and we'll be able to talk to most of the people who worked with Jillian."
Karen picked up the news magazine. "Let me show this to some friends in the magazine biz. I won't give away anything, and I may be able to find out more about Miss Cornwall and her fortune."
"Sounds like a good idea," Joe said. "Then
57
you and I can meet for dinner afterward, Karen, to talk over what you've found out."
Frank took his brother aside. "Joe, you and I are supposed to be handling this case. We don't need volunteer help."
"I do," Joe told him, and then turned back to Karen. "Dig into Emily Cornwall—as a personal favor to me."
Karen smiled and dropped the magazine into her big black shoulder bag. She turned to Frank. "I really am a good reporter," she said. "I'll get you all the information there is to be found."
Frank studied her silently for a few seconds. "Okay," he said finally. "We'll see."
* * *
The manager of the Piccadilly Rep, the company presenting 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd, was putting on his makeup for the play. "I'm flattered that an American movie agent— Larry Berman—was interested in our show."
The man glued pieces of bushy black beard to his face, having painted his nose and cheeks bright red. "I play Sir Toby Bearpit," he said, talking to Frank's and Joe's reflections in his makeup mirror. "Even gotten some excellent notices. 'Ralph Estling is more than adequate.' That's from the London Times, my boys."
"I'm happy for your career," Frank told him. "But I'm afraid Larry Berman didn't arrange this meeting to check out your play. We're trying 
58
to locate Jillian Seabright. Why did she quit?"
"According to her agent, she got a better offer." Estling puffed out his cheeks, snarling so his white teeth showed under the false hair. "Beard is just about right, I think."
"We're talking about Ian Fisher-Stone here?" Frank asked.
"Yes, old Ian. Not much of an agent, as I told Jilly many a time. She's a very talented lady and deserves much better representation."
"You've met Fisher-Stone?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I'm not partial to having whiskey fumes breathed on me."
Frank nodded to his brother. "How did he let you know Jillian was leaving—in person?"
"No, thank heaven, merely over the telephone. 'Dear gell is off to do a major role, old man.' Something like that."
Joe said, "And you just let Jillian out of her contract with you?"
Estling smiled, still carefully smoothing his beard. "We're a pretty informal lot—don't pay much, either. So if Jilly had a chance to do better for herself, I wouldn't stand in her way."
"Did Jillian ever discuss this big part with you?" Frank asked.
"Never said a word, but that's not unusual." Estling put on a wild black wig, then slipped into a padded coat. Joe stared. He'd watched the
59
actor transform himself from a burly but mild- mannered type to a rather scary-looking bully.
"When did the agent call you?" Joe asked. Before or after her final performance?"
"Morning after." Estling's voice became a booming growl as he started getting into character. "Good thing we had an understudy. She's not quite as good as Jilly was, but more than adequate. Well, my lads, I'm in the first scene, and the curtain's going up very soon. Any more questions?"
"Not now," said Frank, grinning at the transformation. "But we'd like to talk to some of the other people in the company who knew Jillian."
"I'll allow that. Just don't make anyone miss his or her cue." Estling gave a final fluff to his false beard, made a low rumbling sound in his chest, and strode to the dressing room door, grandly yanking it open. "If you run into Jilly, give her my best."
The Hardys split up, Frank hitting the dressing rooms while Joe checked the green room, where the actors congregated between scenes.
After knocking on two doors and getting no answer, Frank heard a reply at the third. A high, fluting voice said, "Come in."
A plump sixty-year-old actress introduced herself as Beatrix Graill. And from the look of things, she didn't intend to leave her dressing room for a while.
"We have plenty of time for your questions,
60
young man," she told him as she heated water for tea on a hot plate. "Lady Victoria Gadabout doesn't make her entrance until the second act."
"You knew Jillian well?"
"We were friends, yes. I'll explain why I'm so interested in talking to you—in addition to concern for the girl, that is." The actress sat down, carefully shifting her wide skirt with its rustling petticoats. "Two years ago I played Mrs. Dillingham on television."
Frank nodded. "That's right, the lady detective. I thought you looked familiar. We saw that on a public broadcasting station in America."
"The old girl's dottier and frowzier than I am." Frank noted that she looked a lot different now, in an elaborately curled and powdered wig. "Playing a detective got me interested in investigating. I read lots of mysteries—you might call me an amateur sleuth." She grinned. "Or an annoying busybody. Jillian probably would describe me the second way."
"Was there some reason—"
"Yes—and its name is Nigel Hawkins." Beatrix Graill deftly poured boiling water from a saucepan into a cracked china teapot.
"You sound like you're describing some kind of awful insect."
"Rather close," she answered. "The acting profession, alas, has many a shady person on its fringes. Nigel is one of the shadiest. It pained
61
me to see Jillian dining with him at one of my favorite Soho restaurants a few weeks ago."
"What does this Hawkins do?"
"He's a producer of low-budget films, at the rate of about one every other year or so. Dismal things, designed to cash in on some current fad—punk music, celebrity lawsuits, political scandals. Although Nigel seemingly makes a good living, none of his movies ever pays off for the investors. Or for the poor actresses and actors—and they certainly don't help their careers."
"Was Jillian planning to be in one of Hawkins's films?"
"I certainly hope not," Ms. Graill said. "The fact that she departed so suddenly, however, makes me worry. Maybe she did agree to work for that dreadful man."
"But Jillian didn't actually tell you she'd signed up with him?"
"She acted very odd when I mentioned that I'd seen them together." The plump actress suddenly dug a hand into an open trunk nearby. Ah, look at this." She held up a framed photo. Nigel in the flesh. He's the handsome chap at the left of this garden party group, just next to me."
Frank took the picture and studied it. Nigel Hawkins was a tall, thin man of about fifty. Very well dressed, his light hair worn long and wavy,
62
his small mustache neatly clipped. "Does he have an office in London?"
"Last time I heard. A small one, in an unfashionable part of the city."
"Perhaps I should go talk to him."
Beatrix Graill returned to her teapot. "Be on your guard with that man," she warned. "I've heard rumors that he's been in more things than questionable films. This is all hearsay, mind you. But there's been talk that he's involved in fencing stolen gems."
"So he'd be interested in, say, emeralds."
"Just about anything that sparkles."
A heavy fist knocked on the door. When Beatrix opened the door, Joe came bursting into the dressing room. "Trouble," he announced.
"What's happened?" Frank asked.
"Larry Berman called us here at the theater— he remembered the appointment he'd set up." Joe looked a little numb. "He wanted to know if Jed was with us. When I told him he wasn't, Berman got really upset."
Frank took a deep breath. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Joe nodded unhappily. "Looks like Jed Shannon has disappeared, too."
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Chapter 8
Frank and Joe took a taxi to Jed's town house, where they met up with Larry Berman, wearing a different, even more explosive Hawaiian shirt this afternoon. "I'm worried, guys, really worried. My boy may be in danger—and on top of that, we blew six interviews." From the amount of pacing going on in the town house living room lately, Joe wondered if there'd be any rug left.
"Give us some details," Frank told the nervous agent.
"The day was going beautifully," Berman began. "Jed's a bright boy, and the media people love him. He's very good at interviews and can be, you know, likable, funny, sincere—whatever the situation calls for.
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"Okay, so we're at London Stitches, a very trendy fashion magazine. In the middle of the interview a girl walks into the editorial offices to say there's an important call for Jed. I'm about to tell her to get lost, but he jumps up and goes out to take it in the reception area."
"So who was the call from?" Joe asked.
"Jed never told me. When he came back to continue the interview, I asked him who was on the horn. He said it was nothing important." The agent shrugged. "After that we stopped for coffee at some dinky overpriced bistro. Jed said he had to use the washroom. And stupidly, I let him go alone."
Berman shook his head. "After about ten minutes, I sent those bonehead security guys who were with us out hunting for him. He was nowhere to be found. But they dug up a waiter who told me he saw Jed head out the back door."
"Alone?" Frank asked.
"From what the waiter told me, yes."
Frank shook his head. "Then it doesn't look as though Jed was kidnapped."
"Maybe they lured him outside somehow and grabbed him there." Berman did some more unhappy pacing. "Anyway, I haven't heard from him since, and we're talking hours here. I'm in a major bind."
Frank stared. He'd never seen someone actually wring his hands before.
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Berman stopped wringing and mopped his forehead. "Do you have any idea what Jed is worth to my agency? If any suspicion got back to my bosses that I've let him just disappear ..."
His voice died out. "I'll be finished in Hollywood. Nobody will trust me—nobody."
"You'd better go to the police again," Joe suggested.
"No way I can do that." The agent shook his head vigorously. "What if Jed just sneaked away to meet some lady? I mean, he's been known to do that now and then. To avoid any kind of bad publicity, we've got to find him quietly. Can you help me out here?"
Frank frowned in thought. "I'd say the most likely explanation for Jed's action is that he got some kind of news about Jillian Seabright."
"Do you have the phone number for London Stitches?" Joe asked.
From the pocket of his loud shirt Berman took out a wad of memo slips. "Yeah. Here it is." He plucked out a slip of paper and handed it over.
Picking up the nearest phone, Joe called the magazine. "I'm a member of Mr. Jed Shannon's staff, and I've got a problem," he said into the receiver. "Mr. Shannon received a telephone message while he was at your offices earlier. He was supposed to take some notes—and lost them."
Joe worked very hard to make his voice sound
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sincere. "Worst of all, he doesn't remember the caller's name. So if—oh, you're the one who took the call. Do you remember the name—Dickens? Bert Dickens? Great. Thanks a million." Putting the phone down, he glanced over at Berman.
"Means nothing to me." The agent gave them a baffled shrug.
Frank was already digging out the telephone directory. "Here it is. Bert Dickens—and he lists himself as a private inquiry agent."
Joe had a grim smile on his face. "Looks like Jed didn't think we were good enough for this job." He looked hard at Berman. "Did he hire himself another detective?"
"If he did, he sure didn't tell me about it. But Jed's been very upset about this Jillian. And he did mention that he thought you were a little young."
"He's not that much older than we are himself," Joe pointed out.
"Acting and detecting are two different things," Berman said.
Joe gestured to the phone book, still in his brother's hand. "So do we give our friend Dickens a call?"
Frank shook his head. "I think this calls for a personal interview.'
* * *
The address in the phone book was in East London. To get there from Jed Shannon's town
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house, the easiest route was by way of the London Underground.
"Hey, Frank," Joe whispered after they'd gotten their tickets, "how far underground do these trains run?"
Two sets of escalators later they had finally reached the station platform. Frank thought the arriving train looked a little old-fashioned. It actually had a wooden floor. But it was surprisingly quiet—and very clean.
They switched trains after two stops, then rode on for what seemed like forever until they'd reached almost the other end of London.
Coming out of the station, they found themselves under gray skies in a quiet neighborhood of four-story brick buildings. Frank whipped out his pocket map of London and started off for the local main street.
"There—there it is," he said.
His brother, however, dug in his feet and began tugging on Frank's arm.
Frank gave him a look. "We don't have the time, Joe."
"I didn't have much lunch, since Karen and I cut it short to go hunting for you." He tried to look very sincere. "It seems to me, Frank, that fate is taking a hand. I mean, why else would this private eye have his office right over this fish-and-chips restaurant?"
They had stopped under the awning of the fast-food restaurant, the only dry spot on the
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rainy street. Joe was looking longingly through the window at the fried fish and french fries. Frank was trying to move him along.
"Let's go, Joe. This detective may know something about where Jed is."
"Okay, okay." Joe followed his brother to the stairway that led up to the second floor of the sooty old building. "I'll try to curb my hunger."
Frank decided that Bert Dickens wasn't enjoying much more success than Ian Fisher-Stone. The hand-lettered sign on the back of the index card held up with thumbtacks was an indication.
They headed up a steep stairway paneled with old, dark wood. It was also dimly lit and smelled strongly of stale oil from the fish-and-chips shop below.
"And yet another missing person," Joe remarked as they climbed upward.
"Jed may not be missing. It could be that he just decided to take off and look for Jillian on his own."
"I don't much like the idea of somebody we're trying to help sneaking off to get another detective behind our backs."
Frank shrugged. "He's impatient, and he's got lots of money. He probably figures the more detectives, the better. Sort of like doctors, when you get a second opinion."
They reached the second floor, opened a door, and entered a long hallway lined with office doors.
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"This Nigel Hawkman you were telling me about, Frank. Do you think he—"
"Hawkins," corrected his brother. "If Larry Berman hadn't sent for us, Hawkins would have been the next person we'd have gone to see."
"The people we've questioned seem ready to swear that Jillian is honest," Joe said, frowning in thought. "But this whole business is beginning to sound like some kind of caper centering around the Cornwall girl and her emeralds."
"Here's Dickens's office." Frank nodded at a warped wooden door with a wrinkled business card tacked to it.
Joe took hold of the knob, pushing against the door. It opened inward about ten inches, then wouldn't budge. Leaning his weight into it, he got the door to open another two or three inches.
"Stuck?"
Joe poked his head through the opening. "Uh- oh. Come on, give me a hand here." He began pushing harder.
"What's blocking the door?" Frank demanded, adding his shoulder to the job of forcing an entrance.
"Just what we need," Joe answered. "A body."
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Chapter 9
"He's breathing." After a brief struggle to move the door with the dead weight against it, Frank had squeaked his way through a bare sliver of doorway. Then he'd knelt down to the body lying on the floor. "I think this guy was just slugged—the same way I was."
The man he was examining lay on the hardwood floor of the small office. He was pudgy and middle-aged and had thinning reddish hair and a bushy mustache. And if anything, he had to be worse off than the seedy agent. His office didn't even have a rug.
"So this must be Bert Dickens, huh?" Joe helped his brother lift the unconscious man, carrying him over to an ancient leather couch against one wall.
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As his head touched the cracked leather the man's eyes blinked. "Outsmarted me, they did," he announced in a slurred voice. "Made a total fool out of Bert Dickens."
"Take it easy," Frank cautioned. "You'd better lie still for a while, Mr. Dickens." He rubbed his own head. "I know how it feels."
Faded blue eyes took the Hardys in. "And who might you lads be?"
"I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe."
"My competition. Well, sir, I'll tell you—Bert Dickens would have been a lot better off if he'd let you two muck along in this mess on your own."
"You were working for Jed Shannon?"
Grunting, the middle-aged detective grabbed hold of Frank's arm and pulled himself to a sitting position on the swaybacked couch. "Been working for him these past two days," he said. "The lad hired me to find this missing sweetheart of his."
"Any luck?"
Dickens felt the lumps on his head, a pained expression on his face. "Doesn't look like it, now, does it?"
Frank did his best to keep a straight face. "I meant, do you have any idea of what's happened to Jillian Seabright?"
"Dead ends are all I've come up with."
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Joe frowned. "But it was you who telephoned Jed Shannon this afternoon."
"That it was. This pair of blokes dropped in on me and, you might say, persuaded me to make that call."
"What did they look like?" Frank asked.
"The boss—at least he asked the questions and gave the orders—was a very natty chap. A round guy with a red face, blond, mustache, dressed like a gent."
"Sounds like the guy I met." Frank nodded. "He used a blackjack on me, too."
"No, it was the other bloke who got me," Dickens explained. "Big nasty boyo, he was, your typical thug. Maybe an ex-prizefighter, something like that. Looked like he'd been in a scrap or two in his lifetime."
"Let me guess," Joe said. "Did he have a broken nose?"
"That he did." Dickens rubbed his own face. "Thought he was going to take a crack at breaking mine."
"Maybe another old friend," Joe said. "The guy who took potshots at us the other night."
"They gave me a phone number to call," Dickens told them. "I was to say it was a real emergency to whoever answered—that I had to talk to Jed Shannon and nobody else. When he came on I was to tell him how I had important information about Jillian Seabright. I couldn't give it over the phone, and he was to rush right over
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here, not telling a soul." Dickens grimaced. "Sounded to me as if the lad took the bait sure enough."
"Did he come here?"
The detective started to shrug but decided it was too painful. "I have no idea. Soon as I made that call, old Thuggo went to work. Must have done a proper job to leave me slumbering away on my own floor until now."
Absorbing all the new information, Frank said, "They seemed to know Jed's plans for the day, Joe, even though we got rid of the bugs on his phone."
Joe nodded, turning to the detective. "Is there anything we can do for you? Want us to call a doctor?"
"Not right yet. I'd just like to sit for a bit and collect what's left of my wits," Dickens said. "You could do me one favor. Fetch that sign from my desk and hang it round the doorknob as you leave."
The sign read Out to Lunch.
Joe obliged the detective, and he and Frank left the office.
Walking down the dimly lit staircase, Joe said, "I'll bet they grabbed Jed as soon as he entered this building."
"Now we have to find where they took him." Frank looked grim. "Probably the same place they have Jillian."
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Joe grinned. "Try to see the bright side. At least we don't have to look for two places."
They stepped out of the building to find a new set of rain clouds washing the street.
"Still want those fish and chips, Joe?" Frank asked.
"Hard to pass up, but I'm intending to take Karen Kirk to dinner and see what she can tell
me."
Joe and Frank headed for the Underground train. "I'll do a little digging on my own while you're with Karen," Frank proposed, "and catch up with you later. Where will I find you?"
"I thought we'd try Chumley's near the Strand," Joe said as they boarded the train. "You were the one who told me about it. You read about it in the guidebook. 'The historical restaurant on London's most historic street.' "
Back at the hotel, Joe grinned as his brother tossed him the car keys. "Do me a favor, okay? Don't come barging in on us until the end of the meal."
* * *
Chumley's restaurant consisted of three fairly large rooms. Thick oaken beams held up the ceilings, and the walls were paneled in dark wood. The windows were stained glass, and the waiters all wore tailcoats. Joe and Karen were seated at a small table in the innermost room. After the damp chill outside, the small fire crackling in the stone fireplace nearby felt welcome.
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"Chumley's has been here for nearly two hundred years," Karen said, studying her menu.
"Wouldn't be surprised if our waiter has been, too." Joe was studying the pretty auburn- haired young woman sitting across from him.
Karen shut her menu and reached into her shoulder bag, which sat on the floor next to her chair. "I gathered some material for you," she said, taking out a large manila envelope and passing it to him.
Joe opened it to find a large photograph and two sheets of typed paper. "So, another picture of Emily Cornwall, huh?"
"Taken when she was eighteen. It's the only close-up shot of her anybody seems to have," Karen said. "A friend on one of the magazines made me a quick copy."
Joe frowned at the smiling face in the picture. "Now that you've seen this, do you still think she resembles Jillian?"
"They certainly are similar. If you dyed Jillian's blond hair to the same dark shade as Emily's, there'd be an amazing resemblance."
Slowly Joe placed the photo on the crisp white tablecloth. "Jillian Seabright disappears just as Emily Cornwall is about to return home and claim a very valuable necklace." He gazed up at the smoke-darkened beams in the ceiling. "Now, is that a coincidence? Or is somebody going to pull a switch—substitute Jillian for the heiress and collect the loot?"
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"I'm telling you, Joe, Jillian would never willingly go along with anything like that."
"Suppose she's not willing? Maybe she's being forced to—Oh, sorry," Joe said to the waiter. ''Give us a few more minutes to make up our minds, please."
Their aged, gray-haired waiter had silently appeared beside the table. "Very good, sir," the man said, and he withdrew.
"If it's a scam, we might have a line on the guy behind it," Joe said. "Does the name Nigel Hawkins ring any bells?"
Karen shook her head. "Jillian never mentioned him."
Joe started reading over the notes she'd given him. "They ought to fire whoever typed this. It has mistakes all over."
"I typed it."
Joe glanced over the top of the papers, his ears going red. "Then it's, uh, very creative. Um, especially the spelling."
"I'm not used to a manual typewriter anymore. At home I use a word processor. I took notes on everything in the files, then typed them up at the office on the only machine I could find." Karen's hands sat on the table, her fingers drumming it. "If it's not up to your high standards ..."
"Hey, it's fine," Joe said. "I'm just used to noticing details." He grinned across at her. "So when I see Beswick spelled with a z and find
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Emily with an i left out ..." Joe decided to change the subject. "Well, I can make out that Emily Cornwall is definitely back in England."
"She was severely injured in an auto accident three years ago in Paris," Karen said. "She was lucky. Her parents were both killed."
"That was right after she left school in Bern, Switzerland," Joe said, consulting the notes. "Emily has been recuperating in Europe ever since. Nobody in England has seen her in years."
"So it might not be impossible for an impostor to walk into the solicitor's office and claim the Talbot emeralds—which is just what Emily is supposed to do in three days."
"Well, there's this companion to consider— what's her name?" Joe went back to the papers. "Right, Miss Sheridan. She's been with the family for six years, and with Emily every day since the accident."
"Suppose someone bribed her?"
"Possible, but ..." Joe shook his head.
"How about this idea, then? The real Emily died in Europe." Karen leaned over the table, her hazel eyes sparkling with excitement. "Miss Sheridan doesn't tell anybody, because that means her salary would stop. When it comes time to collect the emeralds, she decides to bring in a ringer."
"We don't know enough about the companion, so all of this is just speculation," Joe said.
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"There's also the problem of handwriting. Emily will obviously have to sign half a forest's worth of papers. You can't just stroll in and say, 'Hi, I look like Emily. Give me the gems.' "
"That's what you get for stopping after only the first page of my notes." Karen pointed to the top of the following page.
"Okay. Emily's right hand was broken in the car crash."
"So if I were going to impersonate her, I'd practice writing her signature. And if any of the lawyers said it didn't look quite right, I'd start crying a little. Then I'd remind them that I had to learn to write all over again after my awful accident."
"That might work," Joe agreed, "if she's right-handed."
"Next paragraph."
Joe read on. " 'Emily Cornwall is right- handed.' " He nodded. "Okay, it all seems to fall together. But we have to make sure we're not just jumping to conclusions. Jillian may have disappeared for entirely different reasons."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Sure, what?"
"Let's order dinner," Karen said, "and not talk about any of this until we're finished."
They did exactly that. About two hours later they left Chumley's.
"What's your next move on this case?" Karen asked Joe.
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He took her hand. "I want to talk it over with Frank," he said. "But I think a ride down to the village of Beswick would be a good idea."
Karen nodded. "I'll bet Jillian's down there, being kept against her will."
A fat raindrop splattered on the sidewalk next to them. More started falling in a sudden cloudburst. Joe glanced unhappily at the car, parked about two hundred feet away. "Maybe if we run . .."
He set off, but Karen called, "Wait! I've got an umbrella in here somewhere."
Joe turned back to watch her start digging through her shoulder bag.
Behind him, the car exploded with a fiery roar.
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Chapter 10
It seemed to be raining fire and jagged chunks of metal as well as water.
Joe leapt for Karen, pulling her to the soggy sidewalk, shielding her body with his. The world seemed strangely silent after the blast.
"Are you okay?" Joe finally got his vocal cords to work.
"Y-yes," Karen managed. "Boy, you moved pretty fast, Did you get hurt?"
"Not as far as I can tell." Still on his knees, Joe glanced at the wreckage of the car. Flames were playing around it, and the rain sizzled on the hot metal. "Looks like the bad guys are really playing hardball now."
Suddenly he was on his feet, half-crouched. The
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sound of running footsteps echoed in the fog. They could make out a blurred figure approaching.
"Everything all right?" Frank asked, skidding to a halt. He'd been heading toward the restaurant when the sound of the sudden explosion tore through the fog.
Joe helped Karen up. "Well, my hair feels like it's standing on end, and my ears are ringing worse than the last time we went to a rock concert. But outside of that, I don't think I have any problems."
Frank started back the way he came. "Then let's get away from here."
"Won't the police want to talk to you about your exploding automobile?" Karen asked.
"That's exactly why we have to make a getaway. We don't have anything solid to hand to the law right now. And we don't have time to waste, either."
Joe turned to Karen. "You up to some brisk hiking?"
She grinned. "Sure. All I seem to have is a few scrapes and bruises—and one ruined raincoat."
People with umbrellas were starting to appear, coming from restaurants and pubs. They surrounded the ruins of the car. Frank, Joe, and Karen turned their backs on the spectacle and slogged off in the rain.
"So where do we go from here?" Karen asked.
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"I think it's time for a trip to beautiful Beswick," said Frank.
Joe grinned. "Just what I was about to suggest myself."
* * *
The three of them were able to catch the final train for Beswick that night. When they were settled into a compartment, Frank said, "What's the scoop, guys?"
From inside his coat Joe took the envelope Karen had given him. "Some background material on Emily Cornwall."
Studying the picture, Frank asked, "Does Jillian look like this?"
"Quite a bit," Karen admitted.
"So she could definitely impersonate the Cornwall girl." Frank turned his attention to the typewritten notes.
"But Jillian wouldn't do it—not just to make money," Karen said.
Joe chimed in with the theories that he and Karen had shared over the dinner table.
"There's a third possibility," Frank said, still reading. "Suppose Nigel Hawkins came to Jillian. She knows him as a movie producer. He tells her he's planning a film based on the life of an heiress like Emily. He auditions her, maybe gets her to pose for some photos in a dark wig."
"That would have worked." Karen, who was sharing a seat with Joe, suddenly hugged herself as if she'd gone cold. "I suppose Hawkins saw
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her someplace, in her play or on television, and realized how much she looked like Emily."
"He could even have gotten her out of town without telling her what he really wanted her to do." Joe stared out at the fog-shrouded countryside rushing past. "He could have warned her not to tell anyone she was being considered for this big part."
Frank set the pages and the picture on the seat beside him. "Which brings us to what I did tonight while you were feeding your faces," he said. "I paid a visit to Nigel Hawkins's offices. As I expected, he wasn't there. In fact, he hadn't been there for a while. The place was shut up tight."
Joe sighed. "Another dead end."
"Not exactly," Frank said. "I made a new friend—the concierge who takes care of the office building. He had a temporary forwarding address for Mr. Hawkins's mail—Beswick."
Karen sat up straight. "Beswick—where Emily Cornwall is supposed to be staying."
"Where Jillian Seabright may be," Joe added.
"And Jed Shannon," Karen said. "You know, if Hawkins had him, he could force Jillian to go through with that scam of his. Do the job or he'll hurt Jed."
"That could work, sure," Frank conceded.
"Hawkins may have his troops at Beswick," Joe said.
"There's the dapper gent with the blackjack,
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the guy with the broken nose—and probably lots of others who'll play rough." Frank frowned.
"The violence is getting worse and worse. We've gone from warning shots and threatening notes to beatings and car bombs." Joe's face was grim. "If the timing had been a little different, Karen and I would have been blown up tonight."
"I don't think so," his brother said.
"Hey, that car was totaled," Joe protested. "Anybody sitting in it—"
"That's my point, Joe. You weren't in it. These guys seem pretty efficient. They wouldn't set a bomb to go off at random, just hoping you'd be in the car at the time."
Karen leaned forward, resting her palm on her knee. "You're saying that the explosion was meant simply as another warning?"
"I'd guess that one of Hawkins's boys was watching. When he spotted you heading for the car, he detonated the bomb electronically from a safe distance."
"Risky," Joe objected. "They couldn't be sure that a fender wouldn't crack my skull—or the engine block wouldn't break Karen's neck."
"Ouch," she said, rubbing her neck.
"Oh, they're not saints, Joe. But they basically only wanted to scare us. If somebody got killed, well, that was too bad. But it wouldn't stop them from going ahead with their plans."
"Wait a second," Joe said. "To plant a bomb
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in the car, they had to know where Karen and I were having dinner."
"I've been thinking about that." Frank was poker-faced. "They had to have somebody shadowing you."
"I usually spot tails."
"Well, you didn't this time—we'll all need to be especially careful."
Joe drummed the fingers of his left hand on the seat, looking again out of the window of the onrushing train.
After a few seconds of silence, Karen burst out, "There's another way they could have known. Why not mention it?"
"What?" Joe looked uncomfortable.
"I could have phoned them from the restaurant," she said. "After all, I did leave the table to visit the restroom."
"Hey," said Joe, "we all trust each other."
"Does Frank trust me?"
Frank met her stare. "Yes, Karen. I didn't bring up the possibility, because I do trust you. Okay?"
"I guess so."
After a few minutes of silence, Joe shifted in his seat. "Do they have a dining car on this train?"
"I'd think so," Karen said.
"Let's go find it. I need a soda—something to drink. We won't be in Beswick for nearly three hours, and nothing will be open by then."
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"Not interested." Frank picked up the material on Emily Cornwall.
"Karen?"
"Not yet, Joe. After nearly getting blown up, I just want to sit back and take it easy."
"Well, I think I'll go foraging for supplies." Joe hesitated for a second in the doorway. "Can I bring anything back?"
Both Frank and Karen shook their heads.
"Then I'll see you in a while." Joe slid the door open and stepped into the corridor of the swaying train.
He'd gotten through two cars when his path was blocked by a little old lady carrying a covered basket. She was standing by a door that led out into the night in an otherwise empty stretch of corridor.
The train was passing through a less-settled section of countryside. The fog was thinning, but there wasn't much to see outside the glass window in the door. Joe saw only dark fields and an occasional distant light.
"Thank goodness!" The elderly woman's voice had a strange quavering tone as she called to Joe. "Could you help me, young man?"
"What's the problem, ma'am?"
"These silly spectacles. Could you hold my hamper for a moment?"
"Sure, I'd be glad to." Joe took the basket, which turned out to be unexpectedly heavy.
"Thank you so much." The woman removed
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her rimless glasses and pulled a tissue from her pocket. She breathed on the lenses, bending over to do the job carefully. All Joe could see was wild gray hair peeking from beneath a patterned head scarf. Joe was amazed that such a frail-looking person could manage the heavy load she was toting. What did she have in there? Books? Bricks?
"That's much better." The woman slipped on her glasses and looked up at Joe with surprisingly young-looking eyes. She lifted the lid of the basket Joe was holding and yanked out a MAC-10 submachine gun.
Backing away, the old woman pointed the gun at Joe's chest. "Time for you to get off the train."
Joe stared. "But it's still moving."
The gun barrel poked him in the chest as his captor nodded. "That's exactly the idea."
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Chapter 11
Joe stood frozen as the little old lady—who was, he realized a bit too late, actually a small man in disguise—opened the metal door. The machine gun poked Joe again in the ribs as the man said, "Had me worried there for a while. We had three drop-off points set up but passed two of them without a sight of you. Thought I'd have to do something right desperate to get one of you Hardys off alone. But third time lucky, I guess."
He glanced out the open doorway. "There'll be a car waiting for us. When we see a yellow lantern by the tracks, off we go."
"I don't think so, Granny." Joe dropped into a sudden crouch, swinging the hamper with all his strength.
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The basket smashed into the gunman's hand, knocking the MAC-10 out of his grasp. It spun away, seemingly sucked into the darkness beyond the doorway.
The metal door stood open and flapping. Now the sound of the speeding train was enormously loud.
Dodging, Joe swung the basket again.
The phony granny glasses flew free, hitting the corridor floor. As the two struggled, the glass lenses were stomped into crunchy fragments.
Joe fought desperately. At least he had succeeded in moving the fight away from the doorway. His opponent fell backward, cracking his head on the wall. Joe moved forward, confident of victory. Unfortunately, he walked right into his enemy's last attack.
An outflung foot caught Joe in the waist. The blow took the wind out of him and sent him staggering backward.
He tried to grab the sides of the doorway. Instead he caught only chilly air.
Joe went sailing off the train.
He twisted as he fell, landing on his side with a tremendous jolt. Landing on a slanting, pebbly slope beyond the tracks, he went rolling downward about fifty feet. Finally he came to a stop beside a dark roadway.
The train went roaring on its way without him.
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Frank looked out the compartment window as the train slowed to stop at a small rural station. The brightly lit platform was empty except for a fat man in a long black overcoat. He wore a checkered cap with earflaps and was holding an empty bird cage. Two passengers got off the train, both bundled in shapeless overcoats. Soon the train was pulling out of the station, and they were rolling again through the darkness.
"I guess Joe found his drink, and a place to sit down and enjoy it," Karen said, glancing at her watch.
"When it comes to finding supplies or a place to hang out, Joe has a sixth sense," Frank told her. "He probably found—" Frank managed to cut his voice off before he said, "some pretty girl." Instead, he finished the sentence with, "—a snack to go with his drink."
"You're probably right," Karen said.
Frank sighed. This had been an especially rough day—getting rapped in the head, running around, spending long hours searching for clues. The sounds of the train wheels on the tracks began slowly fading. The rattling and the swaying died down.
With another sigh Frank's head dipped forward.
Karen's hazel eyes were troubled. "He's been gone quite a while," she said quietly, not wanting to wake Frank.
Karen watched the darkness roll by outside
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for a few more minutes. Finally she got to her feet. "I think I'll go looking for him."
* * *
The next thing Frank knew, he was being roughly shaken.
"Wake up! Wake up!" a frantic female voice cried in his ear.
"Who? What?" Frank said fuzzily.
"Joe's not in the dining car. I don't think he's on the train."
Frank licked his lips and blinked. His eyes finally focused, and he recognized Karen. Her words still hadn't penetrated. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Joe is gone."
Rising to his feet, Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "I must have dozed off," he admitted. "Joe's in the dining car."
"No, he's not." Karen was shaking with tension. "I checked with the dining car, and Joe never made it there. Nobody's seen him. He's not in any of the compartments."
"Take it easy, Karen. I'll go take a look around." Still feeling a little drowsy, Frank got to his feet. "Maybe he just stepped into a washroom."
"He didn't. I had the conductor check them all out." She was pacing around the compartment. "We'll have to stop the train."
Now Frank headed for the door. "Wait on
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that. I'll go hunt for some trace of Joe and ask a few questions."
Karen's voice was high. "They either threw Joe off the moving train or bundled him off at one of the stops. He could be—"
Frank cut her off. "Sit down. Wait for me here. Don't panic."
He left the compartment. Fifteen minutes later he returned, looking worried.
"You didn't find him, did you?"
"There's no sign of Joe on this train." Frank sat down quietly opposite the nervous girl. "Nobody saw him talking to anyone. Nobody saw anyone grabbing him, and nobody saw Joe get off the train at any of the stations."
Karen was back on her feet again. "Joe could be lying by the tracks, all broken and bloody, somewhere back there." She flung an arm at the darkness outside. "Or they've got him tied up in a car somewhere. Face it, Frank. We've got to stop the train."
"That won't do much good."
She stared at Frank in disbelief. "But he's your brother! He may be in big trouble!"
"Listen, please. If Joe was grabbed and taken off this train, it has to be Hawkins's men who did the job."
"I know! That's why we have to stop the train and hurry back!"
"Why?" Frank asked bluntly. "The odds are
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they're taking him to Beswick. And that's where we're heading."
"They might just murder him and bury him in the woods."
"So far they haven't killed anybody. Smart thieves don't go around murdering people—it gets the police too annoyed with them."
Frank took a deep breath, still trying to get his brains to work. "What we have to do is get to Beswick and find Hawkins's hideout, his base of operations. Joe will be there."
"Aren't you worried about him?" Karen demanded.
Frank's head snapped around. "Of course I'm worried. But Joe knows how to take care of himself. I'm betting he can handle whatever situation he's in." He was on his feet, too, pacing the small compartment. "Halting the train and searching all the tracks and stations for thirty or forty miles back will take up time we don't have."
"I hope you're right," Karen said, folding her arms.
Frank nodded, his face grim. "I hope so, too."
* * *
Joe stayed where he was for a moment or two, taking stock of his situation. Although he was sore and battered, nothing important seemed broken or seriously hurt. He got up on his hands and knees, pushed, and stood up.
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As far as he could tell, he was standing beside a narrow country road. The shadowy outlines of trees and hedges were all he could make out in the dark fields. Far off in the night glowed a few tiny lights that might be farmhouses or cottages.
His stiff muscles protested as he forced himself into movement. Looks like I have a hike ahead of me, he thought.
Joe thrust his hands into his pockets and started trudging along the road. The chilly night breeze was against him. He'd banged his left knee while rolling downhill. It twinged with every limping step he took.
Joe had no idea where he was, but he figured the road had to lead somewhere. At some point he'd encounter an outpost of civilization—a town, a village, a railroad station.
"Wish I'd gotten that drink. Cross-country walking is thirsty work," he muttered.
The road didn't seem very popular. Not a single car passed in either direction.
A half mile from where he'd taken his dive from the train, Joe saw a big black form beside the road. Then he realized it was a car—a large black car, lights out, waiting for something.
The words of his attempted kidnapper came back to Joe now. This must be the car that was supposed to meet them, Joe thought. Deciding he'd better avoid it, Joe ducked off for the woodlands that lined the road. He hadn't gone three
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steps before he stepped on a dead branch that broke with a loud snap.
The side door of the car flew open, and a gruff voice called out, "Did ya get us one of them, Willie?"
"Ar," answered Joe. He was almost behind the big auto, closer to the woods than the car.
"Which one is it—Frank or Joe Hardy?"
"How do I bloomin' know?" Joe snarled. He hoped he was making his voice sound pretty close to that of his almost-kidnapper.
"Well, don't stand there like a bump on a log. Bring whoever it is over here. Now."
Instead Joe darted for the woods, away from the car. Behind him he heard the car door slam. He ran on.
The next sound Joe heard was a pistol shot.
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Chapter 12
It was nearly dawn when Frank and Karen arrived at the small ramshackle hotel two miles from the Beswick train station. The lobby was done in white plaster with moldings on the walls and looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the turn of the century.
Up from behind the ancient mahogany registration desk popped the bald head of a man of about sixty. "Ah, newly weds, I wager," he said, rubbing his plump hands together and chuckling. "Run off and eloped, have you? Well, you couldn't have picked a more scenic spot. Ah, yes, Beswick is an idyllic little place, and the Winterbotham Wayside Hotel is, if I do say so myself, a jewel in the crown of this quaint and attractive village. I happen to be Winterbotham
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himself." He chuckled once more and slid the leather-bound register across the desk toward them.
"Good morning, Mr. Winterbotham," Frank said. "We'd like separate rooms."
"Don't tell me you're at odds already—and your honeymoon barely under way."
"We're not married. We're here on business."
"Business, you say? Well, then, let me assure you that Winterbotham's Wayside Hotel is known throughout the county of Kent as the businessman's haven." The plump proprietor nodded vigorously. "You'll find us ideally equipped for every kind of commercial endeavor. There are, to cite only one of a multitude of examples, telephones in nearly every room."
He glanced at Frank as if he expected an argument. "The telephone, as I needn't point out to a clever young businessman such as yourself, is a boon to the transacting of business. In addition, there is a very efficient manual typewriter on the premises, and it is available at any hour of the day or night, at a nominal fee, for the typing of the most demanding business documents."
Frank stared tiredly at the man until the speech was finished. "Fine," he said. "Do you have two rooms available?"
"I believe I can accommodate you and the young lady, sir. Yes, I can put you in executive suites twenty-two and twenty-five, which are
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right next door to each other, in spite of the numbers."
As he signed the register, Frank leaned across the counter. "You seem to know the town well. Are you familiar with Emily Cornwall?"
"Ah, yes, the poor lass," Winterbotham said, sighing. "Miss Emily arrived a matter of two weeks ago and took up residence in the Talbot mansion."
Karen came over, yawning, and signed her name. "Would you mind if I went up to my room, Frank? Otherwise I'm going to zonk out right here."
"Could we have Ms. Kirk's key? Then you could go on with this interesting story."
"Of course. Nearly asleep on her feet, she is." Winterbotham reached into a cubbyhole behind him. "Here you are, miss, room twenty- five. Do you wish me to see you up?"
"No, I'll find my own way," Karen said, taking the heavy brass key.
"Here are the stairs. Climb but two flights and go left from the landing."
"Got it." Karen glanced back, her eyes heavy. "I'll see you in the morning sometime, Frank."
"A very charming young lady," commented Winterbotham after Karen had departed. "Now, where was I?"
"The Talbot mansion," Frank said.
"It's a huge old pile set in the middle of a
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dozen bleak acres beyond the moors outside of town. Miss Emily has had few visitors and is said to be ailing. Very rich she is, but then money can't buy good health, as many another has learned. Nor good luck either, considering the accident just the other day."
"What sort of accident?" Frank wanted to know.
"Oh, now, it wasn't the young lady, it was her companion, Miss Sheridan." Winterbotham nodded vigorously. "Poor woman was struck down near the shops by a hit-and-run driver while she was out marketing. She languishes at the moment in a hospital two villages away."
"Who's looking after Emily Cornwall?"
"Ah, she had a bit of luck there—was able to hire someone locally to see to her needs until the injured lady is up and about again." He frowned, trying to remember. "A young woman, I believe, named Miss Forman."
"How lucky," Frank said. "Any other new arrivals in town?"
"Well, there's that Professor Hobart," the hotel proprietor answered. "He arrived a month or so ago, just before poor Miss Emily. Leased the old Oscard estate. That's the place most folk hereabouts call Castle Fear."
"Spooky name. Why do they call it that?"
"It's a grim, gray, bleak place, hundreds of years old, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea." Winterbotham shook his head. "Some say
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it's haunted. There are also those who say it was a smuggler's den in days gone by. Myself, I believe both stories and don't go near there after dark." He smiled a little shamefacedly. "Nor by day, I have to admit. Too many secret passages, tunnels, and such-like around Castle Fear. I wouldn't want to fall into one, not I."
"What's Professor Hobart supposed to be up to?"
"Writing a book, he says, about local folk customs. If you ask me, the folk around here don't have a single custom worth reading about, unless you're daft." Winterbotham shook his head. "And for the life of me I can't see why the professor needs half a dozen burly lads hanging about if all he does is scribble. But I'm the first to admit I've never tried to write a book. Perhaps he's got them keeping the roof up. The whole castle is in a shocking state. I'm surprised it hasn't tumbled down before now."
"Have you seen the professor?"
"Just the once," Winterbotham said. "He's not a bad-looking chap—tall, thin, and blond, with a bit of a mustache. Talked with him a bit about local customs. But I had the impression that he and I would never be close friends, if you know what I mean."
Frank stepped back from the registration desk. "How would I get to Castle Fear?"
Winterbotham stared at him. "You're not
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thinking of going there, lad. Not after what I've just told you."
"Actually, you made it sound quite interesting," Frank assured him. "I'm not at all sleepy, and a stroll is just what I need before turning in."
Sighing, Winterbotham ducked below the desk. He reappeared with a large flashlight and a knobby walking stick. "Better take these with you, sir, if you're going near Castle Fear."
* * *
Daylight came slowly, fighting its way through the heavy sea mist that hung over the countryside. Frank, swinging the borrowed walking stick, was working his way down the winding wooded path that led to the cliffside where Castle Fear stood. Though he couldn't see the ocean through the chilly fog, the salty scent of it was heavy in the air. From the distance came the cries of sea gulls.
Frank recalled the hotel proprietor's description of Professor Hobart, which came awfully close to describing the picture he'd seen of Nigel Hawkins. And the old castle sounded like a perfect headquarters for an illegal operation. Especially with lots of smugglers' tunnels for easy getaways.
Frank was moving briskly along the path. He was worried about Joe. He was sure his brother wasn't dead. Hawkins and his crew could have seen to that easily enough at several points along
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the line. For instance, they could have captured Joe, Karen, and himself right on the train. Instead, only one of them had been grabbed. That meant Hawkins wanted someone to question, to see how much they knew.
They'd be rough on Joe, to make him talk. So Frank had to get him out of Castle Fear as soon as he could. When he'd stepped out of the hotel, Frank had thought for a moment of going to the local police. But he could imagine the look on the local constable's face when he showed him a couple of pictures of Emily Cornwall and accused this Professor Hobart of kidnapping his brother.
Police were usually a bit short on patience and understanding—especially when you came to them with a farfetched story and no proof. Besides, Professor Hobart, although a recent arrival, was a local resident, while Frank was nothing but an outsider.
No, Frank had decided to gamble on a quick raid, figuring a single intruder had a better chance of getting into the castle without arousing guards.
Frank was clear of the woods now, making his way down a steep, grassy hillside. His target began to loom out of the fog, at first just as darker gray patches in the milky gray of the sea mist.
The place was huge, made up of dark gray blocks of stone dappled with greenish moss—it
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would make for slippery climbing. Towers rose up at the corners of the outer walls, and up from the main keep inside. Frank could make out narrow windows with rusted iron grilles set in them. They offered no way in. As he scanned the once- impregnable walls, however, he spotted several sections that had fallen away into ruin. High up in the castle's keep, he saw a few lights showing in windows.
Carefully Frank took a zigzagging course down the fog-ridden hillside.
The screeches of the sea gulls were louder, and he could hear the surf pounding at the rocky beach hundreds of feet below the cliff edge.
Frank reached the wall and worked along beside it. He'd noticed a dark gap that wasn't near any of the overlooking lit windows. Yes, he could climb up on the crumbling stone here and get inside.
And nobody would even know he was there.
Frank was already scaling the pile of rubble when a dark figure came flying out of the gap.
Before Frank could raise a hand to defend himself, a shoulder smashed into him.
Together with his phantom attacker Frank tumbled to the ground.
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Chapter 13
Joe Hardy stood with his back pressed to a tree trunk. His chest burned from his run into the forest. But he didn't gulp air greedily. Instead he kept his breathing shallow, straining his ears for the sound of the guy chasing him.
He'd been zigzagging through the dark woods for nearly ten minutes. By now he figured he must have gotten a good distance between himself and that creep with the gun.
He grinned as he heard the pursuer go crashing past a hundred yards to his left. The man was muttering to himself, cursing, plunging on deeper into the dark woods.
Joe said to himself, "This would be a good time to double back."
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After listening for another few seconds, he nodded and started back the way he'd come.
Behind him, the man with the pistol plowed his way deeper into the trees. He obviously had no idea where Joe was.
Joe reached the road. The car still stood on the grassy edge. Its front passenger door still hung open, spilling the faint glow of the dome light into the night.
Crouched low, Joe approached the car as if he were stalking a very dangerous animal. It would be embarrassing to lose one gunman, only to be nailed by another one still sitting in the car.
But when he finally peeked inside, the car turned out to be empty.
He eased up to the driver's side and peered in. Then he quietly opened the door, slid behind the wheel, and laughed.
"You should never leave your keys in the ignition," he said aloud as he reached across to catch the handle of the opposite door and shut it. "I mean, that gives people ideas about stealing your car."
The engine was very quiet. Joe was hardly aware that it had started. He strapped on the seat belt, gave a lazy salute in the direction of his stumbling pursuer, and drove off down the road.
Joe got lost twice on the winding country roads and wound up seeing a lot more of the nighttime Kentish scenery than he wanted to. At
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dawn he found himself in a village—but it wasn't Beswick.
A helpful constable who was walking his bicycle along a tree-lined lane gave Joe detailed directions on how to find his way. The police officer wasn't at all interested in Joe's borrowed auto.
The instructions worked out perfectly, and at a few minutes past eight in the morning, Joe rolled into Beswick. The day was gray and overcast. The village, which resembled the last two Joe had wandered through, had a gloomy feel to it.
Parking the car near the railroad station, Joe set off on foot down toward the center of town. The village was coming to life. Shopkeepers were removing shutters, putting out their wares, sweeping the sidewalk. Joe was still limping from his jump off the train. He was glad when the first inn came into view—the Winterbotham Wayside Hotel.
Joe was heading for the front door, eager for a chance to sit down and get some breakfast. Before he got to it, the door snapped open, and Karen Kirk came tearing out.
She bumped smack into Joe, stared in disbelief, and jumped back. "Joe! You're alive!"
Looking himself up and down, Joe said, "As far as I know."
"But what happened to you?"
"Well, I sort of left the train—urn, unexpectedly," 
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he answered. "I'll fill you and Frank in over breakfast."
"That's just it." Karen's face was pale as she grabbed Joe's arm. "Frank is gone."
"Gone where?" He guided Karen over to a wooden bench by the doorway and sat her down.
"We got to town three or four hours ago. I went up to get some sleep. That's what I thought Frank would be doing, too, as soon as the man who runs the hotel—Mr. Winterbotham— stopped talking his ear off."
"But Frank didn't go to bed."
Karen nodded. "According to Winterbotham, he borrowed a flashlight and a walking stick and headed for a place called Castle Fear."
"Doesn't sound like a tourist joint," Joe said.
Karen filled him in on the other information the proprietor had given her. "This Professor Hobart sounds like he must be Nigel Hawkins."
"So Frank, figuring that Jillian and Jed were being held at the castle, went there to take a look around," Joe finished.
"He thought you were there, too," Karen added. "I mean, we figured you'd been kidnapped off the train and taken to Hawkins's headquarters. As soon as Frank learned about Castle Fear, he must have gone right over there."
Joe shook his head. "And this is the guy who told me to cool it when I ran after the clown who shot at us."
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"Frank left hours ago, and he hasn't come back." Karen looked worried. "We've got to get to the castle right away."
"We're not even sure anything's happened to him. Frank may just be looking around—and we might call attention to him."
"What is it with you guys? Don't you ever worry about each other? I'd say three hours was a long time to just be looking around."
"Sure, it's possible something happened to Frank and he's a prisoner now, too." Joe shook his head. "If we're going to storm a castle with just the two of us, we're going to have to make preparations."
"We'll give Frank a few more hours. In the meantime, we'll visit the local library—maybe the church as well." He got to his feet. "We also have some social calls to make. I passed an interesting-looking little restaurant on the way here. They were just opening up. Let's go get some breakfast."
"How can you eat at a time like this?"
"Hey, it's breakfast time. That's a great time for eating breakfast," Joe said. "Besides, assaulting a joint with a name like Castle Fear isn't a job I'd like to do on an empty stomach."
* * *
Frank Hardy found himself in a scrambling struggle outside the ruined gray battlements of Castle Fear. He'd taken one punch and given the dark figure in front of him two before he
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realized who he was fighting. "Jed—Jed! It's me, Frank Hardy."
The actor stepped back, stopping in midair the punch he'd been aiming at Frank's face. "Sorry. I thought you were one of the goons here." Jed looked around. "Have you brought the cops with you?"
"I'm by myself. I just heard about Castle Fear and—"
"That's what they call this dump?"
"It's the name the local folks around here gave it." Frank's mind was on other things. "What did you see inside? Was my brother in there? Have you seen Jillian?"
"Your brother?"
Shannon looked confused, and Frank couldn't really blame him. "They grabbed Joe a little while after they got you."
Jed shook his head. "I didn't see Joe—or Jillian, either. Some of those clowns were talking about her, though. She's in the castle someplace—they've got her locked up."
He talked in nervous jerks, his face tight. "It's all about some kind of scam they've got going on, and they're going to use Jillian in some way. I don't like this at all, Frank. They're talking about making her do whatever they've got in mind."
Frank cut off the excited actor. "How did you manage to get away?"
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Jed pointed back at the castle. "The bars on my window were loose," he explained. "A few hours of working on them, and I was able to squeeze out. As for the rest"—he shrugged with a slightly embarrassed smile—"the stuff about me doing my own stunts—well, it's not just publicity garbage. I really do them. The jump into the courtyard wasn't so hard—I've done worse for the cameras. After that it was just a case of running for the nearest break in the wall."
"How did they manage to get you in London?" Frank asked.
"That was really stupid." Jed's ears were turning pink. "I was lured into this—urn—business office, and these two guys jumped me on the stairway."
"We know about Bert Dickens—your other private eye."
Shannon's ears went pinker. "Hey, look, I wanted as many people out looking for Jillian as possible. Dickens was highly recommended by a publicity guy in London."
Jed quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, the goons knocked me out, and I woke up here. How did you find me?"
"We can talk about that later." Frank was already picking up his flashlight and walking stick, which had been knocked to the ground by Jed's initial attack. "Right now we have to get back to the village and alert—"
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"I think you two would be much wiser to head back into the castle," a cultured British voice boomed out from behind them. "And be quick about it."
The voice took on a steely edge. "I'd rather hate to be forced to shoot you out in the open."
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Chapter 14
Joe leaned back in his chair, disappointment showing on his face. "Looks to me like nobody in all of England knows how to make an English muffin," he said, wiping his mouth on his linen napkin.
"That sure didn't stop you from finishing off three of them." Karen Kirk was drumming her fingers on the tabletop.
"Well, that's just common courtesy," Joe explained. "It's impolite not to eat what's put down before you."
She sipped her tea, glancing at her wristwatch at the same time. "What sort of social calls did you have in mind?"
"I'd like to visit Emily Cornwall. Do you know where she's staying?"
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Karen sighed. "Oh, yes. Mr. Winterbotham told me all about that—for just about forever."
She pointed down the road they were facing. 'Emily Cornwall is living at the Talbot estate, out beyond the edge of the village. Her longtime companion isn't with her, though."
"How come?"
"The poor woman got bounced around by a reckless driver. She's in the hospital with a broken leg."
"I'll bet our Emily was able to get a new companion, though."
"Right," Karen said. "It's a local woman named Miss Forman."
"Who no doubt is on Hawkins's payroll."
"You think so?"
"Kind of a coincidence otherwise." Joe rested both elbows on the tabletop. "Hawkins needs to have somebody near Emily."
"If Miss Forman is working for him, that will make our business a little tricky, Joe."
He just grinned. "That's the whole challenge." His grin slipped a little. "First, though, we have to drop in on the local library."
"Okay," Karen finally said. "I know that journalists are supposed to start off with research. But why is a detective so interested in the Beswick library?"
"It's a terrible secret," Joe told her, his eyes
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twinkling. "I've always had this thing for musty old books."
* * *
Frank Hardy and Jed Shannon found themselves staring down the barrel of a Luger pistol.
The man who held the gun was Nigel Hawkins. "You young chaps have caused me no end of trouble." Hawkins had only one eyebrow raised, and he held the Luger rock-steady. But the look in his eyes said that he'd easily kill them if they tried anything.
Hawkins continued in a smooth, almost chatty tone. "I mean really, dear boys, you've come uncomfortably close to throwing a wrench in the works."
Frank knew his face was pale, but he tried to sound as calm as Hawkins when he spoke. "The wrench has already been tossed, Nigel. Before I headed up here this morning, I stopped at the Beswick police station."
"Did you now?"
"If I don't get in touch with them within an hour, they'll be out here in force."
Hawkins had a harsh, nasal laugh. "Nice try, m'lad," he said. "Unfortunately for you, though, I overheard you telling good old Jed here that you hadn't talked to the local coppers. So if you'll be so kind as to climb through this break in the wall . . ."
"Okay, maybe I was bluffing about the
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police," Frank said. "But I'm here with someone who'll go to the police if I don't turn up."
"You mean Karen Kirk? Oh, yes," Hawkins said, smiling at the look on Frank's face. "I know all about the young lady. And I sincerely hope she doesn't try what you're suggesting."
Hawkins smiled like a cat waiting outside a mouse hole. "You see, I have someone watching over her. He knows what she looks like—but she doesn't know him." Hawkins's smile grew colder. "She won't even know what hit her."
He gestured with the gun. "Enough chat, I think. March along now, lads."
Hawkins kept them covered all the way into the ancient keep and down a dark hallway that ended in a thick walnut door. Leaning against the gray stone wall was a big, wide man in a black pullover and dark jeans. He had close- cropped graying hair and a broken nose.
"Limehouse, old man," Hawkins greeted the big man who threw the door open. The two prisoners were confronted with a long flight of chipped stone steps leading to a lower level of the castle.
"Escort these two reckless lads the rest of the way down and lock them into one of our cozier dungeon cells."
"Can I knock them around a little?" Lime- house inquired in a rough, growling voice. He sounded a little too eager to Frank.
Hawkins poked his tongue into his cheek, staring 
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up at the low, damp ceiling. "Not just yet, Limehouse," he said. "Keep in mind that our friend Mr. Shannon's face is his fortune. We wouldn't want to force him into a new line of work. I mean, he's doing so well as a movie star."
"I could hit him in lots of places besides his face," the big man offered. "Places where it wouldn't show."
"No, don't hit either of them for a while," Hawkins instructed his henchman. "Mind you, if they try to escape, then do as you see fit. Short of killing them, though. One hates to resort to murder."
Limehouse lifted a snub-nosed .38 revolver from the waistband of his trousers. "Okay, kiddies, start down those steps," he ordered. "Single file, and no funny stuff. You can't be much of a movie star if you don't have any kneecaps."
"So I've heard." Jed's voice was little more than a mutter as he started the trek downward.
* * *
Joe Hardy sneezed.
The two old ladies dozing over their magazines snapped awake to glare at him. They didn't have far to frown. The small library was only a single room lined with light oak bookshelves.
"Dust," Joe apologized, pointing to the scatter of old papers and charts spread across the
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table in front of him. He smiled as charmingly as possible and went back to taking notes.
Karen Kirk was pretending to browse, moving around the bookshelves with her hands behind her back. She eased over to one of the bow windows in the small room, taking a careful glance out into the street.
Returning to Joe's side, she whispered, "How's the old research coming?"
"I've got just about everything we need."
Sitting, she moved her chair up next to his. Her voice was even softer as she whispered in his ear, "I think somebody is following us."
"You mean the little guy in the raincoat?"
She pulled back. "You noticed him already?"
"He was watching us outside the hotel, loitering around the restaurant, then tailed us here."
Karen was looking distinctly unhappy. "What are we going to do?"
Joe grinned. "How are you at fainting?"
"Beg pardon?"
He spelled it out for her. "Can you pretend to faint?"
"I suppose so, but Jillian's the actress, not me. Should I try it right here?"
"Save your acting juices," Joe told her with a grin. "Go out the front door of the library. Look excited, like you had to get someplace important in a hurry. Turn down that alley we saw, next to the butcher shop. Once you're sure the man in the raincoat is following you, faint
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and fall down when you're halfway down the alley."
Karen gave him a dubious look. "You realize that alley is going to be pretty dirty."
"Just do it, okay?"
"All right, but wallowing in garbage isn't my idea of fun."
"Look, you ruined that raincoat when we hit the dirt last night," Joe said, his face suddenly grim, "and wallowing in crud is a lot more fun than getting kidnapped or shot."
Joe quietly headed out the back door of the library. Moving in a slight crouch, he slipped behind the high hedge surrounding the small front lawn. From there, unobserved, he could watch the man in the tan raincoat.
He was beginning to suspect that he'd met the person tailing them before. This was the same guy who, disguised as a little old lady, had given him a quick flying lesson off the train last night.
The front door of the library swung open, and Karen, looking excited and upset, came hurrying out. She started walking rapidly toward the local police station, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. Her eyes stared straight ahead, as if she was intent on reaching there as soon as she possibly could.
The small man in the long, flapping raincoat hesitated, frowning across at the doorway of the library. Then, when he saw where Karen was heading, he tightened the belt of his coat and
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took off after her. Joe noticed that he stayed on the opposite side of the street, walking at a slower pace so he could keep an eye on Karen.
Joe waited.
As soon as Karen stepped into the alley, her shadow crossed to the other sidewalk and started after her.
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Chapter 15
The man in the raincoat had his eyes only on the girl.
Joe sprinted across the street. By the time he reached the mouth of the alley, Karen was going into her fainting act. She did it very convincingly, swaying, taking a few staggering steps, trying to steady herself against the brick wall. Then, dropping to her knees, she toppled forward.
The man who was trailing her froze in surprise. Then he ran toward the fallen girl. Joe smiled. As he expected, the guy was completely fooled.
Putting on another burst of speed, Joe came up on the man and jabbed two fingers hard in his back. "Very slowly, raise both your hands
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and lock them behind your head." Joe's muscles tensed as he waited for the response. If the guy didn't buy his phony gun, he'd have to throw him into a wall.
"The lass has fainted. I was only trying to lend a hand."
"I want both of them behind your head!" Joe growled. "I recognized you in the street, Granny."
The little man seemed to shrink into himself. He also raised both hands.
At the same time, Karen stood up, brushing her skirt. "I fell right on top of a melon rind," she said accusingly to Joe.
"Frisk him" was all Joe said.
Karen made a face and searched the man. She located a .32 revolver and a switchblade knife. Moving around behind their prisoner, Karen turned the weapons over to Joe.
"We're going to leave you in this alley for now."
"Don't shoot me, lad. I treated you well last night, didn't I?"
"Sure. Nobody ever gave me a nicer order to jump off a moving train before." Joe's voice was grim as he prodded the man with the gun barrel. "Take off the raincoat."
"You want my raincoat?"
"I'm going to borrow it for a while."
"How in the bloomin'—"
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"Hurry up and get out of it. We still have to tie you up and gag you."
The gunman's voice was sharp. "Leaving me lying about in this alley isn't going to sit right with certain people."
"I know," Joe told him. "That's one of the reasons I'm doing it.'
* * *
At a few minutes past noon the silence of the Castle Fear dungeons was broken by footsteps. Inside the damp, gray cell Frank Hardy turned from staring at the slightly slimy stone wall in front of him. Jed Shannon was already standing by the door, where a key was rattling in the lock.
Limehouse, Nigel Hawkins's hulking thug, swung the door open with one hand. His other held a gun on them. "Let's go, boys," he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. "You're wanted upstairs."
"For what?" asked Jed.
"You're playing the wrong part, actor." The broken-nosed thug pointed to the stairway. "You got no lines to ask questions in this script."
Prodded by Limehouse, Jed and Frank climbed the stone steps. They marched along a paneled hallway on the ground floor of Castle Fear, then into a large, beam-ceilinged room. French doors let wan sunlight into the room, and
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even though it was summer, a fire crackled in the hearth on the far wall.
Jed stood in the doorway staring at the slender blond girl sitting at an enormous dining table. "Jillian!"
She was a very pretty young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, although just now her face was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. That gave her an even stronger resemblance to Emily Cornwall.
She stared as if she were seeing a ghost when Jed appeared. For a second the glow in Jillian's face made her look incredibly beautiful. Then it disappeared, like a light that had been abruptly shut off, as her face crumpled into tears. Jed dashed over to throw his arms around her. "Jillian!"
"Jed, I'm sorry about all this," Jillian sobbed as she nestled into his chest. "I was stupid to let Nigel fool me into coming down here."
"Jillian, I—" Jed began. Frank had never seen the young star's face look so tender—and he was convinced Jed wasn't calling on his acting ability.
"That's enough clinching for now," a brisk voice called out. Nigel Hawkins stood at the head of the table. "Please break it up and take your places."
"You're holding us prisoner, but you're serving us lunch?" Frank stared in disbelief at the
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elaborate place settings around the large oak table.
"Why ever not?" Hawkins seated himself. "You'll find that I'm quite a civilized fellow— when people don't annoy me. And dear Jillian can tell you that I'm extremely thoughtful. Jillian, sit at my right, if you would. Mr. Shannon is on your right, with Mr. Hardy opposite him. Limehouse, you'll keep an eye on our guests. And Rowland, you'll sit next to Mr. Hardy."
Another man came into the dining room. It was the same large, red-faced blond guy who'd pretended to be Ian Fisher-Stone, Jillian's agent. "Such a pleasure to see you again, Hardy," the man said. "How's the head?"
"Fine, now," Frank told him. "You're a regular artist with a blackjack." The man smiled, and Frank decided to try another question. "Where's the real Fisher-Stone?"
"In the south of France." Rowland sat down.
"By choice?"
"Oh, yes. He chose quite readily. All he needed was a little persuasion—and the wherewithal—and he was most delighted to leave London."
Hawkins slid his damask napkin out of its silver ring, snapped it to unfurl it, and draped it over his right knee. "Why use violence when a simple bribe will do?" he said to Frank. "Unfortunately, we were informed that you and your brother were above that sort of thing."
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Rowland smiled. "That's why we resorted to scare tactics."
Frank took his seat. "Once this is all over, what do you intend to do?" he asked. "Shake hands all around and drive off into the sunset?"
Hawkins picked up a small silver bell and rang it once. "You have the foolish notion that we can't afford to leave any live witnesses behind to identify us. Is that it?"
"Seems obvious." Frank shrugged. "You've already done something to my brother."
"I most certainly have not," Hawkins told him haughtily. "Oh, we tried to spirit him off the train last night. But he eluded my man, apparently diving from the train on his own. I have no idea as to his present whereabouts."
"He also stole one of our cars," Rowland added. "Seems a resourceful young man."
Frank was relieved that Joe was alive and that he wasn't a prisoner someplace in the castle. That is, if Hawkins was telling the truth. "Okay, so what do you intend to do with us?" Frank asked.
"After Jillian has done her bit, you'll all be free to go," Hawkins assured him. "I take that back—actually, you'll be chained up in this frightful old castle. After we're safely out of the country, the authorities will be notified to come and claim you."
"But we can identify you, tell the police who stole the Talbot emeralds."
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Hawkins laughed. "We're never returning to England, dear boy. You'd be surprised at how many countries are friendly to men of means. Warm countries where there's never a wisp of beastly fog or so much as a suggestion of a snowflake."
"You're giving up your show-business career, Hawkins?" asked Jed, who was sitting next to the young actress, holding her hand.
"You mean those wretched films I produced?" Hawkins laughed. "Let's face it, the emeralds will gross more than those movies."
An ancient servant came tottering into the dining room, carrying a large silver tureen of steaming soup. He began ladling it out into the soup plates, starting with Hawkins.
"People warned me," Jillian said to Jed, her eyes shining with tears. "But I kept on believing Mr. Hawkins was really making a big-budget film with me as the star. I studied Emily Cornwall's life, took photos wearing a black wig. I even made a sample videotape as Emily."
"She's quite a remarkable actress," Hawkins said as he tasted his soup. "If I planned to stay in the movie business, I truly believe I could make her into a major star."
"They're going to substitute me for Emily." Jillian lowered her head, not looking Jed in the eye. "I'm to go to the solicitors, pass myself off as her, and collect the jewels."
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"That won't work," Jed objected. 'They won't turn the emeralds over to her."
Hawkins smiled. "Keep in mind, my boy, that no one has seen little Emily for years. She's been ill, living abroad as something of a hermit."
"What about fingerprints?" Jed objected.
"None exist. At least not anywhere her solicitors can get hold of them."
Jed said triumphantly, "Handwriting."
"They've made me practice her signature." Jillian rubbed her hand. "She broke some bones in an accident. If anyone asks about the writing, I'm supposed to use that as an excuse. Jed, once I realized what they really had in mind, I told them I wanted no part of it."
"That's why they kidnapped you, Jed," Frank broke in angrily. "For a little leverage."
Near the door, Limehouse cleared his throat, swinging his gun toward Jed. "Would be a shame if anything were to happen to him."
"It would certainly ruin a lot of careful planning," Hawkins said. "Machinery I put together after seeing Jillian in some dreadful play a few weeks ago—what was it?"
" 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd," Frank said.
"Awful thing. But it introduced me to Ms. Jillian Seabright. I mean there I was, suffering; through that awful play that would have been better left buried in Britain's musty theatrical past. Then I realized this sweet young thing was
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a near double for Emily Cornwall. Of course, I knew about the emeralds, and that no one had seen Emily for many a moon."
"We keep extensive files," Rowland explained. "Dear Emily is only one of those people whose fortunes we—ah, monitor."
"Monitor, then steal," Frank said.
Hawkins waved a playful finger. "Robbing the rich is an old English sport, Hardy. Started by a chap named Robin Hood. It's much more fun than making second-rate cinema offerings, or— What is it, Walter?"
A lanky man came pushing into the dining room. "Might be trouble," he said gruffly.
The teasing smile vanished from Hawkins's face. "What, exactly?"
Walter said, "We've been trying to call the Forman woman. She's supposed to be sitting on the Cornwall girl, awaiting word from us."
"And?"
"Nobody's answering the phone there." A look of unease passed over the crook's face. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong with the plan."
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Chapter 16
Joe passed the binoculars to Karen. "That's her on the terrace, all right."
Karen put the brand-new field glasses to her eyes. "Yes, she's in the wheelchair, all bundled up in plaid blankets."
"So I'd guess the lady standing next to her must be Miss Forman." Joe and Karen were stretched out in a clump of brush about a quarter of a mile from the rear of the huge, dreary, dark stone Talbot mansion. Swampy fields stretched out all around them, dotted with the occasional leafless tree. Big black crows circled low around the sprawling house, cawing and searching for a meal. "That lump in the fake companion's sweater looks like a gun."
"Can you be sure at this distance?"
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"It's part keen eyesight," Joe admitted, "and part good guessing."
"Miss Forman doesn't look much like a companion—more like a barmaid who throws unruly drunks out by herself."
"We've been ducked down here since she wheeled Emily onto the terrace." Joe reclaimed the binoculars they'd bought in town after they'd stowed the gagged gunman at the end of the alley. "I don't see signs that anyone else is at home."
"So we're going through with this?"
"Keep these in your shoulder bag." Joe handed Karen the glasses, took a gray cap out of the pocket of his borrowed raincoat, and pulled it low over his eyes. "I'm taller than the guy who tailed us, but I should be able to pass for him until we're fairly close. Let's roll."
"I'm doing a lot more performing than reporting lately."
"Call it participatory journalism," Joe replied.
Karen stood up, put her hands behind her back, and began walking across the bleak fields toward the mansion.
Joe followed close behind, his head hanging low and the gun he'd taken showing plainly in his right hand. "Act frightened," he whispered.
"I don't have to act. I am frightened."
The crows, who had found something to eat in the tall grass, flapped away from them into the sky, cawing raucously.
Miss Forman looked up when Joe and Karen
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were about five hundred feet from the wide flagstone terrace. "Willie, you fool," she called out, hand slipping into her sweater pocket. "You weren't supposed to bring her here."
"It's working," Joe said in a tight whisper.
"You were just supposed to follow the girl and keep her away from the police." Annoyance tinged the heavyset blond woman's voice.
"Couldn't be helped," Joe muttered, his head still down.
Emily Cornwall, her mouth slightly open, stared as the two of them approached.
When Joe and Karen were about fifteen feet from the woman, she suddenly glared at them. "You're not Willie!" she exclaimed.
Karen's hands came up from behind her, flinging two fistfuls of swamp muck at Miss Forman's face. She dived at the woman, tackling her around the legs.
Joe sprinted forward, grabbing the woman's wrist before she could yank her gun free. "I wouldn't try anything foolish," he warned.
"You're one of those idiot Hardys." Miss Forman frowned but stopped trying to get her gun out.
"I am a Hardy," Joe admitted. "But I don't think you're in a position to comment on my intelligence. You can get up now, Karen."
As Karen got to her feet Joe told Miss Forman, "Slip your hand out of that pocket. And it had better come out slow and empty."
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The woman glared at him but did as he said.
Reaching into the sweater pocket, Joe came out with a .22 automatic. He took a quick look in Emily's direction. "Any more of them around, Miss Cornwall?"
"Just her. Do you have any idea what's going on?" The dark-haired young woman looked very frail. The shadows under her eyes were even deeper than in the pictures Joe had seen, and her face was pale with fear.
"We'll fill you in shortly," he promised. Turning to Karen, he said, "Hold this and keep it pointed at our phony friend here." Joe handed her the .22 automatic and moved to the wheelchair. Then he asked Emily, "Are you all right?"
"Not especially, no," Emily replied. "For one thing, she's got me tied to this wheelchair. I haven't really needed it in months, but Miss Sheridan, my real companion, insisted that we bring it along."
Joe yanked away the plaid blankets and saw that the slender girl was tied hand and foot with lengths of nylon clothesline. "I'll get you out in a second," he said, taking out his pocket knife. "I'm Joe Hardy, by the way. My friend is Karen Kirk."
"I've heard about you and your brother," Emily Cornwall said. "I imagine that all this has something to do with the emeralds."
"Got it on the first guess," Joe said, sawing
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at the strands of nylon. "Karen is going to stay with you, and once we get Miss Forman safely locked away, she'll fill you in on what's been going on these past few days."
Karen frowned. "You mean I'm staying here?"
"Yes, while I go over to Castle Fear."
In the sun room off the terrace the phone began to trill.
Karen glanced toward the open French doors.
"Let it ring," Joe said. "And we're changing plans—we're getting out of here right away."
* * *
Frank Hardy sat at the dining table at Castle Fear, staring at Stanley, another thug. But Frank's eyes flashed to the head of the table, where Nigel Hawkins abruptly stood up and tossed his napkin down beside his soup plate.
"You're sure you dialed it right? These blasted provincial phone exchanges." He stalked over to the doorway. "I'll try it myself. That fool woman knows her job. She's supposed to remain at the house around the clock."
After Hawkins left the room Jed turned to Rowland. "Why don't you guys just quit right now? I don't think your boss realizes that he's taken a tiger by the tail here."
"Oh, Nigel's not my boss, dear boy. We're equal partners in this venture."
"Whatever." The young actor waved his hand
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impatiently. "The point is, none of you clowns seems to realize what you've done here.'
Jed glanced over at his lady friend. "It's bad enough that you kidnapped Jillian, but—hey, when you snatch one of the most popular actors in the world today, you're in big trouble. My studio isn't going to let you retire to some tropical island to enjoy the warm, quiet life."
"My, such an enormous ego for one so young in years." Rowland began laughing. "Really, son, you're in no position to make threats. Not while you're a helpless prisoner in a castle that boasts a fully equipped torture chamber down in the dungeon. Did they show you that on the guided tour?"
Jed and Frank were silent.
"Nigel is something of a softy when it comes to physical violence." Rowland casually bent his heavy silver soup spoon into a U. "but as frank here can testify, I can be quite nasty if I want."
"All too true," Frank agreed. "Don't antagonize him, Jed."
"Hey, I'm not trying to rattle this guy's cage. I'm just pointing out that I don't happen to be your everyday kidnap victim. I'm a celebrity, you know. Maybe they're biting off more than they can chew."
"Jed, dear, they have a lot of very nasty people in their crew." Jillian took Jed's hand, looking frightened. "You're not going to talk them out of going ahead with this scam."
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"Wisely put, little Jillian," Rowland said. "You seem much wiser than your young man. I don't understand how you manage to put up with him."
"Limehouse, Walter." The look on Hawkins's face as he hurried back in cut off further conversation. "Put all three of our guests in a cell down below. And hurry."
Rowland pushed back from the table. "Problems, Nigel?"
"I can't get an answer from that Forman woman. The phone rings and rings, but she doesn't pick up." Nigel Hawkins scowled. "Our whole plan depends on keeping Emily Cornwall quietly out of circulation on that estate, so we'll have to go over there and see if anything is amiss." He stopped next to Frank's chair. "Did your brother have something to do with this?"
Frank shrugged. "Until a little while ago I thought you had him here in the castle," he replied. "If Joe's not here, he could be roaming around doing just about anything."
"He'd better not be interfering in my plans." Hawkins's voice sounded a lot less cultured and a lot more grating. "That wouldn't be the least bit smart."
* * *
"Too bad we talked instead of eating that soup." Jed Shannon's stomach growled as he paced around the small stone room. "No telling how long we'll be stuck down here."
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Frank was exploring the damp new cell where the three of them had been locked in. "I wonder what actually happened over at the Talbot mansion," he said, rapping at stones here and there. "More importantly, did Joe have anything to do with it?"
"The worst part is the way I've entangled the two of you in my mess." Jillian sat huddled on a stone shelf that came out of the wall. "I've never thought of myself as being self-centered, although I guess all actresses are to some degree. The more I think about this disaster, the more I realize it was vanity that got me in trouble. Because I believed I was ready to star in a movie . . ."
"Hey, you're more than ready." Jed halted beside Jillian. "I've acted with girls who weren't half as talented as you—or as beautiful."
Jillian looked down. "Thanks. But somehow, starring in a big film doesn't seem all that important right now."
"We'll get out of this," Jed promised. He glanced at Frank. "Do you believe Hawkins won't hurt us?"
"Hawkins seems to draw the line at murder."
"But that other guy—Rowland? You know, we never found out if that was his first or last name. He looks like the kind of guy who's capable of putting a bullet into any one of us." Jed began pacing again.
"I'd say he was the nastier of the two," Frank
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agreed. He tapped on another of the large gray stones.
"What are you doing that for?" Jillian asked.
"This castle is supposed to have hidden rooms and secret passages," Frank replied. "I'm just checking to see if there's a forgotten exit in here."
"Why not just use the door?" a voice behind them asked.
They whirled to find Joe Hardy grinning at them from the open door of their cell.
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Chapter 17
Frank Hardy figured his jaw must be hanging somewhere around his belt buckle. "J-Joe?" he finally managed. "How did you get here? Not that we aren't glad to see you," he quickly added. Shaking his head, Frank began to grin.
Joe pushed the heavy oak cell door all the way open, being careful not to make any noise. "Folks usually think you're the scholarly side of this team," he said, returning Frank's grin. "But I can do a little research now and then."
"Meaning?"
"I ran into Karen when I finally reached Beswick this morning—I'll tell you what happened after I—ah, left the train—later." Joe grinned. "She told me about Castle Fear, how you'd gone to scout it out and hadn't come back. I got
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to thinking about old castles, and that sent me to the local library. Sure enough, they had a couple of musty old books all about Castle Fear, written by a local historian about two hundred years ago. The guy must have had a lot of time on his hands—he'd drawn a complete set of architectural plans, very detailed."
Frank had to grin. "Detailed enough to include the locations of the secret passages and entrances?"
Joe nodded. "Exactly. I picked an entrance that lies just on the other side of the stone wall. All I had to do was wait until nobody was around. I figured the bad guys had tossed you into a dungeon—after all, what's a castle for? After a little poking around, I found you guys."
He turned toward the blond actress. "I'm Joe Hardy, and you must be Jillian Seabright. You really do look a lot like Emily Cornwall."
Jed Shannon looked impressed. "So you've actually seen Emily Cornwall?"
"Karen and I just rescued her from a phony companion by the name of Miss Forman."
"Where are Karen and the Cornwall girl?" Frank wanted to know. "You didn't leave them at the Talbot place, did you?"
"That was what I'd planned at first," Joe admitted. "But then the phone started ringing, and it occurred to me that Hawkins might be checking up. If nobody answered, he'd probably send a carload of goons over to investigate."
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"Hawkins did exactly that—right after his phone call wasn't answered," Frank said.
"Well, they won't find anyone at home," Joe said. "We changed plans and loaded Miss Forman into the car I'm using at the moment." He held up a hand to cut off the questions he expected. "I'll tell you how I got hold of the car later. Anyway, Karen and Emily dropped me off within sight of Castle Fear, then took off to deliver Miss Forman to the local law."
"Then all we have to do now," said Frank, "is get ourselves out of here."
"We can get out the same way I came in." Joe tugged a small flashlight out of his pants pocket. "This way to the exit."
Single file, they left the dungeon cell with Joe in the lead, then Jillian and Jed, and Frank bringing up the rear.
As they were passing the stone stairway that led up to the ground floor, the door at its top creaked open. Framed in the light was Lime- house, staring down at them.
"Hey!" he shouted, fumbling for his gun as he charged down the stairs. The big thug was aiming at them when Joe scooped up a rock and threw it at him like his best fastball.
Limehouse flinched back and lost his balance. The pistol flew from his hand to land with a clatter in a dark corner of the dungeon.
"Nice move, Joe," Jed Shannon said.
But Limehouse didn't fall. Moving much
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faster than a man his size usually did, he thrust a hand out to grab hold of something on the wall. It broke his fall but then tore loose from the rings that had held it to the wall.
Frank sucked in his breath through his teeth when he saw what it was. Though rusty and covered with spiderwebs, the ancient battle-ax still looked lethal enough to take care of all of them.
Waving the ax above his head, Limehouse charged again.
Joe grabbed Jed's arm. "You and Jillian— down that hallway!" Then he joined Frank to meet Limehouse's rush.
Snarling in rage, Limehouse was swinging the ax like a baseball bat. The sharp edges sliced the air as he whipped the handle back and forth.
Frank and Joe had no choice—they had to retreat before the whistling blade got any closer. Unless Limehouse got tired, they wouldn't have a chance. And Limehouse didn't look as if he would tire soon.
"Plan B," Frank abruptly said.
Joe glanced at his brother. "I didn't know we had a plan— Yow!"
Limehouse was leaping for him, the ax held high. But Frank was leaping, too, coming in low under the ax. He swung his leg in a roundhouse kick, catching Limehouse behind the knees.
The big man toppled, the ax clanging against the stone wall.
Joe yanked his brother up. "This way—fast!"
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They nearly crashed into Jed and Jillian, who were running the other way. "No good," Jed panted. "It's just a dead end."
"That's what you think." Joe dashed down to a seemingly solid wall, hit one of the stones, and heaved. With a grating shriek the whole wall moved, revealing a secret doorway.
Joe stepped aside, shining his flashlight into the dark hole beyond. "Watch it—there are steps right through here."
The others piled through the doorway, then Joe followed. They could hear heavy footsteps coming closer—Limehouse was back on his feet.
Joe put his shoulder to the secret door. "We've got to get this shut, and fast."
Frank added his shoulder as well.
Limehouse appeared in the corridor, still waving his ax.
"Push!" Joe urged.
Jed joined them, and the heavy door began to close. They got it shut, and a hidden lock engaged with a solid clunk.
They were just in time—Limehouse had arrived at the door, bashing at it furiously.
The sound was dull and muffled through the door, and soon it faded as Jed, Jillian, Frank, and Joe made their way through the dark tunnel. The smell of damp earth was strong. Somewhere unseen water was dripping on rock.
Joe was again leading the procession, lighting
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the passageway ahead. "This part of the tunnel is only about a mile long, according to the map." He shone his compact flashlight around. "But it seems a lot longer in the dark."
"Sure does," Jed agreed. "We— Ouch!" He tripped over something on the rocky floor, stumbling against one of the timbers that shored up the tunnel roof. On hands and knees, he looked back at whatever had tripped him. "Shine the light over this way, Joe," he requested. "I—I'm hoping this is just a prop."
Helping the actor to his feet, Joe swept his beam around the floor. "Nope, that looks like a real human skull," he said.
"Brrrrr." Jed stared at the ancient yellow bone. "Think he was trying to get in or out?"
"It doesn't matter now," Frank said. "We'd better keep moving."
Joe moved again to the head of the parade. "Do you know that guy with the lopsided nose?"
"Hawkins calls him Limehouse."
"He must be the same one who took those shots at us at the beginning of this business."
Jillian was walking with Jed. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Jed shook his head. "Nope. Just fouled up my favorite pair of pants."
After a moment Joe announced, "Okay, folks. Looks like we've reached the end of the line."
The beam from his flashlight danced on a
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rounded section of stone wall. To Frank it looked like the inside of a well.
"Where will this thing let us out?" he asked as his brother aimed the flashlight at a wooden trapdoor over their heads.
"Outside the castle wall, up near a stretch of woods." Joe grinned. "When they were really using this thing, I guess the woods were bigger and hid it better."
Frank reached up. The ceiling was low enough that he could get a grip on the metal latch handle that locked the trapdoor. "If this is out in the open, it may not be a secret anymore. Lime- house may have it staked out."
He tried to turn the handle.
"C'mon, Frank, we don't have all day," Joe urged.
Frank grunted. "Seems to be stuck."
"Here, I'll give you a hand." Joe caught hold of the ancient, rusty handle, gritting his teeth and straining.
The handle resisted for a moment, seemed to give, and then, with a metallic twang, broke off.
Both Hardys tumbled to the ground, the useless handle clanging on the rocky floor.
Jed had already taken their place, shoving frantically at the door. "Still jammed," he announced.
Jillian, in the rear of the group, suddenly
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gasped. "I hear something," she said, "down at the other end of the tunnel. Footsteps—coming this way."
Joe picked up the now-useless door latch. "Great," he said. "Up the creek—without a handle."
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Chapter 18
Both Hardys jumped to their feet to attack the jammed trap door.
Joe pulled out his pocket knife and wedged it into the crack between the door and its frame. He strained against the latch, trying to lever the trapped tongue free.
No good. He began whacking at the knife with the broken latch handle. There was still resistance, but he thought the knife was beginning to move.
Frank grabbed a handy rock and rapped sharply at the door. Maybe the vibration would dislodge any rust stuck in the latch itself.
After a desperate couple of seconds, Joe suddenly yelled, "It's giving!" One more shot with his trusty handle and the latch gave. Jed and
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Frank shoved, and with a considerable creak, the door opened upward. A large rectangle of blue afternoon sky showed in the low ceiling of the tunnel.
"Give me a leg up," Joe said.
Frank boosted his brother while Joe scrambled desperately for a hold in the grass above.
He hauled himself through the trapdoor. Then, kneeling on the edge, Joe leaned back in. "Get Jillian up here next."
Jed lifted the girl up by her waist, and she perched on Frank's shoulders to boost herself out of the opening.
Heavy footsteps echoed behind them in the darkness of the underground passageway.
Frank boosted Jed up next, and then Joe and the actor pulled Frank out.
"We'd better head for the woods," Joe said, pointing. "There's a road just beyond there where we could—"
"Trouble," Frank cut in, his eyes on the castle behind them.
Through one of the gaps in the tumbledown gray stone wall they could see Hawkins and two more of his goons. Rowland had climbed one of the solid sections of the battlement and was pointing down, directing his pals toward the escapees.
"Well, Limehouse raised the alarm—and now we're spotted," Frank said.
"I picked up a couple of guns on the way in."
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Joe looked around uneasily. There was no cover nearby, nowhere they could make a stand. "I don't think they'll help us stand off a whole gang in the open."
Hawkins and his six men now had their weapons out and were climbing the rubble mounds on the other side of the castle walls.
"So," Frank said, "we've got a choice of being shot or surrendering."
Nigel Hawkins was the first to burst through the opening in the wall. "Where is she?" he demanded when he saw Joe. "What have you done with Emily Cornwall?"
A wild cry from Jillian rang out over whatever else Hawkins was going to say. "Jed, look!" she cried, grabbing his arm and pointing toward the woods beyond them.
"Hey, it's just like the movies," the actor said, laughing. "The cops arrive in the nick of time."
Coming down into the field were three uniformed police officers, and three more in plain clothes.
Face pale, Hawkins stared at the oncoming police. His carefully constructed suave mask was shattered by sheer rage. "You young fool, you've wrecked it all." He raised his gun, taking careful aim at Joe.
Frank flung the old iron handle still in his hand straight at Hawkins's gun. At the same time Joe crouched low and charged at Hawkins.
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The gun went off, with one shot that went high. Joe launched himself at Hawkins, catching him in a flying tackle.
Hawkins tumbled backward into the wall of the castle. His second shot went straight up into the air.
Joe chopped at Hawkins's wrist, knocking the gun out of his hand. Frank caught the gun as Jed came up from behind Joe and delivered a punch to Hawkins's jaw.
The head crook bounced back to the wall and sank down in an unconscious sprawl.
His gang, realizing that the police were coming in for the kill, was scattering across the courtyard, heading for the cars.
Jed, with a satisfied grin, rubbed his knuckles. "See, Hardy? I really do all my own stunts."
Jillian, laughing, came up and hugged him.
Joe slumped against the wall and looked over at his brother. "Here come the police," he said. "Do you want to explain things, or should I?"
* * *
Hours later Frank and Joe were back in their London hotel. The Kent police had taken over the case in a quick and businesslike way. They'd gotten confessions from Nigel and his men regarding the letters and the phone bugs, as well as the shooting and the bomb. They admitted to kidnapping Jillian after she'd learned the role she was to play in the heist, and they had made sure there were no photos of her anywhere so
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no one could make a connection between her and Emily. The police had questioned Frank, Joe, Jillian, and Jed and taken their statements, and had even given their witnesses a lift to London before evening.
Joe came out of the shower humming a cheerful tune as he wandered around the room in his bathrobe. His older brother was on the telephone.
"That's great," Frank was saying. "Glad to hear it."
Moving to the window, Joe looked down into the twilit street. "Not a trace of fog," he observed happily. "It's going to be a perfect night—just exactly right for my dinner date with Karen."
After hanging up, Frank walked over to stand beside Joe. "That was Jed Shannon," he said.
"I guess Larry Berman has been busy. Jed's sure getting a lot of publicity out of this." Joe started to get dressed. "The newsstands in the streets were full of it by the time we reached town. " 'Film Star Rescues Kidnapped Actress!' " He grinned. "Not exactly true, but it makes for interesting reading."
"The stories seem to have done Jillian a lot of good, too," Frank said. "Her new agent— she'll never see that Fisher-Stone guy again-— just phoned. She's gotten some great offers. Jed says his studio has just signed her up to star with him in his next picture."
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"Here in England?"
"Nope, in California someplace. Jed said they'll be leaving for there after the case is all settled."
"They find each other, she gets famous, they work happily ever after. Sounds like a great ending for them." Joe pulled on his socks. "Nigel Hawkins and his gang are all in the lockup, so they can't bother Jed or Jillian anymore."
"True." Frank sat on the edge of the bed. "I hear that Emily Cornwall collected the Talbot emeralds right on schedule. She's planning to come out into the world a bit more."
"I had a hunch she would, after talking to her the other day. It looks like everything's—"
The phone rang.
Frank answered. "Hello? Oh, hi. Just a second. For you, Joe."
"Yes?" Joe said into the receiver.
"I'm really very unhappy about this." Karen Kirk's voice crackled over the phone line. "But I've got this incredible opportunity, and I just can't pass it up. My friends on one of the magazines want me to do an article on the whole Jillian Seabright case."
She sounded a little embarrassed. "You know, an 'I was there' kind of thing. Corny, maybe, but it will be a big credit for me. The problem is that I have to meet with them tonight. I just can't keep our dinner date, Joe."
"How about a late dinner instead?"
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Karen sounded doubtful. "This may drag on for hours."
"Lunch tomorrow? You can interview me for your story." That sounded desperate, even to Joe.
"Tomorrow I'll already be working away on the article. There's a very tight deadline," she explained. "But I'm sure we'll be able to get together at least once before you guys leave England."
"I'm sure we will. Good luck, Karen." Joe hung up.
"No date?" asked his brother.
"I'll give you the details," Joe told him sourly. "But you've got to promise not to laugh."
Hardy Boys 44: The Haunted Fort
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I
Scalp Warning
“CHET MORTON inviting us to a mystery—I don’t believe it!” Blond seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy smiled as he and his brother bounded off the back steps toward the garage.
Frank Hardy, dark-haired and a year older than Joe, eagerly keyed the car motor to life. Soon they were headed out of Bayport for the Morton farm. Dusk was falling.
“Chet seemed too excited to say much on the phone,” Frank explained. “But he did mention there might be a vacation in it for us—and a haunted fort.”
“A haunted fort!”
When the brothers pulled into the gravel driveway of the rambling, brown-and-white farmhouse, pretty lola Morton, Chet’s sister, danced off the porch to greet them.
“Frank and Joe! What a surprise! You’re just in time for our homemade hootenanny!”
“And I can play two chords!” Callie Shaw waved from the front doorway, a large guitar hanging from her neck. Callie, a slim blonde, was Frank’s special friend, while vivacious Iola often dated Joe.
“It sounds great,” Frank began, “but Chet called us over to—” He glanced suspiciously at Joe. “Say, do you think these two got Chet to lure us over here about a mystery?”
“Of course not, sillies,” dark-haired Iola protested, her eyes snapping. “Besides, who wants to talk about murky old mysteries? Wait until you hear Callie’s new ballad records.”
As the four entered the house, a round face beneath a coonskin cap peered from the kitchen. Then the stocky figure of Chet Morton made an entrance.
“Hi, Hardys ! Anybody for a haunted vacation?”
“Chet! Then there really is a mystery?” Joe’s face brightened as Chet nodded and motioned the brothers upstairs to his room. But not before the girls frowned disdainfully.
“Meanies!” Callie said. “Don’t be forever!”
As the Hardys took seats, Chet reclined on his bed and began, “My uncle Jim phoned late this afternoon from Crown Lake in New England. You know, he’s chief painting instructor at a summer art school there.”
Chet explained that the place, named Millwood, was sponsored by a millionaire for the benefit of talented teen-agers.
“Sounds like a swell arrangement for aspiring artists,” Frank remarked.
“Uncle Jim loves his job,” Chet continued, “or at least he did before the painting thefts started.”
“You mean thefts of students’ paintings?” Joe interrupted, puzzled.
“No. Something much more valuable. Uncle Jim didn’t go into details, but he did mention somebody called the Prisoner-Painter. Two of his pictures have disappeared.”
“What about the local police?” Frank asked.
“They’ve already tried to solve the case. No luck. That’s why Uncle Jim wants us to live at the school for a while.”
“How’d he know about us?” Joe put in.
“I mentioned you fellows in letters. ’Course, I didn’t tell him any of the bad things about you—only that you were a couple of great detectives.”
Frank grinned and arced a slow-motion swing toward his teasing pal, but in a flash Chet was on his feet, twirling his coonskin cap. “I’m half-packed already.” He brightened, a hopeful look in his eye. “Will you fellows come along?”
“Try and keep us away!” Joe exclaimed. He was as excited as Frank at the prospect of adventure.
Both boys, sons of Bayport’s famous detective, Fenton Hardy, had already tackled and solved many mysteries. From the baffling secret of The Tower Treasure to their most recent case, The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior, the boys welcomed each new challenge. Chet, their loyal and close friend, though sometimes reluctant to sleuth with them, often proved to be of great help.
“Chet,” Frank added, “didn’t you mention a haunted fort on the phone?”
“Oh that!” Chet groaned. “Yes, I did. Uncle Jim said something about an old French fort nearby, but maybe it’s not important. Gee, fellows, haunted places don’t agree with me!”
“I don’t know,” Frank mused, winking at Joe. “I hear some ghosts are pretty well-fed. Think we could introduce Chet to one or two up at Crown Lake?”
Chet could not repress a smile as the brothers chuckled, then patted him on the back. Suddenly they heard a scream from the front porch.
“That’s Callie!” Joe cried out.
The three boys rushed downstairs. Iola stood trembling in the doorway. Callie, pale with fright, pointed to a hairy object on the lawn.
“What happened?” Frank asked in alarm.
Callie said that a speeding black car had slowed in front of the house and somebody had tossed out the object.
“It looks like—like a scalp!” Iola shuddered.
The Hardys rushed out to the lawn and Frank knelt over the strange thing.


“It’s a scalp!” Frank exclaimed
“It’s a scalp all right—made of papier-mâché! Looks pretty real with all this red paint.”
Joe picked it up. “There’s a note attached!” He removed a small piece of paper from the underside. Frowning, he read the typewritten words aloud:
“ ‘Use your heads, stay away from Crown Lake.’”
“Did you get a look at the driver?” Frank asked, as Iola and Callie joined the boys.
“No, but I think it was an out-of-state license plate,” Callie replied. “I thought he was just a litterbug until I saw—that.”
The gruesome-looking object was made from black bristles of the sort used in paintbrushes. Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “What do you fellows make of it?”
Joe shrugged. “Who would want to stop us from going to Crown Lake—and why?”
“Also,” Chet added, “how did anybody even know we had been invited up to Crown Lake by my uncle?”
The young people discussed the strange warning as the Hardys returned to their car, where Frank deposited the fake scalp.
“This grisly clue indicates one thing,” Frank concluded. “Somebody wants us to stay away from Millwood Art School! If that’s where our ‘scalper’ is from, it might explain how he learned of Mr. Kenyon’s invitation.”
“Speaking of invitations,” Joe said, “what time do you want to leave tomorrow, Chet?”
“Leave!” Iola and Callie exclaimed.
“Sure.” Frank grinned. “I’ve always been interested in Indian haircuts—that is, unless Chet wants to back out.”
“Me—back out?” Chet swallowed, then resolutely replaced the coonskin cap on his round head—backward. “Fur Nose Morton will pick you up tomorrow morning at ten sharp. Don’t forget to pack some warm duds!”
The girls protested in vain. After making the boys promise not to be away for the whole summer, they wished them a safe and pleasant trip. As Frank drove the car down the drive, Joe leaned out the window.
“We’ll take a rain check on that hootenanny, girls. See you in the morning, Chet!”
Full of anticipation about their new mystery, the Hardys drove directly to their tree-shaded house at the corner of High and Elm streets. After securing permission from their parents for the trip to Crown Lake, the excited boys spent the rest of the evening packing three large suitcases. Before retiring, they quickly perused several school-books on the history of the Crown Lake region. It had been an area of conflict during the French and Indian War.
“Here’s a fort!” Joe remarked. “Senandaga! That may be the place Chet’s uncle mentioned. According to this, Senandaga was an impressive stronghold, though it didn’t play a large role in the campaigns.”
“If a fort’s haunted, we can’t expect it to be historical too,” Frank said, grinning.
“Wait a minute!” Joe looked up. “There’s a small painting of this fort right in the Bayport Museum!”
“The same one?”
“Yes. What say we have a look at it tomorrow before Chet gets here?”
After a sound night’s sleep the boys awoke a half-hour earlier than usual the following morning and quickly arranged their luggage on the front porch. Leaving word that they would be back by ten, they drove in their convertible to the Bayport Museum.
A small, pug-faced man carrying a large sketch pad was just leaving the building as they reached the top of the marble steps. After bumping into Frank, he bowed nervously, then hastened down the steps and up the street.
“He’s sure an early-bird artist,” Joe remarked.
They passed into the cool, echoing foyer and were just about to enter the American Collection Room when they heard running footsteps and a cry for help. A distraught, bespectacled man waved to them and pointed ahead.
“That man—stop him—he’s stolen our fort painting!”

CHAPTER II
Highway Chase
“FORT painting!” The words set Frank and Joe racing after the thief. They darted outside and down the marble steps three at a time! Frank went in one direction, Joe the other. But there was no sign of the fugitive.
After the Hardys had checked several side streets, they headed back and met at the museum.
“No luck,” Frank said.
“He must have had a car,” Joe declared.
“Another thing,” Frank said, “I’ll bet he hid the painting in that big sketch pad of his.”
In the foyer of the museum, the brothers were questioned by two policemen. After Frank and Joe had given their statements to the officers, they spoke with the museum director, the man who had alerted them to the theft. As Frank suspected, the thief had apparently concealed the small painting in his sketch pad.
“I don’t know why he chose the picture of Fort Senandaga,” the director lamented, “but I’m sorry he did. So far as I know, ours was the only work of the Prisoner-Painter in this area.”
The Hardys started in surprise. This was the same artist whose pictures had been disappearing from Millwood Art School!
After the director had thanked them for their efforts, they returned to their car, each with the same thought: Had the morning’s theft any connection with the art school mystery?
When they reached home, Chet was sitting disconsolately on the porch steps fanning himself with a blue beret.
“Leaping lizards! What a morning you fellows pick for going to a museum,” he moaned. “I could have had a second breakfast while I’ve been waiting for you.”
“We’re sorry, Chet,” Frank apologized, “but it turned out to be a four-lap, dead-end workout.”
While the Hardys loaded their bags into Chet’s freshly polished yellow jalopy, the Queen, they told him of the museum theft. Chet whistled.
“Do you think the thief’s the one who threw that scalp on our lawn?”
“It’s likely,” Frank replied.
When the jalopy had been loaded up to the back windows, Mrs. Hardy came out and embraced the boys warmly. “Do take care of yourselves.” She smiled. “Dad will be home in a few days. I’ll tell him about your case, but I feel sure you can solve it by yourselves.”
Amid good-bys, Chet backed the car down the driveway, and soon the jalopy was headed north out of Bayport. After following the county road for half an hour, Chet guided the car onto the wide-laned state thruway extending like a white ribbon beneath a light-blue sky.
The boys conversed excitedly about their destination and the mystery to be solved there.
“You really did some tune-up job on the Queen, Chet,” Joe commented from the back seat. “One of these days she may be a threat to approaching the speed limit.”
Chet smiled good-naturedly at the gibe, then frowned, tugging at his beret to keep it from being blown off by the brisk wind. Finally he gave up. “Alas, what we artists must bear.” He sighed and stuffed the cap into the glove compartment.
Frank grinned. “What happened to that coonskin job you had yesterday?”
“Oh,” Chet said airily, “I thought I’d get into the artistic spirit.”
As they drove by a gasoline-and-restaurant service area, a black sedan pulled out onto the thruway from the service area exit. When Chet moved to the middle lane to pass, Joe glanced at the sedan and sat up sharply.
“Frank! The driver of that car—it’s the picture thief!”
Immediately Chet slackened speed. Looking over, Frank too recognized the pug-faced man at the wheel an instant before the thief saw the Hardys. Clearly alarmed, the man gunned the engine. The black car shot ahead, but Frank glimpsed in its back seat a large sketch pad!
“Stay with him!” Joe urged, as the gap widened between the two cars. Futilely, Chet floored the Queen’s old gas pedal, then noticed a large sign to the right: PAY TOLL—½ MILE.
“Quick a quarter!”
Ahead, they could see the black car slow down at the exact-change booth to the right. Chet closed the space quickly before the other car moved ahead, less swiftly this time. Beyond the toll, a parked State Police car was visible.
“Now’s our chance to catch him!” Frank exclaimed. Chet pulled up to the same booth and hastily flipped the coin into the collection basket. Without waiting the second for the light to turn green, he gunned the Queen in hot pursuit of the black car.
Ahead, a blast of exhaust smoke told the pursuers that the thief was tromping on the gas. As Chet strained over the wheel trying to gain speed he heard a siren behind him, and the trooper waved the jalopy to the roadside.
“What happened?” Joe asked anxiously as Chet stopped.
The trooper pulled ahead, got out, and ambled over. “It’s customary to drop a quarter in the toll basket, young fellow.”
“I did.”
The trooper looked annoyed. “The light still says red, and besides, the alarm bell rang.”
“But—but—” Chet spluttered in surprise.
“Let’s see your license.”
“Officer,” Frank spoke up, “we’re in a hurry. We’re chasing a thief!”
The trooper smiled in spite of himself. “Well, I’ve never heard that one before.”
“But we are!” Joe insisted. “A painting was stolen in Bayport.”
“You can check with Chief Collig there,” said Frank.
The trooper eyed the trio suspiciously. “Okay. But if this is a hoax, I’ll arrest all three of you.” He strode to his car and spoke into the radio. Three minutes later he trotted back. “Accept my apologies, boys. You were right. Can you describe that car?”
As Joe gave the information, including the license number which he had memorized, Chet hurried to the toll basket. He returned waving a cloth in his hand. “That’s a clever crook!” he shouted. “He dropped this rag in the basket so my quarter wouldn’t register.”
“He won’t get away from us,” the trooper said. He ran to his car, radioed to police ahead, then sped off at ninety miles an hour.
“Now we’ve got action,” Frank said as Chet urged the Queen along the thruway.
Three exits later, they saw the trooper parked alongside the road. Chet pulled up behind him.
“Sorry, boys!” the officer called out. “The thief gave us the shake. But we’ll track him down!”
After a brief stop at a snack bar the trio continued on toward Crown Lake, with Frank at the wheel.
The flat countryside gave way to ranges of dark and light green hills, several of them arching spectacularly up on either side of the broad road, curving toward the blue sky.
An hour later they left the state thruway and proceeded through several small towns before sighting the bluish-gray water of Crown Lake. It appeared, partially screened by a ridge of trees, then came into full view at a rise just beyond where there was a dirt road and a sign: MILLWOOD ART SCHOOL 500 YARDS AHEAD TO THE RIGHT. Frank swung into the road and in a few minutes the sloping green lawns of the estate came into view. Frank pulled the car into a parking area facing the edge of the slope and stopped next to a large oak.
Chet led the way vigorously down a graveled path which wound across the grounds. “Uncle Jim’s teaching his class now,” he called back to the Hardys.
Ahead, on a level stretch of lawn, the trio saw a group of young people standing in front of easels. Near one student stood a tall, husky, blond-haired man in a painting smock. When he saw the boys, he beamed and hurried over.
“Chet! Good to see you again!”
“Hello, Uncle Jim!” Chet promptly introduced Frank and Joe to Mr. Kenyon, who shook hands warmly.
“Welcome to Millwood.” He smiled. “Fortunately, my last class today is finishing, and I can help you with your luggage.”
The painting instructor accompanied the boys back across the lawn toward the uphill path. Suddenly one of the students cried out:
“Look out! That car—it’s rolling!”
A shudder passed through the boys as they saw the yellow Queen starting down the slope from the parking area. Directly in its path two girls stood rooted in terror at their easels.
Chet’s jalopy gathered speed. It hurtled faster and faster toward the girls!
“We’ve got to stop it!” shouted Joe, on the run.

CHAPTER III
Inquisitive Student
JOE sprinted across the slope and dived for the car. Hanging on, he reached through the window and wrenched at the wheel. The Queen swerved, missed the girls by inches, crushed the easels, and came to rest in a tangle of thick underbrush.
Then Joe ran up to the frightened students. “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.
Both girls nodded, trembling with relief. One said, “We owe you our lives!”
“And our paintings too,” said her companion.
Their two half-finished canvases had been knocked off the easels and lay intact, face up on the ground.
By now Frank, Chet, and Mr. Kenyon had rushed over. “Are you all right, Joe?”
“I’m fine, but I’d rather tackle a whole football team than a runaway car!”
The praises of the onlookers for his bravery embarrassed Joe. “Let’s find out what happened to the Queen,” he said.
The boys found the car undamaged. “Hey!” Chet cried out. “The emergency’s off! I know you set it, Frank.”
The jalopy was driven back to the parking area. This time it was left well away from the rim of the incline. Frank looked around.
“The car didn’t just happen to roll. Somebody deliberately released the emergency brake.”
Mr. Kenyon frowned. “What a terrible prank!”
“I don’t believe it was a practical joke,” Frank said. “What the motive was, though, I can’t guess yet.”
The boys took their luggage from the car, and then Mr. Kenyon led them toward a small, newly painted building. “I’m sorry you had to be welcomed to Millbrook in this manner,” he said. “But we’ll try to make up for it.”
He took the visitors through a side door into a large, cluttered room, piled with dusty easels, rolls of canvas, and cardboard boxes filled with paint tubes. “This is our storage house,” explained the art instructor.
The boys followed him down a narrow stairway into a small basement studio. The stone room smelled of oil paints. Several unframed modern paintings lay along one wall. Mr. Kenyon reached up with a pole to open the single window near the ceiling.
“This is my little garret—subterranean style,” he explained. “Make yourselves comfortable. Since the thefts, I’ve been rooming upstairs where I have a better view of our art gallery across the way.”
The boys set down their bags on three sturdy cots. Joe grinned. “I’m beginning to feel like an artist.”
“So am I,” Frank said. “This room is fine, Mr. Kenyon.”
“Just call me Uncle Jim. How about supper? You must be hungry.”
Chet beamed. “I could eat an easel!”
First, however, he eagerly recounted the scalp incident to his uncle, then the Hardys told of their experiences at the Bayport Museum and on the thruway. Mr. Kenyon agreed there likely was a connection with the Millwood thefts.
“But the man you describe doesn’t ring any bells with me,” he continued. “Our summer session had been going along well until five days ago when I discovered a painting missing from our small gallery. The day before yesterday, a second was stolen during the night—both works of the Prisoner-Painter.” He sighed. “We have to keep the building under lock and key now, even from our students.”
“So tomorrow we’ll start our sleuthing,” said Joe.
“Right. Perhaps by mingling with the students you can pick up some clue,” replied Uncle Jim. “Though I’d hate to suspect any of them.”
“Can you tell us about this Prisoner-Painter?” Frank asked.
“I could,” Mr. Kenyon said, smiling, “but I think Mr. Jefferson Davenport would rather tell you himself, since the artist is his ancestor.”
“The wealthy man who started Millwood?” Joe put in.
“Yes. He looks forward to meeting you detectives, but he won’t be receiving visitors today, because of the anniversary of a battle.”
“A battle?” Frank echoed in surprise.
The instructor chuckled. “You’ll find Mr. Davenport is quite a buff on the science of military fortification, in addition to his interest in painting. You’ll see when you meet him tomorrow.”
“What about this haunted fort?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Senandaga?” Uncle Jim’s eyes twinkled. “There are apparently some weird goings-on there. But Mr. Davenport will fill you in on that, too.”
Uncle Jim then took the Hardys and Chet to the Davenport lakeside mansion, an old gabled house staffed only by a woman cook and a part-time chauffeur-gardener.
“Mr. Davenport has invited us to have meals in the kitchen during your stay here,” the instructor said.
After a hearty supper Mr. Kenyon took the boys on a tour. He explained that the Millwood grounds were tended by the students themselves, who rented rooms in the nearby village of Cedartown. Art materials, all instruction, and part of rent costs were financed by the millionaire patron. Several townspeople also painted on weekends at the school.
Uncle Jim showed his visitors the studios, the gallery building from the outside, and finally, a boathouse near the mansion. Several canoes were tied up to a dock. These, Mr. Kenyon said, were for the students’ use.
As he accompanied the boys back to their quarters the instructor said with a grin, “Don’t expect Mr. Davenport to be too—er—ordinary.” He did not explain further, and bade them good night, saying the art patron expected them to call at nine A.M. the next day.
Early the next morning Joe awoke to see an unfamiliar face peering down into their room through the single, high window. The boy, who appeared to be about nineteen, scowled at Joe, then disappeared.
At that moment Frank awakened.
“What’s the matter?” he asked his brother, who was sitting up in bed staring at the window.
“Some fellow was looking in here. He didn’t seem the cheerful type.”
Frank laughed. “One of the students, probably. Maybe he’s envious of our artist’s garret. Let’s wake up Chet and get some vittles.”
After breakfast the three boys strolled around the grounds, already dotted with students setting up easels or heading for studio classes. Joe started as he noticed one student, carrying a small easel, approaching them.
“He’s the one I saw at the window this morning!”
Like many of the other students, the boy wore a gray smock. His face, long and with pudgy lips, had a faintly insolent expression. He came up to the Bayporters.
“You new here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Frank answered. “We plan to pick up some painting tips as guests of Mr. Kenyon.” He introduced himself and the others.
The student stared at them speculatively. “Oh, is that so? Well, my name’s Ronnie Rush.” He went on sullenly, “Kenyon would have to lock up the whole gallery just because two measly paintings are gone. I could be doing some research.” With a shrug Ronnie added, “Guess I got nothing against you fellows, though. See you around.”
Before the Hardys or Chet could retort, the student shuffled off.
“He’s got some nerve,” Chet said indignantly, “criticizing Uncle Jim! And why was he looking in our window, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but he certainly seems curious about us.”
At that moment Uncle Jim, wearing a fresh white smock, came over and greeted the boys cheerfully. He immediately led them in the direction of the Davenport mansion.
“I’m heading for my watercolor class,” he explained, “but you sleuths can have a private conference about our mystery with Mr. Davenport.”
The instructor led them onto the porch, through the open front door, and pointed down the wood-paneled hallway to a large double door at the end.
“That’s Mr. Davenport’s study, where he’s ex pecting you. We’ll get together later!”
After Chet’s uncle had left, they walked quietly down the hall to the study. Frank knocked. A few seconds later a voice from within said, “Come along.”
The boys entered, closed the doors, and found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with heavily draped windows. Bookshelves lined one wall behind a cluttered mahogany desk. The adjacent wall contained a blackboard.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Joe gave Frank a nudge. “Look there!” he whispered.
Standing on a hassock was a small, gray-haired man in a white summer suit. He held a long pointer in one hand and was looking down at a fort structure of toy logs set up on the floor.
“Never! Never!” exclaimed the man as he collapsed the fort with a swish of the stick.
The trio watched, mouths agape. The man looked up quickly and said, “Hello, boys.”
“Mr. Davenport?” Chet said, nonplused.
“I am. And you are James Kenyon’s nephew Chester, I believe, and the two Hardy boys! Much honored!” The man jumped down and shook each boy’s hand, bowing slightly. He spoke in a pleasant Southern drawl, but his twinkling blue eyes revealed a lively personality.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Davenport said.
“We appreciate your invitation to Millwood,” Frank said as they settled in comfortable chairs.
“Poor strategy,” the art patron muttered. He threw open the draperies and paced the room.
“Pardon, sir?” Joe hesitated.
“Vicksburg, of course,” Mr. Davenport answered, frowning at the scattered toy logs. “Yesterday was my annual Vicksburg Day.”
“Have you many military—er—holidays in the year, Mr. Davenport?” asked Chet.
“Fifty-seven, not a one more!” he replied. “Used to have fifty-six till I admitted Bunker Hill this year. Sad days, many of ‘em, but—”
Mr. Davenport paused. Suddenly he rushed over to the toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!
Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. “Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!” Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.
Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. “Now, what were you saying?”
Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.
“Could you tell us something about the Prisoner-Painter, Mr. Davenport?” Joe asked. “And the fort, too?” At that instant Frank heard a faint sound and saw the double door of the study open a fraction of an inch!
“An eavesdropper!” he thought. Frank rushed across the room, but already footsteps were racing down the hallway. Grabbing the knobs, he flung the doors wide open.

CHAPTER IV
A Crimson Clue
STUMBLING footsteps sounded at the bottom of the high porch, but by the time Frank dashed outside, the eavesdropper had vanished.
Disappointed, he returned to the others in the study. “Whoever he was, he didn’t drop any clues,” Frank reported.
“You’re alert, boys,” Mr. Davenport commented. “I like that. What’s more, you’re not afraid, like that custodian who guarded my fort.”
“Your
fort?” Joe asked in surprise.
“Yes, young man, Senandaga belongs to me.”
“What happened to the custodian?” asked Frank.
“He left. Quit. Said he couldn’t stand all that haunting—queer noises and so forth. To hear him talk, there’s a whole regiment of ghosts manning the parapets.” Mr. Davenport looked thoughtful. “Of course, he claims he had some close calls.”
“Such as?” Frank queried.
“Said chunks of masonry nearly fell on him a couple of times. But”—the art patron looked skeptical—“I don’t put much stock in that.”
“Now nobody takes care of the fort?” Joe asked.
“Nobody. And there aren’t any pesky visitors, either,” Davenport said with satisfaction. “Anyhow, we have enough to do tracking down the art thieves without worrying about the fort.”
Then the boys asked Mr. Davenport about his ancestor, the Prisoner-Painter.
“Jason Davenport was a great soldier,” he began. “When hostilities broke out between the North and the South, he rose quickly to brigadier general. Then, in one rally near the Potomac, he broke the Union line but penetrated too far without logistical support and was captured. He was held prisoner for the duration at my fort.”
“A brave man,” Joe said. “An ancestor to be proud of.”
“The fort is south of here on Crown Lake, isn’t it?” Frank asked.
Mr. Davenport nodded, motioning toward the large window. “If it weren’t for the promontory nearby, you could see Senandaga.” He reflected. “Jason Davenport died shortly after the war ended. But had he not been a prisoner there, there wouldn’t be the seventeen canvases of Fort Senandaga, three of which,” he added in a rueful tone, “have been stolen.”
Mr. Davenport explained that the general had taken up painting to while away the days. He was a popular hero, well liked by his captors, and received many special favors, including the art materials necessary for his new interest.
“He showed a real genius in imagining different views of the fort from the surrounding countryside.”
“And that’s why his paintings are valuable enough to tempt a thief?” Joe asked, impressed.
“I’d like to think so,” Mr. Davenport answered, “but I fear that’s not the real reason. You see, there were rumors later that Jason had discovered an old French treasure in the fort—and that he had left a clue to its hiding place. My father and uncle didn’t believe it, but I did. So I bought the fort two years ago from a private party.”
“The general left this clue in a painting?” Chet guessed.
“Yes. Either in the picture itself, or the frame.” The art patron went on to explain that his forebear had fashioned a very unusual frame, which he used for all his paintings. “The frames themselves are valuable,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of the originals have been lost over the years, so a few of the fort pictures in our gallery are conventionally framed.”
Joe asked how many of the general’s works were in the school’s possession.
“Fourteen.”
“Who has the others?”
Mr. Davenport’s face turned an angry red. “One, I’m sorry to say, belongs to a person who doesn’t deserve it.” Suddenly, however, he chortled. “But I’ll get back at him.”
The boys were mystified,but before they could question him, the elderly man added, “Another fort picture belongs to a hermit fellow, an Englishman. He bought the painting years ago at an auction. Lives out on Turtle Island.”
“And nobody has found a trace of any clue so far?” Frank asked.
“Not a one. I’ve been trying to find the fort treasure ever since I came here.”
“What is it?” Frank asked. “Jewels?”
“Oh, no. A boom chain, such as those used with logs for blocking ships in the French and Indian War, when Senandaga was built.” The man picked up two of the toy logs and seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Marvelous, marvelous idea, those log-and-chain defenses!”
“Could even a historical chain be tremendously valuable?” Joe inquired, to lead Mr. Davenport back to the main subject of discussion.
“This one is!” the man returned emphatically. “It’s called chaîne d’or—a chain of solid gold.”
“Gold!” The three sleuths sounded like a chorus.
Their host explained that in 1762 the proud Marquis Louis de Chambord, builder and commander of Senandaga, had ordered the chain to be forged, not to be used of course, but as a symbol of his fort’s strength. There was a disagreement, however, among historians over whether the chaîne d’or actually had been made.
“I’m of the firm opinion that it was,” he concluded, “which is why I had James invite you boys up here—to track down the art thief and uncover the gold treasure. So you boys feel free to come and go as you please in my home.”
“Could one of Millwood’s students be the thief?” Frank asked hesitantly.
The art patron wagged his head sadly. “Can’t believe it. They’re all fine young people! Which reminds me—young people get hungry. How about lunch?”
On a lakeside terrace the Bayporters were served club sandwiches and iced tea. As they ate, Frank questioned their host about his cook and chauffeur.
“I trust them implicitly. Both came with excellent references.”
The meal over, Frank, Joe, and Chet thanked Mr. Davenport and walked back to the school. There, Frank pointed to a long, skylighted building in a grove of birches.
“What say we look for clues right where the paintings disappeared—the gallery?”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed. They crossed a wide lawn and eagerly headed for the old stone structure. Reaching it, Frank used the key given him by Mr. Kenyon and opened the large padlock. The boys filed inside and closed the door.
The interior was dim and cool, but sunlight came through the panes of a skylight to brighten the three windowless walls, on which were hung some fifty paintings. The wall at the far end of the room contained General Davenport’s, each of which showed a different view of Fort Senandaga.
The boys now noticed the distinctive frames mentioned by the art patron. Their corners jutted out in a diamondlike shape.
“Look!” Joe pointed to a large yellowed diagram, half of which was torn off. It hung near the fort pictures. “That must be Senandaga.”
The Hardys and Chet went over to examine the ancient parchment. Beneath was a label explaining the remnant was from one of the original drawing plans for the fort. Despite the missing part, they could see enough to tell that its layout resembled the form of a star.
“The Prisoner-Painter made his frames roughly in the same shape,” Joe observed.
Frank nodded, then said, “I’m sure the police searched here, but anyway, let’s take a look around ourselves for a clue to the thief.”
Chet took the end wall, Frank and Joe the sides. On their knees, the boys combed the stone floor, then studied the walls for possible telltale marks.
After an hour, their efforts had proved fruitless. “There’s still the wall around the entrance,” Joe said with a sigh. “Let’s inspect every stone.”
While Frank examined an empty desk, Chet and Joe pored carefully over the wall. No luck there.
“Say, fellows,” Joe suddenly exclaimed, “what about the fort paintings themselves? If the thief was undecided about which one to take, he may have touched some.”
“You’re right!” Frank agreed. They rushed across to the row of aged canvases. Removing the paintings from the wall, they began inspecting the backs and edges of the frames.
“Look! I found something!” Chet called out.
Across the paper backing was a sticky smear of red oil paint! “This was made recently,” Joe observed. “It still has a strong paint odor.”
“There’s no fingerprint on the smear,” remarked Frank, looking at it closely, before rubbing some of the paint onto a small piece of paper.
“I wonder if the thief is an artist himself,” Chet said.
The three left the gallery, and locked the door behind them. The next step, they agreed, would be to identify the paint, then track down the person who used it.
“Except for Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport,” Frank cautioned, “we’ll keep this clue to ourselves.”
Millwood students were now strolling from their classes, and Ronnie Rush emerged from a knot of chatting young artists.
“Pick up many painting tips today?” he asked, setting down his easel. “I see you rated getting into the gallery.”
“We’ve just been sort of on a tour,” Frank answered, deftly concealing the paint sample in the palm of his hand. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’ve been working on a couple of oils,” Ronnie said importantly. “Want to see ’em?”
“Not right now,” Joe replied. “We’re busy. Thanks anyway.”
Ronnie looked annoyed and eyed the three boys sullenly as they hurried to their quarters. There they found Jim Kenyon in the storage room shifting art equipment about. He was keenly interested in the paint sample, and congratulated them on finding the clue. He immediately identified the paint.
“It’s called alizarin crimson,” he said. “Many of our students use it.”
“Pretty hard to pinpoint the culprit,” Frank observed. “But we won’t give up.”
After washing his hands in turpentine and soap, the husky instructor accompanied the boys to supper. A tasty meal awaited them in the Davenport kitchen.
After supper the boys went to the lakeside for a look at the boathouse. They peered up at the promontory behind which Fort Senandaga lay.
“Let’s go over to the fort tomorrow,” Frank suggested. “Right now, we might do some boning up on art. It might sharpen our eyes to finding that treasure clue.”
In their basement room, Chet and the Hardys spent the evening mulling over books on painting borrowed from Mr. Kenyon. Later, they went upstairs for a conference with Chet’s uncle. Using paints and a canvas, the instructor illustrated various art techniques.
“Want to try your hand, Chet?” Mr. Kenyon offered, holding out the brush to his nephew. He winked at Frank and Joe. “I think he has the makings of a painter, don’t you?”
But before either Hardy could answer, the building shook with a deafening roar that reverberated up the stairwell!
Frank jumped to his feet. “That came from downstairs!” The smell of burnt powder reached them as they all charged down the narrow steps. When they entered their room, Chet gasped.
The wall near which their luggage lay was splattered with red dots!
“A shotgun!” Joe exclaimed, picking up a used cartridge under the window. He grimaced and held out the shell. “Look.” Everyone gasped. It was covered with red.
“Bl-blood?” Chet quavered.
His uncle examined the cartridge. “No. Red paint—alizarin crimson!”
On the floor lay a small paintbrush. Wrapped around it was a piece of paper. Frank unfolded the sheet to disclose a typewritten message:
A mural for the Hardy Boys. Leave Millwood or my next painting will be a coffin—yours.

CHAPTER V
Danger Alley
CHET looked nervous. “Another threat!” he exclaimed. “I guess that scalp warning wasn’t any joke.”
Uncle Jim’s face showed concern. “Whoever stuck a gun barrel through that window wants to scare you boys off—that’s plain.”
Joe said wryly, “Lucky we weren’t on hand for the barrage.”
Frank compared the note with that found earlier on the scalp. “Both were done on the same typewriter—and this red paint looks like that ‘blood’ on the papier-mâché.”
With flashlights the instructor and the three boys searched the ground outside the shattered window, but no clues were found.
While the boys swept up the broken glass and fallen plaster, they speculated on the identity of their mysterious enemy. The Hardys felt he might very well be the same person who had thrown the scalp and stolen the fort painting in Bayport.
Chet gulped. “You mean—that thief trailed us here?” Then he asked, “Do you think that snoopy Ronnie Rush could have had something to do with this?” He told his uncle of their encounters with the boy.
“Well,” said Mr. Kenyon, “Ronnie’s sometimes a little hard to work with, but I don’t think he’d do something like this. Our annual outdoor exhibit is to be held on Senandaga Day—next Saturday. I’ll be pretty busy getting ready for it, so I won’t have much time to help you detectives.”
Jim explained that Senandaga Day was celebrated every year. The town decreed that the fort be opened at this time to the public. “By having our art exhibit then, we attract more visitors.”
The Hardys decided to track down if possible the source of the empty cartridge. Frank obtained from Uncle Jim the name of a Cedartown hunting equipment shop, the only one in the area.
“It’s run by Myles Warren,” the painter added. “He’s one of our weekend painters, by the way.”
Before retiring, the Hardys fastened some slats across the window. The rest of the night passed uneventfully. After breakfast the next morning, the three attended the quaint little church in town and located the shop of Myles Warren.
“We’ll come here first thing tomorrow,” Frank said.
Back at the school, the boys had midday dinner, then strolled across the lawn toward several students at work on their paintings.
Frank said in a low tone, “Let’s see who has been using the alizarin red.” The trio split up. Each boy had a paper bearing a smear of the paint. They began browsing near easels set up not only on the main lawn, but also in various nooks on the outskirts of the estate.
“Wow!” Chet exclaimed to himself, coming upon a dazzling creation being worked on by a thin, red-haired boy in dungarees. The plump boy tried to make some order out of the reddish-brown swirls and zigzag silver streaks. “Looks like a vegetable cart that’s been hit by lightning.”
The student paused and greeted Chet. “Like it?” He smiled. “It’s a meadow in wintertime.”
“Oh—er—very unusual.” Chet walked on, muttering, “Guess I’ll have to get the hang of this stuff.”
He stopped at several other easels, some of which bore landscape scenes, and others, views of the Millwood buildings or of the surrounding lakes.
“Hi!” A round-faced jovial girl peeked out at Chet from behind an easel. “Are you a new student at Millwood?” she asked, wiping some red paint from her hands onto a rag. Chet explained that he was trying to pick up some pointers.
“You’ll have to see our exhibit,” she said brightly. “I’m just touching up my portrait. One of the other students modeled for it.”
“Is that alizarin crimson?”
“Oh, you! You’re an old pro to recognize it,” the girl said.
Chet gulped. “She’s so nice, she couldn’t be the thief,” he thought, then peered wide-eyed at the bizarre maze of green and yellow triangles, wavy black lines, blobs of thick red shading, and one eye.
“You say another student modeled for you? Is he all right now?”
The girl giggled. “Quit teasing. You know well enough this is an abstract!”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Chet smiled and moved on to inspect several other student canvases before meeting the Hardys near the gallery. “Hope you fellows had more luck than I did,” he said.
Frank shook his head. “Everybody is using alizarin crimson. We can’t narrow down this clue.”
The next morning they walked up the shady lake road to the quaint village of Cedartown. Picturesque shops, a small church, and a barnlike playhouse graced the narrow main street. Frank pointed out the Cedar Sport Store on the other side.
“If the shotgun shell was bought any place in the area, there’s a good chance it was here,” he said. They crossed and entered the dimly lighted shop.
A long, cluttered counter extended along a dusty wall hung with assorted hunting and fishing equipment. Frank rang the counter bell, and a slender hawk-nosed man with a full black beard emerged from a back room.
“Mr. Warren?” Frank inquired.
“Right. What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling. He spread his hands on the counter and looked with interest at the boys.
“Can you tell us whether this was sold here?” Joe asked, handing him the paint-marked cartridge.
The owner pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and looked closely at the shell. He shook his head and handed it back.
“If it was used in this area, it’s probably my stock,” Warren affirmed. “But I sell hundreds of this brand to hunters. Although without the red paint,” he added, chuckling.
“Then you have no way of pinpointing the customer?” Frank asked.
“I’m afraid not.” The man then asked, “You all up here for the fishing? It’s great at the north end of the lake.”
Frank shook his head. “Just visiting.”
After thanking the dealer, the three left the shop. The next moment they heard a cry of anguish from an antique shop across the street. Its owner stood in the doorway gesturing frantically. “Help! Thief! Help!”
The boys rushed to the sidewalk. “Over there!” Joe yelled.
Directly opposite, a small man was running into a cobblestone alley. He carried a picture frame under his arm. The boys sprinted across the street and up the alley. They were closing the gap when the man stopped at a parked black sedan. The Hardys gasped.
It was the man who had stolen the fort painting from the Bayport Museum!
“He’s got an old fort frame!” Frank cried out, recognizing the odd shape.
The boys put on more speed as the thief hopped into the car and started the motor.
The sedan roared down the alley directly toward the boys! “Quick, this way!” Joe yelled.
They darted to the right and flattened themselves against a building. The speeding vehicle almost brushed them. In a moment it had screeched around the corner and disappeared up the main street.
A curious crowd had gathered, but were quickly dispersed by a policeman. The Hardys and Chet then went with the officer to the antique shop. The owner explained that the pug-faced man, whom he had never seen before, had offered to purchase the frame. Upon hearing the price, the man said that it was too high, and he started toward the door.
“So I went into my workshop in back,” the dealer continued, “and returned just in time to see that scoundrel making off with the frame.” He groaned. “An irreplaceable loss.”
Next, the boys were taken to police headquarters, where they told their story to the chief. He said a state alarm would be issued for the fugitive. Since the earlier alert, sent out right after the boys’ chase on the thruway, the police had discovered through the license number that the sedan was stolen.
“We know the fellow’s in this area now,” the chief said. “We’ll keep you boys informed.”
Walking back to Millwood, the three discussed the stolen frame.
“Probably,” Frank remarked, “the thief didn’t have any luck finding a treasure clue in the paintings.”
Joe looked thoughtful, “You think this guy stole the gallery pictures, too?”
Frank stared at his brother. “Say! He could be in league with someone else!”
Back at Millwood, Chet and the Hardys told Mr. Kenyon of the Cedartown incident. “Pretty bold move,” he commented, “risking a theft in broad daylight.”
“Well,” Joe said glumly, “let’s hope the treasure clue isn’t in that frame.”
After some further discussion of the new development in the mystery, Uncle Jim said, “How would you like to get your first look at Fort Senandaga?”
“You bet!”
“Good. Mr. Davenport has asked us to go.”
The boys and the instructor went to the mansion, where they were introduced to Alex, the millionaire’s chauffeur-gardener, dressed in blue uniform and cap. Tall, with a clipped black mustache, he bowed stiffly to the boys, then moved around to the rear door of a polished limousine.
“Boy, we’re going to ride in real style!” Chet exclaimed. “Old Queen will get jealous.”
Mr. Davenport came out, greeted them cordially, and all took seats in back. Soon the limousine was heading south along the pretty, winding lake road. Past the end of the lake, the car turned up a gentle hill and paused at a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign. Alex got out and unlocked a wire gate. The entire south end of the fort promontory was enclosed by fencing marked with NO TRESPASSING signs.
As they drove ahead through overgrown woods, the elderly Southerner spoke proudly of Fort Senandaga’s history. He explained that little was known of the one battle fought there between the British and French.
“There’s dispute till this day about its outcome,” he went on, “and which side was the last to leave the fort. That’s probably why some folks believe Senandaga is haunted—ghosts of soldiers from both forces still fighting, no doubt.” He added, “Someday I aim to have that fort fully restored.”
Chet asked if the public often visited the site at other times besides Senandaga Day. Davenport’s face turned livid and his eyes blazed. “The—the public!” he sputtered, sitting up and thumping his cane on the floor. Chet sat petrified until his uncle put a warning finger to his lips and smoothly changed the subject.
Alex parked in a small clearing and everyone got out. The chauffeur stayed to guard the car. Mr. Davenport, his composure restored, led the others to a grass bluff. “There she is!”
The entire lake could be seen, dotted in the distance with islands like scrubby green battle-ships. To the boys’ left, up a gentle slope, rose the stone fort, an expansive star-shaped ruin surrounded by a shallow ditch, overgrown with brush. Although much of the masonry was crumbling, all the walls were at least partially intact.
As they walked toward the ramparts, Chet’s uncle pulled the boys aside and accounted for his employer’s sudden outburst.
“I guess I should have warned you,” he said, chuckling. “There are two things you should never mention in Mr. Davenport’s presence. One is admitting the public to his fort—he has a great fear that someone will get careless wandering around the ruins and be injured. The other is Chauncey Gilman.”
“Chauncey Gilman? Who is he?” Joe asked.
Before Uncle Jim could answer, Mr. Davenport summoned them all down the steep counterscarp, or exterior slope of the ditch. As they proceeded, the elderly man talked excitedly.
“Good walls, these,” he pointed out, his voice echoing upward. “The man who drew up the plans for Senandaga followed the star-shaped design made famous by Marshall Sebastian de Vauban, military engineer for Louis XIV. Genius—sheer genius!” he added as they came to a wide-angled turn in the towering wall. “A century later my ancestor was imprisoned here.”
Frank and Joe marveled at the imposing defense the fort must have provided. “How could any army capture a place like Senandaga?” Joe asked.
“Not without much bloodshed,” the millionaire acknowledged. “A man like Vauban could have succeeded, though. Long before Chambord built Senandaga, Vauban devised a parallel trench system for assaulting forts.” He explained how attacking armies in Europe had got nearer and nearer to fort walls by digging one parallel trench, then zigzagging ahead to dig another, and so on.
“Boy, what terrific strategy!” Frank said.
“Brilliant—brilliant,” Mr. Davenport agreed. “The Marquis de Chambord, by the way, was a great admirer of Vauban’s achievements.”
Chet glanced out at the peaceful lake, which once was the scene of warring canoes or attacking fleets. “It doesn’t seem haunted,” he whispered to the Hardys.
Frank was about to answer when a rumbling sound came from above. Looking up, he cried out:
“Watch out! The wall!”
A huge section of crumbling gray masonry collapsed in a cloud of dust and came toppling downward!

CHAPTER VI
Chet vs. Impasto
THE crumbling wall broke into a spreading, plunging landslide.
“Quick!” Frank shouted.
Instantly he pulled Mr. Davenport to safety while the others leaped from the path of the rocky avalanche.
When the danger was past, Frank saw that Mr. Davenport was holding his hand to his chest and breathing hard. “Are you all right, sir?”
The art patron shook his head but said nothing. His face was pale and he hung onto the boy for support. Frank turned to the others. “I think we’d better get him to a doctor!”
They quickly returned to the car. Alex drove them immediately to Mr. Davenport’s physician in Cedartown. To everyone’s relief, an examination showed that there was nothing seriously wrong.
“Just see that you get plenty of rest,” the young doctor directed, “and stay away from dangerous ruins!”
As the limousine headed back to Millwood, the millionaire, looking somewhat better, pursed his lips and grumbled. “No sooner get to visit my own fort than it has to fall down on me. I can’t understand it—Senandaga rock’s not likely to give way like that.”
Joe and Frank shared a frightening thought: Had the masonry been pushed down?
“You take care of yourself, Mr. Davenport.” Joe smiled. “Frank, Chet, and I are up here to earn our keep as detectives. We’ll investigate the fort and keep you posted.”
All three boys were eager for a second crack at Senandaga. Was a gold chain made by order of the Marquis de Chambord hidden somewhere beneath its ruins? If so, would they be able to beat the thief, or thieves, in finding the Prisoner-Painter’s clue?
During a late lunch the boys asked Uncle Jim about Chauncey Gilman, the man for whom Mr. Davenport apparently had a violent dislike.
“Gilman lives across the lake,” he replied. “He’s wealthy—inherited a lot—and is an art critic. Writes a column for the local paper.”
Uncle Jim also explained that Gilman had bought a fort painting years ago from the Millwood philanthropist. “Mr. Davenport has regretted it ever since.”
He explained that the critic, a failure as an artist himself, had grown extremely harsh in his published statements about the school. “He’s not a very pleasant fellow,” Jim added. “You’ll probably run into him here on Senandaga Day.”
When they had finished eating, the Hardys called the local police and learned that the stolen sedan used by the antique-shop thief had been found abandoned off a highway outside Cedartown. “Maybe he’s gone into hiding nearby,” Frank conjectured. “We’ll have to keep a sharp lookout.”
The boys went to tell Mr. Davenport about the theft. He was disturbed to learn of the stolen frame. “If I’d known it was at the shop, I would’ve bought it,” he fumed.
The art patron then opened a small safe and took out a photostat. It was a copy of an old, detailed map of Fort Senandaga, labeled in script, which Mr. Davenport said the boys could borrow.
“This should be a big help when we begin combing the ruins for some clue to the treasure,” said Frank, pocketing the map.
At Chet’s urging, the Hardys agreed to attend a studio oil-painting class that afternoon. “You sleuths can still keep your eyes open,” said the plump youth.
Joe eyed him suspiciously. “Chet Morton, I sense you’ve got an ulterior motive.”
Chet grinned widely, but said nothing.
Uncle Jim welcomed the three boys to the cool, stone-walled room in which the class was held. Here, long, high windows let in ample daylight.
“I’ll just watch,” said Frank.
“Me too.” Joe grinned. “We’ll leave the brush-work to Chet.”
The stout boy obtained an easel and the necessary art material, and chose a spot at the back of the room.
Ronnie Rush stood at an easel in front of Chet. He turned around and smirked. “You have talent?”
“I’ll soon find out,” Chet replied as the Hardys strolled over.
On impulse Joe asked, “Say, Ronnie, you use much of that alizarin crimson?”
Ronnie looked surprised. “Sure. Everybody does.”
“In painting, that is?” Joe asked pointedly.
Ronnie stared in bewilderment. “Of course. Why?”
“Oh, just curious.”
Jim Kenyon now came over to show his nephew about blending colors and brush techniques.
When he had moved away, Frank murmured to his brother, “Ronnie didn’t act like he had anything to do with that cartridge shell.”
Joe nodded. “I’d still like to find out why he’s so resentful.”
The brothers looked at Chet. Their stout pal, completely engrossed, was wielding his brush with vigorous strokes. Joe chuckled. “Chet’s really got the painting bug.”
A little later the Hardys decided to take a closer look at the fort paintings and headed for the gallery. As they approached the building, footsteps came up behind them. The boys turned to face Ronnie Rush. “I’d like to see those fort pictures,” he said petulantly.
The Hardys were nonplused. Finally Frank said, “Mr. Kenyon told us no students were allowed in the gallery now.”
Joe added, “Do you have a special interest in forts? Senandaga, for instance?”
“Oh, just the painting techniques,” Ronnie said hastily. “And why are you two so interested?”
“We’re doing some research on the fort’s history,” Frank replied.
“Oh. History.” Ronnie squinted. He did not seem inclined to leave, so the brothers gave up their plan for the moment and returned to the studio where Chet was still working at his easel.
“Can we see your masterpiece?” Joe asked, grinning.
“Oh, no, fellows,” Chet replied earnestly, waving them off. “Not yet.”
After supper Frank said, “We ought to try another tack. I vote we pay a visit to Mr. Davenport’s enemy.”
Chet’s eyes widened. “Chauncey Gilman?”
“Yes. After all, he owns a fort painting.”
Joe was enthusiastic. “Maybe Gilman himself has information about the gold chain.”
Taking Chet’s jalopy, the three were soon heading north along the west shore of the lake, an area lined with tourist homes. Farther on, imposing lakeside mansions came into view, and in another twenty minutes they pulled into a sloping gravel driveway. A chain-hung sign along the side read: CHAUNCEY GILMAN, ESQ. Atop the rise stood a handsome Tudor-style house overlooking the lake.
“What a setup!” Chet whistled as he parked.
From a shrubbed terrace at the rear, a plump, wavy-haired man arose from a lounge chair. He stared in disapproval at the vehicle and its smoking exhaust, then at the boys as they got out.
The Bayporters had never seen a man quite so elegantly attired. He wore a green velvet jacket, striped trousers, and white cravat.
“Are you sure you’re at the right address?” he droned nasally, removing his glasses.
“Mr. Gilman?” Frank inquired.
“The same.”
Frank introduced himself and the others, explaining they were vacationing at Crown Lake and hoped to see his fort painting.
“Are you one of those Millwood students?” the critic asked disdainfully.
“Not exactly,” Joe replied.
“Very well.” Gilman shrugged and ushered the boys across the terrace toward a back door.
“Real friendly type,” Joe whispered to the others.
Inside, the critic led them through elaborately furnished rooms, then up winding stairs into a large hall. To one side was an arched doorway.
“My own lake-view dining room,” he announced, leading them past a suit of armor and around a long table on which lay a large dictionary. On the far wall he gestured toward a painting.
The canvas, not in the original frame, showed a distant twilight view of Fort Senandaga, with a thorn apple tree in the foreground. The boys noticed that the scene had a three-dimensional effect.
“A rather good effort,” Gilman intoned grudgingly. “Acquired from a most misguided man, I might add. Fine impasto, don’t you think?”
“Er—exquisite,” Chet replied, receiving amazed looks from both Hardys. He bit off a smile and wondered what “impasto” meant. “Sounds like a salad,” he thought.
The critic turned to Frank and Joe. “No doubt,” he went on condescendingly, “you’ll want to see the general’s other paintings at that so-called art school.” He sniggered with relish. “I’ll be paying my annual visit there to the students’ exhibition, and pass judgment on the—er—works of those amateur juveniles—a most amusing task!”
Chet had edged over to the large dictionary. He would get one up on the Hardys, and at the same time not feel so stupid about “impasto.”
Frank observed their stout friend from the corner of his eye, but made no move to give him away. Chet picked up the book and leafed through it, backing toward the window for better light.
Joe, meanwhile, could not resist asking Gilman, “Do you paint?”
The plump man looked out the window, his hands behind his back. “I am, first and foremost, a critic,” he declared haughtily, “and widely known by the elite of the artistic world. I—”
Crash!
The Hardys and Gilman jumped and wheeled about. On the floor lay the suit of armor. Standing over it was Chet, his face flaming red. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I backed right into it.” Quickly he put the dictionary on the table.
“Studying too hard?” Frank grinned as he helped right the knight figure. “No damage, sir.”
The critic raised his eyes to the ceiling. “My nerves!”
Chet sheepishly placed the dictionary on the table and joined the brothers as they studied the fort painting. “Impasto,” muttered the plump boy, “is the thick application of pigment to a canvas or panel, for your information.”
“Okay, professor.” Joe chuckled.
They peered closely at the picture’s surface, trying to detect some kind of telltale marks in the composition. From several strategic questions, the Hardys gathered that Gilman knew nothing of any clue to the chaîne d’or.
Finally, the critic coughed meaningfully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I must be getting to work on an important critique.”
The boys, disappointed in the outcome of their mission, thanked the man and left.
“So that’s Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said scornfully as they headed south on the lake road. “What a swellhead! And he sure has it in for Millwood. No wonder Mr. Davenport doesn’t like him.”
“You said it!” Chet agreed, “Uncle Jim and his students must resent a character like that.”
Frank appeared lost in thought. “I wish we could do more in getting to the bottom of this mystery. If only we knew what kind of clue to look for!”
“Do you think Gilman has any interest in the gold chain?” Chet asked.
Frank shrugged. “He didn’t act like it—but you never know.”
Joe’s lip curled. “He’s too busy dreaming up acid criticisms.”


The suit of armor crashed to the floor
A mist hung over the lake now, the water below them seeming almost colorless through the trees. Up ahead at a bend in the road, Chet noticed an observation area offering a commanding view of the lake. The boys decided to pull over for a look.
“Maybe we can see the fort from here,” Joe said. Chet parked on the wide shoulder and they got out.
A strong wind coursed up the slopes from the lake. Several homes were scattered along the opposite shore. The boys looked out to their right. Barely visible in the dusk was the jutting outline of one of Senandaga’s walls. The Hardys again speculated on the collapse of the fort section that morning.
Suddenly Joe leaned forward and asked curiously, “What kind of craft is that?”
The others looked down and saw a small white barge, coupled to a green tugboat. They could dimly make out two metal strands coming from the front of the barge.
“Oh, that must be the cable ferry Uncle Jim mentioned,” Chet recalled. “It takes cars and passengers across the lake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back,” he said. “Supper was a long time ago!” The famished boy grinned and the brothers laughed.
They started for the car. Joe, who was last, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His ears strained to catch a distant sound.
“Fellows, wait! Hear that?”
They listened intently. Echoing down the lake from the ramparts came the ominous thump, thump, thump of a drum!

CHAPTER VII
An Angry Sculptor
“LISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.
“What is it?” Chet asked.
Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.
Joe explained as they got back in the car. “I’m positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. “It was coming from—the fort!”
A cold chill raced up Chet’s spine. He shuddered. “Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted ?”
“It could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. “Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn’t you tell us you were so hungry?”
The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.
The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted. Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!
“Somebody’s trying to get into the gallery!”
The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.
“Fan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.
Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.
“This way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.
“Where? I can’t see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. “F-Frank—is that you?”
“Yes. Come on! Over here!”
Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused. Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.
“He must have headed to the right!” Joe’s voice rang out.
Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.
“Joe—it’s you!”
“Frank!”
Presently they saw Chet’s chunky shadow approach. “Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.
Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.
“That guy’s a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.
“One thing is certain,” Frank remarked. “He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”
“Wonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. “He was tall—dennitely not the thief we’ve already seen.”
The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet’s uncle.
“We didn’t get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, “but this is definite proof there’s more than one person after the fort treasure.”
He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.
“No footprints,” he reported. “Check with us in the morning.”
Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.
Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.
Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. “This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn’t designed to hold off thieves!”
Joe grinned. “I hope we are.”
The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs at his legs awakened him.
“Come on,” Joe urged. “Up and at ’em! You’re four hours behind the birds!”
The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.
“Breakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.
Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.
After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.
Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain. Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort’s stone ledges.
All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.
“As I see it,” Frank observed, “there’s a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”
“Or in the frame,” Chet added.
Frank nodded. “But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”—he pointed to one picture—“it might be where a figure is standing—this Union soldier for instance.”
“Also,” Joe interposed, “we should keep our eyes open for any unusual color or brush stroke.”
By noon they had found nothing definite, but all three had kept notes of possible clues. Back in their room, the boys placed tracing paper over the photostat of the Senandaga map and marked the places they wanted to check. Joe then locked the map in his suitcase and put the tracing paper in his pocket. After lunch the Hardys were impatient to begin exploring the fort, but Chet had a suggestion.
“Uncle Jim told me there’s a new instructor in sculpture. He’s French, and has definite views on Fort Senandaga. Maybe we should see this René Follette.”
The Hardys agreed, although they strongly suspected their chum was trying to postpone another visit to the old fort. First, Frank phoned headquarters. No trace of the thief or of last evening’s prowler had turned up. The fingerprints had proved inconclusive.
The Bayporters headed for the sculpture studio. On the way, they passed Ronnie at his easel. Chet twirled his beret and sang out, “Getting ready for the exhibit?”
The student sneered. “I’m all set to take first prize. Half the kids here can’t paint a barn door.”
Chet glanced at the garish orange and purple circles on Ronnie’s canvas. “Rush” was signed at the bottom in large flourishing letters.
“You wouldn’t understand it.” Ronnie guffawed, then said slyly, “I saw you three coming out of the gallery. Did you give up painting lessons ?”
“Not me,” Chet declared cheerfully.
“Ha! I suppose you’re going to enter the exhibit.”
Chet’s face grew red. The Hardys winked at each other but said nothing. The young detectives moved on.
As they entered the sculpture workshop, the fresh smell of clay reached their nostrils. Colorful pottery and ceramic figures stood on high tables, as well as several in bronze. A stocky, red-faced man with snapping black eyes was darting among his students. About fifteen boys and girls were standing before long tables, working on both clay and metal sculptures.
When he saw Chet and the Hardys the instructor beamed. “Come in, come in!” He made a sweeping gesture of welcome. “You are new, n’est ce pas? I am René Follette.”
The boys explained that they were visiting Millwood as guests. “We’re especially interested in Fort Senandaga,” said Frank. “Could—”
“Ah! Magnifique!” the Frenchman broke in dramatically. “I shall tell you the story.” The boys settled down at an empty table by a narrow open window. Follette removed a denim apron and joined them.
His first words were startling. “Senandaga! Bah! Fort du Lac is the real name!” He struck his chest. “It was built by a Frenchman—le Marquis de Chambord.”
Intrigued by the peppery sculptor, the Hardys asked him about the battle said to have taken place during the French-Indian conflict. “Is it true the British conquered the fort?” Frank asked.
“Jamais!
Never!” was the violent protest. Waving his hands, the Frenchman told how the British, under the command of Lord Craig, coming by boat down Crown Lake, had attacked the bastion. They had forced the French to flee, but apparently had not held the fort long, since Chambord’s men had returned to drive out their foe.
“Chambord was a great man!” Follette exulted. “His men were the last seen on the ramparts of Fort du Lac-not the Englanders!” He pounded the table fiercely.
At that moment Joe glimpsed a flash of gray moving away from the window. He could not be sure, but assumed it was someone in an artist’s smock. Had the person been listening, or just passing by?
Frank was asking René Follette about the gold boom chain ordered by Chambord.
“I believe it was made,” the sculptor replied. His voice lowered. “I also believe it was stolen—by the Britishers. It is my intention,” he added, “to find the truth. In my own way.”
With that, the excitable Frenchman arose and resumed his instruction.
Outside, the boys looked at one another. Chet grinned. “Mr. Follette is ready to fight that battle all over again,” he said. “Think it’s true about the French being the last holders of Senandaga?”
Frank chuckled. “Mr. Davenport may know. Why don’t we drop over and see him?”
“Let’s take the map along,” Joe said. “I’ll go back for it and meet you outside the mansion.” He headed across the grounds to the storage building. At the top of the stairwell inside, he heard a scrambling noise from below. Somebody was in their room!
Tensely, Joe swung down the winding metal steps and burst inside the open door. Too late he heard a sound behind him. A crashing blow descended on his head. The room reeling, Joe sank to the floor.

CHAPTER VIII
Treacherous Detour
REGAINING his senses, Joe found himself on his cot, looking up at the anxious faces of Frank and Chet. He sat up groggily, wincing as he touched his throbbing head.
“Ooo, who—scalped me?”
“The same person who stole our map of the fort,” Frank said, handing his brother a cool gauze compress.
“The map!” Joe exclaimed. “Stolen!” He remembered hearing the rummaging noise before he was struck unconscious.
Frank pointed to their scattered clothing. “Somebody pried open our suitcases. Anyhow, the photostat’s gone. Too bad we didn’t come back sooner to find out why you didn’t show up.”
Joe insisted he felt well enough to accompany Frank and Chet to inform Mr. Davenport.
“I hope this theft won’t upset him too much,” Chet said worriedly.
“If it wasn’t the picture thief or whoever we saw at the gallery last night, I’ve got another guess,” Joe proposed. “Ronnie Rush.”
“Possibly.” Frank’s brow creased. “It would help to find out if he’s only being nosy, or if he has a special interest in the gallery besides ‘research.’ ”
They picked up Jim Kenyon at his studio and walked together to the mansion.
“Too bad,” he said upon hearing the boys’ story. “As far as I know, Ronnie’s background is okay. But I’ll try to keep a closer watch on him.”
They trudged up the drive and came upon Alex, now in overalls, weeding a flower border. Even in work clothes, the man had a formal manner. He nodded slightly to the boys as they passed.
Inside, the Hardys and their companions found the elderly Southerner in his study, moodily poking his cane at the toy fort. He brightened at the entrance of his visitors.
“I declare, I’m delighted to see you all. My fort problem’s sort of getting me down. Any progress on the treasure?”
Frank took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have another theft to report.”
Mr. Davenport was greatly agitated after hearing of Joe’s experience. “Bad business,” he muttered. “Don’t like any of you boys getting hurt.”
Joe grinningly assured him, “We’re rugged. I’m sorry about the map, though.”
“Have one other copy tucked away.” Mr. Davenport extracted a photostat from his safe and handed it to Frank.
“We’d like to visit the fort again,” Frank said.
“Go right ahead. I don’t mind you boys being there, so long as the confounded pub—”
Joe broke in hastily to query him about the strange drumbeats. Mr. Davenport was intrigued, but had never heard the sounds.
Frank then asked about the sculptor’s claim that French soldiers had been the last to leave the fort in the disputed battle.
The elderly man gave a little smile. “My feeling is, boys, that there’s truth on both sides. Trouble is, both Lord Craig and Chambord lost their lives at a battle just after Senandaga. There are questions no one may ever be able to answer.”
Chet spoke up. “We’ve studied the pictures some more. We even visited Chauncey Gilman—oh!”
The forbidden name was out of Chet’s mouth before he realized it! Mr. Davenport began thumping his cane on a tea table, jarring the china.
“Gilman!” his voice rose. “Gilman! That long-nosed, uppity Yankee! If that stuffed-shirt critic’s trying to carpetbag more of my fort paintings—or the treasure—Why, I’ll—”
Chet’s uncle quickly eased the breathless art patron into a chair while Frank said soothingly, “Mr. Davenport, we understand how you feel. But as detectives we have to investigate every lead. Mr. Gilman isn’t very likable, but I don’t think he’s a thief.”
The old man gradually calmed down, and wiping his brow, apologized for his outburst. He gave Joe a key to the fort gate and a short while later the boys departed.
Outside, Joe said eagerly, “I’m for a trip to the fort, pronto.”
Chet looked unhappy. “You go, fellows. I—er—have some work to do.”
“Work!” Joe echoed teasingly.
Uncle Jim grinned. “Chet has promised to help spruce up the grounds for our exhibit. My students are devoting all their time to finishing their entries.”
Joe grinned. “We’ll pitch in and give you a hand if you’ll drive us to Senandaga. Is it a bargain, Chet?”
“Okay, okay!”
While Jim went off to a class, the Bayporters set to work. Chet and Joe teamed up to wash windows. Frank mowed the grass, starting with the area around the gallery.
Still wondering about the stolen fort map, he kept his eyes open for Ronnie. But the youth was nowhere to be seen.
Later, at the sculptor’s studio, as the students were leaving, Frank found Joe washing the outside panes.
“This is one way to earn our keep.” Frank grinned. “Say, where’s Chet?”
“Don’t know,” Joe replied. “He and Uncle Jim went to the oil-painting studio about an hour ago. Let’s check.”
Joe put down his bucket and rags and the brothers walked over to the studio. Chet was perched atop a high, three-rung stool before an easel. He moved the brush slowly over his large canvas.
“Well,” Joe said, laughing, “from window washer to artist. I should’ve known—from those fine rag strokes on certain windows.”
Chet looked up. “I’m sorry, Joe,” Chet said. “I’ll do my share. But I just got so interested in—er—my painting. Besides, Uncle Jim thinks it’s not bad.”
“You know, Chet,” Frank said, “I have a wild hunch your painting will turn up at the exhibit.”
Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted this was his secret plan. The Hardys watched as their pal continued to work. When not biting the end of his paintbrush with indecision, he would hunch forward, dip the brush in a thick purple blob on his palette, and absorbedly make a squiggle on the canvas.
“What’s it going to be?” Joe asked at last.
“You’ll see,” was all Chet said.
After a while the boys returned to their chores, and it was not until after supper that everything was finished.
The Hardys and Chet went down to the lake for a cooling dip before starting out for Senandaga. The afterglow of sunset cast the opposite shore in a pale-rose light. Dusk shrouded the wide lake, Frank was swimming some distance from shore when he heard a sound that made his spine tingle.
Like a distant heartthrob behind the promontory came the single beat of a drum, then silence, then the beat again!
“Fellows! Listen!” he shouted and swam over to Joe and Chet. They strained their ears.
“The drum!” Joe hissed.
The boys dashed out of the water. They found Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport talking near the mansion. Upon hearing the boys’ report, both men agreed the young sleuths should investigate the fort at once, but cautioned them to be on guard.
“Not that I believe in any haunts, of course,” added Mr. Davenport. “But there could be some kind of danger lurking there.”
The boys hurriedly dressed and drove off in the jalopy. Darkness was falling as they headed south. Chet switched on the high beams and guided the Queen around a series of curves until they reached the end of the lake. There were few houses, and only rarely a light in one. Chet slowed down.
The trees grew dense and overhung the road. From deep in the woods came the hoot of an owl, mournfully echoing over the constant whisper of cicadas. Like brittle witch fingers, branches clawed the side of the car.
“Willikers, it’s spooky!” Chet said, rolling up his window. He turned right up a winding dirt road, then left.
Suddenly Chet screeched to a halt. The road was blocked by two wooden sawhorses! By the light of a flashing red lantern, the boys saw an arrowed white sign: DETOUR—LEFT—ROSKSLIDE.
“Guess we haven’t much choice,” Joe said. Chet turned the car and started down what proved to be an extremely narrow, steep lane.
The lake was visible below. Suddenly a tree loomed directly in their path. Hastily Chet yanked the wheel, but the car scraped against high rocks. As the Queen bounced over a yawning hole, Frank cried out:
“This isn’t any detour! It’s a trap!”
Panicky, Chet hit the brakes. But the left front tire had already pitched steeply down. Desperately he tried to swerve the rolling car.
“I can’t stop!”
Faster and faster they skidded downward. Like bulky phantoms, trees grazed the fenders as Chet steered frantically between them. Jolted, his hands lost control of the wheel.
“We’re going into the lake!” Joe yelled.
The front of the car seemed to lurch into the air. Their heads banged the roof an instant before the Queen struck water. She stopped almost instantly.
Frank shouldered his door open and sloshed through the shallow depths to pull Chet out. Joe crawled from the back window and the three waded to shore.
“Everybody all right?” Frank asked breathlessly.
“Yes—but the Queen!” Chet exclaimed in dismay. The jalopy stood fender-deep in water.
Joe scrambled above to get help. Frank and Chet, grabbing a rope out of the trunk, moored the car to two trees to keep it from rolling out any deeper. There were dents and a smashed headlight, but the boys were worried there might be serious mechanical damage.
Chet heaved a sigh. “My poor Queen!”
Shivering in wet clothing, the two boys waited in the darkness for what seemed hours. Then they heard vehicles stopping and excited voices. Soon Joe appeared, accompanied by two policemen.
“I finally flagged down a car,” he panted. The driver had notified the police, who in turn summoned a tow truck.
Joe had already given a report to the officers. “A nasty trick—that fake detour,” one said. “We’ll step up our patrol along there.”
The boys wanted to stay until Chet’s car was pulled to safety, but the policemen insisted on driving them back to Millwood.
Huddled under blankets, the three sleuths speculated among themselves on the return trip. Who could have set the dangerous trap? And why?
“I’ll bet someone rigged it to keep us from Fort Senandaga!” Joe exclaimed.
“How’d he know we were going?”
“Could’ve overheard us talking about it,” said Frank. “Maybe those drumbeats were to lure us there.”
At the Millwood entrance they thanked the officers and headed quickly toward their quarters. “Wait until Uncle Jim hears about this!” Chet’s teeth chattered.
As they cut across the wide lawn, Joe glanced over at the grove in which the gallery stood. It was in total blackness.
“Funny,” he murmured. “What happened to the light we put over the—?”
Instinctively sensing trouble, the Hardys streaked across the lawn. Chet followed. They found the front door unlocked and cautiously pushed it open.
A flashlight beam struck them squarely in the eyes! A shadowy figure approached. The boys dashed in, ready for a fight. The next moment they stopped short.
“Uncle Jim!” Chet gasped. “What—?”
The instructor’s face was ashen. Wordlessly he flicked on the light switch and pointed toward the far wall of the room. The twelve fort paintings were gone!

CHAPTER IX
The Hermit’s Story
“ALL the Senandaga paintings—stolen!” Jim Kenyon’s words echoed dismally across the stone gallery as the boys rushed over. The wall showed twelve empty picture hooks.
Uncle Jim told them he had returned from Cedartown a short while ago. He had gone to check the gallery, found that the bulb had been smashed, and a moment later, discovered the theft. “I was about to phone the police, then break the news to Mr. Davenport.”
“But how did the thief get in?” Joe asked.
The instructor pointed upward. “The skylight.”
The boys noticed a large section of panes was missing where the glassed roof met a wall.
“The thief must have had a lookout,” Frank surmised, “while he was cutting the panes.”
The police were called and arrived shortly to examine the gallery. They found the missing glass panes, but there were no fingerprints. Nothing of significance was discovered. When the officers had left, Jim and the boys went to the mansion.
It took them a long while to persuade Mr. Davenport that the twelve paintings actually had been stolen. The art patron kept shaking his head, as if in a daze.
“What are we to do?” he lamented. “The thieves are still at large and growing bolder—Jason’s paintings in their possession, and likely, the clue to Chambord’s gold chain.”
Suddenly he and Uncle Jim became aware of the boys’ disheveled appearance. “What on earth happened to you?” asked the instructor.
In the excitement, the Hardys and Chet had temporarily forgotten their own experiences. Quickly they described the ill-fated drive.
The two men listened in great astonishment and concern. Mr. Davenport snapped out of his gloom. “Desperadoes!” he stormed. “Why, you boys could’ve been hurt something dreadful!”
“They’re desperate all right,” said Frank. “Which means they may tip their hand soon and give themselves away. The trouble is,” he added, “somebody in the area seems to know every move we make, or are going to make.”
“Do you think,” asked Uncle Jim, “those drumbeats and your accident are related to the painting thefts?”
“Yes,” replied Frank. “Whoever the master-mind is, he doesn’t want us at Fort Senandaga to look for the gold chain.”
Joe set his jaw. “We’ll get there yet and do some hunting.”
The weary boys slept late the next morning. After breakfast Chet phoned the Cedartown police. His jalopy had been salvaged, but it would take at least a week for repairs.
Chet groaned. “How will the Queen live without me?”
“Cheer up!” Joe grinned. “You’re going to be pretty busy painting from now on. We’re expecting big things from you at the exhibit!”
Chet slapped his forehead. “You’re right! I’ve only got a little more than two days!” He pulled his beret from a pocket and pulled it on. “This calls for short-order genius!”
“In the meantime,” Joe said seriously, “we’re stymied for transportation.”
“Not quite,” Frank replied. “We’ll use one of the canoes.”
“Great!” said Joe. “What’s the first stop?”
“Turtle Island.” Frank proposed that they visit the English hermit and have a look at his fort painting.
Chet wanted to go with his friends, but finally decided to work on his painting. The trio were about to separate when they saw Ronnie Rush setting up his easel near the main path.
At once the Bayporters hurried over. Joe asked bluntly, “Ronnie, we’re missing a photostat of an old map. Have you seen it around?”
The student bit his lip. “Map? Why ask me? If I had, it’d be my business anyway.”
“This one happens to be our business,” Joe retorted. “You seem to be pretty good at spying. Maybe you saw the person who knocked me out, broke into our luggage, and stole the map.”
Ronnie’s face reddened, but he merely blustered, “I—I didn’t see anybody. What’s so special about an old map?”
“It’s of Fort Senandaga,” Joe said.
Ronnie gave a perceptible start, but at once took up his palette and brush. “Stop bothering me. I’ve got to finish my picture.”
“Your prize-winning one?” Chet asked airily.
“A lot you know about art, fatso!” Ronnie muttered.
The three boys turned away. “I’ll show him,” Chet vowed.
Joe grinned. “The brush is mightier than the sword!”
“Anyhow,” Frank said, “we got a rise out of Ronnie about the map, though we still can’t be sure he took it.”
“Yes,” Joe said, “but he sure didn’t like our questions.”
The Hardys got directions to Turtle Island from Uncle Jim, and permission to use his own canoe, then hurried to the boathouse. They lifted the handsome red wooden craft from its berth into the water. Joe settled himself in the bow, and Frank in the stern, then they paddled off.
Bright white sails were visible downlake as they glided across the sun-speckled water. Here and there a motorboat sped along. The canoe traced a shimmering line over the surface as Frank steered toward a group of small islands a mile out.
“There’s Turtle Island,” Joe said presently, spotting a wooded hump of land straight ahead where a cabin of stone and log was partially visible.
Coasting between two large, jutting rocks, Frank steered the canoe onto a sandy strip. Nearby lay a weatherbeaten rowboat. Joe jumped out and pulled in their craft. Suddenly they heard a ferocious barking, then a flurry in the bushes, and a huge German shepherd dog appeared.
“Look out!” Frank cried.
The dog bared his teeth threateningly. Growling, he crouched as if to spring. The Hardys darted backward.
“Basker!” shouted a deep voice. “Hold, boy!”
The dog subsided instantly as a tall, sunburned man in a brown tweed suit emerged from the brush. Frank and Joe relaxed as he stroked the panting animal. The tall man peered at them beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted them in a British accent.
“Hello there!” he said cordially. “Terribly sorry about Basker—he’s not used to seeing many people out here.” He extended his hand. “Lloyd Everett’s my name.”
The boys introduced themselves, thinking Everett unusually well-dressed for a hermit. They told him why they had come. He agreed to let the Hardys inspect his Prisoner-Painter picture and led them toward the cabin.
“Dare say you chaps have had wind of that French gold-chain legend,” he remarked. “I don’t take any stock in it myself—it’s false, like most of the past French claims about Fort Royal.”
“Fort Royal?” Joe repeated.
Everett nodded. “Senandaga is its Indian name, but it’s properly called Fort Royal, named by its last holder during the French-English campaigns, the great Lord Craig, my ancestor.”
Remembering the French sculptor’s account of the fort, Frank glanced at Joe.
In the simply furnished but comfortable living room, Everett lifted down the painting from its place over the fireplace. Frank took out a pocket magnifying glass and studied it closely. The view was painted as if from below the ramparts at Crown Lake’s edge.
“A fine rendition,” the Englishman remarked. “I don’t generally collect art, but since I’m interested in the historical aspects of Fort Royal, I persuaded Mr. Davenport to sell it to me a few years back.”
While Joe scrutinized the picture, Frank asked if it were true that French soldiers had been the last on the fort’s ramparts.
“Nonsense! Sheer nonsense! Who told you that?” Everett demanded.
When Frank mentioned the Millwood sculptor, the hermit clutched his hair.
“Blast it! A Frenchman! What else?” Striding angrily over to a small cork board, he plucked out seven darts. In rapid order he pitched them at the board.
“This Follette told you a pack of lies about Chambord, no doubt,” Everett growled. He did not pause for a response and proceeded to relate how Lord Craig had taken Senandaga. The French had apparently mismanaged their cannon defense and fled before Craig’s forces.
When Joe mentioned the story of the English having stolen the chaîne d’or, Everett angrily plucked the darts from the board.
“As a descendant of Lord Craig, I shall not tolerate such lies. Here!” He handed the boys a small book. Its title was The True Story of Fort Royal. “Read this—you may keep it,” he said. “I wrote the book myself when I first moved here to my island retreat.”
The Hardys thanked him, intrigued by his differing account of the battle. The boys studied the Senandaga painting again. Suddenly Frank noticed a slight irregularity in a corner brush stroke.
“Joe, let me have the magnifier!”
Excited, he held the glass over the area. But he looked up in disappointment. “It’s just a scratch.”
Nothing else unusual was detected in the painting. The brothers made a note of the location of two soldiers standing below the ramparts. They thanked the Englishman as he walked back with them to the canoe.
“Wish you boys luck, of course,” said Everett. “Take my advice—the so-called chaîne d’or doesn’t exist. Just another of many French exaggerations.” He added that he rarely crossed to the mainland except to buy provisions. He had not left the island in a month.
The Hardys waved as they pushed off. “Cheerio!” called Everett. “Be sure to read my book!”
Joe was dejected. “That painting was another lost hope. I guess all we can do now is search the fort itself for the chain. If there is one!”
“We also have the job of tracking down the thieves and stolen pictures,” Frank said. “By the way, Everett told us he hadn’t been off the island for a month. But his rowboat was wet and muddy—and it hasn’t rained for days!”
Joe remembered seeing oars in the boat also. Was the recluse lying? Did he know anything about the Millwood thefts?
“Well,” Joe quipped, “we could always take a new case: Who were the last holders of Fort Senandaga—I mean, Fort Royal!”
“Or Fort du Lac!” Frank smiled, shifting his paddle to the right.
Smoothly, the brothers stroked forward. They were halfway to shore when Joe first noticed water around his feet.
“Frank! We’re taking in water!”
Ceasing to paddle, Joe slid back carefully to locate the leak. “I can’t find it!” he cried out.
Frank quickly pulled in his paddle and crept forward. But he had no sooner taken a step than he heard a cracking noise.
“Joe—this wood—”
With a splintering noise, the section of flooring beneath Frank’s left foot gave way, entrapping his leg. Water poured in as the sinking canoe capsized.
The lake surface closed over the Hardys!

CHAPTER X
Mysterious Flag
COLD stinging water coursed through Joe’s mouth and nose as he sank beneath the surface. He could see the shadow of the capsized canoe above.
Shooting up for air, he immediately plunged beneath again.
With a mighty yank he freed Frank’s leg from the hull, and both boys were soon hugging the splintered boat.
“Are—are you all right?” Joe gasped.
Frank coughed for several moments before answering. “Yes, except my leg’s a bit sore. I don’t get it, Joe. This canoe is practically new.”
As the Hardys signaled an approaching motorboat, Joe noticed something on the canoe’s hull. “Frank, look!”
Joe pointed to a wide crusted hole where Frank’s leg had gone through, then noticed several smaller holes edged with a painted paste.
“This canoe was sabotaged!” he panted, treading water. “Somebody must have cut these holes, then used a sealer and paint! Whoever did it knew that it would just be a matter of time before water—or we—went through.”
The motorboat, manned by a man and his wife, pulled abreast of the stranded sleuths and helped them aboard. With the canoe in tow, they were soon on their way back to Millwood. Frank pulled wet book from the pocket of his slacks.
The True Story of Fort Royal
was soaked but safe!
At the school dock the Hardys thanked their rescuers and hurried across the grass. Several students eyed the water-soaked boys curiously. Chet and his uncle spotted them and came rushing up. The two were mystified and worried upon hearing of the boat incident.
“Somebody must have been hoping you’d use my canoe,” the instructor said grimly.
“You mean the trap was intended for Frank and Joe,” Chet finished. “And maybe me too. No place is safe around here!”
As the Hardys changed into dry clothes they told of their visit to Lloyd Everett. Uncle Jim grinned. “He takes that battle as seriously as René Follette and Mr. Davenport.”
“And how!” Frank looked thoughtful. “He’s friendly enough-doesn’t look or act much like a hermit.”
During a late lunch the three boys and Uncle Jim discussed possible suspects in the canoe episode. Ronnie Rush? The short thief? The gallery prowler?
Joe noticed that Chet was staring into space and said, “You decided what your picture’s about?”
Chet grinned good-naturedly. “Okay, mind reader, I have. But you’ll have to wait and see.”
“Is your entry a still life, Chet?” Frank asked.
“Yes. A moving still life!”
The others groaned at the pun.
They were just leaving the kitchen when the art patron stormed out of his study, swinging his cane. A magazine was clutched in his hand.
“Confound him! That fogbound, silky-voiced, boiled shirt! That honey-dewed melonhead—”
“Now what?” murmured Chet.
Mr. Davenport was finally persuaded to calm down and explain. “Just look at this!” he directed, opening the magazine and pointing to a paragraph which read:
“In the coming days, it will be my consummate pleasure to review the Millwood Art Exhibit, the annual artistic joke of the region. The public would better spend its time at nearby Fort Senandaga than risk dying of laughter at the ‘wood’ painted at the Davenport
‘mill.’ ”
Frank looked up in disgust. “This was written by Chauncey Gilman.”
Mr. Davenport said that the critic himself had mailed him the magazine. As soon as possible the Hardys changed the subject. The boys told the patron of their unsuccessful study of Everett’s fort painting, then of the canoe incident.
The Southerner, who had been tapping his cane rapidly on the floor, suddenly stopped. To the others’ amazement, he announced, “There’s one more painting. It’s in my attic.”
“What?” cried Joe.
“I declare, it slipped my mind,” said the art patron. “Guess because it’s the one work by Jason I never did like. Style’s different from all the others, so I just plumb hid it.”
“May we see it?” Frank asked quickly.
“Might as well.” Mr. Davenport led the excited group to the third floor and into a dim alcove. There he removed a dust-covered canvas from a closet and set it on an antique table. The boys studied it closely with the magnifier.
“This is a contrast to the other fort paintings,” Frank remarked. “It’s all done in blacks, grays, and pale yellows. The storm clouds over the fort are ghostlike.”
“Indeed they are,” said Mr. Davenport. “I don’t know what got into Jason.”
Frank examined the back of the picture. He pointed to one corner, where a faded date was scrawled in a wavering hand: April 1, 1865.
“That was just before the Civil War ended,” said Uncle Jim.
Again the boys scrutinized the gloomy scene. The artist’s initials were as usual in the lower corner, but were fainter than in the other paintings. Frank’s mind was racing. Why had the Prisoner-Painter changed to such a somber style?
Just then Mr. Davenport looked at his watch. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Expecting the carpenter any minute. He’s working on a project for me.” A mischievous twinkle came into the man’s eyes, and as they went downstairs, he chuckled softly. His visitors were curious, but he offered no explanation.
“Let’s try the fort again,” urged Joe. “Right now.”
The Millwood owner insisted they borrow his limousine. “Alex isn’t here today, so I won’t need it.” He handed them the car keys.
Outside, Uncle Jim excused himself to return to his students. Chet decided to stick with his painting. “I’ll keep an eye on Ronnie Rush,” he promised.
The fort map in Joe’s pocket, the brothers headed for the mansion garage. On the way, they passed a tall, bearded man at an easel set up on a knoll. The Hardys recognized Myles Warren, who ran the Cedar Sport Shop.
“Hi,” said Joe. “You must be one of the weekend painters, only this is Wednesday.”
“Yes,” the man said pleasantly. “I’m pushing to finish my picture for the exhibit.”
The Hardys glanced at the canvas—a landscape in vivid greens, reds, and yellow. Warren kept his brush moving. “Tried that fishing at the north end yet?”
“No.” Frank smiled. “We’ll keep it in mind.”
In the garage Frank slid behind the wheel of the luxurious limousine and pulled out into the road above Millwood.
It was late afternoon by the time they reached the fort. There had been no trace of the phony detour sign. Frank parked, and they unlocked the gate, then climbed the hill toward the ramparts. Pausing on the glacis, the boys looked at the map, then at the tracing showing the locations of figures in the pictures.
The actual shape of Senandaga was that of a square with diamond-shaped bastions at the corners of its four ramparts.
Frank pointed to a high, wedge-shaped defensive stonework which stood in front of the ditch. “That must be the demilune—the south one. There’s another to the west.”
They decided to begin their hunt by checking outside the fort walls and ditch. First, the Hardys walked north along the zigzagging ditch, then to the spot where the wall had fallen. They stopped to examine the rubble.
“Hey!” Joe yelled, pushing aside a rock. Underneath lay a round black object. “An old cannon ball!”
The Hardys wondered: Had it been hurled against the ancient wall to cause the collapse? They surveyed the crenelated walls of blocked stone. Although its soldiers and cannon were long gone, a forbidding, ominous silence seemed to make itself felt around the bastion.
As Frank’s eyes passed over the crumbled roofs visible above the walls, he stopped suddenly. “Joe, look!”
Waving atop a flagpole on the southeast ramPart was a white and gold flag!
“It’s the flag used by the French before their revolution!” Frank exclaimed, recognizing the pattern of three white lilies. “But it wasn’t here the first time we came.”
“One thing is sure—it’s no relic,” Joe said. “Mr. Davenport didn’t mention anything about a flag.”
They stared at the mysterious banner, recalling the drumbeats they had heard earlier. Who had placed the old French colors over the fort?
Hastily the Hardys continued along the ditch to an area which they had marked on their tracing sheet. They hoped to find some kind of marking or rock formation at the same spots the figures stood in the paintings.
“Over here, a little more to the right,” Joe said, comparing the map and sheet. Frank noticed that freshly churned-up soil surrounded their feet.
“Joe! Somebody’s been digging!”
“You’re right!” Joe reached down and felt the earth.
“If the treasure was here,” Frank reasoned, “we’re out of luck.”
They walked toward the west demilune. But halfway, Joe noticed a pillar of black smoke in the sky. It came from beyond a shadowed promontory to the north of the lake.
“Frank, that looks like a fire!”
“It is. I wonder—Joel It’s coming from Millwood!”

CHAPTER XI
The Lake Monster
“WE’VE got to get back!” Frank urged.
The brothers raced down the slope to the parked car and soon were streaking around the lake road leading to Millwood. The column of black smoke swirled higher and they heard sirens.
Reaching the school, Frank wheeled the limousine to the parking area and they jumped out.
“It’s the boathouse!” Joe exclaimed.
Waves of intense heat rolled out from the flaming structure. The Hardys ran toward the lakeside, where a crowd watched the firemen fighting the holocaust.
The dock was already lost, and what had been canoes were smoking shells on the bank. Voices echoed as spumes of water played against the blazing boathouse. Suddenly Frank detected a strong oily smell in the air.
“Kerosene!” he said. “This fire must have been set!”
The Hardys spotted Uncle Jim and Chet among the spectators back of a cordoned area near a police car. Chet was glad to see his pals.
“Was anybody hurt?” Frank asked, worried.
“Fortunately, no,” Mr. Kenyon replied. “But our boat area is a complete ruin.”
In an hour the fire had been extinguished. According to a student, the conflagration had apparently broken out suddenly—on the lake itself.
“Which means somebody poured a kerosene slick on the water and ignited it,” Frank said.
Chet nodded solemnly. “With the wind and floating pieces of burning wood, we’re lucky it didn’t spread along the whole shore front.”
By now, most of the onlookers had dispersed and the fire trucks and police car were leaving.
The Bayporters surveyed the grim, charred skeleton of the boathouse, wondering who the arsonist could have been, and what his motive was. Another attempt to discourage the Hardys from investigating Fort Senandaga?
“It wasn’t Ronnie Rush who set it, anyway,” Chet declared. “He was too busy making fun of my painting.”
The three boys searched the burned wreckage for evidence. They found nothing but a fat, charred cork, smelling of kerosene, bobbing on the waterfront.
“A pretty slim clue,” Joe muttered, stuffing the cork into his pocket. After supper they stopped in with Uncle Jim to see Mr. Davenport. He seemed inconsolable. The school’s exhibit was only two days away, and the blackened ruins would detract greatly from the estate’s appearance. Joe had an idea.
“We’ll begin clearing away the debris first thing tomorrow, and have the lake front in good shape by Senandaga Day.”
Mr. Davenport brightened, and Uncle Jim said, “That would be a big help. At least the lake residents will be able to beach their boats.”
“There’s one person I suspect,” the art patron burst out angrily, “who would want to spoil our exhibit. A certain party down the lake.”
The boys assumed he meant Chauncey Gilman, but somehow they could not picture the critic in the role of an arsonist.
The brothers then told the others about the mysterious French flag they had seen at the fort. Mr. Davenport expressed complete bewilderment.
“A flag over Senandaga!” he exclaimed incredulously. “It must be the work of some blamed tourist! A trespasser!”
Frank doubted this, saying that even a practical joker might not go to the trouble of climbing the fence.
“Don’t tell me a ghost put up that flag,” Chet gulped.
Mr. Davenport shook his head. “You can get to the fort by boat, too.”
The Hardys left him, wondering if the strange incident was part of the puzzle they were trying to solve.
Directly after breakfast the boys plunged into the task of cleaning up the dock site. With axes and wheelbarrows, charred wood was cut up and carted away, as well as burned shrubbery. Up to their waists in water, Frank and Joe hewed down the remaining boathouse supports and dock stakes.
“Whew!” Chet exclaimed as noontime approached. “I feel as though I’d been building a fort.”
Ronnie Rush came up just then and looked on smugly. “Want to help?” Joe asked him.
“My time is too valuable,” Ronnie said, and sauntered off.
“He may not have burned the docks, but he sure burns me up!” Chet muttered.
At last the boys finished their project, having set up bright buoys offshore. After lunch they were summoned to Cedartown Police Headquarters, where the chief handed them a photograph. “Recognize him?”
“The picture and frame thief!” Joe exclaimed.
“His name’s Adrian Copier,” the chief informed them, adding that the man had a long criminal record as a thief, especially of art objects. There was no indication of his being an arsonist.
“I wonder if he’s the brains behind the thefts at Millwood,” Frank said, “or if he’s working for a higher-up.”
The chief shrugged. “Copler seems to be as elusive as he is clever. But I’ll keep men on the lookout.”
Back at the school, the boys discussed their future trips to the fort. “The Queen’s still laid up and we can’t keep borrowing the limousine,” said Frank. “A canoe would be fine—but the fire took care of that.”
“Guess we’ll have to rent a boat,” Joe said.
When Mr. Davenport heard of the boys’ quandary, he called them into his study.
“We can’t have you detectives grounded,” he said. “How would you like to use a Colonial bateau?”
“A what?” Chet asked.
He smiled. “A bateau was a boat used during the French and Indian campaigns.” Mr. Davenport explained that the wooden craft, resembling a modern dory, had been used by the English as well as the French for carrying supplies and for scouting. The original bateaux were up to forty-five feet long; later, they varied in length.
“Sounds great!” Joe broke in. “But where can we get a bateau?”
“My carpenter, George Ashbach, has a keen interest in historical boats. Out of curiosity, he put together a bateau last year. Doesn’t use it much, but I understand it’s navigable. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you boys borrow it.”
“Super!” Chet exclaimed.
The elderly Southerner beamed. “Mr. Ashbach will be finishing up—my—er—job today. I’ll talk to him.”
“Are you building something?” Joe asked.
A devilish gleam sparkled in the patron’s eyes. He smiled, but gave no answer.
That evening, as dusk fell, the boys sat on the bank, wondering whether they would hear the eerie drumbeats again.
“I’d like to know if that French flag was lowered at sundown,” Joe commented.
“By the same ghost, maybe,” Frank said, grinning.
Chet was not amused. “Aw, fellows!” He shivered. “Can’t we talk about something-er-cheerful ?”
The only sound was lapping water, ruffled by a chilly breeze. Chet glanced out over the lake to the grayish islands, huddled like waiting phantom ships. Dim lights were visible across the water, but to the south, where the fort lay, all was black.
Suddenly Chet stiffened. Out on the water, about fifty yards from where the boys sat, something broke the surface, then disappeared !
Rooted to his place, Chet blinked and looked again, his eyes as big as half dollars.
“What’s the matter?” Joe asked. “Do you—?”
He broke off with a gasp as all three stared in disbelief.
A speck of white showed on the dark water. Then an immense, curved black shadow loomed larger and larger, gliding, waving toward them.
Chet stuttered with fear as the shadow drew near. It had a long neck and a huge glistening head, gaping jaws and long sharp teeth!

CHAPTER XII
A Strange Tomahawk
JUMPING up, Chet screamed. “A sea monster!”
In a burst of foam, the phantasmal creature sank beneath the surface and again emerged, its white eyes gleaming above moving jaws.
Frank and Joe dashed along the bank until they were abreast of the weird figure. It seemed at least thirty feet in length!
“It’s a serpent!” Joe cried out.
They watched for the monster to surface. Then a subdued, drawling laugh broke the silence. Chet, terrified, had caught up to the brothers. The three stopped short as two figures emerged from the nearby woods.
“Mr. Davenport!” Joe burst out, recognizing one of them.
“Frank! Joe! Chester!” The art patron grinned. “I reckon I must ask your forgiveness for being victimized by my Crown Lake monster!”
He introduced the tall, lean man with him as Mr. Ashbach, the Cedartown carpenter.
“You mean that thing we just saw was artificial?” Joe asked.
The carpenter chuckled. “Joe,” he said, “we had to test it on somebody, and we figured you young detectives were as tough a test as anybody.”
Mr. Davenport nodded. “Now you know what my building project is!”
Still mystified, the boys noticed wires in the men’s hands trailing off into the water. They began reeling in and soon the “serpent” broke the surface. A minute later it lay on the shore. The boys walked around the huge object.
Shaped like a brontosaurus with gills, it had been built over a wood-and-wire frame. The “skin” was of inflated rubber, touched in spots with luminous paint. Both the neck and jaws were hinged, and the snouted head had been fitted with two light-bulb eyes and jagged rubber “teeth.”
“It’s ingenious!” Frank laughed.
“Thank you.” The millionaire smiled, patting the wet rubber proudly.
Chet kicked a pebble, embarrassed. “Jiminy, do I feel like a goof! But what are you going to do with this—er—serpent, sir?”
“You boys will see, soon!”
The curious sleuths could learn no more about the redoubtable monster.


“A sea monster!” Chet screamed
The Hardys arranged with Mr. Ashbach to pick up the bateau at his shop the next day.
Later, walking back to their room, Chet was preoccupied with Mr. Davenport’s lake serpent. “I bet he’s going to give rides on it!” Chet guessed finally.
Joe grinned. “Beats me.”
After breakfast the next morning the Bayporters found the school grounds a beehive of activity. Uncle Jim and the students were busy getting the pictures in final shape for Saturday’s exhibit.
Hurriedly the Hardys and Chet tidied up their quarters. Frank’s mind kept turning over an idea which had been growing steadily. “Maybe it’s a wild one, but—” Suddenly he dashed from the room. “Come on, fellows!”
Mystified, Joe and Chet followed him across the grounds to the Davenport mansion. The door was open. Frank led the way upstairs to the musty attic alcove. Joe was excited. What inspiration had struck his brother so forcibly?
Frank lifted the fort painting carefully onto the table. Chet wore an expression of utter perplexity as Frank pointed to the date on the back of the canvas. “This was the last picture Jason Davenport did. I think that’s why the style is so different—he knew he was going to die.”
“I get it!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “He must have left the clue in this picture, knowing he’d never have a chance to get the treasure himself,” Joe guessed.
“Right.” Frank now indicated the specklike daubs on the canvas. “Let’s study them from a distance.”
Frank set the painting against an opposite wall. At first the boys noticed nothing unusual. Then they were startled to see, out of gray and yellowish dabs, a design taking shape in the corner!
It was a tomahawk, entwined by a chain!
“The treasure clue!” Chet whooped.
The image seemed to lose itself as they stepped closer, then to reappear when they stood back.
“There must be a similar marking somewhere inside the fort!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys then noticed hat the tomahawk handle had small notches, and wondered what these meant.
“The main thing is to keep this a close secret,” Frank cautioned.
When they showed Mr. Davenport their discovery, he congratulated the boys heartily.
“It was Frank’s brainstorm,” Joe said.
The art patron looked at the painting. “I should have known Jason had a special reason for using that strange style.”
The millionaire, too, was puzzled by the notched tomahawk.
“Did Indians fight at Senandaga?” Frank asked.
“They were involved in the Crown Lake campaigns,” Davenport replied, “but it’s not known whether they played a major role at the fort itself. I’ve studied the battle for years, but there always seems to be a piece missing.”
The boys wondered if the chain-entwined tomahawk had any relation to the mysterious fort conflict?
“We’ve got to get inside Senandaga,” Joe declared.
The boys hurried to tell Uncle Jim the good news, and their plan to search the fort that evening. Chet then excused himself to work on his painting. The boys were about to part when the French sculptor came running over. He carried three pamphlets.
“Bonjour!”
he cried. “I hear you will use a bateau. Wonderful! A fine boat it is, used by le Marquis de Chambord. Here, my friends, these for you !”
He handed each boy a pamphlet. The title was The Final French Victory at Fort du Lac.
Follette pounded his chest proudly. “This I wrote to give the true account of this battle. Read it. Au revoir!”
Joe chuckled. “The second ‘true’ story of Seriandaga.”
After the Hardys left for Mr. Ashbach’s shop, Chet worked feverishly on his painting, even forgetting to eat lunch. By midafternoon the chunky boy realized he was ravenous and went to the house for a snack.
As Chet came outside he heard a horn beep urgently. He looked up in astonishment. A car, with a trailer bouncing behind it, was pulling into the lot. On the trailer sat an unusual-looking gray boat, flat-bottomed and tapered at both ends.
The car stopped and Frank and Joe hopped out. As Chet hurried over, Joe grinned. “Behold the bateau!”
“You sure she’s seaworthy?” Chet asked, cocking his head.
“Indeed she is,” came a deep voice as the carpenter, Mr. Ashbach, got out of the car.
He and the boys hauled the old-fashioned craft down to the lake and beached it a short distance from the water. The young detectives thanked Mr. Ashbach, who wished them luck and left.
Chet now studied the bateau curiously, noting its overlapping board construction. He asked about a pair of long poles lying in the bottom beside the paddles.
“The poles are used in shallow water,” Frank explained.
As soon as dusk fell, the boys eagerly launched the bateau and clambered in. Jim Kenyon came to see them off. “Be careful,” he warned. “Weather doesn’t look good.”
Heavy dark clouds shrouded the lake and the wind was rising, but the boys were undaunted. Chet was in the middle seat while Frank stood in the rear and Joe in the bow. Plying the poles, the Hardys got the Colonial craft under way.
“Wow, this is smooth!” Chet said. “How long is she?”
“Fifteen feet,” Joe answered, “and four wide.”
The brothers at first had trouble but soon were poling in rhythm. They were amazed at the ease with which the bateau could be moved.
With the strong wind at their backs, they passed several islands. The darkening sky remained overcast and few private boats were out. “Hope the rain holds off for Senandaga Day tomorrow,” Chet said anxiously.
Joe grinned. “You can always put an umbrella over your painting.”
Reaching deeper water, the Hardys switched to paddles. Presently they approached the cable-ferry dock on the west shore.
The passenger barge was just pulling out. There was only one car aboard. The boys could barely see the cables stretching taut, reaching into the water.
The wind was now lashing the lake into a mass of whitecaps.
“It won’t be any picnic returning against this gale,” Joe remarked, as they paddled abreast of the chugging ferry. Its tugboat pilot waved to them from the lighted cabin.
Suddenly they saw him spin the steering wheel frantically, then race out onto the passenger barge.
“Something’s wrong!” Joe exclaimed. The three boys leaped to their feet. Frank looked back at the dock and saw two metal strands lying slack on the choppy surface!
“The cables have broken!” he cried out.
The pilot had dashed to the rear of the pitching barge. Suddenly he staggered in a terrific blast of wind and toppled overboard!
Horrified, the boys watched the ferry veer wildly off course!

CHAPTER XIII
Detective Guides
THE ferry drifted aimlessly on the storm-tossed lake past the dock, while its pilot was struggling to keep afloat. Paddling strenuously, the Hardys swung about to the rescue.
Swiftly the bateau closed the gap. The ferry passengers, two women, huddled panic-stricken in their car.
“You fellows get the pilot!” Frank said, flipping his paddle to Chet. “I’m going for the boat.”
In a flash he was overboard and swimming through the choppy waves. Finally he managed to grasp the end of the ferry barge and pull himself aboard. Frank ran past the car, tore into the pilot’s cabin of the tug, and spun the wheel hard to the left.
He realized cutting the motor would be dangerous, since the heavy craft would only drift farther. Determinedly, he steered against the strong current.
At first it seemed useless. Then, slowly, the ferry backed toward the cable area, where Frank swung her to the right and headed for the far dock.
Just before reaching it, Frank cut the engine. Three men quickly secured the ferry and raced into the pilot’s cabin.
“Young fellow—we can’t thank you enough!” one of them said to Frank. “There could have been a tragic accident.”
The women, shaken and pale, added their praise, then were helped ashore.
Frank peered worriedly out over the wind-driven water. To his relief he saw the bateau, with Joe and Chet paddling and the pilot safely aboard, plowing crosscurrent. When they pulled in, all three boys were warmly congratulated.
“Your presence of mind saved us all!” the pilot said gratefully.
Trying to determine what had happened, two of the dockworkers began reeling in the cable sections attached to the pier.
“How could they have broken so suddenly?” Chet asked, as the ends of the cables came to view. To everyone’s astonishment, there was no sign of fraying.
“The cables were cut!” Joe cried out.
The pilot and dockers agreed. They said that the ferry had run for years without a cable breakdown. “I’m afraid,” said the pilot, “it’ll be some time before we’re able to repair the damage.”
After local authorities had been notified, the pilot insisted on driving the boys back to Millwood. He located a boat trailer on which to tow the bateau.


During the trip they discussed the accident. Who could have cut the ferry cables? Was there any connection between this, the art thefts, and the other strange occurrences?
“It’ll probably cut down the turnout at our exhibit tomorrow.” Chet sighed gloomily.
“It sure didn’t help our treasure search,” Joe murmured.
Once back in their room, and after a hot shower, the boys felt less despondent. Frank suggested that he and Joe offer to act as guides at Senandaga. “It’ll give us a chance to look around inside the fort, ’ he added.


They consulted with Uncle Jim, who was shocked to learn of the ferry mishap. He readily agreed to the Hardys’ proposal and was sure Mr. Davenport would concur.
The exhausted sleuths then went to bed. “At least,” thought Chet in satisfaction as he dozed off, “my painting is ready.”
When Joe woke the next morning he hopped to the window. “The sun’s out!” he exclaimed. “Wake up, fellows!”
After breakfast the Hardys wished Chet luck as he hurried off with his painting. The entire school grounds were devoted to the display. Some students hung their watercolors and oils on a long wooden backing sheltered by a red-striped awning. Other paintings stood on easels scattered about the lawn. The sculpture entries were displayed on several long benches near the judges’ table.
Meanwhile, the Hardys were ready to tackle their job at the fort. They had decided to go in the bateau. Heading for the lake, they met Mr. Davenport, dressed impeccably in a white summer suit. He was in good spirits.
“Happy Senandaga Day, boys!” he drawled. “Great idea you two being guides.” Frowning slightly, he cautioned them to admit the tourists only in groups and to keep them at the ground level of the fort ruins.
“Safer that way,” he said. “Also, less chance for someone to sneak off alone and look for the treasure.”
“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.
Soon the brothers were paddling downlake in the bateau. They passed several canoes and motor-boats heading in the direction of Millwood. “Looks as if the ferry accident may not affect attendance too much,” Joe said.
Rounding the promontory, the Hardys looked up at the flagpole over the sprawling, gray fortress. They could not believe their eyes. A banner fluttered from the staff, but this one bore three crosses, two red and one white on a field of blue.
“It’s the British Union Jack!” Frank exclaimed.
Quickly the boys poled into a cove at the foot of the fort and beached their craft. They scrambled up a steep path and made their way around to the moss-covered entrance passageway in the north wall.
The brothers hurried through it and found themselves on the old parade grounds. Around the sides stood the ruins of two barracks and the officers’ quarters. In the center was a deep hole which, according to their map, had once been a well. As a precaution, they placed some old planks over it.
The Hardys once more stared up at the British flag.
“Well,” said Frank, “if there’s a ghost prowling around Senandaga, now’s the time to track him down. Visitors will be arriving soon.”
They walked about the massive, crumbling interior. After circling the parapets, the boys reached the south demilune by a wooden draw-bridge, which Mr. Davenport had had reconstructed. After checking the west demilune, they headed back through the entrance tunnel.
“No flag-raising ghosts so far,” Joe quipped as they walked inland to unlock the promontory gate.
“The ramparts seem safe enough,” Frank observed, “but the west demilune, dungeons, and stores are in bad shape. They’ll have to be off limits.”
Soon a trickle of tourists began. Frank and Joe took turns meeting them at the gate and escorting them, careful to keep the visitors in groups. After a while the sightseers swelled in number. Several times the Hardys were asked about the ghost rumors, and also about the British flag. The brothers would grin, merely saying these were mysteries no one had yet solved.
Frank and Joe were kept so busy they had little opportunity to look for any tomahawk marking. At noon they hastily ate sandwiches they had brought, then resumed their job. Later, Jim Kenyon stopped in to see how they were faring.
“Business here is fine,” Frank reported. “How is the exhibit doing—and Chet?”
“We have a good crowd. And my nephew’s as happy as a lark. His painting has attracted a lot of attention.” Uncle Jim left, reminding the Hardys that the judging would be at seven o’clock.
“We’ll be there,” Joe said.
During the afternoon the boys overheard some of the visitors commenting on the Millwood exhibit. One elderly lady said to her companion, “That still life by that Morton boy is striking!” The Hardys exchanged grins.
They found most people to be impressed by the brooding majesty of the Senandaga ruins and several spoke in favor of the fort’s being restored.
Minutes before closing time, Frank led the last tour around the fort. Suddenly, from the ramp, he noticed a boy of about six make a beeline for the fort well. Frank saw with horror that the boards no longer covered it, but had been shifted to one side!
“That’s dangerous—stop!” he shouted, running down the ramp.
But the child ignored the warning and leaned far over the yawning hole. A cry broke from the boy’s lips as he lost his balance. Frank just managed to yank him to safety. He patted the youngster’s head reassuringly as the frightened mother dashed up.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “We had these boards over the hole. They were moved.”
The woman thanked Frank and quickly led her son away.
When the last visitor had left, the Hardys went over to the well. Each wondered the same thing: Had somebody moved the boards on purpose, hoping to cause an accident? If so, was it the work of the same enemy?
“I sure wish we could wait for sundown to see if anybody lowers that flag,” said Joe.
“So do I. But we promised to be back. Chet will be disappointed if we don’t show up.”
It was now a little before six o’clock. They hurried down and set off in the bateau. Poling off, they looked back at Fort Senandaga. The Union Jack was still waving from the mast.
“I wonder,” Frank said, “if these flags popping up have some connection with Senandaga Day—and that mysterious battle.”
“Could be.”
As soon as they had landed at the Millwood beach, the Hardys sought out Chet among the throng of visitors and art students.
They spotted him under a tree, and were astonished to see Chet, looking dejected, lifting his canvas from the easel.
“Why so glum, pal?” Frank greeted him. “We heard you were a big hit!”
Chet’s face grew longer. “It was swell until just this minute,” he mumbled. “I went to get some lemonade. While I was gone—”
Unable to finish, Chet swallowed and held up his painting. Frank and Joe gasped. What had been a still life of purple grapes in a yellow basket was smeared with blobs of dripping, green paint!

CHAPTER XIV
Lucky Watermelon
“MY painting’s ruined!” Chet looked sadly at the ugly blotches on the canvas.
“That’s a dirty trick!” Joe said, as Frank looked around angrily for possible suspects.
“What about Ronnie Rush?” Joe asked. “I wouldn’t put it past him, especially if he was jealous of the hit your painting made.”
At the moment Ronnie was not in sight. Frank had an idea. “Chet! You’ve still got a little time before the judges arrive. Maybe you can fix up the picture.”
Chet seemed doubtful, but Joe quickly joined in to raise his hopes. “Look—only the grapes in the center are ruined—the rest is okay. You could make those green paint blobs into something else!”
“Maybe you’re right!” Chet acknowledged, brightening. “I’ll try it!” Carrying his canvas, he trotted excitedly toward the painting studio.
“What a blow for Chet!” Frank commented.
Joe agreed. “He was really crushed.”
The Hardys met Uncle Jim. His face fell when they told him of the prank, but he was reassured on hearing of Chet’s last-minute attempt. “I’ll run over and try to keep up his inspiration!”
The Hardys then saw Mr. Davenport at the sheltered exhibit area, and went over. The elderly patron was walking from one canvas to the next. He spoke volubly, proudly commending his students.
“Well constructed, Bob, good attack!” he told one smiling boy, and moved on to a large, historical battle scene done by another youth.
“Excellent subject, Cliff! You’ve got your figures well deployed!” Twirling his cane happily, he proceeded to another entry. Next to it, looking nervous, stood a blond-haired girl. Her entry was an imaginative view of the Millwood mansion.
“Good thickness of paint there, Ellen.” Mr. Davenport beamed. “Invulnerably designed!”
Joe chuckled. “He sounds as if he’s talking about the construction of a fort!”
Frank laughed, but quickly became grim. He pointed to a knoll some distance away.
Ronnie Rush stood on the slope near two easels. He had a garish painting displayed on each. The Hardys hurried up to him.
“Say, what happened to your fat friend?” he asked, smirking. “He get cold feet and withdraw from the exhibit?”
“Not yet,” Frank said coldly. “Do you know who messed up Chet’s painting?”
The smug look on Ronnie’s face turned to one of anxiety but only for a moment. He sniggered. “Fatso probably messed it up himself.” He pointed to his canvases. “The judges will know good stuff when they see it. Say,” he added abruptly, “why are you two cruising around in that weird boat, anyhow?”
“Part of our research,” Joe replied tersely. By now it was almost seven o’clock, and the Hardys wondered how Chet was making out. They started for the studio and met Chet coming out, his canvas grasped carefully in both hands.
“Any luck?” Joe asked eagerly.
“I hope so.” Chet held out his revised painting.
The yellow basket now contained a large, green, elliptical fruit. Below was the title—“Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket.”
Frank and Joe praised their friend’s ingenuity. “It looks good enough to eat, Chet!” Frank grinned.
For the next hour four men judges viewed the paintings and sculptures, frequently jotting down notes.
The Hardys diverted Chet somewhat by telling of their experiences at the fort that day. The plump boy grew tense, however, as the judges paused at his easel. Inscrutably they eyed the still life, scribbled on their pads, and passed on to the next painting. Chet shrugged. “Guess I don’t have a chance.”
An air of anticipation hushed the crowd as the judges returned to their table and conferred privately. Finally they handed a sheet of paper to Jim Kenyon, who announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to award the prizes.”
The crowd surged close, and waited silently. First, the sculpture awards were read by René Follette. Mr. Davenport stood next to the prize table and handed out a ribbon and a gift to the three winners.
Uncle Jim stepped forward to give the painting awards.
“Boy, even I’ve got butterflies—they’re coming out of my ears!” Joe whispered.
“First prize for the best watercolor goes to ‘Night Crossing’ by Carol Allen.”
Applause accompanied each announcement as the lucky students accepted a ribbon and a gift. A smile crossed the instructor’s face.
“And finally, first prize for the most original work, in all categories, goes to ‘Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket’ by Chester Morton!”
Chet was speechless with delighted surprise.
“Go ahead, pal!” the elated Hardys shouted above the applause, slapping their friend on the back.
Proudly Chet went forward to receive hand-shakes from both his uncle and Mr. Davenport. Several students congratulated him warmly as he squeezed his way back to Frank and Joe.
“Look what I got—a complete oil-paint set!” He beamed, cradling a large wooden box in his arms. “Thanks a lot, fellows, for your encouragement.”
Joe could not resist a pun. “We knew it’d just be a matter of time before something tickled your palette!”
The three Bayporters laughed.
“O-oh, look who’s coming,” Frank said as Ronnie Rush pushed through the crowd. His name had not been among the prize winners and his face showed it.
He glared resentfully at Chet. “Just plain dumb luck, fatso!” Ronnie kicked at a rock and marched angrily up the hill.
“What a poor loser!” Joe said.
“Maybe I should have thanked him,” Chet said, “if he did try to make trouble for me.”
“Speaking of trouble,” Joe said tersely, “look at what’s coming.” He pointed to the lake where a cabin cruiser was anchored a little way beyond the promontory. Standing on deck was Chauncey Gilman! Then the pilot rowed him to the beach and helped Gilman step ashore.
The critic, as elegantly dressed as before, moved disdainfully through the throng. The Hardys and Chet watched as Uncle Jim greeted the newcomer guardedly. Mr. Davenport followed, clearly exerting all his will power to keep calm. “I trust, sir,” he said in a formal manner, “you will be fair in your review.”
“Fair?” Gilman repeated loftily. “Why, the only way I could be fair to your juveniles’ exhibit would be to shut my eyes!”
With a shrill laugh, he moved away and began viewing the student paintings. Mr. Davenport, scowling, trailed behind, accompanied by Jim and the three boys. Gilman paused at the painting which had taken the first prize.
“My, my. If this is one of the best, what must the worst be!”
With apprehension, the boys watched Gilman proceed, audibly abusing the paintings and sculptures one after another.
“Tsk! Tsk! Who victimized this canvas?” He pointed at a landscape done in watercolor. The girl who had painted it seemed on the verge of tears.
When he came to Chet’s still life, the reviewer burst into high-pitched laughter.
“Oh, priceless, priceless! The blue ribbon must be from a fruit market!”
Although annoyed, Chet was not greatly upset by Gilman’s remark, and Uncle Jim said, “The judges thought the exhibition today was one of the finest they had ever seen. The worst thing,” he added, “is that Gilman’s derogatory comments about Millwood will be printed.”
Mr. Davenport had been unusually quiet. The boys noticed a peculiar expression on his face as Chauncey Gilman closed his notebook and said, “Thank you all for a most entertaining evening. Better luck next year!”
As Gilman strutted toward his rowboat, Mr. Davenport whispered to Jim Kenyon. The instructor, looking puzzled, called for everyone’s attention. “Mr. Davenport wants us all to go right out to the promontory,” Uncle Jim announced. “It’s a surprise.”
The group, sensing something unusual afoot, soon gathered at the end of the dusky headland. Gilman’s rowboat could be seen approaching the lighted cruiser.
The Hardys and Chet were surprised to see Mr. Ashbach crouched beneath them on the bank, and, at some distance to the right, Mr. Davenport, also bending low. Each man held the end of a wire!
Gilman’s droning laugh could be heard over the splash of the oars. Then, at a signal from the millionaire, Mr. Ashbach began pulling his wire.
The next moment a luminous serpent’s head with gleaming white teeth broke the surface just ahead of the rowboat! Writhing, it headed for the craft.
Gilman shot up out of his seat, giving a shriek of terror.
“A m-monster! It’s—it’s a monster! Rogers! Help! Rogers!” he blubbered. “Save me!”

CHAPTER XV
An Eerie Vigil
THE hideous serpent bumped violently into the rowboat. With howls of horror, Chauncey Gilman and his pilot were pitched overboard. They floundered wildly in the lake, and the soggy notebook sank out of sight.
As the glistening monster hove from the water toward them, Gilman and the boatman splashed furiously for the cabin cruiser.
The group gathered on the promontory rocked with laughter. Doubled up with mirth, the Hardys, Chet, and Uncle Jim saw a grinning Mr. Davenport finally relax his wire, and the carpenter did the same.
“So the ‘monster’ was constructed just for Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said as the millionaire climbed up to join them.
“Yes, siree. And I’ll see that he reads a detailed account—in print,” declared Mr. Davenport.
Happily, the group dispersed for the night. All the next day the Millwood grounds echoed with laughter at the successful serpent scare.
Monday morning, as Frank hung up the phone in the mansion hallway, Joe asked, “Any word on Adrian Copier?”
“Not a thing,” Frank reported. “The chief says Copier’s done a complete vanishing job. The police did find an unrusted hacksaw underwater near where the ferry cables were cut. They’re following that clue.”
Frank also had learned that a statewide check was being made on art dealers for the stolen fort paintings.
Chet, having just finished breakfast, joined the brothers. “Well,” he said as they went outside, “what’s for today?”
“A camp-out tonight,” Joe said promptly.
“Great!” Chet responded. “Where?”
“Senandaga.”
“S-Senandaga?” Chet gulped. “Of all places to pick!”
Frank grinned. “Chet, you may have a chance to paint some ghosts.” He added seriously, “We’ve got to unearth that tomahawk clue before somebody else does.”
“You’re right.”
The Bayporters went into Cedartown to buy food and other necessary supplies. Finding no hardware store, they went to the sport shop. Myles Warren was not there, but a crew-cut youth waited on them. With difficulty, he finally located three folding-type spades.
“Sorry for the delay,” he apologized. “Don’t know the stock as well as Mr. Warren.”
“Is he on vacation?” Frank asked.
“No, but several days a week he goes out to do some painting. Can I get you anything else?”
The boys picked out three high-beam flashlights, sleeping bags, and a scout knife. “Guess that’s all,” Joe said.
“Where are you fellows going to camp?” asked the clerk.
“Probably down at the south end of the lake,” Frank replied noncommittally.
The clerk shook his head. “You wouldn’t catch me in that neck of the woods. From what I hear about that fort, I’d keep as far away as I could. But—good luck.”
After informing Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport of their camping plan, the boys loaded up the bateau. Swiftly they pushed off and headed south. When the fort came into view, they glanced at the flagpole. The Union Jack was gone.
Joe stopped paddling. “That’s weird,” he said. “First French, then British, now none!”
“Whoever put them up,” said Frank, “may come by boat. He’d have an easier time getting in than climbing the fence.”
“By boat,” Joe repeated.
The brothers exchanged glances. “You two have an idea,” Chet said knowingly. “What is it?”
Frank reminded him of the wet rowboat on Turtle Island, which contradicted the hermit’s claim that he had not left the island for a month. “He was mighty opposed to the French claims at Senandaga,” Frank recalled. “And don’t forget his true account of—Fort Royal. He might have raised the Union Jack.”
The bateau was guided past protruding rocks, and into the cove. The boys landed and climbed up to the old fort.
“We might as well start on the outside,” Frank suggested, referring to the map. “If you see anything resembling a tomahawk, let out a war whoop.”
The boys split up, each taking a designated area of the stone perimeter. They moved slowly along the shallow ditch, inspecting the huge stone blocks as far up the wall as the eye could see.
The task seemed endless and tedious, but they could not afford to dismiss the possibility of finding clues lying outside the fort.
Several hours later Joe called to Chet, “Any luck?”
A fatigued voice echoed from around a bend in the wall. “No. I think I’m going to be counting stones in my sleep.”
The young sleuths paused to eat a sandwich, then resumed their search. The afternoon sun grew hotter by the hour. Twice they took breaks at the lakeside, refreshing themselves from canteens.
“There must be a million square miles of stone in this fort.” Chet sighed, cooling his bare feet in the water.
A little later first Joe, then Chet, came upon freshly dug and refilled holes outside the ditch.
“Someone else is still searching,” Joe remarked.
Suddenly Chet glimpsed a figure watching them from the wooded shore below.
“Ronnie Rush!”
They started toward the student. He turned and disappeared into the woods.
“Snooping again,” Joe said. “Maybe he dug these holes.”
They decided not to waste time in pursuit—Ronnie had too much of a head start.
It was late afternoon before the boys had finished examining the wall sections still standing. No luck. There were piles of fallen masonry they had not even touched.
“It’ll take us days to go through them,” Frank said. “I think tomorrow we should concentrate on the inside.”
“Whew! I’m bushed—and empty!” Chet declared. “Let’s pitch camp and cook up some grub.”
The boys decided not to build their campfire near the fort. “No use advertising our presence,” Joe said.
As they started down to the bateau, Frank’s foot struck something metallic.
“Look!”
Reaching down, he picked up a wooden-handled, chisel-like tool. There were traces of clay on the blade, which was only slightly rusted.
“It’s a sculpture knife!” Frank said, turning it over in his hand. He detected two letters scratched on the wood—R. F.
“The owner’s initials.”
“René Follette, the French sculptor!” Joe burst out. “I wonder what he was doing here!”
“And he believes in Chambord’s gold chain,” Chet put in. “Except he thinks the British took it. Wow! I’m mixed up!”
Frank said decisively, “We’re going to have a talk with Mr. Follette when we get back tomorrow.”
Tired and hungry, they set off in the bateau. Reaching a point on the shore beyond the promontory, Joe spotted a small clearing inland. Quickly they tied up and soon had a fire going. The hungry boys thoroughly enjoyed a simple meal of frankfurters and beans. When the sun had dropped behind the western hills, they doused the fire and pushed off in the bateau.
A chilling wind rolled down the lake as they neared the fort, its massive, jagged hulk outlined against the night sky.
The Hardys paddled cautiously between the outjutting rocks and pulled ashore. Carrying sleeping bags and flashlights, they crept up the slope.
Some fifty yards from the western rampart, they set their gear down behind a thorn apple tree. From here they could also keep watch on the bateau.
For a long time the trio kept their eyes fixed on the fort, alert for any moving figure or signs of activity. Their ears strained for any suspicious sound, such as the clank of shovels or picks.
Only the noise of summer insects broke the silence. Chet shifted to a more comfortable position.
“Don’t even hear a drumbeat,” he said in a reassured tone.
The Hardys were beginning to feel discouraged when Chet whispered, “What’s that?” He inched closer to his pals. “L-listen!”
The boughs above them thrashed in a gust of wind. But the Hardys could also hear a hollow, echoing, breathlike sound from the fort!
“Maybe only wind—along the moat,” Frank reasoned, listening as the wind died down. The strange sound subsided, but was still audible.
“Wind! I’ve never heard wind like that!” Joe whispered. “Unless it’s coming through the holes and notches in the walls. It sounds like a seashell when you hold it up to your ear.”
“I know what it is—a ghost breathing!” Chet muttered.
The vigil continued until the boys’ eyes ached. Finally the three campers decided to sleep in turns. Past midnight, the wind became stronger and the moon broke through the clouds.
As it did, Frank tensed at a strange image on the fort wall. It looked like a skull!
But it proved to be only an area of gutted masonry with spaces resembling eye sockets and teeth.
Later, Chet took his turn on watch and propped himself against the apple tree. “So far nothing suspicious,” he thought, relaxing. One second later he suddenly froze.
Thump! Thump!
Drumbeats!
His breath locked tight, Chet sat up, trying to detect the direction of the sound.
Thum!
Silence. Thump!
Frantically he shook Frank and Joe, who bolted awake. “What is it?”
Above the sighing wind, the Hardys clearly heard the drumbeats. They were not coming from the fort but from somewhere near the lake!
Leaping to their feet, they looked down the moonlit water. Frank scanned the calm expanse.
“Look—out there!”
A hooded black figure was gliding toward shore!
Joe, unable to believe what he saw, was the first to gasp.
“It’s a g-ghost-walking on the water!”

CHAPTER XVI
The Deserted Cottage
THE black, billowing figure glided over the moonlit lake, its wind-blown shroud trailing a shimmering shadow.
For moments Frank, Joe, and Chet remained transfixed until Joe cried, “Come on!”
The Hardys raced down the slope. Chet, although shaking with fear, stumbled after them.
The ghost, its draped arms outstretched, was already nearing shore. The boys saw it disappear beneath overhanging trees beyond the fort promontory.
They ran back for flashlights, then hurried downhill to the area where the specter had vanished. But it was nowhere to be seen.
“I still don’t believe it!” Frank said. “Maybe I was just having a nightmare.”
“Not unless we all had the same one,” Joe said. “We all saw that-thing.”
“But—walking on water!” Chet exclaimed, shivering. “Nobody’ll believe us.”
“Listen—the drumbeats have stopped!” Frank said. They checked the bateau, found nothing disturbed, and returned to their post on the slope.
Hoping to get another glimpse of the ghost, all three remained awake for some time. But the phantom did not reappear. Near dawn the boys finally fell asleep.
They awoke several hours later, took a dip in the lake, and had breakfast. A search along the shore turned up no clues. Eager to report their experience, they returned to Millwood. Mr. Davenport and Uncle Jim were incredulous when they related their ghost story.
The art patron looked hard at the boys. “You all aren’t pulling an old Confederate’s leg, are you?”
“Oh, no! We saw it. Honest!” Chet said earnestly.
“Sir,” said Joe, “this ghost walker wasn’t another—er—lake monster, was it?”
“No. At least, not mine.”
“We’ll keep at our investigation,” Frank assured him.
Later in the morning they told Uncle Jim about seeing Ronnie Rush near the fort. The instructor said that Ronnie had not appeared for any of his classes the day before. “Maybe he’s still sore about losing out at the exhibit,” said Joe. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s after the fort treasure himself.”
The boys then showed Uncle Jim the sculpting tool. “It may be Follette’s,” he said. “I’d like to go with you to see him, but I’m getting ready for a class.”
He filled two bowls from a glass turpentine container, then placed several brushes in one. He was about to dip his paint-covered hands into the other when Joe dashed over and grabbed his wrists.
“Don’t!”
“What’s the matter?”
Joe pointed to the bowl containing the brushes. “Look!”
Faint smoke rose from it. They all could see the brushes disintegrating!
“That’s not turpentine—it’s an acid!” Frank cried out.
Mr. Kenyon sniffed the liquid. “You’re right! Somebody must have put it in the turpentine bottle during the night!”
“Could it have been just a mistake?” Chet asked.
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never had any reason to keep acid here.” He thanked Joe for his quick action, then asked the Hardys, “Do you think whoever did this caused the other accidents and left the shotgun warning?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Or else a confederate. But I doubt that any of the students are involved except maybe Ronnie Rush.”
Joe looked thoughtful. “One thing is sure. It’s someone who knows his way around here—night or day.” The Hardys and Chet left, and went to the sculpture studio. They drew René Follette aside and showed him the initialed tool.
“Yes, yes, it is mine!” he said readily. “It has been missing—oh, maybe two days. Where did you find it?”
The sculptor gave a start when the boys mentioned the mysterious flags at Senandaga but denied any knowledge of them.
Feeling it wise not to reveal details of their visits to Senandaga, the boys left. Outside, Frank said, “Follette didn’t act guilty. Perhaps someone stole his knife.”
The Hardys debated their next move, eventually deciding to do some detecting on the property of both Gilman and the English hermit.
“I still think there’s something fishy about Everett’s wet boat.”
“And Gilman,” Joe added. “He might have had his own reasons for getting hold of the Davenport paintings!”
They divided forces. Joe and Chet would go in the bateau to scout Turtle Island. Frank got permission to borrow the limousine to visit Gilman’s estate.
“Here are the keys, sir,” said Alex, outside the mansion garage.
Frank thanked him and soon was driving north. He parked in a wooded spot, and trudged along the overgrown shore. Soon he reached the Gilman property.
The Tudor house, as well as the lake-front patio, looked deserted. Circling the grounds convinced Frank that Gilman was not at home.
His ears keen for the sound of a car on the driveway, Frank peered into first-floor windows. If Gilman were behind the gallery thefts, where might he hide the paintings?
“The attic or the cellar!” Frank thought, wishing it were possible to search these places.
He found the garage open and looked around inside. Nothing suspicious there. Next, Frank pressed his face against a cellar window but saw only garden furniture, tools, and piles of old newspapers. Feeling thwarted, Frank then walked to the lake front. Through a grove of willows to the right, he noticed a boathouse and a long dock.
“I’ll check there,” he decided, and followed a path through the woods. Suddenly Frank heard footsteps behind him. He was about to spin around when he was struck hard on the head.
Frank’s legs turned to rubber and everything went black.
He had no idea how much time had passed when he came to with a throbbing headache. Sensations spun through his consciousness ... a strong, acrid smell ... hushed voices ... echoing ... a feeling of being adrift.
Suddenly he felt a trickle of water on his face. Frank opened his eyes to darkness. He was encased in something made of metal.
Then he saw jagged holes of light above his head. A chill of horror jolted him!
He was trapped in a steel barrel!
Frantically, Frank tried to turn over. But the container rolled with his movement, forcing water in through the holes.
The steel drum was sinking in the lake!

CHAPTER XVII
The Accused
FRANK kicked at the bottom of the container, then gagged as water rose over his chin.
Sputtering, he pounded his heels against the steel, but it was no use!
In a last desperate effort Frank gave a mighty push upward with his head and hands. The top gave a little. He pushed again, this time loosening the lid enough to free himself. His lungs at the bursting point, Frank swam away from the sinking trap and shot to the surface.
Gasping and gulping in air, he found himself about fifty yards offshore from the limousine.
No boats were in sight as he made it to the shore and collapsed, exhausted. As soon as his strength returned, he stood up and looked about for signs of his attackers. “Maybe someone is hiding in the boathouse,” he thought. Frank headed for the building, moving with caution. Finding the padlock open, he slipped inside.
Gilman’s lavish craft swayed gently in its berth. Frank peered about the dim interior but saw no one lurking in the shadows. He kicked at a tarpaulin, uncovering a pile of wood molding. “Wonder what they’re for,” he mused, and picked up several pieces. Underneath lay a familiar-looking, ridged strip. It had a diamond-shaped corner !
“It’s part of an old fort frame!” Other fragments also appeared to be from the Prisoner-Painter’s originals. “Gilman!”
The evidence pointed to the critic as the thief. But Frank was puzzled. Would Gilman have gone so far as to try to drown him?
“The police should know about this immediately,” he decided, covering the frames. He ran to the limousine and drove directly to the school. He called the chief, who sent officers Bilton and Turner to meet him at Gilman’s. After changing clothes, Frank went back to the critic’s house. To his surprise, Gilman was there.
“What is the meaning of this?” the owner demanded as Frank and the policemen approached.
“We’d like to take a look inside your boathouse,” said Officer Turner. He showed a search warrant.
Gilman climbed to his feet, his face a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. “Why? What—?”
“Because this young man tells us some stolen property is in there.”
“Which I discovered,” Frank added, “after someone knocked me out and tried to sink me in a steel drum.”
Gilman was flabbergasted. “I’m not guilty of such a terrible thing,” he protested. “I’ll have you know I am a reputable citizen.”
“Come along with us,” Officer Turner ordered.
Inside the boathouse, Frank pointed out the diamond-shaped piece of wood. “Recognize that, Mr. Gilman?”
“Of course. It looks like an original frame for a Davenport painting.”
“Yes. A stolen frame,” Frank challenged. “Maybe you can tell us what it’s doing in your boathouse?”
The critic threw up his hands. “I don’t know how any of this wood got in here. I am innocent of these hideous accusations. My driver, who also pilots the cruiser, can testify to that. He’s been with me for the last few hours.”
The driver was questioned closely. He provided a perfect alibi and vehemently denied any part in the attack on Frank. He also maintained that the stack of wood had not been in the boathouse earlier that day.
After searching the premises for the stolen paintings, the officers decided to recover the drum. Frank offered to dive for it, so the three took the rowboat to the spot where he had surfaced. Stripping to his shorts, Frank plunged overboard and streaked downward. Fortunately the water was clear, and he soon spotted the drum, and the lid near it, resting on the sandy bottom at a depth of ten feet.
When Frank bobbed up bearing the evidence, he was helped aboard and the trio returned to the boathouse. The critic paled when he saw his address printed on the side of the drum. “That contained insecticide,” he said. “We used up the last of it a week ago.”
Gilman looked completely deflated and his chin slumped to his chest. “I didn’t have anything to do with this fiendish thing,” he muttered.
The officers ordered him not to leave the premises. “You’ll have to stay here until we find out the truth,” said Turner. He and Bilton took the container and pieces of frame as evidence. By now, Frank had dried off in the hot sun and dressed, so they drove back in the limousine.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Bilton remarked.
Frank nodded. “I’m thankful that * wasn’t put on any tighter,” he replied. He remembered the voices he had heard just before sinking. “There must have been two men at least.”
“At any rate, this is pretty heavy evidence against Gilman,” said Turner.
Chet, Joe, Uncle Jim, and Mr. Davenport were first stunned, then angered upon hearing of Frank’s experience. He had told them his story in the art patron’s study. The elderly Southerner kept muttering, “I know Chauncey Gilman’s dead set against me—but this—incredible.”
“I feel the same way,” Frank said. “I don’t believe he’s to blame.”
Joe agreed. “If Mr. Gilman was so shook up by a fake monster,” he said wryly, “I can’t see him having the nerve to do anything criminal.”
“How about the paintings?” Jim Kenyon asked.
“Not a sign,” Frank replied.
“Do you think Gilman knows anything about that ghost we saw last night?” Chet put in.
Frank shrugged. “Remember, Adrian Copler’s still at large, and his partners. If we only had some leads to their identity!”
Joe reported that he and Chet had found Turtle Island deserted. Everett and his rowboat were gone. There was no trace of the stolen paintings.
“His dog was there, but chained up, lucky for us,” Chet added.
Mr. Davenport declared he himself would visit Chauncey Gilman that afternoon. “I don’t like him, but I won’t judge him guilty till it’s proved.”
The boys had a late lunch, after which Frank suggested revisiting the fort. “We can give the interior a good going-over this time,” he said.
Jim Kenyon offered to accompany the boys, since he had the afternoon free.
“Swell,” said Joe. “We could use a hand combing the fort.”
After getting some digging tools, they climbed into the bateau and set off. When they reached Senandaga, the foursome went directly through the entrance tunnel. Pausing in the middle of the parade ground, Frank took out their map.
“Let’s see. We’re facing south.” He pointed to a long, roofless building to his right. “That must be the West Barracks—”
“Or what’s left of it,” Chet interrupted.
“—And the ruin behind us—here—the North Barracks. This building to our left was for officers. Other than the two demilunes outside, the four corner bastions, and the ramparts themselves, that’s the setup aboveground.”
“How about the dungeons?” Joe asked. “Jason Davenport must have been kept prisoner in one.”
Frank turned the map around. “They were under the West Barracks.” They walked over to the stone structure, which rose just above the rampart. Rubble clogged an entrance which evidently led underground.
“It’ll be a job getting down there,” Frank said.
“Of course General Davenport likely had the run of the fort,” Mr. Kenyon reminded them. “He could have found the chaîne d’or anywhere.”
They decided to comb the barrack ruins first, Frank taking the one to the west, Joe the old officers’ building, and Chet and Uncle Jim the North Barracks.
Originally three-storied, these were now little more than shells with empty window and door frames. Two bleak chimneys remained standing.
Joe climbed through a broken wall section and began searching among the chunks of stone and mortar, most of it from the fallen upper floor.
Hours passed as the boys and Jim worked. Senandaga echoed with the sound of shovels and shifting stones. Each began to doubt the clue could ever be found. What if it were hopelessly buried?
“Look, here’s an old sword blade!” Frank called out.
“Great!” Chet responded. “We just found a rusted grapeshot rack!”
Joe later uncovered a wooden canteen almost intact. But none of them saw anything resembling a tomahawk or a chain. Finally the weary searchers took a break, relaxing on the shore near the bateau.
Suddenly they were startled by men’s angry shouts from inside the fort!
Frank and Joe, followed by Chet and his uncle, ran up the slope and through the tunnel, then halted in amazement.
At one side of the parade ground, two men were furiously exchanging blows!

CHAPTER XVIII
A Sudden Disappearance
“RENÉ FOLLETTE and Lloyd Everett!” cried Frank in astonishment.
The Hardys, Chet, and Jim Kenyon rushed over and separated the fighting men. Mr. Kenyon silenced them. “What’s this all about, René?”
“This hermit—he insults my ancestor, the great Marquis de Chambord!”
Everett snorted. “Who was brought to heel by my forebear, Lord Craig!”
“Then it’s you two who have been raising the French and British flags,” Frank declared.
Reluctantly, first Everett, then Follette admitted having done so to have his country’s flag flying for Senandaga Day. Each man had lowered the other’s banner, but neither had been looking for the golden chain. Each had, however, come at various times to search for proof of his ancestor’s victory.
René grunted. “You, Everett, struck me unconscious last Tuesday!”
“Utter nonsense! Besides—you struck me cold yesterday!”
“A lie!”
The Hardys exchanged glances. Who had knocked out the Englishman and the sculptor? Frank asked them if they had seen a black-robed “ghost” around the fort.
“Ghost, no!” Follette waved emphatically. “But I still feel that blow on my head!”
Jim Kenyon, with some difficulty, got the two to shake hands and declare a truce.
After the men had pushed off in their boats, the boys and Uncle Jim resumed their explorations, skirting the ramparts. Frank and Joe noticed small openings at foot level along the entire parapet, evidently rifle ports to reinforce cannon fire. But looking through one, Joe found it obstructed.
“Look!” he called to his brother. “Somebody’s wedged a tin can in here! And in the next opening, too!”
Frank found the same thing true along the north rampart.
“This explains the eerie noise of the wind we heard!” he said. “These might have been stuck in to make the spooky sounds!”
Suddenly he knelt down and yanked out a rectangular can from one port. Joe sniffed at the open top. “This held kerosene!” he exclaimed. He pulled the cork from his pocket. It fit perfectly.
Frank held onto the tin. Crouching, the Hardys moved along the notched wall guarding the fort. Bend by bend, they checked for markings or loose stones.
“Let’s try the demilunes,” Frank urged at last.
They were just crossing the wooden planking to the southern demilune when Chet’s voice rang out.
“Frank—Joe—Uncle Jim, come here!”
Rushing down to the end of the North Barracks, the others found Chet holding up a piece of black cloth. Excitedly the Hardys examined it.
“Frank—you think—?”
“It’s from the ghost? Could be!”
Jim Kenyon took the torn fragment and rubbed his fingers over the cloth.
He looked at the boys. “If so, your ghost got his costume from Millwood! This is a piece of a painting smock—dyed!”
He pointed out white markings still faintly visible beneath the black dye. They spelled “Mil.”
“Wow!” Chet burst out. “You think the phantom is an artist?”
“Whatever he is,” Joe said, “how did he walk on water?”
Frank showed Chet and his uncle the kerosene tin, and told of the other cans he and Joe had found. “They look like fruit-juice cans,” he added. “Maybe someone bought supplies in Cedartown.”
“Like Adrian Copier!” Joe ventured. “Or a crony. I’ll bet a cracker that thief is in hiding near Senandaga.”
Although disappointed at not unearthing the treasure clue, they felt encouraged by Chet’s discovery, and the Hardys planned to try tracing the piece of smock.
They had just pulled up the bateau on the Millwood beach when Alex the chauffeur came running toward them, a troubled expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?” asked Uncle Jim.
“Have any of you seen Mr. Davenport?”
They shook their heads. “No, we just came from the fort,” Frank answered. “Why?”
“He had me drive him to Mr. Gilman’s early this afternoon,” Alex reported, worriedly fingering his cap. “Mr. Davenport was to phone me to pick him up before dinnertime. It’s past that now, and I haven’t heard a word!”
“Do you think something has happened to him?” Joe asked.
“I just telephoned Mr. Gilman. He told me he hasn’t seen Mr. Davenport.” Alex added that the art patron had gotten out of the car on the road just before the critic’s property.
“Could Gilman be lying?” Chet put in.
“Let’s find out,” Joe urged.
Hastily leaving their gear outside the mansion, the boys jumped in the limousine and drove to Gilman’s home. The man appeared completely bewildered. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he whined. “Everything is blamed on me.”
A thorough search of the grounds proved futile. There was no sign of Jefferson Davenport. Next the Hardys and Chet made inquiries in town. No one there had seen the man, nor could any of the Millwood students provide the boys with a clue.
By midnight, with still no word on the millionaire, Chet’s uncle telephoned headquarters. The chief said a missing-person alarm would be sent out.
Next morning the school buzzed with the news of Mr. Davenport’s disappearance. The Hardys felt that there was a strong link between it and the art thefts.
“It could be a desperate move by Copler and his gang to get information about the treasure,” Frank said. “I move we check the fort again. If that’s their hideout, they may be questioning Mr. Davenport there.”
Joe and Chet agreed, and the three hurriedly took off in the bateau.
Once inside Senandaga, they searched for the millionaire. Finding no sign of him aboveground, they decided to tackle the dungeon entrances. There were two in the West and two in the North Barracks. “Let’s try the north first,” said Frank. The opening was blocked by what seemed tons of rubble. The old steps were barely visible.
“How’ll we ever dig through this stuff!” Chet groaned.
The boys found many of the rocks too large to be moved with shovels. In minutes their faces were covered with perspiration.
They tried the second north entrance. Here they found decayed timber poking out of the rocks. Frank and Chet lifted out a rotting door and set it against a wall.
The diggers proceeded, making a little headway.
Suddenly they heard a splintering thud. The boys whirled to see a hatchet embedded in the old door! It had narrowly missed Frank’s head!
“Who threw that?” Joe yelled angrily.
“Look!” Chet quavered, pointing.
They saw, fleeing out the main gateway, a hooded black figure!
The three boys raced in pursuit.
“You two go that way!” Frank yelled, jumping into the ditch and running off to the left. Chet and Joe sped in the opposite direction.
But they circled the fort walls without spotting the ghostly figure. Back at the digging site, Joe pulled the hatchet from the door. “It’s an ordinary camping type, but I’m glad we weren’t in its way!”


“Who threw that?” Joe yelled angrily
Frank studied the broad blade of the ax, then took out the photostat of the fort map and spread it on the ground.
“What’s up?” Joe asked curiously.
“Look at this hatchet,” Frank urged, “then at the shape of any side of the fort!”
Joe looked at the eastern rampart on the map as his brother’s hand covered one of the corner bastions. “It’s like a tomahawk!” he exclaimed. “It must be the clue painted by General Davenport!”
The three boys were greatly excited. “Which side of the fort is the right one, though?” Chet puzzled.
“In the painting the tomahawk was parallel to the west wall! And remember the notches on it near the end of the stock?” said Frank.
“The West Barracks!” Joe said. “The notches must refer to one of the dungeon cells! But that hatchet-throwing ghost—could he know about this clue?”
“I doubt it,” Frank said. “He was trying to scare us out of this fort, but the joke may be on him. If we’re right, he gave us a swell lead. Maybe we can find Mr. Davenport and the treasure too! Come on!”
Grabbing their shovels, the three moved over to the West Barracks, at the entrance nearest the notches shown in the picture. Spurred by renewed hope, they worked furiously.
An hour later Frank managed to wriggle through a hole they had opened in the rubble. Joe and Chet watched tensely as he lowered himself into blackness.
“It’s all right!” Frank called.
The others passed the shovels down and joined Frank. Chet squeezed through with the Hardys’ help. The boys switched on their flashlights and found themselves in a long, dank corridor, partially filled with debris.
A row of cells extended along the left wall. The Hardys were eager to explore and started for the nearest cell. Together, the boys inspected one dungeon after another, their rotting wood doors sagging on rusty iron hinges.
Frank and Chet were playing their lights on the floor of the fourth cell when Joe shouted behind them. “Look—on the back wall!”
His beam focused on faint scratch marks in the stone.
The boys hurried over. Now they saw the scratches formed a definite shape: a broad blade, notched handle, and an encircling chain—identical to the one in the Davenport painting!
“This must have been the Prisoner-Painter’s cell!” Frank exclaimed.
They felt the wall with their fingers. Joe frowned. “Solid as steel,” he commented. “How about the floor?”
Frank kicked aside the remains of what had been the prisoner’s cot. As his foot touched one of the floor stones, it rattled!
“Joe—a shovel!”
Prodding with the spade, Frank levered the large slab, and the others lifted it out. Their flashlights revealed a gaping hole!

CHAPTER XIX
Dungeon Trap
“IT’s not very deep.” Frank crouched. “I’ll go first.”
The Hardys dropped down into the opening and beamed their lights around.
“It’s a tunnel!” Joe hissed.
Behind them was a blank stone wall, but ahead stretched the low, dirt passageway. Chet lowered shovels and all three moved forward, ducking their heads.
“Easy—this ceiling doesn’t look safe,” Frank cautioned. “I don’t get it. We’re going west, which means the chain must be hidden outside the fort. Why?”
“Beats me,” Joe replied.
There appeared to be no turns. Farther on, they were surprised to find the tunnel angling downhill, then realized this was because of the fort ditch above.
Suddenly the trio were brought up short by a wall of dirt. Joe whispered. “Do you think it’s the end, or a cave-in?”
Frank probed the sloping earth with his spade. “It looks like a cave-in, and a big one.”
The three debated about digging through the dirt barrier.
“We’ll be risking another cave-in,” Frank said. “If only we knew whether or not this tunnel continues. And if it does, where to.”
“Let’s chance it,” Joe urged.
The Bayport sleuths set their flashlights on the floor and began shoveling with utmost care.
Beneath its hard-packed outer layer, the dirt was loose. The boys dumped spadeful after spadeful to one side. Suddenly they stopped digging, and listened, motionless.
Stealthy footsteps were approaching!
Grabbing a flashlight, Joe swung the beam back down the passage. It fell on the face of a tall, sullen-faced youth.
“Ronnie Rush!”
“Well, I finally caught up to you three. I hitched a ride in a motorboat, and trailed you here at the fort. Did you find the gold chain?”
Ronnie, striding forward defiantly, forgot to duck. His head struck the low ceiling. A thunderous sound followed as the tunnel walls gave way.
“Look out!” Frank cried.
Ronnie leaped ahead. He and the boys went down beneath a barrage of falling earth. Choking dust filled the tunnel pocket. Joe staggered to his feet and thrust a shovel into the mass of earth. “Frank! We’re cut off!”
The Hardys dug furiously, but it was no use. They were sealed in!
“There’s not enough air to last the four of us even a couple of hours!” Frank warned. “So every move will have to count.”
Chet glowered at Rush, who lay stunned. “If it weren’t for you—”
“You really scored this time, Rush,” Frank agreed. “But we can’t waste air arguing about it.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Ronnie said, contrite for the first time. “I was wrong to snoop, and steal your fort map. I had overheard Mr. Davenport and Mr. Kenyon talking about this treasure, and that you fellows were coming up here and—”
“Conked me to get our map,” Joe finished.
Ronnie shook his head, puzzled. “No! I took the map, but I don’t know anything about knocking you out—honest!”
As the youth seemed genuinely contrite, the other boys traded glances. If he hadn’t struck Joe, who had? Ronnie looked fearfully around at the enclosing walls.
“I just want to say, in case we—we don’t get out of here, I—uh—well, I’m really sorry about Chet’s painting and all—”
“Right now, you can be our shovel relief,” Frank said tersely.
First the boys recovered their flashlights, then dug steadily. When Chet collapsed with fatigue, Rush took up his shovel. The three lights cut bright spears through the small black space. Breathing was difficult and their clothes were drenched from exertion.
“Come on! We’ve got to get through!” Ronnie panted.
Seconds later, Joe’s shovel pierced the barrier and a cool draft hit their hot faces.
“We’ve made it!” Frank shouted.
The boys clawed rapidly with their tools, cutting a wider opening. Then they ducked through single file and advanced slowly; their flashlights beamed ahead. A short distance farther on was a wall with openings to the right and left.
“I’ll bet these are infiltration tunnels!” Joe exclaimed.
They entered the opening to the right, and found it littered with old French weapons, including rusty muskets and three small cannon, but as Frank feared, the tunnel ended in a solid blank wall.
The searchers hastily returned to enter the lefthand opening.
“Frank, how far out from the fort wall do you think we are?” Chet asked.
“Maybe a hundred yards west, probably to the woods. What an ingenious idea—if Chambord ever did use this for infiltration!”
He recalled Mr. Davenport’s mention of the Vauban parallel trenches, once used by attacking armies to close in on fortresses. Had Chambord reversed this idea, building these tunnels for defense ?
Fifty yards ahead, they reached another dirt wall.
“There’s got to be a way out!” Frank reasoned. “Let’s try the wall.”
They spread out, and with Chet holding the lights, gently probed the dry earth. Minutes later, a section fell away under Ronnie’s shovel.
“Here it is!”
Carefully widening the hole just enough, they ducked quickly through and proceeded down a tunnel heading back toward the fort.
“It’s parallel to the other,” Joe observed.
Presently they came to the beginning of the passageway—a wall of dirt.
“Funny,” said Frank. “The other tunnel started from a stone wall.”
Just then Joe flashed his light above and exclaimed, “Look!”
The beam revealed a square slab of stone. Hopefully the boys pushed it up and minutes later climbed out to find themselves in another cell. Covered with grime, the companions trudged along the dungeon corridor, and picked their way through the debris outside the entrance. They emerged on the parade ground again as dusk was falling.
Suddenly Frank spotted a uniformed man standing at the fort entrance. He ran toward them.
“Alex!” Frank cried out.
“Thank goodness you’re safe!” the chauffeur exclaimed. “Mr. Davenport has been found. He’s with Mr. Kenyon right now!”
“Where?” Frank asked.
“Come with me!” Alex led them across to the North Barracks, where an opening had now been cleared through a dungeon entrance—the same where the boys had started digging before the hatchet was thrown. “Mr. Kenyon found him down here—he’s not well!”
Concerned, they slid below, where several lanterns illuminated a dank corridor. The boys stared in amazement at two figures at the far end. One was Jefferson Davenport, propped against the wall with his legs bound. The other was a short, pug-faced man who held a rock over Mr. Davenport’s head.
“Adrian Copler!” Joe exclaimed. “Why, you—” Stepping forward, he was blocked by Alex !
“One move, my young Mr. Hardy,” he said, smiling coldly, “and Davenport is done for.”
As Copler swung the rock menacingly, the chauffeur thrust Frank back. “All of you—on your stomachs on the floor!”
“Why—you’re in with them!” Chet muttered incredulously.
“Shut up!” Alex barked.
The boys exchanged hopeless glances, and in order to spare Mr. Davenport, submitted to being tied hand and foot. Then Alex dragged his four prisoners roughly along and pushed them against the wall a short distance from the millionaire.
“I told you we’d get ’em!” Alex said. “Those snooping Hardys!”
“Good work!”
A hooded black figure appeared out of the shadows. Spellbound, the boys heard a soft laugh, then saw a gloved hand whisk down the hood to reveal a bearded, hawk-nosed face.
Myles Warren!

CHAPTER XX
The Final Link
THE trapped boys stared at Warren in astonishment, hardly able to believe their eyes.
“Then you, Alex, and Copler have been behind the painting thefts and the haunted fort!” Joe exclaimed.
“No doubt you’re surprised,” Warren answered with an irritating air of superiority. “Too bad you had to find out. But you may be able to tell us more than stupid Copler.”
The art thief flushed. “Oh, yeah? You haven’t been holed up in this miserable dungeon—all because of that worthless junk!”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. It was then, in the dimness, that the boys noticed a stack of paintings, some without frames, against the wall farther up the corridor. The stolen fort pictures!
“Shut up!” Warren snapped at his partner. “You talk too much!”
“Alex, it was you who kidnapped Mr. Davenport for the treasure clue,” Frank prodded. “Where does Gilman fit in?”
Warren laughed. “He doesn’t. After we failed to find any clues in the old frames, we removed several in order to ‘frame’ Gilman, so to speak.” The merchant went on to admit being the ring-leader, and that he and Alex had put Frank in the steel drum.
“We didn’t intend to drown you,” Alex put in. “That’s why we didn’t put the lid on tight.”
The sport-store owner had quickly engineered the fake detour after Alex phoned him that the boys were heading for the fort that night. Warren also had been responsible for the canoe sabotage, as well as the dock fire. It was Alex who had learned the Hardys had been asked to come to Millwood.
“No doubt you, Alex, and Warren stole all the fort paintings from the gallery,” Frank said.
Warren nodded, boasting, “Pretty clever I was to get into Millwood by playing the weekend painter bit.”
He said that the red paint smear had accidentally been rubbed off from his artist’s smock onto the back of the picture while he had been examining it in the gallery.
“And of course you had a swell chance to shotgun that red paint into our room,” Joe said.
“Naturally.” Warren’s eyes glittered. “I trust you remember that message I left.”
The Hardys and Chet felt a chill of fear as they recalled the ominous threat.
Ronnie spoke up. “Joe, he must be the one who hit you on the head!”
Warren glared. “And you must be the twerp who beat us to that map!”
“Did you push my car down the slope?” Chet asked. Warren pointed to the chauffeur.
“My orders, of course, though your pal was lucky enough to foul them up. Alex tells me he gave you three quite a runaround in the woods one night.”
Not to be outdone, Alex boasted of cutting the ferry cables. “We had to do something to discourage tourist pests. Unfortunately that zany Frenchman and Everett kept nosing around the fort—they had lumps on their heads to show for it.”
“By the way,” Copler whined proudly, “those well boards didn’t move by themselves. You Hardy pests kept me cooped up that day, but I sneaked out once.”
The boys learned that the drumbeats were made by Copler who had used an Indian tomtom to signal his partners for meetings.
“What have you done to Mr. Davenport?” Frank demanded, worried because of the elderly man’s silence and drawn face.
“He hasn’t been cooperative.” Warren smirked. “He’ll get worse treatment if you don’t tell us where the gold chain is hidden!”
Even Chet now realized they must spar for time. “One thing still puzzles us,” he said, “is how you walked on the lake Monday night. It was great.”
“Simple,” Warren bragged, holding up two black slotted objects resembling small surfboards. “Water shoes, made of urethane. Copler trimmed ‘em down. By the way”—he chuckled—“Alex provided Kenyon with a little acid ‘turpentine—”
“You batted zero out there, Warren,” Joe taunted. “We already uncovered that.”
Warren became furious. He struck Joe across the face. “Wise guy! What’s that painting clue? When you almost dug into our setup here, Copler overheard you say something about a tomahawk what? Better still, where’s that gold chain?”
“We don’t know yet—we’ve been looking in a tunnel,” Frank said.
“Tunnel? Where?” Alex demanded. “You’ve got a lead—out with it!”
The Hardys explained the clue, adding that Warren’s hatchet had given them the lead. “The west dungeons, either entrance,” Joe said. “There are loose cell stones. One tunnel leads to a cave-in. We can show you.”
“No you don’t!” Warren said harshly, satisfied with the information. He picked up two lanterns. 
“Copler, you stay here and keep your eye on these punks. Alex, we’re going for that chain!”
After Warren and the chauffeur had left, Frank racked his brain for a way to escape. Joe looked over and shrugged. Adrian Copler boasted, “You fools should have paid attention to my warning in Bayport. You’ll be sorry you didn’t!”
A few minutes later Copler began pacing the room nervously. Frank glanced at Mr. Davenport, who winked and signaled the boy closer.
Though bound hand and foot, Frank inched along the floor until he was two feet from the millionaire. Suddenly Davenport moaned and slumped over. In alarm Copler rushed to him.
“Davenport! What’s happened? Don’t die! Please. Not here!”
All the while Frank was pulling his knees up until he was poised like a spring.
Wham!
His feet flew forward and caught Copler on the side of the head. The thief collapsed like an empty sack.
Instantly the millionaire opened his eyes and smiled. “Good work!” He untied Frank, who promptly released the others. As they freed Mr. Davenport’s legs, he assured them he was all right. He chuckled. “Some act I put on, eh?”
Ronnie agreed to stay with him while the Hardys and Chet went after Alex and Warren. The Bayporters emerged and crossed the vacant parade ground to the West Barracks. “They could have gone in either one,” Frank surmised. “Let’s check the first!”
They squirmed below and crept along the silent corridor into the clue-marked cell. Frank switched off his light before dropping soundlessly into the hole at the beginning of the tunnel. Chet followed, then Joe.
They listened carefully before flashing on their beams. The lights hit the barrier of caved-in dirt sixty feet ahead. Nobody in sight.
“They must be in the other tunnel,” Joe said, and turned about. “Come on!” But his attention was suddenly caught by a straight fissure in the stone wall at the start of the tunnel. On a sudden hunch Joe grasped a projecting stone edge and he tugged with both hands. Frank did the same. The stone moved slightly. Excited, the Hardys pulled with all their might. Finally a door creaked open!
“What do you know about that!” Chet exclaimed.
Cautiously they stepped inside a paved passageway.
Wondering if they would meet Warren and Alex, the three boys followed the newly found tunnel beneath the fort interior. At its end, they played their flashlights around a large chamber.
Frank spotted a glitter of metal and followed it with his ray. Link by link, a huge gold chain was revealed, hanging majestically around the vault!
“The treasure!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ve found it!”
“And look at this,” said Frank, pointing to a dusty book and tomahawk on a table.
“I knew the Prisoner-Painter had a reason for putting the clue in that one cell!” Joe said.
The boys were curious about the book, but Frank rushed the others back into the passage. “Let’s get to that other tunnel!”
They went up to the second dungeon entrance and slipped down to the cell above the tunnel. The stone had been pushed aside from the hole.
“Quiet!” Frank whispered, turning off his light. They dropped below and tensely moved forward into the darkness. After a while they saw a lantern flash ahead!
“Get down!” Joe whispered. They dropped to their stomachs, hearing first Alex’s voice, then Warren’s.
“But the kid said something about a cave-in down there to the right—it’s a dead end.”
“You’re crazy—the cave-in’s the other way!” Warren retorted. “There must be a link-up in this direction.”
“I say left,” the chauffeur persisted.
As the men’s voices rose in argument, Chet and the Hardys crept closer.
“Suit yourself,” Warren said finally, “I’m trying the right. Yell if you find it.” Their footsteps receded. Frank signaled the others to their feet.
“They’ve separated—let’s take Warren first!”
With Joe remaining on guard, Frank and Chet turned down to the right, moving along opposite walls. When they reached the pale glow of the leader’s lantern, Frank jumped him.
Startled, Warren wrenched him off and swung his lantern. He was about to bring it down on Frank’s head when Chet tackled him.
“Alex!”
Warren’s cry echoed as he kicked Chet away, only to reel staggering into the wall from Frank’s smashing uppercut. A second punch dropped him unconscious before Alex rushed out of the shadows.
“Why, you—” As the man lurched toward Frank, Joe caught him from behind with a stinging bang on the left ear. Enraged and thrown off balance, Alex threw a backhand blow. Joe ducked it and at the same time Frank swung a round-house right. It landed on the point of Alex’s jutting chin. Out cold, he fell face forward on the tunnel floor.
As Frank rubbed his bruised knuckles, Chet and Joe bound the captives with belts.
“Wow! You really bombed him,” Chet praised Frank. “Hey, what’s that noise?”
They left the conspirators and hurried outside to the parade ground. Mr. Kenyon rushed up to them, followed by half a dozen policemen!
“Frank! Chet! Joe! You’re a sight for sore eyes! Did you find Mr. Davenport?”
“Yes. He’s okay.” Chet grinned. “We have three prisoners, too.”
Rapidly the boys related their amazing adventure, ending with outwitting the thieves.
“I knew something was fishy when you didn’t get back to Millwood,” Uncle Jim explained, “especially after the housekeeper said Alex had gone to look for Mr. Davenport, and never showed up again.”
He expressed astonishment at Warren and Alex being in cahoots with Copler, and surmised that the chauffeur had forged his references. “But it sounds like Ronnie Rush has reformed a little,” he added, smiling.
The Cedartown police chief congratulated the boys, then sent his men below for the prisoners. The Hardys, Chet, and Uncle Jim rejoined Mr. Davenport and Ronnie. Grinning, Joe asked the art patron if he could stand another shock.
The elderly Southerner straightened his shoulders. “Reckon so if I can deal with criminals.”
With Ronnie meekly trailing behind, the Hardys led the way to the secret chamber beneath the center of the fort. There the group gazed in awe at the magnificence of the gleaming chain of gold.
“It’s beyond words!” Mr. Davenport said happily. “Thanks to you detectives, and Jason’s clue, this priceless treasure is safe! I’ll see that it’s properly displayed near the paintings of my esteemed ancestor.”
Chet looked slyly at Ronnie. “If I do a painting of the treasure, will you ‘help’ me win another prize?”
Ronnie grinned sheepishly. “Never again!”
The Hardys then explained their theory about the infiltration tunnels, and Joe pointed out the old book. Mr. Davenport leafed through it. He looked up, astonished.
“What you boys have uncovered will rewrite history!” he declared. “This is a ledger left by Chambord hours before he and his garrison evacuated Senandaga, using these tunnels to escape to another battle area. According to this account, he planned to station Iroquois Indians—disguised as French soldiers—on the ramparts.”
“To decoy Lord Craig!” Frank guessed.
“Precisely.”
“Then the men the British attacked were actually Indians!” Joe put in, then frowned. “But Follette said ‘Frenchmen’ had been seen on the ramparts after the English had left.”
The boys recalled Everett’s account of the “French” fleeing when they could not manage the cannon.
“The disguised Iroquois must have come back!” Chet exclaimed. “Maybe to loot the fort.”
Mr. Davenport nodded. He said that Craig, after taking the fort, must have suspected the trick, and left immediately. “Chambord’s estimate here of the size of the attacking British force seems too large—Craig himself may have played a trick!”
“So the last true holders of Senandaga were the Iroquois!” Joe exclaimed. He held up the tomahawk. “Wait until René Follette and Mr. Everett hear about this!”
Frank and Joe looked at the chaîne d’or and wondered when another challenge as baffling as the haunted fort would come their way. Sooner than they expected, they would be called upon to solve THE MYSTERY OF THE SPIRAL BRIDGE.
Mr. Davenport grinned. “I’m hereby inviting you all to celebrate with a hearty Southern repast. How does that sound to you, Chet?”
The stocky boy beamed. “Super! Right now, I could use some real fortification!”
In Self-Defense (Hardy Boys Casefiles #45)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"She's doing what?" Joe Hardy asked in disbelief. He rolled up the van window and ran his hand through his windblown blond hair. He shifted his clear blue eyes from the passing buildings to his brother in the driver's seat.
Frank Hardy didn't answer right away. They were stuck in the early evening traffic rush, and he was going over a mental checklist of routes that might bypass the tangle of cars on the main streets of Bayport.
Frank knew more about the back roads and shortcuts in his hometown than any street map would ever reveal. He made his decision, flicked the turn signal, and made a smooth left turn just as the stoplight shifted from yellow to red.
"Callie's taking a self-defense course," Frank finally said as he pushed the van up to the speed limit. His window was open a crack, and air whistled in, ruffling his brown hair. He didn't look at his brother to see his reaction, but there was a twinkle in his brown eyes as he pretended
2
to concentrate on the road. "What's wrong with that?"
Joe snorted softly to himself. Frank had been going with Callie Shaw for a long time, and Joe had nothing against her. In fact, he sort of admired her in some ways. Of course, he would never admit that to anyone.
"A self-defense class for girls," he muttered. "They'll probably sit around talking for an hour, and then the instructor will hand out cute little tear-gas canisters on key chains."
"It's not just for girls," Frank replied. "And the instructor's got some pretty serious martial arts experience—including a third-degree black belt in karate."
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Why don't you teach her?" Joe suggested. "You know karate."
"I'm no expert," Frank said. "I've still got a lot to learn."
Joe shot a sidelong glance at his older brother. "You're not thinking of signing up for this class, are you?"
Frank shrugged. "I don't know. It might be interesting. The first class is tonight, and I thought I might check it out. Want to come along?"
Joe shook his head. "No, thanks. I can think of better ways to waste my time."
"You might learn something," Frank said.
"That's what school is for," Joe replied. "I've got nothing against it—but I like to take a break once in a while."
3
"Too bad," Frank said. "We're going out for pizza later." He paused for a second and then added, "I'm buying."
Joe glanced out the window. The sun had already set, and the dim half-light of dusk was quickly fading to darkness. "All right. What time does it start?"
"I'm supposed to meet Callie there at six- thirty," Frank answered.
Joe checked the clock on the dashboard. It read 6:15. "Kind of short notice," he observed. "What would you do if I said no and you had to drop me off at home first?"
Frank eased the black van to a stop at a red light. He turned to his brother and grinned. "Either I'd be late—or you'd have a long walk."
As soon as Frank parked the van in front of the address Callie had given him Joe hopped out and looked around. A sign on the large plate-glass front window of the two-story brick building identified it as the home of the AAA Self- defense Center.
Joe noticed that the building stood out because it was one of the few on the block that had any lights on. He looked up and down the block. Half the streetlights were either burnt out or broken, making the shadows cast by the few working lights seem harsh and ugly.
Across the street was a building with boarded-up windows. On the roof there was an old billboard that said "Your Ad Here." The strips peeling
4
off the sign told Joe that no one had pasted the name of an exciting, new, improved product up there in a long time.
That hardly surprised him. Except for the bank on the corner most of the buildings on the block seemed abandoned, the dark windows and doorways adding to the gloom.
"Good spot for a self-defense school," he said as Frank joined him on the sidewalk. "Around here you'd probably get mugged going out for the mail."
Frank spied a large form passing under a street lamp and crossing over to their side of the street. Frank nodded in the direction of the approaching figure. "Looks like somebody is still willing to risk it." He nudged his brother. "Maybe it's one of those muggers."
Joe whirled, ready to attack, and the figure froze. "Joe? Frank?" a familiar voice called out. "What are you doing here?"
"That's no mugger," Joe said. "That's Chet Morton."
Chet walked up to the Hardys. If anybody could take care of himself on a dark, deserted street, it was Chet Morton. Some people mistook Chet's bulk for fat. Frank knew better. Chet wasn't going to win any Mr. Universe contests, but his massive form did pack a lot of muscle.
"You're not exactly close to home, either," Frank said. "What brings you to this scenic neighborhood?"
5
"Yeah," Joe added. "You don't see too many upwardly mobile young bankers prowling around this part of town."
"That's right," Frank said. "I forgot. You've got a part-time job as a bank teller."
Chet nodded and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "That's the bank down there on the corner. I just got off work. I saw this school's sign a couple of weeks ago, and I figured it wouldn't hurt to learn a few karate moves. Breaking boards with my bare hands would be a great trick at parties, don't you think?"
"I can't believe there's a bank around here," Joe commented.
"This used to be a nice area," Chet said. "And the Bayport Savings Bank has been here for over thirty years."
Frank glanced at his watch. "We'd better head inside."
"What's the rush?" Joe asked. "Let's stay out here a little longer and soak up the ambience of this wonderful neighborhood."
"You can stay out there and soak until you're all wet," a female voice called from the front door of the building. The voice was Callie Shaw's. "But your brother might be more interested in what goes on inside. Come on, Frank. The class is about to start."
As they went in Joe turned to Callie and said, "I'm only here because Frank bribed me."
Callie flashed her sparkling eyes at him. "What's
6
the matter?" she replied coolly, with a toss of her blond hair. "Afraid you might learn something?"
They walked into a large open room. Frank did a quick scan of the layout. One wall was mostly covered by the wide, plate-glass front window. The other walls were bare. There were heavy padded mats on the floor and some folding chairs. That was about it. Frank steered his brother toward a couple of seats in the back while Callie and Chet joined a small group of people near the front.
A woman walked in wearing a traditional karate outfit—a white robe with a sash around the waist and baggy white pants. Since she was the only person dressed that way, Frank knew she must be the instructor.
She didn't exactly fit Frank's vision of a martial arts expert. She was short and stocky. She didn't look much older than twenty—but Frank guessed that her round face and short, dark blond hair made her look younger than she probably was. There was a smooth, catlike confidence in her stride, and Frank had a feeling this was not a lady to mess with.
The woman walked quietly to the front of the room and faced the class. "My name is Kay Lewis," she announced.
Joe leaned over to his brother. "I should have known," he whispered. "It's just like Callie to try to learn martial arts from someone who looks like she just got out of high school."
7
"Shhh!" Frank hissed. "I want to hear what she says."
"Welcome to the Triple-A Self-defense Center," Kay Lewis continued, her eyes sweeping the small crowd. "I assume most of you are here because you want to learn something about self- defense." Her alert gaze rested briefly on the Hardys. "And some of you just want to find out what this place is all about.
"This is a free introductory session. If you like what you see and hear, the real training starts the day after tomorrow—and then we meet three times a week for the next four weeks.
"But before you spend any money you should know what you're getting into. And the first thing you should know is what self-defense is not. It is not an art, a ritual, or a life-style. You don't have to practice every day for the rest of your life, and you don't have to call me master
or sensei."
Chet Morton raised his hand.
She turned to him and said, "I'll take questions in a minute. But if I stop now, I'll forget the little speech I memorized." Frank was impressed with her poise and control. "Don't worry," she added, "it won't take long. I haven't learned lung-fu yet."
She paused again. "That's the ancient art of talking your opponent to death."
Everybody in the room cracked up—including Joe.
8
After they settled down, she resumed. "Self- defense is also not a sport or a contest. There are no rules, and nobody keeps score. There are no winners—only survivors.
"There is no special equipment, and there are no exotic weapons. Most of you probably already own the best self-defense gear ever made— a good pair of running shoes."
"Are you saying you should run away from a fight?" Joe blurted out.
"Absolutely," she replied firmly. "The main goal of self-defense is to survive an attack. The best way to do that is to put a healthy distance between you and the attacker."
"What if you're not wearing running shoes?" Joe shot back. "Or there's no place to run?"
Kay Lewis smiled. "That's what this course is all about. And that's the end of my little speech." She shifted her attention to Chet Morton. "I think you had a question."
"I think you already answered it," Chet said glumly. "I guess we won't be learning how to break boards with our bare hands."
She shrugged her shoulders. "That depends."
"On what?" Chet asked hopefully.
"On whether or not vicious gangs of lumber are a serious problem around here."
The whole room broke out in laughter again. Then there was a loud crack! like a gunshot. All the laughter stopped abruptly.
Frank was the only one who wasn't startled
9
by the noise. He had been watching Kay Lewis When she swiftly clapped her hands over her head. With one simple motion she had the undivided attention of everyone in the room.
"That's your first lesson," she said. "Surprise is your secret weapon. Never signal your intentions to your opponent."
She looked at the faces around her. "I need a couple of volunteers for a little demonstration." Several hands went up, but she ignored them. "How about you two in the back?" she called out.
"Who? Us?" Joe responded in surprise. He shook his head. "I don't think so."
"What's the matter? Afraid I can take you?" It wasn't a question. It was a challenge.
Joe started to rise—but Frank put out his hand and stopped him. "Why us?"
"Because you fit the profile," Kay Lewis replied. "A couple of young guys who look like they're in pretty good shape. There aren't too many female muggers prowling the streets.
"And in case you hadn't noticed," she added, "this class hasn't exactly attracted a lot of guys."
Frank had noticed. In fact, other than Chet Morton they were the only males in the room. "I think you should know," he said, "that I've studied karate."
"Let's see what you've got," Kay Lewis said simply. She seemed unfazed by Frank's statement.
10
Frank shrugged. "Okay," he said as he stood up. "What do you want us to do?"
Kay walked around the room to one of the mats lying near the front window. "This is a good spot here. We'll need plenty of room for this."
"For what?" Joe asked warily.
"It's a surprise," Kay said with a smile. "If I told you, I'd lose the advantage of sur—"
Her words were cut off by a loud crash. The window next to her exploded, and shards of glass flew across the room.
Something shattered on the floor next to the mat Kay Lewis was standing on. Frank heard a muffled whump—and a wall of fire erupted around Kay Lewis.
11
Chapter 2
Frank leapt up and started toward the fire, but Kay Lewis was already diving through the flames. She hit the floor in a roll. She was fast— but not fast enough. Frank could see that her clothing was already on fire.
Frank grabbed one of the heavy mats off the floor and dragged it toward her. He draped the mat over her and threw himself on top of it, smothering the flames.
Joe and Callie were moving, too. They picked up another one of the bulky mats and threw it on the fire. The air filled with acrid smoke and the reek of burning plastic, but the fire was out almost as fast as it had begun.
"I think you can get this thing off me now," a muffled voice said.
Frank realized that he was still holding the mat around Kay in a bear hug.
"It's all right," she assured him with a straight face. "I promise not to burst into flames again. Really."
12
"Are you okay?" Frank asked as he pulled the mat off her.
She got up slowly, held out her arms, and looked down at her white robe and pants, now singed with black smudges. "I think so—thanks to you."
"That was some demonstration," Joe said. "What kind of show do you do on the Fourth of July?"
"What happened?" Chet called out.
Frank had almost forgotten there were other people in the room. He turned and saw Chet and a few others still sitting in their chairs. It had all happened so fast, they were too stunned even to move.
Joe looked down at the floor. Stooping, he carefully brushed away some shards of glass and uncovered the jagged remains of a broken bottle. He caught a whiff of gasoline. "I thought this was a beginners' class," he said.
Kay gave him a puzzled look.
Joe held out the bottle. "Defending yourself against Molotov cocktails is strictly an advanced technique."
The puzzled look remained on her face.
"A crude firebomb," Frank explained. "Just fill a bottle with gasoline, stuff a rag in the top, light it, throw it, and boom!"
"I know what a Molotov cocktail is," Kay responded. "But I wouldn't expect a couple of high school students to know how to make one."
13
"You never know when it might come in handy," Joe said blandly.
Frank smiled. "You'd be surprised by the things we know. Solving crimes is a kind of hobby of ours."
Kay's eyes narrowed. "A hobby? Just who are you guys, anyway?"
"They came with me," Callie interjected. "Kay Lewis, meet Frank and Joe Hardy. They can't help being nosy—it's in the blood. Their father's a detective."
"Made any enemies lately?" Frank asked, studying Kay's face.
"Women in the martial arts don't make a lot of friends," she answered vaguely.
"We'd better call the police," Joe said.
Kay nodded. "The phone's in the other room."
"I'll take care of it," Callie said, putting her hand on Kay's arm. "You sit down and take it easy."
A few minutes later Con Riley and another officer showed up. Frank and Joe weren't surprised. Con was one of the hardest-working cops on the Bayport police force. When there was trouble, Con Riley was usually one of the first officers on the scene.
Con scanned the damage quickly and then shifted his attention to Kay Lewis. "I was afraid something like this might happen," he said grimly.
"Do you know something we don't?" Joe asked.
14
"Probably," Riley replied. "But it's police business, Joe. I know you guys are just trying to help, but Chief Collig would be a lot happier if you two would find some other way to occupy your time."
"It's all right," Kay said. "I wouldn't be talking to you now if these guys hadn't been around."
She turned to the Hardys. "A few months ago, just after I bought this building and opened the school, I received a couple of weird letters."
"Weird?" Frank cut in. "What do you mean?"
"Threats," Con Riley said.
"What kind of threats?" Frank prodded.
"Oh, you know," Kay replied, trying to sound casual. "Just your basic get-out-of-town-or-else threats. I turned them over to the police, and that was the end of it."
"Until now," Joe added.
"Got any leads?" Frank asked.
Con Riley shrugged. "Not really. There's a local gang—the Scorpions. They made a lot of noise about a martial arts school being on their turf. But we don't have anything solid."
"I run into them on the streets sometimes," Kay said. "They practice their tough-guy glares on me, but that's about it.
"They hang out at the video arcade over on Becking Street," she continued. "Right after I started getting the letters I went over there and had a talk with their leader—a guy named Conrad Daye."
15
"Conrad Daye?" Frank responded. He recognized the name.
Riley snorted. "He's got a rap sheet a yard long."
"You actually just walked in there and confronted him?" Joe asked Kay.
"I didn't say I confronted him," she answered. "I said I had a talk with him."
"So what did you find out?" Frank said, trying to steer the conversation back on course.
"He didn't admit anything," Kay said. "But he didn't deny anything, either."
Con Riley took their statements, and his partner picked up the remains of the gasoline bomb. By the time the police had finally left, most of the people who had come for the class were long gone.
"I don't think too many of them will come back again," Kay said with a weak smile.
"I'll be back," Callie replied firmly. "And I think most of the others will be, too."
"Yeah," Chet agreed as they walked to the door. "That was pretty cool, the way you jumped through those flames."
They all walked outside. "Do you live here?" Frank asked Kay.
"Not yet," she answered. "But in a couple of weeks I'll have the apartment on the second floor all fixed up. Then I won't have to drive to work anymore."
Frank was about to ask another question when a car pulled up to the curb.
16
"Oh, no," Kay groaned softly. "Not again."
Frank tensed. "Trouble?" he whispered.
Kay chuckled. "Yeah—but not the kind you think. Don't worry, I can handle it."
Joe watched a man in a neatly pressed suit get out of the car. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples. Even in the dim light of the remaining street lamps, Joe could see that his face was lightly tanned, although summer was still several months away. He flashed a smile. Joe thought he had too many teeth—and they were too white.
"Hello, Kay," the man said smoothly.
"Hello, Patrick," she replied wearily. "I'm still not interested."
"You haven't even heard Mr. White's latest offer yet."
"I told you before. I've just settled in, and I'm not interested in selling."
The man shook his head slowly. "I don't understand you. We're talking about enough money for you to get a place in a nice, safe area."
Kay sighed. "They don't need what I have to offer in nice, safe areas. This is where I belong, and this is where I'm staying."
"All right," the man replied. "I'll tell Mr. White—but he won't be happy."
The man got back in his car and started the engine. Just before he pulled away he rolled down the window and looked at the Hardys.
17
"You kids be careful," he said. "You could get hurt around here."
After he drove off Frank turned to Kay Lewis. "What was that all about?"
"That was Patrick Smith," she said. "He's the real estate agent who sold me this building. Now he represents a developer named Sam White. It seems Mr. White has taken a sudden interest in this neighborhood, and he's buying up every piece of property he can."
"And you won't sell," Frank said.
Kay nodded. "That's right."
"Maybe this White guy threw that 'cocktail' party earlier to try to scare you off," Joe suggested.
"Maybe we should do some checking around for you," Frank offered.
"I don't want you getting involved in my problems," Kay said. "But thanks anyway."
"Your problem became our problem when that bomb came through the window," Frank replied. "We're in this together now."
* * *
The next day after school Frank and Joe drove back to the run-down neighborhood.
"The Scorpions hang out at the video arcade on Becking," Frank said, recalling what Kay Lewis had told them the evening before.
Joe grinned. "So let's go play some games."
"That's exactly what I had in mind," Frank replied as they turned onto Becking Street.
18
On Becking Street Frank noticed that there weren't as many abandoned buildings as on the block where the self-defense center was located, but most of the structures looked as though they needed some kind of repair—or at least a fresh coat of paint. The arcade was in the middle of the block. It wasn't one of those fancy video-game places like those in malls. It was just a small storefront in an older building.
As they approached the entrance to the arcade Frank noticed two guys leaning against a brick wall, trying to look casual. Frank suspected that they were lookouts.
The two guys eyed the Hardys warily. One of them shot his arm across the entrance, blocking it when Joe tried to walk in.
"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.
Joe looked at him. "I think I'm going inside— right after I rip your arm off."
Joe started to reach out, but Frank grabbed his sleeve. "Tell Conrad Daye that Frank Hardy wants to talk to him," he said quickly.
"Wait here," the other lookout said. He ducked under his companion's arm and went inside.
A minute later he was back. "Okay, Rad says he'll talk to you."
The one who had blocked the door glared at Joe. "Better watch your mouth," he snarled. "You're on Scorpion territory now."
It took a moment for Joe's eyes to adjust to
19
the dim light inside. The eerie glow of the video games was about the only source of light. The lookout led them to the back of the arcade, where a lanky guy with shoulder-length brown hair was sitting on an old pinball machine, his legs dangling down, not quite touching the floor.
He was wearing a faded jean jacket with the sleeves torn off. Stitched over the left breast pocket was a small round patch with the likeness of a scorpion on it. In one hand the guy was twirling a butterfly knife, absently flicking the blade in and out of the segmented handle.
He silently studied the Hardys for a moment. Joe realized that the arcade was strangely quiet. In most video-game rooms you had to shout to make yourself heard over the din of electronic sound effects. But not here. Joe didn't have to look around to know that was because nobody was playing any of the games. All eyes were on the two outsiders.
Finally the guy perched on the pinball machine broke the silence. "Hello, Frank," he said coolly. "It's been a long time."
"Hello, Connie," Frank replied.
"You know this guy?" Joe asked, staring at his brother.
"This is Conrad Daye," Frank said. "Connie and I had a few classes together in eighth grade."
The gang leader frowned slightly. "Nobody calls me Connie anymore."
20
Frank smiled. "Not a very good name for a man in your position, is it?"
Daye grinned and gestured around him with the knife. "We do the best we can with what we've got." The smile faded. "Maybe if my father was an ex-cop and a hotshot detective we'd all be on the football team together. But I had to drop out of school and get a job when my old man hit the road."
Joe stepped forward. He didn't much care for the way Daye talked about the brothers' father, Fenton Hardy. "Is this your idea of a job," he snapped, "joining a gang of punks and rolling old ladies for their pension checks?"
Frank held his breath. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with one of the switchblades he heard flicking open behind them.
Conrad Daye eased himself off the pinball machine and fixed his gaze on Joe.
"I hope you didn't have any plans for the rest of the day," the gang leader said coolly, "or for the rest of your life."
21
Chapter 3
Joe spun around and came face-to-face with the gang lookout whose arm he had offered to remove. Except now the guy had eight inches of shining steel clenched in his fist.
The guy shoved the knife up close to Joe's face. "I told you to watch your mouth," he said with a sneer. "Maybe you'll have better manners without a tongue."
Joe jerked his left arm up and knocked the knife out of the way. Then he slammed a quick right jab into the guy's stomach, doubling him over. Joe cocked his arm for a shot to the head, but somebody jumped him from behind.
Two more Scorpions rushed him and grabbed his arms. Joe thrashed around, trying to get loose as they dragged him across the floor and pinned him up against the wall.
"Hold him while I cut him!" a voice growled.
"Back off, Dave!" Conrad Daye shouted. "Everybody, chill out!"
He sounded like a sergeant barking out orders.
22
Joe just hoped the troops would obey. He could see that Frank was also being held by two of the Scorpions.
"Let them go," Daye said quietly after a moment.
"After what this guy said?"
"We have rules, Dave," the gang leader replied. "We don't do anything that will bring the heat down on us here. The cops would love an excuse to shut this place down.
"Let them go," he repeated firmly.
Joe gave an inward sigh of relief as the hands clutching his arms released him.
Daye turned to Frank. "Take your brother and get out now."
"Sounds reasonable to me," Frank said. He walked over to Joe, took hold of his arm, and hauled him toward the door.
"Oh, one more thing," Daye called out as the Hardys retreated.
Frank turned in the doorway. "What?"
"Now we're even," Daye said.
"What did he mean by that last crack?" Joe asked after they jumped in the van.
Frank turned the key in the ignition, glanced in the side mirror, and pulled away from the curb with a squeal of rubber. "Connie owed me a favor—and you just wasted it."
"Okay, so I got a little out of line," Joe admitted. "But that punk wasn't going to tell us anything."
23
"He sure wasn't going to tell you anything," Frank agreed. "But he might have talked to me."
"Why?"
"Because I helped him out back in junior high. A couple of older guys kept picking on him. They'd shove him around and tell him Connie was a girl's name. They'd keep pushing until he'd get mad and take a swing at one of them. Then they'd beat him up.
"One time," Frank continued, "they made the mistake of razzing him after baseball practice. Daye was carrying his bat—and one of the guys ended up with a couple of cracked ribs and a broken arm."
Frank was quiet for a moment. "I think Daye would have killed him if I hadn't jumped in and stopped it."
"Wait a minute," Joe said. "I think I remember now. Didn't you have to testify in court or something?"
Frank nodded. "The father of the kid with the broken arm tried to get Daye arrested for assault. I was the only witness who wasn't one of the kid's buddies. They all claimed that Daye just started swinging for no reason. I told the police what really happened, and they dropped the charges."
"So that's why he let us get out of there without a scratch," Joe said.
"That's right," said Frank. "But don't expect any more favors from Conrad Daye."
24
Joe felt pretty stupid for shooting his mouth off in the video arcade. He didn't like gangs. He felt that anybody who joined one was a coward— but he also knew that gangs could be very dangerous. He gazed out the window at the deserted hulk of an old factory. The chain-link fence that blocked the parking lot had a For Sale sign with a Sold sticker plastered over it. There was another sign next to it.
"Pull over a minute," Joe said. He popped open the glove compartment and took out a pencil and a pad of paper.
"What is it?" Frank asked.
Joe nodded toward the sign. "Check it out."
" 'Coming soon,' " Frank read out loud. " 'Another White Development project.' " Below that was a telephone number and an address.
"That must be the developer Kay Lewis mentioned," Joe said as he wrote down the address.
"I guess it's time we paid a visit to Sam White," Frank replied.
* * *
The address Joe scribbled on the notepad turned out to be a large hole in the ground just a few blocks away, in the same run-down part of Bayport.
Joe looked out at the deep, muddy pit. "Looks like we're too late," he said. "Somebody's kidnapped Sam White and his office."
Frank stopped the van in front of a construction trailer perched on the edge of the pit. The
25
trailer was resting on heavy cinder blocks, and makeshift wooden stairs led to the door. Frank glanced at a sign in front that claimed it was the "Future Site of White Office Plaza."
Frank got out of the van and walked over to the trailer. Joe followed him. Frank climbed the narrow steps and knocked on a small window set in the thin metal door.
"It's open," a voice called from inside. "Come on in."
Frank had to back down the steps to pull open the door. He held it for Joe and then followed him in. The inside of the trailer was one long room. Sitting at a desk at one end was a man with ash gray hair cropped so short Frank could see his scalp.
The man was absorbed in some blueprints spread across the desk. "We're not hiring yet," he said without even looking up. "But if you try again in a few weeks, I may be able to find something for you."
"We're not looking for jobs," Joe said. "We're looking for information."
The man lifted his head and studied the two brothers. His dark, leathery skin told Joe that he spent a lot of time working outside, but the clear, piercing gray eyes set in that rugged face said this was not an ordinary construction worker.
"Sorry," the man said, smiling and sitting back in his chair. "A lot of people walk in off the street looking for work. What can I do for you?"
26
Joe was direct. "We're looking for Sam White."
The man seemed mildly amused. "And you are ... ?"
"Frank and Joe Hardy," Frank responded, trying to wrestle control of the conversation from his impatient brother.
The man stood up and walked out from behind the desk. Joe thought he looked like an ex-linebacker—big neck, wide shoulders, muscular arms, and a slightly bulging stomach showing that he had hoisted a few more beers than footballs. The man stuck out his massive right hand.
"Glad to meet you," he said, giving each of them a brief, firm handshake. "I'm Sam White. You'll have to excuse my, ah, office." He gestured to the piles of paper, surveying equipment, and tools that cluttered the trailer. "I'm afraid I can't even offer you a chair."
"That's all right," Frank replied. "We only want to ask you a few questions."
White's thick eyebrows arched. "About what?"
"It looks like you've got big plans for this part of Bayport," Frank said.
White nodded. "That's right. I grew up around here. I figured it was time to give something back to the community."
"Not to mention turn a tidy profit," Joe said casually.
White looked at Joe. "Yes, that, too," he replied evenly. "But I could make money anywhere. Here my projects will bring new homes,
27
new stores, and new jobs to where they're needed most. Do you have a problem with that?"
"So everybody wins," Frank said. "Is that the idea?"
"Yes," White replied. "Something like that." He glanced out the window at the setting sun. "Look, it's getting late, and I've got work to do. So why don't we just get to the point. What exactly is it that you want?"
"We want you to leave Kay Lewis alone," Joe said bluntly.
"What's that supposed to mean?" White snapped. "All I did was offer to buy her building. If that's some kind of crime, it's news to me."
"No, there's no crime in that," Frank agreed. "But somebody tried to burn her alive last night— and that definitely falls on the wrong side of the law, don't you think?"
"Sounds pretty serious," White said calmly. "But what's that got to do with me?"
"We don't know," Frank admitted. "But we plan to find out."
The developer took several brisk strides over to the door, pushed it open, and stood there with his arms crossed. "Like I said before, it's getting late. You'd better get going. It can be dangerous in this neighborhood after dark."
"So can we," Joe replied as he followed his brother out the door.
"Where to now?" Joe asked when they were back in the van again. "Home?"
28
Frank shrugged. "I don't know. So far we haven't found out anything we didn't know last night. White admits that he wants Kay's property —but that's all we have on him." He stared out the windshield for a moment, lost in thought. 'Tell you what," he said at last. "Let's see if Kay can tell us anything more."
"Might as well," Joe replied. "We're already in the neighborhood."
Frank peered down the street. "Let's see. If we take a left up at the next light, that should take us right to Madison."
Joe nodded. "And since the self-defense school is on Madison, that's right where we want to be."
Frank put the van in gear and then flicked on the headlights. Sam White had been right about one thing—it was getting late. Trying to conduct an investigation after school could really put a cramp in your style.
As they turned onto Madison Frank saw the Bayport Savings Bank, where Chet Morton worked part-time. It was an older building, without a drive-through banking center. Most of the lights were out, and Frank guessed the bank was closed for the day.
"Hey," Joe said, pointing out the window. "Isn't that Chet's car?"
Frank was just starting to turn his head when Joe suddenly clutched at his arm and yelled, "Stop the van!"
29
Frank slammed on the brakes. The van swerved and screeched to a halt. "What is it?" he shouted. But he could already see the answer for himself.
Framed in the headlights, a body lay sprawled facedown on the ground. And spreading slowly across the pavement was a dark pool of blood.
30
Chapter 4
Joe bolted out of the van before it stopped moving. Kneeling beside the body, he could see that it was Chet Morton. On his forehead was an ugly gash, which was the source of all the blood on the pavement. But Joe could tell that the wound wasn't deep and that the bleeding had almost stopped already.
Joe carefully rolled his friend over onto his back. Chet's eyes fluttered open. "Ooh," he moaned. "My head feels like somebody dropped an anvil on it." He sat up slowly, holding on to Joe's arm for support. "I could've taken them, Joe—but one of them blindsided me."
"Who?" Joe asked. "Who did this to you?"
Chet tried to shake his head and winced in pain. "I don't know. They were wearing ski masks."
Frank appeared next to his brother. "I found a pay phone and called an ambulance." He bent down next to Chet. "What happened?"
"I left my gym bag at the self-defense center
31
yesterday," Chet said. "I went over there after work to pick it up. On the way back to my car three guys jumped me."
"How much money did they get?" Joe asked.
"That's the weird part," Chet answered. "They didn't try to rob me. One of them mumbled something about wimps who need women to protect them, and then they were all over me. I got a few good licks in, though. One of them is going to need major dental work."
"Anything at all that might identify them?" Frank asked.
"No," Chet replied. "Nothing that I can think of, anyway. It all happened pretty fast. I think I'm okay now—unless they did something to the car. If anything happened to the car, my mother will kill me."
Frank went over to Chet's car and took a close look. "Seems all right to me," he said. "Not a scratch on—" He stopped in midsentence. A glint of metal in the narrow space between the front tire and the curb caught his eye. He bent down to get a closer look. Then he carefully picked up the metal object, holding one end lightly between the tips of his forefinger and thumb. He didn't want to get any fingerprints on it.
Joe glanced over at his brother. "What've you got there?"
Frank showed it to him. "A balisong."
Chet Morton frowned. "A what song?"
32
"A butterfly knife," Frank explained. "Kind; of the martial-arts answer to the switchblade."
Joe stood up and took a closer look. "Wasn't Conrad Daye fiddling around with one of those in the video arcade?"
Frank nodded and started to open his mouth to respond to Joe. But before he could say anything he heard the wail of a siren.
"Sounds like an ambulance," Joe said.
"And the police won't be too far behind," Frank replied.
Joe grinned halfheartedly. "Gee, I bet they'll be glad to see us again."
* * *
"I still don't get it," Joe complained, tossing his books in his locker and swinging the metal door shut with a resounding clank. "Why didn't you give the knife to the police yesterday?"
Frank shrugged as they jostled through the crowded hallway. Every day at the exact stroke of 3:00 Bayport High emptied out faster than it had for any fire drill in the school's history.
"It doesn't prove anything," Frank said. "Anybody could get a knife like that."
"But it's evidence in a criminal investigation," Joe argued. He felt more than a little weird reminding Frank about proper procedure. Usually it was Joe who wanted to throw away the rule book and fake it.
The crowd spilled out the front entrance of the school and spread in all directions. Frank and
33
Joe headed for the parking lot. "I know," Frank said uneasily. "It just seems a little too convenient."
"How so?" Joe asked. He stuck his hand in his front pocket, fished out the keys to the van, and unlocked the door.
"Well," Frank said as he climbed into the passenger seat, "don't you think it's kind of strange that we find a knife just like Daye's at the scene of a crime an hour after we talk to him?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Joe admitted. "So what do you want to do now?"
"Have another talk with Conrad Daye," Frank said.
Joe looked at his brother. "After what happened yesterday?"
Frank smiled. "Don't worry—I've got a plan."
"That's when I worry the most," Joe replied. "What is it this time?"
"I'll keep quiet while you drive," Frank said, "and you keep quiet while I talk to Daye."
* * *
"Pull over here," Frank told Joe when they got to Becking Street.
Joe looked down the street. The video arcade was a little over a block away. He could see two or three empty parking spaces right in front of the gang hangout. "Trying to save gas?" he ventured. "Or are we going to walk the rest of the way because it's good exercise?"
34
"I'm not in a real big hurry to jump in there again," Frank answered. "And sooner or later Daye has to come out. So why don't we wait a while and see if we get lucky?"
"We don't even know if he's in there," Joe pointed out.
"That's true," Frank agreed. "So why risk our lives taking on the rest of the gang if the guy we want isn't even there?"
"Good point," Joe said. "Hey—I've got an idea."
"What?"
"Let's wait here and see if we get lucky."
"Good plan," Frank said.
They didn't have to wait very long. About a half hour later Conrad Daye came out of the arcade—but he wasn't alone.
"That's the guy who wanted my tongue for his trophy case," Joe growled.
Frank nodded. "Yeah—Dave somebody. I didn't catch his last name."
Joe started to open the van door. "He won't even remember his last name when I get through with him."
Frank grabbed Joe's shirt sleeve and yanked him back into his seat. "You're not going to do anything, remember?"
Joe knew his brother was right. "Okay," he grumbled.
"Get ready," Frank said. "Here they come."
The Hardys waited until the two gang members 
35
had passed the van. Then they slipped out and followed them down the street.
Frank quietly walked up behind Conrad Daye. "Hello, Connie," he said casually.
Daye whirled around. "What th—" he began. He stopped himself when he saw Frank and Joe. "You guys just won't take a hint," he said angrily.
"Don't waste your breath talking to these zeros," his companion sneered.
Dave reached into his pocket, but Joe closed in on him and grabbed his arm before he could pull out the switchblade. Then Joe grasped Dave's right hand and pumped it up and down. "Hi," he said, grinning. "I'm Joe Hardy. I don't think we've been properly introduced."
"Better tell him your name before he shakes your arm out of the socket," Conrad Daye suggested.
"Dave Gilson."
Joe released his crushing grip and clapped Gilson on the shoulder. "That's more like it! I feel much better now. Don't you?"
Gilson just stared at him.
"All right," Daye said, turning to Frank. "You've got me. Now what do you want?"
"I hear you've got a problem with the new self-defense school over on Madison," Frank said. "Is that true?"
"What kind of problem?" the gang leader responded. "If a bunch of girls and wimps want to
36
throw their money away, that's their problem, not mine."
"But it's on your turf," Frank said. "That doesn't bother you?"
"Sure," Daye admitted. "A lot of things bother me. So what?"
"Somebody threw a firebomb into the school the other day," Frank answered. "And after we came to see you yesterday, somebody jumped a friend of ours near there."
"And you think the Scorpions did it?" Daye asked sharply.
"I don't know what to think," Frank said honestly. "But the evidence seems to point in that direction."
"What evidence?"
Frank pulled a clear plastic bag out of his pocket. In it was the knife he had found next to Chet Morton's car. "Look familiar?"
Daye was silent for a moment. "That doesn't prove anything," he said. There was a slight edge in his voice. "A lot of guys have knives like that."
"Yeah," Frank replied. "That's what I said, too. Of course, there's one easy way to settle the whole thing. Just show me your knife. If you still have it, then this can't be it. Right?"
Daye glared at Frank. "You're not a cop. I don't have to prove anything to you."
"We don't have to take this!" Gilson cut in. "Come on, Rad. Let's get going."
37
"No," Daye replied. "I want to settle this now." He looked at Frank. "You said somebody took down your friend yesterday after you came by the arcade, right?"
Frank nodded.
"I never left the arcade," Daye continued. "I was there all evening—and I've got a dozen witnesses."
"I've had enough of this," Gilson said. He shouldered his way past Joe and walked away. "I'm out of here."
"Gee, that's too bad," Joe said. "He was just starting to grow on me—like fungus."
Daye followed his friend. "Just drop it, Frank," he said over his shoulder.
"You know I can't do that," Frank replied. But Daye was already gone.
"Nice alibi," Joe said. "His twelve 'witnesses' would swear he was on Pluto at the time, if that's what he told them to say."
"We should still check it out," Frank responded. "But I want to see Kay Lewis first."
"That's what you said yesterday," Joe reminded him. "It seems like every time we go near her place somebody gets hurt."
* * *
It was just a short drive to the self-defense center. As the Hardys got out of the van Kay Lewis walked out the front door. She had a stack of envelopes in one hand and was trying to lock the door with the other.
38
Joe jogged over and grabbed the letters just before they tumbled to the ground.
"Thanks," she said. "But I hope you guys didn't drive all this way to see me. I'm in a bit of a hurry. I have to get to the post office before five."
Joe grinned and gestured to the van. "Your limousine awaits."
"Thanks for the offer," she replied, "but I've got my own car."
"Well, then," Frank said, "we'll walk you to your car."
"It'll be a pretty short walk," she said, pointing to the alley next to the building. "It's parked right over there."
"In the alley?" Joe responded.
Kay let out a short laugh. "Around here, that's the safest place—even the muggers are afraid of the alleys.
"I heard about Chet," she said, shifting to a serious tone. "The local punks have given some of my students a hard time, but they've never attacked anybody. Do you think it's connected to the firebombing and the letters?"
"It might be," Frank answered. "We were hoping that you could tell us something that might help."
Kay shrugged. "I don't know what—but feel free to ask anything you want anytime. Anytime but now," she added as she unlocked the car door and slid into the driver's seat. "I've really got to go."
39
"No problem," Frank said. "We'll drop by later."
As the Hardys walked back to the van Kay Lewis drove up next to them and rolled down the car window. "I'll be back in about an hour," she told them.
"Great," Frank said. "We'll see you then."
As she started to pull away Joe spotted a white envelope lying on the sidewalk. "Wait!" he shouted, scooping up the letter and running after the car.
Kay stopped her car, got out, and walked back toward Joe. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"You must have dropped this," Joe explained.
She looked at the letter in his hand. "Oh, thanks. That was—"
Her words were cut off by a thunderous explosion and a searing flash of light.
Frank saw the blast rip apart Kay's car. He shielded his head with his hands as chunks of flaming metal rained down on him. And he saw Kay and his brother lifted off the ground by the explosive force of the blast and hurled through the air like lifeless rag dolls.
40
Chapter 5
Frank ran toward his brother, ignoring the intense heat. Kay Lewis was on her hands and knees, struggling to stand—but Joe wasn't moving. Frank clutched Joe's shoulders and dragged him away from the blazing wreckage.
Joe stared up at his brother. He tried to say something, but he couldn't get any air in his lungs. That spooked him, and he tried to yell. That just made it worse.
"Relax, Joe," Frank said firmly. "You got the wind knocked out of you. Just relax and you'll be able to breathe again."
Joe closed his eyes and forced himself to count. One . . . two . . . three . . . Gradually the stranglehold on his lungs loosened its grip. Fresh air started to work its way into his system. "Help me stand up," he gasped, grasping Frank's forearm.
When Joe was on his feet he turned to Kay Lewis. "You should have somebody look at that engine," engine," he wheezed. "That sucker needs a tune-up."
* * *
41
For a while it seemed as if every squad car in Bayport was crawling around the blackened heap of Kay Lewis's car. "They're either going to throw it in the slammer, "Joe whispered to Frank, "or they're going to have a cookout."
Even Police Chief Collig was there—and he wasn't very happy. "You seem to be the center of a lot of unusual activity," he sourly told the boys.
Joe shrugged. "We're sort of gifted that way, I guess."
The police chief wasn't amused. "I'll give you a gift, Joe. I won't hold you as a material witness to attempted murder if you tell me what's going on here."
"We don't know much more than you do," Frank replied. "What about the car?"
Collig glanced at the charred wreckage. "It's too soon to tell for sure, but it looks like plastic explosives wired to the ignition. It was probably set to detonate when the engine started." He shifted his gaze to Kay Lewis, "Luckily, they didn't do a very good job.
"Are you sure you don't know who did this?" he asked, turning back to Frank.
"Absolutely," Frank said quickly. It was the truth. He didn't know—he only had suspects.
The police chief sighed and walked away, shaking his head.
Joe leaned over and whispered to his brother, "What about the knife?"
42
Frank answered with a question. "Where do you think a bunch of street punks like the Scorpions could get their hands on plastic explosives— and learn how to use them?"
"From a new video game?" Joe ventured lamely.
"Just for the moment," Frank replied, "let's assume that's not very likely. Now, who would have easy access to explosives of all kinds and the experience to wire them?"
Joe thought about it for a moment. "A demolitions expert. Somebody who blows up old buildings."
"Right," Frank said. "Somebody who blows up old buildings and puts up new ones."
Joe felt like an idiot for not thinking of it himself. "Sam White."
"And who can tell us more about the developer with big plans?" Frank asked.
"That real estate agent—what was his name?"
"Patrick Smith," Kay Lewis answered.
"Then I guess we go see Patrick Smith," Joe concluded.
* * *
Smith's office was in a shiny glass-and-chrome building surrounded by manicured lawns, automatic sprinklers, and a security system right out of a high-tech spy movie. Frank pressed the buzzer with Smith's name on it while Joe made faces at the video surveillance camera.
43
"Who is it?" a tinny man's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Frank and Joe Hardy," Frank answered.
"Who?"
Frank leaned over and spoke directly into the microphone. "We were with Kay Lewis the other night when you dropped by."
"Sure, I remember," came the reply. "Come on up. Third floor, first office on the right."
There was a harsh electronic buzz and a loud click, and then the door swung open. Frank and Joe went in, found the elevator, and rode up to the third floor.
Patrick Smith was waiting for them at the door to his office. "Something tells me you aren't here to buy a house," he said, ushering them inside. "So take a seat and tell me what's on your mind."
"I hope we're not interrupting anything," Frank said. "I know it's kind of late. We weren't even sure you'd be here."
"My workday never ends," the realtor responded. "I showed a house to a customer this evening and came back to the office to finish up some paperwork. Some days I work fifteen hours or more. My secretary, however, doesn't share my enthusiasm for the real estate business. A minute after five she's nowhere in sight."
Frank noticed a computer on the desk. It was
44
connected to a telephone modem. "Nice," he said. "I bet you get instant information on all the property for sale in Bayport with that."
Smith flashed a salesman's smile and patted the top of the computer. "That's right. I can even access public records on property taxes, land surveys, building plans. You name it."
"Is that legal?" Joe asked.
"Yep," Smith replied. "The realtors' association maintains a data base of property listings for all its members, and the city provides electronic access to all building information available to the general public. It makes my job pretty easy."
"So," Frank said, "if I wanted a list of all the properties owned by a certain company, you could just call it up on the screen."
"A certain company," Smith repeated. "Like White Development, for instance? I heard about your little visit with Sam White."
"I thought you might," Frank replied. "You do a lot of work for him, right?"
"He buys and sells a lot of buildings," Smith answered. "And that's how I make my living."
"Why does he want Kay Lewis's place?" Joe asked. "And how far do you think he'd go to get it?"
"Kay Lewis moved into a dangerous part of town," Smith replied. "Now she's paying the price. If I were you, I wouldn't waste a lot of time looking for complex conspiracies."
"But you're not us," Frank said evenly.
45
"And Sam White doesn't pay our rent," Joe added.
The realtor looked at Joe. "Sam White is an important client—but if I thought he was doing anything illegal, I'd call the police and report it." He glanced down at his computer and started tapping something on the keyboard. "Come here, let me show you something."
Frank and Joe walked around to where they could see the computer screen. Smith tapped a few more keys and then sat back in his chair. The computer hummed quietly to itself. After a few seconds something that looked like a schematic drawing or a blueprint popped up on the color monitor.
"These are the plans for a shopping mall," Smith explained. "Sam White plans to build it across the street from where the self-defense school is now."
"Across the street?" Joe asked.
"That's right," Smith said. "With or without Kay Lewis's property, the mall will get built. White just wants the land on the other side of the street for extra parking."
He tapped another key, and the image blinked off the screen. "So you see, Sam White doesn't really need her property—and I doubt that he even wants it enough to try to scare her off. If he can't buy it the good old-fashioned way, he'll just go ahead and build the mall without the additional parking space."
46
Smith sat back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. "Does that answer your questions?"
Frank studied Smith, but the realtor's expression never changed. The smile pasted on his face never faded, so it was impossible to tell if he was lying.
Smith was a salesman, and he was doing a sales job on them. Frank had no doubt about that. "Yes," he replied coolly. "I think that pretty much covers everything." He turned to his brother. "Don't you, Joe?"
"Ah, sure," Joe agreed. He knew what Frank really meant was "Let's get out of here now."
* * *
Later that night at home, long after their parents had gone to bed, Frank was still hunched over the computer—and Joe was leaning over his shoulder.
It was easy getting into the Bayport City Hall computer files. They had done it lots of times before, and as Patrick Smith had said, it was all perfectly legal.
But you have to know what you're looking for, Frank reminded himself—and you have to know the name of the file it's buried in.
He knew what he was looking for—any information on 2515 Madison, the building owned by Kay Lewis. But finding it in the thousands of electronic files was a little trickier.
Frank's fingers were a blur on the keyboard.
47
File directory names scrolled up the monitor screen. If he saw one that sounded good, he checked it out. After a while he had to glance only at the first few entries in a directory to know it was a dead end.
Finally his fingers stopped moving, his hands dropped off the keyboard, and he slumped back in his chair.
"You're not giving up, are you?" Joe protested.
Frank shook his head slowly. There was a smile on his face. "Check it out," he said.
Joe looked at the monitor. At the top of the screen the address of Kay's building appeared in bold type.
"This file," Frank explained, "will tell us when it was built, who built it, and everyone who's ever owned it. See? There's Kay's name at the top, under 'current owner.' "
Joe scanned the dates and names on the screen. "It sure has gone through a lot of different hands," he noted.
"Look at the dates," Frank said. "Most of those are in the last ten years, after that area hit the skids. But if you go back further, you can see—"
Frank stopped in midsentence, absorbed in something he had found in the computer file.
"See what?" Joe prodded.
"Jake Barton," Frank said, pointing at one of the entries.
Joe grinned. "Now, there's a piece of local
48
history. Bayport's own Al Capone clone. A genuine tommy-gun-totin', cigar-chompin' gangster. If Barracuda Barton used to live there, Kay could get that pile of bricks declared a historical landmark."
"The time frame fits," Frank remarked. "According to this, he bought the building in 1923 and sold it in 1929."
"Maybe there's a secret vault filled with gold," Joe suggested hopefully.
"Yeah, right," Frank replied, "and Barton forgot all about it when he moved out. And it's just been sitting down there all these years, waiting for us to find it."
"Okay," Joe said glumly, "it was a stupid idea. So what does any of this information tell us?"
"Beats me," Frank said. "But let's get a printout of it anyway." He typed in a command, and the printer obediently started chattering away.
When the printer stopped, Frank turned off the computer. At the same instant the phone rang. Shutting down the computer also switched off the modem. It was just like hanging up the phone. The caller might have been trying to get through for hours.
"Must be important," Joe said as he reached for the receiver. "This better be good," he spoke into the phone. "It's very late, and I need my beauty rest."
"There's a package waiting for you in the
49
alley next to the self-defense center," a muffled voice said over the line. "But you'd better hurry and get it before it's too late."
"Who is this?" Joe demanded. "Too late for what?" But the only answer he got was a click and the drone of the dial tone.
50
Chapter 6
Joe hung up the phone and told Frank what he had just heard. "It could be a trap," he added.
Frank nodded. "But we've got to check it out anyway."
Joe sighed. "Somehow I just knew you were going to say that."
They silently sneaked downstairs so their parents wouldn't hear them, and they slipped out the front door. Frank climbed into the driver's seat of the van, pushed the shift into neutral, and popped the emergency brake.
Standing in front of the van, Joe put his shoulder to the grille and gave a solid shove. Then he ran around the side and jumped in as the van started to roll back down the gently sloping driveway.
Frank didn't start the engine until they hit the street, and he didn't turn on the headlights until they were a block from home.
Half a block from the self-defense center Frank
51
cut the lights, killed the engine, and let the dark van coast down the deserted street. He angled over toward the curb and lightly stepped on the brake pedal. The van silently rolled to a stop.
Frank and Joe slipped out and padded down the street, darting quickly past the dirty yellow glow of a lone streetlight.
Frank put his hand out and waved Joe to a halt at the mouth of the dark alley. He peered around the corner, trying to penetrate the gloom. He could make out the lurking shapes of a few trash cans—and then he caught a glimmer of movement. "Looks like we've got company," he whispered to his brother.
Joe responded by standing up straight, flipping up the collar of his jacket, and casually strolling past the alley to the building on the other side. Then he swiftly flattened himself against the wall and nodded to Frank.
Frank wasn't exactly thrilled with his brother's improvised "plan"—but there was no stopping Joe once he got an idea into his head. Frank took a deep breath and plunged into the darkness, knowing Joe would follow his lead.
Frank had barely entered the alley when a shape rushed toward him. Without thinking, Frank struck out with an open-hand blow aimed at where he thought his attacker's face should be. He channeled the force of his forward momentum into the blow, just as he had learned in karate school.
52
There was a blur of motion, and something slapped against his inner forearm, deflecting the blow. A classic circular block, Frank realized too late. Then a hard fist connected with Frank's stomach. He fought the urge to bend into the pain. Sensing the direction of the next strike, he snapped his head back.
There was a piercing yell of "Ki-ya!" as a palm-heel blow grazed the bottom of Frank's chin.
Joe was circling around to come in from behind when the attacker's sudden yell startled him. He thought he recognized the voice. "Kay?" he called out.
All the shadowy movement in the alley froze. "Move out into the light where I can see you," a female voice ordered.
Joe and Frank backed out of the alley slowly. "You see?" Joe said, turning his face toward the street light. "It's just us—the lovable Hardy brothers."
Kay Lewis stepped out of the gloom. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. She turned to Frank. "I could have killed you."
Frank ran his hand along his bruised chin. "I don't doubt it," he said. He knew the full force of the upward palm-heel thrust could have shattered his jaw. Kay Lewis was one tough lady.
"We got a phone call," Joe explained. "Something about some kind of package in the alley."
"You, too?" Kay replied. "That's why I was out here."
53
Frank smiled. "That's a relief. For a minute I thought maybe you practiced your self-defense moves by hanging out in dark alleys, waiting for unsuspecting muggers."
Kay chuckled. "Well, now that we're all here, we might as well look for whatever it is we're supposed to find."
Frank pulled out a pocket-size flashlight and flicked on its high-intensity beam. "Let's do it," he said.
The search didn't take long. After all, Frank reminded himself, somebody wanted them to find the package. It was about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper. Frank handed the flashlight to Joe and picked up the package. He carefully removed the wrapping and uncovered ... a shoe box.
"Terrific," Joe muttered. "We've stumbled onto an international ring of shoe thieves."
Frank put one hand on the lid and turned the box over slowly, making sure the lid stayed firmly in place. "Give me your pocketknife," he said to Joe. "I'm going to cut open the bottom and get a look at what's inside."
"Wouldn't it be easier just to take off the lid?" Kay Lewis asked.
"Not if it's booby-trapped," Frank replied. He took Joe's knife and made a small cut in the box. "Now shine the light down here," he told his brother as he lifted up the flap he had sliced in the cardboard.
54
Inside the box was a grayish lump of something that looked like modeling clay with a shiny coating. Frank gently placed the shoe box on the ground. "I think I've seen enough," he said in a low voice. "It's time to call the cops."
"Not again!" Joe groaned. "What's in there that we can't handle ourselves?"
"Plastic explosives," Frank answered.
"Oh," Joe said, eyeing the box warily. "Hey, I've got an idea."
"What?" Frank responded.
Joe smiled weakly. "Let's call the cops."
"I've got a better idea," Kay said. "I'll call the cops while you two get out of here. I don't think Chief Collig would be real happy to see your faces right now."
"Sooner or later we'll have to tell him we were here," Frank said.
"Then let it be later," Kay urged. "Come back tomorrow, and I'll let you know what happened."
Joe nodded. "I'm too tired to play twenty questions with Collig right now. Let's deal with it tomorrow."
Reluctantly, Frank agreed, and they went home. But neither of them got much sleep.
* * *
No one in uniform marched into Bayport High and hauled the Hardys away in the middle of the day, but Joe kept hoping. Intense police interrogation had to be better than the essay test he
55
was forced to endure. When the school day finally ended and Frank and Joe headed for the van, somebody else was already there waiting for them.
"Hi, guys," Callie Shaw said. "I decided the best way to find you was to stake out your wheels."
She turned to Frank. "I haven't seen much of you the last couple of days."
"Sorry," Frank said. "I guess we got kind of wrapped up in this case."
"That's what I figured," she replied. "And since I got you into this thing in the first place, I want to help."
"How about going home and leaving us alone?" Joe suggested. "That would be a big help."
Callie looked at Joe. "Either we all go together in the van, or I follow you around in my car. Either way, wherever you go, I go."
"We all go together," Frank declared before Joe could say anything else.
Joe shrugged and opened the van door. "Ladies first," he said with a smile. If she had to come along, at least he was going to make sure she got stuck in the middle and he got the window seat.
They drove straight to the AAA Self-defense Center to meet with Kay Lewis.
"Are there any quadruple-A self-defense centers?" Joe wondered out loud as he looked at the sign. "Just how good is a triple-A rating anyway?"
56
"It's not a rating," Callie explained as they stepped out of the van. "It stands for attitude, awareness, and assertion. Kay says you have to believe that you can defend yourself. You should visualize yourself surviving the attack before the first blow is struck. That's the attitude part.
"You should also be aware of the situation," Callie continued. "If you can read your opponent's physical and verbal cues, you can stay one step ahead."
Callie slipped in between Frank and Joe as they walked up the front steps. "But the real key to self-defense," she said, reaching out and rapping on the door, "is to assert yourself. Take control of the situation. Don't be overly aggressive —and don't be a victim."
"So you've asserted yourself against a vicious, trained attack door," Joe remarked. "What happens if nobody answers?"
"You try the knob," Frank replied, turning the doorknob and pushing the door open. "And become aware that it is unlocked."
Frank poked his head inside. "Hello?" he shouted. "Anybody home?"
"Nobody here but rats and mildew!" a muted voice responded.
"Where are you?" Frank called out.
"In the basement," the voice replied. "Come on down."
They found the door to the basement and climbed down the steep wooden stairs.
57
"Watch your head," Joe heard somebody say— just as his forehead smacked into a support beam running along the low ceiling.
Joe staggered forward, more stunned than hurt. A pair of hands reached out to steady him, and Joe found himself staring at Con Riley.
"Just the fellows I was looking for," Riley said.
Kay Lewis was standing off to one side, holding a large box in both hands. "You guys are just in time," she said.
"Time for what?" Joe asked nervously.
Kay smiled. "You're just in time to help me move these boxes. But first you might want to hear what the police found out about my 'special delivery' last night."
Riley looked at the Hardys. "I don't know why I should tell you any of this. You're already on Chief Collig's hit list. You're just lucky Ms. Lewis told me everything last night so I could run interference for you today."
"What was in the box?" Frank asked. "Was it plastic explosive?"
The police officer nodded. "And we lifted a couple of clean sets of fingerprints off the box."
"One of them was probably mine," Frank said. "Did you get a make on the others?"
"We fed them into the computer," Riley replied, "and got a match in about thirty seconds, right out of our local files."
"Don't tell me," Joe cut in. "Let me guess."
58
"Conrad Daye," Frank said grimly.
Con Riley nodded again.
Joe looked at his brother. "I told you not to tell me."
Frank didn't hear him. He was turning something over in his mind. Finally, he came to a decision. He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out the plastic bag with the knife inside.
"Here," he said, handing it to Con Riley. "I found this near the spot where Chet Morton was attacked. You'll probably find Daye's prints all over it, too."
Riley studied the knife and then jotted something in his notepad. "If you're right, together with what we already have," he said, "this should give us enough evidence to put him away for a long time."
The police officer gave Frank a stern look. "You should have turned in the knife when you found it. That car bomb the other day almost killed your brother. Maybe some of this could have been prevented if you had just let the police do their job."
"Maybe," Frank replied. "But I doubt it."
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Chapter 7
After Con Riley left, Frank slumped down on the stairs and brooded.
Kay Lewis glanced at him and then turned to Joe. "Is he always this happy when a case is over?"
"I don't know," Joe said. "I'll ask him. Hey, Frank, are you always this happy when a case is over?"
"What makes you think it's over?" Frank asked.
Callie walked over and touched his arm lightly. "What's the matter? The police have an APB out for Conrad Daye. As soon as they catch him that'll be the end of it—and you found the evidence they need to put him away."
"Maybe that's what's bothering me," Frank said. "We didn't find the evidence—it was practically handed to us."
Joe shrugged. "Maybe somebody else in his gang thought he'd gone too far or wanted to take over. So he decided to help us out a little." Joe
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knew that the whole thing had "setup" written all over it—but that didn't mean Daye wasn't guilty. It just meant one of his buddies had rolled over on him. Joe didn't believe in honor among thieves, and neither did Frank . . . usually.
Joe shook his head. He liked to keep things simple. "Did you know that Jake Barton once lived here?" he said, changing the subject.
"The name sounds familiar," Kay replied, "but I can't place it."
"He's kind of a Bayport legend," Joe said. "He was a gangster way back in the Roaring Twenties. He might even have used this place as his headquarters."
"Of course!" Kay exclaimed. "That explains it!"
"Explains what?" Callie asked.
"Follow me," Kay answered, "and I'll show you."
She walked toward a door at the far end of the basement. At one time somebody had tried to liven up the cramped, damp, windowless room by slapping a coat of white paint on the walls. Out of zeal the person had also painted the door.
Upon closer inspection Joe could tell that the door was made of solid steel. The door frame set in the brick wall was steel, too. Joe ran his hand over the door's cold metal surface. He touched the lever-style door handle. The latch mechanism was on the door itself. Flat metal bars connected the handle to steel rods that were
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placed horizontally across the top and bottom of the door. The rods went through the door frame into the brick wall.
"Crude—but effective," Frank said from over Joe's shoulder. "No lock to pick. No weak spots for a forced entry. Anybody on the other side would have a real tough time getting through that."
"What's on the other side?" Joe asked. "A two-thousand-pound man-eating gorilla?"
"Open it and see," Kay said.
Joe pushed down on the lever, and the steel bolts pulled free from their anchors in the wall. He gripped the handle tightly and gave it a good, solid tug. The door creaked open to reveal . . . another steel door. It looked just like the one Joe had just opened, except this one didn't have a handle or any visible latch.
"Cute," Joe said. "What now?"
"Push it," Kay told him. "It's not locked."
Joe put his weight against the door—and almost fell on his face when it swung inward easily. He stumbled forward and found himself in a small room with brick walls and a concrete floor. The back wall was lined with empty wooden shelves covered with a thick layer of brick dust.
Frank, Callie, and Kay followed him in. Frank quickly glanced around the chamber and then turned to take a closer look at the second door. "Check this out, Joe," he said. "It's a mirror
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image of the first door. It's got the same latch mechanism on the inside of the other room."
Joe frowned. "I don't get it. How could anybody ever pass from one room to the other?"
"Think of it as a two-part manual security system," Frank replied.
Joe closed his eyes. "Okay, I'm thinking." He opened his eyes again. "I still don't get it."
"There had to be a guard or somebody on both sides for anybody to get in or out," Frank explained.
"Then how did we manage it?" Callie asked.
"Somebody bypassed the security system," Frank said, pointing to the lever-style handle of the second door. It was held down in the open position by a length of wire wrapped around it and tied to the flat metal bar beneath it.
"And you laughed when I talked about a secret vault," Joe said smugly.
"It was the part about the gold that cracked me up," Frank replied.
"Well, he could have stashed his loot down here," Joe persisted.
Frank nodded toward the rusted-out remains of a potbellied stove in one corner. "Yeah, he could have—but why would he need a heated vault? My guess is that this is where they kept the books."
"Books?" Kay asked. "What kind of books?"
"A big criminal organization keeps records just like a big corporation," Frank said. "They
63
have to keep track of what they have, who owes them money—"
"Whose legs need breaking," Joe chimed in.
"That, too," Frank agreed. "And that's why somebody like Jake Barton would have kept his books in a guarded, concealed spot like this— because those records were evidence of illegal activity.
"So he sealed off part of the basement and stuck his bookkeepers underground," Frank went on. "The stove wasn't for heat—it was for burning the books if there was a raid. By the time the police managed to break down the door, the evidence would be a cloud of smoke."
"It all fits," Kay remarked, "except for the part about sealing off the basement."
"What would you call it?" Joe responded.
"I'd call it adding on," Kay said. "Because the basement ends there." She pointed to the brick wall with the steel door. "They cut a hole through the foundation wall and carved this chamber out of the ground."
Callie looked up. "Then what's above us?"
"As far as I can tell," Kay answered, "several feet of dirt."
Joe started to feel crowded in the confined space. A secret vault filled with buried treasure was one thing. A clandestine accounting office was quite another. In fact, it was boring.
"Whoa! Look at the time," he said, barely glancing at his watch. "We'd better get going.
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Come on, guys." Joe hustled Frank and Callie out of the room and back upstairs to the van.
* * *
They dropped Callie off at her house, and Frank hardly said a word the rest of the way home. He was thinking about the "addition" to Kay's basement. There was something about it that didn't quite mesh—but he couldn't put his finger on it.
As soon as they got home Frank headed straight for the computer and the printout he had run off the day before. He skimmed through the small stack of paper and found what he was looking for.
"What've you got there?" Joe asked.
Frank showed him a computerized building plan. "This is a schematic of Kay's building," he said.
"So?" Joe responded. "I doubt if Jake Barton filed a building plan with the city when he decided to knock a hole in the foundation."
"No," Frank said, tapping the paper, "but it's here anyway."
Joe looked at his brother. "Care to explain that one to me?"
"Somebody probably did some renovation on the place after Barton was long gone," Frank answered. "When that happens, the city sends an inspector to check out the structure and okay the building permit. The inspector noticed the
65
extra room off the basement and filed a revised plan."
Frank sat down and studied the printout. "Everything's here. Plumbing fixtures, electrical wiring, heating pipes—the works."
"Let me see," Joe said, crowding in next to Frank to get a better look. "Oh, yeah. Here's the furnace, and the exhaust vent through the chimney—"
"Exhaust vent," Frank said, cutting him off. "That's it. That's what's wrong."
A puzzled look crossed Joe's face. "What's wrong with the exhaust vent?"
"Remember the potbellied stove?" Frank replied.
Joe nodded.
"The smokestack went into the outside wall," Frank said. "But there's nothing like that on this plan."
Joe shrugged. "So they missed a detail."
Frank picked up the paper and waved it in his brother's face. "That's not the point! Where does the pipe go? The whole room is underground."
"Wait a minute," Joe said. "You can't vent smoke into the ground."
"Right," Frank replied. "There's got to be something on the other side of that wall."
The two brothers looked at each other. They both knew they couldn't wait another day to find out.
"It's almost dinnertime," Joe pointed out.
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"I'm not hungry," Frank said.
Joe grinned. "I am—but I'll survive. Let's go." He raced Frank downstairs and out to the van.
* * *
Joe didn't pay much attention to the pair of headlights that winked on down the block as he backed the van out of the driveway. But after a few minutes he began to worry. Every time he turned, the headlights followed. "Take a look in the side mirror," he told Frank. "Looks like we've grown a tail."
Frank glanced in the mirror. "Well, let's try to wag it and see what happens."
"Hang on," Joe replied, punching the gas pedal.
The van lurched forward, gaining speed. Without taking his foot off the gas Joe suddenly cranked the wheel hard to the right, screeching onto a dimly lit side street. His eyes darted to the side mirror. He heard the squeal of rubber and saw the headlights coming around the corner. Joe had pulled a little ahead with his surprise move, but now the headlights were growing larger in the mirror, closing the gap.
Joe hung a tight left. The van rocked violently and almost flipped over. Joe wrestled the wheel. Another check of the mirror told him the headlights were still there—even closer than before. At the next side street Joe started to turn again.
"No!" Frank shouted. "Not down here!"
The glare of the van's lights glinted off the
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Dead End sign. Joe slammed on the brakes, yanking hard on the wheel at the same time. The van swerved, spun around, and stopped. Joe was ready to gun the van and blast it back out of the cul-de-sac.
But there was no place to go. The headlights were already there, glaring right at them, blocking the only way out.
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Chapter 8
Joe's eyes narrowed, and he revved the engine. "I hope that guy's got a good insurance policy—because he's going to need it."
Frank glanced at his brother. "What are you going to do—try to drive through him?"
"You got a better idea?" Joe responded.
Frank squinted through the windshield, trying to see past the bright headlights. "Yeah. Let's find out what he wants. Look—somebody's getting out."
A tall figure with long hair walked out in front of the headlights. Frank and Joe both recognized him. It was Conrad Daye.
"I just want to talk," he called out.
"He's got a funny way of starting a conversation," Joe growled.
"Come on, Frank!" Daye shouted. "Just give me a couple of minutes. Hear me out, and then you can go."
Frank opened his door and started to climb out of the van.
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Joe grabbed his brother's shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked sharply. "It could be a trap!"
"It's a little late to worry about that," Frank said calmly. "We don't exactly have a lot of options right now."
Joe knew his brother was right. They could go out and face Conrad Daye, or they could wait for him—and maybe some of his friends—to come get them. "Okay," he said, letting go of Frank's shoulder. "But I'm going with you."
They both jumped out of the van and walked over to Conrad Daye. "Next time try the phone," Frank said. "It's a lot easier—and safer."
Daye shook his head. "I had to see you in person."
"You could have called and made an appointment," Joe snapped.
Daye snorted. "Yeah, right. Then you could have brought your cop buddies along. They're real eager to get their hands on me, thanks to you."
His eyes locked on Frank. "Why are you going to all this trouble to set me up? What did I ever do to you?"
"What are you talking about?" Frank replied. "What makes you think we're trying to set you up?"
"Because somebody is," Daye answered gruffly, "and you Boy Scouts keep popping up with all the pieces the cops need to build a nice little frame for me."
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Frank returned Daye's glare with his own steady gaze. "It's a frame job only if you're not guilty."
"And if you're not guilty," Joe said, "you should turn yourself in and tell your side of the story."
Daye let out a bitter laugh. "What fairy tale did you fall out of? Get real. I'm no angel, and the cops would love an excuse to clip my wings. They're not going to ask a lot of questions if someone hands them my head on a platter."
"If you're not guilty," Frank replied, "how do you explain your fingerprints on the shoe box?"
Daye scowled. "What are you talking about? What shoe box? The warrant's for assault and attempted murder. Nobody cares if I boosted a pair of shoes."
"This box was full of plastic explosive," Frank told him.
"What?" Daye responded. He looked surprised. "Where would I get something like that? I wouldn't know the difference between plastic explosive and Play-Doh."
"I believe you," Frank said. He had been studying Daye carefully the whole time, and the gang leader seemed sincere. The clincher had been the question about the shoe box. Frank had deliberately left out any mention of the contents to see if Daye would slip up. But his shocked reaction couldn't have been better if it were rehearsed. 
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If Daye did know about the plastic explosives, then he had a promising career as an actor.
Joe looked at his brother. He didn't know what Frank had in mind, but he figured he'd better play along. "Maybe we can help you," Joe said. "But you'll have to turn yourself in first."
Daye whirled and aimed a finger at Joe. "You don't want to help me. You only want to see me behind bars."
"No, you're wrong," Frank said evenly. "We only want to find the truth. And, believe me, we will find it."
"I hope so," Daye replied. "But don't expect me to roll over and play dead in the meantime."
He turned around and walked back to his car. "Don't try to follow me," he called back as he opened the door.
"We can still grab him," Joe whispered.
Frank shook his head. "What would you do in his place?"
Joe watched as Daye backed out of the dead end and drove away. "Probably bug out and lay low," he admitted.
Frank clapped his brother on the back. "What do you say we call it a night? There's nothing in that basement that won't still be there tomorrow."
"That's true," Joe replied. "There's also nothing 
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in my stomach. If we hurry, we might get back home in time for dinner."
* * *
The next morning Joe woke up to the sun streaming in the window, remembered it was Saturday, and went back to sleep. He was just drifting off again when something shook the bed. He knew what it was. It could only be Frank, the human alarm clock.
Joe tried to ignore him. Maybe »his brother would get bored and go away. But he didn't.
Frank leaned over the bed. "Are you still asleep?" he asked impatiently.
"No," Joe muttered. "I'm doing my homework. What does it look like?"
"It looks like I'll be going to the self-defense center by myself," Frank answered as he walked out of the room. "Unless you're downstairs and ready to hit the road in fifteen minutes."
Sixteen minutes later Joe bolted out the front door, clutching his jacket in one hand. He ran down the driveway, chasing the black van as it rolled out into the street. "Wait up!" he called out.
Frank stuck his head out the driver's side window. "You're late!" he yelled back. He shifted into first gear and started off down the street.
Joe hurled his jacket onto the pavement. "That's not fair!" he shouted. He stared at the back of the van as it moved away. He was about to go back into the house when the van stopped
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and the door swung open. He scooped up his jacket and sprinted across the lawn.
"Were you really going to take off and leave me standing in the driveway?" Joe asked as he climbed into the van. "Just because I was a minute late?"
"Time waits for no man," Frank replied.
Joe shot a look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Frank shrugged. "Beats me. Sure sounds impressive, though—doesn't it?"
When they got to Madison Street Frank pulled into the parking lot of the Bayport Savings Bank.
"What are we doing here?" Joe asked as they got out of the van. "Opening a new account?"
"I just want to see how Chet's doing," Frank said. "It'll only take a minute."
The inside of the bank was a time warp, a relic from another era. Dark wood paneling and trim, ornate plaster molding where the walls met the ceiling. There was even a chandelier hanging in the middle of the large lobby.
Big, burly Chet Morton looked almost comical standing behind the bars of the old-fashioned teller's cage. Frank noticed that Chet still had a large bandage on his forehead, but apparently the wound wasn't serious enough to keep him away from work.
Since Chet wasn't waiting on a customer, the Hardys ambled right up to the counter. "What've they got you in for?" Joe asked with a grin.
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"Very funny," Chet said in a low voice. His eyes darted around the bank. "If my boss sees you guys hanging around, I could get in big trouble."
"Relax," Frank said. "We just wanted to say hello and make sure you were doing okay."
"Yeah," Joe said. "We haven't seen you since we pulled you out of the gutter."
Chet's hand went up to the bandage on his forehead. "It took twelve stitches," he said. "The doctor thinks it might even leave a scar. Want to see?"
Frank grimaced. "Ah, not right now," he answered. "Maybe some other time."
Chet looked disappointed.
Frank turned around and saw Sam White pushing through the revolving door into the lobby. "Hey, Chet," he whispered, "do you know that guy?"
Chet looked up. "What guy? Oh, you mean Mr. White? According to my boss, he's one of the bank's best customers." Chet frowned slightly. "But I don't think I've ever actually seen him make a deposit with any of the tellers. He just heads straight downstairs."
"Downstairs?" Joe echoed. "What's downstairs?"
"Two vaults," Chet said. "One of them is a safe deposit vault. I don't know what Mr. White keeps down there, but he comes in two or three times a week."
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"Come on," Joe said, nudging his brother. 'Let's get over to the self-defense center. That's what you got me out of bed for, remember?"
* * *
Kay Lewis was out in front of the building when they drove up, but she didn't notice them. She was absorbed in a complex, flowing set of body movements that looked more like ballet than any fighting style Joe had ever seen.
"Hey, Kay!" he called out as he hopped out of the van. "Did you decide to give up martial arts for modern dance?"
She stopped in midmotion, one leg in the air and one arm extended skyward. She slowly turned her head in Joe's direction. Despite her awkward pose, Joe thought she looked relaxed. No, that wasn't the right word. Serene. Yes, she looked serene.
Kay shifted to a more normal pose and smiled. "These movements are called t'ai chi ch'uan," she said. "It's sort of a mental and physical workout. Or maybe meditation is a better word for it. But it's also a highly effective form of self-defense," she added. "Come here and I'll show you."
She stood facing Joe, legs apart, knees slightly bent, arms hanging loose at her sides. "In judo," Kay said, "you go with your opponent's force, using his own strength to throw him off balance or to flip him. T'ai chi is like that—except you channel your opponent's force through your body and right back at him."
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"How do you do that?" Frank asked.
"Your brother's going to help me demonstrate," she replied. She turned her attention back to Joe. "I'm a wall. Try to move me."
"Huh?"
"Just try to push me back. Shove me or something."
Joe reached out and jabbed at her chest halfheartedly.
"Come on," she chided him. "You can do better than that."
Joe reached out and shoved hard on her left shoulder. It yielded easily as she swiveled from the waist. At the same time, her right arm swung out in a wide arc. The heel of her palm stopped a hairbreadth from Joe's left temple.
"See what I mean?" Kay said.
Joe nodded. "I think so."
She patted him on the back. "Maybe you should take my class. You might learn something. But I bet you didn't rush over here at this hour of the morning to sign up."
"We wanted to take a closer look at that room in the basement," Frank said.
"No problem," Kay replied. "Let's go."
Kay led the way down to the basement and stood by the steel door while Frank and Joe inspected the crumbling old potbellied stove. "Checking out its antique value?" she joked.
Frank tugged on the stovepipe that led into the brick wall. "Actually," he said, "I want to see
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what's on the other side of this wall. This pipe has to go somewhere."
He pulled on the smokestack again, but it was jammed in tight. "Do you have something I could use to pry this thing out?" he asked.
"Sorry," Kay replied. "I'm not into tools." She gestured to the wooden shelves on the wall. "Why don't you try one of those boards?"
"Good idea," Joe said. He ran his hands over the shelves, looking for a loose board that they could use as a lever. He found one that wasn't nailed down on one end. He was about to try to yank it off the wall when he saw something strange. The shelf was hinged at the other end.
"Hey, Frank," he said, lifting up the loose end of the shelf, "what do you make of this?"
Frank didn't know what to make of it. He was too stunned to say anything. Because when Joe lifted the shelf a crack opened in the wall, running from the floor to the ceiling.
Frank touched the crack, and a section of the wall swung open.
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Chapter 9
Frank peered inside the opening. There was just enough light coming from behind him to reveal a few rotted wooden steps that led down to a dirt floor. Beyond that was blackness.
"The secret entrance to the hidden vault!" Joe cried.
Frank didn't say anything. Even if there was a vault, it was more likely to be filled with fat spiders than gold bars. Still, there was something down there, and Frank was just as eager as Joe to find out what it was.
Frank prodded the first stair with his foot. The wood felt soft and spongy. "I don't think this will hold our weight," he said.
Joe looked down at the dirt floor. It looked solid enough—and there were only three steps anyway. "No problem," he said with a grin. And before his brother could say anything Joe leapt out over the stairs and landed on the floor with a soft thud.
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"Well, now that you're down there," Frank said, "can you see anything?"
Joe looked around. It was too dark to see any details, but at one end of the space he could make out a dim outline. "I think there's a door here," he said. "See if Kay has a flashlight."
Frank turned to ask her, but she was gone. A moment later she appeared in the doorway again, waving a flashlight. "I thought we might need this," she said. "I doubt if we'll find a light switch down there." She handed the flashlight to Frank. "Now let's see what we've got."
Frank thumbed the switch and then twisted the focus to widen the beam. Joe was standing in a narrow passageway. The walls were rock and earth, held back by wood struts. The ceiling was wood planks supported by sagging two-by-fours. Some of the planks had buckled and split apart, and loose piles of dirt had collected on the floor beneath them.
Frank aimed the light past Joe, and the beam glinted off a steel door set in a brick wall that appeared to bulge outward.
"When I bought this place," Kay remarked, "nobody told me it came with all this extra hardware." She looked down at Joe. "How is it down there?"
"Okay," Joe replied. "But a little too rustic for my taste."
"Well, stand back," Kay told him. "If I own it, I want to check it out for myself." She
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hopped over the stairs and landed nimbly next to Joe.
Joe motioned to Frank. "Toss me the flash and jump down."
"Hang on a sec," Frank responded. Sitting down on the edge of the opening, he bent down and pried loose the top step. Then he took the board and wedged it in the narrow gap where the secret door was hinged to the wall. "I don't know how to open this thing from the other side," he explained. "This way I won't have to worry about it."
Satisfied that the door couldn't shut by accident, Frank entered the subterranean tunnel.
Joe played the beam over the door at the other end of the passageway. It was the same design as the other two steel doors. This time Frank got the honor of cranking it open. But instead of a second door on the other side they were greeted with a cold, dank, musty odor.
It didn't smell really bad, Joe thought, just old. Shining the flashlight inside, he could see, about ten feet ahead, another brick wall.
Stepping inside, Joe slipped and almost fell on the mud-slick surface. Frank grabbed him, but Joe lost his grip on the flashlight. It tumbled to the ground and skittered a few feet down a slight incline. Beyond it the ground sloped up again until it joined with the wall on the other side.
Balancing carefully, Frank followed Joe in. He eased down to the bottom and picked up the
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flashlight. There were no walls to the right or left. They were in a long, dark tunnel. Frank looked at the mud- and slime-covered bricks. He could hear the steady sound of dripping water somewhere, but it was hard to tell if it was close by or far away.
"Looks like some kind of sewer," Kay Lewis observed as she slid down into the tunnel.
Frank shot a nervous glance back up at the door.
"Don't worry," Kay said. "I propped it open with a good-size rock."
Frank relaxed. "Good. It looks like this whole thing was meant to be strictly a one-way street."
"What about this?" Joe asked, gesturing to the tunnel around them. "You don't think Jake Barton built this, do you?"
Frank shook his head. "No. I think Kay is right. It's a sewer."
Joe stared down at his feet and grimaced. "You mean we're standing in . . ." His words trailed off.
"Relax," Frank said. "I don't think this sewer gets a lot of use anymore. They haven't made them out of brick for a long time. Bayport's an old city. This may be a section of the original sewer system—before they put in the deeper concrete sewers."
Kay Lewis looked around. "Well, with a little work this might make a swell bomb shelter—but why do you think a gangster like Barton would have been interested in the sewer system?"
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Frank smiled. "That's easy. This was his emergency escape route."
"Escape to where?" Joe responded.
Frank pointed the flashlight down the dark tunnel. "Let's find out."
Frank led the way, picking out a path through the debris. It was hard to tell what lay ahead of them for more than a few feet. The beam from the light turned every rock and angle into a giant, jumpy shadow form.
It was slow going, but before long they came to a mound of rubble choking the tunnel.
"Looks like the end of the line," Joe said.
"So we backtrack and go the other way," Frank replied.
"I've got a better idea," Kay said. "Let's backtrack on out of here. I've had enough spelunking for one day—and I've got a class to teach soon."
"We can't quit now!" Joe protested.
"Relax," Frank said. "The tunnel's not going anywhere. We can come back tomorrow. Besides, the most exciting thing we're likely to find is an old manhole sealed up years ago."
Joe sighed. "You're probably right. Barton could have used the sewer to go just about anywhere in Bayport."
"I doubt if he ever went very far," Frank said with a grin. "Back then, people still used this
sewer."
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Joe squinted against the bright sun when they walked out the front door of the self-defense center. He had almost forgotten it was daytime. In fact, it wasn't even noon yet. It was almost as if time had stood still while they wandered through the lightless underworld.
Thinking about it, he also realized that his sense of direction had vanished underground. He had no idea if the sewer tunnel ran north- south or east-west or on some angle in between.
He stopped thinking when he saw Sam White strolling up to the building. "What are you doing here?" Joe demanded.
"Maybe I'm just taking a walk," the developer replied evenly. "Or maybe I'm here to have a talk with Ms. Lewis." He walked up the steps and faced Joe. "Either way, it's none of your business."
Joe scowled. "And what, exactly, is your business? Supplying street gangs with the latest high- tech firepower?"
White turned to Frank. "What is he talking about?"
Frank answered with a question. "You do a lot of blasting in your work, right?"
"Depends on what you mean by a lot," White replied.
"I'll take that as a yes," Frank said. "And you have a permit to use plastic explosive, right?"
"Sure," the developer responded. "For some
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jobs it's the best thing. It gives you a controlled blast. So what?"
Frank looked straight at him. "So somebody blew up Kay Lewis's car—and then we found enough plastic explosive to put this building into orbit."
"And you think I did it?" White asked sharply. "Stop reading comic books and grow up. There are lots of powerful, successful people who also happen to be honest. I don't threaten people, and I don't put bombs in their cars. I came by here to tell Kay that my offer's good for forty- eight more hours. After that I'll go ahead and build the shopping center even without this piece of property.
"And if I wanted to blow up this old pile of bricks," he added as he walked away, "there wouldn't be enough left for you to fill a shoe box." Then he whirled around, stomped back down the steps, and stormed off down the street.
Frank and Joe exchanged a glance. "Who said anything about a shoe box?" Frank said.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Joe suggested.
"I don't believe in coincidences," Frank replied.
Kay Lewis poked her head out the door. "What are you guys doing hanging around? I figured you'd be gone by now, but I told him I'd check anyway."
"Told who?" Frank asked.
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"The guy on the phone," Kay answered. "He wants to talk to you, Frank."
Frank looked at his brother. "Who knows we're here?"
"There's one easy way to find out," Joe replied, nodding toward the door.
Frank went inside and picked up the phone. "Hello," he said. "Who is this?"
"Bayport's most wanted," came the reply.
Frank recognized the voice. It was Conrad Daye. "How'd you know where to find us?" Frank asked.
"The same way I know where your girlfriend lives," Daye said icily. "I had you tailed."
A chill ran down Frank's spine. "What do you mean? You haven't done anything to Callie, have you?"
"Not yet," Daye answered. The threat was crystal clear in his tone. "But all sorts of things could happen to her—depending on what you do in the next few minutes."
Frank clutched the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. "What do you want?" he asked in a strained voice.
There was a nervous chuckle on the other end of the line. "What do I want?" Conrad Daye echoed. "I want a Ferrari convertible with snakeskin seats. No, wait. I want a happy home and a college scholarship. How's that, Frank? I want to be just like you."
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"Listen," Frank said, struggling to sound calm, "I know that—"
"No!" Daye snapped, cutting him off. "You listen. Be at eight-twelve Lincoln in ten minutes. Got that?"
"I'll be there," Frank replied.
"And come alone," Daye added, "or I cut the girl."
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Chapter 10
The line went dead. Frank slammed the phone down.
"What was that all about?" Kay Lewis asked him.
Frank took a deep breath. "Daye's got Callie."
"We should've taken down that punk last night," Joe said bitterly. "What does he want? Some kind of ransom?"
Frank glanced at his watch. "He wants to meet me in nine minutes."
"Then we better get going," Joe replied.
Frank shook his head. "He told me not to bring anybody else."
"Then we'll be your backup," Joe said. "We'll follow you in another car."
"It's too risky," Frank argued. "And there's no time to find a car." He looked at his brother. "I'm sorry, Joe. I've got to do this alone." Then he bolted out the front door and ran to the van.
"He's going to need some insurance," Kay said.
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Joe nodded. "I know—but what can we do?" Kay smiled. "I've got great insurance—and a
brand-new car to prove it. Want to take it out for a spin?"
* * *
Frank screeched the van to a halt at a stoplight. He checked the time. It was about thirty seconds later than the last time he had checked. He still had four minutes. That should be enough time, he told himself, but it would be tight. He looked around. The intersection was clear. There were no other cars in sight. Frank gritted his teeth and punched the accelerator, leaving the red light behind.
He got to the address on Lincoln with about a
minute to spare. The building was a burnt-out skeleton. Frank could see the sky through the windows on the upper floor. Half the roof was missing. He double-checked the number, 812. That's what Daye had said. He was sure of it.
Then Frank spotted a car up the street. He could see two people sitting in it, but it was too far away for Frank to make out any details. He started to walk toward the car when he heard a phone ring behind him.
A phone? Frank spun around and saw a pay phone on the sidewalk about fifty feet away. He hadn't noticed it before because it was partially blocked by a utility pole. He sprinted over and grabbed the receiver, almost ripping the metal- sheathed cord out of the phone base.
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"What kind of game is this?" he shouted into the phone.
"One where I make the rules," Conrad Daye's voice said in Frank's ear. "Don't forget that."
"I won't," Frank said grimly. "What do you want me to do now?"
"Be at the video arcade in five minutes," Daye told him. "And don't hang up the phone. Leave it off the hook."
Frank dropped the receiver and left it dangling there. He ran back to the van and took off again. Daye wasn't taking any chances, he realized. Frank could make it to the arcade in five minutes —if he didn't make any detours or stops along the way. And the bit with the phone was to prevent him from making any quick calls to tell anyone where he was going. Daye wouldn't hang up on his end until Frank was moving again.
The car Frank had spotted before was probably his "escort," making sure he stuck to the game plan. His eyes darted to the side mirror. There it was, keeping back far enough to avoid attracting Frank's attention but dogging his every move, as though he were dragging it behind him on an invisible leash.
Frank pulled up in front of the storefront arcade right on time. Dave Gilson was waiting for him at the door.
"Follow me," Gilson ordered.
Inside there were about a half dozen Scorpions. Gilson led Frank to a back room where
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another gang member stood by a door with a red Exit sign above it. Suddenly Gilson grabbed the collar of Frank's jacket and shoved him up against the wall. "Assume the position," he snarled.
Frank leaned forward, putting his weight on his arms, his palms flat against the wall.
Gilson patted him down. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."
The other gang member pushed open the door, and Gilson prodded Frank out into the alley behind the building. Frank wasn't surprised to see a car there.
"Get in," Gilson said gruffly as he walked around to the driver's side.
Frank studied Gilson intently as they drove in silence. Some guys joined gangs because it was the easiest way to survive in a rough neighborhood. But Frank had a feeling Dave Gilson got off on the violence. He liked pushing people around. If it wasn't for the Scorpions, he'd just be another school-yard bully—the kind Conrad Daye used to go after with a baseball bat.
A few minutes later Gilson pulled into the driveway of a ramshackle bungalow. Like too many houses in this part of town, it had a weather- beaten For Sale sign on the front lawn. Frank didn't think the owners had waited for a buyer before they picked up and moved on.
Gilson hammered on the front door. "It's me, Rad," he said loudly. "Open up."
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"Why don't you just get a bullhorn and make a public announcement?" Frank suggested.
Gilson glared at him. "Watch your mouth or I'll—"
"Yeah, yeah," Frank cut him off. "I know. You'll cut my tongue out. Don't you know any other threats?"
Gilson moved toward Frank and lashed out with his right hand.
That was exactly what Frank wanted him to do. He easily sidestepped the blow. He grabbed Gilson's wrist with his right hand, yanking it forward and twisting it at the same time. Then he brought his left forearm down sharply on Gilson's exposed elbow.
Gilson cried out in pain and clutched at his injured arm.
"Chill out and back off!" someone shouted.
Frank whirled around. Callie was standing in the doorway. Conrad Daye was behind her, his arm around her neck, a knife pressed against her throat.
* * *
Joe and Kay sat in the car, keeping an eye on the entrance to the video arcade.
"I think Frank spotted us back at the pay phone," Joe said.
"Does it matter?" Kay asked.
Joe shrugged. "I guess not."
"He should be glad he has a backup," Kay pointed out.
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Joe chuckled. "You don't know Frank Hardy. Everything has to go according to plan—his plan." He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "How long has he been in there, anyway?"
"About fifteen minutes," Kay replied.
"I don't like this," Joe muttered. "It doesn't add up. This is the last place Daye would show his face right now."
"Sometimes," Kay said, "the best place to hide is in plain sight."
Joe shook his head. "I don't think Daye is in there—and I don't think Frank is, either."
"You think we've been suckered?" Kay asked.
Joe opened the door and got out of the car. "That's what I'm about to find out."
Kay got out, too. "You know," she said as they walked toward the arcade, "I teach my students to avoid this kind of situation."
"Yeah—but I'm not one of your students," Joe reminded her.
"Too bad. You might learn something."
"That's what everybody keeps telling me."
Nobody was guarding the door this time. A few heads turned when Joe and Kay walked in, but they quickly turned away again.
Joe scanned the dimly lit room. There was no sign of Conrad Daye or Frank. Joe moved toward the back of the game room. Kay followed close behind. When they neared the door to the back room one of the gang members drifted out of the shadows and blocked the door.
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Joe glanced over his shoulder. Three more Scorpions had closed in from behind.
"We don't want any trouble," the one blocking the door said.
"Too bad," Joe replied. "You should have thought of that before you grabbed my brother."
"We don't know what you're talking about," someone said.
"Just walk away and nobody gets hurt," another voice added.
"Tell me where my brother is," Joe said, "and we'll leave."
"And if we don't?"
Joe's lips curled back in a grim smile. "Then I'll be in your face and all over the place."
One of the gang members let out a harsh laugh. "Let's get it on," he rasped.
Kay Lewis tugged on Joe's arm. "Let's get out of here," she said nervously.
"What?" Joe responded in surprise.
"I really think we should leave," Kay urged him. "Please." It was almost a whine.
Joe couldn't believe it. Kay had suddenly turned into a—well, a girl. "Terrific," he muttered. "Sorry, guys," he said sourly. "It was all a big mistake. Never mind. Just forget the whole thing."
Joe and Kay started to walk back toward the front door. The Scorpions parted to let them by.
Kay brushed past one of them on the left—and whipped her right leg up and back in a blurring motion, hitting him just below and behind the
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knee. As he staggered backward her right arm shot across his chest. Gripping his right shoulder and using her extended leg as a fulcrum, she flung him to the floor.
Before anybody could even blink she was on top of him, pinning one arm with her knee. Her right fist hovered over his throat, a coiled snake poised to strike.
"Tell us where Frank Hardy is right now," she said calmly, "or I'll crush your windpipe. You'll die screaming—but nobody will hear you."
* * *
Frank slowly backed away from Dave Gilson, keeping his eyes locked on the knife at Callie's throat. "Let's all chill out," he said to Conrad Daye. "Your pal took a swing at me, so I returned the favor. That's all."
"You okay?" Daye asked Gilson.
Gilson rubbed his arm. "Yeah. He's all yours now. You want me to stick around?"
Daye shook his head. "I can handle it."
Gilson shot a silent parting glare at Frank and then walked back to the car.
"Get inside," Daye ordered. He backed up, pulling Callie with him.
Frank followed them into the house and closed the door. "Are you all right?" he asked Callie.
She tried to smile. "I've been better."
"You've got me now," Frank said to Daye. "How about letting her go?"
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"Not until we get a few things cleared up," Daye replied.
"I'm listening," Frank said.
"You've got to convince the cops that I wasn't involved in any of those attacks."
"I need proof."
"Then get some," Daye snapped, his grip tightening on the knife.
"Okay," Frank said quickly. "Okay. Just don't—"
"Conrad Daye!" a voice blared through a bullhorn outside. "We have a warrant for your arrest! Release the hostages and come out with your hands up!"
Daye glared at Frank. He pressed the knife blade against Callie's throat. "I told you I'd cut her if you brought the cops," he snarled. "And I always keep my word."
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Chapter 11
Frank lunged forward, reaching desperately for the knife.
"No!" Callie shouted. She grabbed Daye's arm with both hands, slamming her right foot down on his instep at the same time. Then she twisted toward him, bending at the waist, and backed out of the choke hold.
Still gripping Daye's arm with both hands, she stepped around him, jerking his arm up behind his back. She followed that with a rapid side kick into the back of his knee.
Daye staggered, but he didn't go down—and he still clutched the knife in his hand. He broke free of Callie's grip and spun around to face Frank. "Come on, Frank," he growled. "Let's finish it."
Frank took a slight step to the left, and Daye thrust at him with an underhand jab. But Frank's move was only a feint. He leapt to the outside of Daye's knife hand on the right. He grabbed Daye's wrist with one hand and his upper arm with the
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other. Then Frank side-kicked him in the back of the knee, aiming for the same spot Callie had hit.
Daye's knee buckled. Frank brought the knife arm down, pulling sharply with both hands, and smashed it against his leg. Daye's hand jerked open. The knife popped out and skittered across the floor.
Daye dove after it, but Callie was there first. She scooped it up and hurled it toward the window. The glass shattered, and the knife was gone.
The front door burst open. "Freeze!" a commanding voice barked.
"Don't shoot!" Frank yelled. He stepped between Conrad Daye and the muzzles of a half dozen automatic rifles and service revolvers. "Everything's under control," Frank said slowly and calmly.
The police moved into the room quickly. One of them holstered his weapon and handcuffed Daye's hands behind his back.
The gang leader looked at Frank. "You almost got your girlfriend killed. Is locking me up that important to you?"
Frank shook his head. "I didn't call the police. I didn't even know where I was going—and you made sure nobody could follow me with that switch back at video arcade. So you tell me how I managed to lead half the Bay port police force right to your hideout."
"Somebody told them," Daye insisted.
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"Who knew you were here?" Callie asked Daye.
"Nobody," he replied. He paused for a second. "Nobody except Dave Gilson."
* * *
"Could you really have killed that guy with just one blow?" Joe asked Kay as they walked out of the gang hangout.
"I don't know," Kay said honestly. "I've never tried. But I think he believed I could—and that's all that really matters, isn't it?"
Joe nodded. "So he was probably telling the truth about Gilson being the only one who knows where Daye is holed up."
"The only way to find out is to find Dave Gilson," Kaye replied. "Any ideas on where to start looking?"
A patrol car pulled up next to them. "Uh-oh," Joe whispered. "Better let me handle this." He strolled up to the driver's window and smiled. "Is there some kind of problem, officer?"
The back door of the car opened. "No problem," Frank said with a grin as he got out.
"Nothing we couldn't handle ourselves," Callie chimed in, joining Frank on the sidewalk.
"Frank!" Joe called out. "Callie! Are you guys okay?" The words rushed out in a torrent. "What happened? Where were you? Where's Daye? What are you doing here?"
"Whoa!" Frank said. "One question at a time.
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We'll start with the last one. We came to pick up the van."
He glanced over Joe's shoulder at the video arcade. A couple of the Scorpions were watching them from the doorway. "I'll tell you the rest later," he said. "First, let's get out of here."
* * *
When the sun peeked over the horizon the next morning the first rays slanted down on the black van, bounced off the side mirror, and drilled right through Joe's eyelids. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly. "What time is it?" he yawned.
"Six-fifteen," Frank told him.
"I don't know why we had to come down here so early," Joe said, squinting out at a shabby ranch house. "Guys like Gilson never roll out of the sack before noon."
"Maybe I should have gotten a copy of his schedule from his secretary," Frank replied. "But that would have spoiled all the fun of getting up at five in the morning to sit in a cold van, drinking cold coffee."
"Okay," Joe said. "You made your point. But we could be sitting out here for hours while he's in there snoring away."
Frank sighed. "It's a stakeout, Joe. That's what it's all about—sitting around and waiting."
"Hold on," Joe said, leaning forward to get a better view. "Maybe I spoke too soon."
Frank looked out the windshield. The front door of the house had opened, and Dave Gilson
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walked out into the early morning light. He closed and locked the door and then headed for his car. Frank had spotted the car earlier—it was the one he had taken a ride in the day before.
He watched Gilson get in the car and waited for the rumble of its engine before starting up the van. Gilson drove off. Frank checked the side mirror. Another car was coming down the street. Good, Frank thought. He let the car pass and then pulled in behind it.
Since the cab of the van was higher than most cars, Frank could let several cars get between them and still keep track of Gilson. It was a trick he used often. Even when a suspect was on the lookout for a tail, he usually didn't look beyond the first couple of cars. So Frank just dropped back and relaxed.
They followed Gilson to a small park and watched from the van as he got out of his car and strolled over to a bench on the grass. There was a man sitting on the bench. Frank and Joe both recognized him.
"Okay," Joe said. "What's the connection between Dave Gilson and Patrick Smith?"
"Good question," Frank replied. "Too bad I don't have the answer."
The realtor and the gang member talked for a few minutes, and Smith handed something to Gilson. It was too small and too far away for the Hardys to tell what it was. Then the older man
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.got up and walked off, and Gilson went back to his car.
Frank opened his door and slid out of the van.
"Where are you going?" Joe asked.
"I'm going to follow Smith," Frank told him. "You stick with Gilson."
"I'm glue," Joe said, moving over to the driver's seat. He gave Gilson a good head start before he put the van in gear and took off after him.
Bayport was starting to wake up, and there was more traffic now. That was fine with Joe. It meant there was less chance that Gilson would spot him.
Joe wasn't too surprised when Gilson turned down Madison—it was one way to get to the Scorpions' hangout. But Gilson wasn't headed for the video arcade. He stopped just up the street from the self-defense center.
Joe made an abrupt turn down a side street so Gilson wouldn't see him. He did a quick and dirty parking job and jumped out of the van. Peering around the corner, he saw Gilson walk up to the front door of Kay Lewis's building.
Gilson looked around furtively and then pulled something out of his pocket. Joe realized it was a key. He watched Gilson unlock the door and slip inside.
Joe jogged across the street and approached the building cautiously. Kay's new car wasn't anywhere in sight. That meant she probably
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wasn't in the building. Joe breathed a little easier.
He went up the steps and tried the door. It was open. He stuck his head inside and listened carefully. There were muffled sounds coming from the basement. What was Gilson doing down there?
Joe tiptoed to the stairwell. He cocked his head to one side and strained to hear any noise coming from below. Now there was nothing. He waited a few minutes, but waiting wasn't his strong suit. He decided to check it out.
He crept down the stairs quietly. There was no sign of Gilson in the main part of the basement. Joe could see that the double steel doors were wide open. But Gilson wasn't in the small room, either.
Then Joe noticed that the concealed entrance to the underground passage wasn't closed all the way. But before he could take a closer look he heard a hollow creaking sound, like rusty hinges in an echo chamber. The steel door leading to the old sewer! A few seconds later the brick wall started to swing open.
Joe darted back into the basement and crouched behind the furnace just seconds before Gilson came through the double doors and headed up the stairs. Joe waited until he heard the front door shut before coming out of his hiding place.
So Gilson knew about the secret way into the old sewer. But what was he doing down there? Joe had to find out.
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Joe went through the back-to-back steel doors and grabbed the flashlight that Kay Lewis had left on the bookshelf. Then he lifted the hinged shelf that opened the secret door in the brick wall and went down the narrow corridor to the abandoned sewer.
Some distance down the sewer tunnel Joe saw an eerie glow that seemed to come out of the wall of the sewer. Joe switched off the flash beam and crept toward the dim light. As he got closer he could see that it was coming from a low side passage. If not for the light filtering through the opening, Joe would have missed it—as he and the others had before—even with his flashlight on.
Joe had to duck slightly to get past the mouth of the passage. But there was a little more headroom on the other side. Ahead he could see the familiar shape of a steel door with a lever-style handle. Jake Barton must have gotten a quantity discount at a closeout sale, Joe thought. The door was half open, and the glow was coming from the other side of the door.
Joe heard a noise and froze in his tracks. He cocked his head and listened. All he could pick up was the faint dripping of water somewhere— and the pounding of his own heart in his chest. He moved closer to the door.
Well, you've come this far, he told himself. You sure aren't going back without finding out
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what's in there. Joe took a deep breath and went through the doorway.
He found himself in a brick-lined chamber about the same size as the one connected to Kay's basement. The source of the light was a kerosene lantern on the floor.
Joe heard a creaking sound behind him. He whirled around just in time to see the metal door slam shut with a loud clank.
Just like the other steel doors, this one had a handle on only one side—and Joe was on the wrong side. He was trapped!
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Chapter 12
It was turning out to be a day of surprises.
Frank followed Patrick Smith to a fancy restaurant a few blocks from the park. Smith met a woman at the entrance, and they went in together.
The woman was Kay Lewis.
Frank was bewildered. First the early-morning meeting with that punk Gilson, and now this. What was Smith up to? And how was Kay mixed up in it?
If Joe had been there, he probably would have argued for what he liked to call an "ambush interview." His theory was that if you caught people by surprise, you were more likely to get the truth out of them. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it backfired with a vengeance—leaving Frank to clean up the mess.
Frank decided to wait across the street from the restaurant. Kay and the realtor sat in a booth by the window. Frank pretended to be interested in the latest women's shoe styles in a storefront
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display window while keeping an eye on the unlikely couple reflected in the glass.
After two hours Frank wasn't any closer to unraveling the mystery of the meeting in the restaurant—but he was pretty sure he had deciphered the key to success in the high-heel market.
Finally Kay Lewis and Patrick Smith got up and left the restaurant. They paused on the sidewalk outside, shook hands, and walked off in opposite directions.
Frank decided to stick with the realtor. Smith's office was nearby, and Frank surmised that was exactly where Smith was headed.
Frank had a few questions he wanted to ask Smith, but he didn't think he'd be able to pry loose any useful information if he confronted the slick salesman on his home turf. So he decided to rip a page out of Joe Hardy's crime-stopper's textbook.
He jogged across the street and caught up with the real estate agent. "Mr. Smith!" he exclaimed in a surprised voice. "What a coincidence! I was just on my way to your office to see you."
"Well, that certainly is a coincidence," Smith agreed, flashing a toothy smile, "because I was just thinking about you."
"Oh?" Frank replied. This was going to be tricky, he warned himself. Smith was a slippery one. He had meant to catch the realtor with his guard down, but instead it was Frank who was at a loss for words.
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"Yes," Smith said. "An associate of mine tells me you're not convinced Conrad Daye was responsible for all those incidents around the self-defense school."
"Is that what Kay Lewis told you over breakfast?" Frank asked in a casual tone.
The realtor's smile faded. "If you're spying on me, you're wasting your time. I don't have anything to hide. My meeting with Ms. Lewis was legitimate business."
"And what about Dave Gilson?" Frank countered. "He doesn't look like the type who wants to invest in real estate."
Smith took a long look at Frank. "David Gilson is a troubled young man," he said in a somber tone. "He's also my nephew—my sister's son.
"This is really none of your business," he continued after a short pause. "But I have a feeling you're going to be a serious nuisance until you get some kind of answer.
"Dave's father died about five years ago, and the family's had a hard time making ends meet since then. I help out whenever I can. My sister's too proud to take the money herself, so I give it to Dave. I know he blows some of it, but most of it goes to pay the rent and buy food."
"I'm sorry," Frank said. "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," Smith replied curtly. "As I said, it's really none of your business. And if you have any more questions about my personal life, you can take them to the police."
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He turned and walked away, leaving Frank standing on the sidewalk.
Frank made a mental note not to try that approach again—and underlined it. Now the surveillance was blown, and if Smith was up to anything shady, he would take extra care to cover his tracks from now on.
* * *
By the time Frank got home it was well past noon. There was no sign of the van, which meant Joe was still out. Either that or he had come home and then left again.
Frank headed for the kitchen to grab something to eat and ran into his aunt, Gertrude Hardy. She was sitting at the kitchen table, knitting something. Frank had no idea what it would eventually turn out to be. Right now it looked like a sweater for a boa constrictor.
Frank couldn't remember a time when his aunt hadn't been around. She was a permanent fixture in the Hardy household.
"You boys ran off again this morning without having breakfast," she scolded him.
"The fish won't wait while you sit around eating omelets," Frank said.
"The two of you must be the worst fishermen in Bayport," she remarked.
"What do you mean?" Frank asked.
"I mean you go on these early-morning fishing trips, but you never bring home any fish!"
Frank slapped his forehead. "You mean you're
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supposed to keep them? Wait'll I tell Joe. All this time we've been throwing them back!"
"Speaking of your brother, where is he? Did you lose him in the bay?"
"He, ah, had some errands to run," Frank answered vaguely. "Has he called in or anything like that?"
Gertrude shook her head. "The phone hasn't rung once all day."
"Are you sure?" Frank asked her.
She peered at him over the top of her bifocals. "Is your brother in some kind of trouble?"
"I hope not," Frank muttered under his breath.
He went upstairs to his room and checked the telephone answering machine. There weren't any messages.
Frank had an uneasy feeling. He hadn't actually told Joe to check in at any specific time. It was just sort of a standard operating procedure. If they had to split up, they kept in touch by calling the house every few hours. If they were both out, they simply left messages on the machine. They could also listen to messages by punching in a replay code from any push-button phone.
Frank glanced at his watch. It was almost five hours since he had left Joe at the park. That wasn't too bad. If Gilson was on the move a lot, then Joe might not have had time to get to a phone. After all, Frank himself hadn't bothered to call in while he was tailing Patrick Smith.
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He decided to give Joe a few more hours before hitting the panic button. In the meantime he had some research to do.
Shuffling through the papers next to his computer, Frank pulled out a brochure on the AAA Self-defense Center. Callie had given it to him when she was first thinking about signing up for the class. He scanned it quickly, refreshing his memory. If what it said was true, then Kay Lewis had spent a hefty chunk of her life absorbed in the martial arts: karate, kung-fu, aikido, judo, taste kwon do. She had studied weaponless combat all over the world.
So what was she doing in Bayport? This case kept turning up more questions than answers.
The phone rang once, and Frank snatched the receiver. "Hello?" he said expectantly.
"Boy, that was fast," a female voice said. "You must have been sitting on top of the phone. It barely had a chance to ring."
"Oh, hi, Callie," Frank said. He had hoped to hear Joe's voice on the other end.
"Is it my imagination," Callie said, "or are you less than thrilled that I called?"
"I'm sorry," Frank replied. "I was sort of expecting a call from Joe."
"Is anything wrong?" Callie asked.
"I don't know," Frank said. "I haven't seen him or heard from him since early this morning." He told her everything that had happened
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since he had last seen her, including the discovery of the abandoned sewer.
"Maybe we should go look for him," Callie suggested.
"I don't suppose you'd consider just lending me your car," Frank ventured.
"You know me so well," she replied. "You're right. I wouldn't. I'll pick you up in ten minutes."
* * *
After Joe made two or three complete checks of the sealed chamber he settled down for an intensely boring wait. The only contents of the vault were a pick and shovel, and as far as he could tell, they hadn't been used for anything yet. He debated hacking his way through the brick wall, but he figured the only thing he'd find on the other side would be another wall—a natural one made of rocks and dirt.
Sooner or later someone would get him out. It was a fairly safe bet that Gilson had locked him in. He had probably gone back to his car to get something he had forgotten—and when he returned and found Joe in the vault, he panicked and locked him in. Once Gilson figured out what to do he'd be back. Joe glanced at the pick. He planned to be ready.
Since there wasn't much he could do in the meantime, Joe decided to shut off the lantern and get some sleep.
Sometime later he woke with a start. He had no idea where he was or how much time had
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passed. When he finally remembered that he was in the vault he fumbled in his pocket for a match and lit the kerosene lantern. Maybe it was a waste of fuel, but Joe wasn't sleepy anymore, and he didn't feel like sitting around in the dark.
The lantern burned brightly for about an hour. Then it dimmed and sputtered out.
Joe switched on the flashlight and inspected the lantern. He couldn't see anything wrong with it. He picked it up and shook it lightly. There was still plenty of kerosene sloshing around in the base tank.
Joe sat down. It was hard to think. His chest heaved up and down as if he had just run a mile. He couldn't seem to get enough air.
That was it, he realized with dawning horror. The vault was running out of air!
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Chapter 13
"So where do we start?" Callie asked Frank as they drove away from the house.
"Well," Frank said thoughtfully, "if we find Dave Gilson, Joe shouldn't be too far away."
"And if he isn't?" Callie asked.
"Then we find out what Gilson knows about it," Frank said grimly.
"So where do we find Gilson?"
"Let's try the Scorpions' hangout first."
While Callie drove, Frank replayed his conversation with Patrick Smith in his head. Except this time Frank was ready with all the right questions. Why did Smith meet Gilson in a deserted park instead of at his office? How did he know what Gilson did with the money? Didn't he feel a little uneasy handing over wads of cash to a member of a street gang? Wasn't there a more reliable way to help out his sister?
The mental image of Smith didn't answer. It just flashed a Cheshire-cat grin and slowly faded away until there was nothing left but shiny white teeth.
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Frank gazed out the window. He didn't pay much attention to where they were until he caught a glimpse of a familiar shape on a side street, parked at a crazy angle. "Stop the car!" he shouted.
Callie hit the brakes, and the car squealed to a stop in the middle of the street. "What is it?" she asked in a startled voice.
But Frank was already out of the car, running toward the black van. The self-defense center was only a block away, he realized. It wasn't exactly the quickest way to the video arcade. Callie had simply taken the route that was familiar to her. Not that Frank was complaining.
He opened the door and looked inside the van. Everything seemed to be okay. The door was unlocked, and the parking job wasn't going to win any neatness awards. That meant Joe had been in a hurry. The engine block was cold. That meant the van had been sitting there for a while.
And all of that meant that Joe had still been hot on Gilson's trail when he left the van. So where did they go?
There was only one logical answer: the AAA Self-defense Center.
"Let's go see if Kay Lewis is home," Frank said to Callie. She had already parked her car.
"Do you think she knows anything about this?" Callie asked.
"It wouldn't hurt to ask," Frank responded.
Frank knocked loudly on the door several times
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before Kay answered. She was wearing baggy sweat pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt.
"Oh, hi, guys," she said, wiping a trickle of sweat off her forehead. "I was just working out. Come on in."
Frank came right to the point. "Joe's missing. Have you seen him at all today?"
Kay shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him since you guys left here yesterday."
"The van's parked right down the street," Frank said. "Are you sure Joe didn't come by here?"
Kay eyed Frank with suspicion. "I didn't say that. I said I haven't seen him. There's a difference."
"I don't understand," Callie said. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I wasn't here most of the morning," Kay responded. There was an edge of impatience in her voice. "If he came around then, I wouldn't know about it."
"And where were you this morning?" Frank prodded, even though he already knew the answer.
"There was some kind of glitch in the paperwork when I bought this place. Patrick Smith had a stack of forms for me to sign, and he insisted on meeting at an overpriced restaurant that serves undercooked eggs."
Something clicked in Frank's mind. A few of the puzzle pieces fell into place. "Maybe Smith
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wanted to make sure you were anywhere but here during a certain time period," he said.
"Why would he want to do that?" Kay asked.
"So somebody working for him could get in without being noticed."
"But why?" Kay persisted. "I don't have anything worth stealing."
"I don't know why," Frank admitted. "Not yet, anyway. But I bet I know where the person went once he got in."
"I bet I do, too," Callie said. "Something tells me we're not the only ones who know about the old sewer line."
"You don't think someone's down there now, do you?" Kay asked doubtfully.
"All I know," Frank replied, "is that there might be something down there that will help us find Joe. And that's all I care about right now."
Without saying anything else he headed for the basement stairs. Kay glanced at Callie. Callie shrugged. Then they both followed Frank down to the underground chamber.
"Where's that flashlight of yours?" Frank asked Kay.
She looked around the small room and frowned. "I thought we left it over there."
Frank followed her gaze to the shelf on the wall. "Well, it isn't there now," he observed.
"I think I've got another one upstairs," Kay said.
While she went to get the flashlight Frank
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took a close look at the wall, running his hand over the spot where he knew the concealed door would open. The only telltale sign was a hairline crack in the mortar, zigzagging between the bricks.
"Pretty slick work," he said. "You can't even see it from a couple of feet away."
"If you didn't already know where it was," Callie said, "you'd never find it."
Kay returned with the flashlight. "We're in business," she announced, thumbing the switch and shining the wide beam on the wall. "Let's hit it."
Since the hidden doorway in the brick wall was shut tight, Frank had to lift the hinged shelf to unlock it. The steel door at the end of the short passage was closed and latched, too.
"If anybody's in there now," Frank said as he pushed down on the handle, "they didn't plan to get out again. You can open these doors only from one side."
Inside the damp, dark sewer everything looked pretty much the same as it had the day before. Frank had no idea what he was looking for— maybe a big sign that flashed "Clue" in garish neon colors.
"Now what?" Callie prodded him, bringing Frank back to the bleak reality of the tunnel.
Frank shivered. Suddenly he felt very cold. And he had a bad feeling that if he didn't find Joe soon, it would be too late.
Somewhere, a faint clank echoed down the abandoned sewer. Frank stood still and listened.
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Clank. There it was again, a hollow metallic sound.
"What's that noise?" Callie asked.
"Shhh!" Frank hissed, putting a finger to his lips.
Clank. Where was it coming from? It was hard to tell. The sound bounced off the crumbling walls. Frank moved a few steps in one direction.
Clank. No, it was coming from the other way. But it was fainter now.
"Give me the flashlight," he said urgently.
Frank moved down the tunnel slowly, waving the beam back and forth along the sewer walls. He couldn't hear the sound anymore. He stopped and listened.
Clank. There it was, just ahead and off to the left.
Frank trained the light on the curved wall and zeroed in on a low, narrow gap in the brick. The sound had to be coming from the other side of the wall. Crouching in the opening, he aimed the beam inside. The shaft of light stabbed through the darkness—and glinted off the steel door at the end of the short passage.
The sound had stopped completely now. The grisly meaning of the heavy silence struck Frank like a hammer blow. He plunged headlong into the corridor, grabbed the metal handle, and flung the door open.
Joe was lying facedown in the dirt, the pick handle clutched in his hand. Frank figured Joe
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had been trying to whack his way out. Frank rushed in and almost tripped over the kerosene lantern. He frantically kicked it out of the way and dragged his brother out of the vault.
Frank laid Joe down on his back, pried apart his lips, and forced air into his lungs with mouth-to-mouth breathing.
Kay Lewis rushed over. Dropping to her knees, she deftly placed one hand over the other on Joe's chest and started pumping with a steady rhythm. "One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . ." she counted as she pressed down firmly. Then she went back to one and started over. She kept repeating the five count in a calm, clear voice.
Every time she reached five Frank blew more air down Joe's throat. "Come on, Joe—breathe!" he whispered desperately.
"... three . . . four ..." Kay counted out.
A low rasping noise escaped from Joe's lips. Then suddenly his body was wracked by a violent burst of coughing. But at least he was breathing.
Frank leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh. He was drained, but he still managed a weak smile for Kay Lewis. "Thanks," he said simply. He couldn't think of any other words to offer.
Joe struggled to a sitting position, blinking his eyes and looking around. "Hey, guys," he croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Well," he said in a hoarse voice, "I'm never
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staying in that motel again. The rooms are filthy, and the service is lousy."
Frank got up, reached out, and helped Joe to his feet. "That kerosene lantern almost killed you," he said, nodding toward the vault. "It sucked up all the oxygen and spewed out carbon monoxide—kind of like sitting in a car with the engine running in a closed garage. Not a really smart thing to do."
"Thank you, Mr. Wizard," Joe grumbled. "I don't know what I'd do without your cheerful reports."
"You'd do what you always do. You never listen to me anyway." Frank took Joe's arm and draped it over his shoulder. "Come on—let's get out of here."
Kay took Joe's other arm, and Callie walked ahead with the flashlight.
Back in the main sewer tunnel it was easy to find the way back out. Light from the basement spilled through the open doorway in the wall.
"That's funny," Joe said thickly. He was still a little groggy. "It looks like the light's moving."
Frank could see that his brother was right. Long shadows flickered in the opening. Then a dark shape appeared in the doorway, outlined in the dim glow from behind it.
"I hope you all like it down here," a menacing voice called out, "because this is where I'm going to bury you."
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Chapter 14
Frank knew the voice. It was Dave Gilson's —and Dave wasn't alone.
Gilson stepped into the tunnel, followed closely by two other guys. One of them was holding a short lead pipe. The other one gripped a nunchaku —a pair of foot-long pieces of wood, like sawed- off broom handles, linked by a short chain.
"We can take these guys," Joe whispered in Frank's ear.
Frank glanced at his brother. Joe could barely stand up by himself.
"I don't suppose we could all sit down together and talk about this over a cup of coffee," Kay Lewis said doubtfully.
Gilson bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "What's the matter, teacher? Is this class a little too advanced for you?"
While Gilson's eyes were on Kay, Frank slipped his foot behind Joe's leg and deliberately tripped him. "Sorry, Joe," he muttered under his breath.
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He didn't think Joe would be much use in a fight right now—but he might make a good diversion.
Joe was still a little lightheaded, and Frank's move caught him completely off guard. His knees buckled. He stumbled back a pace, tottered, and collapsed.
"Joe!" Frank shouted, trying to sound surprised. "Are you all right?" He knelt down next to him, acting the part of the worried brother.
Gilson came at them like a shark catching the scent of blood and moving in for the kill. A switchblade flashed in his hand.
Frank waited a beat. He had to time this just right. Gilson was almost on top of him. Frank burst into action. From the kneeling position he spun around, pivoting on his left knee. He thrust out his right leg and swung it around in a swift, low sweep.
He caught Gilson just behind the ankle, knocking his leg out from under him. Gilson flew backward and landed hard on his back. His head smacked against the bricks. He didn't get up. He didn't move at all. He was out cold.
But the other two were closing in.
Kay Lewis jumped in front of the one holding the lead pipe. Instead of backing off when he swung the pipe over his head she darted in close, bringing both arms up and blocking the lethal downward blow with her forearms. Then her right hand shot out and up, and the heel of her palm smashed into his chin with shattering force.
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His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground.
That left one. He rushed at Frank, whipping the nunchaku back and forth with blurring speed. Frank jumped up and back, dodging a forehand swipe. The chunk of wood whistled past his head.
Frank lunged forward, reaching out and grabbing the attacker's arm before he could lash out with a backhand swing. He tried to wrench his arm free. Frank held him long enough to bring his right foot up and smash it down on the guy's knee. He cried out and dropped the weapon.
Frank yanked the guys arm behind his back and slammed him against the wall. "If you even twitch," he said sharply, jerking the arm upward, "I'll snap it like a twig. Is everybody okay?" he called out.
"I think so," Callie answered.
"Everybody that matters, anyway," Joe added.
Someone let out a low groan. Frank looked back over his shoulder. Dave Gilson was conscious, but he couldn't move. Joe was sitting on him.
* * *
"Too bad I don't get paid overtime," Con Riley said as he slapped a pair of handcuffs on Dave Gilson and put him in the squad car. "With all the extra work you two make for me, I'd have enough cash to retire by now."
"Maybe we should just let them go next time,"
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Joe replied. "Then you can get back to serious crime work, like writing parking tickets."
"Ah, traffic duty," the police officer sighed. "Those were the good old days." He turned to Frank. "What do you know about the other two perps?"
"Perps?" Kay Lewis said. "What's a perp?"
"It's short for 'perpetrator,' " Frank explained. "And the only thing I know about them is that they tried to kill us."
Con Riley pushed his cap back on his head. "Something doesn't add up. They're not part of the pack Gilson runs with."
"They're not Scorpions?" Joe asked.
"They used to be," Riley replied. "But Conrad Daye kicked them out. Those two are a couple of real lowlifes. Extortion, blackmail, you name it. If it's illegal, either they've already done it or it's on their 'to do' list."
"Why did Daye kick them out?" Callie asked.
Riley shrugged. "I guess even a punk like him has some standards." He handed a clipboard to Kay. "Now if you'll just sign this report, I can go put those animals in a nice, warm cage."
He paused as he was getting in the patrol car and looked back at her. "Are you sure you don't know what they were doing in your basement?"
Kay held up her right hand. "I give you my word. I have no idea what they thought they'd find down there."
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Neither did Frank and Joe. And they were still trying to fit it all together when they got home.
"Okay," Joe said. "We know that Gilson got the key to Kay's place from Patrick Smith."
Frank nodded. "Smith was the realtor for the sale of the building. He should have turned over any keys he had after Kay bought it. But he easily could have kept a set."
"And we know that he lured Kay away so that Gilson could get in and out without being seen," Joe added. "What else do we know?"
"Whatever Gilson and Smith are up to," Frank said, "Conrad Daye's not involved in it."
"Hold on," Joe responded. "How do we know that?"
"You heard what Con Riley said about those two creeps that were with Gilson. Daye wouldn't have anything to do with them."
"So maybe Gilson only brought them in after Daye got thrown in jail."
"And how did the police catch Daye in the first place? Gilson was the only one who could have told them where he was."
"So what's your point?"
Frank looked at his brother. "I think Patrick Smith was behind all those attacks on Kay and the self-defense center. He hired Dave Gilson to do his dirty work for him, and Gilson set up Conrad Daye to take the fall."
"It fits," Joe admitted reluctantly. "With the heat on Daye, Smith would be free to carry out
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his plans—whatever they are. But it doesn't get Daye off the hook for kidnapping Callie."
"No, it doesn't," Frank agreed. "And it doesn't tell us why Smith is going to all this trouble."
"Maybe he's just following orders from higher up," Joe suggested.
Frank shook his head. "I don't think so. I doubt if Sam White would risk everything he's got for a few parking spaces. No, Patrick Smith is after something on his own. We just have to figure out what it is."
"Jake Barton's buried loot?" Joe ventured.
Frank sighed. "The vault was empty, Joe."
"Smith didn't know that," Joe argued.
"Sure he did," Frank countered. "Was Gilson carrying a pick and shovel when you followed him to the vault?"
Joe frowned. "No."
"So how did they get there? Gilson or Smith must have been down there at least once before."
Joe thought for a moment. "You're right," he said. "And the threats started as soon as Kay moved in—so Smith must have known about the secret entrance to the sewer before then. He probably stumbled across it by accident back when the building was for sale. He would have been in and out a lot, showing the place to people."
Frank sat back and rested his chin in his hand. "I can't shake the feeling that we're missing
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something," he muttered. "What does Smith know that we don't?"
"Real estate," Joe responded.
Frank sat up. "What was it Smith said about his computer system?"
Joe shrugged. "Something about being able to access any information in city hall that's available to the public."
"Right. Smith should know his way around the city's computer files for property taxes, land surveys, building plans—anything related to real estate. He probably even knows how to sneak in and out of some protected files without being detected."
"Like what?" Joe asked.
Frank smiled. "Give me half an hour and I'll show you." The last piece was falling into place, and he thought he could finally see the whole picture clearly.
Joe paced back and forth while Frank tapped away on the keyboard. Every few minutes Joe would glance at the computer over his brother's shoulder. Words and diagrams scrolled up the screen. More than once the message "Incorrect Password—Access Denied" flashed on the screen.
"Come on, Frank," he finally said. "It's been almost forty minutes. Wouldn't it be easier just to tell me?"
"Hang on," Frank replied. "I've almost got it. There!" He pushed his chair back and gestured to the screen. "Check it out."
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Joe looked at the display on the monitor. "It looks like some kind of blueprint—except it's green on this screen."
"It's a blueprint, all right," Frank confirmed. "It's a blueprint for an underground vault."
"For Jake Barton's vault?" Joe asked in disbelief.
Frank shook his head. "Nope. It's for a bank vault. Bayport Savings, to be precise."
Joe stared at the screen. "The bank just up the street from the self-defense center."
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Chapter 15
The Hardys had to wait until the next afternoon to check out their theory.
"I'm telling you, Frank," Joe said as he pulled the van into the bank parking lot, "we should get extra credit or something for this stuff. For every case we solve we should get a week off from school. What do you think?"
Frank shot a sidelong glance at his brother. "I think I didn't haul you out of that vault soon enough. There's a short circuit in your brain."
"Hey, there's an idea," Joe said. "Maybe I can get out on some kind of disability."
Chet Morton was waiting for them by the front door. "This better not take long," he said. "I only have a ten-minute break."
"Wait a minute," Joe said. "How long have you been here?"
"Almost a month now," Chet answered.
"I mean today."
"Oh. Since just before two. That's when I start on Mondays."
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"Why do you get out of school early?" Joe demanded.
"I'm on work-study," Chet said nervously, taking a step back.
"That's it!" Joe exclaimed. He turned to his brother. "Why don't we get time off for work- study?"
"Because we don't have jobs," Frank pointed out.
"We have a job," Joe persisted. "We just don't get paid."
Frank rolled his eyes and looked over at Chet. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" He grabbed Joe's arm and yanked him down the sidewalk. "What class is it this time?"
"What do you mean?"
"You only moan this way about school when you've got a big test coming up and you haven't studied for it."
"That's not true," Joe said defensively.
"Yes, it is," Frank insisted.
Joe looked down at the ground. "Okay, maybe it is," he admitted. "But I haven't exactly had a lot of time to hit the books while we've been on this case."
"Then we better wrap things up fast," Frank said, "so you won't have any more excuses."
"Hey, guys," Chet called out, "could we hurry this up? The bank's open only until five, and I've got work to do."
"Sorry," Frank said. He walked back over to
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Chet. "Thanks for helping out. Did you get the information we needed?"
Chet nodded. "I counted the stairs down to the vault. There's a total of twenty-five."
"And the money?"
"They transfer the money out of the vault three times a week—on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. But there's never much cash anyway. Most bank transactions these days are just electronic impulses. The money only exists in a computer memory somewhere."
"Don't they keep more cash around on paydays?" Frank asked. "Like on Fridays and at the end of the month?"
"A little," Chet said. "But people don't usually cash their entire paychecks, so we don't have to stockpile big stacks of hundred-dollar bills or anything like that. The most we ever have in the vault is thirty or forty grand, tops."
"Forty grand," Joe said sourly. "It hardly seems worth it."
"It's not exactly chump change," Chet replied. His eyes widened. "What's all this about, anyway? You guys weren't planning on robbing the bank, were you?"
"No," Frank assured him. "But we think somebody might be."
"Shouldn't we call the police?" Chet responded anxiously.
"Not until we have some proof."
"How are you going to get it?"
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"We're working on that right now," Frank said.
"Speaking of work," Chet said, "I'd better get back to it."
"So should we," Frank replied. He turned to Joe. "Do you have the compass?"
"Right here," Joe answered, holding a round, flat black case in the palm of his hand. He flipped up the lid and took a bearing. "The self-defense center is down the block—due south."
Frank looked around. "Now we need a line-of-sight shot without any buildings in the way. Let's try it from the sidewalk."
They walked out to the sidewalk. Joe peered down the street toward the self-defense center. "Well, here's your clear shot," he observed, "but there's nothing to shoot at."
"I know," Frank replied. "That's why you're going to go stand on the sidewalk by the edge of the self-defense center." He pulled a small square object out of his pocket. On the top there was a digital readout and a single button.
"You're going to zap me with that thing?" Joe asked warily.
Frank grinned. "Don't worry. You'll never know what hit you."
"That's very reassuring," Joe muttered. He trotted past the four buildings that stood between the bank and Kay Lewis's building.
When Joe stopped and waved his hand over his head Frank aimed the device at him and pressed the button. A number flashed on the readout. "Move back a few feet!" he shouted.
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"I want to make sure I'm getting a reading off you!" His eyes darted from the readout to Joe and then back again. As Joe backed up the number on the readout ticked upward.
Frank jotted down the first number in a pocket- size notebook and jogged down the sidewalk to join his brother. "From the bank to here is two hundred and seventy-five feet," he said. "I told you the distance meter would come in handy someday."
"Yeah," Joe said. "We might attract a lot of attention if we were out here dragging a huge tape measure down the street."
Joe knocked on the front door of the self- defense center. There was no answer. He knocked again, pounding harder this time. Still no response. He tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Joe looked at his brother. "I think there's one thing we forgot."
Frank nodded, a chagrined look on his face. "We forgot to make sure Kay would be here this afternoon."
Joe pulled out his pocket knife. "Do you think she'd mind if we let ourselves in?"
Frank glanced up and down the street. "We'll ask her later."
Joe flicked out the small blade and went to work. He slipped it between the frame and the door, just below the knob. He wiggled the blade around until he felt the lock bolt slide back, and with his other hand he slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Joe looked back over his shoulder and grinned at
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his brother. "She really should get a dead bolt."
They went inside and headed for the basement.
"Twenty-one steps," Frank announced at the foot of the stairs. "Chet said there were twenty- five steps down to the bank vault. Each riser is about seven inches. So we're off only by a little over two feet."
"Don't forget the three steps down on the other side of the secret door," Joe reminded him. "That makes it a pretty close match."
They passed through the double steel doors into the small side chamber. Taking the flashlight off the shelf and opening the hidden door, they went down into the abandoned sewer.
Joe pulled out the compass. "The vault that Gilson seemed so interested in is that way," he said, shining the flashlight down the dark tunnel. He glanced down at the compass. "That's due north. Right on target. And I'll bet it's just about two hundred and seventy-five feet from here."
"Let's find out," Frank replied.
Joe walked down the tunnel and stood at the mouth of the corridor leading to the vault that had almost been his final resting place. Frank took another reading with the distance meter.
"If this thing is accurate," Frank said, "it's two hundred sixty-nine feet from Kay's basement to here."
"We're six feet short," Joe pointed out.
"Not really," Frank replied. "We measured from the front entrance of the bank, not the side of the building." He ducked through the low
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opening into the narrow passage. "Come on. Let's take a closer look at the vault."
The pick was still lying on the floor where Joe had dropped it. Frank's shoes crunched on the shards of glass from the broken kerosene lantern. He looked down at the ground. "Give me the flashlight," he said, holding out his hand.
Joe handed him the light. Frank crouched down. He pointed the beam at the ground and brushed away some of the dirt and glass. "Look at this," he said.
Joe leaned over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"There's a wood-plank floor underneath all this grime," Frank answered.
Joe's eyes lit up. "Maybe Barton's secret hoard is under the floorboards!"
Frank rolled his eyes skyward. "Why me?" he muttered. He got up and dusted off his hands. "We're not here on a buried-treasure hunt."
"Sure we are," Joe argued. "The bank vault is buried, isn't it? And it's full of money, right?"
"Money isn't everything," a sinister voice replied.
Frank and Joe whirled around. Patrick Smith was standing in the entrance to the vault. In one hand he held a flashlight. In the other he clutched an automatic pistol.
"Of course, where you're going," he said with a mirthless smile, "you won't be needing much cash."
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Chapter 16
"I should have known you'd show up," Frank said.
Smith chuckled. "Yes, you should have. You're a bright young man." He stepped into the chamber, keeping the gun trained on them. "You're also incredibly predictable. I didn't just 'show up,' as you put it. I followed you here. In fact, this is exactly where I expected you to go."
He switched the gun to his other hand as he shrugged off a backpack. "I think you'll find that I brought everything we'll need to make this little party a real blast."
"Don't tell me you're going to kill us for a lousy forty grand," Joe said.
Smith turned on him. "I should kill you just because you're a royal pain," he snapped. He paused, and the empty smile returned. "But that would be a waste of manpower. You put me in an awkward position when you took my team out of action."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before 
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you sicced Gilson and your other dogs on us," Frank said.
Smith shrugged. "David was expendable. He may be family, but he's just a common thug. He would have ended up in prison sooner or later anyway. Besides, I had a fallback plan."
He stooped down, grabbed the pick with his free hand, and tossed it to Joe. "And you're it."
Joe caught it reflexively. He gripped it tightly with both hands. The muscles on his arms bulged. He swung the pick over his head and charged.
Joe was quick—but he couldn't outrun a bullet.
A shot rang out, the sound a deafening roar in the confined space. Joe froze in his tracks. He looked down at his chest. No blood. Well, that must be a good sign, he thought. The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. But other than that, it didn't seem to have had any adverse effects on his body.
Smith leveled the gun at Joe's head. "I've marked the spot where you can start digging," he said calmly.
Joe turned and looked at the wall. The bullet had smashed into the brick at eye level. He realized that it had missed him only by inches. He glanced at his brother. Frank nodded.
Joe stepped up to the wall and started digging chunks out of it with the pick. There was a chance that someone in the bank would hear the noise through the two thick vault walls and call the police, but Joe knew it was a slim one.
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Frank studied the older man. His opinion hadn't changed much. He suspected that beneath the surface there was nothing but blind greed. And he didn't think Smith was going to let them walk away after he got what he wanted. But the longer they played along, the longer they'd stay alive. And there were still some things he wanted to know.
"So," Frank said casually, "I think I've got most of it figured out."
"Really?" Smith replied. "Let's hear it." He sat down on the floor and gestured for Frank to do the same.
"You found out about the secret entrance to the abandoned sewer some time ago, back when the building was for sale."
"Go on."
"You explored it and found this old vault. But there was nothing in it. By the time you realized what was on the other side, it was too late. The building had already been sold to Kay Lewis."
"Pretty close so far. Then what?"
"You sent her some threatening letters, hoping she'd get scared, move out, and put the place up for sale. As a real estate agent, you could then pretty much come and go as you pleased."
"A crude plan," Smith admitted. "Also a very low-risk one."
"But it didn't work," Frank said. "So you raised the stakes."
"It was so easy," Smith replied. "I hardly
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had to do anything myself. You see, David likes to hurt people."
"But you needed a fall guy," Frank said. "You wanted the police to suspect the Scorpions—but you didn't want any evidence pointing to Gilson. So you engineered the frame job against Conrad Daye. You told Gilson when to lift Daye's knife and where to plant it.
"And you supplied the plastic explosive that turned up in the alley. All Gilson had to do was steal anything with Daye's fingerprints on it. Like a shoe box."
Smith laughed. "You should have seen him when I handed him the stuff. He was afraid it would blow up in his face if he looked at it the wrong way."
He unzipped the outer compartment of the pack and pulled out a small plastic box with two loose wires dangling out one end. "Without a detonator like this you could jump up and down on a whole mountain of plastic explosive and nothing would happen. That's the first thing I learned in demolitions training in the army."
Frank didn't have to ask what else was in the pack. He had a pretty good idea.
Smith glanced over at Joe. He had made a fair dent in the brick wall. "That's good enough," Smith told him. "Now come over here and sit down next to your brother."
"I don't feel like sitting," Joe said in a surly tone.
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"I didn't ask you how you felt," Smith replied coldly. "I gave you an order."
Frank looked at his brother. "Do what he says."
Still holding the gun in one hand, Smith reached into the pack. He pulled out a flat, rectangular slab covered with a thin cloth. He laid it out on top of the pack.
"Something tells me that's not a big bar of Turkish taffy," Joe muttered.
Smith slowly unwrapped the slab. It was the same mottled gray color as the plastic explosive Frank had found in the alley.
Suddenly Smith flung the slab at them. "Here! Catch!" he shouted. Joe dived off to the side, but Frank just reached out and snatched the slab from the air.
The realtor chuckled. "Well, now we know who listens and who doesn't."
Frank hefted the slab. It sagged slightly off the sides of his hand.
"Real funny," Joe said bitterly as he brushed the dirt off his jacket.
Smith waved the gun toward the hole Joe had hacked in the wall. "Fill it up," he said to Frank.
Frank knew what he meant. He got up and walked over to the wall. He took the chunk of plastic explosive and pressed it into the space. It was stiff but pliable, like a wad of clay that had been left out a little too long.
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"Make sure it's flush with the wall," Smith ordered.
Frank pressed and patted the plasticized material until none of it stuck out beyond the bricks.
"That will do nicely," Smith said. "Now get back over here and sit down."
Frank did as he was told.
Smith rose slowly, holding the detonator in one hand and the gun in the other. He kept one eye on the Hardys as he stepped up to the explosive embedded in the wall. "Now comes the tricky part," he said. "It takes two hands to wire the detonator, and I can't very well trust you to stay put while I do this, can I?"
Frank smiled. "Sure you can."
Smith shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so—and I don't intend to find out the hard way. So why don't you both just turn around and lie facedown on the floor?"
Joe glared at him. "And if we don't?"
Smith sighed heavily. "Do we have to go through that again? I really don't want to shoot you." He pointed the pistol at Joe's head. "But I will if I have to. Make no mistake about it."
Frank nudged his brother. "Looks like we don't have much choice." He knew they had to make a move soon, but not yet. He didn't like the odds.
Frank slowly turned his back to Smith and stretched out on the floor. Joe hesitated a moment and then reluctantly followed.
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"That's better," Smith said. "Now just relax. This will only take a minute."
Joe turned his face to his brother. "Are we just going to do everything he says?" he whispered harshly.
"You already tried rushing him," Frank reminded him. "You want to try again?"
"But we've got to do something!" Joe hissed.
"All set," Smith called out. "On your feet. Let's get out of here."
Frank and Joe glanced at each other. This was their only chance, and they both knew it. Without a word they leapt up in unison and bolted for the steel door.
"Not so fast!" the realtor barked.
Joe was already through the door. Frank was close behind. There was an ear-splitting crack! and a piece of the wall next to the door exploded. A razor-sharp brick flake sliced across Frank's cheek.
He skidded to a halt. "Shut the door!" he screamed at Joe.
Joe whirled around and wavered. Frank was on the wrong side of the door!
"Do it!" Frank yelled.
"Don't even blink!" Smith roared. He grabbed Frank's collar and shoved the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. "No need to rush," he said. "We've still got plenty of time. So why don't you bend down nice and slow and get my pack for me?"
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"Whatever you say," Frank replied in a strained voice. "You're the boss."
He stooped down and picked up the bag. Smith pushed him roughly through the doorway, following close on his heels. He slammed the steel door shut and leaned against it.
"Now what?" Joe asked.
Smith glanced at his watch. "Now we wait."
* * *
Joe had no idea how much time passed while they waited in the side passage of the old sewer. All he was aware of was the pistol. He waited restlessly for Smith to let down his guard, but he never did. Every now and then the realtor looked at his watch. Other than that he kept his eyes—and the barrel of the gun—locked on the Hardys.
Finally he checked his watch for the last time. "It's show time," he said, flashing a grin.
There was a muffled whump! that shook the walls. Crumbling bricks, dirt, and rocks showered down on them. Joe braced himself, expecting the tunnel to collapse around them.
It didn't. But Joe was pretty sure it couldn't hold up against another blast like that.
"Open the door," Smith ordered.
Joe grasped the handle, pushed down, and pulled. Smoke and dust billowed out. They waited for most of it to settle, and then Smith motioned the Hardys inside.
There was light streaming through a large hole
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in the wall. On the other side was the shining interior of a bank vault.
Joe could tell it wasn't the main vault. It was the safe deposit vault. "Looks like your calculations were a little off," he said with a smirk.
Smith chuckled. "I guess I'll just have to make do with what's in there. Let's try box five hundred thirteen. That's my lucky number."
Joe stared at him, a puzzled look on his face. "What?"
"Take the pick," Smith said slowly, "and break the lock off box five hundred thirteen. Don't make me tell you again."
Joe shrugged and grabbed the pick. He crawled through the opening in the wall into the bank vault. The walls were lined with steel compartments, some big, some small. Each one had two locks on one side and a number engraved in the middle. Joe found number five hundred thirteen and smashed both locks with two swift blows. Inside the compartment was a metal box.
"Bring it here!" Smith called from the other side of the wall.
Joe shoved the box through the hole, and Frank took it from there.
Smith already had the box open when Joe crawled back through the wall. The realtor tossed his head back and laughed. The box was full of diamonds, reflecting the beam of the flashlight in a thousand colors.
Joe was stunned. "How did you know what was in there?"
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"I know my clients," Smith replied.
"Of course," Frank said. "Sam White. Chet said he was one of the bank's most important customers. But he never made any deposits."
"Mr. White is a tad eccentric," the realtor explained. "He doesn't trust assets he can't see and touch. Everything he doesn't have tied up in real estate is right here in this box."
He slipped the box into his backpack and pulled out three flat gray slabs just like the one that had punched the hole in the bank vault. He looked at Joe, an evil glint in his eyes. "You were right. I wouldn't kill you for a lousy forty grand. But this is a whole different ball game."
He slung the pack over his shoulder and backed over to the door, keeping the gun aimed at the Hardys. "When they sift through the rubble they'll find a couple of inept burglars who blew themselves up in a bungled bank robbery attempt. By the time they figure out what really happened I'll be long gone."
He paused in the doorway. "It'll take me a few minutes to set the charges. That's how much time you have left to live. Enjoy it while you can."
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Chapter 17
The door clanged shut, and Patrick Smith was gone.
Frank rushed over and examined the steel surface.
"Don't bother," Joe said grimly. "I tried that last time. It's just like the others. It opens from only one side—the other side." He poked his head into the bank vault. "Maybe we'd be safer in here," he said.
"I don't plan to wait around and find out," Frank snapped.
"What other choice do we have?" Joe responded. "I told you—there's no way out."
"There has to be!" Frank insisted. "Jake Barton didn't like dead ends. He wouldn't build a vault that he couldn't get out of somehow."
"Even if you're right," Joe said, "we don't have any time to find it."
"We've got more time than you think," Frank replied. "Smith needs enough time to get clear of the area. He doesn't want to get caught in the
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old sewer. The blast could bring the whole thing down. I figure he'll set the timer for at least fifteen minutes."
"The police should be here by then," Joe countered. "We must have set off some kind of alarm in the bank vault."
"And how long do you think it will take them to open the bank vault?" Frank snapped. "It's probably on a time lock."
Joe gestured around him. "Okay, you win. Where do we look? There aren't any convenient hinged bookshelves here."
"So we try the floor and the walls," Frank countered.
Joe tapped the wall. "It's solid brick, Frank. There's nothing here but ..." His words trailed off. He felt something move under his hand. It was a loose brick. "What's this?" he asked, trying to pull it free.
He felt the floor drop out from under him— and then he was staring at Frank's shoes. He was still standing, but only the top half of his head was above floor level. "I think I found the other way out," he said. "I also think Jake Barton must have been a very short man."
Joe crouched down and crawled into the dark tunnel. Frank jumped in after him and handed him the flashlight. Joe thumbed the switch. A feeble beam flickered on and rapidly faded away.
"Terrific," he groaned. "The batteries are dead."
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"Forget it," Frank said sharply. "Just go!" All they could do was blindly follow the passage wherever it led and hope for the best.
Joe felt like a rat in a maze as he scurried along, scraping his knees and bumping his head. The thought of rats made him shudder. "Do you think there are any rodents down here?" he asked nervously.
"You mean like rats?" Frank responded.
"Never mind," Joe muttered. "I don't want to know."
He crawled around a bend and saw a thin shaft of light. And bolted to the wall directly beneath the dim light was a rusty metal ladder.
Joe didn't ask any questions. He hurried over to the ladder and started to climb. It went up a narrow shaft. The beam of light was streaming through a small hole in a circular cover that capped the shaft.
Joe tried to lift the cover, but it was too heavy. Frank crowded onto the rung next to him, and together they managed to push it off to the side. They peered up over the edge.
They were in some kind of workroom. Tools hung neatly on pegboards mounted to the wall. A thin film of sawdust sprawled across the cement floor. And a man wearing protective goggles and clutching a whirring circular saw stared at them in slack-jawed amazement.
"What are you guys doing in my basement?"
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he sputtered as Frank and Joe crawled out onto the floor.
A low rumbling sound came out of the shaft, and the ground shuddered under their feet like a mild earthquake. Joe looked back down the shaft. The bottom three or four feet of the ladder were buried under a new layer of rocks and dirt.
Frank stood up and straightened his jacket, ignoring the grimy splotches that covered it. "We're with the sewer police," he announced in an official tone. "Do you have a phone we could use?"
The man nodded dumbly and pointed to a wall phone.
Frank quickly punched 911. "Bayport Emergency," a voice on the other end said.
"There's been a break-in at the Bayport Savings Bank on Madison," Frank said.
"What's your name and phone number?" the emergency operator asked.
"That's not important," Frank replied. "You probably already know what I'm talking about. The break-in should have tripped the silent alarm. If it didn't, the shock wave from the second blast probably set off half the alarms in this part of town.
"What you don't know," he continued, "is who did it. His name is Patrick Smith, and he should be considered armed and dangerous. Have you got that?"
"Ah . . . could you stay on the line while we—"
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"No," Frank said tersely, "I can't." He hung up the phone and turned to his brother. "We may still be able to catch Smith."
Joe grinned. "Let's do it."
* * *
Outside they found they were on Madison between the bank and the self-defense center. Flashing blue lights swarmed around the bank. A small crowd of local residents had already gathered at the scene, craning their necks to see what was going on.
"How are we going to get the van?" Joe asked. "It's in the bank parking lot."
"What are you guys doing here?" a familiar voice called out.
It was Callie Shaw, and Kay Lewis was with her.
"Callie!" Frank exclaimed. "I forgot you had class tonight. You're just in time. Give me the keys to your car."
"What kind of greeting is that?" Callie asked. "And why should I give you the keys to my car?"
"Because the fate of the free world hangs in the balance," Joe said.
"Try again," Callie said.
"Is this going to take long?" Kay interjected. "I've got a class that's going to start in a few minutes. The other students are probably starting to show up already."
"And the longer we stand around talking,"
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Frank said impatiently, "the more time Patrick Smith has to get away."
"Then it looks like there won't be any class tonight," Kay said. "If you've got the goods on Smith, I want to be there when you nail him."
Callie looked at Frank. "If you want to use my car, then we all go."
"All right, all right," Frank conceded. "Let's go."
"So where are we going?" Callie asked as they all piled into her car.
"Smith's office," Frank answered.
"And on the way," Kay said, "maybe you can tell us what's going on."
While Callie drove, Frank described the events on the afternoon. Joe added a few details here and there.
"So what makes you think we'll find Smith at his office instead of on the next flight to Tierra del Fuego?" Kay asked after she had heard the whole story.
"Three reasons," Frank replied. "Number one, Smith has an inflated opinion of himself. He thinks he's sewn up all the loose ends in a nice, tidy package. He thinks he has plenty of time to make his escape.
"Number two," he continued, "if he disappeared right away, that would look suspicious. And that's the last thing he wants. Since he normally works late, he'd probably go to the office to keep up normal appearances."
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"And number three?" Callie asked.
"I think we forced his hand," Frank said. "He had to make his move sooner than he had planned. That probably left him with some unfinished business."
"Like what?"
"I can't say for sure, but I know you can't just hop on a plane with a bag of diamonds and leave the country. It's not that simple."
Frank finished his explanation just as they pulled up in front of the office building. "Looks like you're right," Kay said, pointing to the parking lot. "There's his car."
"I just remembered something," Joe said as they got out of the car.
"What's that?" Frank asked.
"You and I can't go sauntering up to those video surveillance cameras by the front door. We're dead."
"You're right," Frank agreed. "We are."
"You certainly look the part," Callie observed.
Frank looked down at himself. His clothes were covered in dirt and grime.
"I'm still alive," Kay said. "I'll get us in."
Frank, Joe, and Callie stood off to the side, out of the range of the video cameras, while Kay pressed the button for Smith's office. There was no answer. She tried again. If Smith was there, he wasn't advertising it.
"Just start hitting buttons," Frank told her, "and keep trying until someone answers one of them.
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On the fifth try the intercom clicked on. "It's about time," a voice squawked in the box. "How long does it take to get pizza around here anyway? It better be hot, or you can kiss your tip goodbye."
"Oh, it's hot," Kay assured him. "Just open the front door, and I'll bring it right up."
The door buzzed loudly. Kay grabbed the handle and held the door open while the others darted inside.
They took the elevator to the third floor. The doors slid open just as Smith came out of his office. He turned toward them and hesitated, shocked by the sight of the Hardy brothers.
Frank and Joe bolted out of the elevator and charged down the hallway. Smith reached frantically for the gun in his pocket. Frank lunged and grabbed his arm as he pulled out the weapon. Pulling the arm toward him and twisting his body at the same time, Frank flipped the realtor onto his back—but he was still clutching the gun.
Joe circled around to the other side. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. He leaned over and smashed his right fist into the man's jaw. Smith's eyes rolled upward, and his body went limp. The gun fell out of his slack fingers and thudded on the carpet.
"That's my idea of self-defense," Joe said as he picked up the gun. "Punching the other guy's lights out."
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A few days later Frank and Joe paid a visit to the Bayport jail.
"Looks like I owe you one again," Conrad Daye said. "Thanks to you, they lowered the charge from kidnapping to assault."
"All we did was find out the truth," Frank replied. "I told you we would."
"What kind of sentence do you think you'll get?" Joe asked.
Daye shrugged. "A year, maybe two. Then five years probation, probably. All things considered, I'm pretty lucky."
"So are Dave Gilson and his two pals," Joe replied.
"What do you mean?"
"Smith needed some dead bodies to leave behind in the vault for the police to find," Frank explained. "And what better decoys than a couple of street punks with long arrest records?"
"But what about the diamonds?" Daye asked. "Once they cleared away all the rubble and discovered the diamonds were still missing, they would have known that somebody got away with them."
Frank shook his head. "Sam White couldn't prove what was in the safe deposit box. The police probably would have dismissed his claims as some kind of insurance scam."
"Gilson and company will do serious time for firebombing the self-defense center, planting the
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bomb in Kay's car, and attacking Chet," Joe said. "But at least they'll be alive."
"Well, don't expect Dave Gilson to thank you," Daye said. "Or Patrick Smith. He'll be a very old man before the door swings open for him again."
Frank looked at him. "Gives you something to think about, doesn't it?"
Daye nodded soberly. "It sure does." He glanced around the small visiting room. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in places like this. Maybe I can use my time inside to finish high school. Then I can start over when I get out."
Frank smiled. "You do that—and we're even."
* * *
"I think I'll sign up for that self-defense course," Joe told Frank as they walked out of the jail into the warm sunlight. "I might learn something."
Frank arched his eyebrows. "I thought your education quota was filled up by schoolwork. What happened to the guy who wanted to take a break?"
Joe chuckled softly. "After this case, getting tossed on my back a few times a week by a martial arts expert will seem like a vacation!"
Hardy Boys 49: The Bombay Boomerang
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
  A Cry for Help
 
 
 
 
“THIS gang seems to be operating along the entire Atlantic seaboard,” Fenton Hardy said. The world-famous private detective sounded as casual as if he were reporting a routine burglary in Bayport. But his two sons sensed an undercurrent of tension in his voice.
“You’re really worried about this one, Dad, aren’t you?” asked eighteen-year-old Frank, the dark-haired member of the Hardy clan.
His father nodded. “A little.”
“Since it’s quicksilver the gang is after,” Joe Hardy mused, “they’d naturally operate out of cities like Boston, Baltimore, and Bayport. After all, most of the stuff we import comes from Europe, doesn’t it?”
“Right,” Mr. Hardy replied.
Joe, who was a year younger than Frank, went on, “I boned up on the subject when we were doing our mercury ionization experiments in high school a few months ago. Spain produces more quicksilver than anyone. And we’re among her best customers.”
Fenton Hardy stretched his long legs, leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window of his study. “You fellows appear to be way ahead of me,” he said with a laugh.
“Just did our homework,” Joe quipped.
“But seriously,” his father said, “you’re both right. Our industries need more quicksilver than we mine in the United States, so we import the stuff to the tune of millions of dollars every year. That kind of money attracts criminals, and the ones involved in the mercury thefts are canny operators, judging by the jobs they’ve pulled off.”
The boys had worked on quite a few cases with their father, a former member of the New York Police Department. Starting with The Tower Treasure, they had helped solve many baffling mysteries, their most recent being The Arctic Patrol Mystery. The Bayport sleuth was proud of his sons’ ability and usually discussed his cases with them. 
“As you know,” he continued, “quicksilver is one metal that remains liquid at room temperature. Looks something like liquid silver.”
“How is it being brought in, Dad?” Joe asked.
“In iron flasks about fourteen inches tall, shaped like milk bottles. Each flask has a strong steel cap that screws down tight to prevent leakage. And a flask is heavy when it’s full. Weighs one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”
“Which means,” Frank put in, “that you can’t pick one up and slip it into your hip pocket when nobody’s watching. What on earth—!”
His exclamation was caused by the sound of shattering glass as a large object came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the floor.
Quick as a flash, Joe leaped on it, ready to toss it out the window. The thing might be a bomb!
Suddenly he relaxed with a rueful grin. The object in his hand was a stick about twenty inches long, curved in the middle at a ninety-degree angle.
“A boomerang!” Joe announced. “That means Chet Morton is lurking on the premises!”
“That’s our buddy Chet”—Frank chuckled—“introducing himself in his inimitable manner.”
“Are boomerangs his latest craze?” Mr. Hardy asked.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “Last we heard, he was holed up in his workshop at the farm trying to master the carving technique. Evidently he’s started throwing them, and not too accurately, as you can see!”
Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A plump, freckle-faced youth burst into the study, puffing from his climb.
“Gee, Mr. Hardy, I’m sorry about the window,” he apologized with a stricken look on his usually placid countenance. “That was one that got away!”
“The latest one that got away,” Fenton Hardy suggested dryly. “Chet, you’ll have to be more careful with your Australian artillery. However, there’s no harm done as long as the broken glass is cleaned up and the window repaired.”
“Right-o,” Chet promised, relieved that his errant boomerang had not hit anyone. He headed for the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan.
Chet Morton was the Hardy boys’ best friend, and they were resigned to his enthusiasm for one hobby after another, despite the often unexpected consequences. They knew that for all Chet’s amiable, easy-going nature, and professed dislike for danger, they could count on him to act with sturdy courage whenever he became involved in one of their adventures.
When Chet left the study, Mr. Hardy told the boys he was leaving for Baltimore to follow a lead in the mercury case. His best bet, he thought, would be to go underground, adopting one of his many disguises, and try to make contact with the thieves.
He would register at a waterfront hotel under the alias of L. Marks. “Here’s the telephone number where you can reach me,” he said. “Keep it under your hat, or my life may be in danger!”
“What can we do, Dad?” Frank asked eagerly.
“Here’s the first thing. On Monday around noon call the number on this slip of paper. It’s the Mersex Iberia Company in New York City, area code 212. Get the shipping department and ask if they have anything from Spain arriving within the next ten days.”
“Mercury?” Frank asked.
“See if they mention it. But don’t let on that that’s what you’re interested in. If they get nosy, say you’re making a survey on Spanish melons. And hang up before they trace the call.”
Frank nodded. “Okay.”
“We don’t want any member of the gang getting wise to the fact that we’re on to them,” Mr. Hardy went on. “They just might have planted one of their agents in the front office, and also there is the possibility that they’re tapping the company’s wires.”
Later the boys watched as their mother packed the detective’s bag. Laura Hardy was a trim, pleasant woman with blue eyes. She worried about her husband’s dangerous occupation, but always prepared him with whatever he might need on his assignments.
Mr. Hardy put the records of the mercury case in a large envelope and slipped it into a secret compartment of his suitcase. Joe handed him a coil of fine wire with a small metal sphere attached to one end.
“Don’t forget the insect,” he said.
His father smiled and took the coil. It was a bugging device that picked up sounds and transmitted them to the receiver at the opposite end.
“I’d never leave without my bug.” Fenton Hardy chuckled as he snapped the bag shut. Half an hour later he left for the airport where his pilot, Jack Wayne, was waiting to fly the Hardys’ private plane to Baltimore.
The following morning after church services, Frank and Joe drove out to Chet’s farm on the outskirts of Bayport. On the way they picked up pretty blond Callie Shaw, Frank’s favorite date. The three talked about the next day’s cookout at the home of Phil Cohen, a regular member of the group. When Frank briefly mentioned his father’s new case, Callie said:
“I hope it won’t keep you from the festivities.”
“You never can tell when Dad’s on an undercover job,” Joe responded. “All we know is that he’ll follow the trail wherever it leads, and send us an SOS if he needs help in a hurry.”
Frank turned the car off the highway, down the dirt road leading to the Morton farm, before giving his opinion. “Looks as if the picnic is safe enough. We don’t have anything to do except make a phone call on Monday.”
The car jerked to a halt in a cloud of dust as Frank put on the brakes.
“Hi, fellows,” Chet called out. He was waiting for them with a boomerang in his hand. His sister Iola, whom Joe considered his steady date, waved at the trio. “Have a throw!” she invited.
They all began to inspect the boomerangs in the workshop under what Chet termed “my professional direction.” He explained that the boomerang is found in many lands, even among the Indians of our Southwest; but the most famous is the Australian boomerang.
“The principle,” Chet intoned in a lordly manner, “is that the angle of the arms and the symmetrical planes, plus the torque that moves the ends off the center line, give the weapon an aerodynamic impetus that causes a reverse vector.”
“Come again?” Callie giggled, making a face.
Joe winked. They knew Chet liked to talk about his hobbies almost as much as he liked eating.
“In other words,” Frank interpreted Chet’s explanation, “a boomerang returns to the spot from which it was thrown. And there also are non-return boomerangs, aren’t there?”
Chet gave a superior smile. “Of course, but they’re the kind you use to bop an enemy or a kangaroo. But I’m more interested in the science of the return boomerang.”
Frank and Joe, for all their joshing, were interested in Chet’s hobby. Who could tell? A boomerang might come in handy on a case!
“Here, let me have one,” Joe said.
They all tried a few throws. But it was not as easy as it seemed, and they began to get a bit discouraged.
Then Joe seized a boomerang in his hand, whooped loudly, and hurled it in a straight line toward the front gate. The weapon whirled through the air at terrific speed, curved to the left, and came back—heading directly for an antique lamp on a post in front of the house!
“Watch out!” yelled Callie.
“Duck!” called Iola.
Chet was terrified. “Do something!” he wailed.
Joe was too far away to do anything. But Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang with one hand just as it was about to crash into the lamp!
“Wow!” Chet said. “That was close. Thanks, Frank!”
“Bad shot,” Joe admitted. “Next time I throw a stick like that, it’ll be down in the pasture!”
After lunch at the Mortons’ Frank and Joe drove home. They were greeted by their Aunt Gertrude.
“Boomerangs!” sniffed the peppery spinster sister of Mr. Hardy when the boys spoke of Chet’s latest hobby. “Boomerangs are for the Wild Man of Borneo!”
“Oh, Aunty, they’re really a lot of fun,” Frank said.
“Fun!” His aunt shook her head. “I would expect you to find a more genteel hobby. Mark my words, no good will come of it. Just think of how Mrs. Morton would have felt if you’d broken her antique lamp!“ 


  
Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang
“Fortunately, we didn’t,” Joe said contritely. “Anyhow, we’ll soon be experts!”
“Humph!” was his aunt’s reply.
Frank and Joe drove over to Phil Cohen’s on Monday morning to help him with the preparations for the cookout.
Phil was a distinct contrast to Chet. A quiet boy, good with the books, he had an artistic nature. He was slender and agile, quick on the uptake, a useful fellow to have around in time of danger.
The trio went to work at once, setting up the barbecue and hanging party decorations. About noontime, as they finished arranging tables and chairs, Frank asked, “Can I use your phone, Phil? Joe and I promised to make a call for Dad.”
“Sure. Business before pleasure,” Phil replied with a grin. “Just put your dime in the little box next to it!”
The Hardys went into the house and Joe dialed the number his father had given them. Frank listened in with an ear close to the receiver.
The phone rang on the other end. There was the familiar clicking sound as someone picked it up. “Hello?” said a man’s voice.
“Is this Mersex Iberia in New York?” Joe asked.
“No, it’s a Washington, D. C. number,” the voice answered. “This is area code 202. You want 212.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it. Happens all the time.”
Joe was about to hang up and re-dial when he and Frank heard the party on the other end give a hoarse shout. The words that followed were clearly audible.
“Help! They’re after the Super S data! Help! Help!”

CHAPTER II  
  Mercury Mystery
 
 
 
 
STARTLED by the shout, Frank and Joe froze. Their experience in crime detection told them to wait for some clue to the mysterious voice, which cut off suddenly.
There was silence for a moment at the other end of the connection.
“Must be a joke of some kind,” Joe muttered impatiently. He pulled the phone away from his ear, intending to hang up.
Frank grabbed his wrist with the whispered warning, “Hold on! If thugs have jumped that guy in Washington, we don’t want to lose our communications. We might miss the one piece of evidence we need to get on their track!”
Muffled sounds came through the receiver. Drawers banged, locks snapped, and papers rustled as if an office were being ransacked. Men’s voices could be heard in hurried conversation. The boys could not make out what they were saying until the very end when two words came through clearly: Bombay Boomerang. Then the line went dead. 
Joe turned to Frank with a mystified expression. “Did you hear what I heard?”
Frank nodded emphatically. “Bombay Boomerang. But what on earth does it mean?”
Joe shrugged. “You don’t think we may have imagined it?” he inquired doubtfully. “Maybe we’ve got boomerangs on the brain. If so, we can chalk off one illusion to old Chet and his identified flying objects.”
“Well, what about Bombay? I don’t recall Chet ever mentioning the Indian city, although he’s spouted about ten thousand words concerning Australia.”
“It’s a puzzle, all right.”
Phil came into the house. “Finished?” he asked.
Joe shook his head. “Got the wrong area code.”
Phil chuckled. “Try again. Better get it right this time, though, or your father will begin having second thoughts about the reliabilty of his seconds-in-command.”
Joe picked up the phone again as Phil walked out to the porch.
“Two—one—two,” he counted aloud before dialing the number. A secretary in the Mersex shipping department confirmed without hesitation that cargo was due in from a Spanish port aboard a freighter. Of her own accord she provided the information that it was mercury.
“Okay,” Frank said after Joe had hung up. “Now to get through to the Baltimore hotel and let Dad know what we’ve learned. Perhaps he’ll have a theory.”
Fenton Hardy was interested to hear about the Mersex cargo. But he became disturbed when Frank related the tale of the wrong-number phone call to Washington.
“This could be of vital importance to our national security,” he declared.
“Are you going to call Washington?” Frank asked.
“Yes. An old friend, Admiral Rodgers is one of the top men in missile research, and he’s got an office in the Pentagon. I’ll talk to him and get back to you later on.”
Frank and Joe joined Phil on the porch. “I’m expecting all of you this evening,” their friend announced. “My strategy is elementary. The girls can make the hamburgers, the boys will eat them.”
“Chet Morton will like that,” Joe said, grinning. “Just include a few wedges of chocolate layer cake, some slices of pie, lots of ice cream and soda—”
“Say, I’m getting hungry,” Frank interrupted. “We’re about due home for lunch. Aunt Gertrude will lecture us if we’re late!”
“See you tonight,” Phil called as they pulled out of the driveway.
Later that afternoon the Hardys’ front doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Frank said to his mother and aunt, who were in the living room sewing.
Two men stood outside. They had a tough look about them, in spite of their fashionably-cut clothes. Frank sized them up. “Plenty of money,” he thought to himself, “but a couple of slippery characters all the same.”
“Won’t you come in?” he said politely. Joe joined the group in the hall.
“We’d like to speak to Fenton Hardy,” declared the man in the trench coat and snap-brim hat.
“Yeah, important business,” said his partner in the windbreaker and beret.
The boys said their father was away from home. They did not volunteer any information as to his whereabouts.
“Since your father isn’t here, maybe you can help us,” the first fellow declared in a gravelly voice.
“Not likely!” was the reply that occurred to Joe, but he held his tongue.
“Do you have a Mercury for sale? We were told you advertised a second-hand job. If the price is right, we just might be willing to take it off your hands.”
Frank and Joe answered that they had never advertised a second-hand car.
“Oh. Well, maybe we’ve got the wrong address.”
As the two men went out, Snap Brim turned around and mentioned the name of a hotel on the Bayport waterfront. “If you hear of anyone with a Mercury that’s in shape for a long drive, let us know! We’re in Room 203.”
The door shut behind them.
“What do you make of those guys?” Joe asked his brother.
“I don’t like their looks,” Frank replied. “Where do types like that get enough money to patronize the best clothing stores? If they have money, why are they living in a waterfront hotel? And why would they be interested in a second-hand car?”
“Seems to me we should do a little investigating. Let’s go to the hotel and call their bluff!”
Frank went along with that, but another thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute! Biff Hooper’s uncle has an old Mercury. Could be he’s in the market for a buyer.”
Joe put in a phone call and came back with the report. “Affirmative. The old heap is available for the first guy with ready cash who turns up. You know what this does? It gives us a good excuse to visit our new friends—I use that last term loosely.”
“New enemies might be more like it,” Frank concurred. “Still, we don’t have much to go on, except appearances. It could be that the Mercury bit is merely a coincidence.”
Joe chuckled. “Will our faces be red if those fellows really want to buy a second-hand car!”
Deciding to take no chances, the Hardys asked their pals Biff Hooper and Tony Prito to accompany them to the waterfront. Both were ready, willing, and able.
Biff, a blond six-footer, knew how to use his fists, and dark-eyed, olive-skinned Tony could always be counted on in a dangerous mission.
The two roared up the driveway a little later in Biff’s car. “What’s the play?” Tony demanded, jumping out of the bucket seat before the vehicle jolted to a stop.
“How many desperadoes do we corral this time around?” Biff quipped.
“Don’t crave too much action,” Frank advised. “You might get more than you bargained for!”
Quickly the Hardys filled them in, after which the four headed for the waterfront. Biff parked on a side street near the hotel, a dilapidated building with shingles askew on the roof, and paint peeling off the walls. The neon lights had half the letters missing.
The boys got out and advanced cautiously. The front door was open, revealing the small, dingy lobby. A sleazy clerk sprawled over the desk, reading a newspaper.
After one look, Biff gave his verdict. “My impression is that we’re inspecting the place most likely to have a guest list made up of characters from the rogues’ gallery.”
Tony bobbed his head up and down. “Certainly not the Waldorf-Astoria,” he said.
“I know,” Frank agreed. “That’s why we asked you to come along. There’s a slight chance that these fellows are on the up-and-up about the car. But we think there’s something phony about them. And we want to know what it is.”
“No matter how you slice this salami, we’ve got to go in there,” Joe added.
“Since Joe and I can identify the guys we want to check, we’ll go up to their room,” Frank continued. “If all we have to do is arrange a deal about a car, we should be back here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“If you don’t see us pretty quickly, you’ll know something’s gone wrong,” Joe added. “That’ll be your clue to come busting in. Let’s put a time limit of ten minutes on the operation.”
“Roger,” said Biff, and the four synchronized their watches. Then the Hardys entered the hotel.
The desk clerk raised his eyes from his paper and gave them a suspicious stare. When they told him the number of the room they wanted, he jerked a thumb toward the stairs and mumbled, “Second floor, third left.”
“Pleasant receptionist,” Joe observed sarcastically as they climbed the stairs.
They found the room and rapped on the door. It was opened by the man in the beret.
“Well, look who’s here!” he said, sounding so threatening that Joe was reminded of the story about the spider and the fly. “Won’t you come into my parlor—” he recited under his breath.
Frank and Joe went in. They immediately recognized Snap Brim standing at the window. He came toward them with a menacing scowl. Shaking his fist at them, he spoke with suppressed fury. “So you think we want a car, do you? I’ll tell you what we want. Mercury!”
“Your old man is poking his fingers into a hot racket, and we don’t like it!” Beret added.
Joe spun on his toes and headed for the door. He was quick, but not quick enough. Beret stepped in front of him. Tall and beefy, he flexed his powerful shoulders, raising his long arms in a wrestler’s stance.
“Come on,” he barked. “I’m itching to take care of you. Next time you bob up, it’ll be in the bay, and you’ll be as dead as an iced mackerel!”

CHAPTER III  
  The Hotel Caper
 
 
 
 
SUDDENLY the door splintered inward with a terrific crash, dislodging the lock. Biff and Tony hurtled into the room.
“Sorry we haven’t been introduced,” Tony said to the beefy character, “but I imagine we’ll get to know one another real fast!”
“It’s all a question of timing,” Biff quipped. “To wit, ten minutes!”
Joe covered his relief with a whimsical remark. “We were about to have a ball, just the four of us.”
“A brawl!” Frank corrected him.
“A real go-round,” Biff added, “only our invitations never arrived. Anyway, the party’s over.”
The two men were caught off balance. Snap Brim, who had lowered his fist, recovered first. “Okay,” he snarled at the Hardys. “So you’ve got a bodyguard. But next time may be different! And there’s sure gonna be a next time! We’re not through with you by a long shot, or with your old man, either! You can tell him that!”
Frank, Joe, Biff, and Tony stepped past the door which was crazily swinging on its hinges. The desk clerk, who had heard the noise and came upstairs, looked at them uncomprehendingly as they walked past him and out of the hotel.
“That caper had a happy ending,” Tony remarked.
“I wouldn’t be too sure it’s ended,” Frank warned. “The curtain hasn’t gone up on act two yet.”
A series of rapid-fire explosions dented their eardrums. Down the street chugged an antiquated jalopy—fire—engine red, bucking like a bronco and backfiring explosively with nearly every revolution of the cylinders.
Roly-poly Chet Morton guided his favorite vehicle to a stop at the curb and jumped out. “I’ve just been to your house,” he said. “Your mother says your dad phoned from Baltimore. She looked so worried, I think there’s something brewing. You’re to contact your father before you do anything else.”
The Hardys glanced up at the second floor of the hotel and spotted a scowling face at the window of the room they had just left. Beret stared down on them, a slightly baffled expression on his face.
Had he heard Chet’s booming voice clearly enough to understand the message from Fenton Hardy? If so, it could mean trouble, and plenty of it!
Biff came up with an idea. “Suppose I stay here to keep an eye on these birds? If they come out, I’ll tail them. That’ll give you a chance to go home and put in that call to Baltimore. We’ll meet here later and compare notes.”
“I’ll keep you company,” Tony suggested. “Just in case you need some reinforcement.”
“Good thought,” Frank said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll take you in my car,” Chet offered.
“And arrive with an aching back!” Joe groaned.
Everybody ragged Chet Morton about his bone-rattling car. But he wheeled it around the busy streets of Bayport, and boasted a good safety record, partly because pedestrians and motorists who heard him coming got out of the way.
Right now the Hardys were glad to have Chet give them a lift to their house. While Chet went into the kitchen looking for one of Aunt Gertrude’s specialties which were usually available, Frank dialed the number of his father’s hotel. The detective answered almost immediately.
“Let me call you right back,” he said. “Stand by!”
A few minutes later the phone rang. Frank picked it up, while Joe ran upstairs to the study to listen in on the extension.
“I didn’t want this call to go through the switchboard here,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Someone might eavesdrop on us.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” Frank wanted to know.
“Well, not too much on my end,” his father replied. “However, I’m not discouraged. I picked up a few leads that are worth checking out. Right now I’m posing as a hood. It’s the best disguise for undercover operations along the waterfront where hoods hang out.”
Frank interjected, “Do you realize that the mercury gang is on to you? They came to our house hoping to find you here. And when we went to their hotel to check up on them, they got violent over your part in the case. Said to get off their backs—or else!”
The news surprised Mr. Hardy, who listened grimly to Frank’s detailed account of the events that afternoon.
“Obviously word has gotten around that I’m working on the case. You and Joe better watch your step as long as those two mugs are loose in Bayport. It was a good idea to have Biff tail them. Perhaps they’ll lead him to something.”
“I hope so. What’s your next step, Dad?”
“Well, I’m not exactly in the safest spot here. The thieves might even know that Hardy and Marks are the same man.”
“If that guy in the hotel heard Chet mention that you’re in Baltimore, they might put two and two together!” Frank said.
“They might and they might not. I have no choice but to continue as L. Marks and play it by ear.”
Frank and his father batted the details around to be sure of covering all angles. Finally Mr. Hardy said, “The Bayport pair look like our best bet right now. They probably rank on a lower echelon of the organization and receive strong-arm assignments from the top. They might lead you to the ringleader. Try not to let them shake you and tail them wherever they go.”
“Right. I’m sure Biff and Tony will help, too.”
“Okay. But at the same time you’d better get the police to back you up. Tell the whole story to Chief Collig. He’ll know what to do.”
“What about the boomerang bit?” Frank asked, changing the subject.
“That’s why I called in the first place. I talked with Admiral Rodgers at the Pentagon. He’s very concerned about what you boys heard when Joe made that wrong call to Washington. But he wouldn’t give me much information over the phone. Says the matter is top-level security stuff, too hush-hush to discuss outside his office.”
“Are you going to see him personally, then?”
“I can’t leave Baltimore with the mercury gang on my hands. However, I’ve made an appointment for you and Joe to meet him. Be at his office tomorrow morning.”
“Will do.”
“If your friends can’t take over the surveillance of the Bayport hoods during that time, Chief Collig will.”
“No problem,” Frank said.
“So long then. Good luck, and be careful!”
The phone clicked on the other end. Joe came down again and observed that the mystery was thicker than ever. “Which,” he continued, “is all the more reason for us to pitch in and give Dad all the help we can.”
“Exactly. Let’s go to headquarters right away.” They went to the kitchen to tell Chet, who was enjoying a piece of Aunt Gertrude’s fresh-baked apple pie.
“Be a sport and drive us over to see Chief Collig,” Frank said.
“Whatever you say.” Chet stuffed the last bite into his mouth and followed the Hardys outside. A few minutes later they reached their destination.
“Have to double-park,” Chet declared. “You two go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.”
Seconds later Frank and Joe confronted Chief Collig in his office. He was an old-timer who had worked his way up on the force. He understood criminals because he had collared his share, and often assisted the Hardys in their cases.
“Sit down, boys,” he said with a smile, “and tell me what brings you here. A new case, I suppose. That’s what comes of having a detective for a father. Maybe you should listen to your Aunt Gertrude more often. She’d find another occupation for you, double-quick!”
The chief stopped kidding, however, when Frank and Joe gave him the facts.
“I’ll put two of my men on the case. They can stake out the hotel and check up on those characters.”
He made a brief phone call and talked to one of his officers. Then he turned to the boys again.
“Let me have the address and descriptions of the men.”
Frank complied.
Collig wrote it down and added, “Tell Biff Hooper to stay there until a green Ford arrives. If he has already left, call me.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
Chet drove the Hardys back to the hotel. Biff and Tony were still parked in the side street, keeping an eagle eye on the entrance.
“Anything stirring?” Frank queried.
“Not even a mouse,” Biff reported. “I’ve been staring at that door until I’m cross-eyed.”
“Our friends are still inside, no doubt,” Tony added.
“Let’s make sure,” Frank suggested.
He and Joe went into the building. Strolling casually up to the desk, they questioned the clerk about the two suspects.
To their amazement they had checked out. “Paid their bill and left by the back way about an hour ago. They didn’t leave a forwarding address,” the clerk added with obvious relish at the Hardys’ disappointment.
They returned to the car to tell their friends what had happened. Biff and Tony were crestfallen, blaming themselves for flubbing a critical assignment.
“Think we should investigate the desk clerk?” Biff inquired. “He’s a slippery fish, a definite suspect as far as I’m concerned.”
“Trouble is,” Frank replied, “there’s no evidence against him. He’s about as amiable as a porcupine, but that’s no crime. We can always move in on him later.”
“Now what?” Joe asked.
“We better call Chief Collig and cancel the backup squad,” Frank said. “Or, on second thought, let’s wait till they get here and ask them to check out the room. Maybe we’ll find a clue.”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed.
Soon an unmarked police car arrived and two officers jumped out. Frank quickly explained the situation, and asked if he and Joe could join in the search.
“Sure. Come on,” one of the men said and went to the desk. He showed his badge and they were admitted to the room. Their search, however, was unsuccessful. The pair had left nothing!
Dismayed, all four boys returned home. Frank and Joe spent the rest of the afternoon reconstructing the apparently unrelated events that had occurred with such swiftness. There were so many puzzles that didn’t make sense—the Bombay Boomerang, the Super S data, the Bayport suspects.
“I don’t know where to begin fitting the pieces together!” Joe groaned.
Before his brother could answer, they were startled by a solid object that crashed through a window pane and landed on the carpet amid a shower of glass.
“Chet again?” Frank complained. “Isn’t he getting a little out of hand with his boomerangs?”
“Hold it!” Joe interrupted. “That’s no boomerang!” He picked up the object, which turned out to be a heavy bolt with a piece of paper wrapped around it, held in place by a rubber band.
Joe spread the paper out on the table. Frank peered over his shoulder. With mounting excitement they read a message written in crude letters approximately an inch high. It was a warning that gave them cold chills.
WE KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU! SPLIT OUT OR YOU’LL WIND UP IN A CEMENT BARREL! 

CHAPTER IV  
  The Battered Car
 
 
 
 
“WHAT’S that?” asked a nervous voice behind the boys. Aunt Gertrude had rushed in to see who had broken the window.
“Just another message,” Frank replied, trying to soothe her. “It’s hardly worth mentioning.”
But her inquisitive eyes had already scanned the words on the paper. “I believe they mean it!” she retorted in frightened tones. “You’d better drop the case right now. I’m not interested in going to a funeral—least of all mine!”
Joe slipped the bolt into his pocket, then phoned Baltimore and asked to speak to L. Marks.
“He checked out,” said the hotel clerk. “Packed his bags, paid his bill, and left without giving us any forwarding address. Seemed to be in a hurry.”
“Dad must be on to a hot lead,” Frank declared. “That would explain why he departed so suddenly. Besides, if he had run into any trouble, he’d have left a code message for us.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s hope he contacts us before we fly to Washington tomorrow morning.”
“Meanwhile, we might as well enjoy ourselves tonight,” Frank suggested. “It’s almost time to start for Phil’s.”
The boys went upstairs to tell their mother that they were leaving. Laura Hardy said she was relieved that for once nothing dangerous was involved. Aunt Gertrude sniffed, saying that her nephews were able to find danger wherever they went.
“You look for it hard enough!” she accused them sternly.
Frank and Joe chuckled as they headed for their convertible. Just then a shiny new car pulled into the driveway. It belonged to a friend of Mrs. Hardy.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jackson,” Joe greeted the woman at the wheel. “Here, let me help you out.”
“Nice little runabout you have there,” Frank added admiringly.
“That’s a compliment,” Mrs. Jackson said with a smile. “I selected it myself. One drive around the block, and I was hooked. It’s a gift from my husband for our wedding anniversary, so you can bet I’ll take good care of it!”
She went into the house, and Frank and Joe drove to Phil’s. Callie and Iola were already there, along with Biff, Tony and Chet, and most of their friends.
“We’ve got a mystery for you,” Joe announced.
“Suppose we get to the chow first,” Chet urged, patting his rather expansive waistline. “Mysteries are more solvable when the inner man is satisfied.”
Soon the group were enjoying hamburgers and hot dogs, which the girls had barbecued.
“What mystery?” Biff queried.
Joe pulled the bolt from his pocket. Extending it on the palm of his hand, he asked, “What do you make of this object?”
Tony Prito picked it up and examined it. Since his father was a building contractor, he had seen many bolts of all sizes, shapes, and makes. He looked at this one with an expert eye.
“It’s a type used in the construction business on the end of reinforced bars,” he told the others. “Nothing unusual, as far as I can see.”
“What’s unusual,” Joe observed, “is that somebody pitched it through our window today.”
Phil shook his head in mock surprise. “The kind of games you two play!”
Frank nodded. “Great fun. It had a warning attached to it that we might get acquainted with a barrel of cement!”
Their friends immediately became serious. “Maybe it’ll tell us something if we can find out where it came from,” Chet suggested.
Tony cautioned that the bolt could have come from lots of places. “Every contractor uses this kind of fixture. There must be dozens of warehouses near Bayport where you could find them piled up.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Biff put in. “The guy who threw Frank and Joe a curve might be in the construction business. If he works for a contractor, he’d have a supply of bolts to pick from whenever he got the urge to go on a window-breaking spree.”
“Yes, but if he’s a crook, he could have stolen this one,” Phil reasoned. “Suppose he slipped into one of the warehouses Tony mentioned and left with the bolt in his pocket?”
Joe turned that suggestion over in his mind. “I don’t see the point in stealing a single bolt. Why would anyone go to that trouble when a rock would have carried the message just as well?”
“We don’t know that he only stole this bolt,” Phil replied. “What if he took a whole shipment? He could have decided to use the bolt as a carrier pigeon on the spur of the moment, because it happened to be the handiest thing available.”
Mrs. Cohen came into the room while the discussion was going on. She told Frank and Joe that their mother was on the phone.
Frank took the call. “Hi, Mom,” he said.
Laura Hardy sounded frantic. “Come home right away!” she cried. “Something terrible has happened. Mrs. Jackson is in a state of shock, Aunt Gertrude is having hysterics, and I don’t know what to do!”
Frank turned to his brother. “We’d better leave right now.”
Calling out a quick explanation to their pals, the boys ran outside and jumped into their convertible.
An appalling sight met their eyes when they turned into the Hardy driveway. Mrs. Jackson’s spanking new car, so bright and lustrous when they first saw it, was a total wreck! All the windows were broken. The hood, chassis, and fenders were dented and twisted. The dashboard was smashed in.
Frank whistled. “This car has been wrecked deliberately!”
“And here’s the weapon,” Joe declared.
He picked up a steel bar from the driveway. About four feet long and a little over an inch thick, it was flecked with paint from the car, and it fitted into the deep dents on the hood. The wielder of the steel bar had pounded the new car into ruins!
But why? Joe pointed to the side of the vehicle. There, written in spray paint, was the warning: 
GET OUT OF THE MERC RACKET
“These guys sure want us to get the message,” Frank commented. “Nothing subtle. Strong-arm all the way!”
“No wonder the women are in a tizzy,” Joe added. “We’d better go inside and see how they are.”
When the women calmed down, Mrs. Jackson revealed that she had seen the vandal attacking her car with the steel bar. Her description matched the beefy fellow in the beret!
Frank and Joe exchanged glances, then Frank turned to Mrs. Jackson. “If it’s any consolation to you,” he said, “this vandalism was not aimed at you. Whoever did it made a mistake. He was trying to scare us and thought he was wrecking one of our cars.”
“But why anyone would do a thing like that!”
“It has something to do with a new case our father is working on,” Joe explained.
Mrs. Jackson shook her head. “It’s terrible. Simply terrible.”
“Have you called the police?” Frank asked.
“Certainly we have,” Aunt Gertrude put in.
“They were here before you arrived and surveyed the car. Then Chief Collig called and said you should get in touch with him in case you have any suspicions or clues.”
Frank telephoned the chief to confirm that the vandals, no doubt, were the two men they had encountered earlier. He also told Collig about the warning.
“I’ll alert all our men in the Bayport area to be on the lookout for those two,” Collig said. “Let me know if something new develops.”
“Sure thing,” Frank promised and hung up. Then he turned to Mrs. Jackson.
“Is vandalism covered by your insurance?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Oh, I hope it is!”
“Let me have the number of your agent and I’ll find out,” Joe suggested.
Mrs. Jackson pulled out a business card from her handbag. “We had the agent over just the other day. Here it is.”
Joe phoned the man and learned that luckily the damage was covered. The news helped Mrs. Jackson to regain control over her nerves, and she left shortly afterward in a taxi.
Frank and Joe discussed the latest event.
“Those thugs are determined to get us out of the way,” Joe declared, “and they have no scruples about how they do it!”
“When they realize that we won’t give up, they’ll undoubtedly use even more drastic methods,” Frank added.
Aunt Gertrude had another fit of hysterics. “Attacked by brutes who think the Hardy family’s concerned about their old mercury! Why, I haven’t even heard the word since high school chemistry! Oh, why can’t Fenton leave crime to the police!”
Frank and Joe were hoping their father would call that night. To their disappointment, the phone remained silent.
“Whatever Baltimore dive he’s investigating,” Joe said, “he probably can’t get to a phone.”
“Might make a suspect suspicious,” Frank agreed. Finally they turned in for the night.
They were up early Tuesday morning to get ready for their trip. Aunt Gertrude had prepared breakfast and she fussed about their eating too fast. Meanwhile, their mother packed two overnight bags, just in case they had to stay over until the next day. “Don’t forget to call Jack Wayne,” she reminded them.
Fenton Hardy’s pilot was at the airfield and had just finished his inspection of the plane.
“Everything A-OK,” he told Joe over the phone. “We can leave as soon as you get here.”
The boys decided it would be risky to leave their mother and aunt alone in the house with the thugs prowling around. They contacted their friends, who all agreed to take turns guarding the Hardy home while Frank and Joe were out of town.
At the airport Jack greeted them with some disturbing news. “Two toughs have been asking questions about you. I didn’t know who they were so I kept my mouth shut and they went away no wiser than when they came.”
“What’d they look like?” Frank asked.
Jack described the pair.
“Snap Brim and Beret,” Joe commented.
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“That’s the headgear they were wearing when we first met them,” Joe explained. “You see, we’re real close to those two. In fact, too close for comfort.”
“New case?” Jack inquired.
“Right,” Frank replied. “Could their angle this morning have been to arrange an accident for our plane?”
“They might have had that in mind, but I didn’t let them anywhere near it. Every working part is in order. Well, I’d better turn the engine over a few times. Warm her up for take-off. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “I’m rather thirsty, so I’ll grab a quick cup of tea in the cafeteria meanwhile.”
“I’ll come with you,” Joe said. “We’ll meet you at the plane, Jack!”
As they were sipping their steaming tea, a voice echoed over the loudspeaker. “Calling Frank and Joe Hardy! Calling Frank and Joe Hardy!”
They looked at each other in surprise. “What do you make of that?” Joe asked.
Frank shrugged. “Let’s go find out!”
They hastened to the desk and were informed that Mr. Marks wanted them to meet him at one of the airport repair shops. The clerk gave them directions.
“So Dad finally surfaced and right here!” Frank said. “Wonder why he picked this place.”
“I was there with Jack Wayne once,” Joe replied. “He told me that it’s hardly ever used in the morning. At this time it should be vacant.”
“This could mean two things. Either this is on the level and Dad doesn’t want to be seen, or it’s a neat little trap set up by our two buddies.”
“Let’s proceed with caution,” Joe advised as they approached the shop. No one was in sight. Frank slowly opened the door. There were power tools in one corner; drills, auger bits, and screwdrivers along the wall.
“Mr. Marks?” Frank called out.
“Sh! Over here, Frank!” came a whispered reply.
The boys walked inside. Parts of a dismantled engine lay on a broad workbench. Crates stood piled up behind it. There were no workmen in sight.
Suddenly Frank and Joe had visions of roman candles going off, followed by an explosion of blinding light. Then they blacked out!

CHAPTER V  
  The Missing Missile
 
 
 
 
A VOICE that seemed to come from far off said, “Frank, Joe, wake up!”
Groggily Joe opened his eyes. The repair shop came into focus. So did Jack Wayne, who was squatting on his heels and shaking him by the shoulder.
“Boy, whoever clouted you on the head really did a good job!” the pilot said as the boys came to. “You both were unconscious when I found you!”
“You can say that again,” Frank groaned. “The place seemed empty when we came in. Somebody whispered ‘Over here,’ and it sounded just like Dad. Then, pow! The building caved in on us.” 
Joe rubbed the back of his head gingerly, wincing when he touched the bump caused by the blow. He rose unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself with one hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t see anyone, either. I’d swear we were mowed down by a runaway jetliner! Whoever sapped us must have been hiding behind the door.”
“And he, or they, laid you two out like a couple of iced mackerel,” Jack observed.
“We walked right into that trap,” Frank said ruefully. “Should have known better. I bet Snap Brim and Beret never left the airport after talking to you, Jack.”
“Sure. They sneaked around here, baited the trap with that bogus message from L. Marks, and knocked us out,” Joe added.
“They must have been pretty sure you’d fall for it,” Jack went on. “Who’s L. Marks, anyhow?”
“An alias Dad used,” Frank explained.
“Well, that’s how I found you,” Jack said.
“The desk clerk told me that you were paged by Marks, who asked you to meet him in the repair shop.”
“One thing is certain,” Frank said. “They know about Dad. His cover is blown. We must alert him right away!”
“But we have no way of contacting him,” Joe pointed out. “We’d better get on with the Washington assignment and hope for the best.”
The boys discovered that their jackets were missing. A search of the repair shop failed to turn them up.
“We’re minus our wallets, money, and driver’s licenses,” Joe lamented.
“We’ll have to call Chief Collig,” Frank said.
They all went to the administration building, where they telephoned police headquarters.
Collig took down the details. He promised to have his men comb Bayport for the thugs who had knocked the boys out.
“Meanwhile, what do we do for money?” Frank asked after he had hung up.
Jack Wayne came to the rescue. “Don’t worry about financing your expedition to the Pentagon. I’ll loan you the money. And there are a couple of jackets in my locker that you can borrow.”
Wayne cashed a check, then the three boarded the plane. Receiving the green light from the control tower, Jack gave her the gun, zoomed down the runway, and lifted the nose into a perfect take-off. Smoothly the aircraft gained altitude. The pilot locked the automatic controls.
They flew over Baltimore. Frank and Joe looked down at the Maryland city, wondering whether their father was still there.
Their speculations came to a halt as Jack brought the plane down to a smooth landing at the Washington airport. While he stood by, the Hardys hailed a taxi and rode to the Pentagon.
A naval officer escorted them to Admiral Rodgers’ office. A model warship stood on a bookcase. A multicolored map of the Pacific hung on the wall behind the desk.
The admiral was in uniform with a row of service stripes on his sleeve. He had fought in many battles on the high seas without flinching. But now he looked worried!
He asked the Hardys to tell him all they knew. Joe gave a rapid account of his attempt to put through a call to New York City, only to find that he had dialed incorrectly and had reached an office in the Pentagon.
Frank related the sound of scuffling, the call for help, and the reference to the Super S data. “And then,” he added, “there were those mysterious words about the Bombay Boomerang!”
Admiral Rodgers listened with a grave expression. “You’ve stumbled into a real-life drama here at the Pentagon,” he said. “Happened down the hall in the office of Commander Wenn, who’s been directing secret research on our latest missile systems.”
“Was he the one who answered our call?” Joe asked.
“Yes. He was still on the line when the intruders appeared. Luckily he had a split second in which to press a button underneath the edge of his desk. This triggered a tape recorder in a false bottom of one drawer. We’ve got a tape of everything that was said, including what you heard.”
“What happened then?” Frank inquired.
“Someone bashed the commander over the head, knocking him out. They ransacked his office. Looked as if a tornado hit it. Drawers overturned, locks broken, files rifled, official documents strewn around like confetti!”
“Wow!” Frank exclaimed.
“The worst part is that they found what they were looking for. You heard Commander Wenn’s shout about the Super S data. Well, they took it! And that is what’s got us in a serious jam!”
“But what does it all mean?” Joe was baffled.
“The Super S is the newest addition to our missile program. Air-to-ground. This one zeros in on heat. The instrumentation is sensitive enough to be set for any degree of temperature above the level of lukewarm water. You probably know from your scientific experiments in high school that precisely equal degrees of heat are rarely found together outside the laboratory. The Super S will ignore every heat level except the fraction of a degree it’s programmed for.”
The admiral ran his fingers through his hair. “Virtually nothing can fox this missile,” he concluded. “The target is a dead pigeon the moment the pilot launches a Super S.”
“Are we the only nation who has it?” Frank asked.
“We used to be,” Rodgers said grimly. “We’ll run into international competition if those thieves smuggle the information out of the country, though! I could mention a number of foreign powers that would be interested in a deal at any price!”
“Is that what the thieves are planning, sir?” Joe inquired. “I mean, selling the information. Does the tape indicate that?”
The admiral frowned. “No, it doesn’t,” he replied slowly.
Frank pursued this line of questioning. “What about the phrase Bombay Boomerang? Joe and I could swear that we heard it mentioned.”
“You did,” the admiral told him.
“It could mean that India is involved.”
“It could.”
“What else is on the tape, Admiral?”
Rodgers held up one hand. “Sorry. I’ll have to flag you down on that question. Can’t give you the answer.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because it’s classified information. No one has security clearance on the missile program except those directly assigned to Super S research.”
The Hardys’ expressions showed that they were keenly disappointed. They were depressed that they had made the trip to Washington, only to find the riddle as perplexing as ever.
“Don’t be so dejected,” Admiral Rodgers went on. “You both know what it means to be sworn to secrecy, don’t you?”
Frank and Joe nodded. “You’ve proved yourselves in helping your father with some difficult cases. I have some information for him which I will give you now. But it’s strictly confidential.”
The boys took the oath binding them to secrecy. Then the admiral proceeded.
“We’ve been trying to keep the lid on a very serious situation we’re faced with. A Super S missile has been stolen from the Baltimore arsenal!”
Frank and Joe gasped. “How could anyone make off with a rocket belonging to the U. S. Navy?” Frank exclaimed. “It seems impossible!”
“It happened,” the admiral said dryly. “Now here’s what I want you to do. Tell your father, but under no circumstances anyone else. And you must speak to him personally. Don’t say anything over the telephone.”
Frank nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I have no opportunity to contact him myself,” Admiral Rodgers went on, “since he is working underground. But I want him to get in touch with me as soon as he can.”
Admiral Rodgers escorted them to the elevator. “Let me know if your father discovers any leads that tie in with this affair. It’s a race against time. If we don’t recover the missile, it might change the balance of power in the world!”
Frank and Joe thanked him, the elevator doors closed, and they were on their way out of the Pentagon.
They hastened back to the airport and put in a call to the Baltimore hotel where Fenton Hardy had been staying. Joe asked if L. Marks had returned.
“Yes, he has,” the clerk replied. “He left a message for two fellows named Fred and Jim. They’re to meet him here. Are you Fred or Jim?”
“Jim. Thanks.” Joe hung up. “We’re in luck!” he exulted.
Frank was not ready to celebrate yet. “I hope you’re right. But this could easily be another phony. Remember what happened to us last time we answered a communication from L. Marks?”
“Do I?” Joe probed the tender spot at the back of his head. “How could I forget, with this bump? What do we do now?”
“We go to Baltimore,” Frank decided. “Only we’ll be more cautious about walking into anybody’s parlor.”
Joe grinned. “The resident might be the spider in this case!”
“Right. The point is, we can’t simply ignore the message. If Dad really left it for us, we’ll have to see him. Besides, he might be in a tight corner.”
Frank and Joe described their plan to Jack Wayne, who offered to help. En route to Baltimore they got down to details. Jack would remain at the airport, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.
Frank said, “We have no idea where this mystery will end. Boston could be our next stop, or Miami!”
“We’ll let you know what’s cooking when we discover what those crooks have on their menu,” Joe added.
When the plane landed in Baltimore, they had a quick bite to eat. Then Jack ensconced himself in a chair with a newspaper, prepared to sit it out until the call to action. The boys gave him the address of the hotel so he could start a search if he did not hear from them within three hours.
“Good luck!” Jack called to them as they left. Frank and Joe hailed a taxi and settled back for the ride into town. The driver guided his vehicle through the streets with a practiced hand, weaving in and out of traffic, swerving around pedestrians, and timing his speed to catch the green lights block by block.
A big black sedan roared up abreast of the cab at top speed. “That guy sure is in a hurry,” Joe observed.
The driver of the car pulled sharply to the right, cutting in front of the taxi. Frantically the cabby twisted the steering wheel to avoid a collision. He lost control as the black car forced him off the highway.
The cab careened wildly into a dead-end street! As it slewed around, the rear end slammed toward a telephone pole with terrific force! The Hardys braced themselves for the crash!

CHAPTER VI  
  X Marks L. Marks
 
 
 
 
THE tires of the cab screeched against the curb. Frank hung on grimly, and for one split second he got a look into the black car.
The two thugs from Bayport!
Almost subconsciously, his mind registered the license plate number as the sedan shot past. Much good it would do him if the taxi wrapped itself around the telephone pole! 
The vehicle bounced off the curb, shook violently, teetered sideways on two wheels, jolted to a stop and fell over just short of the pole.
“Couple of inches more, and we’d have been goners!” gasped the driver, pale with fright. Bracing his feet against the steering wheel for leverage, he forced the front door upward and scrambled out. Frantically he wrenched open the back door.
“You guys all right?” he inquired of his passengers, who had been dumped in a heap on the bottom side of the cab.
“All right would be an exaggeration,” Joe grunted. “Let’s say shaken up, with cuts and bruises, but hopefully no broken bones. How about you, Frank?”
“I’ll live,” Frank predicted.
Just as the boys were climbing out of the taxi, a couple of motorcycle policemen roared to the scene of the accident. The usual formalities of name-taking began.
“H-a-r-d-y,” Frank spelled out.
“Any relation to Fenton Hardy the detective?” the officer asked.
“We’re his sons.”
The cabdriver, turning livid as his indignation mounted, gave a graphic description of what had occurred. He was delighted to hear Frank report the license number of the black sedan.
One of the policemen immediately pulled out a list of stolen vehicles from his pocket and ran a finger down the numbers. “Here it is!” he said.
A little while later another officer arrived in a squad car with the information that he had found the car itself with open doors, abandoned in an alley close by. No sign of the men.
“Something funny about this whole business,” he said slowly, after hearing the boys’ story. “Let’s go over and give this car the once-over before we tow it in.”
While the police examined the sedan, Frank and Joe stood by silently. Finally, just as the tow truck was driving up, Frank inquired if they might have a look inside. The officers nodded permission.
The boys saw nothing of any interest and were turning away in disappointment when Joe caught sight of a white fleck at the edge of the front floor mat.
“Just a minute. There’s something under the mat.” He pulled out the slip of paper.
“Takes an amateur to teach us our business,” snorted one of the policemen and took it.
“Beginner’s luck, Officer,” Frank suggested.
“Beginner’s bad luck, seems to me,” the policeman retorted with obvious satisfaction after examining the paper. “You’re Frank Hardy, aren’t you? Well, this is a driver’s license. Take a look.”
Frank gulped. “It’s mine!”
The boys knew they were on the spot. Since their jackets and wallets had disappeared in Bayport, they lacked any proof of identification. They were unknown to the Baltimore authorities, and all the evidence so far pointed to a connection with a car theft.
“Whatever you’re up to, you’ve got some tall explaining to do,” the officer warned them. “We’ll have to book you if you don’t come up with a believable story fast!”
“Will you believe Fenton Hardy?” Joe put in.
“Sure. If he were here!”
“To begin with,” Joe explained, “we told the truth. He’s our father. Furthermore, he’s working on a case here in Baltimore. If you’ll just take us to his hotel, he’ll vouch for us.”
The tow truck started moving, pulling the stolen car behind. Since there was nothing more to be learned at the scene of the accident, the police decided to take Frank and Joe down to headquarters. There they were placed in the custody of a plainclothes detective for the ride to Mr. Hardy’s hotel.
They drove in an unmarked car. “That’s a rough neighborhood,” the detective explained. “No sense in alerting everybody in sight to the fact that the law is coming.”
The car swung into a heavily industrialized area, past grimy smoke-blackened factories and shoddy businesses. Here and there a delicatessen or a supermarket catered to customers with more money to spend than those who frequented the dingier shops.
The car nosed through the toughest area of all, down near the docks. Waterfront characters loomed in doorways, talking loudly. A rolling gait often betrayed the sailor. The varied accents of the foreign seamen indicated that their home ports ranged all around the world from Singapore and Liverpool, from Marseilles and Calcutta.
They stopped in front of the hotel where Fenton Hardy was supposed to be staying. Joe looked at the tacky, run-down place. “How does such a beat-up establishment stay solvent?” he wondered.
Entering the hotel, they advanced to the desk. The clerk was a handsome fellow, with dark skin and a profile of classic regularity.
He greeted the strangers with his palms together and an ingratiating smile. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“Looks like a native of India,” Frank thought.
The detective came right to the point. “We’d like to see Fenton Hardy.”
“Fenton Hardy? I don’t recognize the name. He can’t be staying in this hotel unless my memory is playing tricks on me. Let me see what the ledger has to say.” He ran his finger down a page. “No, just as I thought. There’s no such name here.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. They had forgotten to tell the officer that their father was not using his real name on this assignment.
Now they were really in a bind. What would the authorities think of Fenton Hardy and L. Marks being one and the same man? What would happen if the oily-mannered clerk put two and two together?
Still the truth was the only way out.
“Have you an L. Marks registered here?” Frank asked anxiously.
As the desk clerk re-examined the ledger, Joe drew the detective aside and gave him a quick account of his father’s alias.
The clerk looked up. “I’m very sorry,” he declared with a smirk that seemed to contradict his apology. “There’s no L. Marks staying in the hotel either. Shall I search for yet a third name that may be of interest to you?”
“No thanks. We’ll try for three another time.” The detective turned away from the desk. “Okay, there’s nothing more to be gained down here,” he said to the boys. “We’ll go back where we came from and start all over again.”
Frank and Joe were completely discouraged as they climbed silently into the car. Suddenly Joe had an idea. “Admiral Rodgers!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t we think of him before? We just saw him at the Pentagon. He could vouch for us!”
“Maybe you know the president, too,” the detective replied sarcastically.
“Look, we’re not kidding,” Frank protested. “Will you at least call him?”
“Sure. I’ve got a hot line to Washington.”
By the time they arrived at police headquarters, they had persuaded the officer to put in a call to the Pentagon. Frank and Joe listened breathlessly to the conversation that followed.
The detective stated his case, then there was a brief pause. “Yes,” he continued. “Let me see now. You say Frank is eighteen years old, dark hair and brown eyes.... And Joe Hardy is seventeen, blond hair and blue eyes.... Yes, the other details check out.... You want to speak to Frank?...Here he is.”
The elder Hardy talked briefly with the admiral. Then he returned the phone to the detective, who thanked Rodgers for his help and hung up.
“You’re off the hook,” he said. “Admiral Rodgers gives you a clean bill of health. You can go now. And give your father my regards when you see him. We appreciate the work he’s been doing.”
“Dad’ll be pleased by your compliment,” Frank replied. “He’s a former member of the force himself.”
Leaving headquarters, Joe reflected that they still did not know why L. Marks was not registered at the hotel.
Frank nodded. “But there’s a catch to that. We only know what the clerk told us. Remember, he was the only one who looked into the ledger. He never pushed it across the desk so we could see for ourselves. How can we be sure he was telling the truth?”
“I’ll bet my money the other way around. He didn’t look the type to inspire confidence, anyhow. What’s next?”
“A look at the ledger!”
They phoned Jack Wayne at the airport, and asked him to stand by until the next day. “We intend to find out whether Dad is in that hotel or not, but we should be back by the afternoon.”
Returning to the dock area, Frank and Joe staked out the hotel from a small, all-night diner, conveniently situated across the street, hoping for a chance to slip unnoticed into the hotel. It was a long wait. 


  
“Look at this!” Frank whispered excitedly
They could see the desk clerk from where they sat and it seemed he was a permanent fixture. Not once did he move away. Just as they were about to give up, two seamen arrived in search of lodgings for the night.
It was now or never. The Hardys watched the clerk, a different one from their Indian friend, produce the ledger to be signed. Then he reached for keys and escorted the men to their room.
This was the opportunity the boys had been waiting for. They hurried across the street, slipped through the door, and walked to the desk. Frank pulled the ledger over and opened it. Frantically he flipped the pages to the current list of guests.
“Look at this!” he whispered excitedly. He placed his finger on an entry where the name of L. Marks was inscribed in their father’s handwriting! A large X was scrawled in the margin beside it!
The sight of the X mark chilled them. But they had found the information they were after and had to get out before they were discovered.
Hastily they replaced the ledger. They had taken only a few steps toward the door when a harsh voice booming across the lobby stopped them short.
“I saw you!”

CHAPTER VII  
  Desperate Dive
 
 
 
 
“LOOKS as if we’ve had it!” Joe muttered. “He probably saw us looking at the ledger!”
“Let’s not hit the panic button!” Frank replied guardedly. “Keep cool, and we’ll try to talk our way out of it!”
The boys wheeled around and walked back to the desk, feeling uncomfortable under the beady eyes of the clerk, who obviously was determined to question them about their actions.
“I saw you!” he repeated. Then he added reproachfully, “You should have waited a minute or two when you discovered there was no one at the desk. I had to show two men to their room. There’s one vacancy at the moment. Do you want it?”
Frank and Joe needed all their self-control to avoid giving themselves away. What a relief! He had not spotted them at the ledger after all! Now to put up a bold front before he became suspicious.
“Yes,” said Frank to the clerk, “we’d like a room for the night. My partner here is Jay Mackin, and I’m Roy Bard.”
They signed the register, paid in advance, and were shown to a room.
Joe sat down on one of the twin beds. “Thank goodness we pulled that off safely!”
Frank nodded. “The thing is, we’re really in the lion’s den now. This place may very well be the hideout of the gang we’re after, and they wouldn’t think twice about rubbing us out.”
“I wonder what’s become of Dad,” Joe mused.
“For all we know, he’s somewhere in this building. Maybe he’s being held prisoner!”
“That X opposite the name L. Marks in the ledger convinced me that Dad’s not among his greatest admirers,” Joe agreed.
Frank stared out the window into the dimly lighted street. A car horn broke the stillness with a raucous blast. Four tipsy sailors staggered past, bellowing a sea chanty at the top of their lungs.
The elder boy took in the scene before answering. “You won’t get any argument from me. This hotel gives me the creeps. And we’re cut off from the outside world. There’s no telephone in this room, no way to contact the police.”
“Right. We’re a couple of sitting ducks wondering when the hunters are going to begin taking potshots at us.”
The boys, tired and worried, put their heads together in the hope of coming up with a plan. Nothing practical suggested itself.
“Let’s sleep on it,” Joe proposed. “We can’t do much until we find out who’s in the hotel, and what kind of shenanigans are going on. These beds will probably give us nightmares,” he concluded, feeling the lumps in the mattress before snapping out the light.
In spite of this prediction, he was soundly asleep when Frank shook him by the arm.
“What’s up?” Joe inquired, with closed eyes.
“Wake up. Hurry!”
“What time is it?”
“Four A.M.”
Joe groaned. “That’s not a fit hour for man or beast to be up and around!”
“Quiet!” Frank whispered. “Some funny business is going on next door. There was a heavy thump—shook the room and woke me up. Then a sound as though wheels were being rolled over the floor. One of them needed oiling because it squeaked. Listen!”
Low conversation and a scuffing, thumping sound could be heard through the flimsy wall. Obviously something heavy was being moved.
By now Joe was wide awake. “Holy catfish! Sounds as if they’re disposing of a body!”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’d better find out for sure.”
The two threw on their clothes. Stealthily they opened their door a crack in order to have a clear view down the length of the hall. Moments after they took up their vigil, the door to the other room opened.
A man came out, glanced around to see that the coast was clear, and motioned to someone inside. A second man emerged, pushing a hand truck on which was a large wooden cask.
Gingerly, as quietly as the creaking floorboards would permit, the pair maneuvered it down to the end of the hall, where they squeezed it into a rickety service elevator.
As soon as the sliding doors closed, the boys tumbled out of their room in a headlong dash for the stairs. They went down the steps three at a time. Panting, they pulled up at the bottom.
“Quick!” Frank pointed. “Let’s get behind that stack of laundry baskets and see what happens when they get down.”
The elevator indicator moved down to number one. The doors opened. The two men eased their hand truck out, still balancing the cask on it.
One picked up the handles and began to push the burden toward the back entrance of the hotel. The other guided the carrier, while keeping a hand on the cask to prevent it from rolling off.
Silently, carefully, the boys followed. A dusty pickup truck was parked in the back alley. Tilting the hand truck forward, the men raised the cask to an upright position so each could get a grip.
Straining and swearing under their breath, they levered the cask up into the rear of the pickup, bolted the tailboard, then climbed into the front seat. The motor came to life and the truck started to move.
“Come on,” Joe hissed. Rushing forward he managed to get a foot up on the bumper and propelled himself into the back of the vehicle. Frank was right on his heels. They crouched behind the cask, hoping fervently the driver would not see them in his rear-view mirror.
The truck, gathering speed, moved rapidly through empty streets in the direction of the harbor, rattling the cask against the metal it was standing on and jouncing the boys up and down every time the rear wheels hit a bump.
Finally the driver stepped on the brake, slowing the truck on an oil-soaked dock where the water lapped against the pilings ten feet below.
“Come on,” Frank whispered in Joe’s ear. “Let’s beat it out of here before they get wise to us.”
The boys sneaked one at a time over the tailboard, dropped lightly to the dock, and dashed round the back of a nearby dilapidated shed.
“Wow!” puffed Joe, “that was pretty close. But I don’t think they noticed anything.”
Frank was peering cautiously round the corner of the shack. “They’re unloading the cask,” he reported. “Now they’re rolling it to the edge of the dock.”
There was a loud splash.
“They’ve dumped it into the water!” Frank said.
This task accomplished, the two men ran back to their truck and roared off without a backward glance.
The Hardys raced to the spot. “There it is,” called Joe, pointing excitedly. “It’s sinking fast.”
He was right. As the cask went under, a cloud of air bubbles began to rise to the surface from around the edges of the lid!
“Somebody or something’s inside,” Frank said in alarm. “And maybe still alive!”
There was no time to debate the situation. Both boys kicked off their loafers and hit the water in a desperate dive.
Plunging downward, they arched underneath the cask, took hold of the bottom rim on either side, and hoisted it to the surface. With some effort they maneuvered the bulky cylinder so that it lay lengthwise on the water.
“If we can get it over to that boat slip before it sinks we’ll be lucky,” gasped Frank. “Let’s swim behind it and try to push it and keep it afloat at the same time.”
They soon had the cask bobbing toward shore.
Despite the green slime that covered the slip, they managed to get it out of the water.
“Let’s stand it upright now,” Frank said, grunting with effort as he proceeded to do so. “Anything we can use to pry the lid off?”
Joe crawled up the slope from the water’s edge and returned triumphantly with an iron bar he had found in a pile of rusty junk on the dock.
“This should do the trick,” he told Frank as he applied the bar to the rim of the cask.
The lid snapped off and clattered on the concrete. Eagerly the boys peered inside.
Slumped in a heap, seemingly unconscious, was a man in a rough tweed jacket, corduroy pants, and battered brogans.
“Dad!” Frank cried out. “Is he still breathing?”
“Yes, he is,” Joe answered quickly. “Look, he’s beginning to come round.” He tugged at their father’s arms. “Here, help me lift him out.”
As gently as they could they eased Mr. Hardy out of the cask and carried him up to the deserted dock. There they slapped his face and chafed his wrists until his breathing became stronger. The color returned to his cheeks. He began to struggle feebly.
“Dad! It’s us!” Frank whispered into his ear. “Don’t worry, the thugs are gone!”
It took the detective a few minutes to realize that he had been rescued by his own sons. “In the nick of time, too,” he said weakly. “Good work, boys. However did you know I was here?”
“We didn’t,” Frank said. “It was pure luck.” And they told their story.
Then they turned the bulky container on its side and rolled it completely over. One stave bore the legend Quantico Quicksilver in heavy black letters. 
“I’d call that a clue,” Fenton Hardy declared with satisfaction. “Quantico Quicksilver is a major chemical company that has been losing mercury flasks to thieves!”
Frank dubiously looked at the cask. “Any point in preserving this memento?”
“No. Better put it back in the water before the thugs notice it lying around.”
The boys carried the cask to the edge of the dock, depressed the open end to make sure it shipped water, and allowed it to sink out of sight. The lid, which had no markings, would only float if tossed in, so Joe kicked it behind some packing cases.
Daylight was breaking, bringing sailors and longshoremen down to the docks to assume sea duty or handle cargoes. Soon the whole harbor area would be as busy as a beehive. “Let’s go,” Mr. Hardy said.
They walked back to the hotel, keeping to the side streets, and discussed their next move. Slinking into the back alley, they climbed up the fire escape to the window of the room from which the cask had been taken.
They flattened themselves against the wall and listened eagerly for sounds from inside. Several men were stirring around. Spoons clinked in coffee cups. Cigar smoke drifted through the slightly opened window.
The talk was audible to the three eavesdroppers. “Who would have thought Marks was Hardy?” gloated one of the men. “Good thing we tapped his phone or we might never have got on to him. He sure knew how to use those disguises. Only the last one didn’t work!”
“Rest his soul in the briny deep,” another said with a laugh. “He’ll never know about the Super S now!”

CHAPTER VIII  
  Hotel Hideout
 
 
 
 
THE Hardys, clinging to the wall outside the window, exchanged baffled glances. The Super S again! What could these hoods know about the missile that had disappeared from the Baltimore arsenal?
The men in the room were, they knew, members of the mercury gang. They seemed to be common thieves, clever at stealing the flasks of liquid metal, but hardly important enough to put a scare into the Pentagon!
There was the flat thud of a fist against flesh and the sound of a heavy body falling against the door.
“Don’t mention that, you fool!” snarled a voice menacingly.
“Why not?” came the sullen retort, presumably from the recipient of the blow. “With Hardy out of the way, there’s nothing for us to worry about! We’re in the clear again!”
“Oh, yeah? Suppose the Feds pick up where the gumshoe dropped out of the case? Do you want them to put us on the run?”
“If you’re so concerned,” sneered the other, “just tell U3 how the Feds could have heard my remark about the subject we’re not supposed to mention! I checked this room for bugs myself. Even if they knew we were here, they couldn’t tune in!”
A string of oaths greeted the protest. “You talk here, you’ll talk where it isn’t quite so private. So shut up!”
A third voice broke into the row. “Lay off, you guys. We’ve got to get on with the timetable. Dumping Hardy among the fish was only the beginning. We’re moving into high gear as soon as we get the green light from Mr. Big!”
There was the scrape of a chair, then he continued. “Orders are for us to meet here tonight. Break it up for now. You’ve got jobs to do. I’ll lock the door.”
The Hardys quickly slipped down the fire escape into the alley. Finding the service elevator conveniently empty on the ground floor, they crowded in and soon entered the boys’ room.
Frank was seething mad. “They tapped our home phone! That’s how they knew you were Marks, Dad!”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “That’s one thing I didn’t expect.” He started to take off his soggy clothes and continued, “My strategy worked perfectly at the start. Finding that members of the gang were staying in this hotel, I arranged to have an accidental meeting with them. We happened to be in the elevator together, and I happened to have a light when one of them brought out a pack of cigarettes.”
“Accidentally on purpose,” Joe mused.
“Right,” his father said. “I managed to make them think L. Marks was a gangster. They assumed I was hiding out from the police and needed a job. Which impressed them favorably, of course!”
“I’ll bet,” Frank said with a grin.
“They were pretty close-mouthed at first, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that the ringleader—whoever he is—had indoctrinated his strong-arm squad effectively with the need for secrecy.”
“How did you manage to break the ice?” Joe asked.
“By bragging about being a candidate for public enemy number one, I gained their confidence. The chances were beginning to look good that they might let me in on the deal.
“I’m almost sure I was on the verge of a breakthrough when they bugged our telephone. Obviously they wanted to keep tabs on me. And what they found out was that I was L. Marks!”
Mr. Hardy paused to take a shower. When he came out of the bathroom he rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and took a deep breath. The effects of his ordeal showed in dark circles under his eyes. He lay down on the bed while the boys cleaned up, then continued his story.
“I had a hunch that they were on to me, so I checked out of here and returned later in another disguise, trying to find out what they knew about L. Marks. But the entire case blew up in my face last night. Two of the thugs barged into my room. They shouted that the game was up, told me they were holding you prisoners, and threatened that I’d never see you again unless I gave them my entire dossier on the mercury case!”
“Did you?” Frank asked.
“I had no choice. They had me cornered by sheer weight of numbers. Besides, they showed me your jackets and wallets.”
Joe described how they had been stolen at the Bayport repair shop near the landing field. “I couldn’t understand this bit of petty thievery at the time,” he said. “Now it makes sense. They wanted to be sure you’d play ball.”
“They couldn’t have kidnapped us at the airport very easily,” Frank went on. “Not with all those people around. So they tried a different gimmick, pretended kidnapping!”
“Which served their purposes almost as well,” Mr. Hardy pointed out. “They got what they really wanted—the information I had gathered on them.”
“Then what happened?” Joe inquired.
“Well, they had no motive to keep me alive and every reason to get me out of the way. They knocked me out, stuffed me into that cask, and took me to the harbor on a one-way trip. Luckily you two showed up in time!”
The Hardys pondered their next move.
“We’re in better shape than we were before,” Frank commented. “Those thugs are convinced that they’ve disposed of Fenton Hardy. Okay, we’ll play it their way! Let them continue to think you’re dead, Dad. They won’t be suspicious that anyone is on their trail, let alone closing in on them. Could be they’ll become careless.”
Joe was excited by Frank’s strategy. “Since they don’t know we’re in the same hotel with them, this is the perfect hideout for us. We’re their next-door neighbors. So we’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”
“An ear too,” Frank added with a chuckle. “It shouldn’t be too difficult for us to bug their room!”
“That’s a problem,” Mr. Hardy put in. “Those hoods took my electronic equipment. We’ll have to retrieve it somehow.”
Frank spoke up. “I’ll go down and arrange for another night in this room. It would be embarrassing if our hideout were suddenly pulled out from under us because we neglected to pay the bill!”
“And while you’re downstairs, how about picking up some food?” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I’m famished! Haven’t had anything to eat since noon yesterday!”
Frank took the elevator down to the lobby. The day shift had not taken over yet, a big relief to him since he preferred to avoid the Indian of the previous afternoon. The night clerk willingly agreed to let “Mackin” and “Bard” occupy their room the following night, and Frank paid up.
Then he sauntered out of the hotel and into the diner across the street. He ordered a stack of sandwiches along with cartons of steaming hot coffee and was soon back in their room.
The sandwiches diminished rapidly under the onslaught of the three Hardys. The coffee disappeared just as quickly. They all felt better as they put the debris into the wastebasket. The detective was beginning to be himself again.
“A couple of hours’ sleep and we should be as good as new. That’s all we can afford if we’re to keep the gang under surveillance.”
“I think one of us had better stand guard in case anyone tries to break in,” Joe suggested.
“Good idea.”
Joe volunteered to stay awake since he was not particularly tired at the moment. While the others turned in, he stationed himself in a chair near the window.
Turning over the pages of a magazine, he listened to the sounds of the hotel coming to life. The buzz of cars in the parking lot indicated that the day shift was replacing the night shift. The elevator clanged as guests arrived and departed. A low hum of voices from the street reached the room.
Suddenly footsteps approached along the hall. Two men stopped at the door of the Hardys’ room, conversing in an undertone. “Shall we go right in?” Joe heard one ask.
He stiffened. “The enemy is preparing to charge!” he thought. “Better summon reinforcements.” He stepped around the bed to wake his father. Then he paused.
“There’s no point in going in there,” the second man declared. “That’s not our room. We’re on the floor below.”
“That’s what comes of going on a bender just off the ship!” replied his comrade with a hiccup. “Come on. Let’s go down before my legs give out. I’m gonna snooze the clock around!”
Joe relaxed and went back to his chair. “This kind of interruption I can do without,” he murmured. He allowed his father and brother to catch up on their sleep, and roused them at the time agreed upon. Both were ready for action.
“Anything happen while we snoozed?” Frank wanted to know.
“Nothing but a false alarm, although it gave me quite a turn,” Joe told him, and went on to describe the incident of the sailors in the hall.
“It’s good you took note of them,” Mr. Hardy said soberly. “From now on, we have to be extra careful of those we’re dealing with. Regard everyone who approaches as a suspect until he clears himself. We’ll cover our tracks—”
A pounding on the door cut him off. Mr. Hardy’s voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t be seen here when you’re the only ones registered. If you need help, yell!” With that he disappeared into the closet.
“Who’s there?” Frank called out sharply. “What do you want?”
Joe slid silently behind the door, prepared to jump anyone who tried to force his way in.
“It’s the desk clerk,” stated the man outside. “You guys gotta get out, we need the room!”

CHAPTER IX  
  A Bug on a Wire
 
 
 
 
“WHAT are you trying to pull?” Frank demanded. “We’ve paid in advance so we could stay in this room for another night!”
“Too bad about that,” said the surly voice. “But there’s been a mistake. We had an earlier reservation the night clerk didn’t know about. Another party’s coming in. So you’ll have to vacate!”
Frank played for time. “Okay, we’ll pack our things and get out of here. But how about another room in the hotel? After all, we’re paying customers, cash on the barrelhead!”
“Nothing doing. Every room is occupied. My orders are to get you out before check-out time. Nothing personal, you understand. Just business.”
“Okay, we’ll be off the premises by noon. However, you’ve still got the money we’ve paid in advance. If we don’t get it back pronto, you’ll have to carry us out!”
“Don’t worry, wise guy,” growled the clerk. “You’ll get your dough—right now!”
There was a rustling sound as some dollar bills appeared under the door. Frank stooped and picked them up as footsteps retreated down the hall.
“Better see if it’s all there,” Joe said.
“It’s all here,” Frank said cheerfully, flipping the bills with his thumb. “They’re only too glad to pay off. Which means they want to get rid of us with as little fuss as possible.”
Now that the coast was clear Mr. Hardy emerged from the closet. The three held a council of war about what to do next.
“We’ll have to work fast and pick up as much information as we can before noon,” Mr. Hardy said.
“Think there’s anything in that story about an earlier reservation?” Joe asked. “The man who came to our door didn’t sound like the day clerk we met yesterday.”
His father shrugged. “Perhaps. It could also be that they want to clear the hotel of any outsiders.”
Frank sighed. “Well, it’s all in the game. We can’t take anything for granted.”
“What now?” Joe asked.
Fenton Hardy gave Frank and Joe a rundown on the main facts of the case. The evidence he had collected before being discovered pointed to a high-power conference of the gang that night. And what they had heard on the fire escape proved it.
“We ought to sit in on their session,” Joe observed. “By remote control. How do we get our bug back, Dad?”
Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “Those thugs who put me in the cask took it. Before they knocked me out, I saw one of them place my electronic equipment in a closet. If we can only get into their room, we should be able to find it easily enough.”
“In other words, it’s time for us to see if anyone’s home!” Frank chuckled.
The hall was empty. The Hardys walked quickly to the room next to theirs where the thugs were staying. Frank tapped on the door. He was sure no one had returned, but was prepared to ask for a fictitious person if anyone answered, and then pretend that he had made a mistake in the room number.
The subterfuge was not necessary. No sound came from within. Frank tried the knob. “Locked, of course,” he stated.
His father took a long needle-sharp gadget from his pocket to pick the lock. Meanwhile the boys stood guard on either side, looking up and down the hallway, keeping a nervous eye on the elevator, ready to give instant warning if anyone appeared.
Mr. Hardy worked with deft speed. “This one’s a cinch compared to most I’ve opened in my career,” he said softly.
Then he stood up, turned the knob, and pushed. The door swung inward, revealing an untidy scene. Bedclothes were piled up where they had been thrown aside, cigarette butts were scattered on the floor, an overturned coffee cup had spilled its contents on the table.
Fenton Hardy did not have to explore the room. Quickly he walked to the closet, opened it, and felt carefully along the shelf. “Here it is!” He brought down the coil of wire with the metal sphere on one end and the receiver on the other.
“Everything okay?” Frank queried anxiously, poking his head into the room.
“Yes. They may have intended to use the bug themselves. If so, they’ll have to postpone that plan because we have a prior claim.”
Mr. Hardy closed the closet. “Let’s get out of here!”
As Frank looked around the room, his eyes rested on a newspaper on the table.
“Dad,” he murmured, “over there—the Bayport Times!” 
Mr. Hardy picked it up. “That’s strange. I wonder why they brought it all the way to Baltimore.” He stuffed it inside his shirt. “We’ll take it along and catch up on the news back home.”
They quickly left the room. Mr. Hardy closed the door, jiggled the knob to be sure the lock had slipped back into place, then led the way to the elevator.
“Now where are we going?” Joe asked.
“We haven’t much choice. I’d say the roof,” Mr. Hardy replied.
They stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, climbed a narrow flight of stairs, and arrived at a skylight door. Frank pushed it open and they went onto the roof.
“This seems our best hideout,” Mr. Hardy said, looking around.
“Might as well get set for a long siege,” Frank added. “Our friends aren’t due back until this evening.”
They found a corner where the projecting skylight cast a long shadow across the roof, agreed that this was a good vantage point, and sat down to rest and wait.
Mr. Hardy pulled the Bayport newspaper from his shirt. Frank and Joe looked on from either side as he flattened it out.
“Hm! Nothing on page one to interest us,” the detective commented. “Or have I overlooked something?”
“Not as far as I can see,” Joe answered. “Maybe there’s a clue on the inside pages.”
They carefully scanned the paper, remarking on stories of the Bayport scene, but found nothing that had even the remotest connection with the case.
Mr. Hardy said, “It’s unlikely that there’s anything in the radio and TV section. But let’s check.”
Joe whistled as he looked at the first page. “Hey, what have we here?” He placed a finger at the top of the program listings where somebody had drawn a red pencil circle.
“That’s our local kilocycle number for Bayport radio,” Frank said. “The station plays hit tunes nearly round the clock as you can see from the program. What’s the name of the disk jockey again, Joe?”
“Teddy Blaze. He’s only been with the network a short time, I believe.”
“What do you make of this?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
“Beats me,” Frank replied.
“Why the thugs would be interested in popular music is a mystery to me,” Joe added.
When darkness fell, they carried their electronic bug to the parapet. Mr. Hardy readied the receiver while Joe cautiously payed out the wire over the edge until the instrument dangled outside the thugs’ window.
Soon it began picking up sounds of the gang congregating inside. Feet scuffled. Chairs creaked. Voices buzzed. Bits and pieces of conversation came through.
“Now that Hardy is out of the way,” someone declared, “we can get on with the job of heisting the empties.”
Frank and Joe looked blankly at their father as if asking, “What empties?”
He shrugged, indicating that he was as mystified as they were. Nothing in the talk going on down below enlightened them. Obviously the gang understood the reference without having the details spelled out.
The discussion shifted to topics that the Hardys already knew about. They were beginning to doubt that they were going to hear anything useful, when suddenly an authoritative voice issued a warning that made them prick up their ears.
“I want you guys to get this through your heads! Button up your lips about the Bombay Boomerang! We’re too close to the big play to let anything go wrong now! The whole deal could be ruined if the cops get wise to what we’re up to.”
Breathlessly the Hardys waited for him to continue. Were they finally going to learn about the Bombay Boomerang?
So intent were they on the conversation down below that they failed to notice the rising breeze. It caught their wire, with the tiny bug dangling on the end, and wafted it against the windowpane in a series of sharp taps!
The window went up with a thump. A head peered upward. “Someone’s on the roof!” a voice yelled. “Get up there quick!” Chairs scraped and fell over as the entire gang jumped up and pounded through the door.


  
Joe cautiously payed out the wire
There was no time to lose. Desperately the Hardys sprang to close the skylight door. What could they use as a barricade? Only a master TV antenna was on the otherwise empty roof. Frank and Joe ripped it down, jamming its metal rod against the solid tin door, using the parapet to anchor the other end.
Just in time! The first gangster up the stairway was banging against the door with his fist. Those behind cursed and shouted, telling him to keep going.
The Hardys were trapped! No sense trying to climb down the fire escape with the thugs so close behind. There was only one desperate chance. They would have to leap across the alley to the building next door!
Mr. Hardy went first. Gathering speed as he ran he leaped onto the parapet and sprang into space. The boys gasped in relief as he landed squarely on the other side.
Frank followed, using the same technique. Then came Joe. But when his foot touched the parapet, seeking leverage for the jump, it slipped. He could not stop himself and knew he would never clear the distance. Below him lay a solid six-story drop and the hard pavement of the alley!

CHAPTER X  
  The Disk Jockey’s Dog
 
 
 
 
DESPERATELY Joe threw his arms forward! His fingertips clutched at the edge of the roof, and he hung there, straining every muscle. He knew he could not last for more than a few seconds. Already his grip was beginning to weaken. He slid back toward destruction!
“Hold on, Joe,” Frank yelled.
Rushing to where Joe dangled helplessly, Mr. Hardy and Frank grabbed him by the wrists. Hauling frantically, they got him safely up on the roof.
“Thanks,” Joe panted. “I hope that’s my last cliff-hanger!”
“We’d better get out of here before we have company,” Frank warned, pointing toward the opposite building, where by now the barricaded door started to give.
They hastened to a skylight door leading downstairs. Luckily it was unlocked. With Mr. Hardy in the lead, they lost no time in getting to the elevator.
“I hope it doesn’t stop on the way,” Joe said nervously.
“If we’re delayed, we might have to hide out in the building,” his father remarked. But the elevator went straight down and they hurried to the front door.
“Keep your cool,” Mr. Hardy warned under his breath. “We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
Frank peered outside. “The coast is clear,” he reported. “And—wow! We’ve got help! Jack Wayne is just getting out of a red Ford over there!”
“What timing!” his father exclaimed. “Let’s make for Jack’s car!”
Walking briskly across the street, the fugitives reached the Ford, jumped in, and crouched down on the floor. Frank peeked through the rear window.
“I don’t see the hounds yet. The elevator next door must have stopped on every floor,” he said.
“What about Jack?” his father queried.
“He went into the hotel. Probably got worried about us.”
Joe rose slightly to get a view of the hotel entrance. “Oh, here they come!” he warned. “Duck low!”
Four men barreled out of the door. Two ran in opposite directions. The other two plunged into the alley and continued right around the building.
They met again, shrugging in obvious disappointment, and began to argue furiously. Finally they dashed into the building where the Hardys had just been.
Jack Wayne emerged from the hotel accompanied by the desk clerk. They, too, were in the midst of a heated dispute, the pilot insisting that the Hardys must be there, the clerk just as certain they were not.
“If Frank and Joe cleared out, they’d certainly have let me know,” Wayne stated vehemently. Getting nowhere, he broke off the discussion, returned to the car and jumped in.
Frank tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Startled, Jack wheeled around.
“Easy, Jack,” Fenton Hardy whispered. “All three of us are here. Act as if nothing has happened and make tracks for the airport, quick!”
Catching on, the pilot whipped the car out of the parking spot and maneuvered it skillfully through the traffic.
The Hardys relaxed. “That was simply beautiful, Jack,” Frank said. “Where’d you get the car?”
“Borrowed it from a fellow I know at the airport,” Jack replied. “Since you didn’t call, I thought I’d better check up on you. What happened?”
“Nothing, really,” Joe said. “We just had to make a rather unorthodox exit. Our friends at the hotel didn’t want to let us go!”
Soon the airport came into view. Mr. Hardy’s plane stood on a side runway. He went straight to it.
“We’ll wait inside,” he said. “Gives us more privacy than the lobby. Jack, do me a favor. Call Captain Stein at police headquarters and have him come out here if possible.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hardy.” Jack strode into the administration building. Only ten minutes after his return the captain arrived.
Fenton Hardy briefed his colleague on the current status of the mercury case. The captain whistled.
“We had no idea the affair was that big! Murder, eh? We’ll have to look into that!”
“I’d like to see two steps taken right away,” Mr. Hardy replied in grave tones. “To begin with, the hotel should be placed under surveillance at once. At least three or four plainclothesmen, considering the size of this gang. We don’t know who the leader is yet, but one of his henchmen might lead us to him.”
“Right.” Captain Stein scribbled a few lines in his notebook. “And then?”
“If you could spread the word to the news media that Fenton Hardy of Bayport has disappeared under mysterions circumstances it would help. Add that no clues have turned up, and that the case appears to be running into a dead end.”
“I get you,” the captain declared, snapping his notebook shut. “When those guys read the story in the Baltimore papers, they’ll be more sure than ever that they’re safe. You’ll have a better chance to find out what they’re up to, since they won’t be looking for you!”
“That’s the idea, Captain. I’m glad you approve of it. Makes me feel more secure.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hardy. We like to have you on our side, too.”
“Well,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’m flying back to Bayport with Frank and Joe. We have some clues to follow up.”
It was the middle of the night when Jack Wayne set the plane down at the Bayport airport.
“Before we go home, I want to make a call,” Mr. Hardy said. “It’s not the best hour to phone Admiral Rodgers, but I have to talk to him.”
The admiral brushed aside an apology for waking him up. “My sleep is of no consequence when national security is concerned,” he said. “What have you to report?”
Fenton Hardy said as much as he could over the phone and proposed a secret meeting in Pittsburgh the following evening. Admiral Rodgers agreed.
Then the Hardys returned home to an affectionate welcome from Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.
The next morning Frank and Joe held a get-together with their friends. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at the Hardy house during their absence, the boys reported.
“If anything had happened,” Joe said, laughing, “I’m sure Aunt Gertrude would have informed us the moment we stepped in the door.”
“We’ve come up with another problem,” Frank said. “What do you know about that disk jockey Teddy Blaze?”
“He’s considered a groovy character,” Biff related. “Puts on platters with a real beat. The kids at school are wild about his program.”
“One thing bugs me about him,” Chet offered. “He’s forever chattering about his dog. Tells us his canine companion is named Balto, and then talks to him over the air. Weird kind of nonsense you can’t make out.”
“Chet, you may just have given us a vital clue,” Frank said. “Balto—it’s worth checking out. Come on, Joe! Let’s see what we can find out at the newspaper office!”
They located the radio and TV critic in his cubicle writing a review of a Bayport jazz concert.
“What do I know about Teddy Blaze?” he replied to their question. “Not much. He’s new around here. Comes from somewhere in the South. Maryland, I think. Anyway, the kids go for him in a big way. If you’re after personal information, you’d better go see Teddy himself. He’ll be at the studio now.”
Frank and Joe thanked him and had no difficulty getting into the studio when they announced they were fans of Teddy Blaze. The disk jockey had left orders that his fans were to be admitted.
“Good publicity,” said the doorman with a wink.
The boys found Blaze in top form, or as Joe put it, “flip and insufferable!”
“You fellows look like refugees from the Bach brigade,” he gibed. “Are you beginning to see the light? Does my music provide you with spiritual sustenance?”
Frank was nonplused. “That’s not the kind of patter I expected,” he thought. “Hardly the lingo of the hep generation.”
Joe took up the disk jockey’s line. “We’ve switched. But I imagine we’re not the only ones in these parts. You must have a lot of fans.”
“You’re coming through loud and clear,” Blaze boasted. “But modesty forbids me to tell you the size of my listening audience. Ask my press agent. He’ll be less humble about it.”
The man gave the visitors a sidelong glance and asked slyly, “How’s your famous father? I’d have given him the big hello if he’d come with you. I dig his detective methods!”
Joe put on a long face and said glumly, “Haven’t you heard? Dad’s disappeared. Took a trip to Baltimore and hasn’t been seen since. Very mysterious!”
Blaze seemed hardly distressed to hear it. “Any suspicions?” he inquired in a somewhat mocking tone. “Any idea of what could have happened to Bayport’s celebrated sleuth?”
“Plenty of suspicions,” Frank answered, “but they don’t seem to lead anywhere. Perhaps we’ll have news about him later. I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s get to the music!”
“We came down to the studio to discuss your program,” Joe added. “It’s for a paper we have to write in school. How do you pick the platters you play on the air? Intuition?”
“Not entirely,” Blaze replied smugly. “Intelligence might be a better word. Look here. This is a list of the disks that are selling best around the country. I know what my millions of fans are going for each week, and I give it to them.”
While Frank deliberately kept the disk jockey engrossed in his own cleverness, Joe walked around the room, looking at pictures and records. Then he leaned behind a filing cabinet, holding a record from the stock lying on the table. He removed an envelope from his pocket. Making sure that Blaze’s back was toward him, he scattered some fine powder over the center of the record where the man had braced his thumbs to avoid smudging the grooves.
He blew the powder aside, revealing a perfect thumbprint. Guardedly he brought out his miniature camera and snapped a picture of the print. “If there’s anything on Blaze in the police files, this should do the trick,” he thought.
Replacing the record, he rejoined his brother and Blaze, who were debating the merits of two combos that had recently performed in Bayport.
As the Hardys took their leave, Blaze remarked maliciously, “I hope you find your father. It wouldn’t do for his brilliant sons to be foxed on a case where the missing person happened to be the famous man himself!”
Frank and Joe pretended to be downcast at the thought. They hurried from the studio as the disk jockey returned to his records and his fans.
The boys went straight to the office of Chief Collig, where Joe brought out the film of the thumbprint from Teddy Blaze’s disk.
“I’ll have it developed right away,” Collig agreed, “and do an immediate check to see whether it matches one in our files.”
Driving home, Frank suggested that they listen to Blaze’s program. Joe fiddled with the knob until he got the right kilocycle. A pop tune came bouncing through the radio. As it ended, they heard Blaze’s voice:
“Hello, out there! Ready for an afternoon of the sweet and cool with a dash of hot syncopation? That’s what you want, and that’s what I’ve got for you. And now to my dog Balto. Are you listening? The next number is dedicated to Flatfoot and the Flunkies. You don’t believe it? How suspicious can you get? Plenty. Sock it to ’em! Right up here in Bayport. That’s the ticket!”
Joe snapped the radio off. “Is that stuff supposed to be groovy?” he growled.

CHAPTER XI  
  Patter in Code
 
 
 
 
“I don’t think Blaze is trying to be groovy,” Frank responded with a thoughtful frown. “That kind of talk sounded to me more like a riddle.”
“You mean a code? Secret information for listeners who know how to decipher it?”
“Why not? Look, what do you make of Flatfoot and the Flunkies?”
“Dad and ourselves!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s it! Balto must stand for Baltimore. He’s telling his confederates in Baltimore that you and I are suspicious about Dad’s disappearance!”
Frank shifted gears and turned into their driveway. “That’s how I figure it. The rest fits in, too. When he mentions socking it to ’em in Bayport, that could be an order for his pals to deal with us!”
“But we can’t be sure that’s his game after hearing him on the air only once. Let’s have his program monitored while we’re in Pittsburgh. Chet and the others will probably be glad to oblige. I’ll give them a ring.”
Their friends were enthusiastic. They liked Blaze’s recordings. And they vowed to listen in turn to his patter in the hope of breaking the code, if there was one.
That settled, the Hardys were preparing for their trip when Chet Morton’s car drew up in front of their house, wheezing and backfiring as usual.
Joe was puzzled. “We just talked to him over the phone. Wonder why he’s coming to see us.”
“He must have bounced over here as fast as his motorized tin can would travel,” Frank replied. “We’d better go out and see what’s bothering him.”
Chet’s car was standing at the curb. The driver sat at the wheel, fiddling with the ignition.
Joe called out, “Chet, what’s up?”
“That’s not Chet!” Frank shouted the warning. “Duck, Joe!”
Too late! A man hiding in the back of the car leaped out. Leveling a spray gun at them, he fired its contents into their faces. The liquid burned and stung. Frank and Joe staggered back, temporarily blinded by the assault.
“There’s more where this came from,” snarled their assailant. “Pull out of the mere racket while you’ve got time! Stay on our backs, and you’ll go the way your old man went! We’re through fooling with you!”
Before Frank and Joe could open their eyes to get a look at the pair, the car had roared off. The boys soon recovered, agreed that they had been the victims of a variety of tear gas, and returned to the house. After a thorough soap-and-water washing, they consulted their father about the incident.
The phone rang during the conversation. Chet was calling. “You know what’s happened?” he queried glumly. “My car’s been stolen. My pride and joy is in the hands of thieves!”
“We’ve just seen it,” Joe told him. “In fact, it was borrowed for a visit to Frank and me.” He described what had happened. “Report the theft to the police, Chet. They should be able to locate it easily. There aren’t many cars like it around. And tell them that it was used for shooting gas into our faces. I was just about to call Chief Collig myself.”
Chet phoned later to say that his jalopy had been found. “The thieves abandoned it near the bay. The crime lab people examined it, but found nothing incriminating.”
“No clues at all?” Frank questioned.
“No. Chief Collig says the guys were pros who didn’t leave any calling cards. Not so much as a fingerprint. So he still has no lead to the mercury gang.”
Mr. Hardy decided that leaving from Bayport for Pittsburgh might be too risky, so he and his sons drove to an airport several miles away. Jack Wayne had flown in to pick them up, and they were soon in the air.
When the Golden Triangle at the confluence of the Allegheny and the Monongahela showed up in the distance, Jack cut his engines, made a big circle, and came down for a landing on instructions from the control tower.
Then he went into the administration building, while the Hardys rented a car. “We’re to rendezvous with our friend at the third motel right down this highway,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Place called Vacation Inn.”
Frank made the turn at the neon sign. The motel was an oblong structure with rooms along three sides. They parked and went directly to the room where the admiral was waiting. It was in the middle of one section, so the get-together would be as inconspicuous as possible.
The officer was dressed in civilian clothes when he opened the door. “Another precaution,” he informed the Hardys. “My naval uniform would stick out like a sore thumb in this place.”
He motioned Frank and Joe to sit down on the sofa, while Mr. Hardy made a quick search for hidden microphones. Then the admiral went right to the heart of the matter.
“This Bombay Boomerang angle has me stumped. At the Pentagon, we’ve played the tape from Commander Wenn’s office over and over. With regard to that phrase, we literally don’t know anything yet.”
He glanced at the two boys. “I hear you fellows are experimenting with boomerangs, so maybe you have a theory.”
Frank shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir.”
“My secretary did some research, and she said the weapon is native to India as well as Australia. Does that tidbit lead us anywhere?”
Frank shrugged. “Where it leads—if it leads anywhere—I don’t know. But your secretary is right, Admiral. The Indian boomerang isn’t as famous as the Australian version, but many Indian families cherish their boomerangs as heirlooms and even as sacred relics.”
“Our expert, Chet Morton of Bayport, says that in olden times Bombay was the metropolis of the southern India boomerang country,” Joe put in.
“India keeps popping up in this case,” Frank noted. “Remember that Indian desk clerk in Baltimore. He’s been one of our suspects ever since we saw him. And—”
Mr. Hardy held up a warning hand. “Sh! Someone’s outside the door!” 
A key eased into the keyhole. The individual trying the lock twisted it gently at first, then with greater force as it stuck. He was determined to get into the room.
Admiral Rodgers strode to the door. Flinging it open, he surprised a man bending over and fumbling with the key.
“What do you want?” the admiral barked.
“I want to get into my room. What are you guys doing here? This is number 69, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s 89!” The admiral’s tone showed his annoyance at the interruption.
The man was plainly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he stammered apologetically. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He retreated toward number 69.
“An honest mistake, I believe,” Rodgers said, rejoining the circle. “But it’s enough to give one the jitters when strangers crash into a conference like this.”
“We can arrange to keep them away,” Joe declared with a grin. “At least honest ones!” Stepping over to the door, he hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer knob.
Mr. Hardy picked up the thread of the conversation. “I believe the vital question concerns the relation between the mercury case and the missing missile. What can they possibly have in common? If we knew that, we’d have the solution.”
“There’s another mystery that might link the two, although right now I don’t see how,” Frank said. He and Joe reported their suspicion of Teddy Blaze, the artist of the disks.
They stressed their belief that his patter contained coded messages for his confederates.
“Anyway,” Frank continued, “we may soon have a break on this angle. Joe took a thumbprint from one of Blaze’s records. We left it with Chief Collig to be checked out.”
Admiral Rodgers was impressed by the news.
“It’s a lead worth running down,” Mr. Hardy stated emphatically. “There’s got to be a Baltimore-Bayport connection in all this. What do you think, Admiral?”
“I agree with you. But the Indian angle also has to be considered. I’ve been looking into it myself. A freighter from India is docking at Baltimore day after tomorrow. The Nanda Kailash.”
“You think she warrants investigation?” Frank asked.
“Yes. Find out what cargo she carries, what crew is handling her, and if there is anything suspicious about her voyage.”
“We’ll be glad to check her out, sir,” Joe said.
“Fine. But I don’t want everyone on the ship to get wind that an official investigation is underway. I’ll arrange with the captain for you to go aboard without arousing suspicion. And you’re both good detectives. Is that all right with you, Mr. Hardy?”
“Frank and Joe can take care of themselves,” the detective replied. “I have every confidence that they can give the freighter the once-over, and bring back the facts.”
“Okay, then.” Rodgers wound up the conference. “We’ll leave it at that until something breaks. You can report to me at my office. If I’m not there, call my home any time of the day or night and we can get together. This case must be solved, and judging from the Hardy record, you could be the ones to do it.”
“That’s a compliment, Admiral,” said Mr. Hardy, “and I hope we can make it stand up. This is about as tough an assignment as I’ve ever been on.”
Frank and Joe echoed the words of their father. “We’ll do our best to beat this gang,” Frank said.
Admiral Rodgers went immediately to the airport to fly back to Washington. The Hardys spent the night at the motel. Early Friday morning they left for Baltimore. They took turns driving the rented car.
Frank looked at his watch as they neared their destination. “This is one of the hours when Teddy Blaze is on the air. We might as well listen to his program, Dad. It’ll give you some idea of what we’re talking about. And you might pick up a clue that would get by us.”
Joe flipped the radio to the Bayport station. The disk jockey was playing a popular recording, and the rhythmic beat filled the car.
“Nothing to pick up there,” Mr. Hardy declared. “That music isn’t my cup of tea. Guess I’m too old and far away from the younger generation to appreciate it.”
The piece ended. Blaze came on with his breezy patter. At first everything seemed in order. He was talking the jargon of the trade, using the slang of the new generation to hold the attention of his audience.
Suddenly his tone changed, and so did his patter. Through the radio came the words, “Balto says tonight is the night for a new record album ”Steal My Heart Away,” and it’s strictly for you, precious.”
“Now there’s a nonsense line if I ever heard one,” Joe volunteered. “That is, if it really is nonsense. You see, Dad, that’s why we think there may be more to it than meets the ear.”
Frank had been musing over Blaze’s announcement. “Assuming that he’s in with the mercury thieves, he could be telling them that a new assignment is on the agenda. He might be ordering them into action tonight. But where?”
The three discussed the possibilities in this interpretation. They were baffled when they came to the word “precious” in the disk jockey’s talk.
Suddenly Mr. Hardy sat bolt upright. “I know a company in Baltimore named Precious Metals!” he exclaimed. “Can it be next on the gang’s list? Will Precious Metals discover tomorrow that a shipment of mercury has been stolen?”

CHAPTER XII  
  Cemetery Search
 
 
 
 
“IF those thugs are planning to hit Precious Metals,” Fenton Hardy mused, “then I’d better warn the company. We can’t just sit on this information while they make off with the mercury.”
“Well, we certainly have to do something,” Frank agreed. “But suppose an employee of the firm belongs to the gang. If you phone he might get wind of what’s up and sound the alarm. And he could be in management. Even if you went there in person—”
“That’s right!” Joe interrupted. “They could call off the heist at the last moment and reschedule the operation for a later date.”
His father mulled over the problem. “You’re probably right. In any case, we should be able to keep the factory under surveillance. Pull into that service station over there, Frank. I want to phone a friend of mine.”
After making the call, Mr. Hardy explained that his friend had an office in a high-rise building across from the Precious Metals company.
“He’s invited us to use his premises in any way we see fit. As there’s some distance between the two buildings, my idea is to rig up a telescope and watch events in the factory yard. We can buy a ten-magnification model on our way downtown.”
Soon they had reached their destination. With Frank carrying the black barrel of the instrument, and Joe the tripod, they went to the top floor. Mr. Hardy’s friend, who was on his way out of town, had telephoned the superintendent to unlock his office and let them in. Without wasting a minute they set the telescope up at an open window.
Training it on the rear of the factory, Mr. Hardy scrutinized the area. “This will do nicely. We’ll be able to spot a single flask of mercury, and even the label. Have a look!”
Frank peered through the eyepiece. The magnifying power of the instrument made every object look enormous. Swiveling it from left to right, he took in the panorama of office buildings, warehouses, and trucking areas.
“A lot of movement going on,” he said. “And a row of mercury flasks in one corner. Could they be what the gang is after?”
Joe took his turn at the telescope. “Wonder if anybody we know is working down there. Guess not, but we seem near enough to strike up a conversation. Wouldn’t that driver in the green truck be surprised to learn that we’ve met by way of a telescopic lens!”
The Hardys had a clear view of Precious Metals until evening when rain started to fall heavily.
“No use staring into that deluge,” Fenton Hardy muttered in disgust. “Our rig will be useless until it stops.”
About an hour later the rain slackened off, then petered out. The three observers trained their telescope back on the factory yard, which was now empty.
“The afternoon shift has gone home,” Frank observed. “The only guy left is the guard at the gate.”
“Anything suspicious we should report to the police?” his father inquired.
“Maybe!” Frank answered with suppressed excitement after a short pause. “The guard is letting a truck through. It’s pulling up to the mercury flasks! The men in the truck are too furtive to be legitimate. I think the robbery must be on, although the truck is blocking our view! Take a look at that, Dad!”
Meanwhile, Joe called Captain Stein. “We’ll have reinforcements in a few minutes,” he said as he put down the phone. “The police are on their way.”
“Those flasks are heavy,” Frank added. “Stealing that many should keep them occupied long enough for the U. S. Cavalry to come riding to the rescue!”
“Wrong!” his father exclaimed in startled tones. “The truck is moving already! There it goes, right through the gate! And the flasks are all gone!”
The Hardys rushed down to the street to meet the police. A rapid inspection of Precious Metals showed that the detective had been right. The thieves had gotten clean away with the mercury. There was no sign of the guard, either.
“An inside job,” Mr. Hardy explained to the two police officers who had arrived with Captain Stein. “The guard at the gate was in on it. Obviously the thieves waited for him to give them the high sign. All they had to do was drive in, load the truck, and drive out. He probably went with them.”
“The mystifying thing is the timing of the job,” Frank declared. “Even with inside help, it should have taken much longer to steal a shipment of mercury. No one can juggle one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks as if they were empty beer cans!”
The captain shook his head. “Something mighty strange is going on here. Did you get the license number of the truck?”
“Yes.” Frank handed him a slip of paper on which he had written it down.
“We’ll check it out, even though I’m afraid it’s a phony.” Captain Stein went to his car and reported the number over his radiotelephone. Then he rejoined the Hardys.
“Frank and Joe, suppose you get to work on this problem with Captain Stein right away,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I’ll have to get back to Bayport before morning.”
“Okay,” said Frank. “Let’s take our rig down at the office and be on our way.”
Upstairs, while the boys disassembled the telescope, Mr. Hardy donned one of his numerous disguises. “Can’t go back into the lion’s den any other way.” He grinned. A thick black wig covered his head and he pulled a matching beard and mustache out of his brief case. By the time he was finished, even his sons did not recognize him.
“One more point,” he said, before departing. “Since I’ll be in Bayport, I’ll see what I can find out about Teddy Blaze, beginning with a visit to headquarters. The thumbprint report should be on the chief’s desk by now.”
Frank and Joe joined the police in searching the Precious Metals property for clues to the robbery.
“Footprints first?” Joe inquired. “After the cloudburst, the thieves couldn’t have tramped across the yard without leaving some pretty good prints.”
“We have a clear set right here,” an officer grunted with satisfaction. He was pointing to the spot where the men had lifted the flasks into the truck. “The guy who made them was big. Size thirteen shoe, probably. Otherwise, I can’t see that they tell us anything we didn’t know before.”
Frank was squatting down, giving the footprints a thorough inspection. “Look closer, Officer. What do you make of the depth of these marks?”
“Depth? Oh, I see what you mean. They’re shallow. Those guys don’t seem to have been carrying much more than their own weight.”
“Yet,” Frank pursued the point, “they’re supposed to have been toting flasks weighing a hundred and thirty-five pounds. One flask is enough to make a man sink flat-footed in the mud!”
The policeman frowned. “Perhaps we’ll have the answer when Jack here from the crime lab takes impressions. Footprints and tire marks both,” he added to his colleague, who was getting out his equipment.
Frank and Joe watched as the lab man took impressions from the soft ground. “We’re not the only ones interested,” Frank said suddenly, cocking a thumb at a couple of sailors who seemed fascinated with the proceedings at the scene of the crime.
The seamen were Indians, each dressed in a blue jacket with a red stocking cap on his head. Their dark eyes took in the scene, flickering from the Hardy boys to the policemen, and then down along the ground where tire ruts had corrugated the earth just off the pavement.
“The Indian theme again,” Joe murmured. “Do they give you the impression of being spies, Frank?”
“I haven’t made up my mind on that. Anyway, they have a perfect right to watch what we’re doing. No point in challenging them just yet. Better wait for them to tip their hand.”
Captain Stein approached. “We’ve got clear impressions. Nothing more on the footprints than you mentioned before. They’re too shallow for men carrying heavy burdens.”
Frank nodded. “I thought so.”
“The tire impressions are something else. We know that the left rear tire of the truck is worn nearly bald, far down past the treads. The right has a deep slash that’s cut into the rubber almost to the inner tube. They’re sure headed for a super blowout.”
“That might just be the break we need,” Frank said.
“Right. We’re going to cruise around this part of Baltimore and look for the truck along the routes leading toward the city. Want to come along, boys?”
“Sure!” was the instantaneous answer. They climbed into the back of the car, while the three officers occupied the front seat. Back and forth they cruised, up and down the truck routes, without sighting the vehicle that Frank and Joe had watched at Precious Metals.
“Let’s try the service stations,” remarked the captain, “in case a blowout’s occurred already. They may have called for assistance.”
He cut off the highway into the first gas station. Frank and Joe got out and asked whether the attendant had received a call concerning a truck with a flat tire, but the answer was negative. They had no more luck at the next half-dozen service stations. Then Captain Stein received a report on the radio that the license number was a phony.
Finally the first break developed. One attendant told them about a call he had received from near Westminster Churchyard, at Fayette and Greene streets. A truck driver had reported that his right rear tire had gone completely. “He wanted us to give him a tow,” the man said. “I told him we’d be along whenever we could, but we’ve been tied up with an accident along the highway. Haven’t been out to Westminster yet.”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Captain Stein, and stepped on the gas.
One of his colleagues turned and glanced at the Hardys. “As detectives you should be interested in Westminster Churchyard. The writer who invented the detective story is buried there. Edgar Allan Poe himself.”
Joe chuckled. “We sure could use him on this case. It’s as tough as the murders in the Rue Morgue any time!”
The patrol car swung through the city up to the cemetery. “There he is.” The officer pointed to Poe monument, Baltimore’s salute to the master of mysteries. “And that appears to be the truck we’re looking for!”
It was the one all right. The blowout had torn the one tire to shreds, but the second fitted the impression taken from the Precious Metals loading area.
“No one inside,” Frank observed. “They must have been scared off while they were waiting for a tow.”
“No load, either,” Joe added. “The mercury flasks are gone!”
“The crooks probably carted them off by hand,” Frank went on. “If they transferred them to another truck, they wouldn’t have called the service station to fix the blowout. Joe, the flasks might be stashed away not far from here!”
“The cemetery! We’d better give it a search!”
Captain Stein agreed. “Let’s separate. You two go together, and if you see anything, give a yell!”
“And don’t let the spooks get you,” one policeman said with a grin.
“It’s spooky all right,” Frank muttered as they set out.
In the moonlit graveyard leaves rustled in the wind. Tombstones cast eerie shadows. Off in the distance a dog howled.
Frank and Joe began working down from the northwest corner where the Poe monument stood, stepping carefully around the graves as they searched.
A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, leaving the cemetery in darkness. The boys waited for the brightness to return. To while away the time, Frank asked in an undertone, “Which of Poe’s characters does this situation remind you of?”
“The black cat.” Joe grimaced.
The cloud swept past. They resumed their search under the light of the moon. “What’s that?” Frank pointed to an object, shaped like a milk bottle, near a large mausoleum.
“A mercury flask!”
They hastened around behind the mausoleum and found a pile of containers, heaped up as if they had been thrown there in a hurry.
Frank picked one up. “Hey, Joe! This sure doesn’t weigh a hundred and thirty-five pounds. In fact, it’s empty!”
Joe examined a number of others and whistled softly. “So are they all. The mercury is gone!”

CHAPTER XIII  
  Aboard the Indian Freighter
 
 
 
 
JOE held one of the flasks upside down and waited to see if any last drops of mercury would drip out. None did. He tried the same experiment on several more containers with the same negative results.
“If it had been a quick-change operation and the thieves had poured the mercury into their own containers, we’d be almost certain to find a trace in each flask. Yet these are all bone-dry.”
“Of course they are. They were empty to begin with,” Frank said, “which helps us to fit together two pieces of this jigsaw puzzle. First, we heard one of the gang mention ‘heisting the empties.’ That makes sense now. And second, the footprints at the Precious Metals loading yard were too shallow for men carrying one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks. Now we know why. There was no mercury in them.”
“It must have been stolen earlier,” Joe agreed. “Probably on the dock where the cargo was landed, or maybe aboard ship. The empty flasks might have been taken to throw us off the track.”
“So,” Frank said, “it’s just as well we have an appointment with an Indian freighter. Right now we’d better tell Captain Stein of our discovery. And we’ll call Dad early tomorrow morning.”
The police investigated the place where the flasks had been discarded. After that, they drove Frank and Joe to a hotel, where the boys took a room for the night. Next morning they telephoned their father through a Bayport neighbor, since they were afraid their own phone was still being tapped. Mr. Hardy was puzzled by the empty mercury flasks. He said he would query other companies that handled mercury and call back.
An hour later the boys were still batting the mystery back and forth when the phone rang. Their father said that several companies reported finding empty mercury flasks. “They’re baffled about the method used by this gang. You could be right in suspecting thievery on the dock or the ships. See what you can find out aboard the Nanda Kailash and keep your eyes open for any connection between the disappearing mercury and the Bombay Boomerang, Frank!” 
“Okay, Dad. We’ll go to the ship right away.”
Frank and Joe took a taxi to the harbor. They drove along a narrow street lined by large warehouses and heavy trucks to an open area dominated by the Indian freighter tied up at the dock. She was painted black, with a white band high above the waterline amidships. Derricks, slings, and lifts rose over the hold from which the cargo was being unloaded. The stern, riding high out of the water as it became lighter, bore the name Nanda Kailash, and underneath her home port, Bombay. 
The taxi stopped at a gate where the guard told the boys they would have to proceed on foot. They saw mobile cranes handling massive bales of jute. Piles of debris covered much of the dock—broken crates, empty barrels, lumber, and other fallout of unloading activity. A big red barge, rocking at the dockside behind the freighter, was receiving part of the cargo for transportation across the harbor.
“Plenty of action around here,” Joe observed.
Dark-skinned workmen from the Nanda Kailash, wearing navy-blue sweaters, bustled between the deck and the dock. Frank asked one how to get aboard. The man, giving them a suspicious stare, pointed to a steep metal stairway extending up the side of the ship. 
“Climb we must,” Frank quipped. He took hold of the white rope railings on either side and started up the steps, feeling them sway under his weight. Joe followed close behind.
They were halfway up the stairs, with a steep drop to the dock beneath them, when Frank suddenly jerked to one side and yelled, “Duck, Joe!”
His brother swung out on one railing in a reflex action. A huge bale of jute came hurtling down, barely missing them and landing on the dock with a heavy thud.
Joe took a deep breath. “Wow! Was that, or was it not accidental?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Anyway, let’s get up on deck before we’re treated to an encore.”
The long deck extended toward the bow on the right, to the stern on the left. The boys had paused to inspect a bulletin board where the names of the ship’s officers were posted when a steward asked what business they had on board. After listening to their explanation, he led them down a narrow corridor to a large cabin.
“This is the chief officer’s quarters,” he said in a soft Indian accent. “Please sit down. I will inform him of your arrival. Would you prefer tea or coffee? ... Coffee? ... A few moments, please.”
Frank and Joe glanced around the room. They were surprised at the degree of comfort it reflected. The paneled walls and furniture seemed to be mahogany. A couch, three chairs, and a table were covered in a gay multicolored print. One cabinet held a radio and record player.
On the opposite side of the cabin was a built-in bunk with a drawer in its base, flanked by a desk on which lay a volume entitled Rough Logbook. Nautical pictures hung on the wall opposite the porthole. 
“Nice pad,” Joe murmured. “Life at sea must have its compensations.”
The door opened. A dark, good-looking man came in. Shaking hands with the boys, he introduced himself in excellent English as Chief Officer Jal Agopal, substituting for the captain, who was ashore.
The steward appeared holding a tray with a white coffeepot, three cups, milk and sugar. Deftly setting a cup and napkin at three places on the table, he withdrew.
Jal Agopal took a sip of coffee, then inquired what he could do for his visitors. “Naturally I am anxious to aid Admiral Rodgers in every possible way,” he said.
“Perhaps the first thing I should mention,” Frank replied, “is an incident that happened when we were coming aboard.” He described the bale of jute that nearly knocked them off the ladder.
The chief officer expressed his apologies, adding that he was as mystified as they were. “You must have noted that the cranes swing cargo over that part of the ship. But I’ve never known that kind of thing to happen before. I will make an investigation.”


  
“Duck, Joe!” Frank yelled
Joe asked about the crew.
“We carry fourteen officers and thirty-six men,” Agopal replied. “I’m not familiar with the personal background of each one of them. All I can say is that every man is skillful at his particular job on the freighter. If there is anything wrong, it hasn’t come to my attention.”
“Perhaps the cargo might give us a clue,” Frank put in. “What are you carrying this trip?”
“The usual things. Tea, curios, jute, burlap, carpets—”
“Mercury, too?”
“Yes, also mercury. We loaded the flasks at the Spanish port of Cadiz.”
“Where do you keep them during the voyage from Spain to the United States?”
“In the hold with the rest of the cargo. Come. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Jal Agopal led the Hardys out of the cabin, along the narrow corridor, and back on deck. As they walked toward the hold, Joe nudged Frank and nodded toward a sailor slinking along on the opposite side of the deck.
He was a rough-looking character in a plaid work shirt, who ducked behind a pile of crates when he realized that he had been spotted. When the boys pretended to have lost interest in him, he promptly reappeared.
“Our bodyguard,” Joe whispered to his brother. “Services rendered free of charge.”
They reached the hold, a yawning cavern that looked to be two or three stories deep. The men working at the bottom were shifting carpets onto hooks attached to cables that carried them in swinging arcs up to the deck and across the side onto the dock.
“Quite a lot of activity,” Frank said to the chief officer.
“We have only a limited time to unload, load, turn around and meet our timetable for the trip back to India,” he replied. “To you it must seem very confused. Actually, every step is precisely planned.”
“I don’t see any mercury flasks,” Joe said.
“You will. They come aboard on trays, fifty at a time. You undoubtedly know that they are heavy, and are fastened with screw-type steel caps. As a sling lowers a tray into the hold, members of the crew lift the flasks off one by one and store them together in the hold space provided for them.
“Because of their weight, they need special attention when they reach the hold. We shore them up with wood to prevent slipping. And we do not pile any other type of cargo on top of them.”
“How safe are the flasks in the hold?” Frank asked. “I mean, can the crew get at them either during the voyage or in port?”
“Oh, yes. The hold itself is open. These particular flasks have not been unloaded yet. But there is no rule that prevents the members of the crew from going down into the hold and inspecting them, as long as no one gets in the way of the men working on the docks.”
The boys leaned over the edge for a better look. Men called back and forth in their native tongue. Those below signaled to the men above when to haul away. Winches, tackle, and cables strained under the weight of their burdens.
Joe stepped onto a pile of rope, paying little attention to the events on deck. Suddenly the rope tightened with a tremendous jerk as someone yanked the other end. Joe tumbled head over heels into the hold, hurtling down toward the bottom far below!

CHAPTER XIV  
  Down the Hatch
 
 
 
 
HORRIFIED, Frank saw his brother topple head over heels into the hold. The chief officer gasped. Crewmen shouted excitedly in Hindustani and English. But no one could do a thing to help!
Flailing his arms wildly, Joe fell like a stone. Then, in mid-air, his toe hit something. Throwing out a hand, he grabbed hold of a cable and swung himself onto a rolled carpet that was being hoisted up onto the deck of the Nanda Kailash.
Joe stood up shakily when the carpet hit the deck. “This kind of trip I could have done without,” he muttered, managing a weak smile.
Frank was ghastly pale. “I thought we’d be picking you up in little pieces at the bottom!”
“Someone on this ship doesn’t like us,” Joe said, his face grim. He looked straight at the chief officer.
Jal Agopal plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Thank God we were unloading carpets when you fell,” he said with a sigh.
Then his gaze traveled beyond the boys to the crew. “This is an outrage!” he declared, and there were both anger and fear in his voice. “I intend to find out at once who pulled the rope that tripped this boy! If it was deliberate, he is a murderer! I want him identified!”
He ordered the entire crew to be mustered on deck. The men lined up along the railing towering over the dock. Agopal addressed them.
“Most of you must know by now of the near-fatal accident that just occurred. For those of you who haven’t heard, I will simply say that one of our American guests fell into the hold because someone pulled a rope from under his feet. He managed to seize one of the cables, which is the only reason he is alive to tell the tale. If any of you have any information on this, speak up!”
A dead silence greeted the announcement. Jal Agopal spoke to a number of the men assigned to the unloading, but they all insisted that they were hard at work at the time. Even the eyewitnesses had no idea how it had happened.
Frank and Joe conversed in low tones with the chief officer, describing the individual who had been following them around the ship. Agopal invited them to inspect those on the deck, and to see if they could identify their shadow.
The boys went down the line, peering sharply into each face. At the end, they declared positively that the man in question was not there.
“He must have sneaked aboard,” Frank suggested to the chief officer.
“That may well be correct,” he replied with a worried frown. “This is the whole crew. Any additional personnel would be strictly unauthorized. As long as we remain in port, I will post special guards to catch this stranger if he tries to slip on or off the ship. But why would he deliberately try to harm you?”
“Perhaps he mistook us for someone else,” Frank said casually. Soon after that, he and Joe went ashore. They shook hands with Jal Agopal, climbed down the swaying stairs from which they had almost been swept while boarding the ship, and made their way back to the hotel.
Soon they were sitting in their room munching sandwiches and discussing the recent events. Frank scratched his head. “The mystifying thing is how this character knew enough to follow us aboard. We didn’t broadcast the news of our arrival.”
“I’m with you on that. But don’t forget that the mercury gang has a lot of operatives, including several who can identify us on sight. They must have tailed us, learned of our plan, and detailed an agent to arrange a rousing welcome for us on the freighter.”
Frank nodded. “Rousing and final. He carried out his assignment so well that flowers would have been appropriate if that carpet hadn’t come along in time to offer you a lift.”
“Don’t I know it! I can still feel myself going down the hatch in a perfect swan dive!”
“Then there’s the question—”
Frank never got to state the question. A tremendous thump on the door brought both boys to their feet. Racing to the door, they wrenched it open and caught a glimpse of a furtive figure disappearing into the elevator.
A heavy, circular, wooden object, propped up against the door, toppled forward, tripping them up.
“This looks familiar,” Joe observed as he tilted it on edge and rolled it into the room.
“It should,” Frank answered grimly. “That’s the top of the cask Dad was in when the thugs dropped him into the harbor. They must have found it down on the dock. Do you realize what this means?”
“This!” Joe pointed to a message painted across the wood with a spray gun. It said: 
PUNKS! SO YOUR OLD MAN IS ALIVE! WE WILL GET HIM, AND YOU TOO! 
Joe touched the lettering with his finger. “This paint job wasn’t done too long ago. It’s hardly dry.”
“It was probably done after your unsuccessful trip into the cargo hold. I wonder when they found the lid!”
“We’d better call Dad and tell him that his escape has been discovered.”
“First let’s clear out of this place or—” Another sound at the door brought them to their feet again, ready for action. Since they had left the door ajar, they expected a band of thugs to come storming in on them. Frank seized a chair and swung it in front of him. Joe prepared to use his favorite karate technique.
A hand pushed the door wide open. Two figures stood on the threshold.
“Relax!” a familiar voice exclaimed.
“No need to break up the furniture just because we’re here,” said another.
Phil Cohen and Tony Prito!
Joe grinned at their pals from Bayport. “Boy, are we glad to see you! We were expecting to tango with some rather unfriendly partners.”
“Including,” Phil guessed, “the strong-arm pair from our home town?”
“The same. But what brings you here just when the death-defying Hardys were about to go into their act?” Frank asked.
“Your father,” Tony explained. “Indirectly, anyhow. He told us he had left you here to case an Indian freighter. After we talked to him, it seemed cruel to let you handle this problem by yourselves, especially since you might be eyeball-to-eyeball with an entire gang. So we decided to give you some shock troops support.”
“We can use it!” Frank said, then told his friends about the enemy’s latest strike against Joe.
“Seems as if we’re going to get a piece of real good action!” Phil declared.
“You might. But first tell us the latest news from Bayport. How’s Chet doing?”
Tony chuckled. “We would have brought him along, but he’s too busy with his boomerangs. In fact, he’s such a success that he’s going into business, selling them to a local hardware store. There’s no lack of customers. The kids have a boomerang club, and they’re tossing those things like crazy all over the landscape!”
“Not only the landscape,” Phil said with a laugh. “So many of them keep whirling off-course in Bayport that the glaziers are doing a bang-up business replacing broken windows. Quite a few hats have been knocked off, too. No injuries, however, as far as we’ve heard.”
Finally Frank called the meeting to order. “Phil and Tony, suppose you stay here in the hotel room. Joe and I will go down the fire escape to avoid any thugs who might be lurking in the lobby. We must phone a warning to Dad that his cover’s been blown for a second time. Then the four of us will hold a council of war concerning our tactics. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Frank and Joe descended the fire escape without incident, located a pay phone booth, and called their Bayport contact again. No one was home at the Hardy house, however, and the neighbor promised to pass the warning on to Fenton Hardy as soon as he returned.
The boys went back to the hotel and circled around to the rear. Suddenly Joe nudged Frank and pointed upward. A man was climbing up the fire escape toward their room! He moved cautiously, casting covert glances at the tenth-floor window.
The Hardys exchanged silent signals. Joe ran around to the lobby. Seizing the house phone, he told Phil and Tony of the approaching prowler. Frank started up the fire escape at top speed, but the man, with a long head start, reached the open window before him and edged himself through into the room.
As Frank mounted, he heard sounds of a struggle. Phil and Tony had jumped the intruder, and he was giving them a battle royal. Breaking loose, he scrambled back over the window ledge, regained the fire escape, and started down.
Only then did he become aware that Frank was on his way up to meet him. He turned to retreat up the fire escape. Frank brought him down with a flying tackle on the ninth-floor landing.
High above the street, they grappled with one another on the iron platform. Frank’s powerful adversary threw him on his back and began to pound his head against the iron grating. In a desperate attempt to break the man’s grip Frank wedged a hand under his chin.
Clutched in deadly embrace the two rolled toward the edge of the landing, and toward nine stories of empty space beneath them!

CHAPTER XV  
  Sailor Suspect
 
 
 
 
FRANK grabbed one of the bars of the fire escape to keep from going over the edge. Wrenching himself free, he scrambled to his feet and met his opponent with a one-two combination of punches. The man keeled over backward and lay motionless.
“Cold as a clam,” Frank thought. “It’s good he left me that opening or I might be on a long jump to the street.”
He turned to the other three who had joined him on the landing. “Let’s tote our visitor inside and hear what he has to say for himself.”
They carried the man into their room and placed him on one of the beds. As he gradually returned to consciousness, his body twitched and he mumbled in a foreign language. He was young, no more than twenty, the boys estimated.
They searched him and found a carved dagger of a type common in the Orient.
“He’s from India,” Phil observed, studying the youth’s skin and regular features.
“And that must be Hindustani he’s speaking,” Tony said. “It’s no language I ever heard.”
“Correct on all counts,” Joe asserted. “I’ve seen this man before. He was aboard the Indian freighter. Remember, Frank? He was in that line-up we inspected.”
Frank pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. “Yes, I thought I recognized the face during our tussle on the fire escape. This can only mean one thing. He’s in cahoots with the guy that tried to throw you down into the cargo hold, Joe. Maybe others are involved too—including our friend Agopal.”
Joe nodded grimly. “I was hoping that it had been an outside job, but now the whole crew is suspect.”
“You should have your answer in just a moment,” Tony spoke up. “Our friend appears to be coming to.”
The man groaned and opened his eyes. Obviously the four faces staring sternly down at him frightened him. He moved over to the wall before sitting up.
“Who are you?” he stammered, looking at Phil and Tony.
“Suppose you tell us who you are,” Joe said firmly.
“My name is Nathoo Keeka. I belong to the crew of the Nanda Kailash. We finished unloading here in Baltimore and were given shore leave.” 
“What have you got against me and my brother?” Frank demanded. “You’re going to stay where you are until you tell us the truth!”
The Indian sailor hesitated. He seemed to be debating with himself about how much he should tell. At last he spoke.
“I will tell you the truth, no matter what you may decide to do with me. There is nothing the least bit dishonorable in my conduct.”
“Oh, no?” Tony exploded. “What’s so high-minded about armed robbery with a dagger?”
“Robbery was not my intention,” Keeka protested indignantly. “I am no thief. I am a faithful worshipper of the high god Krishna!
“You!” He pointed an accusing finger at Frank and Joe. “You are the guilty ones. You have committed a sacrilege!”
The four boys were dumbfounded.
“Come again?” Joe suggested weakly.
“You two have desecrated a statue of Krishna. For that you must be punished. I am but the unworthy instrument of divine vengeance!”
“There’s a crazy kind of sense coming out here,” Frank muttered, pulling up a chair. He waved the others back to give the man more breathing room.
“Now listen to me,” he advised their prisoner. “That’s an absurd charge. We haven’t been near a statue of Krishna or any other Hindu god. Who told you that story?”
“Another man on the dock described the incident. He swore he saw you deface the image. I must vindicate the honor of the god who is sacred to me!”
“Tell us about the man who spun this yarn,” Phil urged. “Who was he? What did he look like?”
“I do not know his name. He was an Indian seaman I met on the dock.”
Nathoo Keeka proceeded to give a detailed description of a man in a plaid work shirt who had set him on the trail of the Hardy boys.
“The sneaky character aboard ship!” Frank burst out. “The one who followed us around the Nanda Kailash and yanked that rope that tumbled Joe into the hold!” 
“You mean he is an enemy of yours?” Nathoo asked in amazement. “He insisted that he had no interest in you personally. He was concerned, he said, about nothing except punishing you for the sacrilege you committed.”
“Why didn’t he punish us himself?” Joe inquired.
“He told me he was not a Hindu.”
“Then why does he want to avenge a Hindu god?”
Nathoo Keeka looked troubled. He folded his hands across his chest. “I see that I have been grossly deceived. My profound apologies to both of you. It is fortunate that you stopped me. I shall offer no resistance if you wish to summon the police to take me to jail.”
The boys held a hurried consultation. Believing the story, they decided to be lenient with their unexpected visitor.
Frank spoke for the group. “Don’t worry, Nathoo. Your explanation has convinced us that this is not a case for the police. Instead of prosecuting you, we’d like you to help us.”
“I will be glad to do anything you say.”
“The sailor who deceived you is a criminal. You don’t want him to go free, do you?”
The seaman shook his head.
“Neither do we. But this thing is bigger than one man. A gang is involved, and we could use another hand to help break it up.”
Frank gave Nathoo a general account of the mercury thefts. The Indian quickly grasped the problem. “Mercury? My freighter often carried cargoes of it. I have helped load and unload the flasks many times. Not as easy as you might think. They are heavy.”
“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “But they seem to lose their weight somewhere between the ship and their destination. That’s why we would like your cooperation.”
“How? I am merely a sailor aboard the freighter. How can I possibly help solve an American crime?”
“We’re not so sure that it’s strictly American. Anyhow, we have to start at the spot where the stuff comes into the country. It would be extremely useful if you could keep us posted regarding events aboard ship, so we can follow the mercury from the moment it is being unloaded.”
Keeka seemed doubtful. “Wouldn’t it be better to have the help of one of the officers?”
“Not at all,” Frank replied. “We need a man who can mingle with the crew and the workmen on the dock.”
“You fit the bill, Nathoo,” Joe urged. “Besides, you know one member of the gang. You might find a lead there. How about it?”
Nathoo Keeka reacted to the plea with a simple word. “Okay!”
After a minute he continued, “My country and yours will be better off for the capture of these criminals. And I will have the satisfaction of settling my account with the deceiver who hoped that I would murder you!”
Frank stood up. “That’s fine, Nathoo. Here’s your dagger. Now let’s get out of here.”
Since the Hardys had paid in advance, they did not have to go to the lobby. The five climbed through the window and descended the fire escape. Walking rapidly through a maze of streets and alleys, they headed for another hotel. Frank was sure they had not been followed.
All the while the boys kept up an animated conversation with their new friend. It had nothing to do with crime or criminals, but with the fascination of India.
“I’m interested in the god Krishna,” Phil declared. “Tell us more about him.”
“The great god Krishna,” Nathoo Keeka intoned gravely, “is the deity who preserves the universe. He is the hero of our epics. He is the teacher of kindness and brotherhood. You can see why he is so important in Hindu religion. The life of our people would be entirely different if we did not worship the mighty preserver of all things.”
Frank cast a glance at the Indian’s serious face as he continued:
“I was obeying our commandment against sacrilege when I tried to kill you. If you had really been guilty, I would not have felt a twinge of remorse!”
Tony felt slightly uncomfortable at Nathoo’s last statement and changed the subject with a quip.
“When I think of India, I have visions of tigers and elephants and maharajahs. That’s what I’ll be looking for if I ever go there!”
Nathoo Keeka laughed. “Tigers and elephants are there in the jungle. The maharajahs still exist, even though they are not as powerful as they used to be. My friend, come to India and we will hunt the tiger together!”
Joe mentioned the Taj Mahal. “Ah, there you have our masterpiece!” Keeka declared. “The Taj Mahal in Agra, built by the Great Moguls, who invaded India. But then, so much in our country was put there by invaders.
“My home city Bombay was only a small fishing village a few centuries ago. Then the British came. They needed a big seaport to handle merchantmen from Europe, and Bombay provided the site.”
Frank judged this the right moment to spring a surprise question on their informant.
“What do you know about the Bombay Boomerang?” he asked sharply.
“Why, we have plenty of boomerangs in Bombay. The people of southern India used them for hunting. Today, however, they are mainly considered objects of art, sacred relics, and cherished heirlooms. Antique dealers do a thriving business in them, especially to American tourists. Our—”
“I’m not talking about boomerangs in general,” Frank interrupted. “I’m talking about the Bombay Boomerang.”
“Bombay Boomerang? I don’t know what you mean. No single weapon has a special place in our tradition.” Nathoo stopped and broke into a grin. “Perhaps you refer to the Bombay Batarang? That is another freighter en route from India. She will dock at Baltimore this afternoon!” 

CHAPTER XVI  
  Boomerang or Batarang?
 
 
 
 
THE boys gaped in astonishment. They had been convinced that Bombay Boomerang was the phrase that had come through the phone in Commander Wenn’s office.
Was it possible that the words had been Bombay Batarang? the Hardys wondered. 
“What’s all this boomerang stuff about?” Phil inquired.
“Just a phrase we picked up. Thought it meant something,” Frank replied.
He pulled Joe aside and they let the others go ahead. “What do you make of this?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Admiral Rodgers, too, is sure that the intruders said Bombay Boomerang.”
“That was before we heard about the ship,” Frank countered. “Maybe the Pentagon tape should be checked again. Suppose the gang intends to slip the Super S on board the Batarang for a trip out of the country?” 
“We don’t have time to go back to the Pentagon, not with the freighter docking here this afternoon. Let’s check out the Batarang as soon as she comes in.” 
“Since there are five of us, we could divide forces, one group to go aboard, the other to patrol the docks,” Frank mused.
“Right. But remember, all this is classified information. We can’t tell the others much about it.”
“They don’t have to know the details,” Frank decided. “And we can give them a general idea of what we’re after.”
They found a suitable hotel and checked in. Then Frank called a conference and outlined their plan. Phil and Tony were eager and ready for action, and Nathoo Keeka spoke up excitedly.
“I can help. I have friends on the ship. We could visit them.”
Joe was enthusiastic. “That’s great, Nathoo. I’ll go with you.”
“Me, too,” Phil volunteered.
“Fair enough,” Tony said. “Three on board and two ashore. That leaves Frank and me to patrol the docks. Suit you, Frank?”
“Sure thing. Nathoo knows the ship and we’ll familiarize ourselves thoroughly with the docks. That way we should get a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”
The five went down to the dock to acquaint themselves with the area, streets, warehouses, fences, and the ships at anchor.
“Not much doing on Saturday afternoon,” Frank remarked. “Wonder who’s responsible for that eyesore.” He pointed to pile of junk. “Look at that Chevy. Vultures sure have done a job on it. Not a door or a wheel left.”
“Not even a window,” Joe added. “Well, there’s the Bombay Batarang at the pier. We’d better go aboard.” 
“Don’t forget,” Frank warned, “that you three are to rendezvous with us here on the dock this evening. If you don’t show up on time, we’ll have to assume that you’ve run into’trouble and come for you. Maybe we’ll even call the police.”
“Why don’t you give us more time?” Joe asked. “Let’s say till the early-morning hours. We might be able to find out something by talking to the crew when they’re off duty tonight.”
“Okay, let’s make it dawn,” Frank agreed.
Joe, Phil, and Nathoo walked across the dock toward the Bombay Batarang. Behind the freighter a red barge bobbed up and down on the waves. Stevedores were busy transferring jute into the barge, moving the huge bales through side doors that gave access to a deep, dark interior. 
The three climbed a steep ladder, with Nathoo Keeka in the lead.
“Here’s hoping no one throws a bale of jute at us this time,” Joe thought, recalling the narrow brush with death he and Frank had encountered while boarding the Nanda Kailash.
One by one they stepped onto the deck of the freighter. From the opposite side of the ship came the loud clang of hammers beating on metal.
“What’s that noise?” Phil asked.
“Members of the crew knocking the rust off the hull,” Nathoo explained. “But allow me to describe the layout of the freighter before anyone interrupts us. After all, we might get separated, in which case you should know where you are on the ship and how to get off by the most expeditious route.
“The first deck—the one on which we are standing—has the chief officer’s cabin, much like the one on the Nanda Kailash. The second deck has the captain’s cabin.”
“Probably the nicest accommodations on the ship,” Joe remarked.
Nathoo grinned. “The third deck,” he went on, “is of the utmost importance because that is where the chart room and the bridge are located. I know the first mate in charge of navigation. His name is Ram Giga.”
He led the way up to the third deck via a series of metal stairs. Continuing on toward the bow, Nathoo and his companions reached the chart room.
This was a narrow cubicle with a high built-in worktable. Books on navigation and maps on the Atlantic coastline were scattered across it. The log told the daily story of the voyage from India. The echo sounder on one side indicated the depth of the water under the ship.
The two officers in the room looked up as the visitors entered. One was Ram Giga.
“Welcome, Nathoo!” he said with a wide smile. “Who are your friends?”
Nathoo introduced Phil and Joe and asked for permission to spend some time aboard the vessel.
“We will be glad to have you,” Mr. Giga replied.
His colleague, Assistant Engineer Luckman Kann, wore a sour expression. He seemed irritated by the arrival of strangers, and kept giving Joe and Phil venomous looks.
Ram Giga, an affable individual, willingly answered a few questions.
When Joe asked about cargo, Giga replied, “We have a hold full of many items for American-Indian trade.”
“What about mercury?” Joe asked.
“Part of the cargo is mercury. We will deliver it to the dock as soon as we can get it out of the hold. It is due to be carried off this evening.”
Joe and Phil had the feeling that Luckman Kann resented the chief mate being so free with information. “The mercury is only part of the cargo,” he declared harshly. “You may be more interested in some other things we are carrying, ivory statuettes and similar curios from the Malabar Coast, for example.”
Joe and Phil quickly agreed, in order to dispel any suspicion about their visit.
Ram Giga, ignoring Kann, went on, “We’re late in unloading due to the dock strike that just ended. Usually we would have the mercury off by now, but the rest of the cargo had to come first. The men are working overtime tonight to get all the cargo ashore. Now I must get back to my duties. You are welcome to look around.”
“Is this wise?” Luckman Kann grumbled. “They will only be in the way!”
“I will amend the invitation, then,” Mr. Giga said mildly. “You may move around the ship freely as long as you do not interfere with the unloading.”
“Thank you. We will be most careful not to disturb the labor,” Nathoo assured him.
Motioning to Joe and Phil, he led them out of the chart room to the bridge, where he explained the technical gadgets.
“The high seat you see is for the pilot. The wheel may seem small to you, but it is the ship’s brain, transmitting directions that maintain a true course. The gyrocompass next to it gives the bearing so that the navigator can be sure of his direction.”
“What’s that orange dial in the low metal housing over there?” Joe asked.
“Radar. I cannot imagine how sailors ever made a safe voyage without it.”
Phil examined a large wheel equipped with a handle to turn it through the various positions around a circle.
“That is the telegraph,” Nathoo said. “Sends orders regarding speed to the engine room.”
“Better not spin it, Joe, or you’ll have the engine room on the phone asking what’s happening on the bridge,” Phil remarked jokingly.
Nathoo went on, “The small windows along that circle belong to the smoke indicator. Each window is connected to a vent from a different part of the ship. In case of fire, smoke is sucked into one of these holes and one can tell where the fire is. But we have seen enough here. Let us go down to the engine room.”
The three stood on oily catwalks, high above the throbbing engines. Narrow, slippery steps led down to the floor. After looking around for a while, Nathoo said, “We better stop sightseeing and get on the job.”
“Right,” said Phil. “Let’s go back to the deck.” He was in the lead when they climbed up again. They made their way through a maze of passages until, on reaching the third deck, Phil suddenly realized that he was all alone. Joe and Nathoo were gone!
He went down again, but could not find them. “No point wasting time looking for them now,” he told himself. “I’ll have another look at the bridge. We might have missed something the first time around.”
Finding the bridge empty, he began to examine the navigation instruments once more. That was the last he remembered. A heavy blow on the head knocked him unconscious, and he collapsed against the telegraph!

CHAPTER XVII  
  Precious Wreck
 
 
 
 
SLOWLY Phil regained consciousness. He heard voices conversing in a low key. He felt a wet cloth on his face, and the hard floor on the bridge underneath him.
Opening his eyes, he saw that several officers were grouped around him. As they swam into focus, he realized that one was the captain of the Bombay Batarang.
Phil got to his feet with the assistance of willing hands. “What happened?” he asked weakly.
The captain placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Do not be too concerned about what happened. The main thing at the moment is to be sure that you are all right. I am having you moved to my cabin to recuperate.”
“Someone hit me over the head!” Phil declared.
“Yes. With a blunt instrument. In falling, you struck the telegraph handle, spinning the wheel and alerting the engine room to the fact that something was wrong on the bridge. I rushed up here and found you lying in a heap. You have a headache?”
“Awful,” Phil replied, and everything began to spin again.
While he was being put to bed in the captain’s cabin, Frank and Tony were on a back street, maintaining surveillance from a doorway about a block from the piers. All had been quiet as far as they could tell.
“Not a suspicious character in sight,” Tony complained. As he started to walk away from the doorway, a truck lumbered slowly up the street.
Frank seized Tony’s elbow and pulled him back. “That truck is similar to the one that hauled away the empty flasks from Precious Metals!” he said tensely. “We’ve got to find out whether this one is carting mercury!”
The truck rolled to a stop across from the doorway, at a spot where the pavement widened out along a fence with a gate nearby. Frank and Tony peered across the intervening distance, to see if they could spot a mercury flask.
Two men got out of the truck and opened the tailgate. Using a block and tackle, with a winch for power in leverage, they lifted their load into the air, swung it out of the back, and deposited it on the pavement. Releasing the hooks, the men swung the block and tackle back into place and returned to the front seat. Then they drove off.
Frank and Tony watched the whole procedure in utter amazement, for the load was the wreckage of what once had been a car. Like the Chevy they had seen earlier on the dock, this hulk had been stripped clean of every usable part. Motor, wheels, fenders, lights, doors—all were gone. Little more than a skeleton remained, battered metal that seemed hardly worth the attention of a junk dealer.
“Why would these characters bother to transport this unholy mess?” Tony asked.
“Perhaps a once-over will tell us. Come on!”
Frank was already moving, with Tony on his heels. They stealthily crossed the open space to the derelict car.
Close up it looked even worse. All the windows were smashed, and slivers of broken glass littered the interior. The upholstery dangled in shreds and tatters. The back seat was piled with junk—bolts, hubcaps, twisted wire, a rusty jack handle, and various other useless odds and ends.
Tony surveyed the scene with complete disgust. “There isn’t anything here to help with the mercury case. I’d say—”
He broke off as slow footsteps approached the gate from the direction of the dock. Hastily the two boys regained their vantage spot in the doorway, where they could survey the scene with no fear of discovery.
They were barely ensconced there when a man came through the gate. He was hunched way over, his hands cupped together at the waist, suggesting that he carried a heavy burden concealed under his coat. Two more, similarly bent forward, followed him in single file up to the wreck.
Gingerly the first man looked around, lowered a mercury flask to the pavement, and took a funnel from his pocket. He placed it in the opening to the gas tank, heaved his flask into the air, and turned it upside down over the funnel. The mercury ran out, down into the interior of the car.
As soon as he stepped away with the empty flask, the next one took his place, then the third. After they were finished, they walked back through the gate toward the dock, only to be replaced by three more who went through the same motions. The two groups alternated for quite some time.
“Say,” Tony marveled, “that heap must have a gigantic gas tank!”
“A gigantic tank, anyway. No car holds that much. They must have put a special tank in to use for this operation. What a gimmick! Who’s going to challenge the battered wreck of a defunct car? They could waltz down Main Street in Bayport in total safety!”
The men were still pouring mercury into the tank when a policeman came strolling along, swinging his nightstick, glancing alertly around.


  
The man heaved his mercury flask into the air
The men at the wreck caught his eye. Curious, he moved in their direction to investigate. At precisely that moment the sounds of a heated dispute broke the stillness. Two sailors lurched out of the shadows.
“All right! All right!” one yelled. “Put ’em up and we’ll settle this here and now! No need of a referee to pick the winner!”
“You’re on!” screamed the other. “I may be drunk, but I can sure finish you off!”
As the sailors appeared about to pummel one another fiercely, the officer hustled over. “Break it up! You guys have had too much to drink. Better sleep it off!” Taking each by the arm, he pushed them down an alley toward a flophouse for seamen at the opposite end.
“Decoys?” Tony asked Frank in a subdued tone of voice.
“Yes,” Frank replied. “Those two were a couple of good-luck charms for the mercury mugs. Gangsters working this kind of a job don’t leave much to chance. They must have kept tabs on the timetable of the police patrolling the waterfront. And they were prepared to lure unwelcome representatives of the law away from the center of operations.”
“Their plan succeeded brilliantly,” Tony commented, pointing to the wreck. No one was to be seen. The men with the flasks had finished their work and had melted away in the darkness. Silence, and shadows rendered sharper by the fitful glare of the street lights, had descended over the area.
“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to warn that policeman,” Tony remarked. “Still, one man couldn’t very well have taken on all of those guys.”
“Not only that, but we’d have alerted the ring-leaders. If they knew that we saw the derelict auto, and how it figures in their plans, they would have disappeared by now. And we’d only have netted a few underlings at best.”
“True. What’s our next step?”
Frank looked at his watch. “Just past midnight. I’m sure they won’t do anything with this wreck until the activity starts around here in the early-morning hours, or even later! If they carted it away in the middle of the night, it would alert the harbor police.”
“We might have to go after Joe and the others on the ship,” Tony said.
“True. Tell you what. You wait here and keep an eye on the car, while I get the police. They can stake out this area and wait for those thieves, in case we have to leave.”
Frank left Tony in the doorway and walked around the block until he met a policeman. He explained the situation and the officer went to a call box and phoned his report to Captain Stein.
Fifteen minutes later the captain and a patrol car full of police arrived at the spot. Frank showed them the wreck and the doorway where he and Tony had hidden out.
Captain Stein praised the boys’ detective work. “That was a great job! We’ll give those crooks a real reception when they come back for the stuff.”
He issued orders to stake out the area. Frank and Tony took their places and everyone settled down to wait for their prey to walk into the trap. Hours ticked by. Frank’s eyelids began to droop due to the lack of sleep, and Tony, sitting in the doorway, fell into a short and fitful slumber.
Finally dawn broke. Activity began along the waterfront and the noise jolted the boys into a tense alert. Cars and trucks drove up and down the street. By early morning the tasks of loading and unloading the many ships were in full swing.
Tony spotted the quarry, a wrecker, trundling toward the car. The driver pulled up ahead of it. He and his partner climbed out, went around to the rear, and started fastening ropes to the battered vehicle they had come to fetch.
Then a figure appeared out of nowhere. “Hold it!” Captain Stein ordered. “Police! Stand where you are!”
Instead of standing where they were, the pair took to their heels, bolting in opposite directions. The driver ran directly into the arms of three officers at the corner of a warehouse. They quickly overpowered him and snapped on handcuffs.
His partner was hitting top speed when Tony downed him with a tackle. Frank piled on to make sure of the capture. After being hauled to their feet, the two fugitives stood panting and glowering beside a patrol car.
“So we meet once again!” Frank addressed the pair sarcastically.
They were the hoods from Bayport!

CHAPTER XVIII  
  Joe Leaves a Clue
 
 
 
 
CAPTAIN Stein confronted the pair. “What are your names?” he demanded.
The beefy member of the duo nudged his partner to remain silent while he handled the situation. “We’re not saying a thing!” he grated with a sullen stare. “We want to see a lawyer. We got our rights, and we’ll have your badge for false arrest. You can’t push innocent people around!”
“We’ll see how innocent you are! Turn around and put your hands on the hood of the car!”
The men were frisked. Papers they had on them gave their names as Clyde Cheever and Russ Bucko. They insisted that they were in the towing business, and that their only interest in the wreck was for scrap.
“Nothing incriminating, Captain?” Frank inquired as the officer shuffled the papers taken from the two.
“Nothing, except the fact that they were trying to make off with a shipment of stolen mercury. That’s enough to book them. Then I can have their story about the towing business checked out.”
“We know they’re lying, Captain,” Tony remarked. “They tried to scare Frank and Joe off the mercury case several times. Why would they do that if they’re on the up-and-up?”
“You’ve put it in a nutshell, young man.” Cheever and Bucko were taken away in the patrol car. The last the boys saw of them they were scowling menacingly.
Frank turned to Captain Stein. “Our friends and my brother are on the Bombay Batarang and were supposed to meet us here at dawn. We assume they ran into trouble.”
“Would you like us to board the ship?”
“Tony and I will try it alone first.”
“What’ll be our strategy, Frank?” Tony asked.
“Level with the ship’s captain and tell him what’s up.”
“Suppose he’s in with the gang?”
“Then we’re sunk. But we haven’t much choice. Captain Stein, suppose you send a backup squad if you don’t hear from us in a couple of hours?”
“Sure thing. I wouldn’t let you go if I wasn’t convinced that the captain is an honest man. I’ve met him a few times, and he has a fine reputation. I think you’ll be all right. Someone on his ship is in league with the gang, though, and we’ll have to check out the whole crew if you don’t come up with something. Good luck!”
Frank and Tony hustled down to the dock, climbed aboard the freighter, and asked to be taken to the captain. He was on the bridge.
Frank recounted the story of the mercury that had been stolen from the cargo.
“This is preposterous!” the captain fumed. “How could so many flasks be removed without anyone on the ship being aware of it?”
“Somebody must have seen the thieves,” Frank agreed. “The operation could not have succeeded without assistance from someone on this freighter!”
The captain looked startled. “Do you suspect any member of my crew? Rest assured, I’ll find out who he is before we leave Baltimore!”
Tony inquired about Joe, Phil, and Nathoo Keeka.
The captain chuckled. “We have an American boy on board. He is in my cabin, resting.”
Frank tensed. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“He suffered a blow on the head that rendered him unconscious yesterday. And he told me that he lost his two companions on the ship. We searched everywhere but did not find them.”
Frank and Tony looked at each other apprehensively. “They must have followed a lead and left the ship,” Frank said.
“But where did they go?” Tony queried.
Frank heaved a sigh. “That’s anybody’s guess. When did you look for them, Captain?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Can we see our friend in your cabin now?” Frank asked.
“Certainly.” The captain signaled a crewman. “Jawal will take you there.”
Was it Joe or Phil? both boys wondered as they followed the Indian down a narrow corridor.
Seconds later they had the answer. “Phil!” cried Tony as he pushed the cabin door open.
“Boy, I’m glad you’re here,” Phil said. He looked pale and still suffered a severe headache. Quickly he explained the events of the previous day.
“We’d better start searching for Joe and Nathoo right away,” Phil suggested. “Matter of fact, I was just on my way to the captain to tell him I was leaving the ship.”
“Do you feel up to it?” Frank inquired.
“Oh, sure. But getting rapped on the head with a blunt instrument is something I don’t recommend for a rest cure.”
“Do you have any leads to work on? Anything you may have noticed while casing the ship before you got conked?”
“One thing. I think the assistant engineer is one of the gang. Fellow named Luckman Kann. He was pretty put out when we came aboard. Didn’t want us to see anything on the ship, least of all the mercury. I suspect he’s the one who am-bushed me on the bridge!”
The boys passed this information on to the captain, who sent for the assistant engineer. But Luckman Kann was missing!
Frank, Tony, and Phil began a search, starting at the spot where Phil had last seen Joe and Nathoo, and extending over the side down onto the dock.
“The barge has been moved,” Phil commented. “It was riding behind the freighter when we went aboard yesterday.”
“What’s this?” Tony stared at a strip of black leather lying on the dock, pointing toward the place where the barge had been moored. He picked it up and examined the silver buckle at one end. The initials J. H. were engraved on it!
“Joe’s belt!” Frank exclaimed exultantly. “He must have put it there so we’d know where he’d gone. All we have to do now is to find out the destination of the barge.”
From a stevedore he learned that it had transported bales of jute to a warehouse along the waterfront. The three boys walked away from the docks to avoid being conspicuous, took a parallel street, and cut back down to the dock area. Soon they came to an enormous, dingy building, blackened by soot, and with several windows boarded up.
Tony and Phil staked out the warehouse, while Frank sneaked through some bushes, edged along one wall to a rickety wooden door, and slipped inside. He found himself in a gloomy, cavernous building. The ceiling towered far above his head. Its crossbeams extended from one side of the warehouse to the other.
Boxes and crates were stacked on top of one another. Bales of jute, looking like huge cubes, awaited transfer to the mills. Steel bars, each ending in a heavy bolt, lay in disorderly heaps where they had been dumped.
Frank examined one. It was the type of bolt that had crashed through the window of the Hardys’ house!
The boy surveyed the layout of the warehouse, noting that the back door led onto the platform where the barge cargoes came in. The office was at the far side, a mere cubbyhole in the vastness of the interior.
Frank ducked around cartons and crates, lay down on his stomach to snake-crawl past a pile of reinforcement bars, and reached a point where he could see through a dirty window into the dimly lighted office. Figures became discernible. Frank rose on one knee for a better view.
Suddenly his sixth sense warned him that somebody was sneaking up on him. He twisted sharply to one side and bounded to his feet, hands up to ward off an assailant.
Then he dropped his arms. “Joe!” he gasped.
Joe put a finger to his lips and beckoned his brother to retreat with him behind some stacks of cargo. “Don’t make any noise,” he whispered. “We’ll be in a tough spot if those birds come flying out at us!”
Quickly Joe briefed Frank on what had happened on board the Bombay Batarang. He and Nathoo had been walking behind Phil when they heard one of the officers mention the Bombay Boomerang on the telephone. It was Luckman Kann! When the assistant engineer hung up, the boys had melted into a doorway, then followed him onto the barge. They had concealed themselves behind bales of jute. The only clue Joe had time to leave was his belt, a signal he hoped Frank would read. 
“Good idea,” Frank murmured. “Without it we still wouldn’t know where you were. But where’s Nathoo?”
“They got him!” Joe said grimly and continued his story.
“Kann stayed on the barge till it left early in the morning. We hid during the ride along the waterfront. When the barge stopped, we could see the warehouse, so I got out at the rear while the stevedores were opening the side doors. Nathoo wasn’t so lucky. They caught him and marched him into the warehouse.”
“How did you get in here?”
“By way of a broken window. I was just wondering how to handle this situation when you showed up!”
“All right, let’s join forces and see what’s up in the office over there.”
A piercing scream rent the silence, bouncing echoes off the walls and ceiling. “They must be beating Nathoo,” Joe whispered. “We’ve got to get him out of there!”
Reaching the window, they looked in. Nathoo was sitting on a chair, tied hand and foot. His face was bruised where he had been struck by the four men who held him captive. Luckman Kann stood to one side, watching with approval. Next to him was the sinister Indian sailor who had tripped Joe into the hold of the Nanda Kailash, and who had instigated Nathoo to murder the Hardys. 
“You’re going to tell us about the Hardys,” one man threatened viciously, “if we have to beat you all day!”
Nathoo groaned but remained silent.
“What happened to Cheever and Bucko?” another demanded in violent tones. “They went off after the mercury and now we don’t know where they are!”
“I know nothing,” Nathoo pleaded. “Nothing at all!”
Frank placed his lips close to Joe’s ear. “The police have those goons in custody. I’ll tell you about it later.”
One of Nathoo’s tormentors decided that their third degree would not force any information out of him. “Where are we going to get rid of this bum?” he asked savagely.
“The harbor, of course,” a confederate retorted. “A little cement will do the trick.”
A confused conversation followed until Frank and Joe caught the following dialogue:
“Is the plane ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll be in the air in plenty of time to complete the job. The Super S will home in right on target!”
The Hardys held their breath in the hope of hearing more about the missing missile. What they actually heard was a ferocious barking on the other side of the warehouse. A powerful mastiff came barreling down on them, fangs bared!

CHAPTER XIX  
  The Nerve-Gas Plot
 
 
 
 
THE Hardys plunged headlong behind some bales of jute for protection, but the burly mastiff was nearly on them! With snapping fangs, it gave a tremendous spring over the barrier.
A shot rang out. The dog fell onto the top bale of jute, yelping in pain. Slipping off, it tumbled to the floor and lay still.
“You fool!” a voice rasped. “Why did you shoot? The watchdog would have killed them for us. Now we’ll have to do the job ourselves!”
By now Frank and Joe had vanished. Using the bales for a screen, they sneaked along the wall to a pile of reinforcement bars and crouched low.
But one of the gang who had circled around spotted them. He raised his gun and fired. With a loud clang the bullet ricocheted off steel about six inches from Frank’s head.
A second shot barely missed Joe. A clatter of footsteps warned of the gang converging quickly on that part of the warehouse.
“Joe, this way!” Frank said in a hoarse whisper, and raced toward the middle of the building. There he dived headlong behind a stack of cartons. Joe was right on his heels. Panting, they peered around the corner of the pile.
The men were scouting the floor in the vicinity of the reinforcement bars. “We’ve lost them!” one growled in disgust. “Go over this place with a fine-toothed comb. We don’t have to worry as long as they don’t get out alive!”
The pursuers were approaching the stack of cartons. Frank and Joe dashed toward another pile of jute. Bullets cut into the floor as the gang caught sight of them and opened up with a hail of lead.
Then the shooting stopped. “We’ve got ’em! They’re penned in! Hold your fire!” came a voice.
Wildly Frank and Joe looked around. They were boxed into a corner of the warehouse. Suddenly Frank seized Joe by the arm and pointed to a ladder. It led up the wall to a platform on the crossbeams overhead.
“You go first,” he hissed. “Don’t move until I create a diversion to cover the retreat!”
He picked up a rusty pail standing in the corner. Balancing it in his hand, he lobbed it beyond the cargo, where it careened noisily along the floor. Whirling around, the gang sent a fusillade after it. Slugs tore into the pail, causing it to spin and bounce crazily.
Joe scrambled up the ladder to the platform before the men below realized they had been tricked. Frank made it by inches as bullets splintered under his foot.
Rough hands gripped the ladder. Heavy feet hit the rungs. The boys were about to have company.
No retreat was left except across the platform. “Another ladder!” Frank panted as they reached the opposite end. They slid down to the racket of feet pounding after them. They found themselves near the front door and ran outside.
To their enormous relief, they were greeted by a group of policemen! Tony and Phil had given the alarm when they heard the first shot in the warehouse!
The gang came rushing out the door into the arms of the officers.
Led by Frank and Joe, the policemen entered the warehouse office and released Nathoo who, despite his bruises, was not seriously injured. He promised to testify against the criminals, all of whom proved to be ex-convicts wanted for armed robbery in seaports along the East Coast.
Mission accomplished, Phil and Tony returned home. Frank and Joe, after phoning their father, made arrangements to meet him in Washington for a top-priority meeting with Admiral Rodgers.
During the ride to the Pentagon, Fenton Hardy told the boys some dramatic news.
“Chief Collig got a report on the thumbprint you left with him. Teddy Blaze has a record. Started as a boy delinquent, graduated to the rank of thief, and became a disk jockey in prison.”
Frank let out a low whistle. “I thought so!”
“That’s not all. Collig thinks Blaze may be the ringleader of a gang of thieves operating in the East. He also suspects that this ring may have been infiltrated by agents of a foreign power.”
Upon arriving at the Pentagon, the Hardys went directly to Admiral Rodgers’ office, who listened soberly to the detective’s summation of the case. Frank and Joe added their own comments.
“You’ve gathered so much information,” the admiral said, “that there’s no point in holding back on the rest of what we know. I told you that the tape from Commander Wenn’s office contained classified data. Well, here’s the story:
“One of the voices on the tape mentioned Colorado. The government has nerve gas stored there underground, in natural caves. There’s been some talk about this—residents complaining about the danger if an earthquake tremor should split the ground and the stuff got out into the air. One farmer charges that his cattle have already been affected by leakage.”
Mr. Hardy frowned. “Is that true?”
“No. All of these accusations are unfounded.
The gas is in containers that can’t be cracked by an earthquake and are leakproof. The real peril is that someone might use artificial means to release it. I mean, explosives!”
Frank and Joe looked at their father, who stared at the admiral. None of them had realized the deadly nature of the threat to the nation.
“I see you’re startled,” Rodgers went on. “So were we when we listened to the tape the first time. Another angle. Army intelligence found a wooden shack in the woods near where the nerve gas is stored. Brand new, and clearly put up in a hurry after the last patrol had been through the area. Inside was a large electrical heating unit.”
“A heating unit?” Frank repeated. “For what?”
“The thing puzzled us, too. If it had been a cache of dynamite, the explanation would be simple. Enemy agents intended to touch off an explosion that would break the crust of the earth, crack the gas containers, and turn the lethal vapor loose. An electrical heating unit didn’t seem to make much sense.”
“Is it still there?” Joe inquired.
“Yes, but inoperable. We took no chances. A couple of key parts were removed in utmost secrecy. Of course we didn’t want to scare the agents off.”
“Let’s see,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. “We’ve got a missile missing, a store of highly dangerous nerve gas, an electrical heating unit—”
“There’s the connection, Dad!” Frank burst out. “The Super S is programmed for heat. Whoever has the missile must have set up that heating unit in Colorado! They want to send the Super S crashing into it with enough force to smash both the cave ceilings and the nerve-gas containers!”
The admiral nodded. “That’s what we figured.”
“And there’s the explanation of the Bombay Boomerang!” Joe put in, barely able to control his excitement. “We’ve been assuming that Bombay is one word because we’ve only heard it spoken. We never saw it written down.”
“I get you,” Frank said. “It might be two words: Bomb bay. The Super S is an air-to-ground missile. So bomb bay would refer to the fact that it’s launched from an airplane! And the crooks said the plane was ready!” 
Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Boomerang also makes sense. The whole operation has been planned to make the nerve gas boomerang on the United States. It’s a great code word!”
“Your theory sounds perfectly plausible,” Admiral Rodgers said gravely. “Military precautions must be taken without delay. I’ll start the ball rolling by informing the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Are you going back to Bayport now?”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “I think our mission here is accomplished.”
The admiral pressed a buzzer and an aide came in. “Order a car for these gentlemen, please!” Rodgers said, and the aide disappeared.
“Mr. Hardy, I’m grateful to you and your sons,” the admiral said to the detective. “You’ve done a fine job. Your car will be here in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, I’d better get to work.”
He escorted the Hardys to the elevator and shook hands all around. Seconds later the Hardys emerged on the ground floor and made their way to a spot outside where official cars pulled in to pick up passengers.
A car driven by a chauffeur eased up to the curb. A second man in uniform got out and opened the back door with a deferential bow to the Hardys. “Your limousine, gentlemen.”
Mr. Hardy laughed. “The U. S. Navy is a lot speedier than Admiral Rodgers imagines!”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied smoothly. “We do our best to please. If you will get in, we’ll have you at the airport in a jiffy.”
As the Hardys climbed in, the uniformed man slammed the door and rejoined the chauffeur in the front. The car took off with a jolt that threw the passengers against the back seat. They swished down the drive, through the Pentagon grounds, and out into the street.
“He came fast and he’s going even faster,” Mr. Hardy remarked, rubbing his elbow where it had hit the armrest.
“We’d better tell him to take it a little easier,” Frank proposed. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”
“Besides, we’re liable to pile into somebody,” Joe added as the car snaked swiftly through the maze of traffic.
“Say!” Mr. Hardy spoke up in alarm. “This guy isn’t going to the airport. He must be a numb-skull as well as a cowboy. We ought to buy him a map of Washington!”
Frank rapped sharply on the glass partition that separated the front and the rear of the limousine. The man next to the driver turned around and gave an evil grin.
“These characters aren’t working for the Navy!” Mr. Hardy exploded. “They’re phonies! We’re being kidnapped!”

CHAPTER XX  
  Secret in the Air
 
 
 
 
THE man leering at them slid open the glass panel on his side of the car. A long, narrow cylinder appeared in his hand, pointing straight into the back seat.
“A pencil gun,” Joe muttered. “Just what the well-dressed thug is wearing this year.”
Frank spoke with barbed sarcasm. “Excuse me, but you seem to be headed in the wrong direction.”
“Have fun while you can, wise guy!” the man snapped. “You don’t have an awful lot of time left!”
“Mind telling us where we’re going?” Mr. Hardy inquired.
“You’re the detective. Take a guess!” The driver sniggered at his partner’s humor. The two were enjoying themselves.
The limousine swung deeper into Virginia, and turned off into a lonely wooded section where tall trees shaded thick undergrowth. Residential districts had been left far behind. Only hunters were likely to be seen in this part of the state. And even they would not be coming through until months later when the hunting season began.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” the driver said. “We’re on our way to a funeral. Your funeral. We’ve got a hole in the ground already dug for you.”
“I would like to register a protest.” Joe was talking tongue-in-cheek. “I’m allergic to funerals, especially my own.”
“Actually,” the second man commented, “I’m glad it worked out this way. There wasn’t any sense in giving you guys all those warnings to get off the mercury case. Cheever and Bucko dreamed that up. They always were a couple of dimwits. We’ll see to it that our method is more effective.”
Frank decided to trick the two thugs into revealing more information. “Well, one good threat deserves another. You might as well forget about operation Bomb Bay Boomerang. You’ll never get away with it now.”
“That’s what you think. It’ll work out all right. And there’ll be a hot time in the old USA when it hits. That nerve gas will knock out enough people to start riots from coast to coast. The government will be overthrown.”
Fenton Hardy knitted his brows. “The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle has just fallen into place. Mercury fulminate is an explosive used for such things as cartridge detonators. You plan to put the liquid metal and the missing missile together!”
“Smart guy. You guessed it. We’ve developed a super warhead made of mercury fulminate. Get the picture? The bomb sets up shock waves so devastating they can crack the crust of the earth for miles and miles!”
“How?”
“You’ll keep our secret—you won’t be alive to tell it. The missile will home in on a heating unit we’ve set up in Colorado right under the nose of the military. We’ll get the underground defenses one after the other. The gas will be all over the state in a matter of minutes, with a terrific toll!”
The driver glanced at his watch and snapped on the radio. “Time to listen to a little music,” he said.
Teddy Blaze’s program came on. Stomping rhythms blared for a couple of minutes before the disk jockey stopped the recordings and went into his patter.
“Endsville for now, chums. Midnight tonight our program will leave Bayport. Good-by, Balto. Deadline for the big shakeup. Are you with me out there? Let’s go, one and all!”
The driver clicked the radio off.
“So,” Frank reasoned aloud, “the troops are being called in from Baltimore. Your plane will leave tonight with the Super S aboard from Bayport, bound for Colorado!”
The two gangsters in the front seat were visibly astonished by the accuracy of the deduction.
“You know about Blaze, do you?” snarled the driver. “Cracked his code? Never mind. When you are out of the way, no one will be any wiser.”
“Tell me,” Joe said amiably, “where did you hide the Super S?”
“In Teddy’s garage in Bayport. Good place, eh? He was building an addition, so the truck which delivered the missile also carried some roofing sheets and cement. All in order.” The man chuckled.
His partner, however, objected to his frankness. He nudged him. “Get to the graveyard fast. I want to plant these characters.”
The car picked up speed along a rough dirt road. Branches scraped the sides as it lurched over boulders and down into potholes, jouncing those inside up and down until they reached for the nearest support.
Taking advantage of the jolting ride, Joe leaned down toward the floor. The man with the pencil gun pushed his hand through the partition. “Sit up,” he ordered, “or I’ll see to it that you stay down permanently!”
Joe came up with a karate kick that slammed the thug against the dashboard. Reacting instantaneously, Mr. Hardy reached through the partition, grabbed the driver by the arm, twisting it until he yelled with pain.
The car, out of control, careened wildly off the road. Bouncing across a gully, it zoomed into a clearing, hit a massive tree with a swipe that caused the vehicle to turn over, and came to rest back on its wheels.
Frank and Joe were thrown clear as the impact jarred a back door open. Mr. Hardy and the two abductors were still inside, but out cold.
Frank sat up. “Joe—Joe, are you all right?” Joe answered with a grunt. “I hope so. Where’s Dad?”
“Still in the car.”
While the boys were picking themselves up, a patrol car stopped by the side of the road. Several policemen led by Captain Stein piled out and rushed across to the limousine.
“Just in time!” Frank called out in relief.
“We’ve been tailing you ever since you left the Pentagon,” the captain explained. “Your real driver saw you go off with these phonies. He checked with the admiral, then told us you were being kidnapped.”
“He was right,” Frank said dryly.
The three occupants of the limousine were lifted out onto the grass. “They’ll be okay,” one of the officers declared. “Temporarily separated from their senses. Nothing worse. In fact, they’re coming around now.”
Frank and Joe were kneeling anxiously at their father’s side. Mr. Hardy soon revived and gave an account of the abduction at the Pentagon, and said he would prefer charges against the hoodlums.
The two prisoners, glaring in anger, were marched to the squad car as soon as they could walk. Two more police cars arrived with reinforcements.
“National security is involved,” Joe told the captain. “We must get back to Bayport as fast as we can.”
“No problem. Get into the first car, and we’ll take you to the airport in no time.”
Minutes later, the car reached the highway, and with siren screaming for traffic to get out of the way, sped to the Washington airport. After thanking Captain Stein for his help, the Hardys quickly joined Jack Wayne on their private plane for the flight home.
“What’s our next step?” Joe asked when they were airborne.
“The gang’s plane won’t leave until midnight,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We might as well go home and be back by eleven. That should give us enough time to stop the take-off.”
“Shall we alert the airport police?” Frank asked.
“No. Admiral Rodgers wants as few people as possible to know about the whole thing. We’ll handle this ourselves. But I’ll call him as soon as we land about having FBI men on hand.”
The plane touched down in Bayport and the Hardys took a taxi home. Mrs. Hardy gave them an affectionate welcome. Aunt Gertrude opined crisply that they would have done better if they had stayed in Bayport.
“If this is where the action is, what was the point of going to Baltimore?”
Joe grinned. “Well, Aunty, we couldn’t have known where the action is if we hadn’t dug up clues in Baltimore.”
“And we did have a rather exciting time when we were there,” Frank added.
“In any case,” Joe said, “you’ll be glad to hear that we expect to conclude this case tonight.”
“I hope so!” Miss Hardy said. “It’s about time that you stayed home for a while!”
Frank called his friends and asked them to come over. Soon they arrived in Biff’s car, Chet with an armful of boomerangs.
“Since we might have some spare time on our hands,” he announced, “I brought something to occupy us.”
Before the Hardy boys could answer, their father came dashing out the door. “Admiral Rodgers just called. He’s picked up some information that the midnight flight has been changed. The plane will take off earlier!”
Frank and Joe were aghast. “We’ve got to leave right away!” Frank exclaimed.
“Right. Hurry up!”
“What’s going on?” Biff asked.
“We’ll tell you later,” Frank said. “Just follow us!” He jumped behind the wheel of their convertible. Mr. Hardy and Joe slid in beside him. When they reached the airport they sped directly out to the runway.
A private, single-engine jet was gathering speed for take-off. Blazoned on its nose was a large crimson boomerang!
“That’s the plane!” Joe yelled. “What can we do to stop it?”
“Use our boomerangs!” Chet quickly threw a couple to each of his friends.
As the jet roared past a few feet from where they were standing, the boys hurled a barrage of weapons at it. Two struck the air intake, and were sucked in, causing the engine to quit. The plane slowed to a halt.
Teddy Blaze, glowering furiously, shook his fists at the boys through the window.
Joe chuckled. “I guess he knows by now that although we’re not his most enthusiastic music fans, we do have a certain interest in his career!”
FBI agents swarmed aboard the plane. Overpowering the thugs who made a brief resistance, they cleared the intake. An FBI pilot turned the craft around and taxied back to the hangar, where Blaze and his confederates were removed in handcuffs for the trip to jail.
The pilot flipped a switch, and while the Hardys and their friends, who had followed the plane in their cars, looked on, the bomb-bay door swung down.
A glistening cigar-shaped missile came into view, perched in its rack, complete with sinister warhead, programming mechanism, and spreading tail fins.
The Super S!
The Hardys’ friends stared in utter amazement. While Frank and Joe filled them in on the importance of their caper, Mr. Hardy left to phone the Pentagon. When he returned, he addressed the group of boys with him.
“Admiral Rodgers is very relieved that the conspirators were caught before they could launch their attack. He says the final report by his staff shows that Teddy Blaze is indeed the gang leader who mixed crime instructions with his music patter over the radio.”
Chet whistled. “And before Frank and Joe suspected him, we thought he was just a kooky talker!”
Mr. Hardy nodded and went on. “The Blaze gang has been stealing defense secrets and military hardware for a foreign power. They were on such an assignment when they ransacked Commander Wenn’s office for the Super S data.”
“And we got involved when I dialed the wrong number and got the Pentagon!” Joe said.
“Exactly. The same foreign power paid for the theft of the mercury, and even sent an airman to pilot the plane to Colorado. They set up the heating unit for the missile to home in on.”
“Which foreign power?” Frank asked.
“The admiral is not at liberty to say,” his father replied. “One more thing. We’re receiving a commendation from the Defense Department for services to the nation.”
He was about to turn back to the car when a sudden thought struck him. “You know,” he said with a smile, “one of us did more than the rest to ground that plane. I think he deserves a special vote of thanks.”
Chet grinned and held up a hand. “Say no more, sir. I get the message. The Bomb Bay Boomerang was knocked out by a Chet Morton Special!”
The laughter and banter that followed put everyone in a happy, relaxed mood. But it was not to last long, because another mystery—Danger on Vampire Trail—soon was destined to test the sleuthing ability of the Hardy boys. 
Hardy Boys 50: Danger on Vampire Trail
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
Sporty Swindlers
 
 
 
 
“Do you boys feel up to tackling a counterfeit case?” Detective Fenton Hardy asked his sons. He looked at eighteen-year-old, dark-haired Frank and then at blond, seventeen-year-old Joe. They were seated in comfortable leather chairs in their famous father’s study.
Frank grinned. “Of course, Dad! Well tackle anything from flying fullbacks to dangerous crooks. What’s the scoop?”
“A strange one,” Mr. Hardy replied. “A gang is counterfeiting the famous Magnacard.”
“The so-called millionaire’s charge card?”
“Yes. No questions asked on purchases or ready cash up to ten thousand dollars.”
“How can we help?” Joe wanted to know.
“By taking over the entire assignment. I’ve been asked to handle a high-priority case for the government.”
Frank and Joe had assisted their father in solving many cases. The first one was the mystery of The Tower Treasure, and in their most recent caper, The Bombay Boomerang, the boys had saved Mr. Hardy’s life. 
The responsibility of a sleuthing job always gave Frank and Joe a tingling of excitement.
“Well?” Fenton Hardy said, his lips curling into a slow smile. “Anyone interested?”
Joe blurted, “You know we are!”
“When do we start?” Frank said.
“In a few days. But it’ll involve a camping trip.”
“Camping! That’s right up our alley, Dad.” Joe got up and paced around. “Chet’s been bugging us to go on a camping trip for a long time.”
“He sure has,” Frank agreed. “Chet wants to get a trailer tent, but he’s short of cash.”
Mr. Hardy said, “We might work something out. Expense money, perhaps. Then there’s a possibility of the reward.”
“What reward?” Frank asked.
Mr. Hardy explained that a very rich man, who had been duped by the counterfeiters, had posted a reward of two thousand dollars for their capture and conviction.
“Wow!” said Joe, grinning.
Realizing the importance of the exciting mission, the boys became serious. “Tell us all about the case, Dad,” Frank urged. “What’s the M.O. in this new racket?”
The modus operandi was one of the first lessons in criminal psychology Mr. Hardy had taught his sons. Habit, the boys knew, had been the downfall of many thieves, who plied their nefarious trade in the same manner every time they committed a crime.
Mr. Hardy said, “The swindlers apparently got hold of Magnacard’s master file—important data on all the clients, including copies of their signatures. They duplicated the credit cards perfectly, then forged identification papers—drivers’ licenses and the like. They purchase goods which are then billed to the owner of the charge card.”
“A lot of rich men must be pulling their hair out, getting all these bills!”
“To say the least. It’s up to you to keep them from getting absolutely bald!”
Joe asked, “But why the camping trip? How does that come into the picture?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask that,” Mr. Hardy replied. He lifted a sheaf of papers from his desk drawer. “The counterfeiters have been operating mostly in the Rocky Mountains area, although there have been some incidents in the Midwest, and the East, too.”
The detective sat back, fingers locked behind his head, while his sons examined the dossier. Then a quick look of enlightenment crossed Frank’s face. “Hey, Joe. I see it! These guys have been using the Magnacards to buy sporting equipment.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Hardy said. “They purchase motorboats, motorcycles, tents—you name it. Then they sell the merchandise lower than the retail price.”
Joe remarked, “To suckers who are unaware they’re getting hot goods. Or to dishonest, greedy people who are more interested in buying something cheap, regardless of whether the deal is on the level or not.”
The detective nodded and pulled a small photograph from his pocket. “Here’s a prime suspect,” he said. The boys leaned over the desk to look at it.
“Pretty fuzzy picture,” Joe remarked.
Frank said, “Probably a blowup from a small negative. Right, Dad?”
“That’s it. An amateur photographer took it by chance after one of the swindlers had borrowed five thousand dollars from a bank and was coming out the front door.”
The young detectives studied every detail of the photograph. The face was round, with a low, black hairline. The eyes were far apart. The mouth was small and turned up at the corners in a puckish grin. The general appearance was that of a short man in his thirties.
At that moment the trio were startled by a scream from downstairs.
“It’s Aunt Gertrude!” Frank exclaimed. He bounded from the room, with Joe at his heels. They scrambled down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen. Their aunt was pointing a shaking hand at the window. Her jaws moved, but no words passed her lips.
Instantly Frank and Joe, as well as Fenton Hardy, who had followed them, saw the cause of the woman’s fright. A huge hound dog was looking through the window screen. Aunt Gertrude, after recovering from her shock, told them that she had been seated at the kitchen table, deep in thought. Turning her head, she suddenly had looked straight into the sad droopy eyes of the Peeping Tom dog.
Joe started to chuckle. “It’s Biff Hooper’s bloodhound, Auntie! He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Don’t laugh!” she scolded.
“I’m not laughing,” Joe said. “But it was so funny—”
“Not funny, either!” snorted Miss Hardy.
Frank turned his head away, knowing that Aunt Gertrude’s wrath would be further aroused if she detected the faintest trace of a grin on his face.
Mr. Hardy said, “Well, that crisis is over,” and went upstairs to his study.
His sister had come to live with Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and their two sons several years ago. Beneath her stern manner, she was extremely fond of the boys. Gertrude Hardy had never approved of her brother’s daring exploits when he was a detective in the New York City Police Department, nor was she outwardly impressed by the international reputation he had acquired as a private investigator.
“Too dangerous, too risky,” she always said.
When her nephews followed in their father’s footsteps, Aunt Gertrude was even more forceful in her warnings.
Frank and Joe realized that their safety was her chief concern, and that her heart was really soft as the fluffy meringue on top of her famous lemon pies.
Meanwhile, the dog had padded around to the kitchen door. A voice called:
“Sherlock! Come here!” Biff Hooper, a tall blond boy, appeared, bent down and snapped a leather leash on the hound’s collar. He looped the end over the outside doorknob and entered.
“Hiya, guys,” he said breezily. “Just taking old Sherlock on a training exercise and he got away from me. Headed right for the Hardy home. Are you baking pie today, Aunt Gertrude?”
“I was going to,” Miss Hardy replied, “until that beast frightened me!”
“Don’t mind him,” Biff said and straddled a kitchen chair. “He’s harmless.”
Biff Hooper was a six-foot, broad-shouldered athlete—big and powerful as a football lineman, fast and hard-hitting as a boxer. But his usual good-natured smile was missing now, and the Hardys sensed that he had a problem.


A huge hound was looking through the screen
“What’s up, Biff? You look worried,” Frank said.
“Something wrong?” asked Joe.
“Could be.” Biff hesitated, and Aunt Gertrude stepped out of the kitchen, realizing the boys wanted to talk in private. “It’s about Chet,” Biff added.
Chet Morton, the Hardy boys’ closest friend, lived on a farm on the outskirts of Bayport. He was on the high school’s grid squad by virtue of his ample bulk, which could plug a hole in the team’s forward wall like a truck. Neither Frank nor Joe had seen Chet in several days.
“What’s the matter?” Frank prodded. “Did something happen to Chet?”
“Oh no,” Biff replied. “At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I’m imagining things,” Biff said with a frown. “But I noticed Chet coming out of the bank—”
“You think he robbed it?” Joe quipped.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Biff retorted. “I saw him coming out of the bank holding an envelope—I mean clutching it!” 
“Go on,” Frank urged.
“So I said, ‘What do you have there, Chet? The key to Fort Knox?’ ”
“What did he say?” Joe asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me anything,” Biff replied. “Chet seemed awful mysterious. He looked up and down the street and hurried off to his jalopy. I thought you fellows ought to know about it, seeing you’re such buddies.”
Joe said, “Do you think someone’s after Chet’s hard-earned money?”
“Possibly.”
Just then the phone rang. Joe picked up the kitchen extension.... “Chet? We were just talking about you!”
The voice on the other end was curt. “Joe, I haven’t got time to gab.”
“How come?”
“Never mind. I’ve got to see you and Frank right away.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“We’ll come right over.”
Joe hung up and turned to the others. “Your hunch seems to be right, Biff. I think Chet’s in trouble. Let’s go, Frank!”

CHAPTER II  
About Face!
 
 
 
 
AFTER bidding good-by to Biff, the Hardys jumped into their car. Minutes later they arrived at the Morton farm and drove up to the comfortable rambling house.
As they parked, a dark-haired, pixie-like girl came to the door. She was Iola Morton, Joe’s “special friend.” She and Joe often double-dated with Frank and his girl friend, Callie Shaw.
“Why the frowns?” Iola said breezily as she hooked an arm through Joe’s.
“We think your brother’s in trouble,” Frank said. “He phoned us to come out.”
Iola laughed. “That was just a trick to get you here in a hurry. He’s over there behind the barn,” she said, pointing.
“I’m glad to hear he’s okay,” Joe said, “but I ought to sock him for worrying us!” He and Frank trotted around the barn. To their amazement, they saw Chet standing beside a brand-new trailer tent. It was opened up and ready for occupancy.
“That’s a beauty!” Frank said. “Where’d you get it, Chet?”
“And where’d you get the green stuff to buy it?” Joe asked. “This outfit’s worth more than a thousand bucks!”
Chet beamed. “One question at a time,” he said with a matter-of-fact air. “First, let me show you around this camper paradise.”
Frank and Joe stepped inside. The smell of newness pervaded the air, and the interior was bright and spotless. Fold-out arms of the compact little trailer provided two bunks, sleeping four. Other facilities included a lavatory, refrigerator, and a three-burner gas stove.
“Chet, this is simply the greatest!” Joe exulted. “How did you know that Frank and I were going on a camping trip?”
“Cut it out,” Chet replied. “I’ve been trying to persuade you for a long time. Thought I’d take the bull by the horns and do something about it.”
“Honest,” Frank said. “We are going on a trip.” 
Chet’s eyes narrowed. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business primarily,” Frank replied. “Dad’s given us a new case.”
“When I go camping,” Chet said, “I want to go for fun. None of this dangerous detective stuff.”
“But we’d chip in expense money,” Joe said. “Dad would help finance us.”
“And then there’s the two-thousand-dollar reward,” Frank said evenly, watching Chet’s face for a reaction.
Chet’s eyebrows shot up.
“There’s a reward for catching some credit-card counterfeiters,” Frank explained.
“Where do we go?”
“Out West.”
“Now you’re talking!” Chet said, putting a hefty arm around Frank’s shoulder.
As they stepped out of the camper, Joe said, “Chet, where’d you buy this? And if you don’t mind my asking, how much?”
The stout boy put one foot on the trailer step and assumed an attitude of casual superiority. “My astute business acumen,” he said, “culminated in a most beneficial purchase.”
“Come on,” Joe said, annoyed by Chet’s pretentious air. “Give us the straight facts.”
“All right. To put it in language you understand, I put an ad in the newspaper and landed a great bargain.”
“Go on,” Frank prodded.
“A man came to me,” Chet said, “and offered this beauty at a reduced price. After he had purchased it, his wife became ill and their camping trip was called off.”
“What do you call a reduced price?” Frank asked.
“How about four hundred dollars?” Chet replied, arching his eyebrows.
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a steal!”
“Was everything legal?” Frank wanted to know, recalling what his father had told them about the credit-card gang.
“All in order,” Chet assured the boys. “I’ll get my plates tomorrow.”
Joe laughed and told Chet how Biff had seen him coming from the bank with the money.
“Sure, I was holding onto it tight,” Chet said. “That four hundred dollars was my entire fortune.” He added, “Hey, maybe Biff would like to come along, too!”
“It’s your camper,” Frank said. “Why don’t you invite him?”
Chet said he would, and the Hardys departed for home. Mrs. Hardy, who had been out shopping, was delighted to hear of their plans. “Be sure to take your heavy sweaters, and raincoats, and—”
“Our rubbers,” Joe finished the sentence.
“Of course not,” Laura Hardy said with a pretty smile. “I was about to say take your waterproof boots.”
As Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude busied themselves preparing dinner, the boys told their father of the camping plans. “If Biff can go, it’ll really beef up our forces,” Joe concluded.
Later that evening Biff Hooper phoned. “I think I can join you on that trip, Frank. But I’ll have to bring my hound along.” Biff explained that he had been training the bloodhound and did not want to break the routine.
“Not a bad idea,” Frank said. “Having a dog named Sherlock on a detective case might bring us luck.”
Preparations for their trip occupied the Hardys and their friends for the next two days. Frank and Joe had installed a trailer hitch on their car and had gone to Chet’s house to pick up the camper.
The outfit presented a sleek silhouette, low enough for the driver to have clear vision to the rear.
On the morning of departure the Hardy family got up at five o’clock. At six Biff arrived with the sad-eyed hound and got in the back seat with Chet. Frank took the wheel and Joe sat alongside of him. With shouts of good-by and wishes of good luck from the elder Hardys, the quartet set off.
Fenton Hardy had briefed his sons the night before. He wanted them to check out sports resorts in the Rocky Mountains area for evidence of Magnacard swindles and try to track down the perpetrators. They were also to quiz merchants who had been duped. Their father had given them a typed list of the dealers’ names and addresses.
As they drove out of town, Joe remarked, “I wish we had more concrete clues to start with.”
“Hah!” said Chet. “If I know you guys, you’ll fall into a mess of them soon enough!”
The day was pleasant and traffic was light at that early hour. The car hummed along, with the camper gliding behind. Frank followed Shore Road for several miles until it joined a superhighway leading west. The speed limit was higher, so Frank accelerated.
The boys were about fifty miles from Bayport when they heard the wailing of a siren.
“You’ve got a heavy foot,” Biff said to Frank. “Must have gone over the speed limit.”
Chet moaned. “Here’s trouble even before we get started!”
A trooper moved alongside and motioned Frank to pull over to the shoulder. Frank complied, then stepped out of the car. The officer, who had parked up ahead, strode up to him.
“What’s the trouble, sir?” Frank asked.
“Let’s see your license and registration.”
Frank pulled out the papers. The trooper studied them, then eyed the camper. “Do you own this?” he asked Frank.
“No. Our friend Chet Morton does.”
“Where is he?”
“Right here, Officer,” Chet said, getting out. The dog yelped as Chet stepped on his foot in the process.
“We weren’t speeding, were we?” Frank inquired.
“No.”
“But then why—?”
“It’s the trailer I’m interested in. I’ll have to take you back to Bayport.”
“You must be kidding!” Joe exclaimed. “What’s the charge?”
“Possession of stolen property.”
“Stolen property!” Chet exclaimed. “But I paid cash for this!”
“Tell that to the police captain.” The trooper gave Chet a suspicious look, then ordered Frank to turn about and follow him.
For several miles they traveled in glum silence. Finally Frank said, “I thought you got the camper pretty cheap, Chet.”
There was no reply. Chet was crushed by the thought of losing his bank account and of being involved in a shady deal.
Biff tried to be helpful. “I don’t think they can arrest you, Chet. You were an innocent victim.”
Finally Chet spoke. “Am I stupid!” he muttered, then sat silent again.
The trooper pulled into the State Police barracks on the outskirts of Bayport. Chet was interrogated by the captain in charge.
When the boy had finished his story, a man was called in from an adjoining room. He was introduced as George Browning, owner of the Bayport Sports Equipment Company. The Hardys had heard of him. Mr. Browning identified the trailer tent as the one he had sold to a man who had given his name as Cyrus Kogan.
Chet perked up immediately. “That’s the man I got it from. Isn’t that perfectly legal?”
“Kogan bought the goods with a fake credit card,” Browning replied. “One of those counterfeit Magnacards!”
The Hardys were thunderstruck. A fake Magnacard operator in Bayport! Frank pulled out his wallet and showed the photo clue to Chet and the merchant.
Both identified the man as Kogan!
Biff said, “This crook’s been under your nose right in town, fellows!”
The camper was left at the police barracks. Mr. Browning refused to press any charges against Chet, and even offered to sell him the camper at a reduced price because it was now considered a used one.
When the boys returned home, the elder Hardys were shocked and dismayed to learn of the discouraging turn of events. They all consoled Chet, and much to the relief of Frank and Joe, Aunt Gertrude did not say “I told you so.” Instead, she offered to bake him any kind of pie he desired.
“Humble pie,” Chet said, downcast.
“Now you just erase that long face, Chester,” Aunt Gertrude said. “You’ll have a deep-dish apple pie tomorrow!”
That afternoon the Hardy boys and their father went to Bayport Police Headquarters to have a conference with Chief Collig. He was a ruddy-faced man, who cooperated fully with the detective and his sons whenever they were working on a case.
“I was sorry to lower the boom on Chet,” he said, “but it was my duty to notify the State Police of any trailer tents I saw around Bayport.”
The chief explained that he had warned merchants to beware of the fake Cyrus Kogan. “However,” Collig added, “I think he’s skipped town by now.”
Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Bayport’s a pretty big place with many shops, Chief. I think the guy might hang around to swindle another dealer or two. His success at Browning’s may feed his ego.”
The boys agreed with their father and laid a plan to catch the criminal. That evening they called their friends together. Chet and Biff came over, along with Tony Prito and Phil Cohen. Tony was a handsome boy with an olive complexion. Phil was a slight youth and an A-student in Bayport High.
When they had all gathered in the living room, Frank outlined the plan. They would stake out the stores in Bayport where expensive merchandise was sold.
“We’ll watch fur shops, fancy jewelers, and the like,” Frank said. He showed the boys the picture of Kogan, and Chet added whatever description he could. “The guy’s as smooth as maple syrup,” he concluded.
The stakeout the next day produced nothing but tired feet and boredom as the weary boys watched in vain.
On the second day, while Frank and Joe were home for lunch, Phil Cohen phoned, his voice edged with excitement.
“What’s up, Phil?” Joe asked.
“I saw him, Joe!”
“Where?”
“He went into the Corner Antique Shop.”
“Okay. Keep an eye on him. Frank and I will be right over.”
Joe flipped his napkin on the table, grabbed the car keys, and ran out. Frank followed.
“I hope we get him!” Frank said, sliding into the seat next to the driver. “But it means the end of our camping trip!”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Joe said. “He’s not the only Magnacard swindler. And he might not talk!”
Minutes later Joe parked at a prudent distance from the shop, located near a residential area north of town.
The shop was housed in a rustic cottage which lent an aura of antiquity to the establishment. There was only one car in sight, parked halfway down the block. As they approached the shop, Frank and Joe saw Phil flattened against the wall next to the front door. He motioned them to be silent.
The Hardys slithered up beside Phil and listened. Frank put one eye to the edge of an open window. The customer, whom Frank identified immediately as their man, was examining an antique rifle.
“This one is rather expensive,” the shopkeeper said. “It’s extremely rare!”
“Rare guns are my hobby,” the customer replied. With that Kogan pulled out his wallet and produced a credit card.
“Ah, a Magnacard,” the shopkeeper said, smiling.
“Oh nuts!” Frank thought. “This dealer hasn’t been warned.” To his brother and Phil he said, “Come on.”
They walked in quietly but the man heard them. As he wheeled around, the Hardys made a dive for him. But Kogan was agile. He swung the rifle, hitting both boys across the chest.
Frank and Joe cried out in pain and fell to the floor.

CHAPTER III  
Farewell Party
 
 
 
 
TERRIFIED, the shopkeeper ducked down behind the counter. The man, still carrying the gun, dashed past Phil, jabbed the boy with the muzzle and knocked him off balance. Then he raced outside, sprinted halfway down the block, and jumped into the car which the boys had noticed before. Seconds later he roared off.
The Hardys were stunned by the painful wallop, but they recovered quickly. Joe dashed to the phone to call the police, while Frank ran outside with Phil. Although too late to stop the swindler, they got the license number of the getaway car.
The shopkeeper, meanwhile, was bemoaning the loss of the antique rifle. “You’d think if he’s rich enough to have a Magnacard, he’d pay for the merchandise!” he said.
Joe told him that the credit card was probably a fake and briefly explained about the counterfeit operation.
“I won’t accept any more of those Magnacards,” the man said as Frank scoured the shop for possible clues.
“Look at this!” Frank exclaimed. He bent down to pick up a loafer-type shoe which apparently had fallen off as the fugitive ran out. The quality of the leather and the workmanship were superb. The label read: Mountain Dogies. 
“Evidently our crook buys nothing but the best,” Joe remarked.
“Did you ever hear of this brand?” Phil asked.
“No, but we can check it out,” Frank replied.
Two policemen arrived a few minutes later. The boys reported all they knew, then followed the officers back to headquarters where they talked with Chief Collig.
The swindler’s license number was quickly checked out. It proved to be that of a car stolen the day before from a Bayport parking lot.
“And here’s the shoe the fellow lost,” Frank said. “There might be fingerprints on the shiny part of the leather, Chief.”
The department’s fingerprint expert was called. He lifted several prints, and Collig dispatched them immediately to the FBI via wirephoto. The Hardys thanked Phil for his good detective work, then went home to take hot baths to relieve their bruised ribs.
Early the next morning Collig phoned. “We know the identity of that swindler,” he told Frank. “Thanks to the fingerprints on his shoe.”
“Who is he, Chief?”
“Archibald Lasher. His nickname is Whip.”
Collig ticked off Whip Lasher’s record. “It includes several bunco raps, mail fraud, and automobile thefts.”
“But here’s something interesting in his profile,” the chief went on. “He’s a great outdoors-man—very fond of camping. And he’s a practical joker.”
“Could you send us a copy of his dossier?” Frank asked. The chief promised he would and hung up.
“Well, Dad,” Frank said, after relaying Collig’s information to his father and Joe, “what do you think Lasher will do next?”
“My guess is that he’ll lie low for a while.”
“Do you still want us to go west?” asked Joe.
“Certainly. Lasher is only one of the gang. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if he headed west right away.”
Then the detective proposed lending the boys money to put a down payment on Chet’s ill-fated camper.
“That would be great, Dad!” Joe said, and immediately phoned the good news to Chet and Biff.
Next day Frank, Joe, and Chet made arrangements with Mr. Browning to purchase the trailer tent. The dealer cut the price drastically and allowed plenty of time to complete payment.
Before returning home, the Hardys went to police headquarters and talked to Collig. He told the boys that Mountain Dogies shoes were sold exclusively in the huge Mountain Dogie sporting goods store in Denver.
“All clues point west,” Frank mused. “Could we have the inner sole of that shoe, Chief?”
“I don’t see why not,” Collig replied. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Give Lasher a hot-foot!” Frank joked.
The chief had one of his men cut out the inner sole and handed it to Frank.
“Hope it helps,” Collig said. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Incidentally,” Collig said, “we found the getaway car abandoned. I don’t think we’ll see Whip Lasher around here any more, not after that close escape yesterday.”
“Good,” Joe said. “Then we can have a farewell party in peace!”
That evening the four travelers along with Tony and Phil gathered at the Hardy home. All the boys brought dates. Joe played the guitar while his friends sang and danced. There was plenty of good food, topped off by Aunt Gertrude’s pies.
“One thing you must take with you is your guitar,” Callie Shaw told Joe.
“Out on the prairie,” Iola said laughingly, “you can sing sad songs and dream of us, pining for you at home.”
“Not on your life,” Biff remarked. “We’ll be busy tracking down the crooks.”
“That’s why we’re bringing Sherlock along,” Frank said. “Once he picks up Whip Lasher’s trail there’ll be no stopping him!”
Mrs. Hardy looked in on the young people to see if their food supply was ample.
“Joe tells me you’re having a birthday soon, Mrs. Hardy,” Callie called out.
“Oh, no one was supposed to know about that!” Laura Hardy replied shyly. “But Frank and Joe never forget the day.”
“What would you like for a present, Mother? Maybe we can buy it on our trip,” Frank said.
“I always wanted a sapphire birthstone from the West,” Mrs. Hardy replied. She said that her great-grandfather had been a pioneer in the Rockies. Just then the front doorbell rang and Phil quipped, “Maybe the neighbors called the police to put a lid on the noise.”
The man standing at the door was dressed in a messenger’s uniform. He quickly handed an envelope to Mrs. Hardy, then hurried off.
“Fenton!” she called out. “It’s for you!”
The detective came downstairs, took the envelope, and opened it. Inside was a Magnacard made out in his name.
Chet chuckled. “Now you can take your wife on an around-the-world trip—on the cuff, Mr. Hardy.”
“Didn’t you say Whip Lasher is a practical joker?” Mr. Hardy asked Frank.
“Chief Collig did,” Frank replied.
“Well, I think this is one of Lasher’s tricks. No doubt this card is a counterfeit.”
As the party broke up, the young people thanked Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude for helping to make it such an enjoyable evening.
Before setting out the next morning the campers checked to be sure they had packed everything. Their equipment included a collapsible rubber boat, a small outboard motor, campers’ guidebooks and maps and their two-way radio.
Tony and Phil came to say good-by, and with much horn-tooting the four started off for the second time. Sherlock sensed the excitement, and yapped a couple of times as the car and trailer turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Frank stayed at the wheel for three hours, then changed places with Joe. Bayport lay far behind and the road stretched ahead like an undulating ribbon.
Biff played his harmonica for a while, but quit when Sherlock started to howl.
“You’re hurting his ears,” Chet said, “and mine, too!”
“Okay,” Biff said. “Joe and I will give you a concert tonight.”
The car was climbing a long hill when Joe decided to pull out and pass a slow-moving truck. Coming in the opposite direction was another vehicle. But it was far enough away to give Joe time to pass. He stepped on the gas, but did not get as much speed as he expected.
“Oh man! I forgot about our trailer,” Joe said. “It’s heavier than I thought.”
The Hardys’ convertible was nearly parallel to the truck’s cab. The oncoming vehicle loomed larger by the second. Joe was in a dilemma. Should he press forward or fall back? Either way was risky. In the back seat Biff and Chet froze. Frank offered no advice, Joe would have to make the decision himself.
He floored the accelerator, the car crawled past the truck, then he cut sharply to the right. The truck driver put on his brakes and the other car zipped past with only inches to spare.
Looking back Chet saw that the camper, tilted on one wheel, had barely cleared the truck’s front bumper.
Everybody exhaled in relief at the same time. No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Joe remarked sheepishly, “From now on I won’t forget we’re towing a trailer.”
To ease the tension, Biff pulled out his harmonica again and played for a few minutes until Sherlock howled for a halt.
The sun was low on the western horizon when Frank suggested they look for a place to camp. He studied one of the guidebooks. “There’s a place up the road about a hundred miles, but it sounds pretty fancy according to this. The rates are high,” he announced.
Biff said, “I’d like to camp out in the open—a spot like that orchard up on the next hill.”
Chet, who was driving, slowed down and glanced at the extensive orchard which swept up over the brow of the hill and down the other side.
There were no houses in sight. A small dirt lane led from the road through a broken fence into the symmetrical stand of apple trees.
“Let’s spend the night here,” Frank said
As Chet pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, a car passed them, then slowed and stopped.
The man in the car appeared to be studying a map, then continued on. Chet drove up the lane and pulled their camper to a fairly level spot among the trees. Eagerly the boys jumped out of the car, and in ten minutes time the trailer tent was unhitched and set in place.
“Chet, you’re the great chef!” Joe remarked. “Get busy in the galley.”
“Right,” Biff said. “I’m hungry.”
“Chow will be ready in half an hour,” Chet declared with a grand gesture.
Biff went off with Sherlock, while Frank and Joe stretched out on the bunks until suppertime.
Soon the aroma of minute steaks filled the air and Chet called out, “Chow’s ready.” Meat and vegetables were the main course; fruit for dessert. The boys relished every mouthful. As soon as darkness fell they unzipped their sleeping bags and crawled into their bunks.
Sherlock walked round and round, seeking out a comfortable spot. He finally settled down at the foot of Chet’s sleeping bag.
All four boys dozed off quickly and slept soundly until the middle of the night when a mysterious thumping on the roof awakened them. Joe whispered, “Frank, do you hear that?”
The wind had risen and whistled through the trees. Again came the thump, thump.
Sherlock began to whimper, and Biff tried to quiet him.
Suddenly Chet let out a cry of terror!

CHAPTER IV  
Four Flats
 
 
 
 
CHET’s bloodcurdling scream caused his friends to scramble out of their bunks. They fumbled for flashlights, and soon three bright beams illuminated Chet Morton. He was blinking sheepishly.
His heart still pounding, Joe asked, “Why—why did you scream, Chet?”
“I heard the knocking and it woke me up.”
“We all heard it,” Frank said. “Is that what made you yell?”
“Naw. Sherlock’s what made me holler.” Chet said that when he had reached for his flashlight, he had put his hand into the hound’s mouth!
“It scared me,” Chet went on. “That warm, wet tongue. Ugh! I guess Sherlock sleeps with his mouth open.”
“Remind me to have his adenoids removed,” Biff said with a chuckle.
“Listen, fellows,” Frank put in. “How come the knocking?”
“Maybe some ghosts are conducting a séance,” Biff joked.
“It isn’t funny,” Chet said.
Frank suggested they get out and take a look around. By now the wind had decreased, but the apple-tree branches moved slightly in the breeze.
The beams of their flashlights revealed a low-hanging limb over the camper. A cluster of green apples swayed back and forth, barely brushing against the top.
“There’s the answer,” Biff said. “In the high wind the apples knocked on our roof!”
“And scared all of us,” Frank said. “Boy, are we ever brave!”
Before they climbed into their bunks again, Chet tied the dog to the refrigerator door. In the morning he found the door open and Sherlock poking around some well-wrapped meat. Chet scornfully ordered the hound outside and told Biff his dog would have to sleep under the stars hereafter.
“The chef’s got some rights too!” Chet grumbled.
“Okay,” Biff said, stretching. “Quit talking and start producing.”
After he had splashed himself with cold water, Chet busied himself at the stove, while Frank, Joe, and Biff went to get some heavy sweaters from the car, which was parked about fifty feet away in a clearing.
Approaching it, Joe dashed suddenly forward. “Of all the rotten tricks!”
Frank hastened to his side. “What’s the matter?”
“The tires! All four of them—flat!”
“Can’t be,” Biff said. “Maybe it’s just the tall grass that gives it that appearance.”
Closer examination disproved Biff’s wishful thinking. Air had been let out of all four tires. Worse than that, someone had removed the valve cores!
“Now we’re in real trouble,” Frank said.
“We’ve got a foot pump, haven’t we?” asked Biff.
“Sure, but we don’t have any spare cores,” Joe replied.
“Who could have done it?” Frank turned to scan the orchard as far up the hill as he could see.
Their speculation was interrupted by Chet calling, “Come and get it! Ham and eggs on the menu this morning!”
When Chet heard the bad news about the flat tires he almost dropped the skillet. “Listen,” he said as he served the others, “why don’t we ride down to the shore for a nice quiet holiday instead of going west?”
“Um, good eggs,” Frank said, ignoring Chet’s comment.
“Look, I’ve got part of a shell here,” Biff complained with a wink.
“No extra charge,” Chet said cheerfully. “If you don’t like it, save it for Sherlock.”
“Yeah, what about him?” Biff asked. “Has he had—?”
“I gave that hound chow first thing,” Chet replied.
“Good man,” Biff said. “Do we get seconds?”
“Sure.”
Chet cracked two white shells and neatly dropped the eggs into the skillet.
When they finished breakfast Frank said he would have to hitchhike into the next town to buy valve cores. As he stepped out of the trailer, a short, heavy-set man wearing dungarees and a blue denim shirt strode down the hill with a look of determination on his face.
“Oh, oh. More trouble,” Frank called to the others.
The three boys came outside to see what was going on. The stranger was about forty, sunburned, and with bulging biceps that bespoke days of hard manual labor.
“Good morning,” Frank said pleasantly.
“What’s good about it?” said the man tartly. “I can have you all arrested and I’ve a good mind to do it!” He introduced himself as the owner of the orchard and went on, “You kids think you can drive in here and squat on private property?”
The boys felt embarrassed, realizing that they had done the wrong thing. Frank tried to appease the farmer.
“We—we didn’t see any houses around,” Frank explained.
“Then you didn’t look hard enough,” the farmer said. He turned halfway around and pointed to the top of the ridge. “My place is right over there.”
“Well, gee, we were hungry and tired,” Biff put in. “All we wanted was to eat some chow and hit the sack.”
“You should have asked permission to camp here,” the farmer insisted.
“Don’t you think you’ve punished us enough?” said Joe, a little more vehemently than he had intended.
“What do you mean by that?”
“All our tires are flat.”
“Are you accusing me?” The farmer’s jaw thrust forward, and he took a step closer.
“Oh no offense meant,” Joe said. “That is if you didn’t do it.”
The farmer half-smiled in spite of himself. “If I wanted to punish you, I’d give you a boot in the britches.”
The expression made the boys laugh. Their humor was infectious and the man joined in with a loud guffaw.
“Honest,” Frank said, leading the way to the Hardys’ car. “Someone came in here last night and deflated us.”
“And took the valve cores, too,” Joe added. “We’re really stuck.”
The farmer pursed his lips and shook his head. “Too bad. But I think I can help you.”
“Have you got some spares?” Frank asked quickly.
“Yep. Up in the barn. Come along, young fellow, and I’ll give them to you.”
Frank apologized again.
“Forget it,” the farmer said. “You told me once, that’s enough.”
Frank had trouble keeping up with the man, whose sturdy legs were used to climbing the hilL Tagging a few feet behind, he finally came to the ridge and saw a snug farmhouse sheltered just below the brow of the slope. A barn stood nearby, with baskets stacked along the side. A mud-splattered half-ton pickup was in the driveway.
While Frank waited, the farmer went into the barn and returned with a flat, thin packet containing four valve cores.
“Let me pay you,” Frank said, reaching into his pocket.
“No need. And if you want a place to camp on your way back from wherever you’re going, just toot your horn a couple of times to let me know.”
Frank thanked the man, then trotted over the hilL Going down the other side, he saw Biff circling the orchard with Sherlock straining at the leash. Chet and Joe followed close behind them.
When Frank caught up with the group, he asked, “What’s up?”
“I had a hunch,” Joe replied. “Gave Sherlock a smell of the inner sole from Whip Lasher’s shoe.”
“And old Sherlock picked up the trail,” Biff added, restraining the hound.
Frank declared, “So that’s who let the air out of our tires!”
“Didn’t Collig say he was a practical joker?” Chet said. Then he shuddered. “Hey! Think what might have happened. That goon could have murdered us all in our sleep!”
Frank agreed they should be extra-cautious. The bloodhound led them closer and closer to the highway. However, when they reached the edge of the road, Sherlock lost the scent.
Suddenly Joe remembered something. “I’ll bet he was the guy who stopped ahead of us when we drove in here.”
“You could be right,” Frank admitted.
“Sure. He waited to play his dirty trick until we were asleep.”
The valve cores were replaced quickly. Using a foot pump, the boys labored hard to inflate the tires. Luckily the side walls had not separated from the rims and the boys completed the task successfully.
Leg-weary from the pumping, they folded up their camper and the caravan was on its way again. That night and the following one were spent in small trailer camps, where the fees were modest and the facilities good. They were now approaching the area where many of the Magnacard swindles had taken place.
The Hardys consulted the list of dealers who had been victimized, and stopped in stores in three different towns. There they learned that at least two other men besides Whip Lasher had purchased goods, most of it sporting equipment. They were both described as shorter than average, stout, and dark-haired.
One merchant, in particular, was furious. “Those polecats got a beautiful cabin cruiser from me,” he said.
“That would be sort of hard to hide, wouldn’t it?” asked Joe.
“Well, it was several days before I realized I had been swindled,” the man replied. “By that time they could have been thousands of miles away from here.”
“I don’t think it would be easy to sell a high-priced boat like that,” Frank said.
The man shrugged. “I suppose if they can’t sell it they’ll use it themselves.”
Then he cocked his head. “You say you’re after the swindlers?”
“Right,” Joe replied.
“Well, I’d advise you to keep your eyes open in all camping spots.”
“That’s what we intend to do,” Frank said.
After jotting down the cruiser’s description and engine number, the boys set off on the highway again. Toward late afternoon, Joe studied the map and picked out a large trailer park fifty miles ahead.
“I’m all for stopping there,” Chet said. “It’s getting late.”
When they pulled into the camp, the boys were surprised to see how large it was. In one section trailers were parked close together, and the vacationers sat on folding chairs, chatting with their neighbors. Some of the house trailers had plaques on the doors, with the names and addresses of their owners.
Joe drove to a secluded spot, where they quickly set up the camper. As they finished their evening meal, a loudspeaker boomed out the announcement there would be a talent show that evening.
“Come one, come all and enjoy the fun,” the announcer said. “We’ll meet at nine o’clock at the campfire.”
“How about it, Joe?” Frank asked. “Want to show them a little Bayport talent with that guitar of yours?”
“Sure,” Joe replied. “If Biff brings his mouth organ.”
“Oh, come on,” Biff said. “Don’t you think a big guy like me would look funny playing a little bitty harmonica?”
Frank noticed the pout on Chet’s face. “Now don’t feel left out, Chet,” he said. “Maybe you could do a hula dance. Did you bring your grass skirt?”
“Lay off, will you!” Chet retorted. “I got another surprise for you.”
“What’s that?” Joe asked brightly.
Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted that he had been practicing on a jew’s-harp.
“Hey, that’s great!” said Joe. “Then all three of us will do our thing!”
“Sure,” Frank added. “The Bayport Symphony. I hope they have a talent scout from Hollywood here tonight.”
The boys laughed, looking forward to an evening of fun. Shortly after dark the park manager trucked a load of logs to a pit in the center of the grounds. A huge bonfire was started and its flames lighted up the night.
After a crowd had gathered around, the master of ceremonies called for volunteers to entertain. One boy stepped forward with a trumpet. After a good jazz rendition, he was followed by a solo drummer.
“Not bad,” Frank said. Then he introduced the Bayport Symphony. But before the boys could plunge into the folk tunes they had planned, the stillness of the evening was broken by the staccato sound of a motorcycle.
A small trail bike weaved around the edge of the crowd. The rider, a young fellow with flying blond hair, grinned devilishly at the onlookers.
The emcee ordered him away and the bike turned back. When the put-put of the motor faded out, Joe, Biff, and Chet launched into their act. The crowd clapped and howled with laughter as Chet did a soft-shoe while playing the jew’s-harp. 
Then suddenly the trail bike chattered again like a machine gun.
“That guy must be nuts,” Biff declared as the driver whizzed past where they were standing.
Joe jumped out of the way, lost his balance, and dropped his guitar. Biff shook his fist at the cyclist, who turned around and headed for them again.
Nimbly the boys jumped aside, but the rider was not aiming at them. He took a leap at the guitar.
Crunch!
It was cut to pieces by the trail bike! 

CHAPTER V  
A Strange Hiding Place
 
 
 
 
WHEN the trail bike smashed Joe’s guitar, cries of dismay came from the onlookers. Joe sprinted after the rider, but his flying legs were no match for the motorbike. It arrowed out of the camp gate and disappeared down the road.
When Joe trotted back, Frank was gingerly picking up the pieces. He turned to his brother. “I’m afraid this is totaled.”
Joe seethed with anger at the senseless act of destruction.
Chet said, “Some nerve that creep’s got! He’s driving around on the main road without lights or even a vehicle registration. Someone’ll catch up with him sooner or later!”
“That someone’s going to be me!” Joe vowed. He took the remains of his instrument and tossed them into a trash can.
The Hardys wondered whether the youth had a trailer in the area, and began to query the people who had gathered around to offer consolations to the Bayport Symphony. All were incensed over the vicious incident.
Light from the big bonfire flickered across their concerned faces as they gave Frank and Joe some bits and pieces of information. Several campers had seen the blond youth before. One of them, a man from Texas, had warned him to use the unlicensed cycle only on the mountain trails.
“But of course he paid no attention to me,” the man said.
A young woman pushed her way through the crowd and told Joe, “If you’re looking for that mean boy I may know where he’s staying.”
“You do?” Joe said in surprise. “Where?”
The woman said that the day before the same trail bike had zipped past her on the highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “I saw it pull up to a camp,” she said. “It’s two and a half miles from here, off to the right.”
Joe thanked her and decided to visit the place the next morning.
That night Sherlock was tied up outside and the night passed quietly.
“What are you going to tell that hoodlum when you see him?” Chet asked as he prepared breakfast.
“Nothing,” Joe replied. “I’m going to punch him in the nose.”
“That is if you find him,” Biff said. “Suppose he’s left already?”
“Come on, Chet. Hurry up,” Joe said. “We can’t wait all day for the sausages.”
Half an hour later they were ready to go. Frank drove out of the area and onto the highway. Exactly two and a half miles down the road Frank slowed, and the boys peered into the heavy growth of trees and brush on the right side.
“Look, I see it!” Joe called out. “Turn here, Frank.”
The lane, made by car wheels, was barely visible. Frank drove in slowly with twigs cracking under the tires. As they approached a small clearing they saw a trailer, the kind that normally sleeps two. No car was in evidence, but the trail bike was propped against a tree. Painted on the gas tank were two words: Vampire Trail.
The only person in sight was the blond-haired youth. He was washing tin dishes in a pan of water. When the car drew nearer, he turned around. Joe got out first, walked up to him, and said, “I’m Joe Hardy. Who are you?”
The boy pushed the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Name’s Juice Barden. What do you want?” He had a thin face and light-blue eyes which blinked nervously. Joe judged him to be about eighteen years old.
“Look, you broke my guitar last night,” Joe said.
“So?”
“So it’s no joke. You’re going to pay for it!”
“Now there’s a real joke,” Juice said arrogantly. “You didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”
“You’ve got no right to buzz a trail bike around a crowd of people!”
“La-de-da,” replied Juice. He reached down, picked up a half-empty bottle of orange soda, and took a swig.
Infuriated, Joe cocked his right arm and was about to let fly with a punch when Biff grabbed him. “Don’t hit Junior, he’s no match for you,” Biff said. “We’ll just wait to see his father and tell him what a bad boy he has.”
Juice sneered, “You think you’re great because there are four of you.”
Chet, meanwhile, was strolling around the campsite. From nails driven into the trees hung a few pieces of drying laundry and a blackened skillet. Chet spied a guitar dangling on a leather thong.
“Hey, Joe, look at this!” he called out. “You want a guitar? Here’s one!” Chet lifted the instrument off the nail and walked over to Joe.
Juice took a step forward but thought better of interfering. “You can’t take that!” he declared.
“Oh no? I’ll keep it until you buy me a new one,” Joe said.
Juice replied coolly, “Fingers won’t like it.”
“Fingers?” asked Chet. “Who’s he?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
The four boys shrugged and turned to leave. Joe looked back for a moment. “Okay, Barden. Tell Fingers the guitar is in good hands.”
“What a crumb!” Chet muttered as they got into the car.
“I wonder who this Fingers is,” said Biff.
“My guess,” Joe said, “is that he’s some fancy pants dumb-dumb. What’s the old saying—birds of a feather flock together?”
“Is it a good guitar?” asked Biff as Frank started off.
“Fair, I’d say,” Joe declared after strumming a few notes. “Mine was a lot better.”
They sped westward for an hour and when Biff spelled Frank at the wheel they stopped to admire a spectacular waterfall. It gushed out from a crevice in the pine hills and churned white on rocks close to the road’s edge, before boiling under the highway bridge. The boys got out and stood on the bridge to enjoy the sight, until Biff became impatient.
“Come on. We’re wasting too much time,” he said, and walked toward the car which was parked off the bridge on the side of the road.
As the others ambled along behind Biff, a sedan pulling a small trailer, squealed past them and drove up directly in front of the Hardys’ convertible. Juice’s trail bike was lashed to the rear of the sedan.
The doors opened and out jumped Juice Barden and two others. One was a youth about Juice’s age, who had frizzy hair, droopy eyelids, and a sullen expression. The other was a man in his twenties, thin, agile, and as tall as Biff.
“These are the ones,” Juice said to the tall man.
Frank looked at him. “I suppose you’re Fingers.”
“I’m Fingers, all right.” The man turned to the droopy-eyed youth. “Rip, you and Juice look for my guitar.”
“Oh no you don’t!” said Joe. “This buddy of yours crushed mine with his trail bike!”
“Juice is no responsibility of mine,” Fingers replied coldly.
“Don’t be tough!” Biff spoke up and stepped forward. “You’ll get your guitar when you pay Joe for his.”
“Oh yeah? How much?”
“Fifty dollars,” Joe replied.
“Out of sight,” retorted Fingers as his two pals slowly walked to the Hardys’ car.
“Touch that and I’ll flatten you!” Biff thundered.
“We’ll see about that!” snapped Fingers. His right hand flew to his pocket. He pulled out a knife, pressed a button, and a switchblade flashed in the sunlight. “Okay now, we’ll take my guitar,” he said with a menacing sneer.
Frank’s mind whirled. “Better not push this too far,” he thought, “or somebody’ll really get hurt.” Aloud he said, “Okay, Fingers, I guess you win this time.” He walked to the car, got the guitar, and approached Fingers. As he did, Biff edged closer.
“Here, take it,” Frank offered.
As the man reached for the instrument, Biff lashed out with a karate kick. The toe of his boot caught Fingers’ wrist, sending the knife flying.
Biff followed up with a chop and Fingers landed on his back. As he struggled to his feet, Rip jumped on Frank and wrestled him to the ground. Juice threw a punch at Joe.
“You asked for it,” Joe muttered. With a lefthand feint and a right-hand cross to the jaw, he sent Juice sprawling. The battle was short. Without his knife, Fingers was no match for Biff. Chet picked up the knife and the seven stood there glaring at one another.
Fingers’ guitar lay broken.
“Okay,” Frank said. “That evens things up. One broken guitar a piece.” He bent over to pick up Fingers’ smashed instrument and his eyes widened. Inside were some blue stones, glued to the wood.
“What are these?” Frank asked.
Wincing, Fingers reached out for the guitar. “None of your business,” he muttered. He took the fractured instrument, turned, and climbed into his car. Juice and Rip followed and they drove off. The Hardys passed them a few miles down the road.
Frank, meanwhile, had been thinking about the stones. Obviously they had been hidden for a reason. “Sapphires are blue, aren’t they, Joe?” he asked.
“Sure. Don’t you remember, Mother’s birthstone?” Joe shook his head. “You missed a chance to get her a present, Frank!”
Shortly afterward they stopped at a rest area to have lunch, then rode on for the balance of the afternoon. It was four o’clock when they reached a sparkling lake. Its sandy beach had accommodations for a few trailers and Joe eased their camper to a shady spot close to the water.
“How about a swim, fellows?” he asked.
They were all eager to get into the cool water and soon had put on their swim trunks which they kept handy in the car.
“What’ll we do with Sherlock?” Biff asked, reaching into the car’s trunk for a towel.
“Tie him to the bumper,” Frank advised. “We’ll let him have a dip when we’re finished.”
The boys raced into the water, their arms and legs flying. Strong strokes carried them far out. Chet rolled over and floated on his back, spewing a plume of water into the air.
Frank chuckled. “There’s good old Chet the whale.”
Encouraged by this remark, Chet dived and surfaced like a porpoise. As Joe watched him, he looked back and saw another car parked near the water’s edge. Two men got out.


Biff sent the knife flying
“Look, fellows!” Joe cried in alarm.
One of the men produced a bottle from his car, then lighted a wick at the mouth of it.
“It’s a Molotov cocktail!” Frank gasped.
With swift strokes the boys churned toward shore. But they were not in time to prevent the men from hurling the bottle at the camper. It burst in a sheet of flame as the pair jumped into their car and sped off.
The bloodhound, unable to get away, strained at the leash and howled pitifully.
Biff yelled, “Sherlock’s going to get burned!”

Midnight Stakeout 
REACHING shore, the boys dashed to the camper. Flames were blazing close to the terrified bloodhound.
Biff untied the dog while Frank, Joe, and Chet threw sand on the fire. Then Biff grabbed the fire extinguisher from the Hardys’ car and doused the last of the flames.
The boys assessed the damage. Paint had been burned off the side of the trailer and one of the tires gave off a pungent odor. But the damage was slight.
“Thank goodness Sherlock wasn’t hurt,” Frank said, bending to scratch the dog’s ears.
Chet said, “Somebody’s really out to get us.”
“And you can bet it’s Fingers,” Biff added.
As they dressed, Frank said, “Biff, I doubt that it was Fingers who did this.”
“Why?”
“Because he would have done it himself. Neither of those men was Fingers, or his pals. It looks more like Whip Lasher’s mob.”
“Another one of his practical jokes?” Biff said.
Frank nodded.
The boys hit the road again. Two hours later the low hills they were passing through flattened out to rolling prairie as far as the eye could see.
“Where are we going to camp tonight?” Joe asked.
“We’d better stay away from a popular trailer court,” Frank said.
“Let’s get a secluded place,” Biff suggested.
“Right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll take my sleeping bag and station myself a distance away in case we should have more visitors.”
As the sun began to set, Chet was at the wheel. He noticed a cleared area in a cornfield which seemed to stretch for miles. “How about this?” he asked.
Frank and Joe looked about for any sign of habitation. There was none. Chet pulled off the road close to the green stand of head-high corn. The trailer was unhitched, and the camper set up.
“Let me take the galley tonight,” Joe said. “You look kind of pooped after that long drive, Chet.”
“Okay,” Chet said and stretched himself out on one of the bunks.
After sundown, darkness dropped like a blanket over the warm prairie. Joe took his sleeping bag, walked toward the road, and found a nook between rows of corn.
He slept intermittently, an occasional passing car stirring him to semiwakefulness. Shortly after midnight he heard the distant noise of a motorbike. Then the bike stopped.
Joe crept out of the sleeping bag, crouched, and listened. From the side of the road someone with a covered flashlight was approaching. There was no beam, just an eerie red eye searching through the cornstalks.
Joe decided to surprise the prowler. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The challenge stopped the prowler in his tracks. A voice from the dark said, “You know who I am. You palmed some of my sapphires. Now give them back!”
Fingers again! What was he up to now?
“We didn’t take any of your sapphires. Maybe you dropped them along the road,” Joe said.
“Impossible.”
“Perhaps Juice or Rip took them.”
Fingers did not advance. It seemed obvious that the man was thinking over what Joe had said.
The young detective took advantage of the pause. “Is that why you fire-bombed us this afternoon?”
“Fire-bombed! Are you crazy?”
“Don’t deny it!”
“I wouldn’t try to burn anybody.” Fingers sounded as if his feelings were hurt.
Just then Sherlock started to bark.
“Don’t turn that mutt on me!” Fingers cried.
His light retreated to the side of the road and disappeared. A few minutes later Joe heard the whine and staccato of the bike’s motor as it came to life, then the sounds gradually faded and the night was still.
“Hey, Joe! What’s the matter? Any trouble?” It was Frank.
The boys gathered outside the camper and Joe told what had happened.
“So those stones were really sapphires,” Frank said. “I wonder where he got them.”
“Probably stole them, and now he claims we took them from him,” Joe said.
“I believe the other two guys swiped them,” said Chet. “They didn’t strike me as being trustworthy.”
“And he denied the fire-bombing?” Biff asked.
“Downright emphatic about it,” Joe reported. “I think that underneath, Fingers has a soft heart!”
Biff grumbled, “You’d have to prove that to me.”
“Anyhow,” Frank said, “it seems that our three friends don’t trust one another.” He pointed out that Juice obviously had not known about the concealed gems when Chet lifted the guitar from the nail in the tree.
“I’m going to phone Dad tomorrow morning and tell him the circumstances,” Frank said as they all settled down for the rest of the night.
At dawn Frank roused the others. By the time the sun had risen, breakfast was over and the camping gear stowed for the next leg of their journey.
At the first town Frank stopped to telephone Bayport. His father was away on his case. Mrs. Hardy, who usually was calm, seemed agitated. “Frank, we got a strange letter,” she said.
“About what, Mother?”
“About you. Wait while I get it.”
Mrs. Hardy returned a few moments later and read the message. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fenton Hardy and said: 
I KNOW THAT YOUR SONS ARE ON THE WAY WEST TO TRACK DOWN THE GREAT WL. KEEP THEM OUT OF THE ROCKIES OR THEY WILL NEVER GET BACK ALIVE.
“Who sent it?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know. It’s unsigned and was sent airmail from Indiana,” his mother replied.
“Don’t worry,” Frank told her. “We’re capable of taking care of ourselves. Someone has been bothering us and now I’m sure that it’s Whip Lasher and his gang.”
Frank decided not to mention the fire-bombing. He said that if his father called to tell him that the trail had been cold to medium. When it got hot, Joe or he would phone home again.
It was afternoon when the flat prairie gave way to a clutch of low hills on the western horizon. The boys had not seen Fingers and his pals and hoped that they had turned either north or south.
“That Terrible Trio really bugs me,” Biff said.
At a curve in the road a woman stood beside a disabled car, waving a white handkerchief.
“Okay, Sir Galahad,” Chet told Frank, who was driving. “Pull over and we’ll give yon damsel a sample of our superb chivalry.”
“She has a flat tire,” Frank said. “Want to change it?” He braked slowly, stopping on the downgrade some distance ahead of the disabled car. All four got out and walked back.
The woman, attractive and in her twenties, smiled nervously as the boys approached. “Will you please help me?” she asked. “I’ve never changed a tire in my life.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. “Chet here has volunteered to do the job.”
“How thoughtful,” the woman replied. “Then I suppose you’re a mechanic.”
Chet’s look of chagrin turned to one of proud pleasure. “Sure. I can do almost anything with a car. Is your spare in the trunk?”
She nodded and handed him the key.
Chet found the jack and soon had the rear end several inches off the ground. He removed the rim and tried to replace it with the spare. It would not fit!
“Having trouble, Chet?” asked Biff.
The perspiring boy glared and the woman said, “Chet, I think you’re putting it on backward.”
“Oh yes. Thank you.” Chet reversed the wheel and it snapped quickly into place.
“I guess the heat got to me,” Chet said, screwing the lugs back on. Then he banged the hubcap in place. While he was doing this, several cars drove past. Joe was on the alert, watching for Fingers’ trailer but it did not come by.
As Chet replaced the tools, the woman suddenly put a hand to her mouth and cried, “My goodness, isn’t that your car?”
All heads whipped to the spot where they had parked. Their car and the camper were moving slowly down the incline.
“I don’t believe it!” Frank shouted. “I’m sure I set the brakes!”
He dashed ahead of the others as the car picked up speed. It was impossible to overtake it! All at once he noticed the young woman driving alongside him.
“I’ll help you!” she called out.
Frank flung his arm into the open right-hand window and hung on. The woman put on speed and soon her car and the Hardys’ were side by side.
“Closer! Can you come closer?” Frank shouted.
The two vehicles were now hardly more than a couple of feet apart and Frank saw Sherlock looking forlornly out the back window.
Frank made a lunge, releasing his hold on the woman’s car and clutching at the steering wheel of his own. A pain shot up along his arm. His fingers nearly lost their grip but he held on. The car was heading off the side of the road toward a deep gully. Frank struggled desperately to control it!
CHAPTER VII  
Charred Evidence
 
 
 
 
FRANK gripped the door and with a mighty wrench pulled his shoulders through the window opening. Then he wriggled onto the seat, jammed on the brakes, cut the motor, and twisted the wheel. The car lurched to a halt on the lip of the embankment.
“The trailer!” Frank thought. He hardly dared to look behind. The camper dangled over the gully! The slightest motion might send it and the car crashing down.
Joe, Chet, and Biff raced to assist Frank. While they grabbed the car so it would not teeter, Frank opened the door and slid out.
Sherlock jumped into the front seat and bounded out into Biff’s arms.
“Some camping trip!” Chet muttered. “We spend half of our time rescuing Sherlock!”
Joe said, “This is either more of Fingers’ work, or Whip Lasher’s!”
“We didn’t see Fingers’ trailer go by,” Chet remarked.
“Well, if it was Fingers, he and his pals must be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We’ll search for them after we get our camper back on the road.”
As he spoke, a large transcontinental truck moved cautiously down the grade and Joe hailed it. “Can you pull us back on the highway?” he asked.
The truckers said they would be glad to. From their gear locker they pulled out a long chain, which they attached to the front of the Hardys’ car. Then carefully—a few inches at a time—the large vehicle eased the car and the trailer up over the edge and back onto the shoulder of the road.
“Thanks a lot!” Frank said.
The truckers replied with a salute and left.
“They’re great guys in an emergency,” Biff declared.
Frank turned around and headed back. A couple of miles along the road they saw a rest area they had not noticed before. Two small trailers were parked next to picnic tables, where four people sat, eating and chatting.
“Hi, there,” Frank said as he approached the two middle-aged couples.
“Hello, boys,” one of the women said. “If you’re hungry, sit right down and join us.”
“No, thank you,” Frank replied. “We were just looking for a small trailer. We thought it might have been parked here.”
“The one with the Vampire Trail motorbike?”
“That’s right.”
“They left a while ago,” her husband added. “After they cooked some grub over a fire.” He pointed to a stone pit about twenty-five feet away.
“Which way were they headed?” asked Biff.
“West,” the other man said.
“Funny,” mused Chet, “we didn’t see them on the road.”
“That’s because they decided to take a shortcut by a back road. Look, it’s here on the map.”
He handed Frank a road map and traced the line of a secondary road. “It might be a little rough,” he added, “but it avoids the traffic on the highway.”
Frank thanked him and said in a low voice to Joe, “I’ve got it figured. One of them drove past in their car, released our brake, turned around and came back here. Then they high-tailed off through the hinterland so we wouldn’t see them!”
Chet, meanwhile, had wandered off to the stone pit. At the edge of the stones lay the charred remains of a camping magazine.
“Oh, Frank! Here’s something that might interest you.”
He picked up the magazine and gave it to Frank. In it were the usual stories about good camping sites, a rundown on new models of motorbikes, and a section on house trailers.
Frank turned another page. “Look at this, Joe,” he said. A short article was titled “Sapphire Trek.” The dateline had been burned off, but most of the text was intact. It told of illegal mining of precious stones in the Rockies. The following page had been torn out.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both were asking themselves the same questions. Had the sapphires in the guitar been mined illegally? Did Fingers and his gang have anything to do with such an operation?
The Hardys talked it over and decided there must be some connection. They discussed their theory with Chet and Biff.
“If they tore out a page, it proves they were interested in something to do with the mine,” Biff agreed.
Chet said, “So now we have two mysteries. Which one are we going to concentrate on, Frank?”
The Hardys were determined to follow their original case. Scant as clues had been, they had a hunch that Whip Lasher was not only following them for the purpose of harassment, but also was heading for a hideout in the Rockies.
Frank tossed the magazine into a trash can. The boys said good-by to the couples, and continued on their way. Biff was driving, with Joe next to him. Biff said, “I think the Terrible Trio will keep out of our sight from now on.”
“Right,” Joe said. “They’ll know we suspect them of releasing the brake.”
In the back seat Chet hooked his thumbs into his belt and heaved a sigh of relief. “If we never see them again, it’ll be too soon.”
Frank studied the map as they went over mountainous terrain. “Denver is not far away,” he said. “A couple of hundred miles or so.”
The sun hung red on the horizon and Biff flipped the driver’s visor down to cut the glare. Up ahead he could see a car hauling a shiny white cabin cruiser on a boat trailer.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Joe.
Biff nodded and reduced his speed to follow behind the boat. The boys studied it in detail, comparing it with the one bought with the counterfeit credit card. It fitted the description perfectly.
“But let’s not jump to conclusions,” Frank warned Joe.
“We could stop him right away!” Joe said.
“Negative. If we make a citizen’s arrest and we’re wrong—”
“Frank’s right,” Biff put in. “If this fellow is going to camp overnight, how about buddying up?”
“Great idea,” Chet said. “Besides, I’m getting hungry.”
A half mile farther on a huge sign announced that a flood control and hydroelectric power reservoir lay ten miles ahead. Campers were welcome.
Frank consulted the map. “Wow! This place is twenty miles long and about five miles wide!”
“I’ll bet that’s where our friend’s going,” Biff said.
His guess proved correct. The next fork in the road had a sign: Turn left to Badland Reservoir. State boating laws in effect.
Frank dropped to a discreet distance behind the boat trailer. It headed directly to the shore of the lake and parked in the camping area.
The Hardys pulled up alongside and set up their camper. Frank had warned the others not to pay any attention to their neighbor but to busy themselves around their own trailer.
The plan worked well. Biff unlimbered his fishing rod and began casting it into the reservoir. Joe tinkered under the hood of the car, checking the oil, while Frank and Chet prepared supper. Finally the door of the other car opened. A man got out and warily watched the boys. He was in his middle thirties, stout, with receding black hair, a large nose, and small eyes. His shelving chin added to the general appearance of a sleek beaver.
He approached the steps of the camper, knocked, and when Frank came out, introduced himself as Edward K. Mungo.
“Pretty efficient layout you boys have here,” he said.
“We like it,” Frank replied.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“I’m Frank. The chef is Chet. The guy fishing is Biff. And the other one is Joe.”
Chet, meanwhile, continued his stint at the stove, cutting up three large onions into a skillet with melted butter.
Frank said, “Mr. Mungo likes the smell of our chow. What do you say we invite him to dinner?”
Chet nodded and the man said, “That’s very friendly of you. Thank you. I accept with pleasure.”
When the meal was over, Mungo said, “It’s a lucky thing you fellows parked near me. How would you like to help me launch my cruiser?”
“Glad to,” Frank said.
The hitch was uncoupled and the boys trundled the cruiser into the reservoir. Mungo started the motor, waved, and set out with a throaty purr of the engine.
Darkness was falling but not fast enough to conceal another boat coming up to meet the cruiser. Both craft stopped, with motors idling.
“I’d like to take a look at what’s going on out there,” Frank said.
“We’ve got our foldboat,” Biff remarked. “Let’s put it together.”
The two-seater collapsible boat was pulled out of the trunk of their car and quickly inflated. Frank and Joe got in and paddled silently across the dark waters.
They came as close as they dared to the two boats. The sounds of voices drifted over the lake, but the conversation was not clear enough to be understandable. Suddenly the conversation ceased. A powerful flashlight illuminated the area. Frank and Joe ducked and began to paddle back toward land. When they reached the shore, Biff and Chet were waiting.
“Quick, put the boat away,” Frank said.
He and Joe stood on the shore while the others deflated the boat and stowed it. They waited a long time but the cruiser did not reappear.
“He’ll have to come back some time,” Frank said. “Well, let’s hit the sack. We can check that guy out in the morning.”
The four slept soundly. At daybreak they rose, dressed, and stepped out onto the dewy grass to see whether the boat had returned.
“He came back all right,” Chet said, pointing to a cruiser drifting at anchor a few feet from shore. “Mungo’s probably sleeping aboard.”
“Why not blow the whistle on him right now, Frank?” Biff asked.
“Not so fast,” Frank replied. “Take a look at that boat again.”
The boys peered through the mist rising over the reservoir. Biff exclaimed, “It’s not the same one!”
“Correct,” Frank stated. “Mungo pulled a switch during the night!”

CHAPTER VIII  
The Missing Cruiser
 
 
 
 
THEIR evidence against the Magnacard swindlers had vanished! The boat lying at anchor in the still waters of the reservoir was not the one they had trailed along the highway.
“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.
“Play it cool,” Frank replied. “Mungo’s probably sleeping out there. If we act suspiciously, he might give us the slip.”
It was decided that he and Joe would take the rubber boat and scout the reservoir. If they had any important news for Chet and Biff, who were to keep an eye on Mungo, they would report it over their two-way radio.
Just then the boat they were watching rocked a little, sending a small ripple over the quiet surface.
“Let’s duck,” Joe suggested. “Mungo’s probably getting up.”
Frank carried the foam boat some distance down the shore, while Joe lugged the small motor. When they were safely out of Mungo’s earshot, they unlimbered the boat, attached the motor, and cruised along the shore, keeping a sharp lookout for the white craft.
The sun grew hot, dispelling the mist over the reservoir. Along the shore were more campers than the boys had imagined. Some were in trailers, while others emerged from bright striped tents and waded into the water for a morning swim.
Boats began to move across the lake. Some were small; others were as large as the white cruiser.
“We’ll be all day at this job,” Frank said, scanning the long shoreline. It stretched for miles ahead before curving around toward the low hills on the other side of the lake.
The Hardys pulled ashore several times to ask campers if they had seen the white cabin cruiser but no one had. At noon they approached land to quiz a number of boys and girls who were their own age. All ran down to the water’s edge to greet Frank and Joe as they beached their boat.
“Hi,” Frank said, stepping out. He introduced himself and his brother.
The young people proved to be high school students from Kansas City, who had driven west on vacation. Their chaperons, Mr. and Mrs. Rickle, gave the Hardys a warm welcome.
Joe spoke up. “Mrs. Rickle, do you mind answering some questions?”
“Not at all,” the woman replied.
One of the girls who had crowded around giggled. “Is this a Gallup poll or something?” she asked.
Joe grinned. “Nothing like that,” he replied. “We’re looking for a cruiser.”
“What kind of cruiser?” Mr. Rickle inquired.
After Frank described it, Mr. Rickle remarked, “Pretty classy job.” He turned to the campers. “Have any of you seen one like it in this area?”
The group had been paddling around the reservoir for three days, but no one had seen a boat that fitted the Hardys’ description.
“Did you lose it?” Mrs. Rickle asked half-jokingly.
“Someone else did,” Frank said.
“It would be pretty hard to lose a thing like that,” one of the girls remarked. She had long flaxen hair and a quizzical smile.
“All right,” Joe said with an embarrassed grin. “It was stolen. We’re on the trail of it.”
“Are you sure it’s on this lake?” the girl went on.
“Don’t be so nosy, Barbie,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Frank said. “We’re the curious type ourselves.”
The girl laughed and Frank said, “Well, thanks a lot. We’d better be moving along.”
Mr. Rickle glanced at his watch, then to a barbecue pit in front of one of the tents, where hot dogs were roasting on a grill.
“You can’t go without food,” he said.
“Well, we really—” Frank protested.
“Come to think of it,” Joe interrupted, looking at Barbie, “I’m hungry.”
“That settles it.” Mr. Rickle grinned. “Come and join us. If you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is. We’re not fancy.”
The campers laughed and joked, their appetites whetted by the aroma of sizzling frankfurters. Barbie popped a chef’s hat on her head, speared the hot dogs with a long fork, laid them deftly on the rolls and sang out, “Come and get ’em while they’re hot!”
The Hardys ate two apiece, thanked their hosts, and said good-by.
“But you can’t go without some cake,” Barbie shrieked.
“Honestly,” Frank said, “I’m stuffed.”
The girl, however, would not take no for an answer. She wrapped two huge pieces of chocolate layer cake in aluminum foil, tucked them into a small paper bag, and handed it to Joe.
“Thanks,” Joe said. “You’ve been awfully kind to us.”
The Rickles waved as the rubber boat putted away.
Another dozen stops were made along the shore to question campers. Some had vague recollections of having seen the white cruiser. But nothing definite turned up. By now they were on the far side of the reservoir and the sun was low. A strong wind churned the water to whitecaps.
“We’d better get back,” said Joe, who was at the tiller. He turned the bow of the boat into the waves and started across the wide expanse of water, but made little progress against the wind.
“This outboard isn’t strong enough,” Frank said. “We’re getting nowhere fast.”
Joe turned about and skirted the shore, hoping the wind would die down. Instead, it increased in intensity.
“Looks as if we’re stuck for the night,” Frank said.
They decided to find a sheltered place where they might put up. Joe steered closer to the shore, scanning the hills which sloped directly to the water without any beach whatever.
“Hey, look up ahead,” Frank said, pointing.
There was a small cave at water level. Obviously the action of the waves had eroded soil and rocks in the embankment.
“We could duck in there for protection,” Joe said.
By bending their heads low, the rubber boat slid into the small pocket cave. The roof was high enough so they could sit upright.
“Good luck so far,” Frank said.
They waited for the wind to subside. After about an hour, the lake gradually grew calmer.
“What about Chet and Biff?” Joe asked. “They’re probably wondering where we are.”
“I’ll try to raise them on the radio,” Frank replied.
Their friends had been instructed to leave the waveband open in case of an emergency. Frank flicked on his set and called. Biff answered. “What are you doing? Where are you? When are you coming back?”
Frank told him about their predicament, then said, “What’s going on over there? Where’s Chet?”
“He’s keeping an eye on Mungo.”
“Then he hasn’t left yet?”
“No.” Biff added that Mungo had asked some pointed questions during the day about the Hardys’ boat trip.
“Did he see us leaving?” asked Frank.
“Right,” Biff said. “He had his binoculars trained on you all the time. Chet and I spied him just as you shoved off.”
“Then he’s not quite so friendly as he was?”
“You can say that again. And he hasn’t taken very kindly to Sherlock. He eyes him suspiciously.”
“Stick with it,” Frank said. “If Mungo leaves, let us know right away. See you in the morning.”
Frank had just signed off when Joe said, “Look out there!”
The running lights of a boat gleamed in the dusk. They pushed their boat close to the cave opening and strained their eyes to peer into the gloom. A white craft moved past, nearing the shore at low speed.
“That’s the cruiser!” Joe hissed.
Quickly the boys guided their boat out of the cave, started the outboard, and began to trail the craft. They followed it stealthily.
The cruiser approached a cluster of lights on the shore ahead.
“Looks like a marina,” Frank whispered. “Steer as close as you can, Joe.”
The cruiser sounded its horn in three short blasts and several men appeared quickly at the water’s edge.
Joe stopped the outboard, then paddled nearer to the marina. Flashlights bobbed. The boys eased themselves out of the rubber boat, tied it up, and crept along the shore. Now they could hear the conversation.
“The boss’ll like this deal,” a man said. “I sold it to a sucker down the pond a piece. To be delivered in the morning.”
“Good work, good work,” another man praised. “Did you sell it as is?”
“No. He wants a blue model.”
“So it needs a paint job.”
“Right. Otherwise it’s clean. All identification has been removed.”
Soon there came the gentle hiss of paint being sprayed on the cruiser.
Frank and Joe did not dare to whisper. If they were heard, they would be easy prey to the thieves.
Hours passed. Finally the first man spoke again. “Okay, the job’s done. Radio E. K. and tell him to scram, if he hasn’t gone already.”
Mungo’s initials!
Frank and Joe backed up quietly. When they were certain they were out of earshot, Frank said, “We’ll call Chet and Biff to detain Mungo.”
They crept back to the boat, reached for the radio, and switched it on. “Chet. Biff. This is Joe calling.”
A sleepy voice replied. “Chet here. What’s up?”
“Grab Mungo and don’t let him get away!”
Suddenly lights shone not twenty feet from where they crouched. An angry voice boomed out, “We’re being spied on!”
Cries went up from the gang near the cruiser. Shouting and cursing, the men raced along the shore, their flashlights bobbing.
The man closest to the Hardys made a lunge for them as they slipped into their boat. Would they get away?

CHAPTER IX  
Sanctuary
 
 
 
 
IN feverish haste Frank and Joe shoved off from the shore. Their pursuer made one last desperate lunge with a knife, half falling into the water as the tip of the blade dug into the rubber boat!
Joe started the outboard, giving it full power. Their escape was painfully slow. They felt the cold water slowly seeping through the rent in the rubberized fabric.
Their pursuer pulled himself out of the water and raced back to his confederates. Joe saw them launch a small motorboat into the reservoir. It started with a roar.
“Frank, I don’t think we can make it!” Joe said, keeping their little craft close to shore and seeking the sanctuary of the small cave.
“It must be up ahead,” Frank said anxiously.
Joe brought the boat so close to shore that they could nearly touch the rocks.
The speedboat, meanwhile, whined angrily as it cut across toward them.
Finally Frank spotted the cave. “Joe, there it is! Right up ahead!”
They ducked and eased into the safety of the cave. Seconds later the motorboat flashed past and droned out of earshot.
“Whew!” Frank felt the side of the boat until his fingers found the cut. “Joe, reach in for the first-aid kit, will you?”
“What for?”
“Adhesive. I think I can fix the tear with it.” Frank patched the tape firmly over the rip. “Now it’ll hold tight. But we’ve got to get the water out of here.”
Joe took off his sweat shirt and sopped up the water in the bottom of the boat. After wringing out the shirt a number of times, the floor was fairly dry.
As the boys sat waiting for their pursuers to return, Frank said, “Boy, am I hungry!”
“Hey!” Joe exclaimed. “The chocolate cake!”
He pulled out a package from under his seat. The cake was slightly damp, but tasted delicious to the two hungry boys.
“Bless that Barbie,” Frank said, after swallowing the last crumb.
Again they heard the motorboat. It crisscrossed the water not far from shore, then headed for the marina.
“I guess they think we sank,” Joe said.
Frank nodded. “Let’s start now,” he said. “Keep that motor at low speed until we’re far out.”
The sky was velvety blue and the wind had abated completely. Stars could be seen briefly above the cover of cirrus clouds.
With a burping cough the outboard came to life and propelled the craft out into the lake. It crept along for ten minutes until Joe gave it more power. He aimed straight for the opposite shore. An hour later they reached the other side, slightly north of where their car was parked.
“Easy now, Joe,” Frank warned as they edged along the shore. “We don’t want to bang into Mungo’s boat!”
They came to the spot where the suspect’s car had stood. It was gone, and so was his boat!
“Frank!” Joe exclaimed after he had scanned the area. “Our car’s not here, either!” Only the camper remained, dimly silhouetted against the eastern sky.
“Chet and Biff might have parked it somewhere else. Come on.”
The boys climbed out of the boat. They pulled it ashore, then ran to the trailer. Frank opened the door and they walked inside. They played their flashlights about. The place was empty, except for Sherlock. He lay on the floor in a deep slumber.
“Frank, something happened here,” Joe said. “That hound’s not sleeping, he’s unconscious!”
“And where are Biff and Chet?” Frank wondered. “Maybe they’re in trouble!”
Joe ran back to the boat and got the radio. They tried to raise their friends over the air, but had no success.
“What now?” Joe asked.
“Let’s follow the tracks.”
Frank shone his light on the ground and picked up the tire marks of their car. But instead of heading toward the highway, the trail circled to the left.
“See here, Frank,” Joe said. “There’s only one set of tracks. Where’d Mungo go?”
Before they had a chance to ponder this, their car loomed up ahead. The Hardys ran to it and shone their lights inside. Chet and Biff were in the back seat, tied up!
Frank and Joe swung the doors open and dragged their friends out. Chet was unconscious, but Biff began to mutter. The boys chafed their hands and massaged their necks, until Biff could talk coherently and Chet revived.
“What happened?” Frank asked.
Biff explained that Mungo had driven off to get some ice cream. “We thought he was returning the favor for having eaten chow with us,” Biff said.
“The stuff tasted kind of funny,” Chet put in.
“I didn’t like it either.” Biff made a face. “And Mungo wouldn’t have any at all. So Sherlock ate most of it.”
The pair related that they had suddenly become groggy. Unable to defend themselves, Mungo had tied them up, put them into the car, and parked them in the woods.
“Did you see where he went?” asked Joe.
“No. How’s Sherlock?” Biff said.
“In the camper, unconscious. That’s how we knew something was wrong. Well, let’s get back.”
Frank drove the car to their campsite. Biff ran into the trailer and bent over Sherlock, then he shook his head sadly. “Poor dog’s awfully sick,” he said, stroking the animal’s back. “We’ll have to locate a vet.”
The boys lifted the dog gently and carried him to the car. The tent was folded away in the trailer and they set off.
By the time they arrived in the nearest town, the sun was up. They asked a passer-by where they could find a veterinarian and were directed to Dr. Cameron’s Animal Hospital.
“He lives on the second floor,” the man said. “Just ring the bell.”
Biff carried the dog to the door and the Hardys followed with Chet. Frank said, “We should really do some sleuthing about that ice cream. You stay here till we get back, Biff.”
“Okay,” Biff said and rang the doorbell.
The three boys walked around town until they came to a large ice-cream stand. The man who was cleaning up the place turned out to be the proprietor. Frank asked whether he had sold any ice cream the previous day to a man resembling Mungo.


Chet and Biff were tied up!
“Oh yes, I remember him,” the man replied. “He bought a half-gallon brick—strawberry and chocolate with peach ripple in the middle.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” Joe said, pleased with their quick success.
“I couldn’t forget that guy,” the man replied. “He walked down the end of the counter, split the brick in the middle, and poured something on it.”
“Didn’t you think that was strange?” Frank asked.
“Sure. Why didn’t he wait till he got home before he cut it up and poured syrup over it? But there are all kinds of weird people.”
“It wasn’t syrup, it was poison!” Joe declared hotly.
The proprietor blanched. “Are you sure? Did anybody get sick?”
“Not real bad,” Frank said. “Only our dog.”
The man looked distressed. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said. He reached into the freezer and pulled out another half-gallon brick. “Maybe you’d like to have this to make up for it,” he said.
“No thanks,” Frank said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Their next stop was at police headquarters. The boys told the deputy chief in charge about the poisoned ice cream and the stolen cruiser, and he promised to put out an all-points bulletin for Mungo and his pals at the marina.
When Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the animal hospital, Biff was sitting outside on the steps holding his head in his hands.
“He really loves that dog,” Chet said as they walked up to him.
“Hi, Biff,” Frank called out. “How’s old Sherlock?”
Biff replied with a long face, “Not good. I don’t think he’ll make it!”

CHAPTER X  
Buckskin Clue
 
 
 
 
“You mean Sherlock’s going to die?” Chet asked.
“It looks like it,” Biff replied in a downcast voice.
All four went inside to speak to the doctor, a kindly-looking man in a white uniform.
“Don’t be so glum, Biff,” he said.
Biff’s face brightened. “Is there some hope for my hound?”
“He’s past the crisis,” the vet replied.
“Good old gumshoe,” Joe said.
Frank asked, “Can we take him with us now, Doc?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Sherlock’s in no condition to travel.”
“But we’ll have to move on,” said Joe.
Biff spoke up. “In that case I’ll stay until the dog’s ready to go and catch up with you later.”
The boys looked at one another. Joe shrugged. “That’ll be okay with me,” he said.
“But,” Chet said, “you can’t carry a dog on a bus. I tried it once. No go.”
“Leave the details to me,” Biff said. “I’ll get there somehow.”
“Where will you stay while Sherlock’s recuperating?” Frank inquired.
The vet smiled when he heard this. “Biff can help me around my hospital and in return he can have a bed in my home,” he said. “The dog’s recovery should only take a couple days.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Biff said, grinning. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet. “So long, fellows. Good luck! Try to find Whip Lasher by the time we meet again.”
It was decided that the trio would have breakfast, then go ahead to Denver and notify Biff where they were staying. The ride was uneventful except for the grandeur of the country which opened up before their eyes. Their car climbed upward to the mile-high city on the eastern slope of the Rockies. The air was crisp and clear and the city sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine.
Chet poured over a map. He located a large camping site on the northern fringes of Denver and they pulled in between two other trailers. After the boys had set up their tent, the young couple on their right strolled over.
“Hi, my name’s Henry,” said the man. “This is my wife Betty.”
Frank Hardy introduced his group and Henry went on, “You’re just in time for the cook-off competition.”
“What’s that?” asked Chet.
“It’s really something to see,” Betty remarked. She told them that a soup company sponsored the Open-Fire Camp Cooking Contest. “Contestants’ recipes are selected for main dish, vegetable, and dessert,” she said.
As she spoke, the aroma of food drifted over the campsite, and the boys saw other people being drawn to the competition.
“We’re going over now,” Betty said. “Want to come along?”
Frank, Joe, and Chet joined the couple and walked to an area behind the campsite. Twenty or more campfires were burning and contestants with skillets, pots, and pans were nearly finished with their masterpieces.
A tall man wearing western boots and a ten-gallon hat spoke over a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have fifteen judges—seven men, seven women, and a little girl. But one of the fellows dropped out. Do we have a volunteer taster?”
“Here!” Joe cried out and lifted Chet’s arm in the air.
“Wait a minute!” the stout boy protested.
“Ah-ha,” the official called out. “That well-fed young man will be perfect.”
Frank and Joe pushed Chet forward as the emcee went on, “What is your name?”
“Chet Morton.”
“You’ll be one of the dessert tasters.”
A benign smile crossed Chet’s face. Desserts were his favorites!
“I’m really in luck!” he told the Hardys.
The aroma of the cook-off was enough to make anybody hungry. The smoke which drifted over the area carried the scent of grilled trout, gingered ham in tantalizing juices, and Twirly Birds, a special chicken recipe. Frank and Joe followed Chet to a table marked Desserts.
“Look at these!” Chet exclaimed as he read the labels. “Caramel peach crunch, apple dumplings, and peach turnovers.”
“Will the tasters eat sparingly of the sweets,” the announcer said. “I’m saying this for your own good!”
Several men and women joined Chet as they sampled the luscious recipes. “Hm!” Chet mused. “Can’t seem to make up my mind!” He went from dish to dish, taking a man-sized portion each time. His eyes rolled and he smacked his lips.
“Come on, Chet!” Joe prodded him as the onlookers chuckled.
“They’re all so good,” Chet said. “It’s awfully hard to figure out which is best!”
“All right,” Frank said. “Just one more time, fellow!”
Chet patted his stomach and started down the line again, relishing each mouthful. Finally he decided. “I vote for the caramel peach crunch,” he said when the roll was called.
“Chet’s in for trouble,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Look, he’s getting pale.”
“I’d say he’s getting green around the gills,” Frank remarked.
Chet’s smile had vanished. “Fellows,” he said, “I’m going back to our trailer. How far is it?”
“About ten miles,” Joe said. “Don’t say that!” Chet made his way through the crowd at a half-trot and held his stomach.
By the time Frank and Joe reached the camper, they found their buddy lying down.
“How do you feel, my gourmet friend?” Joe asked.
“Better.”
But Chet’s illness lasted the balance of the evening. In the morning he was still not his bouncy self.
“Want to come downtown with us?” Joe asked after breakfast.
“What for?”
Frank explained that they were going to visit the Mountain Dogie Store.
“Don’t ask me to do anything for a while, will you?” Chet begged.
“Okay, you stay and recuperate,” Frank said. “Joe and I will be back later.”
With a nod of appreciation, Chet said good-by. The Hardys unhitched their car and drove to a public telephone, where they contacted Biff to tell him of their whereabouts. Sherlock was well enough to travel, Biff reported, and they would leave that morning. Then Frank and Joe went on to downtown Denver. It did not take long to find the Mountain Dogie Store. A sign announced: The World’s Greatest Emporium for Sports and Camping.
The smell of new cloth and leather goods pervaded the huge store. Crowds moved about inspecting hundreds of items from camping gear to sports clothes.
At an information booth they obtained directions to the shoe department. Frank asked for the head clerk. He was a young man in his twenties.
“We’d like to know,” Frank said, “if anybody recently bought shoes here with a Magnacard.”
The young man was immediately interested. “I think we might have some information on that,” he said. “You’ll have to talk to the general manager. Follow me, please.”
They went up a flight of stairs to an office located off the mezzanine. There they were introduced to a thin, balding middle-aged man named Jerrold Morris.
“They have a question about a Magnacard,” the clerk said and excused himself.
Morris motioned the boys to be seated and looked at them suspiciously. “Now what was that about a Magnacard?” he asked.
The Hardys identified themselves, explaining they were on the trail of Whip Lasher. “We’re sure he bought a pair of shoes here,” Frank concluded.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s the same man or not,” Morris said, “but a fellow calling himself Robert Wheeler bought a pair of shoes a couple of months ago. Besides that, he outfitted himself with some of our best merchandise.”
“On a phony Magnacard?” Frank queried.
“That’s right. There was another man with him. I wish we could lay our hands on those twol The police are working on the case.”
“Did you get a description of Wheeler and his companion?” Joe asked.
Morris nodded. “Our shoe clerk remembered Wheeler quite well.”
Frank showed him the photograph.
“This could very well be the same fellow,” Morris said.
“Did he leave any clues?” Joe wanted to know.
“No. We questioned our salesmen. They have no idea where the man was from or where he was going.”
“What about the wrappers?” Frank asked.
Much to the Hardys’ surprise, the packers had not been questioned.
“We would like to talk with them,” Frank said. 
“Sure.”
Morris rose and led the way downstairs to an aisle in the back of the store where several women were busy packing merchandise. He asked if anyone remembered wrapping an order including a buckskin jacket and Mountain Dogie shoes, bought with a Magnacard charge plate. “This might be the man who purchased it,” he said and passed the photo around.
One woman, Mrs. Jones, identified Wheeler from the picture. “Whenever I see Magnacard on the sales slip,” she said, “I’m interested in the customer. We don’t get millionaires down here very often.”
“What did the other man look like?” Frank asked.
“Well, he was kind of chubby, and had dark hair. That’s all I remember about him.”
“Did they talk to each other while they were waiting?”
The woman frowned. “They mentioned a place called Foot Meadow a couple of times.”
“Where’s that?” Joe asked Morris.
“Never heard of it,” the man replied.
“Neither have I,” Mrs. Jones added.
“Well, thank you for your information,” Frank said. “You may have been a big help to us.”
“If you should capture those fellows, let me know,” Morris said.
“Will do,” Frank promised.
The boys returned to their car, then drove out of the store’s parking lot into a busy street which led past the Brown Palace Hotel. Farther on, as they passed a jewelry shop, Frank jammed on the brakes.
“Joe, look!”
In front of the shop stood three familiar characters. Juice, Rip, and Fingers!
“Oh-oh,” Joe said. “They followed us to Denver!”
“Wonder what they’re doing in front of that shop,” Frank said. He pulled up to the curb.
“I’d say they’re trying to case the place.” Joe glanced back and saw Fingers walk into the store while the others waited outside.
Joe looked at his brother. “Frank, do you suppose this is a stick-up?”

CHAPTER XI  
A Shattering Experience
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe looked around for a policeman, but there was none in sight. So they hastened toward the jewelry store.
Frank said, “I’ll go inside just in case there’s trouble. You stay out here to cover me if those two guys try anything funny.”
When Juice and Rip saw them coming, their mouths dropped open in surprise. Juice held a bottle of orange soda in his hand. Trying to be casual, he took a swig.
“What are you guys doing here?” Rip asked.
The Hardys did not reply. Joe stayed outside while Frank strode into the shop. Counters lined both sides and the far end, where Fingers, his back to the door, was talking to the clerk.
Quietly Frank stepped forward. Fingers reached into his jacket and pulled something out.
Frank edged closer. “Thank goodness,” he said to himself, “it’s not a holdup.”
Fingers had a pouch in his hand. He opened it and shook several sapphires onto the velvet pad covering the glass counter. “Want to buy them?” he asked the clerk.
“Where’d you get these?”
“In the mountains. Blackfoot country.”
The clerk picked up the stones one by one to examine them. “These weren’t stolen?”
“No.”
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Fingers spied Frank. He wheeled around and blanched. “What’re you trailing me for?” he said.
“Who’s trailing who?” Frank shot back.
Fingers looked at the clerk and said, “Excuse me a minute.” He motioned Frank toward the front of the store.
“Look, you’re going to spoil this whole deal for me!” he hissed.
“How can I spoil anything if you’re on the up-and-up?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Fingers replied “Now leave me alone. I need some money.”
“Okay.” Frank stepped out into the sunlit street. There he found Joe being heckled by Juice and Rip.
“You’ve got nothing on us,” Juice was saying.
With an innocent look, Joe said, “Of course not. You three guys are model citizens.”
“Don’t be wise,” Rip said. “You’ll get what’s coming to you if you keep following us.”
Frank spoke up. “It’s a free country. We’ll go anywhere we please.”
Just then Fingers came out of the door, glowering. His forehead was lined with anger. “You blew it for me!” he muttered at Frank.
Joe noticed that Rip was edging closer to him. Suddenly Rip kicked viciously. Joe hopped nimbly aside and Rip’s foot went through the plate-glass window.
It shattered as if hit by an explosion. The whole pane fell in, splintering over the display of jewelry and setting off the burglar alarm.
“Beat it!” Fingers cried out.
The trio raced down the street, dodging passersby. A patrol car appeared and screeched to a halt. The clerk came racing from the store and a crowd hemmed in Frank and Joe.
An officer pushed through the milling throng and began to ask questions.
Joe related what had happened, and a man stepped forward to corroborate his story.
“Do you know where those fellows were headed?” the policeman asked the Hardys.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, you can go. We’ll look for them.”
On their way back to the campsite, a thought suddenly leaped at Frank.
“Joe, Fingers mentioned Blackfoot country in the jewelry shop!”
“So?”
“Remember that wrapper in the Mountain Dogie Store said that Lasher and his pal had mentioned Foot Meadow?”
“Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe exclaimed.
“That could be it,” Frank said. He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed the camping guide on the dashboard, and thumbed through the book. “Look, here it is!”
Frank pointed to the name Blackfoot Meadow. It was a public camping spot maintained by the State of Colorado, located in extremely rugged mountainous country.
“Just the place for a hideout,” Joe said.
“We ought to drive there right away,” Frank said.
“But what about Biff and Sherlock?”
“Guess we’d better wait here for them.”
By this time Biff and his dog had already left the animal hospital and were on their way to the campsite. The two had not been able to get on a bus. On Biff’s back was a cleverly devised sling made of an old bedsheet and in it rested Sherlock.
The hound’s lugubrious visage looked out over Biff’s shoulder as the sturdy young athlete walked along, trying to thumb a ride.
Several cars slowed down to look at the unusual sight, but continued on without stopping.
“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Biff said. “We’ll get there. But I wish this was Be-Kind-to-Animals Week.”
After several miles Biff put the dog down and Sherlock walked for ten minutes. The hot sun and the weakness caused by his recent illness brought the panting animal to a halt. Biff poured some water from his canteen into a tin dish and Sherlock lapped it up. Then the boy hoisted his pet onto his back again.
His right arm had gotten tired of thumbing when a car slowed down and stopped. In it were a man and a woman. “You poor boy!” the woman said after rolling down the window of the air-conditioned Ford. “What are you doing out here?”
“Trying to get to Denver with my dog,” Biff replied.
“We’d like to give you a lift, but my husband is allergic to dogs.”
“Anyway, it’s nice of you to stop, ma’am,” Biff said.
“Here, maybe this will help,” the woman said. She reached into the back seat and pulled two sandwiches from a bag. Smiling, she handed them to Biff.
“Thank you,” the boy said. “This will come in real handy.”
The woman rolled up the window and the car sped on. Biff ate one sandwich, Sherlock the other. “Okay, old chum,” the boy said. “We’re off again.”
He trudged on under the blazing sun, but no one offered him a lift. Biff was beginning to feel discouraged when he spotted a car parked beside the road in a clump of cottonwood trees a quarter of a mile ahead.
As Biff approached, he saw that the hood was up and a man was tinkering with the motor.
He looked up and smiled at Biff. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to laugh,” he said with a thick German accent. “But I’ve never seen a boy before with a dog knapsack!”
“Man’s best friend,” Biff replied with a grin. “I’m sure Sherlock would do the same for me if he could. But he’s just recuperating from a recent illness.”
Biff put the dog down and looked at the motor. “Overheated?” he asked.
“No. I don’t know what’s the matter. Something in the ignition system, I think.”
Biff had taken his own car apart and put it together several times. He studied the maze of wires carefully. “Sometimes a loose connection will cause trouble,” he said.
“Ja,
I was thinking that. Except that I cannot find anything loose.” 
“Tell you what,” Biff suggested. “If I fix your car, will you take me to Denver?”
“And the Hund, too,” the man said, smiling. 
“Sure. He’s my baggage.”
Biff introduced himself and told his story. Then he found out that the stranded motorist was Fritz Burger from Austria. He was on a tour of the United States.
“I do a lot of climbing in the Alps, and I intend to see if your Rockies are as great a challenge,” Burger said, watching Biff as he checked the automobile’s wiring.
Finally Biff found the trouble. A cable beneath the low-slung car had been cut, as if by a sharp knife.
“Have you been over some rough ground?” Biff asked.
“Ja.”
“A sharp flying stone could have done this. I’ll fix it.”
“Thank you,” Burger said with a grin. “Good thing you came along. Now we all go to Denver.”
Biff expertly repaired the damage and soon they were on their way.
It was late afternoon when Burger pulled into the Hardys’ camping spot.
“Biff, you made it!” Joe called out when he saw his friend approaching.
Frank and Chet came out and introductions were made. Burger said he would stay for the night and continue on the next morning.
“Where are you going?” Frank asked.
The Austrian explained that there were two mountains he wanted to climb. “One is Eagle Ridge, the other Blackfoot Peak.”
“That must be near Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe said. “We’re headed there too!”
As he spoke, an object whizzed through the air, just missing Joe’s head. It crashed into the side of the camper and burst to pieces!

CHAPTER XII  
Prince Cuthbert
 
 
 
 
AT the sound of the crash everybody ducked. Splinters of glass fell on Joe’s hair and he gingerly combed out the pieces.
The Austrian said, “You have enemies?”
“A few,” Frank replied. He bent down to examine the larger pieces of glass. “Just as I thought!” he muttered. “An orange soda bottle. Juice probably threw it.”
Leaving Biff and Burger, the Hardys and Chet fanned out over the area in an effort to locate the assailant.
“He’s a pretty slippery guy,” Frank remarked as they came to the edge of the camping area beside the highway.
“Look!” Chet said, pointing. “There’s his trail bike!”
The motorcycle was parked a hundred yards away. As the Hardys approached, they could see the name Vampire Trail on it.
But before they had a chance to advance farther, a figure darted out of a huge drainpipe laid under the highway.
“There he goes!” Joe cried.
Juice was closer to the bike than the Hardys. Joe was only ten feet behind when Juice gave the machine gas, sending up a spray of dirt and gravel into Joe’s face. He sped off down the road, waving defiantly.
“No use to chase after him now,” Frank said as the youth zigzagged through the traffic and finally disappeared from sight.
When they returned to the camper, Biff was feeding Sherlock and chatting with Burger. The boys invited the Austrian to have supper with them and he gratefully accepted.
As they ate, the Hardys plied Burger with questions, mainly about his country. The man said he was an engineer and that his hobbies were travel and mountain climbing. “So now I try your American mountains,” he said.
Biff remarked, “Fritz says Blackfoot Peak is dangerous.”
“In what way?” Frank wanted to know.
Burger shrugged. “That I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
“Thanks again for helping Biff and Sherlock,” Joe said. “In German I believe you say—Danke schön!”
“Bitte schön,”
Burger replied with a grin. 
“Gosh,” Chet said, “I didn’t know you could speak German, Joe.”
Joe chuckled. “Picked it up on TV.”
Burger said good night, adding that he hoped to see the boys again. But by the time they awakened the next morning, the Austrian’s car was gone.
“Now let’s see if we can have a peaceful day,” Biff said, after he had exercised Sherlock and they were ready to depart.
“If we don’t have any more trouble with that dog of yours, we should reach Blackfoot Meadow this evening,” Frank said. He pulled out of the parking area and joined the sparse traffic on the mountain road.
After a short stop for lunch they set off again. The road led higher and higher, and the boys breathed deeply of the thin, exhilarating air.
“By the way,” said Chet, who was munching a spare sandwich in the back seat, “when you find this guy Whip Lasher, what will you do with him?”
“Turn him over to the police,” Joe said.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched,” Frank put in. “We’ll have to catch him first, and that won’t be easy.”
In the middle of the afternoon they drove down the main street of the village of Snowcap.
“Pretty snazzy,” Biff remarked as he looked at the elegant stores lining both sides of the street.
Joe studied his guidebook. It stated that Snowcap was an exclusive ski village in the winter, and in summer catered to vacationists at the many luxury dude ranches located in the surrounding area. It had a number of smart shops and fine restaurants.
“This is no place for us,” Biff said. “Too rich for our blood.”
“Who wants this ritzy stuff, anyhow?” Chet said. “We’re the camper type. Let’s go on.”
The road switched back and forth as they climbed even higher. Finally it dipped into a broad, flat valley spreading open like a wide green carpet between two towering peaks. A sign announced: Blackfoot Meadow State Park.
All types of trailers dotted the cozy sites laid out along a stream shaded by willows and cotton-woods.
“What a great view,” Frank said.
At the park entrance were a cluster of rustic shops and modern facilities for campers. Joe eyed the grocery store since they needed to stock up. Chet pointed to a laundromat.
“Look, you guys,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of shirts that are a little gamey. Think I’ll do some laundry.”
“Okay, go ahead,” Frank said. “I’ve got a few things to be washed, too.”
“Same here,” the others chimed in.
After they had found a pleasant camping spot, the boys uncoupled the trailer tent and quickly set it up. While Frank and Joe went to the grocery store for supplies, Chet gathered up the clothes and took them to the laundromat.
He pushed through the door and looked around. Two women sat on folding chairs, watching their laundry tumble behind the glass doors of the machines. At the far end, a girl about Chet’s age was bending over a half-filled basket of clothes.
Chet got a packet of soap powder from a vending machine and approached a machine with its door half open. Paying more attention to the girl than to the clothes in his hand, he stuffed them into the machine, tossed in the detergent, and closed the door. The machine began to whirl.
Suddenly the girl turned about. An expression of indignation covered her pretty face.
“You can’t do that!” she cried out.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Chet asked. “Can’t boys do laundry in this place?”
“Not in my machine!” 
Chet looked bewildered as the girl chided him.
“Half of my laundry was in the machine you’re using!” she told him rather sharply.
Chet blushed. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t see it!” He was embarrassed and sat down on the bench, looking glum.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard,” the girl said finally. “There’s no harm done.”
Encouraged, Chet brightened and began to tell her about his friends and the camping trip. “You see, we’re detectives,” he said importantly. “And we’re looking for a crook called Whip Lasher.”
“What an odd name,” the girl said.
“He’s one of the country’s most wanted swindlers.” Chet went into great detail in describing the suspect, including the buckskin jacket.
The girl said, “Several men around here wear buckskin jackets. One of them could be the one you’re looking for.”
“Oops, the wash is done,” Chet said.
“I’ll dry it for you,” the girl offered.
When it was ready, Chet raced back to the camper. Frank and Joe were stowing away the canned goods they had bought.
“We’ve got hamburgers and hot dogs too, Chet,” Joe said.
“And I’ve got a clue!” Chet exulted. “A couple of guys in this camp are wearing buckskin jackets. One of them could be Whip Lasher!”
“Calm down,” Biff said. “Buckskin jackets are a fad right now, Chet old boy. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Chet passed out the laundry. “Okay. But I’ll bet if you let old Sherlock smell that inner sole he’ll pick up the scent!”
“Good idea!” Frank replied.
He produced the inner sole and the sad-eyed hound sniffed at it. Then Biff attached a leash and led Sherlock outside.
They walked leisurely about the meadow, chatting briefly with some of the campers who made admiring comments about the dog. Sherlock paused to sniff several spots, but then disdainfully padded away. As they passed an equipment store which sold and rented trail bikes, Sherlock became interested in a new scent and strained at the leash.
“He’s on the trail, Frank!” Biff exclaimed.
They walked rapidly behind the hound who kept his nose to the ground, with ears flapping. He stopped beside the steps of a small trailer. It was weirdly painted in psychedelic colors.
The dog moved around in circles as if he had lost the scent. Did Lasher get into a car at this spot or was he inside the trailer? Joe pressed close to the screen door and looked in. What he saw of the dim interior was even more weird than the exterior.
The walls were covered with paintings and tapestries. Colored tassels hung down from the corners of the ornate picture frames. Two rows of bookshelves were set high above a silk-covered couch laden with embroidered pillows.
Joe turned to the others. “This is fantastic,” he said.
Just then a voice boomed out, “Who’s there?”
The Hardys gulped and Frank stepped forward. “Just some curious visitors, sir.”
“Then come in.”
Frank motioned to the others to wait, then he opened the door and stepped inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the robed figure of a man seated in a thronelike chair at the rear of the trailer.
He had a full beard, squared off at the bottom. His mustache was waxed, with each end standing straight up like a spear. On his head was a jewel-studded Norman-style helmet made of cloth. Several medals were pinned to his velvet jacket and rings sparkled on his fingers.
Frank’s gaze met the keen blue eyes of the regal-looking occupant. “I’m—I’m Frank Hardy,” the boy said.
“Pleased to meet you. My name is Prince Cuthbert de Solo Prudham du Paris.”
“Oh. Do you always dress like this?”
“Indeed I do, as befits royalty.” The man’s piercing eyes never wavered. “You see, I’m a direct descendant of King Arthur and the lawful prince of the British Isles and Normandy.”
“That’s quite an honor,” Frank commented with a straight face. He glanced about, but saw no sign of Whip Lasher. “Nice to meet you, Prince,” Frank said as he backed toward the door.
“I suppose you’re a camper, too,” the prince went on. “New to these parts?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be here for a day or two.”
“My advice is to beware of Vampire Trail!”
The same name as Juice Barden’s trail bike!
“What’s Vampire Trail?” Frank asked casually.
Prince Cuthbert explained that it was a path leading to the top of Blackfoot Peak. “Don’t go there,” he warned. “It’s very dangerous—vampire bats and the like!”
“Thank you,” Frank said and hastened outside.
He beckoned Joe, Chet, and Biff to follow him. When they were a discreet distance from the trailer, Frank burst out laughing.
“Wow! You should have seen that guy who lives in there! A real wacky eccentric who thinks he’s related to King Arthur!” Frank told the boys about his conversation with the man and they chuckled.
“Did you ask him about Whip Lasher and show him the picture?” Joe asked.
“No. He might be in with Lasher, for all we know.”
“And what about Vampire Trail?”
Frank shrugged. “We’ll have to find out what’s going on there.”
Biff spoke up. “Suppose I rent a trail bike and explore that Vampire Trail while you look for Whip Lasher.”
“Okay,” said Frank.
Biff left the bloodhound with Chet and hurried off to rent a motorbike.
“Don’t be too long,” Chet called to Biff. “Dinner’s at seven!”
A further search of Blackfoot Meadow turned up no trace of Lasher. Questions put to shop-keepers and campers elicited only negative replies.
“How about rustling up some grub?” Frank asked Chet when they returned to the trailer.
Biff had not come back yet. Chet cooked the hamburgers and set out the tasty repast. “If Biff doesn’t show up soon, he just won’t get any,” he declared.
It was after dusk when a car pulled up beside the boys’ camper. A trail bike was lashed to the top. Out stepped Fritz Burger. He walked around to the other door, opened it, and helped Biff to his feet.
“Biff! Fritz! What’s the matter?” Frank exclaimed.
“Your friend was attacked on Vampire Trail,” Burger said.
Biff shook his head groggily, and Chet noticed a red welt on his neck.
“A vampire bite!” Chet moaned.

CHAPTER XIII  
A Grizzly Attack?
 
 
 
 
By the time Biff had completely recovered, Fritz Burger was on his way again to Blackfoot Peak.
Biff said, “I was dry-gulched by somebody. Wow! I didn’t know what hit me!”
“It was the vampire bat!” Chet said. “Remember what Prince Cuthbert told Frank.”
“There aren’t any vampire bats in this part of the world,” Frank declared. “They’re found in warmer climates like Central America. I think this vampire bat had two legs!”
The Hardys were determined to pursue the matter further. Next morning they sought out a forest ranger who had an information booth next to the grocery store. He was brown-haired and slender, and told them he was a graduate student who worked there in the summer. His name was Herb Johnson.
Frank brought up the subject of Vampire Trail and asked if there had been any previous trouble in that area.
“Why, what happened?” Johnson asked.
“One of the fellows with us got clobbered there last evening,” Frank replied.
Johnson shook his head. “Funny thing about that place. You know, the real name is not Vampire Trail at all, it’s Grizzly Trail. But alleged recent vampire bat attacks prompted the nickname.”
The ranger shook his head. “I thought the bats were merely a figment of the campers’ imagination.”
“The attack on our friend was not imaginary,” Frank said and mentioned the welt on Biff’s neck.
“Could it have been a mosquito or spider bite?”
“Hardly. By the way, have you ever been up there?” Joe asked.
“Yes, a couple of years ago. Two other students and I went up on a grizzly bear survey.”
Herb related his experience. They had anaesthetized several bears with darts and tagged them for future observation.
“We’d like to go up, too,” Frank said.
“I suppose you could make it. But look out for those grizzlies. One swipe with a paw and you’ve had it!”
The ranger promised to report the attack on Biff to his supervisors. “We’ll have to send a group up and see who’s prowling around,” he said.
When Frank and Joe returned to the camper, they found Chet in a peevish mood. “This place is getting too crowded,” he complained. “Trailers here, trailers there. Didn’t we come out here to enjoy the wide-open country?”
“You’ve got a point,” Biff agreed. “I’m afraid Sherlock might get run over in all this traffic.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s pull out.”
They decided to drive up Blackfoot Pass Road until they found an isolated spot not too far from the main camping facilities. Quickly the trailer was folded up. Then the rented bike was secured over the trailer hitch. The caravan moved slowly out of the park and onto the highway leading through Blackfoot Pass.
After Frank had driven about a mile, Biff said, “Vampire Trail is up ahead to the right.”
Frank slowed down. Dense foliage hung over the trail which showed scant evidence of use. Years ago it probably had been used as a logging road.
Joe was surveying the area to the left. The hills sloped gradually to a spot sheltered by a screen of pine trees.
“Let’s camp up there,” he suggested. “That’s plenty private.”
“Good idea,” Biff agreed. “Then we can keep an eye on Vampire Trail.”
“Okay,” said Frank. He turned left and drove across the shoulder of the road, then carefully wound his way upward among the trees and low bushes. When he stopped, they were about fifty feet from the road, looking down at a thirty-degree angle.
“Boy, we’re hidden and yet we can see everything!” Chet chortled.
He and Biff offered to set up the camper, while Frank and Joe rode the bike back to the trailer park to continue the search for Whip Lasher. When purple shadows began to creep into the meadow, the Hardys decided to return to their campsite.
Chet was busy with the skillet when they arrived. “We had a nice quiet afternoon,” he stated. “A little snooze and plenty to eat.”
“Did anyone go up Vampire Trail while we were gone?” Joe asked.
“No,” Chet replied.
Biff, who had hiked through the woods with Sherlock, had nothing to report either besides sighting four startled deer.
Shortly after they had gone to bed, the boys heard the put-put of a trail bike. Frank and Joe scrambled out of their sleeping bags and ran to look through the pine trees down to the road below.
“It’s going up Vampire Trail,” Joe said.
The bike’s lamps bobbed and swerved along the rough, twisting trail. Finally the light disappeared from view.
“Come on, Joe. Let’s follow.”
It was agreed that Chet and Biff would guard the trailer while the Hardys went up the mountain. They dressed hurriedly, took their flashlights, and started up the trail. The sound of the bike’s motor grew fainter.
After several hundred yards, Frank paused. “Joe, listen. Do you hear anything?”
Except for the rhythmic song of the peepers the woods were silent.
“The bike has stopped,” Joe declared. “In that case, we’ve got to be very carefuL Let’s not walk together.”
They split up, Frank taking the left side of the trail, Joe the right. They moved along quietly, using their flashlights as sparingly as possible. Occasionally they signaled each other by winking the lights briefly.
The trail became steep. Frank climbed over a low boulder and slipped. With a grunt he landed on his stomach. Had there been another outcry at the same time? Frank was not sure. When he regained his footing, he flashed to signal Joe. There was no return blink!
Frank’s heart pounded. Dared he risk discovery by calling out to his brother? He flashed again. Still no response.
Frank crawled to the opposite side of the path and began a methodical search—from the edge of the trail twenty feet into the dense woods and back again. “Joe, where are you?” he whispered hoarsely.
All was silent. Frank reasoned that if he continued to search alone he, too, might be assailed by the unknown enemy. It would be more practical if Biff and Chet joined in the hunt.
Frank hurried to the trailer and told the others what had happened.
“What if the vampire bats got Joe!” Chet cried.
“Sherlock will find Joe,” Biff said.
He let the dog sniff the boy’s sleeping bag. Then they set off. This time they did not take the precaution of dousing their flashlights. Speed was essential.
After a while Frank said, “It was right about here that I slipped.”
“Look, there’s Joe!” Biff exclaimed.
The boy lay in the middle of the trail. Hearing the others, he sat up groggily. Sherlock went up and licked his face.
“Joe, what happened?” Frank asked as he and Biff helped his brother to his feet.
“Remember when you slipped?” Joe said. “Just then I heard a rustling behind me. I was kayoed by a blow across my back.”
“Was it a bear?” Biff inquired.
“No. Whoever walloped me carried me up here to the middle of the trail.”
“Let’s look at your neck,” Chet said. He shone his light on the open collar of Joe’s shirt. There was a red welt!
“What’d I tell you?” Chet quavered. “The vampire bat struck again!”
Joe regained his strength gradually. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, he was matching strides with the other three. Back at the camp, Chet applied medication to the welt.
It was hard to settle down for the night. All were too excited about what had happened. Frank said, “Somebody must be camping on the trail.”
“That’s what I think,” Joe agreed. “It might be a hideout for Whip Lasher and the other credit-card crooks.”
“That’s right;” Biff said. “They’re sportsmen, aren’t they?”
“Great sports!” Chet muttered. “When they hit you and you’re not looking!”
The boys listened for an hour, but there were no sounds of the trail bike returning.
“If it’s up there, we’re going to find it!” Joe vowed.
“You can say that again,” Frank said.
After breakfast the next morning Frank decided to report the attack on Joe to the forest ranger, Herb Johnson. He and Biff cycled to Blackfoot Meadow, but the ranger was not at the information booth. On the counter were maps of the area. Frank took one.
As he turned to show it to Biff, his eyes lighted on a fringed buckskin jacket. The man wearing it was hurrying across an open area toward a trailer parked among the trees.
“That could be Whip Lasher!” Frank exclaimed. “Come on, Biff!”
But instead of going to the trailer, the man in the fringed jacket waved at a car driving past. It stopped to pick him up, then drove out of the park toward Snowcap.
Frank and Biff ran to their bike, jumped on, and followed. It irked Frank that he had not gotten a look at the man in the buckskin jacket. He gave the cycle full throttle and it gained on the car ahead.
Suddenly the motor began to sputter. They slowed down and came to a halt beside the road.
“Oh nuts!” Frank said. “It would conk out just now!”
“Sounds as if there’s dirt in the fuel line,” Biff said. He opened a small tool kit slung under the seat and soon found the source of the trouble. “Dirty gasoline, just as I thought,” he added.
Quickly he cleaned the fuel line, then the boys set off again. By the time they reached Snowcap, the trail had been lost completely.
“No telling where they went,” Frank said as he stopped on the main street.
“My guess is that Mr. Buckskin is right here in Snowcap,” Biff said.


  
“The vampire bat struck again!” Chet quavered
“Could be. Let’s take a look around.”
The boys walked up and down the streets. Although they saw several men wearing buckskin, none was the notorious Whip Lasher.
Frank decided to take this opportunity to question local merchants about the Magnacard. Going from one shop to another, he asked discreetly if the owner had any trouble with Magnacard holders and presented Lasher’s picture.
He was told that some clients had Magnacards, but there had been no swindles. At Burn’s Jewelry Shop, however, the proprietor said he would take no more Magnacards.
“Did you get stuck?” Biff asked.
The jeweler nodded. “Someone bought a big sapphire from me on a Magnacard which proved to be fake.” A hard look came over his face. “When I get hold of that crook, he’s going to pay for it!”
“You’ll have to leave that up to the police,” Frank said. He pulled out Lasher’s photo. “Is this the man?”
Burn studied it intently. “No.”
“Can you describe the swindler?”
“Well, his face was round, too. Like this fellow in the photograph. But his hairline was higher. He was dark-haired and not very tall.”
“What was the name on the Magnacard?”
“Minks. John Minks.”
“By the way,” Frank went on, “where do you buy your sapphires?”
The man seemed startled by the question. He forced a smile and replied, “That’s my professional secret!”

CHAPTER XIV  
Death Warrant
 
 
 
 
On the way back to their camp Frank called out over the rushing wind, “What do you make of this, Biff?”
“Strange that Burn wouldn’t tell us where he got the sapphire. Maybe he bought it from Fingers!”
“I wonder where Fingers got those stones.”
“So do I. As far as Minks is concerned,” Biff said, “no doubt he’s one of Lasher’s gang.”
They decided to stop at the state park grocery store to buy some bottles of soda. As they turned into the entrance, they saw Joe leaning against the Hardys’ car.
Frank stopped. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Chet and Sherlock,” Joe replied with a look of exasperation. He explained that they had driven the car into camp after Frank and Biff had not come back, thinking they might need some help.
“What happened to you?” Joe asked. “We couldn’t find you anywhere.”
Frank told about the latest developments, then added, “So now Chet’s lost?”
“Don’t worry,” Biff said. “He must be around somewhere. Just ask the campers if they’ve seen a left tackle with a hound dog.”
They followed Biff’s suggestion. Several people indicated that they had seen Chet near the psychedelic trailer! The trio walked up to it and Joe knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Chet called out. They entered.
There sat Chet in Prince Cuthbert’s chair. On his head was the jeweled helmet. Beside him on a velvet cushion lay Sherlock.
“Chet, are you out of your ever-loving skull?” Joe demanded.
Chet grinned benignly. “Lower your voice when speaking to royalty,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“What’s this all about?” Frank asked.
“I’m minding the trailer while His Highness is out on an errand. And you know what he’s giving me for doing it?”
“No, what?”
“Half the city of London!”
“You’re in the money,” Joe quipped. “What are you going to do with half of London?”
“Quit ribbing me. You know that old geezer doesn’t have all his marbles.”
“I’m beginning to have my doubts about you, Chet,” Frank said. “What’s all this business with the fancy helmet?”
“I was wondering what it feels like to be a descendant of King Arthur,” Chet replied.
“Aside from all that nonsense,” Joe said, “I don’t trust the prince.”
“I think he’s harmless enough,” Frank put in.
The Hardys and Biff left Chet and resumed their search for Whip Lasher, on the chance he had returned to the campsite. Two hours later they went back to Prince Cuthbert’s trailer. Chet was impatient.
“He said he’d be back soon,” the boy moaned, glancing at his watch. “I didn’t know he was going to abdicate!”
Biff laughed. “In that case, that makes you the lord and master!”
Just then the door handle turned and the prince entered. “Sorry—so sorry,” he said.
“You took a long time,” said Chet, removing the jeweled headpiece. “Where were you?”
“In Snowcap.”
“Oh,” Joe said. “Were you hobnobbing with American aristocracy?”
“No, none of that,” Prince Cuthbert replied testily. “I was trying to sell some gems to a jeweler.”
Frank asked quickly, “Are they sapphires?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. Did you sell them?”
“My venture ended in complete failure,” the prince replied. “The jeweler said he had plenty of sapphires.”
“What a pity,” said Joe, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “My mother wants a sapphire for her birthday. Let’s see what you have to offer.”
Cuthbert took a pouch from his pocket and dropped several stones into the palm of his hand. They were uncut, the kind that Fingers had in his guitar.
Joe studied them carefully, then looked the prince straight in the eye and asked, “Where did you get these?”
“I bought them at a bargain.”
“From whom?” Joe pressed.
“Three lads I met here at the park,” Cuthbert answered. “They were an odd assortment.” The eccentric went on to describe the Terrible Trio perfectly.
Joe rolled his eyes. “So they’re here, too!”
“They just won’t give up,” Biff said.
“You know them?” the prince asked.
“We’re acquainted,” Frank said. He had an idea and asked Biff to get Sherlock. The tall boy stepped outside to bring in the dog.
One of the sapphire peddlers, Cuthbert said, had sat in the overstuffed chair in a corner of the trailer. Biff let Sherlock sniff the cushion. Then the boys thanked the prince for his information and left.
“Okay, Sherlock,” Biff said. “Get busy!”
The dog’s ears flapped as he zigzagged about, sniffing one scent, then another. Finally he found the trail of the person who had sat in the chair.
Sherlock strained at the leash, and the boys followed him across the campground. The dog led them out of the area and into a wooded section.
“It’s getting late,” Chet declared. “I hope we find those guys soon. I’m getting hungry.”
Tire marks were evident on a path which led deeper into a pine woods. Frank and Joe studied the ground, finally locating the spot where a vehicle had turned off the trail.
Sherlock made the turn. “They can’t be very far ahead,” Biff said. “We’d better be quiet.”
It was decided that Frank and Joe would go on ahead, while Chet and Biff remained behind with Sherlock. If the dog should bark, he would give away their position.
Moving from tree to tree, the Hardys finally spied the trailer. “Ha, we found the culprits,” Joe whispered.
They crept as close as possible to the trailer without risking being seen. Voices came from inside. One belonged to Fingers. He said, “Listen, Pick! Let us work for you again. We won’t steal anything this time!”
A deep voice replied, “I can’t trust you. You take too many of the stones.”
Juice retorted, “Suppose we tell the cops about this thing?”
Pick replied coldly, “That would be your death warrant. Now scram out of this territory!”
“We will,” Fingers said, “if you give us a few more stones. We’re broke.”
“Okay. Here,” came the reply.
Then a door slammed and the Hardys ducked for cover. A short, stocky man left the trailer and vanished into the woods in the opposite direction from which the boys had come. He moved so fast that Frank and Joe could not get a look at his face.
Seconds later there came the sound of a motorbike, but it was too far away for the Hardys to follow.
They hastened back to where they had left Chet, Biff, and Sherlock. “Fingers and his pals are definitely involved in a crooked deal,” Joe said and told what they had overheard.
“I wonder what they’re up to,” said Chet.
“And who is this character Pick?” Biff added.
“First thing to do is notify the police about those goons,” Frank suggested.
Before leaving the public campsite, he put in a phone call to the Denver authorities, giving the location of the suspects’ trailer and car.
Then the four took their car and the motorbike and returned to the trailer tent. After supper the Hardys decided to scout Vampire Trail, but with sufficient equipment to spend the whole night if necessary.
“What can I do?” Biff asked.
After a discussion it was decided that Biff should spy on the Terrible Trio. Chet, meanwhile, would remain and guard their camp with Sherlock.
Frank and Joe took sleeping bags and a small amount of food.
“Good luck,” Chet said. “And watch out for vampire bats!”
The Hardys picked their way carefully up the treacherous path. Night had settled and an eerie silence pervaded the woodland, broken every now and then by the spine-chilling call of a hoot owl.
The boys had been trudging along for nearly an hour when an unearthly cry rent the black stillness of the forest. They hastened toward the place from which the sound had come. This time they stayed close together for their mutual protection.
Suddenly Frank stepped on something squishy. He bent over, shone his light on the ground, and picked up a creature about three inches long. It had pointed ears and a horrid-looking face.
“A vampire bat!” Frank hissed, dropping it to the ground. As he did, another shriek sounded down the trail!

CHAPTER XV  
A Terrified Escapee
 
 
 
 
HAD the cries come from a human being or from a trapped animal? The third time the Hardys heard the chilling shriek there was no doubt that it was the voice of a terrified man.
Frank and Joe strained their eyes to see through the darkness. Suddenly they made out the figure of a man, lumbering along, wheezing as if his lungs would burst.
Other footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by muttered curses.
“He’s being chased,” Frank whispered to Joe. “We’ve got to save him!”
The boys sprang toward the startled man. Each seized an arm and they dragged him into the concealment of the forest and dived down behind a huge boulder.
Joe put a handkerchief over the man’s mouth to mute his labored breathing. Seconds later two pursuers charged past them up the trail. The boys waited tensely until the angry voices disappeared into the night. When they felt it was safe, they shone their lights on the fugitive.
His eyes rolled and he gasped for breath. Frank judged him to be about forty years old. He had a plump face and thin black hair covered his head in streaks. His jacket and trousers, of fashionable-cut, were ripped from his flight up Vampire Trail.
“Who are you? What’s your name?” Frank asked.
“Wait ... not ... now... later.”
“He’s in no condition to talk yet,” Joe said. “Let’s take him back to camp.”
The Hardys helped the man to his feet, lifting his arms over their shoulders. Thus supporting him, they half carried, half dragged him down Vampire Trail. Periodically they stopped and listened to make sure the man’s pursuers were not returning.
When they came to Blackfoot Pass Road, the boys stopped. Leaving Joe with the man, Frank scouted the road for a hundred yards in each direction, making sure that no one was lying in wait. Then the Hardys assisted the stranger up the hill to their camp. Chet was wide-eyed with surprise when he saw them.
“Make room on Biff’s bunk,” Frank told him. “This man is nearly dead from exhaustion.”
The stranger gratefully accepted the boys’ kindness. After two pillows had been propped under his head, his breathing quieted to near normal. He began to answer questions.
“My name is Farkus,” he said. “I’m a financier.” He rolled to one side, fumbled for his wallet, and showed identification.
“What was going on up that trail?” asked Joe.
Farkus said that he had been kidnapped by three men in Snowcap.
“Why?” Frank inquired.
“I don’t know. I think they were taking me up there to kill me!”
Farkus explained that he had been transported in a car as far up the trail as possible. When it had stopped, he dashed out and started to scramble ahead. “If you boys hadn’t grabbed me, it would have been the end,” he concluded.
The Hardys reasoned that the third man must have remained in the car, and had driven away before they had descended the trail again.
Chet confessed that he had been asleep for a while and had heard nothing.
Frank said, “Mr. Farkus, when you pull yourself together, we’ll take you to the police. Things are getting pretty rough around here.”
Farkus sat up on the edge of the bunk, shaking. “No! No! You can’t do that!”
“But it’s for your own protection, sir,” said Chet.
The man pleaded not to be taken to the police. “Those kidnappers will kill me if they find out,” he said. “Let me handle it my own way. I’ll report it, but later.”
Mention of the police seemed to have unnerved Farkus even more and Frank grew suspicious about the man’s protestations. Farkus’ hands moved around the bunk as if searching for a lost article.
“What’s the matter?” asked Joe. “Did you drop something?”
“No—no. I’m just afraid of spiders. That’s all,” the man replied.
Frank and Joe stepped outside and discussed the stranger in low voices. “I think he has something to do with all those mysterious happenings on Vampire Trail,” Frank said.
“On the other hand,” said Joe, “maybe he’s innocent. If he’s a financier, perhaps the kidnappers were holding him for ransom.”
Their minds tired from speculation, the young sleuths prepared for bed. They woke up occasionally and looked at Biff’s bunk, half expecting that Farkus had gone. Near daybreak both boys fell into a deep slumber. They were awakened by the sound of sizzling bacon. Chet and Farkus were already up, and although the financier glanced about the woodland suspiciously, his face had lost the terror of the night before.
“You picked a good camping spot,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Chet agreed. “We can see what’s happening on the trail.”
“Oh? You have a special interest in that path?”
“Ow!” Chet cried as some grease spattered on his hand. “Not really—I mean, it’s just supposed to be a dangerous place, that’s all.”
After breakfast Farkus stretched and yawned, saying that he would like to step outside for a breath of fresh air. Joe accompanied him.
Inside the camper, Frank cautioned Chet not to say anything more about Vampire Trail. “This guy Farkus could be in with the crooks,” he said, adding, “The trail’s a lot more dangerous than you think. I found a dead vampire bat last night!”
Chet, who was drying the skillet, let it clatter to the floor. “A real vampire bat?”
“A dead one. It was a scary-looking thing.”
“I don’t want to see any,” Chet quavered.
Just then Biff came up the hill, pushing his trail bike. He was surprised to see Joe chatting with the stranger, and after being introduced, he went into the camper.
“What goes with that fat guy?” he asked.
Frank told him briefly what happened and said, “How about the Terrible Trio?”
“Still there,” Biff replied. “I overheard them say that they’d stay for a while. So I thought I’d come back.”
Frank nodded. Then he told Biff and Chet that he and Joe would take Farkus back to Snowcap.
“Okay,” said Chet. “Meanwhile, we’ll take a ride down to the park campsite and see what’s going on.”
The Hardys got into the front seat while Farkus slid into the back. As they passed the camping park, Joe, who was at the wheel, looked into the rear-view mirror. Farkus was hunched down in his seat as if to avoid being seen. The man kept silent all the way to Snowcap.
“Well, here we are,” Frank said as Joe pulled up to the curb not far from Burn’s Jewelry Store.
“Don’t—don’t stop here,” Farkus begged. “Go down a little farther to my motel.”
Joe continued on until Farkus pointed to a motel set back from the street. He pulled into the semicircular driveway.
“Thanks,” Farkus said. He jumped out of the car and dashed into Room 14.
Joe drove back onto the street and out of sight of the motel. He parked and the two walked back.
“We’ll check on him,” Frank said. “Maybe his name isn’t Farkus and maybe he isn’t a financier.”
The desk clerk in the motel office was friendly. He answered their questions, saying that Room 14 was rented to a man named A. Larson.
“Thanks,” Frank said. “We thought it was someone we knew.” Outside, he took his brother’s arm. “Did you get that, Joe? A. Larson-the same initials as Archibald Lasher!”

CHAPTER XVI  
Royal Trouble
 
 
 
 
“WHAT do you know!” said Joe. “So our friend Farkus is possibly tied up with Lasher. Maybe he’s one of the gang!”
“Let’s find a cop to make the arrest,” said Frank.
The boys hurried up the main street, looking for a policeman. They could not locate one. Finally Frank said, “I wonder if there’s a police station in this town.”
“Let’s ask someone,” Joe suggested. They stepped into a haberdashery, where the clerk looked them up and down.
“We’re not here to buy anything,” Frank said. “But we’d like to know if there’s a policeman in Snowcap.”
“Why? Did you run into trouble?”
Frank did not reply. Instead he said, “You have a police station, don’t you?”
“Hardly. The State Police usually takes care of our criminals—and bums.”
“Don’t get snooty with us,” Joe said. “We’re campers.”
The boys left the store and went into a tearoom several doors away. The woman at the cashier’s counter was polite and answered their questions.
“Yes, Snowcap has one policeman,” she said. “He’s usually at the information booth a block away. The town, however, has no jail.” Beaming, she added, “We have very fine people here.”
When they were on the street again, Joe snorted. “Fine people like Lasher and his cronies!”
“And if we don’t find that policeman soon, they’ll get away!” Frank stormed.
The town’s lone police officer was seated on a chair outside the information booth. Frank told him of their suspicions. Talking slowly, the officer agreed to accompany the boys to the motel. His gait was even slower than his speech. To the impatient Hardys it seemed like hours before they reached the motel.
The policeman asked to see the occupant in Room 14.
“There’s no one in there now,” the clerk said. “Mr. Larson and his friend left a few minutes ago.”
“You mean there were two men in Room 14?”
“That’s right. Mr. Larson and Mr. Farkus.”
Frank pulled out Lasher’s photo. “Is he one of them?”
“Yes. That’s Mr. Larson.”
“May we look the room over?” Frank asked.
The clerk shrugged. “As long as the law’s with you.”
The officer stood by the open door while the Hardys looked around for clues. The wastebasket had been emptied. A search of the drawers and closets proved fruitless, too. Finally Joe glanced at the memo pad next to the telephone. Nothing was written on it, but the young detective’s sharp eyes noticed indentations on the paper. He tilted the pad up to the light, then set it back again.
“Okay, nothing here,” he said as they stepped outside. They thanked the officer and left.
Nearing their car, Joe said, “Frank, there was something on that pad!” He told of the indented letters. “They spelled Mungo!” 
“Wow! The entire gang may be meeting at that motel,” Frank said.
“Which means we may be able to catch the whole bunch,” Joe said hopefully.
“I doubt it. They’ve been warned by Farkus and cleared out.”
Frank headed west. Halfway to Blackfoot Meadow the Hardys saw Biff Hooper racing toward them on the trail bike. He waved frantically and Frank stopped. Biff pulled over beside him. He lifted the visor of his riding helmet and exclaimed, “Something awful has happened!”
“You look as if you’ve been in an earthquake,” said Joe.
“It was more like a tornado. You should have seen the place.”
“What place?” asked Frank. “For Pete’s sake, calm down and tell us what’s happened.”
“Prince Cuthbert’s trailer—somebody raided it. They bound, gagged, and blindfolded the poor old guy and ransacked the interior.”
“I wonder what they were looking for,” Frank mused.
Biff shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they thought his jewels were real!”
The Hardys decided to visit Cuthbert and ask him a few questions. Biff followed them into the campground. When they reached the gaily painted trailer, they learned that the park police had already been there and left.
The prince’s quarters were still in disorder. When the boys entered, he was trying to hang the pictures back on the tapestried walls. Then he adjusted his helmet, set his throne back on the small dais from which it had toppled, and seated himself.
“I must not forget that I am royalty,” he said, “despite the adversities which have beset me.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” said Biff. “You’re taking this mighty calmly.”
The prince raised his hand. “I shall send word to my retainers. They will hasten from Europe and track down the assailants.”
“Tell us what happened,” Frank said. “What were your attackers looking for?”
Cuthbert said that in the middle of the night someone forced the door. Two men entered, and before he had a chance to sit up, they bound and gagged him. The prince had not seen them, because they blindfolded him before turning on the lights.
“Did they take anything?” Frank asked.
“Only those sapphires I had. That’s what amazes and confounds me. My crown jewels, worth much more, were untouched. Even the royal documents were overlooked by those scoundrels.”
With Cuthbert’s permission the boys searched for clues but found none. Frank advised the prince to get a stronger lock for his door. Then the young detectives stepped outside and walked over to a Coke machine.
“Who do you think robbed the prince?” Joe asked.
“He must have told other people about those sapphires,” Frank said. “Perhaps Fingers and his gang came back to steal them.”
They were finishing their refreshing drinks when Chet Morton approached at a trot with Sherlock on a leash.
“Here, have a drink,” said Joe. He produced another bottle and handed it to the perspiring boy.
Chet took a long swig, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and pulled something from his pants pocket. “Another clue,” he declared, handing a Magnacard to Frank. It was made out to John Minks.
“So Farkus swindled the jeweler!” Frank exclaimed. “Burn’s description fits him, too! “Where’d you get this, Chet?”
“In our camper. I was cleaning up the place and found it under Biff’s bunk. Figured our friend Farkus dropped it.”
“I don’t think he dropped it,” Joe said.
“What do you mean?” Chet asked.
“I think he hid it when he showed us the identification in his wallet. Then he couldn’t find it again. Remember how he was looking around, saying he was afraid of spiders?”
“That was a lot of baloney, all right,” Frank declared.
“Anyway, it throws a different light on the mystery,” Joe said.
The four discussed the new development. Perhaps Farkus had not been kidnapped at all. Maybe the two pursuers were enemies and he had been racing up Vampire Trail to reach the protection of his own gang!
“That Magnacard bunch could have a hideout at the top of the mountain,” Joe stated.
Biff snapped his fingers. “Maybe they manufacture the cards there!”
“Could be,” said Joe.
Frank pocketed the charge plate and they returned to their car. Chet got in back with the dog, while Biff mounted the bike for the ride back to their camp.
“It’s past chow time,” Chet complained.
“Okay, you can whip something up real quick,” Joe said.
The thought of juicy hamburgers made Chet’s stomach grumble. “Come on, Joe! Can’t you go a little faster? I’m dying of hunger.”
The car hummed along the highway between the towering green walls of Blackfoot Pass. Finally they veered left up the hill to their campsite.
“Boy, our trailer sure is well hidden,” Chet said as they neared the spot. “You can’t even see it from here.”
Joe drove a little farther, then cried out, “I’ll say you can’t. It’s gone!”

CHAPTER XVII  
An Unexpected Denial
 
 
 
 
CHET fumed. “The Terrible Trio stole it, that’s who!”
“Somebody sure doesn’t want us near Vampire Trail,” Frank remarked. He glanced about for a clue to the thief or thieves.
There was nothing but tracks made by the wheels of their camper. Apparently it had been pulled down to the road before being hitched onto a car.
“Where do we start looking?” Biff asked.
Frank said there were three possibilities. The thieves could have driven east or west along Blackfoot Pass Road, or up Vampire Trail. The latter, however, showed no sign of fresh car tracks.
“Biff, you and Chet ride the cycle back to Blackfoot Meadow,” Frank said. “Joe and I will drive west over the pass.”
“Good luck,” Biff called out. “We’ll meet back here.”
“Okay.” Frank stepped on the gas. As Blackfoot Pass Road ascended, the valley became narrower and more twisted. The boys checked both sides of the road for a sign of their camper, but in vain.
Near the top of the pass was a turnout cut into a rock wall looming thirty feet high on the left. Much to Frank and Joe’s surprise, their stolen camper rested close to the base of the cliff!
“Now who’d do a thing like that?” Joe asked.
“Whoever stole it,” Frank commented, “must have realized he couldn’t get very far with it.”
They glanced about in all directions for possible spies. Frank happened to peer up at the summit of a sheer peak. It was about a mile south of where they stood.
“Look, Joe! There’s a flashing light!”
The boys squinted into the afternoon sun at a curious yellow-gold light winking at the top of the mountain.
“Somebody’s using a mirror signal,” Joe said.
“Signaling who?”
“The guys who stole our camper, maybe?”
“Could be.”
Joe turned and started toward their trailer.
“Wait a minute,” Frank warned. “This might be a trap.”
Together they cautiously approached the camper. It seemed to be in good condition. As Joe was about to enter, a scraping noise came from above, accompanied by a shower of pebbles.
“Quick!” Frank commanded. “Flat against the cliff!”
They dashed to the rock wall, pressing themselves against the cool stone.
The sound grew louder and clods of earth pelted down. Then a huge dead tree crashed and splintered on the ground. It missed Frank and Joe by a foot, but the twisted branches cut deep ridges into the camper.
“You were right, Frank! It was a trap!”
“We’ll spring a trap of our own.” Frank muttered. “Let’s go!”
They worked their way along the base of the precipice, finally reaching the wooded slope adjoining the cliff.
Looking up, Frank said, “We’ll circle around and approach them from the rear.”
Moving carefully so as not to make any noise, the boys crawled up the slope, using the dense foliage for cover. When they were about thirty feet from the top, something moved in the bushes near the cliff edge.
On their stomachs Frank and Joe inched ahead, pulses pounding with excitement. Soon they were within earshot of two hiding figures.
One said hoarsely, “Look, I’m a thief, not a strong-arm man.”
“Same here,” said the other. “I don’t like this heavy work.”
There was silence for a few moments, then the first man said, “I wish they’d show themselves again so we could bop them. Mungo, take this big rock!”
Mungo! The man who had been trailing the white cabin cruiser! Frank and Joe recognized the speaker’s voice as Farkus’.
At Frank’s signal, the young detectives let out piercing war whoops and sprang up. The two men wheeled around, their eyes as big as saucers. The Hardys leaped upon them, pinning them to the ground inches from the edge of the cliff.
“Don’t! Please don’t throw us over!” Mungo pleaded.
“Wait a minute!” Farkus cried out. “We didn’t want to do this!”
The boys dragged the men to their feet, bound their wrists with some rope Joe had in his pocket, and marched them down the slope. Their captives stumbled and fell. When they pulled themselves up again, they begged for mercy.
“We’ll cooperate, we’ll do anything you want!” said Farkus.
“That’s right,” Mungo added as they reached the turnout. “We’re fed up with working for Lasher!”
“How did you get here? Where’s your car?” Frank asked the men.
The pair motioned to a spot a hundred yards distant. Their automobile was hidden in a sheltered glen. While Joe watched the captives, Frank drove it back to the camper.


A huge tree crashed down
“You’re coming with us,” said Joe.
The prisoners were shoved into the back seat of the Hardys’ car. Then Frank hitched on the camper and drove off. Joe chauffered the other vehicle.
An amazed Chet Morton and an equally surprised Biff Hooper watched the arrival of the strange caravan. They had returned minutes before.
Frank ran their camper up the hill and Joe parked the swindlers’ car on the shoulder of the road. Then the boys pulled their prisoners out.
“I suppose you want a lawyer before you say anything,” Frank said.
“Don’t need any lawyers,” Mungo said. “We’ll tell you all about it.”
He explained that Lasher wanted to silence the Hardys. Farkus had told him of their campsite and Lasher had worked out a scheme to lure the boys away and injure them.
“You can tell that to the police,” Frank said. “We’re taking you into town.”
But before they could push their captives back into the convertible, they heard a car door slam on the road below. A park ranger strode up the hill. They had not met him before.
“Hello, boys,” he said. “I see you found a good camping spot. Don’t forget to wet down all fires.” Then his glance fell upon the bound wrists of the captives. “What’s going—?”
“Help us! We’ve been kidnapped!” Mungo cried out.
“We demand our civil rights!” Farkus added. “Arrest these kids!”
The boys looked at one another in amazement. Biff said, “Why, you crooks! You’re the ones who should be arrested!”
“Don’t believe a word they say,” Farkus bellowed. “See how they got us tied up!”
The park ranger was in a quandary. “I can’t take anybody’s side,” he said. “How do I know who’s telling the truth?” He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the bonds.
“They’ll escape!” Chet protested.
“You’re the ones who’ll run away,” Farkus barked.
“Nobody’s going to run away,” the ranger said. “You all are coming with me to Snowcap.”
Mungo and Farkus seemed willing enough. Farkus was to drive their car. The ranger told Mungo to get into the forest service car. Biff set his bike beside the camper and joined Frank, Joe, and Chet in the convertible.
Chet fumed at the thought of how the pair had duped the officer. “What liars! It’s a wonder they didn’t say they were Smokey the Bear and his brother!”
As they entered the town, Frank exclaimed, “Hey, we’re in luck! There’s a State Police car!”
The ranger pulled up behind it, stepped out, and spoke to the trooper. The Hardys joined him and told their side of the story.
“Those men are mixed up with a ring of credit-card counterfeiters,” Frank said. “And we can prove it!”
“You mean you know someone who can identify them as swindlers?” the trooper asked.
“Yes.” Frank told about Burn, the jeweler who had been bilked. The State Police officer agreed to take Farkus and Mungo to the store.
The suspects were silent as the group walked toward Burn’s shop. While Biff, Chet, and the ranger waited outside, Frank and Joe accompanied the officer into the store with Farkus and Mungo. Burn looked up in surprise from a gem he was examining. A young woman assistant disappeared into the back of the store.
The trooper said, “I understand, Mr. Burn, you accepted a fake Magnacard recently.”
“That’s right.”
“Did either of these men present it to you?”
Farkus and Mungo stood before the counter, looking tense.
The jeweler studied them carefully. Then he said, “No. I’ve never seen these men before!”

CHAPTER XVIII  
The Vampire Cave
 
 
 
 
DISMAYED by the reply, the Hardys faced the eler. “But—but you told us about John Minks and—” Joe began.
“I told you nothing!” Burn’s mouth turned down and a look of defiance came into his slitted eyes. “Now why don’t you go away and stop bothering me!”
The police officer put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘As you can see, it’s a case of mistaken identity. We all make a boo-boo now and then.”
“But I tell you,” Joe persisted, “it’s not a mistake!”
Frank nudged his brother. “We can’t get anywhere without Burn’s help. Protesting won’t do any good. Let’s go!”
“And let these guys go scot-free?” Joe demanded.
“Listen to your brother,” the officer advised. “You haven’t got a case here.”
Joe realized that the officer was right. Without proof, there was no way to take the criminals into custody.
Frank and Joe joined their friends outside. Chet and Biff were amazed to see Mungo and Farkus walk out and amble down the street.
“What happened?” Biff asked. “You had those crooks dead to rights!”
“The jeweler copped out on us,” Frank said. “There’s something real fishy behind all this, and we’re going to find out what it is.”
Biff said, “Of course it’s possible that Farkus was not the man who used the Minks Magnacard.”
“Theoretically, yes,” Frank replied. “But I’ve watched the jeweler and he acted funny. I’m sure it was Farkus.” He asked Chet and Biff to follow the two men.
“Joe and I will keep an eye on the jewelry shop,” he said. “I think Burn will react fairly soon. We’ll meet you later at the campsite.”
Biff and Chet hastened to the Hardys’ convertible and drove slowly after the suspects. The men hopped into their own car, accelerated quickly, and headed in the direction of Denver.
“Come on, Biff. Can’t you get this heap to go any faster?” Chet complained.
Biff had the pedal down to the floor as they ascended the steep mountain road. It curved sharply and the suspects’ car disappeared from sight.
Rounding the curve, the boys saw a road repair-man waving a red flag. Biff hit the brakes. Up ahead a power roller was repairing one side of the highway and traffic was alternating, a dozen cars at a time in each direction.
Mungo and Farkus’ car had been the last to get through!
Biff and Chet chafed at the delay. Vehicles came from the opposite side in single file. A large trailer was proceeding extra-cautiously.
“Why doesn’t he step on it?” Biff fumed.
Finally the last car had passed and the boys were given the go signal. Biff eased slowly past the roller. Once in the clear, he tromped on the gas. But no matter how fast he went, they could not get a glimpse of the other car.
Chet observed. “They must be miles ahead of us by now. We’ll never catch ’em, Biff.”
“You’re right. We might as well go back.”
Meanwhile, Frank and Joe were carefully concealed in a doorway, watching the jewelry store in Snowcap.
Finally their vigil was rewarded. The jeweler stepped out and looked up and down the street. Then he set off at a rapid gait and crossed the road. The boys followed.
“He’s really got something on his mind!” Frank thought.
Turning a corner, the man headed toward the second house on the left. After opening the front door with a key he disappeared inside.
Joe and Frank crept around to the back yard. The young sleuths worked their way to the rear porch. Through an open window they heard a chair scuff against the floor as Burn sat down.
Then came the dialing of the telephone. After a few seconds, Burn said, “Pick? ... Listen. Those big-money fakers are still around, but I couldn’t get my hands on them!”
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then the jeweler continued, “I could have grabbed two of them, but the fuzz interfered. I think they skipped town.”
Again only silence, then an exclamation, “What? ... You’ve got them? ... Up the trail tonight? ... But those Hardys are still poking around ... Where? ... The Vampire Cave? ... Okay.”
The phone clicked in its cradle. Moments later the front door slammed.
Peering around the side of the house, the Hardys saw Burn striding up the street. Apparently he was returning to his shop.
“What did you make of all that?” Joe asked excitedly.
“Maybe the credit-card thieves were caught!”
“By Pick’s gang?”
“I’m beginning to think so.”
The boys pondered the new turn of events. Were two gangs battling each other?
“This mystery is turning out in reverse!” said Joe. “The other gang—the guys who are after the Magnacard crooks—must be up on Vampire Trail!”
“And tonight’s the showdown!” said Frank.
“The moment of truth is at hand.” Joe grinned.
As the Hardys walked back to the main street, trying to get a lift to their campsite, Chet and Biff rode by and stopped. They were chagrined by their failure to keep on the trail of the Magnacard fakers. But when Frank and Joe told them the result of the stakeout, they regained their optimism.
“Boy, that’ll be a great show!” Biff said.
“Maybe they’ll knock each other off,” Chet chortled. “Then we won’t have so much work to do.”
They decided to return to their trailer tent and lay a plan of action. As they neared Blackfoot Meadow campground, Chet said, “Let’s visit Prince Cuthbert and see if he’s had any news from the police about those sapphire thieves.”
The boys were surprised to find that Cuthbert’s psychedelic trailer was not in its place. They got out of the car and queried the neighbors.
“Oh, the prince?” said one. “He left.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Frank asked.
“No. He just hitched up the trailer to his old jalopy and chugged off.”
“He seemed mighty disturbed, that’s all I can say,” someone else added.
“Gosh,” Chet said, “he didn’t even say good-by to us.”
“You kind of liked that old eccentric, didn’t you?” Biff asked.
“He wasn’t so bad.”
Joe, however, still felt that Cuthbert was suspect. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him,” he stated as they returned to their car.
After an early supper the boys formulated plans for their hike up Vampire Trail. Sherlock would be tied to the camper with enough food and water to last at least twenty-four hours.
“Silence is essential,” Frank declared. “We don’t know how many of those crooks might be lurking along the trail. Use your flashlight sparingly, and if it’s necessary to say anything, whisper it.”
As soon as darkness fell, Frank and Joe took one side of the path, Chet and Biff the other. The stony, tortuous trail tested both their strength and agility. Clouds obscured the moon and the resulting jet-black darkness made the climb even more difficult. They pressed ahead, giving a winking signal now and then to mark their positions.
About halfway to the top of the mountain they halted and had a whispered conference.
“Let’s lie in wait for a while,” Joe suggested. “If anyone comes up the trail tonight, he’ll have to go right past here and we can grab him.”
Frank interposed, “Only let’s not grab anybody. The idea is to follow him to his gang’s headquarters.”
They returned to their positions and waited. Suddenly Chet gave a cry of alarm. Almost at the same instant something fluttered close to the Hardys’ heads.
“For Pete’s sake!” Joe hissed. “Keep quiet!” He and Frank hastened to Chet’s side.
“The bats!” Chet moaned. “One of them almost brushed against my ear. Sorry, fellows.”
“Sh,”
Frank warned. “I hear something.” 
Far down the path came the sound of footsteps, then a mélange of angry voices.
“You shut up,” one said harshly.
“I’ll take this case to the Supreme Court!”
“That’s Farkus,” Joe said.
Another voice, which the Hardys identified as Burn’s the jeweler, sneered, “Supreme Court? You’ll see your supreme creator first!”
“You can’t do this to us. It’s illegal!” It was Mungo speaking.
“Look who’s talking about legality,” someone said with a laugh.
The boys crouched low alongside the trail as the men passed them. Frank could have reached out and touched one who said in a whining tone, “We’ll give you anything. Anything you want, but let us go!”
“Lasher, you’ve had it. The end of the trail will be the end of your crooked career.”
The voices trailed off. When they became inaudible, the boys whispered again.
“Just as we thought,” Frank said. “It’s gang against gang. The guys who hold Vampire Trail have caught the Magnacard crooks!”
They walked up the center of the trail with Joe as lead man. When they came to a steep defile, they stopped for a moment and listened. The mountain was ominously still.
“Okay,” Joe said. “The road’s clear.”
They pressed on single file through the narrow passage which opened onto ground less steep.
“We must be right near the top,” Frank said.
Again they heard voices. Crawling on their stomachs, the boys made their way to the edge of a small amphitheater which nature had cut into the mountaintop.
“A great hiding place!” Joe whispered.
“Right,” Frank said. “Completely hidden from below.”
They crept closer for a better look. In the middle of the amphitheater a small fire was burning. A knot of men were gathered around it. Pick was doing the talking. His voice came through deep and booming.
“Nobody’s going to cheat us and get away with it! You swindled Burn!”
“But we’ll give you anything,” Lasher pleaded. “All the dough we made in the credit-card racket. I’ve got it hidden. It’s all yours. Just let us go!”
“You had your chance to pay when you bought the sapphire,” Pick said. “Now you’re going to pay—in a different way!”
The Hardys strained their eyes trying to identify the others standing in the flickering firelight. They could make out the terrified faces of Mungo and Farkus, whose jowls were quivering with fear.
Suddenly one of Pick’s henchmen whispered something to him and he stopped censuring his captives. With a gesture toward the inky black night he said in a voice dripping with mock kindness:
You kids can come out of hiding now. All of you are my prisoners!”

CHAPTER XIX  
Then There Were Three
 
 
 
 
PICK’S words hit the boys like a bucket of ice water! Was this a bluff meant to dislodge then from their hiding place? How had they been discovered on their trek up Vampire Trail? They crouched, every muscle tense.
There was a rustling in the bushes behind them. Frank, Chet, and Biff spun around to look. But Joe, falling flat to the ground, slithered off in an effort to escape.
Just then a powerful beam of light flashed into the eyes of the trio. Two men carrying rifles appeared. “Okay, you guys. On your feet. Reach for the stars!”
There was nothing to do but obey.
It was only when they stood up that Frank became aware of Joe’s absence. “Good boy,” he thought. Joe’s escape was the only hope for rescue!
The three were escorted to the fire, gun muzzles prodding them in the back. As they approached, they got a better look at Pick.
His high forehead was crowned by disheveled blond hair. His eyes looked green in the flickering firelight, which threw sinister shadows on his pocked face. His stubbly chin was thrust out defiantly.
“Only three! I said there would be four!” Pick yelled to the guards.
“We found only three,” one of the men replied.
“So I see!” Pick’s eyes blazed. “You—the other boy—come out of your hiding place! There’s not a chance of you getting away. My men have been spying on you kids for the last half hour.”
In a lower voice he told the three captives, “The trail is tightly guarded and the only way out is a sheer drop of a thousand feet over that rock wall.”
The trio remained silent.
Pick glanced at his wrist watch and again bellowed, “Every minute you hide out will mean that much more time in the bat cave!”
“The bat cave? What’s that?” Frank spoke up.
“Pretty curious, aren’t you?” said Pick. “Curiosity killed a cat, and it’s going to kill a lot more!”
“In that case,” Biff put in, “you’ve nothing to lose if you tell us what this is all about.”
“Yes,” said Chet. “After all, we don’t want to die ignorant.”
Pick let out a yell of delight. “Ignorant? You all were pretty ignorant to come snooping around here. What are your names?”
The boys told him.
“The other Hardy kid is the one that’s missing,” Pick said to his men.
“That’s Joe,” Lasher volunteered, groveling for favor.
“Shut up!” Pick glowered at the man, then turned his attention back to Chet.
“Some people are just born unlucky,” he said. “But since you want to know all about it, I’ll tell you.”
He went into a long discourse, waving his arms and punctuating the strange story with sarcastic bursts of laughter.
He and his men were engaged in the illegal mining of sapphires. They had discovered an abandoned digging on land which was now government property. The only way up to the mine, outside of scaling the cliff, was by Vampire Trail.
“So we waylaid unwelcome campers,” Pick said, “and scared everybody off.”
“With your vampire bats,” said Frank. “But they only live in Central America!”
Pick gave a gleeful laugh that reverberated through the rock-walled clearing. “I got them from a buddy of mine in Nicaragua. Smuggled them into the country.”
In one part of the mine, he said, there was a thermal cave, where bats could live comfortably. Occasionally he let some of them out on the trail to frighten people away, but the poor mammals died quickly when exposed to the cold mountain air.
“But what about the marks on our necks?” Chet asked.
“First we bopped you kids, then nipped you with a pair of pliers.”
“Look, Pick, why don’t you let us go?” Frank said. “We were only out to get those credit-card crooks.” The young detective was trying to stall for time so Joe would have a chance to get help. “Incidentally, what’s your beef with them, and what about Fingers’ gang?” he asked.
“Now that’s quite a story,” the gang leader replied. He explained that Elkin Burn, the town jeweler, was one of the outlets for his sapphires. The Terrible Trio had helped him work the mine but had been caught stealing so he fired them.
“Pick, we don’t have a grudge against you,” Frank said.
“I’m sorry, kid, truly sorry.”
“Then you’ll let us go?” Chet asked.
“Of course not.” A savage look came into the man’s eyes. “You know too much. Sometimes the innocent must suffer with the guilty.”
“Meaning what?” Frank asked.
“I’ll have to drop you all into the flooded mine shaft. But first Mr. Lasher goes into the bat cave.”
“Don’t, please!” Lasher begged, crawling over to Pick.
The miner gave him a kick. “Get out of here, you crumb! You double-crossed Burn with that phony credit card. Now you’re going to get it!”
Lasher pleaded, “Let me go! I can make a lot more money with those credit cards. I’ll turn it all over to you!”
“Too late!” Pick said. “You’re going in with the bats!”
“But I can’t stand bats!” Lasher cried. “They drive me crazy!”
“Good!”
Lasher sprang up and made a dash toward the edge of the clearing. A gun barrel was smacked hard against the back of his neck and he fell in a heap.
“Don’t put him in the bat cave until he recovers,” Pick ordered. “We’ll play the rest of our little game after we catch Joe Hardy.”
 
When Joe had heard Pick’s first threat he had unstrapped his rucksack and crawled toward the edge of the cliff. He lay in the tall grass, praying that no one would find him. If there were only some way down!
In the light of the moon which now shone through a rift in the heavy clouds, he could see that there was no means of escape, except perhaps with mountain-climbing gear.
As Joe peered down into the abyss a tiny point of light caught his eye. Eagerly he leaned over as far as he could without falling off. A small fire glowed at the base of the cliff.
“A campfire!” Joe thought. “If I only could attract the attention of whoever’s there!”
He picked up a few pebbles and dropped them over the cliff. Then he covered himself with brush and tall grass, hoping that Pick’s men would not discover him.
Joe fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened, the sun was rising. He peered over the cliff and was amazed by what he saw.
A mountain climber was halfway up the rock wall! He was using pitons and every available handhold.
The man lifted his head and Joe recognized him immediately. Fritz Burger!
Still half concealed, the boy beckoned. Burger saw him and Joe motioned the Austrian to be silent.
At the same time one of Pick’s men, who had begun to search again at dawn, was working his way closer to the edge of the cliff. Joe lay perfectly still, watching fearfully through the thick blades of grass.
Methodically the man beat the bushes, coming closer and closer to Joe’s hiding place.
“On the next pass,” Joe thought, “he’ll step right on me!”
Just then a hound bayed in the distance. The searcher stopped and listened. The dog bayed again and the man wheeled around in the direction of the miners’ camp.

CHAPTER XX  
The jackpot
 
 
 
 
FEARING trouble, the guard raced to the camp. His legs flew as he traversed the tall grass and low bushes. Suddenly he stumbled and fell headlong.
Uttering an oath, the man picked himself up and glared at the object he had tripped over. It was a rucksack. Stenciled on it was the name J. Hardy.
The man scooped it up. As he approached the camp he saw Sherlock the bloodhound fawning over Biff Hooper.
“Down! Get down, Sherlock!” Biff said.
“So that bloodhound followed you,” Pick said to Biff. Seeing the guard running toward him, the gang leader barked, “I told you to find Joe Hardy!”
“He got away, Boss, but I found this!” The man held up Joe’s rucksack.
A foxy look came into Pick’s eyes and he smiled at the clever thought which crossed his mind.
“Bring that hound here!” he ordered.
Biff took the dog by the collar and led him over to Pick.
The miner held the dog’s nose to the rucksack, then said, “Now go and find Joe Hardy!”
Frank and Chet, their eyes bloodshot from an anxious, sleepless night, cried out in protest.
“What’s the matter?” Frank said. “Aren’t your men clever enough to find my brother without a hound?”
“Maybe not,” Pick replied. He added with a sneer, “I think your brother got away—for good!”
“Like falling over the cliff.” Burn chortled. “It wouldn’t surprise me, Pick.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” the miner replied. “No need to hurry. Rustle up some chow first.”
Pick’s men produced a portable stove from inside the tunnel and prepared breakfast.
“Don’t we get something, too?” Chet asked.
“You’ll have no need for food,” Pick retorted with a wicked grin.
“But—but—even a condemned man gets a last meal!”
“The kid’s got a point,” said Burn.
“What do you say, Lasher?” Pick asked.
The Magnacard swindler turned his ashen face away. His hands trembled.
“Lasher’s not hungry,” Burn needled. “Neither are his two cronies.”
“We are,” Frank spoke up. “Make my eggs once over lightly.”
“Some spunk these kids have,” said Pick.
The three boys ate leisurely, and Frank kept glancing at his watch when all had finished. Pick wiped his greasy hands on his shirt and announced that the search for Joe Hardy would be renewed.
“Sherlock will lead us to him,” he said. Tying a rope around the dog’s collar, he let the canine sniff around the area. Finally Sherlock picked up the trail.
With Pick beckoning to them devilishly, the boys followed the dog toward the edge of the cliff.
Sherlock strained at the rope and walked right up to the rim. Frank’s stomach felt like a lead weight. Had Joe fallen into the abyss during the night? Suddenly he spied two objects on the ground close to the cliff edge. He knelt down to shield the spot from the view of Pick and his men.
Biff, too, had seen the piton and the ring! Devices used by mountain climbers! Frank realized that Joe had miraculously escaped. Now they must play for time until help could arrive!
“Say your prayers if you want,” Pick said and turned to his henchmen. “One less Hardy boy to deal with.” Then he snarled, “Okay, bring ’em all back. We’ll finish the elimination.”
The three prisoners were prodded to the camp, where Lasher, Mungo, and Farkus sat around in dejected silence. A shout came from one of the men who had been guarding the approach to the miners’ camp. He marched up the trail pushing a disheveled figure before him.
“Prince Cuthbert!” Chet called out in amazement.
The prince’s helmet crown was askew and his robes were tattered. Chet and Frank hurried to his side.
“Chet—and Frank! I thought I’d never find you. Where’s Joe?”
“Never mind the gab,” Pick cried out. “Who is this nut?”
“Sir?” Cuthbert squared his shoulders and looked Pick straight in the eye. “I came to say good-by to my friends. I set off hoping to avoid a tearful farewell, but turned my caravan about.”
Cuthbert spoke to the boys. “I found your trailer tent with Sherlock guarding it. So I let the poor dog loose hoping he would lead me to you—and so he has!”
Pick’s men looked on, smiling and twirling their forefingers at their heads.
“What impudent fellows!” the prince continued. “Let us return to your trailer. A cup of steaming hot tea will be in order.”
Chet shook his head in disbelief. “You mean you came all the way back to say good-by to us?”
“Not only that,” Cuthbert replied. He thrust his hand inside a satin cummerbund, pulled out a sapphire, and gave it to Frank. “This is a gift for Mrs. Hardy. When Chet told me it was her birthstone I took this sapphire from the pouch and put it in a safe place. Fortunate that I did, otherwise the robbers would have gotten this one too.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “You’re very thoughtful, Prince.”
“Not at all.” Cuthbert bowed. “Now will you introduce me to these uncouth friends of yours?”
The gang members laughed heartily at this remark and the prince’s face showed his annoyance. “That one looks familiar,” he said, pointing to Burn.
“Of course. You’re the man who wanted to sell me those sapphires,” the jeweler sneered. “Instead, one of Pick’s men and I broke into your trailer and got them free.”
“Shut up, Bum,” Pick growled. “And that goes for this old lunatic, too!”
“Indeed,” Cuthbert shot back, curling one of the points of his mustache. “I see you are not used to royalty!”
“So that’s it!” Pick said cynically. “You think you’re a king or something.”
“A prince,” Cuthbert corrected him. “Descended from the line of King Arthur.”
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Pick said, bowing mockingly. “We can use some royalty. It might add legality to what we’re going to do here.”
“And what is that?” asked the prince, straightening his crown.
“An execution! That’s what. We’ll give a royal execution to these three kids and Lasher’s crew. Now, won’t that make it legal?”
“Please don’t hurt the prince!” pleaded Chet.
“Of course not. We’ll let him go. Who’d believe his babblings, anyhow?”
“Desist,” Cuthbert said, “or my archers will fall upon you, not to mention my knights in armor!”
In a low voice Frank said, “Keep it up, Prince. We need as much time as possible.”
Cuthbert turned on him coldly. “You don’t believe me?”
“Well,” Frank said quietly, “I thought you were kid—”
“Cut the nonsense,” Pick interrupted. He motioned to his men. “Lasher goes to the bat cave right now.”
Two of the miners seized the swindler, who began screaming and kicking as he was carried into the tunnel. His wails of anguish were fading in the distance when three shots rang out in quick succession.
“Don’t move. Drop your guns and stay where you are!” The strident voice came over a bullhorn and five State Police officers appeared. Behind them was Joe Hardy.
“Joe!” Chet cried in relief.
Pick’s eyes popped and his jaw dropped as if he were looking at a ghost. His guards threw their guns to the ground.
With Joe was the Austrian mountain climber, Burger. Frank realized what had happened. Burger had rescued Joe!
“Search the tunnel! Hurry!” Frank cried out, pointing.
One of the troopers hurried forward, pistol drawn. He returned a few minutes later with the two guards and Lasher.
Pick was tight-lipped, but his inner fury showed in his blazing eyes. Finally he blurted, “You Hardys ruined my racket!”
“And the Magnacard caper, too,” one of the troopers said, while the others were rounding up the prisoners. They were all advised of their rights.
Mungo and Farkus readily admitted their guilt in the credit-card swindles. Whip Lasher made a full confession. He admitted that it was he who had followed the Hardys in the beginning of their camping trip and had let the air out of their tires.
“A real prankster,” one of the troopers commented. “Well, you won’t be playing any tricks for a long time to come.”
It was Lasher, too, who had fire-bombed the boys’ camper. Farkus had been with Lasher at the Mountain Dogie Store.
Just then a report came in over the police portable radio which one of the troopers was carrying. The Terrible Trio had returned to Denver and had been picked up. They were being charged with malicious mischief. Mungo’s pals at the Badland Reservoir Marina headquarters had also been arrested.
Joe Hardy apologized to Prince Cuthbert for suspecting that he had any connection with the criminals.
Chet was very superior about it. “Can’t you tell a good guy when you see one?” he asked.
“Thank you, Chet,” Cuthbert said with a broad smile. “Now I must wend my way through the mountains. My travels eventually will carry me back to the land of my ancestors.”
The police looked on in amazement as the eccentric shook hands with the boys and took his leave.
“Be sure to give my compliments to your dear mother,” the prince called over his shoulder.
Frank fingered the sapphire in his pocket and promised to convey the message.
The handcuffed prisoners were marched down Vampire Trail and put into State Police cars.
As the four boys walked to their camper, Joe asked, “All set to go home now?”
“Go home?” Biff exclaimed. “Why, we’ve hardly started our camping trip!”
“That’s right,” Chet added. “I vote for a little more fishing. And don’t forget, we have some reward money to split up.”
“You’re right on both counts,” Frank said. “Ill telephone Dad and tell him we solved the case. Get lunch ready, Chet. Joe and I will go to Blackfoot Meadow to make the call.”
As the Hardys rode off on the motorbike, Biff scratched Sherlock’s ears. “I’m glad the mystery of Vampire Trail has been solved, old boy,” he said.
But the carefree days which followed proved to be only a short respite for Frank and Joe. Almost immediately upon their return home, they would be faced with another challenging mystery, The Masked Monkey.
Power Play (Hardy Boys Casefiles #50)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"This character looks pretty suspicious to me," Joe Hardy said, studying the small photograph he was holding. "He's definitely up to no good." A young man with blue eyes and blond hair angrily glared back at Joe from the photograph. It was a picture of himself. "How come my photo ID looks like a mug shot of a convicted felon?"
His brother, Frank, clipped his picture ID badge onto his shirt pocket. His showed a young man with brown hair, intense brown eyes, and a reserved expression, as if he was waiting for something to happen. "If you'd try smiling instead of glowering at the camera," Frank suggested, "you might get better results."
Frank scanned the small, sparsely furnished
2
room they were waiting in. The clean office had no frills—just a desk, two chairs, and a metal filing cabinet. Frank, distracted by a soft click, turned his attention to the door as it was pushed open and two men walked in. One was the boys' father, Fenton Hardy. The other was John O'Hara, a tall, lean man with thick gray hair, a beard, and glasses. Frank and Joe had met him earlier that day.
O'Hara silently studied the two brothers before speaking to Fenton Hardy. "I know I've asked this already—but you are positive they're old enough to do this job?"
Joe bristled and stared over at the slightly shorter man from his full height of six feet.
"I'm old enough to vote," Frank responded before Joe could say anything. "And we're both old enough to drive. We've been helping our dad for a long time as private investigators, too."
"And we've got a perfect cover," Frank asserted. "Who'd suspect that a couple of high school students working here part-time were undercover detectives?"
"If your father wasn't busy," O'Hara told him, "I wouldn't even consider you and your brother. But since he's given me his assurances that he'll be able to supervise you, I guess I'm willing to give it a try."
"Good," Fenton Hardy replied, knowing that O'Hara had made up his mind before they came
3
into the room. "It's a pretty simple job. I've already filled Frank and Joe in on the basics."
"We know that Bright Futures Development has come up with a new kind of solar energy cell, and that you're worried about any leaks in your security to protect it," Frank said. "Obviously you can't have any of your competitors getting a look at the plans and stealing your ideas."
O'Hara nodded. "That's more or less it—but they're not my ideas, and it's not my company. In fact, the president and CEO wasn't exactly thrilled about hiring a private investigator."
Joe frowned. "Then what are we doing here?"
"Let's say I have a certain amount of influence," O'Hara answered.
"John's being modest," Fenton Hardy said. "He put up most of the capital for Bright Futures."
"You're the silent partner—the man with the money," Joe said to O'Hara. The older man nodded once. Joe's eyes moved around the room and then went back to O'Hara. "I see you spared no expense on your own office."
"I do my work out of an office in New York. I just use this room whenever I'm out here."
"Who exactly are we working for?" Frank asked.
O'Hara opened the door and gestured for the Hardys to move out into the hall. "You're working for me," he said as they walked down the
4
hallway. "You're also working for Mike Barnes, the president of the company. He's an electrical engineer who worked for the government until he developed this new solar cell." He paused in front of a door that looked like all the others they had passed. "I think you'll find his office a little more impressive."
The door opened into a room that was even smaller than the one they had just left. A clean- cut man in his mid-twenties was sitting behind a desk at the far end of the room. He was wearing an expensive-looking gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue silk tie. Frank guessed that the guy spent most of his salary on clothes.
He glanced up at the Hardys with barely hidden disdain. "Ah, Mr. O'Hara," he said coolly, "Mr. Barnes is expecting you. You can go right in."
"Thank you, Tom," O'Hara replied. "Tom Kilman is Mr. Barnes's personal assistant," he told the Hardys. "He knows just about everything that goes on around here. So if you have any questions, just ask him. He'll be glad to help—won't you, Tom?"
Kilman smiled stiffly. "Of course," he said. "That's what I'm here for."
After they passed through the door to Mike Barnes's office, they found themselves in a tropical forest. Sunlight streamed in from a wall of glass that was angled like that of a greenhouse dome. Joe had to squint to see through the south-facing glass.
5
Almost hidden between two huge potted palms was a large oak desk. The leather chair behind the desk was empty.
"It's like a greenhouse in here," Joe remarked.
"That's right." He turned toward the voice from behind him. A short figure holding a watering can emerged from a cluster of potted plants. "A greenhouse is a classic example of passive solar energy, which is my business. I can't stress enough the importance of solar energy."
The man's curly brown hair was standing on end, and he looked as if he had missed his last two appointments with the barber. Baggy pants and a loose-fitting shirt didn't hide his round shape. He wasn't exactly fat, but he was close to it.
"Mike," John O'Hara began, "this is Fenton Hardy, and these are his sons, Frank and Joe."
The round man approached Fenton with an outstretched hand and a scowl on his face. "So you're the famous detective," he said as they shook hands. "I'm Mike Barnes."
"Glad to meet you," Fenton replied. "I don't know about the 'famous' part—but I know my business, and I usually get results."
Barnes moved over to his desk, pushed a pencil holder with blue pencils and a pile of papers off to one side, and perched on the edge. "I'm sure you do," he said, nodding his head slowly. "I'm sure you do."
6
"We can't afford a leak at this stage of our business, so we have to make sure our security is airtight," O'Hara added.
"What makes you think it isn't?" Frank asked.
"Nothing," Barnes replied, answering for the other man. "Nothing at all. In fact, I have a lot of faith in our security setup. I helped design it. You probably noticed some of our precautions on the way in."
Frank nodded. "Nobody gets in or out without an ID card or a guest pass. Video cameras in the halls are monitored from the security desk at the front entrance. Are there any other doors in or out of the building?"
"There are some emergency fire exits," Barnes answered, "but they're wired into the alarm system."
"So you have good protection against people who shouldn't be in here," Joe remarked. "But what about precautions against an inside job?"
"Only a few people have access to sensitive information," Barnes replied offhandedly. "I really think all these security precautions are unnecessary. We've never had a single incident—not even an indication that anyone will try to steal our new solar cell."
"I know," O'Hara said. "But I'm afraid I must insist on using these boys to help us."
"All right," Barnes reluctantly agreed. He shifted his gaze to the two brothers. "Your undercover jobs here will be to act as assistants
7
to Alec Ward and Theresa Almonte. They're my best research and development people. Both crackerjack electrical engineers. Try not to get in their way."
"They'll barely notice us," Frank assured him. "Do they know our real purpose in being here?"
Barnes sighed. "No, of course not. Ward's office is right down the hall. Room 113. I'd introduce you to them, but I have work to do." He jabbed a fat finger at the intercom on his desk. "Tom, take our new employees down to Alex Ward's office." He didn't wait for a reply.
"You two are on your own now," Fenton Hardy said. "See you at home tonight."
"It's a date," Joe said, holding open the door for his father and O'Hara. He looked back at his brother. "Are you coming?"
"Just one more question, Mr. Barnes," Frank said, and held up a finger to indicate to Joe that he'd be right there.
Barnes raised his eyes. "Yes?"
"What's so 'super' about your solar cell?"
"What would you say," Barnes responded, "if I told you it could produce ten times more electricity than the best solar cell available?"
"I'd say you have something that a lot of people would like to get their hands on," Frank said. "If you aren't worried about someone trying to steal it, you should be."
Frank and Joe followed Tom Kilman as he led
8
them down the hall to Room 113. Tom knocked lightly on the door. There was no answer. He tried again, harder this time, but still there was no answer. He jiggled the doorknob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door in and started back to his office.
"Hey, aren't you supposed to introduce us to Alex?" Frank asked.
"Mr. Barnes asked me to take you to Ward's office. I've done it. He said nothing about introducing you." Kilman sneered and turned to glide back down the hall to his office.
Frank peered inside and saw the profile of a gaunt figure hunched over a computer. The man appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His stringy hair was long and tied back in a pony tail, but the top of his head was waging a losing battle against an aggressive bald spot. His wrinkled, untucked shirt, grubby jeans, and several days of beard stubble were in stark contrast to his spotless surroundings. Not even a poster or picture cluttered the walls. The single thing out of place was a compact disk on top of the computer screen.
The man at the computer didn't act as if he noticed Frank and Joe standing in the open door. He seemed to be completely absorbed in another world—either the one on the computer screen or the one coming through the headphones attached to the CD player clipped on his belt.
9
Frank walked up to him and waved a hand in his face.
The man jumped and turned his head to glare up at Frank. "What do you want?" he asked in an irritated voice, pulling off his headphones. Frank could hear the faint rumblings of classical music, which would have to have been deafeningly loud through the headphones. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Sorry," Frank replied. "We're looking for Alec Ward. We're his new assistants."
The skinny figure eyed Frank suspiciously. "I'm Ward, but I didn't ask for any assistants. I really don't have time for this or you."
He put the headphones back on and continued staring at the computer screen.
"So that's Alec Ward," Joe remarked. "Not exactly the original fun guy, is he?"
"He's not paid to have fun," a woman replied. "He's paid to think, and he does that very well."
Frank and Joe spun around to face a tall woman with bright red hair and freckles set against pale white skin.
She chuckled softly. "I guess nobody told you about Alec. He's not the social type. I'm Theresa Almonte. What's this about Alec's getting assistants?'"
"Not just Alec. We're your assistants, too," Joe added.
Frank shrugged. "We just go where they tell
10
us to go. I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother Joe."
"I don't know where we'll put you," she said, gesturing around the small space. "My office isn't any bigger than this—and it's a lot messier. But I'm sure we can find some place for you. Don't think I don't appreciate having you, I just wish we'd been told we're getting assistants." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost five now. Why don't we meet here first thing tomorrow morning?"
"How about first thing after our classes tomorrow?" Joe countered. "Two's the earliest we can get here. We're only part-time."
"That's even better," she said. "I'll be busy most of the morning anyway—and I don't think you're ready for several hours alone in a small room with Alec."
* * *
When the Hardys got to the Bright Futures office at two o'clock the next afternoon, they found Theresa Almonte alone in Ward's office.
"Ah, there you are," she said, greeting them. "Ready for your first assignment?"
"Where's the music lover?" Frank asked.
"That's your first assignment," she replied. Alec should have been here hours ago. He hasn't called in, and I can't get an answer at his house on the phone. He can't hear anything over those headphones he's plugged into all the time.
11
Anyway," she continued, "I really need to talk to him."
"And you want us to find him," Frank said.
Almonte nodded. "If you wouldn't mind." She handed Frank a piece of paper with his address. "Just tell him to call the office."
"Well," Joe muttered as they walked back down the hallway. "This is one way to get the job done. We can test the security system by going in and out of the building all day long."
Frank drove their black van to the address on the sheet of paper. It was a three-story, brick apartment building. Under each mailbox was a buzzer, and Ward's name was on the box marked 3E. Frank pressed the buzzer, not really expecting an answer—and there wasn't any. The front door was open, so they walked up to the third floor and found apartment 3E.
Frank rapped loudly on the door. "Mr. Ward?" he shouted. "Are you in there?" Again, he wasn't really expecting an answer. He also wasn't expecting the door to swing open when he pounded on it. And he wasn't expecting to see Alec Ward sprawled out on the floor, headphones clamped over his ears.
"I don't suppose he's just taking a little nap," Joe whispered.
Frank shook his head and pointed to a dark stain on the carpet around Ward's head. "I don't think so," he said grimly.
12
Chapter 2
Frank knelt down and touched Ward's arm. It was cold. Then he checked the dark stain on the rug and found it was dry. "Looks like he's been dead a few hours," he said as he stood up.
Joe's eyes darted around the room. It was neat and orderly, just like Ward's office. An expensive stereo system and a huge collection of compact disks covered most of one wall. "No signs of a struggle," he observed.
"No sign of the murder weapon, either," Frank pointed out. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and walked over to the telephone. He draped the cloth over it and lifted the receiver.
"Do you think somebody whacked him with the phone?" Joe asked doubtfully.
13
"No," Frank answered. "We have to call the police—and I don't want to mess up any fingerprints." He picked up a blue pencil on the telephone table and used it to dial 911.
In a few minutes the building was surrounded by strobing blue lights, and the apartment was packed with blue uniforms. One officer was marking the outline of Ward's body on the carpet while another one scraped samples of the purplish rug stain into a plastic bag. Frank and Joe were in the bedroom giving their statement to Officer Con Riley when Chief Collig strode in. The boys followed Riley out to greet the chief.
Collig shot an angry glance at the Hardys. "What are they doing here?" he demanded sharply.
Joe was about to say something when Con Riley stepped forward. "They found the body, Chief. Frank called it in."
Good old Con, Joe thought. Every detective should have at least one friend on the local police force. But he knew that most cops took a dim view of private operatives, and Chief Collig was a classic example.
"I suppose they were just out for a stroll," the police chief said sourly, "and they happened to wander in here and stumble over the body."
"Something like that," Joe quipped. "Just add the fact that we're working for the same company and we were sent over here to get him,
14
and then you pretty much have the whole picture."
Collig looked at the body on the floor. "What company would that be? Murder, Inc.?"
"Bright Futures Development," Frank told him. "It's a solar energy company."
"Better get the head of the company over here," Collig said to one of the officers. "Maybe he can shed a little light on this."
"I've already called him," Riley said. "He should be here any minute."
"Any relatives? A girlfriend?" Collig asked.
"None so far—it seems he was a real loner. Maybe a bit eccentric," Con said.
The police chief lost interest in the Hardys and Con, and went over to examine the body. "What was the time of death?" he asked the medical examiner.
"My preliminary estimate is between eleven- fifteen and eleven forty-five last night," the doctor said, stripping off his rubber gloves.
Frank nudged his brother and nodded toward the door where Mike Barnes was standing. He seemed reluctant to enter, and none of the police had noticed him yet.
Frank moved over to his boss, and his brother quietly followed.
"This is horrible," Barnes said, shaking his head. "Just horrible. I'm sorry you had to find him. Who would do something like this?" The
15
words tumbled out of him in rapid and disjointed succession.
"We were hoping you'd have some idea who it might be," Frank replied. "John O'Hara was worried about industrial espionage—but what about sabotage?"
Barnes stared at Frank. "You think somebody killed Alec to hold up production of the super solar cell?"
"You said he was your most important research and development person," Frank said. "What was he working on specifically?"
"He was building a better prototype of the cell," Barnes answered.
"In a tiny room, with only a computer?" Joe asked.
"All the refinements are done by computer first. It's a lot cheaper to use it than to keep building cell after cell," Barnes said.
"Maybe somebody doesn't want anybody to have that cell."
"Or at least doesn't want anybody else to have it if they can't have it themselves," Joe added.
"It's possible," Barnes admitted.
"What about your competition—other solar energy companies?" Frank suggested.
"There are lots of companies working with solar power," Barnes said. "But our biggest competitor is Solex, over in Lewiston."
16
"That's the company that's about a half-hour drive from here?" Joe asked.
Barnes nodded. "It's run by a man named Ben Watson."
"Do you know him?" Frank asked.
"We've met," Barnes said vaguely.
A large hand landed heavily on Frank's shoulder
"Who's your friend, Frank?" Collig asked.
"Chief Collig, this is Mike Barnes, the president of Bright Futures—the company that Alec worked for," Frank replied.
"Thanks, boys, I don't think we'll be needing you anymore today. I'm sure you can find something else to do while we get on with our investigation," he added.
"I'm sure we can, too," Frank replied. "As a matter of fact, we were just on our way out to do it."
* * *
"You know," Joe said, staring through the windshield of the black van, "I don't think Chief Collig likes us very much."
Frank looked up from the street map he had opened across his lap. "He's just trying to do his job. He doesn't want us to—" He glanced at the map. "Turn left here."
"He doesn't want us to turn left here?"
"No—I mean, yes—I mean turn left here!"
"No problem," Joe said, and flipped on the
17
turn signal before pulling the wheel to the left. 'Why didn't you just say so in the first place?"
Frank shook his head and sighed. "I don't know how I ever solved a single case, working with you."
"You didn't," Joe replied. "I'm the brains behind this outfit. Every once in a while I just let you think you solve a case."
"Well, stuff your brains back in your head and turn this crate around," Frank said. He turned his head to catch a passing sign on the right. "You just missed the place we're looking for."
Joe slowed down, checked the sideview mirror, and swung the van around in a quick U-turn. This time he saw the sign. "Solex, Inc.," he read aloud. "Sounds like some kind of household cleaner. They should come up with a better name, don't you think?" He pulled the van into the visitors' parking area.
"I'm sure Mr. Watson will be eager to hear your marketing suggestions," Frank said, climbing out of the van and heading for the front entrance.
"How are we going to get him to talk to us at all?" Joe asked when they were in the lobby.
"Don't worry," Frank answered in a hushed voice. "I have a plan."
Joe groaned softly. "I hate your plans. Why do they all have a part that says 'Joe does something stupid or dangerous here.' "
Frank took his brother's arm and guided him
18
toward the receptionist. "Don't worry. This time you don't have to do anything. You just have to look stupid."
"Oh, what a relief," Joe muttered.
"Excuse me, miss," Frank said to the blond, perfectly groomed receptionist.
She barely glanced at him before turning her attention back to the computer terminal on her desk. "If you're here about the part-time job," she said in a British accent, holding out a sheet of paper, "you'll have to fill out an application."
"Excuse me?" Frank responded.
"And there's a typing test, too," she added, as if she hadn't heard him.
"There must be some mistake," Frank said. "We're here to see Mr. Watson."
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked in an officially polite tone, still staring at the computer instead of Frank.
Frank nodded. "Yes. I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe."
She tapped a few keys and studied a display on the monitor. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't see your name here."
"Well," Frank said, "our lawyer told us Mr. Watson's lawyer informed him that Mr. Watson agreed to meet with us today."
She focused all her attention on him now. "Your lawyer?" she responded in a puzzled tone.
Frank nodded. "Yes. You see, my brother was blinded by one of your solar barbecues. We
19
were told that Mr. Watson wanted to avoid an unpleasant public trial, and—"
"Let me just ring his office," she interrupted in a nervous tone.
"That would be very kind," Frank replied. "Close your mouth, Joe," he whispered to his brother. "You look like an idiot with it flapping in the breeze."
* * *
A few minutes later Joe was seated across a desk from a man with a broad nose and a strong, square chin. His jet black hair was brushed straight back and neatly trimmed.
"Thank you for fitting us into your busy schedule, Mr. Watson," Frank said from the seat next to Joe.
The man behind the desk studied Joe intently for a moment. "What's all this about? You certainly don't appear to be blind, and we don't make a solar barbecue. You've got exactly thirty seconds to give me a reason why I shouldn't have you both thrown out of here right now."
"Alec Ward," Frank said.
Watson's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
"So you know him," Frank responded.
"I know who he is," Watson said. "He works for Mike Barnes. I heard he was hired to work out the production problems for Mike's new solar cell. Is Ward in some kind of trouble?"
"You could say that," Joe spoke up. "He's dead."
20
"I'm sorry," Watson said in a neutral voice. "But what does that have to do with me?"
"He was murdered," Joe answered. "Where were you around eleven-thirty last night?"
Watson glowered at him. "What is this? Some kind of shakedown? Well, it won't work. I was here in my office until almost one in the morning. In fact, I think I got a couple of phone calls around eleven-thirty."
"Can anybody verify that?" Frank asked.
"Sure," Watson snapped. "The people who called me, and the police can check the phone company records. I don't know who you guys are"—he grabbed a phone and rapidly punched some buttons—"but you're history now."
Frank and Joe left the building one step ahead of the security guards Watson had called to throw them out. It was early evening when they got back to Bayport. At the Bright Futures office they learned that Theresa Almonte had gone home. Mike Barnes wasn't there, either, but he had left a message for the Hardys.
"Did he fire us?" Joe asked as his brother read the note.
"No," Frank said. "He wants us to meet him at his house at eight-thirty."
Joe checked a clock on the wall. "Great. That gives us enough time to swing by the house and grab some dinner first."
* * *
21
After filling their father in on the day's activities and filling their stomachs, the boys drove to Barnes's secluded house on the outskirts of Bayport.
There was no light on, and in the darkness the structure looked like an indistinct lump to Joe. As they walked up to it, he could see that the lump was a hill, and the house was built into the side of it.
A pair of headlights appeared in the driveway just then. The car that pulled in was the quietest and strangest Joe had ever seen. It was built low to the ground like a race car, but it was almost as wide as a truck. The surface was some kind of dull black material.
Mike Barnes got out of the car and ran into the garage to turn on an outside light. "What do you think of it?" he asked, gesturing at the vehicle. "It runs on nothing but pure sunshine."
Joe could get a good look now. The car wasn't painted black—it was completely covered with solar cells. Joe was impressed, but confused. "How can you drive a solar car at night?"
Barnes laughed. "Solar energy wouldn't be much good if you could use it only in the daytime. Luckily, somebody had already invented batteries—so I didn't have to do that. The solar energy that the cells collect during the day is pumped to a series of storage batteries under the front seat."
22
"Do you just leave it out here in the open at night?" Frank asked.
Barnes nodded back at the garage. "I keep it in there. There's a skylight in the roof so it can charge up on the early morning rays.
"I hope you don't mind coming all the way out here," he said as they went into the house. "After what happened today, I wanted to have a talk."
Frank nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"I got a call from Ben Watson early this evening," Barnes said. "He wasn't very happy about your visit."
"Does he know we're working for you?" Joe asked.
"I don't think so," Barnes replied. "He asked, but I dodged the question. Did you find out anything?"
Frank shrugged. "Not really. What about the police? Anything new while you were with Collig?"
"Alec was killed by a blow to the head," Barnes said.
"No big surprise there," Joe said. "There was a wound on the head and a pool of blood around it. What about suspects?"
Barnes shook his head. "They don't have much to go on, and nobody has jumped in to confess. They talked to Theresa while I was there, but I guess she wasn't much help. They did ask her where she was last night. ..." His
23
voice trailed off, and he suddenly seemed to be uncomfortable.
"And?" Frank prodded.
Barnes sighed and then continued. "This is a little difficult. She said she was home alone, but she can't prove it."
"That hardly makes her a murder suspect," Frank said.
"Well, that's not all," Barnes replied. "Theresa came to see me a few days ago, claiming that Alec had stolen some of her work and was taking credit for it. She said if I didn't do something about it, she would put an end to it!"
24
Chapter 3
"Did you do anything?" Joe asked.
Barnes looked at the ground and shook his head. "I was busy and hoped it would all blow over after a while."
"It looks like it blew up instead," Joe remarked.
Frank filed this new information with what they already knew. According to his math, none of this added up to murder yet. "I imagine the police wanted to know where you were last night, too," he said to Barnes.
"Yes," Barnes said. "If I had been home, I would probably have had trouble proving it, too, since I live alone. Luckily, I was in my office."
"Was anybody with you?" Joe asked.
Barnes shook his head. "No, but you can't leave the building after six without signing out
25
at the security desk at the front door. I signed out a little after midnight. The guard on duty can verify it."
"If Almonte did it," Frank said, "the police are going to need a lot to make a case against her. We're in the perfect position to keep a close eye on her."
"Right," Joe said. "She thinks we're just a couple of part-time research and development assistants."
"I don't know," Barnes responded uneasily. "This case is a lot more than a routine check of our security measures now."
"Yes, it is," Frank agreed. "One of your key employees is dead, and another one may be a suspect in that murder. Until you know if Theresa Almonte is guilty or innocent, you need us more than ever."
"All right," Barnes said without much enthusiasm. "But if I think you're in any danger, I'm pulling the plug, and you're out."
* * *
The sun was still high when Frank and Joe drove into the Bright Futures parking lot the next afternoon. After Joe climbed out of the van, he stretched his arms and tilted his head back to soak up some of the warm spring rays. "Look, Frank," he said with a grin, "I'm a solar collector."
Frank hadn't heard him because someone else had caught his eye. "Ms. Almonte!" he shouted.
26
"Wait up!" He jogged across the blacktop to her. Joe caught up a few seconds later.
Theresa Almonte had stopped with her car door half open to look back over her shoulder. "I didn't expect to see you two again," she said. "You had a pretty rough first day." She smiled weakly.
"Let's just say it wasn't exactly what we expected," Frank replied. "But it's a job. If you're taking off early, we can go clean your office or something."
"I wish I could take the day off," she said with a sigh. "But without Alec, I've got twice as much to do. I'm on the way out to the farm to check on some tests."
"The farm?" Joe responded.
She gave him a curious look. "Nobody told you about the farm? Well, everybody should see the farm at least once—and there's no time like the present. Hop in, and I'll take you out there."
Joe cast an envious but doubtful eye on the red two-seater sports car. "It'll be a little cramped, don't you think?"
"Why don't we just follow you in our van?" Frank suggested.
"Good idea," Almonte said. She glanced at her watch. "We'd better get going because I have to make the most of the daylight."
The Hardys hopped back into the van and pulled in behind the red sports car as it headed out of the parking lot. A twenty-minute drive
27
took them past the Bayport city limits to the open countryside. Cows and horses roamed in green pastures, and Frank had to veer the van around more than one tractor plodding down the two-lane highway.
Almonte's car slowed beside a long, high chain- link fence. Through the steel mesh, Joe and Frank could see rows and rows of flat, rectangular panels gleaming in the sunlight. Each panel was about fifteen feet long and five feet wide, and they were all tilted up at the same angle.
The sports car continued on and stopped at a gate, where Almonte exchanged a few words with a uniformed guard.
"If this is a farm," Joe said to his brother, "I don't think we'll be milking any cows."
Frank smiled as the guard waved them through the gate. "It's a solar farm, Joe. Those panels are lined with solar cells, turning sunlight into electricity. It's like any electric plant, but it uses the sun rather than coal or water power to produce electricity."
Almonte parked her car in front of a wide, windowless one-story building. After Frank pulled up beside the sports car, the two brothers got out and took in their surroundings. There were two other buildings, both smaller. None of them seemed like much more than large sheds, although Frank noticed that one of them had a large picture window that looked out on the field of solar collectors.
28
Theresa Almonte walked over to them. "Not the kind of farm you were expecting, I take it."
"We decided you weren't milking cows out here," Frank replied, stealing his brother's line. "But what are those things on the other side of the solar panels?" He pointed to a cluster of bowl-shaped objects that looked like satellite dish antennas.
"Those are solar energy collectors, too," she told them. "Those dishes are lined with highly polished mirrors, all focused on a central core of photovoltaic cells."
Joe frowned. "Rewind that for me. I got everything but the last part about the photo gizmos."
"Photovoltaics," Frank said slowly. "Light hitting the photovoltaic element frees electrons in a silicon semiconductor, creating a low electric current."
Almonte looked at Frank. "Not bad. Where'd you learn all that?"
Frank shrugged casually. "I read a lot."
"Well, here's something you won't find in your books," Almonte said. "We're not using silicon, and the current isn't exactly low."
"What are you using?" Joe asked. "And how low isn't the current?"
"It's a secret," she whispered loudly. Then she turned away and headed for the largest of the three buildings. "Come on," she called over her shoulder. "I want to show you something."
After she unlocked the main door, the Hardys
29
followed her inside. "What's in he—" Joe started to say before she flipped on the lights. Then he could see that the entire building was one huge room, like a warehouse, or—
"An airplane hangar," Frank uttered with a mixture of surprise and delight. Flying was up at the top of his list of things to do whenever possible. Even though he was only eighteen, he recently had gotten his pilot's license.
The plane in front of him was unlike any he had ever seen before. It was about the same size as the single-engine prop jobs he was certified to fly, but the similarity ended there.
The first thing he noticed was the propeller. It was behind the fuselage instead of in front of it. The wingspan was much wider than on the planes Frank had handled, and there was also a short, stubby winglike structure just beneath the nose.
Frank walked around the plane slowly. The streamlined cockpit had two seats, one behind the other. Up close, he could see that the surface of the large wings was covered with solar cells.
Almonte patted the side of the plane. "This is the real reason I came out here today. After I saw Mike's solar car, I convinced him to let me build a plane. The electric engine is powered entirely by super solar cells."
She glanced at Frank and smiled. "I see you've got the bug, too."
30
Frank stopped staring at the plane. "What bug?"
"The flying bug," she answered. "There's nothing quite like it, is there?" She didn't wait for a response. "Let's open the hangar doors and get this baby out in the sun where she belongs."
Frank and Joe each took hold of one of the heavy hangar doors and hauled it back on its sliding tracks. Then the three of them pushed the plane outside.
As he was shoving, Joe realized he could have moved the plane all by himself. "It doesn't weigh a whole lot," he commented.
"No, it doesn't," Almonte said. "It's really not much more than a glorified ultralite. It takes the most power to get a plane off the ground, and even with our improved solar cells, this is about the heaviest load we can lift."
"Can it really handle two people?" Frank asked hopefully. "Or is the seat behind the pilot just for show?"
Almonte lifted the clear glass canopy, reached in, and pulled out two helmets. "We had to make it fly with two people. There was no way Barnes was going to let me build it if he couldn't ride in it, and he doesn't have a pilot's license."
"I do," Frank said.
Almonte tossed him one of the helmets. "So do I, but you can come along for the ride, if you want."
31
Frank glanced down at the helmet in his hands and then over at his brother.
"Go on," Joe said. "I'll find something to do—maybe slap on some heavy-duty sun block and lie around not getting tan."
Frank's eyes shifted back to the solar plane. Almonte was already in the pilot's seat. She hit the ignition switch, and the rear propeller started to spin, faster and faster, until it was just a blur. "Let's go!" she called out. "I don't want to waste a lot of juice on the ground!"
Frank gazed up at the wide open blue sky. Then he slapped the helmet on his head and climbed into the seat behind Almonte. He tapped the helmet with his knuckles. "Is this really necessary?"
"Yes," she responded firmly. "And so is the shoulder harness. This is an experimental aircraft. We don't take any unnecessary risks." She reached up, pulled down the canopy, and secured it with two latches, one on each side of the cockpit. Then she gripped the controls, and the plane started to move.
Except for Almonte's helmet in front and the tail of the plane in the rear, Frank had a clear view on all sides through the molded glass bubble. He looked out at the "runway," which wasn't much more than a slab of concrete. Frank had seen longer driveways. They started to pick up a little speed as they rolled along— but the end of the concrete was coming uncomfortably 
32
close. Frank braced himself for an unplanned stop in an unplowed field, but just then the nose of the craft tilted up and there were no more bumps and jolts.
He twisted his head to the right and watched the ground drop away. The whole solar farm was spread out beneath them. Blinding flashes of light bounced off the polished mirrors of the bowl-shaped solar collectors.
"Electrical engineering may not be a glamour profession," Almonte said from the pilot's seat, "but it has its high points."
For the first time Frank realized that they didn't have to raise their voices over the drone of the engine. The electric motor made almost no noise. The only sound was the steady whir of the propeller cutting through the air.
"How fast are we going?" he asked.
Almonte nodded out the window. "Not fast enough to overtake any of those cars down there on the highway."
Frank looked down and saw that she was right. "How can you keep it in the air at such a low speed?"
"I told you it wasn't much more than an ultralite," she replied. "The stabilizer wing under the nose keeps the stall speed low, and we get some help from the thermal updrafts."
"Where'd you learn to fly?" Frank asked.
"You sure ask a lot of questions," she said. "Why don't you just relax and enjoy the ride?"
33
Frank opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind. He decided to take her advice and settle back to admire the view. Up there, he could let his mind drift. It was so peaceful and quiet—almost too quiet, he told himself. He cocked his head and listened. He couldn't hear the propeller anymore.
But now he could hear Theresa softly talking to herself in front of him. "Trouble?" he asked, trying to sound untroubled.
"We lost power for a second," she told him. She punched the starter switch once, twice, three times. Nothing happened. She took off her helmet, unbuckled her shoulder harness, and stuck her head under the control panel. After fumbling with some wires for an endless minute, she tried the starter again.
She looked over her shoulder at Frank and smiled nervously. "Looks like we may be in for a rough landing. I can't get it—"
She never finished the sentence because a sudden downdraft threw the plane into a dive. The nose pitched down violently and Theresa Almonte's head was thrown forward, smashing into the controls.
Frank fought back the panic as her body slumped limply in the front seat. He was hurtling toward the ground in a flying coffin, with an unconscious pilot.
34
Chapter  4
Frank desperately clutched the back of Theresa Almonte's shirt and struggled to pull her out of the pilot's seat. But the narrow cockpit and low canopy didn't leave him any room to maneuver.
Frank instantly knew there was only one chance. He leaned over the pilot's seat with outstretched hands, grasped the two canopy latches, and yanked them open.
The canopy flew back and snapped off. The wind blasted Frank in the face and whipped around the cockpit. He slapped the shoulder harness release and flung the straps out of his way. With both hands tightly gripping the pilot's seat, he hauled himself up and stuck one foot out onto the wing.
35
He took a deep breath. Now came the tough part. Straddling the lip of the cockpit and fighting against the stiff wind rushing past, he let go of the seat and grabbed the unconscious pilot with both hands. He managed to get her turned around and draped over the seat, her head and arms dangling down. Then he squirmed into the front cockpit and shoved Theresa Almonte into the backseat.
The ground was coming up fast. Frank seized the control yoke and pulled back as hard as he could. His back arched, and the muscles in his arms and neck bulged under the strain. Inch by painful inch the yoke yielded to Frank, and the plane started to pull out of its deadly descent.
Frank forced the control yoke back farther, and the plane finally leveled off. But it was almost skimming the treetops now, and the engine was dead. Frank didn't know if he could coax the plane back to the runway before the relentless tug of gravity dragged them down— but he didn't have much choice. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman crumpled in the backseat without a shoulder harness or helmet. He didn't want to think about what would happen to her in a crash landing.
The chain-link fence that surrounded the solar farm loomed ahead. It was going to be close. Frank grappled with the sluggish controls and managed to get the nose up a little. The front end of the plane cleared the fence. Then there
36
was a thud, a clank, and the flimsy aircraft lurched upward.
Suddenly the plane was about twenty feet higher, and Frank needed every inch if he was to make the end of the runway. The plane hit the concrete hard and bounced twice before he got it under control again. It wasn't the best landing he had ever made, but none of the passengers complained.
Joe was already sprinting toward them before the plane rolled to a stop. He skidded to a halt when he saw his brother climb out of the pilot's seat. "I should have known you were driving when I saw the landing gear hit the top of the fence," he said. "It looked like you were trying to play leapfrog." He tried to sound nonchalant, as if it were no big deal, as if he watched his brother crash-land two or three crippled aircraft every day before breakfast.
But it was wasted effort. Frank didn't even notice how unfazed Joe pretended to be. He was too busy lifting Theresa Almonte out of the cockpit.
"Let me give you a hand," Joe said, climbing onto the wing. "What happened, anyway?"
"It's a long story," Frank replied.
Joe saw the haggard look on his brother's face and the purplish bruise on the woman's forehead. "Something tells me if it had been any longer, you wouldn't be here to tell it."
Almonte started to come around as Joe took
37
one of her arms and slung it over his shoulder.
"What's going on?" she asked in a shaky voice. "Where are we going?"
"To the nearest hospital," Frank told her. "You've got a pretty nasty bump on your head."
She raised a hand to her forehead. "Is that really necessary? I mean, is it really all that bad?"
"No," Joe responded. "It's not too bad. It's hardly any bigger than a regulation bowling ball." He guided her to her sports car, which was parked by the hangar.
"Give me your keys," he said. "I'm driving." He looked over at Frank. "Do you think you can handle the van by yourself?"
Frank thought that was a strange question. Then he realized that he probably looked pretty frazzled. "Don't worry," he assured his brother. "Right now I can handle just about anything— as long as it stays on the ground."
* * *
The Hardys hung around the hospital long enough to make sure Theresa was all right. Then they headed back to the solar farm.
"First Alec Ward, and now Theresa Almonte," Joe said as he steered the van down the highway. "Do you get the feeling somebody arranged for her to have a fatal accident?"
"I figure there are three possibilities," his brother replied. "The first is that it really was
38
just an accident, and it's just an incredible coincidence that it happened the day after Ward's murder."
"I wouldn't put a whole lot of money on that," Joe remarked. "It looks to me like somebody is trying to get rid of anybody who knows anything about the super solar cell."
"That's possibility number two," Frank said. "But why didn't they try to make Ward's death look like an accident, too?"
Joe knew the way his brother's mind worked. He didn't always get there as fast—but Joe usually reached the same conclusions sooner or later. "Possibility three—you think she rigged the plane herself?"
"I'm not ruling it out," Frank answered. "If everybody thinks the person who killed Ward is after Theresa now—presto, she's not a suspect anymore."
"Clever plan," Joe said. "She tries to kill herself to confuse the cops. Don't you think that's a fairly severe solution?"
"Not if smashing her head into the controls wasn't part of the plan," Frank argued. "That plane isn't much heavier than a glider. She could have landed it easily, even without power."
"Okay," Joe said as he stopped the van at the guard station outside the gate to the farm. "Let's say we find evidence of sabotage—how will we know who did it?"
39
"I can't answer that," Frank replied, "until I get a good look at the plane."
Joe rolled down his window and spoke, to the guard. "Hi. Remember us? We were here earlier with Theresa Almonte."
"Sure," the guard said. "You were the ones who took her to the hospital. Is she all right?"
"She's fine," Joe answered. "We left some stuff in the hangar. Could you open the gate so we can go get it?"
The guard shook his head slowly. "Sorry. You're not authorized to be out here alone."
"We're not alone," Joe countered. "We're together."
"You know what I mean," the guard said.
Joe sighed. "Yeah, I do." He turned to his brother. "What now?"
Frank looked at his watch. "Now we go home."
Joe checked the mirror and backed the van out onto the road. "One quick phone call could have gotten us in," he muttered.
"And blown our cover," Frank added. "What is that guard going to think if he gets a call from the president of the company, telling him to let a couple of teenagers go anyplace they want? And who's going to hear him grumbling about it later?"
"You're right," Joe said simply, and let it go at that. Sometimes, Joe knew, it was better just to agree with Frank and drop a subject. Besides,
40
Frank was probably right, and Joe realized he was hungry. It was a good time to go home, anyway.
* * *
About an hour after dinner, Joe decided he needed something sweet. "Let's go and get some ice cream," he said. "I'll buy."
Frank was just about to listen to the messages on their answering machine but clicked it off when Joe spoke. "Can I get that in writing?"
Joe put his hand over his heart and staggered back. "You wound me. My own brother doesn't trust me."
Frank laughed. "I trust you, all right. I trust you to be broke all the time."
"It just so happens," Joe said smugly, reaching into his back pocket, "that I have—"
What he thought was in his back pocket wasn't there. He patted his front pockets. Not there either.
"Don't tell me you lost your wallet again," Frank said.
Joe slapped his forehead. "I left it in Theresa Almonte's car! It was that stupid parking lot at the hospital—the one where you have to pay to get in. I took my wallet out to get some money and then put it on the dashboard."
"And left it there," Frank said.
"I had a lot on my mind," Joe responded defensively.
41
Don't worry about it," Frank told him. You can get it tomorrow."
A smile appeared on Joe's face. "Why wait? This is a great excuse to check out where she lives."
He pulled out a telephone book and leafed through it, finally running a finger down one of the pages. "Here it is," he said. Then he tossed the book on the table and headed to the door. "Aren't you going to call her?" Frank asked.
Joe turned to his brother and grinned. "Let's surprise her instead."
The address in the phone book turned out to be that of a ranch house in a modest neighborhood. Only biting his tongue prevented Frank from saying "I told you so" when Joe got no answer to his repeated banging on the door.
"It was a good idea," Joe insisted as they climbed back into the van and pulled away from the curb.
A pair of headlights flashed across the front windshield, and a car moved slowly down the street. It pulled into the spot the van had occupied just a minute before. Joe cut the engine and watched two people coming out of a late model gray sedan. Joe saw that one of them was Theresa Almonte—and he recognized the other one, too.
"That's Ben Watson," he whispered as another set of headlights flashed in his eyes before being turned off.
42
Watson and Almonte stood on the sidewalk, talking for a minute. Even with the window down, Joe couldn't make out the words, though. They shook hands, and Watson slid back in his car and drove away.
Theresa Almonte was walking up the sidewalk to her house when Joe heard the muffled whump of a car door closing. He glanced in the direction of the noise and spotted a figure dressed in dark clothes moving quickly toward Theresa.
Before Frank realized what was happening, Joe bolted out the driver's side of the van and rushed at the figure. Now he could see that it was a man. The guy whipped around, and two cold, hard eyes locked on Joe.
The man's hand moved smoothly and swiftly inside his jacket pocket and came out again gripping an automatic pistol—aimed right at Joe's head.
43
Chapter 5
Joe roared and hurled himself headlong at the man with the gun, his eyes riveted on the dull black bore of the barrel. It looked huge, and Joe knew it could punch a hole the size of his fist.
These thoughts flashed through his mind in the split second it took him to close the gap between them. Joe's shoulder slammed into the man's chest, and they both toppled to the ground. There was a deafening blast, the pistol spitting fire and smoke.
Joe clutched the man's gun arm with both hands and smashed it down on the pavement. The weapon roared again. The sound of shattering glass followed by the high-pitched scream of a car alarm told Joe the second shot had gone wild.
44
A knee was driven up into Joe's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. A short "Oof!" forced its way past his lips as the air rushed out of his lungs. He fell back, gasping for breath while he struggled to hold on to the man's arm and pull himself up. Joe saw the leg swing up behind him in a blurred arc half a second before it hooked around his throat and jerked him backward again.
Joe tried to get up, but the man was on top of him in an instant, shoving the pistol barrel against his nose. It was cold and hard, just like the eyes glaring down at him.
"Give me a reason," a man rasped in a voice like ice. "So much as twitch the wrong way and I'll give you an extra nostril that'll let the air in from the other side. Just give me a reason."
"And give me a reason not to send you to dreamland," another voice growled. "Drop the gun and put your hands over your head."
Frank wielded the tire iron like a sledgehammer, hovering above the figure that crouched over his brother. He tapped the back of the man's head with the heavy metal rod. "Right now," he said simply.
The man pulled the pistol away from Joe's face and set it carefully on the sidewalk. Then he stood up slowly, hands raised high. Joe got his first good look at him. He was built like a small truck. Wide shoulders sloped up to a short, thick neck, merging into a bullet-shaped
45
head that was completely bald, shaved clean from ear to ear. Joe thought he looked like a wrestler on TV.
"Frank? Joe?" Theresa Almonte stammered. "What is this;? Who is this?"
"Do you know these gentlemen?" the bald man asked her.
"Yes," she said. "They work for me. But I don't know you."
"If you'll just let me get something out of my coat pocket," he replied, "I think it will explain everything."
Joe picked up the pistol and pointed it at him. "Go ahead, but make sure you don't even twitch in the wrong direction."
The man took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Theresa.
"What is it?" Frank asked.
"It's a note from John O'Hara," she said as she read. "He's Mike Barnes's silent money partner."
"Yeah, we know," Joe responded carelessly.
She stopped reading and glanced at him. "You two seem to know a lot."
"We just like to know who we work for," Frank said quickly. "And right now I'd like to know what's in that note that explains what this guy is doing here, waving guns around."
Theresa finished the note and smiled. "I think he was trying to protect me from you boys."
"That's correct," the man said. "My name is
46
Horace Sykes. I've been retained by Mr. O'Hara to provide personal protection for you, Ms. Almonte. I was coming to tell you now when I spotted this kid going up to intercept you."
Joe stared at him. "Personal protection?"
"A bodyguard," Frank said. "Why?"
"The note says it's just a precaution," Theresa explained. "Apparently, he thinks there's a chance that today's little incident may have been an attempt on my life."
"Little incident?" Joe responded. "You mean the plane? How'd he find out about that?"
Theresa shrugged. "There's not a lot that goes on at Bright Futures that John O'Hara doesn't know about."
Frank was about to ask Sykes for some kind of identification when the guys who do that for a living started to show up. Gunshots on a sleepy Bayport street tended to attract a lot of blue lights and uniforms to match.
The two-way radio in the squad car squawked behind him as Con Riley hitched up his gun belt and strolled over to the Hardys. Riley's eyes moved from Frank to Joe and back again. "Why aren't I surprised to find you here?"
* * *
By the time Frank, Joe, Theresa Almonte, and Horace Sykes finished explaining the whole silly misunderstanding, Chief Collig showed up, and they had to start again from the beginning. The sour expression on Collig's face never changed.
47
Joe decided he probably practiced by sucking lemons in front of a mirror.
"So you just came by to get your wallet, is that it?" the police chief cut in when he had heard enough.
Joe and Frank both nodded.
"Then get it and go," Collig said tersely. He turned to Con Riley. "What about this Sykes character—does he check out?"
"Right down the line," Riley said. "His gun permit's up to date, his record is clean, and I just got information from O'Hara that Sykes is working for him. By the way, boys, O'Hara says he left a message on your answering machine, telling you about Sykes here. Maybe you'd better listen to it once in a while."
The police chief glared at the Hardys. "Why are you still here?"
Theresa Almonte grabbed Joe's arm. "Come on," she said. "My car's over there. Let's see if your wallet's in it."
"Good idea," Frank chimed in. "I'll go with you."
Theresa unlocked the car door and found Joe's wallet on the dashboard. "I don't know how I missed it when I drove home from the hospital," she said, handing the wallet to Joe. "I guess my mind was somewhere else."
"Maybe you were thinking about your date tonight," Frank ventured.
She gave him a curious look. "Date?"
48
Frank shifted into his best imitation of a teenager—or at least what most adults think of as a teenager. "Well, I mean, we saw that guy drop you off. I guess I just assumed he was your boyfriend or something. I mean, hey, it's none of my business."
Her face hardened. "You're right," she replied sharply. "It's none of your business." She spun on her heel and took a half dozen steps before stopping and turning around. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's been a long day, you know?"
"It sure has," Frank agreed.
Theresa sighed wearily. "You guys really put yourselves on the line for me today, so I guess I owe you some kind of explanation."
"You don't owe us anything," Joe said.
"Maybe I owe it to myself," she replied. "I'll feel better if I get it off my chest. You see, that man I was with offered me a lot of money to come work for him."
"What's wrong with that?" Frank asked.
She shrugged and smiled weakly. "Maybe nothing."
Con Riley walked up and nodded toward the Hardys' black van. "I've been instructed to escort you gentlemen to your vehicle."
"Oh, boy," Joe said. "I always wanted a police escort."
"I'm sorry about this," Riley said as the three
49
of them walked to the van. "But this murder investigation Has the chief on edge."
"How's it going?" Frank prodded. "Did forensics turn up anything you can use?"
"Not much," Riley replied. "There were traces of acid mixed in with the bloodstains on the carpet. The last I heard, they were still identifying it."
"Anything else?" Frank pressed.
Riley eyed him warily. "Why do I have the feeling I've told you too much already?"
Frank smiled and opened the van door. "Don't worry about it. You know me—I'm just the curious type."
"Yes," Riley replied soberly. "I do know you—and that's why I'm worried."
* * *
It had been a long night, so Joe slept late the next morning. It was Saturday, and since he couldn't come up with any particular reason to get out of bed, he stayed there as long as possible.
His aunt Gertrude finally rousted him a little after ten. "Chet Morton is here," she said, opening Joe's curtains and letting the sun stream in. "He called earlier, and I told him I was sure you'd be up by now."
"Yeah, right," Joe mumbled, squinting against the light. "Where's Frank?"
"He's busy with that computer of his,"
50
Gertrude said, "and I just hate to disturb him when he's working."
Joe studied his aunt standing there, smiling benignly. "Okay," he said. "I get the hint. Tell Chet I'll be right down."
Joe stumbled down the stairs a few minutes later and found Chet in the kitchen, indulging in his favorite pastime.
"Hi, Joe," Chet managed to say around a mouthful of food. He was holding a half-eaten sandwich of some kind.
"A little early for lunch, isn't it?" Joe remarked.
Chet chewed thoughtfully for a moment and swallowed. "Your aunt was so insistent. It would have been rude to say no."
Joe laughed. "It would have been a miracle." Chet had the wide, massive frame of a football linebacker—but the only sport he took a lot of interest in was marathon eating.
"Hey, Chet," Frank called from behind Joe. "What's up?"
Frank walked into the kitchen and glanced at his brother. "And what got you out of bed before noon?"
"Give me a break," Joe responded. "I worked pretty hard the last couple of days."
"Yeah," Chet said. "That's what I wanted to talk to you guys about. Your aunt told me you got part-time jobs at that solar energy company."
51
"So much for our cover," Joe muttered.
Chet's eyes widened. "You're on a case?" A slight frown creased his forehead. "Oh, then I guess you can't help me out."
"What's the problem?" Frank asked.
"Well," Chet said, "I really need an after- school job right now, and I thought maybe they were looking for more part-time guys where you work."
Joe shook his head. "Sorry, Chet. Anyway, I don't think you want to get too close to solar energy right now. It seems to have developed lethal side effects."
"Wait a minute," Frank said. He looked at Chet. "You can type, right?"
Chet nodded.
Frank smiled. "Then I've got the perfect job for you—and you just might be able to help us with our case."
"I'm afraid you might not have a case anymore."
Frank and Joe turned to see their father standing in the kitchen door.
"I just got a call from John O'Hara," he told them. "Theresa Almonte's been arrested for industrial espionage—and the murder of Alec Ward."
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Chapter 6
Frank stared at his father. "What do they have on her?"
"I wouldn't call it an airtight case," Fenton Hardy answered, "but it doesn't look good for her, either. The security guards caught her leaving the Bright Futures offices early this morning with copies of part of the plans for the super cell. After they contacted the police, the police got a warrant and searched her house. They found some working notes in her desk in what appears to be Alec Ward's handwriting."
"Is that all?" Frank asked.
"Not quite," his father said. "The notes were spattered with dried blood—Alec Ward's blood type. She could have taken them off the body after she killed him."
53
Joe rubbed his eyes and shook the last of the sleep out of his head. "All that happened this morning? A guy can't close his eyes for ten minutes around here."
Frank checked his watch. "Ten hours is more like it. Where is Theresa now? Can we see her?"
Fenton Hardy shrugged. "She could be back home by now—if she has a good lawyer. She doesn't have an arrest record, and there's probably not enough evidence to charge her."
Frank looked over at his brother. "Come on, we've got work to do."
"I wish I did, too," Chet said glumly.
"You do," Frank replied. "You're going to apply for a part-time job at Solex, Inc."
Chet groaned. "I am? On Saturday?"
"Sure," Frank said. "It shows initiative and drive. They'll love it."
* * *
This time when Joe knocked at the door of the modest ranch house, there was an answer. The fact that Frank had called first to make sure somebody was there might have helped—but Joe didn't expend much energy on trivial details.
"I don't know why I agreed to see you," Theresa Almonte said as she opened the door and waved to Sykes, who was sitting in his car. She led the Hardys into a small study, where every available space was covered with a jumbled assortment of books, magazines, and loose sheets of paper.
54
Joe pushed a pile of books off to one side of a well-worn couch and sat down. Frank found a step stool next to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and sat on it.
Almonte leaned against her cluttered desk, her arms crossed, a guarded look on her face. "My life has fallen apart completely since I met you. Now you call and show up on my doorstep only a half hour after I get out of jail.
"Something tells me your real job doesn't have a thing to do with being my assistants," she continued. "So before we go any further, tell me why I should be talking to you at all."
"Because we might be able to help you," Frank replied, "if you're innocent."
"I'm listening," Almonte said tersely. "Keep going."
The two brothers exchanged sidelong glances. Joe raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, wordlessly saying, "Why not?"
Frank decided it was time for a little truth. "We were hired to check out the security at Bright Futures," he explained. "Until we're sure of what happened—until we have proof— we haven't finished our job."
"So what do you want from me?" Theresa snapped. "A confession?"
"No," Frank said. "We want the truth."
"Okay," she replied. "I'll tell you the same thing I told the police. I didn't kill Alec, and I don't know who did. I don't know how his notes
55
got in my house, and I don't know where those papers came from that the security guards pulled out of my purse at the office."
"They searched your purse?" Joe asked.
Almonte nodded. "They've been doing random checks of bags and briefcases for a while now. On a slow day like Saturday, they tend to give everybody the full treatment on the way out."
"That makes sense," Frank said. "But what were you doing in the office on a Saturday?"
"I didn't know working on the weekend was a crime," she retorted. "And if it is, go arrest Mike Barnes. He's there seven days a week— and he gets cranky if Tom and I don't put in at least a six-day week."
"Tom Kilman?" Frank verified.
Joe had been wandering around the cluttered room, but he stopped when he heard Kilman's name. Kilman the reptile, was how Joe thought of him. Bet he hadn't even evolved to being warm-blooded yet, Joe decided. "Kilman was working today, too?" he asked.
"If Mike works, Tom works," she answered.
"Is this where they found Ward's notes?" Frank asked, pointing to the desk.
"Yes," Theresa said. She started to move around, picking up loose papers and piling them in stacks. "I know I'm never going to win any Good Housekeeping awards, but this wasn't
56
quite such a disaster area before the police plowed through it."
Joe smiled. "That's one of their specialties." He pushed himself up off the couch. "Mind if we look around?"
"Mind if I ask why?" she responded.
"If somebody planted those notes," Frank explained, "they had to get in the house. Any evidence of a break-in would help your story."
Theresa sighed and gestured to the door. "Go ahead. I'm getting used to complete strangers nosing around my home."
It didn't take Frank and Joe long to check out the other four rooms in the small house. Joe tested all the windows, and Frank examined the front and back doors before they went outside.
"It doesn't look like anybody forced either of the doors," Frank told his brother as they walked out to the backyard.
"No one would have to," Joe responded. "There isn't a single window that can't be reached easily from the ground—unless you're a dwarf."
"How about a dwarf with a ladder?" Frank countered. "What's your point?"
Joe nodded toward a window. "That bedroom window over there isn't locked."
Joe stepped up to the window. There was no place to get a good grip on it, so he had to place his flattened palms against the glass pane and push. The window didn't budge.
57
Frank picked up a stick and handed it to him. "Here, try this."
"What am I supposed to do with this? Break the glass?"
"Do you see any broken glass?" Frank responded.
"No," Joe said in a slightly annoyed tone. "I was trying to do it without breaking the glass."
"Right," Frank said, grabbing the stick. "Look, the pane isn't flush against the window—it's set into it. The putty that holds it in place forms a little lip all the way around." He took the stick, jammed it up against the lip at the top of the lower window and gave it a firm push.
The window moved up a few inches. Frank glanced back over his shoulder at Joe. "You get a lot more leverage that way." He worked his hands into the space at the bottom and forced the window open wide enough to crawl through. He gripped the sill, hauled himself up, and wriggled inside. Then he peered back out at Joe, a smug smile on his face.
Joe responded by grabbing the bottom of the window and slamming it shut.
Frank opened it again and stuck his head out. "Why'd you do that?"
"Climb back out here," Joe said, "and I'll show you."
"This better not be one of your stupid tricks," Frank grumbled as he clambered over the sill and dropped to the ground.
58
"It's not," Joe said. He pulled the window down and pointed. "The putty is still a little soft," he explained. "So there's a mark—a kind of dent—where you pressed the stick against it. See?"
Frank looked more closely and saw two dent marks in the putty. He glanced over at his brother. "Do you know what this means?"
It was Joe's turn to smile. "Sure. It means we should start looking for a dwarf with a ladder and a stick."
* * *
A half hour later the black van pulled into the Bright Futures parking lot.
"What are we looking for?" Joe asked Frank as they walked into the office where they had met Alec Ward for the first and last time.
Frank shrugged his shoulders. "Beats me. Anything that might tell us who killed Ward and why that person wants to frame Theresa Almonte."
Joe sat down at the desk and opened a file cabinet drawer. "She didn't go to Alec's apartment to check on him, remember. She asked us to go—so we found the body. How can you be sure it's a frame job?"
"I'm not," Frank admitted. "But she seems too bright to stuff company secrets in her purse and try to smuggle them past the guard. Especially when she knew they made thorough searches on Saturday. It just doesn't figure.
59
You'd think she'd be a little more inventive, wouldn't you?"
Joe nodded as he scanned the color-coordinated, alphabetical file folders. He looked under C for clues, but didn't find anything. "I also think this is a waste of time. We should be searching his apartment, not his office."
"Until the police seal comes off the door, that's going to be a little tricky," Frank reminded him. "They may even have a twenty-four-hour guard on the place."
Joe waved his hand around the tidy work space. Neat rows of technical manuals lined the shelves on the wall. "Look at how meticulous this place is. If we find a book that isn't filed under the correct subject heading, we should haul it downtown for questioning."
He stood up and reached for one of the books, but he forgot that he hadn't closed the cabinet and banged his shin against it. He hopped backward, clutching at his leg, and bumped into the telephone, knocking it off the desk.
The phone crashed to the floor and landed on its side. When Joe bent down to pick it up, he spotted something taped to the bottom. "Hey, what do we have here?" he wondered out loud.
Joe palmed the small, round, metallic device and held it out for his brother to see. He looked up and saw a man with a gray beard and a sharp nose standing in the doorway.
60
"Oh, hi, Mr. O'Hara," Joe said uneasily. "I thought you were in New York."
"I always come in on Saturdays. Find anything interesting?" O'Hara asked.
Frank reached over and plucked the object out of Joe's hand. He inspected it quickly and then showed it to O'Hara. "Is it routine security around here to bug the phones?"
The color drained from the older man's face. "The phones, are tapped?"
"This is the only one we know about," Frank said.
"We should tell the police right away," O'Hara responded. He held out his hand. "Give it to me. I'll take care of it."
Frank's fingers closed around the device. "We'll contact them ourselves."
"All right," O'Hara said stiffly. "Well, we better have security check all the phones. I'll go tell Mike." He headed off down the hall at a brisk pace.
Frank called Con Riley and told him about the bug and the forced window.
"That was interesting," he said afterward. "Let's see what else we can find."
Joe groaned. "Don't tell me you want to go through all his files."
Frank checked out the computer equipment before his eyes rested on a fat metal box with a slot in the front. "That could take a very long time," he replied. He ran his hand lightly over
61
the top of the box. "This is an optical disk drive." He tapped a small stack of thin plastic cases on the desk. "And these are the disks."
"They look like compact disk cases," Joe remarked.
"They are," Frank said. "Only these disks each carry three hundred megabytes of information."
Joe did some rough math in his head. "Three hundred million bytes? That's 150,000 pages apiece! It could take years to go through all that!"
Frank put his arm around his brother and steered him toward the door. "That's why we're not going to do it—not yet, anyway, and if we do, we'll ask Theresa to help us."
* * *
Outside, it was easy to spot the van in the nearly deserted parking lot. "Not everybody works on the weekends," Joe observed as he climbed into the driver's seat.
"No," Frank said, "but Theresa Almonte wasn't the only one in the office today, either. We know Tom and Mike and O'Hara were here, too."
"True," Joe conceded. He started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. Turning out of the parking lot, Joe punched the gas pedal as he pulled onto the street.
"What's the big hurry?" Frank asked.
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"We always get stuck at that stoplight up there," Joe said. "But if I time it just right—"
The light turned yellow.
"I'm not getting stuck this time," Joe muttered to the light. He pressed his foot down harder.
"You won't make it," Frank said. "Come on, this is really dangerous."
Joe realized his brother was right. He lifted his foot off the gas and pushed down on the brake pedal.
The van didn't slow.
"You're not going to make it!" Frank yelled.
Joe pumped the brake pedal frantically. There didn't seem to be any pressure. "The brakes are gone!" he shouted. "I can't stop!"
The light turned red. The van sped into the intersection, out of control.
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Chapter 7
Joe blasted the horn in a desperate attempt to keep traffic out of the intersection, but it was already too late. A car had shot out in front of the runaway van, and Joe had to crank the wheel hard to swerve around it. The top-heavy van rocked from side to side as Joe jerked the wheel back the other way, barely making it past the front bumper of a pickup truck.
Then they were across the intersection—but it wasn't over yet. The traffic up ahead was slowed to a crawl, and Joe had about ten seconds to do something before the van rear-ended the last car in the long line, which would start a deadly chain reaction.
"Use the emergency brake!" Frank shouted.
Joe leaned over and grabbed the release lever with his left hand. He had to keep it pulled out
64
while his left foot pressed down on the small pedal. If he didn't, the emergency break would lock up.
There was a sharp screech of metal while the emergency brake tried to do what it was never intended to do—actually stop a vehicle. The only "emergency" it was designed for was parking on a hill.
Then the cable snapped, and the van had no brakes of any kind.
Joe's right hand found the shift and slammed it into low gear. The van lurched and did slow down abruptly, but it was still on a collision course with a license plate that Joe could almost reach out and touch.
He clutched the wheel and steered the van to the curb. The right front tire scraped the curb. Joe turned the wheel a little to the left to back off some, then nudged the curb again, using it like a cement brake. Each time the tire nosed the curb, the speedometer dipped further down.
Finally the van idled to a complete stop.
Joe waited a few seconds, half expecting some car to smash into the back of the van. When nothing happened, he took a deep breath and pried his fingers off the steering wheel.
"That's the last time I try to run a yellow light," he said, holding up his right hand. "I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Frank said. He reached into his front pocket and pulled
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out a dime. "Call it—heads or tails," he said as he flipped the coin in the air.
"Uh, heads," Joe responded right after he saw the dime drop back into Frank's palm, heads up.
Frank smiled. "Looks like you win."
"Great," Joe replied. "What do I win?"
"You get to crawl under the van and look at the brakes," Frank told him.
Joe frowned. "How about two out of three?" he suggested.
Frank shook his head. "No, no. You won fair and square." He opened his door and hopped out. "Get out on this side," he said. "We wouldn't want to get hit by a truck before you can collect your prize."
"With my luck," Joe grumbled as he slid across the seat and climbed out of the van, "I'll get hit by a truck after I collect my prize."
"Don't forget this," Frank said cheerfully, handing him the flashlight from the glove compartment.
Joe got a piece of wood from the back of the van and put it in front of the rear wheels to lock them in place before he lay down on his back and worked his way under the front of the van. He shone the flashlight up at the hoses and wires that snaked around the engine. It didn't take long to spot the problem.
"I found it!" he called out.
66
Frank crouched down and peered under the van. "What is it?"
"You can't see it from there," Joe said.
"Then why don't you just tell me what it is?" Frank suggested.
"No," Joe replied. "I think this requires your keen investigative eye."
Frank sighed. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Nope."
"I'm going to have to crawl under there to find out, right?"
"That's right."
"Okay," Frank said as he wriggled in next to his brother on the grimy pavement.
Joe played the flashlight beam along the brake line. A few drops of fluid glistened in the light, dangling from the spot where the line had been cleanly severed.
"No brake fluid, no brakes," Joe said. "It's as simple as that."
Frank ran a finger over the smooth edge of the cut. "The hard part is finding out who did it—and why."
Between them, Frank and Joe had just enough money to have the van towed and repaired at a nearby service station.
"Looks like somebody doesn't like you boys too much," the mechanic remarked as he wiped his greasy hands with an even greasier rag. "There's no way that was an accident—unless
67
some guy holding a knife tripped and fell under there and kind of poked the brake line by mistake."
"That's probably exactly what happened," Joe said.
The mechanic grunted. "All the same, I'd watch my back if I were you."
"We will," Frank said. "Believe me, we will."
* * *
There wasn't much daylight left when the black van pulled up next to the space where it had been parked a few hours earlier. But Frank and Joe didn't have much trouble making out the dark blotch where the brake fluid had soaked into the blacktop.
"It happened right here," Frank said.
Joe nodded. "While we were in Ward's office, somebody was out here practicing his whittling on our brake line."
Frank started to walk toward the office building. "Lets find out who was working today."
"How are we going to do that?" Joe responded. "Just go up to the security desk and ask?"
Frank stopped at the revolving glass door and smiled over his shoulder at his brother. "Something like that," he said.
Joe seriously considered sitting this one out, but his curiosity got the better of him. He caught up with Frank just as he reached the security desk.
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"Excuse me," Frank said, showing the guard his photo ID. "This may sound silly, but I think I forgot to sign out when I left this afternoon."
The guard scowled. "Nobody gets past this desk without signing out."
"I know," Frank said. "But I drove all the way back here just to make sure. I mean, I didn't want you guys to spend half the night searching the place for me, so couldn't I just check the log?"
"All right," the guard said gruffly. He opened the log book and ran his finger down the column of names. There weren't enough entries for the day to fill a page. "Here it is," he said smugly. "Frank Hardy. You came in at two-thirty and left at three-fifteen. I told you no one leaves without signing the log."
Frank scratched his head. "It says three- fifteen? That can't be right, can it?"
The guard spun the book around on the table and shoved it at him. "Here! See for yourself."
Frank quickly scanned the list of names and times. "You're absolutely right," he said after double-checking the list. "Sorry to have wasted your time."
The guard just glared at him.
Joe flashed his warmest smile and tugged at his brother's arm as they backed away from the desk. "Well, thanks for all your help. We'll just get out of here and let you get back to whatever it is you do."
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Joe could still feel the guard's eyes boring into his back when they got outside.
"So what did you find out?" he finally asked when the van was on the road again.
"Three people left the office after two-thirty and before three-fifteen," Frank told him. "One of them was John O'Hara."
Joe raised his eyebrows. "You think our own client is trying to put us in the morgue next to Alec Ward?"
"I don't think anybody tried to kill us," Frank answered. "That brake job was meant to rattle us, maybe scare us off the case."
"What makes you think that?" Joe asked.
"Two reasons," Frank replied. "Number one— a runaway vehicle isn't a very reliable murder weapon. The odds of a fatal crash are pretty low."
"But what if we were on a steep mountain road?" Joe countered.
Frank gestured out the window. "Do you see any mountains?"
"No," Joe said. "But there's the cliff road by the bay."
"Yes," Frank agreed. "But first you'd have to get to the cliff road, which brings me to reason number two. The brake line was cut cleanly and completely. No slow leaks, no attempt to make it look like anything other than a deliberate act. There was zero fluid in the lines before you even started the engine. It was dumb luck that we got out of the parking lot at all."
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"I hadn't thought of that," Joe said. "So we were just supposed to sort of drift into a lamp post or a parked car or something, get scared, and run away. Is that the idea?"
"It looks that way," Frank said. Joe frowned. "But why would O'Hara bother with all that? If he wanted us off the case, he could just fire us."
"Not if he didn't want us to know he wanted us off the case," Frank pointed out. "And don't forget—two other people could have sabotaged the van on their way out."
"I forgot about that," Joe said. "Anybody we know?"
Frank nodded. "Tom Kilman signed out at 3:05—just a few minutes after we had our little encounter with John O'Hara."
"That's one," Joe said. "Who's the other one?"
"None other than Mike Barnes himself."
Joe studied his brother. "You don't suspect Barnes, do you?"
"At this point," Frank replied, "I suspect everybody."
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Chapter 8
Joe attempted to sleep late again the next morning, but Frank had other plans for him. Frank also knew the right buttons to push to get Joe moving.
"Wake up," Frank said, prodding the lump under the covers. "We'll be late for school."
A hand slid out of the lump and pulled the blanket back just far enough to reveal a patch of blond hair, part of a forehead, and one half-open eye. "Whutimezit?" a voice remotely like Joe's mumbled.
"Time for breakfast," Frank told him. "It's already on the table. Hurry up."
The lump struggled to something resembling a sitting position, and the covers fell away. Joe stretched and yawned. "Breakfast? Where am
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I? I mean, where is it? No, I mean, what is it?"
"The meal before lunch," Frank answered.
"I know that," Joe said as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. It felt as if it had crazy spikes sticking out at weird angles. He made a mental note not to look in the mirror when he got dressed. "What I mean is—I forget what I mean. Never mind. I'll be down in ten minutes."
"Make it five," Frank said, throwing a pair of jeans into his brother's lap.
Joe got dressed and made his way downstairs on automatic pilot. He wasn't even sure how he got to the kitchen, but there he was—and there was Frank, sitting at the table.
Joe looked around. "Where is everybody? Where's breakfast?"
"In bed, and right here," Frank replied, tapping a box on a table.
"That's a box of cereal," Joe observed.
Frank nodded. "That's right."
Joe stared at the box. "That's it? That's breakfast?" The fog in his brain started to clear. "Wait a minute—it's Sunday!"
He glanced at the clock on the wall over the stove. "And it's not even seven o'clock!"
Frank smiled. "That's three for three. I keep telling people you're not nearly as stupid as you look."
Joe slumped down in a chair. He knew he should be angry, but it took too much energy.
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"Oh, well," he said. "Now that I'm here, you might as well get me a bowl and some milk—and stay out of my way for the next fifteen minutes."
Joe could polish off a bowl of cereal in about two minutes—but not that day. That morning he was going to linger over every spoonful, savor every bite, chew every flake into a million tiny fragments, and drive Frank up the wall.
His plan worked brilliantly, right up to the point where their father came through the door. He was wearing a sleeveless mesh shirt, nylon running shorts, and a pair of running shoes that looked as if they had been designed for astronauts to wear on Mars. There was a thick sheen of sweat on his face.
"Nothing like a quick five-mile run to get a jump-start on the day," he said cheerfully. He wasn't even breathing heavily.
Frank promptly forgot about Joe's attempt to set the world record for the longest breakfast consisting of a single serving of cereal. "Any word yet on that phone bug?" he asked his father.
"It's Sunday, Frank," Fenton Hardy replied. "And it's not even seven o'clock."
Joe set his spoon down in the soggy flakes floating in lukewarm milk. "That's what I said."
"I just thought I'd ask," Frank said a little defensively. "It could help us break this case."
Fenton Hardy put his hand on his older son's shoulder. "I know. That's why I took it in to
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the station right after you gave it to me. I also took a good look at it myself and made a few calls."
Frank's eyes lit up. "Then you do know something."
"I know it's not an off-the-shelf piece of surveillance equipment," his father said.
Frank knew that his father knew what he was talking about. As a former police officer and detective, Fenton Hardy was no stranger to electronic bugging devices.
"It was either handmade or extensively modified," Fenton explained.
"So we're dealing with a pro," Joe said.
"If the phone tap was done by a pro," Frank asked, "do you think Ward's murder was a contract hit?"
"I never ran across a hitman who clubbed his victims to death," Fenton Hardy answered. "Guys that kill for a living usually prefer a small- caliber handgun at close range. It's easy to conceal, doesn't make a lot of noise, and does the job quickly and efficiently.
"Besides," he added, "if I thought a professional killer was involved, I'd yank you off the case and notify the organized crime division of the FBI.
"Furthermore," he said in a stern voice, "your job is to check out security at Bright Futures—not investigate the murder of Alec
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Ward." His eyes locked on Frank. "Are we clear on that?"
Joe decided that was his cue to get up from the table. "As a matter of fact, we were just on our way out to do that very thing. Check security, that is."
"It's Sunday," his father reminded him.
"Right," Frank replied. "What better day to check security? Catch them off guard. See how good they really are."
Fenton Hardy sighed. "I don't know how you two talked me into letting you handle this case in the first place. Get out of here before I regain my sanity."
* * *
Joe didn't ask where they were going; he just let Frank drive, and waited for his brother to tell him or show him what he had in mind.
It didn't take long for Joe to figure out that what they had told their father wasn't all that far from the truth. "How nice," he said as he gazed out at the pastures and fields. "A drive in the country on Sunday morning."
Frank smiled and pulled the van over to the side of the road beside a familiar chain-link fence. "This looks like a nice spot to take a stroll."
They both got out of the van. Frank walked around to the rear door and unlocked it. He reached inside and pulled out the mat that covered the floor.
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"Good idea," Joe remarked when he saw what Frank was holding in his hands.
Joe glanced around to make sure no cars were in sight. Then, without another word, he grasped the metal links with both hands and started climbing the fence. He stopped near the top, where razor-sharp barbed wire jutted outward. With the toes of his sneakers wedged in the steel mesh, and the fingers of his left hand wrapped around it, he reached back with his free hand to take the mat from Frank.
Joe swung the mat up and over the top of the fence, draping it over the coils of barbed wire. Then he gave it a hard tug. Jagged metal teeth sank into the fabric, holding it firmly in place.
"Now look what you've done," Frank said. "We'll probably have to climb over to the other side to get it off there."
"Gee," Joe replied with a grin, "do you think anybody will mind?"
Frank joined his brother on the fence. "Not if we do it fast," he whispered. He scrambled over the mat and dropped down to the ground on the other side.
Joe was right behind him, and two minutes later the two brothers reached the small forest of bowl-shaped collectors on the outskirts of the solar farm.
Frank stopped to take a close look at one. It was mounted on a circular platform. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see over the lower edge
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of the tilted bowl. The concave surface was lined with polished mirrors. In the center was a rectangular grid of flat black solar cells.
Joe peered over his brother's shoulder. "Just fill it with water and you've got a solar hot tub big enough for the whole family. We could sell a million of them in California."
Frank reached down into the bowl with his outstretched arm, careful not to touch the surface. He could feel the intense, radiated heat of the sun, bouncing off the mirrors, directed at the array of solar cells in the center. "You might have a hard time keeping it filled," he replied.
"Why?" Joe asked.
Frank pulled his arm out of the bowl and touched his brother's cheek. Joe flinched with surprise at the warmth in Frank's fingers. "Because," Frank said, "something tells me it'll crank enough power to vaporize a whole swimming pool full of water."
As they walked away, Joe had the eerie feeling that the solar collectors were watching them. He glanced back nervously and then tapped his brother on the shoulder. "Uh, don't look now, but I think those things are moving."
"They are moving," Frank said calmly. "They're turning to follow the sun as it moves across the sky. There's an electric motor in the base of each platform."
"Are you sure?" Joe asked doubtfully. "I mean, how do you know all that?"
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"I did a little homework," Frank replied. "While you were testing your mattress for long-distance durability yesterday morning, I was using the computer to get some information on Bright Futures."
Joe looked at his brother. "Learn anything else that I should know about?"
"I'll tell you later," Frank said. He nodded toward the airplane hangar a distance away. "First, let's see what we can learn in there."
They quickly scouted the area. There were several cars parked by the other two buildings, but none near the hangar. The guard in the booth by the gate had his back to the Hardys, and there was nobody else outside.
They strolled casually up to the hangar door, acting as if they had every right to be there. It might be enough to fool the guard if he happened to glance their way. Frank was prepared to pick the lock, but he didn't have to. The door was open—just a crack, but open.
As he pushed the door open, the lights inside clicked off, leaving him in cool darkness. Frank crouched down low, grabbing Joe's arm to yank him down as he entered.
As Frank groped along the wall trying to find a light switch, something slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.
A figure bolted out the door.
Frank lay there, gasping, the wind knocked
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out of him. "Get him," he managed to stammer out to his brother.
Joe sprinted out into the sunlight and instantly spotted a man in a business suit running far ahead of him across the field, heading for the bowl-shaped solar collectors.
Joe took off after him, knowing he could overtake the man. He quickly narrowed the distance between them, but the figure disappeared in the maze of solar collectors before Joe could catch up.
Joe plunged in after him, but he had lost sight of his target and had to stop and look around. He cocked his head and listened. The eerie feeling of being watched crept over him as he listened to the hum of an electric motor behind him.
Joe whirled around and was hit by an intense flash of light. He threw up his hands to shield his eyes. A searing heat scorched his forearms.
There was a thunderous blast—followed by ominous silence.
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Chapter 9
Frank had made his way out of the hangar just as Joe dashed into the middle of the solar collectors. Then he heard the blast and spotted a column of black smoke curling skyward.
A figure ran out of the cluster of shiny, bowl- shaped objects—but it wasn't Joe. Frank did get a good look at his face. It was Mike Barnes's assistant, Tom Kilman, and he was heading for one of the small buildings. Frank knew he could cut him off, but there was still no sign of Joe. He had to make a choice—go after Kilman or find his brother.
There really wasn't any choice at all.
Frank ran toward the dark, billowing cloud of smoke rising from the ground. It felt as if someone was stabbing him with a knife every time he had to take a deep breath, but if Joe were hurt,
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every second counted. Frank was painfully aware of each one ticking by as he pushed himself across the field.
He found Joe lying facedown, a few feet from the smoldering remains of one of the large solar collectors. Kneeling down beside him, Frank put two fingers on the side of his brother's neck and felt a strong pulse. Joe stirred and let out a low groan.
"Where's the ball?" Joe mumbled as he tried to push himself off the ground. "Did I get the first down?'
"Take it slow and easy," Frank said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Does anything feel broken?"
Joe blinked and gazed at him. "I don't think so," he replied slowly, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing there.
"How about your head?" Frank asked.
Joe frowned. "Does it look broken?"
"No," Frank said patiently. "Do you feel dizzy or anything?"
Joe shook his head. The movement made him dizzy. "Only when I shake my head," he responded.
It all started to come back to him. He looked past his brother at the burnt-out shell of the solar collector. "You were right about the hot-tub idea," he said, rubbing the singed hair on his forearm. "It would never work out. But I think we should definitely look into the barbecue angle."
Frank wasn't the only one who had seen or
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heard the blast. The uniformed guard from the front gate was on the scene quickly. The Hardys flashed their ID cards, and for the moment that seemed to satisfy him. But before it occurred to him to ask them just how they got there in the first place, the familiar, round form of Mike Barnes appeared. He glanced at Joe and then turned to the guard. "Aren't you going to call an ambulance?"
"Y-yes, sir," the guard sputtered. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was here, sir."
"Well, go and do it now," Barnes ordered.
"I'm all right," Joe insisted, finally managing to stand on his own. "I was just kind of dazed for a few minutes, that's all."
Barnes studied the two brothers for a moment. Then his attention shifted to the charred round dish. "Well, you two have certainly had a busy morning," he said dryly. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"Chasing bad guys," Joe answered.
Barnes smiled thinly. "Care to elaborate? I'm not in the mood for games. I just watched a large pile of money go up in smoke."
"You may lose more," Frank told him, "if you don't do something about Tom Kilman."
The round man's eyebrows arched up. "What does Tom have to do with this?"
"We caught him in your hangar with your solar plane," Frank replied. "And he didn't want to be seen in there."
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"Do you think he was trying to steal solar cells?" Barnes asked.
Frank shrugged. "Maybe, but another possibility is that he was removing evidence."
"But what evidence could he try to remove— the police checked out the plane already," Barnes said.
"I don't know," Frank replied evenly. "All I know is that one of your two top engineers is dead, the other was almost killed, and your assistant was in your hangar near the plane that almost killed her. He obviously didn't want to be seen in there or he wouldn't have run."
"Don't forget that he tried to fry me with that solar gizmo," Joe added.
Barnes silently studied the boys. "So, you don't believe Theresa killed Alec and then set up the attempt on herself?"
Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance before shaking their heads in unison.
"But what about the evidence the police found at her house?" Barnes asked, not really expecting an answer. He turned his head to take in the approach of another man.
He looked like a serious body-builder to Frank. The jacket he wore didn't hide his wide shoulders or muscular neck. He walked ramrod straight, like a soldier, and Frank could clearly see the bulge of a shoulder holster under the jacket. He stopped a few yards away.
"You can go," Barnes said to him.
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"I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Barnes, the man responded. "You've already slipped away from me once today. I can't protect you if I don't know where you are."
Barnes sighed. "All right, Norbert. You win."
"So you got a bodyguard, too," Frank said.
"Just today. Another of O'Hara's ideas," Barnes replied. "He's a nuisance, but at least I always know where he is and what he's doing. Given your track record the last few days, I find that very reassuring."
"Sometimes you have to take chances to break a case," Joe said defensively.
"You don't have a case," Barnes snapped. "Did it ever occur to you that Tom Kilman was just doing his job?"
"Then why did he run away, and why did he try to fry me?" Joe challenged.
"Maybe you scared him," Barnes countered. "I don't know. What I do know is that it's none of your business anymore. I want you out of here—now."
"Mr. O'Hara hired us," Frank said. "He's the only one who can fire us."
"That may be true," Barnes said curtly. "But right now you're trespassing on my property."
His face softened, and he put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry it has to be this way. I know you mean well. But you boys have had some close calls already. If anything happens to you, it's my neck that's on the line,
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and that's a risk I'm simply not willing to take. You tell John O'Hara anything you want. I'm not changing my mind. Go home. From now on, Bright Futures is off limits to both of you."
* * *
"I'm afraid he's right," Fenton Hardy informed his sons after dinner that evening. "I talked to John O'Hara, and he agrees with Barnes. Furthermore, I warned you earlier today not to pursue this case. I told you you were only to continue with the security check."
"Come on, Dad," Joe protested. "We're getting close. I can feel it."
"You're lucky you can feel anything after what happened today," his father replied. "You could have been killed, Joe."
Joe flashed a grin. "Yeah—but I wasn't."
"Don't push your luck," Fenton Hardy said in a stern voice. "This isn't a game."
"We know that," Frank spoke up. "But the police aren't even looking for other suspects. They're just trying to find enough evidence to pin the murder on Theresa Almonte."
"Yeah," Joe joined in. "I bet they haven't even questioned Tom Kilman."
"There's nothing to question him about," his father said. "Mike Barnes swears the explosion at the farm was an accident—a computer error. He insists Tom had nothing to do with it."
Joe threw his hands up in frustration. "So now we just quit?"
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A hint of a smile appeared on Fenton Hardy's lips. "You can't quit now, Joe—you were fired." Then he looked over at Frank. "I want your word that you'll drop this case."
The telephone rang.
"I'll get it!" Frank volunteered abruptly. He ran out of the living room and grabbed the wall phone in the kitchen. "Hello?"
"I'd like to speak to Frank or Joe Hardy," a woman said.
"Then you dialed the right number," Frank replied.
"Oh, is that you, Frank?" the woman responded. "This is Theresa Almonte. I was wondering if you and Joe could come over to my house. I need to talk to you."
Frank glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. "Now?"
"Is this a bad time?" she asked.
"No, no," Frank said. "In fact, your timing is perfect. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
He hung up the phone, went to the living room door, and stuck his head in. "Let's go for a ride, Joe."
"Who was that on the phone?" Fenton Hardy asked.
"A girl," Frank said.
His father smiled. "Does Callie know about this?" Callie Shaw was Frank's steady girlfriend. The smile quickly faded. "One thing before you go, Frank—"
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"Right," Frank cut in, holding up his right hand. "You've got my word. We'll drop the case—won't we, Joe?"
"I guess we don't have much of a choice," Joe complained.
* * *
"I thought you gave Dad your word that we'd drop the case," Joe said as they got out of the van in front of Theresa Almonte's house.
"I did," Frank said. "But I didn't say when."
The front door of the house opened before they had a chance to knock. "I'm glad you could make it," Theresa Almonte said with a nervous smile. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."
"Nothing important," Frank replied. Before he or Joe walked inside, he asked where Sykes was.
"O'Hara gave him his walking papers. I guess he thinks that since I'm the murder suspect, there's no one out to kill me."
Frank froze just inside the door to stare at the clean-cut young executive type standing in front of him. He spun around and looked at Joe. Theresa Almonte was locking the door.
"Looks like we really stepped in it this time," Joe whispered in his brother's ear.
Tom Kilman chuckled harshly. "You two gave me quite a scare this morning. Now it's payback time."
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Chapter 10
Joe stepped between his brother and Tom Kilman. "Give it your best shot," he growled at the man in the expensive suit.
Kilman edged back, a startled look on his face. "Take it easy," he said in a wavering voice. "We're on the same side. It was just a joke."
"Nobody's laughing," Frank said coolly, and glanced back at Theresa Almonte. She was standing with her back against the door. "What's going on here?" he asked.
"I'm sorry," she said. "We seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Let's try again. I didn't want you guys to run off when you saw Tom, so I locked the door," she explained. "But I didn't know he was going to pull a stunt like that."
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Kilman smiled weakly. "I guess I was a little mad about what happened out at the farm."
"You were mad?" Joe exclaimed angrily. "I'm the one who should be mad! You tried to kill me!"
"If you're talking about that solar collector that blew up," Kilman replied, "I had nothing to do with it."
Joe snorted. "Yeah, right. It was just an accident."
Kilman shook his head. "I didn't say that— but there's no way I could have done it."
"He's right," Theresa said. "The solar collectors are all run by computer from the central control building. Somebody did some fast, deliberate keyboard work to align the mirrors to cause a feedback overload."
"Slow down a minute," Frank cut in. He looked at Kilman. "What were you doing in the hangar in the first place?"
Theresa Almonte cleared her throat. "I think I can answer that. You see, Tom was trying to help me."
"That's right," Kilman said. "I think somebody's trying to frame Theresa—maybe even kill her. I mean, what happened to the solar plane couldn't just be a coincidence."
"So you thought you might find some clue that would lead you to whoever sabotaged the plane," Frank said.
"I know it was a long shot," Kilman responded,
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since the police had been over it and all. But I didn't know what else to do to help. Theresa and I aren't going together anymore, but—well, I still care about what happens to her."
"So what now?" Frank asked. "Do we all shake hands, say we're sorry about the misunderstanding, and go home?"
"Not exactly," Theresa said slowly. "I thought maybe we could all work together."
Joe scowled. "With him?" he replied, tilting his head toward Kilman. "I don't think so."
Frank put his hand on his brother's arm. "Not so fast. Maybe we can work something out. But first I have a few questions."
"I'll tell you anything I can," Theresa said. "I need your help. I'm desperate."
"When we went to see Ben Watson," Frank began, "he mentioned something about problems' with the super solar cell. What was he talking about?"
Theresa Almonte bit her lip pensively. "I didn't realize Watson knew that much. Well, I guess there's no harm in telling you then. The real secret of the super solar cell is a new material that Mike Barnes developed. It's much more efficient than a conventional silicon-based solar cell. But it's also much more expensive."
"Too expensive," Kilman added. "That's why Barnes hired Alec Ward."
"Alec was experimenting with different ways
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to produce the material," Almonte continued. "That's what he was working on when he died."
"Were you working on the same thing?" Frank asked.
"No," she replied. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. "I wasn't given a chance to solve it, but I think I could have handled it. Now I guess we'll never know because since my arrest I'm not allowed anywhere near the office or the farm."
"And now Barnes is stuck with a swell gadget he can't sell because it costs too much," Joe mused.
Frank nodded. "That's right. And how much longer can Bright Futures stay in business if Barnes doesn't find a way to make the cells cheaper?"
"Not much longer," Kilman answered. "His credit's stretched pretty thin, and O'Hara won't put up any more money."
Frank studied Kilman carefully. "Just one more question," he said casually. "If Barnes didn't know you were in the airplane hangar this afternoon, why did he cover for you?"
Kilman shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he replied stiffly. "Maybe he wasn't thinking. Maybe I'll go to work tomorrow and find out I've been fired."
Frank smiled. "Well, we'll just have to wait until tomorrow to see, won't we?" He glanced at his brother. "Let's hit the road, Joe."
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"Wait a minute," Theresa Almonte spoke up. "Are you going to help us or not?"
Frank turned to her. "I'm not sure what else we can do that we're not already doing. But we'll think about it and let you know."
* * *
The drive home in the van was a lot shorter and more circular than Joe recalled from the last time. "Is it my imagination," he said, "or did we just drive around the block?"
"Nothing escapes those eagle eyes of yours," Frank replied. "Now use them to watch Theresa Almonte's house."
"What am I looking for?" Joe asked.
"Tom Kilman. I think he deserves to be followed. What do you say?"
Joe gave his brother a giant grin. "Where do you think he'll go?"
"I don't know," Frank admitted. "But I think something's going down tonight, and I think they were trying to con us into doing something for them. Now they'll have to risk doing it themselves."
"But what'll it be?" Joe wanted to know.
Frank nodded toward the house. "I think we're about to find out—because here he comes."
"He's not alone," Joe observed as he watched Theresa Almonte lock her front door and climb into a car with Kilman.
Frank waited until Kilman's car was almost a block away before he flicked on the headlights
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and put the van in gear. Tailing somebody at night could be tricky, Frank knew from experience. There were fewer cars on the road, so he had to keep back or else be spotted. But from too far a distance in the dark, the only color he could make out was the warm red glow of taillights. So Frank just tried to keep his eyes locked on the right pair of red dots and hope for the best.
The ones that Frank followed led him to a familiar address. He scanned both sides of the street near the brick apartment building where Alec Ward had lived. "No sign of any police cars," he noted. "That probably means they don't have a guard on the place anymore."
"The forensics guys probably picked Ward's apartment clean a couple of days ago," Joe said. "What could be left?"
"Something that Theresa Almonte and Tom Kilman want," Frank replied. "They didn't stop here to admire the view. They're going in."
"Somebody should call the police," Joe remarked casually.
Frank nodded. "Probably. Do you see a phone anywhere?" he asked innocently.
Joe put his sweater over the car phone and gazed around the inside of the van. "Nope. What do you think we should do?"
"Let's wait until they come back out," Frank suggested. "Maybe they'll know where we can find a phone."
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Joe propped his feet up on the dashboard. "Good idea."
But ten minutes later it didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. A muffled scream from the apartment building startled Frank and Joe.
Tom Kilman ran out the front door and jumped in his car. There was a screech of angry tires trying to grab pavement as Kilman's car peeled away from the curb and swerved down the dark street. There was no sign of Theresa Almonte.
Joe had thrown open the van door and hit the ground running. He stiff-armed the front door of the apartment building and bolted up the stairs to the third floor. Frank was only a split second behind him.
The hallway was empty and quiet. Bright yellow plastic bands stretched across the door frame of apartment 3E. Each band bore the same warning in black letters: "Police line. Do not cross."
Frank walked over to take a closer look. "If they got inside, I don't think they used this door," he said.
Joe's eyes were on something else. "The window at the end of the hall is open. Maybe there's a fire escape. Let's check it out."
"Not now, fellas," a gruff voice replied, and Joe felt hard metal press deep into his back.
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Chapter 11
"DON'T shoot!" Frank shouted urgently. "It's us, Con—Frank and Joe."
Officer Con Riley drew back his arm, pointing the service revolver at the ceiling. There was a visible knot of tension in his jaw that the boys saw when they turned around.
"What are you boys doing here?" Riley demanded hotly. "Dispatch got a frantic call claiming there was an armed burglar on the premises. I was in the area, and I charged in and almost put a hole in Joe's back."
Joe forced himself to breathe again. "I'm almost happy to see you," he said. "And I'll be even happier once you ease up on the trigger and put that thing back in its holster."
Riley jammed the blue steel barrel back into
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the leather holster at his side and snapped the safety strap over it. "You boys have a lot of explaining to do," he said sternly.
"How about this," Joe ventured. "We were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd drop by to see if anybody was home."
Riley shook his head in a slow, deliberate way. "I don't think Chief Collig will buy that."
"Chief Collig wouldn't buy flowers for his own mother if it was against regulations," Joe grumbled. "I don't suppose you could just forget you saw us?"
"Not likely," Riley answered. "Besides, I'd kind of like to know what's going on here myself."
There was a faint creaking noise behind Joe. He whirled and saw a door swing open. A head peeked out. It was a frail, gray-haired lady. "Officer?" she called out in a quavering voice.
"Yes, ma'am," Con Riley responded. "Don't worry—everything's under control."
The old woman's eyes darted between the two Hardy brothers. "Oh, dear," she said fretfully. "These boys aren't the ones I saw."
"Were you the one who called the police, ma'am?" Riley asked.
She gave a short, shaky nod. "Yes, I called the moment I saw some man and a woman lurking in the hall. When I came out of my apartment to get a closer look, the man saw me and almost knocked me over making his way to the
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stairs. That's when I screamed. I don't know where the woman went."
Con Riley glanced at Frank. "What do you know about this?"
"Nothing," Frank said with a straight face. "Like Joe said, we were just in the neighborhood."
Riley's intent gaze shifted from Frank to Joe and back again. He closed his eyes and let out a soft groan. "I'm going to lose my badge over this. I just know it."
His eyes opened and locked on Frank. "Get out of here. You weren't here. I never saw you." He looked at the gray-haired lady and smiled reassuringly. "These men are undercover police officers. They're working with me." He whipped out a pocket notebook and flipped it open. "Now, if you'll just tell me what happened . . ."
Frank and Joe slipped away quietly and checked out the second and first floors. Since the old lady said she had seen Theresa run away, they weren't really worried that anything had happened to her, only how she'd get home. They'd call her first thing in the morning.
* * *
The next day was the first day of spring vacation, and Joe and Frank sat in their robes and debated what their first move should be. Joe was all for leaning on Tom Kilman. Frank reminded
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him that Kilman was probably at work and Barnes had left orders not to let them on Bright Futures property. So they decided the best thing to do was drive by Theresa Almonte's house to find out what had happened to her.
Before they got out the door, though, the telephone rang and Frank answered it. It was Chet Morton. "I got the job," Chet told him.
"What job?" Frank replied without thinking. Then he remembered the part-time receptionist's job at Solex. "Are you there now?" he asked.
"You bet," Chet said cheerfully. "They're letting me work full-time during spring vacation. This call is being paid for by Solex, Inc. You should see this phone system. It's got more functions than your computer."
Something clicked in Frank's head. "Sounds interesting, Chet. Maybe we'll stop by and check it out."
"Check it out?" Chet echoed in a worried tone. "What do you mean? You're not going to get me in any trouble, are you? I mean, I'd hate to lose my job on the very first day."
"Relax," Frank replied. "You won't be much help to us if you get fired. It was my idea for you to get this job in the first place—remember?"
"Okay," Chet said reluctantly. "Maybe it would be all right late this afternoon—just before I get off."
"We're leaving now," Frank told him. "We'll see you in about forty minutes."
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"What if I said no?" Chet asked.
"What if I said we're coming anyway?" Frank countered.
Chet sighed into the phone. "I'd say forty minutes sounds good to me."
"I knew we could count on you," Frank said.
* * *
The Hardys didn't have any trouble finding Chet. His large form dwarfed the receptionist's desk in the front lobby of the Solex building.
Chet greeted them with a friendly smile. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said enthusiastically. "Can I help you?"
Frank realized it was an act for the other people moving across the lobby. "Yes," he responded in a businesslike manner. "I'm Mr. Black, and this is my associate, Mr. White."
"We have an eleven o'clock appointment with Mr. Gray," Joe added, getting into the spirit of things. "I guess we're a little early."
"I'll just call his office and see if he's available," Chet said loudly. He picked up the telephone handset and randomly punched some buttons on the console in front of him. He also stuck his thumb on the disconnect switch before the first ring.
"Mr. Gray?" he said to the phantom on the other end of the line. "This is the front desk. There are two gentlemen here to see you." He paused a few seconds. "I see. Yes, I'll tell
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them." He put the receiver down and looked at Frank and Joe. "He'll be out in a few minutes."
"That's certainly a fancy phone you have there," Frank observed casually.
"Yes," Chet said. "It has a lot of interesting features."
"I'll bet it does," Frank replied, scanning the console intently. "Does it have call-forwarding? Remote-programmable call-forwarding?"
Chet looked surprised. "Why, yes it does." He leaned forward. "How did you know that?" he whispered.
Frank smiled. "It wouldn't be very exciting if it didn't." His eyes moved to the computer terminal next to the phone setup. "Is that linked to a central network?"
Chet nodded. "There's an interoffice electronic mail system. So if Mr. Watson wants to shoot off a memo telling the whole staff not to eat at their desks, he just types it in, hits a button, and it pops up on every computer screen in the company."
"Can you access the system by phone?" Frank asked.
"You bet," Chet answered. "But you have to have a password."
"Of course," Frank said. "Write yours down for me," he murmured in a low voice.
Chet glanced around nervously. Then he hastily scribbled something on a scrap of paper and passed it to Frank.
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"I just remembered something," Joe said as his brother stuffed the paper in his pocket. "I left my briefcase in the car."
"What a strange coincidence," Frank replied. "So did I. I guess we'd better go get them."
"I guess so," Joe agreed. He looked over at Chet. "If we're not back in ten minutes, tell Mr. Gray to start without us."
* * *
After another forty-minute drive, Frank and Joe were home again, where Frank headed straight for his computer. Ten minutes after that, Frank was in the Solex computer system.
"What are we looking for?" Joe asked as he watched over Frank's shoulder.
"I'm pretty sure the telephone system is linked to the computer," Frank explained. "A lot of companies like to keep close track of their phone usage. So every call in or out is automatically logged in the computer."
His fingers rapidly tapped the keyboard. "I just have to find the right files."
"The right files for what?" Joe responded.
"Hold on," Frank said. "I think I've got it." He tapped a few more keys, and three columns of numbers filled the screen.
Joe peered at them. One column looked like a list of telephone numbers, and the other two were dates and twenty-four-hour clock time. Suddenly he understood. "Ben Watson's telephone calls, right?"
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Frank nodded. "His whole alibi hangs on his claim that he was in his office talking on the phone a few minutes after the time of Ward's death. But with remote call-forwarding—"
"He could have been anywhere," Joe said excitedly. "All he had to do was route his calls through his office phone to a phone someplace else."
Frank touched the screen with his finger. "Two outgoing calls were made from Watson's office that night between eleven twenty-five and eleven-forty—both to the same number." He did some more typing. The numbers on the screen were replaced by the words Enter telephone number.
"What's that?" Joe asked.
"Reverse telephone directory," Frank said as he typed. "You give it a phone number and it gives you a name and address to go with it."
The computer displayed a message that said it was Working. It hummed and whirred for a while, and then informed them that the number was Not listed.
"Terrific," Joe muttered. "An unlisted phone number."
Frank was quiet for a minute before he abruptly got up. "Let's go for a ride," he said. "I need to think."
* * *
Frank pulled over to the curb after they'd been riding for a while and punched in Callie
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Shaw's phone number on their cellular phone. There was static on the line, so Frank jumped out of the van to use a pay phone. "I just want to make a quick call to tell Callie goodbye again. She's leaving today for a family vacation."
Joe watched as Frank walked up to the pay phone, and was surprised when his brother never even lifted the receiver off the hook. He just stood there studying the phone for a few seconds before he climbed back in the van.
"Do you need some change?" Joe asked.
Frank smiled. "No, I got everything I need," he said. "We have a few more stops to make before we can break for lunch."
"What about Callie?" Joe asked.
"I just remembered she's gone already."
Joe looked at him. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
"Not yet—but soon," Frank answered, pulling up at another phone booth.
A half hour later Frank climbed back into the van for the last time, after checking out a phone booth near Ward's apartment house. "Now I'll tell you, Joe," he began with a huge smile on his face.
"There must be hundreds of pay phones in Bayport," he said. "And all of them have unlisted numbers. The numbers are available, though, because they're printed right on each phone."
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Joe's eyes widened. He had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
"And the number printed on that last pay phone," Frank continued, "is an exact match with the number that was called from Watson's office."
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Chapter 12
"This is an interesting piece of evidence," Chief Collig said, pushing the computer printout back across his desk toward Frank. "Too bad we can't use it."
"I knew it was a mistake to come here," Joe said bitterly. "I just knew it. Come on, Frank, we're wasting our time. They're not going to listen to us until we come in with a signed confession from the murderer."
"It wasn't a waste of time," the police chief responded.
Joe snorted. "Yeah, right. We bring you evidence that Ben Watson was only a block away from Ward's apartment a few minutes after the murder, and you don't even want to look at it."
Chief Collig sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter
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how much I want it. I can't use it—not legally, anyway."
"I think I understand," Frank said. "It's because we got the information out of the Solex computer system, isn't it?"
Collig nodded. "What you did was no different from breaking and entering. You can't just go around snooping inside other people's computers. We can't even do that without a warrant."
"So how long will it take you to get a warrant?" Frank asked.
The police chief frowned. "Since Solex isn't in Bayport, it's out of my jurisdiction. It'll take a while to cut through all the red tape. Tomorrow at the earliest, probably the day after."
"What do we do in the meantime?" Joe wanted to know.
Chief Collig looked at him. "You don't do anything. You're off this case. We'll take it from here."
* * *
Joe took out his frustration on the van door, yanking it open and slamming it shut after he got in. "So now we just sit on our hands for two days? As I said before, we're going to need a signed confession to put Watson away."
That gave Frank an idea. "I don't think there's much chance of getting that, but what about a recorded confession?"
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
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Frank smiled. "Get the microcassette recorder out of the back. We're going to make a special, one-time offer to Mr. Ben Watson."
* * *
For the second time that day, Joe found himself sitting across a desk from a man who was somewhat less than thrilled to see the Hardy brothers.
"I don't know how you got past the receptionist," Watson said irritably. "He's bigger than both of you put together. Then you tell my secretary you have something that belongs to me, and it's a matter of life and death. You've got ten seconds to explain before I call security."
"Only ten?" Joe responded. "Last time you gave us thirty."
Watson glowered at him. "I learn from my mistakes—and you just wasted five seconds." He reached for the telephone.
"We do have something that belongs to you," Frank told him. "And it is a matter of life and death—your life and Alec Ward's death." He tossed the computer printout on the desk.
Watson's hand hesitated over the phone. "What is this?"
"Just what it looks like," Frank answered. "A list of the phone calls from your office on the night Alec Ward was killed. You told the police you received two calls in your office around the time of the murder. They never bothered to check the calls you made. If they had,
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they would have found these two calls were made to a phone booth near Ward's apartment."
"How did you get this?" Watson demanded. "You must have stolen it. It'll never hold up in court."
"Can you afford to take that chance?" Frank replied.
Watson stood up forcefully, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. "Are you trying to blackmail me?" he said through clenched teeth.
Frank forced himself to stay calm—or at least look that way. "We're just offering to return something we stumbled across—for a modest finder's fee."
Watson shook his head slowly. "No. I think I'll eliminate the middleman and go straight to the police myself. I should have told them the truth in the first place."
Joe couldn't believe his ears. He just hoped the tape recorder in his pocket was getting it all. "So you admit that you killed Ward?" he prodded.
Watson slumped back down into his chair. "I was at his apartment that night, but I didn't kill him. He was already dead when I got there."
"Why did you go to his apartment?" Frank asked.
"He had contacted me a few days before," Watson explained. "He wanted to sell me information on the super solar cell, and I wanted to buy. I didn't hear from him again until that night
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when he called and told me to be at his apartment at eleven-thirty with twenty thousand in cash."
"If you didn't kill him," Joe said, "why didn't you call the police when you found the body?"
"I just panicked," Watson replied simply.
"So you went to the pay phone," Frank ventured, "dialed your office, and reset the phone system to forward your incoming office calls to the pay phone number. Then you phoned a couple of people and told them to call you back at the office. That way it would seem you were in your office at the time of the murder."
Watson nodded wearily. "I knew it wouldn't hold up if anybody ever looked closely. I just hoped the police would find the killer quickly and nobody would ever have a reason to question my alibi."
"I think they're going to have some questions about your story, too," Joe remarked. "How do we know you didn't get the information from Ward and then kill him so you wouldn't have to fork over the money?"
Watson chuckled softly. It was a cold, bitter sound. "Twenty thousand dollars is nickels and dimes. I would have paid him twice as much— and smiled happily about it."
He looked at the two brothers. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm just going to have to repeat it all for the police." He reached for the phone on his desk. "I think it's time for you
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to leave. But before you go—do you happen to know the number for the Bayport police department? Or should I just dial 911?"
* * *
Frank tried to make some calls from the car phone, but it was still acting up, so he had to stop at a pay phone instead. One of the calls was to his father.
"What did Dad say?" Joe asked when Frank got back in the van.
"What do you think he said?" Frank responded.
"Oh, probably something like, 'What were you thinking, to pull a crazy stunt like that?' Or maybe, 'We'd better have a long talk when you get home.' Possibly both. Am I close?"
Frank burst out laughing at Joe's parody of their father's voice. "Close enough. He also said he'd drop by police headquarters to find out if Watson really did come clean about what happened that night."
"We still don't know what really happened," Joe reminded him. "All we know is that Watson was at the scene near the time of the murder." He patted the front pocket of his jeans. "And we have it all on tape if he changes his mind about telling the police."
"Right," Frank said.
"Who else did you call?" Joe asked. "Theresa?"
Frank nodded. "Other than sore feet from a
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long walk home last night, she said she's fine. She also said it was Kilman's idea to go to Ward's apartment. Kilman coaxed her into crawling out on the fire escape to see if there was another way in while he waited in the hallway. She discovered that there wasn't and was about to crawl back inside when the old lady screamed."
"Do you believe her?" Joe asked. "About its being Kilman's idea, I mean."
"At this point," Frank said, "I don't know what to believe."
* * *
The boys decided to pay an unannounced visit to Theresa to see if she knew more than she was telling. There were no surprise guests waiting for them this time. She seemed relieved when Frank told her she wasn't the only suspect anymore. But there was something missing in her reaction when he told her who the new suspect was.
"Don't you want to know why Ben Watson was at Ward's apartment that night?" he asked her.
She squirmed a little and stared down at the floor. "I already have a pretty good idea." She lifted her eyes. "Alec didn't talk much, but when he did, it was usually to complain that his talents weren't appreciated and he wasn't getting paid enough. I figure he had a deal going with Watson to sell him information. Maybe Watson didn't want to pay anymore . . . then, right after
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he was killed, Ben Watson came by to see me with a job offer. It was for a lot more money than I was making at Bright Futures."
"If you suspected Watson," Joe responded, "why didn't you tell the police?"
Theresa shrugged. "What good would it have done? He already had an alibi."
"So," Frank said, "it looks like Watson was telling the truth. But if Ward was going to sell information about the super solar cell, he had to get it out of the office. How did he get it past security?"
"I never really thought about it," Theresa replied. "I guess there are lots of ways."
"Yes," Frank said in a distant voice, pacing the floor. "But Ward was neat, orderly, methodical. What way would he do it?"
"I don't know," Theresa said. "I didn't know Alec all that well. Nobody knew him very well. His best friend was that CD player he listened to all the time."
Frank stopped pacing. His eyes lit up. "I think I know how Ward smuggled out the information—and if I'm right, whatever he planned to sell may still be in his apartment."
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Chapter 13
Joe looked up and down the dark alley before he scrambled onto the roof of the van. The boys had waited until their parents were in bed that night before they sneaked out of the house. Joe reached up and grabbed hold of the fire escape. The bottom section of the metal stairs only swung down to the ground when someone stepped on them from above. The rest of the time a heavy weight on one end kept them suspended ten feet above the pavement. It was supposed to prevent people from doing precisely what the Hardys were doing right then.
Joe hauled himself up and then stretched out a hand for his brother. "So far, so good," he whispered when Frank joined him on the landing. "But of course that was the easy part."
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Frank patted the coiled nylon rope that hung over his right shoulder. "It would be a lot harder without this," he replied. "This might have been a wasted trip if Theresa hadn't already discovered that you can't reach Ward's apartment from the fire escape."
They crept up to the top level of the fire escape and then climbed the metal rungs of the ladder that went up to the flat roof of the building. They moved silently across the roof to a spot directly over the third-floor window of the dead man's apartment. Frank looked around for something to tie the rope around. The roof was dotted with vent pipes, each poking up about six inches out of the tar and gravel. But the ledge at the edge of the roof was higher than that. The rope would have to angle up from the pipe and then over and down from the ledge, and there was nothing to prevent the rope from supping off the top of the pipe. There was a brick furnace chimney on the far side, but the rope wasn't long enough to go around the fat chimney and all the way across the roof.
Joe saw the same thing. "Looks like we're going to need more rope," he remarked.
"No," Frank replied. "One of us can still get in." He handed the braided nylon cord to Joe. "You stay up here and hold the line. I'm going down."
Joe knew the drill. He tied the rope to one of the vent pipes and stood in front of it, his right
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side facing the ledge. He held the line behind his back gripped tightly in both hands and looped once around his left wrist. He planted his feet far apart and nodded to Frank.
Frank tied the line around his chest and lowered himself over the side, using his feet to "walk" down the brick wall. He managed to get his toes on the narrow lip of the windowsill, and he reached for the window with one hand while the other still clung to the rope. It was unlocked— but he couldn't get it open with one hand. Reluctantly, he let go of the line completely and clutched at the window with both hands.
He twisted slightly and lost his footing. He dropped a few feet and jerked to a stop, the rough nylon digging into his chest and back. Frank heard a muffled grunt from above as Joe struggled to keep a grip on the line and pull him back up. When he was level with the window again, Frank gave it another shot. This time the window creaked and slid up a few inches. Another firm shove and it was open far enough for Frank to get in.
Frank wasn't afraid of the dark—but there was something creepy about the gloom inside Ward's apartment. He felt like a grave robber in a dead man's home. He pulled out his pocket flashlight and reminded himself that he was there looking for the information Ward was going to sell, and that that evidence might point to Ward's killer. It took him a second to get his
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bearings while he moved the beam around the room. He located the stereo and the shelves filled with compact disks. He walked over and scanned the straight, even rows of disks. Just as he suspected, they were in alphabetical order: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin. There were hundreds of them, and there wasn't enough time to inspect each one.
Frank was beginning to have serious doubts that his idea was a good one when his flashlight picked up a rainbow glint on a shelf that started with Handel. He played the beam back over the row of disk boxes and caught the colorful shimmer again. It was a clear plastic CD case with no label. The rainbow glow was the refracted light bouncing off the laser-etched surface of the disk inside the case.
Frank pulled out the case and popped it open. The disk looked like any ordinary CD—except, like the box, the disk didn't have a label, either. An unmarked disk in an unmarked case. Frank snapped the box shut and tucked it inside his jacket. He was certain he'd hit the jackpot.
* * *
Frank had to wait until the next afternoon to get the piece of equipment he needed. He went to three different stores before he found one that would rent it to him on a trial basis.
The few short minutes it took to hook it up seemed to stretch forever to Joe. Waiting patiently was a skill he had never mastered. "What's taking 
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so long?" he badgered Frank, hovering over his shoulder.
Frank stoically ignored his brother and calmly plugged the cable into the back of their computer. "The disk drive is ready to go," he said. "Now I have to put the disk in the cartridge." He tapped a hard plastic case about the same size as a CD box.
Joe frowned. "Don't you just slide the disk into the slot in the drive?"
"Laser optical memory disks may look just like audio disks," Frank replied, "but they're designed to stay inside their protective cases all the time, just like magnetic floppy disks. The whole thing goes into the drive unit."
He went to work on the cartridge with a screwdriver. "I just have to take apart this one they gave me with the disk drive, take out the disk, and put in the one we found in Ward's apartment." His hands worked deftly and quickly. "That's it," he announced, snugging down the last screw. "Let's find out what we've got here."
He turned on the computer and pushed the cartridge into the slot in the front of the disk drive. A message flashed on the monitor screen: Disk unreadable. Reformat? (Y/N)
"What now?" Joe asked.
Frank pressed the N key. "We definitely don't want to reformat the disk. That would wipe out any information on it." He pushed a small
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square button on the disk drive, and the cartridge popped out. "Let's try again," he suggested, shoving it back into the slot.
The same message appeared on the screen.
"It might have been damaged when Ward took it out of the protective case," Frank said. "I wonder if there's some way I can recover any of it."
This time Joe hit the eject button on the drive unit and grabbed the plastic case with the disk inside. "I've got a better idea."
He picked up the screwdriver and took the case apart. Then he walked across the room and put the disk in the compact disk player that was part of the stereo setup.
"Don't do that!" Frank shouted in alarm. "You could destroy important data!"
"I may not be a rocket scientist," Joe replied glibly, "but I understand the basics of a CD player. The only thing that touches the surface of the disk is a thin beam of laser light. So it shouldn't hurt the disk, right?"
He punched the play button, and the stereo speakers pumped out a throbbing bass sound. Then there was a high-pitched shriek, matched by the metal of an electric guitar.
Joe started to tap his foot. Frank rushed over and stabbed the stop button. "I hate that band!" he groaned.
Joe grinned. "You're getting old. The Insane
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Unknowns are on the cutting edge. Have you heard their new single?"
Frank grimaced. "Yes. I don't think 'Mental Fatigue' is going to make anybody's list of classic rock tunes. What I want to know is what happened to the disk with the information."
The phone rang, and Joe answered it.
"Joe?" a voice whispered on the phone. "This is Chet. Something's going down at Solex. There's a whole bunch of reporters in the lobby, and Mr. Watson is going to make some kind of statement in twenty minutes."
"Maybe he's going to confess," Joe said hopefully.
"I don't think so," Chet responded. "He sent around an interoffice memo saying he was cooperating fully with the police investigation—but this is something else."
"We'll be there as soon as we can," Joe told him. "But there's no way we'll make it in twenty minutes."
* * *
The Hardys got there just in time to see Mike Barnes's solar car pulling out of the parking lot.
"What was he doing here?" Joe asked.
"Let's go in and find out," Frank replied.
There were still a few reporters milling around. Frank and Joe spotted John O'Hara and weaved their way through the small crowd in the lobby to the bearded man.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Frank said.
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O'Hara looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. "Did you hear the announcement?" he asked.
Joe shook his head. "No. We just got here."
O'Hara took off his rimless glasses and carefully wiped them with a tissue. "I guess you deserve some kind of explanation," he said, looking down at his hands. "I wasn't completely candid with you and your father when I hired you."
Frank eyed him coolly. "In other words, you lied."
"No, no," O'Hara replied in a defensive tone. "I just didn't tell you the whole story."
"Well, you can finish it now," Joe said.
The bearded man put his glasses back on. "You see, we were in the middle of sensitive negotiations. We were looking for a buyer for Bright Futures. Without the exclusive knowledge of how to produce the super solar cell, the company would be almost worthless. I wanted to make sure that information didn't leak out before we closed our deal."
Frank stared at him. "Is that what this press conference was all about? You sold the company to Solex?"
"Technically," O'Hara said, "Mike Barnes sold the company."
"But you pulled the strings," Joe replied.
"As I told you before," O'Hara said, "I have a certain amount of influence."
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"Did anybody else at Bright Futures know about this?" Frank asked.
"No," O'Hara said. "We kept a tight lid on it. Mike is on his way back to the office to make the announcement there now."
"Well, well," Joe said. "This party is full of surprises." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Check out the guy heading for the door."
Frank looked past his brother to see another familiar figure in a tailored suit. He spun around and confronted O'Hara. "If nobody else knew about it, what's he doing here?" he demanded, pointing toward the door.
O'Hara looked puzzled. "Who are you talking about?"
"The guy in the designer suit," Frank snapped. "Tom Kilman."
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Chapter 14
"Come on," Joe urged. "We can catch Kilman in the parking lot before he gets to his car."
"Wait," Frank said, grabbing his brother's arm. "Let him go."
Joe shook his arm free. "Are you nuts? Every time we turn around, we run into that guy. He's involved in this somehow."
"I know that," Frank replied. "Go get the van and bring it up to the front entrance. Try to see which direction Kilman goes when he leaves the parking lot—but make sure he doesn't see you. I'll be out in a minute."
"Right," Joe said. "But don't take any longer than that. We might lose him." He ran for the door.
Frank made his way quickly to the receptionist's 
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desk. Chet saw him coming and put on his professional greeter's smile. "Save it," Frank said. "Did Watson have any appointments just before or after he made his statement to the press?"
"Sure," Chet answered. "He's a busy man. He has meetings and appointments all the time."
"Was one of them with a clean-cut guy in a pinstripe suit—his name is Kilman?"
Chet's smile faded. "Why do you ask?" he grumbled. "You already know all the answers."
"Tell that to Joe," Frank replied.
The van pulled up just as Frank came out the door. "Did you see where Kilman went?" Frank asked as the van swerved out onto the road.
Joe nodded, "here he is, right up ahead."
"Good," Frank said. "Now let's just sit on his tail and see where he takes us."
* * *
Kilman's first stop was a bank in Lewiston. The Hardys waited in their van for him to come out, and a few minutes later Kilman emerged carrying a thick envelope. Then he led them back to Bayport—and another bank. Once again Frank and Joe waited in the van, and once again Kilman emerged carrying a hefty envelope.
Joe glanced over at Frank. "I think we've just stumbled onto the best-dressed bank robber on the East Coast."
"We've stumbled onto something, all right,"
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Frank agreed. "But I don't think armed robbery is Kilman's style."
"You're probably right," Joe said. "It would be too hard to find a gun that wouldn't make a bulge in his suit."
Kilman got in his car and drove off, and Joe waited a few seconds before following.
The next stop was an expensive-looking apartment building with a private parking garage. Kilman's car disappeared inside, and the Hardys were stuck outside.
"What now?" Joe wanted to know.
Frank opened the van door. "Now we go see if Mr. Kilman is home."
Inside the lobby Frank ran his finger down the column of buzzers. "Here it is. Apartment 807."
"Well," Joe said, starting at the top and systematically punching every buzzer, "I don't think we're going to get an engraved invitation." He carefully skipped over the one for Kilman's apartment.
The intercom started to chatter in a variety of voices, saying things like "Who is it?" and "What do you want?" Finally, the locked inner door hummed loudly and clicked open.
"Somebody's always expecting someone or something," Joe said with a grin, holding the door and ushering Frank inside.
They got in the elevator and rode up to the eighth floor. They followed the numbers down
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the hall to the door marked 807. Frank knocked politely but firmly.
"Who's there?" a voice called out.
"What do we tell him?" Joe whispered.
"Frank and Joe Hardy," Frank said loudly, answering both Joe and the man on the other side of the door.
Joe rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Why didn't I think of that?" He looked at his brother. "Now he knows it's us!"
"So what?" Frank replied. "We're on the eighth floor. Where's he going to go?"
There was a quiet pause. Then the door opened slowly. Kilman stuck his head out. "What are you doing here?" he asked nervously.
"We followed you here," Frank said. "We followed you to a few other places, too."
Kilman's eyes widened and he tried to slam the door, but Joe lunged forward and shouldered it open.
Kilman staggered backward. "You c-can't do this!" he stammered as the two brothers stepped into the apartment.
"Do what?" Joe responded with a smile. "You opened the door. I thought you were inviting us in."
Frank took a quick look around and saw a pair of bulging suitcases leaning heavily against the wall. "Going someplace?" he remarked casually.
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Kilman's hands adjusted his perfectly straight tie and smoothed the invisible wrinkles in his crisply pressed suit coat.
"You don't have to say anything," said Frank. "We can guess most of what's happened. You've been on Watson's payroll for quite a while. He wanted the super solar cell, but he didn't want to buy a whole company to get it. So he bought the personal assistant to the president instead."
"It happens all the time," Kilman said stiffly. "Industrial espionage is part of any high-tech business."
"It's also illegal," Frank responded. "Maybe you didn't get the information Watson needed, but you tried. What do you think Mike Barnes will do when he finds out?"
Kilman started laughing. "I'm perfectly safe all around. Mike won't do anything because he's known about everything since I ran into you two at the solar farm. Once he found out, he offered to match what Watson was paying me if I'd make sure Solex didn't get anything useful before the deal was signed."
"So, you were a double agent," Joe said. "What about Theresa Almonte? Was she working with you?"
Kilman shook his head. "She's a real team player. She might not like Barnes, but she wouldn't betray him. For all I know, she killed Ward because he was going to sell out."
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Joe looked at him sharply. "How did you know Ward was going to sell out?"
"Because Ben Watson told me," Kilman answered. "I was working for him, remember?"
"Why did Watson need both of you?" Joe asked.
"He's very cautious," Kilman answered.
"Did Ward know about you?" Frank asked.
"No," Kilman said. "There wasn't any reason to tell him. He could have blown my cover if he got cold feet at the last minute."
"Is that what happened?" Frank pressed.
Kilman sighed wearily. "How would I know? Watson was dealing with Ward directly. I wasn't involved."
"Whoever bugged Ward's phone probably knew what he was going to do," Frank said.
"Yes," Kilman agreed, "if he was stupid enough to talk about it on the phone. I didn't think he was, but obviously he did—at least once. Phone taps are way out of my league. I wouldn't even know how to set one up.
"And don't waste your time trying to pin Ward's murder on me," he continued. "I was at a club on the other side of town at the time. I've got half a dozen witnesses."
"If you didn't bug his phone," Joe responded, "who did?"
Kilman shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine."
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"And what is your guess?" Frank wanted to know.
Kilman smiled in a cold, calculated way. "What's it worth to you?"
Joe returned the smile with a bone-chilling grin of his own. "It's worth both your arms staying attached to the rest of your body."
Kilman's smile faltered. "I think you're bluffing, but I'll give you this one for free, anyway. Mike Barnes doesn't trust anyone. He also spent a few years working for the Pentagon— tinkering with top-secret spy gizmos. There aren't too many people who know more about electronic surveillance equipment than Mike Barnes."
* * *
As much as they both disliked it, the Hardys had nothing on Kilman that they could use to have him arrested. "Barnes won't press charges," Frank said as they got back in the van, "and Watson can't, so there's no case against Kilman for industrial espionage."
"He'll get off scot-free," Joe grumbled. "With all that cash he's obviously just withdrawn, he can go anyplace and set up a new life."
"Don't forget, Joe, he's going to be the same person wherever he goes. Next time he won't be so lucky. What I haven't quite figured out is the phone-tap angle, though," Frank said.
"What's to figure?" Joe responded. "Barnes tapped Ward's phone, found out he was about
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to cash in, and decided to cash him out instead. He's got to be the killer."
Frank shook his head. "There has to be more to it. Barnes is a shrewd operator. He could have contacted the police and caught Ward selling Watson the information. Then he could have jacked up the price of the company in return for dropping the charges against Watson."
Joe looked confused. "Then you don't think Barnes killed Ward?"
"I didn't say that," Frank replied. "But if he did, Ward must have had something a lot more important to Barnes than the plans for the super solar cell."
Joe looked at his brother. "Like what?"
"We'll know that," Frank said, "when we find what Ward was going to sell to Watson."
"Well, your idea about the laser optical disk didn't pan out," Joe remarked. "Any ideas on where to look next?"
"Maybe I just didn't pick the right disk," Frank said. "There were hundreds of them. I just grabbed the one that stuck out."
Joe chuckled. "Yeah, I never would have pegged him for 3 fan of the Insane Unknowns."
Frank slapped his forehead. "That's what I missed. Every other disk in that collection was classical. Beethoven, Mozart, Stravinsky, that kind of stuff. Nothing modern. No rock 'n' roll. And there wasn't any label on the disk. That's why it stuck out."
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"So what does that tell us?" Joe asked.
Frank smiled. "It tells us that Ward liked his CD collection too much to deface one of his precious disks. So he went out and bought one he couldn't care less about. Then he took off the label and slapped it on the optical memory disk to disguise it. And now I think I know exactly where to find it."
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Chapter 15
"Let me get this straight," Con Riley said, pushing up the brim of his police cap. "You think Alec Ward had a compact disk of yours in the CD player he was wearing when he was killed."
Joe nodded. "That's right—the Insane Unknowns. I'd like to get it back."
The police officer sighed. "I knew I should have gone home sick as soon as you called and said you were coming down to headquarters."
"It's just a compact disk," Frank said. "If you don't need it for evidence, what's the big deal?"
Riley gave him a long, hard look. Then he pulled out his wallet. "How much do compact disks cost these days? I'll buy you a new one."
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"We couldn't ask you to do that," Frank protested.
"Why not?" Riley responded. "You're asking me to release evidence in a murder investigation. What's a few bucks compared to that?"
"You don't understand," Joe told him. "It's not the money. The disk has . . . sentimental value. It was a gift from a girl who means a lot to me."
Riley snorted. "She means so much to you that you loaned the disk to a guy you just met."
Joe threw up his hands. "How was I supposed to know he'd have a fatal run-in with a blunt object before he could return the disk?" He looked into the policeman's eyes. "Give me a break, Con. If she finds out I lost it, the next time you see me I'll be lying on a cold steel slab with a toe tag—right next to Alec Ward."
A faint smile cracked Riley's face. "All right. I'll see what I can do—but I'm not making any promises. I've got to get the okay from the chief first."
Riley left the Hardys standing where he had headed them off—outside the police station. That was fine with Joe. He wasn't overly eager to see Chief Collig's impression of a man eating lemons. A half hour later he began to wonder if Riley might have slipped out the back way and gone home after all.
Finally, after almost an hour, Riley returned carrying a clear plastic bag. The sunlight made
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swirling rainbows on the round, flat object he held out to Joe.
"You did it!" Joe exclaimed, clutching the bag. He took a quick glimpse at the label. Frank had been right on target. It was the label from the Insane Unknowns disk.
"It wasn't too hard," Riley told them. "When I reminded the chief of all the paperwork and man-hours involved if you filed an official request, he suddenly decided there was no harm in bending the rules just this once. Oh, by the way, I thought I'd tell you—so you don't have to resort to devious means—that was battery acid mixed with the blood on Ward's floor."
Frank put his hand on Riley's shoulder. "Thanks, Con. We owe you one."
Riley looked at him closely. "As a matter of fact, you owe me a lot more than one."
* * *
When they got home, Frank carefully removed the disk from the bag and placed it in the cartridge for the optical disk drive. Then he switched on the computer and pushed the cartridge into the drive. He could hear the faint whir of the disk spinning inside the drive.
Nothing happened. The computer screen remained blank.
"Another washout," Joe groaned.
"Chill out," Frank said. He tapped a few keys. "First I have to tell the computer which drive to use. Then I have to find out what's on
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the disk." His fingers moved across the keyboard again. A long list of file names and dates started to scroll up the screen.
"Bingo," Frank said softly. He picked a file name at random and typed it in. The screen filled with numbers and mathematical symbols. He closed the file and opened another one, with similarly incomprehensible results.
Frank sat back heavily in his chair. "We're going to need an expert to decipher this."
Joe shrugged. "Why not Theresa? It sure beats the alternative."
"What's that?" Frank asked.
"Using your college fund to get a degree in electrical engineering so you can decipher it."
* * *
Frank watched intently as a parade of numbers and schematics marched across his computer screen. Theresa Almonte spent only a few seconds scanning each file before moving on to the next one. Her fingers seemed right at home on the keyboard, moving swiftly and surely.
Frank knew it would be easy for her to "accidentally" hit the wrong sequence of keys and wipe out the entire contents of the disk. But he believed she was innocent, and for a little added protection, he had thumbed the write-protect switch before slipping the disk cartridge into the drive unit. She could look at any of the files on the disk, and she could play dumb about ones that might incriminate her, but she couldn't alter
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the contents of the disk in any way. So far, if she was worried or surprised by anything she saw, she didn't show it.
Joe leaned in from the other side, trying to get a clear view of the screen, drumming his fingers restlessly on the edge of the desk. "So what is all this?" he asked. "Do we have anything here—or is it just Ward's grocery list in binary code?"
Theresa kept tapping keys, and her eyes remained riveted on the images popping up on the screen. "You could buy a lot of groceries with the information here," she replied. "What we have is a fairly complete set of formulas and schemata for the super solar cell, as well as the results of most of Alec's experiments with variations that might have made it cheaper to produce."
"But still nothing that would give Barnes a clear motive for killing Ward," Frank remarked. "Watson knew there were production problems. So—he thought Alec had been hired to solve them. That's not the kind of thing Barnes could expect to keep secret from anybody interested in buying the company."
"There's also nothing here that gives me a motive for killing him," Theresa pointed out.
Frank smiled. "We'll have to take your word for that, but I believe you."
Joe lost count of the number of files that Theresa flashed on the screen, and he had lost interest 
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when all of a sudden her hands froze on the keyboard. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned in closer to the screen.
"What is it?" he asked, trying to make sense out of the glowing numbers.
"I can't believe it," she whispered. She scrolled through the file slowly, stopping a few times to display other files for cross-reference.
"You can't believe what?" Frank prodded.
She didn't answer. She just kept checking the data on the monitor. Finally she stopped typing and pushed her chair back from the desk. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I can't believe all that work was for nothing."
"I can't believe it, either," Joe said, "because I have absolutely no idea what we're talking about."
Theresa nodded at the computer monitor. "That's a series of calculations that prove the super solar cell is basically unstable. Under certain conditions, it can fail completely."
Frank studied the screen. "What kind of conditions?"
"Rapid changes in atmospheric pressure, for one," she answered.
"Like in a climbing or diving airplane?" Frank ventured.
"Worse than that," she said. "It's possible that an intense, fast-moving weather front with a big high or low pressure zone could wipe out every super solar cell in its path."
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"I'd say that's a fairly basic flaw," Joe commented. "Ben Watson isn't going to be happy when he hears this. Ward's dying before he could tell anybody was very convenient for Mike Barnes."
Frank nodded. "Yes, but can we prove that Barnes knew about the flaw? If we can't, then we don't have a very solid case against him."
"Don't forget," Joe added, "Barnes has an alibi. He was in his office at the time of the murder. I've got to get Dad to give this disk to Con. We can't withhold this information from the police."
Theresa Almonte stood up. "I don't know what else I can do," she said glumly. "I can't prove that I didn't kill Alec, and I can't prove that Barnes or anybody else did."
"I did want to ask you one question first, though. What did Alec steal from you that he was taking credit for?" Frank asked.
Theresa looked blank. "I never said that— who said I did?"
Frank exchanged a quick look with his brother before answering, "Barnes."
"Why don't you go home?" Joe said to Theresa. "You look like you could use some rest. We'll call you if we come up with anything."
Frank and Joe walked out with her to watch her get into her car and drive away. Joe was admiring the sleek lines of the little red sports car when an idea struck him. "The car!" he
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exclaimed, turning to his brother. "Barnes's solar car!"
"What about it?" Frank responded.
"If Barnes did know the super cell was unstable," Joe said, "he wouldn't risk driving the solar car around—unless it isn't really solar powered anymore."
The words hit Frank like a jolt. "Then if the solar car is a fake," he said excitedly, "we have proof that Barnes is our man."
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Chapter 16
Frank scanned the dark, wooded terrain with a pair of high-powered binoculars. He was stiff from lying on the hard ground. They had found a concealed spot on a hill in the late afternoon and had waited for Barnes to show up. There was a jeep wagon parked on the side of the driveway, but Frank knew Barnes was at the office, and so was the solar car. A phone call and a quick drive past the Bright Futures parking lot had confirmed it.
The supposed solar car finally came into view and rolled into the garage a few minutes before six that evening, and it was just after eleven when the last light in the house winked out.
Frank waited another half hour, just to make sure Barnes was asleep. He tapped his brother
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on the shoulder. Joe grunted but didn't move. He was sound asleep. Frank nudged him a little harder. "Time to get to work," he whispered.
Joe opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing his stiff neck. "The next time we go camping, let's bring some camping gear." He scratched a welt on his arm. "Or at least some bug spray."
Frank stood up, grabbed Joe's arm, and hauled him to his feet. "Stop complaining," he said. "Where's your pioneer spirit?"
"I must have left it back in the van," Joe grumbled as they slipped down the hill.
Frank stopped at the edge of the wooded area. "I want you to wait here while I check out the garage," he said in a low voice. "We can't go in the door because Barnes has it connected to the central alarm system." Then he darted out onto the wide lawn that surrounded and sloped up one side of the earth-sheltered house. He crawled up the steep incline to the grass- and dirt-covered roof and made his way silently over to the dim hump of the bubble-shaped skylight over the attached garage.
The skylight seemed to grow right out of the ground. Frank had to dig through the sod and scrape away a heavy layer of waterproof tar to uncover the screws that secured the skylight to the hidden roof. Then he opened the screwdriver blade on his Swiss army knife and slowly removed the screws, one by one. When he had the last one out, he waved his hand in the air, soundlessly 
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signaling Joe to join him. Together, they carefully removed the skylight and set it off to one side.
Frank could hear a throbbing, humming sound coming from inside the garage. He flicked on his pocket flashlight and aimed it down into the opening. The flat black solar cells that covered most of the car stared back at him. To get into the garage without making a dent in the roof of the car, he had to grip the edge of the skylight frame and swing down on an angle. His feet thudded onto the cement floor just inches from the side of the car.
Joe followed him down, easily clearing the wide frame of the vehicle, but he almost crashed back into it when his foot snagged something on the floor. Frank's arm shot out to steady his brother.
Frank swept the flashlight beam across the floor and spotted a thick cable snaking along the cement. The cable ran to a large electric generator, which was the source of the humming noise. He shifted the beam back along the cable. The other end disappeared under the car.
The two brothers glanced at each other. "I bet this is the only solar car in the world that can recharge its batteries in the dark at night," Joe whispered.
Frank didn't get a chance to respond. Suddenly a door burst open, and the garage was flooded with light. Mike Barnes was standing in
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the doorway with a pump-action shotgun leveled at the Hardys. "Breaking into a man's home late at night is a great way to get yourselves killed," he said in a grim, cold voice. A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Lucky I recognized you before I ruined the front end of my car."
"You should have gotten your bodyguard to come and check out the garage. Then you wouldn't have our blood on your hands," Frank told him.
Barnes gave him a strange look. Then there was a spark of comprehension in his eyes. "Oh, you mean the bodyguard that John O'Hara hired. I'm happy to say that I lost his services when I sold my company. There's no threat to my life now that I no longer own the secret of the super solar cell."
He raised the barrel of the gun, but he kept his finger wrapped around the trigger. "And I see that you boys have discovered my other, somewhat embarrassing secret. A few days ago it could have put a serious crimp in my early retirement plans. Now it doesn't matter. I finished up the last of my business at the office today. The car is all I have left of Bright Futures. But I've got all the money I need, and the super solar cell is Ben Watson's problem."
"And Alec Ward is dead," Joe shot back.
"That's not my problem, either," Barnes replied. "If you're accusing me of having anything to do with his death, I suggest you take
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your suspicions to the police instead of lurking around my house in the middle of the night. But they already know I couldn't have done it, since I was in my office when Ward was killed."
He pushed a button on the wall, and the garage door started to rise, clattering loudly as it opened. He nodded toward the driveway. "There's the way out. Go now, and I won't call the police and have you arrested."
Frank stood his ground. "You won't call the police," he said. "That's the last thing you want."
Barnes pointed the shotgun at him. "Don't press your luck."
"I don't think you'll shoot, either," Frank said coolly. "But just answer one more question, and then we'll leave."
Barnes sighed impatiently. "What is it?"
"After Ward dropped his little bomb in your lap, did you tell anybody else about the flaw in the super solar cell?"
Barnes glowered at him. "I never said Ward told me about it."
Frank smiled. "You didn't have to. You just did." He and Joe dashed out of the garage and back into the dark woods.
* * *
The lights in Barnes's house were still on two hours later when Frank handed the binoculars to Joe and squinted down at the dim glow of his luminous watch dial.
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"I still don't get it," Joe said as he twisted the focus control. "Why would Barnes wait until now to get rid of the murder weapon?"
"He didn't think he had to get rid of it right after the murder," Frank explained. "But now he knows we're on to him. Then he got stuck with that bodyguard O'Hara hired for him. So he couldn't do it then, but now that obstacle is out of the way."
"Right," Joe said. "I guess I understand all that, but you haven't told me what Barnes used as a murder weapon."
Frank patted Joe on the back. "Stick around— you'll find out."
Joe did another sweep of the house with the binoculars. "Well, I sure hope we don't have to wait all night." He thought he caught a movement by the front door as it passed his field of vision. He moved the binoculars back over the area. "Looks like we're in business," he told his brother. "Barnes is coming out the front door. He's heading for the jeep."
"Is he carrying anything?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," Joe said. "It looks like a box."
Frank jumped up and yanked Joe to his feet. "Come on. We've got to get back to the van before he gets out of the driveway."
They scrambled down the hill and crashed through the underbrush to where they had pulled the van into the cover of the woods. They tore off the dead branches and brown leaves that Joe
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had insisted on using as camouflage and jumped in.
Frank had the engine cranked up just as the jeep turned onto the road. He waited until it was almost out of sight before he switched on the van's parking lights to follow. The moon was half full that night, and Frank decided he could see without the headlights.
"You want to tell me what the murder weapon is now?" Joe badgered as they dogged the bobbing taillights.
"I'll give you two hints," Frank said. "Think back to our last conversation with Con, and it's something you use almost every day—but you usually don't pay any attention to it."
"I've got it!" Joe announced. "He killed Ward with a fast food hamburger!"
"Good guess," Frank said. "Wrong, but you get points for originality." He made a sudden left turn without signaling. There weren't any other cars around, and there wasn't any point in flashing his intentions with bright lights. Besides, Barnes hadn't used his turn signal, either.
The jeep's taillights were dwindling in the distance, and Frank realized that Barnes had sped up. He punched the gas pedal and caught up, easing back on the pedal at what he thought was a safe distance. The jeep put on another burst and jumped farther ahead. Frank closed the gap again.
Joe glanced at the speedometer. They were
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going the speed limit. "Looks like we've been spotted," he said.
Frank nodded grimly. "And it looks like he's headed for the cliff road."
Joe watched the jeep's taillights disappear around a corner. "At this speed he'll be there in two minutes. If we don't catch him, the murder weapon, whatever it is, will be buried in fifty feet of Atlantic salt water."
Frank plowed straight through the intersection, missing the turn completely.
"What are you doing?" Joe shouted. "He went that way!"
"I know," Frank said as he slammed on the brakes. "And I hope he was paying attention when I didn't follow him." He swung the van around in a tight U-turn and killed the lights. "He should slow down now."
He went around the turn and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Frank was counting on Barnes's not seeing the black van. "If we're real lucky," Frank said, "he won't notice us until we're right on top of him."
They caught sight of the jeep again just before it hit the winding road that climbed from the bay to the two hundred foot cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Joe could see that the jeep had a good lead when it started up the cliff road. But the van was gaining fast, and Joe knew his brother could practically run this stretch of road blindfolded, which was a good thing, since they
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were blasting around the curves in the dark with no lights.
Joe looked out his window and saw the sea shimmering a hundred feet below and dropping farther away every second as the van wound its way up the road cut into the sheer cliff. Up ahead the cliff and the road jutted out to a point high over the ocean. Joe wasn't sure, but it looked like the jeep was slowing down as it neared that point.
Any lingering doubts that he had vanished when he saw the jeep's brake lights wink on. "He's making his move!" Joe yelled. He watched helplessly as the jeep pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. "We'll never make it!"
"Want to bet?" Frank said through clenched teeth as the van fishtailed around the last curve before the point. His eyes were locked on the jeep as he stomped on the gas pedal and shot down the short, final stretch. "Hang on!" he shouted. "It's going to be a bumpy ride!"
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Chapter 17
Frank's face was a mask of total concentration as the van rocketed straight at the jeep.
Joe's fingers dug into the armrest. He didn't care about the jeep—it was the deadly cliff looming beyond it that bothered him. The driver's- side door of the jeep swung open, and Barnes started to get out. The van swerved violently toward the man framed in the open door. "What are you going to do?" Joe yelled frantically. "Kill him?"
"No," Frank replied coolly. "Not unless I scare him to death." He flicked on the headlights, flashed the high beam, and pressed down on the horn.
Barnes's head jerked around and his eyes bulged wide with horror. He threw the box he
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was holding back into the jeep and dove in after it.
Frank's right foot smashed down hard on the brake pedal. The tires screeched. The van scraped the side of the jeep, and the front bumper nudged the open door before the van skidded to a halt. Frank bolted out of the van and sprinted around to the far side of the jeep as Barnes was scrambling out the passenger door.
Barnes clutched the box desperately and made a mad dash for the cliff. Frank hurled himself through the air to make a flying tackle. He came down short, thudding painfully into the rough gravel. But his outstretched hands grasped an ankle, and Barnes pitched forward. The box flew out of his hands as he twisted and toppled over. It crashed to the ground and split open. Something spilled out and tumbled to the edge of the cliff.
"No! Frank yelled as he watched it totter on the edge. A fleeting shadow passed over him, and then he saw his brother hit the ground and skid across the loose pebbles, kicking some of them over the cliff edge into the dark, empty air.
Joe dove forward and snatched the boxy shape. It was heavier than it looked, and he didn't have a very good grip. It started to slip through his fingers. He clutched and clawed at it wildly and finally dragged it back from the brink.
Barnes kicked free of Frank's grip, scurried to
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his feet and ran at Joe, his eyes ablaze with fierce desperation. Without even thinking, Joe jumped up and raised the bulky object over his head, ready to club the man with it if he had to. Barnes cringed, ducking his head and throwing up his hands to block the blow.
"Smart move," Frank called out. He got up and walked over to the wild-eyed man. "You already know that thing can crush a skull. That's how you killed Ward, isn't it?"
Barnes's eyes frantically darted between the two brothers, but all the fight had gone out of them. His face was red, and he sucked in air with heavy, labored gasps. He was overweight and in no shape to take on either of the Hardy brothers.
Joe lowered his arms and took a good long look at the object in his hands. "This is the murder weapon?" he asked in disbelief. "It looks like a car battery."
Frank nodded. "That's basically what it is— an electric storage battery. There's a whole row of them in a compartment underneath the seats of the solar car." He looked at Barnes. "You told us about them that night when we met you at your house. But I might never have made the connection with the murder if the police hadn't found traces of battery acid in the bloodstained carpet at Ward's apartment.
"A battery generates electricity through a chemical reaction," Frank explained to Joe.
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"They use acid to produce the chemical reaction. The acid is mixed with water, and sometimes the water evaporates." He tapped a row of plastic caps on the top of the battery. "So you just pop those off and pour in more."
"And if one of them was jarred loose by the force of a violent blow," Joe ventured, "some of the acid might spill out." He thought about it a little longer. "But why use a battery to kill somebody? It would be awkward, wouldn't it?"
"You bet," Frank agreed. "But I have a feeling that this battery was faulty and Barnes had it out on the car seat next to him. My guess is that he brought it up to Ward's apartment to show it to him.
"I don't really think he had planned to kill Ward. He probably thought he could talk him into accepting some money for his silence after he sold the business. He did get Kilman back on his side, so my guess is he can be pretty persuasive."
Barnes shrugged. "Think what you want. I'm not saying a thing."
"You don't have to," Frank countered. "I'm sure that the police forensics experts can confirm that this was the murder weapon. I just like to fill in the blanks."
"Don't pay any attention to Barnes," Joe said to his brother. "He's just a sore loser. Go ahead. I'm all ears. So you think Ward tried to blackmail him?"
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"It makes the best sense. The easiest way for Ward to cash in on his discovery would be to sell his silence to his employer. That way he wouldn't have to worry about doing anything overtly illegal."
"Makes sense to me," Joe said. "But why didn't Barnes just pay him off?"
"Because he couldn't," Frank answered. "He was tapped out, broke, and John O'Hara wouldn't lend him any more money."
He looked at Barnes again. "But I have a pretty good idea of what happened after Ward socked you with the bad news. You got nervous and tapped his phone, and he got careless and called Watson from the office."
Barnes didn't respond. He just stood there rigidly.
"Then you panicked," Frank went on. "When Ward left the office, you followed him."
"Hold on," Joe cut in. "What about his alibi? According to Bright Futures' security, Barnes never left the building."
"No security system is perfect," Frank said. "And remember what he told us the first day? He designed the security system—so he must have known how to get around it, too."
"Okay," Joe said. "So then what happened?"
"Here's how it probably went down," Frank told him. "Barnes didn't sit down and methodically plot out Ward's murder. He just knew he
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had to prevent Ward from talking to Watson. Things must have heated up and—"
"—Barnes hit him on the head with the handiest thing—the battery," Joe said.
"I think I know most of the rest," Joe said, turning to Barnes. "You planted the evidence to frame Theresa Almonte and cut the brake line on the van to scare us off. You had good luck when we showed up at the solar farm, and you quickly rigged the solar collector to blow when you saw me running toward it. That gave you a perfect excuse to fire us—one that would even be good enough for John O'Hara. But what about the plane accident?"
"I think that was exactly what it was—an accident," Frank said. "The plane did work most of the time, and Mike couldn't know Theresa was going to take it up without checking with him first. Remember, he had just found out the cells didn't work all the time, and he couldn't warn her without giving himself away."
"I still say you can't prove any of this," Barnes said stiffly.
"We don't have to," Frank retorted. "The murder weapon belonged to you, and we caught you trying to get rid of it."
Barnes scowled. "So what? You're not the police. Where's your warrant?"
Frank smiled. "We don't need a warrant. You threw the battery out on public property, and we picked it up."
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"That's right," Joe said. "And after you stand trial for the murder of Alec Ward, you're going to be staring at a pretty stiff fine for littering, too."
* * *
"It's too bad the super solar cell didn't work out," Joe said as they were driving home. "We could sure use it." They had handed Barnes and the murder weapon over to the police, and it was time to call it a night.
"Yeah," Frank replied. "I know what you mean. The world could sure use a good source of clean, safe energy."
"That's not what I mean," Joe said. The van started to sputter and cough. Then it rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. Joe looked over at his brother with a sheepish grin. "I mean we could use it right now—we're out of gas."
The Masked Monkey (Hardy Boys #51)
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I A Puzzling Disappearance
1
“YOU mean your eighteen-year-old son drew fifty thousand dollars from his bank account and then disappeared?” dark-haired Frank Hardy asked incredulously. His blond brother Joe, sitting beside him on a sofa, also looked bewildered.
The two teen-age investigators from Bayport were in the posh office of J. G. Retson, owner of a stone quarry near Granite City. He sat behind his desk, rocking nervously in a high-backed chair.
“Yes!” Retson answered Frank’s question. “That’s exactly what I mean. The fifty grand is gone, and so is Graham.”
“And you want us to find him?”
“That’s right!” Retson declared, striking the desk with his fist. “Find him and bring him back home. Tell him he can be anything he wants to be. He has my word on that.”
2
“Sounds as if there’s been a family quarrel,” Joe observed.
Retson threw his hands in the air with a pained expression. “Graham and I didn’t understand each other as a father and son should,” he confessed. “He had some weird ideas I didn’t go along with. But things will be different when he gets home. I won’t try to change him any more.”
The industrialist paused. All choked up, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
The Hardy boys felt embarrassed. They waited silently until Retson regained his composure.
“We’ll do our best,” Joe assured him. “But we’ll need some clues. How long has Graham been missing?”
Retson folded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. “Two months,” he replied.
“You must have made some effort to find him in that time,” Frank said.
“Of course. I went to the Granite City police when he didn’t come home after a few days.”
“Any results?” Joe asked.
“Nothing. Every lead petered out. Chief Carton calls it the most baffling case he’s ever worked on. And he’s cracked some big ones.”
Frank stared out the window while he puzzled over the mysterious disappearance of Graham Retson. Then he remarked, “Sir, you obviously 
3
think we might succeed where the police failed. Why us?”
“I know your reputation as detectives,” Retson replied. “According to the papers, you’ve helped your father on many of his cases.”
Retson was referring to Fenton Hardy, the renowned detective, who had been a member of the New York City police force before becoming a private investigator. Frank, eighteen years old, and Joe, a year younger, were well experienced in tracking down criminals. Their first case was The Tower Treasure, and their latest success, Danger on Vampire Trail. But this seemed to be a different kind of mystery.
Retson continued. “That’s not all. The point is, you’re both about my son’s age. There’s a generation gap between Graham and me. But you fellows speak his lingo. You should be able to get through to him.”
“We’ll try,” Frank said, “if we can find him.”
Retson gave a deep sigh. “That’s a relief. Stay right with the case. Money is no object. Spend whatever it takes. Go to the ends of the earth if you must, but find my son!”
“We’ll give it all we’ve got,” Joe vowed. “But we’ll need some information from you.”
“Such as?”
“Photos, letters, diary—anything that might give us a lead.”
“I see what you mean,” Retson said. “Well, 
4
I’ll give you all the help I can. Come out to my place, Whisperwood, tomorrow. It’s on a ridge of Granite Rock near the waterfall. Take the highway west till you see the wire fence around the property. You can examine Graham’s personal belongings.”
“We’ll be there.” Frank and Joe left the office, climbed into their convertible, and headed back to Bayport.
“What do you think of it?” Frank asked as he turned the car into the driveway of their home.
“Let’s discuss it with Dad tonight,” Joe suggested.
“He won’t be home until late. But we’ll see him in the morning.”
At breakfast the next day Mr. Hardy listened closely while his sons described their visit to Granite City.
“It’s a real mystery,” he admitted. “No wonder Retson’s worried.”
“Dad, can you give us a hand?” Joe asked.
Fenton Hardy smiled but shook his head. “I’d like to, but I’m tied up with a fake passport case. A ring of unsavory characters is doctoring stolen United States passports. Strange coincidence, they were stolen in Granite City in a post office holdup two years ago. So I’m off to Washington this morning.”
As the front door closed behind him the phone
5
rang. Joe answered, heard a familiar voice, and turned to Frank with a grin. “It’s Chet,” he said.
Chet Morton was the Hardy boys’ best friend. A plump, freckle-faced youth who jolted around town in an ancient jalopy, he was always involved in some new hobby.
Frank chuckled. “What’s he up to?”
Chet was telling Joe excitedly, “I want to see you guvs right away. Got a big deal on! If you sweet-talk me, maybe I’ll give you a piece of the action. I’m coming over to your house pronto.”
“No use, Chet,” Joe said. “We’re on our way to a meeting in Granite City.”
Chet gave a low whistle. “You’re on another case? … Say, is there anything I can do? Nothing too dangerous, of course.”
He had helped the Hardys solve several mysteries. Though Chet was not fond of hair-raising assignments, Frank and Joe knew they could rely on him when the going got rough.
“We’ve just started,” Joe answered. “We’ll know more when we get back tonight. Come on over tomorrow and we’ll talk.”
“Okay,” Chet replied. “And we’ll discuss my big deal, too.”
“Right.” Joe laughed. He hung up and joined Frank for the drive to Granite City.
Beyond the outskirts of Bayport, Frank swung the convertible onto the highway leading west. 
6
After two hours the level terrain gave way to a section of hills and ravines. The car rolled through a pass cut in solid rock.
“There’s the ridge Mr. Retson mentioned,” said Joe, glancing ahead at Granite Rock. “And that must be the fence around Whisperwood.” He pointed to a tall barrier of heavy meshed wire.
“Right, Joe. It’s a huge estate. I don’t even see the gate yet. Oh, there it is.” Frank guided the car past a stand of pine trees and stopped before a large iron portal guarding the entrance. A brass bell was mounted beside it.
Joe got out and tried to turn the massive handle. “Locked,” he muttered. “And there’s not a sign of a gatekeeper to let us inside this fortress.”
Frank jangled the bell clapper, and the sound boomed through the grounds, but it brought no response. “Looks as if they don’t want company,” he muttered.
“Well, we’ve got an invitation,” Joe said. “It’s not polite for a couple of guests to keep their host waiting. So here goes.”
Grasping the fence wire with his fingers, Joe got a toehold and swarmed up the fence. He dropped down on the other side to the sound of tearing cloth.
“Ripped my jacket,” he groaned. “Well, I made it, though. Come on.”
Frank, who had followed Joe up the fence, jumped down. Together they walked toward the Whisperwood mansion, outlined against the sky at the summit of the ridge. A butler answered the bell.
7


“Ripped my jacket!” Joe groaned
8
“My name is Harris,” he announced in solemn tones. “Mr. Retson is expecting you. But you’ve torn your jacket, Mr. Hardy. Here, let me have it and I’ll see it’s repaired before you leave. I’m so sorry I didn’t hear the bell clapper.”
Joe handed over the garment, then the butler ushered them into Retson’s den.
Their client apologized when he heard about their experience at the gate. “I didn’t expect you so early. You see, I do insist on complete privacy in Whisperwood.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Retson,” Frank said. “Let’s get down to the question of where your son might be. First of all, what does he look like?”
Retson lifted a photograph from the mantelpiece. “This was taken just a few days before Graham disappeared.”
Frank and Joe examined the picture. They saw a frail youth wearing long hair and glasses with round metal rims that made him appear owlish.
“Any distinguishing characteristics, Mr. Retson?” Frank asked.
“Yes. Graham has a nervous habit of nodding his head while he’s talking.”
Joe looked hard at the photo. “He’s not the rugged type, if I’m any judge.”
9
“Hardly. Graham is very sensitive. In fact, he spends most of his time writing poetry.”
“What started the feud between you two?” Joe wanted to know.
Retson snorted. “A cage of silly hamsters. Graham brought the beasts home. I stood them as long as I could. Then one day when my son was out, I told the butler to get rid of them.”
“Could we have a look at Graham’s poetry?” Frank asked.
Retson opened a cabinet and pulled out a magazine. “Here, this is published by the private school he went to. You’ll find his stuff on page 58 . It’s Greek to me.”
Frank spread the magazine on top of the cabinet. The boys began to read the verses.
“Say, this isn’t bad,” Frank said. “Your son has talent.”
“But it doesn’t tell us where he is,” Joe mused. “We’d better have a look at his room.”
Retson led the way up a broad staircase to a bedroom at the end of the hall. “I hope you’ll find a clue to Graham’s whereabouts,” he remarked, and left them.
The Hardys searched the closets, carefully looked through the bureau drawers, and examined the missing youth’s collection of poetry books.
Joe was disappointed. “Nothing here.”
“Let’s try the desk,” Frank said.
10
They went through the drawers, beginning at the top center, working down the left side and then turning to the right.
“Still nothing,” Joe said. “No diary, no letters, no clues.”
He started to slam the bottom drawer shut when Frank grabbed his arm.
“Wait a minute, Joe. What’s this?” Frank reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read aloud four lines of verse:
“ ‘My life is a walled city
From which I must flee;
This must my prison be
So long as I am me.’ ”
Frank turned the paper over. There were two more lines on the other side.
“ ‘There is a way,
But what it is I cannot say.’ ”
Joe said, “This could be a clue! Judging by those first four lines, Graham wasn’t too happy here.”
“And the last two lines could mean he found a way to escape,” Frank said.
Just then Mr. Retson came into the room. Frank showed him the piece of paper. “Is this Graham’s handwriting?” he asked.
“Yes.”
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“May we keep it? It might be a message in code.”
“Certainly. Keep anything that will help you find Graham. Incidentally, you can stay at Whisperwood while you’re on the case. There’s an apartment over the old stable. The horses are gone, so we’ve had the rooms renovated and call it the guesthouse.”
Frank and Joe decided they might accept the offer later on.
“We’d better get back to Bayport today,” Joe said. “If we find it would be easier working from here, we’ll be glad to park ourselves over the stable.”
The butler showed the visitors out. “Here’s your jacket, Mr. Hardy,” he said to Joe. “I believe you will find the repairs satisfactory.”
“Looks as good as new,” Joe assured him. “Thanks a lot.”
When the young detectives arrived home, Joe hung his jacket in the hall closet. Something crinkled in one pocket. He reached in and pulled out a folded page torn from a small notebook.
“What’s that?” Frank queried.
“A bit of scribbling. Apparently somebody wrote it in a hurry.”
“What does it say?”
Joe read, “ ‘Don’t look for Graham. You’ll ruin his life!’ ”

CHAPTER II Bouncing Balls
12
“THIS is a warning!” Frank gasped. “Who could have written it, Joe?”
“Harris the butler could have slipped the paper into the pocket before returning my jacket.”
“We’d better have a talk with Harris,” Frank declared. “If he’s trying to scare us off the case, I’d like to know the reason.”
“You boys are jumping to conclusions,” said a tart voice behind them. Fenton Hardy’s sister was dusting the living room. Gertrude Hardy lived with her brother and his family. She loved her nephews dearly. But she never hesitated to give her opinion about the boys’ detective work.
“I heard what you said about the butler,” she went on, flicking her duster around a vase. “And I say you’re jumping to conclusions. I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know that the butler is always accused.”
“We’re not accusing him, Aunty,” Frank said. 
13
“He just seems to be the prime suspect at this point. Anyway, this isn’t a murder mystery. At least we don’t know that anybody’s been murdered.”
“We’re involved in a missing-person case,” Joe explained. “Graham Retson lived at Whisperwood near Granite City with his parents. He’s disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
“Granite City!” Miss Hardy sniffed. “That’s a hundred miles from here. You’ll burn a lot of gas commuting back and forth!”
“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “Mr. Retson offered to put us up at Whisperwood over his stable while we’re hunting for clues. Besides, there might not be a criminal involved at all.”
Gertrude Hardy clucked like a wet hen. “Stable indeed! Mr. Retson should have offered you better lodgings. One of you might get kicked by a horse.”
Frank and Joe soothed their aunt by assuring her there were no horses at Whisperwood to do any kicking.
“Well, I imagine you’ll find some kind of danger there,” Aunt Gertrude said. “So be careful.” With this parting shot, she flounced out of the room.
Frank and Joe mulled over the strange disappearance of Graham Retson and the warning note. They decided to accept the industrialist’s offer and go to Whisperwood the next day.
14
In the morning Frank and Joe were having breakfast with their mother and Aunt Gertrude when a series of rackety explosions erupted in the street.
“That’s Chet’s jalopy,” Laura Hardy said.
The doorbell rang and Frank let their friend in. He was puffing with excitement as he entered the dining room.
“Morning, Mrs. Hardy, Aunt Gertrude,” he said. When he saw the food on the table, he halted in delight, rubbed his belt buckle, and glanced significantly at the women.
“Chester Morton, there’s no mystery about what you want,” said Gertrude Hardy. “Can I tempt you with some pancakes?”
“Please do,” replied Chet, who loved nothing better than eating.
Joe laughed. “After all, our buddy’s only had one breakfast this morning. His inner man is telling him it’s time for an encore.”
Chet sat down and consumed a stack of pancakes at an alarming rate. He also drank two glasses of milk. Then he leaned back with a pleased expression. “That was just great,” he said as the women cleared the table. “Thanks very much.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “What’s the big deal you mentioned on the phone yesterday?”
Chet rolled his eyes. “You guys ever hear of golf ball scavenging?”
15
“Negative,” Frank said. “What is it? A new hobby?”
“No, a get-rich-quick scheme. Duffers keep dunking golf balls in water hazards on most of the golf courses. Scavengers retrieve them and sell them. I’m a scavenger, and I’ll cut you in if you’re interested.”
“We might be,” Frank said, “when we have the time.”
“We’ve got to go back to Granite City this afternoon,” Joe told Chet.
“You can’t do that!” Chet protested. “I’m counting on you. Hold everything. You’ve got this morning free, right?”
Frank and Joe nodded.
“Okay,” Chet went on. “That’s enough time to start operations. Let’s go.”
The three climbed into Chet’s jalopy and drove to the farm outside of Bayport where he lived. On the way, Chet explained how golf balls were retrieved.
“Many amateur divers and frogmen,” he said, “descend into water hazards to scour the bottom. Professionals, however, don’t go into the water. They use suction pumps and underwater vacuum cleaners.
“About sixty million balls are recovered every year,” Chet stated, “and are resold for about fifteen million dollars.”
Frank whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
16
“Enough to buy several golf courses,” Joe remarked.
“Sure,” Chet said. “And I aim to get my share of the dough from the golf courses around Bayport.”
At the Morton farm the three transferred to a small truck. In the back was a very large box with a gasoline engine attached. Lines of small holes showed on one side, and a long hose dangled from one corner.
“Dad’s letting me use his pickup,” Chet said. “I spent a week building the retriever. Come on. Let’s go to the nearest course and see how my suction pump works.”
When they arrived at the Bayport links, Chet explained his gadget to the club’s golf pro. He was willing to let the boys have a try at the water hazard, providing they gave him half the golf balls they recovered.
The trio then drove to a pond at the third hole. Chet turned on the engine, pushed the nozzle of the hose down through the water, and began to vacuum the bottom.
A mixture of mud and water, sucked through the hose into the container, spewed out through the side holes and back into the pond. Loud rattling came from inside.
“Those are the golf balls!” Chet exulted. “They’re too big to go through the holes, so 
17
they’re banging against the sides. We’ve struck it rich!”
“The pump works like a charm,” Joe admitted. “Chet, for once you’ve come up with something practical.”
About an hour later the pro rode up in a golf cart. He told them the recovery operation would have to wait until early evening because some golfers were impatient to play the third hole.
Chet wound up the hose and opened a door at the top of the container. Frank and Joe peered in. Several hundred golf balls—dirty and muddy from their stay in the pond, but otherwise in good condition—were piled up inside.
“We can sell these for a good profit,” Chet said, “when we’ve cleaned them.” After turning over half of the take to the golf pro, the boys tossed the rest into the back of the pickup to dry off, and drove to Bayport.
As they went through the main intersection, a wild uproar broke out behind them. Horns blew. People shouted.
“What’s wrong?” Chet muttered. “I didn’t go through a stoplight!”
Joe, looking back, cried out, “We’re paving the avenue with golf balls! The tailgate’s open. We’re losing them!”
Their cargo was streaming out of the pickup into the crossing. Pedestrians went into frantic contortions as the golf balls rolled under their 
18
feet. Cars jolted to a halt. Traffic was snarled in four directions.
Chet pulled over to the curb. “We’re in for it now,” he groaned.
“You can say that again,” Frank muttered. “Here comes the traffic cop.”
“And he’s not too happy about running the obstacle course we just set up,” Joe added.
“Everybody out!” the officer commanded the three youths. “Start picking them up!”
Frank, Joe, and Chet meekly climbed out of the truck and began gathering the golf balls. A group of youngsters pitched in for the fun of it. When the balls were back in the truck, Chet double-checked the tailgate before driving off.
“Lucky I didn’t get a ticket,” he sighed.
“And fortunately nobody got hurt,” Frank said.
They arrived at the Hardy house to find their pals Phil Cohen and Tony Prito waiting for them. Phil was the sensitive, studious type, but could be counted on when Frank and Joe were on a dangerous mission.
Olive-skinned Tony, the son of a Bayport contractor, was another friend who frequently helped the Hardys solve mysteries.
The two were told about Chet’s new business. They agreed to accompany him to the golf course that evening to complete the ball scavenging operation.
Frank and Joe drove to Whisperwood. They 
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had dinner in a roadside restaurant. When they reached the estate, Retson showed them to his guesthouse. From a distance came a constant hissing sound.
“It’s the waterfall,” Retson explained. “It seems to be whispering all the time. That’s why we called our home Whisperwood.”
“Did your son ever come to the guesthouse?” Frank inquired.
“Yes, occasionally. You see, Harris used the place while a wing of the mansion was being renovated. Graham liked him and visited him sometimes. Now the work on the house is done and Harris is back in his own quarters.”
Joe described the incident of the note in his jacket pocket. “We’d like to talk to the butler about it,” he said.
“Of course!” Retson replied. “Harris will have to answer to me if he’s the one responsible.”
Their host led the way back to the mansion, where they confronted the butler.
Joe handed the note to him. Harris became pale as he scrutinized the message. His eyes bulged. His breath came in gasps. He folded the note and handed it back. “Where did you find this?” he asked.
“In my jacket pocket, after you fixed it yesterday,” Joe said.
Harris frowned. “If you think I wrote this, you are mistaken,” he said.
20
“Can you prove that, Harris?” Retson asked harshly.
“Yes, indeed, sir. As you know, I make out the shopping list for the week. Here is the one I just wrote.” Harris drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Compare my handwriting with the note Mr. Hardy found in his coat.”
Joe placed the two pieces of paper side by side. Frank looked on. The two scrawls obviously did not match!
“It seems someone else wrote the warning,” Joe mused.
“But who?” Frank replied. “Who else lives in this house?”
“Jackson, the gardener,” Retson said. “His wife is our cook. And of course there’s Mrs. Retson. My wife has had a nervous breakdown. She rarely leaves her room in the east wing. A nurse is on duty with her constantly. You can talk to Miss Hopkins if you want to. But don’t bother Mrs. Retson.”
“We’ll have to check out the whole staff,” Frank said.
“Well, get on with the investigation first thing in the morning,” Retson urged. “My son may have been kidnapped. Criminals may be holding him prisoner right now!”
Frank and Joe walked back to the guesthouse. “We’re fresh out of clues,” Joe commented.
21
“Maybe we’ll come up with a theory after a little shut-eye,” Frank said.
“That is, if we can get any shut-eye. Whisperwood gives me the willies. It’s real spooky back here.”
A high wind blew mournfully through the pines, and clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Granite Rock lay in deep shadows except for outcroppings of stone that resembled gigantic human figures trying to escape over the crest.
Despite the uncanny atmosphere, the boys fell into a deep sleep. They were awakened by a loud splintering sound in the middle of the night. A missile had crashed through the picture window into their room!

CHAPTER III Careless Talk
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“FRANK! What on earth was that?” Joe asked, fumbling for the light switch.
Frank had already jumped out of bed to the broken window. Bright moonlight gave him a clear view of the grounds. “No sign of the thrower,” he reported. “Whoever it was ducked out of sight.”
Joe turned on the small lamp next to his bed and the two searched around the room for the missile.
Joe reached under his bed. “Look,” he said. “It’s a golf ball!”
“I suppose it’s a practical joke,” Frank said. “But I don’t think it’s very funny.”
“Whom do we know who might toss a golf ball in our direction?” Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Chet Morton, that’s who! Let’s collar him if we can.”
After dressing quickly, they hurried down the 
23
stairs and out the door. Joe circled the guesthouse. Frank pushed through the bushes searching for a figure crouching behind them.
“When I spot an oversize shadow, that’ll be our fun-loving pal,” he said to himself.
Frank searched the bushes but found no one. Joe reported failure too. Finally they returned to their room and slept soundly the rest of the night.
Early the next morning there was a knock on the door. Frank opened it. There stood Chet!
“Do come in,” Frank invited. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“Why?”
“What were you doing here last night?” Joe asked.
“What makes you think I was here?”
“This!” Joe showed him the golf ball. “It came through that window.”
“Don’t look at me,” Chet protested. “I was home in Bayport!”
“You’re here now,” Frank put in.
“Sure. But I just arrived. I’m after golf ball scavenging contracts around Granite City. I just dropped by to see you two before making the rounds.”
Frank shook his head. “You made a wonderful suspect. Now we’re back where we started.”
“Let me have a look at that ball,” Chet said. He turned it over between his fingers. “Condor brand,” he noted.
24
“Think you could find out where it came from?” Joe queried.
“Condors are popular,” Chet said with an air of authority. “Even an expert such as myself might have trouble identifying a single ball. However, I’ll ask around and see if any Granite City club sells Condors.”
“How soon will you let us know?” Frank said.
“I’ll stop by this evening and give you the info.”
Chet drove off to the golf courses. Frank and Joe went to the Whisperwood mansion for breakfast, and told their host about the golf ball and the broken window at the guesthouse.
Retson also was puzzled, but finally he said, “I still suspect Harris.”
“Why are you so down on your butler?” Frank inquired.
“Well, Graham spent a lot of time with Harris,” Retson replied.
“More than with you?” Joe asked.
“Much more. I’d rather have seen the boy playing football. But no. He preferred writing verse. Harris said he liked the poetry, which could have been a come-on. He may well be part of a plot against my son.”
The Hardys suggested checking the handwriting of the rest of the staff before accusing the butler. They set about gathering samples. Joe went to the kitchen, engaged the cook in conversation 
25
and persuaded her to write down a recipe for his mother.
Frank, buttonholing the gardener for a talk about the roses, managed to pocket a shopping list for seeds. Retson himself produced a memo written for Mrs. Retson by Miss Hopkins, the nurse.
None of the samples of handwriting resembled that in the warning note found in Joe’s jacket!
Frank looked disappointed. “We’ve learned what everybody’s scrawl looks like, but that doesn’t give us a lead.”
“I still suspect Harris,” Retson insisted.
“He could have had a confederate,” Joe mused. “Maybe we should give him a lie detector test.”
“I’ll get him up here,” Retson said. He pressed a button that rang a bell in the servants’ quarters. The butler appeared.
Frank asked him, “Harris, you still claim to be innocent of that note, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. Hardy. I am innocent.”
“Would you be willing to take a lie detector test to prove it?”
The butler blanched, but quickly regained control of himself. “Whenever you wish.”
Joe offered to go to Granite City Police Headquarters and ask for a loan of a polygraph, the kind used in testing the veracity of suspects. He was back within the hour carrying a portable machine.
26
Harris sat patiently in a chair while the instruments for measuring pulse rate and blood pressure were attached to his body.
Frank set the graph which recorded physical reactions. Joe then directed a series of test questions at the butler. Then he said, “Harris, did you write that note I found in my jacket?”
“No.”
“Do you know who wrote it?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea where Graham is now?”
“No.”
Watching the graph unroll, Frank saw that the pattern of the needle across the paper remained steady as the questioning continued. Finally he said, “Harris seems to be telling the truth.”
Retson was clearly disappointed in the results of the test. He told the butler to leave the room and warned him to remain on the premises.
“I don’t think he’ll go anywhere,” Frank said. “He seems like a loyal employee.”
“Somebody is disloyal!” Retson exclaimed. “How else do you explain that note?”
Joe said, “You have to admit, Frank, it looks like an inside job. Still, the handwriting provided no clue.”
“Well, let’s be thorough and give all of the staff a lie detector test,” Frank said.
The Hardys told each employee about the surreptitious warning. No one seemed overly surprised 
27
to hear about it, although they all denied any knowledge of who sent it. Also, none of them objected to submitting to the polygraph test. In each case the results were negative.
Miss Hopkins, the nurse, said Mrs. Retson was too ill to be questioned, and the boys did not pursue the matter. They repacked the equipment in thoughtful silence. They had drawn a blank. Besides being disappointed, they were slightly annoyed by the patronizing half-smile on Retson’s face.
“Too bad,” he said. “Now what kind of explanation can you come up with?”
“It’ll take time to figure out,” Frank said. “But there’s an answer to everything. We’ll solve this mystery sooner or later.”
“I trust it will be sooner,” Retson said as the Hardys left to return the polygraph. “I’m depending on your fine reputation as detectives to find my son!”
Frank and Joe were glum as they drove alongside a golf course on their way to Granite City Police Headquarters.
The green for the seventh hole lay close to the road, and a crawling sprinkler had come to rest near the edge of it, squirting water onto the pavement. Just as a car approached from the opposite direction, water splashed across the windshield of the Hardys’ convertible, spraying them and momentarily blinding Frank’s vision.
28
Cru-unch! They sideswiped the oncoming car and came to a halt with screeching brakes.
Frank and Joe got out, as did two men from the other vehicle. One was a muscular individual wearing a slouch hat. His companion was young, slim, and had thick blond hair.
He managed a smile. “That was a pretty close shave,” he said. “What happened? You seemed to swerve.”
“Water from that sprinkler hit my windshield,” Frank said.
The four circled the cars, examining the doors and fenders. The convertible had a slight dent near the left door handle. The only damage to the other car was a scratch on the fender.
The older man said, “If you’re willing to overlook the dent, why don’t you forget the small damage to my car? You know these insurance companies—miles of red tape.”
“Fair enough,” said Frank.
The man looked at the lie detector equipment in the back of the convertible and smiled. “Somebody’s been put through a grilling, I see. You boys on the police force?”
“No, but we do detective work,” Joe said.
“Are you on a case?”
“Yes, we’re trying to pick up the trail of Graham Retson of Whisperwood.”
“Ah, yes,” the blond man said. “He disappeared some time ago. Think you can find him?”
29
“We hope to,” Joe said.
“Come on,” Frank urged. “We’d better be going. Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, turning to the men. “Next time we’ll be more careful about golf course sprinklers.”
After the two cars had started off, Frank said, “Joe, you really yacked about our investigation. What’s the idea?”
Joe looked embarrassed. “You’re right, Frank. Sometimes I talk too much. I doubt, though, that those fellows had anything to do with the Retson mystery.”
“Likely not, but there’s no sense taking chances.”
The boys returned the polygraph to the police. They thanked Chief Carton, who offered to cooperate with them in any way he could.
Then they drove back to Whisperwood. Frank parked the car near where the gardener was planting a small bush.
“This might be a good time to ask him a few questions,” he said.
“Right,” Joe agreed.
The boys walked up to the man. He was on his knees, firming the earth around the bush. When he saw the boys approaching, he looked up questioningly.
Frank came directly to the point. “Mr. Jackson,” he said, “how do you feel about young Graham’s disappearance?”
30
The gardener troweled some more earth onto the roots of the plant. “I just work here,” he said calmly. “It’s not my place to have any feelings about it.”
“You must see a lot that goes on around here,” Frank persisted. “Did Graham actually leave without you spotting him?”
“He did.” Jackson was becoming surly. “I’m not his baby-sitter. And I don’t keep a watch on the front door, either.”
Just then the screen door of the kitchen opened. The gardener’s wife stepped out. “I heard those questions about Graham Retson,” she stated bluntly. “And let me tell you something. I’m glad that he’s not cooped up here any more!”
“Can you help us find him, Mrs. Jackson?” Joe asked.
“I wouldn’t if I could,” snapped the woman. “Why don’t you mind your own business and leave the boy alone? He had good reason to run away!”
Mrs. Jackson’s tirade was interrupted by the sound of feet pounding along the brick walk. As Frank and Joe turned around, Chet Morton raced up to them.
His face was red from exertion. His breath came in big gulps. Wiping streams of perspiration from his forehead, he said, “Hey, fellows, I found out plenty!”

CHAPTER IV A Ghostly Figure
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FRANK and Joe pulled Chet aside, and Frank asked, “What’s up?”
“The Condor!” Chet puffed. “I’ve got the dope on it!”
“You mean the one that came through the window last night?”
“Not exactly,” Chet answered. “But I’ve discovered who sells the Condor golf balls around here.”
“Who’s that?” Frank demanded.
“The golf pro at the Olympic Health Club. He’s got a special concession. When you buy a Condor, you buy it from Gus McCormick.”
“So Gus sold our ball to one of his customers?” Joe asked.
“That’s my theory,” Chet replied.
“That gives us something to go on,” Joe said. “We’d better case the Olympic Health Club and see what gives over there.”
32
Frank nodded. “That would be easy if Chet got a contract to retrieve golf balls from the Olympic water hazard.”
Chet looked crestfallen. “Sorry, Frank. I’ve tried. I wangled two contracts from courses in town, but it was no dice at the Olympic. Say, I’d better get cracking with my suction pump. Business won’t wait.”
He left, and Frank and Joe resumed questioning the cook.
“Mrs. Jackson,” Frank said, “what did you mean when you said Graham had good reason to run away?”
“He wasn’t happy here,” she replied. “There were things he wanted to do that he wasn’t allowed to.”
“For instance?”
“Take those hamsters. They didn’t do anyone any harm. And Graham got a lot of pleasure from them. Getting rid of them was a shame.”
Her husband rose to his feet. “Be quiet, Martha!” he commanded. “You’re talking too much.”
“Mrs. Jackson isn’t revealing any secrets,” Joe said.
“If Mr. Retson wants to tell you about Graham, that’s up to him,” the gardener retorted. Turning to his wife, he asked crossly, “Do you want to get us fired?” He pulled her into the kitchen and the screen door slammed behind them.
Frank and Joe strolled over to the guesthouse.
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“We’ve quizzed everybody except Mrs. Retson,” Frank pointed out. “She may have vital information about Graham. We’ll have to talk to her.”
“Retson might not go for the idea,” Joe said. “Let’s slip into the house when no one’s looking.”
As soon as darkness fell, the boys made their way through the grounds to the mansion. Circling around through the bushes, they reached the east wing of the building, pried open a window, and climbed over the sill into an unused room.
They went into the hallway and upstairs to the second floor where Mrs. Retson had her apartment.
Joe knocked softly on the door. It opened. “What do you want?” asked Miss Hopkins.
“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Retson,” Frank said politely.
“Impossible! Mrs. Retson doesn’t receive visitors.” The nurse started to shut the door, but Frank and Joe slipped past her before she realized what they were up to.
“Mrs. Retson!” Frank called out, advancing toward the bedroom. “We must speak to you!”
“It’s about Graham,” Joe added. “And it’s urgent.”
The nurse followed, protesting all the while. No reply came from Mrs. Retson. The three reached the bedroom doorway and peered in. They stood speechless.
34
The bed was empty!
Frank and Joe hastily searched the apartment. There was no sign of the woman anywhere. Joe pointed to an open window in the bedroom. A rope ladder was attached to the frame. “That’s the explanation. She climbed out!”
“Your patient must be pretty agile,” Frank said to the nurse as he looked out the window. Nobody was in sight.
“It’s all your fault!” Miss Hopkins cried angrily. “When you barged in you must have frightened Mrs. Retson. If anything happens to my patient I’ll hold you responsible!” She pointed to the door. “Please leave immediately!”
“We’re leaving,” Frank assured her. “But we’ll be back!”
As the boys went down the stairs, Frank said, “We’d better alert Retson that his wife is missing.”
“Why don’t we look for her first?” Joe suggested. “If we tell him now, Hopkins might convince him it was our fault.”
“Okay. Let’s make a quick search around the premises,” Frank agreed.
The boys left the house by the same route they had come in. They were about to split up when a loud cry echoed through the night air. A single word rang in their ears—a woman’s voice screaming:
“Graham!”
35
Startled, Joe asked, “Where did that come from?”
“The waterfall. Come on!”
Frank pushed through the bushes and raced among the trees with Joe at his heels. The roar of the falls became louder with every step.
They turned up a narrow ravine. In the moonlight they saw the water spilling over the edge of a rocky cliff. It plunged into a churning whirlpool, from which a stream with a strong current coursed along the side of Granite Rock.
The Hardys moved toward the falls by stepping gingerly from rock to rock, struggling to keep their balance. “Once in that whirlpool,” Frank warned, “and it could be the last swim we ever take. Watch your footing, Joe!”
The younger boy halted suddenly and pointed to the top of the waterfall. “Look!” he yelled.
High above them on a boulder near the edge of the drop stood the ghostly figure of a woman. Her head was held high. Her body was tense. She stared into the distance.
The boys wiped the spray from their eyes for a better look, but a rising wind whipped a scarf across the woman’s face, concealing her features.
Frank was galvanized by the sight. “Joe, that woman may look like a wraith, but I’ll bet she’s Mrs. Retson. I’m going to introduce myself.”
The boys leaped over the rocky terrain. Suddenly Frank, who was slightly behind Joe, lost his 
36
balance, clutched at the air, and fell into the water with a heavy splash.
The whirlpool took hold of Frank, bouncing him around like a cork. Desperately he struggled to escape from the swirling mass of water. A moment later he was thrown to one side. His head struck a rock with a thud and he blacked out.
Joe saw his brother go under, bob up, and float downstream. Frantically he dashed along the bank. Scrambling at breakneck speed across the boulders, he reached the spot where Frank was hurtling along helplessly toward certain death. Ahead was another drop full of razor-sharp rocks!
In the nick of time Joe reached down, grabbed Frank by the shirt collar, and dragged him to safety.
Frank lay quiet and Joe quickly applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until his brother regained consciousness. He gasped as he came around, “Thanks for fishing me out!”
Joe grinned. “As you said, this is no place for a swim.”
Frank struggled to his feet. “The wraith—is she still up there?”
Both boys glanced toward the rock where the woman had been standing. A dense cloud covering the moon left the entire falls in darkness.
“She’s probably gone by now,” said Joe. “No use looking for her in this murk. We both might slip into the whirlpool next time.”
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“Joe, I didn’t slip,” Frank replied somberly.
“What?”
“Somebody pushed me!”
“Did you see who it was?” Joe’s voice was tense.
“No. But I think it was a man, judging by the force of the shove. He must have been lurking on the bank when I came along.”
“Well, I didn’t see anybody. I thought we were all alone at the bottom of the falls. Anyway, it proves something.”
“Like what?” Frank asked.
“Somebody wants us off the Retson case. And he’ll stop at nothing!”
“Which means we must be getting warm,” Frank said. “Let’s go back to the mansion. Perhaps Mrs. Retson has returned by now.”
They retraced their steps. As they approached the east wing, a figure way ahead of them ran across the lawn.
“A woman!” Frank exclaimed.
“Must be Mrs. Retson!” Joe dashed off at top speed. Frank followed at a slower pace. But they were too late! The woman reached the building and began climbing up the side.
“She’s going up the rope ladder!” Joe moaned.
“No doubt she’s used to that contraption, the way she handles it,” Frank said.
“Hey, what’s this?” Joe said, picking up a piece of flimsy material torn from a scarf. He examined it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.
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Since Frank was feeling exhausted from his ordeal in the whirlpool, they decided to call it a night. At the guesthouse Frank promptly fell into a deep sleep.
Joe lay in bed with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to make sense of the Retson riddle. “I wonder if Nurse Hopkins is in cahoots with Mrs. Retson and knew where she went,” he said to himself. Gradually he dozed off.
A hard pounding on the door snapped Joe wide awake. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Frank sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s all that noise about?” he asked groggily.
Joe got out of bed, opened the door, and confronted Harris the butler. He waved a cablegram wildly in Joe’s face.
“It came this morning,” he blurted out. “Now we know where Graham is!”

CHAPTER V Away to Brazil
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JOE seized the paper and read the message. “Help,” the cablegram said. “Come Excelsior Grao Para. Do not reply. Just come. Graham.”
“You see,” the butler remarked, “Graham must be in that hotel.”
“Where is it?” asked Frank, who by now was wide awake.
“The cable was sent from Belem, Brazil. It’s on the Amazon River, I believe.”
“That’s a strange place for him to be. Well, we’d better speak to Mr. Retson right away.”
“Yes, sir. He is waiting for you in his den,” Harris said.
The Hardys found the tycoon looking very much relieved. “It’s obvious what’s happened,” he chortled. “Graham has learned the error of his ways. He’s got over all his nonsensical ideas and is ready to come home. The mystery is solved!”
40
“Looks as if there’s nothing more for us to do,” Joe observed.
“Wrong!” Retson retorted. “I hired you for an assignment, and it’s still your case. Go to Brazil and escort my son home. Judging by his cablegram, he’s in some kind of trouble. Get him out of it, even if it’s only an unpaid hotel bill.”
Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s okay by us, sir. But before we leave for Belem, we would like to talk with Mrs. Retson.”
The tycoon frowned. “Ordinarily I’d say no. But this new information about Graham is sure to cheer her up. Only make it short. I won’t rest till I know you’re on the plane to Brazil.”
When Frank and Joe appeared at Mrs. Retson’s apartment, Miss Hopkins greeted them in stony silence. Had she told Retson about the incident the night before? Did she think the Hardys had? Her face showed nothing. She swung the door open and invited them in with a wave of her hand.
Mrs. Retson was sitting in an armchair, a shawl over her shoulders and a blanket across her knees. Her head was tilted to one side and her eyes were half-closed. She seemed completely listless.
Frank suspected the woman was under sedation.
“Mrs. Retson, we’ve come to ask you a few questions,” Frank said.
The woman opened her eyes. “Questions? What kind of questions?”
41
“Well, we saw a woman at the waterfall last night. She resembled you!”
“It wasn’t me!” Mrs. Retson shuddered as she spoke and averted her eyes.
“This woman later climbed up a rope ladder to your room,” Joe went on. “Who else could it have been?”
Mrs. Retson’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “I don’t know! I don’t know! You must have made a mistake in the darkness.”
“There was a full moon last night,” Frank stated. “It lighted up the whole area of the waterfall.”
“That explains what happened,” she cried. “People often have delusions at the falls, especially under a full moon! You boys imagined you saw a woman.”
Joe picked up a flimsy scarf from an easy chair. From his pocket he pulled the fragment of material he had found the previous night, and fitted it into a tear in the scarf. It matched perfectly.
Mrs. Retson seemed terror stricken at the sight. When Joe explained where the piece had come from, she slumped into unconsciousness.
“She’s fainted!” Frank exclaimed. He began chafing her wrists while Joe massaged the back of her neck. Miss Hopkins came in quickly and held a glass of water to her lips.
Mrs. Retson began to moan. She opened her eyes and gazed in bewilderment. After sipping a 
42
little water, she sat up. Joe adjusted the shawl, which had slipped down.
The nurse broke the silence. “That’s enough. Mrs. Retson isn’t strong enough to be badgered like this. Do your investigating somewhere else!”
“We’ll be leaving here soon,” Joe promised. “We’re going to Brazil to bring Graham home.”
Upon hearing this, Mrs. Retson raised a hand and cried out, “No! No! Graham is not in Brazil. He’s right here!”
Startled, Frank begged her to explain herself. But she merely gave a knowing smile and refused to say another word.
Frank and Joe left the apartment, expecting the nurse to slam the door behind them. Instead, Miss Hopkins joined them in the hall.
“You must be mystified by Mrs. Retson’s remark,” she said.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Joe replied.
Frank nodded in agreement. “What could she possibly have meant about Graham being right here?”
“She believes in extrasensory perception and psychic phenomena,” Miss Hopkins explained. “She thinks a person can be in two places at once.”
“So that’s it,” Frank said. “Thanks for telling us.”
The boys went outside. Walking away from the mansion, they glanced back and looked up at Mrs Retson’s apartment. They saw a face in the window. 
43
The woman herself was staring down at them with a pleading expression.
“I really feel sorry for her,” Joe said. “She must be mentally ill. That explains her going down to the waterfall last night and calling Graham!”
The boys returned to the guesthouse. Chet Morton was there, and half an hour later Phil and Tony arrived. They had come to join Chet in the business of retrieving golf balls from the Granite City golf courses. The five discussed the latest events.
“So Joe and I will go to Brazil,” Frank concluded. “Meanwhile, it would be a good idea if you guys could keep an eye on the Retson estate.”
“How?” Chet asked. “You can’t do it with a place this size from outside!”
“Maybe Retson will let you stay here. During part of the time you can scavenge golf balls, and when you’re not busy, you can keep track of what’s going on.”
“Sounds good,” Chet said with a grin. “It would save us money, too. Let’s go see the big man.”
The industrialist appeared gratified to know he could count on Chet, Phil, and Tony. “It’ll be nice to have you fellows on the premises,” he said. “Mrs. Retson will feel much safer if we have muscular reinforcements as near as the guesthouse. Not that I think anything will happen,” he added.
44
Frank and Joe made plane reservations, then said good-by to their pals and drove back to Bayport to get ready for the flight to Brazil. Their mother made lunch, then helped them pack their belongings. Laura Hardy always made sure the detectives in the family were properly equipped.
“I do hope you won’t be gone long,” she said.
“Not too long, Mom,” Frank assured her. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
“That’s long enough to get caught by a boa constrictor or eaten by piranhas,” came the voice of Aunt Gertrude, who had stepped into the boys’ bedroom. “You’ll probably get lost in the Amazon rain forest where the jaguars will take a bite out of you. Or the natives might nick you with their poison arrows.”
“Aunt Gertrude, we’re only going to Belem,” Joe reminded her. “It’s a modern city!”
“Anything can happen down there,” Miss Hardy said sharply. “You boys had better look before you leap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
That evening Frank and Joe caught a connecting flight to New York. At Kennedy Airport they transferred to the jet to Brazil, and an hour later they were thundering through the air headed south.
The Hardys had the first two seats in their row. The window seat was occupied by a black-haired Brazilian in his early forties who spoke excellent English. He introduced himself in a friendly manner. “We will be on this plane for quite some time so we might as well get to know one another. My name is Joachim San Marten.”
45


Mrs. Retson was staring down at them
46
Frank introduced himself and his brother. “What kind of a city is Belem?” Joe asked their new acquaintance.
“Very romantic,” San Marten replied. “It is at the mouth of the Amazon, and has buildings dating back to colonial times. Do not miss the Ver-O-Peso market. But remember that the Portuguese name means Watch-the-Weight. That’s a wise rule to follow.” He laughed.
Further conversation revealed that San Marten was a trader in wild animals.
“Zoos are always in the market for the snakes and big cats of the Amazon basin,” he told the boys. “I buy them from the natives and ship them around the world. You have no doubt seen some of my animals in the United States. And why are you two gentlemen going to Belem?”
Frank said, “We’re on our way to meet a friend in the city.”
“Frank’s afraid I’ll spill the beans again,” Joe thought and remained silent.
“Do you have good accommodations?”
“We are going to stay at the Excelsior Grao Para,” Frank replied.
“Oh?” San Marten looked doubtful.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that this hotel has not the 
47
best reputation. It is said to be run by gangsters.”
Frank grinned. “We’ll watch out for the mob.”
San Marten nodded. “Please remember, if I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to call on me.” He handed Frank his card.
“Thanks,” Frank said. Then all three settled back in their seats for a snooze.
Hours later, in bright morning sunlight, the jetliner descended, and prepared for its landing at Belem. Through the window the boys could see the city. A riot of color was reflected from red, green, and yellow tiled roofs. Small craft and freighters rocked gently in the harbor.
When they left the plane, the Hardys noticed San Marten waiting for a large crate that was being taken from the cargo compartment. It was covered by a tarpaulin.
“I wonder if one of our friend’s dangerous animals is in there,” said Joe.
“I suppose so,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s brought back an American cougar for the Belem zoo.”
After they were finished with the formalities at passport control and had claimed their baggage, they caught a taxi and soon arrived at the Excelsior Grao Para, which turned out to be a rather small hotel.
The desk clerk informed them that Mr. Graham had checked out of his room.
“What? He’s left?” Joe asked.
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“Yes, sir. Mr. Graham has departed.”
“Where did he go?” Frank asked.
“He left no forwarding address.”
“That’s funny,” Frank said, puzzled.
“Maybe he left a message for us in his room,” Joe suggested. “Mind if we have a look?”
The clerk shrugged. “It’s empty, so go ahead. Number 225. I think it’s open.”
Frank and Joe left their bags at the desk, took the elevator upstairs, and found the room. It was open and the key was in the lock. They walked inside.
“Let’s give it a thorough once-over,” Frank said.
They checked the dressers, the desk, and night table. Nothing. Frank searched the wastebasket but found no clues. Joe opened the closet. “Hey, here’s something!” he said.
Joe brought out a leather jacket. It bore a label from a Granite City store. Methodically he searched the pockets. In one of them was a cigarette lighter.
“Look at this,” Joe said. Out of curiosity he flipped the top open.
A sharp needle sprang out from a hidden trap.
It pierced Joe’s thumb. He staggered back with a cry, went rigid for a split second, and then toppled over, unconscious!

CHAPTER VI Underground Voodoo
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FRANK rushed over to where his brother lay on the floor. “Joe, what happened?”
Joe made no reply. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale. He breathed heavily as if gasping for air.
“I’ve got to get a doctor fast,” Frank thought desperately. He went to the door, twisted the old-fashioned knob, and jerked hard. It did not budge! He tried shouting for help, but nobody heard him.
Frank ran to the telephone beside the bed. The desk failed to answer. Frantically, Frank poked his head out the window. There was a fire escape, but his heart sank when he saw that the bottom part of the ladder had been removed, leaving a thirty-foot drop to the pavement. He would need a rope!
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Frank pulled the sheets from the bed, tore them into strips, and knotted the pieces together. Then he started to climb out the window.
Suddenly a click at the door caused him to turn around. “Hello?”
The door opened and San Marten stepped in. He looked in amazement at the torn sheets in Frank’s hands and at Joe lying unconscious on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Quick, I need a doctor for Joe,” Frank said “He’s been poisoned.”
San Marten ran to the phone. The desk answered and he called for the hotel physician.
While they waited, Frank asked, “How did you get in here, and why did you come?”
“The key was on the other side and the door unlocked,” San Marten replied. “I was in the neighborhood and decided you might need some help in a strange city. The clerk told me you were up here. How was your brother poisoned?”
Just then the doctor hastened in. He set down his bag and kneeled beside Joe. After feeling the boy’s pulse, he asked, “What caused it?”
Frank indicated the lighter. The doctor examined it closely. Then he pulled a syringe out of his bag and gave Joe an injection.
“The young man will be all right,” he said. “But he could not have lasted much longer. He is suffering from a powerful poison. Fortunately he 
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has a strong heart or he would be dead by now!”
“This seems to be a fiendish plot!” San Marten declared. “You will have to take precautions.”
“Somebody in Belem doesn’t like us,” Frank agreed. “I’m glad you do, Mr. San Marten. It’s nice to have a friend in a strange city.”
“I am happy to have been of assistance,” San Marten replied. “If you take my advice, you will not remain at this hotel. Go somewhere else.”
“We will,” Frank assured him, “as soon as Joe’s back on his feet.”
While they were speaking, Joe regained consciousness. The doctor examined him and pronounced him out of danger.
When Joe stood up, he wobbled. “I’m a trifle queasy,” he said. But gradually he felt stronger and the physician left.
“Incidentally,” San Marten said, “where is the friend you were looking for?”
“We don’t know. He checked out before we arrived,” Frank replied.
“It is strange that the young man departed so suddenly,” San Marten said. “Perhaps something happened to him.”
“Graham must have been in a tizzy,” Joe agreed. “After all, he left without his jacket.”
“And his cigarette lighter,” Frank added. “That is, if it was really his.”
A bellboy opened the door and San Marten called him in.
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“Perhaps you can give us some information about the former occupant of this room?”
“Yes, sir. A very rich American by the name of Graham Retson. About my age.”
“What became of him?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did he say anything to you about where he was going?”
“All I can tell you is that he left the hotel in the company of two men. I do not know what their destination was.”
“Did you know the men?” Joe asked.
“One of them,” the bellboy stated. “I have seen him before many times at the Ver-O-Peso market. But I do not know his name or what he does.”
Close questioning of the bellboy elicited no further information and he left.
“If you like, I will be glad to take you to the Ver-O-Peso market to look for your friend,” San Marten said.
“We’d appreciate it,” Frank said.
The boys took a room at the hotel, then sallied out into Belem with the Brazilian.
Crowds of people streamed past them on the streets. Rickety cars bumped over the cobblestones. A wisp of smoke drifting by carried the scent of roasting nuts.
San Marten smiled as he sniffed the aroma. “Nuts are one of the most important exports of our country. See this truck? Those big bags piled on top are full of Brazil nuts.”
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Joe noticed a monkey climb to the top of the sacks. He was about to call attention to him when suddenly one of the bags moved.
“Frank! Jump!” Joe yelled.
The massive bag smashed on the cobblestones where Frank had been. The truck stopped, the monkey disappeared, and the driver recovered his cargo.
“Thanks for the warning, Joe,” Frank said. “I’d hate to be knocked off the case by a bag of nuts. But accidents will happen.”
Joe was not convinced that it was an accident. The monkey had pushed the nuts. Could someone have put him up to it? Or was he just monkeying around?
The three stopped for lunch in a small restaurant, then continued on to the colorful market. They walked between stalls heaped with tropical fruits, sandals, and gewgaws.
Sellers offered their wares, buyers scoffed at prices, and haggling went on amid a din of Portuguese epithets.
Joe gestured toward one of the stalls. “How about a baby python, Frank? Or maybe you’d settle for some alligator teeth?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll take a voodoo charm home to Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied.
Joe tried to find an opportunity to tell his brother about the monkey but San Marten did not leave their side.
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Finally they stopped in front of a witchcraft stall, where a wizened, gnome-like old man offered to sell them weird idols, magical potions, and wax figures in which to stick pins.
San Marten spoke to the man in Portuguese, then turned to the boys. “We’re invited to join a voodoo rite. Buru here claims he can conjure up a vision of where your friend is.”
The witch doctor smiled and nodded, showing broken teeth.
“Tell him we don’t believe in visions,” Frank said.
San Marten smiled. “I’m sure you don’t. But these dances are interesting to watch, and you do not get a chance like this often.”
Frank shrugged. “Okay.”
San Marten again spoke in Portuguese to the witch doctor, who bowed and gestured. Then he led the way through his stall, between piles of dried snake skins and jungle herbs, to a small door at the rear. He opened it, and a narrow spiral stone staircase lay before them
Cackling softly to himself, Buru lifted a battered lantern off the wall, lighted it, and descended. The air became cool and the stone walls dripped moisture. The lantern threw flickering rays of light that only made the darkness behind seem more intense.
The old man stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and spoke in his native tongue. San 
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Marten translated: “We are in a subcellar far below the level of the street. The magical rites are held down here to prevent unwelcome intrusions by unbelievers, especially the police!”
The police! A shiver ran down Frank’s spine. What kind of a place were they being taken to?
Bum pulled out a black key. The lock clicked and the door opened into a large musty room. Enormous dust-coated beams supported the high ceiling.
About twenty silent natives sat in a circle on the stone floor. All were dressed in flowing white robes. An earthenware jug passed from hand to hand around the circle, each man taking a swig as it reached him.
“My friends,” San Marten whispered, “you have entered the world of macumba.”
“Macumba?” Joe asked, puzzled. “What’s that?”
“A form of voodoo. These people are convinced they can bring back departed spirits by means of a magical dance. The spirit possesses one of the dancers.”
“They’re not dancing now,” Frank remarked.
“They are preparing for it by drinking the secret brew. A vile concoction, I assure you. I tasted it once.”
The macumba mediums began swaying from side to side. They broke into a rhythmical chant and clapped their hands.
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“This is the sacred song,” San Marten explained. “By chanting these verses, they seek to placate the dead and open the path of communication.”
The shadowy faces assumed ecstatic expressions as the Hardys watched. In the lamplight black eyes glowed like embers. The chant rose to a soaring crescendo.
Suddenly the nearest man got to his feet and began a jig. One by one the others imitated him, until they were all on their feet, stamping and waving their hands.
The circle began to move. Fascinated, Frank drew closer. The wild-eyed macumba dancers seemed to have hypnotized him. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, he moved into the middle of the ring, which revolved faster and faster.
Suddenly a piercing shriek brought Frank out of his trance. One of the natives fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. The others screamed and danced more wildly.
Frank looked around. The hair rose on the back of his neck.
“This is ridiculous,” he thought. “I have to get out of here.” He plunged between two of the dancers, looking for his brother and San Marten. A chill went down his spine when he realized that that they were no longer with him.
Frank began a systematic search, making his way to the rear of the circle, and walking once 
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around. No luck! Again he pressed himself between the ecstatically gyrating bodies to the center. San Marten and Joe were nowhere in sight! Had they left?
Frank looked for the door. It had disappeared, too! His pulse beat like a jackhammer. He was trapped amid the zealots of voodoo!

CHAPTER VII Buru’s Vision
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WITH sinuous movements, hands reached out toward Frank. Was he about to become a victim of macumba rites?
“Not if I can help it,” he thought. “I’ll go down swinging before I let those lunatics get me!” He assumed a judo stance, ready to hit the first attacker with a karate chop.
“Cool it, Frank,” came a low familiar voice. “It’s me.”
“Joe?” Frank was dumbfounded. In the dim light he could barely make out his brother’s features.
“Right. Don’t let the party costume fool you. I just put it on for this shindig. Same for my dancing partner here. He’s not what he seems.”
Frank recognized San Marten. “What’s the big idea?” he demanded.
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“San Marten suggested joining the dance,” Joe said. “I figured you were coming, too.”
“I thought we might learn something that would lead us to Graham Retson,” San Marten said.
“Down here with these weirdos?” Frank shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. We can resume our conference when we get away from these shimmy-shakers.”
The voodoo dancers were becoming more frenzied. Their chanting became stentorian, and their contortions more furious.
Frank saw Buru coming toward them as Joe and San Marten slipped back into their own clothes. The old man motioned to them, then led the way around the dancing circle, edging along so as not to attract attention, to a point where a big stone block stood against the wall.
Gesturing to the others to help, he began to push at the block. The rest pitched in, shifted the obstruction to one side, and gained access to an opening through which they had to crawl on their hands and knees.
They reached another stone staircase. Hastening upward, they returned to the witch doctor’s stall. With their hands they shielded their eyes from the daylight until they became reaccustomed to it.
The two Brazilians began an animated conversation. 
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Frank tugged at Joe’s sleeve and the boys moved off to one side, out of earshot.
“Wow! Am I glad to be back on earth!” Frank said.
Joe grinned. “Actually, it was fun!” Then he became serious. “A lot of strange things have happened since our arrival,” he said. “That bag of nuts which fell off the truck, for instance. It was pushed by a monkey!”
“That figures,” Frank said. “Somebody’s after us. And I’d include San Marten among the suspects. I haven’t yet discovered why he’s so concerned about us.”
“I think he’s okay,” Joe said.
“Maybe so. But I don’t see why he brought us to this place. He can’t take that voodoo stuff seriously.”
“Of course not. He just thought it would be interesting for us to watch.”
“And what about his showing up at the hotel just at the right time? He claimed the door was open, but I’ll bet somebody locked it after we went into the room. And how come part of the fire escape ladder was missing just when I needed it?”
“How’s that again?”
Frank told his brother about his movements while Joe had been unconscious. “When I tried to call for a doctor, I got no answer. After San Marten had come in, the desk answered immediately.”
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“That doesn’t prove anything. The clerk might have had another call.”
“And how do you explain the locked door?”
“It could have been stuck.”
“Then the bellboy walked in when nobody called for him.”
“He might have been sent to take out the dishes. I saw a tray and a couple of glasses on one of the dressers.”
Frank sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but the whole thing is too pat, too—”
Just then San Marten beckoned to the Hardys. “Buru has a prediction about where to find Graham. He says he had a vision that your friend is going up the Amazon to Manaus.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a port near the juncture of the Amazon and the Negro rivers nearly a thousand miles from here.”
“Baloney!” Frank murmured to Joe.
The witch doctor sensed their skepticism. He smiled and spoke volubly.
San Marten said, “He warns that we had better believe his vision. Otherwise serious harm might come to Graham. If you want to find him, go to Manaus.”
“We’ll think it over,” Frank began, “and when we reach—”
He was interrupted by a rustling sound at the back of the stall. Furry fingers pulled the curtains 
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apart. A simian face appeared in the opening. Frank and Joe saw a howler monkey about three feet tall, with silky black fur and a savage expression.
The Hardys got only a brief glimpse before the face pulled back behind the curtains.
“So you keep a monkey for a pet, Buru,” Joe said.
When San Marten translated that remark, the witch doctor shook his head angrily and went into a torrent of negatives.
“He denies he has a monkey on the premises,” San Marten reported.
“We saw it!” Frank insisted.
“Buru says that whatever you saw was caused by your imagination.”
“Like his visions,” Joe scoffed.
San Marten smiled. “Perhaps. Still I believe it would be better if I left your comparison untranslated. Witch doctors are not the best-tempered people in Belem.”
Joe looked amused. “You mean Buru might place a curse on us?”
Sensing hostility, Frank said, “We’d better return to the Excelsior Grao Para.”
“Not there, my friends,” San Marten protested. “My home in the suburbs is at your disposal. Please use it freely as long as you stay in Belem.”
Frank and Joe, however, would not be swayed. 
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“You see,” Frank stated, “we need to be in the city while looking for our friend.”
“Some other time,” Joe promised. “We’ll take a rain check just now.”
They parted with friendly handshakes, and the boys went to the hotel. The desk clerk waved to them. “Mr. Graham returned while you were out.”
“Is he here now?” Joe asked excitedly.
“No. He came for his leather jacket and departed again.”
“Did he give you any forwarding address this time?” Frank queried.
“All he said was that he was going to Manaus, and that he could not wait. He mentioned no address in that city.”
The boys went to their room and Joe closed the door. “Good night, Frank! Buru was right. It’s incredible!”
Frank suspected trickery. Joe, on the other hand, felt that the voodoo witch doctor might have some psychic power of insight. They discussed the case from every angle and tried to figure out how to proceed from here.
“Now we’re faced with the monkey mystery, too!” Frank said. “Are you sure that sack of nuts was pushed by the monkey?”
“Listen, Frank. I told you!”
“Okay, okay. Don’t let this give us the jitters. Was it the same one we saw at Buru’s?”
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“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Monkeys all look alike to me.”
Frank sagged into a chair and let out a long breath. “San Marten bugs me.”
“You worry too much,” Joe said. “Tell you what. If it will make you feel better, why not have Dad inquire about him at the Brazilian Embassy in Washington?”
“Good thinking. We’ll send Dad a cable.”
“What about Manaus?”
“It’s our only clue. I suggest we go, but proceed with extreme caution.”
“I’m with you,” Joe said. He took out a cablegram blank from the desk drawer and wrote: “Need info Brazil Embassy Joachim San Marten. On way to Manaus re Graham.”
“I’ll take it down to the telegraph office,” he said when he was finished. “Better not trust the bellboy with it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Frank said. “I’m starved.”
The boys had dinner in a small restaurant near the hotel, then returned to their room. It was not air conditioned and seemed like an oven.
“We’d better get as much air as we can,” Frank suggested, forcing the window wide open.
“Come to think of it,” Joe said, “the fire escape would be a good place to sleep on a night like this. Natural air conditioning.”
They showered and then turned in. Frank placed a flashlight on the table beside the bed 
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for emergency use, which was an old habit with him.
Both boys slept fitfully, turning and tossing on sweat-dampened sheets. Suddenly both were wide awake. There was a strange noise in their room. Dimly they made out a figure bending over their clothes.
“A thief!” Joe thought.
Carefully Frank reached for his flashlight. Pointing it toward the intruder, he snapped it on. A cone of light stabbed through the darkness. It revealed a hideous-looking simian standing beside a chair, holding Frank’s shirt in one of its paws. The monkey’s nose was wrinkled, the eyes drawn into narrow glaring slits, and his fangs were bared in a ferocious scowl!

CHAPTER VIII Fish Bait
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FRANK and Joe jumped up and dived for the simian. Joe got a hand on a furry leg, but the animal scampered free. It dashed to the fire escape and swung down the metal framework from floor to floor, using its long prehensile tail as a fifth paw. The boys watched in dismay as the monkey finally leaped to the pavement and vanished around a corner of the hotel.
“That’s the ugliest brute I’ve ever seen,” Joe said in a shaky voice. “I’d consider it a nightmare if you hadn’t seen it too, Frank.”
“Oh, it was real enough,” said Frank, who had been examining his clothes. “Real enough to make off with my wallet, key ring, passport and other identification papers.”
Joe went through his pockets. “Good night! I’m cleaned out, too!”
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Frank sat down on the bed. “Joe, we’re dealing with a monkey clever enough to be a professional burglar. A human being couldn’t have pulled off the job more neatly.”
“A human being put that monkey up to it!” Joe said.
An odd feeling swept over both boys. They felt as if they were in the grip of some evil power, as if a malevolent force was bent on their destruction.
“Frank,” Joe said, “we’re stuck. No money, no passports, no nothing. What’ll we do?”
“Go to the American Consulate,” Frank said. “Then I suggest we call San Marten and tell him our sad story. If he’s involved in it, we might as well stick close to him. He doesn’t know we suspect him, so maybe we can pick up a clue.”
At nine in the morning Frank asked the hotel clerk to put him through to San Marten’s home. After a brief wait, the Brazilian’s voice came over the wire. Frank told him they had been robbed.
“I will help you,” San Marten assured them. “Come here for breakfast. Take a taxi at my expense. I will instruct my servants to set two extra places.”
Frank and Joe accepted his invitation, but first made their way to the consulate. A United States official gave them some cash, arranged for them 
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to cable home for money, and promised to have identification for them shortly.
The boys thanked him, caught a taxi in front of the consulate, and reached the suburbs of Belem in about twenty minutes. It was an exclusive residential area of large houses with broad lawns. Maids were sweeping off front porches and washing windows. Gardeners were spading the earth.
“Nice area,” Joe commented. “The rich live well here, too.”
The Brazilian’s home turned out to be a plush one. A wrought-iron gate gave access to a walk flanked by tropical flowers leading up to a big house. The door was opened by a servant who ushered the boys through to a patio in the rear of the property.
San Marten sat at a table beside a broad, deep swimming pool. Thick shrubbery grew a few yards from the pool on three sides; the fourth side facing the house was open.
San Marten rose. “I am very happy to see you here,” he said, waving them to a couple of empty chairs.
Frank noticed the table was placed on the west side of the pool in the morning sun. They sat down with their backs to the glare.
A second servant brought in a platter of ham and eggs, which the boys ate with great relish. At the same time they discussed the theft by the 
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monkey. San Marten seemed thoroughly mystified. He folded his napkin and placed it on the table.
“I will speak to the police immediately,” he said.
“We’ll go with you,” Frank said.
“That won’t be necessary. You stay here and relax. Enjoy a swim in the pool,” San Marten said. “You’ll find suits in the cabana.”
Before they could object, he stepped into a light-blue sports car parked nearby and roared off in the direction of Belem.
Frank and Joe sat lazily in the sun for a while, then Joe said, “I think I’ll take San Marten up on his swim invitation. How about you?”
“First we’ll get rid of the breakfast dishes,” Frank said with a grin. “Aunt Gertrude would never approve if we left the table like this.”
He rang the bell for the servants, expecting someone to come and clean up the table. Receiving no response, he went into the house, found it empty, and returned to the patio.
“The help has vamoosed with the master,” he told Joe.
“Must be their day off,” his brother guessed. “We’ll have some peace and quiet for our dip.”
“They were here when we arrived, so it’s hardly their day off,” Frank said, an uneasy feeling coming over him. “I think maybe San Marten is up to something.”
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Joe had already started for the cabana and quickly slipped into a pair of trunks which looked as if they would fit. Frank followed suit, still pondering the strange disappearance of the servants. As they emerged from the cabana, the sunlight reflected from the surface of the pool in blinding rays. Joe climbed on the diving board, where he poised for a full gainer.
Frank, shielding his eyes, spotted a slight movement down in the water. Suddenly Aunt Gertrude’s warning rang in his ears: “Look before you leap!”
Leaning over the edge of the pool, he saw a small fish not more than eight inches long. It had a blunt face with an underslung jaw, a silvery bluish body, and a touch of red on its fins.
“Joe, don’t dive!” Frank shouted.
The warning came almost too late and Joe had trouble regaining his balance. “Why, what’s the matter?” he asked.
“You’ll have company you may not care to meet. Come here!”
Joe descended from the diving board and peered down at the fish.
“Frank, there’s more than one. In fact, a whole school. Wait a minute! I have a hunch!” Joe ran to the table where the breakfast dishes still lay. Seizing a piece of ham from the platter, he returned to the pool.
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He tossed the ham through the air. It hit the water with a splash and had hardly started to sink when the school of small fish darted to it. They became a swirling horde of ferocious predators, tearing off mouthfuls and gulping them down. The ham was gone in seconds!
Frank and Joe shuddered.
Piranhas!
“No wonder San Marten and the servants vanished so suddenly,” Frank muttered. “They set up operation bone yard for our benefit, but didn’t want to witness the gory details. And the table was set up facing the sun to keep us from spotting the fish.”
“Wow! I’m beginning to feel sick,” Joe said.
“Come on,” Frank said. “I’ve got an idea.” He led the way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. They found a rib roast, two large hams, a big loin of pork and a leg of lamb.
“Our host must have been planning a party,” Frank said. “Joe, help me carry these!”
The boys lugged the meat outside. “In they go!” Frank said as they tossed the provisions into the water.
The piranhas were on them in a flash. The water boiled with the assault. In a few minutes only cleanly picked bones lay at the bottom of the pool.
Suddenly the front door slammed. Frank and 
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Joe dodged into the shrubbery, crouched down, and parted the leaves. The two servants walked warily across the patio to the pool.
One laughed, elbowed his companion, and pointed to the bones. The other guffawed as if he had just heard a good joke.
“They think they’re looking at our remains,” Joe whispered.
Frank nodded. “We’d better get off the premises before they find out the truth. Come on!”
As they slipped through the shrubbery Joe tripped and fell. Frank paused to help him up. Then came the sound of pursuers.
The boys careened past large bushes and small trees toward the fence at the back of the property. Frank scrambled to the top. Joe followed, barely escaping the clutching fingers of one of the servants.
“They’ll come after us!” Joe panted.
They ran down the street and turned a corner.
“In there!” Frank replied, pointing to the nearest building. It was a low neat structure with the sign BIBLIOTECA beside the front door.
“It’s a library,” Frank said. “And look how we’re dressed.”
The dark-haired pretty girl at the reception desk was startled by the sudden appearance of two boys in swim trunks. Readers looked up from their books and newspapers to see what all the commotion was about.
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The boys asked for help and the girl, in halting English, said, “I will get police. You wait.”
Frank and Joe squatted behind some book-stacks. A few minutes later a squad car transported the Hardys to headquarters. The chief, Captain Vasquez, spoke English quite well.
Frank asked for San Marten, but was told he had not come to headquarters. Then the boys went over the morning’s events repeatedly, only to be met with grins of disbelief.
“Americanos good with joke!” said a lieutenant, bursting into loud laughter.
“Joachim San Marten would never do anything like this,” the captain insisted. “He is a respectable resident.”
“Send your men to investigate his swimming pool,” Frank urged.
Vasquez hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed. The squad car went out. It returned ten minutes later and the two policemen reported nothing unusual about San Marten’s pool.
Frank was crushed. “The servants must have removed the piranhas and the bones,” he said weakly.
“We will forget your fish story,” Vasquez said, shaking his head, “and let you go this time. Get out of those swim trunks. We will find your size among clothing left by former prisoners.”
“Thanks,” Joe said glumly, disappointed that nobody believed them.
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The boys changed, then left. As they walked into the lobby of the Excelsior Grao Para, Frank grabbed his brother’s elbow. “Sh! Look over there at the desk!”
“San Marten!” Joe gasped.
The Brazilian was in a towering fury. His face was flushed, his body trembling. He pounded the desk with his fist.
“Where are the Hardys?” San Marten demanded in English.
“Sir, I have no idea.”
San Marten seized the man by the lapels and shook him. “Where did they go? Where can I find them?”
“Sir, if I knew, believe me I would tell you,” the clerk gasped.
Thrusting him aside with a contemptuous gesture, San Marten wheeled around. The Hardys hastily ducked behind a large pillar. Had they been fast enough? Had their murderous enemy seen them?

CHAPTER IX A Curious Number Seven
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SAN MARTEN motioned savagely in the Hardys’ direction. He started walking toward the pillar behind which they were hiding.
“He’s spotted us!” Joe warned.
“Get ready,” Frank muttered. “We’ll have to fight our way out of this one!”
San Marten’s vigorous strides brought him quickly abreast of the pillar. The boys could see the angry tightening of his jaw. Tensely they prepared for a counterattack.
The Brazilian, however, did not circle the pillar. He walked straight past toward a man in the doorway at whom he had been gesturing. The pair disappeared out of the hotel.
Frank mopped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Wow! That was close.”
“Let’s scram while we’re still in one piece,” Joe urged.
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“Right. But we’ll need our suitcases.”
“How do we get to the room—by asking the clerk for the key?”
Frank grinned. “I’d rather not. Let’s take the fire escape. Since we paid one night in advance when we registered, I suggest we forget about checking out, too.”
The boys managed to climb up to their window unseen. They jumped into the room, took their bags, and exited the same way.
“Where to now?” Joe asked.
“There’s a park a few blocks down the street,” Frank said. “San Marten won’t think of looking for us there. We’ll have to hang around a while till money from home arrives.”
They found the park practically deserted. Seated on a bench under some spreading tropical foliage, they were able to talk freely with no fear of eavesdroppers.
“San Marten can’t be operating against us all by his lonesome,” Joe remarked. “He must be the leader of a gang.”
Frank agreed. “Try this for size, Joe. The gang kidnapped Graham Retson, took the money he withdrew from the bank, and are now holding him for ransom. They’re out to get us before we rescue Graham.”
“You’re on my wave length, Frank, coming through loud and clear.”
Frank paused to think over the problem. “I 
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can’t figure out where Manaus fits in. That clue might be a plant to lure us up the Amazon so San Marten and company can ambush us.”
“On the other hand,” Joe countered, “Graham could really be in Manaus. Our job is to find him, so we can’t ignore the whole thing.”
“Besides,” Frank said, “if it’s a trap, we may be able to turn the tables on the gang. Forewarned is forearmed, as Aunt Gertrude would say.”
“I’ll buy that,” Joe said. “But how do we get to Manaus? If we take a boat upriver, it’ll take weeks before we arrive.”
“We’ll have to fly.”
“San Marten will have the commercial lines watched,” Joe predicted. “And I doubt if e can rent a plane without identification papers. That second-story monkey grounded us.”
“Maybe the man at the consulate can give us some advice,” Frank said. “We’ll have to check in there anyhow for our money. I hope it has arrived.”
Toting their bags, Frank and Joe returned to the American Consulate, which was near the park. The man they had spoken to that morning greeted them with a smile. “Your money is here,” he said. “I’m having your passports canceled and you will have new ones soon.”
Frank explained that they wanted to fly to Manaus and the man made a quick phone call. 
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He spoke in Portuguese, smiled, and hung up.
“This should do the trick,” he said to the Hardys. “Go to the airport on the edge of town. A pilot by the name of Rico Armand is waiting there. He has a small private plane and will fly you to Manaus.”
“Thank you very much,” Frank said, and the Hardys walked out of the office.
They hailed a taxi and an hour later were at the airport. They found the pilot, a handsome youth in his early twenties, who spoke English.
Armand shook hands, mentioned his fee, and the boys paid in advance. Then the three took off.
They circled over the vast delta of the Amazon, heading upriver. The east coast disappeared behind them, and the rain forest extended on both sides like a huge green carpet.
Smaller tributary streams could be seen snaking through towering trees before emptying into the broad river.
The plane flew on and on, and it seemed nothing else existed in the world except those countless miles of jungle beneath their wings.
Two refueling stops were made at intermediate airstrips. Armand followed the Rio Negro from its confluence with the Amazon, and finally Manaus came into sight.
Frank and Joe looked down on hundreds of canoes in the river, paddled by natives headed 
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for the waterfront market with cargoes of fruit and vegetables. The buildings of the city were a conglomeration of styles, running from primitive huts to old colonial and modern high rise.
One building in particular stood out—an ornate structure of pink and white marble. Frank and Joe stared in disbelief.
“How did that ever get into the jungle?” Joe asked.
“That’s the old opera house,” Armand replied. “Manaus used to be the rubber capital of Brazil. The wealthy planters had the best of everything, including opera.”
“The city must have gone downhill since then,” Frank remarked.
“Brazil’s rubber doesn’t sell too well these days,” said the pilot. “Can’t compete with the East Indies. So Manaus is pretty much what you Americans would call a ghost town of the Amazon.”
“How do people make a living now?” Joe asked.
“Partly from tourism. Manaus is a free port and you can buy things duty free. That’s one reason I see more visitors in Manaus every time I come.”
A message from the airport tower came over the radio: “Wait for permission to land.” Armand began to circle. His fuel gauge showed the plane could not keep flying much longer.
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“I don’t understand the delay,” he said nervously. “I’ll have to land without permission if this keeps up.”
“Frank,” Joe muttered, “this may be San Marten’s doing.”
The fuel gauge pointed to empty and the three aboard were braced for a crash landing when the control tower finally gave the okay.
“Down to the last drop of gas,” Armand commented as they taxied to a halt. In the terminal they found out that a maintenance truck had been stalled on the runway.
After a quick sandwich at the airport the boys said good-by to the pilot, then took a taxi to a hotel in the middle of town. After checking in they began to scout Manaus for Graham Retson. None of the hotels had any record of him, so they turned their attention to the rooming houses. It was not till the next day, however, that they struck a lead.
“Yes,” said the owner of a small rooming house, a German named Bauer, “Graham Retson was here, but left yesterday. I found this paper in his room. Maybe it will help you.”
Frank took the piece of paper. It was dirty and wrinkled as if it had been crumpled into a ball and tossed aside. He examined the crudely scrawled message. It was dated May seventh and said: “I am being taken to a small boat next to the Argentine freighter in Manaus harbor. My 
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captors intend to take me farther up the Amazon. Help! Graham Retson.”
Joe whistled and pulled his brother aside. “Frank, this is a real clue!”
“You’re wrong, Joe.”
“Why?”
“Look at the date. The seven has a bar through it. That’s the European way of writing the number. No American would do it like that. Another thing. Today is May seventh. The landlord said Graham left yesterday. He’s in cahoots with San Marten, Joe! Bauer wrote the note himself. They’re trying to trick us!”
“We’ll trick them in return!” Joe declared. “They want to get us aboard their boat for a oneway voyage to the bottom of the Amazon. Instead, we’ll stay off the boat and listen to what’s going on.”
“With our bug, you mean?” Frank asked. “Great idea.”
The boys went back to their hotel. Frank opened his suitcase and drew out a length of coiled wire from a hidden pocket under a false bottom. One end of the wire had a set of earphones attached. From the other dangled a sensitive metal sphere. The Hardys had often used this detection device to listen in on conversations at long range.
They walked to the harbor at nightfall. Frank pointed to the lights of a hulking vessel anchored there. “That’s the Argentine freighter, Joe. And 
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that small boat beside it has to be the one we’re looking for.”
“Okay, I’ll go to work.”
Frank, holding the earphones, sat down behind some crates on the dock. Joe stripped quickly to his shorts, then slipped into the river carrying the wire, which payed out from the bank as he swam. Reaching the boat, he carefully planted the bug on one of the portholes.
“The insect is ready to strike,” Joe announced when he came back to Frank, shaking the droplets of water off his body. Then he began to put on his slacks and shirt.
“Hurry,” Frank said suddenly. “We’re having company.”
Two men walked down to the water’s edge and stopped a few yards from where the Hardys were concealed. Obviously convinced that they were alone in the darkness, they spoke clearly in English. The Hardys recognized the voices.
“San Marten!” Joe whispered.
Frank nodded. “The other guy sounds like Bauer—that guy at the rooming house.”
San Marten spoke in more informal English than they had ever heard him use before. “Are you positive every angle’s covered? I don’t want any slips, mind you.”
“Don’t get upset,” his companion replied. “Diabo is standing guard. No one can sneak past him. He’s foolproof.”
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“Hurry,” Frank said. “We’re having company.”
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“Okay,” San Marten said with satisfaction. “Soon the river will have the Hardys.”
“Joachim, that was a good idea to lure them to Brazil. With Graham on our hands back north at—”
A sudden noise caused Frank and Joe to whirl around.
They saw the monkey with the evil face charging at them! He was so close that they did not have a chance to move. Snapping and snarling ferociously the animal catapulted into the Hardys. The force of the assault toppled them over into the river!

CHAPTER X Adrift on the Amazon
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FRANK and Joe plummeted down through the water until they steadied themselves. Kicking convulsively, they shot back to the surface.
At once the howler monkey was on them, clawing their backs with his hind paws, nipping and scratching at their heads.
Frank twisted around and pulled the creature off Joe. Their combined strength was too much even for their savage assailant. Suddenly the monkey wrenched himself from their grasp. Streaking through the water, he made for the shore.
“Don’t let him get away!” Frank spluttered.
But a fusillade of shots changed the Hardys’ minds. Bullets skipped off the surface of the river and whined into the darkness.
Joe halted abruptly, treading water. He turned back toward Frank. “We can’t get to shore,” he warned.
“Let’s swim downstream,” Frank suggested.
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“And quick,” Joe said. “They’re coming after us!”
The put-put of a motorboat echoed across the water, growing louder as the craft cut the distance between it and the boys. Frantically Frank and Joe swam out into the river. The motorboat gained on them rapidly.
Just then a pleasure launch came gliding in their direction. The lights of the cabin threw a sheen over the Rio Negro. Three or four couples were dancing to the rhythm of a small combo.
“Follow me!” Frank gasped. “To the other side!”
Waiting until the launch was slightly upstream from him, he took a deep breath and submerged. Kicking hard, and using his arms in a powerful breaststroke, he arched down under the launch. The keel scraped his back as he passed. His lungs were bursting for want of air when he came up on the opposite side of the craft. Reaching out, he grasped a railing just above the water line.
A split second later Joe bobbed up beside him. They clung to the railing side by side, gasping for breath. The launch carried them swiftly down the river.
“Now what?” Joe asked. “Shall we call the skipper?”
“Better not,” Frank said. “There’s no telling who’s on board. San Marten’s confederates would 
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be only too happy to arrange a reception committee for us.”
They clung to the launch until it passed the confluence of the Rio Negro and the Amazon, a few miles below Manaus. Feeling safe, they dropped off and swam to the shore.
“I’ve had it,” Frank said, flopping down in a patch of tall jungle grass.
“Rest a while,” Joe said. “I’ll get us a snack.”
He walked off into the jungle and returned ten minutes later with a big bunch of bananas. Voraciously they downed the fruit, tossing the skins over their shoulders as they worked through the bunch.
“At least we won’t starve here,” Frank observed.
“We’re okay,” Joe said, “as long as we don’t get eaten. I’d hate to wake up and find a hungry jaguar staring me in the eye.”
“There’s probably a lot of them in this area,” Frank said. “Hear those monkeys chattering in the trees? Jaguars feast on monkeys.”
Joe pondered Frank’s remark. “That reminds me. We’ve learned the name of the beast that’s been annoying us—Diabo.”
“Which means devil in Portuguese,” Frank said. “You couldn’t think of a better name for that horrible creature.”
Joe yawned. “We’ve left him far behind. Now it’s me for dreamland.”
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They both were soon sound asleep on the banks of the Amazon. The sun had risen by the time they woke. After breakfasting on bananas and berries, they walked along the shore, waving and shouting at boats passing by in the middle of the river.
“No go,” Joe said after a while. “They’re too far out to notice us.”
“We’ll have to build a raft,” Frank stated. “There are plenty of fallen trees in the jungle. They’ll do for logs.”
The boys began hauling tree trunks out of the nearest patch of jungle. When they had gathered about a dozen, Frank lined them up in a row. Joe pulled down some thick, sinuous creepers from the trees to use as rope. Skillfully they braided the creepers over and around the logs. The result was a seaworthy raft. Flat driftwood provided a pair of paddles.
The boys gave their craft a stiff push into deep water. Then they scrambled onto it and began paddling toward the middle of the Amazon.
The strong current caught the raft, propelling it along at a rapid rate. “No use fighting this,” Joe panted. “The best we can do is travel on a diagonal line downstream.”
Dipping their makeshift paddles rhythmically into the water, the boys managed to guide their raft toward the lanes followed by river traffic.
Frank ceased paddling and looked around at 
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the bare expanse of water, sky, and jungle. “We seem to have the Amazon all to ourselves.”
Joe also shipped his paddle. “Well, we’re far enough out, Frank. There’ll be boats coming by and we’ll be able to hitch a ride back to Manaus.”
He rose to his feet, shaded his eyes with his hands, and squinted up the river. A dot on the horizon grew larger. The outline of a substantial vessel took shape.
“Tour ship coming,” Joe announced jubilantly. “I’ll flag it down.” Taking off his shirt, he fastened it to his paddle by the cuffs. Then he began to wave his improvised flag at the ship, which slowed down and eased alongside.
A rope ladder swung down over the railing. The boys quickly mounted to the deck. In the captain’s cabin, they told him that they had become lost in the jungle on the previous night.
“Where do you wish to go?” the captain asked.
“To Manaus,” Frank answered.
“We will be glad to take you.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Frank and Joe freshened up and had a second breakfast. “Good thing we still got our money,” Frank said with a grin. “It got soaked, but it’ll still buy us what we need.”
“How about a plane trip back to Belem?” Joe asked.
“Good idea. The only thing is, who’s going to take us?”
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Joe shrugged. “We’ll just have to make it to the airport and play it by ear.”
It was about noontime when the Hardys arrived in Manaus. After getting their bags, they took a taxi to the airfield and Frank inquired if Rico Armand happened to be there.
The airport manager, a rotund Brazilian with a bald head, shrugged. “If you know his plane, go out and look around. There are many small planes coming in here and I do not know all the pilots by name.”
The boys made a methodical search of the field.
“Hey, Frank,” Joe said, “doesn’t that crate look like the one we came on?”
“Sure does. I recognize the number. Wow, are we in luck!”
“Tell you what,” Joe said. “I’ll stay here by the plane while you try to locate Armand.”
“Okay.” Frank left. He returned a half hour later without the pilot. “Somebody told me he’d be flying out about three o’clock,” he said. “But no one knows where he is now.”
“We’ll wait right here,” Joe said. “It’s our best bet.”
The boys squatted down beside a hangar from where they could keep the plane under surveillance. Rico Armand appeared about a half hour later. He was surprised to see the boys, who quickly asked for a ride back to Belem.
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“Sure, get in,” the pilot said. “I’ll be glad to take you.”
They arrived in Belem in the evening and found a small hotel to spend the night. After dinner they discussed the situation.
“What next?” Joe asked, stifling a yawn.
“Obviously the Brazilian angle was nothing but a wild-goose chase,” Frank said. “We were lured here by San Marten and his gang to be eliminated.”
“Suppose Retson had come instead of sending us?”
“Then no doubt he would have run into the same difficulties.”
“Too bad we didn’t learn where Graham really is,” Joe said with a sigh.
“Back north most likely meant the United States. I vote we return to Granite City and work on the case from there,” Frank said.
“I’m with you. Maybe we can get our papers tomorrow.”
At the American Consulate the next day the Hardys were greeted by the same man they had spoken to before. “Your passport problem is solved,” he told them. “The lost ones have been canceled. Here are a couple of identification cards that will enable you to return home.”
“Thank you, sir,” Frank replied.
The young detectives made plane reservations 
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and sent a cable to their family, saying they would be on a late-afternoon flight from Belem to New York. Then they taxied to the airport, bought tickets, and boarded a jet.
Before they left the ground, Joe, who was at the window, nudged his brother. “Frank, look at that!”
They saw a crate with a howler monkey being lifted into the hold of a plane operated by another airline. The animal stood on its hind legs, grasping the bars, and peered through with sharp black eyes.
“Would you say that’s Diabo?” Joe asked.
“Hardly. This one has a pleasant face, not at all like the leering monster we tangled with.”
They landed at Kennedy Airport the following morning. After they made their way through customs, they found Chet Morton waiting for them with a big grin.
Joe clapped their freckle-faced friend on the shoulder. “Chet, how did you know we were coming?”
“I had something to do for my dad in New York. Before I left, your mother called me. She got your cable and asked me to let you know your father’s coming in on the shuttle from Washington just about now. He’ll join us for the connecting flight to Bayport.”
The three youths went to the shuttle terminal coffee shop to kill time while waiting for Fenton 
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Hardy. They took a booth near a window where they could see the planes coming down for a landing.
After the waitress had served them, Frank sipped his coke. “How’s business, Chet? Last we knew Phil and Tony were joining forces with you in the golf ball project.”
“Anvone drown in a water hazard yet?” Joe needled their rotund pal.
Chet downed a bite of doughnut. “You guys don’t take scavenging seriously enough,” he said. “Business is booming. We’ve recovered about a thousand balls. At least a hundred bucks apiece for each of us.”
Frank brought the conversation around to the mystery. “Chet, what’s going on in Whisperwood? Everything quiet out there?”
“Quiet!” Chet exclaimed. “Are you kidding? Mrs. Retson has disappeared!”
Frank drew a sharp breath. “Disappeared!” he repeated incredulously.
“Gone! Scrammed! Vamoosed!” Chet replied.
“Give us the facts,” Joe said grimly.
“First I learned about it was when I went up to the house the day after you left. Mr. Retson blew his top. Told me his wife had vanished from her room.”
“What about Hopkins the nurse?” Frank put in. “She must have been on duty.”
“Says she heard nothing. She was eating her 
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lunch in another room. When she returned, she found the bed empty. She’s been having hysterics. Claims you two upset Mrs. Retson so much she just up and ran away.”
“So we have two mysteries,” Frank said. “First it was Graham, now it’s his mother.”
“There must be some connection,” Joe observed. “I’ll bet San Marten is behind this too.”
“Maybe Mrs. Retson received a secret message from Graham,” Chet ventured. “He might have let her know somehow where she could find him.”
“It’s possible,” Frank replied. “Joe and I failed to locate Graham in Brazil.” He told Chet about their trip.
Suddenly Chet said, “Do you know a guy who wears a Panama hat?”
Frank shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“Me either,” Joe chimed in. “Why?”
“There’s a man standing in the doorway who seems awfully interested in you!”

CHAPTER XI Dangerous Stranger
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JOE casually turned around for a look. The doorway was empty!
“Whoever it was, he’s gone,” Joe said.
“Well, he sure gave you fellows the once-over,” Chet stated. “Kept staring at you as if you were his long-lost cousins.”
A sudden thought caused Joe to sit bolt upright. “What if this character followed us from Belem, Frank! Maybe it was San Marten!”
“What did the man in the Panama hat look like?” Frank asked.
“Small, scrawny. Has blond sideburns. Wears steel-rimmed spectacles.”
Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “It wasn’t San Marten, thank goodness.”
“Could be one of his gang,” Frank stated. “On the other hand, maybe the man thought we were somebody else and realized his mistake.”
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“Well, I watched him for a while to make sure,” Chet said. “He never took his eyes off this booth till Joe turned around.”
“Listen, they’re announcing Dad’s plane,” Frank said.
Joe nodded. “Let’s go outside and meet him.”
The boys quickly paid their check and went to the gate. The detective came through shortly and shook hands with all of them.
“How much time do we have before our flight leaves for Bayport?” he asked.
“An hour, Dad,” Joe replied.
“Then let’s park ourselves somewhere and compare notes about our investigations.”
“Okay, Dad,” Frank said.
They went to the airline waiting room, where they settled themselves in easy chairs around a low table. Mr. Hardy kept a firm grip on his black briefcase.
“This is loaded with vital documents,” he said in an undertone. “I’d be in big trouble if a thief grabbed it and got away.”
“Have you had any breaks in your investigation of the passport gang?” Joe asked.
“Yes. A man carrying one of the stolen and doctored passports was apprehended at Kennedy Airport.”
Chet looked glum. “Then there’s nothing for us to do, Mr. Hardy. You solved the case without us.”
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The Bayport detective smiled. “Not quite, Chet. Our suspect clammed up. I’ll have to run down more clues before I collar the ringleader. You fellows and your pals may come in handy before we round up the gang. By the way,” he continued, “how’s your own case progressing? Have you found Graham Retson?”
Frank described their fruitless quest for Graham in Brazil and Joe told about San Marten’s attempts to eliminate them, including an account of the hideous Diabo.
Mr. Hardy frowned. “I didn’t think the Retson case was going to be that dangerous,” he said, sounding worried.
“That isn’t all, Dad,” Joe went on. “We haven’t found Graham, and now Mrs. Retson is missing.”
“Come again?”
“Chet can explain. He was there.”
Chet repeated the story of how Mrs. Retson had vanished from her room.
“As I understand it, Chet, you, Phil and Tony were supposed to keep Whisperwood under surveillance,” Mr. Hardy said mildly.
“Correct, sir,” Chet said. “But we were out golf ball scavenging when Mrs. Retson got away.”
A voice over the loudspeaker announced that the plane for Bayport was ready to board. Gripping his briefcase firmly under his left arm, Mr. Hardy led the way to the ramp. Once on board, 
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he retired to the back of the lightly loaded plane to examine some papers. Frank and Chet took two seats together, while Joe sat in the same row across the aisle. There was nobody behind them. Only a few passengers were scattered around the rest of the cabin, and several went to sleep as soon as the plane became airborne.
Chet unbuckled his seat belt and returned to the subject of golf balls. “You want to know the system I’ve worked out so we don’t miss any?” he asked.
“Sure,” Frank said.
“Well, Phil and Tony work as my divers.”
“What do you need them for? I thought the suction pump did the trick,” Joe said.
“It does, in most cases. But some of the water holes and lakes are too deep and my hose doesn’t reach down. So I hold a bushel basket on a long rope and let Phil and Tony fill it up. We’ve brought back quite a haul every time.”
“And that way you don’t get wet,” Frank noted.
Chet assumed a hurt look. “You guys know me better than that. I’m the brains of the operation. I’ve got to direct traffic topside.”
Frank and Joe kept needling their pal. Suddenly he jarred them by saying, “Something mysterious is going on at the Olympic Health Club!”
“I thought you couldn’t get a contract there,” Joe said. “How did you get in?”
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“Oh, I didn’t,” Chet admitted. “But I have an agreement with the golf course next door. During the night I saw strange things over at the Olympic. So did Phil and Tony. They’ll back me up.”
“What kind of strange things, Chet?” Frank asked.
“Flickering lights on the roof. They flashed on and off, then went out for good. We never saw that happen before. Couldn’t figure out what it meant.”
“Was that all?” Joe inquired.
“No. There were peculiar noises, too. Like someone shouting. At first I thought I was hearing things. But when Phil and Tony came up from their dive, they heard it too.”
“Did you investigate?”
“We climbed over the fence and sneaked into the golf course. But whoever was there had gone by the time we made it.”
As the boys talked, Fenton Hardy looked up from his papers. He noticed a man rise and walk slowly down the aisle. The passenger then eased himself into a seat behind Frank and Chet, who never noticed him.
Sensing something sinister about the man, Mr. Hardy strode down the aisle and paused to observe the stranger a few steps to the rear.
Covertly the man drew something from his pocket. Shielding his hands with his body, he 
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fiddled with the object until a metallic clicking sound occurred. He hunched over, feeling for the space between the seats in front of him, where Frank and Chet sat. With the other hand he guided a long slender tube into the space.
“Just a minute!” Fenton Hardy said sternly. He grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him out into the aisle. As he did, the plane hit some turbulence, jostling the passengers. Fenton Hardy was thrown to one side. The other man fell to the floor heavily, with the tube under his hand. He lost consciousness!
A stewardess ran up to inquire what was wrong. “This!” said the detective. He picked up the tube, which had a sharp needle projecting from one end. “It punctured his wrist,” Mr. Hardy went on. “It might be poison. He needs a doctor.”
The pilot radioed ahead, then made an emergency landing at an airport near a small town. An ambulance rushed the stricken man to a hospital while Fenton Hardy and the three boys followed behind in a police car.
In the emergency room an intern examined the stricken passenger and the tube, then administered an injection.
“Was it poison?” Fenton Hardy asked.
“Tes. Definitely. The antidote seems to be working, although he nearly died. Who is this man?”
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The police officer went through the victim’s pockets. When he pulled out a United States passport, Mr. Hardy asked to examine it. It was issued to Harold Solomon.
“It’s not genuine,” the detective said.
“How do you know?” the officer asked.
“It’s my business to know,” Mr. Hardy replied, and showed his credentials to the policeman.
“Then we’ll hold Solomon on several charges,” the officer said. “Attempted murder and carrying a false passport.”
Frank, Joe and Chet, meanwhile, discussed the bizarre case. “A poisoned needle!” Frank shuddered. “And it was meant for us!”
Chet walked over and looked at the ashen face of the stranger, who was still unconscious. “You want to know something!” he said suddenly. “That’s the guy who was watching you in New York!”

CHAPTER XII The Monkey Mask
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THE boys peered down at Solomon, whose eyelids began to flutter.
“He must belong to San Marten’s gang,” Joe said. “Probably a professional killer.”
“That’s a good theory,” Fenton Hardy agreed. “I’ve checked his clothing. No identification marks. But his suit, shoes, and hat are all South American style. I’d say he’s from Brazil. But here’s the clincher.”
The detective held a ticket between his fingers.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“A baggage claim check for a crate back at Kennedy Airport. Guess what’s in the crate!”
Joe gasped as the truth suddenly dawned on him. “A monkey!”
“Right. The claim check is clipped to a health certificate declaring the animal has had all its 
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shots and can be brought into the United States.”
Two more policemen, one a captain, entered the hospital as he was speaking. Introductions were made. “Good to meet you, Mr. Hardy,” the captain said. “We can always use an assist from America’s number one private eye.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” the detective replied. “But the praise actually belongs to these young men. They can tell you what happened.”
Frank described the trip to Brazil. Then Chet reported how the man in the Panama hat had kept them under surveillance at Kennedy Airport. Joe explained his theory that the man belonged to San Marten’s gang.
“That seems to make sense,” the captain said. “We’re here to take Solomon into custody—if that’s really who he is. He’s conscious now. All of you can come along and hear what he has to say for himself. We’ve examined the plane, by the way. It’s clean.”
The doctor said the patient was well enough to leave the hospital. Two squad cars took the group to headquarters.
After the prisoner was seated and given a drink of water, he was advised of his rights to consult a lawyer before answering questions. He nodded and even refused to divulge his name.
“It really isn’t Solomon, is it?” the captain asked. “And what’s your nationality?”
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“None of your business.”
“Where did you get the metal tube with the poisoned needle?”
“It isn’t mine. I happened to fall on it in the aisle, that’s all. And I won’t have any more to say until I see a lawyer.”
“That’s your privilege,” the officer replied.
The prisoner was taken to a cell. Fenton Hardy summoned the three youths aside for a conference on their next move.
“I’ll stay here to press charges against Solomon,” he said. “What plans do you have?”
Frank made a quick decision. “I think we should go back to New York with that baggage claim check. The crate calls for a look-see.”
“That’s what I had in mind, too,” Joe agreed.
The police provided photographs of the ticket claim check and the health certificate and kept the originals for evidence.
“I’ll continue on to Bayport,” Chet remarked. “I’ll brief the folks back home on the latest news from the Hardys, and then hit the road for Granite City.”
The group broke up. Frank and Joe returned to the airfield with Chet, and soon everyone was airborne.
Frank and Joe had lunch aboard. Upon landing at Kennedy they hastened to the warehouse where the animals in transit were kept. They told the attendant that a friend had supplied 
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them with the photographs and asked them to take a look at the monkey. He would pick the animal up later. The man told the boys to follow him and led the way through the building.
It was an enormous structure lined with cages of many sizes.
“This must be how Noah’s Ark looked,” Joe said as they walked along. “I’ve already counted a baby hippo, a pair of lions, a sackful of snakes, and a wild assortment of zebras, tapirs, and antelopes.”
“Not to mention plain old cats and dogs,” Frank said with a grin. “Who owns these animals?” he asked the attendant.
“Well,” the man replied, “the domestic animals are mostly pets belonging to passengers. The rest are bound for zoos, menageries, and circuses.”
“San Marten’s line,” Joe muttered to Frank. “He told us he was a wild animal trader. Remember?”
“Yes. But that obviously was a cover-up.”
Suddenly another attendant came dashing through the warehouse. “A snake has gotten loose!” he yelled. “A king cobra!”
The Hardys knew that cobra venom was among the deadliest of all. And the king cobra was the biggest of the poisonous serpents, ranging up to eighteen feet in length!
“Where is it now?” asked the first attendant.
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“I don’t know. I found the lid to its box ajar. It slipped out unnoticed. Goodness knows where it is!”
“Okay, everybody be careful,” the other man warned. “Don’t step into a dark patch on the floor without looking to see if it moves. And don’t feel around the tops of the cages with your hand. This cobra could be lurking anywhere. And it strikes like greased lightning.”
“We’d like to help capture the cobra,” Frank offered. “We’ve had experience with them.”
“Fine. Let’s spread out and go over this warehouse yard by yard. First one to spot it, sing out loud and clear.”
Joe moved to the area housing the birds. In one cage an Andes condor flapped its wings. A dozen brilliantly hued parrots lent a splash of color to the dim interior of the place. Some jungle fowl began to cluck and scold.
Joe edged toward them. A slithering movement behind him caused him to turn. Around the corner of the cage whipped a king cobra at least twelve feet long!
It reared three feet off the floor. The hood spread wide open, and the reptile began to sway slowly from side to side. Its eyes locked onto Joe’s with a malevolent stare.
Sweat poured down the boy’s face. His hands felt clammy. “It’s too close to miss me,” he thought.
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For what seemed like an eternity, Joe stood as immobile as a statue. If he turned to run, the cobra would strike. The fangs would pierce his leg, pumping venom into his blood stream that would cause him to die in agony. Joe’s nerves started to give way. He would have to move!
Suddenly a cord dropped over the serpent’s head, pulling it to one side. Frank stood there holding the creature securely in the loop of a snake hunter’s rod. The cobra writhed and twisted, hissing ferociously, but it could not break the hold of the loop. Skillfully Frank maneuvered the snake over to its box, dropped it in, and slammed the lid.
Trembling from head to foot, Joe sat down on the next cage. He was too shaken to speak.
“Take it easy,” Frank advised. “When I heard the jungle fowl clucking, I figured they were scared of something. So I hustled over for a look. But I didn’t expect to see you cornered by the runaway snake.”
Frank gave Joe several minutes more to rest. Then they went to the cage corresponding to the number on the baggage claim check. Inside sat a howler monkey. He looked like the one they had seen at the Belem airport!
He chattered and gazed at them with a gentle demeanor, holding out one paw appealingly as if to shake hands.
Frank rubbed his chin. “We thought this critter 
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was too nice to be Diabo. We were right, weren’t we?”
“Absolutely. I’ll never forget the way Diabo snapped at us. This is an amiable monkey. Must be from a better jungle family.”
The boys turned to leave. As they neared the door on their way out, two men walked in. One was dressed in a whipcord jacket and corduroy pants. The other had on a trench coat and a snap-brim hat. Their faces were hard. They beckoned to the attendant, who was walking a few steps ahead of the Hardys.
“We came to get a monkey you have here,” Corduroy Pants said.
“May I see your claim check?”
“Forget it, buddy,” Snap-brim growled. “We lost it. But we know the number. That’s good enough for us. It’s good enough for you.”
As the attendant eyed the intruders nervously, Frank pulled Joe behind a cage with baby hippos.
“What’s the number?” the warehouse man asked.
“Forty-two-o-seven-six.”
The attendant led the way back to the cage he had shown the Hardys.
“I’ll have to call the supervisor,” he told the men. “I’m not allowed to give you the monkey without a claim check.”
“That’s all right,” Snap-brim said. “Meanwhile we’ll go see our little pet.”
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“Did you send your friends to look at the monkey?” the attendant asked timidly.
“What?” Snap-brim looked puzzled.
“Never mind,” Corduroy Pants said impatiently. “Call the supervisor. We’re in a hurry.”
As soon as the attendant had left, the two men grasped the cage by the corners. Grunting and swearing, they maneuvered it out of the warehouse as fast as they could to a station wagon parked nearby.
Frank and Joe, ducking behind crates, had trailed the two men to the spot where the monkey cage had stood, then followed them to the door. They saw Snap-brim and Corduroy Pants lifting the cage into the rear of the vehicle.
As they did, the cage tilted and a package wrapped in brown paper fell out onto the road. The men did not see it. They hopped into the car and drove off.
“We’ve got to follow them!” Frank said. The boys ran out of the warehouse. Joe pounced on the package, which was small enough for him to slip into his jacket pocket. Frank took down the license number of the men’s car, at the same time flagging a taxi. The boys jumped in, and Frank ordered the driver to follow the station wagon.
It moved fast in the heavy traffic at the airport. The driver kept right on its tail, zooming around and past slower cars. It was a close race until the station wagon whizzed through a red light.
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The taxi had to stop. Disappointed, the boys watched their quarry vanish into the myriad of cars headed for New York City.
“No use trying to catch up with them now,” Frank said, and told the driver to return to the airport. They got out and paid the fare.
Joe suddenly remembered the package he had picked up. “Let’s see what is in it,” he said. “Maybe it’ll give us an idea of what to do next.”
He unwrapped the brown paper and took out a rubber mask of a hideous countenance. The snout was misshapen. The eyes were mere slits of hatred. The fangs were bared in a savage scowl!
“A monkey mask! It’s the face of Diabo!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XIII One More Chance
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“THE face of Diabo!” Frank repeated. “Now I get it. This hideous mask is a form of psychological warfare. It sure can scare the wits out of a victim.”
Joe turned the mask over, noting how the rubber would stretch under a simian’s jaw and over the back of its head. The earpieces were broad and thick, almost like earmuffs.
“Do you suppose,” Frank said, “that the monkey in the cage really was Diabo?”
“That howler was friendly,” Joe replied. “I can’t imagine him spitting and snarling like Diabo.”
Frank snapped his fingers. “Joe, something else just occurred to me. If San Marten knows this fellow Solomon, then the Brazilian may be involved in Dad’s passport case, too! Remember, Solomon had a doctored passport.”
“Wow!” Joe shook his head. “This San Marten 
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is really a master criminal. Playing two rackets at the same time.”
“Except that we don’t know for sure that the monkey is Diabo.”
“I can’t believe he is,” Joe said. “But it would be a strange coincidence if he wasn’t.”
Frank and Joe took a plane back to Bayport. At home they held a long session with their father after dinner.
“I go along with your suspicion of San Marten as far as the passport racket is concerned,” Mr. Hardy said. “The man’s an enigma. The Brazilian Embassy hasn’t been able to come up with any information on him. All they know is that he lives in Belem, has no police record down there, and doesn’t court publicity.”
“Anyhow, maybe we can help each other in our investigations,” Frank said.
“Right. If I smash the passport gang, it may lead me to Graham Retson. Or, if you fellows find Graham, you may find the gang’s ringleader at the same time.”
Early the next morning Frank and Joe drove back to Whisperwood to join their buddies. Chet was in high spirits. “I hope you guys are doing as well as we are,” he greeted them.
“Just how well is that?” Joe asked.
“We retrieved a couple of hundred more golf balls last night,” Phil said.
“Most of them in pretty good condition, too,” 
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Tony added. “They’ll bring in a lot of clams after we put them in the washing machine.”
“Tonight,” Chet said, “we’ll be working the big water hole at the Olympic Health Club.”
“I thought they wouldn’t give you a contract,” Frank put in.
Phil winked. “They wouldn’t let Chet in the place. But Tony and I wangled the contract.”
“It was easy,” Tony said. “We just walked in and said how about it and they said okay.”
“Wait a minute,” Chet interrupted. “You guys were my bird dogs. I let you go ahead, that was all. I could have made the deal if I had wanted to.”
When the boys’ laughter at his bragging had subsided, Frank and Joe asked Chet about Mrs. Retson. They were told she was still missing. The Hardys went to the mansion to report to their client. Harris opened the door.
“Mr. Retson is in the den,” he said and escorted them in.
Retson was seated at his desk, looking over some papers. He glanced up in surprise.
“Hello, Mr. Retson,” said Frank. “We’re sorry to hear about your wife.”
“What? Oh yes. More trouble. All I seem to have is trouble. Well, where’s Graham?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t found him,” Frank said. He explained about San Marten and the wild-goose chase up the Amazon.
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“So you failed!” Retson exploded. “I should have known this case was too big for a couple of amateurs!”
“Sir, we haven’t failed completely,” Frank said coolly. “We have reason to believe that your son was kidnapped. Chances are he is somewhere in the United States.”
“And is being held captive by San Marten and his gang,” Joe added.
“Nonsense!” Retson said. “I don’t believe there’s any such person as this San Marten you keep talking about.”
Retson composed himself and in a lower voice added, “I’ll give you one more chance. But if you don’t find my son pronto, you’re fired.”
“Mr. Retson, have the police investigated the disappearance of your wife?” Frank asked.
“Yes, yes. They’re working on it. You don’t have to concern yourself with that.”
“She and Graham might have been kidnapped by the gang!” Joe put in.
“I doubt it,” Retson said sharply. “A rope ladder was found hanging down from her window. I believe she completely lost her mind and ran away. You leave that up to the police. Just find Graham!”
The Hardys returned to the guesthouse. On the way Joe said, “Retson brushed off his wife’s disappearance quite casually.”
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“He sure did,” Frank agreed. “And he doesn’t seem to take us very seriously, either.”
“We’ll have to do something to convince him that he can rely on us,” Joe said. “But what? We haven’t got a single clue to go on.”
“Let’s try the Olympic Health Club,” Frank said. “Those flickering lights and the noises Chet reported might mean something. Also, remember the Condor golf ball which was thrown into our window the first night? That points to the Olympic too, according to Chet.”
Joe nodded. “Let’s join the scavenging operation tonight and check out the premises. Another thing. What should we do about Mrs. Retson?”
“Nothing. I’m sure once we find Graham, we’ll find his mother.”
Chet was enthusiastic when he heard that the Hardys would join him that night. “We can use all the help we can get. We’ll even cut you in on the profits!” he said with a grin.
During the rest of the day, Frank and Joe kept the mansion and the staff under surveillance, but nothing unusual happened. At nightfall the five boys drove to the club in Chet’s pickup with the suction pump in the back. The Olympic golf pro, Gus McCormick, let them in, waited while they transferred the pump to a golf cart, and watched them vanish into the darkness over the golf links. Frank wheeled the cart up to the edge 
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of the water hole, which was a distance from the clubhouse.
“This is a combined operations strategy,” Chet said pompously. “We’ll have four units acting under central control.”
“Where’s central control?” Joe asked.
Chet slapped his chest. “Here!”
“Shall we synchronize our watches?” Phil asked jokingly. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t have any.”
“Neither do I,” Tony said. “I won’t be able to tell the time when I’m in the pond.”
“I’ll keep time for all of us,” Chet told them.
“Where do Frank and I come in, General?” Joe asked.
“Frank, you handle the hose to the suction pump. Sweep up all the balls along the edge. Joe, you take the basket and gather the booty that Phil and Tony bring back from the water hole. Let’s go, team!”
By midnight the boys had a basketful of golf balls, and the suction pump container was loaded.
“All right, time to go,” Chet said. “We’ve gathered all the wealth in this place. Those balls in Joe’s basket look pretty good to me. Let’s take a gander at the container. It’ll probably have to be cleaned out.”
He lifted the lid, took a peek, gave a low whistle and called, “Hey, fellows, look at what we dredged up tonight!”
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“Look at what we dredged up tonight,” Chet called
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Reaching in, he brought out a woman’s shoe.
Tony chuckled. “Some lady player must have gone back to the clubhouse barefoot.”
“That’s not all,” Chet said, reaching into the container again. This time he came up with a badly rusted pistol. The other boys looked in amazement.
But before anyone could comment, a loud cry echoed over the golf course. Lights flickered on the clubhouse roof!

CHAPTER XIV Big Deal for Chet
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“THOSE lights must be a signal to somebody!” Joe said excitedly. “Let’s get over to the clubhouse and see what’s going on!”
Frank grabbed his arm. “Take it easy. Somebody’s coming.”
The Hardys slipped away into the darkness just as several men ran up to the water hole. “What are you doing here?” one of them shouted.
Chet explained.
“Who gave you permission?”
“Gus McCormick.”
“We have a contract with Gus,” Phil said. “We get half the golf balls we retrieve, and he gets half. It’s a fifty-fifty deal.”
The man grunted angrily. “Well, the deal’s off. Gus had no business making it. Now, you three, get out of here. And don’t come back or I’ll make it hot for you!”
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He and his companions strode off toward the clubhouse and the Hardys moved back to the water hole.
“Those roughnecks are really mad about something,” Frank said. “I wonder what’s bugging them.”
“Beats me,” Chet replied. “All the other pros gave us the go-ahead without any beefing by the management. What’s so special about this place?”
“Gus acted as if he were in charge,” Phil commented. “He was glad to let us do all the work while he was getting half the profits.”
“Something fishy’s going on,” Frank declared. “Remember the shout we heard? And the flickering lights? And the pistol we dredged up?”
“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.
“We’ll have to get off the premises,” Joe replied. “Let’s go back to Whisperwood.”
“And we’ll contact the authorities tomorrow,” Frank added. “Chief Carton might want to take a look at that gun we found.”
The Hardys drove into Granite City early in the morning, taking the pistol and the shoe with them. They found the chief at his desk and explained their reason for calling on him.
Carton toyed with a pencil. “I haven’t been out to the Olympic Health Club often,” he said. “It’s a private outfit and no member has turned up on the police blotter yet. However, this pistol 
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calls for an investigation. I’ll have it put through tests in our crime lab. Want to come along and watch?”
“Sure would,” Joe said, and told the chief about their own private lab at home.
The fingerprint expert could find no prints on the pistol, but the serial number became visible after the weapon had been carefully scraped. Also, it was still in good enough condition to be fired by the ballistics expert, who returned a while later to the lab with his report.
Carton left the office and returned with a file folder. Then he placed the ballistics report and the open file side by side. He rubbed his chin and commented, “This is very interesting.”
“What, sir?” Frank asked.
“A man held up a post office in Granite City two years ago. His name was Roscoe Matthews. This is our file on him.” He tapped the folder. Then he hefted the weapon in the palm of his hand. “And this is the holdup gun!”
“Are you sure?”
“The serial number proves it belongs to Matthews. And a bullet found at the crime scene matches the one just fired in our lab.”
“Is Matthews a dangerous criminal?” Joe wanted to know.
“Highly so. During the robbery he shot a guard in the shoulder. He would have killed him 
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except the guard’s badge deflected the bullet. We put out an all-points bulletin on Matthews, but he dropped out of sight.”
A sudden thought struck Joe. “What kind of loot did Matthews get away with?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Carton answered. “He ignored the money. All he took was a batch of passports.”
“Passports!” Frank exclaimed. “That’s what our dad is working on right now!” He gave Carton a quick explanation of both their father’s case and their own.
“Do you have a picture of Matthews?” Joe asked.
Carton pulled a photograph out of the file. It showed a broad-faced blond man with a long nose and a slight squint. It was not San Marten, as Joe had secretly hoped, and Carton had no further information to give.
“Was Matthews a member of the Olympic Health Club?” Frank asked.
Carton shook his head. “No. How the gun ever got into their water hole is a mystery to me!”
“Talking about the water hole,” Joe said, “we also found a shoe. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but we brought it along anyhow.” He pulled the shoe from the paper bag in which he had carried the two items.
Carton looked at it. “All I can say is it hasn’t been under water very long.”
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An idea flashed into Frank’s mind. “Maybe it belongs to Mrs. Retson!”
“She might have lost it running away,” Joe added. “Or—or do you suppose she was murdered?” he said, his face registering shock.
Carton stared at the shoe. “I’ll find out if it belongs to her. If it does, we’ll have to dredge the water hazard at the Olympic golf course.”
On the way back to Whisperwood the boys discussed the latest turn of events. “I sure hope it’s not Mrs. Retson’s shoe,” Joe said.
“Chances are it’s not,” Frank told him. “Any number of women play golf there. And why should she have run across the course? She would have been seen, recognized, and brought back. Don’t forget, she left in bright daylight.”
“The question is, Did she go on her own or was she kidnapped,” Joe mused.
“We’ve got to zero in on the Olympic Health Club fast, Frank. All these mysteries may be part of one big package.”
Back at the guesthouse, the Hardys found Phil and Tony preparing to leave for Bayport.
“What’s up?” Joe asked.
“We’ve picked the golf courses clean around here,” Phil answered. “Now we’ll give the duffers a chance to dunk some more, then we’ll come back for another scavenging operation.”
“You’re taking off when mysteries are busting out all over,” Frank protested.
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“We’ll be here in a jiffy if you need us,” Tony assured him. “Just give the word.”
“How about you, Chet?” Joe asked.
Before Chet could reply, the phone rang. He answered, then beckoned Frank and Joe to listen in.
A strange voice asked, “Are you the guy who cleaned out the water hole at the Olympic Health Club last night?”
“Correct,” Chet said.
“Then you’re in possession of everything that was dredged up?”
“Correct.”
“How would you like to make a fantastic deal for the entire haul?”
“What kind of deal?”
“A cool thousand bucks!”
Chet let out a low whistle. Frank gestured to him to keep the stranger talking.
“That sounds great,” Chet went on. “How come—?”
“You wonder why I’m offering so much?” the man interrupted. “Well, I want the golf balls plus everything else your suction pump brought up.”
“Like a gun and a shoe?” Chet asked casually.
There was a moment of silence. Then the man said, “I mean everything. Understand?”
“Sure. Will you come over here? Or shall I bring the stuff to your place?”
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“Neither. Put it in a golf bag and leave it tonight under the tall elm in the woods south of the Olympic Health Club. Come back tomorrow night, and you’ll find your money in a paper bag under the same tree.”
The phone clicked off and Chet gulped. “Wow! I’m in the middle of a dangerous mission!” He looked pleadingly at his friends. “I’ll need some protection!”
“Don’t worry,” Frank said.
“I wonder how this guy knew where to find you, Chet,” Joe mused.
“That makes the whole business even stickier,” Frank replied. “We’re onto something big here. Whoever phoned knew the gun was down there, and must be connected with Matthews.”
“It could have been Matthews himself,” Joe said.
“Who’s Matthews?” Chet asked.
Joe told about the ballistics test on the pistol.
“Hey, I’m getting out of here!” Chet quavered. “I don’t want to get mixed up with any gunman.”
“You’ll have to pretend you’re going through with the deal,” Joe replied. “Besides, there’s a thousand bucks in it for you.”
“That’s what you think! He won’t pay!”
Joe grinned. “True. But he won’t know if you gave him the gun until he opens the bag. Meanwhile, we can get a look at him.”
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Swiftly Joe outlined his plan. He took a golf bag from the closet, poured a stream of balls into it, then crumpled up some newspapers and forced them down on top of the balls. Then he lifted the bag in his two hands, testing the weight.
“That’s not bad,” he said with satisfaction. “Let’s hope our plan works.”
After lunch Tony and Phil left for Bayport, wishing their friends luck with their case.
“We’ll need it,” Chet said, apprehensive about their impending mission.
At night the trio drove to the woods near the Olympic Health Club. Frank and Joe circled through the trees, and crouched behind a clump from which they could observe the tall elm. Chet walked openly to the tree. He placed the golf bag upright against the trunk, then went back to the car, got in and waited.
The minutes ticked away. When the moon rose, leaves and branches cast weird shadows on the ground under the elm. In the distance a dog howled.
“My foot’s going to sleep,” Frank complained in a whisper.
“And I’m getting a backache,” Joe replied. “Chet always comes out on the right end of our stakeouts. I imagine he’s snoozing comfortably in the car—”
Joe stopped at the sight of a moving shadow. Someone was in the tree.
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“Get ready to charge!” Frank advised. “We can’t let him escape!”
The figure moved from limb to limb in an agile descent. Bounding to the ground, it turned in the direction of the Hardys, who looked directly into the leering face of Diabo!
Before either of them could move, the simian seized the golf bag and scampered off into the darkness. Pursuit was futile.
“Outwitted by that monkey again!” Joe exploded.
“But he provided a good clue,” Frank said. “Old Diabo is the pet of San Marten, so San Marten is definitely in league with Matthews or his pals. Everything points to the Olympic Health Club as their headquarters!”
“As you always tell me,” Joe said wryly, “don’t jump to conclusions.”
Just then Chet ran up. As Joe had guessed, sleep had overtaken their hefty pal and he had missed the monkey episode.
They drove back to Whisperwood in silence, pondering the odd twist in the case.
At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. The same man was calling Chet.
“Buddy, you pulled a fast one on me last night. But you’d better not try that stunt any more,” the man threatened. “You’ll hear from me again, and this time make it real or you’ll never hunt for another golf ball!”
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The phone went dead. Chet looked pale under his freckles. He stretched uncomfortably. “You know,” he said, “I’m really not anxious at all to go out of business!”
“You won’t,” Frank said. “Don’t worry. Just sit tight here while we go and check out the Olympic Health Club.”
“Okay,” Chet said as Frank and Joe left.
At the reception desk of the health club they met Gus McCormick, and told him that they would like to play golf.
“Impossible!” the pro snapped. “It’s only for members—the names in here.” He slapped the register on the desk.
“Suppose we’re the guests of a member?”
“Then it’s okay.”
“Mind if I have a look at this book?” Frank inquired. “Maybe we know somebody who belongs here.”
“Help yourself.”
Frank ran his eye down the list of names, while Joe looked over his shoulder. Finally he came to J. G. Retson.
“Can we go in as Mr. Retson’s guests?” Frank inquired. “We know him quite well.”
“He’ll have to tell me so himself,” said Gus. “Sorry, those are the rules.”
“I’ll call him.” Frank phoned their client, but he was not at home.
“Too bad,” said Gus.
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“Was Graham Retson a golfer?” Frank asked.
“No. He stuck to Ping-pong. Usually played with one of our caddies, Harry Grimsel.”
“Grimsel? Is he here now?”
“Yeah. In the locker room. Go right through that door if you want to talk to him.”
“Thanks.”
Frank and Joe went in and found a slim young man putting some golf clubs into a locker. When he turned around, they recognized him. One of the pair in the sideswiped car!

CHAPTER XV Midnight Pursuit
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“HI, Harry!” Joe greeted him. “Long time no see!”
“Remember us?” Frank added. “We met you on the highway.”
Grimsel pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “Oh, now I remember,” he said. “What can I do for you? Want a game of golf?”
“Maybe later.” Joe said. “First we want some information.”
“Like what?”
“Does Mr. Retson play the Olympic golf course?”
“Yes. I’ve caddied for him lots of times. He’s not much of a player, though. Too hot-tempered. Has a habit of throwing his clubs in the water hazard after a bad shot.”
“How well did you know Graham Retson?” Frank inquired.
“Pretty well. We played Ping-pong together. 
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He talked a lot about himself. Said he couldn’t get along with his father and wanted to run away.”
“Did he ever tell you where he was planning to go?” Joe asked.
“Well, he mentioned a number of places,” the caddy said, knitting his brows as if trying to remember. “The South Sea Islands, India, Ceylon, Hong Kong, and—”
“Brazil?” Joe interrupted casually.
“No—yes, he did say something about Brazil, but I forget what.”
Frank realized that they would not get anything useful out of Grimsel and shrugged. “Maybe he went to the moon. How about some golf now?”
“Okay,” the caddy replied. He went off, saying he had to make a phone call first. He returned a few minutes later and supplied the Hardys with clubs and golf balls, then led the way out a side door to the first tee. They each hit a solid drive. Soon there was a putting duel on the green. Frank sank a long putt and took a one-stroke lead.
“Say, you guys play better than most of the club members,” Grimsel remarked.
The course wound around the back of the clubhouse. After sinking their shots, Frank and Joe would step aside from a hole and take a good look at it.
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“This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the front,” Joe muttered to Frank while Grimsel was making his last shot on the ninth hole.
“It seems they’ve added an entire new wing to the old building,” Frank said. “And see that ventilator on top? Must be the biggest unit in Granite City.”
On the next hole, Joe stood a few yards to one side as Grimsel started to swing back.
“Do you know anything about howler monkeys, Harry?” Joe asked.
The question broke the flow of the caddy’s movement. The ball sliced, struck Joe on the side of the head, and bounded down the fairway.
Joe slumped to the ground as if he had been clubbed with a bludgeon!
“Gosh, I didn’t mean to hit him!” Grimsel exclaimed, worried.
Frank looked at the bruise over Joe’s left ear.
“I don’t think he’s badly hurt,” he said. “But he’s out for the count. We’d better get him back to the clubhouse. You stay here. I’ll go for a golf cart.”
Frank started off at a run. He was hardly out of sight when Joe stirred. As his eyes focused, he saw Grimsel standing in front of him.
“Sorry I bashed you like that,” the caddy said.
“So am I. That’s what I get for talking while you concentrated.”
“Think you can make it to the clubhouse? 
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Your brother went for a cart, but they all might be in use.”
Joe rose to his feet and took a couple of steps. “I’m okay. But what a headache I’ve got!”
As the two neared the clubhouse they heard loud angry voices. Rounding the corner they found Frank being escorted to the front steps by Gus McCormick. Behind him was a large stout man with a flushed face.
“That’s Charles Portner, the general manager,” Grimsel whispered.
Portner was furious. “Throw this trespasser off the premises!” he ordered, pointing to Frank. Then he noticed Joe. “Bounce that one, too! He’s not a member either. They’ve got a nerve using our private golf course!”
Portner caught the guilty expression on Grimsel’s face. “You didn’t give them permission, did you?”
The caddy was silent.
“Answer me!”
“Mr. Portner,” Harry whined, “I thought it was okay as long as a member of the staff was with them.”
“It wasn’t okay. And it won’t happen again because you’re fired!”
At that moment a police car drove up to the clubhouse. Two officers got out and climbed the steps. “I’m Lieutenant Cain,” one of them said. “What’s going on here?”
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Portner calmed down. “Nothing to bother you with, Lieutenant. Just a couple of trespassers.”
“That’s your affair,” said the other policeman. “We’ve come on a different matter. Concerns the wife of one of your members.”
Portner tucked his chin in and cocked his head. “Who may I ask?”
“Mrs. J. G. Retson. She’s disappeared from her home in Whisperwood. We’re checking the neighborhood.”
Frank and Joe listened intently as the conversation went on. They quickly realized that the police were being purposely mum about the pistol and the woman’s shoe.
“Has Mrs. Retson been here at the club recently?” Lieutenant Cain asked.
Portner tapped his forehead. “No. She hasn’t been around for at least three months. Of course, I can’t swear to it. I might not have seen her.”
Portner hesitated, then went on, “A woman has been seen around here several times after nightfall. She ran across the golf course.”
“Did anyone recognize her?”
“No.”
“Could it have been Mrs. Retson?”
Portner frowned. “I have no way of telling. She appeared in the dark, and disappeared in the dark.”
“Okay, Mr. Portner,” said Lieutenant Cain. 
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“We’ll continue our search. And let us know if you catch the mysterious lady of the golf links.”
As the squad car rolled off down the driveway, the Hardys strolled back to their convertible.
Joe said, “A woman’s been running across the golf course. And we’ve found a woman’s shoe at the bottom of the water hazard. How do you figure it?”
“Even if it turns out to be Mrs. Retson’s shoe, it still doesn’t mean she’s been murdered,” Frank said, trying to cheer both of them up. “Let’s give Dad a call when we get to the guesthouse. I think I’d feel better if we could talk it over with him.”
Back at Whisperwood, Frank put a call through to Bayport. His mother answered.
“Dad’s out of town,” she reported. “He’s checking some new clues in that passport case. How are you boys?”
Frank decided not to worry her by talking about their latest suspicion. He merely said that they were collecting evidence at the Olympic Health Club.
“A health club sounds safe enough,” Laura Hardy said with a soft chuckle. “Stay close to it. And I’ll tell Dad you called when I hear from him.”
Frank hung up. “We’ll take Mother’s advice and stick close to the Olympic Health Club. But it may not be as healthy as she thinks!”
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That night the boys left Chet in the guesthouse and drove to a road bordering the club. They turned off the lights, parked the car in a stand of trees, and set off for the golf course. At the rear of the clubhouse thick shrubbery provided good cover. They settled down here to keep the place under surveillance.
An hour dragged by. Two. Three. The drone of cicadas lulled Joe to sleep and Frank had trouble keeping his eyes open. Finally they took turns dozing off. Just before dawn headlights flashed into view and two cars turned into the long driveway leading to the clubhouse.
Tensely alert, Frank and Joe crept forward as five men got out. They entered the building and reappeared in a few minutes. One car started off with three passengers. Two men lingered beside the second car and talked in low voices.
“Let’s tail this one!” Frank whispered.
They raced across the golf course and climbed into their convertible just as the vehicle came out of the driveway. In total darkness Frank shadowed it, keeping the taillights in sight.
The driver ahead sped to the Granite City airport, where he parked near the airstrip. Frank stopped at a distance. Nobody left the waiting car.
“Let’s sneak up and spy on them,” Joe said.
“Okay.” Frank pulled the key from the ignition. Hunched over, they made their way close 
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to the other car. They noticed that only the driver was in it. Obviously the other man had stayed behind at the club.
Suddenly a plane sounded overhead. A small craft came down through the darkness for a landing. It taxied to the edge of the lighted runway and a man stepped out. He hastened to the waiting car and climbed in beside the driver. Who was he?
The boys moved closer and crouched behind a bush near the car. A match flared in the front seat. The newcomer bent forward to touch the flame to his cigarette.
The flickering light played over the man’s face. San Marten!

CHAPTER XVI The Ambush
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THE match went out, leaving only the burning tip of the cigarette visible in the darkness. San Marten and his friend conversed in low tones.
Frank whispered in Joe’s ear, “Let’s jump them!”
Joe bolted forward, seized the handle, and flung the door open. He grabbed San Marten by the lapels and started to pull him out when suddenly a powerful spotlight snapped on behind the Hardys, catching them sharply in the white glare.
“We’re ambushed!” Frank cried. “Cut out, Joe!”
They turned and ran. San Marten and his companion leaped from the car, and were joined by the man with the light. The three raced after the boys.
In his haste, Joe’s foot caught in a vine. He 
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tumbled head over heels, landing on his back. Before he could regain his feet, their pursuers pounced upon him.
Running like mad, Frank was unaware of what had happened until he reached the convertible. Only then did he realize he was alone. He jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, and swung the car around, roaring back to the scene. San Marten and his accomplice had disappeared, and so had Joe. The sound of a motor could be heard in the distance, diminishing in the direction of the highway.
Frank set out in desperate pursuit of Joe and his captors. By the time he reached the highway, the gang’s car was out of sight.
Frank made a quick judgment. The Olympic Health Club! “That’s where this caper began,” he thought. “That’s where it will probably end.”
He drove to the top of a hill that overlooked the clubhouse. Peering down at the valley, in the first light of day, his eyes followed every turn and twist in the highway for miles ahead. Not a thing moved on the road!
“They must have gone the other way,” Frank reasoned. He decided to drive to Granite City and report Joe’s capture to the police.
The sergeant at the desk took down the particulars. Frank was turning away, wondering what to do next, when a familiar figure emerged from the office of Police Chief Carton.
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“Sam Radley!” Frank exclaimed in amazement. “What are you doing here?”
Fenton Hardy’s assistant, a pleasant sandy-haired man, was dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks. He wore heavy shoes and a battered felt hat.
“Hello, Frank,” Radley said. “I’m here on a case of my own.”
“What’s the scoop?”
“Tell you later. First clue me in to what you and Joe are doing.”
Frank rapidly described the Retson case, beginning with Graham’s disappearance and ending with Joe’s kidnapping.
“I’m convinced that we’ll find the key to the mystery in the Olympic Health Club,” Frank concluded. “A lot of fishy things have been going on there.”
Radley raised his eyebrows and Frank continued, “The general manager seems awfully anxious to keep us away from the place. And now—what about your case?”
Radley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When I was in New York a few days ago,” he said, “I met an old partner of mine. We used to specialize in missing-person cases. He asked me if I’d undertake an investigation for a good friend of his.”
“Who’s the good friend, Sam?”
“Mrs. Retson of Whisperwood!”
“Mrs. Retson!” Frank exclaimed. “And we 
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thought she might be dead. We’ve been wondering if her body was at the bottom of the Olympic water hazard where we pulled up a woman’s shoe and a pistol.”
Radley shook his head. “She’s in New York, in a state of near collapse. Her doctor’s keeping her under sedation.”
“How did she get there?”
“She climbed out of her bedroom window, caught the bus to New York, and asked her friend to look for Graham. He passed the assignment on to me.”
“That’s strange,” Frank said. “Mrs. Retson knew Joe and I were on the case. Why didn’t she cooperate with us?”
“Because you’re representing her husband.”
“What’s the difference? They’re both looking for their son!”
“That’s true. But you’re to bring him home. I’m supposed to prevent him from coming home. ‘Prevent him at all costs,’ was how Mrs. Retson put it.”
Frank grimaced. “Sam, we’re working at cross purposes here.”
Radley shook his head again. “Not really, Frank. Mrs. Retson thinks her son is in danger. So do you and Joe. Let’s rescue Graham and then worry about bringing him home.”
Frank started. “What about Joe? We’ve got to rescue him before we do anything else!”
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The sergeant left the desk and approached them. “We’ve got a tip on that getaway car with your brother.” he told Frank. “It was spotted speeding up the road to the abandoned Milten Dairy Farm.”
“How do we get there?” Frank asked.
“Take the highway south from Granite City for ten miles. Look for the big Milten sign on the right-hand side. I’ll dispatch a car as soon as I can.
Frank and Radley, who carried a small suitcase, hurried out, slid into the convertible, and zoomed down the highway. At the Milten Dairy sign Frank turned off, and the convertible bounced along a rutted dirt road. It led to a complex of barns and sheds.
“Slow down, Frank,” Radley said. “There’s a car in that big thicket over there.”
“It’s San Marten’s!” Frank replied. He parked behind the thicket, and they got out.
“Look—footprints!” Radley said in a low voice.
The trail led to a run-down house. Carefully the two sleuths edged up to it and peered over a window sill into a dingy room.
Through the dim light Frank and Sam saw Joe sitting in a chair with his hands tied behind him. San Marten and two other men were taunting the captive with threats.
“You’d be wise to answer my questions,” San 
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Marten was saying. “Or I’ll let Belkin and Moreno go to work on you. They have ways of making people talk!” He turned to one of the men. “Right, Belkin?”
“You’d better believe it,” said Belkin. He pulled out a switchblade knife and tested the edge with his finger. At the same time Moreno turned his face and Frank recognized him. He was the driver of the car the boys had sideswiped alongside the golf course when the sprinkler had obscured their view! Harry Grimsel had been with him.
Joe tugged frantically at the ropes and San Marten clouted him across the face.
As Joe moaned, the door splintered open. Frank and Sam Radley barreled in. San Marten and his men spun around, mouths agape.
Frank floored Belkin with a swinging right and fell on top of him. Radley bowled over San Marten and tripped Moreno at the same time!

CHAPTER XVII Golf Ball Artillery
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THE criminals bounded to their feet and a wild melee ensued. Punches, karate chops, grunts, and curses filled the room as Joe sat helplessly looking on.
Frank decked San Marten and Radley staggered Moreno with a forearm smash. Belkin laid Frank and Sam low with a two-by-four, but was nearly exhausted. San Marten pulled himself up shakily.
“Let’s go!” he yelled and raced out, followed by his two confederates.
Frank and Sam rose slowly, shaking their heads to clear the cobwebs.
“Thanks,” Joe said. “You did a great job.”
Frank quickly untied his brother and they dashed toward the big thicket. Radley was the first to spot San Marten’s car moving out. It gained speed and disappeared.
The Hardys and Sam jumped into the convertible, 
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eager to take up the pursuit. To Frank’s horror the car keys were gone.
“Oh, no! I shouldn’t have left them here!” Frank chided himself.
“Don’t fret,” Sam said. He pulled a pad from his pocket and wrote something. “I got the license number. We can phone it to the police.”
“Hey, what’s that?” Joe said. A glint in the sun had caught his attention. He walked over to it. Nearby in the grass lay the car keys, wet with dew and reflecting the sun’s rays.
Frank started the engine and they sped away. At the first public phone booth they stopped and Joe reported to Chief Carton. After a short conversation he told the others that the getaway car had been stolen the day before. “The chief checked the license number right away. They’re on the lookout for it. And another thing—the shoe we found in the water hole was not Mrs. Retson’s. Wrong size!”
Frank grinned. “I’m glad about that. Otherwise they might have started dredging the water hole.” As he started the car again, Radley asked Joe:
“What kind of information was San Marten trying to pry out of you?”
“He wanted to know about Dad’s investigation of the bogus passport ring.”
“So he knows Dad’s on the case,” Frank remarked.
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“He sure does. He kept asking where Dad is right now.”
“This proves what we suspected,” Frank said. “He’s in on the passport racket.”
“What else did he want to find out?” Radley went on.
“All about Graham Retson. Where is he now? What’s he doing? When is he coming home? Things like that.”
Frank whistled. “Those were trick questions. We know that he knows where Graham is. He was on a fishing expedition to see how much we’ve learned.”
“Well, it didn’t do him any good. I refused to bite.”
“That reminds me,” Radley said. “How about a bite to eat? There’s a diner ahead.”
“Great idea,” Frank agreed. “I’m starved.”
Over ham and eggs, they continued to analyze the Retson case.
“We forgot to tell Sam about this,” Joe said suddenly and pulled a piece of folded rubber from his pocket.
“The monkey mask!” Frank exclaimed. “How could that have slipped our minds!”
Radley was amazed at Joe’s account of Diabo. “This could be very important,” he said. “I’d like to take this mask with me. Something tells me it might come in handy before the mystery is solved.”
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“Where are you going, Sam?”
“To the Olympic Health Club. I called and told them I had arthritis and signed up for the two weeks’ treatment they advertise.”
“How come you’re zooming in on Olympic, too?” Joe wanted to know.
“Mrs. Retson is convinced Graham’s being held there,” Radley revealed. “As a patient, I can do some snooping. See if I can find any trace of him.”
“Olympic seems to be San Marten’s headquarters,” Frank pointed out. “Won’t he recognize you?”
“Unlikely,” Radley said. “It was pretty dim in that building and he didn’t get a chance to see my face. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”
They got up. “I’d better call a taxi,” Sam said. “It would look suspicious if you dropped me off.”
When the taxi arrived, Radley got in and waved good-by.
“Good luck,” Frank said, then the Hardys drove on to Whisperwood. Chet was waiting in the guesthouse. He looked worried.
“The guy who played that monkey trick on us called again,” he said.
“What did he want this time?” Joe asked.
“His offer of a thousand bucks still stands,” Chet replied. “He only wants the pistol.”
“What did you say to that?” Frank asked.
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“I told him I didn’t have it,” Chet replied. “But he wouldn’t believe me. Said I’ll end up in the water hole myself if I don’t deliver the gun.”
Frank and Joe agreed it would be safer for Chet if he returned to Bayport right away. They hid behind the suction pump in the back of his pickup, so they would be on hand if the anonymous caller tried to ambush the truck. They intended to see Chet safely beyond Granite City, planning to return to Whisperwood by bus while their pal continued on home.
Chet was freewheeling the pickup down a side road toward the highway when a car with two men came racing up behind. He steered to the right, but the other car refused to pass. Instead, the driver cut diagonally into Chet’s lane, forcing him off the road into a ditch.
The pickup bucked over a couple of boulders, tilted precariously, and jarred to a halt.
Chet leaped from the cab and ran to the rear of the truck. The two men came after him.
Frank and Joe peered out from their hiding place. San Marten and Grimsel!
“Let’s see how good my pitching arm is,” Frank muttered. Plucking a golf ball from the suction pump container, he took aim and bounced it off San Marten’s head.
Joe promptly grabbed a couple of balls and fired away. Chet quickly leaped on the truck and joined the artillery.
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San Marten and Grimsel tried to ward off the barrage
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San Marten and Grimsel tried to ward off the barrage with their hands, but the boys kept pitching too fast. Their targets bent over, shielding their heads with their arms.
“Cease fire!” Chet yelled finally. Jumping from the truck, he plowed into Grimsel with both feet. His weight knocked the caddy into a quivering heap.
Frank and Joe raced after San Marten and subdued him. Quickly they bound his hands with rope from the truck, then tied up Grimsel.
“You’ll pay for this!” San Marten snarled.
“Save it for the judge,” Frank advised him.
“What’ll we do with them now?” Chet asked.
“Take them down to headquarters. Chief Carton will be delighted to see them, no doubt.”
The men were lifted into the truck. Frank and Joe stood guard over them, while Chet drove to headquarters. When they arrived, the Hardys announced a citizen’s arrest and turned the pair over to be booked.
San Marten and Grimsel were told that it was their constitutional right to consult with a lawyer before making any statements. Then Chief Carton ordered both to be fingerprinted.
At this point San Marten panicked. He resisted the procedure so furiously that it took two officers to hold him while a third cleaned his fingertips preparatory to rolling them in the ink.
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The Hardys watched intently. Why would San Marten lose his nerve like this?
“I’ll bet he has a record,” Frank said to Joe.
San Marten scowled savagely at the Hardys, but he saw that further resistance was futile. He stood stolidly as his fingertips were rolled in the ink and recorded on the FBI standard fingerprint card.
“Send the prints to the FBI,” Chief Carton said. “But first check our files to see if we have anything on him.”
“Give me a few minutes, Chief,” said the officer, who had taken the impressions. He left the room.
Carton was discussing the Retson case with the Hardys in his office when the man returned and placed a report on the chief’s desk. Carton picked it up, read it, and dropped it with a puzzled frown.
“This is unbelievable!” he said.

CHAPTER XVIII Bad News
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FRANK and Joe looked curiously at the police chief. “What’s the matter?” Frank asked.
“It doesn’t add up,” Chief Carton replied. “Here, take a look. Who would you say this is?” He pushed a photograph across the desk. Frank, Joe, and Chet studied it.
“It’s Matthews,” Joe said. “We saw his picture before.”
“That’s right,” Carton replied.
“What are you getting at?” Frank asked.
“San Marten’s fingerprints match those of Roscoe Matthews!”
The boys looked dumbfounded.
“It can’t be!” Joe exclaimed. “No two people have exactly the same fingerprints.”
“It follows that Matthews and San Marten are the same person!” Frank declared.
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He reexamined the photograph of Matthews. “San Marten seems to have a narrower face,” he commented.
“And his nose is much shorter,” Joe observed.
“Also, no squint,” Chet said.
Carton nodded. “San Marten’s hair is black, not blond. Of course that’s easy to do with dye. But the other features are so different!”
“Plastic surgery,” Frank surmised.
“That’s possible,” Carton agreed. “It’s an old dodge among the criminal elements. Sometimes a crook’s mother wouldn’t recognize him after the operation.” The police chief stared off into space.
“The thing that doesn’t fit into this theory is the difference between the behavior of Matthews and San Marten. Your Brazilian buddy appears to be quite sophisticated and tricky. Matthews wasn’t like that at all, according to our records.”
“Matthews must have changed his personality along with his face!” Joe said. “It’s been done by other criminals.”
An idea struck Frank. “Remember Graham Retson’s poem, Joe?”
“I sure do.”
“What poem?” Carton asked.
“We found it in Graham’s room and weren’t sure what it meant,” Frank said. “It goes like this:
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‘My life is a walled city
From which I must flee,
This must my prison be
So long as I am me.
There is a way,
But what it is I cannot say.’”
Carton was thoughtful. “Are you implying Graham Retson wanted to change his identity?”
Frank got up and paced around excitedly. “It sounds far-fetched, but we know San Marten changed his, and Graham is mixed up with San Marten. Isn’t it possible that both did the same thing?”
“I don’t know,” Carton said. “If Graham decided to do this voluntarily, why would San Marten have kidnapped him?”
“I doubt that San Marten would tell us,” Joe said. “But maybe Grimsel will volunteer some information.”
“Good idea,” Carton said and had the caddy brought in.
He looked frightened. Carton advised him of his constitutional rights, then began to ask him questions. Grimsel answered most of them. Gradually his confidence returned. He even became boastful.
“I know something that could blow the Olympic Health Club wide open,” he bragged.
“All right, give us the facts,” the chief said.
The caddy smirked. “I’m not that dumb. I 
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know what happens to informers. They end up in the water. Very dead.”
“You mean the water hazard on the golf course?” Frank asked in a nonchalant manner.
“Never mind what I mean,” Grimsel said surlily. “I’m not talking any more.”
Grimsel was taken back to his cell.
“Here’s what we do next,” Carton said. “We’ll get a search warrant for the Olympic Health Club and investigate the place, based on the discovery of the gun.”
“We’d like to go along,” Frank said.
“Why not? You boys collected most of the evidence so far.”
After the warrant was obtained, Chief Carton and two detectives drove to the health club. Frank, Joe, and Chet followed in the pickup. The manager met them as they entered.
“Search warrant, Mr. Portner,” Chief Carton said and presented the document.
Portner turned pale. He examined the warrant briefly, then said, “Go right ahead. We have nothing to hide.”
The officers went to inspect the manager’s office. Meanwhile, Frank, Joe, and Chet made a tour of the facilities. First they visited the swimming pool, where about twenty members were splashing around. Next they paused in the doorway of the exercise room. Several men were lifting dumbbells and pedaling stationary bikes.
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“Nothing suspicious here,” Joe said.
Then they went to the gym. Two teams were playing basketball. Another group of four was tossing a medicine ball.
Suddenly Frank felt a thump between his shoulders and pitched forward on his face. The medicine ball had flattened him!
Joe helped him up. Frank was gasping for air.
“Sorry, fellow,” a balding man apologized. “My aim isn’t usually that bad. I hope you’re not hurt.”
“Just shaken up,” Frank said, and moved on to the steam room with his pals.
Three men were sitting around in thick bath towels, soaking up the heat.
The boys immediately recognized the figure nearest them—Radley! But neither they nor Sam gave a sign that they knew one another.
“Whew!” Radley said to no one in particular. “I could use some ventilation in here!”
Was he trying to give them a hint?
“It’s rather hot,” Frank agreed. “I don’t think I’d like to stay very long.”
Sam did not continue the conversation, however, so the boys left. Outside, Frank said in a low voice, “Sam meant to tell us something with that remark. There was no other reason for him to speak.”
Joe nodded. “But what did he mean?”
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Frank shrugged. “I wish I knew. Just keep it in mind, maybe it’ll make sense later.”
“Okay. Let’s get back and see if the police discovered anything.”
They found Portner talking to Carton about Grimsel. “I fired the caddy,” said the general manager. “His record here was bad. He broke the rules many times. That’s why he’s no longer with us.”
“Know anything about a man named San Marten?” Carton inquired.
“No.”
“A fellow named Matthews?”
“Never heard of him. Really I’m quite unfamiliar with the people you mention. We have so many members and patients who come here for treatment just for short periods that it’s impossible to know everyone’s name.”
The two policemen came back from their search. Carton asked, “Any results?”
“No,” one of them replied. “The place appears clean.”
Portner looked from one to the other. “At least you could tell me what you were expecting to find?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” the chief replied. “It just so happened that a gun was found in your water hazard which belonged to a fugitive from justice.”
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“Well, I do hope you’re satisfied. I don’t want our members disturbed by all this!” The general manager seemed genuinely distressed by the police visit.
“All right, Mr. Portner,” Carton said. “We’ll clear out and let you—”
The phone rang on the desk. Portner answered, then said to Carton, “It’s for you.”
The officer took the phone. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Back to headquarters on the double!” he said, his face tense.
As they hurried out to the cars, Frank asked, “What’s up?”
“San Marten staged a jailbreak!”
“How did he get away?” Joe asked.
“He had a confederate spring him,” the chief replied grimly. He climbed into the squad car.
“You mean another member of his gang?” Frank asked.
“Not on your life!” Carton said. “It wasn’t a person at all. San Marten was helped by a monkey!”

CHAPTER XIX A Telltale Bug
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THE news of San Marten’s accomplice stunned the Hardys and Chet.
“How did he escape?” Joe asked.
Carton shrugged. “We’ll have to wait till we get to headquarters.”
The police car drove off, and the boys followed in Chet’s pickup. When they arrived, Officer Jensen, who had phoned the chief, supplied the details. “Near as I can figure, the monkey climbed down from the roof, got hold of the bars to San Marten’s cell, and wedged himself through. He brought San Marten a plastic explosive and a gun.”
“And San Marten did the rest,” Joe commented.
Jensen nodded. “He planted the explosive under the lock and blew it off. The men on duty came running back to find out what happened. 
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They saw a lot of smoke, dust, and falling plaster.”
“Where was San Marten?” Frank asked.
“Under the bed. He scrambled out with the gun in his hand, got the drop on them, and made them throw their gun belts into his cell. Then he locked them in another cell and beat it with the monkey.”
“Did the guards get a good look at the animal?” Joe inquired.
Jensen nodded again. “That’s one of the strangest things. They said it was the most repulsive creature they’ve ever seen. A leering, snarling little monster. About three feet high with a long tail and blackish fur.”
“Diabo!” Joe gasped.
“What did you say?” Officer Jensen asked with a baffled frown.
“A Brazilian howler monkey we happen to know,” Frank said. “Your description fits him perfectly.”
Joe explained their experience with Diabo. “We think that horrible face your men saw was a rubber mask.”
“A masked monkey! That’s a new one on me!” Jensen snorted. “But that was not the only confederate San Marten had when he broke jail. A car was waiting for him outside. San Marten and Diabo jumped in and were gone before we could do anything about it.”
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“Did Grimsel get away at the same time?” Frank wanted to know.
“No. San Marten left him behind. I’ve put a special guard on the caddy’s cell.”
Frank, Joe, and Chet went back to Whisperwood. In the guesthouse Chet slumped into an easy chair. “I’m bushed,” he announced. “How about you guys going to the kitchen and rustling up something for the inner man? Make mine root beer and ham sandwiches.”
Frank chuckled. “Those threatening phone calls don’t seem to have affected your appetite, Chet.”
“Please, Frank. Don’t remind me. Just bring on the eats.”
“Okay, okay.”
While they were munching on their sandwiches, Joe remarked. “As long as San Marten’s still at large, none of us is safe.”
“And don’t forget the guy who’s been phoning me about the pistol found in the water hazard,” Chet said. “He’s after us, too!”
Joe took a sip of root beer. “When we saw Sam in the Olympic steam room, he mentioned the word ventilation. What could he have meant?”
“You know,” Frank said, “the ventilation apparatus at the club is huge. Maybe for a reason. I vote we go back tonight and check it out. And it might be a good idea to take some detecting equipment.”
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“Lucky we’ve got a spare bug,” Joe commented. “The other one must have sunk to the bottom when the monkey pushed us into the Amazon.”
When it was dark the boys put a scaling ladder and a mountaineer’s rope aboard the truck. Then Chet drove to an inconspicuous dirt road and parked in a concealed spot. The three got out, took their gear, and stealthily approached the Olympic Health Club.
The new wing of the club loomed high above. They could barely make out the oblong shape of the ventilator on top.
“We’ll have to go all the way up,” Frank said in a low tone.
“Not me!” Chet muttered. “I’m volunteering for low-altitude duty.”
Joe snickered. “Your weight would probably break the rope. We’ll all be better off if you stay below and hold the ladder steady.”
They anchored the scaling ladder near some large bushes. Chet placed his feet against it, and the Hardys climbed the rungs. Frank was first. Joe followed with the rope.
The ladder fell far short of the top. Frank surveyed the gutters and the ventilator, trying to figure out how to get the rest of the way up to the roof. He spotted a two-inch pipe sticking up at one corner of the ventilator.
“That’s the hold we need,” he thought. Gripping 
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the top rung with one hand, he reached for the rope with the other.
Frank made three tosses before the noose dropped over the pipe. He tested the rope for security, then hoisted himself hand over hand, gaining added leverage by walking up the wall with his feet. Clambering over the gutter, he gestured to Joe to follow.
Joe gripped the rope tightly, then swung himself upward. His feet hit the wall at an angle that caused him to veer wildly away from the building. As he swung back, he felt for the top rung with his right foot, intending to steady himself before making a second attempt to climb up.
His foot probed into empty space! The ladder was gone! Joe dangled at the end of the rope with nothing beneath him except a two-story drop to the ground!
Desperately he strained every muscle to keep his grip on the rope. Finally he managed to wedge both feet against the wall. Hand over hand, foot by foot, he climbed up until he was high enough for Frank to lean over and haul him onto the roof.
Joe lay there for a moment, gasping for breath.
“What happened to the ladder?” Frank asked.
“We’ll have to ask brother Morton about that.”
“Come on. Let’s take a good look at the ventilator,” Frank urged.
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Cautiously they crept along the roof until they reached the equipment, which hummed softly. Through an opening they peered far down into a dimly lighted subcellar.
“Let’s see if someone’s down there,” Frank whispered. He removed the listening device from his jacket pocket and lowered the cord into the ventilator shaft. The bug descended and dropped through one of the chinks in a metal grate at the bottom.
Frank held up a hand to indicate that was far enough. He and Joe crouched over the earphones. Sounds came through clearly. A group of men were talking loudly!
“We got the dope on Radley,” said one. “He’s a fuzz. Works for Fenton Hardy. We’ll have to do him in before he sets the Feds on us.”
A second voice startled the eavesdroppers. It was San Marten’s! “I told you to screen Radley before accepting him for treatment!” he hissed. “Arthritis! What a dodge! And you fell for it. This whole racket might hit the skids!”
“You weren’t so quick on the uptake yourself,” accused a third voice. “Whose bright idea was it to lure the Hardys to Brazil? Who promised us they’d never come back? We should have knocked them off here in Granite City like I wanted.”
The first man spoke again. “Now they have 
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the evidence they need. If they spill what they know, we’ll all do time in the pen.”
“Stop caterwauling,” San Marten commanded. “We can get out of this mess if we keep our heads. I’ll devise a new plan.”
“I hope it works better than the old one,” came a surly reply.
“This one will be foolproof,” San Marten promised. “We’ll finish off the Hardys and Radley, and get away with the loot. Break it up for now.”
Chairs scraped over the floor. The scuffling of feet indicated that the men were rising. Frank motioned Joe to draw the bug up.
“We’ve heard enough,” he whispered. “Let’s get away from here and alert Chief Carton!”
“Right,” Joe said. “I sure hope Chet’s got the ladder up again!” He grasped the cord and pulled on their listening device. It was stuck! He gave the cord a jerk. The bug banged against the metal grating.
“What’s that?” San Marten exclaimed.
“Somebody must be spying in the ventilator shaft!”
“Alert Portner and his guards!” San Marten screamed. “And turn the signal lights on. Hurry!”
Lights began to flash on and off at the corners of the roof. Frank and Joe rushed to the parapet, 
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leaving the bug in the shaft. Frank beamed his pocket flashlight. No ladder!
“We’ll have to find another way!” Frank ran to the other side of the roof. But there was no alternate escape route in sight!
Suddenly a trap door flew open. Three armed guards sprang out and seized the Hardys at gunpoint. They were hustled through the trap door and into an elevator for a rapid descent to the subcellar.
There the elevator stopped and the men hurled Frank and Joe out. The boys picked themselves off the floor and were confronted by five men with brutal, cruel, animal-like features.
The men were wearing monkey masks!
“Five oversized Diabos!” Frank said.
“So you know all about Diabo.” The speaker was San Marten. “You’re about to meet him again!”
With those words he opened the door of a cage in the corner of the room. Diabo emerged, wearing his hideous mask. The beast looked more sinister than ever because in one paw he held a thin, razor-sharp dagger.
San Marten boomed, “Play your game, Diabo!”

CHAPTER XX Unmasking the Gang
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THE howler monkey obeyed the command and began a weird caper. He jigged madly around Frank and Joe, waving his arms and throwing his body into contortions. At the same time he rasped out a stream of eerie snarls and whines.
“That’s the voodoo dance of the macumba witch doctors!” Frank gasped. “The same as we saw in Belem!”
Diabo circled closer, flailing the stiletto. Another step, and the ferocious simian would be near enough to stab the boys.
Over the monkey’s shoulder, Frank and Joe saw a door open. A sixth man slipped into the room. He, too, was wearing a monkey mask. Just as Diabo poised for a thrust at the boys, the sixth man pulled a gun from his pocket.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Startled by the sound, the monkey turned his 
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head. Frank jumped forward and seized the paw that held the dagger. Joe gripped Diabo by the other arm. While the newcomer held the men in check with his gun, Frank and Joe hustled the animal over to the cage, forced him in, and slammed the door.
“Thanks,” Frank said to their rescuer. “You got here just in time.”
“It’s a pleasure,” came a familiar voice behind the mask. Sam Radley!
Sam pulled off his mask. As he did, one of the gang members picked up a small chair and hurled it at him, knocking the gun from his hand. Two men jumped the detective, while the other three went after Frank and Joe.
Frank met the first attacker with a stiff right-hand punch that put him down for the count. Joe felled the second with a karate chop. They wrestled the third to the floor, and subdued him after a violent struggle.
Radley took care of his two opponents by grabbing their shirt collars and cracking their heads together. He picked up his gun, and as the gangsters recovered, ordered them to line up along the wall. Sullenly they obeyed.
Then the door opened again. Fenton Hardy rushed in, followed by Chief Carton and a contingent of police. Chet Morton was at their heels.
“Dad!” Frank and Joe cried out in surprise. “How did you get here?”
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“I had a late appointment with Chief Carton. A man was caught with a falsified passport in New York, and he spilled the beans regarding the Olympic Health Club. While I was talking to the chief, Chet rushed in and gave us the word.”
“Right after you went up on the roof, I heard someone coming so I took the ladder and ducked,” Chet said. “Then, before I could set it up again, those lights went on. I was worried plenty, but I see you have the situation here well in hand.”
“Sam gets the credit for that,” Joe said, and quickly explained to his father what had happened.
“So that’s it,” Mr. Hardy said. “I was wondering how he got in on this caper. You did a great job, Sam.”
“You mean your sons did, Fenton,” Radley replied. He walked over to the prisoners and began to remove their monkey masks.
“Belkin!” Joe exclaimed as the first face became visible. “The guy who wanted to carve me up with his switchblade knife!”
Radley jerked off the second mask.
“Moreno, our Brazilian buddy’s other strong-arm man,” Frank told his father.
The third man to be unmasked was San Marten. “No surprise,” Joe commented. “We recognized his voice.”
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When Radley ripped off the fourth mask, the Hardy boys were startled. “Buru!” Frank exclaimed. “What’s a Belem witch doctor doing in Granite City? But you’re really an American criminal posing as a witch doctor, aren’t you?”
Bum’s guilty look confirmed Frank’s deduction.
Radley reached the end of the line. Putting his fingers under the chin part of the last mask, he wrenched it off. Everyone gasped in amazement. J. G. Retson!
“Caught red-handed!” Fenton Hardy declared. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Retson.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sam. “There’s somebody waiting outside who should be in on this.” He went to the door and beckoned. A young man entered. He wore long hair and spectacles that gave him an owlish look. His face was pale.
“Meet Graham Retson,” Sam Radley introduced the youth. “He’s ready to provide some answers to the questions in this case.”
“Wow!” Joe said, shaking hands with the youth. “We tramped all over Brazil looking for you!”
“Believe me, I wish you had found me sooner,” Graham said. “As it was, Sam was just in time to rescue me from the sauna room before I passed out. They locked me in there and turned up the temperature!”
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Frank looked at Sam Radley and his father. “How about letting us in on all the details?”
“To begin with,” Mr. Hardy explained, “San Marten and his gang have been running a Change-Your-Identity operation here at the Olympic Health Club. Criminals were outfitted with new faces, personalities, and passports, which were in ample supply from the post office heist. Of course, the documents were doctored to fit their new owners.”
“How did they ever get away with it?” Joe asked. “This health club is a big place, and to keep an operation like this secret—”
“They had everything set up in this subcellar,” Radley put in. “It is cleverly concealed from the rest of the building. No one who worked here knew about it, except Portner, Grimsel, and the three musclemen who acted as the ground patrol. Every time those signal lights on the roof flashed on, they checked the premises for unwanted intruders.”
With a sidelong glance at San Marten, who stood in silent rage, Carton said, “We’ve arrested those four already. Grimsel, incidentally, was never really fired. That was just an act Portner put on to underline his ‘no trespassers allowed’ policy.”
“Sam, how did you ever find out about the subcellar?” Frank asked. “We’ve been here with the 
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police searching the whole place and came up with nothing!”
“It took me a while. It is only accessible by a hidden elevator. See that cubicle over there? It’s the operating room where the gang’s doctor—Buru, incidentally—performed plastic surgery.”
“Wow! And we thought he was a witch doctor,” Frank said.
“What about personality changes?” Joe asked.
“They brainwashed people,” Sam said. “Mostly criminals. For an exorbitant fee they gave them psychiatric treatment, including hypnosis. Moreno here, who poses as a strong-arm man, is really a licensed psychiatrist. Exhibit A—San Marten himself.”
Now Graham Retson spoke up. “I learned about their operation by accident. They made me a prisoner in the club.”
“You mean you never ran away from home?” Joe asked.
Graham shook his head. “I was going to leave after I found out my father was involved with that gang. I went to the bank and withdrew money, but the bank president notified my father immediately and he intercepted me on my way from the bank to the airport.”
Graham paced back and forth as he related the past events. “I tried to escape a few times, but I could never get far enough before they found out. Those lights flashing on and off were signals for 
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the guards to look for me. Once I got as far as Whisperwood—”
“Were you the one who threw a golf ball through the guesthouse window?” Joe interrupted.
“Yes. I thought Harris was there. I didn’t know he had moved back into the main house. He was my friend, and I was trying to signal him. My father caught me that time. Another time I almost made it to the waterfall. I heard my mother call me. Then Grimsel and Moreno seemed to appear out of nowhere and Moreno clubbed me. I heard them talking later about Grimsel spotting you at the falls that night.”
“So he was the one who pushed me into the water,” Frank said.
“Graham,” Joe said, “how did your mother know that you were at the Olympic Health Club?”
“I don’t think she actually knew for certain. It must have been terrible for her. It caused her breakdown, no doubt. Sam Radley told me about that.”
Graham looked at his father accusingly. J. G. Retson flushed.
“I owed money to their loan sharks and couldn’t pay it back. So they forced me to work with them. I have many important contacts in industry and was able to launch many of their clients in various businesses. For that the gang 
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charged an extra fee. You discovered the scheme, Graham, so we had to hold you prisoner in the club. I worked out arrangements to send you abroad, however. You would have had your freedom and enough money to live on. Look, Graham—”
“Forget it,” Graham said disgustedly.
Frank spoke up. “Why did you insist that we investigate Graham’s disappearance. Mr. Retson?”
“To make it look good. My wife was suspicious, and I had to convince her that I was eager to find the boy. I didn’t want to hurt her, believe me—”
“So you put that note in my jacket to throw suspicion on the butler,” Joe cut him short.
“Also,” Frank said, “you sent us on that wild-goose chase to Brazil. You had your nerve, complaining when we returned without Graham!”
Joe turned to Sam Radley. “How did you ever hit on that ventilator clue, Sam?”
“Well,” Radley replied, “I had found out about the sub-basement. But as a patient, I couldn’t possibly get down there without being suspect. I figured the only way to investigate was through the ventilator shaft from the outside. I tried it once but almost got caught.”
“Not almost,” Frank said. “We heard them say that Radley was the fuzz. They knew, and were probably waiting for a good opportunity to get rid of you.”
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“I guess that just about winds up the case,” Fenton Hardy remarked to Chief Carton.
“There’s one thing that hasn’t been explained yet,” Frank spoke up. He went over to the monkey cage. Diabo glared at him through the bars.
“Joe, give me a hand here,” Frank said. “I want to see what makes this monkey tick.” He opened the door to the cage. Immediately the monkey growled menacingly, and Joe had to use all his might to keep him down while Frank removed the mask.
As soon as the boy had pulled the rubber mask off, the monkey calmed down. A pleasant, gentle simian face emerged, and bright eyes glanced around the gathering in a friendly way. Diabo seemed to be wondering which of these human beings would be good for a handful of nuts or a banana.
Fenton Hardy shook his head in disbelief. “That’s the most astonishing transformation I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Diabo must have been trained to be vicious only when he had the mask on. I wonder how.”
“Here’s a possible answer,” Frank said. He turned the rubber mask inside out, revealing a couple of tiny earphones hidden in the thick earpieces. “Somebody’s been radioing instructions to Diabo.”
Joe observed San Marten move his head uncomfortably, 
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as if his collar were too tight. The boy went over to examine the prisoner closer.
“Just as I expected!” Joe exclaimed. He removed a collar mike and followed the cord to a sending unit concealed under San Marten’s shirt.
The Hardys studied the apparatus. Finally Fenton Hardy said, “I see it now. High-frequency signals sent out between oral instruction could drive the poor animal crazy.” He turned to San Marten. “You’re a sadist!”
“Dad,” Frank said, “I think Diabo’s first monkeyshine was tossing a bag of nuts at me from a truck in Belem.”
“Wait a minute, Frank,” Joe said. “He wasn’t wearing a mask then.”
Frank laughed. “You’re right. He was strictly monkeying around on his own that time.”
“But he had the mask on when he burglarized our room at the hotel,” Joe went on.
“And when he pitched us into the Amazon,” Frank added.
“Diabo’s a very versatile monkey,” Chet put in.
“So is the whole gang, in a sinister way,” Frank muttered. He was thinking of his first day in Belem. “I wonder if that hotel clerk at the Excelsior Grao Para was in with the gang.”
Retson answered. “No. San Marten had someone pose as Graham at the hotel.”
“What about Bauer in Manaus?”
“He’s a confederate.”
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Frank addressed San Marten. “He was with you that night at the dock when you had us thrown in the Amazon, wasn’t he?”
The man shrugged.
“We’ll inform the Brazilian police about Bauer,” Chief Carton said.
“One more thing,” Chet said. “Who phoned me about the pistol?”
“I did,” Moreno grumbled.
Chief Carton motioned to his men. “Take the prisoners to headquarters.”
Joe Hardy grinned at his brother. “Well, I’m glad that’s over. I don’t want to do anything more serious than scavenge golf balls with Chet from now on!”
“Count me in, too,” said Frank as everyone filed out.
But neither Frank nor Joe were aware that they would have little time to participate in Chet’s project. A new case, The Shattered Helmet, would soon involve them in a chain of exciting events.
Upstairs in the lobby Frank turned to Graham Retson. “You know,” he said, “our first clue in this investigation was a poem we found in your room. It goes like this:
“ ‘My life is a walled city
From which I must flee;
This must my prison be
So long as—’”
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“I remember that,” Graham interrupted.
“We figured you were thinking about escaping from home, or even changing your personality when you wrote it. Were we correct?”
Graham chuckled. “Sorry, Frank. You were on another wild-goose chase.”
“Then what does the poem mean?”
“You’ll have to ask the author, not me. I copied it out of a magazine!”
Web of Horror (Hardy Boys Casefiles #53)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Help me!" Joe Hardy heard the man scream. Joe sat up taller in his chair and tried to peer through the thick mist that filled the room, but he couldn't even see his older brother, Frank, who was sitting right next to him.
"Please, someone help me!" the voice pleaded again, hoarse with fear.
Gradually the mist began to disperse, and Joe was able to make out a young man wearing a high school letter jacket and designer jeans sitting on a sofa. His terror-filled eyes were focused on a point beyond the Hardys.
As Joe watched, the high school student was seized by two scaly arms that seemed to grow out of the sofa. The young man screamed and tried to squirm away, but it was no use.
2
The monstrous arms slowly pulled the student down, and unbelievably he disappeared between the cushions of the sofa!
"Cut!" a loud voice shouted.
With the flick of a light switch the scene of supernatural horror was instantly transformed to that of a movie set.
Joe put his hands up to his blue eyes to shield them from the bright light that now filled the room.
Joe took a deep breath and stood up to stretch his six-foot frame. He watched as two crew members shoved the sofa aside, revealing a trapdoor beneath it. The door opened, and out crawled the actor who had just been devoured by the monster couch.
Joe poked Frank in the ribs. "Oh, man, wasn't that great?"
Frank just sighed and tried to smile as he ran his fingers back through his dark hair.
Joe couldn't believe what a drag his brother was being. "I don't get it. I was sure you'd be psyched to help Dad with security on the set of this movie. I mean—" Joe's attention was caught by a redheaded, fair-skinned woman in her early twenties, who was removing the arms from the sofa. She must be on the special-effects crew, Joe thought, and watched her pick up the arms and a remote-control device and head toward them.
"If you keep sulking, you won't make a good
3
impression on the beauty heading our way," Joe muttered to Frank.
Frank glanced at the young woman, but he didn't seem to be interested.
Joe flashed the woman the broadest smile he could muster as she passed by. His smile curved down as the redhead continued on her way, oblivious of either Joe or Frank.
"You barely glanced at her," Joe said to Frank.
"She was okay. But there would be lots more girls to look at on the beach. That's where most people go on their summer vacations. Somewhere with surfboards and the ocean. What are we doing in the middle of Texas? All we get to see here are cows, tumbleweed, and dust."
Joe frowned. Frank's attitude was ruining the fun he planned to have helping his father with the security on the movie set of Horror House Five: Back from the Grave, which was being shot on location in Beaufort, Texas. The Horror House series was loosely based on a documented haunting incident, and the films were made at the house where the haunting supposedly occurred.
Fenton Hardy, a former New York City police detective turned private investigator, had been hired by his friend Leonard Gold, the head of Fourteen Karat Studios, the New York-based company that produced the Horror House series, to head their security team. Die-hard fans eager
4
to steal props or worm their way into a scene had always made top security a necessity for the production company.
"Come on, Frank," said Joe. "Don't you think it's cool to see what goes on behind the scenes?"
Joe motioned toward the living room. The crew was disassembling equipment to move it upstairs, where the next scene would be shot. Already the living room was resembling its former state. Like the other rooms in the house, it was rustic but well kept. The floors were hardwood, and the walls were wood paneled. The flagstone fireplace was huge. The house was over eighty years old, and with the right lighting it was the most ominous-looking place Joe had ever seen. He could understand why the production company wanted to film at the house.
"You don't think this is interesting?" Joe asked.
"Sure," Frank said, "if you're into this kind of stuff. But we've been on movie sets before. I'm just not all that crazy about slasher flicks."
Before Joe could reply, he was interrupted by the director, Shane Katz, making an announcement.
"Put that last cut in the can and let's hope there was enough mist to make those reptilian arms look real."
Joe smiled to himself. He knew enough movie lingo to understand that the last take of the monster 
5
sofa scene would be developed and printed for Katz to view later in a private screening room at Fourteen Karat Studios in Dallas. Each scene was also videotaped on a camcorder. That way the director could get an immediate idea of what had been filmed. But Joe knew there was really no way to be sure a scene was going to work until it was previewed on a big screen.
Joe watched as Katz rubbed the back of his neck. The director wore faded jeans and a T-shirt. With his dark, graying hair and full beard, he seemed about forty. His eyes were bloodshot, and the dark circles under them didn't surprise Joe. He knew the long and grueling hours the director put in.
"What's the problem, people?"
Joe turned as the speaker came charging out of the kitchen and into the living room. He had shoulder-length blond hair and a round, childlike head set on a fairly thin body. Joe recognized him from interviews as Andrew Warmouth, the film's producer. As Warmouth wormed his way into the middle of the living room next to Katz, he glared at the crew. They instantly sped up the moving process.
"Why are we behind schedule?" Warmouth bellowed. "We're making a cheap horror movie, not Gone With the Wind. The couch scene should have been in the can already! Let's get this train back on the track, people!"
6
"You heard the man," Katz said through cupped hands. "Let's move it."
Warmouth nodded to Katz, then turned and barreled out of the room.
"What a sweetheart," Frank mumbled.
"Producers have to be that way, Frank," Joe said. "There are only four to six weeks to get this film shot. Nothing would get done if Warmouth wasn't breathing down everyone's neck constantly."
Joe felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to find his father standing behind him.
"Enjoying yourselves, boys?" Fenton asked.
"One of us is," Joe said.
"Give me a break, Joe. I told you—I just don't like horror movies," Frank protested.
"Can't blame you for that," Fenton said, smiling. "I don't care for the blood-and-guts stuff myself."
"Where's your sense of humor, guys?" Joe said.
Joe listened as Shane Katz boomed out, "Dinner break, everyone. It's six o'clock. Be back in one hour, and we'll set up for the 'bathtub of blood' scene."
Joe laughed as the actor who had been sucked into the sofa groaned at the news.
"You boys had better go grab a bite," Fenton said. "The production company has a catering service lined up for tomorrow, but tonight we have to fend for ourselves. Would you mind
7
bringing me back a tuna melt and a coffee? I have some work to do in my trailer."
"Sure," Frank said.
As Joe was about to leave, he spotted a small, timid-looking man standing beside the front door of the house. He was in his late thirties, stood about five-seven, and weighed about one hundred fifty pounds, Joe estimated. The man was balding, with thick bifocals, and he had a nervous tic that made the right side of his face jump. He wore a gray, ill-fitting suit and was carrying a Horror House script.
"Oh, my gosh, Frank!" Joe whispered excitedly. "It's him! It's the Reaper!"
Joe couldn't believe he was standing so close to Matthew Clervi, the man who played the Reaper, the supernatural creature who always lurked inside the Horror House. His character had become so famous that Reaper T-shirts were selling out in stores all over the country.
"Where?" Frank asked, looking past the little man.
Joe realized that Frank was expecting a hooded, red-eyed, skeletal beast. "Right there," Joe said softly, pointing. "The guy in the bifocals and gray suit."
"You've got to be kidding." Frank laughed. "He's the guy who runs around in a hood and robe, hacking up people with a scythe?"
"Yes," Joe insisted. "That's Matthew Clervi. He's the star."
8
Clervi made it out of the house just then, having more than a little trouble opening the heavy front door.
"He looks more like a librarian than a slasher or actor," Frank said.
"He used to be a serious actor. Before he became the Reaper, he did a lot of Shakespeare."
"And he broadened his career with this role," Frank said sarcastically. "What a dramatic challenge, hiding in shadows and jumping out at innocent people."
"His best role to date," Joe said. He lurked behind Frank, imitating the Reaper.
"Come on, killer," Frank said. "Let's go hack up a cheeseburger."
* * *
Joe pressed his cold glass of lemonade against his forehead and sighed with relief. The temperature in Beaufort was ninety-five degrees even at six o'clock, and the only respite from the heat the Mid-Way Café offered, besides something cool to drink, was an ancient ceiling fan that barely stirred the heavy air. Sprawled out in a corner booth, Joe waited for Frank to finish his supper.
"What I don't understand is how these kinds of movies can claim to be based on actual events," Frank said, finishing off his chocolate shake.
"Horror House is," Joe said.
Frank laughed. "Come on."
9
"You mean you've never heard the story of the Hughes house?"
Frank hesitated.
"The very house that Horror House Five is being filmed in is said to be haunted. You know—there were reports of strange noises, moving objects, cold rooms ... the whole bit. The people who lived there, Harold and Kitty Hughes, wrote a book about what they experienced. Shane Katz was a beginning director at the time, and he said the book inspired him to make a movie about it. He finally got mega-producer Andrew Warmouth to back him. The movies have all been filmed here at the actual house."
"People honestly think the house is haunted?" Frank asked skeptically.
"Actually, there hasn't been an incident in ten years," Joe said.
"Maybe there weren't any incidents to begin with."
"You're so closed-minded," Joe said with an exasperated grin.
"So what about this Reaper character?" Frank asked. "Where did he come from?"
"The Reaper is Katz's creation. He was added to the series for suspense, not to mention marketing potential. Haunted houses are just backdrops nowadays."
Frank nodded and picked up the bill. "Let's get back to the set with Dad's food."
10
"Let's do him a favor and forget his dinner," Joe groaned, rubbing his stomach.
"What's the matter?" Frank said, grinning. "Doesn't the Mid-Way Café agree with you?"
"Yeah, the Mid-Way Café," Joe muttered. "Midway between heartburn and food poisoning."
* * *
"What did you think of the bathtub of blood scene?" Joe asked Frank as they walked toward their trailer later that night. It was after eleven and the Hardys were finally heading for bed.
"It was gross," Frank said.
"Well," Joe said, "I thought it was cool. That fake blood sure looked real, didn't it? I guess they'll use a lot of it tomorrow. Katz said they're doing a scene with the Reaper."
"I can hardly wait," Frank muttered.
Joe wearily climbed the single step of their small trailer, which had barely enough room to turn around in when the two beds were pulled down.
"Why did Dad leave the set early?" Frank asked as he and Joe got ready for bed.
"I think he went out to buy antacid," Joe said.
Frank laughed. "We warned him."
Joe turned off the lamp on the nightstand between the beds.
"Good night, Joe," Frank said, turning on his side.
11
"Good night, and don't let the Reaper bite." Joe laughed maniacally as he shut the light off.
Just as the boys fell asleep they were awakened by a woman screaming. Joe and Frank leapt from their beds, threw on their jeans, and charged toward the noise of an excited crowd. At the house the film crew was gathered at the front door. Joe and Frank pushed partway through the crowd, but eventually got bogged down near the entrance. The crew had completely blocked their way.
"We're with security!" Joe shouted in frustration. "Let us through!"
Finally Joe made it to the door. He thrust out his arm to keep Frank from stumbling into their father, who was blocking the doorway.
"What happened, Dad?" Joe asked, feeling the crowd press against his back.
"They just found Andrew Warmouth's body," Fenton said gravely. "He was killed tonight— cut down with the Reaper's scythe!"
12
Chapter 2
Joe stared at Warmouth's lifeless body where it lay three or four feet inside the house. The producer had collapsed forward onto the floor. At the back of his neck was an ugly wound. Blood had soaked through most of his shirt and the floor under him.
Joe ran upstairs and found a sheet in a linen closet to lay over Warmouth's body. When he came back down, he saw that three more of his father's security guards had arrived to keep the crowd back until the police could show up.
Joe poked his head into the den. His dad was questioning the redheaded young woman Joe had spotted during the monster couch scene. Joe went back and joined Frank, who was staring down at the covered corpse.
13
"What do you make of it?" Frank asked.
"He was obviously struck from behind. Our trailer is close enough to the house to hear Warmouth scream if he'd known what was coming," Joe said. "The killer must have gotten to him before he had a chance to turn around. He probably never knew what hit him."
"That wound on the back of his neck is huge," Frank said. "The only thing that could have left a mark that size is a scythe."
"The trademark weapon of the Reaper," Joe said. "That's what Dad said, too."
"That woman he's talking to is the one who screamed," Frank told his brother. "Her name's Cathleen Bowley. She's the makeup special- effects assistant. Let's go see what Dad's found out."
As Frank and Joe started toward the den, Joe noticed a rotund man in a sheriff's uniform entering the house. With him were Shane Katz and a young deputy.
"Who are you boys?" the sheriff asked, checking out the Hardys.
"I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank. We've just arrived, and we're with security," Joe said.
"Security?" the sheriff scoffed. "I thought we had child labor laws in Texas."
Joe opened his mouth to answer, but just then his father joined them.
"I'm Fenton Hardy," the detective said to the
14
sheriff. "I'm head of security. These are my sons, Joe and Frank."
"Rhett Thornall, sheriff of Beaufort." The sheriff shook Fenton's hand. "What have we got here?"
"Take a look for yourself," Joe said, still fuming over Thornall's earlier sarcastic remark.
Thornall gently lifted the sheet from Warmouth's body. "That's nasty," Thornall muttered. He raised his eyes to Fenton. "Who was he?"
"Andrew Warmouth. The film's producer."
"Any witnesses?" Thornall asked.
"Just a young lady who found the body," Fenton replied. "She's still in shock."
Katz, who had peered over Thornall's shoulder, was muttering and shaking his head in disbelief. "Poor Andy," he repeated over and over.
"Well, you fellas can clear out now," Thornall said to the Hardys. "I'll take it from here. My deputy will round up the crew for questioning."
"Wait a minute. You can't march in here and tell us to get lost," Joe said. "We work here!"
Thornall chuckled. "Now, look, I have a forensics team heading down from Dallas, and they sure don't need a bunch of rent-a-cops getting in their way. If you want to be useful, why don't you take Mr. Katz back to his trailer? He looks pretty shook up."
Joe opened his mouth to say something else, but Fenton took him by the arm and steered him
15
out of the house. Frank followed with Shane Katz.
"I'll be okay," Katz insisted, though he still looked as if he was on the verge of collapse. "I talked to Leonard Gold before the sheriff arrived. He wants us to meet at his Dallas office tomorrow morning."
"Then we'd all better get some sleep," Fenton suggested.
* * *
Even Frank was impressed by Leonard Gold's Dallas office. A huge penthouse on the top floor of a downtown business complex, it was one of the most plush layouts he had ever seen. "And this is just a branch office," he reminded himself. The success of the Horror House series had allowed Fourteen Karat Studios to expand from its small New York headquarters and set up another office in Dallas.
From his place between Joe and his father at a conference table in the center of the room, Frank could easily watch Sheriff Thornall and Shane Katz across from him and still see Leonard Gold at the head of the table.
Gold stood up and gripped the table. He was a tall, stern-faced man in an expensive white suit. "Thank you for coming, gentlemen," he began, sweeping them briefly with his eyes. "As you know, Andrew Warmouth was brutally murdered last night. The person responsible for this
16
crime must be brought to justice—and fast. Gentlemen, I need your suggestions."
Gold sat back down, pushing his gold-framed glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Sheriff Thornall," he said, "we'll start with you."
Thornall stood up. "Well, we're pretty sure Warmouth was struck on the back of the neck by the scythe y'all use in your movies," he said. "We had a forensics team out there most of last night searching for a print or strand of hair from the killer, but so many people had been crawling all over that house, it was impossible."
I wish Joe and I could have tried, Frank thought.
"Mmm," Gold grunted, a disturbed expression on his face. "Any suspects?"
"Two, so far," Thornall said. "The young lady who found his body, Cathleen Bowley—"
"Excuse me, Sheriff," interrupted Fenton Hardy, "but isn't Miss Bowley too small to have nearly decapitated someone as tall as Warmouth?"
"Never underestimate a woman, Mr. Hardy," Thornall said.
"Who is the other suspect?" Gold asked.
"Matthew Clervi," Thornall said,
Leonard Gold gasped. "That can't be possible. If Matthew Clervi is guilty, it'll ruin us. We'd have to fold the Horror House series because he has too big a following to replace." He frowned. "Besides, Clervi's a teddy bear. Everyone knows he's harmless."
17
"He knows how to wield the scythe, and he doesn't have an alibi," Thornall said.
"We saw Clervi yesterday before the dinner break," Frank spoke up. "He seemed quite nervous."
"He always looks like that," Gold said.
"I'm sorry if it would hurt your business, Mr. Gold," Thornall said, "but Clervi is a suspect."
"Ridiculous," Gold insisted. "Anything further, Sheriff?"
"Yes, in fact, I'm going to have to ask you to halt production and close that house down before anyone else gets hurt."
"He's right, Leonard." It was Shane Katz, who had remained silent all morning. "Andy's dead! I think we should cut our losses and film the rest of the movie later. Andy was my friend, and I don't know if I'm up to finishing the film right now."
"We can't halt production!" Gold said incredulously. "Don't get me wrong. If it were my money backing this project, I'd take the loss, no problem. But we have several overseas investors who have a lot to lose if this film isn't completed on schedule.
"We all know Andy was very difficult. I'd even bet you're the only person Andy called a friend. My feeling is that whoever killed Warmouth wanted Warmouth only, and I think everyone else on the set is safe."
"Are you saying you're going to buck my
18
request?" Thornall said. "There's a killer on the loose."
"Sheriff Thornall has a point," Joe spoke up. "It's going to be hard to find evidence with a house full of people."
"That's where you and your brother enter the picture," Gold announced. He turned back to the sheriff. "Sheriff, I know this isn't your only case. You can't always be on the set, searching for clues. And even if you could, it would interfere with the filming. How about a compromise? You let me finish my movie, and I put Joe and Frank Hardy into the film."
"What are you talking about, Leonard?" Katz asked.
"Well, in the Horror House movies, the Reaper's victims always return as zombie slaves to serve the Reaper. I want Joe and Frank to go undercover and play zombies in the movie. They've just arrived, so very few people know they're with security."
Frank groaned inwardly. It was bad enough to have to work on the set, but to actually appear in this creature feature? He wondered what his girlfriend, Callie Shaw, would say when she found out. She hated gore films even more than Frank did. Frank glanced at his brother. Joe was beaming at the suggestion.
Sheriff Thornall, though, obviously wasn't happy. "I don't know how things are done up North where you come from," he said, "but in
19
these parts, Mr. Gold, investigations are left to professionals. These two boys are greenhorns. They're barely old enough to shave."
Frank looked at Joe. He could tell his brother was fuming.
"We greenhorns have probably solved more cases than you can count," Joe said sharply.
"Fenton will still be heading the investigation," Gold assured the sheriff. "Don't worry about Frank and Joe, Sheriff. They're far more experienced than their years. As for Fenton, believe me, if I could use him as a zombie, I'd put him undercover, too. But everyone already knows he's head of security."
"Well, Leonard, if there's nothing more, I think we'd better head back to Beaufort," Fenton Hardy said after waiting for another objection from the sheriff.
"I think we've covered everything we can," Gold said. "See what you find out, and keep me posted."
Thornall stood up, hat in hand. "I'll check in with you as often as I can," he said. "If you want, I'll station a man at the Hughes house. It won't be easy to spare anyone right now, though, with everyone pouring into Beaufort. I tell you, son, every time a new Horror House movie's made, they just about destroy Beaufort. My neighborhood in particular. I live right down the street from the Hughes house. Anyway, here are
20
my phone numbers, office and home. I expect to be consulted, and we'll update you on our investigation, also."
Thornall handed Fenton a piece of paper.
"I'll do that, Sheriff," Fenton said.
Then Thornall turned to Katz. "I'll be by later to question Clervi again."
"You'd better make it this evening. I think he'll be shooting a scene this afternoon—with the zombies," Katz said, nodding toward the Hardys.
Thornall shook his head and left the room.
"You guys need to be in makeup by two o'clock," Katz informed the Hardys. His expression softened, and he added almost to himself, "I don't like this at all. Andy's body is still warm, and we're forging ahead as if nothing's happened."
Before Katz left, he paused and turned back to the Hardys. "I want you to know I appreciate your efforts. Andy Warmouth was my friend." Frank and Joe watched sympathetically as the director left the office.
"Well," Fenton Hardy said to his sons after the three of them had walked to their rented car, parked in the underground parking lot. "It's a forty-five-minute drive from Dallas to Beaufort. If you guys have a game plan, let's hear it."
"I think Thornall has the wrong suspects," Joe said, getting into the seat in the front. Frank
21
climbed into the back, stretching out with his arms folded behind his head.
"Why do you think that?" asked Frank.
"His evidence is all circumstantial," Joe replied. "Cathy is a suspect because she found Warmouth's body. Clervi is a suspect because a prop he uses in the movie was the murder weapon. If you were Clervi and you wanted to kill someone, would you use the scythe?"
"No," Frank said, "but if I were someone else and I wanted to kill Warmouth, I might use the scythe hoping to incriminate Clervi."
"I say that we examine the murder area again when we get back to the set," Fenton said. "Looks like you'll have to get your hands dirty, you pair of greenhorns."
* * *
Frank and Joe and Fenton got back around eleven-thirty and went into the house, checking through it thoroughly. The crew was working in silence with sullen or frightened expressions. Frank shook his head grimly. The saying "The show must go on" had taken on a very dark meaning since the night before.
After an hour or so the Hardys all met back at the front door to study the taped outline of Warmouth's body on the hall floor. "Warmouth must have just walked into the house, taken a few steps, and been struck almost immediately from behind," Fenton said. "But where was the killer?"
22
"There's only one place the killer could have used." Frank motioned to the small closet beside the front door.
"You're right," Joe said. "If the killer had come in through the front door, Warmouth would have turned around. That door is heavy and makes a lot of noise, and Warmouth had no idea someone was behind him."
Fenton borrowed a penlight from Joe and stepped into the closet. A few moments later he emerged.
"Nothing in there but a jacket that looks about a hundred years old and the biggest collection of mothballs I've ever seen," Fenton said, brushing dust off his sleeves.
"So what's next?" Joe asked.
"We should talk to Cathleen Bowley and Matthew Clervi. I understand Thornall's men also questioned Katz's assistant, Mike Sinnochi, last night. He was around at the time the murder occurred, so we should question him, too," Frank suggested. "Cathy told Dad that she saw Sinnochi outside right before she found Warmouth's body."
Fenton looked at his watch. "It's close to one o'clock. You guys had better head over to the makeup trailer. I'll try questioning some more of the crew. We'll meet later this afternoon."
Frank and Joe headed for the trailer where Paula West, one of the best special-effects makeup
23
wizards in the horror movie industry, would be waiting for them. Frank knew all about her, thanks to Joe.
The old Hughes house didn't appear to be spooky that day—just kind of run-down. Located on an acre of property in a section of Beaufort that had gone to seed, the Victorian mansion was surrounded by trailers in which the crew worked and slept. Frank searched among the trailers until he spotted one with a small plywood sign tacked to it that read F/X.
Frank still didn't like the idea of playing a zombie in a horror movie. His only hope was that the makeup would hide him so completely that his friends wouldn't recognize him. He made a mental note to be sure Katz left his name out of the credits.
"Wait till you meet Paula West," Joe said. "Not only is she one of the best in this business, she's gorgeous besides."
"Oh, then I guess she can't be a suspect, right?" Frank kidded.
"Why are you always so down on my hunches? I do go by gut feelings a lot," Joe said. "And you have to admit, they're hardly ever wrong. He started up the steps to Paula West's trailer.
"Right. And you're so modest about it, Frank teased. "Okay, you win. Let's get ready to join the dead. Or is it the undead?"
As Joe reached for the door, Frank noticed
24
that it had opened slightly. To his surprise, an arm emerged.
It was clutching a knife!
"Watch out!" Frank lunged forward to knock Joe out of the way.
Too late. As Frank shouted in rage and fear, the knife was plunged into Joe's chest!
25
Chapter 3
"Joe!" Frank watched the knife plunge to the hilt. He ran to catch his brother as he fell.
To Frank's amazement, Joe's shocked expression turned to one of relief, and then he started to laugh. Slowly Joe stepped back, revealing the retractable knife that had been pressed against him.
Frank released the breath he had been holding and wiped the sweat from his forehead as a blond woman with clear blue eyes stepped out of the trailer, examining the knife in the sunlight.
"I perfected this baby this morning," she said, pressing the knife against her other palm to demonstrate how the blade slid into the handle when pressed against an object. It created the perfect illusion of a blade piercing someone's skin—much better than the dime-store varieties.
26
"I'm Paula West." The woman put the knife in her shirt pocket. "You two must be the extra zombies Shane ordered. Come on in and let me change those handsome faces into decaying ghoul flesh."
Paula turned back into the trailer. Frank put a hand over his chest. His heartbeat was finally slowing to normal.
"Isn't she cool?" Joe said, eagerly following Paula through the door.
"Yeah," Frank grumbled. "She's almost as funny as the black plague."
Frank followed Joe into the trailer. The living room and kitchen area were full of boxes overflowing with latex masks, body parts, and prosthetic limbs wired to remote-control boxes to move the fake appendages.
Paula led Frank and Joe on a zigzag path through the equipment. "Please excuse the mess," she said. "By the time I get this place organized, the shoot will be over."
Finally they arrived at a room with two chairs positioned in front of a huge mirror. "Take a seat," she said.
"Why are you doing two extras' makeup?" Frank wanted to know.
"On a picture this small we all do everything," she said.
Frank and Joe sat down, watching Paula roll a cart out from the corner of the room and place it between the chairs. On the cart were several
27
vials of makeup. She picked up a box of gray Pan-Cake makeup. "You guys are with the security team, right? I saw you on the set yesterday," Paula said.
Frank realized then that everyone on the set must know or have figured out who they were. Their work was going to be tougher than either they or Mr. Gold had hoped. "Kind of," Frank said. "Our dad is head of security. We came along to keep him company. It turned out that Shane Katz needed a few more extras for the zombie scene, so he asked us to be in the movie."
"Oh, yeah?" Paula sounded unconvinced. "So your being in the film has nothing to do with investigating Andrew Warmouth's murder?"
"No," Joe said. "Katz just needed some extra bodies. Besides, we leave murder investigations to the police."
"I see," Paula said, wetting a sponge.
She dabbed the small sponge into the makeup and stepped toward Joe. "I think I'll start with you," she said, applying the gray makeup to Joe's cheek.
"After I cover your face and hands with this, I'll apply black fake fingernails over your real fingernails. After that, I'll finish up with a couple of cuts on your face. The cuts will be small strips of latex that I apply with an adhesive called spirit gum. You shouldn't have to worry
28
about any of this running off you when you sweat."
Frank watched as Paula skillfully applied the makeup. After graying Joe's features, she ran black lipstick over his lips.
"Were you very close to Warmouth?" Frank asked.
"What do you mean?" Paula retorted, continuing her work.
"I was just thinking that it must really be hard for any of you to have to work the day after he was killed," Frank said.
"It's not that bad," said Paula. "Warmouth and I never talked much. Ours was strictly a business relationship."
Frank hoped he wasn't being too obvious about pumping Paula for information. "Who do you think could have killed him?" Frank asked.
Paula shrugged. "Beats me. In this business you make enemies sometimes, and Warmouth wasn't a very easy person to get along with. I can think of a dozen or so people on the set who have probably wanted to make him disappear at one time or another. But as for who could have given in to the urge, I don't have the faintest idea."
Frank was amazed at how casually Paula discussed Warmouth's brutal murder. He made a mental note to discuss this with Joe later.
Paula held up a rubber scar for Joe to see. "I'm going to apply this to your cheek with solvent. 
29
After I add a little fake blood to it, it'll look like you have a hole in your cheek. Fake teeth will finish you up."
"Slick!" Joe exclaimed.
Paula finally pronounced Joe finished. Frank eyed his brother and groaned inside. He dreaded his own transformation. Ignoring him, Paula began applying the makeup to his face.
"I thought your assistant would make our faces up," Joe said, studying his own gruesome reflection in the mirror.
You mean you hoped her assistant would make us up, Frank thought. His brother was hopeless when it came to a pretty girl.
"I like to put my own personal signature on these zombie jobs," Paula said. "That's how I got my start, you know. Attack of the Mutant Radioactive Zombies. Now, that was a classic. Besides, I like to get my hands dirty, and Cathleen is still in training."
"I'm a big fan of yours," Joe said. "I've seen every movie you've worked on. Radioactive Zombies is my favorite."
"Ah, a fan!" Paula continued to apply the makeup to Frank's face. "Well, look around, if you're interested."
"Thanks," Joe said, leaving his chair.
"My brother tells me that you not only do horror makeups, but you also specialize in mechanical body parts for horror movies," Frank said.
30
"That's right. Fully functional moving heads or limbs have been around for a while, but I came up with a system that costs one-third of the standard cost to produce. I also think my creations are a little more sophisticated. Let's say, for instance, that I needed a mechanical head that looked like you. I'd make a cast of your face and fill it with a latex compound. The mask I'd made would look just like you. I'd stretch the mask over a mechanical head. Trigger wires work various parts of it just as human nerves do. I could raise your eyebrows, make you smile, even roll your eyes—and at a fraction of the usual rate."
"That's really something," Frank said.
Paula added a slash to Frank's throat, using a patch similar to the one she'd applied to Joe.
"All finished," Paula announced. "Let's go see what—Joe—is that right?"
"Oh," Frank said, standing up. "We didn't introduce ourselves. I'm Frank Hardy, and the guy snooping around your stuff is my brother, Joe."
"Let's go see what he's up to," Paula said.
They walked into the kitchen, where Joe was staring into a glass bowl containing a green, milky liquid.
"Get away from that!" Paula shouted.
Joe jumped back, startled.
Paula marched over to the bowl. "Would you
31
like to know what you almost stuck your nose in?"
Joe nodded, reddening in embarrassment. Paula took a fake hand off the counter next to the bowl. "This is a rubber hand. Observe," she said, dropping the hand into the bowl. There was a sizzling sound, and then the hand began to (dissolve.
"Ouch!" Joe said.
"I use real sulfuric acid when someone in this movie is killed by the flask of acid the Reaper keeps on his belt. Prosthetics are tougher than human flesh. You have to use the real thing for it to be effective. When someone has acid thrown on him in the movie, we shoot a separate scene in which I pour acid on the fake limbs."
"Sorry," Joe said.
"You must have been a chemist to work in your field," Frank commented.
"As a matter of fact, I am," Paula replied.
"Really?" Frank looked surprised. "I was only kidding."
"Paula," Joe said before she could answer Frank, "I just remembered an article I read about you in Gore magazine a couple of years ago. It quoted you as saying that you didn't like the movies Warmouth produced. You said you would work only on traditional horror movies, not the kind of slasher films Warmouth produced. What made you change your mind about working with him?"
32
Paula's expression was cold. Then almost instantly a smile reappeared, but it seemed to be faked. She definitely had lost patience with the detectives and their questions.
"You guys had better go now. Katz doesn't like his scenes being held up, especially by extras. Go to the wardrobe trailer and get fitted before you report to the set."
Frank realized Joe had pushed the wrong button. He led the way to wardrobe, where the brothers quickly changed into ghoulish costumes. As they walked toward the house, Frank glanced at Joe. He could have just crawled out of a grave.
"I hate to say it," Joe said, "but I think Paula West just made our suspect list. She didn't seem upset about Warmouth's murder at all."
"You're telling me," Frank said. "And didn't she create the scythe for this movie?"
"Yeah, but the one used for most of the scenes is rubber. The real one was confiscated by Thornall this morning. Pinning Paula for the murder just because she designed the weapon might be kind of thin, but her attitude toward Warmouth does make her suspicious."
The crew was setting up for an outside shot in front of the house. Half a dozen other people in zombie makeup had gathered nearby. A crowd of onlookers gawked excitedly from behind a wooden barrier as Clervi walked out of the house in his Reaper costume. Clervi wore a dark
33
hooded robe. His face was skeletal, and his gnarled, bony hands were gripping a scythe, which looked incredibly real to Frank.
Frank shuddered. How could a wimpy guy like Clervi appear to be so frightening?
While the camera and sound equipment was being set up in front of the porch, Frank watched Katz approach Clervi and begin talking to him. Frank strained to hear what the director was saying, but was interrupted by a man in his late twenties, dressed in a tank top and khaki pants.
"Hello," the tall man with dusty brown hair and dark eyes said, extending his hand to Frank. "I'm Mike Sinnochi, Shane's assistant."
The three of them exchanged introductions. "Do you know what you're going to do here, guys?" Mike asked.
"Not really," Frank replied.
"I haven't gotten my script yet," Joe said.
Mike laughed. "No problem. This scene takes place at night. The Reaper has lost control over you zombie slaves, and you attack your master, forcing him into the house. Got it so far?"
"Yeah," Frank said. "But if the scene takes place at night, how can you shoot it in the afternoon?"
"We're using a filtered lens on the camera that will make it appear to be night. It's called day for night," Mike explained.
"That's what I thought," Joe said, acting like an expert.
34
"So," Mike continued, "the zombies drive the Reaper toward the house. The Reaper, in retaliation, will pull his flask of acid from the pouch at his belt and fling streams of it at you. The acid, of course, is only tap water. Paula will come in later to fix things so zombies will appear to be dissolving in the acid. In fact, you guys may be called back later for close-ups."
Great, Frank thought. Then he noticed Shane Katz heading in their direction.
"Act lively, here comes the boss," Mike whispered.
"Hello, boys. Did Mike explain the shot to you?" Katz asked.
"Yep, I filled them in," Mike said, turning away to take care of something else.
"Do you have any idea how to do this scene?" Katz asked.
"I do." Joe began to drag his feet in a hypnotic march. He extended his arms straight ahead and put a blank expression on his face.
"Excellent, Joe," Katz said. "Frank, follow your brother's lead."
Frank imitated Joe, wondering if his flame red face was visible through the makeup. Katz observed them for a few minutes, then applauded.
"You guys are terrific," Katz said. "And Paula did an A-plus job on your makeup. I'll tell you what, I want you guys to lead the zombie pack."
"Cool!" Joe exclaimed.
35
Why not? Frank wondered. How much worse could things get?
Frank and Joe followed Katz over to the set, where the extras had been arranged. Clervi stood on the front porch, directly facing Frank and Joe, who were on the grass, the rest of the zombies in lines behind them.
"Quiet on the set," Frank heard Katz say. "Camera rolling—action!"
Frank and Joe shuffled slowly toward Clervi.
"Back, you ungrateful worm food!" Clervi shouted in a booming, theatrical voice.
Frank and Joe continued their slow march.
"None may touch the person of the Reaper!" Clervi cried. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the flask. He opened it and held it up in a threatening manner. "Back, you disobedient dogs! Back, I say!"
Clervi tossed a stream of liquid in Frank's direction. It landed on the lawn in front of his feet. Frank heard the crackling sound of something burning and glanced down. The grass, where the supposed tap water was thrown, was charred black. Clervi was throwing real acid.
Frank raised his eyes just in time to see Clervi aim the flask at Joe's face!
36
Chapter 4
The crowd of onlookers screamed as Frank shot forward and raised his arm to knock the flask from Clervi's hand and away from all of them.
Joe stumbled backward and fell to the ground. His eyes wide, he glared at Frank, who was shoving Clervi back onto the porch with the force of a well-aimed karate kick.
"Cut!" Joe heard Katz shout. "What's going on here?"
"Yeah, Frank," Joe grumbled as Frank gripped his outstretched hand to help him up. "Why'd you knock into Clervi and then kick him?"
As the fans booed and hissed, Katz marched over to Joe and Frank. "Gentlemen, I appreciate creativity as much as the next man," he said
37
through gritted teeth, "but this scene doesn't require any ad-libbing."
"Look at that," Frank demanded, pointing at the lawn where the flask had landed.
Joe saw the grass was totally charred where the flask had spilled its contents. "Someone filled that flask with real acid!" Joe said.
Katz was eyeing Clervi suspiciously. Clervi had dropped his hood, and even through his latex makeup, Joe could see how shaken the actor was. His eyes were terrified.
"I have no idea how that happened," Clervi insisted before any accusation was made.
"You'd better save your story for Sheriff Thornall, Matt," Katz said.
"You have to believe me, Shane. I don't even fill the flask. I'm not allowed to. My props weren't sitting on my table today as they usually are," Clervi said, wringing his hands,
"Where were they?" Joe asked.
"I walked over to Paula's trailer and saw my stuff on a table. I assumed Paula forgot to bring it to me, so I just took it."
"Who applied your makeup today?" Frank asked.
"Paula sends Cathleen to my trailer."
Katz's expression remained stern. "I took Paula to lunch today," he said to the Hardys. "I picked her up at her trailer at about eleven- thirty, after I got back from Dallas. I had to wait while she arranged Matt's stuff for him. I clearly
38
remember seeing her fill that flask with tap water."
"There has to be some mistake," Clervi pleaded. "There must have been another flask in her trailer with acid in it, and she got them mixed up. It had to have been a mistake. I would never intentionally hurt anyone. Please, Shane, you have to believe me."
"Could there have been a mix-up?" Joe asked Katz.
"Anything's possible," Katz said. "There's a chance that Paula got the flasks confused. I still think Thornall should be notified, though." He raised his voice so the crew could hear. "I want everyone away from here until Thornall arrives. We're going to have to postpone this scene."
Katz turned to Clervi. "You'd better stay with me, Matt. I'm sure Thornall will want to talk to you."
Clervi groaned pitifully and began to peel the latex from his face.
Frank turned to Joe. "Let's get cleaned up and find Dad," he murmured. "I want him to run some background checks on our suspects."
Joe and Frank walked toward their trailer. "Why would Clervi want Warmouth dead? You don't bite the hand that feeds you," Frank said.
"I'm finding it hard to believe myself," Joe said. "If you want to commit murder, you don't do it in front of a crew of people with a flask of acid that you picked up when no one was
39
around. Whoever killed Warmouth evidently wants this production to stop."
"I think someone wants us out of the way," Frank said. "The acid was aimed directly at us."
Joe shook his head. "I think that was a coincidence. I think someone wants the body count to grow until the film is canned. The person either has it in for Clervi or has something to gain by making the Horror House series fold."
Frank shook his head. "It doesn't make sense to me," he said. "Our list of suspects includes the star of the film, the special-effects and makeup coordinator, and her assistant. If the production is stopped, these people are out of work."
"Hey, you guys, wait up!" Joe heard a voice call from behind. Mike Sinnochi was running to catch up to them.
"Are you two okay?" Mike asked, winded.
"Yeah," Frank said. "We're fine."
Mike shook his head. "It's getting hairy around here. Do you guys have any leads yet?"
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"Shane said you were investigating Warmouth's murder. He told all of us to cooperate with you."
Joe fumed. Katz should have known better than to let everyone in on their investigation. If the killer hadn't known who they were before, he would definitely know by now.
40
"Well," Frank said, "since you know what we're doing, how'd you like to answer a few questions?"
"Sure," he said.
"Did you see or hear anything unusual the night of Warmouth's murder?" asked Frank.
"No," Mike said. "We wrapped up the bathtub of blood scene, then Shane called it a night. He asked me to go to the Mid-Way Cafe and get him a burger. When I got back, I went into his trailer and found him asleep in bed. I thought about waking him up before his food got cold, but he was dead to the world, so I let him rest. I went to bed in the trailer I'm sharing with a few other crew members. About fifteen minutes later I heard Cathy scream."
"Did you notice anything unusual this morning?" Joe asked.
"No," Mike replied. "Everything was calm, considering."
"Thanks, Mike," Frank said. "If you'll excuse us, we're going to find Paula and have her tell us how to get this mess off our faces."
"Oh, that's easy," Mike said. "Use lukewarm water to loosen the solvent on the rubber patches. Hand soap will take the makeup off." He grinned. "I've helped Paula before when she was shorthanded."
Joe and Frank thanked Mike again, then headed into their trailer.
Forty-five minutes later, when Joe and Frank
41
stepped out of the trailer, they were back to their former selves. "Amazing how long it takes to get clean," Joe remarked to his brother. "Now, what's the plan?"
"I think we should question Cathleen Bowley," Frank replied.
"Sounds good to me," Joe said, grinning.
As they started toward the makeup special- effects trailer, they spotted Cathleen walking up the front steps of Horror House. Joe nudged Frank and motioned for him to follow.
On the front porch Joe saw Sheriff Thornall speaking to Clervi. The sheriff was clutching a clear plastic bag that held the empty flask.
"I'd haul you in right now if Mr. Gold wasn't pulling strings for you," Joe heard Thornall say to the actor, who was cornered against the outside wall of the house like a frightened rabbit.
"I sincerely doubt that you were on a scenic tour of Beaufort at twelve o'clock at night when Warmouth was killed," Thornall growled. "This acid stunt may have been an accident, Clervi, but I'm warning you—I'm going to keep my eyes on you. If you have anything you want to share with me, you'd better tell me now."
"I've told you everything I know, Sheriff," Clervi pleaded.
"I've got enough on you already as it is. Come clean with me, and things might go easier on you," Thornall said.
"But I've told you the truth," Clervi insisted.
42
Thornall looked disgusted. "Fine, if that's the way you want it. I'm going to have the boys at the crime lab examine the flask. Don't run off anywhere, mister. I might be back very soon with a warrant for your arrest." Thornall turned and strode off to his patrol car past the few onlookers.
As Frank and Joe watched, Clervi slunk meekly away toward his trailer, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down.
"Sheriff," Joe called.
Thornall paused, saw the boys, and tilted his hat away from his eyes.
"What do you boys want?" Thornall asked impatiently as Joe and Frank caught up with him.
"We saw Paula West this afternoon. She acted very suspicious when we asked her about Warmouth," Joe said.
"So what?" Thornall grunted.
"It's possible she could have substituted the acid for tap water," Frank said.
"Katz vouched for Miss West. The only ones who could have switched the water are Clervi or Bowley. Maybe the two of them are in cahoots."
"Even if Clervi did kill Warmouth, why would he toss acid at the extras? That would be insane," Joe insisted.
"Who said he was sane?" Thornall said.
43
"Sheriff," Frank said, "don't you think there's a possibility that Clervi's being set up?"
"Now, look," Thornall said, "I've had enough of your kindergarten speculation. You wet-nosed pups stay out of my way, or you'll end up with Clervi when I toss him in the cell." With that Thornall stormed to his car.
"I thought that went well," Joe said sarcastically. "I thought we were going to work together. Guess he just meant Dad, not us." Clearly, Thornall had decided Clervi was guilty and didn't want anyone to confuse him with contrary evidence. Joe realized it was possible that Clervi might really be guilty, but the possibility of sending an innocent man to prison made him shudder.
"Let's find Cathleen Bowley," Frank said in a similar state of confusion.
When Joe and Frank entered Horror House, they found Cathleen sitting on a sofa in the living room, reading a magazine.
"Miss Bowley," Frank said.
Cathleen raised her eyes from her reading and smiled. "What can I do for you?"
"We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the night Warmouth was killed," said Frank.
"Could you tell us what you were doing and how you came upon the body?" Joe asked very politely.
"Okay. Let's see. I'd just helped Paula put
44
away a few things after the bathtub of blood scene," Cathleen began, folding the magazine and putting it aside. "I went for a walk outside to relax before going to bed. It was dark, and no one else was around. I walked past the house and noticed that the door was open. I was wide awake and decided to heat up a cup of milk to help me sleep. I stepped into the hallway, found Warmouth's body—and screamed. The crew came running, and I just freaked out. I see gory things in my line of work all the time, but I'd never seen a real dead body before."
Cathleen shuddered at the memory. "I don't ever want to see one like that again."
Frank waited for her to calm down. Then he asked, "How well did you know Warmouth?"
"Not well at all. This is the first production for Fourteen Karat Studios I've worked on."
"You didn't notice anyone else that night?" Joe asked.
"Not a soul, except Mike," Cathleen replied. "I saw him step out of Shane's trailer and walk toward his own."
"Were you in the special-effects trailer this morning?" Frank asked.
"I ducked in for a moment to grab some stuff."
"How long were you with Matt?" asked Joe.
"Oh, about an hour, I guess," Cathy replied.
"Was Matt there the whole time?" Frank asked.
45
"No. He left for about fifteen minutes. He said he had to make an urgent phone call."
"Did he seem nervous or uncomfortable to you?" asked Frank.
"He always seems that way," Cathy said, smiling.
"Thanks a lot for your time," Frank said.
"No problem." Cathy smiled sadly, then went back to her magazine.
Joe and Frank left the house. "Let's head for Dad's trailer. I'm surprised he hasn't caught wind of the acid incident and come looking for us yet," Frank said.
"What do you think about Cathleen?" Joe asked.
Frank shrugged. "I'd like Dad to run a background check on her. It is procedure, right?"
Joe nodded, but he thought that checking her out would be a waste of time. He had a gut feeling Cathleen would come up clean.
You know, Joe," said Frank thoughtfully, if we're pretty sure that Cathy is clean and that Clervi is being set up, then our main suspect has to be Paula West. Both incidents had special- effects equipment involved. Aside from Cathy, who has no reason that we know of to murder Warmouth, Paula is the only other person with access to the scythe and to acid."
"Yeah, but evidently she doesn't lock up her trailer. Clervi walked in and took his props while she was eating with Katz," Joe said.
46
"Then what you're saying is that anyone could have stepped into the trailer and switched the water," Frank concluded.
"Yep," Joe said. "And there are at least thirty people on this set."
"I wonder if Dad can get hold of Paula's contract with Fourteen Karat Studios. Maybe we can find out what would motivate her to work for someone she evidently dislikes," Frank said.
"Maybe Gold can give Dad some paperwork on Paula," suggested Joe. "I think we should also take a trip to the nearest library and dig up some background on the house itself. We might be missing something that's totally unrelated to the film. Maybe Warmouth's death was caused by someone who isn't on the crew."
"Good idea," Frank said. "We also have to consider those fans who line the fence around this place. Maybe we should question some of them."
Joe and Frank reached their father's trailer. Joe had his hand raised to knock on the door when the sound of a strange voice coming from inside stopped him.
"You better mark my words, outsider!" a husky voice shouted. "What happened to Warmouth could happen to you!"
Joe spun toward Frank.
Someone was threatening their father!
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Chapter 5
"Dad!" Joe charged into Fenton's trailer with Frank one step behind. Fenton and a man in his mid-sixties were startled out of their chairs at the small dining table.
"Is everything all right?" Frank demanded. "Was someone threatening you?"
"No, boys, everything's fine. What you heard was just a very passionate warning." Fenton motioned for them to all sit down. "Come here, there's someone I want you to meet."
Frank and Joe took seats.
"This is Harold Hughes, the owner of the house."
"You must use your influence to stop the filming, Mr. Hardy," Harold Hughes said, cutting off Fenton. "I know who's responsible for the murder."
48
"Who are you talking about, Mr. Hughes?" Frank asked;
Hughes leaned close to Frank and Joe, his eyes wide. "The house," he whispered. "The spirits trapped in my home don't take kindly to the gory trash Warmouth was responsible for. When my wife and I signed the deal with Warmouth, we thought he was going to tell the truth. Instead, he's made a mockery of those ancient powers. Finally the spirits will avenge this evil transgression."
Frank glanced at Joe, then at Fenton, who had obviously been humoring the man. Frank turned back to Harold Hughes, who was pointing a finger at him.
"You are a disbeliever," Hughes muttered. "You are blind to the supernatural presence that hangs over this property. Warmouth was a disbeliever, too. And you know what happened to him. You have to get these people away from my house."
"Mr. Hughes," Joe said, "if the ghosts in your house are responsible for this, why did they wait until the fifth movie to do something about it?"
"Ah, yes," Hughes said, smiling like a vulture. "They've kept quiet until now. But believe me, the spirits will abide these films no longer. The spirits never wanted to hurt anyone, but now they realize the bloody course they must take to have peace again."
49
"If these spirits are so upset, why do they allow you and Mrs. Hughes to live with them?" Frank asked.
"Because we respect them," Hughes said. "It is suspected that our house was built on a Native American burial ground. When we discovered the spirits' presence, we wrote a book about them, sharing our discovery of life after death with the entire world. We were foolish, though, to agree to these movies. We've had to hire a security man to keep people off our property. They come year-round to see the house where the Reaper movies are made."
"Did you ever try to talk to Warmouth about this?" Fenton asked.
Harold Hughes stood up abruptly. "I have to go back to the hotel," he said, going to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Warmouth was just the beginning," he said ominously. "Leave, before others are hurt."
He left, slamming the door behind him.
"That guy is crazy," Joe said, turning to Fenton. "What was that all about?"
"Harold knows Sheriff Thornall. It seems that Thornall told him all about Warmouth's murder," Fenton explained.
"If Harold resents people exploiting the house, then why did he rent it to Warmouth in the first place?" Frank wondered.
"I think Harold is more upset with the way
50
his story has been portrayed than with its being told. Warmouth took a story of a haunted house and turned it into a story about a superhuman maniac who frequently returns from the dead to hack up teenagers who rent the house," Joe said.
"Do you think he would be upset enough to kill?" Frank said.
Joe shrugged. "He isn't one of the crew, but it is his house. He has security clearance and can come and go as he pleases. Let's check him out later and see what he was doing at the time of the murder."
"How did the filming go?" Fenton asked.
"You didn't hear about the excitement this afternoon?" Joe said.
"I've spent the last two hours listening to Harold Hughes rant. What did I miss?"
Frank filled his father in on everything, including his suspicions of Paula West.
"Things are heating up," Fenton said, shaking his head. "I want you two to watch your backs. If someone is trying to jinx this film with accidents, it means anyone could get hurt at any time. It does seem as though someone could be trying to frame Clervi, but let's not discount him as a suspect. He may want us to think he's being set up so we won't finger him. I'll go to Thornall's office and run those background checks."
"Joe and I want to go to the library in Fort
51
Worth to check on articles about Horror House," Frank said. "That is, if you have enough guards here."
Fenton nodded.
"Let's check out the library later and grab something to eat now," Joe suggested. "I want to see if any more scenes are being shot later."
"Good idea," Frank said. "I didn't know it was so late. Want to join us, Dad?"
"I think I'll get those background checks under way. I'll also give Gold a call to see if he can add any extra information about the suspects. I'll eat later."
Frank and Joe left Fenton's trailer in time to see the catering truck pull up to the house. Men in white uniforms pulled silver trays loaded with food from the truck and carried them into the house.
"Now, that's what I call service," Joe said, making a beeline for the house. "No Mid-Way Café for Joe Hardy tonight."
Frank followed Joe, the sight of food reminding him that he had missed lunch.
* * *
After dinner Frank and Joe stepped out on the front porch to decide what to do next. Frank watched as an exterior shot was being set up in the same spot as the earlier zombie sequence. Already a small crowd of fans had gathered.
"They're getting ready to do our scene again,"
52
Joe said. "We'd better get over to makeup. I can't believe no one told us about this."
"Before you call your agent to complain," Frank said, "I think you ought to know they're filming a different scene."
"How do you know?" Joe asked.
"I talked to Mike Sinnochi in the dining room while you were going back for seconds," Frank replied. "Mike also told me that the Fort Worth library is open until eight o'clock, so we have plenty of time to hit it tonight if we want to."
"Good. We'll head over there after this scene. Which one are they doing, anyway?"
"The Reaper is going out to attack a mailman outside the house," Frank explained.
"Wait a minute," Joe said. "He did the same thing to a milkman in the last movie."
"That's why they're called formula movies," Frank chuckled. "If a proven formula works once, why change it?"
Frank watched as Clervi, in full costume, appeared on the set. An actor wearing a postal uniform appeared next.
"That's the same guy who played the milkman in the last movie!" Joe exclaimed.
Katz arrived, carrying a coffee cup in one hand. Frank noticed that Paula West and Cathleen Bowley were also on the set.
A full twenty minutes was devoted to setting the camera in its proper place and lowering the microphone on a boom over Clervi's head.
53
Frank watched as Thornall's patrol car pulled into the driveway. Thornall stepped out of the car, closed the door, then sat on the hood of his car, silently watching Clervi.
Frank turned his attention back to the set and saw Paula West check Clervi's makeup and props. Clervi, who was holding the Reaper's scythe, glanced over at Thornall. Though Frank couldn't get a good look at Clervi's face, he knew Thornall's sudden appearance, after remarking that he might return with a warrant, was making Clervi shake in his Reaper boots.
Frank heard Katz's voice boom out. "Okay, people. It's almost sunset. Because of the accident earlier, we have to put the mailman scene in the can tonight. We have one hour of light remaining, so let's get it right."
Katz walked back behind the camera and sat in his director's chair.
"Places, everyone," Katz called.
Clervi assumed his position behind a bush. The actor portraying the mailman stood on the sidewalk ten feet in front of the bush,
"Roll camera," Katz said.
Frank heard the camera come to life as the camera operator bent his head to the viewfinder.
"Action!" Katz commanded.
Frank watched as the mailman strolled up the sidewalk, whistling and going through a pile of envelopes that he'd pulled from his pouch. As
54
the man approached the bush, Clervi leapt in front of the mailman, blocking his route.
The mailman screamed and stumbled backward.
"I've got a first-class delivery for you, human!" Clervi shouted, waving the scythe in the air.
"The Reaper has a wicked sense of humor," Joe whispered in Frank's ear.
Frank watched as Clervi swung the scythe at the mailman. As the scythe closed in on the actor, Clervi abruptly pulled it back. The mailman was obviously confused. Clervi tried to swing the scythe once more, but pulled it back again.
"Cut!" Frank heard Katz scream.
Katz walked over to Clervi. "We're losing daylight, Matt. What's wrong with you?" Katz demanded.
"I'm sorry, Shane. I'm just so upset about everything that's been happening, I can't pull myself together," Clervi said, dropping the scythe to the ground.
"Be a professional, Matt. We're all under a lot of strain," Katz said.
Clervi pointed toward Thornall, then whispered something to Katz.
"Don't worry about him," Katz insisted. "If he had enough proof, he'd have hauled you in this afternoon."
Katz picked up the scythe. "Now, watch how I do this, then let's put this scene to bed."
Katz swung the scythe at the mailman. The
55
scythe struck the mailbag the actor was carrying. As Katz pulled the scythe away, Frank heard a loud ripping sound and saw envelopes pour out of the bag.
The bag was ripped practically in two.
The scythe was real!
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Chapter 6
"Hold it!" Frank ran up to the director, Joe on his heels. Katz hadn't noticed the mailbag because he'd already raised the scythe to strike at the actor again.
"Wait!" Frank reached out and caught the handle of the scythe before it could come down on the actor.
"What do you think you're doing?" Katz exclaimed.
"You could have killed him! This scythe is real!" Frank shouted, pointing at the torn mailbag.
Katz glanced down at the envelopes on the sidewalk, his eyes wide with alarm. "I was looking at Matt. I had no idea ..." Katz said, his voice trailing off, his gaze fixed on Clervi.
"I think I've created a monster," Katz muttered, fearfully backing away from Clervi.
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Clervi ripped at the latex on his face as he tried to stammer an explanation. No words came. He buried his face in his hands.
Sheriff Thornall stepped up next to Frank. "I'll take that, thank you." Thornall snatched the scythe from Frank's hands.
"Listen up," Thornall announced to the crew. "I'm confiscating everything on this set that could be used to hurt anyone. I want every sharp instrument and every chemical from the special-effects trailer. I want you folks to know that I plan to be on the set constantly from this night on. I will be present for every scene filmed."
Frank noticed that Paula West had worked her way through the crew. She approached Thornall. "If you take my equipment, I won't be able to do my job," Paula protested to Thornall.
"I only want the harmful substances, Miss West, like this scythe and the acid you keep. By the way," Thornall said, running his finger down the edge of the scythe, "how many of these overgrown razors do you have?"
"We had three, until you confiscated the first one," Paula said. "If you take this one, that'll leave us with one. And if it gets broken, we won't have a backup."
"I'm going to have to ask you to turn over the other one," Thornall said.
"This scene called for the rubber scythe," Katz interjected. "Someone evidently substituted
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the real one," Katz added, glancing at Clervi. "We use the real scythe only for scenes where the Reaper is striking an inanimate object, such as a door."
"Did you give Mr. Clervi his scythe, Miss West?" Frank asked Paula.
"I'll handle the questioning," Thornall growled, glaring at Frank. "Let's step inside." Thornall took Clervi by the arm, steering him up onto the front porch of the house. Thornall paused at the doorway. "Hang around, Miss West," he said to Paula. "When I'm finished questioning the Reaper here, I'll be heading to your trailer to ask you some more questions and to pick up the dangerous items."
With Clervi in tow, Thornall entered the house.
As the disgruntled crowd of onlookers began to disperse, Frank glanced at the actor playing the mailman. The man was studying the tear in the mailbag.
"Are you okay?" Frank asked.
The actor nodded, then walked away, his face pale and eyes wide.
"I'm calling it a night," Katz announced. "I don't care about our schedule. Everyone just relax tonight."
Frank watched as Paula stormed over to Katz.
"Doesn't he need a warrant to seize my equipment?" Paula said to Katz. "This isn't right. I
59
need everything that's in my trailer in order to work."
"Just cooperate with him, Paula," Katz said. "It's for the best."
Paula West rushed off toward her trailer, sidestepping Frank and Joe, who wanted to question her.
"We need to ask you some questions, Miss West," Frank called after her.
"Later!" she shouted over her shoulder. "If you want to interrogate me, take a number behind the sheriff!"
Katz stood beside the Hardys, shaking his head. "I have to call Leonard Gold to tell him about all this. We have a very large fly in our soup. I hope Thornall doesn't clean Paula's trailer out. That bumpkin may ruin this whole shoot. And the way things are going, I don't know whether to resent him or be eternally grateful."
"Mr. Katz," Joe asked, "could Clervi have picked up the real scythe by mistake? I mean, the acid incident could have been an accident, too."
"Yes," Katz admitted. "But I definitely wouldn't call what happened to Andy an accident. I've known Matthew for years, but now I'm beginning to think his role has affected his sanity. If you want my opinion, I think Clervi is responsible. As much as I hate to admit it, I almost hope Thornall takes him away."
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"Things don't look good for him," Frank agreed. "But why would Clervi want to kill Warmouth?"
"Do insane people need reasons?" Katz asked. "Maybe a voice in his head told him to do it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to check in with Mr. Gold."
Katz headed for his trailer, leaving the Hardys alone on the lawn.
"Do you want to go watch Thornall question Clervi?" Joe asked.
"No," Frank replied. "He'd just shoo us away. He'd claim we're interfering with his investigation."
"So now what?" Joe said.
"Well, we aren't going to sit around and twiddle our thumbs. I think we might have just enough time to check out the library," Frank said.
* * *
Frank and Joe sat at the microfilm machine, relieved that they'd been lucky enough to find a helpful librarian who had escorted them to the machine, pulled all the available data on the Hughes house, and brought it to them. The librarian had explained to Frank that during the summer, when high schools were closed and colleges offered a limited number of summer courses, she had so much time on her hands that helping the Hardys came as a relief from boredom.
Frank operated the machine while Joe sat
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next to him, reading over his shoulder. Frank scanned an old issue of the Fort Worth Messenger. At last he found an article on the Hughes house.
"This article was written before the Hugheses finished their book," Frank said. "It tells about the first haunting." Frank read through the article, then shook his head. "There's nothing here you haven't told me," he said to Joe, pulling the microfilm out and loading the next one.
The next article Frank scanned was filled with local speculation about what the papers were calling Horror House. Because a local banker had come forward and told the press that the Hugheses were in financial trouble, many people thought they were trying to hype their house in order to sell it.
Frank found a book review of the Hugheses' novel. It slammed the book, claiming that not only was the book boring and predictable, it never even got scary.
Another article announced the filming of a movie in Beaufort, Texas. The working title of the project was The Hughes Encounter. Harold and Kitty Hughes were overjoyed at the prospect of having their story put on the screen.
Next Frank read an article that was printed after the first film came out. The Hugheses were clearly unhappy with the final product, but a gag order in their contract didn't permit them to voice their objections to the press. The only
62
comment Kitty Hughes issued was, "Let's just say it's not what we thought it would be."
The remaining articles focused less on the Hugheses than on the making of the films and the onslaught of fanatical fans to Beaufort each time an installment went into production.
Joe finished taking notes on a small notepad while Frank returned the microfilm to the librarian and thanked her. Then he and Joe left.
"Let's stop for a burger," Joe said as Frank pulled the car out of the library parking lot.
"Joe, you ate about two and a half hours ago," Frank said. He never ceased to be amazed by his brother's appetite.
"I know, but we missed lunch, and I'm used to my three square meals a day," Joe said, patting his stomach.
Frank gave in and stopped at a diner halfway to Beaufort.
* * *
It was almost ten when Frank pulled the car onto the Hugheses' property. Frank stopped beside the security gate near the end of the driveway. A guard stepped up to the window of the rented car.
"Hi, Eddie," Frank said as the bearded man in a security uniform bent down to peer into the car.
"Hey, guys. How's it going?" Eddie asked.
"Not bad." Frank glanced over Eddie's shoulder at the young fans still lined up outside the
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fence that surrounded most of the Hughes property. The fans were carrying burning candles and walking back and forth solemnly.
"What's with the groupies?" Joe asked Eddie.
"It's their own special service for Warmouth," Eddie said. "Warmouth's body is going to be sent back to Los Angeles tomorrow after the medical examiner finishes the autopsy. These folks are having a little memorial for him tonight."
"If anything goes wrong, give us a call," Joe offered.
"Thanks," Eddie said. "I'll do that."
Eddie walked back to the security booth and opened the gate for Frank. Frank saw several fans run toward the opening. Quickly he drove onto the property, then glanced back in the rearview mirror. No one had managed to slip in.
Frank parked the car in the gravel lot marked for the crew. As he and Joe walked toward Fenton's trailer, Frank noticed that the sky above was moonless. Frank thought he had never seen a night so dark.
Joe took out his penlight and lit the way so they wouldn't stumble over a rock or step into one of the mole burrows. Snakes came out at night to cool off, also, Frank reflected. He was aware that copperhead snakes, and even a few species of rattlesnakes, were common in these parts. He was glad Joe had the light.
Frank and Joe entered their father's trailer to
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find Fenton sitting at the table, poring over some paperwork.
"Hello, guys," Fenton said. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing really useful," Frank said. "We did find an article that described how unhappy the Hugheses were with the series. What did you find out?"
"The background checks came up clean," Fenton said. "Leonard Gold told me about the scythe incident, though, and while he was at it he gave me some information on Clervi and West. It seems Clervi had been trying to break his contract with Warmouth. He'd been offered a role in a serious movie and the filming coincided with the filming of Horror House Five. Warmouth refused to break the contract or postpone shooting."
"There's the motive we've been looking for," Joe said.
"What about Paula West?" Frank asked.
"According to Leonard Gold, she accepted the Horror House job at one-third her usual rate," Fenton said.
"Why would one of the most innovative people in the special-effects industry agree to work for less than her usual fee? Especially on a project that she didn't like?" Frank wondered.
"Maybe Warmouth had something on her," Joe suggested.
"It's possible," Fenton agreed.
65
"Getting back to the Hugheses, though," Frank said. "There's one thing that bothers me. Even though the Horror House movies are a success, the most recent articles suggest that the Hugheses are still near bankruptcy. If the films are so successful, why are the Hugheses so broke? Didn't they get paid for the rights to their story? One article said that during the filming of the third installment, the Hugheses even put the house up for sale, but no one would buy a haunted house. Why didn't Andrew Warmouth just buy it himself?"
"I think we should pay a visit to the hotel where the Hugheses are staying," Joe decided.
"All in good time," Fenton said, yawning. "You guys covered a lot of ground tonight. You'd better get some sleep so we can get an early start tomorrow."
Reluctantly Frank and Joe said good night to Fenton, then headed back to their own trailer. Frank realized just how hectic the day had been as he plodded sleepily up the front step after Joe. He could hardly stay awake long enough to get ready for bed.
He was about to collapse onto the bed when he noticed a shadow on the wall beside the door. He peered closer. The shadow was of someone in a flowing robe and hood.
It was the Reaper—raising his scythe!
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Chapter 7
With a shout, Frank lunged toward the dark figure. He clasped the Reaper's wrist and slammed it and the scythe against the wall.
He twisted the intruder around and smashed him against the front door. Joe had gotten up in time to watch the scythe fly from the Reaper's hand.
The hooded man fell to the floor as Frank's weight brought him down. Joe realized that Matthew Clervi—or someone dressed like the Reaper—must have been in the trailer before they entered.
"Get the scythe, Joe!" Frank commanded, pinning the struggling Reaper to the floor.
"Please, let me up!" came the muffled cry from under Frank. It was Clervi. "I wasn't going to hurt you! I just came to talk!"
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Joe was at his brother's side, gripping the scythe and testing the blade.
"Frank," he said in a low voice, "it's plastic. Let him up."
Embarrassed, Frank released his grip on Clervi and slowly stood up. He extended a hand to the actor and hauled him to his feet. Clervi dusted himself off and pulled his hood away from his face.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Clervi said apologetically. "I just needed to talk to you. I feel it's important that you hear my side of the story."
"I'm sorry I jumped on you like that," Frank said. "With all these accidents going on, I guess I'm sort of edgy."
"It's my fault. I should have taken the time to change my clothes. I was just so afraid that Thornall would arrest me. I feel as if he's watching my every move. I don't know what I'm going to do," Clervi whined, nervously wringing his hands.
Joe felt sorry for the shaken Clervi, but he reminded himself that Clervi was an actor and Joe didn't want to be fooled by him. Too many signs were pointing to Clervi, and an objective detective could not ignore the evidence.
"Why are you still in your Reaper getup so late after the shoot?" Frank asked.
"I had to make a public appearance in Fort Worth this evening. I'm drumming up publicity
68
for the video release of Horror House Four." His expression faltered. He reached out toward Frank. "You've got to help me! I'm innocent!" Clervi cried.
"We intended to talk to you," Joe said.
"I heard that you were part of security, and I also felt horrible about that acid scene. That's why I waited here for you. I wanted to assure you both that I had nothing to do with the accidents—or Warmouth's death," Clervi explained.
"Can you tell us where you were the night of Warmouth's murder?" Frank asked.
"I went for a drive. I was very upset because I'd been offered a role in a movie. It was from a play I did many years ago, and I've wanted to be in the film version for a long time. Many producers wouldn't consider me because of my work on the Horror House series. This particular producer, though, had seen me do the part on stage and knew I was right for the role," Clervi said.
"And you were upset because Warmouth wouldn't let you out of your contract to be in that movie?" Frank asked.
"Yes," Clervi replied. "I accepted the first Reaper role because I was struggling to make it as an actor, and I needed the work. At first, all the recognition was great. But now it seems as though my fame as the Reaper has worked against me. This dramatic movie was my opportunity to show the public that Matthew Clervi
69
is more than a third-rate horror film star. But Warmouth was relentless in holding me to my contract. I was upset but not upset enough to murder him."
"Where exactly did you go that night?" Joe asked.
Clervi shook his head. "I don't even know. I drove all through the back roads of Beaufort. I got lost at one point, and it took me a good half- hour to find my way back here. The roads in this town are mostly forest on either side."
"Did anyone see you that night? Did you pass any other cars or people on the road?" Frank asked.
"Not a soul," Clervi said. "This town rolls up its sidewalks at nine o'clock. It was close to ten when I went for the drive."
"So, there's no one who could vouch for you? Can you think of anyone on the set who may have seen you leave?" Joe asked.
"It was dark when I left, and I didn't notice anyone," Clervi replied, grimacing. "It's the truth, but I'm beginning to wonder if even I would believe me," Clervi added.
"What happened when you got back?" Frank asked.
"I went to my trailer and began rereading the Horror House script. I heard the commotion outside a few minutes later," Clervi said.
"Did you notice anything or anyone out of
70
the ordinary when you returned to the set?" Joe asked.
"No. Everyone seemed to be in their trailers, bedded down for the night," Clervi replied.
"Okay, we heard your explanation for the acid incident. Let's talk about what happened this evening, during the mailman sequence," Frank said.
"Well, when I picked up the scythe, I had no idea I was carrying a lethal weapon with me. The fake scythe looks so much like the real one, and it weighs the same. I could have killed someone with that thing," Clervi said.
"Katz almost did," Frank reminded Clervi.
"You guys have to do two things," Clervi pleaded. "You have to believe me, and you have to help me. Someone else is responsible for this. I'm being framed."
"We want to believe you, Mr. Clervi," Frank said. "Unfortunately, you have no proof where you were on the night of Warmouth's murder."
"Wait a minute," Clervi said, his eyes widening. "I have to keep a ledger for my rental car for the studio. It gives the date, destination, and mileage for every trip, to help out at tax time. I marked down everything that I did that night, and there's a considerable difference on the car mileage."
"That won't help," Frank said.
"What do you mean, it won't help?" Clervi argued.
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"Frank's right, Mr. Clervi," Joe said. "You could have written those entries after the murder. And if no one saw you leave, you could have left the set at any time in the day. It wouldn't hold up in court."
"Then I'm done for," Clervi muttered, his last hope dashed. "I might as well turn myself in to Thornall and get it over with."
"Maybe we can think of something else, Mr. Clervi," Frank said.
"Please," Clervi said absently. "Call me Matt." Clervi's face suddenly lit up. "I have one more suggestion," he said. "What if you guys retraced my steps that night?"
"I don't think—" Frank began.
But Joe interrupted his brother. "Sure, Matt," he said. "We could give it a try."
Clervi would go mad with anxiety if he and Frank didn't at least try to help him, Joe thought. Besides, even though retracing Clervi's steps might seem like a waste of time, they might actually discover something. A person could find the most interesting things, Joe had learned, taking the side paths.
"Okay, Matt," Frank said. "We'll give it a try."
After changing, the Hardys with Clervi stepped out of the trailer and into the night. "My car's parked behind the house," Clervi said, leading Joe and Frank toward the house.
Horror House loomed ominously. Joe shivered. 
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No wonder the Hugheses were convinced the place was haunted, he thought. From the front, in the darkness, the house resembled a hideous face—the door a grinning mouth and the two attic windows beady eyes. But wait—was it his imagination, or did Joe see a shadow move past a window on the first floor?
"I think someone's in the house," Joe announced, pausing to get a better look at the window.
"It's probably Shane," Clervi said. "He walks around the house at night for inspiration, or so he claims."
"Yeah, but with the lights off?" Joe wondered.
"Do you think we should check it out?" Frank asked.
"With a murderer on the loose, I don't think it would be a bad idea," Joe replied.
The Hardys and Clervi walked up on the porch, and Joe pushed the front door in as silently as he could.
"Why are you being so quiet?" Clervi whispered.
"What if Katz isn't in there? We might be sneaking up on the killer," Joe whispered back.
"I see your point," Clervi said, shuddering.
The Hardys and Clervi crept into the hallway. Joe felt for a light switch and flipped it on. Nothing happened.
"The electricity is off," Joe said.
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"I know where the circuit breakers are," Clervi said. "They're down in the basement."
"Okay," Joe said, handing Clervi his penlight. "Take this."
"Be careful," Frank said. "Scream your head off if anything happens."
Joe heard Clervi slip away. The darkness was so thick he could barely see a foot in front of his face. Joe continued to creep forward. He assumed he was in the dining room. Just then Frank bumped into something.
"Are you okay?" Joe whispered over his shoulder.
"I'm fine," Frank whispered back.
Suddenly the lights burst on, and Joe saw Shane Katz. He was standing in the soaring, two-story dining room directly beneath a huge chandelier. Katz gave Joe a smile. "Thank goodness," he said. "I thought you were the killer."
Joe started to speak, but before he could get a single word out, he heard a tearing sound coming from above.
Joe raised his eyes.
The crystal chandelier over Katz's head was pulling loose, ready to plummet to the floor!
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Chapter 8
Joe sprang forward and caught Katz with his shoulder. The two of them flew to one side just as the chandelier crashed to the parquet floor. Joe shielded Katz with his body, burying his head between his arms as shards of glass rained down on them.
Slowly Joe lifted his head to look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, two stories overhead, where the chandelier had been attached. He heard the sound of crunching glass and saw Frank precariously pick his way through the debris to them.
"Are you all right?" Frank asked, brushing glass off Joe's shirt.
"Yeah. Fine," Joe said, pulling himself up and giving a hand to Katz.
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Katz exhaled deeply and stared at the Hardys. "You saved my life," he croaked. He was shuddering and his skin was pale and covered with sweat.
"What were you doing here?" Joe asked, helping Katz to his feet.
"I come here for inspiration," Katz replied. "And with the way things are going, I really needed it tonight. I was here in the dining room when the lights went out, so I decided to stay put until my eyes got used to the dark. I wasn't about to stumble and fall."
"Are you hurt?" Frank asked.
"No," Katz said, rubbing his head. "I'm just a bit shaken."
"Wait here while we check out where the chandelier was attached," Joe said to Katz. "Come on, Frank."
Joe headed up the stairway. On the second floor he noticed an attic door in the hall ceiling. Standing on tiptoes, Joe grasped the string that was hanging down from the door and unstrapped the foldable, wooden ladder that was attached to the inside of the door.
With Frank right behind him, Joe climbed up into the attic. When he stood at the top, Joe felt another string brush his face. He pulled it, and light flooded the immediate area, creating pockets of deep shadow along the walls.
The boards of the attic floor were brittle and splintery. Joe carefully stepped across the floor
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to the area above the dining room. He found the hole where the chandelier had pulled loose and examined the pulley through which a heavy cord had run to support the chandelier's weight. Joe glanced up and saw where the cord had been anchored to the inside of the roof. Next he and Frank examined a small electrical box that looked as if it powered a huge attic fan. A single electrical wire had been pulled from the box and wrapped around the cord.
"What do you make of this, Frank?" Joe said, pointing to the frayed cord.
"It looks like someone took a wire and stripped it—then wrapped the exposed wire around the cord," Frank explained. "When the electricity was turned on, the wire burned through the cord, loosening the tension on the pulley, and the chandelier fell, pulling some of the plaster free with it."
"Let's get back downstairs," Joe said.
Joe and Frank hurried down to the dining room to find Clervi had returned.
"You keep him away from me!" Katz shouted, pointing at Clervi. "He killed Warmouth, and he tried to kill me!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Clervi insisted. "I didn't try to kill you."
"Then why did you happen to be here when the chandelier fell? You know I walk in the dining room when I'm here alone. I spend most of my time thinking of new scenes in this room.
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You knew that! You could have easily planned this whole thing!" Katz shouted.
"What took you so long?" Frank asked Clervi.
"The circuit breakers are all the way in the basement. After I switched the breakers on and was coming back up, I dropped your penlight and went back down the stairs to look for it. It took me a few minutes to find it," Clervi explained.
"He's lying!" Katz exclaimed. "Can't you see? He engineered this whole thing!"
Joe heard the front door open. Paula West and Sheriff Thornall hurried inside. Joe could hear other people also. Several crew members were pressed up against the dining room entrance.
"I heard an awful noise," Paula said. "Sheriff Thornall was making a night check on the set. I caught him before he drove away. What happened?"
"Well," Thornall said, staring at the chandelier, "either you fellas were playing Tarzan on that thing, or there are some awful big termites in these walls."
"Frank," Joe said, "why don't you take Sheriff Thornall up to the attic and show him what we found?"
As Frank led the sheriff upstairs, Fenton arrived. Joe explained what had happened to his father and Paula.
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"Well," Thornall interrupted Joe's story. "It looks like the Reaper has a full bag of tricks!"
Joe turned toward the booming voice and watched as the sheriff and Frank reentered the room.
Thornall strode up to Clervi and clasped the shaken actor's arm. "Time for another heart-to- heart." Thornall escorted Clervi out of the house. Joe shook his head as he watched the actor being led away.
Then Joe turned to Paula. "Where were you during all this, Miss West?" he asked.
"I was preparing a few things in my trailer," Paula replied. "I gave Cathy the night off before I realized how much work I had to finish before tomorrow morning."
"Why are you questioning her?" Katz interrupted. "It's obvious Clervi is the killer."
"Clervi has been with us for the last twenty minutes or so," Frank said.
"But he's been back from his public appearance for an hour," Paula said. "I saw him when his car pulled into the driveway."
"That would have given him time to rig the chandelier," Fenton said. "Look, you people had better get some rest. If you want my advice, Mr. Katz, don't take any more evening strolls through the house."
Joe followed Frank and Fenton outside.
"I was ready to believe that Clervi was being set up," Frank said. "Now I'm not so sure."
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"I have to agree," Joe said. "Clervi does look awfully guilty. He may have led us here so he'd have an alibi for Katz's death. He could say we were with him when the chandelier fell. But before that he did have plenty of time to rig the electrical box."
"Paula West also doesn't have anyone to back her story. She could have given Cathy the night off so she could arrange the accident. She certainly has the electrical knowledge," Frank said.
His father shook his head. "I say we sleep on it," he said. "There's nothing more any of us can do tonight."
* * *
The next morning Joe and Frank helped themselves to a big catered breakfast. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, cinnamon rolls, orange juice, and coffee for the cast and crew.
"Man," Joe said. "You've got to admit— slasher movie crews sure do eat good."
"Yeah," Frank agreed. "And now that we've been fed, let's get to work."
"And, I say we start by questioning Paula again. Wasn't it strange that she was so quick to arrive on the scene yesterday?"
"We can try to question her, but for some reason, I don't think we're her two favorite people," Frank said.
"Maybe we went about it wrong last time. Remember what Aunt Gertrude always says?
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You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar," Joe said.
"Observe," he continued, walking up to Paula's door and rapping on it with his knuckles.
Paula opened the door. "What do you want?" she said to Joe in an unfriendly tone.
"We wanted to apologize for upsetting you the other day, Miss West," Joe said. "We in no way meant to imply that you were involved with Andrew Warmouth's murder."
Paula softened, smiling and opening the door wider. "Oh, it wasn't anything you said. I've just been under a lot of pressure lately. I'm the one who should apologize."
Paula took a step back. "Come on in, guys. I've got a pitcher of iced tea inside."
Joe and Frank exchanged a satisfied smile and walked into Paula's trailer. They sat at a small wooden table as Paula poured them each a glass of iced tea. Though it was only nine o'clock in the morning, the day was already extremely warm. Joe knew that a glass of cold tea would really hit the spot.
Joe and Frank talked for a while with Paula, but the discussion remained limited to Paula's profession.
"Want to see some of my work?" she asked.
The Hardys both nodded. Paula disappeared into the back room, and when she reemerged a few seconds later she was carrying a rubber arm that was wired to a remote-control box. Joe
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knew the arm was fake, but he was amazed at how real it looked. There was even hair on the forearm. Paula laid the arm on the table, and Joe could see what looked like veins running through the arm's wrist. She had thought of every detail.
"This is what made me famous," Paula bragged. "Nobody does body parts better than Paula West!"
Paula operated the remote box, and the arm began to move. The hand rose, pointing a finger at Frank. The hand made a peace sign. The hand snapped its fingers.
"That's incredible," Frank muttered.
Joe and Frank watched the hand for a few minutes, then Frank reminded Joe of the time. Joe remembered that they wanted to go to the Beaufort Hotel to question Harold and Kitty Hughes.
Outside Paula's trailer, Joe and Frank were interrupted by someone calling to them.
"There you are," the voice said. "I've been looking all over for you two."
Joe turned to find Shane Katz directly behind him.
"What can we do for you?" Frank asked.
"I talked to Gold, and he wants things to proceed as usual. Paula seems to think she can finish the film without the items the sheriff has confiscated. We're doing a zombie scene late this afternoon, and though I'm still quite leery
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of Matthew, the sheriff promised me he'd be at the shooting," Katz said.
"We'll be back before the shoot," Joe said. "Could you tell us how to get to the Beaufort Hotel?" Joe asked Katz.
"Sure." Katz gave them directions. The hotel was only seven miles south on the main thruway.
Joe and Frank thanked Katz, then walked to their rented car. They drove down the small country freeway, which cut through the heart of forest. "Great scenery," Joe remarked. "I hope we get a chance to explore it before we go home."
"Depends on how fast we solve this case, brother," Frank said, pulling the car onto the small gravel driveway beside the Beaufort Hotel.
They entered the lobby of the building and approached a thin man who sat behind the front desk with his feet propped up on the counter. Joe waited several seconds for the man to look up from the dog-eared paperback he was reading.
"Excuse me," Joe said to the man. "Could you tell us which room Harold and Kitty Hughes are in?"
"Number thirteen," the man replied, not looking up from his book. "Take the hallway to your left and look on the right-hand side. Stop when you see the door with a one and a three on it."
"Thanks," Joe grumbled.
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As they made their way to the room, Joe suddenly chuckled.
"What's so funny?" Frank asked.
"Don't you find it hard to believe that a superstitious man like Harold Hughes would stay in a room numbered thirteen?" Joe replied.
"I guess so," Frank said.
Frank knocked lightly on the door. An elderly blue-haired woman wearing a pink smock answered the door.
"Yes?" she said pleasantly.
"Mrs. Hughes?" Frank asked.
"That's right," the woman replied.
"Good morning, ma'am," Frank continued. "I'm Frank Hardy. This is my brother, Joe. We've been asked by Fourteen Karat Movie Studios to investigate the murder of Andrew Warmouth. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"
"Oh, dear me," Kitty Hughes said, opening the door. "Come right in. I'm afraid that you can stay only for a moment. My husband, Harold, is out, and I have a few errands to run myself."
"We'll try to make it fast," Joe reassured her.
"Do you have any idea who might want to murder Andrew Warmouth? You knew him, didn't you?" Frank asked.
"Yes, I did," Mrs. Hughes said. She took a deep breath. "It was the spirits in the house," she said solemnly. "And if you boys know
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what's good for you, you'll stay away from there, too."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Joe said, exasperated. He had hoped that the woman would be more rational than her husband had been. But clearly the two were exactly alike.
The Hardys asked a few more questions, then began to leave. "Just a minute," Mrs. Hughes said. She thrust a box of brownies into Joe's hands. "Give these to that sweet boy, Matthew, who visits me."
Joe couldn't believe his ears. "Matthew Clervi—the Reaper?"
"Yes, that's right, Matthew. He's a doll. He's nothing like that character he plays. In fact, he told me he doesn't want to play the Reaper anymore and would do anything to get out of his contract," Mrs. Hughes said.
Stunned, Joe and Frank said goodbye to Mrs. Hughes, returned to their car, and headed back to the set. Joe sat on the passenger side while Frank drove. As they cruised back down the country road, Joe noticed that the branches of the trees on either side met over the road and formed a tunnel. It was dark and quiet and a little unsettling.
The blanketed silence was disrupted in a minute by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
"Where did that come from?" Frank said, alarmed. "Do you think someone's hunting?"
"I don't know," Joe said. "I can't think what
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would be in season now. I can't make out anyone through the trees, either."
Another shot rang out, and this time Joe heard up close the metal ping it made when it struck. Their rear bumper had taken the full impact. "Why are they shooting at us?" he asked his brother.
"Not us," Frank answered. "Someone's aiming at our gas tank!"
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Chapter 9
"Stop the car!" Joe shouted.
Frank hit the brakes, and Joe pushed open the door and rolled out as the third shot found its target. The gas tank exploded with a deafening roar. A ball of flame separated Joe from the car. He rolled farther from the inferno.
Joe looked but could not see Frank. "Frank?" Joe whispered at first, panic quickly spreading through him. "Frank!" Joe exclaimed, arching up and scuttling crablike back to the car.
No, Joe thought, his head swimming with dread. Please, no.
He let out an audible sigh of relief as he saw his brother crawl into a drainage ditch several feet from the flaming car. He followed Frank's example and tumbled into the muddy ditch, sliding up close to his brother.
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"Boy, am I glad to see you," Joe said.
"Me, too. But stay down!" Frank commanded. "You might get your head blown off!"
Joe and Frank waited several moments. Joe listened to the car burn, his mind flashing back to a day at the Bayport mall when his car had blown up, taking his girlfriend, Iola, with it. Joe pushed down the memory, wondering how long it would be before he'd begin to forget.
Finally he lifted his head and peered out of the ditch. Joe could see nothing but the trees.
"We should look for shells," Joe said, climbing out of the ditch. He needed to do something—take some sort of action.
"Where do we start?" Frank asked, climbing out of the ditch. "This road cuts right through the woods. Whoever shot at us could have been perched in any one of hundreds of trees. We don't even know what side the sniper was on when he fired. And we don't know if whoever did this is still around."
As if in answer to Frank's question, Joe heard a car engine rumble to life. Tires squealed, and the sound of a speeding vehicle filled the air.
"There must be a path farther back in the woods," Frank said.
"Let's check it out," Joe said.
"What about the car?" Frank turned toward the vehicle that was still burning in the middle of the road.
"I don't think we have to worry about anyone
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stealing it," Joe said. "Come on. We'll find a phone and call the fire department. The fire seems to be contained."
Joe and Frank worked their way through the heavy brush. They walked a quarter of a mile through the dense foliage before they discovered a small dirt road leading to another road that ran parallel to the one they'd been traveling on. Both roads were deserted.
The gunman was long gone. Joe looked for spent shells on the way back to what was left of the rented car. He found nothing.
"Well," Frank said, "do you have any guesses?"
"I don't know who could have been waiting to ambush us," Joe said. "But Mrs. Hughes did say Harold was gone. He could have been somewhere near the hotel. He might have seen us and then come here, knowing which way we would head to go back to Horror House."
"Whoever fired on us would have to have been able to climb one of these trees. I think the bottom growth is too thick to shoot through from this distance," Frank said. "Harold looks like he's in his late sixties. Could he have climbed up a tree and back down in the time the gunman did?"
"I don't know," Joe said. "I also don't know what motive Harold would have for killing Warmouth, but I do know that the two of us dying
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in a car explosion while investigating the murder would fit in with Harold's curse nonsense."
"We'd better walk back into town and call the fire department," Frank said.
Joe and Frank started to head back to the main road. "Now we know that someone is definitely out to get us," Joe said. "The only person who knew we were going to the hotel was Katz. Could he have told someone on the set where we were?"
"He's scared of Clervi," Frank said. "I can't picture him casually mentioning where we were to Matt."
"How about Paula West?" Joe asked.
"She's a possibility," Frank replied. "He had to have told her about the zombie scene this afternoon. He may have mentioned that we'd left for a while but would be back in time for makeup."
Joe and Frank were back at the car now. The flames were dwindling, and the fire still hadn't spread to the bush. "After we call the fire department, let's try to examine that shot in the bumper," Joe suggested.
"Okay," Frank replied, setting a fast pace back toward Beaufort. "Let's examine our suspects again, too. There's Matthew Clervi. Though both of us thought he was being set up, we have to remember the chandelier accident and how badly Clervi wants out of his role. And Paula West. Because of her expertise and her dislike
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of Warmouth, she could have easily engineered the accidents."
"But Katz vouched for her for the acid incident," Joe reminded his brother.
"True," Frank said. "But Paula herself compared her job to that of a magician's. And you know what they say about the hand being quicker than the eye. She might have managed to slip the acid into the flask even with Katz present."
"Cathleen Bowley has to be a suspect, too," Joe said, "but we haven't been able to turn up either a motive or evidence on her."
"And our final suspects are Harold and Kitty Hughes," Frank said. "Are the Hugheses engineering these accidents, trying to stop production because they aren't happy with the films?"
"There's one more suspect," Joe added.
"Who?" Frank asked.
"The house," Joe replied half-seriously. "What if evil spirits really are trying to halt the production?"
"Have you ever heard of a ghost firing a shotgun or driving a car?" Frank asked sarcastically. "Come on, Joe. I've been telling you since we were little kids. There are no such things as ghosts."
"Who was the one who believed in Santa Claus until he was twelve years old?" Joe teased.
"Come on," Frank said. "Let's pick up the pace and find a phone."
* * *
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Joe hung up the pay phone receiver. "The fire department is on its way," he said, stepping out of the booth in front of the Beaufort Hotel.
Joe looked around the rustic town of Beaufort. Downtown was made up of only four or five buildings: a post office, a general store, a hotel, and the sheriffs office. Where the fire station was Joe didn't know.
Joe studied his reflection in the glass booth. His clothes and face were filthy from the dive he had taken in the drainage ditch. He tried to straighten his gritty hair by running a hand back through it.
Frank, who looked just about the same as Joe, dug into his pants pocket and pulled out some change. "Here," he said, handing it to Joe. "Call Dad and ask him to come pick us up. I'm going over to the general store to buy us a couple of sodas."
Joe dialed the security phone. A guard answered and informed Joe that Fenton had been called away on an emergency. He told Joe that Fenton had left a letter for them and a message to carry on with the investigation.
"That's all he said?" Joe asked the security guard.
"He was in a rush," the man replied. "But he did say he'd call as soon as he could to explain everything. Oops, sorry, got to go—I was just beeped."
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Joe hung up the phone and stepped back out of the booth. Frank was back, toting two bottles of root beer. "Is Dad on his way?" Frank asked.
"No," Joe said, and explained what the guard had told him.
Frank nodded, surprised. "So we're on our own."
"And we're also seven miles from the house," Joe said. "Should we call for a ride?"
"Well, you wanted to explore the countryside," Frank reminded him. "We could make it on foot."
Once again Joe and Frank found themselves walking along the country road. They walked a couple of miles before they saw the fire truck in the distance. Two fire fighters were shoveling dirt from the side of the road onto the car, which was now a blackened husk. Joe walked as close to the car as the fire fighters allowed. He noticed several holes in the car above the bumper.
"Whoever shot at us was definitely using a shotgun," Joe said.
"Then it's easy," Frank said. "We find out who had a license to possess a rifle on the set."
"You're thinking of New York law," Joe said. "We're in Texas. You don't need a license or permit to own a rifle."
Joe heard a siren nearing them. Sheriff Thornall's patrol car was approaching from the direction of Horror House. Thornall parked his
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car on the side of the road, got out, and sauntered up to Joe and Frank.
"Well, what have we here?" Thornall said, staring at the car. "I'd hate to see the insurance premiums you kids pay."
"Sheriff," Frank said, "someone shot at our car."
"I can see that," Thornall said. "You boys have to be careful. We get a few rambunctious hunters who like to shoot deer out of season in this area. It's happened before. Somebody's shot at your car by mistake."
"You don't really think this was an accident," Joe said incredulously. "Whoever did this took off without an apology."
"The guy was probably scared," Thornall said. "If it was someone out to get you, I think he would have finished the job."
"I think that someone wants us out of the way for investigating Warmouth's murder," Joe insisted, growing angry with the sheriff, "Warmouth's murderer is trying to kill us."
"That's not possible," Thornall said, shaking his head.
"Why not?" Frank asked.
"No murderer is going to get you, because I've had the murderer in custody for over an hour now," Thornall said smugly. "Matthew Clervi—the Reaper!"
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Chapter 10
Frank was stunned by Thornall's announcement. "What evidence did you use to arrest him?" he asked.
"I don't have to tell you boys anything, but maybe you'll learn something if I do," Thornall drawled. "I knew it was Clervi all along. The murder weapon was a scythe, and Clervi was the Reaper. Simple. I finally got a search warrant from Judge Parker. When I searched Clervi's trailer this morning, I found several electrical tools in a shoe box under his bed. I also found a wire stripper and a pair of wire clippers—the same kind of tools someone would need to rig a chandelier."
"If someone was trying to frame Clervi, though, they might have planted the tools in the trailer," Joe said.
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"Why are you kids trying to prove he's innocent? I caught him with the goods in his trailer," Thornall said.
"If Clervi did rig the chandelier, why would he keep incriminating evidence under his bed? Surely he had to realize that eventually you'd get a search warrant," Frank said.
"Yeah, if it were me, I'd get rid of the tools. I can't imagine anyone who'd be stupid enough to keep them," Joe added.
"No one ever accused Matthew Clervi of being a genius," Thornall said, his eyes narrowing. "The way you boys are talking, I'd almost swear you were in cahoots with that nut."
"We have alibis for every incident," Frank said simply, not challenging the sheriff.
"I'm sure you do," Thornall grunted. "Get in the squad car. I'm taking you fellas back to the set."
Frank and Joe got in the back of Thornall's squad car. The ride back to the movie set was a quiet one, the silence interrupted only by an occasional buzz on the police band. Frank wasn't sure what to think of Clervi. So much evidence pointed to him, but something didn't fit. He couldn't put his finger on what was troubling him, but he also knew he and Joe didn't have all the facts on this case.
Thornall pulled up to the security gate and was quickly let in by the guard. Frank gazed out
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at the crowd of fans lining the fence. They were all young, some dressed as the Reaper in handmade robes and hoods.
"Punk idiots," Thornall muttered.
The sheriff pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. Frank reached for the door handle. He groped the door panel for a few seconds before he remembered that police cars have no handles on the inside to prevent prisoners from escaping. Thornall got out of the car and opened the door for Frank and Joe.
"See you boys later," Thornall said, climbing back into the driver's seat. "I've got a prisoner to question." Thornall backed out of the driveway and pulled away.
Frank and Joe started back to their trailer when Joe suddenly stopped. "Frank, aren't all visitors to the set logged in at the gate?"
"Yeah," Frank said, understanding immediately. "Let's see who showed up on the night of Warmouth's murder."
Frank and Joe strode over to the security booth. Eddie, the guard, was inside drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper.
"How's it going, Eddie?" Frank asked.
Eddie raised his eyes from his newspaper and smiled. "Pretty good, Frank. I've just been keeping an eye on that mob outside the fence," he said, motioning through the booth window at the fans who were peering over to see if the Hardys were anybody famous.
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"Could we see the log book, Eddie?" Joe asked. "It's for our investigation."
The guard hesitated a second, then shrugged. "Sure." He handed Frank the leather-bound tablet.
Frank opened the book and turned to the date of Warmouth's murder. He scanned down the page. "There were only two visitors that night. They came during dinner break. Harold and Kitty Hughes, and a Robert Rinaldi."
"What time did they leave?" Joe asked.
"I can't tell," Frank said. "This log book looks like someone spilled something on it. The departure column is all smeared."
"Yeah," Eddie said to Frank. "Smitty, the guard on duty that night, spilled his coffee."
"Where can we find Smitty?" Joe asked.
"He's out sick with a bad stomach virus," Eddie replied. "Besides, if you want him to tell you about that night, the guy's hopeless. He has a real short-term memory," Eddie joked. "He probably doesn't remember what happened yesterday."
Frank and Joe handed the log back to Eddie, thanked him, and took off for their trailer, anxious to clean the grime from their bodies.
On the way they ran into Mike Sinnochi. "Man," Mike said, staring at the Hardys' clothes. "What happened to you?"
"It's a long story," Joe said.
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"Can we ask you something, Mike?" Frank asked.
"Sure," Mike replied.
"Do you know a Robert Rinaldi?"
"Yeah, sure," Mike said.
"He was here the night of the murder. Do you know anything about his visit?" Joe asked.
"He showed up during dinner break to see Warmouth. He's the head of Excalibur Pictures, the company responsible for the Midnight Massacre horror film series. Why?"
"We saw his name on the security log," Frank explained. He was excited. A visit from a rival producer might be the missing piece of the puzzle that he was searching for.
"Yeah, he and Warmouth talked in private in Warmouth's trailer," Mike went on. "It ended in an argument, though. I heard them screaming at each other and saw Rinaldi storm out of the trailer."
"Why didn't you mention this before?" Frank asked.
Mike shrugged. "Every time Warmouth and Rinaldi got together, they ended up in a shouting match. The two movie series are similar and the scripts are closely guarded by both studios. Rinaldi has insisted for a couple of years that Warmouth was smuggling Midnight Massacre scripts out of the Excalibur office and using the outlines for Horror House."
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"Do you think Warmouth was stealing scripts?" Joe asked.
"Hey, man, Horror House does ten times better than Midnight Massacre at the box office," Mike said, laughing. "I always figured Rinaldi was just jealous."
"Do you remember seeing Rinaldi leave?" Joe asked.
"No, I saw him leave Warmouth's trailer, but I didn't actually see him leave the set. But, hey, I was working so hard I wouldn't have noticed a bomb drop on the set," Mike said.
"Well, thanks for telling us about it," Frank said.
"I hope it helps. I'm sorry I didn't mention it sooner. I've been so busy that I just didn't think twice about the whole thing," Mike said apologetically.
"It might have an effect on Matthew Clervi's arrest," Frank remarked.
"Yeah, we can't leave any stone unturned now," Joe added.
Mike looked shocked. "Matt was arrested?"
"Yeah," Joe said. "Didn't you hear about it?"
"I had to leave here for a while," Mike said. "I got back just about the same time Thornall dropped you guys off."
Joe filled Mike in on the details concerning Clervi's arrest.
Mike stared at the Hardys, dumbfounded. "I
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can't believe they think Matt's responsible. He's not capable of murder."
"That's why your information came at just the right time," Frank said. "If Clervi is innocent, we still have time to prove it."
"I hope you guys can do it," Mike said. "Oh, listen, you have about two hours before the zombie scene. Matt's not in it, so I'm sure the filming will continue without him, if I know Leonard Gold."
"Thanks," Joe said.
The Hardys continued on to their trailer, where Frank flipped a quarter to see who would get the shower first.
"You win again, brother," Frank said.
* * *
After they finished cleaning up, Frank reminded Joe that they had to stop by the security trailer to get the letter their dad had left for them.
When they stepped outside their trailer, Frank found a note taped to the front door. It read: Call Gold. Urgent! They must not have heard anyone knocking because of the shower running.
Frank stepped back inside immediately. He picked up the cellular phone on the nightstand and dialed Gold's number. Gold's secretary immediately put her boss on the line.
"This business of arresting Matthew is a disaster!" Gold exclaimed before Frank could even say hello. "I insist that you stay on and try to
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clear him. If he goes to prison, Fourteen Karat Studios will go down the tubes!"
"Excuse me for asking," Frank said, "but how would Clervi's no longer being in the film affect the series? After all, you can't see his real face. Who'd even know who's under all that makeup."
"Matthew has been on talk shows and has his picture taken without his makeup for magazine interviews. The fans love him. He gets thousands of letters a week," Gold roared.
"We'll do our best," Frank reassured Gold. He hung up the phone and relayed the conversation to Joe.
"He expects us to clear Clervi before the publicity puts Fourteen Karat Studios under?" Joe asked incredulously.
Frank nodded. "That's what Gold wants to prevent. Personally, I'm more interested in keeping an innocent man from being sent to prison," Frank said. He didn't think much of Gold and his attitude toward his workers—as though they were money-making machines instead of human beings.
"Before we do anything else, we've got to pick up Dad's letter," Joe told Frank.
"We're too pressed for time," Frank disagreed. "We have to get into makeup if we want to make the shoot."
Frank and Joe hurried toward the special- effects trailer, where Cathy Bowley prepared
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them for the scene in record time. Forgetting about their father's note, they left the trailer. Once outside Frank realized they had twenty minutes until they were called.
"Great," said Joe. "Let's go see Shane Katz. I have a couple of questions I want to ask him."
As Joe and Frank approached Katz's trailer, they were surprised to find its front door open. Katz was standing in the living room, his back to them, shouting into a telephone.
"Now that I have the say-so over this project, the next film will be quite different!" he ranted. "The Horror House series will finally be done the way it should have been from the start! I expect the papers from Andy's lawyer any day now."
Katz turned around and saw the Hardys. "I'll call you back," he said abruptly into the phone and hung up.
"So," Katz said, smiling uncomfortably, "how long have you guys been standing there?"
"Just a few seconds," Frank said.
"Isn't your detective work done?" Katz demanded. "Clervi's in jail."
"Gold wants us to stay on," Joe said. "We were brought in to help my dad with security, anyway. We're here to the end."
"I see," Katz said. "All right. Well, today in your scene you zombie slaves have to burst out of the Horror House storm cellar. It's the place where the Reaper buries his victims. Then you'll
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converge on the heroine, who'll be standing on the front porch of the house. You might want to go through it once before we start."
Frank and Joe walked back to the house in silence. As they approached the storm cellar on the side of the house, Frank finally said, "I wonder who Katz was talking to? And I wonder what kind of papers he'll be getting from Warmouth's lawyer?"
"We'll check it out tonight," Joe assured him.
"It doesn't look like the equipment has been set up for the zombie scene yet," Frank said. "We're the only ones here."
"Maybe everything's inside." Joe gingerly lifted the double doors to the cellar.
Frank shivered as they walked down the cellar steps into cold blackness. Frank started to turn around to leave, but just then the doors were slammed shut. Frank heard a metal bar being slid through the door handles. They were trapped!
"Hold on," Joe said. "I've got my penlight."
Joe turned the light on and shined it down around their feet. The cellar floor was crawling with scorpions—and they were all crawling straight for Frank and Joe!
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Chapter 11
"Uh, Frank," Joe said, backing up the stairway as the scorpions came closer. "Are Texas scorpions poisonous?"
"I don't think one sting from a scorpion is dangerous, but I don't know how serious several stings would be," Frank replied, inching toward the door. "And I don't want to find out."
Frank turned and rushed up the steps to the bulkhead door, lifting his back against it.
Joe added his weight. Together the Hardys lifted their shoulders against the door. "We're trapped down here!" Joe shouted at the top of his lungs. "Somebody open the door!" No one came.
Joe turned and shone his penlight across the basement floor. The scorpions were crawling up
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the stairs now. He shuddered at the thought of fighting them off. A few feet from the stairs he spotted a rusty crowbar lying in the dirt. Scorpions were crawling all over the tool. Joe took a deep breath, leapt off the steps, and reached for the tool, brushing the scorpions off quickly. He rushed back up the stairs.
"Okay. Now try," Joe said, prying up on the door far enough for Frank to slip his hand through and remove the metal bar.
The doors opened, and Joe found himself looking into the worried face of Cathy Bowley.
"What happened? I heard someone yell and came running," she said as Joe and Frank slammed the doors shut behind them.
"There's a whole nest of scorpions down there," Joe said, searching himself to make sure none were clinging to his clothes.
Katz walked up to the Hardys as the crew was gathering around, asking what had happened. "What's going on?" Katz demanded louder than the others.
Frank relayed the details.
"Okay," Katz said. "Everybody stay calm. Scorpions like cool places to get away from the heat. I'll have someone call an exterminator to clean the cellar tomorrow. Let's knock off for the rest of the night. The tension has been terrible, and we've all earned a break. We'll have to pull some overtime next week to meet the schedule, but who cares?"
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The crew dispersed. "I'm convinced that someone is out to get us," Frank said, remembering Fenton's letter to them in the security trailer and heading off to retrieve it.
"Could it be Katz?" Frank asked. "He did suggest that we go over to the cellar. And what about that phone call we overheard?"
"You can't hang Katz for saying he wants to do a better job with the series than Warmouth did," Joe said. "With Warmouth's death, I guess Katz has complete control over the project now. But those papers he said he would receive from Warmouth's lawyer—I wonder if Katz inherited something from Andrew Warmouth?"
"It's possible," Frank replied.
When Joe and Frank received Fenton's letter, Joe opened it and read it to Frank:
"Dear Frank and Joe,
Something big is brewing in Los Angeles. An old friend with the FBI called and asked me to help him on a case. It's urgent. National security may be threatened if I don't act now. Continue with the investigation. I'll call once things settle down. Take care,
Dad"
"At least one of us gets to spend the summer near the beach," Frank said. "I just hope he's okay."
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"Dad's always been able to take care of himself," said Joe as he refolded the note. "'Let's get this makeup off our faces. Then let's find out where Paula West was today."
* * *
Joe knocked on the front door of the special- effects trailer. Cathy Bowley opened the door, smiling brightly at Joe and Frank. "Hi, guys," she said. "What can I do for you?"
"Could we ask you a few questions?" Frank asked.
"Sure," Cathy said, stepping outside. "Can we talk out here? I just got through mixing some chemicals. The trailer's pretty thick with fumes."
"We can talk right here," Joe said.
"Do you know where Paula West went today?" Frank asked.
"No. She said she was taking the day off and told me to take care of everything," Cathy said. "I don't know where she went."
"Paula told us that she didn't think you were ready to do the special makeups the other day," Joe said. "And yet, today, you applied our makeup. Do you know why?"
"I've been practicing," Cathy bragged. "Paula decided the only way to learn was by getting my feet wet. Besides, the regular makeup people were here, and Mike was around to give me a hand if there were any problems."
"Thanks, Cathy," Frank said.
"I was just going to lock up the trailer and go
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into town for dinner. I have to get away. You guys want to join me?" Cathy asked, pulling the front door shut and locking it.
"Sure," Joe said eagerly. He was hungry and the prospect of spending an hour or so with Cathy Bowley was an added attraction.
"I guess we could use a bite to eat," Frank agreed.
Cathy walked down the steps and paused to slip the key under the stair tread. Joe glanced at Frank and hoped his brother was thinking the same thing he was.
It was dark when Cathy dropped Joe and Frank off after dinner at the security gate.
"Thanks for picking up the tab," she said to Joe as the Hardys climbed out of the car.
"No problem," Joe said, shutting the car door. "Any time."
"Are you sure you won't join me for a movie in Fort Worth?" Cathy asked. "There are a lot of good flicks playing."
"It's tempting," Frank said. "But we've got work to do."
Cathy nodded, then backed the car out of the driveway.
The security gate was lifted, and Frank and Joe stepped onto the property. They were going to head straight to their trailer when Eddie yelled to them, wide-eyed, "Someone's on the property! And he's dressed like the Reaper!"
"How did he get in?" Joe asked, glancing
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around at the fence that shut in the Hughes property.
"I don't know. He didn't get by here, I promise. I just got a call from one of the crew who spotted him. He's carrying a scythe. The guy who saw him couldn't tell whether it was fake or not," Eddie replied.
"Okay, Eddie. You check by the trailers. Joe and I'll check the house," Frank ordered. "Be careful. This guy might be the killer."
Eddie unstrapped his gun. "Don't worry about me," he said, turning and running toward the trailers. "I'm a professional."
"Come on," Frank said to Joe, sprinting to the house.
Joe reached the front door before Frank. The house was shut down and the grounds were deserted. The crew was either in their trailers or off the set, Joe realized.
Joe noticed that the front door, usually locked after filming, was open slightly. He took out his penlight and examined the doorframe.
"Looks like someone forced it," Frank muttered over Joe's shoulder.
"Let's do it," Joe said, easing the door open.
Joe stepped into the hallway. The house was dark. He reached for a light switch, then realized that he and Frank might have the advantage if the house stayed dark. Joe turned on his penlight and scanned the living room, den, and dining room.
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Joe shone the light on the stairway, and followed the spot of light up the steps to the second floor. The light fell on a figure dressed as the Reaper.
"There he is!" Joe shouted.
The figure moved to the left and disappeared in the darkness. Joe switched on the living room light so he and Frank could see to mount the stairs.
Joe reached the top first and headed for the doors on the left. The first door opened to a bathroom. The second revealed a bedroom. Before Joe could open the third door, it burst open, knocking him backward into Frank. Joe and Frank both fell to the floor as the robed figure ran back down the stairway.
"Get him!" Joe shouted. Picturing how badly he was going to clobber this guy for knocking him down, Joe raced down the stairway and chased the intruder out of the house. The intruder stopped by a trash can stationed at the end of the parking lot.
Joe sped up. "That's right, bozo," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Hold that pose." Joe ducked down, ready to spring and tackle the dark figure. Joe's eyes widened as the fugitive knocked the can over, and rolled it directly toward Joe.
Joe's legs hit the aluminum trash can, causing him to flip over and land flat. All the wind was
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knocked out of him. As Joe looked up, he saw Frank sail overhead.
Joe arched up just in time to see Frank hit the intruder with a flying tackle and bring him to the ground.
Grateful and more than a little relieved, Joe rubbed his battered limbs and hoisted himself painfully to his feet. Maybe Frank has a point about me always losing my head, Joe thought as he walked over to where Frank had pinned the struggling figure to the ground. Nothing was broken, but he was pretty sure that he'd ache for a few days.
"Who do we have here?" Joe asked flippantly, bending down and pulling an imitation Reaper mask off the intruder. He shone his penlight into the intruder's face.
The answer to his question came as quite a shock. He was only a kid! The young man's face was marked with acne, and silver braces glinted from his half-open mouth. The kid's eyes were squeezed shut with fear.
"Turn the light off, please," the young man whined.
"What do you think you're doing?" Frank asked, letting the kid up.
"I just wanted to get a souvenir prop," the kid insisted. "I figured if I dressed up like the Reaper, no one would recognize me."
He doesn't know Clervi's in jail, Joe realized.
Frank hauled the youth to his feet. The kid
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looked around, frantically. "My scythe, man. Where's my scythe?"
Joe scanned the ground with his penlight, illuminating the plastic toy that Frank had crushed when he tackled the youth.
Amused and angry, the Hardys escorted the young man off the set, then found Eddie and explained everything to him.
"Boy, I wish Dad had been around to see that," said Frank. "Oh, well. The fun's over. I say we go back to our trailer, wait until midnight, then use the key Cathy hid under the step to search the trailer." Frank started to walk away from the guard booth.
"Let's also hope that Paula West doesn't decide to work tonight," Joe said, hurrying to keep up with him.
Joe and Frank went back to their trailer and cleaned up, passing the time talking.
"I think we have to pay a visit to Excalibur Pictures and talk to Robert Rinaldi," Joe said, stretching out on Frank's bed, which was pulled down. "I'm curious to know what he and Warmouth talked about."
"Let's do that tomorrow," Frank agreed. "Now, get your shoes off my bed. They're dirty."
When midnight finally arrived, the brothers stole quietly toward Paula's work trailer. No one was out moving around, and Joe was positive
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they had made it unnoticed to the trailer. He retrieved the key from under the step.
"Hope we can find evidence that'll prove Clervi's innocent," Joe whispered, unlocking the door and silently inching it open. "I bet Thornall didn't search very hard for clues because he's so convinced that Clervi's guilty." Joe turned on his penlight once they were inside.
He shone the light around the room, spotting the many boxes that Paula West had lined up against the walls. "This room is so full of stuff," Joe muttered, "that I don't even know where to begin."
"Try flashing that light around. Maybe something will jump out at us," Frank said.
"I hope you don't mean that literally," Joe replied, shining the penlight on Paula's worktable.
Frank started to answer, but the words caught in his throat.
The light revealed the cold, dead face of Andrew Warmouth!
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Chapter 12
Frank stared at the head in speechless horror. That was all there was, a head. Warmouth's eyes were open, and his mouth was locked in an eternal scream.
Frank saw Joe reach out to touch the head.
Frank grabbed Joe's arm. "What are you doing?"
Joe gently pried Frank's fingers from his arm. "Relax," Joe said, reaching out once again to touch Warmouth's cheek. Frank watched in shocked silence.
Suddenly Joe laughed. "It's fake," he said.
Frank released the breath he had been holding. "It nearly scared me to death," he admitted.
"Yeah, but what scares me is, why would Paula West create a head of Warmouth?" Joe asked.
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"That's a good question," Frank replied, surveying the other items on the table.
Frank shook his head as he surveyed the morbid assortment of fake body parts on the table. He sifted through noses, ears, fingers, and toes. He picked up a knife and pressed the blade against the palm of his hand. It didn't retract.
"I think it's a bleeder," Joe suggested, taking the knife from Frank's hand.
"What's a bleeder?" Frank asked, wondering if he really wanted to know. Some of this special- effects stuff could be really gross.
"Here," Joe said, pulling Frank's arm over and shoving the penlight into Frank's other hand. "I'll show you."
Joe ran the knife over Frank's palm. A wet, crimson gash appeared on Frank's skin. Frank pulled his arm away, startled.
"It's okay," Joe reassured his brother, who was studying his hand for a wound. "This knife holds a packet of fake blood. There's a button on the handle that you push to force the fake blood out of tiny holes on the edge of the blade."
Frank wiped his hands on his jeans, then remembered how much the jeans had cost him. He hoped fake blood washed out.
"Hey, Frank," Joe said.
Frank stared at his brother, who was holding two fake eyes in front of his face.
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"I only have eyes for you," Joe crooned, tossing the orbs to Frank.
"Get serious," Frank said, setting the eyes on the table. "We're here to search for clues. I'll buy you toys when we get back home."
"Have a heart," Joe said, handing Frank a fake one from the worktable. "Check this out," Joe added, sticking a wire in the bottom of the fake organ. Joe picked up a small, rubber palm pump and attached it to the airhose that was protruding from the heart. He squeezed the pump. The heart began to constrict, then expand.
"This would make a swell Valentine for Callie," Joe teased.
"You are seriously demented," Frank said, putting the heart on the table.
"It runs in the family," Joe joked.
"Joe," Frank said, spotting something. "Check this out."
Frank picked up a mold. The face looked like Shane Katz, with Katz's eyes and mouth closed. "She was making one of Katz as well," Frank said.
Joe ran his finger through the mold. "I feel some hard traces of the latex mix in there," Joe said. "She definitely made a head of Katz. I wonder where it is?"
Joe slowly flashed the penlight around the room, but neither boy could spot it.
Joe then held the light on the mold.
"What's up?" Frank asked.
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"I don't know," Joe said. "There's something peculiar about this mold, but I can't figure out what it is."
"Maybe it'll come to you later," Frank said. "What I want to know is why Paula created these heads of Warmouth and Katz."
"Let's look in these drawers," Joe said, using his light to outline a small filing cabinet next to the table.
Frank opened the top drawer and found nothing incriminating inside. It was stuffed with receipts for various chemicals and mechanical devices. The second and third drawers were full of similar papers. In the bottom one Frank found a padlocked metal box.
He put it on the worktable, and Joe started to pick the lock without hesitating.
"I'm not sure we should do that, Joe," Frank said, concerned that Paula West would walk in. If she saw what Joe was doing, she could have them arrested.
"Let me remind you that we've nearly been killed three times in the last two days," Joe replied. "Thornall thinks he has the guilty party when we know otherwise. After all, how could Clervi have shot at the car? The police won't help us, so we have to help ourselves."
The lock sprung open, and Joe raised the lid to peer inside. He pulled out a letter and handed it to Frank. Frank unfolded the letter and read it in the dim light from Joe's penlight.
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It's from Andrew Warmouth," Frank said. It says, 'Work for Horror House, or everyone will know that your claim to fame was a sham.' What does that mean?"
"I can guess what it means," Joe said. "Paula's claim to fame was the radio-controlled mechanical body parts. Maybe she stole the idea from someone else. If it weren't for those parts Paula designed, she'd still be a low- paid assistant."
"So, maybe Warmouth found out and was blackmailing Paula," Frank added. He hesitated. "Blackmail is a very good motive for murder."
"Yeah," Joe agreed. "And it's the only reason I know of that would explain why Paula worked for Warmouth for so little money."
"We also can't ignore Paula's absence during today's shoot," Frank said excitedly. "Joe, I'd say she's our number-one candidate. But why would she save that incriminating letter—well, I guess people do stranger things."
Frank stuffed the letter into his pocket, relocked the metal box, and returned it to the bottom drawer. Then he and Joe left the trailer, replacing the key.
As they hurried back toward their trailer, Frank grew more confident than ever that Clervi had indeed been framed. They would need more evidence, though, he decided, before he could turn the letter over to the authorities.
Frank was so caught up in the case that he
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almost failed to notice that the light in their trailer was on. "Joe," he said, reaching for the door handle, "didn't you turn off the light before we left?"
"Yeah, I did." Joe's expression froze. He stared at his brother.
"Someone's in our trailer!" Frank shouted, bursting inside with Joe on his heels.
But this time no Reaper waited to attack them. Instead, Sheriff Thornall sat waiting on the edge of Frank's bed. "Hello, boys. Out awfully late, aren't you?" he said gruffly.
"What can we do for you?" Frank asked, clearly shaken by the lawman's surprise visit.
"I'm glad you asked." Thornall stood up, slapping his holstered gun with an air of superiority. "You see, while I was making my nightly rounds around Beaufort, someone sneaked into the jailhouse and clubbed my deputy on the back of the head. He was the only officer there, and he has a habit of dozing off behind his desk. He didn't see who knocked him out, but when he woke up, Clervi was gone."
"What has that got to do with us?" Joe demanded indignantly.
"Well, what do you think?" Thornall said, smiling like the Cheshire cat.
"Why are you coming to us now?" Joe continued. "You didn't want us in on the investigation, so what does Clervi's escaping from jail have to do with—"
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Joe paused, and Frank realized that Joe had answered his own question.
A very bad feeling was washing over Frank.
"Plenty," Thornall said, stepping menacingly toward the Hardys. " 'Cause I think you boys busted Clervi out!"
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Chapter 13
Frank couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"What are you saying?" Joe exclaimed, his temper flaring.
"You heard me," Thornall said. "You boys were in on this with Clervi from the start, weren't you?"
"Wait a minute, Sheriff," Frank said calmly. "What time did the jailbreak take place?"
"About seven-thirty," Thornall replied.
"We were on our way back from having dinner with Cathy Bowley at that time," Frank said.
"You can prove that?" Thornall asked.
"We sure can," Joe said. "Cathy drove us back herself."
"Listen, Sheriff, we're on the same side,
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Frank said. "Why don't you have a seat and listen to what we've found out?"
Thornall hesitated. "Well," he said at last, "it's probably a waste of time, but it might be good for a few laughs." He sat back down on the bed.
Frank told Thornall about their suspicion of Paula West. He gave Thornall every reason he and Joe had for thinking her capable of the murder. Finally he showed the sheriff the incriminating letter from Warmouth to Paula West.
Thornall's features softened, and Frank thought he might actually have managed to get through to the sheriff.
"You boys did some good detecting," Thornall said, sounding impressed with them despite himself. "Nevertheless, I've got an escaped prisoner on my hands and only two men on my force, one of whom is in the hospital with a concussion."
"Why don't you let us question Paula tomorrow?" Joe said. "If we discover anything useful, we'll come straight to you. This way you can continue your search for Clervi while we question Paula."
"Okay," Thornall agreed. "But I want you boys to know that I intend to check your alibi tomorrow. And if I find out you've lied to me, I'll be on you like warts on a toad!"
With that, Thornall lumbered out of the small trailer.
Maybe Thornall wasn't all bad, Frank thought.
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He sighed. But at that time of night, who could tell?
"Let's hit the sack," he said to Joe. "We've got a busy day ahead of us."
* * *
The next morning Frank and Joe ate a quick breakfast of doughnuts and orange juice, then headed straight for the special-effects trailer. Cathy Bowley was inside, finishing a latex mask.
"If you're looking for Paula, she never made it back last night," Cathy said.
"She was out all night?" Joe asked, concerned. "Do you think anything might have happened to her?"
"Oh, no," Cathy said. "She usually stays at a hotel overnight in Fort Worth on her day off, then drives back the next day. She doesn't like to drive at night."
"Do you have any idea when she might get in?" Frank asked.
"I don't know exactly," Cathy said. "She has a little extra time coming to her, and she may take it today since there's not much happening. The River Oaks Cinema is having a triple horror movie feature that starts at noon. Paula loves horror movies, so you might be able to find her there."
Cathy, who was standing at the worktable, moved Warmouth's head aside to make room for a new mold.
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"Why did Paula make heads of Katz and Warmouth?" Frank asked, motioning to the head.
"She made them for a party last Halloween," Cathy said. "It was Shane's idea." She looked up at Frank, suddenly puzzled. "At least, I think that's what she said."
Frank and Joe thanked Cathy, then left.
"So, what's next?" Joe asked Frank, discouraged, as they stepped outside.
"There's Mike Sinnochi." Frank waved at Mike.
"All filming's been canceled for today," Mike announced before Frank or Joe could say anything. Mike looked disgusted and extremely irritable. "Shane was called off the set this morning."
"What's up?" Joe asked.
"I don't know." Mike frowned. "Shane just told me he had an emergency to attend to and that he'd be back this evening. I've never seen anything like it. There's no way we're going to meet the schedule at this rate."
The Hardys agreed to check in with Mike later, in case of any new developments. As they continued toward their trailer, Frank said, "I need to use the phone."
"Who are you going to call?" Joe asked.
"Excalibur Pictures. I want to try to make an appointment with Robert Rinaldi," Frank replied. "We might as well use our time constructively."
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When Frank finally reached Rinaldi's secretary on the phone, he explained that he was part of Fourteen Karat Studios' security force working with the Beaufort sheriffs office, and that he wanted to talk to Rinaldi about the murder.
The secretary put Frank on hold for a moment, then told him Rinaldi would see him in one hour. She gave Frank the directions to the Dallas office. Frank wrote them down on a notepad and thanked her.
"We're in," Frank informed Joe, hanging up the phone and stuffing the directions in his pocket. "We'll take Dad's car."
* * *
Rinaldi's secretary sent the Hardys right in to speak to Robert Rinaldi.
He was a tanned, balding man who stood up from behind his large desk to shake their hands. "Gentlemen," he said, motioning graciously to two chairs positioned in front of his desk. "Please have a seat."
"I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe," Frank said, sitting down.
"So, the two of you are sibling sleuths. Now, that's a good premise for a film," Rinaldi said, chuckling.
"I guess it would be," Joe agreed.
Rinaldi eased back into his reclining chair and clasped his hands together behind his head. "How can I help you?"
"We understand you were with Warmouth the
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night he was killed. We also understand that the two of you had a disagreement," Frank said.
"Ah," Rinaldi said, nodding his head knowingly. "So you want to know if our dispute led to my killing Warmouth. Let me assure you, I was on the far side of Fort Worth at the time of Warmouth's murder. Besides having my chauffeur as a witness, I can also pall upon a female acquaintance who dined with me when I returned that night."
"I see," Frank said. He didn't have to see the dead-end sign to know where this was heading.
"What about your accusations that Warmouth was stealing Midnight Massacre scripts?" Joe asked Rinaldi.
Rinaldi leaned forward, gripping the desk. "Let me tell you about Andrew Warmouth, my friends. He was a despicable man. I have it from reliable sources that the only person making money from the Horror House movies was Warmouth. He bound everyone on the crew to long- term contracts and paid them scale fees, otherwise known as minimum wage. Warmouth made money from the box office, merchandising, and video sales. He cut everyone else out of the rights."
"How could he do that?" Joe asked.
"When the first film went into production, he offered Katz, West, and everyone involved what seemed like good salaries. They all signed the contracts without noticing the fine print that
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stated their pay would remain the same in case of any sequels. They all had to work on four more films at the same rate as they had six years earlier. The Hugheses were also victims of Warmouth's dirty tactics."
"What did he do to them?" Frank asked.
"They signed a contract that enabled Warmouth to rent the house for the films. He promised them ten thousand dollars to make the first movie there. He bought their rights from them outright, cheating them out of any royalties, and then he talked them into signing a contract with a similar clause to the one in the crew's contract. The Hugheses receive only ten thousand for each film. It's their only source of income other than social security. And they can't sell the house."
"How do you know all of this?" Frank asked.
"I have my sources," Rinaldi said with a smile. "There's a lot of espionage in this business. Warmouth had someone in this office who was sending him our scripts. We never found out who the guilty party was, but I don't have to worry about nonsense like that anymore. I received a very reassuring call from Shane Katz yesterday."
"What has Katz got to do with this?" Joe asked.
"It's Katz's ball game now," Rinaldi said. "All the rights reverted to him upon Warmouth's
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death. And believe me, Shane Katz deserves every penny."
"You mean Katz was treated the same way as the rest of the crew?" Joe asked. "I thought he created the Reaper."
"He did. But when he approached Warmouth with the script for the first film, Andrew was already an established producer, while Shane was just starting in the business," Rinaldi replied. "It happens every day. The only decent thing Andrew ever did was will the rights of the series to Shane."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Rinaldi," Frank said, rising from his seat to shake the man's hand.
Frank and Joe left the office in silence and headed for the elevator. The moment they entered it, Frank turned to Joe and said, "Shane Katz had a lot to gain from Warmouth's death."
"Yeah, but Mike Sinnochi vouched for him during the time of the murder," Joe reminded him.
"I'll bet when we overheard Katz talking on the phone, he was talking to Rinaldi. I know Katz has an alibi, but he needs to be considered," Frank said as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.
"Maybe. But I still have my money on Paula West," Joe grumbled. "And I say we go find her."
Just past the Fort Worth city limits, Frank
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pulled over at a gas station and called information for the number of the River Oaks Cinema. After calling for directions to the theater, the brothers drove straight there. "Just in time," Frank said as he paid for two tickets to the triple feature. "The first film's already started."
It took a moment for Frank's eyes to adjust to the dark once they entered the auditorium. Once they did, though, he counted six people scattered among the seats. Glancing for a moment at the screen, he registered an image of a young girl being chased through a graveyard by a vampire.
"Oh, wow," Joe whispered into Frank's ear. "This is a Hammer film. Classic ultra-low-budget. I read an article about it in Gore magazine."
Frank was impressed by Joe's knowledge of horror movies, but he was also annoyed that Joe was now more interested in the movie than in finding Paula West. "We're not here to watch the movie, Joe," Frank muttered.
"I know that," Joe said defensively. "I just thought you might find the film's history interesting. If I enlighten you a bit on modern horror movies, maybe you'll appreciate them better."
"When it comes to horror movies, just leave me in the dark," Frank said, taking a few steps forward and glancing at the couple who were seated in the middle row of seats.
Frank and Joe continued their slow march forward, checking every face until they reached a
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figure seated in the front row, directly in front of the screen.
"Last chance," Frank whispered as he and Joe checked out the last person. It was Paula, all right, and she was totally absorbed in the movie. Frank and Joe quietly sat down next to her.
Before Frank could decide what to say to her, a gunshot pierced the air!
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The Hardys fell to the floor, dragging Paula with them. Frank heard another shot ring out, and glanced up in time to see a huge hole appear in the movie screen. Everyone in the theater was screaming. Frank heard footfalls echo at his right and saw a dark figure slip out the back exit of the theater.
"Come on," Frank said, gripping Joe's shoulder. "He's getting away!"
Frank and Joe rushed to the exit. Stepping cautiously outside, they saw they were in an empty alley. The shooter had escaped.
Frank glanced at the door handle. "Check this out, Joe," he said. The door had been pried open from the outside, and the lock was broken.
"It looks like our gunman got in for free," Frank said.
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Back in the theater, the film had been stopped and the lights were turned on. Frank and Joe approached the small crowd of theater patrons who were huddled together, confused and frightened.
"Is everyone okay?" Frank asked.
The five people—a middle-aged couple, an elderly woman, and two teenagers—nodded meekly.
"Did anyone see anything?" Joe asked.
"Are you kidding?" the elderly woman spoke up. "It happened too fast, and it was too dark to make out anything. All I knew when that gun went off was that I was going to kiss the floor! I didn't come up for air until the lights came on."
"What about the rest of you?" Frank asked.
The others slowly shook their heads.
"I know the movie wasn't great, but I didn't think it was that bad," the elderly woman told Frank, pointing to the large hole in the screen.
Frank felt a touch on his shoulder and turned around to see Paula West. "What's going on?" Paula asked Frank, her face as pale as a ghost's. Frank could see that her hands were shaking.
"Let's go into the lobby and talk," Frank said.
"Come on, Joe," Frank called to his brother, who was examining the emergency exit again.
Frank led Joe and Paula to the lobby, where they all sat down on a wooden bench. "Paula," Frank began, "we know that Warmouth was
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blackmailing you. We were suspicious of you from the start and thought you might have committed the murder. You had the special-effects expertise to rig the accidents, and you also had a very bad attitude when we questioned you about Warmouth. After the acid incident we thought you might have managed to slip acid into the flask, even with Shane present."
"We also thought you substituted the real scythe for the fake one during the mailman scene," Joe added. "When we discovered that the chandelier in the Horror House dining room was rigged, we suspected you again. What cinched it for us was your disappearance from the set yesterday."
"Someone tried to ambush us on the road yesterday and shot our car up," Frank continued, watching Paula for a reaction. "You were unaccounted for, so we were pretty sure you were responsible."
"Of course, we don't think that anymore," Joe reassured Paula.
Paula broke down and began to sob. "These aren't tears of guilt for Warmouth's murder," she said. "They are tears of relief. Yes, I stole the components for those mechanical parts from my first boss. I also stole all his notes on them before he had a chance to get a patent. I've been haunted by guilt for a long time. Warmouth was blackmailing me. He was the biggest rat in the business. But I didn't kill him."
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"We know that now," Joe said. "And we're sure Sheriff Thornall will believe it, too. You know we have to take you to him?"
Paula nodded meekly. "Yes. I don't care. It feels good finally to have this off my conscience."
The Hardys and Paula were ready to make their exit when the Fort Worth police showed up.
"Stay put," an officer said to the trio. "I'll have to ask you a few questions."
"Oh, please," Joe groaned as the officer stepped past them into the auditorium. "Not another Thornall. Why don't we just tell him that someone really hated the flick?"
"I don't like the idea of hanging around here any more than you do," snapped Frank, "but the police need to know exactly what went down."
"Oh, absolutely," Joe said with a wink. "I'll be very up-front with him when he returns. Watch me."
Just then the officer returned to the lobby, taking notes on a small pad as he approached the Hardys and Paula.
"Names, please?" the officer said.
"Yes," Joe said. "I'm Joe Hardy. This is my brother, Frank, and Paula West."
The officer jotted down the information, then looked at Joe. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
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"Sure. You see, my brother and I are working with Fourteen Karat Studios and the Beaufort sheriff's office to find the killer of a famous movie producer. My brother and I came here to question our main suspect, Miss West, when the real killer burst in through the emergency exit and started shooting at us. It was too dark to identify him."
"What?" The officer squinted at Joe. "What kind of game are you playing, kid? This is serious business. You go play detective with your brother and girlfriend somewhere else. And when a police officer questions you in the future, I suggest that you not kid around."
"Yes, sir," Joe said.
Frank, Joe, and Paula headed quickly for the exit.
"Works like a charm every time," Frank muttered.
"Yes, sir, there's nothing like telling the truth."
"That wasn't what I meant, Joe," Frank said sternly, but even he was grinning.
* * *
When Frank and Joe escorted Paula into Thornall's police station, the sheriff was there, having a cup of coffee. His disheveled appearance and bloodshot eyes made Frank wonder if he'd been up all night. Seeing that the cell in the police station was empty, Frank assumed Thornall hadn't found Clervi.
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The Hardys told Thornall about the shooting incident, and then Paula told Thornall her story. The sheriff took a moment to digest all the new information. Then he stood up.
"So Clervi must have been following you guys," Thornall concluded.
"We don't think the murderer is Clervi," Joe said.
"Well, if it isn't Clervi or Miss West here, then who can it be?" Thornall asked.
"We don't know yet," Frank admitted. "But we're going to find out."
"I'll have to keep Miss West here for a while. I have a few more questions to ask her," Thornall said.
"We'd better head back to the set and see what we can dig up," Frank said to Joe.
Silent and worried, the Hardys drove back to the Hughes house. They arrived in time for dinner. They ate by themselves outside the catering truck and mulled over their suspects.
"Clervi wanted out of his contract to pursue more dramatic roles," Frank said. "The Hugheses were being taken advantage of by Warmouth. There's a good chance Paula is innocent, since those shots at the theater were aimed at her as well as us. Even if she was helping someone and trying to throw us off, I doubt she would have agreed to be shot at in the dark. Besides, she had no idea we were going to show up at the theater, unless Cathy Bowley was a
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plant. But I think the killer has been following us all day. And if that's true, Cathy can't be the shooter because she was here all day. Clervi definitely wasn't the one who shot at us on the way back from the hotel. So, considering the recent developments, I guess Harold and Kitty deserve our undivided attention."
"Harold and Kitty have a strong motive, but I have to admit that I can't really believe they committed the murder," Joe said. He paused and stared thoughtfully at his empty plate. "I still feel like we're missing something."
The brothers left the table and headed back to the security trailer. There was no message from Fenton.
"Anything special going on?" Frank asked the guard on duty.
"Not really," the guard replied. "We had a few fans sneak into the storm cellar earlier, but that was about the only excitement for the day."
"I know you guys have been keeping your eyes open since the murder," Joe said to the guard. "Have any of you noticed anything unusual?"
"I haven't seen anything. I spend most of my time just keeping people off the set. I've been too busy to pay attention to much else," the guard replied.
"Well, if you do notice something, you know where to find us," Frank said.
"That I do," the guard replied.
Frank and Joe walked outside. It was dark,
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and they were both very tired. They headed back to their trailer.
Frank hoped that the next day would be a better one for the investigation. He wished their dad would call. They could use some help. Wearily he entered the trailer and sprawled out on his bed. "Oh, man," he said, rubbing his brow. "Now that my head's hit the pillow, I'm going to be dead to the world."
Joe snapped his fingers. "That's it, Frank!" Joe exclaimed, standing up. "The night of Warmouth's murder, Mike Sinnochi went into Katz's trailer and said Katz looked dead to the world. Katz used the mechanical head to create an alibi! He put the head in his bed, making it look like he was asleep."
Frank sat up, his weariness forgotten. "It all fits," he agreed, wanting to kick himself for not realizing it sooner. "Katz had a motive and access to the special effects."
"And he was at Paula West's trailer the morning of the acid incident," Joe added. "He must have slipped the acid in the flask. Then he told us to lead the pack of zombies, putting us in range of the acid."
"I guess he rigged the chandelier over his head himself," Frank said, the pieces all slipping together in his mind. "He knew that when the lights went on, the chandelier would fall. He was taking quite a risk. The chandelier could have struck him. But it was a perfect way to convince
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us that he wasn't the killer. He was also the only one who knew we were heading to the Beaufort Hotel.
"And Mike said the shooting was postponed today because Katz had urgent business off the set. Everyone else on the crew stayed around today. He had to be the gunman at the theater," Frank said, shaking his head. "It was Katz all along."
"Bingo!" murmured a voice behind them. Frank whirled around to face a small closet. He lunged toward the door and threw it open, clenching his fist and drawing it back.
But then Frank froze, midpunch. A revolver protruded from the darkness of the closet, aimed at his head.
Shane Katz stepped out of the closet, grinning evilly.
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Chapter 15
Joe thought about rushing Katz. The distance between them was relatively short. Maybe I can reach him, Joe thought. But he didn't like maybes, especially where his brother's safety was concerned.
"If you value your brother's life, you won't try anything funny and you'll do exactly as I say," Katz said to Joe as if he were reading his mind.
"I knew you guys would figure it out eventually," Katz said. "That's why I tried to kill you on the road and in the theater, not to mention on the set. You're both incredibly lucky. But your luck is about to change. Turn around and put your hands flat to your sides."
Frank did as Katz said, staring directly at Joe.
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Frank remained calm, his expression indicating that he wanted Joe to bide his time.
Joe nodded slightly.
Katz stuck the revolver against Frank's back. "We're all going to walk over to the house. If anyone is around and you try to tip them off, I'll kill Frank without a moment's hesitation," Katz said. His voice, cold and serious, chilled Joe.
Joe stepped out of the trailer first, Frank and Katz behind him. Joe walked toward Horror House, weighing his options.
"Very good," Katz murmured from behind the Hardys.
Joe felt as if his blood were boiling. He wanted to take Katz down so badly he could taste it, but he was helpless! One ounce of pressure on the trigger, and Frank would be dead.
They were halfway to the house when Joe spotted Mike Sinnochi heading toward his trailer.
"Hi, guys," Mike said, passing them.
Joe wanted to cry out but didn't dare. Joe stared wordlessly at Mike, hoping Mike might see something was wrong. It was dark, though, and Joe knew the chances of his noticing anything were pretty slim.
Katz led them into the house and down to the basement. Katz turned on the basement light and made Joe and Frank take the steps a few feet in front of him.
As Joe stepped on the basement floor, he noticed 
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Clervi, tied to a furnace pipe. Clervi's eyes were closed, and his head was bowed. He appeared to be unconscious. Joe rushed over to examine him, gently lifting Clervi's head. Several bruises were darkening on the actor's cheeks. One of his eyes was red and puffy.
Joe turned and fixed his gaze on Katz.
"He's alive," Katz assured Joe. "Now we're almost through with our little game. Pick a piece of rope up off the floor and tie your brother's hands."
Joe saw two short pieces of rope and reluctantly used one to tie Frank's hands behind his back.
Katz picked up the other piece of rope and told Joe to turn around. He tied Joe's hands.
"How could you brutally murder someone you've been friends with for years?" Joe demanded contemptuously.
"Friend? Friend?" Katz shouted, waving the gun around dangerously. "He wasn't my friend! He used me! Killing Warmouth was easy. That slime cheated me out of millions! When I signed the deal with Warmouth, I was inexperienced. He took advantage of me, but I got my revenge."
"I can understand the way you felt about Warmouth, but why frame Matthew?" Frank asked, the genuine curiosity in his voice a startling contrast to Joe's outrage. "What did he ever do to you?"
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"He stole the limelight," Katz replied. "I'm the reason Horror House is popular. All Clervi did was read the lines from a paper, and yet the fans give him the credit I deserve. Leonard Gold maintained that a picture without Clervi would be a disaster. I think the fans would see these pictures no matter who's behind the Reaper's face. I pity Matthew, actually. You see, he was only a pawn in my little game. Pinning the murder on him was easy. So was rigging the accidents. I even sprung Clervi from that cardboard jail while the deputy was snoozing. The only thing that proved difficult was getting rid of the two of you. But I plan to rectify that matter right now."
"So you were the one who substituted the acid in the flask," Joe said, trying to keep Katz talking until he could figure a way to get out of his predicament.
"My dear detective," Katz said proudly, "I not only filled the flask with acid, I also substituted the real scythe for the fake one. I've been planning this for months. I shot at you on your way back from the hotel. I shot at you in the theater, because I realized you might focus your investigation on me next. I also had no desire to see Paula blamed for this murder. I've always thought highly of her."
"What about the chandelier in the dining room?" Frank inquired. "You rigged that, didn't you? You could have killed yourself."
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"Yes, I suppose I could have," Katz admitted. "But no venture is without risk. I knew precisely when the chandelier would fall, and your Joe, moved me from harm's way just before I was prepared to move myself."
"I'm beginning to wish I'd been too late," Joe muttered defiantly. "You seem awfully pleased with yourself."
Katz's laughter echoed in the basement. "That's because I am, Joe. While I pretended to mourn the death of my good friend Andrew Warmouth, the two of you were going in circles."
Katz slowly backed up the stairway, his revolver still trained on the Hardys. "You were the only things that stood in my way. I knew you would figure it out sooner or later. Now my plan is complete. I've soaked the house with gasoline. In a few minutes I'm going to set it on fire. The police will find three skeletons—yours and Clem's—in the ashes."
Katz motioned to Clervi. "The police will receive a note that I forced Matthew to write before he passed out, taking responsibility for the deaths. He refused to write it at first, but I"—Katz paused, motioning to Clervi's bruised face—"convinced him. Poor Matthew has such a low threshold for pain. Everyone will believe that the Reaper killed both of you, too."
"Why burn the house down?" Frank asked.
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"You'll mess up the end of your movie. In fact, you'll be ruining the whole series."
"Don't you get it?" Katz asked. "I don't want to do this film. I want to start all over, breathe fresh air into this series. Horror House has a cult following, but it could make millions more with a little more of my input. That was another thing I despised about Andy—he allowed the films to become so repetitious. As for the house, I can have a set built that will look exactly like this place."
Katz walked up to the cellar door. Before leaving, he paused and glanced down directly into Joe's eyes. "Don't take it personally, guys. That's show biz!"
Katz laughed and left the basement. The door slammed. Joe heard a lock turn.
"I can't believe I ever respected that guy," Joe muttered through clenched teeth.
Joe turned to Clervi. To his shock, Clervi's eyes were wide open. "I was acting," Clervi explained simply. "I wanted him to think I was unconscious. If you can get free, I know another way out of the basement, but we'll have to hurry."
"Frank, I bound you with loose slipknots," Joe said excitedly.
"I know," Frank said, smiling. His hands were already loose. Frank untied Joe and Clervi, who immediately led them to another stairway
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hidden behind the furnace. They rushed up the stairs.
Just as Joe was ready to burst through the door to freedom, Frank held him back.
"Wait," Frank cautioned his brother, reaching out and touching the door first. He quickly pulled his hand away.
"The door's burning hot!" Frank exclaimed. "We're trapped!"
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"We have to try the main door," Joe said, taking off down the stairs. "It's our only chance to get out of here!"
Joe raced back to the stairs Katz had led them down. He tried the door at the top. It was locked. He rammed his shoulder into it, but still it wouldn't budge.
"Help me," Joe told Frank.
He and Frank both rammed their bodies against the door—and slowly they could feel it begin to give.
"Don't let up, Joe!" Frank said. "I couldn't get any leverage balancing on the stairs to kick it down, so we're going to have to keep using our shoulders!"
"No, you won't!" Clervi shouted.
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Joe stared down at Clervi, who had gone back to the furnace and was now climbing the stairs with an ax in his hands.
"I found this hanging on the wall by the furnace," Clervi told them, raising the ax over his head. "Stand aside. Playing a crazed killer is finally going to pay off."
The Hardys moved, and Clervi began chopping at the door. The wood splintered, then fell away as Clervi chopped a hole big enough for Frank to slip his hand through and unlock the door. Smoke billowed into the basement from the hole.
Frank rushed out of the basement, Joe and Clervi behind him, and was met by fire on all sides of the house. Frank took off his shirt and covered his mouth with it while he tried to determine the best route. The fire was everywhere, and it looked as if they were trapped.
"This house is going up fast!" Clervi cried. "It's old and dry. We have to make it outside before the second floor collapses!"
Suddenly Sheriff Thornall appeared through a wall of fire moving at a speed that contradicted his size. Thornall had a scarf tied to his nose and mouth and was carrying a wet blanket.
"Come on," Thornall ordered, throwing the blanket over the trio. "I'm getting you out of here!"
They charged through the wall of smoke, the oppressive heat on their backs. As they raced
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through the kitchen, a piece of flaming, ceiling fell, striking Thornall on the left shoulder and knocking him on the floor. A thick beam scraped the wall as it fell on top of the dry wall covering the sheriff.
"Give me a hand, Frank!" Joe commanded, shrugging out from under the blanket.
"Get out of here, you stupid greenhorns!" Thornall shouted, trying and failing to budge the piece of ceiling.
Joe gripped one side of the beam while Frank gripped the other. It was hot. Joe could barely hold on to it. His hands felt as if they were on fire. He forced himself to hang on as he and Frank slowly began to lift the beam. Joe looked at Frank, whose expression conveyed the same pain—and the same determination.
The Hardys finally managed to roll the beam away, freeing Thornall.
Joe gripped Thornall's arm and pulled him up. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm a little singed, but I'll live. Let's get out of here!" the sheriff exclaimed.
They raced through the living room, licks of flame singeing the blanket, and through the front door to safety.
After they had run several yards from the house, Joe turned back and saw that the mansion now was entirely engulfed in flame. He looked at the palms of his hands and noticed the blisters that were forming.
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"Much obliged for the rescue," Thornall wheezed, bending over to catch his breath.
"Sheriff, Shane Katz is the murderer. He got away," Frank said frantically.
"Settle down. I already know. When I brought Miss West back to the set, Mike Sinnochi told me he saw Katz and you boys go into the house and that you were acting funny. I went around back and saw that the house was burning. Shane Katz ran right into me, carrying an empty gas can. He's handcuffed and waiting in the back of my car."
The whole crew was standing outside watching the house burn. Mike Sinnochi, Cathy Bowley, and Paula West rushed up to the Hardys.
"I knew you guys wouldn't walk by me without saying hi," Mike said to Joe.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Paula said, examining Clervi's bruises.
"I can't believe Shane Katz was the murderer," Cathy said, shocked.
"Believe it," Frank said. "Katz was seething with hatred toward Warmouth. He killed him to get the money he felt he had been cheated out of. He engineered the accidents and tried to kill Joe and me with firearms twice, not to mention his attempt to roast us alive."
"But why burn the house down?" Thornall wondered. "Why would Katz ruin a movie he was going to make money off of?"
"He hated the series," Joe replied. "Katz
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wanted to do the films differently. Burning down the house would give him a clean slate and tons of publicity on which to base his next film."
Thornall nodded, then turned to Clervi. "Seems I had you pegged all wrong," Thornall said, extending his hand. "I hope you'll accept my apology."
"I certainly will," Clervi said, eagerly shaking Thornall's hand.
Clervi then turned to the Hardys. "No more horror movies for me," Clervi said. "I'm going to call my agent in the morning and see if that role I was offered is still open."
Joe and Frank congratulated Clervi. Fire- trucks had pulled into the driveway, and fire fighters now spilled out onto the lawn, unrolling hoses to help control the blaze. Joe noticed that Harold and Kitty Hughes were also there. They walked toward him, their faces bright in the fire light. Their arms were wrapped around each other and smiles of relief were on their faces as they watched their home burn.
Kitty stepped away from Harold and hugged Clervi. "The horror is finally over," she said softly.
"Yep," Harold said to the Hardys. "The insurance money from this blaze will buy Kitty and me a new lease on life. And maybe now the spirits in the house will know peace."
Joe glanced around at everyone. They all looked happy and relieved. But he was sad
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because his favorite horror movie series had ended. Something else was bothering him even more, though.
"What's the matter now?" Frank asked.
"Don't you see, Frank?" Joe demanded melodramatically. "We're watching our careers as professional zombies go up in smoke!"
Deep Trouble (Hardy Boys Casefiles #54)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"YOU call this a hard diving session? It's been a snap!" Joe Hardy said as he surfaced in the water of Bayport Cove and pulled off his scuba mask.
Joe grinned up at his diving instructor, Dan Fields, and the two men standing with him on the deck of Dan's eighteen-foot inboard, the Sea Maid. It was hard to see against the bright summer sky, but it looked as if they were grinning, too.
Just then Joe's brother, Frank, surfaced behind him. Frank, a year older, an inch taller, but sporting ten pounds less of muscle than his brother, pulled off his mask and made a thumbs-up sign at the boat. "Twenty underwater signals completed," he said. "And perfectly interpreted."
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Treading water, Joe held up the waterproof pad on which he'd written Frank's silent underwater commands. It was a basic scuba-diving exercise, and Frank and Joe had practiced it many times the previous summer. In fact, Frank had been surprised when Dan asked them to prove to his guests that they were fluent in underwater sign language.
"We know this stuff backward and forward," Frank heard Joe brag as the two of them breast-stroked toward the ladder leading to the boat's deck. "How about something a little tougher?"
Dan chuckled, glancing at the two other men. Dan could have been a model for an ad for sun-tan lotion, Frank decided. His blond hair was in striking contrast to the deep brown of his face and arms. At twenty-two, Dan was only four years older than Frank. He'd started his Bayport scuba-diving school only a year before, but already business was booming.
"So you think you're getting too good for this class, huh?" Dan remarked with a smile. "Well, maybe these guys can offer you a challenge."
"Yeah, who are you two, anyway?" Joe joked as he followed Frank up the ladder. "I mean, I know you're Dr. Benjamin Wills." He nodded to the young, sandy-haired man on Dan's right, who smiled affably in return.
"And you're Harry Lyman." Joe acknowledged the doctor's dark, nervous-looking companion. Harry was about the Hardys' ages, but
3
he had a tight, wiry build and a streetwise attitude, as though he'd grown up in a big city. "But I still don't know what you're doing here watching a scuba lesson."
"Just wanted to see you perform, Joe," said Dr. Wills, handing the younger Hardy a towel. "And I have to say, we weren't disappointed. You two are competent divers."
"Competent?" Frank started to smile and glanced at his younger brother expectantly.
"We're not competent, we're great!" Joe said, getting the laugh from his brother that he expected.
Frank watched as Dan's two guests sized them up, standing there dripping water on the teakwood deck. Dressed in khaki trousers, T-shirts, and deck shoes, the men resembled talent scouts more than the medical doctor and professional diver that Dan had assured him they were. Something was up, Frank knew. It was about time they found out what.
Finally Dr. Wills nodded, satisfied. "We'll have to give them physicals, of course," he said to Dan. "But I think they'll do."
Joe turned to Dan. "What's going on here?"
"Okay, okay." Dan held his hands up and chuckled. "I didn't want to tell you guys in case it didn't work out, but Dr. Wills and Harry are working on a special project in the Bahamas."
"The Bahamas!" Joe exclaimed.
Frank glanced at his brother. He could tell Joe
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was jumping to some pretty glamorous conclusions. "What kind of special project?" Frank asked.
"Treasure hunting," Harry said. "We're after the wreck of the Doha Bonita, a Spanish galleon that went down in a hurricane in 1625. According to the records, it sank carrying about forty tons of gold and silver from mines in Mexico."
"Forty tons!" Joe's eyes widened. "Just lying on the ocean floor?"
"It's not that easy, Joe." Dr. Wills leaned against the rail of the deck, smiling. "Hundreds of years of storms, shifting sands, barnacles, and corrosion have buried the treasure even deeper."
He stared out at the calm waters of Bayport Cove as though the ocean water might reveal something to him. "Captain Delaney, who heads our project, found evidence two years ago that the ship went down in forty to sixty feet of water off West End on Grand Bahama Island. Since then, he's gone out on search expeditions three times. Until now he's come up empty."
"Until now?"
Harry's lip curled at Joe's obvious eagerness. "We've been out five weeks already on this trip. Last week, using metal detectors, we turned up some ballast stones, and according to the lab tests, they could have been on the Doha Bonita. It isn't a sure thing, but maybe the cargo is still in the area."
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"I don't understand," Joe said. "What's so important about ballast stones?"
"They're not really stones," Harry said in a superior voice. "Back then, ballast stones were made of iron. They were carried on ships to balance or steady them." He gave the Hardys a condescending look. "Ballast stones and cargo are usually all that's left of a wooden ship after three hundred years under water."
"But wait, there's something I don't get," said Frank, turning to Dr. Wills. "You're a medical doctor, right? What's a doctor doing hunting for treasure?"
"Diving for treasure is dangerous business," Dr. Wills said evenly. "Every operation needs a medic on board in case a diver gets the bends or loses oxygen while he's under. And there are plenty of injuries, believe me. Captain Delaney and I have been friends for years. He knows I share his enthusiasm for sunken treasure, and he took me on the last two expeditions. Harry's our best diver. Of course, I have to dive, too-- everyone does on these small operations."
"Especially since if you dive, you share in the profits," Harry added.
"So that brings us to you two," Dr. Wills concluded, straightening up again. "Dan, whose opinion I highly respect, tells me you're his star pupils. We're looking for someone to hire."
Frank was surprised. "But you've been out
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for five weeks already. Don't you have a full crew?"
Dr. Wills cast his eyes down. "We lost one of our divers--Peter Duvall," he said. "We figured we could make do without a replacement, but now that there's a really good chance of cashing in, Captain Delaney wants to step up the search and expand the crew."
"So you want us to dive for treasure?" Joe's eyes were gleaming in anticipation. "This is too good to be true."
"Hold on, little brother." Frank flashed Joe a warning glance. "First we'd better find out what happened to Peter Duvall. I have a feeling Dad's going to want to know."
"Well, we can't tell you." Harry eyed Frank so defiantly that the older Hardy felt suspicious. "He just disappeared. Left the ship one day after a dive and never showed up again."
Frank pondered this. It sounded strange, he told himself, but at least the guy hadn't had a diving accident. That should make their father happy. "Why us?" he asked suspiciously.
"Why not?" Dr. Wills was beginning to look impatient, and Frank noted Joe's alarmed reaction. "We've already hired a marine archaeology student from Florida. Her name's Gina Daniels. She had flooded us with letters begging us to let her crew on the Valiant. Her résumé's great, and she's a decent diver, too. All we need now are two more divers and we're set."
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Frank glanced at Dan, whose nod told Frank that it seemed like a good deal to him. Still, something about Harry's attitude made Frank wonder if there was something the two men weren't telling them.
"Wow, that's great!" Joe said, shaking Dr. Willis's hand. "Good thing school's out. When do we leave?"
"First"--Dr. Wills smiled--"I want to see you dive with our equipment. Harry'll go down with you to see how you do."
"Fine with us," Joe said before Frank could open his mouth.
Frank's eyes widened as he watched Harry unload the expedition gear from a locker on deck.
"Nothing small-time about this operation," Frank acknowledged.
"No way." Joe whistled. "This stuff is state-of-the-art." He squatted down to inspect one of the buoyancy control jackets. "Get a load of this BC jacket," he said. "It's even got zippered pockets for extra weights and a pressure valve for adding air, all in one neat package."
"So, you want to give it a try?" Dr. Wills asked, but Frank could see he already knew the answer.
Balancing on the slightly rolling deck, Frank, Joe, and Harry donned the leggings, BC jackets, and other paraphernalia. Dan and Dr. Wills helped them secure the straps on their air tanks.
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"How deep was their last dive?" the doctor asked Dan Fields.
Dan checked his clipboard. "Forty feet."
"How about taking it to sixty?" Dr. Wills suggested.
"Whatever you say." Dan slipped out of his khakis, revealing swimming trunks underneath. Then he raised the boat's anchor and started the engine. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe methodically tested their air hoses, mouthpieces, and pressure gauges. Everything seemed in order.
"This looks like a good spot," Frank heard Dan call out as the engine rumbled to a stop.
"Wow, cool fins even," Joe said as he and Frank strapped them on. After they were completely dressed, Dr. Wills approached them with a clipboard.
"Here are five tasks I want you to perform in this order," he said, handing them a sheet of plasticized paper. "You'll be able to read them underwater with your head lamps."
Frank peered over Joe's shoulder at the large type. The tasks looked pretty standard: entry, descent, hovering over the floor of the bay without disturbing the site, signaling successfully to each other, and finally ascending to the surface. Frank knew that he and Joe had practiced this process many times. He felt confident that they'd do fine. "When do we start?" he asked.
"You already have." Dr. Wills marked several
9
boxes on his clipboard. "You get top points for setting up and checking your gear correctly."
He glanced at Harry, who was just strapping on his fins. "Okay, we're all set. Over the side, and good luck down there."
Frank and Joe backed up against the railing and easily flipped over into the water. Frank knew they'd earn extra points for making perfect entries. Those were important when it was necessary to disturb a diving site as little as possible. In the water, he and Joe adjusted the valves on their BC jackets, releasing air, which allowed them to sink slowly.
Underwater, the light was a beautiful deep blue, growing to a deeper, richer color as the boys sank to the flat, sandy bottom of the bay. Frank wondered what the Caribbean must look like sixty feet down as he glanced up to see Harry slip through the surface above them. The sun glistening on the water turned Harry's body into a silhouette as he, too, slowly sank.
Items one and two were almost taken care of, Frank told himself. Number three was to "hover" over the sandy floor. Frank fine-tuned the valve on his BC jacket, letting out just enough air so he didn't sink too fast and disturb the site. They were approaching a depth of forty feet, and Frank could just make out the bottom of the bay twenty feet below.
At sixty feet Frank faced Joe, barely two feet
10
above the bottom. They snapped on their head lamps, enjoying the extended view.
Sure hope Harry's taking notes, Frank thought, proud of his and Joe's efforts.
Not a speck of sand rose to disturb the site. Frank knew this was a sign of expert diving.
As Harry reached their depth, Frank noted that he, too, hovered over the bottom without effort. Frank moved toward Joe to check the list of signals they were to give, but as he tried to read the list, Joe's hands began to jerk in spasms.
Frank pulled back to see what was wrong with Joe. At first it was hard to read his expression through the mask. But then Joe's hands went to his throat in the universal signal for scuba divers.
Joe was signaling that he had no air!
Quickly Frank checked Joe's pressure gauge. It still read Full, as it should have. Confused, Frank turned to Harry for assistance. But Harry seemed frozen in place.
Frank's head was spinning as he checked his brother, whose signals were becoming more frantic. Frank forced himself to stay calm so he could think through the emergency procedures Dan had taught him.
He had to do something now!
11
Chapter 2
AIR!
Joe tried to scream as he grabbed at his throat. From somewhere deep inside came a warning not to panic, but his hands wanted to claw at his face mask and his lungs felt as if they were about to burst. He vaguely realized that someone was moving around him. He struck out at the moving figure, desperate for air.
The figure was Frank! Finally, through his oxygenless haze, Joe realized that his brother was offering him his own mouthpiece.
Air! Gratefully, Joe crammed the mouthpiece into his mouth and drew in a cool, sweet stream of air.
That was close. Joe closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass and realized that he was
12
covered with sweat inside his scuba outfit. After another breath he handed the mouthpiece back to Frank. The two brothers passed Frank's mouthpiece back and forth as they swam back to the surface.
By the time he reached the ladder, Joe was fighting mad. The grim expression on Frank's face told Joe he felt the same way.
"What's going on?" Frank demanded as the two boys planted themselves, dripping, on deck.
Joe, too, wanted an explanation. He threw off his face mask and faced Harry, who had climbed up the ladder behind them.
"My air was cut off," Joe told him, red-faced. "And I don't think it was an accident!"
"Hey, wait a minute!" Dan cried, stepping between the two. "What happened?"
"Hey, guys." Harry paled at Dan's shocked reaction. "It was just a test, to see how you'd handle an emergency. That's a training tank, set to cut off the air supply at sixty feet. I could have hit a release button to turn the air back on if I'd had to. You were in no danger."
Dan and Frank stared at him in shocked silence. Joe slipped out of the air tank and tossed it, with his face mask, angrily into the footlocker.
"I had no idea they were planning t-this--" Dan stammered.
"Don't worry about it," Joe growled. "If they try anything like that again, I'll flatten them."
13
A hard look came into Harry's narrow brown eyes as he returned Joe's icy stare.
"All right. I apologize," Dr. Wills said tentatively. "We needed to know how you'd react in a real emergency. On a dive, our lives could depend on your reflexes."
He took a deep breath. "The good news is, you passed the test," he added. "We're willing to take you on for the remaining two weeks of our current set of dives. If you want the job, it's yours."
Joe hesitated. He was now suspicious of these two strangers.
Then, grudgingly, he took the doctor's hand and shook it.
"We don't pay much up front," the doctor said, obviously relieved, "but we all share in the profits if we come up with the goods."
Now that he'd shaken on it, Joe started to feel more optimistic. He checked out his brother's reaction and saw that Frank was still suspicious. "We'll think about it," Frank said firmly. "We'll have to talk it over with our parents. Is there somewhere we can contact you tomorrow?"
"Harry and I are flying back in my two-seater tomorrow morning," the doctor said.
He pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back of it. "Call me at this number. If you decide to go, I'll leave a couple of tickets for you at the airport before I leave."
14
"This is pretty quick," Joe said, taking the card.
"That's the way we operate." The sandy-haired doctor flashed a grin at the boys. "Rough and ready, and determined to win."
That night at dinner Joe wished his father was a little less determined.
"Absolutely not," Fenton Hardy said as he passed the mashed potatoes to Joe. "I've never heard of this Dr. Wills or Harry Lyman. And we agreed that this summer you boys would forget about work and concentrate on having good, ail-American fun."
"But what could be more fun than diving for sunken treasure?" Joe protested through a mouthful of roast beef. His mother, Laura Hardy, frowned at him until he clamped his mouth shut and chewed.
Fenton sighed, exchanging a glance with his wife. Joe was sure his father understood their enthusiasm. Fenton himself was a famous detective, and as far as Joe knew he'd never turned down a case or anything adventurous.
"How long is it for?" he asked again.
"Two weeks, Dad. Like tennis camp! We'll be back before you know it. Who knows, maybe we'll have enough gold to sail back on our own yacht!"
"Over my dead body," Laura snapped, but Joe noticed that she had an amused smile on her
15
face. That was a good sign. Joe crossed his fingers under the table. He had a feeling they were going to say yes.
Fenton wiped his mouth with his napkin and sighed. "All right," he said at last. "I'll check Captain Delaney out. If he's clean, you boys can go.
"But--" he added quickly before Joe could jump up from the table, "I want your word that there's no mystery involved in this."
His words stopped Joe in midleap. Sinking down in his chair again, he exchanged a glance with his brother.
"No, sir." Joe coughed nervously. "Nothing that I can think of."
Joe listened to the clock tick in the nearby foyer as his mother and father eyed him skeptically. Well, it wasn't a lie, he told himself. Peter Duvall just got fed up and quit the operation-- right?
Finally Fenton rose from the table. Joe's eyes met his brother's. They had done it. The next day they'd be on their way to the Bahamas!
"Wow, look at that!" Joe nudged Frank as their plane circled a collection of emerald-colored islands set like a strand of jewels in a turquoise sea. "Can you tell which one we're going to land on?"
"Try the one with the airport," Frank said, shaking his head at his younger brother's eagerness.
16
"Remember what Dad said when he dropped us off, This Captain Delaney has a record of leading wild-goose chases. After twenty years of hunting treasure, he still owes money on his boat. Don't lose your head while you dream of getting rich."
"Yeah, yeah." Joe buckled his seat belt in preparation for landing. "Tell you what, Frank. You take care of the sensible attitude on this trip. I just want to have fun. Bahamas, here I come!"
As they departed the plane and entered the two-story airport with its five departure gates Joe remarked, "Hey, it looks like the airport in Bayport."
"Except Bayport was never this crowded. What's going on?" Frank scanned the milling crowds that filled the building outside the customs area. Then he pointed to a gaily painted banner hanging on a far wall. It read First International Speedboat Races, August 7-13.
"All right! That's this week!" Joe lifted their bags onto a custom official's counter. "If we have next Sunday off, maybe we can go."
Joe's enthusiasm was interrupted by a somber-looking customs official in a trim blue suit, who was gesturing impatiently toward something in Frank's bag. "Excuse me," he said in a clipped Bahamian accent that sounded almost British. "Would you explain what this is, please?"
"Sure." Frank lifted out a black plastic box
17
and held it out for the official to see. "It's a portable depth gauge. It works by sonar. You just hit this button and--"
Joe was impatient. "Look, if it'll cause a delay, just keep it until our return flight," he told the official.
"A depth gauge?" The inspector looked at the box suspiciously.
"We're crewing aboard a salvage ship just off the island," Frank explained.
"Oh. The Valiant?" The official became instantly interested and more relaxed, too, Joe noticed. "I've read about it in the papers. You boys are new on board?"
"Yes, sir." Joe tried to be polite, but he was itching to get out of the airport. "Today's our first day. I sure hope we won't be late."
The inspector smiled, pasted some stickers on the boys' suitcases, and waved them on. "If you find treasure, bring some gold for me!" he joked.
As the Hardys headed for the glass exit doors, Joe felt the excitement of being in a foreign country. The tropical breeze and warm sun that greeted them as they stepped outside made him glad that he and Frank had decided to come.
"Look," Joe said, pointing to a person in a cap a short distance away. The figure held a sign that read Valiant. "He must be here to take us to the boat."
As the brothers headed toward the person, Joe waved his arm to get his attention. Just as they
18
reached him, the person turned suddenly and banged into Joe's arm.
"We-- Oh!" Joe stared at the young woman in front of him. Her cap had been knocked off, sending a shower of blond hair down her back. Joe laughed, embarrassed. "Sorry. I thought you were a guy. I guess the way your hair was piled up under there, I--"
"Don't worry about it." The woman, tanned and freckle faced beneath her lion's mane of hair, smiled in a friendly way at the brothers. "I've been called worse in my life. You're Joe, I take it. Or is it Frank?"
"I'm Joe. He's Frank. And you're--?" Still a little embarrassed, Joe retrieved the woman's cap and handed it to her. She had a low, throaty voice that appealed to him.
"Gina Daniels. I'm on the crew. I volunteered to take you guys out to the ship. Ready?"
"Uh, sure." Joe followed Gina through the parking lot to a dark green hatchback. He caught Frank's amused glance and flushed dark red. He knew what Frank was thinking. Gina was the marine archaeologist Dr. Wills had mentioned. That meant she must be at least eight years older than he was.
Oh, well, he thought wistfully as he and Frank threw their bags into the back of the car. I haven't considered older women before, but there's always a first time.
Besides, Gina looked younger than twenty-five.
19
She revved the car's engine as Frank climbed into the backseat and Joe took the seat beside her. "I can't believe the crowds today," she said as they started off along a narrow asphalt road that led through Freeport and out among flat, green hills dotted with restaurants, resorts, and private homes. "This is the first year they've had a motorboat race on the island. The big events are usually held on Nassau."
"Yeah, we were hoping to watch it," Joe commented. "So tell me, what's it like aboard the Valiant?" he asked, changing the subject. "Are you the only woman on the ship?"
"Yep," she said simply. "I have a cabin there, but I've also rented a little apartment on land. Captain Delaney, Dr. Wills, and the rest of the crew live on board ship full-time."
"Did you know that diver Peter Duvall?" Frank asked from the backseat. "We're supposed to be replacing him."
Joe watched as Gina dropped her carefree expression as quickly as she would a paper mask. She darted a glance in his direction, then turned her attention to the road once more.
"No, he was gone by the time I signed on," she said with feigned carelessness. Neither of the Hardys was fooled.
"Didn't mean to upset you," Frank ventured.
"It's all right. I'm fine." Gina blinked. "It's just that I don't think he took off on his own the way everyone says he did."
20
Joe was startled by the anger in her voice. "You want to tell us what you do think?" he suggested gently.
Gina hesitated. Then she took her eyes off the road to meet his eyes directly for a minute. "I have a confession to make," she said. "I volunteered to pick you up so I could talk to you."
"But you don't even know us," Joe protested.
Gina smiled grimly. "Last year my aunt who lives in New Hampshire suspected that her business partner was misusing company funds. She contacted a private investigator--your father. When I met him you were all he talked about. You're investigators, too, right?"
"Sometimes," Frank admitted. "But we've been hired to work on this dive."
"I understand, but I have to talk to someone about this," she said. "Please, you have to help." She blinked, fighting back tears as she waited for the boys to respond.
"Whatever it is, we'll do all we can," Joe assured her. "What's the trouble?"
"There's danger on board the Valiant," Gina said in her throaty voice. "Every person involved in this treasure hunt could be in danger."
Joe stared at her, stunned. But before he could say anything, he noticed something strange about the scenery. He glanced up, and his eyes widened.
A small dog had run out into the road, directly in front of Gina's car!
21
"Watch out!" Frank called from the backseat.
Gina cried out as she swerved to avoid the cringing dog.
The hatchback careened into the opposite lane, where a truck sped toward them at about sixty-five miles per hour.
"We're going to crash!" Horns blared and brakes screeched as Joe automatically shielded his head with his arms. Bravely Gina fought with the spinning steering wheel.
But the car continued on its collision course, straight toward that speeding truck!
22
Chapter 3
"Let up on the brake!" Frank gripped the back of the front seat as Joe grabbed the steering wheel from Gina and turned it sharply to the left. The tires screeched against the asphalt as the car spun in a half circle until it was facing in the opposite direction. Frank watched, horrified, as the truck, which also swerved, missed them by scant inches.
"That was close." The car had stalled and was halfway on the shoulder but to Frank's relief they were safe. Down the road, the driver of the beat-up pickup truck they'd nearly hit gave a honk and a casual wave as he drove out of sight.
"Welcome to the Bahamas," Joe said weakly. He reached for Gina's hand. "Are you all right?"
23
From the backseat, Frank could see that Gina was still trembling. "We might have all been killed," she said. "I'm sorry--"
Shaken, the three young people got out of the hatchback and stood gazing out at the bright ocean. The gentle rolling of the waves soothed them, and after a while Joe asked tentatively, "You were saying you think we're all in danger?"
Gina took a deep breath. "I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone here. I went after this job for a special reason. My last name is Daniels," she said, "but my stepfather's last name is Duvall. Peter is his son and my half-brother, and I want to know where he is."
So there was a mystery here, after all. "You think someone might have hurt him?" Frank asked.
Gina turned to him. "Peter and I were very close. He wrote me just about every week. His last letter hinted that something weird was happening on board the ship."
"Have you learned anything since you've been on board?" Joe asked.
"Only that Captain Delaney has sunk his last dime into this project and is starting to run scared," she said. "He's working the crew until they drop."
"But could that have anything to do with your brother's disappearance?" Frank asked.
"I don't know what to think anymore. That's
24
why I was so happy to hear you guys were showing up. I need your help badly," she said.
"Okay," Joe said after a moment. "We'll make a deal. We won't tell anyone who you really are if you don't tell anyone about our detective work. Deal?"
"Does that mean you'll help?" she asked hopefully.
"We'll do all we can," Frank said. "Right now we have to get going--they're waiting for us. You'd better let me drive the rest of the way."
Minutes later Frank maneuvered the car into the lot at West End's rustic marina. He switched off the engine and stared at the row of boats moored beside a wooden walkway that lined the shore.
"The Valiant!" Joe whistled in approval as he got out of the car, keeping his eyes on the forty-foot salvage ship moored there. It was freshly painted, and its white exterior gleamed pink in the light from the setting sun.
"Captain Delaney bought it at auction from the Coast Guard," Gina explained. "Fixed it up all by himself, too. But it's the crew members who keep it shipshape."
"A regular yacht," Frank joked as he retrieved their bags. He followed Gina and Joe up the gangplank to the deck,
"Welcome aboard!"
25
Frank set the bags down to take the hand of a bearded, bare-chested, middle-aged man in Bermuda shorts and deck shoes. "I'm Captain Delaney. You know Dr. Wills here, I believe."
"Pleased to meet you, Captain." Frank shook his hand. Delaney looked more like a beachcomber than Frank's idea of a ship's captain.
"Glad you boys could make it," Dr. Wills said as Joe shook hands with the captain. "Now maybe we can get some solid work done."
Frank eyed the doctor carefully. He seemed more tense than he had in Bayport. Frank wondered if something was wrong with the project. "Where do we stow these?" he asked, gesturing toward the bags.
"I'll show you." Delaney led them to the deck. "Then you can meet the rest of the crew."
As he and Joe followed the captain, Frank spotted Harry Lyman just ahead of them, talking with a tall, lean, red-haired crew member who appeared to be about eighteen. Harry was leaning against the outer wall of the cabin, telling an animated story to his crewmate, but he stopped midsentence when he saw the Hardys. A hard, surly expression took over his face.
"Ah, Harry!" the captain said. "You've met Frank and Joe, haven't you? Why don't you show them to their quarters?" He turned to the Hardys. "I hope you understand. Sunday is the crew's day off, but with what I've got riding on this project I don't dare take an extra hour off."
26
"Thanks, Captain." Joe said. "We'll get our stuff stowed in a jiffy."
"I'm Frank Hardy," his brother said to the other crew member in the meantime, shaking the redhead's hand. "This is my brother, Joe. We're the new divers replacing Peter Duvall."
"Vic Chapin. Good to meet you." Vic had the open and easygoing manner of someone from a small town. "Glad to have more help around here for a change."
"Come on, guys, if you're coming," Harry said impatiently, heading for the companionway leading two levels down to the living quarters. "People can't stand around jawing on this ship."
Yeah, except for you, Frank thought as they squeezed down the narrow companionway to the passageway below. He wasn't surprised by Harry's attitude, though. Even after only one meeting he was almost used to it.
The passageway was lined with cabins, and Harry stopped in front of one of them.
"You're in cabins six and seven, right next to mine," Harry told them. "Keys are in the doors."
Frank dumped his gear and was surprised at how nice his room was, with wood paneling, a bunk, closet, and even a writing desk.
"What's yours like?" Frank called to his brother, who had moved on down the corridor.
"A mirror image of yours," he heard Joe call back.
27
"Ten cabins and a head at either end of the hall," Harry told them. "With Gina aboard, we'll still have one cabin vacant. If Peter shows up again I guess they'll give it to him."
"How long ago did he disappear?"
"Sunday before last. Two weeks ago exactly." Harry eyed him thoughtfully. "Why are you asking?"
"I wondered what happened to him, that's all," said Frank.
Harry shrugged. "Maybe he found a chunk of gold and just took off, who knows? Or maybe he just got tired of working so hard." His nervous laugh sounded more like hiccups. "Look, guys, I love chatting with you, but we better get topside before Delaney starts squawking."
Frank and Joe locked their rooms and followed Harry upstairs. "This is where we eat," Harry announced as they passed a doorway. "We use it as a lounge, too, on the few occasions when we don't have to work."
Frank peeked inside. The room was small but comfortably furnished with a large round table in the center, low bookshelves loaded with magazines, and a few overstuffed easy chairs.
"Bob, I wondered where you were." At the sound of Harry's greeting, Frank checked out the stocky, jovial-looking man approaching them. Though he couldn't have been more than twenty-two, he was out of shape and could barely squeeze through the narrow passageway.
28
Frank wondered how he managed to dive for gold.
"I was just going to play some cards with Vic. Want to join us?" the man asked.
"Bob Fowler, Frank and Joe Hardy." Harry turned sideways so Bob could reach past him to shake hands. "They're the new guys on board, and, no, I don't know where Vic is. I've got better stuff to do on my day off than play gin rummy with you guys."
"Well, excu-use me!" Bob said with a grin.
Frank heard a clattering on the companionway behind Bob.
"Ah!" the portly crew member said. "Sounds like Poison! Our former cook and only native Bahamian."
"You said it, man." A young man appeared on the stairs. His dark skin was in stark contrast to his white shirt and slacks. Frank enjoyed his pleasant Bahamian accent. "Poison's just a nickname, of course." He grinned at the Hardys. "They don't let me cook much for them anymore. These days, I just dive. Anyway, feel free to call me Alastair."
"A real Bahamian?" Joe shook his hand. "You mean you've lived in this paradise all your life?"
"All my life? No, not yet."
Everyone laughed as Harry, Frank, and Joe went up the companionway and Alastair and Vic squeezed into the lounge. Frank and Joe were
29
still smiling when they surfaced and found the captain staring out at the horizon as the last of the sun's rays turned the calm water pink and then red. He was lost in thought.
"Ah, that sweet Caribbean air," Joe said, taking a deep breath. "And tons of gold beneath us. All we need now are a few more divers of the female persuasion--"
The captain whirled around and faced them in the near dark with such a dour expression that Joe froze in midsentence. "I expect everyone to be ready on deck at dawn tomorrow," he said sharply, ignoring Joe. "Harry, you'll be paired with Joe Hardy. I'm going to my cabin now. I suggest you do the same."
Frank stared after the captain. Delaney's expression had aroused his curiosity. Was Delaney anxious about the sunken treasure? Or about Peter Duvall?
"What'd I say?" Joe asked, holding his hands out helplessly.
"Only thing to do when he gets like that," Alastair said, appearing from nowhere with a plate of sandwiches, "is to keep out of sight. I suggest we have something to eat."
"I'll take one. Thanks," Joe said, reaching for a sandwich. "As long as you didn't make them."
"If I did, I'm not telling," Alastair replied.
As Joe reached for a sandwich, Frank's eye caught the gleam of a handsome gold signet ring
30
on Alastair's hand. "Great ring," he said. "Did you get that on the island?"
Alastair flinched so suddenly he almost dropped the plate. But he recovered quickly. "No, actually I don't know where it's from," he said with a smile. "It's been in the family for years."
He turned away and found Gina standing right behind him. Her eyes were on his ring, and Frank noticed the very strange expression on her face.
"Sandwich?" Alastair said to her as he held out the tray.
Gina jerked back a bit and stared up into his dark brown eyes. "No," she said in a low voice. Then added, "Thank you."
Alastair shrugged and moved past her. Gina, obviously very upset, turned in the opposite direction to lean against the rail and stare out at the dark water just as the captain had earlier.
Frank moved close to her. "Is something wrong?" he asked in a low voice.
Gina grew pale as she spoke the words. "That ring," she murmured. "It was a present last year--from me to my brother!"
31
Chapter 4
"What's Poison doing with your brother's ring?" Frank whispered to Gina.
Gina didn't respond--she just continued to stare at the water.
Joe walked up to the pair. "What do you say we check out the--" He cut himself off as he noticed Gina's expression.
Frank quickly explained what had transpired.
"That sure makes Poison look suspicious," Joe commented after he had heard the story.
"You're right," Frank answered, "but I think we should hit the sack now. I need a good night's sleep to help me fit the pieces in place."
At six o'clock the next morning the alarm jolted Joe out of a very deep sleep. He felt the
32
ramble of the ship's engines. The Valiant must already be headed out to the diving site. Joe dressed quickly and walked up the companionway.
"Hey, Joe, in here!" Bob Fowler called as Joe stumbled past the dining room with his eyes still half closed. "You've got to eat before you can dive! We all make our own breakfast here, since Poison turned out to be a bust in the kitchen. Come on, I'll whip you up a fruit salad."
"Thanks." Joe stumbled in to join Bob, Vic, Alastair, Frank, and Gina. "Am I the last one up?"
"Looks like it," Gina said amiably. "Harry and Jason already ate."
"Who's Jason?" Joe fell into an empty chair.
"Jason Matthews--another diver. He pilots the boat, too, so we don't see him much down here. And Harry wanted to get up on deck early to get the diving equipment ready."
"Great." Joe exchanged glances with his brother. "Better make a point of checking the air supply valve, I guess."
"Right," Vic said. "He told me what he did to you guys in Bayport. You've got to watch Harry. He's a moody guy."
Moody isn't the word for it, Joe thought glumly as he climbed on deck half an hour later. The ship was now at anchor and Harry was already climbing into his diving gear. His expression was very grim.
"Something wrong?" Joe asked Harry as
33
Frank helped secure the air tank on his back. "You look kind of tense."
"I feel fine," Harry snapped. He turned abruptly to the captain and asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"
"You need to take a couple of markers to put at the site of anything important you find," the captain said, nodding toward a case of white metal squares at their feet.
Joe picked up a couple and examined them. They were about ten inches square, and each had a black number painted in its center. Joe noticed that Harry was closely inspecting the markers that the captain handed him.
"Joe, you take charge of the magnetometer," the captain continued, handing it to him. "Whenever it identifies a metallic object, pick the object up and place it in your net bag to bring with you when you surface."
"It looks like a weed cutter." Joe examined the long handle with a circular tube at the end.
"It usually turns up a lot of junk," the captain said. "The U.S. Navy used this area for a dumping ground at one time. But we sort it all out topside after the dive."
"What's that thing?" Frank pointed to a long hose that a dark-haired young man was wrestling over the rail. Joe eyed the guy curiously. He had to be Jason, the diver he hadn't yet met.
"It's called an Air Lift," the young man said shyly. Joe noticed he had a strong Southern
34
accent. "It's a sand vacuum. It clears away debris as divers scan the ocean floor."
"I'm all set, if you're through with the lecture, Jason," Harry interrupted. "Are we going or not?"
Joe eyed his diving partner curiously. Something was up with Harry. He seemed way too nervous for a routine dive. Joe didn't relish the thought of going underwater with him again, but a job was a job "Watch yourself down there," he heard Frank mutter as he moved toward the edge with his gear.
Joe didn't need to be warned. He double-checked the air supply valve on his BC jacket, then backed up to the railing next to Harry, and an instant later splashed horizontally into the clear blue water.
Wow! Joe said to himself as he entered the beautiful underwater world of the Caribbean. Wait till Frank sees this!
Though he was just beneath the surface of the water, he found himself already surrounded by brilliantly colored tropical fish and shafts of shimmering light. This is nothing like Bayport Cove, he thought.
As he and Harry released air from their BC jackets, Joe descended deeper into the underwater spectacle. At forty feet the bottom came into view. Joe realized that he didn't need his head lamp even at that depth. The sun penetrated the
35
clear water and was reflected back by mounds of white and pink coral.
Okay, guy, back to work, Joe told himself sternly. Tearing his eyes away from the amazing scenery, he switched on the magnetometer and began scanning the bottom while Harry followed with the Air Lift hose, waiting for Joe's signal to begin clearing sand and debris.
After probing the area for ten minutes, Joe noticed the red light on the magnetometer flashing. He signaled to Harry to vacuum the area with the Air Lift.
As Joe moved back out of the way, Harry cleared the area with the vacuum. Soon they were able to retrieve the metal object. Eyeglass frames! Joe said to himself. He put them into his net bag as he'd been instructed for inspection on the surface.
An hour later, having half-filled his bag with unexciting metal objects, Joe came upon a large mound that set the magnetometer's light flashing madly. Harry managed to communicate to him that they were some of the ballast stones found earlier. Harry pointed to the markers secured to the mound, but Joe couldn't figure out what he was trying to say.
Shift's over, Joe said to himself as he checked the diver's watch Vic had lent him for the morning. Time to return to the ship. As he signaled Harry, he saw something was wrong.
Harry had dropped the Air Lift hose and was
36
clutching his side. He seemed to be in terrible pain.
Do something! Joe urged himself, snapping out of his momentary shock. He moved quickly through the water toward his partner, trying to keep his breathing as regular as possible. He peered into Harry's face mask. The young man was pale, and his eyes were half closed. Quickly and efficiently, Joe adjusted the air valves on both their jackets and supported Harry as the two of them rose slowly toward the ship.
"Something's wrong with Harry!" Joe yelled the moment they broke the surface and he was able to rip off both their masks. "Toss down a line. I think you'll have to pull him aboard."
The crew wasted no time springing into action. Bob threw out a line, but Harry seemed to recover a little and waved the line away. "It's okay," he said stoically. "Just some cramps. I'm all right now. Must've eaten too much this morning."
To Joe's surprise, he climbed up the ladder on his own.
"Take it easy," Dr. Wills said as he helped Harry onto the deck. "Lie down. Jason and Alastair, unstrap his air tanks. Vic, get my stethoscope."
Joe watched as the doctor listened to Harry's heartbeat. Wills's expression was grim. Finally he straightened up and said to Harry, "I'm going to help you down to my cabin for a closer look. Gina, come give me a hand."
37
Gina and Dr. Wills carefully lifted the pale diver and helped him down the companionway to the doctor's quarters, leaving behind a shaken captain to collect the markers that Harry had dropped.
"Return these to the storeroom, will you?" Delaney said to Jason. Joe watched the middle-aged man, feeling sorry for him. "We've got a lot of daylight left," the captain said, steeling himself to go on. "Chapin and Fowler, get into your gear. You're on the next dive detail."
Joe finished removing his gear and accepted a towel from his brother.
"What do you make of this?" Frank asked under his breath.
Joe shrugged, still shaken. "Bad news," he acknowledged. "Could be nothing. But it seems like there's been a whole lot of nothing around here lately."
The crew's morale seemed crushed for the day. That evening, after the last divers had climbed aboard empty-handed and everyone had cleaned up and retired to his cabin, Joe saw Harry pass by his open doorway.
"Hey, Harry!" he called out. "How're you feeling? You had us all worried."
Harry paused and stuck his head in the door. "I'm strong like bull," he boomed in a phony Russian accent. Then he said in a normal voice, "Really, it was just the breakfast. Dr. Wills gave
38
me an antacid. I'm as good as new." He hesitated, then said, "Thanks for taking care of me."
"No problem," Joe said easily. "Though I have to admit, I wondered at first if it was another one of your tests."
"What's all the noise out here?" Frank asked, walking up to Harry. "Hey, I thought you were supposed to be resting."
"Actually, I was wondering," Harry said a little uneasily. "Could you guys come to my cabin for a few minutes? There's something I want to talk to you about."
Joe and Frank both were surprised. Joe followed Frank's gaze and noticed that Harry's left arm was tucked into his right armpit in an odd and awkward way.
"Sure," Joe said to the diver and followed him down the passageway with Frank. But he noticed that Harry's hand trembled as he tried to unlock his cabin door. When the key dropped to the floor, Frank bent to retrieve it.
What could Harry have to tell them? Joe wondered as they followed him inside. Could Harry have something to do with Peter's disappearance?
"Ouch!" Joe said suddenly, stepping back out into the corridor. Then he realized what had attacked him. He held up an ice pick, which had been lying on a shelf near the doorway, the point facing out.
"What's this?" he demanded. "On call for icebergs?"
39
He rubbed his arm where the pick had stabbed him.
Harry was embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "I always leave the key in the lock outside and end up locking myself in. You need a key to unlock the door from the inside. I got tired of always yelling for help, so I put the pick up there to stick in the opening in the knob. It releases the lock."
"A likely story," Joe joked as Frank pointedly retrieved the key from the outside lock and handed it to Harry.
"You did it again," Frank said.
"See what I mean?" Harry laughed nervously and put the key on the desk.
"So?" Joe demanded, taking the only chair and forcing the others to sit on the bed. "What's the story, Harry? You're being blackmailed by a gang of mermaids or what?"
"This is serious," Harry said with a scowl. "I got this funny feeling. Like something's happening or about to happen on the ship."
"Like what?" Frank asked reasonably.
"Well, first Peter disappears," Harry answered. "Then the captain starts acting like that captain in The Caine Mutiny. You know, like the crew's his enemy and he's got to defeat us with twenty-four-hour-a-day work." He shook his head, narrowing his brown eyes. "I think Delaney knows a lot more than he's letting on."
40
"What do you know about Peter?" Joe asked, studying the diver.
"Nothing much. He was real quiet, always writing things down. Kept to himself a lot, even on our Sundays off."
"You think Captain Delaney got rid of him?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, I do," Harry blurted out. "If by getting rid of him you mean the guy was killed--" To his embarrassment, Harry began to hiccup.
Joe stared at him. "You think Delaney killed Peter Duvall?" he demanded.
"Well, I don't see the guy anywhere, do you?" Harry insisted. "I don't trust Delaney."
"How come you're telling us this?" Joe asked him.
Harry's face fell. "Look, I gotta tell someone," he said in a low voice. "The tension's killing me. I mean, it could be me he goes after next!"
Joe tried to understand what he was saying. "Do you have any proof about the captain?"
Harry shook his head. "Nothing but a hunch. But I'd take a look at those markers they're always so careful about."
"What about them?"
Harry crossed to his closet and took out two of the white markers. "I snitched these last night. Look alike, right?"
Frank took one in each hand. "Yeah. So?"
"Give them a heft. They don't' weigh the same." Harry stepped back, pleased with himself.
41
Joe watched Frank carefully weigh a marker in each hand, then switch hands and heft them again. "You're right," Frank said. He held up one of the markers. "This one's definitely heavier."
"So what?" Joe said impatiently. "What's it got to do with the captain?"
'Tm coming to that," Harry said, getting excited and beginning to pace back and forth across the tiny room. "I think I got it figured. I only told one other person about this, but--"
"Who else did you tell?" Joe cut in.
"I told--" But Harry was unable to finish the sentence.
As Joe watched in horror, Harry's face flushed red, then purple. The diver screamed and clutched at his heart. Panic-stricken, he turned to each of the brothers in turn, then collapsed facedown on the floor.
"Not again!" Joe yelled as both brothers rushed to the fallen body. Frank grabbed Harry's wrist and checked for a pulse, while Joe pressed a finger against the diver's jugular vein.
"Feel anything?" he asked his brother.
Incredulous, Frank shook his head. "Nothing," he said in a low voice.
The brothers stared down at what had been Harry Lyman. He had died before their very eyes!
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Chapter 5
"Help me turn him over," Frank said to Joe. His head reeled as he tried to comprehend what had happened. Could someone on board have poisoned Harry?
Hoping against hope that Harry might revive, Frank and Joe slipped their hands under his body and began to roll him gently onto his back. Just then there was a sharp knock on the cabin door.
"What's going on in there?" Captain Delaney's voice boomed. "Who screamed? Open this door at once!"
"Hide the markers in the closet," Frank said to Joe in a low voice. After his brother had done so, Frank unlocked the door and opened it.
A small crowd had gathered outside Harry's
43
door. Bob and Vic stood behind the angry captain with Dr. Wills. Frank realized that Harry's scream must have carried halfway through the ship.
"I think he's dead," Frank managed to say before the doctor rushed past him to Harry.
Frank watched him check Harry's pulse and saw that the doctor couldn't find it either. The doctor stared at Frank in shock and horror. "What happened in here?" he demanded finally.
"We were just talking," Frank said.
"Yeah," Joe added. "All of a sudden he screamed and fell to the floor. He was gone by the time we got to him."
Captain Delaney seemed unconvinced. "It's a good thing we're headed back to port," he said. "Fowler, report this to the police on the ship's phone."
As Bob ran off to do as he was told, the captain turned to Frank and Joe. "You two will stay in your cabins until the police get here," he ordered. "And I don't want this discussed with anyone until they arrive."
"But this wasn't our fault," Frank protested. "He had some kind of seizure!"
Captain Delaney shook his head. He was gray faced and obviously very worried, Frank noticed. If the captain wasn't careful, he might have a seizure of his own.
"Doctor, did you notice anything unusual
44
when you examined him this afternoon?" he asked.
"Nothing that might have predicted this. I'd suggested he have a full checkup on the island tomorrow."
The captain nodded gravely. Watching him, Frank realized that he actually suspected the Hardys of foul play. Frank started to protest again but realized there was no way he could convince Delaney until they had been cleared by the police.
"Doctor, you stay with the body until the authorities get here," the captain said. "Everybody else, to your cabins."
As the Valiant pulled up to the West End dock Frank lay on his bunk pondering the day's events and wondering who could be behind them. The trouble is, he thought, no one on the boat seemed to be a likely suspect. And why would anyone want to harm the crew in the first place? Harry Lyman hadn't been the most lovable guy, Frank admitted, but that was no reason to kill him.
To his relief, Frank heard the telltale static of a police officer's two-way radio moving down the passageway to Harry's room. "Good," he muttered, sitting up on the bunk. "Let's get this cleared up and over with."
"Frank Hardy?" Frank opened the door to confront a short, businesslike Bahamian man in
45
the crisp uniform of a police officer. "Sergeant Mylan," he said in his English-sounding accent. "You will come with me."
"Where to?" Frank followed the sergeant to Joe's room. He felt impatient. The sooner they could explain what had happened, the sooner they'd be left alone to investigate on their own.
"We're going to the police station," the sergeant informed them as he led the way up to the main deck.
Frank froze in midstep and turned to stare at his brother. The police station? Were they really suspects, then?
"Routine questions, of course," the sergeant said. "But you may have to stay there overnight, until we receive the coroner's report."
"I don't believe this!" Joe exploded, causing the sergeant to spin instantly around, brandishing handcuffs. Seeing them, Joe backed down quickly, muttering to his older brother, "I sure hope Dad doesn't find out about this!"
It was nearly ten o'clock at night before the police were done questioning the Hardys about their involvement in Harry Lyman's death. For hours, it seemed to Frank, he and Joe had been cross-examined about what Harry had said to them before he died, how he had behaved, how well the Hardys knew him, and what they thought might really be going on on board the Valiant.
46
By the time they trudged to the cell where they had been informed they were to spend the night, Frank could barely remember his own name.
"We can't stay here," Joe protested to the sergeant one last time as he and Frank surrendered their personal belongings to the desk clerk. "We have to report to work tomorrow morning. The captain's on a tight diving schedule."
"Operations aboard the Valiant have been suspended pending further notification," the sergeant informed him, satisfied with himself. "The coroner's report will be in by early tomorrow morning. If it supports what you've told us, you'll be on your way soon after that."
Frank groaned, thinking of how hard this delay would be for the captain.
"Our apologies to you both for the inconvenience," the sergeant said as Frank and Joe were led away to the holding chamber.
"Right," Joe muttered under his breath. "Boy, Delaney must be steaming!"
To his surprise, Frank found that the holding tank was at least as comfortable as their cabins on board ship. "Hey, I like this," his brother said, testing the cot after they had showered.
"Very civilized," Frank agreed. But he was interrupted by an enormous yawn. "I don't know about you, but I'd better hit the sack," he said sheepishly. "Maybe this'll be straightened out by the time we wake up."
***
47
Frank was more surprised than anyone to find out that his wish had come true. He was awakened by a guard's banging on the bars of their cell.
"Sergeant wants to see you," the guard announced.
Frank and Joe followed the guard to the sergeant's office, where the little man unceremoniously handed them their bags of personal belongings.
"We have the coroner's report," he said. "Mr. Lyman died of a massive heart attack. Judging from his medical report, which we received from New York, he had a chronic heart condition that should have prevented him from diving."
"He must have kept it a secret from the captain," Joe said, still trying to wake up.
"And Dr. Wills," Frank added, frowning. It didn't make sense, he was thinking. Why would someone with a heart condition take such a dangerous chance? Could Harry Lyman's greed for gold have overpowered his common sense?
"You're free to go," the sergeant told them, standing up. "But if you don't mind, boys, I have one more question."
"Yes, sir?" Frank waited impatiently, wishing he could walk out into the bright sunshine right then and put all this behind them.
"Tell me--has either of you seen any actual treasure from the Doha Bonita on board?"
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Frank's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Why was the sergeant so curious?
"No," Joe said. "The captain thinks they're zeroing in on something, but so far nothing valuable's turned up."
The sergeant frowned. He seemed very disappointed. "Is something wrong, sir?" Frank ventured.
The sergeant started to shake his head. Then he stopped. He moved closer to the two boys. "I shouldn't tell you this," he said in a low voice, "but perhaps later you boys will be able to help me. We have uncovered a gold artifact here on the island. One of our local criminals was foolish enough to try to sell it to an undercover customs agent. We think it may be hot, although he said it came from a sunken ship, the Doha Bonita. This criminal, Max Trepo, swears the artifact was given to him by one of your crew members in payment for a debt."
"Which crew member?" Joe asked.
"A Peter Duvall," the sergeant answered. "And now that man is missing, correct?"
As Frank and Joe tried to digest this new information, the sergeant added, "Apparently, this Duvall fellow is alive and active in the underworld on our island."
Frank shook his head. Gina would be glad Peter was alive, he told himself. But a criminal? He wondered how much of this was true.
"You'll keep this to yourselves, of course,"
49
the sergeant said, escorting the boys to the door. He shook their hands, then said in a low voice, "We understand you have some experience in the area of detection. If you find anything suspicious on board ship, I trust you'll let us know."
"Of course, Sergeant," Frank said, covering his surprise. But Joe wasn't even listening because he'd spotted Gina waiting for them in the parking lot and was waving to get her attention.
Frank said goodbye to the little sergeant, then followed his brother to Gina's dusty hatchback.
"Is everything all right?" Gina asked as the brothers got in and slammed the doors.
"You bet!" said Joe. "Boy, is it great to be sprung! Thanks for picking us up, Gina."
"No problem," she said. "Any news?"
"Yeah!" Joe said eagerly. Then he remembered that it wouldn't be good news for Gina, and his face fell.
Gina's hands tightened on the steering wheel as she turned out of the police station lot. "Go ahead," she said grimly. "But this time I'll keep my eyes on the road."
When Joe and Frank had told Gina the story, the marine archaeologist was stunned. "Listen, I know my brother," she said angrily. "He wouldn't steal anything. And if he was okay, he'd write to me."
"Did your brother ever mention the name Max Trepo in his letters?" Frank asked.
50
"No. He practically never left the ship, as far as I could tell," she answered.
The three of them mulled this fact over for a moment. Then Frank noticed that they were headed away from the dock. "Where are you taking us?" he asked Gina.
Gina became embarrassed. "Well, you know operations on the ship were suspended, don't you?" she said.
"Yeah," said Joe. "The captain must be hopping mad."
Gina nodded. "He's in court trying to reverse the decision right now. Meanwhile, I wanted to check something out. I overheard Vic and Alastair talking this morning. I heard them say something about Peter and an island hotel called the Easy Life."
"So you want us to pay it a visit," said Joe.
Gina nodded. "It's in a bad part of town. I figured I'd better take you guys along."
Frank glanced out the window and saw that they were passing the airport, headed north on the island. Soon, the grand hotels and golf courses on the south shore had faded into rows of smaller buildings and, finally, dilapidated shacks. It was in this area that he finally spotted the blistered sign that read, Easy Life Hotel, and underneath that, Daily Rates.
"There it is," Joe said to Gina.
She parked the car next to several other cars on the parched grass in front of the building.
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Just as the three of them reached the door, it burst open, knocking Gina back into Joe's arms.
Before Frank could react, two men in dirty sweatshirts and jeans raced down the rickety stairs. All that registered in Frank's mind were a tattoo on one man's forearm and an earring hanging from the earlobe of the other.
Joe helped Gina up and then he and his brother took off after the two men, who were running toward a clump of trees that surrounded the hotel property. Just as they reached the first trees, Joe grabbed one of the guys around the ankles, bringing him to the ground.
Meanwhile, Frank collared the second one, twisting his arm and sending him to his knees.
"You little--" Joe's captive started to get up. His muscles rippled as he grabbed Joe around the neck. Frank moved to help his brother, but his own captive spun around and started to resist.
Frank almost didn't hear Gina's shout from the front steps.
"Frank!" she screamed. "Watch out behind you!"
Frank whirled around to see an enormous man lumbering across the lawn toward them.
The stranger had a baseball bat. He was racing straight for Frank.
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Chapter 6
"NOW what?" Joe had to make up his mind fast. Should he let go of the squirming guy he had pinned to the ground and go after the monster who was moving in on his brother? Or should he keep a grip on at least one of these goons? Taking a chance, he let go of his opponent. Instinct told him to go after the bat first.
As he ran toward the screaming man with the baseball bat, he saw that Frank had let go of his captive, too. But to Joe's surprise, the first two thugs instantly got to their feet and took off into the woods.
"Hoodlums!" the giant yelled after the fugitives, racing past the Hardys and waving his bat. "Deadbeats! Don't show up again! I know who you are! I'm warning you!"
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"What's going on?" Joe said, stunned. "You're not after us?"
The man gave up chasing the others and stopped in his tracks, dropping the bat heavily on the grass. Then he turned to Joe. "Chasing you?" he said in a cheerful voice. "Why should I? I don't even know you."
Bewildered, Joe and Frank followed him back to the front steps, where Gina sat nursing a scraped elbow. "What was that all about?" she asked.
"Oh, just a couple of deadbeats trying to run out on their bill," the giant said in his mild local accent. "Happens all the time here. It's getting so I look forward to a good chase to liven up my day."
Joe shook his head. The enormous man's stomach, which hung over his belt by a hefty margin, heaved up and down as he gasped for breath. "Thanks for your help," the man said. "My name's Manfred, by the way." He held out a sweaty palm.
"I'm Joe Hardy." Joe shook the hand. "This is my brother Frank, and Gina Duv--uh, Daniels." The man must weigh at least three hundred and fifty pounds, Joe guessed. With that much weight on him it was hard to tell his age, but Joe figured he must be around thirty.
"Why don't you all come inside and have a cool drink?" Manfred suggested, smiling.
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"There's a soda machine in the lobby. Did you plan on staying here?"
"Not really," Joe said as he followed Gina and Frank into the tiny front room. Inside he saw only a small counter and a soda machine. Manfred had already retrieved four cans and was popping one open for each of them.
Joe accepted a soda from Manfred's massive hand. "Actually, we were wondering if you could give us some information," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
"Information?" Manfred's open face turned suddenly suspicious.
"Yeah," Frank said. "We're looking for a friend of ours. We heard he might have stayed here a couple of weeks ago. Maybe you remember him."
Manfred's smile split his face in two. "Well now, that's a different story. I wouldn't have been so free with the sodas if I'd known you weren't paying customers." He rubbed the back of his head.
"Okay," Frank said, pulling out his wallet and handing Manfred a twenty. "Let us have a peek at your ledger to find out if he stayed here or not?"
Manfred nodded, still smiling. He pocketed the twenty and turned the ledger around so that it faced the trio. "This much for twenty dollars," he said, "but anything else is extra."
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Joe peered over Frank's shoulder as he flipped back through the pages. "There it is!" Gina said suddenly, pointing to an entry halfway down a page.
Joe saw it in the same instant. The entry was dated Monday, July 31. The name was Peter Duvall.
Frank flipped back several more pages. "He was registered here for three days," he said. "July thirty-first through August second."
"And he disappeared on the thirtieth," Gina said softly. "But wait a minute. That's not his handwriting."
"Of course not." Manfred's voice boomed in the small room, startling them. "It's my handwriting! It don't do me no good to have people sign in if I can't read their names!"
Joe peered at the ledger again. Sure enough, all the entries were scrawled in the same messy hand. "Do you remember Peter Duvall?" he asked the hotel keeper.
"What do you want to know about him? He's your friend, isn't he?" Manfred's eyes narrowed slightly. "Besides, I told you. Twenty dollars covers the ledger only. Anything else is extra."
With a sigh, Frank took out another twenty and held it out to their host. But as Manfred started to snatch it, Frank pulled it back. "After you give us the information," he said. "I want to make sure it's worth it."
Manfred grinned amiably and shook his head.
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"I don't know what you nice young people want with that Duvall person, anyway," he said. "He's as bad as the two who took off out of here a few minutes ago. If I remember right, he was about your age," he said, eyeing Joe critically. "A mite shorter, no beard, and dark, curly hair. Didn't bring any luggage with him. Wore the same clothes for three days. I remember that much."
Joe glanced at Gina, who nodded. Apparently, Manfred's description added up.
"Did anyone visit him here?" Joe asked.
Manfred snorted. "People don't meet here. They sleep and then leave. His kind would've met folks at Waves."
"What's Waves?" Frank asked.
"A disco out by the airport. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
Joe noticed his eyes resting on the twenty. "Okay," he said, taking it from Frank and handing it to Manfred. "Thanks for your help."
"Hey, one good turn deserves another." Manfred smiled and stuffed the bill into his pocket.
As Joe, Gina, and Frank started across the dry lawn toward their car, Joe noticed a bit of paper fluttering on the hatchback's windshield. "What's that?" he asked, moving faster. Had the thugs they'd chased left a threatening message on their car?
"Probably an advertisement," Frank remarked. But as Joe pulled the tiny slip of paper out from
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under the windshield wiper his expression showed it was no advertisement.
" 'Keep out of this,' " he read aloud to Frank and Gina. " 'Believe me, you won't be able to handle it.' "
"Those jerks we chased must have written it," he decided. "What cowards, slipping a note on our car instead of confronting us."
"Let me see it," Gina said, taking the paper from him.
As she read the note, she turned suddenly pale and had to lean against the car for support.
"What is it?" Frank asked.
Gina's eyes were round. "Remember my telling you that Peter used to write to me every week?" she said.
Joe stared at her. He knew exactly what she meant.
The threatening note had to be in Peter's handwriting!
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Chapter 7
"It's from your brother, isn't it?" Joe asked Gina, taking back the note. She nodded.
"It's okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "At least he's still alive. Do you mind driving, Frank? I don't think I'm up to it."
After they'd climbed into the car, Frank said, "Let's stop somewhere to eat, and after that I think we need to get back to the ship. I want to talk to the crew, and especially to Poison."
"I don't understand how Peter could have changed this much," Gina said in a low voice. "He never did anything bad before."
"Don't worry about it yet, Gina," Joe advised her. "You don't know what he's doing. There's a lot to clear up here."
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Frank glanced at his brother. That was the understatement of the week, he thought. Here they were, saddled with an invisible crew member who wrote threatening notes, a captain whose chances for wealth were dwindling before his eyes, one dead diver, and a group of bewildered kids who probably wondered how they were going to afford a plane ticket home. Right now nothing--and no one--connected with this expedition made any sense.
It was growing dark by the time Frank pulled the car into the marina's lot. He led the way up the Valiant's gangplank.
"No one's here," he said as the three of them surveyed the deck.
"Let's check out the lounge." Gina led the way to the companionway.
Frank could see why the crew hung out in the dining room on their hours off. He entered to see Vic and Bob slouched comfortably at the big table, playing cards. A huge bowl of potato chips sat half empty between them. Alastair sat sideways in an armchair in a corner, reading a magazine and listening to Caribbean music on the radio.
If there hadn't been a death on board the day before, Frank reflected, the crew would probably have enjoyed the extra time off.
"Hey, guys, join the game!" Bob spread his
60
cards on the table. "The captain's off trying to get the diving ban lifted, so we working folks are taking the evening off. You play gin rummy?"
"Sure," said Joe, joining him. "Bet I can slaughter you, too."
"We'll see about that." Bob shuffled the cards as Vic watched, chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick. Gina got a soda from the kitchen and sat down at the table, while Frank joined Alastair by the magazines. Frank glanced at Alastair's hand as he settled down into one of the easy chairs. His eyes widened. Peter Duvall's ring was gone.
"Lose your ring?" he asked as the group at the table started playing a raucous game of gin rummy.
Alastair lifted his head. "Huh? Oh." He smiled nervously. "I thought with everything that's going on, I'd put it in a safe place. If you know what I mean."
Frank nodded. He didn't know what Alastair meant, but he didn't' want to press him right then. It was hard to imagine that someone as easygoing as Alastair was up to no good, but the fact that he had Peter's ring was suspicious.
Frank noticed Jason standing in the doorway, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"Looks like we're all accounted for," the Southerner said to no one in particular. He locked gazes with Frank. "How'd it go at the
61
police station? You guys get arrested or what?"
Frank stifled his annoyance. "They let us go after they got the coroner's report. Harry died of a heart attack."
Alastair tossed his magazine back on the bookshelf and stood up. "Excuse me," he said, squeezing past Jason. "I think I'll turn in for the night."
Frank watched him go, then met Joe's gaze for an instant. He could tell Joe wondered the same thing he did. Was there some kind of hostility between Jason and Alastair, or was the ex-cook just feeling uneasy?
"Don't mind Poison," Bob said as though reading their minds. "He gets moody sometimes. That's another reason we'd just as soon fix our own food around here."
A moment later the heavy tread of the captain sounded in the passageway. His leonine head poked through the doorway. "Evening, all," he said gruffly. Frank noticed that Delaney wore khaki trousers and a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt. It was the first time he'd seen the captain with a shirt on.
"The ban's lifted," the captain announced. "We dive as scheduled tomorrow. Vic and Gina will be our first team, and Frank and Jason will pair up in the afternoon. If I were you, I'd rest up. Deck call is seven o'clock sharp."
He disappeared as abruptly as he'd arrived.
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"Well, that was fun," Bob said, folding his cards and tossing them into the middle of the table. "Glad it's not me going down tomorrow, hey, Joe?"
"I don't know," Joe observed, stacking his cards facedown on top of Bob's. "Sometimes it feels safer down there."
By the next afternoon Frank had begun to wonder if the entire crew of the Valiant wished they were safely at the bottom of the Caribbean. Gina and Vic's morning dive had been uneventful. And as the hours passed and the summer sun beat down on the rocking ship, Delaney grew increasingly angry.
"Why aren't you suited up yet?" he growled at Frank as the crew prepared to move some distance to the west. Frank had heard from Vic that Delaney had been studying his charts again and had decided to try a new location.
Frank didn't bother to answer. By the time the Valiant had anchored some distance from the island, he had his diving gear strapped on and checked. By then it was almost two o'clock, and the afternoon sun was making him sweat as he waited on the deck. All around him, waves rolled toward the little ship, causing it to toss its occupants back and forth a little.
"Take the markers," the captain ordered gruffly, shoving them into Frank's hands.
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"Dumb amateurs. Do I have to remind you about every single thing?"
Ignoring his insults, Frank discreetly weighed the markers in each hand and decided they weighed the same. He hooked them to his belt, then backed up the rail with Jason. Frank had the Air Lift while Jason clutched the magnetometer.
"Ready, partner?" Frank said to the shy teenager. To his surprise, Jason scowled. He seemed furious about something. What now? Frank wondered impatiently. If I didn't know better, I'd think there was a curse on the entire crew!
The splash into the cool ocean water came as a great relief. And so, Frank thought as he sank slowly beneath the surface, did the silence.
The water in that area of the ocean was deep blue. Frank hadn't gone down far before he had to turn his head lamp on. There were fewer brightly colored fish as well, but Frank and Jason's lights illuminated darker, larger species that moved slowly through their own silent kingdom.
Wow! I wonder if Delaney knows about this? Frank thought, aiming his head lamp down toward where the ocean floor should have been. The bottom fell off sharply into a deep, black chasm.
Frank looked at Jason. The chasm seemed bottomless. If the Dona Bonita sank there, he thought, Delaney could say goodbye to the gold.
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As Jason started off on an exploration of the floor near the edge of the chasm, Frank hung back. Jason's attitude bothered him, and he thought it might be a better idea to separate for a while. He began moving slowly in the opposite direction, also following the chasm's edge. He found it hard to see in the dark water, and shapes in the sand were often misleading.
Suddenly Frank spotted something unusual in the water. He swam a foot or two lower, peering through his mask.
Something white was sticking out from beneath an outcropping of rock. Frank reached down and pulled on it. It came loose easily. Frank realized it was one of the Valiant's white markers!
But that's impossible, Frank told himself. They've never dived here before.
Glancing over his shoulder, Frank took out one of the markers the captain had given him and weighed it against the new one. Even underwater he could tell the new marker was heavier. He placed the captain's marker where the heavier one had been and hung the heavy marker from his belt.
Just then he noticed Jason, a good distance away, waving the magnetometer in the water to get his attention. Frank swam over to join him. He watched Jason signal his impatience to get to work, nodded to show he understood, and began following him with the Air Lift vacuum.
It was frustrating to follow Jason in the direction
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opposite from where he had found the mysterious marker, but Frank didn't know whether he could trust Jason. At least now, after twenty minutes of fruitless searching, the magnetometer started beeping.
Jason brought the detector closer to two encrusted objects that lay side by side, half-buried in the sand at the very edge of the chasm. They were small, Frank noticed, but their identical size and shape made him hope they were something worthwhile.
Excited, Frank dug the objects out of the sand. He held them up for Jason to see. But as Jason swam closer, he knocked Frank's hand. The objects went sailing. Frank managed to catch one of them, but the other fell into the blackness of the chasm.
Frank tried to stifle his disappointment as he watched the mysterious object disappear. That might have been a museum piece, he realized.
He looked over to see Jason miming an apology by smacking his head with his hand. Frank shook his head, dropped the remaining relic into his net bag, and signaled that it was time to surface. He didn't want to take any chances with what they still had.
Up top, Frank could feel the suspense as the captain and crew waited anxiously for the divers to board.
"I think we found something," he said as soon as he could catch his breath. He took the
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relic out of his bag and held it up for the others to see. Jason stood to the side, scowling. Frank guessed he wished he'd been the hero for the day.
"Is that it?" The captain grabbed the piece from Frank's hand.
"That's all," Frank said. Jason didn't contradict him. Neither diver wanted to frustrate Delaney more by telling him what they'd lost.
The crew crowded around the captain to get a peek at the object, which seemed to be roughly in the shape of a cross. Frank watched Dr. Wills and Alastair gazing at the barnacle-covered mound with skeptical frowns.
"Looks interesting," the doctor said noncommittally. "Of course, it could turn out to be worthless junk."
"Let's hope not," the captain said, sounding more optimistic than before. "Poison, pack this into a plastic case. We'll run it down to the lab tomorrow night, the minute we hit shore."
"Aye-aye, sir," the crew member agreed.
Frank backed away and moved to where Joe and Gina were standing at the edge of the crowd. "Come with me," he murmured in a low voice. "I have something to show you."
He led the pair downstairs to his cabin, where he locked his door behind them, took off the rest of his gear, and threw on a terry cloth robe. Then he rummaged through his suitcase until he brought out a black plastic box.
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"Remember this?" He held the box up for Joe's inspection. "You wanted to leave it at the airport, right?"
"It hasn't come in handy so far," Joe said defensively.
"It will now," Frank responded. "This is a sonar gauge," he explained to Gina. "It gives accurate depth readings using sonar, but it can also detect the presence of sonar in any area. By pushing this button, I can activate or turn off any sonar signal within its range."
"I know what it is," Gina said impatiently. "What about it?"
Frank turned on the portable radio on his writing desk, filling the cabin with sound. Then he retrieved the heavy white marker from his gear, set it next to the radio, and aimed the black box at it. Dramatically, he pushed the red button on its side.
Immediately the marker began beeping.
Joe and Gina stared at the marker.
"That's a sonar?" Gina asked as Frank turned off the depth gauge.
"You said it," Frank answered, relieved. He had suspected this when he had first found the marker, but now he was sure.
Someone aboard ship was secretly marking the real treasure site for himself!
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Chapter 8
"This means that someone's using these markers to stake out the treasure site."
"But why would anyone do that?" Joe stared at his brother, uncomprehending.
"I'm not sure yet," Frank admitted as he replaced the black box and carefully hid the marker in the closet. Joe watched him, making a mental note that they'd have to replace the sonar on tomorrow's dive, before whoever had placed it was alerted.
"Maybe Captain Delaney doesn't want to share with the crew after all," Gina suggested. "Maybe he intends to come back alone later and rake in the gold."
"Maybe," Frank agreed. "But he's the one who brought us out here today. Why would he
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lead us straight to the treasure if he meant to hide it?"
Joe shook his head. "You're right, but we're definitely getting closer. And I have a feeling this is going to link up with Peter in a way we haven't figured yet."
He glanced at Gina. She looked suddenly sad, and he was sorry he'd mentioned her brother. "I'm going to get something to eat and turn in early," she said, standing. "You guys want to join me in the galley?"
"Best idea I've heard all day." Joe followed her to the door. He wished he could be more help to Gina. Maybe after a hamburger his investigative talents would kick in.
The policy in the dining room was still self-serve, so Joe voluntered to throw together deluxe hamburgers for all three of them. "Served with chips on the side," he announced, sliding a paper plate heaped with food in front of Gina at the big table. Frank's hamburger was even bigger. "Fresh tomatoes bought on the island this morning. Mustard imported from southern France."
"Merci, Chef Joseph," Gina teased, digging into her burger. "All that's missing is a little violin music."
"I'd play for you," Joe said, setting his own plate on the table and pulling out a chair, "but the smell of beef has drowned out my artistic sensibilities."
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As he sat down, Joe saw Alastair pause in the doorway. The instant he saw the three teenagers, he started to retreat.
"Hey, hold on, buddy," Joe said. "We won't bite. Come on in and I'll put together some leftovers."
"That's okay." Alastair hovered on the threshold. "I didn't know anyone was here. I think I'll eat in my room."
"Come on in," Frank said, getting up and walking over to Alastair. "I wanted to ask you something, anyway."
"Like what?" he asked suspiciously.
"I was wondering. You're from the Bahamas." Frank smiled. "We were driving around the north shore yesterday. I thought maybe you knew that area."
Alastair's eyes widened. "You were on the north shore? That's where I grew up."
"Oh, yeah?" Joe swallowed a mouthful of hamburger. "You ever hear of the Easy Life?"
"What do you think I'm living, man?" Alastair laughed weakly, but Joe could see he didn't like being cross-examined.
"No, it's a hotel," Joe said casually. "Run by a guy named Manfred?"
Alastair shook his head, backing toward the corridor again. "Don't know him," he said. "I haven't been back there in a while."
"How come I heard you mention the place
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to Vic yesterday, then?" Gina asked in a harsh voice.
Alastair stared at her in silence. As footsteps approached from the stairs, he said, "You must have overheard someone else. I'll see you later."
He escaped out the door just as Vic sauntered in, saying, "Did I hear you guys talking about me in here?"
The Hardys and Gina regarded him in silence. Vic appeared to be innocent enough, Joe reflected. But nobody was innocent on this ship. At least not until they'd proved it.
"We were talking about the Easy Life Hotel," Frank said. "You know the place?"
Vic laughed, heading for the kitchen. "Man, I don't know any place on this island. Delaney works us so hard I barely get off this ship. And on my days off, Bob keeps me busy with his card games."
"You were talking about the Easy Life and Peter Duvall with Poison yesterday," Gina insisted. "I know, because I heard you."
"Hey, what is this?" Vic returned to the table with a bag of pretzels and a soda. "All I'm trying to do is fill my stomach and I get the third degree."
Joe watched him eat. Vic sure didn't act like a guilty man, he admitted. He could put food away almost as fast as Joe himself. Gina was also watching Vic.
She must be worried sick about her brother
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by now, Joe thought. He exchanged glances with Frank, who nodded. Joe knew he was thinking the same thing.
"Restaurant's closed," he said lightly, standing up and clearing their plates from the table. "Time for a good night's sleep. I bet we'll feel better tomorrow."
To Joe's disappointment, both the morning and afternoon dives proved fruitless. Since neither the Hardys nor Gina was chosen to go under, they were unable to replace the sonar-equipped marker. That night the ship docked to let Dr. Wills take the single artifact to the lab for analysis, and the next day the captain tried a new location.
By Saturday, Joe began to fear for the captain's sanity. He had only one week left to find the treasure, and Joe had a good idea by now how expensive this operation must be.
"If I were Delaney, I'd look for an easy job on a cruise line," he confided to Gina as the Valiant chugged into port on Saturday night. They were sitting on folding chairs on deck, looking at the full moon hanging low over the Caribbean. It would have been a perfect evening, Joe reflected, if the fate of the captain and of Peter Duvall wasn't hanging over their heads.
Joe heard footsteps approaching. He twisted in his chair and saw Frank walking toward them. His brother seemed upset about something.
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"What's up?" Joe asked, resting his feet on the railing.
"I'm worried about the marker," Frank said in a low voice, squatting on the deck next to the other two. "We've got to find a way to replace it before someone notices it's gone."
"Maybe we'll go back there next week," Gina said. "If the artifact turns out to be real--and the captain's on the up and up--we'll probably spend the rest of the trip there."
"We can't take that chance," Frank said.
"We could rent a boat tomorrow, on our day off," suggested Joe. "Ride out and replace the marker while everyone else is docked."
That reminded Joe of something. "I've been thinking about what Harry was trying to tell us right before he died. Do you think it could have something to do with those markers?"
Frank started to answer, but a voice interrupted from behind, startling the three of them. "Hey, Frank, you have a minute?" Vic asked as he sauntered over toward them.
"Sure, Vic," Frank said, turning guiltily. "We were just making plans for tomorrow."
"That's what I wanted to ask you," Vic said, moving his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "Bob and I are going to the motor-boat races tomorrow afternoon. You guys want to come?"
"We're, uh, tied up during the day." Joe motioned to Gina to keep quiet. He knew Gina
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was suspicious of Vic because he hadn't admitted knowing anything about the Easy Life. He worried that she might give away their hand if she confronted him again.
"And we're going to a disco tonight," Gina added, despite Joe's glance. "You ever hear of Waves?"
Vic was surprised. "Poison told me about that place. It's supposed to be pretty wild."
"Good," Gina said shortly. "We need to unwind."
As soon as the ship docked, Joe, Gina, and Frank hurried to Gina's car. Wild or not, Joe was looking forward to going to the disco. He knew he'd feel better after he'd danced off some of his pent-up energy.
"I hope you don't mind stopping by my apartment first," Gina said as she drove. "I've got to change out of these cut-offs. I don't want to embarrass you guys in your nice clean shirts."
Joe laughed. "No problem. It'll be interesting to see what a marine archaeologist's apartment looks like."
"If you're expecting china and lace, forget it," Gina said lightly. "I just rented this place two weeks ago. It's a dumping ground for my bare necessities, and that's it."
Half an hour later Joe saw that Gina had been telling the truth. He and Frank checked out her small efficiency while waiting for her to shower
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and change. It was nearly bare but spotlessly clean. On the table next to the daybed was a framed photograph of Gina with a middle-aged woman and an older, gray-haired man. Joe read the inscription aloud: " 'To our brilliant daughter. Love, Mom and William.' "
"What are you guys standing around for?"
Joe turned to see Gina posing in the door of the bathroom. She'd changed into a short black dress, heels, and dark stockings. Long gold earrings dangled against her sun-bleached hair. "Do I pass muster?" she demanded, turning around for the boys' inspection.
"Hey, straight A's in my book," Joe said with a grin. "Let's dance!"
It took a moment for Frank's eyes and ears to adjust to the scene as the trio entered through the disco's wide double doors. The music was cranked up so high that Frank could feel the bass riffs vibrate under his feet, and the flashing, colored light show nearly blinded him.
"All right!" he heard his brother say as Joe led Gina toward the transparent dance floor. Glowing red and green neon lights turned the dancers colors as they moved.
"I can tell you this wouldn't be Peter's scene," Gina protested, following Joe.
"Don't worry about it," Frank called after her. "You guys have fun. I'll see what I can find out."
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Frank moved around the edge of the club, checking out the clientele. Waves seemed to be a hangout for the island's rougher types. Regulars in black leather and studs called to one another across the crowded room. A few tourists were crowded in near the door. A sullen-looking, heavyset bouncer lounged against the wall near the entry way. Frank saw that he wore a name tag reading Gus. Frank remembered what the police chief had told him about Peter Duvall's involvement with the criminal Max Trepo. Perhaps Max would hang out in a place like this.
"Hey, Gus!" Frank approached the bouncer as though they were old friends. "I can't find Max Trepo tonight. You seen him?"
The bouncer eyed Frank through narrowed eyes. "You blind?" he yelled above the music. "He's right behind you."
Frank turned to where Gus pointed. A skinny man was sitting alone at a table near the dance floor. In a second two toughs walked over and huddled with him.
As Frank approached the table, he watched one of the men nudge Max's arm, alerting him to Frank's presence. Max looked up as Frank stood before him.
"Something I can do for you?" Max drawled. Frank flinched. Max's voice sounded as if it were being filtered through gravel.
Frank decided to take a chance. "Peter Duvall said I'd find you here," he shouted.
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Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the band stopped playing. Frank's words carried across the entire club.
"What?" Max pushed back his chair as though Frank had slapped him and stood up with clenched fists. He shot a look at his cohorts, and before Frank knew what was happening, they lunged toward him.
"Wait!" Frank took a step back, looking around wildly. He caught a glimpse of Joe running to him just as one of Max's thugs grabbed him in a hammerlock.
"Hey, what's going--" Frank started to yell, but was interrupted as the second guy punched him in the stomach.
Frank's head dangled from his neck. The floor reeled before his eyes.
I've got to fight back, he told himself.
He lifted his gaze to try again, and found himself eye to eye with Max's six-inch stiletto!
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Chapter 9
"Oh, no, you don't!" Joe jumped over Max Trepo's table and knocked the skinny crook forward into one of his own men.
"Aaaugh!" The bodyguard screamed as Max's stiletto plunged into his arm. Reflexively, he threw his boss backward. Max Trepo landed on his spine on a table five feet away.
Joe released his brother from the grip of Trepo's other, stunned bodyguard and sent a flying karate kick to the guard's stomach. He realized that the entire club was in an uproar now. The man whose table Max had landed on smashed a pitcher on the crook's head.
"Not bad, Joe," Frank muttered, keeping an eye on the bodyguard who sat nursing his knife wound nearby.
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Joe nodded, waiting to catch his breath. The trio didn't seem much of a threat anymore. The two bodyguards were on the floor, and Max sat moaning at a table as a waitress put ice on the knot on his head.
"Who's that guy?" Joe asked his brother.
"Max Trepo. The crook the sergeant told us about. I mentioned Peter's name, and he blew up."
Gina retrieved the stiletto from under the table. "Uh-oh," she said, glancing over Joe's shoulder. "Here comes trouble."
Joe turned to see the bouncer approaching them, red-faced. "Okay, everybody, into the back room," he demanded, signaling the band to start playing again. He glared at Frank. "I knew you were trouble the minute I saw you. Now you're going to have to deal with me."
Gus ushered the Hardys, Gina, and Max into an office crammed full of cardboard boxes piled nearly to the ceiling.
"Max, one more stunt like this and you're barred for good," Gus fumed as the five of them crowded in. "We're not going to get shut down again because of you."
"They went after me first, I swear," the skinny man said angrily. "I just defended myself."
"All I said was that Peter Duvall sent me," Frank retorted.
"Yeah, that's all," Max said sulkily. "It just so happens I talked to Peter tonight. And he
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told me some guys were going to come after me. That's why I was on the lookout for you."
"Peter called you tonight?" Gina asked.
"Ain't that what I said, lady?"
"When was the last time you saw him?" Joe demanded.
Max eyed him suspiciously. "What business is it of yours?"
"All right, all right, that's enough," Gus said. "All I need's another fight in here. You folks get out of here. And I don't want any more trouble. Is that clear?"
This time Gus ushered them out the club's back exit. Joe watched Max readjust his sports jacket in an effort to regain his dignity. Then Max led the way out of the alley, toward a black car with tinted windows where they could see his bodyguards waiting.
"Wait, Mr. Trepo," Gina called after him. Before Joe could stop her, she had caught him by the arm.
"Yeah?" he growled, slowing only slightly.
"Please." Gina tried to make eye contact with Trepo, but he wouldn't look at her. "I wanted to give this back to you." She held out the stiletto.
Joe gasped and started to go after her, but Frank held him back. Slowly the brothers approached the pair, careful not to make Max or his guards nervous.
"Can't you tell me where Peter is?" Joe heard Gina plead.
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Max shook his head in annoyance. "I never should've listened to that guy," he muttered. "He's the one who got me messed up with the cops."
"I know," Joe ventured, stepping forward to join them. "He tried to pull the same trick on us. You're talking about those antique things he gave us, right?"
To Joe, it seemed as if Max's ears literally pricked up. "Yeah. The gold?" he said roughly. "Turns out he might have stolen it, you know."
"We found out the hard way." Frank played along with Joe. "Did he tell you where he got the stuff? I'm gonna punch whoever started this."
"He gave me some story about it coming from some sunken ship," Max drawled, warming up a little. "I never believed him, but he told me there was plenty more where that came from. He had to have smuggled it."
"He got a grand up front from us," Gina said.
"He told us the gold was worth five times that much," Max said. "That was over a week ago. He never delivered. We ain't heard from him since."
Joe glanced at Trepo and saw that he was buying their story. "We ought to brain him," Joe said, trying to sound tough. "Tell me where to find him, Max. Let me do us both a favor."
Max brightened for a moment, then shrugged. "I wait for him to call me here." He indicated
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the club. "Most of our deals are done by phone. And he always does the calling."
"You expecting another call soon?" Frank asked.
Max frowned. "He promised he'd call me here again tomorrow. But I can't hold my breath."
Joe snapped his fingers. "I have an idea. If he calls, you set up a meeting with him here for tomorrow night. We'll show up, too, and give him the third degree."
A slow grin appeared on Max's face. "I've got a better idea," he said. "I know a guy who'll fly in from Miami. He's got some funny ideas about how to handle double-crossers. You guys chip in, and he'll take Peter out for good."
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Gina stiffen. He tried to move between her and Max, but it was too late.
"No!" she cried out, stepping toward the crook.
"Huh?" Max turned to her.
"What she means is," Joe said, shouldering aside Gina, who looked livid, "what good would it do to get rid of him? He owes us money, and since the cops confiscated your gold, he still owes you money, too."
"Yeah, but I got my reputation to worry about," Max insisted.
"So do we," Joe said. "But we want our
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money. Leave Peter to us. We'll take care of him. Agreed?"
Joe heard the black car's engine rev at the end of the alley. One of the bodyguards had gotten out and was moving toward them.
Max straightened his shoulders and moved forward. "See you tomorrow," he muttered to Joe.
"Count on it," Joe called after him.
The three young people watched Max climb into his car. The headlights snapped on, casting long shadows into the alley.
Just before the car door closed, Max Trepo leaned out and stared back at Joe. "Like I said earlier," he called to him, "I'm giving my friend in Miami a call. Just in case you can't talk sense into Duvall on your own."
Joe squeezed Gina's arm before she could go after the crook. "Good idea," he called loudly.
"Oh, and one other thing." Max's voice sounded threatening. "My friend, the one in Miami, better think you three are on the level, too. I'd hate to think of what would happen to you if he didn't."
The door closed, and the car screeched away into the blackness.
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Chapter 10
"I don't believe this!" Gina leaned back against the wall as the sound of the car's engine faded in the distance. "My brother, a smuggler! It doesn't make sense!"
"There could be other explanations," Frank assured her. At the moment he couldn't think of any because the loud beat of the club's music prevented him from thinking clearly. Great, he said to himself. Now we get to deal with a Bahamian hood, a hit man from Miami, and whoever else is behind all this.
He followed Joe and Gina to her car, searching for a way out of this mess.
"If either of you had ever met Peter, you'd realize he couldn't have anything to do with this," Gina insisted, unlocking the car door.
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"There's got to be some explanation for that note in his handwriting on my windshield. Peter wouldn't have written that, he'd have warned me in person!"
"There's no use talking about this now," Frank decided. "We're too tired to come up with any answers."
As they turned onto the main road, he changed the subject and decided to give Gina something to do, something to think about besides Peter. "Do you think you could rent a boat for us tomorrow so we can replace the marker I took?"
"Sure." Drops of water splashed the windshield as it started to rain.
"And one more thing." Frank caught her eye in the rearview mirror after she switched on the windshield wipers. "I was wondering if you could show us a picture of Peter. We've been searching for him, and we don't even know what he looks like."
Gina blinked, startled. "Of course," she said. "We'll stop by my apartment."
By the time they reached Gina's street a river of water was rushing beside the curbstones. "This is some thunderstorm," Frank remarked as the three of them prepared to make a run for it.
"It happens a lot," Gina told him. "Summer's the rainy season. When we get inside, I'll make some tea."
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They splashed across the road to Gina's building, laughing in spite of themselves. When they reached Gina's upstairs apartment, she passed out towels and went into the kitchen to heat up the kettle.
"The photos are in the top dresser drawer," she called over her shoulder. "Help yourselves."
Frank opened the drawer and found an assortment of photographs and press clippings lying inside. Frank realized with a jolt that Gina had probably brought them along to use in missing-person posters or to show to the police.
"He looks like a nice guy," Joe remarked as they flipped through photographs showing Peter holding a swimming trophy, graduating from high school, and wearing scuba gear. Peter was just as Frank had heard him described: dark-haired, beardless, of medium height. Except for his intelligent, brown-eyed gaze, he could be one of a million other guys.
"Look at this," said Joe, picking up one of the clippings. Frank read silently along with him. The article, from the local paper, told of the Valiant's search for sunken treasure, and discussed the possibility that any findings should belong to the Bahamas.
"I bet that had Delaney up in arms for weeks," Frank remarked as Gina entered with the tea cups on a wooden tray.
"This is my favorite," she said, pointing to one of the photos. She lifted out another one of
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the clippings that included a picture of the entire Valiant crew. "This was taken on their first day aboard," she said. "Peter mailed it to me."
Frank took the clipping and examined the picture closely. The captain and Dr. Wills stood in the center, with Jason, Harry, Peter, Vic, Bob, and Alastair huddled around them.
"They all look so happy," Joe commented, peering over Frank's shoulder.
Frank nodded slowly. He wished he could have been a crew member before all the trouble had started.
"One diver dead," he murmured, picking up his cup of tea. "One missing. And a very suspicious underwater marker. I do wonder what's really going on."
"I think Poison is hiding something," Gina confessed after she'd passed a cup to Joe and took one for herself. "For one thing, he has my brother's ring. For another, he fiat-out lied to us about the Easy Life Hotel."
"Well, we've been acting weird lately," Joe pointed out. "We keep asking funny questions-- maybe he thinks we're responsible for what's been going on."
Gina shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe we'll get to the bottom of this tomorrow night, when my brother is supposed to show up at Waves," she said. "Meanwhile, I'll rent a boat tomorrow morning and pick you both up at the ship."
"Great," said Frank, setting his teacup down
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on the tray and standing up to go. "And stop worrying about Peter, Gina. We'll get our hands on him tomorrow, or else."
The rain had stopped by the time they all left Gina's apartment to get in her car. They skirted enormous puddles in the street. Halfway across, Gina stopped and clutched at Joe's arm.
"What's wrong?" Frank followed Gina's gaze, trying to see what had startled her.
"Behind that hedge--I thought I saw something move," she whispered.
Frank tensed. "Get in the back seat of the car," he ordered. "Lock the doors and put the keys in the ignition. We'll be right there."
This time Gina did as instructed. As soon as she was safely in the car, Frank and Joe sprinted toward the hedge she'd indicated. It was deserted, but Frank did see a shape running close to the curb halfway down the block.
He moved closer, with Joe right on his heels, and saw the figure climb onto a motorbike.
Joe started to run past his brother, but Frank reached out to stop him. "We'll make better time with the car," he whispered. Joe nodded, and the two of them raced back to the hatchback.
Gina had seen them coming and unlocked the doors. Joe and Frank jumped inside, Frank behind the steering wheel. The hatchback peeled rubber as it raced after the motorbike.
"Don't lose him!" Gina screeched as the cyclist, glancing at them over his shoulder, made
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a sudden left turn into a rain-drenched side street.
Slamming on the brakes, Frank swerved after him, churning up a spray of water as he sped through a complex maze of tiny streets.
"Can you make out who it is?" he called over his shoulder to Gina.
"No," she called back. "I don't think so."
"Faster!" Joe leaned forward, pointing to the left as the motorbike disappeared around another corner, sending a sheet of water into the intersection.
Veering left after the bike, Frank found that they were on a wide, straight highway. He was relieved because now the hatchback had the advantage. He stepped on the gas, easily gaining on the bike.
"Speed it up!" Joe urged, peering out the windshield and trying to identify the driver.
Clutching the steering wheel, Frank pressed harder on the accelerator. As he gained on the whining bike, he saw the cyclist glance quickly over his shoulder. For an instant his face behind the helmet was illuminated in the glare from the headlights.
"I knew it!" Joe fell back against his seat. "It's Poison! I'm sure of it!"
By now the car was so close to the bike that the spray from the bike splattered across their windshield. Alastair revved his engine and the motorbike pulled ahead slightly.
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Determined, Frank gunned his engine as well. Soon the car's fender was almost touching the bike's rear wheel. A beat-up station wagon roared past from the opposite direction, blaring its horn.
"What now?" Gina squinted at the wet windshield as though it were a TV with bad reception. "How do we make him stop?"
"I think he's going to turn." Frank had seen Alastair turn his head toward a narrow road leading to the right in the distance, then aim straight ahead again. "I'll back off a little and let him do it. Then I'll corner him at the next intersection."
But as Frank eased off the accelerator, disaster struck. Alastair faked to the left as he approached the side road, then cut his wheel sharply to the right to execute the turn. But the glossy surface hid a pothole beneath the water!
Frank watched, horrified, as Alastair's front wheel hit the hole, causing the back wheel to spin out and sending a cascade of water and mud onto the hatchback's windshield.
"Wait!" Frank snapped on the windshield wipers as he went into the right turn, but the wiper only smeared mud across the glass. He hit the brakes and quickly lowered his window to try to see what was in front of the car.
It was too late. Frank felt a bump and heard the crash of metal against metal. The car went into a skid. The split second in which it spun out
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of control seemed like minutes to the screaming occupants of the car.
At last the car came to a stop in the center of the narrow street. Frank checked his brother and Gina. "Everyone okay?"
Miraculously, both Joe and Gina responded. In fact, Joe was out of the car before Frank could stop him. Then Frank leapt out, too. "Stay in the car!" he yelled to Gina.
Joining his brother at the scene of the accident, Frank stared at the horrible sight before them. The mangled motorbike lay upside down on the pavement, its back wheel still spinning. Frank turned to see Alastair lying ten feet away, facedown in the mud.
"There he is!" Frank yelled, running over to the prone figure.
"What is it?" Gina cried from the car. "Is he all right?"
"Stay there!" Joe shouted back. He knelt down and placed a hand on Alastair's neck.
Then his eyes met Frank's. Frank didn't like what he saw there.
"Frank."
Frank heard Joe's voice as though through a mist.
"I think we might have killed him!"
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Chapter 11
"NO!" Frank bent over the figure sprawled facedown on the side of the road. Joe saw Frank's hand tremble as he reached down to feel for Alastair's pulse.
To Joe's immense relief, Alastair moaned just as Frank touched him. The biker pushed down on the muddy grass where he had landed and turned himself over.
Joe watched as Alastair's eyes focused on his brother. When he recognized Frank he jerked back, fear on his face.
"Please don't kill me!" he cried out. "I don't know nothing about the Valiant!"
"Nobody's out to kill you," Joe reassured him. "Just tell us why you were running from Gina's apartment."
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"Later for that," Frank cautioned his brother. "We need to get him to a doctor."
"No," Alastair protested. "I--I think I'm all right." He rose to a sitting position and rubbed his head. "Just let me sit here for a moment."
Joe started to protest, but when he saw Alastair's gaze move to and rest on the mangled wreckage of his motorbike in the road, he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he stood and crossed to the totaled vehicle, righted it, and wheeled it to the side of the road. It wobbled pitifully until Joe set it down near its injured owner.
"We'll haul it back in the hatchback," he told Alastair. "Maybe you can get it fixed."
Joe heard the car door open. Gina got out and ran to the group.
"There's a hospital in Freeport," she said breathlessly. "Can he walk?"
"Yes, yes, I'm all right," Alastair protested weakly. He stood up with some assistance from Frank. Joe supported his other side, and Gina wheeled the motorbike to the car.
"We'll get you checked out at the hospital, and then we want some answers to a few questions," Joe said firmly as they limped after her.
Once Frank had managed to get Alastair into the front seat and Gina and Joe had lashed the motorbike to the car's roof rack, Gina said she'd drive and switched on the ignition. "I know the way," she insisted as she washed the mud off
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the windshield. "Besides, you guys have done enough tonight."
They drove for a short time along the wet streets until Joe finally spotted a ramp leading to the hospital's emergency entrance. The place looked more like a resort hotel than a hospital, Joe thought. Palm trees lined the front of the building. If it weren't for the emergency sign, he would never have noticed it.
"You get on the other side," Frank said to Joe as he helped Alastair out of the car.
"I'll park and meet you inside," Gina called, and drove off toward the lot.
The two brothers helped Alastair into the reception area. Once inside, Joe approached the gray-haired receptionist as an orderly hurried to help Alastair onto a gurney.
"Our friend has had an accident," Joe told the gray-haired receptionist. "His motorbike was totaled on a side street."
The receptionist reached for a pad. "Wheel him over here," she ordered. "I need to ask you a few questions," she said directly to Alastair.
Joe nervously watched Alastair's expression as he was wheeled up to speak to the woman. The Bahamian's face was impassive. Joe couldn't tell what he might say.
"Yes, I have insurance," Alastair calmly told the woman, and provided the necessary information. But when she asked for details of the accident, Alastair shot a sharp look at Joe.
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"I hit a rut while riding my motorbike," Alastair answered. "My friends were behind me in their car. They saw the accident and helped me here."
"Good thing you were wearing that." She pointed to the black helmet Alastair still had on. "The doctor will examine you in a moment," she continued. "We'll go ahead and wheel you in."
Joe stood back as the orderly wheeled Alastair's gurney down the hall and out of view.
"Well, that was easy," Frank murmured as the two of them sat down to wait.
Joe turned as Gina entered, and he motioned to her to join them. "Yeah. But what was he doing at Gina's place?" he wondered.
"And why did he take off when he saw you guys coming?" Gina added.
Frank frowned. "Remember what he said to me on the road?" He looked at Joe.
"Yeah. Something about us killing him." Joe recalled the look of terror on Alastair's face.
"Why would he think that?" Gina asked.
"We were chasing him pretty hard," Frank admitted. "He might have thought he was running for his life."
"And he might have been," Joe said. "It depends on what his explanation would have been for spying on Gina!"
Joe heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he raised his eyes to see Sergeant Mylan turn the
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corner. The sergeant stopped as he recognized Frank and Joe, then walked slowly toward them.
"What brings you here?" he asked. "And who is your friend?"
"I'm Gina Daniels." She held out her hand.
"She works aboard the Valiant," Joe explained as the sergeant shook her hand. "One of the other crew members took a bad spill on his motorbike a little while ago. We're waiting for the doctor to finish his examination."
"Ah, an accident," the sergeant said almost sarcastically. "It appears ere wing aboard the Valiant is a very unlucky occupation. And you two seem always to be around during an emergency."
"What brings you here, Sergeant?" Frank asked.
"I'm here tonight because of the Harry Lyman incident. His family has requested that the body be sent back to Brooklyn. I wanted to be sure forensics had all the tests it needed before I gave the okay."
"Is the verdict still the same?" Frank asked.
The sergeant hesitated. "We've decided on one more analysis before I release the body on Monday," he said. "Just a formality really, but better to do it now while we still can."
Quickly he changed the subject. "How are things on board? Any signs of treasure yet?"
"We found something interesting on Wednesday's dive," Frank told him. "The lab report
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should be finished by the time we start work on Monday."
"So, you have tonight and tomorrow off," Mylan observed, frowning. "Just see that you stay out of trouble."
"Yes, sir," Joe said, curbing his temper.
The little sergeant nodded and started off, his heels echoing sharply across the floor.
"I don't like the way he talked down to us," Gina remarked as the doors shut behind him.
"Look at it from his perspective," Frank pointed out. "He's had a hard day. It's after midnight, and he's probably been sweeping up after the Valiant's disasters since dawn."
Joe glanced at Frank appreciatively. He, too, remembered the nights when their father, Fenton, had come home exhausted, hardly able to do more than have a bite to eat and fall into bed.
A short time later Joe spotted Alastair being pushed down the hall in a wheelchair. He was almost the old Poison again, grinning at the little group waiting for him.
"I'm not supposed to drive tonight," he announced as he joined them. "Otherwise, I'm okay."
"What a relief." Gina started for the door. "I'll bring the car around front."
"How'd you manage to avoid any broken bones?" Joe asked.
Alastair shook his head. "The doc said it must have been the soft earth I landed on. He said
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I was lucky to have been thrown free of the bike."
"Well, don't fall now," Joe said as the car arrived and he opened the door for Alastair. As the others watched, he stood unassisted, walked to the car, and eased himself into the front seat.
"Well done," Joe congratulated him as he and Frank climbed into the back. "And now that we know you're okay, we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Yeah. Like what were you doing sneaking around my apartment?" Gina turned to glare at him for an instant.
"I wasn't sneaking around," Alastair protested. "I'd come to tell you the news. Dr. Wills showed up with the lab report on that artifact Frank found. It turned out to be some kind of tacky souvenir, probably dropped by a tourist, and Captain Delaney is in a state."
"But there were two of them, exactly alike," Frank protested. "One got knocked out of my hands and slid out of reach. What are the chances that two 'souvenirs' would have fallen into the ocean together?"
Alastair shrugged. "Dr. Wills said the carbon date tests proved it was twentieth century for sure."
"Okay, but why did you want to tell me tonight?" Gina persisted. "You could've told me on Monday, when I showed up for work."
"I overheard the captain say we'd be pulling
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double shifts from now on," Alastair said mildly. "I thought you'd want to know that before you arrived on board. The rest of us would have been told tonight on ship, I'm sure."
"I can't believe it!" Gina exploded. "The crew's doing all it can now!"
"I knew you'd feel that way." Alastair's reaction was smug. "That's why I decided to let you know."
"Wait a minute," Joe interrupted. "We didn't hear you ring the doorbell. You were skulking around behind the hedges."
"I started to ring the bell," Alastair explained, "but then I saw you two coming down the stairs with Gina, and I backed away. I didn't know what to think--after all that's happened aboard ship. For all I knew, you were about to do Gina harm. So I hung around, ready to run. for help if necessary."
"That was when Gina spotted me."
"Why did you run?" Joe demanded.
Alastair laughed incredulously. "How did I know you didn't mean to hurt me? My plan was to try to get someplace safe and call the ship for help."
"Why all of this sudden concern for me?" Gina asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
Alastair frowned. "I have my reasons," he said. "In fact, I have one particular reason." He reached into his front pocket. "I really think you should have this."
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Joe peered through the darkness at the object in Alastair's hand. For an instant, it was illuminated by a passing street lamp. Joe heard Gina gasp. Alastair was giving her Peter's ring!
"Peter showed me many pictures of the sister he loved," Alastair said gently as Gina took the ring. "I recognized you from the start. I've done my best to look after you ever since. He gave me his ring to give to you, 'in case' was all he said."
Joe watched from the backseat, reluctant to abandon his suspicions.
"What about the Easy Life Hotel?" Joe insisted one more time. "Gina heard you mention it to Vic."
"I found a card with that name imprinted on it, and asked Vic if he knew anything about the place," Alastair explained wearily. "When you asked me about it, I didn't trust you enough to tell you anything."
"But now you trust us?" Frank asked.
Alastair smiled wryly. "Who knows? Should I?" he said. "For tonight at least, I have decided to trust you."
Gina had stopped the car in front of the dock where the Valiant lay at anchor, and her three companions climbed out.
"Drive home carefully," Joe cautioned her as he and Frank unloaded the motorbike onto the dock.
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"I'll see you tomorrow after I've arranged for the boat," she said.
As she drove away, Joe helped Alastair up the gangplank while Frank waited with the motorbike for them to make it to the top. Frank was startled just then by a voice booming down at him from above.
"There he is!" the voice roared. "The sneak thief, trying to pull another fast one!"
On deck Joe stumbled, caught himself, and peered out into the darkness. Captain Delaney was standing at the top of the gangplank, glaring down at Frank. There was a wild expression in his eyes.
Captain Delaney must have found out that Frank had taken the marker!
"Where do you have it stashed?" the captain shouted at Frank.
"Answer me!" he roared. "I mean you, Frank Hardy!"
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Chapter 12
"What are you talking about?" Frank gripped the handlebars of the ruined bike.
He stared up at the enraged captain, but his mind was racing. How had Delaney discovered the missing marker? How could he explain it? For some reason Sergeant Mylan's advice came back to him: "See that you stay out of trouble."
The captain seemed to swell in size. "You made a switch, didn't you?"
Frank steeled himself. "I don't know what you mean."
"I have Dr. Wills's report on that worthless piece of junk you handed over," Captain Delaney growled threateningly.
Piece of junk? Now Frank was really confused.
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He raised his head to Joe to see if his brother had figured things out.
"You don't mean the--" Joe stopped just before he said the word marker.
"I mean the artifact you brought up this week, Frank!" the captain roared. "I saw it with my own eyes and I tell you it wasn't from the twentieth century."
Frank sagged against the motorbike, weak with relief. The captain hadn't discovered the marker after all! Next to that, his misunderstanding over the artifact seemed trivial.
But it wasn't trivial to Captain Delaney.
"Sir, you saw me turn over exactly what I found, believe me," Frank said, trying to make him see reason. "Also, I never touched the artifact after I brought it up. Poison put it in a bag, and Dr. Wills took it to the lab."
"From now on, nobody touches the net sacks once they come to the surface but Dr. Wills and myself," Delaney ordered, still blustering but with little conviction and no rage. Frank had obviously jogged his memory about the incident.
"Yes, sir." Frank let out a sigh.
"Wet suits will be taken off on deck and searched," Delaney went on. "No one aboard is going to put the integrity of this expedition in jeopardy."
"We understand, sir," Joe said, relieved as Frank made his way up the gangplank with the bike. "Whatever you say."
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"I'm sure you're frustrated by the report, Captain," Frank added, leaning Poison's bike against the rail. "But I didn't have any opportunity to switch artifacts on deck. I want you to find that treasure almost as much as you do yourself."
"Well, someone switched it," the captain growled gracelessly. "For now, you can go get some sleep. But I'm keeping an eye on you." He turned to the others. "All three of you."
"Wow." Joe led Frank and Alastair to the cabins below. "I'd never seen him that mad before."
"He never felt like he lost an entire fortune before, I guess," Alastair remarked. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm glad today is over." He paused in front of his cabin door. "No hard feelings about tonight on my side."
"Not on ours, either," Joe said uncertainly. He shook Alastair's hand.
The trouble with giving up Alastair as a prime suspect, Frank realized, was that they didn't know who would replace him.
"No cracks about the breakfast, okay?" Gina said as Frank and Joe, freshly showered and refreshed, climbed into her car the next morning.
Frank examined the box of doughnuts and bottle of orange juice on the floor of the passenger seat. "Breakfast of champions," he remarked.
"Cut it out!" Gina laughed. "I've been up
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since seven, arranging stuff for today. And what have you guys been doing? Sleeping. This is to eat on the way to pick up the boat."
"What kind of boat did you rent?" Joe took the glazed doughnut Frank offered him.
"All I could get was a twelve-foot motorboat. Not much, but I figured it would do for our purposes." She accepted a doughnut from Frank, too. "I got the best wet suits and air tanks they had, but that's not saying much."
"Well, I'm up for it." Frank felt the marker and the sonar detector inside the nylon bag on his seat. "I just hope nobody sees us."
"That reminds me," Gina said. "I ran into Jason in town. He was picking up tickets for the boat races this afternoon. He said he was going to get there early for good seats."
"He must be going with Vic and Bob," Joe said. "Not a bad way to spend the day, if you don't have to cover up your brother's petty thefts."
"All right." Frank tossed a wadded-up napkin at his brother in the back seat. "I've been through enough over this so-called petty theft."
It was nine-thirty when Frank spotted the boat rental dock in Lucaya. "That's ours." Gina pointed to a four-seater that was all set to go with the gear laid out on the rear seat.
Frank nodded. Two suits, two tanks, fins, masks. "Everything seems to be in order," he said with satisfaction as Gina parked the car.
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"This time, I'm driving," Joe announced as the trio walked along the pier toward the inboard. Gina sat next to him as Frank checked out the equipment in the rear. He planned to enjoy just riding for a change. The weather was spectacular--except for a few choppy waves, the storm of the night before might never have happened. It was the kind of morning he'd been looking forward to.
"Do you know how to find the spot?" Frank heard Gina ask Joe as the boat bounced over the waves.
"I can locate it by sight," Joe shouted over the engine. "I memorized some landmarks last time we were there."
Frank gazed out at the area where he'd found the marker. Several boats dotted the water, and one in particular seemed anchored right about where they were going. Frank watched it idly for a moment, then sat up straight.
"That's funny," he shouted.
Gina turned to look at him.
"As soon as we started heading toward that boat, it pulled anchor and moved off."
"Maybe they thought we were crowding them," Gina suggested.
Frank didn't see how. There was more than enough room for everyone, but he said nothing. By the time Joe cut the ignition, Frank was already climbing into his wet suit.
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Joe began getting into his suit while Gina took his place at the wheel.
"Remember, keep your eye on the shoreline," he instructed as he suited up. "Pick out a landmark--"
"Joe, you're talking to a marine archaeologist," she reminded him. "I think I can handle a boat alone."
"Just checking." Joe grinned, embarrassed.
Meanwhile, Frank dug out a rope from under the backseat and tied one end to a metal hook on the port side. He got out a lead weight and tied it to the other end so the line would sink to the bottom.
"We can use this as a signaling device," he explained. "We'll give it a tug if anything goes wrong below. Gina can do the same topside."
Gina nodded.
"We each have an hour's worth of air," Frank continued, taking the marker and the sonar detector box out of his nylon duffel. "I think two twenty-minute dives should do it, but we'll have extra air if we have to go down again."
Gina seemed to be a little concerned. "Be careful down there, both of you," she said.
"We will." Joe saluted her. Then he and his brother went over the side.
As always, Frank was amazed by the beauty of the underwater world as he slipped beneath the surface. Breathing slowly, he gazed through his mask at the dark blue water and exotic fish.
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He checked out Joe, who also seemed enchanted by the view.
As they sank slowly down to the ocean floor, Frank grabbed the line that dangled from their boat and handed it to Joe. Joe gave it an experimental tug, got one back, and signaled thumbs-up to his brother.
About twenty yards to the left of their landing site Frank recognized the area he'd explored before. In the past few days the shifting sands had begun to disguise the ocean floor, but the deep chasm was unmistakable. Frank swam slowly along one edge, trying to get his bearings.
Ten minutes later Frank came upon the marker he'd left where he had found the pair of identical objects. Following his trail backward, he swam along the edge of the chasm to the place where he'd found the white, sonar-equipped cube.
This is easier than I'd expected, Frank thought as he replaced the sonarless marker with the original one. Joe hovered to one side, keeping one hand on the signal line.
Once the marker was in place Frank felt a huge surge of relief. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable he'd been knowing that at any moment the person who planted the sonars might discover one was missing.
Frank decided to see what lay in the opposite direction. He tapped Joe's shoulder and indicated that he should follow.
At first it seemed a waste of time. None of
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the outcroppings appeared to be remarkable, and without the Air Lift it was difficult to sort out the different barnacle-covered shapes.
Frank was about to return to his original course when Joe signaled him.
Frank swam after his brother and peered down at the place Joe indicated. Excited, he turned and gave the thumbs-up sign to Joe.
Jutting up from the sand was another one of the white markers. Frank lifted it up in the water. He nodded exaggeratedly. It seemed heavy. He'd bet anything it concealed a sonar.
They swam on, faster now, heading in the same direction. Soon Joe spotted another white marker lying in the sand. He showed it to Frank, who inspected it and nodded again.
These led in the opposite direction from the trail the Valiant has been following, Frank observed. Apparently, someone knows--or thinks he knows--where the sunken treasure really is. And that someone is keeping it a secret.
Frank pondered this as he and Joe continued following the markers. He knew that in one more week Captain Delaney would be out of funds. Could it be that the captain was deliberately misleading the crew so he wouldn't have to share the profits with them after the week was over? If so, did he dive alone to set up the markers? Or was he working with someone? One of the crew members? Or was there another
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explanation? Frank's mind reeled with possibilities.
Joe caught Frank's eye and pointed to his watch. They'd told Gina they'd be down only twenty minutes on the first dive. Frank realized they'd been down twenty-five already.
Though he hated to tear himself away from the trail of sonar, Frank gave Joe the okay sign and started to adjust the valve in his BC jacket. He raised his eyes to the tether Joe held in his hand--and felt as though his heart had stopped beating!
Frank reached out slowly, grabbing Joe's shoulder, and began shaking it.
Puzzled, Joe followed Frank's finger pointing up.
A black shape hovered high above their heads, then all at once began spiraling down toward them.
Frank shook Joe's shoulder harder. Joe squinted against the sunlight that pierced the water's surface.
The shape was vaguely familiar.
Then all too soon it became extremely familiar.
Circling down upon them, with its jaws agape, was an enormous shark!
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Chapter 13
NOOOO! The silent scream echoed in Joe's head. He stared up at the shark, willing himself not to panic. He yanked on the rope, signaling Gina that something was wrong. Beyond that, he could do nothing, yet. Unarmed, Joe knew they were no match for the beast.
In the instant before the shark arrived, everything Joe had ever read about them passed through his mind in a blur. If only we'd brought spear guns, he thought desperately. At least an electric prod! Sharks hadn't been a problem in the dives off the Valiant because they usually didn't swim so close to shore--at least that was what he'd thought.
The shark was no more than fifteen yards away. Come up with something--fast! Joe told
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himself. He looked over at Frank, who was treading water, moving slowly one way, then the other.
Suddenly Joe's head cleared and logic took over. The sonar detector!
Joe spotted it hanging from Frank's belt. He signaled his brother to use it. At first, Frank didn't seem to understand. Then, just as the shark swam closer to Joe than Frank was himself, he understood.
Just count to ten, Joe said to himself, bracing himself against a mound of rock as he waited for the shark's first attack. He watched intently as Frank fumbled with his equipment belt, managed to unclip the sonar, and held it tightly in his hand.
Eight, seven, six ...
Frank pushed the sonar detector's red button, but to Joe's horror, nothing happened. Then Frank realized his mistake. He swam closer to one of the markers and prepared to try again.
Five, four ... By now the shark was close enough for Joe to see the rows of teeth inside its gaping jaw. Why me? Joe wondered briefly as he gripped the communications rope and got ready to fight for his life.
Once again Frank pressed the sonar button.
At first the ploy had no effect.
But then suddenly the attacking giant faltered, confused. Inches from Joe's torso, it veered away and drifted several yards to the left.
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Joe had just started to relax when the shark rallied and circled for another attack.
Ten. Joe stood motionless as the beast charged him for the second time. But again it veered at the last instant and swam past him.
Joe watched it go. It headed for the marker, churning the waters of the ocean's sandy bottom in a wild attempt to get to the device.
Frank backed off quickly, signaling Joe to break for the surface. Joe held on to the rope as they made their ascent, hoping the shark's attraction to the marker would last long enough for them to make it to the boat safely.
Never thought I'd see that again, he admitted to himself as the boat's outline became visible on the surface. He swam steadily right behind Frank, not daring to look back as he raced to safety.
Alerted by Joe's frantic pulls on the rope, Gina waited with the rope ladder at the side of the boat. "What happened?" she cried as Frank and Joe broke the surface of the water. She reached out to Joe and helped pull him onto the boat.
"Shark!" was all Joe could say.
Gina gasped. She helped pull Frank out of the water, just as the shark's fin broke the surface a short distance away.
"Wow." Gina stared at the enormous fin as the brothers pulled off their equipment, gasping for breath. They watched it cut through a wave
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not ten yards from the boat. Joe sat, awestruck at how close disaster had been.
"We'll have to remember to tell Dan Fields about that one," Joe finally said as the shark swam away.
Gina still looked shaken. "Are you both all right?"
"Sure." Frank appeared as calm as ever. He held the black sonar detector up for Joe to see. "That makes the second time this little device you wanted to leave at the airport has come in handy," he pointed out smugly.
"Hey, let's not forget I was the one who remembered that article about the World War Two navy experiments."
"What experiments?" Gina asked.
"The navy was testing sonar as a possible shark repellent," Joe explained. "But it turned out that, instead of being repelled by it, the sharks were attracted to the sound. They can't get enough of it, in fact."
"You mean that monster passed up your tasty limbs for some boring electrical impulses?" Gina teased.
"You could put it that way," Joe said.
"We haven't told you the good news yet," Frank added. "We found a trail of sonars down there. I'll bet they lead straight to the Doha Bonita!"
"So someone really has secretly marked out a path." Gina frowned. "But who?"
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"Someone who wants it all for himself." Joe unzipped the jacket of his wet suit and gazed out over the water.
The shark, still in the area, was lunging through the water, its huge jaws still open. Joe frowned, watching more closely. The beast seemed to be in a feeding frenzy.
"What's going on?" he asked nobody in particular.
Frank was also watching the shark's movements, but his gaze shifted slightly and he peered at the water a short distance from the boat.
"Why didn't I notice that before?" he said. He pointed to a number of dark shapes floating just beneath the waves. As one surfaced, Joe saw that it was a hunk of meat drifting in the current.
"Whoever left that trail down below really wants to discourage visitors," Frank said grimly. "He's baited the water to attract sharks. It's amazing there aren't more around."
"Remember the boat that pulled away as we approached the site?" Joe asked.
Frank nodded. "I guess whoever it was didn't want us to get close enough to recognize him."
"Shouldn't we head back in?" Gina asked. "With that shark circling, there's no way we can do any more diving today."
The brothers agreed, and Joe began hauling in the rope they had used as a tether. He had
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pulled in only about three yards when he held the end up in the air. "Look at this," he said. The shark had neatly severed the rope at that point!
"That could have been one of our legs," Joe said, staring at the ragged end of rope.
"As it is, there goes part of our deposit," Frank joked weakly. Joe grinned, but he noticed that Gina didn't crack a smile.
"Thirty dollars!" Joe complained when the rental clerk subtracted the cost of the rope from their deposit. "That's highway robbery!"
"Piracy's more like it," Gina commented dryly, leading them to her car. "But a small price to pay, considering it might have saved your lives."
She checked Frank for a reaction, but the older Hardy appeared to be lost in thought. "I know," she said. "One more favor, right?"
Frank looked surprised as they climbed into the hatchback. "I was just wondering whether I could borrow one of your newspaper clippings about the Valiant. The one with the picture of the crew."
"Sure, but why?" Gina turned the key in the ignition.
"Just a hunch," Frank told her. "Also, I was hoping Joe and I could borrow your car for a few hours."
"You want to go somewhere without me?"
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"Where to?" Joe asked from the back seat.
"I want to pay another visit to Waves. I just hope Max Trepo hangs out there as much as I think he does."
As they waited in the car for Gina to return with the newspaper clipping, Joe wondered what his brother was up to. Frank was in one of those moods, Joe observed, in which he refused to share his suspicions with anyone.
I hate it when he's like this, Joe thought gloomily. After that encounter with the shark, all his own theories about disappearances and thefts seemed to have flown out the window. All he wanted now was to eat lunch and sleep.
"Here you go." Gina handed Frank the clipping through the open window. "Sure I can't come with you?"
"Thanks." Frank avoided her question. Joe knew his brother thought Waves was too dangerous for them to bring Gina along, but he didn't want to tell her so. "We'll be back soon," he added, putting the car into gear.
Joe waved as Gina stepped back onto the sidewalk.
When the green hatchback pulled into the parking lot at Waves, Joe counted only eight or ten cars parked there. "Look." He pointed at Max's black car with the tinted windows. "Our hero's arrived before us."
"I figured," Frank said with obvious satisfaction.
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"Guys like Max have to hang around places like this all day. It's the only way they can feel in charge."
Joe was disappointed at how run-down the club really was. In the daylight it resembled a truck stop, Joe decided, and a shabby one at that.
Once inside, Joe immediately spotted Max sitting in a booth, reading the paper.
"Hey, Max," Frank said, sitting down across the table from the skinny man. "Any luck setting up that meeting with Pete Duvall?"
Max turned his head to stare at him through half-closed lids. He didn't seem a bit surprised to see them there, Joe noted. "I'm waiting for his call now," Max told them. "That's why I'm hanging out."
"You sure he'll call?" Joe mumbled.
"Would I be here if I wasn't?" Max snarled. "I'm busy. You boys come back tonight like we planned."
Joe watched Max go back to reading the paper. He could sense that Frank was about to put his plan into action--whatever his plan might be.
"Yeah, Duvall has some nerve, keeping a guy like you hanging," Frank said smoothly, shooting a look to Joe.
"He sure does," Joe drawled, picking up the salt shaker and playing with it. "He's going to be on easy street, raking in all the big bucks,
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while we're out a grand and you're out on bail, waiting to be sentenced."
Joe hid his amusement as he saw Max's face redden at the thought.
"It makes me sore the way some guys think they can use other people," Joe heard Frank observe beside him.
"Yeah." Joe set the salt shaker down. "Like some people get off scot-free, loaded with dough. While other guys spend some of their best years locked up in jail."
"We'll take care of him tonight." Max slapped the paper with the palm of his hand.
"Good. Because guys like that need to be taught a lesson," Joe went on. He hoped he wasn't hamming it up too much. "Otherwise they think they can spend their lives hanging out with the society crowd, throwing their money around while the rest of us rot out here in the boonies."
Joe flashed a quick look at Max. The crook was squirming uncomfortably in the booth. Joe figured his blood pressure must be rising.
"You're right," Frank said, pressing harder now. "Look, our guy even gets his picture in the paper like he's some kind of hero, just because he's diving for some sunken wreck." He laid the newspaper article on the table in front of Max. "And what did he do when he found the treasure? He sold it to you and sent you to the clink!"
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Joe was sure the tactic had worked. Max was in a rage now. "He doesn't know who he's fooling with," the crook grumbled. He turned his attention to the photo, speaking directly to it. "I'll see you get what's coming to you, buddy. First thing tonight!" Max jabbed his finger at Peter's image.
There was only one thing wrong.
Joe glanced at his brother, then back at the paper. There was no mistake. Max Trepo was pointing to Jason Matthews!
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Chapter 14
"That's Peter Duvall?" Frank asked, pointing to Jason's image in the photo.
"Sure!" Max exclaimed. "Hey, hold on a minute. I thought you said you knew him."
Frank looked at his brother. He couldn't believe his ears. So it was Jason who'd been behind it all along! He stood up abruptly.
"Thanks, pal. You've been a great help," he said, pumping Max's hand. The small-time hood stared blankly after him as he and Joe left the club.
On the way to Gina's, Frank silently celebrated while Joe tried to put it all together. "It must have been Jason who phoned Max at Waves, telling him we were on our way there to give him trouble."
"And he baited the water out by our diving
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site. That's what he was up to in Lucaya when Gina ran into him this morning," Frank added. "He must have guessed we'd go to the site and waited there until he saw us."
"Now all we have to do is find him," Joe said grimly.
"Wait a minute, Joe. He couldn't have done everything on his own. One of the other crew members has to be in on it with him."
"And there's still the question of what happened to Peter Duvall," Joe said.
Frank didn't like the answer that came immediately to mind. So he changed the subject. "Unless I miss my guess, Jason is probably about to clear out. He knows we're onto him. There's no way he's going to stick around." Frank rounded the corner onto Gina's street.
They parked out front and rang Gina's bell. As she opened the door, Frank saw that she'd changed clothes and was brushing her hair, which was damp.
"Good thing you got back early," she said. "I need the car to run some errands."
"Can you drop us off at the Valiant first?" Frank asked. "We just received some information that we need to look into."
"Let me get my wallet." A moment later she had joined the boys and was following them back to the car.
"Is this all top secret or are you going to let me in on it?" Gina asked as the car flew down
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the road toward the docks. "Have you found out something more about Peter?"
"As soon as we're sure, we'll tell you all about it," Frank promised.
Gina was disappointed, he noted, but he was relieved that she didn't question him further.
Ten minutes later Frank and Joe got out of the car at the dock. "My errands shouldn't take long," Gina called as they headed for the ship. "I'll be back in half an hour."
"She's determined to find out what we know," Joe warned his brother.
"I know," said Frank. "And I wish I didn't have to tell her."
He raised his eyes to the Valiant. It appeared to be deserted. Frank led the way to the cabins.
"Time for a major confrontation," he told Joe as they neared Jason's cabin. Frank heard noises coming from behind the open door.
Frank peered inside. Jason was hurriedly stuffing his things into a bag. His room was a mess. Drawers hung open, and clothes were scattered about. A torn and crumpled letter lay on the bed beside the suitcase.
"Going somewhere?" Frank's voice startled Jason. He turned, and a look of desperation crossed his face.
"We had a little chat with Max Trepo a while ago," Frank said calmly. "He identified a photo of you as being Peter Duvall."
"We also want to thank you for introducing
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us to some of the larger forms of sea life in the Bahamas," Joe added sarcastically.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Jason continued cramming things into his bag. "Anyway, I'm leaving. The captain says the lab report on the artifact y'all found came back negative. This little expedition is headed nowhere."
"But the captain has only Dr. Wills's word on the lab report, doesn't he?" Frank tried to make the dark-haired boy meet his gaze.
Jason refused. His eyes flickered about the room, searching for a way out.
Keeping his eye on Jason, Frank picked the crumpled piece of paper up off the bed. It seemed to have been torn in half. Frank separated the two halves and inspected them.
"Leave that alone!" Jason lunged for the paper. "That's none of your business!"
Joe held Jason back as Frank read the note aloud. " 'Dear Gina, Just a note to tell you I think I'm really onto something aboard the Valiant. I'm convinced that a couple of the crew are trying to sabotage Captain Delaney's mission and wind up with everything for themselves. I think I have the proof, too! I can't tell you any more, because if anything happens to me I want you to ...' "
The note was torn at that point. It appeared to Frank that a sentence or two had been removed.
But Joe remembered the day at the Easy Life Hotel and the note they'd found on the windshield.
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Speaking in a monotone, he filled in the missing line. " 'Keep out of this. Believe me you won't be able to handle it.' "
Frank stared at him. Then he finished reading the rest of Peter's letter. " 'Remember, I love you and can't wait to see you and the folks soon. Peter.' "
Frank saw that Joe was boiling mad. He grabbed the southerner by the shirt. "All right, you slime," he growled, "what happened to Gina's brother?"
Frantic, Jason reached out for the suitcase to swing up toward Joe's chin. Joe avoided the blow but did let go of Jason in the process. "Get him!" he yelled to his brother as Jason rushed out the door.
Frank charged after the lanky young man, but Jason turned and flung the bag in Frank's direction.
Frank ducked as the bag hit the wall behind him. He made a flying leap for Jason, knocking him to the floor in the passageway.
"All right!" Joe rushed over and yanked Jason to his feet, slipping his arms under the Southerner's shoulders in a viselike grip.
"I asked you a question." Joe's face was red with anger. "What happened to Peter Duvall?"
The pain made it hard for Jason to answer. He struggled, trying to free himself from Joe's grasp. Joe pulled him back into his cabin.
Once inside Frank walked around to address
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the guy face-to-face. "We know you had to be working with someone else," he said, making Jason look him in the eye. "I've got a pretty good idea who it is. But if you want, we can let the police straighten this out."
"I don't think either of you boys is going to do much talking to the police after we get through with you."
Frank tensed. He knew without turning around that the voice belonged to Dr. Benjamin Wills.
"I wondered whether you were still around," Frank said, keeping all traces of emotion out of his voice.
"Yes, I'm still here. But I'm afraid we won't be able to say the same for you two in a little while."
Although Frank's back was to the doctor, he could see his reflection in the mirror on the door of the shower. Dr. Wills held a medical bag in his left hand, and in his right was a .38 revolver aimed straight at Frank's head.
"Now, Joe, why don't you let go of my friend and sit over there on the bed?" Wills said softly. "Go on, both of you!" He gestured to the bed with the weapon.
Joe released his grip on Jason. He and Frank moved over to the bed. Jason stood next to the doctor, rubbing his neck and shoulders.
"The police know all about this, you know," Frank said loudly. "We talked with Sergeant Mylan after our meeting with the shark this morning. He's probably on his way here right now."
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"All the more reason to take care of you quickly and clear out for good," Dr. Wills responded with a sinister smile.
Frank knew the doctor's tone was infuriating Joe. "You'll never get off the island," Joe said to them. "The police will check the docks and the airport."
"Perhaps you've forgotten about my private plane, my friend. There are private runways all over this island."
Frank let out his breath. The doctor had his escape worked out pretty well. Frank wondered whether Gina would show up soon--or a minute too late.
"I want to know what you did with Peter Duvall," Frank insisted, stalling for time. "Where is he?"
Dr. Wills only laughed. "Jason, take this." He handed the gun to him. "If they try anything, shoot to kill."
"I asked about Peter Duvall," Frank reminded the doctor as Jason proudly took over his assignment, pointing the weapon at the Hardys.
"I'm afraid Mr. Duvall got to be a major nuisance to us," Dr. Wills said. "He was snooping around, like you two, and he found out too much."
"Where is he?" Joe shouted, red-faced. Frank put a hand on his brother's arm to restrain him. "Floating out in the channel somewhere
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between here and Nassau." Jason laughed as though it were a great joke.
Frank's stomach tightened. He had feared that might be the case, but up to now he had hoped that he was wrong.
"We'll never be able to tell her." Joe could barely speak the words.
"Don't worry," Dr. Wills said, setting his medical bag on the bed and sitting next to it. "Neither of you will be in any condition to do any talking about anything, to anyone, anymore."
Frank stared at the black bag. "I guess that's how you killed Harry Lyman, isn't it?" he said. "I remember when he came back from his physical, he held his hand under his arm."
"You're very observant and very clever." Dr. Wills opened the bag. "Observant enough to know he was probably given a shot under the arm, where the hair follicles help conceal any needle marks from the coroner's examination."
Frank faced the doctor. "I've also figured out that a shot of potassium chloride will produce a fatal arrhythmia, or heart attack."
"You amaze me," Dr. Wills said, studying each of them in turn. "Too bad that such vast knowledge has only landed you in this, shall we say, unfortunate situation."
Frank watched Dr. Wills open the bag and take out a syringe and two ampules. "The choice of potassium chloride was a good one." Dr. Wills looked at Frank. "Don't you think?"
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"Yes," Frank said bitterly. "After a dive, the body naturally produces a greater supply of potassium in the bloodstream. During the autopsy, the coroner wouldn't find it unusual to find large amounts if the victim had dived that day."
"A-plus!" Dr. Wills broke off the seal on the syringe and inserted it into one of the small vials.
"Why can't we let them have it with this?" Jason asked, waving the gun.
"Too noisy," the doctor said. "Gunshots could attract unwanted guests who might get in the way of our escape."
"Harry found out about the sonar and the way you were leading Captain Delaney astray with the search, didn't he?" Joe asked, knowing the answer already.
"I think you boys have learned enough for one day." Wills stared at Frank, and his tone changed. "Roll up your sleeve," he ordered.
Frank glanced at Joe, whose forehead was creased. He must have been trying to think of some way to help. Then his gaze switched to Jason, who smirked as he crossed to the doorway for a better view, keeping the gun pointed at them.
Dr. Wills assumed a mock bedside manner as he poised the needle over Frank's arm.
"Just relax," he said softly, positioning his thumb on the plunger. "This won't hurt a bit."
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Joe watched helplessly as Dr. Wills aimed the syringe filled with a lethal dose of potassium chloride at Frank's arm. What now? he asked himself. I've got to do something!
Just then the room exploded with the noise of a gun being fired. A wild bullet came from nowhere, narrowly missing Joe's head and hitting the wall behind him.
"What--" Dr. Wills looked up in time to see Jason fall to the floor, his gun skittering across it.
Joe realized that Alastair had burst into the room and had tackled Jason from behind. He must have been listening in the hallway, Joe thought excitedly as the crewman subdued the lanky Southerner.
Frank landed a single neat uppercut on Dr.
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Wills's jaw, then Joe went after him and pulled him away from his brother.
"Frank!" It was Alastair. Jason was beginning to get the better of their fight.
As Joe held off the flailing doctor, Frank went over to help Alastair with Jason, who had his right leg drawn up to deliver a deadly kick to the floored Bahamian's head.
"The gun, Frank!" Joe shouted.
But the gun had slid under the edge of the bed, out of Frank's reach. Joe landed a solid right cross on Wills's chin, knocking him backward and offering Joe a quick glimpse of Frank blocking Jason's kick to Alastair. As Wills staggered to his feet again, Frank flipped Jason backward, while Alastair rolled into a ball and spun free.
Joe turned toward Alastair, and Wills took advantage of the moment to land a right hook to Joe's left temple. Joe cried out and stumbled backward, his head reeling.
As he fell, Joe became vaguely aware of Alastair making a dive for the gun.
"Wait a minute," Joe mumbled weakly, but it was too late.
Jason had thrown Frank off and was now leaping over Joe for the gun as well.
Joe fought for consciousness as Alastair and Jason both reached for the weapon at the same time. In Joe's confusion, the gun seemed to be an inch or two in front of his nose. He stood up
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shakily, knocking the gun across the floor with his foot, and lurched toward Dr. Wills.
"Where'd it go?" Jason staggered after the missing gun, but he failed to reach it. Joe pulled back to smash Wills's face with his fist just as Frank made a flying leap, landing on Jason with all the force of a steamroller.
The Southerner's wind was knocked out of him as Frank pulled him to his feet and delivered a final blow to his midsection.
"That way, Frank!" Joe yelled as he ducked one of Dr. Wills's killer rights, then grabbed the doctor's extended hand and, with all his remaining energy, threw him to the ground.
Wills fell to the floor like a rag doll. Joe swayed above him, while Alastair cried out, "The gun, on the floor near you!"
Joe looked down to see the gun spinning at his feet. It reminded him of a hockey puck. Dulled by the fighting, he kicked it over to Alastair.
Alastair picked up the revolver and held it on the two thieves. Frank and Joe relaxed, trying to catch their breath.
Finally Joe spoke. "I think there are a couple of cells with your names on them at the jailhouse in Freeport."
"But I'm afraid your stay will probably last longer than overnight," Frank added.
"Come on, fellas," Wills said nervously. "Let's keep this just between us. There'll be more than enough gold for everyone to share."
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"Yeah, we know," Frank said. "That's why Captain Delaney agreed to share it. He wanted all the people who helped find the Dona Bonita to get rich."
Joe tried to control his temper. "No deals, Wills," he said. "The only deals you'll make from now on will be with a deck of cards--playing solitaire in your cell."
Jason slumped down onto the bed, his hands covering his face. "You told me it was a foolproof plan," he moaned.
"Listen to reason," Dr. Wills pleaded with Joe.
To show him they meant business Joe crossed over to where the needle and vial now lay on the floor. He brought his foot down, grinding them into the floor with his shoe.
"Poison, keep that gun aimed right where it is. We're going to pay a visit to Sergeant Mylan. I think he'll be glad to see this case wrapped up," Frank said calmly.
"All right, you two, start walking." Alastair spat out the order.
Dr. Wills glanced at the .38, then started slowly for the cabin door. Jason followed the doctor, his eyes fastened on the floor.
Alastair went out next, with Frank behind him. Joe paused just long enough to gather the shredded halves of Peter Duvall's letter. He thought of Gina and felt queasy again. He dreaded having to tell her about her brother's death.
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"Just keep walking and go up the companion-way. Don't try anything foolish," he heard Frank say. Joe hurried to catch up with them.
The passage was too narrow to walk three abreast, so the group marched toward the stairs in single file.
As Dr. Wills reached the bottom step, Joe heard footsteps on the deck above. "Gina!" he called.
"Joe, are you down there?" Gina appeared at the top of the stairs. "Is everything all right?"
She started down the stairs when she realized that Alastair was holding a gun. "What's going on?" she said sharply.
"Get out of here!" Joe bellowed. But it was too late.
Dr. Wills lunged forward and grabbed Gina's arm, pulling her in front of him to use like a shield. Joe gasped. Wills now had Gina between him and Alastair!
"Don't shoot!" Frank yelled. He and Joe watched helplessly as Jason lunged up the steps, too, and positioned himself behind the doctor and Gina.
"Well, things seem to have taken a turn for the better. For us, anyway, wouldn't you say?" Jason said, taunting the Hardys.
Joe itched to make a move for Wills, but he was too far back in line. Frank started forward, but Wills had anticipated that.
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"One more step and I'll snap her back in two like a matchstick," Wills said, his eyes ablaze.
"You hurt her and I'll--" Joe's face flushed red with anger.
"You're in no position to give warnings, my friend." Dr. Wills gave the words a cruel edge. "Poison, toss the gun down the hall to my friend Jason, or I'll show you all how easy it is to crack a spinal column in two. Believe me, I'm fully prepared to demonstrate if you choose not to cooperate," he threatened.
Dr. Wills inched down the companionway toward the trio, shoving Gina ahead of him. Alastair looked to the Hardys for help.
"I'm not joking." The doctor increased the pressure on Gina's arm, which he held twisted behind her. "Do as I say or so help me, I'll keep my promise."
"Do it!" Joe snapped at Alastair.
The Bahamian hesitated but finally bent close to the floor and slid the revolver down the passageway. It came to rest at Jason's feet.
"Now you're behaving sensibly," Wills said.
Once Jason had his hands on the .38, Dr. Wills shoved Gina down the last two steps and into the trio before him. Joe saw Frank's arms reach out to steady her.
"It's time you did some marching," the doctor said through his teeth. "Get back into Jason's cabin, all of you!"
The group turned around and walked back
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toward the small room. These might be the last moments of my life, Joe couldn't help thinking. It was hard to believe. He tried to remember why he had pleaded with his father to let him take this job.
"Empty your pockets," the doctor said. "Throw everything on the bed." He seemed in a hurry now. After they complied, the doctor scanned their belongings, taking only the keys from each pile.
"This is a waste of time. Let's just let them have it with this!" Jason said, holding the revolver out in front of him.
"No need for that. I have a better idea." Dr. Wills pocketed the keys, glancing regretfully at the smashed hypo and vial on the floor. "That would have been the perfect solution," he admitted. "But no matter. Go to the lounge quickly and get all the magazines and newspapers you can find," he ordered Jason.
Jason was confused. The doctor continued, "On your way back, litter the hallway with them. It's a bit chilly in here. I think we could use a little fire to warm things up, don't you?"
Joe stared at his brother and then at Gina, who seemed to be in shock, unable to believe her ears.
But Jason seemed pleased as he ran out the door to carry out his orders.
"All right, everyone on the floor," Dr. Wills said, backing toward the doorway. "You'll only
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be uncomfortable for a little while, until the fire reaches the fuel tank. Then it'll all be over in a flash."
Joe could hear Jason spreading the paper down the hallway as Dr. Wills backed out of the room. He glanced over at Gina, whose face was almost expressionless with terror.
Joe peeked back over his shoulder. At the open doorway, Dr. Wills had stopped and taken a book of matches from his pocket. He checked out the cabin one last time, making sure there was no chance of escape.
Then he handed the matches to Jason, turned, and left.
Joe could only watch helplessly as Jason gazed at the four captives and laughed. Joe shuddered. He had heard laughs that crazy before, but he had never been on the losing end of one. As he watched, Jason struck a match and held it aloft, savoring the moment.
"So long, suckers," Jason said, flicking the match onto the pile of papers. Then he slowly closed and locked the cabin door.
Instantly Joe and the other prisoners started moving around the cabin, searching for a way out.
But Joe knew it was no use. His eyes met Gina's. She, too, knew there was no escape. Any moment the fire would reach the fuel tank, and the entire ship would explode!
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Chapter 16
"The porthole!"
Frank responded to Gina's suggestion as though it were a command. He ran to the single porthole in the room. But it was only a foot in diameter. Even Gina, Frank knew, would never be able to squeeze through.
Think, Frank told himself. He knew they were losing valuable time. While they were trapped inside this inferno, Dr. Wills and Jason were making their escape.
"This door is solid steel," Frank heard Joe yell. He looked over to see his brother pressing his weight against the door. His gaze faltered, then fell on the bookcase next to the door frame.
Something about a bookcase, he told himself vaguely. What was it? A door? Harry's room?
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Startled, Frank approached his brother. "The ice pick!" he shouted. "What?" Joe stared at him as though he'd gone mad.
"The ice pick!" Frank yelled, pounding the door. "Harry used it when he locked himself in!"
Joe's jaw dropped open. "Brother," he said, "you've just saved all our lives. Let's hope all the cabin doors on this ship are equipped with the same safety release."
Kneeling to inspect the latch mechanism, Joe crowed in triumph. "This one does!" he shouted. "But what do we use for a pick?"
"There has to be something here," Frank said, moving toward the closet. But Gina stopped him, guessing what he was looking for.
"It's stripped bare," she informed him. "Not one hanger on the rod."
The smoke was growing dense in the room. This was insane. There had to be something they could use to set themselves free.
"Is there anything on that scrap heap?" Joe asked, gesturing toward the piles of belongings from their pockets, which had been laid out on the bed.
Frank stared at the items. His eyes widened. He picked up Alastair's ballpoint pen, which lay half hidden by the edge of the blanket.
"I already thought of that," said Alastair, coughing from the smoke that was filling the
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room. "It's too wide to fit into the tiny opening."
"But the ink tube isn't." Frank unscrewed the cap of the pen and was at the door by the time he finished speaking.
"I may have to force it, but I think it'll work!" he exclaimed. It was a a tight fit, but the metal tube finally penetrated the chamber. Frank kept inserting it until the tube met with some resistance. Then he gave it one more push, and heard something click inside.
The others cheered wildly as Frank wrapped the end of his shirt around the searing-hot handle and twisted it to the right. The door swung open! But the group's joy was short-lived as flames entered the cabin.
"Strip the blankets," Frank snapped. Joe quickly obeyed. The brothers gathered Alastair and Gina underneath the blankets and headed toward the door.
As they moved through the doorway, Frank said, "Make a run for it, and whatever you do, don't stop along the way!"
Crouching as low to the ground as possible, the group ran in single file. Frank guided them through the smoke from memory, feeling his way to the companionway. It was only when they reached the top that Frank threw off the smoldering blankets and tossed them out into the water.
"The fire extinguisher!" Alastair coughed as
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he spoke. "There's one on this deck." He raced toward it before they could stop him.
"No, wait!" Frank called. "You can't fight that thing alone!" But Alastair was already on his way back with the red canister.
"The fire's still mainly feeding on the paper!' the Bahamian shouted. "If I can't handle it, I'll get out of there fast!" he assured Frank. "You two go on after Dr. Wills and Jason. They're getting away!"
Frank turned in time to spot the doctor and Jason leaping into a cabin cruiser halfway down the dock. He signaled Joe to follow as he ran for the gangplank. Gina started after them.
"Stay here," Joe ordered, turning to her. "Better yet, go notify the police!"
As he raced down the dock, Frank saw the cabin cruiser pull out of its berth and head out into the channel. He wondered where the doctor and Jason were going. Wills's private plane could be anywhere, but it was a short boat ride to the Freeport airport.
He saw that Jason was waving his gun and ducked down behind a boat in a nearby berth. A middle-aged couple was unloading fishing equipment from the boat onto the nearby dock. Frank eyed the couple in amazement. Didn't they see him, trying not to get shot by hiding ten feet away?
"Keep your heads down. There may be some shooting!" Frank called to the couple, but the
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blaring Caribbean dance music on their ship's radio drowned out his voice. Frank stepped out to warn them again.
That proved to be a major mistake. Jason saw him, aimed the .38, and fired two shots as the boat surged forward into the channel.
"Hit the ground!" Joe yelled, running up behind Frank.
Frank dropped facedown onto the wooden planks as bullets rang over his head. To his right, the screaming middle-aged couple dove into the shadow of their two-seater.
"Stay down!" Frank yelled as more bullets rang out from the motorboat. One lodged in the dock halfway between Frank's head and the woman's foot. She screamed. Then Frank had an idea.
"Untie the stern!" he yelled to his brother, checking to see that the couple's keys were in the boat's ignition.
"Great," he murmured when he saw them. He leapt into the driver's seat, relieved to note that the boat was backed into the berth so that it faced out into the channel. As Joe untied the lines, Frank turned the ignition. "Get in!" he yelled to Joe.
"What do you two think you're doing?" the boat's owner raged, grabbing Joe by the collar.
In one quick movement Joe threw up his arms, freeing himself from the man's grasp, and
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knocked him to the ground. The man's wife screamed at the top of her lungs.
"Sorry, no time to explain now!" Frank said, moving over as Joe took over the throttle. He pushed it all the way down and the motorboat lurched forward.
"They have a big lead," Frank shouted as Joe shifted into high gear, chasing the fleeing craft.
"Water's choppy," Joe observed.
Frank eyed the white caps atop the waves as the boat slammed down into them after each bounce. "Doesn't matter. We're gaining on them," he muttered to himself. The Hardys' boat, though not engineered for speed, had an edge over Wills's cabin cruiser. Frank held on tight as they bounded over the cruiser's wake.
"Uh-oh," Joe yelled. "They've recognized us." The Hardys ducked as Jason fired another wild shot in their direction.
"We'll never be able to get close enough to stop them while he still has that thirty-eight!" Frank yelled.
"Let's hope they don't have any more ammunition. He's already fired four shots," Joe shouted back.
Just ahead of the cabin cruiser Frank saw a number of small, sleek craft scattered along the channel. "Racing boats!" he shouted. Sprays of water dissolved in the air as the racers made hairpin turns around a line of buoys marking their route.
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Joe couldn't help but grin with excitement. "The international speedboat competition! Wills is going to have to fight his way through that if he wants to get to the Freeport pier."
"Right." Frank held on tighter to the side of the boat. "And so will we."
Joe was no longer listening. He maneuvered the speeding boat closer to the racecourse. Ahead, Wills was fighting madly with the cabin cruiser's wheel, trying to avoid a collision.
Jason fired off two more shots. This time one tore a hole into the side of the Hardys' inboard.
"That makes six," Frank shouted. "His gun's empty! Go on, open the throttle all the way!"
Joe sped up and veered to starboard in an effort to force Wills closer to the dangerous lanes of the speed course. Within seconds, both boats had zoomed into the thick of the race. The roar of the high-powered racing engines mingled with their own, drowning out the shouts of the watching crowds.
Frank could see Wills pulling hard to port, cutting across in front of the Hardys. A torrent of water descended on the brothers, momentarily blinding them. By the time Joe had cleared his eyes, the cruiser's bulk was blocking his view of the course ahead.
"Look, he's moving!" Frank shouted.
Joe peered ahead through the flying Water as the cabin cruiser moved suddenly to port again.
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Now the view ahead was wide and clear. But Joe didn't like what he saw.
"It's coming right at us!" Frank yelled.
Joe's hands tightened on the wheel. A bright red, full-powered racing boat was bearing down on them at over a hundred miles per hour.
They were headed the wrong way down the course!
Joe shot a look over at Frank, then braced himself for the impending crash.
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Chapter 17
"Hard to port!" Joe heard Frank shout. Instinctively, he turned the wheel to the left. At the same time Frank grabbed the throttle, slamming it all the way forward.
To Joe's relief, the driver of the approaching racer steered his boat in the opposite direction, and he and the Hardys narrowly cleared each other. In the instant before they were drenched with the racer's spray, Joe could hear the other driver scream in a foreign language.
Poor guy, Joe thought as he realigned his boat. He's lost his chance to win and all because of us.
But Frank intruded on his musings. "Speed it up!" he ordered. "They've almost reached Free-port Harbor!"
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Joe hit the throttle again, trying to ignore the jeers from the audience gathered on the beach.
Wills and Jason were just climbing onto shore as the Hardys reached the harbor. Joe switched off the engine, and both boys jumped onto the dock before the boat had even stopped.
"Come on!" Joe yelled as he and Frank raced after the fleeing crooks.
As they reached the end of the dock, Frank made a flying leap and just managed to tackle Wills around the legs and drop him to the ground.
"Atta boy!" Joe grabbed Jason by the collar and spun him around. Without a weapon to back them up, Wills and Jason knew they were no match for the Hardys. As Joe held on to Jason, he heard a helicopter thundering in the distance.
He looked up to see a white harbor patrol chopper headed their way. A red flag hung out the passenger door, fluttering in the wind. "The race must have been called off," Joe said. Then he felt sheepish, realizing it had been their fault.
"That racing boat we almost hit is leading the chopper to us," Frank pointed out. "Gee, do we have any liability insurance?"
Joe sighed resignedly as the helicopter hovered above them and a voice called down via megaphone. "You are all under arrest!"
Joe didn't care that the harbor patrol thought
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he and his brother were criminals. He and Frank could explain all that later. The important thing was that Dr. Wills and Jason would be arrested, too.
Two police cars pulled up in a cloud of dust in the parking lot across the way. Joe and Frank waited as three police officers bolted from the cars and approached the dock, their weapons drawn and ready. "Hey, look," Joe said to Frank. "There's our old friend, Sergeant Mylan!"
"You will all raise your hands and remain still," the amplified voice instructed from above.
Seeing that they were covered, Joe let go of Jason while Frank released Dr. Wills. All four of them raised their hands as ordered.
Sergeant Mylan stood on the dock behind the armed officers. At his signal the three uniformed officers charged forward. In scant moments all four men were in handcuffs.
"I guess you two just can't stay out of trouble," Sergeant Mylan said, approaching the Hardys. "Let's retreat to the station and get this all down on paper, shall we?" He led the way to the patrol cars.
Joe gave Jason a big, toothy smile. "With pleasure, Sarge," he crowed.
"That took longer than I thought," Joe admitted four hours later when Sergeant Mylan finally decided he was satisfied with their story and
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released them. "No hard feelings I hope, Sergeant. In fact, I was wondering if you could meet us on board the Valiant tomorrow afternoon? We want to get everyone together and clear up all the mystery."
"I'll be there," the sergeant agreed in his clipped accent. "Frankly, boys, from now on I wouldn't miss a thing you two were involved in."
"Those pirates!" Captain Delaney roared the next day when the Hardys finished unfolding the mystery of the missing treasure to the entire Valiant crew. "That explains why Ben Wills insisted he be the only one to deal with the lab reports."
"He lied about the lab findings. The results were actually positive. He also instructed Jason to steer the search off course," Frank explained. "That worked until you got frustrated enough to pilot the ship yourself."
Joe glanced at his fellow crew members, who were seated around the large table in the lounge. He was proud to see none of them had deserted ship despite the past weeks' difficulties. In fact, there were more people than ever on board. Besides Sergeant Mylan, the middle-aged couple whose boat the Hardys had borrowed had accepted the captain's invitation to drop in. They shared in the party atmosphere as the Valiant celebrated its release from the criminals' grip.
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"Their plan was to define the actual location of the Doha Bonita and its treasure with their sonar markers." Joe added. "All they had to do was lead this excursion off course for one more week, when Captain Delaney would run out of funds and be forced into bankruptcy, and then--"
"They'd form their own expedition and claim everything for themselves," Bob finished for him. He looked sheepish. "Sorry I let the cat out of the bag by telling Jason about your plans to visit Waves. It came up in conversation when I asked him if he'd like to go to the races with us."
"That's when he got the idea to set us up with Max Trepo, hoping he could scare us off," Joe said.
"Right," Frank went on. "But Jason got too far ahead of himself when he tried to get some easy cash for one of the artifacts. He thought he could stay in the clear by assuming Peter's identity. That way, if Max got caught fencing it, Peter would be fingered as the source."
"He even registered at that sleazy hotel under Peter's name after Peter had disappeared from the Valiant, to make it seem as though he were still alive," Joe said. He glanced nervously at Gina, to whom he'd gently broken the news of Peter's death earlier.
Gina rubbed the ring that Alastair had given her. "My brother found out about their scheme
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and they killed him." She took a deep breath in order to go on. "Just as they killed Harry Lyman when he found out too much."
Joe nodded sympathetically. "Dr. Wills knew about Harry's heart problems when the kid signed up," he said. "He promised to hide Harry's medical history from Captain Delaney. Harry was probably grateful, not knowing that Wills had done it because he preferred a disposable crew."
"Fortunately, we still have the body," announced Sergeant Mylan. "The coroner is doing a new autopsy now."
"And all the time we thought you two were just a couple of troublemakers!" the middle-aged woman from the dock exclaimed. Joe smiled at her expression and was relieved she wasn't still angry.
"We called the harbor patrol to report that our boat had been stolen by a couple of hoodlums," her husband said ruefully, patting his wife's hand. "We had plans to charge you boys with assault and battery, too--that is, until we found out what was really going on."
Joe felt even guiltier. "I'm really sorry about what happened," he said. "Is there any way we can repay you?"
"Well, the boat has been damaged," the man pointed out.
"No need to worry about that," Captain Delaney said, walking over to the couple. "By next
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week you'll have a brand-new boat, with my compliments. Without your boat--and the Hardys behind the wheel--Dr. Wills and Jason would be long gone by now."
Joe was relieved to see the woman's face light up again. "Why, thank you," she said. "That's very generous of you."
"Attention, attention," Joe said now, turning back to the crew. "There's another person we have to thank."
He nodded toward Alastair, who sat slumped back in one of the easy chairs. "If it hadn't been for our Bahamian friend here, Captain Delaney would have lost his ship."
"That's right," Frank agreed. "We had to leave him on board to fight the flames alone."
Alastair studied his shoes, embarrassed by all the attention. "It was mainly just burning newspapers. The fire extinguisher did all the work."
"We'll be able to get that hallway in shape by the end of the week," Vic assured the captain. "All it needs is some scraping, a little paint, and a new coat of marine varnish for the woodwork."
Captain Delaney stepped over to Alastair and clasped him around his shoulder. "I'll never be able to thank you enough, Poison, for saving this old rig. It means a lot to me," he said.
Then he moved to Gina and took her hand. "Your brother was a hero," he told her. "I'll see to it that you get his share of the profits as well as your own."
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"Thank you," she said. "Yes, he was a hero."
"And last, but certainly not least, all of our thanks to Frank and Joe Hardy. Benjamin Wills couldn't possibly have chosen better!" Captain Delaney grabbed the brothers' arms and raised them above their heads in a gesture of victory as the group enthusiastically applauded.
"You guys are great! Thanks!" Joe said, trying to be modest. He exchanged a triumphant look with his brother, whose grin stretched from ear to ear.
"You know, Frank," he said for everyone's benefit, "if this hasn't been good old-fashioned American fun, I don't know what is!"
The Mysterious Caravan (Hardy Boys #54)
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I The Face in the Sand
WIND shook the flimsy seaside cottage and banged a loose shutter with such violence that Joe Hardy gave a startled jump. "If this gets any worse," he said, "we’ll be blown right off the island of Jamaica."
"And they advertised no storms at this time of year," his brother Frank said with a laugh.
The two boys, along with four high school friends, reclined on cots in the beach house they had rented for a ten-day winter vacation. A candle they had lit after the power failed gave a fluttering light for several seconds before expiring. Now they were talking in total darkness, trying to be heard above the crashing surf and screaming gale.
"Feel this place swaying?" Tony Prito asked.
"Like it’s dancing the calypso," Biff Hooper added as he adjusted his big frame for more comfort.
2
"All we need now is a steel-drum section," was Phil Cohen’s comment.
Bang! went the shutter again.
"Whoops!" chubby Chet Morton said. "Let’s see if we can fasten that plagued thing."
"I wish we had a flashlight," Frank muttered. He felt his way to a front window and reached out for the slatted cover, when he noticed lights tossing on the cresting seas.
"Hey, fellows! Look here! Somebody’s in trouble!"
The others jumped up to peer out into the maelstrom.
"Incredible," Phil said. "That boat won’t stay afloat for long!"
"There she goes!" Chet exclaimed.
The lights disappeared for a few seconds, then shone feebly again.
"She slid down into a deep trough," Tony said. "How can she take such a pounding?"
Once again, amid the whistling gale, the lights disappeared and the boys waited anxiously. But it stayed dark.
"Probably capsized," Biff said.
"Come on, let’s try to help," Frank suggested. "If a victim is washed ashore, we might be able to rescue him."
The others agreed and stepped out into the storm. They were all young and good athletes. Everyone except Phil was on the high school 
3
football team. Phil was a lightweight, but fast as a cat and he held the county tennis championship.
Eighteen-year-old Frank, and Joe, a year younger, were the sons of world-famous sleuth Fenton Hardy. But they had become detectives in their own right. Starting with The Tower Treasure, their careers spanned many adventurous cases. The last one, known as The Clue of the Hissing Serpent, had carried them to far-off Hong Kong.
"We’ll fan out along the shore," Frank said. "But don’t get pulled into the surf."
The velvet sky was streaked with low scudding clouds, providing a ghostly backdrop for the palm trees that were bent nearly double. Fronds and branches skittered along the sand like giant spiders seeking refuge from the storm.
In seconds their sneakers were soaked, and they were drenched to the skin by rain. The hissing surf chased them up the sand; then when each gurgling wave receded, the boys ran to the water’s edge, peering through the gloom for possible survivors of the shipwreck. There seemed to be none.
Separating farther from one another, the companions strung out, trying to cover as much of the shore as possible. They knew the sea currents could be tricky. People might be carried along the beach for quite a distance.
Joe had raced on ahead of the others. He 
4
searched the sand near a spit of land, where palm trees bent close to the water’s edge. Did he see something? He moved forward cautiously toward an object lying at the foot of a palm tree and bent down to examine it.
"A timber!" he said half aloud. "A ship’s timber. I wonder if——" He heard a crack, then nothingness.
The large branch that hit him on the head lay beside the supine boy as the tide continued to rise. The waves lapped over Joe, rocking him to and fro.
Meanwhile, the others had searched in vain for survivors and struggled back to the cottage. They entered, skinned off their wet clothing, and toweled down. Frank fumbled in his suitcase for a change of underwear.
"Hey, Joe, did you borrow any of my things?" he asked.
No answer.
"Listen Joe. I definitely remember I had another pair of shorts here. Joe? Where are you?"
"He isn’t here," Chet said.
"Where is he?" Biff asked.
"Who knows?"
Frank felt a shiver of fear climb his backbone. Had Joe been sucked into the raging sea? Surely his shouts for help would have been drowned out!
"We’ll have to find him!" Frank declared. 
5
"Let’s go!" He put his damp clothes on again and ran out into the gale. The others followed.
How long Joe had lain unconscious, he did not know. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the cracking tree. Now he heard the surf, felt it filling his ears, nose, and mouth with bitter saltiness.
The water was about to cover him completely. Joe moved, and a pain stabbed the back of his head. "I hope it isn’t fractured," he thought. Wincing with every movement, he inched higher onto the sand. The effort exhausted him, finally, and he stopped a few feet above the collar of suds lacing the beach.
He flung out his arms and breathed deeply, praying for the air to renew his strength. His left hand felt the wet sand, but his right rested on something the size of a coconut shell. It felt slimy.
The boy’s fingers studied the contours of the object and his pulse quickened. "Good grief!" he thought. "It feels like a face!"
Could this be a victim of the shipwreck, half buried in the sand? Thoroughly stimulated, Joe raised himself on his elbow. At the same time he heard shouts in the distance. It was Frank and his friends.
"Here I am, over here!" he rasped, the taste of salt burning his throat. He struggled to his knees 
6
and called out again. They heard him and rushed over. Eager hands pulled Joe to his feet.
"What happened?" Frank asked.
"I got conked by a palm tree." Joe gingerly felt the back of his head. He had a bump the size of a large egg.
"We’ll help you back," Biff said, and he steadied the injured boy with a strong grip.
"Wait a minute," Joe said. "I think there’s a body in the sand. You might be stepping on it."
"Where?" Tony asked.
"Right there."
Tony and Phil dropped to their knees and felt about.
"Argh! Here it is," Tony said. His hands found the face, slippery and covered with sea moss and barnacles.
"Careful as we dig," Phil cautioned. "If it’s been in the water long, it might fall apart."
Biff still held onto Joe as the others clawed the sand from around the face.
"Hey, it’s a skull!" Frank cried.
Phil felt it. "Half a skull," he said with a shudder. "The back of it is sheared right off!"
"Leave it be," Chet advised. "In a voodoo place like this I want nothing to do with a skull. Its ghost may come to claim it!"
"What are you scared of?" Frank asked. "This might be a help to the authorities. It could have been a missing person."
7


"It feels like a face!" Joe thought.
8
"Most likely a murder victim," Biff said.
Joe bent down impatiently and picked the thing up. It had not felt like a skeleton to him. He remembered the cold lips and firm chin. "We’ll take it back to the cottage," he said, "and examine it there."
All five trudged along the beach, with eyes still peeled for possible bodies from the shipwreck, but had seen nothing by the time they entered the beach house and shut the door behind them.
Phil, who had a medical career in mind, got the first-aid kit and applied medication to Joe’s bump.
Frank fixed the shutter while Biff lit the candle on the table. They all pulled up wooden chairs to look at Joe’s find.
"See. It’s not a skull," Joe said. He pressed his thumbs into what should have been soft flesh.
"Hard as a rock," Frank observed.
"Suppose it’s ossified?" Tony asked.
"Hardly," Phil said. "Not in the water."
The light flickered over what appeared to be a man’s face. The nose was straight, the chin firm with a curly beard.
"It’s some kind of mask," Joe said. He pulled out his penknife, flipped open a blade, and was about to scratch away the covering of sea growth when Phil stopped him.
"Hold it," Phil said. "This should be done by an expert, or it’ll be ruined!"
9
"What about you?" Frank said. "Didn’t you work for the museum once?"
"Right. I restored old artifacts. That’s why I was worried when Joe tackled it."
"Well, can you do it?"
"I’ll try. But no guarantees!" Phil took the knife and started to work on the mask. "It’s metal," he said after a while. "See it shine?"
"Am I glad," Chet said. "No skull, no ghost!"
"Where do you suppose it came from?" Tony asked.
"That’s anybody’s guess," Frank said.
The boys watched, fascinated, as Phil worked on the mask carefully.
"I’m glad you’re feeling better about the ghost," Tony ribbed Chet. "I didn’t know you believed in spooks."
Chet grinned wryly. "You never can——"
His words were cut off by three loud raps on the door. They all jumped!

10
CHAPTER II Bwana Brutus
IT was the middle of the night and the boys were not expecting a visitor. Could it be a shipwreck survivor? Frank raised his hand in a signal of caution as the knocks came again, this time even louder.
"Who’s there?" he called.
"It is I. William."
Frank stepped forward and flung the door open. "Hi, William. Come on in."
Framed in the entrance stood a tall, well-built black youth, about the same age as the boys from Bayport. He had a handsome face, lit up now by a broad white smile. Like the others, he wore cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. Around his neck dangled a small trinket carved in the shape of an African native.
The boys had met William on the beach shortly after their arrival and had become friends. Joe 
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had developed a special interest in William’s hobby of African lore and his great admiration for King Mansa Musa. He had even learned a few words of Swahili, which William was studying.
"Hujambo?" ("How are you?") William asked.
"Sijambo, ahsante," ("I am well, thank you,") Joe replied.
"You learn Swahili fast," William said with a nod as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I came because I feared your house might have been blown down."
"Thanks," Phil said. "The cottage survived but we nearly lost Joe."
"How so? And what do we have here?" The Jamaican boy looked curiously at the mask.
"It’s a long story," Joe said.
Spelling one another, the companions told their guest about the lights on the sea, Joe’s disappearance, and the discovery of the strange face in the sand.
"Now we’re trying to figure out what this mask is all about," Frank concluded. "Have a seat while Phil scrapes off the sea moss."
"Take my place," Chet said, offering William his chair.
"Thank you, Chet. You are very considerate." William spoke with a slow, measured cadence. His English, with a slight British inflection, was perfect.
12
"I’m just sleepy," Chet said with a yawn. "I want to go to bed. Hey, what’s that under your belt?"
"A present for you all," William said. He drew out a plastic-covered paperback book and handed it to Chet. "This is the Swahili word book I was telling you about."
"Oh, great! Thanks," Chet said, and he moved his cot out toward the table in order to catch a little light from the candle. He thumped his pillow into a ball and lay back to read the book.
The others, meanwhile, watched as Phil continued to work on the mask.
"That is a most distinguished face," William said. "Probably the replica of an important man."
The knife blade worked about the eyes. They were blank. The mouth, cleaned of the greenish covering, looked stern and noble. Even the beard seemed patrician, with every curl carefully arranged.
"Wait a sec," Phil said. "You know what? I think this is a death mask. Remember the pictures in our ancient history textbook?"
"You’re right," Joe said. "When a famous or rich person died they’d take a plaster impression of the face and make a mask from it."
"Sometimes," William added, "even while the person was living, they would do this."
Phil stopped scraping and looked closely at the treasure.
13
"A real handsome guy," Tony said. "He looks Italian."
"Maybe a Roman or a Greek," William ventured.
"Let’s call him Brutus for the moment," Biff suggested.
"Not bad," Phil said with a smile. He wrinkled his brow in thought. "Habari za asubuhi, Bwana Brutus."
"Very good," William said. "Good morning, Mr. Brutus. You are learning fast, Phil."
From the cot came Chet’s sleepy voice. "That’s nothing. Nahitaji vigwe vya viatu."
"What’d he say?" Joe asked.
"I need a pair of shoelaces," William translated. "Chet, your pronunciation is quite acceptable."
But there was no more comment from Chet. The book rested on his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically to the sound of gentle snoring.
The boys were getting sleepier by the minute, but Phil kept on cleaning the mask.
"Now the face looks pretty good," he finally said. "Let’s try to dig some of this crud out of the back."
The mud and other detritus came out in big chunks, and soon the mask resembled a hollow shell. When Tony wiped off the last few sandy particles with his handkerchief, he peered intently into the back of the cast. "I think there’s some 
14
writing here," he said, handing the mask to Joe, who squinted at the odd-looking lettering written in several neat lines. But he could make nothing of it, either.
Phil examined the text. "It looks like Arabic to me," he said. "What do you say, William?"
"You may be right. Did you know the word Swahili is a modified form of the Arabic sawa-hil, meaning ‘coast people?’"
"You’re a walking encyclopedia," Biff said with admiration. "Why the coast people?"
"It was the language of East Africa," William explained, "and it was carried to the interior by traders and missionaries."
When talk swung back to the mysterious mask, Phil said, "We ought to keep it a secret. What say, Frank?"
"Yes, until we learn more about it. I’ll hide it in my gear."
"Good idea," Joe agreed. "And now let’s call it a night. Will you stay with us, William? We have an extra sleeping bag."
"I would be honored to be your guest."
Frank snuffed out the candle and stretched out on his cot. The last thing he remembered was William telling Phil about Mansa Musa, fabulously rich king of Mali in fourteenth-century West Africa.
The storm abated sometime during the night, and when Frank awoke the next morning, the 
15
bright Caribbean sunshine was sifting through the cracks in the shutters. He rose and flung them open, flooding the cottage with daylight. As he shielded his eyes to peer out at the sea, he noted knots of people standing on the beach. They seemed to be talking excitedly.
"Look, guys, something’s going on out there!" Frank said as the others rose from their slumber. They dressed quickly and hurried outside.
"Don’t you want breakfast first?" Chet asked. "I’m starved."
"You stay and make it," Joe said.
"Okay. How many want eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon?"
All the boys accepted with a good-natured cheer, and Chet padded around the kitchen, searching for the skillet. The others ran to the spectators, who appeared to be looking for something along the shore.
William spoke to a group of Jamaicans, while the Americans mingled with vacationers. Fifteen minutes later they met to exchange information.
"This is the story," William began. "A treasure-hunting ship was wrecked offshore last night. It had found the site of a sunken galleon by radar, and the men were about to dive when the storm struck."
"Were they drowned?" Biff asked.
William shook his head. "That is the miracle. All three survived."
16
"Pretty rugged, I’d say," Phil commented.
"Their boat is a total loss," William went on. "It broke like matchwood."
"Are the people looking for the pieces?" Tony asked.
"No. Jamaicans who understand the sea think part of the old galleon may have been washed in. They are looking for treasure!"
"Come on, let’s join them," Phil said. The boys walked back and forth, eyes glued to the strip where the shiny sand met the lapping surf. Seaweed and odd pieces of debris dotted the sand. Farther down the shore, a girl cried out in surprise and held up an old coin.
"No doubt it is from the galleon," William said.
Minutes later Biff bent down to retrieve another. "Hey, I’ve got something!" he cried.
His companions crowded around for a look, and others joined them to gaze curiously at the blackened coin, which probably had been buried for centuries.
Three men pushed through to Biff. The oldest, handsome and in his middle thirties, asked to see the find. He turned it over and over, studying it carefully.
"It’s authentic," he said. "A Spanish silver piece."
The two other men examined it next. They were younger and rough looking.
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"How do you know it’s authentic?" Tony asked.
"I’m Tiffany Stribling. These are my assistants, Sam Brown and George Aker. That was our boat that sank last night."
"Oh, you’re the treasure hunters," Phil said.
Aker nodded with a one-sided smile. "You know, big boy, you can’t keep this. It belongs to the Jamaican government."
"We’ll turn it in," Frank said, and added, "What kind of galleon were you looking for?"
This time Brown spoke, his voice edged with condescension. "That’s our secret. Why should we tell you amateurs?"
Joe bristled and was about to respond when Chet trotted up to say that breakfast was ready. He caught part of the conversation and blurted, "Amateurs, eh? We’ve found a——"
Joe stepped on his foot.
"Oh, you found something else?" Stribling said. "What was it?"

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CHAPTER III Three Bad Eggs
TIFFANY’S question went unanswered, and his friendly demeanor disappeared suddenly.
"Why all the secrecy?" he demanded. "We’re experts and can tell you whether the item you found is worth anything or not."
Frank shook his head. "We prefer to keep it to ourselves."
Aker put on his lopsided smile again. "We can turn you in for concealing Jamaican property!"
"Who says we’re concealing anything?" Phil said. "Maybe it was just an old log."
"Don’t get smart," Sam Brown said.
Finally Chet pleaded, "Listen guys. Breakfast is ready. If you don’t come now, those eggs will taste like scuba flippers!"
They hurried back into the beach house to find their meal still warm enough for total enjoyment. Nothing was said to Chet until they had finished, 
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and he kept looking from one boy to the other until the question finally came.
"Why did you spill the beans, Chet?" Biff demanded. "You didn’t have to tell those guys we found the mask."
"I didn’t say anything about the mask," Chet protested.
"You indicated we found something."
"Don’t scold him," Frank said. "Remember, he was asleep when we decided to keep this a secret".
"Thanks," Chet said. "Frank, you want some more eggs?"
The boys laughed and Joe said, "Don’t forget, Chet, button your lip from now on, okay?"
William had been silent for a while, but when he finished his coffee he put down the cup and said, "I think there may be trouble ahead."
"You mean those men?" Tony asked.
"They looked like ruffians to me! Jamaicans do not like that kind of treasure hunter working off our shores."
"They were pretty high-handed," Phil agreed.
"Let’s find out everything we can about the mask today," Frank suggested. "I noticed a museum next to the post office."
"It is a good one, too," William said. "The museum has a fine collection of shipwreck relics and old records."
"Will you go with us?" Joe asked.
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"I wish to be excused," the Jamaican said. "I promised my grandfather to visit him today. He lives a way up the beach from here."
"Okay. Will we see you later?"
"Of course. Since you are leaving for home tomorrow, I would like to spend as much time with you as possible."
"William, can I go with you?" Chet asked. You told me about your grandfather and I’d like to meet him."
"Certainly. He will be delighted. But I suggest that we find a better hiding place for that mask before we all leave."
They looked around until Tony located two loose floorboards in the kitchenette near the sink. Frank and Joe pried them up enough to slip the mask underneath.
Chet and William lingered to finish the chores while the others walked along the beach. Half a mile farther on, they headed inland until they reached the center of town. The streets were narrow and lined with shops catering to the tourist trade.
Main Street gave onto a small park dominated at one end by an ancient cannon. To the right were the municipal buildings. The Bayporters went straight to the museum. After they explained their mission to the curator, an intense middle-aged woman, she took a great interest in the Americans.
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"So many ships were sunk off Jamaica," she said. "English, Spanish, Dutch. And many lives were lost."
"Were there any Arab ships?" asked Joe.
The woman thought for a moment. "No. But I do recall that a Portuguese slave ship, the Africanus Rex, was lost some time in the early seventeenth century. It carried an Arab Barbary crew."
The curator added with a smile, "It’s interesting that you should mention this, because some of the slaves escaped to shore and became free men." She glanced over Frank’s shoulder. "Is that man looking for you?"
The Hardys whirled to see George Aker’s back as he tried to slip out unobserved.
"Quick, keep a tail on him, Phil," Frank said. "Biff, Tony, you help out, too."
The boys dashed out while the Hardys thanked the curator for her assistance.
"You’ve really given us quite a bit of help," Joe said. "By the way, is anything known about a death mask lost on one of your beaches?"
"I never heard of anything like that."
Frank and Joe hurried from the museum. Partway down the block they noticed Biff stationed at the corner. When they caught up with him, he said, "Come on. Tony’s down the next street. I think he knows where Phil went."
They turned right and passed a number of shops. Then they saw Tony beckoning. "Phil’s on 
22
Aker’s trail. He’s standing in that doorway. See?"
The boys turned left this time and walked in single file close to the store fronts. They arrived at the spot where Phil had concealed himself.
"Aker met the other two guys," Phil reported, "and they went into that restaurant two doors down."
"Stribling and his boys are very much interested in us," Joe said. "Too interested to suit me."
"I wonder what their game is." Phil said.
"If we could eavesdrop, we might find out," said Frank.
"But how?" Phil asked.
"You stay here while Joe and I reconnoiter."
Just then a boy about ten years old walked past, and Frank reached out to touch his arm. When he stopped, Frank asked, "Would you like to earn a dollar?"
"Yes, sir!"
Frank took a single from his wallet. "Here’s what you have to do. Walk to that restaurant and look through the window. See if three men are sitting together, and tell me just where their table is located."
"That’s easy," the boy said. He took the money and skipped down the street. He peered into the window, shading his eyes against the reflection of the glass. Then he turned and hurried back. "There are no men that I could see."
"None at all?"
23
"No. But there are booths in the back," their young spy went on, "and the waiter was serving somebody. I could not see who it was."
"Wait a minute," Frank said. "Did the waiter serve the food to the booth closest to the window or farther back?"
"The first one," the boy said.
"Okay. You did a good job."
The Jamaican smiled brightly and hurried off.
Biff said, "Now what?"
Frank mulled his strategy for a moment. "If we walk in the front door and try to listen, they’ll spot us."
"What about the back way?" Joe suggested.
"That’ll have to be it. But we’d better not all go in. Just one."
The Hardys looked at Phil.
"You mean I’m elected?" the boy asked.
"Unanimously," Frank said. "You’re good at this kind of thing. Find the back door; then slip into the booth next to Stribling and his crew."
"Will do, skipper. Where shall we meet?"
"In the park," Frank replied.
Phil started off. He turned into an alley until he reached a narrow lane behind the buildings. He found the back of the eating place easily enough. Garbage cans stood filled to the brim, and, as he passed them, a cat jumped out of one and scampered off.
Phil entered the kitchen through the screen 
24
door, but a huge black man with a chef’s cap blocked his way. "You can’t come in this way, man! Go around front!"
Phil looked at him pleadingly and spoke several sentences of gibberish.
A smile crossed the cook’s face. "You don’t speak English?"
Phil pointed to his mouth, indicating that he was hungry.
"I never heard any language like that," the Jamaican said.
Phil uttered more gibberish, and the man pointed to the swinging door leading into the restaurant.
Phil went in quietly, staying close to the right wall, and slid into the second booth. He could hear the men talking. Just then a waiter appeared with the menu.
"Cook says you don’t speak English," the man said, and ran his finger down the day’s offering. Phil pointed to chicken soup and grinned. It was brought to him immediately, along with some biscuits.
Phil remained quiet, listening carefully for tell-tale information. The men spoke in low voices, and the hum of an air conditioner nearly drowned out their words. Finally Phil heard something.
"Rex," Tiffany was saying.
"Yes, Tip," came Brown’s voice. "That’s right."
25
There was some mumbling, then Stribling again, "What do you think, George?"
Aker said, "The Hardys. They rented the place. Later on——"
Phil could not make out the rest. The men stood up and walked out of the restaurant.
The boy left his soup, beckoned to the waiter for the check, paid, and hurried through the kitchen again.
The chef’s eyes grew large with surprise. "I don’t know what country you come from," he muttered, "but they have funny customs, man!"
Phil dodged between the garbage cans, ran up the alley, and hurried to the park. The others were waiting, and he quickly repeated everything he had heard. When he gave a sample of his "foreign language," the boys laughed.
"That was a good trick," Joe said.
"I want to learn more about this gang," Frank said. "There must be a newspaper in town that can help us."
By asking a policeman for directions, the boys found the small office of the Gazette without any difficulty. It smelled of ink and paper.
Frank asked for the city editor and was directed to a cubicle along one wall. A black man was typing. The nameplate on his desk read, "James Douglas."
"Hi, Mr. Douglas," Frank said. He then introduced himself.
26
The newsman swiveled around. "What can I do for you?"
Frank told him about the treasure hunters and explained that he and his friends would like some additional information, if possible.
Douglas smiled. "Those three have quite a history. They’ve looked for treasure in several parts of the world." He named various places, including Africa.
"Do they have a good reputation?" Phil inquired.
"I won’t speak against any man," the editor said. "But I would advise you not to associate with them."
"You mean they’re criminals?" Tony prodded.
"They have not been in jail in Jamaica. But in your country—you might call them bad eggs."
"We get the picture. Thanks, Mr. Douglas."
The boys stepped outside. "I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that our mask is in jeopardy," Phil said. "Let’s go back to the cottage."
"Can we stop at the post office on the way?" Joe asked. "Maybe we’ve got some mail from home."
Their family had promised to write in care of General Delivery, and much to their delight several letters were waiting for the Hardys.
One of them was in Aunt Gertrude’s hand-writing. Frank opened the letter. "Listen to this, Joe," he said. "‘Nothing good can come of going so far from home. Keep your hands on your wallets. 
27
You never can tell when foreigners pick your pockets!’"
Frank rocked with laughter, then continued. "‘Beware of strangers. They can only lead to trouble.’"
"Good old Aunty," Joe said. "She’s always worried about us."
"She may be right, warning about strangers," Phil said with a grin.
As they walked on, Frank opened a letter from his father. After scanning it, he said, "Dad’s on a new case. A multimillion-dollar racket involving the theft of airline tickets."
"I read something about that," Tony said. "Now you’ll probably go back and dig into a brand-new mystery."
"I think we have one right here," Biff said, as the boys jogged to the waterfront.
"Boy, could I go for a swim," Tony said.
"You can, as soon as we get back," Phil told him.
When the Bayporters reached their beach house and stepped through the door, Joe emitted a cry of despair. The place was a mess. Everything had been ransacked!
"Good grief!" Frank exclaimed. He ran to the kitchenette and pried up the floorboards.
The mask was gone!

28
CHAPTER IV An Ancient Legend
"OH, nuts!" Biff said. "We should have taken Bwana Brutus with us, or left Chet to guard the place."
"It’s too late to moan over it now," Joe said, "and perfectly obvious who the thieves are. We have to find them!"
The area was quickly scouted for footprints. Besides their own tracks in the sand, the boys discovered evidence that the beach house had been circled several times. There were deep depressions in the sand beneath the windows, indicating that the prowlers might have stood on their toes to look inside.
"See. Here the tracks lead along the beach," Tony said. "They shouldn’t be hard to follow."
"Tip and his gang are too smart for that," Frank said. "But let’s check ‘em."
The trail was clear for several hundred yards. 
29
Then, abruptly, it took a right-angle turn and disappeared into the surf.
"You were right, Frank," Phil said. "Who knows how far these crooks walked in the water?"
They scanned the shore for another quarter mile with no success. Then Joe shifted his gaze inland to a grove of palms, where a darting movement had caught his eye.
"Look!" he said. "I think somebody’s hiding behind those trees!"
Biff’s long legs carried him across the sand first to the fringe of palms. The others were close on his heels, when a man stepped out from behind a triple clump.
"Sam Brown!" Biff exploded. He leaped forward and grasped the surprised Brown by the shirt front.
"Wait!" Frank cautioned.
But Biff was in no mood for prudence. He shook Sam, whose head bobbed back and forth as he protested with curses.
"Give back that mask!" Biff boomed.
By this time Frank and Joe had pried Sam loose from their buddy’s clutches.
"Cool it," Frank advised, "before you snap his head off."
Sam stepped back and scowled. "Oh, so that’s what you found on the beach! Thanks for telling me. But I don’t have your mask. Keep your hands off me and go play Halloween somewhere else!"
30
As he spoke, Stribling and Aker appeared from a tangle of sea grapes. The latter rushed up to Biff and swung a right-hand punch.
Biff blocked it and countered with a stiff blow to the chest that sent the man sprawling. At once a free-for-all ensued. It lasted several minutes before Stribling yelled out, "Hey! What are we fighting about?"
"I’ll tell you!" Joe stormed. "You ransacked our place and stole something!"
"Stole what?"
"A mask of some sort," Brown said.
"Well, now. That’s interesting." Stribling flashed his smile again. "Can you be more specific, please? If we’re charged with theft, it’s only fair that we know the particulars."
The Bayporters stood there, uncomfortable. Stribling had a way of putting them down. What if he had not taken the mask? Frank and Joe knew that without solid proof of burglary it would be useless to press the issue.
"I think you know all about the particulars," Frank declared.
"Anything you say," the man retorted mockingly.
Then Aker added, "Any more of this physical stuff and you’ll regret it!"
Frank turned to his companions. "Okay. Let’s break it up." They walked back toward their cottage.
31
"What’ll we do now?" Phil asked as they strode along.
"There are several things we could do," Frank said, his brow furrowed. "Number one, go to the police. They might listen, since these men have shady reputations. But there’s a problem. Do we own Bwana Brutus or don’t we?"
"That’s debatable," Phil said.
"Number two. We could put a tail on the gang. If they have the mask they’ll probably do something with it. But we’re stymied here, too. Our plane leaves tomorrow, so that doesn’t give us much time."
"Kind of hopeless, isn’t it?" Biff said.
Nobody answered, and they walked on in silence. Chet and William had not yet returned when they reached the beach house.
"So who’s for a swim?" Tony said brightly, trying to dispel the pall of defeat.
Joe managed a smile. "Okay, maybe it’ll cool Biff off."
Minutes later all were in the sea. Tony and Frank wore snorkel gear and splashed along in shallow water, enjoying the myriad colors of marine life.
After a while Joe tapped his shoulder and Frank looked up. "What’s the matter?"
"Here come Chet and William."
Far down the beach they could make out the pair. William, tall and lithe; Chet, block-solid, 
32
with a rocking gait. Between the boys and supporting himself with a cane, walked an elderly, gray-haired black man.
The Hardys called to their friends and all swam ashore. It was then that they noticed that William was carrying a brown paper bag.
"I’m glad you brought lunch!" Phil joked.
William looked at Chet and smiled. Then he introduced his grandfather. The boys shook his hand, rough-skinned and firm from a lifetime of hard work.
"Glad to meet you, Granddad," Frank said. "We’re having a lot of fun with William. Wish we could stay longer on your island." Then he turned to the Jamaican boy and Chet.
"The mask is gone! Those devils stole it while we were in town!"
"No, man," William replied. "Bwana Brutus is right here—in this bag!"
"What?"
The Americans crowded around as he opened the top of the sack. "See? You did not have to worry."
"Worry!" Joe blurted. "When we saw it was gone we set off after Stribling and company like the Marines! What happened?"
"It is quite simple," William said. "After you left this morning, Chet and I noticed Stribling and his friends heading this way."
33
"They were walking very slowly," Chet added, "and they kept looking around."
"So we guessed that they were coming to search for Bwana Brutus," William concluded.
"What did you do?"
"We got him out from under the floor, slipped out the back door, and took off!"
"I wanted to fight them," Chet said.
"But I dislike violence," William commented. "So we did it the easy way."
"That’s using your head," Biff said with a chuckle. "Good thing you weren’t with us," and he briefly related the details of the brush with the gang.
"Which proves what Dad has told us many times," Frank said. "Never jump to conclusions."
"Yes," William agreed. "A wise course of action."
While they spoke, the old man listened intently and smiled, evidently pleased with his grandson’s new friends.
"Let’s go inside for some chow," Joe finally suggested.
"I’m all for it," Chet added. "We have fixin’s for sandwiches in the cottage."
While they lingered over lunch, conversation eddied about the strange mask. How long had it lain in the sand? What did the cryptic writing say? Why were the treasure hunters so interested in it?
34
"Grandfather may have a clue," William said. "Babu, tell them what you told Chet and me."
The old man, who had finished eating, pushed his chair back from the table and rested his hands on the crook of the cane. His voice, high-pitched with age, was clear and expressive. He spoke slowly.
"There is a legend, passed down many years from my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather."
"Is it a true story?" asked Phil.
"Maybe not."
"Go ahead," William coaxed.
"It is about a ship called the Africanus Rex. My ancestors were on it. It had a treasure. It was neither gold, nor silver, nor gems, but a secret kept in the captain’s cabin. Anyone who dared look was——" He moved a forefinger across his throat.
"Life was cheap then," William said.
"Say, do you suppose the mask has something to do with that treasure?" Frank asked.
The old man shrugged. "Perhaps."
"I’ll bet the galleon the treasure hunters were looking for was the Africanus Rex!" Biff declared.
Frank turned to William. "Do you or your grandfather know anybody in town who can read Arabic?"
"Oh, yes," William replied. "Ali El Ansari does."
"Who’s he?"
35
The boys were told that Ali El Ansari was a merchant, originally from Cairo. He ran a curio shop that contained a large collection of African objects.
"I visit him often," William said. "He might be able to help us."
The grandfather excused himself and said good-by. He went home while the boys hastened to town.
Ali El Ansari’s shop, they found, was only several doors down from the restaurant where Phil had spoken gibberish to gain entrance.
"Behave yourself now and speak nicely," Frank said, nudging his friend.
"Okay, Dad," Phil quipped.
The store interior was postage-stamp size. A single counter faced the door, and glass cases extended from floor to ceiling on either side. When William tapped a hand bell on the counter, footsteps sounded from inside, and a slender man in his thirties appeared. He had high cheek bones, black curly hair, and a tan complexion, which, with his neat dark business suit, gave him a somber appearance.
When he saw William, he greeted him with a subdued smile. "Good afternoon, my friend. What can I do for you today?"
"I have something to show you, sir," William said, pulling the mask out of the brown bag. The man leaned on the counter on his elbows and 
36
held the metal object, turning it from one side to the other. Then he looked up.
"This is a rare find. Where did you get it?"
"On the beach," Joe said.
"It is very old and valuable," El Ansari said.
"Is it a death mask?" Phil asked.
"I believe so."
"What we would like to know about," Frank said, "is the writing on the inside. Is it Arabic?"
"Indeed, yes. Let me get my magnifier." The man went into the back and returned with a thick lens, which he put to his eye.
After studying the inscription for a while, he translated, "‘He who does not travel will not know the value of men.’ That is a Moorish proverb. The person who owned this probably was educated and well-traveled."
Then Ali El Ansari said, "There is more here. It is visible only under my glass."
"What is it?" Frank asked eagerly.
"A compass. This is curious."
The man concentrated on the new discovery. Finally he said, "At the South point of the compass is the word ‘gold,’ at the North, the word ‘salt.’ And beneath the compass it says, ‘Mysterious Caravan!’"

37
CHAPTER V An Ominous Telegram
JOE Hardy let out a low whistle. "Mysterious caravan! What could that possibly mean?"
"It means you’re into another mystery. What else?" Chet said. "Anything unusual about that?"
The others laughed while Frank jotted down the words on a piece of paper, and put it in his wallet.
The Arab said, "Would you consider selling this piece?"
"You know we can’t," Frank said. "It belongs to the government of Jamaica."
The man stroked his chin thoughtfully and replied, "Not necessarily. Who is to say it came from the sea? Perhaps somebody lost it in the sand years ago."
"You should have seen the moss and barnacles we scraped off it," William said. "It came from that old wreck all right."
38
"In that case," Ali said with a bow, "I abide by your decision."
The Hardys thanked the shopkeeper and the boys returned to the beach house for their last full day of sun and fun on the island. But the cottage was never left unattended. One of them remained there at all times, guarding the treasure, while the others enjoyed snorkeling and skin-diving.
William left for his own home shortly after supper. The night was starlit, with tropical softness in the air. Much to the surprise of the Hardys, they were not disturbed by prowlers. The next morning Tony Prito said, "How do you like that for a peaceful sleep? Stribling and his boys must have given up."
But they found out soon that this was not the case. William raced up the beach and burst in to greet his friends. He was breathing hard from the long run.
"Did you hear about Ali?" he asked.
"No. What happened?" Frank said.
"They got to him last night. Three men wearing stocking masks beat him up. He is in the hospital now."
"Did they rob his place?" Phil asked.
"That is the strange part of it. The shop was thoroughly ransacked, but nothing was taken. They were looking for Bwana Brutus!"
"How do you know?" Joe asked.
39
"Ali reported to the police that the men demanded the mask the Hardy boys had ‘sold him.’"
"You mean he got beaten up on our account?" Frank said. "What a shame! Stribling’s goons must have seen us enter the shop."
"We owe him something," Tony Prito stated. "Let’s all go to the hospital and visit him."
The boys readily agreed and decided to take him a present.
"We’ll stop in town and buy something," Joe said.
"What about the mask?" Phil wanted to know. "We shouldn’t leave it here."
"Don’t worry. I’m taking care of that right now," Joe replied. He removed the equipment from his camera case and inserted the death mask.
"Old Brutus is going with us," he declared.
On the way to the hospital they stopped at a florist’s to get a bouquet for the injured man. When they entered the Arab’s room, they were stunned by his condition. Ali’s head was swathed in a broad bandage. His right eye was blackened, and his left arm, immobile and in a cast, lay on the sheet. A nurse had cautioned the boys not to stay long.
After conveying their regrets, they prepared to leave. Ali smiled wanly and whispered, "Be very careful. That mask must be of fabulous value. Do you still have it?"
Joe patted the leather camera case.
40
"Get rid of it as soon as you can. Your lives are in danger!"
The boys said good-by and returned to the cottage, where the chore of packing began.
"Listen, Joe," Frank said. "I was about to ask you the other day. What happened to my other pair of shorts?"
"Don’t look at me!" Joe said with mock hurt. "I wear only one pair at a time."
"Chet?"
"They wouldn’t fit me," the chubby boy said, and Tony, Phil, and Biff claimed they had not seen them either.
When the suitcases were filled, Frank threw his sport jacket over his arm. The thought flashed through his mind that he had not worn it once since removing it from his bag the day they arrived.
"Everyone ready to go?" he asked.
They all were. William would accompany his friends to the airport for the final good-by. Before they left, he removed the trinket from around his neck and handed it to Joe.
"Here, this is a gift to you," he said. "A keepsake of friendship."
"But I can’t accept that," Joe said, embarrassed by the generous offer. "It’s some kind of an heirloom, isn’t it?"
"Please," William said. "I know we’ll always be good friends."
41
Their eyes met for a few silent seconds, then Joe smiled. He took the gift and put the chain over his head. "William, you’re a great guy!"
Carrying their bags, the boys trekked into town.
"We’ll drop the mask off at police headquarters," Frank said.
"Take this silver coin, too," Biff said.
"There is a cab," William spoke up. "Shall I hold it? It is already late and we need two."
"Tell you what," Frank said. "Why don’t you go ahead, while Joe and I take care of the mask. That’ll give you more time to check in. Take our bags, too, and we’ll meet you at the airport later."
"Okay," Phil said, and the four piled into the taxi. Joe and Frank walked toward the municipal buildings. They were halfway down the block when they heard rapid footsteps behind them. Whirling around, they saw Sam Brown, George Aker, and another man.
"Wait a minute," Aker called out. "What’s your hurry?"
The men’s ploy was obvious. "Let’s split and run," Frank said. "We’ll meet at the airport."
"Roger."
The boys dashed off, Frank running across the street, Joe straight ahead toward police headquarters.
There shouldn’t be any problem, Joe thought, of reaching the police before the pursuers, one of whom had followed Frank.
42
But he had taken no more than twenty steps when Stribling and an unkempt-looking fellow approached him from the opposite direction, trying to block his path!
Joe raced into the street, just missing a car that screeched to a halt to avoid him. As he gained the other side, he tripped on the curb and fell, sprawled out on the sidewalk. Quickly he picked himself up, grabbed the camera case, and dashed away while onlookers stared at the chase. "Not a cop in sight!" Joe thought desperately. "What’ll I do?"
As the men gained on him, he saw the restaurant where Phil had eavesdropped. He ducked into an alley, went around behind the place, and burst into the kitchen, nearly bowling over the big chef.
"Help me!" Joe gasped. "Please!"
The Jamaican grabbed his shirt front. At the same time his eyes fell on the African trinket around Joe’s neck.
"Where did you get this?"
"William Ellis gave it to me."
Without another word the chef shoved him into the pantry and barred the back door with arms akimbo.
Joe’s pursuers were now looking behind garbage cans, peering into every doorway.
"Did you see a white kid hanging around here?" Stribling asked the cook.
43


"We’ll meet at the airport!" Frank said.
44
He looked impassively at the questioner. "Listen, man, I mind my own business. But if you spill one of those cans, I’ll put it on your head like an Easter bonnet."
The men hurried off, cursing their bad luck. When they were safely out of sight, the chef opened the pantry door. "What they want with you, man?"
"They’re thieves. Tried to take my camera case."
"Well, they’re gone now."
"Could you call a taxi for me, please?" Joe said.
The big man went to the telephone in the restaurant and a few minutes later a cab appeared in front of the place. Joe said good-by with a look of gratitude on his face.
"If you’re a friend of William’s, you’re a friend of mine," the Jamaican said, with a big grin.
The taxi sped toward the airport.
In the meantime, Frank had already arrived and told the others what had happened.
"I figured I could make them run after me instead of Joe," he said. "But I guessed wrong."
"I hope nothing happened to him," Phil said. "We shouldn’t have left you the way we did."
Their flight was called and passengers filed from the waiting room through the final gate.
"Please don’t leave till my brother Joe arrives," Frank said to the agent who checked the boarding passes.
45
"We’ll hold it as long as we can," the man replied.
Soon the plane was filled. "I’ll have to close the gate now," the official said. "Do you want to take another flight?"
"I think we’ll have to—oh, there he is!" Joe hurried up to them, the camera case swinging in his right hand.
"Just in time," Frank said.
"Kwa heri," William said. "Good-by to all of you!"
The boys shook hands and invited William to visit them in Bayport whenever he could. Then they hurried through the gate and onto the plane.
Once aboard, Frank handed his sport jacket to a stewardess, asking her to hang it up. Something white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
"Does this underwear belong to you?" she asked.
A dozen heads turned and the boys laughed out loud.
"Your missing shorts!" Joe snorted, sliding into his seat. "And you blamed me! Some nerve!"
"They must have gotten stuck inside my jacket in the suitcase," Frank said lamely. "But now tell us. What happened to you?"
Joe described his escape. "William’s trinket saved me," he concluded. "It must have a special meaning."
"And you still have the mask?"
46
"Right here in my camera case."
"Now you’re carrying contraband," Phil declared.
"We’ll just have to take it along," Frank said. "Nothing we can do about it."
The flight north was smooth and they enjoyed a good lunch. In New York they changed planes and arrived in Bayport without further excitement. Their parents were on hand to meet them, and they went their separate ways.
At the Hardy home, after their aunt greeted them, she handed them a telegram. Frank ripped it open.
"It’s from William! Listen: ‘George Aker took the second section of that flight to New York. He is on your trail.’"
The boys told Aunt Gertrude and their parents what had happened, and Mr. Hardy immediately turned on the electronic surveillance system that protected their home.
Then Joe pulled the mask out of his camera case. Aunt Gertrude shuddered. "How horrible!" she exclaimed. "A death mask. This can bring nothing but bad luck. Look at those eyes! It just gives me the willies!"
"It won’t bite you," Joe said with a grin.
"Worse than that," Aunt Gertrude said. "It’s going to haunt us!"
Later in the evening, Mr. Hardy called his sons into his study. He was a handsome man, graying 
47
slightly at the temples. His face was rugged, his shoulders square, and his general demeanor confident. Fenton Hardy had once been a top-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, but had retired to Bayport to raise his family and conduct a private-investigation service that had gained a world-wide reputation.
He sat behind his desk as Frank and Joe slumped into lounge chairs.
"I think you had quite some excitement," Mr. Hardy said.
"You can say that again," Joe replied, adding, "can you tell us anything about your new case?"
His father explained that he had been commissioned to work for a number of airlines, acting together. "It’s a pretty serious situation," he said. "Carriers are losing millions of dollars in ticket thefts. Previously, a few had been stolen by employees every now and then, but now a wholesale pilferage is going on. Cartons of blanks are hijacked from printing plants and wind up in the hands of a crooked network. They even went as far as demanding ransom for the blanks!"
"It wasn’t paid, was it?" Joe asked.
"It was. One airline paid seventy-thousand dollars for tickets that could have been worth two million. This must be stopped and the airlines are going all out to—"
A shrill noise interrupted the detective. The alarm!
48
All three rushed to the door. Aunt Gertrude screamed that her prediction had come true. The "intruder," however, was Biff Hooper. He walked briskly up the front steps.
"Hey, it’s only me!" he said. "I was driving by and noticed someone snooping around. Thought you’d like to know."
"I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Aker," Frank said.
"Aker?" Biff asked. "He’s in Jamaica!"
"Not any more." Frank showed his friend William’s telegram.
"Wow!" Biff said. "You must really have hit on something with that mask."
"No doubt it holds a clue that the crooks know about and we don’t," Frank said. "I’m sure they wouldn’t go to those lengths for just a piece of metal, even if it is an antique."
The Hardys notified the police immediately, then started a search themselves.
"Frank, you check the shrubs on the other side of the house," Mr. Hardy said. "Joe and Biff, try the back. I’ll look across the street."
They rushed out the door and split up. Frank walked through remnants of snow to a dark clump of mountain laurel. As he was about to peer into the shadows, a figure jumped out and clapped a crushing headlock on him!
Frank tried to cry out, but in vain!

49
CHAPTER VI Bug on the Window
FRANK struggled with his assailant, but could not break the deadly grip. He felt the man’s muscles flexing as he applied more pressure to the headlock. Spots began to swim before the boy’s eyes, and he knew that he was in danger of passing out.
With one final wrench Frank broke loose from the vise and fell to the ground while the intruder ran toward the street. Moments later, Frank heard the sound of a motor revving up and a car making a fast getaway.
Frank rested on hands and knees until his head cleared, then struggled to his feet and called for help.
Joe and Biff raced over to him to hear what happened.
"We’ll chase that scoundrel!" Biff declared, racing to his car with Joe at his heels. But it was 
50
a futile effort. The intruder was long out of sight, and minutes later the two boys returned.
Meanwhile, the police had arrived and were searching the grounds. The only clue was footprints between the mountain laurels and the first-floor windows.
"It was Aker. I feel sure of that," Frank said. He told his father about the man’s sturdy build. "Powerful arms, as I recall," he concluded.
At breakfast the next day Fenton Hardy announced that he and Sam Radley, his assistant, were leaving town for a few days to investigate the airline-ticket racket.
"There’s a printing outfit in Connecticut," the detective explained, "that supplies blanks to several airlines. A truck from this plant was hijacked, and the thieves stole thousands of tickets."
"Sounds like an inside job," Frank said.
"That’s what we think. Sam and I will give the place a thorough check to see if any employees are involved."
"Can we help you, Dad?" Joe asked.
"Later, perhaps," Mr. Hardy replied. "So far Sam and I can handle this alone."
Frank and Joe decided to go to the local library to look up African history. Perhaps they would find a clue to the gold-salt reference carved into the back of the mask.
Half a dozen volumes were available, but the 
51
librarian recommended one title in particular, The Golden Trade of the Moors.
Frank obtained it and they walked into the hushed and carpeted reading room. Sitting side-by-side, they pored over the events in North and West Africa from the fourteenth century on.
"Look, here’s something about Mansa Musa, King of Mali," Joe pointed out. "No wonder William admired him so much."
Their excited voices could be heard by one of the librarians. She looked up and cautioned them to speak lower. They nodded in embarrassment and quietly devoured the pages devoted to the fabulous Mansa Musa.
The black king, who was a Muslim, set out on a hadj, or pilgrimage, to Mecca in 1324. Mounted on horseback, he was preceded by five-hundred slaves. Each slave carried a staff of gold weighing five hundred mithqual. A footnote explained that a mithqual, or mithkal, was about one-eighth of an ounce of gold. They proceeded in a camel caravan numbering nearly one-thousand camels.
"Holy catfish!" Joe whispered. "Can you imagine what that’s worth at today’s prices?"
When the king passed through Cairo, he gave away so much gold as gifts that the country was thrown into a terrible inflation that lasted many years.
"What a guy," Frank said.
52
The report went on to say that Mansa Musa was a good, just king, greatly loved by his subjects.
"Do you know how far that trip was?" Frank asked. "Let’s look it up on the map."
"Wow! On foot and with camels? It seems impossible."
Joe went through the indexes of the remaining books and finally said, "Frank, look at this. Salt was carried south from Sijilmasa and exchanged for equal weights of gold in West Africa! That’s what the inscription on the mask refers to."
Further reading told them that Sijilmasa had long since become a lost city.
"Perhaps that’s where the mysterious caravan vanished," Frank conjectured.
The hours had flown by quickly, and it was noon before the Hardys realized it.
"We’d better get home for lunch," Joe said. "My stomach’s growling."
"Mine, too."
The boys arrived to find their mother and Aunt Gertrude in a state of excitement.
"You’ve had a phone call," Mrs. Hardy said, "from Jamaica!"
The brothers looked at each other in amazement.
"Who was it?" Frank asked.
"Your friend William. He wants you to call him back right away."
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Mrs. Hardy handed Frank the number, and he had no difficulty reaching William.
"Hi, this is Frank Hardy. What’s going on down there?"
Frank listened for more than a minute, then said. "Sure. That’s fine. You let us know and we’ll meet you at the airport."
After Frank hung up, the others were eager to hear the news.
"Is he coming to visit us?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
"Yes. He shadowed Stribling and Brown and found out that they want to get the mask at any cost. They’re leaving Jamaica for New York tomorrow morning. Whether they’ll come on to Bayport, William doesn’t know."
"Our buddy’s really on the ball!" Joe said with admiration.
"Sure is. He’ll take the same flight and follow them wherever they go. He’ll call us from New York and let us know what’s up."
"My goodness, that’s very dangerous!" Aunt Gertrude said. "He should stay in Jamaica. What if those terrible cutthroats come to Bayport?"
"We’ll take care of them!" Joe vowed.
"It also solves the problem of the mask," Frank said. "William can take it back to Jamaica when he leaves."
"And it’ll give us more time to study it," Joe added.
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"Right. By the way, Ali’s back in his shop and feeling much better."
After lunch Joe said, "You know, Frank, I think Callie and Iola would get a great charge out of this mask. Why don’t we invite them over? They can help us polish it."
"Good idea."
Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, dated Joe, while Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite girl. When Frank phoned the Morton farm, Callie was there and both accepted the invitation readily. Iola said, "Chet’s coming to see you later this afternoon anyway. We’ll drive over with him."
"And stay for supper, okay?" Frank asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding to his mother.
Mrs. Hardy smiled a quiet consent. She, too, was fond of the girls.
When Aunt Gertrude heard the news, she bustled about the kitchen to make Chet a pie. His appetite was usually appeased by Aunt Gertrude’s goodies, and he praised her cooking all over Bayport and its environs.
At four o’clock a few heavy backfires announced the arrival of Chet’s jalopy. The girls were bundled up in ski jackets, and their faces were bright and rosy from the cold air as they entered the Hardys’ living room. Chet followed, a bright-yellow skating cap perched on his head.
"I wish I were back in Jamaica," he said. "How 
55
would you like to swim in that warm surf today, Joe?"
Callie and Iola were intrigued by the mask, and after a delicious supper suggested that Frank and Joe drive them back to the Morton farm, where Iola had a special cleaning fluid.
"It’ll make Bwana Brutus’s face shine," Iola said. All agreed, and by seven-thirty were on their way to Chet’s place, snow tires humming against the highway.
Frank and Joe kept looking behind to see if anyone was tailing them. Several cars passed, but far back, dim headlights seemed to be holding their position.
"You think that’s someone following us?" asked Iola.
"It’s probably Chet," Frank said. "He left with us but dropped off the pace."
Conversation turned to winter sports. Skiing had not been good, but the ice skating was the best in years.
"Our pond’s like glass," Iola said. "Why don’t we have a skating party soon?"
"Fine with us," Joe said as they pulled into the long driveway on the Morton farm. Chet arrived a few minutes later.
It was not until the mask lay on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen table and the girls, using cotton-tipped swabs, were cleaning every 
56
crevice in the beard, that the Hardys told them about William’s plan to visit.
"You’ll like him," Joe said. "He’s tops."
"Listen!" Callie said suddenly.
"What is it?"
"I thought I heard a little tap on the window."
None of the others had, but nevertheless the Hardys and Chet hurried out into the biting cold to look around. No one was in sight.
When they were back inside with the girls, Iola inquired, "When is William coming?"
"He’s leaving on the nine fifteen A.M. flight to New York tomorrow morning, and will call us when he arrives."
"Maybe he can teach you Swahili," Chet said, looking at the girls. "And I’m warning you. It’s not easy!"
Everyone laughed; then Iola held up the mask. The face seemed to be more expressive than ever. Tilted at a certain angle, the mouth even appeared to have a faint smile.
"I still think it’s spooky," Chet said.
Later, when the boys got ready to leave, Frank said, "It looks like old Brutus here had a real good beauty treatment." He thanked the girls and offered Callie a ride home.
Just then Chet glanced out the window, which offered a view of the country road that curved around the farm.
"Look at this, guys," he said. "A car just 
57
turned on its lights. It must have been parked."
The Hardys became apprehensive. Why would a car be standing there at this time of night? Frank had a hunch, which he hardly dared think about. "Callie," he said, "which window did you hear that noise at?"
She pointed to the one nearest the kitchen table. After putting on their coats, the Hardys went outside. They scanned every bit of the glass. Suddenly Frank saw it!
Far in the left-hand corner was a tiny suction disk. Attached to it was a small matchbox-size instrument and a long, trailing wire.
"The place has been bugged!" Frank cried out.
"You know what that means?" Joe said. "Someone in that car heard our conversation about William!"
"What’ll we do now?" Chet asked.
"Get in touch with William and map out an alternate strategy," Frank said.
Both boys were glum as they dropped Callie off. "Cheer up," she said. "Things can’t be that bad!"
"You win an Oscar for optimism," Joe said.
When the Hardys arrived home, they telephoned William. But there was no answer.
"I hope we reach him before his flight leaves tomorrow morning," Joe said, worried.
They tried every hour all night long, but to no avail.
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"Maybe he’s staying with his grandfather," Joe said. "And we don’t even know his name. It’s his mother’s father."
The next day the boys waited for a call from New York. The minutes ticked by in silence. Neither boy spoke much, and they picked sparingly at the food on their plates.
Mrs. Hardy tried to cheer them with no results.
Finally, late in the evening, the phone rang. Joe ran to pick it up. A look of horror came over his face as he listened to the voice on the other end.
"Give us that mask if you want to see William alive again!" a man rasped.

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CHAPTER VII Frank’s Brainstorm
THE caller hung up, leaving Joe holding the receiver.
"They’ve got William!" he finally burst out.
"How terrible!" Aunt Gertrude wailed. "I told you to have nothing to do with strangers! If you took my advice, you wouldn’t get into these horrid situations."
"It’s not the boys’ fault," their mother defended them. She turned to Frank. "Could it be just an empty threat? Maybe these people are only bluffing."
The phone rang again. This time Aunt Gertrude snatched up the receiver. The voice on the other end was loud enough to be heard by the others.
"I mean business!"
"So do I!" Aunt Gertrude berated. "You villains leave my nephews alone or I’ll—I’ll—"
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Click! The caller hung up.
"Those ruffians make me furious!" The woman huffed.
"You’ll never get anywhere talking like that!" Frank said. "We must be calm and find a way to trick them."
"Whoever it is, he’ll phone again," was Joe’s guess. "We can’t turn over the mask without knowing when, where, and how."
The bell sounded once more and Frank took the call. The voice said, "We’re not going to give you more than a couple of days to decide."
"We get the message," Frank said evenly. "And we don’t want anything to happen to William. How soon shall we make the exchange?"
"I’ll contact you tomorrow. We’ll discuss details then."
Realizing it was impossible to trace the call, Frank and Joe immediately set off on another tack. First Joe telephoned the airline’s New York office. They were told that William Ellis had debarked at Kennedy International Airport. Had he boarded a plane for Bayport? No, he had not.
"Is his baggage in New York?" Joe asked.
After a long wait he got the answer. "No."
"Then perhaps it went through to Bayport."
"That’s a possibility."
"Thanks for your help," Joe said, and he hung up.
"Let’s find out right away," Frank said.
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They jumped into their car and rode to Bayport Airport.
"If William’s luggage has arrived," Joe said, "it might give us a clue."
The terminal was nearly deserted at that time of night, as most flights had already come in. The baggage master gave the boys his prompt attention. Several suitcases were still unclaimed. Could they possibly identify their friend’s luggage?
It proved to be easy because one of the bags, a tan one that looked rather new, had William Ellis’s name on it in bold white letters.
"That’s it," Joe said. "May we take it?"
"Not without authority."
Joe went to a pay phone and called Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a friend who had worked closely with them on many cases. He was not there, but the desk sergeant gave the boy his home phone number. When Collig answered, Joe outlined the case and said they were hoping to find a clue in William’s bag.
"Like what?" asked the chief.
"I don’t know. But can’t we at least bring it to headquarters?"
The chief gave his permission and said that a patrol car would arrive shortly to pick up the suitcase.
When it arrived, the officer signed a receipt and drove to headquarters, with the Hardys following.
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By the time they got there, Chief Collig himself had arrived. "This is interesting," he said. "I’d like to see what’s in the bag."
The lock was picked by an expert and the suitcase laid open on the desk. In it were the usual things a young man would carry: slacks, a sport jacket, shirts, and a gift-wrapped package marked "Mrs. Hardy."
Chief Collig slit the paper and revealed a jar of preserves. "Looks like mangoes," he said.
"No doubt from William’s mother," Frank said.
In a side pocket of the suitcase the chief found William’s Swahili wordbook. A slip of paper marked a certain page and Frank opened it. On it were written two words: Hatari Dingo.
"Hatari means ‘danger,’" Joe said and verified it in the book. But Dingo was not listed.
"Maybe it’s one of those words that are seldom used," Frank said.
The contents of the suitcase were replaced and locked in the properties room for delivery to William if and when he should arrive.
The Hardys drove home. As they entered the driveway they saw a light in their father’s second-floor study.
"Dad must be home," Frank said as he parked the car. "I wonder what’s new in the ticket racket."
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The boys hurried upstairs and found Fenton Hardy poring over a sheaf of notes.
"Dad, did you hear about William?" Joe asked.
"Mother and Gertrude told me," the detective replied. "A very serious matter. I’d say you’ll have to relinquish the mask. It’s not worth a human life!"
"What did you and Sam find out?" Frank asked.
"I think we have a good lead," his father replied. He told them that their investigation focused on a man named Kenleigh Scott, an employee of the printing plant who had been hired about six months previously.
"He’s very bright," the detective went on, "and received several quick promotions. By his diligence he worked his way into the traffic department."
"So he knew the routes of all the trucks. Is that it?" Joe asked.
"Exactly."
"Did you question him?"
"I’m afraid not. He left without notice after the last big haul of tickets."
"What does he look like?" Frank wanted to know.
"The photos filed with Plant Security have disappeared," Mr. Hardy said, "but I’m confident that Sam can turn up something if he probes long enough. I left him on the case."
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Now speculation turned back to the death mask, and Mr. Hardy had an idea. "Why don’t you have a duplicate made at a foundry?" he suggested. "There’s a good one in Millvale. A friend of mine, Alex Krusinsky, is a foreman. I’m sure he could take care of this with absolute secrecy. You might even try to palm the copy off on the crooks!"
"Terrific thought!" Frank said. "We’ll see him first thing in the morning."
While they were still at the breakfast table the next day, Chet’s jalopy bombarded its way down the street and their friend appeared at the back door, his freckled face beaming. "What do I smell, ham or sausage?"
"Sausage," Aunt Gertrude said. "Farm fresh."
"Can’t say I’d turn it down," Chet remarked as he pulled up a chair. "And only two eggs, please, Aunt Gertrude. I’ve already had breakfast."
"We were just talking with Dad about Bwana Brutus," Joe said as he finished a glass of milk.
"Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it, Mr. Hardy?" Chet shook his head. "A mysterious caravan that existed hundreds of years ago. I’m afraid its secret is buried in the sands of time."
"You’re getting pretty poetic so early in the morning," Frank quipped. Then he added with a snap of his fingers, "You know, I just had a brainstorm."
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"Let’s hear it," Joe said.
"Suppose a cargo of gold disappeared on its way from Mali to Sijilmasa. And suppose it was hijacked and hidden. And suppose a smart man knew where it was and made a map."
"Go ahead," Fenton Hardy said. "It intrigues me."
Frank said that a parchment map could be destroyed, and so could wood. "That leaves metal, right?"
"Right!" Joe said. "The map might be on the death mask! Old Bwana Brutus might hold the key to the riddle!"

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CHAPTER VIII The Suave Stranger
"MAYBE the mask was the treasure in the captain’s cabin, and was lost in the wreck of the Africanus Rex," Frank said.
"And I found it!" Joe was exuberant.
Chet put away his second fried egg and was savoring a sausage. "Fantastic!" he said. "And impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible, Chet," Mr. Hardy said. "Maybe Frank has something there."
"You know all the lines in those whiskers?" Frank went on. "They might camouflage the map that leads to the hiding place of the mysterious caravan!"
"It’ll take time to work this out," Mr. Hardy said. "It might be a good idea to get a duplicate, even if you can’t give it to the kidnappers."
"We’ll go to the foundry right away," Joe said.
"Don’t take it over yourself," Mr. Hardy advised. 
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"Your enemies are desperate and might follow you. We’ll have to do this by stealth."
They decided to call Tony Prito. He was to arrive in his father’s truck, dressed in work clothes, and would bring a toolbox in which to carry the mask out of the house.
"That’ll throw Stribling and company off the trail if they’re spying on us," Joe said.
Tony agreed to cooperate. "Boy, just like a detective movie," he said. "I’ll be there in half an hour."
When he walked into the kitchen, the boys got the mask from the safe and put it into the box Tony was carrying.
"I’ll leave in our car a little later and meet you at the foundry," Joe said. "Frank wants to go to the library, in the meantime, to get some old maps of Africa."
Fifteen minutes after Tony had left, Joe drove to the foundry in Millvale, about ten miles away. He took a back road for a short cut. No one seemed to follow him. When he arrived, he looked for Tony’s truck, but there was no sign of it.
"Good grief!" he thought. "I hope nothing has happened!"
Joe hurried into the foreman’s office and asked Alex Krusinsky if the mask had been delivered.
"Not yet," the man replied. "Was it supposed to?"
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Joe felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Had Tony been waylaid and the mask stolen? He told Krusinsky about his mission, looking out at the parking lot over and over again. Then he phoned Tony’s home. Mr. Prito had not seen his son since he left the house with the truck.
Joe breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions. He made a second call to his father. Mr. Hardy answered and spoke in a low voice.
"I can hardly hear you, Dad," Joe said. He could sense his father putting his lips close to the mouthpiece.
"I can’t talk any louder, Joe. A caller has just arrived, and I don’t want to be overheard."
"Do you know what happened to Tony?" Joe asked, and he told his father about his futile search for the truck.
"No," Mr. Hardy replied. "But don’t panic, Joe. Maybe the truck broke down. Just stay there till he comes and then hurry home. It’s important."
"What is it, Dad?"
But Mr. Hardy had clicked off.
No sooner had Joe put the phone down, than he looked out the office window and saw Tony pull in. The boy parked and brought his toolbox inside.
"Where’ve you been, Tony?" Joe asked in an irritated tone. "You had me scared to death!"
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"Flat tire! It does happen now and then, you know."
"Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you," Joe said, and his friend opened the toolbox to remove the mask.
Alex Krusinsky looked it over carefully. "I can do a good job on this," he finally said. "Call me tomorrow."
"And don’t forget," Joe warned, "it’s strictly confidential."
"Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself."
The boys thanked him and left the office. On the way out Joe said, "Dad wants me to go right home for something important."
"Maybe word from the kidnappers?"
"He didn’t say." Joe opened the door of his car. "Okay, chum, see you later. And thanks."
Both boys drove off, and Joe thought about his father’s cryptic message all the way home. He pulled into the driveway, having noticed a convertible parked in front. A man was slouched behind the wheel, with only his peaked cap showing.
Joe entered through the kitchen door. As he went in, he could hear the conversation in the living room. The visitor had a mellifluous baritone voice that Joe could not identify.
The boy walked into the room and saw his parents and Aunt Gertrude having tea with a 
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tall, handsome man. The suave, sun-tanned stranger was introduced to Joe as Elroy Abrams, a representative of the Jamaican Consulate. He rose to shake hands, then sat down again, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked Joe directly in the eye.
"I’ll brief you quickly on my mission," he said. "Our government was alerted to the fact that you found an ancient mask on the beach in Jamaica. It is in the police report after the beating of Ali El Ansari. I have come to reclaim that mask. It belongs to the people of our country, you know."
"We were going to send it later, Mr. Abrams," Joe said lamely. Through his mind flashed the question: What if this man demanded the mask right now? And how would they satisfy the kidnappers? Should he tell the whole story to Abrams?
The man went on, "You should not have kept it at all!"
"We tried to return it before our flight home," Joe said. "But we ran into some trouble." He did not elaborate further. "Anyway, we got on the airplane with it. Just in time, too, I might say."
The man smiled ingratiatingly. "You won’t be in any trouble if you turn it over to me now."
Joe perspired. "What a box I’m in!" he thought.
He was interrupted by the sound of Frank’s 
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footsteps as he came through the front door and entered the living room. Frank was introduced to Abrams; then he looked nervously at his father.
"Dad, I must speak to you alone. Could you come upstairs for a minute? It’s important."
Frank smiled at the caller. "You will excuse us, Mr. Abrams, but it’s something that can’t wait."
The man nodded amiably and addressed Laura Hardy, saying that she had two mighty fine sons.
When Frank and his father entered the study and closed the door behind them, the boy pulled a letter from his pocket. It was sent by air-mail, special delivery.
"I intercepted the postman on the sidewalk," Frank said. "It’s from Sam Radley."
As Mr. Hardy slit it open, he said, "We’re in a tight fix, Frank. That gentleman from the Jamaican Consulate wants us to turn over the mask pronto."
"Ye gods, and it’s at the foundry!"
"Right. Maybe we can promise it for this evening. Trouble is, he is insistent and wants it immediately."
"Dad, we couldn’t give it to him if we had it. What about William?"
Mr. Hardy had taken the letter from the envelope and a photograph fell to his desk.
"Oh, good," he said. "Sam got a picture of 
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our man Scott." He scanned the letter. "It was taken unknown to him at an employees’ picnic," Radley had written.
Frank stared at the snapshot and gasped. "Oh, no!"
He took a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and focused on Scott. The people in the photo were magnified to twice their size.
The Hardys exchanged shocked glances. "No doubt, Dad." Frank said. "This man is in our living room right now!"

73
CHAPTER IX The Clue in the Coat
THE suspense and excitement were nearly unbearable. Although the sound of their voices was well insulated from the floor below, Frank found himself talking in a whisper.
"Dad, what do you make of it? If the man is really the airline-ticket thief, why does he want the death mask? And how did he know about it?"
"Easy, Frank," his father replied. "Maybe there’s a connection we don’t know about, though he did show us his credentials. I’ll phone the Jamaican Consulate in New York."
The operator gave Mr. Hardy the number, and his call went through in a few moments.
After the detective had identified himself, he said, "We have a visitor here named Elroy Abrams. He is representing himself as an official of the Jamaican Consulate. I’d like to verify his credentials."
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A minute or two of silence followed. "No, Mr. Hardy," was the reply. "We have no person by that name in our employ."
"Then he must be an impostor!" Mr. Hardy said. After hanging up, he tapped out the number of Bayport Police Headquarters and spoke to Chief Collig, asking him to send two men over to arrest Abrams.
"Three squad cars are investigating an accident on the highway," the chief said. "But I’ll have someone there as soon as I can."
"Well," Mr. Hardy said to Frank, "let’s go down and see what Mr. Abrams-Scott has to say for himself."
"Are you going to nab him right away?"
"No. Not until the police arrive."
When father and son returned to the living room, Mrs. Hardy had just brought in another pot of tea and a tray of cookies.
"Good," Frank thought. "This’ll give us the time we need."
The boy’s heart was thumping at the bizarre situation. Joe seemed embarrassed to have the bogus official dun him for the mask. The women, in an affable mood, were chatting with the caller, whose charisma was undeniable.
After munching on a couple of cookies, for which he complimented his hostesses, the caller pressed his napkin to his lips and said with some finality, "Now what about the mask? I have to 
75
leave shortly to get back to New York. Joe, will you bring it to me?"
Joe was not often tongue-tied. In fact, Frank had never known his brother to lack for an answer. But this time Joe’s mouth opened and no words came out.
Frank quickly took up the slack in the conversation. He had to keep the ball rolling until the police arrived.
"First of all," Frank said, "Joe and I want you to know that we appreciate your kindness. You’ve been fair with us, and we’ll be fair with you, Mr. Scott."
Instantly the boy was stunned by his own blunder as well as by Scott’s reaction, which hit like a thunderclap. Realizing he had been found out, the man overturned his tray, the utensils and china thudding onto the carpet. Joe was immobilized by the suddenness of it all. He thought the man had gone crazy!
Mrs. Hardy emitted a cry and Aunt Gertrude screamed, knocking over the half-empty teapot. The liquid spilled on Mr. Hardy’s trousers. The impostor leaped up, grabbed his stylish leather coat, and tried to struggle into it while dashing for the door.
"Get him!" Mr. Hardy cried out. Frank lunged and so did Joe. The leather slipped through their fingers and Kenleigh Scott dashed down the front steps, still struggling to get into his coat.
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Joe leaped from the top step, grasped the dangling sleeve, and hung on with bulldog tenacity. Scott whirled around. He struggled free of the garment and ran into the waiting car, the back door of which was open. Wheels skidded in the soft snow for a second; then the vehicle took off like a rocket.
Frank made a mental note of the license number. Then he groaned. "Where are the police? Why didn’t they come in time?"
"Frank, will you tell me what this is all about?" Joe asked. "Why did Abrams flip his lid?"
"His name isn’t Abrams," Frank said, as they returned, shivering, into the house. "That was Kenleigh Scott. We were just about to catch him when I blew it!"
Still shaking from the ordeal, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law were busy cleaning up the mess on the living room floor. They were dazed by their guest’s explosive departure, and when Mr. Hardy explained what had happened, Aunt Gertrude sank onto the sofa.
"A criminal! In our house!" she said weakly. "And we served him tea! Oh, dear, he might have murdered us all!"
Frank and Joe pitched in with the cleanup job until a squad car arrived. After the patrolmen were given a description of the getaway car, one of them immediately radioed headquarters. The other units would be on the lookout for it.
77


The impostor leaped up!
78
Shortly afterwards headquarters called back. It had been a rental car, signed out by an A. E. Dingo.
"Hey, Frank!" Joe exclaimed. "Dingo is the name in the Swahili wordbook! He’s the one that William thought was dangerous!"
"Well, he got away this time," Frank said. He turned to his father. "I’m sorry, Dad. If we had caught Scott, you might have wound up your case quickly."
"Don’t worry about it, son," Mr. Hardy replied. "It doesn’t always work out that easily."
"Have you tried to figure out the double role of Kenleigh Scott in the ticket-mask mysteries?" asked Joe.
"That has me up a tree," the detective ruefully admitted. "But if there’s an answer, we’ll find it!"
Now the Hardy family was settled again after the frightening experience, and Mr. Hardy said, "Gertrude, don’t wash these dishes."
"Goodness sakes! Why not? I’ll use double-hot water on that cutthroat’s cup!"
"Wait a minute. We need fingerprints," her brother replied. He assigned Frank to lift prints from the cup handle, the edge of the saucer, and the spoon. Then he examined the fine leather coat that now lay on the sofa.
"Look at the label, boys," he said. "It’s from Paris."
"Expensive, no doubt," Joe said, as he felt the 
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material. "Kenleigh Scott must have lots of money from his ticket racket."
"I think it’s kidskin," the detective went on, jotting down the name of the company. "We’ll send them a cable asking for a list of possible dealers in the United States."
"I guess it’s a long shot, Dad, but it’s worth trying," Joe said.
Frank, meanwhile, had lifted two sets of prints from the cup and saucer. One was Aunt Gertrude’s. The second, they felt sure, belonged to the impostor.
"Let’s take them to Chief Collig," Joe suggested.
"How about sending a copy to Interpol?" Frank said. "If this airline-ticket racket is spread all over the world, Interpol might have something on our friend Scott."
"An excellent thought," Mr. Hardy agreed.
As they started to send the information out, Mrs. Hardy asked, "Fenton, where did Gertrude go?"
"She was here a minute ago. There she is, outside!"
"What is she looking at in the gutter?" Frank wondered.
Gertrude Hardy was bent down, tugging at something in the wet snow with her bare hands. The boys ran out to question her.
"Aunty, what’s going on?" Joe asked.
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"Humph!" she replied, straightening up. "You think you’re the only ones who know how to look for clues?"
Joe winked at his brother and said, "Of course not. What have you got there?"
She held up what appeared to be a letter. It was soaked and crumbled from lying in the wet snow.
"This could have fallen from that scoundrel’s pocket," Aunt Gertrude declared. "You spun him around like a pinwheel, Joe."
"All right, let’s bring it inside to dry," Frank said. "And thanks for helping us."
Once indoors, Joe spread the soggy paper on the drainboard in the kitchen. The words, written in ink, were smudged and barely legible.
Aunt Gertrude went upstairs and returned minutes later with her hair dryer. She plugged it in and soon had warm air blowing on the mysterious letter.
"Maybe it’s somebody’s shopping list," Joe quipped.
"I wouldn’t be too sure," Aunt Gertrude retorted tartly. "Fenton, come here and look at this! That’s no shopping list at all!"
Mr. Hardy, who had been busy dispatching the information to Interpol and to the French company, came into the kitchen to examine his sister’s find.
"There, it’s showing up more clearly now," he 
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said. "Joe, we need a magnifying glass, the powerful one you keep in your desk."
Joe raced up the stairs, two at a time, and returned with the lens. He bent over to study the writing and his face grew beet red.
"It’s—it is a clue, Aunt Gertrude!" he exclaimed.
"Then read it to us."
Joe sucked in his breath. "I can’t make out all the words, only a few. They say, ‘Get mask…us…and…will knock off Fenton Hardy.’"

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CHAPTER X A Muddy Race
"YOU know what this means?" Frank asked. "Dad’s enemies and ours have gotten together somehow."
"You’re right," Mr. Hardy said. "They’re working together and are twice as strong now."
The boys felt sheepish when they complimented Aunt Gertrude on her good piece of detective work.
"We Hardys have to stick together," she replied with a coy smile. "I hope it helps you solve your case."
"Aunt Gertrude, you’re something!" Joe said. "We’re sorry we took it so lightly."
The next morning they called the foundry. "Is the job ready?" Joe asked.
"Yes. It turned out fine," Mr. Krusinsky replied. "Come and get it any time."
Another four inches of snow had fallen during the night, but since then the temperature had 
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risen above freezing, and the roads were covered with a sloshy, slippery mess. With Frank at the wheel, they drove toward the foundry.
"I hope our scheme works," Joe said as they sped out into the open country. "We’ll give up the duplicate mask for William and continue to study the original, if at all possible."
"Right," his brother said. "This investigation is a long way from being finished. Do you suppose we can catch the kidnappers?"
"It’s going to be risky. But we’re duty-bound to report it to the police."
"If we could only spring a trap and nail the whole gang!" Frank said.
They drove through farmland. Corn had been planted on both sides of the highway the summer before and the stubble poked through the fresh covering of snow. The boys had been watching the road behind them for possible spies, but it had been clear of traffic for several minutes. All at once, however, a red Ford sedan, traveling at high speed, pulled up close.
"I wish that guy would stop tailgating," Frank said. "If I had to brake suddenly, he’d climb right up my back!"
He drove as far to the right as he could to let the sedan pass. It did, but instead of streaking off, it slowed in front of them. When Frank tried to overtake the Ford, he was blocked!
"What’s the matter with that joker?" Joe asked.
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Just then another car appeared, as if from nowhere, and positioned itself behind them. They were boxed in!
"We’re in trouble, Joe," Frank said. "Did you get a look at these goons?"
The two men in the rear car wore ski masks pulled down over their faces, as did the driver in front. Their heads were covered except for eye slits and a mouth hole.
Frank tried again to pass the Ford, but it moved out to the center of the highway and their bumpers banged. The Hardys were sandwiched in tighter than ever, and their tormentors brought them almost to a halt.
"They want us to stop," Joe said.
"Not on your life! I’m going to make a break for it!" Frank declared. They had come to a place where only a shallow ditch dropped off on the left side of the road. Frank watched for oncoming traffic. Now he had a chance!
Turning the wheel sharply and flooring the gas pedal, he broke out of the tight formation. Their right fender crumpled for a split second with a grinding crunch, but the car broke free!
Frank crossed the road, drove down into the ditch, and up the other side. "Look back, Joe. What are they doing?" he asked.
"Coming after us!"
"I think we can shake them off."
The soft snow on the muddy field in front of 
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them made driving treacherous. Frank drove in a tight semicircle, hoping to regain the highway and speed back to Bayport. Joe saw the trailing cars falling back.
"We’ve got it made!" he exulted.
Frank fantailed on the mucky topsoil and headed at full speed for the road. The rear wheels kicked up a rooster tail of snow and mud, and the motor growled as he urged every bit of horsepower from it.
But then—slam!
About a hundred yards from the side of the highway, the car stopped dead in its tracks.
"What happened?" Joe asked.
"Must have been a rock hidden by the snow," Frank said. "We’re high centered!"
"Look, they’re gaining on us!" Joe said. "The only thing left to do is to stand and fight."
The boys leaped from the car and got behind it while their pursuers raced up.
"If they hit the car, get ready to jump!" Frank told his brother.
The two other vehicles, however, slowed to a stop and the three men stepped onto the snow. They approached the Hardys, who stood poised for the attack. Besides being good boxers, they excelled in karate.
"We don’t have the mask you’re looking for!" Joe said hotly.
"We’ll see for ourselves," one of the men replied. 
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After searching the car in vain, their leader said, "We could drop you both in the snow right now, if we wanted to."
"Why don’t you try?" Frank said.
"No. We don’t want to hurt you. We want you to take a message back to your old man. Tell him to lay off his case! He’s not dealing with a bunch of stumblebums this time!"
"So, what if he doesn’t?" Joe demanded.
"That might just be the end of Fenton Hardy!" The men chuckled at the boys’ predicament and drove away.
"Now what?" Joe asked.
"Here, put your shoulder to the back of the car."
The boys pushed and shoved, to no avail. The automobile was stuck tight.
"We’ll have to go for help," Frank said. "There’s a farmhouse on that ridge over there."
The brothers trudged across the field, past out-buildings and sheds, and knocked on the farmhouse door. A gray-haired man opened it. Frank introduced himself and his brother and said, "Can you help us, please? We’re stuck in your field and can’t get out."
"I saw them cars a while ago," the farmer said. "What was that, some fraternity initiation?"
"Nothing like that," Joe replied.
"Well, whatever it was, it was plumb crazy!"
"We’re high-centered on a rock, sir," Joe said.
"I just ought to let you sit," the farmer grumbled. 
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"Where’d this nonsense get you? Into trouble, that’s where!"
"Perhaps we could use your tractor," Joe pleaded.
"It ain’t working."
"Do you have a horse?"
"Yes. I got a horse. Two of ‘em."
"Could we have them pull the car out?" Frank asked. "We’d be glad to pay you."
"I wouldn’t take no money from no kids. Okay. I’ll get the horses. But next time you’re fooling around with your friends, don’t play tag in my fields!"
The farmer put on boots and coat, and the Hardys followed him into the barn, redolent of hay and horses. The animals nickered and tossed their heads.
"Quiet! Easy there!" the man said.
Frank and Joe patted the horses while the farmer led them out of the barn. He harnessed the animals to a whiffletree and said to the boys, "You know how to handle horses?"
"Yes. We’ve done it before," Frank said.
"Okay. Take them and pull your car off the rock, then bring them back to the barn."
"You’re very kind," Joe said. "Thanks for helping us."
The farmer replied with a grunt, and he went back into the house.
Frank and Joe walked the animals across the field, then hitched them to the front of the car. 
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Holding the reins, Frank said, "Giddap, there, fellows. Pull!"
The horses strained for a few seconds. With a scraping noise the underside of the chassis came free of the stone. Joe drove the car to the highway, while Frank took the horses back to the barn. After unharnessing them, he led them into their stalls. "Thanks, old boys."
When they arrived at the foundry, Krusinsky greeted them cordially. "Well, here you are," he said, showing them the two masks on his desk. "Can you tell ‘em apart?"
"That’s a great job!" Frank exclaimed. "I think you’d better tell us which is which."
The foundry man pointed to the original, then wrapped them up.
"How much do we owe you for this?" Joe asked.
Alex Krusinsky smiled. "Your dad said he’d take care of it later. Give him my regards. By the way, your mother has been trying to get you on the phone. She said you should have been here half an hour ago."
"Thanks," Frank said. "May I use your phone?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
Frank dialed the number and Mrs. Hardy answered. Her voice sounded nervous and she spoke fast. "Frank, they telephoned!"
"The kidnappers?"
"Yes. They left instructions. Hurry home as fast as you can!"

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CHAPTER XI Chet the Genius
GRABBING the package, the boys raced outside. Off they went toward Bayport, both looking grim and wondering what instructions the kidnappers had given.
They found Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude in the living room.
"What did they say, Mother?" Frank asked.
Mrs. Hardy picked up a piece of paper from an end table. "I made the notes right here," she said. "The kidnappers will meet you at two o’clock tomorrow morning."
"Where?"
"Behind Mary’s Quick Stop."
"The little hamburger place on the Shore Road?" Joe asked.
"That’s right. They have William, and they warned us not to notify the police."
"But we’ll have to," Frank said.
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"It’s pretty woodsy out there," Joe added. "Good cover for a possible ambush."
Joe returned the masks to the Hardys’ safe while Frank phoned police headquarters. Officer Kennedy answered.
"I don’t know you, do I?" Frank asked.
The man replied that he had been on the force only three months. The desk lieutenant had been called away momentarily. What was it that Frank wanted?
"Is Chief Collig there?" Frank asked.
"No. Can I give him a message?"
"All right," Frank said, and he gave the rookie details of the kidnappers’ phone call.
The boys paced about the house restlessly and only nibbled at their lunch. Mr. Hardy was out of town and would not return until later, so they could not consult with him.
"Listen, Joe," Frank said finally. "Let’s work on the mask and compare the lines with the maps I got from the library."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the telephone rang. It was Callie Shaw. "Iola and I can’t get that spooky mask out of our minds," she said. "Can we help you any more?"
Joe chuckled. "You mean you want to come over?"
"Well—"
"Sure. We’d like to see you. Something’s really brewing. We’ll tell you when you get here."
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The girls arrived in the Shaw family car, and when Frank told them about the kidnappers’ plan their eyes danced with excitement.
"Oh, that’ll be so dangerous!" Iola said. "You’ll be careful, won’t you?"
"Dad will be back by that time," Joe said. "Besides, the Bayport police probably will have the place staked out. When the crooks walk into the trap, snap! We’ve got ‘em!"
"Joe’s an optimist," Frank said, smiling. "It might not be all that easy."
After laying the work out on the dining-room table, Callie and Iola made rubbings of the mask, using the original. Then they inked in the lines of the face and beard.
"Among all these squiggles," Callie said, "might lie the secret."
"That’s what we’re hoping for," Frank said.
The four young people studied, compared, and repeated their efforts time and again. Finally Joe said, "I’m getting cross-eyed from all this." He sat back wearily, as his mother walked over.
"You need some fresh air," she said.
"Me, too," Frank muttered.
"Why don’t you go ice-skating on Iola’s pond for a while? You just can’t sit around fidgeting until two o’clock in the morning."
The girls agreed and pulled Frank and Joe out of their seats. While Frank returned the mask to the safe, Joe gathered up the maps and tracings 
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and put them into a briefcase. "Let’s take them with us," he said. "Maybe we can work on them later at your house, Iola."
"I’ll chauffeur you," Callie offered. "You boys can relax and rest your brains."
When they arrived at the Morton farm, Chet was at the kitchen table, finishing a late lunch.
"I have some great news!" he said. "And some bad news, too."
"Well, out with it!" Joe said.
"The good news is that school will be closed for another two weeks at least. Just heard it on the radio."
"How come?"
"The steam boiler broke down. It has to be replaced and they can’t get a new one right away."
"I would say that’s bad news," Frank said.
"Oh, no. The bad news is that we’ll have to make up the lost time at the end of the year."
"That sounds logical," Callie commented.
"But it’ll be almost summer by then," Chet protested. "Sun shining, birds singing—"
Mrs. Morton interrupted Chet’s reverie by asking if the young people wanted some hot chocolate to fortify themselves. While they drank it, they told Chet their latest news.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. "I hope everything goes all right! You know, sometimes kidnappers kill their victims!"
"Don’t even think that," Frank said.
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When they were finished, the young people took their skates and walked out behind the barn.
"You were right," Joe told Iola. "It’s like a mirror."
While Callie and Iola donned their skates, the boys collected some firewood and soon had a bonfire burning on a knoll beside the pond.
"Now we won’t freeze to death," Frank said as he put on his skates to join the others. They glided over the ice gracefully, doing figure eights and whizzing about the pond arm in arm. After a while they went to the fire to warm their cold hands and feet.
"I can’t help thinking about William," Frank said. "Here we are, having a good time. I wonder what he’s doing right now?"
"You’ll have him back soon," Callie said kindly. "Worrying won’t do you any good."
After half an hour of skating, Chet said, "Who’s for snap the whip?"
The girls were given first chance at the end of the whip. Iola was to start. The whip snapped her at high speed, and she sailed around the edge of the pond, screaming in delight. Callie followed. She nearly lost her balance, but remained on her feet to enjoy the ride.
With rotund Chet anchoring the end of the line, Frank and Joe spun away like cannon shots, their friends cheering them on.
When it was Chet’s turn, the five skated fast. 
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Then Frank anchored the line. Chet spun off at the end at terrific speed, and somehow lost his balance. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, his head hitting the hard ice.
Callie and Iola screamed and raced to the supine boy. Chet was stunned momentarily and did not move, and Frank put a hand under his shoulder to lift his head from the ice. At the same time Joe felt the back of Chet’s head through the yellow skating cap.
"He’s got quite a bump," Joe said. "Iola, will you bring a handful of snow?"
The girl skated to the edge of the pond and returned with the snow, which Joe applied to the contusion. Then they slid Chet carefully across the pond and carried him up gingerly beside the bonfire. There his sister rubbed more snow in his face and his eyes flickered open.
"Who—who turned out the light?"
"You got kayoed," Joe said.
"Ow!" Chet winced. He tested his muscles. Everything seemed all right with the exception of the bang on his head.
"I guess I’ll survive," he decided. "But I’ve had enough skating. Let’s go inside."
Mr. and Mrs. Morton had left to visit friends, having told Iola they would return later in the evening.
"I’m in charge now," Iola said, dimpling. 
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"Chet, you lie on the sofa until you feel better."
They decided not to tackle the riddle of the mask again until after supper.
Callie and Iola busied themselves in the kitchen, and even before the meal was ready, Chet walked in, sniffing the aroma.
"Out!" Iola demanded. "No picking! Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen minutes."
The stuffed peppers the girls had made were eagerly devoured by the hungry skaters, and when the dishes had been cleared away, Frank spread the maps and tracings on the table.
"All right, let’s start all over," he said. "Chet, you want to help?"
"I think you could use my expert assistance," the stout boy replied.
They worked for several minutes, overlaying the tracings onto the dozen or so ancient maps. Then Chet picked up one of the tracings. "Here, let me try."
"You’ve got it wrong-side up, dummy," his sister said with a chuckle.
"Hey! Wait! It matches!"
The young people looked dumbfounded at Chet’s mistake.
"Good grief, he’s right!" Frank said. "Would you believe it?"
"Chet, you’re a genius," Callie exclaimed. "The fall on the ice must have done you some good!"
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The boys reasoned that in order to make the riddle even more difficult to decipher, the person who made the mask had deliberately reversed the lines.
"See here?" Frank said, as he put the upside-down tracing on several more maps. "The lines correspond. All except one."
That one meandered up to the Atlas Mountains. "Today that would be southern Morocco," Iola said. "Where do you suppose the line stops?"
"Probably at the end of the route taken by the mysterious caravan," Joe guessed.
In high spirits the girls prepared duplicate copies on thin tissue for Frank and Joe, who folded them carefully and put them into secret compartments in their wallets.
"What about me?" Chet asked, hurt.
"The fewer of these around the better," Frank said. "Don’t worry, Chet. We’re giving you credit for the greatest discovery!"
"I want a dish of ice cream instead. All that brainwork made me hungry."
After another dessert for Chet, the friends parted, and Callie drove Frank and Joe home. Mr. Hardy was there when they arrived.
"Dad! We solved the riddle of the map!" Joe said, bursting into the house.
"Wait a minute," Frank said as he shucked his gloves. "You mean Chet solved it."
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The three adults listened in amazement as the boys told their story.
"Well, what does all this mean?" Mrs. Hardy asked. "You’re not going to Africa, are you?"
Frank and Joe looked at each other, and before they had a chance to reply, Aunt Gertrude spoke up.
"Laura, don’t put such thoughts in their heads! Next thing you’ll know they’ll be off and we’ll never see them again. Oh, dear! Pygmies and poisoned arrows, man-eating crocodiles, snakes—"
She clapped her hand to her forehead, and Mr. Hardy said, "Gertrude, please don’t subject us to the horrors of your imagination!"
He turned to the boys. "Look, it’s some time before two o’clock. I suggest we rest so we’ll be fresh for the rendezvous."
"Dad, I want to check with the police again," Frank said.
"I’ve already done that," the detective replied. "Chief Collig has received the message from Officer Kennedy. The FBI was notified, too. All we have to do is to be at the designated spot with the duplicate mask at two o’clock."
Frank and Joe went to their room and lay down. Overstimulated, they lingered at the edge of sleep for an hour or so, never really dropping off to a deep slumber. They got up at one-thirty, 
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after hearing their father on the floor below. Their mother and Aunt Gertrude were up to see them off.
Fenton Hardy drove the car, with the two boys seated beside him. Frank held the mask on his lap. The temperature had dipped below freezing again and the air was nippy, with stars shining brightly.
"Mary’s Quick Stop is just around the next curve," Joe announced. The detective dimmed his lights and approached the place slowly. No one was in sight.
"I’ll go around the back and we’ll wait there," Fenton Hardy decided. A driveway circled the place; and once concealed near the rear entrance, their car could not be seen from the road.
The detective shut off the engine. They waited tensely. Joe switched on the radio and turned it very low. The dim beat of rock music was the only sound in the stillness.
Frank kept looking at his watch. Finally he said, "It’s two o’clock exactly, Dad."
"They should be here any minute."
Just then a flashlight blinked at the side of the restaurant. The detective answered by turning his lights on and off quickly. As the three got out of the car, a voice said, "Put your hands up, all of you!"
The Hardys did, Frank holding the mask high above his head.
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Now the speaker appeared. He wore a ski jacket and a mask. Behind him stood the tall figure of William Ellis.
"You’re covered, so don’t make a false move!" the criminal said. "Give me that mask!"
Frank stepped forward and turned it over. To himself he thought frantically, "Where are the police? When is the trap going to be sprung? Now is the time!"
In the dim starlight the boy tried to make out the face behind the mask. But there was no chance of recognition.
Now the Hardys noticed that William was blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back. The man shoved him in the back, and he stumbled into Frank’s arms.
"He’s all yours," the kidnapper grumbled, and William gave a small sigh of relief.
"Don’t worry, William," Joe said. "You’re safe now."
As the kidnapper retreated along the side of the restaurant and out of sight, Joe said, "Dad, what happened to the police? They should have been here!"
"Somebody must have goofed," his father replied. Seconds later a motor sounded, and with its lights switched off, the car drove away from Mary’s Quick Stop.
"They’re taking off!" Frank shouted and ran to the front.

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CHAPTER XII Sign of the Ju-Ju Man
MR. HARDY waited a few more minutes, then turned on the engine, and was just about to drive away when three sets of headlights zipped down the road. Approaching Mary’s Quick Stop, the lights were turned off and the cars proceeded more slowly.
"Jumping Catfish!" Joe declared. "It’s the police!"
The silhouette of their domes became visible as the squad cars blocked the Hardys’ exit. A number of men jumped out with flashlights illuminating the detective and the boys.
"What happened to you?" Mr. Hardy demanded as he stepped out of his car.
Chief Collig, who was in the lead, looked embarrassed. "We thought it was Tom and Mary’s Diner down the road about a half mile."
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"Oh, nuts," Frank said in disgust. "I wondered whether Kennedy got the message fouled up."
"He’s new on the force." Collig tried to apologize. He turned to the other men, including three agents from the FBI and told them that obviously a mistake had been made in the location.
"Well, the kidnappers are gone now," Mr. Hardy said. "That way." He pointed. "We have the hostage, safe and sound. He’ll be available for questioning later."
"Fine. We’ll get a statement from him tomorrow," Chief Collig said, and the police took off in the direction of the kidnap car.
On the way back to Bayport, the grateful William described his ordeal. When he had reached New York, two men who claimed to be operatives for Mr. Hardy duped him into thinking that Frank and Joe were waiting in the city.
"They did not look at all like criminals," the boy said.
"Not all of them do," Mr. Hardy said. "Then what happened?"
William described how they had entered a small hotel, where he had been seized, bound, and gagged. "They pushed me into a closet near the reception desk. After about an hour, I was taken into a car and driven a long way to what seemed like the country. A quiet place, with not much traffic."
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"They probably hid you near Bayport," Mr. Hardy surmised. "Did you overhear anything?"
"They talked about the mask. The reason why they want it so badly is that according to a legend they heard, the clue to the treasure on the Africanus Rex was on a mask. It seems that it was the secret hidden in the captain’s cabin."
"Right!" Joe said. "We arrived at the same conclusion!"
"They forced Ali to tell them about the inscriptions," William went on. "Then they tried to figure out what they meant, but could not."
"We did!" Joe said. He explained how the lines on the beard actually traced the route of the ancient Sahara caravans.
"That was very clever!" William said in admiration.
"Wouldn’t it be great to go treasure hunting in Africa?" asked Joe as they approached Elm Street.
"You know, that’s a super idea," Frank said. "We could take William with us. His knowledge of Swahili might come in handy!"
"You must be jesting," the Jamaican said. "Aren’t they, Mr. Hardy?"
"Stranger things have happened," the detective replied. "We’ll talk more about it later."
Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were still up when they arrived, and the women were delighted 
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to see that William had been released unhurt.
"You must be starving," Mrs. Hardy said. "I’ll make you a sandwich. Would you like it toasted?"
"Yes, ma’am, please."
All the while Gertrude Hardy studied their midnight guest. As he ate, she adjusted her spectacles, peered over them, then concentrated her gaze through the lenses.
Joe nudged her and whispered, "Don’t stare at him like that, Aunty."
"He’s a handsome boy," his aunt replied, "and so polite."
"Then you won’t mind if he goes to Africa with us?"
Aunt Gertrude smiled benignly. "That’s out of the question. School is going to be in session."
"But it’s closed. Haven’t you heard? The boiler broke down."
"Good heavens! That would be the end of all of you, traipsing around in Africa!"
When William had finished eating, Mr. Hardy said, "We’d better turn in now. William can talk to the police in the morning and pick up his bag."
"Oh, you have it?" the boy asked.
"It’s at headquarters."
"Good. There is something very special in it."
"What?" Joe pried.
"You will see tomorrow."
William was shown to the guest room, and soon 
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the Hardy home was quiet. Later that morning everyone was jarred awake by the ring of the telephone. Chet and Iola were on the line, asking about William.
"He arrived safely," Frank said. "But the crooks got away." He briefly sketched what had happened, then said, "We’ve got a lot to do this morning, Chet. See you later."
After breakfast the boys took their guest to headquarters. Chief Collig was there to meet them. He apologized for the fiasco, then took a long statement from William about his experience with the kidnappers.
"And now may I have my suitcase?" the boy asked.
"We took the liberty of looking through it for clues," Frank said. "I hope you don’t mind."
"Not at all. Did you happen to read my note on Dingo?"
"Sure did," Joe said, and he told William how Dingo had driven the phony Jamaican envoy in his escape from the Hardy home.
"And the preserves?" William went on. "You did not open them, did you?"
"No. Of course not."
They drove off with the luggage and as soon as they entered the Hardy home, William gave the jar to Mrs. Hardy. "It is from my mother," he said, "but there is something in it for Frank and Joe."
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While the others looked on, Mrs. Hardy unscrewed the cap. Inside were delicious stewed mangoes. She poured them into a serving tureen, and as she did so, an aluminum tube, about three inches long, fell out with the fruit.
"What’s this?" Mrs. Hardy said, removing it with a spoon.
William wiped the tube and took off the metal cap. An unusual piece of ivory on a chain fell out.
"A lion’s tooth," the Jamaican explained, holding it up for the others to see. "Inlaid with copper. It is the sign, or signature, of a ju-ju man. I hid it in the mangoes for safekeeping."
William said that the ancient relic had come from Ghana and was the gift of Ali El Ansari. "He took quite a liking to Frank and Joe."
"What’s a ju-ju man?" Joe asked.
"He is like a medicine man to the American Indians," William said. "According to the natives, the ju-ju man has magical powers. If one puts a curse on you, it will take another, more powerful, ju-ju man to remove it."
"I’d like to put a curse on those crooks!" Joe said with a wry smile.
Frank took the lion’s tooth from William and examined it closely. "This is beautiful inlay work," he said.
"You wear it, Frank," William said and he placed the relic around the boy’s neck.
The rest of the morning Frank and Joe drove 
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William around Bayport, but not before he was warmly dressed in one of Joe’s sweaters and Frank’s ski jacket, which fit him snugly. A pair of Mr. Hardy’s gloves completed the outfit.
Halfway through the sightseeing tour, the boy said, "Man, I am cold. You know, I have never seen winter before!"
"What about snow?" Joe asked.
"First time, too."
"You wouldn’t object to a little snowball fight to warm up, would you?" Frank asked. He stopped along the side of the road, where a snow plow had formed a mound.
When the boys got out, the Hardys showed William how to make snowballs. After preparing an arsenal of six apiece, they fired.
"Hey, he’s got quite an arm," Frank said, as he ducked a flying snowball. William’s next shot knocked Joe’s hat off, and he laughed gleefully.
"Look who’s coming!" Frank said suddenly.
With a triple bang, Chet parked his jalopy behind the Hardys’ car. The stout boy jumped out, tilting his yellow cap down over his eyes. After greeting William, he said, "Listen, this is no time for a snowball fight. I just came from your house. Good thing I found you."
"What happened?" Joe asked.
"Plenty," Chet said with an air of authority. "Cablegrams, suspects, plans for Africa." He beamed. "And I think I’m going with you!"
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"Oh yes? Don’t be too sure," Joe said. "They have enough elephants there already."
Chet looked insulted. They got into their cars and he followed the trio back to Elm Street. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were eating lunch, but Frank knew something exceptional must have happened. His father’s cool demeanor was seldom ruffled by either good news or bad, but now he seemed excited.
"Tell us what’s going on, Dad!" Frank urged, as the boys joined their parents at the table.
"Your case and mine seem to be breaking fast," the detective stated. "I just got a cable from the company in Paris. That leather coat Kenleigh Scott left behind him was custom made at an Arabian shop in the souq of Marrakesh."
"In the what?" asked Chet, wrinkling his freckled nose. "What’s a souq?"
"A marketplace," William told him. "All kinds of things are sold there."
"Then Scott must be an Arab," Joe said.
"Not necessarily," Mr. Hardy said. "Custom-made leather goods are produced in Morocco for customers all over the world. But listen to this. I’ve just been informed that an airline-ticket-theft suspect named Jason Hickson was nearly caught by police in New York. He eluded them, and later it was learned that he had taken a plane to Casablanca."
"And was caught there?" Frank asked.
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"No. He got away again," Mr. Hardy replied. He pulled a picture from his pocket. "See, that’s the fellow." Hickson was a short man with a broad, pudgy face and a thin mustache on his upper lip.
"Two good clues. And I know what you’re going to say," Frank said.
"Right," Joe added. "There’s a Morocco connection!"
"Exactly. Your idea of going to Africa might not be a bad one," Mr. Hardy said. "In fact, you have the assignment if you’d like it."
"You mean it?" Frank asked. He grinned broadly.
"Yes. Three different airlines have agreed to defray expenses. They’ll pay for two detectives and two assistants."
Chet let out a startling yell. "That means I can go! Boy, I’ll be the greatest assistant!"
Mr. Hardy turned to William. "How would you like to join my sons?"
"That would be my distinct pleasure," William replied, excitement shining in his dark eyes.
Before Frank and Joe had a chance to discuss anything with Chet, they heard the door close, Chet’s engine start, and his jalopy pull away.
"Wow!" Joe laughed. "He’s off like Paul Revere!"
For the rest of the day the Hardy home was busy with phone calls, one of them to Marrakesh, 
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where the detective had a friend, Dr. Henri Cellier. Mr. Hardy explained that he had met the doctor, who was now head of the Avenzoar Hospital, in New York years before.
"Henri was a medical student when I was a rookie in the New York Police Department," Mr. Hardy said. "He’s a grand fellow, and we became good friends."
When the call to Marrakesh went through, Fenton Hardy renewed his old acquaintance and told Dr. Cellier that his sons, with their two friends, would arrive in a day or two. Would he give them a hand in their work? Dr. Cellier said he would do everything in his power to assist the boys and that he would get in touch with them on their arrival in Casablanca.
While all the preparations were underway, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law looked on quietly. It was obvious that they were apprehensive, thinking of the safety of the four boys in a strange continent.
"Please don’t worry about us," Frank said. "We’ve got William to help us, and Chet, who’s proven his reliability many times. As a matter of fact—"
Mrs. Hardy, who was looking out the window, suddenly shrieked, her shoulders shaking.
"Mother!" Frank exclaimed. "Are you laughing or crying?"
"L-look!"
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Somebody clomped onto the porch and Joe opened the door. There stood Chet Morton! He wore tan shorts, a military blouse with epaulets, and a pith helmet. A canteen was slung over his shoulder.
"Hey, let me in quick!" he cried out. "I’m freezing!"

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CHAPTER XIII The Spooky Villa
"CHET, you’ll catch pneumonia and won’t be able to go to Africa with us!" Joe said.
"Don’t worry, I’ll warm up in no time." Chet danced a jig, which looked even more comical because of his red legs and short pants.
The fun over, the boys settled down to the serious business of making plans. William called his parents, who gave him their permission to take the trip. Then a travel agent booked them from Bayport to Kennedy International Airport in New York and on to Casablanca, where they got reservations at the Hotel Marhaba.
"When you get there, telephone the United States Consul, John Klem, and make an appointment to see him," Mr. Hardy suggested. "He’ll brief you on Morocco, and you’ll be oriented in no time at all. Also, read up on the country in the encyclopedia."
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The boys spent the entire evening doing that. Morocco, they learned, was once under French control, and the French language was still widely spoken along with Arabic. One-hundred-thousand Frenchmen were scattered about the country. Arab women wore caftans and the men, djellabahs. But the ordinary street dress was the burnoose, a long, hooded cloak.
Early the next morning the Hardys dispatched Chet to pick up their tickets at the travel office, and after lunch they started out for the airport. After Phil, Tony, and Biff had given their friends a surprise send-off, the four boys caught the plane to New York and did not have to wait long for the connecting flight. The ride over the Atlantic was pleasant, and when they touched down in Casablanca, the companions took a taxi directly to their hotel. They were assigned two adjoining rooms on the sixth floor.
Frank phoned Mr. Klem immediately. The consul’s secretary said he was out for the day and set up an appointment for the following morning.
"Thank you," Frank said. "By the way, can you recommend a good restaurant? We’d like to try the native food."
"There’s no finer dining place than Al Mounia," she replied. "It’s really beautiful, and the cous-cous is out of this world."
"What’s that?"
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"Order and you’ll see," she answered, laughing. "But easy with the sauce. It’s very hot."
The friends spent the day driving around the city. The hotel concierge suggested that they rent a carrossa, a horse-drawn carriage, so as to take in the sights leisurely.
All the main streets radiated from a hub in the center. Like spokes on a giant wheel, the thoroughfares went in every direction of the compass and were lined with gleaming white buildings.
The boys stopped their driver and browsed through curio shops, where William was particularly interested in art objects made by the black tribes south of the Sahara desert.
"Look at this!" he said. "The kind of dog I always wanted." In his hands he held a carving of a small, lightly built animal with a short back, which seemed to be set high on the legs compared to its length. It had a wrinkled forehead and carried its head proudly. The dog’s demeanor was poised but alert.
"What breed is it?" Chet asked.
"It’s a Basenji," William replied, "an African dog. Look at that sleek head!"
"I’ve heard about them," Frank said. "But I’ve never seen one."
William had, in Jamaica, and vowed that some day he would have one. "As far back as three thousand B.C.," he said, "these dogs were favorites 
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of the pharaohs in Egypt. They disappeared from sight for centuries, and finally were rediscovered as companions of the pygmies in the African Rain Forest."
"Basenji sounds like a Swahili word," Joe said.
"It is, and it means a ‘wild thing,’" William explained. He added with a grin, "This dog’s bite is worse than his bark, because the Basenji does not bark at all. He makes a noise almost like a chortle or a yodel."
Joe took the carving and handed it to the clerk. "William, you now own your favorite breed. It’s a gift from us to you."
The dog was wrapped, paid for, and presented to the Jamaican boy, who thanked the Hardys warmly.
Then Chet said, "Listen, fellows. It’s getting near that time."
"Okay, Chet," Frank said. "Are you all set to try the cous-cous?"
"I would try cous-cous, goose-goose, or moose-moose," Chet said, patting his belt. "Sightseeing makes me hungry."
Their driver dropped them off at Al Mounia and Frank told him not to wait. Then they entered a walkway leading to the restaurant, with its Moorish arched facade.
"Those mosaics are beautiful," William said. "It looks more like a museum than an eating place."
The inside was even more impressive. The 
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walls and ceilings were also covered with colorful mosaics. Instead of sitting at tables, diners sat on divans around the walls.
The maitre d’hotel, in formal clothes, ushered the boys to one of them, and they sat down on the low cushioned seats. A colorfully dressed black man presented them with large menus. He wore a white jacket, red fez, white stockings, and black pantaloons.
"Hey, this is really cool!" Chet said. "Nothing like Bayport."
The boys ordered and waited expectantly. It did not take long for the waiter to bring a large silver tray laden with food. First, he spooned out a pile of semolina on each plate.
"Looks like rice," Joe commented.
Around it, the man carefully arranged raisins, onions, carrots, chick peas, and turnips. Over this he ladled chunks of lamb and yellow broth, which was quickly absorbed by the semolina.
Beside each plate he placed a small dish of condiment. The sauce, he indicated, was to be put on the meat.
"Well, here we go," said Chet. He had been gazing around at other diners, paying no attention to what the waiter said. "I think I’ll try a little of the soup first."
Eagerly he put a spoon into the sauce and before the Hardys could stop him, swallowed a mouthful. Immediately he had spasms of choking. His face grew red, and he reached for a glass of 
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water. Chet drank it down, his eyes rolling and sweat pouring from his forehead. His voice was a hoarse whisper as he slid off the divan. "I-I’ve been poisoned."
"No you haven’t," Joe said as the waiter rushed up with another glass of water.
"That’s not soup," Frank said. "It’s a condiment. A little bit goes a long way!"
He helped Chet to his seat, and the boys began to eat their meal eagerly.
About halfway through, the waiter moved unobtrusively to Frank’s side and pressed a note into his hand.
The boy read the message. "It’s from Mr. Klem," he told the others. "He wants to see us immediately." The note gave the consul’s home address.
"We’re not going to fall for that one, are we, Frank?" Joe asked.
"You mean it might be a trap?" William said.
"It’s probably phony," Joe said, and Frank was inclined to agree. He signaled the manager, who hastened over to them.
"Oui, Monsieur," he said. "Is everything satisfactory?"
"The food is wonderful," Frank replied. "By the way, do you know Mr. Klem, the United States Consul?"
"Oui. Very well. Is he a friend of yours?"
"We’ve never met him," Frank said. "But I just received a message asking us to his home."
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"I-I’ve been poisoned!" Chet rasped.
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"Who gave it to you?"
Frank pointed to the pantalooned waiter, who had overheard the conversation and quickly explained that the note had been given to him by a taxi driver.
"The address is authentic," the maitre d’hotel said, glancing at the note. "If there is any doubt, why don’t you telephone Monsieur Klem?"
"That’s a good idea," Frank said. He was directed to a phone near the entrance. He dialed the number and received a busy signal.
He returned to the table and told his friends about the call. "At least someone’s home," he said. "Shall we go?"
"I think so," Joe decided. "Maybe Klem’s secretary told him that we were here. And obviously he is known at Al Mounia."
"Hey, fellows," Chet said, "I don’t feel so hot. Maybe that sauce did me in."
"Tell you what," Frank said. "You and William go back to the hotel, while Joe and I visit Klem. Okay?"
Chet nodded, and the boys paid their bill. On the way out Frank tried the consul’s number again. It was still busy.
As they stepped into the street, a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of them. The driver, a smiling Arab wearing a burnoose, jumped out and opened the door.
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"You go ahead," Chet said to the Hardys. "We’ll get another cab."
"Right. See you later."
The Hardys climbed in and showed the driver Klem’s address. After ten minutes, Frank said, "I thought he’d live in a nice residential area. Look, Joe, this seems more like a slum!"
The road finally ran into a sparsely settled part of town, and the man stopped in front of a low, white villa that sat far back from the street. A dim light was shining inside.
"You’re sure this is the right address?" Frank asked the driver as he paid him.
"Oui, Monsieur."
"You stay here," Joe added, "so you can take us back to our hotel."
But as soon as the boys walked toward the house, the driver quickly started off.
"How do you like that?" Frank said. "You suppose he doesn’t understand English?"
"I don’t like this at all," Joe commented as they cautiously approached the front door. "It’s spooky here." He noticed another car coming out of the darkness in the distance.
Frank pressed a bell. The door flew open and a bright light flashed into their faces. Four strong hands reached out and grabbed the boys!
Frank and Joe struggled to escape as the car stopped in front!

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CHAPTER XIV Foiled by a Donkey
FRANK and Joe fought furiously to keep from being dragged into the house. Then two figures jumped from the car and raced up the walk.
Chet and William!
Without a word, they pitched into the fray and pulled the Hardys loose.
"Let’s get out of here quick!" Chet panted. They ran to the waiting taxi and sped off. There was no pursuit.
"Take us to the police," Frank told the driver. He turned to Chet. "How come you arrived just in the nick of time?"
"Well, we felt we were copping out on you," Chet explained. "We didn’t know whether it was a trap or not, so we decided to follow—a backup team, so to speak."
"Good thing you did," Joe said wryly. "How’s vour stomach?"
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"In all that excitement I forgot about it."
When they arrived at headquarters, the Hardys took turns explaining what had happened to them. But the officer at the desk shrugged, his arms outstretched. "I do not speak the English so good," he said.
The boys tried to use their high school French, but with no better results. The officer seemed as baffled as they were. On the way back to their hotel, Joe said, "What a way to start an investigation in Africa. Our cover’s blown already!"
"We have probably been spied on ever since we landed," William surmised.
"It gives me a creepy feeling," Chet said. "Now it’s getting real dangerous."
"But who are they?" Frank thought aloud. "The goons from the ticket racket or the treasure hunters?"
"Who knows?" Joe said. "Maybe both."
After breakfast the next morning the young sleuths went directly to the office of the United States Consul. Mr. Klem, a short, slender, balding man, greeted them cordially and listened attentively to their story.
Finally he said, "About your father’s case—the airline-ticket racket—we’ve had trouble here, too. The police have no leads, and I know anything you can do to help them would be appreciated."
Frank said, "And have you heard about an ancient mysterious caravan?"
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The official explained that many legends and rumors abounded about ancient treasure in the Atlas Mountains, but he could tell them nothing substantial. "Perhaps you can learn more when you go to Marrakesh," he concluded.
Just then the phone on his desk rang. He listened for a moment and looked up at his visitors. "There’s a caller for you," he said.
The door opened, and the boys turned to see a beautiful dark-haired girl enter. She seemed to be about eighteen years old, slim and lithe. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes flashed over the Americans and she smiled. "Frank and Joe Hardy?" she asked in a lilting French accent.
"That’s us," Joe said. "Over there’s Frank."
"Then this must be Chet Morton and William Ellis. Am I right? Mr. Klem and I have met before."
The man rose from behind his desk and said, "Mademoiselle Christine Cellier."
"Dr. Cellier’s daughter?" Frank asked.
"Yes," she said. "Father sent me to help and I found out from the concierge at your hotel that you would be here."
"That’s great," said Chet. "We could use a guide."
Christine said that she would spend the day with the boys and would then accompany them to Marrakesh to meet her family the following 
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morning. "I am staying overnight with an aunt here in Casablanca," she explained.
The young Americans thanked the consul and left with their new friend. They walked along the street until they came to a sidewalk cafe.
"Let’s stop here and sit down," Frank said.
Over frosty glasses of coke, the young people relaxed and talked. Christine laughed when she heard about the cous-cous. This led to discussion of the frightening experience of the evening before; then Frank told the girl about their father’s case.
"I think a travel agency might be a good cover for such a ticket-theft gang," he concluded. "Maybe we should check out all such places in Casablanca."
"I will be glad to help you," Christine said. "There is one that I know well, and others we can go to."
When they had finished, the five visited the three largest agencies in town. The people were very cordial and said that as far as they knew, the ticket racket had made little progress in their city.
In the Agentur d’Este, where Christine knew the proprietor, the Hardys picked up their first clue. The owner said that a new agency had opened in a very old part of town, which was odd. It was not known to tourists, and was rarely frequented by business people. The man shook 
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his head. "Where they get their trade, I do not know."
"You think it is worth investigating, Frank?" William asked.
"Definitely. Let’s go."
They stopped long enough for a snack before the girl led them into a run-down part of town, located some distance from the commercial center. The narrow streets were cobblestoned, and very old houses were built against one another. The doors, flush on the sidewalk, opened into dark interiors.
Finally Christine said, "Here is the place."
It was no more than a hole in the wall with a sign over the door in Arabic. "World Travel Agency," Christine translated.
The office was so small that there was room only for Frank, Joe, and the girl. The other two remained outside.
A man appeared from the back room, noticed the three, and quickly ducked out of sight again. The Hardys pretended not to see. But Joe moved Frank aside and whispered, "That fellow looked familiar!"
"He’s the cabbie who set us up last night!" Frank said.
The man, who now wore European dress instead of the burnoose, did not come back. Christine called out in French, then in Arabic. Finally the three stepped out again into the blazing sunlight.
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Quickly they told Chet and William about the suspect. "Let’s split up and stake this place out," Frank suggested. "Joe, you and William see if there’s a back door. The rest of us will watch the front."
"Roger."
Joe and the Jamaican hurried down the street, turned into a side lane, and went around behind the travel agency.
"This should be it," Joe said. They concealed themselves in a doorway and watched. Within a few moments, the suspect poked his head out and looked around cautiously, but did not see the boys. Then he closed the door behind him, locked it, and turned left, down an alley. It grew so narrow that it was possible to leap over the rooftops from one side to the other.
Joe and William followed him, bumping into Arabs in their haste. Then they heard the cry "Balik! Balik!" A bearded man approached, leading a donkey. The beast’s back was piled high with rugs, which nearly touched the buildings on each side of the alley.
The boys tried to squeeze past the load, but could not. They had to press themselves tightly against a building as the cargo passed.
"I guess we learned an Arabic word," Joe said. "It must mean ‘out of the way!’"
William nodded. "So is our man. I cannot see him any more."
"He disappeared!" Joe said grimly. "Let’s go 
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back to the others before we lose them, too."
They found Frank, Chet, and Christine still staking out the front entrance of the travel agency, and explained how the suspect had slipped away.
"Nothing happened on this end," Frank reported, "except that the guy locked the front door."
"He did the same at the back entrance," Joe said.
"Well, we know for sure there’s something fishy going on," Chet said.
"This could be a branch of the ticket thieves," Frank agreed. "But now that they’re tipped off, it will be hard to find evidence."
They walked back to the center of town, and looked at exotic merchandise displayed by vendors, whose little shops extended nearly to the curb. Several colorful hassocks made of multi-colored goatskin intrigued Frank and Joe.
"Let’s send one home," Frank suggested.
Christine helped them pick out an unusual design of red and black and bargained with the shopkeeper over the price.
"La," she kept saying. "La."
The merchant gestured with a pleading expression until Christine finally agreed that the price was fair enough.
"Something you should remember in Morocco," she said, smiling. "You have to bargain, 
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otherwise you pay double the price and the merchant is insulted. La means ‘no.’"
"I figured that," Joe said.
"Now you have a nice pouf," she added, and made arrangements to have it shipped to Bayport.
"I’d like to buy a dagger," Chet said.
"Not here," Christine objected. "Wait till you see the souq in Marrakesh. They make beautiful ones there."
"They also make clothing out of leather, don’t they?" Frank said.
"Yes. That’s a specialty."
The boys returned to their hotel, where Christine said, "I would like to introduce you to Father."
"Is he here?" Chet asked.
"No. In Marrakesh. But I promised to call him."
They phoned the Moroccan city, which lay many miles inland on a hot desert plain. When Dr. Cellier answered, Christine introduced the boys.
"Ah, Frank, I have a cable from your father," the doctor told him. "It came this morning." He read it carefully. "Interpol identified fingerprints. Scott international thief. Born Frenchman. Speaks many languages, including Arabic."
Frank relayed their experience in Casablanca and the doctor said, "I do not like this. Your enemies must have been shadowing you. I suggest 
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you check out of your hotel and try to evade them."
Frank thanked him, hung up, and told the others about his conversation.
"If Scott speaks Arabic," William reasoned, "he could be operating here in Morocco."
"Or, for that matter, anywhere in North Africa," Christine added.
Frank was thoughtful. "Your father is right," he said. "Our enemies can strike any time. They know where we are. Let’s leave this place and get rooms somewhere else."
"It is past check-out time for the day," William noted.
"We won’t check out. We’ll just leave quietly and let the concierge think we’re still in our rooms."
Christine knew of a small hotel nearby, on the way to the railroad station where they would take the train next morning. One at a time, the boys unobtrusively carried their luggage out through a back entrance and followed Christine. They took a large room with two double beds.
"I am going to visit my aunt now," Christine said when they were checked in. "I will see you tomorrow morning at ten."
After supper, the boys watched television in the lobby. A French film was showing. Eventually they got bored since they could not follow the foreign language.
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"Let’s get some sleep," Frank said. They went to their room, which looked out over the city.
"We can see the Marhaba from here," Chet noted. "Matter of fact, even the windows of our rooms."
As they skinned into their pajamas, the night sounds were interrupted by the strident hee-haw of sirens.
"Boy, that’s a funny sound," Chet said. "Is it fire engines?"
William looked out the window and called to the others. "Look at the Marhaba!"
The side of the hotel was illuminated by flood-lights.
"Good night!" Frank exclaimed. "Smoke’s coming out of our windows!"

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CHAPTER XV The Spy at the Wall
A PHONE call to the Marhaba Hotel revealed that the rooms occupied by the boys had been fire-bombed.
"Two men broke into your quarters," said the concierge. "We are very sorry. If your baggage was destroyed, we have insurance——"
"Don’t worry about it," Frank said. "We won’t be back."
"Frank, I am glad we followed Dr. Cellier’s advice," William said. "We might have been killed had we stayed there!"
"Which proves," said Joe, "that we’ve come very close to the operation of the ticket thieves."
"Too close for comfort," Chet added as he watched the smoke from the windows dissipate and the spotlights finally wink off.
The boys decided to return to World Travel the next morning. "If someone’s there," Frank 
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said, "we might get a line on what’s doing."
After an early breakfast, they set off toward the back alleys. Proceeding carefully through the labyrinth, they arrived at the office.
A sign in Arabic was posted against the door, which was locked. "This probably says ‘closed,’" William said.
Joe noticed a woman dressed in a caftan, standing across the street. Her eyes, peering over the black veil followed their every move. Crouched directly above the boys on the rooftops was a man in a white burnoose. The woman sent him a hand signal.
"Let’s get out of here before we’re attacked!" Chet urged.
Frank agreed, and the boys retreated casually. At the hotel, Christine met them promptly at ten, bright faced with enthusiasm. When they told her what had happened, her eyes opened wide.
"I think it is best to leave Casablanca right away," she said. "At least in Marrakesh there will be some protection. My father is an influential man. By the way, I made reservations at the Hotel Manzur for you."
The boys thanked her, and they went to the railroad station. They boarded the train, took seats, and were soon rumbling eastward over the desert.
"There will not be much to see until we reach 
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our destination," Christine said, looking out over the barren landscape. Sand, a few palm trees, camels, goats, and scrubby farms, no larger than an acre or two, flashed by.
After a couple of hours a vendor arrived, selling sandwiches and drinks.
"I thought you’d never come," Chet said. He bought something for everybody.
Christine put her head close to Frank’s and said, "See the man in the djellabah over there, on the other side?"
The boy slowly moved his eyes in that direction. "The Arab eating the sandwich?" he asked.
"Yes. Watch what he is doing with his right hand."
At first the boy saw nothing unusual, but then he noticed that the man was rolling a piece of bread into a tiny ball.
Christine leaned close again. "He is not an Arab, Frank. He is a Frenchman. That is an idiosyncracy of the French, especially of the people who live in the Gueliz, the French quarter of Marrakesh."
"Another spy?" Frank asked.
"Possibly."
When the fellow disappeared from his seat for a minute or two, Frank told the others, and they kept an eye on the man until a grove of palm trees and green lawns indicated that they had arrived 
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at the Marrakesh station. The man jumped nimbly from the train and hurried off.
"He kept his face well concealed, did he not?" Christine said.
"It could have been that taxi driver," William surmised.
As the boys piled up their baggage on one side of the platform, Christine hailed two taxis. They were very small, and the young people had trouble squeezing into the narrow seats.
"We will drive to your hotel first," Christine said. "I picked the Manzur because it is quite close to our home."
As they neared the city, the wall that surrounded the ancient settlement loomed larger and larger. Located quite some distance apart were arched gates leading inside.
"Our home is built right against the other side of the wall," Christine explained as they approached one of the entrances.
Just then Chet spied an Arab standing beside a camel, waving to tourists and pointing to the animal.
"He’s selling rides!" Chet said. "I want to sit on the camel!"
Christine asked their driver to stop, and the other cab pulled up in back.
"Go ahead," she said. "Try it."
The boys jumped out, smiling broadly, and 
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paid the Arab. The beast lowered itself on his command, and Chet stepped aboard. With a great lurch, the animal’s back legs levered his rear into the air. Then the front legs unhinged as the camel stood up.
The man led it around in a circle.
"Whoopee!" Chet cried out.
Then the others took turns riding the camel. Joe was the last in line. As he climbed onto the camel’s back, William drew Christine aside.
"See that man against the wall? Is he the one from the train?"
"I think so. Look at what he is doing!"
The man had pulled a camera from his djellabah and was snapping a picture of Joe!
"Maybe he took shots of all of you," Christine said. She looked worried.
William approached the man, but when the fellow saw him coming, he rose, turned, and disappeared in the crowd pushing through the gate.
William returned to the others and told them about the incident.
"What do you make of it, Frank?" he asked.
"I think it’s bad news," Frank replied. "No doubt he took those pictures for a reason."
The boys and Christine piled into the taxis again and went on to the Manzur Hotel. It was old-fashioned and roomy, and the mosaic tiles under their feet resounded as they walked to the concierge’s desk.
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Christine waited until they had put their bags into their large room, the French window of which looked out over a lovely garden. Then she said, "Now come and meet my family. It is only a short walk."
The Cellier home was located at the far end of the hotel’s extensive gardens. It was built of cement and red clay. On one side a stone stairway led to the top of the ramparts. "The view is beautiful from up there, especially at night," Christine said.
Inside, the travelers found a modern home with European decor, tastefully furnished. Dr. and Mrs. Cellier stood in the living room to meet them. Frank raised his eyebrows in surprise. No wonder, he thought, that Christine had such an odd and beautiful look. The doctor was an Oriental and his wife was a Frenchwoman.
After introductions had been made, Dr. Cellier chuckled. "Did Fenton tell you I was Vietnamese?"
"No," Joe said.
"Ah. Is that why you looked so surprised when you came in?" Cellier added with a wide grin.
The boys liked Christine’s parents immediately. Mrs. Cellier was a charming woman with blond hair pulled back tightly.
"Have a seat and relax," she said in an accent that was much stronger than her daughter’s. Conversation bounced back and forth as the Hardys told the Celliers about their father’s work and 
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their life in Bayport. Then Frank launched into a recital of the two cases that seemed to converge in Morocco.
The Celliers showed a great deal of interest in the mask and the secret map. "My husband knows a lot about Sijilmasa," Mrs. Cellier said.
"Yes," the doctor agreed. "I have been a student of North African history for years. The old city is buried, you know. Some day I would like to find it."
"Maybe we can search for it together," Chet said enthusiastically.
"Perhaps. I have been planning a holiday. We could rent jeeps and go on an expedition."
After an hour of animated conversation, the boys said good-by.
"I have a music lesson late this afternoon, but I will take you sightseeing tomorrow morning," Christine said. "How would you like to start with our souq?"
"That’ll be great," Frank said as they left.
The boys spent the rest of the day swimming and diving in the hotel’s pool, and lounging under palm trees in the garden. The heat had been blistering. But in the evening, a breeze flowed out of the desert and a refreshing coolness settled upon the town.
"It is like something out of the Arabian nights, is it not?" William said as they finished dinner.
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"Sure is," Chet said. "All these exotic things, people, foods——" He yawned contentedly.
Christine arrived the next morning during breakfast and chatted with them until they had finished. "Now remember what you have to say most in the souq," she said.
"Oo-la-la," Chet said.
The girl laughed. "And do you know ‘balik’? It means attention—get out of the way."
"We’ve learned that," Joe said.
The quintet went off on foot, deeply inhaling the fresh morning air as they traversed the circular driveway leading onto the street. Half a mile farther on they came to another inner gate, beside which loomed the minaret of a mosque.
Passing through the gate, the boys were surprised to see a huge area comprising many acres. Part of it was a flat, open expanse, filled with a milling crowd, mostly in Arabic dress. On the left was a long, low, one-story enclosure.
"What’s that?" asked Joe.
"The souq," Christine said. "Hundreds of stores open onto a lot of tiny lanes. They are all covered by slats of wood. And look over there!" She pointed to a circle of people gathered around a group of performers. "Story tellers and snake charmers. Arabs like to be entertained. See those jugglers from Nigeria? They have a ju-ju man with them today!"
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The boys looked at each other in amazement but said nothing as Christine continued. "We will go into the souq first. Later we can watch the acrobats."
Once inside, the Hardys understood the reason for the slatted covering. The midday sun beating down on the market would have been unbearable without some protection. Now the rays shone in tesselated patterns on the dirt floor.
The aisles teemed with people. Customers wandered from stall to stall. Donkeys bearing produce pushed through the milling humanity. Shopkeepers, standing in front of their places, extolled their wares with rapid speech and gestures.
"This seems like a madhouse," Frank said as he walked in the lead with Christine.
"To us it is quite orderly," she said.
"Hey, Chet. Here’s a sword place." Joe pointed to a stall next to a rug bazaar.
The boys stepped into the low, narrow store. Its walls were hung with scimitars, swords, be-jeweled daggers, and radiant hunting knives.
The Americans, fascinated, examined the wares eagerly. The shopkeeper spoke French, and with Christine as an interpreter, they learned much about the exotic blades.
Seemingly from nowhere, another salesman appeared. More loquacious than the first, he had the advantage of knowing some English. He took 
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Frank by the arm and led him deeper and deeper into the store.
"The best things are in back!" he said.
Frank felt uneasy. When they reached the rear, the man pushed him through a doorway heavily hung with a curtain of beads.
Before the boy could protest, he found himself facing an Arab holding a magnificent dagger. The fellow grinned and approached the boy!

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CHAPTER XVI Ghost in the Souq
INSTANTLY Frank assumed a judo defense posture. If the man were to lunge, he would be ready! The thought of calling out flashed through his mind, but if the Arab were an assassin, he could strike before help arrived.
The boy emitted a low guttural challenge and watched for the slightest move from his adversary. But instead of the anticipated thrust, the man smiled benignly.
"You are not in danger," he said. "This part of the shop is a special place. It contains nothing but my very best merchandise."
He proffered the dagger and Frank took it in his hand. The blade, curved slightly, was finely honed and the haft was inlaid with beautiful copper work. Then the salesman showed him the sheath. It was made of leather and copper, intricately patterned in a red-and-blue design.
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"This you will find nowhere else," the shopkeeper said. "But for you a special price."
When he quoted it, Frank remembered Christine’s advice. "La!" he said. "Too much."
"Ah, you speak Arabic," the man said, nodding his head in appreciation. "You know something about our country. We will reduce the price. Only for you."
But the twenty percent reduction, Frank reasoned, was not enough. They haggled back and forth, and every time Frank turned to walk away, the man clutched his arm and lowered the price by a few more dollars.
Finally Frank made a counter-offer of half the original price. The shopkeeper rolled his eyes up, said his children would starve if he carried on business this way, and ended by saying, "Good. We have a bargain."
To make sure, Frank walked back into the main part of the shop to consult Christine. She agreed that the dagger was worth that much, and that it was a good buy.
Frank paid and showed his purchase to the others. "I’m going to hang it on the wall of our room as a memento of Marrakesh," he said.
As they stepped out of the shop, Joe asked Christine where the leather store was located. She said it was not far ahead. They continued pushing through the crowd, and as the sun rose higher, the colors of the interior became even 
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more vivid. Displayed in front of a boutique was a sky-blue djellabah with a black face veil, also a shocking pink one with a purple veil.
William remarked that the clothes concealed the wearer’s figures, so their identity was unknown.
"And what about the face?" Chet said. "All you can go by are the eyes. And every girl seems to have big brown eyes."
Joe laughed. "You came here to do a bit of detective work. Remember? Don’t worry about the girls."
They stopped at another shop and watched a group of men sewing the embroidered caftans worn by women and adding gold braids and trimmings of colored sequins.
"Hey," Joe said, "if we get one for Mother, do you think she’d wear it?"
Frank laughed. "To a costume party maybe."
Farther on was a stand devoted to sandalwood from Indonesia. "This is burned for incense," Christine remarked and added, "Look, there is the leather-goods shop."
The stall was hung with all kinds of clothing made of leather. "It smells like a new football," Chet remarked, as he sniffed the air.
The owner spoke rapidly in French. Frank said, "Do you speak English?"
"Non, Monsieur," He looked sadly at them until Christine smiled and addressed him in the melodious language he was accustomed to.
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Acting as their interpreter, she described a beautiful leather coat the boys had seen in the United States. It had carried a Paris label. Who could have bought it?
The man at first did not seem to understand, but suddenly his face brightened. "Yes," he said, "I made a few special garments for the French company and inserted the labels myself. But before I could ship them abroad, a customer bought one right here."
"Do you remember who he was?" Christine asked.
The leather man seemed pleased that praise for his work had reached America. "Oui, Mademoiselle."
He was about to open his mouth again, when his eyes fell on something in the crowd. A look of fright crossed his face. His mouth shut tight, and with a grim look he turned and walked to the rear of his shop.
"What’d he see?" Chet asked. "A ghost?"
"Maybe someone gave him the high sign to quit talking," was Frank’s guess.
Christine added, "Perhaps it was the buyer himself!"
"We’re being spied on," Joe declared. "There’s no doubt about that!"
"Let’s get out of here," Frank said.
"Hey, wait a minute," Chet said. "I’ve got my eye on that vest over there. Wouldn’t that look great with my checkered sport jacket?"
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Christine smiled and said, "I will stay with Chet and help him bargain."
"Okay, we’ll meet you outside," Frank said, and the boys hurried off. They walked back through the teeming alley of the souq, glancing at everyone who wore European clothing. But Scott was not among them.
"And to think he may be living right here in Marrakesh," William said, frustrated.
"Not only that," Frank added. "He knows we’re here."
"Probably has our photos, too," Joe put in. "Frank, this could be dangerous."
When they emerged from the souq into the glaring sunshine, the first thing they saw was the snake charmer.
"Let’s watch the act," Frank suggested, "while Chet’s making up his mind about that vest. No use to look for our elusive friend any more."
The snake charmer, bareheaded and dressed in a dirty djellabah, sat cross-legged before an earthen jar. About his shoulders was coiled a large black snake. He picked up a flute and began to play a weird, random tune.
A cobra’s head appeared from the jar. Its eyes shone like black diamonds, and its tongue flickered as the hood rose ominously. Then, to the delight of the onlookers, the cobra swayed to and fro to the rhythm of the music.
The crowd, which had been sitting back some 
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fifteen feet or so, pressed in closer to watch the dancing snake. Most were Arabs, but a handful of gaping tourists were among them.
The music stopped. The snake charmer spoke harshly to the cobra and its head disappeared into the jar. Then he stood up with the large black snake still over his shoulders. He smiled, showing a gleaming gold tooth, and begged for coins.
The spectators flung a few in his direction, as did the Hardys and William. The man walked up to the trio, pulled the snake from over his head and offered to drape it on one of them.
William spoke a few words of Swahili, where-upon the man grinned broadly and nodded.
"I will try it," William said. "He says it is harmless."
With that the snake charmer put the reptile over the Jamaican boy’s head, and William began to stroke it.
"This baby is really cold," he said.
The snake charmer now hissed a few words to his beast. Instantly the snake coiled around William’s chest; then it covered his face, so the boy’s shouts of protest became muffled grunts.
The man danced around, as Frank and Joe tried to pull the reptile from William’s body. But it was like a band of steel!
"He’ll be killed!" Joe stormed at the Arab. "Get it off!"

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CHAPTER XVII The Purple Vat
WHILE William and the Hardys struggled with the snake, the Arabs in the crowd laughed gleefully. Finally one of them, with a neat beard and spotless djellabah, touched Frank on the arm. He spoke good English.
"This is part of the act," he said. "The snake will not hurt your friend. You must pay the owner a fee, however, to get it off."
Frank whirled about. "How much?"
"You have United States dollars?"
"Yes."
"I suggest you give him one."
Frank whipped open his wallet and threw a greenback in the direction of the snake charmer. The man stepped forward to retrieve the money. Then he clapped the reptile on the head, spoke rapidly, and the snake let go. With a sinuous 
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movement, it climbed back on its master’s shoulders.
"Are you all right?" Joe asked William.
"It did not hurt me, but I was quite startled," the boy replied.
They looked about for Chet and Christine, who had not yet appeared. Joe grew impatient. "I’m going back into the shop," he said. "Meet you here in a little while."
He sidled through the murmuring crowd. Finally he saw his friends coming. Chet held a package under his arm.
"Where’ve you been?" Joe asked.
"We had to do quite a bit of bargaining after the shopkeeper decided to talk to us again," Christine explained.
"He had just what I wanted," Chet added, affectionately patting his package.
"Well, come on now," Joe said, "the fellows are waiting." He was about to tell them about the snake, when he happened to glance back toward the leather shop. He noticed a man in native dress duck into the place. A ray of sunlight flashed across his face for a split second.
"It’s Scott! I’m sure it’s Scott!" Joe exclaimed.
"What? Where?" Chet asked.
"He went into the shop. Look, you go and get the others. Christine and I will try to eavesdrop."
"But——" Chet began to protest.
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"Vamoose!" Joe ordered, and gave him a push. Chet realized that this was no time to argue and left.
Joe and Christine pushed through toward the merchant’s stall and stopped at the rug bazaar next to it.
"In here!" the boy whispered.
They wriggled into the hanging folds of a Persian rug, unnoticed by the proprietor, whose back was turned. Once concealed, they listened intently. Voices were coming from the leather shop. The men were speaking French. The man Joe thought was Scott, was being addressed as Monsieur Dubonnet. His new coat, the shopkeeper said, was not ready yet.
Christine translated in a hushed whisper.
"There has to be fine needlework in the lining," the artisan declared. "Give me a few more days, Monsieur Dubonnet."
"But I am very busy," was the annoyed reply. "I need it right away."
"I will send it to your home," the merchant offered.
"Good."
With his heart pounding, Joe heard the man give his address in French. "Did you get it, Christine?"
She bobbed her head.
Joe peeked out of the rug in time to see the man press money into the hand of the artisan.
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"If you see or hear anything of those Americans again," he said, "let me know." Then he left.
The young people stepped out of hiding and Joe declared, "It’s Scott for sure. Let’s go after him!"
The man had concealed his face in the hood of the djellabah and was striding toward the exit of the souq.
"Here come the others now," Christine said.
Frank, Chet, and William passed Scott, nearly touching elbows. Joe gestured wildly, but Frank did not get the message. Instead he called out, "Joe, was that really Scott?"
"Yes!" Joe replied, pressing forward as fast as he could. "He just passed you. Come on, we can still chase him."
But the shouting had alerted the man. He dashed in and out among the shoppers, with the pursuers on his heels. The djellabah retarded Scott’s speed somewhat, but nevertheless he kept a safe distance ahead as he crossed over the open area and dashed to a gate in the city wall.
"Balik! Balik!" Chet cried, and the Arabs melted to one side. Outside the wall, they found themselves on a broad, dusty street. It was cluttered with carts, donkeys, and decrepit old automobiles, chugging along and laden with produce for the market.
"We’ll catch him this time!" Joe cried out as he tried to keep pace with William’s long strides.
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Finally the fugitive reached a narrow slit cut into the ramparts. It contained a row of steps leading to the top of the wall. The man raced up, with the others in pursuit. William reached the top of the stairs first, in time to see Scott glide over several flat roofs and disappear.
"There he goes!" William said.
The others were at the spot in seconds and looked down over the edge to see a strange sight. In an area of several acres stood huge open vats half filled with dyes. They were yellow, red, and purple. A pungent smell rose from them.
"What crazy swimming pools," Chet quipped.
"This is where wool is dyed," Christine said. "Usually many men work here, but today is a holiday."
"Scott must be hiding among those vats!" Frank said. He put a hand on the edge of the wall and vaulted down. The others followed.
The ground around the vats was mucky from dye that had dripped over the edges, and the boys slipped and slid in their haste to search around the gooey vats.
Finally Frank shouted, "There he is!"
Scott jumped up from behind his cover and ran off as fast as he could, the hem of his djellabah splashed with a rainbow of colors.
Joe was the first to get anywhere near him. With a desperate lunge, the young detective clawed at the cloak and stopped the man short.
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"There he goes!" William said.
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Scott turned on him, cursing in French. With strength that Joe had not anticipated, Scott pinned his arms to his sides and lifted him up to the rim of a purple vat! Looking down into the fluid, the boy flailed about furiously. If he were thrown into the dye, it might be fatal!

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CHAPTER XVIII The Sixty-Forty Deal
JOE struggled desperately. Finally he succeeded. Scott lost his grip and the boy fell down, into the muck outside the vat.
Scott crouched for a moment before darting off again. By this time the others had reached Joe and helped him up. Both his arms were purple.
"Hurry!" Christine said. "We must get him cleaned off right away. If the dye has sufficient time to set, his arms might be stained for a year!"
Too messy to use a taxi, they boosted and pulled one another up to the rooftop again, hurried down the stone steps, and jogged along the road toward the Cellier home.
Christine’s mother greeted them at the door with a baffled look. "What happened?" she exclaimed.
"Joe fell near a dye vat," the girl said. "We 
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need some strong soap, Mother. If you bring it out, I will use the garden hose."
Mrs. Cellier returned with laundry soap and a box of washing detergent. Joe scrubbed for ten minutes, while his brother played the hose over his arms.
"I guess that’s about all that’ll come off now," Frank remarked finally.
Joe looked at his arms. They were still rather dark. William broke into a white-toothed smile and said, "Joe, now we are brothers! Can you lend me a dollar?"
As the others laughed, Joe playfully reached for his wallet. Then a look of horror crossed his face. "It’s gone! My wallet’s gone! It must have dropped beside the vat!"
"I remember Scott bending down," Frank said. "I’ll bet he picked it up!"
"I will go back and look," William offered.
"I’m coming with you," Chet said.
While the others cleaned their shoes, the two hurried off. Half an hour later they returned to say that a diligent search had failed to produce the missing wallet.
"That does it!" Joe said in disgust. "Now Scott has the map!"
"What a rotten break," Frank agreed. "Lucky I’ve got the other copy."
"Now what?" Chet asked.
"We’re going to Scott’s apartment to see if we 
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can get that map back!" Frank said. "What was the address, Christine?"
The girl wrote it on a piece of paper. "I would go with you if I could," she said. "But I have a meeting with a scholarship committee. You see, I intend to study medicine in Paris next fall."
"We can find our way," Frank said. "Besides, we’d better not all go anyway. That would be too obvious."
It was decided that he and William would take on the assignment. They were to meet Joe and Chet later at the hotel.
"But I would advise," Christine said, "that you wear djellabahs."
"Good idea," Frank agreed. "Where do we get them?"
"My father has several. They will fit you."
Clothed in the Arab costumes, Frank and William set off immediately to the Gueliz, the French quarter where Scott-Dubonnet lived. Using a taxi, they found the street and stopped at the number indicated.
It was a small modern apartment house. The names of the tenants were listed above the mail-boxes in the foyer.
"Here it is," William said. "Dubonnet. Second floor, apartment B."
The companions ascended the narrow stairs quietly and moved along the hall about half-a-dozen 
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paces until they faced 2B. Voices could be heard inside.
"I’m glad they’re speaking English!" Frank whispered.
Tossing back the hoods of their djellabahs, the boys pressed close to the door to eavesdrop. Unmistakably, two of the voices belonged to Scott and Sam Brown! The words of several others were indistinct.
Brown said, "Come in on the deal with us. When we capture the Hardys tonight, we’ll force the secret of the mask from them."
Scott laughed as if enjoying a big joke.
"What’s so funny about that?" Brown demanded, obviously annoyed.
"I have your secret already," was the reply.
Now Frank and William heard the crinkle of unfolding tissue. "Here it is," Scott said.
There was a moment of silence, followed by murmurs of disbelief.
"How did you get it?" This was Tiffany Stribling.
"How? Well, it took some doing, but that’s my secret."
"Wait a minute," Brown said. "Here’s the mask. Let’s check this out."
Again silence, and the boys realized that the criminals must be confused by the upside-down reading of the lines traced on the tissue. After a few minutes, Stribling discovered what Chet had 
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stumbled upon. "Pretty clever. It’s reversed. This seems to be authentic."
Scott spoke again. "Now listen. We have money to finance this treasure hunt, and the map. We’ll make a sixty-forty split. Sixty for us."
"Oh, no, you don’t!" Brown said, his voice rising.
"Have it your way, then. We’ll part company."
Mumbling and grumbling followed, after which Stribling said, "Aker took care of that gumshoe Hardy. What more do you want?"
"I want sixty-forty!" Scott replied harshly. "How do I know that your man really rubbed out the detective?"
"He did. George has never failed an assignment."
Frank turned ashen. Had his father paid with his life to pursue this case?
William whispered, "I am sorry, man. I am really sorry."
"All right, you win." Stribling said finally.
"Good," Scott said. "Here’s money to get a couple of jeeps and supplies. We’ll leave——"
Just then footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs.
"Let’s go," Frank said quietly, pulling up his hood. The two boys started down the stairway. Frank stole a look at the man who pushed past them.
The cab driver from Casablanca!
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"Pardon," he said and looked directly at the young detective. Then he cried out in alarm. "Dubonnet! Hurry!"
As the boys reached the foot of the stairs and raced out the door, they could hear a commotion behind them.
"There they go! Frank Hardy and an Arab!"
The boys found an alley and dashed through to a parallel street. A taxi passed by and they leaped into it. As it started off, their enemies, waving their arms and shouting, tried in vain to pursue them.
When the boys arrived at the hotel, they met Joe and Chet in the lobby.
"Did you get my wallet?" Joe asked. Then he noticed his brother’s disturbed expression. "What’s the matter? Did anything happen?"
"It’s Dad," Frank replied, hardly able to control his voice. "They got him!"
"What?"
"Hold it. Now wait," William objected, trying to calm the grief-stricken boy. "Remember, Stribling said that Aker was supposed to get your father. But there is no proof! Even Tiffany does not know if his man was successful."
With tears welling in his eyes, Joe hastened to a telephone booth. "I’m phoning home."
It took twenty minutes for the call to go through, giving the boys anxious moments to consider their predicament.
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"If anything has happened to Dad," Frank said, "we’ll have to return to the States right away."
"Of course," William said. "But do not give up yet!"
Mrs. Hardy finally answered and was surprised to hear from the boys.
"How’s Dad? Is he all right?" Joe blurted.
"Oh, I suppose so. But he isn’t here right now."
"Where is he?"
"I really don’t know. He took an overnight bag with him and said he’d get in touch with me later."
Joe bit his lip. What should he say?
"Is there anything wrong?" Mrs. Hardy asked.
"Well—maybe. But we don’t know for sure. Mother, if you hear from Dad, will you have him get in touch with us at the Manzur Hotel or at the Celliers’ in Marrakesh?"
"Yes. I’ll tell him to call right away."
The boy looked bewildered as he hung up the phone.
"Good grief!" Chet said. "What are we going to do now?"
William spoke up. "Get the police and raid Dubonnet’s apartment!"
The Jamaican’s determined voice roused the Hardys, and they immediately agreed to the strategy. Since the boys were acquaintances of Dr. Cellier’s, the police were cooperative. They 
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accompanied the Americans to Dubonnet’s place, but found it empty!
"It looks as if somebody left in a hurry," one of the officers said.
"Let’s go back to the Celliers’," Joe decided. "If we want to continue with the treasure hunt, we’ll have to act fast."
Christine was home, and when she and her parents heard about the afternoon’s events, they were flabbergasted.
"I think your father would want you to pursue the case to the end," Dr. Cellier said. "And you had better stay here for the night. Then, in the morning, rent jeeps and some gear, like sleeping bags, and get detailed maps of the area around the lost city."
"Will you come with us?" Chet asked hopefully.
"I cannot go right now. But I will try to follow later."
After the boys had picked up their luggage at the hotel, Christine showed them into the guest room. It had a large French window looking out onto the ramparts of Marrakesh. Mrs. Cellier brought in a cot, and Christine got her sleeping bag. "We do not have enough room, really," Mrs. Cellier apologized. "But it is only for one night."
"Please don’t worry about that," Frank said. "The accommodations are just fine."
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The boys waited hopefully for a call from Bayport, but none came. Finally they went to sleep.
How long they had dozed off Joe did not know. But he was awakened by a noise. He sat bolt upright and adjusted his eyes to the moonlight streaming into the French window.
Now the others responded to his sudden movement. They looked, mouths agape, at a figure standing in the window. It was a man with his body painted in bright colors. He wore a grass skirt, but the most startling thing was his face. It was hideous. Obviously he was wearing a mask.
He spoke a few words, then leaped from the casement onto the top of the wall and disappeared.
"A ju-ju man!" William said, his throat dry.
"What did he say? Did you understand it?" Chet asked.
"Yes. He put a curse of death upon us!"

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CHAPTER XIX Figue Barbari
THE boys jumped out of bed and climbed through the window. When they reached the ramparts, however, the ju-ju man was out of sight, and they returned to their room.
"You don’t believe in this curse stuff, do you, William?" asked Chet, trying to act unconcerned.
"N-no," the Jamaican replied. "Not entirely."
"Tell you what, William," Frank said. "Now that we have the whammy on us, you take this charm to ward off the wizard’s power." He removed the lion’s tooth from his neck and placed the chain over his friend’s head.
"I’ll try," William said.
The next morning they were up very early. They gave Dr. Cellier a duplicate of the map in case he could join them later, and said good-by to their hosts. Christine accompanied them to the 
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business district, where Chet and William rented two jeeps, while tents, camping equipment, shovels, crowbars, and assorted digging tools were rounded up by the Hardys.
All the while one nagging question persisted. Would they or their enemies be first to find what lay at the end of the route of the mysterious caravan? Time was now more important than ever.
With their chores swiftly completed, the young detectives consulted a reliable road map Dr. Cellier had given them.
"Good-by, Christine," Joe said.
The girl shook hands with each one. "You will see a lot of little fortified villages along the way," she said. "These are called casbahs. The natives are usually very nice people. They are Berbers."
"Not Arabs, you mean?"
"No. The Berbers are blue-eyed Caucasians. Where they came from originally nobody seems to know. They live in the Atlas Mountains and are farmers or herders."
Frank drove one jeep and Joe the other, and they set off along the highway, which wound higher and higher through the mountains to the east.
For the first twenty miles the road was good, although seemingly little used. They passed very few cars along the way. Frank floored the accelerator 
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for a while but had to ease off because the road narrowed and grew steeper.
"I wish this buggy had more zip," he said to William, who was seated beside him.
Several miles farther on they left the paved highway and jounced along hard-packed dirt and gravel. Just past a bend, William spied a goat in the middle of the road.
"Frank, look out!" he shouted.
Frank swerved and stood on the brake. The jeep missed the animal, but slewed around. The rear wheel dangled dangerously over a sharp culvert beside a foaming mountain stream.
The boys gingerly stepped out so as not to upset the jeep’s balance. Joe pulled up beside them. It was not until then that they noticed five men standing below at the edge of the stream. They had built a small lagoon of stones, and inside the quiet water hundreds of potatoes bobbed around.
"How do you like that?" Chet exclaimed. "They’re washing spuds!"
"Probably Berber farmers," said Frank as the men scrambled up the side of the gully and stood grinning at the foreigners.
One, a stubble-bearded fellow with a skull cap pointed to the car, then to the road, and nodded.
"You want to help?" William said. "Fine, lend us a hand."
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The natives joined in to lift the jeep safely onto the road. When it was done, Chet noticed a bush laden with ripe figs at the side of the road. He picked a few, pointing first to the figs, then to his open mouth.
"Leave it to Chet to find something to eat," Joe said, laughing.
The Berber farmers looked at the boy and nodded.
Chet stuffed a fig into his mouth. Now one of the men frowned, shook his head, and indicated no.
"Why can’t they make up their minds?" Chet asked while he chewed on the fruit. "This doesn’t taste bad!"
Shortly after midday, as the road grew even rougher, Frank stopped briefly. No sign of the criminals.
"We’re at a pretty high altitude now," Joe said. "Look at those clouds. They’ll be down on top of us before we know it!"
An hour later, Joe’s guess proved to be correct. A dense fog settled over the road, which threaded around the mountain passes perilously close to precipitous cliffs. Their speed was reduced to a crawl.
Finally Frank stopped and jumped out of his jeep to consult with Joe and Chet. William joined them.
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"We’d better wait till the fog lifts," was Frank’s advice. "I can’t see more than a few feet. If we go over the edge, it’ll be the end."
They waited for several hours. No traffic came from either direction.
"I am wondering," William said, "whether the Scott-Stribling gang is up ahead or trailing us."
"Either way," Frank said, "there’s no use in worrying. This fog may have stopped them, too."
"I wish I could quit thinking about Dad," Joe said, "where he is, and what he’s doing."
"He’s always been able to take care of himself," Frank remarked. "You know, William, you may be right. Stribling could have been bluffing."
Now it grew dark, and as the boys were about to break out some sandwiches they had brought along, Chet said, "Wow! Have I got a stomachache!"
It rapidly grew worse, and the stout boy bent over with pain. "The figs! They were poisonous!" he cried.
"Holy crow!" Frank muttered. "I hope not!" He was just about to reach for their first-aid kit to find the Alka-Seltzer, when William put a hand on his shoulder.
"Look!" he said.
Several figures appeared across the road. They moved slowly, their djellabahs blending into the heavy fog like wandering spirits.
As Chet began to moan, they came closer to 
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look at him. Then a man said in hesitating English, "Are you in trouble?"
"We sure are," Frank replied. "Chet must have been poisoned by figs."
"Figue barbari?"
"They were growing by the side of the road."
"Not poisonous," the man replied. "But they must be cooked." He told them that he had worked in Tangier for a year and that he and the others lived in a little settlement nearby.
"You come with us," he concluded.
The Berbers led the boys into a village consisting of a few huts made of rock and mud. Chickens darted around and the noise of goats could be heard through the fog. Dogs barked as they drew closer.
They were taken into one of the huts, where a family of friendly blue-eyed people smiled and nodded while the boys described their travels to the interpreter. Then they were served bread and goat meat and were led into a small anteroom. Its walls were lined with crude bunks.
Chet, meanwhile, having learned that he was not about to die, improved quickly, and by the time they all lay down on the straw bedding, he felt much better.
Neither Frank nor Joe slept well during the night. The noise of chickens and the occasional barking of dogs sounded eerily through the thick fog, which continued to blanket the mountaintop.
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By morning it had lifted, however, and when the Hardys opened their eyes, Chet was already up. He peered out of a window and let out a gurgling scream!
"Help! I’m nuts!" he wailed. "I’ve gone cuckoo!"
William was first to rush to his side and look out. There, in a scrubby tree in front of the hut, a goat was climbing in the topmost branches!
William laughed. "Chet, you are not daft. I have heard about these goats. They really do climb trees!"
"Phew!" Chet said. "I thought I was hallucinating from the figue barbari."
The farmer and his wife were preparing breakfast, but Frank said, "We have food in the car and will bring it in." With gestures he indicated what he meant, then hurried to the jeep with William. They were digging under a tarpaulin for their supplies when a sudden rumbling sound filled the air. Chet and Joe ran out to see what the noise was and froze in fright!
Rocks, boulders, and debris crashed down the side of the mountain with the roar of a hundred jets! The two jeeps were directly in the path!
"A rockslide!" Joe cried. "Frank, William, run!"

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CHAPTER XX The Mysterious Mirage
FRANK and William looked up in time to see what was happening. Racing for their lives, they were pelted with small stones that stung their backs and arms.
Then a huge boulder crashed like a thunderclap into the provisions jeep, sending it far over the edge of the cliff and into the valley below.
The boys reached the hut, where Joe and Chet were viewing the spectacle with terror. They watched as the second jeep was showered with dirt and pebbles.
Then it was all over. Quiet settled over the mountain once again. The little settlement had been spared, but not by much. Cautiously, the Berbers came out of their huts, talking excitedly.
"Wow!" Frank said, his hands still shaking. "That was close."
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William nodded. "We were fortunate, but we lost a jeep."
The Berbers helped free the remaining one, which was laden with spare gasoline and digging tools.
"We’ll have to carry on with only one vehicle," Frank said, rubbing his sore shoulders.
"I wonder if the ju-ju man’s curse is working," William said. He fingered the lion’s tooth charm. "Baby, do your thing! Wipe out the curse!"
The Berbers supplied the boys with bread, goat cheese, and water, and waved them off on their journey. Joe and Chet sat high on their equipment, with Frank at the wheel and William beside him. The road became even narrower, winding like a serpent coiled on the rim of the mountain.
William’s finger followed their progress on the map spread out on his lap. "We are getting close to Rissani," he said. "The buried ruins of Sijilmasa should be around here somewhere."
With their destination near, a new exhilaration gripped the adventurers. Joe put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the deep valley below. "That must be Rissani," he said.
The road that had tilted up so many miles now descended rapidly and before long they were driving past the Rissani casbah.
"From here it’s compass work," Frank said as he pulled to a stop outside the town. He took the death-mask-tissue map from his wallet, and with William he studied the lines. From Rissani the trail went south and west in a looping arc.
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Frank and William raced for their lives!
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Frank was in favor of stopping at Rissani to ask a few questions, but was out-voted by the others.
"We need every minute of time," Joe argued.
"But we might pick up a clue," Frank reasoned. "Maybe the gang stopped here for something or other."
"So what if they did?" Chet said. "Let’s not waste any time, Frank."
William agreed, and they kept on.
"What’s over there?" Chet said, shading his eyes. "Another mountain?"
"It’s a cliff," Joe announced. "Here, have a look."
The binoculars were passed around, and each of them surveyed the barrier that lay about thirty miles distant.
Joe spelled Frank at the wheel and William climbed up on the back with Chet. Now they realized that the desert, which had seemed to be so flat, was studded with outcrops of rocks between which steep dunes rippled like waves on a beach.
Coming to the top of a small rise, Frank studied the cliff again. "We don’t seem to be any closer to it," he said. "Look!"
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"What’s the matter?" Chet asked.
"Camels!"
"You’re seeing things. Nothing’s there," Joe said.
"I guess you’re right. Now I don’t see anything—wait a minute! They are camels all right!"
Each of the boys scanned the shimmering expanse in front of them. The heat waves danced off the sand, obscuring and then revealing what appeared to be a small caravan. Suddenly, everything disappeared.
"It is a mirage," William said. "Deserts are known for them."
"Maybe it’s the mysterious caravan written about on the death mask!" Chet said.
The boys stopped now and then to sweep the desert with their binoculars. Once Chet reported sighting seven camels, but Joe gently suggested that it was his imagination. There was no sign of jeeps and they were confident that their enemies were far behind them.
"The sun is apt to get you out here," Joe said.
Nonetheless, Frank ordered a sharp lookout for camel tracks. But he had to admit after another ten miles of driving, that the wind might have blown sand over any vestige of animal footprints.
Gradually the cliff loomed larger, and a cleft was clearly visible. It ran diagonally from the sand up into the top.
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"I suppose we have to move south around this obstacle," Chet said.
"Not till we reach the base," Frank remarked.
"Could this be the end of the journey taken by the mysterious caravan?" William asked.
"It’s possible," Joe said, and the boys wondered about it as they drove even closer to the escarpment. Now it stood only a few miles away, and the cleft in the rocks had grown to fantastic proportions.
"There may be a road running right through the cliff," William said.
"We’ll have to explore it, Frank," Joe urged.
"Right. But in case anybody’s there, I’ll scout it first." He worked his way inside and returned shortly with word that he had not seen a sign of anybody.
The Hardys scanned the desert again to make sure they were not being followed. But nothing moved on the stark landscape.
Now they drove in, stopped, and appraised their situation. "No road," Frank noted. A quarter mile ahead of them the defile narrowed and the gray rocks towered so high they had to crane their necks to see the top.
"We’d better turn around and get out of here," Chet said.
Frank nodded and started back. Another, smaller, cleft became visible.
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"I wonder what’s in there," Joe said. "Think we should find out?"
"What if it’s a cave without bottom?" Chet said. "We might fall all the way down."
"And land in China?" Joe quipped.
"All right, explore it if you want," Chet said.
Leaving their jeep, the boys decided to go in, but they stationed Joe outside in the desert as a guard.
"If you see anything, holler," Frank told him.
"Roger," Joe said.
Frank, Chet, and William pushed into the narrow cleft and suddenly found themselves at the mouth of a cave. Its entrance was partially sealed by crumbling stones.
"Look, somebody put these together with mud mortar," William observed. They pulled away at the loose rocks. Age-old dust rose into their faces and made them cough.
"It’s pretty dark in here," Frank said. "We need a flashlight."
"I’ll get it," Chet volunteered. He went back to the jeep and returned with one. Its six-inch lens sent a powerful beam to the back of the cave. Just then Joe came in.
"I saw an airplane going overhead in a direct line," he reported. "Do you think it could be our enemies spying on us?"
"Maybe. Better watch it," Frank advised.
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Joe’s eyes, slowly becoming accustomed to the dark, focused on the cavern floor.
"Holy crow, look at this!" he exclaimed. "Skeletons!"
The bones of five men, laid out side by side, rested stark on the ground. The skulls grinned ludicrously at the boys, who stepped over them gingerly.
Farther back they came upon small piles of dust and pebbles, and the remnants of leather sacks that had crumbled with age. Frank bent down and rubbed the dust between his fingers.
"Gold!" he cried out. "Gold! We’ve found the treasure!"
"You have done us a great favor!" The harsh voice behind them sounded familiar. The boys whirled about. Several men, clothed in djellabahs, advanced toward them.
Their enemies!
The speaker was Scott. His face was now clearly visible. Beside him was the phony taxi driver and Jason Hickson, who had fled to Casablanca. Farther back were Stribling and Brown. The rest of the men were dark-faced strangers.
The boys realized that the camel caravan had been no mirage! The criminals had been ahead of them after all and must have hidden behind a dune, allowing the Hardys and their friends to complete the discovery!
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Stribling spoke. "You were most kind, gentlemen, to lead us to the treasure. What fools you were to think you could outfox us."
"All right," Frank said, trying to keep his cool. "You win. Here’s the treasure. It’s all yours. Just let us out of here."
"Frank," Joe whispered, "we can’t do that. Let’s fight ‘em!"
Dubonnet-Scott laughed loudly. "Of course the treasure is ours, and of course you’re not going to fight us. You won’t escape, either. We’ll leave you right here with the other skeletons!" He kicked a pile of bones, and a tibia skittered across the cave.
As their enemies approached menacingly, Frank, Joe, and Chet held up their fists in self-defense. But William whispered, "Frank, those black men. They are the acrobats from Marrakesh. And the small one is the ju-ju man. I’m sure of it!" With that he whipped the African charm from around his neck. He stepped forward and spoke in Swahili.
The ju-ju man shrank back, as did the acrobats, and they murmured among themselves.
"What did you tell them?" Joe asked.
"I said I was a more powerful ju-ju. I would put a terrible curse on them unless they defeated their confederates."
Seconds later a fracas broke out, and the cave 
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reverberated with shouts, screams, and curses. The agile acrobats pounced on the criminals and even before the Americans could pitch in, their adversaries lay subdued, moaning, begging for mercy, and rubbing their bruises.
Suddenly a clear voice rang through the cavern. "Stand where you are, all of you!"
"It’s Dad!" Joe cried out.
"Nobody move. We have you covered." It was the commanding voice of Fenton Hardy again. Joe raced forward and flung his arms around his father. "We thought you were dead!"
"A base canard!" the detective said with a grin. "An inexcusable exaggeration!"
Lined up behind him with weapons poised stood Dr. Cellier and two police officers.
Stribling looked up in disbelief. "But—but Aker was supposed to have rubbed you out!"
"He tried," Mr. Hardy said. "But I laid a trap for him. Then I caught two of your men. Mr. Dingo, Scott’s chauffeur, confessed everything!"
Dingo had been left behind to see that Aker did his job properly, but both had fallen prey to the detective. "It was Dingo," Mr. Hardy said, as the police handcuffed everyone except the acrobats and the ju-ju man, "who led us to the World-Travel Agency in Casablanca. In the cellar under it we found thousands of blank tickets, name plates, sucker lists, and paraphernalia used in the racket all over the world."
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"And when your Dad contacted me," Dr. Cellier added, "I told him where you had gone."
"Great!" Frank exclaimed. "But how did you find us here?"
"We hired a plane and spied Joe outside."
"What I would like to know," Frank said, "is how did you know we were going to Africa, Mr. Scott? You must have shadowed us all along."
"None of your business!" Scott grumbled.
But Brown, obviously hoping to make things easier for himself if he talked, gave the answer. "We did. When your fat friend picked up the tickets, we followed him. Then one of our men took the same plane."
"Shut up!" Scott growled.
"But how did you ever combine forces with Scott?" Frank pressed on.
Brown was silent, but Mr. Hardy reported that a spy from each group had been scouting the Hardy home and by accident had run into each other. Finding they had a common enemy, though two diverse causes, they melted into one gang.
"But why did Scott impersonate the Jamaican envoy and try to get the mask from us at the same time that the kidnapping exchange was being set up?" Frank asked.
"It would have been easier that way," Mr. Hardy said. "But since it didn’t work, they went through with the exchange."
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"And once we were in Casablanca, Scott tried to do away with us through that phony note from Klem!" Joe said accusingly.
Scott’s face was expressionless.
"And when that didn’t work, he set our hotel room afire!" Joe added.
Scott shrugged. "Prove it!"
"And you were the man sitting across the aisle from us in the train to Marrakesh!" William said. "The Frenchman in Arab disguise, who rolled his bread into little balls."
"How did they know we were going to Marrakesh?" Chet asked. "They lost our trail when we left the Marhaba!"
"We went back to the travel agency the next morning, remember?" Joe said. "No doubt that man on the roof was one of their gang, and he followed us."
The next question was where the crooks got the camels. It was revealed that Stribling, who knew the ways of the desert, had sent ahead for a caravan to wait in readiness at Rissani.
Frank said, "We might have discovered this had we stopped there and asked a few questions."
Joe’s face grew red. "You win, Frank. Never leave a stone unturned."
A celebration was held the following night in the Cellier home. During the evening Frank whispered to Christine, "May I use your phone, please? I want to call home."
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In the next room he talked quietly to his mother, and when he returned, Chet said, "What’s up? You look happy as a clam at high tide."
"Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies."
Three days later, the missions of father and sons having been brought to a successful conclusion, the Hardys and their friends touched down at Bayport Airport. As they all trooped into the house at Elm Street, a surprise was waiting. Tony, Biff, and Phil greeted them with grins on their faces, and the women hugged them. In the middle of the living room stood a wire-mesh cage. In it a dog paced about, sniffing at the arrivals and making odd, chortling noises.
"It’s for you, William," Mrs. Hardy said. She turned to Frank. "I did have quite a job finding a Basenji breeder, but I managed!"
William stood tongue-tied for a few moments. His eyes widened as he looked from face to face and then at the cage.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you so much," he finally said, opening the top. Out jumped the lithe animal, pointed ears alert, and pranced around the room. Then he sprang into William’s open arms, nuzzled him, and licked his face.
"Okay, okay!" the boy laughed. "I am glad to see you, too!"
"He can tell a ju-ju man from just any ordinary fellow, see?" Joe quipped. "Smart dog!"
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Even Aunt Gertrude smiled and nodded, while the happy reunion went on for another hour. It was fortunate that the Hardys could not foresee the future, because around the next bend lurked a treacherous and frightening mystery to be known as The Witch Master’s Key.
The Witchmaster's Key (Hardy Boys #55)
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I A Spooky Funeral
AS the giant jet hissed toward London, Joe Hardy looked out the window at the flaming sunrise.
"Frank," he said to his brother, "have you made head or tail of this mission?"
"Negative. I couldn’t get a solid clue out of Dad. His phone call from California was so hurried. Could it be he’s putting us on?"
Joe shrugged. "It wouldn’t be like him to send us on a transatlantic wild-goose chase. But it all happened too fast. Not a hint except that we’re to help his old friend Professor Chauncey Rowbotham in any way we can."
Airline seats were hard to get at this time of year; so the Hardys had taken the first available flight, even though the professor would be away, lecturing, for another day or two. And only he could brief them properly on their mission!
The boys were used to mysteries. They often 
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helped their father, Fenton Hardy, the famous private investigator. But they had never been so confused at the start of a case as they were this time.
Frank and Joe had established their reputation by solving the case of The Tower Treasure. Their latest, known as The Mysterious Caravan, recently took the boys to Morocco. Now, what awaited them in England?
Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe winced, pressing his hand against his cheek.
"That aching wisdom tooth again?" asked Frank, who was dark-haired and a year older.
"Yes. I should have had it pulled before we left J.F.K."
"Hang in there. We’ll find you a good English dentist." Trying to distract his brother, Frank went on, "What’s your guess about this caper? Forgery, bank robbery, missing person, murder?"
"Maybe old books." Joe tried to smile. "Professor Rowbotham lectures at Cambridge. Perhaps somebody walked off with his Shakespeare collection."
"Could be. Anyhow, we’ll know when we get to Griffinmoor in East Anglia."
Joe rubbed his jaw gingerly. "Lucky we don’t have to see the professor for two days. That’ll give me a chance to get this tooth pulled."
The gentle thud of unlimbering wheels signaled the approach to London airport, and the 
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jet came in for a smooth landing. Passengers yawned and stretched, then filed off the plane.
Joe wrestled their baggage through customs while Frank hired a car at the booth in the terminal.
"We’d better get used to driving on the left side of the road," Frank remarked as he slid behind the wheel.
"That’s for sure," Joe answered. "We don’t want to bump heads with some guy coming the other way."
Following the signs, Frank eased the car through roaring London traffic. Near the center of the city they passed a number of vintage automobiles, which bore colorful flags and triangular insignia of shields with crossed arrows and star clusters.
"Who are they?" Frank wondered.
Joe peered back. "London Motor Club. Must be headed for a car show."
Reaching the outskirts of London, Frank stepped on the gas. They sped through the countryside of East Anglia beyond the town of Chelmsford. At Colchester they turned left along the road leading to Ipswich and on north. Just before Norwich, Frank veered east while Joe picked out their route on a map spread across his knees.
"We’re in Norfolk County," he said. "Griffinmoor can’t be far now."
The car rolled over broad level plains as small 
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hamlets and big farms slipped by. The boys crossed rickety wooden bridges over slowly meandering streams where windmills stood on the banks, their sails revolving lazily in the breeze. Chickens fluttered away from the car wheels, clucking in fright.
Joe broke the silence. "This is the lowest part of England. Any lower and we’d be under water."
Outside Griffinmoor, Frank eased to a stop to let a funeral procession cross the narrow road.
The mourners were strange-looking people, wearing bedraggled clothes. Six men carried a rough-hewn black coffin on their shoulders, while an unkempt woman followed behind it with a black cat in her arms.
The leader of the procession was a man with a heavy shock of gray hair and a bushy beard. He carried a sword upright in both hands.
The mourners crossed the road in silence. Then they entered the woods on the opposite side and started to chant.
"Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Cast a spell! Cast a spell!"
Frank glanced at his brother. "This is worth a look-see."
"I’ll say so," Joe agreed.
Frank ran the car behind a clump of trees and they got out. Creeping through the woods, they followed the funeral procession into an ancient 
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churchyard cemetery high on a hill overlooking Griffinmoor.
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The mourners crossed the road in silence.
Weeds covered the graves, and the headstones were chipped. The nearby church was weather-beaten and deserted.
The Hardys watched from behind a moss-covered tomb while the mourners placed the coffin in an open grave. The leader walked around it three times, pointing at the coffin with his sword. He then struck it three blows with the blade.
The group began to sway from side to side, chanting eerily:
Power of land and surge of sea, Light of moon and might of sun, Do as we will and let it be. Chant the spell and it is done.
All fell silent as two men lifted the lid off the coffin for the mourners to get a last look at the deceased. Frank and Joe pressed forward for a peek.
They shuddered. The dead man might have been a hundred years old! His wrinkled, wizened face was contorted in a savage scowl!
A low groan broke the silence. The mourners swung around and gazed fiercely at Joe Hardy, whose toothache had caused him to make the sound. Joe tried to look nonchalant, and Frank 
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got ready for action in case the man with the sword decided to use it on them.
The boys were relieved when the mourners went back to burying the dead man. The six pallbearers quickly shoveled earth on top of the coffin, where it landed with a dull muffled thud.
The people drifted back to the road, and the Hardys returned to their car and resumed their trip.
"I wonder what that get-together meant?" Frank speculated.
"If you ask me," Joe said, "they’re making a horror movie."
A few minutes later they were in Griffinmoor, driving down the main street between rows of quaint cottages to the town square. Frank stopped in front of an inn with a signboard showing a soldier in a scarlet coat and steel helmet. They went in.
"Welcome to the Marquis of Granby Inn," the desk clerk greeted them. "What can I do for you?"
"First you can let us have a room," Frank said.
"Righto."
"Second," Joe added as Frank signed the register, "can you tell us about the funeral we passed outside of town?"
The clerk stopped smiling. Nervously he reached for the key to their room and handed it to Frank.
"Number sixteen on the second floor," he said.
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"Do enjoy your stay at the Marquis of Granby."
"The funeral," Joe prodded him. "The Boris Karloff characters, who were they?"
The clerk leaned over the desk and said in a low voice, "If you want my advice, you’ll forget you ever saw the funeral, because the next one could be yours!"
Thunderstruck by the mysterious warning, the Hardys questioned the clerk further, but he insisted he could tell them nothing more.
"That guy’s holding out on us!" Joe said as he and Frank unpacked. "I’d say he’s afraid of something."
Frank nodded. "And I’d like to find out what it is."
After washing, they went to the town square and tried to start a conversation with some bowlers on the Griffinmoor green. The men became sullen at the mention of the funeral.
One bowler drew the boys aside. "You’re new around here, aren’t you?"
"Just over from the U.S.A.," Joe said.
"Then you don’t know about old John Pickenbaugh. That was his funeral."
"So?"
"John Pickenbaugh was a witchmaster!"
"Come off it," Joe scoffed. "There aren’t any witches."
"You’ll know better before you leave East 
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Anglia," the man retorted, and returned to his game.
The boys inquired in a few Griffinmoor shops. Nobody would talk to them about John Pickenbaugh and his funeral.
"We’re getting brush-offs instead of answers," Frank observed.
Finally they came to a run-down tearoom, where a caged parakeet, jars of herbs, and a zodiac chart stood in the window. The name Mary Ellerbee was painted on the window ledge. They went in.
Mary Ellerbee was an old woman with a polka-dot bandanna around her head. She offered to read tea leaves for her customers and tell them their fortune. Frank said they’d have tea and cakes but no fortunetelling. They took a corner table.
"Know anything about John Pickenbaugh?" Joe asked before taking a bite of a chocolate cupcake.
"What about old John?" Mary asked suspiciously.
"Was he really a witchmaster?" Frank put in.
"Of course he was! And the mourners at his funeral today were witches from the Griffinmoor coven!"
Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances. Frank lowered his cup of tea. "How do you know that?"
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Mary Ellerbee gave a high-pitched cackle. "That’s my secret! I’ll tell you this, though. You shouldn’t be asking about John Pickenbaugh. You should be asking about his successor!"
Joe looked puzzled. "His successor?"
The old woman grinned like a harpy. "Of course. The title is handed down from one witchmaster to another. We’ve always had a witchmaster in East Anglia."
A black cat leaped into her lap. She stroked its silky fur and whispered something in its ear. The cat yawned, showing long fangs, and peered at the Hardys with green eyes.
Suddenly Mary Ellerbee cackled again, and Joe felt a cold shiver run up his back.
"So!" she cried. "Who do you think is the new witchmaster of East Anglia?"
"Do you know?" Frank asked.
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t!"
Realizing they would learn nothing more from her, the boys got up. Frank dropped a few British coins on the table.
As they left the tearoom, Mary Ellerbee called out, "Remember East Anglia is witch country of Old England! Strange things happen here!"
As her strident voice died away, they turned down the street toward the Marquis of Granby Inn.
"What an odd character!" Frank said. "But at least 
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she talked to us. It’s lucky we went into her tearoom."
"Not so lucky for me," Joe said. "That chocolate cupcake was a mistake. My jaw feels as though it’s blowing up like a basketball!"
"We’d better get you to a dentist, pronto," his brother suggested.
At the inn, Frank found the name of Doctor Vincent Burelli and put through a call. The dentist said it was after hours, but he’d take anybody with a toothache.
The Hardys walked across Griffinmoor just as night was falling. Raindrops pattered down out of a black sky, and the boys sloshed through mud puddles on a side street, looking for the office.
Finally they spotted it and made their way to a door that stood ajar. It bore a nameplate reading: DOCTOR VINCENT BURELLI, DENTAL SURGEON.
Frank rang the bell. No answer. He rang several times. Silence. "Maybe he’s treating a patient, Joe. Let’s go in."
They found themselves in a tiny waiting room. Through a half-open door on the opposite side they saw the office and the dental chair.
"I don’t see any patient or the doctor," Frank said. "We’ll have to wait."
They sat down and Frank began to leaf through a magazine on oceanography when footsteps sounded from the direction of the office.
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After exchanging perplexed glances, the boys tiptoed across the waiting room and pushed through the door.
Inside they saw an opening trap door beyond the dental chair. A man emerged with his back toward them. He lowered the door and turned around.
The boys gaped. The face was horribly deformed. The eyes bulged. The nose was squashed. A puffy tongue hung limply from a frothing mouth!

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CHAPTER II The Witch Masks
THE horrid-looking creature placed a thumb under his chin and gave a jerk upward. His face came off!
"It’s a mask!" Frank cried.
"Only plastic and paint!" Joe marveled.
"Doctor Burelli at your service." The man introduced himself with a low bow.
He was of medium height with short, uncombed brown hair, blue eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, a prominent nose, and an expanding waistline. He smiled easily.
"Quite a start for our visit to Griffinmoor!" Frank mumbled.
"I didn’t mean to frighten you," the dentist said seriously. "I’m an amateur actor, and secretary of the Gravesend Players in town. I make masks for our company in my basement workshop. The trap door allows me to work on them between 
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patients. I believe one of you has a toothache. Let me look."
Joe sat down in the dental chair, opened his mouth, and pointed to the sore spot.
"Well," the dentist said after an examination, "You haven’t shown much wisdom about that wisdom tooth. The wisest thing would have been to have had it extracted long ago."
He chuckled at his own witticism. Amid a barrage of comic comments, he gave Joe a local anesthetic and waited for it to take effect.
"Who are you fellows?" he inquired. "I notice an American accent."
Frank explained that he and Joe were two Americans who did detective work at home in Bayport. He concealed the fact that they were in Griffinmoor to deal with Professor Rowbotham’s mystery. "No sense in gabbing too much," he thought.
Frank was the cautious Hardy. Joe was more likely to leak a secret, but just now Joe couldn’t talk.
"So you’re detectives," Burelli said. "You must know about masks."
"We use disguises from time to time," Frank admitted.
The dentist clamped his forceps around Joe’s tooth, applied leverage, and extracted it.
"No mystery here," he declared. "You see the offender before you. Now you can rinse."
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A few minutes later Joe got out of the dental chair, rubbing his jaw.
"Since you’re detectives," Burelli went on, "perhaps you’d like to see my collection of masks in the basement."
The boys said they would, and Dr. Burelli lifted the trap door, wedged it open, and descended the ladder. Frank and Joe climbed down after him.
They found themselves in a gloomy room lighted by a single overhead bulb. A long bench held a series of masks of well-known people. They recognized Winston Churchill, General Douglas MacArthur, and Marilyn Monroe.
"A few of my friends," Burelli said airily.
"Those masks wouldn’t scare anybody," Joe observed.
The dentist beckoned to them and led the way to another table against a side wall. Four horrid faces with distorted features and misshappen heads glared at them. These masks were as hideous as the one Burelli had worn.
"What an ugly bunch!" Joe exclaimed.
"Worse than the rogues’ gallery," Frank added.
The dentist looked pained. "Please! You’re talking about the masks I love! Anyway," he said, "I make horror masks for my own amusement."
"Boy, I’d like to have these on Halloween," Joe said. "Nobody could find anything scarier."
Suddenly Burelli became serious and mysterious. "If you think that, look at these!"
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He moved to a dark corner that the light of the overhead bulb barely reached. The Hardys could just make out a number of masks that were more sinister than any they’d seen yet.
A man’s mask peered at them through slitted eyes, the corners of the mouth turned up in a malevolent smirk. A woman’s face was wild-eyed, the nostrils flaring, the mouth open as if to bite.
Frank and Joe shivered in spite of their long experience with criminals. They had never come across faces that exuded evil, as these masks did.
"I thought you’d be impressed," Burelli stated.
"What are they?" Frank wondered.
"Witch masks!"
Joe shook his head as if he were coming out of a trance. "What are witch masks?"
"Faces copied from woodcuts and pictures of witches in old books," Burelli explained. "I make drawings of the witches and then design the masks. I read the old records of witch trials to get in the mood before I start work on a witch mask."
"They’re enough to give anyone the willies," Joe said.
"Well," the doctor answered, "you two are the only ones who have gotten the willies, if I may use your expression, because you’re the only ones who have seen my witch masks."
"Why the secrecy?" Joe wanted to know.
"You’ll find out soon enough if you stay in Griffinmoor. Now then, we’d better go upstairs. 
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Another patient may be waiting. I hope you’ll keep this under your hat. I don’t want word of what I’m doing to get around."
The Hardys assured him they’d keep his secret. Burelli revealed that he was hoping for a one-man exhibit of his masks in London.
"That show’ll scare the public," Frank predicted.
"Thanks for the compliment," Burelli said.
They climbed back up the ladder and the dentist lowered the trap door into place. A faint smell hung in the atmosphere, reminding Joe of the Bayport riding stables.
"Don’t tell me you have a horse in the waiting room," he quipped.
"Nothing as spectacular as that," Burelli said with a grin.
"Quit the bloody jokes," a voice called out. "I’ve been waiting for ages!"
"That’s Nip Hadley," Burelli informed the Hardys. "He’s the groom of the Craighead estate. Cracked a tooth this afternoon, playing soccer. He made an appointment with me just after you called."
The dentist led the way into the waiting room. Nip Hadley was Joe’s age and height, but more stocky in his build and rough in his demeanor. His husky shoulders showed that he had the strength to handle a horse.
Burelli introduced them. Joe offered his hand 
18
but the groom refused. He glared at the Hardys.
"I heard about you Yanks. You been asking questions about old John Pickenbaugh. Pretty nosy, ain’t you?"
"We just stumbled on the funeral," Frank protested.
"Sure," Nip jeered. "You might get a bang on the snoot if you keep pushing it in where it ain’t wanted. And I’m the one who’ll do the banging!"
The boy’s challenge was too much for Joe to take. He moved forward with his fists up, ready to swing at Nip.
Burelli quickly stepped between them. "You fellows seem anxious to keep me in business. But I’m not looking for any more right now. There’s been enough dental damage for one day." He and Nip went into the office, while the Hardys walked into the street and headed back toward the inn.
"Nip Hadley seems like a tough customer," Joe remarked. "He’s about as friendly as a bear with a sore head."
"He sure wouldn’t win any popularity contest," Frank agreed. "But your remarks didn’t help. Maybe you wouldn’t feel friendly if you had a cracked tooth and somebody said you smelled like a horse."
"I guess you’re right," Joe confessed. "I’ll apologize if we meet Nip again."
"Chances are, in this little town you will," Frank replied.
19
"You know, there’s something eerie about this place," Joe went on. "No one wants to talk about John Pickenbaugh or the witch business; and all we get are cryptic warnings about finding out about it if we stay in Griffinmoor long enough."
Frank nodded thoughtfully. "I didn’t expect anything like this. Everyone is a little strange. Did you ever hear of a dentist whose hobby is making witch masks?"
Joe laughed. "No, but why not? I like Dr. Burelli. He seems to be a good dentist and a jolly good fellow, too. Maybe all the jaws he sees day after day inspire him to make those crazy masks."
The rain began to fall harder. As the Hardys turned a corner, they stepped into a gooey mud puddle and had to scramble out.
"My shoes are a mess!" Joe complained.
"Mine, too."
They hastened back to the inn and went to bed. They were sleeping soundly when they became dimly aware of a commotion going on downstairs.
Joe opened one eye and looked at his watch. "Six o’clock!" He groaned. "You’d think they’d hold their karate exercises later in the day!"
"Something must be up," Frank said.
Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A fist banged loudly on their door. Frank jumped out of bed and opened it. Joe joined him.
A tall police constable stood there.
"Are you Frank and Joe Hardy?" he asked.
20
"Yes, we are. What’s the matter?" Frank inquired.
The constable glowered at them. "John Pickenbaugh’s grave was robbed during the night! I’d like to ask you a few questions. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you!"

21
CHAPTER III Graveyard Surprise!
"WHAT? You mean we’re being arrested for grave robbery?" Joe exploded.
"Cool it, Joe," Frank urged his brother. "We haven’t been charged with any crime."
"Not yet," the constable explained. "But you’ll have to come with me for questioning."
At headquarters the constable grilled them about their stay in Griffinmoor.
"How did your shoes get muddy?" he asked.
"We blundered into a mud puddle last night," Frank said.
"Perhaps you were digging up the body of John Pickenbaugh," the constable contended.
Joe got hot under the collar. "What would we want with a corpse? We didn’t even know the guy!"
"That’s what you say," the constable noted. 
22
Suddenly he fired a question at them. "What do you know about witchcraft?"
Frank coolly fielded the question. "Not a thing, constable. America had witch trials in Salem. But this was long before our time."
"We have an alibi," Joe said. "We weren’t there."
The constable cleared his throat. "Where were you last night at ten o’clock?"
"That’s easy," Frank told him. "In bed at the Marquis of Granby Inn. Why don’t you check with the desk clerk?"
The constable picked up the phone and put a call through. After a brief conversation, he hung up.
"Okay," he said. "Your alibi checks out. The manager tells me you came in long before that and did not leave again."
"Does that mean we can go?" Frank asked.
"Not quite. I’ll need a character reference. Will anyone in Griffinmoor vouch for you?"
Frank scratched his head. "I guess the only one is Professor Chauncey Rowbotham."
"Yeah," Joe put in. "He knows who we are."
The constable called the professor, who just had arrived at his home. Rowbotham said he would be right over. While they waited, Frank and Joe talked to the men at headquarters about British methods of crime fighting. They gathered a few tips to add to their criminology files in Bayport.
23
Professor Rowbotham bustled in. He was slight, with a goatee and flowing white hair. He carried a cane, which he waved around so carelessly that he nearly hit the constable. He stammered slightly as he talked.
After admitting he had never met the Hardys, he was challenged about how he could vouch for them.
"But–ah–ah, I know the father of these young men," he said. "The sons of Fenton Hardy are sure to be all right."
"Professor," the constable said, "your word is good enough for me." He turned to Frank and Joe. "Okay, you’re free to go."
Rowbotham had a European compact car outside. While they drove, he explained the mystery that had brought them to East Anglia.
"Ah–ah, well, you see, the fact is, I’m curator of the Griffinmoor Witch Museum. It’s my life’s work. All my money is tied up in it."
Joe nudged Frank. Griffinmoor seemed to be crowded with witches.
"So you want us to investigate the ladies who ride broomsticks?" Joe suggested.
"No–er–no, nothing like that. The problem is that the museum has been robbed. Burglarized! Cleaned out! I hope you fellows can find out who did it, because the police don’t seem to make any headway."
They drove up to a large building not far from 
24
the cemetery where they had spied on the weird Pickenbaugh funeral. It was four stories high with a lot of corners and bay windows. The slate roof tilted at a steep angle that made it appear to be toppling over.
Professor Rowbotham escorted them through a few rooms of the Witchcraft Museum. All were stripped completely.
"Not even a stick of furniture left," Frank muttered.
"Quite–that is–I would have to say you are quite right. Nothing is left. Everything is gone. The basement is here. I had a big collection of occult items down there. The rooms were locked. Now they are empty!"
"Why would the thieves take everything?" Joe wondered. "Why didn’t they concentrate on valuable objects?"
Frank pinched his lower lip. "They may have been after something specific," he theorized. "Maybe they took everything so nobody could tell which piece they wanted."
Rowbotham was impressed by the theory. "Very likely, very likely. But I cannot imagine what it could be. I wrote to your father because I was so stunned. I thought he might solve the mystery."
"Dad was delayed by an important case in California," Frank said. "He sent us instead."
"I see–I see your point. I understand he 
25
trained you to be detectives. But ah–ah–the question is, will you take the case?"
"Of course we will, professor," Joe assured him. "That’s what we’re here for."
"First of all," Frank said, "is there any tie-in between the burglary at the Witch Museum and the robbery of John Pickenbaugh’s grave?"
Professor Rowbotham said he doubted it. "Pickenbaugh was still alive when the theft took place," he pointed out.
"Have there been any other burglaries around here?" Frank asked.
"Ah–ah–yes. There’ve been some at Eagleton Green. That is the artisan village next to Griffinmoor."
"Artisan village?" Frank queried.
"A village of workmen who make things like clocks, guns, and jewelry. They have suffered from thefts lately, also arson."
"Theft and arson!" Joe exclaimed. "Sounds like a gang operating in East Anglia!"
"But–ah–ah, although I’m not a detective," Rowbotham said, "I must tell you these were small crimes. More like harassment."
"Any suspects?" Frank persisted.
"A young man, a groom, I believe, from the Craighead estate."
"Nip Hadley?" Joe blurted out.
"Just so. He was caught near the Eagleton 
26
Green Saddle Shop just after a fire bomb went off."
"We’ve met him," Joe said. "He might just be mean enough to do something like that."
"Don’t jump to conclusions," Frank advised. "Let’s talk to Nip about this." He turned to Rowbotham. "What kind of objects are we talking about? I’d like to know a witch collection when I see one."
The professor produced a thick catalog. Frank and Joe studied the listings.
"Wow!" Joe exclaimed. "Cauldrons, robes, wands, bells, daggers, dolls with pins in them–the works!"
"Also," Frank observed, "stuffed animals, astrology charts, poison potions, and the good old skull and crossbones."
Rowbotham cleared his throat. "Notice the instruments of torture. They are my particular hobby. Pincers, thumbscrews, headsman’s ax, etcetera."
Frank closed the catalog and handed it back. "With so many items involved," he said, "we’ll have to go over this museum with a fine-toothed comb."
"But ah–ah–, the police have already done so," Rowbotham declared. "They even found a clue, and took it to headquarters."
"Then we’d better mosey on down there and take a look at it," Joe said.
27
"We’ll be back later," Frank promised.
"You’ll stay with me," the professor said, "in my house behind the museum. I’ll have your things brought over from the inn."
"Sure thing, professor. Thanks. Meanwhile we’ll return our car. I doubt that we’ll need it."
At headquarters they spoke to an officious sergeant named Joseph Rankin. When they asked about the clue from the Witch Museum, Rankin at first evaded the issue.
"Why should I say anything to you about the clue?" he growled.
"Because Professor Rowbotham hired us to investigate this case for him," Frank said in a conciliatory tone. Quickly he filled the sergeant in.
"Well," Rankin said, "in that case you might as well see what we found."
He opened a drawer and produced a long purple-and-white feather, which he placed on the desk. "This was on the floor beside the door of the museum."
"Any theory about it?" Frank queried.
"We know feathers were used to make witches’ brew. The thieves must have dropped it when they were moving the stuff out the door."
"Then it was part of Professor Rowbotham’s collection?"
"He claims not. But why would anyone bring a feather along on a burglary job?"
"Thanks, sergeant," Joe said.
28
"We appreciate it," Frank added.
As the boys started for Rowbotham’s home, Joe said, "I think that’s an eagle feather."
"Not exactly an eagle," Frank disagreed, "but a close relative. I’m not sure. What bugs me, though, is that the professor claims it’s not his."
Joe had an inspiration. "What say we make a detour around by the cemetery and take a gander at Pickenbaugh’s grave?"
"Good idea. Maybe the ghouls left a clue."
They tramped through the woods to the spot where they had seen the weird mourners. The police were there, examining the empty coffin that had held the corpse of the witchmaster.
A few questions elicited the information that no clue to the desecration had been found.
Frank and Joe went up to one of the officers. "Found anything yet?" Frank asked.
The tall, thin man shook his head. Then he squinted. "What’s it to you?"
"We were accused of pulling this little job this morning," Joe answered angrily. "So we’re interested."
"Oh, you are the American fellows who are visiting here," the officer said with a grin of recognition. "They tried to pin it on you but it didn’t stick. Well, it looks like a burglary to me. The lining of the coffin was ripped as if the villains were looking for something hidden in there."
29
"But why would they take the corpse, then?" Joe asked.
The officer shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Let’s look around the cemetery," Frank suggested. "Maybe we’ll find something the cops overlooked."
They walked between headstones until they came to a freshly dug grave. Frank advanced to the edge of the hole and peered into it. Joe moved up beside him.
A sudden slithering noise made them whirl around. Two hooded figures leaped on them from behind a clump of bushes. Two clubs descended in a swinging arc. Zap! Everything went black!
Frank and Joe tumbled headfirst into the open grave and lay still!

30
CHAPTER IV A Night Search
FRANK came to and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. Joe stirred beside him.
Footsteps sounded nearby, and in moments several people formed a ring around the grave and gazed down at the two boys.
"Young men," said a clergyman, "what are you doing in this grave? We are about to hold a funeral!"
"Pretty embarrassing," Frank muttered. He said aloud, "We fell in accidentally. Sorry about that."
Some of the men bent down and helped the Hardys out. Nip Hadley was one of them. The mourners frowned as Frank and Joe stepped hastily past the coffin and made for the woods. Nip followed them.
Joe turned around. "Say, Nip, I want to apologize for being rude at the dentist’s the other day. I didn’t mean it."
31
"That’s all right, I wasn’t my usual lovey self either. That tooth hurt a lot!" Nip grinned, then went on, "What happened? I don’t go for that accident stuff."
"A couple of goons conked us," Frank said. "I didn’t see who they were. Did you, Joe?"
"Negative. But you got to the scene of the crime awfully quick, Nip. How come?"
The groom looked hurt. "I followed the funeral procession, just like you guys did with John Pickenbaugh. Bushwhacking ain’t my style."
"Okay, if you say so, Nip," Frank said.
The groom changed the subject. "Know what’s happening at headquarters? You two are accused of being witches!"
Frank and Joe halted in their tracks. "Witches!" Joe exploded. "Who says that?"
"Old Mary Ellerbee. They say she’s a witch herself and was a member of old John Pickenbaugh’s coven. Anyhow, she was at his funeral."
Something clicked in Joe’s mind. "The old woman carrying the black cat! I didn’t recognize her at the tearoom because of the bandanna she was wearing."
"Come on, Joe!" Frank said. "We’d better get over there. Thanks for the tip, Nip."
They found Mary Ellerbee at the police station. She was clutching an ancient book in her hands.
"Apprehend them!" she cried as they entered.
"What’s the charge?" Frank inquired.
32
"Malicious mischief!"
"Where’s the proof?" Joe challenged.
"Right here in this book. It says Melinda Hardy Smith was a Salem witch sentenced to be drowned. She was your ancestor. So you’re both warlocks. You’re up to mischief in Griffinmoor! If you didn’t rob John’s grave, you ordered it done!"
The Hardys knew that a warlock was a male witch.
"There’s one big hole in your theory," Frank said mildly. "Our ancestors weren’t in America at the time of the Salem witch trials. So Melinda Hardy Smith has nothing to do with us."
"That settles it," a policeman said.
Furiously Mary Ellerbee stalked out, shouting strident threats as she went.
"She sure has it in for us," Joe said. "I wonder why?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Joe."
They decided to let their parents know what was happening to them in England. At a telegraph office, they sent a cable to Bayport, explaining that they were on the Rowbotham case but had made little headway.
"It’s nice to be in touch with home," Joe stated. "Here everyone is against us."
"Except Professor Rowbotham and Dr. Burelli," Frank said. "You know something? I wish Chet and Phil were here with us."
33
Chet Morton and Phil Cohen, their Bayport pals, were on a bicycle tour of Ireland. They often helped the Hardys solve cases.
At Rowbotham’s home, the Hardys walked up along the semicircular drive to the house, where they found that the professor had installed them in a bedroom on the ground floor opposite the Witch Museum. They questioned him about the purple-and-white feather at the police station.
"It was definitely–ah–not in my collection," he said emphatically. "A strange feather, incidentally. I would almost suspect it came from the mythical beast of Griffinmoor–the griffin, half eagle and half lion. Here, let me show you the Griffinmoor emblem."
He led them into his study and pointed to a plaque on the wall. It showed a fierce eagle with a lion’s head, flying off into the sky while bearing a knight in armor in its talons.
The legend at the bottom read: "Norman invaders were repulsed here by the eagle with gigantic talons." Below that was the motto: Avoir la Serre Bonne.
"The motto is in French," the professor explained. "It means, ‘to have a strong grip.’ I imagine you realize the significance of such a motto."
"When Griffinmoor grabs you," Frank suggested, "it never lets go."
34
"Ah–ah–that interpretation will do very well. Yes."
Joe felt restless. "But what do we do is what I want to know. This confab isn’t doing anything to solve the mystery."
Frank looked at Rowbotham. "Professor, I think Joe and I should search your museum. The police may have missed something."
"As you wish," Rowbotham conceded, and gave him the key.
They reached the tall, dark building just as dusk was falling. It had an air of sinister foreboding about it.
Frank unlocked the heavy door. They went in and Joe snapped on the master light for the building.
Wham! A gust of wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind them. The sound echoed through the cavernous Witch Museum.
"Sounds like ghosts upstairs," Frank said.
"Witches would be more like it," Joe noted. "This place gives me the creeps."
"Me too. It’s spooky."
Hurrying up three flights of stairs, they entered the attic, a large room supported by rough crossbeams covered with dust and cobwebs. The walls slanted inward, and the Hardys could see the steep slate roof through a tiny window.
A pitch-black raven perched on the topmost pinnacle. As they watched, it emitted a loud, 
35
hoarse croak and flew off in the direction of the churchyard, which was visible in the distance.
The rising wind shook the top of the Witch Museum. Rain lashed the tiles outside. A bolt of lightning cut through the sky. Thunder boomed overhead.
Ignoring the storm, the Hardys inspected the attic thoroughly.
"See anything?" Joe asked.
"Couple of spiders. That’s about it."
They went down a flight of squeaky stairs to the third floor. A sign on the door read: WITCHES’ BREW.
Inside they found rows of shelves on the walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. They were labeled with the names of witch poisons, ointments, recipes, and herbs. But the shelves were bare.
"Boy, Professor Rowbotham sure kept a lot of powerful stuff in here," Frank commented. "Hemlock, belladonna, aconite—"
"Also henbane," Joe added.
The Hardys knew these were deadly poisons. Frank gave Joe a worried look.
"Remember when I asked you on the plane what the East Anglia case might involve? Maybe it’s poison!"
Joe shuddered. "There must be a lot of this stuff floating around Griffinmoor, Frank. And the thieves might not know what it is!"
36
There was a rustling movement near the door. Something hurtled at them, aimed straight for Joe’s head!
Before he could move, the projectile veered off onto a high rafter.
"A bat!" Frank chuckled.
"Very funny," Joe groused.
Another set of rickety stairs brought them to the second floor of the Witch Museum. Here the sign read: EFFIGY ROOM.
Frank scrutinized the place. "This is where the witches lived. Statues of them, anyway. I remember the pictures in Professor Rowbotham’s catalog. They showed witches in robes and Halloween hats, carrying candles. One held a crystal ball in the palm of her hand."
"Don’t forget the witchmaster, Frank. He stood over here with a sword in his hands, just like the guy we saw leading the funeral procession to John Pickenbaugh’s grave."
The Hardys descended to the main floor.
"We went through these rooms with Professor Rowbotham," Joe said. "No need for a repeat performance."
Frank nodded. A grandfather clock tolled loudly from a dark passageway. Boards creaked overhead.
"Joe!" Frank exclaimed, "I hear footsteps!"
"Probably a cat, Frank. A black cat, witch style. 
37
Come on. We’ve only got the basement and the sub-basement. Let’s get this over with!"
The basement walls were faced with brick. This was where Professor Rowbotham had kept his instruments of torture. Chains hung on the walls, but everything else was gone.
"Not my idea of a home away from home," Joe said.
"Frankenstein’s castle," Frank suggested, "or Dracula’s."
The boys sounded the brick walls and the floor as they made their round of the basement. Since nothing suspicious caught their attention, they turned to a small wooden door on rusty hinges. Frank forced the bolt back. The hinges grated harshly as he drew it open.
A narrow stairway met their eyes. It fell deeply into total darkness.
"Obviously the sub-basement is not connected to the master switch. Maybe there’s a separate one downstairs," Frank said.
He descended the staircase, guiding himself with a flashlight he had brought along.
"There’s the switch," he said, flicking on a dim bulb and returning the flashlight to his pocket.
They found themselves in a musty dark room with a ceiling so low they could touch it by raising a hand. The flagstones that made up the floor were interspersed with ancient tombstones.
38
"If rheumatism is your bag," Joe quipped, "this is the place to get it."
"I hope we can get a clue to the burglary," Frank said. "I’ll start on the opposite side. You begin here. We can compare notes after scouting around."
"Okay," Joe said.
Frank started across the stone floor. Joe walked along the wall next to the staircase. The clammy chill of the place began to seep into their bones.
Joe shivered. "It’s like being buried alive!"
"Pick your gravestone," Frank joked, then added seriously, "Wait a minute! I see something! Joe, look at this!"
Frank had hardly spoken when the light went out. The Hardys were plunged into utter darkness!

39
CHAPTER V The Runaway Horse
FRANK pulled out his flashlight, snapped it on, and played the beam around the room.
"Someone fiddled with the fuse box," Joe muttered. "Or a fuse blew by itself."
"Let’s find out. It’s probably in the basement."
The boys ascended the staircase. The basement was just as dark. Frank found the fuse box and lifted the cover.
The master fuse was turned down!
"That explains it," Joe said. "Somebody put the whammy on the whole lighting system."
"Whoever did it," Frank said, "doesn’t want us around. Must be afraid we’ll find a clue." Joe pushed the master fuse back in place, and the museum lighted up again.
Quickly the Hardys searched the entire building, but found nobody.
40
"Whoever pulled that trick got away," Joe said, "via the front door. We left it unlocked."
"We won’t make that mistake again," Frank said, and he turned the key. Then they hurried down to the sub-basement to see what Frank had discovered.
"Look here," he said, using his flashlight for extra illumination. He pointed to a hole in the wall. It seemed to have been gouged out with some kind of tool, leaving a residue of fine dust.
Joe rubbed some between his fingers. "Frank, this is dry, not damp like the rest of the room."
"That means the hole was dug out recently!"
"Righto. You know, I believe something might have been hidden here! This could be the clue that breaks the case!" Joe said, excited.
"We’ll make a cast of the hole even though it is very rough," Frank said, "and try to figure out what it was! Maybe Nip Hadley can get us the stuff we need for the job."
"Good idea. We can kill two birds with one stone by talking to Nip about his troubles."
They went upstairs, turned out the lights, and left the building. The next day they walked past Eagleton Green on their way to the sprawling Craighead estate, stopping momentarily to look into the windows to see the artisans at work.
Finally the turrets of Craighead Castle loomed ahead. They towered over medieval battlements, 
41
with embrasures for shooting arrows at enemies beyond the drawbridge.
Before they reached the castle, they noticed the stables and corral in a field beyond. Nip, wearing a jaunty striped cap, was exercising a lively black horse.
Holding the reins in one hand, he pulled the animal up on its hind legs. Then he let it have its head in a canter. Finally he spurred into a gallop, took his mount over a couple of hedges, wheeled in a wide arc, and hurtled toward the Hardys. He pulled to a stop and jumped to the ground beside them.
"Nice ride, Nip," Frank said.
"Better than Buffalo Bill," Joe added.
Nip grinned. "Let me introduce Midnight, a skittish horse and a smart one."
"Smart?" Joe wondered.
Nip slapped the animal’s neck. "He knows how to get the corral gate open. Sometimes he does a disappearing act and we have to chase after him. What brings you to Griffinmoor?"
Joe explained the clue at the Witch Museum and asked Nip if he could collect the ingredients for a cast.
"What do you need?" the groom asked.
"Two half-gallon cans, one containing plaster of Paris, the other empty. A can of clear plastic spray, and a wooden stick for stirring."
42
"Sure, I can get all that," Nip said. He offered to show them the grounds. "First, though, I’ll have to dispose of Midnight."
He led the black horse to a corral. After opening the gate, he slapped the animal on the rump, urging it to amble in, then closed the gate.
He escorted the Hardys past the main hall of Craighead Castle and along a winding path to the stables.
"Those are my quarters," Nip said, pointing to a window under the eaves above the stables.
"Do you like being a groom?" Frank inquired.
"Rather! I was born in East Anglia. Went to school in Griffinmoor. Raised with horses. So, I was lucky to be appointed groom when I asked Mr. Craighead for a job."
The three strolled up a small hill overlooking the tilled farmland. Beyond lay an orchard. On the other side of the hill stood a stone wall.
"This wall," Nip said, "divides the land belonging to the Craighead estate from that of Eagleton Green. Some awfully strange things are going on over there."
"Like what?" Frank asked.
Nip cocked his head to one side and squinted at them as if making up his mind.
"I suppose I can trust you blokes," he said. "You know those robberies and fires in the artisan shops? Well, I think it’s sabotage!"
Frank looked incredulous. "You mean somebody’s trying to put the craftsmen out of business?"
43


Nip came hurtling toward the Hardys.
44
Nip shrugged. "Looks that way."
"But why?"
"I haven’t any idea."
The three boys walked along a path leading to the rear of Craighead Castle. The sheer wall towered above them. Nip said the main windows belonged to the kitchen and dining room.
"What’s up there?" Joe asked, pointing to a tiny window that glinted in the sun high up in one turret.
"Don’t really know," Nip confessed, whereupon Frank brought the conversation back to the Eagleton Green mystery.
He asked about the charge that Nip had fire-bombed the saddle shop. The boy was about to answer when they turned a corner of the castle and saw a man approaching them. He wore a riding outfit and held a whip in one hand.
Nip introduced him to the Hardys as Milton Craighead, owner of the Craighead estate.
Milton was about thirty years old. He was stiff and formal, barely shaking hands with Frank and Joe as if it went against the grain. While saying a few words to them, he cracked his whip against his boot
All at once loud cries interrupted him. A gardener was shouting, "Midnight is loose! Catch him! Catch him!"
45
"He escaped from the corral again!" Nip exclaimed.
Milton scowled. "How could that possibly have happened? Maybe we’ve had visitors who left the gate open!"
"He means Frank and me," Joe thought. "Not a very friendly fellow."
Milton and Nip raced to the stables and leaped on horses. They set out in pursuit of the runaway, which was galloping around the pasture. Frank and Joe followed on foot. There was a wild chase in which Midnight dodged several times.
Frank stood still for a moment in the middle of the pasture, shielding his eyes as he watched the black horse.
Suddenly he heard the thunder of hoofbeats in his ears. Turning sideways, he saw Milton’s mount coming at him full tilt!

46
CHAPTER VI The Missing Marquis
NIP galloped up, grabbed the bridle of Milton’s mount, and forced it to swing wide, brushing Frank and knocking him over. Both horses halted.
Milton Craighead mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "I lost control," he said in a shaky voice. "I hope you’re not hurt."
Frank scrambled to his feet. "Only a few bruises," he reported.
"That’s fortunate." Craighead seemed relieved. "Nip, let’s get after Midnight."
The pursuers cornered the runaway in an angle of the stone wall. Nip threw a rope over its neck and led it back to the corral. While Milton made sure the gate was fastened, Frank and Joe had a quick conversation with Nip Hadley.
"Thanks for the assist," Frank said.
Joe stressed the point. "You probably saved Frank’s life, Nip. We’ll do anything we can to 
47
help you. Just tell us what you know about the fire-bombing in Eagleton Green."
"I can’t talk now," Nip replied uneasily. "I’ll see you later and bring those things you need."
Milton finished with the gate and walked toward them. "It’s securely fastened now," he said. "If that horse escapes again, I’ll want to know the reason why. Nip, keep an eye on all strangers."
Frank and Joe inferred that this was an invitation for them to leave the Craighead estate. They went back to the professor’s, where they discussed their visit.
Why was Milton Craighead hostile toward them? Had he really lost control of his mount? Or was he trying to run Frank down?
The Hardys wondered. The case was becoming more and more mysterious.
Nip rode up later with the ingredients for the plaster cast in his saddle bags. Saying he couldn’t wait because Craighead wanted him to break in a new horse, he emptied the bags quickly and rode off.
Frank and Joe went to the Witch Museum, made their way to the sub-basement with a container of water and got ready to make a cast of the hollowed-out part of the wall. They had often lifted impressions of footprints and tire tracks. In fact, they had devised the Hardy Plaster-Cast Kit, made up of the items they had asked Nip to bring.
Joe covered the break in the wall with plastic 
48
spray to firm up the dust and broken particles. He poured some water into the plaster of Paris, and stirred the paste to the proper consistency.
Then he pressed some into the depression with the stick. When it became firm enough, Frank inserted small bits of wood to fortify the cast as it solidified. Then he added the remaining plaster.
When it had dried sufficiently, Frank pried out the cast with his pocketknife and laid it on the floor. They now had an impression of the object that had been concealed in the wall. It seemed to be a straight cylindrical object about eight inches long and half an inch wide.
"Could have been an iron bar," Frank said. "But there’s a loop at one end and a wedge at the other. Professor Rowbotham might be able to identify it."
They took the plaster cast to the house. Rowbotham inspected it carefully.
"Ah–ah, this appears to be the impression of a key. A very old, very ornate, very large key."
"A key to what?" Joe asked.
"As to that, I cannot say. But such keys were used in English castles long ago."
"Craighead Castle!" Frank blurted. "It may open a door in Craighead Castle!"
"Possibly," Rowbotham agreed. "However, you cannot get in there. Milton Craighead does not like strangers."
"We know," Joe said with a dry chuckle.
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"Ah–ah, besides, a mystery hangs over the place."
"What mystery, Professor?" Joe asked.
"The mystery of the missing marquis!"
Frank and Joe each felt tingles of excitement. Eagerly they urged Rowbotham to go on.
The professor said that the missing marquis, Lord Craighead, had been a distinguished soldier.
"Five years ago he announced his intention of visiting his old mates in Dublin. His servants helped him pack. His son, Milton, bade him farewell and he rode away in his car."
Rowbotham paused for breath. The Hardys sat motionless, waiting for him to continue.
"The marquis hasn’t been seen since!"
"Not a sign of him?" Joe asked.
"In five years?" Frank exclaimed.
"Just so," the professor assured them.
A shuffling sound outside the door broke into their thoughts. Frank put his finger to his lips. Getting up, he tiptoed across the room, silently turned the knob, and jerked the door open.
A tall, stooped man with white hair stood outside. He was Sears, Rowbotham’s butler.
"Were you listening at the door?" Frank demanded.
"Not at all, sir. I was bringing in the tea." He lifted a large pot from a tea wagon and placed it on the table.
Joe, suspicious, questioned Sears closely. "Did 
50
you let the thieves into the Witch Museum?"
"No sir. The robbery took place on my night off."
"That’s why I went out to dinner with an old friend," Rowbotham confirmed.
After Sears had left, Frank said, "He could have doubled back and met a gang of confederates."
"Impossible!" the professor said forcefully. "I trust Sears implicitly."
They broke up after tea and the Hardys devised a new strategy. Frank had the first idea.
"We must have a key made from our plaster cast."
"Let’s try Eagleton Green," Joe suggested. "There must be a locksmith among the artisans."
In the village, they walked along the main street and stopped at a gunsmith’s for information.
He told them to go to the shop of Lance McKnight, the locksmith.
McKnight was a rough-looking character with a heavy growth of beard. His shop was cluttered and dusty. Swords, daggers, and other weapons hung on the walls and a pile of keys lay on the counter.
McKnight claimed he could make keys from plaster casts. But when the boys produced theirs, his demeanor changed. He became evasive. "That’s a tough job," he grumbled.
"You do tough jobs, don’t you?" Frank asked.
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"Sure. But not that tough. The plaster isn’t right."
"It’s the best East Anglia plaster."
"Well, the cast is too big."
"Why is it too big?" Joe pressured him.
The keymaker became surly. "Because I say it is. I don’t want the job."
They asked if he knew someone else who could do the job.
"Not here," McKnight replied. "Possibly in London. See Matthew Hopkins at the East Anglia Inn. He’s a wealthy, well-informed man who knows just about everyone in the city."
As they walked back through Eagleton Green, Frank said, "McKnight wasn’t very friendly."
"He sure changed his tune when he saw our plaster cast. I can’t figure out why."
At the East Anglia Inn, Matthew Hopkins was having dinner. His greeting was friendly, and he listened with interest to the story of how they had made their cast.
"Yes," he said, fingering the watch chain across his vest. "I know just the place in London where you can have a key made. It’s in Soho Square. Here, let me write the address on my card."
Joe took the card, and the boys thanked him.
"Don’t mention it," Hopkins replied in a hearty tone. "I’m always glad to be of any service to our American friends." He went back to his dinner.
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Frank and Joe returned to the lobby. They saw that one side of the card bore the printed legend: Matthew Hopkins, Real Estate, Berkeley Square, London. On the other side, Hopkins had written: "Marshall Street, Soho, opposite the Medmenham Book Store."
"We’ll go tomorrow," Frank said.
They took the short route across a wide meadow. Night had fallen, and the sky was cloudy. Leaves rustled as trees bent in the wind.
The Hardys were in the middle of the field when they heard a long drawn-out howl that drew rapidly nearer. The howl changed to a ferocious snarl.
An immense black dog with snapping fangs hurled itself at Joe. The younger Hardy hit the turf. The dog sailed over him, landed on the ground, and vanished into the darkness.
"Let’s get out of here, fast!" Joe grated as he got up.
Frank gulped. "I’d just as soon not have another brush with the Hound of the Baskervilles! I guess we’re lucky that he’s obviously trained to frighten only and not to attack!"
They hastened out of the meadow and back to Rowbotham’s house, where they recounted their adventures in Eagleton Green. When they got to the incident of the dog in the meadow, the professor gasped.
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"What’s the matter?" Joe asked. "Do you by any chance know who owns the dog?"
"He didn’t bite Joe," Frank added. "On the other hand. I doubt that he tried to jump us without being told."
The professor nodded. His stammer became more pronounced. "Ah–ah, your tale is–ah–what I might term incredible. A witch dog, the black hound of Norfolk, used to be seen in this part of East Anglia!"

54
CHAPTER VII Curious Yanks
"THE Black Hound of Norfolk prowled by night," Rowbotham explained. "Anybody he bit turned into a witch!"
Joe shuddered. "Looks as if I had a closer call than we thought. If I hadn’t ducked, I might be a witch right now!"
Rowbotham smiled wryly. "However," he went on, "there is genuine history about the witchcraft of East Anglia. And I must tell you that the name Matthew Hopkins is ominous."
Frank frowned and protested that he hadn’t noticed anything ominous about the real-estate man from London. Joe agreed.
"Ah–ah, the point is that there was a man named Matthew Hopkins in the seventeenth century, who called himself the Witch-finder of East Anglia. He investigated those who were suspected 
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of witchcraft. He used what you Americans call the ‘third degree’ to force confessions. And he executed many. You came through Chelmsford on the way to Griffinmoor?"
"Yes," Frank answered.
"Exactly. Well, in the year 1645 Matthew Hopkins hanged nineteen witches in one day at Chelmsford. But that’s not all. When the Witchfinder General died, it came to light that he was a witch himself!"
"Wow!" Joe exclaimed. "The guy covered himself by pretending he hated witches!"
Rowbotham chuckled and said that the people of East Anglia were shocked when they learned Hopkins was a witch.
The Hardys noted that the Matthew Hopkins they were dealing with didn’t look like a witch.
Rowbotham held up a hand. "Ah–ah, that’s what they thought of the Witchfinder General in Cromwell’s time. You must admit there’s a strange coincidence in the two men having the same name. I would advise you to be careful in dealing with any man called Matthew Hopkins."
They were preparing for bed when they heard a scratching sound on the window pane. It was Nip Hadley, who motioned to them to let him in. When Frank threw the window up, Nip slipped over the sill into the room.
Hurriedly he told them of more sabotage at 
56
the Eagleton Green artisan village. He was afraid he might be accused of setting more fires.
"And I didn’t even set the one at the saddle shop," he said.
"Maybe you were framed," Joe said.
Nip groaned. "Framed! That’s it! Will you blokes help me?"
Frank and Joe said they would do what they could to prove his innocence. A sudden thought struck Joe. "Nip, are there any other witch collections around here? The stolen items might have been sold to them."
"There ain’t none in East Anglia," the boy replied. "But there’s one in London. The most famous is the Hall of Magic on the Isle of Man. Well, I’d better be off."
Climbing out the window, Nip disappeared.
"What do you make of that?" Joe asked his brother.
"I don’t know. Why would anyone want to frame a boy like Nip? Unless it’s just to distract attention from himself."
"But why would anyone try to make all this trouble in the artisan village? Whoever it is, he goes through quite a bit of effort with fire bombs and other equipment. It just doesn’t make sense."
"Perhaps it’s a crackpot who gets his kicks out of setting fires," Frank said.
At breakfast the next morning, Frank and Joe questioned Professor Rowbotham about the witch 
57
collection in London. He told them it was in Soho Square, not far from the Medmenham Book Store, so they could visit both the locksmith and the witch collection on one trip.
They decided to detour to the train station by way of Doctor Burelli’s office so he could examine Joe’s gum. The dentist reported that everything looked fine.
"Doc, I’m glad I have your vote of confidence," Joe declared. "We’re going to London and I’d hate to get a toothache in the big city."
"I’ve something you might like to have," the dentist replied. Opening the trap door behind the dental chair, he climbed down into his workshop. A moment later he reappeared with a couple of masks. The dentist had a droll expression on his face.
"I detect you detectives are mystified. Well, the Gravesend Players wore these masks onstage last night. I have no further use for them. You might wear them next Halloween, back in the United States."
He handed one each to Frank and Joe. They were stretch-type rubber masks with a skin-tight fit. The features were those of two freckle-faced youths.
"The actors portrayed Scottish boys of about your age," Burelli explained.
The Hardys slipped the masks on and stared at the dentist.
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"A perfect fit," he said. "You could fool your own mother, not to mention the criminals you keep under surveillance."
The boys pulled the masks off and pocketed them.
"Thanks," Joe said. "Could we fool a witch?"
Burelli became serious. "I don’t know about a witch. But there’s talk about what you’re up to in Griffinmoor. The Gravesend Players were discussing you backstage last night. They know you were at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral and are investigating the burglary at the Witch Museum."
"What do you think?" Frank queried.
Burelli grinned. "I think you two cover a lot of ground in one big hurry. Better be cautious."
Another patient needed attention, so they left the office and caught the London train.
On arriving, they quickly located Soho Square, the international district of the city. They heard languages from French to Arabic. Chinese merchants peered out of dingy windows. Spanish sailors sauntered past. North African gold speculators conversed among themselves, and sleazy-looking characters buttonholed easy marks.
"Frank, I have a notion we could buy anything illegal in Soho," Joe remarked. "Stolen gems, hijacked TV sets—"
"Forged passports," Frank finished the sentence. "But there’s Marshall Street and the Medmenham 
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Book Store, and a sign that says ‘Locksmith.’ That’s what we want."
A small bell over the door tinkled as they stepped inside. The locksmith was a large, heavyset, jolly man, who guffawed when they showed him their plaster cast.
"That’s no key! It must have been a piece of scrap the masons dropped into the concrete when it was poured. And even if it was a key, the cast is too rough to work with."
Frank and Joe could not convince him to try to make a key. But they did peek into his workshop because the door was ajar. They were fascinated by a suit of armor.
The locksmith noticed their interest. He said jovially, "Boys, how about minding the shop for me? I have to step out for a minute. Be my guests and look around."
They eagerly agreed. As soon as he left, they pushed the door open and went into the workshop. A remarkable sight met their eyes.
There were several suits of medieval armor. A pair of crossed swords hung on the wall. A crossbow stood in a corner, cocked and ready to fire a steel-tipped arrow. A headsman’s ax lay on the floor, its wicked blade gleaming in the dim light of a small window overhead. A battleax was balanced in a vise with a file beside it. Darts and daggers littered the workbench.
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Joe stood spellbound. "Frank, this guy must be hipped on medieval weapons!"
"I’d say he knows as much about them as Richard the Lion-Hearted. He should have been a crusader. Isn’t there anything besides weapons in this room?"
Just then a noise made them stiffen. Click! The door snapped into place behind them. Whirling, Joe seized the knob and strove to wrestle the lock open. It refused to budge.
"Frank!" he exclaimed. "We’re locked in! We’re trapped!"

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CHAPTER VIII The Fortuneteller
FRANK placed the plaster cast for the key on the workbench and tried the door. Like Joe, he failed to get it open.
"What’s up?" he wondered.
"Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a joke," Joe said.
Frank looked worried. "I think the locksmith is trying to scare us, or something worse."
"Like what?"
"Like keep us prisoners!"
Joe whistled. "How do we get out of here?"
They inspected the room. The only exit besides the door was the overhead window.
"A bat couldn’t get through that," Joe grumbled.
"Right," Frank said. "But I’ve got an idea!" Rapidly he explained his plan. "I hope it works," he concluded.
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"Might as well give it a try, Frank."
They quietly slipped into two suits of armor. The metal felt cold, and the joints creaked as they pushed their hands down the arms into the gauntlets. Now they were completely covered, from the helmets on their heads down to the greaves on their legs and the iron shoes on their feet.
Joe picked up a spiked ball of the type used in medieval battles.
"Ready, Frank?"
"All set!"
Joe lobbed the ball up in the air and sent it through the window with a crash, showering broken glass and chips of splintered wood.
They heard it bounce on the pavement outside. There was a sound of rushing feet and a loud buzz of voices.
"My basketball set shot," Joe whispered.
"Quiet!" Frank warned. "Someone’s coming."
A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and the locksmith lumbered into the room. The boys’ eyes followed him as he searched around. Paying no attention to the suits of armor, he halted a few feet from the Hardys.
Frank held his breath. Joe wrinkled his nose and just managed to stifle a sneeze.
The locksmith looked up at the shattered window, a stunned expression on his face. Then 
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he rushed out and they heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door.
"He’s gone!" Frank exclaimed, "Come on! We’ve got to move fast!"
Climbing out of his suit of armor, Frank headed for the door. Joe called urgently after him.
"Wait a minute! I’m stuck!" Joe could not get his foot past the greave on the left leg. Frank ran back and held it, while his brother struggled to work himself loose.
"Wiggle your toes," Frank advised. "Hurry!"
Joe finally eased his foot free. "Boy! Am I glad to be out of that iron overcoat!"
They ran into the front room of the locksmith’s establishment and out the door. At the corner they peeked around to the rear of the building, where a crowd was gathered.
People were milling about and pointing toward the smashed window. The owner stood holding the spiked ball in his hand and scratching his head in disbelief.
"Let him try to figure it out," Frank said.
"My guess is he never will." Joe chuckled. "His suspects are two suits of armor. And they ain’t talking."
"Well, how about some refreshments? I’m starved."
"Good thinking."
They went into a teashop and ordered tea and 
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cakes. When the last of the food had vanished, Joe said, "Any idea what our pal the locksmith really had in mind?"
"He may be in cahoots with Matthew Hopkins," Frank theorized. "Hopkins may be the guy who’s wearing the black hat. He could have called ahead and ordered the locksmith to take care of–oh–for Pete’s sake!"
"What’s the matter?"
"I left the cast of the key!"
"There goes our clue!"
"If it was a clue, the locksmith will have smashed it by this time," Frank said.
Joe nodded. "No use to go back. We might as well concentrate on our next project. Let’s go see the Soho witch collection."
They paid their bill and walked down the block, mingling with the throngs who were out for the afternoon. A tout tried to sell the Hardys some black-market money, and quickly moved on when Frank said they were not interested. A sailor, who looked as if he had just jumped ship, followed them and stepped into a pub when he realized that they had noticed him.
"In Soho, there’s no telling who’s keeping you under surveillance," Frank noted.
"That’s a good enough reason to hurry up and get out," Joe said.
They passed the Medmenham Book Store again and came to a window filled with amulets, 
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such as bronze necklaces designed to save the wearer from the evil eye. A sign on the door read: WITCHCRAFT EXHIBITION.
Joe followed Frank through the revolving door. A number of rooms extended before them crowded with shelves and display cases laden with objects similar to those described in Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum catalog.
An old woman was seated at a small table near the door opposite an empty chair. She had a craggy face, piercing black eyes, and a long crooked nose. The boys noticed she wore a bronze bracelet on her left arm, a red comb in her black hair, and a silk robe studded with shooting stars.
"A fortuneteller," Frank murmured. "I wonder where she keeps the marked deck."
As if reading his mind, the old crone called out, "I am a palmist. I read palms and interpret what I see there. Let me read yours. I never lie."
"You might make a mistake," Joe teased her.
"Never, oh unbeliever. I am the last of a long line of witches. I know the wisdom of the ages. Trust me!"
"The whole point," Frank thought, "is that we don’t trust you." Aloud he said, "Some other time."
The palmist glared as the boys strolled past and began to work their way around the witch collection room-by-room. A number of items appeared to be identical with those pictured in Rowbotham’s 
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catalog. One was a silver wand with a gold handle. Another was a crystal ball on a bronze tripod.
Frank rubbed his chin. "Joe, those could be part of the loot taken from the Griffinmoor museum."
"You’re on my wavelength, Frank. I’d say this calls for a conference with the curator. He has some explaining to do."
Returning to the first room, they asked the palmist where they could find the curator of the exhibition.
"He’s out for tea," she cackled. "So, you must wait. Why not pass the time letting me read your palms. You have nothing to lose, have you?"
"I guess not," Frank admitted.
Joe sat down in the empty chair and extended his hand. The woman took it in hers and examined his palm for a long time.
Suddenly she broke the silence with a loud "Hah! This is very interesting!"
"What is?" Joe inquired.
"This pattern of the lines of your palm. It tells me you have witch ancestry in your blood."
"Not bloody likely," Joe quipped.
"Do not scoff, young man. There is more. Let me see. Yes! Yes! Your life line is extremely short. Prepare yourself for sudden death if you proceed on your present course!"
Joe shivered in spite of himself and said he had 
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heard enough. Frank took the chair. The palmist surveyed his hand.
"You are haunted by a witchmaster," she informed him.
"Has he got a name?" Frank asked.
"The letters are here in your palm. I can read them. P-I-C-K-E-N-B-A-U-G-H. That is correct. His name is John Pickenbaugh."
Frank started when he heard the name. The woman clutched his hand tightly.
"You had better leave England," she intoned. "You are in grave danger!"
Frank tried to pull his hand away, but she kept clinging to it. Giving a sudden twist, she pressed something as sharp as a needle into his palm.
The room swam before his eyes. The face of the palmist became dim. Frank tried to say something to Joe but the words refused to come.
Abruptly he keeled over!

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CHAPTER IX Jumpy Sleuths
AS Frank toppled, Joe caught his brother and eased him onto the floor. Frank lay still. His face was deathly pale and his breath came in gasps.
"Frank!" Joe shouted. "Can you hear me?"
Receiving no reply, he whirled around to confront the palmist. She was gone! The slow turning of the revolving door showed where she had exited during the confusion.
Desperately Joe hastened out onto the street and began calling for a doctor. A man with a medical bag answered and offered his assistance. Joe dragged Frank into the witch exhibition, where he lay motionless.
The doctor felt Frank’s pulse and raised his eyelids for an examination of the pupils. Then he took a syringe from his bag and gave the boy an injection.
"Your brother has been drugged," the doctor 
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informed Joe. "But he’ll be all right in a moment."
Frank began to breathe more easily. He regained consciousness, opened his eyes, and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his head.
"What happened?" he asked groggily. "Oh, yes. Now I remember. I was having my palm read when the Empire State Building landed on me."
He struggled to his feet just as the curator of the witch collection arrived. He demanded to know what was going on in his establishment.
Joe quickly explained about the palmist. "She disappeared," he concluded ruefully.
"What can you tell us about her?" Frank asked.
"Very little," the curator said. "She arrived only this morning. Said she could read palms and would amuse the visitors to the witch exhibition. I gave her permission. I should have checked her references before doing so."
"Do you know where she lives?" Joe asked.
The curator shook his head. "I didn’t see why I should ask."
Frank grimaced. "She must have been lying in wait for us. And we walked into her trap!"
"The spider invited the fly into her parlor," Joe joked. "Only this time it was a couple of flies, Frank. You and me."
The curator looked surprised. "If that was her game, you boys must have made her angry. What’s your business in London?"
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The Hardys confessed they were detectives working on the Griffinmoor case. They inquired whether the curator knew about the burglary in the Witch Museum.
He said he hadn’t heard of it because he had been on vacation in France until the day before.
"Well," Frank pointed out, "you have quite a few items in this collection that look as if they had come from Griffinmoor." He described the wand and the crystal ball.
The curator slapped his forehead in dismay. "I bought these articles only yesterday. A man brought them in and said they were family heirlooms. I couldn’t reject them. They are authentic witch equipment that once belonged to Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General of East Anglia. Of course I will return them if they were stolen."
Frank saw a chance to pick up another clue. "Can you describe the man who sold you these objects?"
The curator nodded. "He was of medium height. He wore a long robe, had a heavy shock of gray hair, and a bushy beard."
Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances. The description fit the leader of the witches at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral! The man who carried the sword!
Frank signaled Joe not to reveal their suspicion. He told the curator they would make a report to 
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Professor Rowbotham. Then they thanked him and left.
They walked out of Soho and across London’s Piccadilly Circus to Green Park. There they sat down on a bench for a review of the case.
Joe tapped a knuckle against his chin. "Who can the palmist be, Frank? And why did she drug you?"
"My guess is that she used the needle when she couldn’t scare us off," Frank said. "But how did she know where to wait for us? Who knew we were going to London today?"
"Professor Rowbotham."
"Check," Frank went on. "Who else?"
"Our buddy Dr. Burelli. And don’t forget Sears," Joe said emphatically. "He knows we’re on the Griffinmoor case, and he listens at keyholes."
Frank nodded slowly. "We’d better keep a close eye on him."
"Anyway, we picked up three more clues," Joe said. "First, the stolen articles. They might lead us to the thief."
"Second," Frank said, "there’s the guy who sold them to the curator–alias the witch leader at the Pickenbaugh funeral."
"Third," Joe added, "there’s the palmist. She might break the case wide open if only we could find her. Let’s get this info down in writing and see how it shapes up."
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They took out their notebooks with the pages headed "crimes," "suspects," "clues," and "theories," and filled in the facts of the Griffinmoor case.
The Hardys resumed their analysis of the mystery until they began to have a strange feeling that they were being spied on. Frank quickly looked in one direction and Joe in the other.
Under his breath Frank warned, "There’s a man watching us. He’s too far off to identify. But he’s keeping us under surveillance. Anybody on your side?"
"Yes. A fat woman. I don’t know who she is, either. But she’s got a bead on us with opera glasses."
"Being spied on from opposite directions makes me jumpy," Frank muttered.
Suddenly it seemed as if all the people in Green Park were staring at the Hardys. A nurse wheeled a baby carriage in their direction. An elderly man holding an armful of books peered quizzically over his horn-rimmed spectacles. Faces appeared and vanished behind bushes and trees like mocking ghosts.
Joe shook himself. "I’m as jumpy as you are, Frank. Shall we go?"
"Okay by me."
"Suppose the man and woman follow us," Joe said.
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"We’ll have to give them the slip somehow. Come on!"
They got up and strolled down the street. "Let’s stop in front of the display window of that shoe store there," Joe suggested. "Maybe we can see their reflections."
Frank nodded and casually pretended to examine the shoes in the window. The man and woman were still behind them!
"Oh, great," Joe muttered. "How about the department store across the street? Maybe we can lose them by leaving through a back door."
The boys went in and hurried through an aisle toward the rear. No luck! There was only one entrance! As they walked out, they noticed the couple on the other side of the street.
"They knew we had to come out here and just waited for us," Frank said. "Joe, I have an idea on how to get rid of them. Follow me!"
He led the way to a subway station, where they bought tickets for the underground at a vending machine. Hurrying to the escalator, they descended to the bottom. About ten yards opposite them, the up escalator was moving people toward the top exit.
Frank and Joe turned a corner at the bottom. They were alone.
"Quick!" Frank said. "Put on Burelli’s mask!" In moments both boys were transformed from 
74
visiting Americans into freckle-faced Scottish youths.
Frank turned the corner again with Joe on his heels. This time they stepped onto the up escalator. The man and woman from the park were on the other side, going down behind a crowd of riders. Frank and Joe looked at them. They returned the gaze without recognizing their quarry.
At the bottom, the pair hurried toward the train. At the top, Frank stepped over to the down escalator.
"You’re not going down again!" Joe blurted.
"Why not?"
"Pretty risky."
"Joe, they don’t know us from Adam. And it’s time to get to the station."
Riding to the bottom, they mingled with the Londoners waiting there. The man and woman had already gone along the platform and were looking through the crowd, when the train rattled in. It came to a standstill and the doors opened. The Hardys got on board. Some minutes later, safely on their way back to the train station, they chuckled over their strategy.
"We really fooled them," Joe said.
Frank nodded. "We should give Doc Burelli our special thanks!"
Before they had dinner aboard the train to Griffinmoor, the boys removed their masks and 
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pondered the underground chase to see if they could make sense of it. Neither of them had been able to get a good look at the man. But they agreed that they could pick the woman out of a police lineup.
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"Quick!" Frank said. "Put on Burelli’s mask!"
"She had the most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen," Joe said.
It was dark when they got off the train at Griffinmoor, but a lurid red glare suffused the sky to the east.
"A fire!" Frank exclaimed. "A four alarmer for sure! Looks as if Eagleton Green is going up in flames!"

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CHAPTER X A Wild Ride
A FIRE engine rumbled past, its bell clanging loudly.
"Let’s follow it!" Joe exclaimed.
"Right. If there’s been any more sabotage at Eagleton Green, we’d better investigate."
By the time the boys reached the scene, firemen were getting the blaze under control. A dozen shops had been damaged and their owners, who had congregated in the street, appeared to be stunned by the disaster.
Frank addressed the fire chief. "How did it start?"
"We don’t know yet. But it looks suspicious."
While scouting around the area, the Hardys noticed that Lance McKnight’s locksmith shop was barely scorched even though it stood between two badly charred buildings.
"That’s strange," Joe said. "The fire burned 
78
through the silversmith’s shop, jumped over McKnight’s, and landed right on the weaver’s next door."
Frank shrugged doubtfully. "I wonder if it’s a coincidence, Joe. If McKnight set the fires, he’d make sure he escaped."
"That figures."
McKnight was working with the firemen. He held the nozzle of a hose and played cascades of water over the burning buildings. Seeing Frank and Joe, he swiveled toward them.
The powerful stream of water hit Frank in the chest. He was knocked off his feet and sent skidding. Joe got the same treatment.
Drenched, bruised, and shaken, the boys rose to face McKnight, who had given the hose to a fireman and run to his victims.
"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," he said effusively. "It was an accident. Really it was."
"So was the London blitz!" Joe said angrily.
"The hose got out of control," McKnight insisted.
"Okay. Forget it," Frank said.
McKnight seemed relieved, and he went into the silversmith’s shop, where the fire chief was inspecting the damage.
"Well, he’s a cool customer!" Frank exploded.
Joe shook the water from his clothes. "He did that deliberately. We’ve got a score to settle with Mr. McKnight."
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Filtering through the crowd of Eagleton Green craftsmen, the Hardys kept their ears open. They learned that the fire just about ruined the artisan village and its residents.
"I’m ready to sell out," a jeweler stated. "The thefts in the past few months were bad enough, but the fire is the last straw. Start packing, say I!"
"Aye! Aye!" his neighbors shouted.
The village bookbinder raised his voice. "What’s the reason for this harassment? Tell me that if you can!"
"Witchcraft!" a potter bellowed. "The robbery at the Witch Museum in Griffinmoor! It let the spirits of the witches loose! The spirits are haunting us!"
"That’s right!" said a woman. "There’s a lot of haunting around Eagleton Green! Pigs are dying, and no one knows why! Horses are falling sick, and the vets can’t cure them!"
"Sure!" another agreed. "If it ain’t witchcraft, what is it?"
It was depressing to listen to the crestfallen artisans. It appeared that Eagleton Green would not survive.
"Frank, look who’s coming," Joe said as Professor Rowbotham weaved through the crowd toward them. Puffing, he swung his cane in a wide arc that barely missed Joe, who leaned back to avoid being hit.
"Ah–ah, I am pleased to have found you. I 
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thought you might be–ah–interested in the fire. I came here in the hope of running into you."
"What’s up, professor?" Frank inquired.
"I have a message for the pair of you. It might help your investigation, but it is not something to–ah–discuss here. Suppose we go home. I have my car."
At his house, Rowbotham explained that an unidentified man had phoned to say he had vital information about the burglary at the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.
Joe became excited. "What kind of information is it? Does he have a suspect for us?"
"He refused to say. Indeed–ah–he told me he has sworn an oath never to reveal what he knows about the burglary."
Frank looked crestfallen. "So, a guy tells you he’s got the info, and then he tells you he’s not telling."
Rowbotham blinked. "Not exactly. I mean, he said he might be released from his oath under certain conditions."
Frank perked up. "What conditions?"
"Ah–ah, he wants a meeting at Stonehenge."
"You mean," Joe said, "where the cave men tossed those boulders around like marbles?"
Rowbotham smiled. "I imagine we are talking about the same place. Yes, Stonehenge, where prehistoric people placed those–ah–massive stone blocks in a precise arrangement.
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"The Druids used Stonehenge for their religious rituals. The man who phoned said he could speak freely at the Druid altar when the full moon is in the sky. To wit–tomorrow night!"
Joe chuckled. "Sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus to me. I’m not a Druid!"
"The man might know something," Rowbotham said solemnly. "He might be a witch!"
"Or pose as one," Frank remarked. "This could be a setup."
Rowbotham looked puzzled. "A setup? I am not familiar with the term."
"A trap," Frank interpreted.
"He might want to ambush us," Joe said, "down where the Druids play."
Rowbotham looked dubious. "Ah–ah, I think we should take the risk. My informant might unravel the mystery for us. At least you boys will see Stonehenge. I’ll be your guide to the ruins."
The three talked it over, and the Hardys at last agreed to go. Rowbotham said he would drive them the hundred miles or so to Stonehenge, and they could return to Griffinmoor immediately if the man did not appear.
"Now, then, what have you to report about your visit to London?" the professor inquired.
Frank described their adventures in Soho. "So you see," he ended, "we were locked in by a locksmith and then I was drugged by this palmist who was supposed to be telling me my fortune."
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Joe took up the story, covering their stop in Green Park and the underground surveillance.
"What do you propose to do about these hostile persons?" Rowbotham asked.
"We could prosecute the locksmith," Joe said.
"No good," Frank retorted. "We don’t have any proof. I’d sure like to corral that palm reader, though."
Rowbotham suggested a phone call to the London police. Frank agreed and conversed for a few minutes with the officer at the desk. Hanging up, he rejoined Joe and the professor.
"The police don’t know anything about the palmist," he said. "She’s not local. They’ve got plenty of fortunetellers in their mug books, but none of them sounded like the gal with the needle."
Joe mentioned the items in the London witch collection that seemed to have been taken from the Griffinmoor museum.
"Ah–ah, the wand and the crystal ball were stolen from here," Rowbotham stated. "I myself discovered that they once belonged to the Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins. I am happy to know the curator is willing to return them. If only we could find the rest of the artifacts!"
Something clicked in Frank’s mind. "Perhaps some of it was shipped out of England! Interest in witchcraft has revived all over the world. Traffic 
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in the stolen objects could be international. Let’s check with Interpol."
"And with Dad, too," Joe added.
"Ah–ah, I can give you a duplicate catalog for your father," Rowbotham offered.
They prepared an air-mail package along with a letter to their parents, and Rowbotham ordered Sears to post it.
Frank and Joe were tired when they went to bed. However, they were up early the next morning, eager to get on with the case.
At breakfast, a letter arrived from Fenton Hardy. He told his sons that their ancestors had emigrated to America from Dublin after the Salem witch trials. He also suggested they check on the Irish genealogy of the Hardy family if they had time, and he sent his regards to his old friend Chauncey Rowbotham.
"Your father should see how well you are doing," Rowbotham complimented Frank and Joe.
"Still, we haven’t solved your case, professor," Frank said.
"Let’s see if the Griffinmoor police are doing any better," Joe said.
He phoned local headquarters and asked about the Pickenbaugh grave robbery. He found that the police were at a dead end, without clues or suspects.
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"They’re putting John Pickenbaugh’s case on the back burner," Joe said after hanging up.
"Might as well make tracks for Stonehenge," Frank concluded.
"We can ask the Druids to solve the case for us," Joe said humorously.
They went outside and got into the car to wait for Professor Rowbotham. He appeared, wearing a long white coat, a peaked white hat, a pair of thick goggles, and heavy gloves with broad leather cuffs.
"My driving costume," he explained to the Hardys, who were staring at him in bug-eyed amazement. "I never take a long ride without wearing my driving costume."
He turned on the engine, released the brake, and started with a jerky motion and a grating noise that sounded as if he were stripping the gears.
"Ah–ah, we are off!" he announced.
Off is right! Joe thought.
The Hardys began to worry as the compact barreled southwest out of Norfolk across the center of England toward Stonehenge. Professor Rowbotham wandered from one side of the road to the other. He ignored traffic signals. He went either too fast or too slow. And he chortled to himself as he drove.
Not far from their destination, Rowbotham ran over a duck as he whizzed past a farmhouse.
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"The farmer will have a duck dinner," Frank muttered under his breath. He looked through the rear window. The duck had escaped between the wheels of the car and was waddling into the farmyard, quacking loudly.
On and on the compact sped. Just when Frank and Joe believed they would make it all the way to Stonehenge without an accident, Rowbotham swung across the road to pass the car in front of him. Unfortunately the other lane was occupied by a car being driven in the opposite direction at full speed.
Rowbotham gave his compact the gas in a frantic effort to get out of the way. It bucked, rocked, and skidded, as two wheels crunched onto a soft shoulder.
Out of control, the car careened into a ditch!

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CHAPTER XI The Stonehenge Caper
THE car jolted to a halt on the other side of the ditch. Frank’s neck whiplashed, and Joe grabbed the dashboard to avoid being thrown against it.
Professor Rowbotham slumped over the steering wheel, a trickle of blood above his eye showing where he had struck his head.
Joe shook him. "Professor! Professor!"
Frank rubbed the back of his neck to ease the pain. "He’s knocked out, Joe. Let’s give him some first aid."
Frank ran around the car and Joe helped him edge Rowbotham from the driver’s seat to the ground. Frank pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood. "Just a little cut," he said.
Rowbotham groaned and opened his eyes.
"How are you?" Frank asked anxiously.
"Ah–ah, I have a headache. But–ah–I’m all right. How about the car?"
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Joe got in, started the motor, and guided the vehicle back up onto the road.
"She’s A-okay," he called out, "except for a dent in the fender."
"Ah–ah, then let’s continue to Stonehenge," the professor said.
Frank looked doubtful. "Do you feel up to it? You have one big robin’s egg over your eye."
"That doesn’t bother me," Rowbotham said emphatically.
"It bothers me," Joe thought. He said aloud, "I’ll drive if you like, Professor."
"Certainly not," Rowbotham replied testily. "I am quite capable of driving my car!"
They got in and resumed their journey, rolling through the counties of western England until they reached Wiltshire.
Rowbotham commented on the flatness of the terrain. "This is Salisbury Plain. Soon we will see Stonehenge. Ah–there it is!"
A group of tall stones came into view. They were arranged in a circle.
"We are now approaching the Avenue of Stonehenge," Rowbotham explained.
"Avenue?" Frank said curiously.
"Well, you see, the people who constructed Stonehenge built a thoroughfare up to it."
"The Druid Fifth Avenue," Joe chuckled. "Not as lively as New York, though."
Rowbotham spoke like a professor lecturing to 
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a class. "The Druids were not responsible for the Avenue. My goodness, no!"
"I thought the Druids built Stonehenge," Frank said in a puzzled tone.
"A popular misconception. Stonehenge goes back to the Stone Age. Ah–the Druids appeared much later. They lived here on Salisbury Plain in Roman times. However, it is true that they used the site for their ceremonies."
He turned the car into a parking area and stopped. The three got out and walked across the grass to the group of stones. A broad entrance led through a low embankment, curving away on each side. Rowbotham swung his cane in a wide arc, forcing Frank to duck out of its path.
"This is the outermost circle," he said. "The distance across to the other side of the circle is one hundred yards."
"As long as a football field," Frank noted.
"A ball carrier would have to do a lot of broken field running to reach the end zone," Joe quipped. "Jumbo blocks of granite for linebackers. What a defense!"
"Ah–I don’t quite understand. Is that an American proverb?"
"Just football terminology," Frank told him.
Rowbotham walked down to the center of the circle. He tapped a stone with his cane. "There are, as I said before, two stone circles. The outer one has stones–ah–thirteen feet tall. Only about 
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half are still standing, but you can imagine what it looked like when they were all in place."
He turned toward the largest blocks. "This is called the Horseshoe because five groups stood in a curve, with the open end facing the Avenue. The three still standing are more than twenty feet tall. They weigh–ah–over forty tons."
Frank and Joe tilted their heads back and glanced up. The rocks of the Horseshoe looked like menacing giant sentries.
"How did these Stone Age skyscrapers get here?" Joe wondered.
"A good question. The witches of old England said Merlin the Magician transported them through the air from Ireland. Modern archaeologists say they came from the stone pits of Marlborough Downs, twenty miles to the north. Ah–how prehistoric men moved such heavy objects remains a mystery."
Rowbotham tapped a single large slab lying in the center of Stonehenge. "This is the Altar Stone. Our Druids and witches still convene around it."
"So," Frank put in, "this is where the mystery man wants us to meet him."
"Precisely. That is why I suggest he may be a witch."
"He’s off his rocker, if you ask me," Joe declared. "Druids! Who needs them!"
Rowbotham sighed. "I see you are skeptics who do not believe in Druids or witches. Our adventure 
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tonight may change your minds. Ah–it is getting dark. We had better prepare for the meeting."
Suddenly he pressed his fingertips to his forehead, swayed, and leaned on his cane. The Hardys urged him to see a doctor about the bump he had received in the accident on the road. He refused.
"Ah–ah, we would have to go into the town of Salisbury, which would be a waste of time. Besides, I’m not badly hurt. I will rest in the car until I feel better."
Frank and Joe each braced one of his elbows and escorted him out of Stonehenge, along the Avenue, and back to the car. They carefully deposited him in the rear seat.
"Thank you," the professor said in a grateful tone. "I think I will take a nap. You can keep the appointment in Stonehenge, and I will wait for you to return. By the way, ah–Stonehenge means Hanging Stones."
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
"He’s still woozy," Frank said.
"Well, there’s nothing more we can do for him," Joe pointed out. "Come on!"
They retraced their steps along the Avenue and back to Stonehenge.
A fog was rising from Salisbury Plain, and a full moon hung in the night sky. The titanic monuments loomed stark, black, and sinister in its white glow. Narrow shafts of light filtered between 
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them in eerie patterns. The only sound was the sobbing of the wind.
"I hope this guy doesn’t stand us up," Frank said.
Suddenly they heard a musical note on the Avenue. It came closer, and the boys recognized it as the high register of a recorder, a flutelike instrument. They quickly ducked behind one of the Horseshoe stones and peered out.
"Holy cow!" Frank whispered. "Look at that!"
A long line of people came into view. Men and women were dressed alike in white robes and flowing white headdresses. Each carried a single flower in one hand.
"Who on earth are those people?" Joe asked.
"Druids, I guess!"
The marchers filed up to the Altar Stone and placed their flowers on it. Then they turned to face the full moon and began to chant.
Druid magic, Druid lore, Be our guide as in days of yore. Stonehenge stones and pale moonlight, Guard our ritual tonight.
Joe shuddered as he listened to the strange chant. Frank, feeling his foot going to sleep, gave it a twist and accidentally kicked the stone.
"What was that?" one of the Druids called in a strident voice.
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The leader, a burly man with a white beard, gazed around. The Hardys crouched low behind the stone. Their hearts thumped.
"An owl, no doubt," the leader said. "The bird of wisdom. It is fortunate that he takes note of our rite. Now, let us go."
The weird column filed out of Stonehenge and the sound of the recorder died away.
"Wow!" Frank said. "I’m glad they didn’t notice us."
"They might not have taken kindly to intruders," Joe agreed.
"This is a good hiding place," Frank said. "We might as well stay here. When the guy arrives, I’ll go out. You stay as a backup. Okay?"
"Roger."
They settled down to wait. The moon climbed higher in the sky. The wind blew harder. The fog grew denser.
"I can’t see the altar any more," Frank said after a while. "Let me find a good spot closer to it. When I do, I’ll come for you."
"Right."
Frank slipped away into the mist. Five minutes passed. Joe became apprehensive. Had anything happened to his brother? He waited five minutes more, then he could stand it no longer. He crept out of his hiding place in the direction of the altar. There was no sign of Frank. Joe searched all around it.
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"Frank," he called in a low voice. "Frank, where are you?"
He heard a rustle behind him and whirled around. "Frank—?"
A white-hooded figure aimed a punch at his neck. He ducked in time. The man attacked him again, and the two wrestled in the dark. Joe’s adversary was powerful and agile. He gave Joe a punch to the jaw that jarred him back against the Altar Stone. The boy dodged a second swing, and the man’s fist hit the stone with a crunch. He groaned and backed off, breathing heavily through his mask.
Suddenly a second hooded figure appeared out of the fog. He forced Joe back onto the stone and began to choke him. With a superhuman effort, Joe struck back with a chop under the man’s chin. He gulped and let go.
Joe sat up groggily. He noticed the man clutching his jaw, and tried to figure out a way to escape. There was none. The other fellow, who had hurt his hand, now closed in on him. Joe raised his arms in self-defense; then an eerie sound pierced the night air. Was it a note on the recorder of the Druids?
It made the boy shiver. The two men looked at each other, and one motioned to the other to run. They raced past the monuments and vanished into the fog of Salisbury Plain.
"Wow!" Joe said to himself. "Whatever that 
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sound was, it certainly saved me!" He stood up, still breathing hard. If only he could find his brother!
"Frank," he called in a low voice. "Frank, where are you?"
No answer. Joe cautiously moved in the dense fog. "Frank!" he repeated.
Suddenly he heard a low moan. "Hey, Frank?"
"Here," came the faint reply.
Joe felt his way in the darkness until he reached his brother’s prone figure. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "What happened?"
Frank sat up and shook his head. "I got kayoed by an apparition in a hood."
"I almost did, too. It was a trap after all."
"Did you see who it was?"
"No. Two men. They disappeared this way," Joe said, pointing.
"No sense in following them in this fog," Frank said. "We might as well go to the car." He got to his feet.
As they turned to go back to the professor’s compact, Joe tripped over something soft. "Hey, what’s this?" he said. He picked up a striped cap and handed it to Frank.
"This looks like the cap Nip Hadley wears," Frank exclaimed.
"Right. I wonder if he was one of that gruesome twosome."
Frank turned the cap inside out. In the moonlight 
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he read the label. The cap came from a store on the Isle of Man. They decided this was a clue they would investigate when they got the chance.
"Perhaps we should go there," Frank said.
They trotted back to the parking area where they had left Rowbotham in his car. It was deserted. There was no sign of the auto. The professor was gone!

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CHAPTER XII Mysterious Message
JOE scratched his head. "I wonder where the prof is!"
"Search me. Looks like he vamoosed on us," Frank said. "Think he’s a phony? Maybe he knew those guys were waiting for us. That would explain why he was so dead set on getting us to Stonehenge."
"Could be. But why? Perhaps that bump on his head was acting up and he went to a doctor. Let’s check."
They jogged into town, where they went to police headquarters. The officer on duty shook his head when they described Rowbotham. No such person had been reported injured.
The Hardys next tried the Salisbury hospital. The reply was negative there, too. No patient had come in to have a bump over his eye treated.
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Frank and Joe walked to Salisbury’s main street.
"Lost–one professor!" Joe said, worried.
Frank, too, was solemn. "We’d better get back to Griffinmoor as soon as possible, if there’s a train at this time of night."
The station was dark and deserted when they arrived. A schedule told them the next train to Griffinmoor did not leave until the following noon.
"Too bad we don’t have a broomstick to ride back to the witch museum!" Joe grumbled.
"We could try our thumbs," Frank suggested.
Glumly they walked to the highway, trying to hitch a ride. Finally a car stopped. The driver was about their age. He said he was a student and would give them a lift as far as Oxford.
"Fine," Frank told him. "It’s on the route to Griffinmoor. That’s where we’re going."
As they drove along, the three discussed the differences between England and America. The sun had risen by the time the spires of Oxford came into view. The Hardys got out, thanked their driver, and began thumbing again.
At Bedford, a large Lincoln Continental pulled to the side of the highway to wait for them. Eagerly they ran to it.
The driver was a stout motherly woman, who wore an enormous hat that resembled a bowl of 
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fruit. Around her neck was a large fox fur. She invited them to get in and started up again. Frank and Joe explained they were traveling from Salisbury to Griffinmoor.
"All the way from Salisbury!" the woman said sympathetically. "And all night on the road! You poor boys must be tired!"
"I could be more lively," Frank admitted.
"And I’m not about to do any handstands either," Joe said. Then he added, "Where are you going, ma’am?"
"Home!"
"Home?" the Hardys queried in unison.
"Yes. You boys need a bath, a meal, and a nap. My house is just the place. When you feel fit, you can resume your journey."
Frank and Joe were alarmed at the thought of any delay in their investigation.
"Where’s home, ma’am?" Frank inquired.
"Johnshire. Only about twenty-five miles out of your way. We should be there in an hour."
"Well, that’s very kind of you, but you see, we have to be in Griffinmoor at a certain time and—"
"Nonsense! Wherever you have to be, you won’t be any good if you’re tired out. Nothing’s as important as a good rest."
"We’ve been resting in the car," Frank protested weakly. "Right now, I feel like a million dollars!"
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"And I’m ready to do handsprings like crazy!" Joe boasted.
"You’re just saying that," the woman objected. "I know. I have three sons of my own. I understand what boys need. You’re coming home with me. I won’t take no for an answer."
The Hardys became desperate. They urged her to drop them off. She repeated that they had to be spruced up after being awake all night. They insisted they did not want to be any trouble. The smiling woman replied that they would not be any trouble at all.
She kept on driving, and they wondered how to escape from the motherly grip of their good Samaritan. They were beginning to give up hope when she slowed her car to turn off the main road. Frank made a split-second decision. He nudged Joe with his elbow, a signal to get ready for action.
As the nose of the car began to turn the corner, Frank wrenched the door open and flung himself out. Joe piled out after him. They hit the turf alongside the highway, tumbled over, and scrambled to their feet.
"Whew! That was a close call!" Joe gasped.
They saw the car stop halfway up the side street. It began to back toward them!
"She thinks we fell out!" Frank cried. "Make tracks before she corrals us again!"
They raced up the highway and caught another 
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ride in the nick of time. This driver took them into Cambridge and left them standing on the sidewalk in front of a grilled gateway. A plaque read: DOWNING COLLEGE.
"I’d like to see the Cambridge colleges," Joe remarked.
"So would I," Frank answered. "But we don’t have time."
A lorry rattled down the road. The driver said he could take them as far as Griffinmoor.
"Great!" Joe said as they climbed up.
They reached the Rowbotham house, feeling tired, dirty, and discouraged. Joe punched the doorbell, and Sears gasped when he opened up.
"What’s the matter?" Frank asked him. "Did you expect us to stay in Stonehenge permanently?"
"Oh, no sir," the butler responded. "It is simply that Professor Rowbotham has been wondering where you were."
It was the Hardys’ turn to stare. "You mean the professor is here?" Joe exclaimed.
"Yes sir. He is waiting for you."
"How long has he been back?" Frank wanted to know.
"Long enough to become angry with you, I’m afraid."
They found Rowbotham sitting in an easy chair in the study. He had his hands cupped over 
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the handle of his cane. The bump on his head was still there.
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They hit the turf alongside the highway!
"What did you mean, leaving me alone at Stonehenge?" he scowled.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Frank said. "You were the one who did the leaving! Why did you drive home without us?"
"But you sent me a message saying that you weren’t coming back with me!"
"What?"
"Oh dear, now I see. It must have been a deception. Tell me, what happened to you?"
After hearing them out, the professor looked embarrassed. "Ah–ah, I must apologize for blaming you," he said. "The fact is that a man came along while I was asleep in the car. He woke me up."
"What did he look like?" Frank asked.
"He had a heavy shock of ah–gray hair. Also a bushy beard."
Frank and Joe looked at each other. The description fitted the leader of the witch mourners at the funeral of John Pickenbaugh!
"The man," Rowbotham went on, "told me he had a message from you boys."
"What was it?" Joe asked.
"He said you had picked up an important clue, and had gone off to investigate it. He said you wanted me to drive back to Griffinmoor alone."
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"That was a lie!" Joe informed him. "We would never have told you to drive over a hundred miles when you were woozy from that blow on the head!"
Rowbotham nodded. "I can see that now. But at the time, I thought you had met the man who phoned here. I supposed he had given you vital information about the burglary at the Witch Museum."
"That’s understandable," Frank said soothingly. "But how did you manage to drive to Griffinmoor?"
"Ah–ah, by that time I felt rested. Had a bit of trouble starting the car, but the man was very kind and helped me."
"I bet he was kind!" Frank muttered.
"Well, ah–ah, I suppose I should have suspected him. Not very perceptive at all. Sorry about that."
"Don’t worry," Joe said. "We made it back okay."
"Ah–ah, I am glad you did. Now I’ll go to my room and take a nap."
Sears helped him up the stairs. Frank and Joe went outside to make sure the butler would not hear them. They stopped by a rosebush to discuss the new turn of events.
"I suspect the prof," Joe asserted. "Why didn’t he try to find us in Stonehenge?"
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"And was he really as dizzy as he pretended?" Frank mused. "Or is he fuzzing up the facts to keep us in the dark? What’ll we do now?"
"The car, Frank! Maybe it’ll tell us more than the prof did."
They went into the garage and searched the compact. Joe had his head in the trunk when Frank called him in an excited voice. He was in the driver’s seat. As Joe approached, Frank handed him a cablegram.
"Take a gander at this! I found it wedged between the two front seats!"
Joe opened the cablegram. It was from New York. The message read: Plans changed. Get rid of Hardys.

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CHAPTER XIII A Near Miss
JOE whistled. "Somebody’s awfully careless with his cables!"
"That’s for sure. This is one hot item to leave where we can find it. Any ideas off the top of your head, Sherlock?"
Joe hazarded a guess. "The cablegram was dropped when Bushy Beard helped the prof start his car in Stonehenge. Now we know for sure somebody’s out to get us. And he’s got a partner in the good old U.S.A."
Frank reflected for a moment. "If Bushy Beard dropped it accidentally, then he’s our enemy, not the professor."
"Still, I think we should ask point-blank if the cable belongs to him," Joe said.
"All right. His reaction might give us a clue."
The clatter of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of Nip Hadley. The Craighead groom rode 
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Midnight up the semicircular driveway and drew rein. The Hardys joined him. They noticed he had a black eye and wasn’t wearing his cap.
"Where’d you get the shiner, Nip?" Joe asked.
"Playing soccer."
"Why no cap?" Frank said.
"Left it in the stable." The groom quickly changed the subject. "I’m glad you blokes are here. I have news for you."
"Spill it, pal," Frank said.
Nip glanced around to see that nobody was listening. Then he bent down and whispered, "I was in the kitchen over at Craighead Castle. I heard someone mention your name. Not a friendly voice, either. I don’t know who it was, but he could be an enemy of yours. You better watch out!"
"Looks as if we have enemies all over England," Joe joked.
"Also across the Atlantic," Frank continued.
"What are you driving at?" Nip seemed puzzled.
Before the Hardys could reply, a red MG eased into the driveway. Nip turned in the saddle to make sure the vehicle had enough room to pass his horse. Deciding it had, he looked again at his American friends.
The MG came up slowly until it was a few yards away. Suddenly the driver stepped on the gas. Gravel spun under the tires as the car powered forward.
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The MG hurtled at Frank and Joe! They whirled and saw that the driver was wearing a mask. Instinctively the Hardys hit the ground behind Midnight, using the horse for a shield.
The sound of the advancing automobile frightened the animal. It reared and threw Nip out of the saddle. He landed on the Hardys, and all three lay sprawled in the driveway.
The MG careened past like a red flash and roared away in a cloud of dust.
Nip picked himself up and quieted his horse, while Frank and Joe got shakily to their feet. None of them had noticed the car’s license plate.
"I saw an emblem of the London Motor Club," Joe reported. "At least it’s a clue."
Nip remounted, wondering aloud why anybody would want to kill the Americans.
"That’s for him to know and for us to find out!" Frank responded grimly. "By the way, Nip, can you arrange a tour of the castle for us? We’d like to see how the Craigheads live before we go back home."
Nip looked down in surprise. "When will that be?"
Frank gave Joe a sidelong wink, telling him to play along. "Pretty soon."
"Any day now," Joe agreed. "How about the tour?"
"Sorry. Ain’t got the authority. I’m just in charge of the stable. You’ll have to ask somebody who works inside the castle. Cheerio!"
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Turning Midnight’s head, Nip slapped the horse with his crop and cantered down the driveway. The clip-clop of horseshoes on gravel died away.
"This case is getting more mysterious all the time," Frank observed.
"And more dangerous," Joe warned. "Let’s go in. We can talk to the prof when he wakes up. If he knows anything about the cablegram, he’d better come clean."
Sears informed them that Rowbotham was awake and in the study. The murmur of voices told them a visitor had arrived. As they approached the room, they recognized the caller’s voice. It was Dr. Burelli.
"There’s only one way for us to solve the problem," the dentist was saying, "and that is to get rid of—" He broke off upon noticing Frank and Joe.
Rowbotham invited the boys into the study.
"My patient and his brother," Burelli greeted them. "How do your gums feel, Joe?"
"Fine," Joe said. "No problem."
"No pain?"
"None."
"Ah–ah, we were discussing the Gravesend Players," Rowbotham interjected. "One actor wants to play a lead role that he is simply incompetent to handle."
"Fancies himself as Hamlet," Burelli stated "but he should stick to Peter Pan. As I came in 
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the back way, I spied you talking to Nip Hadley. You seem to be friends with him now. He’s not a bad chap when you get to know him."
"Nip’s got a few rough edges," Frank said. "That’s all."
"The groom needs grooming." Burelli laughed.
"We asked him if we could tour the castle," Frank went on, "but he said he didn’t have the authority to let us in. Only someone who works in the place could."
"Ah–ah, Sears’ sister is married to Goodman, the Craighead butler," Rowbotham said. "Perhaps he could arrange it for you."
"That would be great!" Joe said.
The professor rang for his servant and requested that he ask his sister about the matter.
"Certainly, sir," Sears replied. "I am sure we can do it. My sister is the housekeeper at the castle and will be glad to take you around. I’ll go along to make sure everything is in order."
The boys were galvanized. "How about tomorrow, Sears?" Frank asked. "We would like to get a good night’s rest before starting on that venture."
"Agreed, sir," Sears replied.
"Well, I must return to duty," Burelli informed the gathering.
Rowbotham escorted him to the front door. When he came back, Frank pulled the cablegram from his pocket and handed it to him.
"What is it?" the professor asked.
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"Read it, sir."
Curiously Rowbotham glanced at the piece of paper. A look of alarm came over his face. "Ah–ah, that is–well, that is outrageous!"
"We thought so, too," Joe said.
"Where did you find it?"
"In your car!"
"What? Impossible! How would it get—"
The professor staggered over to his easy chair and collapsed in it.

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CHAPTER XIV The Curse
ALL the blood had drained from the professor’s face. He looked ill.
Frank was alarmed. "You need to see a doctor, sir!"
Rowbotham shook his head. "Ah–ah, I did. He told me I had a mild concussion. Nothing to worry about."
Joe was suspicious. "Is the cablegram what’s bothering you?"
"Just so. But I know–ah–nothing about it. I am concerned for your safety. Perhaps some evil person wants you out of the way because you are close to a solution of the burglary at the Witch Museum."
"We have made no headway," Joe scoffed. "This looks like one case we’re not going to solve!"
"I have a feeling all these mysterious shenanigans 
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are connected with Lord Craighead’s disappearance," Frank said. "Was he really on his way to Dublin five years ago?"
Rowbotham shrugged. "Everybody in Griffinmoor believed he was. Nobody denied it at the time."
"It could have been a cover story he dreamed up," Joe pointed out. "Anyhow, there’s one place to look for him."
"Where?" Rowbotham asked.
"Dublin!"
Frank nodded. "I go along with that. We’d better add Ireland to our transatlantic tour. Professor, suppose you spread the word that we’ve gone home. That way we can carry on the investigation without fear of anybody tailing us."
Rowbotham agreed. He told them to go to Tara Lodge near Dublin. "This is the home of Lord Craighead’s army friend, Colonel Melvin Stewart. They were supposed to meet there."
The Hardys made their plans that night. They would visit Craighead Castle the next day, and on the following morning, fly to Dublin.
"I’ll pack the cap we found at Stonehenge," Frank said. "Maybe we can go to the Isle of Man and check it out."
The following day they set out with Sears for the Craighead estate. Joe drove Rowbotham’s compact through town and out into the countryside, 
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while Frank mulled over the mysterious cablegram from New York. He put a pointed question to the butler.
"Sears, have you any relatives in America?"
"No, sir. But my brother-in-law, Mr. Goodman, has a cousin in New York. Why do you ask?"
Frank pretended to be unconcerned. "Just curiosity. Being Americans, we’re interested in Englishmen who have relatives living in our country."
The tower of Craighead Castle appeared over the crest of a hill. Joe coasted down the grade, up the driveway, and across a drawbridge into the castle courtyard.
Goodman and his wife came out to greet them. He was short, they noticed, and she very thin. Cordially the couple escorted the visitors inside.
"Milton Craighead is in London," Mrs. Goodman confided. "So there’s no fear of disturbing him. But first we will have tea in the drawing room."
She rang a silver bell. Two servants wheeled a cart in. They placed cups and a large teapot on the table along with a tray of cakes.
Joe noticed that the housekeeper had piercing black eyes. She kept glancing at him even while talking to the others. He felt very uncomfortable under her gaze, but decided to forget it and down his share of tea and cakes.
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After refreshments the tour of the castle began. First they went into the dungeon. A small round window let in just enough light to reveal a dismal sight. There were torture instruments in the middle of the floor–thumbscrews, racks, and braziers for heating pincers. Irons for holding wrists and ankles dangled from a rafter. Cowhide whips were stacked in a wooden cask.
"Of course we don’t use this room any more," Mrs. Goodman informed the Hardys. "But it had quite a bit of use in the olden times."
The boys were glad when the butler led the way up again into the living quarters. They went along corridors and saw rooms that still spoke of elegance and splendor, even though a time-worn shabbiness prevailed. Finally they reached the battlements. The embrasures once manned by archers were empty. The openings for pouring boiling oil on besieging armies were covered over.
"I guess Craighead Castle hasn’t been in a scrap for a long time," Frank said.
"There hasn’t been a battle for over three hundred years," Goodman replied.
The group ascended to the top of the tower, where a flag flew in the breeze. It bore a picture of a griffin carrying off a knight. Joe made out the legend: Avoir la Serre Bonne.
"The Griffinmoor emblem!" he exclaimed.
Mrs. Goodman fixed her black eyes on him. 
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"You are right–this time," was her cryptic response.
Before he could ask what she meant, the woman urged the group down the stairs from the tower and into the turret at the rear of the castle. The top room of the turret had no window. Explaining that the electricity had never been extended to the turret, Goodman lit a large candle and held it up high.
The flickering light fell upon an array of old armor. There was a Norman suit made of tiny bits of metal linked together. Behind it stood a French type, made of metal plates.
In one corner gleamed a suit of jet black armor holding a sword in one hand.
Frank patted the helmet. "So that’s what the well-dressed knight wore."
"I hope he didn’t feel itchy," Joe quipped. "How’d you like to try scratching your back through that tin outfit?"
The candle sputtered out. Goodman led them into the corridor. They descended into the courtyard and walked around the castle.
One thing struck Joe. Sunlight once more glinted off a window in the turret, but he could not remember seeing the window from within.
While pondering his oversight, they came to a wide stone staircase. Mrs. Goodman asked Frank to lead the way down. He did.
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Zip! His feet skidded out from under him, and he plunged head over heels, bouncing from one step to another till he hit bottom. Joe rushed to help him up.
"What a terrible fall!" the housekeeper cried. "How did it happen?"
"I slipped on something!"
The Hardys and Sears examined the step and found a broad, dark, oozy discoloration.
"That’s oil!" Sears exclaimed, rubbing some between his fingers.
"Goodness, how did it get there?" the woman asked.
Goodman insisted that he had no explanation for the oil. He promised to look into the matter and see if anyone in the castle was responsible, and begged Frank to accept his apologies.
"It’s okay," Frank said. "I banged a knee and skinned an elbow. But I’m still operational."
The visit over, Joe drove back to Griffinmoor. Passing the tearoom in town, they were startled to see a figure in a polka-dot bandanna run out and jump in front of the car. Joe braked to a jarring stop.
"Mary Ellerbee!" he exclaimed.
The old crone pointed a bony finger at them.
"The witch’s curse!" she shrieked. "The day will come when it is done! The deed is nigh, the witch’s cry is heard on high. To you I say, avaunt!"
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Gathering her robe about her, she strode back into her tearoom. The black cat leaped into her arms, and Mary Ellerbee stood in the doorway, stroking the pet and leering.
"What was that all about?" Frank wondered as Joe drove on.
"She’s harmless," Sears said. "Pay no attention to her."
"Witches are great on curses," Joe murmured.
Mary’s action bothered the Hardys, even though they kept telling each other that superstition was ridiculous.
Next morning they bade the professor good-by and took the train to London, where a taxi whisked them to the airport. With their baggage safely on the conveyor belt, Frank and Joe stopped at a lunch counter for coffee and doughnuts.
Frank looked at his watch. "We’ve got an hour till flight time. What say we phone home? It’s noon here, so it’s morning in Bayport."
"Good idea," Joe said. "Won’t they be surprised!"
The call went through quickly, and their mother answered. She was delighted to hear their voices. "Professor Rowbotham must be a nice man." She sighed in relief after listening to their story of events in Griffinmoor.
Neither Frank nor Joe wanted to worry Mrs. Hardy by mentioning their suspicions about their host. Fenton Hardy came to the phone. His sons 
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gave him a rapid rundown of their investigation.
"It’s a bigger mystery than I thought," the Bayport sleuth confessed. "But Sam Radley has made a discovery at this end that might help you crack the case."
Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative. He had helped Frank and Joe solve a number of crimes. They knew they could depend on him.
"What is it?" Frank urged.
"We could use an assist in this ball game," added Joe, who had his ear next to the receiver.
"Sam has been casing New York shops that specialize in the occult. He checked some items against the inventory you sent. They’re from Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum!"
"Holy catfish!" Joe exploded. "No wonder we couldn’t find more of the stuff over here!"
"We thought this might be an international gang," Frank declared. "I guess our hunch wasn’t far off."
"It was right on the money," Fenton Hardy said approvingly. He admired the way his sons handled difficult cases.
"Keep investigating on your side of the Atlantic," he said. "Sam will try to find out who peddled the stuff. I’ll say good-by, but Aunt Gertrude wants to tell you something."
Gertrude Hardy, Fenton’s sister, was a spinster with a sharp tongue. She frequently criticized the boys, but was secretly proud of them.
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"I hear you’re mixed up with witches," she sniffed. "Is that true?"
"It’s true, Aunt Gertrude," Frank admitted.
"Well, be careful," she continued in a worried tone. "Just remember, witches often don’t appear to be what they really are."
"We’ll be careful," Joe promised. "Good-by, Aunty."
Frank hung up and they went to the departure gate where the Dublin flight would originate. Suddenly three men ran past. The sound of pistol shots rang out. Bullets whined through the airport!

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CHAPTER XV SOS in the Irish Sea
"HIT the deck!" Joe yelled.
He and Frank plunged headlong onto the airport floor. People ran helter-skelter. A number of policemen surged through the frightened crowd, captured the gunmen, and took them off.
"They’re terrorists from abroad, shooting at each other," said a bobby. "But we got ’em all. Nobody’s been hurt."
"Thank goodness those guys didn’t kill anyone," Joe said. "Frank, isn’t it a thrill to live in today’s world?" he added sarcastically.
"Not that bad, Joe. How about centuries ago, when people were accused of riding broomsticks–and burned? I’m glad to be away from spooky Griffinmoor for a while."
They boarded their plane, which quickly became airborne. England vanished beneath their wings and they were over the Irish Sea. The plane 
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bounced in the turbulence of air currents and down drafts. The stewardesses went down the aisle, calming the passengers.
"Pretty rough for an hour’s flight," Frank grumbled.
"Any rougher and we’ll end up in the drink," Joe agreed.
After landing at Dublin Airport, they caught a taxi to Tara Lodge. The driver took them down O’Connell Street, Dublin’s broad main avenue, across the Liffey River, and out past Phoenix Park. Tara Lodge was situated in the middle of a lawn that looked like a great green carpet.
Colonel Melvin Stewart was a tall man with a mane of white hair. When he heard that the Hardys were friends of Professor Rowbotham’s in Griffinmoor and working on his case, he gave them a warm welcome. He introduced his grandson Pat, a genial Irish youth of Joe’s age, who was staying with the colonel for a few days.
The boys told him they were interested in Lord Craighead’s disappearance and asked if he could give them any information.
"I’ll be glad to tell you all I know," the old gentleman said, "but you’ll have to wait a while. I have an appointment with my solicitor in half an hour."
Pat spoke. "Maybe you’d like to come with me in the meantime. I’m off to Phoenix Park for a game of rugby. We could use a couple of half- 
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backs. How about it? You Yanks know how to play rugby, don’t you?"
The Hardys confessed they had played only once in an exhibition at Bayport High School. They would like to play again.
"Well then, off you go," the colonel said.
The three boys walked to the field house and joined the rest of the team. Uniforms were found for Frank and Joe. They all ran out onto the field and the game began.
The ball bounced crazily across the ground.
"Take it, Frank!" Pat bellowed.
Frank grabbed the ball, ran a few steps, and was tackled. He passed off to another player. The ball moved down the field. Pat got hold of it.
"Go for the goal!" Frank shouted.
Pat scored. Then the players gathered around the ball in a scrum. They kicked and shoved until Joe managed to work the ball loose. He turned sharply and suddenly slumped to the ground. Pat ran up.
"I say, are you hurt, Joe?"
"It’s my trick knee. I twisted it in a football game at Bayport High."
Pat and Frank helped Joe to the sideline. Another player took his place and the game went on, with Pat scoring the winning goal.
Joe needed assistance to limp back to Tara Lodge, where Colonel Stewart inspected his knee.
"Painful but not dangerous," the old soldier 
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diagnosed. "Here, I’ll tape it for you. Your knee will be as good as new if you stay off it a day or so."
He offered the Hardys the hospitality of his home, which they gratefully accepted.
After dinner, Pat put a couple of logs on the irons in the fireplace and built a roaring blaze. Colonel Stewart drew his chair close to the hearth and invited his guests to join him.
"So you want to know about Lord Craighead? It was just five years ago. I expected him to arrive here at Tara Lodge. When he failed to appear, I got in touch with Craighead Castle. Goodman said he had left Craighead, ostensibly on his way to Dublin. Apparently he vanished!"
An idea struck Frank. "Maybe he had an attack of amnesia. Lost his memory."
"Possibly," Stewart said. "When I knew him in the army, he often acted strangely. He was a loner, introspective–always seemed to be thinking about something he didn’t care to divulge to anybody else."
Excitement gripped Joe. "Lord Craighead might have been hiding a mysterious secret!"
"That’s also possible," his host replied. "But my guess at the time was that he was worried about financial problems."
"I’ve heard," Pat interjected, "that the castle is loaded with debts."
Frank looked doubtful. "I thought Lord Craighead 
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was rich. Didn’t he have zillions of pounds?"
Stewart shook his head. "The aristocracy is burdened by taxes. And it costs a fortune to run a castle. That’s why so many people are selling. By the way, was the Craighead land sale ever completed?"
The question made the Hardys gape in total amazement.
"That’s new to us, Colonel," Frank conceded. "Can you tell us about it?"
"I suppose it won’t hurt to now. You see, Lord Craighead was trying to sell all his property to a London syndicate. One thing was holding the deal up. The syndicate demanded a package transaction, including the Craighead estate and Eagleton Green. But the craftsmen at the artisan village threw a spanner into the works. They refused to sell."
"So the deal fell through?" Frank asked.
"As far as I know." The colonel offered no more on the subject, and the session broke up.
In their room, the Hardys discussed the possibility that Milton Craighead was still attempting to arrange the land sale.
"Maybe the syndicate is trying to drive Eagleton Green out of business by means of sabotage," Frank speculated.
"And perhaps Matthew Hopkins has something to do with it," Joe said. "He’s in real estate, remember? 
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He could be connected with the same syndicate."
Joe spent the next day in Colonel Stewart’s spacious walnut-paneled library, reading and resting his leg on a leather hassock. Frank and Pat, meanwhile, went to the Dublin Library to see what they could find about the genealogy of the Hardy family.
They ordered several enormous tomes at the desk, took them into the reading room, and leafed through the material. They spent an hour in hushed concentration.
"Lots of Hardys still in Ireland," Pat said.
"Sorry to say we lost track of the old timers," Frank confessed. "Look, here’s a note. It seems our ancestors emigrated to America in 1800. Fenton is an old family name among the Hardys of Ireland. So that’s where my father’s first name comes from. He’ll be interested to hear that."
"You chaps are a distinguished clan," Pat complimented him.
Frank returned the compliment. "Not so distinguished as the Stewarts. They used to be kings of England."
"It was a different branch of the family," Pat responded with a grin. "I can’t claim succession to the throne!"
They deposited the volumes at the desk, left the library, and walked to a bus stop. Dublin was alive 
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with crowds and traffic. Motorcycles whizzed past Trinity College, where the statues of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith stood. Men raised tankards and sang drinking songs in pubs. Pedestrians waited for the lights to change at the tall pillar on O’Connell Street.
Frank and Pat caught a bus to Phoenix Park and walked to Tara Lodge. Joe’s knee was nearly back to normal. He told them he had been reading a book on witchcraft.
"It’s about witches on the Isle of Man. There are two covens, one good and one bad. Good witches practice white magic. They’re out to help humanity."
Frank chuckled. "I guess the black witches wear black hats."
"Well, they practice black magic," Joe said. "And specialize in curses. They stick pins in dolls and hex people."
Pat had been listening, amused at Joe’s enthusiasm. "The Isle of Man is famous for its two covens," he said. "Also for the Hall of Magic, the museum. But why are you chaps so interested in witchcraft?"
"Ever since we started working on the professor’s case in Griffinmoor we’re plenty interested," Frank replied.
"And we were hoping to go to the Isle of Man, anyway," Joe explained, "to follow a clue." He 
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told Pat about the striped cap they found at Stonehenge.
"There’s a ferry that runs every day," Pat told them.
Frank nodded. "I think we should go tomorrow."
Colonel Stewart agreed when he heard about their plans. The next morning, Frank and Joe downed a stack of pancakes, thanked Colonel Stewart, and said good-by to Pat. A taxi took them to the dock, where they boarded the ferry for the Isle of Man.
Soon it edged away from the pier and headed downriver into the Irish Sea. Passengers lined the rails, facing a rising wind. The engines pulsated rhythmically as the vessel churned beyond sight of land.
Frank and Joe went into the lounge, where they ordered soda pop and sat down to talk over their situation.
"What do we do first?" Joe asked.
"Check out the cap. Then we’ll try to find out as much as we can about the covens and visit the Hall of Magic."
They finished their drinks and went out on deck. The ferry was beginning to pitch and roll in stormy weather. Foaming waves broke over the bow. Sea spray swept across the deck and everybody on it.
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The sky darkened as banks of clouds massed overhead. A bolt of lightning streaked toward the horizon and the wind rose to gale force.
"We’re heading into an honest to goodness nor’easter," Frank predicted.
"Or whatever they call ’em in the Irish Sea," Joe added. "The crew had better batten down the hatches!"
As rain began to fall, crewmen appeared in boots and oilskins and prepared for the storm. They gathered deck chairs; then they coiled ropes and made sure the portholes were securely closed and bolted.
The Hardys moved toward the lounge with the other passengers when Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed to the crest of an approaching wave.
"That monster’s going to hit us, Frank!"
The wave came on, cresting higher by the second. It crashed into the ferry amidships. The vessel staggered under the impact of tons of water, and began listing to starboard.
"We’ve sprung a leak!" Frank shouted, but his voice was lost in the howling wind.
He and Joe hurried into the lounge. The other passengers were huddled together, many of them panic-stricken.
The crew hauled hoses to bail water from the hold, but it did no good. The ferry listed more sharply.
The voice of the captain came over the intercom. 
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"Don life jackets!" He could be heard ordering his radioman: "Send an SOS!"
A couple of crewmen rushed into the lounge and handed out life vests. After the Hardys slipped into theirs, they went to the other passengers and helped those who had trouble putting them on properly.
"Everybody to lifeboat stations!" boomed the captain.
There was frantic pushing and elbowing as frightened people scrambled to the deck. By this time the list was so bad that the craft was in danger of capsizing.
"Lower the lifeboats!" the captain ordered. "Abandon ship!"

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CHAPTER XVI A Coven Feud
THE lifeboats hit the waves. The first were filled with women and children. The men piled in next, while crewmen manned the oars. The boats filled up quickly.
"There’s no room for us!" Joe yelled. "We’ll have to take our chances in the water!"
The upper deck was awash when the captain ordered the last of the crew to follow him over the side. The Hardys leaped into the sea and swam away as fast as possible. They had to get clear of the ferry to avoid being dragged down by suction when the vessel sank.
Safely out of range, they watched the death of the stricken ferry. The bow went under and the stern rose high in the air. For a moment she stood on end and then plunged into the depths!
Frank and Joe bobbed up and down like a couple of corks. They knew they were too far 
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from land to swim for it, and the lifeboats had drifted away in the storm.
Joe yelled out to Frank, "What’ll we do now?"
"Wait to be picked up!" Frank shouted back. "The SOS must have got through!"
Gradually the storm died. The waves became calm, the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Some dots on the horizon grew larger. They were rescue boats answering the ferry’s SOS, and they began picking up survivors.
The Hardys yelled and waved frantically until one of the boats noticed them. It curved in a wide arc and stopped in a mass of frothy foam churned up by its propellers. The two were hauled aboard.
Frank’s teeth chattered. "Boy, are we glad to see you," he told one sailor.
"Yeah," Joe added. "We were getting cold out there!"
"You’re obviously Americans," the seaman observed. "How do you happen to be swimming in the Irish Sea?"
Joe told him who they were and where they were from. He described how they went from East Anglia to Dublin and caught the ferry for the Isle of Man.
"That’s interesting," the sailor said. Just then a call came for him from the engine room and he left.
"Joe! Zipper your lip, will you!" Frank rebuked his brother. "We’re supposed to be on our 
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way home, remember, and we don’t want our whereabouts to get back to Griffinmoor!"
Joe looked embarrassed. "Sorry about that," he said and added wistfully, "Too bad we lost everything in our suitcases."
"Not everything. I salvaged this before we abandoned ship."
Frank reached into his pocket and drew out the striped cap they had found at Stonehenge.
"Good thinking," Joe complimented him. "At least we can check out this clue."
The rescue boat pulled into the dock at Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man. Cold and stiff, the Hardys went ashore. The Red Cross put them up for the night. They took showers, had a meal, placed their money flat on a table to dry, and went to bed.
Their clothes were ready to wear again in the morning. They had breakfast, thanked their hosts, and strolled to the center of Douglas. Joe was wearing the striped cap.
The label in it read Cooper’s Clothes. They found the store on the Douglas promenade. Joe handed the cap to the clerk, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes.
"Recognize this?" he inquired. "Can you tell who bought it?"
The clerk turned the cap over in his hands. He peered closely at the cloth and opened his mouth 
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to answer, when the proprietor of the store cut him off.
"No identification is possible," the man said. "We sell thousands of such caps every year. Sorry we can’t help you."
He strode over to a rack of raincoats and began putting on price tags.
"I guess that does it," Frank remarked.
Joe twirled the cap on one finger. "For sale–cheap!" He grinned.
As they turned to leave, the clerk nodded slightly as a signal. He raised his eyebrows and looked toward the door, indicating that the Hardys were to wait for him outside.
Frank and Joe left the shop and sat on a bench, looking at the scene on the beach across the promenade. Half an hour later the clerk emerged from the store and approached the bench.
"Follow me!" he whispered as he walked past. He continued for a couple of blocks, entered a pub, and sat down at a secluded table in one corner. Frank and Joe joined him.
"It’s lunchtime," the clerk said. "So we can chat a little. My name is Harry Burke."
The Hardys introduced themselves. They noted that the pub was frequented by rough men who seemed ready for anything. Most were drinking at the bar. Several were tossing darts at a board.
After the waitress had brought three orders of 
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fish and chips, Burk leaned over and spoke in a low undertone.
"I know that cap," the clerk declared, "because it has a flaw in the cloth. And I remember who bought it."
"Who?" Frank prodded.
"A man from East Anglia. I recall the incident because he demanded a lower price. He was a tough bargainer."
"Do you know his—" Frank began.
Zing! A dart flew through the air, its sharp point penetrating the middle of the table. It stood upright with feathers quivering.
Startled, Frank wrenched the dart loose and hefted it in his hand.
"Is it a habit of the natives here to shoot toothpicks at strangers?" he asked tersely.
"That wasn’t meant for you. It was aimed at me!" Harry said.
"Why?" Joe asked.
"Witchcraft! There’s a feud going on. It’s the black witches against the white witches to see who dominates the Isle of Man."
Joe was incredulous. "Harry, are you saying you’re a witch?"
"Yes. I’m a white witch."
Joe scratched his head. "I’ve read about the black witches and the white witches. As I get it, the black witches practice black magic and the white witches, white magic."
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"Black witches worship Satan," Burk said. "We white ones bow to Diana."
"The Greek goddess with the bow and arrow?" Frank asked.
"Yes, Diana, the Huntress," Burk told him. "That’s what the ancient Greeks called her. We white witches believe Diana is a principle of good in the world."
"What do white witches do when they get together?" Joe wanted to know.
"We meet in places like Stonehenge when the moon is full. We chant invocations to Diana and dance in the moonlight."
"Sounds interesting," Frank said.
"That’s not all," Burk explained. "The good we do comes from our knowledge of herbs, an old wisdom handed down from one witch to another. We gather the herbs in the forest in the dark of the moon and make medicines from them."
"Magic cocktails!" Joe quipped.
"Medicines!" Burk stressed. "Many people are being healed right now through witch lore. Black witches hate white witches for the good they do."
The clerk turned his head and glared at the group at the dartboard. They glared back at him.
"I know who threw the dart," he informed the Hardys. "He intended it as a warning not to speak to you. Just for that, I’m going to tell you who bought the cap. He’s a black witch from Griffinmoor. He goes by the nickname of He Goat."
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"What does he look like?" Frank pressed. "Is he young or old?"
"Older man. Short. That’s all I know. Now, let’s get out of here before something worse happens."
Frank and Joe proceeded to the promenade, discussing the meaning of what they had just heard.
"That gets Nip off the hook," Frank said. He didn’t buy the cap. But who’s He Goat?"
"One of the fellows we tangoed with at Stonehenge," Joe said. "And Nip could still have been the other guy."
"You’re right. Nobody’s off the hook. We just have a new suspect in addition to everyone else. This mystery is too much! We’ve never been involved with one like this!" Frank said, discouraged.
"Well, we know one thing. The fellow who tried to trap us at Stonehenge is from Griffinmoor. Most likely it’s He Goat himself. But why did he buy the cap so far away from home?" Joe asked.
"This place is alive with witches," Frank reminded him. "Maybe he visited the coven on the Isle of Man one time and picked it up during his stay."
"Crazy," Joe said. "Between white witches and black witches I’m slowly going crazy!"
Frank chuckled. "If we hang around long 
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enough, either faction might try to convert us!"
"No way," Joe said. "The black faction at Griffinmoor definitely doesn’t want us around. I just wonder why the Isle of Man group objected to Harry Burke talking to us. Unless they know who we are?"
Frank was thoughtful. "I’m beginning to wonder. "Maybe our cover is blown already and someone in Griffinmoor has warned the club here that we are coming?"
They bought toothbrushes and some clothes, then sat down on another bench. Behind them rose a row of hotels catering to the tourist trade. Traffic moved along the broad thoroughfare between them and the beach, where vacationers were lying in the sand, throwing beach balls or splashing in the water.
Adding to the activity, a platoon of motorcycles decorated in all the hues of the rainbow roared past. The leader wore a bright-red helmet and a black-leather jacket. Giving his machine the run, he zoomed in and out of traffic while his buddies zipped along behind him. The onlookers cheered.
Frank asked a pedestrian why there were so many colorful bikes.
"The International Tourist Trophy Races," the man informed him. "The best drivers in the world come here every year to compete. You might say it’s the Isle of Man Grand Prix."
"Where’s the race track?" Joe inquired.
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"Covers most of the Isle of Man. Starts just outside Douglas, goes west across the island to Peel, then north to Ballaugh, east to Ramsey, and south to Douglas.
"Bad country roads, hills, dust, sheep–there are a lot of obstacles on the course. Well, I’m off to see the bikes!"
He walked away as a horse tram came slowly along, an open-air carriage riding on rails bisecting the promenade. A couple of cyclists were pedaling up behind it. They looked familiar, and Frank focused his eyes on them sharply.
"Hey, Joe! See those guys over there on the bikes? One looks just like Phil Cohen. If the other one was fatter, I’d say they were our pals Chet and Phil."
Just then the two cyclists came abreast of the Hardys. The dark-haired, wiry boy with the glasses looked at Frank and stopped.
"Chet!" he yelled. "Look who’s here!"

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CHAPTER XVII A Happy Reunion
CHET Morton, a tall, strapping youth who was the Hardys’ best friend, almost fell off his bicycle.
"I don’t believe it!" he shouted. "What in the world are the famous Bayport detectives doing so far away from home?"
"Detecting, no doubt." Phil chuckled. "Okay, spill it. What are you working on in these parts of the globe?"
"Just sightseeing," Frank said.
"Sure. And we’re just off to a walk in the woods," Chet quipped.
"I thought you were on a cycling tour of Ireland," Frank declared.
"We were," Phil replied, "but we decided to pop over here for the motorbike races."
Chet varoomed like a motor revving up. "Those guys zip around the back roads like crazy! I’d like to be in on it!"
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Frank and Joe knew that Chet was usually up to his ears in a new hobby.
"Is it motorcycles this time?" Joe asked.
"That is just one of my interests," Chet answered with an airy wave of his hand. "My main concern on the Isle of Man is—"
"Cats!" Phil chuckled.
Joe looked quizzical. "Cats? We have scads of ’em in Bayport!"
Chet shook his head and looked pained. "Not Manx cats. The ones without tails that this island is famous for. I’d like to get one and ship it home."
"I think you should stick to cycling," Frank declared. "That’s a great way to get rid of extra pounds."
Chet grinned and patted his belt line. "Terrific, isn’t it? I’ll be so trim when I get back that I might beat you out for halfback on the football team!"
Phil and Chet were staying at an inn, so the four decided to go there and compare notes about what they had been doing since their last meeting in Bayport.
The inn was a ramshackle building in an alley near Strand Street, the main shopping district of Douglas. They had to climb three flights of rickety stairs to reach the room.
"This is the best we could do," Phil said. "Douglas is buttoned up for the races."
The room held a couple of beds and chairs. 
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Chet produced four bottles of root beer and sat down on the window sill.
"We cycled all over Ireland," he boasted. "You guys should have been here. I could have given you some lessons."
He chugalugged his root beer and patted his stomach. The other three sipped theirs slowly. Finally Frank placed his bottle on the floor beside his chair.
"You should have been with us," he countered. "We could have used a couple of backstops when the going got rough."
Phil pursed his lips. "As I surmised, you and Joe are on another case."
"Right," Joe confessed. He described their sudden departure from Bayport after Professor Rowbotham asked their father to help solve the burglary at the Witch Museum. He mentioned their adventures in East Anglia, London, and Stonehenge.
"Hey, we’d like a piece of the action," Chet said. "Bring on the witches! But don’t expect me to ride a broomstick!"
"You couldn’t get airborne on a broomstick anyway, Chet." Joe needled him. "You’d need to lose another twenty pounds."
"Well, we’d like an assist," Frank said. "We haven’t gotten too far with the witch case. He explained the problem of the Stonehenge cap and the black witch known as He Goat.
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"Harry Burk says there’s a feud between black and white witches on the Isle of Man," Frank concluded.
"I’ve got news for you," Phil revealed. "Chet and I have been to Black Magic Hall. It’s owned by a couple of black witches!"
Frank became excited. "Is it a good exhibition? We were planning to go."
Chet shrugged. "It’s okay. But we didn’t see the Super Exhibit. We would have had to pay an extra pound."
A sound on the landing made the four sit up and listen intently. Footsteps stealthily approached the door and stopped. Joe crossed the room silently and pulled the door open. A slatternly woman almost fell against him before regaining her balance.
"I’m the landlady," she declared. "I was just about to knock. Four in a room means you pay twice as much."
"Then we want two extra cots," Phil said.
The landlady told them to take the cots from a hall closet. They paid her and she went back downstairs.
"Was she eavesdropping?" Chet wondered.
"She may become the next suspect," Frank replied. "What say we all go to Black Magic Hall and see the special exhibit?"
"Okay," Chet said, and they left the inn.
The museum was located in a rundown area of 
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Douglas. The man and woman who ran it were brother and sister, who admitted they were black witches.
"Why shouldn’t we be?" the woman demanded defiantly. "Witches have rights, too!"
"Suppose," Frank replied, "you let us have tickets to the museum."
The man took their money and handed them the tickets. His eyes followed the boys as they went inside.
The regular exhibition was good. They looked over witch dolls, masks, bells, and candles. They stopped before a black table covered with velvet cloth on which lay a wand, a crystal ball, two daggers that pointed in opposite directions, an astrology chart, and a sprig of mistletoe.
"Interesting but not suspicious," Frank judged when they had circled the room. "I don’t see any of Professor Rowbotham’s things here."
An arrow directed them up a flight of narrow stairs to a door with a sign reading: SUPER EXHIBIT. They entered a small dark room and closed the door behind them. Dim lighting illuminated the items on display.
The first was a witch’s cauldron.
Joe whispered, "Frank, that’s from the Griffinmoor collection! I remember the illustration in the catalog. The dent in the side is a dead giveaway!"
"And here’s a skull and crossbones exactly like 
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Professor Rowbotham’s!" Frank murmured. "And this mask! And this dagger!"
The Hardys told their friends that the Super Exhibit appeared to be made up of stolen pieces from the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.
"We ought to make those crooks confess!" Chet said.
"No good," Frank countered. "They’d only deny everything."
"But we must do something!" Joe urged.
Phil thought for a moment. "How about visiting a witch’s coven? We might find some more proof that way."
The Hardys agreed to try Phil’s idea. The four laid their plans and descended to the ground floor, where the two witches were talking in guarded whispers in a corner. They fell silent when they saw the boys approaching.
"I have a secret to tell you," Frank said mysteriously.
"Oh, is that so?" the woman sniffed.
"Yes, you see we’re apprentice witches ourselves."
"Where from?" the man snapped.
The unexpected question caught Frank off guard. As he fumbled for an answer, Chet came to his assistance.
"Bayport, U.S.A."
"Witchmaster?" the man snarled.
"Chief Collig!" Joe said quickly.
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Frank, Phil, and Chet had a hard time keeping their faces straight. Chief Collig was the head of the Bayport Police Department!
"Never heard of him," the woman said. "But then, we never heard of Bayport, either."
"You can find it on the map of the United States," Joe assured her.
Frank intervened. "We’d like to visit a coven while we’re on the Isle of Man. Can you set it up for us?"
The black witches exchanged glances. Then the sister nodded. "Maybe we can arrange it for you."
"It will cost you ten pounds each," the man added. "Come back at nine o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll be waiting for you."
Strolling back through Douglas, the Hardys discussed the situation with their pals. Phil and Chet agreed that forty pounds was a lot of money to invest in their adventure. They decided to cut the sum in half.
Frank and Joe would pay twenty pounds to visit the coven. Phil and Chet would tag along as backups in case of trouble.
"It will be worth twenty pounds if we discover any clues," Frank pointed out.
"But now that we’ve found the stolen items from Griffinmoor," Phil said, "shouldn’t we notify the police immediately?"
"Not yet," Joe replied. "We don’t have proof. 
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It would be our word against theirs. The Douglas police wouldn’t have any reason to believe us. We’ll have to get in touch with Griffinmoor first."
Frank turned his head slightly and looked out of the corner of his eye. "Keep walking and don’t look back," he said in an undertone. "We’ve got a tail behind us."
Following his directions, Joe, Phil, and Chet strolled nonchalantly along as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Phil also spoke in an undertone. "Do you recognize him, Frank?"
"I sure do. He’s the guy who threw the dart at Harry Burk in the pub!"
They turned a corner. So did their shadow. He pretended to be looking in the shop windows.
Frank said, "We’ll go to the inn as if nothing were happening. If he follows us, he may tip his hand."
There seemed to be nothing better to do. When they arrived, the landlady was inspecting a batch of receipts at the desk. She ignored them.
Frank peered covertly out the lobby window. "Our shadow’s headed this way. He’s coming in!"
"What’ll we do now?" Chet asked.
"You three go up to the room," Frank said. "I’ll stay on the second-floor landing and keep watch."
Scuffing their feet, the boys made a lot of noise as they climbed the three flights of stairs. Frank 
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silently remained on the second-floor landing. Then he tiptoed down as far as he could and peered over the bannister into the lobby.
Their shadow came through the door and advanced to the desk. The landlady leaned toward him and he whispered something into her ear. Then, furtively, he hastened out.
The landlady picked up the telephone and dialed a number!

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CHAPTER XVIII Kidnapped!
FRANK strained to hear what the landlady was saying, but she spoke in a voice too low for him to understand.
When she hung up, Frank tiptoed up the stairs to their room. Silently he opened the door, slipped inside, and told the others what had happened.
"I don’t know what we’re up against now," he concluded. "But we’re sitting ducks. Maybe two of us should stand guard while two sleep."
His companions agreed, and Phil and Joe took the first shift. But the night passed without incident.
In the morning they held a council of war to plan their strategy for the day.
"We don’t have anything on tap until nine o’clock tonight," Phil observed. "What say we spend the day at the beach?"
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"Great!" Chet said, and his eyebrows waggled. "Maybe we can meet some girls!"
"Take it easy, Romeo," said Joe.
After breakfast they strolled to a bath house near the promenade, donned swimming trunks, and ran into the deep water. They swam around like seals for half an hour. Then they went to the beach and sprawled on the sand beside some other bathers. They began to chat.
Phil lowered his voice and said, "Why are these people smiling at us?"
"I noticed that, too," Frank said. "Maybe they’re just friendly."
A woman heard him. "I’ll tell you why," she said. "It’s because you’re very brave boys!"
"What do you mean, ma’am?" Frank was puzzled.
"Aren’t two of you the Hardy boys?"
"Yes, we are. I’m Frank. This is Joe."
"Well, then, you’d want to read this."
The woman handed Frank a newspaper. Phil, Chet, and Joe gathered around him and read over his shoulder.
The London paper described the sinking of the ferryboat. Frank and Joe Hardy were named as the two American passengers who did not abandon ship until just before she sank, and were picked up by a rescue boat.
The captain was quoted. "They were very courageous," he said, "to take their chances in the 
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Irish Sea instead of trying to climb aboard a crowded lifeboat."
"Wow!" Chet exclaimed. "A couple of heroes."
"Indeed they are," the woman said, as Frank returned the paper and thanked her.
But he looked unhappy. "No wonder our cover is blown," he muttered. "Our enemies know where we are for sure."
"Sorry," Joe said sheepishly. "It’s all my fault for talking too much."
"Nothing you can do about it now," Chet said. "You’re big shots and you might as well enjoy it."
"Oh, I hope you do!" the voice came from a girl behind Joe.
Startled, he turned around to look at the speaker, a willowy blond with a big smile.
"I mean, I hope you enjoy your stay on Man," she said. "My name’s Shirley Evans. I live here."
After introductions, Shirley asked Chet and Phil if they had been on the ferry boat too, and when she heard about their bicycle trip, she listened politely to their experiences for a few minutes.
But it was obvious that she had her eye on Joe. After a while, she directed all her attention to him. Joe did not mind at all. They chatted gaily for a while, then moved away from the others, discussing foreign politics of their respective countries.
Chet shook his head. "What do you know? Joe’s 
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being swept off his feet right before our eyes!"
"Obviously he’s in love," Phil added. "Just look at him. His face is one big grin!"
Frank chuckled. "Shirley’s very pretty. I would be grinning too if she’d picked me."
Phil laughed. "Some talk for a hard-boiled detective! I thought you only had work on your mind!"
"There’s a place and time for everything. Hey look, we’re in again!"
Shirley had stood up and was addressing all the boys. "Why don’t you come and have lunch at my house? It’s just on the other side of the promenade. Mum and Dad would be glad to meet you."
"Gee, thanks," Joe said, and he sprang to his feet.
But the others were reluctant. "We want another dip. Join you later."
Shirley gave her address, took Joe’s arm, and left. At home, she introduced her new American friend to her parents. Mrs. Evans, a charming woman with close-cut hair, was involved in social work. Mr. Evans, a tall, stout man, was a lawyer. They welcomed Joe, served lunch, and plied him with questions about himself.
"Frank and I have just been to Dublin," Joe revealed. "We visited Colonel Stewart at Tara Lodge."
"That’s quite a coincidence," Evans said. "I served under Colonel Stewart in the Army."
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"Then you may have known the Marquis of Craighead! The one who disappeared five years ago. We’re trying to find out what happened to him."
"Sorry, I didn’t know Lord Craighead," the lawyer said. "But I remember when he vanished. It caused quite a stir in military circles. All kinds of rumors were about. One even placed him here on the Isle of Man!"
"How was that, sir?"
"A serving girl who had once worked in the kitchen at Craighead Castle took the ferry from Liverpool to the Isle of Man. During the voyage she saw a ragged, unkempt man who looked like Lord Craighead. She couldn’t be sure. I tried to find him without success."
A ring of the doorbell announced the arrival of Frank, Phil, and Chet. They, too, had lunch while Evans repeated what he had told Joe.
"I couldn’t believe the ragged man really was Craighead," the lawyer went on. "He was an aristocrat, who always dressed well."
"He could have been disguising himself to fool everybody," Phil commented.
Evans admitted the possibility.
Frank changed the subject. "Have you lived here long, Mr. Evans?"
"All my life. I was born here. This house belonged to my grandfather."
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"Then you must know about the feud between the black and the white witches."
Their host nodded. "I’ve heard about it."
"These black witches," Chet asked, "where do they hold their big powwow?"
Evans laughed. "You mean, where does the coven meet? I’ve been told it’s in an ancient moldering castle on the west coast of the island. That’s all I can tell you about black witchcraft. The white witches are something else. Their headquarters are at the Witches Mill in Castletown."
"That’s on the southeast coast," Mrs. Evans explained. "I’ve been there. It’s quite respectable."
Shirley giggled. "Respectable, Mother? How can witches be respectable?"
"Well, Shirley, the couple who run the Witches Mill told me the coven prayed for rain at their last meeting. I call that respectable. Our farmers need rain."
After a little more chatting, the boys thanked their hosts and got up to go. Shirley said to Joe, "Don’t forget to write to me," and added archly, "it will foster international understanding." Her father chuckled.
"I’ll write, scouts honor," Joe replied as he left.
On the way back, Joe took a lot of good-natured teasing from the others about his new girl friend, but in their room the talk became serious.
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"If that guy the serving girl saw was Lord Craighead," Phil wondered, "what was he doing on the Isle of Man?"
"Who knows? Perhaps he’s still here, alive and well," Frank speculated.
"Maybe He Goat came here to see Craighead!" Joe exclaimed.
Chet flexed his biceps. "I’m ready to butt heads with He Goat!"
When night fell they returned to Black Magic Hall. The street was empty. A single dim light shone behind the drawn shades of the witch museum. Frank paused on a corner.
"Let’s synchronize watches," he suggested. "It’s five to nine. Joe and I will go in and join the coven. If we don’t come out in an hour, you fellows rush to the rescue."
"Understood," Phil said. "Meanwhile, I’ll watch the front of the building."
"I’ll patrol the back," Chet promised.
"Okay," Joe said, "here we go."
The woman opened the door of Black Magic Hall when Frank tapped on it. An old dusty grandfather’s clock began to sound the hour of nine as they entered. The strokes boomed through the murky museum, setting up echoes in a long dark passageway leading to the rear of the building.
The sound made Frank uneasy. "That clock bothers me," he whispered to Joe while the 
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woman was bolting the front door. "It’s like the countdown to a funeral."
The man they had spoken to the day before suddenly strode out of the dark passageway and confronted them.
"Have you the money?" he demanded.
Frank and Joe each handed him ten pounds.
The witch counted the bills carefully before putting them in his coat pocket.
"Never fear, the black witches will take care of you," he said with a sinister smirk.
"You’ll have to wear this," his sister hissed menacingly.
She deftly pulled a black velvet hood over Frank’s head and drew the string tight under his chin. Her brother did the same to Joe. The Hardys were blindfolded before they knew it.
They joined hands at a command from the woman, who took Frank by the arm and led him down the dark passageway. Joe followed and the man came last, gripping Joe’s shoulder with fingers like iron claws.
The rattle of a chain told the boys that a door was being opened. They were pushed out of Black Magic Hall to a car with its motor idling.
"Hey, wait a minute!" Frank protested. "Where are you taking us?"
"You want to visit our coven, don’t you?" the man asked. "That’s where we are going. Now get in the car!"
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Frank felt his way into the back seat and Joe stumbled in beside him. Both were uneasy as the car roared off.
"I wonder if Chet saw us," Frank thought.
Chet had spotted them, but the car shot away before he could do a thing. Racing around the building, he told Phil that the Hardys had been kidnapped. They frantically looked for a taxi, but the street was deserted.
"What’ll we do?" Chet wailed. "They’re gone, and we have no idea where!"
The car bearing Frank and Joe raced through Douglas, barreling along the streets and taking curves at high speed. The boys could feel the change from asphalt to a dirt road, and they realized they were in the countryside.
The driver cursed savagely when he had to slow down for a flock of sheep. Circling behind them, he made the speedometer jump again.
Joe estimated that they had driven for an hour when they began to feel salty sea air. The wheels bounced and jounced over roads pitted with potholes. Finally the driver braked to a jolting stop.
A couple of powerful men dragged the Hardys out of the car. Again they were ordered to clasp hands. Again they were led forward, blindfolded by the velvet hoods.
They went down a sloping ramp, through an open doorway, and up a stone staircase. Joe stumbled on the top step and fell.
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The boys were blindfolded.
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"Get up!" a harsh voice growled. "Move on or it will be the worse for you!"
Frank started to protest that they could scarcely breathe, let alone move, but his words got lost in the folds of his hood.
Joe scrambled to his feet. The march went on. A flagstone corridor led to a broad curve followed by a sharp corner. There were more stairs and more corridors.
By now Frank and Joe were completely confused about the route.
"That’s the idea," Joe thought. "They’re taking us the long way so we won’t know where we are."
Frank, who had been trying to memorize the many turns and twists of the route, gave up in despair. "A white mouse in a maze is a lot better off than we are," he said to himself. "At least the mouse can see!"
Rough hands brought the Hardys to a sudden halt.
"The moon is full," said a strange voice.
"The sun has set," responded the man who had growled at Joe on the staircase.
"Since you know the password," the strange voice continued, "only one question remains. Who are these two strangers?"
"Sacrifices!"
The word gave the boys cold chills.
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"Are you sure of their identity?" the strange voice demanded.
"Yes. I followed them to their inn. The landlady gave me their names–Frank and Joe Hardy. She passed the information to Black Magic Hall. That is how we trapped them."
"Well done. You may pass."
The boys were pushed forward and hustled down one last flight of stone steps. They heard a key turn in a lock. A door screeched open and the two captives were hurled headlong into a room as cold and dank as a dungeon. A chatter of eerie voices greeted them. Then all was silent until a man spoke with a gloating cackle.
"He Goat, unmask them!"

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CHAPTER XIX The Torture Chamber
HE Goat’s fingers loosened the drawstrings and whipped off the velvet hoods. Frank and Joe got to their feet and blinked.
They were horrified by the scene before them. They found themselves in a large stone chamber with no windows. Rows of black candles flickered from sockets in the walls. Blazing logs on a big hearth sent tongues of flame flicking up the chimney.
Ten men and women stood in a semicircle facing the boys. All wore hideous witch masks. He Goat was unmistakable, since his mask was the head of a goat with a protruding snout and short, curved horns.
A wooden throne stood against one wall, and upon it sat a man representing Satan. His ghastly mask was crowned by a weird headdress of purple and white feathers. He held a wand in one hand 
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and a sword in the other. At his elbow stood a crystal ball on a tripod.
The eyes of the evil creature glistened from the firelight as his gaze bored through the Hardys.
Now for the first time Frank and Joe noticed an open coffin lying at Satan’s feet. In it was a body, but the boys were unable to get a clear view of the cadaver.
Finally Satan intoned, "There are now thirteen present. That makes a coven, assuming that our two apprentice witches are genuine."
Abruptly he leaned forward and waved his wand over the body of the coffin. His voice became hoarse as he croaked, "Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!"
The other witches took up the chant, which rose in a howling crescendo, making the Hardys’ blood run cold.
Then Satan leaned back on his throne and mumbled an incantation. He pointed the sword at the boys and shook his feather headdress ominously.
"Do you wish to survive this encounter?" he snarled.
"Yes, we do," Frank answered.
"You must swear allegiance to me, Frank and Joe Hardy!"
Obviously this diabolical character knew them. But whose face was concealed behind that mask in the nightmarish charade?
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The man spoke again. "You must swear allegiance to me!"
Joe clenched his fist and screwed up all his courage. "Nuts to you!" he replied.
"Second the motion!" Frank blurted out.
Satan shook with rage. "You cheeky impostors! You’re no apprentices! No!"
His seething voice became a low whine. "You had your chance to leave England. We gave you plenty of warnings. You refused to heed. Now you will remain with us forever! He Goat, prepare the rack! But first, the potion!"
Several men seized the boys, pinioning their arms and forcing their heads back. Two women came forward with gold flagons in their hands. The metal gleamed in the dim light.
Frank recognized the crest–a griffin carrying off a knight in armor and the legend: Avoir la Serre Bonne.
The flagon was from Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum! A split second later Frank felt something cold touch his lips. The witch tilted the flagon and a bitter liquid streamed into his mouth and down his throat. He choked on it.
Joe was also forced to swallow the fluid. They felt themselves growing faint.
"They’ve poisoned us!" Frank coughed.
Satan cackled. "It would be fortunate for you if we had. This potion will make you easier to handle, 
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that is all. We want you to be awake for the climax."
"The climax?" Joe gasped.
"The rack!"
Two medieval torture instruments occupied one corner of the room. They looked like wooden bed frames with slats held together by thick ropes. But the head and foot of each frame were movable and could be extended by a winch.
The Hardys were thrown on the racks. Their hands and feet were bound tightly in a spread-eagle position.
He Goat chuckled. "Now we are going to give you the treatment!" As he turned toward the winch, his mask slipped far enough to reveal his face.
Goodman, the Craighead butler!
"How did you get here?" Frank cried out.
He Goat adjusted his mask and chuckled again. "It doesn’t matter that you know who I am. You won’t tell anybody."
Seizing the handle of the winch, he began to turn it. Frank felt his arms and legs drawn taut by the ropes. The stretching continued, causing sharp pains in his wrists and ankles.
Another witch turned the handle of the rack Joe had been tied to. The pain became agonizing, and when the boys cried out for help, the witches erupted into spasms of fiendish mirth.
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They ceased at a signal from Satan. "That will do for now," he commanded. "The torture will resume in a moment. Keep the racks in readiness."
Descending from his wooden throne, Satan approached the Hardys. He drew a large, ornate key from under his robe and flaunted it in their faces.
"This is the key of death!" he cackled. "Look well at it!"
"What–is–it?" Joe gasped.
"The key to the door of your tomb!"
He was about to say something else when a small red light in the ceiling blinked on and off.
"Visitors!" Satan hissed. "To your work–all of you!" He handed the key to He Goat. "Keep this for me. I want to use it later."
Frank and Joe were released from the ropes that held them and hauled to their feet. The witches draped the black hoods over their heads and pushed them to an exit. Again a car with motor idling awaited them.
In the fresh air the boys became alert. They ripped their hoods off and sailed into the witches, who were attempting to force them into the car.
"Let ’em have it!" Frank shouted as he gave He Goat a karate chop.
"But good!" Joe exploded, hitting another witch with a haymaker.
The whole coven seemed to be there, except Satan. Witch robes were shredded and witch 
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masks torn off as the Hardys battled their captors.
The fight was still raging when footsteps were heard pounding inside the building. The witches ran. He Goat jumped into the car and sped off.
"Are you all right, Joe?" It was Shirley’s anxious voice.
"Yes–eh–fine. But you came just in time!" Gratefully the boys looked at their rescue squad–Chet and Phil, accompanied by Mr. Evans and his daughter.
Frank fought for breath as he gave Chet a weak slap on the back. "How’d you find us?"
Chet told him that he saw the Hardys taken out the back door of Black Magic Hall. "Phil and I had no way to follow you. So we went to Mr. Evans and asked him where the old castle was where the black witches met."
"I happened to know it was here," the lawyer told them.
"So, we drove over at once," Shirley added.
"We heard an alarm bell ringing in the castle," Phil said. "The witch sentinels must have spotted us. Anyway, we rushed the front door and ran through to the back."
Frank and Joe quickly explained what had happened after the kidnapping. Then they led the way into the castle and attempted to find the room in which the witches had held them captive.
They went up and down stairs and along the corridors of the decrepit building. They pushed 
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doors open and cased room after room. Each was empty!
"We were blindfolded," Frank pointed out. "That’s why we can’t retrace the route."
"We made more turns than a ball in a pinball machine," Joe said.
They went back out to the spot where the fracas had occurred. Chet stubbed his toe on something lying in the grass. It was a large, ornate key!
"That’s the one Satan waved at us!" Frank said. "He gave it to He Goat!"
"You mean Goodman," Joe observed. "He must have dropped it when you hit him with that karate chop."
"Maybe it fits one of the doors in this place," Phil said.
"Let’s try it," Frank suggested, and the boys went back into the ancient castle, followed by the Evanses. But the key did not fit any of the doors.
"Perhaps it belongs to Craighead Castle," Joe said. "After all, Goodman lives there!"
"You’re right!" Frank said excitedly. "We’ll have to try it!"
"That can wait," Evans suggested. "We had better report to the police that strange things have been going on here. Come with me."
He drove to the nearest town and parked in front of police headquarters. They all took turns explaining to the sergeant on desk duty.
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"So you see," Frank concluded, "the castle is being used by a coven of witches."
The sergeant shook his head. "I doubt that we have the authority to do anything about it. Witch covens are not illegal."
"But they were torturing these boys!" Mr. Evans protested.
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. "That’s different. We can’t have that sort of thing going on. I’ll round up some of my men and a police dog, and we’ll give the place a thorough search."
Within minutes they were on their way back to the castle. The Evans car followed the police, and both vehicles drew to a stop in front of the building.
The sergeant took the police dog on a leash and held an abandoned witch mask under his nose. After sniffing, the animal padded around the castle and stopped at a grove of bushes. Behind the shrubbery was a sloping ramp.
"This is where we entered!" Frank exclaimed. "The dog’s a better detective than we are!"
The animal went down the ramp, tugging at his leash, and up a flight of stairs.
"This is where I tripped!" Joe said.
The dog began moving around corners, along corridors, and up and down more stairs until he reached one last flight of steps going down. Whining eagerly, he stopped at a flush panel.
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The sergeant pushed it. Nothing happened. Then he tried to slide it open. It moved!
"This is it!" the Hardys cried in unison.
They all entered the quiet dungeon and looked about. The candles were still flickering and the air was pungent with smoke from the dying fire. Satan’s wood throne stood empty against the wall.
"There’s the coffin!" Joe said. Shirley covered her face with her hands while the others stepped forward. Inside the box was the mummified body of a man whose wizened features were contorted into a savage scowl.
"John Pickenbaugh!" Joe gasped. "The witchmaster of East Anglia!"
All were appalled by the spectacle of the mummy. Even the police could not repress a shudder. The dog sat down, raised his muzzle toward the ceiling, and howled mournfully.
Something suddenly moved in the shadows behind Satan’s throne. Shirley turned to look, then screamed out in terror!

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CHAPTER XX The Skeleton
IT was Satan himself! His repulsive mask looked more diabolical than ever in the flickering candlelight! The purple feathers of his headdress made him seem like a monstrous bird of prey!
Uttering an oath, he leaped from the shadows and flung himself on Joe. "I helped you!" Satan screamed. "And you ruined everything!"
The police overpowered him while he struggled, kicked, and shrieked. Frank ripped off the satanic mask and stood dumbfounded.
"Doctor Burelli!"
"My dentist!" Joe exclaimed. "So you’re the new witchmaster of East Anglia!"
The Evanses looked on open-mouthed as the drama unfolded.
"That workshop in your basement gave you a great cover," Frank said. "We never guessed you 
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were making masks for your witches as well as for your Gravesend Players!"
Joe’s mind was working at top speed. "You’re the one with the shock of gray hair and the bushy beard, Burelli. You carried the sword at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral."
"And you had Pickenbaugh’s body dug up afterwards and brought it here!" Frank went on. "But why?"
"It is a satanic relic!" Burelli screeched at them. "Do not touch it, ever!"
"Who’d want to?" Frank said. "And when we got interested in your satanic relic, you had us pushed into the open grave. And you had Ellerbee harrass us."
Burelli’s smile was evil.
"He was probably He Goat’s accomplice at Stonehenge," Joe said. "The ‘friendly old man’ who gave Professor Rowbotham the fake message and planted the cablegram."
"Now I get it!" Frank said. "Remember, Goodman has a cousin in New York? No doubt he sent it!"
"And it’s obvious who robbed the museum in Griffinmoor," Joe deduced. "The purple feather fell out of the good doc’s fancy Easter bonnet!"
Chet nodded. "He probably wore it to frighten anyone who might surprise him. And it sure would have worked!"
"Robbery, eh?" one of the policemen took up 
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the thread. "But why would a black witch rob a witch museum, of all places?"
By now Burelli realized he had lost. "We needed money for our coven," he said dejectedly. "And being black witches, it was easy for us to sell the artifacts as family heirlooms."
"Was Sears in on it?" Joe asked.
"No. He’s innocent."
"And Milton Craighead?"
"He is too."
Frank nodded. "And when we tried to find a clue in the empty museum, someone familiar with the place turned off the master fuse. Was it you?"
"Yes. I wanted to scare you out of the building. All your snooping could come to no good."
"When we found the imprint in the cement and went to Lance McKnight for a cast," Joe said. "He sent us off to Hopkins and London into the hands of enemies. Black witches too, no doubt."
"McKnight? Hopkins?" Burelli looked surprised. "They’re not witches. I had nothing to do with them."
"What about the key you waved at us before?" Frank pressed on.
Burelli’s eyes narrowed. "You’ll never find it!" he said craftily.
Frank drew it out of his pocket. "Here it is. Goodman dropped it!"
The dentist erupted into another paroxysm of 
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fury. "No!" he bellowed. "You can’t have it! The key is mine! Do you hear? Mine!"
Since he refused to calm down, the police dragged him out of the castle and put him into the back seat of their car. It took two bobbies to hold him.
"We’ll arrest him," the sergeant said. "And round up the rest of the black witches."
"By the way, the special exhibit at Black Magic Hall was stolen from Griffinmoor," Frank said, and he explained their mission to England.
"We’ll see that everything is returned," the policeman promised, then got into the front seat. The dog leaped in beside him, and the car drove off.
The Hardys and their friends returned to Douglas. When they had said good-by to the Evanses and were back in their room at the inn, Frank said, "We’ll go back to Griffinmoor as soon as possible and see if that key belongs to Craighead. Want to come?" he asked Phil and Chet.
"I’d rather stay for the motorcycle races," Phil said.
"And I want to corral me a pair of Manx cats," Chet added, "and go into business. They should be a hit in Bayport."
Next morning Frank and Joe flew to London and then went to Griffinmoor. They told Professor Rowbotham that they had found stolen items 
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of his collection on Man and that they would be returned to him.
"With the pieces from London and those Sam Radley found in New York," Frank said, "you’ll have most of your collection back now."
"Ah–ah, that’s splendid," Rowbotham stated. "The Witch Museum can reopen. The case is solved, thanks to you."
"Not yet, professor," Joe told him. "The key we brought back from the Isle of Man has to be checked out."
"There is something you–ah–ought to know before proceeding," Rowbotham declared. "It is said that Eagleton Green will be sold to the London Syndicate. They will have a mass meeting this afternoon."
"Good. How would you like to be the star speaker?" Frank said. Rapidly he laid out their suspicions about the criminal pressure being put on the artisan colony to sell out.
"You can throw the wrench–er–spanner in the works," Joe said.
"I say," the professor replied, "that would be–ah–proper retribution. I’ll do it!"
Frank and Joe, meanwhile, drove to Craighead Castle, accompanied by a constable with a search warrant. Joe brought a flashlight.
When Mrs. Goodman saw the Hardys, her eyes opened wide in disbelief. "You–you—"
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"Yes. We returned in one piece," Frank said. "Where’s your master?"
"And we don’t mean witchmaster," Joe added.
The woman said Milton Craighead was in London. When she turned to hurry off the officer restrained her.
"I need you as a witness," he said. "I have a warrant to search this castle."
"Why?"
"To see if this key fits," Frank said, displaying the ancient relic.
Mrs. Goodman’s hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath. "Where would you like to start?"
"In the turret," Joe said. "More specifically, in the armor room."
Shakily, the housekeeper led the way up the stone stairway and stopped before the storage room. The policeman opened the door, and Joe shone his light inside. Then all three searched amid the relics of medieval warfare.
Finally the constable said, "I say, what are we looking for?"
"A hidden door," Joe said. "Leading to a hidden room." He told of the outside window, located roughly in this area.
"Oh yes. I see. But there is no door in here."
"Hold it," Frank said. He stopped behind a suit of jet black armor. "Here’s something." With both hands he pushed against a panel in the wall. 
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It slid silently to one side, revealing an oak door about five feet high!
Frank pushed Burelli’s key into the lock and exerted all his strength to turn it. Grating harshly, the lock snapped open.
The constable put his shoulder against the oak and pushed. The door swung back on creaking hinges. The trio ducked and entered a small chamber while the woman stood in the doorway.
It was musty with dust and cobwebs. Light came from the window Joe had noticed. It fell upon a treasure trove of witchery.
Charts bearing weird signs hung on the walls. Jars of herbs occupied the shelves. Cauldrons, wands, daggers, stuffed animals, and dolls pierced by pins were scattered around the room.
A ray of sunlight slanting through the window fell upon a bundle of old tweeds lying on the floor.
"Holy cow. Look!" Frank exclaimed.
From above the coat collar protruded a grinning skull! Bony hands extended from the cuffs!
The constable bent down on one knee to examine the label inside the jacket. On it was the name of a London tailor and the words, "Made exclusively for Lord Craighead."
"Good grief! We’ve found him!" Joe exclaimed.
Further scrutiny revealed that a vial was lying next to one hand, a piece of paper near the other.
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Frank read it. "Looks like the formula for a potion," he said.
Suddenly the trio noticed that Mrs. Goodman had vanished. "I’ll get her," the constable said. He hurried off, and in a few moments returned with the weeping housekeeper and Professor Rowbotham.
"I say, astounding news," the professor said breathlessly. "Lord–ah–Craighead. Really."
"Looks like it," Frank said and added, "I thought you went to the meeting."
"Most certainly. It’s–ah–all over." He paused, looking down at the skeleton. "Poor fellow."
"How about this?" Frank said and handed him the paper.
"This is the formula for an ancient rejuvenation potion. It’s in Lord Craighead’s handwriting."
Frank shivered. "Then this must really be his skeleton! It’s been locked in this room for five years!"
"Maybe he came in here to drink the potion and become young again," Joe theorized. "Perhaps it poisoned him."
The professor shook his head. "Only if someone exchanged the liquid in the bottle for another. The potion is harmless."
Rowbotham leafed through the papers on a small desk. "Here is more information," he said. 
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"It certifies that Lord Craighead was the witchmaster of East Anglia! Dear me! And his assistant was John Pickenbaugh! They practiced the arts of witchcraft in this secret room!"
All the while Mrs. Goodman was watching with piercing eyes. Suddenly Joe realized where he had seen those eyes before.
"Mrs. Goodman," he accused her, "you’re the palmist from the London witch collection. You were disguised when you stuck the needle into Frank’s hand. The game is up. By now your husband has been arrested on the Isle of Man. He Goat is out of circulation along with the witchmaster, Dr. Burelli!"
Joe’s words struck the housekeeper like a thunderclap. She became hysterical, and finally confessed.
Pickenbaugh, she said, resented playing second fiddle to Craighead and poisoned him so he could be witchmaster. When he died, Burelli was next in line.
"And the doc didn’t like us trying to find out what was going on here," Frank said.
"Yes, yes." the woman sobbed. Both she and her husband, at Burelli’s order, had lain in wait in London. "He was disguised, too," she said. "We followed you to the underground."
"You also poured the oil on the castle steps, no doubt," Joe said. "And did you have Mary Ellerbee accuse us of malicious mischief?"
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The woman hung her head.
"You’ll have to come with me," the policeman said as he led Mrs. Goodman downstairs. First, he phoned the coroner, then the police station, with his report.
The boys and the professor, meanwhile returned to his home. Frank felt the usual letdown that came over him whenever they solved a case. Would there be a new adventure? He would have cheered up if he had known that soon they would be traveling to Zurich and Mexico in The Jungle Pyramid.
When they arrived at the professor’s house, Sears served tea. He was shocked to hear that his sister was a witch.
"Her husband must have talked her into it," he said weakly. "Oh, it’s terrible, just terrible!"
"Now tell us about the meeting," Joe said to Rowbotham. "What happened?"
"Everything is fine now. Ah–we caught the scoundrels!"
"For goodness sake, professor, give us the details. Who were the scoundrels?"
"The ones you suspected."
In what was virtually another interrogation, the Hardys pulled the story out of the professor. When he confronted Hopkins with the truth about his shady operation, the Londoner denied it all. But Nip Hadley came forward to confess his part in the arson plots.
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"Said he did it under ah–duress," the professor said. "The law will go lightly with him."
"Then what?" Frank prodded.
Their host said that Hopkins and McKnight tried to sneak off. "They were about to drive away in McKnight’s red MG when the infuriated artisans surrounded them."
"The red MG!" Joe exclaimed.
"Yes. Ah–I remember. It had the Motor Club emblem, as you once mentioned. There is now a charge against McKnight! By the way, he also admitted releasing his savage dog to frighten you after your visit to his shop."
"So Eagleton Green is saved," Frank said, grinning. "But, professor, there’s still one thing that bothers us. What became of the poison?"
"What poison?"
"The stuff that was stolen from your museum. The jars of hemlock, aconite, and I don’t know what all. We’ve got to find it before somebody else gets killed!"
Rowbotham held up a hand. "Ah–ah, there is no need to get excited."
"Why not?" Joe demanded.
"Because there is no poison. The jars were empty!"
Height of Danger (Hardy Boys Casefiles #56)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Look out below!" Joe Hardy barreled down the steep slope on a sleek orange and blue snowboard. He stood sideways on the five-foot-long fiberglass plank, his feet tucked securely inside flexible, hard-soled nylon boots that were strapped into position by the board's bindings.
Ten yards behind him his eighteen-year-old brother, Frank, followed on a red snowboard. "Joe, cool it! You're going to mow somebody down!"
Frank, who was a year older than Joe, shook his head as he watched his brother hotdog down the mountain so fast he was just a bright blur against the snow in his blue racing suit with matching gloves and elbow and kneepads.
Joe ignored his brother's warning and continued 
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to whiz along, using his arms to keep his balance. Several times he narrowly avoided running into the skiers who veered into his path. The cold mountain air bit into his face, and he was thankful that his goggles and helmet helped to cut the wind.
As he flew down the slope, Joe looked out over the majestic panorama of the Austrian Alps. He kept strong pressure on the front of his board and used his back foot to kick the tail around in a sweeping move that sprayed the powdery snow out behind him. He began to feel a rhythm to his ride, timing his curves smoothly with no pause in between.
Joe felt exhilarated as he began to master his snowboarding, as if he could take off and fly. Bending his knees, he carved a sharp, flashy right turn, only to find himself on a collision course with another snowboarder just ahead of him.
"Watch it!" Joe yelled, but the boarder didn't seem to hear him. In the instant before their boards collided, Joe threw his weight sideways from the knees and hips and carved a sharp turn back to the left—right into Frank's path.
"Joe—hit the snow!" he heard his brother shout.
With the reflexes of a born athlete, Joe Hardy threw all of the weight of his muscular six-foot frame to the right side of the snowboard. He saw Frank frantically swinging his arms in an effort to avoid him, but it was too late. The brothers
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collided in a tangle of arms and legs and boards, sliding several yards down the slope before they came to a stop. They both lay on their backs for a moment, laughing at themselves. The family resemblance was evident in their smiling features, but Joe was blue-eyed and blond and Frank had dark hair and eyes and stood an inch taller than his brother.
"Hey, guys, are you okay?"
Joe looked up and saw the snowboarder he'd nearly hit. He wore a dark blue nylon ski suit, which hung loosely on his skinny frame. His long blond hair was kept out of his face by a white headband and he spoke with a German accent.
"Let me give you a hand."
"Thanks!" Joe replied gratefully. He had found that the boards, which lacked the quick release bindings of skis, made it difficult to stand up after a spill.
"My name is Hans," the boarder said, pulling Joe up. "I work here at the resort, running one of the gondolas."
Joe brushed snow off his ski pants. Then he turned around and helped Frank to his feet. "I'm Joe Hardy and this is my brother, Frank," Joe said, extending his hand to Hans as skiers whooshed past them down the mountainside. "We're working security for the World Snow- boarding Championships tomorrow."
"I saw you guys on some earlier runs," Hans
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said with a friendly smile. "Your form's not bad. You're not beginners on these shred sleds."
"Joe won an amateur competition back home in the States," Frank said proudly. "That's how we got here. The prize was a trip for two to Graz, plus a chance to work behind the scenes at the championships."
"Great," Hans said enthusiastically. "Look me up at the lodge later, and I'll introduce you to the rest of the gang here. Boarders from all over Europe come here to work out during snow season."
Before Joe could respond, another boarder zoomed up beside them and slowed to a stop. The board was a star-spangled red, white, and blue, and its rider wore a matching ski suit.
Talk about good form, Joe thought with a mild twinge of envy. The grinning newcomer had practically stopped on a dime.
"Hi, Hans," the stranger said, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "How's it going?"
The boarder spoke with an American accent and eyed the brothers in a friendly, inquisitive way. He must be about twenty-five years old, Joe decided. But why did he look so familiar?
"I'm Frank Hardy and this is my brother, Joe," Frank said as he shook hands with the boarder.
"Nice to meet some fellow shredders." The tall stranger pushed his gray-lensed ski goggles up on his forehead, revealing his green eyes. "My name's—"
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But before he could identify himself, Joe interrupted. "Ken Gibson, the American snowboarding champ. Wow! I didn't recognize you behind the goggles."
"That's me." Gibson looked amused. "I saw you guys fall into that pileup. I've knocked off practicing for the day. Can I offer you some tips?"
"That'd be great," Joe replied eagerly.
"Well, I see you're in good hands." Hans slipped his goggles back into place. "I go on duty at gondola number three in a few minutes. You guys should stop in at the employee lounge tonight. A lot of boarders and skiers hang out there."
"That kid's going to be a real competitor someday," Ken said as he watched Hans zoom down the slope, carving some graceful turns. "Are you two here to watch the snowboarding championships?"
"Actually, Frank and I are working security," Joe replied.
"Well, welcome aboard, guys. Ready for your first lesson?" Gibson looked downslope, trying to locate a clear area.
"Down there looks good," Gibson announced. He pointed to a spot about one hundred yards downhill. "Follow me."
Gibson shifted his weight onto his back foot and pivoted the front of the board around. Joe watched him lean forward and gracefully take off downhill, moving swiftly through a serpentine 
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series of left and right turns that took him exactly to the spot he had pointed out.
"Yahoo!" With an excited shout Frank took off after the American champion. He stayed on a straight course, holding his arms out from his sides as he tried to maintain his course and balance.
As Joe leaned forward to follow them, he tried to imitate the relaxed, easy way Gibson balanced into the turns. Already he felt more in control as he whizzed past the skiers and leaned low over the side of his board, dragging one hand in the snow to carve a turn that brought him right up to Gibson and Frank. Gibson nodded approvingly as Joe kicked up a roostertail of white powder before coming to a stop.
Joe swept his gaze over the snow-covered caps of the Austrian Alps. They were now halfway down the slope, a little to the side of the lifts and main trails. Below he could see the resort lodge with its large, glassed-in restaurant. Nearby, crowds of skiers and a few snowboarders milled around the loading area for the gondolas and chair lifts. Farther down the mountain he could just make out the tiny Austrian village of Graz, with its picturesque houses and inns.
"Not bad," Gibson commented, patting Joe on the shoulder. "Once you learn how to control your turns a little better, I think you'll have it knocked."
"How about me?" Frank asked eagerly.
"You're keeping your board too flat when you
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turn," Gibson explained. "You need to alter your center of gravity and work on shifting your balance from side to side. That helps the edges of the board bite into the snow and keeps you from skidding."
"When I try to refine my turns, I lean over too far and fall on my side," Joe said.
Gibson shrugged with a good-natured smile. "It took me a lot of hours before I felt in control on my downhill runs."
Gibson's advice was cut off by a hissing sound upslope. Joe looked around just in time to see a short, stocky snowboarder with sandy crew-cut hair zoom down to them, stopping in an enormous swirl of powder. His red safety helmet matched his jacket and the stripe on his black ski pants. The small flag patched on his shoulder marked him as an American, and Joe judged him to be no older than twenty.
"I hope you guys aren't paying for lessons from this windbag," he said, pushing his goggles up off his face. "If you are, you'd better get your money back now. By this time tomorrow he'll be flying home with the rest of the losers."
"What rock did you crawl out from under, Warburton?" Gibson said in a bored, impatient voice.
"What's the matter, Gibson?" Buck Warburton prodded, a defiant expression settling on his wide face. "Can't stand hearing the truth about yourself?"
"You're so full of hot air, Buck," Gibson said
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blandly. "What are you trying to prove, that you're some big hotshot on the slopes?"
"I can sure beat you, buster. On the slopes or off!"
He made a move toward Gibson, but Joe reached out to stop him. "Hey, why don't you settle down?" Joe suggested calmly.
Warburton glared at Joe. "Settle down, huh? Says who?"
"Joe Hardy. This is my brother, Frank. We're working security for the competition," Joe snapped.
"Oh, wow. I feel more secure already," Warburton said sarcastically. "You poor boys ought to pick your friends better," he added as he prepared to zoom off again toward the ski lifts. "You take lessons from amateurs, you might pick up some bad habits."
Warburton pushed off downhill, calling back to Ken Gibson, "Break a leg, Gibson. I mean that!" Then he disappeared in a swirl of powder.
As Joe stared after him, outraged, Frank turned to Ken Gibson. "Who was that creep?" he asked.
"Another contender for the championship," Gibson replied dryly. "Buck's not a bad snow- boarder, but he's a lousy sport. I slaughtered him in the American competition, and he can't stand the idea that someone might be better than he is."
"But he acts like he really hates your guts," Joe observed.
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Smiling, Gibson shook his head before replying, "He's just mad because he can't get me to lose my cool. I've beaten Buck plenty of times, and I'll beat him tomorrow, too."
"Look, there goes Mr. Personality right now," Joe said, pointing to the nearest chair lift. Warburton rode in one of the chairs just starting up the slope. "I can't wait to see what moves he comes up with this time," he added sarcastically.
"Forget Buck," Ken said. "What were we talking about?"
"Turning technique," Frank reminded him.
"Oh, yeah. Now watch me." Gibson pivoted on the heel of his board so that he faced Frank and Joe.
"Turns are accomplished mostly with upper- body movements. They don't have to be big— no arm-waving and stuff." He grinned at Frank, then demonstrated the movements while standing still. "See, it's just a slight bending of the torso. You balance yourself with your arms."
Joe watched, then tried to copy Ken's movements. The next time he looked up, he noticed that the athlete had stopped cold and seemed to be listening to something up the slope.
"What's that?" Ken asked in a low voice.
"What's what?" Joe, too, stopped to listen. He glanced at Frank, who shrugged.
Then Joe heard it. A low, distant rumbling, like an avalanche. Joe looked around wildly, but then he realized that he didn't feel any vibration in the slopes beneath his feet.
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"I don't see anyth—" he started to say as he turned back to Ken. But one look at Ken's face stopped the words in his throat.
Ken stared over Frank's shoulder at something up the mountain. Suddenly he snapped into action. "Watch out!" he screamed, too stunned to move.
Joe whirled around. Directly above them, careening down from the top of the slopes, was one of the wooden spools used for storing the metal cables for the ski lifts. Several skiers veered away from the spool as quickly as they could.
"Frank!" Joe yelled. "Get out of the way!"
The giant spool was careening downhill, right for the spot where Ken and Frank stood!
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Chapter 2
"Run for it!" Frank heard Joe yell. Automatically Frank tensed to leap backward out of the spool's speeding path. Then he realized that his feet were still locked into the snowboard bindings, and that they could only be released manually.
Thinking fast, Frank lunged forward with his upper body and shoved Ken out of the spool's path. Ken cried out as he lurched and fell hard, then rolled sideways down the slope.
Frank frantically tried to pivot around on the heel of his board. The spool roared in his ears as it hurtled the last dozen yards toward him.
Just then a pair of strong hands gripped the collar of his parka. Frank felt himself being yanked backward, right off his feet. He landed
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in a heap on a pile of soft snow just as the giant spool hurtled past.
Looking up, he saw Joe standing over him. "Thanks," Frank said, still shaken. "Boy, talk about close calls. I thought for sure I was a goner that time."
"You would have been, too, if I hadn't been around to save you," Joe said, sounding angry. "Pushing Ken out of the way put you right in front of that thing."
"Is Ken okay?" Frank asked as he rose stiffly to his feet with his brother's help.
Before Joe could answer, the Hardys heard a loud explosion, followed by high-pitched screaming.
Frank turned to see that the huge spool had crashed through the plate-glass window of the restaurant at the base lodge. Broken glass lay in a glittering arc all around the spool. A crowd of skiers and resort staffers was beginning to gather.
Frank pulled a compact pair of binoculars out of his pocket and panned across the wreckage. He saw a waiter examining the crushed remnants of a pastry cart just inside the plate-glass window. "It doesn't look as if anyone down there was hurt," Frank informed Joe. "How about Ken?"
Joe was already bending over the athlete, who was sitting up groggily with a hand to his forehead. Frank moved closer and spotted a thin
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trickle of blood oozing down from behind Ken's ear.
"Looks as if you banged your head," Frank said. "Better sit quietly for a minute." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and applied pressure to Ken's wound.
Ken smiled faintly. "Thanks, man. I'll be okay."
"Right," Frank replied. "Hold this tight against that cut and don't move for a few minutes."
Several skiers stopped to see if Ken had been hurt, then continued downhill. Frank joined Joe a few feet away and watched the flocks of curious skiers converging on the base lodge.
"Well, Frank," Joe asked quietly, "what do you think that was all about?"
Frank cast a speculative look at Joe. "I think giant cable spools don't roll down mountainsides by accident."
"Yeah, but why would anyone push it down?" His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. "You don't think that guy Buck did it, do you?"
"Seems unlikely," Frank admitted, peering up at the slope to where the spool had appeared. "He didn't seem that mad. On the other hand, he really wants to beat Ken in the competition tomorrow. And the spool did head right for Ken."
"Hey, what are you guys muttering about?" Ken Gibson called, still pressing the handkerchief to his cut.
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"We're going to backtrack up to where that spool came from to look for clues," Frank said. "We think someone might have deliberately pushed that spool."
Gibson's eyes widened in surprise. "Clues?" he asked. "Isn't that a job for the police? You two sound like a couple of detectives."
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. The boys tried to keep their identity a secret when they were with people they didn't know, but it wasn't always possible.
"We're detectives," Frank admitted. "Our dad, Fenton Hardy, is a private investigator in New York. I guess Joe and I are chips off the old block."
"Our track record isn't too bad so far," Joe added. Frank smiled, hearing the excitement in Joe's voice. If there was one thing Joe liked better than snowboarding, it was solving a tough new mystery.
Before Ken had time to comment, they were joined by yet another snowboarder. Frank watched him pop over the hill above them in a spectacular leap, with his legs bent behind him and his snowboard almost touching his arched back.
"Wow," Frank said. He was impressed by how smoothly the lithe, muscular, orange-and- white-clad snowboarder brought his legs into a low crouch and hit the hard-packed slope as lightly as a feather. Next, the agile shredder bent low over his left side, dragging his hand in the
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snow in a stunning left-hand turn that carried him up to the little group.
Ken Gibson shook his head as a grin spread over his face. "Showing off again, Antonio?"
"Ken, thank goodness you're all right!" the stranger cried in perfect English tinged with a slight Italian accent. "I heard you had an accident."
"Yeah, a freak accident. I was nearly flattened by a runaway cable spool." Ken laughed incredulously, as if he still found it hard to believe. "I'm fine now, though," he added. "Thanks. Meet my friends Frank and Joe Hardy. Guys, this is Antonio Morelli, my number-one opponent in this competition," Gibson said, holding up a hand and high-fiving Morelli.
"Did you two come to Austria to compete?" Morelli asked.
"No," Frank answered. "We're working with security, starting tomorrow. We're not nearly in the same league as you and Ken." He flashed Joe a grin. "Maybe we will be after a few lessons from Ken here."
"So, you're taking on students now?" Morelli asked Ken Gibson.
"Just passing on a few pointers. Or I was till Buck Warburton broke up our lesson," Ken replied.
Morelli made a face. "Yes, that sounds like Buck. Too bad his manners aren't equal to his snowboarding skill."
"Speaking of snowboards, can I ask you
16
about yours, Antonio?" Joe asked. "It looks so much thicker than the ones I've seen. How do you get any flex with it?"
Frank looked closely at the blue and white board and saw that Joe was right. It was over an inch thick.
"Ah! My board is custom-made to my specifications. It's my secret weapon," Morelli replied mischievously. "And with it I'm going to steal the championship from our friend here."
Frank grinned as Ken opened his mouth to make a good-natured retort, but before he could get any words out, a pretty, red-haired skier came zooming down the slope toward them. She stopped on a dime, sending up a spray of loose powder.
"Thanks for the shower," Joe said as he brushed the snow out of his face.
"Whoops! Sorry." She pulled her ski goggles up over the green knit cap she wore over her thick, shoulder-length hair. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold air, and her large green eyes shone with concern. Uh-oh, thought Frank. He knew Joe had a weakness for red-haired girls.
"Hi, Andrea," Ken said, rising to his feet.
"Ken, I heard about the accident. Are you okay?" she asked. Then she saw the cut behind Ken's ear. "What happened to your head?"
"I banged it on a rock when I fell," Ken replied nonchalantly. "I'm okay, thanks to my
17
friends here. Let's see if I can get this right. Frank saved my life, and Joe saved his brother's."
"Hi, I'm Joe Hardy," Joe said, eagerly taking her pink-gloved hand. "That's my brother, Frank."
"Andrea Wells," she told him, shaking hands with Joe. For an instant her bright, inquisitive eyes met Joe's interested gaze, and she smiled.
"I was on my way downslope to check out the damage to the restaurant, but maybe there's a better story here," she added, peering with renewed interest at Frank and Joe.
"As it happens, I'm giving interviews tonight at the lodge," Joe joked. "Would you care to take a number?"
Before Andrea could shoot back a retort, Morelli interrupted. "Ken, introduce me to this beautiful woman. I don't think we've met."
"Andrea, this is my arch-rival, Antonio Morelli," Gibson complied with a grin. "Andrea writes for Shredder magazine," he added. "You probably read her stuff."
"Of course!" Morelli's dark eyes lit up. "That piece on the Cortina meet was excellent. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Antonio Morelli?" Andrea looked delighted. "Oh, of course. I should have recognized you. What perfect timing! I've been looking for you. We're putting together a European issue of the magazine this month, featuring this competition. I was hoping for an interview."
18
"I'd be happy to oblige such a lovely American lady," Morelli replied.
"Could I get a picture of you and Ken standing together?" she asked excitedly, taking off her gloves. Frank watched her pull a camera and lens out of a small pack fastened around her waist. "This'll be a great shot with the Alps in the background and both of you holding your boards. Just let me switch to my wide-angle lens."
"What about us?" Frank heard Joe mutter as Andrea quickly arranged her shot. "I thought we were her big scoop of the day."
Frank couldn't resist chuckling at Joe. "Face it, bro," he said as they moved away from the group. "You've been outclassed by a guy who's a mean glider and a smooth talker."
Joe sighed. "She sure is pretty," he said.
Frank smiled. "Yeah, so Morelli noticed. But for now, don't you think we should concentrate on finding out how that spool got loose?"
Joe changed gears instantly, squinting at the sunlight as he peered above them at the top of the slope. "I guess we should ask ourselves why someone would push it down," he reflected. "If it really was aimed at Ken, I guess we'd have to suspect practically everyone in the competition."
"Even Morelli?" Frank looked skeptically at the Italian athlete, who was posing with his arm around Ken's shoulders and a big smile on his face.
"I was thinking about Buck Warburton," Joe
19
replied. "But now that you mention it, Ken is Morelli's stiffest competition."
"It's hard to imagine any of these guys pulling such a dumb stunt, if you ask me," Frank said with a sigh. "But I have to admit, it's got my curiosity up. Why don't we go up and find where the spool was and snoop around?"
He glanced over at Andrea, who was finishing her roll of film. "One more shot," she said to Ken and Antonio. "And put a little hostility into this one, guys. You two have a lot at stake tomorrow."
"Okay," Joe said. "But first let's say goodbye to—"
But Joe never got to finish the sentence. A loud shout shattered the air. Frank turned to see a red and black shape hurtling over the crest of the hill above them. The stocky, muscular form was careening straight at them like a rocket in flight.
"It's Warburton!" Frank shouted. "Hit the ground!"
20
Chapter 3
Instantly, Joe fell facedown into the snow. The last thing he saw was Frank pulling Andrea Wells out of Warburton's path. As Joe pressed tightly against the ground, he heard the swooshing sound of Warburton's board passing inches overhead, spraying him with a needlelike shower of tiny ice crystals.
The next instant Joe lifted his head to see Warburton carve a sharp turn back to the group. His wide face was cracked in an evil grin. Joe's temper flared at the sound of his braying laughter.
"What a chicken coop!" Warburton yelled. "You should've seen the way you all scattered. It was priceless."
"You can get kicked off the slopes for that,
21
Warburton!" Joe shouted as he pushed himself up out of the snow.
"Awww, did I hurt little Junior's feelings?" Buck said in a mocking tone. "Lay off. I was only having some fun."
"You fool, you could've hurt someone," Morelli growled harshly.
"You sure could have," Gibson agreed. "In fact, I ought to report you to the World Snowboarding Congress and have you thrown out of the competition."
To Joe's satisfaction, Warburton immediately dropped his cocky grin and took on a sullen expression. "What's the matter with you guys? Can't you take a joke?"
"Putting people's lives in danger isn't funny," Frank pointed out.
Warburton turned an incredulous gaze on Gibson. "Come on, Ken, you know how good my control is when I'm grabbing air. I wasn't going to hurt anybody. Hey, I missed you all, right?"
"Not by much," Joe said through clenched teeth.
"Why don't we all take a deep breath and relax?" Frank suggested, casting a pointed look in Joe's direction.
"Sure." Gibson gave Warburton a long, hard look. "After Buck apologizes."
"What?" Buck exploded. "But I—"
"Unless," Ken interrupted, "he'd rather sit on the sidelines and cheer for the rest of us tomorrow."
22
"All right." Warburton glared at Gibson. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"Good," Morelli said in a mocking voice. "That was very nice, Buck. Now, why don't you run along and practice some slalom runs. You'll need to practice those soft landings if you don't want to be humiliated at tomorrow's competition."
Warburton glared at Morelli and Gibson as he leaned back on his board and spun the nose around so it pointed downhill. "Wait till tomorrow," he snarled. "We'll see who's humiliated."
As he took off, Andrea Wells perked up, waved goodbye quickly to her companions, and pushed off after him, calling, "Hey, Buck, wait up. I want to talk to you."
"Well, Ken, if I'm going to beat you tomorrow, I'd better get in some practice runs before nightfall," Morelli said wearily. "A pleasure meeting you," he added to Frank and Joe. "Enjoy your stay in Austria."
Joe watched Morelli whiz downhill and said, "He's some shredder."
"You bet," Gibson replied. "He'll give me some stiff competition this week."
"What about Warburton?" Joe asked, turning back to face Ken and Frank.
Gibson shrugged. "If he doesn't get a handle on his temper, he'll stay small-time forever. I'm not worried about him."
Ken's attention was caught by something uphill.
23
Joe followed his gaze and spotted a female snow- boarder bearing down on them at high speed.
As she drew closer, Joe eyed her graceful movements and her long, billowing, ash blond hair. She braked expertly right at Gibson's feet, then smoothly leaned over to plant a kiss on his lips.
Joe laughed in surprise. The new boarder was quite beautiful, despite the fact that her nose was a little crooked, as though it had been broken and badly set. She looked a little older than Ken, and when she spoke, it was with a Russian accent.
"Ken, where have you been?" she demanded. "I was worried about you."
"Oh, just talking shop." Gibson winked at Frank and Joe. "Ivana Garova, meet Frank and Joe Hardy. Ivana's one of the judges at the competition," he added.
Joe and Frank shook hands with her, but Ivana looked distracted. "Guys, I have to speak to Kenny in private for a second. Would you please excuse us?"
"No problem," Joe said. "We were just going upslope for some practice runs."
"Thanks again, Frank and Joe," Ken said. "I sure am glad I ran into you today."
Joe laughed and waved goodbye as he and Frank pushed off.
As soon as they were far enough away from Ken and Ivana to avoid being overheard, Joe turned to Frank and said, "Let's go check out
24
the spot where the cable spool came from. I'm afraid all the skiers may have erased any clues by now."
Frank agreed. "I doubt we'll find anything. But it beats standing around here getting cold."
It took only a few moments for Joe and Frank to glide downslope to the gondola that would take them up to the top of the run. They unfastened their bindings and climbed into the red gondola, holding their boards up against their bodies to make room for the other skiers who crowded in after them.
On the way up Joe gazed out the gondola's open window at the jagged range of mountains that ringed the resort. The sight of scores of colorful skiers and snowboarders whizzing among the peaks and the feel of the cold winter air in his face were exciting.
"I'm afraid there's not much chance of any evidence going undisturbed in this crowd," Frank said to his brother.
"You may be right, Frank," Joe answered, "but so what? This view has been worth the ride."
After getting off the gondola, Joe and Frank quickly snapped their boots into their bindings, and then, starting off with little hops into the air, they set out to find the place where the spool had come from. Joe spotted its double tracks leading from a steel column halfway up the advanced ski slope. The column supported a
25
closed-down chair lift adjacent to the gondola the Hardys had just used.
When they reached the column, though, Joe's heart sank. The spot was overrun with several teenage ski-lift operators, a couple of workmen who seemed to be trying to repair the lift, and a handful of curious skiers.
Joe and Frank dismounted their boards and moved closer to the workmen. They were talking German, prompting Joe to lean over to Frank and whisper, "Now would be a good time to use your new electronic gizmo."
Joe watched as Frank pulled out his new pocket translator. Frank had insisted on buying it the moment he learned they were flying to Austria, though it had cost him two hundred dollars.
Joe shook his head, amused at Frank's weakness for electronic gadgets. He waited as Frank listened intently, his fingers flying across the palm-size keyboard. About half the size of a paperback book, the device could not only translate English words into six languages, including German, but it could also translate foreign words into English if approximate spellings were typed in.
Joe took a quick look at the area surrounding the support pole. To his disappointment, the snow had been thoroughly trampled. Any footprints or other clues had probably been erased.
Joe turned back to Frank and tried to read the
26
translation on the computer screen. "Find out anything?"
"The workmen keep insisting that they left wooden wedges under the spool. The foreman says it couldn't possibly have rolled free by itself."
"Then who pushed it?" Joe asked pointedly.
"That's the mystery," Frank replied. "These guys don't know. They were at the employees' lounge on a coffee break."
"Do you think we should question them?" Joe asked.
Frank shook his head. "No. We don't look like officials or anything. Besides, I doubt we'd learn any more, and if we talk to them, word might get back to the real culprit that we're on his or her trail."
"That reminds me. We ought to find Ken and ask him to keep quiet about who we are," Joe suggested.
Joe scanned the slopes below for Ken Gibson. He finally spotted him, still standing with Ivana Garova. Though the pair were at least two hundred yards away, Joe could tell they were arguing. Garova was walking in a circle around Gibson, making angry gestures. Then she turned toward him and stamped her foot.
I wonder what that's all about, Joe thought to himself as he and Frank zoomed toward Gibson and Garova. The closer they got, the angrier Ivana looked. When they were about fifty yards from the couple, Joe saw Ivana slap Ken Gibson 
27
across the face. Then she strapped her snowboard onto her boots and whizzed off.
Gibson looked over at the Hardys when they arrived. "Did we come at a bad time, Ken?" Frank asked.
Ken sighed. "No, I'm okay."
"Uh, we don't mean to intrude," Joe said sympathetically. "Do you want to be alone?"
Gibson shook his head. "No. In fact, I was wondering if you guys could come with me back to the lodge. I could use the company."
Ten minutes later Ken Gibson was leading the Hardys through the cheery, wood-paneled halls of the resort's main lodge. "Let's go up to my room. I'll have room service send up some hot drinks and sandwiches," Gibson said as he led them to the elevator.
Moments later the three snowboarders arrived at the door to Ken's room. Ken wearily unlocked the door, and the Hardys followed him into the darkened room.
"Ow!" Joe said as he banged his shin on a suitcase. "Could you put on a light, Ken? I can't see anything."
"Sorry," Gibson replied, going over to his bedside table. "These rooms on the east side get really dark around sunset."
Gibson turned to Frank and Joe as he reached for the metal chain that turned on his bedside lamp. "Oh, what kind of sandwiches do you—"
The rest of Gibson's sentence was cut off as an explosion erupted from the bedside lamp. Joe
28
stared in disbelief as flames leaped across the table and bed.
Joe and Frank watched, horrified, as Ken let out a piercing scream and raced from the room. His upper body was becoming engulfed in rapidly spreading flames!
29
Chapter 4
"Ken!" Frank shouted as he and Joe leaped into action.
"Joe, stop him!" Frank grabbed a heavy blanket off the foot of the bed.
"Ahhh!" Gibson screamed. He whirled around in a frantic circle just outside the doorway to his room as the flames spread on his jacket.
Joe ran into the hallway and yanked off his own jacket. Then he tackled Ken, knocking him to the ground as Frank threw the blanket over him. Together the brothers rolled Ken in the blanket, using their gloved hands and Joe's jacket to help smother the flames.
"Joe—there's a fire extinguisher down the hall. Get it, quick!" Frank directed.
Joe turned on his heel and sped away while
30
Frank continued beating at the flames. A moment later Gibson's burning jacket was extinguished, though the bedside table and bed inside the room still burned furiously.
As Frank dragged the stunned Gibson farther away from the flames, Joe used the red fire extinguisher to spray the base of the fire. In less than a minute Joe had the fire out. A thick pall of smoke hung in the room, making him cough. After setting the fire extinguisher down, Joe threw open the room's wide windows to let the smoke out.
Out in the hall Frank unwrapped the blanket from around Gibson. To his relief, Gibson's eyes were open and his face looked unscathed.
"Ken, are you all right?" Frank asked urgently.
Coughing, Gibson shook his head up and down.
"How badly are you burned?" Frank persisted.
"J-just my hand, I think," Gibson managed to gasp. "Help me get this parka off so I can see how bad the burn is."
"No. Keep it on. The doctors can cut it off at the hospital," Frank instructed. "The nylon might have melted to your skin. We can't risk tearing it."
"That's two I owe you," Gibson said weakly.
"Don't worry about that," Frank said. "Just lie back. Joe, go call an ambulance. I'll stay here with Ken."
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"Right." Joe stepped around Ken and Frank and sprinted down the hall toward the elevator.
Why would someone have done this? Frank wondered, watching Joe go. At any rate, it seemed clear now that the incident on the slopes earlier had been no accident. Someone really was after Ken Gibson. But who, and what for?
Just then Frank noticed that the door of one of the rooms down the hall was slightly ajar. His eyes met those of the person behind the door for just a moment, but that moment was long enough. The face behind the door was Buck Warburton's.
* * *
Frank awoke the next morning feeling tired. He and Joe had accompanied Ken Gibson to the emergency room, where he had been treated for first-degree burns to his left hand. Frank was thankful that his and Joe's quick actions had saved Gibson from further injury.
Sitting up in bed, Frank wearily recalled the two hours he and Joe had spent explaining to a plump Austrian police inspector named Kempf how Gibson had gotten burned. In the tradition of small-town policemen the world over, Kempf had been methodical and maddeningly slow. Both Frank and Joe were vastly relieved to finally leave the Graz police station sometime after midnight. Frank remembered how hard it had been to keep his eyes open during the taxi ride back up the mountain to the lodge.
Sighing, Frank reached over to shake his
32
brother awake. "Up and at 'em, soldier," he bellowed, throwing on a pair of jeans. "It's World Championship day!"
Half an hour later Frank and Joe were wolfing down scrambled eggs and cinnamon-covered pastries in the enormous basement dining room, their snowboards on the floor beside them.
"Fifteen more minutes," Frank warned, gulping down his orange juice. "Then we report for duty as crowd-control marshals at the unparalleled World Snowboarding Championships."
"I've been thinking about the explosion in Ken's room last night," Joe remarked, ignoring the warning as he reached for another pastry.
"Yeah, and?" Frank prompted.
"I still don't understand how it worked," Joe said.
Frank finished off his juice. "I think I know. Gibson's assailant must have filled a light bulb with gasoline. It blew up as soon as the electric current ran through it and sparked."
Joe grinned appreciatively. "Good theory. The gasoline would explain why the flames spread so fast and burned so fiercely. But how do you fill a light bulb with gasoline without breaking it?"
"Simple. You use a syringe with a narrow- gauge needle to inject the gasoline through the base of the bulb."
"That sounds like it would work all right," Joe agreed. "How'd you think of that?"
Frank shrugged. "I saw it in a movie."
33
Joe laughed. "Okay, we have the method now, but still no motive. Who would want Ken Gibson dead, and why?"
"You've got me. Right now we really don't know enough about Ken to do more than guess."
"Then my guess is that someone is trying to take him out of the snowboarding competition before it starts," Joe offered.
"If that's so, then Warburton's a likely suspect. I told you how I noticed him lurking in one of the doorways last night," Frank pointed out.
"Yeah, but we saw Warburton go into Kempf's office last night at the police station right after he grilled us. If Kempf let him go, he must have been satisfied with Warburton's explanation."
"What about Ivana Garova?" Frank suggested. "That little scene we saw on the slopes yesterday was pretty ugly. Ken didn't say what the argument was about. You think Ivana could have thought it was worth killing him over?"
Joe looked skeptical. "There's Morelli, too," he said. "He was the first to show up after the spool incident, so he's a suspect, too. But without more info about Ken's past, we're just shooting in the dark," Joe added.
Frank clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Come on, Joe, think. You were reading all the snowboarding mags before we left. You must have learned something about Gibson. He's a top competitor. Maybe you can come up with some detail that might give us a clue."
Joe thought for a moment. "Well, Gibson
34
used to be on the pro skiing circuit. He started when he was still in high school. I think he's from Denver or somewhere around there."
"Keep going," Frank prompted, glancing around at the other diners to make sure no one was listening.
"I know he went to Northern Arizona University on an ROTC scholarship and then went into the army for three years, because he didn't compete much during that period. Now he snowboards professionally. He makes his living off prize money and product endorsements. Oh, and I think he picks up a few bucks giving boarding lessons at some resorts in the States. That's all I can remember," Joe finished.
"At least it gives us somewhere to start," Frank said. He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "We could use some background information here. I brought my laptop computer, but it's going to be hard to tap in to the datanet from over here."
"Maybe we should ask Dad to do some checks for us," Joe suggested.
"You read my mind," Frank replied. "We'll ask him to check on Warburton, Garova, and Morelli, just to cover all bases. Let's run a check on Ken, too. Maybe there's more at stake here than just a championship."
"In the meantime, I think one of us should stick close to Ken until we know who we're up against," Frank suggested.
Frank glanced at the clock above the cash register. 
35
"Drink up, Joe. We have just enough time to send a fax to Dad before we meet Herr Skopp to get our security assignments."
"You know, Frank," Joe said as they headed through the door, "with all these attempts on Ken's life, it seems like a waste of time working security at the competition. I'd rather be solving this case."
"I know what you mean," Frank agreed. "But a deal's a deal. Besides, working security will let us go behind the scenes at the competition. That should help our investigation."
"Let's hope it does," Joe said. "We can use all the help we can get."
After sending their father a fax the Hardys headed outside to receive their security assignments. Despite the early hour, Frank and Joe saw that the resort was already a whirl of activity as they found the security trailer and introduced themselves to Heinrich Skopp, the competition's Austrian security chief.
"Welcome to Graz," Skopp said briskly in crisp, unaccented English. "I don't anticipate any problems today, but if you need help, let me know. I have here your walkie-talkies, security passes for you to wear around your necks, and these orange armbands."
Skopp assigned Joe to a four-man security crew responsible for roping off a clear area for the press and assuring that the network film crews had an undisturbed view of the action.
Frank's job was to direct the hordes of spectators 
36
into roped-off areas overlooking the advanced ski slope.
Once Frank got into the rhythm of his job, he began to take in more of what was going on around him. He noted the course the competitors were to use: a steep, zigzagging trail dotted with small red flags that the snowboarders would have to slalom around. Frank remembered from the schedule that tomorrow's events were the giant slalom and halfpipe acrobatic competitions.
Today's competition, however, was a combination of slalom racing with a halfpipe near the end of the course for acrobatics. The racers would have to negotiate all of the slalom turns on the course or they would be disqualified. But the highlight of the course would be the halfpipe: a jump ramp carved into the earth right at the mouth of a deep crevasse that ran from above the racecourse nearly down to the finish line.
From where he stood, midway down the course, Frank could see the starting gate about a thousand feet away, and the finish line. He could also see the judges' booth, a covered wooden box with an open front that could seat three people, parallel to the finish line. The judges, including Ivana Garova, were already in place.
Frank heard a rousing cheer ripple through the crowd as the competitors appeared at the base] of the slope. There they climbed aboard the gondola that would take them up to the starting gate. When Ken Gibson appeared in a red,
37
white, and blue ski suit with the number seven on the front and back, an even bigger cheer went up. He had drawn many American fans to the event.
Ken looked up the slope. His keen eyes picked Frank out of the crowd, and he gave him a quick thumbs-up. Frank grinned and responded with a thumbs-up gesture of his own. Then he saw Ken wave to Ivana Garova, who quickly looked away. Frank peered through his binoculars to gauge Ken's reaction to this snub. He looks pretty discouraged, Frank thought. I wonder what's really happening with those two.
Using the binoculars, he turned his attention to the press area farther down the slope, where Joe was working. He noticed Andrea Wells, dressed in a white ski suit trimmed with red. She held a camera with a long telephoto lens and was staring at Garova with a curious expression. Frank guessed that she, too, had seen Garova snub Gibson. He made a mental note to ask Andrea what she knew about the couple's relationship.
A few moments later loudspeakers all around the course crackled, and a male voice speaking first in German, then in French, Italian, and English, welcomed the fans and competitors to the annual World Snowboarding Association Championships.
Even without the English translation, Frank recognized Ken Gibson's name as the first competitor. "Go, Ken!" he cheered along with the
38
rest of the crowd, beating his gloves together as hard as he could.
Frank brought his binoculars to bear on Gibson just as the athlete approached the starting gate. At the starter's signal Gibson hopped up into the air, raising his board several inches off the ground. The bottom of the board hit the snow, and he was rocketing downhill at breathtaking speed.
"Man, he must be going sixty miles an hour," Frank said to himself, marveling at Gibson's grace and total control of the board. "I hope he doesn't knock that burned hand on anything."
Gibson covered the course like the champion he was. Then he approached the half pipe jump ramp. As he slid closer toward it, Frank heard four small popping sounds. He peered through his binoculars at Ken, but Gibson apparently didn't hear the noise. His speed increased just before he disappeared behind the walls of the halfpipe near the end of the crevasse.
As Frank waited for Ken to reappear, he heard an ominous rumble that seemed to be coming from up the mountain. The rumbling noise quickly grew in volume. Frank felt a vibration beneath his feet.
In a flash Frank realized what was happening. "Avalanche!" he yelled, dropping his binoculars and staring at the crevasse, where a mass of snow was bearing down with unbelievable force and speed. The avalanche was going to bury Ken Gibson!
39
Chapter 5
Down at the end of the course by the press area, Joe heard a muffled boom and looked up in surprise. A white wall of snow was pouring down the long crevasse toward the bottom of the mountain. It was headed straight for the half- pipe, where Ken Gibson was completing his performance! It was obvious that he was traveling too fast to notice the avalanche. Joe tried to think fast. There was no way to warn him in time.
As the reporters and camera crews nearby started to scream and shout, Joe turned to one of the video monitors with a sick feeling in his stomach. Only luck could save Ken Gibson now.
As Gibson entered the halfpipe, he crouched atop his speeding snowboard in preparation for
40
his acrobatic jump. The next second the roaring torrent of snow came pouring down into the half- pipe. Joe watched helplessly as Ken's brightly clad form vanished under the crushing weight of the swiftly moving snow.
Gibson had disappeared, and the dip in the racecourse was filled with snow. Joe heard a frightened, agitated babble of voices all around him.
There were only brief moments to spare, and Joe leaped into action. He vaulted the barricade around the press area and poured on the speed as he headed for the halfpipe about a hundred yards away.
Competition staff and panicked spectators were starting to run out onto the flat area at the base of the course. Here's one advantage of being a football player, Joe thought as he used everything he knew about broken field running to get across the area fast. Another member of the security staff tried to wave Joe away, but he dodged left and slipped right past him.
Seconds later Joe scrambled up the barrier that formed one side of the halfpipe. Inside, the halfpipe looked like a level field of snow, and Joe's heart sank.
Suddenly Joe saw something sticking out of the snow. It was bright red. Maybe it was part of Ken's board, Joe hoped as he started to run for it, sinking in the loose snow up to his knees. Lifting his feet as high as he could, he reached
41
the spot and swept away an armful of snow. It was Ken's board!
Joe started digging frantically in the snow with his hands. He knew it would be blind luck if he could find Ken in time, but he had to try.
He worked around the board in widening circles, kicking his feet and swinging his arms through the snow. Suddenly his fingers brushed something round and smooth. He dropped to his knees and started digging desperately. It was Ken's red, white, and blue helmet.
Working fast, he cleared the area all around the helmet and in one sweeping armful uncovered Ken's face. The athlete's eyes were closed. He didn't seem to be breathing. Thinking quickly, Joe reached down and unfastened the helmet's chin strap.
At that moment Ken's mouth opened, and Joe heard him gasp as his lungs sucked in the freezing air. Ken's eyelids fluttered briefly but didn't open.
Greatly relieved, Joe reached for the walkie-talkie in its holster on his hip and thumbed the call button. "Emergency, this is a priority call! I've located Gibson! Over."
"On our way now," a voice came crackling back. "Stay with him."
Joe rushed to the side of the half pipe, looked over, and saw a big Sno-Cat. The large vehicle, mounted on tank treads, was headed for him. He waved his arms over his head, and the Sno-Cat
42
flashed its headlights to signal that he'd been spotted.
Reassured, Joe returned to Ken and found that he was still breathing shallowly. Only his face and helmet showed above the snow.
"Okay, we've got him," said a rescue worker behind Joe as several medics came pouring over the edge of the halfpipe and set to work with frantic haste. Joe helped them transfer a stretcher, thermal blankets, and several braces to Gibson's side.
"Good work, kid," one of the medics said to Joe. "I haven't seen running like that since the Super Bowl."
"Is he going to be okay?" Joe asked.
"Well, you found him before he suffocated," the medic replied. "But we're going to have to unbury him carefully. We have to put braces on his neck and back before we can risk moving him."
Joe's walkie-talkie crackled, and he heard Frank's voice. "Calling Joe Hardy, over."
"I'm here, Frank. Ken's alive. Over."
"Great! I'm headed your way on a snowmobile. Be outside the press area in five minutes. Over and out."
Ten minutes later Joe was hanging on to the rear seat handles of a powerful snowmobile and straining to catch Frank's words over the roar of the engine.
"Whoever Gibson's enemies are, they almost got him with that avalanche!" Frank shouted.
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"There's no way that was a coincidence. Did you hear a series of small popping sounds just before it hit?"
"No!" Joe hollered, squinting his eyes against the cold mountain wind. "I was too far away."
Frank looked over his shoulder at his younger brother. "If my theory is correct, we'll find some kind of explosive or detonator at the top of the crevasse."
"Great. But, Frank," Joe said suddenly, "couldn't the noise from this snowmobile set off another avalanche?"
"That's a possibility," Frank replied over the engine's roar. "If any more of this snow starts sliding, we're going to be in a tight spot."
Moving carefully but swiftly, Frank guided the blue and silver snowmobile over the heaps of snow to the top of the crevasse. Frank throttled down as he pulled into a natural amphitheater formed by a thick wall of tall pine trees lining a jumble of huge granite boulders.
"Looks as if more than one person has been here recently," Frank said, observing several snowmobile tracks in the snow.
"Let me use your binoculars," Joe asked. With the glasses in one hand, Joe scrambled up onto one of the big boulders and focused on the action on the racecourse below. He was far to the side of the course, but Joe still had an unobstructed view of the area around the halfpipe and finish line.
44
"What's going on?" Frank asked, concerned. "Have they gotten him out yet?"
Joe studied the rescue team's movements. "They're still digging around his legs," he said.
Joe turned to Frank and saw his brother staring fixedly at the side of the mountain. "What do you see, Frank?"
Frank paused a moment, gazing above and below them. "From what I know about avalanches, they usually carry tons of snow and can travel up to a couple of miles," Frank murmured. "This one petered out in less than half a mile."
"Yeah? And?" Joe prompted.
"And avalanches occur most often when a lot of heavy snow builds up, or when the sun is shining on a big field of snow." Frank pointed up to the top of the crevasse. "But that area is in the shade until at least late afternoon."
"That makes sense to me." Joe nodded. His expression turned grim. "So we're looking for some type of explosive? I didn't hear a loud bang or anything."
"But there were those popping sounds," Frank reminded him. "Even a small charge can set off a reaction in an unstable mass like snow if it's placed correctly."
"Okay, Einstein," Joe said with a sigh. "Let's start at the top of that ridge in the center. We can cover more ground if we split up."
Fifteen minutes later Joe was starting to feel cold. I'd give my life savings for a thermos of
45
hot chocolate, he thought to himself. Every few minutes he paused in his search to peer down at the rescue team. He could just make out a form clad in red, white, and blue lying still on the snow. I'm going to find out who did this to Ken, he swore to himself, turning back to his search with renewed vigor.
A moment later Joe found his first clue. It was a footprint. Following the direction it pointed, he found more prints, leading to a tall spruce tree. Brushing some loose snow away from the base of the tree, Joe suddenly spotted a bright red wire.
"Hey, Frank," Joe hollered to his brother. "Get over here on the double. I think I've found something."
Frank waved his arms to signal that he'd heard and began to cautiously make his way across the slippery snow.
Joe bent down and tugged gently at the bit of red wire lying on top of the snow. Dusting away snow as he went, he followed the wire to a spot just behind one of the big granite boulders. The wire ran into a small green metal box with a twelve-inch whip antenna. As he examined it, he heard Frank come up behind him.
"This must be the detonator," Joe said excitedly. "We were right, Frank. What happened to Ken was no accident."
Frank looked thoughtful. "Don't touch anything else, Joe. I'm going to radio Herr Skopp and have him contact Inspector Kempf."
46
"Hey, look at this," Joe said. "On the other side of this box, isn't that Russian lettering?"
Frank peered closely at the detonator. "I think you're right, Joe. This clue could point to Ivana. But what motive she could have to do something like this completely stumps me."
Frank dug into his small backpack and pulled out his camera. He quickly photographed the detonator box from several angles, being careful to get pictures of the detonator's serial number.
Joe noticed his brother's thoroughness with approval. "Good idea. We can use the serial number to trace the detonator." He watched Frank stow his camera, grab his walkie-talkie, and try to raise Herr Skopp on it.
Joe tapped his brother on the shoulder. "You know, Frank, if Skopp calls Kempf and Kempf finds us up here, he's going to keep us busy for hours questioning us."
"I know that," Frank replied seriously. "We don't have time to be questioned. We've got to move fast on this new clue."
"I say we radio in directions to this place and then split," Joe suggested. "We'll talk to Kempf all he wants once this mystery is solved."
Frank was about to agree, but just then a shriek cut the air directly above the Hardys' heads. Instinctively Frank and Joe leaped backward. Looking up, they saw the huge branch of a nearby pine tree come crashing down toward them!
47
Chapter 6
Frank dived for cover, landing face first in a huge snowbank as the branch landed where he'd been standing only a second before. Leaping to his feet and spinning around, he saw a flash of bright green and pink under the fallen limb. Suddenly Andrea Wells's face popped up from behind a spray of pine needles. "Hi, guys," she said, climbing out gingerly from her fallen perch. "Uh, fancy meeting you here."
"What were you doing up in that tree?" Joe asked, looking surprised and perplexed as he rushed to help her to her feet. "Are you injured?"
"No, I'm okay," she replied, embarrassed. "I came up here by snowmobile to get some telephoto shots of the rescue, but I guess I've found
48
out more than I bargained for. I heard you guys talking about the detonator. What are you two, some kind of detectives?"
"I hope you don't plan to write about this," Frank replied with a worried scowl. "As a reporter, you should know that any media coverage now could foul up our investigation."
"Of course I intend to write about it! I'm a reporter, remember? So tell me, you think somebody tried to kill Ken Gibson on purpose?"
She looked from one silent brother to the other. It was obvious that neither one intended to speak. "Okay, we can make a deal here," Andrea offered. "You give me an exclusive on this story, and I swear I won't breathe a word to anyone until you've solved the case."
Frank looked at Joe, who reluctantly nodded.
"Okay," Frank replied seriously. "The exclusive is yours, and maybe you can be of some help in the investigation. But meanwhile, not a word to anyone."
"Agreed," Andrea replied with a smile. "Hey, look," she said suddenly, pointing down at the racecourse. "They're bringing Ken down."
Frank took his binoculars from Joe and peered down at the big Sno-Cat pulling out of the crevasse below them. He could see Gibson's body lashed to a stretcher, which two medics hurried over to a waiting ambulance. Another medic ran along with the stretcher, hovering over Gibson.
"Guys, I'm going down to see how badly Ken's hurt," Andrea said. "I'll catch you
49
later—and I won't blow your cover. But don't forget, you owe me!" Andrea ran toward a snowmobile concealed behind a large boulder. "Meet me at the base lodge restaurant," she called over her shoulder as she sped away.
"We owe her?" Joe muttered, confused.
"Forget Andrea. Let's concentrate on the case," Frank said. "We need to pin Morelli down on exactly where he was when that spool broke loose."
"I'm for that," Joe replied as he jumped aboard their snowmobile and revved it up. "I'll have us there in no time."
* * *
Half an hour later, in the hall outside Morelli's room, Frank could hear what sounded like one side of a heated argument being carried on in Italian. He guessed that Morelli was talking on the phone. Quickly pulling out his pocket translator, Frank started hitting keys as fast as he could.
"I don't know yet ... definitely alive . . . yes, alive . . . I'll check on that. . . . Ciao."
When the conversation was over, Frank waited a few moments and knocked on the door. There was no reply. Frank and Joe exchanged glances.
"Morelli, open up." Joe banged loudly on the door. "It's Joe and Frank Hardy."
The door opened a crack, and Morelli peered out at them.
"Hello, boys," Morelli said. "Sorry. I was on the telephone. What do you want?"
50
Now that Frank was face-to-face with the mild-mannered Morelli, he wasn't sure how to begin. "We were wondering if you'd heard anything about Ken Gibson's condition," Frank said, thinking quickly.
Morelli shook his head. "You two probably know as much as I do."
Trying to draw Morelli out, Joe commented, "Some of the stuff that's happened to Ken is downright weird, don't you think?
"What do you mean?" Morelli asked, sounding puzzled.
"Well, we were curious about how that cable spool rolled downhill by itself yesterday, so Frank and I went up to the spot where it came from," Joe told Morelli.
"I overheard the workmen up there say there was no way that spool could have gotten loose by accident," Frank added. He closely observed Morelli's reaction, hoping to startle Morelli into betraying some guilt.
But the Italian's face was a bland mask as he replied, "Indeed? That is strange. Perhaps it was an act of vandalism."
"Maybe. And maybe it was something else," Joe said pointedly, also studying Morelli's reaction.
There was a moment of silence, then Morelli said, "Well, all this excitement has worn me out. I think I'll take a nap. I want to be well rested when the competition resumes in a couple of days."
51
"A couple of days?" Frank asked in surprise.
"Yes, the competition has been delayed while the resort staff regrooms the slopes. They want to be sure there won't be any more avalanches." He reached for the door handle. "Now, if you'll excuse me ..."
"Say, did you notice—" Joe began, but his words were cut off by the click of the closing door. "Well, I guess that's the end of that conversation," he muttered.
"For someone who claims he's Ken Gibson's friend," Frank said as he and his brother headed down the hall, "Morelli sure doesn't seem very concerned about him."
"No, he doesn't," Joe replied. "Let's head over to the restaurant and meet Andrea."
Frank followed his younger brother across the resort's upstairs restaurant to Andrea's table. The wide, sunlit room was filled with skiers and boarders, media people and spectators from the snowboarding competition. Joe and Frank overheard a reporter say that no word was out on Ken's condition, as he was still in the emergency room.
"Look at that," Joe remarked to his brother.
Frank followed his gaze, seeing that the atrium at the end of the room had been roped off and the smashed windows covered in sheets of clear plastic.
Frank and Joe both ordered sandwiches and sodas and finished them off quickly as Andrea
52
told them about the spectators' horrified reactions to the avalanche.
"I'm going to get a great story out of this," Andrea said as she ate her chefs salad. "And on top of everything, I never would have pegged you two as detectives."
"That's what makes a good detective," Joe replied. "Blending in with the scenery is a great way to pick up information."
"But enough bragging," Frank said, quickly avoiding Joe's quick kick under the table. "Andrea, could I ask you to develop those photos I took of the detonator?"
"Sure, Frank," she replied. "It'll take an hour or so. And I'm going to see my friend Marcy, who works for the Sports Network video crew, to get a videotape of Ken's run."
"Hey, could you get us a copy of that tape?" Frank asked eagerly. "That might be just what we need to crack this case."
"No problem!" Andrea said, rising and pulling on her bright green parka. "Call me at Room three-oh-three about two-thirty. I should have everything you need."
Frank gave her the roll of film, and she left the restaurant.
"Well, Frank, what do you think our next move should be?" Joe asked.
"We have three suspects—Ivana, Warburton, and Morelli—but no clear motive," Frank replied. "At first I thought the motive was either professional jealousy or a lovers' spat, but the
53
incidents with the light bulb and the avalanche suggest there might be something bigger at stake."
"Then we have to find out what it is about Gibson that should make someone try to kill him," Joe decided.
"I agree." Frank signaled to the waitress for the check. "That's why I want to get the background information on Ken and the suspects from Dad before we do anything else."
* * *
Back in the Hardys' room it took Frank only a few minutes to hook his computer's modem up to the hotel's phone line. Getting through to his father took a lot longer. After several frustrating minutes he heard his father's hearty voice on the other end of the line.
"How's it going, son?" Fenton Hardy inquired.
"Couldn't be better, Dad," Frank replied. "But we need those background checks. Do you have them?"
"Yes. Is your computer on line?" Fenton asked.
"All booted up and ready to go," Frank replied.
"I'm sending you the Interpol file and a police record on Buck Warburton from here in the States. He sounds like a real thug, Frank. Be careful around him," Fenton warned.
"We're being careful, Dad," Frank said. "Did you find anything on Ken Gibson?"
54
"Just standard background information. Nothing to arouse any suspicions," Fenton answered.
"Anything on Garova or Morelli?"
"No criminal records on Morelli," Fenton told him. "Since Garova's Russian, I could only come up with background from the years since she left Russia. I've got a friend in the State Department looking into her earlier history, but that will take a day or two. Turn on your modem, and I'll send you what I've got."
"Thanks, Dad. Tell Mom we say hi."
Frank flicked on the modem's switch, and it hummed to life. Frank's computer printer quickly spat out a dozen sheets, detailing Buck Warburton's U.S. arrest record, a two-page Interpol file, and then brief files on Ken Gibson and Ivana Garova.
Frank rapidly scanned the printouts, searching for anything that would offer a clue to the attacks on Ken Gibson. As he finished each sheet, he handed them to Joe, who also studied them intently.
"Well, except for Warburton's arrests for assault, and Interpol's note that he hangs out with European gangsters, there's not much here to explain the attempts on Ken's life," Frank said gloomily a short time later.
"You're right," Joe agreed. "There's nothing interesting in the files on Ken and Ivana."
"Then let's see what we can turn up in Ken's room," Frank said. "I know it's a long shot, but
55
we have to find out if there's a good reason for someone to want to kill him."
"Good idea. The hotel manager moved him to Room two-oh-one after the fire, so I guess that's our next stop," Joe suggested.
Fifteen minutes later Joe stood in the hall outside Gibson's room chatting with a hotel maid who spoke broken English. Moving as quietly as he could, Frank tiptoed up behind her and snitched the master room key from her cart of cleaning supplies. He deftly opened Gibson's door, replaced the key on the maid's cart, and slipped into the room. Then he drew the window shades and turned on a dim light. A moment later he heard Joe's rap on the door and opened it a crack to let him in.
Frank surveyed the pile of luggage and snowboarding gear in the center of the room. "Looks as if Ken didn't have time to unpack after he moved in here. You take one side of this pile, and I'll take the other."
The Hardys carefully opened Ken's suitcases and began sifting through their contents. The first suitcase Frank opened held only clothes and a few snowboarding magazines. Frank began sifting through Gibson's collection of helmets, gloves, kneepads, and other safety gear.
Finally Frank spied a small leather briefcase and pulled it from the pile. It was locked. Frank pulled a slim steel lockpick from his wallet and opened the lock.
"This looks more interesting," Frank
56
murmured as he paged through Gibson's passport, a sheaf of traveler's checks, a small atlas of Europe, and a well-thumbed German-English dictionary. Then his attention was grabbed by a bundle of letters. Frank opened the bundle and saw from the return address that they were all from Ivana.
Frank flipped quickly through the letters, but he found nothing of interest, except that one of the later letters referred to an upcoming marriage between Ivana and Ken. He looked over at Joe and saw him shaking something.
"I just hit the jackpot," Joe whispered excitedly, waving his brother over to his side. Joe held up Gibson's battered shaving kit. "This thing's got a secret compartment."
"How can you tell?" Frank asked eagerly.
"When I emptied it out, it still felt too heavy," Joe replied. "And I think I hear something moving when I shake it."
Frank watched as Joe took out his pocketknife and carefully pried up the vinyl bag's square bottom plate.
"Bingo," Joe whispered. He turned the bag over and dumped the contents out onto the floor.
It was a small notebook. Frank started leafing through the pages, which were filled with handwritten notes, while Joe lifted a small overnight bag up to his ear and shook it. "What's up?" Frank asked.
"I think there's something concealed in this bag, too. Maybe sewn inside," Joe replied
57
thoughtfully. "I just can't figure out how to get it out."
"Keep working on it while I see what's in this notebook," Frank said.
Frank scanned the notebook's first page again. Gibson had written a cryptic note that said only, Warburton and European gangsters.
Intrigued, Frank turned to the next page. It read, "Is Ivana involved? Blackmail by KGB?"
Frank looked over to tell Joe what he'd found and saw Joe's eyes widen in surprise.
"Take a look at this!" Joe exclaimed.
He pulled his hand out of the overnight bag. It held a .45 automatic pistol.
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Chapter 7
"Something's fishy around here, bro." Joe examined the compact, deadly looking .45 automatic before handing it over to Frank.
"So Ken Gibson packs a pistol," Frank said thoughtfully. "That's a surprise, but it doesn't tell us who tried to knock him off."
"I have a hunch who it might be," Joe said. "Warburton's the first person mentioned in that notebook of Ken's."
"Let's not jump to any conclusions," Frank said as he copied Gibson's notes into his own notebook. "We don't even know what the notebook's for yet. And Ken's notes imply that Ivana could be involved with the KGB."
"That's not going to be easy to research," Joe said as he continued examining Gibson's overnight 
59
bag. Joe dug his fingers farther into the compartment and found something soft wedged in the back.
Joe was surprised to see that it was a black ankle holster made of black leather. "Look at this. It's like the one Dad wears for his undercover work."
Joe saw Frank's eyes narrow thoughtfully. 'If he's carrying this gun concealed, maybe Ken's some kind of undercover agent," Frank suggested.
"That makes sense," Joe agreed. "Especially since those notes refer to gangsters and the KGB. And maybe the person Ken was spying on tried to kill him."
"My thoughts exactly," Frank said, handing the notebook back to Joe. "Now, let's pack this stuff up and get out of here."
Joe nodded, but as he tried to slip the notebook back into its hiding place, he found that something was in the way. Joe probed around with a finger and touched a folded piece of paper. Curious, he drew it out and unfolded it. It looked like an ordinary Swiss franc note.
"Frank, check this out," Joe said.
Frank looked it over, then handed it back with a puzzled expression. "It's a twenty-franc note. So what?"
"Why was it in the secret compartment?" Joe wondered.
"Maybe we should hang on to this bill until we find out what makes it so special," Frank replied thoughtfully. "We can return it later."
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Joe checked his watch. "It's time to hook up with Andrea. Let's finish packing and go."
* * *
After stopping briefly to refuel on hot chocolate and apple strudel, Joe and Frank found their way to Andrea Wells's room and knocked on the door.
"Come on in!" Andrea shouted through the door.
Joe saw her seated on the floor amid a disorderly heap of electronic gear and camera equipment with four black-and-white eight by ten prints of the detonator spread out in front of her.
"Hi, guys," Andrea said, scooping up the prints and handing them to Joe. "Here are Frank's photos. I looked through some of the dictionaries in the hotel's reading room and found that's definitely Russian lettering."
Joe looked carefully at each photo before handing them to Frank. "I don't see any clues here besides the detonator itself. At least we can track the serial number, though. Say, Andrea, have you heard any more on Ken's condition?"
"I was just about to call the hospital," Andrea replied, jumping lightly to her feet and going over to the hotel phone.
"Ask if Ivana has been there," Frank said.
Andrea nodded. She started speaking quietly in German as Frank motioned to Joe to come over to the corner of the room.
"What's up?" Joe asked softly.
"A Russian detonator and a Russian sweetheart, 
61
that's what's up," Frank replied. "Put that together with Ken's note, and it really doesn't look good for Ivana."
"I agree," Joe said. "Let's see that videotape and watch Ivana's reaction. That could tell us a lot."
Joe turned as Andrea hung up the phone.
"He's still critical," she said seriously. "His right arm and leg are broken, and he's unconscious. The nurse said Ivana hasn't been there. I would've thought she'd be camping out at the hospital."
"Did you get the videotape, Andrea?" Joe asked.
"It's all cued up," Andrea said, reaching over to the Play button on the VCR. "I haven't had a chance to watch it yet myself."
Joe pulled up a chair for Andrea and settled himself on a hassock a few feet in front of the screen. As the announcer's intro to the competition began, Joe hit the mute button on the remote control and fast-forwarded to the start of Ken's run. The judges' booth was clearly shown on the right side of the screen. Several competitors, including Warburton and Morelli, were clustered nearby.
"Looks like we have a clear view of everything," Frank said. "Now let's watch Ivana's reaction."
"Ivana?" Andrea sounded surprised. "You guys are barking up the wrong tree. She loves Ken!"
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"Shh!" Joe waved at them to be quiet. "Here it comes." Joe's attention never wavered from Ivana's face as the terrible scene unfolded. First she was watching Ken's run, a little smile playing on her lips. Then, as the avalanche thundered down toward the racecourse, she rose to her feet. Her face was a frozen mask as she stared fixedly at the spot where Ken had disappeared. Then, as everyone around her started to panic, the blond woman quietly slipped out the back of the judges' booth.
Joe looked over at Andrea. "You may be wrong about Ivana. Do you have any idea where she went after Ken got buried?"
Andrea frowned. "No. I haven't seen her around anywhere since the race."
"Let's play it again," Frank said. "Keep an eye peeled for anyone who doesn't seem surprised."
Joe rewound the tape. The second time through, he kept his eyes on Warburton. Buck wore a bored expression, flipping through a racing program and ignoring Gibson's run. At the sound of the crashing snow, however, he dropped the magazine and looked up with a shocked expression on his round face.
"Did you see that?" Frank cried. "Play it back and watch Morelli."
Joe quickly rewound the tape. Morelli was just visible in the corner of the screen. He, too, was apparently ignoring Ken Gibson's run, staring fixedly at his electronic wristwatch. But when
63
the avalanche came through the crevasse, Morelli raised his dark eyes from his watch and looked intently in the direction of the avalanche.
"He doesn't look too surprised about the avalanche, does he?" Joe asked.
"No," Frank replied slowly, "but Morelli's already shown us he's a cool customer."
Joe blew out a long sigh. "Yeah, he could have been timing Ken's run." He shook his head. "Well, thanks for getting us the tape, Andrea."
"No problem, guys." Andrea let them out the door. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do. And don't forget, this is my exclusive."
When they were out in the hallway, Joe turned to Frank. "Where do we go from here?"
"Let's look for Ivana," Frank suggested.
* * *
"I haven't seen Ivana anywhere," Hans said.
Joe stood at the base of the slope, outside the small booth where Hans operated one of the gondolas. He saw Frank, with his snowboard under his arm, approaching from the direction of the base lodge. "Well, thanks, Hans. Will you let us know if you do see her?"
"Sure, Joe," Hans said. "See you later." Hans ducked back inside the booth and turned his attention to the control panel just as the big gondola came gliding down to the loading platform.
"Anyone see her?" Frank asked.
"Not here. How about at the hotel?"
Frank shook his head.
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"Then let's hit the slopes and see who we can find." Joe grabbed his own board, and they jumped aboard the gondola just as it was pulling out.
As the gondola rode slowly up its cable, Joe used Frank's binoculars to scan the mountainside.
"Hey, Frank!" he exclaimed. "There's Warburton, on that chair lift straight across from us, headed up the mountain."
"That lift unloads farther up the slope than this gondola," Frank said. "Let's be ready for him."
Moments later Frank and Joe were racing down the slopes toward one of the huge steel pylons that supported the chair lift. In unison they leaned forward and to the right, angling the right edge of their boards to turn sharply toward the pylon.
They ducked out of sight just as Warburton came flying over the hill above them. As Warburton passed by, both Hardys swiveled their boards so they were facing downhill and started off with quick hops into the air. Frank went first, with Joe in quick pursuit.
Joe saw trees whizzing past so fast they seemed a blur. The speed was exciting and a little scary. He and Frank had trouble keeping up with Warburton, who rode down at breakneck speed.
For the next half hour Joe and Frank followed Warburton onto the ski lifts, being careful to stay well behind him in the lift lines. To Joe's
65
disappointment, Warburton remained totally alone. He spoke to no one and didn't even acknowledge the waves of the fans and fellow snowboarders he encountered on the slopes.
Suddenly Warburton disappeared around a sharp bend in the slope, leaning over far to the left to drag his glove a few inches in the snow and carve a smooth arc as he turned.
Joe tried to copy Warburton's easy grace and managed a reasonable imitation of the turn. But when he and Frank went through the turn, Warburton was no longer ahead of them. It was as though the burly, black-clad shredder had vanished.
"Unbelievable," Joe muttered in bewilderment as he turned into the slope to stop.
Frank stopped beside Joe and looked around. "Where'd he go?"
"Beats me," Joe replied. "Unless he grew wings."
Joe and Frank scanned the slopes ahead of them but could see no sign of Warburton among the skiers and snowboarders.
On a hunch Joe looked behind and saw Warburton bearing down from upslope.
"Yo—Frank, we've got company," Joe said quickly.
Seconds later Warburton shot between them, crouched low over his board. He slid to a sharp stop, facing them.
"You punks have been following me for almost
66
an hour. I want to know why," Warburton demanded, anger glittering in his dark eyes.
"Hey, man, we were trying to pick up some pointers," Joe said quickly.
"Well, find someone else's moves to copy," Warburton ordered. "I don't want anything to do with any friends of Ken Gibson."
"Hey, show some respect," Joe said angrily. "The man's badly hurt."
"If Gibson's hurt, that's tough," Warburton snarled. "Maybe he deserves it for being so arrogant."
Warburton heeled his board around, then looked over at the Hardys. "Don't let me catch you two wimps following me again, or you could get hurt, you understand?"
Without waiting for a reply, Warburton set off downhill in a burst of speed. Knowing they wouldn't be able to keep up, Joe motioned to Frank to stay put.
"That was a big waste of time," Joe complained.
"Yep," Frank agreed. "I'm ready for a break. You want to head back to the lodge?"
Joe nodded and set off down the slope, with Frank right behind him. As he zoomed around a mogul, Joe suddenly grew aware of a loud grinding, roaring sound coming from the hill above them.
"Now what?" he heard Frank holler over the wind.
Joe glanced over his shoulder. His answer
67
caught in his throat. One of the resort's Sno-Cats was bouncing over the hill at top speed.
It took only a second for Joe to realize that there was no one at the controls—and another second to realize that the Sno-Cat was headed right for them!
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Chapter 8
"Frank—get out of the way!" Joe shouted just before he awkwardly pitched himself out of the Sno-Cat's path.
Frank shot a look over his shoulder at the vehicle. It was so close, it seemed to blot out everything above him.
At the last moment Frank crouched down low over his snowboard and rocked his upper body to the right. He tumbled over on his side, and then the Sno-Cat was right beside him. Frank's ears were filled with the roaring of the diesel engine as his face slammed into the hard-packed snow.
A moment later the sound had passed, and Frank was looking at the rear of the Sno-Cat. He saw Joe unsnap his bindings and sprint downhill 
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after it, pouring on the speed and making a wild leap onto the Cat's running board.
As Frank reached down to unfasten his own bindings, he heard a sharp grinding of the Sno-Cat's gears. He looked up and saw that it had lurched to a stop.
Frank scrambled to his feet, then ran downhill to join Joe.
Joe had jammed his hand under the steering wheel and pulled out a bundle of ignition wires that had been cut and crudely spliced together.
"The thing was hot-wired," Joe told him.
"That figures," Frank said, leaning in closer to look at the wires.
"I bet Warburton did it," Joe speculated. "We saw him just before the Cat tried to crush
us."
"Circumstantial evidence," Frank observed. "But there is a way to get some solid proof. Maybe I can get some fingerprints off the steering wheel and the gearshift knob." Frank began digging through his backpack.
"Don't tell me you have a fingerprint kit in there," Joe said in disbelief.
"Nope." Frank shook his head. "I'm going to improvise one, though."
Frank quickly took out a couple of lead pencils, his pocketknife, and a roll of clear medical tape. He split the pencils open, then shaved the pencil leads into a pile of grayish dust on a piece of notebook paper. Before he could begin dusting for prints, some curious skiers and resort
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staffers showed up, lured by the sight of the Sno-Cat parked in the middle of the slope.
"I'll keep them out of your hair," Joe volunteered. He wandered over to tell the crowd about the Sno-Cat's getting loose, while Frank climbed into the driver's seat and began carefully blowing dust all over the steering wheel and gearshift knob. Then, when there was a thin layer of gray dust covering those surfaces, Frank picked up any visible fingerprints by pressing the sticky side of the tape down over the prints. He finished by smoothing the tape down on pieces of clean white paper.
"How's it going?" Joe asked as Frank was putting the pieces of paper inside his notebook.
"I'm done," Frank answered.
"What are you going to do with the fingerprints?" Joe inquired.
"Give them to Inspector Kempf to see if they match up with any prints the cops found in Ken's room, or on that detonator," Frank replied as he closed up his backpack.
"Let's go see Kempf right away," Frank suggested as he climbed out of the Sno-Cat.
* * *
An hour later Frank found himself sitting beside Joe in Inspector Kempf's stuffy office, explaining to Kempf for the third time his reasons for taking fingerprints off the Sno-Cat.
Kempf's blue eyes narrowed in his round face as he asked, "But why did you interfere with a piece of evidence, Herr Hardy?"
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"Like I've been trying to tell you, Inspector," Frank said in exasperation, "I thought it was important to get prints to you immediately. There were a lot of people around, and I was afraid someone would smudge them before you arrived."
"What's the problem?" Joe asked. "Aren't the prints any good?"
Kempf glared at Joe before answering. "They are adequate, but that is not the point. Investigating these accidents is a matter for the police."
"Inspector, we're on the same side," Frank pleaded. "We just want to find out who tried to hurt our friend."
Kempf snorted. "You are out of your depth here. Mind your own business, or you will find yourselves deported in short order."
"But—" Joe began to object, but Frank silenced him with a stern look and a shake of his head.
If we put up with Kempf's lecture, maybe we'll get out of here sooner, Frank reflected. He was just as anxious as Joe to get on with their investigation, but he knew better than to argue with an angry policeman.
It was another half hour before Kempf finally dismissed them.
"Well, I've had more fun at a laundromat," Joe observed. "What do we do now?"
"Let's head back to the lodge and find Hans or some of the resort staff and see what they know about our suspects," Frank suggested.
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"We could try the employees' lounge," Joe suggested.
As soon as they arrived back at the resort, Frank and Joe followed the desk clerk's directions to the employees' lounge inside a long, low, one-story structure attached to the hotel's main kitchen.
Stepping through the front door, Frank quickly scanned the rows of wide tables where the hotel and ski resort staff ate.
"There he is, Frank," Joe said, pointing out Hans, who sat at a table in the far corner surrounded by several other teens. Frank recognized one or two of them from the slopes.
"Come on," Frank said, making his way past the tables crowded with people dressed in red and black waiter's uniforms, kitchen whites, or the gray slacks and blue blazers worn by the hotel clerks and bellmen.
"Hello, Hans," Frank said as he and Joe approached the table. Hans looked up from his plate of boiled red cabbage, sauerbraten, and potato dumplings and smiled back.
"Ah, the two American brothers," Hans said. "What's shaking, fellows?"
"We need to talk to you," Joe told him seriously. "Mind if we sit down?"
"I always like a chance to practice my English," Hans told them as two teens sitting on one bench moved over so Frank and Joe could sit down.
"We want to find out more about what happened 
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to Ken Gibson," Frank said in a low voice as he lowered himself to the bench.
"What a drag, huh?" Hans said sympathetically. "Gibson's a nice guy."
"The avalanche that buried Ken was no accident," Joe told him. "Since he's our friend, my brother and I are kind of—looking into it.
"We need information on some people, but we don't want it broadcast around that we're asking questions. Inspector Kempf might not like it, you know?"
Hans looked very interested. "Hey, anything I can do to help, I'll do. And I can keep my mouth shut."
"That's good," Frank said seriously, then cocked his head at the other teens sitting at the table. "But what about them?"
"Don't worry, man," Hans said with a dismissive wave. "They don't speak much English. We can talk in front of them."
"Okay, so what do you know about Buck Warburton?" Joe asked.
"You mean the Ugly American?" Hans replied with a crooked smile. "That's what the local shredders call him, 'cause he's so nasty. I don't know too much about him, but my friend Klaus, who also works here, told me he'd heard Warburton was mixed up with gangsters."
Joe's eyes widened with interest. "Is Klaus here tonight?"
Hans shook his head. "He pulled some ligaments yesterday, so he's at home."
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"Exactly what did he tell you about Warburton?" Joe persisted.
Hans thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of sauerbraten before answering. "He said Warburton was working as a strong-arm guy for some Dutch gangsters in Amsterdam. His boss was, um, a loan fish."
"A loan shark," Joe corrected, grinning.
"Right, a loan shark." Hans nodded. "That's all I know. I stay away from Warburton."
"Gangsters, huh? What do you think of that, Frank?" Joe asked.
"It still doesn't prove he's mixed up with the attacks on Ken," Frank said. "What do you know about Ivana Garova, Hans?"
"She's got great form, both on and off the slopes," Hans said with a shy smile. "I think half the guys who work here have a crush on her."
"But what do you know about her and Ken Gibson?" Frank pressed.
"I know they were together for a while. They've had more than one public argument," Hans said. He grinned mischievously. "I guess Ivana's got a bad temper to go with those good looks."
"Interesting," Frank observed, then abruptly changed the subject. "How about Antonio Morelli?"
Hans smiled. "Nice guy. He's a good shredder, one of the best. It's kind of strange, though ..."
"What's strange?" Frank asked eagerly.
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"That he uses such a thick board. Most shredders want flexibility, which you sure don't get with his."
"Maybe he wants greater stability," Frank suggested. "Not everyone who shreds is into acrobatics."
"Maybe and maybe not." Hans shrugged. "You want me to tell you what I know. Another thing," he added. "One of the bellboys told me Morelli always carries the board himself when he's checking in."
Frank nodded. "Well, thanks for the info, Hans. You've been a big help."
"Hey—anytime," Hans responded with a grin.
"It's been a long day," Frank said as he rose. "I think we'll just have some dinner in our room and crash early."
"I'm for that," Joe echoed. "I've been through so much today even my teeth are tired."
The Hardys returned to their room in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Frank wondered what a thick snowboard could have to do with Ken Gibson's troubles. He tried to concentrate, but his brain was groggy with fatigue.
"We've got a message," Joe said as they entered the room and saw the red light flashing on their phone.
Wearily Frank called down to the front desk for their message. "It's Inspector Kempf," he said after he hung up. "He wants us to call him ASAP."
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"Swell," Joe said, making a face. "That means we get to spend another couple of hours in that smoky hole Kempf calls an office while we answer his dumb questions."
"You're right," Frank replied. "Let's put him off as long as we can."
* * *
The next morning was sunny and cold, and the packed powder made for some fast boarding. Joe and Frank hit the slopes early, determined to stay out until they made progress on the case. They had only been out for fifteen minutes, though, when Frank said, "Uh-oh. We're being followed."
There were only a few other skiers on the slopes, so Frank was certain the solitary black-and-gray-clad skier was shadowing their every move.
"Who is it?" Joe asked.
"A skier in a dark ski suit. I think he's been on our tail for a while."
"What do you want to do about him?" Joe asked eagerly.
"Let's sandbag him. Then we can find out who he is," Frank suggested.
"Got any ideas how?"
Frank thought for a moment, then saw the chair lift that the workmen had been repairing. Some tools and equipment were piled under a tarp, and Frank's sharp eyes spotted a coil of rope. A devilish look flashed in his eyes as he
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answered. "I've got it. We'll trip him with that rope down there."
Joe grinned at his brother. "Frank, you're a genius."
With Joe keeping an eye behind them for their shadow, Frank shifted his weight to change course toward the pile of equipment. Fortunately, the rope was close enough that he could stretch his arms and grab it as he went past.
Joe caught up to him and asked, "Now what?"
"We shred downhill out of his sight and stretch this rope about ankle-high. When he comes over the hill, we stretch it taut and knock him off his feet."
As soon as the Hardys had passed out of their shadow's sight, they split up, dismounted their boards, and dropped flat to the ground.
A moment later the mystery skier appeared at the top of the hill. As he descended, Frank gave Joe a thumbs-up sign and they pulled the rope taut.
It worked perfectly! The stranger was down before he knew what hit him.
Joe reached him first. Frank saw him pounce on the stranger and kneel over his torso, pinning his arms to his side. As Frank ran over, he saw Joe pull off the man's ski mask. The Hardys were shocked to see it was the Gray Man!
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Chapter 9
"What are you doing here?" Joe demanded, helping the Gray Man to his feet.
"I've been keeping tabs on you," the Gray Man replied, brushing the snow off his gray-and- black nylon ski outfit. "But this time you got me. To be perfectly honest, I'd been counting on your activities to flush out the crooks who tried to kill my operative."
"What!" Frank and Joe shouted in unison.
Frank recovered from his surprise first. "Wait a minute," he said quickly. "Would your operative happen to be Ken Gibson?"
The Gray Man hesitated, then answered. "Yes. Ken is one of my men."
As Joe stared at the very ordinary-looking man before him, the Hardys' previous encounters 
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with the Network and the Gray Man came flooding back into Joe's mind. Hard to believe that this balding, middle-aged man was, in reality, a tough and shrewd secret agent who coordinated the worldwide activities of the Network, a top-secret intelligence agency.
The Gray Man had the eerie ability to blend in perfectly wherever he went, using only a few costume details for disguise. The Hardys hadn't seen him in many months, but Joe wasn't at all surprised to encounter him here in Austria. They never knew where he might turn up.
Joe fixed the older man with a hard stare. "Okay, level with us. What's going on? Our lives have been in danger here."
"This is neither the time nor the place to discuss that," the Gray Man replied sharply. "I'll meet you in your hotel room in half an hour. For now, I have things to do."
As Joe and Frank stared, the Gray Man used his ski poles to push off and zoom down the mountain. "Well, this sure puts everything in a different light," Joe said to Frank.
"Let's get down to the lodge," Frank said impatiently. "I want to see how much information we can squeeze out of that guy this time around."
Half an hour later Joe heard a quiet knock from inside his hotel room. As soon as the door was opened, the Gray Man checked the hall behind him and then closed and locked the door.
"As cautious as ever," Frank commented.
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Joe noticed that the Gray Man had a snub- nosed .44 in his hand, which he quickly returned to a holster inside his gray suitcoat. He had changed from his ski clothes into a conservative gray suit and black turtleneck.
"Caution is how I've managed to live to a ripe old age," the Gray Man retorted as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"So what's happening?" Joe said. "Fill us in."
"Very simply, the Network has been tracking a gang of counterfeiters," the Gray Man replied.
With a quick glance at Joe, Frank fished out the twenty-franc note they'd found hidden in Gibson's shaving kit. "Is this a counterfeit bill?" he asked, showing it to the secret agent.
The Gray Man took the note and examined it. "Yes, this is excellent quality, but worthless. Where did you get it?"
"What brought the Network to Graz?" Joe countered stubbornly.
The Gray Man looked at Joe for a long moment before answering. "Are you trying to bargain with me for information?"
"I guess I am," Joe retorted. "We already know that Ken made a dangerous enemy or enemies. If they're after Frank and me now, then we need to know exactly where we stand."
"I'm with Joe," Frank added. "Whoever tried to flatten us with that Sno-Cat wasn't kidding around."
The Gray Man thought for a moment before
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he answered. "Very well. Three weeks ago the local police investigated a wrecked car found two kilometers from here. The driver was dead, killed when his car skidded on some ice and went through a guardrail. Inside the trunk the police found a briefcase containing half a million dollars' worth of these counterfeit franc notes."
Joe whistled. "That's a lot of funny money," he commented.
"You're not kidding, brother," Frank echoed. "What happened then? Did you find out who the driver was?"
"No," the Gray Man replied. "We still don't know to this day. His fingerprints are not on file and his ID was forged."
"How about dental records?" Joe suggested.
The Gray Man shook his head. "We tried."
"What do you know about the rest of the gang?" Frank inquired thoughtfully.
"Nothing," the Gray Man admitted. "Our only lead was a room reservation at this resort, made in the name on his fake ID."
"Is that why Ken Gibson was sent here?" Joe asked.
"We felt that with his reputation as a top snowboarder, Ken could operate in this area without arousing the counterfeiters' suspicions," the Gray Man responded. "We hoped he could learn where the counterfeit bills were printed or how they were being moved from country to country."
"Well, he aroused someone's suspicions, or
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he wouldn't be unconscious in a hospital," Joe observed.
"We found that counterfeit note in Ken's stuff," Frank offered. "So Ken must have made some contact with the counterfeiters."
"Unfortunately, they seem to have detected him first," the Gray Man said. "He contacted me four days ago to inform me that his Network codebook was missing. That's how he knew his cover has been violated."
"Did you know Buck Warburton has connections with some Dutch gangsters?" Joe jumped in.
The Gray Man nodded. "Yes. He associates with gangsters from several countries and has, on occasion, done jobs for them."
"Like what?" Frank prodded.
"Like breaking the legs of people who were late with their loan repayments. He is not a very nice young man," the Gray Man commented in a dry voice.
"We have another piece of evidence you might be able to use," Frank said, pulling out the photos he had taken of the radio detonator.
But before he could hand them over, Joe reached over and took the photos himself. "Before we give you these, I want another piece of information," Joe said. "Tell us about Ivana Garova's connections with the KGB."
Joe watched the Gray Man's eyes narrow as he sized up the situation. "You two are tough
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negotiators. But all right. Garova used to be one of the KGB's top operatives."
"Was? What happened?" Frank asked quickly.
"She defected," the Gray Man replied. "Gibson was the Network agent assigned to help her get out of Russia. Now, the photographs, please."
Joe handed them to the Gray Man and was pleased to note the expression of interest that spread across the Gray Man's face. "Good work, boys," he said simply.
Joe felt a small glow of pride. He knew from past experience that the Gray Man did not pass out compliments freely.
"Do you think this piece of Russian hardware points the case toward Ivana?" Frank asked.
The Gray Man looked at Frank. "This detonator is not enough of a connection. Are you aware of how many tons of arms the Soviet government sells abroad?"
"Sure." Frank nodded, looking disappointed. 'I've read that selling weapons is one of the Russian government's main sources of foreign exchange."
Joe scowled. "I was starting to think that might be a good lead."
The Gray Man tapped his left palm with the eight by ten photos and nodded thoughtfully. "These may still be very useful to us. I'll try to trace the serial number. There's a possibility I can learn who purchased it."
"Wait a minute," Joe said excitedly. "This is all starting to make sense to me. I read a book
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once about some KGB spies who ran a massive counterfeiting operation during the fifties, trying to flood Europe with funny money. Maybe Garova only pretended to defect so she could set up this counterfeiting gang."
"That is a possibility, Joe," the Gray Man agreed. "Of course, she knew Ken was a Network agent."
"We don't know how much she knew about his current assignment," Joe said.
"We know Ken and Ivana were supposed to be married at one point," Frank offered. "She would have had plenty of opportunities to search his stuff and find the codebook."
For just a second Joe thought the Gray Man looked startled. "You two have certainly done your homework," he said approvingly. "Perhaps you could assist me in one other aspect of this investigation."
"Sure," Joe said eagerly. "Just name it."
"I have already searched Ms. Garova's room and found nothing," the Gray Man informed them. "If she does have the codebook, she must have it on her person. Since she already knows you two as Ken's friends, perhaps you could approach her without arousing her suspicions."
"Sure, but how can we get the codebook off her if we do find it on her?" Frank asked.
"I will leave that up to you," the Gray Man said as he rose and went to the door. "Here's a phone number at which messages can be left for me over the next few days. Good luck, boys."
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He jotted the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Joe. Then he opened the door, checked up and down the hall, and slipped out, quietly closing the door behind him.
"Hans has been keeping an eye out for Ivana. Let's see if he's seen her around," Joe said as he grabbed the phone.
A few minutes later the hotel operator put him through to the gondola operator's booth where Hans worked, and Joe heard Hans's friendly voice coming over the line.
"Hey, I'm glad you called," Hans said. "I saw Ivana a little while ago. I knew you guys would be interested, so I asked her where she was going."
"Don't let anyone know we're interested, Hans," Joe said. "This is kind of confidential."
"No problem, guys," Hans said. "Anyway, she told me she hurt her knee out on the slopes and was headed for the hot tub to soak it."
"Good going," Joe said. "We'll be in touch later." Hanging up the phone, he turned to Frank. "Hans said she's headed for the hot tub. Do you know where that is?"
"Sure do," Frank said, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.
Joe followed his brother up a flight of circular stairs toward the gym on the top floor of the lodge's recreational center. The room was full of exercise machines and weights. Frank pushed through the big swinging double doors and on to a smaller room off the gym. Joe slowed down to
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get a look at the equipment. He was startled when he heard his brother cry out in surprise.
Joe burst through the doors and saw Frank pulling Ivana, in her bathing suit, out of the hot tub. She was unconscious.
"She was underwater when I came through the doors," Frank called. "Search the gym!"
Joe looked everywhere, but the gym was deserted. He returned to the hot tub room, where Frank was leaning over Ivana. "How is she?"
"I think she's been hit on the head," Frank answered. "Did you see anyone?"
"No. Whoever it was must have heard us coming," Joe replied. "But look." He pointed at Ivana's clothes, strewn across the floor near the tub. The zippered pockets on her parka were all open, and the pockets on her pants were pulled inside out.
"It looks like we interrupted someone going through her stuff," Joe said. He grabbed her parka off the floor. "Maybe we can find whatever he was looking for."
Joe felt carefully all along the coat's lining. "Hey, Frank, I think I found it," he called out excitedly. Pulling out his pocketknife, Joe ripped open the lining of Ivana's parka.
A small book with a blue plastic cover fell out onto the ground. Joe snatched it up and opened it. The pages were covered with columns of tiny numbers and letters. It was Ken Gibson's missing codebook!
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Chapter 10
While Joe flipped through the codebook, Frank focused his attention on Ivana Garova. He had laid her unconscious form on the slatted wooden floor of the hot tub room.
"This isn't good," Frank muttered to himself, wishing he knew how long Ivana's head had been under the steaming water. He paid careful attention to her breathing, worriedly noting that it was slow and shallow.
Frank probed her wrist with his fingers, searching for her pulse. He pressed down hard and found a weak, irregular beat.
Suddenly the unsteady rise and fall of her chest stopped. "Joe, call the resort's first-aid team!" Frank said quickly.
"I'll be back with help as soon as I can,"
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Joe called out just before the door slammed shut behind him.
Knowing that his actions in the next few minutes could mean the difference between life and death for Ivana, Frank bent her head back slightly. Next, he opened her mouth and, leaning down to her, began giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He worked methodically, turning his head after each breath to see if her chest was rising and falling on its own.
Frank lost all track of time as he concentrated on getting Ivana to breathe on her own. It was with a huge feeling of relief that he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and the door of the hot tub room open.
"They're on their way," Joe said breathlessly.
A moment later three members of the first-aid team dressed in ski clothes burst through the door.
"We'll take over," a tall, dark-haired medic said briskly as he opened his medical bag and withdrew a device that looked to Frank like a small black football attached to an oxygen mask. As Frank stood up, he saw the medic fit the oxygen mask over Ivana's nose and mouth and begin pumping the black ball.
"Hey," one of the medics said in an Austrian accent, squinting at Joe. "Aren't you the kid who dug Ken Gibson out of the snow?"
"That was me," Joe replied.
"You get around," the medic said as he bent
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over Ivana and started to examine her. "How did this happen?"
"We just came in and found her over here," Frank answered. "She was underwater, and I think there's a lump on the back of her head."
The tall medic gently felt the back of her head. "You're right. This may not have been an accident."
"We have reasons to believe it wasn't," Frank commented.
The tall man looked for a moment at Frank and Joe, as if sizing them up, then pulled a large walkie-talkie out of a holster on his hip and spoke a few terse sentences in German. Then he listened carefully to the reply.
Turning back to Frank and Joe, he said, "An ambulance is on its way, and so are the police. Inspector Kempf wants you two to stay right here until he arrives. I will wait here, also."
"Oh, great," Frank said quietly to Joe. "There goes our morning."
Frank admired the medics' work as they swiftly got Ivana breathing again and put a cold compress on the lump on her head. A message crackled over the tall medic's walkie-talkie, signaling the ambulance's arrival. Frank watched as the medics lifted Ivana onto a stretcher, carefully strapped her in, then carried her down the winding stairs.
As soon as the stretcher disappeared, Frank heard heavy footsteps and labored breathing coming up the stairs. The doors opened and
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Inspector Kempf came through, wearing a dark overcoat. He heaved a heavy sigh. Frank could tell from the irritated expression on his plump face that Kempf was not pleased to see the Hardys, either.
He greeted the medic in German and questioned him for a few minutes, scribbling in a small notebook he had pulled from the pocket of his heavy tweed overcoat.
Frank knew only enough German to understand the inspector's goodbye to the medic. The young man gave a brief wave to the Hardys as he left the gym.
"I thought I made it very clear that you two were to stay out of police business," the inspector said in an aggravated tone after the medic had left.
"We just happened to wander in," Joe replied.
"Somehow I doubt that," the inspector said skeptically. "You two have popped up in too many trouble spots lately. It is against department policy to give out any information on an ongoing investigation, but perhaps I can convince you that this is a serious matter, one that you should stay out of. The fingerprints you took off the Sno-Cat match a fragment of the fingerprints we were able to retrieve from a piece of the light bulb that exploded in Herr Gibson's room."
Frank saw Joe start to open his mouth to ask a question, and he quickly cut him off. "Okay,
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Inspector," he said as he glared at Joe to be quiet. "We'll stay out of it."
"I hope so," the inspector said as he slipped his notebook in his pocket and left the gym.
As soon as he was gone, Joe turned to his brother. "What's the big idea?" he demanded. "You're not really thinking about giving up the investigation?"
"No way," Frank replied. "I just didn't want to spend all morning tied up with Kempf. Ivana had the codebook, so we know she's involved. But who tried to take it from her?"
"If we're on the right track, it must have been either Warburton or Morelli," Joe said. "And I think we should concentrate on Warburton."
"Agreed," Frank replied. "I'll search his room, and you try to find out where he was this morning. Do you have the codebook?"
"Yes," Joe replied. "I slipped it into my boot before the medics arrived. We've got to get it to the Gray Man."
"I'll take it," Frank offered. "I'll call that contact number he left us."
Joe pulled the notebook out of his boot and handed it over to Frank. "Okay. I'll head back to our room to get your camera and telephoto lens. After what happened with Warburton yesterday, I don't want to get any closer to him than I have to."
"Good," Frank told him approvingly. "Now you're talking sense."
"Hey, Frank, I just thought of something,"
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Joe interrupted. "Did you pack that little parabolic mike of yours?"
"Of course," Frank assured him. "I never know when I might need to do a little discreet eavesdropping. It's in the side pocket of my big camera bag."
"Great," Joe replied excitedly. "Let's get to work."
* * *
Frank spotted a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the knob of Warburton's room. First he knocked loudly to assure himself that no one was inside. Then, checking to be sure he was alone in the hall, he set to work picking the lock.
A few minutes later Frank stepped inside. The room looked messy, as if it hadn't been cleaned in days. The bed was unmade, and open suitcases were piled on all the furniture, with clothes spilling out over the floor. Room service trays piled with dirty dishes lay on top of every available flat surface.
Frank set to sifting through Warburton's possessions, eager to find anything that might implicate him in either the counterfeiting scheme or the attempts on Ken's life.
* * *
Meanwhile, far up in the hills above the lodge, Joe Hardy crouched behind a snowbank, pointing the parabolic mike's white dish-shaped antenna at Buck Warburton and a tough-looking companion. Warburton held his snowboard under his arm, and the other man was on skis.
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Moments before, Joe had taken some photos in which both men's faces showed clearly.
Boy, this surveillance is really paying off, Joe told himself with satisfaction. Warburton's led me right to his contacts. Now, if I can just catch them discussing the counterfeiting operation, we'll have them cornered.
But to Joe's disappointment, Warburton and his squat, bald cohort talked about only one thing. The stranger insisted that Warburton owed him a lot of money and wanted to know when he would be paid.
"What about that job I did for you guys?" Warburton said. "I thought that would square us."
"Not enough!" the short man replied, anger flashing in his dark eyes. "You owe me too much money, Buck. Pay what you owe, or you'll have to do a lot more jobs."
"Hey, Joe, what are you doing?" a cheery voice called from behind him.
Startled, Joe whirled and saw Andrea Wells on skis, at the top of a mogul above him.
Joe frantically tried to wave her off, but it was too late. They'd been spotted by Warburton and his companion.
"Who is that?" the short man shouted, his thick eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
"It's that nosy kid and a reporter!" Warburton yelled.
"They've been spying on us. The kid's got a mike," the stranger growled. "Let's get them!"
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To Joe's horror, Warburton began charging up the hill toward them. His companion lagged behind, not able to climb up the hill easily on skis.
"Andrea, get out of here, fast!" Joe told her.
Andrea's face paled with fear, but she looked determined. "Where to?" she asked.
Joe looked around for an escape route. Warburton was closing fast, blocking the slope directly below them. The only other way down was a steep incline to the right of the trail that ran along the edge of a cliff overhanging a valley hundreds of feet deep. It was a risky escape route, Joe realized, but it was the only one left open to them.
"Follow me," Joe said as he strapped his boots into his snowboard bindings and set off down the incline. Andrea Wells trailed right behind him.
"They're getting away!" Joe heard the bald man scream. "You've got your snowboard—go after them!"
Joe sped down the narrow slope as fast as he dared, the deep valley yawning open only inches to his left. He was determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and Andrea and their grim-faced pursuer.
Suddenly Andrea's shrill scream cut the air. Joe turned his head just in time to see Warburton elbow Andrea in the ribs, knocking her off- balance so that she slammed into Joe.
Joe fought to keep his balance, but Andrea's
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skis had jammed under his board, and her full weight was thrown on top of him. There was no way to stop or turn as they zoomed toward the cliff's edge.
Joe's ears were filled with Andrea's scream as they both hurtled off into space.
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Chapter 11
Panic flashed through Joe's mind as he and Andrea tumbled over the sharp cliff edge. With Andrea's terrified scream ringing in his ears, Joe concentrated on a wide ledge heaped with snow directly below them.
A tense second later Joe and Andrea slammed into the mounds of snow on the ledge with stunning force. Andrea yelled with pain as they hit, and one of her skis flew off into space. Both Joe and Andrea lay flat on their backs, stunned from the impact of their fall and amazed that they were still alive.
"Are you okay?" Joe whispered.
"My ankle!" Andrea gasped through gritted teeth. "I think it's broken."
Joe listened intently for any sound from above
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them, and Warburton's voice came floating down. "They went over the edge. Let's get out of here, Otto."
Joe motioned to Andrea to stay quiet. After a few minutes of silence he decided Warburton and his associate must have left. "I'm going to risk calling for help," Joe announced.
For several minutes Joe and Andrea called out at the tops of their lungs, but there was no response.
Despite Andrea's injury, Joe realized that they had been very lucky. The snow had cushioned their impact and saved them. If they had landed another two feet to the side, they would have plunged to their deaths in the abyss. Joe leaned over slightly and peered down into the depths below, trying to judge the distance. It was probably about five hundred yards straight down to a valley filled with jagged boulders.
Joe then turned his attention to the sloping cliff above them. Luckily, the rock face wasn't covered with ice. Joe saw several wide cracks in the rock that would provide just enough of a handhold or foothold to climb back up. Joe calculated the distance and figured he'd have to climb about one hundred yards to get to the top of the cliff they'd fallen from. His flexible snowboarding boots weren't the best footwear for rock climbing, Joe realized, but they'd have to do.
"There's no going down," Joe said to Andrea. "I'll have to climb that cliff."
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"What about me?" Andrea asked. "I couldn't climb that cliff even with two good ankles."
"I'll bring back help," Joe said, taking off his parka. "Wrap this around your legs. It'll keep your feet warm."
"Won't you be cold?" Andrea asked with concern.
"I'll be fine. Rock climbing always makes me work up a sweat," he said with a smile. "Wish me luck."
Joe turned all his attention to the rock face before him, plotting the best route to the top. One of the cracks cut diagonally across the rock from the ledge they were on almost to the top. He decided to use that for a foothold and stepped up, wedging his toes into the crack. With his fingers he felt over the rock face above his head and found a jutting piece of rock just big enough to hold on to. Pulling himself up with his arms, he wedged his other foot into the crack. I'm on my way, he thought.
For half an hour Joe made his way slowly up the cliff face, carefully finding a new hold for one hand or one foot at a time. Finally the top of the cliff was within reach, and Joe heaved himself over the top.
"Andrea," he called over the edge, "I'm at the top. I'll be back soon with help."
"I'll be right here," she called back.
Only twenty minutes later Joe was riding the rescue team's Sno-Cat toward the spot where he
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and Andrea went over. The team set up a sling and attached it to a small winch on the Sno-Cat.
Joe watched as one of the team put a safety line around his ankle and peered down over the side of the cliff.
"Are you okay, miss?" the medic called down to Andrea. "Can you get into the sling by yourself?"
"I think so." Her voice floated up to Joe's ears.
"Use your hands to keep yourself away from the cliff," the medic called down. "We're going to winch you up slowly."
It was only a few more minutes before Joe saw Andrea's relieved face appear over the side of the cliff. The rescue team gently pulled her up onto the ground, and Joe saw that she had brought up his snowboard.
"Andrea, I'm glad you're okay," Joe said, rushing to her side as the rescue team helped her into the Sno-Cat. "Thanks for bringing up my board."
"It was the least I could do," Andrea replied with a grateful smile. Then she leaned over and whispered into his ear, "Now, get back to your investigation. I'll tell the police what happened with Warburton."
* * *
When Joe arrived back at his hotel room, Frank and the Gray Man were already there. "Joe, where've you been?" Frank asked.
"Having the adventure of a lifetime." Joe
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sighed as he sank into an armchair. He saw a tray with an insulated pitcher of coffee and a platter of sandwiches, and his tired face lit up. "Hey, is that coffee hot? I sure could use a cup."
Frank handed him a steaming cup of black coffee, and Joe drank it gratefully.
"Tell us what happened," Frank prodded.
Joe reached for a sandwich before answering. "I was spying on Warburton and this goon friend of his when Andrea came up behind me and blew my surveillance. Warburton chased us and knocked us off a cliff."
The Gray Man's eyes widened with interest.
"Luckily, there was a snow-covered ledge jutting out below the cliff, and we landed on that," Joe continued. "Unfortunately, Andrea hurt her ankle."
"How'd you get off the ledge?" Frank asked.
"I climbed up the cliff face," Joe answered. "Boy, am I tired and hungry."
"Are you too tired to hear what I found out about Ms. Garova?" the Gray Man asked.
Despite his fatigue, Joe felt a surge of curiosity as he asked, "What?"
"I checked with my own intelligence people and Interpol, and no one believes Ms. Garova's still with the KGB," the Gray Man said.
"Why not?" Joe inquired.
The Gray Man sighed. Joe knew he hated to give out any more information than he considered absolutely necessary. Joe gave the Gray
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Man a hard look, and the secret agent finally answered.
"Because when Garova defected to the U.S.A., she brought with her a lot of very detailed information about KGB spy rings all over Western Europe," he replied. "She can never go back to the Soviet Union."
"If Ivana's no longer with the KGB, then what was she doing with that codebook?" Frank asked.
"And who tried to take it from her?" Joe added.
"If you solve those mysteries, I think you'll know who tried to kill Gibson," the Gray Man answered. "Who are your main suspects now?"
"With Ivana out of the picture, the only logical ones are Warburton and Morelli," Frank offered thoughtfully.
Joe dug into the front pocket of his ski jacket and fished out a roll of film. He tossed it to the Gray Man, saying, "I've got some photos of Warburton and his crony that could break this case. Develop this film and see if you can identify the other guy."
"Did they say anything about counterfeiting?" the Gray Man asked quickly.
"No," Joe admitted. "But I heard Warburton say something about some jobs he'd done for the guy's organization."
"I'll get right at developing these," the Gray Man assured him. "The resort has a darkroom I can use. Then I can fax the photos to our central 
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office for an ID on the second man. Now I must be going. We'll speak again soon."
Joe opened the door, and the Gray Man slipped out into the hall.
Joe turned to Frank. "What did you find in Warburton's room?"
"Nothing but a big mess," Frank replied with a defeated sigh.
"Hans seems to know everything that goes on at this resort," Joe suggested. "Let's see if he can account for Warburton's and Morelli's whereabouts at the time Ivana was attacked."
Joe and Frank went directly to the small lift operator's hut at the base of the resort's main ski slope, where they found Hans on duty. Two of the other teens they'd met at the employee canteen were hanging around, visiting with Hans. Hans introduced them as Erich and Berndt.
"What's shaking, guys?" Hans asked after introducing his companions.
"Nothing right now, Hans," Joe said. "We were just wondering if you or your friends saw either Morelli or Warburton anywhere at about ten o'clock this morning."
Hans turned to his co-workers and questioned them in German. Joe heard the teens mention both men's names as they answered.
"Berndt says Morelli went up one of the mountain slopes that has been closed all winter, and nobody's seen him come down," Hans told them.
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"Berndt, what time did he leave?" Frank asked as Hans translated.
Through Hans, Berndt responded that it had been about eight o'clock.
"Erich says he knows just where Buck Warburton was at ten o'clock," Hans informed them. "Erich was on duty at the front desk when the manager called Warburton down to talk about his bill. Erich says he hasn't paid or left a deposit. Apparently, there was quite a scene."
"Where'd he go after that?" Joe asked.
Hans spoke quickly to Erich before answering. "Erich says he got a phone call that was switched down to the front desk. He doesn't understand enough English to know what happened on the phone, but he says Buck was very upset. He left from there, and Erich says he could see him through the window headed straight up the mountain."
"Thanks, guys," Joe said to the group. "You've been a big help."
After promising to join Hans later for a few games of pool at the lodge, Frank and Joe left the hut. "So what do you think?" Joe asked as they wandered back toward the lodge. It was quite cold out, and Joe blew into his gloves to warm his face.
"I think it's time to take a minute to put everything in perspective."
"I agree," Joe replied as they walked toward the lodge. "What Hans and his friends just told
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us about Warburton's whereabouts puts him in the clear as far as conking Ivana on the head."
"Yeah," Frank said. "So why did Warburton try to kill you and Andrea if he's not involved with this counterfeiting ring?"
Joe and Frank walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Joe snapped his fingers as an idea came to him. "I think I've got it," he said.
"What?" Frank prodded.
"Maybe Warburton's involved with another bunch of gangsters who have nothing to do with the counterfeiters, and Andrea and I just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Okay," Frank said thoughtfully. Joe could tell his brother was considering all the implications of what he'd just said. "If that's so, then the only reasonable suspect we have left is—"
"Antonio Morelli!" Joe finished his sentence. 
"But wait a minute," Frank said. "Didn't Berndt say that Morelli was up on a closed ski slope?"
"Yeah, but if Morelli went up at eight o'clock, he would have had time to get back by ten," Joe pointed out. "Maybe he only went out far enough to drop from sight, then sneaked back to the resort so he could go after Ivana."
"That makes sense." There was an edge of excitement in Frank's voice. "If everybody thought Morelli was out on the slopes, he'd have a perfect alibi in case anybody tried to connect
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him with Ivana's 'accidental' drowning in the resort's hot tub."
"Keep talking," Joe told him as they began walking again. "This is all starting to come together."
"Let's see," Frank said. "If it was Morelli, then he must have known Ivana had Ken's codebook."
"But how did Ivana get Ken's codebook?" Joe asked in a puzzled voice.
"Maybe she stole it from Morelli, who stole it from Ken," Frank speculated, adding, "She was an ex-KGB agent. Maybe she used her old spying skills to find out who'd tried to kill her boyfriend, and found the codebook in Morelli's room or somewhere."
"That's pretty good," Joe commented approvingly. "Of course, it's all speculation until we can get Ivana or someone else to confirm it."
Their conversation had carried them to a row of huts styled to look like old-fashioned chalets, which housed the resort's facilities for renting skis, boots, and other equipment. As Joe rounded the corner of one of the huts, he had a clear view of the main lodge's front entrance.
What he saw made Joe stop in his tracks. He elbowed Frank in the ribs and pointed at the entrance to the lodge.
Coming through the lodge's wide plate-glass doors was Inspector Kempf, followed by a pair of uniformed Austrian policemen flanking a handcuffed prisoner. The prisoner was Buck Warburton.
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Chapter 12
Frank and Joe ran up to the Austrian police cruiser, a four-wheel-drive vehicle with wire mesh covering the rear windows. Two uniformed police officers put a sullen-faced Buck Warburton into the back of the cruiser with his hands cuffed behind his back. Frank saw him glare at Joe.
Inspector Kempf, who was directing the two policemen, greeted the Hardys with an expression of interest.
"So you bagged Warburton. Congratulations," Frank told him.
"Danke," Kempf responded, looking pleased.
His expression turned to one of annoyance as Joe asked, "How did you capture him?"
"That is a police matter," Kempf snapped
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automatically, then shrugged. "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to tell you this much. After Frâulein Wells told me about the attack, I alerted the resort staff to watch for Warburton. One of the bellmen saw him sneaking into his room and called me. We caught the ruffian trying to slip out a service entrance near the kitchen."
Thinking quickly, Frank asked, "Was he with anyone?"
Frank saw Kempf's eyes narrow, and he hesitated before answering, "No. Warburton was alone."
"If you can match Warburton's fingerprints to the prints from the light bulb fragments and the Sno-Cat, you'll have him on a charge of attempted murder," Joe suggested eagerly.
Kempf looked at Joe coldly. "You do not have to tell me my job, Herr Hardy."
"I was just trying to help," Joe said.
"You can help by coming down to my office right away and making a statement about the incident with Herr Warburton," Kempf replied.
"He'll be right down," Frank stated, ignoring a glare from Joe.
"As soon as possible," Kempf ordered. "There are many forms to fill out."
Joe rolled his eyes and sighed. "Could I get a ride with you, Inspector?"
Kempf shook his head. "No. Since we have a prisoner in the car, regulations forbid transporting anyone else. You will have to find your own way down the mountain."
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With those words Kempf climbed into the front passenger seat of the police cruiser and signaled for the driver to go. Frank could see Warburton slumped in the backseat, staring at the floor.
As they watched Kempf drive off toward the road to Graz, Joe looked at his brother and made a sour face. "Great," he said sarcastically. "That square-headed Austrian cop will keep me cooped up for hours. And you know how much I love filling out forms."
"Put up with it, Joe," Frank said. "We may need all the help Kempf can give us to smash this counterfeiting ring. Besides, while you're down there, at least the best of us will still be out investigating."
"Thanks, Frank. That makes me feel a whole lot better," Joe replied.
Then he turned serious again. "We've got one suspect left—Morelli. I want to go after him."
"It's got to be Morelli," Frank agreed. "He was the only other person here who was around Gibson during one or more of the attempts on his life."
"But why would Morelli be involved with counterfeiters?" Joe wondered. "From what I read in the snowboarding mags, he's just a playboy from a rich family. He seems like too much of a party guy to be involved in something as serious as counterfeiting and attempted murder."
"Hans mentioned that he disappears for long periods of time," Frank said thoughtfully.
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"Well, yeah," Joe admitted. "And he wasn't too helpful about the spool episode, even though he was all buddy-buddy with Ken right afterward. In fact, now that I've had more time to think about it, it did seem kind of weird the way he was staring at his watch when Ken got buried under the snow," Joe added.
"Well, while you're dealing with Kempf, I'll dig up anything I can on Morelli," Frank told him. "I think a thorough search of Morelli's room is long overdue."
"I'd better arrange for a taxi down to Graz so I can give Kempf my statement," Joe said. Frank could see the reluctance written on his brother's face.
"Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "If you get too bored, try reviewing the multiplication tables in your head or something."
"I'll keep that in mind," Joe said with a crooked grin. "See you later." He flashed Frank a brief thumbs-up sign, then turned and headed for the taxi stand.
* * *
Proceeding in his usual methodical manner, Frank first went down to the lodge's main desk and asked if Antonio Morelli was still registered there.
"Yes, he is, Herr Hardy," the dapper clerk assured him in excellent English. "Would you like to leave him a message?"
"No, that's okay," Frank replied. "Is he in the lodge now?"
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"I have not seen him for over a day," the clerk told him, politely adding, "Will that be all?"
"Yes, thanks," Frank replied as he turned away.
Next, Frank tracked down the chambermaid who normally cleaned the rooms on the floor where Morelli was staying.
The maid, a middle-aged woman, spoke some English, and between Frank's electronic translator and the few words of German he knew, he was able to make himself understood.
The maid said she hadn't seen Morelli around for over a day, and he had left strict orders that his room was not to be disturbed.
"Has Morelli stayed at the lodge before?" Frank asked in halting German after calling up the right words on the translator.
"Ja, ja," the chambermaid told him, smiling broadly as she told Frank what a nice man Morelli was, always so polite and such a good tipper. Frank took her hint and handed the woman twenty marks before asking his next question.
"Does he always stay away for several days?" Frank asked.
She shrugged. "Sometimes more, sometimes less. He comes and goes, at all hours of the day or night."
Frank questioned her for another few minutes but learned nothing else of any substance. He thanked her, and the chambermaid replied with
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a polite "Danke," then went back to her work, pushing her wheeled cart of cleaning supplies down the hallway.
Frank's last stop was at the ski lift operator's hut, where he hoped to find Hans still on duty.
"What are you doing back here so soon?" Hans asked.
"I need another favor, Hans," Frank told him.
Hans's eyes gleamed with interest. "Tell me what you need. You can count on me."
"Put the word out to all the other shredders who work here to leave a message at my room if anybody sees Morelli. I want to know where he goes and who he's seen with."
"Sure, but why?" Hans asked in surprise.
"Maybe I can tell you when this is all wrapped up," Frank said seriously. "But for now, you'll just have to trust me."
As Frank left the lift operator's hut and walked back toward the lodge, he turned and saw through the window that Hans was already talking on the resort's intercom, which was connected with every ski lift, shop, restaurant, and ski patrol hut in the sprawling resort complex.
Figuring he had done all he could to keep tabs on Morelli's movements for the present, Frank decided to return to his room and call the Gray Man to see what he had learned about Morelli. He glanced at his watch and guessed that Joe was probably just arriving at Inspector Kempf's office.
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Frank returned to his hotel room and was surprised to find the Gray Man already inside, hard at work on the Hardys' laptop computer, whose modem was hooked up to the phone.
"Glad to see you had no trouble getting in," Frank said dryly. "What did you find out?"
"A great deal," the Gray Man replied. "The Morelli family's construction company is one of the biggest in Italy. After I did some checking on Morelli Construction I found that the company has lost some of its luster."
"What do you mean?" Frank asked.
"The company was doing well until they built a bridge in northern Italy—one of the longest suspension bridges in Europe," the Gray Man said, speaking briskly. "Unfortunately, the company cut too many corners in the bridge's construction. Possibly the concrete was second-rate or the steel reinforcing bars were inferior. At any rate, the bridge collapsed during a storm last year, and thirty-three people were killed."
"That's terrible," Frank said.
"A government board of inquiry laid the blame squarely on Morelli Construction, and the resulting lawsuits and government fines have driven the company into bankruptcy," the Gray Man finished.
"Then we've got a motive for Morelli working with counterfeiters," Frank said, growing excited.
"Yes, we do," the Gray Man said calmly. "It's clear to me that Morelli's back is to the
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wall. His family's ownership of their business is hanging by a thread."
"I'm on my way to search his room now," Frank informed the Gray Man.
Frank took the precaution of calling Morelli's room first to make sure it was unoccupied. After the phone rang ten times with no answer, Frank was satisfied that it was safe to go over.
Frank quietly walked down the hall to Morelli's room. He cast a quick glance in either direction to be certain he was alone and then began picking the lock. It took almost a minute before he heard the tumblers click into place and he could push the door open.
Frank was surprised to see Morelli's custom snowboard leaning against one wall. No one had seen Morelli come into the hotel today. Apparently, the Italian was able to slip in and out without being noticed.
Frank was struck again by how different Morelli's snowboard looked from any of the others he'd seen. "I don't see how he can move so fast with such an inflexible board," he muttered to himself.
Frank put the snowboard aside and began looking through Morelli's possessions, trying to leave no traces of his search. He noted that Morelli had a heavy winter parka with a fur-trimmed hood lying on the bed, along with some thick fur-lined gloves, yellow snow goggles, and other outdoor gear. He also saw a pair of snowshoes on the floor beside the bed. Frank was just reaching 
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for Morelli's backpack when his sharp hearing detected a creaking board outside in the hall. He looked over at the door with an expression of surprise. To Frank's horror, he saw that someone was twisting the doorknob. He heard a key go into the lock and knew it had to be Morelli.
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Chapter 13
Frank's pulse pounded as he watched the doorknob twist. He noticed a flicker of movement under the door. Quickly scanning the small room for any way out, his eye fell on the bathroom door. Remembering the wide window in his own hotel room's bathroom, Frank slipped over to it and noiselessly closed the door.
Frank hoped he'd have enough time to climb out the window. He gingerly unlatched the window, careful not to make any noise.
Forcing himself to move with caution, Frank stood on the edge of the tub and threw the window wide open. Then he scrambled up on the windowsill and eased through.
Hanging by his fingers from the windowsill, Frank risked a look below. The room was on
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the second floor, but he saw that a mound of snow had been pushed off a path and piled against the building.
Frank knew he had no time to lose, so he let go, hoping there wasn't anything under the snow. He landed hard and lost his balance, falling backward into the snowbank. Then he rose and silently went through an outer door that led into the hotel.
* * *
Joe was having problems of his own at the police station in Graz.
"Look, Inspector, I've waited for over an hour for you to get around to interrogating me. I've also already told you everything I know about the attack on Andrea and me," Joe said in exasperation. "Now, how about giving me a little information?"
Kempf's round, mustached face showed no reaction. He puffed on his cigarette as he looked over his notes from his earlier interrogation of Warburton.
He's sure taking his time, Joe thought as he waited for the rotund Austrian policeman to respond. For the hundredth time that night he looked around Kempf's cheerless, gray-walled office and wished he were somewhere else.
"Very well." Kempf's head snapped up, and Joe found himself looking into the man's narrow blue eyes. "You may ask one question," Kempf said slowly in heavily accented English.
"Great," Joe said immediately. "Did you take
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Warburton's fingerprints yet? Did they match the prints from the light bulb fragment and the Sno-Cat?"
Heaving a weary sigh, Kempf shuffled through some official-looking forms stacked on his desk. He read over them for what seemed to Joe like a very long time before looking up.
"According to the preliminary analysis of Herr Warburton's fingerprints, they do not match the prints found at the other crime scenes."
Suddenly the fax machine on Kempf's desk bleeped several times, signaling an incoming message. Kempf picked up the receiver and spoke a few words of German. Then he hit a switch on the side of the fax machine, and it began rolling out a long sheet of paper.
Curious to see what it was, Joe stood up and made his way around to the other side of Kempf's desk. Engrossed in looking over the fax that had just come in, Kempf did not immediately notice that Joe was looking over his shoulder.
Joe saw a short message in German that he couldn't read, though he noticed with interest that it bore the logo of Interpol, the international police agency. Joe's sharp eyes also picked Buck Warburton's name out of the message in several places.
Then Joe gasped in surprise. He saw a photo of Warburton and his crony that must have come from the roll of film he had given to the Gray
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Man to develop. The Network must have passed the photos to Interpol.
"Ah-hem!" Kempf cleared his throat loudly, giving Joe a sharp look over his shoulder.
But then the old man relented. "Actually, in this particular case, you are supposed to see this photo," Kempf told Joe, his expression softening slightly.
He showed Joe the faxed photo of Warburton and the short bald man. "Does the other man look familiar, Herr Hardy?" Kempf asked.
"Absolutely," Joe told Kempf, pointing at Warburton's tough-looking companion. "That's the man who told Warburton to go after us. I'm positive."
"Excellent." Kempf smiled, his blue eyes gleaming. "I shall have Frâulein Wells confirm the ID." Kempf reached for his hat and overcoat, which were piled on a chair next to his desk.
"Before you go, can you tell me what Interpol said about Warburton?" Joe asked, planting himself in Kempf's path.
"It was a request to extradite Warburton to Amsterdam in connection with some assaults he committed there for a loan-sharking gang," Kempf said offhandedly as he buttoned up his overcoat. "Now, I have no more time for questions, Herr Hardy. Please step aside."
"Sure," Joe said agreeably. "Then I guess I'm free to go?"
Kempf nodded. "Ja—however, I may need to
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speak to you again," Kempf said, holding up a pudgy finger. "So do not leave the resort."
"Don't worry," Joe assured him. "We're not going anywhere." At least until Frank and I solve this case, Joe thought to himself.
Joe hurriedly left the grim two-story police station. He stood on the sidewalk gratefully drawing in big lungfuls of the cold, crisp mountain air.
"Man, it was stuffy in there," Joe said to himself. "Kempf must have smoked twenty cigarettes. Blechh!"
Spotting a taxi idling along the curb fifty feet down the street, Joe trotted over to it and hopped in, and twenty minutes later climbed out in front of the lodge.
As he opened the door of their hotel room, Joe saw Frank putting on his ski jacket and picking up a backpack stuffed with his camera, parabolic, mike, translator, and other surveillance gear.
"I know that look, Frank," Joe said eagerly. "Where are we headed?"
"Out to do a little spying," Frank answered. "And there's no time to lose. Grab your board and come on."
"So what did you and the Gray Man find out?" Joe demanded as he followed Frank down the hall to the elevator.
"We learned that Morelli's family business is in deep trouble and figured he might be desperate enough to do anything for cash. I told Hans
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to alert the other shredders who work here to keep an eye peeled for Morelli. One of them spotted him going up the mountain. He could be headed for a meeting with the counterfeiters."
"Are we going to try and catch him in the act?" Joe asked..
"Yes, but we're just going to get pictures and maybe a tape recording of their conversation through the parabolic mike," Frank said. "The Gray Man insisted we let the cops pick them up."
"Aw, what a bunch of spoilsports," Joe said. The elevator arrived, and he and Frank stepped inside.
"Joe, these guys are dangerous," Frank told him as the doors slid shut. "They've already tried to kill more than once. They play for keeps."
Once downstairs they hurried outside. As they walked over to the gondolas, Joe filled Frank in on what had happened in Kempf's office.
When they arrived at the operator's hut, they found Hans there, sitting by the intercom. "Hi, guys," Hans said, flashing them a tired-looking grin. "I'm in touch with the night ski patrollers. Berndt spotted Morelli heading for the toughest slope on the northeast face of the mountain, the one we call the Killer."
"How much of a head start did Morelli have?" Frank inquired.
"Five, maybe ten minutes," Hans calculated. "You can catch him if you hurry. Ride the main
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lift all the way to the top of the mountain, then take the trail to your left and go about half a kilometer."
They followed Hans's directions and found themselves shredding down a steep trail at a reckless speed. The trail soon flattened out, and to Joe's relief, their speed slackened somewhat.
Suddenly Frank signaled for his brother to stop. Joe shifted his weight forward on the deck of his board and leaned his upper body into the turn. This brought his board to a stop in a swirl of powdery snow. Joe quickly dismounted and crawled over to where Frank was crouching behind some snow mounded up against the trunk of a tree.
When Joe« reached him, Frank was already looking through the viewfinder of his camera, to which he'd attached a long, wide telephoto lens. Joe heard the motor drive on Frank's camera whirring as he clicked off a series of pictures. Although the slope was lit up for night skiing, Frank was grateful he'd loaded his camera with high-speed film.
Frank lowered the camera and dug around in his bag for the translator. He handed Joe the parabolic mike, which Joe saw was hooked up to a small cassette deck. Joe trained the white dish antenna on the two men and could clearly hear their conversation through the mike's earphones. To his frustration, the two men spoke in Italian. However, Frank had plugged another
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set of earphones into the cassette deck and was translating what they said.
"Is it Morelli?" Joe whispered.
"Yes," Frank whispered back. "And he's with someone."
"Can you make out who it is?" Joe hissed.
"No, his back's to me," Frank whispered back. "My binoculars are in the bag."
Joe dug the binoculars out and trained them on Morelli and his companion, thankful for the bright moonlight and lights, both illuminating everything clearly. Morelli's companion turned slightly, and Joe could see that his face was totally covered by a dark ski mask.
Joe saw the masked man say something and hand Morelli a small paper-wrapped package.
Frank translated in a harsh whisper: "The masked guy just said, 'Here's the parcel, Antonio. If you fail us, you're a dead man!' "
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Chapter 14
The Hardys watched as Morelli concealed the small, square package inside his parka.
"I hope it's worth it. The heat is finally onto us," Morelli said.
"Deliver the package by noon," the other man said grimly.
After exchanging a few more brief words, the two men said goodbye. Then each of them headed for a different trail down the slope, Morelli on his snowboard and the stranger on skis.
"What else did they say, Frank?" Joe whispered urgently.
"Nothing too specific," Frank answered as he began cramming the camera and other gear into his backpack.
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"Let's follow him," Joe urged.
Frank gave his brother a skeptical look. "He's taking the slope Hans called the Killer. Do you think we're up to following him down that?"
"We have to, Frank," Joe insisted. "If we let him out of our sight, he could have a chance to stash that package, and we'll never find out what it is."
Wearing an expression of grim resignation, Frank just nodded and pushed off after his brother.
Hans hadn't exaggerated about the Killer, Frank observed. The slope ahead dropped off so steeply that it looked to Frank as if he were flying over the edge of a sheer white cliff. The trees and landscape whizzed past in a blur. Morelli was about three hundred yards ahead on the slope, crouched low over his snowboard and moving at such a high speed that Frank wondered if he could keep him in sight.
Joe and Frank used every reflex to follow at Morelli's speed. The cold air at the high altitude made the conditions dangerously fast—frozen granules that rode like ice beneath the Hardys' snowboards. They both flew down the slope on the brink of losing control.
Before Frank knew it, he saw the lights of the lodge below and felt the slope flattening out. In the distance, Morelli shredded almost to the lodge before braking in a swirl of white powder. He dismounted his board and walked inside, carrying his board under his arm.
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Joe and Frank followed Morelli's course, winding up in almost the same spot where Morelli had stopped, though Frank noted that neither of them came to rest as gracefully as Morelli had.
"What's our next move?" Joe asked his brother, panting as they went into the lodge. It was getting late, and the halls seemed pretty deserted. Joe didn't see Morelli anywhere. Anyone still awake was probably at the resort's big disco. Joe could hear the thumping bass of dance music.
"Our best move would probably be to see who Morelli delivers the package to," Frank replied. "If we try to get the package now, we may never find out who the rest of these counterfeiters are."
"Let's get back to the room and get some food and shut-eye," Joe said.
"I heard Morelli's crony say that he had to deliver the package by noon," Frank said.
"If we get up early and stake out Morelli's room, we should be able to follow him," Joe said as they made their way to an elevator.
"That's just what I had in mind," Frank agreed with a smile, then looked thoughtful. "What do you suppose is in the package Morelli has—counterfeit money?"
"If it is, it can't be much. That package wasn't very large," Joe commented.
"True," Frank said. "Maybe Morelli's delivering a sample of the bills."
"We'll find out tomorrow," Joe said with a
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wide yawn. "In the meantime, let's take it easy. I've had all the excitement I can take for one day."
* * *
The next morning the Hardys arose at 4:15 and munched on some granola bars they had in their room.
"I know you wanted to get up early, Frank, but this seems a little too early," a sleepy Joe Hardy said through a mouthful of granola. "I'm not even hungry yet."
"I saw snowshoes in Morelli's room," Frank said, ignoring Joe's complaint. "Wherever he's going, he may need them. Since we don't have any snowshoes, I thought we could stop by the ski patrol hut and borrow two pairs. Hans told me his pal Klaus works there."
"Good thinking." Joe nodded, yawning wide. "You get the snowshoes while I keep an eye on Morelli's room."
Half an hour later Frank returned with the snowshoes and found Joe standing outside the lodge. Beside him, Joe had stacked up their snowboards and the backpack they'd filled with food and other supplies before going to bed.
"Any sign of Morelli?" Frank asked.
Joe pointed off in the direction of a seldom- used section of the resort, whose trails were not well maintained. "He went that way wearing snowshoes, with his shred sled strapped across his back. I made sure he didn't see me watching him."
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"Lead on," Frank instructed as he handed his brother a pair of snowshoes.
For hours the Hardys followed in Morelli's tracks, hanging back just far enough so they wouldn't be seen. Morelli didn't suspect he was being followed, Frank guessed, because he pressed on and never looked behind him.
As the morning wore on and Morelli kept up a rugged pace, Frank noticed with some apprehension that the sky overhead was darkening.
"Looks like we might be in for a storm, Joe," he commented uneasily.
Joe looked up, his brow creased in a worried frown. "Yeah, you're right. I hope we don't get caught in a blizzard up here."
As the Hardys neared the summit of a low peak Morelli had passed over, a sudden snowstorm rolled in, slamming them with blasts of freezing snow propelled by gale-force winds.
"We've got to find shelter, Frank!" Joe shouted over the roar of the wind.
Frank nodded, his expression serious. "You're right. If we get caught out in the open in this blizzard, we could freeze to death."
The storm descended on them in its full fury, like a choking, freezing white curtain. Each step was a huge effort for Frank. He was exhausted from fighting the heavy winds and could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he pressed on toward the summit.
As he and Joe fought their way uphill, the snow piled up around their feet, clouded their
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vision, and clung to their clothes in thick, wet clumps.
Just when Frank felt that he couldn't take another step, the storm relented enough so that he could see a small rock ledge only a dozen yards away that would provide some shelter.
Frank grabbed Joe's arm and pulled him toward the ledge. "Joe—this way!" Frank shouted in his brother's ear.
The storm seemed like an impenetrable white wall as Frank led Joe to the minimal shelter the low rock ledge provided. They made it the last few steps and crouched down out of the freezing, knifelike wind.
"This is bad, Frank!" Joe shouted over the howling wind. "What are we going to do?"
"Stay put until there's a break in the storm," Frank yelled back. "Let's break out the survival gear and dig in."
Despite the high winds, Frank and Joe were able to unroll their vinyl ground cloth and fashion a crude lean-to by weighting down the ends with rocks and both snowboards.
For over an hour Frank and Joe sat within their lean-to, talking quietly and eating chocolate bars.
"I'm sure glad you brought food. I'm famished," Joe said as he shoved the last of a chocolate bar into his mouth.
"It didn't make sense to head up into the Alps without emergency supplies," Frank replied. "We could die up here if we're not careful."
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"Cheerful thought," Joe commented, then asked, "How long do you think we'll be stuck here?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Frank replied. "Look at it this way. It's better than Kempf's office."
Luckily, the storm spent its fury within an hour and moved down toward the resort. Frank heard the wind begin to die away, so he poked his head out from under the vinyl tarp and saw patches of blue sky between the angry gray clouds.
"It looks okay," Frank called over his shoulder.
"Then let's pack up and go after Morelli," Joe said impatiently.
A few minutes later the Hardys were on the move. They strapped their snowshoes on their backs and stepped into their snowboard bindings. Frank scanned the snow-covered mountain slope below them and spotted fresh snowboard tracks in the new-fallen snow.
"He can't be too far ahead of us," Frank said. He noted the direction of Morelli's tracks and consulted his map and compass. Then he looked up from his map with a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Morelli's heading southwest, into Switzerland," Frank told Joe. "There's a mountain village only a couple of kilometers from here. That must be where he's going." Frank looked over the trail ahead, but Morelli wasn't in sight.
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"Let's hustle, Joe. I'd hate to lose him when we're this close."
Frank and Joe pressed on through the fresh snowfall. Within half an hour they spotted Morelli snowboarding down a winding switch-back trail below them. It led down to a picturesque Swiss village that Frank's map identified as Schwandorf.
Morelli reached Schwandorf while the Hardys were still a quarter mile behind him. Instead of heading right into the village, as Frank expected, Morelli went over to a telephone kiosk and made a call.
"What's our move going to be?" Joe asked as he slid down the snowy hillside after his brother.
"I don't know yet," Frank replied. "Let's see what develops."
The Hardys didn't have long to wait. They had barely concealed themselves behind a row of garbage cans across the road from the telephone kiosk when Frank heard the rumble of an approaching truck.
With a grinding of gears a battered green truck rolled into sight and stopped beside the kiosk. Frank saw Morelli step over to the driver's side of the cab and greet the blond, red-faced driver in Italian.
Morelli threw his backpack, snowshoes, and snowboard into the truck's bed, which was filled with hay and surrounded on three sides with high, wooden slats. He climbed into the cab, and
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Frank heard the truck being thrown into first gear.
"It's now or never, Joe," Frank said, grabbing his board and running after the truck. Joe grabbed his board and followed his brother.
The truck was old and took its time picking up speed. Frank caught up to it, threw in his snowboard, then hauled himself into the truck bed. Joe poured on the speed, and Frank reached down and took his snowboard, then held out a hand to Joe. With a yank that sent a painful jolt up into his shoulder, Frank pulled his brother up into the truck bed.
Frank whispered, "You check out Morelli's pack. I'll look over his snowboard."
Joe nodded and immediately went over to Morelli's pack and began going through its pockets.
Frank found Morelli's blue-and-white-striped board half buried in the hay and began examining it. On the underside of the board Frank found the shallow outline of a square whose surface was flush with the scratched fiberglass. Morelli had worked snowboard wax into the cracks to try and conceal it, Frank guessed, but he had found it anyway.
He rapped on it with his knuckles, confident the sound would be masked by the roaring and grunting of the old truck's engine. It sounded hollow, and Frank realized it was a secret compartment. Wasting no time, he took out his
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pocketknife and used its long blade to try to pry up the square of fiberglass.
Frank exerted steady pressure on the square, and suddenly it popped off. Wedged tightly into place underneath was the package Morelli had been given the previous night.
Eagerly Frank tore off the wrapping. The package held a pair of thick, silver-colored slabs. Frank pulled the slabs apart and was shocked to see they were printing plates for a Swiss hundred-franc bill!
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Chapter 15
As Joe searched through Morelli's backpack, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked over, and his jaw dropped when he saw what his brother was holding.
"Where'd those come from?" Joe whispered.
"There's a hidden compartment in Morelli's snowboard," Frank whispered back. "He must have been moving the plates for the counterfeiters to avoid customs searches at the borders."
"Where do you think Morelli and his pal are going with these things?" Joe wondered.
"Probably to their printing plant," Frank said.
The old truck rumbled through the narrow streets of Schwandorf. As he lay in the back, Joe saw that the truck was traveling through a residential neighborhood. The buildings were
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chalets with wood-shingled roofs, lace curtains, and painted shutters.
Suddenly the neighborhood changed. The buildings were modern with brick and plaster facades. This looks like a business district, Joe thought. The truck slowed and turned into the cargo bay of a weathered redbrick warehouse. The truck lurched to a stop, and Joe heard the clanking of a heavy metal door sliding.
As the door slammed down with a crash, Joe realized they were trapped. He looked over at Frank, who had wrapped the plates back up and was hurriedly stuffing them inside his jacket.
Over the clanking of machinery, Joe heard the truck doors open and slam shut. He grabbed Morelli's snowboard and waited for Morelli to appear at the open end of the truck bed.
As Morelli appeared in the opening, framed by the walls of the truck bed, Joe slid the snowboard toward him as hard as he could. The board shot forward and hit Morelli in the chest. He tumbled backward and hit the ground with a thud.
"Come on!" Joe shouted, diving for the end of the truck bed and grabbing Morelli's snowboard. As he leaped down to the building floor, the driver grabbed Joe by the arm.
Frank slammed the flat of his snowboard into the back of the driver's head, knocking him down.
Joe looked around for a way out. The large room was filled with machinery that he
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recognized as presses and other printing equipment. There were several men in ink-stained overalls scattered around the printing presses. Two men in expensive suits were sitting at a battered wooden table piled with wrapped bundles of currency.
The air was filled with the clank and hiss of the printing press. Joe spotted a door at the rear of the building and felt a surge of hope. If he and Frank could just reach that doorway, they'd have a chance to get away, Joe thought.
He charged for the door, holding Morelli's board across his chest like a shield. "Follow me!" he shouted over his shoulder to Frank.
As he ran past a bank of lithography presses, Joe shot a sideways glance at it and noticed that a press was running off sheets of uncut twenty- franc notes. Then he saw the two men in suits running at him with outraged expressions on their faces.
The larger of the two, a brutal-looking man with dark, curly hair and a jagged knife scar along one cheek, reached the Hardys first. As he lunged at Joe, Frank plowed into him with his board. The big man went down, banging his head on one of the machines and landing heavily. "Come on!" Frank yelled to Joe as he ran for the door.
The other suited man, a muscular, silver- haired thug, reached into his coat. Thinking he was reaching for a gun, Joe slammed the edge of Morelli's snowboard into the man's stomach,
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then cracked him on the jaw with the heel of the board.
"I'm coming!" he yelled at Frank as he dodged the falling man, then followed Frank out the rear door of the counterfeiting plant and into an alley.
"Drop the snowboard," Frank ordered, "and help me with this dumpster."
Joe threw down Morelli's snowboard and helped Frank drag the rusty brown dumpster to where it blocked the doorway.
"That should slow them down a little," Joe said with a grin as he stooped to pick up Morelli's board.
The Hardys sprinted to the end of the narrow cobblestone alley. Arms and legs pumping furiously as they ran, Joe and Frank ignored the stares of the Swiss people they passed on the street.
"Where're we going?" Joe gasped.
"We're trying to put as much distance between them and us as we can," Frank shot back breathlessly.
As they ran, Joe hard the sound of helicopter blades chopping the air. They came to a street corner, and Joe noted the street names so he could tell the authorities where the counterfeiting plant was. Below the street signs was another sign bearing the symbol of a helicopter.
Joe stopped in his tracks. "I know how we can escape, Frank!" Joe yelled. "Listen. There's a heliport nearby."
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A grin spread across Frank's face. "Maybe we can rent a copter. We could be back at the resort in half an hour."
"Come on!" Joe yelled. Following the rising sound of helicopter engines, Joe trotted as fast as he could. Morelli's snowboard felt as if it weighed a ton, but Joe knew it could be used as evidence and gripped it tightly.
As they reached the intersection of two streets lined with more Swiss chalets, Joe looked left and up a hill. At the top of the hill was the heliport, a small operation with three landing pads, a hangar, and a small operations shack.
There were two helicopters in sight, and the blades on one of them were chopping the air. Joe saw a thin man wearing a leather jacket leaning into its cockpit.
"That guy looks like a pilot, Frank," Joe said with relief. "Let's go talk to him."
The Hardys hurried up to the pilot, a serious- looking young Swiss man.
"Hi," Joe said breathlessly "Er, do you speak English?" he asked.
"Ja, I speak English," the pilot said slowly, choosing his words with care.
"Excellent." Frank jumped in. "We're in a jam. Can we hire this copter to take us to the ski resort at Graz?"
"Yes, you can," the pilot said agreeably. "Come to the office, and we can make the arrangements."
"Frank, take care of that," Joe said.
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"Okay," Frank agreed. "What are you going to do?"
"Call Mr. Gray and tell him where that printing press is located," Joe said with a grin as he headed for a nearby pay phone.
Frank turned to the pilot and asked, "How long will it take to fill out the papers?"
"Less than five minutes," the pilot assured him.
A few minutes later Frank and the pilot joined Joe near the copter, where he was waiting. "Get in. You can put your boards in the cargo compartment behind the rear seats," the pilot informed them.
With a feeling of vast relief, Joe opened the rear door of the copter's cabin. Frank handed him the snowboards and backpack, and Joe tossed them into the cargo area. Then he climbed in and strapped himself into one of the passenger seats, while Frank climbed into the other.
The pilot was already strapped in and had begun his preflight check. Joe and Frank exchanged nervous glances while they waited for him to finish.
Joe looked down the hill and caught a quick glimpse of someone running along the street parallel to the heliport. "Hey, there goes Morelli!" he shouted.
With a high-pitched whine the helicopter's engine revved. A moment later the helicopter lifted off the pad.
"Ya-hoo!" Joe shouted. "We're out of here."
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"Man, what a relief," Frank said gratefully.
"How long do you think it'll take Morelli and his gang to figure out where we went?" Joe asked.
Frank shrugged. "It depends on how much time they waste searching Schwandorf. We may have enough of a lead to get away clean."
Joe couldn't help being a little nervous. Morelli had shown himself to be a ruthless and dangerous enemy, and there was no reason to think that his accomplices were any less dangerous.
Joe forced himself to focus instead on the magnificent view that stretched out below—a line of jagged snowcapped peaks. As they approached the part where they'd been trapped by the sudden storm, Joe said, trying to relax, "Now, this is the way to travel! In a few minutes we can fly over terrain it took us hours to cross on foot."
The helicopter's radio suddenly crackled to life, and Joe heard someone speaking rapidly in German. The pilot turned his head and looked at him with an expression of concern. "We have company, gentlemen."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked in surprise.
"We are being followed by my company's other helicopter," the pilot said seriously. "The pilot informs me that his passengers are armed. They have ordered us to land immediately or be fired upon."
Joe saw the pursuing helicopter pull abreast of them. The side door was pushed open, and
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Morelli's Swiss cohort sat on the floor of the copter with his feet dangling out into space. In his big hands was a black Uzi machine gun that looked like an oversize automatic pistol with a folding stock, a stubby barrel, and a long clip of ammo sticking down from its handle.
As the other copter drew even with them, the Swiss crook brought the Uzi up and snapped off a couple of shots into the air.
Their pilot turned to look at the Hardys with an expression of panic. "This is more than I bargained for! I'm going to do what they say!" he shouted, an edge of fear in his voice.
Joe looked beyond the pilot at the plume of snow blowing off the peak over the resort and got an idea.
"Hold on!" Joe ordered. "Fly into that plume of snow and go down low. We're going to jump out."
"Are you nuts?" Frank yelled.
Joe shook his head. "No. I have a plan. If we jump out with our snowboards on, we can be moving as soon as we hit."
Understanding glimmered in Frank's eyes. "That just might work, Joe, and if we hug the tree line on our way down, he won't have a clear shot at us."
The helicopter pilot was white-faced with fear as he put his helicopter into a steep dive. Joe put his boots into his bindings and strapped Morelli's snowboard on his back.
Joe opened the door on his side as the copter
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descended into the plume of swiftly blowing snow. He felt a blast of icy wind tearing at him as he hung his legs out the open door. He paused only long enough to fit his goggles over his eyes. "Geronimo!" Joe shouted. Then he leaped into the whiteness.
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Chapter 16
A heartbeat later Frank hurled himself out of the helicopter into the swirling white snow. To his relief, he fell only fifteen feet and landed in a deep bank of soft powder.
As he fought his way out of the snowbank, Frank heard the helicopter pull away and felt the cold blast of its propeller wash snow in his face.
Frank pulled himself up on the crust of the snow and spotted Joe almost a dozen yards downslope. Joe saw him and waved an arm overhead to indicate that he was all right.
Frank pulled himself upright and boarded downhill toward his brother. Behind him he heard what sounded like an echo of their copter's rotor blades. In a flash Frank realized the
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sound was coming closer and knew it was Morelli's copter.
As he pulled abreast of Joe, Frank heard far- off popping sounds and saw puffs of snow exploding all around them.
"They're shooting at us, Frank!" Joe shouted.
"No kidding!" Frank retorted. "Let's shred out of here!"
Frank followed Joe down a steeply sloping traverse that led down into a stand of pine trees. The Hardys zoomed down at top speed, slaloming tightly around tree trunks. Frank ducked under branches, the pine needles whipping into his eyes.
Morelli's helicopter pursued them, coming terrifyingly close to the trees. The red-faced gunman emptied several clips of ammunition into the trees around them. Frank and Joe were moving so fast and zigzagging among the tree trunks so wildly that none of the shots hit them.
Following Joe's lead, Frank kept slaloming in and out of the trees. It was hard work and required his intense concentration as he turned so close to tree trunks that he had to duck under snow-covered branches.
The copter paralleled their downhill course for several more minutes, then peeled off.
"Frank, I think we lost them!" Joe cried out.
"I hope you're right!" Frank shouted back, though he thought to himself that Morelli wasn't the type to give up so easily.
They kept boarding through the woods as they
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descended. Suddenly the trees became sparser. Frank glanced around and realized that they had made it onto one of the resort's slopes.
"Keep heading downhill," Frank called to his brother. "This slope ought to feed right into the ski lodge."
"Got you, Frank," Joe replied with a smile.
In less than ten minutes Frank topped a rise and saw the lodge and outbuildings scattered below them. The slope was dotted with skiers. Then he saw something that sent a jolt of adrenaline surging through his veins. He spotted Morelli's copter squatting on the ski lodge helipad.
Frank crouched low over his board and leaned forward to pick up speed so he could pull even with Joe.
"Joe, do you see Morelli's copter down there?"
"Yeah," Joe replied, looking slightly worried. "I know they'll be waiting to ambush us. What are we going to do?"
Frank thought for a moment, then got an inspiration. "We'll ambush them first."
Joe smiled. "How? We don't have any weapons."
"We'll make some," Frank told him.
"Oh, yeah? From what?" Joe demanded.
"From snow." Frank said with a devilish grin. "Let's stop for a minute and make our ammo."
Frank steered toward a deep snowbank and slid to a stop. He and Joe hopped off their
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boards and began making hard-packed snowballs. Then Frank emptied the contents of his pack into their tarp. He wrapped the tarp into a tight bundle and buried it in the snowbank, marking the spot with a red bandana.
Noticing the odd look Joe gave him as he buried the bundle, Frank explained, "I need the pack to carry our ammo. We can retrieve this stuff later."
When they'd made twenty snowballs, Frank filled the pack and looked up at Joe with a determined expression. "Let's go get them!"
"Right on!" Joe agreed.
When they hit the slopes, Frank's nerves tingled with anticipation for the coming battle.
The Hardys boarded downhill, scanning the slopes ahead for Morelli and his cohort.
Frank spotted them waiting beside an empty lift operator's hut. "There they are," he told Joe, pointing to the hut. Shading his eyes with a hand to get a better look at their enemies, Frank noted, "Looks like they're both armed. Morelli and the other guy have their hands inside their coats."
"Let's split up," Joe suggested. "If we slalom in and out of the other skiers, we can get right on top of them before we're spotted."
Frank tossed Joe six snowballs, then peeled off. He leaned on the nose of his board in a crouch, trying to squeeze every bit of speed out of his board. Frank felt his pulse pound with excitement as he topped the last mogul above
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the lift operator's hut. He pulled out a snowball for each hand.
Suddenly Morelli's eyes got wide, and Frank realized he'd been spotted. Frank picked the Swiss as his man and bore down on him at breathtaking speed.
As the Swiss man brought his Uzi up, Frank let fly with both snowballs. Instinctively the Swiss ducked. The first snowball missed, but then the second ball of hard-packed snow and ice hit him right in the eye.
Frank steered right toward the Swiss and slammed into him with his full body weight, causing the Swiss to lose his grip on his weapon. With a hoarse groan the Swiss collapsed in a heap. Frank threw himself on top of the man, and as he thrashed around in the snow for his dropped gun, Frank hammered his jaw with a quick one-two combination that put the man out.
Frank looked up to see that Joe had knocked Morelli off his feet and was shoving the Italian's face into the hard-packed ski slope.
"Hold on to him, Joe!" Frank yelled.
Then Frank quickly pulled off the Swiss's belt and used it to tie his hands behind his back before going over to help Joe restrain Morelli.
"That about wraps it up," Frank said, both excited and relieved. "The only things left to do are to turn these prisoners over to Kempf and brief him on what happened."
"No!" Joe protested, slapping a hand to his forehead in his best ham-it-up style. "Anything
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but Kempf, please, Frank. I'll wash the van for a whole year when we get back home!"
"You solved this case," Frank said with mock sternness, hauling Morelli to his feet. "Now you have to pay the consequences."
* * *
The next morning Frank and Joe joined the Gray Man for breakfast at a booth in a remote corner of the large dining room, where he could sit with his back against a wall and get a clear view of the entrance.
"How did it go with Inspector Kempf yesterday?" the Gray Man asked as he sipped his coffee.
"Long and slow," Joe replied, buttering a piece of cherry strudel.
"I'm with him," Frank said, looking up from his plate of bacon and eggs. "Kempf kept us in that stuffy closet he calls an office for almost four hours. I timed it."
"Was he satisfied with the case you built against Morelli?" the Gray Man inquired.
"Yeah," Joe replied. "Supplying the counterfeit plates and Morelli's hollowed-out snowboard gave Kempf all the evidence he needed to pin a counterfeiting rap on the guy."
"And since Morelli's fingerprints matched the ones from the light bulb and the Sno-Cat, Kempf tacked on two charges of attempted murder," Frank added. "Morelli will probably get charged for the spool that came flying down the hill, too."
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"Now that we've satisfied your curiosity about that, how about returning the favor?" Joe suggested.
The Gray Man raised his eyebrows. "Maybe."
"Do you know why Ivana had Ken's codebook?" Joe asked eagerly.
"Yes. I visited Ken and Ms. Garova in the hospital yesterday morning. She told me she found the book while searching Morelli's room."
"What?" Joe sputtered. "Why didn't she go to the police?"
"Joe," the Gray Man said gently. "After you've been in the intelligence-gathering business as long as I have, perhaps you'll understand. Ms. Garova is ex-KGB. I imagine that it is very, very hard for her to trust anyone."
"But why was she searching Morelli's room?" Frank wanted to know.
"After Ken got hurt, she began using her training to find out who'd tried to murder her boyfriend," the Gray Man said.
"Hold on a minute. I'm lost," Joe announced. "Why did Morelli have the codebook?"
"Ken told me that he assumed he must have tipped Morelli off earlier in the week when Morelli caught him examining his snowboard. That made Morelli suspicious enough to search Ken's room, where he found the book. Finding that is what made Morelli realize he was being spied on. And that's why he tried to kill Ken Gibson."
"As well as drown Ivana," Joe added.
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The Gray Man paused and drank more coffee. "And now that I've answered your question, perhaps there's one more you could answer for me."
"Fair is fair," Joe said agreeably. "Shoot."
"I still don't understand how Morelli caused the avalanche that buried Ken Gibson."
"I can explain that," Frank offered. "If you have a Network technician take apart Morelli's electronic wristwatch, my bet is you'll find a powerful miniature radio transmitter built into it. I suspect Morelli used the transmitter to set off a string of small seismic charges via a radio- controlled detonator."
"Frank's theory is probably right," Joe said. "You can see him triggering the charges in the videotape of the competition. Morelli's punching a button on his watch right before Ken gets buried."
"That fits," the Gray Man said quietly. "It was certainly Morelli who set up the detonator and the bombs. The Network was able to track that particular detonator through its serial number. It was part of a load of Russian explosives purchased by Morelli Construction for blasting purposes."
"Well, if that answers all your questions, do you mind if we go now?" Joe asked.
"No, I suppose not," the Gray Man replied. "I'm satisfied. But why the big hurry?"
Joe looked slightly embarrassed. "Well ... I promised Andrea I'd meet her soon so we could
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watch the competition today. The slopes have been regroomed, and everything is ready to roll."
"But wait, I'm not satisfied," Frank said to the Gray Man. "We told you and Kempf about the counterfeiting plant we found, but what about the rest of Morelli's gang?"
The Gray Man raised a hand. "Not to worry, Frank. Network agents raided the plant shortly after Joe called me yesterday. They seized all their equipment and bagged the entire gang."
"Why didn't you tell us?" Joe said indignantly.
"No need for you to know," the Gray Man replied as he stood up. "Thanks for the breakfast," he called over his shoulder as he hurried away, quickly blending in with the crowd.
At that moment Frank noticed Andrea Wells entering the restaurant on crutches. She wore a cast on her broken ankle and was dressed in a stylish black and white snowsuit and a black turtleneck.
"Here comes your date, Joe," Frank said.
"Great," Joe replied, but Frank noticed his brother didn't look terribly happy to see her.
"What's wrong, Joe?" Frank asked. "Aren't you glad to see Andrea?"
"Sure, Frank. I was just thinking about the Gray Man. The next time we see him, let's get him to pay us back for the breakfast bill after all we've done for him."
"Maybe he could give us some hazardous duty pay, too," Frank quipped.
Hardy Boys 56: The Jungle Pyramid
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I  
Gold Heist
 
 
 
 
FRANK Hardy turned the controls of a stereo set. “I’ll see if I can find some country music, Joe,” he said to his brother. “Waiting for Dad to phone about a new mystery gives me the jitters.”
“Same here,” said Joe. “I wonder why he didn’t tell us anything about the case he’s on.”
“It must be top secret.”
The Hardy boys were sons of Fenton Hardy, a private detective who worked out of Bayport since retiring from the New York Police Department. Dark-haired Frank was eighteen. Joe was blond and a year younger. Their father had taught them most of what he knew about crime detection, and they sometimes helped him with his investigations but often took cases of their own.
A Kentucky hoedown came over the stereo, and a nasal voice sang the “Blue Grass Blues.”
Joe was lying on the floor, his hands cupped behind his head. “It’s just as well that Mother and Aunt Gertrude are out shopping.” He chuckled. “This isn’t their beat.”
The country-western rhythm rose to a crescendo, then died away. Suddenly footsteps pounded on the front porch of the Hardy home. The door burst open and a plump, freckle-faced youth rushed into the room, clutching a rolled-up paper in one hand. He was Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend.
“I got it!” he cried. “I got it!”
“Got what, Chet?” Joe demanded.
“My correspondence-course diploma!”
Joe turned off the stereo. “A real one? Well, congratulations.”
“What’s this diploma for?” Frank asked.
“Collecting more bottle tops than anyone else?” Joe needled their visitor, who always became involved with one hobby after another.
Chet looked pained. “That’s kid stuff. I thought you guys were detectives.”
“Give us a clue,” Joe suggested.
Chet did not reply. Instead he unrolled the paper and held it up for them to see. The words STATE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL were blazoned across the top. The diploma certified that Chester Morton was considered adept in gold artifacts, and it was signed by the president of the school.
Chet grinned. “Adept means I’m pretty good with the gold. Go ahead. Ask me questions. Want to know about Aztec masks or—”
The phone shrilled before he could finish his sentence. Frank seized the instrument and canted it away from his ear so the other two could hear. Fenton Hardy was calling.
“Frank, Joe,” he said hurriedly, “are you both there?”
“Yes, Dad,” Frank answered. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Wakefield. That’s a hundred miles from Bayport on the way to New York City. A consignment of gold has been stolen from the mint here. The case is too big for one detective, and I need your help. Come to the Archway Motel. Tell Mother and Aunt Gertrude where you’ll be, but don’t say there’s any danger involved. Make it fast! Ah-ah-aaa—”
Mr. Hardy groaned and ended his sentence in a gasp. Then the boys heard a scuffling noise.
“Dad!” Frank shouted. “Dad, what’s going on?” Something hit the floor with a heavy thump, and there was a dragging sound. A door slammed in the background. Then silence. The three boys stared at one another in dismay.
“What—?” Chet began.
“Sh—sh!” Frank said and motioned to the phone.
Footsteps could be heard approaching. Someone breathing heavily picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” Frank said. “Hello?”
The phone clicked, and the line went dead.
“That wasn’t Dad who hung up!” Frank exclaimed. “Something’s wrong!”
“That’s for sure,” Joe said grimly.
“Try the motel desk,” Chet suggested.
Frank dialed the Archway Motel and asked for Fenton Hardy’s room. A moment later the clerk reported that there was no answer. Frank asked to speak to the manager. He introduced himself, then explained to the man that he had heard strange noises coming from his father’s room.
“It sounded as if he were being attacked,” Frank concluded.
“Attacked!” the manager exploded. “I’ll check immediately and will call you back.”
Frank hung up. “What do you make of it?” he asked his brother.
“Somebody must have sneaked up on Dad while he was talking on the phone,” Joe said. “Someone he hadn’t counted on.”
“Probably more than one person,” Chet added. “He could have taken care of himself otherwise.”
“Not if he were hit by surprise,” Joe argued.
The phone shrilled again. Frank picked it up.
“Mr. Hardy’s room is empty,” the motel manager said. “I’ve also had him paged, but he doesn’t answer.”
“Anything wrong in the room?” Frank asked.
“No—except that the bedspread was half pulled off and some clothes were lying on the floor. When I see your father, I’ll tell him you called. I’ll also notify the police just in case your suspicions are correct.” The manager hung up, and so did Frank.
“Dad must have been dragged from the room,” the young detective theorized. “That could account for the bedspread. We’d better do something fast!”
“We’ll have to go to Wakefield right away!” Joe said.
“How about my going along?” Chet put in. “I know all about gold. Maybe I can identify the loot.” Then he added, “As long as it’s not too dangerous to handle.”
The Hardys were used to Chet’s shying away from danger, but they knew they could rely on him when the sleuthing became rough. He had been helpful in many of their investigations.
“Okay, Chet,” Joe said. “Call home and we’ll be off.”
“Leave your jalopy in our garage,” Frank suggested. “Better get some clean clothes out of it.”
Chet and the Hardys always carried extra clothes in their cars in case of an emergency.
Frank quickly scribbled a note telling his mother and Aunt Gertrude that they were on the way to Wakefield to join Mr. Hardy. He added that there was nothing to worry about. “Not much!” he thought to himself. “Just whether Dad’s dead or alive!”
Joe backed the car out of the garage and soon the three boys were rolling down Main Street. Joe fretted at the wheel because traffic was heavy, but finally they got out of the city. He stepped on the gas and they roared toward Wakefield.
Mile after mile zipped away beneath their wheels. They passed farmhouses and pastures. At one spot chickens, out of their coops, fled squawking as the car rocketed by them.
Chet remarked, “If you should run over any of our feathered friends, stop so I can pick some up. Chicken soup is a great dish. I haven’t had anything since breakfast but a couple of hamburgers and a bottle of soda.”
Food always interested Chet, even in the middle of an investigation. The Hardys usually laughed at his remarks, but this time they said nothing.
“Okay,” Chet said, “I get the message. I was just testing. Trying to cheer you up.”
“I could use some cheering,” Frank admitted. “Do you think Dad’s been kidnapped, Joe?”
“I’m afraid so,” his brother replied glumly. “Probably by the crooks who were responsible for the gold heist.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Chet advised. “Anyway, your father has always managed to get out of tight spots because he’s the smartest detective we know. Right?”
“Right,” said Frank and Joe in unison.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Chet said.
“Like what?” Joe inquired.
“Like gold!” Chet answered. “Do you know the melting point of gold?”
Joe grinned. “Over a thousand degrees centigrade.”
Chet looked crestfallen. “Oh, so you know that. Well, what can you dissolve gold with?”
“A mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acid.”
“You Hardys know everything,” Chet complained.
Frank decided to soothe their friend’s feelings. “Not as much as you do, Chet. It’s just that we ran some lab tests on gold for one of our clients.”
The Hardys had a criminology laboratory over their garage, where they did scientific analyses for their clients. They matched fingerprints under the microscope and carried out chemical tests of poisons, explosives, and other materials from the scene of a crime.
While the boys were talking, they approached a hill with a stone wall on the right. Joe drove up as fast as he could within the speed limit. Suddenly a large station wagon hurtled over the crest of the hill. The driver, a burly man, was hunched over the wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road and raced directly at their car!
“Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.
Because of the wall, Joe could not move any farther to the right. With split-second timing, he swerved to the left. The station wagon swept past on the right. The Hardys’ car skidded out of control for a moment, but Joe pulled it back into the correct lane and went on.
“Lucky you kept your cool,” Frank complimented his brother. “There wasn’t enough room for a dime between that station wagon and us.”
“You can say that again,” Chet remarked. “That knucklehead shouldn’t be allowed to drive a kiddie car.”
The three settled back for the rest of their trip to Wakefield, and Chet continued his lecture on gold. He described how prehistoric people used the yellow metal for jewelry, such as rings and bracelets, and later for money. He added that currently most of the gold was obtained from the deep mines in South Africa.
“The Russians,” Chet revealed, “mine gold in Siberia and sell it on the international market. Headquarters for the gold exchange is Zurich, Switzerland.”
“Perhaps the stolen Wakefield gold came originally from Siberia,” Joe reasoned. “But who knows whether or not we’ll ever see it.”
“Talking about gold,” Chet informed them, “there’s an exhibition at the Early Art Museum in New York. Old Scythian artifacts. I hear it’s fabulous.”
“Sounds interesting,” Joe said. “Maybe we can go there after we find Dad.”
He turned left to get off the highway at the Wakefield exit, and ten minutes later drew into the Archway Motel parking lot. The boys went inside, where a teen-age youth stood at the registration desk.
“Any message from Fenton Hardy?” Joe asked him.


  
“Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.
“No. But I have one for Frank and Joe Hardy. Is that you?”
“Yes,” Frank replied.
“Somebody called,” the clerk stated. “Didn’t give his name. Just said for Frank and Joe Hardy to come to the Stacy Hotel.”
“How do we get there?” Frank asked.
“Go left to the end of the road, make a right, then another right at the second traffic light. It’s a flea-bitten rattrap in a rough neighborhood. Watch your step.”
“Will do,” Frank said. “And thanks for the tip.”
The drive to the Stacy took the boys into an area of run-down houses and dismal streets. Local toughs sauntered by, glowering at them.
“I hope we don’t run into street gangs,” Chet remarked. “A guy could be mugged in this end of town without half trying.”
Joe parked in front of the Stacy. The boys climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the grimy exterior of the hotel. A bewhiskered tramp strolled up the street toward them. He was dressed in old clothes, battered shoes, and a slouch hat. They stepped aside to let him pass.
Abreast of them, the tramp suddenly turned and deliberately bumped into Joe. “Follow me,” he snarled, “if you know what’s good for you!”

CHAPTER II  
The Subterranean Vault
 
 
 
 
REACTING instinctively, Frank and Joe grabbed the tramp’s arms to keep him from pulling a knife or a gun. Chet waved a fist under the man’s nose.
“Fellows, hold it!” said a familiar voice. “I’ll go quietly.”
The tramp was Fenton Hardy!
As the boys showed their surprise, he whispered, “Don’t give me away. Play my game.” 
“Okay,” Frank replied. “But we’re glad to see you.” Aloud he said, “All right, Harry, we’ll buy your dinner.”
He led the way into the hotel, where they sat down at a table in a secluded corner of the dining room. The other customers looked seedy, and the waitress chewed gum loudly as she took their order. When the food arrived, Chet seized his knife and fork and began to eat with gusto.
“I was in my room,” Mr. Hardy said in a low tone, “when a couple of men came in—”
He broke off as he noticed that the waitress was still standing near their table, flipping through her order pad. Then he said loudly, “A couple of men came in and asked me if I wanted to buy an encyclopedia.”
The waitress went to another table to present the check. Mr. Hardy resumed his story. “They jumped me while I was talking to you on the phone, and slipped a cloth saturated with chloroform over my face.”
Frank nodded. “We heard a thud and figured somebody was dragging you out of the room.”
“Right. When I came to, I was in an old abandoned garage. I—” Mr. Hardy suddenly changed the subject and talked about finding a job at the Wakefield lumber company, since the waitress again stood within earshot. After she had left, he continued, “That girl seems rather nosey. Well, anyway, I picked the lock, got out, went to my car, and put on this disguise. Then I called the Archway Motel from a pay phone and left the message about meeting me at the Stacy.”
“What’s it all about?” Frank asked.
“The Wakefield Mint has been robbed of a big consignment of gold bars. The haul is worth over a million dollars!”
Joe whistled. “That’s a big deal!”
Mr. Hardy agreed. “I’ve been hired by John Armstrong, the administrative assistant to the director of the mint. He asked me to keep this secret. That’s why I couldn’t tell you what the investigation was about. Then I received a threatening phone call warning me to get off the case. At that point, I decided I’d better send you an SOS.”
“Good thing you did,” Frank said.
Mr. Hardy went on, “Incidentally, Chet, I’m glad you came along. That fist you waved under my nose seems like a mighty lethal weapon.”
Chet tried to grin, but was not very successful since his mouth was full of baked potato.
“Got any leads, Dad?” Joe asked.
Fenton Hardy shook his head. “Not really. I assume the pair who chloroformed me belong to the gang that stole the gold. Beyond that, nothing.”
Frank and Joe ruminated over their father’s experience as they finished the meal. Chet downed his last mouthful of apple pie. As the waitress was adding up the tab, Frank handed his father a ten dollar bill.
“There, Harry, that should help you out for a while,” he said.
“Thanks, my boy,” Mr. Hardy replied, speaking in the whine of a tramp down on his luck.
Leaving the hotel, he whispered to Frank, “Stay at the Shadyside Motel down the street tonight. Meet me at my car at nine in the morning. It’s parked in a private garage at ten Pine Street. The people who own it are away, so I’m using it as my dressing room. I can change my disguises there without being seen.”
The elder Hardy slouched away into the darkness, and the boys drove to the Shadyside Motel, where they spent the night. In the morning they met Mr. Hardy as arranged. The detective no longer looked like a tramp. He had stashed the old clothes and the fake whiskers in the trunk of his car and resumed his usual appearance.
“Mr. Hardy, you sure fooled me last night,” Chet said.
“That was the idea,” the sleuth told him. “If my disguises didn’t fool everybody, I’d be in big trouble. Boys, suppose we take your car.”
Frank got behind the wheel. “Where to?”
“The Wakefield Mint.”
The mint was a square three-story building. Faced with white stone, it had rows of narrow windows along the second story. The ground floor was sheathed in stone and steel.
The foyer inside contained a collection of coins and medals produced by the mint. A crowd milled around the main exhibit, a medal representing John Smith at Jamestown.
Fenton Hardy showed his pass to a guard, who escorted him and the boys down a corridor, through a door lined with steel bars, to the office of the administrative assistant.
John Armstrong was a friendly looking man who wore horn-rimmed glasses. He got up from the swivel chair behind his big desk and shook hands with Mr. Hardy, then with each boy, as he was introduced.
“They’ve helped me on previous cases,” the investigator explained, “and I’ll need them to assist me on this one.” He described the kidnap attempt.
Armstrong expressed concern, then said he had no objections to the boys’ participating. “Perhaps, then, you can solve our problem quicker,” he remarked. “I want this case cracked before Director Wadsworth gets back from his vacation. I’m responsible for the mint while he’s away, you know.”
“Mr. Armstrong, suppose you clue us in,” Frank suggested.
Armstrong looked grave. “First, let me remind you that there must be no leaks about the theft. We don’t want any publicity in the news media.”
“Mum’s the word,” Chet vowed.
Joe inquired about security precautions.
“The best,” Armstrong stated. “See this panel on my desk? It monitors the entire mint. We have hidden television cameras watching every square inch of the building. Our security equipment includes trip wires, photoelectric plates, and laser beams. If anybody gets in their way, sirens go off and warning lights flash on the panel.”
“It sounds as if you’re better protected than Fort Knox,” Joe said. “How come the gold was stolen anyway?”
“That’s just it,” Armstrong said, looking bewildered. “The equipment must have been turned off. It was back on the next morning, however.”
“What about the guards?” Frank asked.
“That’s stranger yet,” Armstrong went on. “One was posted at the outer door, one at the inner steel door, and one here in my office, monitoring the mint through the TV cameras. They were supposed to alert the rest of the night shift if anything happened, but they didn’t.”
“In other words, they went off with the thieves,” Chet said.
“No. They’re here!”
“You mean they helped the thieves get in, then let them escape with the loot, and stayed behind?” Joe was incredulous.
“Yes. That’s what’s so strange,” Armstrong replied. “They claim nothing unusual happened at any time that night. The police questioned them after they were arrested but they’re sticking to their story.”
Frank shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Where was the gold taken from?”
“The subterranean vault,” Armstrong said. “Come on. I’ll take you down there.”
He ushered the group to his private elevator and pushed the button. The elevator descended three floors. The doors opened and Armstrong led the way to a steel door, where a guard was on duty. He spun the dial until the combination clicked and pushed the door inward.
The boys gaped. Gold bars about a foot long were stacked in rows on racks that stretched across most of the room. A yellow gleam shimmered under fluorescent lighting. A couple of men in shirtsleeves were counting the bars and entering figures in a ledger.
Chet’s eyes bulged. “There’s got to be a million dollars in here,” he practically shouted.
“More than that, young man,” Armstrong said. “We’re missing twenty-five bars. Each weighs over twenty-seven pounds, and with gold selling on the international market at a very high rate presently, that consignment comes to more than a million.”
He gestured toward an empty rack near the door. “That’s where the stolen bars were when we closed the vault for the night. The thieves must have carted the gold out of here and around to the outer door at the rear of the building. That’s where they made their getaway.”
Frank was peering at the nearest row of gold bars. “Why, they’re stamped with the hammer and sickle,” he noted.
“Same as the missing gold,” Armstrong replied. “The Russians traded it through middlemen in Zurich, who sold it to us.”
He conducted them out of the gold room and through the subterranean vault to a freight elevator. They emerged at the rear door of the mint. A guard let them through into a receiving area, where some armored cars were parked.
“I’m late for a meeting,” Armstrong said and excused himself. “Please look around all you want and we’ll talk later.” He went back to his office.
Frank quickly surveyed the lot. “Nothing to stop the crooks once they got the gold this far,” he concluded.
“Right,” Joe agreed. “But how did they get this far? We’ll have to talk to the guards.”
“You go ahead,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll carry on my investigation here at the mint and talk to the employees.”
“And I’m going to have breakfast,” Chet stated.
Frank chuckled. “Your second breakfast, Chet.”
“Got to keep my strength up if I’m going to solve this case,” the stout boy replied airily.
Frank and Joe dropped Chet at a diner and drove to police headquarters. They identified themselves to the sergeant at the desk.
“You’re Fenton Hardy’s sons?” the officer asked. “That’s good enough for me. Around here, we admire your father’s work. Come on! I’ll let you speak to the prisoners from the mint. Funny thing about them.”
“Funny?” Joe prodded.
“They’ve got to be guilty,” the sergeant said, “but they’ve taken a polygraph, or lie-detector, test. It says they’re telling the truth!”
The three men looked sullen. They were Herb Ponty, Fred Walters, and Mike Nicholson. Ponty did most of the talking.
He admitted they had been on duty the night the gold had vanished. He himself had been stationed in Armstrong’s office at the monitor. “Walters was posted at the outer door to the receiving area. Nicholson guarded the steel door to the gold room.”
The Hardys cross-examined the men. Had they left their posts during the night? Had they gone to sleep?
“No, not us,” Ponty replied defensively. “It’s our job to stay awake. Anyway, it wouldn’t have made any difference. A thief trying to get in would have kicked off the alarm system.”
“You could have turned off the alarm,” Joe asserted. “The control button is on the panel in Mr. Armstrong’s office.”
“If I had,” Ponty argued belligerently, “would I have hung around to be arrested? I’d have left with the thieves.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “but the gold is gone. Have you three any idea how the crooks pulled off the heist?”
“No, we don’t remember seeing anything unusual all night,” Ponty declared. “When Mr. Armstrong opened the vault the next morning, the gold wasn’t there and we were arrested.”
Frank and Joe realized they could not get any more information from the prisoners and headed back to the Wakefield Mint.
“This is the most mysterious case we’ve ever been on,” Joe commented.
“It sure is,” Frank agreed. “A consignment of gold vanishes. The guards say they don’t know a thing about it. And a polygraph confirms it.”
The boys picked up Chet at the diner as he was drinking his third malted. Then they rode back to the mint, where they told Fenton Hardy and John Armstrong about their talk with the accused men.
“How many people know the combination of the vault door?” Frank asked Armstrong.
“As I told your father, only Director Wadsworth and I. You see—”
A screaming siren cut him off. Red and blue lights flashed on the monitor panel. A moving blur appeared on one TV screen.
Armstrong gasped. “There’s a thief in the vault!” he cried.

CHAPTER III  
“Deep Six F.H.”
 
 
 
 
JOHN Armstrong rushed into his private elevator. Fenton Hardy and the boys crowded in on his heels. The elevator descended three floors and the doors opened.
The noise of the siren was nearly deafening in the subterranean vault. A guard stood at the door of the gold room, which was wide open. He turned toward Armstrong.
“Unauthorized person inside, sir,” he announced. “The door was open and he got in.”
“I left it open, Porter,” Armstrong confessed. “I thought Millard and Lajinski had nearly finished counting the gold and would close it when they came out. My mistake.”
“They hadn’t finished when the siren went off,” Porter replied.
He led the way inside. The two men in shirtsleeves were still there, talking to a third, who looked embarrassed.
“I didn’t know a laser beam crossed the gold room,” he protested. “I got in the way by accident when I came in to see why the door was open.”
Frank stared at him. “If you’re an employee of the mint, why don’t you know about the alarm system in the vault?”
“I’m new here,” the man replied sulkily.
Porter nodded. “That’s true. We took him on three days ago. He hasn’t had time to learn the ropes, but he’ll catch on.”
Armstrong ordered that the siren be turned off and sent the man to his post; then he escorted his visitors to his office. He sat down in his swivel chair and mopped his brow with a large handkerchief from his breast pocket. Mr. Hardy took a stuffed leather easy chair. The boys occupied a couch.
“Mr. Armstrong,” Frank began the conversation, “you were saying that only you and Mr. Wadsworth, the director, know the combination to the steel door of the gold room. Do you think somebody else could have learned it?”
“I suppose someone could in spite of all our precautions,” Armstrong admitted. He added, “The gold was shipped from the Swiss Gold Syndicate in Zurich. The bars might be smuggled back there for resale by a shady international financier. I’d better send an agent to Zurich to investigate.”
Fenton Hardy smiled. “Two agents,” he suggested. “I dare say Frank and Joe will volunteer. They’re on their spring vacation.”
“Will you, boys?” Armstrong asked eagerly.
The Hardys quickly agreed. Chet looked crestfallen, but said nothing. Armstrong turned to him. “You’re included if you want to be.”
“Oh, great!” Chet said, and smiled again.
“The place to begin is the Swiss Gold Syndicate,” Armstrong pointed out. “They handle transactions on the world-wide gold market, and know about this theft. I’m sure they’ll be glad to cooperate. I’ll set up an interview for you.”
He made a long distance call to Zurich. While he spoke, the expression on his face changed from a frown to utter surprise. When he hung up, he said, “I think we have our first clue!”
“What happened?” Fenton Hardy asked.
“I didn’t speak to Johann Jung, the director of the syndicate. He’s in South Africa, inspecting gold mines, and won’t be back till next Monday. But his assistant just told me that he received a phone call from a man who said that he should watch out for the Wakefield gold. It is expected to be sold in Zurich illegally in about two weeks.”
“Wow!” Frank said. “Who was the caller?”
“He didn’t identify himself. But I hope you can find out. You’re supposed to be in Jung’s office Monday at two in the afternoon.”
Fenton Hardy arose. “That gives us some time for sleuthing here before you leave,” he said. “I have a notion the crooks have already flown the gold out of the Wakefield area or are about to. Transporting it by truck on the highway would be too risky. I’ll alert the airlines. You boys check the charter carriers. Also scout around and see if you can find a private airstrip where a plane could take off with a cargo of gold bullion. I’ll meet you at the garage later.”
The three boys went out and got into the Hardys’ car. Frank turned on the ignition and headed toward the center of town. Suddenly he circled around the block and stopped at a phone on the corner.
“Frank, what’s up?” Chet asked.
“I think we should check out Mr. Armstrong’s story.”
Chet’s eyes widened in astonishment. “He isn’t a suspect!” 
Joe spoke up. “Frank’s right, Chet. Everybody’s a suspect in this case.”
Frank found Armstrong’s address in the phone book and the address of Wakefield’s only charter airline. They drove first to the man’s house. A motherly woman answered the door. 
“Mr. Armstrong is not at home,” she told them. “I’m Mrs. Wright, his housekeeper. Mr. Armstrong is a bachelor.”
Frank mentioned the night of the gold theft. “Was Mr. Armstrong at home that night?”
“Oh yes. He returned from the mint in time for dinner, as usual. And he didn’t leave the house till the following morning.”
Frank thanked the housekeeper and the boys resumed their drive to the center of Wakefield.
“That clears Mr. Armstrong,” Frank commented. “He was in bed when the gold vanished from the mint.” In a few minutes Frank parked in front of the Carrier Consolidated office on Main Street. The boys went inside. They looked around in surprise. The office was a dusty cubbyhole. A pile of burlap bags lay in one corner, and a half-filled coke bottle stood on the counter. An old plaque on the wall proclaimed that Carrier Consolidated would ferry any cargo anywhere.
“This place could use a cleanup,” Frank muttered. “If only Aunt Gertrude were here! She’d give the guy in charge a piece of her mind.”
“I’ll see if he’s in the back room,” Joe said. He went around behind the counter. Suddenly a hand pointed a round metal barrel at him through the doorway!
“Watch out!” Chet whispered hoarsely. “He’s got a gun.”
Before Joe could move, a heavyset individual came through the doorway. “Look here,” he said. “This is our newest fire extinguisher. Point it like a pistol, pull the trigger, and presto! It shoots foam all over the blaze. Neat idea, eh?”
“Neat is right,” Joe answered. “I thought it was a real pistol.”
The man put the fire extinguisher on the shelf behind him. “Carrier Consolidated, at your service,” he said.
“Any flights to Zurich, Switzerland?” Frank asked.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“We’re working on a deal involving a shipment,” Frank said.
The man reached for a ledger. “We had two flights to Zurich this month: a cargo of tin and a lumber shipment. The next flight will be in approximately a week. What’s the weight going to be?”
“Uh—about two hundred pounds.”
“No problem.”
“Okay. We’ll let you know when the deal goes through,” Frank said, and thanked the man for the information.
As the boys were leaving the office, they almost ran into a woman who came through the door and walked up to the counter. She was the waitress from the Stacy Hotel!
Frank nudged Joe as he started to close the door behind him. “What do you know about that?” he whispered.
“Let’s see if we can hear any of their conversation,” Joe replied and left the door open a crack.
The three friends stood still and pressed their ears against the door, but there was only the sound of muffled voices.
“What now?” Chet asked. “This is strange.”
“Let’s go to the Stacy and check up on the waitress,” Frank suggested. “Maybe she had a reason for being nosey last night.”
They went to the hotel and spoke to the manager. “We’d like to talk to your pretty, red-haired waitress,” Frank began. “Is she in?”
“No, it’s her day off,” the man replied with a grin. “But there’s no use in trying to date her.”
“Oh?” said Frank.
“Sure. Her husband runs the Carrier Consolidated office. He’d give you a hard time.”
The boys wanted to roar with laughter, but instead pretended to be embarrassed and left quickly.
“What do you know!” Frank said when the boys were back in the car.
“That you’re some smoothy,” Chet needled him.
Joe was serious. “Maybe both the husband and the wife are involved in our case.”
“What do we do now?” Chet asked.
Frank started the engine. “Let’s see if we can find a private airstrip.”
The superhighway curved around Wakefield to the north, east, and south. An undeveloped area lay to the west. They decided to scout in that direction. Frank parked at a dead end, and the boys crossed a field on foot. Then they plunged into the woods.
For two hours they tramped between groves of trees and thick bushes. They stumbled over stones and fallen tree trunks. Brambles tore at their clothing and scratched their hands. Doggedly they puffed up hills and down into ravines.
Finally Chet halted and sat down on a boulder, perspiration streaming down his face. His breath came in great gasps. He held up a hand and let it fall limply into his lap. “Fellows, I’ve had it!” he announced.
Joe grinned. “Don’t give up now, Chet! You’re getting rid of that spare tire around your middle. Besides, you’ve got to walk back out of the woods.”
Chet groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Frank was surveying the ground beyond the boulder. Suddenly he called to the others. Joe raced over. Chet followed slowly.
“What’s up?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Tire marks on the ground!” Frank exclaimed. “A car went right through the woods!”
“It probably came from the dirt road we crossed a couple of miles back,” Joe theorized, “Where did it go?”
“Let’s find out,” Frank urged.
Trained woodsmen, the boys followed the tire marks. They noted how the dried-out, brown grass was flattened, and how the vehicle had run over bushes and around trees. Silently the three sleuths pursued the trail through a thicket to where the woods ended. All the trees and shrubs had recently been cleared away in the shape of an oblong.
“It’s an airstrip,” Frank said in a low voice. “Do either of you see a plane?”
“No,” Chet answered, and Joe shook his head.
They scouted around the airstrip in Indian file, with Frank in the lead. They had nearly returned to their starting point when Joe noticed sunlight gleaming on metal in a grove of trees.
“I’ll investigate,” he offered. Dropping to the ground, he crawled to a large bush, peered through the bare branches, and saw a car parked in the grove. Nobody was in sight, so he waved to his companions to follow him.
The car was old and battered. Scratches on the fenders showed it had been driven a long distance through the woods. It had no license plates.
Finding the doors unlocked, Joe opened the glove compartment and took out a sheet of paper lying inside. Frank and Chet peered over his shoulder as he read a short typewritten message.
DEEP six F.H.

CHAPTER IV  
Stop Thief!
 
 
 
 
THE boys were shocked. Frank felt cold chills run up and down his spine.
“I’ll bet F.H. stands for Fenton Hardy!” he exclaimed.
“And deep six means get rid of him,” Joe added grimly.
“No wonder your dad said it was a dangerous case,” Chet put in. “We’d better let him know the gang’s after him.”
They marched back to the dirt road and on to their car. Joe drove to the garage, where Mr. Hardy was already waiting. Frank quickly explained to him about the airstrip near the Wakefield Mint and the car hidden in the clump of trees.
“Here’s what I found in the glove compartment,” Joe said, handing him the message.
Mr. Hardy read it thoughtfully. “This ties in with that phone call I received,” he said. “Whoever stole the gold wants me off the case. When he realized that his warning had no effect, he and his pals decided to use other measures.”
“What now, Mr. Hardy?” Chet asked.
“Leave the car where it is. Don’t let on to anyone that you’ve seen it. I’ll keep the area under surveillance and see who comes back to the spot. That might break the case wide open. I only hope,” he added wryly, “that the person who is to receive this message has not seen it yet!”
Franked looked doubtful. “I think Joe and I shouldn’t go to Zurich, Dad. It’s too dangerous for you to be here without us.”
Joe supported his brother. “We’ll stay in Wakefield and help you out in case of trouble.”
Fenton Hardy shook his head. “I realize the danger,” he confessed. “But I’ll watch my step, and take my assistant, Sam Radley, off his case to give me a hand if necessary. We must look into the Zurich angle, and my sons are naturals for the assignment. Chet, if your folks consent to your going, too, I’m sure Frank and Joe will be glad to have you along. Go home to Bayport and arrange for your flight.”
Reluctantly the boys drove away early the next morning. On the way Chet begged to stop in New York to see the gold exhibit at the Early Art Museum before returning to Bayport.
The Hardys consented and they went on to New York City. Joe spotted a parking lot only a few blocks from the museum. They left the car and walked to the building. A large sign over the entrance read: SCYTHIAN GOLD. The words below stated that the art objects had been sent to the United States by the Soviet Union under a cultural-exchange program.
Chet assumed a learned expression. “The Scythians lived in an area that now belongs to Russia,” he intoned. “That’s why the Russians have the Scythian gold. They dug up a lot of it in places where those guys camped.”
Frank smiled. “Very interesting, Chet. We’ll hear the rest of your lecture later, Professor Morton.”
The boys were the first viewers to arrive at the museum. The man in charge of the exhibition was a Russian with jet-black hair and a black spade-shaped beard. He wore black clothes and a ring with a large black stone, which gleamed as he gestured.
“I am Ivan Orlov,” he introduced himself. “Perhaps you would care to have me describe our Scythian gold.”
Chet waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary,” he declared. “I’m a pro when it comes to gold.”
Frank nudged Joe. He concealed his mouth with his hand and whispered, “Chet’s up to his old tricks, telling the experts he knows more about their subject than they do.”
Joe grinned. “Let’s see if he gets away with it this time.”
Orlov gave Chet a dubious look. “I do not doubt you, my friend,” the Russian said, “but surely—”
“I’m an adept in golden artifacts,” Chet told him. “And I’ve got a diploma to prove it.”
“I have never heard of such a title,” Orlov said coolly. “But please go inside.” His black ring reflected rays of light as he gestured toward the first room of the exhibition.
The boys entered, noticing a sign with the words ANIMAL CHAMBER. Large locked cases held gleaming gold figures of horses, dogs, bulls, deer, mountain goats, tigers, and many other species.
“Those Scythians were big on animals,” Chet observed. “They made gold representations of everything that moved.”
The Bayporters walked through the display, marveling at the high quality of the Scythian art. They stopped before a huge vase ornamented in gold with the figure of a tiger leaping toward the horns of a defiant bull.
“Siberian tiger,” Chet identified the big cat.
The next case contained nothing but replicas of horses, large and small, reclining and standing, jumping and galloping.
“Don’t tell me, Chet,” Joe said. “Let me guess. The Scythians rode a lot.”
“Right. They were terrific riders.”
A small figurine in the lower left-hand corner caught their interest. It was a golden horse, rearing on its hind legs. The animal was perfectly modeled with uplifted head and tossing mane.
“I’d like to own that one,” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet Mother would put it on the mantel in our living room.”
Frank grinned. “Aunt Gertrude would surely keep it polished,” he added.
While they sauntered around the Animal Chamber another visitor came in and looked at the display with intense interest. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair, dressed in a pin-striped suit. Under his right arm he clutched a leather briefcase, his hand tightly grasping the handle as if he were afraid somebody might snatch it from him.
As the stranger stepped back to get a better view of the figurine of the rearing horse, he bumped into Joe. The briefcase fell to the floor. The man instantly reached down and picked it up.
“Excuse me,” he apologized in a high-pitched voice tinged with a slight Spanish accent. “I did not see you.”
“No harm done,” Joe said cheerfully.
The boys went into the next room, the Ornament Chamber. Every case gleamed with rows of Scythian rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins, brooches, earrings, buckles, and other items of personal adornment.
In an authoritarian voice Chet told his friends about the dress of the ancient tribe. “The Scythian girls went in for gold in a big way,” he said, “and the men, too. Everybody wore—”
He was interrupted by a frenzied shout from the Animal Chamber. “Stop, thief!”
Alarmed, the boys hurried out into the hallway. At the far end they saw the stranger with the briefcase and the Spanish accent push through the revolving door. A guard dashed from the Animal Chamber and ran after him. The three Bayporters joined the chase.
When they reached the street, however, the fugitive had already hailed a taxi and was speeding away in the traffic.
“What luck!” Frank fumed. “And there isn’t another cab in sight.”
“Mr. Orlov will be furious,” the guard said, his voice trembling with fear. “But I noticed it too late—”
“Exactly what happened?” Frank asked.
“That man ran out of the Animal Chamber. I became suspicious and checked. I found that the glass in one of the display cases had been cut open. A figurine was missing. I alerted Orlov and took off after the thief.”
“Was anyone else in the room at the time?” Frank queried.
“No. Mr. Orlov had gone to his office. Oh, just before the robbery a tall blond man came out of the room and buried his cigarette butt in the bucket of sand in the hallway. I appreciated that because we don’t want a fire in the museum. The man went upstairs. In a moment the thief appeared. Obviously he waited until he was alone in the room, then stole the figurine.”
The boys found Orlov in the Animal Chamber in front of a display case. A piece of glass had been cut out neatly, and the figurine of the rearing horse that Frank had admired was missing.
The Russian was extremely agitated. He demanded to know what had become of the thief.
“He got away, Mr. Orlov,” the guard replied. “Jumped into a taxi.”
Orlov began wringing his hands. “Americans! You cannot trust them. I never should have brought the gold here. Our government will be very angry!”
“Maybe we can help you recover the piece,” Frank offered. “We have been doing some detective work. Unfortunately, the thief seems to have left no clue.”
“I don’t know about that,” Chet spoke up. “While you were staring after that taxi, I picked this up from the sidewalk. Maybe the guy dropped it!”
He held up a telegram. The others crowded around and read the message.
PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO ZURICH. A.P.

CHAPTER V  
The Bulging Briefcase
 
 
 
 
CHET grinned with a self-satisfied expression as the others read the telegram. “The Hardys aren’t the only detectives around here.” He chortled.
Joe scratched his head. “But what does the message mean?”
“Search me,” Chet replied.
Frank turned to the Russian curator. “Mr. Orlov, does the name Pedro Zemog suggest anything to you?”
“Nothing!” Orlov answered. “Nothing!”
“What about A.P.?”
“Nothing.”
The Hardys wondered about the briefcase Zemog had been carrying. Had he opened it in the museum and slipped the figurine inside?
“I saw nothing!” Orlov said.
The guard added, “The thief did not open his briefcase when I saw him. As a matter of fact, he acted as if it were made of solid gold, and he held it very tightly.”
“Your police had better do something about getting my ancient horse back!” Orlov exclaimed impatiently. “This theft could be a serious matter between our two countries.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You’ll have to report it right away. But perhaps we can help you. Mr. Zemog is headed for Zurich according to this telegram. We’re planning to go there ourselves. Mr. Orlov, would you like us to try to find the thief?”
Orlov stared at him. “You—but who are you?”
Frank introduced himself, Joe, and Chet and told Orlov about his father’s work.
The Russian became interested. “You are going to Zurich? Good. I will let you pursue the case in Switzerland.”
Joe had a sudden thought. “What about the tall blond man? If he’s still upstairs, he might be able to tell us something about the thief.”
Orlov gave the boys permission to search the building. They rushed upstairs, but could not find anyone who fitted the blond man’s description. They returned and reported their failure.
“He must have left by this time,” Orlov said. “Too bad we did not think of looking for him sooner.”
“Maybe the guy didn’t know anything was wrong and simply strolled out after he looked at the exhibition,” the guard added.
Frank and Joe promised Orlov they would stay on the case. Then they went with Chet to the parking lot.
“Let’s stop at police headquarters,” Frank suggested. “We may be able to explain the loss of the gold horse better than Mr. Orlov.”
He took the wheel and a few minutes later they were talking to the lieutenant on duty. He agreed to cooperate. Hearing their names, he asked if Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy. When he learned that they were, he said, “Fenton is a great detective. I’m glad to hear you’re following in his footsteps.”
After the lieutenant heard the description of the suspect, he shrugged his shoulders. “Middle-aged man with gray hair, pin-striped suit, carrying a briefcase. Hundreds of men in New York match that description. But I’ll put out a bulletin on him and alert the airlines. Who knows? We might be lucky.”
The boys thanked the lieutenant and drove to Bayport. After dropping Chet at his house, the Hardys hurried home.
They found their mother in the living room, reading a magazine. She was a pleasant woman who worried about the cases her husband and her sons handled. But she had confidence in them and knew that they had squeezed out of tight situations many times.
“Frank, Joe,” she greeted them. The boys hugged her. “I’m relieved to see you. What have you been doing?”
“Pretending we’re gold bugs,” Joe said with a chuckle.
Another voice interrupted. “Bugs? We don’t want any bugs in this house! What are you boys up to now?”
The speaker was their aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family. She was often stern with her nephews, but they knew she was very fond of them. Miss Hardy admired their skill in solving mysteries, although she tried not to show it.
Joe laughed. “Aunt Gertrude, these aren’t the kinds of bugs you sweep out the back door with your broom.”
“We’re not talking about entomology, the science of bugs,” Frank added with a grin.
“Goldology would be more like it,” Joe quipped.
Gertrude Hardy sniffed. “You boys can keep your ologies and your bugs,” she stated firmly. “Now explain your explanation.”
“Dad’s trying to recover a shipment of gold that was stolen from the Wakefield Mint,” Frank told her, “and we’re helping him. As a matter of fact, we’ll be going to Zurich, Switzerland, as soon as we can get a flight.”
“Isn’t that a risky adventure?” his mother asked.
Frank reassured her. “We’ll interview the director of the Swiss Gold Syndicate and ask if the gold has been routed through there.”
“You might get buried by an avalanche,” Aunt Gertrude remarked. “What will you do then?”
“We’ll wait for a Saint Bernard dog to find us,” Joe needled his aunt. “Seriously, though, we’ll be all right.”
“We don’t want to stay away too long,” Frank said. “Not when we have your delicious pies to come back to.”
Gertrude Hardy smiled and smoothed back her hair. She could never resist a compliment about her cooking, and promptly invited her nephews into the kitchen for cherry pie and homemade whipped cream.
The next morning Chet phoned. He was glum. “Dad says I have to stay home and help on the farm,” he reported. “Have fun, fellows, and round up the gold heisters.”
Frank and Joe flew out of Kennedy Airport the following evening. They would have liked to stay in the city longer to see if they could trace Pedro Zemog, but could not book a later flight that would get them to Zurich in time for their appointment with Johann Jung.
Their jet zoomed up from the runway, climbed into the sky, and circled over New York’s sky-scrapers. Frank and Joe settled near the rear and got a good view of the Empire State Building, the towers of the trade center, and the tip of lower Manhattan. Soon the plane gained altitude and all they could see below them were puffy white clouds.
“I wonder if there’s a connection between the Wakefield gold and the Scythian treasure,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“Could be,” Joe replied. “Both came from the Soviet Union.”
“And it’s our job to find both,” Frank reminded his brother. “The consignment mentioned in the telegram Zemog dropped-could it be gold bars that vanished from Wakefield?”
“Good question,” Joe replied. “Maybe we’ll find the answer in Zurich.”
He slipped out of his seat into the aisle and went for a drink of water near the center of the plane. Then he strolled up front and finally started back. He noticed a man with gray hair, dressed in a dark brown suit. Though he was asleep, he guarded a briefcase under one arm.
Joe paused a moment. “That guy resembles the thief from the museum, Pedro Zemog,” he thought. “Too bad he’s asleep. I wish I could find out if he speaks with a Spanish accent.”
Joe went to ask a stewardess. She replied that the man had not spoken so she did not know.
Joe returned to his seat and informed Frank of his suspicion. Frank immediately made a trip to the front of the plane. On his way back he glanced at the man, who was still sleeping.


  
“That guy resembles the thief from the museum!” Joe thought.
When Frank returned, Joe asked, “What do you think?”
“Hard to tell. We’re looking for a guy with a Spanish accent. Let’s wait till he wakes up. If this passenger is not Zemog, we could get into real big trouble by accusing him of being a thief.”
“But didn’t you see the bulge in his briefcase?” Joe asked. “It could be the gold horse.”
“Joe, the man had to go through the detection center at the airport. A gold object would have been spotted and he would have been arrested.”
“That’s right,” Joe had to admit.
“We’d better sit tight until we get to Zurich,” Frank urged, “unless we hear him talk in the plane.”
The stewardess arrived with a late dinner, which the boys lost no time in eating. After that, they checked on the suspect again. He had obviously not eaten and was still sleeping.
The boys returned to their places, pushed the reclining seat as far back as they could, and slept as the jet thundered toward Europe. When the Hardys awoke, they saw a magnificent view through the window. Snow-covered mountains spread far and wide beneath their plane. Tall peaks towered toward the sky. Villages nestled in the valleys.
“We’re over the Alps!” Joe exclaimed.
Frank glanced at his watch. “By my reckoning, we’re over Switzerland already.”
Over the loudspeaker a stewardess advised passengers to fasten their seat belts. The jet hissed over Lake Zurich, which extended from the city to the high mountains. The pilot kept on course and came down for a perfect landing at the airport. He taxied to the terminal, braked to a stop, and shut off the engines.
Frank and Joe stood up and tried to reach the suspect, but passengers blocked the aisle. The man in the brown suit waited at the head of the line to debark. Within minutes, he was off the plane.
Watching him through the window, the Hardys saw him hasten to the terminal and into the building. Finally Frank and Joe arrived too. By the time they passed through customs, their quarry was headed toward the exit with long, swift strides. Lugging their suitcases, the Hardys pursued him as fast as they could. They caught up with him at the taxi rank.
He whirled and glared at them when Frank spoke to him. “We’re interested in what happened in New York,” the boy said.
An expression of fear came over the man’s face. Suddenly he hurled himself at Joe, bowling him over backwards. Joe collided violently with Frank. The impact caused both the Hardys to lose their footing. They fell to the pavement in a heap.
A taxi bore down on them at full speed!

CHAPTER VI  
Over the Cliff!
 
 
 
 
INSTINCTIVELY resorting to judo, Joe rolled to the right of the speeding taxi. Frank did a somersault to the left.
The vehicle careened between them and jolted to a halt. “Was ist los?” the driver shouted at them. “Was machen Sie denn da?”
The Hardys scrambled to their feet. Frank tried to apologize in his high school German: “Entschuldigen Sie bitte.”
The driver responded with a tirade in German before going on to pick up a fare.
Frank straightened his jacket. “Joe, I think he was telling us off for scaring him. What happened to Zemog?”
“He’s gone!” Joe said glumly, looking at the passengers lining up for taxies. “He must have disappeared while we were nearly getting run over by that cab.”
They walked to the end of the line and finally got an empty taxi. Frank told the driver to take them to the William Tell Hotel. At the desk, they signed identification cards and received a room key. They set their luggage inside and tidied up their appearance, then went to the Zurich police headquarters.
Frank explained to an English-speaking captain named Hartl that Pedro Zemog, a suspected thief, was somewhere in the city. Joe inquired whether the Swiss authorities had any information about the man.
The officer checked through the files and made a phone call. Then he turned back to the Hardys.
“Pedro Zemog has no criminal record in our country,” he informed them. “But we will watch for him. Tell me where you are staying, and we will call you if we learn anything.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “We’re at the William Tell for the next few days.”
The boys returned to their room and unpacked, then contacted the Swiss Gold Syndicate.
Mr. Jung’s assistant told them there had been no more anonymous phone calls. “I asked a lot of people around town,” he said, “but found out nothing. I doubt anything will transpire over the weekend. Since Mr. Jung is coming back Monday, perhaps the caller will try to get in touch with him personally.”
Frank thanked the assistant and hung up. “What do we do now?”
Joe shrugged. “Let’s see the town.”
Taking the elevator to the lobby, they found people at the registration desk or following porters who carried their luggage. Others inspected items in the souvenir shop and relaxed in comfortable chairs. The Hardys paused to look at postcards on a revolving stand. Joe twirled it.
“Hey,” said a young American, “you just took the card I wanted.” A youth about Frank’s age peered at them from behind the revolving stand.
“Sorry about that,” Joe apologized. “I didn’t know you were on the other side.”
The two boys started a conversation and Frank joined them. The youth said his name was Rory Harper. He was in Switzerland to see the country and do some skiing.
“Listen,” Rory said, “I’m here with three girls, my sister Alice, my girl friend Jane Owens, and their friend Karen Temple. They’re standing over there by the window. Want to join us for a soda?”
Frank and Joe peered in the direction of the window and broke out in grins after glimpsing three very attractive teen-aged girls.
“Sure, we’ll be glad to,” Frank said.
After introductions, the Americans sat down at a low table in the lobby and ordered sodas. Rory’s group talked about home and their vacation in Switzerland.
Karen set her glass down on the table. “Joe,” she said, “do you ski?”
“A little,” Joe answered. “So does Frank.”
“That’s great!” Alice exclaimed. “We’re leaving today. Want to join us for the weekend?”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “We don’t have to be back till Monday morning, Joe,” Frank said.
“And there’s nothing we can do here in the meantime,” Joe added.
“Good. Then it’s all settled,” Rory said. “We can rent our gear at the lodge. Let’s go!”
The young people went to their rooms and quickly packed warm clothing in an overnight bag, then met in front of the hotel. They hailed a large taxi and the driver let them off at the railroad station.
On the way to the nearest ski resort, they watched the beautiful landscape as the train snaked up the mountains. They exchanged cheerful banter.
“I hope you guys are pros,” Rory said. “You’ll have to move fast to keep up with me.”
“That’s right,” his sister added. “Rory is fast—on his rear end!”
“Aw, Alice, don’t say that!”
Jane giggled. “We should modify that statement. Sometimes he’s fast on his stomach, too! I’ll never forget that time in Vermont when he slid down head first.”
“Oh, that was a bad spill I took,” Rory admitted. “My hat went one way, my goggles another, the poles almost hit another skier, and if the safety straps hadn’t held the skis, they would have arrived at the lodge without me.”
“What were you trying to do, wind up in the hospital?” Joe kidded.
“No,” Karen said. “He was just trying to imitate Herman the German, who did a somersault over a three-foot mogul.”
“He’s one of the instructors up there,” Jane explained. “Only Rory can’t ski nearly as well as he.”
When they arrived at their destination, they hitched a ride to the lodge with a friendly farmer, who chugged along the road in a pickup truck. As soon as they got there, they rented skis, boots, and poles.
Rory and the three girls had brought ski clothes. The Hardy boys each bought a pair of warmup pants to wear with their jackets.
Sunlight glistened on the packed snow of the slopes, and skiers looked like moving colored dots on a white sheet.
After the Americans had bought their lift tickets, they lined up for one of the chairs. Joe paired off with Karen, Frank with Alice, and Rory got on the lift with Jane.
“Wait for us when you get up there!” Rory yelled to the first pair.
“Will do,” Joe called back as he watched a girl in a red suit expertly parallel down the slope.
When they arrived at the top, they surveyed the mountain. Alpine peaks formed the skyline around them. The snow-clad terrain dropped away at their feet into a steep run. A colorful white sign with an arrow read: AUTOBAHN-EXPERT ONLY.
Frank held up a hand. The rest gathered around him in a circle.
“Have any of you skied this slope before?” he asked.
He received only negative answers,
“Then we’d better take the Mouse Run over there first. That’s intermediate,” he advised.
Joe and the girls agreed, but Rory shook his head vehemently. “No, that’s too easy for me,” he said. “I’m going to take the Autobahn and beat you all to the bottom. See you later!”
He gave a strong push with his poles and began to parallel over the lightly packed powder.
“We’d better not let him go alone,” Frank called out. “If you girls think you’re up to it, let’s follow him.”
“We’ll make it,” Jane said.
Frank led the way to the starting point and pushed off with his poles. Joe and the girls followed. The slope took them in a long semicircle and once narrowed to a steep trail, where they had to go in single file. When it widened again, Frank swiftly decreased the gap between himself and Rory and caught up with him about three hundred feet from the bottom.
“Hey, slowpoke!” he yelled as he overtook the other boy.
Rory tried to catch Frank, but hit a slippery spot and fell.
This gave Joe and the girls enough time to pass him. and they waited at the bottom with Frank.
“Did you say you were a pro?” Karen joshed him.
“I hit an icy spot,” Rory said lamely. “My luck!”
“No excuses,” Jane said and laughed. “Just do better next time.”
Rory looked at the Hardys. “You guys ski well,” he admitted.
“We go to Vermont quite a bit,” Frank said.
They spent an hour or so skiing the Autobahn and surrounding slopes, then they rode up a different lift, which took them to a trail called St. Gotthart’s Pass. A barricade blocked the way and a sign read: DANGEROUS SNOW CONDITIONS. TRAIL CLOSED.
“We don’t want to ski down there,” Frank observed. “Let’s go to the right and get another run.”
“Aw, that sign doesn’t mean a thing,” Rory said flatly. “I’m not afraid to ski down there. According to the map, this connects with a slope called Rim Run, which sounds interesting. Let’s go anyway!”
He quickly slipped around the barricade and was halfway through the first turn before Frank could convince him not to go.
“Girls,” Frank said, “Take another run. We’ll meet you at the bottom.”
“Okay,” Jane said. “But be careful.”
Joe followed his brother, who was having trouble on the slippery surface. “Rory is crazy!” he fumed. “He’s going to kill himself and us along with him by going down this death trap!”
Uneven and rocky under the snow, the trail was narrow, the ridges precipitous, and the gorges deep.
“This is like Russian roulette,” Frank muttered to himself. “Guess wrong, and it’s your last chance. It’s over the edge, and somebody else picks up the pieces at the foot of the cliff!”
He was relieved when he saw he was catching up with Rory. “I’ll head him off,” Frank thought.
But Rory seemed determined not to be passed. He skied at top speed along ridges and past gorges. Reaching a steep decline flanked by an icy cliff, he looked back over his shoulder to see how close Frank was.
The gesture caused him to lose his balance. He slipped head over heels on the ice and lay still!
Wondering how badly his friend was hurt, Frank drove himself forward with his ski poles, his eyes on the crumpled form in front of him. His left ski hit a boulder hidden in the snow. His feet shot out from under him and he landed on his back. The momentum carried him into a long slide on the ice. Frantically he tried to stop himself, but it was no use.
Frank Hardy slid over the cliff!

CHAPTER VII  
The Confrontation
 
 
 
 
JOE skidded to a stop near the top of the cliff, where he had seen Frank vanish.
Rory rose and shook his head woozily. “What happened?”
Joe did not explain. “Go get the ski patrol, pronto!” he yelled.
Rory realized the seriousness of the situation instantly and quickly fixed his skis. Then he schussed down the treacherous trail as fast as he could.
Joe, meanwhile, had taken off his skis and edged himself over the cliff. Frank was clinging by his fingers to a stone ledge about two feet from the top. Beneath him there was a ragged drop.
“Hold on, Frank!” Joe shouted. He climbed onto the ledge. Planting his feet as firmly as he could, he gripped his brother by the arms and struggled to pull him up.
Frank tried to anchor his feet against the cliff, but it was of no use. His skis, dangling on his ankles by the safety straps, clattered on the rock.
“Just hold still,” Joe advised. “I sent Rory to get help.”
A few minutes later two men from the ski patrol arrived. A rope was dropped over the edge of the cliff, and Joe reached out to catch it. He tied it around Frank, who was drawn to safety by the men above.
“Thanks,” Frank said gratefully. “Thanks a lot.”
“You should have more sense than to ski down here,” one of the men chided. “Don’t you realize we close these trails for a good reason?”
“It wasn’t Frank’s idea.” Joe came to his brother’s defense. “Rory wanted to get the connection to Rim Run—”
“You can get it another way,” the man said curtly. “Now follow us down and don’t try it again!”
The boys put their skis back on and made it safely to the intersection of Rim Run. From there it was not far to the bottom, where they met Rory and the girls in the lodge. He was drinking a mug of hot chocolate and was glumly stroking the pigeon’s egg on his forehead.
“Boy, do I have a few choice words for you!” Frank said, anger welling up in him again.
“Oh, please don’t!” Rory said, rolling his eyes and pointing to his head. “I’ve ruined my beauty externally and it doesn’t feel so hot internally either!”
The Hardys laughed. “Serves you right, my friend,” Joe said. “And I think now we’d better quit!”
The skiers returned their equipment and found an inexpensive guesthouse in which to spend the night. The following day the Hardys skied till early afternoon, then said good-by to their new friends, who planned to stay for a few more days. Frank and Joe took the train back to Zurich.
At the William Tell Hotel, Frank phoned police headquarters and spoke to Captain Hard.
“We’re still looking for Zemog,” he informed the boy.
“Any clues?”
“Negative.”
After lunch the following day the boys walked to the Swiss Gold Syndicate. It was nearby in a gray limestone building.
“Looks like a fort,” Joe commented.
“Sure does,” Frank agreed. “It’s made of stone and filled with gold.”
The brothers identified themselves to one of the guards, who escorted them to the office of the director. It was a large room with a high ceiling, thick rugs on the floor, and small stone-framed windows.
Johann Jung, a tall, dark-haired man, greeted them in perfect English. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “We’ve had another call this morning.”
“Anonymous again?” Joe asked.
“Yes. It seems that a small time crook has gotten wind of the fact that the Wakefield gold is to be traded on the black market and wants to capitalize on his information.”
“What did he say?” Frank asked eagerly.
“He told us to deposit five hundred Swiss marks in a small pedestrian tunnel in the old section of town. When he finds the money, he’ll leave the information he has.” 
“Could be a big hoax,” Frank said. “He might take the money and run.”
Jung nodded. “That’s possible,” he said. “On the other hand, the Wakefield gold heist is not known to anyone here except myself and the staff. How did he find out about it?”
“Shall we take a chance and pay him, then?” Joe asked.
“I have already,” Jung said. “He wanted the money at two o’clock. I sent someone to deposit it.”
“Can your man stake out the place and see who our anonymous friend is?” Frank asked.
“I doubt it. The fellow picked an excellent spot for this type of thing. The tunnel is short, narrow, and dark, and many people use it. Anyone waiting inside or on either end would be obvious.”
It was not long before there was a knock on the door. A young man entered and handed Jung an envelope. “I deposited the money, sir. This is what I got in return.”
Jung took the envelope. “Thank you, Hans. Did you see the man?”
Hans shook his head. “I waited about ten minutes after I left the money before going into the tunnel again. In the meantime, too many people walked through it. I have no idea who took the five hundred marks and left this envelope.” 
“Okay. Thank you.”
Hans left and Jung opened the message. It read: “If you want to find out about the Wakefield gold, go to Auerbach’s.”
“What does that mean?” Frank asked, puzzled.
“Auerbach’s is a restaurant in Niederdorf,” Jung said. “Maybe you’d better check it out. I’ll give you directions.”
Half an hour later Frank and Joe walked into Auerbach’s. A few people sat at scrubbed wooden tables. The boys approached the elderly man in an apron, who waited on them, and started a conversation in their high school German.
The wrinkle-faced Swiss grinned. “You Americans?” he asked.
Frank nodded. “I’m glad you speak English.”
“I lived in Chicago for ten years,” the man said.
They found out he was Xaver Auerbach, the owner. After some general comments on Zurich and their travels, Frank said, “We hear people around here trade in gold.”
The man looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joe pulled out a ten dollar bill. “A friend told us to come here if we wanted to buy gold.”
Slowly Auerbach took the money. “The only person I hear talking about gold around here is Karl Pfeiffer, and it seems to me he’s more talk than action. He usually drops in at five for something to eat.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “We’ll see him then.”
But at five Karl Pfeiffer did not appear. At six there was still no sign of him. Frank slipped Auerbach another bill. “Maybe we could talk to Pfeiffer at his house,” he said. “We really can’t wait any longer.”
“He lives at nine Annastrasse, three blocks from here to your right. The basement apartment.”
“Thanks.”
The boys found the address and knocked on the door. A sloppy-looking man in his thirties answered.
“Karl Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.
“Ja
.”
“You speak English?”
“Ja.
A little.” 
“What do you know about the Wakefield gold?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what you’ve been saying at Auerbach’s,” Joe put in.
Pfeiffer looked scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
He looked up as a police car halted in front of the building. Then he whirled around and hurried into his apartment as two officers approached.
“Hey, Pfeiffer, wait!” Frank called out. He ran after the man, who had opened a window on the other side of his living room and was about to climb out.
“Hold it!” Frank said and pulled him back just as the policemen entered the apartment.
“Vielen Dank fuer die Hilfe,”
one of the officers said, thanking Frank for his help. Obviously they had come to arrest Pfeiffer! 
Frank tried to explain why the Hardys wanted to talk to the man, but the policemen spoke little English and the boys’ German was not fluent.
“Let’s go with them to headquarters,” Frank suggested, “and talk to Captain Hartl.”
“Right,” Joe said. “It’ll be interesting to find out why they nailed Pfeiffer.”
The officers did not object to the boys’ accompanying them to headquarters. When the group arrived, one of them showed Frank and Joe into Captain Hartl’s office. They explained what had happened, and the captain looked puzzled.
“Pfeiffer was seen at the scene of a burglary this morning,” he said. “That’s why we brought him in. He’s a petty thief, but is not known to be a smuggler. Why don’t you wait here and I’ll talk to him.”
The captain was gone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, he held two envelopes in his hand. “This is a rather amazing turn of events,” he said. “Look what we found on Pfeiffer!”
One envelope contained five hundred Swiss marks, the other a few gold coins. In the upper left-hand corner of the second envelope were printed the words Wakefield Mint. 
“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “What a clue! Pfeiffer is involved in the gold heist!”
“I don’t think so,” Hartl said. “He told me the whole story. Pfeiffer was approached by a man last week and paid to spread the rumor about the Wakefield gold. The stranger also gave him the envelope with the coins for future use. Then he told him to call the Swiss Gold Syndicate and arrange for them to pay him five hundred marks in exchange for the information about Auerbach’s.”
“Who hired Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.
“He doesn’t know. But I know Pfeiffer. He’s been in and out of our jail several times. I think he’s telling the truth. He was set up by someone who wanted to mislead you!”
“What did the stranger look like?” Joe asked. “Maybe it was Zemog.”
“I asked Pfeiffer that,” Captain Hartl replied. “The fellow was tall, thin, and in his early thirties. He spoke German without a trace of an accent and Pfeiffer thinks he’s either German or Swiss. That doesn’t fit Zemog.”
“It doesn’t,” Frank had to admit.
“If I find out anything else about this case and Zemog, I’ll contact Mr. Jung,” Captain Hartl promised.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Frank said and the boys left.
“Let’s go back to the hotel and call Jung,” Frank said. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear the police recovered his five hundred marks.”
A short while later Frank and Joe took the elevator to the fifth floor of the William Tell Hotel. The door clanged open and they stepped into the corridor. At the same time, a man was about to enter the next elevator, which was going down. The boys looked straight at him. He stared in return.
“Pedro Zemog!” Frank exclaimed. Zemog still clutched his briefcase, shielding it with his arm. Then the elevator door closed.
“He’s headed for the lobby!” Joe cried. “We may be able to catch him!”
The Hardys took the stairs two at a time. They reached the lobby and looked around. There was no sign of Zemog.
“Too late,” Frank groaned.
The desk clerk could not tell them anything about Pedro Zemog, but he did say a man named Jones, who matched their description of Zemog, had been in room 506 and had just checked out of the hotel.
Back on the fifth floor, the Hardys noticed that the door of 506 was open. They went in. The bed was mussed, the drawers half-open, the closet door ajar. A quick tour of the room revealed nothing.
“Zemog didn’t leave a single clue,” Frank said in disappointment.
“Maybe he did,” Joe answered, as he reached into the wastebasket beside a table. He drew out some shredded yellow paper. Carefully he fitted the torn pieces together.
“It’s a telegram!” Frank said, looking over his brother’s shoulder, as Joe put the last piece in place. The boys felt completely stymied as they read the message:
PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO MEXICO CITY. A.P.

CHAPTER VIII  
A Warning
 
 
 
 
FRANK and Joe stared at each other, wondering again if the telegram referred to the gold stolen from the Wakefield Mint.
Finally Frank shook his head. “It can’t be. I think the telegram indicates that the consignment referred to has been in Switzerland and is now to be shipped to Mexico. But the crooks wouldn’t be so foolish as to bring the gold to Zurich secretly and then spread a rumor that it would be sold here!”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Joe agreed. “The rumor was created to keep us far from the place where the Wakefield gold has been, or will be, taken. So Zemog’s instructions don’t refer to it.”
“Right. But let’s phone Captain Hartl about the telegram, anyway. We still want to find Zemog for the museum.”
Police Captain Hartl promised to alert the airlines about the fugitive’s planned trip to Mexico, but said, “Since Zemog called himself Jones at the hotel, he’s obviously traveling under an assumed name. That creates a problem. What are your plans?”
“I think we’ll go back to Wakefield,” Frank said.
“Good idea. If we find Zemog, we will get in touch with the Early Art Museum in New York.”
“Thank you very much,” Frank said and hung up.
The boys packed and flew home the next morning. When they arrived, their mother greeted them with hugs. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “I hope you weren’t in any danger.”
“Well, Frank did a cliff-hanger,” Joe said, laughing. He described the skiing party and his brother’s accident.
“Why, Frank, you could have been hurt!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.
“Mother,” Frank assured her, “I knew what I was doing. And anyway, Joe was watching and came to the rescue.”
“I wish the two of you wouldn’t take such chances.” Mrs. Hardy sighed.
“Chances? What chances?” said Aunt Gertrude at the doorway. “Have you boys been up to some of your harebrained stunts again?”
After hearing the story, she shook her head. “You must have nine lives, like they say cats do.”
Frank thought, “I used one up on that cliff.”
“By the way,” Mrs. Hardy put in, “a man named Ivan Orlov phoned and asked for you. I told him you’d be back today. He refused to say what he wanted.”
A short while later, the phone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Orlov. “So you are back from Zurich,” he said. “Have you brought the Scythian figurine with you?”
Joe confessed that he and Frank had failed to retrieve the golden horse. He described how the boys had spotted Zemog at the Zurich airport and at the William Tell Hotel, and said that the police were looking for him.
“Why did you not have him arrested? Why did you not take the figurine from him?” Orlov demanded.
“We lost him both times.”
“Lost him!” Orlov stormed. “You mean you and your brother permitted him to escape?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Joe said.
“Size? What does that mean—size?”
“It means you’re correct, Mr. Orlov.”
“You have brought back no clue from Zurich?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we have,” Joe stated. He told the curator about the shredded telegram in Zemog’s abandoned hotel room and the message referring to Mexico City.
“You must follow him!” the Russian declared, excited. “You must go to Mexico City at once and find the gold horse! I will pay your expenses!”
Joe informed Orlov that they could not do this until they heard from their father. “He and my brother and I are involved in another case,” he explained.
Orlov became angrier. “Another case? What case could be more important than mine? Are you leaving me—how do you say it—in the lurch?”
“Mr. Orlov, if our father can spare us, we’ll be glad to pursue your case. But we’ll have to check with him first.”
“This is too confusing,” Orlov complained. “All I can say is that if the gold horse is not restored to me, it will be ... most unfortunate for your country!”
The Russian hung up so vehemently that Joe felt a painful buzz in his ear.
“Wow! Next time he calls, Frank, you talk to Comrade Orlov!” he said, holding his ear.
“What’s up?”
“He’s mad at us because we didn’t bring his gold horse back from Switzerland. Now he wants us to leave at once and chase Zemog around Mexico City.”
The phone rang again. Frank answered it.
“If it’s Orlov,” Joe muttered, “say I’m off on a moon flight.”
This time Fenton Hardy was calling. “I’m in John Armstrong’s office and we have you on conference call so we both can hear your report on Zurich,” the detective said.
“It was not a success,” Frank said and told about their visit to the Swiss Gold Syndicate, the false lead, and the arrest of Pfeiffer.
Mr. Hardy and John Armstrong agreed that the rumor was undoubtedly a diversionary tactic which the thieves had cunningly used to mislead the Hardys.
Frank told his father about Zemog and the stolen figurine from the Early Art Museum in New York. “Orlov wants us to go to Mexico City,” he said. “But we told him that we could only work for him if you don’t need us any more.”
“Well, I’m up against a stone wall right now,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let me talk to John.”
The two men conferred for a few minutes, then Mr. Hardy came back on the line. “When you mentioned Mexico City, John remembered something he had been told just the day before the burglary,” the detective said. “It had slipped his mind, but now it seems as if it might be a clue!”
“What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.
“One of the guards mentioned that he saw a private plane flying rather low over the mint with the words ‘Mexico City’ on the fuselage. John paid little attention to it at the time, but now we’re beginning to think that perhaps the plane landed on the hidden airstrip here in Wakefield and waited for the gold to be flown out.”
“Oh, Dad, that’s a great theory!” Frank said, excited.
“The only thing is,” Joe put in, “how do you know Mexico City was the plane’s destination?”
“You don’t,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. Again he conferred with Armstrong for a few minutes, then he said, “John thinks that even if the plane didn’t fly to Mexico City, it might have been based there. Since there’s nothing for you to do here at this point, he wants you to fly to Mexico and see if you can track down the plane while you’re looking for Zemog.”
“We’ll be glad to check out the Mexican angle,” Frank said. “And Orlov will be pleased, too. We’ll leave as soon as we can. What’s new in Wakefield?”
“No clues,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I scouted around the airstrip in the guise of a backpacker and kept the abandoned car under surveillance for three days. No one went near it.”
“Was the car stolen?” Frank asked.
“Yes. The owner has it now. By the way, John said if you need any help in Mexico he’ll be glad to pay the expenses. He wants that plane tracked down as fast as possible.”
“We’ll ask Chet, Biff, and Tony to go along,” Frank suggested. “This way we can split up and divide the legwork.”
“Excellent idea. And good luck!”
Biff Hooper and Tony Prito were two more of the Hardys’ close friends. Biff was a husky six-footer who knew how to use his fists. Olive-skinned Tony was a carefree youth who was always ready for an adventure. Like Chet, the two boys had helped Frank and Joe solve some of their mysteries in the past. Frank phoned them at once. “Big doings!” he said. “Make tracks over here in a hurry or get left out!”
Twenty minutes later a series of loud, gunlike reports sounded in the street. Chet’s battered jalopy rattled up to the Hardy home, backfiring all the way. Chet was at the wheel, with Biff and Tony beside him. He brought the vehicle to a jolting stop at the curb and turned off the ignition. The jalopy stopped its bucking and subsided.
Tony jumped out and stretched. “Oh, my aching back!” He groaned.
Biff extricated his long legs from under the dashboard. “When you ride with Chet, you hurt all over.”
Chet grinned. “How come you guys let me give you a lift if my jalopy scrambles your anatomy?”
“We never learn,” Biff said.
The three hurried up the front steps. Frank and Joe were eating large pieces of cherry pie on the porch. “Go right through,” Joe told their friends. “Aunt Gertrude is ready for you.”
Chet, Biff, and Tony went to the kitchen and reappeared with slices of pie. Tony sat down in a rocking chair, Biff perched on the porch railing, and Chet reclined in a hammock, balancing the loaded plate on his belt buckle.
“Okay,” Tony said, “let’s have it.”
“It had better be good,” Biff warned.
“The cherry pie suits me,” Chet countered. “But I know what the Hardys are up to.”
“What?” Biff demanded.
“Gold!”
“Chet’s right,” Frank revealed. He briefly told them the story of the Wakefield and Scythian gold. “We are working on both cases,” he concluded.
“Next stop—Mexico City,” Joe added. “How about you guys joining the expedition, all expenses paid?”
“Wow!” Chet exclaimed, and the other two were equally enthusiastic.
“It might be dangerous,” Frank warned.
“We’ll outsmart our enemies,” Tony vowed.
Chet levered the last piece of pie from his plate into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed with a blissful expression. Then he put out a hand and pushed on the railing, causing the hammock to sway back and forth.
“You fellows can have the crooks,” he declared. “I’ll stick to archaeology. The Aztecs lived in Mexico City, and had tons of gold. I’d love to see their ancient masks.”
Frank shook his head. “You may not have a chance, Chet. Our assignments are the Wakefield gold and the horse figurine Orlov wants back.”
Chet gave in. “Well, as long as I get to see somebody’s gold. Aztec or Russian, it’s all the same difference.”
The others laughed. They were used to their stout friend making jokes when danger lay ahead.
The five spent the rest of the evening planning their expedition. The next morning they drove to the airport and caught a flight to Mexico City. Upon landing, Frank proposed that the group split up and see if they could find the plane from Wakefield.
Chet was to check with the tower, Biff and Tony were to talk to the pilots, and the Hardys would question the mechanics.
Chet went to the tower and discussed the mystery plane with the dispatcher.
“Mexican airlines have many craft marked ‘Mexico City,’ ” the man pointed out.
“This is a private plane,” Chet replied. “It flew down from the U.S.A. about a week ago.”
The dispatcher checked. “I have no record of the one you describe,” he said.
Meanwhile, Biff and Tony had been circulating through the offices of the airlines, questioning pilots. None could tell them anything about an aircraft marked “Mexico City.”
Frank and Joe had better luck. The fifth mechanic they interviewed had serviced a private plane with that marking. Its pilot was a young man.
“I heard him mention Palango,” the mechanic said.
“Palango?” Joe asked. “What does that mean?”
“I think it’s an archaeological term. Better ask Professor Carlos Alvarez at the university. He can tell you all about archaeological digs around here.”
“Thanks for the info,” Frank said.
He and Joe held a conference near one of the runways. Planes took off and landed, taxiing up to the terminal. Crews removed baggage as lines of passengers alighted.
“It’s sure noisy here,” Joe said.
They walked to a hangar servicing private planes. A small aircraft stood near them on the runway, ready for takeoff. They could see the pilot checking his instruments.
While they were talking, Chet joined them. Biff and Tony came up at the same time.
“No luck,” Chet reported.
“We drew a blank, too,” Biff said.
Frank told them not to worry. “We got a clue from one of the mechanics.”
“The plane was here, and the pilot mentioned the word Palango,” Joe added. “Professor Alvarez at the university might be able to tell us what that means.”
“You see?” Chet said triumphantly to Biff and Tony. “The Hardys always get their man. They’ll find the gold!”
His words were overheard by the pilot of the small plane near them. He had just climbed out of the cockpit and proved to be a hulking figure in overalls. He carried a long wrench in his right hand.
The man stared at the boys, his brows furrowed. Then he sidled up to them. “What are you guys doing here?” he scowled. “And who are you?”
“Who are you?” Biff retorted boldly.
“My name’s Murphy, and they don’t call me Rumble for nothing. Understand?”
“Understand,” Chet said hastily. He was not about to tangle with a man carrying a wrench.
“What are you after?” the pilot demanded.
“Gold,” Chet said.
“It has to do with Palango,” Joe put in.
Rumble Murphy stepped toward them. Glowering, he slapped the wrench menacingly against the palm of his left hand. “You’d better go home right now if you want to stay healthy!”

CHAPTER IX  
Chet’s Mistake
 
 
 
 
RUMBLE Murphy brandished his wrench. Chet stepped back for fear of being hit, but Tony stood still, his hands on his hips. Biff assumed a karate stance.
“That sounds like a threat!” Frank said.
“It is a threat!” Murphy snapped.
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough if you butt in where you’re not wanted.”
Joe stepped forward and looked the pilot straight in the eye. “Come on, Murphy!” he demanded. “Why are you threatening us?”
The man’s answer was a punch that struck Joe on the jaw. Joe staggered backward and toppled over. Biff and Tony caught him as he fell.
Murphy ran to his plane and jumped in. The boys raced after him. Suddenly Frank shouted, “Hit the ground!”
They all plunged face downward on the runway. A landing plane sped toward them. They felt a gust of air as one wing passed over them with inches to spare! Shakily, the boys got to their feet.
“Lucky you shouted, Frank,” Biff said, “or we would have been mowed down.”
They watched helplessly as Rumble Murphy took off. He became airborne and vanished into the clouds scudding across the sky.
“Murphy’s a real pro when it comes to flying,” Frank observed.
Joe rubbed his jaw. “My guess is he’s a boxer,” he said. “That guy hit me really hard with that haymaker.”
The boys walked to the airport terminal.
“We must find out about Palango,” Tony remarked.
“Let’s set up an appointment with Professor Alvarez,” Frank suggested.
Biff clapped Chet on the shoulder. “You’re the expert on archaeology, Chet. We elect you to contact the professor.”
Chet grinned. “I’ll be glad to. Just lead me to the phone.”
He made the call to the university. Alvarez said he would welcome the visitors next morning.
The boys claimed their baggage and took a taxi to the hotel at which they had chosen to stay. After freshening up, they decided to use their free time sightseeing.
In the lobby, Frank inquired at the desk about a guide, and soon a wiry Mexican with wavy black hair appeared.
“You want to see Me-hee-co?” he asked the travelers with a friendly grin. “My name is Juan and my car is outside. It will cost you only a few pesos.”
They made a deal with the guide, who led them to an old auto with crumpled fenders and a crack in the windshield.
“This must be fifty years old,” Joe presumed. His companions were thinking the same thing. Feeling somewhat dubious about its reliability, they climbed in.
Juan started the engine, which wheezed and then made a put-putting sound that seemed about to choke off at any moment. He released the brake and chugged away from the hotel, dispensing tourist information as they rattled along.
First he took them through Mexico City’s main square. “The Zocalo,” he informed his passengers. “Our great plaza.” 
The area was dominated by the cathedral. They saw the national palace, the library, the School of Fine Arts, and other public buildings in and around the plaza.
Traffic whizzed every which way. Their guide stepped on the gas and headed into it. His passengers braced themselves as he raced ahead of one car and braked sharply to avoid another.
“Chet, this is worse than your jalopy!” Biff muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
They reached a beautiful broad boulevard. The car bumped along past trees, office buildings, crowds of pedestrians, and benches where tourists and citizens relaxed. Next came the markets of Mexico City, colorful areas with shops and outdoor stalls. Most of the vendors were selling fruits and vegetables.
In the Merced Market, Chet tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop. Juan pulled into a side street.
“What’s up, Chet?” Frank asked.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
They got out and followed him as he walked to a stall with succulent Mexican dishes. The aroma of tacos, tortillas, enchiladas, and chili filled their nostrils. Chet closed his eyes and inhaled rapturously.
“We might have known,” Joe said with a chuckle. “Chet never passes up any chow.”
“I’m with him this time,” Frank said.
The rest echoed the sentiment. They ordered a tortilla for each, including the driver, then strolled around the market, examining stall after stall. Juan talked to them animatedly, and occasionally conversed with the merchants in Spanish.
Chet, Biff, and Tony paused to look at some prints of Mexico City. Frank and Joe wandered down a side street into a dingy alley.
“Señores,
permit me to tell your fortune!” The speaker was an old woman with piercing black eyes and a black lace veil over her hair. Her shop had an astrological chart of the heavens on the open door. “Señores, only a few pesos!” she urged them. 
They went in and found her shelves covered with curios—herbs to be distilled for poisons, signs of the zodiac, and dolls with pins stuck in them.
The woman grabbed Joe’s hand and began to read his palm. “You have had a recent misfortune,” she said in a singsong voice.
Joe rubbed his jaw, which was still sore from Rumble Murphy’s punch. “Right,” he replied.
Frank extended his hand. “How about reading my future?” he suggested.
The woman surveyed his palm. Her eyes narrowed. “What do I see here?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Frank said.
“Much gold!”
The Hardys were startled. They tried to query the woman. Finding she would say no more, they paid her and left the shop.
“Could she know about the gold we’re after?” Joe wondered.
“Anything’s possible,” was Frank’s opinion.
The Mexican guide continued the sightseeing tour by driving to Chapultepec Park, a broad green area of woods and a lagoon, where entire families were enjoying the outdoors. Children played amid multicolored shrubs, bushes, and flowers. Fountains spouted water.
“Chapultepec,” the guide said. “That word means ‘grasshopper’ in the Aztec language.”
His battered car huffed and puffed as he pointed it up the hill. At the top he parked in the grounds of Chapultepec Castle, a white stone building with rounded arches and a tall oblong tower. A piece of sculpture on the terrace represented a huge grasshopper.
Inside, the visitors were streaming through the various halls. The boys from Bayport joined them. They saw costumes worn in Mexico City since Aztec times and the apartment once occupied by Emperor Maximilian, who ruled Mexico during the American Civil War.
“What happened to Emperor Max?” Joe asked.
“We shot him,” Juan said laconically.
They climbed up to the roof garden for a view of Chapultepec Park. Frank turned his head. A man with gray hair, wearing a dark suit, was on the other side of the garden. He held a briefcase! Frank tapped Joe on the shoulder and pointed.
“Zemog!” Joe gasped.
The brothers pushed through the crowd, turning and twisting in the press of bodies. At one point they were stopped by a solid wall of visitors and had to detour around them. Struggling and panting, they inched forward. At last they got to the other side.


  
“I see much gold!” the woman said.
The suspect was gone!
Frank and Joe hurried through the rest of the castle, only to draw a blank in every hall. They ran out to the terrace. Zemog was not there either.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Joe fumed. “Zemog pops up in the craziest places, and when we follow him, he dissolves into thin air!”
“We let him escape again, as Orlov would put it,” Frank agreed. “Which isn’t saying much for us!”
“I’m beginning to think it’s Zemog’s ghost who’s giving us this problem.” Joe chuckled.
The boys strolled around the terrace until they found Juan and their friends.
“What happened?” Biff asked. “You took off so fast we didn’t even have a chance to offer our help!”
“We think we saw Zemog again,” Frank explained. “And as usual, he escaped.”
“What do we do now?” Chet asked.
“I think we should finish our sightseeing tour at police headquarters,” Joe suggested.
Everyone agreed, and Juan took them to their destination. The boys thanked him for the tour, paid him, and went inside.
The sergeant at the desk spoke English well and listened to their problem with interest. He checked his records for Zemog, but found nothing.
“Zemog is not a Mexican name,” the sergeant said. “Unless he uses an alias, we should be able to track him down without too much difficulty. I will check all the hotels and see what I can learn.”
The boys returned to their hotel for the night. After breakfast the next morning, they taxied to the university to meet Carlos Alvarez. The professor’s office was lined with rows of books on archaeology.
He identified Palango at once. “It is an archaeological site not far from the great ruins of Chichén Itzá on the peninsula of Yucatán. Palango was recently discovered and digging has just begun. It lies in the same area as a lost pyramid of the Mayas. Fifty years ago a hunter reported seeing the pyramid. But since then, every attempt to find it has failed. What is your interest in Palango?”
Frank said that somebody might have flown gold from Mexico City to Palango.
Alvarez was puzzled. “I don’t know why anyone would do that. Usually it is the other way around.”
He gave them a little lecture on gold, noting that the Aztecs molded it into fine art pieces. “Their artifacts are so good many people cannot tell the difference between Aztec and Scythian.”
Chet puffed out his chest. “Oh, I can always tell Aztec stuff!” he boasted.
Alvarez smiled. He took a small piece of gold representing the head of a child from his drawer. “What do you make of that, my friend?”
Chet hefted the gold in his hand. “That’s Aztec, all right.”
“No, it comes from the Inca civilization down in Peru,” Alvarez corrected him.
Chet turned red in the face. His companions snickered, but Alvarez was indulgent. “An easy mistake to make.” He soothed Chet’s feelings.
That ended the session with the professor. The boys, deciding to run down the Palango angle at once, went to the airport and chartered a plane to fly them to Yucatán.
Three hours later they were on their way. The pilot flew across central Mexico, took the long leg of the journey across the Gulf, and zoomed past the shoreline over the jungle, thick with trees and tropical vegetation.
Suddenly the engine began to sputter. The boys looked at one another in alarm.
“What’s happening?” Frank asked tensely.
“I don’t know,” the pilot replied. “I had everything checked out before we left. But this is definitely trouble.”
He worked the controls frantically. But it was of no use. The engine quit and the plane nose-dived toward the jungle!

CHAPTER X  
The Boa Constrictor
 
 
 
 
Down, down they plunged! The jungle seemed to be rushing up to meet them and presently they could see the upper branches of the trees!
The pilot fought desperately to bring his plane out of its nose-dive. At the last moment, the engine came to life, and he regained control. They swooped down, then climbed just above the trees. Now he was able to zoom back to a safe altitude.
The pilot mopped his brow. “I don’t understand what happened. I double-checked everything before we left Mexico City.”
“Could be somebody doesn’t want us to get to Palango,” Frank observed in a shaky voice.
The plane flew across Yucatán and came down for a landing at Mérida, the main city in the northern Mayan region. The boys climbed out. All were shaken by the near crash.
“T-t-terra firma
for me,” Chet stuttered. 
“For me, too,” Biff added.
“The Mayas had the right idea,” Tony said. “They never fooled around with planes.”
The Hardys tried to cheer their pals. “We got here, didn’t we?” Joe pointed out.
“Better than hacking our way through the jungle,” Frank declared.
The pilot inspected his plane. “Somebody tampered with the engine,” he said grimly. “I’ll have to repair it.”
His passengers checked with airport officials to see if anybody had seen a private plane marked “Mexico City.” Nobody had, so the boys decided to go right on to Palango. Frank rented a jeep and drove to Chichén Itzá. All of them marveled at the ruins of temples and pyramids that once were the center of the Mayan culture of northern Yucatán. They asked a policeman about Palango.
“Take the dirt road northeast,” the man replied, “and then follow the jungle trail. The Palango dig is at the end of it.”
The boys set out, with Biff at the wheel of the jeep. The dirt road ended and the jungle trail began. It was so rough and bumpy through the dense tropical vegetation that they felt sore and bruised. Even well-padded Chet complained. “I’m not made to be a rubber ball,” he said.
Biff shifted into low gear. “We should have rented a Sherman tank,” he grumbled.
Joe laughed. “How about a swamp buggy?”
The jeep jounced over a large bush. An enormous hole loomed directly ahead! Biff stepped on the brake and the jeep halted at the edge of the hole with a jerk that nearly sent Chet flying over the windshield.
Frank pointed to a pile of fresh earth beside the trail. “Somebody dug that hole recently. I wonder—”
A splintering sound interrupted him. A giant tree beside the trail began to sway. It toppled toward the jeep!
Biff reacted instantly. He stepped on the gas, wrenched the wheel to the left, and scooted into the jungle undergrowth flanking the trail just before the tree fell with a crash. The boys ducked as the branches lashed over the jeep. Then Biff cut back out onto the trail beyond the hole and stopped.
He sighed with relief. “Anyone hurt?” he asked.
The others said no, then Frank proposed that they look around before going on.
The boys walked to the fallen tree. As Chet inspected the tangle of heavy branches, he remarked, “It’s lucky we got out from under.”
“The tree would have smashed us,” Tony agreed.
“Look at the trunk!” Joe declared.
It had been chopped nearly all the way through!
“Someone was setting a trap for us!” Tony exclaimed.
Frank nodded. “He dug the hole to make us stop, cut the tree with an ax till it was barely standing, and then pushed it over to make it topple on us.”
Biff clenched his fists. “That means he must still be around here somewhere. I’ll take him over the hurdles!”
He ran back up the trail. Frank and Joe took the underbrush on one side, Chet and Tony the other. The boys scouted through the area but found nothing except scuffed footprints near the base of the fallen tree.
“He got away!” Biff lamented.
“We may as well call off our search,” Joe said. “It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, only this haystack is the Yucatán jungle.”
An hour later the group bounced into Palango. A Mayan temple had been partially reclaimed, and nearby a deep excavation revealed further work in progress. Several tents had been set up in a cleared area. Four Americans were there along with a dozen Mexicans, descendants of the Mayas, who had been recruited to help with the dig.
The leader of the archaeological expedition came forward to meet them. He was tall and handsome with black wavy hair. “I’m Steve Weiss,” he introduced himself. “It’s a surprise to see you. Usually visitors don’t get this far in the jungle.”
Frank explained that he and his companions were trying to find gold.
“We have already found quite a bit!” said a voice behind them.
The boys turned to see a man wearing white shorts and a pith helmet. He had a superior smile on his face, as if to say that he was doing the visitors a favor by speaking to them. He carried a swagger stick, which he slapped against his leather boot.
“I’m Melville Courtney, assistant archaeologist on the dig,” he announced. “I’m also a Hawkins man.”
“He means Hawkins College,” Joe thought.
“We have already found gold, son,” Courtney repeated, “and are scarcely in need of your assistance on that score. The Mayas buried the gold. We retrieved it after much exertion and loss of perspiration.
“I’m sure you realize,” Courtney continued, “that your help would be superfluous.”
“A job is not what we have in mind,” Frank told him.
“Do you have armadillos in mind?” asked a woman who had just walked up. She was short, had golden hair, and a heart-shaped face. She wore a denim shirt and slacks.
“Rose Renda, our biologist,” Steve Weiss introduced her. “She just joined us a few days ago.”
“I’m an armadillo freak,” Rose declared.
Chet scratched his head and gave her a blank look. “Armadillo freak?”
“As you no doubt know,” Rose explained, “an armadillo is an armored animal native to these parts. It’s about five feet long from snout to tail in the biggest species. The armor on its back is approximately three feet long. The problem I’m researching is this: how is the armadillo related to the glyptodon?”
Now Tony looked blank. “What’s a glyptodon?”
Rose smiled. “You mean, what was a glyptodon? It lived millions of years before the armadillo, was about nine feet long, and had five feet of armor. The armor was completely smooth, and had a number of hinges that permitted it to turn more easily.”
“And you want to find out how the glyptodon evolved into the armadillo?” Tony asked.
“Yes,” Rose replied.
A man carrying a rifle joined the party. He was over six feet tall, slim, and quiet.
“This is Frank Pendleton,” Rose said, “our jungle guide. He knows everything about this area.”
“I should after twenty years,” Pendleton said, smiling.
“I take it you hunt, too?” Tony said with a glance at the man’s rifle.
“No. The gun is strictly for self-defense against the dangerous animals of Yucatán and the jungles south of Brazil. I’ve seen them all.”
“You mean jaguars?” Biff asked.
“That, and big snakes—boa constrictors, for instance.”
Chet grimaced. “I hope I don’t meet one.”
“You never can tell what you may meet in the jungle,” the guide responded. “I—”
“Time for chow,” Weiss interrupted.
Melville Courtney slapped his swagger stick against his boot again. “Dinner is indeed served, such as it is,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “K rations and coffee. Really!”
“However you say it,” Weiss laughed, “we’re all ready to eat.” He invited the Bayporters to share their fare, and they sat in a circle on the ground.
After a while Frank asked, “Has anybody here seen a private plane marked ‘Mexico City’? We’re trying to find it.”
No one had.
Joe put the next question to the group. “Have you ever met a man named Pedro Zemog?”
Again, everyone said no.
“Rumble Murphy?”
As the men shook their heads, Rose said, “Why are you looking for these people?”
“Because we’re trying to solve the mystery of a gold theft,” Joe replied. He told the group about the Wakefield heist and the theft of the ancient horse from the Scythian collection.
Courtney coughed. “Mr. Zemog and Mr. Murphy are obviously not gentlemen,” he stated. “I would not care to associate with them.”
“But they’re part of our mystery,” Joe pointed out.
“I don’t think you’ll solve your mystery here,” Weiss said. “There’s no reason for these gold thieves to bring their loot down here. They’d stick to Mexico City.”
Rose lowered her coffee cup. “It looks as if you boys have come a long way for nothing.”
Chet grinned. “Not me. I want to look at the Mayan gold you found, because I’m adept in gold artifacts.”
“What in the world is that?” Rose asked.
Chet explained his correspondence-course diploma.
Courtney gave him a supercilious look. “That is not like a degree from Hawkins,” he stated.
Chet looked hurt.
“Well, it’s an interesting title,” Steve Weiss interjected to make Chet feel better. “Sure, you can see our gold. The Mayas buried it to keep the Spaniards from getting it. Palango was once a thriving Mayan city. It was subordinate to Chichén Itzá, which you passed through to get here. You must have seen the temple-pyramid there.”
“Yes, we did,” Frank said.
“Well,” the archaeologist continued, “Chichén Itzá also had its Temple of the Warriors, its Court of the Thousand Columns, and its Observatory.”
“Observatory?” Tony asked. “Did those people study astronomy?”
“Oh, sure, and in a big way. They kept records of the stars and planets so they could be sure their Mayan calendar was accurate. They needed to know which days of the year to hold their religious festivals and other ceremonies.”
“Palango was minor compared to Chichén Itzá,” Pendleton put in. “But it did have a pyramid—the lost pyramid.”
“Boy, how can you lose a pyramid?” Biff quipped. “Kind of careless.”
Rose laughed. “The fact is that jungle growth covers everything in a few years.”
Weiss nodded. “And the jungle’s had almost five hundred years to cover the pyramid. When the trees, moss, vines, and creepers have done their work, you can walk within yards of a Mayan building and never spot it.”
Pendleton continued. “We know the lost pyramid is about twenty miles from here because a hunter spotted it fifty years ago. But he didn’t give the location. Even if we knew that, it would be very hard to hack our way through the jungle. There’s the vegetation, the heat, and the insects. As things are, every attempt to find the pyramid has failed because it’s like looking for a minnow in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“We may never discover it,” Rose added, “but we expect to run into a lot of armadillos. The jungle here must be loaded with them.”
“It is,” Pendleton assured her. “We’ll go out after armadillo tomorrow. Like to go along with us, fellows? You can help capture one.”
Biff spoke for them all. “That would be great!”
Weiss dug into the camp stores for more tents. Frank and Joe pitched the one they would share on the edge of the clearing near the Mayan temple. Branches of large trees, which surrounded the ancient building, were festooned with trailing moss, giving the scene an eerie look.
The Hardys said good night to their friends and were sound asleep when they were awakened by a terrified shout from Biff’s tent. It woke up others in the camp and brought footsteps pounding in his direction.
Joe snapped on his pocket flashlight and opened the flap of his friend’s shelter.
“Biff, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“On the ground!” Biff cried.
Joe trained the beam of his light lower. A long sinuous form was coiled just inside the door of Biff’s tent. The reptile raised its head in a menacing stare and started to hiss.
“It’s a boa constrictor!” Chet bellowed. “That thing will squeeze him to death!”

CHAPTER XI  
A Mysterious Shot  
 
 
 
 
BIFF crouched at the rear of his tent and eyed the big snake apprehensively. His friends formed a semicircle at the open flap of the canvas, not daring to get too close. The boa constrictor flicked its tongue menacingly.
“What’ll we do?” Chet wailed.
“Step aside!” a woman ordered. Rose Renda walked into the tent. She was carrying a large burlap bag, the mouth of which she opened by releasing a draw-string. Just then three Mexican workmen, alerted by Pendleton because of their experience in handling snakes, joined the group.
The jungle guide teased the boa constrictor with a stick until it struck ferociously. As its head hit the ground, Pendleton’s hand flashed out and closed on the neck just behind the head.
Two of the other men grabbed the reptile around the body, while the third seized the lashing tail. The four lifted the boa off the ground and dropped it, tail first, into the open burlap bag that Rose was holding. Then they crammed in the sinuous body, and finally Pendleton shoved the head, instantly pulling his hand away. Rose drew the mouth of the bag taut.
“This will make a fine addition to the Mexico City Zoo,” she commented.
“The zoo can have it,” Biff muttered.
Pendleton told everybody to go back to sleep and stop worrying. “It’s almost unheard of for a snake of this size to invade an archaeological dig,” he told them.
“This one,” said Frank, “must have lost its way.”
“Poor, crazy mixed-up snake,” Joe said with a grin.
That broke up the tension and all the boys went back to their tents. In the morning, they joined Rose, Pendleton, and Courtney on a trek into the jungle in search of an armadillo. Pendleton wore the rough clothes and floppy hat of an experienced jungle guide. Courtney appeared in spotless white ducks, wearing his pith helmet and carrying his swagger stick.
“Melville, you’d better leave your helmet behind,” Pendleton urged.
“It’s part of one’s dress in hot climates,” was the reply. “I wish to dress correctly.”
“That’s when you’re out in the sun. We’ll be under the trees and you’ll need air. You’ll be too hot with a helmet on.”
Courtney insisted on wearing his helmet, however, so the guide shrugged and dropped the subject.
The party started their trek into the steaming jungle. Frank and Joe decided to say nothing but to keep their eyes open for a plane flying overhead. They might spot the one they suspected!
Soon they found themselves under a dense canopy of greenery. Branches, vines, moss, and creepers blotted out the sun. Much of the time the trekkers had to hack their way through with machetes. Birds and monkeys screamed at them from the trees, and weasels and other small creatures fled through the underbrush at their approach.
Insects stung them and sweat poured down their faces. As Pendleton had predicted, Courtney felt the heat worst of all because of his helmet.
“Ditch it!” the guide advised.
“A Hawkins man never gives up,” Courtney replied.
“Have it your way, but we have quite a distance to go before we reach armadillo country.”
They slogged forward, taking regular breaks since it was so difficult to advance. Late in the afternoon, the guide suggested, “Let’s call it a day.” The others willingly agreed. They opened crackers and tinned meat, and ate dinner.
Then Rose gave a talk on armadillos. “They’re rarely found together,” she stated. “When we spot an armadillo, we’ll run him to earth. He’ll try to reach the security of his burrow before you get there. If you head him off, he’ll roll up into a ball and stay put.”
“Why does he do that?” Tony queried.
Rose smiled. “He hopes that whoever is bothering him will get tired of waiting for him to uncurl and go away.”
“What are the chances of finding one tomorrow?” Chet asked.
“Pretty good. Yucatán has been the home of the armadillo for thousands of years. According to a Mayan myth vultures turn into armadillos when they grow old. There are plenty left here.”
In the morning, the march resumed. Insects swarmed around the hunters and Frank swatted a mosquito. “They’re as big as robins,” he complained.
“Big as crows,” Joe corrected him, knocking one off his cheek.
After hours of pushing through the jungle, Rose noticed an anthill that had been broken open. “An armadillo did that,” she said, excited. “Ants are number one on his menu.”
Pendleton told the group to split up. “Look under bushes and in burrows. If you flush an armadillo, sing out. The rest of us will come on the run.”
Courtney slapped his swagger stick against a tree. “I will direct the capture,” he offered.
“I’ll bet he will,” Frank whispered to Joe. “He’s not about to touch an armadillo.”
They separated to look for their quarry. Rose tried to pick up a trail at the ravaged anthill. Pendleton continued straight ahead in the direction they had been taking. Courtney stabbed into the bushes with his swagger stick, looking as if he hoped never to see an armadillo in his life.
Chet, Biff, and Tony moved beyond Courtney into the jungle. Frank and Joe went to the left. “There’s one thing we won’t find in here,” Frank remarked.
“What’s that?”
“The Mexico City plane. You couldn’t fit even a helicopter into this jungle with a shoehorn.”
“That’s right. Well, let’s concentrate on the armadillo.”
They split up. Frank vanished among some moss-laden trees. Joe took a route over a carpet of jungle vegetation. The undergrowth slowed him considerably. Vines caught his clothing, and creepers tripped him. A green parrot fluttered down onto a bush and squawked at him angrily, but he laughed as a hare stood upright on its hind legs, twitching its nose as he passed.
Presently Joe found an armadillo burrow, which he probed with a branch. It was empty. He went on, but after a while his legs were tired. He paused beside a tree in an open space of the jungle to rest. Wham! A rock slammed into the tree, inches from his head! It bounced off and caromed into a thicket.
Joe hit the ground in a headlong dive. He crawled over a tangle of creepers and pulled himself into a crouching position behind another tree. Gingerly he peered around the trunk. No one was in sight.
A sharp report cut through the stillness of the jungle. A shot! It had come from behind him! Joe dodged into the underbrush and stealthily moved in an arc toward the spot where the shot had been fired. He saw no one.
His companions had heard the shot, and ran up to see what had happened.
“Somebody used me for a clay pigeon,” Joe told them. “He fired right at me!”
Frank turned to Pendleton. “You’re the only one carrying a weapon. Did you fire at Joe?”
“Of course not.” The jungle guide strenuously denied the charge. He opened the breech of his rifle. “Look for yourself. It hasn’t been fired.”
“Who could it be, then?” Biff wondered.
Tony sighed. “We’re obviously not the only ones here in the wilderness.”
“Maybe it was a Mayan hunter after armadillo,” Pendleton suggested. “Mayas love armadillo steaks.”
“Or the guy who dug the hole and tried to conk us with a tree,” Frank said to Joe in a low voice. “Matter of fact, that’s more likely.”
“That would mean we’re being watched constantly,” Joe said in alarm.
Frank nodded. “It is a possibility.”
The searchers began beating the undergrowth. An armadillo, evidently startled, bolted from behind a rock. It was about three feet long, with a pointed snout, long ears, and a long tail. The armor fitted over its back like a half shell.
The animal hit Biff a hard blow on the ankles, knocking him off his feet, then raced past. Everybody chased the armadillo, careening and stumbling through the jungle undergrowth.
The creature veered into Chet’s path. As he lunged for it, his foot caught in a creeper, and he fell with a crash. The Hardys, too close behind him to stop, piled on top of the stout boy in a tangle of arms and legs. Frantically they scrambled to their feet and resumed the chase.
The armadillo did an about-face and raced between them. It plowed into Courtney, bowling the Hawkins man over. His pith helmet rolled into the underbrush. He got to his feet slowly, retrieved the helmet, brushed it with his sleeve, and placed it on his head, looking embarrassed.
“I shan’t associate with any armadillo,” he declared, seating himself on a stump and rapping it with his swagger stick. “I will wait here.”
The animal reached its burrow, but Pendleton, too quick for it, seized the armadillo and pulled it out, kicking and squealing. The creature resisted briefly before quieting down in the guide’s arms.
The other searchers arrived. The boys stroked the armor, which was composed of hide with a series of plates around the body, giving it flexibility.
“So that’s an armadillo!” Tony marveled.
“Yes indeed,” Rose answered. She scratched its ears with her fingertips.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Chet asked apprehensively. “You might lose a finger.”
Rose shook her head. “Armadillos have few or no front teeth, so they can’t bite.” She held the animal while Pendleton took a collapsible wire cage from his pack. They eased their captive into it and the jungle guide pulled the straps over his shoulders. The cage rode easily on his back.
“Mission accomplished,” Pendleton said.
“Right-o!” Courtney exclaimed. “We may now leave this jungle, of which I have had quite enough.”
Frank spoke. “I’d like to scout around here a bit longer.”
Joe and his friends agreed enthusiastically, but Pendleton objected. “We’ll have to get back to the dig. Do you want to stay here alone?”
“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”
“Not really. We’re on an elevation where the mosquitoes aren’t bad. I don’t think you’ll see any dangerous animals, either. Can you find your way back to camp?”
“Sure,” Frank said. “We’ll go by the compass. Since we came from a northeasterly direction, we’ll return that way.”
“Good enough,” Pendleton replied. “You stay then, and we’ll be on our way.”
Courtney doffed his pith helmet. “Adios,” he said solemnly, and Rose waved good-by. 
As the three explorers disappeared into the jungle, their footsteps died away in the distance.
The boys walked in the opposite direction, noting the jungle flowers and animals as they went.
“There are a million monkeys here,” Biff judged.
“And a billion parrots,” Tony added.
“What do we do if we meet any Mayas?” Joe asked.
“Talk Mayan to them,” Frank quipped.
By nightfall the boys were extremely tired. Making a hasty meal of their rations, they set up camp beneath towering trees.
Frank could not sleep. He kept thinking about the strange events that had taken Joe and him to Switzerland, then to the jungles of Yucatán. It appeared that they were finally onto a clue—the plane marked “Mexico City.” But where was it?
He sat up and turned his head. Everything was pitch black. Suddenly through the darkness he saw a light. It moved in a circle and went out. Frank rubbed his eyes.
The light flashed once more, swaying back and forth for a few minutes, then went out again. In a moment the signal was repeated a third time.
Now fully awake, Frank reached over and shook his brother.
Joe yawned. “What is it, Frank?”
“A light out there! Look!”
The beam remained stationary for a few seconds. Then it started moving once more, vanished, and reappeared a moment later.
Frank jumped up. “Hurry, Joe, we’ll have to find out what this means!” He grabbed his compass and the two slipped through the jungle, guiding themselves by the mysterious light. After about half a mile, they reached a clearing.
The full moon revealed a weird sight. A stone building covered with jungle vegetation towered toward the sky. The vines and creepers spreading up the uncanny edifice from base to summit seemed like writhing serpents and disguised the building completely. The mysterious beam came from the summit.
“That’s a flashlight!” Joe said in a low voice. “Somebody’s up there. What’s he doing, Frank?”
“Joe, I believe he’s signaling a pal. But why?”

CHAPTER XII  
The Jungle Pyramid
 
 
 
 
THE Hardys entered the clearing and cautiously approached the eerie edifice. It was more than a hundred feet high, tapered toward the summit, with indented rows of stone steps rising from the bottom to the top. The base was formed of massive stone blocks. On the summit stood a temple.
“I’ll bet it’s the lost pyramid!” Frank gaped.
“No wonder it got lost,” Joe whispered. “Rose was right. The jungle covers everything!”
Close up, they could see where winds had blown earth over the stone blocks. The seeds of plants, vines, creepers, shrubs, and flowers had imbedded themselves in the earth and sprouted in profusion.
Joe looked up toward the light on the summit. “Let’s find out what’s going on,” he whispered.
“Easy does it,” Frank counseled. “We don’t want to scare the person off. First we’ll explore the ground around the pyramid. Whoever is up there might be signaling an accomplice down here.”
Stealthily the two boys slunk past the staircase in the center of the facade, noting that it lead up to the temple entrance. As they turned the corner, Joe bumped into an upright slab of stone covered with raised squares and bearing strange symbols.
“Glyphs,” he thought.
They went on with their search. At the back of the pyramid, they saw the carved figure of a monstrous snake undulating down over the stone blocks. Eyes of obsidian glinted at them in the semidarkness. The open mouth revealed oversized fangs. Plumes bedecked the head and neck.
“The Feathered Serpent of the Mayas!” Frank said.
He and Joe had seen statues of this mythical creature many times since their arrival in Mexico. They knew it was the principal god of the Indians who had lived in Mexico before Columbus came to America.
Circling the pyramid, the boys returned to their starting point. “Nobody down here but us,” Joe said in a low voice.
The light was still showing on the summit. Suddenly, at the door of the temple, it went out.
“The man’s gone inside,” Frank observed. “This is our chance.”
Slipping and sliding, the Hardys silently climbed the steps to the top of the pyramid. Frank edged his way into the entrance of the temple. They did not see the light, and he whispered, “Maybe there are inner stairs to the top.”
“Then we can take him by surprise,” Joe said. He stepped forward, feeling his way along the wall. The boys did not want to use their pencil flashlights because they might alert the person inside to the fact that they were stalking him.
Suddenly Joe plummeted out of sight!
“Joe!” Frank whispered hoarsely. “Joe! Where are you? Joe!”
Receiving no answer, Frank fished out his light and played the beam across the interior. At his feet the edge of a long stone incline dropped into utter darkness. Frank was horrified. Had Joe plunged down into a Mayan dungeon? If so, he might be hurt! He might be unconscious! He might even be—! “Joe!” he called. “Are you all right?”
Then he heard Joe’s voice behind him. “I’m okay, Frank. I just took a ride on a Mayan roller coaster!”
Frank breathed easier.
“It’s leading outside to the steps in the back,” Joe continued. “I landed next to the Feathered Serpent. He didn’t blink an eye.”
Frank kept the beam of his flashlight shining over the end of the inclined plane. The boys decided it must have been used to lever heavy objects up to the higher levels of the pyramid.
“No freight elevators for the Mayas,” Joe joked. “They did everything with muscle.”
“Not so loud!” Frank warned. He played his beam around the lower chamber of the temple. It flashed over a pile of clay pots and stone figures in a corner.
“Where are we?” Joe asked.
“It looks like a storeroom, Joe. They kept supplies here until they were needed upstairs.” The flashlight crossed a tall stone column in the opposite corner. Frank brought it back into focus. The column was a rectangular stone block standing on end, about as tall as the boys. The same face was repeated four times from top to bottom, the visage of a large cat, its fangs bared in a savage snarl. “The jaguar god,” Frank whispered.
“As Chet would say, I hope I never meet up with him,” Joe said.
Frank now pointed his flashlight toward the ceiling. It showed row after row of petroglyphs, which they could not read.
“I understand,” Frank said, “that Mayan script has not been completely deciphered yet.”
The Hardys circled the chamber. The only opening was a low doorway. Frank ducked under it, followed by Joe, into a small, empty room. A quick search showed it had no other outlet.
A rustle at the doorway made Frank snap off his flashlight. The boys whirled in the defensive stance of karate experts. The sound came directly toward them in the darkness!
The Hardys had a strategy for such confrontations. They counted silently to three, then Frank snapped on his light. At the same time, Joe leaped on the intruder. He received a whiplash across the face, and went down in a tangle of branches!
Frank chuckled in spite of the danger. “A bush! The wind blew it in here!”
Ruefully Joe extricated himself and got to his feet. “Next time, I’ll look before I leap!” he said.
The Hardys went back through the first chamber. “We’ll have to use the outer stairs to get to the top of the temple,” Frank declared. “I hope the guy inside won’t see or hear us.”
He pocketed his flashlight; then the boys went outside and maneuvered over to the staircase. The steps seemed to rise endlessly above them, steep and narrow. The footing was difficult, and clouds gathering across the face of the moon created a dark, murky atmosphere.
“Don’t fall!” Frank muttered. “It’s a bumpy road to the ground.”
They got about a third of the way up, gripping vines to steady themselves and making sure of a foothold on every step, before they were interrupted. Something moved among the vines near Frank’s right hand. Pulling his fingers away, he got out his light and shone the beam on the fluttering leaves. A menacing snake raised its head, stared at him for a few seconds, then slithered onto the bough of a small tree. It vanished among the creepers.
Frank felt his heart pounding. He had almost placed his hand on a fer-de-lance, one of the most poisonous snakes of the Yucatán jungle!
“You’re no snake charmer,” Joe whispered. “Don’t fool around with our lethal companions.”
They resumed their climb. A black object hurtled through the air at them. Joe ducked in time to avoid getting hit on the head, but lost his footing and toppled off the step! Frank grabbed his brother in midair and held him until he could regain his foothold.
The trajectile veered to one side and landed on a bush. A harsh croak jarred their ears.
“A raven!” Frank whispered. “He almost got us!” As they continued their climb close to the summit, Frank paused and looked up. The smoother stone of the temple gleamed through tangled tropical growth that sprouted on its roof and spilled down the sides, waving wildly in a rising wind. The entrance was a dark oblong in the front wall. Total silence reigned over the jungle pyramid.
Frank gestured to Joe not to make a sound. They moved slowly and carefully up the rest of the steps. The final one brought them to the sacrificial chamber. On it stood a platform with four feet on each side. The walls of the temple behind it were made of pink-red stone rising some twenty feet into the air. A doorway led into the interior, and blank walls extended on each side of the doorway. The roof was flat.
Frank and Joe stole to one side of the entrance and peered in cautiously. A shaft of moonlight gleamed through an opening in the opposite wall. There was no sign or sound of life in the temple.
“Do you think the guy heard us and ran?” Joe asked in a whisper.
“Well, if he did, let’s see what he was up to,” Frank said.
As the boys entered, Frank fumbled for his flashlight. Just then something rustled in a dark corner, and the next instant a man barreled out at them! He leveled Joe with a wild swing, then grappled with Frank!
The pair staggered back and forth in a furious test of strength until the assailant gave ground. Frank pressed him back. They swayed through the doorway and over to the staircase.
Joe recovered slowly from the blow. He felt woozy, but got to his feet. Then he realized he was alone in the temple. His brother and their attacker were gone!
“Frank!” he shouted. “Frank!”
The name echoed out over the jungle, but Frank did not answer. Frantically Joe rushed through the nearest doorway, which was the rear exit, and circled around the temple to the front.
There he could see Frank and the stranger still locked in combat! Joe rushed to help his brother, but before he could reach the spot, Frank and his attacker had lost their footing!
With a scream, they pitched down the main staircase and fell toward the bottom of the jungle pyramid!

CHAPTER XIII  
A Strange Figure
 
 
 
 
JOE leaped forward and clutched wildly at Frank, but his fingers missed by inches!
Three new shapes were suddenly visible on the steps in the moonlight. Three pairs of arms caught Frank and his antagonist in midair. With great relief, Joe recognized Chet, Biff, and Tony!
The boys pulled Frank free. He stood to one side, panting from his struggle, while Biff gripped his adversary in a bear hug. The two wrestled fiercely on the temple staircase.
The man tripped Biff, who tumbled into a tangle of creepers. The assailant leaped up the steps, but Tony brought him down with a tackle around the ankles. Chet sat on him and grinned.
“Had enough?” Chet inquired.
“Chet’s a bit overweight,” Tony pointed out.
“I—can—tell—that!” the man gasped. “Okay. I give up!”
The boys pushed their captive up to the summit and backed him against the temple wall in the darkness.
“You guys came just in time,” Frank said to his friends. “How did you get here?”
Biff said he had awakened to discover that Frank and Joe were gone. “I noticed a light and figured you must have seen it, too. So I woke Chet and Tony and we decided to back you up in case you were in trouble. We found what we think is the lost pyramid, and we saw a hassle on the top.”
“We came up the Mayan escalator,” Tony quipped. “Stone blocks and leg power.”
Biff looked at their captive. “Say, who is this guy?”
Joe took out his pencil flashlight, snapped it on, and shone it in the man’s face.
Rumble Murphy!
“What are you doing here?” Frank asked the pilot.
“None of your business!” Murphy grunted.
“Let’s tie him up,” Frank suggested. “One of us can watch him, while the rest are searching the place. There should be some clue as to what our friend was doing in the pyramid.”
The boys handcuffed Murphy with Joe’s belt, and tied his ankles with Tony’s. Biff volunteered to guard the pilot, while the others would go over the temple and pyramid with a fine-toothed comb, using their flashlights.
First they entered the section of the temple where they had been before. It had a high ceiling. A raised altar stood at one end and a row of stone idols at the other. Here the priests of the Mayan religion apparently had presided over ceremonies to the gods.
“Wow!” Tony said as he played his light over the altar. “This is where the Indians prayed to the jaguar god and the feathered serpent.”
Frank nodded. “Right now I’m not interested in the feathered serpent, but in some clues to why Murphy was here.”
The boys looked in every nook and cranny, and were about to give up when Joe called out, “Hey, fellows! Come over here!” 
The others ran up to him. Joe pointed to a bulky sack concealed behind a statue of the jaguar god. Together, the boys dragged it into the center of the room.
“It’s heavy as lead!” Tony exclaimed.
Excited, they opened it.
“Gold!” Chet cried in awe as they pulled out one object after another. First came a disc representing the sun. Small figurines followed. Finally there were dozens of ornaments—headdresses, bracelets, and rings.
“I don’t believe it!” Frank said. “This stuff is priceless!”
“All Mayan,” Chet added. “It takes an adept in golden artifacts to know that.”
Joe upended the sack and shook out the contents. “The Scythian horse isn’t here,” he said, a note of disappointment in his voice.


  
“This stuff is priceless!” Frank said.
But Chet was ecstatic. “Who cares! You were looking for one little figurine, and see what you’ve found instead!”
“Not the Wakefield gold, either,” Frank said.
“Let’s take one thing at a time,” Tony suggested, “and confront Rumble Murphy with the evidence. Maybe he’ll enlighten us as to the origin of this treasure.”
“Good idea,” Frank said, and the boys began putting the glittering objects back into the sack.
“Remember the fortune-teller in Mexico City?” Joe asked his brother. “She said there was much gold in your future. Maybe she meant this.”
Frank laughed. “Who knows?”
The boys carried the sack outside and showed it to Biff. Murphy mumbled under his breath.
“Okay, Murphy,” Frank said. “You may as well tell us what this is all about.”
Murphy glared as his captors surrounded him menacingly.
“Come on, talk!” Biff hissed and moved his bulky figure closer to the pilot.
“All right, all right,” Murphy grumbled. “I handle Mayan artifacts. Jeep them to Chichén Itzá, then fly them out of Mexico for international buyers.”
“Did you ever see a figurine of a rearing horse?” Tony inquired. “A Scythian piece.”
Murphy shook his head. “I told you I handle only stuff that’s found right here in Mexico—Aztec, Mayan, Olmec—no Scythian gold.”
“How did you find the pyramid?” Frank queried.
“I spotted it one day when I was flying low over the jungle. Later I discovered a way in by jeep from Chichén Itzá. And I saw it was the perfect hideout because nobody else knew where it was, so I stored my loot here.”
Frank changed the line of questioning. “Why did you threaten us at the airport in Mexico City?”
“Because your fat friend said you were after my gold!”
“Your gold?” Frank was puzzled.
“He said you always find your man, and you’d find the gold. I don’t know anyone else smuggling gold around here, so I figured you were after me! Who do you work for, anyway?”
Frank grinned. “The Wakefield Mint.”
“What!”
“Never mind. But we had nothing to do with you. If you hadn’t signaled tonight, we would never have suspected you.”
Murphy mumbled again, but said nothing aloud.
Biff said, “You were the one who dug the hole in the trail from Chichén Itzá and then caused the tree to tumble on us! You almost killed us!”
“I did no such thing,” Murphy grumbled, but the boys knew he was lying.
“And you tampered with the engine of our chartered plane,” Joe accused. “After you dug the hole you flew back to Mexico City and waited for us!”
“And you took a pot shot at Joe today,” Frank added.
Murphy did not reply.
“Why were you signaling with the flashlight tonight?” Frank asked.
“What signal?” Murphy asked defiantly.
“Don’t play dumb,” Frank said. “If we hadn’t seen your light, we never would have found you or the pyramid.”
“A buddy of mine Hies over here at night at a certain time to let me know if we found a buyer. I don’t know which night he’s coming, so I signal, then he drops the instructions. He didn’t show up tonight.”
“Why did you take a chance with us so close by?” Tony asked.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” Murphy said glumly. “I thought you had left with the others.”
By now the sun had begun to rise and a soft mist hung over the jungle.
“What’ll we do with him?” Chet asked.
“Murphy must have a jeep around,” Frank replied. “We’ll have to deliver him to the nearest police station in Chichén Itzá.”
Rumble Murphy looked at them with squinting eyes. “Do you have to be that drastic? Look, I could cut you in on the loot. This stuff is worth a bundle of money. If you don’t want to handle it yourselves, I’ll pay you in cash. Fifty-fifty. What do you say?”
“No,” Frank said laconically.
“All right. I’ll give you seventy-five percent. That’s robbing me, but what can I do?”
“Forget it, Murphy,” Joe said. “We’re not thieves.”
“You’re crazy! Do you realize what you’re turning down? Listen, I’ll give you everything, but don’t take me to the cops!”
Frank ignored the plea. “Where’s your jeep?”
Murphy realized that he had lost and started to scream at the top of his lungs. Suddenly he fell silent and would not utter another word.
“I’ll go find the jeep,” Frank offered. “It has to be around here somewhere. Hey, look!”
He pointed to a stranger entering the trampled area around the pyramid. He was a man dressed in the white suit worn by modern Mayas, with a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head. He edged around the pyramid in a suspicious manner.
“So, there’s your accomplice, Murphy!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s meet him, gang. Biff, want to guard our friend again?”
“Sure thing,” Biff replied as Frank, Joe, and Chet took the steps down as fast as they could, followed by Tony. They circled the pyramid, taking the direction opposite that used by the man in the white suit.
They met him at the corner. He had the light-copper coloring of an Indian. Lank black hair extended down to his shoulders. His cheeks were round and a scar ran across the right side of his face. He looked startled when he saw them.
“Are you looking for Rumble Murphy?” Joe asked.
The man responded in a rapid flow of Spanish. Though the boys had studied the language in high school, they could not follow him because he spoke so fast and with a strange inflection. Joe asked him to repeat slowly what he had just said, but the man stared at him blankly.
Chet had an idea. “Let’s try sign language,” he suggested. “I’ll take it from here.”
He touched the man on the shoulder, turned, and pointed into the jungle. He made a long sweep with one arm toward the pyramid.
“What does that mean?” Joe wondered.
“I’m asking him where he comes from, and how he got here,” Chet explained.
“Well, you could have fooled me,” Joe said.
The man smiled, shrugged, and spoke again.
“We’re getting nowhere fast,” Frank protested.
The boys decided to bring the man face to face with Murphy. One of them might give something away. They were discussing the best way to arrange the confrontation when the man suddenly spoke English.
“Bayport seems to be on the ball!”

CHAPTER XIV  
The Aztec War God  
 
 
 
 
THE boys gaped. The voice was unmistakably that of their father!
“Dad!” Frank cried out. “I don’t believe it!” He scrutinized the coppery face closely. Then he grinned. “I should have known. The color of your eyes doesn’t fit your make-up!”
Mr. Hardy chuckled. “A bit of make-up and cheek pads can do a lot to change one’s appearance. And I can always squint when necessary.”
“But, Dad, we thought you were investigating the case in Wakefield,” Joe said. “What’s up?”
“It’s a long story,” Mr. Hardy said. “And it was John Armstrong’s idea.”
“You mean he doesn’t trust us?” Frank asked.
“Well, he thought you could use some reinforcement. Actually, he decided all of a sudden that I was wasting my time in Wakefield. Since he had some business in Mexico City, he asked me to come along. We left the day after you did. When we arrived, John took care of his appointment in the city, while I asked questions around the airport about the mysterious plane.”
“Same as we did,” Joe said. “And that’s how you found out about Palango?”
“Palango? What’s that?”
“An archaeological dig near here,” Frank said. “That’s where we ended up.”
Mr. Hardy shook his head. “No one mentioned Palango to me. But I was tipped off that Rumble Murphy was smuggling gold, so I hid in his plane all the way to Mérida.”
“Wow!” Chet looked at the detective in admiration. “Neat sleuthing!”
“Well, I almost lost him when we arrived,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I had to rent a jeep while his was already waiting. But I caught up with him and followed him here.”
“Did he stop on the way?” Frank asked.
“Yes, in the jungle, for about an hour. He got out of his jeep and disappeared into the woods. Then another car came along the trail, nearly ran into a hole, and barely escaped a falling tree. I saw it from a distance.”
“That car was ours!” Frank cried out.
Mr. Hardy stared at the boys. “You’d better tell me all that’s happened to you,” he said gravely.
The boys described their adventures for their father, then Joe asked, “Dad, what did you do when you saw the pyramid?”
“There wasn’t much I could do,” Mr. Hardy said. “I pitched a tent nearby and kept observing Murphy so I could be sure he didn’t have a gang of people working here with him. Yesterday he left the place and I followed him into the jungle. There were people close by and he shot at something, maybe to scare them off.”
“He shot at me!” Joe declared. “But he didn’t scare us away!”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “I was hoping he’d leave for a while so I could search the pyramid, but he went right back.”
“Did you see the lights last night?” Frank asked.
“No. I must have dozed off. This morning I decided I’d better do something. So I disguised myself and was on the way to confront Murphy when I met you.”
“We’ve taken care of Murphy already, Mr. Hardy,” Chet announced and they reported their adventure of the previous night.
“Murphy admits he’s a smuggler,” Biff said. “We found his loot. Great stuff-gold by the sackful!”
“Unfortunately it wasn’t the Wakefield gold, or the Scythian figurine, either,” Frank said.
Mr. Hardy tried to cheer his son. “Even if Murphy and Palango were false leads, you discovered an illegal smuggling operation. The Mexican government will be very grateful to you, and Murphy deserves to be put out of business.”
Frank nodded. “You’re right. We were just about to take him to Chichén Itzá and hand him over to the police. If necessary, we’ll take him to Mérida.”
“Good thinking. We can use his jeep and mine. Let’s go get him,” Mr. Hardy said.
The group walked up the steps of the pyramid to where Biff was guarding Murphy. Biff marveled at Mr. Hardy’s disguise, and the thief glowered at them. “I want to see a lawyer,” he snarled.
“You’ll see one in town, Murphy,” Mr. Hardy said. “First we’ll take you and your loot out of here.”
The boys untied Murphy’s ankles and led him to their father’s jeep. He was put in the front seat, while Tony and Biff rode in the back to make sure the smuggler would not try to escape.
The others had soon located Murphy’s vehicle and Frank climbed behind the wheel with Joe and Chet as passengers. The jeeps took a long detour that Murphy had discovered was the easiest route through the jungle. Arriving in Chichén Itzá, they turned the man and his gold over to the authorities.
The police deputy was gratified. “We knew a smuggler was operating in this area, but we never could catch him. You have done us a great favor!”
After Murphy was led away, Frank said. “I don’t see any reason to go back to Palango. What do you think, Dad?”
“I agree. Let’s drive to Mérida and get a flight from there to Mexico City. Then we can see what Armstrong has in mind.”
In Merida, Mr. Hardy called John Armstrong at his hotel to tell him when they would arrive. He picked them up at the airport. Looking harried, he mopped his brow with his handkerchief.
“What’s new, Fenton?” he asked.
“No news of the mint thief, John. We didn’t find the stolen gold in the jungle,” Mr. Hardy replied, “but the boys nabbed a smuggler.” He told Armstrong about their adventure.
Armstrong sighed. “While you were away, I checked with the police on Zemog. Nothing positive there either. But I’m sure the answer—”
“Look!” Joe interrupted and pointed to a small plane with the words “Mexico City” on the fuselage. It was just taking off on the runway.
Joe memorized the craft’s number, and the excited boys went to check with the control tower. They found out that the plane belonged to Carlos Calderón. According to the pilot’s flight plan, he was bound for Mérida.
“I think he’s going to Palango,” the official in the tower told them.
“Results at last!” Joe said jubilantly as they went back to tell their father and Armstrong what they had just heard.
Armstrong was enthusiastic. “You see? We’ll have to go there right away!”
They took a flight the following morning. Mr. Hardy would stay in Mexico City to testify against Murphy, who was being transferred for his hearing the next day. Armstrong and the boys flew to Merida, where they rented two jeeps and once more drove to the dig. When they arrived, their archaeological friends greeted them with loud shouts.
“Thank goodness you’re all right!” Rose cried out. “We thought you were lost in the jungle! Frank Pendleton went out looking for you but had no luck!”
“We ran into an unexpected adventure,” Frank said. After introducing John Armstrong, he told about Rumble Murphy and the pyramid.
Steve Weiss was incredulous. “This is absolutely fantastic!” he said.
“Well, we didn’t find what we were after,” Frank said. “But the plane we were looking for has supposedly flown to Mérida and its owner, Carlos Calderón, was planning to come here.”
“Carlos!” Steve exclaimed. “He’s a good friend of ours, an archaeology student who visits once in a while. He does graduate work at the University of Mexico. Right now he’s out in the jungle with a couple of our men. Should be back any minute, however.”
“Why didn’t you tell us his plane had ‘Mexico City’ on it?” Joe asked.
“I didn’t know. He told us he bought a small plane recently, but I never saw it.”
Just then three men appeared at the excavation site. Two were Mexican workmen, the third a handsome young fellow with wavy black hair and a bright smile.
“Hey, Carlos!” Steve called out. “These people want to meet you.”
He introduced everyone, then Frank asked Carlos if he had ever been in Wakefield, U.S.A.
The young man was surprised. “No, I have never been out of Mexico. Why do you ask?”
“We’re trailing a private plane marked ‘Mexico City’ that took off from an airstrip near Wakefield.”
“When was that?” Carlos asked.
Frank gave him the date.
“Wait a minute,” Weiss intervened. “At that time Carlos was here at the Palango dig with us.”
Melville Courtney had been listening. Now he slapped his swagger stick against his boot and addressed the boys. “My dear chaps, you will have to look elsewhere for your culprit. My goodness, how suspicious you are!”
“I realize you have a case to solve,” Steve Weiss said. “But I hope you’ll stay and lead us to the lost pyramid. We’ll go out tomorrow and do a preliminary survey. After that we’ll take a work gang and begin clearing away the vegetation.”
Frank and Joe looked at Armstrong, who nodded vigorously. “Of course we’ll stay. We’ll be glad to guide you to the place.” To Frank he said in a low tone, “I don’t believe Calderón is as harmless as he seems. Maybe someone else flew his plane. We’ll stay here and keep him under surveillance.”
Steve Weiss and his group were excited about the lost pyramid, and they could hardly wait to explore it. “We’re glad you caught that smuggler,” Steve told the boys. “We just dug up a lot of artifacts, and he might have stolen them. Look here.” He showed them small statues, images of the Mayan gods, an assortment of weapons and knives, and some tablets bearing petroglyphic inscriptions.
“This is our masterpiece,” he declared, holding one up for all to see. “It’s an image of the Aztec war god. The Aztecs traded with the Mayas of Yucatán, you know.”
The image was a shining gold mask. The features were contorted into a ferocious scowl, and the jade eyes reflected the sunlight in shimmering blue-green.
Weiss handed the mask to Frank, who examined it and passed the piece around the circle. Everybody was thrilled by the Aztec war god. Chet and Carlos were fascinated.
Armstrong hefted the mask. “Feels like solid gold,” he announced. “I’d say it’s as valuable as one of our larger bars in the mint.”
He began to speak with Chet, Carlos, and Pendleton about the quality of gold. Later that evening, the four sat up after the others had gone to bed. Just before he fell asleep, Joe heard Chet retire to his tent.
A rattling noise woke Joe up hours later. It came from the tent where the artifacts were kept. Somebody was banging them together as if searching for something! Silently Joe crept toward the tent, straining his eyes to see in the darkness. A figure stole out and walked toward the jungle.
Dark clouds floated past overhead. Moonlight gleamed on a gold mask molded into a ferocious scowl.
“Whoever he is,” Joe thought, “he’s stealing the valuable gold mask!”

CHAPTER XV  
Lethal Reptiles
 
 
 
 
FOR a moment Joe stared at the thief, who was slowly strolling along in the darkness. Then the young detective crept back to his tent and awakened Frank.
“Someone’s taking off with the golden mask!” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “We’d better stop him!”
Frank bolted out of his sleeping bag. “Go after him,” he said. “I’ll wake the others and we’ll be right there.”
Joe ran from the camp as quietly as he could in order not to alert the thief. The man might run into the jungle and disappear into the night! He saw the thief, still walking slowly in the moonlight, and caught up to him. “Stop!” Joe commanded. “Don’t go any farther!”
He expected the thief to whirl around and attack him, and was ready to fight. Instead, the man turned slowly, holding the mask over his face, and said nothing!
By now Frank and the others ran up. “Joe, did you get him?” Frank called out.
“Right here,” Joe replied.
“Who is he?” Steve Weiss demanded.
Joe stared at the thief, who stood motionless, his face hidden behind the ancient image. “Come on,” Joe said, “take that thing away and stop playing games!”
The man did not move. Joe grabbed the mask and pulled it from the thief’s face.
Carlos Calderón!
“Carlos, what are you doing with that mask?” Steve Weiss asked, incredulous. “You’re not trying to steal it, are you?”
“Of course he is,” Armstrong declared. “He took it and then tried to make a getaway. I suspected him all along!”
Weiss took the mask from Joe. “I don’t know the explanation,” he said, “but Carlos is not a thief. I’m sure of that.”
“Weiss, you’re out of your mind,” Armstrong exploded. “We’ve caught him red-handed!”
Carlos stood perfectly still, saying nothing. He looked at the rest with a fixed stare.
“He’s sleepwalking!” Tony exclaimed.
“No, that’s not it,” Frank said. “A sleepwalker would have awakened after all this commotion.”
Rose walked up to Carlos. She peered deep into his eyes, made passes with her hand in front of his face, and spoke to him. He did not react.
“He’s in a trance,” the biologist said. “I think Carlos has been hypnotized. I’ve studied the subject and I know all the signs. A hypnotized person looks just the way Carlos does.”
Frank became excited. “Somebody hypnotized Carlos and made him take the gold mask!”
Chet scratched his head. “But who?”
“Nobody in this camp,” Weiss said. “None of us is a hypnotist.”
“Could it be somebody hiding in the jungle?” Tony suggested. “The guy met Carlos, hypnotized him, and told him to get the mask. A confederate of Rumble Murphy’s, perhaps.”
“You may be right,” Joe said. “It’s one more mystery for us to solve.”
Weiss tapped a finger against his chin. “I’ve just thought of something. Aztec masks of the gods were supposed to have a hypnotic effect on worshippers in the temples. I wonder if the mask could have hypnotized Carlos.”
“Nonsense!” Armstrong objected. “He wasn’t in a trance when I left him last night. He stole the mask deliberately!”
“Why not ask him?” Biff suggested. He shook the student. “Carlos! Wake up!” he commanded. “Wake up!”
Carlos did not respond.
“It’s no use,” Rose said. “He can’t hear you. Besides, it’s dangerous to wake up a hypnotized person suddenly. It could affect his mind and impair his memory. Let him sleep it off.”
“Just like that?” Pendleton queried.
“Right. Most hypnotized people pass into ordinary sleep and wake up normally. In extreme cases, a doctor is needed. All we can do is see how Carlos comes out of this.”
Weiss led the way back to camp. Rose guided Carlos by the elbow. She deposited him in his tent while Steve replaced the gold mask with the rest of the artifacts from the dig.
“I’ll stand guard outside Calderón’s tent,” John Armstrong offered, “and make sure he doesn’t escape.”
The others went back to sleep. In the morning, Carlos came out of his tent to join the group for breakfast. Armstrong, who was still on guard, grabbed him.
“Hey, let go of me!” the student objected. “What’s the idea? I can walk on my own.”
“We saw that last night,” Armstrong replied sarcastically.
“What are you talking about?”
“About the way you tried to walk off with the gold mask!”
“John, you don’t make any sense at all,” Carlos said, looking puzzled. “You took the mask back to the tent before we went to bed, not I!” 
“Come on, the others will tell you,” Armstrong said, dragging the student to the breakfast area.
Everyone seemed to stare at him in a strange way. Carlos began to feel uncomfortable. “Is anything wrong?” he asked. “John said something about my walking off with the mask. What is this?”
“Carlos, what is the last thing you remember last night?” Frank Hardy asked.
“Well, Chet, John, Pendleton, and I talked about the mask and admired the beautiful craftsmanship. Then John took it back to the artifacts tent and we all went to bed.”
“And then?”
“Then? Nothing. I went to sleep! What in the world are you getting at?”
“You walked off into the jungle with the mask in the middle of the night,” Armstrong said. “Don’t deny it because we all saw you!”
Carlos stared at the man in utter astonishment, then turned to Steve Weiss. “Steve,” he said, and his voice was shaking with fear and bewilderment, “what is this man trying to do to me? You know I’m not a thief. I didn’t touch that mask after I went to my tent. You people all know me. Please, won’t anyone stick up for me?”
Rose walked over to the student and put her arm around his shoulders. “Calm down, Carlos. Something happened last night, and we have a pretty good idea what. You were hypnotized and started to walk away from the camp with the mask. Moreover you didn’t react to anything we said to you.”
“Hypnotized! But—but I don’t remember anything of the sort.”
“You wouldn’t, so don’t worry about it.”
Carlos sat down and put his head into his hands. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
Armstrong did not speak out loud, but said to Frank in a low voice, “I don’t either. I think he’s putting on an excellent show. Let’s ask the authorities to investigate his story.”
Frank was inclined to believe Carlos, but since he worked for Armstrong, he did not contradict him. “Sure, Mr. Armstrong, we’ll check him out as soon as we get back to Mexico City.”
Carlos stood up again and looked at everyone at the table. “Who hypnotized me?”
“We don’t know,” Steve said. “Must have been an outsider who stole in here.”
“I haven’t talked to any outsiders since I arrived!” Carlos argued.
“Who knows?” Pendleton put in. “Someone could have come into your tent last night and commanded you under hypnosis not to remember ever meeting him.”
“But why would anyone want to do that?”
“Possibly so that you would take the mask and deposit it somewhere in the jungle.”
“What—what if it happens again?”
“It won’t. We’ll keep an eye on you. Relax,” Steve told him. “And now let’s get to work. We’re going to find the pyramid today. Remember?”
He organized a party, including Pendleton, the Hardys, and himself. Armstrong decided to watch Carlos; and Biff, Tony, and Chet would help Courtney to list artifacts from the dig.
“We don’t have to hike as we did last time,” Frank said. “I have a pretty good idea of how to find Murphy’s trail from here. Let’s take the jeep.”
Frank found the way without difficulty, and even though it was a roundabout route from Palango, the searchers reached the pyramid within a few hours.
The archaeologist and the guide were ecstatic. “This is absolutely phenomenal!” Steve Weiss exclaimed. “We’ve finally found the lost pyramid! Frank, Joe, you can’t imagine how grateful we are to you!”
The Hardys grinned. “Don’t forget, we discovered it by accident!”
While Steve and Pendleton entered the structure, Frank and Joe reconnoitered the jungle around it and plunged into the underbrush.
“I believe Carlos was hypnotized,” Frank said. “What do you think, Joe?”
“I’m with you. I hope whoever did it won’t come back and put all of us in a trance!” He took out his machete and began to hack through the jungle growth. Frank did the same. The keen blades of the long knives easily sliced through the vegetation, lopping off vines, creepers, and tree branches.
The boys reached a clearing, where they paused for a conference on what to do next. “If we go any farther,” Frank said, “we might lose our way. The undergrowth is dense around here. How about going back?”
Joe nodded. “Look! There’s a path. Want to try it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
The new route took them downhill into a swampy region of the jungle. They found a sluggish creek and tramped along its banks until it widened into a fast-moving stream.
A steamy haze rose from the ground. Black mud clung to their shoes. Grassy hillocks were slick with wet grass, and tree boles slanted crazily from the bank out over the water. Moss hung from the branches like long, heavy ropes.
“Let’s pretend we’re monkeys,” Joe proposed. “We’ll swing from one tree to another on the moss and avoid getting our feet wet.”
Frank chuckled. “Okay, Tarzan, you lead the way. I’ll follow when I see how you make out.”
Frank tripped over a root, and fell headlong into the ooze, breaking his fall with his hands. He pushed himself up into a squatting position and washed himself in the stream before proceeding.
The boys hiked along the stream, which flowed roughly in the direction of the pyramid. Massive tree roots compelled them to make a detour inland. They came to a rocky ledge, where ferns covered the mouth of a small cave.
Joe poked a branch into the darkness of the cave. Whoosh! A black snarling form flashed out at him! He ducked by reflex action. The creature just missed his head and zoomed up onto a branch overhead. Savage eyes glared down at him. Sharp fangs snapped. 
“It’s a bat!” Frank exclaimed.
Joe shuddered. “A vampire bat. Let’s get out of here before his buddies in the cave come out!”
They hurried around to the bank and continued tramping downstream. The river gradually broadened until it extended a hundred yards across. The Hardys stopped to survey it.
A snout broke the surface and rose into the air, revealing a long head with tiny reptilian eyes. The body floated like a log. A pair of jaws opened, revealing a row of wicked fangs. A heavy tail whip-lashed the water. A similar reptile rose beside it. Then another, and another.
“Alligators!” Joe exclaimed.
“There must be a school of them!” Frank cried. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”
He turned and climbed up the embankment. Joe started to follow him, but slipped in the mud. Wildly he flung his arms out in a desperate effort to maintain his balance. A hillock broke lose under his foot.
With a scream, Joe toppled into the river and was swept by the current toward the lethal reptiles!

CHAPTER XVI  
Unexpected Revelation
 
 
 
 
ONE alligator spotted Joe in the water and eagerly moved toward him. Three others followed with open jaws!
Frantically Joe swam against the current. He was a strong athlete, but the swift-moving waves carried him downstream away from the bank. The alligators gained on him, slithering through the water like torpedoes!
Frank ran to a bend in the stream. He tore a long creeper from a tree and tossed one end far out into the water in his brother’s path. Joe grabbed the creeper as he went past.
“Help—me!” he yelled.
Frank braced himself on the bank and tugged on the creeper. As he drew it in, Joe kicked his feet and began to move faster through the waves. But the alligators were still gaining on him!
As Joe reached the shallow water, Frank dropped the creeper, held on to the tree branch with one hand, and extended the other out over the stream. Joe grabbed it and Frank pulled his brother up the bank.
A rasping crunch sounded just behind Joe. One of the alligators hurled itself out of the water in an effort to close its jaws on its prey. Missing by a hair’s breath, the giant reptile splashed back into the waves.
Joe lay high on the bank, gasping for breath. “Frank,” he panted, “you were better than the U.S. Cavalry galloping up to save the old homestead in the movies!”
“Well,” Frank replied, “I figured that if you insisted on playing tag with a bunch of alligators, you might need help in a hurry.”
When Joe recovered, the Hardys found that the bend in the stream carried it away from their starting point. Frank got a fix with his compass on a direct march through the jungle, and half an hour later the boys arrived at the pyramid.
Steve Weiss and Frank Pendleton had made sketches and layouts and were about ready to leave. “What happened to you?” Steve asked Joe, who was still wet from his swim.
“I was in a racing meet with some alligators,” Joe said and told them about his adventure.
Steve shook his head. “Please don’t pull any more stunts like that! We haven’t had any casualties so far, and we’d like to keep our record clean.”
When the group reached Palango, the Hardys showered and changed their clothes, then washed those they had worn and hung them up to dry in the late afternoon sun. Then they recounted their adventures to Chet, Biff, Tony, and Armstrong.
“Any news on this end?” Frank asked.
“Nothing,” Biff said. “Tony and I inspected the surroundings now and then, but spotted no one.”
Armstrong frowned. “I’m not surprised to hear that. I still think Calderón’s guilty.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Frank asked.
“Let’s go back to Mexico City and check with the authorities.”
Next morning the group thanked the people at the dig for their hospitality, then jeeped back to Mérida and took a plane to Mexico City. They found Mr. Hardy at the Montezuma Hotel, which he and John Armstrong had made their headquarters while staying in Mexico.
“Rumble Murphy has been indicted,” he reported, “and the police have arrested his Mexico City contact, a man by the name of Hank Corda. But there’s no evidence that they were involved with the Wakefield heist. What did you find out in Palango?”
Frank described the incident with Carlos Calderón and the gold mask. He mentioned the suspicion that the young man had been hypnotized.
“That’s possible,” Fenton Hardy mused. “Hypnosis has been used before in crimes.”
Armstrong stirred in his chair. “Calderón is our prime suspect! I want a thorough investigation of him. Take all the time you need. You’ve got to solve the Wakefield theft!”
The boys promised to get to work right away. First they went to the university and checked on Carlos. The administration confirmed that he was an archaeology student, top man in his class, and was doing work financed by the government. Carlos enjoyed the highest reputation in academic circles.
At police headquarters Frank and Joe were told that Carlos Calderón had no criminal record. The officer in charge made a call to the Department of Aviation to confirm that Calderón held a pilot’s license.
“The story Carlos told us checks out,” Frank advised his buddies as they walked toward a shop to have soft drinks.
“Does anybody think Carlos was working with Rumble Murphy?” Joe asked. “Frank and I doubt it.”
Their friends agreed.
“What about Pedro Zemog?” Joe went on. “Zemog took a gold horse. Carlos took a gold mask. Is there a connection?”
“We don’t know enough about this guy Zemog,” Biff commented.
Suddenly Frank sat up in his chair. He put his glass down so hastily that soda spilled over the rim onto the marble-topped table. “Zemog!” he exclaimed. “Ze-mog. I have an idea. Read it backwards!”
“G-o-m-e-z,” Tony ticked off the letters.
“That’s a popular Mexican name,” Frank continued. “Maybe that’s the real name of the man we’re after. Come on, let’s check the directory.”
The boys went to a phone booth and Frank flipped the pages of the telephone book. He ran his finger down a column of names.
“Boy, Gomez is like Smith back home,” he said. “And there are a lot of Pedros among them.”
“We’ll have to split up and take the names one at a time,” Joe suggested.
Frank nodded and wrote two lists of names. He gave one to Biff, who would be accompanied by Chet and Tony. The Hardys took the second list.
They called on half a dozen men named Pedro Gomez. None was the person they were looking for. The seventh call took them to an apartment in the suburbs of Mexico City. Frank rang the bell. A man with gray hair opened the door. When he saw the Hardys, he tried to shut the door quickly, but Frank blocked it by placing his foot on the sill. “Pedro Gomez,” he said. sternly, “we want to talk to you. May we come in?”
Gomez opened the door. “All right. You might as well. I am tired of running.”
They went into the apartment. Apparently Gomez was alone. He was nervous and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“You will not find what you came to get,” he told them in an unfriendly tone.
Frank and Joe were startled by the words.
“You admit you had it?” Joe asked incredulously.
“Of course I had it. But I have it no longer. I sold it a few days ago.”
“You sold the Scythian figurine?” Frank exclaimed.
Now it was Gomez’s turn to look startled. “The what?”
“The day you visited the museum in New York you stole the figurine of a rearing horse and ran off with it!” Frank reminded him.
“Oh, no! I did not steal the piece!”
Frank stared at the Mexican. “Come on, Mr. Gomez, we saw you running out of the place.”
“Of course I ran. I was afraid for my life!”
“Why don’t you tell us your version of the event?” Joe suggested.
The man nodded. “Yes. But I think you will not believe me.”
“Try us.”
Gomez said he had seen a tall blond man open the display case and take out the horse. When the man realized that Gomez had observed him, he hit the Mexican on the head and knocked him against the wall.
“When I got up, the blond man had left the room,” Gomez said. “I ran out after him, but could not see him. Then I heard the guard shout and realized I would be the prime suspect. So I hurried out the door and luckily got a taxi right away.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “A tall blond man!” Frank said. “That jibes with the description of the guard.”
“But, Mr. Gomez,” Joe said, “why do you travel under an alias?”
“I am a salesman of rare stamps. I must take every precaution when I travel.”
“So that’s what you had in your briefcase,” Joe marveled. “The bulge we thought was the Scythian horse was actually a package of stamps.”
Gomez nodded. “Unique Ruritanian issues, two hundred years old. Priceless! I thought you were trying to steal them from me. That is why I told you just now that I sold them. I did not know you were referring to the Scythian horse.”
“What about the letters A.P.?” Frank asked. “We found two telegrams addressed to Pedro Zemog, and signed with those initials.”
“They stand for Associated Philatelists,” Gomez explained. “I represent the company that sends me buyers’ orders by telegram when I am on the road. The first one told me to take the Ruritanian consignment to Zurich, but the Swiss buyer backed out at the last minute. Then I was told to go to my hometown of Mexico City, where a deal went through.”
“You ran from us in Zurich because you thought we were after your stamps?” Joe asked.
Gomez nodded.
“And you used the name Jones at the hotel because you knew we had seen you on the plane?”
“Correct.”
“Incidentally, were you in Chapultepec Castile the other day?”
Gomez smiled. “Yes. I saw you, and I knew you saw me. So I left.”
“Have you ever been to Wakefield?”
“What?”
Joe described the gold heist at the mint.
“My friend,” Gomez protested, “you have suspected me of two crimes that I did not commit!”
“My apologies,” Joe said.
“Now then, who are you?” Gomez demanded.
“We’re Americans from Bayport, Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re investigating the thefts we told you about.”
While Joe was talking to Gomez, Frank tried to reconstruct the scene at the museum. The guard had said he saw the tall blond man emerge from the Animal Chamber and bury his cigarette in the sand bucket. Maybe the man had hidden the figurine instead!
“Mr. Gomez,” Frank said, “may I use your phone and call the Early Art Museum in New York? I’ll pay you, of course.”
“Go ahead.”
Frank was connected with Orlov. Before he could say anything, the Russian curator gave a cry that Joe and Gomez could both hear.
“Finally you call!” he exclaimed. “Why have you not contacted me sooner?”

CHAPTER XVII  
Hypnotized!
 
 
 
 
“WE didn’t have news for you until now,” Frank said.
“News? I hope good news!”
“Yes. Look for the missing figurine in the sand bucket in the hallway.”
“What? But—” Orlov put down the phone in confusion. A few minutes later he came back on. “You were right! This is fantastic. How did you know?”
“We found Zemog.”
“Remarkable. He hid it there?”
“No. The tall blond man did. When he saw the guard, he put the horse in the sand bucket because he was afraid he’d be caught.”
“You mean Zemog is not the thief?”
“No. He was an innocent bystander who saw what happened. The blond man hit him and knocked him against the wall. That’s why he ran out of the building.”
“Amazing, absolutely amazing! I am very happy about it. Thanks to you, good international relations have not been endangered, and I shall report on your good work to my government.”
Orlov hung up. Frank told Gomez and Joe about the discovery of the Scythian figurine.
“That is a relief to me,” Gomez said. “It proves once and for all that I am not the thief!”
“It sure does, Mr. Gomez,” Frank agreed.
“If we ever need rare stamps,” Joe said, “we’ll give you a buzz.”
The Hardys went back to the Montezuma Hotel and waited in the lobby for their pals. Chet, Biff, and Tony straggled in, looking worn out. Chet flopped down into an easy chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m bushed!” he said.
“I’m disappointed,” Tony stated. “Every Pedro Gomez we talked to was a false lead.”
“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We found the right one!”
After telling his friends about the rare-stamp salesman, Frank led the way to the room where Fenton Hardy and John Armstrong were discussing strategy.
“Carlos Calderón is clean,” Frank said. “We also found Zemog. His real name is Gomez and he sells stamps. And—the gold horse never left the museum in New York.”
“What!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed in surprise. “Tell us all about it.”
When the boys had finished their account, Mr. Hardy smiled. “Good detective work, boys. As far as the Mexican angle is concerned, I think we’ve exhausted it. We’ve been in touch with every conceivable agent dealing in gold, and nothing has turned up. I’ve also spoken with Johann Jung on the telephone just now, and he says the gold has not surfaced in Switzerland.”
Armstrong put his head between his hands. “We’re up against a stone wall!” he said in despair. “No leads whatsoever. But I still feel the solution lies here in Mexico.”
“John, you can’t go by a hunch. I vote we return to Wakefield and start from scratch.”
Armstrong threw up his hands and sighed. “All right. At this point, I don’t know what to do.”
The group caught a jet for New York the next day. Chet, Biff, and Tony went back to Bayport, while the other four reached Wakefield in the evening. The Hardys checked into a motel, and Armstrong went home.
“I can’t get this hypnosis business out of my mind,” Joe confessed. “Who hypnotized Carlos? We know Murphy was in custody, and Gomez is on the level. Too bad Carlos couldn’t remember anything.”
Frank had an idea. “Wait a minute! That’s what the guards at the mint said. They couldn’t remember anything about the gold heist the night they were on duty. Maybe they were hypnotized, too!”
Mr. Hardy nodded. “Good thinking, Frank. That would explain how they passed the lie-detector test. They could have let the thieves into the vault. And they could be telling the truth when they say they don’t know a thing about it.”
Frank and Joe were electrified by the theory.
“Who could have hypnotized the guards?” Joe asked.
“The same guy who hypnotized Carlos,” Frank replied. “We were shadowed all the way from Wakefield to Palango. Look! The gang leader used hypnosis to steal the gold. If he came down to the dig, he could have worked on Carlos, too!”
“That’s an involved theory,” Fenton Hardy said. “And if you’re right, chances are the man followed us back to Wakefield. We’ll keep the mint under surveillance all day tomorrow and see what happens. Now let’s get some sleep!”
The private investigator and his sons roomed together, but had separate beds. Mr. Hardy was next to the window and Frank near the door, with Joe in between. Exhausted from their long journey, they fell asleep at once.
Frank woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He had an uncanny feeling that something was wrong. “Probably a nightmare,” he thought. Then he heard a scuffing noise and raised his head.
A ghostly figure glided across the room through the darkness, opened the door, and went out. The door clicked shut.
Frank noticed a slight sickish-sweet odor in the room. It grew rapidly stronger. His head began to swim. His detective training warned him what was happening. He leaped out of bed, and opened the door wide. Joe, awakened by Frank’s shout, threw all the windows up. Mr. Hardy lay still.
Coughing and choking, the boys pulled their father from his bed and propped him up with his head out one of the windows. They leaned over the other one, gasping for fresh air. Mr. Hardy began to breathe regularly again.
By the time he revived, the gas had dissipated. They all sat down on their beds and talked over their close call.
“It seems as if Frank’s theory has merit,” Mr. Hardy said. “Our enemy may have followed us back here, and now he wants to get us out of the way.”
“But if the gold is already in Mexico or somewhere else, why would he get nervous because we’re back in Wakefield?” Joe asked.
“He probably wouldn’t. Which means, the gold must still be here!”
“He’s sure determined to kill us,” Frank said. “He’s as dangerous as a rattlesnake!”
“I think one of us should keep watch for the rest of the night,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll do it.”
“We’ll take turns,” Frank suggested.
“Don’t worry about it,” his father said. “Most of the night is already gone. You two go back to sleep. Someone has to be bright and alert in the morning.”


  
The boys pulled their father out of his bed and propped him up with his head out the window.
They bolted the door, but nothing more happened. After an early breakfast they took a circuitous route through the woods to the mint. Fenton Hardy dropped off near the front gate and concealed himself behind a clump of trees where he could watch the entrance without being seen. Frank and Joe slipped behind some bushes at the back of the building and kept vigil near the rear door and side exit.
Workers began arriving. They left their cars in the parking lot and entered the building. Then visitors streamed in.
“They don’t know about the gold heist,” Frank whispered.
“Armstrong has been keeping the theft under wraps,” Joe observed.
Hours went by. The sun grew hot, and the Hardys felt cramped.
“I’m hungry,” Frank said.
“I’ll have a hot dog and a bottle of soda,” said Joe, pretending to nibble on a weiner.
“Make mine a hamburger,” Frank joked, “and a side order of French fries. I’d like to be in the Bayport Diner right now, Joe!”
“So would I,” Joe said. “Surveillance is tough when you’re hungry.”
They took out some cookies they had brought with them and had their midday meal. Evening came, and the boys strained their eyes toward the rear gate of the mint but saw nothing suspicious.
Suddenly dry leaves snapped in the bushes behind them! The Hardys whirled around and got ready for action as the sound approached.
“I’ll tackle him!” Frank whispered. “You clamp your hand over his mouth.”
The noise grew louder, then stopped behind the nearest bush. The branches parted and a face peered through at them. It was that of a little black and white terrier!
The Hardys laughed and sat down in relief.
“A canine suspect,” Joe chortled.
The dog advanced, wagging his tail. Frank stroked his back. Joe scratched his ears.
“Okay. Off you go,” the boy said. The terrier rubbed his head against the young detective’s arm and licked his hand. “Go home!” Frank commanded. Instead, the dog climbed into his lap, where he settled down.
The Hardys tried to push him away. Thinking they wanted to play, he rolled over and over, pawing the air in a friendly fashion.
“We must get rid of him,” Frank muttered.
Joe found an extra cookie in his pocket. “This should do the trick,” he said, chucking the cookie in a high arc over the bushes.
The terrier darted after the flying missile, and came back with the cookie in his mouth! The Hardys groaned as he laid it at Joe’s feet.
Eagerly the animal looked up at him, wagging his tail, obviously asking for another chance to fetch the cookie. Getting no response, the dog began to whine.
Frank became alarmed. “If he starts barking, everybody in the mint will know we’re here!”
Just then a small bearded man came through the back gate and headed in their direction. The Hardys were frantic with fear that the dog would give them away!
The bearded man came directly toward them, walking up to the bush they were hiding behind. The dog growled at him.
“That did it,” Frank thought. “How are we going to explain?”
The man seemed to pay no attention, however. Instead of circling around the bush and confronting the boys, he veered to one side and walked into the woods without even looking at the dog.
“Joe! What do you make of that?” Frank asked, puzzled. “He didn’t blink an eye!”
“I don’t know,” Joe said slowly, watching the man intently. “He—he’s strolling along in a funny way, almost like a zombie!”
“Joe! Maybe he’s been hypnotized. Let’s follow him.”

CHAPTER XVIII  
The Big Discovery
 
 
 
 
THE bearded man walked rapidly through the woods. It was dark enough for Frank and Joe to follow him at a close distance. They were relieved when the terrier dropped behind and then ran off.
“I hope he’s headed for home,” Frank thought.
The man they were shadowing never looked behind or to either side as he went. He kept his right hand plunged into the pocket of his jacket as if protecting something. Reaching the dirt road Frank and Joe had scouted before, he avoided the road itself by moving through rough underbrush to the left.
“He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone coming down the road,” Frank murmured.
“I guess the guy who hypnotized that man told him to stay clear of it,” Joe replied.
The stranger turned away from the road on a long hike through the woods to the empty airstrip, which he crossed. A plane could easily land or take off on it.
“Somebody’s keeping the place ready to use,” Frank said in an undertone.
“A plane could even be parked in the underbrush,” Joe replied. “I wonder if the beard is meeting the pilot here.”
Their quarry did not stop, however. He walked across the airstrip into the woods on the opposite side. He and his two shadows continued past tall trees whose bare branches were etched in sharp outlines against the night sky.
Soon they came to an old unused dirt road. In spite of the darkness, the boys could see two parallel furrows. A vehicle had recently been driven up the road.
They followed the man until he came to a barbed-wire fence with a wooden gate. The Hardys ducked into the underbrush and watched the stranger advance to the gate. Another man approached from the other side, cradling a rifle over his arm.
“Give the password,” he demanded.
“Golden moonlight.”
The gate was opened and the beard went through, disappearing around a bend. The guard sat down on a stump and placed his weapon across his knees as he resumed his vigil.
Frank tapped Joe on the shoulder. He pointed along the fence, indicating that they should scout in that direction. Stealthily the two boys crept through the underbrush past the guard. They followed the fence until they noticed a light shining through the trees. Moving closer, they saw the outline of a cavernous barn on the opposite side. The light came from a window, its beam falling upon a dusty pickup truck parked outside.
“We’d better investigate,” Joe said, and he depressed the barbed wire with his foot. He put a hand on one of the fence posts and vaulted over. Frank followed, but his foot slipped and his jacket became entangled in the barbed wire!
“Joe!” he hissed. “I’m caught!”
His brother took off his own jacket, which he used to protect his hands as he pushed the barbed wire down. Frank pulled himself free and dropped down on the other side.
Slipping up to the area of the light, the Hardys hit the ground and crawled to the barn. Joe snaked his way around the pickup and Frank followed him. Then they peered into the barn window, which was ajar.
They saw an enormous room. A floor of broad planks extended from wall to wall. Dark rafters loomed overhead, and on either side of the room rickety stairs led to the haymow.
Each side of the building had a heavy reinforced wooden door fastened by a large bolt and chain. Peepholes had been cut in the doors so that anyone on the inside could identify visitors before admitting them.
Three men were seated at a table in the middle of the barn under a single overhead light bulb, playing cards. They were a rough-looking three-some with two days’ growth of beard on their faces. Two wore levis and plaid shirts. The man who seemed to be their leader was dressed in slacks and in a turtleneck sweater.
Turtleneck dealt the cards. Each man picked up his hand and looked at it. One of the plaids started his bet and threw some chips into the pot.
As Frank and Joe surveyed the scene, their eyes focused in a corner that gave off a golden glow.
Gold bars lay stacked on top of one another!
“Maybe that’s the gold from the Wakefield Mint!” Joe gasped.
Frank nodded as the betting at the table continued. Turtleneck drew in the pot, adding a stack of chips to those he already had.
“I’m having lousy luck,” one of his companions said. “I want a new deck of cards.”
Turtleneck glared at him. “You accusing Jake Slobodky of cheating? You saying I just dealt from the bottom of the deck?”
“Naw,” the man replied. “I’m just saying my luck might change with a new deck.”
The game continued. Jake won again. He grinned as he raked in the chips.
The third man slammed his cards down in disgust.
“You complaining about how I deal, too?” Jake demanded.
“I’m complaining about this waiting,” the man grumbled. “We’ve got the gold here. The plane’s ready. Let’s get this show on the road!”
“You calling the shots now?” Jake asked.
“No, but I got a stake in this operation. And if you want my opinion, I say—”
A loud knock on the door interrupted him. The three men jumped to their feet and tiptoed to the door, where the pair in plaid shirts flattened themselves against the wall. Jake opened the peephole and looked out.
“Give the password!” he ordered.
“Golden moonlight.”
“Okay. Come on in.”
Jake unfastened the chain and shot back the bolt. The beard entered. His eyes were wide open and his face expressionless.
“He looks just the way Carlos did,” Joe thought.
The beard still had his right hand deep in his pocket. He stopped inside the door as if rooted to the spot. The other three gathered around him expectantly.
Jake spoke loudly to him, emphasizing each word. “What is your mission?”
“I must deliver the message,” the man said in a weird voice that seemed to come from a great distance.
“What is the message?”
“I do not know.”
“Where is the message?”
“I have it here.” He drew his hand out of his pocket. He was clutching a piece of paper in a tight grasp.
“Give me the message,” Jake ordered. “And then return to your home.”
The man handed the paper to him, did an about face, went through the door, and walked down the road toward the gate. Jake locked the door. “The trance works,” he chortled. “That guy’ll be dead to the world till he wakes tomorrow morning. And he won’t remember coming out here. Just like the guards who let us heist the gold from the vault.”
“But this man was able to talk. I don’t like it,” one of the plaids objected.
“Nothing to worry about. He’s programmed to answer just the questions I asked. If the Hardys catch him, he won’t spill the beans.” Jake held the paper up to the light under the table.
“Wow!” he exploded. “Tomorrow is D-Day! The plane arrives at midnight and we’ll be airborne pretty soon and got to be ready to move. Hey, gang, we’re gonna be rich!”
After the general excitement had died down, the men started another game of cards. Jake won again. “This is my lucky day!” he boasted.
Frank nudged Joe. “They know we’re on their trail,” he whispered.
“But they don’t know how close we are,” Joe replied. “Think we should go and let Dad know?”
“Not yet,” Frank advised. “Jake and his pals are small-time crooks. Let’s stay and see if we can find out who the ringleader is.”
“Good idea.”
The card game ended, and the players rose to their feet. Jake stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “Might as well hit the hay,” he announced.
“That’s not so easy to do,” the big loser grumbled. “The haymow’s full of hay and dust. What a place for us to be holed up!”
“We’ll use the cots in the corner, as usual,” Jake said, “and it’ll be for the last time.”
Click!
A rifle bolt had suddenly slipped into place. Frank and Joe whirled around. They found themselves staring into the business end of a shotgun! 

CHAPTER XIX  
Captured!
 
 
 
 
THE guard who had been standing at the gate was looking through the sight of his rifle. The Hardys were caught! The man lowered his weapon and gave them a wolfish grin. “Okay, wise guys. We’ll take care of you. We don’t like snoopers around here. Get going and keep your hands where I can see them. Move!”
Frank and Joe started walking. The guard prodded them with his rifle. “Reach for the sky and hurry up. No funny business!”
He forced the boys around the corner of the barn to one of the doors and knocked three times in rapid succession. The peephole opened. Jake peered through suspiciously. “What’s up?” he growled.
“We got visitors.”
“Well, well. Bring them in!”
Jake opened the door, and the man with the gun forced the Hardys inside the barn.
“I found them eavesdropping at the window,” he explained. “Figured you might want me to introduce them to you.”
“You figured right!” Jake snapped. “How long have they been there?”
“Long enough!”
“Good going, Sam. If anybody else sneaks up to the barn, bring them in too. These guys may have confederates.”
“Right.” Sam left. Jake bolted the door.
The two men in plaid shirts were armed. They glowered at Frank and Joe while Jake started the interrogation.
“All right,” he snarled. “What do you mean by sneaking around here?”
The Hardys tried to bluff their way through the predicament in which they found themselves.
“We were hiking through the woods near here,” Frank said. “We didn’t know about the barn until we saw the light through the trees.”
“We were hungry,” Joe added, “and came to see if we could grab a meal.”
The three men laughed in a sinister manner. “Oh sure,” Jake sneered. “You just happened to be spying on us through the window. You punks had better talk—and fast!”
Frank and Joe remained silent. They were playing for time. Their captors scowled at them.
“Talk won’t do any good,” one of the plaid-shirted men said. “We’ve got to do them in. They’ve seen the gold.”
The other supported him. “They know too much. Let’s deep six ‘em, now!”
Amazement gripped Frank and Joe. Those were the words on the note Joe had found in the abandoned car at the airstrip!
The speaker misunderstood their reaction. “So, that scares you, does it? Well, it should. We mean business!” He moved toward Joe, and his companions walked up to Frank. The Hardys braced themselves.
Then Jake stopped. “We have to wait for Mr. Big. Maybe he’ll want to talk to them. Let’s tie these guys up and sit tight until he gets here. It won’t be long.”
The men pushed the Hardys into a corner, made them sit down with their backs to the wall, produced rope, and tied their hands behind their backs.
The crooks returned to their card game. Frank and Joe sat side-by-side with the ropes chafing their wrists and conversed in whispers.
“Joe, nobody knows we’re here,” Frank said. “Too bad we didn’t have a chance to alert Dad before we followed the beard.”
“Right. We’ll have to get out of this on our own,” Joe replied.
Three quick knocks sounded on the door, followed by three slow ones, then the three fast ones were repeated. The men at the card table leaped to their feet.
“Mr. Big!” Jake exclaimed. “That’s his signal. Get ready, and don’t talk out of turn.”
He unbolted the door without looking through the peephole, and swung it open. Mr. Big entered.
The Hardys gasped. John Armstrong, the administrative assistant of the Wakefield Mint walked into the room! 
“Everything in order, Jake?” he asked.
“Sure thing, boss. Except a couple of prowlers came sneaking around the barn.”
“Prowlers?” Armstrong sounded alarmed.
“Don’t worry, boss. We caught ‘em and we’ve got ’em.”
“Where are they?”
“Over there.” Jake pointed to the corner where the two captives were tied up.
Armstrong threw up his hands in astonishment. “Don’t you know who they are?” he demanded.
“Should I?” Jake queried.
“Well, maybe not. They’re Frank and Joe Hardy!”
“Fenton Hardy’s sons?” Jake squinted uneasily. “That means the gumshoe is on to us.”
Armstrong shook his head. “Hardy doesn’t know anything about our operation. And these two don’t matter any more.” He advanced toward Frank and Joe. “Fooled you, didn’t I?” he asked slyly.
“You sure did,” Frank admitted. “First you steal the gold. Then you send us on a wild goose chase to Switzerland by spreading the rumor that the gold will be sold there.”
“It would have been sufficient if my friend Rudolf Kling hadn’t picked a loser like Pfeiffer to do the talking,” Armstrong growled.
Frank nodded. “Pfeiffer was caught in a burglary. And when we left Zurich after that, you sent us to Mexico by dreaming up the clue of the airplane, then insisted on traveling to Palango with Dad to get us and him as far as possible from Wakefield. The gold was here all the time.”
Armstrong agreed. “The guy I had hired to fly it out gave me trouble on the time schedule. That’s why I had to keep you occupied in distant places. Then the idiot got himself arrested in Mexico City just before we came back. But I got a replacement for him, who’ll do the job tonight and—”
Frank interrupted him. “Your pilot was arrested? Is his name Hank Corda?”
“Right. I didn’t know about his connection with Murphy. He had Corda’s name and address on him, and when he was booked the cops found it. That was all I needed! But I fixed it. This is the final case for Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re going to drop you into the sea from our plane and this time tomorrow you’ll be playing with the fishes in the Caribbean!”
The ringleader turned toward his henchmen. “Forget about these boys,” he said. “Our plane arrives around midnight. The pilot wants this to be a quick job. So do I.”
“Everything is ready, boss.”
Armstrong walked over to the gold bars, picked one off the top, and looked at it. It glittered in the glare of the overhead bulb.
“That’s a beautiful sight,” he said. “I haven’t seen these since they were in the vault at the mint. I was at home when the theft took place, if you recall.”
Jake grinned. “Best alibi anyone ever had.”
Armstrong looked pleased. “I think so. Well, these bars have come a long way to get to this barn. From Siberia to Moscow to Zurich to Wakefield. Next stop—an uninhabited island in the Caribbean. We divide the loot there and go our separate ways. If we ever meet again, we don’t know one another.” Armstrong put the bar back on the pile. “Say, how have you fellows been killing time out here?”
“Playing cards,” Jake replied.
“How about dealing me in?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Armstrong occupied the fourth chair at the table. Jake dealt the hands and the game began.
Frank gently tried to pull his wrists apart. He felt a slight give in the ropes. Tapping Joe’s foot with his, he leaned toward his brother. “I may be able to untie myself,” he whispered. “How about you?”
Joe tested his own bonds. “Not a chance.”
Twisting his right wrist against his left, Frank felt the rope stretch. He explored with his fingers until they closed over the knot. Using his escape technique, he figured out how the knot had been tied and rubbed it between his thumb and finger. Gingerly he tugged at the shorter strand.
It moved. Little by little, in an agonizingly slow process, Frank drew the shorter strand loose. His hands were free! He sat still for a moment, watching the card game. All four players were intent on the betting as the pot grew larger and larger.
Frank pressed his shoulder against Joe’s to hide his fingers, which were working on his brother’s bonds. The second rope fell away and Joe was released.
“They may not notice us,” Frank whispered, “if we sneak up into the haymow, go out the window, and shimmy down the drainpipe.”
“What about the guy at the gate?” Joe asked.
“We’ll worry about him when we get there. The first thing is to get out. Come on!”
The Hardys rose slowly to their feet, never taking their eyes off the card game. They tiptoed over to the stairs. Frank led the way up step by step. As he placed his foot on the top rung, it creaked loudly.
The noise cut through the stillness of the huge barn, setting up echoes in the rafters. Startled, Armstrong swiveled in his chair and looked for its source. He spotted Joe’s feet at the top of the stairs.
“The Hardys are loose!” he cried angrily. “After them! Don’t let them get away!”
The other three men scrambled to their feet, tipping over the chairs in their haste. They pounded across the floor to the stairs.
Now that their escape had been discovered, Frank and Joe plunged forward into the haymow. The atmosphere was hot, the air was dusty, and the hay was slippery. The boys leaped to the right behind a high pile of hay. Staying low, they ran toward the opposite end of the haymow, slipping and sliding all the way.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Jake and his two henchmen climbed into the loft.
“Where are they?” Jake bellowed.
Seeing no movement, he led the way to the left side, where clear boards offered easier footing. Frank and Joe saw them go past, and jumped into the middle of the hay, believing they could cross over and reach the stairs.
But Joe’s feet shot out from under him. He skidded on the hay—right into Jake, who had doubled back. The unexpected collision caused Jake to tumble into a large haypile. He coughed, wheezed, and sneezed, then came up with wisps of dry weeds sticking from his hair. Before he could extricate himself, Frank and Joe ran down the left side while the other two pursuers came up on the right.
A tall pole near the stairs at the far end of the loft reached up to a crossbeam. Frank shimmied up the pole onto the crossbeam, and Joe followed instantly. The brothers perched where they could look all the way across the haymow.
“I hope they think we went downstairs,” Frank muttered.
The three men gathered beneath them, panting, swearing, and looking around furiously. “They got to be up here!” Jake snarled. “We don’t go down till we find where they’re hiding!”
“Which way?” said a plaid-shirted searcher. “Left or right?”
“Left, right, up, and down! Look everywhere.”
The Hardys were sure to be discovered. Frank signaled Joe. Balancing themselves on the crossbeam, they hurtled down simultaneously, hitting the three men across the shoulders and knocking them down in a heap. Then the boys dived for the stairs, and jumped down three steps at a time. When they reached the bottom, however, they ran straight into the muzzle of a gun!
“Okay, wise guys,” Armstrong said. “The jig is up!”

CHAPTER XX  
In the Nick of Time
 
 
 
 
AS Armstrong gave his command, the Hardys froze in their tracks and raised both hands over their heads. Footsteps pounded down the stairs behind them.
“Nice going, boss,” Jake called out.
“Tie them up again,” Armstrong ordered, “and this time see that they stay that way!”
Frank and Joe were hustled over to a corner and bound with ropes around their wrists and ankles. Jake tested the knots.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “These guys will stick around till we move them.”
“Good,” Armstrong said. “All we have to do is take them with us and unload them from the plane at five thousand feet. By the way, you’d better bolt the barn door again.”
Jake walked to the entrance and reached for the bolt. Wham! The door burst open, the edge striking Jake and knocking him off his feet! 
Fenton Hardy stepped into the barn, followed by the Wakefield chief of police and a number of officers. “Drop the gun, Armstrong!” the detective commanded.
Armstrong hesitated for a second, then the rifle clattered to the floor. The police disarmed his henchmen, who sullenly refused to say anything.
“We’d like to join the party,” Joe called out, “but we’re tied up.”
Fenton Hardy walked over and unfastened the ropes. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” Frank replied. “But we wouldn’t have been for long. These men were going to let us take a long-distance swan dive into the Caribbean.”
“You got here just in the nick of time,” Joe said, relieved.
Armstrong swung around at the words. “Hardy,” he grated, “how did you figure out my little scheme?”
“It hit me while I was keeping the front gate of the mint under surveillance. The guards at the mint had been hypnotized. And from the way my sons described Carlos Calderón, he, too, must have been in a trance.”
“We wondered who did it,” Frank put in, “but never guessed the truth.”
“Neither did I, Frank,” Mr. Hardy said. “For the longest time I suspected a third person who might have tailed us to Mexico. Yet Armstrong had the opportunity to hypnotize both the guards and Carlos! Of course, the theory seemed ridiculous. The administrative assistant to the director robbing his own mint! Nevertheless, I decided to shadow him, and it paid off.”
“Dad, why didn’t you let us know?” Joe asked.
“By the time I realized all this, you two had left your post at the rear gate of the mint. I presume you had good reason?”
Frank described how they had seen the hypnotized man with the beard and decided to follow him.
“Good thinking,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anyway, I went to a pay phone and called Chief Erikson, and he came on the run with his men to help me make this arrest.”
“Glad to round them up, Fenton,” Erikson replied. “I know how often you’ve been right about criminals.”
Mr. Hardy turned to Armstrong. “We saw you come out of the mint. You didn’t know it, but you had a police escort every step of the way through the woods to the barn.”
“We collared the man with the rifle at the gate,” the chief took up the story. “Then we came up the road and watched the action in the barn for a while.”
“You took a chance, Erikson,” Armstrong declared. “As Hardy just said, the hypnotism theory was just a hunch. If you had made a mistake, I could have had your badge.”
Erikson shook his head. “Not really. You see, I come from Chicago, and I remember a stage hypnotist who called himself the Great Gordino. His pitch was to call for volunteers from the audience. He’d put them in a trance and make them perform odd antics, like playing leapfrog onstage, and so on. The Great Gordino got into trouble. He bet on the horses, lost heavily, and disappeared from the windy city one jump ahead of the sheriff.”
“What was his real name?” Joe asked.
“John Armstrong! I never connected Gordino with the Wakefield Armstrong until your father told me he suspected this man of being a hypnotist. Then I was sure. I felt we should go all out after this suspect.”
Armstrong caved in. “Sure, I was Gordino in Chicago before I arrived in Wakefield and got a job at the mint. And I had debts. Then I became greedy and wanted some of this gold.”
“So you figured out a way to rob the mint?” Frank prodded him.
“I took a vacation in the Caribbean last winter. When I met Hank Corda, I made a deal with him. He put me in touch with Jake, who, with his men, cut the airstrip in the woods.”
Jake glared at Armstrong, but did not deny the charges.
“Then you hypnotized the mint guards, told them to turn off the alarm system and the cameras, and to let Jake in,” Frank deduced.
Armstrong nodded. “It worked like a charm. I’m still a pretty good hypnotist.”
“You’re a pretty good actor, too,” Fenton Hardy said. “You fooled me completely when you engaged me to handle the case. And here you were simply using me to divert suspicion from yourself.”
“Of course. If anyone asked me what I was doing about the gold heist, I could say I hired the famous private investigator from Bayport to run down the clues. But you ran down too many, Hardy!”
“Why did you have our father kidnapped?” Joe asked.
“Because he brought you into the act. That spoiled my plans because with that many people working on the case, it became too dangerous. So we wanted to get him out of the way before he could tell you anything he might have found out.”
“But when he escaped,” Frank said, “you left the note instructing your men to deep six F.H. in the glove compartment of the car used to transport the gold to the barn. You were giving Jake his orders.”
Armstrong nodded. “Jake didn’t like this, so I tried to keep you all away until the gold was safely out of this country.”
Joe turned to his father. “He sent us to Zurich and had the rumor spread about the Wakefield gold being sold there,” he said. “When that didn’t keep us there long enough, he dreamed up the clue about the plane with ‘Mexico City’ on it.”
Mr. Hardy chuckled. “It must have been a surprise for you, John, when we actually found such a plane.”
“It fit right into his plans,” Frank put in.
“So you hypnotized Carlos Calderón in Palango to have another suspect who would take up our time,” Mr. Hardy said to Armstrong. “And when we came back to Wakefield earlier than it suited you, you gassed us in the motel. It was all part of your plot!”
Armstrong became angry. “Nothing would have happened to you if you had listened to me! Why wouldn’t you stay in Mexico? When you refused, I had no alternative!”
Frank chuckled. “You probably figured you had everything under control when you came out to the barn tonight. You must have been surprised to see Joe and me trussed up like a couple of chickens ready for the spit!”
“Armstrong, your pilot will get a surprise, too,” Fenton Hardy said. “The police will have a welcoming committee waiting for him when he lands at the airstrip.”
“The getaway plane is due very soon,” Frank reported. “We heard Armstrong say at about midnight.”
“Put a stakeout at the airstrip at once,” Erikson directed his lieutenant. “Impound the plane, bring in the pilot, and have these prisoners taken away.”
“Would you also call the Zurich police and have them arrest a man named Rudolf Kling,” Frank added. “He was Armstrong’s accomplice, who hired Pfeiffer to spread the rumor about the gold being sold in Switzerland.”
Armstrong, Jake, and their two henchmen were led out in handcuffs. Mr. Hardy and Erikson walked over to the corner where the gold was stacked. The boys joined them. The bright shimmer of the bars dazzled them, and the hammer and sickle imprint was clearly visible.
“I’ve always wanted to know what a million in gold looked like,” the police chief confided. “Now I do.”
“If Armstrong’s plan had succeeded, it would have been one of the century’s most notorious crimes,” Fenton Hardy observed.
“But it failed, thanks to you Hardys,” Erikson pointed out. “By the way, Director Wadsworth of the mint returned from his vacation today. He’s upset about the whole thing and will be relieved to hear that you’ve solved the case.”
“I’ll bet he won’t be pleased to hear who the culprit is,” Frank said.
“True. On the other hand, the three guards who were arrested are vindicated now and will be back at their jobs soon.”
The gold bars were loaded into the pickup, and two officers guarded them while a third took the wheel. Chief Erikson gave the Hardys a lift to their motel.
The following morning Mr. Hardy spoke to Director Wadsworth on the telephone. He confirmed that the pilot had been arrested and thanked Mr. Hardy profusely for his help.
“I would never have suspected John Armstrong,” the director said with a sigh. “I trusted him completely. Well, I’m glad he hired you to recover the gold.”
The Hardys packed their bags and were soon on their way to Bayport. Frank felt a little disappointed, as he usually did when they wound up a case and the excitement was over. He did not anticipate their next thrilling adventure, Mystery of the Firebird Rocket.
When they arrived home, they were greeted anxiously by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Mr. Hardy said. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is great!” Joe replied with a grin.
“I’m sure it was dangerous,” Aunt Gertrude put in.
“Oh no, Aunty, it was no trouble at all. By the way, we brought you a souvenir.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“You have a choice. Either a jaguar god or a feathered serpent!”
Deadfall (Hardy Boys Casefiles #60)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"Those raspberry pancakes were the best I ever had, Stan!" Joe Hardy said as Stan Shaw's four-by-four truck bounced down a narrow, tree- lined mountain road. "What a way to start the day."
"I start practically every day like that—when the berries are in season." Stan's weathered face split into a wide grin. "Thanks to the raspberry bushes in my backyard."
Joe smiled. Though Stan was over fifty years old, the tall, lean environmentalist had the manner and build of a man half his age.
"It wouldn't matter if they were cactus bushes," remarked Joe's eighteen-year-old brother, Frank, from the cramped backseat. "Joe's the breakfast king."
"And lunch," chimed in Callie Shaw, winking at Frank next to her. "And dinner. And—"
2
"Okay, already," Joe protested. "I was just trying to compliment our host. It's not every guy who'd let a couple of strangers camp out in his house."
"You're not strangers. You're Callie's friends," Stan said, slowing the truck as the road made a tight curve. To the right, the mountain fell off into a narrow valley in which Joe glimpsed a cluster of buildings—a tiny logging village.
"That's Crosscut, Oregon—not quite as big as New York City, but it's all we've got," Stan drawled.
Seventeen-year-old Joe smiled and glanced back at his brother. Joe's muscular build and blond hair were in strong contrast to Frank's slimmer physique and brown hair. The brothers knew each other so well that each could often guess what the other was thinking.
At the moment, Joe knew, they were both remembering what Callie had told them about her uncle Stan on their flight from the East. Stan had been stationed in Crosscut for nearly ten years as a field representative of the Save the Redwoods Alliance. The local mill owners had come to tolerate his lectures on preserving endangered plant species and protecting local wildlife. Stan had felt he was making progress in helping people make a living from the forests without destroying them.
In the past couple of years, though, ecology activists from other, less responsible organizations, and even interns sent to learn from Stan,
3
had become more aggressive, and the loggers were reacting angrily. Now it was a cold war between the environmentalists, or "Greens," and the loggers, who believed that people like Stan were out to take away their jobs. During the past year fistfights had started breaking out between some of the loggers and a group of overeager Greens.
Though Stan had come up with several plans that offered timber to the mill owners as well as protection for animal and plant wildlife, the loggers were still convinced that he wanted to take away their jobs.
Callie decided to visit her uncle to see if she could help him, and had asked Frank and Joe to come along in case there was trouble.
Stan knew that the Hardys' father, Fenton, was a well-known private investigator, and that the boys were also amateur detectives. He probably figured that the Hardys weren't there just to hike and enjoy the scenery. But if he wanted to pretend that Joe and Frank were ordinary visitors, that was fine with them.
"Here we are," Stan announced as the truck reached the bottom of the mountain. The village of Crosscut swung into view once again. "I'll stop in at the general store. You kids can easily walk from there to the foot of Cascade Trail."
"Wow." Joe took in the three-block stretch of buildings set against the tree-covered mountains. "The town looks kind of lost with those giant mountains in the background."
4
Faded wooden signs indicated the Potbelly Café and Tichman's Grocery, which were separated by a shoe repair shop with a gaudy neon sign. On the other side of the street were the Crosscut General Store and the Sportsman's Pool Hall.
"We didn't get to see much on our way in from the airport last night. This looks like real backwoods territory," Joe said.
"Don't count on it," Stan said with tin edge to his voice. "Folks here are more savvy than you think." He parked the truck in front of the general store. "Looks like we've got a lot of laid-off loggers hanging around waiting to prove it, too."
"Laid off?" Joe and Stan climbed out of the truck, followed by Frank and Callie.
Stan nodded toward a mud-spattered red pickup sitting in a row of battered station wagons and four-wheel-drive vehicles. "See that pickup?" he asked. "It belongs to Buster Owens, owner of the Horizon Lumber Mill out on Highbridge Road. He's shut his mill down for two weeks, starting today. He says he can't afford to keep operating with his old equipment, so he's stopping all work while he rerigs the mill. He has the loggers on half pay in the meantime, and they're not happy about it."
"And when they're not happy," Callie added grimly, "they tend to take out their frustrations on guys like Uncle Stan."
Stan shrugged resignedly and started up the
5
wooden steps. Joe and Frank and Callie followed close behind.
"Wow," Frank said as they entered the store. "Just like in the movies."
Joe looked around the room. It was a little like the set of a western film. One half of the large, warehouselike building was crammed full of shelves displaying everything from snack food to bolts of cloth. A short, wiry man in a worn corduroy jacket sat behind a cash register and appeared to be working on his accounts. The town post office, with its gleaming brass mailboxes, was set up along the back wall. To the right, a heavy set woman, who Joe guessed was married to the man in the corduroy jacket, rushed about refilling coffee cups for a collection of rough-looking men at the lunch counter.
"Yeah, but this smells better than a movie," Joe said, inhaling the rich, greasy aroma of bacon and eggs. Joe eyed the men in their worn jeans, faded plaid shirts, and heavy boots. The men had noticed Stan and his guests, but so far they'd only glared and turned back to their coffee.
"Hey there, Will," Stan said, nodding to the man behind the cash register. Then he focused on the men eating breakfast and gave one of them a casual wave. "Buster! How's it going?"
Joe noted which of the men waved back. The mill owner was a big man—over six feet tall and could be over three hundred pounds. He wore a lime green cap with a purple-and-orange Horizon
6
logo, jeans, and a flannel shirt, as most of the other men were, but hanging from his wide leather belt was the largest key ring Joe had ever seen.
"Uncle Stan thinks he's got Buster nearly ready to try some new logging methods," Callie murmured to Joe and Frank as they searched the shelves for trail mix. "But Buster still doesn't want to be friendly to him in public."
She was about to go on when the door was banged open. All three of them whirled around to see a short, balding man in a camouflage jacket race into the store. He had a brown beard and mustache and wild-looking blue eyes. "Shaw! I've been searching all over for you, man," the short man said to Callie's uncle Stan. "Let's go! We've got a major emergency!"
"Calm down, Vance," Stan said with a nervous chuckle. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"Some Horizon Lumber trucks are headed west to cut a stand of redwoods," the younger man announced excitedly, not even trying to keep his voice down. "We've got to stop them!"
Stan glanced toward the loggers with an embarrassed expression. Joe saw several of the lumbermen exchange sour looks over their food.
"Who is that guy?" Joe muttered to Callie.
"Vance Galen," Callie murmured back. "He's Uncle Stan's assistant from Save the Redwoods. Stan said he's the guy who started the fighting last summer."
Joe studied the angry, potbellied man and
7
decided he looked a little ridiculous in his camouflage jacket. It was as though he was dressed for war when everyone else just wanted breakfast. No wonder the loggers disliked him.
"Horizon's shut down, Vance, remember?" Stan said to the room in general, trying to ease the very real tension. "Buster's right here. Why don't we ask him what's going on?"
"It's none of your business," shouted one of the loggers. He was a hefty man, a little shorter than average height, with a dark beard and mustache that covered half his face.
"Yeah!" piped up a skinny, long-haired man sitting next to him.
"We're sitting here out of work and you still treat us like the bad guys. I wish we were out there cutting down those trees!" the heftier man argued.
"That's Mike Stavisky and Freddy Zackarias," Callie murmured to the Hardys. She remembered them from the last time she had visited. "Both of them were involved in the fights last summer."
"All right, that's enough," Buster said. He set his coffee cup down and got up from his stool. Immediately, the room fell silent. Frank decided anyone that big could quiet any room.
"First of all, Vance, those trucks are on their way to my equipment yard for maintenance, not to cut trees," Buster said to the angry activist. "You should know better than anyone that not only are those redwoods protected by the state
8
of Oregon, but they're also on public land. The contract on that land has expired, and nobody's going to be cutting trees there until the Forest Service draws up a new contract."
"Since when are you so concerned about following regulations?" Vance Galen retorted. "You'd turn the state of Oregon into a parking lot if you could make a buck off it!"
"Hey, hey!" Stan shouted as the loggers began shouting insults again. "This isn't doing anyone any good. Vance here got a little overexcited, that's all, and we both apologize. We don't want any of you to lose your livelihood, you know that. We're just here to show you how you can harvest trees without destroying a national treasure."
"Trees are trees, Stan!" a logger shouted from the lunch counter.
"Maybe so," Stan replied. "But if you cut 'em all down without leaving any or at least replanting, you're going to wind up with no trees pretty quick. And then not only will the local wildlife be in big trouble, but your children, and their children, will be, too. How can they be loggers if there aren't any more trees?"
"Not bad," Joe heard Frank whisper to Callie. Joe watched as Callie smiled proudly at her uncle.
"The Greens aren't your problem, anyway, boys." The voice came from a man leafing through some mail by the post office. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man with craggy features,
9
light, wispy hair, and piercing blue eyes. In his jeans and flannel shirt he looked more like a midwestern farmer than a logger.
"Bo Johnson!" Stan called with fake heartiness. "I didn't see you back there. So, what do you think the problem is?"
"Bo owns Johnson Lumber," Callie whispered even before the Hardys could ask. "Horizon's biggest competitor."
"The problem," Johnson said, stepping toward the lunch counter and pointing with his stack of mail at the loggers, "is Horizon Lumber's management. What kind of outfit lays off its entire staff just to put in a little equipment? If you boys worked for me, you'd be out there in the woods today making top dollar instead of arguing with the likes of him."
Johnson gestured disdainfully toward Vance Galen. Galen turned red in the face and made a move toward the older man. "Why, you—"
"Hey!" Buster Owens put a hand up, stopping both Galen and Johnson in their tracks. Then he turned to Johnson. "What kind of trouble do you have in mind this morning, Bo? Want to start another fight? I can call in Sheriff Ferris to referee if you want."
"I didn't mean anything by it." Johnson, smiling, lifted his hands in mock surrender. His eyes slid back to the loggers, and he nodded. "I'm just saying that that Forest Service contract is going to be awarded to Johnson Lumber. And
10
the minute we can move in to cut those trees, you fellas know where to come for work."
After giving the furious Buster a salute, Johnson strolled toward the door. "Oh, and, Stan," he added as he passed the Greens, "I may give the sheriff a call myself. Looks like your boy, Vance, needs restraining again."
* * *
"Some town," Joe commented half an hour later after he, Callie, and Frank had hit the wilderness trail. Already they were surrounded by lush, cool forest. "Is it my imagination, or were those folks incredibly uptight?"
"I warned you it wouldn't be a picnic," he heard Callie answer behind him. "It's understandable, really. Guys like Bo Johnson don't understand what Uncle Stan and the rest of the Greens are doing. And Greens like Vance Galen forget that the loggers are people who need to make a living."
"That Forest Service contract they were talking about," Frank said. "Why is it so important?"
"The private land is nearly logged out," Callie explained. "And the Greens have convinced the state government and the federal forestry people to think long and hard about the logging methods they'll allow on public land in their next contract. Stan's hoping they'll permanently forbid any cutting of redwoods and all clear-cutting."
"What's clear-cutting?" Frank asked.
"That's when loggers cut all the trees in a stand without leaving anything behind," Callie
11
explained. "When they do that, the rain washes the topsoil away. The next thing you know, nothing can grow there. If the loggers would cut a little here, a little there, and plant a tree for every one cut down, the forests could be saved. The logging industry and the forests could go on for generations."
Joe led the way around another bend in the trail. The path was muddy from the rain the night before, and tiny streams of water trickled over the moss-covered boulders at the edge of the path and dripped down toward the valley below. Closing in on the other side of the hikers were lush ferns. From the tops of the pines, birds called loudly. It was a shame, Joe reflected, to think of these beautiful mountains stripped bare.
"If you want to see what a clear-cut field looks like, check out the view to your right," Callie cried a few minutes later, as though she'd been reading Joe's mind. They paused to peer through the trees at a large cleared area farther up on the mountainside.
"Come on, let's get a better look." Callie cut off the trail and started through the trees, Frank and Joe close behind.
Even though Callie had described what a clear-cut field was, Joe was shocked by the sight. The barren area was hundreds of yards across, littered with tree stumps and almost nothing else. No animals were in sight. Joe heard nothing but an eerie silence.
12
"It's like being on the moon," Frank said as they trudged across the huge expanse of wasteland.
"And this isn't the biggest strip," Callie muttered. She paused on the far side of the field. "That's Horizon Lumber down there." She pointed toward a collection of sheds, mammoth lumber piles, and heavy equipment beside a fast- moving river. "Buster Owens's mill. They carve a chunk this size out of forest every other week."
Joe peered at a lone vehicle sitting in the mill's parking lot. "Isn't that your uncle's truck?" he asked.
Callie said with surprise, "Yes, it is. I thought he had some more business to do in town. I wonder what he's doing over there?"
"Especially since the mill's shut down at the moment," Frank pointed out. "I don't see anyone moving around down there."
"And look," Joe exclaimed. "See that red truck pulled off the road behind those bushes? It looks somehow familiar."
Frank followed his brother's gaze down the river about a quarter of a mile from the factory. "It looks like Buster Owens's truck," he said. "Why would he park off the side of the road instead of at the mill?" He glanced at the others. "I think we should go see if either of them needs help."
Callie hesitated. She didn't want to ask too
13
much of the Hardys, but she was worried about her uncle.
"Come on," Joe said. "There must be a way across the river."
"There's a path that leads to a bridge." Callie took the lead.
Callie started down the mountain at a brisk pace, but within a few steps the three of them broke out into a run. Then, only a few minutes after that, Joe heard the sound of an enormous explosion. The great force of the blast almost knocked him off his feet.
"What was that?" Callie cried after Joe helped her to her feet.
"I can't see anything down there now." Joe stared out over the river. "But it sounded like Buster Owens's mill just blew up!"
14
Chapter 2
"Uncle Stan!" Before Frank could stop her, Callie had run past him toward the river. She stumbled over a tangle of roots as Frank and Joe ran after her.
"Hold on, Callie!" Frank cried, catching up with her as they broke through the trees at the edge of the river. He stopped dead in his tracks the instant he saw the mill directly across the river. Enormous flames were consuming the center of the large main building. It was the size of a football field—designed, Frank knew, to swallow trees at one end and spit lumber, plywood, and toothpicks out at the other. Surrounding it were a number of wooden warehouses, all as frighteningly flammable as the mill.
Through the thick, black smoke Frank could just see that the roof of the mill was about to cave in.
15
As they stared, another explosion rocked them. The flames shot even higher, and then one of the nearby warehouses burst into flame, too. They winced at the heat that reached them even across the river. "It's burning so fast! It looks like a chemical explosion, or dynamite maybe," he shouted over the roaring of the fire.
"Do you see anyone?" Callie demanded, trying to peer through the smoke. She called her uncle's name, but Frank was sure no one could hear her from where they were.
"We're at the wrong angle to see the parking lot," Frank pointed out. "There's no way to know if he's still there."
"Let's cross the river here and try to find him," said Joe. "That fire isn't getting any smaller."
"We can't cross without a bridge," Frank said. "The current's too strong to swim, and it's too deep to wade across."
"We don't have time to go to the bridge. Look, over there!" Callie pointed to what looked like a floating forest that ran from one bank of the river to the other. "That's a log raft. When the loggers cut trees down upriver they float the logs down to here. A chain strung across the river catches them and holds them like cattle in a pen."
"You want to cross on that? It seems like a great way to end up getting wet." Frank eyed the enormous logs floating in the coursing river. There were chains on bright red floats lashed to
16
thick posts on either bank, but the logs themselves appeared to be slick and would be dangerous to step on in the fast current.
"It's our only chance," said Callie, flinging off her pack and starting on ahead of the Hardys. "Uncle Stan could be hurt!"
Frank glanced at his younger brother. Joe shrugged. "We'd better keep up," he said, "or she'll go without us."
The brothers tossed their packs down next to Callie's and hurried after her to the edge of the river. The logs bucked and tossed on top of the rushing water. "Uncle Stan showed me how to do this last summer. I'll go first," Callie shouted over the noise of the river. Before Frank could stop her, she had half-stepped, half-slid onto the first enormous, algae-covered log. For a terrible moment Frank watched as she lost her footing, but she instantly caught herself and jumped lightly to the next rearing log.
"The secret is to keep moving," she shouted back over her shoulder.
"I'm next," Joe announced, sliding recklessly down the riverbank and barely landing on a log. When Callie was halfway across the river with Joe a few feet behind her, Frank slid down the bank to land unsteadily on a log.
This is like dancing on ice, Frank thought.
Moments later, muddy and wet from the spray of river water, Frank joined the other two on the top of the far bank.
17
"Let's not waste time," Joe said. "The fire's bigger. And I still don't see Stan!"
As the three of them ran toward the blazing mill, they heard a siren approaching. A moment later they spotted a fire truck through the trees. Men in everyday clothes and yellow helmets were hanging on to the sides of the truck. They looked as though they'd dropped whatever they were doing to come to fight the fire.
As the teenagers neared the mill, the parking lot came into view. "Stan's truck is gone," Frank said, relieved. "He must have left before the explosion. But wouldn't he have heard it?"
"No time to worry about that now," Joe pointed out. "This is a volunteer fire department—just the local townspeople. They could probably use our help."
"There're more volunteers coming," Callie said, pointing down the road. "In a little town like this, everybody has to pitch in." Behind the fire truck were several cars with flashing red lights stuck on to their dashboards. The drivers and passengers were staring, awestruck, at the growing blaze.
As they jogged toward the parking lot to meet the fire truck, Frank could hear the siren wailing in Crosscut, far down the mountain. At the same time another siren sounded and Frank spotted a police car racing up the mountain from the opposite direction. He wondered whether it would be the Sheriff Ferris that Stan had mentioned at the general store.
18
The volunteer fire fighters had piled off the truck and were unwinding the enormous fire hose and heading toward the blaze with it. Frank approached one of the men, who was already sweating under his yellow helmet. "Anything we can do to help?" he shouted over the noise of the sheriffs siren.
"Sure. Line up and help move the hose," the man commanded. "Tell the others to do the same. We think somebody might still be in there."
Callie's face went pale in spite of the incredible heat from the blaze.
Frank put an arm around her. "Remember," he cautioned, "Stan's truck is gone. There's no reason to think it's him."
Before Callie could respond another car pulled up beside the trio and a man and woman in jeans and T-shirts leapt out. "How can we help?" the woman demanded, her eyes switching from Frank to the enormous, frightening blaze.
"Help with the hose," Frank told her. "We'll need all the volunteers we can get."
By now the fire had spread throughout the mill. Two warehouses and one of the huge piles of lumber that lay at the edge of the property were also burning. More cars and trucks had arrived from town. The instant they stopped in the parking lot, loggers and other locals leapt out to help.
The sheriff was kept busy giving orders to the volunteers, Frank noticed as he fought to hold
19
on to the bucking hose. The loggers were so organized, he had a feeling they'd been through all this before.
"They found someone!" Callie shouted just then. "Look! They're bringing him out now!"
The volunteers surged forward as three men emerged from the flaming mill carrying a blanket-covered body. Frank heard another siren over the noise of the crowd and swiveled around to see an ambulance arriving.
Almost instantly a pair of paramedics worked their way through the crowd with a stretcher and a portable oxygen tank. Frank strained to see who the victim was, but smoke and the crowd blocked his view. He knew Callie was even more anxious than he was.
Fifteen minutes later the paramedics passed through the crowd on their way back to their ambulance, this time carrying the body of a huge man, now completely covered with the blanket.
"It's Buster!" Frank heard everyone murmur as the stretcher passed by them. "Buster Owens! Burned in his own mill!"
"Oh, no." Frank turned to Callie. Her face revealed a mixture of horror at Owens's death and relief that it wasn't her uncle. Suddenly she began to cry. Frank put an arm around her.
"He must have died from smoke inhalation," Joe shouted to them, dazed. "I wonder what started the fire?"
Before anyone could answer, they were interrupted by Stan Shaw. "Callie!" he was shouting
20
as he jogged toward them from the parking lot. "Are you okay?"
"Uncle Stan!" Callie broke free from Frank to run to hug her uncle. Stan Shaw looked perfectly fine, though he was obviously stunned and confused by all that was going on.
"I don't believe it," Stan said when Callie told him what had happened. "I was talking with Buster less than an hour ago. Poor guy."
Just then, another explosion sounded from the mill. Glass from several windows was blown out, and a few of the people near the front of the crowd cried out as shards dug into their skin.
"They've been cut!" someone shouted. "Stop the ambulance!"
The ambulance carrying Buster Owens had already disappeared up the road, though.
"Stan Shaw!" Freddy Zackarias, the skinny, loud-mouthed logger from the general store, shouted. "You've got a first-aid kit in your truck, don't you?"
"Right!" Stan turned to the teenagers. "Come on! I have some blankets, too. Let someone else take over that hose."
Frank, Joe, and Callie quickly transferred the hose to waiting hands and followed Stan at a fast jog to his truck on the edge of the lot.
"Hey, Stan," Frank called as he caught up with the older man. "I meant to ask you something. We saw your truck here earlier. What were you—"
21
"Yes?" Stan's hand froze as he opened the back of the truck. "What was I what, Frank?"
Frank leaned into the truck to pull blankets out. "What were you doing here? We thought maybe Buster Owens was—" Frank's words died on his lips. The blanket he was holding had been partially concealing something.
Frank stared at what had been hidden beneath the blankets. There, beside a first-aid kit, was an open crate. In the crate lay more than a dozen sticks of dynamite!
22
Chapter 3
"What's up?" Joe asked, reaching past his brother for the first-aid kit. When he saw what was inside he gasped out loud.
"Excuse me, Stan. What are you doing with a truck full of dynamite?"
"A what?" Callie demanded, peering around Frank and Joe. As she saw the dynamite and took in the situation her mouth dropped open. "Uncle Stan," she said in a deadly calm voice, "what's that doing there?"
"I don't know," her uncle said, sweat forming on his forehead. "I've never seen it before. I swear!"
"Your truck was here earlier," Joe said quietly, almost as though talking to himself. "We saw it. After the explosion we noticed it was gone."
23
He was interrupted by the screech of a walkie-talkie, and spun around to see a sheriff approaching with a radio in his hand.
"Uh, Sheriff F-Ferris!" Stan stammered, turning his back on the truck. "Can I help you?"
"You sure can, Stan," the sheriff said, nodding briefly to Callie and the boys. "I heard you have some first-aid supplies we can use. My deputy took my kit out and forgot to replace it. They've got all the injured folks laid out in the parking lot right now, but the nearest ambulance is thirty miles away. Looks like we're going to have to fix 'em up ourselves."
"Right. Uh, you know my niece, Callie." As Joe watched, Stan pulled Callie in front of him and used her almost as a shield. "And these two boys are friends of hers from back East. Frank and Joe Hardy—their dad's a detective!"
"Pleased to meet you," the sheriff said hurriedly, touching his hat to the Hardys. He hesitated midgesture. "Your dad's not Fenton Hardy, is he? The guy who solved that big show- business case down in Los Angeles a few years back?"
"Yes, sir," Joe said.
"Well, well! It's a shame he's not here now to help investigate this catastrophe," the sheriff said. "There must be half a million dollars' worth of damage here so far, and that's just to the buildings alone. We can thank our stars the place was closed today."
He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his
24
brow. When he took it down it was black from soot and sweat. "I'd better get those supplies. You don't mind, do you?" he asked Stan as he edged past him to the truck.
Stan, Callie, and the Hardys watched helplessly as the sheriff leaned inside.
He froze. Behind him, Stan coughed.
"Stan," the sheriff said gravely, straightening up. "What's this dynamite doing in here?"
"I—I—I don't know, Sheriff. I've never seen it b-before," Stan stammered, turning pale.
"Someone must have planted it on him," Callie defended her uncle. "They're trying to get him blamed for this fire."
The sheriff stepped away from the car, all of a sudden very professional and serious. "There are half a dozen sticks missing. Why?"
"He told you he doesn't know!" Joe broke in. "Anyway, you don't know that the fire was started by dynamite, do you?"
The sheriff shook his head. "I radioed the county seat for a couple of fire investigators. I admit I don't know much about fires, but I do know that this got started too fast and too loud to be anything natural. My guess is that an explosive of some kind had to be used. Also, the longer this mill's closed, the longer your trees stay up, right, Stan?"
Joe turned to Stan, wondering why he didn't speak up in his own defense. The conservationist had turned an unhealthy shade of gray and seemed to be too stunned to speak.
25
"How about if my brother and I take the first- aid supplies to the volunteers while you talk to Mr. Shaw?" Frank said, breaking the awkward silence.
"Good idea," the sheriff said, shooing them away.
"I'm staying," Callie insisted. "I know my uncle Stan couldn't have had anything to do with this."
"Fine." Joe lifted the heavy first-aid kit out while Frank grabbed some blankets. "We'll be back in a few minutes."
As soon as they were out of earshot, Joe said to his brother, "Okay, what gives? You were so eager to get away from there I could practically smell the rubber burning on your hiking boots."
"I might be wrong," Frank said as they hurried toward the group of injured people, "but Stan Shaw seems like a straightforward guy to me. If he says he doesn't know how that dynamite got in his truck, he doesn't. That means somebody planted it on him."
"But why didn't he even try to defend himself?" Joe asked. "He practically surrendered to the sheriff before the guy even suspected anything!"
"He must have panicked," Frank replied. "I mean, think about it. You live in a town where no one really likes you, and you're caught at an explosion with a bunch of dynamite. He must already be figuring how he'll come up with bail."
"But if he didn't do it—" Joe said.
26
"Whoever did planted that dynamite in the last half hour," Frank interrupted. "Now the faster we start tracking down who did it, the better our chances are."
"But who would do a thing like that?" Joe demanded. "Were they out to get Buster, or did he just happen to get caught in the blast?"
"Finding that out," Frank answered, "is how we pay for those pancakes you ate. Here's the first-aid kit you asked for," Frank said to a volunteer standing with the injured. "We have blankets, too. Is there anything else you want or need?"
"We didn't ask for anything." A busy woman glanced up from where she was bandaging a young man's arm. "We used the supplies from the fire truck. I think everybody's just about taken care of now."
"But the sheriff said . . ." Joe's voice trailed off. He was puzzled.
"If anyone shows up with a case of soda, though, you can bring that right on over," the woman joked, turning back to her patient.
"Frank, what's that all about?" Joe asked as soon as the brothers had moved a short distance from the crowd. "Someone asked us and the sheriff for first-aid supplies nobody needed?"
"Yeah, somebody who wanted that dynamite to be found in Stan's truck," Frank replied. "I'll bet it was the same somebody who planted it there."
27
"So you think someone's trying to frame Stan for this fire—and for Owens's murder?"
"It's all I can think if we believe Stan's innocent," Frank answered. "What we've got to find out, though, is what Stan was doing here before the explosion. He sure acted as if he was hiding something. Maybe whatever it is has something to do with why that dynamite turned up in his truck."
Joe had to stop to cough to clear some of the smoke from his lungs. Then he took off at a jog to catch up with his brother, who was heading back to Stan. As they approached the truck, Joe saw he wouldn't be able to question Stan in private. The sheriff was still with him.
"I'm sorry, Stan," the sheriff was saying as Joe and Frank joined them. "I've known you for almost ten years, but the law's the law. This truck has to be impounded so I can thoroughly search it, and you're going to have to come in for questioning."
"My uncle's not a criminal!" Callie exploded, pulling away from Frank, who was holding her to calm her down. "He was here about an hour ago. We all saw his truck. That must have been when somebody planted the dynamite in his truck. Stan couldn't have anything to do with it!"
The sheriff turned to Stan, who took a quick hop-step backward. "You were here earlier, Stan?" the sheriff demanded. "Before the explosion?"
28
"Well, sure, I—I—" Stan stammered. He glanced at Callie, who clapped a hand over her mouth as she realized what she'd said. "I was just—"
"Don't say any more." The sheriff took him by the arm and steered him toward the patrol car. "You can tell me the rest in my office— where I can read you your rights and we can get it all recorded. I think you'd better call a lawyer when we get back," he added as the two men walked away.
Callie, Joe, and Frank stared after the sheriff and Stan. Joe noticed that Stan didn't even glance back at them. It was as though he felt guilty.
Joe was lost in his thoughts and didn't hear the tall, athletic-looking young woman in khaki pants and T-shirt striding up to them. Her hair was long and blond and pulled back into a ponytail that was covered with oily soot from the fire.
"Ronnie," Callie was saying, "you won't believe what happened. This is my boyfriend, Frank Hardy, and his brother, Joe," she added hastily. To the Hardys she explained, "Ronnie Croft owns and edits Crosscut's weekly newspaper."
"The Crosscut Guardian," Ronnie said proudly, shaking the Hardys' hands. "What could possibly have happened that hasn't already gone on today?" she demanded of Callie.
As Callie told her about her uncle Stan's arrest, Ronnie's jaw dropped. "I'm going to the station," she said. "You want to come along?"
29
"Definitely," Callie said. "Uncle Stan seems to be in shock about all this. I want to be there to help if I can. What about you?" she asked Frank and Joe.
"We'll hang around here a little longer," Frank said calmly. "We'll meet you at the sheriffs later, if that's okay."
"If I'm not there I'll be at the newspaper office," Callie agreed as she started off with Ronnie toward the newswoman's car. "Boy, am I glad you guys came with me this summer. I didn't know how much I'd need you."
"Hear that, Frank?" Joe couldn't resist teasing as Callie and Ronnie walked away. "She needs you. A mystery to solve and a girlfriend who needs you. What more can a guy ask for in a day?"
"Answers, for a start," Frank said with a frown. "Let's head out to where we saw Buster's truck pulled off the road. I want to see if it's still there, and if we can tell anything from it. But first we should pick up our packs. My camera's in mine, and we might need it."
"Right, boss." Joe took off after his older brother. "Then we can catch a ride back to town for lunch. It's way past noon, and I'm starved."
Most of the onlookers were leaving now that the fire was in the smoldering stage. The fire fighters had to stay to douse any flare-ups.
"Hey, Joe," Frank said. "Look over there."
Joe followed Frank's gaze to a cluster of loggers standing next to a battered station wagon,
30
talking in the far corner of the lot. He recognized several of them from the general store that morning. Mike Stavisky was easy to recognize, with his muscular build and heavy black beard. Skinny Freddy Zackarias stood beside him, nodding at everything Mike said.
"Let's wander by there," Frank said softly. "I want to hear what they're saying."
It didn't take long for Stan's name to come up in the conversation. "There was dynamite in Stan's truck," he heard Mike tell the others. "He must have heard that the Forest Service was going to let Horizon cut down his precious redwoods after all. Him and his assistant have been causing trouble around here for years. I knew sooner or later one of 'em would pull something like this."
"But Stan Shaw?" a short, baby-faced logger interrupted. "If it was Galen I'd understand. He's threatened to blow up every mill in the state. But Stan's kinda reasonable for a tree hugger."
"There's no such thing as a reasonable tree hugger!" Mike boomed. "What's bad for logging is bad for your wallet, Nat, and don't you forget it. Stan lost his patience, that's all, and now he's going to pay for it."
"What's his problem?" Joe whispered to Frank as the brothers moved away before they got spotted.
"He probably believes what he's saying, but he's not making things any easier for anybody,"
31
Frank replied grimly. "The trouble is, the others are listening to him. Let's hurry up and get those packs. I want to get a look at Buster's truck."
"I'm not up to walking across those logs just now. What do you say we jog down to the bridge," Joe said.
The packs were right where they had left them. They shouldered theirs, and Frank carried Callie's as they made their way back across the bridge and along the riverbank toward the abandoned truck.
"There it is," Joe said after a short while, pointing through the trees. Where there was no mud the red paint gleamed in the afternoon sun. It was parked in the same spot where Callie and the boys had spotted it earlier. "It's at kind of a weird angle. Do you think Buster could have been forced off the road?"
"I don't know, but don't touch anything," Frank reminded him. "If Sheriff Ferris is such a by-the-book cop, we don't want to mess up any evidence for him."
"Don't worry," Joe replied. "I'll be sure and— Hey, look," he said, stopping abruptly near the driver's side. He pointed to the trampled muddy ground around the driver's door. "It looks like there was some kind of struggle here," he said. "See the tracks?"
Frank appeared beside him, inspecting the mess of footprints. "Men's feet, definitely. Look how big the prints are," he said. "It looks like they were wearing boots."
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"Those hobnailed boots the loggers wear?" Joe ventured excitedly.
Frank nodded. "Maybe. It sure was good it rained last night."
As Frank knelt down to inspect the footprints more closely, Joe's gaze swung down the length of the truck. His eyes caught on a flash of bright lime green color a short distance away. "What's that?" he asked, walking toward the bushes.
"What?" Frank asked.
"It's a cap. Buster was wearing a cap just like this." Joe whipped out a handkerchief and picked the duck-billed cap off the bush. It had the orange-and-purple Horizon Lumber insignia on it.
"Yep, I bet this is it," he called to Frank as he walked back to join his brother. "Oh, wow. It's stained or something—" Joe stopped dead in his tracks.
"What's the matter?" Frank asked, staring at him.
Joe held up the cap and slowly turned it to show his brother. "Blood!" was all he said.
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Chapter 3
"Let me see that." Frank reached for the cap. He took it, holding on to the handkerchief, and examined it more closely. The entire back of the lime-colored cap was dark with blood.
"Whoever wore this could have been slugged hard from behind," Frank remarked.
"There's a black hair here on the inside," said Joe. "Buster had black hair, right? This is his truck, so it's probably his cap, too."
"Or his attacker's," Frank pointed out. "Several guys were wearing these at the general store and at the fire." He handed the cap back to Joe and put down his pack. "I'm going to take some pictures of these footprints," he said. "There are a couple of clear impressions here. The sheriff might be able to use them."
"Let's just hope they're not Stan's," Joe said, and wandered off to search for more clues.
34
Frank had snapped half a dozen shots when he heard his brother cry out again. "Hey, Frank! Look over here!"
Frank joined his brother a short distance down the logging road. At Joe's feet was a different set of tire marks. From their depth it looked as if the vehicle had pulled out in a hurry.
"That's not all," Joe said. "Look at that."
Frank squatted down to inspect the ground surrounding the tire tracks. A pair of furrows were cut into the mud, flanked by a single bootprint on either side. "It looks like someone dragged something to the truck," he said slowly, "and probably loaded it into the vehicle here."
"What if it was a body they were dragging?" Joe asked, examining the furrows. "These marks could be made by the heels of someone's shoes. Someone could have loaded Buster into a car, driven back to the mill, then dumped his body in the main building. Then the guy set a few sticks of dynamite on fire with a long fuse."
"You think Buster was already dead when the explosion was set?" Frank asked.
"What difference does it make? Dead or just out cold, he wouldn't have a chance to save himself." Joe shook his head in disgust. "This is murder, Frank. I have a real gut feeling about it."
"I'm with you," Frank admitted. "But if we're right, the question is, why? I don't care how weird Stan was acting, he's not about to start murdering loggers. There have got to be
35
other people who had grudges against Buster Owens—after all, he owned a mill and had to hire and fire people.
"We really don't know enough yet to make a list of suspects," Frank continued. "We'd better take this evidence to the sheriff. Maybe it'll help spring Stan, at least. But first let me finish my roll of film on these bootprints. This one over here is almost perfect."
"I'll take care of the hat." Joe produced a plastic bag from his backpack. "It can't hurt to keep any possible fingerprints clean."
"I'll tell you what," Frank said. "If the sheriff says you did a good job with the evidence, I'll buy you lunch."
"Yeah, right." Joe followed Frank onto the logging road. "It'll be dinnertime by the time we get back to town. Lunch won't even be a possibility."
* * *
Frank and Joe decided to go back to the mill to catch a ride into town. When they got there the fire appeared to be completely out. All that remained of the morning's crowd were a couple of fire fighters casually hosing down the jagged, black rubble—the remains of Horizon Lumber. Frank spotted two men in suits leaving the ruins for the parking lot. "Those must be the fire investigators the sheriff called," he said.
"Maybe we can hitch a ride with them," Joe replied.
The boys approached the edge of the burned
36
central building where the strangers had stopped to talk to the two fire fighters. "There are still hot spots in there that want to burst into flames," Frank heard the taller of the two tell the volunteers. "The only way to make sure it's dead is to keep hosing it down."
The fire fighters agreed, and the investigators continued on toward the parking lot. As they stopped beside a car with an emblem on the door, Frank and Joe ran up to them.
"Excuse me, sir?" Frank caught up with the taller man just as he was opening the car door. "My name's Frank Hardy and this is my brother, Joe. We were helping fight the fire and seem to have missed our ride back to town. We were wondering if we could catch a ride with you."
"Sure, Frank," said the tall man as he dusted some ash off his pants. "I'm Jerry, and this is my partner, Ollie. If you boys helped fight this you earned a ride. But we have to hurry. We need to get a package ready for the state crime lab as soon as we can."
Frank and Joe climbed in the backseat as the two men got into the front.
As the car headed back for town, Frank spoke up. "Are you the guys sent to investigate the building?" They both nodded. "Did you find out how the fire started?"
"Well, we're not supposed to talk about it, but I guess you deserve an answer or two," Jerry said, glancing amiably at Frank in the
37
rearview mirror. "Unfortunately, the answer is yes and no. We found out where the fire started— close to a tangle of hydraulic lines by one of the big saws—and we could see that it spread fast, real fast. What we don't know yet is what caused it, and that's what the lab's going to tell us."
"How?" asked Joe.
"Easy," Ollie replied. His voice was a husky bass that sounded as if all his high notes had been burned out. "You may not know this, but explosives manufacturers are required to include microscopic amounts of certain materials in their products. That means every explosive leaves behind a signature. All we have to do is scrape up some of the debris, analyze it for specific elements, and—ta-dah—we got you. If you ask me, we're going to find some explosives here. The hoses weren't worn out. They were blown off the rigging. And that spells explosives to me."
Frank glanced at his brother. The chances seemed excellent that the debris would match the dynamite in Stan's truck. That might be all the evidence the sheriff needed to file charges against the environmentalist.
"How long does it take to get the lab results back?" he asked Ollie, trying to sound calm.
"Four to five days, usually," Ollie replied. "We'll put a rush on this one, though, since there may be a murder involved. We should hear from the lab in seventy-two hours, max." Ollie
38
turned toward Frank and Joe. "Why are you boys so curious?"
"No reason," Frank said lamely. He stared out the window and saw the town of Crosscut swing into view. "We can get out here," he told Jerry. "Thanks again for the ride."
"Anytime." Jerry stopped the car to let the boys out. "Don't play with matches now, hear?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe asked, annoyed, as the brothers crossed the street toward the sheriffs office.
"I think it means quit asking questions because it makes us look suspicious," Frank replied. He eyed the modern exterior of the sheriffs office, set at the opposite end of Main Street from the general store. "If that's the case, Sheriff Ferris is going to be enormously suspicious in about five minutes," he added as they walked through the door.
Sheriff Ferris's desk was just inside the entrance. When Frank and Joe entered, the sheriff was talking quietly into the phone. A look of impatience flickered across his face when he saw the Hardys. He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "May I help you boys?" he said. "I'm kind of busy right now."
"We have something you might be interested in," Joe said, holding up the plastic bag with the bloodstained cap inside. "We found Buster Owens's truck about a quarter mile from the mill. This was near it. We think he might have been in some kind of struggle."
39
Sheriff Ferris said something into the phone and hung up. Then he motioned the boys to sit down. "What makes you think that?" he asked brusquely as the boys removed their backpacks.
Joe set the bag with the cap on Ferris's desk. "It's bloodstained," he said. "We think it's Buster's."
"You moved a piece of evidence?" Ferris said angrily. "Don't you boys know I could have you arrested for that?"
Frank cleared his throat. "We wanted you to see this as soon as possible, because if that is Buster's blood, then he didn't just happen to be in his mill when it exploded. He could have been murdered. And, while you may think Stan Shaw started that fire, we think the real murderer may be getting away."
"Oh, so you're sure it couldn't be Callie's uncle." Sheriff Ferris shook his head. "Look, boys," he said finally. "I know your father's a famous detective. But Crosscut is my town, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't mess around with my crime scenes. The job's tough enough as it is. You got that?"
Frank held his gaze steadily for a moment. Then he said reluctantly, "Yes, sir. But I think you should know, there were some prints around the truck. It looked like there'd been a scuffle, and one guy apparently dragged the other a short distance to another car. I took pictures of the prints in case you needed them."
"Then hand them over!" the sheriff snapped.
40
"I'd prefer to develop them myself," Frank said calmly. "Also, Joe and I would like to see Stan Shaw."
The sheriff stared at Frank in amazement, but finally he laughed. "All right, you win," he said. "I'll go check out the truck. You get me those prints by the end of the day. Eight by tens, understand? Stan is in a holding cell at the end of the hall. Ronnie Croft and Callie are with him."
Frank and Joe thanked the sheriff, picked up the backpacks, and headed toward the holding pens. "Not bad, Frank," Joe commented as they opened a heavy door with a wire-covered window. "I was sure we were going to get arrested in there."
"You just have to know how to talk to people, Joe," Frank said with a grin as they entered a room with a central hallway leading past a couple of empty cells. At the end of the hall stood Callie and Ronnie. They were talking to Stan, who was standing with his shoulders slumped forward and his head hanging, in the last cell.
"Frank!" Callie said. "We thought you'd never get here. Did you find out anything?"
"A little," Frank said with a nod to Ronnie and Stan. "Have you been charged with anything?" Frank asked Stan.
"Not yet," Callie answered for her uncle. "The sheriff has just questioned him. We don't think Ferris has enough evidence to make any formal charges. But someone from Save the
41
Redwoods headquarters is on his way here to help out if necessary. Now, what about you?"
Frank and Joe brought the others up to date on what they had found on the mountain. Callie, Stan, and Ronnie reacted with surprise and shock. "Who would purposely murder Buster Owens?" Stan blurted out when Frank had finished. "Everyone in town liked Buster."
"I hate to say it, but right now you're the only suspect, Stan," Frank advised him.
"We'll do anything we can to help prove your innocence, but we'll need a lot more information—especially from you—first," Joe explained.
Stan nodded. "I know. Callie's told me what good detectives you two are." He grinned wearily. "What do you need to know?"
"Is there any way you would profit from Buster's death?" Frank asked bluntly.
Stan's eyes widened. "Just the opposite," he replied simply. "Buster and I were just starting to make progress on an agreement concerning some timberlands around Crosscut. It was important to me, because Buster had been so stubborn about conservation for years."
"Who else knew about the agreement?" Joe asked.
Stan thought for a moment. "Walter Ecks, Buster's foreman, knew. And maybe Millie, Buster's daughter. Buster wanted to keep it as hush-hush as possible until he got all the details worked out."
Frank nodded. "At least there are one or two
42
witnesses," he said. "They can help prove you had no motive to kill Owens. Just one more question. What was your meeting with Buster about this afternoon?"
Stan drew back as though Frank had slapped him. "The meeting? That—that was a personal matter. It had nothing to do with what happened later. It's nothing that concerns you."
"It would help, though, if we knew more," Joe emphasized, watching him.
Stan shook his head. "No. I swore I wouldn't discuss it. Buster's dead now, and I don't believe I should—" Unexpectedly, Stan's eyes teared up.
Frank glanced at Callie and cleared his throat. "Uh, we have some photographs to develop here," he said briskly. "Is there a darkroom in town?"
"There's one at the newspaper," Ronnie Croft volunteered. "If it'll help Stan, it's all yours. Are you guys hungry?" Frank and Joe nodded. "I'll order some sandwiches from the Potbelly and you can eat before you work. Okay?"
"I'll stay here with Uncle Stan," Callie said. "You guys go ahead."
* * *
The offices of the Crosscut Guardian were small but cozy, Frank discovered—tucked into a storefront on Main Street near the Potbelly Cafe. "Not a bad operation," he commented as he inspected Ronnie's printing equipment, police
43
scanner, computer, piles of paper, and other signs of an active and successful community newspaper. "It must be fun, running a paper, with no boss to tell you what to do."
"Yeah, I like it," Ronnie admitted, opening the door of a converted closet to show the Hardys her tiny darkroom. "Of course, when the fights over forest land get going I have to be careful to stay neutral. Otherwise," she added with a grimace, "I'm likely to lose half my subscribers. Oh well, I guess you can't please everybody."
Half an hour later the sandwiches were eaten, and Ronnie had started writing about the fire on her computer. As Frank and Joe were pouring chemicals into developing trays, they heard a commotion outside the darkroom. Frank stuck his head out of the room to see Ronnie standing at the front window, peering out at a mob scene in the street.
"What's going on?" Frank asked, stepping out of the darkroom. Joe followed him.
"A bunch of loggers are chasing Vance Galen down the street." Ronnie was very tense. "They're throwing things at him. They must think he's responsible for Buster's death."
"Come on. We'd better help him," Joe said.
"No need to hurry," Ronnie said grimly. "He's heading straight here."
Just then the door flew open and Galen ran in. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, panting. "Wow!" he shouted,
44
wild-eyed. "Did you see that? I thought they were going to kill me! They're saying I burned Buster's mill down!"
Ronnie stared at him with obvious distaste. "Well," she said, "did you?"
"Of course not!" Galen sputtered, glaring first at her, then at the Hardys. "And I didn't kill Buster Owens either, if that's what you're thinking. Not that I hadn't considered the idea more than once."
Frank stared out the window. Half a dozen men were standing in the street outside the newspaper, yelling threats at Galen. Frank recognized Mike Stavisky among them. A man he hadn't seen before—hawk-nosed, with a receding hairline and a muscular build—hung back from the rest of the crowd, watching calmly.
"They definitely believe you did more than consider it," Frank remarked to Galen. "What do they think—that you and Stan were accomplices?"
"Stan?" Galen stared at him, not comprehending. "What's he got to do with this?"
"He's in jail, Vance," Ronnie said acidly. "They found a crate of dynamite in his truck and now the sheriffs holding him for questioning. Where have you been?"
"Stan? I can't believe it!" Galen's expression was a combination of shock and relief. "It's a good thing they didn't find it in my car," he added, half to himself. "They'd probably have hanged me by now."
45
Frank could see that the loggers outside were growing impatient. "Vance Galen, come out here!" Stavisky yelled. "We want an explanation about where you were today!"
The other loggers roared their assent. Ronnie turned to Galen. "Go on," she said dryly. "Tell them where you were this morning—if you can.
Frank looked at Ronnie. Clearly, she had no sympathy for the overly dramatic Green. But did she think Galen really was capable of murdering Buster Owens?
"No way I'm going out there," Galen said. "I'm staying put until they get bored and go away."
Before Ronnie could object, Galen ducked behind the massive press. Frank shook his head, then turned his attention back to the loggers. With Stavisky urging them on, they were getting angrier by the second. "They're not going—" Frank started to say.
He was cut off by a loud crash that filled the office. The front plate-glass window had shattered into a thousand pieces!
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Chapter 4
Frank instinctively leapt to one side, and the big shards of glass missed him by just inches. Joe had dived behind a stack of newspapers, but Ronnie hadn't taken cover at all. She was striding forward, red-faced, toward the window.
"Mike Stavisky!" she yelled. "You broke my window! I'm calling Sheriff Ferris!"
"Sorry, Ronnie." Stavisky's sheepish face appeared in the jagged opening made by the rock. "I got carried away—"
"I know you did!" Ronnie glared at him. "Who's going to pay for the damage?"
"We will, Ronnie."
Frank stood up in time to see one of the other loggers, a tall, thin man with an embarrassed expression, join Stavisky. "We didn't mean to break the window," he tried to explain. "It's
47
just a lot of us lost our jobs because of that fire. Also Buster, who was a friend and a good boss. And then Galen—"
"Vance Galen is innocent until proven guilty, just like every one of you," Ronnie said evenly as Frank and Joe joined her on either side. "And so is Stan Shaw, for that matter. We've had enough trouble in this town, haven't we? Let's not start it up again."
"You're right," the tall logger said, though he looked more disgusted than convinced. Then he turned to the others in the group. Frank noticed that the hawk-nosed man in the back had disappeared.
"Go on, guys," the tall logger said. "Mike and I will get some boards and cover this window until we can get a new one cut."
"We'll what?" Mike gaped at his friend.
"You heard him," Ronnie said to Stavisky. "And while you're at it, you'll let Galen get out of here—in one piece."
The loggers obeyed Ronnie grudgingly. While Frank watched, amazed, Vance Galen stood up from behind the printing press and ventured outside. He skitted off down the middle of the road like a gunman in the Old West expecting gunfire at any minute.
"I never did like that man," Ronnie mused, turning her back on the street. "Well, I'm going to get a broom. I guess you two want to get back to the darkroom."
48
"Congratulations," Joe said as the Hardys headed toward their closet. "That was quick work."
Ronnie blushed. "Oh, those guys don't scare me," she said. "I grew up with most of 'em. I've been bossing them around since elementary school."
"Who was that guy standing at the back of the crowd?" Frank asked. "The older one with the receding hairline and the hawk nose? He didn't seem to belong with the others."
"That's Rafe Collins," Ronnie said. "He's the foreman at Johnson Lumber, and not a nice guy at all, if you ask me. I hear he really knocks heads together if the loggers don't make their quotas by the end of the month. That's how the company stays successful, though—or so Johnson says, anyway."
"I wonder what he was doing with that mob," Frank said.
Ronnie paused. "Well, for one thing, Johnson and Galen hate each other's guts," she told Frank. "Galen thinks Johnson's guilty of greed, mismanaging the environment, killing off endangered species, and all kinds of other evils. And Johnson honestly believes the Greens want to put him out of business. Collins probably wanted to find out what happened to Galen so he could report to Johnson later."
She sighed as she hunted up the broom in a corner closet. "I tell you, if it weren't for Stan
49
Shaw, this town would have blown up years ago."
* * *
Less than an hour later Joe watched as Frank pulled the last of the second set of photographs from the shallow developing tray and hung them on a photo clamp to drain. Turning to Joe, he said, "Let's take the first set over to the sheriff. While he's looking them over, we can try to pry out of him anything he's uncovered."
"Good idea." Joe gathered up the set of photographs from the stack beside the print dryer. "Callie should still be there."
The Hardys said goodbye to Ronnie, who was supervising the loggers' window repair job, and headed out into the twilight for the sheriffs office. Main Street was empty, but Joe could hear music and laughter coming from the Potbelly Café and saw lights glowing in the Sportsman's Pool Hall.
At the far end of the three-block town, the sheriff's office blazed with lights as well. Several vehicles bearing the logos of various state and county law enforcement agencies had pulled up close to the front door.
"Looks like the sheriff is going to be up late tonight," Frank remarked as they entered the office.
The boys had to wait only five minutes before being ushered into a back office despite the confusion of a constantly ringing telephone and
50
several uniformed people in conference in the front room.
"All right, boys," Ferris said as Frank and Joe sat down facing the desk. "What have you got for me?"
Joe handed Ferris the photographs while Frank said, "In some of the pictures you can see a bootprint clearly enough to tell it's from a typical logger's hobnailed boot. It's a good thing there was rain last night."
Ferris squared the stack of photos on his desk, then cleared his throat. "Thanks. These will help with our investigation. But I don't think—"
As soon as Joe sensed the sheriff was giving them the brush-off, he jumped in with a question. "Has anyone tested the blood on the cap we found yet, sir?" he asked.
Ferris turned to Joe with narrowed eyes. "I ordered a test. The results will be back tomorrow. The coroner called me, though. The autopsy's not complete yet, but he did confirm that Buster had a serious head injury before he died in the fire."
"Was he robbed?" Joe asked, eager to keep Ferris talking.
"Nope," Ferris replied. He pulled a large plastic bag from the desk drawer. Joe saw that it contained a worn leather wallet, a pocketknife, and a half-empty pack of gum.
"These are his things," Ferris said. "There was over two hundred dollars in his wallet, so I guess we can rule out robbery as a motive."
51
"But it was definitely murder," Joe said. "Buster didn't just happen to be in the mill when it exploded. He was dumped there."
Ferris's lips twitched irritably. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me posted on anything else you turn up while you're here."
Frank stood up, reaching out to shake Ferris's hand. "Is Callie still here?"
"She left an hour ago," he answered gruffly. "One of those Green fellows showed up from headquarters. She said to tell you they were going to pick up your rental car from Stan's place and bring it down here for you. They'll meet you back at the cabin later on."
"Mind if we see Stan?" Frank asked.
"Sorry. Visiting hours are over. He'll be here tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of details to attend to."
"Some attitude he has," Joe muttered to his brother as they left the building. "He wants all the information we can give him, as long as we stay officially outside the investigation."
"It makes sense," Frank said. "Look at all the other professionals crawling around this place. Ferris wants to impress them."
"Well, we don't have anyone to impress, so maybe we'll work faster," Joe remarked, gazing down the short street. "Did anything about Owens's belongings in that bag strike you as weird, Frank? I mean, like something was missing?"
Frank thought for a moment. "Nothing that I
52
can think of. I only saw the man once, though. What did you have in mind?"
"Nothing, really." Joe frowned. "Just a feeling ... How about grabbing a snack before we meet up with Callie?" he suggested, heading toward the pool hall, which sported a small neon sign that read Good Eats. "Maybe we can pick up some gossip inside."
"Good idea," Frank agreed. "We can call Callie from there."
The Sportsman's Pool Hall was like an old- fashioned hunting lodge, Joe realized as he and Frank entered the large, square room. Stuffed deer, bear, and moose heads studded the rustic wooden walls, and a smoky haze hung over the three pool tables and collection of tables. While Joe sat down at one of the tables and ordered stew and biscuits for two, Frank went off in search of a phone booth to make a call to Callie.
Joe watched along with a few local people as two men shot some pool. They were talking about the day's tragedy, and didn't seem to notice that Joe was taking in every word they said.
"What I want to know is, who's going to take over Horizon Lumber," said the short, bowlegged man with a curly brown beard.
His tall, hefty companion frowned as he aimed at the cue ball. "Buster's daughter, Millie, most likely. She always wanted to run the place, but her dad wouldn't let her. They used to fight about it all the time."
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"You think she'll pay us while they rebuild the mill?" asked the first man.
"I doubt it. Why should she?" his friend replied. "I don't know what we're going to do. I heard Johnson's not hiring."
"What'd you hear?" Frank took a seat next to Joe and spoke in a low voice. "Do they know anything we don't?"
Joe waited until the waitress had served their food. Then, as they ate, he told his brother, "They think Buster's daughter is going to run the mill. They say she and her dad used to fight a lot." His expression darkened as an idea came to him. "Do you think she could have had anything to do with his death?"
Frank frowned. "It seems unlikely. I doubt that the average female could have knocked a three-hundred-pound man over the head and dragged him into a car by herself. And remember, those footprints by the truck were all really big. Besides, she's his daughter—she'd stand to inherit the mill eventually anyway. Why wouldn't she just wait?"
He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to check her out," he added.
"I still think there's something about that bag of Owens's belongings," Joe said, annoyed with himself. "I can't put my finger on it, though."
"Don't worry about it," said Frank. "It'll come to you sooner or later. By the way, Callie begged us to go rescue her from that Save the
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Redwoods guy. It seems he's a real jerk—he's asking her so many questions about how Stan got into this mess that she wants to commit murder herself. I say we finish our stew and head up to Stan's right away."
It was fully dark by the time Frank and Joe stepped outside the Sportsman's Pool Hall. The street was deserted. A full moon had just topped the mountain in back of town, casting the road in a silvery light. Joe's gaze ran down the row of cars parked along Main Street until he spotted their rented jeep. Parked next to it was a flatbed truck loaded with several huge logs. It had a Horizon Lumber logo on its side.
"There it is," Joe announced, leading the way. When he reached the jeep, he poked his head inside and added, "The key's in the ignition."
"What an amazing place," Frank commented as he walked around to the passenger door. "Someone commits murder in broad daylight, but people still leave the keys in their cars."
"Good thing the rental agent insisted we get four-wheel drive," Joe commented to his brother. "That mountain road up to Stan's is going to be slippery."
"They probably don't rent anything else to people headed this way," Frank said. He opened the door of the jeep, but then hesitated.
"Did you hear that?" he asked Joe.
"What?"
Joe listened. In the silence he heard a loud,
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metallic pop. Then, to his surprise, an earsplitting screech followed, and after that an ominous rumble.
"Frank!" Joe cried, his eyes wide as he stared at the logging truck behind his brother. "Watch out! Those logs—they're falling!"
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Chapter 6
Frank and Joe dove for cover—Frank beneath the flatbed truck itself and Joe beneath the car behind the rented jeep. An instant later Frank heard the first of the enormous logs crash onto the ground where he'd been standing. He glanced to his right in time to spot a pair of hobnailed boots land in the street and sprint away.
"Joe, are you okay?" Frank shouted as two more logs rolled off the truck, causing a noise like thunder. The door of the pool hall had swung open and half a dozen customers came out.
Joe's answer was a long time coming. When the logs finally stopped rolling, Frank heard him say shakily, "That was no accident. Let's get that guy!"
Joe must have seen him, too, Frank realized,
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rolling out from under the truck and rising to a crouch as he inspected the storefronts along Main Street.
There were a lot of people on the street now, and it would be impossible to identify their attacker. "Forget it, Joe," Frank said, his voice thick with disappointment.
"I guess you're right," Joe said, joining him. "But we can look in the truck. The creep split so fast he might have left something behind to identify him."
"You check the flatbed," Frank agreed. "I'll explain to the people on the street what happened."
Five minutes later, after Frank asked someone to call the sheriff about the fallen logs, he returned to the truck and called to Joe. "Find anything yet?" he asked.
"You bet." Joe emerged from the cab holding a large set of bolt cutters and a pair of work gloves. "These were on the flatbed," Joe explained. "They're probably what he used to break the chain. I guess the gloves mean there won't be any fingerprints. There's an open toolbox in the back of the cab, so I guess he stole them from there."
"Unless the guy was a Horizon employee and the toolbox was his," Frank pointed out grimly.
"But why go after us?" Joe protested. "Did someone see us hanging around Buster's truck? Are they trying to keep us from investigating Buster's murder?"
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Frank shook his head, watching Sheriff Ferris stride angrily toward them from his offices up the street. "Who knows?" Frank said. "For now, let's just concentrate on getting through Ferris's interrogation. Then we can go home and sleep on it. Unbelievably, the logs just dented the jeep a little bit."
"I doubt if the rental company will see it that way," Joe pointed out. "It's a good thing we signed up for extra insurance."
* * *
Callie Shaw's cry of "Come and get it!" was the first thing Frank heard the next morning when he awoke. He sat up in bed and glanced out the window at the light rainfall, all the time inhaling the wonderful odor of raspberry pancakes.
At first Frank thought Stan must be cooking breakfast again. Then he remembered that Stan had spent the night in jail. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked at Joe asleep in the other twin bed. "Rise and shine," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Today's the day we figure out our case."
"Right." Joe sat up abruptly. "I dreamed we'd solved it already. Easy come, easy go."
When Frank and Joe entered the big, well- equipped kitchen in Stan's cozy cottage, they found Callie and Edgar Morrison, the representative from Save the Redwoods headquarters, just sitting down to breakfast.
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"About time you guys wandered in," Callie scolded. "Edgar's been up since six o'clock."
"We had a hard day at the office yesterday," Joe kidded Callie. "Thanks for letting us get our beauty sleep."
"Hurry up and eat." Callie loaded pancakes onto their plates. "Stan will be here in about fifteen minutes."
"What? He's out of jail?" Joe asked through a mouthful of pancake.
"I got him out," Edgar said. "It wasn't all that easy. But working last night and this morning, I finally wore down the sheriff by pointing out that he didn't really have enough evidence to hold Stan. Finally the sheriff agreed to let him go if I stayed out of his face. All Stan had to do was promise to stay in town until the investigation's over."
"Wow." Joe took a more careful look at the young, well-dressed man. He looked the same as he had when Joe and Frank arrived the night before—small, bespectacled, and extremely serious. "When did all this happen?"
"This morning," Callie said briskly, "while you two were dreaming."
"So what's the plan for today?" Frank asked Edgar, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice.
"I assume you three will continue your investigation," Edgar said, "although that has nothing to do with me. My job was to get Stan out of jail and make sure our name hadn't been compromised. I'm done and returning to headquarters
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this morning. I'll come back, of course, if more trouble develops."
"Are you a lawyer or something?" Joe asked, squinting sleepily at the trim young man.
"A concerned citizen, that's all," Edgar said, "doing my best for the trees."
Frank grinned. He liked Edgar, even though he appeared a bit stuffy.
Just then they heard a noise at the front door.
"It's him!" Callie said, hurrying to greet her uncle.
A moment later Stan appeared in the kitchen doorway, his head just missing the top of the door frame. "Howdy, folks!" he said cheerily. "I see you've been celebrating my freedom. Think I'll join you."
He sat at the kitchen table and helped himself to pancakes and juice as the others bombarded him with questions. Then they brought him up to date on the investigation.
"Let me show you the photographs of the bootprints," Frank said at last, picking up the second set of prints from the kitchen counter. "They clearly show hobnailed boots, which you weren't wearing. If the sheriff buys our theory that whoever owns these boots killed Owens, then you'll have to be in the clear."
"The only problem," Callie added, "is that the sheriff isn't likely to pay much attention to the theories of Uncle Stan's friends."
While Joe and Callie removed the breakfast plates, Frank spread the photographs out over
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the kitchen table and began explaining them to Stan and Edgar. Then Joe gave a description of the "accident" with the logging truck.
"You three have done a magnificent job so far," Stan said when they were finished. "I'm really stunned." He rearranged the photographs into a neat pile. "And that's lucky for me because it looks like there's a lot more investigating to do."
"We're willing to help out at headquarters any way we can," Edgar put in.
"Great," Joe said. "Can you do us some background checks and get some police records?"
When Edgar nodded, Frank jumped in. "We need information on Mike Stavisky, a logger for Horizon Lumber; Rafe Collins, Johnson's foreman; and Vance Galen, one of your volunteers."
"Why Vance Galen?" Edgar asked slowly. "Has he been causing more trouble?"
"Not so far as we know," Frank said quickly. He didn't want to rat on Galen about his run-in with the loggers. "But a lot of the loggers think he had something to do with the explosion. Frankly, he's the only person we know who didn't like Owens."
"We don't usually check our volunteers' backgrounds before we send them out in the field," Edgar admitted quietly. "We can't really afford to lose any of them. But I'll check on Galen and the others as soon as I get back to headquarters. Count on it."
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"What about me?" Stan asked. "What should I do?"
"You stay here and hold the fort," Frank said politely. "We need someone to take down the information Edgar comes up with. And I'd guess you must be tired and could use a little rest."
"You bet I am. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind an hour or so of shut-eye."
"Hey, no problem," Callie said, putting a hand on her uncle's shoulder. "And after your nap you can wash the breakfast dishes."
Five minutes later Frank, Joe, and Callie had said goodbye to Edgar Morrison and Callie's uncle and piled into the Hardys' jeep.
"Where to?" Callie asked from the backseat as Frank drove.
"How about to Walter Ecks's?" Frank asked Callie. "You know—Buster Owens's foreman."
"Walter?" Callie asked. "Okay. But why him?"
Frank met Callie's eyes in the rearview mirror. "I think your uncle's hiding something," he said carefully. "He was too nervous after the questioning last night. And he won't even tell us why he was meeting with Buster."
"I'm sure it was nothing important—" Callie began.
Joe interrupted, "Frank's right. And Walter Ecks was one of the people who Stan said knew about his negotiations with Owens. Ecks is as good a guy to start with as any."
Frank could see that Callie was probably
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curious about what her uncle was cooking up with Owens about Horizon Lumber. He hoped it wasn't something she'd regret learning.
"Walter lives on Stoner Mountain, just above town." After they drove down Stan's mountain awhile, Callie said, "Turn left. There's a shortcut right around this bend. We don't have to go all the way down into town."
Frank gunned the engine, shifted into the lowest gear, and turned left up the mountain. He grinned at Callie in the rearview mirror as they rounded a sharp bend in the winding road.
"Frank!" Joe yelled.
"What?"
"Look out! Look up ahead!"
Frank stared straight out the windshield. Up ahead, a yellow bulldozer was bearing down on the jeep. And it was moving at top speed!
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Chapter 7
"Turn!" Joe shouted. He stared helplessly at the bulldozer, its gleaming blade raised and pointed right at the jeep's windshield.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Frank frantically spun the wheel, just managing to squeeze past the 'dozer. But, to Joe's horror, the jeep slid off the edge of the narrow dirt road.
Callie screamed as the jeep plunged down the mountainside. Like the ball in a pinball game the car bounced from tree to tree, blazing a path through the undergrowth straight to the bottom.
Just when Joe was sure they'd crash and burn, the jeep slammed to a halt, wedged between a boulder and a tree.
For a moment the Hardys and Callie sat surrounded by the silence and caught their breath. Joe finally broke the spell.
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"What was that?" he demanded, turning in his seat as though he thought the bulldozer might be pursuing them.
But the road wasn't visible above them and no sound broke the silence. Joe could have almost imagined the entire smash-up.
"Is everyone okay?" Joe asked Frank and Callie. They nodded that they were unhurt.
"Then let's unbuckle our seatbelts and get out quick before this thing starts rolling again," Frank said. "You first, Callie."
Callie stumbled out, followed by Joe and Frank, and all three scrambled back up the cliff.
"Well? Was that deliberate?" Callie ventured as the road came into view. The bulldozer was still there, pulled half off the road. As they drew nearer, Joe could see that the driver was gone.
"Maybe," Frank said. "The blade was lifted like he wanted to just sweep us over the edge. And it did a good job of hiding his face so we couldn't identify him."
"But how could he know we were coming?" Joe leaned against the bulldozer to catch his breath.
"Maybe someone's following us," Frank suggested. "Remember last night—those logs that happened to fall right when we were getting in our car?"
"Did you guys notice," Callie asked, pointing at the door, "that it has a Horizon Lumber logo?"
Joe and Frank had already seen the orange-and-purple mark. "That's the second time in two
66
days someone's used Horizon's equipment against us," Joe said. "Seems like someone from Horizon sure wants to scare us away."
Then he noticed that Frank was staring at the ground. "What's up?" he asked his older brother.
"Bootprints." Frank pointed at the dirt by the side of the road near the driver's seat. "My camera's still in the jeep. I'm going to climb down and get it. Sheriff Ferris will need to see some shots of this."
"Are they the same prints you found by Buster's truck?" Callie asked as Frank went off to get the camera.
"There's no way to know," Joe answered. "Both prints were made by hobnailed boots. They look about the same size, but who knows? We'd have to take shots of these and then blow them up to see if they're the same."
"Then let's go ahead and walk up to Walter Ecks's house," Callie suggested. "We can call a tow truck from there. The sooner we get to town, the sooner you guys can develop Frank's film."
After Frank had shot pictures of the bootprints, the Hardys and Callie started up the narrow road toward the cutoff to Stoner Mountain. "It's nice to be hiking, anyway," Callie remarked as they gazed out at the endless vistas of forest that appeared whenever the road took a sharp bend. "After what happened to Uncle Stan I'd given up on hiking."
A short time later Joe glimpsed a neat,
67
cedar-shingled cabin through a break in the bushy green fir trees lining the road. "Is that it?" he asked Callie.
Callie nodded. "Sure is," she said. "And there's Walter himself, sitting on the front porch. I guess he doesn't have much to do now that Horizon's closed down."
Joe spotted the grizzled old man in faded overalls and a dirty white T-shirt, reading the newspaper in the morning sun.
As they approached, an old bloodhound jumped down from the porch and barked until Ecks silenced it with a sharp command.
"Hi there, Callie." Ecks waved to her and seemed to be surprised to see her. "I heard you were back with us this summer. What are you doing all the way up here?"
"Hi, Walt," Callie replied, smiling. "These are my friends Frank and Joe Hardy. We were on our way up to visit you, and our jeep was run off the road by one of Buster's bulldozers."
"What?" Ecks exploded, his face red with anger. "It's those Greens again," he said in a trembling voice. "Horizon has an equipment yard here on Stoner Mountain. Those fanatics aren't satisfied with killing a perfectly good, hardworking lumberjack, I guess. Now they've got to steal our bulldozers and run strangers off mountains!"
"Why would the Greens pull something like that?" Joe asked seriously. "We're not even loggers."
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The old man ran a hand across his mouth. His fierce brown eyes glared out at them above a week's worth of whiskers. Joe realized that Ecks had probably been a very tough foreman in his younger days. "They want to scare people," he said. "Callie's uncle is different. But the others who've passed through here . . ." He scowled. "Take that Vance Galen fellow. He's the type to plant bombs in the woods and put spikes in the trees to ruin saw blades. Don't think I haven't seen it happen before!"
"Do you think Galen killed Buster Owens?" Frank asked evenly.
Ecks's mouth dropped open. "Murder's not a word to throw around lightly, son," he said at last. "Galen's reckless—definitely—but I don't know that he's a cold-blooded killer." He turned from Frank to Callie. "What exactly did you want to see me about?" he asked sharply.
"Uncle Stan told us he'd been talking with Owens about a plan for conserving trees," Callie said quickly. "He had a meeting with Buster right before the fire. He didn't mention what it was about, but he said you and Millie Owens knew. We were hoping you could tell us more about it."
Ecks eyed Callie suspiciously. "Why don't you ask your uncle?" he said.
"We did," Joe broke in. "He won't tell us. The problem is, Stan doesn't seem to realize that he needs to clear himself or the sheriffs going to bring charges. I guess your telling us about
69
the meeting would be kind of like saving Stan from himself."
Ecks shook his head skeptically. "I don't know," he said. "Buster Owens made me swear not to tell anyone. He said there'd be bloodshed if anyone found out. And by golly, maybe there was."
"Can't you tell us anything?" Callie asked.
Ecks hesitated. Then he sighed. "I'll tell you this much. It has something to do with that Forest Service contract that's coming up soon. Stan was helping Buster work out a way to win it."
Callie frowned. "That doesn't sound so dangerous—except maybe to someone who wants that contract, too."
Ecks shrugged. "If you ask me, girl, you three are looking in the wrong place for answers. This death's got nothing to do with that plan. If I were you, I'd go back over to the scene of the crime and check for clues. Isn't that the way it works in detective novels?" he added. "The criminal returns to the scene of the crime?"
Joe started to answer, but just then Walter's bloodhound jumped to its feet, pointed its nose toward the road, and started barking.
"Now, what set that fool dog off?" Ecks wondered as the bloodhound raced for the edge of the yard. "Must be a rabbit."
The Hardys, Callie, and Walter Ecks peered in the direction the bloodhound was running. "Hope it's not a skunk," Ecks added.
Suddenly Joe saw a flash of movement in the
70
branches of a tall fir tree on the edge of the woods. "Hey—there's somebody out there!" he shouted, setting off toward the forest. "Maybe it's someone spying!"
"There he goes!" Frank called from behind him. Joe glimpsed a figure in camouflage clothes leaping down from the trees and running off into the forest. "Come on!" he called to the others.
"Be careful!" Callie shouted as she and Frank took off after Joe. "He might have a gun!"
Joe ran as fast as he could after the fleeing figure. He leapt over fallen trees and small boulders, hoping the low ferns and tree stumps wouldn't trip him up as he closed in on the man.
Finally, Joe could hear the heavy tread and ragged breathing of the camouflaged man about twenty yards ahead. Forcing himself through the undergrowth, he tried to run faster. Behind him, Frank and Callie crashed along the path he had beaten down.
Then, suddenly, Joe could no longer hear the footsteps and panting of his quarry. Before he could think about where the man might have gone, he heard something heavy drop to the ground behind him.
"Where'd you—" he cried out, spinning to face his enemy.
But he failed to make it all the way around. Something heavy and hard smashed down on the back of his head, and Joe tumbled headfirst onto a carpet of leaves.
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Chapter 8
"Joe! Are you all right?" Frank plunged toward his brother. Joe lay half hidden behind an enormous tree trunk.
"Oh," Joe groaned, struggling to sit up as Frank knelt at his side. "What happened? My head is killing me."
"It looks like our spy has a violent streak," Frank said, inspecting the back of Joe's head. "Fortunately, he didn't have time to do much damage. It looks like just a bump. The swelling will probably go down in a couple of hours."
"That's easy for you to say." Joe rubbed his head gingerly. "It's going to seem like a couple of months to me."
"I say we go back to Walter Ecks's place," Callie said as she joined them. "Whoever that creep was, he's long gone by now. And we need to get some ice on that bump."
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"Fine by me." Frank helped his brother up. "Did you get a look at the guy before he brained you, Joe?"
"Not his face," Joe answered. "Just a bit of his sleeve, which was a camouflage shirt. And I had the impression he was about average height. Not quite as tall as me."
"Do you think it could have been Vance Galen?" Callie asked as they made their way back down the path to Ecks's cabin. "We saw him wearing camouflage."
"Plenty of guys must wear camouflage around here," Frank said. "So we can't be sure who it was. Besides, we saw the guy yesterday at the newspaper office. He didn't act like we were the enemy then."
"Yeah, but that was before he saw us talking to Buster's foreman," Callie pointed out. "Maybe he thinks we've hooked up with the bad guys."
"Maybe whoever bonked Joe doesn't think anything—maybe he was just trying to get away," Frank reasoned.
When they rejoined Walter Ecks and the older man had brought out ice to reduce the swelling on Joe's head, Walter agreed with Callie.
"There are only half a dozen cabins in this area," he said. "Galen's is the closest. Of course, that doesn't mean it had to be him, but like I say, he's as crazy as they come."
Frank accepted a glass of lemonade from Walter and passed one to Callie.
"The guy who attacked me was going off to
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the right," Joe said, thinking out loud. He gestured with his hand. "Uphill, I guess, right over that way."
"That's the way to Galen's cabin!" Ecks said excitedly. "Just about a mile past Horizon's equipment yard."
Suddenly Joe grinned.
"Something funny?" Frank asked.
"Not really, but that bump on the head must have shaken something loose. I just realized what it was that was missing from Buster Owens's belongings."
"What?" Callie asked, taking a sip of lemonade.
"His key ring!" Joe exclaimed. "He had the biggest key ring I've ever seen hanging from his belt at the general store. You could hardly help but notice the thing. Maybe whoever killed Buster took his keys."
"What did the keys open, Walt?" Callie asked, her expression very serious.
"Oh, just about everything," Ecks replied. "All the equipment yards, for one thing. And the buildings down at the mill. He had the keys to all the vehicles, too. He used to say he didn't trust the loggers not to lose them."
For an instant Walter Ecks's eyes teared up. Embarrassed, he wiped the tears away. "Nobody but Buster had every key," he added. "I have a few for the mill and yard, and Millie has some for their house, of course. But Buster had every single key on that ring. He liked to keep stuff to himself."
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"Thanks, Walt," Callie said a bit later, after they took the empty lemonade glasses inside to the kitchen. "I think we should go talk to Vance Galen."
"On the way let's check out the equipment yard to see if anything's missing," Joe put in. "Do you have an inventory list so we can check to see if anything's gone?"
Ecks gave Joe a list and a key to the gate. He offered to call the towing company for their car and have it brought into Crosscut. The Hardys and Callie said goodbye and set off up the mountain road, this time keeping a sharp eye out for attackers.
"Getting run off the road by a bulldozer and pounced on by a stranger in the woods sure does help a guy work up an appetite," Joe muttered as they trudged on under the hot sun. It was past noon, and the heat was becoming uncomfortable even that high in the mountains.
"Don't worry," Frank said. "We'll put some fuel in that body the minute we finish with Galen."
"If he turns out to be the guy who attacked me," Joe added, "maybe I'll just have him for lunch."
The lock on the equipment yard gate showed no signs of tampering. "That means if something was taken from here, it was done by someone with a key," Frank pointed out, unlocking the gate. "Okay, fan out. The inventory says there
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should be eight bulldozers here. If there's one missing, it shouldn't be hard to spot."
"There's one bulldozer missing," Callie called out a few minutes later. "But nothing else is gone, as far as we can see," she added as she and Joe rejoined Frank near the gate. "What are you looking for?" she asked when she saw Frank peering at the ground.
"Bootprints," he said, frowning. "But the mud's too stirred up to tell anything."
"What more evidence do we need?" Joe demanded. "Vance Galen lives near here. He could easily have come in here and snitched a 'dozer, that logging truck that unloaded on us last night, and even a few sticks of dynamite. I think we have a suspect, Frank."
"Patience, brother," Frank said. "Let's go talk to the guy first before we decide he's guilty."
* * *
"Not home," Joe announced when no one answered Frank's knock on Galen's door. "Must be out bulldozing cars again."
"Come on," said Callie dejectedly. "Let's go home."
"Hold on," Frank insisted, knocking again. "Galen!" he called. The silence that answered his call was eerie.
Frank reached out and tried the doorknob. "You're just going to walk in?" Callie demanded.
"Nope. It's locked," Frank said, disappointed.
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"I guess it would be hard to break in and say we just wandered by."
"On the other hand, Stan's life is at stake here," Joe pointed out, eyeing his brother over Callie's head. "And it's not like we're going to take anything."
Callie studied first one Hardy then the other. She knew better than to argue when she saw that determined look in their eyes. "Okay, but hurry." She glanced at the edges of the woods in case Galen appeared and caught them in the act. "And remember, this is quick and unofficial. Whatever we see stays right where it was."
It took only moments for Frank to work the door lock with the slender pick he kept in his wallet. He heard the final tumbler click into place. Then, motioning for Callie and Joe to follow, he went inside.
"What a dump," Joe said the instant they were inside the small, dimly lit cabin. It definitely could use a cleaning, Frank saw. Dirty clothes, books, and newspapers covered every flat surface. The tiny kitchen had dishes stacked to the rim of the sink. The windows were tightly shut, preventing any fresh mountain air coming into the rooms.
"Look for anything that might connect Galen to the bombing at the sawmill," Frank told the others, moving through the living room toward a tiny bedroom and bathroom off a short hall.
"Especially Buster's key ring," Joe added,
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opening several cabinets in the living room. "That would clinch it for sure."
Frank entered Galen's bedroom and saw several sets of camouflage pants and shirts tossed around. If anyone in Crosscut could be associated with camouflage, Galen was certainly the one.
At the bottom of Galen's closet, though, Frank found something even more interesting: a small door that concealed a hidden compartment beneath the floor. Inside were two boxes of blasting caps, several coils of waterproof fuse, some well-thumbed military handbooks, and a demolition instruction manual.
"Joe! Callie!" Frank called. "Come here!"
"You come here!" Joe called back from the living room. "This guy has enough weapons to supply the National Guard!"
Frank hurried out of the bedroom to find Joe standing over a hole in the floor near the living room fireplace. Several floorboards lay nearby. "Let's see, there's one pump shotgun and a high-powered rifle," Joe said, peering down into the hole.
"And some boxes of ammo and several pistols," Frank added, kneeling beside Joe. "It looks like our friend Galen is getting ready to start a war."
"All he needs is the dynamite," Callie said.
"Wait till you see what's in the bedroom." Frank described to the other two what he had found.
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"Whew," Joe said. "This guy really sounds crazy."
"I guess he might be capable of committing murder—and framing Uncle Stan," Callie agreed sadly.
"Let's put everything back the way we found it," Frank said hastily. "We don't want Galen to know he's been found out. I want to report this to the sheriff so he can bring this guy in for questioning."
"You really think he'd notice something missing in this mess?" Joe asked.
"Hey, look at your room at home!" Frank replied, only half kidding. "And still you know every time I borrow a pair of socks from your dresser."
Frank, Joe, and Callie worked quickly to restore Galen's cabin to its original state. As they worked, Frank fought down a feeling of nervousness about what they'd been up to. One thing was sure—going through Galen's personal belongings was not something he wanted to be caught doing.
"Okay, out!" he ordered Callie and Joe, hustling them toward the door as soon as the last dirty shirt was back in place. Frank backed out after them, careful to lock the door.
"Wait!" Joe said just as Frank felt the lock click. "I think I left the car keys on the mantel."
"You're kidding." Frank was incredulous, but Joe only shrugged sheepishly. "They're not in my pocket," he said.
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Shaking his head, Frank moved to the window and shined his flashlight through the glass. "I don't see them," he said. "Maybe you left them in the—"
He was interrupted by the click of a rifle bolt and Callie's gasp of fright.
"Don't move," said a high-pitched voice behind and to the right of Frank. Slowly Frank raised his hands and turned to face Vance Galen.
The Green, in suspenders and a red flannel shirt, stared triumphantly into Frank's eyes. His hunting rifle was leveled at Callie's heart, and his finger was trembling on the trigger.
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Chapter 9
"Take it easy, Vance," Joe murmured. "We're not trying to hurt you."
"This is private property," Galen snarled. "You're trespassing!"
"Vance, if you'll just listen, I can explain," Callie said calmly, taking a step toward him.
"Careful, Callie," Frank warned.
"Shut up, Hardy!" Galen shouted, his finger tightening around the trigger.
"It's okay," Callie said soothingly. "We just want to talk." She walked closer to him. "Put down the rifle."
Callie kept walking until she was right up against the barrel of his rifle. The boys held their breath. Finally Galen lowered it.
"Let's talk inside," he muttered.
As they stepped back to let Galen unlock the
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door, Joe noted that Galen seemed more scared than anything. He just hoped Galen stayed that way.
"All right," Galen said after they had filed into the living room and sat down. "I want to know why you were spying on me."
"We weren't spying," Frank protested. "We needed to talk to you, but you didn't appear to be here. We were just looking inside for you."
"Don't lie to me!" Still clutching his rifle, Galen glared at Frank. "You boys have something to do with Buster Owens's murder, and I want to know what it is."
"Us!" Joe laughed. "All we're trying to do is prove that Stan Shaw didn't commit it! Do you think you could help us out with that, Vance?"
"What can I do?" Galen growled, beginning to pace. "Everyone around here thinks I'm either loony or a murderer."
"We just need some simple information," Callie said. "Like, what happened with Stan and Buster after we left the general store?"
Galen scowled. "Buster left right after you did," he told her.
"Did Stan say anything about a meeting with Buster?" Joe asked.
"Yeah," Galen replied. "I followed Stan to his car. He said he was going to go over the application for the Forest Service contract with Buster. I told him he was making a big mistake."
"It was a mistake to talk to a logger about conserving woodland?" Frank asked, incredulous.
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"You can't trust any mill owner!" Galen spat out. "All they care about is how much money they can make by destroying forests!"
"What happened after you talked to Stan?" Callie asked.
"He wouldn't call off the meeting," Galen said, "so I decided to follow him."
"Then you were there right before the explosion?" Joe asked. "Did you see Stan there?"
"No. I parked away from the mill, on a back road, and walked. I was afraid there might be a guard at the mill."
"Did you park near Buster's truck?" Joe asked.
"No. I saw it, though."
"And then what, Vance?" Callie prodded. "Did you see anyone else around there?"
Joe watched carefully as Galen backed away from them. "I might've seen something," he admitted. "But why should I tell you?"
"Because we're trying to find out who really blew up the sawmill and killed Buster!" Callie cried. Joe flinched. Callie had to cool it. "If you know something important, you should tell us or the sheriff," she added.
"Tell Ferris?" Galen exploded. "He'd never believe me! He probably thinks I helped blow up the mill!"
"Has he questioned you?" Frank asked.
"Nope," Galen replied, "and he's not going to. I'm not giving him any excuse to lock me up."
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"What did you see near the sawmill?" Joe asked again. "A person? Somebody's car?"
Joe saw Galen jerk slightly at the word car. Frank saw it, too.
"Whose car was it, Vance? Who else are you afraid of?" Frank asked.
Galen sat down uneasily on the edge of a chair and faced the Hardys. He laid the rifle across his knees.
"All right," he said finally. "I thought I saw Rafe Collins's Cadillac parked off the road. It's a red sixty-seven, a beat-up old wreck that Collins is real proud of. It's hard to miss. Buster's truck was parked right by it," he said finally.
"Collins? Bo Johnson's foreman? You actually saw him there?" Joe jumped in.
Galen shook his head. "I didn't see anybody. Just the truck and the car. Then, right afterward came the explosion. I was so close, I was stunned by it. I wandered away and eventually found my truck."
"What happened after that?" Frank asked.
"I went home. Ever since that day, I've been scared "
"Of Collins?" Callie asked him.
"Absolutely. Once, after I organized some roadblocks on Johnson Lumber's logging roads, he told me he'd shoot me if I ever set foot on Johnson property again. I believe he'd do it, too. Bo Johnson hired him straight out of prison on a work-release parole to keep the mill employees inline."
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"What do you mean?" Frank asked.
"You know," Galen said, "if Johnson's employees get any notions about saving the local wildlife or joining a union, Collins leans on them."
Neither of the Hardys believed all of what Galen said, but their impression of Collins coincided pretty well with his description.
"Did you have any more plans for sabotaging the lumber companies?" Frank asked. "Anything that might involve dynamite, for example?"
Galen sat up straight, gripping his rifle more tightly. "Did you come in here earlier?"
"Relax, Vance," Joe said calmly. "We're just trying to help Stan—and you, if you'll let us."
Galen slowly relaxed his grip on the rifle. "All right," he said. "I did get a bunch of books on dynamite and some fuses and other stuff back when the state legislature decided to let the redwoods be cut. I was going to get some dynamite and blow up the access roads."
"But the legislature voted to save the trees," Callie pointed out.
"It's a good thing," Galen said quietly. "I don't know if I would have had the guts to blow anything up. Collins has me too scared to fight Johnson Lumber, and they're the worst mill in the state. So all I do is talk."
"As long as it's good talk, it's worthwhile," Frank suggested. "Will you tell Ferris about seeing Collins's car when we're ready to bring our evidence to him?"
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Galen hesitated. The Hardys could see the inner battle he was fighting. After a short pause Galen's conscience apparently won out over his fear. "Okay. I'll talk to Ferris."
"Great. Now, there's just one more thing we need from you, Vance," Joe said.
"What's that?" he asked wearily.
"A ride down the mountain."
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time the Hardys and Callie reached the general store. Vance waved goodbye and said he was going to visit Stan. Joe spotted their jeep parked in front—a little beat up, but not too bad, considering. "I wonder if it works." He hurried over and checked. Sure enough, it started right up. A sign taped to the steering wheel read, "Ten bucks for towing off the mountain. Leave the money at the general store."
"Now that's the kind of small-town hospitality I like," Joe said. "Let's go inside and pay the guy. And after a quick bite, how about checking out the site of the explosion? There's probably no one around today, and something might turn up."
"Sounds good to me," Frank said, moving toward the general store.
* * *
"Wow. It looks so sad," Callie said as they drove into the parking lot. Only two warehouses were untouched by the fire.
"Let's start near that big saw, the one the
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arson investigators were talking about," Frank said as they hopped out of the jeep. "That is, if we can figure out where it was in this mess."
Silently they crossed the parking lot to the rubble that had been the main building. Joe instantly found what had to be the mill's largest saw. The jagged-toothed steel plate, at least ten feet in diameter, had been bent nearly in half.
"No fire would have done that," Frank said, resting a hand on the ruined saw. "That would take a lot of explosives—probably dynamite."
"There are plenty of footprints here," Joe said, pointing to the ash-covered ground around the saw. "Fire fighters, paramedics, the arson investigators—too many to identify."
"I'm glad I wasn't inside fighting the fire," Callie commented as they poked around. "It must have been horribly hot. Hey," she added, squatting down to peer beneath the saw's cradle. "I think I found something."
Callie retrieved something from under the cradle and stood up. When she opened her hand there was a battered steel cigarette lighter.
"Hmm. Not very impressive," Callie said. "One of the mill workers must have dropped it."
Joe took the lighter and turned it over. A bit of brass was tacked to the other side. "Wings over a parachute. Isn't that some kind of military insignia?"
"Right, for the army paratroopers," said Frank. He took the lighter and scraped the ashes off the bottom. "Uh-huh," he added. "There's
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an inscription here. It says, 'Saigon, seventy- two.' Whoever dropped this is probably a Vietnam veteran. It shouldn't be too hard to find out if there are any ex-paratroopers who work at the mill. If the owner of the lighter can't explain how his lighter got here, we just might have our man."
"I don't know, Frank," Callie said with a frown. "It's pretty flimsy."
"It's all we have to go on so far," said Frank, irritation creeping into his voice. "Let's look around and see if anything else turns up."
Joe turned back to sifting through the ashes until he heard Frank say, "Okay, I give up. If we haven't found anything by now, there's nothing else to find."
"Including Buster's keys," Joe pointed out.
"Right." Frank nodded. "Which means either the investigators found them—"
"Or the murderer took them," Joe finished grimly. "Which explains why Horizon's equipment keeps following us around."
"Let's go back to town. I could eat again," Callie suggested, dusting ash off her hands. "Maybe Peg Robbins at the general store can tell us who owns that lighter. She knows everyone in town, and Uncle Stan says she loves to gab."
* * *
By the time the Hardys and Callie returned to the general store, it was nearly dusk and the lunch counter was empty. Only breakfast and lunch were served. Portly Peg Robbins, whom they had watched serving the loggers the day
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before, stood behind the counter wiping down the coffee machine. Her husband sat in his usual spot behind the cash register, this time working a crossword puzzle. The teenagers headed straight for the single rest room in the back, taking turns cleaning up as best they could.
"Hi, Peg," Callie said as they finally climbed onto the stools in front of the counter. "Do you remember me? Callie Shaw, Stan's niece?"
"Of course I do!" the woman cried, turning around and giving Callie a big, motherly smile. "I never forget a soul who passes through this old place." Her face turned somber as she stepped closer, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "My dear, I'm so sorry about your poor uncle," she said gravely. "Can I get you anything—we're officially closed but I make lots of exceptions."
Callie waited until Peg served them to strike Up a conversation again. Finally, she held up the paratrooper lighter.
"We found this yesterday when we were hiking," Callie said casually. "It looks like it might be important to someone, so we thought we'd bring it here to see if you might recognize it. We'd like to get it back to its owner if we can."
"Of course," she said. "Mike Stavisky's your man. He went to Vietnam with the paratroopers in—let's see—May of 1971. He was discharged in 1972. I remember his mother's excitement when he got off that bus like it was yesterday."
"Mike Stavisky?" Joe tried to hide his excitement. "Are you sure, ma'am?"
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"Of course I'm sure!" Peg Robbins drew herself up to her full height. "Michael's used that lighter at this counter a hundred times. It's a real keepsake, this is." She smiled at Callie. "He'll appreciate getting it back."
"Uh, do you know where we might find him?" Frank asked.
A wry smile appeared on Peg Robbins's lips. "I have a very good idea," she said smugly. "Though I'm not sure I should tell."
"Of course you should," Callie said, coaxing her.
Peg hesitated only one more second before she leaned her elbows on the counter and whispered to them. "Well, don't tell them I told you," she said. "But with poor Buster Owens out of the picture, I'd bet the store that Mike's over at Millie Owens's right now."
"Millie Owens?" Joe said, surprised.
Meg nodded importantly. "I happen to know that Mike's been smitten with that girl since high school. For years he's been after her to marry him. But her dad wouldn't hear of it, and he was Mike's boss. Now, though, Buster's no longer in the way."
Peg straightened up, smoothed her apron over her dress, and glanced guiltily toward her husband. "Now," she said in a much louder voice, "how about some of my famous blackberry pie?"
* * *
"Turn left here," Callie said from the passenger seat of the jeep as Joe steered down a dark
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mountain road. She held Frank's pocket penlight close to the paper on which she'd scrawled Peg Robbins's directions to Millie's house.
"Just a couple of miles more," she said. "Then a right at the Owenses' mailbox, and Millie's house is about half a mile farther on."
"Boy, the Owenses really like their privacy," Frank remarked from the backseat as the jeep made its way through the deepening gloom. A few minutes later he added, "Look. I see lights through the trees."
"We're in luck," Callie observed. "Millie must be home."
The dirt road suddenly dipped as it went around a sharp corner, and Joe lost sight of the house. But as he drove out of the dip, he heard the sounds of angry shouting.
"Do you hear that?" he asked Callie. "It sounds like two people fighting."
Callie rolled down her window to hear better. The shouts came again. Then Joe heard a scream.
"Did you hear what I heard?" Joe asked Callie.
She was staring at the house, her eyes wide. "Step on it, Joe!" she yelled. "Millie's in trouble!"
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Chapter 10
Instinctively Joe's foot slammed down on the accelerator. The jeep flew the final fifty yards to the Owenses' home. Frank caught a quick glimpse of thinning trees and a sprawling ranch house. Joe braked the jeep to a grinding halt beside a rusty pickup parked at the end of the drive.
Frank jumped out onto the lawn.
"The scream came from the house," Callie said, running toward the house with Joe following. "See? The front door's open."
Light glowed through the curtains covering a picture window at the front of the house. Frank could see two figures silhouetted against the curtains. One was tall and clearly female; the other was somewhat shorter, stockier, and male.
"Stay away from me!" Frank heard a female
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voice cry as he raced to the front door. "I told you, Mike, it's over between us!"
"But, Millie, I did it for you!"
Frank recognized Mike Stavisky's voice. As he reached the door, he saw Mike's silhouette advance toward the woman's. She backed away and screamed again.
"All right, that's enough!" Frank shouted, bursting through the open doorway, Joe and Callie right behind him.
Mike Stavisky stared at the teenagers in openmouthed amazement. The tall, plain-faced woman who'd been arguing with him was speechless, too. Her resemblance to Buster Owens left no doubt that she was his daughter, Millie.
"Clear off!" Stavisky finally growled, his face above the beard and mustache a bright red. "This is none of your business!"
"We're making it our business, friend," Joe said, moving closer. "We could hear Ms. Owens scream all the way out in the driveway."
"I'm okay." Millie clutched a handkerchief as though she wanted to tear it to pieces. Frank noticed that the room in which they were standing was filled with expensive-looking antiques. A large fireplace was set into one wall, and the other walls were hung with paintings. Clearly, the mill had earned a big income for the Owens family.
"Mike and I were just having a—a difference of opinion. And Mike's leaving. Aren't you, Mike?"
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"No, I'm not leaving," Stavisky said, still red-faced. "Why should I? Because a bunch of Stan Shaw's buddies try to throw me out? I have a right to stay here until we settle things, Millie, and you know it!"
"What's there to settle?" Millie said sharply, forgetting the others for a moment. "The mill is mine now. My father's estate will be settled in the next few months. And if you want to keep your job, Mike, you'd better start speaking to me with more respect."
Millie's words left Stavisky sputtering. Before Mike could recover, Joe patted his pockets absentmindedly and said, "Hey, Mike, got a light?"
"Sure ..." Without turning his gaze from Millie, Stavisky reached into the pocket of his jeans. Then his expression changed. "Hey," he said, momentarily distracted, "where's my—"
"Looking for this?" Frank held up the lighter they'd found at the mill.
"Yeah, it's mine." He made a quick grab for the lighter, but Frank snatched it out of his reach.
"We thought so," Frank said. "We found this underneath the big saw at the Horizon mill— about ten yards from where Mr. Owens's body was found."
Millie's jaw dropped open as she stared at Stavisky. "Mike," she said in a horrified voice. "You didn't—"
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"So I dropped it there!" Stavisky protested loudly. "I work at the mill! Big deal!"
"You work at the mill," Millie said slowly, "but not anywhere near the saw. You cut trees, right, Mike? You don't saw planks."
"So what? I was in there the other day, talking to your dad! What do you take me for, Millie, a murderer?"
Stavisky stared at Millie. She stared back. As Frank, Callie, and Joe watched, Stavisky started backing slowly toward the door.
"Hold it, Mike," Joe said. "We're not finished talking to you."
"Oh, yeah?" Stavisky made a sudden lunge to his left, grabbing a poker from the fireplace tools on the hearth. He waved it threateningly at the Hardys.
"You think you can barge in here and wreck my life," Mike said, barely coherent. "You Greens always think you know everything. You're always willing to sacrifice everyone's happiness but your own. Well, you've got the wrong guy, buddy. Nobody's going to put Mike Stavisky in jail."
"Mike, put the poker down," Joe coaxed, stepping closer.
"Stay back!" Mike yelled, and he opened the door with one hand and sent the poker flying right toward Joe's head.
"Hey!" Joe ducked as the poker whizzed overhead. Millie screamed as it sailed past her shoulder, 
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and landed harmlessly in the carpet at the far end of the room.
"That's not funny, Mike!" Joe yelled, checking the top of his head to make sure his hair didn't have a new part. Mike flung open the door and raced outside. "You won't get far!" Joe shouted after him.
"I don't have to!" the enraged veteran shouted over his shoulder as he took off for his truck. Opening the door, he jumped inside before anyone could catch up with him. As Millie joined the three on the front lawn, Stavisky backed the truck onto the dirt drive. "You haven't heard the last of me, Millie!" he yelled out the open window. "Not until I get what's owed me!" Then he jammed the truck in gear and disappeared into the darkness.
Frank turned to Millie Owens. "What was that all about?" he asked.
"Maybe I'll tell you," Millie countered sharply, "after you tell me who you are."
"They're friends of mine," Callie said to her. "I'm Callie Shaw, Stan Shaw's niece. This is Frank Hardy, my boyfriend, and that's his brother, Joe. They're helping me try to clear my uncle of the charges that he ..."
"Killed my dad?" Millie said harshly.
Callie frowned, then looked the woman in the eye. "You know they were friends," she said carefully. "You don't think my uncle Stan would have killed Buster, do you?"
Millie glared at her for a moment, then
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relented. "No," she admitted. "Much as I'd like to blame someone, I don't believe Stan's the one."
"Good." Joe stepped closer to her. "Then maybe you won't mind telling us what your fight with Mike was about?"
Millie's face quickly resumed its stonelike expression. "That was a personal matter," she said coldly. "Mike and I used to be, well— close. The trouble is, he didn't accept it when things cooled off. I got tired of fighting with my father about Mike. He never approved of him for me, so I finally decided to give Mike up. He wasn't worth the trouble to me anymore." She made a wry face. "I had trouble convincing him, though, as you could see."
"Do you think he could have killed your father?" Joe asked quietly. "We heard they didn't get along."
She shook her head, mystified. "I've known Mike since fourth grade. I never would have suspected he was capable of such a thing. But just a week ago, he wrote me a letter."
"A love letter?" Callie asked.
Millie grimaced. "Sort of. I'd broken up with him for good the day before. In the letter he said he'd do anything to get me back. He knew I'd always wanted to run Horizon Mill myself. Dad never would let me, and Mike used to boast that when we were married, we'd take over the mill and run it together, even Steven. But I still can't believe he'd—he'd—" she stammered.
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Then she got hold of herself. "Let's go inside," she said. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up. The least I can do is offer you all some hot chocolate."
"What I don't understand," Callie said as they followed Millie into the Owenses' spacious kitchen, "is why Mike would act against your father now—assuming that he did anything. Your relationship had been going on for a long time, right? And you'd broken up with him, so it was really too late."
"He might have been scared Dad would fire him," Millie theorized as she put milk to heat on the stove. "He'd just fired Mike's best friend, Freddy Zackarias. He caught Freddy stealing stuff at the mill. Mike might have thought he'd be next, and then he'd have no excuse to hang around me."
She opened a cabinet and brought out a box of cocoa. "I don't believe it, though. Mike wouldn't be able to kill anyone in cold blood. There's something deeper behind my father's death. I just wish I could figure out what."
For the first time Frank thought the tall, sturdy woman might break down and cry. "We'll try to help you find out," he said gently. "We're as anxious to clear Callie's uncle as you are to find the real murderer."
Millie smiled weakly and nodded. Then, as she passed around the mugs of chocolate, Joe asked, "Millie, can you tell us what Freddy stole
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from the mill? It might give us a lead on what to look for."
"Nothing much, that I know of," Millie said, surprised. "He was caught in my dad's office. Dad didn't keep valuables there. The payroll is issued straight from the bank. I heard they caught Freddy with a book of Dad's personal checks in his pocket. To tell you the truth," she said dryly, "Freddy Zackarias isn't very smart."
Joe remembered Stavisky's shrill-voiced, stringy-haired sidekick. Then he asked, "Were any keys stolen?"
When Millie turned to him, he explained. "We found out today that someone's apparently using a set of Horizon's keys to help himself to the company's equipment. Your father's keys are missing—we searched the mill today, and they weren't there. If you can account for all your copies of the keys, then the thief must have your father's key ring. And whoever has that key ring is probably the person who killed your father."
Millie turned pale. "I'll have to make sure mine are still here. I'll be right back."
It didn't take long for Millie to locate her own key collection. "Nothing's missing," she informed the boys. "I'm sure the only copies were with me and Walter Ecks—"
"And we checked with Walter earlier," Callie broke in. "He has his keys, too. That means—"
"The only missing keys are the ones taken from Owens himself," Joe said excitedly. "If we
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can locate that key ring, chances are we've found our killer!"
The loud ring of the telephone caused them all to jump. Millie walked over to answer it.
"Hello?" she said into the receiver. Then her face darkened. "Oh, yes. My father told me he was due in today. He's late, isn't he?"
As Frank sipped his chocolate and watched her, Millie listened to the caller for a moment. Then her eyes widened.
"What?" she demanded.
She listened for a few more moments, then said abruptly, "Stay where you are. I'm going to get in touch with our foreman, then I'll call you back. And I want to know if you hear anything else!"
Millie hung up the phone and turned to the others.
"Bad news?" Callie asked, concerned.
Millie threw up her hands. "That was one of our loggers, down at the Sportsman. He says the truck driver who's delivering the first load of new equipment for the mill just stopped in for a bite to eat. He says they got a call from Johnson's mill this morning. Johnson told them not to bother delivering the new equipment to our mill. He said we couldn't afford to pay for it now that the buildings have burned down. He told them I'd agreed to sell the stuff to him at a decent price, so they should just deliver the stuff to him!"
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"Why would someone do that?" Callie demanded, sitting forward in her chair.
"Because Johnson's greedy," Millie said bitterly. "He set up business here ten years ago, and he hasn't played fair since. Every time my dad found a good worker, Johnson tried to hire him away. If my dad heard of some new forest land up for lease, Johnson would grab it first. But this is the last straw."
Millie sighed. "I'm going to have a talk with Walter Ecks," she said briskly. "It'll probably last awhile. I don't mean to be rude, but—"
"I guess we'd better leave," Frank said quickly. "Thanks for the hot chocolate."
As soon as they were outside, Frank added, "Well, that was interesting. What do you think Millie will do?"
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"Wait for the insurance money and rebuild, is my guess," said Joe.
"Do you think Mike Stavisky killed her father?" Callie ventured as they climbed back into the jeep.
"I don't know," Frank answered thoughtfully. "At first I was sure he'd done it. Now I'm not sure."
"He seemed crazy enough to me," Joe remarked from the back seat.
Frank gunned the engine. "Maybe. But that phone call Millie received has me wondering about Johnson's mill. There may be more to this than healthy competition."
"Fine. But for now, we go home," Callie insisted.
"Right." Frank started the engine. "Let's hope Stan got those background checks on Collins, Stavisky, and Zackarias from the home office."
* * *
The instant the Hardys and Callie turned the last bend and saw Stan's cabin they knew there was trouble. Cars were parked for a hundred yards in front of the house, and about a dozen people lounged on the lawn. The front door was shut tight, though, and Stan was nowhere to be seen.
"Who are these people?" Callie asked.
"Either your uncle invited all his friends for a party," Joe said, "or a bunch of reporters have decided Stan is the story of the week."
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Joe knew the answer to the question the instant he stepped out of the jeep.
"Hi there!" one of the reporters said loudly, approaching Joe with pen and notebook in hand. "Are you friends of Mr. Shaw's? Can you comment on how he feels, being a prime suspect for the crime of murder?"
"Has Save the Redwoods canned him yet?" shouted another reporter, running to join her colleague. Joe realized, as they reached the front porch, that the entire group was now in hot pursuit of them.
A microphone was jabbed into Callie's face. "What made Stan Shaw burn a man to death in his own mill?" a reporter demanded at the top of her lungs.
Before Callie or the Hardys could react, the front door swung open. All three of them ducked inside just before the door was slammed shut.
Dazed, Joe turned to see a disheveled-looking Stan Shaw standing behind them in the vestibule. He had on pajamas and a robe, but he looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.
"That was unbelievable!" Callie cried as they followed Stan into the living room.
"You're telling me," Stan said, sinking down into his desk chair. "When the first one rang the doorbell I got up and answered it." He smiled wearily. "The guy was interviewing me before I had the door completely open. 'Do you believe in murdering for the environment, Mr. Shaw?' "
His eyes met Joe's. "I honestly think he
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wanted me to answer yes. Anything that would have sold copies of his paper."
Joe nodded. "Have you heard from the sheriffs office?" he asked Stan.
"Just once. The sheriff called to make sure I was sticking close to home," Stan said wryly. "They're counting on the arson investigators' report to put me back behind bars."
"Stan." Frank leaned forward in the armchair he'd taken near the fireplace. "It would really help our investigation if you could fill us in on that meeting you had with Buster Owens before he died."
Stan Shaw frowned. "I'm sorry, but that information's still confidential," he insisted. "I really don't believe it has anything to do with Buster's death. No one knew what the meeting was about but a few trusted associates. Sorry, but that subject has to be closed."
There was an awkward silence, which Stan finally broke. "I'm sorry I can't cooperate more. But I promise you, that meeting was not important. Now, tell me what you did find out today."
Frank and Callie quickly related their adventures to the attentive environmentalist. When they'd finished, Stan nodded thoughtfully and said, "AH this is very interesting, but I see what you mean when you say it's inconclusive. Personally, I have a very bad feeling about Mike Stavisky. But then we Greens have had so many run-ins with him.
"As far as my assistant, Vance Galen, goes ..."
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Stan grimaced. "I guess it's hard to tell who's crazier, him or Mike," he admitted. "Tonight I had to order him to stay in town to keep him from attacking those reporters out front. You can make up your own minds about these characters. Edgar faxed me background checks on both of them, plus one on Rafe Collins."
He tossed Joe a stack of papers and returned to his desk chair. Joe scanned the first page. "Galen's rap sheet shows a few arrests. But they're all for disorderly conduct at protest marches. Nothing serious."
"Try the next one," Frank said.
Joe picked up the next page in the stack. "Mike Stavisky's file," he said. After a moment's reading he added, "It's pretty much like Galen's, really, except that Stavisky's a vet. He was hit with a few public-nuisance-type charges right after his discharge from the military. Then just years of work in the lumber business right around here."
Joe flipped to the next page. "Rafe Collins," he read. He scanned the small type for a moment. "Robbery. Assault. Assault. This is not a nice man."
"What's his job record?" Frank asked.
Joe scanned the data. "Grocery clerk, mechanic. Nothing to do with logging."
"Then why did Johnson hire him?" Callie wondered.
"I can tell you that," Stan said. "The rumor is that Johnson hired Collins to keep the employees 
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in line. That's Johnson's idea of employer- employee relations."
"I heard that rumor, too," Frank told him. "But I don't know what it has to do with Buster Owens."
"For starters, why would Johnson hire a goon like him if he wasn't up to something shady?"
"Wait a minute." Frank's eyes lit up. "Is there anything more you can tell us about the Forest Service contract? If Johnson gets that contract all of Buster's employees would go to work for Johnson—or at least that's what Johnson said."
Stan flinched. Joe watched curiously as the older man cleared his throat, then spoke slowly, in a low voice. "The Forest Service contracts are extremely valuable to mills because without them, loggers are forced to cut private lands only. Private landowners are usually only interested in a quick profit, so they don't replant their forests properly, and mill owners don't get as good a harvest. You know about the contract Buster and Johnson were competing for."
"Yes, but I guess we didn't realize just how important a contract could be," Frank answered.
Joe sat and slowly shook his head. Could Bo Johnson have wanted the Forest Service contract badly enough to kill for it?
"Vance Galen did see Collins's car near Horizon just before the explosion," Callie reminded them softly.
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Frank nodded. "But we don't have proof. If only we could look through Johnson's office,"
"How can you do that?" Stan asked.
Joe knew what Frank was thinking. And he could see by Callie's expression that she knew, too.
"No," she said in a low voice. "You're not thinking of breaking into Bo Johnson's office—"
"You'd better not," Stan Shaw spoke up. "If Johnson caught you he'd—"
"It's okay, Stan," Frank said. "We don't have to decide right now." But Joe knew that, dangerous or not, Johnson's office was next on the agenda.
"Anyway, it's too late to do anything now," Joe said, stretching his arms and yawning. The reporters' voices had faded away outside. Joe guessed they'd given up and gone home.
"Let's get some sleep," Frank agreed, grinning innocently at a suspicious Stan Shaw. "We'll talk about it again tomorrow."
* * *
"About time you got up," Callie remarked the next morning as Joe stumbled into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and began ladling bacon and eggs onto his plate. "Stan's already checked in with the sheriff and had a talk with the home office, and Frank and I are ready to start the day. What's your contribution?"
"I'll be the driver," Joe suggested, pouring himself a large glass of juice. "And give those reporters out there the slip."
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"Well, hurry up," Frank said, glancing at Stan. "It's nine-thirty, and we need to get to the general store in time to interview some of Owens's crew."
Joe nodded. He knew Frank's remark had been meant to put Stan's mind at ease. Frank and Joe intended to search Johnson's mill that day, but Callie had insisted they not tell her uncle.
Frank had agreed that Stan would worry too much, and besides, the environmentalist's reluctance to confide in them completely about his relationship with Buddy Owens had made Frank wonder what Stan was hiding.
The day's plan, Joe had learned the night before, was simple. They were to arrive at Bo Johnson's lumbermill just as the trucks arrived with the first deliveries of the day. They would park the jeep outside the mill's fence. While Frank talked to the guard about applying for a job, Joe and Callie would search any logging trucks parked outside for hard hats and safety goggles. The Hardys and Callie would borrow enough lumberjack equipment to look like real loggers. Then they'd drive to the back of the mill property and climb over the fence, and they'd be in.
* * *
That morning, Joe observed, the three of them seemed to be operating under a lucky star. They evaded all the reporters and before noon found themselves in the woods bordering the back of Bo Johnson's mill.
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"Now we put on the goggles and hats," Callie announced, pulling her hair up into a ponytail and covering it with the yellow hard hat. "Remember—don't talk to anyone. All we want to do is search the office, have a look around the mill grounds, and get out fast."
"Okay," Joe said skeptically, slipping his goggles on and adjusting the hard hat to fit his head. "I just hope we make it through this. I'm not eager to get on familiar terms with Rafe Collins's fists."
"Neither are we," Frank assured him, fitting his hat to his head and peering through the chain-link fence at a small shack set far back from the other buildings.
"That must be where they keep the dynamite they use for blasting snags and stumps," Joe guessed, pointing at the shed. "They'd keep it out here in case of an accidental explosion."
"Right," said Frank. "Maybe I should borrow a stick while we're here. It might match what was in Stan's truck."
"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?" Joe asked. But one look at Frank's face told him where his brother was headed.
"Okay," he said. "Callie and I can look for the office."
Frank gave Callie a boost over the seven-foot fence, then climbed over himself. Joe followed quickly.
"We'll meet back here in half an hour," Frank
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said to his brother, "whether or not we find anything. Agreed?"
Joe gave Frank the thumbs-up sign before he and Callie hurried off.
* * *
It took almost fifteen minutes for Joe and Callie to discover that Bo Johnson's office was inside the main building of the mill. As they moved among the giant pieces of equipment inside, no one seemed to notice them.
Joe had never been in a working lumbermill before and was fascinated by the enormous wood chipper. As big as a small house, the chipper had an enormous mouth that was fed by a long conveyer belt on which workers tossed wood scrap and bark.
The roar the chipper made as it ground the scrap to bits was so loud that it drove all rational thoughts out of Joe's head. He was glad Callie had spotted the office and was already moving toward it.
As Joe moved along beside the conveyer belt, one of the goggled workers called out to him, "Hey, kid!"
Joe froze in his tracks and turned to face the man with heavy cotton gloves who was ripping branches from a pine trunk.
"You new here?" the man shouted over the noise.
Joe nodded. "I just started today," he yelled back.
"That so?" The worker turned to a man working 
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beside him. "The lay-offs must be over if Johnson's hiring again."
Joe thought fast. "I'm just here for inventory," he shouted. "It's only temporary."
Just then someone farther down the line bellowed out something. Joe and the other workers spun around to see what was wrong.
"Punch the button! Punch the button!" a man was shouting, waving his arms at the others and pointing toward the gaping entrance of the chipper.
Joe swiveled around, then gasped. A body, lying half on and half off the conveyer belt, was partially hidden by the piles of debris. Joe peered through the dusty air at the unmoving figure.
"Frank!" he shouted, and raced for the mouth of the horrible machine.
The chipper could suck in massive pieces of wood and reduce them to splinters in mere seconds. Frank would be next, Joe realized as he raced the length of the conveyer belt. A large red emergency-stop button was placed prominently at the end of the belt, but Joe knew that he'd never get there in time. I have to! he told himself. Or Frank will be killed!
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Chapter 12
"Frank!" Joe screamed.
Frank's eyes fluttered open, and the entire room burst into motion. The mill workers who had been frozen, staring in shock, suddenly scrambled for the emergency button. The cavernous building was filled with screams and shouts.
The man closest to the button slammed his fist against it. The chipper ceased to grind, and the mill became silent. Slowly Frank moved and sat up.
"Frank!" Joe shouted, racing to his brother's side.
"What happened?" Joe gingerly touched a nasty cut on Frank's jaw. "Somebody got you good."
"Search me," said Frank, still dazed. "I was just about to climb into that shed when somebody 
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spun me around and a fist was rammed into my face. It happened so fast I didn't even see who did it."
Frank was interrupted by a loud voice nearby. "Who are these people?" the voice demanded.
Frank looked up to see Bo Johnson, his features drawn into an angry grimace as he surveyed the scene.
"You don't work here," Johnson said. "You're trespassing!"
"You're right, Mr. Johnson," Frank agreed, hoping for inspiration. "We sneaked in on a dare. We always wanted to see what a real lumbermill looked like."
"Well, you certainly have," Johnson snapped, obviously still furious. "You kids can't wander onto private property with dangerous machinery and then expect to be protected by the law. I want you off my property at once!"
Johnson glanced around, then snapped his long fingers at a pair of beefy workers. "Get them out of here," he ordered. "But confiscate those hard hats and goggles first. And, boys, if I ever see you on my property again, I'll call the sheriff before I come out to hear your lame excuses!"
As Frank and Joe were marched out of the sawmill, they looked everywhere for Callie. She was nowhere in sight. Frank hoped she had escaped while the crew had been distracted.
As they walked, Frank recognized several faces from the Sportsman's Pool Hall and the
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crowd at the Horizon fire. Then he noticed someone more surprising. "Look over there," he said to Joe.
"Freddy Zackarias," Joe said, following Frank's gaze. "I thought he was just fired from Horizon."
"Well, he got a job here pretty quick," Frank said. "Maybe too quick."
"Shut up, you two," their guard growled, giving Frank a shake. "You can talk all you want when you get out of here."
When they reached the front gate, the guards demanded the borrowed equipment back. Frank and Joe handed over the hard hats and goggles happily.
"And stay out!" the first guard added as the boys walked through the gate. Frank turned and gave the guard a thumbs-up sign.
"All right," he said to his brother as they walked down the road to their jeep. "Now we figure out how to rescue Callie."
"No need," a voice called out.
Frank peered past a lumber truck to their jeep. Callie was sitting in the backseat, smiling out at him.
"Callie! How'd you get here?" Frank asked.
"You guys provided the perfect distraction," she said. "As soon as I saw you were okay, I slipped inside the office when no one was looking. I had a couple of minutes all to myself."
"Did you find anything?" Joe asked as the boys climbed into the jeep.
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"Yeah," she said. "I did. In fact, I think it tells us what Uncle Stan wouldn't tell about Buster."
"Oh, yeah?" Frank backed the jeep out. "Don't keep us in suspense."
As Frank steered the jeep down the mountain road, out of sight of Johnson Lumber, Callie passed a sheaf of papers up to Frank and Joe.
"What's this?" Joe asked, examining the top page.
"A plan," said Callie, grinning like the Cheshire cat, "to completely reorganize a logging operation, including new equipment designed to cut new-growth timber—"
"New-growth timber?" Frank asked.
"Most mills are designed to cut tall, old trees, like Douglas firs," Callie explained briefly. "But they're the ones that the Greens want to save most. The loggers say it costs too much to have their equipment redesigned to cut up smaller trunks—or new growth—from replanted land," she went on. "But this plan describes a way to work it so everyone's happy—especially the Forest Service."
"The Forest Service?" Frank perked up, meeting Callie's gaze in the rearview mirror. "You mean this is a plan to win the Forest Service contract."
"Exactly," Callie said excitedly. "It has specifications on the new equipment and how long it would take to pay for itself—assuming that the company wins the contract. And it describes
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how to leave pockets of undisturbed forest with no added cost. And it tells how the mill can replace the trees it cuts down by getting the federal government to provide seedlings and planting expertise for free. And if the mill is willing to replant, the Forest Service guys are super- happy. So happy, in fact, they would probably agree to award an exclusive contract to all their forest land to the company that can offer these guarantees."
"Buster's and your uncle's plan," Joe said.
"Exactly," agreed Callie. "And it has my uncle's mark all over it. A perfect compromise that makes everyone happy."
"Everyone except Bo Johnson," Frank pointed out.
"Right." Callie leaned forward between the two front seats. "Johnson obviously got hold of a copy of the plan somehow—"
"Freddy Zackarias," Joe said quickly. "He was fired for going through Owens's office, and today we saw him hanging around Johnson's mill."
"Johnson must have realized that if Owens won that contract, he would be forced out of business," Frank interjected. "He couldn't let that happen and he killed Owens."
"It's more likely that he paid Collins to do the actual dirty work for him, though. Where to now?" Joe asked.
"The Crosscut Guardian's offices," Frank said. "We need proof. I'd like to make prints
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from the photos I took near the bulldozer yesterday and compare them with the prints from around Buster's truck."
"Step on it, Frank," Callie said. "I smell a solution coming."
Frank glanced, amused, at his passenger. "Yes, boss," he said, and pressed down on the accelerator. "After the detective work you did, your wish is our command."
* * *
"There you are!" Ronnie Croft said when the Hardys and Callie trooped into her office through the back door fifteen minutes later. "I was wondering what happened to you. The town's loaded with reporters, all demanding that I produce Stan Shaw for nonstop interviews."
"We saw a couple outside here," Callie said. "That's why we came in the back way. Last night they were all outside Uncle Stan's house. Fortunately, we were able to give them the slip when we left his house this morning."
"Now—don't tell me—you want to use my darkroom," Ronnie said.
"Actually, yes," Frank replied. "We need to make some more prints in a hurry. We think we might be near a solution to the case."
"In that case, help yourselves," Ronnie said eagerly. "But on one condition."
Frank hesitated on his way to the darkroom. "What's that?"
"If you do solve this case, and Stan Shaw's no longer a suspect, and every reporter in this
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town wants to interview you and Callie and
Joe—"
"Yes?" Callie asked, grinning.
"You have to give me an exclusive interview."
"It's a deal," Frank said with a laugh.
* * *
In the dim amber light Joe and Callie peered at the row of photographs Frank had just printed. "Do you see anything yet?" Callie asked Frank.
"I'm not sure." Frank finished focusing the negative, turned the enlarger off, and slipped an eight-by-ten sheet of photographic paper over the enlarger's base. Then he turned on the enlarger light for a number of seconds, switched it off, and transferred the paper to the first vat of chemicals.
"This one seems promising," he said as he moved the photograph into the tray of fixer. "As soon as you hang it up we'll turn on the lights and take a closer look."
Five minutes later, Frank was standing on a stool in the now brightly lit room, peering at the photographs through a magnifying glass. Ronnie, Callie, and Joe were flanking him, trying to make out details in the prints.
"I still don't get it," Ronnie said impatiently. "What exactly are we looking for?"
"Something unusual in one of the bootprints," Joe explained. "If he finds a unique pattern in a print from near the bulldozer and can match it with a print from beside Owens's car, then that
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means the same person was in both places. And that means—"
"Once you match the bootprint to someone's boot, you have a good chance of being able to name the murderer." Ronnie tossed her hair back over her shoulder.
"I hope you find something," Callie said anxiously. "There's only one more day till that arson report comes back. And since it seems pretty certain that that dynamite is from the same batch that was planted on Uncle Stan, he'll probably be arrested immediately."
"Joe, look at this," Frank said suddenly, pulling back from one of the photographs and hurriedly unclipping it. He handed the magnifying glass to Joe, then climbed down from the stool and strode over to the filing cabinet in the corner, where he'd left extra prints from the earlier printing session.
Frank grabbed one of the earlier photographs and brought it over beside the new one. "Compare them," he said to his brother, barely able to control the excitement in his voice.
Slowly and deliberately, Joe peered through the glass at first one photograph, then the other. He turned to his brother and said with a gleam in his eyes, "I think you did it, Frank.
"See," Joe explained to Callie and Ronnie, "there are three hobnails missing in a little triangle down on this side." He pointed to the bootprint in the newer photo. Then he moved the magnifying glass over to the older print. "And
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here it is again. Three missing nails in exactly the same place."
"Frank!" Callie looked up from the magnifying glass, her face alight with excitement. "You really did it! Now if we can find the boot to match these prints, Uncle Stan's practically free!"
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Chapter 13
Frank and Joe gathered up the photographs and stacked them into piles.
"I have a feeling we'll find those boots on Rafe Collins's feet." Joe handed his stack to Frank.
"You might have some trouble persuading him to take them off," Callie pointed out.
"Collins did the dirty work for Johnson, and Johnson may not have been fooled by our act at the mill," Joe pointed out. "He might have sent Collins after us already."
"We need to get Uncle Stan's advice. He knows these people best," Callie said. "Besides, I want to ask him why he kept his plan with Owens a secret."
Joe turned to Ronnie, who was standing, silently taking everything in. "You really think Bo
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Johnson's responsible for Owens's death?" she demanded excitedly.
Frank held up a hand to stop her. "Remember that interview. Well, if you're quiet, you get it. If you tell, you don't."
She held the back door open for them, and they sneaked back out into the cool afternoon air.
* * *
Stan Shaw gave a low whistle as he looked over Frank's stack of photos in his kitchen less than half an hour later. "These are great pictures, Frank," Stan said. "And it's a good thing. They might save me."
"The trouble is, we still have to find this boot to prove who committed both crimes," Frank said excitedly.
"Rafe Collins isn't the type who'll let us examine his footwear," Joe pointed out wryly. "And we're practically positive that Collins is our guy."
"My suggestion, then, is to give these photographs to the sheriff," Stan said. "He could have Collins brought in for questioning and impound his logging boots as evidence."
"We will," Callie assured him. "But first we need to do a few things to make our case as foolproof as possible
"Like what?" Stan asked, accepting a tuna sandwich that Joe had made.
"Like ask you why you refused to tell us about the Forest Service plan you had worked
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out with Buster Owens," Frank said, taking a sandwich and joining Stan and Callie at the table.
Stan's gaze switched to Callie.
"We found a copy of the plan," she explained nervously. "In Bo Johnson's office."
Stan slammed down his sandwich. "You were in Johnson's office? You could have been killed!"
"We had to go, Uncle Stan!" Callie protested. "You wouldn't tell us what you and Owens were meeting about. And it did turn out to be important!"
Stan stared at his niece for a moment. Then his gaze dropped to the table. "I should have told you. The only reason Buster was willing to change over to conservation-friendly equipment was to put Johnson out of business. Actually that was all right with us because all along, Johnson has violated just about every environmentally supportive law on the books. He really would shave these mountains clean and leave nothing but stumps. Buster wasn't much better at first, but at least he was willing to try—especially if it hurt Johnson. His only requirement for taking the risk was that I not say a word until it went through. He was afraid that his loggers would quit and join Johnson if they knew."
"But after he died, why couldn't you tell us then?"
Stan shook his head. "I wanted to. But I didn't want to squeal. I was hoping Millie would
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come around to her father's way of thinking, and I didn't want her to lose her crews. Please believe me—I never imagined that the plan could have anything to do with Buster's death. Is there any other evidence that Collins might have committed the murder?"
"Yeah," replied Joe. "Your assistant, Vance Galen, spotted Collins's car, that old red Caddie, near Buster's truck just minutes before the explosion took place."
Stan's eyes widened. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"He's afraid of Johnson and Collins," Callie said. "And he thinks the sheriff won't believe him."
"I need to speak with him," Stan said, reaching for the phone. "He's in grave danger if Collins or Johnson is guilty and they even suspect that Galen knows. I'm afraid they're not the only ones around here who would be relieved to see him go."
Stan dialed Galen's number, but no one answered. Finally Stan replaced the receiver in its cradle.
"He might just not be answering his phone," Frank pointed out. "He was pretty spooked last time we saw him."
"I say we pay him another visit," Joe decided.
"You're right," Callie said.
"Can you distract those reporters?" Frank asked Stan. The older man nodded.
"We'll be back in an hour or two," he told
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him. "And if we're not, send someone, like the sheriff, to find us."
* * *
"I wonder if the bulldozer will still be there," Callie said from the backseat as the jeep powered up the road on Stoner Mountain.
Joe stared out at the road. "I doubt it. Didn't Walter Ecks say he'd return it to the equipment yard?"
"I kept an eye out for strangers," Frank remarked. "That guy in camouflage who attacked Joe might still be— What's that?" he interrupted himself as he was staring out the window.
"What?" Callie swiveled around to look.
"There was a truck parked on a logging road leading off into the woods," Frank said, turning around as well. "Yes, there it is!" he added as a truck came into view in the distance. "I think we're being followed!"
"Don't get paranoid." Joe glanced in his rearview mirror. "We're not the only people allowed to drive on this mountain, you know."
"Yeah, but how many local folks lie in ambush for our jeep to pass by?" Frank pointed out. "Speed up," he added. "Let's do some ambushing ourselves. If it's nobody we know, at least we'll have gotten to Galen's place a little faster."
"Whatever you say." Joe pressed his foot down on the accelerator.
The jeep bolted up the mountain. It flew over
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a bump in the road and rounded a corner practically on two wheels.
Joe glanced into his rearview mirror again. "They're lost," he reported. "If they were ever found, that is."
"Turn off there," Frank ordered, pointing to a barely visible logging road.
"Aye-aye, sir." Joe slammed on the brakes and made a sharp right turn onto the muddy road. The jeep swerved wildly. Joe pumped the brakes again and the jeep made a 180-degree skid to face the main road.
Moments later the truck appeared, driving very slowly up the mountain as though the driver was searching for something. "Here he comes," Frank said in a soft voice. "When I give the word, block the road."
Joe kept his eyes on the truck. When Frank said, "Now," Joe slammed the car into gear and punched the accelerator.
The jeep roared out of the woods like a wild animal, heading straight toward the slow-moving truck.
Through the truck's windshield, Joe could see Freddy Zackarias scream. Frantically, the logger spun the steering wheel. But he lost control, and the truck careened off the side of the road and onto the cliff beside it.
"Is he hurt?" Callie asked as Joe pulled up next to the truck and hopped out. Freddy, in camouflage, sat inside, rubbing his forehead.
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"Bruised a little," said Joe. "But compared to what we've been through lately, it's nothing."
"End of the line, Freddy," Frank was saying as he leaned in the window of the truck. "Hey, what's this?"
Frank reached past Freddy to retrieve something from the seat beside him. "Look," he said, holding a walkie-talkie up for Joe and Callie to see. "It says 'Property of Johnson Lumber' right here on the back."
"What do you want?" Freddy asked. He was glaring, but Joe saw fear in his eyes.
"Answers," Joe replied. "Why were you following us?"
"I wasn't. I was just going in the same direction," Freddy said.
"Uh-uh, Freddy," Frank replied, leaning his arms on the window frame of Freddy's truck and peering inside. "Somebody's been reporting our movements to Bo Johnson, and that somebody is you."
"I don't know what you're—" Freddy began defensively.
"Save it," Joe snapped. "We know you're Johnson's spy. How long have you been on our tail today? Since we left the sawmill?"
"You can't prove anything!" Freddy shouted at them.
"If I were you, I'd be scared they'd bump me off because I knew too much," Frank added.
"And if you helped Collins kill Buster Owens, that makes you an accessory to murder," Callie
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pointed out. "I wonder how many years you'll get?"
"Ready, gang?" Joe asked, satisfied. As soon as Frank and Callie were back in the jeep, he stepped on the gas. Freddy's truck disappeared as the jeep rounded a bend.
"He might go right back to Collins and Johnson and tell them what we said," Frank remarked as they neared the top of the mountain.
"Great," said Joe. "How will that help us?"
"It might spook Collins and Johnson into doing something careless," Frank replied. "And then maybe we can catch them in the act."
"Are you sure we want to risk that?" Callie asked. "Stan was pretty worried that those guys would figure out what we were up to."
"Too late now," Joe pointed out. "If we didn't want them to know what we were up to, we never should have shown up at Bo Johnson's mill."
"Finally, we're at Walt Ecks's house. Straight grade to Vance's place. Now if we can just—"
Joe never heard the rest of Frank's sentence. In that instant a shot rang out.
"Duck!" Callie screamed.
Before Joe could even react, a bullet shattered the windshield.
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As Callie screamed, Frank pushed her head down and then ducked under the dashboard himself. He felt the jeep veer wildly to the right and lurch into a nearby field.
"Joe?" he yelled as the jeep rolled to a stop. There was nothing but silence.
"Joe!" Frank shouted as he reached over the gearshift for his brother.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm okay."
Frank sank back, relieved.
"But I think I got some glass in my forehead."
"You're lucky," Callie said from behind Joe's seat. "Somebody isn't kidding around."
"And we're sitting ducks," Frank added. "Joe, when I give the word, throw open your door, then you and Callie slide over and get out the passenger-side door."
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"What about our playmate with the rifle?" Joe asked.
"He should be shooting at your door," Frank explained. "It's our only chance, so let's do it. Ready? One, two, now!"
Frank knew his ruse had worked when the sniper put several rounds through the driver's door. By the time the gunman realized his error, Frank, Joe, and Callie had already scrambled into the underbrush beside the road.
"Who is that guy?" Callie whispered, clutching Frank by the arm as they crouched in the bushes, trying to catch their breath.
"What difference does it make?" whispered Joe, who hid a few feet from them.
Frank heard three shots ring out. The ground only five feet from their hiding place exploded. Callie stifled a shriek and huddled closer to Frank.
"That was too close," Frank said, feeling himself break out into a clammy sweat. "Move into the woods. Fast!"
Frank crawled on hands and knees to where the forest began. Glancing back to make sure Callie was right behind him, he dove into the darkness of the trees, then got to his feet and ran.
Despite the afternoon sun, it was dark beneath the trees. After only fifty yards Frank tripped over a trailing vine. Callie, right behind him, tripped over Frank, and Joe tripped over them
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both. Lying still, Callie whispered tensely, "Okay. What do we do now?"
"We could try splitting up and attacking the guy from two different directions," Joe suggested.
"What are we going to attack him with?" Frank asked impatiently. "Rocks?"
Before Joe could reply, Frank heard shots ring out from somewhere up the road. "Wait," he whispered in the silence that followed, "wasn't that a different gun?"
The crack-whiz! sounds of the second rifle's shots were answered by the familiar boom of the sniper's hunting rifle.
"It sounds like a gun battle!" Frank said, bewildered. "What's going on?"
"Maybe it's the sheriff," Callie suggested. The three of them listened a moment longer. The gunmen were definitely shooting at each other.
"Let's circle back to the road," Joe suggested.
"Right," Frank agreed. "But be careful. We don't want to get caught in crossfire!"
Frank crept behind Callie through the thick woods as she followed Joe. When they reached the bushes that lined the road, they paused to make sure the coast was clear.
Just as Joe started to lead them out onto the road, a car came tearing around the bend in the road. Joe froze.
"Joe!" Callie squealed helplessly.
The car slowed and the driver's head appeared through the windshield. To Frank's relief he recognized the face.
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"It's Walter!" he said to Callie. "Walter Ecks!"
Walter pulled the station wagon off the road, and Joe, Callie, and Frank raced toward the doors and began climbing in. "Watch out!" Frank said to Walter. "There's a sniper out there!"
"I know!" Automatically, Ecks ducked down to the floor along with the others. A moment later he said, "I heard the shooting from my cabin! Is anybody hurt?"
"We're okay, thanks," Frank replied as the four of them cautiously rose a little in their seats. Frank realized that there was a pump shotgun on the seat beside the driver.
"Who was shooting at you?" Ecks demanded.
"We don't know," Callie replied. "But we heard two guns. Did you fire?"
Ecks's answer was drowned out by a wave of noise that suddenly surrounded the car. Before Frank knew what was happening, Walter Ecks was out of the station wagon, his shotgun aimed over the roof of the car at a very surprised Vance Galen. In one hand Galen held a .22 rifle.
"Don't shoot!" Galen shouted. "It was me who drove the sniper off. Anybody hurt?"
"No," Joe answered from inside the station wagon, "but our jeep got shot up."
"Did you see the sniper?" Frank asked Vance.
"Just a glimpse. It was somebody in camouflage perched in a tree." Galen made his way through the brush to the car. "I never got a clear look at him."
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"You heard shots from your place, I guess," Ecks said suspiciously, lowering his own rifle very slowly.
"Yeah, so I came running. Then I saw your jeep and I knew something was up."
Ecks looked in the car at the three shaken teenagers. "Who'd want to go after you?" he asked.
"We think it has to do with Buster's murder," Frank told him.
"Somebody must have figured we were coming to see you or Vance, and they wanted to keep us from asking questions," Joe added.
Ecks sighed wearily. "I think we'd better go see the sheriff," he said. "We've got one fine person dead already. No use in more of us following."
"You're right, sir." Frank turned pointedly to Vance Galen. "It's time we all talked to Ferris."
"Will you talk to Ferris now, Vance?" Callie asked, her eyes searching his face.
"Yes!" Galen said. "I've had enough of this violence!"
"And, sir," Frank added to Walter Ecks, "you should tell him about the bulldozer being taken."
Ecks nodded. "Sure, if you think it will help. I want to get the guys who killed Buster."
"Why don't you take Vance into town?" Frank suggested. "Tell Ferris we'll be in soon."
"Where are you going?" Galen asked.
"Relax," Frank assured him. "We're going
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out to find a piece of evidence that may just solve the case."
* * *
"Where are we going, Frank?" Joe asked as the two men drove off in Ecks's car.
"We're going to find Collins's car," Frank replied. "Maybe there's something in it that will link Collins to the murder."
"How are we going to find it?" Callie asked. "Even if Collins was the guy who shot at us, he could be anywhere by now."
"My guess is that Collins headed for someplace where witnesses could vouch for his presence. A place like Johnson Lumber," Frank speculated. "He probably needs to tell Johnson what's happening, anyway."
Joe frowned. "I guess it's as good a place to look as any. But what if Collins's car isn't there?"
"Then we give Ferris the evidence and information we have already, and hope it's enough."
* * *
It took nearly half an hour to clean up the jeep and check the tires for punctures. When they finished, it was nearly five o'clock.
"Look for a red Cadillac convertible," Frank said as they pulled up to the far end of the Johnson lumberyard's parking lot. The three of them scanned the lot, but the Cadillac wasn't there.
"Now what?" said Callie.
"Now you go ask the guard where Collins is," Frank said simply.
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"I what?"
"Tell him you're his parole officer. You need to have him sign some papers right away, or he's in big trouble. Act angry," Frank said, fighting a grin.
Callie hesitated. "I don't look much like a parole officer after rolling around in the mud," she pointed out.
"Come on, Callie, we have faith in you," Joe prodded, grinning. "The guards will never recognize you without a hard hat on. We'll wait here."
Shaking her head, Callie climbed out of the backseat and headed across the parking lot toward the guard's post by the gate. A few minutes later she was back again. Frank was amused to see her walking primly, with a frown on her face, as though she'd taken on the character of a parole officer and now she couldn't shake it off.
"Where to, boss?" Frank asked as Joe put the jeep into gear.
"Sector eight," Callie answered mysteriously. "Collins is out inspecting log flumes. I know the sectors from inspecting the forests with Uncle Stan. They're numbered one through ten, with number one closest to the mill. Go straight on the access road until I tell you to turn."
As they drove along the muddy, heavily rutted road, Frank looked for Collins's red Caddy. "I can't wait to return this jeep to the rental counter now," Joe remarked glumly as he, too,
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searched through the trees. "Let's see, should we tell them a plane wandered off its flight path and flew straight through our windshield? Or maybe the Abominable Snowman turned up and sat on it."
"Don't worry," said Frank. "If we solve this case the rental agent will know who we are. And of course we'll pay for any damage not covered by the insurance."
"Sssh!" Callie interrupted, staring to the right and ahead of the car. "There it is!"
Following Callie's orders, Joe turned right onto a still narrower dirt road. The Cadillac was parked beside a tractor-trailer loaded with metal pipes. The big truck sat next to a large trestle of wood and steel that supported a V-shaped wooden log flume that logs sped down on their way to the sawmill.
"Wow, I've never seen one of these outside an amusement park," Joe said. Frank studied how the flume was built beside a creek that flowed down toward the sawmill. A mechanical pump channeled water into the flume, so that even the largest logs could float down the V-shaped wooden tray to the sawmill. They picked up speed as they coursed downhill.
"I don't see Collins," Frank said to Joe. "Callie, keep a lookout. Let's get to work, fast!"
As Frank and Joe clambered out of the jeep and ran over to the Cadillac, Callie climbed onto the roof of the tractor-trailer's cab to get a better view of the surrounding forest.
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"Any blood on the backseat?" Frank asked Joe as he reached beneath the driver's seat, finding nothing.
"No. If he took Buster to the Horizon mill in here, he must have put a blanket under him," Joe replied. Then he added, "Bingo! Frank, I found it!"
Frank raised his head over the front seat to see Joe kneeling on the floor behind him. He'd opened a metal tool chest that was stashed behind the driver's seat. The top tray was removed, and Joe held a shiny object half-wrapped in an oily rag.
"What is it?" Frank demanded.
Gleefully, Joe shook the object until the rag fell back, revealing the find to Frank.
"The key ring!" Frank said, a grin spreading across his face. "We've got Collins now, Joe!"
"Not quite!" growled a low voice.
The hair rose on the back of Frank's neck as he slowly turned toward the voice. He knew without looking what he'd find there.
It was Rafe Collins, in camouflage, standing beside the trailer load of pipes. He was pointing a rifle straight at Frank. Frank stared at Collins's index finger as it tightened on the trigger.
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Chapter 15
"Get out of the car," Collins told Frank and Joe. "Don't make any sudden moves."
The Hardys stared at the angry, hawk-nosed man in the dim light of the forest. Behind him, Joe glimpsed Callie's hand waving to get the boys' attention from the far end of the trailer truck.
Frank's intent, watchful expression revealed that he had noticed Callie, too.
"Let's go," Collins barked. "I don't want to get any bullet holes in my Cadillac."
"Looks like it could use a little work," Joe muttered as, hands up, he stepped out of the car. "I guess this mountain life just isn't good for it."
Collins stared at him, unsure whether Joe had insulted him or not. "You've got a smart mouth,
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kid," he said at last. "You'd better watch out or I just might shut it for you."
"Don't you have to ask Johnson's permission first?" Frank asked pointedly.
Joe watched as Collins's squinty eyes got even narrower. "Keep talking, wiseguys," Collins muttered. "You're only making it worse for yourselves."
Joe kept stalling so that Callie could make her move. "You're in a big hurry to shoot us, aren't you, Collins? You think that's going to solve all your problems?"
"That would be a big mistake," Frank said, following Joe's lead. "At least before you find out who we've talked to and what we told them."
"Shut up!" Collins exploded. Waving the rifle back and forth between them, he snarled, "Where's the girl?"
Joe saw Callie make an "okay" sign with her thumb and forefinger from atop the pipes at the far end of the trailer. Then she stood up and shoved with all her strength on the end of one pipe.
"All right!" Joe shouted. The pipe shot out and struck Collins on the right shoulder, sending him pitching forward. As Collins stumbled to his knees, his rifle swung up. Joe pounced.
"Grab the rifle!" he yelled at his brother as he grappled with the man on the forest floor. Frank leapt forward and grabbed the barrel of the rifle. Wrestling it upward, Frank tried to
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force the rifle out of Collins's hands. But in the next instant the foreman sent Joe flying with one arm and shoved the rifle stock into Frank's stomach with the other.
With a grunt, Frank collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
"Joe!" Callie called from the top of the trailer.
Dazed, Joe looked up from where he'd fallen to watch, horrified, as Collins lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at Frank.
Joe leapt to his feet and fell onto Collins's back, sending him sprawling sideways with the rifle an arm's length away.
"Watch it, Collins!" Joe taunted, grabbing the rifle and flinging it into the bushes. "You almost hurt yourself!" He danced from side to side, trying to draw attention away from his brother.
"So you got rid of my gun, eh?" Collins growled. "That's okay." Collins staggered toward Joe. "A knife fight's more my style anyway."
Whipping a knife out of a leather sheath that hung from his belt, Collins feinted at Joe. Joe jumped back, and the ex-convict slashed his knife sideways in a glittering, underhanded sweep that missed Joe's stomach by inches.
"Especially if the other guy doesn't have one," Joe retorted. He danced backward, farther and farther away from Frank. Collins took the bait, running after Joe and slashing the air between them with his gleaming blade.
"Frank! Callie! Get out of here!" Joe shouted
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as he worked his way backward, always a step from Collins's vicious slashes. Behind Collins, Joe watched as Callie raced over to Frank and helped him up.
"Run for the jeep!" Joe called as he moved away from the flashing blade.
Collins spun around to see Callie and Frank getting away. Enraged, he charged toward them, cutting off their path to the jeep.
Joe ran after Collins as fast as he could. Just as he was prepared to lunge at the foreman again, though, Collins turned and brandished the knife in his face.
"Come on, kid," Collins shouted. "Try me!"
As Joe and Collins circled each other in a deadly game of tag, Joe's eye was caught by a group of tree trunks floating quickly down the flume. They gave him an idea.
"Frank, Callie, run to the log flume! Ride a log to get away!" Joe shouted.
Keeping himself between Collins and Frank and Callie, Joe backed toward the flume. He circled to avoid Collins's blade, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder until the flume came into full view.
Frank, weak but determined, was already standing on the edge of the two-foot-deep flume. As Joe watched in quick glimpses, Frank and Callie jumped aboard the next log that rumbled by. Holding their arms out and keeping their legs flexed for balance, they slid down the man-made stream. Collins moved forward again, and Joe
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lost sight of them as he concentrated on getting away.
"It's all right, kid," Collins growled as he tried to force Joe back against a pine tree. "They can get away. I still have you to hold hostage."
"You wish, Collins," Joe said, ducking out of the foreman's reach. The flume was only a few steps behind him now. "When I get out of here I'm going straight to the sheriff," Joe taunted. "Your days of freedom are numbered."
Just before Joe reached the flume, Collins made a quick lunge at him. Joe slammed a karate chop down on Collins's wrist. But the blow failed to knock the knife loose from his hand. Doubly enraged, Collins now charged at the boy with his knife raised above his head.
A sudden roaring noise warned Joe that another log was on its way down. He turned in time to see the huge log appear in the flume. As it passed, Joe sprang up and landed awkwardly on the slick bark, faced in the wrong direction.
Thrilled to get away from the deranged murderer, Joe maintained his balance and slowly turned around to face the front on the swiftly moving log.
"Cool," he said to himself as the dusky landscape surged past. "It's like catching a monster wave at the beach!"
Moments later the flume began to level out. Up ahead, Joe could see that it emptied into a dammed-up backwater. As Joe's log sped
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toward the pool of still water, Joe prepared for the rough landing. At the end of the flume, the log dropped out from under him, and Joe flew through the air to land in the water with a splash.
He sank down through the water, then bobbed back up to the surface. He shook the water out of his hair and hooted triumphantly. He spotted Frank and Callie watching from a huge log boom—a raft of five dozen huge tree trunks lashed together and chained to a spotlighted dock.
"We made it!" Joe cried as he swam toward them. "You were great, Callie!" He reached the edge of the boom and grabbed the nearest log to try to pull himself up. But the wood was too slippery.
"How about a hand here?" he called.
Joe was surprised when Frank and Callie didn't move to help him.
"Are you guys deaf? I asked for a hand up!"
As Joe tried to scramble up on the slippery log by himself, he saw that someone was standing up behind Callie and Frank.
It was Bo Johnson.
Johnson stepped nimbly over to Joe's log and whipped a snub-nosed revolver out of his belt.
"Sure, kid," he said as he shoved it in Joe's face. "I'll give you a hand—right into your grave!"
Joe cast a quick glance in Frank's direction.
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A discreet nod told him Frank was ready for action.
"I can't get up," Joe said to Johnson in a casual voice. "Really—can you help me up?"
"Not a chance, kid," Johnson snapped. "I'm not that dumb."
"Let me help," Frank said quietly, taking a step toward Johnson.
Johnson wheeled around, pointing the gun at Frank. "Stay where you are!"
It was a perfect chance, and Joe took it. Pushing down on the log, he shot up out of the water, grabbed Johnson around the upper body, and pinned his arms to his sides. At the same time, Frank slammed into Johnson from the other side, and Joe, Frank, and Johnson fell backward into the dark green water of the millpond.
As soon as they hit the water, Frank was separated from his brother and the mill owner. For long, frightening seconds, he struggled to find them in the murky water beside the massive logs. Finally out of breath, he swam to the surface and saw his brother pop up at the same time. Callie cried out, "Joe! Watch out!" as Bo Johnson lunged at Joe from behind. Joe turned and struck out. He caught Johnson on the side of the head and watched as he fell backward, striking his head on a floating log. He slid silently beneath the surface of the water.
"Catch him!" Frank ordered. "Otherwise he'll drown."
Joe and Frank towed the unconscious sawmill
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owner back toward the raft, where Callie stood watching. Frank kept Johnson afloat while Joe climbed onto the raft. Then he and Callie hauled Johnson aboard and laid him on his side. Johnson drew a deep, shuddery breath, then pushed himself up on his elbows.
Frank pulled himself up onto the raft and walked over to Johnson. "Can you stand, Mr. Johnson?" he asked as he helped him up. "Good. Then you can come with us to see Sheriff Ferris."
Johnson coughed again. "You'll never get me there."
"Who's going to stop us?" Joe asked as they led Johnson across the log boom toward the dock. "You can't, and your hired thug, Collins, is back up the mountain."
"Your first mistake was underestimating us, Johnson," Frank said. He quickly added, "Your second one was trying to frame a friend of ours. Now it's payback time."
"Don't be so sure your plans will work out so perfectly," Johnson said.
Callie interrupted. "How will we get out of here?"
"We'll use Johnson's car," Joe replied. "I'm sure he won't mind giving us a lift to Ferris's office."
In the distance Joe heard a car approaching. It sounded like someone was playing the radio. The sound grew louder and Joe spotted a large
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red car speeding down the access road to the dock.
"Here comes the cavalry," Johnson said smugly.
The red Cadillac squealed to a stop at the base of the dock, and Rafe Collins hopped out. Beaming at the Hardys, Collins went around to the trunk of the car, opened it, and pulled out a chainsaw with the longest blade Joe had ever seen.
"Howdy, kids!" he called as he reached forward to thumb the starter switch on. "It's wood- shop time!"
As Callie and the Hardys stared in horror, the chainsaw started up with an ear-splitting roar.
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Chapter 16
"Scatter!" Frank ordered.
"What about Johnson?" Joe shouted.
"Forget Johnson!" Frank shouted back. "Save yourself!"
Collins jumped off the end of the dock and landed easily on the log boom. Frank stared in horror as he moved to within thirty feet of Joe, who stubbornly held on to Johnson.
Suddenly Johnson's elbow shot back and jabbed into Joe's stomach. Joe let go of Johnson and doubled over in pain. But Joe knew he had to act fast.
He straightened up and slammed Johnson in the jaw with a sudden uppercut. Silently Johnson collapsed to the floor of the raft.
The instant Johnson dropped, Collins charged Joe with the chainsaw. Callie screamed, but
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Frank remained perfectly still, tensed for action. The big saw looked heavy, he observed, but Collins had the strength to swing its blade around in wide, dangerous slashes.
As Collins drew close to Joe, Frank's eyes darted around him in search of something to use as a weapon. At last he spotted two rusty peaveys leaning against the side of the dock. Six- foot poles topped with long pointed spikes and a bared hook, peaveys were used by loggers to manhandle the logs in the water. But Frank had another use for them.
Behind Collins's back, Frank dashed over to the peaveys, picking up one in each hand. "Catch, Joe!" he shouted, hurling the peavey in his left hand like a javelin. It sailed past Collins to Joe, who caught it in both hands.
Joe instantly turned the peavey against Collins, holding it out in front of him like a spear. With a laugh, Collins dodged the peavey's point and swung his chainsaw blade around to lop off its head. The sharp steel tip hit the log beneath their feet with a dull thud.
"Too bad, son!" Collins jeered as Joe retreated several steps, still holding the pole out before him. Collins slashed his sawblade in a Z-shaped pattern, cutting off another foot of Joe's pole. "Better give up now!"
Collins was so occupied with cornering Joe that he failed to notice Frank charging toward him from behind. Slamming the peavey straight down over Collins's shoulder, Frank used the
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peavey like a crowbar to pry the chainsaw from the foreman's hands.
Frank and Joe watched, fascinated, as the huge chainsaw went skidding over the edge of the log boom into the water and sank in a trail of oily bubbles.
"You!" Collins roared, turning his rage on Frank. But Frank was ready for him. He swung the peavey down on Collins's shoulder, then brought up the butt end of the pole and struck the foreman in the stomach. Callie and Joe watched, frozen, as Collins staggered backward into the pool.
"He's drowning!" Callie shouted as Frank and Joe watched Collins flounder in the water. Frank grabbed the peavey and snagged the collar of Collins's shirt with the hook.
"Had enough, Collins?" Frank asked.
Collins glared at the Hardys. Then he nodded sullenly.
* * *
The next morning Frank was still sore from the previous day's adventures as he sat at Sheriff Ferris's desk, sipping a soda. Joe sat on one side of Frank, with Callie on the other. Stan Shaw stood, leaning against the wall next to Callie.
"Now let me make sure I have all of this straight," Ferris was saying. "It was Rafe Collins who actually planted the dynamite in the Horizon sawmill."
"Right," Frank confirmed. "My guess is that
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if you compare Johnson Lumber's dynamite with the results of the arson investigators' lab results that should arrive today, the two should match perfectly. And remember that Vance Galen saw Collins's red Cadillac by the mill just before it blew up."
"So far the story holds together," Ferris replied. "But how did Buster Owens end up in the Horizon mill?"
"First, you need to remember that Collins had Buster's key ring," Joe responded. "Millie Owens identified it herself, right?"
The sheriff nodded.
"That key ring could only have come from Buster," Joe continued. "Since Buster had the keys until at least an hour before he died, chances are that he killed Buster and stole the keys. And then there are the bootprints. Did you compare Collins's boots with those prints Frank photographed?"
"I certainly did, last night," the sheriff told the group. "The sole of one boot has three missing hobnails right where Frank's pictures showed them missing."
"Did you find Collins's fingerprints on the dynamite he planted in Stan Shaw's truck, or on the bulldozer he tried to ram us with?" Frank asked.
"Nope," Ferris told him. "He must have been wearing gloves. But the bootprints, along with the key ring and Galen's testimony, might be evidence enough."
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"What I don't get is why Johnson framed me," Stan said mildly.
"Yeah. Vance Galen would seem a more likely person to pin it on," Joe agreed.
"But if Stan was being held by the sheriff as a murderer, it would give Johnson a better chance to get that franchise from the Forest Service. After all, that's what he was aiming for," Frank pointed out.
"You see, Sheriff," Frank went on, "we think that when Johnson learned what Buster was planning, he figured the only way to keep from being put out of business was to close down Horizon Lumber until he could retool at Johnson Lumber. That's why he tried to buy the equipment that was intended for Horizon."
"But why would he kill poor Buster?" Stan Shaw wondered.
"I'm not so sure killing Buster was part of the plan," Joe replied. "Judging by the way his truck was forced off the road some distance from the mill, Buster's running into Collins might have been an accident. Maybe Collins panicked when he realized Buster was headed for his mill, and forced him off the road. He knocked him out and then decided to eliminate him by leaving him in the mill."
"Well, all that's for a jury to decide," Ferris observed. "At least now the right people will be tried for the crimes. Stan, I'm sorry you had to go through all this."
"No hard feelings," Stan Shaw said with a
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wan smile. "You were just doing your job. But if that's all you need, I'd like to get out of here."
"Of course," Ferris agreed as he stood up and opened his office door. "I guess I can get the rest of the story from Freddy Zackarias," Ferris said with a knowing chuckle. "Guess he was pretty busy acting as a spy for Collins. Collins wouldn't have known where you'd be without Freddy following you fellas. But I think Freddy's ready to testify against Collins and Johnson—he was in way over his head. Frank and Joe, you and Callie have been a big help. If I need more information—"
"We'll be happy to help, Sheriff," Frank replied as everyone headed for the door. "We'll be here in Crosscut for another week or so."
"Let's hit the Potbelly Café," Stan said as the weary group filed outside of the office. "I'm craving some of their fried chicken and biscuits. And to show you all how grateful I am, the meal's on me."
"Can't say no to that, can we, Frank?" said Joe with a wink.
"No way," Frank agreed. "But there's just one commitment we have to honor first."
"Oh?" Stan Shaw paused, looking puzzled. "What more commitments could you boys have?"
"A personal interview with Ronnie Croft," Frank started to explain. And, as Callie and Joe joined him, he added, "An exclusive!"
Final Gambit (Hardy Boys Casefiles #62)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"You know, I could get used to this," Joe Hardy declared to his older brother Frank, who was sitting next to him on the plane. "It's Friday afternoon, and instead of being in school, we're flying to Las Vegas so you can compete in the National Teen Computer Chess Championship. If our friends could see us now!"
"Mmm," Frank mumbled. He had his nose buried in a book on advanced chess moves and was playing out some of the moves on a notebook computer set up on his tray.
"It's too bad the chess competition's on the weekend," Joe added. "We only get to miss today and Monday. Of course, the officials could decide to extend the competition. Then we'd be forced to stay all next week!"
2
Joe waited for a reaction, but Frank only reached out with his hand and made a move on his computer. Joe watched a castle move several squares straight up the board on the computer screen. Then he grabbed a plastic cup of soda from his tray, flipped the tray into its upright position, and half turned in his seat to try to distract his brother.
"Earth to Frank Hardy," Joe said, flipping his blond hair off his forehead. At seventeen, Joe was only a year younger than Frank, but at times he felt Frank acted like a boring old man. "I would think that if you don't know the moves by now, it's too late to learn them."
"That's ridiculous," Frank said, raising his eyes from the screen for the first time. Joe could see now that his brother's face looked drawn and tired from concentrating so hard. His brown hair was mussed up from absentmindedly taking swipes at it while working. "It's never too late to add programming, Joe," Frank said seriously. "Think about it. The computer I'm going to play chess against knows nothing but an enormous number of possible moves—whatever's been programmed into its software, right? Well, if I put more information into my own computer," he added, tapping his forehead, "I might save a game or two at the last minute. Besides, this book I'm practicing from is designed to help players think creatively—something the computer can't do."
3
"Whatever you say." Joe glanced down at Frank's chess book. The heading at the top of the page Frank was studying read, "Going for the Gambit." "Football's more my style. What does that mean—'going for the gambit'? Is it like making a first down?"
Frank was obviously surprised. "You don't know what a gambit is?"
Joe flushed. "If I knew, I'd have won the district chess championship instead of you, right? So just tell me."
Frank closed the book, but held his place with a finger. "A gambit's when one side, usually the white, starts the game by sacrificing one piece to lure the competition into a trap." He pressed a button on his computer keyboard, and the chess game on the screen was replaced with a newly set-up board. "For example, I might sacrifice a pawn or even two in the first moves to free my bishop," Frank said, expertly demonstrating on the computer. "My move would force you to move your knight out of my way so I could go after your queen. I might not win immediately, but I could confuse the computer and buy time for a later victory."
Frank started to continue, but Joe interrupted him with an enormous yawn. "Sounds great," Joe said, stretching. "I guess if anyone can beat that computer in Las Vegas, you can. Listen, I'm going for a walk. These long flights can really take it out of us more active types."
4
As Frank returned to his book, Joe unbuckled his seat belt and wandered down the aisle of the DC-10. It was weird, traveling as Frank's sidekick instead of being a major player, and Joe felt oddly restless. Sons of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy, and experienced detectives themselves, Frank and Joe had traveled all over the world on cases, but this trip was just for Frank. He had entered the nationwide computer chess competition on his own and had asked Joe to keep him company. Joe wasn't sure what he'd do once they arrived in Las Vegas and Frank became involved in his competition.
As though in answer to his question, his eyes rested on a beautiful woman with long dark hair, staring out the window with a bored expression. Her full mouth, dark brown eyes, and athletic build convinced Joe that she was a show girl on her way back to her job in Las Vegas. He walked faster down the aisle toward her row, sank into the empty seat beside her, and turned to start a friendly conversation.
His speech froze in his throat when he saw an infant sleeping in the woman's lap. Joe next saw the enormous diamond on the ring finger of her left hand. Joe realized now that she was in her late twenties, not eighteen or nineteen as he had thought.
"Oops," Joe muttered as the woman turned to him. "Uh, wrong seat."
Better luck next time, Joe told himself
5
nervously as he vaulted out of the seat and started back through the plane. Next time I'll check the ring finger first.
Moving on, Joe caught the eye of a blond girl sitting at the back of the plane. She was alone, and it looked to Joe as if she was smiling at him! He caught his breath. The girl was incredibly beautiful. As she looked back down at a book or magazine in her lap, he noted how her long golden hair cascaded over her shoulders and framed a face so smooth that Joe knew she was not much older than he was.
Maybe this time I'm in luck, he told himself as he wandered down the aisle and came to a stop beside the girl.
Joe cleared his throat to get her attention.
To his surprise, the girl jumped in fright, slamming her book shut.
"Oh!" she said, her face blanching almost to white. "Sorry. I thought you were—"
"Thought I was who?" Joe pointed at the seat beside her. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
"Of course not," she replied, embarrassed. "It would be great to have someone to talk to. I'm feeling kind of—well, edgy, I guess."
"I'm Joe Hardy." He sat down and extended his hand. She shook it gratefully. "What's so scary?" Joe asked. "Does flying make you nervous?"
"Beth Cornelius. No, I like flying, actually. I just—well, I was afraid I was being followed."
6
At these words, Joe's ears pricked up. This sounded like a puzzle waiting to be solved, and nothing got Joe's attention like a mystery. He chuckled to show Beth she had nothing to fear from him. "Who'd follow you on a plane?" he asked. "Did you steal soap from the washroom or something?"
Beth frowned, offended. "This is serious," she said. "I'm talking about my father. He's a very powerful man and has connections everywhere. If he knew I was on this plane he'd send one of his men to take me back to New York."
"Why? You're old enough to fly alone, aren't you?"
"Eighteen," Beth stated. "But the problem is, I'm going to Las Vegas to meet my fiancé. We're getting married next week, and my dad hates him."
Joe's smile faded. "Oh," he mumbled. Then he added silently to himself, Oops.
"He'd do anything to stop us from getting married," Beth continued, not noticing Joe's reaction. "When you showed up, I thought you were working for him at first. But now I know I was wrong," she assured him. "Daddy would never hire someone so young."
Joe felt his face redden again. "I'm probably older than you think," he said. "Anyway, I don't even know who your father is. My brother's playing in a chess competition in Las Vegas, and I'm tagging along. It's sponsored by an
7
electronic games outfit, and the object is to beat the company's computer at chess. Frank's already won the Northeastern District competitions, and I think he's going to win the nationals."
Beth nodded. "Right. The computer chess finals. My fiancé works in a hotel in Las Vegas, and he wasn't sure he could get me a room because so many people would be in town to see the playoffs."
"They will?" Joe said incredulously. "To watch chess? Unbelievable!"
Beth laughed. "I guess people will watch practically anything."
Just then the pilot announced that the plane was getting ready to land and asked all passengers to return to their seats.
Just my luck, she's getting married, Joe thought gloomily. I hope this isn't an omen for the weekend.
"It was great meeting you, Joe," Beth said, giving him a little kiss on the cheek.
"Y-yeah," he stammered. "Good luck with your, uh, wedding."
Joe returned quickly to his seat, smiling about that kiss. Maybe Beth was a little bit attracted to him after all. He sank down next to his brother and buckled his seat belt.
Frank put away his book and computer and turned to Joe. "Where have you been?" he asked.
8
"Making friends," Joe answered cheerfully. With one gorgeous girl."
"That's nice," Frank said, preoccupied.
Poor Frank, Joe thought as the plane went into its final descent. He was so nervous about the contest he wasn't even interested in a girl. But then, he had his girlfriend, Callie Shaw, back home to keep him company.
As the plane landed at McCarran International Airport, Joe and Frank sat silently thinking their own thoughts.
Joe was soon distracted, though, as the Hardys entered Las Vegas's unusual airport. He stared at the rows of slot machines and the crowds of flashily dressed gamblers rushing for the exits. "Wow," he said as a six-foot-tall woman in sequins, feathers, and a four-foot headdress tottered by on spike-heeled shoes carrying a sign for a local hotel. "This may be my kind of town after all."
"Huh?" Frank said, blinking as he searched for the baggage area.
"Frank, wake up!" Joe said, losing patience at last. "You're in Fun Town, U.S.A. Loosen up a little! Anyway, who cares if you win a stupid chess competition if you're not going to have a good time?"
"I have to focus," Frank insisted as they waited for their luggage to appear on the airport carousel. Another show girl strutted past him, but again Frank failed to notice her. "I plan to
9
be the best, Joe," he said. "I don't even care about the ten thousand dollars in prize money. I just want to be the best."
"Ten thousand dollars?" Joe asked. "You never mentioned that before."
"Didn't I?" Frank replied. "Anyway, I really want to win this. Every computer company in the world will want to hire me after I graduate from college if I do."
Joe couldn't take it anymore. "But, Frank, you won't be out of college for years, and we're in Las Vegas right now!"
Frank smiled. "I know. That's why I wanted you to come along. I knew you'd have a great time here. Why don't you go find that girl you met? You did say something about a girl, didn't you?"
"She's engaged," Joe said gloomily. "She's here to meet her fiancé."
As he spoke, a fall of blond hair flashed by in the crowd, and Joe caught a glimpse of Beth. She was hurrying toward the exit with her luggage as fast as she could, nervously glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.
Joe watched the sliding glass doors close behind her after she stepped outside. Beth was checking first one way, then the other. Finally she gripped her bags, turned left, and vanished into the crowd.
"She really is in trouble," Joe said to himself.
10
Frank groaned. "Don't say that, Joe. I don't have time for trouble this trip."
"Okay, fine," Joe said. "If you don't have the time to help some poor helpless girl, that's okay—"
"Joe!" Frank snapped, reaching for one of their suitcases. "Enough!"
That would have been the end of the discussion—except for the scream from outside that cut through the noise of the airport. Joe's eyes widened, and Frank froze for an instant.
"What was that?" Joe asked as the scream came again. It was a woman's scream—shrill and piercing, even though it was muffled by a wall of glass windows. "It's Beth!"
"Oh, no," Frank started to say as Joe ran for the sliding glass doors. He pushed past other passengers, positive that Frank would be right behind him.
"I knew it!" Joe yelled as he burst through the doorway. "Frank, look!"
Frank pulled up at his brother's side just as the scream sounded a third time. Joe pointed to the far end of the line of cars in the pickup area. A young blond woman was being shoved into a dusty old yellow sedan. The man pushing her into the car was turned halfway around, but Joe could see that he had a burly build and a mustache, and he wore black gloves.
"It is Beth!" Joe shouted. "Come on, Frank! We've got to save her!"
11
Chapter 2
"Watch out!" Frank yelled as his brother sprinted out into traffic to stop the yellow car so it couldn't pull out. Tires squealed and horns honked as cars swerved to avoid hitting Joe. Frank raced along the sidewalk, keeping pace with his brother. They were approaching the car from two sides now.
"Joe! They're getting away!" The driver of the yellow car gunned the engine, pulled out in front of a bus, and swerved into the far left lane. Joe had figured out the driver's plan and leapt into the left lane in front of the sedan. Frank, on the sidewalk still, worked his way around a large family surrounded by luggage.
"No!" Frank yelled when he could see Joe again. While onlookers screamed, the sedan 
12
barreled toward Joe. Obviously the driver didn't care if he knocked Joe to the ground.
Frank raced out into the street, trying to reach Joe before the sedan did. Making a desperate leap, Frank managed to push his brother to the side of the road at the same instant the sedan whooshed by, emitting heat and fumes.
Frank and Joe fell to the pavement, ignoring the crowd of staring tourists as they watched the sedan dart down the road to the airport exit. "I got the license plate number," Frank announced to his brother, making a mental note of the numbers and letters. "It's a Nevada plate. The police can trace it easily, so there's no need for you to kill yourself over this!"
"Oh, yeah?" panted Joe, standing up and brushing himself off. "So where's an officer?" Before Frank could answer, Joe had run off again, obviously hoping to catch up with the sedan at the exit.
Frank looked back toward the airport, but despite all the honking horns there wasn't a police officer in sight. He did spot a man in a chauffeur's uniform, though, leaning back with his elbows on the hood of a shiny black limo. He was holding a printed sign that bore one word: Hardy.
Great, Frank said to himself. The competition people must have sent a car to take me to the hotel.
13
He ran over to the car and announced to the driver, "I'm Hardy. Let's go."
The chauffeur, who was only a few years older than Frank, checked a small notebook. "Frank Hardy?"
"For the chess match, right," Frank said breathlessly. The chauffeur finally opened the rear door for him, but Frank yanked open the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.
"Hey, you can't do that!" the chauffeur protested as Frank turned the key and gunned the engine.
"Emergency!" Frank yelled. "I'll be back as soon as I can." He shoved the transmission into Drive. The limo roared away, leaving the chauffeur on the curb.
"Oh, great!" Frank muttered as he neared the airport exit and saw that the traffic was hopelessly snarled. "What a time for a traffic jam."
As other drivers honked their horns impatiently, Frank craned his neck out the window and saw the yellow car near the front of the line preparing to enter a major highway. Someone leapt a fence beside the road near the yellow sedan and raced toward the car.
"Joe!" Frank yelled, leaning out the window to see better. It was obvious to Frank that Joe didn't have a chance. Joe was fast, but even the best runner couldn't keep up with a car going at full speed.
"I guess it's up to me, then," Frank muttered
14
as he spun the steering wheel hard to the left and stepped on the gas. Horns honked as the limo bolted over a concrete barricade that separated the access road from the parking lot and zipped toward the exit.
He saw it too late—the thick wooden bar that separated the parking lot from the access road was down. The limo was headed straight for it.
"No way to stop in time!" Frank shouted as he aimed the limo straight for the bar. The black car sheared through it, then shot onto the highway.
"This car isn't bad," Frank admitted to himself as he stepped on the accelerator again, pursuing the sedan down the highway. He could see Joe running along the shoulder up ahead, slowing from a sprint to a hard jog. As the limo approached Joe, Frank punched a switch to open the rear passenger door. He hit the horn.
"Hey, Joe!" he shouted through the open passenger window. Without taking his eyes off the yellow sedan, Joe nodded and moved closer to the lane of traffic. As Frank caught up with Joe, he slowed the limo to keep pace with him. Joe reached for the open rear door.
"All right!" Frank shouted as Joe gripped the top of the inside of the door. Grunting, Joe lifted his feet off the ground. The door started to swing closed under his weight, sending him back toward the car. Joe braced his feet against the door, then let go with his hands and kicked. He
15
fell onto the backseat. The door whipped open once more, bounced back, and slammed shut.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it," Frank said, relieved.
Joe scrambled into the front seat and slipped on his seat belt. "Yeah, but I haven't caught them yet. Nice car. Where'd you get it?"
"Oh, it was just sitting there waiting for me." Frank cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the two- way radio under the dashboard. "Try to get us some backup while I see if I can catch that sedan."
Joe took the microphone from the radio and hit a button on it twice with his thumb. "Ten- four. Is anybody out there?"
A voice crackled from the speaker. "Car twelve, what's going on? Andy, didn't your charter show up?"
"This isn't Andy," Joe said. "This is Joe Hardy. My brother and I borrowed this car to chase down a kidnapper in a canary yellow sedan. Think we could get some local help on this?"
"You guys cops?" the voice asked.
"Um, sort of. We're heading— Well, I'm not sure which direction. What road are you on when you pull left out of the airport?"
The voice hardened. "You're on Las Vegas Boulevard. The Strip, man. Did you say your name was Hardy? Frank Hardy?"
"That's my brother. I'm Joe."
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"I don't care who you are. If you're not a cop, get that car back here right now or we report it stolen! You got me?"
"Sorry," Joe said. "We can't do that. See what you can do about getting the local police out here, okay?" He hung up the microphone and switched off the radio.
"Think we made him angry?" Joe asked, grinning.
"I think that's the car up there," Frank said, pointing to a yellow dot far ahead. The dot made a sharp left, and Frank took the same turn, concentrating on catching the sedan.
"Wow," he heard Joe comment as they moved along the two-lane road that cut across flat brown desert. "This car can really cook! We're bound to catch up with them in the long run."
"Yeah." Frank kept his eyes locked on the yellow sedan as the distance between the two cars narrowed. "We don't know how good the driver is, though. And if we do catch them, we don't know how violent they're willing to get. We could be driving into a shooting gallery."
"Thanks for reminding me," Joe said as the limo closed in on the sedan. Then Joe's voice turned grimmer. "Something's up."
Joe was right, Frank realized. The sedan was purposely slowing down, allowing them to get close enough for Frank to make out three, not two, figures in the car.
"The blond girl in the back is Beth," Joe said.
17
"The guy in the front passenger seat is the kidnapper. I didn't get a good look at the driver. All I can make out now is his silhouette. But I bet those guys were hired by Beth's father. She told me she was scared he'd try to stop her from seeing her fiancé."
Frank nodded. The glare of the afternoon sun against the sedan's windows made it hard to see inside. "They seem to be looking for something," Frank said, catching the odd motions of the heads in the other car. "This seems too violent and public to have been ordered by that girl's own father. They could just be kidnappers," Frank suggested. "If Beth's father is rich, they might have grabbed her for ransom."
"I don't know—" Joe didn't have time to continue. Frank had steered the limo onto another, even narrower side road in pursuit of the yellow car.
"What on earth is that?" said Joe, sounding startled. Frank, too, was staring at what appeared to be a miniature Las Vegas—a lot filled with billboards and marquees, neon signs and stacked automobiles, like a bizarre shrine right in the middle of the Nevada desert. A chain- link fence surrounded the area, but the gate was open.
"I've seen junkyards before, but never like this," Frank said with a whistle. "Wait—I've read about these. Neon graveyards, they're called.
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When casinos close or redecorate, the old signs and stuff have to go. Most of the stuff gets taken out here to the desert. I've heard of guys who hook up all the old neon signs so they can light them up at night."
"Looks like that's where the kidnappers are going," Joe said as the yellow car turned into the neon graveyard. "Think we can take them?"
"I guess we'll find out," answered Frank. In a little while he, too, turned into the graveyard through the gate.
"Wow. Now I know why they call it a graveyard," Joe remarked.
Frank nodded grimly. As they moved along the narrow drive, the lot was as silent as a tomb. Frank strained his ears to pick up any sound as he steered past huge stacks of molded glass tubing. The only sound besides the soft rumble of the luxury car's engine was the whistle of the desert wind. The kidnappers had vanished.
"Spooky, isn't—" Joe said. He was interrupted by a sudden loud hum. All the neon signs in the lot had been switched on, and the space was lit by an eerie red and gold glow. Before the brothers could react to the sight, a blast split the air.
"The tire's blown!" Frank cried, as the limo's rear tire exploded. The steering wheel wobbled, and Frank slammed his foot down on the brake. But the loose desert sand shifted under the three good tires, and the car skidded and spun.
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"The brakes have locked up!" Frank shouted. "Brace yourself, Joe. We're going to crash!"
Ahead of them loomed a huge neon hand holding four giant playing cards that blinked on and off. Frank and Joe cried out as the limo smashed into the ace of spades and came to a halt halfway through the sign.
"You okay?" Frank asked Joe in the silence that followed. Around them the other three cards continued to blink on and off, humming softly.
"Yeah," Joe said. "Good thing I was wearing my seat belt. Think we can get out of here?"
"Let's try," Frank said.
He reached for the door handle, his fingers almost squeezing it when Joe yelled, "Frank, wait!"
At the same instant Joe yelled, Frank realized what the trouble was. Electricity was making the sign hum and the neon cards flash. The car was sitting in the middle of the sign, which meant they were in an electrical current. . . .
All these thoughts went through Frank's mind in the split second it took for his fingers to brush against the metal door handle. By then, it was too late to pull back, and the electric shock jolted Frank sideways and into Joe.
"No!" Frank heard his brother cry as darkness fell over his eyes.
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Chapter 3
"Hold on, Frank." Joe gingerly pushed his unconscious brother away until his head rested against the back of the seat. In falling against him like that, Frank had nearly knocked Joe against the passenger door and shocked him as well.
Joe held the back of his hand under Frank's nose. Frank was breathing, strong and steady. The jolt had knocked him out, but he'd be all right. Frank must have only grazed the metal door handle. Joe knew full contact would have fried him.
"Well, now we know what kind of people we're dealing with," Joe muttered when no one came to turn off the signs. Joe wondered how he and Frank would ever get out of the
21
electrified limo. It was only a matter of time before one of them accidentally touched metal, and Joe didn't like the idea of dying in the middle of the desert. There was no hope of rescue. Only Beth and the kidnappers knew they were there. It could be days before anyone came to the neon graveyard.
"Frank," Joe said. His brother didn't move. "Frank!" he said again, louder. Still nothing.
He pinched Frank's nose closed. For a moment, Frank still didn't move. Then he coughed and sputtered, and Joe let go of his nose and held him close to keep him from flailing.
Frank blinked, bringing his gasping under control. He was extremely pale. "Joe? What happened?" he asked.
"You caught a few volts. I had to choke you to wake you up."
"Thanks a lot," said Frank, still extremely dazed. "Well, that's that, I guess. Time to get out of here and go get our luggage."
"Good idea," Joe said, humoring him. Any suggestions?"
"As long as we're insulated, we're okay. We can break windows, but we still have to get past the metal to get out. If only we could take insulation with us—" Frank snapped his fingers, fully alert now. "Move the front seat all the way up and climb into the backseat. Now.".
Joe did what Frank said. Frank followed him to the back. The boys sat side by side and
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grabbed hold of the back of the front seat and began to rock it back and forth.
Joe's palms tingled from the electric current as he pushed and pulled on the back of the seat to work it free of its moorings. Beside him, Frank chanted, "One, two, three, now!"
Grunting with effort, both boys yanked back at the same time. The seat back came loose and fell into their laps.
"Whew!" Joe held on to the slab of wood and padding. "And to think some people complain about bad workmanship in cars these days."
"Save the jokes until we're safe," said Frank.
"Okay," Joe replied. He and Frank turned the seat back sideways and aimed it at the rear windshield like a battering ram.
"Ready?" Frank said.
"You bet." Joe lifted his side of the seat back and helped Frank ram it through the rear window.
The glass shattered into a single crumpled sheet, and the seat back fell onto the trunk of the limo. Carefully Joe slid the seat back so it straddled the whole length of the trunk.
"Age before beauty," Joe told Frank.
Frank climbed through the broken window and somersaulted down the seat back while Joe held it firmly in place. Frank landed in a heap in the dirt, inches beyond the electrified car.
"I just thought of something, Joe," Frank said. "How are you going to get out? You
23
balanced the seat for me, but I can't get back to balance it for you."
"A fine time to think of that," Joe said. "But never fear. Here goes!"
"Joe! No!" Frank yelled, but there was no way to stop him now. Crouching for maximum leverage, Joe pushed off through the rear windshield and belly flopped onto the seat back. The impact sent the seat back sliding right off the trunk. Riding the seat back like a surfboard, Joe landed with a laugh at Frank's feet.
Frank stared at Joe as if he were out of his mind, which only made Joe laugh harder. Gradually, Frank began to chuckle, too.
They were still laughing when Joe heard clicks erupting all around them. Joe's grin froze. He knew the sounds of gun hammers clicking into place.
With a feeling of dread, Joe looked up to see a tall middle-aged man in a gray suit step warily forward from a ring of police officers with drawn revolvers. The cop trained his .38 on the Hardys. At first Joe thought the policeman was bald, but as he approached, Joe could make out blond hair cut close to his head. Joe shuddered. The officer's grim scowl didn't foretell a bright future for the boys.
"Hands up," the man said in a southwestern drawl. "Sergeant Hirsch, Las Vegas Police. You boys are under arrest."
* * *
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"Honest, sir, we were just trying to save the girl," Joe insisted a couple of hours later when Sergeant Hirsch reentered the interrogation room riffling a small stack of papers in his hand. "We didn't fly all the way down here to smash up somebody's junkyard."
"It doesn't matter anymore, anyway," the tall, wiry sergeant said unhappily. "You boys are off the hook. The junkyard owners don't want to pursue trespassing or vandalism charges, and the car company says their insurance will cover damages. No one's charging you with anything. Your chauffeur is checking with a lawyer, though," he added, glaring at Frank, "to see if there's anything he can sue you for."
"We had a driver?" Joe said to Frank.
Hirsch cut him off. "I also checked with the police in Bayport, of course. They give you a clean bill of health. And the chess people verify that Frank is enrolled in their tournament."
"Does that mean we can go?" asked Frank.
"Not so fast," Hirsch said. "I still have a lot of unanswered questions. At the top of the list is this one: how come you just happened to get into a conversation with a young lady on your plane minutes before she was kidnapped?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe was getting tired of Hirsch and his accusations. "I already told you, I thought she was cute and sat down to talk to her. That's all. It was just a coincidence!"
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"That's what you claim, bright boy," Hirsch said. "But Bayport sent your records, and I know you two have been up to your necks in other people's business before. If I were a gambling man I'd bet there's lots you've been involved with that didn't even make it onto your record. You aren't going to convince me your connection to a kidnapping victim is a coincidence."
"You don't gamble?" Frank said, trying to distract him.
Hirsch scowled. "Gambling's for suckers." He slammed the stack of paper down on the table and glared at the Hardys. "I want you to know I've notified the girl's father that she was taken. He's on his way here now in his private plane."
Hirsch added gravely, "Mr. Cornelius is a powerful man, not only in New York but in Las Vegas and several other cities, too. He's been known to get nasty, especially when his daughter's safety is threatened. That means that if you two are involved in this kidnapping in any way, Cornelius will get wind of it sooner or later. And then you'll be hoping for me to come to your rescue. Understand?"
The Hardys stared at him without answering.
"Okay, you can go," Hirsch grumbled, motioning them toward the door.
"Thanks," Frank said shortly. Joe didn't feel like saying even that much.
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"A couple of other things," Hirsch added just before the Hardys reached the door. "That license number you read off the sedan? It doesn't exist."
"I know I read it right," Frank said. "How's that possible?"
Hirsch shrugged. "Car thieves take two different plates, cut them in half, and weld the pieces together to get new license numbers."
"So you think car thieves are involved?" Joe asked.
Hirsch shrugged. "Who knows? Your kidnapper friends might have bought the plates from someone. You're staying at the Camelot, right?"
"The kidnappers aren't our friends," Frank replied curtly. "And, yes, we are."
Hirsch nodded. "Stay at the Camelot, boys. And I mean stay there. Don't leave the building. If you should get bored hanging around your hotel, just remember that you're too young to gamble legally. I have officers everywhere."
"We don't gamble," Joe said.
"You amateur detectives are the worst kind of gamblers," Hirsch replied. "Other people gamble with money. You gamble with lives."
* * *
The police car dropped Frank and Joe off at the front entrance of the Camelot. Joe had never seen anything like the gigantic hotel built to look like a castle from the days of King Arthur. And when they stepped inside, Joe noticed that the
27
employees were dressed as knights or ladies-in- waiting. The men wore lightweight suits of armor and the women wore long, flowing gowns.
"Wow. I feel as if we just stepped onto a movie set," Joe said, staring at the bustling crowds in the enormous lobby as Frank checked them in. Nearby, a sunken room, larger than a football field, held dozens of rows of slot machines. The pitlike area was filled with guests madly feeding coins into the machines.
Joe turned away from the sight to accept the room key Frank tossed to him. "You go up and wait for the luggage," Frank said. "The desk clerk said she'd send someone to the airport to get it for us."
"Where will you be?" Joe asked.
"I'm going to get some money. The desk clerk says there's a bank with a money machine at the far end of the lobby. I might take a quick look around the place, too."
Joe nodded. "Maybe you should get a little extra cash." He pointed to the slot machines and to the banner that hung over the room.
" 'Slots Competition—One Million Dollar Grand Prize,' " Joe read out loud. "Sounds interesting!"
"You told Hirsch we didn't gamble," Frank reminded him.
Joe winced. "We don't, but, Frank, a million dollars! Why should only one of us be in a tournament here, right?"
28
Frank laughed and began to walk away.
Joe took one last longing look at the banners before crossing the lobby to the bank of elevators. He rode up to the twenty-second floor.
"This is it?" Joe muttered as he entered their room. From the way the lobby was decorated, Joe realized, he'd been expecting more. The room was nice enough, with two beds, a television, and a small balcony. But while the rest of the hotel was done up as a medieval castle, their room had only plain bedspreads and paintings of flowers and ducks that wouldn't have looked out of place in the Hardys' house.
"Oh, well," he said, and sprawled out on one of the beds. It was only early evening, but he was tired after the long flight and the excitement at the airport. How can I complain when it's free—and I'm in Fun City, U.S.A.? he thought as he drifted off.
It seemed only an instant later when Joe awoke to the sound of someone rapping on the door. "Frank?" he called sleepily, sitting up. He glanced out the window. It was nearly dark outside. Joe realized he must have slept for over an hour.
The rapping sounded again. "Okay, Frank, hold your horses," Joe grumbled, getting up to open the door. Just as he unlatched it and gave it a pull, the door slammed open, knocking Joe back against the wall.
"Hey!" Joe sputtered as a pair of rough hands
29
grabbed him by the collar. Instinctively, Joe punched at the face in front of him, but the blow bounced off the man's jaw, and Joe found himself staring into dark, blank eyes.
"Shut up!" The man's hand moved like lightning and cracked against the side of Joe's head. Dazed, Joe felt himself being dragged across the floor. A door was slid open. Then the heat of the outdoors was on his face, and his feet were dangling into empty space.
Joe opened his eyes and gasped. His attacker was dangling him at arm's length off the balcony, holding on to nothing but the front of Joe's shirt. This guy was practically a giant, Joe realized.
"Hello there, Joe!" Another man appeared behind the attacker. The short, middle-aged newcomer was suavely dressed in an expensive- looking sports jacket. Joe squinted and took in his receding blond hairline and thin, fine-boned face with glasses perched on his nose. Joe tried to figure out why the man seemed so familiar.
"This is Elroy," the newcomer said, waving a thumb at the giant dangling Joe over the balcony. "You can call me Mr. Cornelius. My friends in the Vegas police department tell me you know my daughter."
Joe said nothing. So this was Beth's father. Joe felt his stomach do a somersault as he continued to dangle out over the railing.
As though he knew what Joe was thinking,
30
Cornelius said, "The way I see it, Joe—may I call you Joe?—you have two choices. You can talk to me and take me to my daughter, or Elroy here can drop you twenty-two stories to that concrete drive below."
The man moved closer to the railing, watching Joe with a chilling smile. "Which will it be, kid?" he demanded casually. "A little chat with me, or certain death?"
31
Chapter 4
Frank Hardy walked into the hotel room and stopped. It wasn't the first time he had found his brother's life hanging by a thread, but it sure wasn't what he'd expected right then.
"What's going on?" he asked, careful to give no sign of how scared he was.
The thug holding Joe cocked his head to see where the voice was coming from, and Mr. Cornelius turned slowly to reveal a sharklike smile stretched across his lips.
"This is Mr. Cornelius, Frank," Joe called from the balcony, covering up his fear with mock politeness. "You remember—Beth's father?"
Frank gave the well-dressed man another glance. Something about the name and face struck a familiar note, but Frank couldn't
32
understand why. He was too worried about Joe to concentrate hard.
"You must be Joe's brother," Cornelius said, eyeing Frank. "The other kidnapper!"
"Hmmm?" Frank said, forcing himself to pay attention. "You'll have to explain that one. Maybe you could bring him back inside while you do." Frank nodded in Joe's direction. "Then we could talk about this in private. Otherwise, there could be a dozen witnesses downstairs who'll feel they have to interfere."
Cornelius smiled. "I like you, kid. You've got nerve." He snapped his fingers. "Okay, Elroy, reel the fish in."
Without a word, the muscleman dumped Joe on the balcony. Joe scrambled to his feet, and Elroy shoved him into the room behind Cornelius.
"Sit down," Cornelius ordered, pointing to two thickly padded chairs along a wall. When neither Frank nor Joe moved, he shouted, "Sit down!" leaving no doubt that they didn't have a choice.
"Now," he continued after the Hardys had taken their seats, "how about telling me what you did with my little girl?"
"We tried to get her back," Frank snapped. "Two men in a yellow sedan grabbed her. We chased them out into the desert."
Cornelius waved a hand in the air, dismissing Frank's statement. "What do you think I am, a moron? You're two total strangers who never
33
met my daughter before today, and you risked your lives to save her from unknown kidnappers? Nobody, but nobody, would believe that one."
Frank checked out Joe, but neither of them said a word.
"Tell me the truth!" Cornelius shouted. Elroy took a menacing step toward the Hardys. "You're out of your league here, boys," Cornelius snarled. "I want answers, and they'd better be good. What is it? You don't think I'm smart enough for you—just because you're detectives?"
Frank flinched at the word, and Cornelius smiled. "Yeah, I had you checked out," he said. "Perfect front guys for a kidnapping—no cop in the country would arrest the sons of Fenton Hardy. How long have you low-rent creeps been working on this? Since New York? How'd you get my Beth on the plane, huh?"
"What's he talking about?" Joe asked Frank.
Frank shrugged. "I guess we'll find out."
"Oh, yeah." The smile slid from Cornelius's lips. "You'll find out. We'll all find out! Won't we, Elroy?"
"How?" Joe said. "You're going to torture us?"
The smile came back, slicker than before. "I don't think it's something we can pursue here, anyway. Escort them, Elroy."
Elroy grabbed Frank and Joe by the shoulders
34
and hauled them to their feet. "Let's go," he mumbled.
"Yes, sir!" Joe muttered as Elroy shoved them to the door.
"You'll never get us out of the building," Frank pointed out as the four of them moved down the deserted hallway to wait for the elevator. "We'd have to go past too many people to get to the door."
"Smart kid," Cornelius sneered. "That's the sort of thinking I'd expect from a big detective like you. I guess it's a good thing we're not leaving the Camelot, then."
The elevator arrived, and Elroy pushed the Hardys inside. Cornelius stepped in after them, took a key from his pocket, and stuck it into the control panel. Frank felt his stomach sink when he saw the key.
"What's the key for?" Joe demanded.
"You want to tell him or should I?" Cornelius said to Frank. When Frank didn't answer, Cornelius continued. "See, kid, this hotel has all kinds of luxury features. Rock stars, politicians—anyone who needs quiet and security and can afford to rent it—can get the whole top floor all to themselves. You can't get up there without a key, though. And once the hotel rents you the floor, even their own security people don't get a copy of the key. Perfect privacy, you might say."
Frank couldn't miss the implied threat. Once he and Joe walked onto that top floor, they
35
would simply vanish, unless they told Cornelius what he wanted to know.
Cornelius turned the key, and the elevator began rising slowly. Just then Frank remembered where he'd seen the man before. "Wait a minute!" he said. "You're Jerome Cornelius, aren't you! I saw a report on you once." Frank strained to recall what he had read. "You're some kind of cutthroat businessman. You specialize in pressuring up-and-coming businesses into selling out to you, and then you sell off all their assets for a quick buck."
"I've never been convicted of anything illegal," Cornelius said sharply.
"No, but you've been indicted a dozen times for strong-arming people into doing business with you. Funny how witnesses change their stories after a hospital stay," Frank said while Joe eyed the slowly changing floor indicator above the door.
"Keep it up, pal," Cornelius snapped. "You'll find out all about strong-arming."
"Let me ask you something," Frank said. "What makes you so sure we kidnapped Beth?"
Cornelius spun around and raised a fist to Frank. "I know you're involved in this caper because no one could stumble into it by accident, see?"
He pulled back his arm and lowered it, still glaring at Frank. "How much did you figure on
36
hitting me up for?" Cornelius demanded. "What was the ransom going to be?"
"How much have you got?" Joe said. His eyes, and Frank's, were on the lights above the door that indicated they had reached the top floor. Frank's gaze dropped to meet Joe's. Joe gave a tiny nod, indicating that he had a plan.
As the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, Joe yelled, "Now!"
He spun, driving his fist as hard as he could into Elroy's ear. Frank picked up his cue and swiftly swept his arm around, driving his palm flat against Elroy's other ear. The big man's eyes snapped wide open and then went blank. As the shock to his eardrums settled in, Elroy dropped to his knees, his hands over his ears.
Cornelius plunged one hand inside his suitcoat and drew out a small pistol.
"Joe!" Frank said, punching the Open Door button on the control panel.
Joe drove his shoulder into Cornelius as if he were plowing through a running back on a football field and knocked the older man out the door. Frank grabbed Joe and yanked him back in, then hit the Close Door button.
As Cornelius got to one knee and started to take aim, the doors slid closed.
"What do we do about Godzilla?" Joe yelled. Behind them, Elroy had staggered to his feet, hands still cupping his ears.
Frank punched the Express button. The
37
elevator dropped like a stone, bypassing all the floors to the lobby.
"Keep him down," Frank ordered. All they needed was a minute, until the doors opened and they could escape into the immense hotel lobby.
That was too long, though. Elroy jumped up and lunged at Joe, clamping his huge hands around the boy's neck.
"Frank!" Joe's face reddened as Elroy's grip tightened.
Frank hurled himself against the big man's back, driving an elbow into Elroy's spine. Unfazed, Elroy lifted Joe up by the neck with one hand and turned to glare at Frank. A soft, guttural growl came from Elroy's throat. His free hand shot out and grabbed Frank by the neck as well.
Just as Elroy was lifting Frank up, too, the elevator doors opened.
Outside in the lobby, a crowd was waiting to enter. A woman in the crowd screamed.
For a moment Elroy hesitated. Frank felt the man's grip loosen around his neck.
"Kick!" Frank gurgled at Joe, not even certain the sound would come out. He brought his knees up and braced his feet against Elroy's chest. Joe did the same. Then they shoved out with their feet, straightening their legs until they were fully extended. Elroy slammed back against the elevator wall, and Frank and Joe sailed backward, going into twin flips as they hit the floor.
38
"Joe," Frank gasped, glancing over his shoulder. Elroy was after them already. "If we get into a fight here we'll have the hotel security staff down on us. I don't want to get bumped out of the competition."
"Gee, I'm glad you thought of that," Joe said sarcastically, ignoring the crowds staring at them as they took off running. Ahead of them a young man in a medieval squire's costume hurried through a door, letting it swing wide open. On the door was a sign: Employees Only.
"In here, Frank," Joe yelled. He grabbed the door and held it open. Frank followed Joe in, then slammed the door and bolted it behind him. It was a solid steel door, he noted, strong enough to keep even Elroy out.
Frank sank to one knee to catch his breath. He noticed he was kneeling in dirt instead of on tile or carpet. Then he became aware of a noise like thunder—a rolling, staccato sound that seemed to be growing louder.
Frank raised his head, alarmed.
A horse in medieval armor was bearing down on them. Astride the horse was a knight, also in full armor.
"W-wait a minute," Frank stammered, wondering if he'd been knocked unconscious and was dreaming. The knight's lance shone in the overhead light, and Frank could actually taste the dust kicked up by the horse's hooves.
39
"It's real!" Frank heard Joe shout as both boys whirled in the opposite direction to see another knight on horseback charging from the other side.
"You bet it's real!" Frank yelled. "And we're caught in the middle!"
40
Chapter 5
Joe shoved his brother back against the wall out of the way of one rider. He stumbled when he started to run himself and fell to the dirt floor.
The first horse was safely past, but the second one was thundering toward him. Eight hundred pounds of beast, man, and metal were bearing down on him. The horse lengthened its pace just before it reached Joe's prone body.
This is it, Joe thought, closing his eyes. But, miraculously, the horse and rider sailed over him without touching him. Both riders stopped at the far end of the room and turned back to the Hardys, their horses stamping the ground impatiently.
Somewhere someone yelled, "Security!"
The space they were in was surrounded by high wooden walls. Beyond the walls, people sat
41
at tables feasting on plates of meat, bread, and fruit. The people wore ordinary clothes and were staring at the Hardys in amazement.
It's a hotel restaurant, Joe realized. Customers were being entertained during their meal by knights jousting in a mock medieval tournament.
Frank and Joe had become unwelcome additions to the entertainment.
"Joe!" Frank whispered. "Let's get out of here!"
Joe hesitated. On the one hand, he knew that Elroy was probably just beyond that steel door. On the other hand, he thought, as he watched hotel security guards charge toward them, staying there could get them into more trouble. It might even cost Frank the chess championship. The electronic games company wasn't likely to want a juvenile delinquent as its award winner.
As Frank unbolted the door, Joe hoped Elroy had given up on them and gone back to Cornelius. His heart sank when a gruff voice greeted them as they reentered the hall.
"Hello, boys," said Elroy.
"Hi there, stranger," Joe quipped weakly. "Going up, I guess?"
* * *
"This is some place," Joe muttered to Frank as Elroy shoved the two of them into the penthouse from the elevator. He took in the floors and walls of polished marble. Electric lights designed like torches hung from the walls. The
42
suite seemed to wind on forever, a maze of rooms that finally led to a sunken living room framed with huge oak timbers.
"If the Camelot is a castle," Joe commented to his brother, "these are definitely the king's chambers."
Cornelius, relaxed and dressed now in a silk robe, sat watching the financial news on television. As Elroy nudged Frank and Joe into the room, Cornelius flashed them his toothy smile and patted a couch, signaling them to sit.
This time they sat right away.
"Don't look so glum, boys," Cornelius said cheerfully. "At least you get to see real luxury. Most people never get anywhere near a place like this."
He hit a button on the remote control, and the television clicked off. He pushed another button, and the television sank into the floor, instantly making the room appear even more elegant and spacious.
"You should take a look at my balcony," Cornelius continued. "You can see the whole city and the desert for miles around. The view is splendid at night."
"No, thanks," Joe said. "I've had enough of balconies for one day."
Cornelius laughed. "You never know, kid." Then his voice turned chilly. "Enough jokes. You two have thirty seconds to tell me where
43
my little girl is, or you'll go air-surfing off my balcony. Elroy!"
Elroy stepped up behind Frank and Joe, not laying a hand on them but shoving them, couch and all, toward the balcony.
"Hey!" Joe yelled. "Watch it!"
"I can't hear you," Cornelius said. "Twenty seconds."
"You're wrong about all this," Frank said. "Just listen to me for a second!"
"Ten seconds," Cornelius said. Elroy shoved them again.
Just as Joe started to panic, a familiar voice floated in from the next room. "Anybody home?"
Cornelius and Elroy froze as Sergeant Hirsch stepped into the living room, holding his badge up for everyone to see. "Hirsch, LVPD. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"You're Hirsch, eh?" Cornelius growled. "I spoke with you on the phone. How did you get in here?"
Hirsch wiggled a key by its chain on his finger. It was obviously a duplicate of the key Cornelius had used in the elevator. Joe and Frank exchanged relieved glances as Cornelius's face grew red with anger.
"There's supposed to be only one key to this place," Cornelius protested.
"With all due respect, it's a bad idea to believe everything you read in brochures," Hirsch replied, nodding at the boys. "The hotels in this
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town prefer to cooperate with the police—especially when renting to a man of your reputation, Mr. Cornelius."
Cornelius trembled with rage. In a low, barely controlled voice, he said, "Why are you here, Hirsch? Do you have news about my daughter?"
Hirsch pointed at Frank and Joe. "I'm here for them."
"I don't think Mr. Cornelius will let us leave," Frank said. "He seems to think we kidnapped his daughter."
Sergeant Hirsch looked surprised. "Why would he think that?"
Joe said pointedly, "Someone at the police station gave him that idea."
Hirsch's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Cornelius, I can assure you that the Las Vegas Police do not suspect Frank or Joe Hardy of having taken part in the kidnapping. Our evidence only indicates that they made a mess of trying to prevent it, endangering the lives of others in the process.
"In fact," Hirsch continued, "the boys have agreed to use their detecting talents to help us in this investigation."
Joe exchanged a surprised look with his brother. This was the first Joe had heard about the Las Vegas Police Department wanting help.
"I assure you, Mr. Cornelius, that the Hardys can help us find your daughter," the sergeant said. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we need some privacy to discuss the specifics of the case."
45
"Are you keeping secrets from me?" Cornelius demanded.
"Of course not, sir," Hirsch said, herding the boys out of the room. "We'll be in touch as soon as we have news, sir. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy your stay here—as always."
* * *
After they got into the elevator, Frank said, "Is this some good cop-bad cop routine you worked out with Cornelius? He threatens us if we don't talk. Then you show up to save us, and we go all soft for you and tell you what you want to know?"
"What do I want to know?" Hirsch said, inserting his key in the elevator control panel. "Do you have some information you haven't given me?"
"No," said Joe. "But no one believes us."
"I believe you," Hirsch said shortly. "Frankly, just about anyone who's an enemy of Jerome Cornelius is an ally of mine. And, no, I'm not working with the man. I'd need a very good reason to work with a gangster like that. But he is the girl's father, and he has a right to be involved in the case. Besides, you can see how concerned he is—he flew right here the instant I contacted him."
"By the way, how did you know where we were?" Frank asked.
"I was just going to get on an elevator in the lobby to go up to visit you when I saw that thug
46
shove you into another elevator," Hirsch replied briskly. "When I saw it was going up, I watched to see where it stopped. It took me a few minutes to squeeze the extra key out of the desk clerk."
"Squeeze?" Joe said. "I thought you said the hotels cooperated with the police."
Hirsch chuckled. "In your dreams. Their customers come first. I understand that. But there's no reason Cornelius has to know."
"So, what was all that stuff about us working with you?"
"You are," Hirsch said. "On special assignment, if you're willing. Are you willing?"
Joe tried to read his brother's face. He couldn't. Frank was pursing his lips, thinking.
Finally Frank nodded.
"Okay," Joe said, too. "Frank's going to be busy with the chess competition, but I don't have much to do. I'll be glad to help. If you really need him, Frank will step in when he can."
"It's a deal," Hirsch said. "Be in my office at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I'll talk with Cornelius again to make sure he doesn't bother you. And thanks."
Thanks for what? Joe wondered. What did Hirsch want them to do?
* * *
Early the next morning Joe left Frank at the auditorium inside the Camelot where the contest
47
was to be held and hurried outside for his first walking tour of Las Vegas. It was a perfect day—warm, sunny, and dry. The bright green lawns around the hotels contrasted sharply with Joe's memory of his drive through the desert the day before.
He decided to walk all the way to the police station so he could see as much of Las Vegas as possible before Hirsch put him to work. Armed with a city map, he strode briskly along the wide sidewalk, amazed that no one else was out walking. Joe guessed they were all inside gambling already. Anyway, he thought, the hotels were so enormous that most tourists probably never went outside.
By the time Joe reached the police station, he was half blind from the glitz and glitter of fake volcanoes, centurion doormen, and the occasional couple in evening dress stumbling back in the morning light to their hotel. Feeling dazed, he approached the front desk and told the desk sergeant, "Joe Hardy to see Sergeant Hirsch, please."
The desk sergeant, a bulldog of a man, stared at Joe. "What was the name?"
"Joe Hardy," Joe repeated.
"Hardy," the desk sergeant said. He vanished down a hallway. A few seconds later he returned and pointed down the hall. "That way. You'll see him."
Joe walked down the hall. It was the cleanest
48
police station he had ever seen. Even the doorknobs were shined. It was, he thought, the least you'd expect from a city that depended completely on tourism for its income.
He came to a partly open door and saw Hirsch inside, leaning over a table speaking to someone Joe couldn't see. Joe pushed the door open.
He froze.
Sitting at the table in an elegant white suit was Jerome Cornelius, with Elroy hovering behind him like a monstrous shadow. On the table in front of Cornelius was a black leather briefcase.
"Hello, Joe," Hirsch said. "I trust we can all forget yesterday's unpleasantness. Please take a seat."
Joe sat down across from Cornelius. The older man glared at him, and Joe stared in return.
"Glad you could make it, Joe," Hirsch continued. "You're the cornerstone of our little plan."
"What plan?" Joe asked.
"Open the briefcase, Mr. Cornelius," Hirsch suggested.
Very reluctantly Cornelius opened it. All it contained was a single piece of paper.
Joe looked closer. The single piece of paper was a certified check—for one million dollars.
"You're the go-between, Joe," Hirsch said briskly, all business now. "You will deliver the ransom indirectly to the kidnappers. You and your brother are to open a joint savings account
49
with this check, and then the kidnappers will withdraw the money later."
"How can that work? No one can take money out of someone else's account," Joe said reasonably.
"I'm sure there'll be another set of instructions later. This is probably just a temporary plan to see if we follow directions and if the money is really deposited," Hirsch answered.
"Why me?" Joe could feel his pulse speed up at the thought of getting so deeply involved.
"You tell us, Hardy," Cornelius growled. "The police got a call from the kidnappers last night. They laid out the terms of the payoff— how, when, who."
"And they demanded that the ransom be delivered by you," Hirsch said softly.
Joe turned to the sergeant. "Please," he groaned, "tell me I'm dreaming!"
50
Chapter 6
"Welcome, everyone.
Frank shifted in his chair as an attractive young woman in a gray suit addressed the chess players in the auditorium of the Camelot Hotel. Both she and the players were on the stage. The young woman stood beside a minicomputer on an elaborate stand, and the seven young finalists sat at a crescent-shaped row of computer terminals, facing her. Behind them, rows of upholstered seats rose from the floor of the auditorium near the stage, almost to the ceiling in the rear.
To Frank's relief, the six other competitors, all winners from different districts around the country, looked as apprehensive as he felt as they settled into their places at the terminals. Above them hung giant video screens that would
51
allow the audience to watch their chess games in progress. Frank was glad the young woman spoke with such assurance and in a gentle voice. Pretty, with short brown hair, she smiled at the teenage contestants, putting them a little more at ease.
"My name is Janet Lassen. The Rightway Electronics Corporation has asked me, as one of the Thinker's designers, to oversee this tournament," the woman continued. "Thank you for coming to this orientation session."
Frank nodded absently. The Thinker was the name of the chess program that all seven players would compete against. At every meet so far, a picture of Rodin's famous statue of a man thinking, chin in hand, had been prominently displayed. Lately Frank had been seeing the statue in his dreams.
"All of you won your local competitions, so I'm sure you understand the rules," Ms. Lassen continued. "But let me refresh your memories. We don't want anyone to be disqualified."
Frank realized suddenly that though the other competitors' eyes were on Ms. Lassen, their minds were probably already focused on the game. All the terminals were connected to the minicomputer set up in the middle of the playing area. It seemed amazing to Frank that one of the players sitting there would go home in three days with ten thousand dollars.
Ms. Lassen said, "As you know, this
52
tournament is open only to amateur players, ages thirteen to nineteen. Remember that you will be playing not against one another but against the computer. This drastically increases the difficulty of the game. To beat the computer at chess, the player needs total concentration and a very creative mind."
"Not so creative," objected a young man a couple of seats to Frank's right. "The computer's only as good as the programmer, right? If the program has bugs, the computer can make all kinds of mistakes, thinking they're appropriate moves."
Frank craned his neck to get a look at the speaker. He was short, with black hair and big glasses. Joe, Frank thought, would have called him a nerd, but Frank considered him an intelligent opponent.
Ms. Lassen smiled tightly at the young man as if he were the village idiot. "My company has written the finest chess program in the world," she said emphatically. "Our program does not have bugs."
"Every program has bugs," the young man said, but Ms. Lassen ignored him and went on with her orientation speech. Frank heard a girl to his right laugh softly.
"Each of you will play eight games over two days. You have up to six hours a day in which to play, and we suggest you take your time. The person who wins the greatest number of games
53
wins the tournament. In the event of a tie, the tied players will play as many games as necessary to break the tie.
"Remember, there will be no conversation of any kind once play has begun. We suggest you take the time now to mingle. We'll reconvene here at noon for the first day's play. Good luck, and may the best chess player win."
As Ms. Lassen left, the teenagers turned to one another shyly. "I guess we should introduce ourselves," Frank said as they all stood up and gathered awkwardly together. "My name is Frank Hardy. I'm the Northeastern District winner."
A bright-faced girl with long red hair extended a hand. Frank shook it. "Carlene Dunn, Miles City, Montana. Great Plains District."
A tall, dark-skinned youth with a wild, wiry haircut stepped forward to shake Frank's hand. "We've already met, Frank. Well, sort of. I'm Kyle Payton, Atlanta, Georgia. Remember?"
"Kyle!" Frank said, brightening. "I don't believe it! Sure I remember you. We used to play chess by mail when we were . . . what? Thirteen?"
"Twelve for me. My birthday's at the end of the year. Hey, good luck, man, and it's great to finally meet you in person."
"Yeah, you, too," Frank said. He knew from experience that Kyle would be a tough competitor. "Good luck."
54
Frank turned to shake hands with the next young man and found himself facing a player with the rugged good looks of a movie star. "I'm Victor Julian," the dark-haired boy said as Frank took in the cool, brooding eyes that made him think Victor would be tough to beat. Victor's smile was so big and infectious, however, that Frank immediately thought of him as a friend. "You look too old to be in this contest," Frank said.
Victor threw back his head and laughed. "I know, I know!" he said in an engagingly cheerful manner. "But I'm only nineteen, so I just made it under the wire. I'm from Cupertino, California. I won the Western District."
"Wow," said the girl next to Victor. Frank realized that she was only about five feet tall, and was probably much younger than the other contestants. "Cupertino's right in the heart of Silicon Valley, isn't it? I bet you know everything there is to know about computers."
Victor blushed. "Well, I try. You are ... ?"
The girl giggled nervously. Frank smiled at how shy she was. "Oh! I'm sorry! Louisa Shan. I'm the first member of my family to be born here in the United States, which I guess means I could be president ha-ha. Um—I'm fourteen, and I come from Port Lavaca, Texas. I'm the Southwestern District champion."
"It's great meeting you," Victor said, shaking her hand.
55
"Jeez, talk, talk, talk," said the loud young man who had questioned Ms. Lassen. "I came here to play chess, not socialize."
"Got a name, sport?" Victor asked, turning toward him.
The young man sighed. "Name: Mike Ayres. Age: seventeen. Rank: freshman at University of Wisconsin, winner of the Great Lakes District." His rigid expression broke as he added, "I creamed those amateurs, and I'm going to kick your— Well, you know. Anyone got any other bright questions?"
Frank barely restrained a laugh. Despite the obnoxious speech and nasal voice, there was something refreshing about Mike that broke the polite tension in the room. Carlene began to chuckle, Kyle choked on his own repressed laughter, and in seconds everyone, including Mike, was laughing.
Victor looked around the room. "Where's that other guy?"
"George?" Mike asked. "George Potrero. Odd guy. I talked with him a little on the way in. He comes from the Northwest District, and he doesn't want anything to do with anyone else." Mike leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "I think he's sweet on some girl out here." He stressed the word girl, and winked as if a great secret had been passed around.
"How about a midmorning snack?" Carlene
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said. "Our meals in the hotel coffee shop are free, you know—compliments of Rightway Electronics."
"Sounds great," Frank said, and the others nodded their agreement. Together they walked out of the auditorium, each wishing the others the best of luck, but with their fingers crossed for luck for themselves.
As Frank passed through the door, a hand plucked at his sleeve. Joe was standing there, solemnly holding a briefcase. "What are you doing here?" Frank asked. "I thought you were with Sergeant Hirsch."
"We have a little situation here, Frank. I need you to go to the bank with me."
"The—" Frank could see Joe was in no mood to explain while standing in the hotel lobby. He called to the others, "I'm going to have to skip the snack. Something's come up. I'll see you at the tournament, okay?"
His fellow chess players waved goodbye, and Frank turned back to Joe. "This had better not take too long."
"It won't," Joe said. "It's the bank here in the hotel where you went for money yesterday."
"That small branch office?" Frank asked, dismayed. When Joe nodded, he shrugged and said, "Let's go."
As Frank walked through the long hotel lobby with Joe, he had a feeling they were being watched by men lounging along the walls or
57
playing the slot machines. The men all seemed normal enough, but there was something familiar about them—something that Frank couldn't quite put his finger on.
Then he had it. Cops. Cops were watching them.
"Here's the bank," Frank announced to his brother, feeling as nervous now as Joe was acting. He led Joe inside, where Joe steered him to the manager's desk.
The manager was a heavyset older man with pale skin and half-closed eyes. "May I help you?" he asked wearily.
"Yes," Joe said. "We need to open a savings account. A joint account for Frank and Joe Hardy."
"What?" Frank said, turning to his brother.
"I'll explain later," Joe whispered.
"How much do you wish to deposit?" the bank manager asked, pulling out a new account form and beginning to fill it out.
"This," Joe said.
The manager sat straight up in his chair as Joe opened the briefcase. Frank straightened, too, and his eyes widened when he saw the amount written on the check.
"It's a certified check," Joe pointed out, "so it should clear right away."
Frank stared at his brother, suddenly finding it impossible to breathe. "A million dollars!" he
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croaked as the manager examined the check suspiciously. "Joe, that's not our money."
"Shh!" Joe said. He stood up and motioned Frank to move a short distance away from the manager, who was even more suspicious after Frank's reaction.
"I told you I'd explain later," Joe muttered to his brother. "Cornelius gave it to me for the kidnappers. They insisted that we open a savings account and said they would withdraw the ransom later."
Frank took a step back, staring at Joe in amazement. "That's pretty dumb. How will they get money out of our account?"
Joe just shrugged.
"Do you realize," Frank said slowly, thinking, "that someone might be trying to frame us! If anything happens to that money while it's in our names, we're dead meat!"
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Chapter 7
"This is not a good day," Joe said quietly. "I honestly can't figure out what's going on."
"Me neither," Frank agreed. "This whole thing stinks. Think about it. Why us?"
"We did try to stop them. This could be some kind of payback."
"Payback, how?" Frank dismissed that suggestion with a wave. "And how do they know our names? Our names didn't enter into this until after we were picked up by the police."
"Yeah. Well, that's when all this trouble with Cornelius began, too," Joe agreed. "You don't think a cop could be behind this?"
"We can't eliminate any possibility yet," Frank said. "There's more that doesn't make sense, too. The only people who knew we were
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in that neon graveyard were the kidnappers. I'd assumed that that chauffeur called the cops when I took off with his car, and that the cops happened to find us by accident. But that doesn't really work. What if the kidnappers called the cops? Maybe they panicked when we got caught in that sign and called the cops to rescue us."
"Okay, here's the scenario, then," said Joe. "The kidnappers grab Beth at the airport. We chase them, but they give us the slip after we crash into that sign. They know that if we get killed while chasing them during a kidnapping they can be accused of murder. They don't want a charge like that hanging over them on top of everything else. So they report our location to the police, hoping the cops will rescue us. Hirsch takes us to the station, and when Cornelius hears about us, he figures we're in on the kidnapping. When the real kidnappers learn that Cornelius thinks we're guilty, they decide to keep us in the game to confuse things."
"I'm sure confused," Frank admitted. "But that brings up another interesting question. Why would the kidnappers contact the police about the ransom? A kidnapper always contacts the person who'll pay the money and demands that the authorities be kept out of it."
Joe shrugged. "Face it, they're either brilliant or rank amateurs. Maybe both."
"This is getting us nowhere," Frank said, exasperated. "We don't know why the kidnappers
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chose this bank or how they plan to get the money out of our account. If they plan to. Even if the bank did agree to hand over the million, they'd have to show up to accept it, and they'd be arrested."
"Shhh." Joe pointed to the bank manager, who was motioning to them to return to his desk. His expression seemed more relaxed, Joe noticed, but it was still a long way from friendly.
"Here you are," he said in a clipped voice, sliding papers across the desk for Frank and Joe to sign. Surprised and very reluctant, Joe signed them and passed them to Frank. When Frank had signed, the manager gave the boys their copies and began stacking his own papers. "You understand, I hope, that this money will not be available for withdrawal until the check clears," he said.
"It's a certified check," Joe pointed out. "Aren't those cleared right away?"
"Not under these, um, circumstances," the manager replied sternly. "Don't worry, though," he added. "I'll telephone you personally when the proper procedures have been carried out."
"You do that," Joe said, trying to sound rich. He and Frank left the man sliding down farther and farther in his chair.
* * *
"Papers," Hirsch said, stepping in front of Frank and Joe the second they left the bank. The boys handed over the paperwork, including
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the slip with their account number on it. Hirsch checked his watch—eleven-fifty.
"Isn't it about time for your game?" he asked Frank.
"Just about," Frank said uncertainly, "but what about this? What's the plan?"
"We wait," Hirsch said simply. "Just as the kidnappers demanded. Don't worry. We're keeping an eye on that money." He gave the boys a mock salute. "Keep in touch."
"I still don't like it," Joe muttered as he walked Frank back to the auditorium.
This time Frank noticed that the cops had all cleared out.
"It sure did feel like a setup to me," Joe added, "especially at the end. If I could just figure out what the angle is."
"Don't talk about it now," Frank said shortly. "I have to play chess in less than ten minutes. I can't let anything break my concentration."
"You're right. Sorry." Joe opened the auditorium door for his brother. "Knock 'em dead, Frank. I'll drop in to watch later."
"Thanks. What are you going to do in the meantime?"
"I thought I'd take a look around town."
"Yeah, there's a lot to see," Frank said.
"Like Beth's fiancé, maybe," Joe agreed. "It won't be easy to find him, since I don't know his name, but Beth said he worked at one of the hotels around here."
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"Good idea," said Frank. "Watch yourself."
"By the way," said Joe, "did you memorize our account number?"
Frank smiled. "Of course." He went into the auditorium.
* * *
Joe decided to check out the personnel at the hotels along the Strip first, hoping to get lucky and find Beth's fiancé. That is, he reminded himself, if there is a fiancé. But if there isn't, why would Beth make the story up? He shook his head. The more he tried to figure out this case, the more complicated it got. He decided to have a talk with the clerks at his own hotel before trying the other establishments. "Who knows?" he said, talking to himself as he crossed the huge lobby. "The way things have been happening this weekend, I might run into Beth and her kidnappers in one of the casinos here. If I did, I wouldn't be at all surprised." Joe noticed people staring at him and promised not to talk to himself anymore.
A friendly talk with the desk clerk convinced Joe that no young male employees were missing any wealthy girlfriends due in from New York. Disappointed but still optimistic, Joe left the hotel and headed for another hotel complex shaped like an enormous spouting whale.
It was so hot and bright outside that Joe could understand why few people ever walked anyplace. One other guy on the street forced Joe to
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do a double take, though. It took him a couple of seconds to realize the man was just an Elvis Presley impersonator—not the real thing.
Joe took a shortcut across the whale hotel's parking lot, and his heart skipped a beat when he spotted a sedan that resembled the dusty yellow car. Unable to resist, Joe walked around the back to check the license plate. Then he remembered he had never memorized the number. Joe pressed his face against a side window and peered inside. There was nothing unusual in the car. It was obviously just a look-alike car.
Joe was about to turn to go when he caught a glimpse of movement behind him reflected in the window. Surprised, Joe wheeled around—-just quickly enough to see a mustached face behind him.
Then something cracked against the top of his skull, and Joe pitched forward without a word and landed against the yellow car.
* * *
Frank left the auditorium in an even worse mood than when he'd entered it. Of the four games of the day, he had won only two. No big surprise, he told himself. My concentration's shot.
"Not a good day, Frankie boy?" Mike Ayres remarked, barely suppressing his gloating as he followed Frank out the doors. All around them, spectators were still milling, staring curiously at
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the boys and pointing them out to their friends. "How many games are you up now?"
Frank told him. "And you?"
"Four. I won all of them," Mike said proudly. "You guys might as well pack it in and go home. This baby is mine."
"There's always tomorrow," Victor pointed out, joining them outside the auditorium doors.
"Yeah, right." Mike walked away, laughing.
Frank turned to the older boy with relief as they walked away from the crowd. "How did you do?" Frank asked him.
"Three," Victor admitted, not quite able to conceal his satisfaction. "But I bet you're just warming up, right?"
"I've got a lot on my mind," Frank said feebly.
"Oh, yeah?" Victor sounded fascinated. "Like what?"
Frank started to answer, but just then his attention was drawn to a wiry, grim-faced teenager pushing past them. The kid kept his head down and continually swiped at his nose with a wadded-up tissue. Frank noticed the tension in his hunched-up shoulders. "There's George Potrero," Frank said. "Think we should go after him and try to talk?"
Victor seemed to be uninterested. "He looks as if he wants to be left alone. Speaking of which, I've got stuff to take care of myself. See you tomorrow, pal." With a slap on the back—
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a little too hard, Frank thought—Victor started for the elevators.
Frank was left alone, wondering where Joe was. He was exhausted by the long, disappointing meet and really wanted to talk to Joe. He had expected him to show up by now. I hope he didn't get into trouble, Frank thought, starting to worry.
Frank's thoughts were interrupted when a short, round man in a tuxedo and a younger, taller, gloomy-looking man in a white dinner jacket appeared in front of him. "Frank Hardy?" the short man asked in a high-pitched voice, causing his several chins to wiggle. Frank noticed that the man's nose must have been broken at one time and set badly. It was a little crooked, pointing from his right eyebrow to the left corner of his mouth. "May we have a moment of your time?"
"I guess so," Frank said, glancing at the taller man, who peered down at Frank with what appeared to be a dimly lit brain.
"In private, of course," the fat man said. Before Frank could answer, the men grabbed both of his arms and hustled him down the hall and through a door.
"Hey, wait a minute," Frank said, recovering slowly. By the time he realized he was being forced out of the hotel, he found himself in a back alley with the two goons, next to a Dumpster.
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"What's going on here?" Frank demanded. "Who are you guys?"
"Call me Iggy," said the fat man with such dignity that Frank wanted to laugh. "And this is Mose."
"Iggy?" Frank said, stalling for time. "You mean there really are people named Iggy?"
Iggy looked hurt. "Do I make fun of your name?" Then his face brightened, as if he had thought of a joke for the first time in his life. "Uh, listen, Hardy, can I be frank? Get it— Frank?"
"Oh, brother," Frank groaned,
Iggy smiled, and his eyes became slits, lost in rounds of fleshy cheeks. "Well! Enough chitchat," he said briskly. "A close friend tipped us off to the possibility of becoming partners with you in your chess venture. We were hoping to discuss business with you today, but I'm afraid you let us down this afternoon."
"Excuse me?" said Frank.
"I'll explain," Iggy said. "Mose here and I wagered a very large sum of money on your winning this tournament. Our faith in your talent and intelligence convinced us to risk our finances on you, despite the long odds against you."
"Long odds?" Frank said, confused. "You mean, everyone figures I'll lose?"
Iggy nodded his head sadly.
"I can't believe you bet on chess
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tournaments," Frank said, running a hand through his hair. "You must be professional gamblers."
"Me and Mose prefer the term 'probability speculators,' " Iggy said, correcting him. Mose blinked sleepily and nodded. "Our close friend told us you had an inside track to win. He also assured us you had a brother whose personal safety was important to you."
Joe, Frank thought. "What did you do with Joe?" He curled a fist.
Mose, suddenly alert, stepped toward him.
"No violence, please," Iggy said. "We haven't seen your brother, but our friend knows where to find him."
"This friend—would he be Jerome Cornelius?"
From the expression on Iggy's face, Frank could tell he had hit a nerve. Iggy had definitely heard the name before. Cornelius must have put the two gamblers up to this.
Iggy composed himself. "Let us leave names out of this. Do you understand the meaning of this conversation?"
"Oh, sure, I get it," said Frank. "You want me to win, or else—what? Something may happen to Joe?"
"I'm afraid you still don't comprehend how important this is," Iggy said. He snapped his fingers. Mose moved like lightning, slamming a hammer of a fist into Frank's stomach. Frank gasped and sank weakly to his knees.
"Now perhaps you understand," Iggy said,
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standing over him. "We want you to try your best tomorrow. No more stupid mistakes, eh, Frank? Concentration is everything in chess. We're counting on you."
His stomach aching, Frank got to his feet after they had disappeared. For a moment he thought about what he'd like to do to Cornelius.
Soon, though, he went back to worrying about what had happened to Joe.
* * *
Water splashed against Joe's face and woke him up. When he opened his eyes it was still pitch dark.
Where am I? he wondered groggily, trying to sit up. His arms and legs were stiff. He wiggled his hands, pleased that his wrists weren't tied. He wondered what he was lying on and why he was in such an uncomfortable position.
He tried again to straighten up and this time smacked his head against metal. He felt the cold steel against the top of his head as water seeped up around his legs and hips. What is this place? he asked himself, starting to panic. How did I get here? He tried to remember the last thing that had happened. He had a vague memory of standing outside a yellow car, glimpsing a mustached man behind him. Then there was nothing.
Could the man have knocked me unconscious? Joe wondered. With a sense of dread he realized that was what had happened.
Joe's knee collided with something hard that
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gave slightly under the impact. He groped frantically for the object, and realized it was a tire.
I'm in a car trunk! he knew all at once. And it's filling with water. The car must be sinking in water. Someone is trying to kill me!
"Help!" Joe yelled, beating against the top of the trunk. He knew it was hopeless because it was unlikely that anyone would be around to hear him. I'm going to drown!
No one came to help him, and panic rushed over Joe as the water gushed in to drive out the last of his air.
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Chapter 8
Joe shoved his face into the uppermost corner of the trunk and gulped in the last pocket of air before the rising water pushed it out, too. Holding his breath, he kicked at the trunk lid, but it didn't give.
Trapped! The word rang in his head like a bell tolling.
Unable to see in the pitch dark, Joe felt around the trunk. It held nothing else but the spare tire.
A spare tire was something no one would have thought to take out of a trunk, but it was all Joe needed. As his lungs began to burn, he released the brace that held the tire to the bottom of the trunk. Pressing his back against the hood, he lifted the tire off its mount. Water rushed in under the rubber tire, pushing it up.
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Joe felt around on the trunk floor where the tire had been mounted, and found what he needed.
In his hands were tools for changing a tire. Joe held on to the tire iron and threw the other tools aside.
Ignoring the spots swimming in front of his eyes, Joe allowed the last bit of useless air to explode from his lungs. His heart pounding, he used his last ounce of strength to jam the sharp- ended tire iron into the tire, near the rim where the rubber was weakest. A large bubble of air burst from where Joe had popped the inner tube.
Joe capped his lips around the hole as tightly as possible to seal out the water. Foul-tasting, oily air rushed into his mouth, and he fought the urge to gag and spit it out.
Holding as much air in his lungs as he could, Joe now forced the tire iron under the trunk latch and pushed down with all his weight. The latch held, and he worried that he wouldn't have the energy to budge it. If not now, never, he told himself, feeling his lungs working to expel the old air again. The latch continued to hold firm. He twisted for a better position, getting his chest above the tire iron. Gripping the tire iron beneath his chest with both hands, Joe forced his weight down on the bar.
The latch creaked and wobbled, but the bar had rammed into his ribs, and Joe spat in pain. The air rushed out of him.
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But the latch finally gave. The trunk popped up.
Joe shot up out of the trunk, and an instant later broke through the surface of the water. He was in a pond or lake, he dimly realized as he floated, gasping for air. Somewhere far away were lights, blurred by the water in his eyes. Then he stopped thinking and relied on instinct to lead him toward the lights.
When Joe woke up, he couldn't be sure how long he had been lying on the shore. It was night, and the air was chilly. He was shivering in his wet clothes. Now that he was able to breathe, he knelt to sip water from the lake and rinse the taste of tire rubber from his mouth.
He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the moonlit darkness. Behind him, in the distance, there were mountains. Just behind him was a dirt path that ran from the lake into a mass of large fir trees. The lake seemed to go on forever.
He thought back, remembering the yellow car. The face with the mustache. Joe realized now that it was the face of the burly kidnapper who had shoved Beth into the car. Of course, Joe realized, the yellow sedan he'd seen probably wasn't the same car in which Beth had been carried away. But it might be the car that lay at the bottom of the lake now. Joe hoped he could tell the police where this lake was so they could dredge it up.
Are they done with me now? Joe wondered.
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Did they dump me because I served my purpose when I deposited that money in the bank? And if they're done with me, what about Frank? Joe couldn't figure it out. Only he and his brother had the authority to withdraw the ransom money. Or was there some reason why the kidnappers might want the money to stay in the bank?
One thing Joe knew for sure. He was never going to figure it out if he froze to death where he was.
He stood and stretched his cramped muscles. Water dripped from his soggy clothes. Clapping his hands on his arms to warm himself, Joe started along the lakeshore path.
He spotted the old dirt road before he saw the clearing among the trees. Small log cabins dotted the clearing. In two of them lights flickered, and smoke drifted from their stone chimneys. The other cabins appeared unoccupied. Frank saw no wires to indicate that any of them had electricity or telephones, but he hoped one of them had a car or a radio transmitter.
Joe approached the nearest cabin just as a woman came out. She looked old and frail, and she wore a tattered sweater over a shapeless housedress. The old woman was collecting logs from a woodpile around the side of the cabin when she saw Joe on the path. She instantly froze with fear.
"You stay away from me!" the old woman
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shouted, waving a stick of firewood in front of her like a club. Wide-eyed, she backed toward the cabin as quickly as she could, never taking her eyes off Joe.
"I need some—" Joe began. Before he could continue, the old woman reached the cabin, hurried in, and slammed the door. Joe heard a bolt slipping into place inside.
"Hey!" he yelled, pressing his face close to a cabin window. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. As Joe backed away, the window mirrored his face back at him. He jumped when he realized what he had seen.
No wonder I scared her, he thought. His clothes were wet and stained, his hair matted, and his face smeared with mud. A black smudge marred his left cheek to the corner of his mouth.
Gee, I look like a demented clown. Joe knew there was no way the old woman was going to let him into her isolated home.
Joe washed his face in the lake and straightened his hair as best as he could. He passed several of the darkened cabins, but, as he expected, no one was home and there were no telephones in sight. He passed a sign that read Lake Mead Cabins. Joe knew where he was at last. Lake Mead was about twenty miles east of Las Vegas, he told himself with satisfaction.
Encouraged by the knowledge, Joe jogged toward the only other occupied cabin. He wanted to get close enough to be able to speak
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before he was seen. As he neared the cabin, he heard heavy metal music. It sounded distant and tinny, as though it was coming from a cheap radio.
Joe was encouraged. The music meant someone around his age might be in the cabin. He pounded on the door.
A pretty blond girl opened the door. In the flicker of candlelight from inside the cabin, Joe could barely make out the features of her face. He did see her eyes widen and her jaw drop, though.
She stepped back to reveal the horror in her face and said, "Joe Hardy?"
Joe gaped. He knew the voice, but he couldn't believe who it was. "Beth?"
Her only answer was the terrified sweep of her arm. The portable radio in her hand slammed against the side of his head, and Joe toppled backward into the night.
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Chapter 9
Frank sat in the hotel coffee shop, studying the menu. The menu was shaped like a tiny harp and featured items such as the Sir Lancelottaburger and Sirloin the Magician. The salt and pepper shakers were pewter stallions in full battle armor. Frank ordered a Sir Galasalad and wondered why everything in this town had to be cute.
Frank was getting tired of Las Vegas.
"Frank!"
He forced himself to smile and wave at Victor, who was striding toward him as if he considered Frank his best friend. Frank was happy to see Victor, but he wished it were Joe instead. Frank hadn't heard from his brother since the tournament began, and it was now nearly eight o'clock.
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Frank knew his anxiety showed, because the minute Victor sat down, he said, "Hey, man, what's wrong?"
"Family stuff," Frank said, shrugging off the question. "My brother's supposed to be here, but he's out doing the town, I guess."
"That's family for you," Victor said, waving cheerfully across the room to Louisa and Carlene, who were eating omelets several tables away. "Never around when you need them."
"You have problems with your family?" Frank asked, making conversation.
Victor returned his gaze to Frank. "I don't even have a family," Victor said abruptly. "A real one, I mean. I'm an only child, and adopted. Actually, I heard a rumor my real mother and a sister live in Pennsylvania somewhere, but I haven't gotten around to checking it out."
"Adopted?" Victor's cheerful coldness struck Frank as odd. Frank knew several adopted kids, and he'd never known them to claim that their adoptive family wasn't a real family. And if those kids knew where their biological parents might be, they'd check it out right away.
"Yeah," said Victor, taking Frank's menu and scanning it. "I guess that's why I picked up on chess. It was something reliable to hold on to."
"It must be tough," Frank said. He still sensed something fishy, but his attention lapsed.
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He hardly knew Victor, after all, and that night his mind was on his brother.
"It hasn't been so bad." Victor flashed Frank a conspiratorial wink. "At lease I've always had girlfriends. You have a girlfriend, Frank?"
Frank, surprised at the change of subject, took out his wallet. He was proud of his girlfriend, Callie, and loved to show her picture to anyone. He flipped the wallet open to a photo in a plastic sleeve.
"Callie Shaw," Frank said, showing the photo to Victor, who let out a soft, slow whistle.
"She's a knockout," Victor said. His eyes flickered up to the coffee shop entrance. His expression changed as he stood and waved.
"Hey, George! over here," Victor called, causing several diners to notice him and then keep staring admiringly. Watching his impact on the women in the dining area, Frank wondered why they weren't crowding around the handsome chess player this very minute.
From the doorway George Potrero gave Victor a curt nod as the hostess whisked him to the opposite side of the coffee shop, out of sight of Victor and Frank.
"He's a weird guy, that George," Victor said, sitting down. "Antisocial, you know? He won't talk to anyone but Mike, and I think he talks to him out of self-defense. You know how much Mike talks." Victor leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Mike said George
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is mad all the time because he was all set to marry his girlfriend before her father made them call it off."
Frank cocked an eyebrow. "Go on."
"That's about it," Victor said. "Word is that's what George is doing in town—trying to win the prize money to prove to her old man he can hack it as a money-maker."
Frank wondered silently if the rumor was true. It seemed farfetched to think Potrero might be Beth's missing fiancé, but still, it was the only lead he'd come across so far.
Victor grinned and pulled up closer to the table. "Hey, Frank. We ought to play detective, huh? We could tail him and figure out what his secret is. There'd be a way to pass the time between chess games!"
Frank froze, wondering just how much Victor knew about him. "You watch too much television," Frank said casually. The waitress brought his salad. "Ordering anything?"
Victor shook his head. "I've got a date, sort of," he said with a smile. "I promised I'd visit some friends of my adoptive parents while I was in Las Vegas."
"Have fun," Frank said. Victor got up, and Frank realized he was glad to be rid of him. Frank wanted to think about George Potrero. Maybe he and Joe could check out Potrero and the other chess players.
Where, he wondered, could Joe be?
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A few minutes later Frank had finished his salad, paid the bill at the checkout counter, and bought a newspaper. On his way out, Frank had stolen a quick glance around the coffee shop. George was still there, eating alone. After nearly every bite, he was forced to stop and wipe his nose on a wad of tissues. With a cold like that, no wonder he keeps to himself, Frank thought.
Frank found a bench within sight of the coffee shop entrance and sat down. He opened his paper and pretended to read it slowly. Every few seconds he peeked over at the coffee shop, watching for George.
Frank sat there for half an hour, flipping through the same pages over and over, reading nothing. He wondered how anyone eating by himself could spend so much time on a meal. It was as if George had a reason not to leave the restaurant.
At last he did come out and walked toward Frank. Frank held up his paper, hoping to hide his face. George marched past. As far as Frank could tell, George hadn't seen him.
Frank counted to ten, dropped the paper on the bench, and started out after George.
The dour-faced youth walked through the hotel lobby, past the slot machines where tourists shoved coin after coin into the one-armed bandits, and out the front door, clutching tissues in one hand.
Frank followed him outside and for a moment
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was stunned by the colors and lights that greeted him on the Strip. He'd been so preoccupied— first with the tournament, then with the kidnapping, then with Joe's disappearance—that he'd forgotten that Las Vegas was just outside the hotel's front door. Wherever he looked there were flashing signs and sparkling lights, and from every door came the constant clanging of slot machines and other games.
Frank saw George hurrying down the Strip to hail a cab. Frank ran after him and made it to the street just as a cab pulled up to the curb. "George!" Frank yelled, waving to get his attention.
George ignored him, reaching for the door handle instead.
"George Potrero! Wait a minute!" Frustrated at being ignored, Frank ran up to the boy and grabbed him by the shoulder.
Potrero pulled away and spun around to face Frank. His eyes were wide, and he wore a panic- stricken expression. Without a word he climbed into the cab. As the taxi drove away, Frank tried to wave down a second one.
To his surprise a station wagon pulled up beside him instead. The back door popped open.
"How nice to see you again, Frank. Please. Get in."
Frank groaned. It was Iggy.
Iggy leaned out the door, opening his jacket
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just enough for Frank to see a pistol in a shoulder holster.
"If you please," Iggy said. "There has been a change in our situation, and we must discuss it with you."
Frank rolled his eyes and climbed in.
"Hey, Mose," he said to the driver. Mose grunted a reply and pulled the station wagon out into traffic.
"To the north," Iggy told Mose. He turned to face Frank. "An interesting situation has come up, Frank, and you could be very helpful to us."
"Do tell," Frank said, humoring the gambler.
"It seems that our acquaintance has changed the odds on you somewhat."
"Cornelius?" Frank asked. Suddenly he was interested. "Now he's an acquaintance? I thought he was our 'mutual friend.' What did he do?"
Iggy frowned, then continued. "This person has placed a very sizable bet on you. Naturally this has changed the odds considerably. You are now an even two-to-one."
"Oh," Frank said. "So, let's see, all of the people who bet on me will win two dollars for every dollar they bet—if I win, right?" He shook his head, chuckling. "I still can't believe you guys bet on chess," Frank said. "Anyway, that's good news, right? Didn't you bet on me to win?"
Iggy grimaced. "The odds on you used to be
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five-to-one. The profits on two-to-one odds are obviously less than the returns on five-to-one odds. Instead of winning five dollars for every dollar we bet, we'd now win only two. As a result, Mose and me have been forced to change our wager."
Frank stared at him. "You're betting more on me?"
"We are betting against you," Iggy replied sullenly.
Frank could barely keep from laughing. "So what do you want me to do? Throw the tournament?"
Iggy was dead silent. Frank stared, no longer finding the situation funny.
"You do want me to throw the tournament! I won't do it!"
Iggy sighed and spoke to Mose. "Frank has decided to be difficult, Mose. You know where to go." To Frank he said, "The three of us would appreciate the pleasure of your company."
"Three—"
Iggy pulled his jacket open again, flashing the pistol at Frank.
Frank sank deeper into his seat, wishing he had never learned to play chess.
* * *
"Out," Iggy commanded in his high voice. Frank knew they were in the desert somewhere north of Las Vegas, but they had left the main
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road long ago. The station wagon had traveled for close to two hours, and while much of that was on winding back roads, Frank calculated he was at least eighty miles from town.
Iggy reached across the back seat and unlatched Frank's door. Then he shoved Frank out of the car.
Hardly believing what the two guys were up to, Frank watched Iggy come around to his side, pistol drawn. "You're not going to shoot me," Frank said uncertainly.
"No," Iggy said. "We are discussing money in the range of seven figures, but we do not normally shoot people over money. No, making you disappear for a time will suit our purposes just fine."
"In other words," Frank said, "if I'm not there, I forfeit and I lose."
"You're a smart boy," Iggy said. "Take off your clothes."
"What?" said Frank.
Iggy fired a shot into the ground at Frank's feet. Without another word Frank peeled off his shirt, shoes, and slacks. Mose collected the clothes as they fell to the desert floor.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Frank sullenly watched Mose gather them. "I could die out here in just my underwear," he said.
"Only of embarrassment." Iggy got into the car and looked back out the window at Frank. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said.
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"Watch out for scorpions and reptiles. They like the desert at this time of year."
With a screech, the car sped off. Frank ran after it until the taillights faded into the distance.
The silence of the desert swallowed him. He was alone. Is it my imagination, he asked himself, peering around nervously in the moonlight, or do I hear a snake's rattle?
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Chapter 10
"They won't bite me if I don't bother them. They won't bite me if I don't bother them," Frank chanted aloud as he jogged through the desert, ignoring the pain in his feet. He had long since stopped paying attention to the pebbles that stung his toes and the grains of sand that cut like tiny bits of glass. He jogged because, without clothes, moving quickly was the only way to keep himself warm.
Besides, it helped distract him from the thing he hated most—snakes hiding in the dark, waiting to strike at him.
Frank calculated he had gone about four miles in the hour since Mose and Iggy had left him. He thought about the tournament, but drove it from his mind. He had more important things to
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think about now. He had yet to find a road, for example. He was making his way south by reading the stars that shone brightly over the desert, but he had no way of knowing where Las Vegas was. As cold as the desert night was, the day would be even hotter. He wondered how long it would be before he could relax by the hotel pool and enjoy a tall iced soda.
As he ran, Frank scanned the desert for signs of civilization. A shack, a road, a light. So far, nothing.
Finally he stopped, panting. The instant he stood still, his legs turned to rubber and he sank to his knees.
At least there are no scorpions, Frank thought. The snake he thought he'd heard had never materialized. Of course he'd run into more than one cactus in the past few hours. Wondering for the thousandth time what had become of Joe, Frank shivered as a cold breeze whipped across the desert.
"Get up!" Frank yelled to himself. Slowly he got to his feet. "Now make a fire," he said out loud to hear himself talk. He imagined that someone might see the flames and come looking for him, but he knew the fire's only real value would be to keep warm.
Frank moved quickly around the desert, gathering bits of brush until he had a small pile of it. It took longer to find the rocks he needed. At
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last he had two that would give off sparks when struck together.
On his third try Frank set the brush on fire. He crouched next to it, warming himself, suddenly feeling very hungry and wishing he'd had more than a salad for dinner.
The wind blew up again, but Frank ignored it. He closed his eyes, soaking up the heat, and didn't notice as bits of brush blew off the fire, carrying sparks across the desert floor.
Gradually Frank became aware of the heat at his back as well. His eyes snapped open, and he spun around.
At first the entire desert seemed to be on fire. Then Frank realized that a clump of burning tumbleweed had blown into a dried-up old acacia tree. Because the wood was extremely dry, the flames caught immediately and rose up high in the wind, but Frank could see that the fire was unlikely to spread farther.
Fine, then, he thought as the flames soared higher. Two bonfires are better than one.
He glanced up at the sky and for a moment thought he was fantasizing. One of the stars moved. Then the tiny dot of light started circling around him. A beating sound grew louder, until it was pounding in his ears. Frank waved frantically, trying to signal the helicopter.
It hovered near him, then dropped to the desert. As it landed, its bright headlight hit Frank, blinding him. Dimly Frank could make out 
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figures scrambling from the copter. As his eyes adjusted, he was shocked to see a ring of rifles surrounding him, all trained on him.
"You are trespassing on restricted United States government property," boomed a voice through a megaphone. "You're under arrest."
* * *
Joe woke in darkness again. His face itched. He tried to scratch it and found he couldn't move his hands. His wrists were tied behind him.
He tried to move his feet. They were bound, too. He was flat on his back, bouncing slightly, and when he stretched his legs, his feet hit a wall. He pushed with his toes until his head touched the opposite wall. Plastic crinkled beneath him as he moved.
Joe inhaled deeply, and rough cloth flapped in his mouth and nose.
I'm in a car, he thought, trying to stay calm. With a burlap bag over my head.
"Do you promise you won't hurt him?"
Joe recognized Beth's voice. He guessed she was sitting in the middle of the front seat, if he was stretched across the back.
"He's seen you. He can give us away." The gruff voice of an older man came from Beth's right. Joe knew now what no one else suspected—that Beth was the kidnapper's partner, not his victim.
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Joe said nothing, wanting them to think he was still unconscious.
Beth said, "Why can't we keep him at the cabin, out of the way, until this thing is over?"
"The cabin's no good." This was a new voice, male and young, from the driver's seat. "If he was smart enough to figure out where we were, others will, too. We can't afford to be caught now. One more day and we'll be rich beyond our wildest dreams."
"You don't get it, do you?" the older man said. "If he's around, it'll never be over. He'll always be able to tell what he knows to the police, whether he does it now or in ten years. He'll always be a threat to us."
"Look, Burke—" the young man said. Before he could continue, the older man exploded. "Don't say that name here!" he snarled. "You don't know if that kid's still unconscious! I don't want to be identified to the cops because you have a big mouth!"
There was a long silence. Joe guessed they were looking at him, trying to tell if he was awake and listening. He stayed as still as possible.
Finally they seemed convinced that Joe was still out, because the young man continued in a softer voice. "You're the professional," he said. "That's why we brought you in on this scheme. But I agree with Beth. We can't hurt anyone, no matter what. Keep him somewhere until we
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get the money, and then cut him loose. Once we have the money, it won't matter what he knows. We'll be long gone."
"Okay, okay," Burke replied, but to Joe he didn't sound convinced.
"This is all my fault," Beth moaned. "He was just being nice to me on the plane. We shouldn't have dragged him and his brother into this."
"They dragged themselves into it," the young man said. "Nobody asked them to try to stop the kidnapping."
"But you knew they would," Beth said. "As soon as you heard Frank Hardy had won his regional competition, you told me to get a ticket on the plane he was on. What did you call it? A gambit?"
Joe jerked his head up. He forced himself to keep his mouth closed and hoped they hadn't seen him react. How did they know about Frank? Joe wondered. He tried to remember what Frank had told him about gambits during the flight to Los Vegas. Something about sacrificing a piece to gain an advantage. Sacrificing Beth, perhaps? Joe pondered the possibilities. Were they hoping to gain an advantage over the police, perhaps, by distracting them with the Hardys while their accomplice quietly ran off with the ransom money?
"Right," the young man said. "A gambit. Anyway, just because I knew he and his brother would stick their noses in doesn't mean I made
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them do it. And it's lucky for us they did. They gave your father and the police someone to suspect."
"If only—" Beth began mournfully.
The young man cut her off. "If only your father wasn't a pigheaded creep, that's what you mean. He's the one who was so hot to keep us apart. Well, his money will make it possible for us to be together, no matter what he wants."
"I just wish we could break free of him some other way," Beth said.
Burke spoke up. "I hate to ruin such a romantic moment, but here's the place."
Joe felt the car roll to a stop with its engine running, and he heard two doors open. Then Joe heard other cars whizzing past and slot machines ringing. He guessed he was on a street somewhere in Las Vegas. One of the car doors slammed shut, followed a few seconds later by the driver's door.
"Promise you won't hurt him," Joe heard Beth say, her voice farther off now.
Burke's voice drifted back from the driver's seat. Only he and Joe were in the car now. "You have my word."
Joe strained at the ropes around his wrists. He could feel them loosen. He twisted his hands back and forth, slowly working on the ropes.
The car lurched into gear and began to cruise slowly.
Then Joe heard a frightening noise—a sliding
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sound, followed by a sharp metallic crack. Joe had heard those sounds before. Someone was preparing a hand gun for use. Next, Joe heard the rough rasp of a large screw being threaded and turned.
Joe suspected it was a silencer.
Outside he could still hear passing traffic and honking horns. Even a silenced weapon would make a sound, but most people would ignore it. It would sound very much like a clap or a slap or a heavy book being dropped.
Suddenly Joe understood why he was lying on plastic. Burke was trying to avoid a mess on the back seat.
The ropes on his wrists held, no matter how hard he strained against them.
A cold, hollow shape the size of a quarter pressed under Joe's chin. It was the tip of the silencer.
From the front seat, Burke's voice sounded almost gentle. "This isn't going to hurt a bit."
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Chapter 11
Joe brought his knees up hard, managing to knock Burke's hand into the air just as the gun went off. Joe heard the rear window shatter as the shot passed through it. Outside, someone screamed.
The car swayed, and Burke muttered angrily under his breath. He's losing control, Joe thought. It was only a matter of seconds, he knew, before Burke would fire again. This time he would be expecting a moving target.
Joe flung his head up, banging it into the door handle. The door flew open. Joe kicked against the opposite door, shoving himself halfway out of the car, but not yet landing on the pavement. With a loud clap, a bullet seared through Joe's pant leg and smacked into the seat.
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Joe snaked the rest of the way out of the car and fell into the street. He rolled, catching the impact on his shoulder. Car horns blared to life as tires screeched.
He knew he had brought the traffic to a halt.
The ropes fell from his wrists as he finally wriggled free of them. Joe sat up and pulled the bag from his head. He had made it to the sidewalk and was sitting right in front of the entrance to a nightclub. Above him a giant neon cowboy tipped his hat, apparently right at Joe. Voices were shouting all around him.
"He's not dead."
"Somebody call a cop!"
"He needs an ambulance."
"This has to be some kind of stunt."
"I'm all right," Joe yelled to calm down the crowd gathering around him. He tore at the ropes around his ankles. They tangled. Joe kicked his shoes off and slipped his feet through the loosened ropes.
He grabbed up his shoes and pushed his way through the crowd. No one barred his way.
The Strip was crowded with cars. Joe looked for one with its back window blown out. He didn't see it.
Burke was gone.
At least I have a name to work with now, Joe thought. He heard a siren approaching. Quickly he slipped his shoes on and hurried to the curb, blending in with the crowd. He planned to tell
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Hirsch all about Burke, the sunken car, and especially Beth, but first he had to talk to Frank.
So Beth had conspired in her own kidnapping, he told himself. Why? From what the third person had said, Frank presumed that Burke was hired to help carry out this scheme. Burke, Joe guessed, was a career criminal, a thug for hire, and a hefty cut of a million-dollar ransom was enough motivation to ensure his involvement. Without Joe, it seemed that Burke and the others had no chance to recovering the ransom. But Burke, despite his taste for brutality, hadn't seemed to Joe to be a stupid man. Yet Burke had tried to kill Joe twice that night, first by drowning him and then by shooting him. Joe had no doubt it was Burke who stuffed him in the trunk of the car at Lake Mead. But he didn't think Beth knew anything about that.
Why had Burke tried to kill him the first time, before Joe knew about Beth and her plan? And why would Burke want him dead when it meant losing the money?
Unless—Joe thought. What if they didn't need him to get the money?
If the money was taken from the bank, Joe knew, the police would have to blame the only people who could legally withdraw it.
The Hardys.
It all hinged, he realized, on the young man in the car. Unless there was someone else involved whom Joe was unaware of, the young man was
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the brains of the operation. Joe hadn't heard his name or seen his face, but he knew what the young man sounded like.
He remembered what the young man had said about getting Frank involved, possibly to give the police someone to suspect. He remembered the man talking about a gambit. Suddenly Joe knew that everything hinged on the chess tournaments The young man was involved with the competition.
The competition—that was where Joe would find the answers.
* * *
It took Joe less than fifteen minutes to walk to the Camelot. Tourists hurrying from hotel to casino hardly noticed his disheveled appearance. On the side lawn of the Camelot Joe noticed several people staring at a helicopter that had just landed, its rotors still turning and kicking up noise and dust. Joe thought for a moment about seeing what was going on, then decided against it. He'd been through enough and needed to change.
He entered the lobby and headed for the elevators. He turned the key over and over in his pocket, eager to get to his room.
"Joe!"
Joe turned to see Frank walking toward him. Frank was dressed in an oversize khaki jumpsuit and big black boots.
"Nice outfit," Joe quipped. "What's this, the
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military look? What are you doing up at two in the morning?"
"This is Las Vegas, Joe. Everyone's up at two in the morning," said Frank. "I took a moonlight stroll in the desert."
"Frank!" Joe said with mock outrage. "What will Callie say?"
"I was alone," Frank said. "And it wasn't my idea."
"What?" Joe said, his eyes widening.
Frank told him about the gamblers, the fire, and his arrest by the U.S. Air Force.
"After they heard my story," Frank concluded, "they gave me these clothes and brought me back here. I just got off the helicopter."
"That was you?" Joe said incredulously. "Boy, no one ever gives me helicopter rides."
"Believe me, you were better off doing what you were doing," Frank said. "What were you doing, anyway? Where have you been? You were supposed to drop in on the competition, remember?"
"Oh, I went for a swim and then a little drive," Joe replied. "Frank, I found Beth Cornelius."
Frank grabbed Joe's arm and pulled him to one side of the lobby. Frank glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot, then whispered, "What do you mean, you found her?"
Joe recounted his evening's adventures. When he was done, Frank let out a long, low whistle.
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"I knew it," Frank said. "I had a feeling he was involved."
"You know who the driver was?" Joe asked.
"I think so," replied Frank. "One of the contestants has been acting really strange. His name's George Potrero."
"Hmmm," Joe said. "Can we prove anything against him?"
Frank shook his head. "Let's keep this between us. There's no point in going to Hirsch with it until we're sure. But we do need to tell him about Burke and Beth Cornelius. I doubt that either one is going to want to risk our getting out of here now, knowing what we know."
"I know how we can be sure about this Potrero guy," Joe said. "I know his voice. Let's call his room."
"Joe, it's two in the morning."
Joe shrugged. "So he'll have to answer the phone. It's the perfect time to call. Let's go."
They went to the house phone. The house operator answered and connected Joe to George's room. The phone rang.
After six rings the operator came back on the line and asked Joe if he wanted to leave a message. Joe hung up.
"He's not here, Frank," Joe said.
"That's even more suspicious," Frank replied. He yawned and stretched his arms.
"Yeah," Joe agreed.
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Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe's arm and yanked him behind a timber pillar.
"What's going on?" Joe said.
"Look over there," Frank said, pointing. Joe did and noticed two men, a round little man in an expensive suit and a tall, morose-looking man. "That's Iggy and Mose."
"The gamblers?" Joe said. "Let's get them."
"No," said Frank. "I'd rather they didn't know I'm back. They might think of other ways to occupy my time for me."
The Hardys hurried toward the elevators. Before they could reach them, though, the doors of Camelot's concert hall swung open and people wandered out, blocking their way.
Joe groaned. Out of the concert hall came a grim-looking Jerome Cornelius and his henchman, Elroy. "I don't think they saw us, Frank," he said. "This way."
They ducked down another corridor, away from the concertgoers.
"This is a dead end," Frank said. "It only goes into the auditorium where the chess tournament is being held."
"Good," Joe said. "Then no one's likely to come this way."
Frank's eyes opened very wide. He studied the darkened, deserted corridor. "Joe, something's wrong. There's supposed to be a security man guarding this door. Where is he?"
No one was there. Cautiously Frank neared
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the auditorium door. He tried the knob. It turned, but the door didn't open.
He threw his weight against the door, and it gave slightly. "Something's jamming it from the inside," Frank said. Joe helped push. They opened it far enough so Frank could get his hand in. He felt for whatever was blocking the door.
Frank's hand hit a large fleshy lump. "It's the guard," he said.
Once inside, Joe felt for a pulse and found one. He could smell chloroform on the man's face.
Frank scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Everything seemed normal. Everything but the silhouette that gradually took shape crouching in front of the mini-mainframe, apparently working on it.
"Joe!" Frank whispered. "Someone's sabotaging the computer!"
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Chapter 12
Frank found the switches near the door and flicked them on. The room exploded with bright white light.
The figure on the stage, at the computer, had flung an arm over his face, to prevent Frank and Joe from seeing who he was. As Frank stared at him, he swung an arm toward them, pointing something at them.
"Dive!" Frank knocked Joe down behind a row of seats before the person by the computer could fire. Only a loud click echoed in the auditorium—not gunfire.
The lights went out again.
"He's got a remote," Frank whispered, shaken. "He's wired the room."
"Great," Joe whispered back. "So we might
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as well forget the lights. Is that what you're saying?"
"No, I'm saying we rush him," Frank replied.
"Is that a good idea? What if he has a gun?"
"What do you think?" Frank whispered.
Joe shrugged and leapt over the seat. Frank was right behind him. Together they charged the stage.
When they got there, the man who had been at the computer was gone.
"There!" Joe yelled, pointing toward the aisle on the far side of the auditorium. Through the darkness, Frank made out a figure in black with a small satchel.
"He's heading for the emergency exit!" Frank yelled. "Stop him!"
Before Frank finished speaking, Joe had leapt off the stage and was starting after the figure in black. The man was slowing down, probably winded by his run, but Joe took after him like a track star.
The man in black was too far ahead, though, and before Joe could reach him, the man made it through the emergency exit.
An alarm went off.
Frank ignored it. He went to the computer and gave it a quick examination as Joe took off after the man in black. Frank saw nothing noticeably wrong with the computer. As he moved away, something fluttered beside his boot. "A tissue," he said softly, remembering how Potrero had
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been blowing his nose earlier that evening. Of course the tissue could have been dropped there anytime. But it sure was close to the computer.
Frank put the tissue in his pocket and decided not to say anything about it until he'd had a chance to talk to Potrero.
Joe returned. "He got away, Frank. The exit opens on the parking lot. It's pretty dark back there. He could have blended in anywhere. You think it was Potrero?"
"I doubt it," Frank said. "Let's discuss it when we're out of here."
"Hold it right there!"
The lights came on. Frank spied a balding man in a camel-colored jacket standing next to the door, leaning over his unconscious partner. Over his breast pocket he wore a hotel security badge. He held a small walkie-talkie to his lips.
"Dillon here," Frank heard him say into the walkie-talkie. "I need some backup in the auditorium. And get Ms. Lassen down here, too. Now."
He snapped down the antenna and slid the walkie-talkie into his coat pocket. To Frank and Joe he said, "You two aren't going anywhere."
* * *
"Let's go through it once again," Hirsch said, pacing back and forth in front of them.
Frank and Joe sat on folding chairs in a drab little room. There was a ventilation duct over
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the door, but the room remained uncomfortably warm. The rest of the Camelot might have been medieval, but this employees' lounge was strictly twentieth century.
Hirsch wasn't the only one listening. Janet Lessen, half asleep and very upset, sat on a steel chair slightly behind the Hardys. The security guard, Dillon, was leaning against the back wall.
Frank retold his story for the third time, from his first encounter with the gamblers to the escape of the man from the auditorium. He had taken Hirsch aside earlier and promised to tell him about Joe's adventures later, when there were no other listeners. Hirsch was listening skeptically, pacing as if walking was the only way he could stay awake. Frank glimpsed the time on the clock on the wall.
It was four in the morning.
"So you see, I can't help you as far as the computer goes. Unless it has something to do with the two gamblers who took me for a ride. It's possible they wanted to fix the computer against me, but that doesn't make much sense since they think I'm still out in the desert. I think they work for Jerome Cornelius. Are you going to bring him in?"
"Nonsense," Hirsch growled, still pacing. "These clowns would never be so lucky as to work for a big shot like Cornelius. They're a couple of losers. They're only pretending to be connected to someone bigger, so they can scare
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you into doing what they want. Besides, there's nothing illegal about making bets in Las Vegas, and we have no proof that they tried to sabotage the computer."
He stopped pacing and turned to Frank. "You're welcome to file charges against them for dumping you in the desert, though." Then he sighed. "I believe you're telling the truth, Frank. I want you to know that. Ms. Lassen, your turn."
She twitched uncomfortably in her chair, then spoke up angrily. "Well, this is a difficult situation," she said. "The competition rules are very clear in saying that any contestant found in the playing room after hours faces immediate disqualification. However, since Sergeant Hirsch has accepted Mr. Hardy's story, and since no damage was done to the computer, I see no reason to remove Mr. Hardy from the tournament."
"Thank you," Frank said.
"Don't thank me," she replied, standing. "I'm still very upset about this whole thing. But I think you know that this chess program represents several years' work by myself and others."
She stopped herself and took a deep breath. "You will have to be penalized one game, Frank. I'm sorry, but that seems only fair."
"What does that mean?" Joe said.
"That means I have to win all my games today," Frank replied, "and hope no one else gets more than five wins. The most I can get
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now is five—it would be six, but I lost that one game."
"That's correct," Ms. Lassen said, grudgingly adding, "Good luck to you." She hurried out of the room.
The instant she left, Hirsch dismissed the security guard and turned to the Hardys. "All right," he said, keeping his back to the closed door. "What's this about Joe's day? Make it quick. I'm ready to hit the sack."
Briefly Joe told the sergeant about his near- drowning in the submerged car at Lake Mead, his discovery of Beth plotting with her kidnapper, whose name was Burke, and with a younger man who, they guessed, was her fiancé. He stopped short of suggesting that the fiancé might be involved in the chess tournament, though. They had no proof of that yet, as Frank had pointed out. The arrival of police on the scene might make it more difficult to find out what was going on.
"Good work, boys," Hirsch said when Joe had finished. "I have to say that I suspected something fishy was going on, what with that bank account and all." He hesitated, and Joe wondered whether he was deciding whether to believe them. "I'll get my people right on this," Hirsch said to Joe. "And now, if no one's got anything to add, I think we'll call it a night." He shot a look at Frank and Joe. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. I mean that."
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By the time the boys reached the twenty- second floor of the hotel, Frank noticed that Joe already had his key out. Fatigue washed over Frank, and now, half in the grip of sleep, he staggered toward their room, not certain he'd make it.
"Think it was Potrero?" he heard Joe ask behind him.
Frank blinked, fingering the tissue in his pocket. "Tampering with the computer? Why would he want to? If Potrero is the kidnapper, he wants the money; he doesn't want to mess up the game. I'm beginning to think it was someone paid by Iggy and Mose."
Joe shook his head. "Not likely. As far as they're concerned, you're out in the middle of the desert. You no longer pose a threat to them. And from what you've told me, Sergeant Hirsch is probably right. Between them they don't have the brains to brush their teeth, let alone rig a computer."
"They're smart enough to hire someone, though. And even with me out of the picture, they might have wanted to rig the odds on some other player."
"I'm too tired to think about it," Joe admitted as he opened the door to their room. "Let's forget about the computer for now. Tomorrow we can do background checks on all the male contestants. I want to find out for sure who's behind the kidnapping."
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"Best idea I've heard all night," Frank agreed, following him inside. A hotel room had never looked so good to him. "Now let me concentrate. I need to work out some chess moves in my sleep."
* * *
Frank woke at nine that morning. He had hoped to practice some on his computer, but he barely had time to shower, dress, and eat before the auditorium opened for the day.
He wanted to be down there with Joe well before that.
By eleven-thirty he and Joe were studying the area just outside the auditorium. Off the lobby there was an alcove lined with phone booths. Joe took a seat in the nearest booth, picked up the handset, and held the receiver hook down while pretending to talk into the mouthpiece.
Frank stood in the lobby just outside the alcove. He watched for the other players. Carlene, Kyle, and Louisa arrived together, stopping to greet Frank before they went into the auditorium. When Mike passed by, he put a thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers at Frank.
Victor appeared. "Hey, man. What are you standing here for? The game's inside."
"I'm waiting for someone," Frank said. He caught sight of George Potrero walking toward them. George looked as tired as Frank felt. He was clutching a wadded-up tissue in his hand.
"George!" Frank called out as George passed
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them. The contestant walked by, paying no attention. Losing patience, Frank reached out and grabbed his shoulder. George stopped and stared at him in shock.
"I just wanted to say good luck, George," Frank said as Victor watched, bemused.
George gave Frank a confused half-smile, but said nothing. Mike stuck his head out of the auditorium and said sarcastically, "Need some help here?"
"I was just wishing George luck," Frank said. "It seems he still doesn't want to talk."
"Allow me," Mike said. He stepped in front of George and made a series of gestures with his hands. George gave a silent chuckle and clapped Frank on the shoulder. Mike and George went into the auditorium. Mike grinned back over his shoulder at Frank and waved.
Potrero is deaf, Frank realized. No wonder he never spoke to us. Mike talked to him in sign language. Did George even know his phone was ringing last night?
Frank felt like an idiot.
"You're a strange dude, Hardy," Victor said, chuckling as though he enjoyed seeing Frank embarrassed. Frank flushed, remembering how friendly Victor had pretended to be the day before. "I'll see you inside," Victor added as he walked away.
After they had gone, Joe stepped out of the
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phone booth. "That was the guy all right," he said excitedly.
Frank shook his head. "No. We were wrong. George Potrero can't speak or hear. He couldn't be the guy in the car."
Joe looked dumbfounded. "That's impossible. You were just talking to him. I heard you!"
"Who?" Frank said.
"That last guy you were talking to."
Frank stared at him incredulously. "Victor?"
"I guess," Joe said. "The one who said, "I'll see you inside.' There's no doubt in my mind, Frank. That was him!"
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Chapter 13
"Hey, stranger," Victor called out as Frank entered the auditorium. "It's about time you showed up."
Frank forced himself to give a small, friendly wave to Victor, who was beaming at him from behind his computer terminal. Frank nodded politely to Janet Lassen, who stood at the center of the stage. Ms. Lassen looked as if she hadn't slept well, Frank noted as the woman checked her watch and glared at him. He was sorry he was responsible for the scare over her computer program. He liked her and didn't want to cause her problems.
Well, you're not helping much by being late, he told himself as he made his way to his seat. The last day of the competition was scheduled
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to begin in two minutes. The spectator seating area was half full already. In seats directly above and behind Frank, Cornelius and Elroy sat. Cornelius nodded to him, just to let Frank know he was there. Frank also spotted Iggy and Mose seated close by. Sergeant Hirsch was right, Frank realized. Clearly, Mose and Iggy didn't even recognize Cornelius, though he was sitting just ten rows away.
Frank grinned at the two gamblers, who were staring at him in disbelief. He could just imagine what they were thinking.
After he spotted Joe slipping into the back row, Frank turned and faced his terminal. He could feel Victor's piercing eyes on him and wondered why he hadn't suspected the over-friendly player before.
Ms. Lassen visited all of the contestants, saying a few final words to each player. When she got to Frank she leaned close and whispered, "We won't have any more escapades, will we, Mr. Hardy?"
"I promise," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Six hours of chess and I'm out of here." Ms. Lassen's brow furrowed skeptically, but she moved on.
"Scoring points with the teacher?" Victor said to Frank in a stage whisper.
Frank closed his eyes. It was funny how that good-natured joke was nothing but ugly- sounding to Frank now. Victor was two
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terminals over, on the other side of Mike. On Frank's other side, Carlene tossed her red hair and chuckled. Mike raised his head briefly and rolled his eyes.
"She just wanted to make sure my brother wasn't going to walk out today, like he did yesterday," Frank replied.
As Frank expected, Victor nearly choked in surprise. The dark-haired boy caught his breath and forced a smile back onto his face. "Your brother's here?" he said. "I didn't know you had a brother."
Yeah, right, thought Frank. To Victor he said, "He should be around here somewhere."
"You haven't seen him today?"
Frank shrugged. "Not today, no. He'll show up, I'm sure."
Victor relaxed. Frank wasn't sure if Victor was relieved that Joe was out of commission, or reassured that his own role as Beth's fiancé hadn't been given away. Anyway, relaxed was how Frank wanted him. Frank leaned back in his chair and listened to Ms. Lassen repeat her preliminary speech from the day before and wish them all luck. Then a buzzer sounded.
The final round of games had begun.
An hour later Frank had already won one game, but he had a feeling that something was wrong. Ms. Lassen's perfect program botched what Frank considered a ridiculously simple trap when he cornered its king with a queen and a
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knight. The computer should have spotted that coming—Frank certainly would have, if the positions had been reversed.
The second game was harder, demanding greater concentration, but Frank took that one, too, by getting the pawn to the last row and turning it into a queen, then using that to block the escape of the computer's king.
The computer was losing in very simple situations.
Such easy chess gave Frank plenty of time to think about other things, and he now had a new candidate for the figure in black. It didn't look as if Iggy and Mose had hired anyone after all to alter the computer program, since Frank knew they wanted him to lose. But it was looking more and more as if whoever fiddled with the machine did affect the software after all. Frank knew the program's style pretty well by now, and the computer had never played so badly.
Frank considered calling Ms. Lassen over and telling her of his suspicions. But he decided not to. He needed to watch Victor, and after last night's episode Ms. Lassen would insist on Frank's presence at a full inquiry, leaving Victor free to move. Joe could follow Victor, of course, but there were too many people in the deadly game they were playing, and Frank knew he and Joe had to stick together or they'd continue to be sitting ducks.
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Frank scanned the large overhead monitors. No one else was playing with Frank's ease. Most of the players were still on their first game of the day, and no one was winning.
Even Victor was sweating. Frank watched as the Californian put a pawn in the way of the computer's queen. The computer took the pawn, which lined the queen up to take Victor's second bishop. The loss wasn't that serious. What astonished Frank was that he could see a series of five simple moves that Victor could have made to put the computer in check. Victor wasn't trying any of them.
Frank was puzzled. He had watched Victor when he had the chance during the first round of games, and he knew Victor was a brilliant chess player. Yet now Victor was making moves that even Joe would have known enough to avoid.
Victor seemed to be trying to lose.
Frank played his third game more slowly, taking it in thirty-six moves. He dragged the fourth game out for the remaining hour and a half, using the time to keep track of Victor's playing. The Californian kept the play going for hours on a single game, never moving to checkmate.
This is a child's version of chess, Frank thought. Filled with nonsensical maneuvers, Victor's strategy seemed geared toward prolonging
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the game as long as possible. What was Victor trying to do?
One by one the others lost their last games. Louisa and George had managed to win one game each. The others had lost all four.
Frank moved his bishop to black king four, sealing his final win of the day. A buzzer sounded, and Frank's overhead monitor flashed brightly.
All but four members of the audience gave Frank a standing ovation. Iggy and Mose were sullen and angry. Cornelius and Elroy were utterly uninterested. Frank figured Cornelius had shown up just to keep an eye on him, hoping, perhaps, that Beth would magically materialize from backstage.
As the audience applauded, Ms. Lassen eyed Frank suspiciously. Frank watched her enter into a discussion with two other judges of the contest. Frank couldn't hear what they were saying, but he wasn't surprised when Ms. Lassen came to the microphone.
"I want to thank everyone for supporting the tournament. Because of unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, the award ceremony will be postponed until tomorrow."
She shot an aggrieved look at Frank as she and the other judges left without another word. Mike Ayres muttered something under his breath and walked off the stage in silence. The other
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competitors gathered around Frank to congratulate him.
Victor was the first to shake Frank's hand. "Congratulations, man. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."
"I'd have thought you'd be more upset about losing," Frank said.
Victor laughed. "Easy come, easy go. Hey— thanks for everything."
Victor started off, and Frank shook hands with the other players, who were all eager to exchange addresses and discuss plans for a reunion. By the time Frank left the auditorium, Iggy and Mose had appeared near the exit, their hands inside their jacket pockets like movie gangsters. Frank hoped that Joe had followed Victor.
"We need to have a talk," Iggy said, so seriously that Frank almost laughed.
"You're right. Why don't we do that?" said a voice at the door. Iggy turned to find himself facing Sergeant Hirsch and two uniformed police officers. "Get them out of here," Hirsch snapped.
Slowly Iggy and Mose drew their empty hands from their pockets and raised them. The officers herded the gamblers away.
"Good work," Hirsch told Frank, nodding at the overhead monitor. "At least someone won something."
Cornelius approached. He was livid. "There
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you are, Sergeant. I've been trying to reach you. I haven't heard a word from you or anyone else about my daughter in almost twenty-four hours. What do I have to do to get some action against a kidnapper in this town?"
"I was on my way up to talk to you, sir," Hirsch replied. "We have reason to believe your daughter is not in terrible danger. And we're closing in on the people responsible for her disappearance."
Cornelius turned even redder. "And you didn't tell me before? Give me their names, Hirsch. I'll take care of them myself. And it won't cost me a million dollars."
"You're absolutely right," Hirsch said, surprising both Frank and the middle-aged gangster. "We should have gotten a call from the kidnappers today, telling us what to do with the money. So far, there's been no call. You may as well take your money back, sir."
Hirsch glanced over Cornelius's shoulder and snapped his fingers. Another officer brought Joe over to join them. Frank felt deflated. So much for keeping tabs on Victor Julian.
"Boys, how would you like to help us get that money out of the bank?" Hirsch was saying. "It's a little after hours, but I've arranged for the manager to keep the bank open a while longer, just for us."
There was no way the Hardys could duck out of this responsibility. Flanked by police of
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officers, they reluctantly accompanied Hirsch, Cornelius, and Elroy across the hotel lobby and into the bank. Frank scanned the lobby for a glimpse of Victor, but failed to spot the Californian. Cornelius came through loud and clear, though, when he whispered on the way, "I still hold you responsible for this, you little wise guy."
"Evening, Mr. Cornelius, Sergeant Hirsch," the manager said glumly as he locked the bank doors behind the group. They all gathered around the manager's desk as the heavy set older man shuffled through some papers and spread them across his desk with a look of desolation.
Poor guy, Frank thought. A man whose business is money must hate to see a million dollars leave his hands.
Hirsch produced the passbook for the savings account. "Anywhere special you want the money to go, Mr. Cornelius?"
"Certainly. To my personal account," Cornelius snapped. He produced a bank card and handed it to the bank manager. "Call the number on the back. They accept wire transfers anytime."
"Of course, sir." The manager gave Joe and Frank the transfer papers to sign, then gathered everything and rushed into the back. To Frank's surprise the man returned moments later, huffing
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and puffing. He tried to speak, but it took him a moment to catch his breath.
It wasn't the hurrying that had colored the man's face beet red, Frank realized as the bank manager spoke. It was sheer terror.
"The money!" the man blubbered,, panic- stricken. "Someone's emptied the account. Your million dollars is gone!"
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"What?" Joe shouted, echoed loudly by Frank, Cornelius, and Hirsch.
"I checked," said the manager. "The money was withdrawn an hour ago by electronic transfer."
"How could that be?" Cornelius demanded. "No one has a bank card to that account. There'd be nothing to insert into a teller machine. Anyway, it's impossible to withdraw a million dollars that way."
The manager shook his head. "I know, I know. But the money is gone. We may be able to trace it, but not until business hours tomorrow."
"By which time it may be in some account in the Cayman Islands or Southeast Asia that we
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couldn't get to even if we could find it," Hirsch said.
"Arrest them!" Cornelius shouted, enraged, pointing at the Hardys.
Joe ignored him. He was busy watching Frank. He could tell that Frank was thinking hard, working something out.
"On what charge?" Hirsch asked Cornelius, annoyance starting to sound in his voice.
"Grand theft! Wire fraud! Kidnapping!" Cornelius shouted, out of control. "I can't believe this. First my daughter disappears, and now my money!"
To Joe's relief, Hirsch met Cornelius's gaze calmly. "Listen," he said in a voice so soft it could barely be heard.
Cornelius shut his mouth and swallowed hard, not missing the threat in Hirsch's whisper.
"It couldn't have been the Hardys," Hirsch continued. "I had the bankbook. These boys didn't even know the account number. They also didn't have a bank card or the identification number that goes with one. Without any of that, there's no remote access. The boys didn't steal your money."
Joe tried to look innocent, even though he knew Frank had memorized the number. But Frank wouldn't have moved the money. Joe wondered suddenly if Victor had taken the million dollars.
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"If that's all," Joe heard Frank say, "my brother and I would like to get going."
Hirsch shot him an odd look. "What's your hurry?"
Frank sighed. "We've signed all the papers we need to, right? It's been a long day, I'm tired, and I'd like to get some dinner and then rest for a while. If that's okay."
Hirsch nodded gravely. "Be my guests."
"You're going to let them go?" Cornelius shouted in outrage.
"Mr. Cornelius," Hirsch said, "please." To the Hardys he said, "Boys, enjoy yourselves in Las Vegas. Thank you for your cooperation."
As the Hardys reached the door, Hirsch added cryptically, "Good game. I guess we're in checkmate."
"Winning already?" said Frank with a grin. By the way he said it, Joe knew they still had a gambit left to play.
* * *
"Okay, so tell me. What's next?" Joe demanded as soon as they were out of the bank. He had to break nearly into a run to keep up with Frank. Joe glanced back over his shoulder to see Cornelius still inside the bank, arguing with Hirsch, and he figured his brother had been smart to leave. Joe didn't want to be around when Cornelius and Elroy started after them. He had the feeling that if Cornelius couldn't get his
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money back, he wouldn't mind balancing the books with their lives.
Frank slowed down as they neared the banks of slot machines, where they could mingle with the crowd and avoid being seen. Frank narrowed his eyes, scanning the crowd as he stalked the rows of one-armed bandits.
"Look for Victor," he told Joe.
"Okay," Joe said, surprised. "But I doubt he's here. If he took the money, he could be on his way to the Caribbean by now."
Joe hadn't had a good look at the slots since they arrived in the Camelot. That day it seemed as though twice as many people were playing them. He noticed that no one had yet won the grand prize of a million dollars. For a fleeting moment he wished he were old enough to win the money and use it to get Cornelius off their backs. But he knew the odds against winning were ridiculously high. People who gambled because they needed the money usually ended up in a much worse situation.
Dutifully Joe followed his brother to a section of the lobby that overlooked the shallow pit full of slot machines but wasn't on the playing floor, so the security guards wouldn't try to apprehend them for gambling underage. From there, Joe noticed, they could also keep an eye on everyone entering and leaving the elevators. "I don't see any sign of Victor," Joe said.
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"I just hope he hasn't left town already," Frank muttered.
"We could check the airlines," said Joe. He wished he'd gone ahead and checked the contestants' backgrounds that morning, but he hadn't had time, and anyway, he hadn't felt he needed to after identifying Victor's voice. If he knew more about the boy, he realized now, he might have a better idea of what to do next.
"Frank," Joe said cautiously, "you knew our bank account number. You didn't somehow take the million, did you?"
Frank laughed. "Not a chance, Joe. Victor did, and I know how."
"Impossible," said Joe. "The manager said the money was taken an hour ago while Victor was with you, playing chess in the auditorium. I saw him."
"That's when he got it," Frank explained. "Remember, last night they couldn't find any tampering with the computer or their program? They weren't looking for the right thing. Victor wasn't after the computer or the program. He was after the cables going to the computer."
"So that was Victor in the auditorium last night," Joe said. "When did you figure that out?"
"Mostly during the tournament, but I wasn't absolutely sure until we got the news about the money being stolen. Victor comes from Silicon
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Valley, one of the biggest centers of computer research in the country."
"Think he knows as much about computers as you do?"
"A lot more, if he can pull this off," Frank said. "When Victor was in the auditorium last night, he was hooking up the computer to the cables running under the floor. I bet if we checked we'd find that all the hotel's computer cables run through there, including the cable to the bank."
"So he hooked up the computer to the bank cable," Joe said. "So what?"
"So all computer programs are essentially alike. It doesn't matter if it's a chess game or a bank code. Basically it takes the same kind of basic programming, which consists of answering a million questions yes or no until the computer does exactly what you want it to.
"I saw Victor making a lot of bizarre moves that seemed to have no point. Joe, those weren't chess moves. Victor was using the chess game to input data into the computer system."
Joe was puzzled. "I don't know that much about computers, but wouldn't he need software to do that? They said there wasn't anything wrong with their software."
Frank frowned. "I haven't figured that part out yet. But he did use software, and his program corrupted the chess software. No program, no matter how good, is perfect. He corrupted
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the computer program enough to give me easy games, something it wasn't supposed to do. That's how I won."
"But I still don't see how he got the money."
Frank grinned in grudging appreciation of Victor's know-how. "His chess moves were translated into banking codes. Victor just told the bank what account to access and what to do with the money. Joe, he used the chess game to rob the bank, and nobody even knew it! It was brilliant!"
Joe nodded. Then his face lit up. "Here's your chance to tell him," he told his brother.
Joe pointed to one of the elevators just as Victor stepped out, smiling. He had changed into a loud Hawaiian shirt and was leisurely strolling through the lobby. Obviously, Joe realized, he didn't know anyone suspected him of a crime.
"Joe, we've got to get out of sight!" said Frank. He leapt off the raised floor into the gaming area. Joe joined him without asking why. He didn't want to be seen, either.
Joe had more in mind than nabbing Victor and getting the money back. They still had to find Beth, and he had a few lumps to give back to Burke as well.
Victor walked by without seeing them. Joe saw that despite his casual air, the Californian was jingling the change in his pockets nervously. Perhaps he wasn't so sure he'd gotten away with a major theft after all.
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"Hey, boys!" Joe heard a gruff voice behind him. He and Frank turned to find themselves facing a mean-looking security guard. "No underage guests are allowed in the gaming room. I can throw you out of this hotel for that."
"Don't bother. We're going," said Joe. He pushed past the guard and bolted toward the exit. Frank was right behind him. The guard sputtered and yelled, but Joe didn't have time to listen. They had to catch up to Victor, who was leaving the hotel.
"There he is!" Joe yelled as they pushed their way outside. He had spotted Victor in the parking lot, ducking into a blue car.
Frank dashed to the taxi stand and got into the first cab in line. The driver started the engine, and Joe leapt in after Frank.
"Where to?" the cabbie said.
"Ever done a tail job?" asked Frank.
"Like on TV?" the cabbie asked, astounded. "Nan, but it sounds like fun. Let's go for it."
* * *
"Finally," Joe said when the blue car pulled into a parking lot as the sun was setting. Victor got out of his car and locked it. The cab pulled up to the lot, and Frank paid the driver with the last of his money. "For a minute I thought he was going to drive home to California."
"The Hoover Dam, huh?" the cabbie said. "You should have said you were tourists. I would have given you a special rate."
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The cab left, and Joe looked up at the gigantic Hoover Dam. Built in 1936, the structure was over seven hundred feet tall. It held back the mighty Colorado River on one side and forced its waters into Lake Mead. The huge dam with its breathtaking views was a popular tourist attraction, but Joe knew that that night it would be the site of the end of a criminal career.
They followed Victor on foot at a distance. He never looked back, and as far as Joe could tell, the Californian had no idea he was being followed. Frank and Joe hung back as Victor walked out onto the dam's observation deck— an area dwarfed by the sweep of the dam itself. It was late in the day so there were very few people around.
"Look," Joe said, nudging his brother. "There's Beth—and that must be Burke."
"It looks like something's wrong," said Frank.
Joe nodded. He could see that Beth's eyes were downcast. Victor appeared nervous as he approached Burke slowly.
Then under the lights, which had just come on, Joe spotted the gun in Burke's hand.
"The hired gun takes over," Frank said.
They watched Burke gesture with his gun at Victor. Victor nodded and reached into his shirt pocket. He brought out a small card that flashed silver in the light as he continued talking.
"That's a bank card," Frank guessed. "How
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much do you want to bet it gives the bearer access to a million bucks?"
Even from that distance, Joe could see that there was a disagreement between the two men over something. Burke was gesturing angrily with his gun while Victor held the card out of reach and tried to grab Beth out of Burke's grasp.
"I guess he's trying to trade the million dollars for Beth," Frank said. "Interesting. Beth gets kidnapped after all."
"Yeah, very interesting," Joe said, already moving forward. "Let's go."
"Okay, both of you," Joe yelled as he and Frank jogged onto the observation deck toward the trio. "Give it up now. It's all over, anyway. We're on to you."
Burke's eyes flashed at Victor. "Double-crossing—"
Before Victor could move, Burke shoved Beth at the safety railing. She was bent backward over it, screaming. As Joe lunged to save her, Burke reached down, grabbed her ankle, and lifted her up, forcing her almost all the way over. Joe caught sight of pounding water seven hundred feet below.
He charged Burke and grabbed Beth's other leg and pulled her back onto the pavement. Joe then sprang to his feet, ready to deal with Burke.
Frank was already on the kidnapper and was wrestling with him against the railing.
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Joe and Victor stared in horror as Frank and Burke pushed each other farther and farther over the railing. Grunting, each tried to gain an advantage against the strip of metal.
"Frank! Move back!" Joe shouted, starting toward him. He was too late to help. As Joe watched, Frank slowly slid over the railing. In an instant he would plunge to his death in the raging waters below! 
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"No!" Frank thrust his arm up and grabbed for the railing, folding one hand around it just in time. Burke stood poised, ready to uncoil Frank's fingers and drop him into the water below. It was a losing battle for Frank until Victor rammed his head into Burke, knocking him out of the way.
"There," Victor grunted. He locked his fingers around Frank's wrist and pulled on him, anchoring himself with his other hand on the railing. "Now climb up."
His pulse racing, Frank started up. Just then Burke got back up and lunged at Victor.
"Joe!" Frank yelled desperately. "Get over here!"
"I'm here!" he heard Joe say as Burke knocked
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Victor over the railing, kicking Frank's anchor hand loose. Victor managed to grab the railing as Frank, plunging, reached out and desperately wrapped his arms around Victor's legs. Both boys were now being supported by Victor's one hand. Joe tackled Burke and had him down and out in short order.
"Get over here, Beth!" Frank screamed. "Without your help we're going to fall!"
Beth went into action and grabbed for Victor's belt. Together she and Joe began to pull him and Frank to safety.
Joe hoped Frank had enough strength left to hold on to Victor.
"You're doing it, Joe," Frank gasped, his eyes popping up over the edge of the ledge. "Just a little more—"
Frank's knuckles brushed the railing, which he managed to grip. "Let's go," he told Joe.
Frank finally pulled himself up and over the railing. "Look out!" he heard Joe shout. He turned to see Burke kneeling and holding a .45.
"You're all dead," Burke muttered under his breath, his gun hand braced against his knee.
Joe whirled around and lashed out with his foot, catching Burke in the wrist. The burly man dropped his hand to the concrete, and Joe stomped his foot down, smacking the gun barrel into the pavement. Burke's wrist twisted
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sideways, and he shrieked in pain as he pulled the trigger.
A shot exploded across the concrete, causing the few remaining tourists to scream and scatter. Then, to Frank's relief, Joe kicked the gun away.
Crazed with rage, Burke stood up and charged at Frank. At the last second Frank ducked and Burke went sailing over the railing. With a bloodcurdling scream, Burke dropped, a blurred shadow against the dark frothy water. Then he was gone.
"Oh, no," Beth moaned as she stared in silence at the empty space where Burke had been.
Frank pulled himself over the railing and lay panting on the concrete.
Frank vaguely noticed that even Victor, usually so talkative and friendly, was shocked into silence by what had just occurred.
Joe and Victor helped Frank sit up on the concrete while the handful of late tourists backed away, frightened.
"It's all over for you guys," Joe muttered angrily to Victor and Beth while they all waited for Frank to recover from the shock of what had happened.
Frank watched the couple, sitting on the observation deck with their arms around each other.
"You mean you're not going to let us go?" Victor asked, astonished.
Joe stared at his brother in amazement.
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Neither Hardy could believe he had heard the question. "Why would we let you go?" Joe demanded. "After all the trouble you've put us through—"
"You don't understand," Victor said.
Joe was about to tell Victor off when Frank raised a hand, signaling Joe to be quiet. "Let's hear it," Frank told Victor.
"I met Beth two years ago," Victor began, putting all his earnestness into his voice. "There was a careers seminar for high school students in Dallas. Both of us attended. I was a senior; she was a junior. We saw each other one day and that was that. I couldn't stop thinking about her. I didn't know she couldn't stop thinking about me, either."
"We exchanged addresses and phone numbers at the end of the seminar," Beth said. "We started writing and calling each other every week, and pretty soon we both knew how we felt. That was how my father found out. He discovered Victor's letters and read them. He ordered me not to write him back, and not to talk to him. He'd never met Victor, but he hated him. My father hates the very thought of Victor."
"He always calls you his little girl," Frank said. "He wants to protect you."
"Yeah?" said Victor. "Is that why he sent Elroy to threaten me? My doorbell rang one day, and when I answered it, Godzilla was standing there threatening to pound me into the ground if
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I so much as thought about Beth again. I remember my little sister just standing there watching us and screaming. Of course I visited Beth in secret several times in New York after that, and the whole time I thought about how I was going to get Beth and pay Cornelius back."
"Wait a minute," Frank said. "What sister? I thought you said you were an only child and had no real family."
Victor reddened. "Okay, so I made up some stories. I was feeling kind of cocky, getting away with my plan. It felt good to be able to fool a guy as smart as you. So I sliced the baloney a little thick, I guess."
"So you figured you'd rob Beth's father," Joe interrupted.
"Do you know how he got his money?" Beth said, outraged. "He's a gangster—a common criminal."
"It wasn't enough to rob him," Victor said, remorse creeping into his voice. "We wanted him to be grief stricken, the way he made us feel. I started sending my letters to Beth through a friend of hers, and we stayed in touch that way. Then this chess tournament came up, and I started thinking ..."
"Not very well, I'm afraid," Frank said. "What made you think you could pull it off?"
"We almost did, didn't we?" Victor replied. A flicker of his old reckless charm appeared in
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his handsome face. "We still can, if you'll help us."
Frank shook his head. "I can't do that. We figured out the rest of it, except for a couple of things. Ms. Lassen said they checked the chess software after you tampered with the computer, and they didn't find anything wrong. But you must have put in a software bomb in order to pull off that money-transfer scam. How on earth did you do that?"
Victor laughed. "My uncle was one of the programmers who wrote the code for the original version of that chess program. He's the one who got me interested in computers in the first place. When he got the assignment, he asked me if I wanted to work on it with him. And I did."
Now Frank understood. "So the chess program had the transfer capability all the time. Pretty neat. Now tell me—why did you get us involved?"
"Because of your reputation," Victor said, acting excited again. "Most people don't know about you, but people on computer bulletin boards swap gossip, and news gets around. Beth was coming from your area, and we needed a decoy. It was like you were sent for us, Frank," he said with a piercing gaze. "We never intended to hurt anyone. Beth and I just wanted to be together. We were going to take the money— which would have been Beth's anyway, someday—give Burke his cut, and go somewhere
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where Cornelius would never find us. You've got to believe me."
"You never intended to hurt anyone?" Joe piped up. "Burke tried to drown me in a car in Lake Mead, Beth beat me with a radio, and then Burke tried to shoot me on the Strip—but you never intended to hurt anyone? Forget it, you two aren't going anywhere."
Beth was aghast. "Burke told us he dumped the car because the police were looking for it. I never knew anyone was in it. I thought you'd traced us to the cabin on purpose and were going to turn us in. I know I hit you too hard, but you scared me to death!" Beth's expression changed. "What do you mean, Burke tried to shoot you?"
"It doesn't matter," Frank said. "The fact is, both Burke and Cornelius—and a couple other guys you probably don't even know about— could have killed us any number of times. And it's all your fault. I agree with Joe. We have to turn you in."
"Frank," Victor pleaded. "Please listen. I didn't know what kind of man Burke was. I just knew he was a private detective here in Vegas, and he understood computers and security systems. I went to him for help in setting up the shielded bank account to put the money into. He found out what we were doing and cut himself in for a piece of the action. I didn't know he was a killer, and I didn't know he was planning
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to take all the money. He would have taken everything if you hadn't shown up."
"I guess that's one you owe us," Joe said. "Let's go."
"Please!" Victor said. "If you take us in, they'll send us both to prison."
"Funny thing, buddy boy," said an unexpected voice. "That's exactly what I had in mind."
The four of them turned to face Jerome Cornelius. The slight, bespectacled man's sharklike smile was gone, replaced by a hurt and angry scowl. In his hand was a pistol—the mate of the one in Elroy's hand.
"Cornelius!" Joe said. "How—"
"Easy. We followed you in that cab." Cornelius scrunched up his face and looked Victor over. "This is the type you go for, Beth? I thought you had better taste." He glanced at his henchman. "Get Beth to the car while I remove these spots from the face of the earth."
"Don't!" Beth ordered. Before anyone could stop her, she scooped up the gun Joe had kicked out of Burke's hand. Beth held it leveled at Cornelius.
"If you hurt Victor, I'll kill you," she said, her voice shaking.
"Put that down, Beth," Joe said, edging toward her. "You don't want to shoot your father."
"He's right," Cornelius told Beth. "You're
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upset. I understand that. Put the gun down and everything will be okay."
Beth's mouth turned down in anger and hatred. Slowly she squeezed the trigger. Joe hurled himself against her, fighting her for control of Burke's revolver.
Frank flinched as a shot rang out and someone screamed.
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Chapter 16
Joe grabbed the gun away from Beth and pushed her down to get her out of the line of fire. He spun toward the source of the shot.
"Put it down!" Joe heard someone call. He turned to see Sergeant Hirsch silhouetted against the pink and deep purple sky, gripping a service revolver in both hands. He had it aimed at Cornelius, who was nursing his shoulder. Two uniformed officers stood ready to aid the sergeant. A good distance behind them a growing number of tourists watched in fascination and horror.
"No problem, sir," Joe put up both his hands, dangling the gun on one finger by the trigger guard. Slowly he crouched, his arms spread wide, and set the gun on the concrete.
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"Nice of you to show up, Sergeant," Frank said from behind Joe.
"You don't think Cornelius is the only person capable of tailing someone, do you?" Hirsch said. "I had a man on him from the second he left the bank. Looks like we can all go downtown and sort this out."
"Sergeant," Cornelius protested, "I was just protecting my daughter."
"Around here we call that kind of protection attempted murder," Hirsch said. "You're going to be spending more time in our state than you'd planned this trip, Mr. Cornelius. In fact, I think you ought to know you have the right to remain silent. ..."
He turned to Victor a while later. "As for you—assuming we drop the charge of kidnapping, since the young lady here is eighteen and wasn't abducted against her will, you're still looking at charges of extortion, fraud, bank robbery, and computer sabotage—and those are just a few of the crimes that come to mind. It's up to the district attorney to decide if she'll prosecute. But if I get any trouble out of you I'll break you into tiny little pieces. Got it?"
"Got it," Victor said glumly.
Hirsch extended an arm toward two squad cars. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you please."
Resigned and relieved, Joe started for the cruisers. Just then he saw a sudden blur out of the corner of his left eye. He turned in time to
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see Elroy smash both fists backward, catching both police officers assigned to guard him in the face and knocking them right off their feet. Hirsch spun toward him, and Elroy's fist connected, knocking the sergeant out.
"Watch out!" Joe yelled as Cornelius scooped up Hirsch's gun and fired at Victor as the boy sprinted away. The shot was wild, going over Victor's head. Before Joe could move, Frank tackled Victor, knocking him to the ground out of the line of fire.
Joe spun around again in time to see Cornelius lunge for his daughter. Joe stepped in the man's way, and Cornelius's pistol cracked across his head, stunning him.
"Stop them," Joe mumbled through a haze of pain, as he watched Cornelius grab Beth's hand and push her toward Elroy. The enormous man picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
The trio reached Cornelius's luxury car before Joe, Frank, or Victor could react. As the red import sped away, Joe saw Victor push Frank aside and spring to his feet. Joe started to race after the boy, but the pain of the blow from the gun sent him back onto his knees.
"Are you okay?" Frank said, gently shaking his brother.
"I think so," Joe said, rubbing his eyes. He spied Victor running toward his blue car, and he gritted his teeth.
"Not this time," Joe said to himself.
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Before Frank could stop him, Joe was back on his feet, sprinting awkwardly toward the blue car. Victor started the engine and hit the gas. As the blue car screeched across Joe's path, Joe jumped at it, catching hold of the open driver's window just in time. "Whoa!" Joe yelled as he pulled himself painfully up against the side of the car. He snaked his arm in through the window and wrapped it around Victor's neck.
"Stop this car," said Joe. "Now!"
"They're getting away!" Victor shouted in frustration as he put on the brakes. Joe motioned to Frank, who was using the police radio in Hirsch's car to call for help.
"So let's go get them," Joe said after Frank was inside with Victor and him.
Victor stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he threw the car into gear and raced back onto the road to Las Vegas.
* * *
"There they are!" Joe cried a short time later as Victor's car sped past the Las Vegas city limits and the brilliantly lit city flashed against the dark sky. Joe was relieved to have spotted the red import. It had stayed far ahead of them all the way back to Las Vegas, impossible to tail in the dark, and Joe knew Victor was terrified that he might have lost Beth forever.
"What luck," Frank observed. The import was pulling into the spotlit valet parking area at the Camelot. Instead of fleeing town, Joe
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realized, Cornelius was going back to the hotel, probably to collect what was in his room. When he thought about it, Joe saw that his behavior fit what they knew about the man. Cornelius had a habit of living his life as though he were above the law.
"Maybe we can sneak up on them," Joe began, but then he saw the determined look in Victor's eye. Victor floored the gas, and the car leapt the curb and roared over the Camelot's lawn.
As they approached, Joe saw Elroy climb out of the import and walk around the front of it. Clearly Elroy didn't see Victor's car shooting across the lawn at thirty miles an hour.
"Jump!" Joe heard Frank yell. Instinctively the brothers knocked open their doors' and threw themselves from the car, landing on the soft green grass.
As he landed, Joe heard the car smash into the side of the import. Joe sat up in time to see the red car leap forward, knocking Elroy over and causing several onlookers to scream. Then Joe saw the big man fall unconscious to the pavement.
Joe stared through the darkness as Victor, dazed but triumphant, staggered out of his dented car.
"Victor! Watch out!" Joe yelled as he saw Cornelius burst from the far side of the import, pulling Beth behind him with one hand and firing
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his gun with the other. Before Victor could react, a shot clipped him in the shoulder. He dropped to his knees in shock, holding his arm.
Seeing Victor drop, Beth screamed and slapped at her father. "I hate you!" Joe heard her scream. "All you ever do is hurt people! Why don't you leave us alone?"
From what Joe could tell, the savageness of her attack surprised Cornelius, and he loosened his grip. Beth broke free and ran to Victor.
Frank and Joe got to their feet and closed in on Cornelius.
"Stay away!" Cornelius said, taking shelter behind the red car and waving the gun. His eyes darted from the Hardys to the other faces staring at him. A crowd was slowly closing in. With a growl, Cornelius threw the pistol at Frank and broke away, heading for the hotel lobby.
"Come on, Frank," Joe said, breaking into a trot. They entered the hotel a moment later and stopped in disbelief. "He's gone," Joe said. But that didn't make sense. Cornelius hadn't had time to make it to the elevators, and only three people stood near the checkout desk. The man had disappeared.
"He must be in the gambling area," Frank decided, gazing over the banks and banks of slot machines. "There's nowhere else he could have gone."
"Oh, great. We'll never find him in there," Joe replied.
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Frank only shrugged. Joe looked out over the slot-machine room, which was crowded with hundreds of people. He knew the security guard was somewhere in there, with his eyes peeled for them. Even if they somehow managed to elude him, Joe knew they had almost no chance of finding Cornelius. The man had escaped.
All at once Joe heard a chorus of bells and whistles, and small fireworks spit harmless sparks into the crowds below. A spotlight burned down on the slot machine area from the high ceiling, and the crowd parted to stare at the source of the excitement.
Next Joe spotted an excited little man with glasses clearing a path toward the spotlight.
"What's this?" Joe asked, watching the round man clear his throat into a wireless microphone.
But the little man was already speaking. "The Camelot Hotel wants to congratulate its latest top prize winner!" he cried as the bells and whistles subsided.
Joe stared as a neon sign flashed against the wall. " 'One million dollar winner,' " he read aloud. "Someone hit the jackpot!"
The crowd applauded wildly as the winner appeared to take a bow. Then Joe saw who it was and started to laugh. Frank began to laugh, too. To Joe's delight, Sergeant Hirsch pressed in through the door just then, shaking with anger— but in moments he was laughing, too.
To Joe it seemed the only one who was not
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laughing was Cornelius, who stood in front of the slot machines and, with a sickly grimace, held up a giant fake check for one million dollars.
* * *
"To the winner of our tournament we present this check for ten thousand dollars," Ms. Lassen announced excitedly.
With the other contestants, Frank stood and applauded as George Potrero approached the lectern at the front of the filled auditorium. For the first time Frank saw a smile on George's face, and it made him feel good. In his way, he felt, he had made up for his suspicions about George by disqualifying himself as champion. It was an honor Frank could not accept, knowing how he had won. He looked around the audience, exchanging thumbs-up with the other contestants. Even Mike Ayres gave in and raised one thumb in agreement. Frank smiled. He was already looking forward to the reunion a year from now.
After the ceremony Frank got two plates of cake from the refreshment table and took one over to Joe. They sat down on the stage next to Victor and Beth. Victor was excitedly explaining the intricate workings of the chess program while Beth listened, looking a little bored.
"So what did the D.A. say?" Joe asked Victor before chomping down on a big bite of fluffy cake.
Victor stopped talking and drew a deep breath.
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"She took all morning straightening things out with the feds, but it looks like I'll get off with giving the money back to Beth's dad and doing a lot of community service."
"Mr. Cornelius won't be spending much of that money where he's going for the next few years," Joe pointed out. "It was assaulting cops that put him over the top."
"Tell them the good part," Beth said to Victor.
Her fiancé smiled. "Community service means I'll have to spend my summers here in Las Vegas for the next few years to put in the hours. But that's okay, because the people at the bank decided that instead of pressing charges they're going to ask me to teach them how to keep other computer experts from breaking into their lines. Also, my community service will involve setting up a computer network system for gamblers' therapy workshops. I think I could get into doing good stuff like that."
His expression grew serious. "Listen, guys, I want to apologize for involving you two. I didn't think things would get so out of hand. Basically I guess I was trying to be a lot cleverer than I am. I learned my lesson, if that means anything to you."
"Don't worry about it," Frank said graciously. "By the way, I bet I could recommend a couple of customers for your gamblers' workshops."
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"Oh, yeah?" Beth said, interested. "Who?"
Frank pointed at two men hunched down in seats at the far end of the auditorium, wolfing down cake.
"Iggy and Mose," Frank announced with mock solemnity. "They probably wish they'd never even heard about this chess tournament."
"What are you talking about?" Joe said. "Take a closer look at them. They bet against you in the end, remember?"
Frank blinked. Then he studied the pair of gamblers again. That was true—both men had huge grins plastered across their faces. As Frank and the others watched, a waiter came to offer the two men snacks from a tray. Iggy took a tiny sandwich and, with a big flourish, left a handful of bills in its place.
"What'd I tell you?" Joe reminded Frank. "Fun City, U.S.A. Now, how about getting out of here and having a real good time!"
Cold Sweat (Hardy Boys Casefiles #63)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
"You did what?" Frank Hardy stared at his younger brother in disbelief.
Joe Hardy's smug grin didn't disappear, nor did the devilish glint in his blue eyes. "I signed us up for memberships in the Harbor Health Club. That's where we're heading right now." He steered the Hardys' van toward Bayport's newly renovated dockside area. "They were running a two-for-one deal."
"I heard that the first time you told me," Frank said. "This time around, I was hoping to hear why you'd sign me up for something I hadn't okayed."
"I did it for you, Frank." Joe reached out and squeezed one of his brother's lean arms. "You could use a little chunking up, you know, and
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we have a few days off from school to concentrate on it."
Frank shook his arm free. "Okay. Give me the whole story. How did you find out about this big bargain?"
"It was a miracle," Joe explained. "I was just checking the place out and saw Chet Morton there, signing up."
"Chet?" Frank shook his head. "If you'd said he was trying a new fast-food joint, I could buy that. But Chet Morton at a gym?"
"After he signed up he went to talk with this gorgeous blond girl," Joe went on. "I think she must teach an aerobics class—she was wearing these purple tights, a high-cut blue-and-purple leotard, and an instructor's T-shirt—"
"Now I understand why you joined," Frank said. "You've found a new place to chase girls— or one girl at least. And you expect me to help you do it."
"Hey, I only expect a little financial help— like paying half my expenses." Joe was smiling as he pulled into the club's parking lot and brought the van to a stop. "Trust me, Frank, I won't need help with the girl."
"You're a real case." Frank rolled his eyes as they walked toward the gym.
Joe shrugged. "You found me useful enough when we tangled with those crooks in Las Vegas."
Silently Frank had to admit the truth of that.
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Both he and Joe had pushed themselves to the limit on the Final Gambit case. So why did his brother have to be a pain now? Couldn't he just ease up?
Joe tugged on Frank's arm. "Come on, let's hustle. We've got to get to our first training session."
Shaking his head, Frank followed. "I suppose somebody has to be around to catch you when you fall on your face."
Besides, Frank was interested in seeing the new Harbor Health Club. Five years before, it had been the Dockside Gym, located in the basement of an old warehouse. Frank remembered the place as a sweat-and-strain shop where aspiring boxers worked out.
The neighborhood had changed, and the old warehouses were turned into condominiums. The owners of the gym had bought the whole warehouse, renovating it into an upscale health club. The poor boxers stopped coming, and the rich newcomers didn't pour in, so the Harbor Health Club went broke.
Frank remembered when Pete Vanbricken, a football star, bought the club. Was it doing better now, he wondered?
It looked pretty ritzy, Frank had to admit. The grimy old redbrick building had been sandblasted clean, and new windows had been installed. He could see beach umbrellas scattered
4
THE HARDY BOYS CASEFILESTHE HARDY BOYS CASEFILES
on the roof. Frank was willing to bet there was a pool up there, too.
Joe led the way past the reception desk and down one flight of stairs to the locker room. Inside the room a tall man with dark, slicked-back hair glanced up at them and grunted. He shoved a long black gym bag into his locker, slammed the door shut, and strode off. Huge muscles, straining against a skimpy athletic shirt and shorts, rolled and bunched as he moved.
Another locker door was slammed shut, and Chet Morton was revealed in slightly tight sweats stretched over his bulk. His greeting was almost as cold as the stranger's. "What are you two doing here?" he demanded.
"We signed on for a little toning up," Joe explained as he stripped off his clothes and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. "We're supposed to be training with somebody named Jan." He glanced at Chet. "Do you know her?"
Chet just gave him a dirty look and stomped off upstairs to the gym.
Shaking his head, Frank finished changing into the workout clothes Joe had brought for him. Then he and Joe followed Chet upstairs to the gym.
Frank was a little surprised by the large and airy gym. Years ago, as a kid, he'd sneaked a peek through a basement window into the Dockside Gym. Subconsciously, he'd expected to see the same cramped, badly ventilated room. But
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instead of rough concrete floors and cracked, yellowing plaster, he found thick carpeting and cool gray walls. The double-height room was lit from a rooftop skylight and high windows.
The people were different, too. Instead of the hopeful boxers and the old pugs training them, now well-built trainers supervised the workouts of people in expensive exercise clothes. Frank saw the guy with slicked-back hair from the locker room. He was working out with a huge barbell in an area with rubber tiles on the floor. Frank watched the impressive play of muscles in the man's back as he curled the barbell up to his chest.
Around the room potted plants had been placed for decoration, and enormous mirrors stretched along all the walls. Frank knew that the mirrors were supposed to help people check their form as they exercised, but he suspected that vanity was involved as well.
Frank noticed Chet Morton standing in front of a mirror. Chet's gaze moved around the room and back to his own reflection. Instinctively, he threw back his shoulders and sucked in his gut.
As the Hardys moved behind his mirror image, Chet turned to them. "You guys really going through with this?"
"I'm looking forward to working out," Joe said, grinning. "Not to mention meeting Jan."
"It's pronounced Yonn," a deep voice rumbled from behind them.
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Joe's smile slipped a little when he turned to see the owner of the voice.
Just call him Jan the man, Frank thought, taking in a tall character whose chest pulled against the instructor's T-shirt he wore. Tall, mean, and muscles on top of muscles.
"Jan Cole," the man identified himself. "You three must be Hardy, Hardy, and Morton." He squeezed Joe's arm muscles as if they were so much meat. "Good."
Then casting a careful eye over Frank's physique, Jan Cole said, "You have potential."
Looking at Chet, however, he frowned. "Maybe we can shape you up—after we get rid of this lard." His slap to Chet's stomach echoed like a cannon shot.
Chet winced. But Jan Cole had already turned away to talk to a muscular young instructor who was showing one of the club members how to use an exercise machine. "Hey, Penman," Cole said, "work up an exercise routine for these guys."
The younger man nodded, annoyance creeping over his dark features. Cole didn't notice. He had turned back to the Hardys and Chet. "You"—he pointed at Joe—"know how a lat machine works?"
Joe glanced over at a machine that vaguely resembled a gallows. A crossbeam rose slightly over Joe's head, and weight plates were set into the bottom of the riser. A wide handle on a cable
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dangled from the crossbeam. The cable ran through a pulley system and attached to the weights.
Cole led Joe over, sat him in a seat in front of the machine, and adjusted a padded clamp that rested over his thighs. "I'll give you a low weight—just so we can see what this will do for those latissimus dorsi muscles." He slapped the muscle group just below and behind Joe's underarm.
Cole then led Frank over to a cable rowing machine. "You can try this out," he said, and helped Frank to get started.
Then he turned back to Chet and frowned. "And you can drop to the floor and give me fifty—or as many as you can manage."
Frank didn't like the way Cole spoke to Chet—or the way Joe was grinning over at the resistance machine.
"Don't sweat it," Joe said, watching Chet puff through his first push-ups. "I mean, a little exercise never killed any—"
His words were interrupted by a moan over at the treadmills. Joe turned to see a young man in a sweat-stained running suit wobbling on the moving belt. The runner's face went from red to white. His eyes rolled up in his head, but he didn't drop. Instead, he was flung off at the same speed the track was moving.
Both Frank and Joe dropped their cables.
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Before they could get up, though, the man had dropped—right on top of Chet.
Penman, the young trainer, rushed over from the desk where he'd been working on the boys' exercise program. He helped the runner up onto wobbly feet.
"I warned you, Mr. Laufner." Penman shook his head. "Overextending yourself is not the way to go."
Jan Cole swaggered over, giving the runner a slap on the back. The poor man nearly collapsed again. "Either a guy wants to get strong, or he's not good enough." Cole looked down at Chet. "You should remember that, Morton."
Penman sent the runner off to the showers. "I've got a program set up for you," he said to the boys, handing them each a piece of paper. "It's a six-day schedule. Mondays and Thursdays, you'll tone up your legs. Tuesdays and Fridays, you work on your chests and backs. Wednesdays and Saturdays, it's time for your shoulders and arms."
"And on Sundays we pray for strength to live through this," Frank added, glaring at his kid brother.
"Every day you'll work on your abs—those are your abdominal muscles—and you'll get some cardiovascular exercise—treadmill, stationary cycles, maybe some aerobics."
"Really?" Chet brightened at that thought.
His expression changed when Penman handed
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him another paper. "This is a diet plan," Penman explained. "I'm afraid that you'll need a little more than exercise to get into top shape."
Turning from the crestfallen Chet to the Hardys, the instructor said, "Okay, you've had a quick orientation. You can stay and work out a little more or you can come back tomorrow, rested and ready to work."
The boys headed back down to the locker room and took showers and changed. Laufner, the runner who had collapsed, was still sitting on a bench resting as they tied their shoes. Frank noticed that the color had returned to his slightly flabby face.
"Hey, Cosgrove," Laufner called to a man who was just finishing dressing. He slid his arms into an expensive-looking black satin bomber jacket. Cosgrove was the muscle man they'd seen earlier. Frank wondered why he'd had such a short workout.
The big man spoke as he slipped his shoes on. "Well, Laufner. Glad to see you got your breath back."
Laufner flushed. "Has your gambling luck gotten any better, Big Walt?" he asked nastily.
Cosgrove whipped around, hauled Laufner off the bench, and slammed him into the wall of lockers.
"Little man," he said grimly, "watch your mouth. It might start a fight the rest of you can't finish."
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Laufner slid to the floor. Before Frank or Joe could move, Cosgrove grabbed his gym bag and started from the room.
Laufner scrambled to his feet, and Frank Hardy blocked him from taking off after Cosgrove. "Take it easy," he advised. "That guy could finish you."
Frank had noticed two things about the mysterious Mr. Cosgrove. His big black gym bag had turned into a small red one, and the red bag hadn't been zipped closed. Frank spotted something sticking out of it. What he saw made him stop Laufner. The runner didn't have the muscle to take Cosgrove on.
He'd have even less chance against the pistol Frank had seen in Cosgrove's bag.
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Chapter 2
Joe stared in surprise when Frank suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Come on," Frank said. "We're getting out of here."
"What's the big idea?" Joe wanted to know as his brother steered him up the stairs to the main entrance and foyer.
"Something weird is going on. That Cosgrove was carrying a gun." Frank quickly clued Joe in on what he'd noticed about Cosgrove's bag.
"From the way he treated Laufner, Cosgrove doesn't seem to be wrapped too tightly," Frank said. "And when you add a gun—well, let's just say I'd like to keep an eye on him."
They were in the parking lot, opening the doors to their van, when Chet Morton came
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running up. His hair was wet, and the tail of his shirt hung out over his jeans. "What's with you guys?" Chet demanded. "First you push in where you're not wanted, then you run off without even saying goodbye. I want—"
The mysterious Mr. Cosgrove roared past in a low-slung red Porsche right then. "Some car," Chet said appreciatively.
"I'd be more impressed if it weren't rented," Joe cut in. "You can always tell by the first three letters on the license plate."
Frank and Joe realized that they wouldn't have a chance of following the Porsche, so they stood talking with Chet. The front door of the health club swung open, and Jan Cole came swaggering out. Before the door had time to shut, it was pushed open again, and another man stepped out.
Joe recognized him immediately—Pete Vanbricken. He'd seen Vanbricken's face on the sports pages often enough, first as a local football hero—Bayport High's star quarterback. Then there were Vanbricken's triumphs in college games, the trophies and awards he'd won. Most recently Vanbricken's victories had been in pro ball. He'd been the first-string quarterback for the Midland Foxes, leading them to the play-offs at the top of their division for three straight seasons.
Too bad about last season, Joe thought. He'd been watching the game on TV and knew there'd
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be trouble when those two linebackers hit "Pistol Pete" both high and low. Not only had he gotten sacked, he'd wound up with a separated shoulder. End of career.
Pete Vanbricken had come back to Bayport and bought the Harbor Health Club. Almost every local TV show had an ad featuring a smiling Pistol Pete inviting people down to his club.
Pistol Pete wasn't smiling now, however. As the ex-quarterback stalked out of the club, his face showed nothing but rage. "Cole!" he yelled.
Jan Cole glanced almost languidly over one shoulder. "Whatsamatter, boss?"
Even from a distance the boys could see a vein stand out on Vanbricken's temple. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. "This isn't your break time. You're supposed—"
"I don't see any time clock in there," Cole interrupted. "And I'm not just one of the employees around here."
"That's another problem," Vanbricken said. "I've been getting complaints from club members -and the staff—complaints that you've been harassing them."
"Yeah, yeah," Cole scoffed. "We've been through this already."
Joe was surprised. This didn't sound like an employee talking to his boss. Cole was nose to nose with Vanbricken, sneering at him.
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Cole's next words were even more surprising. "Look, Vanbricken, you need me. So you should learn to cut me a little slack. You couldn't keep this place going without the help I give your cash flow."
Pete Vanbricken completely lost it. His fist whipped around to crash into Jan Cole's stomach. Joe could hear the force of the blow, but Cole stood unmoved, his face still in the club owner's.
Vanbricken was not a small guy. He was an athlete, and even at thirty, he had a quarterback's physique. But the hulking Cole had five years and at least fifty pounds on Vanbricken.
Cole raised a fist as if he were pleased with what was about to happen. Joe took a step forward. He had to stop this slaughter!
Behind him, Frank never moved. He just leaned back against the van and cleared his throat very loudly.
It was as if he had blown a trumpet. Both men stepped back from their confrontation. Cole glared at the audience, while Vanbricken just stared blankly at the boys. Turning, Vanbricken stalked back into the club.
Cole hesitated for a second, almost as if he were about to speak. Then he glared once more at Chet and headed back inside, too.
"Wherever he was going," Joe said softly, "he changed his mind in a hurry."
He was about to say more when a yellow car,
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a small but sporty model, rolled into the parking lot.
The car pulled up near the Hardys' van, and a very pretty young woman jumped out, already dressed in a leotard and tights. She had a perfect figure for the workout clothes, shoulder-length blond hair, and the faintest sprinkling of freckles across her high cheekbones and snub nose.
Joe recognized her immediately as the girl he had seen Chet speaking with when he'd checked out the gym. Seeing her up close confirmed Joe's initial impression. She is gorgeous, he thought.
"Chet!" the girl said, smiling as she walked over to them. "I see you've started your training. Great!"
"Uh—yuh," Chet managed, staring at her, his heart in his eyes. One hand went to tuck in his shirttail, the other to straighten out his tousled, still-damp hair.
"So, Chety—Joe moved in smoothly—"aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?"
Judging from the look he got, Joe thought Chet would have been more willing to introduce him to a passing steamroller.
"Dawn Reynolds, this mental misfit is Joe Hardy," Chet finally said. "And this is his older brother, Frank."
"Nice to meet you, guys," Dawn said. She smiled again at Chet. "Guess I'll see you around."
"Every day," Chet promised fervently.
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Dawn glanced at her watch. "Yow! Got a class to start. I'm going to be late."
Her hand went to her forehead. "Oh, great. I forgot my sweatband." Dawn dashed back to her car, rummaging around on the front seat.
At the same time, Chet rushed over to his car. He came back a moment later, a dark blue terry- cloth band in his hand.
"Can't find it?" he asked. "Here, use one of mine. It's clean," he hurriedly assured her. "Never even been used."
"That's so sweet," Dawn said, taking the band from him. One end fell from her hand, exposing the length of the band. In brilliant yellow letters, the name Chet had been embroidered onto the toweling material.
Chet blushed. "My mom made it," he quickly explained. "But you can wear it so your hair hides the name."
"It was nice of her to do that—and nice of you to lend it to me," Dawn said with a smile.
Chet's face grew even pinker as she raised her arms, slipped the band on, and fluffed her hair over his name.
"How do I look?" Dawn asked.
"G-great," Chet assured her.
"Very nice," Frank said.
"Yeah—really hot," Joe added.
"Well, I will be, after a few minutes," Dawn assured them. She ran for the entrance.
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"Dawn seems nice," Frank said to Chet, who was grinning broadly.
"Yeah," Joe added. "I look forward to getting to know her better."
His comment earned him another black look from Chet. "I'll tell you right now," he said, "I don't want you bothering—"
"Hey," Frank spoke hurriedly to cut off an argument, "let's head to the mall to Mr. Pizza."
That put Chet in a good mood.. Soon they were seated in a booth at their favorite pizza joint. Chet had a faraway look in his eyes and a silly grin on his face even as he ordered a pie with the works.
"How soon they forget," Joe teased him, shaking his head in mock sadness.
"What are you talking about?" Chet asked.
"I'm talking about those diet sheets, all crumpled up and stuck in your shirt pocket." Joe pointed to the bent papers curling out from Chet's breast pocket. "I'll bet monster pies aren't on that list. Tsk-tsk. What would Dawn say?"
Chet bit his lip and Joe laughed. His laughter quickly ended when Chet pushed the pie away. "Here," Chet said, "you guys can have this, too. My treat."
He turned to their pal Tony Prito, who ran the place. "Hey, Tony," Chet called. "Give me a salad. No oil, just vinegar."
The Hardys watched Chet attack the green
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salad in grim silence. "Hey, it was just a joke," Joe said a little lamely.
"No, you were right," Chet told him. "I ought to get used to eating like this." He finished the last forkful, then stood up. "I've got to train myself to stay away from temptation. See you guys tomorrow."
Joe stared openmouthed as Chet walked away. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"What day?" Callie Shaw asked as she walked up to their table. Frank's girlfriend carried several shopping bags of various sizes, which she dumped on the seat beside Joe. Then she slid in beside Frank, a smile on her cute face as her sharp brown eyes took in Joe's expression.
"You look as though you've heard they repealed the law of gravity," she said.
"No, it's something weirder than' that," Joe told her. "Chet Morton just turned down a pizza—he paid for it and gave it away." He pointed to the pie, which still sat in the middle of the table. "Help yourself."
"And get my arm broken when Chet comes back from the men's room or something?" Callie asked suspiciously.
"No, Joe's telling the truth," Frank assured her.
"It may be true, but I don't believe it," Callie said.
"From now on, call Chet Mr. Willpower."
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Joe told Callie the whole story, making it as humorous as possible.
Frank Hardy didn't laugh, though. "I don't think this is so funny," he said. "I mean, we all know about Chet and pizza. If he's willing to give it up for this Dawn Reynolds, he must feel pretty strongly about her. I don't know if it's a good idea, you pushing in and competing for her."
"Competition is the American way," Joe assured him. "Chet wouldn't appreciate it if he had too easy a time. What's that line from school? The one about the bumpy road to love?"
" 'The course of true love never did run smooth,' " Callie quoted. "That's Shakespeare, from A Midsummer Night's Dream."
"Exactly!" Joe nodded energetically. "If Chet's truly in love, it shouldn't run smooth. Otherwise, 'May the best man win' as someone else said."
Frank shook his head. "Let's head home," he said to Callie, "before he quotes himself to death."
* * *
The next morning Joe was seated at the breakfast table when Frank walked into the kitchen. Frank clung theatrically to the door frame and stared at him. "The world must really be upside down if you're up and ready before me."
"Let's cut the comedy," Joe said, smothering
20
a yawn. "We need a. healthy breakfast if we're going to survive the workout planned for us this afternoon. Did you see the weights those sadists expect us to lift?"
"I hope you're satisfied," Frank said, heading for the refrigerator. "If you ask me, we should leave Chet to suffer alone."
"If there were a mystery behind this, you'd happily take on the torture," Joe kidded. He reached over to turn on the kitchen radio, hoping to catch the weather report.
Instead, he got a special bulletin.
"The police have identified the body found this morning floating in Barmet Bay," the announcer said. "The man, who was not a resident of Bayport, was tentatively identified as Walter Cosgrove. ..."
21
Chapter 3
Joe nearly spewed cornflakes across the kitchen table. "That couldn't be—I mean, it has to be a coincidence. The Cosgrove we met at the health club yesterday doesn't have to be this Walter Cosgrove."
Frank's eyes narrowed in thought. "That runner who nearly passed out—Laufner—called Cosgrove Big Walt. So it would seem that he is or was a Walter Cosgrove."
"So maybe he was up to something weird with that gun, the way you figured." Joe shrugged. "I guess we'll find out today at the club."
* * *
The locker room at the Harbor Health Club was buzzing. Members who never spoke to one another were talking together, all about Walt Cosgrove.
22
"It has to be our Cosgrove;" Laufner, the runner who'd almost passed out the day before, said as he shut his locker. "The newspaper described him as dark-haired, muscular, and in his middle thirties. That fits Big Walt to a T."
"If he walks in and hears you talking that way, he's not going to like it," a heavyset member said, pulling on his sweatpants. "He'd think you were wishing him dead."
Laufner snorted. "And what if I did?" he asked. "Cosgrove thinks he can push anybody around. He's the biggest pain in the club." His voice dropped. "If you don't count Cole."
After pulling his T-shirt on, the heavyset man shook his head. "You really like to live dangerously, don't you? If Cole heard you talking like that, you could end up floating in the bay."
Laufner grayed a laugh. "The only thing he can do is exercise us to death—and I think he's already doing that."
The two men headed up the stairs to the gym.
Joe turned to Frank. "Looks like our friend Cosgrove was loved by all," he said in a low voice.
"We still don't know if he's the Cosgrove from the news reports," Frank said.
Dressed and ready, they went up to the gym, where they found Chet Morton talking with Terrance Penman. "Hey, guys," the young trainer said. "We've got a couple of people using the
23
Cold Sweat
free weights, so start with some exercises."
Joe glanced over at the lightly tinted glass wall that separated the gym from the aerobics studio. He saw a leotard-clad female figure in there. "How about some aerobics?" he asked.
Chet noticed Dawn and nodded. "Sounds fine to me," he said.
Dawn Reynolds grinned at the three boys as they opened the glass door and stepped into the studio. A small group of men and women had already congregated there, forming into ranks.
"Hi," Dawn said, "and welcome to the wonderful world of aerobics. This is a basic class—just the thing to get you warmed up for your work out there." She nodded toward the gym.
"I hear it's just like dancing," Joe said, needling Chet. Joe was a good dancer, but Chet tended to stay off the dance floor.
"Let's start with some leg lifts," Dawn said. Rock music with a heavy beat started playing as she took her place at the front of the group. "A hundred!" Dawn called, starting the exercise. As the pretty instructor counted down, they all performed the exercise. By the time they reached fifty, Joe's leg was beginning to get tired. It wasn't exactly like dancing, and his muscles were protesting at the unfamiliar exercise.
Joe glanced over at Chet. Face red and panting a little, Joe's friend grimly tried to keep pace.
24
"Yeah, that's the way to do it!" Joe called to him. Joe worked hard to eliminate any trace of being out of breath and tried to lift his leg even higher.
For a second Chet took his eyes off Dawn to glare at Joe, and his face went even redder. Then he continued with the exercise.
For the next half hour the class continued. Joe felt sweat trickling down his back. Chet had big wet blotches appearing on his T-shirt.
Dawn continued leading the exercises, her voice normal, hardly a blond hair out of place. Joe began thinking of a cartoon he'd seen once. The caption had read "Aerobics in Hell." It had featured a devil leading a bunch of sinners in an apparently endless workout session.
At last the music ended and Dawn said, "That's it—very good, everybody!"
As soon as he could trust himself to speak normally, Joe walked over to Dawn. "That was a great starter," he said, pumping his arms a little. "It really gets the blood moving. Right, Chet?"
Chet only nodded, apparently not trusting himself to speak without panting.
Frank Hardy joined them, letting out a deep breath. "The only thing is, I feel as if my session has just ended, instead of just begun."
Dawn's laugh was bright and bubbly. "No goofing off, now," she said in a mock-stern
25
voice. "Terrance is ready for you. And remember—I can see everything that goes on out there." She laughed, indicating the glass wall.
"We'll do our best to give you a show," Joe promised. He could feel Chet's eyes burning into his back.
"Why don't you cool it a little?" Frank whispered as they headed out. "You're going to push Chet into hurting himself or something."
"I just want Dawn to know how fit I am," Joe whispered back. "Besides, all's fair in love and war."
"You're just full of quotations lately," Frank said, shaking his head.
Terrance Penman set Joe up at a rowing machine, showing him how to set the weight resistance for ninety pounds. Joe leaned back against the weight, pulling on a bar and cable that was almost like the attachment for waterskiing.
Instead of skimming along the water, he had to haul against the weight. Now I know how galley slaves must have felt, rowing those big boats around, Joe thought.
He had three sets of exercises to do, repeating his hauling motions first ten times, then eight, then six. By the time he finished, the ninety- pound weight he was trying to move felt more like a ton and a half.
Straining, Joe finished the last set of repetitions. Chet Morton came over, wiping sweat from his face. "Finished with your reps?"
26
Joe nodded.
"Penman said you could show me how to change the weights."
"You want them lighter?" Joe asked.
Chet glanced from the weight setup to the list in his hand. "No—more. I'm supposed to be pulling one hundred sixty pounds."
Joe stared. "You're pulling seventy pounds more than I am?"
His only response was a shrug from Chet. "It's because of my build—and because I've worked out with weights before."
Joe remembered Chet's weight room, set up in the old barn near his house. Sure, Chet had worked out in there, but Joe had never taken it seriously—until now.
As Joe rearranged the weight plates, Chet said sweetly, "I wonder if Dawn can see this."
Joe jerked upright, stung. "There. I've reset the pin for one hundred sixty pounds. Did you see how I did it?"
Chet nodded. "Thanks. Well, I might as well get down to it."
"Yeah. Good luck on finishing it."
Glancing upward, Chet only smiled. "Oh, I'll finish it, all right. See, this isn't like dancing."
He leaned back and pulled with an even, steady stroke. Joe watched as the stack of weight plates rose at the end of the cable.
A little farther along on the rubber-matted surface, Frank was lifting a barbell weighted at one
27
end while bending over. "Six," he granted, letting the barbell down and releasing his two- handed hold. "Wait till you try this one, Joe. It's a real killer."
Joe checked the weight on the barbell. "That's one hundred thirty-five pounds, the same as I have to do," he said. "Okay, I might as well do it now."
"Could be worse," Frank said, toweling off. "When I took these from Chet, he was pulling fifty pounds more."
"What is this guy, Superman?" Joe grumbled as he took over the barbell.
By the time he finished his sets, Joe was beginning to feel a sensation of heat in the muscles over his upper ribs and at the rear of his shoulders. This must be what iron-pumpers call "feeling the burn," he thought.
His next exercises were with dumbbells. First came the flat fly, where he lay on a bench, raising the dumbbells straight-armed until they met over his chest. Then he did dumbbell pullovers, lying with his hands clasped together holding the dumbbell behind his head, then bringing it over his chest.
Joe glanced over at the bench beside him, where Chet was lying down, pressing a barbell straight over himself. Judging from the plates on the bar, he was pressing more than two hundred pounds! Man, if his arms give out, that thing will land right on his throat, Joe thought.
28
Then he noticed that Frank was standing at the head of Chet's bench, ready to take the weight if needed—"spotting" it was called. A much lighter barbell stood off to one side. That must be the one Frank had used, Joe decided.
Finishing his last set, Joe sat up. "How did your bench pressing go?" he asked Frank, who was still spotting Chet.
"Okay," Frank said. "I managed to get through it all." He stared at Chet, silently counting his reps. "That's it."
Chet let Frank take the weight over his head. "I'm beginning to get back into this," he said happily. "Bet I could do another set of six before my muscles maxed out."
" 'Maxed out'?" Joe repeated.
"When your muscles have done the maximum amount of work they can, they just give out," Chet explained. "It can be scary. One second you're doing the exercise, the next, your arms or legs are like rubber."
"Nice time to tell me," Joe said, glancing at the barbell Frank was lowering to the floor.
"Hey, you get the light one that Frank used. It weighs only one hundred seventy-five pounds," Chet said.
Joe rolled his eyes. "Great. That's like picking up Frank and doing bench presses with him."
Chet shrugged. "Hey, iron man, your brother could do it."
29
"Then get off that bench and let me get to work."
Frank stepped away. "I'll let you guys sort this out while I get some water."
Chet walked over to the smaller barbell. "Okay, hotshot, I'll spot for you."
Joe positioned himself on the bench, and Chet carefully lowered the barbell over Joe's chest. He didn't let go until Joe had a steady grip.
"Okay," Joe said. "Here we go."
He bombed his way through the first set of ten repetitions. "Take it easy with those reps," Chet warned. "There's no reward for speed."
"Sez you." Joe went into the second set, eight reps this time, but he didn't do them as quickly.
"Joe, I mean it," Chet said. "You can't rush weight training. If your muscles aren't ready—"
Teeth gritted, Joe performed the third set, eight more repetitions. He was gulping for air by the time he'd finished. It felt as if he were trying to push a mountain up off his chest.
"Joe—" Chet began.
"Don't tell me what to do," Joe wheezed. He launched into the final set, only six reps this time. Three times Joe raised the bar, more slowly with each repetition.
Halfway, he thought. Again, he pressed the bar upward until his arms locked. Four. It was a struggle not to let the weight drop down on his chest.
Chet started to reach for the barbell. Furious,
30
Joe lowered the weight and pressed it up again. "Back off, Morton." His words emerged as gasps. "You're making me look bad!"
Joe's spurt of anger-induced strength wore off halfway through his final rep. Now he knew what maxing out meant. His right arm felt as if it were going to crumple.
The barbell wobbled, and Chet moved forward again, leaning over Joe to grab for the bar.
But the barbell wobbled more, the weights on the right-hand side sliding right to the end! The grip that was supposed to hold them in place fell to the floor as the unbalanced bar tipped under Joe's waning strength.
Chet managed to get hold, but only with one hand. He tried to wrestle the bar up by himself— Joe was no help at all. Weight plates clattered on the floor as the unbalanced bar tore loose. Neither of them could exert control as the bar swung in a horrible parody of a cheerleader's baton twirl.
In this case, though, the "baton" was moving with more than one hundred pounds of force on its weighted side—and the open end of the barbell was heading right for the side of Chet Morton's head!
31
Chapter 4
Frank Hardy was stepping back to the weight section, sipping water from a paper cup, when he saw things going wrong for Joe and Chet.
He dropped the cup, splashing water on the carpet as he flung himself forward. Frank barely beat the swing of the barbell. His open palm caught Chet in the chest with a hearty slap. Chet bounced back, his head moving away from the deadly arc the barbell was following.
Frank's impact also made Chet lose his grip on the flying bar. It spun round till it crashed into the floor, bounced, then flew off to smash against one of the mirrors lining the walls.
Shards of glass filled the air, and everyone dove for cover. A young woman working out with dumbbells dropped them and yelled as a
32
piece of glass caught her in the leg. Blood ran down over her knee, the red in sharp contrast to her green workout clothes.
Joe was up and off the bench, miraculously unhurt. He caught the young woman before she fell. "Wha-what happened?" she asked. Her big brown eyes, wide with pain, stood out from her pale face.
"I'll tell you what happened," an angry voice loudly announced. Jan Cole stomped over and pushed his face into Chet Morton's. "Stupidity happened."
Chet was so shaken up from the disaster that he couldn't even answer. "What's the matter with you, kid?" he demanded. "You said you knew your way around weights. Don't you understand what a spotter's job is supposed to be? The minute Hardy began to have trouble, you should have taken that weight from him."
"I—I tried—" Chet began, licking his parched lips.
" 'I tried,' " Cole mimicked him bitterly. "Well, I don't think you were even paying attention. You were probably too busy checking out the girl exercising next to you to take care of your buddy. So she's hurt, and you and Hardy nearly got killed. Too bad that bar didn't hit you in the head—maybe it would have knocked some sense into you!"
Chet stood frozen, white-faced, as Cole turned
33
from him to the injured girl. "You okay, Linda?"
She nodded, her short dark hair bobbing. "I think so," she answered in a faint voice. "The glass—it's still in my leg."
Lips pressed tightly together, Linda looked down at the wound in her leg. A long, sharp piece of glass gleamed in her outer thigh.
"Oh, gross," a member of the gathered crowd—Frank thought it was Laufner—muttered. As far as Frank could see, it hadn't gone in too deep or cut any major blood vessels.
Still, the sight was enough to make Linda squeeze her eyes shut and turn her head away.
"We'd better get someone to take a look at that," Cole said. He glanced around at the collection of glass shards on the floor. "And I'll have someone clean up this mess—not you, Morton."
Cole's voice rose, and Chet stopped as he was bending over to pick up one of the pieces. "You'd probably break something else." His voice dripped with sarcasm.
"It's not Chet's fault," Joe spoke up. "He told me to stop, and I didn't listen to him." He took a deep breath. "If anybody's responsible for this, it's me."
"He should have done more than talk—he should have acted," Cole said. "And how come those weights slipped off? Morton, did you check that barbell before you gave it to Hardy?"
Chet opened his mouth. For a moment no
34
words came out. "Well, no," he finally said. "But Frank had just used—"
"You were supposed to check it." Cole turned away, dismissing him.
Boy, this guy is a real sweetheart, Frank thought.
As Cole led Linda carefully toward the exit, the glass doors of the aerobics studio swung open. Dawn Reynolds rushed to the scene of the disaster, her face pale.
"What happened, Chet?" she asked. "I had my back to the glass wall, but I knew something had gone wrong when my class stopped dancing. That girl—was she bleeding?"
Chet could barely speak. He stepped away from them, so Joe got the job of telling Dawn what had happened.
As Dawn listened to the story, her face grew even paler. She rushed over to Chet, who stood with round blank eyes, turned on the damage surrounding him.
"Chet." It was nearly a whisper, but Frank could hear her clearly. Dawn's voice shook as if she were on the verge of tears. With a stifled gulp, she went on. "Maybe—maybe I did the wrong thing, encouraging you to join the club and work out. I know you want to get healthy. But I would never forgive myself if you got hurt."
"It wasn't his fault," Frank spoke up. "Joe even said so."
35
"That's not the point," Dawn said in a constricted voice. "You can do a job on muscles— and even bones—if you push yourself too hard. I wouldn't want to be responsible for your getting hurt."
Chet stared at Dawn, wide-eyed. From the look on Chet's face, Frank knew Dawn had already hurt him pretty badly.
"You think I can't handle myself?" Chet asked in a low, hoarse voice. "Or maybe, maybe this is a brush-off." Chet's voice became louder and higher as his facial muscles grew hard. " 'Hey, Chet, it was nice, but now, bug off. I've found a more interesting member at the club.' "
The glare Chet shot at Joe Hardy sizzled with hate. "I saw him showing off for you. But he can't pump as much iron as I can—or as much as his brother can!"
"Chet, I was wrong," Joe began.
Chet cut him off. "Big deal. You spoke up kind of late. I'll never get an exercise partner around this place."
He checked out the gym, his lips in a straight, tense line. "I've paid for my membership, and I'm staying in the club, no matter how anyone tries to get me out."
Dawn stepped back as if Chet had slapped her in the face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then turned and ran—not to the aerobics studio, but to the main exit and out of the club. Chet had obviously hurt her.
36
Chet turned to Joe, his voice poisonous. "Well, go on, lover boy. I'm sure she's ready to cry on your manly shoulder. Or maybe you can go the pity route. You know, 'That maniac almost killed me!' "
Chet's face twisted, and for a second Frank thought his friend was going to spit on Joe. Chet spat words instead. "Well, all I can say is too bad!"
He kicked at a pile of glass fragments and stormed off to the locker room. The maintenance man who had appeared shook his head and began to sweep up the debris.
Laufner and the other bystanders in the gym quickly resumed their exercises, careful not to make eye contact with Frank or Joe. To Frank it seemed as if he and Joe had become surrounded by a bubble of silence. I don't think Chet's the only one who'll have a hard time getting exercise partners, Frank thought.
Joe Hardy stood stock-still for a moment longer before turning to Frank. He seemed greatly troubled.
Frank almost didn't have the heart to say "I told you so"—almost.
"Well, Mr. True-love-never-did-run-smooth, are you happy with your little competition with Chet now?" he finally asked.
Joe couldn't meet his eyes, and Frank felt a twinge of regret. His comment had been a cheap shot.
37
"It couldn't have happened on purpose, could it?" Joe finally asked in a quiet voice.
The question was so out of left field that Frank didn't understand it at first. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"I mean, it was an accident, right? Chet's been my friend—well, as long as I can remember."
Frank could do nothing but stare.
"He just about laid it out, in front of everyone," Joe said, still bewildered. "He talked about how he almost killed me."
Frank felt a chill run down his back as he stared at his brother. "You can't believe that Chet—" he began.
"If you had asked me yesterday, I wouldn't have believed it," Joe said. "But then, I wouldn't have believed Chet could ever act the way he just did. I still want to believe that what happened was plain bad luck."
His voice faltered as he raised his eyes to Frank's. "The question is, what if Chet made it happen?"
38
Chapter 5
The Hardy brothers waited in uncomfortable silence to go down to the locker room until they thought Chet Morton would have left the club. Even then, they didn't speak until they were in their van, out of everyone's earshot.
Joe saw that Frank's first reaction to his suggestion had been disbelief. But Joe knew his brother and believed that even now he was examining the situation from every angle, tearing it apart as logically as possible.
Frank got behind the wheel of the van, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. "Let's go over the whole chain of events, step by step. We got to the club, heard rumors about Cosgrove, then went upstairs and met Penman."
"Who sent us off to warm up with some aerobics," Joe said.
39
"Where you goofed on Chet and tried to turn the class into an exercise in one-upmanship," Frank said, accusing him.
"Then we went on to hit the weights," Joe said, accepting what Frank had said. "I started with the cable rowing machine."
"I worked out with the dumbbells—flat flys," Frank said. "I also saw Chet working on the dumbbell pullovers."
They worked their way through all the exercises until they reached the bench press. "I did my presses with Terrance Penman spotting," Frank said. "He showed me how the set screw works on the collar that restrains the weight plates. I did my four sets, no problem. By then, Chet had finished with the lat machine. Because there was another barbell available, he loaded it up, saying we'd save the one I'd used for you."
"So it sat around waiting for me after you finished." Joe frowned. "Did Chet go over to it at all?"
Frank shook his head. "He couldn't—he was lying on the bench. As far as I know, he never went near your barbell."
"Until he picked it up for me." Joe frowned. "He couldn't do anything. He'd know he'd be suspected right away. Who else could have done it? Cole? Penman? What reason would they have, though?"
"So Chet's got a bit of a motive and not much
40
opportunity. That's if you can possibly suspect one of your best friends."
Joe gave his brother an uncomfortable smile. "I don't have much of a case, do I?" They drove home the rest of the way in silence. Joe couldn't erase Chet Morton's angry face from his memory.
* * *
The Walter Cosgrove case was getting lots of media attention. As the boys walked into the kitchen, the hourly radio news was giving more details on the mystery man.
"Cosgrove was a traveling salesman who often visited Bayport," the announcer said. "When he was found in the bay, he was wearing an expensive black silk bomber jacket and a gold chain. His car, a late-model red Porsche, was found abandoned on Millman's Pier."
"That's definitely our Cosgrove," Joe said. "Black jacket, red Porsche."
Frank nodded. "And they found the car not far from the Harbor Health Club."
The radio report continued. "Chief Ezra Collig said that at this time the police are treating the case as one of suspicious death."
Turning from her place at the kitchen stove, where she'd been listening, the boys' aunt Gertrude shook her head. "It's just as I always say," she said. "That dockside neighborhood is an awful area. I read that it's trendy to move
41
down there. Although why anyone would want to live in an old warehouse is beyond me."
"They renovate them first, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said.
"But people get murdered down there all the time," his aunt said, as if that would settle the argument. "You wouldn't find me dead down there."
"I certainly hope not," Joe said, stifling a chuckle.
Aunt Gertrude's face went red. "You know what I mean. Why do you boys have to go to a dangerous area to visit a health spa or whatever it is? If you need exercise, you could always help with the housework."
The boys disappeared before she could discover any chores to back up her theory.
By the time the evening TV news was on, the police had released the coroner's report.
"At the top of the news tonight, more about the death of Walter Cosgrove," WBPT's anchorman announced. "According to the coroner's report, Cosgrove did not die by drowning in Barmet Bay. There was no water found in the dead man's lungs. The medical examiner has pinpointed the cause of death as a brain aneurysm, a blood vessel bursting in the brain. Here with us tonight is our science correspondent, Dr. Burl Alpert, to explain the phenomenon of—"
With animated graphics and simple words,
42
the science reporter explained what a brain aneurysm was. "Not an everyday way to die," he ended, "but not suspicious, either. Apparently, Mr. Cosgrove had parked on an old pier. We'll never know why for sure. The quick onset of an aneurysm could have killed him instantly, and his dead body could have fallen into the bay."
The camera pulled in for a close-up on the science reporter. "There was no sign of violence on the body—unless you count the odd condition of the deceased's feet. According to the coroner, the skin of the soles was bleached white in several spots with frills of dead skin at the edges. That's a sign that Cosgrove must have suffered from blisters before he died."
Burl Alpert paused with a puzzled look. "But the violence there, I'm afraid, would have to be self-inflicted. Over to you, Scott."
Frank went to bed after the report on Cosgrove. Joe stayed up for the sports scores, but hit the sheets soon as well.
* * *
The Harbor Health Club was not its usual well-run self when the boys visited it late the next morning. They found a rather harassed-looking female staff member behind the reception desk, her instructor's T-shirt plastered to her leotard top with sweat. She passed them through with only a quick look at their membership cards.
43
"You may not find your usual trainer available today," the woman warned them.
"Why?" Joe asked.
The woman was obviously too tired to do anything but tell the truth. "They're giving statements to the police about Walter Cosgrove. Even Mr. Vanbricken is down at headquarters." She glanced at her watch. "And so is the person who was supposed to be relieving me."
The locker room attendant was full of his experiences "down at the precinct," as he put it. He also had some colorful theories about what had happened to Cosgrove, but Joe wasn't interested. He had promised himself, he would be all business and concentrate on exercising.
That promise was broken the moment he walked up the stairs.
Dawn Reynolds was hovering by the entrance to the gym. She had lost a lot of perkiness in one day. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and even her blond hair seemed to hang limply.
"Joe, I need to talk to you," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "I've got this problem, this, uh, situation ..."
She spent another moment fumbling for words before falling into a painful silence.
Joe immediately understood why, as he heard Chet come stomping up the stairs behind him.
44
He neither looked at nor spoke to either of them.
Dawn squeezed her hands together and watched Chet move off.
"Dawn!" An instructor rushed up, grabbing the girl's arm. "I've been looking all over for you. Barbara's supposed to be teaching an aerobics class, but she's still with the police. We need you to fill in."
Staring helplessly at Joe, Dawn let herself be pulled into the aerobics studio. Joe shrugged and decided to hit an exercise bike for his warm-up, staying far away from Dawn—and temptation. After a few miles of pedaling and fifty stomach crunches, he was ready to face the iron again.
That day's target was his shoulders and arms. Joe began with four sets of military presses, raising a ninety-five-pound barbell behind his neck. Then came the front presses, using a seventy-five-pound bar.
As he worked out, he was joined by a dark- haired young woman, also using a barbell. Joe didn't need to see the bandage wrapped around her leg to identify the girl who'd been injured the previous day. "You're Linda, aren't you?" he asked.
"And you're Joe." She grinned. "I thought you might need an exercise partner."
"You're on," Joe said.
As they worked together, Joe felt a warmth beyond the burning of his muscles. Linda was a
45
very committed bodybuilder. It showed in the definition of muscle under her skin, and in the serious way she pushed herself to the limit in her exercises.
"I thought you'd be home after what happened yesterday," Joe said between sets of barbell curls. His upper arms ached slightly as he pumped them up.
"No pain, no gain," Linda said with a grin. "I don't want to fall behind on my training. The injury wasn't bad. If I'm careful, my body can handle it."
Joe glanced over to where Chet Morton stood at the pressdown machine, working on his triceps. In between straining against the machine's resistance, he kept peeking over at Joe.
Good, Joe thought. Maybe he'll lighten up a little if he sees me paying attention to another girl.
Joe was working on consecutive curls when Chet came over and picked up a barbell. There wasn't much room in the weight area, so he set up the bar in front of the power rack. The rack was a sort of mechanical spotter. Struts placed in the back of the rack ensured that the bar couldn't fall below a given height.
Whoever had used the cage last must have been doing squats—the struts were at waist level. Joe continued his curls as Chet assembled a one-hundred-forty-five-pound barbell.
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Picking up the weight, Chet began front military presses as Jan Cole came by.
"Know what you need, Morton? You need to use all of your body. Ever done any power movements?"
"A few," Chet cautiously admitted.
"Well, you ought to do more. Put that thing down."
Chet carefully lowered the barbell.
"See, this is what you need." Cole squatted down, grabbing the barbell in an overhand grip. In an explosive movement he brought the weight up, straightening his legs, then his back, which brought the barbell to hip level. In a smooth continuation of the movement, he flexed his arms at the elbows. The weight rested on the heels of his palms, at shoulder level. "Now you try it," Cole said, pushing the weight up and over to Chet.
Chet wasn't ready for it. He stumbled back, hands up, trying to wave Cole back. But Cole couldn't stop. Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds were rushing straight at Chet!
Joe's friend did his best. He grabbed the barbell, staggering into the power cage.
"Drop!" Joe yelled. "Let the cage catch the weight!"
Chet must have heard him. He let his feet fall out from under him.
Too late, Joe realized that Chet was falling at an angle—the bar wasn't going to catch!
47
"Get out from under there!" he yelled to Chet in horror.
Chet was on the ground, unable to move. Above him, the left-hand side of the barbell had caught on the protective strut.
But the right side hadn't. The heavy weight smashed to the floor, right where Chet lay!
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Chapter 6
Frank Hardy had come out of the locker room a bit later than his brother. He was only warming up on a stationary bike when he heard the commotion behind him.
Turning, Frank was just in time to see Chet Morton go down. Frank leapt from the cycle and sprinted over to the power cage, joining Joe and Linda, the female bodybuilder.
Jan Cole stood horrified in front of the cage, staring down at Chet's still form. The barbell lay half across the stocky teenager's chest.
Cole licked his lips. "Chet, you're not—?" he began in a hoarse voice.
As if in answer, Chet gave a low groan.
Terrance Penman came rushing up. "What happened?" he demanded.
49
"It was an accident," Cole said rapidly. "I handed him a weight, but I guess he wasn't ready for it."
"You handed him a weight?" Joe said incredulously. "You nearly shoved that barbell down his throat."
"Let's not talk about that now," Frank said, kneeling by the side of the power cage. "Chet is our only concern." He looked worriedly at the heavy barbell, resting across the left half of Chet's chest. That could mean danger not only to his left lung, but also to his heart.
Frank glanced up at Terrance Penman, who stood beside Linda on the right-hand side of the cage. "We'd better get this weight out of the way first."
Penman grasped the barbell to take some of the weight. Still on his knees, Frank took hold of the bar as well, shifting it gingerly. He was in a clumsy position, though, and couldn't use his full strength to move the bar.
Realizing this, Joe pushed past Jan Cole to add his muscle to the effort. With the three of them, moving the barbell was easier. As soon as the bar was off Chet, Frank left the weight to Joe and Penman and turned back to his friend.
"Chet?" he said in a low voice.
Chet's eyes fluttered open, and his right hand moved to his left side. "Hurts," he muttered, and his face contracted in a spasm of pain.
"Don't talk," Frank said quickly. "Don't do
50
anything." He looked up at Cole. "Is there a phone around here?"
The big man stared dumbly down at him.
Frank felt a surge of impatience. "Look, we have to call an ambulance and get him to a hospital. We've got to do it as fast as possible."
Chet could have broken ribs, Frank realized. One of those broken bones could slide into his lung and puncture it. Frank replayed the fall in his mind. It didn't seem likely that Chet would have damaged his spine, though.
Penman pushed past Cole, who still stood unmoving. "The closest phone is in the hall on the way to the locker room. I'll go." He headed off.
Cole seemed to snap out of his trance. "What do we need an ambulance for?" He stepped forward, reaching toward Chet. "I'll help him up and take him in my car."
Frank rose to his feet, blocking Cole's way. "We don't know how badly off Chet is. A slightly wrong move and we could kill him."
A shadow of scorn passed over Cole's face. "He's probably faking it."
Joe Hardy leaned into Cole's face. "Let's see how you'd look if some creep tossed a barbell at you."
Frank gave his brother an elbow in the ribs. "Cool it, Joe. We've got other things to worry about."
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Penman ran back. "The phone's dead and so's the one in the locker room. We've had lots of trouble with the service here—they can't seem to get it right. I should stay with Chet. Will one of you run to the main office and try to call?"
"I'll go," Frank said.
Frank took off and pushed through the knot of onlookers who had stopped exercising to stare at Chet. "That guy must be jinxed," Frank heard Laufner mutter.
On the way to the exit, Frank passed the glass wall that separated the aerobics studio from the gym. He could just make out the pounding beat of music, but nobody was dancing inside. They were all clustered against the glass, staring out at Chet.
Frank saw Dawn Reynolds, her hands clutched together, her eyes staring fixed and unfocused. She seemed to be viewing the most terrible thing she'd ever seen in her life. Frank watched as a tear trickled out from the corner of one eye and down her cheek.
Seems as if she was right, Frank thought grimly. Chet stayed at the club, and he did get hurt.
The more he thought about it, the angrier Frank became. This whole situation was Jan Cole's fault. Where did he come off, tossing a heavy barbell like that at anyone?
Frank reached the reception desk, which was
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still empty. That phone wasn't working either. Behind the desk was a door marked with the word Office.
Pete Vanbricken's office. Frank decided to see if he had a working phone. Also the sooner Vanbricken heard about Chet's accident, the better.' Especially if he heard about it before Jan Cole had time to concoct a story for him.
Frank walked up to the office door, rapped sharply, and said, "Mr. Vanbricken?"
There was no answer, but the door swung slightly open at his knock.
Frank pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. The lights were off, and the office was empty.
It was a spacious room, carpeted in the same industrial gray tweed carpeting that covered most of the floors in the club. The walls were painted Harbor Health Club gray. Even the plants in front of the windows were indistinguishable from the greenery decorating the main room of the gym.
The only nonstandard items in the room were the framed photographs on the walls—mementos of Vanbricken's glory days—and the big teak desk by the window. In the pictures, a very young Pete Vanbricken grinned shyly while holding aloft a college championship trophy. An older, more confident Vanbricken slapped a high-five with his teammates as the Midland Foxes won a final play-off game.
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For a moment Frank wondered where Vanbricken was. Then he shook his head. The shock of Chet's injury must have addled his wits. Hadn't somebody mentioned that Vanbricken was away from the club, down at police headquarters?
Frank tried the phone. It worked and he stood glancing out the window as he relayed the information to 911.
Frank's gaze dropped and passed over the top of the desk. Abruptly, he zeroed in on a piece of paper. He'd spotted his name on the sheet. It seemed to be a list of new members of the Harbor Health Club. Chet, Frank, and Joe were listed, with their membership fees beside their names.
Frank frowned when he saw the figure. He and Joe had gotten a two-for-one membership deal. Yet the dollar amounts beside their names were much larger than what they'd actually paid.
Scanning the list, Frank noticed that almost all of the new members were paying hefty sums. His eyes stopped again on another name he recognized—Hurd Applegate.
Something wasn't right. Hurd Applegate could certainly afford the amount listed by his name, but he was an old man, almost a recluse. Why would he enroll himself in a health club?
Frowning, Frank turned to the door as it was pushed open. Jan Cole stepped in, his
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shoulders almost brushing the door frame. When he saw Frank, he stopped in his tracks and glared. Muscles bunched and grew in the man's shoulders and biceps as he clenched his hands into fists.
"What are you doing in here?" Cole growled.
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Chapter 7
Frank watched as Jan Cole's suspicious eyes moved to the papers on Pete Vanbricken's desk. Then they went back to Frank's face, filled with worry as well as suspicion.
Whatever's going on, he knows about it, Frank thought. And now he's afraid I know about it, too.
Out loud, he said, "What am I doing here? I'm using the phone. Also I'm looking for your boss, to tell him about that stunt you just pulled with the barbell."
Frank walked toward the door, and Cole reluctantly gave way. "You're just lucky that Mr. Vanbricken's not here and that I have to go with my friend to the hospital," Frank went on.
Frank stepped past the reception desk and
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started back to the gym. He met Joe halfway back.
"At last!" Joe said. "I thought maybe there wasn't a working phone in this whole place."
Frank and he ran back to the gym and got there just as the ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics tore inside to Chet. After a quick examination, they lifted Chet onto a gurney and wheeled him back out to the ambulance.
Penman rode with Chet, and Joe and Frank followed in their van to Bayport General Hospital.
Frank explained what had happened to the Emergency Room doctor.
"Possible chest trauma," the woman said, writing on a clipboard. "And you say he was out. Do you mean unconscious?"
Frank shrugged. "I don't know. His eyes were closed, and he didn't seem aware of where he was."
"He's been awake since then," Joe put in.
"Right," Penman agreed. "I talked to him on the way here, and he made sense."
Chet was rolled into an examination cubicle, while the Hardys and Terrance Penman were left to take seats in the waiting room.
"This has been some week," Penman said, shaking his head. "First Cosgrove dies, then Joe nearly gets nailed on the bench press, and now this." He managed a weak smile. "Well, you
57
know what they say—bad luck always comes in threes."
Silence fell as they waited for news on Chet's condition. After a while Penman rose to his feet. "I guess I should check back with the club."
He stepped toward the pay phone, then came back a second later, looking a little embarrassed. "Uh, guys, all my money's back at the club."
Grinning, Joe and Frank shrugged. They were in their gym clothes, too.
Penman went to the nurse in charge and asked to use the phone. Moments later, he was back. "Word of the accident got to Mr. Vanbricken. He's coming over. As soon as he arrives, I'm supposed to head back to the club. They're still understaffed, and the place is a madhouse. I hope I can get cab fare from the boss."
A few minutes later the Emergency Room door opened, and Pete Vanbricken strode inside. He was still a young man and moved with the confidence of someone who'd been named all-pro quarterback before he was twenty-five. Frank had always thought Vanbricken's face would have made a perfect logo for the Midland Foxes. He looked like a fox, with bright red hair and handsome, yet pointed, features.
Right now, as he motioned to Terrance Penman, an anxious frown creased his handsome face.
Watching the two men confer, Joe gave a sour chuckle. "He's probably worried sick about a lawsuit."
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"I think he's got more than that to be concerned about," Frank said. "There's some funny business going on at that club, and old Pistol Pete is right in the middle of it."
He quickly explained about the list he'd noticed on Vanbricken's desk, with the inflated payments noted beside their names and the odd additional members.
"Old Man Applegate a member of a health club?" Joe said in disbelief. "Stamp collecting would be more his speed."
"That's right," Frank agreed. "So something has to be—Uh-oh, later for that."
Pete Vanbricken came over to the boys. "I'd have been here earlier, but it took a while for the message to get to me at police headquarters." He shook his head, a little exasperated. "If I'd only known the trouble I'd let myself in for by going to the police."
"You contacted them?" Frank asked.
Vanbricken nodded. "When I heard that a Walter Cosgrove had died, I figured I ought to tell them that he was a member of my club. So the cops were all over me. They even made me identify the body."
"They needed you to do that?" Joe looked confused. "Why?"
"The police are having a hard time getting a line on him," Vanbricken explained. "And I can understand why. The guy's not married, and he listed no family on his application form. The
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company he works for, Interstate Sales, is supposed to be sending their regional manager, but he can't fly in from Detroit until sometime tomorrow. So all the police have are a name, a driver's license, and some other paper ID. It seems that Cosgrove moved away from the address in his license, and there are enough Walter Cosgroves in the United States to make checking into his background a real chore."
Vanbricken sighed. "Answering the cops' questions was a real chore, too. They even had me go through Cosgrove's personal effects over at headquarters."
He gave them a strained smile. "But I'm sure you don't want to hear about that. Right now, all I want to know is that your friend is all right."
The door to the examination area opened, and the ER doctor came out. "Frank and Joe Hardy?" he called.
"Right here," Frank said. He and Joe stepped forward, followed by Pete Vanbricken.
"Your friend was very lucky," the doctor said as she led them through the door, then down a hallway lined with small cubicles. "If that weight had landed an inch or two farther to the right, it would have crushed his chest."
Vanbricken breathed very hard through his nose.
"We've taken X-rays, and they show no broken bones or internal damage," the doctor went on. "Your friend is in here." She pushed aside
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the curtain on one of the cubicles, and there was Chet.
At first Frank thought he was sitting up, but then he realized Chet was actually lying back against the raised top half of a mechanized hospital bed. Chet's T-shirt had disappeared, and a heavy swath of taping ran around his midsection. But his color was back, and he smiled when he saw the Hardys.
"That tape job makes you look like the mummy's brother-in-law," Joe said, grinning with relief that his friend looked so well.
"Don't make me laugh," Chet said, his right arm going over to his left side. "They taped my ribs, even though they think they're only bruised." He glared at Frank. "And what's the big idea of telling them that I passed out? Now they're afraid I might have landed on my head and gotten a concussion."
"If they'd only asked me, Chet, I'd have told them that landing on your head couldn't hurt you," Joe said.
"Chet, I told them everything that happened to make sure they'd give you the right treatment," Frank said.
"Sure! And now they want to keep me overnight for observation," Chet said in disgust.
"And what's so bad about that?" Frank wanted to know.
"Have you ever eaten hospital food?" Chet asked.
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In spite of himself, Frank had to laugh.
Pete Vanbricken stepped up to the bed. "Chet, I'm glad to see you looking so well."
Chet was surprised. "Mr. Vanbricken! What are you doing here?"
"Call me Pete," Vanbricken said. "As soon as I heard there'd been a little accident at the club, I came right over." He tried to give Chet a smile. "Boy, talk about beginner's bad luck—"
"Chet's only bad luck was having that clown Cole as an instructor," Joe interrupted. "I don't know what Cole told you, but Frank and I both saw what went on. Cole pushed a one-hundred- forty-five-pound barbell onto Chet before he was ready. If Chet had been anywhere else instead of in front of the power cage, we wouldn't be talking about this here. We'd be talking in the morgue."
"I thought I'd find you here," a voice said from the doorway.
Joe, Frank, and Vanbricken turned to find Con Riley leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over the chest of his blue uniform jacket.
"Officer Riley! What a surprise to see you!"
From the tone of Vanbricken's voice, Frank suspected it wasn't a pleasant surprise.
"Do the police need me for something else?" the club owner asked.
"Actually, Mr. Vanbricken, you aren't the
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one I was looking for. It's these two young men." Con smiled at the Hardys.
Vanbricken stared in surprise. "What?"
"I heard the Hardy brothers had come with Chet to the hospital." Con Riley gave the boys a long, appraising look. "I didn't know that they were members of your health club. But when I mentioned it to the chief, he thought we should talk to them."
Vanbricken stared at the Hardys as if they'd suddenly sprouted feathers. "The chief wants to speak to these kids? But they only became members the day Cosgrove died.
Con Riley shrugged. "What can I say, Mr. Vanbricken? Orders is orders."
"No need for handcuffs, Con," Frank said. "Joe and I would love to talk to you about this case."
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Chapter 8
"Well, I'd better get back to the club and see what's going on." Pete Vanbricken glanced uncomfortably around the hospital cubicle. He left with a halfhearted wave to Chet, looking even more worried than when he'd come in.
The boys watched him go in silence. Then Chet managed a grin. "Well, he certainly went in a hurry." He glanced at the police officer in the doorway. "I guess you guys have to be going, as well."
"We'll come back to visit," Frank promised.
"Yeah, just as soon as we find out where they've put you," Joe said with a grin.
"Just do me a favor," Chet begged. "Bring me a decent burger when you come."
Laughing, the Hardys said goodbye to Chet and went with Con Riley down the hallway.
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"Con, can we ask a favor?" Frank asked.
Riley seemed dubious. "And what might that be?"
Frank gestured at the workout clothes he and Joe were still wearing. "We came here straight from the gym. Our street clothes are back there. Could we change before we see the chief?"
"Yeah," Joe said, looking down at his shorts. "I always prefer to wear long pants when I tangle with Chief Collig."
Laughing, Con Riley promised them changing time.
The Hardys returned to the club and changed into their street clothes. Back in their van, Joe wanted to know, "So what are we going to tell the cops?" He got behind the wheel and started the drive to headquarters.
"We'll tell them about what we saw in the locker room the first time we came," Frank said. "Including the gun."
"I didn't see any gun," Joe objected. "Although I did see Cosgrove acting like a gorilla."
"Well, I guess that's about all we can say about Cosgrove." Frank shook his head. "Too bad we never got to follow him."
He thought back to the near-fight between Vanbricken and Cole, then Dawn's showing up, and the caveman competition between Joe and Chet.
Maybe if all that whole nonsense hadn't happened, they might have had time to observe
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Cosgrove before he died. Of course, then there were all the accidents. What had Penman said? Bad luck comes in threes?
The glimmer of an idea passed through Frank's mind. Two of those accidents involved one person. Joe was acting as if the slipping weight had endangered him. But in reality, Chet was the one who had had to be rescued from that swinging barbell.
Frank tried to concoct a scenario where Cosgrove's death, the strange list on Vanbricken's desk, and the attempts on Chet were somehow tied together. He gave up with a frustrated sigh. If there was a common thread, he couldn't find it.
At headquarters Con Riley brought the boys to the detective squad room. Spread over several desks were clothing, a toiletries kit, luggage, and other personal belongings.
Staring down at the collection was Chief Ezra Collig. Sitting at a typewriter was a detective Frank had met a couple of times before. What was the guy's name? Owens? Nevins? Something like that, Frank knew.
The man had a hunt-and-peck style of typing, hitting the keys only with his forefingers. He looked up as the Hardys entered. So did the chief, who frowned a greeting.
"Frank and Joe Hardy," Collig said grimly. "We were just about to finish up this case when
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we heard that you may have known the deceased."
"Just for a few minutes," Frank said. "We joined the health club he belonged to and met him in the locker room twice."
"And that's it?" Collig asked. His eyes were suspicious as he looked at the Hardys. "I've known you guys too long. You have a very bad habit of upsetting my cases after I think they're finished. So I figured I'd check with you this time."
Joe shrugged and Frank seemed to be studying the dingy tile floor.
Collig sighed. "As far as we can find out, this Cosgrove guy was a loner with no home, no family, no life. We don't even know where to ship his personal effects. He's a nothing, a zero, who happened to drop dead and fall in the bay."
"Well, he was a gambler, and not a very lucky one, from what I overheard," Frank said.
Collig nodded. "We heard about that."
"He had a nasty temper," Joe put in. "We saw him nearly deck someone in the locker room."
"Yeah, the guy seemed like a bundle of laughs," the detective said. "Everybody at the health club mentioned that."
"Did anyone mention his gun?" Frank asked.
The three police officers glanced at one another, then at Frank.
"What gun?" Collig wanted to know.
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"The last time we saw Cosgrove in the locker room at the Harbor Health Club," Frank said, "he nearly decked a guy named Laufner. After that he grabbed his gym bag and left. The zipper on the bag happened to be open, and I saw a gun inside it."
The police officer's eyes shifted to Joe. "You saw this, too?" Con asked.
Joe shrugged. "I saw Cosgrove nearly deck Laufner. I didn't see the gun."
The detective frowned. "Frank, are you sure you saw a gun? By your own admission, you only got a quick glimpse. Maybe you saw something that looked like a gun—the handle of a portable hair drier, for example."
"Cosgrove wore his hair slicked back. Was a hair drier found in his luggage?" Frank asked.
Now it was Collig's turn to frown. "No. But neither was a gun."
Frank stepped to the desk with the little red gym bag on it. A pair of sweatpants, a black athletic shirt, an athletic supporter, and a towel were piled beside it. "This is the bag I saw. There was a gun in it. What more can I say?"
"I think you've said enough already." The detective pushed back his chair and bitterly pointed a finger at the typewriter. " 'Go ahead and write up the report,' the chief said. 'We'll just ask these kids on the off chance they know something.' "
He gave the Hardys a black look. "I was on
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the last page of a fifteen-page report. And you see the way I type."
Even Con Riley had to laugh at that complaint.
"So, is it a case of the Hardy boys strike again?" Collig asked. "Have you sent us professionals back to square one?"
Frank wasn't about to answer. When the chief sounded nice and quiet, almost friendly, that was the time to watch out for an explosion.
Collig's expression darkened. "We thought we'd covered this guy as well as we were able to. We got the boss of the health club to identify the body. And, of course, we filled a lot of notebooks with statements about Cosgrove from the people who worked there."
"About nine million useless questions and answers," the detective at the typewriter griped.
"We even identified that stupid red bag you were pointing at," Con Riley added. "Vanbricken knew it right away—he said it was like Cosgrove's trademark."
"Right," the annoyed detective chimed in. "We even got a confirmation on that from the head trainer over at the club. What was his name? Cole?"
"What about the big black bag Cosgrove carried?" Frank asked.
The police looked at one another again. "What bag is that?" Collig asked with a resigned air.
"It was another weird thing I noticed," Frank
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said. "When he was changing into his workout clothes, he had a large black bag. When he left, he had that red one."
Frank frowned. With everything else that had happened, he'd almost forgotten that fact.
What had happened to that big black bag? he wondered.
"So this is what it comes down to," Collig said quietly. "You saw a gun, which no one else did, and also saw another bag. None of this is supported, of course."
"That's just about it." Frank gave an embarrassed little shrug.
Collig looked at the evidence spread out around the squad room, his face twisting into a scowl. As far as they knew, this was everything Walter Cosgrove owned in the world. "Con, you arranged for copies of this guy's fingerprints to be sent to the feds in Washington. I know you can't speed up their computers, but see if you can move us ahead in the line."
Collig then glanced at the fourteen pages of the report his detective had prepared. Frank, understood the timing. It was supposed to have gone out to the media the next morning.
The chief clasped his hands behind his back, set his teeth, and gave a low growl from the back of his throat. "I hate to tell you this, Nevins, but it looks like this investigation isn't over yet."
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Chapter 9
As the Hardys walked down the steps of police headquarters, Joe shook his head. "You know, Frank, I expected Chief Collig to kill you."
"He shouldn't have," Frank protested. "I just raised some questions. And I think that the chief is cop enough to want answers to them."
Joe glanced at his brother. "Frank, are you sure about this? Maybe the black bag was Cosgrove's sample case. I mean, he was a salesman, after all."
"Do you know what he sold?" Frank suddenly asked.
Joe stared at him blankly for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "What would a company called Interstate Sales sell?"
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"Sounds like something the Gray Man would set up to use as a spy cover."
That got a laugh out of Joe. "Yeah, I can see it now—Walt Cosgrove, Secret Agent. So who do you think got him, Frank? The Purple Claw? The Yellow Fang?"
Frank gave him a look. "I'm just suggesting that the company name sounds like a phony," he said. "My interest is in what happened to that bag and gun."
Joe shrugged again. "Well, he was a salesman and obviously traveled. Maybe he had the gun for protection."
"So what happened? The minute he dropped dead, his gun and his sample case disappeared?" Frank shook his head. "There's something screwy there."
"Looks like you're finding something screwy everywhere," Joe countered. "The only fact we've got is that Cosgrove is dead. There's not even any sign of foul play. Hey, maybe we should face it—we might never know what happened."
Frank stopped in his tracks. "No, but we can try to find out more about that black bag—ask some questions around the club, maybe. It strikes me that there's one person who might be able to tell us something."
Joe stared. "Who?"
"Pete Vanbricken," Frank replied. "He was able to tell the cops all sorts of stuff about
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Cosgrove's red bag. Maybe he'd have something to say about the other one."
Joe thought for a minute. "We've even got something to sweat him with," he said. "What about those records with the fake fee payments you saw in his desk?"
"Right. If he's got one thing to hide, maybe he's got more. Let's see if we can find anything more about him." Frank climbed into the van, and Joe followed.
They didn't drive very far until Frank found a parking spot near the offices of the Bayport Times.
"This may not be the right place to start researching," Joe warned. "The Gazette is much more of a scandal sheet. If any paper's going to have dirt on Vanbricken, that would be the place to look."
"But we don't have a friend at the Gazette," Frank pointed out. "With luck, we'll find Liz Webling in the office."
Liz Webling's father was editor of the Bayport Times. A budding reporter herself, she was often found around the offices of the paper, doing odd jobs.
That day she was at the front counter, taking classified ads. As far as Joe could figure, she seemed pretty disgusted with her assignment.
"Hi, guys." Liz looked up from the pad where she was writing down information. "So what's the story on this fancy health club you
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joined?" She leaned over the counter, toward Frank. "I've got a scoop for you," she said. "Callie Shaw is pretty p.o.'ed that you haven't invited her to the club as your guest. She's bought a leotard just for the occasion."
"Boy, Frank," Joe said. "You're in major trouble."
"I've been hoping that Chet would give me a guest pass to check out the place," Liz said a little wistfully.
So, Joe thought, Liz hadn't heard about two things: Dawn Reynolds and Chet's injury.
"I don't know if Chet's going to be around the club much for a while," Frank began. "He's in the—"
He was interrupted by a ringing telephone. Liz picked up the receiver and began frantically scribbling. "What model car, sir? Right. What year?"
She finished the call and tore another sheet off her pad, adding it to the pile at her elbow.
"What's the matter with Chet?" Liz asked.
"He's in the hospital," Frank began again, only to be interrupted by another call.
"Chet hurt himself working out, but he's really okay," Joe quickly said when Liz hung up. "They're only keeping him for observation. He'll be fine. We'll explain more about it later. Right now, though, we need to look in your morgue."
"Nobody's back there now," Liz said, turning
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toward the rear of the offices. "Does this have something to do with a case you're working on?"
The boys were saved from answering her question when a man walked in to place a classified ad in person. Hurriedly stepping past Liz, Joe said, "We know how the system works. You can trust us. We won't mess anything up."
With Liz trapped by her client, they managed to make it back to the morgue. Frank immediately went to the clipping files, searching for a folder with Pete Vanbricken's name on it.
The file turned out to be a heavy manila envelope about four inches thick. Frank and Joe split the folders inside into two sets and began riffling through them.
Joe wound up with clippings from Vanbricken's high school days up to his first play-off victory for the Midland Foxes.
"How's it going?" Frank asked as he scanned his set of clips.
"Well, a movie titled Vanbricken—the Early Days would probably be rated G," Joe said dispiritedly. "He was a very good boy."
"His later life looks much the same," Frank said, riffling on. "There's a whole lot of stuff here about fame not spoiling him. Here's an article about him visiting an orphanage, another about him dedicating a youth center, and still another about him running a booth at a street fair to raise money for a community group."
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Joe finished with his files. "So maybe we were wrong, thinking he's got things to hide?"
Adding Joe's files to his, Frank replaced them in the envelope, refiled the whole thing, and closed the cabinet with a thump. "Maybe we're wrong to depend on reporters and press agents for our information," he said, rising from his seat.
With the telephone still attached to her ear, Liz turned pleading eyes on them as they started out the front door. "Come on, guys," she said, placing a hand over the receiver. "Tell me what's going on."
"We'll be back with the story," Frank promised.
"If there's a story," Joe added.
Outside, Joe asked, "Okay. Now do we check the scandal sheet?"
"We do better than that," Frank told him with a grin. "We'll check in with the one person who probably knows the most dirt in this town."
Joe looked at his brother, his eyebrows raised. "And who's that?"
Frank's grin got broader. "Dad."
Fenton Hardy was in his office when the boys got home. The door was open, and Fenton was sitting at his desk.
"Dad?" Frank said. "Are we interrupting anything?"
Fenton raised his eyes from the papers he was
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reading. "Nothing important. What's up, boys?"
"We were wondering what you could tell us about Pete Vanbricken," Joe said.
"Football hero at Bayport High, some years before you went there," their father said. "He was a college all-star, went pro, played for some team out in the Midwest, got injured, and returned to Bayport. He also happens to own the health club you two joined."
Fenton gave them a keen glance. "My turn. Why are you asking?"
Frank leaned against the wall. "We were wondering if you knew anything about him having trouble with the law."
"Or getting into any other kind of trouble," Joe added.
Fenton was interested. "So, you suspect that our local hero has feet of clay?"
"We're just wondering," Frank said. "Can you tell us anything?"
"Only that as a kid—and even as a celebrity— Pete Vanbricken seemed to be a real straight arrow," Fenton said. "Whenever there was a good cause, you could depend on him supporting it, even if it wasn't always convenient. He always volunteered for police anticrime programs. He used to go into tough neighborhoods and talk to the kids."
"Not even a breath of scandal around him?"
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Joe asked. "Gambling, fighting, chasing women?"
"Vanbricken dated a lot of glamorous women when he was riding high—right up to the time his shoulder got injured," Fenton said. "But I wouldn't say he chased them. He didn't bet on anything, and he didn't get into fights. As far as I know, he's got the best-polished halo in town."
The boys thanked their father and went out.
"So much for getting any dirt." Joe sighed.
"We still have one other source," Frank said, frowning. "The man himself."
Joe stared at his brother. "What do you expect him to do? Come up to us and say, 'Oh, by the way, fellas, have you noticed that I've become a crook lately?' "
"No," Frank admitted. "But there are a few questions I'd like to ask him." The expression in his eyes became remote and thoughtful. "And I'd be real interested to see how he answers them."
Supper was going to be late that night, so the boys got into their van and headed back to the Harbor Health Club. The place was a lot livelier than it was when they had worked out earlier.
"Looks like the joint is jumping," Joe said, staring at the crowded parking lot. "How come it's not like this during the day?"
"I guess after work is the time when the condo owners come in to sweat." Frank gave his brother a grin. "Here's your choice, Joe.
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Quick access to everything but no company during the day, or lots of babes on exercise bikes and a long line for all the equipment you want to use at night."
Joe sat silently behind the wheel, a frown on his face.
"Well?" Frank asked.
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking."
Laughing, Frank opened his door and headed toward the club.
They were in luck. The young woman behind the reception desk told them that Mr. Vanbricken was still in his office.
Moments later Frank and Joe were inside the spacious room. This time, Pete Vanbricken sat behind his desk. There were papers spread all over it, but Frank didn't see that interesting list.
"Hello again, guys," Vanbricken said. "Normally, I wouldn't be here, but I had a lot of catching up to do after losing most of the day." He gestured at the piles of paper on his desk. "What can I do for you?" A look of. concern came over his face. "There's no problem with your friend Chet, is there?"
"No," Frank replied. "We're just puzzled by some things the police told us about Walter Cosgrove."
"Or rather," Joe said, "what you told the police about Walter Cosgrove."
"Cosgrove?" Pete Vanbricken sat straighter in his seat, his face a blank mask now.
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"Yes," Frank went on. "I'm a little confused. You told the police that he always carried a little red gym bag. But when I saw him, the afternoon before he died, he had a big black bag."
Vanbricken's eyes narrowed. "Wait a second," he said. "You're Frank Hardy, aren't you? Jan Cole told me he'd found you in this office unauthorized and unaccompanied. That's trespassing."
"I came in to use the phone and to tell you what happened to Chet," Frank said. "Unfortunately, you weren't here."
"Yes," Vanbricken said. "Unfortunately. Everyone in the club knew I was speaking with the police."
He opened a desk drawer and took out a large binder. When Vanbricken opened it, Joe realized the binder was actually a large checkbook, the kind that businesses used.
Vanbricken took up a pen and scribbled rapidly across two checks. Then he tore them out and handed one each to Frank and Joe.
"What's this for?" Joe stared suspiciously at the piece of paper in his hand.
"It's a refund on your membership fee," Vanbricken told him.
He rose from his chair and leaned across the desk. "I want both of you out of this club—and don't come back!"
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Chapter 10
Frank Hardy threw his check down on Vanbricken's desk. "You don't understand," he told the health club owner. "Maybe you think you can stonewall us, but the police know about Cosgrove's black bag—and also about the gun he carried in the red one."
"Apparently, you don't understand," Vanbricken said. "I just asked you to leave these premises. You have no right to be here." He stabbed a finger onto his desk intercom. "Rosalie," he said, "get Jan Cole in here, please."
A moment later the door opened, and Jan Cole stood in the doorway. As he saw Frank and Joe, his eyes hardened. "The Hardys, huh? In here shooting off their mouths?"
Vanbricken folded his arms across his chest.
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"Jan, these gentlemen are no longer members of the club. They will not be allowed back on the premises, and you will escort them out now."
Frank glared at Vanbricken. "This isn't going to work, you know."
Vanbricken scooped up Frank's check from his desk. "Don't forget your refund. Now— out!"
"Listen," Frank began again.
Cole shrugged his massive shoulders, bringing his brawny arms up. "You heard the man— out!"
With Jan Cole looming over them like an unfriendly thundercloud, Frank and Joe left the office.
"Hey, don't I at least get a chance to say goodbye to the friends I made around here?" Joe asked as Cole marched them around the reception desk. "What about Dawn Reynolds?"
"She's gone," Cole said. "And you're history. Out the door."
A moment later the boys were standing in the parking lot. Joe gave Frank a look. "Here's another fine mess you've gotten us into," he said, quoting Oliver Hardy. "I was just beginning to get into this club stuff. And I was about to ask Dawn out."
He shook his head. "But I'm not in as much trouble as you are."
Frank looked at his brother in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"
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Joe grinned. "How do you think Callie's going to take it when she discovers she's bought a new leotard for nothing? No membership, no guest passes."
Frank shook his head. "That's the least of my worries," he said. "What's eating me is that something wrong is so obviously going on in that club and we don't have a clue as to what it is."
Joe had to nod. "Maybe Vanbricken didn't tell us anything, but he did give away how he felt about Cosgrove. As soon as you mentioned him and his black bag, Vanbricken acted scared to death."
"He certainly did," Frank agreed. "But over what?"
Joe glanced at his watch. "I don't know about you, but I do my best thinking on a full stomach. We're late for supper."
* * *
Frank only picked at his food, his mind obviously miles away.
As they cleared the table, Joe shook his head. "You're still a growing boy, you know. Thinking so hard is making you lose your appetite."
"I'm only trying to apply a little logic." He grimaced. "The only problem is, all my thinking isn't working."
"Do you want to run what we know by me?" Joe asked.
"Okay. Let's think of it this way. Walt Cosgrove was a member of the Harbor Health Club.
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Walt Cosgrove got killed. Chet Morton is a member of the Harbor Health Club. Twice, Chet Morton almost got killed."
"Hey," Joe objected. "I was a member of the Harbor Health Club, too, and one of those accidents nearly got me."
"I've thought about that," Frank said. "And it seems to me that Chet was the one in more serious danger."
Joe shrugged. "Then I guess it's a case of pure logic not being able to conquer the real world."
Frank nodded. "But we do know something funny is going on at that club."
Joe grinned. "Frank Hardy sees Cosgrove with a black bag and a gun at the Harbor Health Club. Frank Hardy mentions those facts to the owner and gets thrown out of the club."
"At least it beats being almost killed," Frank said.
"Chet was in the locker room with Cosgrove, too. You noticed the gun and bag, so suppose Chet noticed something else."
"Ergo," Frank said in his most professorial tone, "logically, we should talk to Chet Morton."
He looked at his watch. "The hospital visiting hours are on. Let's get moving."
* * *
At the hospital, the boys found that Chet was in Room 318. They rode the elevator up to the
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third floor, Joe carrying a light jacket over one arm.
After the elevator doors opened, they made their way down the hallway to Chet. "Nice," Frank said, walking in. "Your own private room—as long as they don't bring somebody in for the other bed."
Chet was sitting up, dressed in his own pajamas. He looked pretty much like his usual self, except for the wince of pain when he raised his arm to wave hello. "How's it going, guys?" he asked.
Joe advanced to the bed, keeping his face very serious. "We bring you gifts, O Mighty One." He whipped the jacket off his arm, revealing the fast-food burger and fries hidden underneath.
Chet's eyes glowed. "Great!" he said. "You wouldn't believe what they tried to feed me. Meat loaf, creamed spinach, and mashed potatoes like setting plaster."
Frank glanced over at the empty dinner tray at the end of the bed. "I see you managed to choke it down, though."
Chet opened the burger box and took a bite of the quarter-pounder inside. "Yeah," he said, his mouth full. "But man does not live by creamed spinach alone."
"Anyway, now that we've bribed you, we want to grill you," Joe said.
Chet paused in midchew. "About what?"
"About Walt Cosgrove," Frank said. "You
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were down in the locker room before us, that first day in the gym. Did you notice him?"
"The big guy, slicked-back hair, black jacket?" Chet said. "Yeah. I noticed him. He was opening a combination lock when I came in. He had a black bag on the bench behind him, and he was opening the locker." He frowned. "Funny how the dumbest things stick in your brain. I recall clearly that it was locker thirteen. The lock had a smear or a rust mark on the U-shaped piece that locks in—"
"The shank," Frank said.
"Whatever." Chet shrugged. He squinted, trying to think back. "Funny thing is, I saw the same lock the next day—on the same locker." He looked at the Hardys. "I remember thinking there weren't supposed to be permanent lockers. Doesn't the club have a rule about emptying lockers every day?"
Frank frowned. "It does look like Cosgrove kept his own personal storage space there."
"Maybe he greased the palm of the locker room attendant," Joe suggested.
"I don't care about that." Frank had a curious glint in his eye. "I wonder if Cosgrove's locker is still there, untouched."
"Yeah," Joe said. "It's too bad some idiot got us thrown out of the club."
"What?" Chet sat straight up, then winced again at the pain in his side.
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Frank explained about their brief interview with Pete Vanbricken.
Chet suddenly grinned. "Well, I've got the perfect reason for you to return to the Harbor Health Club," he said. "And I even have the tickets to get you through the front door."
* * *
Early the next morning Frank and Joe were heading down to the Harbor Health Club's locker room when a voice roared from the top of the stairs.
"Hey! What are you two doing here?" They turned to see Jan Cole glowering down at them.
"We're guests of Chet Morton," Joe said airily. "He got two free passes with his membership, after all."
"But don't worry," Frank told the trainer. "We won't sully your precious gym. We're just here to pick up Chet's things."
"Oh." Cole thought for a moment but didn't come up with any reason to stop them. "Just be quick about it."
"We will," Frank said. He and Joe continued down the stairs.
"Well, you guessed right," Joe said as they stepped into the empty locker room. "There's no attendant here."
"I saw him wheeling a big load of laundry around the back of the club." Frank hurried over to the lockers. The attendant might be gone, but how soon before he'd be back?
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Chet's locker had been number seventeen, in the same bank as thirteen. There was a lock still on thirteen. Frank grinned. He'd counted on the confusion at the club the day before, and it looked as if the lockers hadn't been cleaned out.
He glanced into the showers. Nobody was around. "Keep watch," he whispered to Joe.
"I hope you know what you're doing." Joe stepped over to the locker room door, keeping a nervous eye on the stairway.
"That's two of us," Frank muttered. He reached under his shirt and removed the stethoscope he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
It's good that Dad has such a large collection of useful tools, he thought, inserting the earpieces. Where else could I find a safecracker's best friend?
Moving to locker thirteen, Frank set the disk of the stethoscope to the back of the lock with the streaked shank.
As he slowly turned the dial on the combination lock, amplified clicks resounded in his ears. Then came a loud clunk as the first tumbler set. Frank immediately started turning the dial in the opposite direction. At last, he got another clunk.
Just one more to go, he told himself, carefully spinning the dial again.
The final clunk sounded in his ears, and he pulled down on the lock. It slid open.
Leaving the stethoscope looped round his
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neck, Frank removed the lock and eased the door open. The space was empty, except for a large leather duffel bag standing up in the bottom.
Frank reached for the zipper that fastened the bag and tugged it down. It would be just my luck to find a month's worth of stinky sweat socks in here, he told himself.
As the bag opened, the hiss of Frank's indrawn breath echoed off the tiled locker room walls. He hadn't found sweat socks.
Instead, the bag was stuffed with bundles of hundred-dollar bills!
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Chapter 11
Joe Hardy turned at his brother's involuntary gasp. What he saw caused his eyes to grow round. Frank was jamming his arm as far as it would go down between the packaged bills.
"There's nothing underneath. The whole bag is packed with money!" Frank whispered.
Quickly he stuffed the bills back into the bag and zipped it closed again. "Let's get out of here," Frank said quietly. "There may be lots of legit reasons for keeping a fortune in cash hidden in your gym bag. But this bag combined with a dead man—"
"And the best bet is that this is dirty money." Joe rushed over to Chet's locker while Frank closed locker thirteen. "Let's not forget why we came in the first place."
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Using the combination Chet had given them, Joe undid Chet's lock and opened the door. He pulled out Chet's gym bag and began stuffing the contents of the locker into it. "Shoes, socks, pants, shirt, undershirt—what's this?"
Caught in a seam between metal pieces, an envelope fluttered against the inside of the locker door from the breeze Joe made packing.
Joe pried the envelope free. On the front, in scrawled handwriting, he made out the name of Walt Cosgrove and a midwestern post office box address.
Inside the envelope were ten hundred-dollar bills.
Whistling silently, Joe stuck the envelope on top of Chet's things, zipped up the bag, and slammed Chet's locker shut. He turned to Frank, who had closed and locked locker thirteen.
"Now let's get out of here," Joe said.
They went up the stairs and out of the club with only a friendly smile from the receptionist. The boys crossed the parking lot in silence, not talking until they were in the privacy of their van.
"Well, what do you make of that?" Frank asked when they were inside.
"If Cosgrove was a salesman, I wonder what kind of commissions he made!" Joe exclaimed. "This is beginning to look fishier and fishier,
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Frank. We've got a guy who can't be traced and a bag full of money in his locker."
Frank nodded. "If Cosgrove had been murdered, I'd say we had a strong motive—in fact, a lot of them."
Joe unzipped Chet's bag, showing him the envelope with the bills in it. "This was in Chet's locker, stuck on the back of his door."
"Very interesting," Frank said, checking the envelope over carefully. "Seems like Cosgrove lived out of a post office box in Midland, Iowa."
"Skip that for a minute. An envelope like this is just the right size to slip through the ventilation slits on a locker door." Joe frowned thoughtfully. "It must have been dropped in through the locker door and got stuck there."
"Maybe the money in Cosgrove's bag didn't belong to Cosgrove," Frank said, still staring at the envelope. "Maybe Cosgrove made an unauthorized withdrawal from that mother lode of cash. Then he found out he was going to be discovered and had to hide it."
"And we know why he'd steal some of those hundreds," Joe added. "Cosgrove didn't have just a gambling problem—he had a losing problem. He took some cash, then heard someone and had to hide it quickly. So he just stuck it in the nearest locker at hand. But he probably got killed for stealing anyway."
He frowned. "That would make perfect sense,
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except for one thing. There's no indication of foul play in Cosgrove's death."
"Unless you count the blistered feet," Frank pointed out.
Joe gave him an impatient head-shake. "They printed the whole coroner's report in the Times, and we both went over it. The blisters on Cosgrove's feet weren't from burns. They were contact blisters."
Frank was silent for a moment. "Do you remember what Cosgrove wore on his feet?" he suddenly asked.
Joe stared at him but answered. "A pair of flashy black Italian loafers."
"Was he wearing socks?"
Closing his eyes, Joe tried to visualize the scene. "No!" he finally said. "He wasn't wearing socks." His eyes opened—wide. "I remember now how odd I thought it was that he put his jacket on before slipping into his shoes. Hey, I saw his bare feet for a second, and I don't remember seeing any blisters on his soles."
"And he didn't walk as if he had blisters when he left the locker room," Frank said.
"So he had to get the blisters after he left the health club," Joe said. "But how?"
"Tight shoes, no socks. Maybe he walked for a few miles. That could raise blisters." Frank shrugged. "Running would raise them even faster."
"But he left in a car—that red Porsche the
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cops found abandoned on the pier," Joe pointed out. "Maybe he was running from someone."
"A big, muscular guy with a gun?" Frank seemed dubious. "Why would he have to run?"
"As long as we're at it, who was he running from? To where? From where?" Joe slumped back in his seat, reclosing Chet's bag with the envelope inside. "Right now, our questions seem to outnumber our answers by about ten to one."
Behind the steering wheel, Frank slipped the key into the ignition. "Well, we won't find out anything more around here."
As the engine turned over, he heard a voice call, "Hey! Hardys!" Frank saw Terrance Penman waving from the entrance of the club. The instructor, dressed in a warm-up suit, ran over to the van.
Frank killed the engine and Joe rolled down his window.
Penman leaned in. "Just wanted to say goodbye to you guys, since I heard you canceled your memberships."
Joe and Frank glanced at each other, but neither of them corrected Penman's mistaken idea. "You were a good trainer, Terrance," Frank said. "We'll miss you."
Penman's voice got lower. "I can understand why you'd want to bail out of this place." The hand he'd rested on the door tightened into a fist. "It's so frustrating! The Harbor Health Club
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could be a gold mine. But the way the place is mismanaged is criminal."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"For starters, why did Vanbricken hire Jan Cole as head trainer?" Penman shook his head. "I've watched him work. He's not qualified. And as far as I've been able to find out, he's not certified. He's like a guy who bulled himself into shape by lifting weights like crazy, and who thinks that's the only way to get fit."
The young man's dark face twisted. "Cole finally got smart and asked me to design the training programs, before he killed a member. But— well, you've seen him out on the floor. That caveman style of his doesn't work. It turns people off. They don't renew their memberships— or like you, they get out. All the sane people, at least."
"So nobody at the club likes Cole?" Frank asked.
"He pals around with the out-of-towners, the traveling salesmen, those kinds of people. Cole's the one who set up the special visitor's rate that lets them use the club facilities. But compared to the people he turns off, there's a net loss. A big loss. How can the club keep going if it loses more members than it takes in?"
"How, indeed?" Frank said.
Penman lowered his voice again. "So I just wanted to tell you you're doing the right thing, leaving. Look, here's my card."
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The card showed the outline of a muscular man. Underneath ran the caption "Bodybuilding by Penman—call 555-0909."
"I train people on the side," Penman explained. "If you want to continue training, give me a call. I'll probably be at a new club soon."
"You're going to quit?" Joe asked, surprised.
Penman shrugged. "A lot of staffers have, since I came on board. You know who left yesterday? Dawn Reynolds."
He looked at his watch. "My break's going to be over before I get any breakfast. Take it easy, guys. Maybe I'll see you again."
"Maybe," Joe said, watching the young man dash off.
His expression was skeptical as he glanced across Frank. "If Dawn quit yesterday, what's her car doing over there in the lot?"
Frank followed Joe's pointing finger. From their higher vantage point in the van, they could see over the other cars parked in the lot. They had a clear glimpse of the distinctive little sports model that Dawn drove sitting off in one corner.
"Let's move it," Frank said, hitting the ignition again. As they started out of the lot, Joe reached out to flick the radio on.
"The news at this hour." An announcer's voice came out of the speakers. "Police have found a strange new wrinkle in the Barmet Bay drowning. Walter Cosgrove was merely an alias of the man who died in the bay. Police
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announced this morning that a fingerprint check has positively identified the dead man as Walter Ostrowski, a convict released three months ago from Midland Penitentiary in Mid—"
Joe turned off the radio. "This is getting weirder and weirder. We not only have dirty money, but a dirty dead guy."
"And the connection seems to be the Harbor Health Club," Frank said. He cast a worried glance over to Joe. "You know something else? Those 'accidents' that kept happening around Chet now seem less and less accidental."
"But who would be after Chet?" Joe asked. "And why?"
"Maybe he saw something he wasn't supposed to see," Frank suggested. "Something he doesn't even remember, but if he did—"
"Somebody would be in trouble." Joe pulled on his seat belt. "Well, what are you hanging around for? Chet was supposed to be sprung from the hospital this morning. Let's go out to his house."
The Morton farm was on the outskirts of Bayport. The road Frank and Joe took to get out there was more like a country lane.
Mrs. Morton was out in the yard, and she waved to the boys.
"We stopped by to see how Chet's doing," Frank called.
"Well, the invalid isn't acting very sick," Mrs. Morton said with a smile. "Believe it or
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not, he's off for a run. I can't believe the good that health club has done for him."
Joe and Frank glanced at each other. "Maybe we'll go out and join him," Joe said. "Which way did he go?"
Mrs. Morton pointed to the far end of the yard. "That trail goes through the forest, then loops around back to the main road," she said. "You might be able to catch up with him."
Getting out of the van, Frank and Joe set off at a brisk pace. The trail curved its way around the trees, so they couldn't see very far ahead.
Only when they reached the main road did they finally catch sight of Chet. He was in his slightly tight sweat suit, jogging determinedly along.
Joe grinned. "I'll bet he's regretting this," he said.
"I don't know," Frank said. "It beats aerobics." He gestured after Chet. "Let's pick it up until we get close enough to call to him."
The Hardys had pretty much used up their first wind by the time they got within calling distance. Chet had reached the foot of a low hill. Faced with the prospect of running to the top before catching Chet, Joe decided it would be easier to use his voice. Even so, he puffed for a moment before yelling Chet's name.
Chet turned. Waving them on, he stayed where he was, running in place.
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"He's serious about this." Frank's voice had a slight wheeze.
"At least we can take it easier catching up to him." Joe set a decidedly less brisk pace as they jogged toward their friend.
They were still a good fifty feet away when a car came over the crest of the hill. Joe immediately recognized the trim yellow vehicle. "Hey! That's Dawn Reynolds's little buzz bomb," he said.
Checking back over his shoulder at the engine noise, Chet must have recognized the car, too. He stood at the side of the road, waving.
Then he stopped waving and froze for a moment as the car swerved and aimed straight for him. From where they were, both Hardys could hear the engine's whine of increased acceleration.
The car was almost on top of Chet before he moved. He did move with surprising agility and vaulted over a fence at the roadside, landing in the drainage ditch on the other side.
Perhaps Dawn Reynolds had missed Chet, but she wasn't finished. The yellow car raced on, engine roaring, racing down the wrong side of the road.
Now it was headed straight at Frank and Joe.
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Chapter 12
The yellow car continued down the road, bearing down on the Hardys, moving at top speed. Frank and Joe had a few seconds' more warning than Chet had gotten. The only problem was they had no convenient fence to jump over.
The boys did the best they could, though. When the car was right on top of them, they leapt in opposite directions. Frank dove left, Joe jumped right, and the car roared through the spot where they'd been. The Hardys rolled ungracefully to the pavement.
Frank scrambled to his feet, staring down the road to see if the car was coming back for another try at them. All he saw was a rapidly disappearing yellow blur heading back toward Bayport. "You okay, Joe?" he asked.
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Joe rose slowly to his feet, rubbing his knee. "I'd ask if anybody got the license plate number, but in this case, we know that car—and who drives it."
"Did you see Dawn behind the wheel?" Frank asked.
Joe looked up from examining the hole in the knee of his jeans—and the scraped flesh under it. "We saw her car, isn't that enough?"
He shook his head. "To think I wanted to get into competition over her! Now I see she really wanted to get close to poor Chet." Joe frowned, "Close enough to put the imprint of her front bumper on his head."
Frank, however, wasn't convinced. "I didn't see the driver, either. Come on, let's help Chet," he said.
They ran over to the fence in time to see Chet climb stiffly back over it. He favored his left side as he climbed up to the road and winced as he bent to swing a leg over the fence. But Chet had the oddest expression on his face. "You know," he said, "I don't know if I'd have been able to do that if I hadn't been working out."
"Did you get a look at who was driving that car?" Frank asked.
"I'm afraid Frank and I were too busy jumping to get a decent ID," Joe said. "You sort of froze there for a moment, so we were hoping that maybe you got a glimpse of who was behind the wheel."
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Chet shrugged, a little embarrassed. "At first when I recognized the car, I was happy. Then I saw the person driving—and, well, it didn't look right."
"You mean it wasn't Dawn?" Joe asked.
"The person behind the wheel was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, pulled low, and sunglasses." Chet frowned. "It didn't look like Dawn. At least I don't think it did."
Frank frowned, too. "What you mean is, it didn't not look like Dawn, either. In that getup, the driver could have been anybody, including her."
Chet nodded uneasily, giving the Hardys a wary look. "So what brings you guys to this neck of the woods?" he asked.
"We wanted to see how you were doing," Joe said.
"And it looks like we came along at just the right time." Frank hesitated for a second. "As I'm sure you've begun to suspect, those accidents at the health club may not have been accidents. It seems as if someone's out to get you. And we think those attacks on you may tie in with Walt Cosgrove's death."
"There was a report on the radio about him," Chet said. "It turns out he's a crook or something. But what does he have to do with me?"
"I don't know, and it sounds like you don't know," Frank said. "But somebody thinks you know something about Cosgrove that you
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shouldn't. And that's what we've got to find out, if we have to go over every second you spent with him."
"Even if we did, we wouldn't waste much time." Chet rolled his eyes. "I only saw him twice, for about five minutes in all."
"But you must have noticed something," Joe insisted. "Maybe it didn't seem important at the time, but it means something now that he's dead."
"Was there anything out of the ordinary?" Frank asked. "Was there anything peculiar about the bag Cosgrove was carrying? Did he talk with anyone?"
"He didn't talk, he just grunted," Chet told them.
"Take it right from the top," Joe suggested. "From the moment you entered the locker room."
Chet shrugged, but began to recite the facts. "I came through the door, and the locker room was empty except for this big guy. He looked up, grunted at me, and opened the locker."
"We remember this part," Joe said. "He opened the lock with the streak on the shank. What happened then?"
"What else? He began changing out of his street clothes and putting on his workout gear.".
"You didn't notice anything else?" Frank asked.
"I noticed the guy had a great build, but that's!
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about it." Chet looked down at his still-ample stomach and gave the Hardys a rueful smile. "You know, if I had a bod like that, I wouldn't mind advertising my name on a sweatband."
"What?" Frank looked puzzled.
"My sweatband. Remember? The one with my name on it? You were there when I gave it to Dawn." Chet sighed. "You know, I never got that back."
Joe gave him an uneasy glance. "If Terrance Penman is right, you may never get the sweatband back. He claims that Dawn quit the Harbor Health Club."
Chet gave them a goofy smile. "Well, even if she is gone, she'll have my sweatband to remember me by." He sighed. "Too bad I never got her number."
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. She may be trying to kill him, Frank thought.
"Look, Chet," he said. "Right now, you should be thinking about your safety, not your sweatband. You had two close calls at the gym, not to mention this last little brush with Dawn's car. Be careful, okay?"
"Okay, sure," Chet said.
"We'll walk you back to your house, and please don't go out unless you absolutely have to."
At least our words are finally sinking in, Frank thought as he watched Chet's expression go goofy to worried.
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"We're on this now," Frank said. "We'll find out who's after you."
"And then we'll put 'em out of business," Joe promised. "But till then, watch it, will you?"
Chet was silent all the way back to his house.
When Frank got home he read the newspaper reports on Cosgrove/Ostrowski's criminal record.
His reading gave him an idea. He led Joe to their father's office.
"Dad, we need help, and we're hoping you can give it to us," Frank said.
Fenton Hardy looked up from his desk. "What kind of help?"
"If I remember, you've got a police friend who's an assistant warden at the Midland Penitentiary."
Frank's father nodded warily. "Does this have something to do with the fact that the guy who was found in the bay served time there?"
"Guilty as charged," Frank admitted. "We'd like a copy of his record."
"I think I'll need a few more reasons," Fenton told his sons.
"We've gotten some indications that Ostrowski's death ties into the Harbor Health Club in some way," Frank said. "Maybe it's a long shot, but now it turns out that Ostrowski and Pete Vanbricken were both in Midland a few years ago."
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"One in the football stadium, the other in the pen," Fenton pointed out.
Frank shrugged. "I said it was a long shot, Dad. But maybe they had associates in common. That's what I really want. A list of Ostrowski's known criminal associates."
Fenton Hardy looked at his sons for a long moment. "A shot that long needs a moon rocket, not a cannon." Then he grinned. "But maybe it's worthwhile."
He reached for his phone. "Let me talk to my contact, and we'll see."
Frank and Joe headed into the kitchen.
By late afternoon their father caught up to them, a sheaf of flimsy, curling papers in his hand. "The wonders of modern technology," he said. "Walt Ostrowski's entire prison record, fresh off the fax machine."
He spread the papers across the kitchen table, and the boys began to read. Joe's eyebrows rose as he scanned the arrest record. "This guy's life story reads like a bad gangster movie. Six months for assault and battery. Two years suspended sentence for weapons possession."
The more Joe read on, the more his eyebrows rose. "Assault with a dangerous weapon, case dismissed. Assault with intent to kill, also dismissed. Attempted arson, dismissed for lack of evidence. Then they finally arrested him for assault with intent to kill, and it got plea-bargained down to reckless endangerment."
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He shook his head. "Ostrowski certainly wasn't a saint, but he must have had a tremendous lawyer."
"The real story isn't there, but my friend told it to me," Fenton Hardy said. "Ostrowski was connected—he was a low-level thug in the Stanek crime organization based in Midland. Notice all those assault arrests? Ostrowski was a leg- breaker for one of Stanek's most lucrative operations—loan-sharking."
"Stanek lent people money at a ridiculously high rate of interest," Frank said.
Fenton nodded. "In the business, that interest is called the vig—vigorish. Under the classic form of the racket, the loan would be compounded weekly, with large unpleasant types like Ostrowski sent around to collect the payments. The catch was that most of the payment only covered the vig. Victims could never pay off the basic amount of the loan, and wound up eternally in debt."
"And if they couldn't make the weekly payment, Ostrowski would play rough," Joe said.
"More recently, crime types have used loansharking as a wedge to get control of legitimate businesses," Fenton went on. "A company would get a desperately needed loan from Stanek, then discover the loan could never be paid off. But Stanek would forgive the debt for a partnership. Not only would he get a share of the company's profits, he could use his influence to
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steer business toward other companies he controlled."
"Sounds like a sweet deal," Frank said. "Get money from lots of small people, then use it to build yourself a business empire."
Fenton shook his head. "A closer description is 'extort money from lots of people.' Remember, the source of Stanek's cash flow is thugs like the late, unlamented Mr. Ostrowski." He frowned. "Big guys with guns who beat people up for a living. Of course, that's how Stanek started out himself. His nickname is Big Ed, and he's famous for forcing money out of deadbeats with a baseball bat."
"I don't think I want to hear any more," Joe said, putting his hands up.
"Here's something you might be interested in hearing." Frank looked up from the fax sheet he was reading, a triumphant glitter in his eyes. "Here's the long-awaited list of known associates. The third guy down on the list is a man named Jan Kolachev."
Joe frowned. "So?"
"Think about it for a second," Frank said. "Walter Ostrowski changes his name to Walt Cosgrove, a nice, WASPy, white-bread last name. One of his associates is named Jan, JA-N, pronounced 'Yonn' Kolachev. And here in town we've got a Jan Cole. The last name is nice and white bread, but that Jan belongs with names like Ostrowski, Stanek—"
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"And Kolachev." Joe began nodding. "Cole—Kolachev. I get what you mean."
"My friend at the prison had one other piece of information that's not on the record," Fenton added. "When Ostrowski was released from prison, he apparently got a promotion. The rumor is that he's now working as a courier for the Stanek organization."
"And he visits Bayport—where perhaps an old buddy just happens to be working," Joe said.
Frank got to his feet. "Come on, Joe. I think we've got some good reasons to chat with the bully of the Harbor Health Club."
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Chapter  13
Frank and Joe climbed into their van in the early evening twilight. Frank got behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed for the Harbor Health Club.
"I think the pieces are beginning to come together now," Frank said. "Walt Cosgrove, actually Walter Ostrowski, is a low-level thug in a criminal organization. He's a courier—"
"And we know what he's delivering," Joe cut in. "We saw it in his locker at the Harbor Health Club. Cosgrove delivers money—by the big, black bagful. And if my guess is right, he delivers it to Jan Cole, a.k.a. Jan Kolachev. What bothers me is why."
"Oh, it's strictly business. The money comes from the Stanek loan-sharking
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operation." Frank gave his brother a grim smile. "You see, the big problem with making illegal money is that you're still expected to pay taxes on it."
"Or you go to jail," Joe said. "That's how the feds nailed a lot of gangsters, like Al Capone."
Frank nodded. "And the feds start asking embarrassing questions when you obviously have a lot of income and a lavish life-style and can't explain Where your money comes from. What's going on here is obvious. Stanek is taking dirty money extorted through his loan-sharking racket and turning it into clean money here in Bayport. It's called money laundering."
"So the Harbor Health Club isn't just a gym, it's also a laundry," Joe said. "But I don't see how sending it here makes the money clean."
"Remember that list I found on Vanbricken's desk? The one that showed us paying an incredible amount for a membership? The one that showed Hurd Applegate as a member? That's how they do it."
The light bulb appeared over Joe's head. "We paid a rock-bottom membership rate. But on their records, they pad that amount out with dirty money."
Frank nodded. "Not only that, but they must add names at random to their membership records—also at inflated rates."
Joe grinned. "They must have picked Hurd Applegate out of the A's in the telephone book.
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Anybody who actually saw him would know he wasn't gym material."
"It's actually a clever scam," Frank said. "A gym's financial success is marked by having lots of members who never come in."
Joe looked puzzled again.
"The idea is to have people pay for memberships, but not increase the demand for more machines or more trainers. Health clubs make the most profit out of people who sign up in a burst of enthusiasm, then give up exercising. The club still keeps the person's money but doesn't have to provide any services."
"That's a very nasty way of looking at the situation," Joe said.
"No, it's just a very clear way," Frank responded. "Now look at the Harbor Health Club. Not only do they inflate the amount of membership dollars coming in, but a lot—maybe most— of their members don't even know they belong to the club. The result is a very tidy profit."
"And that probably goes back to one of Stanek's front companies, which is an investor in the club." Joe nodded, impressed. "Very slick. The club pays taxes, and the dirty money becomes all legal and legit."
He looked at Frank. "No wonder Cole doesn't care how he treats people at the club. As long as they keep them on the books, the place looks like it's making money like crazy."
Frank nodded. "It's just like he told
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Vanbricken when they argued out in the parking lot. He's responsible for the club's cash flow, because a lot of it is actually coming from Midland."
He frowned. "The big question is, how does Vanbricken fit in?"
"You mean, is he really the boss of the operation?" Joe asked. "After all, he is supposed to be the owner of the club. He was on the Midland expansion team—right in Big Ed Stanek's backyard. And didn't you say that those phony records were on his desk?" From Joe's expression, he obviously thought the question was answered.
"But what about the way Vanbricken and Cole fought that first day we came to the club?" Frank said. "Pistol Pete wasn't acting like the boss. He sounded as if he couldn't keep Cole under control."
"What's that old saying about a falling-out among thieves?" Joe shrugged. "I mean, these guys are crooks, Frank. You can't expect them to act like honest people."
He turned to Frank, eagerly going on. "In fact, that explains what happened to Cosgrove—"
"Ostrowski," Frank said.
"Whoever," Joe said impatiently. "He was a crook, too, and he was stealing from the money he was delivering for Stanek. He was found out and got killed. End of questions."
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"End of one set of questions," Frank said, bursting Joe's smug bubble. "But it's the beginning of a bunch of new ones. How come the money is still in the locker?"
"Whoever killed Ostrowski didn't have time to move it," Joe said. "The killer probably didn't expect Ostrowski's body to be found and thought there'd be lots of time to take care of the cash. Instead, the police declared it a suspicious death and then started questioning everybody who worked at the health club. Not a good time to be moving the money—or to be caught with it. So it was left."
"I'll buy that," Frank said. "But tell us, Mr. Wizard, how did Ostrowski get killed without leaving traces of foul play?" His tone grew serious. "More importantly, where does Chet fit into all this nonsense? And let's not forget Dawn Reynolds. Why was it her car that nearly ran the three of us down?"
They rounded a corner, rolling toward the parking lot entrance for the Harbor Health Club. An older compact car, white with a black roof, pulled in ahead of them. But the small car didn't stay. It veered to a corner of the lot, screeched into a U-turn, and tore back to the entrance, engine roaring.
Frank stared, annoyed. His eyes went wide when he recognized the person in the passenger seat. "We may get the answer to one of our
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questions," he said. "That's Dawn Reynolds!"
Whipping the wheel around, he took the van into a tight turn and set off in pursuit.
The driver of the compact car must have noticed them, because the car suddenly accelerated, half-skidding into a turn.
Both Hardys were rocked in their seats as Frank took the van through the same maneuver. "Of all the lousy spots for a car chase," he complained between his teeth.
Bayport's waterfront had always been considered picturesque, in a decrepit sort of way. It was the oldest part of town, with streets that twisted like snake tracks, joined up at odd angles, and in some cases extended only for a block or two.
The van's brakes and tires shrieked protests as Frank attempted a high-speed chase through this winding course. He muttered under his breath as the little white car consistently eluded him. His van was much more powerful than the smaller car he was pursuing. On a straightaway, he'd have been right on his quarry's back bumper.
There were no straightaways here. Thanks to its size, the compact was more maneuverable.
For about the fifteenth time, Frank brought the van slewing around a sharp turn. The usual view appeared in his windshield—a vista of red brick buildings, stretching about half the length
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of a normal block. Some of the buildings were run-down, dingy, and dark—those were the abandoned warehouses, leftovers from the old dockside neighborhood.
Some other buildings were sandblasted and had lights blazing in all the windows. These were the newly renovated condos.
Ahead of them, the little white car fishtailed down the block, skidding off to the left as the road took another winding turn.
Frank goosed the gas pedal down, sending them rushing forward, then feathered the brakes to send them shuddering through the turn.
The far end of the curved road came to an intersection. It also showed something a little different—a condo under construction. Half the street had been torn up by a combination back- hoe and earthmover.
Probably digging to set up new plumbing or cable TV, Frank thought. His attention was focused on the fleeing compact car, which screeched around the work area and made a hard right onto the intersecting street.
But when he tried to follow, a loud, bleating tweet echoed off the brick walls on the block. The earthmover was working overtime. It was backing up, blocking the remaining strip of street!
Sweating, Frank tromped on the brakes. A quick look told him that at the speed they were
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going, they wouldn't be able to stop in time. He turned the wheel, aiming for the sidewalk. Not the best choice, he realized, but it beat smashing into the construction machine or the hole in the ground.
The van overreacted, swerving instead toward the brick wall of the empty warehouse across the street from the construction zone. In the passenger seat, Joe braced himself for a crash.
Frank gripped the wheel so tightly, his knuckles went white. He'd have to steer into the skid, hoping he'd have enough maneuvering room to regain control of the van before it impacted.
He fought the steering system in a desperate struggle to keep the wheels from locking. By cutting the wheel farther and farther to the left, it might just be possible to spin the van around. Of course, he might also send them broadside into the wall, or just overturn the van.
Momentum had them lurching onto only two wheels. Frank kept feathering the brakes, still guiding them into a turn.
The van spun out, coming to a stop with its rear wheels on the sidewalk and its front wheels pointing back the way they had come.
Inside, Frank and Joe Hardy let out shaky sighs of relief.
"Next time I want that feeling, I'll go on an amusement park ride." As Joe unclenched his grip on the dashboard, his hands still trembled.
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"Hey, I'll even pay for your ticket. But I never want to feel like that again," Frank said.
A gloved fist thumped on the driver-side window. It was the worker who'd been operating the earthmover. "You guys crazy?" he asked in the furious voice of a man who's nearly been scared to death. "You could have gotten killed driving like that."
Frank glanced over at the construction site. The driver had obviously shifted gears when he saw them flying at him. The big mechanical digger now teetered on the lip of the pit it had dug.
"Hey, mister," Frank quickly said. "Isn't your machine about to fall into that hole?"
As the man turned to look, Frank whipped the van into another tight turn. They bumped off the curb, swung around the construction worker, roared down the open stretch of street, and duplicated the turn the little white car had taken.
The street ahead of them was empty.
"Now what do we do?" Joe wanted to know. "We've lost them."
Frank cut back on their speed. "Check every cross street as we pass," he said. "Maybe we can get some clue as to the way the car went."
The Hardys did even better than that. As Frank drove past an alley mouth, Joe yelled, "Hold it!"
Frank brought the van around to block the alley. It was a skinny dead-end street, and at the brick wall that marked the end of the alley, a
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small white car with a black top straddled the curb at a weird angle.
The Hardys got out of their van and cautiously approached the other car. No one was inside, and the trunk was open. Several pieces of luggage were scattered around on the street and sidewalk.
"Looks like we interrupted somebody's getaway." Frank turned on his heel and started back to the van. "They can't have gotten far on foot. We'll split up and search. You take the cross streets on the right-hand side, I'll take the ones on the left. Meet you back here in five minutes."
He reached the intersection of the street they'd driven down, turned, and vanished behind dingy brick walls.
A moment later Joe followed. When he reached the street, it was empty again. Frank had already disappeared into the maze of side streets that branched off.
Walking along, Joe noticed several things. For one, this part of the dockside area hadn't been touched by urban renewal yet. The buildings were dirty brick, with heavily padlocked doors. The streets were cobblestoned, probably untouched in the last hundred years. And there was nobody around. He felt all alone in the gloomy shadows cast by the pale twilight glow.
Or was he alone?
In the distance Joe could hear scuttling
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sounds. For a second he thought of rats. Then he recognized what it had to be—the scuff of athletic shoes on cobblestones.
Zeroing in on the faint noise, Joe turned a corner, ran down another curving street, took another turn, and found himself surrounded by the blank brick rear walls of a bunch of warehouses. No doors or windows broke the expanse. But about halfway down the block was the black entrance to an alley.
Joe started forward, then stopped. The noises ahead of him had ceased. He picked up his pace, running for the alley.
He whipped around the corner and was surprised to see Dawn Reynolds hunched against the wall, a wild light in her eyes.
Since she'd left the abandoned car, Joe had expected to find her carrying a piece of luggage. Now, he discovered, that wasn't why she'd opened the trunk.
Dawn was carrying something, all right—the heavy metal tire iron from the car's repair kit.
Joe saw it clutched in her hand as she swung it straight at his head!
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Chapter 14
Joe had no choice as the deadly length of metal swept toward the side of his head. He could only throw himself backward.
Landing flat on the cobblestoned street was a nasty jolt to his body. But it beat having his brains knocked out.
The tire iron swept through the space his head had occupied a moment before to smash with a dull clang into the brick wall. Dawn was strong, and she hadn't held back on her swing. Chips of broken brick flew from the point of impact.
Dawn's weapon rebounded from the wall, but she still held on to it as she turned to Joe, who had managed to rise only to a sitting position. With a wordless cry, the young woman charged forward, tire iron held high.
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If I try to get up, I'll only be up to her waist before she starts hammering me, Joe realized. I've got to bring her down.
So, Joe made no effort to rise. He waited until Dawn had almost reached him, then pushed off from the ground, swinging his feet in a wide arc.
Joe's low-level roundhouse kick caught Dawn right behind the knees. She dropped like a felled tree, throwing one hand out to break her fall. Still on the ground, Joe dodged desperately to avoid Dawn's other hand. Even so, the tire iron clanged onto the cobblestones mere inches from his ear.
Both of Joe's hands shot out to seize the wrist of Dawn's club-wielding hand. That was the immediate danger to him. He had to disarm her.
She yelled wildly, punching at him, kicking at him, as he increased his grip. Dawn's free fist smashed into the side of his head, her knee hit his ribs with bruising force. But she didn't distract Joe from what he had to do.
A click came from the compressed cartilage under his fingers, then a grinding sound as he squeezed wrist bones together.
Dawn's yells changed to screams, and Joe could feel the play of muscles in her imprisoned wrist. Now, he thought, shaking her arm violently. Dawn's fingers lost their grasp on the tire iron. It clattered to the ground.
Joe let go with one hand and loosened his grip
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with the other. He didn't really want to hurt her, after all.
The girl's only reaction was an attempt to pull loose. She was still screaming, and now she was scratching at Joe's fingers with her free hand.
Surprised, Joe slackened his hold, and Dawn tore free. She was halfway to her feet before Joe threw a tackle into her. Dawn dropped facedown to the cobblestones. The second impact seemed to knock the fight out of her. She lay where she fell, unmoving, sobbing.
For the first time, Joe could make out what she was saying.
"Don't kill me," Dawn pleaded in a low, hoarse voice. "Please, don't kill me."
"Dawn," Joe said.
The girl didn't even raise her head to look at him. She remained turned away, one cheek resting against the cobblestones.
"Dawn, listen to me." Joe put a hand on her shoulder, about to shake her.
The moment he touched her, however, it was as if every muscle in her body went rigid. "Please!" she screamed.
As gently as he could, Joe turned her resisting body toward him. "Look at me—look!" he insisted. Dawn's eyes held no trace of recognition.
"My name is Joe Hardy. We met out in the parking lot at the health club, remember? I even took an aerobics class with you."
Dawn remained frozen.
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How do I get through to her? Joe wondered. "C'mon, Dawn. You've got to remember me. I'm a friend of Chet Morton's."
"Ch-Chet," she stuttered through clenched teeth. "Joe. Joe Hardy."
It was like watching a computer turn on, Joe thought. At first, it processes data very slowly.
"You're Joe Hardy, Chet's friend," Dawn finally said, the fear partly leaving her eyes. "You're not a hit man."
"A hit man?" Joe repeated, surprised. "People have called me a lot of things, but never that." He stared at Dawn curiously. "Why would you think I was a hit man?"
"Because I'm sure there's one after me," Dawn spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out. "That's why I quit my job, why I'm leaving Bayport. They want to kill me, as soon as they figure it out."
"Figure what out?" Joe asked. "And who are 'they'?"
But Dawn wasn't listening. She pulled herself to a sitting position in the middle of the alley and clung to Joe, trembling.
"My friend Monica helped clean out my apartment, then we were going to pick up my car. But when we got to the club parking lot, it was gone! I—I guess we sort of lost it. Monica whipped her car around and sped out of—"
"Dawn," Joe began, but the girl's story kept tumbling out.
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"I guess she was right because this big black van started chasing us. Monica tried to lose them, driving through Dockside, but she didn't know the neighborhood and got us cut off in a blind alley. So we decided to split up and run for it. I took the tire iron—"
Dawn's eyes seemed finally to focus as she looked at Joe in horror. "I could have killed you! Just because I thought you were chasing me."
Joe looked closely at the young woman. At least she didn't seem crazed anymore. Still, he'd have to proceed carefully.
"To tell you the truth, I was chasing you," he said quietly. "My brother, Frank, and I were in the black van."
Dawn's face tightened, and every muscle went rigid again. "Why?" she whispered.
"To ask you some questions," Joe said as gently as he could. "You said your car was gone, but we saw it this morning. It nearly ran down Chet Morton."
"Chet," she said. A tear ran down her cheek. "It's my fault. I'm going to get him killed!"
"Whoa," Joe said. "Hold on. I want you to tell me everything. But I also want my brother to hear."
Joe helped Dawn to her feet, and together they retraced their steps back to the abandoned car. Frank was standing alone beside the
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Hardys' van. "I came up empty," he said with a nod at Dawn. "But I see you had better luck."
"Just listen," Joe said. "I think she's got something very important to say to us."
"Everything's my fault," Dawn said miserably. "And I didn't know what to do."
"Start from the beginning, Dawn," Joe said in a calm voice. "How did it all start?"
"It was Monday." Dawn blinked in surprise. "The day I met you. Or rather, Monday night. I take the afternoon through evening shift on Mondays. After my classes, I was in my car heading home when I remembered I had some paperwork to take care of. I turned around and drove back to the club. It wasn't locked up, so I figured somebody was still working."
A shadow came over Dawn's face. "When I went to get my papers, I heard noises coming from the gym. I checked it out, and—" She gulped and began shivering.
"Just take it easy," Joe crooned.
"I saw Jan Cole and Walt Cosgrove. Walt was on the treadmill, which was kind of funny. He only worked out with weights. Then I saw the gun in Jan's hand."
"He was going to shoot Cosgrove?" Frank said.
Dawn shook her head. "He was just threatening Walt. Jan kept pushing up the speed and the incline on the treadmill, making Walt work harder and harder. Walt kept pleading with Jan
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to stop. I guess he wasn't used to running. He kept saying his feet were getting all cut up, but Jan paid no attention."
While Dawn shuddered at the image, the Hardys exchanged a triumphant glance. So that's how Ostrowski's feet got all blistered, Joe thought.
Dawn continued with her unpleasant memories. "It was so weird. Jan kept hollering, 'Why are you short?' It doesn't make any sense. Walt was taller than Jan."
"Was that all Cole said?" Frank asked.
"No. He also asked, 'Where is it?' He sounded so angry, so scary, I couldn't figure it out."
"What happened then?" Joe asked.
"Jan upped the speed again, and all of a sudden, Walt let out a yell and grabbed his head. He wasn't running anymore, and he got thrown from the track of the treadmill." Dawn shuddered again. "He landed like—like a sack of potatoes. I thought I was going to be sick. Somehow, I don't know—the look on Walt's face, the way he fell—"
She looked at the Hardys. "I've seen lots of people pass out. But this was worse. I knew Walt Cosgrove was dead."
"What happened then?" Frank asked.
"I got out of there," Dawn said. "But Cole must have heard me. He came after me, I heard him running. I knew he'd catch me if I headed
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for the parking lot. So I went upstairs to the pool. It sounded like he was right behind me. But I managed to jump off the tanning deck—I used to do gymnastics—and I got away."
Her lips trembled. "It was only when I got home that I realized I'd dropped something in the chase. I'd left the sweatband I was wearing."
Joe stared at her. "The sweatband with Chet's name on it."
Dawn nodded. "I didn't think Cole would find it. The lights were off in the stairwells, and it was dark up on the roof."
Frank's eyes narrowed. "So he didn't get a look at the person who saw Cosgrove die. Chet's headband would be his only clue."
"I came back the next morning to look for it," Dawn said. "But it was gone. The news talked about how Cosgrove's body had been found, but there was nothing about him being killed. Maybe I'd been wrong. So I didn't say anything." She looked at the boys. "I was scared—afraid of Jan Cole." She shivered. "I saw him in a fight once. He was—bad." Her voice ran out.
"And then?" Frank pressed.
"That day, Chet nearly got his head smashed in by a barbell." Dawn bit her lip. "I tried to tell myself that it was just an accident. Then, the next day Jan dumped the barbell on him and nearly killed him again. And all of a sudden,
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the news was saying Walt Cosgrove was actually some gangster named Ostrowski. I—I decided to get away and fast."
"And just leave Chet to be taken care of by Cole?" Joe felt the anger igniting in his chest. "That was real nice. Especially since you're the one who got him into the club in the first place."
Dawn shrank back, staring at the ground. "I tried to get him to leave the club," she said. "But he wouldn't listen to me. And I couldn't tell him why I was afraid for him. Jan Cole would be after us both."
She looked at Joe. "I tried to talk to you about it, the day after the first accident, but you acted so weird, and I got called away—"
"Oh." Joe could feel his face turning bright red. "I didn't know what was going on. I thought that, you—"
"Forget about what you thought," Frank cut in. "Now we know the whole chain of events. Cosgrove/Ostrowski was bringing dirty money to Cole, so he could turn it into clean investment money. Ostrowski was stealing from his shipments and kept coming up short. Cole tried to sweat the money out of him but accidentally killed him instead."
He glanced at the young woman. "Dawn saw that, but because of the sweatband, Cole thinks Chet is the mystery witness. So Cole tried to arrange accidents at the club for Chet. When that didn't work, he must have stolen Dawn's
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car to try to run him down. It was available, Dawn wasn't around—and Cole probably knew that in that car he could get real close to Chet."
"It all holds together," Joe said.
"We've got one witness here, but we'd better get Chet to explain about the accidents to the police."
Frank dug into his pockets and came out with some coins. "I noticed a pay phone on the next corner over," he said, "the only one for blocks. How's that for a good omen?"
"And because we told Chet to stick tight at home, he should be easy to catch. As soon as he gets down to headquarters, this whole thing will be tied up." Joe grinned. "Well, what are you waiting for? Start dialing."
Dawn didn't say anything. She kept looking down at the pavement. A tear fell from her eye to the cobblestone. "That's what I should have done," she said in a strangled voice. "I should have gone straight to the police, instead of wimping out."
Frank started off for the pay phone. Behind him, he could hear Joe trying to soothe the young woman.
"Okay, you didn't do it right away, but you're doing it now. And you'll have us to help you. Chet, too. You should have seen how he handled that hit-and-run attempt. Maybe he's not an aerobics whiz, but he sure can pump iron— and jump out of the path of speeding cars."
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Too bad Chet isn't around to hear Joe acting as his fan club, Frank thought, heading around the corner. Looks like Joe is over Dawn Reynolds. I wish I knew where Chet stands.
Night had come, and the pay phone's light was on. Frank picked up the receiver, happy to get a dial tone. Quickly, he punched in Chet's number on the keypad.
Mrs. Morton answered.
"Hi, it's Frank Hardy," Frank said with a grin. "Could I talk to your invalid, please?"
"I'm afraid he's not here," Mrs. Morton said.
The grin erased itself from Frank's face as he listened.
"That Mr. Vanbricken from the health club called. I didn't quite understand what got Chet so excited." Mrs. Morton sounded puzzled.
"But it had something to do with one of the aerobics instructors—Dawn Somebody."
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Chapter 15
"Well, uh, okay, Mrs. Morton. Just let him know I called."
Frank Hardy didn't know how he managed to sound natural as he got off the phone With Chet's mother. Inside he felt numb.
Sure, the way Chet felt about Dawn, he'd go running if there were something he could do for her. The call had come from Pete Vanbricken. Maybe if Jan Cole had been on the line, Chet might have hesitated.
Frank "broke into a run, heading back to the van.
Joe and Dawn had been working on Dawn's abandoned getaway car, locking the doors, putting the luggage back in the trunk. Dawn was
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slipping a piece of paper under the windshield wiper.
"It's a note to my friend Monica, telling her everything's okay." Dawn's smile faded when she saw Frank's face.
"Bad news," Frank announced. "The money launderers must be getting desperate. They've decoyed Chet down to the club—"
"That doesn't sound good," Joe said, throwing his door open. "But how did they get him out so easily?"
"They used his weak spot—Dawn."
Dawn Reynolds gasped as she realized what Frank meant. "Then I'm coming, too," she said.
Frank got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out of the alley.
"Shouldn't we call the police?" Dawn asked.
Frank sighed. "If we try to present our case, they'll have to check things out. And while they do that—"
"Who knows what will happen to Chet?" she finished in a faint voice.
"On the other hand ..." Joe said. "Hey, Frank. Stop at that pay phone, and I'll make the call."
Frank pulled over to the curb, and Joe hopped out. He picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number.
"Hello? I'd like the police, please." He spoke in a nasal tone, more high-pitched than his usual
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voice. "Yes. I want to report suspicious characters hanging around the Harbor Health Club."
Joe hung up with a grin and got back in the van.
"What 'suspicious characters'?" Dawn wanted to know.
Frank took the van around a turn. "In about five minutes, us."
The parking lot for the club was surprisingly empty as they pulled in. "I don't get it," Dawn said. "This is yuppie hour—our busiest time."
"Not this evening," Joe said, pointing to the glass double doors. A hand-lettered sign announced that the club was closed because of plumbing difficulties.
"That would turn me off," Frank admitted. He pressed against the door handle. The door didn't move. "Locked," he announced. "This may be a problem."
Frank turned to Dawn. "Unless—did you turn in your keys when you left?"
Dawn nodded. "Yeah, I turned them in."
She suddenly glanced up, frowning in thought. "But there might be another way in—the opposite route to the one I took to get out that night."
Leaving the van parked at a slant in front of the entrance, the Hardys followed Dawn around the side of the building.
In its past life as a warehouse, this single-story section must have been a loading dock.
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Obviously some deliveries were still made to this area. But the rooftop above had been fenced in with an elaborate trellis.
"This is the tanning deck," Dawn said, looking upward. "There's a rooftop stairway leading up to the second-story roof. The pool's up there—and that's where I got out. There's a sliding glass door that doesn't lock correctly."
"So our only problem is getting up there," Frank said.
"Just get me up there," Dawn said. "I can take care of the rest."
Joe laced his fingers together, and Dawn placed her foot in the improvised stirrup as Joe crouched. "One, two—three!"
Grunting, Joe straightened his legs and back, throwing his arms up as Dawn leapt. The girl used Joe's impetus to send herself even higher. Her fingers caught in the trellis work fence, and she scrambled over.
A moment or two later, a long strip of heavy canvas came rippling down from the top of the fence.
"What's this?" Frank called up.
"It used to be part of the canvas awning from our snack bar," Dawn whispered back. "I think it will hold you."
The Hardys quickly scaled the improvised rope until they were on top of the roof.
"Nice setup," Joe muttered, looking around. "Too bad I never got the chance to use it."
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Frank tried to relate the rooftop layout to the facilities below. "There's the skylight for the gym," he said, pointing.
They set off, moving as quietly as they could. "The bad guys might be right under us," Frank warned in a whisper. "Let's not warn them by clomping around up here."
He carefully set a course to pass the skylight. With luck, they might get a glimpse of what was waiting for them down on the ground floor.
Crouched down, Frank peered through the glass—and froze. After hearing Dawn's story, the scene he was witnessing seemed all too familiar—horribly familiar.
Jan Cole was standing beside a treadmill. Now, instead of Walt Cosgrove, Chet Morton was running for his life.
A hiss of indrawn breath beside him made Frank turn. Dawn and Joe were also taking in the same view.
"We'd better get in there—and fast," Joe said.
The rest of Dawn's route worked perfectly. The glass door slid open, and they crept quickly down the darkened stairwells.
As Frank eased the ground-floor stairwell door open, they were just around a corner from the entrance to the gym.
"You can't do this, Cole," a voice pleaded over the hum of the moving treadmill. "It's not going to work."
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Frank recognized the speaker. It was Pete Vanbricken. He hadn't seen him from the skylight, but Frank knew the club owner must be in the gym. And he seemed to be arguing for Chet's life.
"Shut up, Vanbricken." Jan Cole's voice was hoarse and cold. "I've heard enough of this whining from you. The kid has to die, and this time I'm making sure you're in on it, right down to getting rid of the stiff."
Cole gave a chilling laugh. "I don't want you getting any attacks of conscience later. I mean, a guy can't afford a conscience when he's taking money from Big Ed Stanek."
"I don't care about the money," Vanbricken said desperately.
Frank crept to the doors, peering into the room through the thin space by the hinges. He could see Chet's running figure from behind, and Cole, but Vanbricken was still invisible.
"Hey, what more does a washed-up football player need?" Cole asked sarcastically. "You've got a pretty little health club, everybody looks up to you, you're a regular hometown hero. And nobody has to know how lousy your business really is, because Big Ed keeps your cash flow going. Of course, he cleans up his own, too. But one hand washes the other."
"Money laundering is one thing," Vanbricken said. "And, yes, I let that slide. But I
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can't let this get completely out of hand. We can't have a murder—"
"Get it through your head, chump!" Cole's yell was like an animal's cry. The mask was off, Frank realized. Cole had given up trying to act civilized. Now he was just a desperate, sweating thug, winning arguments with the loudest voice—and a ready gun.
"We already got a murder," Cole went on a little more quietly. "I croaked Ostrowski—Cosgrove, to you. And this kid knows about it. He saw me. I found his dopey sweatband, and I knew I had to shut him up—permanently. Otherwise, he'll end up putting the bite on me."
"You never told me any of this!" Vanbricken's voice was anguished. "I'd never allow—"
"That's why I didn't tell you." Cole cut him off. "You still have this stupid idea that your loan deal left you and Stanek partners. It ain't that way, stupid. That's why I'm here, to run things. You sure couldn't do it."
"I put every penny of my own money into this place!" From his hiding place, Frank could hear the despair in Pete Vanbricken's voice. "I figured it was my last chance—coming home where I belonged. What else could I do? I came out of college knowing only one thing—how to throw a football. Then those big gorillas wrecked my arm in a game. I bought this place and watched it sink week by week.
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Then some friends back in Midland said they knew a guy who would give me a bridging loan."
Vanbricken laughed bitterly. "And Big Ed Stanek winds up as my partner. Then this whole money laundering thing starts. Now I find out you've been going around killing people."
"Just one." Jan Cole sounded almost offended, as if Vanbricken had attacked his professionalism. "And I tried to off the Morton kid here. My first shot would have been a perfect accident. Everyone was too busy pumping their pecs to notice me loosening the grip on the barbell. But it didn't work," he growled.
"So I tried a little harder. And that didn't work. Finally I decided on a hit-and-run bit, nice and far away from the club. I even stole that dizzy Reynolds kid's car, because I know this jerk is hot for her."
Chet's shoulders pulled in when he heard Cole's words. Then he winced and grabbed for his taped ribs.
"I figured the dope would just stand there smiling and waving while I ran him down. Instead, somehow he jumps out of the way. So it's time for another accident."
Cole flung out an arm to point to Chet's wheezing progress. "Why do you think I got the kid on the treadmill? Maybe he'll go the way Ostrowski did. Then everybody will say it was natural causes.
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For a moment the two men stared at each other. The big room was silent except for Chet's gasping breaths.
"Cole, Cosgrove died from a brain aneurysm—he had a weak blood vessel inside his skull. He died by accident." Vanbricken tried hard to persuade the thug. "It's not murder."
"That's not the way the cops would see it— not with my record," Cole objected. "Besides, they'd start asking questions about why I was sweating Ostrowski. And Big Ed wouldn't like it if word of his little operation here got out."
"And what if the treadmill doesn't kill this boy?" Vanbricken asked.
"Then I blow him away." Cole's voice was casual, as if he were discussing swatting a fly. Then a note of ice entered his words. "That's what happens to anybody who gets in my way."
Joe and Dawn joined Frank behind the angle of the door. "We've heard enough," Joe whispered. "We've got to get in there and stop that maniac."
"Cole is facing away from these open doors. Let's try a straight rush—we don't have time to do anything fancy. From the way Vanbricken's talking, he may even help us."
They crept around the door, then ran flat out into the room. The carpeting and noise of the treadmill would hide their footfalls. Frank now saw where Pete Vanbricken was standing,
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beyond the treadmill, out of Frank's line of vision, but in Cole's line of fire.
There was just one thing Frank hadn't calculated on—the decor of the gym. He'd forgotten that the walls were lined with mirrors.
Cole saw them before they got three strides into the room. But he didn't turn to the Hardys. Cole took care of the nearer danger—Pistol Pete Vanbricken, who had tensed for a lunge.
Before the ex-football star could launch himself, however, Cole's gun went off, deafening even in that large room.
With a hoarse cry, Vanbricken went down. Thick red blood soaked the sweatpants he was wearing and the rug he lay on. He clutched at his leg, trying to slow the flow.
"Keep running, Morton, or you get the next bullet!" Cole shifted his aim to cover the Hardys. Their rush stumbled to a halt, just a yard short of attack range.
"Well, well," Cole said, "the smart guys.Bet you're wishing you did what Pistol Pete said and stayed away from here."
"Not really, Mr. Kolachev." Frank was banking on the chance that using the man's real name might distract him enough to let them try something.
It didn't work. Jan Cole's eyes just got colder, and he moved a step back, the better to cover the two boys. "You really are smart guys," the
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gunman said, smiling thinly. 'Too smart for your own good. Now, back up."
"And who's going to make us?" Joe bluffed. "You may be able to shoot one of us, but the other will be on top of you."
"Kid, I could probably put this gun away and still handle the two of you," Cole said. "But I got an easier way. How you doing back there by the door, Dawn?"
With a sick feeling in his gut, Frank turned to see Dawn Reynolds standing frozen, peering in the doorway. Cole's gun was now centered on her head.
"Curiosity killed the cat," Cole said. "Now, come on, step in. And don't try pulling back. You're not giving me much of a target, and that means I'd have to go for a head shot, which would ruin that pretty face."
The Hardys both watched as Dawn slowly, unwillingly, stepped into the room.
"Now, you were wondering how I could make you back off, I believe," Cole said with an ugly smile. "I'm going to count to three. By then, if you aren't moving back, I'll shoot Dawn in the leg. She's farther away than Vanbricken is, so I can't guarantee hitting a vein. Maybe I'll hit an artery, and she'll bleed to death all over the floor. But it'll be your fault. One . . . two ..."
The Hardys stepped back.
"See? You guys are smart."
"Jan—Jan, look," Dawn began. "Chet didn't
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see anything. I did. I was wearing his sweatband—"
"Too late now, honey," Cole said. "He's heard and seen too much. And with all you witnesses, it looks like I can't hope for an accident. Guess I'll have to shoot you all and make a run for it."
"At least you'll have that bagful of money in locker thirteen," Joe said boldly. "But I don't know how Big Ed will take your using his money as a getaway fund."
Cole froze long enough for the Hardys to step forward again. But he snapped the gun on Dawn. "Back off or the girl gets it!" he screamed.
Defeated, Frank and Joe retreated out of attack range again. Cole calmed down.
"You got a point, kid," he said. "Since you're so good, maybe you can help with one more future plan. Who gets it first, huh?"
Cole shifted over so he could more easily cover the three people standing in front of him. The treadmill was directly behind him, and for a second, Frank thought that maybe Chet could sneak up from the rear.
But, no, he realized, Cole had been checking the mirrors. He was out of Chet's range, too.
"So, smart guy," Cole taunted, "who do I shoot? You? Your brother? Or the pretty blond?"
Cole's smile vanished, and his voice went flat. "I think I've made my choice, Dawn."
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Frank tensed himself for a hopeless jump— and stared.
Behind Cole, Chet Morton launched himself up and over the handles and electronic controls of the treadmill. He was propelled by more than just the strength of his muscles or the juice of his emotions.
He had the mechanical assist of a full-speed treadmill!
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Chapter 16
Chet flew as if he'd been shot from a cannon.
Jan Cole must have caught the movement in the gym mirror. He hesitated an instant and didn't shoot at Dawn.
Cole was just turning his gun to Chet when Chet smashed into him. The impact caught Cole off balance, toppling him to the floor.
The gun went off once, sending a bullet into the ceiling. By then Cole was on the floor with Chet on top of him.
Chet's face tightened with the impact on his bruised ribs. But that didn't stop him. Once again Joe Hardy was reminded that there was muscle under Chet's bulk as his friend aimed a thunderous blow behind Cole's right ear. The thug's whole body shook.
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"I'll go for the gun," Frank barked, leaping for Cole's outstretched right arm, where the pistol was still clutched in his hand.
Joe decided to come in on Cole's left.
Chet sprawled across Cole's back, a choke hold around his neck, throwing punch after punch into his head.
The big man was in trouble, but he wasn't out for the count. In spite of Chet's weight on him, Cole pushed himself up with his left hand. His right hand started bringing the gun up.
Chet's fist spread into a claw, going for Cole's eyes.
He didn't have to strike.
Joe Hardy was already on hand, kicking Cole's left hand from under him.
As the big man fell, Frank Hardy grabbed Cole's gun hand by the wrist, yanking the arm out straight. He dug his foot into Cole's armpit, putting tension on the gunman's shoulder, and twisted.
Cole yelled, and Joe knew why. That particular move would dislocate the thug's arm if a little more pressure were applied.
The gun dropped from Cole's nerveless fingers.
After this, Joe thought, our only problem is getting Chet to stop beating up on this guy.
The fight officially ended, however, when a small army of police burst into the gym, guns at the ready. "Freeze!" yelled Con Riley.
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Chet froze in midpunch, staring at all the weapons aimed at him.
Joe Hardy raised his hands and glanced at his watch. "Does it always take you guys this long to respond to a prowler report?"
"Oh, our first unit was here early enough. They radioed in for reinforcements when they realized who owned the van outside," Con said. "We were working our way in from the roof—some helpful soul had left a rope ladder dangling down—when we heard the shots." He turned to the other officers. "I guess we can put up our guns, people."
"Let's get down to business," Joe said. "We all can testify that the beaten-up character down there attempted to murder us, especially Pete Vanbricken."
Police officers were already moving to give Vanbricken first aid.
"But this lady over here," Joe went on, "can testify that Mr. Cole killed Walt Cosgrove, a.k.a. Walter Ostrowski."
Dawn Reynolds, however, was paying no attention. Her eyes were locked on Chet Morton as she stepped closer to him. "Chet—what you did—that was the bravest thing I ever saw."
Chet stared at Dawn, his face turning bright red as he stammered, "I—uh, well, uh—he was; going to kill you, and I couldn't let him do that," • Chet finally blurted out.
He didn't have a chance to say any more.
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Dawn threw her arms around Chet and kissed him.
Joe sighed. "Win a few, lose a few," he muttered.
"Hey, there's always that girl Linda," Frank said with a smile. "Maybe you can work out with her and leave me alone."
* * *
Two days later Joe, Frank, and Callie Shaw were walking through the food court of the Bayport Mall.
"So, what's the big deal, guys?" Callie wanted to know. "Why are we expected at Mr. Pizza?"
"I just got the call from Chet," Joe said. "All he told me was that Dawn had a big announcement to make."
"Announcement?" Callie suddenly stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide. "What could that be?"
"The only way we'll find out is by going there," Frank said.
"I'm still not speaking to you," Callie informed him frostily. "After going to the trouble of joining a health club—"
"Actually, Joe signed me up," Frank said.
"You'd think that someone would have the decency to invite his girlfriend to use one of his free guest passes—"
"They threw us out of the club the third day
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we were there," Frank continued a little desperately.
"Especially when I went to the expense of buying some new workout clothes," Callie finished.
"Yeah," Joe said. "Liz Webling told us the leotard you bought was pretty hot."
Color crept up Callie's cheeks. "One of these days, I'm going to kill that girl," she muttered.
Then her face brightened. "But now that you're heroes for saving the club, don't you think they'll let you back in again? Maybe I could still use one of your—"
"I hate to break this to you, Callie," Joe said, "but the Harbor Health Club has been closed."
Callie looked as if her whole world had crumbled. "What?"
"The club's accounts were ordered frozen by the feds. They're looking into the Stanek connection. Pete Vanbricken gave the staff two months' wages from what's left of his own money," Joe reported.
"What happens to Vanbricken?" Callie asked.
"He's cooperating in the investigation," Frank said. "From what I understand, he's come completely clean on everything that happened at the club."
"I bet Big Ed Stanek doesn't like that," Callie said.
"I think Big Ed has bigger worries than that," Frank said with a smile. "Almost two hundred
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thousand dollars was seized in that locker. It looks as if the club wasn't just one of Stanek's money laundries, it was a major distribution center."
"So Cole was a bigger fry than you guys suspected?" Callie said.
"We should have guessed it," Frank admitted. "Terrance Penman mentioned a whole crew of out-of-towners—traveling salesmen."
"They must have been shipping money around like mad," Joe said. "No wonder Ostrowski thought a grand here or there wouldn't be missed."
Callie shook her head. "And Cole could tie the whole network in—if he talked." Her eyes had a faraway look as they continued to walk.
"Look on the bright side," Joe whispered to Frank. "At least she's not mourning her workout clothes anymore."
"I heard that," Callie said.
Frank gave his brother a look. "Well, how about this?" he said to Callie. "The next time we have a mystery in a gym, I promise to send you undercover in your leotard."
"For myself, I can hardly wait," Joe added.
"One day, Joe Hardy," Callie muttered darkly.
Joe pretended not to hear. "We'd better hurry. After all, we don't want to miss Chet and Dawn's announcement."
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They walked into Mr. Pizza to find Chet and Dawn seated at a long table. Also sitting beside Dawn was a big middle-aged man in a rumpled suit.
To Joe's eyes, the young couple seemed very quiet and subdued.
Callie busily scanned the whole place. "No sign of Chet's parents," she whispered. "It looks like this big announcement is just for us."
"But who is the mystery man sitting beside Dawn?" Joe whispered back.
As soon as they reached the table, Chet stood up. "Callie, Frank, Joe, this is Mr. Jarvis."
"Are you a relative of Dawn's?" Callie asked.
Frank rolled his eyes. "Ever the investigator," he muttered.
Jarvis stared at Callie as if she'd grown an extra head.
"We haven't told anyone," Dawn quickly explained.
"And I wish you still wouldn't," Jarvis growled.
Dawn seemed determined. "They deserve to know. And I don't want Chet to be the one to explain it."
She looked about to say more, but Tony Prito appeared with his helper. They carried two pies with everything and two salads.
"I figured I'd just order for us," Chet said. Dawn got one of the salads. He got the other.
"I wanted to thank you guys for helping me,"
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Dawn said. "You showed me what I should have done. And, Chet, you saved my life."
She took a deep breath. "I also wanted to take this opportunity to say goodbye."
Frank, Joe, and Callie all stared. "Goodbye?" They almost spoke in chorus.
Dawn rested her fingers on Chet's hand. "Chet knows already. I've had a lot of long talks with him. In fact, he's the one who convinced me to testify."
"And go into hiding for a while," Chet added.
"Go into hiding?" The Hardys and Callie exchanged another shocked glance.
"Mr. Jarvis is a federal marshal," Dawn explained. "We're leaving—well, right after this."
"With Miss Reynolds's testimony, we can put Cole away for a long time," Jarvis said. "Unless he rolls over on Big Ed Stanek's whole money- laundering operation."
Joe sat up straighter in his chair. "You mean that if Cole turns informer, you'll let him off?"
"You didn't seem so excited when you suggested Vanbricken might make a deal," Frank said.
"Vanbricken didn't murder anybody!" Joe turned to Chet. "And Cole almost murdered you."
"I thought about that," Chet admitted. "In the end, I decided this was just one battle in a much bigger war." He shook his head. "Sounds
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pretty overblown when I put it that way. But this is what Dawn and I decided. We were lucky enough to beat the bad guys in Bayport. But Cole can shut Stanek down all across the country."
"Maybe I didn't speak up when Chet needed me," Dawn said. "But I can do some good now." She lowered her gaze to the tabletop. "This is harder than I thought."
Turning abruptly, Dawn kissed Chet. "So long," she said. "I wish I could deserve a guy like you."
"The problems of two people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world," Chet said, managing a smile.
Joe noticed, however, that Chet's eyes never left Dawn as she and Jarvis left the place.
Joe opened his mouth to say something, but Callie was already leaning over, her hand on Chet's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chet. I wish there was something better I could say."
Chet shrugged and gently removed her hand. "You win a few, you lose a few. . ."
He looked down at the salad in front of him, pushed it aside, and took a piece of pizza.
"I'll tell you one thing," Chet said between bites. "In the future, any weight I lose, I'll do it in the training room in my barn." He sighed. "Those health clubs can be rough on your heart."
Cave-In! (Hardy Boys Mystery Stories #78)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1 
Kidnapped!
Eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy flipped the dial on the television set, then sat down at the kitchen table to finish his supper and watch the evening news.
"We don't have time for that," said his brother Joe, who was a year younger. "We're supposed to pick up the girls in half an hour. The show starts at eight."
It was the first night of the Hardys' winter vacation from Bayport High, and they were planning to celebrate by taking their dates, Cal-lie Shaw and Iola Morton, to the movies.
"Shh!" Frank said quickly, his attention focused on the news program. "I want to hear this."
4
On the television screen appeared the picture of a well-known movie star, Richard Chase. Frank and Joe had seen the handsome actor in several recent films.
"Richard Chase is believed to have been abducted from his Los Angeles home sometime this afternoon," the reporter announced. "Currently, he has been working on a new film, Horror Hotel, a thriller about a monster that terrorizes the winter vacationers in a remote mountain lodge.
"Evidently," the anchorman continued, "Mr. Chase is now involved in horrors of a very real kind. The police are investigating the actor's mysterious kidnapping, but have yet to come up with any leads in the case."
Just then, Frank and Joe heard a loud gasp from behind them. They turned to look at their Aunt Gertrude, who was standing near the door with her mouth open and her eyes as wide as saucers.
"What's the matter, Aunty?" Frank asked.
"He called here this morning!" Miss Hardy, who had lived with the family for some time, replied, nearly coughing out the words.
"Who called?" Joe spoke up.
"Mr. Chase! I didn't know he was the movie
5
star, though. I thought he was just another one of your father's clients. So I took down the message and--"
"He didn't speak to Dad?" Joe interrupted.
"No, your father was out, so I wrote down the caller's name and number and told him that I would pass it on to Fenton when he came home."
Fenton Hardy was a famous private detective, who had once been on the New York Police Department. Frank and Joe were following in his footsteps as amateur detectives and had already built up an excellent reputation for themselves.
"Are you sure it was the Richard Chase who called?" dark-haired Frank asked. He was thinking that there were probably hundreds of people in the country with the same name.
"He didn't say, but it's too much of a coincidence," Aunt Gertrude declared. Just then, they heard the front door open and close. "I think your father is here now," she added.
A few seconds later, Fenton Hardy entered the kitchen. "Can you two have your things packed in ten minutes?" he asked his sons in a serious tone. "And take some clothing for extremely cold weather. We'll have to make an
6
eight-thirty flight to Los Angeles. I'll explain later." With that, he left the kitchen and rushed upstairs to pack his own bags.
"I guess it was Richard Chase the movie star," Frank said as he downed the last of his milk and stood up from the table. Then both brothers ran up the stairs after their father.
"What about our dates with Iola and Callie?" Joe asked, throwing up his hands.
"I'll call them right now," Frank replied. "They'll understand."
A few minutes later, the boys put their clothes into suitcases, and in no time were packed and ready to go. Their mother, who had been taking a nap in her bedroom, was already outside starting the car. "I'm driving you to the airport," she said.
The boys were about to climb into the car, when Aunt Gertrude appeared, shaking a finger at them. "I want you two to be careful," she said. "You have a knack for attracting trouble like flowers attract honeybees."
"Don't worry, Aunty," Joe said, and gave her a big kiss.
But Aunt Gertrude knew there would be trouble, as there always was when her nephews tackled a mystery. She was very fond of them
7
and was afraid that someday their sleuthing would endanger their lives. Actually, it often had.
On their way to the airport, Fenton Hardy told his sons that Richard Chase had phoned him the night before. The star was apparently on to something illegal involving the movie he was working in, but he wanted Mr. Hardy to come to Los Angeles before disclosing any of the details.
"I was planning to go to the West Coast in a couple of days," the detective went on. "But on my way home tonight, I heard the news report that Chase had been kidnapped. So I want to get there as soon as possible."
"We saw the story on television," Frank said. "Then Aunt Gertrude told us that Mr. Chase had called again this morning when you were out."
"It seems he really knew something," Mr. Hardy said. "So his enemies abducted him before he could tell anyone."
"Why did you want us to come along?" Frank inquired.
"I suspect that Chase's captors, whoever they are, know that he contacted me. So I might have a hard time from now on learning what's happening."
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"I get it," Joe said. "We can act as undercover agents, so to speak."
Mr. Hardy nodded. "As I said, Chase told me his information had something to do with the movie Horror Hotel. If you two could somehow land jobs on the set, we would stand a better chance of getting to the bottom of this case."
Mrs. Hardy's sparkling blue eyes registered concern as she pulled into the airport terminal. Like Aunt Gertrude, she was worried. "Please don't let the boys get involved in anything too dangerous," she pleaded, looking at her husband.
"Don't worry, Mom," Joe answered for his father. "We can take care of ourselves."
All three hugged Mrs. Hardy, then hurried inside to make the eight-thirty plane to California.
The flight took six hours, but because of the three-hour time difference it was still before midnight when they landed at the Los Angeles airport.
The first tiling the boys noticed when they got off the plane was the weather. Although it was late December, and freezing cold back in Bayport, the California air was warm as summer.
With their coats slung over their shoulders,
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the three detectives hailed a taxi. A short while later, they were dropped off at the elegant Hollywood home of the movie actor.
The house was lit up, and two squad cars were parked in front. Evidently the police were still searching for clues to the kidnappers.
"I don't want you to come in with me," Mr. Hardy said. "Just stay here for now."
Frank and Joe watched their father disappear into the house to discuss the case with police and members of Richard Chase's household.
"Let's take a walk around the block," Joe sugested. "Maybe we'll see something."
Blond-haired and energetic, he was more impetuous than his older brother. He hated the thought of standing there and doing nothing.
"Okay," Frank agreed. "Why not?"
The boys were only halfway down the block when they noticed two men in a parked sedan. In the dark, their faces were barely visible, but they seemed to be watching the sleuths' movements. Frank and Joe tried to appear nonchalant, and walked past the car as if unaware of its occupants.
Suddenly, doors swung open and the two men leaped out, menacing the boys with long knives.
10
"Get in!" one of them commanded.
Joe gulped. "What do you mean?" he protested nervously. "We haven't done anything. We just--"
"Get in!" the man repeated, motioning with his knife toward the door.
Frank and Joe thought briefly of making a dash down the sidewalk. But the men, both with jet black hair combed straight back, appeared to be professional thugs who would deal with any sudden moves quickly and mercilessly.
"We won't hurt you," the driver said, "unless you try something stupid. We just want to ask you some questions."
The boys could see it would be better to go along with the strangers' demands, so they climbed into the front seat next to the driver. The other thug got into the back and frisked the Hardys for weapons, again warning them not to try anything foolish.
"What were you doing at Richard Chase's house?" the driver asked as he started the car and pulled away from the curb.
"We're fans of his," Frank replied, quickly inventing a story. "We heard on television about his abduction and just came to see this
11
place out of curiosity."
The man in the back seat leaned forward. "I think you're lying!" he hissed.
The boys knew they would have to make up something better to satisfy their captors, and it would have to be soon.
"Okay, okay," Joe confessed. "What we were really hoping was to get acting parts in the film Chase had been working on. We thought maybe the producer or director would be at the house, where we could have a chance to meet him."
The driver chuckled, seeming to believe Joe's explanation. "So you are aspiring young actors, are you?" he said. "And you thought that with Richard Chase out of the picture, there might be need for new talent in the film."
Frank nodded. "If we could only meet the director or the producer, maybe we could talk him into giving us parts. It would be our big break."
"So what are you doing here?" Joe nervously challenged the men, trying to turn the questioning around.
"That's none of your business," the man in the back seat growled.
The car was cruising down a wide avenue lined with palm trees. Then the driver turned
12
up a side street and pulled the vehicle to the curb.
"Where are you taking us?" Frank asked apprehensively. In reply, he felt an arm reach over his shoulder and the pressure of a knife blade against his throat!
13
Chapter 2
A Nasty Fight
"If you go to the police about this," the thug in the back seat warned, increasing the knife's pressure on Frank's throat, "or if we see you kids nosing around again, we won't be as nice as we were this time. Do you understand?"
Frank and Joe both nodded, relieved that they were being set free. They opened the door and slowly climbed out. The door then was slammed shut and the car drove off.
"Let's report those two to the police," Joe, still shaken from the episode, said angrily.
Frank watched their captors as they went down the street and turned onto the palm-lined avenue. The car was a late model American made
14
luxury sedan, painted green. Its license plates were obscured by t darkness, making it impossible to read the numbers.
"No," he said finally. "These guys were just hired thugs, who probably won't squeal on the person who hired them. If we go to the authorities, all we'd do is blow our cover."
"You're right," Joe agreed. "Let's go back to the Chase house."
The boys walked through the neighborhood, following what seemed to be the main street. It led past elegant homes, some of which Frank and Joe assumed were owned by wealthy movie people. But the boys got lost and finally went into a gas station with a pay phone.
Frank called Richard Chase's number, hoping his father would still be there. But there was no answer. He then phoned his home in Bayport, hoping that Mr. Hardy had left a message.
"Where have you two been?" came the irritated voice of Aunt Gertrude over the receiver. "Your dad called and said you had disappeared! I knew there would be trouble. I just knew it!"
Frank explained that they had been temporarily sidetracked, and asked his aunt where Mr. Hardy was.
"At the Stars Inn," Aunt Gertrude replied.
15
"It's somewhere in Hollywood."
"Thanks, Aunty." Frank pressed down the receiver, then got the number for the Stars Inn from Hollywood directory assistance.
"What happened to you?" Mr. Hardy asked anxiously when Frank at last reached him.
"We'll explain later, Dad. Just tell me how to find your hotel." He jotted down the address, then called a taxi.
It was almost three in the morning by the time the boys opened their father's hotel room door. They quickly related their experience, and he agreed it would be better not to report the incident to the police.
"I want you to stick with that story about being actors," he said. "That was a good idea. By the way, I learned that Richard Chase had just returned from filming on location. His family says he was deeply concerned about the movie. His wife had gone shopping late in the afternoon, and when she came home she saw signs of a fight in the house. Her husband was gone."
"Where did the filming take place?" Frank asked.
"In an old hotel near Lake Tahoe," his father replied.
"That's a resort area in the mountains several
16
hundred miles north of here, isn't it?" Joe asked.
His father nodded. "The hotel is owned by Ian Rider, who is also the producer of the movie. It seems that Rider spends most of his time in San Francisco to take care of the business end of the production. But the cast and crew for Horror Hotel are presently staying on location in the mountains."
"Why don't we go up there and check things out?" Frank suggested. "With our cover as aspiring actors already established--"
"That's exactly what I had in mind." Mr. Hardy smiled broadly.
In the morning, the Hardys were awakened by a phone call from Bayport. It was Phil Cohen, a school friend who had often helped the young detectives in solving mysteries.
"I heard you guys are working on the Richard Chase case," Phil said. "Aunt Gertrude told me. Listen, I might be able to help you out."
"How?" Joe, who had answered the phone, asked.
"I have a friend named Tim Adams. He's living right near where Richard Chase was working on his latest film."
"Near Lake Tahoe?"
"That's right," Phil went on. "Tim's been acting
17
as a stunt man in the movie. He's a great skier. It turned out that they needed some skiing scenes so they hired Tim. I called him last night and he told me he knows Chase personally and that he talked with him only a few days ago. Tim wants you guys to come up and see him."
"Great!" Joe exclaimed. "We were heading there anyway. This Tim Adams sounds like he might be able to give us the inside connection we were hoping for! How can we get in touch with him?"
Phil told Joe that Tim was staying at his father's ski chalet, which was located near Lake Tahoe in a resort called Oreville. He gave Joe the chalet's phone number.
"Thanks, Phil," Joe said. He hung up, then dialed the chalet. Tim wasn't home, but his father was.
"Tim is out on the ski slopes today," Mr. Adams said. "I'll be going over there myself soon, and I can tell him to meet you. What time do you think you'll arrive?"
After a brief discussion with Frank and their father, Joe told Mr. Adams that they could be at the Oreville ski area by four o'clock that afternoon.
18
"Good," Mr. Adams said. "I'll have Tim meet you in the parking lot. He's six feet tall, has light blond hair, and he wears a bright red ski parka with a blue stripe."
Joe thanked Mr. Adams and hung up. "Next question," he said, "is how do we get there."
"There's a car rental agency in the lobby of the hotel," Mr. Hardy said. "You two put on your clothes and I'll go rent you a car."
Half an hour later, the boys were loading their luggage into a dark blue Ford. Mr. Hardy gave them a hand, then said, "The place Horror Hotel is being filmed at is called Mountain Hotel. It should be close to the Oreville ski area and Mr. Adams's chalet."
"Tim can fill us in on that," Frank said. "We'll call you as soon as we can."
"I'll be going to San Francisco today, which is the movie producer's base of operation," Mr. Hardy said. "You can reach me at the Rex Hotel."
After saying good-bye, the youths drove off in the Ford. Joe was behind the wheel, while Frank studied a California road map to determine the best route to the Lake Tahoe region. Within a few hours, they were traveling along a narrow highway through the Sierra Mountains.
19
It was past three o'clock by the time the two boys reached Lake Tahoe. From there, Frank instructed Joe to turn up a road which followed a winding course to the north. Snow covered the mountains, and the air temperature dropped below freezing.
"This is Oreville," Frank said, reading a road sign which marked the outskirts of an old town. He glanced at his watch. "It's almost four, but the ski resort ought to be nearby."
Following signs to the ski area, Joe drove up a steep access road. Within a few minutes, they saw the slopes rising up the side of a mountain. A lodge was set at the base, and the parking lot, where they were to meet Tim Adams, was next to it.
"Hey, look! A snowball fight!" Joe exclaimed with a grin, pointing toward the lodge.
Up ahead, there were ten or more boys of high school age engaged in a fierce snowball battle. One group of about seven outnumbered the other, which seemed to consist of only three. The majority was hiding behind parked cars and pelting the three youngsters with an arsenal of snowballs.
"This looks more like a massacre than a snowball fight!" Frank said with a frown.
20
"Maybe we should give the underdogs a hand."
As the Hardys drove closer to the scene, they saw that it was, indeed, a serious fight.
"Apparently those three kids were ambushed when they came out of the lodge," Joe said. "See, they dropped their skis. The other boys don't seem to have any equipment and probably hid behind the cars well in advance."
Frank nodded. He watched the trio, which had taken cover in back of a ski rack. However, the rack, which amounted to little more than a one-board fence against which people stood up their skis, offered almost no protection. The three boys were still easy prey for the larger group, who appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of ammunition.
Thinking quickly, Joe swung the car around and brought it to a stop in front of the ski rack, giving the three youths added cover. Then both he and Frank jumped out of the car and started making snowballs of their own.
"Frank! Joe!" a desperate voice called out from behind the ski rack. "You got here just in time!"
The sleuths saw that one of the three boys was tall, blond, and wearing a red parka with a blue stripe.
21
"Tim!" Frank yelled back. "What's going on Here?"
Just then, Joe grabbed his brother's arm and yanked him down. A snowball whizzed over their heads and hit the rack with a loud crack.
"Those aren't snowballs!" Joe gasped. "They're iceballs!"
22
Chapter 3 
A Horrible Sight
Frank and Joe dropped the snowballs they were making and squatted down next to their car. Clearly, there was nothing funny or friendly about this battle, and the best thing to do would be to get Tim and his two buddies out of the parking lot as soon as possible.
More iceballs flew past the boys, who ducked and dodged to avoid being hit.
"Get in the car!" Frank hissed.
He opened the door of their Ford, and on their hands and knees, Tim and his two friends scurried from behind the ski rack and piled into the back seat. Joe took the wheel again, and Frank sat down next to him.
23
"Let's go," he urged his brother. "Those iceballs could smash the windows."
Joe put the car into gear. Just then one of the missiles glanced off the windshield. There was no damage, but the boys knew that the side windows were not nearly as thick and could not withstand a similar attack.
The blond detective stepped on the gas and the Ford sped forward. In a moment, they were out of iceball range.
"Thanks for the lift, fellows," Tim Adams said with a sigh of relief. "I wish you'd gotten here a bit earlier, though."
Frank looked over his shoulder at the three passengers in the back seat. Tim had a bad bruise forming where an iceball had clipped him near his left ear. One of the other boys was nursing a bloody nose, and the third one was holding his shoulder in pain.
"Do any of you want to go to the hospital?" Frank asked.
"I'm all right," said the boy with the hurt shoulder. "I don't think I broke anything. It just stings a lot."
Both Tim and the other boy said they were okay, too. They just wanted to go home to clean up their cuts and bruises.
"We'll be glad to take you," Frank offered.
24
"Thanks," Tim said, then introduced his two friends. The one with the bloody nose was Rick. He was short, and had bushy eyebrows and wavy dark hair.
The other boy was named Paul. He was the same size as Tim, about six feet, with sandy hair and a quick smile. All three looked as if they were fairly well off. They wore brightly colored ski outfits and expensive boots.
"What happened back there?" Joe asked when the introductions were over. "It seems like that bunch had it in for you."
"They did." Tim groaned. "They're the townies.
"Townies?" Frank queried.
"Yes," Tim replied. "That's what we call them. They live in Oreville. We have a longstanding feud going with them. The rich kids against the poor kids, you could say," he concluded with a slight grin.
"It's a pretty rough group to get mixed up with," Joe declared. "It could get dangerous if you're not careful."
"And it seems as if there are twice as many townies as there are of you," Frank added. "Don't you think it would be better to make a truce?"
"No way!" Paul declared angrily. "Nobody
25
hurls iceballs at me and gets away with it. They're going to pay for that!"
"There are more than just us three on our side," Tim put in hastily. "We have four other friends who'll fight, and with you two guys we'd outnumber the townies."
"You want us to join your gang?" Joe asked in disbelief.
Tim leaned forward from the back seat. "Sure. As long as you're up here, we could use your help. Phil Cohen said you two were great with your fists, and--"
"Hold on!" Frank exclaimed. "We didn't come up to fight in a local gang war."
"I just thought we could give each other a hand," Tim said defensively. "I may be able to help you with your case, and you could help us take care of those townies. Seems like a good deal to me."
"Talking about our case, how well do you know Richard Chase?" Frank asked. "Phil told us you're a stunt man for the movie."
Tim Adams's face glowed red with embarrassment. "Well, I guess I exaggerated a little," he said. "I only met Chase once when I went out to watch the film being shot at the hotel. And I'm not really a stunt man yet. There are
26
tryouts scheduled for tomorrow, but I stand the best chance of getting the job."
"So you lied to Phil about your involvement with the film just to get us here to help you fight the townies!" Joe exclaimed.
"Well, ah ..." Tim was clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, I stretched the truth a bit. But I'm sure I can help you. I know where Horror Hotel is being filmed, and I know the surrounding area very well. You can stay in my dad's chalet while you're here and borrow ski clothes from us."
"And Tim is the best freestyle skier in Oreville," Paul put in. "He'll get the job."
"It's true," Rick added. "Wait till you see him at the tryouts tomorrow. And you saw how tough those townies are. It would be great to have you guys on our side."
The trio in the back seat watched Frank and Joe with pleading expressions.
"I'll tell you what," Frank said finally. "We won't help you fight the townies. Nothing will be solved that way. But we will do our best to put an end to this feud before it gets out of hand."
Tim and his two friends groaned. "You won't be able to," Tim said. "It's been going on
27
forever. Nobody can stop it."
"We'll see," Frank said. He was disappointed that Tim wasn't the connection they had hoped he would be. Now they would have to find another way of penetrating the suspect movie company that Richard Chase had been involved with.
Suddenly Rick called out, "We forgot our skis!"
Joe swung the Ford around and headed back toward the parking lot. There was no sign of the iceball-throwing townies when they arrived. Tim, Rick, and Paul picked up their equipment, which was left scattered outside the lodge.
"I might as well take my car home, too," Paul said. "Rick, I'll give you a ride. This way the Hardys can follow Tim right to the chalet."
"Good idea," Frank said and helped the boys secure their skis to the rack on Paul's car. Tim put his in the back of his station wagon, then drove off with the Ford following close behind.
Mr. Adams's chalet was just off the ski area access road. It was a beautiful, large A-frame house with big glass windows. When the boys had parked the cars, Tim said, "How about some hot cocoa? We have cookies, too."
The Hardys eagerly devoured the refreshments. Then Frank said, "Tim, if you don't
28
mind, I'd like to go to the filming location."
"Not at all," Tim replied, still a bit ashamed of having tricked the boys to visit him. "I'll take you over there. It's only five miles from here."
It was dark when they climbed into the station wagon.
"We were told the hotel is very old," Frank said as Tim drove down the road.
"Not really. It was built ten years ago," their host answered. "But it was designed to look old. It's a really neat place for a horror movie."
On their way, the young people passed through Oreville.
"That's where the townies hang out," Tim said as he pointed to the general store. "There's a room in the back with video games and soda machines. The kids use it as their meeting place."
Frank and Joe looked at the general store and several other buildings, which made up the center of the old town.
"What do people do for a living around here?" Frank inquired.
"Most work in the ski area," Tim replied. "Some are cooks or waiters in the restaurants, others work in slope maintenance, like snow-making and lift operation."
Once they had passed through Oreville, he
29
drove some distance down the winding mountain road. It was the same route the boys had used coming up from Lake Tahoe earlier. Then he stopped in front of a big, old-looking building. It was set about a hundred feet off the road on the side of a looming, steep hill.
"This is it," Tim announced.
"It is perfect for a horror movie," Joe had to admit.
The hotel looked as if it was from another century. It was painted white, had a huge front porch, and was five stories high. Its windows were arched at the top, except for a small round one in the attic. The overall effect was that of an old wooden box, like a dollhouse. Only a few windows were lit.
"We'll go in and see what we find," Frank said. "Tim, why don't you stay here, ready to leave if we have to in a hurry."
"Sure," the Adams boy agreed.
Frank and Joe went to the entrance and knocked. A long while passed until the door suddenly opened all by itself!
The young detectives gasped and backed away. In the hallway, dangling in the air by a rope, was a dead body!
The corpse's eyes stared straight ahead as it swayed slightly. The boys heard an eerie
30
chuckle from behind the door. Then a man with an impish grin on his face stepped out in front of them. He was thin, in his middle twenties, and upon seeing the visitors' pale faces, he doubled up with laughter.
Frank and Joe were dumbfounded. They weren't sure whether they should grab the man or flee from the hotel, so they just stood there for a moment, gaping.
The young man controlled his laughing. "It's . . . it's just a dummy," he said, gesturing to the corpse. "I made it myself. But your faces were priceless."
Frank and Joe stepped forward to inspect the body more closely. With a sigh of relief, they realized that it must be a prop for the horror movie.
"You sure have a strange sense of humor," Joe said to the man.
"One has to in this business," came the reply. "You see, I'm Bruce, the makeup man for the movie that's being made here. I spend all day producing the most gory, gruesome things. This corpse is one of my masterpieces. Do you like it?"
Joe grimaced. "It sure had me fooled," he said drily.
31
"Thanks," Bruce said. "Now, what can I do for you two?"
"We're actors," Frank said. "And we heard about the film being shot here. So we thought we'd drive over and find out if you needed any help."
The man shook his head. "You're not the first kids who've come for acting parts. And, as I told the others, we don't need anybody. I'm afraid you've wasted your time."
"We heard about Richard Chase's abduction on television," Frank persisted. "And we thought that with him out of the picture, you might be revising the script to include new characters."
"The director and the writer have started to make some changes," Bruce admitted. "And we may need some new talent when they've finished. We'll be able to use a fat boy for a small role, but neither of you is fat."
Instantly, the same idea crossed the boys' minds. "We have a friend who might fit the bill," Frank said. "We'll send him over."
Bruce shrugged. "Why not?"
The boys said good-bye and left. On their way back to the car, Frank said, "Let's give Chet a call." He was referring to Chet Morton,
32
their chubby best friend in Bayport, who had often accompanied them on assignments. Chet liked to eat more than work, but he could always be relied upon when things got tough.
"He could come out on the first flight in the morning," Joe agreed. "He'd be perfect for the fat role. But he'll ..."
The young detective was distracted by a man who seemed to be watching them from one of the hotel's second-floor windows. But before Joe could get a good look at him, the lights went out.
"Did you see the guy upstairs?" Joe asked, turning to his brother.
"Who?" Frank looked puzzled.
"There was a man in the window," Joe replied. "He seemed to be watching us."
"I don't see anyone now." Frank shrugged and started to climb into Tim's car.
Suddenly, the front door of the hotel opened and a man dashed out. "Wait a second!" he called and ran down the steps toward them.
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Chapter 4 
The Feud
The man stopped in front of the car. "I'm Dutton Foster, the director of the movie," he said. "I overheard you talking to our makeup man and suddenly realized that we may be able to use you after all."
"Oh, great!" Frank said, closely studying the gangly man with bright green eyes and a bushy beard, who seemed about his father's age. He was dressed only in a white cotton shirt and pants and was beginning to shiver from the cold air.
"You mean, you have acting parts for us after all?" Joe asked eagerly.
"No," the bearded man said and shook his
34
head. "I don't need you to act, but if you want to make some money, I could use you to help move scenery around. We're a bit short of manpower up here."
The boys pretended to be dismayed that they would not be able to act, but inwardly they were more than happy with the offer.
"Does it pay well?" Frank queried, not wanting to appear overeager.
"We pay union rates," the man replied. "Are you interested?"
Frank looked at Joe. "Sure, why not," the younger Hardy said and nodded.
"Give me your names and phone number. I'll call you in a couple of days," the director said.
Tim handed Frank a piece of paper from the glove compartment, and Frank wrote: Frank and Joe Russell, % Mr. Adams, 377-1778. Then he handed the note to Dutton Foster, who took it and hurried back into the hotel.
"Was he the man you saw in the window?" Frank asked Joe.
"No. I didn't get a good look at that guy, but he had no beard."
"I wonder if the director's coming outside had something to do with the man in the window," Frank mused.
Joe shrugged. "Let's hope we're hired so we
35
can get into the place. For all we know, Richard Chase may be tied up in there somewhere."
On the drive back, the Hardys told Tim about their encounter with Bruce, then asked him if they could call their friend Chet from the chalet.
"Sure, be my guest," Tim replied and, once they had arrived, showed them to the phone.
Chet was enthusiastic. "You mean I can be in the movies?" he boomed. "That's the best offer you've made me in a long time!"
"You'd have to be here as soon as possible," Frank told him. "See if you can book a flight to Reno in the morning, then call us back. Reno isn't far from here and we can pick you up."
After he hung up, he looked for their host. "Where's Tim?" he asked Joe.
"He said he had to go on an errand," Joe replied. "But I bet he wants to meet his friends to find a way to get back at the townies."
A few minutes later, Tim's father arrived. Like his son, he was tall and blond. "You must be Frank and Joe Hardy," he said, shaking the boys' hands. Then he sat down on a couch near the fireplace, a worried expression on his face. "Did Tim tell you where he was going?"
"No," Joe said, and filled Mr. Adams in on the iceball fight and their suspicion that Tim and
36
his friends were planning to retaliate.
"I was afraid something like this might happen," Mr. Adams said, bowing his head. "This feud with the Oreville boys is getting out of hand."
"How did it start?" Frank queried.
Tim's father sighed. "It began many years ago, when Oreville was still a mining town. Back then the place was divided into the north and south sides. People who lived on the south side were the miners, and on the north side lived the wealthy mining company owners, among whom was my father."
He stood up and began to pace around the room. "Feelings between the workers and the men who owned and managed the mines were never very friendly," he continued. "But because of certain incidents, including a cave-in when a number of workers were buried alive, the bad feelings erupted into open hostility, with houses burned down and even some gun battles."
"And those feelings still linger on now?" Frank asked, finding it hard to believe that after so many years the bitter mood had not subsided.
Mr. Adams sat down again and shrugged. "The older folks have tried to forget, but the
37
young people still keep the feud alive, as you have seen today with the iceball battle."
"There are no more mines in operation now, are there?" Joe asked.
"No, they were all shut down years ago," the man replied. "The sons of the mine owners, like me, used the land and the money they inherited to build the ski area. This resort is actually located on top of one of the mountains that once was mined."
"Tim calls the boys who attacked him townies," Frank said.
"We used to call them southsiders," Mr. Adams explained. "But they eventually moved all over town, so now they're known as the townies.
"What were the other incidents besides the cave-in that led to bad relations with the miners?" Joe asked.
"I don't really know," Mr. Adams said. "I was very young at the time. But I know the workers were upset with conditions and wages. Now, however, all the townies work for the ski resort and are well paid. Therefore, most of them are content to let bygones be bygones. But some of the kids like to fight, I guess, and they keep the feud alive to give them a reason."
Just then the telephone rang. Mr. Adams
38
picked it up and then handed it to Frank.
"Hi!" came Chet's voice, loud and excited. "I'll arrive in Reno at nine-thirty in the morning. Can you pick me up?"
"We'll be there," Frank assured him.
A few moments later, Tim and his two friends walked in. All three boys were in even worse shape than they had been after the iceball fight.
"But we got 'em!" Tim announced with a smile, rubbing a new bruise he had acquired right next to the old one.
"Looks as if they got you, too," Joe remarked.
Rick glared at the Hardys. "Well, if you two had come along, we might have finished up looking better than we do." His jacket was torn, and a trickle of dried blood blemished the left corner of his mouth.
"Lay off," Tim warned his friend. "These guys will come around. They just need time."
Not wanting to start an argument, the Hardys kept silent. Mr. Adams, however, wasn't about to drop the matter. "If you boys had any sense," he said heatedly to Tim and his friends, "you'd follow Frank and Joe's example. And I don't want to hear any excuses. This feud of yours has gone just about far enough."
Tim looked hurt. "But the townies attacked
39
us with iceballs, Dad! We can't let them get away with that."
Tim's father leveled a finger at his son. "What's done is done," he said evenly. "But if there's any trouble at the competition tomorrow, I'm going to hold you responsible."
"Competition?" Frank asked.
"Didn't I tell you?" the young skier said. "Tomorrow we're having our annual hotdogging competition. All three of us are entering."
Frank and Joe had seen hotdog skiing competitions on television. The contestants performed different feats of daring on skis, such as flips and spins in the air. The sport required both skill and courage. A number of young skiers had come away from such events with serious injuries.
"Was that what you were talking about when you said you would be trying out for a stunt man part in the film?" Joe queried.
Tim smiled. "Yes. The film company will be shooting the event. The movie they're working on has skiing scenes in it. So they posted notices saying that whoever won the competition would be hired as a stunt man."
Paul winked at Frank and Joe. "Tim's the best. He'll win."
40
Tim beamed. "I hope so. At least I hope that one of us wins. If a townie does, I don't know what I'll do."
"The Oreville boys are entering the competition, too?" Frank asked.
"Oh, sure," the young skier answered. "That's what it's all about, us against the townies."
Joe winced. "Aren't you afraid they'll take the opportunity to retaliate?"
"They wouldn't dare," Tim replied, shrugging off the question. "The event would be canceled and they'd probably lose their skiing privileges."
Frank and Joe looked questioningly at Tim's father.
"The hotdogging competition was something I and the other resort owners started a few years back," Mr. Adams explained. "The idea was to give the feuding groups a chance to blow off steam in a healthy, organized way. It's worked well in the past, and the kids love the event. I don't think either group would ruin it by starting a fight."
"And with the chance of getting a part in the movie as a stunt man, all of us will be too busy trying to win," Tim added.
"It seems to me," Frank said seriously, "that in your eagerness to win, you'll be performing
41
more dangerous and daring stunts than ever."
Mr. Adams nodded. "I expect the competition will be fierce tomorrow. But I can't call it off. For one thing, it won't be just the local boys who are competing. Over the years, the contest has grown into a regional event, with skiers coming from all over the West. I can't let them down."
"I can understand that," Joe said.
"What's more," Tim's father went on, "I'm afraid that if we canceled, the feud would get even worse. Aside from the fact that we give the Oreville boys free ski passes, they consider the competition their event. It keeps a lid on the whole thing."
"Don't worry, Dad," Tim said. "The townies don't want to cause trouble any more than we do. And I promise I won't try any stunts I can't handle."
"Good," Mr. Adams said, then went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Frank and Joe sat around the fire listening to Tim and his friends plan their strategy for the competition. Later, the group retired to the chalet's various bedrooms for a well-deserved rest.
In the morning, the Hardys were up and out the door early to pick up Chet at the airport.
"Looks like snow," Joe remarked, glancing at
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an overcast sky as he climbed into the Ford.
"I heard there'd be a storm," his brother said.
They drove through the mountains and arrived at the airport at 9:40. Chet was waiting in the lobby, dressed in a brightly colored shirt and sunglasses.
"You certainly look the part," Frank said and chuckled at Chet's attire. "You're a regular Mr. Movie Star."
Chet raised his eyebrows. "Just because you couldn't get the role, don't get envious," he smirked, and put on the yellow down jacket he was carrying over his arm.
The boys headed straight for Oreville. Light snow was falling by now and the film crew was setting up cameras for the hotdogging competition.
Frank and Joe introduced Chet to the director and left them to speak privately. A few minutes later the chubby boy had a smile on his face that quickly changed into an angry scowl when he rejoined the Hardys.
"Did he give you the part?" Joe asked eagerly.
"He did," Chet fumed. "But you guys didn't tell me I only got it because I was fail"
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Chapter 5 
Downhill Race
Frank and Joe couldn't help but laugh. "It's called typecasting," Frank said. "We were thrilled that they needed someone like you, because to investigate the disappearance of Richard Chase, we've got to have a contact on the inside!"
Chet's anger dissipated as rapidly as it had arisen. "I don't really mind the typecasting," he admitted. "I'm thrilled to have the part. I'm going to start tomorrow."
Since Chet wouldn't be needed until the following day, all three decided to do some skiing. Frank and Joe were both able skiers, but Chet was just a beginner, so he signed up for lessons.
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After renting skis, poles, and boots, the boys headed for the slopes. Chet joined a ski class while Frank and Joe moved toward the main chair lift. The snowstorm was now in full swing, with fine flakes falling all over the mountain.
"Do you think they'll have to cancel the competition because of the weather?" Joe asked as they rode up in one of the chair lifts.
"I doubt it," Frank replied. "Visibility on the lower half of the mountain, where the event will take place, is still good."
When they reached the top, however, they were shrouded in a low cloud. They could no longer see the chair in front of them, and they glided through the dense white mist with only a flurry of snowflakes for company.
"It's so quiet, too," Frank said in a hushed tone, enjoying the eerie ride.
Soon the outline of a small cabin appeared ahead of them.
"That's the end of the lift," Frank said. "Are you ready to get off?"
Joe nodded as he watched the lift attendant through a small window. The man seemed bored with his job.
Suddenly Joe's eyes grew wide. "I--I think that's him!" he said excitedly.
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The boys were now right in front of the hut and Frank nudged his brother. "Get off!" he called out and the two skied down the ramp leading from the lift to the slopes. "Now, what were you talking about up there?" he asked when they came to a stop.
"I think the lift attendant was the man I saw in the hotel window last night!" Joe exclaimed.
"What!"
"Well, because of the dark I didn't get a good look at him until the last minute, so I couldn't alert you. Did you see him at all?"
"No, I paid no attention to him."
"He was in his early sixties, with thinning gray hair, a narrow face, and sharp cheekbones. But what made him stand out were his sleepy-looking eyes. His eyelids seemed only half open," Joe explained.
"And you're sure it was the same guy?" Frank asked.
"Not completely. His face definitely looked like the one I saw in the window, only . . . only the man last night seemed heavier," Joe concluded with some hesitation.
"Let's talk to him anyway," Frank suggested, and the two boys took off their skis and hiked back up the lift ramp.
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The attendant opened the door when he saw them coming. "Something I can do for you?" he asked.
Frank and Joe noticed that he not only had sleepy-looking eyes, but that his teeth were unusually small.
"We went down to the movie site last night to see if we could get acting jobs," Joe began. "I thought I saw you there at one of the upstairs windows. Maybe you have an idea what we can do to work there?"
The attendant shrugged and shook his head, raising his eyelids a fraction. "You made a mistake," he said. "I've been a lift attendant for years and know nothing about the film company. I was home last night. You must've seen someone else."
"I suppose so," Joe said.
"I'm getting cold," the man said and closed the door.
"He really wasn't the same guy," Joe said as they returned to their skis. "He was even skinnier than he appeared through the hut window. It was those eyes that fooled me."
The brothers fastened their bindings, then started off through the falling snow to one of the expert runs. It had been a year since they had
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skied, but soon they were back in the swing of it.
"This is great!" Joe said gleefully as he stopped at the foot of the first steep incline.
Frank, who had taken the slope a bit more cautiously than his brother, slid to a halt next to Joe. "You said it," he beamed.
They heard shouts coming from above, and then several boys appeared at a crest. They were almost flying over the snow, shouting and whooping as they went.
"Those are the townies!" Joe exclaimed, recognizing the youths from the iceball ambush.
"I know," Frank said. "Let's go."
The Hardys pushed off. By the time the Oreville gang caught up with them, they had already picked up a lot of speed. And then, without a word spoken, they all moved down the hill in an impromptu race!
The Hardys kept up with the wild young men's pace, which soon became as fast as the speed of a car! Neither Frank nor Joe wore goggles, and the falling snow stung their eyes, nearly blinding them. Frank finally gave up the race, but Joe stuck it out, whipping down the mountain at fifty miles an hour!
All of a sudden, the edge of his right ski
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caught on a piece of ice. He lost control, but managed to avert a fall. But now he was heading straight for a line of ski-schoolers, Chet among them!
"Watch out!" Joe cried in desperation, but it was too late.
Thwackkkk! He plummeted headlong into the lineup, toppling the novice skiers like dominoes as he went. Luckily, he had been able to slow his pace before the impact, so no one was injured in the collision. But the ski-schoolers were shaken, and slowly got to their feet and brushed the snow from their clothes.
Joe's own fall was spectacular. He tumbled head over heels about fifty feet further down the hill, at last coming to a crashing halt on a level stretch. One of his skis stuck straight up in the snow, the other was half buried in a drift.
The young detective did not move for a few seconds, then he slowly lifted his head to look around.
"Yayyyyy!" a chorus of youthful cheers broke out near him. The townies were applauding him!
"Bravo!" one of the boys shouted. "You were magnificent!"
The group skied up to Joe to help him up. At the same moment, the ski instructor, whose
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class Joe had disrupted, came down the hill and stopped next to him.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I ... I think so," Joe said. "I hope I didn't hurt anyone else."
"You were lucky you didn't," the man replied gruffly. "And if I ever catch you skiing down the slopes again like a madman, I'll have you removed from this mountain!"
"Yes, sir," Jor answered meekly. "I won't do it again."
The instructor moved on. By now his students had caught up with him and skied past, glaring angrily at the blond boy. Chet pretended not to know the maniac who had collided with them.
"Don't pay any attention to those guys," one of the townies said cheerfully. "They don't know how to have fun. I like your guts."
Joe smiled weakly as the speaker and his friends clustered around him and helped him to his feet.
"I'm Bob," the townie introduced himself when Joe had dusted himself off and put his skis back on. "This is Jay, Fred, Willie, Bret, and Ben."
The boys, who were all in their teens, wore thick sweaters and blue jeans. Bob,
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who seemed to be the leader, was a husky six-footer with long, curly hair.
"You put up a good race," he said, laughing. "If it wasn't for your spill, you might have beat me."
"Thanks," Joe said. "But don't ask me to do it again. One fall like that is enough."
"Hey," Jay spoke up. "Didn't we see you in the parking lot yesterday?"
Joe nodded. "You were clobbering those other guys, so we thought we'd even up the sides a little."
"I suggest you don't get mixed up in any more fights like that," Bob warned. "It's none of your business."
Joe shrugged. "My brother and I just felt sorry for those fellows."
"Your brother," Bob said. "Is he the guy who quit the race?"
"Right. Here he comes now."
Frank skied up to the group and stopped. "My eyes were killing me," he said. "How'd you manage, Joe?"
"Not too well. I had a bad spill." Joe introduced Frank to the townies, who looked the dark-haired boy over appreciatively.
"You're a good skier," Bob said. "Kept up with the best of us for quite a while. Hey, why
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don't you two come to the general store about five o'clock? We're going to celebrate our victory after the hotdogging event."
"Sure," Frank said. "See you later."
With that, the townies skied off to get ready for the competition.
"Looks like you made friends with them," Frank said with a grin. "How'd you do it?"
"It wasn't easy," Joe said. "I almost broke my neck!"
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Chapter 6  
The Monster
Toward the foot of the slope, various jumps were set up in front of the lodge, and a crowd was gathering for the competition. Frank and Joe skied to a point just below the jumps, where , most of the spectators were gathered to see the daring stunts close up. The camera crew was ready.
Soon the hotdogging began. The young contestants took turns performing incredible flips and spins as they flew from the ski jumps into the air. Frank and Joe recognized the townies and Tim's friends, all trying to outdo each other in style and degree of difficulty. The judges, who sat in chairs near the jumps, wrote the skiers' scores on cards.
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Chet had been trying to find Frank and Joe, and now met up with them. Tim was preparing a double back flip at this point, and the crowd waited expectantly. He waved to his audience, and shouts of "Go, Jolly Jumper!" could be heard.
Then a hush fell over the spectators. The young skier started down the hill, gathering speed for the daring stunt. Suddenly, as he reached the lip of the jump, a shrill scream broke the silence. It sounded inhuman, like the howl of an animal in horrible pain!
"What's that?" Joe blurted, as he saw a manlike creature, covered with hair, appear behind the spectators at the edge of the slope. It had long, sharp teeth dripping with blood!
Tim, having heard the scream and seen the awful creature, lost all concentration as he flew off the jump. What had been intended as a double back flip turned into a wide tumble through the air. Then he hit the slope head first!
The crowd gasped in terror. Panic broke out at the sight of the fall and the hairy, bloody beast. Screaming, the frightened audience began skiing down the hill to get away from the monster.
Joe and Frank set out toward the hideous creature.
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"You're not going after that thing!" Chet bellowed in disbelief.
"We have it outnumbered two to one!" Joe called back, even though a knot was forming in his stomach. "Go and look after Tim!"
Chet needed no urging. He skied toward the scene of the accident while Frank and Joe moved into the forest in pursuit of the creature. Soon their way was impeded by dense trees and difficult terrain.
"Take off your skis," Frank panted, already bending down and working on his bindings. But by the time the boys had gotten rid of their equipment, the monster was far ahead of them. However, it had left a trail of footprints in the shape of huge gorilla tracks.
"If that's someone in a monster outfit, which it must be," Joe gulped, "he sure did a good job."
"Right," Frank agreed. "And we have to move fast, otherwise the falling snow will obliterate the tracks."
But they could not walk too well in their ski boots, and soon the prints grew less and less visible as the wind blew powdery flakes into the indentations.
The young detectives hardly saw any trail when they reached the far side of the mountain.
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"Maybe we should give up," Joe said, discouraged.
"Just a little further," Frank urged. "Come on, Joe! At least we'll get some idea of the direction the thing is going in."
The prints were almost invisible when the brothers saw them lead into a hole at the side of a cliff.
"This must be the entrance to a cave!" Frank said excitedly. "Look, it's been boarded up, but some of the boards have been torn away!"
"I bet it's an old mine shaft," Joe deduced, remembering what Mr. Adams had told them about Oreville's history as a mining town.
"And whoever was in this outfit knew about it," Frank went on.
The young detectives went inside. But without flashlights, they could not see further than a few feet.
"I think we've reached the end of the trail," Frank whispered as he stared into the darkness of the mine. "Let's hide outside and see if the monster comes out again."
But even though the boys waited until they were shivering from the cold, there was no further sign of the creature.
"I bet there's another exit," Frank said.
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Joe nodded. "We'd better head back before we freeze to death."
Their laborious retreat to the slopes warmed the young detectives up again. When they arrived, the competition was still going on and things seemed to be back to normal. Yet, many of the spectators had left.
"Hey, Frank, Joe!" a voice called out. The boys looked up and saw Tim's friend Paul skiing over to meet them. "Did you catch that thing?"
Frank shook his head. "No. We followed its tracks around the mountain, where they disappeared into an old mine shaft. But we couldn't go any further without a light. How's Tim?"
"They took him to the hospital," Paul said gloomily. "He was unconscious and they carried him off on a stretcher. But I called the hospital and the doctor said it wasn't too serious."
"Let's go to the hospital," Frank suggested.
"Okay," Joe said.
"I've talked to the movie director," Paul said when the boys were taking off their skis at the bottom of the mountain. "Someone stole that monster getup--it was to be used in the film. I think it was one of the townies!" he added grimly.
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"Why do you think that?" Frank asked.
"Because they wanted to ruin Tim's jump. It's obvious, isn't it? They also know that old mine inside and out. It's one of their favorite haunts. It makes sense that whoever played monster would go there to avoid being caught!"
"Are you sure that the costume was stolen?" Frank asked.
"Well, no," the young skier replied. "But I don't see why the movie company would want to hurt Tim. They were going to hire him if he won the contest. It had to be the townies."
"Let's talk to the director before we drive to the hospital," Frank said.
"I have an errand to run," Paul announced. "See you later."
Before he left, Joe asked him one more question. "Who is that chair lift attendant at the top of the main lift?"
"That's Ray Hodges," Paul replied. "He's been working here ever since the place opened. Lived his whole life in Oreville."
"So he was around when Oreville was still a mining town?"
"Yes, why?"
"Just curious. He's a strange-looking man," Joe commented.
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"I thought you realized he wasn't the man you saw in the window yesterday," Frank said to his brother after Paul had parted from them.
"I know," Joe replied. "But he had the same funny eyes, so I was curious."
The film crew was still set up at the bottom of the slope, and the bearded director was there along with the cameraman, the sound man, and several technicians.
When Mr. Foster saw them, he waved, recognizing them from the night before. "I was going to call you boys," he said. "We'll be needing you at the hotel tonight to rearrange some sets."
"Good. We'll be there," Frank promised. "But now we'd like to talk to you about something else. That boy who was hurt in the competition is a friend of ours. And we've been told that the monster that caused the accident wore one of your costumes."
The director nodded. "I'm sorry about what happened. I called the hotel right after the fall because I recognized the costume. One of my men told me that some kid had broken into the back door and stolen the outfit."
"Did you get the incident on film?" Frank inquired.
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"My cameraman thinks he caught it, monster and all," the director answered, breaking into a big grin.
"Do you mind if we take a look at it?" Joe pressed.
"Sure you can see it. We'll be sending the film to our lab in San Francisco for developing. But we should have it back by tomorrow night."
The bearded director's grin widened even more. "I'm thinking about using the scene in the movie. It was very dramatic. If we do use it, I'd like your friend to act in a number of fill-in scenes."
"We'll tell him," Frank said. "It'll make him feel better."
"We're on our way to the hospital now," Joe added. "Would you mind if we stopped by the hotel and took a look at the wardrobe department? Maybe one of the people there can give us a clue as to who was responsible." He was also hoping that they might find a clue to Richard Chase, but he did not mention that.
The director shrugged. "Why don't you wait till tonight, when you'll be there anyway?"
Joe had wanted to look around while the film crew wasn't there, but he agreed.
Just then, Tim's friends Paul and Rick skied up.
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"We're on our way to have it out with the townies," Rick announced. "Are you two with us or not?"
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Chapter 7  
The Strange Hotel
Frank and Joe looked at the angry boys. They could see Tim's friends were ready for action and would be difficult to restrain.
"We're going to see Tim at the hospital," Joe said. "Why don't you guys come along?"
"He's okay," Rick said. "I talked to him on the phone. He has a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. But he could've been killed in that fall! We'll visit him later. First we'll take care of the townies."
"So," Paul challenged. "Are you with us or not?"
"We told you before," Frank snapped. "We
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won't get involved in this feud as your bullies. We don't even know whether the townies were responsible for the accident."
"What are you talking about?" Paul cried. "You told me yourself that you followed the monster to the mine shaft, and we all know the townies have played there since they were kids!"
Frank glanced at the film director, who was following the conversation with great interest. "Let's talk this over in the parking lot," he said quietly to his friends.
Once the boys were standing at the Hardys' car, Frank continued. "Look, something about this whole setup bothers me. If the townies wanted to remove Tim from the competition, they could have done it in a much more subtle way, without drawing such obvious suspicion to themselves."
"But who else would have had a motive?" Rick demanded.
"I don't know," Frank said. "But we're going to find out!"
"Well," Paul acceded, "you two are supposed to be such hotshot detectives. We'll give you a chance to prove the townies are innocent before we cream them."
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"Thanks," Frank said with relief. "Now let's all go to the hospital. I'm sure Tim would like company."
The boys piled into the Ford and reached the medical center before visiting hours were over.
Tim Adams was in good spirits and happy to see his friends. He was especially pleased to learn that the film director was thinking of using him in the horror movie after all. He had suffered only a mild concussion, and his left leg was bandaged.
"They tell me I'll be out of here tomorrow," he said. "Then I have to take it easy for a few days until my headache goes away."
Just then Mr. Adams and Chet walked in, and, after greetings all around, settled themselves into two folding chairs.
"I don't know why the Oreville boys would do such a thing," Tim's father said sadly. "Now I'll have to call off the competition altogether for the next year, as well as revoke their skiing passes. The only reason we didn't stop the contest today was because we were afraid it would erupt into a full-scale battle if we did."
"Don't be too hasty," Frank advised. "Someone else might have staged this whole thing, perhaps even the film company. The director was very eager to use the scene in his movie."
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"I can't believe that," Tim said. "You just told me they're planning to give me a part. And the director sounds like a very nice person to me.
"You never know," Frank stated. Then the Hardys said good-bye to Tim and the others and drove to Oreville to meet the townies at the general store.
It was quite large, with a soda counter and a game room in back, where the townies were already gathered.
But there was no celebration. The boys stood around gloomily with other friends. There were a few girls among the crowd, one of whom, named Lise, was particularly attractive.
"What's the matter, didn't you win anything?" Joe asked.
"Actually, I did end up winning the contest," Bob said.
"So why the sour faces? This'll get you a part in the movie!"
Bob shook his head. "If I get it, I'll let that guy who took the spill, Tim Adams, have it."
Frank and Joe looked surprised.
"That's very nice of you," Frank said. "But it wasn't your fault that Tim Adams fell."
"No, it wasn't," Bob agreed. "But he's the son of one of the resort owners. He's also one of the
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guys we're feuding against. Now they all think we did that monster prank to get the movie part. We'll have our ski passes canceled and they'll probably stop the hotdogging competition forever."
"Maybe by letting Tim have the movie part," Ben put in, "we can convince people we had nothing to do with the accident."
Frank nodded. "Yes, it's a good idea to make the offer, even though the director is already planning to use Tim in the movie."
"How do you know none of your friends were involved in the monster affair?" Joe questioned.
"None of us would've pulled a stunt like that!" Bob declared with conviction. "It's just that after years of fighting and the snowball attack the other day nobody will believe us."
"We followed that phony creature around the mountain to an old mine shaft," Joe went on. "And we heard that you guys used to hang out in those mines."
"Now you're suspicious of us, too, aren't you?" Willie cried out angrily. "I tell you, somebody wanted to frame us, that's what it was. Adams and his friends set it all up so we would lose our ski passes!"
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"Don't be silly," Frank said. "He wouldn't risk his life for something like that."
Willie's anger subsided. "I guess you're right."
"But," Frank went on, "I do believe someone was trying to frame you. But it wasn't the guys you're fighting with. It must be someone else!"
Joe nodded. "Why don't you help us find out who did it?"
The Oreville boys eagerly volunteered. "But how are we going to do that?" Jay asked.
"We'll meet here tomorrow," Frank decided. "Meanwhile, try to think who could have a motive for either injuring Tim Adams or hurting you because of it. Also, I'd advise you to lie low in case his friends are planning to retaliate."
The townies agreed; then the Hardys left the general store and drove to the Mountain Hotel.
Frank knocked on the door, half expecting to be met with another of the makeup artist's gruesome scenes. But this time, it was opened quickly by the bearded director, who let the boys in. "The set designer will be down shortly and tell you what to do. We'll need you to help with a set in the cellar."
With that, Foster left them standing in the hall and went through an archway into the hotel
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lobby. Several people were sitting there in armchairs, going over the film script and discussing the next day's shooting schedule. Frank and Joe studied their faces. They seemed to be a mixture of actors and crew. The man whom Joe had seen in the second floor window was not among them.
Then the boys' gaze wandered around the interior of the hotel. It was ornately decorated, with moose heads and a grizzly bear head hanging from the walls. Thickly stuffed chairs, elaborately designed old rugs, and a collection of old vases and figurines on shelves gave the place a turn-of-the-century look.
"You must be the two boys who came to help -with the set," said a man who descended the stairs into the hall. He was even heavier than Chet.
"Yes," Frank said. "We're Frank and Joe Russell."
"My name's Ernest DeZao," the set designer said. "Follow me."
As he led the young detectives down a flight of stairs into the basement, Joe said. "What's this movie all about?"
"Just another scary film for the kids," the fat man answered. "It's the story of a scientist who comes to stay at this remote hotel to finish
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an experiment. It gets out of control, and the scientist slowly turns into a bloodthirsty monster which then starts killing the hotel guests."
"We saw the crew at the ski lodge today, Frank went on. "What did that have to do with the film?"
"Well," Ernest replied, "the monster is finally trapped in the basement, but it escapes out the window. In the original script, it was tracked down in the woods. But since Richard Chase, the main star, was abducted the other day, Dutton has been making some changes to include the skiing competition."
"Was the stolen outfit the costume for the film's monster?" Joe asked.
"Yes, it was," Ernest confirmed. "But we keep extra costumes handy, so we won't miss production tomorrow."
They had arrived in the basement and Ernest pointed. "This is supposed to be a storage room for the hotel," he said. "I need you to pile a bunch of furniture into the room. You'll have to get it from upstairs."
For the following hour, Frank and Joe gathered couches, chairs, and tables from all over the hotel and took them to the cellar. They also used the opportunity to search for the missing actor, but there was no sign of him.
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They were carrying a couch along the second-floor hallway, when Frank said, "Shh! Listen."
The boys set the couch down as they heard the director's voice from behind one of the closed doors. It sounded as though he was talking to somebody on the telephone.
"We'll have a truck deliver the film by ten in the morning," Dutton said. "Can you have the rushes developed by tomorrow afternoon? Okay--hold on a second."
Hearing footsteps coming toward the door, Frank and Joe quickly picked up the couch.
The door flew open and Dutton Foster confronted them. "What are you kids doing here?" he demanded.
"We're getting furniture to put in the basement," Frank said, acting surprised at the question. "The set designer told us--"
"All right, all right," the director said irritably. "Then get on with it."
He watched the boys carry the couch to the stairs before returning to the room.
"He seemed pretty touchy," Joe whispered.
Frank nodded. "As if he were afraid to be overheard."
Having caught only a snatch of the director's conversation, the Hardys didn't know what to
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make of it. They deduced, however, that he had been talking about taking the rushes, meaning the film that was shot that day, to the lab in San Francisco for developing.
"I wonder why they need a truck," Joe said, still in a low tone. "A car would be cheaper and faster."
"Maybe they're planning to transport other things," Frank suggested.
"Hey, boys!" a voice called out suddenly. "When you're finished with that load, come to the top floor."
Frank and Joe glanced up a flight of stairs to see Bruce, the makeup artist.
"I want you to carry something down for me," Bruce explained.
"Okay," Frank said.
Once they deposited the couch in the cellar, they climbed to the attic. A wooden door was at the end of a narrow, steep flight of stairs. Frank opened it and went inside, then backed away with a stifled scream.
On the floor lay Bruce in a pool of blood, with a long sword stuck through his neck!
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Chapter 8  
The Accident
After their initial shock, the boys rushed toward the man. Then Joe saw Bruce wink.
"I think we just came across another display of Bruce's sense of humor," the young detective said sourly.
Bruce sat up. "Pretty good, eh?" He laughed as he detached the trick sword.
"You called us here for that?" Frank sounded angry,
"No," Bruce said. "I'd like you to take this bureau out of here and put it in the basement."
The bureau was as tall as the boys and weighed over a hundred pounds. Frank and Joe hoisted it up carefully and carried it down the steep stairs.
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"I wish they'd put an elevator in this place!" Joe groaned as they maneuvered the heavy object to the top of the fourth-floor stairway.
"I suppose the producer wanted it to be authentic," Frank said. "Remember, Tim told us he owns the place."
The boys started down the stairs with Joe in the lead. But they hadn't descended more than a few steps when he suddenly lost his footing!
"Aaaaeeee!" the blond detective cried out as he fell backward. He let go of the bureau and tumbled headlong down the stairs.
Frank tried for a moment to hold on to the heavy piece of furniture so it would not crash down on his brother. But he lost his grip and the bureau rolled toward Joe, who lay at the bottom, dazed from his fall!
Just in time, though, he looked up and rolled out of its path.
Frank flew down the stairs. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I... I think so," came the hesitating answer. "But the bureau got wrecked." Joe pointed to scattered pieces of wood around him.
"I'm sure glad you got out of the way of that thing," Frank said. "Did you trip on the stairs?"
Joe knitted his brow. "I was very careful," he said. "I believe my foot caught on something."
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Both boys looked up the stairs to see if there was anything that could have caused Joe to trip. All they saw, however, was the makeup artist, who stood at the top of the landing and looked down.
"Is anybody hurt?" he asked worriedly.
"Not really," Joe said. "But I'm sure I'll have a few bruises."
Bruce laughed in relief. "And I figured I was the only guy around here who made scary scenes!"
Frank looked at him suspiciously, but kept his thoughts to himself. "Sorry about the bureau," he apologized.
"Don't worry about it," Bruce advised. "But I think you should be a bit more careful from now on. Strange things happen around here to people who aren't careful!"
His last words had a hint of threat in them. Both boys wondered if his talents included causing accidents--such as stringing a wire across the stairway when nobody was looking!
By now several members of the film crew had rushed to the scene from below. Among them was the director.
"I think you two have done enough damage for today," he grumbled. "Why don't you go home. I'll have your paychecks sent to you."
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The boys nodded meekly and went to wash up. Afterward they checked the stairs for hidden wires but found none. If the makeup artist had caused the accident, he had removed the evidence!
Next, the Hardys looked for Bruce. "I hear your monster costume was stolen from the hotel today," Frank said. "It caused our friend Tim Adams to fall. What do you know about it?"
"Nothing," Bruce replied. "When I came back to the hotel after lunch, the back door was open and the outfit was missing. Some fake blood had been stolen, too."
"Had the door been unlocked?" Joe asked.
"No. The latch was broken on the outside. Here, I'll show you." Bruce led the young detectives to the rear entrance. "I guess some kid broke in," he declared.
"Why a kid?" Joe inquired.
"I heard there was a feud going on between two teenage gangs in the area. Maybe it had something to do with that."
"I didn't see you at the slopes today," Frank said casually. "Weren't you needed?"
"Well ... I was back and forth," Bruce answered uneasily. Then his expression turned sharp. "What are you guys getting at?"
"Oh, nothing," Frank said. "We just didn't
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like our friend getting hurt because of that stupid prank and we're trying to find out who was behind it. I thought maybe you saw somebody suspicious around, that's all."
"I suggest you talk to those kids!" the makeup artist shouted. "They might have an answer for you." With that, he stormed away, and the boys left the hotel.
"Let's take a look at the trucks," Frank suggested as he closed the door behind them.
Joe nodded, and the Hardys circled around the hotel. Two equipment trucks were parked in the back. Joe tried opening the rear doors, but they were locked. The boys jotted down the license numbers, then returned to the Adams chalet.
They found Tim's father and Chet sitting in front of a crackling fire. Frank told them what had happened and concluded with the announcement that they would drive to San Francisco the next day.
"The film director was very secretive," Joe added. "We think they're up to something."
"What am I supposed to do all by myself?" Chet demanded.
"Just go to the hotel as planned," Frank advised. "And keep your eyes and ears open."
Then the Hardys called their father in San
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Francisco. "I'm glad to hear from you," Mr. Hardy said. "I want you to check something for me.
"Sure, Dad," Frank said. "What is it?"
"In a side compartment of Richard Chase's suitcase I found a piece of paper with my name on it," the detective replied. "The stationery is very old, almost brown with age, and the letterhead says Grizzly Bear Lodge. Above the name is a drawing of some mountains and pine trees. Chase must've picked it up when he was near Lake Tahoe, and I want you to look into it."
"Can we do that later?" Frank asked and told his father that they wanted to follow the truck.
"Okay," Fenton Hardy said. "Also, tell Chet to be on the lookout for the stationery. It could be an important clue."
"Do you know the name of the lab the film company is using, Dad?" Frank asked.
"Yes. Werner Laboratories on Spring Street," Mr. Hardy said.
After Frank hung up, he asked Mr. Adams if he had ever heard of Grizzly Bear Lodge.
"No," Tim's father said. "Is it supposed to be around here?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to check the phone book," Frank said.
To the boys' disappointment, there was no listing
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under that name. "We'll have to look into it when we get back," Joe declared. "Now we'd better get some rest. We have to get up early."
Assuming that the truck would not go straight to the lab, the Hardys felt it would be leaving early. In order not to miss it, they stationed themselves in front of the hotel very early the next morning when it was still dark outside and waited. There wasn't a single light on in the hotel, and no sign of life.
"Maybe we should look around back to see if both trucks are still there," Joe suggested, and volunteered to go. After a few minutes, he returned, dismayed.
"One of the trucks is gone!" he said. "We missed it!"
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Chapter 9  
Mysterious Cargo
Frank bit his lip. "That's too bad," he said. "But let's go anyway. We know the address of the lab. Maybe we can catch up with the truck there."
The boys stopped for breakfast on the way and arrived at the lab shortly before ten. They did not have long to wait before the truck pulled up in front of the building.
"Should we talk to the guy?" Joe asked and pointed to the driver, who was climbing out of the cab carrying large cans of film.
"No, let's hold off," Frank suggested.
The driver went inside and returned a few minutes later after having dropped off the un
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developed film. He got back into his truck and drove off. Frank and Joe followed at a safe distance. Soon the truck entered a warehouse district and stopped in front of the loading dock of a large building. Two men came out and helped the driver unload several crates.
Frank and Joe were watching from a distance. "Those boxes are very heavy," Frank pointed out, noticing that the muscular men were straining under the weight. "Maybe that's why the truck left the hotel in the middle of the night, to pick up those crates."
"Let's see if we can get a closer look," Joe suggested, and the two left their car and cautiously approached the warehouse on foot. By circling around the place, they found a good vantage point at the far corner of the building, where they could conceal themselves.
Suddenly, Frank felt a sharp steel point against his back!
"Aspiring actors, huh?" a harsh male voice growled.
Frank looked over his shoulder to see the two men who had threatened them in the car during their night in Hollywood! Both men wore sunglasses and carried the long knives they'd had with them before.
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"I knew you guys were up to no good," one of the thugs said. "I warned you two once before, but I suppose you didn't take me seriously. In any case, you're not getting away this time!"
"What do you want?" Joe demanded.
"Get in the car!" The thug pointed to the familiar green sedan.
He followed the boys, his weapon poised, while his crony ran to the warehouse, apparently planning to notify the truck driver.
Frank slid into the back seat of the sedan.
Joe climbed in next, and the thug started to move in beside him. Just then, Joe made a half turn and grabbed their attacker's wrist that held the knife. In the same motion, he yanked the man's arm into the car and slammed the door shut on it!
"Yowwww!" the thug screamed as the heavy car door caught him painfully above the elbow. He lost his grip on the knife and dropped it inside the car when he withdrew his injured arm. Joe closed the door.
Before the other man could rush back to the scene, Frank dove into the front seat and locked both doors. Then he looked at the ignition.
"I'm glad they left the keys in the car," he murmured as he started the engine. The two
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men, meanwhile, were looking for objects to break the windows.
"Hurry up!" Joe urged, seeing one of their attackers picking up a steel pipe.
The car jerked forward, and within a few seconds the boys were driving down the street. They pulled up behind their Ford, changed cars, and tossed the green sedan's ignition keys into a sewer drain.
"That'll keep those guys from following us until we can get away!" Frank said gleefully.
Joe threw the knife after the keys. "Right," he said. "Now let's get out of here."
Once they were in the downtown area, they called Mr. Hardy and arranged to meet him in a health food restaurant. Soon, all three detectives were together again and comparing notes on the case.
After hearing the boys' story, Fenton Hardy drummed his fingers on the table. "It's beginning to make some sense," he said. "I've checked into Rider and his company's finances, and there's an element of shadiness about his accounting practices. Furthermore, one of the horror movie's financial backers is a group of investors who have put money in other projects of questionable nature. What you saw at the
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warehouse today may tie in with that. I'll notify the police and see that they have the place watched."
"Good idea," Frank agreed.
"Now look what I've got for you here," Mr. Hardy said as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to his sons.
"That's the stationery you mentioned over the phone," Joe said. "From the Grizzly Bear Lodge."
"Right," Mr. Hardy replied. "Chet called me from the Mountain Hotel about an hour ago. While they were setting up today's scenes, he found a whole pad of the stationery on a desk. When he asked what it was for, he was told it was a prop for the movie."
"You mean Grizzly Bear Lodge is the fictitious name given to Mountain Hotel for the film?" Joe asked.
Mr. Hardy nodded. "Yes. And in that case, you'd think the stationery would have been printed recently."
"But it looks so old!" Frank objected.
"That's the mystery," Mr. Hardy agreed. "I think Richard Chase brought a sheet back home with him to show it to me. It must be an important
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clue. But what does it mean?"
"Maybe there really is a Grizzly Bear Lodge somewhere," Joe suggested. "And maybe Chase is there."
Mr. Hardy shook his head. "I've checked this whole area, and there is no such place."
"Suppose there was one, but it's no longer in existence," Frank ventured.
"That's my theory, too," Mr. Hardy agreed. "This could be leftover writing paper from an old hotel by this name."
"But why would they use it in the film?" Joe asked.
Mr. Hardy shrugged. "I don't know. The scriptwriter lives here in town, and it might be well worthwhile to pay him a visit!"
"Let's go right after lunch," Frank said.
Soon they were driving along a crowded highway toward a fashionable residential suburb near the beach, and finally stopped in front of a modern high-rise apartment building.
"You boys might as well wait for me here," Mr. Hardy said. "No need for all three of us to go up."
The young detectives agreed, and their father went inside. He returned in less than five minutes.
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"What happened, Dad?" Joe asked. "Was the scriptwriter out?"
"No," Mr. Hardy said as he climbed into the car. "I talked to him."
"Well, what did he say?" Frank said eagerly.
"He told me that the script was altered considerably after he handed it in. He never used the name Grizzly Bear Lodge!"
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Chapter 10 
A Planned Crash
Frank and Joe looked disappointed.
"Did he know about a hotel called Grizzly Bear Lodge?" Frank asked.
The detective shook his head. "Never heard the name in his life."
Joe sighed. "So where do we go from here?"
"I suggest you drop me off and head back to Oreville," Mr. Hardy told the boys. "The answer to our puzzle may well lie at the filming location. But be careful. The film company knows by now your real motives for being there."
"Okay, Dad," Frank said. "But I do want to stop off at the film lab. Those rushes are probably
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developed by now, and the truck may pick them up."
The young sleuths dropped their father off at the Rex Hotel, then went to Werner Laboratories.
The man behind the counter shook his head when they asked about the rushes. "No, they're still here. We just finished developing them a little while ago. Are you involved with the movie?"
"A friend of ours is acting in it," Frank answered. "We were hoping to have a look at them to see how they came out."
"Well, the producer is in the screening room reviewing the film right now," the man said. "Why don't you join him? I'll show you the way."
This was more than the boys had hoped for! They could meet the producer, Ian Rider, and also see the results of the ski scene. Eagerly they followed the clerk down a hallway into a room.
It was dark except for the flicker of the film. On a large screen, they saw one of the boys go down the ramp, make a full twist, then land successfully at the base of the jump.
"Who are you?" a gruff voice demanded from a chair some distance away from them.
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"We've been helping with the production," Joe answered, barely able to make out the man's features. "We were in town and stopped by to ask if the rushes were ready. We'd really like to see how they came out."
"I don't remember hiring you boys," the man said suspiciously.
"Mr. Foster hired us on location in Oreville," Joe explained.
"Okay then. Sit down," Mr. Rider said tersely, then turned to watch the movie again.
The Hardys took seats in back of the screening room and watched the various competitors as they performed their hotdogging stunts. All shots were framed similarly to show the jump as the skiers flew into the air.
Then, for some reason, the camera angle pulled wider and shifted to the left, focusing on the edge of the woods. Then Tim appeared on the right, flying down the jump.
Suddenly, at the left side of the picture, the hairy monster came running out of the woods, and emitted its howl, confusing the crowd and foiling Tim's jump!
Frank and Joe winced as they watched their friend tumble and land on his head in the snow. As people panicked, the monster disappeared
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into the woods again and the rushes were finished.
"Re-run that last scene," the producer said over a phone to the projectionist.
The screen went dark for a moment as the film was rewound. Then the monster scene was repeated.
Frank leaned over and whispered in his brother's ear. "Did you see the way they shifted the camera before Tim's fall?"
Joe nodded. "As if they knew exactly what would happen!"
"Right. That monster stunt was deliberately staged for the movie!"
Suddenly, the lights came on. Ian Rider stood up and prepared to leave. He was fairly short, a little overweight, and had a receding hairline. But what distinguished him was a pair of sleepy-looking eyes, just like the eyes of the chair lift operator!
He glanced briefly at Frank and Joe, then left the screening room without a word.
"That's the man in the window!" Joe said, excitedly gripping his older brother's arm.
"You said the same thing about Ray Hodges," Frank reminded him. "Are you sure this time?"
"Positive. And you know what? I bet those
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two are related. Rider is heavier than Hodges, but their faces are similar, and those eyes are identical. Anyway, I want to talk to Rider."
Uncertain about his brother's decision to confront the producer, Frank nevertheless followed Joe down the corridor in pursuit of the man. They caught up with him outside as he was about to get into his car.
"Hi!" Joe said with a friendly smile, trying to appear casual. "We just wanted to thank you for letting us sit in on the screening."
"No problem," the man said with a thin smile and began to close the door.
"That's a pretty nice place you have up near Oreville," Joe stalled, referring to the Mountain Hotel.
"I'm glad you like it," Rider commented, his growing irritation showing.
Joe leaned against the car door in such a way that the producer couldn't close it without being rude. "Do you come from around here?" he asked.
"No!" Rider snapped. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll--"
"Do you have any relatives who live in Oreville, like a cousin?" Joe persisted.
"No, I don't! Now I really must be going."
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With that, Rider pushed Joe from the door and closed it. Then he drove off.
"I'm not sure that was such a great idea," Frank said as he watched the producer disappear in traffic.
Joe shrugged. "Our covers are blown anyway," he said. "And we did find out one thing. Rider's lying."
"You can't be sure of that," Frank cautioned.
"Do you have any doubts?"
Frank shrugged. "He certainly has the same eyes and the same small teeth that Hodges has," he said thoughtfully.
"Right. Now, shall we wait for the truck or go back?"
"I suggest we return to Oreville. As Dad said, the answer to the mystery probably lies at the movie site."
It was quite late when the boys passed through the village on their way to the Adams chalet. A cold wind was blowing, and snowdrifts were beginning to pile up along the sides of the buildings. The general store was dark.
They had just about passed the townies' meeting place, when Frank said, "Wait a minute. Let's go back there. I think I saw something."
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"What?" Joe asked and put the car in reverse.
"I don't really know. A flicker, maybe a flashlight," Frank said. "It was very faint."
The boys parked the car and climbed out. They walked to the window and peered into the dark store. Indeed, a faint shimmer of light came from inside.
"Do you think someone's in there?" Joe whispered.
Frank shrugged. "It could be a night light," he deduced. "Only ... it seemed to move before."
As quietly as possible, Joe tried to open the door, but it was locked. Not a sound came from inside.
After the boys had stood there for a few minutes, Joe began to shiver with the cold. "It's nothing," he said. "Let's go."
He was about to turn around when Frank grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute," the older Hardy whispered. "I smell something." He leaned down and sniffed the air at the bottom of the door. "Joe! It's gas!"
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Chapter 11  
Sabotage Attempt
Joe crouched down next to his brother. Indeed, a faintly acrid odor filled his nostrils. "You're right!" he exclaimed. "It's gas. The store must be full of it! Somebody left the stove on!"
"We have to get in and turn it off," Frank said. "All it would need is one lit match to blow the place sky high!"
"But we can't just break in!" Joe objected.
"There's no time for anything else," Frank said. "This is an emergency!" He picked up a rock and smashed the window next to the door. Then he reached through the broken pane and unlatched the door from the inside.
The boys took deep breaths to avoid inhaling
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the fumes, and rushed in. "Open all the windows," Frank commanded. "I'll get the stove." With that, he ran to the soda counter in the back of the store.
Sure enough, the gas burners of the stove had all been turned on, allowing the explosive gas to collect in the room.
Frank quickly shut off the burners and was about to run to the door for more air when he noticed that the room was lit with a candle, not a night-light. The candle was perched on top of the refrigerator. With his last breath, he blew out the flame, then dashed for the door.
"Did you turn off the stove?" Joe asked when he joined his brother outside a moment later. He coughed as he spoke, having inhaled some of the gas.
Frank took a large gulp of fresh air before answering. "Yes," he said at last. "And it looks as if it was attempted sabotage. We were lucky to get out of there alive!" He told Joe what he had found.
Joe was silent, shivering over their close call. Both boys knew that the leaking gas was heavier than air, and had sunk to the floor at first. Then, as more of the gas collected, it would have risen until it reached the burning
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candle on the refrigerator. At that point, the store would have exploded.
"Good thing the gas level wasn't up to the candle yet," Joe said. "Otherwise we'd have been blown to bits!"
Frank nodded. "Well, everything's okay now. But we'd better call the police."
"They'll blame it on Tim's friends," Joe cautioned. "They're the ones with a clear motive for wanting to sabotage the townies' hangout."
"Do you think they actually did it?"
Joe shook his head. "I can't believe that! Whoever staged the monster stunt did it!"
Frank nodded. "But we have to notify the authorities," he insisted. "After all, we broke into the place." He called from a pay phone in the store, and then the boys turned on all the lights to look for clues.
"Here's how the saboteur got in," Joe said, finding a side window which had been pried open.
"And here come the police," Frank said.
A patrol car stopped outside and an officer stepped out. He had a youthful, well-scrubbed appearance. "I'm Sergeant Baker," he said, and thanked the boys for their quick action.
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As they had supposed, the young sergeant was well aware of the feud between the Oreville boys and Tim's friends, and he planned to question Tim and his buddies the next morning. After taking down a report on the incident, Baker searched the store himself. But aside from the pried-open window, he found nothing. Taking the candle as evidence, he left.
"Let's talk to Tim," Frank said. "This thing is getting out of hand."
The Hardys drove to the Adams chalet. Mr. Adams opened the door for them, his eyes sleepy. He was dressed in a robe.
"Sorry to wake you up," Frank apologized.
"That's okay," Tim's father yawned. "Come in.
"We'd like to talk to Tim," Joe said.
"He's asleep. Can't you wait till morning?"
"Not really. It's important."
Reluctantly, Mr. Adams showed Frank and Joe to his son's room. The boys turned on the light and shook the sleeping boy, who groggily came to his senses.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Something quite serious," Frank said as he settled himself at the edge of Tim's bed. Then he and Joe told about the sabotage attempt.
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"You realize who's going to be blamed," Joe concluded.
"My friends wouldn't do anything like that!" Tim protested, now wide awake. "That's a serious crime!"
"We think so, too," Frank admitted. "Especially after we saw the rushes of yesterday's filming." He explained what they had noticed, and Tim gritted his teeth.
"It's incredible!" he fumed. "If it really was the movie company who did this just to get a good shot of the accident, why . . . that's attempted murder! I could've broken my neck in that spill!"
"Yes," Frank said. "But so far we're not sure exactly who did it and why. Meanwhile, why don't you guys get together with the townies and put an end to your feud?"
Tim sighed and rolled his eyes. "Listen," he said. "The fighting has been going on for a long time, and I'm not in command of my friends."
"You could try to persuade them," Joe insisted. "At least make a truce until everything is cleared up."
"I'll do my best," Tim promised.
"Good," Frank said. "I have a feeling that something more than your accident and those
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film scenes are involved here, and we have to get to the bottom of this."
Just then Chet entered Tim's bedroom, having been awakened by the noise. "So you guys are back," he said, rubbing his eyes. "What did you find out?"
"Plenty," Joe said and told Chet what had happened.
"Wow!" Chet said when his friend had finished. "That's hard to believe!"
Joe nodded. "What about you?" he asked. "Have you learned anything today?"
"The director had me running around in the woods most of the time," Chet replied. "They were filming a scene of me being chased by the monster. It was exhausting. But I did get a copy of the script. I thought you might like to see it."
Chet went to his room and returned a few moments later with a folder. Although tired, Frank and Joe spent the next hour reading every page. The story did not include Tim's accident, but it was clear that Richard Chase's disappearance required changes in the script.
"Do you have to work tomorrow?" Frank asked Chet when he was finished.
"Yes. The director wants to get some close-up shots in the morning."
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"See if you can find the revised version of this script," Frank said. "It may be important."
"I'll try," Chet promised. Then all the boys went to bed, too tired to discuss the case any more.
The next morning, Frank and Joe drove to Oreville to question people about the name Grizzly Bear Lodge. After talking to various residents without results, they met a man with white hair and steely blue eyes, who was shoveling his driveway. He seemed to have an accurate memory of Oreville's history.
"Sure," he replied to the young detectives' inquiry about Grizzly Bear Lodge. "There was a place by that name around here. But it burned down about fifty years ago. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go inside and get a photograph."
The white-haired man disappeared and returned a few minutes later with an old picture. "I collect stuff on Oreville's past," he explained. "It's a hobby of mine."
Frank's eyes grew wide as he studied the photo. Grizzly Bear Lodge looked exactly like Mountain Hotel!
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Chapter 12 
Ghosts
"Now we're getting somewhere!" Joe exclaimed, looking at the old photo. "You say this place burned down about fifty years ago? There's a hotel just a few miles out of town that looks just like it."
"Oh, you mean Mountain Hotel, where them movie folks are?" the old Oreville resident said. "That place wasn't built no more than ten years back. But you're right, it does look a whole lot like Grizzly Bear Lodge." Scratching his head, he took the photograph from Joe and studied it for a minute. Grizzly Bear Lodge and Mountain Hotel were almost identical, giving the impression that Mountain Hotel had been constructed as a replica of the old place.
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After staring at the photograph another moment, the white-haired man handed it back to the boys. "Well!" he said with some surprise. "I knew the two places were similar, but I didn't realize they were that much alike. What are you kids up to, anyway?"
"We're just curious," Frank said casually. "Do you know why Grizzly Bear Lodge burned down? Was it an accident?"
The man shook his head. "It wasn't no accident. But they never found out who did it. You see, there was fighting going on in Oreville back then."
"Between the northsiders and the southsiders," Joe put in, remembering what Tim's father had told them about the origins of the feud.
"Right." Their host nodded slowly. "I spent a couple of years in the mines myself before they were shut down. So I guess you could call me a southsider. Anyhow," he went on, leaning against the front porch, "after one of the mine shafts caved in one day, things got pretty nasty between the two sides. About a week later, the Grizzly Bear Lodge burned to the ground. It was owned by the northsiders, and everybody was sure that the miners did it. That was the beginning of the feud."
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"Tell us more about that cave-in," Joe asked, his breath visible in the cold air.
The Oreville resident laughed. "Let's go inside first before we freeze to death. I'll make some hot tea and tell you all I know."
Once inside the house, which was a small one-story structure just off Oreville's main street, their host motioned for the boys to sit at the kitchen table.
"I knew a few of the men who were killed in the cave-in," he said. "They were the more outspoken of the workers, trying to rally support for higher pay and better working conditions. That's why, when the shaft caved in, the other miners accused the owners of the company of purposely causing the accident--just to quiet the complainers down, if you know what I mean."
"What made the mine collapse?" Joe asked.
"A dynamite explosion," the old man replied.
Frank stroked his chin. "So the miners, or southsiders, believed that the owners deliberately set up the explosion to silence certain people?" he asked.
"I thought so myself," the old man admitted. "And I still wonder about it. Anyway, that's how the feud began. And that's why Grizzly
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Bear Lodge was burned, along with other buildings."
"Do you know whether the place was looted before it was burned?" Joe queried, wondering if the Grizzly Bear Lodge stationery had been stolen at the time of the arson.
"No idea," the white-haired man replied. "Could've been, I guess."
The brothers thanked the old man for his help and told him they might be back for more information later on.
"Drop by any time." He smiled as he stood up from the table and saw them to the door. "I love to talk about the old days."
Once outside, Frank and Joe headed for the general store, a few blocks down the street. The local police car was parked outside.
"I'm beginning to see what Richard Chase was on to," Joe said excitedly. Then he stopped short and snapped his fingers. "We should go back and ask that old man about the chair lift operator, Ray Hodges. Maybe they know each other."
"You're right," Frank agreed. "But first I want to see what's happening with the townies.
At the general store, the boys found the police sergeant talking to several of the
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Oreville boys, including Bob. The townies believed that Tim's friends were responsible for the attempted sabotage and named Rick and Paul as suspects.
The Hardys felt they could not voice their suspicions at this point, since it would only alert the movie company and foil Chet's chances to gather any proof.
Instead, Frank took Bob aside and out of the sergeant's earshot. "Will you be here in twenty minutes?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good. I'd like you to get as many of your friends together and meet us here once the sergeant is gone."
Bob started to ask a question, but Frank had already turned to Joe and both left the store. They went to the old man's house.
"Back so soon?" he asked, chuckling.
"We have one last question," Joe said. "Do you know a man named Ray Hodges? He operates the main chair lift at the ski slopes."
"Sure I do. Ray has lived here his whole life, just like me. But he's a bit of a hermit. I don't know him well."
"Was he involved in the mining disaster in any way?" Joe went on.
"As a matter of fact," the old man replied,
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"Ray's father was one of the people killed. He was probably the most ornery of all the miners and had made himself a kind of self-proclaimed leader for their cause."
"And does Ray have any brothers or cousins who look like him?" Frank asked.
"It seems he did," the old man said, focusing on the sky as he tried to remember. "He had a brother. Think his name was Larry or something. In fact, I remember that Ray and Larry were among the worst of the feuders back in the early days. They were only youngsters, but they were out there toting guns and marching in the streets just like the men. A couple of mean ones, they were."
"And where is Ray's brother now?" Frank went on.
The man threw up his hands. "I have no idea. Larry disappeared years ago. And Ray, as I said, doesn't socialize much anymore."
"Thanks very much," Frank beamed, shaking the man's hand. "You've been a great help."
Leaving the old miner standing on his front porch with a puzzled expression, the Hardys turned and walked down the steps.
"Wait a minute!" he called after them. "Do you know that movie actor, Richard Chase?"
Frank and Joe stared at him.
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"No. Why do you ask?" Frank said, his face transformed with curiosity.
" 'Cause he visited me about a week ago, and was asking the same sort of questions!"
"He was?" Joe looked baffled.
"Yep. He sure was. And now he's missing. You boys better be careful, whoever you are!" the old man warned.
The Hardys nodded silently and left. On the way to the general store, Frank said, "I bet Richard Chase realized that Larry Hodges is Ian Rider, the movie producer."
"And Rider found out that Chase knew, and it bothered him, so he moved Chase out of the way!" Joe added grimly.
"We'd better call Dad tonight," Frank said. "He can check out Hodges-Rider."
"For some reason," Joe said, "Rider built Mountain Hotel as a reproduction of Grizzly Bear Lodge. And he came across some of the original stationery, which he's now using as a prop in the movie. But I'm sure he's not calling the Horror Hotel Grizzly Bear Lodge just because there was some old stationery around."
"Maybe the Hodges brothers burned down the lodge after stealing the stationery and perhaps other things," Frank ventured. "And now, after making lots of money, Larry built his
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own lodge just like the old one. It's as if he were sticking out his tongue at the wealthy mine owners and saying 'See, now it's mine!'"
"It sounds a little strange," Joe said. "But then, it appears as if the Hodges brothers and their father were all a little strange."
"What I can't figure out," Frank said, "is why Larry named the place Mountain Hotel except in the movie. And why did he change his name to Ian Rider?"
"Beats me," Joe said.
When they arrived at the general store, the police car was gone. Inside, Bob had gathered his friends together, and all were wondering what the Hardys were up to.
"We'd like you to take us to the mine shaft," Frank announced. "You guys know the mines inside out, and we want to do some exploring."
A hush fell over the room at Frank's request. The Oreville boys looked nervously at one another, apparently uneasy over Frank's suggestion.
"You're not setting us up for an ambush, are you?" Bob asked. "We're a little worried at this point about whose side you're on."
"If we were on the other guys' side, and knew they had turned on the gas, would we
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have prevented the explosion?" Frank asked, looking Bob straight in the eye.
"We only want to search for clues," Joe added. "The guy who played the monster disappeared into the mines and we want to check the place out."
But the boys were still apprehensive about going there, and Frank and Joe had the impression that it was not only an ambush they were concerned about. They seemed afraid of something else.
"We haven't been in the mines for years," Jay spoke up. "We really wouldn't be much help."
"That's right, we wouldn't know our way around anymore," Bret added.
Joe looked at the worried faces in the room. "What are you guys scared of?" he challenged the group.
"Ghosts!" a small voice uttered from a corner. "The mines are haunted!"
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Chapter 13 
Trapped!
Frank and Joe turned toward the girl who had spoken. It was Lise, the petite brunette who had been at the store on the Hardys' first visit. "Ghosts?" Joe queried. "What do you mean?" Lise, who had been leaning against one of the video machines in the corner, fidgeted with her hands and looked at her friends. "I never heard it myself," she said. "But some people swear that they've heard the sound of dead miners at work in the shaft!"
"Let me explain," Bob took over. "We all used to play in the mines when we were kids. The headquarters of our club was in one of
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them. Then, about a year ago, a few of us were out there and we heard miners at work. We searched for the source of the sound and traced it to an old shaft which had caved in a long time ago and had buried some of our own grandfathers alive."
"Are you talking about the disaster that happened fifty years ago?" Frank asked. "The one that started the feud?"
Bob looked surprised. "You heard about that?"
Frank nodded. "Does it have something to do with your belief that the mines are haunted?"
"We didn't know what else to believe," Jay said. "Some of our relatives were killed in that cave-in, and when we heard miners from deep within that shaft, we figured it had to be their ghosts."
"Suppose it was real live people doing some mining," Joe suggested, trying to find a logical explanation for the sound.
"It couldn't be," Ben cried out, standing up from his chair and pacing around the room. "The shaft is totally buried, and there's no way to get in. The bodies weren't even recovered at the time!"
"They had to be ghosts!" Lise insisted.
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"They were," Willie added. "I heard it myself, clear as day--the sound of picks and shovels from way inside the shaft!"
Although the sleuths found it hard to believe that there really were ghosts in the mines, they were more impressed by this ghost story than by others they had heard. The sound of miners at work, deep within a long buried shaft, could make anyone wonder. And since the bodies were never recovered, Frank and Joe understood the townies' fear of returning to the scene.
"You only heard the sound once?" Joe inquired.
"We went back a number of times," Ben replied. "Sometimes we heard it; sometimes we didn't."
"We haven't been there in almost a year," Willie admitted. "The place gives us the creeps now."
"Do you think you could come with us one more time?" Frank asked. "I'd like to check this thing out myself."
Not wanting to appear to be cowards, the boys, one by one, reluctantly agreed to accompany the young detectives to the mines.
"All right," Bob said. "But don't expect us to stay if the ghosts are at work again."
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Frank nodded and led the group outside. They climbed into several cars, drove to the ski area, and parked. From there, they began to march through the woods to the far side of the mountain.
When they came to the entrance that was only partially boarded up, Bob and the others switched on the flashlights they had brought and went inside.
"This way," Bob said and turned left into a side shaft. The Hardys were right behind him and followed him through a maze of tunnels before coming to a halt. Bob shone his flashlight on a pile of rubble in front of them.
"This is the buried shaft?" Frank asked, gazing upon a heap of stones and boards that completely blocked the entrance to an adjoining mine.
'This is it," Bob confirmed. He trained his light on the rocks to show that there was no way to go any further.
"Are you sure?" Joe pressed.
"Yes. The explosion that caused the cave-in knocked out about fifty feet of the shaft," Bob replied. "The workers had no chance of getting out." .
"Fifty feet!" Joe exclaimed. "How could you possibly hear ghosts behind fifty feet of rock?"
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"It's very faint," Willie said. "We had to be quiet to hear it. It helps if you put your ear to the wall."
Frank and Joe leaned against the cold rock and pressed their ears against the wall.
Suddenly, Frank gasped. "I hear it!" he cried out.
From deep within the mine came the steady click of metal against stone. The townies quickly drew away. Fear showed in their faces, and for a moment no one spoke.
"Is that what you heard before?" Joe finally spoke up.
The boys nodded. They were clearly anxious to get out of the mine as soon as possible. Frank turned to Bob, who tried to remain calm.
"You say that the workers' bodies were never recovered?"
Bob cleared his throat before answering.
"That's right," he said. "Nobody really seems to know why. All I've heard is that an attempt was made, but they couldn't possibly get in there in time to find anyone alive. And then the feud got so bloody that everyone was too busy fighting."
"So all these people suffocated to death?" Joe asked.
Bob nodded. "I asked my parents many
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times, but they don't want to talk about it. Neither does anyone else."
"Maybe some of the miners could have been rescued if people had tried hard enough," Ben added. "That's why I think their ghosts are haunting us now."
"Let's get out of here!" Willie urged. "And I don't ever want to come back."
Once more Frank and Joe put their ears to the wall. Again they heard the faint sound of a pick deep within the shaft. Both boys shuddered, thinking about the miners who had died underground so many years ago.
Then Joe pulled himself together. "There has to be an explanation for this!" he declared. "And it isn't ghosts. I don't--"
KER-BLAMMMMMM!
Suddenly an explosion ripped through the shaft.
"What was that?" Bob cried, his face ashen.
"I don't know, but I'm getting out of here," Willie gasped and ran away from the rock pile as fast as he could. Panic-stricken, the other boys followed, with Frank and Joe bringing up the rear. They hurried through the maze of shafts until they found themselves choking on the smoke and dust which swirled and spewed out all around them.
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"Someone blew out the entrance!" Bob shouted.
A sinking feeling welled up in Joe's stomach as he stared at what had been the opening of the mine shaft. Now it was just a pile of dust and rocks, and not a single ray of light could be seen!
"We're trapped!" Ben cried amidst the confusion. "What are we going to do?"
Stricken with fear, the townies yelled for help. Frank and Joe began to cough from the swirling dust and pressed handkerchiefs to their mouths. "Just stay quiet!" Frank shouted. But no one paid attention.
"We shouldn't have come back!" one of the boys wailed. "I knew it. Now we're buried alive, too!"
Finally Frank managed to get himself heard. The dust settled down a bit, and the panic subsided. "You know these mines well," Frank said. "Is there another entrance?"
"There is!" Bob shouted, slapping his forehead with his palm. "How could we forget? We used to call it our secret entrance."
A groan went up from the crowd. "Boy, are we stupid!" Ben said. "But I suppose we got so excited and scared that we just didn't think of it."
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"That's understandable," Frank said. "Why did you call it the secret entrance, though?"
"We found it when we were kids," Bob answered with a grin. "It's on the other side of the mines. Come on, let's go there."
Following a complex route, the boys made their way toward the secret mine entrance. On the way, angry talk was already flying back and forth on how to get back at Tim's group, whom everyone believed responsible for the explosion.
Frank and Joe tried to remind the townies that others may have been behind it, but no one listened. The boys were much too excited and angry.
"Here we are," Bob announced as they arrived at a small opening, big enough for only one person at a time.
One by one, they squeezed though, breathing deeply once they were out in the brisk winter air again. It took a while before their eyes adjusted to the bright light that reflected off the snow. The sky was clear and blue, and the midday sun poured through the trees.
"Boy, am I glad to be out of there," Willie said with a sigh, and dusted himself off. "We could have been killed!"
"Well, Lise knew we were going to the
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mines," Joe reminded him. "If we hadn't come back, she would have organized a rescue squad."
Frank was looking over the area around the exit, some of which was protected by a rock outcropping and trees.
"Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Look at this!"
Stooping down, the boys studied what appeared to be footprints. "These are the monster's tracks!" Joe cried out.
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Chapter 14  
The Rescue Tunnel
Just visible in the snow under the overhang were the same gorilla tracks Frank and Joe had followed to the mines after Tim's accident. The prints let out of the secret entrance and down the hill.
"Those were made by that monster?" Bob asked.
"Yes," Frank replied. "Whoever wore that costume not only knew about the mines, but also about your secret entrance."
"Now we know why he didn't come out again," Frank said. "We waited for quite a while at the boarded-up shaft, but he never showed up."
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"Now we're not saying you guys had something to do with it," Joe said. "But it sure looks strange, since supposedly you were the only ones who knew about the secret entrance."
"I told you we didn't steal that costume!" Bob cried defensively. "And we didn't cause Tim Adams's fall. But I can't explain how someone else knew about that entrance. I just don't know."
"Some of the old miners probably knew," Bret put in. "But I'm sure they'd have no reason to play monster."
Bob and Bret seemed sincere, but the Hardys felt that perhaps one of the group was working alone, or had conspired with the film company. They glanced from face to face, studying the various expressions. They also wondered if there might be a third entrance to the mines, one the townies didn't know about: one that might explain the noises deep within the caved-in shaft.
"I want to follow these tracks," Frank decided. "Are any of you interested in coming along?"
Of the eight Oreville boys, three agreed to join the Hardys. Bob was among them. The others wanted to go back to the mine's main
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entrance and look for signs of whoever had caused the explosion.
"Okay," Joe told them. "But be careful. There might be footprints in the snow, so don't walk around and destroy them."
The groups separated, and Frank led the way following the monster prints through the woods.
"The monster must've stayed in the mine a long time," Frank said. "When he finally came out of the secret entrance, it probably had stopped snowing."
The boys moved on, with Frank and Joe now falling behind the others. Frank nudged his brother. "Do you think Tim's friends blew up the mine entrance?" he asked.
"I don't know." Joe shrugged. "But I don't really think so. They didn't know we were out here, for one thing, and for another, I can't believe they'd do something like that."
"I agree," Frank replied. "I have a feeling that both groups are being framed."
"But why?" Joe wondered. "Now that the movie people filmed the accident, what could their motive be for all this other stuff?"
Frank frowned. "It seems that someone wants to escalate this feud, and is really trying
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to get the kids fighting seriously. Not just iceball battles, as before, but battles that can hurt and kill."
Joe slapped his right hand into the palm of his left. "I wish we could stop it before someone gets into real trouble!"
Frank nodded. "The monster guy knew the secret entrance to the mines," he said thoughtfully. "So he could have blown up the front of the shaft, figuring the townies could still escape. But it would have made them believe that Tim's friends had planned to trap them for good, and it would therefore make them more vicious than ever."
"But how did the culprit know the townies were in the mines?" Joe argued.
"Maybe he has a spy in the village," Frank reasoned.
"Hmm." Joe frowned. "This could also have another effect," he said. "Now the townies might believe we led them to the mines on purpose."
"I don't know about that," Frank said doubtfully. "We were trapped along with them!"
The brothers continued on foot through the woods, staying a short distance behind Bob and his friends. The monster tracks headed straight
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down the mountain, until they stopped at the edge of a road.
"Where does this go?" Frank asked as they caught up with the Oreville boys.
"It's just another access road to the ski area," Bob replied. "Looks like our friend the monster was picked up here, whoever he was."
"Let's check up and down the road a little way--maybe he entered the woods on the other side of the road," Frank suggested.
"Good idea," Bob shouted, and the boys split up. But after a few minutes they found nothing and returned to where the trail ended.
Disappointed that the tracks hadn't gone somewhere more exciting, like a cabin in the woods, the group of youths turned around and headed back toward the mines to join up with the others. As they came closer, they heard shouts through the woods.
"Come on!" Bob cried, breaking into a run. "It sounds like a fight.''
When they reached the clearing in front of the now destroyed mine opening, Frank and Joe found the townies in an all-out fistfight with Tim's friends! Bob and his two buddies leaped right into the battle, but the Hardys held back. "Hey, whose side are you on?" Paul shouted
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angrily at the young detectives as he blocked a left jab from Jay. "Get in here and help us!"
"We don't want to fight!" Joe yelled. "And you shouldn't be fighting, either."
"Ah, forget about those two," another of Tim's friends yelled in disgust. "They're chick-en!
Frank and Joe bit their lips, but refused to join in the melee. The battle was intense, with no lack of bloody lips and noses. Several boys wrestled in the snow; others stood and boxed with their fists. With Bob and his two friends now in the fray, the Oreville gang soon had the upper hand, and Tim's group finally had to call it quits.
"Thanks a lot!" Rick spat sarcastically at the Hardys as he and his buddies ran into the woods. "Wait till we tell Tim about this!"
With torn clothing and battered bodies, the defeated crew made a hasty retreat. They cursed the townies as they left, promising to retaliate as soon as they could. The triumphant Oreville boys just laughed and challenged them to try it.
"Well!" Bob smiled at Frank and Joe as he dusted himself off. "I thought for a while that you two had led us here as part of a plan with
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those rich kids. I'm glad to see they're not your friends after all."
"Those rich kids, as you call them, are our friends," Frank said seriously. "But this isn't our fight."
"They were our friends," Joe said glumly. "Now I'm afraid we've made permanent enemies of them."
"I don't know how you can call those guys friends after they just about permanently buried you in the mines!" another boy said hotly.
"We're not at all sure they were responsible for it," Frank countered.
"Come off it!" Bob exclaimed. "How much evidence do you need? The mine was blown up, and then we caught Tim's friends red-handed, right outside the entrance!"
Frank and Joe realized that they would get nowhere in stopping the feud until they could prove who was behind the frame-up and why.
Discouraged, they parted from the Oreville boys and started around the mountain. "This isn't going very well," Joe muttered. "Tim's gang and the townies are both too caught up in their war to listen. On top of that, the movie people are on to us. And we have all these ideas of what may be behind it all, but we're no closer
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to proving it than we ever were. And Richard Chase is still missing."
"Something'll break soon!" Frank grinned assuringly. "I can feel it. We'll talk to Dad tonight. Maybe he's come up with something on that truck and the warehouse."
Joe did not reply. Silently, the brothers trudged back to the ski area, got their Ford from the parking lot, and drove to the Adams chalet.
"I hope we get to Tim before his friends do," Frank muttered as they entered the house.
Tim, who was still in bed, listened quietly to their story. "I'll see what I can do," he said with a frown. "But I doubt my friends will pay much attention at this point."
"I think we should report the explosion to the police," Frank said.
"Oh, that's all we need!" Tim protested. "The sergeant was here this morning and asked me about the sabotage attempt on the townies' headquarters. I told him we had nothing to do with it, but he gave me a stiff warning and told me he'd have all of us in jail if the fighting didn't stop immediately. You tell him about what happened at the mines, and he'll cart us and the townies off and lock us all up."
"Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea," Joe said. "Then you couldn't fight anymore."
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"Why don't you get out of here and leave me alone!" Tim was angry.
"All right, don't fly off the handle," Joe said. "We're not telling the police. But I just hope someone doesn't get seriously hurt before we find the real culprit behind all this."
Feeling frustrated, the Hardys left Tim's room and settled down on the living room sofa. They were hoping Chet would be back from Mountain Hotel soon with new leads in the case.
"I bet Richard Chase found out something that had to do with that old mining disaster," Frank said. "I'd like to study up on that some more."
"I wonder if the old man we talked to this morning would know if there are any records," Joe said.
"Let's ask him," Frank suggested. "But first I'd like to call Dad."
To their relief, they found their father in his hotel room. "Good news!" Mr. Hardy said excitedly over the receiver. "I found out that the film director changed his name to Ian Rider ten years ago. It used to be Larry Hodges."
"We figured that," Joe said. "Did you learn anything else? Like what that truck was unloading?
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"I'm working on that," his father told him. "Let me get back to you later."
After Joe had informed Mr. Hardy of what had happened in Oreville, he hung up. "Let's go talk to the old man again," he said.
The young detectives found the local historian at his house. He showed them blueprints of the mine shafts, which he had salvaged from the mining company records.
"We were told that the miners' bodies were never recovered," Frank said, putting down the blueprints for a minute. "We also heard something about their ghosts still haunting the mines."
"Oh, yes!" the old-timer said with a twinkle in his eye. "The ghosts of those fellows are still in there. Sometimes they come into town, late at night when the wind blows out of the north. They remind us how they were never dug out. They were buried alive, and they ain't never going to forgive us. Not ever."
"But why was the rescue attempt not carried through?" Joe asked.
"Well, we tried," their host said. "We dug a tunnel straight down from the top of the mountain, since it was the shortest distance to the end of the shaft. But it took so long that no one had any hopes of finding anybody alive.
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Then the feud got so heavy that it was like a regular war and everybody was needed to defend themselves and their families."
"Where is the tunnel?" Frank inquired eagerly.
The old man took the blueprints. "Right about here," he said, pointing to a spot on the mountain. "Where the slopes are now. The original shaft went so far through the mountain that it almost reached the other side. The end of it ain't more than twenty or thirty feet from the surface at one point. That's why it was a lot easier to dig a new tunnel there than to evacuate the exploded part."
"And yet it was never finished," Frank said. "I can't understand that."
"Well, the work was hard. Back then we didn't have the modern drilling equipment they got these days. So people gave up hope after a while. They would have continued in order to retrieve the bodies, but the fighting, as I told you before, got out of hand. Some of the men were killed and everybody was more concerned with protecting themselves rather than digging up corpses."
"But what about later?" Joe questioned. "Why didn't they resume the work?"
The old man shrugged. "I don't really know.
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I've always had an uneasy feeling about that. So did a lot of other people. And I tell you, those fellows are still working down there--at least their ghosts are!"
"What kind of mine was it?" Frank asked.
"Copper," the man replied. "We mined copper and some zinc."
The boys thanked their host and left his house. As they were walking down the front steps, the late afternoon sun was starting to sink below the crest of the mountain, and a bone-chilling wind blew steadily through the small town.
"Joe," Frank said and took his brother's arm. "I have a feeling that the unfinished tunnel has something to do with those ghostly sounds we heard. If I only knew what!"
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Chapter 15 
A Confrontation
"We have to watch that lift operator, Ray Hodges," Joe said, zipping up his parka as they headed for their car. "Whatever is going on, I bet he's in on it. Otherwise he would have told us that his brother is the producer of the movie."
"And Rider wouldn't have denied having any relatives in the area," Frank added. "It's obvious the Hodges brothers are hiding something. But I don't think it would be to our advantage to confront either of them at this point. We'll have to do a little more investigating first."
"Like taking a look at that tunnel," Joe agreed. "Maybe we'll find it if we go over the top of the mountain carefully."
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Since it was growing dark, the boys postponed their search until the next day. They drove to the Adams chalet, hoping to get an update from Chet or their father.
Chet was reading when the Hardys walked into the house. "Here," he said, pointing to the pages he had already finished. "I got a copy of the revised film script. The director just finished making all the changes and handed copies around to everyone."
"Terrific," Frank said, and both he and Joe began poring over the material. Tim's accident was now in the script, and so were several other new scenes.
"I saw the rushes today, too," Chet announced. "You were right. It seemed as if the monster scene was planned. The camera angle was just right. They knew it was going to hap-pen!
"That's what we figured," Joe said. "Did you see any of the later scenes, too?"
Chet nodded.
"How did you look?" Frank asked.
Chet shrugged. "Fat. They made a fool of me. All you see is me huffing and puffing with that creepy creature after me. They even made a close-up of my tummy bouncing up and down. Of course, everyone was laughing when they
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saw it. I was so embarrassed."
Frank and Joe could barely keep from laughing themselves as they thought of Chet's remarkable belly filling the movie screen.
"Well, that's the price of stardom," Joe joked. "Why don't you go on a diet?"
"And lose the only thing that got me the part?" Chet challenged. "What's a little embarrassment compared with being in the movies?"
"Does the director need you for any more scenes?" Frank inquired.
"Not really," Chet replied. "Tomorrow they'll be filming on the slopes again. They want extras for a crowd scene, though. I thought I'd volunteer."
Chet flipped to a page toward the end of the script. "The director says he's going to reshoot the hotdogging competition. He wants to get some crowd reaction and some close-ups of Tim.''
"He must be kidding!" Frank protested. "Tim's got a concussion and a sprained ankle! He can't--"
"Yes, I can!" came Tim's voice from the doorway as he hobbled into the room. "It cost me enough to get this part. I don't want to blow it now!"
"Even after knowing the film company
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caused your accident in the first place?" Joe asked in disbelief. "If I were you, I wouldn't go near those guys."
"And are you well enough to get back on .skis?" Frank put in. "The doctors said to take it easy for a while. It's only been--"
The young skier laughed. "I talked to the director this morning. He said all I had to do was stand there for the close-ups. I won't have to ski. And I don't think he'll try anything like that monster stunt again, so I may as well get my beautiful face in the movies while I have the chance."
Frank and Joe had to laugh. Then they turned to the script again. The story specified that after Tim took his fall, the monster was to be chased from the slope by a Sno-cat, a bulldozerlike machine used to groom the slopes. Finally the hairy creature was to be crushed to death.
"Did you find out who's playing the monster?" Joe asked Chet.
"Another actor like me," the boy replied. "I met him after the shooting. He seemed to be on the level."
Frank now turned to Tim. "Tell me something," he said. "What were your friends doing at the mines today? Did they say?"
"Oh Ricky and Paul? They came over today
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and followed the townies' tracks, out of curiosity," Tim replied. "But they didn't blow up the entrance, if that's what you're getting at."
Frank nodded. "I'm inclined to believe you," he said. "But then, who did it?"
"Did you find any other clues today?" Joe asked Chet when no one had an answer to Frank's question,
"Nothing," Chet replied. "I tried to keep an eye on those equipment trucks, but I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary."
"By the way," Tim said, "My friends Ricky and Paul aren't too happy with you fellows. You ought to stay away from them until they cool off."
"Okay, thanks," Joe said.
Just then the phone rang. Tim picked it up, then handed it to Frank. "It's your father," he said.
Mr. Hardy had uncovered some new evidence. "I traced the horror movie's shady financial backers to a gang which is known to deal in the illegal sale of precious metals," he reported. "The men with the knives that you tangled with twice are connected to that gang."
"That's interesting," Frank said. "Did you find out what was in those crates? They seemed awfully heavy, and speaking about metals--"
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"I'm working on that," Mr. Hardy answered. "I'll call you as soon as I come up with something."
Frank hung up. The mention of precious metals again brought the "ghost miners" to mind, and he was now more eager than ever to locate the unfinished rescue tunnel to the buried shaft.
"Thanks," Joe said, then yawned. It was getting late and the young detectives were tired.
"Let's go to bed," Frank said. "We need to be alert tomorrow for our search of the tunnel."
In the morning, the boys and Mr. Adams drove to the ski area. On the way, they filled him in on what had happened the previous day.
"Do you know about that unfinished rescue shaft?" Frank inquired.
Mr. Adams shrugged. "I've heard about it. But I don't know where it is. As I told you, I was too young at the time to really remember. But what worries me is the Hodges brothers. They used to be real troublemakers."
"I bet," Frank said.
"Let me ask if any of the people around here know Ray well," Mr. Adams went on. "Perhaps I can pick up some clues."
"Thanks," Joe said as they all got out of the parking lot. "We'll check with you later."
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Before putting on their skis, the Hardys picked up a trail map of the ski area and compared it to what they remembered of the blueprint that the old man in town showed them.
"Just as we thought!" Frank exclaimed. "It must be right near Hodges's booth at the top of the main lift!"
A few minutes later, the young detectives boarded the chair lift. On their way up, they could see the film company setting up on the slopes. Chet and Tim were among the people assembled for the day's shooting. Dutton Foster was organizing the scene, re-creating the appearance of the freestyle competition.
At the top of the lift, Hodges's sleepy-eyed face again appeared at the window of the booth. This time, he seemed to show some interest in the Hardys.
"Shall we talk to him?" Joe asked.
"We might as well," Frank said. "He knows who we are. If we confront him, maybe he'll say something that'll give us a clue."
Upon dismounting, the young detectives went directly to the booth and opened the door.
"What do you want this time?" Ray glared at them.
"We want to know why you lied to us," Frank said evenly. "We know about your brother,
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Larry. He's the owner of Mountain Hotel and the producer of the movie."
"So what? It's none of your business!" came the curt reply.
"Richard Chase is our business," Joe spoke up, studying Hodges's face for his reaction to the name.
Hodges was speechless. He looked like a cornered animal, and a few seconds passed before he composed himself. "What makes you think I know anything about Chase?" he finally asked in a subdued voice.
"We have our reasons," the blond boy replied. "And if you want to keep the police out of this, you can show us the tunnel."
"Tunnel? What tunnel?" Hodges gulped, his eyes widening.
"The tunnel to the buried mine shaft!" Frank said.
Hodges froze for a moment, then stepped backward, grabbed a shovel from the wall of the booth, and raised it menacingly!
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Chapter 16 
Chet in Danger
"Don't try anything foolish!" Joe warned, raising one of his ski poles and pointing it at the man.
After looking at the sharp end of the ski pole, Hodges dropped the shovel. Then a smile crossed his face. "You kids have been lucky so far," he said. "But don't push it or you'll find yourselves in over your heads. Understand?"
"Fine," Frank said. "We'll just have to locate that tunnel ourselves."
The boys closed the booth door and skied away. Then they scouted the area, hoping the tunnel opening would be in sight. However, after a thorough search, they had found nothing.
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Frank was disappointed. "I thought that tunnel had something to do with those noises we heard in the mines," he said. "Now I wonder. Maybe it was filled in years ago and doesn't even exist anymore. There certainly isn't any sign of it in this area!"
Discouraged, the boys skied down the mountain until they came to the point where the movie company was filming.
Both Tim's friends and some of the townies were among the extras for the crowd scene. While tensions were high between the two groups, they managed to restrain themselves from fighting.
Frank gazed up the slope. The Sno-cat, manned by a man wearing a ski mask, was plowing down the hill in pursuit of the monster. Cameramen were stationed above and below the action, and the bearded director shouted orders to the extras.
"Make it look good!" he yelled. "You're scared. Real scared! Show it!"
The crowd pretended to disperse in panic as the Sno-cat bore down in pursuit of the horrible creature.
"There's Chet," Frank said, picking their friend out among the many people.
Chet screamed and waved his hands in the
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air as he fled from monster and machine.
"What a ham," Joe laughed.
Suddenly, the Snow-cat made an abrupt turn in Chet's direction!
"Watch out!" Frank and Joe cried in unison.
Hearing the cry, Chet turned to find the steel treads of the massive vehicle heading right at him!
"YAAAAHHHHH!!!"
Panic-stricken, he dove out of the way of the Sno-cat, landing belly-first in the snow just a few feet from its path.
"Come on," Joe said angrily as he started toward their buddy. "Let's get him out of there."
The two youths skied over to Chet, who was wiping the snow off his face.
"Th ... th .. . they tried to kill me!" Chet shuddered.
"We saw it." Frank tried to be calm. "It's not safe around here anymore, for any of us. What-ever's going on, it's no small operation. And now they're on to us for sure. They know we're hot on their trail and mean business. So don't expect any more scare tactics. From now on they'll be playing for real!"
Somberly, Frank, Joe, and Chet skied down to the lodge and took off their skis.
"I hope they don't try anything with Tim,"
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Chet said, remembering that their friend was still on the slopes.
"You'd better warn him," Joe said. "But be careful. We'll be inside talking to his father."
Chet nodded, put his skis back on, and boarded the chair lift. Meanwhile, the Hardys went into the lodge to find Mr. Adams.
The resort owner waved to them from one of the lunch tables in the cafeteria. Sitting with him was an elderly man dressed in coat and tie. Mr. Adams introduced him as Mr. Sage, the manager of the cafeteria.
"Mr. Sage tells me he used to work in the mines," Tim's father said, getting to the point. "And he has an idea that you two might like to hear."
The cafeteria manager cleared his throat. "I don't know Ray too well," he apologized. "Nobody does. He lives by himself outside of town and doesn't like to keep much company."
"I talked to several employees," Mr. Adams confirmed. "Nobody seems to be at all close to him these days."
"But I used to know Ray's father, Bill Hodges, when Ray and Larry were teenagers," the old man went on. "We worked in the mine together.
"Bill Hodges was a loner himself until he
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began to get involved in the dispute over conditions in the mines. Then he became a sort of leader, a champion of the miners' rights and all that. The funny thing, though, was that Bill was also acting like he was going to quit the mines soon. Right before he got buried in the cave-in, he got drunk one night at the bar and started bragging about how he was going to be rich. Nobody gave it much thought at the time, but we all knew he was acting strange."
"We heard that the mining disaster was caused by a dynamite explosion," Frank said.
"That's another funny thing." The old man nodded. "Bill was in charge of the dynamite and he knew how to use it. If it wasn't for the fact that he was killed in the explosion himself, some of us might've wondered about him. Instead, we all blamed it on the mine owners, since they were the ones with the motive for shutting us up."
"But you suspect Mr. Hodges caused the explosion himself?" Joe asked.
The ski area employee shifted in his chair. "Well, I know it sounds crazy, Bill being one of our leaders and himself being killed in the cave-in. I never said anything to anyone else, 'cause there was no proof and they would've just laughed at me, or worse. But he had been
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behaving in a strange way, and I always had this suspicion in the back of my head."
"But why would he want to blow up the mine shaft with himself and the others in it?" Joe queried.
"Maybe he didn't intend it that way," Frank answered for the old miner. "Maybe Bill Hodges had a plan and it backfired."
The cafeteria manager smiled, happy that the boys weren't taking him for a total fool. "That's what I wondered myself."
"And you never told anyone about this?" Joe asked.
"No," the man answered. "What good would it have done? Bill Hodges and the rest of those miners were local heroes. They're why the northsiders and southsiders went to war with each other. If I'd come out saying that one of our own leaders had caused the explosion, they would've strung me up right then and there!"
"Let's assume that Bill Hodges was the victim of his own scheme, whatever it was," Frank said. "What would his sons have to do with it?"
"I don't know," the man sighed. "I just thought you might be interested, since Mr. Adams said you were investigating Ray and the feud."
"We are interested. And thanks for your
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help ," Frank said warmly and stood up.
Before leaving, he and Joe got the address of Ray Hodges's home. They then walked out to the parking lot and climbed' into their rented Ford.
"I think it's a farfetched idea," Joe remarked, taking the driver's seat.
"I would agree with you, except for one thing," Frank replied. "It seems that the rescue tunnel wasn't completed for a reason, as if someone wanted to prevent the miners from digging it."
"I don't get it," Joe said. "The old man told us the reason it wasn't finished was the fight!"
"Let's say Bill Hodges caused that explosion on purpose," Frank said, "perhaps to hide something he had found at the end of the mine shaft. And let's say, for some reason, his plan backfired and he ended up killing himself and some others. Naturally, the people would believe that the northsiders were responsible for the explosion, making Bill and the others out to be martyrs."
"Which got the feud going," Joe added.
"Right. Now, let's say that Bill Hodges's two sons, Ray and Larry, knew about their father's secret. Then, after the cave-in, they didn't want the rescuers digging the tunnel."
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"Because they worried that people would find out about their father's scheme," Joe said.
"Right again. Now, what do Ray and Larry do? They escalate the feud and prevent the rescue attempt. They do everything in their power to keep everybody busy fighting."
"I see what you're getting at," Joe agreed. "To protect their father's reputation, they set fire to the Grizzly Bear Lodge, among other things, and ran through town toting guns."
Frank looked at his younger brother. "Perhaps they're still doing it," he said slowly. "Perhaps they're using the feud to this day to cover up some secret!"
"We must find that rescue tunnel," Joe declared. "I bet the key to the mystery is right there!"
"Yes. We'll have to make another search right around the chair lift operator's booth. But first, let's check out Ray Hodges's house for clues."
"Here it is," Joe announced, pulling into a driveway at the outskirts of town. He stopped next to a small, rundown bungalow set behind a cluster of pine trees. No other cars were in sight.
"Let's walk around and see if we come up with something," Frank said as they got out of the car. The boys split up, each checking one
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side of the house, peering into windows as they went. Soon Frank's voice came from the backyard.
"Hey," he called. "There's a tool shed here!"
Joe hurried to his brother and saw a small aluminum structure. The door was open, so the boys stuck their heads inside.
A collection of mining equipment lay on the floor--picks, shovels, miner's helmets, and other accessories. Although old, the tools had recently been used. None were rusted, and the tips of the picks shone bright.
"That clinches it!" Frank cried. "It accounts for the so-called ghost miners!"
"And look over there," Joe pointed.
Frank gasped. "Wooden crates, just like the ones the truck driver delivered to the warehouse!"
Joe inspected the boxes. "Except these are empty!" he declared.
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Chapter 17  
Standoff at Windy Rock
"This is the proof we need!" Joe said excitedly. "Let's tell Tim and his friends before they and the townies start any more trouble!"
The young detectives drove back to the ski area, hoping to meet the boys on the slopes. But when they arrived, none of them were there, not even Chet.
The Hardys drove to the Adams chalet, found it empty, and continued on to the general store. But even there they had no luck.
"Maybe trouble has started already!" Joe said anxiously as they were leaving the store. Just then Ben came into view walking down the main street. The Hardys got into their car and drove up to him.
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"What's going on?" Joe inquired. "Where is everybody?"
"At Windy Rock!" Ben said, sounding upset. "They have baseball bats and switchblades, and I'm worried. You have to stop them!"
"They what!" Frank exclaimed.
"Bob, Jay, Rick, Paul, all of them!" Ben cried. "They drove out there for a big fight. Some of the kids took weapons. I was too scared to go. I think somebody's going to get killed!"
"Where's Windy Rock?" Frank asked.
"I'll lead you there," Ben replied and stepped into the car. "Do you think you can stop them?"
"We'll try," Joe told the frightened youth.
Following Ben's directions, the Hardys took the road north. The sunlight was fading fast behind the mountains and night would soon be upon them.
"How long ago did they leave?" Frank asked.
"About an hour. Just after filming was over on the ski slopes. They were really mad at each other."
"Any new reason?" Joe queried.
"The movie crew staged a fight scene," Ben explained. "The whole thing was supposed to be faked, but some of the guys really started hitting each other."
"Sounds like another one of the director's
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bright ideas," Joe said to his brother.
"Anyway," the Oreville youth went on, "when it was all over everyone decided to go up to Windy Rock and have it out."
"Did a fat boy go with them?" Fran asked, wondering about Chet.
"Not that I remember," Ben said. "I don't know for sure, though. Make a left here."
Joe turned the Ford onto a steep and narrow road which took them up the side of a nearby mountain. Windy Rock, Ben told them, was a lookout point at the road's highest elevation. As they went up, they could see the surrounding countryside drop away behind them. The town of Oreville was visible in the valley below, and there was a clear view of the ski area.
By the time the Ford arrived at Windy Rock, the sun had sunk beneath the mountains.
"There are the cars," Joe said, nodding toward a line of vehicles parked just off the road.
"I hope we're not too late," Frank put in grimly.
Windy Rock was a large section of cliff which jutted out from the side of the mountain. It was devoid of trees. A few shrubs clung to the clumps of rocks, the only places offering shelter from the chilly winter wind.
"Boy, it's cold up here." Joe shivered as he
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climbed from the car.
Zipping up their parkas, the three youths walked briskly out on the rock to find the others.
"There they are!" Ben shouted, spotting a dozen or more figures in an open area.
Two groups of boys stood facing each other, engaged in a shouting match. People made threatening gestures with baseball bats or knives, but it was clear that the fight hadn't actually started yet.
"I think both sides are in over their heads," Frank said. "They don't really want to fight, but they don't want to lose face, either."
Joe nodded. "It's a classic standoff."
Followed by Ben, the Hardys walked toward the boys. When Bob saw them coming, he yelled, "Stay out of this! This is none of your business!"
"Listen! This feud was set up!" Joe called back. "We can prove it. The film company wanted you fighting to cover up its activities. As a matter of fact, the producer started this whole thing many years ago. His name is really Larry Hodges and--"
"Stay out of this!" another voice interrupted. It was Tim. He stood with Rick and Paul, who had brought ski poles along as weapons.
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"Why don't you just come back to town and listen!" Joe pleaded. "We can explain everything, and what's more, we can prove it!"
But instead of talking the hostile youths out of their battle, the Hardys' efforts seemed to have the opposite effect. Slowly, the two groups began to advance on each other, scared, but not wanting to appear cowardly.
"Hey!" one of the boys cried suddenly. "Something's on fire!" He pointed to a spot in the valley below.
In the distance, a building was ablaze. Bright flames leaped high into the sky, lighting up a billowing mass of smoke.
"It's at the ski area!" Tim shouted.
"We'd better check it out," Bret cried. Welcoming the excuse to call off the fight, the boys ran for their cars. Soon, a caravan of automobiles was on its way back down the winding road.
"That's what I call perfect timing," Joe uttered with relief as he drove the Ford toward town.
"Don't count your chickens too quickly," Frank warned. "Those guys will still come to blows sooner or later unless we can convince them not to."
Curious about the fire, the Hardys followed
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the boys up the access road to the ski area. When they reached it, they saw fire trucks in the parking lot. The structure that was burning was an extension of the lodge containing a gift and ski apparel shop.
By the time the boys got out of their cars, the fire was almost extinguished. The Hardys and the others joined the crowd of onlookers.
Just then, the police sergeant stepped out from among the firemen and walked briskly toward the youths. "All right, I've had enough of this!" he shouted. "All you kids are under arrest!"
"For what?" Tim asked in disbelief.
"Arson!" the sergeant bellowed. "I've been talking to the fire chief, and he's convinced someone set this fire."
"But we weren't even here!" Bob protested. "We were all up at Windy Rock. You can--"
"I don't want to hear any more of your excuses," the sergeant cut him short. "I'm taking you down to the station and I'm not letting anyone go until I receive some straight answers. Get in your cars and follow me! All of you!"
"Now do you believe someone is purposely framing you?" Frank asked Bob as he and Joe accompanied the townie to his car.
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"I'm ready to believe anything," Bob replied grimly.
The Hardys watched the line of vehicles trailing the sergeant out of the lot. "It's just as well they were arrested," Joe said. "Now they won't be able to get at each other for a while. We can go down and explain to Sergeant Baker that Ray and Larry Hodges are the guilty ones."
Frank nodded. "I'm glad we weren't arrested, too! But you know, I'm wondering what happened to Chet."
Chet Morton had not been at Windy Rock, nor at the fire. In fact, the Hardys realized they hadn't seen their chubby friend since his close call with the Sno-cat that afternoon.
"We'd better look for him," Joe said, and the two went back to the site of the fire. It was now a smoldering heap of burned wood, and the onlookers were dispersing. Chet was not among them.
" Hey!" Joe said, pointing to a group of medics who were surrounding a figure on a stretcher. "Someone must've been in the building when it caught fire."
Frank and Joe quickly walked over to the victim.
It appeared to be a man, but his face was 
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unrecognizable because of the gauze pads the medics had applied to his forehead and cheeks. Frank and Joe's hearts beat wildly as the same thought raced through their minds. Was the figure on the stretcher Chet Morton?
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Chapter 18 
Arson
The Hardys' eyes traveled from the injured man's face to his body, and they sighed in relief. The burned victim was much too slender to be Chet!
"Was this man in the building when it burned?" Frank asked one of the medics.
"Yes," came the reply. "He'll be all right. Got some minor burns on his face and is suffering from smoke inhalation. We'll take him to the hospital, but he'll be out in a day or two. He was lucky."
"I don't feel so lucky!" the man on the stretcher groaned as he opened his eyes.
Frank kneeled down next to him. "Do you
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have any idea who did this?" he asked. "Did you see anyone around?"
"No," the man replied weakly. "The fire started very fast. But I could smell gasoline, so I'm sure it was no accident."
"What were you doing in the shop?" Joe queried. "Wasn't it closed?"
The fire victim studied the Hardys with curiosity. "Who are you? Cops?"
"No, but we're detectives," Frank explained. "And we think this fire ties in with a case we're working on."
"Case?" the man asked. "You mean you know who burned the shop?"
"Possibly. We'll tell you about it later. Now we'd like to hear your story."
"Well," the man said, "I just moved up here a few weeks ago to run the shop. Since I didn't have a place to live yet, I set up a cot in the back room for the time being."
"And that's where you were when the fire broke out?" Frank asked.
"Yes. And now I don't have anywhere to stay!"
Frank thought of inviting the man to the Adams chalet, but decided he'd better ask Tim's father first. "We'll try to find you accommodations,’’
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commodations," he promised, then stood up. "Come on, Joe," he said. "Let's go back to the scene of the crime."
"Do you think it was another ploy to escalate the feud?" Joe asked as they looked over the burned building for clues.
"I suspect it's more than that," Frank replied. He stood where the ski shop had been and gazed around. "Anyone staying at the shop would have a clear view of the chair lift," he said.
"You mean, it was burned down because someone didn't want to be watched?"
"Could be. The sabotage attempt at the general store and the mine explosion could have been staged to lead up to this, so the blame would go to the kids in all cases."
"You mean the Hodges strategy? Escalate the feud to cover up for something?"
"Exactly. Show the people that the kids are capable of arson and setting explosives. Then no one would doubt that they burned the ski shop, too."
"But why would someone want to prevent the man in the ski shop from seeing the lift at night? It isn't even running after four."
Frank shrugged. "It's something we have yet to figure out. But first we have to find Chet!"
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The boys hurried to their Ford and drove out of the parking lot. The stopped at the Adams chalet, but no one was home.
"Maybe Mr. Adams is down at the police station," Frank ventured.
"Chet could be with him," Joe said.
"I doubt it," Frank declared. "He wasn't near the fire scene. Let's check Mountain Hotel. He may have gone there."
A few minutes later, Frank and Joe pulled up in front of the film site. Cautiously, they approached the building and looked inside.
"Frank!" Joe gasped. "There's Chet in the lobby!"
Chet was, indeed, sitting among some of the actors, talking and apparently enjoying himself!
"Shall we go in?" Joe wanted to know.
"Let's wait out here for a moment," Frank advised. "I'd like to keep an eye on the place and see what happens."
The young detectives headed for a clump of bushes near the front porch. Suddenly, two figures jumped out from behind the shrubbery and lunged at them. They were the same two hoodlums the boys had tangled with before. Only this time they weren't carrying knives-- they brandished tire irons instead!
"Finally we've got you!" one of the men
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growled. He grabbed Joe by the arm and roughly shoved him toward the back of the hotel. The other thug did the same with Frank.
When they had reached the trucks that were parked in the rear, the boys were forced inside the nearest one.
"Give me your car keys!" one of their attackers demanded, holding his tire iron threateningly over the boys' heads.
Reluctantly, Joe complied. Then the man slammed the truck's back door shut and locked it. It was totally dark inside the cargo compartment, and the Hardys had to feel around to get their bearings.
"Seems that the only thing in here is a bunch of empty crates!" Frank declared.
"I wonder what they are planning to do with us," Joe moaned.
Just then the truck started up. The Hardys could feel it drive away from the hotel and turn onto the road. They sat on the crates and wondered where they were headed, what the crooks had in store for them, and how they could escape!
Ten minutes passed before the truck came to a stop. The young detectives heard the cab door open and close, then footsteps heading near the back. A moment later the latch was unhooked.
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"All right, get out!" one of the thugs ordered the boys as he opened the door. "Come on, hurry--"
"Ouuuwww!" Suddenly both men bellowed as they were greeted by flying crates landing on their heads with enough force to knock them to the ground.
A second later, the Hardys were upon them, grabbing the tire irons from their hands and wrestling the thugs to the pavement.
"Okay, now it's your turn!" Joe commanded. "Into the truck!"
The boys shoved the dazed crooks into the cargo compartment, then locked the door.
"Good work!" Frank congratulated his brother as he dusted himself off.
"You weren't so bad yourself." Joe grinned. Then he looked around. They were in a remote section of the mountain road, which wound precariously along the edge of a steep cliff. There was no sign of any buildings or traffic in the area.
"I wonder why they brought us here," Joe said.
"Your guess is as good as--hey! There's our car!
The Ford was parked a short distance from the truck. Evidently, one of the men had driven
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it while the other had been behind the wheel of the truck.
Frank grabbed Joe's arm. "You know what their scheme was?" he said. "They were going to send us over the cliff in our car!"
Joe gulped, looking over the side to a rocky creek bed sixty feet below. "They probably planned to knock us out with the tire irons, stuff us in the car, and push it over. This way it would look like an accident."
"Phew!" Frank said. "That sure was a close call."
Luckily the keys to the Ford and the truck were both still in the ignitions. "I'll drive the truck back," Frank suggested. "You follow in the car."
"Are we taking these two thugs to the police?" Joe asked.
"Not just yet. I have a hunch I want to follow at the ski area first," Frank replied. "I also want to call Dad."
The young detectives drove to the Adams chalet to make the phone call.
"I've been trying to reach you all evening," Mr. Hardy said when he got on the line. "I found out what was in those crates."
"What?" Frank asked.
"Platinum!"
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Chapter 19 
Operation at Midnight
"Platinum!" Frank repeated, excited. Then he gave his father a brief summary of the situation, promising to call him back as soon as possible.
"You mean the crates contained a precious metal?" Joe said when his brother had hung up.
"Yes, and it only confirms my hunch," Frank said. "Let's go. We have no time to spare."
"Where are we going?'
"To the ski area. And let's take the truck." He was already out the door.
"Hey, won't you let me in on whatever you're thinking?" Joe demanded.
"In the truck!"
Frank was already behind the wheel of the
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truck and Joe slid in next to him. The two thugs were cursing and pounding on the sides, demanding to be set free immediately. Joe was bursting with curiosity, but the ruckus made any conversation between the brothers impossible.
A few minutes later, Frank swung the truck into the parking lot. The firefighters were gone, and the area was dark and deserted.
"This should do it," Frank said as he stopped near one end of the lodge, directly opposite the chair lift. "Now we wait."
A moment later, they heard the faint sound of an engine starting up.
"The lift!" Joe cried. "Look, it's running!"
Just visible in the dark, the chairs began moving.
"I was right!" Frank beamed. "Now let's go for a ride."
The young detectives leaped from the truck and ran to the boarding station. Soon they were moving up the mountain in one of the empty chairs.
"I think we caught the gang red-handed!" Frank said, staring ahead into the darkness. "It all fit together when Dad mentioned platinum."
"I've figured it out," Joe said. "The Hodges brothers are mining platinum from the buried
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shaft and removing it through the now finished rescue tunnel."
"Correct," Frank said. "Then they transport it down the chair lift and load it on the truck. That's why they had to get the man in the ski shop out of the way, so he wouldn't see them!"
"Then they take the stuff to the warehouse, where Rider-Hodges disposes of it."
"You've got it," Frank said.
"But was it a good idea to take the lift up?" Joe asked worriedly. "We're rolling right into their hands!"
"No, we're not," Frank said. "Remember, about thirty feet from the end station, there's a stretch where the lift is only about six feet off the ground. We get off there and walk the rest of the way, then sneak up to the top and watch!"
Joe grinned. "Good idea." Then he grabbed Frank's arm in a sudden motion. "Oh, no!" he gasped.
Out of the night, the figure of Ray Hodges appeared. He was riding the lift down the mountain! Several chairs in back of him were loaded with large bundles.
When he noticed the boys, the lift operator was momentarily startled. But as he passed by, he emitted an evil laugh!
"What do we do now?" Joe groaned, feeling
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helpless. Suspended by the cable, the chairs hung high over the slopes, and there was no way for them to jump off!
"When he gets to the bottom, he'll probably turn off the lift," Frank said.
Sure enough, a few moments later the motor was shut off, leaving Frank and Joe dangling in the freezing night air. From their perch, they could see the lodge and the parking lot far below. They watched as Hodges opened the back of the truck and released his confederates. Then the three men started loading the bundles into the crates and stacking them in the back of the truck.
"We've got to get down!" Joe said, his teeth beginning to chatter from the cold. "They're going to escape!"
"Not without the truck keys, they won't," Frank said as he patted his pants pocket. "Not for a while anyway. But you're right, we have to get down. They'll be after us in a minute."
The boys surveyed the lift. They were close to one of the support poles, but in order to reach it, they would have to shimmy along the cable for a few feet. It would be an extremely dangerous undertaking.
"Look!" Frank said suddenly. "They're coming for us in the Sno-cat!"
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They heard the sound of its engine starting up, and the huge machine began to move up the mountain.
"Okay. Let's go!" Joe said nervously. He pulled himself up the thin steel rod holding the chair. Then he grabbed the overhead cable. The metal was ice cold and his leather gloves offered little protection. But with enormous willpower, Joe managed to make his way hand-over-hand until he reached the support pole. Frank was close behind him, and when Joe saw that he was dangling forty feet above ground, a shiver went down his spine.
But he forced himself to think only of what lay ahead and started to climb down the ladder rungs on the pylon. A moment later Frank reached the pole, too.
"Wow!" Joe sighed when he finally jumped to the ground. "I almost lost my grip up there a couple of times."
"So did I," Frank admitted and stuck his freezing hands inside his pockets for warmth. "Come on, they're almost here," he added and ran toward the woods. Joe followed.
The bulldozerlike vehicle was plowing full speed up the mountain, its threads throwing up snow in a cloud behind it. Hodges was driving, and the two thugs were clinging to either side.
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Frank and Joe ran as fast as they could through the snow. Their enemies spotted them before they reached the cover of the trees, and aimed the Sno-cat right at them.
However, the young sleuths made it just in time and ducked into the pine forest, forcing the Sno-cat to come to an abrupt halt in front of the trees.
The three men jumped off and continued their pursuit on foot.
Frank and Joe ran for a while, then looked back over their shoulders. They saw Ray Hodges, weakened with age, lagging far behind the other two men.
"Let's jump those two," Frank said. "We can ambush them from behind a tree!"
Quickly the Hardys stationed themselves in back of some dense shrubbery and waited for the men to catch up. When their enemies passed, they leaped out from their hiding place and attacked.
"Ooooofff!" one thug cried, catching Joe's flying tackle in the midsection and losing his breath. Joe didn't wait for the man to recover. He quickly delivered a strong left hook to his jaw, then followed with a stunning right jab. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
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Frank dealt in similar fashion with the other criminal, and a moment later the second one was knocked out too.
"Now let's get Ray," Frank panted, and started to run back.
Having seen the way Frank and Joe took care of his two cronies, Hodges had doubled back toward the Sno-cat. But instead of remounting the machine, he started up the dark ski slope on foot.
"Where's he going?" Frank wondered aloud, seeing Hodges disappear up the hill.
"I bet he's on the way to the tunnel," Joe said. "Let's get the Sno-cat."
"No, we'd better not. We don't want to alert him that we're coming," Frank cautioned. "Let's walk up. It's not far to the top."
Sneaking up behind the chair lift operator, the Hardys saw him disappear into the cabin at the top station. They tiptoed up to the little building and peered through the window.
"He's not here!" Frank said.
Joe stared. "But . . . we saw him go in!"
Frank nodded. "And I have a hunch where he is. Come on!" He went inside and began to examine the floor of the structure. "Just as I figured," he said and pried open a trapdoor.
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"It's the tunnel entrance!" Joe gasped.
A ladder descended down a shaft beneath the floor of the cabin. The boys had no flashlights but decided to climb down the ladder anyway.
After about twenty feet, they reached the bottom and the tunnel opened into a wide, level corridor. A dim light shone at the other end.
"This must be the buried mine shaft," Frank whispered. "Look over there!"
Just visible in the low light were several crude graves lined up near the wall. They were no more than mounds of dirt with simple wooden crosses at their heads. Resting on top of the crosses were miner's helmets.
"The disaster victims!" Joe gulped.
"Let's hope there weren't any recent additions," Frank spoke, worried that one of the graves might contain Richard Chase.
Scarcely daring to breathe, the boys crept past the graves and toward the source of light. There was a bend in the shaft ahead, and the light source seemed to be just around it. As Frank and Joe drew closer, they heard the voices of two men.
"We don't need you anymore!" Ray Hodges said. "Your time is up!"
"Please let me go!" another man pleaded. "I
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swear I won't tell anything. I swear it!"
On their hands and knees, the Hardys approached the bend in the shaft and peered around it. A single light bulb illuminated the lift operator and another man, who was covered with dirt and grit. His face was filthy and showed a week's stubble of beard. One of his legs was shackled to a chain anchored in the rocky floor. A pick and shovel were leaning against the wall.
"Forget it!" the lift operator spat, taking the heavy miner's pick from the wall. "It's time for you to join my father and the others in their graves!"
With that, Ray hoisted the pick over his head, ready to swing. The shackled man yelped with fear and made a futile effort to protect his face by covering it with his arms.
In the same instant, Frank and Joe dashed at Hodges! He heard the noise and whirled around, trying to aim his blow at the boys. But he was too late. In a flash, he was pinned to the ground.
"Quick, give me your scarf to tie his hands," Frank said to his brother while he sat on the crook.
Not until Hodges was securely tied did the
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boys focus their attention on the other man. Then they realized there was something familiar about him.
"You're Richard Chase!" Frank cried, "aren't you?"
The movie actor broke into a grin and extended his hand. "I am. And I sure would like to know who you are. You saved my life!"
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Chapter 20  
A Clever Scheme
"That's what we came here for," Frank said, shaking the man's hand. "I'm Frank Hardy, this is my brother Joe, and we've been looking for you for days."
With introductions over, Joe found the key to Richard Chase's leg shackle in Hodges's pants pocket. Once free, the actor assisted the boys in leading Hodges from the mine shaft and out the tunnel. The captive lift operator cursed and kicked as they pushed him along.
Frank went to get the Sno-cat, and then the group headed down the ski slope. They found the two thugs, dazed and shivering, wandering through the snow a short distance from where
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they had left them. The men gave in easily, and within a few minutes the Hardys had all of the gang locked up in the truck's cargo compartment.
"I thought I'd never get out of there alive," the actor said once he was settled in the cab with the boys.
"Tell us what happened," Joe said, pulling the truck out of the parking lot and heading toward the Adams chalet to see if Chet had gotten safely home from the hotel.
"When I was hired to act in this horror movie," Chase explained, "I did a little research on the outfit. The film's producer, Ian Rider, had some strange people working for him, and he's a bit of a strange one himself."
"His name used to be Larry Hodges," Joe put in. "He's the brother of the man who just tried to kill you."
"I found that out." The actor nodded. "Anyway, I began to check up on him and his company to make sure they were on the level. Then one thing led to another, and pretty soon I was doing a full-scale investigation. I was getting in deep enough that I decided to call your father and hire him to help me."
"And that's when you were abducted," Joe put in.
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"Yes. Two men broke into my house and knocked me out with a funny-smelling gas. Next thing I remember is waking up in that mine shaft, where Ray put me to work digging platinum."
When Joe parked in front of the Adams chalet, the Hardys saw lights inside. Chet was there, sitting in the living room and wondering where everyone had gone.
"I suppose Tim and Mr. Adams are still at the police station," Frank said. "Chet, meet Richard Chase."
Chet's eyes popped out. "You found him?"
"In the abandoned mine shaft, which wasn't really abandoned," Frank said and explained to Chet what had happened. Joe, meanwhile, made sandwiches and hot chocolate for all of them.
Richard Chase hungrily ate the food, then agreed to come to the police station with the boys.
"Chet, Richard, and I'll ride in the cab of the truck," Frank said. "Joe, why don't you drive the Ford?"
"Sure will," Joe agreed.
"Maybe Richard would like to wash up first and change into some clean clothes," Chet suggested.
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The actor smiled. "That would be great."
The boys lent him pants, a sweater, and a parka, and once he had showered, all four drove to headquarters.
"Who else is involved with Hodges in the film company?" Frank asked the actor on the way.
"Only Bruce, the makeup man, the director, and the truck drivers," Chase replied. "The rest of the crew have no idea what's going on."
"Bruce was driving the Sno-cat when it almost ran over me," Chet explained. "I found that out this evening."
Chase nodded. "Rider was paying the director and the makeup man to help him out. But I don't think even they knew the full extent of the Hodgeses' operation. They just wanted to work, and found themselves having to do more than they bargained for in order to keep their jobs."
The Hardys realized that the producer must have ordered Dutton Foster to cause Tim's accident, in order to escalate the feud. But it was probably Foster's own idea to film Tim's fall when he saw a chance to capture the dramatic incident for the movie.
The small police station was right next to the courthouse. Even though it was well past midnight,
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night, the place was humming with activity. A number of cars were outside and lights were on in many of the windows.
After parking the vehicles, the foursome entered the building. There were two jail cells inside, one occupied by Tim and his friends, and the other filled with the townies. Many of the youths' parents were also there, sitting quietly as the sergeant questioned the prisoners.
Frank went up to the officer. "I think we can settle this whole thing!" he announced loudly enough to get everyone's attention. "We found Richard Chase, and if you let me explain, I can prove that the feud was a frame-up right from the very beginning."
In surprise, all eyes turned to the young detective.
"You found Chase?" the sergeant repeated.
"Yes, they did," the actor said. "And the people who captured me are outside in the back of one of the movie trucks."
For a moment, everyone spoke at once, but then a hush fell over the room as Frank told his story. "It all started with a miner named Bill Hodges," he began.
"I remember Bill," one of the men" interrupted. "He was the leader of the southsiders
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who was killed in the mine shaft."
"But what you don't know," Frank said, "is that he stumbled on a rich load of platinum in the mine. He planned to blow up the shaft and dig it out later for himself to get the precious metal. But something went wrong and he was buried along with other workers."
"What!" The people in the room were flabbergasted.
"That's right," Frank said. "The only ones who knew the real story were Hodges's two sons, Larry and Ray. They fanned the flames of the feud to cover up their father's secret and foiled the rescue attempt."
"But what has that got to do with the problem we have today?" the sergeant inquired.
"I'm getting to that," Frank said. "You see, for years Larry and Ray had no way of getting the platinum out of the shaft. The northsiders still owned the mines. When the ski area was built, Ray got a job as a lift operator. Larry moved away, changed his name to Ian Rider, and became a movie producer.
"Ray sat on top of the half-finished rescue tunnel in his lift booth and gradually completed the access to the buried shaft. Larry, meanwhile, was making underworld connections to have the platinum processed and sold."
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"This is incredible!" Bob burst out. "You mean, those ghost miners we heard were really the Hodgeses' gang?"
"That's right," Frank said. "They've been working in the shaft for over a year. This winter, they were ready to ship. Larry Hodges picked a movie site nearby and his trucks transported the stuff after it came down the ski lift at night."
"And to cover up their activities," Joe put in, "they used the feud as a diversion. They had to get rid of the man who ran the ski shop, because he was there at night. But they made sure the blame for the fire was put on the boys. That's why they staged all the other incidents like the gas being left on in the general store and the explosion at the mine entrance."
"Mr. Chase had found out a lot about the secret mining operation, so they kidnapped him and then put him in the mine and made him work," Chet spoke up.
"And if the Hardys hadn't rescued me in, time, Hodges would have killed me!" the actor said and explained what had happened in the mine shaft.
"And if that doesn't convince you," Frank added with a smile, "we have a load of platinum out in the truck along with the crooks."
After Sergeant Baker inspected the truck's
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contents and arrested the thugs, Tim and his friends and the townies were set free.
"We'll get after the director and the makeup man right away," the sergeant promised. "And I'll also alert the San Francisco police department to put out a warrant for Ian Rider's arrest."
Frank nodded. He wondered if there would ever be another mystery for them to solve, unaware that soon they would be called upon to work on a case called Sky Sabotage.
"Now I want to thank you boys for doing a wonderful job," the sergeant said, interrupting Frank's thoughts.
"So do we," Bret piped up. "I think you stopped the feud once and for all."
"You sure did," Tim agreed. "Because of you, we have a lot of new friends now!" With that, he went around and began shaking the townies' hands. The others followed his example, and soon the solemn gestures exploded into back-slapping, shouting, and laughing, with all the parents looking on happily.
The only one who wasn't entirely happy was Chet Morton, who sat glumly in a corner. "I bet the movie won't be released now," he grumbled. "And I was almost a star!"
Richard Chase put an arm around the chubby
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boy. "I'll try to get you another part," he promised.
"Really?" Chet's eyes brightened. "But I think I've had enough of horror movies. Do you think you could make it a detective film?"
Frank laughed. "That's not a bad idea," he said. "Chet has real experience in that field."
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Hot Wheels (Hardy Boys Casefiles #91)
Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 1
”My BRAIN FEELS like it's frying in my skull!” Joe Hardy said as he stood just inside the entrance to the tent where the welcome session for the Suntex Solar Challenge was to be held. He paused and squinted outside at the heat haze hovering over the sun-baked scrubland near El Paso, Texas.
”It's ninety degrees even at six-thirty,” his brother Frank reported, checking the temperature readout on his watch. ”Of course, with all the reporters crowded in here, it seems even hotter.”
”I don't know if it's worse in here or out there.” Joe ran a hand through his newly cropped blond hair. ”El Paso must be the sun-
2
stroke capital of the world. Even this late I actually feel the sun beating down.”
”Well, that's good for a solar car race,” Callie Shaw told him. Frank's girlfriend had her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
”You had the easy job out there,” Frank said. ”You and Teresa just wired up the telemetry system, but I had to haul all that heavy equipment around.” Frank's brown eyes twinkled as he grinned at her.
Callie laughed. She had recruited the Hardy brothers to help a team of students from the State University at Bayport, including Callie's cousin Teresa, build a sun-powered vehicle. They were to compete in the Suntex Energy Corporation's first Solar Challenge. For the next three days, their car would race on a
500-mile route from El Paso, Texas, to Yuma, Arizona.
”When your cousin first said they were building a car with an electric engine,” Joe said, ”I thought it would be like one of those hand-held radio-controlled racers.”
”That's not so far off,” Callie said. ”An electric car is light in weight—a lot lighter than a regular car. But the problem is how do you constantly power the engine. In regular cars you fill up with gas, but you can't plug a car into an electrical outlet. There's not an extension cord long enough.”
3
”That's where the sun comes in,” Frank said.
”Right,” Callie agreed. ”With an array of photovoltaic cells on the roof of our racer, we capture the energy of sunlight and turn it into electrical energy. It runs the motor and can even charge the battery. The motor draws as much electricity as it needs to meet the speed set by the driver. If the motor needs more energy than is being supplied by the array, it draws on the battery pack. If the array provides more energy than the motor needs, the extra energy is stored in the battery pack.” She stopped and giggled. ”Well, I really rambled on there, didn't I?”
She fell silent as a tall, muscular whitehaired man headed for the microphone on stage. Frank recognized him as billionaire Kyle Harrington, the head of Suntex Energy Corporation. The reporters pushed forward to catch Barrington's words.
”Welcome, everyone, to the first Suntex Solar Challenge—especially our friends from the press who braved the heat to be with us today. As you know, at Suntex Corporation our middle name is energy—from oil to geothermal, atomic to solar power. We believe the future of our planet depends on young researchers and engineers like those represented
4
here today. The race this weekend is to promote their ideas and dreams.”
”And to pick their brains,” a slightly wild looking, bearded man next to Frank cut in loudly. ”Barrington got rich off oil and gasoline. Now he wants a stranglehold on the next generation of power!”
Onstage, Kyle Barrington tried to ignore the heckler's comments.
”Our race has attracted many entries. Let me introduce our team captains. As I call out your names, will the captains please raise your hands so the press can see who you are. The Air Force Academy is represented by team captain Lawrence Gonzalez.”
Lawrence Gonzalez was a stocky young guy with short, curly hair. He waved to the press, and the crowd applauded.
”Mitsushomi Motors from Japan with their team captain, Taka Yoshida.”
Frank spotted a small, dark-haired man with a shy smile.
”MIT's high-tech wizards, headed by the twenty-three-year-old genius Jeff Pelman.”
A tall, blond man grinned and waved.
”The State University at Bayport—that's SUB for short—led by Scott Sanders.”
”Does that make me the SUB commander?” Scott joked in a loud, confident voice. He was a red-haired, bearded Viking, confined to a
5
wheelchair because of an automobile accident he was in when he was a boy.
”Our own team from Suntex is led by Mack Wilkinson, head of Suntex solar research.”
Frank saw a tall, dark-haired man with a mustache saluting Barrington.
”The team from Santa Fe, New Mexico, headed by 'Mr. Ecology,' Elton Mossport.”
Loud applause broke out to the right. Frank glanced over and saw that the bearded heckler was Elton Mossport. He was surrounded by reporters at the front of the stage.
”The media will be all over Mossport,” Scott grumbled. ”He's the alternate-energy guru.”
Kyle Barrington's amplified voice cut through the hubbub. ”And finally, Professor Schmidt and his team from Germany. Each team is racing for a hundred-thousand-dollar prize. But that's only part of what's at stake.”
Barrington's eyes ran over the audience. ”In the future, every car company will need to meet zero emission pollution standards. Solarpowered cars can do that. The winner will have a blueprint for the car of the future, a design certain to receive millions from the auto industry.”
He went on to describe the competition itself. ”This is a race along Interstate Highway
10 and Interstate Highway 8. Each leg of the race will be approximately one hundred and
6
seventy miles long. Near the finish line for each day there will be a camp set up at a motel on an access road. For the first time ever, solar cars will travel with traditional automobiles at their speed, on their highway. On arrival at each camp, the cars' times and battery reserves will be recorded. The prize will go to the car with the best overall scores at the end of the race.”
Frank saw that Mossport had led some reporters to the side of the tent. ”No one who made a dime off dirty oil should be allowed to profit from solar technology,” he said loud enough for everyone in the tent to overhear.
Barrington glared at Mossport and replied, ”I expect the Suntex team to win this race. Our goal is to put a Suntex-designed solar car on the road within two years.” He frowned. ”But to all participants, let's try to keep the race clean and safe, okay?”
”What was that supposed to mean?” Joe asked Scott Sanders, who had joined them.
”Every team has a great deal at stake, which means there could be pranks and psych-outs,” Scott explained.
”We'll have a press conference and dinner every evening of the race for the media and the competitors,” Barrington went on. ”Have fun.”
Everyone clapped and headed out of the sweltering tent. ”After all these weeks working
7
on the SUB, I can't believe the race starts tomorrow,” Callie said as she and the Hardys joined the stampede and stood outside in a group. The SUB was what they had christened their car.
”I'm just glad we made it past the trials this morning.” Teresa Maddox, Callie's beautiful dark-haired cousin, smiled at Scott. She was in charge of telemetry, the electronic system that monitored the operation of the SUB and transmitted the information to the backup team in the support van.
”One more lap this morning and I thought I was going to get carsick,” the SUB team driver, Bill Little, burst out. Bill was similar in build to the blond, stocky Joe Hardy, and had a reputation for being a big prankster.
”I really want to thank you, Teresa, for letting us work with the team,” Frank said. ”I can't imagine a better summer.”
”Then you must really like fixing flats, steering rods, and solar arrays!” Bill cracked. The whole team laughed, remembering the weeks of work, lack of sleep, and the horrible fast food they had to endure to prepare their racer.
As the members of the SUB team wound their way around the tents housing the cars back to their motel, Joe noticed Jeff Pelman, captain of MIT's team, gesturing wildly to a young woman.
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”Who is that redheaded babe?” Joe asked! as they approached the pair.
”The 'babe' is Sharon Green from MIT,” Scott replied. ”Looks like she and Pelman are having problems.”
As he passed, Joe stared at Sharon Green and her piercing green eyes. ”Fine, I'm out,” he heard her say. ”But I won't just lie down and play dead, you know! Let's see how well you do when I'm the enemy!”
”What's this 'enemy' stuff?” Pelman said, trying to calm her down. ”The team just—”
”If your team has no guts, I'll find one that's not afraid to win my way!” Sharon shrieked, then stormed off.
”Nice taste in 'babes' you have,” Frank commented to Joe as they continued toward the motel.
Bill chuckled. ”I'll bet the ninety-plus degree temperature in his car tomorrow will seem cool to Pelman after that! Actually, all the drivers are going to roast and sweat pounds off tomorrow.”
”Don't think you can stuff yourself at the kickoff dinner tonight,” Teresa joked. ”Your hammock seat only holds one hundred and eighty pounds.”
They discussed the graphite body and eleven-pound engine. Lightness was the key. All
9
told, the car and its driver weighed less than five hundred pounds.
”It's amazing how the donations came through for the car,” Scott said to Teresa. ”I still can't believe you sweet-talked that computer dealer into giving us the telemetry equipment for the SUB. Now we have a surefire way to keep track of how the car's consuming energy.”
”I didn't flirt—it was straight techno-nerd stuff,” Teresa protested. ”The guy was interested in the programs I'd written to keep track of power usage. He coughed up the computers because he was interested in field-testing my programs.”
”I wish I were going to be in the car tomorrow,” Joe said with a sigh. ”I loved the way she handled when I got to drive her.”
”Too lightweight for me,” Frank admitted. ”The problem with prototypes is that something always has to be sacrificed for performance. I'll wait for the perfected machine—something with a CD player and side panels.”
”And air-conditioning,” Scott joked. ”Joe, I think you'll be glad to be in the support van while Bill sweats.”
They continued to kid one another as they sauntered along the row of tents. ”I think Barrington was talking to you, Bill, with that prank warning,” Scott joked as they passed the
10
last tent before the motel. A big banner outside identified it as the Suntex tent.
”He's one to talk! I heard he's the grand master prankster himself!” the driver scoffed.
Frank laughed, but then noticed an odd orange flash reflected in the chrome frame of Scott's wheelchair. He turned to find the source of the light and gasped. There was a fire inside the Suntex tent!
11
Chapter  2
THE SUB TEAM RUSHED to the tent to find Mack Wilkinson aiming a fire extinguisher at a small mass of flames dancing amid some electrical equipment. ”Is your car okay?” Scott asked. ”The car wasn't hurt.” Mack wiped a stringy piece of dark hair from his face. ”It's just burning insulation from a computer cable.” ”How'd the fire start?” Frank inquired. ”Could be a short,” Mack said. ”Or this could be the beginning of prank season.”
Frank and some others stayed to watch Mack check over his car's incredible telemetry computer network. Frank couldn't help feeling a little jealous of the equipment and money the Suntex team had behind them.
12
Mack's teammates, who'd apparently just heard about the fire, rushed in right then. They examined the ruined cable but moved away abruptly as a tall white-haired man entered the tent.
Mack held out the blackened wire to Kyle Harrington. ”The main cable on our telemetry unit was damaged. It'll make it difficult to get any feedback on the battery charge tomorrow.”
”We need to find out what happened here,” Barrington hissed. He twisted the burnt cable, scowling. ”There's too much at stake for any more accidents.”
Barrington suddenly seemed to realize that the SUB team was there. Immediately, he turned into the gracious host, explaining how Suntex had mapped the course three times and even hired weather analysts.
”We're working with the best,” he said. ”That's why we're going to win, or at least why Mack thinks we're going to win.” Barrington gave a hearty chuckle. ”Right, Mack?”
Mack laughed. ”I've got money on it.”
”Well, the show's over, folks. Thanks for coming, but I don't think we'll be able to keep you this entertained every night,” Barrington went on.
Still, Frank thought the man seemed oddly tense as he motioned for everyone to go. Frank
13
stopped at the tent flap. ”Do you think the fire was a prank, Mr. Barrington?”
”Hey, aren't you one of the Hardy boys?” Barrington asked, regaining his composure as he shook Frank's hand. ”I met your father once. A fine man and an excellent investigator.”
”Thanks,” Joe said, joining in. ”But seriously, Mr. Barrington, should we expect more —occurrences like this?”
”Go ask Mossport,” Barrington replied as the brothers headed out.
The team headed over to the motel, walking in silence—except for the soft hum of Scott's electric wheelchair. The sun was setting, leaving the adobe-style motel on the outskirts of El Paso in shadow.
”Did you see that computer equipment?” Frank asked.
”I don't care how much money Suntex has sunk into their car,” Bill said quickly. ”In the end, it's every car racing against itself.”
”That's right. And every racer has a different strategy. All the teams had to follow a set of specs, but each car is so unique in design, I feel we have a chance,” Teresa added.
”But, boy, what I could have done with all of their money!” Scott said wistfully.
”I still want to know what Barrington meant by that 'ask Mossport' crack,” Joe wondered out loud.
14
”Obviously, he thinks Mossport had something to do with the short—or whatever it was,” Callie replied.
”But why?” Teresa asked as she kicked a rock across the dusty parking lot of their motel.
”I don't know,” Scott said. ”Except I do want to make sure that no 'pranks' happen to the SUB. Maybe we should go check her out.”
”We'll go,” Frank said, speaking for Joe. ”On the way back, we'll see if anybody's still around, maybe talk to a few people and try to figure out what did happen in the Suntex tent.”
”Listen, Frank, you're my responsibility here. I don't want you and Joe playing detective and getting yourselves in some kind of fix.” Scott shook his head. ”We have enough to worry about!”
”Yeah, like that underdesigned suspension!” Bill joked.
”It'll take just a few minutes. We'll meet you at the dinner,” Frank replied.
”Okay,” Scott said. ”We'll save you seats.”
”What do you expect to see?” Joe asked as he followed Frank through the darkened parking lot toward the tents.
”Nothing, I hope.” Frank led the way into the SUB tent, turning on the battery-fed overhead light. It illuminated their support van and a tarp-covered mass—the SUB. Every car had
15
been wrapped up in a blue tarp to prevent any tinkering.
Frank and Joe looked over the plastic zipties fastening the tarp. They were all in place.
They checked the bright yellow support van's doors to make sure the telemetry computers were also locked up tight.
”Okay,” confirmed Joe, ”everything looks great. Let's go.”
”In a minute,” said Frank.
”Oh, no, you're not getting one of your ideas, are you?” Joe groaned. ”Scott told us to check on the SUB and get back for dinner.”
”That's not you talking, Joe,” Frank scolded. ”That's a message from your stomach. We'll eat, but first let's check out the tent next to Suntex. Maybe someone there saw something before the fire. Then straight to dinner, okay?”
Joe sighed. ”Oh, all right. I hope no one's around.”
The Hardys walked toward the Suntex tent, where they could see a guard was now positioned outside the flap.
”I guess they're not taking any chances!” Joe muttered.
Frank stopped before the Suntex tent. ”Here. We'll just stop in and see if anyone's here.”
Frank and Joe stood in the open flap of the dimly lit tent and cleared their throats simulta-
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neously to gain the attention of the two men examining their own tarp-covered car.
One of them turned and smiled. Frank had seen him at the press conference earlier. ”Hello, I am Dr. Schmidt,” the man said in a thick German accent. ”And you are?”
”I am, I mean, we are Joe and Frank Hardy,” replied Joe.
”We wanted to ask you a few questions,” Frank said, ”about the fire next door. Could you spare a minute?”
”We were thinking of going to dinner,” Dr Schmidt said, then smiled. ”But surely.”
”Did you see anything strange before it happened? Anyone going in or coming out?”
”You are with the police?” Schmidt asked.
”Oh, no, Doctor.” The other man stepped from the shadows. ”These are the Hardys. from the SUB team. Their father is a famous detective, I believe I heard Mr. Barrington say in the Suntex tent. Ah, I am sorry, I am rude not to introduce myself.” He extended his hand to Frank and then Joe, saying, ”I am Gunter Hoffer of Dr. Schmidt's illustrious team.”
Gunter was a compact man of about thirty with white blond hair and gray eyes.
”I saw you two on television,” said Joe. ”Dr. Schmidt, you brought your car over from Germany in a suitcase, right?”
”Four suitcases, to be exact,” replied Dr.
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Schmidt. ”I bring one, Gunter one, and my two daughters bring one each. The car has been designed with a collapsible frame and detachable panels for easy transport.”
”Did either of you notice anything unusual before the fire?” Frank asked.
”We saw nothing,” replied Dr. Schmidt.
”Any voices?” asked Frank.
”Maybe two voices, but it was hard to tell,” replied Dr. Schmidt.
”Did you see Elton Mossport go near the tent?” Joe blurted out.
”Earlier, maybe, yes. He goes in,” said Dr. Schmidt. ”Have I been of help to you?”
”Yes, thanks,” answered Joe as they headed out of the tent. ”If you think of anything else, we'll be around.”
”Thank you for your time, Dr. Schmidt, and thank you, Mr. Hoffer,” said Frank.
The Hardys hurried toward the motel and dinner. They piled their plates from a lavish buffet with everything from caviar to steak, then joined the SUB team.
Joe glanced over the crowded room, which was decorated in a racing theme, down to the checkered-flag centerpieces on each table. ”The question is, who's going to win?”
”We are,” replied Callie as she leaned close to Frank and whispered, ”Isn't that Joe's 'babe' over there?”
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Sharon Green had walked in with Mack Wilkinson.
Frank's eyebrows rose. ”Looks like she's already joined the enemy.”
”What did you find out?” asked Scott as he moved his wheelchair closer to Frank.
”Dr. Schmidt says Mossport made a visit to the Suntex tent before the fire,” Joe said, attacking a large piece of roast chicken.
Frank shot Joe a look. ”We asked if he saw anything. But he said he only heard a couple of voices.”
”Oooooh, mysterious,” Callie teased.
Frank shook his head as Teresa reminded them of the six-thirty A.M. recharge time. Everybody groaned.
”Remember, the first team up gets the best recharge spot,” Scott said.
”The sun shines all around here,” Joe said.
”Better in some places than others,” Scott replied. ”And the closer to the starting line, the better.”
”I saw a great spot,” Teresa reported. ”Totally unobstructed and near our tent.”
”Fine.” Scott smiled. ”Now go get some sleep so we can get up early and win this race!”
They all laughed as Bill waved the checkered flag from the centerpiece at their table. ”And—we're off!” He dashed from the room.
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”Well, he's off.” Teresa giggled.
As they left the dining room, Scott paused to speak to some of the other team captains.
The Hardys walked Callie and Teresa to their room and said good night. Teresa went in while Callie lingered at the open door.
”Well, are you going to talk to Mossport?” she asked Frank.
”Not tonight,” He put an arm around her.
”We've got a dawn wakeup call and a race to win!” Frank hesitated for a moment, glancing at Joe.
”Oh,” he said. ”Good night kiss time. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone.”
Callie lifted her face, smiling. Suddenly, Frank heard Joe yell, ”What are you doing in there?”
Frank whirled around to see Joe about four steps from their room. Their door was open wide, and someone was racing away, down the hall.
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Chapter  3
JOE CHASED the baseball-capped intruder into the stairwell. Callie and Frank checked out the motel room to see what damage had been done. The room was a mess. But, Frank reminded himself, it had been a mess that morning when they'd scrambled up at six to reach the trials on time. Frank saw nothing missing,
Joe returned to the room, laughing.
”Well, I caught her,” he said.
”Her?” Callie asked, ”A female admirer? Sharon Green?”
”I wish,” Joe answered. ”This 'her' is thirteen years old and wears braces.”
Joe went on to explain that he had caught up with the culprit in the stairwell. It seemed that Professor Schmidt's daughter Renata had
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mistakenly received the Hardys' room key from the front desk. She'd realized quickly that she was in the wrong place, started out of the room, then spotted the Hardys. Embarrassed, she'd started running.
”She speaks English pretty well but has never gone with her father to a race before. She's really excited to be here in America,” Joe said with a smile.
”I bet she was scared to death,” Frank said. Callie laughed. ”I know I'd be scared if some big lug chased me into a stairwell.”
”Nah, she got over it pretty fast—especially when I took her over to the office and got her the right key.”
”Well, that's enough excitement for one night.” Callie glanced at Frank. ”Or nearly.” ”Where are you going?” Joe asked as Frank followed her out the door. ”Unfinished business,” Frank said. He returned smiling a few minutes later and helped Joe neaten up the place a bit before bed. They talked about their suspicions of Mossport.
”We're also going to have to keep an eye on Bill Little,” Frank said. ”He may decide on a preemptive practical joke.”
Joe told Frank a story he'd heard about one of Bill's exploits the year before at the EcoSun Race. Bill had cross-wired an opponent's
22
solar array. The stunt had gone undetected for two days while it effectively sapped a quarter of the opposition's power.
”I heard about that,” Frank said. ”But they got back at him by cutting his car's hammock during the night. Scott told me Bill almost got badly hurt when the hammock gave way.”
Frank turned out the light. ”It's like a giant jigsaw puzzle,” he muttered into the darkness.
”What?” asked Joe.
”When you face a mystery, you wonder how everything fits together. You're not even sure you have the right pieces,” Frank said.
”I don't know what you're talking about,” Joe half groaned. ”I think what happened in the Suntex tent was a prank or a short—everybody thinks so.”
”Not so fast,” Frank went on. ”Look at today. First there was that run-in between Mossport and Barrington at the press conference. Obviously, there's some history between them. Then came the Sharon Green-Jeff Pelman blowout, followed by the Suntex fire.” Frank thought for a moment, then added, ”And we have a new connection between Sharon Green and Mack. Lots of pieces, huh, Joe?”
The only answer he got was a snore.
By eight-thirty the next morning, Frank and Joe had been up for two and a half hours.
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After a predawn wakeup call from Scott, they'd joined the rest of the SUB team for breakfast, then rushed off to their tent, waiting for the officials to unwrap the yellow and black SUB at six-thirty A.M.
As soon as the tarp was off, Frank, Joe, and Bill unsnapped the hatch on the racer's body so a judge could check that the six twelve-volt batteries were still in place. The power cells had been stenciled in tamperproof ink so no one could sneak in a set of fully charged batteries.
The hatch slid off, the official completed his inspection, and then Bill, Frank, and Joe pushed the SUB into the intense El Paso sunshine. The lightweight vehicle rolled smoothly on its bicycle tires to the spot Teresa had picked for recharging. They all angled the array of solar collectors on the hatch to catch the most direct light.
As Scott and Bill tightened up a few bolts on the suspension, Callie and Teresa doublechecked the teiemetric monitors that would send reports on the SUB's performance to the backup van. Frank and Joe finished prepping the van and had already pumped up a supply of extra bike tires for the SUB.
”Hey, Scott,” Joe asked, wiping his forehead. ”Okay if we check out the competition?”
24
At Scott's nod, the Hardys went to see the rival racers being prepared.
The other teams were all recharging also. Their cars were all over the motel parking lot, except for MIT's Nexxus, which sat on a small hill at the side of the motel, overlooking the starting line. With their black solar panels and curved bodies, Joe thought the cars looked like a colony of strange insects soaking up the sun.
Spectators and reporters milled around, taking pictures and asking for autographs. The sleek gold and black Suntex entry was charging up only a few feet from the SUB. Beyond it lay Mossport's green and gold entry, the Solar Terra. It had been designed to take advantage of the wind, with its solar array shaped like a sail.
Joe heard the ecology team, all in green T-shirts, chanting as they worked on the car.
”Is Mossport around?” Frank asked a young blond girl, hoping to question the team captain about the night before.
She shook her head, continuing her chanting. ”Does that help the car?” Joe asked, intrigued.
”Clears away bad vibes,” she said briefly.
Joe blinked. ”But how can you tell if the car has bad vibes?”
”If you don't know, I can't tell you,” she responded, going back into her chant.
The brothers turned and started up the hill
25
at the edge of the parking lot to take a look at the MIT entry—a sleek, low, golden racer that looked as if it had been broken hi two. Its topside solar array was also aimed directly toward the morning sun. Jeff Pelman and his crew members crouched over charts and readouts, making last-minute changes in their plan of action.
Joe scanned the group. ”I don't see Sharon Green. I wonder where she is today.”
”No telling,” Frank replied, sauntering toward Dr. Schmidt's blue and black entry, the Sonntag, parked downhill from the Nexxus. The Sonntag looked almost like an overturned boat with smooth curves and a sloping front end. Renata and her sister were helping Gunter and Dr. Schmidt adjust the hinged black hatch that was like a big bug eye. Schmidt had designed his racer to hug the ground, powering it partly with infrared heat collectors on the car's belly.
Joe waved to Renata and said, ”How are you doing?”
Renata broke into a grin, responding in a lightly accented voice, ”Fine, thank you.”
”I think you've found your babe, Joe,” Frank teased.
”Give me a break, Frank, she's a baby, not a babe,” responded Joe.
The Air Force Academy's car, the silver and black Mission Ray, was shaped like a wedge of
26
cheese. While their solar collectors recharged, Lawrence Gonzalez, the team captain, helped his crew members tighten the lock bolts necessary to bring the car within the official safety code.
”Good morning gentlemen,” said Gonzalez, mock saluting Frank and Joe.
”Good morning to you,” said Joe.
The next car was the Mitsushomi Motors entry, the black and red Rising Sun. It had the appearance of a long, flat wing sitting on one end. This design would allow the car to slice through the air, but still provide enough surface area to pick up sunlight. Taka Yoshida and his four-person crew were testing the new ventilation fan they'd installed over the batteries.
Joe had heard that during the test runs the old blower had been so loud, Taka's driver couldn't hear messages from the team support van, even wearing a headset. The problem was, they needed a fan to avoid a buildup of toxic fumes from the batteries.
Frank and Joe arrived back at the SUB just as the teams began to line up their cars for the race. The results of the trials the day before determined the order in which the entrants would start the race. First would be Suntex, with the SUB second, Mossport's Solar Terra third, MIT's Nexxus VII fourth, Dr. Schmidt's
27
blue and black Sonntag fifth, the Air Force Academy's entry sixth, and the Mitsushomi Motors' black and red Rising Sun seventh.
Each car would leave five minutes after the one proceeding it. A support van followed each car and provided information and coaching to the driver via two-way radio. The vans also carried spare parts and tools in case of mechanical problems. A chartered helicopter scouted in front of the caravan and sent back reports about road hazards or traffic conditions. After all, this was a real highway with real vehicles. Another copter carried race officials, while yet another was earmarked for Kyle Barrington. Highway patrol cars rode in front of and behind the convoy along with the members of the press.
Joe noticed that the heat from the highway rose like a wave of steam on the horizon. It was nine A.M. and already ninety degrees.
The Hardys helped lift the solar array into position. They headed for the support van, but Frank remembered something and returned to the SUB. Bill was inside the car working on his ”drink invention,” a long plastic tube stretched from his driver's helmet to a container of a lime-flavored high-energy drink called GOGET-EM. Anytime he was thirsty, he could sip on this extended straw. ”Bill,” Frank said as he leaned on the roll
28
bar over Bill's head, ”tune your radio to fifteen hundred. That's the frequency for radio contact. They told us earlier, but I forgot to pass it on.”
”No problem,” Bill said. ”Don't tell Scott, but I'm holding off putting on that iron mask of a helmet. It needs an air conditioner, not a drink tube.”
”There are still a few minutes. Joe and I'll be back to help get the hatch on.” Frank headed back to the support van to doublecheck the telemetry reception with Callie and Teresa. With the radioed information, they could advise the driver on how to conserve energy.
As Frank neared the van's rear door, he noticed MIT's Nexxus VII beginning to descend the hill directly above him to get in line for the race.
”Those show-offs don't mind wasting a little juice,” Frank muttered, watching the gleaming car roll down the slope.
Frank's eyes widened as the Nexxus started picking up speed. Suddenly it swerved. Now it was barreling down the hillside, headed straight at him!
29
Chapter  4
”HEADS UP!” A hurtling form caught Frank in a football tackle. Both he and the tackler tumbled just barely clear of the onrushing car. When Frank got to his feet, he saw his rescuer was Lawrence Gonzalez, the captain of the Air Force Academy team. Together, they ran after the MIT car, which crashed into the side of an empty media bus parked near the Suntex car.
The driver, Jeff Pelman, was frantically banging on the hatch of the Nexxus VII to open it and get out. The impact had damaged the solar array, apparently jamming the hatch into place.
Frank and Lawrence finally unsnapped the top of the car and helped Pelman out.
”What happened?” Frank demanded.
30
”The steering rod seemed to snap,” Jeff Pelman cried. ”I couldn't control her.” He looked down at his damaged creation with horror.
The MIT crew arrived at a run to see if a quick fix could get the car going again. One glance told them too much damage had been sustained. As Frank and Lawrence watched the support team's efforts, Frank noticed that Sharon Green wasn't with them.
Jeff Pelman climbed out of the car. ”You guys sure you're okay?” He shuddered. ”When I think I nearly ran you over ...”
”No harm done.” Frank said. Then he remembered the condition of the car and added, ”At least, not to me.”
At that moment Kyle Harrington rushed up with two race officials to inspect the damage.
”Nice tackle,” Frank told Lawrence Gonzalez. ”You going out for varsity?”
Lawrence laughed, then frowned, looking at the ruined racer. ”Right now, I want to triplecheck my car before we have to roll.”
”Look at this!” Frank heard somebody from the MTT support team exclaim. ”Someone weakened the steering rod by sawing it halfway through.”
Pelman looked sick. ”Then it was sabotage.”
”If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was an air force job,” another crewmate commented darkly.
31
Barrington and the officials all glanced at the air force team captain.
Lawrence stiffened. ”There's no way you can pin this on me or anybody on my team,” he said, then turned away.
Lawrence shook his head as he walked off with Frank. ”The Air Force Academy team has always had a reputation for practical jokes,” he explained. ”That's just our way. But this is more than a joke.”
”By the way, I should thank you for saving my life. I'm Frank Hardy, working tech support for the SUB team.”
The cadet shook Frank's hand and said, ”You owe me one, Hardy.”
Before they split up to head to their respective cars, Frank stopped. ”What do you think really happened back there?” he asked.
”Well, it was no design problem. Jeff Pelman has been building solar cars since he was a kid. And since he hooked up with Sharon Green, they've been the team to beat. She can make a toaster sing, she's such a wizard with electronics. But they had a major split-up last night.”
”You think she sawed that rod?” Frank asked.
”She had the opportunity and maybe a motive. But would she actually do it?” Lawrence shrugged, then glanced hard at Frank. ”What's
32
with the twenty questions? You a detective or something?”
”Or something,” Frank said as Lawrence walked off.
On the way back to the SUB, Frank passed the Suntex car. The team was in the middle of positioning the solar array on the sleek machine. Mack Wilkinson was inside. Leaning over the car, talking to him in a hushed voice, was Sharon Green. Frank noticed that she had a Suntex T-shirt on.
”Well, well, well,” Frank muttered as he reached the SUB support van.
Joe appeared at the back door. ”Some people will do anything to avoid last-minute chores. But getting yourself run over may be too much.”
”From the way you ran over to help, I can tell you were really concerned,” Frank said.
”I didn't see it happening because I was doing my work,” Joe replied virtuously. ”I only heard about it now. So,” Joe asked expectantly, ”what went on?”
”Somebody took a hacksaw to the Nexxus's steering rod,” Frank said.
Joe frowned. ”That sounds like real sabotage, not a joke.”
”It also puts last night's fire in a different light,” Frank said. ”When the Suntex computer telemetry cable went up, Mack Wilkin-
33
son said it could have been a short or a prank. What does it look like now?”
Joe whistled.
”That's right,” Frank said. ”Sabotage.”
”We'd better keep a close watch on our car,” Joe said, ”and see if we can nail the saboteur.”
Frank nodded. ”So our first question is, who would benefit most from sabotaging the other racers?”
”Suntex,” Joe said promptly. ”They've got a gazillion dollars invested in their car.” Frank shook his head. ”Suntex can afford it. This race isn't that important to them.”
”It means prestige,” Joe argued. ”When you come down to it, the whole Solar Challenge thing is just a thinly veiled publicity stunt for the Suntex car. That's a pretty good motive.”
”It is a good motive,” Frank agreed. ”But how does it fit in with Suntex being the first to be sabotaged?”
Joe stood silent for a moment, thinking. ”Maybe our first question shouldn't be who gains by the sabotage but who suffers.”
Frank smiled. ”I see. If we can find some kind of common denominator among the teams being sabotaged, it will help us identify the culprit. Although I already have one semisuspect.”
”That's quick,” Joe said. ”Who?”
34
”Lawrence Gonzalez.”
Joe stared. ”The guy who saved you?”
”The air force cadets have a reputation for pranks. And wasn't it lucky that their captain just happened to be on hand to save me?”
”Like he was ready to save anyone if the steering thing got out of hand,” Joe said, nodding slowly.
”Hey, guys.” Callie popped her head out of the back door of the van. ”It just came over the radio. They've pushed back the start-off because of the MIT accident. There's going to be an investigation.”
”Let's go tell Bill Little,” Frank said.
They arrived back at the SUB to find their driver still tinkering with his ”drinking invention.”
”A delay? That's cool,” Bill said. ”I'll go enjoy the air-conditioning in the support van until it's time to start. It's like an oven in here already.”
The Hardys helped Bill out, and then they all headed for the van. No sooner were they inside than Scott Sanders gave them the latest news. ”It's official. The MIT entry has been scrubbed. The team's heading back to Boston.”
”Bummer,” Bill said. ”I can't imagine coming this far and not getting to race.
”At the drivers' briefing Kyle Barrington gave us a long lecture about cheating, pranks,
35
and fair competition,” Bill said. ”I thought it would never end!”
Frank's dark eyes glinted with speculation. ”They were worried about the drivers being honest?”
”Oh, yeah. They even told us that tickets would be given for reckless driving,” Bill said. Scott frowned.
Leaving Bill to enjoy the relative coolness of the van, the SUB team returned to the racer to double-check everything.
A few minutes later Bill emerged from the support van. ”Okay,” he called, ”they're starting up again.”
Team members swarmed around the Suntex vehicle. As the officials gave the signal, Mack Wilkinson started his engine. It whined quietly, like a blender on wheels. Kyle Barrington stepped forward, smiling for the press.
”I'm proud to be here today, officially starting the First Annual Suntex Solar Challenge,” Barrington began. ”Our company is thrilled to be sponsoring the race. Solar-powered cars are the wave of the future!” He held the starting pistol in his hand and fired it into the air. The crowd cheered as the Suntex car drove off.
”Well, that's one down and six to go,” Bill said as Frank and Joe lifted the hatch at the top of the SUB.
36
”Five to go,” Frank corrected. ”MIT is out, remember?”
”Oh, yeah.” Bill grimaced, then his usual grin appeared. ”Well, boys, if you'll just dump my little solar hatch in place, I'll don my helmet and we'll get started.” He took a sip of his GO-GET-EM.
”Stuff looks like antifreeze,” Joe muttered as they hoisted the solar array into place, then snapped the hatch into position.
”Okay, Bill,” Frank said loudly through the roof of the hatch. ”Once we get back to the van, we'll call to make sure the communications system is working.”
Bill held up his thumb and index finger in an okay signal, and Frank and Joe rushed back to the van.
As they ran they saw Barrington and Sharon Green climbing aboard one of the choppers.
”What do you think your babe is up to now?” Frank asked Joe.
”Off to new heights, I guess,” Joe replied with a grin. ”It sure looks like she's got new friends in high places. Maybe Jeff made her so mad she's joined the Suntex side.”
”I don't think Suntex needs her help,” Frank observed. ”Barrington thinks he's got this race in the bag.”
Frank opened the door of the van as Scott
37
turned on the intervehicle communications system.
”Hello, Bill?” Scott spoke into the microphone on the radio console in the back of the van. ”Can you hear me, Bill?”
Scott checked the radio frequency and volume to make sure they were correct. But there was no response.
”Bill, are you there?” Scott turned to Frank and Joe. ”Maybe you'd better—”
He was interrupted by a scream of pain coming through the speaker—a scream that could only have come from Bill Little!
38
Chapter  5
FRANK AND JOE BOLTED out the back of the van and dashed for the SUB. They could hear Bill screaming even through the closed hatch. In less than six seconds they had the hatch off and Bill was out tearing off his helmet. He held his head in shaking hands, gasping.
As Joe went to help Bill, Frank picked up the helmet. A wire had been stripped of its insulation and was shooting sparks right at ear level.
Teresa and Callie joined them, Callie carrying the support van's medical kit. Frank pulled Joe aside as the girls went to care for Bill. ”Do you think Lawrence Gonzalez could have done this?”
Just then Scott pulled his wheelchair up to
39
Bill, Teresa, and Callie. ”Bill's in pretty bad shape,” Teresa reported.
”Did somebody call for an ambulance?”
Scott yelled out.
Teresa cradled Bill's head in her arms while they waited. Within minutes, an ambulance screamed up, and two copters touched down beside the SUB. Kyle Barrington emerged from one, followed by race officials from the other. One of them took the helmet away to examine as the medics carried Bill away.
”What's going on here?” Barrington demanded.
”That's what we'd like to know!” Scott retorted. ”A couple of pranks are one thing, but these last two stunts could have gotten someone killed! I want to know who did this.”
”I can assure you we'll make every effort to find out,” Barrington told Scott, with a critical eye on the officials examining the helmet.
Press people ran up to get a statement from Barrington, but he was speaking to Scott. ”Get your alternate driver ready, if you're still racing, that is.”
”We're racing, all right. Just give us three minutes!” Scott barked. He was fuming as he gestured for Frank, Joe, Callie, and Teresa to join him back in the support van.
Barrington turned toward the reporters, but the words he spoke through the bullhorn slung
40
round his neck were for general consumption. ”This is Kyle Barrington speaking. I urge all team captains to stop all pranks now! I will not tolerate any more practical jokes. Now, let's get back to the race!”
Barrington maintained a gracious smile as he walked briskly through the crowd of reporters and boarded his helicopter.
Scott steered his wheelchair up the ramp at the back of the van. As he did, Joe turned to Frank and said, ”Lawrence Gonzalez is probably at it again.”
”You were hot on Mossport before,” Callie snapped. ”Lawrence saved Frank's life.”
”It could be either one, or maybe both,” Frank pointed out.
”Whoever it was pulled a neat trick.” Scott frowned. ”We triple-checked the car but left the helmet.”
Scott nodded. ”The new driver had better be extra careful out there.”
”And who will that be?” Teresa asked as she turned from the telemetry control board. ”I'm out—I need to be here with the computers. How about Callie? We'd have to add weights to make up the difference between her and Bill.” She caught Joe's puzzled expression. ”Our driving plan is based on the SUB carrying a hundred-and-eighty-pound payload.”
41
”If there were no problems, it'd be fine for Callie to race,” Frank spoke up. ”But with this sabotage I think she'd be too vulnerable.”
”Thanks for your vote of support,” Callie protested.
”Look, guys,” Scott interrupted, I'm the captain, so I decide which one of us goes.”
Scott looked at Callie and said, ”Sorry, but you're trained in battery usage evaluation. We need you in the van.” He then turned to Frank. ”We didn't rig the SUB or the van for my legs, so I need you to drive—”
”No fair!” Joe interrupted. ”I've driven the SUB.”
”As I was saying,” Scott continued sternly, ”Frank, I need you to drive the van, and Joe, you'll drive the SUB. But, please be careful out there!”
Joe did a little victory dance, pulling down his elbows and thrusting up his knees as he chanted, ”Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Teresa grabbed his arm. ”Now listen. Just keep the speed even for the first hour. No heroics, okay?”
”And make sure you stay in the sunlight,” Scott added. ”Take the middle lane if you can. Trees, brush, and small hills near the road can block the sun.”
”I know about catching rays,” Joe told them.
Scott dug out the spare helmet. ”Check this
42
out for tampering before you put it on—and then get out there.”
”Right, Captain!” Joe gave a mock salute, grabbed the new helmet, and jumped out the back of the support van. ”Too bad I can't bring some tunes with me. I saw Mack pack a humongous boom box—”
”No way,” Teresa cut in. ”You'd never be able to hear our audio commands.”
”Teresa's right,” Scott said. ”We need you to pay attention to the road and our readouts, not the next song on your CD player.” He turned to Frank and Callie. ”You'll have to help with the hatch. And be sure to doublecheck that suspension.”
”I want you to be careful,” Frank said as he and Callie escorted Joe to the SUB.
”Hey,” Joe responded. ”I'm always careful.”
”More like never careful,” Frank replied. ”Don't try to solve this case from behind the wheel of the SUB, okay? I'll be backing you up in the van, but I can't control what's going on ahead of you.”
”No,” Joe said with a grin, ”that's telemetry's job, right, Callie?”
”Well, we didn't have scouts drive over the course three times like the Suntex people did, and we don't have information from military satellites like the Air Force Academy team
43
has”—Callie gave a little shrug—”but we're the best you've got.”
Frank frowned. ”I mean it, Joe. Someone is playing rough, and going out there makes you a target. Stay away from Mossport.”
”And Lawrence,” added Joe as he carefully climbed into the SUB and sat down. The interior looked like a fighter cockpit. Joe sat in a suspended hammock made of nylon fibers, much like a lawn chair. It was a very close fit, even without the hatch closed.
”Nice smell in here,” Joe said. ”Hot metal and sweat.” He fastened the three-way safety belt over each shoulder and between his legs, then double-checked the new helmet for loose wires. Finally he put it on. Frank and Callie lifted the solar-array hatch over the top of the SUB, slid it into its grooves, and snapped it into place. Then they ran back to the support van.
Frank got into the driver's seat beside Scott, and Callie joined Teresa in back with the telemetry gear.
”Hello,” Scott spoke into the microphone to Joe. ”Joe? Are you there?”
Joe moved the helmet microphone in line with his mouth and spoke. ”I read you loud and clear, Captain.”
”Good,” Scott replied. ”And you're coming in loud and clear here, let's check a few of
44
the gauges before we start. Flip on the power switch.”
Joe snapped the power switch. The dashboard gauges flickered, feeding off the six twelve-volt silicon batteries stored behind his seat. The switch also started the blower, which cooled the batteries and dispersed their fumes. Air began to circulate inside the SUB. There were no windows—just a windshield with a mirror mounted on the top for a rear view.
Although he was very familiar with the car, Joe felt slightly claustrophobic every time he got in. He knew the feeling would go away once he got moving, but the heat would not.
”Now check the amp hour meter marked AHM. We've got a full charge on our batteries from this morning, so that should be set at zero.”
”Right on the mark,” Joe replied. ”And if I get more energy, it should go into the negative numbers and flash green, right?”
”Right,” Scott responded. ”Next, check the turn signals, first right, then left.”
Joe did.
”Okay,” Scott went on. ”What does the temperature gauge read?”
”It says one twenty.” Joe groaned.
”It will cool down once you get going,” Scott said, consoling him. ”Take a look at the volt meter. What does it say?”
”Seventy-two.” Joe sighed.
45
”Fire extinguisher?” Scott asked.
”Check,” Joe replied, ”I'd use it now if it would cool me off.”
”Try some of the GO-GET-EM,” Frank suggested. ”Maybe your own voltage is a little drained.”
”Has this stuff been tested?” Joe asked.
”It came right out of the free case we got when we joined the race,” Scott said. ”Now, let's try the regenerative braking as you move into place. Turn the knob to send a little current through the controller. It puts the motor into regenerative mode, running it backward so it actually becomes a generator and feeds energy into the batteries. Okay, that's it. Testing's over. Now let's win this race!”
As the SUB moved into position some ten minutes late, one of the officials held up a checkered flag.
”What happened to the gun?” Joe asked.
”I guess Barrington reserved his big bang for Mack's send-off.” Scott chuckled. ”Look at it this way—a flag is a lot safer.”
”We're right behind you,” Frank said. ”You okay?”
”Sure.” Joe grabbed the tubing that Bill had rigged to connect the jug of GO-GET-EM to his helmet and sucked on it. ”This green gunk isn't half bad.”
The flag rose, then dropped suddenly, and
46
Joe headed straight for the ramp that led onto the highway. The crowd cheered the SUB on its way.
Joe accelerated. The asphalt rushed by inches beneath him. He was relieved to feel some air movement around him and began to feel a bit cooler as the SUB picked up speed. Then the steering wheel seemed to resist him.
”Something doesn't feel right here,” Joe said into the microphone.
Before anyone in the van could respond, Joe felt the front tires jerk to the right, away from their intended course. As if possessed by demons, the SUB veered straight toward a concrete embankment!
47
Chapter  6
JOE FOUGHT the steering wheel with all his strength. He pulled frantically to the left to avoid the deadly obstacle rushing toward him.
Muscles straining, Joe wrenched the wheel, and it was good enough to avert disaster. Mere feet from dashing itself against the concrete wall, the car pulled out of its trajectory. He heaved a sigh of relief as he got the car back on course.
”For crying out loud,” Scott's voice blared over the radio. ”What are you doing? Remember, the torque is different in the SUB. You press the accelerator too much and you fly!”
”I barely touched the pedal,” Joe gasped.
Scott calmed down a little. ”Take it easy, okay? We can't afford to lose another driver.”
48
”So far our real-time telemetry readouts are on target,” Teresa said into her microphone in the back of the van. ”Today's leg of the race heads north. In a couple of miles you'll be out of Texas and into New Mexico. You'll cross the desert to Las Cruces, then turn west to Lordsburg, near the Arizona-New Mexico border. It's about a hundred and sixty miles. At the speed limit, that route should take about three hours. I'd like you to keep the SUB at fifty-five miles per hour for two hours, then take her up to sixty-five for the last lap. Do you follow me?”
”Got it,” Joe said.
Through the first half hour of the race, the support team went over the readings on the gauges with Joe and monitored the telemetry readouts inside the van. Joe responded to their cues and took occasional sips of GO-GET-EM. His eyes were constantly scanning the rolling, sandy horizon for trouble.
”Where are we?” Joe asked.
”Almost to Las Cruces, New Mexico,” Teresa replied.
”Do people live out here? I mean, it looks like desert.”
”That's because it is desert.” Scott laughed.
”We'll hit some greenery soon,” Teresa
49
added. ”There are irrigated farms around the town itself.”
”What's the matter, Joe, are you hot?” Callie teased.
”You better believe it,” Joe answered. ”It's bad enough wearing a space helmet and having the sun beat down on the roof. But I'm even catching heat coming up from the highway through the wheel wells!”
”At least the suspension is okay. Right, Joe?” Scott asked.
”Fine, I guess,” Joe said. ”But it is pretty weird, doing fifty-five miles an hour six inches above the ground.”
”Hey,” Scott said, ”the lower you get, the less wind resistance.”
”If you say so,” Joe responded.
”I sure hope Bill's going to be okay,” Teresa commented.
”All we can do is hope,” Scott replied solemnly. ”He'd have wanted us to go on with the race. I'm sure of it.”
For a moment no one said anything, but then Teresa spoke up. ”We should be coming into Las Cruces very soon.”
As the caravan approached the town, the SUB team saw a crowd lined up on either side of the highway. They were all holding banners wishing the teams good luck.
”At least they're keeping their banners well
50
back from the road,” Joe chuckled. ”Wouldn't want them blocking my solar panels.”
Joe took the westward curve in the road and didn't go right into the town. Soon he was in parched scrubland again. ”This scenery is boring,” Joe announced over the radio.
”Maybe we could entertain Joe by going over the suspects in this case,” Callie proposed.
”As long as he keeps the SUB on the straight and narrow,” Scott warned.
”If I were doing these things,” Frank thought out loud, ”I'd try to divert attention from myself by sabotaging my own car—a little. What do you guys think?”
”Sounds possible,” Joe commented.
Teresa's fingers were flying over a calculator as she rechecked her figures for speed over the remainder of the day.
Callie suddenly glanced at the open mike. ”Is this channel secure?” she asked. ”Can anyone else listen in on our conversation?”
Frank shrugged. ”Each team has an assigned frequency. There's really no reason to eavesdrop, unless—”
”Unless someone is worried we're going to solve this case,” Joe interrupted. ”Hey, who's that up there?”
Beyond Joe, just disappearing around a slight bend in the road, was a gold and black
51
support van. He took the curve. Ahead he saw the van again, led by the Suntex car.
”I can see the Suntex car. Can I take him? We've been such good little kids, just tooling along at fifty-five. Give the go-ahead, Captain,” Joe begged.
Scott glanced back. ”What do you think, Teresa?”
”I think the only way we're going to win this leg is if we actually come in first.” Teresa frowned over her calculations. ”We just don't have the battery reserve Suntex has, so the only way to win is to outdrive them.” A determined grin lit up her face. ”I say put the pedal to the metal!”
Joe scanned the horizon. For the moment he and the Suntex team were alone on the road— he couldn't even see the highway patrol cars that were in front of the pack. He took a deep breath and signaled, then passed the Suntex van. Adrenaline rushed through him as he sped up, preparing to overtake the Suntex racer next. He felt as if he were flying now, the landscape a blur around him.
As he pulled ahead of Mack, a blaring bass beat penetrated the SUB's sealed cabin, drowning out even the hum of Joe's own engine. ”You hear that?” Joe said into his mike. ”Mack must have some boom box. I don't
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know how he can hear himself think with the volume up so high!”
Scott and the others laughed. Frank leaned toward the radio. ”Didn't you say you wished you had some music to keep you company?”
”That wasn't music,” Joe responded. ”That was noise, pure and simple.”
Joe finished passing followed by the SUB support van.
Frank glanced in the rearview mirror to spot a wedge-shaped, black and silver vehicle surging down the left lane to pass the Suntex team. It was Lawrence Gonzalez in the Mission Ray.
”Don't look now,” Frank radioed Joe, ”but you're about to have some company.”
”Joe,” Scott warned, ”don't play Road Warrior. Let him pass.”
”I'm not at full speed,” Joe protested. ”Let me take her up to sixty-five, and we'll see if the air force can really fly.”
”No,” Scott commanded, ”not on these curves. I need you to keep her at sixty. It's test enough.”
Suddenly static filled the van, and a new voice came onto the SUB's frequency.
”May the best man win,” the voice mocked.
”Hey, that's Lawrence!” Joe cried.
Lawrence waved to Joe as he took the lead. The sound of the Mission Ray's engine fill Joe's ears.
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Back in the van, Joe's voice came over the radio. ”I wonder how long he's been on our frequency?” he snapped.
”And do you remember what we were just saying about who'd want to eavesdrop?” Frank said.
”Each car radio's frequency is supposed to be secret,” Scott said. ”But, Joe, I don't want you brooding over the breach in security. Just keep the speed below sixty-five, and watch your temper. I'll take it up with the officials when we get to Lordsburg. Frank, you can— What is it? Somebody else trying to pass?”
”In a way,” Frank said, his eyes locked on the rearview mirror. The air force support van was now neck and neck with the Suntex racer. Frank had been watching so he could get out of the way if Mack Wilkinson decided to fight for the lead. But now another party was coming in—not on the road but over it. A helicopter swooped dangerously low over the Suntex racer.
Scott craned his neck out the window. ”What frequency do we use to contact the officials? This is ridiculous!”
Scott tried to radio the officials, but all he got was dead air.
Callie and Teresa cried out, staring through the tinted back windows of the van.
Frank scanned the road, then glanced in the
54
rearview mirror again. The helicopter was buzzing the Suntex van and Mack Wilkinson's racer.
Even in the loaded van, Frank felt the downdraft of the chopper rotors, but the effect on the lightweight Suntex car was much worse.
The racer tilted, then flew off the road!
55
Chapter  7
THE SUB SUPPORT TEAM stared at the scene behind them. Mack had vaulted from the Suntex car, checking the solar panel for damage. His teammates poured from the support van. Before Frank lost sight of them, he saw Mack hopping back into his car.
”Guess the Suntex racer's okay,” Callie said.
”Mack probably never even heard that chopper coming.” Joe laughed over the radio when he'd heard the story. ”His boom box would drown out the sound of the rotors!”
”It looked like an air force copter to me,” Scott said. ”Holloman Air Force Base isn't too far from here.”
”Really?” Joe said in a fake shocked voice. ”You mean Captain Lawrence might be pulling pranks?”
56
”It looks that way,” Frank admitted. ”But then, looks can be deceiving.”
”If the air force wasn't behind it, then who was?” Joe argued.
”I'm going to report this to the race officials,” Scott cut in. ”And I'd like to know where their chopper was when it happened.”
”Now, less arguing and more driving,” Teresa said. ”We're about to enter a heavily wooded area. Joe will need to do some incredible driving to keep the array in the sun.”
The land outside the windows had changed as they'd driven on. Instead of desert, scrub grass had appeared, burnt almost brown by the sun. By noon, the SUB was approaching Deming, New Mexico, and the forests of Rock Hound State Park. Joe was still in second place behind Lawrence. Teresa and Callie constantly checked the telemetry equipment to monitor the state of the batteries. Frank kept an eye in the rearview mirror for the next move from the Suntex team or another airborne surprise. Instead, he saw Dr. Schmidt's racer pass the Suntex car.
”Go for it, Dr. Schmidt!” Frank cheered.
Scott immediately radioed the news to Joe and began discussing the most effective driving cycle for the car to achieve the best efficiency.
Teresa's and Callie's calculations were clear. Driving at sixty, the SUB could cover forty more miles and still have enough of a charge
57
in the batteries to win this leg of the race— provided the air force car wasn't as efficient. The problem was that Lordsburg was more than sixty miles away.
”You'll have to take it back to fifty-five miles an hour, Joe,” Scott instructed. ”And get in the left lane. You'll have a better shot at the sun from over there.”
”Gotcha,” Joe said, shifting lanes. ”It's still a bit shady. Any more ideas?”
”He could push his feet through the bottom and run,” Callie suggested with a grin.
”No human power allowed.” Teresa laughed, shaking her finger. ”It says so in the rules. But we might have a little help from the local geography. If I'm reading this map correctly, we'll be hitting a nice, long downward incline. You might be able to make up a little power.”
”You need to keep up your fluid intake,” Callie said. ”How is your GO-GET-EM supply holding out?”
Joe glanced at the plastic bottle wedged against the cockpit. Bill's drinking invention had worked out well, and there was still plenty of fluid in the large plastic container.
”It's fine,” he replied. The SUB topped a small hill and started on the downslope. Beyond the windshield, the gray-green forest spread all around the highway. ”It's beautiful here.”
58
”See?” Frank said. ”If you'd just stop complaining, you might actually enjoy the drive!”
”Yeah. Too bad I can't pull over for a nice picnic lunch,” Joe kidded. ”Tomorrow I'm going to dress more appropriately. Either a swimsuit or a pair of shorts.”
”Oh, great!” Scott laughed. ”Then if the highway patrol pulls you over, they can nail you for indecent exposure as well as driving without headlights.”
”Hey!” Joe realized, ”That's right! We don't have lights on this thing. What happens if I get pulled over?”
”Kyle Harrington and company have supposedly squared away those details with the local law,” Scott replied.
”Speaking of getting pulled over,” Frank said, ”look out behind!”
Two New Mexico Highway Patrol cars appeared at the crest of the hill behind them. They were hitting at least one hundred miles an hour. Scott, Callie, and Teresa turned to see the cars as they roared by Dr. Schmidt's car and headed straight toward them and Joe.
”Joe, get in the right lane, NOW!” Scott shouted. ”And hold tight!”
Joe switched lanes just in time for the two patrol cars to whizz by.
”Hey!” Joe finally responded when the cars were past. ”Where's the fire?”
59
”I don't know,” Scott replied, ”but the officials should have sent us a message to expect them.”
”Unless they can't send us a message,” Frank suddenly suggested.
”Right!” Scott turned to the mike, his voice grave. ”Joe, something big must be going on down the highway. Slow down, and keep your eyes open!”
”We're approaching the steep downhill section,” Teresa announced.
”Okay, Joe,” Scott said, ”we still have a chance to win this race if you drive smart. Use your brakes all the way down this slope. But watch out for what's ahead, okay?”
”Right, Cap'n,” Joe replied. ”Regenerative braking on—and whoa! I'm hitting the brakes!” The road curved on the slope, and as Joe went around the bend he saw signs of an accident—a big one.
”Got a bad wreck on the left side of the road,” Joe reported. ”Maybe a gasoline truck. Something leaked, and there's a fair-size fire. The highway patrol is trying to get the driver out.”
”What's the mile marker?” Scott questioned frantically. ”Get the mile marker so I can radio a warning to the other cars before we have another accident.”
60
”I don't see one,” Joe replied. ”I think the truck hit it.”
”Scott,” Frank asked, ”How can we get the frequencies for the other cars?”
”Where are the officials—they don't seem to be around!” Scott glanced unhappily at Frank. ”And we can't get to the other teams. We don't know their frequencies. Tight security, remember?”
”Then how did Lawrence know ours?” Callie asked.
”I'd love to know—especially since he didn't radio this news to us.” Scott turned to the radio. ”We'll just try every frequency until we reach Dr. Schmidt. We've got to get through and give him some warning.”
Scott began to run through every frequency on the dial searching for Dr. Schmidt's team.
Up ahead, Joe was just passing the accident site. How ironic, he thought. Our solar cars are driving past this fossil fuel nightmare.
He tried to reach the support van with more details, but only got static on his radio. Then he remembered Lawrence Gonzalez's eavesdropping on their frequency. ”Hello?” he said into his mike. ”Lawrence? You still out there?”
”No,” answered Lawrence, ”I'm on my own frequency where I belong.”
”Then how are you talking to me?” Joe asked.,
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”Military secret,” Lawrence said, chuckling.
”Did you get past the truck okay?”
”Barely,” Lawrence's voice got tight. ”He skidded out of control just as I went by. A close call.”
”Did you notify the officials?” Joe asked.
”What officials?” Lawrence laughed cynically. ”I sure haven't heard from them. As far as I can tell, it's every man for himself.”
”At least you have contact with your support van.” Joe put a hand over his mike. ”Which is more than I've got.” He suddenly felt very isolated.
The SUB hummed softly as Joe looked back and saw the patrol cars clustered around the flipped-over truck.
He saw his support van pass the wreck on the right and breathed a sigh of relief. Then, in a flash of black and blue, Dr. Schmidt's Sonntag approached the scene of the accident. Joe hoped that Schmidt had received some kind of warning about the dangers ahead. But as Schmidt got closer, Joe noticed that his car was drifting in the wrong direction to avoid the wreck.
The SUB support van began honking its horn and blinking its lights.
As Joe stared in horror, the Sonntag began an uncontrollable skid toward the wall of flames.
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Chapter
8
FRANK SEARCHED FOR A SPOT to park. He wanted to go back to help, but he knew he couldn't leave the van where it would block an ever-shrinking route past the wreckage. Besides folding itself in two and flipping over, the huge tanker truck was leaking an oil slick across the highway.
Frank had been far enough over to avoid it. Schmidt, however, hit the edge of the slick. For a second it looked as if he was headed right into the flaming wreck, but then his car spun again, flipped, and tumbled away.
Frank stopped the SUB support vehicle and opened the door. At least Dr. Schmidt's van had avoided the oil. It whipped across the road to park near the Sonntag, the team scurry-
63
ing out. Highway patrol officers and the driver of the truck, who got out of the wreck, ran to help turn the Sonntag over. Frank saw Schmidt's daughter Renata pull frantically on the crushed overhead solar panels to free her father. Dr. Schmidt climbed out of the car, his hands raised to show he was all right. With a sigh, Frank got back in the van and continued on. The wail of an ambulance siren came from the distance.
”Well, that was a definite accident,” Frank said. ”No one could have planted that gasoline truck.”
”But why didn't anyone radio a warning about the wreck?” Teresa wanted to know. ”One of the race helicopters, the highway patrol—even that air force chopper had to have passed this mess. Why didn't we hear anything?”
”Maybe someone didn't want us to know about it,” Scott answered. ”Or about anything else that might happen along the way.”
”Radio jamming?” Callie said.
”That's a pretty long stretch,” Frank said. ”But I don't like all these communications problems, either.”
They hurriedly contacted Joe to make sure their radio equipment was working and to explain what had happened.
Joe answered them anxiously. ”Where have
64
you guys been?” he asked. ”I've been talking to the enemy out here.”
”What?” Scott asked. ”Are you all right?”
”I'm fine,” Joe responded. ”When I couldn't contact you, I talked with Lawrence.”
”We were off the air for a few minutes, trying to find Dr. Schmidt's radio frequency,” Scott explained. ”We were pulling over to wave him down when he came zooming past.”
”He had to be doing sixty-five,” Teresa added. ”I guess he wanted to make the most of this downhill slope.”
”We tried to warn him, but it was too late to stop the accident,” Frank said.
”Is Schmidt okay?” Joe asked. ”The last I saw, he was headed straight into the fire.”
”His guardian angel was busy today,” Scott replied.
”You mean he's still in the race?” Joe cried in disbelief.
”No way.” Frank picked up the story. ”His array is totally crushed.”
”How does your AHM read?” Scott said, changing the subject.
Joe looked at the amp hour meter and saw the green light flashing.
”Good news here,” Joe replied, ”we're in the green!”
A moment later, however, his triumph went sour. The Suntex car came barreling along at
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over seventy miles an hour on an uphill grade. The mild solar hum of the SUB's engine was drowned out by the loud thump of bass guitars from Mack Wilkinson's boom box.
Teresa frowned, her fingers flickering over her calculator as the Suntex support van roared past. ”Even with his extra battery efficiency, I don't see how Mack can use this kind of power to take the lead. He won't have enough of a charge left to meet the battery reserve rules.”
”Then why is he doing it?” Joe asked as Mack waved to the beat of the music.
”His batteries will be bone-dry by the time he gets to Lordsburg,” Scott complained.
”So,” Joe asked, ”if I were to follow suit, what would happen?”
”I'd run you down with this van,” Scott warned. ”No hotdogging. I don't want a dead hero on my hands. Just do what we tell you, and we'll come out fine.”
”Remember, we get points for conserving power,” Teresa said. ”Suntex has blown a lot of theirs by taking the hill at such high speed. We, on the other hand, have”—she glanced at the telemetry monitor—”sixty-two percent of our power. Factor that in, and we could even let a couple of other cars pass us and still end up in second, maybe even first place for this lap.”
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”Maybe Mack is just more concerned about this part of the race than tomorrow's leg,” Frank suggested.
”That's possible,” Teresa admitted. ”With all their incredible telemetry, road scans, and weather reports, maybe Suntex knows something about tomorrow's leg that we don't.”
”I can't run my race on someone else's telemetry,” Scott confirmed. ”We'll just have to do what makes the most sense for us. Joe, are you still there?”
”Yes,” Joe answered over the radio. ”I'm still here, poking along at fifty-five. In third place and still sweating.”
The SUB support team continued to discuss the battery reserve ratio needed to win, to compensate for not arriving first.
”It's hard to tell what the actual average will be,” Teresa said. ”But my educated guess would be the battery reserve should be somewhere between sixty-five and seventy percent for the winning car, unless they have a secret weapon of some kind.”
”Like what?” asked Frank.
Teresa shrugged. ”Using some other kind of energy to fuel their car. It would be against the rules, but it's been done before.”
”How do you police that?” Frank asked with a sigh. ”There must be at least a million
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ways to cheat in one of these races if you really want to.”
Scott nodded. ”But it's a lot easier to sabotage other people than it is to cheat,” he added darkly.
”Let me see if I've got the bottom line, though,” Joe said. ”If Mack uses up too much of his energy reserve, he'll never be able to recharge enough tonight and tomorrow morning to get back in the race.”
”That's it in a nutshell.” Scott was checking Teresa's calculations. Suddenly he raised his head with a grin. ”But you know, it doesn't look good if we come in too far behind. So what do you think, Teresa? Can't we use up a little bit of juice to catch up a tad?”
”Actually, now would be a good time,” Teresa admitted. ”From here on, we've got a gradual downhill slope toward Lordsburg.”
”Okay, Joe,” Scott said, ”go ahead and goose her up. But be careful, and stay in contact.”
”All right!” Joe responded enthusiastically.
He gently pressed the stainless steel accelerator pedal down, and the car shot forward. The SUB could accelerate much faster than a heavier vehicle. There was much less inertia to overcome.
On the other hand, a heavier vehicle had certain comforts, like room to stretch and air-
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conditioning. As he shifted on the nylon hammock, Joe was surprised at how quickly he'd gotten used to something he'd once described as a rolling sweatbox.
Joe peered through the windshield at the passing scenery. The rolling hills around Lordsburg reminded him of home. He remembered the late nights they'd spent fine-tuning the SUB. He'd learned a lot this summer, more than he ever imagined knowing about solar cars.
Joe took in the quiet purr of the SUB as it flew down the road. He suddenly became aware of another sound—the siren of a highway patrol vehicle close behind. His speed had creeped up a bit over the legal limit. That's all he needed—a speeding ticket.
”Hello,” Joe spoke into the microphone. ”Come in, SUB! Frank? Scott? Hey, somebody, come in—what's going on?”
In his rearview mirror, Joe caught the red flash of the police vehicle's dome light. ”Guys, it would be nice to have some help here.”
Joe's earphones were full of static. ”Great,” he muttered. ”What a time for my radio to go dead!”
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Chapter 9
FRANK NOTICED the emergency indicator on the dashboard-mounted radio first. He knew this meant the radio was out of commission.
”That does it.” Scott exclaimed when Frank pointed to the light. He grabbed a screwdriver and began to dismantle the radio.
”What are you doing?” Frank yelled.
”Cool it. I'm checking to see if there's a little surprise in here somewhere,” Scott explained.
As he spoke, he produced a small device that looked like a wristwatch without a band. The time on it was set for right around the time when the radio had gone out.
”Looks like military equipment,” Scott said m a dead voice. ”I've seen these before in elec-
70
tronics catalogs. It's a timing device to shortcircuit our communications system.”
The van was silent for a moment, then everyone said simultaneously, ”Lawrence!”
Frank looked down at the disassembled radio. ”Can you put that back together again?”
”I'll not only put it back together, I'll fix it,” Scott affirmed. ”Want to see?”
He immediately began reassembling the radio, screwing the components back together and rummaging through the makeshift desk on his lap for the pieces.
In no time at all, Scott had the radio back together again.
”I'm impressed,” Teresa commented.
”But will it work?” Frank asked.
”Better than ever,” Scott assured him.
Joe had tried over and over again to reach the SUB support van, but to no avail. He had slowed down to the sixty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit before the highway patrol car reached him. It passed, and as it sped over the next hill, Joe breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't get a speeding ticket after all—but somebody up ahead would.
That cruiser sure was in a hurry. I wonder if there's been another accident, Joe thought.
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The highway signs welcomed Joe to Lordsburg, a small town located in the pass between the Pyramid, Cedar, and Burro mountains. It was just past one when Joe arrived, and the sun shone brightly over the mountains in the distance.
As he passed the checkpoint and clocked in, Joe began to feel the 110-degree heat in the small, cramped space. Frank's voice interrupted his moment of heat fatigue.
”Joe,” Frank asked, ”Joe, come in!”
”Caught me just at the finish line,” Joe answered. ”The question is, where have you guys been?”
”We had a little problem with our radio,” Scott said. ”And his name is Lawrence.”
”Oh, no!” Joe kidded, ”not Frank's hero!”
”It seems that he may have been involved,” Frank admitted. ”But that's something we still have to confirm.”
”Joe,” Teresa interrupted, ”Please wait next to the car for the officials to check the battery efficiency level.”
”Yeah,” Scott joined in. ”With the way Mack was driving the Suntex car, you may still have a shot at number two!”
Joe steered toward the Solar Challenge official check-in situated on the tent-covered parkmg lot of a motel complex painted bright pink. The restaurant in front had a huge neon sign
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in the shape of a cowboy boot. To the right of the check-in site was a large stage surrounded by members of the press and spectators. Beyond it, Joe could see the choppers resting on the asphalt like three big flies. There were a few trees on two sides of the lot, and a low bank of units with rocking chairs out front bordering another.
As he pulled to a stop, he could hear the sound of a thumping bass beat coming from the portable stage. He shook his head. Where there's music, Joe thought, Mack Wilkinson must be close by.
On the stage stood Kyle Harrington and Mack, posing for the cameras of the assembled news teams.
Scott's voice came over the headset. ”Have you seen the SUB position yet?”
”I've just arrived now,” Joe responded. ”What do you want me to do?”
”Stick to the car like glue and double-check every number the race officials write down until we get there,” Scott instructed. ”We're stuck at the light you made it through just off the highway.”
”Aye-aye, Captain,” Joe said. ”But can I at least stand in the shade?”
”Stand anywhere you like,” Scott replied. ”Just make sure it's by the SUB.”
The race officials surrounded the SUB as it
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slowed and then stopped. They waited for Joe to remove the hatch himself, to ensure it could be removed in the allotted ten seconds. Joe pushed up the solar array with his last ounce of strength and took a deep breath of fresh air.
”Freedom at last!” he said as he leapt from the SUB and stood next to it. He removed the helmet and shook the sweat from his hair.
”What do you think? Is it a look?” Joe jokingly asked one official as he ran his fingers through the damp and tangled strands.
The official laughed but continued to measure the SUB's battery reserve.
”So how does she look, gentlemen?” Joe asked. The officials had finished taking their readings.
”You're sitting at sixty-eight percent,” one of them replied.
Just then Frank, Scott, Callie, and Teresa came up.
”We got a sixty-eight!” Joe exclaimed to the team. ”Reminds me of my first algebra test.”
”In this case, that's a better than passing mark,” Scott said. ”Still, everything depends on how the air force and Suntex did.”
One of the officials wearing a badge that identified him as John Savriano overheard and said, ”The SUB's third. Air Force came in second at sixty-eight percent, too. Looks like you guys have a similar strategy. Now the real
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mystery is Suntex's gallium-arsenide batteries. They're amazing—I can't believe the reserve on the Suntex car. It's almost as if she never left the parking lot.”
”What kind of numbers did Wilkinson get?” Scott asked.
”He's sitting right at eighty percent!” Savriano told them.
”That's impossible! Are you posting each day's results somewhere?” Teresa asked the man.
”There's a board in the officials' tent,” he replied.
”Where's Harrington?” Scott demanded. ”I want to talk to him about the communications problems we've been having.”
”He's finishing up a press conference.” Savriano glanced at his watch. ”But he's due in the officials' tent in ten minutes to discuss what happened to the radios today.”
”What did happen?” Scott pressed.
”Everything possible,” the man answered, ”First they went dead, then they only picked up incoming messages, but no outgoing ones, and finally they just went dead again.”
”This keeps getting weirder,” Scott said in disgust.
”Scott,” Frank interrupted. ”We're going to stake out our recharge zone before the thundering hordes arrive, okay?”
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”And Callie and I are going to look over the charts to see how our figures compare to the ones logged by Suntex and the Air Force,” Teresa said.
Frank and Joe headed off on their scouting mission. ”This looks pretty good,” Joe said, squinting up at the afternoon sun. ”Sunset will be thataway,” he said, pointing westward, ”and there'll be no obstructions to cause shade.”
Frank pulled a piece of yellow chalk from his pocket and drew the letters SUB on the hot asphalt. ”That ought to do it,” he said.
Joe rubbed his hair again, shocked to find it already dry. ”So,” he asked, ”do you still think Lawrence is innocent?”
”I think there's room for doubt,” Frank answered.
Frank and Joe could see the Air Force Academy team preparing their solar array hatch for charging time at half past three. Until then, competitors were free to fix problems, discuss strategy, talk to the press or, in the case of the Mossport and Mitsushomi teams, reach the finish line.
”Well,” Frank said, ”let's get the SUB over here and ready for recharge, okay?”
”Fine,” Joe answered. ”But then can I go get a shower?”
The Hardys walked back toward the SUB,
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where Scott was still talking to one of the officials.
”Don't leave the car alone,” Scott warned, as he and the judge moved toward the officials' tent.
”Don't worry,” Frank assured him. ”Someone will be baby-sitting her every second.”
Frank and Joe reattached the hatch and pushed the SUB toward the chalk marks. Once they were in position, they removed the hatch and sat it on its side facing the sun.
”You may want to angle it up a few more degrees,” Teresa suggested as she and Callie returned with the telemetry data from the SUB van.
Teresa dropped to one knee, squinting as she glanced upward. ”I think we can get a better draw on the sun with a slightly different slant,” she said, helping Joe and Frank adjust the angle of the hatch.
”Now all we have to do is wait for threethirty to hook her up to the batteries,” Teresa said with a quick smile. ”Them's the rules.”
”So, until then, our telemetry crew can tel us what they discovered,” Frank said.
”We ran the numbers three times,” Callie informed them. ”And there just isn't any way that Suntex could have gone the speed they did and end up with an eighty percent reserve.”
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”In that case,” Joe said slowly, ”you're saying Suntex is cheating, right?”
”No,” Teresa corrected him. ”We're just saying we can't figure out how they did it.”
”Can we get out from under the sun for a while?” Joe asked, suddenly dizzy from the heat.
The SUB team members moved to the shade of a nearby tree. They were still talking about battery reserves when they heard the hum of Scott's chair.
”Our captain returns,” Joe commented.
”How's it going, crew?” Scott hailed them. ”I come bearing interesting news and drinks for everyone.”
Scott offered everyone a cold can of GO-GET-EM.
”No, thanks,” Joe said, waving his hands. ”I've had enough of that stuff. Maybe I'll go get a drink of water instead.” He headed for the refreshment tent.
”News about the radio problem?” Frank asked.
”Yes,” Scott confirmed, ”It seems even Barrington is starting to get concerned about the high jinks in this race. He's hired official escorts to be assigned to each team.”
”Are they going to watch over us,” Joe asked as he returned with a paper cup of water in his hand, ”or just watch us?”
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”A better question,” Teresa interjected, ”is how are they going to watch, period.”
”We don't have much room in the van,” Callie observed.
”And there sure isn't any room in the car,” Joe joked.
”They'll ride in an additional chase vehicle behind the SUB support van,” Scott told them. ”That way, if there's any trouble and our radios go out again, at least the escorts will be able to communicate with one another.”
”But what's to keep someone from sabotaging their radios as well?” Frank asked.
”Speaking of sabotage,” Scott added, ”the officials said that Suntex's radios maintained perfect working order the entire first leg. In fact, the only problem Suntex has is in their telemetry—the cable that shorted out last night.”
Teresa gawked. ”Are you telling me that with millions of dollars in equipment and some of the best telemetry minds in the world, that team can't fix a simple cable? That doesn't add up.”
”Spoken like a true mathematician,” Scott remarked.
Frank watched his brother gulp down the last two mouthfuls of water from his cup. Beyond Joe, he heard someone cry out near the air force tent and caught a glimpse of some-
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thing moving toward them through the grass— although he couldn't quite make out what it was.
”You'd think these people had never seen a lizard before,” Frank said as the rest of the team turned toward the commotion.
Just then someone shouted, ”Watch out!”
At the same instant Frank got a better look at the ”lizard” he'd been chuckling over.
It was a six-foot-long rattlesnake, and it was slithering right toward them.
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Chapter
10
JOE SNATCHED UP the only thing handy—a heavy clipboard Teresa was holding. He raised it over his head, ready to smash it down on the rattler.
Then Lawrence Gonzalez came running toward him, yelling, ”Whoa! Take it easy! That's my snake—Eerie, come here!” Lawrence scooped up the snake, then began to laugh, ”No fangs, see?” He showed them the large, toothless mouth of the snake in his arms. ”Hope he didn't scare you. I was showing him to a cute reporter when he slipped out of my hands. It scared the daylights out of her! I better go back and make sure she's all right. Eerie, you're staying in your cage for the rest of this race.”
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He glanced at Joe, standing frozen with the clipboard. ”Now there's a weapon,” he teased.
Joe slowly lowered the clipboard as Lawrence headed back to the air force tent. ”That guy's a real card,” he said sarcastically. ”Look, would you guys mind if I skipped out to take a nap, and then shower and change?”
”Fine with us,” Scott replied.
Frank watched Joe cross the lot in the direction of the motel office. About twenty yards away, he spotted Mack Wilkinson and Sharon Green standing outside the Suntex tent.
”So it looks like Sharon Green is definitely hanging out with the Suntex team now,” Frank observed to his teammates. ”Doesn't that seem a little odd?”
Scott shrugged. ”It's a good career move for her—she's graduating next spring.” He glanced at Frank. ”We have other concerns. I think you should ask Lawrence about our little radio problem.”
”Glad to,” Frank replied. ”I'd be interested in hearing what he has to say. I'll do it at dinner.”
Scott grinned up at Callie and Teresa. ”You two are off duty, as far as I'm concerned. We'll stay with the SUB.”
”Great,” Teresa responded.
”I could use a shower, too,” Callie said.
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”We'll see you guys for dinner at seven o'clock, okay?”
Frank and Scott watched them go, then moved back into the shade near the SUB watching spectators and reporters mill around the tents. ”Why don't you go ask Lawrence to join us for dinner—that way we'll have him captive.”
Frank rose and took a step toward the air force tent. ”I'll be right—”
He was interrupted by a visitor. ”Gentlemen,” Elton Mossport said, his expression grave. ”I have a warning for you.”
”A warning,” Scott repeated, narrowing his eyes.
Mossport nodded. ”In my ecology work, I've made some odd contacts,” he said. ”So I've caught a rumor that the Del Carlos Indian Reservation plans to protest the race tomorrow.”
”How can a protest affect us?” Scott asked.
”I have it on very good authority that the residents of the reservation, as well as ecology enthusiasts from this area, are upset about Suntex gaining positive press from this race. The people of the reservation have had many run-ins with Suntex over the years. They know, all too well, how little respect Suntex has shown for anything that gets in the way of its oil drilling and exploration. Many of their
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smaller communities have been bought out or pushed out to make way for Suntex oil rigs.”
Frank frowned but said nothing.
”I heard that this was a possibility several days ago, but I've just gotten definite word. So I thought I should warn you and the other teams.”
”I can't imagine the tribe would do anything to harm the cars,” Scott said. ”It sounds as if it's Suntex they're after.”
Mossport glanced from Scott to Frank. ”Anyway,” he said, ”it's in your hands now.”
At about six-thirty Frank headed off to his motel room. The SUB was shrouded under the blue tarp, and the van was parked inside the tent.
During the afternoon Frank and Scott had checked over the SUB thoroughly, then sat with it while it recharged. Frank had gotten Lawrence Gonzalez to promise to join him for dinner, and Scott had spoken with Bill, still in the hospital in El Paso. Fortunately, he was doing okay. The doctors had told him that he'd be released the next day, and Bill was hoping to meet the SUB team in Yuma at the end of the race.
After getting a key at the front office, Frank made his way to his room. He found Joe in the shower. He tried to give him a quick report
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about Mossport's warning, but with the running water Frank wasn't sure his brother caught any of it.
”You hear me, Joe?” he yelled as the bathroom door opened to reveal Joe.
”Chill, Frank,” Joe said. ”I heard. Maybe you need a nap. Mine was great. I dreamed I won the race and—”
Just then someone knocked at their door. It was Callie. Her hair was wet and she held a hair dryer in her hand.
”Can either of you guys fix this?” Callie asked. ”I'm starving and want to get to dinner. But I don't want to go looking like a drowned chicken.”
Frank checked out the dryer and said, ”Sure, it's just a bad connection on the cord. Can I fix it later, though? I really need a shower. Joe will lend you ours.”
Frank handed the hair dryer back to Callie and excused himself to shower. Joe and Callie stood talking in front of the mirror while she used the boys' dryer and Joe put on some cologne.
”I'm so hungry, even that smell can't take away my appetite,” Callie remarked.
”Me, too,” Joe replied, ignoring the comment. ”I can't wait to see what the spread will look like tonight.”
”Just don't stand upwind of me, okay?”
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”Food, food, food.” Frank emerged from his swift shower, toweling his hair with one hand and buttoning a shirt with the other. ”I expect it from Joe. Give him a meal and a girl like Sharon Green to flirt with, and he's happy.”
”I haven't said a word to Sharon Green,” Joe protested.
Frank ran a brush through his damp hair. ”I'll fix the dryer tonight,” he assured Callie.
”Great, because I'll need it tomorrow evening,” she replied. ”I want to look my best for the big final party, and yours doesn't work all that well.”
”Ingrate,” Joe replied.
Grinning, she jerked a thumb at him and headed for the door.
”Hey, you guys should be nice to me,” Joe jokingly complained. ”There I was driving that car and sweating all day long. And what thanks do I get?”
”Thanks.” Frank and Callie said in unison.
”And what did you deduce about the pranks while you were driving the car?” Frank asked.
”I spent a long time going over the stuff that's happened trying to see how it fits together. But before I tell you guys anything, I need food, food, food!” Joe screamed as he ran down the walkway toward the restaurant.
Frank and Callie walked arm in arm, reaching the door to the restaurant well after Joe.
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The hostess pointed them in the direction of the banquet room at the rear.
The room was filled with the race teams, along with the officials and press. Schmidt's team was heading back to El Paso and MIT had dropped out, so the crowd was smaller than it had been the night before. Still, the mood was upbeat despite all the strange events that had occurred. Everyone on the Suntex, Air Force, and SUB teams knew they had a chance at winning the race.
As they were waiting in line for the buffet, they overheard Kyle Barrington laughing. He slapped Mack on the back and talked about winning a bet. It seemed Mack had wagered with Barrington that the Suntex car would withstand any wind and stay on course. Barrington had instructed the pilot of his helicopter to buzz the Suntex car to see if it could stay on the road under the force of its draft. Mack didn't look happy, but he gave Barrington a ten-dollar bill to pay off his loss as photographers snapped their photos.
Callie turned to Frank and said, ”So it wasn't an air force chopper. You can cross that prank off your list now.”
As they loaded their plates, Joe spotted Mack Wilkinson moving toward Sharon Green, who'd been sitting alone at one side. He bid Frank and Callie goodbye and headed off to
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join them. Frank and Callie wondered briefly what he was up to as they joined Teresa and Scott, who were sitting on either side of Lawrence.
Lawrence seemed a bit sheepish about the snake and his unauthorized broadcasts on the SUB radio. But he shrugged these off with a boys-will-be-boys attitude. Scott pointed out that the other pranks could have been deadly.
Frank recited the list. ”The Suntex fire, the MIT steering rod, Bill Little's helmet, the tanker accident on the highway ...”
Lawrence interrupted, saying, ”I had no hand in the Suntex short, the MIT steering, or your driver's helmet. And the tanker accident nearly caught me. I tried to radio a warning about it to the officials, but no dice. Even the copters and highway patrol cars running interference ahead of us had communications problems. From what I heard, so did Dr. Schmidt's car.”
”Funny thing about those radio problems,” Scott said, reaching into his pocket. ”We found what caused ours.” He held out the shorting device he'd discovered. ”It's a piece of military equipment.”
All eyes at the table were on Lawrence now.
He pushed back his chair and looked down. When he raised his head again, there was a grin on his lips. ”Okay, okay,” he said. ”So I tapped into your radio. But that doesn't make
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me a criminal. It was just a little prank.” He raised his hands in the air. ”I guess I just can't help myself.”
Frank stared at him. ”So why should we believe you about the rest?”
Lawrence got serious again. ”Because I'd never do that kind of stuff. I'd get drummed out of the academy if I did. Someone else is involved—I swear!”
”I believe you,” Frank suddenly said. ”And I hope you'll help us nail whoever is behind this sabotage.”
”You got it,” Lawrence promised, rising from the table. He glanced over to where Sharon Green was sitting with Joe and Mack. The beautiful red-haired girl laughed and patted Mack on the shoulder.
”I wonder what's going on between those two,” Lawrence said. ”Sharon has certainly been Mack's good-luck charm since she started hanging around him. I can't tell you how surprised I was to come in second today.” He smiled crookedly at the SUB team. ”About as surprised as you were, I bet. We both tried the same tactic—running a little slower—expecting our power reserves would beat out the Suntex car, even with its super batteries.” He stared at Sharon. ”She must know something we don't. She likes to win—and on this lap anyway, she sure picked the winning team.”
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Callie looked at Frank and mouthed the words, ”Add her to the suspect list!”
Joe had barged in on Mack and Sharon because he wanted to find out how the Suntex car could blow off enough electricity to top sixty-five miles an hour and still maintain a winning energy reserve. Mack was unwilling to talk shop. He just sat with one arm over the boom box, which was lying on the table between him and Sharon. For once, it was turned off.
”You must really like the Crows,” Joe said, referring to the band whose music had thumped out of Mack's speakers during the race.
Mack shrugged. ”I don't think about them much—I live in the city.”
Sharon laughed, patting Mack on the shoulder. ”He's talking about the band called the Crows, silly. You were listening to their music all day!”
”Oh.” Mack glanced at Sharon. ”She picked that tape. Said it was good traveling music.”
”And wasn't it?” Sharon said smugly. ”You came in first. Keep playing it, and you'll sweep this race!”
Joe excused himself and returned to his table to find the group breaking up. Teresa and Scott were going off to work on strategy.
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”It's an early call again tomorrow. Take it easy. And be careful, okay?” Scott warned.
Frank, Joe, Callie, and Lawrence left the restaurant to check on their cars one last time before turning in. As they walked across the parking lot, they noticed a faint green glow coming from the tent housing Mossport's racer.
”What's that light?” Callie asked.
”Maybe Mossport's decided to use atomic energy now,” Lawrence mocked.
Joe laughed at Lawrence's joke—until the glow abruptly flared. A blinding green light seemed to cut right through the tent. A woman screamed.
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Chapter
11
FRANK, JOE, CALLIE, AND LAWRENCE rushed to the tent, where they now heard the sounds of a struggle in addition to the screams. They plunged through the opening and stopped dead in their tracks. Kyle Barrington and Elton Mossport were rolling around on the pavement, grappling. Members of Mossport's team were standing around them, horrified.
Barrington tore free and both men lurched to their feet. He threw a wild left, his fist landing a glancing blow to his opponent's chin. As Mossport reeled back, Frank and Lawrence stepped in, each grabbing one of the men. Kyle Barrington broke away from Frank and stalked out of the tent without a word.
”Thanks for breaking that up,” Mossport
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gasped, struggling for breath. ”I don't know how things got so out of hand.”
”Are you all right, Mr. Mossport?” Frank asked. ”Is there anything we can do to help?”
”Like call the police?” Lawrence suggested.
”No, no!” Mossport shouted. ”Any more people and the ritual is ruined!”
”But Mr. Barrington did attack you, didn't he?” Callie asked.
”Kyle Barrington has mocked me for the last time!” Mossport cried, storming off.
As Mossport left his tent, a young blond woman dressed in a green togalike garment started to cry. In a voice full of anguish she said, ”It isn't right for brothers to hate each other. Even if they're only half-brothers, Kyle should find love in his heart for his mother's! other son. And Elton should find it in himself to love his older brother.”
Callie gawked. ”Mossport and Barrington are brothers?” she asked incredulously.
”Yes,” the woman in the toga said. She dried her eyes with the sleeve of her garment, held up a crystal that glowed with an unearthly light, and started chanting. Frank couldn't identify the language, though it sounded vaguely Arabic. The other members of Mossport's support team joined in, holding hands in a circle around the car.
Mossport opened the tent flap and motioned
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for Frank, Joe, Callie, and Lawrence to join him outside. Apparently, he'd regained his breath.
”Our battery reserve was so low after the first leg,” Mossport explained, ”that we need to focus all our energy on the car to absorb the morning light. That's why we're performing this ritual.”
”Ritual?” Lawrence echoed. ”You're doing magic to help your car?”
”The chant comes from an ancient Egyptian healing text. I tried it once during a race in Hawaii to help with a solar panel that kept losing charge.” Mossport shrugged. ”It worked! We use it now whenever we have similar problems.”
”I see,” Joe said blandly.
”Barrington interrupted us, and then mocked us,” Mossport exploded. ”I'm sick of his meddling in my life. I tell you I won't take it anymore!”
Mossport stormed off in the direction of the motel. Frank, Joe, Callie, and Lawrence looked at one another, baffled.
”Talk about mood swings,” Callie remarked.
”Was that weird or what?” Frank asked.
”Well, that's enough fun and games for me for one day.” Lawrence yawned. ”I'm off to find my team and get ready for a five A.M.
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wakeup call.” With that, he walked off toward the air force tent.
Frank looked at Callie. ”It's a pretty night. Want to go for a walk?”
”What I want to do right now is crash,” Callie said. ”What I'm going to do is find Teresa and Scott to see if I can help with the plans for tomorrow.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ”See you in the morning.”
”Just you and me,” Joe said, giving in to a mighty yawn. ”And I know where I want to go.” Together, they checked on the SUB, then headed for the motel.
Joe dropped right into bed as soon as they entered. Frank, however, snapped on several lights at the desk, dug out a tool kit from his bag, and began to attack Callie's hair dryer.
The repair work didn't go easily. Frank muttered as his screwdriver slipped and gashed the tip of his forefinger.
”Why don't you give it up for the night?” Joe asked, watching his brother suck on his injured finger. He sat up in bed. ”Okay, what's up? Every time you get into one of these frenzies it means you're stumped.”
”I just can't deal with another curveball in this case. I can't believe those two are brothers,” Frank said.
”Oh, come on!” Joe shrugged. ”It sure ex-
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plains that nasty little encounter at the first press conference. Brothers have a natural right to gripe at each other.”
Frank smiled in spite of himself. ”It's just that this race seems to attract solar-powered tempers. Sharon Green flies off the handle with Jeff Pelman, Kyle Barrington bites off people's heads. And now Mossport freaks out. The calmest people in this race seem to be the racers from Mitsushomi.”
Joe frowned. ”They've been keeping a very low profile,” he said slowly. ”Maybe we should check them out.”
”Just what we need,” Frank sighed. ”More suspects.” He stretched, stood up, and moved over to lean against the window, staring out.
In the moonlight Frank could see Callie running back toward the motel from the SUB tent. He left the window, headed for the door, and stepped out onto the walkway.
”Whoa!” she said, skidding to a stop in front of him. ”You startled me.”
”What's up?” Frank asked. ”I thought you were with Scott and Teresa.”
”I had an idea,” Callie answered, ”a simple, beautiful idea, and I thought I'd check it out.”
”Want to let me in on it?” Frank asked, coming closer.
”I'll have to tell you tomorrow,” Callie promised, heading for her room.
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Shrugging, Frank returned to his room to find Joe sitting at the desk, tinkering with Callie's hair dryer.
”I'm just doing this in self-defense,” he said. ”The sooner it's done, the sooner the lights go out.”
Frank chuckled as he got ready for bed. ”How did your chat with Mack and Sharon go?”
”I got nothing, except that Sharon has lousy taste in music. That Crows tape Mack's been playing came from her.” Joe shook his head. ”When I tried to talk about the race, I got stonewalled, plain and simple. He's giving no explanations about how he maintained a battery reserve of eighty percent.”
”Maybe that's because he can't give one,” Frank said, pulling back the covers on his bed.
”Even if he got a tow from his support van for part of the way, he couldn't rack up those numbers,” Joe said. ”Take the rate of speed, the conversion factor, and everything else into consideration, and the only way to end with a reserve that big would be to use a gas engine.”
”Lawrence thinks Sharon Green knows something about the Suntex success,” Frank said.
”Oh, Mr. Innocent. Right,” Joe said. ”Hasn't anyone ever told him about people in glass houses not throwing stones? What did
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he have to say for himself about the radio sabotage?”
”He planted the shorting device all right. But he says that's all he did,” Frank said, then frowned. ”He may be a prankster, but the scary stuff, like sawing through MIT's steering shaft, rewiring Bill's helmet—I think that requires someone with a warped mind, someone really over the edge.”
”So who's your candidate?” Joe asked. ”Mossport?”
Frank shook his head. ”Wild mood swings don't make a man guilty.”
Joe laughed. ”Besides, judging from tonight's ritual, he wouldn't stoop to sabotage. He'd put a voodoo curse on the competition.”
”The only way to unmask the saboteur may be to catch him in the act,” Frank said.
”Well, I can tell you, I'm not looking forward to getting into that car in the morning,” Joe said. ”Who knows what can happen?”
”Well, I think Lawrence is on our side,” Frank said.
”I'm glad he has your complete confidence, and I'll remember that if he starts shooting at me tomorrow.” Joe fell onto his bed. ”He's still my choice.”
”My money's on Mossport,” Frank said. ”But I'm not sure.”
”Well, we have two more days to figure this
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thing out,” Joe replied, settling under the covers.
”As long as we keep you alive that long.”
”Good night, Mr. Optimist.” Joe laughed.
”Good night, Joe,” Frank said as he turned out the bedside lamp.
It was time to recharge his body—like the solar car that he drove. As soon as his head, hit the pillow, Joe fell asleep.
For a while, Frank kept thinking, but at last he, too, dozed off.
Darkness washed over him, and he was conscious of nothing—until the bomb blast two hours later that flung him from his bed!
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Chapter
12
FRANK FOUND HIMSELF on the floor, coughing. The door to their motel room had been blown off its hinges, and pieces of plaster were drifting down from the ceiling. He and Joe scrambled to the walkway outside the room.
Other people were emerging—members of the teams, race officials, and the press. Frank was relieved to see Callie and Teresa in one piece. Still somewhat dazed, he carefully approached the rooms at the end of the walkway. Joe was at his heels. In the front wall of one of the units, he saw a hole the size of a large car engine.
”This was definitely not an accident,” Callie said as she and Teresa caught up to the Hardys.
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”Where's Scott?” Joe asked Teresa.
”Here I am,” Scott answered, driving his wheelchair to the area where the SUB team had converged. They stood together and watched as the motel manager rushed out of the office. He stopped in his tracks when he saw what had happened, then spun around and ran back.
”I bet he's calling the police,” Joe commented.
In just a few minutes two patrol cars pulled into the parking lot, their tires squealing they stopped in front of the damaged rooms.] A handful of officers got out as the manager reappeared on the scene, looking distraught.
”We were lucky,” he explained to the loc chief of police. ”Suntex Corporation had these rooms, but they were in the banquet] room conferring with Mr. Barrington when the blast went off.”
”So you had a whole team in these units?” the chief asked.
”Just about,” the manager replied. ”Except for Miss Green. She'd originally been with another team, so her room was at the far end of the motel.”
”We'll need a complete list of everyone in the race so we can question them,” the chief said.
”Here are our registration records, and I've
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asked the race officials to come up with a list as well,” the manager replied.
”Thanks.” The police chief moved through the crowd, reading people's names aloud and asking them to speak briefly with him in the motel lobby before going back to bed.
The bomb had gone off outside the room where Kyle Barrington was staying. The police chief sent for the Suntex executive, but his deputy returned with one of the racing crew members.
”We wondered what the noise was!” the short, balding Suntex crew member said to the police. ”But Barrington didn't think it was anything important.”
”Where is Mr. Barrington now?” the chief demanded.
”He's still in the banquet room, yelling at the team. My telemetry crew was having trouble getting valid battery reads during the race. We had a bit of a fire last night when a cable shorted. I didn't think there was much damage, but it turns out I was wrong.” The man grimaced. ”So now I'm the ex-head of Suntex telemetry, and Barrington is talking about bringing in some college kid. He's breathing down everybody's neck to make sure it'll be fixed before race time tomorrow. As far as I'm
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concerned, it's too bad he wasn't in that room when the explosion happened!”
”Barrington will be along in a moment,” the deputy explained.
Frank and Joe were still waiting for their turn with the police when Barrington burst through the door into the lobby. Immediately several reporters, dressed in robes and pajamas, swarmed around him, asking questions. He was wearing his best smile and oozing charm even though it was the middle of the night.
He spoke with a few of them, then pushed through the crowd and approached the front desk. ”I want to make sure everyone has a warm, soft bed to sleep in tonight,” he told the manager.
The man looked flustered, but said. ”We can handle it. Your Suntex people can take the rooms I reserved for the teams that dropped out.”
”Good,” Barrington barked.
”Mr. Barrington, sir,” the police chief interrupted. ”I need to ask you a few questions.”
”Well, of course,” Barrington answered. ”I'm completely at your disposal.”
”We understood, Mr. Barrington,” the chief continued, ”that your crew was with you in the banquet room at the time of the explosion.”
”That's true,” Barrington replied. ”Every-
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one but my driver/team captain and my new telemetry chief.”
As if on cue, Mack and Sharon Green pushed through the front door, talking to each other in hushed voices. Frank and Joe turned to stare at them as Kyle Barrington rushed toward them with his arms wide open.
”There you are!” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the police and everyone else. ”I was worried sick.”
Sharon smiled smugly. ”We were taking a drive.”
Barrington took her hand. ”I've made the announcement about your taking over the telemetry. You should get right to work on that equipment problem.”
Joe acted as if someone had just whacked him in the head with a hammer. ”Sharon Green is the new head of Suntex telemetry?”
Frank motioned for Joe to be quiet as Barrington put his arms around Sharon and Mack and steered them back toward the door. The chief ran to catch up with him.
”Mr. Barrington,” the chief persisted, ”it looks as if the blast was targeted at you. For your own safety—”
”I appreciate your concern. I'll be back in just a few minutes,” Barrington said over his shoulder. ”First, I want to get Sharon to work.”
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”But, Mr. Barrington,” a reporter called out, ”what do you think happened out there?”
”We'll leave that for the authorities to determine,” he said affably, then left.
It took about another half hour for Frank and Joe to give their statements to the police. They ended up sleeping with Scott that night, because their door couldn't be fixed right then.
”I can't believe that Sharon has officially joined Suntex,” Joe said as they were getting ready to hit the beds. ”I mean, she's been hanging around with Mack—but telemetry chief? What's going on here?”
”She has the ability,” Scott admitted. ”Sharon can handle anything electrical.”
”I've been wondering,” Joe said, frowning. ”None of the other teams seemed to know about the Suntex meeting. Which, of course, leaves a big question. Was the bomb supposed to blow Barrington up?”
Frank nodded. ”Or was it set up purposely to miss him?” he finished for his brother.
Scott rubbed his tired eyes. ”Either way, we're not going to find out tonight. And thanks to that bomb, we've got only a few hours left to sleep.”
”Don't remind me,” Joe groaned, yawning. They turned out the light and tried to reclaim a few hours of precious recharge time.
* * *
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As dawn broke over the Burro Mountains to the east, Frank, Scott, and Joe packed up. They had a quick breakfast with Teresa and Callie, then made their way to the SUB tent by six A.M. to get in their morning recharge time prior to the nine o'clock start.
At a quarter to eight, Joe attended his drivers' meeting. He arrived back around eight-thirty to report to the SUB crew.
”Well,” Joe said, ”the drivers get the best doughnuts, that's for sure. There must have been over thirty different kinds.”
”Did the police show up at the meeting?” Frank asked impatiently.
”No, they must have their own doughnuts,” Joe kidded.
”Why do all drivers turn out to be clowns?” Scott wanted to know.
”Maybe those helmets are too tight for their heads,” Callie suggested.
”All right, I'll be serious. There were no cops at the meeting, and no Mack—until the very end.”
”What did the officials say?” Scott asked.
”In summary, that we need to be careful.” Joe shrugged. ”They told us that things are getting dangerous and they're doing everything they can to keep us safe. But they can't prevent every problem—which sounds like an understatement, considering their track record.”
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A small crowd had gathered at the starting area for that day's leg of the race. Joe waved to the crowd after the recharge and climbed into the hammock. ”Let's get going,” he announced. ”I've got a race to win and a mystery to solve—in that order, I think.”
The Hardys had gone over the racer with a fine-tooth comb. Teresa and Callie triplechecked their readouts after hearing of the Suntex telemetry problems.
”Could they really overhaul their computers overnight?” Teresa wondered. The SUB backup team was ensconced in the van now, and Joe was waiting in the racer, preparing his GO-GET-EM supply for the day.
”And if they were really having telemetry trouble, how could they have possibly ended up with an eighty percent reserve yesterday?” he said over the radio.
No one had an answer for him. Instead, the air filled with the sound of whipping helicopter rotors as the three copters accompanying the racers took off. Two highway patrol cruisers had already headed out to clear the road ahead for the Solar Challenge cars.
”Is that our official observation car?” Callie asked as she watched a blue sedan pull up behind the van.
”You got it,” Scott replied.
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”Wonder if they'll be able to keep up with us,” Frank cracked.
The race began with the Suntex car in the lead. The Air Force Academy's Mission Ray started second, followed by the SUB. Following up the front-runners were the Mitsushomi vehicle and Mossport's.
Scott asked Joe to take the lead if he could manage it. ”The traffic around Tucson may be a little heavy, so watch out. Because we're covering about forty miles more than yesterday, we'll be taking a two-hour lunch break just west of there. Then we'll take off for Casa Grande for the night.”
The race began as it had the previous day, each car's starting time staggered by five minutes. Joe gave one last wave to the crowd as the checkered flag dropped, then punched the SUB's accelerator pedal, remembering to keep a tight grip on the steering while the car sped up. Within a few minutes he was up to speed and cruising along the interstate, the pavement flashing beneath him.
On the outskirts of the town of Willcox, Arizona, Scott's voice boomed over the radio. ”Lawrence's observation vehicle spotted a dust devil at three o'clock, about two hundred yards from the road. Be careful. Those things are like minitornadoes. They can pick up a light-
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weight car and flick it across a mesa like a matchstick.”
Joe turned to the right and saw a funnel of wind and sand. It was nearing the shoulder of the interstate, spewing so much dust he could barely see beyond it. His heart beat furiously as he approached it. Instinctively, he veered to the left just as the whirling maelstrom spun toward the middle of the road. Sand pattered against the SUB as it darted by.
Miraculously, the car wasn't blown off the road. Joe breathed a sigh of relief.
”Thanks for the warning, Scott,” he said into the microphone.
”Just doing my job,” the SUB captain replied.
Between Willcox and Tucson, Lawrence's car fell behind, giving Joe an easy shot at passing it. From there on, he and Mack were neck and neck. They crossed the line at the highway rest area on the western edge of Tucson, where they were to stop for lunch at the same time, each clocking in at sixty miles an hour.
Joe felt great, especially when he learned that the Suntex battery was at seventy-five percent, while the SUB was at seventy-eight. The SUB team had won the first part of the day, with Suntex coming in second. The air force team was a close third, and the Mitsushomi
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team was fourth. Mossport's car had yet to arrive.
Lunch was served from a refreshment truck. The SUB team claimed a picnic table in the shade and sat down. ”I'd like to propose a little toast.” Joe's face was flushed as he raised a container of GO-GET-EM. ”We started this race as a small team from Bayport without much money behind us. But we've got a shot at coming out stars. Not only are we in contention, we've won a leg, people!”
They clinked drinks. ”You're doing fine, Joe,” Scott said. ”There were a couple of hairy situations out there in the heavier traffic, but you've been driving so well that we could actually win.”
They devoured the simple lunch of sandwiches and chips, laughing at the difference between the lavish Suntex dinners, when the reporters were around and what the racers were fed away from the public eye.
Joe told Frank, ”I was so close to Mack, I could hear him breathe.”
As their excitement subsided, the team members began to discuss their strategy for the next leg through the Picacho Mountains.
”The terrain will block your sunlight, so conservation will be important,” Teresa warned. ”I suggest we keep the speed at forty miles per hour, tops.”
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”Can you keep her reined that tight, Joe?” Scott asked.
”Right now, I feel like I can do anything, Cap'n,” Joe replied.
The two-hour lunch allowed many of the crew members to catch quick catnaps. Frank, Joe, and Callie spread out the SUB's blue tarp on a grassy area near the picnic table and were relaxing under the shade of an old mesquite tree.
”What were you up to last night?” Frank asked Callie.
”I was checking out an idea I had,” Callie replied.
”And what was that idea?” Joe prodded.
”I wondered what kind of reserve the twelve-volt battery in our van had left last night,” Callie answered.
”And how does this fit into our puzzle?” Joe asked.
”I'm still working on it,” Callie answered.
The time came for the second leg to begin, and Joe wore the victor's smile all the way to the starting line. Because the SUB had come in first that morning, he got to leave first, followed by Suntex, Air Force, Mitsushomi, and Mossport, in that order.
Before he hopped into the car, he noticed Taka Yoshida, captain of the Mitsushomi team, conferring with his driver. The two men didn't
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look pleased. Given their standings, Joe could understand why.
Just then, the flag was waved, and he stepped on the accelerator, steering the SUB back onto the highway. Traffic was sparse as the terrain got rough and the cars headed into the mountains. Then Joe saw thick clouds of smoke gathered on either side of the road. Near them, people held up banners bearing slogans decrying the destruction of the land by Suntex Corporation.
”Where there's smoke, there's fire,” Frank's voice came through Joe's earphones.
”Looks like Mossport wasn't exaggerating,” Scott exclaimed. ”This must be the Del Carlos protest.”
The residents of the reservation and a few ecology warriors had built bonfires up and down the pass. Federal marshals and fire fighters were also on hand, trying to put out the flames. But they weren't having much success.
”The smoke's going to create a big drain on energy reserves,” Scott commented.
As the cars cleared the smoke-filled pass, Teresa's voice came over the radio. ”We've got a long downhill slope to Casa Grande. That means the coefficient of drag rating will be the make-it or break-it element in winning today's leg.”
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”You mean how well the car cuts through the air?” Joe asked.
”Right,” Teresa replied. ”The SUB's coefficient of drag is very low. We should be able to gain some time here.”
The Suntex car had passed Joe in the smoky haze of the pass, but he could still hear Mack's boom box blaring. The Crows were thumping away.
”What do you think?” Joe wondered out loud. ”Does the music help him drive faster? Or is it a good-luck thing?” He shrugged in his hammock. ”Maybe we have a chance on a downhill race. Want me to switch on the regenerative braking?”
”Ye—” Teresa began.
”Whoa!” Frank cried out. ”Better watch out, Joe. Lawrence just tore around us like a horse out of a burning barn. Who knows where he left his support van and observation vehicle.” Frank shook his head as Lawrence gave him a thumbs-up sign before completing his pass.
”He's just burning up his reserve,” Joe replied knowingly. As he spoke he noticed a shimmy in his right front tire and prayed it wasn't a flat in the making. The events of the race kept running through his mind. Was there a progression here? Pranks, more blatant sabotage, then the bomb? Things kept getting more
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dangerous. Even though the SUB team was doing well, Joe felt uneasy about what lay ahead.
He tried to imagine what might happen hi the next leg, or even just tonight, when his thoughts were shattered by the violent screech of car tires behind him.
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Chapter
13
JOE'S EYES WHIPPED UP to the rearview mirror just in time to see Lawrence's Mission Ray get sideswiped by a late-model green van. The van banged into the air force racer, forcing it dangerously close to the center line.
Joe could tell that Lawrence was struggling with the wheel. Just then, the van veered off the highway, bouncing onto the access road and then off to the north. Hard as he tried, Joe couldn't see the driver through the van's tinted windshield.
”Hey, guys!” he said into the microphone. ”Did you see that?”
”Sure did,” Frank replied. ”Even got the license number. Callie wrote it down.”
”Looks like Lawrence is all right,” Scott said
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with relief. ”But that was awful. Plain sabotage. If you ask me, this race is getting out of hand.”
Moments later Joe pulled up to the official finish line. The end of the second leg was another motel parking lot at the edge of town, just a mile or so beyond the site of Lawrence's near miss.
The SUB's batteries were at sixty percent, but Joe felt confident he'd do well, considering the breakneck pace Mack had set in the pass.
Lawrence crossed the line next, followed by the SUB crew, the air force support van, and observation cars. Both teams got out of their vehicles. Lawrence, sporting a few bruises and cuts from his jouncing around, approached the officials and told them of his mishap.
”You know how they say you never even notice the one with your name on it?” Lawrence winced as a member of his crew applied disinfectant to a cut. ”That van just came out of nowhere. One moment I'm driving along, the next she's on top of me.”
”We saw what went down,” Frank said. ”It seemed like the van just waited on the shoulder for the right moment to pull out.”
”And the right moment was when I came into view.” Lawrence gingerly tested a bruise. ”Maybe she just wasn't thinking—”
”I can hardly believe that,” Frank cut in.
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”The whole thing looked intentional to me. I'd say we've got a new addition to the list of pranks and sabotage.”
”Why do you keep referring to the van as 'she'?” Joe asked.
Lawrence turned to him, perplexed. ”I do?” He shrugged. ”Look, I've got to get back to my car.” His voice was tense with worry. ”It looks okay from the outside, but I don't know— that was quite a bump we got.”
After he left, Scott and Callie stayed with the SUB while Teresa scoped out a recharge site for the afternoon. Frank and Joe went in search of a highway patrol officer to report the license number of the van,
”You're sure it was an Arizona plate?” the man said after calling in the number to headquarters. ”I'm afraid our computers are down right now. We won't be able to track the owner until some time later.”
”More computer problems!” Frank gasped in frustration.
A voice sounded through a bullhorn.
”Attention, this is Kyle Barrington speakingSuntex has been announced as the winner of today's race!”
The Hardys jerked around as the voice went on. ”The press is invited to the air-conditioned Suntex tent for refreshments and interviews.”
Frank and Joe rushed to the officials' tent.
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There they learned that the SUB had come in second, with Lawrence third, and that the Suntex battery reserve was listed at seventy-eight percent. ”That's impossible,” Joe said flatly. ”We really have to find out how Mack's getting those numbers.”
As Frank, Teresa, and Joe set up the solar array for recharge, they brainstormed with Callie and Scott. ”Somebody's got to get close enough to Suntex to find out how they're pulling in such high battery reserves,” Joe complained.
”Suppose I give it a shot?” Callie offered.
”Callie Shaw, femme fatale,” Joe teased.
”How about talking to their ex-telemetry chief?” Scott suggested. ”He didn't seem afraid to speak his mind about Barrington—or anything else.”
”Let me escort you, Mata Hari,” Frank suggested as she headed toward the big green Suntex tent.
”No need,” she said over her shoulder.
Ten minutes later she was back. ”I found him,” she reported victoriously. ”His name's Guy Riley, and he's really nice—but pretty bitter about getting demoted.”
”So he wasn't fired,” Frank said.
”No, but now he's a go-fer for Sharon Green,” she explained. ”I bet Barrington is
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keeping him on the team to try to keep his mouth shut.”
”Did he tell you anything?” Joe asked eagerly.
Callie shook her head. ”According to Guy, he got replaced because the telemetry kept going haywire. He said the readouts would be fine one minute, then just explode with energy. Guy couldn't figure out why it was happening. At first he thought it had something to do with the cable fire the first night, but afterward it seemed to him that everything checked out. He talked to Mack, but couldn't get much more than loud music out of him.” Callie grinned. ”According to Guy, the Suntex crew really hates that boom box—except for Sharon, that is.”
”So, is their telemetry fixed now?” Frank asked.
”According to Sharon it is,” Callie answered. ”But Guy says he wouldn't know because she's not letting anyone else near it.”
”You know,” Joe said, ”I think I'll go congratulate Mack. Maybe I can pump him a little while I'm at it.”
He found the Suntex team captain and driver just outside the company's tent. Mack was talking excitedly into a cellular phone.
”Have you gone nuts?” Mack hissed into the
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phone. ”I just heard—you can't pull any more of these tricks! Just stay put!”
Mack caught a glimpse of Joe and turned, smiling. His voice was much smoother as he said, ”Sure, just let me know when and I'll be there. Look, I've got company now. So long!”
Mack put away the phone and walked toward Joe with an outstretched hand.
”Good racing today, Hardy,” Mack said, glancing around for any other unwanted visitors.
”I'll say,” Joe answered, shaking Mack's hand. ”I don't know how you pulled it out.”
Joe looked around for Sharon and the boom box, Mack's two constant companions. They were nowhere to be seen. Mack took advantage of that momentary lapse in the conversation to walk away. Joe stared after him. What was this guy hiding?
That afternoon a big bank of clouds moved in, forcing the SUB team to recharge their car in spotty sunlight. The SUB's batteries got considerably less juice than usual by the time the officials arrived to wrap it up for the day. Joe managed a reasonable smile in response to the judges' congratulations on coming in second. Then he and the others headed for the motel across the parking lot.
The hum of Scott's wheelchair reminded Joe of the racer's engine as the team—hot, sweaty,
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and exhausted, from lack of sleep—moved toward the air-conditioned oasis ahead.
”We'll meet back in the lobby in an hour,” Scott said.
Everyone saluted, then headed to their rooms. Both Hardys were deep in thought as they changed clothes after their showers. When they met the rest of the SUB team in the lobby, Scott decided that he and Teresa should eat in the tent. ”Just to be safe,” he said. He sent Joe, Frank, and Callie to fetch their dinners.
As they walked down the corridor to the restaurant, Joe spoke up, ”Do you still think Lawrence is behind all this?”
”No,” Joe answered, simply.
”Do you have a new candidate?”
”I might,” Joe replied. ”But I have until tomorrow to prove it, right? I mean, our culprit could still be caught in the act during the last leg.”
”I'm pretty suspicious of Mossport,” Frank speculated. ”The fact that he's Barrington's half-brother is pretty weird.”
They paused near the door to the restaurant. ”Maybe I'll try to find Mossport before dinner—you know, have a little chat,” Frank went on.
”Good idea,” Joe replied. ”Meanwhile, I think I'll track down that highway officer to
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see if he's got any information on the license number of that van yet.”
Both brothers looked at Callie, but she only smiled. ”Stop staring at me, you two. I'm still tinkering with my theory. But I could use a little extra time to work on it.”
They decided to meet back at the SUB tent in a half hour to compare notes before they ate. Callie went to get the food for Teresa and Scott.
Frank sought out Mossport. There might be a motive in the fact that he clearly hated Barrington, he thought. That might explain the Suntex fire and the bomb outside Barrington's room. But then, where did the pranks and sabotage fit in? It wasn't as though Mossport's car was even in the running. He'd consistently come in last. Short of blowing up all the cars, he didn't even have a chance. Unless, Frank thought, the attacks on the other teams were just intended to distract everyone from the main thrust at Barrington.
Frank remembered the toga-clad woman from the night before. She'd seemed very upset at the brothers' brawl. But what if she came down on Mossport's side? Or had decided that winning the race was a better revenge? That could explain who'd been driving the van.
Frank knocked on the door of Mossport's
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room, but there was no answer. Then he decided to check outside by the tents.
”Don't bother tracking down the green team,” said a bored-looking reporter sprawled out on the grass by the lot. ”They haven't even made it in yet. Must be bad vibes in Casa Grande.”
Joe was walking through the restaurant toward the banquet room beyond when an unpleasant possibility hit him. He'd struck Lawrence off the suspect list, but what if the incident with the van was a setup, something to get him off Lawrence's tail? Lawrence kept referring to the driver as ”she,” although he claimed not to have seen anything. It could be that Lawrence knew more than he was saying, or even that he was lying.
Just then he spotted the officer in a small group around the buffet coffee stand. He'd been afraid the man had gone off duty, but apparently not.
”Hi, Officer,” Joe said.
”The man smiled. ”You're the fella who gave me the license in that sideswipe case.”
Joe nodded. ”Anything on it yet?”
”Strangest thing,” the officer said. ”Our whole computer system has gone out of whack. The boss thinks one of those hackers got into the system trying to erase his bad driving rec-
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ord or something. Anyway, I won't have squat on those plates until tomorrow sometime.”
Both brothers arrived at the rendezvous feeling only more confused. But Callie appeared,, smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary. ”How's it going, guys?”
”My theory still isn't firm,” Frank admitted.
”And mine hasn't gelled,” Joe joked.
”How about yours, Callie?” Frank asked.
”My theory is alive and very well, thank you. Now how about dinner?” She led the way from the SUB tent jauntily.
”Come on, Callie,” Joe said. ”Let us in on it.”
”Okay,” Callie said, as they approached the Mitsushomi tent, ”the saboteur is—”
Her words were cut off as a figure burst from the tent and fled into the twilight.
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Chapter
14
JOE RAN AFTER THE PERSON but tripped and lost whoever it was in the gathering shadows. He returned to find Callie and Frank with a security guard. ”Can't let anybody inside until the team gets here,” the guard said, blocking the tent entrance. Frank gave a small exclamation as he bent to pick up a tiny green crystal off the ground.
”Look familiar?” he asked, showing his find to Callie and Joe. ”This looks like the same kind of crystal Mossport used in his ceremony.”
”So,” Callie suggested, ”maybe the toga lady dropped it.”
”Exactly,” Frank exclaimed, as he put the crystal safely in his pocket.
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”You don't think Mossport and his bunch are responsible for the troubles?” Joe inquired.
”You have a better suspect?” Frank responded.
They were interrupted by the arrival of Taka Yoshida and his teammates, speaking excitedly in Japanese. They disappeared into the tent, and the noise level quickly rose. But none of the Mitsushomi team came out.
”I think we've done everything we can around here,” Callie finally said.
”Yeah,” Joe agreed. ”We can talk to the Japanese later. Let's eat!”
”Why not?” Frank said. ”The guard knows who we are if anyone has questions, and I'm starving!”
They told the guard where they'd be, then headed for the main meeting room of the motel, where a lavish spread was waiting for them. As they settled down at a table, Frank turned to Callie. ”Now, after being so rudely interrupted, you were going to tell us who 'dunnit.' ”
”I have every reason to believe the culprit behind these events is on the Suntex team,” Callie informed the boys. ”None other than Kyle Barrington himself.”
Frank's eyebrows rose and Joe choked on his food. Callie went on. ”Only Suntex has the equipment, money, and personnel to pull off
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the events of the past few days. They've made a major public relations push with this race. They've got the most to lose if they don't come in first.”
”So you think Kyle Barrington bombed his own room and sabotaged his own telemetry system to win the race?” Joe questioned.
Callie shrugged. ”Everybody else suffered problems with their cars or drivers. Suntex had a nonfatal telemetry glitch. And don't you find it interesting that the whole Suntex team just happened to be absent when the bomb went off?”
”But Suntex can buy whatever design wins, so Barrington will come out on top no matter what, right?” Frank asked.
”You are trying to confuse me,” Callie complained, ”but I believe I'm on the right track.”
”Let's check in with Teresa and Scott,” Frank suggested. ”I want to tell them about what happened at the Mitsushomi tent. Then we should see what's up with the Japanese. If the person we saw there committed another act of sabotage, the Mitsushomi team should know by now.”
”Right,” Joe said, yawning. ”Then I think I'll call it a night.”
After reporting to their teammates, the Hardys and Callie stopped by the Mitsushomi tent. The scene was hectic, with team members hud-
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died around their racer. Frank tried to get Taka Yoshida's attention, but no luck. Figuring they'd find out what had happened the next day, the threesome moved on, stopping at the door to Callie's room.
”Want us to check for bombs or anything?” Joe asked.
Frank gave his brother a dirty look. Callie would be sleeping alone that night, since Teresa was staying on guard with Scott in the SUB tent.
”I just thought, after she'd unmasked Barrington's guilty secret—” Joe teased.
”Leave her alone, you lunkhead,” Frank said, then kissed Callie lightly. ”See you in the morning,” he went on.
When the Hardys got back to their room, they were happy to see their beds. After the last couple of days, they were close to total exhaustion.
”Well,” Frank said. ”Tomorrow's the last day of the race.”
”Right,” Joe grumbled as he pulled back the covers on his bed, ”and tomorrow I figure out how to win it.”
”We might be better off concentrating on whoever's trying to screw up the race,” Frank said. ”I hate to say it, Joe, but it looks as if Suntex has this competition in the bag.”
”They have the lead,” Joe corrected. ”They
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haven't won the race yet.” He frowned. ”Remind me in the morning to check the tires. I think one is going flat.”
”A flat tire would be the least of our concerns,” Frank said. ”I'd worry about someone sideswiping the SUB if I were you.”
”Could it have been a woman driving that van?” Joe suddenly asked.
”You mean because Lawrence keeps using the word she?” Frank shook his head. ”He says he didn't really see anyone, but maybe he had a subconscious peek.”
With that, Joe rolled over and drew the covers over his head.
Just before Frank got into bed, he retrieved the crystal he'd picked up outside the Mitsushomi tent from his pants pocket. For a minute, he held it up to the light and watched it gleam.
The last leg of the race was on U.S. Highway
8 between Casa Grande and Yuma—more than a hundred and sixty miles. It would take them approximately three and a half hours to complete it. Almost as soon as the SUB crew had assembled at their tent, John Savriano, the race official they'd talked with the day before, stopped to tell them more bad news. As it turned out, the sideswiper had done real dam-
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age to the air force car. Mission Ray had a fatal body crack and was leaving the race.
”That's terrible,” Callie cried.
”There goes your suspect, Joe,” Frank said gloomily.
”I guess so,” Joe replied, clearly puzzled. ”If I see Lawrence, I'm going to tell him how sorry I am. This is really rotten luck.”
The SUB team got down to work. Because the afternoon sun had been blocked by clouds the day before, the morning recharge was extra important.
Support crews repositioned their cars to get the best rays of the morning light, and tempers ran high. One of the crew members from Mossport's team accused Joe of purposefully blocking their array—just by walking past on his way to the drivers' meeting.
At eight-thirty, Scott called Callie and Frank away from their tasks to show them something special.
”This is my talisman,” Scott said, pulling a chain from around his neck. At the end was a small car carved in ebony. ”I had this with me when I survived the wreck with my parents. My dad was a race car driver, and he knew his stuff. But he didn't know how to handle a drunk driver plowing straight into his family's automobile at eighty miles an hour. I was just
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ten years old, and this baby was what saved me.”
He tucked the charm back in his shirt and went on, ”When I grew up, I swore that I'd devote myself to making a difference in the way we approach driving. That's why I'm here now. I may act like this race is no big deal, but it's important to me. We're close, and we've got only a few hours to make this race ours.” He smiled broadly and thumped Frank on the back.
”Of course, there's one thing my little talisman can't do for us—drive this car! I want Joe out of the drivers' meeting as soon as possible,” Scott told Frank, Callie, and Teresa. ”This is no time for eating doughnuts. Go get him for me, okay, guys?”
As Frank and Callie passed the Mitsushomi support van, they found the crew moving around like zombies. Taka Yoshida stood talking to one of the officials. It seemed that something had gone horribly wrong with their computer, and they'd been up all night trying to fix it. Apparently, they hadn't been successful, which meant that they, too, were out of the race.
Taka Yoshida turned desperately to Frank as he passed. ”You seen green?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.
Callie and Frank exchanged glances, trying
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to understand what he was asking for. ”You mean this?” Frank took the small green crystal he'd found the night before out of his pocket and held it out to the Japanese team captain.
Taka acted confused, but then continued, ”You were the ones outside our tent last night?” Taka asked. ”You saw someone inside?”
”We saw someone run out of the tent and reported it,” Frank said.
”Man or woman?” Taka asked.
”That's hard to say,” Frank said. ”I found this near the entrance to your tent. It looks like the crystals I've seen the Mossport crew carry. Some people call them the green team.”
Taka shook his head in frustration. ”No, no,” he said. ”Green I want is Sharon Green. I work with her last year, using same kind of computers. She could fix, I'm sure.”
”I haven't seen her—” Frank paused, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Sharon Green. ”I guess it was after the bombing the night before last. But I'm sure Mack Wilkinson would know where she is.”
”Is your computer problem because of the person who was in your tent?” Callie asked. ”Was it sabotage?”
Taka didn't answer. He was already running off toward the Suntex compound in search of Sharon Green.
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Frank studied the crystal in his palm. ”I'm going to show this to Mossport and ask him what went on at the Mitsushomi tent last night!” He turned to Callie. ”Want to come?”
”I'm with you,” Callie answered. ”Anyway, I just saw Joe headed toward the SUB.”
As Frank and Callie approached the Mossport area, they noticed small green crystals positioned all over the racer as it recharged in the sun. They were on the hood, the windshield, even the solar array. The support team stood in a circle around the car, chanting.
Guy Riley, the red-haired Suntex crew member, stopped to stare, too. ”You know you're blocking your power consumption with those crystals,” he said.
”We are directing the car's inner light,” the woman in the toga responded.
”You'd be better off if your car had an inner generator,” he shot over his shoulder.
She ignored his comment.
Frank went up to her and asked, ”Where's your captain?”
”He was talking to a race official the last time I knew,” she replied.
It occurred to Frank that he might get more out of this woman than Mossport. Pulling the crystal he'd found the night before out of his pocket, he said, ”You recognize this?”
The woman moved closer and inspected it.
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”It doesn't look like one of ours. Not with that gold fitting on it—it must have been attached to a chain. Where did it come from?” ”Oh,” Frank said vaguely, ”I found it—” At that moment Mack Wilkinson walked by. When he saw Frank and the woman on the green team, he stopped dead in his tracks, his face blanching as if he'd seen a ghost.
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Chapter
15
FRANK MOVED toward the captain of the Suntex team. As he did, Mack turned on his boom box and walked away.
”What's his problem?” Callie asked Frank as Mack disappeared into the Suntex tent.
”I don't know,” Frank replied. ”But I get the feeling he doesn't like us.”
”Weird,” Callie said. ”You know, that boom box just doesn't fit. And he's playing the Crows again. Remember Joe telling us that Mack didn't really even know who they were?”
”He takes that thing along when he drives,” Frank added. Suddenly he blinked. ”What if the boom box has something to do with Suntex's unbelievable performance?”
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”How—sound power?” Callie questioned. ”It's not big enough to hold much battery power. And it obviously works like a real boom box.”
”What if he—” Frank was cut off by Scott.
”Come on, you two,” Scott shouted. ”Let's get this race going! You can chitchat later.”
With a shrug, Callie and Frank resumed their duties. Once the morning's recharge was completed, the drivers prepared for the last leg of the race. Teresa, Scott, and Callie inspected all the equipment, especially the computers, for problems.
”Your talisman must really be a lucky charm,” Teresa told Scott. ”We've escaped the computer doom that's hit everyone else!”
”What is Joe doing with the tires?” Scott asked. ”He's checked them four times now.”
”He was worried about a flat,” Frank explained.
”Joe,” Scott said, ”leave the tires alone and come over here so we can talk strategy.”
The team began to discuss their plans for the final leg of the race. It could be described in one word—speed. They were only three and a half hours from the finish. If they kept the SUB at a straight sixty-five, they would be able to maintain battery reserve and hopefully stay in a lead position.
Frank noticed a bank of dark blue storm
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clouds gathering. ”I don't like the looks of the sky,” he said. The team members all turned to see the northwestern sky turn purple and green.
”I bet that's what people down here call a great blue northern,” Teresa replied. ”I read about them when I was programming the weather components into the telemetry system.”
”What's so 'great' about them?” Scott tried to joke.
”They can mean major problems. When they come, the temperature can drop twenty degrees in ten minutes. Sometimes they bring thirty- and forty-mile-an-hour winds. You can wind up with tornadoes and hail.” She peered up at a bank of greenish clouds. ”I'd say that looks like hail.”
Scott looked sick. ”Then we'll have to outrun the storm. The SUB's solar array will never survive a bombardment of hailstones!”
The team turned to the weather radio station. Teresa was right, a possible hailstorm was predicted. Speeding ahead of the storm became a necessary strategy for the SUB's survival.
As the race began, Frank and Callie noticed Kyle Barrington pacing outside the Suntex support van. Guy Riley was talking to him and
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gesturing wildly. As Harrington stomped off, Frank and Callie exchanged looks.
”What do you think that was all about?” Callie wondered.
”More troubles in paradise,” Frank said.
”Maybe Barrington is concerned about the storm ruining the press coverage for the race.” Callie suggested.
”Well, he's probably not worrying about his car outrunning the storm,” Frank said. ”So far, Suntex has racked up the fastest speeds.”
”I don't know if any of us can run away from that storm.” Callie cast a worried glance toward the sky. ”It looks more like we'll be driving into it.”
The Suntex car was first. Before it blasted off, Barrington spoke into his bullhorn. ”This is it, folks—the last leg of the Suntex Solar Challenge. We've had some troubles along the way, but I want you all to know that we're going to check into everything. Unfortunately, Air Force and Mitsushomi have had to drop out, but we'll see them at the party in Yuma. Meanwhile, we've still got three strong competitors—Suntex, the green team, and the SUB. There's dangerous weather up ahead, so I want everyone to be careful. Now—on with the show!”
The checkered flag dropped, and the Suntex car headed onto the ramp that led to the high-
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way. The three copters took off immediately afterward.
”Break a leg,” Callie said as Joe slid into the SUB.
”That goes double for me,” Frank added, snapping down the hatch with Callie.
Joe gave them a thumbs-up sign through the windshield. When his flag went down, he took off for Yuma.
Five minutes later Mossport had a slow start in third position.
The road for this leg of the race snaked through the mesas and valleys, alongside huge cactus and strange, exotic desert flowers. As the weather worsened, the canyons became wind tunnels. About an hour into the race, Joe found himself approaching a dangerous curve while fighting forty-five-mile-an-hour winds. He adjusted his speed so he could steer into the wind. A little later, however, he got a radio report of disaster. Mossport's driver hadn't reacted as quickly. The ecology car had been blown off the highway, bending a tire rim.
”So, big green is down,” Joe said into his mike. ”Does this mean Mossport is not our master of disaster?”
”Looks like it,” Frank replied.
Joe could see the gleaming gold of the Suntex car and support van up ahead. He knew this was his shot for glory, and he was ready
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and able to meet the challenge. The SUB support crew agreed that it was now or never.
Joe accelerated to pass the Suntex car. They'd had a decent recharge that morning—the sun had been bright before the clouds gathered. So, with a burst of speed—and a strong tailwind pushing him down the valley—Joe swooped into first place with no battery drain, even while hitting sixty-five. He felt the power of the light automobile and realized he could win. As he imagined the hero's welcome he was about to receive in Yuma, he heard Mack's boom box beginning to blare the heavy bass-driven noise of the Crows.
”Uh-oh,” Joe reported into his mike, ”I'm getting a concert from Mack again.”
Suddenly the Suntex car burst forward, easily passing Joe.
”How can he do that?” Joe asked over the radio.
”Maybe Mossport's people used the wrong magic,” Callie suggested. ”They should have gone for noise, not crystals.”
”Or maybe,” Scott said, ”that blasted boom box is his talisman.”
They were brushing the edge of the storm now, and heavy rain began to fall. The sealant Joe had applied to the windshield was repelling the water, but the SUB's wiper was hand-operated.
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Winds began to lash at the vehicle, and the chill Joe felt wasn't all because of falling temperatures. He and the SUB were in deadly danger. One good gust could easily blow the ultralight car off the road, as the dust devil had almost done the day before.
At least I was able to watch out for the dust devil, Joe thought. It won't be so easy to anticipate the wind. To push his thoughts away, he began reviewing the events of the previous two days with Frank.
”Okay,” Joe began. ”In the beginning there was Mossport and Barrington.”
”Then came that awful fight between Sharon Green and Jeff Pelman,” Callie added. ”Talk about a breakup! I thought she was going to kill Jeff.”
”What did she say? Something about finding a team captain who'd win the way she wanted?” Frank said.
”Whatever,” Joe interrupted. ”Then came the short in the Suntex telemetry cable. That was followed by Dr. Schmidt's daughter getting our key—”
”That was an accident,” Frank commented.
”Then the MIT crash, and the sabotage of Bill's helmet. By the way, have we heard anything from old Bill lately?” Joe asked.
”He called from the airport,” Scott answered.
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”He's up and around, and will meet us in Yuma—if his plane makes it.”
”He'll make it,” Joe said. ”Now, where was I?”
”You were driving the car in a dangerous storm,” Teresa pointed out, ”and you weren't paying attention to the road.”
”Joe's nervous,” Callie explained. ”He often rambles when he wants to clear his head.”
”Okay, Joe, continue our trip down memory lane,” Frank said.
”Then the Suntex car got blown off the road by Barrington for a bet, followed by the afternoon of dead radios and Dr. Schmidt's crash. And somewhere in between Lawrence barged onto our band. Next we had the fight between Barrington and Mossport, the bombing, and Lawrence's close encounter of the van kind, the Mitsushomi computer problem, and—then what?”
”And then you were trying to drive the SUB through a dangerous storm,” Teresa repeated, ”and you weren't paying attention to the road.”
”Don't forget about the green crystal,” Frank said. ”It may be important.”
”To someone,” Joe replied. The rain seemed to come straight at him now, as if someone had aimed a hose at his windshield.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and Joe hun-
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kered down to drive. Fragments of the conversation ran through his mind: the boom box, the green crystal, Sharon Green's anger—
He smiled. If you could harness her energy, you wouldn't need solar power, wouldn't need electricity
The world disappeared in a blaze as a lightning bolt struck!
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Chapter
16
THE FLASH BLINDED JOE, and the SUB swerved. Red and yellow afterimages danced in Joe's retinas as he got the racer under control. The bolt had struck just a few feet from the shoulder of the road, hitting a huge cactus.
The radio crackled, more staticky than usual thanks to the electrical storm. ”Joe!” Frank yelled, ”are you all right?”
”I'm fine,” Joe replied. ”The lightning missed.”
”How does that AHM look?” Scott asked
Joe.
”It looks red, fire red,” Joe said into his mike. ”I sure miss that green-eyed flash.”
”Green eyes,” Frank muttered. ”And an angry woman.” Shaking his head as if to clear
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it, Frank dug the green crystal from his pocket. ”It would take someone with incredible knowledge of computers, wiring, and electronics in general to create the problems that have been happening around this race.”
”Someone,” Teresa added, ”who wouldn't necessarily be missed—say, someone who'd quit her team.”
”Scott,” Joe asked slowly, ”Could you hide a generator—one that could produce enough electricity to increase a racer's energy reserve—in a small box?”
”Sure,” Scott replied. ”They make incredibly portable generator systems now. The trouble is, the whole thing would be very loud.”
”So loud,” Joe continued, ”that it would take a lot of noise to mask the sound? Say, a lot of boom around the box?”
”A lot of—” Then Scott realized what Joe was suggesting. ”Yeah. That would explain how the Suntex car arrived with so much battery reserve the first day.”
”Ah-hah,” Callie cried. ”Eighty percent! Remember when I checked on the van's battery. It was brand-new when we started. When we finished the first leg, it was running at eighty percent, too. That means that it used up the same amount of energy as the Suntex car. You'd need a gasoline-powered engine like the
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one in the van to maintain the power that the Suntex car had at the end of each leg.”
”A truly amazing thought,” Frank admitted. ”I'm sorry I didn't pay more attention back there.”
”So it looks like Suntex could have been getting a little extra oomph from a generator system hidden in Mack's box,” Scott speculated.
”Right,” Joe chimed in over the mike.
”How are we going to prove it though?” Teresa asked.
”Let's just make it to Yuma,” Frank replied, ”and we'll take care of it there.”
The SUB reached Yuma second, behind the Suntex car. Joe had run through the storm on his way in, but now the clouds were moving in again. He felt disappointed for a moment that he couldn't bask in the glory of a first-place finish. But he quickly returned to the thought that had been burning in his mind for the last hour of the race.
Joe parked the SUB at its designated tent and raced to the tent where the Suntex car was parked. The battery reserve had already been measured, and Mack and his crew were off to celebrate. Joe reached inside the Suntex car and found what he was looking for.
”What are you—?” Joe turned to face the highway patrol officer he'd spoken to the night
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before. ”Oh, it's you,” the officer said. ”But what are you doing with that?”
”Evidence,” Joe said briefly. ”I may need you in a couple of minutes.” He started back to the SUB, then turned. ”Did you ever get the make on that van?”
”Just a little while ago,” the patrolman said. ”It's owned by S.T. Enterprises.”
Joe frowned. ”Should that be familiar to me?”
”It would be if you came from around here.” The officer chuckled. ”S.T. stands for Solar Tex, a subsidiary of Suntex here in Arizona.”
”And do we know who was driving the van?” Joe asked expectantly.
”I was just following up on that. The van was checked out of the corporate fleet by a woman named Green,” the man replied.
Joe ran for the SUB. Right now he had all he needed to win this race.
The support van arrived just before the storm hit. As the clouds gathered overhead, the team frantically assembled the things they needed for the little demonstration they'd planned over the radio. Callie unpacked the hair dryer Joe had fixed for her. Frank dug out his tool kit while Scott and Teresa checked out the item Joe had retrieved from the Suntex car. Scott took a screwdriver from Frank and
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started working on the back of the boom box. In no time at all he had it off.
”My, my. What do we have here?” Scott asked with a grim smile.
”Two thirds of the speakers are gone—no wonder all you heard was the bass!” Teresa said. ”This looks like an electric motor—no, wait. What's this?”
”A minigenerator system,” Scott said.
”So how do we hook it up to the hair dryer?” Callie asked.
Scott inspected some wires. ”We'll have to make a connection through the headphone jack,” he said. ”I guess Mack connected a special jumper cable to the batteries in the Suntex car. Give me a couple of minutes—”
He went to work on the dryer plug and the boom box wiring. ”Presto! We have a magic hair dryer that seems to run on music.”
Running just ahead of the rain, they took their improvised gizmo into the big circus tent that had been erected by the finish line. Inside, the press and spectators were still standing around the stage where Barrington had just finished delivering his victory speech. Frank noticed Lawrence at the far end of the tent talking with Taka Yoshida. Refreshments were being brought in, and a victory party was about to get under way.
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Joe spotted Kyle Barrington with his arm around Mack Wilkinson, posing for pictures.
”Joe Hardy!” Barrington called, beckoning Joe into the picture. The Suntex executive was playing the role of generous victor to the hilt. ”A fine race—you stayed in competition right to the end!”
”Oh, I think we're still in competition,” Joe said boldly, stepping in front of the reporters.) ”My team has a little demonstration we'd like you to see.”
”I really don't think now is the time for another prank,” Barrington responded.
”They never were our pranks,” Joe replied. ”Were they, Mack?”
Mack Wilkinson tried to maintain a smile, but his eyes were worried. He kept glancing around as if he was afraid of seeing someone. He grew more and more unhappy as Joe led the way back to the stage.
”Chill out, Mack,” Joe said. ”We're playing your song.”
Mack's face went pale when he saw the boom box Joe placed on the stage. ”I don't have time for this,” he said, trying to walk away.
Kyle Barrington, however, realized that something was up. ”You stay put, Mack.”
Barrington turned to the SUB team. ”I'll give you five minutes.”
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Up on the stage, Frank knelt by the boom box as the group of reporters who'd followed Barrington and Mack crowded round. He slipped a cassette into the boom box tape player. ”We've been hearing this music a lot during the race,” he said, pressing the play button. The bone-rattling thump of bass guitars filled the tent.
”Please turn that thing down!” Barrington barked.
As Scott turned on the switch concealed in the back of the boom box, another sound began, barely detectable over the music. It was the sound of a minigenerator, drowned out by loud twangs of a guitar.
”But if we turn the music off,” Joe yelled, ”you'll hear the generator.”
Frank's finger stabbed down. The music died, but the sputter of the minigenerator system went on.
Callie brought her hair dryer from behind her back. It was already wired into the earphone jack. ”If this generator can run my hair dryer, it can help run a solar car.”
She flicked the switch. With a whine, the hair dryer ran! Scott cut off the generator, and the dryer ran down. The crowd was aghast, completely silent.
Kyle Barrington went almost purple with rage. The cords in his neck stood out as he
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whirled on Mack. ”I gave you a second chance, Mack, and you've blown it. After that race last year when you were caught forging the reserve results, I should have fired you. But I let you hang on, and what did you do?”
”I won,” Mack replied defiantly.
”You cheated,” Joe corrected him.
”I specifically hired Guy Riley to come on this race to keep an eye on you. Guy knew something was up, but he couldn't figure out how you were doing it.” Barrington shook his head. ”Now we know. I should have listened to him.”
”That's just a part of it,” Frank spoke up. ”There's still the matter of all the mishaps and injuries.”
”We know it was a Suntex van that ran into Lawrence Gonzalez—and we know Sharon Green was at the wheel,” Joe said.
”Ten to one, she and Mack were at the root of all the computer and communications problems,” Teresa added.
”I didn't want to do it,” Mack said in a hoarse voice. ”But when we moved the telemetry equipment to El Paso, something went wrong. It's expensive, and intricate ... and something broke. I couldn't tell the press or Barrington that our system had totally collapsed. So I set the fire to mask it. It was easy to make it look like a short.”
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He licked his lips. ”But I still wanted to win—I didn't need the telemetry to do that. Then Sharon Green turned up. She'd had a falling-out with that wimp Pelman and agreed to help me. I'd thought of the minigenerator system, but she got the idea to hide it in the boom box. For a while our messed-up telemetry kept the crew from figuring out where the power bursts were coming from—and then Sharon helped out by making the computers really go crazy.”
”I bet she even got into the highway patrol's system, which is why it took them so long to track down the license number of the van she used to sideswipe Lawrence's racer,” Joe speculated.
”So you and Sharon are responsible for all of the accidents?” Barrington stared in horror at his research head. ”Mack, I can't believe you'd do this!”
”No,” Mack insisted ”Those stunts were all Sharon's ideas. She'd apparently brought a whole bag of dirty tricks along with her. She wanted revenge on Jeff Pelman, so she cut through his steering rod. She was the one who hot-wired the helmet to shock Bill's ear. Nothing was going to stop her from being on the winning team. When I tried to stop her, she set that bomb outside your room, Kyle—mostly to prove to me that she was deadly serious. After
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that, I was afraid. Sharon was willing to kill to win. She's one messed-up lady.”
Mack's face turned ash white as Sharon Green cut through the crowd gathered by the stage. Frank grabbed her by the arm before she could lunge at Mack. Callie ran for the highway patrol officer.
”I'll get you, you jerk,” Sharon screamed. ”I should have messed up your radio the other day so you would have crashed into that truck instead of Schmidt.”
Her beautiful features were distorted with rage, but Frank hung on to her. Just then, Callie returned with the officer who handcuffed Sharon. She whirled on the crowd as he led her off. ”You all make me sick!” Sharon raved. ”You're all useless, all of you! You don't know a thing about power, real power, more power than you'd ever even be able to imagine.”
”I hope those cuffs are good and strong,” Mack said as another man appeared at his side. ”That lady is deadly. She was always a little off, but after she lost her good-luck charm—”
”Is this it?” Frank asked, holding out the green crystal.
”Yeah,” Mack said, ”that's it. When she lost her crystal, she went totally berserk. I begged her to stop. We were winning, we didn't need anything more. But she was really over the
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edge. Just don't put me in the same cell with her,” he finished, as he was handcuffed and led away.
Everyone remained silent for a moment. At last Kyle Barrington cleared his throat, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a check made out for $100,000. Slowly, he mounted the stage.
”Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Barrington began, ”I don't know what to say— except that I apologize from the bottom of my heart for what's gone on during this race.”
He was clearly chagrined. But when he lifted his head again, he was smiling. ”I have a check here, and we all know who it really goes to. I am honored to present this to the winner of the first annual Suntex Solar Challenge, Scott Sanders and the State University at Bayport team.”
Reporters rushed the stage as Barrington walked over to Scott and handed him the check.
”And I'd like to remind Captain Sanders,” Barrington continued, ”that this is only one of many checks to come for the excellent design and engineering of his car. Congratulations.”
Scott and Teresa stared in disbelief and joy. He looked over at his team members with tears in his eyes, then faced the audience. ”I'm a little stunned,” he said slowly. ”But I have to acknowledge that our success is because of
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three teenagers who are hard workers—and even better detectives.”
The speech was interrupted by a familiar voice from the back of the tent. It was Bill Little. His head was bandaged, but he looked fine as he walked briskly to the front of the stage.
”I have one more award!” Bill shouted, ”Something for the winning driver.” He jumped onto the stage and handed a plainly wrapped package to Barrington.
”Perhaps you could present it,” Bill suggested with a wink. ”It would mean a lot.”
”And what is the name of this award?” Barrington asked dubiously, afraid of another prank.
Bill grinned. ”It's the Solar Talisman.”
With a shrug, Barrington cleared his throat. ”It seems we have one more award.” He turned to Joe. ”I hereby present the prestigious—at least, I hope it's prestigious—Solar Talisman Award to Joe Hardy.”
Joe took the package, smiled, and shook Barrington's hand. Then he ripped the paper away to reveal a glass box with a regular C battery inside. Laying on top of it was a sign that said: IN CASE OF CLOUDS, BREAK GLASS.
As laughter and applause broke out, Joe held the award high over his head and smiled.
Acting Up (Hardy Boys Casefiles #116)
Franklin W. Dixon
Chapter 1
JOE HARDY HELD OUT the video camera at arm's length and aimed it at his face. It was a new model, with a small color screen attached to the side. He watched himself run his free hand through his blond hair, as if he were a reporter getting ready to go on the air.
He pushed the Record button. "It's four in the morning here in India, and Frank and I have just landed at Bombay's Sahar International Airport," he said.
"Come on, Joe," Frank said to his younger brother. He was already striding toward the immigration counter.
"What's the rush?" Joe asked. He turned the camera on Frank as they walked. Frank's six-foot-one
2
frame was only about an inch high in the tiny screen.
"Rajiv Kapoor told Dad he'd have a car waiting for us," Frank said.
"That was before our two-hour delay in London," Joe said. "But I guess the car would wait until we got here."
Ahead, the jumble of passengers began to separate into several lines, and they picked what looked like the shortest one.
"It sure is crowded here in Bombay," Joe said, panning the camera to capture the colorful scene.
Frank had a thick file tucked under his arm and he jammed it under Joe's ribs, as if he were handing off a football. "Put the camera away and read this again while we're waiting," he said.
"I read every word of it already," Joe complained. He opened the file, though, and flipped through its contents. It was filled with information about Rajiv Kapoor, one of Bombay's internationally best-known film directors, and the man who was sending the car to meet them. Rajiv had met Fenton Hardy, Frank and Joe's father, at a film festival in New York several years earlier. Fenton had been in charge of security.
After a three-year hiatus, Rajiv was making a new movie. The project was so top secret that no one in the rumor-ridden Bombay film business even knew its title. Lately a number of accidents had led Rajiv to believe that someone was sabotaging his production. Wanting to maintain secrecy,
3
he'd asked Fenton to come to Bombay and investigate. The local police couldn't be trusted, Rajiv had said. They would sell information to the press. Fenton was working on another urgent investigation, so he had asked his sons to go in his place.
As the line advanced, Joe reviewed the facts concerning Bombay's film industry. "Bollywood" was supposed to be just as glamorous and exciting as Hollywood and produced around 175 films a year. Many of the Indian blockbusters were action-adventure stories with a bit of romance, singing, and dancing thrown in. Joe figured he could live without the singing and dancing, but he was looking forward to the elaborate sets and wild stunts.
"Your passport, sir?"
Joe looked up to see an immigration officer eyeing him impatiently. After the officer stamped each of the boys' passports, Frank and Joe moved on to an extremely crowded baggage carousel.
"Tough crowd," Frank said, craning his neck as he searched for their bags.
Joe held up a letter from the file. "Did you make a note of this? Where Rajiv wrote to Dad that he had writer's block after his last film."
"No wonder he's anxious," Frank said.
The plan was to have the brothers pose as interns from a film school in New York. They'd work as production assistants on the set, which
4
would give them full access to the crew and actors.
"Rajiv gets involved in every aspect of his films, all the details from casting to writing and directing," Joe said.
"Maybe he's just a control freak," Frank said. "Those incidents he described to Dad—lightbulbs blowing out, the emergency generator failing—all sound pretty mild to me."
"What about his assistant getting beaten up?" Joe asked.
"It could have just been a mugging."
"No way Dad would let us miss school if he thought Rajiv was only overreacting," Joe said. "I guess we'll find out soon enough, though." Over the shoulders of the crowd he spotted their duffel bags and, using his running back's build, wove through the knot of people to snag them off the conveyor belt.
The Hardys hurried to customs, where there was an even longer wait than at immigration, unfortunately. The officials seemed determined to search just about everyone's bags. Obviously, there were a lot of people bringing in undeclared goods. The woman in front of them had a VCR wrapped in an old sari. She was forced to unpack her two other cases, revealing an expensive camera and a mini tape recorder, for which she'd be charged duty.
Finally the Hardys' turn came. They were asked to show the luggage tags on their tickets
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to verify that they matched the tags on their bags. Then, after a brief search, they were free to leave.
An ocean breeze wafted through the double doors of the arrivals lounge. Although it was five-thirty in the morning, it was still dark outside. Frank caught a glimpse of palm trees in the middle of the driveway silhouetted against the dark sky. Rajiv had said his assistant, Sachin, would be waiting for them with a sign that read Hardy. The Hardys glanced at the people holding up names written on scraps of cardboard or paper, but they couldn't find theirs.
"He's probably out in the car—asleep," Joe said as they stepped outside. The air was balmy. Cars and taxis blocked the loading zone as people hugged their relatives and loaded bags into every available space in and on the vehicles.
Joe jumped as the outdoor speakers of the public address system crackled with static. A booming voice speaking in Hindi drowned out the murmur of people greeting one another. Armored Jeeps and police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, pulled into the drive and screeched to a halt, blocking traffic on all sides.
Joe glanced at Frank. "I wonder what's going on."
Security guards carrying guns and batons jumped from their Jeeps and began herding everyone back onto the loading zone. When the voice on the P.A. system switched to English, Joe
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heard something about explosives, but the wailing sirens drowned out the rest.
"Hey, watch it," Frank heard Joe say, as the unruly crowd jostled them out into the street. As he looked in the direction of Joe's voice, he saw his brother swept aside by a group of German tourists.
"Joe!" he called as he was pushed in the opposite direction. A woman carrying a small child wrapped in a blanket elbowed him out of the way. A police officer started arguing with a balding man who was trying to push through the crowd with an overloaded baggage cart.
"Someone will take my bags if I leave them," the man exclaimed.
"No one is leaving the airport right now, including you!" The officer used his short-barreled riot shotgun to block the man's path.
Frank stopped another officer who was hurrying by. "What's happening?"
The man frowned. "You came in on the flight from London?"
"Yes."
"You must wait here until you are instructed to go back inside to have your bags rechecked," he said curtly. A few minutes later he herded Frank and other passengers back into the arrivals lounge.
A customs official checked Frank's bag even more carefully this time, unfolding his shirts and jeans and feeling around for hidden compartments.
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Frank asked what was going on, but the official wouldn't even raise his head until he was satisfied that there was nothing suspicious in Frank's luggage. Finally, he zipped Frank's duffel and handed it back. "We received a warning that someone was bringing in explosives on the flight from London," he said. "Is anyone traveling with you?"
"My brother, Joe. We got separated outside."
"He's left the airport?" The official studied Frank suspiciously.
"I don't think so."
The man picked up the phone and made a call. The only thing he said in English was Joe's name. As the official was finishing his call, Frank heard a familiar voice say, "I'm back." He turned to see Joe beside him, out of breath.
"Where were you?" Frank asked. "This guy thought you'd left the airport."
"Yeah, sure, I found our ride and decided to leave you here," Joe said with a smile. "Seriously, I ran into Sachin. He said he called ahead and found out our plane was delayed, so he just got here. They made him park outside the airport and walk in. Security isn't letting any cars in now."
Joe handed over his bag and video camera for inspection, after which they were allowed to leave. Back out in the loading zone, they watched as the sun rose. A slightly fishy smell of the ocean hung in the early morning mist.
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Frank was looking forward to a shower and change of clothes. They had only two weeks here, and he hoped they could wrap up the case quickly and still see some of the city before heading back to Bayport. That would make all the cramming for the midterms they'd had to take before leaving worthwhile.
"Sachin said he was here yesterday to pick up Vijay Tate," Joe said. Vijay, the star of the movie, had been in London, visiting his uncle, Biku Tate, who was Rajiv's producer and main investor.
"There he is." Joe pointed to a heavily bearded man with a dark red turban. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses, black pants, and a loose-fitting red tunic that matched his turban.
Spotting them, Sachin nodded at Joe, who introduced Frank. "So you've come to Bombay to learn how we make movies, eh?" Sachin said. "Maybe you bring good luck with you. We could use some."
Frank thought he saw Sachin crack a smile, but he couldn't be sure because of the beard. "Let's hope so," he replied, not wanting to sound too curious. "We heard you may be jinxed." They walked past a terminal that was under construction, its scaffolding hanging out over them, and then turned onto what looked like a major street.
"That's the car?" Frank asked. It was tiny, with a chassis not much bigger than that of a golf cart. "How are we supposed to fit into that?"
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Joe was surprised, too. He'd been expecting a stretch limo or at least a European luxury sedan.
"We'll put your bags in the front seat next to me," Sachin said, taking the two duffel bags from the boys and squashing them in the narrow front seat. "The boot is too small."
Frank and Joe squeezed into the backseat, their knees almost up to their chins. Between the luggage and Sachin's turban, they could barely see out the windshield.
Joe had almost forgotten that in India they drove on the left side of the road, as they do in Britain. That also explained why they used the British word boot for trunk. Determined to see something of the city, he and Frank rolled down their grimy windows, which went only halfway.
Sachin drove like a maniac, zipping the tiny car through the maze of narrow streets, switching lanes on a whim all the while honking at pedestrians and bicyclists. Swinging around a corner, they had to swerve to miss a wooden cart being pulled by a fat, lumbering water buffalo and nearly skidded into a teetering double-decker bus packed with people. The smell of diesel fumes came in through the open windows, and Frank had to grip the door frame to stay in his seat. He was having a hard time enjoying the sights.
"How far is the set?" Frank asked after a while. The streets had changed and were no longer narrow and crowded. They climbed a
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steep grade, leaving the city behind and rising high above the ocean.
Joe checked his map. They seemed to be driving southeast, in the opposite direction of the palace where the production was based. He was about to ask where they were headed when Sachin pulled over and stopped. From his window Joe could see waves far below, beating against a rocky cliff. "What are we stopping for?" he asked.
Sachin didn't answer. Instead, he jumped out of the car, ran around to the front, and gave it a powerful shove.
"Hey, we're rolling backward," Joe said.
Sachin peered in Frank's window as the car started to pick up speed. "Welcome to Bombay, boys," he said.
Frank could see his own distorted reflection in Sachin's sunglasses. He grabbed for the man, but Sachin jumped back and darted away.
"Frank, my door's jammed," Joe said, rattling the handle. Frank tried his. It was jammed, too.
"This is it," Joe shouted. "We're going over the cliff!"
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Chapter 2
THEY COULD HEAR AND FEEL the crunch of tires on gravel as the car picked up momentum. Joe tried to reach over the front seat to get to the brakes, but there wasn't enough room.
Frank cocked his right arm and smashed his elbow into the half-open window next to him. The glass shattered, and he hurled himself through, rolling away from the car as he hit the ground. He turned to look for his brother.
The car looked as if it was going over as Joe flew through the window and dropped to the ground, skidding on the gravel and stopping just inches from the cliff edge.
The little orange automobile balanced on the rim, stuck on some jagged rocks, its rear axle hanging over a hundred-foot drop.
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"Are you okay?" Joe heard Frank's voice behind him.
Joe stood up and peered over the cliff. "Just great," he said, brushing off his jeans and checking for cuts. "Stay back while I get our bags." Joe approached the car gingerly. He had to lean out over the cliff to reach the passenger door handle. He opened the door slowly with his left hand and grasped the bags with his right. He made sure he was clear of the car before yanking the bags out. The car teetered, then went over, falling toward the rocks in what looked like slow motion. Joe winced at the wrenching sound of the impact.
He turned back to Frank. "I wonder what Rajiv is going to say when we tell him his trusted assistant tried to kill us."
"I think we can assume that wasn't Sachin," Frank replied. "Look at this." He held up a fake beard and mustache. "This came off in my hand when I grabbed for the guy."
They shouldered their bags and started walking back toward the city to find a cab. Off to the right, the Arabian Sea stretched out gray and flat as far as they could see. In all other directions Bombay sprawled, its densely packed tenements and high-rises swimming in a smoggy haze.
"Why would someone try to kill us?" Joe wondered. "Dad said that not even Biku Tate would know the real reason we're here. As far as everyone is concerned, we're just a couple of interns."
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They came to a busy intersection, and Frank hailed a cab. This time they made sure the driver took them in the right direction, toward the Worli Sea Face, north of the center of the city.
"Our fake Sachin wasn't just some unscrupulous cabdriver," Frank said. "He knew too much about us. That probably means someone on the set knows who we are."
"It also means Rajiv probably isn't just being paranoid about somebody trying to sabotage his film," Joe said.
***
The cab dropped the Hardys at the set, an old palace belonging to a distant relative of Rajiv.
"It must be nice to be related to the Maharaja of Rajghar," Joe said, staring up at the enormous white stone compound. The palace stood in sharp contrast to a brick textile factory across the street. Many of the factory's windows were broken and immediately surrounding the factory was nothing but a shantytown. People were living right out on the sidewalk, cooking their breakfasts on small, rusted grills, hanging clothes out to dry on lines strung between telephone poles.
Frank and Joe walked around and entered the palace through a door in the back. The place looked like a fort with its crenelated walls. A guard, stationed in a small booth near the door, checked their identification before letting them in.
Joe let out a low whistle. "This is like stepping through a time warp," he said.
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The courtyard was immaculately landscaped, with paved paths and carefully tended flower-beds. The Hardys walked toward a two-story stone structure with massive columns and arches along the length of it.
Another guard rechecked their names against a list on a clipboard and let them in the building through a high iron double door that looked like an elaborate armoire.
"Look, Frank," Joe said as they walked in. Above the intricately carved doorway were two black elephant statues, facing each other so that their raised trunks were nearly touching. The elephants had gold blankets painted over the bulk of their bodies, and their features were painted in white and yellow. The paint had faded and chipped over the centuries, but they were still striking.
The inside courtyard had a tile mosaic floor and several doorways leading off it. There were two men in the middle, engaged in a frantic conversation. The older one caught sight of the Hardys and stopped talking.
"Hi," Frank said. "We're looking for Rajiv Kapoor."
"Are you Frank and Joe Hardy?"
The man crossed the courtyard and introduced himself as Kapoor. He was tall, with gray hair down to his shoulders, and he wore sandals and baggy white pants with a matching tunic. He wore a linen vest over the tunic and carried a
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clipboard in his left hand. Though his voice was jovial, his bushy eyebrows came together in a frown as he checked out the Hardys.
"Where have you been?" he asked. With his slightly hooked nose, he looked like an angry eagle. "Sachin said he looked everywhere." He indicated the young man behind him. "He just returned from the airport."
Frank and Joe's suspicions were confirmed. The man Rajiv was pointing to looked nothing like the man who'd picked them up. Sachin was a thin, wiry man dressed in jeans, sandals, and a crisp cotton shirt. He had a well-trimmed beard and mustache and wore round glasses that made him look more like a college instructor than a director's assistant.
Frank and Joe had decided to brief Rajiv in private, so they said nothing about the Sachin impostor. "Someone was supposedly smuggling explosives into the airport," Frank explained. "It was pretty chaotic, so we figured Sachin never made it through the police barricade."
"Explosives?" Rajiv turned to Sachin. "You never told me about that."
"I was just getting to that part of the story," Sachin said evenly. He turned to the boys. "I'm very sorry about this. When I finally got into the airport, it was so late that I figured you must have given up on me."
"Well, Sachin, just make sure nothing like this happens again," Rajiv said. "This is their first trip
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to Bombay, and we wouldn't want them to have a bad impression, would we?"
Excusing himself, Rajiv went into one of the rooms off the courtyard.
Sachin motioned for Frank and Joe to put their bags down. "Don't worry," he said, grinning. "He tends to overreact when things don't go according to plan."
"Is the production on schedule?" Frank asked as they followed Sachin down a long marble-paved gallery.
"Barely," Sachin said. "We've had a couple of problems in the last three weeks that have delayed us considerably." He pointed up to the high ceiling, where some frayed ropes hung. "Two weeks ago the chandelier that belongs here came crashing down. It was made of wood and iron, very heavy. Luckily no one was hurt.
"There was a bad case of food poisoning among the crew, which isn't unusual in the tropics but a nuisance nonetheless. The electricity has gone out a couple of times. The guard claims to have seen a ghost in the corridors, but I don't think a ghost did this." He pointed to a faded bruise on his forehead.
"How did that happen?" Frank asked.
"I was leaving the set, locking up after everyone had gone home late one night. The guard was nowhere around, so I thought he had fallen asleep or gone to get something to eat."
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"How many guards patrol at night?" Joe asked.
"Just one," Sachin answered. "It was very dark. The street outside the palace is not lit at night. I had my flashlight under my chin as I locked the gate. When I heard rustling noises in the jasmine, I called out, but no one answered. Suddenly I felt a hand pulling my head back. My flashlight fell, and the next thing I knew someone was punching me in the stomach and then ramming my head into the iron gate. I tried to fight, but there were two of them, and finally I passed out."
"Did you get a look at them?"
Sachin shook his head. "And they didn't say a word. Once I was on the ground, they ran off."
"Do you think it has anything to do with the film?" Joe asked.
Sachin shrugged. "Those men were probably only looking for some fun, though a lot of people in town do resent Rajiv's way of doing business."
"Why? Doesn't he play by the rules?" Frank asked.
"Actors here like to work on several films at once," Sachin said. "I've heard of people being involved in as many as fourteen different projects, but Rajiv forces his actors to sign exclusive eight-week contracts. During that time they are not allowed to work on any other productions."
"Two months isn't much time to shoot a film," Frank noted.
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"Especially since the average shoot here takes three years," Sachin said. "You can see how the pressure is building. If Rajiv doesn't deliver the film by the end of the year, he'll lose his backing, not only from Biku but from the foreign investors Biku has assembled."
Something didn't make sense to Joe. "Why would actors agree to exclusive contracts?" he asked.
"Vijay and Kamala are both rising stars," Sachin said. "Rajiv hasn't done a film in three years, and they were willing to sign exclusives to get the chance to work with him. Once they were signed on, confidence in the project grew and more actors and crew members signed exclusives also. Now, with all the problems we're having, people are getting nervous."
Sachin led Frank and Joe down a narrow corridor with gilded walls and latticed stone screens.
"Take a look, Joe," Frank said. "You can see down into the courtyard from here."
"The women of the royal family could look through these screens without being seen," Sachin explained. "You'll see these throughout the palace.
"Frank," Sachin continued, "you have been assigned to work with the production manager, Mahesh Bhatt, for the time being. Joe, you'll work with the lighting crew for now."
At the end of the corridor, Sachin directed Frank to Mahesh's office, located at the back of
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the prop and set design room, and then left with Joe for the Hall of Public Audiences, where most of the interior scenes were being shot.
Frank entered a well-lit room. The floor was covered with a piece of brown tarp to protect the marble, but that didn't take away from the splendor of the arched windows and painted walls. At the back of the room was an eight-panel wooden screen, carved with a line of elephants, each using its trunk to grasp the tail of the one in front of it.
Frank heard scuffling behind the screen, followed by a loud yelp of pain. "Aieee!"
Then came a swishing sound and more scuffling. Frank rushed around the screen to find a man trapped against the wall, covering his face with his arms as another man charged at him with a sword.
Frank lunged for the attacker, knocking him over and grabbing his wrist. The sword clattered to the floor, but the man Frank had just rescued grabbed it and turned on him. He wielded the big weapon in his right hand, backed Frank up against the wall and, with a determined grimace, swung it in a deadly arc straight at Frank's head.
20
Chapter 3
FRANK DUCKED and the sword sliced through the air so close to his cheek that he could feel the wind. The man brandished the weapon, then swung the tip of the blade around, holding it against Frank's chest. The polished steel gleamed white in the lights.
"Had you scared, yes?" the man said, and broke into a grin. He held out his hand and helped Frank up. The other man shook with laughter.
"I'm Mahesh, the production manager," said Frank's attacker. "You must be one of the American interns. This clown is Alok, the stunt coordinator."
Alok couldn't stop laughing. He took the sword from Mahesh and ran his thumb along the
21
blade, testing its edge: "Just a prop, see? Mahesh and I were staging one of the scenes I worked out." He was tall and muscular compared to Mahesh, who was older and slouched a bit. Mahesh was clean-shaven, while Alok had a mustache and heavy sideburns.
Frank shook his head. "It looked pretty real to me."
"That's the point," Mahesh said. "If we couldn't fool you, who could we fool?"
"So there's fighting in this movie?" Frank asked, trying to hide his embarrassment. "Sachin told us it wasn't a typical Bollywood production."
Mahesh rolled his eyes. "I'll say. This is a very serious picture, no singing and dancing. We're lucky they didn't take out all the action scenes as well."
"But it's still a good story," Alok said.
"That's what I heard," Frank said. "Maybe you could fill me in on the details."
"What do you know?" Mahesh asked.
"Just that it's based on a true story about this guru, Ram something."
"Ram Jagannath," Alok said. "Ten years ago he was one of the most popular spiritual teachers. He set up an ashram in an old palace like this one. He had very loyal followers."
"So it was some kind of cult?" Frank asked.
"Nothing quite so obvious," Mahesh said, leading Frank out into the vast prop and set design room. "People came and went as they pleased.
22
In fact, a lot of film people would go there just to spend a few days in quiet meditation. Apparently the ashram was very peaceful. Until Ram was caught smuggling explosives and selling them to the highest bidder. He even had a rival ashram bombed, and several people were killed."
"That doesn't sound too spiritual to me," Frank said.
"That's not the strangest part of the story." Alok put the sword back in its scabbard and placed it on a shelf crowded with props.
"After his arrest," Mahesh went on, "the police discovered that Ram Jagannath was an Englishman posing as an Indian."
Frank couldn't believe it. "What? Didn't anyone notice?"
"He claimed to be an Indian raised and educated in England," Alok said as he started to choreograph a fight scene. He talked as he went through the motions of two men grappling. "He said he'd returned to India when he got sick of the Western way of living."
"I guess he figured people were more likely to trust an Indian guru than an Englishman," Frank said.
"Absolutely," Mahesh said. "He pulled it off, too. He had thick black hair and a long black beard that covered most of his face. He spoke Hindi the way foreign-raised Indians speak it, and because there were so many foreigners in his flock, he spoke English in his public addresses,
23
anyway. People loved his deep, booming voice," Mahesh added. "Or so I've heard. I never actually saw him. Did you, Alok?"
Alok shook his head. He moved nimbly and powerfully from one wrestling move to another, shooting down low to throw an imaginary foe. "I only know what I read," Alok said. "A couple of his disciples tried to break him out of jail one night. He was shot dead, and they escaped."
"However," Mahesh said, "Rajiv's story doesn't focus on Jagannath as much as on a couple of people who meet at his ashram, fall in love, and then find they are caught in the middle of a corrupt and dangerous situation."
"Was anyone arrested after the escape attempt?" Frank asked.
"No, they probably went up north and crossed the border into Pakistan," Mahesh said. "There's been no sign of them for years. In fact, the ashram was sold to a hotel chain. I doubt anyone except Rajiv remembers Jagannath and his groupies."
"This movie should change that," Frank said.
"We'll see," Mahesh said.
Frank noticed more wooden screens that partitioned the vast room into sections. In one section were long metal racks of costumes, in another was a marble counter running along a mirrored wall. Styrofoam wig blocks with wigs and mustaches of various styles lined the counter.
Frank helped Mahesh organize the costumes
24
and props for future scenes. As they worked, Frank found out that most of the crew arrived on the set by seven every morning. The fake Sachin had left them at the cliff at six-thirty, so he would have had plenty of time to make it to the set on time, Frank figured. That fact, combined with all the information the impostor knew about the Hardys, convinced Frank that he must be part of the cast or crew.
Meanwhile Joe was busy setting up lights in the big hall when Sachin called him over to meet a tall man with light brown hair and hazel eyes. "This is Nikhil, Vijay Tate's stand-in and best friend in the film."
Joe shook hands with Nikhil, who stood out among the dark-haired cast and crew.
"I heard you were delayed by a bomb scare this morning," Nikhil said. "How long did it take you to get out of the airport?"
"A while," Joe said. "It wasn't really a bomb scare, though. They said someone tried to bring in explosives."
Before he could ask any questions, the assistant director asked Nikhil to sit on a cushion on the floor, in front of the dais with Ram Jagannath's magisterial chair. He wanted to make sure that both the main camera and the secondary units were properly positioned to film two men and Jagannath.
"Joe," Rajiv called, "find out if Kamala's ready. As long as we're set up, we'll shoot the
25
scene when Jagannath holds a private audience with her and the two boys."
Getting directions from one of the crew, Joe hurried along a corridor to the group of rooms put aside for the cast. Because the maharaja didn't want the gilded doors ruined with Scotch tape or glue, none of the dressing rooms were labeled. Kamala Devi, the heroine, had hung a glittery gold star with her name on it on her doorknob. Joe knocked and she answered, "Come in."
The actress was sitting at a dresser with her back to the door. Joe saw a beautiful young woman with wide gray eyes reflected in her mirror. Her black hair hung almost to the floor. She wore a nose ring and gold hoop earrings, and her long red fingernails tapped the dresser impatiently.
"You're not Minnie," she snapped.
"I'm Joe Hardy, one of the new interns."
Kamala turned around. "What do you want?"
"Rajiv wants to know if you're ready for the next scene. They're going to shoot it right after this one."
"Oh, pooh," she said. "What's the rush, then? You're American, aren't you? Why don't you take a seat and tell me all about Hollywood?"
Joe picked his way through several piles of clothing scattered on the floor and took a seat. However, before he could say anything, Kamala started complaining about the script.
26
"So," Joe said, "you feel this isn't a good project for you?"
Kamala backtracked. "Oh no, don't misunderstand. Working with Rajiv Kapoor is every actress's dream. But a movie with no singing and dancing—it seems so dull. I don't know how Rajiv is going to save it."
"Is that why he's being so secretive about the production?" Joe asked, watching her draw a thick black line along her eyelid.
"He doesn't want his big comeback jeopardized by unscrupulous gossips. He thinks the film could do well here, provided he's given a chance to show it before it's dismissed by critics."
"There's no market for serious movies?"
"The audience wants entertainment. They have certain expectations, and our job is to meet them. I thought Biku understood that."
She sounded bitter, but before Joe could ask her if she'd tried to get out of her contract, there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, a heavyset, light-skinned man, with a black handlebar mustache, stepped in. His round stomach wobbled slightly under his loose orange tunic and pants.
"Who are you?" he asked, frowning at Joe.
"Please, Tariq," Kamala admonished. "Where are your manners? This is Joe, one of our new American production assistants. Be nice to him or you won't get your cup of tea between takes."
"You must be Tariq Khan, the villain of the
27
story," Joe said. Joe knew he was the one who played Ram Jagannath.
Tariq eyed Joe suspiciously. "A villain only as Rajiv imagines him. Don't mistake this story for fact."
His voice was deep, with a British accent, but Joe was more curious about what Tariq had just said. Why did he sound so irritated about Rajiv's take on Jagannath?
"We're late," Tariq said, and left the room as abruptly as he'd entered it.
"Does he always come in to tell you when you're late?" Joe asked.
Kamala laughed. "He studied at the Royal Academy in London and talks and acts as if he were royalty. He even refers to himself as 'we.' Working in a palace and playing a guru has only made it worse. I'm afraid he takes the role far too seriously."
When Joe returned to the set, he found Frank there with Vijay Tate. Sachin introduced Joe to the star. Vijay looked a lot like Nikhil, although he was much darker. He had shaggy black hair and a thin nose. His dark eyes were ringed with circles of fatigue, and he wore a small gold hoop in his left ear. He was dressed in a plain beige robe for the ashram scene.
"You must be tired," he said to Joe and Frank. "I flew in yesterday and still had to sleep in this morning." He seemed unconcerned that he'd kept everyone waiting.
28
"Good thing you did arrive yesterday," Joe said. "You missed all the chaos at the airport."
Vijay nodded. "I was going to send Sachin there this afternoon to pick up one of my suitcases. It was left in London, and the airline called me to say it would be on today's flight."
"I should wait till later," Sachin said. "The airport will be crazy all day because of the confusion this morning." His cellular phone rang, and he was soon engrossed in a heated conversation.
"He's trying to find a snake charmer," Vijay translated for the Hardys.
"A real snake charmer?" Joe asked.
Vijay nodded. "Jagannath's ashram was on a huge estate, where he had all kinds of wildlife—tigers, peacocks, even an elephant. In the movie, he keeps a snake in a basket by his feet."
Joe watched as Sachin shut his phone with a shake of his head. "This is impossible to arrange. Why do we need a real snake, anyway? I have to talk Rajiv into something more practical." He disappeared down the corridor, muttering to himself.
Vijay and the Hardys chatted for a few minutes before getting back to work. Then while Joe helped the script supervisor by writing down the angles for lights and the placement of cameras, Frank headed back to Mahesh's office to get the storyboards for Rajiv.
Walking down the quiet corridor, Frank heard a squeak above him. He looked up. The vaulted
29
corridor ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and there were balconies about halfway up, with more of the see-through stone screens.
Frank took a few more steps, then stopped. It sounded as though someone was shadowing him from the balcony above. He heard the squeak of a shoe on a waxed floor.
"Who's there?" he called.
No one answered. Frank continued walking to the end of the corridor. Someone was up there. Frank silently headed up a dark, narrow staircase to his right.
Shining his pocket flashlight up the worn spiral stairs, he braced himself with one hand and crept up. At the top he saw tiny shafts of light shining in through the screens. He cast his flashlight beam across the balcony, but it was just a dark, empty space.
He heard another squeak coming from his left and shone his light in that direction, but there was nothing there either.
Then a voice behind him said, "Stop, no one is allowed up here."
Frank started to wheel around and felt something crash down on the back of his head so hard his teeth clacked together. The dappled light through the screens swirled in his eyes, then everything went black.
30
Chapter 4
FRANK WOKE UP to find a man with a pencil-thin mustache and watery brown eyes that fluttered anxiously staring down at him. It was the guard.
"What happened?" Frank asked. He was back downstairs in the hallway. He had a headache, but nothing felt broken. He sat up slowly, but his head started spinning, so he lay back down on the cold marble. "The last thing I remember was someone saying that no one is allowed up in the balcony."
"That was him," Joe said, jerking his thumb at the guard. "He heard you walking around up there and went to tell you to come down. He says he got there just as a ghost attacked you. He's pretty freaked out."
"That was no ghost." Frank's vision cleared, and with Joe's help, he managed to stand up.
31
Sachin came down the hall with a doctor, speaking as he walked. "What were you doing up there?"
Frank rubbed the back of his head. "I heard someone, so I thought I'd check it out."
"Oh, we may have a real problem, then," Sachin said. "I think someone was sent to spy on the production—probably by Alex Chandraswamy."
"Maybe it was just a reporter or something," Joe said. He didn't want Sachin alerting everyone on the set and driving their saboteur underground.
"No matter," Sachin said. "That would be almost as bad."
The doctor checked the bruise on Frank's head, then flashed his penlight in each of Frank's eyes. "I pronounce you A-okay. Take it easy this afternoon and get some rest. You should be just fine."
"Thanks," Frank said. He turned to Sachin. "Who is this Alex Chantingswamy?"
"Chandraswamy," he said, correcting Frank. "He's another director. Alex and Rajiv have a long history of bad blood. I don't have any idea how it started. From now on, the two of you should not talk to anyone you don't know. We have to be careful." Sachin turned abruptly and led the doctor back down the hall.
Joe and Frank questioned the guard, who was still shaken up. He couldn't add anything to Frank's version of the story. He'd heard the sound of Frank's getting hit and falling to the
32
ground, then the squeaking noises he swore were the footsteps of a ghost.
The Hardys walked back to the set. "Mahesh told me there are about sixty crew and seventy-five actors and extras, male and female," Frank said. "That's a lot of people to keep track of."
They didn't get a chance to talk further. Frank rested on a pile of pillows in a corner of the Hall of Audiences while Joe went back to work with the script supervisor. They had Nikhil and other stand-ins walk through the action while Rajiv shouted orders and suggestions from his director's chair. At five they broke for afternoon tea, and finally, after eleven takes of one scene, Rajiv decided to call it a day.
Sachin drove the Hardys to Rajiv's house in Malabar Hill, one of Bombay's most exclusive neighborhoods. The house had a plush grassy lawn and a circular driveway that came right up to the thick columns of the front porch. The top of the porch was a railed balcony that could be reached through glass double doors on the second floor. Sachin led Frank and Joe to their room. "Dinner will be ready in an hour," he said, and closed the door as he left.
"This room is big enough for a game of half-court basketball," Joe said. From the wide windows he could clearly see the border between city and sea. The densely packed yellow lights of Bombay reached out to a certain point, then stopped, met by the vast, black space of ocean.
33
Every few seconds a red light blinked far out to sea.
While he unpacked, Frank told Joe about meeting Mahesh and Alok. "Mahesh told me that crew members work as freelancers. They like to work on lots of productions at once, too, just like the actors. These fourteen-hour days aren't giving them a chance to work anywhere else."
"Maybe a lot of people are unhappy with Rajiv right now," Joe said, "and want to get out of their contracts."
"Or maybe Sachin's right. Someone's working for one of Rajiv's rivals." Frank took the fake beard out of his bag to examine it again. It was a very distinct color, shiny black with a few streaks of gray and maybe even some dark red. He handed it to Joe.
"It feels really coarse," Joe said. "Like animal hair."
"It's our only clue so far." Frank opened the windows and stretched out on his bed. He noticed that there was a statue of the Hindi deity Vishnu on his nightstand. "Hey, Joe, doesn't this statue look kind of like that lead actress—Kamala, I think her name is?"
"I guess." Joe was still studying the beard. "Speaking of Kamala, I think she's worried the movie's going to flop and ruin her career."
"Is she trying to get out of her contract?"
"I didn't get a chance to ask her." Joe picked a sock out of his duffel bag and stuffed the beard
34
inside it for safekeeping. "Tariq interrupted us, but he had a few interesting things to say about Ram Jagannath. Tariq seems to be a big fan of the guru."
"I wonder why," Frank said with a yawn. He was starting to fall asleep just as Sachin knocked and stuck his head in the doorway, his thin neck making him appear to be a bird.
"It is time to come down for dinner," he said, and disappeared.
When they got downstairs, the Hardys saw that Rajiv had planned a working dinner with senior members of the crew and cast. Vijay had changed into an expensive-looking gray suit and sat at the beautifully polished mahogany dining table, talking amiably to Alok and Mahesh.
"Now we can really get to know each other," Vijay said, standing to shake hands with both the Hardys. "How's your head?"
"Still sore," Frank admitted.
"That guard is overworked," Mahesh said. "He has strict orders to keep the press off the premises, and he also has to watch us carefully and make sure that we leave the place exactly as we found it. We'd have an easier time with security if we were using a studio."
"But we'd be paying thousands of rupees to build a palace interior," Rajiv said as he entered the room. "Watching out for priceless possessions that have been in my family for generations is a smaller price to pay, don't you think?"
35
Mahesh muttered something under his breath.
"Yes, yes, Mahesh," Rajiv said. "You've told me a thousand times how impossible this whole thing is."
"When we unionize," Mahesh said, "you won't be able to get away with making us work these hours."
Rajiv seemed to ignore Mahesh's comment. "Come now," he said, "we have a meal to eat. Ramlal has prepared a special South Indian dinner."
Sachin came in, followed by the servant, Ramlal, who was dressed in baggy white pants and a white pullover shirt that looked like doctors' scrubs. He passed around steaming bowls of sambar, a lentil soup with bits of vegetable in it, and small dishes of coconut chutney.
Joe tried to hide his disappointment. He was hungry. Somehow a bowl of soup and coconut chutney didn't seem like it would be enough. Next Ramlal came around with huge crepelike pancakes filled with curried potatoes.
"Masala dosa," Sachin explained, showing Joe how to break off pieces of the crisp pancake with his fingers and then dip them into the sambar.
Relieved by the sight of more food, Joe began eating. The masala dosa and sambar turned out to be the appetizer, which was followed by rice and spicy vegetables, then fresh yogurt. Dessert was mango ice cream.
The Hardys were anxious to talk to Rajiv
36
alone. After their long flight, big meal, and day on the set, the Hardys pleaded jet lag when Sachin suggested a drive around the city for a nighttime tour.
"No tour," Rajiv said. "I need to talk to Frank and Joe about their responsibilities. And I want to meet with each of you separately about tomorrow's shoot."
Leaving Alok, Mahesh, and Vijay to watch an old Hindi film, Frank and Joe followed Rajiv into his study.
The room was lined with bookcases stacked with leather-bound screenplays. Rajiv's desk faced the door and had legs that turned into eagle talons holding balls at the floor. Two comfortable office chairs faced the paper-strewn desk. They all sat down, and Frank and Joe quickly filled Rajiv in on their ride from the airport.
"Your description of the driver sounds as if he could be almost anyone I know," Rajiv said. "I don't understand—no one is supposed to know why you're here except me."
"Well," Joe said, "it just so happens that the guy knew exactly who we were and what he planned to do with us."
Frank saw that Joe was losing his cool, so he changed the subject. "Have you noticed any pattern to the incidents on the set?" he asked.
Rajiv sighed. "At first I told myself it was just bad luck when the lights failed or the emergency generator didn't come on. These were nothing
37
dangerous. But a week after these incidents, some members of the crew got violently ill after eating lunch at the palace. Not all of us got sick, and the doctor told me that some kind of herbal poison had been put in their food. How, I don't know, but ten people had to be hospitalized. Then Sachin got beaten up, and I decided to call your father."
"How do you know he wasn't just mugged?" Frank asked.
"They didn't take his money. They weren't even interested in his copy of the script, which I'm sure they could've sold to the press."
"Sachin certainly is worried about the press," Joe said.
"That's right," Frank added. "And he's also uptight about someone named Alex Chandraswamy."
"Ah, yes." Rajiv nodded his head. "I was going to tell you about Alex. Of all my enemies—and one makes many in this business—he hates me the most. We were friends, but I had to take over a project of his more than twenty years ago. The producer fired him, and when I stepped in as director, he claimed I'd stabbed him in the back."
"So he would love to see this project fail," Frank said.
"Yes." Rajiv dug around in the papers on his desk. "He's been holding a grudge for all these years, even though he's now very successful on his own. In fact, there's a big party planned for
38
the opening of his new movie. Sachin told me the guest list reads like a who's who of Bollywood."
"I'd like to have an invitation to that party," Joe said. He imagined meeting a few more beautiful leading ladies like Kamala—not to mention widening the scope of their investigation. "Maybe we could ask around to see if we can dig anything up."
Rajiv finally fished two sets of keys from the stacks of papers and books. "I'm sure I can arrange that," he said. "I wanted to give you these, too. They're keys to two mopeds in my garage, should you need to get around when Sachin is busy."
Frank and Joe left Rajiv's study and joined Vijay in the living room. Sachin had already gone to bed. Rajiv sent word with Ramlal that he would see Alok and Mahesh in the morning.
"If he were paying for this," Mahesh said, "I bet he wouldn't keep us waiting."
"Take it easy, man," Alok said lazily. "You got a good meal and a movie out of it, didn't you?" He pointed to the big-screen TV in front of them.
Mahesh got up to leave. "I can't watch this anymore. See you tomorrow," he said, and stalked out.
Alok shrugged, reluctantly pushed himself up from the couch, and followed.
Leaving Vijay sacked out in front of the TV, the Hardys headed upstairs for bed.
39
Minutes later Frank was ready to turn out the lights as Joe pulled his sheets back and started to get into bed. Joe suddenly froze.
"Leave the lights on," he said, keeping his voice low and steady.
Frank glanced over to see a cobra as thick as his forearm uncoil from the middle of Joe's bed and lift its head. Its neck flared out flat, and the snake let out an angry, catlike hiss.
"Don't move, Joe," Frank said. The head swayed in midair, inches from Joe's face.
Frank reached out slowly for the bronze Vishnu statue. He had it in his hand when the cobra hissed again, rose, and lunged at Joe, sinking its fangs deep into his shoulder.
40
Chapter 5
JOE STAGGERED BACK, grasping the writhing snake by its head. The cobra refused to let go, and Joe could only think of how it must be pumping venom into his shoulder. Finally he ripped the snake free and flung it to the floor.
Before the beady-eyed creature could slither under the bed, Frank slammed the sculpture down on its head, crushing it flat. The sound was like someone squashing a huge grasshopper on a sidewalk.
"Quick, someone call a doctor!" Frank yelled down the hall, then returned to his brother, who had slumped under the window, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Joe clutched his shoulder. One of the fangs had broken off and was still stuck in there; he could
41
feel it with his fingers. Blood speckled his T-shirt, but his shoulder didn't hurt as much as he expected. The pain seemed dull and far away.
"Hang in there, Joe," Frank said.
Within seconds, Vijay, Sachin, and Rajiv appeared. "A cobra!" Rajiv exclaimed. "Sachin, call the doctor immediately."
"Stay still," Frank said to Joe. "You want to keep the poison from spreading too quickly." Joe just nodded his head.
"We haven't had snakes in a long time," Rajiv said, pulling the top sheet off Joe's bed and draping it around him.
"You mean they get into people's houses in the city?" Frank said.
"In some parts," Rajiv said. "It is unusual, though. Generally, they're in the street, and if someone in the neighborhood spots one, the snake has no chance. Everyone surrounds it and beats it to death. Sachin's younger brother died from a snakebite, I believe."
"That's nice to know," Joe said.
Sachin arrived with the doctor but refused to enter the room. He hovered at the doorway, unable to look at either Joe or the snake.
It was Dr. Das, the same one who had examined Frank earlier in the day, and he maintained his matter-of-fact attitude. He prodded the snake with his shoe, then lifted its head and opened its mouth. He pinched the snake's head, as if searching
42
for something, then his round face broke into a grin.
"You are very, very lucky," he said to Joe. "This cobra's glands have been removed."
"What?" Joe asked, wondering when—or if—the doctor would produce some kind of antidote.
"There's no venom in this snake. It isn't from the wild. It probably belongs to a street performer and got loose. Pull off your shirt, please, and allow me to examine the wound."
The doctor took a quick look at Joe's shoulder, which had two neat puncture wounds. He produced a pair of tweezers from his black bag and, after a little prying, pulled the fang free. He then swabbed and dressed the puncture wounds. "You're going to be all right," he said.
Rajiv called one of his house servants to remove the dead snake. After that, Sachin stood by the window, peering out. "I guess it could have climbed up the trellis," he said doubtfully.
"Don't be ridiculous," Vijay scoffed. "It probably came up through a pipe or vent. Snakes don't climb walls."
"Enough," Rajiv said. "Let Frank and Joe sleep now. They could use the rest after everything they've been through today."
"Sachin," Vijay said. "As long as you're awake, you might as well give me a ride home."
"But it's midnight. Can't you take a cab?"
"Too much bother. Come on now," Vijay said. "It'll only take you twenty minutes or so at this
43
hour." Sachin finally agreed, and their voices trailed off as they headed back downstairs. Minutes later Frank heard the car pull out of the driveway.
"This was not an accident," he said to Rajiv. "Snake charmers depend on cobras for a living. How often do they allow one to escape?"
"I'm inclined to agree with you," Rajiv said, stepping out into the hall. He looked first at Joe, then at Frank. "Why don't we all sleep on it and try to sort it out in the morning? Good night."
Frank was far from satisfied. He made Joe get in bed, then searched the room for vents. "The only way a snake could get in here is through the door or window," he said, raising his head from the floor where he was shining his penlight under the dresser. "Do you remember if you closed the door behind you when we went down to dinner?"
"I'm pretty sure I did," Joe said, making himself comfortable.
Frank checked the sock in Joe's bag; the beard was still there. He didn't think anyone had rifled their stuff.
Returning to the window, Frank searched the outer sill carefully with his flashlight. He spotted something the size and shape of a postage stamp in a corner near the edge. He picked it up and held it under the light. A thin, flexible piece of wood, rough on two ends, smooth on the other two. "Joe," he said. "This could be another clue."
44
But Joe didn't answer because he was already fast asleep.
***
On the set early the next morning Frank was assigned to help the second assistant load the film and keep track of the magazines. He had to write the details of each shot on the outside of the film canisters so the film editor could blend the hundreds of individual shots and scenes into one two-hour film.
Frank was anxious to do a little snooping around the set, but he and Joe had to be careful; they had to at least appear to be film students. The Hardys had decided to search the actors' dressing rooms, and Frank also figured that whoever had the chance should check out Mahesh's office. Of all the crew members, Mahesh seemed to be the most angry with Rajiv.
Joe, meanwhile, got to work moving props and furniture in the Hall of Public Audiences according to the production designer's plan. He was a short, squat man who spoke Hinglish—a mixture of Hindi and English—yet was able to make himself understood.
"Move that, udhar, I mean, over there," he said, pointing Joe to a corner of the room. "Theek, okay. Now go find the basket."
Joe took off down the hall; this was a chance to do some real sleuthing. He found Alok at his desk behind the screen, sketching an escape scene in which Vijay, or his double, would scale
45
the palace wall. Joe told Alok what he'd come for.
"You mean the snake basket?" Alok asked.
"There isn't a snake in it, is there?" Joe asked, not wanting a repeat encounter with a reptile.
Alok shook his head. "Sachin says he couldn't find one. They're going to use a fake instead. He was relieved about that."
Mahesh emerged from his room shuffling through papers. "As if a live snake were even necessary," he groused.
Joe remembered the terror on Sachin's face the night before and Rajiv's remark about his younger brother dying of a snakebite.
"Too bad you guys didn't stick around last night," Joe joked. "I had a snake you could have used." Pulling down the collar of his shirt and revealing the bandage, he told Alok and Mahesh what had happened to him after they left.
"That was some joke," Alok said, frowning. His lips had gotten thin with anger. "I'd kill the person who did something like that to me."
"You are lucky to be alive, boy," Mahesh said. He was amazed. "Even Sachin wouldn't go that far."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"He's a prankster. He put live salamanders in Kamala's jewelry box once and a whoopee cushion under Tariq's seat on the dais."
"Childish stuff," Alok Said. "But basically
46
harmless. Vijay was so mad he threatened to have Sachin fired."
"He thinks because he's the producer's nephew, he has control on the set," Mahesh said. "Rajiv and Sachin have been working together for five years. Sachin's the son Rajiv never had, and he would never take Vijay's side over him."
***
Back on the set, Kamala and Tariq were ready to shoot but Vijay was late—again. Frank watched Tariq pace back and forth, his slippers slapping against the mottled green marble floor.
"He's getting into character," Kamala whispered mischievously. "Not that it's much of a stretch."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that he's a pompous old fool, which is exactly what the guru is."
Remembering Joe's encounter with Tariq the day before, Frank asked, "Did Tariq know Ram Jagannath?"
"He'd never heard of Jagannath until the audition," Kamala said.
"How about you? Did you ever see the guru in real life?"
Kamala shook her head.
"So, what interested you most about this film?" Frank asked.
Kamala sighed. "As I told your brother, I wanted the opportunity to work with Rajiv. This was supposed to be my break-out role."
47
"And now you just want out?"
"I can't get out of my contract now. Believe me, if I could afford to, I would."
Rajiv interrupted her from across the room.
"Kamala, why don't you and Tariq run through the scene with Nikhil? He knows all the lines."
Just then Joe returned with the snake basket. He put it in its place at the foot of Ram Jagannath's ornately carved chair and came over to Frank.
"I hope they've got a lively one in there," Frank joked.
"It's fake. Believe me, I checked," Joe said. "I've got to go back and help Mahesh."
"Hey," Frank said in a whisper. "I forgot to tell you I found something last night, but if you've got to go, I'll talk to you later."
"Great," Joe said as he turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Kamala, Nikhil, and Tariq began their scene. Frank could see that Kamala wasn't as enthusiastic as her costars. She barely looked at Nikhil. In response, he said his lines with extra energy as if trying to compensate for Kamala's underacting.
"Kamala," Rajiv said, interrupting them mid-scene, "you're going to have to work up a little more emotion. Your guru has just told you that you can't marry the man that you love."
"I'm trying," Kamala said. "Anyway, we're just rehearsing here. You'll have some real tears
48
from me when the star gets here." She stressed the word star with a little toss of her head.
Minutes later Vijay appeared. Nikhil gave up his place, and Rajiv had Tariq, Kamala, and Vijay run through the scene again. Unfortunately, Vijay's presence didn't seem to help Kamala drum up any emotion. If anything, she was having a harder time crying on cue.
"My dear, it looks like we're going to have to use the glycerin," Rajiv said. "And you know how fake those tears look."
"Oh, go ahead, use the glycerin," Kamala said. "It doesn't matter to me."
Rajiv asked Frank to fetch the glycerin from the makeup room. The truth was, Frank thought as he made his way down the hall, Kamala was a pretty awful actress. He grabbed one of several bottles of clear glycerin from a small table by the door. He hurried back to the set and handed the bottle to Kamala.
"Good thing Biku isn't here to see this," Nikhil whispered under his breath to Frank.
"What do you mean?" Frank asked.
"She's angry because they were engaged when she first signed for the film. Then he fled to London and dumped her, but she's still stuck with her contract. I heard she lost other offers because of this."
Rajiv called for silence on the set as the actors prepared. The hum of activity quickly quieted to dead silence. A makeup artist took a final swipe
49
at Kamala's hair with a brush, then darted out of the picture. Microphones hung from the high, frescoed ceiling, and cameras were stationed on booms and tracks all around the actors. This would be the master shot, the one that included everyone, the one that would be shot from many angles and perspectives.
"Okay," Rajiv said. "Let's—"
He was interrupted by a shriek from Kamala.
"My eyes, my eyes! I can't see!"
50
Chapter 6
FRANK RAN TO KAMALA, who stood in front of the cameras, her hands over her eyes. "Hold everything," Rajiv yelled as Kamala's shrieks subsided into sobbing.
"Don't rub your eyes," Frank said, leading her to a chair. "It's only going to make it worse." Nikhil stood next to him, nodding in agreement as he awkwardly patted Kamala on the shoulder to comfort her.
Rajiv ordered Sachin to call the doctor. Spying Mahesh in the corner, Rajiv strode over to him, deliberately slapping his clipboard against his right thigh with each step.
"You!" He pointed to Mahesh and launched into a tirade in Hindi, occasionally punctuated with English phrases to emphasize his points.
51
"Mahesh already has enough trouble," Nikhil whispered to Frank.
"What did he do?"
"Right now Rajiv is blaming him for the glycerin. But last week Rajiv found out that Mahesh was moonlighting on another production, so Rajiv is withholding his pay until the end of the shoot."
"Who told on Mahesh?"
Vijay, who was standing behind them, shrugged. "Rajiv received an anonymous call, and when he confronted Mahesh, Mahesh said it was true. They had a huge fight, and Mahesh accused him of cheating the crew."
"What do you mean?" Frank asked. "He can't make people work against their wills."
"No, but you heard Mahesh last night at dinner. There are no unions, and according to the terms of their contracts, all crew members must stay on the set as long as Rajiv requires them."
Before Frank could ask any other questions, Rajiv called him over to a corner.
"You're supposed to watch out for things like this," he hissed, waving the glycerin bottle in front of Frank's nose. "Where did you find this bottle?"
"In the makeup room," Frank said quietly. He didn't want anyone overhearing their conversation. "Everyone has access to it. We can't monitor all these people." Frank took the bottle from
52
Rajiv. "And now there's no way to check for fingerprints since you've all been handling this."
"That may be," Rajiv whispered, "but I want results, and I want them soon. You boys came highly recommended, so don't disappoint me."
Frank sighed. He hoped Joe was having better luck.
***
After finding the basket, Joe had returned to the prop room, near where Alok was working on the escape scene. He held a gleaming, three-pronged grappling hook in his hand and was tying a rope to it.
"Mahesh says you are to pick out some books to go in Ram Jagannath's library," Alok said.
"Sure." Joe went to the long prop shelves and started stacking together old books that looked as if they might contain spiritual wisdom. Joe wondered if Alok was as disgruntled as Mahesh had been at dinner. "What do you think about Rajiv's treatment of the crew?" he asked.
"Many people are upset," Alok said. He let a foot or two of the rope slide through his hands and swung the heavy steel hook in the air, as if testing its balance. "All I know is that I have nothing to complain about."
"The way you handle some of your props, that's good to hear," Joe said, gesturing toward the grapnel as it was whipped through the air.
Alok smiled and let the hook dangle at his feet. "I was out of the business for a long time," he
53
said. "When I came back, I had lost all my contacts. Rajiv Kapoor was the only director who would hire me, so I'm lucky to have this job." He turned to leave. "I'm going outside to test this on a wall. Keep sorting those books."
Once he was alone, Joe abandoned the books. He walked around the next divider to the counter lined with Styrofoam heads. It was just as Frank had described. There were twelve or fifteen heads, each with a different style and color of wig on it. Some of them also had matching beards and mustaches, but it wasn't obvious that one set was missing. Joe found a blue binder on the end of the counter containing a log of all the clothes and accessories. The number of sets of wigs and facial hair matched the number the log said should be there.
Joe wasn't convinced. It wouldn't be hard to alter the entries in the book. He went down the line, holding each hairpiece up to the light to check its color exactly. Toward the end of the line, he picked up one wig that seemed heavier than the ones before it. The hair was especially thick, and the color seemed to match the beard Frank had ripped from the fake Sachin's face. There was only one way to be sure; Joe had to make a direct comparison.
But the toupee was too big to tuck under his shirt or in the pocket of his jeans; he had to figure out another way to get it out of there.
Joe went behind the screen to Alok's desk and
54
opened each drawer. Nothing. He stopped for a second, listening for any sound of Mahesh returning or the guard making his rounds. All was quiet. He glanced up at the balcony above. He could only hope no one was spying on him through the stone slats.
Quickly he entered Mahesh's office to look for scissors. He didn't find any, but did discover something almost as good. There, in the very back of the top drawer of Mahesh's desk, Joe found a gold-handled dagger with a razor-sharp four-inch blade. The handle was encrusted with emeralds and rubies, and the weight of it surprised Joe.
Careful to choose a place where the damage wouldn't be too obvious, Joe cut a lock of hair from the toupee and then put both the dagger and the hairpiece back where he'd found them.
Tucking the loose hair in his pocket, Joe then went over to the costume racks. He ran his fingers along the hangers, looking for the red tunic the fake Sachin had worn. He didn't see it. He squeezed his way between two racks of silk scarves and embroidered tunics. On the floor he found a foot locker piled to the brim with at least fifty preassembled red turbans. They were exactly like the one the fake Sachin had been wearing. Joe checked the inventory book. According to the records, one turban had been assigned to Tariq, a second to Nikhil, and a third to Vijay.
***
55
Meanwhile, Dr. Das had arrived to check Kamala's eyes. He glanced around the set and said, "What, no snakebite this time?"
Kamala was no longer crying. She sat calmly with her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The doctor examined her briefly, holding her eyelids back carefully and shining his light in her eyes as he had her roll her pupils around. Then he took a look at her cheeks, which were streaked with tears.
"Well," he said as he stood up. "She's okay. There are traces of finely ground red pepper on her face. I believe it was in the glycerin. There will be burning and stinging for some time but I will prescribe an ophthalmic rinse, and she will be fine."
He packed up his bag as he spoke and said to Kamala, "Of course, you'll call me if you have any other problems."
"Doctor," she said, with a slight smile, "I will have problems as long as I work here, but not the kind you can help me with."
Frank asked the doctor how he thought the glycerin had gotten contaminated.
"It's hard to say," the doctor said. "But you need only a small amount of cayenne to affect the eyes. It could have been on someone's hands, or else someone could have been eating in the room on the table near the glycerin and sprinkled pepper a little sloppily."
56
"Those sound like long shots to me," Frank said.
"Perhaps," the doctor said, peering over the top of his glasses. "It depends on whether you're looking for an accident or a deliberate action."
After he left, they went back to shooting the scene. Kamala seemed ready and willing to work. In fact, with her eyes still stinging, she was able to shed plenty of real tears. Rajiv was practically giggling, and he congratulated Kamala several times as he tried the shot from every possible angle. Then his mood changed quickly.
"Cut!" he yelled in the middle of the seventh shot. "What is that noise outside?" A loud shout followed by arguing and heavy footsteps penetrated the double doors. "We can't possibly work with these constant interruptions. Sachin, Frank, tell the caterers or whoever is out there to be quiet. Please get rid of them."
Sachin and Frank hurried over to the heavy wooden doors and opened them, prepared to shoo away whoever was there. Instead, Frank came face-to-face with two police officers in uniform, accompanied by a tall man in a charcoal-colored suit. The guard stood behind them, looking apologetic.
"I tried to tell them to wait, but they wouldn't listen," he said.
"What's the problem, sir?" Frank asked.
"I'm Detective Lieutenant Bedi," the man in the suit said, flipping open his wallet and flashing
57
his badge. He was a couple of inches taller than Frank but very thin. "We're looking for Vijay Tate." Bedi pushed past Frank and Sachin and strode up to Rajiv.
"I assume you're Rajiv Kapoor," the detective said. "Where is Tate?"
"Right here, Officer," Vijay said, stepping forward. "What seems to be the problem? Did anther fan break into my apartment?"
"No," Bedi said, seizing Vijay by the elbow, "you're under arrest. Come with us."
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Chapter 7
"WHAT?" VIJAY LOOKED SHOCKED. "What are you talking about?"
"Your suitcase was found at the airport containing several kilos of Semtex plastic explosive," Detective Bedi said. "We're taking you down to police headquarters to question you. Let's go."
Kamala gasped; Nikhil and Rajiv stepped in.
"You can't just take him down there like that," Rajiv said, reaching for Detective Bedi's arm. "We're in the middle of a costly filming schedule. He's our leading man. We have attorneys who can address this problem."
Bedi shoved Rajiv's hand away and nodded to a uniformed officer, who locked a pair of handcuffs around Vijay's wrists.
"We certainly can take him away," the detective
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said. "Under current law, anyone suspected of terrorism must be taken into custody and questioned immediately. In matters of national security we can't be concerned with filming schedules."
Vijay was shaking his head. "I don't understand. What do you mean about my suitcase? I have nothing to do with smuggling explosives. Rajiv, we must be able to settle this some other way."
"Can you be more specific about the charges, Lieutenant?" Frank asked.
"Stay out of this," Bedi snapped at Frank. "Let's go," he said, taking Vijay by the arm and leading him out the door. "Any more trouble and I’ll charge you with resisting arrest."
"Sachin!" Rajiv thundered, marching down the hall. "Get the lawyers on the phone. We must get Vijay out of jail immediately."
"What suitcase are they talking about?" Mahesh asked. "Vijay flew in the day before yesterday."
"The airline left one of his bags behind in London," Frank said. "They sent it on the flight yesterday, and Sachin was supposed to pick it up, but he couldn't get through all the traffic."
Kamala stood with her hands on her hips. "This is ridiculous," she said. Her makeup was running where the tears had rolled down her cheeks. "What are we going to do now?"
Alok came running in from outside, the grappling hook in his hand and a coil of rope over
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his shoulder. "I just saw the police leave with Vijay," he said. "What's going on?"
Frank filled him in.
"There must be some kind of mistake," Alok said. "Why would Vijay jeopardize his career with smuggling?"
"Don't worry," Mahesh said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure our fearless leader will have it all sorted out by tomorrow.
"Without Vijay, there's no film," Kamala said. "Rajiv wouldn't let his beloved star rot in prison, would he?"
Her question hung in the air as many among the cast and crew exchanged glances. Unless Rajiv could bail Vijay out quickly, this might be the incident that finished the film, Frank thought. Biku had backed the production with a guaranteed role for his nephew. With Vijay gone, Biku might back out, taking all his money and investors with him. Then the cast and crew would be free to sign on with other directors, leaving Rajiv in the dust.
***
Unaware of the interruption on the set, Joe had sneaked from the prop room to the actors' dressing rooms, which were located on the other side of a well-lit, plant-filled atrium, in what used to be the women's quarters. Their doors were all shut, and Kamala's was still the only one with any sort of identification—the gold star on the doorknob.
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Joe picked a door at random and went in. This room was more spare than Kamala's, with a cracked marble floor and whitewashed stone walls. Clothes hung neatly inside a metal wardrobe in the corner. Joe reached up to the top shelf and felt around, pulling out a pair of men's dress shoes and then one of the red turbans.
He quickly checked the drawers of the dressing table in front of the mirror. Something in the top drawer snagged as he tried to close it. Pulling the drawer completely out, Joe discovered a creased color photograph of a woman with short, dark brown hair wearing old-fashioned, cat-eye sunglasses. She held a boy of three or four years old, who looked a lot like Nikhil. The sunlight was bright, and the photo had been overexposed. Standing behind the woman and child was a tall man with blond hair, who squinted at the camera and didn't smile.
As he tried to get the drawer to slide back onto its track, Joe heard footsteps. As they became louder, Joe shut the drawer, clicked off the light, and scrambled into the wardrobe. Hearing someone grasp the door handle, Joe managed to pull one door shut, but the other was warped and wouldn't stay closed. He hooked the edge with his finger and held it, hoping that whoever came in wouldn't notice.
Someone entered the room, walked over to the dressing table, and turned on the lamp there. Peering through the crack between the doors,
62
Joe saw it was Nikhil. He pulled out a cellular phone, punched in some numbers, and then turned his back to Joe.
"It's me. No, no, don't worry. No bad news."
Why wasn't Nikhil on the set? Joe wondered. He heard Nikhil pause, then continue, speaking very softly.
"Don't worry. We've been given the afternoon off. The police came and arrested Vijay." He paused again. "No, no, they have no idea. Anyway, it may not matter if the film gets canceled." Another pause. "Yes, three days. I'll meet you at seven A.M. at the Taj Mahal Hotel. Yes, goodbye,"
Nikhil left the room and hurried off down the hall.
Joe slipped out of the wardrobe and stood in front of the dressing table. What had Vijay done to get himself arrested? Joe looked in the mirror and tried to imagine Nikhil with sunglasses, a red turban, and heavy facial hair. Nikhil was the right height to be the man who'd picked them up at the airport, but why would he want to sabotage the film? Had he set up Vijay so he could take his place in the movie?
Joe studied the photograph, committing as many of its details as possible to memory. It was now clear that the child in the picture was Nikhil, and the woman and man must be his parents.
Figuring he'd waited long enough for Nikhil to be far away, Joe put the photo back in the drawer
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and headed back to the set. When he got to the Hall of Public Audiences, he found Frank labeling film cans. Rajiv and Sachin were deep in conversation, going over lists on a clipboard, while Mahesh and some of the technicians rolled up cables and put away lights. The actors were nowhere in sight.
"What's going on?" Joe asked.
"Someone laced Kamala's glycerin with hot pepper," Frank said. "Then the cops came and took Vijay in for questioning." Frank lowered his voice. "I think Vijay's bag may have been the reason for all the chaos at the airport. The police think he's smuggling plastic explosives into the country."
"Sounds like I missed a couple of major developments," Joe said. "I've got some news, too."
"Excellent," Frank said. "What is it?"
Joe was going to answer, but he saw Sachin approaching and had to clam up.
"We're done for the day," Sachin said. "We'll go back to Rajiv's and wait for news about Vijay."
"It must be killing Rajiv to let us out early tonight," Mahesh said as he and the Hardys left the palace. "After all, it's only seven-thirty."
"Do you have plans?" Frank asked, wondering if Mahesh was still trying to moonlight for that other director.
"My cousin and her family are in town," he replied. "We are all going out for dinner."
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With a wave, he walked away, leaving the Hardys to wait for Sachin and the car.
"He was in a good mood for once," Joe said.
"I noticed," Frank said. "He's the one person who didn't seem too worried about Vijay being carted off."
Across the street the textile factory was dark, closed for the night. Lights flickered in the makeshift huts that crowded around it. As they got into the car, Frank asked Sachin where the electricity for the huts came from.
"The workers bribe the local inspector and tap into the main power lines," Sachin said. "It goes on everywhere. Bribery is a way of life these days."
He must be exaggerating, Frank thought, but he dropped the subject. Rajiv had hurried over to the car and was waiting for them. And he didn't look as if he was in the mood for a discussion about local corruption.
***
Back at Rajiv's place they ate dinner mostly in silence. A telephone call interrupted the main course, and Rajiv took it in his office.
"Vijay is going before a judge tomorrow morning to be formally charged with smuggling and terrorism," he said when he came back. "The lawyers think they can get him released on bail, but the evidence is overwhelming." Rajiv rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "The bag looks exactly like his; it has all his clothes and papers in it.
65
More importantly, the tag matches the one on his ticket."
Rajiv motioned to Sachin. "Leave us for a moment, please."
Once Sachin had padded upstairs, Rajiv produced two envelopes for the Hardys. "Here," he said. "I got you two and Sachin invitations to Alex Chandraswamy's party tomorrow night. See what you can find out. We must clear Vijay's name."
Frank and Joe took the envelopes, promising a break in the case soon, and headed to their room. When they got there, Joe closed the door quickly and plunged his hand into his pocket.
"Take a look at this, Frank," he said, placing the tuft of dark hair on top of the nightstand. "I cut it off one of the toupees in the prop room."
Frank retrieved the beard from Joe's sock and compared it to the hairs on the table. The color was the same, as was the texture. "I'd say we have a pretty good match," he said. "Nice going."
"That's not all," Joe said. "I found a trunk full of red turbans just like the one the fake Sachin was wearing at the airport. Nikhil, Vijay, and Alok—they all have one as part of their costumes."
"That doesn't mean one of those guys was the fake Sachin," Frank said. "Anyone on the set could have sneaked in and taken a turban from that trunk."
66
"True," Joe said, pointing at Frank. "But what about this? I was searching Nikhil's room and he came in to make a phone call. I was hiding in the closet. I heard everything he said." Joe recounted Nikhil's end of the conversation.
"It sounds to me like he might have set Vijay up for arrest," Frank said. "But why would he want Vijay in jail? Sure, he steps into the lead role, but there's no guarantee that the movie can even go on without Vijay."
They were both stumped.
"The last thing Nikhil said to whoever he called was that he'd meet them at the Taj Mahal Hotel in three days at seven in the morning," Joe said. "It sounded important."
"Three days," Frank said. "That's Friday. Let's make a point of joining Nikhil and his friend for breakfast. I wouldn't be surprised if it's someone outside the production with a very serious interest in seeing Rajiv go down in flames."
Frank remembered that he hadn't told Joe about the distinctive wood chip he'd found on the windowsill the night before. He was about to say something about it when the lights in the room flickered and went out.
Frank and Joe ran into the hall, where they found Sachin standing in the moonlight in front of the glass double doors leading out to the balcony. He was shaking a flashlight, but it wouldn't come on.
"What's up?" Joe asked.
67
"Power failure," Sachin said. "It happens all the time. The system is antiquated."
Joe looked out the glass doors just in time to see a dark object come arcing over the balcony railing right toward his head.
"Incoming," Joe yelled, and they all hit the deck.
One of the big glass doors shattered, showering shards of glass all over. A black marble globe the size of a softball thumped down and rolled to the end of the hallway.
Jumping up, Frank saw someone dressed in black run down the driveway. He eased himself out the doors, carefully avoiding the jagged edges, and climbed over the railing, dropping to the cement below. He took off up the street and spotted the vandal darting between two parked cars and then up a grassy hill into the darkness.
Frank slowed to a jog. He went past the spot where the figure had disappeared and found a brick drive leading into a wooded park. He walked up the drive. On either side of him trees and dense shrubs rustled in the breeze, casting dark shadows in the moonlight. Frank knew his chances of finding anyone were slim—there were too many places to hide. For all he knew, the guy was already on the other side of the park, jogging down the road and congratulating himself on his easy escape.
Back at the entrance to the park, Frank paused
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and looked around to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
As he turned, a powerful arm snaked under his chin, jerking his head back and exposing his neck. Then he felt a cold, sharp blade against his jugular vein.
"Move and I'll slit your throat."
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Chapter 8
FRANK FELT THE KNIFE pressing into his neck and the breath caught in his throat.
"Give Rajiv a message for us," a voice hissed in Frank's ear. "If he doesn't quit, we're going to—"
At that instant a car screeched around the corner and sped up the park drive, headlights bobbing in the darkness.
Frank grabbed the man's knife hand, dropped, and twisted. He had almost executed a perfect reversal—ending up behind his attacker with the man locked in an arm hold—when the assailant dropped the knife and slipped free, disappearing into the trees.
Frank started to follow, but a hand grabbed him by the elbow. It was Joe. "You okay, Frank?"
70
"I think so. Let's go after him."
"What's the point?" Joe said. "So you can get ambushed again?"
"I guess you're right," Frank said. "We could slink around this park all night and still not find him."
Frank moved into the glare of the headlights and probed his neck for damage. His fingers came away clean.
"You've got a nice red mark," Joe said, leaning in. "One good slice in that spot and you were a goner."
"The guy knew what he was doing," Frank said. "He was quick and quiet—and strong. He said something about giving Rajiv a message from 'us.' He never finished the threat. Anyway, it sounds like there's more than one person involved."
"Unless it's Tariq," Joe said with a chuckle. "He has a tendency to use the royal we."
Frank smiled. "Tariq? If he's that good, then let's recruit him to work for us." Frank started searching the ground around them. "He dropped the knife here somewhere, but we won't get any prints. Just about the only thing I did notice was that the guy was wearing gloves. There it is." Frank bent down and picked up a dagger. It had a gold handle encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the headlights.
"That's Mahesh's knife," Joe said. "I found it in his desk this morning."
71
"I doubt it belongs to Mahesh," Frank said. "Look, it has the maharaja's family crest at the bottom. This knife belongs at the palace, all right, but not in the production manager's desk."
Frank and Joe got in the car to drive back to the house. "How'd you get the car to come after me?" Frank asked.
"Sachin gave me the keys." Joe said. "He was in such a panic, I didn't think he'd be able to find them. He kept bumping around in the dark like a mole in a maze."
"Well, you got to the park just in time." Frank tucked the dagger into his sleeve, where no one would see it. He needed time to think, and he didn't want Rajiv and Sachin to go into another panic.
They pulled up at the house and found Sachin standing just inside the open front door, wearing a red bathrobe. "Did you catch him?" Sachin asked.
"Nope, he got away," said Joe.
"Perhaps we should call the police."
"No way. Any kind of investigation would definitely shut down the production," Frank said. "Maybe Joe and I will see what we can figure out."
Upstairs Rajiv stood over Ramlal, who busily swept up the broken glass.
Rajiv handed Frank the black marble globe that had come crashing through the window. "It's from the palace," he said. "My family will be
72
very upset to find I'm watching over their things so carelessly."
"Don't worry," Sachin said to his boss. "We'll find the saboteur and put an end to this."
Rajiv looked at his assistant and sighed. "Just stick to what you're good at, Sachin," the filmmaker said. "We'll sort this out without any extra interference."
***
Since no one knew when Vijay would be released, Rajiv had decided they would film the exteriors on an estate north of the city the next day. It was a two-hour drive, so they would be waking up even earlier than usual. The Hardys said their good nights and went back to their room where Frank laid all their physical evidence out on his bed—the globe, the knife, the beard, and the chip of wood. First, he told Joe where he found the chip, then he said, "What do you think?"
Joe stretched his arms over his head with a big groan. "One thing's obvious. Everything except this piece of wood came from the production set."
"And everyone in the cast and crew had access to all of this stuff except the knife," Frank noted. "The guy who attacked me could've been Mahesh. He seemed about the same height, but something just doesn't feel right."
"I still think Nikhil is involved, too," Joe said,
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picking up the chip of wood and turning it over in his palm. "And I think I know what this is."
"What?" Frank moved in closer.
"It looks like a piece of the snake basket on the set," Joe said. "I got a good look at it. It was made of long strips of wood woven together, and it was kind of beaten up."
"So we can assume someone brought in the cobra in a basket," Frank said. He went to open the windows and looked down. It was easily eighteen feet to the ground. "The guy I chased tonight could have climbed up the trellis."
"With the basket under his arm?"
"Or strapped to his back." Frank turned back to the center of the room.
"Hey, close the window," Joe said. "I don't feel like letting in any more cobras." He scooped the evidence off Frank's bed and carried it to the dresser.
"Hold on," Frank said, taking the dagger from Joe. "I want to show this to Mahesh tomorrow and see his reaction."
As they lay in their beds in the dark, Joe spoke up.
"I was just thinking, Frank," he said. "If someone was trying to frame Vijay for smuggling explosives, they would have had to have access to his luggage at the airport."
"That's right," Frank said. "And if bribery is as rampant here as Sachin said, how hard would it be for Mahesh or anyone else to infiltrate security
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at the airport and pay somebody to plant Semtex in Vijay's suitcase?"
"Not very hard at all," Joe said.
***
They left for the maharaja's country estate before sunrise. The car was quiet for most of the drive, with Rajiv planning the day's shoot and Sachin driving at speeds that would be illegal on any road back in Bayport. Frank read through the script, looking forward to seeing some exotic animals—definitely elephants, and possibly tigers, though he'd heard that tigers were a protected species kept on government reserves.
Meanwhile, Joe leafed through the various articles in one of Rajiv's files. The character of Ram Jagannath was difficult to pin down. He was an Englishman who'd passed as an Indian and amassed a tremendous following. While he preached love and peace, he was involved in smuggling arms and explosives and selling them to the highest bidder, with no allegiance to one group or another. Could there be any connection between Jagannath's smuggling and Vijay Tate's case?
Joe was struck by the fact that there were no photographs of the guru. It did make sense, however, given the identity he wanted to maintain.
The estate took up over twenty square miles of land and was bisected by the River Tansa. According to the script, the shoot would take place in a clearing by the river. When the Hardys arrived,
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they found several members of the crew strapping a series of belts and harnesses around a camera operator who was built like a linebacker.
"What are you doing there?" Joe asked.
"We're rigging up this Steadicam," the cameraman said. He held up a 16mm camera attached to a Z-shaped arm with spring-loaded joints. "Once I hook this arm onto these belts, I can follow the action anywhere, and the camera won't shake at all. The picture will be as smooth as if the camera were stuck to a tripod on the ground."
Joe wanted to stay and watch the Steadicam in action, but Sachin called him and Frank over to help unload lights, cables, and film cans from an old, beaten-up delivery van. Frank lugged an eight-foot-tall light stand to the edge of the clearing, then watched four other crew members push a reflector the size of a kettledrum to the bank of the river. It left behind a wide track of flattened grass. As he walked back to the van, Frank glanced into the thick woods around them. If any wild animals were around, they were keeping quiet. He did see Mahesh over by the caterer's table, alternately sipping a cup of coffee and paging through some notes. Like Frank and Joe, the rest of the crew was busy unloading and setting up.
At the table Frank poured himself some juice. He wanted to start a casual conversation, then surprise Mahesh with the knife. "I'm kind of disappointed
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not to see any animals," he said. "Especially after coming all this way."
Mahesh looked up. "No, and I don't see the gameskeeper, either. He was supposed to meet me here." Mahesh rolled his eyes. "All he cares about is that we don't destroy any property or kill any animals—although I doubt any of them would come near this noisy bunch."
Frank was about to pull out the knife and show it to Mahesh when a big black sedan roared into the clearing and came to a stop next to the makeup trailer in a cloud of dust. Kamala, Tariq, and Nikhil all got out and walked toward Frank and Mahesh. Kamala's dresser, Minni, went to the car's trunk, pulled out an armful of costumes, and stepped into the trailer. Nikhil handed Kamala a cup of tea. Turning to Mahesh, he said, "How was your dinner last night?"
Frank watched Tariq stuff an entire buttered muffin in his mouth.
"It was fun," Mahesh replied. "We went to the Copper Chimney to eat, and then I took my cousin dancing."
"Where's she from?"
"The States," Mahesh said. "New York City, actually. Didn't you say you were from close to there?"
"Uh, yes," Frank said, surprised.
Mahesh grinned. "Well, maybe you will get a chance to meet her, though not on this set, since relatives are forbidden." Mahesh nodded toward
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Rajiv, who was gesturing for Joe to move some lights a little closer. "Not that there's going to be a set for much longer."
"Rajiv seems to think Vijay will get out on bail," Frank said.
Nikhil chimed in. "If he has a lenient judge, that is. Many officials actually become very annoyed when movie stars flout the law."
"You act as if you think he's guilty," Frank said.
"Oh, no," Mahesh answered. "Nikhil doesn't think Vijay's a smuggler; he knows Vijay doesn't have the brains for that sort of thing. He's only saying that Vijay doesn't believe any of society's rules apply to him."
Kamala interrupted them. "Enough of this talk," she said, tossing her hair. "I'm going to get dressed."
Kamala was halfway to her trailer when a crashing sound came from the woods. Joe looked up and saw a wild boar charge into the clearing, snorting furiously and darting its bloodshot little eyes around as it headed straight for the actress.
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Chapter 9
THE BOAR STOPPED less than ten feet from Kamala, pawing the ground and swinging its huge shovel-shaped head from side to side. Kamala started to back up, then she screamed, and the boar charged, grunting and frothing at the mouth, its bristly hair standing on end.
As he rushed from his spot across the clearing, Joe glimpsed a metallic flash, then heard a high-pitched squeal. The boar fell to the ground, tumbling to a stop at Kamala's feet, where it twitched for a few seconds, stiffened, and went still.
When Joe reached Kamala, she collapsed in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked.
She took a deep breath, paused dramatically, and said, "I could have been killed. Who's in charge of controlling these beasts?"
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"The gamekeeper, if there is one," Joe mumbled, helping steady Kamala on her feet. He bent to examine the dead beast as the others crowded around. When he saw the jewel-encrusted gold handle of the dagger sticking out of the boar's thick neck, he looked up at his brother with a big grin and said, "Nice throw, Frank."
"Thanks, Joe," Frank said with a wink. "Just a lucky shot."
Moments later the gamekeeper, dressed in full safari outfit, finally showed up. He had the compact body of a gymnast and gestured wildly, waving his hands over his head when he saw the dead boar. "Who's responsible for this? We have laws about killing wildlife," he cried.
"If it hadn't been for our American friends, this animal could easily have killed Kamala while the rest of these fools stood around and gaped," Rajiv said. "You told me it would be safe to film here."
The gamekeeper started to reply, but Rajiv held up his hand, silencing him, and turned back to Frank. "By the way, where did you get this dagger? It belongs to the maharaja and should stay in the palace."
"Tell that to Mahesh," Joe said. "I saw it in his desk yesterday, and then whoever it was we chased last night after they broke your window almost slit Frank's throat with it."
"Is this true?" Rajiv raised his bushy eyebrows and turned to Mahesh.
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Mahesh was startled. "I had no idea the dagger was in my desk," he said. "Someone must have planted it there." He seemed to be fumbling for excuses. "Or maybe they hoped the guard would find it in my possession. I don't know anything about that knife."
"Where were you at around eleven o'clock last night?" Frank asked.
"Out dancing with my cousin, as I said," Mahesh retorted, regaining his composure. "And I can prove it. There were many witnesses."
"You can bet someone will check up on that," Joe said.
"Mahesh," Rajiv said, his teeth clenched, "I would fire you right now except I know that's exactly what you want me to do. You'll see this project through to its finish. And you will not cause any more confusion."
After this exchange, everyone dispersed to give the gamekeeper room to back his truck in and remove the boar. It took four strong crew members, each grasping one leg, to load the carcass.
Kamala once again proved that even if she wasn't much of an actress, she did believe in the motto "The show must go on," and gamely went through her scenes for the rest of the day. Frank and Joe kept their eyes on Nikhil and Mahesh.
By sunset Rajiv was ready to call it a day. As they were leaving, he received a phone call. After he hung up, he made an announcement to the entire cast and crew.
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"Good news, everyone," he said with a rare smile. "Vijay has been released on bail. We'll resume shooting tomorrow, as previously planned." He turned to Sachin and the Hardys. "Vijay is going to meet us at the house. Sachin can take you all to the party tonight."
"But we only have three passes," Sachin said.
Rajiv was conciliatory. "Look, Sachin, the poor fellow just spent the night in jail. Let him have your invitation. I'll make it up to you later, I promise."
Sachin looked disappointed but said nothing.
"Maybe we can sneak you in," Joe said as they got into the car.
Frank, however, was relieved that Sachin wouldn't be going. It might be a party, but they needed to get some work done, and Sachin, with his well-intentioned bumbling, would only be in the way.
***
Alex Chandraswamy's opening night ceremony and reception was being held at the Hotel Majestic, a five-star establishment on Juhu Beach. Vijay, Frank, and Joe left Sachin in the parking lot, where all the other drivers stayed, leaning against their cars. Sachin pulled out a book on screenwriting and said, "Might as well do some work while I wait."
As they walked under the long canvas awning to the entrance, Vijay said, "It's just as well
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Sachin waits in the parking lot. He's only interested in gawking at the stars."
The hotel lobby was one of the most lavish Frank had ever seen. It was a huge space, lined on both sides with exclusive shops selling clothing and jewelry. A gauntlet of photographers extended the length of the lobby, leading to the ballroom way in the back. Frank and Joe found themselves flinching at the constant flashes as photographers jostled one another to get shots of Vijay, the rising star.
"Everyone will be here tonight," Vijay said, his eyes gleaming. "Tonight you'll see the social side of Bollywood. Many of these dramas are more interesting than anything you'll see on the screen."
Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the ballroom. The wallpaper had a gold background and was covered with red vines that twisted up and out of sight. The Hardys and Vijay made a circuit of the room, with the young actor stopping to shake hands all around.
At one end of the room there was a small stage draped in red velvet. "That's where the producers and director stand to make speeches," Vijay said. "And where the Hindu priest blesses the film."
"A blessing for the film?" Joe asked.
"Yes, usually you have a pooja, a prayer ceremony, at the beginning of a shoot, and then the mahurat when the actual film is released. This,
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of course, is the mahurat," Vijay said, giving the Hardys a nod and leaving to talk to a tall man with black, slicked-back hair.
Frank and Joe moved along the rear of the ballroom. Enormous plate-glass windows overlooked the patio and pool area, which was lit by the soft glow of Chinese lanterns. Out beyond the patio small waves lapped at the beach.
"Hey, look," Joe said as he and Frank made their way to the buffet. "There's Mahesh. What's he doing here?"
Standing next to Mahesh at the buffet table was a pretty young woman with shoulder-length black hair and wearing a short red dress. She and Mahesh were both piling their plates with food.
"At last," Joe said as they approached them. "Someone with an appetite I can respect."
"Oh, hello, boys," Mahesh said. "This is my cousin Asha. She'll be glad to confirm where I was last night."
Asha looked confused. "Mahesh," she said. "Were you supposed to be somewhere else last night? I told you I could take care of myself."
"Not at all," Frank said. "Actually, we're glad Mahesh got out last night. He's had to put in too many hours on the set lately."
Mahesh seemed to relax. "Asha, please meet Frank and Joe Hardy. They are here from the States—Bayport to be precise."
"Bayport?" Asha said. "There's a great pizza parlor there called Mr. Pizza."
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"You go to Mr. Pizza?" Joe said. "That's our favorite hangout."
"I can't believe we haven't run into each other there," Frank added.
"I'm away at college most of the time," Asha said, adding a hot samosa to her plate. Joe recognized the tasty pastries that were stuffed with potato filling from their first meal at Rajiv's.
"So, did you get an invitation in the mail?" Joe asked casually as they made their way along the buffet table, taking large portions of each dish.
"Mahesh knows the producer of this movie, Alex Chandra-something," Asha said as she tried a piece of tandoori chicken. "He gave me and Alok an invitation. I just came to get a look at Nikhil. He's gorgeous, don't you think?"
Frank had spotted Nikhil deep in conversation with an older woman. She wore a black scarf over her head and dark sunglasses.
"Who's that he's talking to?" he asked, pointing the pair out to Asha. "She looks like a movie star, too."
"That's his mother," Asha said, laughing.
If Asha was a big fan of Nikhil, Joe figured she would know a lot about him. As they sat down at a round table set with six water glasses, he asked, "Why hasn't Nikhil had any starring roles yet?"
"I don't know," Asha said. She pushed the food on her plate around with a fork for a moment.
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"Maybe it's because he doesn't look like the typical Bollywood star, and no one wants to take a chance on him. He never talks about it to the media, but his father was English. He died when Nikhil was young."
Joe remembered the photo hidden in Nikhil's drawer. Frank was right; it didn't make sense that Nikhil would go to all the trouble and risk to frame Vijay for one starring role. But it might be worthwhile if this one role launched an entire career of starring roles.
As they finished eating, Vijay strolled over to their table. "You wanted to meet Alex Chandraswamy, didn't you?" He pointed to the dais at the front of the room, where a squat, round man in a baggy kurtha and heavy, yellow silk vest stood. His bald head glistened under the lights, and he shook hands vigorously with every person who came up to him.
Frank glanced at Asha. She seemed to be uncomfortable around Vijay, but when they got up to go meet Alex, she followed.
Chandraswamy was talking to Mahesh when Vijay and the Hardys approached him. Ignoring Vijay, Mahesh introduced Frank and Joe as Rajiv's American interns.
"Well, well," Chandraswamy said. "You'll have to stop by my office sometime. I'm starting a new film next week. We can always use a couple of extra pairs of hands."
"Rajiv keeps us pretty busy," Frank said.
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"So I've heard." Chandraswamy raised an eyebrow. "If he insists on working outside industry standards, he's going to wear everyone out. No one makes a film in two months in this town."
"Why not?" Joe asked.
"It's just not done that way. And because of him, I have to delay—"
He was interrupted by Mahesh jabbing him in the side and whispering something in his ear.
"I've seen enough," Frank said to Joe under his breath as Vijay introduced himself to Alex. "Unless you want more to eat, I'm out of here." Mahesh may have had an alibi for last night, he thought, but he sure was chummy with Rajiv's sworn enemy.
"Well, it's early," Asha said as they left the dais. "Would you two like to take a walk on the beach? The moon is very bright tonight, and you need to stroll along the sea at least once before you go back home."
"Great idea," Joe said, pulling Frank along. "We haven't had much time for sight-seeing."
"This is how commoners have their fun in this city," Asha said as they stepped out. "Maybe we should take a camel ride instead."
They walked along the water's edge, listening to the waves slapping against the sand. The air smelled fresh and green, like seaweed or cut grass.
Gradually they saw more and more people and the beach got noisier. Within a half mile of the
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hotel, there was a small fair going on. There were several brightly lit stalls from which fried snacks were being sold. The smell of cooking oil was strong. Asha bought a cone of newspaper filled with what looked like roasted peanuts. "They're called channa dal," she said. "Dry lentils." She shared some with Frank and Joe.
Another vendor was selling sweet coconut water. With a ten-inch blade, he hacked the top off a green coconut, then bored a hole into it with a hand drill. He inserted a straw and held it out to Joe.
"No thanks," Joe said, shaking his head. "I'm stuffed."
"You have to try this," Asha insisted, indicating that they would buy three. "No one leaves Bombay without drinking fresh coconut water."
They each took a couple of gulps, and when they were done, the vendor took their shells and tossed them into a pile behind him.
Several camels, trotting along the water's edge, had tourists on their backs and guides running beside them. Frank stopped at a table of knickknacks and bought a small purse decorated with mirror work for his girlfriend, Callie. Joe couldn't decide what to buy for Vanessa, and finally, with Asha's help, picked out a big, speckled cowry shell.
Once they'd passed a carousel powered by two men feverishly turning a wooden hand crank, the beach grew quiet and almost deserted. Joe and
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Asha walked ahead, near the water, while Frank hung back and watched the running lights on a fishing boat as it came in for the night.
"So what about that camel ride?" Frank heard Joe ask Asha.
Moments later he heard galloping behind them. He turned just in time to see a huge camel bearing down on him, its cloaked rider rising up in the stirrups and lifting his right hand to raise a heavy club over his head.
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Chapter 10
FRANK DOVE ASIDE, managing to get his head and torso out of the way of the camel thundering toward him. But the animal's churning legs whacked his feet and spun him around like a pinwheel so he had to lie on the sand, gasping for breath. He jumped up to dodge the next pass, but the rider wasn't interested in him anymore.
Frank watched, helpless, as the camel tore after Joe and Asha. "Get down!" he shouted.
They ran down the beach, Joe holding Asha by the elbow. The rider raised his club again, and Frank saw Joe grab Asha to shield her with his body. Then he heard a sickening thud and, as the camel took off down the beach, he saw the two of them crumple to the sand.
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Frank ran toward them. "Joe! Asha!" he yelled. Joe got up, but Asha wasn't moving.
"I grabbed her too late," Joe said. "He got her." He leaned over and brushed Asha's dark hair away from her face. She groaned.
"Oooh, my back," she said, sitting up slowly. She pulled the neck of her dress down over her shoulder. Joe held up his penlight and saw a square-shaped red welt on her shoulder blade. It was already starting to swell.
"Do you think you can walk back to the hotel?" Frank asked her. "I don't think anything's broken, but you should be checked out."
Asha stood up carefully and brushed herself off. "It's just a bruise. What did that idiot think he was doing? Acting in a movie or something?"
"That was no act," Joe said. "Hey, look at that." He pointed to an object bobbing on the waves close to shore. After pulling off his shoes, he waded into the surf and grabbed it. "It looks like the business end of a cricket bat," he said, returning with the heavy chunk of planed wood.
"A cricket bat?" Frank examined the eight-inch fragment. It was flat like a paddle and had broken fairly cleanly. The only thing that wasn't right was that it was hollowed out. "Cricket bats are made of solid wood," he said. "Just like baseball bats." He handed it back to Joe. "Let's take a closer look at this back at the hotel."
"Who would do something like this?" Asha asked.
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"That's what I'd like to find out," Joe said, his jaw set in a hard line.
They started back to the hotel, stopping at a camel stand along the way. There was a man sitting on a bench with a couple of harnessed and saddled camels behind him. Frank described the cloaked rider and asked if anyone fitting that description had rented a camel.
The man shook his head slowly as he counted through a roll of bills. "My partner or I must be leading them. We do not let camels or their riders run amok, sir."
The walk back was long, and although Asha didn't complain, she held the arm on her injured side close to her chest. It was obvious she was hurting. He'd been suspicious of Mahesh before, but he couldn't believe he or anyone conspiring with him would attack Asha.
"Why does your cousin seem to hate Vijay so much?" he asked.
"Oh, Mahesh? He has never forgiven Vijay for what he did to me."
"What do you mean?"
"Mahesh has a very outdated sense of chivalry," Asha said, trying to smile through her pain. "He arranged for me to go out to dinner with Vijay on my last visit here. At the last minute, Vijay got a better offer from some actress. He stood me up and then had the nerve to show up at the restaurant where I was waiting for him."
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"That's why Mahesh is so cold to him?" Joe asked.
"That's right. Don't tell him I told you, though. He thinks he's protecting my honor by not mentioning it." As they passed the concession stands again, they could see the lights of the hotel in the distance.
"Mahesh is always looking out for me," Asha continued. "Now he's convinced I should move back to India and become a movie star." She laughed. "He claims it's a sure thing, but I think I'll keep my quiet life, especially after this."
When they reached the hotel, the party was still in full swing. They ran into Mahesh, who was out of breath and slightly frazzled.
"Have you seen Alok?" Mahesh said. "The last time I saw him, he was chatting up some young starlet. I wanted him to meet Alex, not actresses. He's never going to establish a network if he keeps this up."
He noticed Asha looking pale and ready to drop. "Are you sick, dear?" he asked. "I told you not to eat any food from vendors on the beach."
"A guy on a camel attacked us on the beach," Frank said. "Asha took a pretty good whack. I think she should see a doctor."
"Forget it," she said. "I'm just a little sore. Nothing a hot bath won't cure."
Leaving Mahesh in charge of Asha, the Hardys jogged back down the beach in the direction of the camel and its mysterious rider.
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Joe made out a large shadow coming toward them in the darkness. It looked like a camel, but it wasn't galloping. It continued at a leisurely pace, and gradually the shape of a small boy materialized next to it. He was leading the camel by a ragged harness.
"Hey," Joe said, stopping the boy. "Where did you find that camel?"
The boy looked frightened and took a step backward, nearly bumping into the animal.
"Did you find the camel?" Frank asked. Maybe the kid didn't understand English.
The boy shook his head. "I am returning it. A man back there gave me five rupees to bring it back."
"Where did he go?" Frank asked.
The boy pointed to a pier farther up the beach.
"Did you get a look at him?" Joe asked.
The boy shook his head. "His face, it was covered behind the, the... " The boy searched for the right word and made a motion around his face.
"A hood? A scarf?" Frank asked.
The boy nodded. "Yes, a scarf. And a red turban."
Joe grabbed Frank's shoulder. "Come on," he said, and they took off down the beach again. In a few minutes they came to a small marina. Wooden platforms with rusty oil drums lashed under them as floats formed a makeshift dock.
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Several motorboats were moored in the slips. A weathered shack stood at the foot of the dock, where thick, barnacle-encrusted pilings connected it to the beach. There didn't seem to be anyone around.
"I wonder what's farther up the beach?" Joe said.
"It doesn't look like we can continue on foot," Frank said. Juhu Beach seemed to end here, with a large jetty sticking out on the other side of the docks. The water lapped gently against the jetty, and the wooden docks creaked with each swell of the ocean.
"You fellows," a voice said. A man in shorts and a white shirt popped out of the tiny but onto the moon-bright sand. "I'm Ali. Would you like to rent one of my boats? Only twenty-five rupees an hour, plus petrol, of course."
"Actually, we're looking for a friend of ours," Joe said. "Did someone rent a boat in the last twenty minutes or so?"
"A man was here," Ali said. "But he didn't rent one of my boats. He had his own, and it was a fast one, too. He just took off, like that." Ali snapped his fingers.
"Which direction?" Frank asked.
"Where you just came from, very fast."
Joe looked at Frank. "The guy's long gone by now."
"Right," Frank said. "If it was someone from
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the party, he could have bypassed us on the water and be back there already."
"What was he wearing?" Joe asked.
"So many questions," Ali said. "I don't know, some sort of cape or something, maybe a turban. Now, do you want to rent one of my boats or not?"
"No thanks," Joe said. "Maybe some other time, during the day."
"Sure, sure," Ali said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That's what they all say."
***
Back at the hotel the ballroom was still packed, and there was no sign of the mahurat ending any time soon. The Hardys ran into Nikhil, who was dressed in expensive-looking linen pants and a white shirt.
"Having a good time?" he asked.
"Oh, sure, we've having a ball," Joe said.
"Did you find that on the beach?" Nikhil asked, pointing to the piece of wood that Joe was still carrying.
"Floating in the water, actually," Frank replied. There was plenty of eating and drinking still going on around them, with loud music and dancing in an adjoining room.
"You know, if you were looking for a souvenir, you could get a nice new bat for very cheap," Nikhil joked. "I understand Americans don't play cricket."
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"No, we've got baseball," Joe said. "A much more interesting game."
"Come on, Joe," Frank said. "Let's call it a night." They headed for the exit, pausing only long enough for Joe to grab a couple of freshly made samosas for the road.
Out in the parking lot, they found out Sachin had gone home. He'd left a note with one of the other drivers, suggesting they take a scooter as far as Bandra and then get a taxi to Malabar Hill, since scooters were restricted to certain neighborhoods.
"Sounds like fun," Joe said. "But what's a scooter?"
Frank pointed to a bunch of small black cabs on three wheels clustered around the entrance of the hotel driveway. With their bright yellow roofs, the scooters looked like large covered tricycles with motors.
They went over and squeezed into the narrow backseat of the first one in line and told the driver their destination. He sat in the front, steering and braking with handlebars.
Once they got going, Frank said, "Every time we hit a bump I feel like we're going to tip over or I'm going to fall out."
"Well, at least it's more interesting than a taxi," Joe said.
Frank took the chunk of wood from Joe. "If you were a terrorist and wanted to smuggle explosives
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into the country, how would you do it?" he asked.
"I'd need a good hiding place," Joe replied. "Semtex is hard to detect—it won't set off metal detectors, and police dogs have a tough time smelling it—but I'd still want it to be well hidden, in case I got stopped in a random search."
Frank held up the end of the bat. "How about a hollowed-out cricket bat?"
"You're not serious," Joe said. "Do you really think Vijay's involved in some sort of terrorist operation?"
"No." Frank slapped his hand on the wood. "I agree with Mahesh on that one. Vijay's not the type, but I'd say someone in Rajiv's production is."
"Then this could go way beyond sabotage," Joe said.
Frank nodded and looked out the side of the scooter. He watched as a black sedan with tinted windows tried to pass them. The car was coming closer—a little too close, as far as Frank was concerned.
The driver noticed, too, speeding up and hugging the far shoulder of the road. Then Frank heard the sedan downshift and it shot ahead, veering sharply into their lane.
"Hang on," Frank shouted as the scooter driver squeezed both handbrakes hard. The big tricycle's wheels locked, and it spun out of control, rolling off the road and bouncing violently end over end.
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Chapter 11
FRANK AND JOE BOUNCED off the windows, the roof, and the seats of the scooter. Joe was wondering if they would ever stop flipping when the scooter nose-dived into the pavement one more time, then rebounded and slid to a stop on its roof.
Joe felt like a contortionist. He was upside down, the back of his neck and shoulders taking all his weight. He felt Frank stirring next to him, and he could see the driver, who didn't look good. A trickle of blood ran down the man's forehead, and he was obviously unconscious.
"How're you doing?" he heard Frank ask.
"I think I'm all right," Joe said, trying to turn himself. He heard Frank's door pop open and then saw his brother do a back somersault onto
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the road. Joe forced his door open and tried the same thing but abruptly found himself falling.
Frank heard a splash and ran around the scooter to see what had happened. He found Joe sprawled in a drainage ditch.
"This is nasty," Joe said. "I think I landed in a pile of old mango peels or something."
"Come on, let's help the driver," Frank said, giving Joe a hand out of the ditch.
A couple of bystanders had arrived and were about to pull the driver from under the scooter by his shoulders. Frank stopped them. He didn't want to aggravate the man's injuries, and he could already hear the wailing siren of an ambulance on the way.
When the police showed up, the witnesses couldn't tell them any more than Frank and Joe could. They'd seen a black sedan with tinted windows run the scooter off the road. No one had seen the driver or the license plate.
The Hardys retrieved the piece of cricket bat and made sure their driver would be okay. He regained consciousness and seemed to have suffered a broken ankle and a gash on his scalp. Then they caught a regular cab and headed back to Rajiv's.
"I feel that we're as much of a target as Rajiv's film now," Joe said, examining his wet, smelly shirt.
"Oh, really, Joe?" Frank said. "Are you sure you didn't catch a dose of Rajiv's paranoia?"
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"If this is paranoia," Joe replied, "you can lock me up right now, because I'm ready for a rubber room."
Frank smiled and said, "No, you're not, you're ready for a shower. You smell like rotten mango."
"Seriously, though," Joe said, ignoring his brother's comment, "they're onto us now, and it's got to be somebody close to the production."
***
Back at the house the Hardys were careful not to wake up Sachin and Rajiv. As soon as Joe got cleaned up and dressed, he was his old self again—ready for action.
"Hey, Frank," he said, pulling on a black T-shirt. "Are you caught up on your sleep?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"I've got an idea on how to catch these guys."
"Well, let's hear it," Frank said.
Joe unpacked their video camera. "This little baby is going to be our witness," he said. "Almost all the clues we have—the marble globe, the knife, the beard, the red turban—come from our prop room."
Frank figured out right away what Joe had in mind. "So we plant the camera in the room to see if we can catch the saboteurs planning their next move," he said.
"Right. Let's hit the road." Joe tossed Frank one set of moped keys.
It was well after midnight when Frank and Joe
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padded quietly into the garage behind the house and wheeled the mopeds down the driveway and onto the street. Once they were far enough from the house, they fired the bikes to life and took off down Marine Drive.
Traffic was sparse, so they could ride close together, flashing through pools of greenish light thrown down by the streetlamps. They followed the ocean for a while, passing rows of palms and boxy condominiums. Joe followed Frank down the narrow alley leading to the palace. Tall buildings rose up on both sides of them, seeming to meet the night sky above, and then the alley opened up at the intersection where the maharaja's palace faced the old textile factory.
They stashed the mopeds down the street and moved back along the outer wall, careful to stay in the shadows where no one in the factory huts across the street could see them.
"How high do you think the wall is?" Joe whispered.
"Ten, twelve feet maybe. Here, you go first." Frank stood with his back to the wall and crouched down, lacing his fingers together to make a step up for Joe.
Joe backed up a few steps and got a running start, stepping into Frank's hand stirrup and vaulting up the wall. He grabbed the top edge and pulled himself up. He could see the guard asleep in his booth.
"All clear," he said.
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Frank tossed the video camera case up to Joe, then gave himself a running start and jumped, grabbing Joe's hand and scrambling to the top. They dropped silently down into the courtyard. It took Joe only a few seconds to jimmy the front doors. Their biggest worry was getting them open without waking up the guard.
They each grasped one of the cast-iron rings that served as both doorknob and knocker and pulled slowly, their faces tense as the heavy wooden doors creaked on their hinges.
Once safely in, Joe led the way, staying close to the walls. They crept through the Hall of Public Audiences. Shafts of blue moonlight shining through the high windows spotlighted the guru's chair and the pillows surrounding it. With the set still in place, Frank felt as if they were breaking into Ram Jagannath's actual headquarters.
They followed the long hall down to the prop room, pausing at the entrance to make sure no one was around.
"Keep a lookout down here," Joe said. He had the camera in one hand and his pocket flashlight in the other. He found the spiral staircase and climbed cautiously up to the balcony, remembering what had happened to Frank.
After crouching down behind the stone screens, he searched for Frank. It was too dark to see him. The video camera had its own built-in spotlight, but to turn it on would be as good as not hiding the camera—anyone in the prop
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room would see the light shining through the screens.
"Frank," he said, "can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," came the reply.
"Find a light you can turn on down there," Joe said. He heard Frank bump into something and grumble under his breath. Then he saw the slim beam of Frank's penlight play across the marble floor.
"There's a lamp on Alok's desk," Frank said.
Joe put the camera on the floor and aimed it down through the screen. "Now move the panel, will you?"
Frank folded back one of the partitions of the wooden panel separating Alok's desk from the rest of the prop room. "How's that?" he called up to Joe.
"Perfect." Joe pushed the Record button and the tiny video screen lit up. He zoomed in and then back. The picture was grainy, as though he were taping through a light snowstorm, but with the camera in just the right place, he could cover the entire row of prop shelves, the counter with the Styrofoam heads, and some of the costume racks. Leaving the camera running, Joe crept hack downstairs.
"How long can it record?" Frank asked.
"I put the camera on its slowest tape speed," Joe said. "The picture won't be that clear, but we should get eight hours out of it." He glanced
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at his watch. "That'll cover the rest of the night until the shoot starts tomorrow."
"Nice going," Frank said. "Maybe we'll catch that 'ghost' that knocked me over the head two days ago."
"While we're here, are you up for searching more dressing rooms?" Joe asked.
"Let's not push our luck," Frank said. "That guard could come around anytime."
"Come on, he's sleeping like a baby."
Before Frank could say anything, Joe clicked off the lamp on Alok's desk and strode away toward the atrium.
When they came to the hall of dressing rooms, Joe searched for Kamala's gold star; it was his marker. He opened the door next to it and panned across it with his light, holding it on a coatrack where a set of plain beige robes hung. "Vijay's room," he said, shutting the door. He knew the next one was Nikhil's, so he passed it up. "Been there, done that," he said to Frank.
Joe slipped into the fourth door down the hall, motioning for Frank to follow. "Now this is more interesting," he said after he'd switched on the overhead light.
The room itself was tidy, but several combs and brushes, as well as a forest of bottles of aftershave and talcum powder, cluttered the top of the dresser. "Tariq's room," Frank said. He picked up a jar labeled Mustache Wax. Putting
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that down, he unfolded a map of Pune, a city southeast of Bombay.
"Shhh!" Joe said, holding his index finger to his lips.
Frank froze. At first he couldn't hear anything, but then he made out the sound of footsteps coming along the hall outside. He reached back and flipped off the lights.
Frank and Joe stood in the dark as the footsteps grew louder. Without time to scramble for a hiding place, they could only stand still and hope whoever it was went on past.
The footsteps paused at the door, and Joe saw the beam of a flashlight filter in around the edges. He held his breath, willing himself to remain calm.
The light around the door disappeared, and the footsteps continued on, trailing off down the hall. Frank turned the light back on. "That was close."
"I can deal with close," Joe said, going to Tariq's wardrobe and rummaging around. He held up Tariq's red turban for Frank to see.
Frank sifted through the clothes in Tariq's dresser. "Uh-oh."
"What is it?"
"It's a book," Frank answered, holding up a thick volume bound in worn, cracked leather.
"The Wisdom of Ram Jagannath in His Own Words," he read aloud.
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"Tariq takes his role seriously," Joe said. "Kamala already told me that."
"I don't think she meant this seriously." Frank had opened the cover of the book and read from the title page. " 'To my dear disciple Tariq Khan. May peace and love be with you always. Ram Jagannath.' "
"So Tariq was a follower of Jagannath?" Joe came over to read the inscription for himself. "No wonder he was so upset with Rajiv's portrayal of Jagannath."
"I think Tariq has some explaining to do," Frank said.
"He's not the only one," Joe said, holding the book up for Frank to see. "You see this picture of the guru? He's the same person in the picture I found in Nikhil's room."
Frank let out a low whistle. "Which means ..."
"Nikhil is Ram Jagannath's son."
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Chapter 12
JOE SNAPPED THE BOOK CLOSED and put it back where Frank had found it. "I think we should be here in the morning when Tariq shows up," he said. "He looks like the kind of guy who'd spill his guts after a few tough questions."
"No," Frank said. "We should hold off. We know Nikhil is meeting someone early Friday morning, and we already have the camera set up. Let's wait and see if we can get some hard evidence on videotape. Then we can confront both Tariq and Nikhil."
Frank looked at his watch. It was almost four in the morning. "Besides," he said, "as long as we're up, there's something else we should do."
"Oh, yeah?"
"We landed at the airport at four in the morning, right?" Frank said.
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"Right."
Frank paused, listening for sounds out in the hallway. Satisfied, he continued. "Baggage handlers work in shifts. So, if someone bribed airline employees to put Semtex in Vijay's suitcase, then they had to be on duty when our flight arrived." Frank held up his watch. "If we get to the airport now, we may be able to find those handlers, or at least ask who might be willing to take a bribe."
"Let's do it," Joe said.
The Hardys retraced their steps out of the palace. In the courtyard they checked the guard's booth, but it was empty.
"Still making his rounds," Joe said.
Frank got in position and helped Joe up the wall. As Joe reached down to help Frank up they heard the front door of the palace creak open. "Come on, Frank," Joe whispered.
Frank ran and leaped for Joe's hand, reaching the top of the wall just as the guard, his heavy belt jingling with his baton and pistol holster, ambled out into the courtyard.
Frank and Joe dropped down on the other side, landing hard on the sidewalk. They sat with their backs to the wall for a moment. The guard didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual. Across the street all the factory huts were dark, and an old man lay sleeping out on the sidewalk, a small bundle of clothes under his head for a pillow.
Frank and Joe rode along the coast again until
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they spotted the red blinking lights of the Sahar control tower. Using the minaret-shaped tower as a guide, they turned inland, weaving through a maze of narrow streets lined on both sides with cars and parked bicycles. The buzz of the mopeds' engines echoed off glass storefronts and stone walls, and after driving down an alley, they would look up and adjust their course based on where the tower was.
When they got to Sahar, the arrivals terminal was crowded, just as it had been the morning they landed. Cabs and private cars packed the drive, and passengers, laden with bags or following porters in dark green uniforms, poured from the building. Joe pulled his bike up on the sidewalk and parked under a sign that had the name of their airline on it in both English and Hindi.
Frank started to walk through the double doors, but Joe stopped him. "Hold on," he said, "I have to get into character."
"What?"
"Just follow my lead," Joe said, patting his shirt pocket. "You have a pen I could borrow?" Frank handed over his ballpoint.
Inside, Joe checked the monitor for incoming flight information, then walked confidently up to the ticket counter, where a man in a white dress shirt and blue tie stood stamping a stack of papers.
"I say there," Joe said, affecting a British accent
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and pretending to be very angry. "I say, what is your name?"
Startled, the man looked up.
Joe leaned forward to read the man's name tag. "I say, urn, Rishi. Listen, we've just arrived on the flight from London, and our bags are absolutely ruined. It looks as though someone ran over them with a lorry!"
"I'm—I'm terribly sorry, sir," the ticket agent said. "But I have nothing to do with that."
"Nothing to do with it." Joe turned to Frank in mock astonishment. "You most certainly do. You are an employee of this airline, aren't you?"
"Yes. Yes, of course."
"Then I want you to go back in that little room of yours and look up the names of the luggage handlers on duty tonight." Joe snatched the pen from his pocket and rapped it on the counter. "I want those names, and I want them now."
Rishi held his hands up as if to say that there was nothing he could do. "But, sir," he said. "It's four-thirty in the morning. The desk manager will be here in just a few hours, and you can talk to him then."
"That's absurd," Frank said in his best British accent, slapping the counter with his palm. "Do you expect us to take our trampled bags to our hotel and then come all the way back here to straighten this out? I want those names this instant so I can report them to the airline."
Rishi stepped back from the counter slowly,
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maintaining his dignity. "Yes, all right," he said. "I'll see what I can find. Just a moment, please." He went through the door behind the counter.
"Very convincing," Frank whispered to Joe. "Especially the accent."
Rishi returned with a handful of time cards. "There are a number of cards that have been punched for this morning," he said. "I don't have first names, but here are their last names. I hope that will be sufficient for you to make your complaint."
"I believe it will," Joe said, making a big production of writing the names down. "You've been more than helpful. Thank you very much, sir."
"Okay," Joe said as they left the ticket counter. "Now all we've got to do is find one of these guys and start him talking."
The Hardys hung around for a few minutes while the terminal cleared out. When no one seemed to be watching, Joe walked casually over to a door marked Airline Employees Only. The door was locked, but it looked like an easy target. As Frank shielded him, pretending to read a tourist brochure he'd picked up, Joe slipped a credit card between the door frame and door and worked it up and down. Within seconds he freed the latch.
Inside, Frank saw that it was a lounge area with stairs along the back wall leading down to the field outside. Plastic chairs in the colors of the
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airline surrounded round, Formica-topped tables, and rows of steel lockers lined one wall. The room was empty.
"Look," Joe whispered, pointing to the lockers. Each locker had an old, yellowed piece of tape across it, on which was scrawled an employee's name.
Joe scanned the names on his list, comparing them to the lockers. Mahanty was the first match he found. "Keep a lookout," he said to Frank, going to work with his lock pick this time.
The padlock popped, and Joe pulled out the contents of the locker—a pair of rope sandals, an incense candle with a small brass burner, and a stack of business magazines. "Nothing," Joe said.
As Frank stood watch by the door, Joe picked another locker marked Singh, than another with the name Choudhury written on the frayed tape. On the fourth match, marked Rao, Joe opened the locker, rummaged around for a few seconds, and said, "Bingo."
"What is it?" Frank asked, coming over.
Joe took the pen from his pocket and used it to pick up an expensive-looking maroon silk dress shirt with the initials VT monogrammed on the pocket.
"VT for Vijay Tate," Joe said. "We might get some prints off this."
Frank could see an identical shirt—except the color was royal blue—stuffed in the bottom of
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the locker, along with a pair of fancy leather tassel loafers.
"It looks like he had to make room in Vijay's bag for the explosives," Frank said.
"So he took out a few items," Joe said. "Then he made the mistake of trying to hold on to them. But how would whoever framed Vijay know his bag would get searched?"
"Easy," Frank said. "They just called in a tip to airport security. That way, everyone's bags would have to be searched."
"Right," Joe said. "Then when Sachin didn't make it in to pick up Vijay's bag, it just took the police a little extra time to find it and trace it to him."
"Now the question is, who bribed the baggage handler to switch the bags?" Frank said.
"Let's go have a little chat with Mr. Rao," Joe said with a quick gesture to the locker.
"I think it's time to call Lieutenant Bedi," Frank said. "Even if we haven't caught the saboteurs yet, they'll have to drop the charges against Vijay, and Rajiv won't have to shut down the production."
Frank left to make the phone call, leaving Joe meditating next to the bag. Joe couldn't let go of the thought that whoever was behind the attempt to frame Vijay was up to something even more serious than trying to stop Rajiv's filming. He could only hope that Detective Bedi could get the baggage handler to give up the names of whoever
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was behind the bag switch. That information should really lead somewhere. Until then, he knew who he'd be watching on the set.
But what good was this, Joe thought, just sitting around when the case was starting to heat up? Deciding to go find Rao, Joe got up and went down the stairs leading to the runway. He opened the door, and the roar of jet engines was deafening. As he stepped out on the field, he could see a huge airliner gradually climbing skyward from a nearby runway.
Joe clapped his hands over his ears as he walked toward a parked jumbo jet. Workers in blue coveralls were cranking the jetway back from the cabin of the plane—it had obviously recently finished unloading—as a tanker truck pumped fuel into its wings. A conveyor belt ran from the runway up into the building.
Joe went up to a man who was standing at the open door of the fuel truck.
"I'm looking for someone named Rao," he shouted over the din.
The man pulled up one ear of his headset so he could hear. "Eh?" he said.
"I'm looking for Rao."
The man gestured to the open belly of the plane at the next gate.
As Joe headed toward the other plane's cargo hold, he saw a man swing out of it and drop to the ground, not even bothering with the ladder.
"Hey, Rao!" Joe shouted.
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The man sprinted straight for the conveyor belt and Joe followed, trying to cut him off. Rao made it to the belt first and belly flopped onto it. Diving after him, Joe hung on tight as the conveyor carried them up two stories off the runway toward a hole high in the wall of the terminal building.
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Chapter 13
JOE SCRAMBLED UP the conveyor belt after Rao, grabbing him by the ankle. The baggage handler kicked back and almost knocked Joe off.
They were easily thirty feet above the concrete now, and as Rao disappeared into the building, Joe had a funny thought: he was about to be punished for the way he'd treated the front desk clerk earlier. He was also about to find out how luggage could get damaged on its way from the plane to the baggage carousel.
He ducked under the heavy flaps of rubber hanging over the belt, and suddenly he was inside a dark tunnel. The belt rattled like marbles in a coffee can. Inching forward on his hands and knees, Joe thought he felt something ahead of him. Was it Rao's shoe?
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The belt changed direction suddenly, and Joe fell over on his side. More rubber flaps hanging from the ceiling fluttered along the length of his body.
The belt swerved again and Joe felt himself sliding down a chute. Then the darkness exploded into bright light and he slammed onto the baggage carousel, landing right on top of Rao.
Pushing Joe aside, Rao struggled to stand up on the revolving carousel. He got his balance for a second, then fell off, hitting the tiled floor of the baggage claim area. As Rao got up, Joe leaped off the carousel and tackled him. He got the baggage handler in a half nelson and wrenched his arm behind his back.
"Now," Joe said, catching his breath, "I want to know who paid you to plant Semtex in Vijay Tate's suitcase."
Joe felt someone tapping his shoulder. He turned to see Detective Bedi standing over him, looking rumpled and angry.
"We'll take it from here, if you don't mind," Bedi said. "I want to know what's going on."
Joe released the baggage handler and two police officers took over, locking handcuffs on the man. Another officer walked over from the employee lounge, carefully carrying Vijay's shirts and shoes.
"They were right where he said they would be," the officer said, nodding toward Frank.
Lieutenant Bedi pointed his right index finger at Joe's chest. "Your brother has explained your
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theories to me," he said. "And I'm going to take this man in for questioning. But I want to know why you decided to go after him on your own."
Joe just shrugged. What could he say?
"Well," Bedi said, stepping back and addressing both Hardys. "I'm going to check up on the two of you. My suggestion is that you stick to learning about movies and stay clear of this investigation. We don't appreciate you meddling in police business. Now get out of here," he said, his expression turning to an artificial smile, "and, of course, enjoy the rest of your stay in India."
Joe just stared back at the detective, but Frank came over and grabbed his brother's arm. "Come on, Joe," he said.
Outside the terminal, the sky was streaks of red and purple as the sun was rising. "How much did you tell him?" Joe asked as they climbed on their mopeds.
"Not much," Frank replied. "Just enough to get Vijay off the hook. I don't want them to shut down the production until we're sure how many people are involved. And I asked Bedi not to tell Rajiv that we were out here."
`He agreed to that?"
"I'm sure he'll be happy to take all the credit for himself," Frank replied with a smile.
Joe checked his watch. "It's been a long night. I could use a little sleep before we go back to the set."
***
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Frank and Joe arrived at the palace just after noon, when everyone was breaking for lunch.
Mahesh greeted the Hardys at the doors to the Hall of Public Audiences and walked with them over to the caterer's table. "Stayed up late at the party last night, eh?" he said.
"You could say that," Joe said. "How's Asha doing?"
"It's a bad bruise, but she will be fine. I can't believe what happened to her, though. The world is just becoming a crazy place."
Frank noticed Vijay laughing with Kamala. "It looks like our stars are in good moods today," he said.
Mahesh frowned. "Yes. Vijay received some positive news this morning. The police discovered that someone bribed a baggage handler to place the explosives in his bag."
Joe looked over the food table for his new favorite food—samosas. "Did the police happen to say who it was who offered the bribe?" he asked.
"No," Mahesh replied. "According to Vijay, the baggage handler didn't give the police a name. He could only describe the fellow. Said he had a thick beard and wore sunglasses and a red turban. That was it."
"Well, at least Vijay doesn't have to worry about prison anymore," Frank said.
Mahesh looked over at Vijay disdainfully. "That's true, but he should be worrying about who tried to send him there." Mahesh put down
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his plate. "I have plenty of work for the two of you this afternoon," he said. "Alok and I are planning the scene where Jagannath's followers bomb the rival ashram."
"Excellent," Joe said. "I was looking forward to seeing some stunt work."
"Come take a look," Mahesh said, leading Frank and Joe over to where Alok and six or eight other crew members were fitting together two fake walls hung with long drapes.
"They're designed to come apart," Joe said.
"Exactly," Mahesh said. "This set assembles and disassembles quite easily, so we can move it outside when the time comes to shoot the actual stunt."
Frank felt the curtains. They were heavy like tapestries, and they covered the entire length of the ashram walls.
"This is supposed to be the meditation room at the rival ashram," Mahesh explained.
"What's the stunt?" Joe asked.
"When the bomb goes off," Mahesh said, waving his arms upward, "fire rushes up the curtains. The members of the ashram, played by extras and stunt doubles, of course, run out in a panic, ducking under a wall of flame."
"Wow," Frank said. "Sounds dangerous."
"We've done lots of planning. And besides, the local fire brigade will be with us, just in case the flames do get out of control." Mahesh excused
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himself to address a question from one of the crew.
"Everyone's out here for lunch," Joe whispered to Frank. "I'm going to see what we got on tape last night."
"Okay," Frank said. "I'll go check in with Sachin and Rajiv."
Joe took off down the hall toward the prop room. After making sure no one was around, he took out his flashlight and crept up the spiral staircase to the balcony.
The camera was there, just as he'd left it. Sitting behind the screens, he rewound the tape and then pressed Playback. First he saw Frank moving jerkily on the grainy film. Then he saw himself come into the picture and start talking with his brother. Then he turned out the light on Alok's desk and they both left.
Joe punched the Fast Forward button and watched as several hours of darkness passed by within the space of a few minutes. It ended with the digital readout indicating 7:07 A.M. when Alok and Mahesh came in, turned on the lights, and got to work.
He was disappointed but not ready to give up. He rewound the tape and set the camera timer to start taping at ten o'clock that night. That would cover the prop room until six the next morning. All he had to worry about was the battery pack running out of juice.
On his way back to the set, Joe saw Tariq turn
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toward the dressing rooms carrying a plate overflowing with food. This was his chance to corner him, whether Frank liked it or not.
Joe tiptoed behind the waddling old actor. After Tariq entered his dressing room, Joe waited a few minutes to let him settle in with his feast.
When he figured Tariq was nice and relaxed, Joe burst into the room—catching the actor with his mouth full—and slammed the door behind him.
Tariq choked in surprise. "What!" he sputtered, spilling food on himself and his dressing table. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
"Why did you kept your association with Ram Jagannath a secret?" Joe asked.
Tariq reddened. "What are you talking about?"
Joe marched over to Tariq's dresser and pulled out the book. "This is what I'm talking about," he said.
"How did you find that? What were you doing in this room? You have no right—"
"I was looking for evidence to prove who's been sabotaging this film," he said.
Tariq stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over. "You're supposed to be a film student. Who's paying you to snoop around like this?"
Joe realized he'd blown his cover. As he looked at Tariq—standing there with his jowls
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shaking in indignation and his tunic splattered with bits of food—he also realized the old actor was just too pathetic to be involved in any kind of sinister plot. The role of Ram Jagannath was probably the best one he had landed in a long time.
Joe had to back up and cover his tracks. "Okay, Tariq," he said. "I'll make a deal with you. You're right, I'm not on an internship for film school. My brother and I are investigators working for Rajiv."
Joe picked up Tariq's chair for him, and the old actor plopped back down in resignation. "If you can convince me that you were a perfectly innocent follower of Jagannath, then I won't tell anyone about it, and you won't tell anyone what my brother and I are really doing here."
Tariq took a deep breath. "I should have known someone would find out." He brushed a few blobs of food off his clothing as he spoke. "I met Ram Jagannath about ten years ago when I was in Pune. My career was a mess. I'd been in one flop after another. I had terrible money problems. So, finally I went out of town to recover for a while. Jagannath had just started his sermons, and I was captivated. He was very charismatic, you know.
"After the bombing, when I discovered his real identity, I was devastated. I kept this book, though, just to remind myself that he wasn't a complete fraud. He may have smuggled explosives
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and made money from other people's suffering, but he did bring peace to me and many others."
"So when you heard Rajiv was making a film based on his life, you signed on," Joe said.
"Yes. I don't agree with how Rajiv is presenting Jagannath, but with this part I can at least have some control over how people will see him."
Tariq sounded sincere, and Joe was in a hurry to get out of there. He paused at the door. "Remember our deal," he said, and turned to leave. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake by trusting Tariq.
***
In the Hall of Public Audiences the set of the rival ashram was almost complete, its curtained walls surrounding a carpeted platform. Meditation mats and pillows covered in gold- and copper-colored satin littered the set.
Rajiv had cornered Frank on the far side of the room and was shaking his clipboard in his face. "The good news we got about Vijay this morning came no thanks to you and your brother. I hope you had a fine time at the party last night."
"I think we're making progress," Frank said, making an effort to hold his tongue.
"I have half a mind to send you boys back to your father," Rajiv said. "It looks like our local
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police will soon have plenty of news to leak to the press, all at my expense."
Frank was about to answer when he heard a loud whooshing noise, like the sound of a giant blowtorch being lit. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room in an instant, and Alok came running from behind the curtained walls shouting, "Fire! Everyone get out now!"
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Chapter 14
MOST OF THE CAST AND CREW ran for the door, pushing and shouting. Flames streaked up one of the curtains, and thick black smoke laced with burning embers and pieces of cloth boiled toward the arched ceiling.
Frank rushed to the platform and, with the help of Mahesh and a few crew members, tore the burning curtain from its wall. It fell in a heap at their feet. Swinging a pillow in each hand, Mahesh beat wildly at the flaming tapestry, but the pillows caught fire, too.
"Drop them!" Frank shouted.
Mahesh threw the pillows into the fire as Frank ripped another of the curtains down and tossed it over the pile like a net. Frank and Mahesh ran to
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grab fire extinguishers, and two crew members followed.
Frank's quick move with the curtains had half-smothered the flames, and the foam from the extinguishers did the rest.
Frank wiped the sweat from his forehead with the tail of his shirt. "Man, that was close," he said.
"I don't see how that could have happened," Mahesh said. He lifted the corner of the curtain and stomped out the last few smoldering embers.
"Nice move," Vijay said, clapping Frank on the back. "Very professional."
But Rajiv didn't seem so happy. Staring up at the smoke-stained ceiling in disbelief, he let out a groan. "What a mess. What will the maharaja say?" he said. "This whole production is a disaster." He threw his clipboard to the floor. "Sachin, call the fire department. I want to know why this happened. Sachin? Where are you?"
Some of the extras who'd fled out the door were now quietly making their way back. Frank looked around for Sachin, finally spotting him crouching behind some lighting equipment.
"Get over here, Sachin," Rajiv bellowed. "The fire's out now."
Rajiv announced that the set was closed for the rest of the day and sat down with his head in his hands to wait for the local firefighters.
A few minutes later Joe returned from his confrontation with Tariq. "It looks like a bomb went off in here," he said, surveying the damage as
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several crew members cranked open the casement windows to let in fresh air.
"I think it did," Frank said. "Only it was supposed to be a stunt. Somebody must have set it off early before anybody was ready, and it blew out of control."
When the fire chief arrived, he questioned Rajiv and Mahesh, then poked around for a while, putting samples in plastic bags for later testing. He said it could be days or even weeks before he had any firm results.
***
That evening Rajiv locked himself in his study, refusing to come out for dinner.
"I don't think Rajiv can take much more of this," Sachin said, pouring himself a cup of tea after they'd eaten.
"Did he say anything to you?" Frank asked.
"He won't talk at all, but I know what he's thinking." Sachin sipped his tea. "If this film doesn't get made, he'll quit forever. It will be the end of his career."
"I guess that'll be a big disappointment for you, too," Joe said.
"Disappointment doesn't begin to describe it. I've been waiting five years for this. And it's not a question of money. I'm proud of working with Rajiv. I'll probably be finished in this business, too, if the film is canceled."
Sachin was pretty upset, and the Hardys decided
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it was time to excuse themselves and head upstairs.
"We don't have much time to wrap up this case before Rajiv calls it quits," Joe said after he'd closed the bedroom door behind him.
"Is that why you jumped all over Tariq today?"
"Give me a break, Frank. It wasn't such a big deal."
Frank looked out the window. "I hope not.
"Don't sweat it," Joe said, lying back on his bed and crossing his arms behind his head. "Nikhil's breakfast meeting is tomorrow, and my bet is that he picked up where his father left off in the explosives-smuggling business. He's going to meet his connection, and we're going to catch him at it."
Frank turned around. "Where was Nikhil today, anyway? I didn't see him on the set."
"I don't know," Joe said. "But he's only Vijay's stand-in and stunt double, so he doesn't have to be there all the time."
Although it was barely eight P.M., Frank climbed into bed, too. "How about setting that alarm for four-thirty?"
"Done." Joe set it and stuffed it under his pillow so they wouldn't wake up the rest of the house.
***
The Hardys had figured that getting up at four-thirty A.M. would give them plenty of time to
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check the videotape at the palace one last time before zeroing in on Nikhil at the Taj Mahal Hotel.
They scaled the wall easily. This time the guard wasn't asleep in his booth, so they assumed he was out making his rounds.
The palace smelled like smoke, and the burned ashram set sat like an ancient ruin in the shadows of the Hall of Audiences.
When they got to the prop room, Frank stood watch at the foot of the spiral staircase while Joe went up to check the camera.
Up on the balcony, Joe picked up the camera and punched the Rewind button. It whirred to life and the tape started spooling backward. When it clicked to a stop, Joe punched Play and waited.
The screen was black, the time notation on the tiny screen ticking ahead‑10:30, 10:31, 10:32. Nothing. Joe fast-forwarded the tape, watching the time accelerate‑11:45, 12:05, 1:20, 2:10. Still nothing.
Downstairs Frank kept watch. It was so quiet, he could hear the tape running through the camera above him.
Then he heard Joe whistle through his teeth.
"What is it?" Frank asked, looking up the spiral steps.
"Come on up," Joe whispered.
Frank found Joe crouching on the floor in the
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dark, the video screen casting an eerie glow on his face.
Joe rewound the film a little. "Watch what happens at three-oh-two."
Frank knelt down and watched as the screen went from black to grainy white.
"Those are the lights coming on," Joe said. "Now take a look at this."
Frank saw a figure appear on the screen from the left, walk over to a costume rack, and pull some sort of tunic or coat off a hanger.
"The resolution is lousy," Frank said. "I can't tell who that is."
"Just wait."
The figure went over to the wig counter and walked down the line. He seemed to be trying on different false beards, but his back was to the camera. He then moved to the prop shelves and dug around, obviously looking for something in particular. To Frank the film looked like old footage of Bigfoot; there wasn't enough light, and he could hardly make out any details at that distance.
Then the figure turned and walked directly toward the camera.
"Alok," Frank said.
"Gotcha," Joe said to the figure on the screen.
"No," a voice said from the top of the stairs. "I've got you. Now freeze!"
It was the guard. He pulled out his snub-nosed
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revolver and pointed it at Joe. "Give me the tape," he said.
"Okay, just stay calm. Don't shoot," Joe said, standing up and holding out the camera. At the last second he flipped on the camera's spotlight and flashed it in the guard's eyes. As the man straightened up, temporarily blinded, Frank charged into him, knocking him down the stairs. Joe heard the gun clatter across the prop room floor.
The two brothers were downstairs in a second, grabbing the guard and forcing him into the chair at Alok's desk.
"You're in this with Alok, aren't you?" Joe asked. He picked up the revolver and emptied out the bullets. "You and whoever else is sabotaging the film."
The guard shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.
Frank pulled Alok's grappling hook from the prop shelf and untied the rope attached to it. "Here, Joe," he said. "Tie him up."
"Do you want to call Lieutenant Bedi?" Joe asked.
"No." Frank checked his watch. "We don't have time to deal with him now. Nikhil's meeting is in just over half an hour."
"Let me go and they'll give you as much money as you want," the guard said. "Name your price."
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"Who?" Joe asked. "Alok and who else? Who's in on this?"
"Let me go first and I'll tell."
"Forget it. You're staying here and we're leaving."
Frank came out of Mahesh's office and said, "I just tried to call Rajiv, and there was no answer. He and Sachin must be on their way here already."
"Write them a note," Joe said. "Tell them that Alok is one of the saboteurs and that they should call Bedi immediately."
Frank hastily scribbled a note, dropped it on Mahesh's desk, and left with his brother.
***
Twenty minutes later the Hardys were parking their mopeds a block down the street from the Taj Mahal Hotel in the center of Bombay. The sun had already climbed over the tops of the buildings, and the street was teeming with vendors and people on their way to work.
The hotel had walls of polished white marble and five towering, gold-tipped spires that reached up to the sky. The brothers went in and found the restaurant just off the lobby. They found a table with a good view of both the door and the windows out onto the street, then sat down to wait.
After a few minutes Nikhil came in. He took a table by the window, pulled off his sunglasses, and put them in his shirt pocket as he sat down.
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A waiter came by with menus.
"I'm starving," Joe said.
"Just order toast and tea and the check," Frank said. Just then he saw the tall woman Nikhil had been talking to at the party walk by the window and come into the restaurant.
"Oh, man," Joe said. "It's his mom. We just staked out Nikhil to catch him having breakfast with his mother."
"Let's wait and see what happens," Frank said.
The waiter came to take their order. Three minutes later he brought it and they paid, then ate their toast in silence, keeping an eye on Nikhil. Finally they saw him stand up, drop some money on the table, and kiss his mother on the cheek. He put on his sunglasses and strode briskly out of the restaurant and into the lobby.
"Here we go," Frank said.
Nikhil went out the back of the hotel and down a narrow street lined with cheap hotels.
"He must be meeting someone," Joe said.
Nikhil was taller than most of the people crowding the sidewalk, and the brothers stuck with him by following his light brown hair as it floated over the sea of heads around him. He turned down an alley and the Hardys followed.
They were between two hotels, and Frank could hear the clanking of dishes coming from the kitchens. Flies swarmed around piles of garbage lined up against the walls.
"Did you see where he went?" Joe whispered
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when they were halfway down the alley. It was a dead end, which backed up to a mossy brick wall.
Just then Nikhil stepped out of a doorway. "Why are you two following me?" he asked.
Joe was about to explain when they heard an engine revving and turned to see the black sedan with tinted windows wheel into the alley, blocking their only path of escape.
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Chapter 15
A BEARDED, MUSCULAR FIGURE stepped out of the car wearing the all-too-familiar red turban and sunglasses.
"Alok," Frank said. "We know it's you, and we know you're the one who tried to push us over the cliff."
The bearded man just grinned and reached into the car, pulling out a battle sword with a long, curving blade.
Alok ran his thumb down the tempered steel as he came forward. "See," he said. "No prop this time."
The Hardys stood with their backs to each other, ready to face off against both Alok and Nikhil. Frank crouched, reminding himself to stay low.
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Joe had to make a split-second decision: help Frank or fight Nikhil. Hearing Alok charge behind him, he turned, telling himself it was his only choice—he had to expose his back.
Frank dodged out of the way as Alok brought the sword straight down, slicing through the air. The heavy blade clanged against the ground, scarring the bricks.
Joe felt something whistle past his right ear, and then saw a stone thump Alok in the chest. Joe heard him gasp as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him.
Nikhil rushed by. "Get him!" he yelled.
Alok turned and jumped onto the hood of the car. As Frank, Joe, and Nikhil edged toward him in a semicircle, he scrambled over the top of the sedan and escaped out the alley and down the street, carrying his sword with him.
Nikhil brushed the dirt from his hands and turned to Frank and Joe. "That was Alok?" he asked in amazement. "He was ready to kill us!"
"Don't think you can fool us with that little performance," Joe said. "You knew that was him all along."
Nikhil's face reddened with anger. "All I want is an explanation of why you were following me."
"We know who you are, too," Joe continued. "Ram Jagannath's son."
"Who told you that?"
"No one told us," Frank said. "We found your family picture."
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"Great. And now you can sell the story to the highest bidder," Nikhil said.
"We're not journalists," Frank said. "Rajiv hired us to find out who's sabotaging his film."
"You think I'm part of some plot to ruin Rajiv?" Nikhil said. "That's ridiculous!"
"Maybe not after you just helped us," Frank said. "But we had our suspicions."
"There's nothing to be suspicious of," Nikhil said. "My father died when I was young, and my mother refuses to talk about him. I hoped doing this film would help me find out something about my father. I wouldn't think of sabotaging this production."
"So you're not working with any outsiders to ruin Rajiv's career?" Joe said.
"Of course not. I signed a deal with Alex Chandraswamy for his next picture, and I kept quiet about it because Rajiv hates him so much. That has nothing to do with sabotage."
Frank looked at Joe. "I take his word for it," he said. "Now let's go after Alok and hope he leads us to whoever else is involved."
Borrowing Nikhil's cell phone, Frank called Sachin at the set to get Alok's address. As he talked, the three of them edged past the black sedan and out into the sunny street. After a few minutes Frank clicked off the phone and handed it back to Nikhil.
"They gave me directions," Frank said as he and Joe jogged to their mopeds. There was no
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room for Nikhil, so he said he'd go to the set and remain there if they needed him. "Sachin says he and Rajiv just got to the palace and found the guard and the note. He'll tell Bedi to meet us at Alok's."
They left the busiest part of the city, weaving between cars and around pedestrians. Frank led the way as they cruised along the coast. Joe noted that the number of houses and apartment buildings was gradually thinning out. By the time Frank pulled over, there was almost nothing around, just miles of deserted beach and a couple of abandoned factories.
Joe was looking at a cluster of whitewashed shacks on the beach. "Is this it?" he asked.
They climbed over the guardrail and walked down the beach, staying just behind a row of sand dunes. When they got closer, Frank spotted a speedboat moored at a single-slip dock in front of the shacks. "This looks like it," he said.
The Hardys crept up to the nearest shanty, being careful to stay below the windows.
Joe found the door and opened it a crack. He peered inside. "Frank, in here," he whispered. He groped around in the dark, finally finding a light cord. When he pulled it, a single, naked lightbulb hanging from the center of the ceiling came on.
"My, my, my," Joe said. Wooden crates with shipping labels from England and Pakistan were stacked against the walls.
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Frank pulled out his pocketknife and pried up the lid of the nearest crate. He tossed aside some paper packing first, then held up a cricket bat. It felt unusually light. "How much do you want to bet this is hollowed out, just like the one Asha was attacked with."
"No bet," Joe said. "It would be the perfect way to smuggle plastic explosive."
"That's right, Joe Hardy," Sachin said, standing in the doorway.
Startled, Frank dropped his pocketknife behind the crate.
"Sachin?" Joe said. "You're working with Alok?"
Sachin pulled a snub-nosed .38 from under his tunic and leveled it at the Hardys. "I got your note, you clever fellows," he said. "But, sorry, I seem to have neglected to call the police."
The gun looked exactly like the one the guard had, and Joe remembered that he'd taken the cartridges and dumped them outside the palace. As he took a step forward, Sachin pointed the pistol straight at him.
"I wouldn't," he ordered. "I reloaded it and used the first bullet on the guard. He won't be talking to anyone anymore."
The answer came to Frank in a flash. "You and Alok were both out of the country at the same time," he said. "You're the two Jagannath followers who tried to break him out of prison five years ago."
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Alok appeared in the doorway, carrying a coil of rope and a knife. He said something to Sachin under his breath, and Sachin said, "Fine. Tie them up and then we'll get rid of them."
"When the escape attempt failed, Alok fled to Pakistan," Frank said. "Where did you go?"
Alok motioned for the brothers to sit on the floor. Holding the knife between his teeth, he quickly bound Frank's ankles and wrists and then moved to Joe.
"I just stayed in Bombay, waiting for the commotion to die down," Sachin said. "I was working in the film industry when I met Jagannath and saw no reason to quit that work."
Alok dragged Frank and Joe over to a wall and looped the rope around one of the exposed support beams. Then he patted them down, finding Joe's pocketknife.
"Smuggling was a very lucrative business for the ashram," Sachin said. "So Alok and I decided to go into business for ourselves. After all, I don't want to be Rajiv's slave for the rest of my life."
"Let's go," Alok said. "We have to prepare the boat."
"But why sabotage the film?" Frank asked as Sachin turned to follow Alok out the door.
Sachin adjusted his wire-rim glasses. "Renewed interest in Jagannath was the last thing we wanted. We couldn't risk the attention the movie would draw. Besides, Rajiv got him all wrong."
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Sachin left, and the Hardys heard him bolt the door from the outside.
"We've got to get out of these ropes before they come back," Joe said.
Frank stretched out as far as he could from the wall. "I dropped my pocketknife behind this crate when Sachin came in," he said. Managing to knock the crate aside, he tried to reach the knife with his foot. "It's too far away."
"I'm going to try something," Joe said. "Keep your head down."
Using the toe of his left shoe, Joe pushed the heel of his right sneaker down and wiggled his foot free. Balancing the shoe on his foot, he thrust his legs up, propelling the sneaker toward the lightbulb overhead.
The bulb exploded, raining glass down on their heads. "There's a big piece close to you," Joe said, nodding toward a shard of glass about the size of a quarter.
Frank carefully brought the glass close with the edge of his shoe, then twisted at the waist and grasped it in his hands. Ignoring the pain in his wrists, he methodically cut at the ropes with the glass. Within several minutes he said, "Got it."
He hurried to untie Joe, and they went to the door.
"Locked," Joe said, glancing out the front window. "Quick, get down. They're coming back."
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Chapter 16
FRANK AND JOE ducked down and heard Sachin's voice coming through the door as he unbolted the lock. "Give me the syringes," he said.
Alok said something unintelligible.
"Good," Sachin said. "This will knock them out for a nice, long time. By the time their bodies are found, there will be no trace of medication."
Sachin pushed the door open. Standing on either side of it, the Hardys took him and Alok by surprise. Frank grabbed Sachin, twisting his wrist and forcing him to the ground. The plastic syringe skittered across the floor.
Alok froze in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out the light. As he went for his knife, Joe pivoted from his hiding place beside the wall and thrust his knee into Alok's solar plexus. Alok
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doubled over, clutching his belly. Bending his knees for leverage, Joe smashed a right uppercut into Alok's jaw. He staggered back out onto the sand, arms flailing. Joe saw a trickle of blood run down from Alok's nose into his mustache.
"Enough!"
Joe turned to see Sachin lying on his back with Frank hovering over him, ready to throw a punch.
Sachin had managed to pull his gun. He pointed it up at Frank. "Get off me now," he said.
Outside, Alok pulled his knife. He beckoned Joe with the blade. "Come on out and play," he said with a sneer. Blood ran down his chin.
Sachin stood up, and as he looked away to find the syringe, Frank rushed for the door. "Get out," he shouted, pushing Joe ahead of him.
Sachin fired wildly, the bullet blowing a hole the size of a baseball into the wall just above the door. Frank pulled the door closed and bolted it, locking Sachin inside.
Now it was the two of them against Alok and his knife.
The Hardys stood on either side of Alok, circling around him as he jabbed at them with the dagger.
Joe feinted and Alok went for it.
When Alok thrust at Joe, Frank spun into a roundhouse kick. He heard the stuntman's ribs
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crack at the impact of his heel, and Alok collapsed in the sand, writhing in pain.
Joe picked up the knife. "Alok," he said, "if you even try to get up, I'm going to ask Frank to practice a few more of his kung fu moves on you."
Frank dove to the ground as three gunshots went off behind them in rapid succession. Joe dropped and rolled. He saw three bullet holes around the door handle of the shack.
"He's trying to shoot off the lock," Frank said.
One more shot ripped through the air, and the door swung open slowly.
Knowing that Sachin had used his six shots, Frank and Joe charged before he could reload. They quickly overpowered him and dragged him out onto the sand next to Alok.
"Hey, Sachin," Frank said. "Can we borrow your cell phone to call the cops?"
"Don't bother," Joe said, pointing over the dunes toward the road. Rajiv and Bedi, along with several uniformed officers, were approaching.
While two of the officers cuffed Sachin and took him away, another radioed for an ambulance for Alok. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bedi lit into the Hardys.
"I thought I told you to stay out of this," he said.
"We told Sachin to call you," Frank replied, "but I guess he decided to ignore our message."
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Bedi did not find that amusing. "You're lucky you weren't hurt."
"Oh, Lieutenant, leave them alone," Rajiv said. "They've been through enough already."
After Frank and Joe promised to stop at the station and give detailed statements, Bedi stalked off without a word.
Rajiv scowled as he watched officers put Sachin in the back of a car. "Sachin," he said. "I don't understand. He got beaten up, didn't he? Maybe Alok framed him, too."
"I don't think so," Frank said. "He definitely wanted to stop this movie. He and Alok were in it together. I think they were just bribing the guard to give them free access to the set."
"Yes, another very sad thing," Rajiv said, shaking his head. "That's how we knew where to find you. Mahesh found the guard's body in the prop room. We called the police immediately, and while Bedi was on the set, Nikhil rushed in and told us that you were going after Alok. We came here as fast as we could."
Frank and Joe walked up the beach with Rajiv to where they'd parked their mopeds.
"I'd like you two to take the day off tomorrow," Rajiv said. "You've earned it."
"Thanks," Joe said. "I guess we'll be getting a vacation out of this trip after all."
***
As it turned out, Rajiv gave everyone the day off. Frank and Joe met Asha, Mahesh, and Nikhil
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on the causeway to the Haji Ali Mosque. Together they crossed over and went down to sit on the wall between the sidewalk and the beach. Frank tossed bread crumbs to the seagulls circling overhead, and Joe munched on some freshly roasted channa.
"Funny how Sachin turned out to be such a good actor," Frank said.
"That's for sure," Joe said. "He pretended to be terrified of the cobra when he was the one who planted it. His only mistake was that he bought one that wasn't poisonous."
"But it must have been Alok who climbed up the trellis," Mahesh said, watching the colorful parade of characters walk by on the beach. "Now that I think about it, I remember him leaving while Vijay and I sat on the couch and watched that terrible movie."
"I just can't believe you thought Mahesh and I were involved," Nikhil said.
"Sachin and Alok did a great job covering their tracks," Frank said.
"They seemed to be the ones with the most to lose if the production got canceled," Joe added.
"So," Asha said as they slid off the wall and walked down to the water, "what happens now?"
"Actually," Nikhil said, "all the publicity is probably going to help the movie."
"Rajiv is finally going to open the set to writers and photographers," Mahesh said. "The film is
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news now, and that's going to attract a big audience when we finally finish it."
"Three years from now, that is?" Joe said.
"No way," Mahesh said. "In a month. Rajiv hasn't changed his mind about the contracts. In fact, now that he knows the damage was the work of agents of Jagannath and not disgruntled actors, he's even more committed to defying the industry."
"What about Alex Chandraswamy?" Joe asked Nikhil.
"He'll wait. Rajiv knows I've signed with him now, so at least I don't have to worry about being found out. He also knows about my father. He thinks my mother and I should come forward with the story ourselves so that we have more control over what appears in the media."
"That makes sense," Frank said. "Especially with all the publicity the movie's getting."
Nikhil nodded, but he didn't look too happy.
"Don't worry," Asha said. "We'll figure out something over dinner tonight." She winked at Joe. "See, I get my date with a movie star, after all."
"Just don't stand her up," Mahesh joked. "Otherwise, I'll have to beat you senseless."
A group of schoolgirls dressed in blue-and-white uniforms, their hair braided and tied with blue ribbons, approached Nikhil with pens and open notebooks. They giggled as he signed each one and then passed them to Frank.
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"He's a well-known movie star in America," Nikhil said to the girls. "This may be your last chance for an autograph."
Joe managed to keep a straight face as Frank blushed and signed the books. Satisfied, the girls took off.
"Their friends are going to be so jealous," Joe said, chuckling.
"Right," Frank said with a grin. "Except I signed your name. They'll all be bragging about how they got Joe Hardy's autograph—that is, until they figure out you're really nobody."
The Disappearance
Franklin W. Dixon

1 GEEKING OUT
JOE
YOU GUYS,” MY BROTHER’S GIRLFRIEND, Jones, suddenly gasped, staring at her phone with her mouth hanging wide open. “Oh. My. Gosh. Did you know—”
“That the whole cast of Mercury Man will be there, signing autographs?” Frank finished, then pulled off the Garden State Parkway, following the exit for Atlantic City. “Yeah, but unfortunately, it’s a ticketed event. We would have had to get our tickets, like, six months ago. And we didn’t even know each other then!”
Jones beamed at him from the passenger seat (“Girlfriends automatically get shotgun,” Frank had told me with some regret as he’d kicked me out of the seat when we picked up Jones) but 
2
shook her head, her straight black hair, cut just below her chin, barely moving. “I can’t believe we’ve only known each other for a month. Like, was there ever a time we weren’t together? But no ... I was going to tell you that Breakwater Comics is going to have a booth.” She pressed a button to put her phone to sleep and placed it in her lap. “Tiny little comics store in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but they have this amazing website. The owner is almost more like a curator than a straight seller—he finds some amazing stuff.” She let out a satisfied sigh, settling back in the seat and looking straight ahead. “I’m going to check out his booth, like, first thing.”
“After we go by the Hellion booth to get our free comic,” Frank said with a smile. “Remember? They’re only printing it for this convention.”
“Oh my gosh,” Jones replied. “I can’t believe I almost forgot. There’s just so much to get excited about!”
In the backseat, I cleared my throat. “Like lunch!” I put in. “Remember, you guys said we could check out the boardwalk. I want to get some saltwater taffy.”
That might sound a little childish. But saltwater taffy, especially consumed on a boardwalk, just minutes after it was pulled, is freakin’ amazing. That’s a fact.
Jones turned back to me with a slightly surprised look, like she’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, of course, Joe,” she said. “The Comic-Con is in Boardwalk Hall, which is right there. But maybe after we do all the time-sensitive things at the convention.”
3
What am I doing? I wondered. I waited until she turned around before frowning out at the flat sandy land that bordered the Atlantic City Expressway. How had I, Joe Hardy, Relatively Cool Guy, ended up spending the first Saturday of my spring break driving to a comic book convention in Atlantic City with my older brother and his girlfriend? Surely there were cooler things I could be doing, like—well, anything.
It’s not that I don’t like comics, or, more specifically, comic book movies. I went to see Wonder Woman and Black Panther like everyone else, and I will admit, they were totally awesome. But unlike Frank, I don’t have whole boxes of comic books hidden under my bed, and I can’t spend hours debating with you which Doctor Who was the best or whether the campy Batman television series from the 1960s should be considered “canon” or not.
Know who can, though? Jones.
Jones isn’t bad. I mean, she’s pretty cool. She’s really friendly and never seems to have a problem with my hanging out with them, even if I sigh loudly and roll my eyes every time they start to act mushy. She’s also supersmart. She’s probably smarter than Frank. Jones is homeschooled, which means she helps set her own curriculum and decides what she wants to study. So she has a wealth of knowledge about random, obscure topics, and she can spend hours telling you interesting facts about octopi (that’s more than one octopus, FYI) or the history of Barbados or who assassinated James Garfield (it was this weird guy named Charles Guiteau—look him up).
4
Yeah, Jones is pretty cool. The thing is—ever since Frank met her at a book signing last month, he and Jones have been inseparable. I wake up on a Saturday morning, and whereas Frank and I used to laze around on the couch watching Netflix until noon, now Jones is there, and she’s brought over some obscure DVD of a Danish movie about a shark person. And she and Frank are, like, making clever little quips to each other about this extremely depressing Danish movie about a shark person, and I’m like, “Hey, wanna watch Stranger Things again?” and Frank is like, “Maybe some other time, Joe,” and then Jones offers me popcorn and I just want to punch something. Or also, like, yell, Don’t you have a home?! which I know is unfair and not the nicest way to treat a cool person like Jones.
See, it’s not usually like this. Usually I’m the person bringing girls around, or bagging on plans with Frank to hang out with a girl I like. Which maybe means I should be more understanding, but also means that I’m just not used to having to share Frank with a girl. And—honestly—I kind of miss the guy. Usually, it’s the Frank and Joe show, all the time, everywhere, with the two of us teaming up to solve mysteries and eat lunch together and make clever in-jokes about Stranger Things on a Saturday morning. So it’s not bad that Frank has found someone he really likes in Jones—I get that.
It’s just . . . different.
But it’s cool. I’ll get used to it. I want to get used to it.
Which was why, when Frank came home a couple of 
5
weeks ago all jazzed that Jones had told him about this Comic-Con (not the huge Comic-Con, but a small, local one) that was happening in Atlantic City, which was within driving distance from our house, I asked if I could tag along.
Frank, bless him, was like, “Yeah, Joe, that would be awesome!” He seemed genuinely excited, maybe because I have a tendency to fall asleep when he tries to tell me cool stories from his comic books.
And I will admit—I was kind of supposed to be studying for the SAT, which I was going to take for the second time a week from today. According to my parents, this spring break would be an “excellent opportunity to really drill down and study hard.” To drive this point home, my mom went to the library and borrowed approximately 3,684 SAT prep books for me to study. Who even knew you could take out that many books?
Anyway, I don’t love studying. Who does, when it’s a beautiful spring day and the sun is shining?
So here I was. In a car. Headed to Comic-Con with my brother and his girlfriend.
Who were making moony eyes at each other.
“Frank, watch the road!” I yelled.
Frank turned back to the highway just in time to notice a Volkswagen swinging into the lane ahead of him. “Whoa! Where’d he come from? Anyway, Jones, did Harper text you?”
“Who’s Harper?” I asked Jones. “Friend of yours from the Last Names as First Names Club?”
6
She snorted and shook her head. “Very funny, Joe. No, she’s a girl I know from the InkWorld online community.” She lifted up her phone again and began scrolling through it. “Oh, yeah. She texted about half an hour ago, I forgot I had my phone on silent. She says she can meet us on the boardwalk when we get there—near Sandee’s Frozen Banana Shack. It’s right across from the hall where the convention is.”
I pulled out my phone and Google Mapped it. “Ooh, it’s also right across from the Fiorelli Saltwater Taffy shop,” I said.
“Perfect!” cried Jones, turning around to me with a bright white smile.
“See,” Frank said, pulling off the Atlantic City Expressway, “I can just tell this is going to be an amazing day. There’s something for everybody!”
• • •
“Oh. My. Gosh! I can’t believe it!”
Jones, Frank, and I were wandering through the con-related crowd, around the off-season snack shops and souvenir stands—some open, others closed—when Jones suddenly cried out and took off.
I couldn’t say anything, because my mouth was filled with saltwater taffy. Peanut butter, by the way, is by far the best flavor. But Frank looked at me and nodded in the direction Jones disappeared in, like, Shall we follow her? I nodded back, like sure.
We passed through a big group of middle school girls, 
7
who were all comparing their superhero costumes—most popular component: tinfoil—and emerged to find Jones hugging an older girl. The girl was in her midtwenties, maybe, with a big smile and long, wavy auburn hair tied back with a black-and-white scarf. She was wearing a T-shirt that said I AM WONDER WOMAN, THANKS FOR NOTICING.
She was cute, I couldn’t help but observe.
Jones let the girl go, and the girl—Harper, I was guessing—looked around the boardwalk with a furrowed brow like she was searching for someone. Then she quickly turned back to Jones, all smiles.
Hmm, I thought. Wonder who else she could be looking for?
“It’s so amazing to meet you in person,” she told Jones. “I feel like I know you already! You always make the best comments, and we’ve had all these long private conversations.”
Jones grinned. “You’re like my online sister,” she said. “Which is way better than a real-life sister, because I don’t have to share a bedroom.”
Harper laughed, shaking her head. “That’s so funny,” she said, “because my boyfriend, Matt, always jokes about how he’s sharing me with you and all my online buddies.”
Boyfriend. Well, there it was. Even if I could somehow convince Harper to fall for a teenager, she was taken.
Bummer.
After introducing Frank and me to Harper, Jones gestured to the entrance to the convention hall, teeming with other comic fans, some in costume, some not. “Shall we go?” 
8
she asked. “The earlier we get in, the more free stuff there’ll be for the taking!”
Harper nodded. “Let’s go,” she said.
Frank grabbed Jones’s hand and squeezed it, beaming like Stan Lee himself just called up and asked him out to dinner. “I can’t wait,” he said. “You guys, this is the best day.”
And just like that, a little of my crankiness evaporated.
Even a cool guy like me couldn’t argue with something that made my bro this happy.
• • •
The convention was more fun than I thought it would be. Especially since I didn’t know anyone there and could geek out with my geeking-out crew.
We walked through a whole interactive exhibit one company had put up to promote their new movie, Mercury Man, and even though we hadn’t gotten tickets to the panel discussion, Frank managed to snap up a signed copy of the poster at one dealer’s booth. “I’m going to hang it over my bed,” he announced, his big smile making him look a lot like his twelve-year-old self.
Then we checked out the sellers’ floor, which was huge enough to spend a week in. We strolled lazily along the aisles, splitting up to check out things that interested us and then catching up with one another. Harper was way into indie comics, so she disappeared for a while into this booth that was filled with indies from all over the country. And Jones was a huge TornadoGirl fan, so she spent a long time 
9
talking to a woman who had a booth dedicated to that character. This woman even made her own collages inspired by the series, which Jones thought were really cool.
And me? Well, I found a lot more exciting stuff than I expected to. I got lost for a while in this graphic novel booth, poring over books based on characters I’d never heard of before. It was crazy how deep they got, how dark some of them were. I ended up buying three to check out later.
“Having fun?” Harper asked me with a grin when I caught up to her outside the graphic novel booth.
“I am,” I admitted. “Kind of more than I expected to.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I remember my first convention. I thought I’d find maybe a couple things I was into, but the whole thing was just amazing. It was like this portal into a world I’d never known existed, but where I wanted to disappear.”
I wouldn’t go that far, I almost said, but clutching my bag of graphic novels, I had to admit I didn’t know. Maybe I would get way into the comics-geek lifestyle. Maybe next year, it’d be me in a tinfoil costume!
But probably not.
As we walked down the aisle to catch up with Jones and Frank, who were talking to what looked like a droid, Harper glanced to the side and suddenly flinched. She stopped and turned back, staring at whatever had spooked her and looking for a second like she was going to duck down another aisle. But then her expression smoothed out, and she stood 
10
up to her full height again, striding casually back over to me like nothing happened.
“Um, you okay?” I asked, looking pointedly from her to the direction where whatever spooked her was.
She shook her head and let out a little chuckle, which sounded (to my trained detective ear) a little fake. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said. “It’s going to sound stupid. I’m crazy afraid of mice, and I thought I saw something scurrying along the floor.”
Except you were looking at something person-height off the ground, I thought, not at the floor.
I almost said something, but then I wondered if I was the one being weird. Solving mysteries all the time can make you turn everything into a mystery. Maybe Harper was scared of something, or someone. Or maybe she just thought she saw an ex-boyfriend and didn’t want to talk about it. Really, that was the more likely option.
“There’s Frank and Jones,” I said, nodding at a booth just ahead of us. “Should we catch up?”
“Sure,” said Harper, and began hurrying toward them. I sped up too, but then Harper paused to look at some vintage Batman stuff the vendor next to the droid-guy was selling. I kept going, because Frank had turned around and was waving me over.
“Can you believe this?” he asked, gesturing to the shiny silver robot, which looked like it was watching Frank with a polite expression.
11
“Is this your friend?” the robot asked in an electronic voice. There was a musical beeping sound. “Based on the similarities in your facial features, I predict that he is your brother.”
Frank laughed. “Oh my gosh, yes!” He looked at Jones, who was standing just on the other side of the robot, watching the whole scene, giggling with delight. “This is Joe.”
“Joe . . . Hardy,” the robot said, turning its flashlight eyes on me. They dimmed, then slowly lit back up, like it was taking me in. “Approximately . . . sixteen years old?”
Now I was weirded out. “Frank, did you tell it that?”
Frank shook his head. “No. Well, I told him our names. But he figures everything else out himself, because he’s been programmed with top-of-the-line facial recognition software.”
I glanced at the robot, which was still facing me, its eyes fully lit now. Then I moved away, frowning at Frank. “It kinda creeps me out.”
Frank laughed. “Why?” he asked. “He’s just a harmless robot.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “Maybe its job is to collect data and sell it to marketing companies or something.”
Jones raised her eyebrows. “That’s a very valid concern, Joe, but I don’t think we have anything to fear from FriendBot here. Sometimes people just use technology for fun!” Then she frowned, looking behind me. “Where’s Harper?”
12
“She was—” I moved even farther from the robot, gesturing to the booth where Harper had paused to look at the Batman stuff. “Huh. That’s weird. She stopped right there. . . .” I scanned the other booths nearby but still couldn’t find her. In fact, now I didn’t see her on the aisle at all.
Frank said good-bye to FriendBot, and then we all moved away from the booth into the aisle. “Maybe she had to use the restroom or something?”
“I guess . . . ,” Jones began, but she was cut off by a youngish guy with a blue-dyed buzz cut wearing a military jacket, who suddenly materialized in front of us.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but did I see you earlier with a girl about so high”—he indicated about five foot nine—“with long reddish hair and pink lipstick?”
Frank expression’s turned suspicious, but if Jones had any concerns about this guy, she didn’t show it. “Yeah, I think that’s my friend Harper,” she said. “Have you seen her? We seem to have lost her.”
The guy smiled, shaking his head. “I was going to ask you the same thing. See, I was hoping to introduce myself. Well, we’ve been talking online for a long time but I’ve never met her in person. We both post on this online comics forum called—”
“InkWorld?” Jones asked, excitedly reaching out to touch the guy’s arm. “Omigosh, who are you? My username is JonestheAvenger!”
“Oh, wow!” The guy’s eyes lit with recognition. “We 
13
comment on each other’s posts all the time! I’m ComiczVon. I mean, Von. Von is my real-life name.”
Jones laughed. “And my real-life name is Jones. This is my boyfriend, Frank, and his brother, Joe.”
Von looked at each of us, nodding.
Jones sighed. “I wish I could introduce you to Harper,” she said, “but we seem to have lost her.”
“Yeah, what a bummer,” Von agreed, looking down at his shoes. “I really . . . I would have liked to meet her. Anyway, can I give you my card to give to her? I’m a comic-book dealer, and I live right nearby. Maybe we could meet up before she leaves.”
“That would be fun,” Jones said enthusiastically, taking the guy’s card. “Have you had a good convention?”
“Really good,” Von said. “Yeah, it was great to meet you. I have to run now, I have to meet up with a vendor, but maybe I’ll see you again?” He gestured to the card.
“Sounds good,” Jones replied. “Enjoy the rest of the con!”
The guy darted off down the aisle, and Frank, Jones, and I all looked at one another, like What do we do now?
“I guess we could just keep looking at booths for a while,” Frank suggested. “Harper might turn up again. And if not, at least we’ll get to see more.”
Jones and I agreed, and the three of us continued our slow-and-casual walk up and down the aisles, pausing to look at things, separating and meeting up again. But something was nagging at me, keeping me from getting really 
14
interested in anything I saw. What happened to Harper? I couldn’t help but think of the fear on her face when she saw whatever it was she saw earlier, the thing she claimed was a mouse.
After another half hour or so, there was an announcement over the loudspeaker. The convention was closing in fifteen minutes. It would open again tomorrow at ten, but we’d only bought tickets for today.
Frank groaned, but Jones shrugged. “We should probably be heading back anyway,” she said, but her eyes were darting all over the convention floor—still looking for Harper, I figured. “We’ve seen about everything there was to see. This was fun!”
But her voice was missing some of the enthusiasm she’d had that morning. I had the feeling we were all wondering what happened to Harper. Even if she’d just wandered off and gotten involved in something else—wasn’t she even going to say good-bye?
We slowly made our way to the exit, pausing to use the restrooms and watch the trailer for a new science fiction series debuting next fall. We walked out the door onto the nearly dark boardwalk, which was gusty and cold, despite it supposedly being spring. March in the Northeast is the worst.
“Does anybody remember where—?” Frank began, but before he could finish, a purple-coated auburn-haired figure dove out from behind a lemonade stand and tackled us.
“You guys!” Harper cried. “I am so, so sorry I lost you. I 
15
had to take a call from my boyfriend, Matt—he’s a worrier. So I went outside for some privacy, but when I came back, you guys were gone. I couldn’t find you.”
That seemed a little weird, because the three of us had stayed in the same aisle for a while, waiting for her. I suddenly remembered the way Harper had looked around the boardwalk when we’d first met her—skittish, almost, like she was afraid someone might see her. I thought of Von, and the card he’d given Jones. Had Harper ducked out to avoid him, maybe?
Was someone after her?
But before I could think on that too much, Jones pulled the card out of her pocket and pushed it at Harper. “Omigod, you will not believe who I just met—ComiczVon from InkWorld! He was totally nice, and he just missed you—he really wanted to say hi. So he gave me this card.”
Harper reached out and took it, looking down at the information with a thoughtful expression that I couldn’t quite read. Was it scared? Or just curious?
“Maybe we could meet up with him for dinner!” Jones went on, clearly excited. “I’m starving, actually. I heard there’s a good Mexican place one town over. We could give Von a call, tell him to meet us there?”
Now Harper’s face changed. For just a second, she seemed to pale. But at just that moment, the lights on the boardwalk came on, casting blue light on everything. Had she really turned pale, or was it just the changing light?
16
“You know,” she said, her expression turning back to its usual friendly self, “I’m actually kind of beat. Is that awful, to be this antisocial? But I would like to keep hanging out with you guys—and maybe get something to eat.” She slipped the card into her pocket. “I can send Von a note tomorrow. Maybe we could meet up before I leave.”
Jones nodded. “Sure, no problem! We could all get Mexican, just the four of us?”
“I have an even better idea.” Harper’s eyes sparkled in the bluish light. “I rented a place for the night—just a UrMotel apartment a couple towns over. It’s actually pretty great, it’s on the beach, and it has a TV and stuff.” She smiled. “What if we just go there and order a pizza? We can relax, hang out, and chill for a while.”
“That sounds great,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. But honestly, she had me at “pizza.” My stomach let out an enthusiastic growl.
Jones chuckled. “Well, Joe is in,” she said, smiling at Frank. “What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “We’ll need to get on the road in a couple hours, but it sounds like the perfect end to a perfect day.”
And surprisingly, I totally agreed with my brother.

17
2 PARTY POOPER
FRANK
I WAS ALREADY IN A PRETTY great mood when we pulled up to the apartment complex where Harper was staying. I mean, how many days like this does a guy get? Hanging out, meeting super-fun comics people, getting to look at and learn about something you love—all with the coolest girl you’ve ever met! Oh, and Joe.
Joe seemed to be having a lot better time than I’d expected. “This is the place? It looks awesome,” he said as I parked and we all climbed out of the car. He wasn’t wrong. The complex was high-end-looking, with bright white walls and an outdoor system of stairs and walkways with railings. Behind the complex, sand stretched out toward darkness in the distance, and we could hear waves lapping the shore.
Pretty swanky digs for someone not much older than us.
18
Harper was pulling her little blue sports car into a space across from us. After a few seconds, she emerged, smiling.
“This place really is right on the beach!” Joe said. “I mean, I know you said that, but there’s right on the beach and there’s right on the beach, you know?”
Harper laughed. “I know,” she said. “The apartment is pretty nice too. I checked in this morning.”
“You were able to check in this morning?” Jones asked, looking puzzled. “Don’t most hotels make you wait till the afternoon?”
“This isn’t a hotel, it’s a UrMotel,” Harper explained. She began leading us toward the complex lobby. “It’s a website that helps connect people who want to rent out their places with people who want to rent them. I like to use it because it ends up being cheaper than a real hotel—plus, it’s a little homier. Like here, I have a whole apartment—not just a bed and a desk, you know?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them,” he said. “But does that mean you’re staying with someone?”
Harper shook her head. “Not in this case. Every host handles things a little differently, but this host sent me the security codes for the front door and the apartment door, so I haven’t even met her. I have her number if I need anything, though. She lives nearby. She owns a few of these units, and she rents them out.”
We’d reached the front gate. Harper pulled out her phone and clicked around for a bit, then read the code and 
19
punched it into the security pad. With a click, the front gate opened. We all walked in and entered a bright white lobby decorated with color-saturated photos of the beach. There was a sand-colored leather couch and two chairs in a corner, and mailboxes lined one wall. It all looked pretty nice.
We followed Harper through the lobby and out the back door. It led to a small patio facing the beach, with stairs leading up to walkways on different levels. Harper swung a left and headed up the stairs. “Don’t worry,” she called behind her, “I’m only on the second floor.”
As we climbed, a family of four—mom, dad, a boy of about five, and a toddler girl—came down the stairs. The mom nodded at Harper and smiled. “Did you have fun at Comic-Con?”
Harper smiled back. “Sure did,” she said. “Even found some friends there!”
“That’s great,” the mom said, trailing her family down to the patio. “Have a good night!”
After we’d all reached the second-floor walkway, Harper turned to face us. “They’re UrMotel guests too,” she said. “Same host. I met them this morning.”
“This seems like a really cool place,” Jones said. “I just hope it has good pizza.”
Harper laughed. “Well, there are a bunch of take-out menus in the room. We can see which one sounds the best.”
She led us down the walkway, past a few locked doors, to apartment 2F.
Many of the apartment doors had tiny keypads, just 
20
like the front door. I guessed these were the ones that were rented out to tourists, through UrMotel or other sites. Harper clicked around on her phone again, then tapped the code onto the pad. With a softer click, the door unlocked and swung open.
“Here we are,” said Harper, walking in and switching on the light. She turned to us and swept her arm across the room. “Home sweet home!”
Inside, the apartment was also painted bright white. It was clean and modern, with brightly colored furnishings. A huge flat-screen TV was mounted to the right wall, and a squishy-looking red couch faced it, holding an array of cozy-looking pillows and a fluffy blanket. A small galley kitchen led off the back wall.
Two doors stood to the left of the television. “Oh, you guys can look around,” Harper offered. “I don’t mind at all. I’m still learning my way around the place.” She opened both doors and turned on the lights. The room on the left was a modern bathroom, filled with clean, folded towels; on the right was a small but tidy bedroom. It had a full-size bed covered with an orange duvet.
“This is really sweet,” Jones said, poking her head into each room. “Is it rude of me to ask—was it expensive?”
“Not at all.” Harper shook her head. “It’s not really beach season yet, so I got this place for about what I would have paid for a decent motel in the suburbs,” she explained. “But it’s so much comfier.”
21
“Agreed,” said Joe with a nod. “This place is really great. But, guys, can we talk about what’s really important?”
Harper and Jones both looked surprised. “What’s that?” Jones asked.
Joe pointed to a file folder on the kitchen counter, bursting with take-out menus. “Which of those places can get me a pizza the fastest? I’m starving!”
• • •
An hour and a half later, satiated, we were all lying around on the couch and on some pillows Jones and Harper had moved to the floor. An empty pizza box was on the coffee table in front of us, and we’d moved on to a pretty intense conversation.
“Seriously, though,” Jones was saying, gesturing with a pointed finger, “Batman has no superpowers. He wasn’t, like, bitten by a radioactive spider, or born on another planet. And yet he’s still out there, kicking butts, doing his best to keep Gotham safe.”
“But Gotham is still kind of crummy, right?” Joe asked. “I mean ... I would never choose to vacation there. Like, from what I see in the movies.”
Jones rolled her eyes. “He’s doing his best, okay, dude? It’s not like he’s getting a lot of help from those corrupt cops.”
“I just like Superman better,” Joe said with a shrug.
“Oh my God,” moaned Jones, burying her face in the huge pillow she was leaning on.
22
“Do you even like comics?” Harper asked him with a giggle. “No offense, you just seem a little ... new.”
Joe turned to face her, his expression the picture of sincerity. “I like comics very much,” he said.
I tried to stifle my laugh. “Joe saw Black Panther twice,” I said, trying to be a supportive brother. Because he liked the rhino wearing armor, I added silently.
But Joe was busy digging his own hole. “I think comics are very,” he was saying, “very . . . colorful.”
Jones let out a loud bark of a laugh, and Harper dissolved into giggles.
“What?” asked Joe.
“They’re also rectangular,” I said drily. “And have lots of lines and bubbles.”
Jones and Harper laughed harder, and even Joe looked a little sheepish and shook his head, chuckling.
“Maybe I am kind of a newbie,” he admitted.
“It’s cool, Joe,” Harper said, getting up to walk to the counter and grab another soda. “You had fun today, right? So maybe you’re a—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three loud bangs on the door cut Harper off, and we all looked toward it in surprise.
“What on earth . . . ?” Harper muttered.
“Do you know anyone here?” Jones asked, standing up and looking a little concerned. “Like, besides us and ComiczVon?”
23
“Or the family we met on the way up,” I added.
But Harper was shaking her head, walking slowly toward the door. “No one in that family would bang on my door that hard.”
“Open up!” a man’s voice yelled from the walkway. “I know you’re in there! I’ve been listening to your partying all night!”
“Partying?” Joe asked, frowning and standing up.
I was confused too. We’d been goofing around and eating pizza. We were having fun, but it was hardly a party.
Looking irritated, Harper went to the door and swung it open. “Listen,” she said, “I think—”
But the man who was standing there, a tall guy with a shaved head and one thick eyebrow that was furrowed in anger, wasn’t listening. “You kids need to keep it down! ” he yelled (sort of ironic, when you think about it), waving his pointer finger around at the four of us. “I’m staying in the apartment next door, and I’ve been listening to your shouting and laughing all night. I’m here on vacation, okay? I want a relaxing experience!”
His angry shouting made a weird contrast with the waves crashing against the beach behind him. The air outside was cool, and I shivered.
Harper started to say something, then stopped. I saw her take a breath and slowly let it out. When she spoke, her voice was a lot calmer than I would have been able to manage.
“I’m sorry we bothered you,” she said, “but we’re not 
24
having a party or anything. We were just hanging out eating pizza and talking.”
The guy looked at her, and then his gaze traveled over to Joe, standing in front of the coffee table like he was ready to jump in as soon as Harper needed backup. Then he looked at Jones, still leaning on a pillow, and me, sitting on the couch.
“Sure you are,” he spat, glaring at each of us in turn. “I know what kids are like. I remember being your age. You probably have beer stashed somewhere, and you’re all too wasted to know how loud you’re being.”
Now Harper looked mad. “Actually,” she said, “I don’t drink. Listen, we’ll keep it down, but—”
The guy swung back around to face her. “You’d better,” he said, “because if I get disturbed again, I’m calling the cops.”
Now I stood up. “Dude,” I said, pulling out my phone and glancing at it, “it’s eight p.m. If this town even has a noise ordinance, it’s way too early.”
He glared at me again, and Harper threw up her hands in a placating gesture. “Okay,” she said quickly, “okay. Never mind. We promise to keep it down.”
He turned to her. “You’d better,” he repeated.
“We’ve got it,” Harper insisted. “You won’t have to come over here again.”
The guy nodded, a little cockily, like he’d really shown us. Then he turned away, and Harper shut the door behind 
25
him. We could hear him walking down to the next apartment, and then the beeping of the keypad and the click of the door opening.
Jones, Harper, Joe, and I all stared at one another in surprise.
“Wow,” Jones said finally. “What the . . .”
Harper gestured to her to keep it down. “That was crazy,” she said quietly, “but throwing a party would go against my UrMotel agreement with the host. I just don’t want him to complain—or worse, call the cops.”
“But that’s nuts,” I said. “We didn’t do anything wrong. What would happen if he did complain to the host? Would you have to pay more?”
Harper shrugged. “No. At worst, I might have to leave the apartment early. But the real danger is that the host could write a bad review of me as a tenant, and then it might be really hard for me to use the UrMotel service from that point on.”
Joe shook his head. “Ugh. Well, my review of this place just went way down.”
Harper smiled sadly. “The host can’t exactly guarantee your neighbors. I don’t know if she even owns that apartment. He might have rented from some other site, or someone he knows.”
I caught Jones shooting me a significant glance. Should we leave?
I coughed. “Well, listen, we should probably get going 
26
anyway. You were tired when we left the convention hall, so you must be exhausted now. And—”
Harper was holding up her hands. “Oh, no, don’t feel like—”
She was cut off by the chorus of “Uptown Funk,” which suddenly started blaring from her purse.
Looking startled, she grabbed for her purse on the kitchen counter while holding up a single finger to me. “Hold on.” She dug in her purse for a few seconds, the song getting more muffled, then louder, then more muffled again. “I don’t know why I carry such a big purse. I can never find anything. . . .”
The song trailed off.
“Shoot,” Harper hissed. She dug a little more and then pulled out a smartphone in a Wonder Woman case. When she looked at her screen, her face fell.
“Who was it?” Jones asked.
Harper groaned. “Oh, it was Matt—my boyfriend.”
Jones shrugged. “Go ahead and call him back if you need to! We’ll wait.”
Harper bit her lip. “It’s just—my phone is almost dead, and he hates it when I don’t take his calls. He gets so antsy when I leave. I think—my charger is in my car still. I—” She picked up her car keys, but Jones stopped her.
“Wait,” said Jones, standing up and pulling her own phone out of her pocket. “Just call him back on mine. It has plenty of juice.”
27
Harper beamed gratefully, taking the phone and dialing. She held the phone to her ear and strolled toward the bedroom.
“Hey,” she said. “Yeah, I saw ... No! No, I just couldn’t find it in my purse. I’m calling from the landline at the apartment. I’m not doing anything, really, I’m just about to go to sleep. . . .” Jones, Joe, and I all looked at one another a little awkwardly. Jones held her finger to her lips. Why wasn’t Harper telling her boyfriend about us?
She’d strolled into the bedroom now and stood where we couldn’t see her, but we could still hear her voice, suddenly dull and worn out. “Yeah . . . That sucks . . . Well, don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow by dinnertime. Yeah. I’m not sure. It dep—” She fell silent for a minute. “Okay . . . okay. I’ll leave as early as I can and try to be back for lunch. Yeah. Yeah, no, it’s fine. I . . . I love you, too.”
Jones raised an eyebrow, and I frowned. It was strange to hear Harper—such a vibrant, fun, independent person—turning all quiet and apologetic. This Matt guy didn’t sound like a catch at all.
Harper walked to the doorway of the bedroom. Her eyes were downcast, and she looked about a thousand miles away.
“Um,” I said. “I was saying . . . we should get going.”
I kind of expected Harper to argue with me, like she had when I’d suggested that we leave the first time. But now she met my eyes—hers were serious and dark—and nodded.
28
“Yeah. Yeah, we should all probably get some sleep. I have to get an early start tomorrow back to Pennsylvania.”
We hastily packed up our stuff and made our way to the door. I opened it, and we all piled out onto the walkway. I couldn’t help noticing that the windows in the apartment next door were dark now.
Guess we quieted down enough for you to get to sleep. . . .
When I turned back to my friends, Jones had put her hand on Harper’s shoulder.
“It was so awesome to finally meet you in person,” she said.
Harper’s lips lifted in a small smile—a real smile. “It was great to meet you, too. I had fun today.”
“Most perfect day ever!” I added, but somehow all our previous excitement had ebbed. Harper looked at me almost sadly. Were those tears in her eyes?
“Maybe we can hang out again sometime,” Jones said, patting Harper’s shoulder.
“I would really like that,” Harper said, and wiped at the corner of her eye. “Anyway, I’m sorry, guys, I just got so tired all of a sudden. Have a safe drive back!” She waved, then slipped back inside and closed the door.
• • •
It was a quiet drive back to Bayport. Partly because we were all a little confused by Harper’s behavior right before we left, and partly because Joe and Jones immediately passed out, Joe snoring loudly enough to nearly drown out the radio. I didn’t mind, though. We’d had a nearly perfect day. And 
29
even though I hadn’t been sure Joe would enjoy himself, I was glad he’d come.
I’d pulled off the Garden State Parkway and was following the long path of secondary roads to Jones’s house, when suddenly she sat up in the passenger seat, wide awake. “Oh, no!”
She startled me enough that the car swerved a little, but I was able to correct it quickly. “What’s up?” I asked, glancing at her with concern.
She groaned. “My phone,” she said, holding up a smartphone in a Wonder Woman case. “We were in such a hurry to leave, I grabbed Harper’s phone instead of mine. And I think she left mine in the bedroom.”
“Oh, ugh,” I murmured.
Joe suddenly sat straight up in the backseat, like the Ghost of Road Trips Past. “Whasshappening?”
“Jones accidentally took Harper’s phone and left her own,” I explained.
Joe moaned, but I couldn’t tell whether it was in response to what I’d said.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Don’t worry. Grab my phone and send a text to yours to tell Harper we have her phone, and we’ll be back at eight a.m. tomorrow to switch them.”
“She said she was leaving early,” Jones reminded me, but she picked up my phone and began typing.
“If she wants to leave earlier than that, she can text me back,” I pointed out.
30
Then Jones groaned again—louder this time. “Oh, shoot. I have a band rehearsal tomorrow morning.” She looked at me and sighed. “I can’t miss it. We’re starting to work on some new material.”
Jones bit her lip. She always does that when she’s worried.
“Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “Joe and I will go. You’ll have your phone back before the rehearsal ends.”
“Oh, Frank,” she said, a huge smile on her face. “You’re such a prince.”
“And you’re my kick-butt superhero girlfriend,” I said, reaching over to take her hand.
“And I guess I’m just the dumb schlub who gets to wake up at six a.m. to go with you,” said a creaky voice from the backseat. Joe. Right. I’d forgotten about him for a minute. “Also? Barf!”

31
3 SURPRISE!
JOE
THE THINGS I DO FOR my brother.
Here it is, seven thirty a.m. on a Sunday, and am I facedown in my pillow, enjoying my favorite recurring dream of growing giant antennae that allow me to control thoughts and also receive free HBO?
No, I am not.
Am I hunkered over my desk, poring over SAT prep book #428 in search of the best strategy for eliminating wrong multiple-choice answers?
Noooooooooo.
I am in a car. Our car. The car. Frank is driving (least he can do) and we are halfway through the hour-long drive 
32
back to Margate, the town where Harper’s UrMotel is, to intercept her and exchange phones.
“Did she send anything yet?” Frank asked, gesturing to his phone, which lay between us in the cup holder, charging. In the next holder over was Harper’s phone in its matching Wonder Woman case.
I lifted Frank’s phone and looked at the screen. “Still nothing,” I said.
Frank sighed. “Well, I guess we just have to hope we get there before she leaves.”
We were quiet for a minute. Thinking of Harper still left a funny taste in my mouth—like there was something there that I hadn’t quite figured out.
“Did you think she was weird about the comic dealer guy?” I asked.
“Von,” Frank supplied. “ComiczVon.”
“Whoever,” I said. “Just—she ran off to avoid him, right? That’s the most logical explanation. That’s why she didn’t come back and find us, even though we hung out in that aisle for a long time, waiting.”
Frank took a minute to reply. “The thought did occur to me,” he admitted finally.
“And the boyfriend,” I added. “Remember? That’s the excuse she gave when she ran off before Von came up to us—she had to call her boyfriend back. Maybe she saw him and got out of there before he could catch up with her.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “You could be right.”
33
“Seems like a messed-up relationship,” I added, looking at Frank for confirmation. But he was focused on the road. “She was so nervous about calling him back right away. Remember? And then she calls, and she gets all down, and she’s suddenly promising to be back right away and apologizing for things that don’t need apologizing for.”
I paused, hoping Frank would add something. But he was silent, driving, staring out at the highway.
“That’s not a relationship built on trust,” I pointed out.
Frank just nodded again.
“Hey, plug in her phone for a few minutes,” he suggested. “Mine is probably fully charged now. That way, she’ll be able to use it on her way home if she needs to.”
“She said she has a charger,” I reminded him, but I unplugged Frank’s phone and plugged in Harper’s anyway.
Within thirty seconds or so, the phone began beeping—first once, then several times in a row. I picked it up and looked at the screen. “A bunch of texts are coming in.”
“See?” said Frank. “Harper was right—her phone must have been nearly dead. Didn’t even have enough juice to receive a text.”
But I was still staring at the screen—watching text after text pop up. “Um, Frank . . .”
“What?” My brother glanced at me.
“These are all from her boyfriend,” I said. “Matt. And . . . they’re kind of creepy.”
“What do you mean?”
34
I read the texts to Frank, in order. They ranged from HEY, CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU to WHERE R U? to WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE? to CALL ME NOW!!!!
Frank shook his head. “Wow. I get why Harper totally changed after talking to him last night.”
“Yeah.” I stared at the screen. “Dude, maybe we should write back.”
“We don’t have her password, though,” Frank pointed out.
I touched the phone to wake it up. The texts had just appeared on the home screen, but sure enough, when I wanted to go into MESSAGES to reply, it prompted me to enter the password. “Yeah, it’s locked.”
Frank sighed. “How many letters does it need?”
I looked up at him. “We’re breaking into her phone now?”
Frank groaned. “We don’t have a way to get in touch with her! She isn’t responding to the text Jones sent from my phone last night,” he said, a little defensively. “And honestly, this Matt sounds like a creep. I’m worried that if we don’t write back and explain, she could be headed back into a dangerous situation.”
I swallowed. “You don’t think . . .”
As sleuths and human beings, Frank and I were well aware that not all guys were nice to their significant others. But some guys could go pretty far in the other direction from “nice.”
“We don’t know,” Frank said. “But I don’t want to regret anything.”
35
“True. There are nine spaces.”
“Try ‘Wonder Wom,’ like Wonder Woman for short? It is her phone case, after all,” Frank suggested.
I typed it in. “No . . . maybe another comic character?”
Frank started listing some off some that might work. But nothing did.
“Call Jones,” Frank said finally. “She’ll know what to do.”
“But Harper has her phone,” I replied.
“Yeah,” said Frank after a moment, “but there should be a listing in my phone for her parents’ landline. Sometimes I call her there if her phone is dead. She’s supposed to be rehearsing with her band in the garage.”
I called, and got to meet (via phone, anyway) Jones’s charming dad, who was very excited about this article he’d read in the New York Times about traveling to Costa Rica. (Landline plus hard-copy newspaper subscription. Yup, Jones’s parents were parents, all right.) Finally he put Jones on, and I explained what we were up to as quickly as I could.
“How scary are the messages?” Jones asked, her voice tight. “Like ... he’s not threatening to hurt her, is he?”
“No, no,” I said. “But he seems angry, so we wanted to explain.”
Jones let out a breath. “Okay. Well, I hope you can type fast, Joe. Here are some ideas. . . .”
My fingers flew as I tried each of Jones’s comic book character suggestions in turn. We tried two, then five, then ten, then fifteen. . . .
36
“How are there still more characters?” I whined, my fingers shaking.
“Dude,” Jones replied, “the world of comics is rich and varied. That’s like saying, why are there still so many fictional detectives, or why are there so many Shakespeare characters?”
“Wait!” I cried. I’d just finished typing Jones’s last suggestion—Poison Ivy—into the keypad, and amazingly, the screen didn’t bounce back to the INCORRECT PASSWORD, TRY AGAIN screen. Instead ...
It led me to the home screen. The phone was unlocked. “Success!” I yelled.
“Really?” Jones asked. “Huh.”
“What?” I asked, clicking on MESSAGES.
“It’s just interesting,” Jones said. “She sees herself as a Poison Ivy type. That’s cool. I’m not judging.”
I typed out a quick message—HEY MAN HARPER LEFT HER PHONE WITH US BY ACCIDENT SO SHE HASN’T GOTTEN YOUR TEXTS BUT SHE’S FINE WE’RE ON OUR WAY TO RETURN HER PHONE!—and hit send. Immediately, a little DELIVERED showed up under the message. Then, within seconds, READ 7:43 A.M.
Then the little dots showed up that told me Matt was writing back.
Then the message popped up.
WHAT?? WHO THE ARE YOU??
“Uh-oh. He seems angry,” I murmured.
37
“What?” asked Frank.
“What?” asked Jones, who was still on the line.
I read them the message as I typed a reply: I’M JUST JOE HARDY A FRIEND OF HARPER’S NO BIG WHOOP!
Dots. Immediately. And within seconds:
WHAT IS HARPER DOINMG WITH ANOTHETR GUY.
And then, before I could respond,
IF I FIDND YOU THERE YOU WILL BE SORRY.
“Oh, no,” I muttered. Jones and Frank looked concerned, so I filled them in.
“You gave him your full name?” Jones asked, incredulous.
“Yes, I like to be honest,” I told her. “And I figured if he wanted to, he could look me up and see I’m a stand-up guy.”
“Or he could look up your street address and show up with a machete,” Jones pointed out. “Seriously, you’re a detective?”
“I didn’t know it was going to go so badly, okay?!” I huffed, shaking my head.
“Text him back,” Frank said sharply. “Tell him to calm down. You’re just Harper’s friend, and she’ll text him when she has her phone back.”
I did. But now there was no answer. And the DELIVERED message wasn’t turning to READ.
“He’s not checking his phone,” I guessed.
“I hope that doesn’t mean he’s on his way somewhere,” said Jones.
I was about to say something defensive about giving 
38
him my name, when I realized that probably wasn’t what Jones meant.
Matt probably knew where Harper was staying. Which meant he could be on his way there. Or maybe even on his way to intercept her when she got back to Pennsylvania.
“Jones,” I said, having a sudden brainstorm, “do you have a way to check the messages on your phone remotely?”
“Um, I think so,” she said. I could hear her opening a laptop, then typing. “Do you think he might try to contact her on my phone?”
“He would have the number,” Frank said in a low voice. “From when she called him last night.”
“But wait, I think she told him she was calling from a landline,” I reminded them. “Maybe check your voice mail?”
There was silence for a few seconds as we all thought that over, and Jones kept typing on her computer. Then, what seemed like hours later but was probably only a minute or so, she said, “I’m in . . . ohhh.”
“What is it?” Frank asked.
Jones responded by playing the voice mail so we could hear it.
“Seriously,” a ragged male voice said, “what are you trying to do to me? I don’t know where you are. I don’t know why you’re not answering your phone. You’re calling me from strange numbers. What am I supposed to think?” And then a second later, louder, nearly screaming: “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK, HARPER?!”
39
“Oh, man,” Frank whispered.
“Where are you?” Jones asked urgently.
“Only about ten minutes away,” Frank said. “We’re not far now.”
“Good,” Jones replied. “Call me the minute you get there, okay? I’ll tell my dad to grab me. I hope he didn’t talk your ear off about Costa Rica.”
“No,” I said. “It was all kind of interesting.”
“Good. Talk soon.”
Jones hung up, and I looked at Frank. He looked as freaked out as I felt.
“I hope Harper’s okay,” I said quietly, stating the obvious.
Frank nodded. “Me too,” he said. “This is going to be a really long ten minutes.”
• • •
When we pulled into the apartment complex, everything looked normal from the outside. Lots of people looked like they were in the process of leaving, rolling suitcases to their cars and loading them in.
“There’s Harper’s car,” Frank said, his voice thick with relief.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmured, noting the little blue sports car. “She’s still here.”
“Let’s just hope she’s alone,” Frank added, pulling the car into a space.
We hopped out of the car and ran to the gate, where I suddenly remembered: we didn’t know the security code. I 
40
took a quick glance through Harper’s phone but couldn’t find anything obvious in her messages or e-mails. . . .
“Let’s just buzz her,” Frank said. “Hopefully she’ll answer.”
So we did—we buzzed apartment 2F once, then twice, then just over and over and over.
Frank met my seriously freaked-out look. “She’s not answering. This isn’t good,” he said.
“Maybe she’s indisposed,” I said, and Frank looked confused. “Maybe she’s in the shower or trapped under a heavy piece of furniture or something,” I explained.
Frank sighed. “That seems . . . unlikely.”
I glanced past the gate at the complex. Most of the people who’d been loading their cars when we pulled in had left already. “Maybe we just have to explain our situation to the next person to come out,” I suggested. “When they see how worried we are, they’ll let us in. . . .”
“You think?” asked Frank, nodding to a person coming through the lobby.
Oh, man. It was the guy. The same guy who’d been in the apartment next to Harper’s, who’d threatened to call the cops on our “party.”
“Oh, no,” I muttered.
As he got closer, he didn’t exactly look thrilled to see us, either. “You again?” he sneered.
“Listen,” said Frank, putting on his “no-nonsense” tone. “I know we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances, but you have to help us. We’re worried about our friend Harper. 
41
We accidentally switched phones with her, so we came to bring this one back, but meanwhile she’s not answering the buzz or responding to any of our messages. We want to make sure she’s okay. Could you let us in?”
The guy looked from Frank to me, still sneering, but then shook his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll let you in, but just for a minute or so to check on her. And I’m certainly going to mention all of this in my review. I thought these were family-friendly apartments, but people should know about the undesirable tenants. . . .”
By this time, he’d swung the gate open, so we ignored the rest of his rant and bolted by him. In seconds we’d run through the lobby and out to the patio, then up the stairs. We thundered down the walkway and squealed to a stop outside apartment 2F.
The door was ajar.
I was beginning to feel an icy sensation creep up my spine. With the lack of response from her; all her strange, scared behavior the day before; this psycho boyfriend; and now, an open door to her apartment, it was getting harder and harder to believe that Harper was fine.
Frank shoved the door open and we both ran in. The apartment was silent, and there was nothing immediately notable about the living room. Frank ran into the bedroom. “Oh, man,” he groaned.
I followed him in and saw what he meant.
There was stuff strewn everywhere. The mattress had been 
42
pulled off the box spring and lay flopped to the side. Harper’s suitcase was still there—but it was open, and all her belongings and clothing had been thrown around the room.
There was no sign of Harper.
“Hey, Frank,” I said, as I noticed something black peeking out from beneath a T-shirt. It was Jones’s cell phone. I picked it up and handed it to Frank.
He hit the button to illuminate the screen. Then he quickly typed in a code.
“You know Jones’s password?” I asked, feeling a weird mixture of impressed and grossed out.
“Yeah,” he said, barely looking at me. “It’s ‘Samson,’ for Abigail Samson, the woman who directed the Dagger Girl movie. Phew.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“No new voice mails since Jones checked,” he said. “Maybe he’s calmed down?”
That’s when we heard pounding footsteps on the stairs, moving onto the walkway.
“Did we close the door behind us when we walked in?” I hissed.
Frank looked helpless. “I can’t remember.”
Then we heard someone yelling in the living room . . . the same ragged voice we’d heard in the voice mail. “HARPER?!”
Then more heavy footsteps. Then a face peeked into the bedroom—short dark hair; wide red face.
“WHO THE HECK ARE YOU??”

43
4 MAD MATT
FRANK
JEALOUS BOYFRIENDS ARE ALL THE same. It’s a pattern Joe and I have seen before. Deeply insecure, worried that their girlfriend might find someone better ... so they get possessive and say they “have to” keep track of her every minute. It starts with wanting to know her whereabouts at every moment, and it can escalate into wanting to control where she goes and who she spends time with, until the poor girl is practically this guy’s prisoner. It’s not a good scenario. Sometimes, when someone intervenes early on, these guys learn to deal with their insecurity in healthier ways. The worst ones turn into criminals.
That’s why it was important to handle this dude very carefully.
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“Dude, don’t worry, we’re no one,” blurted Joe.
Not what I would have started with . . .
The dude stepped forward. “ ‘No one’ who has Harper’s phone,” he pointed out. “ ‘No one’ who was WITH HER LAST NIGHT!”
“Just in a group!” I said, holding up my hands to look as harmless as possible. “Look, Harper is a friend of my girlfriend’s. The three of us were just eating pizza and talking. But when you called, Harper’s phone was nearly dead, so my girlfriend loaned her hers. Unfortunately, we left right after that and no one remembered to switch the phones back.”
The dude took in a breath through his nose—good sign—and straightened up a little, his eyes darting back and forth from me to Joe.
“Hey, let’s restart here?” Joe said. “I’m the guy who texted you. Joe.” He gestured at me with his elbow. “That’s Frank. And I’m thinking you’re Matt.”
He took in another breath and nodded. “When did you leave?” Matt asked, his voice sounding a little more normal.
“Around nine,” Joe replied. “Harper seemed really tired, and she said she wanted to leave early this morning.”
“Actually—” I jumped in, thinking I’d mention the guy next door who broke up the party with his complaints. But then I thought better of it. Somehow it didn’t seem like a good idea to let this guy think it was such a wild party that the neighbors wanted to call the cops. “Actually, we’ve been trying to reach her,” I said instead. “We were 
45
hoping we’d get here before she left, so we could give her phone back.”
Matt wasn’t looking at either of us now. He was sort of staring into a middle distance, like he could see something there that no one else could. I wondered if it was part of his calming-down ritual. “She didn’t leave,” he said suddenly, looking up at me, and I could swear his voice broke a little. “At least, she didn’t come home. Her car’s still out there.”
I nodded, trying to make my expression sympathetic. “We just got in here and started looking for her when you showed up,” I explained.
He glanced up, looking around the small apartment. “Did you find anything?”
“No,” Joe said. “But . . . the door was open when we got here.” He paused. “And the bedroom is pretty messed up, as you can see.”
Matt looked around at the mattress and thrown-around clothes, seeming to see them for the first time. “Oh God,” he said. “You think . . .”
I watched his face. He really did look worried. “Maybe Harper had some uninvited guests,” I said quietly.
Matt looked around the room—the bed, the suitcase. Then he backed out of the bedroom and walked somewhere else. Joe and I exchanged a glance and followed. When we caught up, he was standing in the doorway to the small apartment bathroom.
“None of her stuff is unpacked,” he said, pointing at the 
46
sink, which held only a toothbrush. “She takes forever to get ready. Has a ton of products, hair, makeup. She usually carries a little bag of stuff, but it looks like she never took it out.” He turned and looked at us. “That means she didn’t get herself ready this morning.”
That’s a bad sign. I glanced at Joe and could see he was thinking the same.
“The shower’s not wet,” I said, suddenly realizing. “So unless she left really early, she didn’t shower, either.”
“This is not good,” Matt muttered.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Joe. “Maybe she got up and wanted to leave right away. But there was something wrong with her car, so she left to . . . take the train? Or a bus?”
“And left her stuff?” Matt pointed out. I’d been thinking the same thing but hadn’t wanted to say anything, for fear of upsetting him. “And trashed her own room?” The tension was rising in his voice.
Joe sighed. “Is there any reason she wouldn’t come home?” he asked. “Maybe . . .”
Matt shook his head strongly. “No. No, she always comes home.” He paused, moaned, and put his face into his hands. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Harper. Just let her be okay. . . .”
I looked at Joe. His face said: Sorry? I gave a tiny nod.
“Um, what are you sorry about?” I asked.
Matt rubbed his face with his hands and, after a few seconds, looked up at me. His eyes were red. “We had a stupid 
47
fight,” he said. “Right before she left for the convention. It’s had me on edge all day yesterday and today.”
I felt a sudden ray of hope. “A fight?” I asked. “Well, is there any way Harper could have been mad enough to not come home?” I had a sudden vision of her walking on the beach, coffee in hand, trying to figure the whole thing out. That still left the question of what happened to the bedroom, but maybe she’d been mad enough to trash it herself?
Matt began shaking his head almost immediately, though, dashing my hope. “No. Harper always comes home, like I said. She gets mad, she goes somewhere to think it over, she comes home, I say I’m sorry. We talked on the phone last night, and she was fine. We’ve been talking about getting married. I’m in this for the long haul.” He rubbed his hand over his hair. “It was just a stupid fight, like any couple has.”
I could tell from Joe’s face that he was thinking the same thing I was: “stupid fight like any couple has” didn’t seem to match up with Matt’s crazy texts, and how obsessed he was with Harper coming home right away. Even the phone call he’d mentioned had seemed upsetting to Harper, although I didn’t want to let Matt know we’d been around to witness that call. I realized then that Matt had said, I’m in this for the long haul, not We’re in this. Was it possible that he and Harper were on different pages?
Maybe Harper had felt trapped?
“Why don’t we sit down and talk a little?” Joe suggested, 
48
gesturing at the couch and floor cushions, still spread out where they’d been the night before.
Matt looked at him a little suspiciously, then shrugged and sat down on the couch. “I’m not sure what else to do,” he admitted.
“What was the fight about?” I asked, sitting down on a cushion on the floor.
Matt sighed. “It’s hard to remember,” he said. “We’ve been fighting about a lot of dumb stuff lately. I know I didn’t want her to go to the convention.”
“You didn’t?” Joe asked. “Why?”
Matt scowled. “She’s always taking off for ‘comic book this’ or ‘convention that’—all things that take place hours away from where we live, that I’m not interested in.” He sighed again. “Would it be too much to ask to spend one weekend with my girlfriend? To maybe spend some time with people she’d be willing to introduce me to?”
“You haven’t met any of her comic book friends?” Joe asked.
“Why would I?” Matt asked. “I don’t care about comics. And she’s so secretive about them—she won’t even tell me their names.”
I looked at Joe. Who to believe? Was Harper really trying to conceal friends from Matt, or was he just offended that she had her own interests, like so many jealous boyfriends we’d seen?
“Anyway,” Matt said, “we were getting close to working it out.”
49
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“When we talked about it, Harper was arguing with me less. She seemed to understand that if we’re going to make a life together, we have to focus on each other.”
Did she think that? I wondered. Or did she just stop arguing with you because she knew she was going to run away?
“Is there anyone you can call?” Joe asked suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. “A close friend, a family member? Someone Harper might tell if she . . . had a change of plans?”
“How would she have contacted anyone?” Matt asked, giving Joe a challenging look. “You had her phone, and she left yours here. No calls, right?”
Right. I looked at Joe like, Well?
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly, okay? But there are other ways to communicate with people. Maybe she went for a walk and used a pay phone, or got online somehow. Either way, it’s starting to feel like we need to call the police. And before we do that, maybe we should check in with her family, make sure there’s nothing we don’t know.”
Matt’s eyes widened at the word “police.” And I felt a little jolted too. But I couldn’t argue with Joe’s logic. If something had happened to Harper, they’d need to be involved.
Matt pulled a smartphone out of his pants pocket and pushed the button to turn on the screen. Then he started clicking through menus. “I can call her aunt Patty,” he said. “She’s all the family Harper’s got—she raised her from the 
50
age of eight. Harper’s parents had their issues. They’ve both passed on now.”
He pressed a button to dial.
“Can you put her on speaker?” Joe asked.
Matt looked a little annoyed but nodded, pulled the phone away from his ear, and pushed the speaker button.
“Hello?” an older female voice answered.
“Hey, Patty, this is Matt,” Matt replied. “Listen, have you heard from Harper?”
“Harper? ” Patty asked, sounding as surprised as if Matt had asked whether she’d heard from Big Bird. “No. Why?”
“She hasn’t come home today,” Matt explained. “And actually—well, I came down here to meet her at the place she was staying, and her car and stuff are here, but she’s nowhere to be found.”
There was silence at the other end of the line—just breathing. It lasted a few seconds. “I haven’t heard from her,” Patty said. “But you know how she is, Matt. That girl’s a little wild.”
Matt sighed, and a flash of annoyance moved across his face, like he’d had this conversation before—and didn’t like it.
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t know nothing, though?”
“I don’t,” Patty said. “But I bet she’ll turn up, and she’ll have some crazy story to tell.”
Matt shook his head. “All right. Thanks, Patty. Bye.” And he clicked the hang-up button before Joe or I could say anything.
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“What does she mean, ‘wild’?” I asked.
Matt groaned. “That’s what Patty always says. Harper was a tough kid to raise, I guess—she had a mind of her own, she was always taking off and getting into trouble. But she’s been growing out of that, getting ready to settle down with me.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “We’ve been saving up for a down payment on a house. Something must have . . .”
Matt trailed off as the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then the walkway, grew louder and louder. Someone might be headed for this apartment. He stood up.
“Harper . . . ?” he called.
But when the door banged open, it definitely was not Harper who stood there.
“Who the hell are all of you?!” asked an older woman wearing white capri pants and a T-shirt with a rhinestoned flamingo on it. Carefully styled orange-tinted hair winged out from her head like a crown.
Then she pulled something out of her pocket and pointed it at us.
It was a tiny pistol—only slightly bigger than the palm of her hand. It had a shiny pearled handle. Guess she liked sparkly things.
“Um, hello. I’m Joe. And who are you?” Joe asked.
This was not a great turn of events.
Surprisingly, Matt stood up with a smile on his face, looking happy to see her. “I’m Matt. Do you know where Harper is?” he asked eagerly.
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The woman scowled at him, the lines around her mouth deepening into ravines. If I had to guess, I’d say this woman was a smoker. “I’m Geraldine,” she replied in a raspy voice, jabbing the gun in his direction. “I own this place. And if I’m not mistaken, I have the gun, so I get to ask the questions!”
“Look, we’re just friends of Harper’s,” I said quickly. “You know, your guest, Harper. We came here today to give her phone back, and found her missing.”
Geraldine pursed her lips. “Missing? Really?” She lowered the gun and shoved it back into her pocket. I hoped the thing had the safety on. “Sorry about that. I hate to get off on the wrong foot, but you can’t be too careful these days. World is going to the dogs.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately, Joe did.
“So you own this place.”
Geraldine nodded. Her hair barely moved. “I own five places, actually. Three apartments here in this complex and two in the Sandpiper on the Atlantic City boardwalk. Anyway, crime is up these days. I’ve even heard there’ve been abductions in the area. That’s why I invest in top-of-the-line security. Automated system, video cameras, the whole nine yards. Actually, I just got a complaint from another tenant that two weirdos have been hanging around, asking for access to the building.”
I looked at Joe. That’s us—and the complainy guy. But before we could say anything, Geraldine suddenly turned 
53
to the door she’d walked through and pulled it toward her. “What on earth!”
Matt, Joe, and I all looked at one another. “Is something wrong?” Matt asked.
“You bet something’s wrong,” Geraldine replied, reaching into her pocket (not the one where the gun was) and pulling out an old-fashioned flip-style cell phone. “Someone ripped the dang chain lock off the door. This apartment’s been broken into. I’m calling the police!”
• • •
“And then Geraldine showed up,” Joe said. He sounded a little monotone, but I couldn’t blame him, really—we were telling the same story for the fifth time, sitting in an interrogation room at the Margate police station. The two police detectives who were listening to us now exchanged a glance, and one, Detective McGill, made a note. “She said the chain lock had been ripped off the door, and she called the police.”
McGill kept writing, and the other detective, Gomez, leveled a penetrating glare at us.
“Just to recap,” she said, “you guys had never met Mr. Driscoll before?”
Mr. Driscoll was Matt, we’d found out. And the police seemed super interested in learning all they could about him.
“Never,” I said. “We didn’t even think he’d be there. We were just there to check on Harper.”
“Even though you’d just met her the day before?” Gomez prodded.
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We nodded. “We wanted to give her back her phone, remember,” Joe said. “And when she didn’t answer the buzz, we were worried about her.”
McGill wrote for a few more seconds. Then he stopped, and he and Gomez looked at each other.
“Okay,” McGill said, closing up his notebook. “Thank you, boys. I think that will do it.”
“That’s it?” asked Joe, eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” said Gomez. “You’re free to go.”
“After all that?” Joe pressed. Then he seemed to remember he was kind of challenging a police officer, and added a big white smile.
McGill stood up. “You boys may have an interesting record, but it’s a clean one,” he explained. “And the security footage from the convention center and the apartment building backs up your story. We also spoke to your father by phone, and he told us what time you got home last night and left this morning.”
For many people, the fact that police officers from a strange town had called and spoken to their parents about their possible involvement in a crime would have been the thing that jumped out about McGill’s statements.
Not for me.
“Security cameras!” I repeated, slapping my hand against the table. “That’s right! Geraldine said they were all over the apartments.”
Gomez looked bored. “Yup.”
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“So they must show what happened,” I said, looking eagerly from Gomez to McGill. “Do you know who took Harper? If anyone took Harper?”
Gomez and McGill looked at each other, and I could see the conversation playing out on their faces: We don’t have to tell them anything. (Gomez.) Yeah, but they seem harmless. And they’re worried about their friend. (McGill.)
“Well,” McGill said finally, playing a little drum solo on top of his notebook, “here’s the thing. The footage is kind of useless on that front.”
“What?” asked Joe, brow furrowed.
“Yeah, how?” I added. “Did the camera malfunction?”
“No, it’s actually much more irritating than that,” McGill said, frowning. “There was a plant blocking the view of the camera on the walkway, and the lobby cameras show nothing unusual.”
A plant? I thought, trying to make sense of that. Did someone block the camera on purpose, then? Or was it just a coincidence?
I looked at Joe and could tell he was mulling all this over too. It was a lot to take in.
And we still don’t know where Harper is, or whether she’s safe.
Gomez stood up. “Listen, you boys should go home and get some rest,” she said. “Let us handle this. We’ve got it.”
When we didn’t move, McGill shot us a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re taking your friend’s disappearance very seriously. We’ve had a couple other people 
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disappear from UrMotel rooms recently, so this is part of an even bigger investigation. Rest assured, no rock will go unturned in our search for your friend.”
Joe and I shared a look. This might be part of something bigger? That was not reassuring.
Officer Gomez must have picked up on our concern, because she quickly added, “They’ve all had reasons to want to disappear, though, so we’re not even sure if Harper’s case is related. She could even turn up later today.”
Reasons to disappear. I thought back to what Patty had said—about Harper being ‘wild.’ ” And I remembered Matt’s crazy voice in the messages he’d left for Harper.
Did Harper have reasons to want to disappear?
“What will you do next?” Joe asked. Even as long as we’d been there, he seemed, like me, reluctant to leave.
“First we’ll interview more people,” McGill said. “Try to do some more research into Harper’s life, starting with her phone. Then forensics. Hopefully that will give us a lead.”
I looked at Joe and nodded. None of that was surprising, but it was comforting in a way to know the police at least had a plan. As it was, every sleuthing cell in my body was freaking out at the idea of leaving Margate with a case unsolved. But we had to, right? The police were on it.
After a second, we stood up.
McGill and Gomez stood up too. “I’ll walk you out,” Gomez said, gesturing toward the door.
She led us down a hallway that passed by another 
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interrogation room. Inside, through the window on the door, I could see Matt. He looked flushed and uncomfortable.
Gomez saw me looking. “Oh, don’t bother waiting for your new friend,” she warned. “Mr. Driscoll isn’t going home any time soon!”
“He isn’t?” asked Joe. “Why, is he a suspect?”
Gomez shook her head. “You know I can’t answer that,” she said. I watched her glance back with contempt at the room that held Matt.
I remembered how tense Harper had been last night when she saw he’d called . . . and how completely she’d changed when she hung up with Matt.
Did he do something to Harper?

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5 SAMPLE TEST
JOE
THERE ARE TWO WORDS THAT should never be used to describe studying for the SAT:
“Fun.”
“Easy.”
Especially when you’re me, Joe Hardy, and you’re kind of in the middle of a case that is unsolved and maybe seems impossible. That’s when my brain goes nuts with every possible explanation, motivation, secret method, wild theory ... or it tries to, at least.
The day after we got back from Margate, my brain kept being rudely interrupted from focusing on my practice by SAT questions. I read:
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15. As used in line 18, “claim” most clearly means
A. to declare one’s own
B. an entitlement
C. to maintain
D. a spoiled clam
But what my brain understood was:
15. Shortly after waking up at her UrMotel, Harper heard a disturbance outside. It was
A. the mean neighbor guy, with a baseball bat
B. a totally friendly guy she’d met at Comic-Con, asking her to get breakfast
C. Matt, in some kind of psychotic rage
D. a talking seagull, wanting to discuss politics
There’s always one answer you can eliminate off the bat, they tell me. Rumor has it it’s usually D.
Anyway, I was not getting very far in my studies. I was finding it very hard to concentrate, even though Frank and Jones were in our living room, doing research on the case so I didn’t have to. That’s how Frank described it, anyway.
With a sigh, I closed my laptop and stood up. I’d just tell Frank and Jones this one thing, I promised myself. Then I’d study the whole rest of the day.
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Jones spotted me immediately, and they both looked up from the desktop computer to shoot me frustrated looks.
“What are you doing out here?!” Frank demanded. “You’re supposed to be studying. Get back in there, bro! We’ve got this.”
“It’s just . . .” Faced with all that pushback, my brilliant observation suddenly seemed less important. “I was thinking,” I went on. “Maybe Harper met someone at Comic-Con that we don’t know about. She got there before us, right?”
Jones rolled her eyes, which I thought was somewhat uncalled for. “Way ahead of you, Joe. Don’t worry, we’re looking at all possible angles.”
I have to admit, it didn’t feel great to see someone else doing active sleuthing with Frank. We’d both dated girls before, but before now, no girlfriend had taken over as co-sleuth on any case.
So I ignored her and looked at Frank. “Did the police call?”
He shook his head. “No, Joe. Go back to studying.”
“So there’s no news?” I pulled my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands and crossed my arms, feeling restless.
“No.” Frank sighed. “Seriously, Joe, nothing is happening. Go study!”
I nodded, like I understood, then took a step back toward my room. But I couldn’t do it.
“I can’t concentrate,” I whined, turning back around.
“Joe, I know it’s hard,” Frank said in his calm, measured 
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voice. “But we decided to trust the Margate police to handle this, remember?”
I groaned.
“You have to study, anyway,” Frank reminded me. “The police are on it. And we’re doing some investigating. Just go focus on your practice tests.”
“Think of the Bayport police, though,” I said, thinking through all our old cases. “I mean, they try, but ... What if the Margate police are like that? And if they are, can they really be ‘on it’?”
Frank just sighed again. “Joe . . .”
“You can’t say they are,” I pointed out. “Because you know they might not be. Police are fine and all, but they miss things. And what if Harper is in danger?”
Frank and Jones looked at the computer screen. “Right now,” Frank said, “we have no reason to believe that she is.”
“But ...” I stepped into the living room, peering over their shoulders at the screen. “What was on her phone? Anything helpful?”
But wait, a person might think, I thought they gave Harper’s phone to the police in Margate. And we did. But this wasn’t our first time at the rodeo, so we took certain precautions before handing it over.
Frank and I always travel with a small, powerful flash drive. In our car on the way to the Margate police station, before the cops even knew Harper’s phone existed, I’d copied some of its contents onto the drive while Frank drove. 
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We didn’t have a ton of time (small towns, man), so I’d had to limit it to only messages, calls, and e-mails that had been exchanged over the last week.
Now Frank had the drive plugged into the family desktop, and he and Jones were poring over the contents.
Jones shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “She and Matt had kind of a messed-up relationship, they fought a lot, but we knew that. There aren’t any threats here or mentions of any specific incidents where she felt threatened.”
“I mean, Matt clearly had a temper,” added Frank, “but we kinda knew that from spending half an hour with him.”
I stared at the screen, quickly reading through some day-to-day texts between Harper and Matt. Frank and Jones were right: some messages were testy, but it was nothing that couldn’t be explained by a bad mood.
“Are there texts from anyone you didn’t expect?” I asked. “A new suspect, maybe?”
Jones tapped the corner of the screen. “There’s one mystery texter—a Jersey number, not in Harper’s contacts. They’re all about an appointment that Harper kept putting off.”
I shrugged. “That could just be her doctor, maybe? Or her dentist? Maybe she’s just putting off her yearly cleaning in the hopes of making it look like she’s been flossing all along. We’ve all been there, am I right?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself, Joe. I floss every night.”
“You would,” I muttered, still reading the screen. “But 
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actually, why would her doctor be in Jersey? And it looks like she has a couple doctors identified in her contacts, and this didn’t come from them.”
“It could be anything, though,” Jones said. “Maybe it was a therapist, or a career counselor, or a job interview. The point is, it doesn’t seem like a motive for anyone to hurt her.”
I sighed. “I guess so.”
Frank turned around to look at me. “Go back and study, Joe,” he said. “I told you, we’ve got this.”
Frowning, I obeyed this time and shuffled reluctantly back to my room. I opened up my laptop and tried to focus on my practice test.
16. Harper was secretly mixed up with:
A. the Mafia
B. a drug dealer
C. a cult
D. a very nice dermatologist
I shook my head to clear it, which only made me sneeze violently.
“Ugh,” I muttered, making a mental note to dust my room. I reached into the pocket of my sweatshirt, thinking maybe I’d find a balled-up tissue.
But I didn’t. What I found was better.
“Guys! Guys! ” I ran into the living room, waving what I’d found.
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“Dude,” Frank said, looking up at me with his nose wrinkled. “Get a tissue!”
“Sorry.” I ran into the bathroom, grabbed a tissue, wiped, and tossed it—then ran back out. “But I found something!”
“What’s that?” Jones asked.
I held up the item from my pocket again—a business card. “The guy we met at Comic-Con,” I reminded them. “The guy Harper seemed to be avoiding.” I looked at the card. “ComiczVon. Remember? Does the number 201-555-3549 sound familiar?”
Jones stared at the screen. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s the number that was texting Harper about the meeting!”
I threw my hands in the air. “Change of plans, then!” I yelled. “We have a suspect! We’re driving back to Atlantic City!”
Jones and Frank looked briefly excited—but then they looked at each other and their expressions suddenly turned guilty.
“But, Joe,” said Frank. “You really should study. . . .”
“Look,” I said, putting my arms down and putting on my best I’m serious face. “I know you guys mean well, but the truth is, I’m never going to be able concentrate on some practice test until I know Harper’s safe.”
I could see their expressions softening.
“And, Frank,” I added, “you were there when we talked to the police. I’m afraid they’re going to look for the easiest answer—either Matt did something to Harper, or Harper took off herself.”
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Frank looked thoughtful, but Jones raised a finger.
“But what about Occam’s razor?” she asked. “You know—the theory that the simplest answer is usually the right one.”
“Sometimes it is,” I agreed, “But a lot of times, it’s not. Frank and I know that better than anybody.”
Frank let out a breath through his nose. “Joe’s right,” he said. “A lot of the cases we’ve worked on have been, well, complicated.”
I nodded. “See? Now, are you guys going to sit there and argue with me, or are you going to get in the car and help me solve this case so I can focus on studying?”
Frank looked at Jones beseechingly. Jones shook her head.
“All right,” she said after a few seconds, “I’ll help. But only on one condition.”
“Name it,” I said.
She pointed at my pj pants. “You have to put on some real pants.”
Frank laughed. “I’ll go fill Mom in on what’s going on while you do.”
• • •
A couple of hours later, I was wearing a pair of clean-ish jeans and sitting in Frank’s car, watching a picnic area in a park outside Atlantic City. Jones was in the backseat, her laptop on her lap.
“Tell him we’re here, and the package is under the bench,” Frank instructed from the driver’s seat.
Jones typed out a message on her keyboard. Using 
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information from Harper’s phone, Frank had found an app that would allow us to send texts from Jones’s laptop that would look like they came from Harper’s phone. For the last hour or so, we’d been corresponding with ComiczVon, aka Von, the guy we’d met at the convention. Posing as Harper, Jones had set up a meeting in this park.
Now we were just waiting for him to show up.
It soon became clear from our texts that Von was very concerned about something Harper owed him. We had no idea what it was. Money? Some kind of rare comic book? Something illegal? (Harper had seemed like a girl on the up-and-up to me, but hey, if there’s one thing sleuthing teaches you, it’s that everyone has secrets.) Von never threatened Harper, but he kept talking about getting this thing she owed him, so Jones-as-Harper had finally said she’d bring it today. Von had instructed her to put it under a particular bench. So we’d tied up a little parcel in brown paper. The parcel actually contained one of Aunt Trudy’s famous banana breads, because everyone loves banana bread, and if all went well, we could snack on it while discussing what Von wanted with Harper.
Besides, maybe the thing Harper owed him was banana bread. Unlikely, but you never know.
“Is that him?” Frank asked suddenly.
A smallish guy was chaining up his bike to a bike rack about twenty yards from the bench, in a little copse of trees.
“That’s him,” Jones confirmed. “He’s even wearing the same military jacket.”
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This was true. But despite the tough-guy jacket, Von looked pretty diminutive and nonthreatening in the light of day. As he stepped into the light, his distinctive blue-dyed buzz cut became visible. He was wearing a Simpsons T-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and Converse sneakers that were covered with Day-Glo Batman symbols. Also, he’d ridden his bike here: not exactly a popular getaway vehicle for hardened criminals.
“What is he up to?” I murmured.
He walked from the bike rack over to the bench, looking around as though he expected someone to attack at any moment. When he came close enough to spot the parcel, a look of utter relief came over his face, and he sped up.
As he knelt down and reached out to claim the package, Frank and I leaped into action, bolting out of the car and running over to corner him.
“Hey, Von!” Frank yelled out.
“You two,” he muttered, looking from Frank to me as we walked closer. I guessed he was disappointed to see us instead of Harper. “What are you, her bodyguards or something?”
“Who?” I asked, just wanting to make sure we were all on the same page.
“Harper,” he replied. “Of course. The reason we’re all here.”
Frank raised an eyebrow at him. “Why would she need a bodyguard?” he asked.
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Looking frustrated, Von huffed. “You tell me!” he said. “I’m just trying to get what she owes me. I’m not looking to hurt anyone.”
Frank and I exchanged a glance, and I reached for the parcel and began unwrapping it. “Okay,” I said. “Two questions, then . . . One, what does Harper owe you? And two, do you like banana bread?”
Von liked banana bread very much, it turns out. Like most people.
He relaxed a bit as we chatted and it became clear that Frank, Jones (who emerged from the car after a few minutes), and I just wanted to talk to him. He explained that he’d met Harper on the InkWorld forum, and they spent months flirting online. He thought it was pretty serious, and they soon began making plans to meet in person. But Harper always backed out at the last minute. And before they could meet up, Harper asked Von for a loan, claiming she needed it to pay for some medicine.
“I gave it to her,” Von said, reaching for his second piece of banana bread. “I realize now that was really naive of me. But at the time, I really thought she might have feelings for me. I thought we had a future together. And she said she needed the money for medication! I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“You sent it to her online?” Jones asked.
Von nodded. “Yeah, through an app she told me about. Once I sent it, there was no way to get it back, and no record 
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that I’d even sent it. It was listed on my bank records as a purchase.”
He spent months, he said, waiting for Harper to offer to pay him back, and hopelessly waiting for her to agree to meet in person. But finally he wised up and realized he’d been had. He said he felt silly for being so gullible and didn’t want revenge—he just wanted his money back.
“I was starting to realize she lied about everything,” he explained. “As time went on, she got careless—she’d tell me one thing, then forget, then tell me something totally different. She thanked me for sending the money so she could fix her car, and I was like, what? You said it was for medicine.” He shook his head. “She’d seem to confuse me with other guys and start talking to me about stories they’d shared with her. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got this private message on InkWorld.”
Frank’s eyes widened. “From who?”
“From some guy,” Von said, “named DarkKnight. Or at least, that was his screen name. Anyway, he said he’d been talking to Harper for a long time, and he’d loaned her money too. But one day she messed up and sent him a message she meant to send me.” He laughed bitterly. “He realized she’d played both of us. And probably a ton of other guys.”
Jones looked stunned. “Do you know that for sure?” she asked. “Do you have usernames, or even real names. . . .”
“I have a whole list of usernames I could give you,” Von said. “At last count, it was over ten guys. I don’t know what she 
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needed the money for, but she sure got a lot of it. All of it raised by tricking people through the InkWorld messaging service.”
Von got on his phone and forwarded an e-mail to Jones with a whole list of usernames. Jones looked at Frank and shook her head, and I could tell what she was thinking: That’s a whole list of potential suspects. People with a pretty big grudge against Harper.
We were about done with the banana bread by then, and it was getting dark. We thanked Von for the information, and Jones apologized for misleading him about the money.
“There’s something else you should know,” Frank said to Von. “Harper went missing from her UrMotel room yesterday morning, and we’re trying to find out what happened to her.”
Von’s face fell. “What? That’s terrible. What are the cops saying? What do you think happened her?”
None of us said anything. Then it dawned on him, his eyes became wide and panicked.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. “I couldn’t hurt a fly. I’m a vegetarian, for heaven’s sake! I just wanted to meet her to ask her pay me back.”
I was still a little on edge. Just because someone seems nice doesn’t mean they’re not guilty—a lesson Frank and I had learned the hard way more than once.
I put on my best I mean business face.
“Look,” I said, “you seem like a nice guy, but sometimes horrible guys are able to seem like nice guys, understand?”
Von nodded.
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“Did you do anything to Harper?” I growled. “You said you just wanted the money back, but maybe you felt the need to scare her. Maybe you got mad at her, and it just got out of hand. Maybe you didn’t intend to hurt her.”
“No way. Really.” Von protested. “I understand that it looks like Harper was a victim of somebody but it wasn’t me. I’m a victim too. I’ll do anything I can to help you find her, though. She did some weird things, but she deserves to be safe.”
I glanced at Frank. He nodded almost imperceptibly: He seems legit.
“Okay, Von,” I said. “Sorry. I just needed . . .”
Von shook his head. “No, I get it,” he said. “I had a motive. And you need the truth.”
We said good-bye to Von as he headed back to his bike, unlocked it, and pedaled off into the darkening night.
“I don’t think he did it,” Frank said, “but he sure opened up a whole side of Harper that I didn’t know existed.”
“Me either.” Jones looked thoughtful as she watched Von disappear. “But there’s a way for us to learn more.”
She ran back to the car and opened the back door.
“What are you doing?” Frank called as we followed her to the car.
Jones was already in the backseat, opening up her laptop. The overhead light illuminated her face as she stared into the screen and began typing.
“I think,” she said, “it’s time to hack into Harper’s InkWorld account.”

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6 A FEW QUESTIONS
FRANK
YOU THINK YOU KNOW SOMEONE . . .” Jones let her voice trail off as she shook her head and stared out the window of the Supreme Diner of Vernon, New Jersey. We’d stopped to get some pancakes, plus take advantage of their free Wi-Fi and check out Harper’s InkWorld account.
It hadn’t been hard to guess her password. Like her phone’s password, it started with “Poison Ivy”—but here, she’d added her birthday, which Jones already knew: 0423. We’d been reading through her private messages for about half an hour. It was wild—she was like another person online. She’d been lying to at least thirteen different guys from around the country—Von just happened to be the one 
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who lived closest. And she’d collected thousands of dollars from them.
“What could she have needed the money for?” I asked out loud, poking at the crumby remains of my pancakes. “Her car was a few years old. Her clothes didn’t seem particularly fancy. She was living with Matt in an inexpensive part of the country.”
Joe was building some kind of leaning tower with the remains of his silver dollars. “It seems like she was saving it for something,” he said. “Maybe the house Matt mentioned? He said they were saving up for a down payment.”
I dropped my fork. “You think Matt knew?” I asked.
“I guess it’s possible,” Jones said. “Like, she was doing it with his blessing?”
“Or maybe at his urging,” I amended. “He seems . . . angry. Maybe he thought these guys had it coming?”
“But he seemed jealous, too,” Jones pointed out. “Would a jealous guy encourage his girlfriend to flirt with strangers?”
“Just online,” Joe said. “She never had to meet them in person . . . he never had to picture her with them. It was all on-screen.”
I leaned back in the booth, stretching my arms above my head, which is how I do my best thinking.
“Maybe he did know, or he encouraged it, and then she and Matt had a big fight,” Jones suggested. Joe and I leaned in closer, taken in by the theory. It definitely seemed plausible. “Maybe she took the money. Maybe she had it on her at the 
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UrMotel. Maybe she mentioned it to someone, and . . .”
We were startled by a sudden shrill tone. Something was vibrating in my pocket. My phone! I’d almost forgotten I had it on me.
I grabbed it and answered. “Hello?”
“Frank?”
It was my mom. “Hey, Mom. Sorry we haven’t called. . . . We’re heading home in, like, ten minutes or so—”
But she seemed impatient. “No, Frank, it’s not about . . . Well, actually I’m calling because some police officers just showed up at the house.”
“Police officers?” I repeated. Joe and Jones both shot me questioning looks. “From Bayport? Because—”
“No,” Mom said. “That’s the strange thing. They were from a town near Atlantic City—Margate. And they said you and Joe are wanted for questioning.”
“Wanted for questioning?” I repeated. Joe’s brow crinkled, and Jones shook her head as if to say, What?
“That’s right,” Mom said. “I just . . . Is this about that girl who . . . ?”
“Yes,” I said, “it probably is. But we spoke to them yesterday. I’m not sure why they’d need us back.”
Mom cleared her throat. “It does seem strange,” she said.
“Well, there’s one easy way to find out,” I said, looking at Joe. “We’re not far from Margate now. And as it happens, we have some new information to share with the police.”
Joe nodded eagerly, but on the other side of the line, Mom 
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sounded distinctly less enthused. “Frank, your father is getting in the car now,” she said. “Why don’t you wait, and he can meet you there? He can—you know—smooth over . . .”
Dad is a former police detective. It was true, he’d certainly “smoothed over” some misunderstandings with the police for us before. But this time, we already knew the detectives we’d be speaking with. And it seemed pretty clear we were all on the same side.
“No, don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “Tell Dad to stay put and not miss dinner. We’ll be fine. We’ve spoken to these guys before. I’ll call if we need anything, okay? And I’ll text when we’re leaving Margate. Bye!”
“But Fr—”
I hung up before my mom could protest.
I wanted to hear what the Margate police were thinking—and tell them what we’d learned—as soon as possible.
• • •
Even though we’d been there just the day before, the receptionist at the Margate police station was not exactly welcoming.
“The Hardy boys?” she repeated, squinting at Joe and me like we might be trying to pull a fast one on her. “And you’ve just walked in to see Detectives Gomez and McGill?”
“That’s right,” Joe said, smiling what I call his Very Good Boy Smile. It’s this obsequious expression he uses to win over adults—which works, like, way too often. “We were here yesterday, remember? Can you tell them we’re here?”
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The receptionist, to her credit, did not respond to Joe’s Very Good Boy Smile at all. “And who is this?” she asked, frowning at Jones, who stood behind us.
“I’m nobody,” said Jones. “I mean, I’m Jones, but I don’t have to talk to the detectives. I can wait out here.”
The receptionist squinted even harder at Joe, then at me. “I can’t tell them you’re here,” she said, “because they’re not in the station currently. But have a seat. They’re on their way back.”
We nodded and settled onto a couple of hard plastic chairs. We began leafing through the years-old magazine selection and playing with our phones. But we’d still run out of ways to entertain ourselves by the time Detectives Gomez and McGill walked through the door forty minutes later.
“Speak of the devil,” Gomez said, taking us in. There was not a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes were not warm.
Even McGill, who’d been the nicer one the day before, looked mildly disgusted by us. “Let’s get these boys into an interrogation room right away,” he said.
The three of us had briefly discussed asking the detectives whether Jones could join us, but both of them looked so grim, none of us wanted to bring it up. Jones shook her head and waved us on, indicating that she’d wait in the lobby.
We were led into the interrogation room where Matt had been held before. I wondered suddenly where Matt was. Had he been let go?
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“Take a seat,” said McGill, indicating two uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs facing a square card table. He sat down on a slightly comfier-looking chair facing us.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” Gomez said, softening her glare a tiny bit. “I’m going to turn on the video camera. We’ll be filming this.”
Filming this? I looked at Joe with alarm. We’d been in enough interrogation rooms in enough police stations to know that filming this is not something you want the detectives to be doing.
“Are we . . . ?” Joe began, looking from me to the detectives with a confused expression.
“Just sit,” McGill instructed, pointing at the chair.
We were already sitting, but I was beginning to regret walking in here so readily.
“Ummm . . . ,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.
Gomez returned, holding a manila folder, a laptop, and a flash drive. She closed the door behind her, then sat down in the chair beside McGill.
“Well,” said McGill.
“Well,” said Gomez.
“Ah,” said Joe, looking at me awkwardly. “Okay. Well. Um. We . . .”
“We wanted to come in,” I said, taking over, “because we . . . well, we have some new information.”
I looked at the detectives, expecting some change in their expression—some warming, maybe even an encouraging 
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smile. But there was no change. They looked as cold as they had since they’d walked in the front door.
“That’s interesting,” McGill said. “We also have some new information, which is why we drove to your home in Bayport and spoke with your mother.”
I glanced at Joe. Ahhh. I’m not sure why I hadn’t put together that the detectives would have gone to Bayport themselves. But why? Wouldn’t it have been easier to farm it out to the Bayport PD? Or just call us? Maybe I should have asked Mom a few more questions before hanging up. . . .
McGill was still looking at us expectantly. “Who’d like to go first?” he asked, but his chilly expression implied that he was not terribly curious about what we were going to say.
“I would,” I said quickly. I think some part of me was hoping that once the detectives knew what we knew, they would remember that we weren’t the enemy. “Joe and I spoke to an online friend of Harper’s today ... and we’ve found what we think are some potential suspects. . . .” As briefly as I could, I explained how we’d found Von’s card, spoken to him, and found out that Harper had been lying to a whole array of InkWorld posters ... for a sum total of thousands of dollars. As I spoke, I became more and more enthusiastic, hoping that the detectives would respond in kind. This is big! I hoped I was saying. We have maybe solved this case for you and maybe you could smile!
But there was no smile. Actually, I thought I caught Detective Gomez scowling, but then she scratched her nose, 
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so maybe she was just itchy. They glanced at each other, but their expressions did not seem to be saying, Wow, these boys are very smart and useful. In fact, it didn’t seem like they were having any sort of positive reaction.
At all.
Which seemed super weird.
When I’d finished the whole story, there was silence. I looked at Joe, whose freaked-out expression seemed to say, This isn’t good.
It was not.
“Well,” said McGill after a few seconds. “What an interesting discovery.”
Gomez let his words hang in the air for a little while before adding, “We also had an interesting discovery today. Would you like to hear about it?”
I’m guessing no? I thought, exchanging a concerned look with my brother. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to voice that thought.
“Let me show you something,” Gomez went on, placing the laptop on the table and waking it up. She plugged the flash drive into a USB port, pulled the whole thing over to her, and clicked around a bit. “Here,” she said, turning the laptop around so we could see it.
It was security camera footage of Harper’s UrMotel, but . . .
“Where is that from?” I asked, trying to place the angle. We already knew the security footage from the building itself was worthless. . . .
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“It’s from the apartment building next door,” McGill said. “It’s zoomed in significantly, which is why it’s a little grainy.”
It was actually super grainy. This also happened at night, making it even harder to see what was going on. But still, the footage clearly showed two figures—about Joe’s and my size, and wearing baggy clothes and ski masks—either leading or dragging a third figure, with a pillowcase over her head, out onto the walkway.
“That’s Harper,” Joe whispered, his voice tight with concern.
“That’s right,” McGill replied.
“Oh God,” Joe murmured.
The figures led Harper down the stairs. Then they crossed the patio, stepped onto the beach, and ran across the sand and out of the frame to the right.
“Did she go willingly?” I asked, trying to figure it all out. “I mean . . . I know her face was covered, but it didn’t look like they were forcing her.”
“Look again,” Gomez replied, pulling the laptop closer to rewind the footage. When she turned the computer back around, she pointed to one of the figures in the ski masks, who kept gesturing to something in his pocket. “He may be threatening her with a gun right there. We can’t be sure, because there’s no audio. But that, combined with the pillowcase on her head, certainly seems to imply she didn’t go willingly.”
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I stared at the laptop. The figures were so blurry, it was hard to read anything—their intention, Harper’s state of mind, where they were headed.
But this was definitely enough to raise concerns.
And from the way the detectives were looking at us, I could tell where they were focusing their concerns.
“Um . . . what do you think you’re seeing here?” I asked.
McGill did scowl then. “You tell me,” he said.
“Uhhh . . . ,” I said, not sure what to say.
He jabbed a finger at one ski-masked figure. “Like, look at his body type,” he suggested. “This would appear to be a tall, young, lanky male—much like yourselves,” he added.
I looked at Joe. Uh-oh.
“You know who he definitely doesn’t look like,” Gomez said, “is Matthew Driscoll.”
“No,” McGill agreed, “Mr. Driscoll is much shorter and stockier.”
“And,” Gomez added, “he has an airtight alibi.”
“He does?” Joe asked, his voice a little squeaky, which was unfortunate.
“Yup,” McGill replied. “He works nights at a warehouse, which happens to have time cards. He was there all night, with coworkers to vouch for him.”
I caught Joe’s eye again. Not good, not good. Were we seriously suspects here? I replayed the last few hours. The detectives coming to our house, us charging into the station like we were all old buddies. Suddenly I felt very foolish.
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Then McGill leaned across the table and looked into my eyes, then Joe’s. “Let me level with you,” he said, his voice suddenly low and deadly serious. “We know you boys were in the apartment that night. You had plenty of time to case the joint—make note of how to break in, even how to obscure the security cameras.”
Obscure the security cameras. Of course. They were operational—they were just blocked by a plant. That’s something the culprit could have done—or made sure was done.
Gomez cleared her throat. “That would also explain why you had Harper’s phone,” she told us.
Gulp. All at once, I realized how suspicious that looked. We had a good reason—but what’s the likelihood that someone would willingly give you her phone?
McGill pointed to the frozen time stamp in the corner. “So tell me, where were you boys at twelve fourteen a.m. the night Harper Anderson disappeared?”
“Officer McGill, we were home at that time,” I said, “I swear.”
McGill shook his head. “You know, I’m having a hard time believing that.”
“And why would we hurt her?” Joe asked, leveling his gaze at McGill. He seemed to have his squeaky voice issue under control now and had morphed into what I call Cool Joe Under Fire, i.e., the guy who had saved our bacon in tense situations before.
“You tell us,” McGill replied, meeting Joe’s gaze without 
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flinching. When neither one of us spoke, he continued, “Only you boys know the truth, but we have theories. Maybe one of you had a crush on Harper, but she didn’t feel the same way. So things got out of hand. You came back to confront her, and things got violent. Something happened, and you removed Harper from the scene.”
“That something is the part only you boys know,” Gomez added.
McGill nodded. “Then you returned to the scene of the crime in the morning to report it—throwing suspicion off yourselves.” He looked from Joe to me, smiled coldly, and sat back in his seat, splaying his hands. “The perfect crime.”
“Or so you thought,” Gomez commented.
I looked at Joe like, What now?
“But we have alibis,” Joe said smoothly, his cool expression giving away none of the panic I knew we were both feeling. “We did go home that night. We can prove it!”
“Can you, though?” asked McGill, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair. “Your alibis come from your parents and Frank’s girlfriend—people invested in keeping you out of jail.”
I felt my jaw drop. “You’re saying our parents lied to you about where we were?” But that’s our whole alibi.
“We’re saying your alibi looks a lot flimsier in light of this new evidence,” Gomez replied.
Joe glanced at me, and I could see in that moment that 
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he was beginning to panic. But he didn’t show that to the police. “You can’t seriously think that,” he said, looking first at Gomez, then McGill. “Our father—”
“Look,” Gomez said sharply, suddenly rising to her feet, knocking our file off the desk. Papers scattered everywhere, but her glare didn’t waver from us. “Your fingerprints—both of you—were found in the apartment. We have a neighbor who reported that you were in the apartment with Harper late the night before she disappeared.”
Complainy Guy. “But that guy—” I began.
“I don’t want to hear it!” Gomez shouted. “A girl is missing! Her aunt and her boyfriend are scared sick! I don’t want to dither around with you boys any longer. I want you to tell me what happened to her, right now!”
“We don’t know!” Joe cried, and now I could hear the panic in his voice.
“I think you do!” Gomez yelled.
Joe looked at me, and the desperation in his eyes matched what I was feeling. What do we do? We had nothing to tell them. But it was clear they weren’t going to believe that.
“Listen,” I said, “we’re just as worried about Harper as you are. I know this looks bad, but we’re telling the truth. If you just look at the list of guys we brought—”
“Why should we believe you?” McGill asked with a sneer. “You’re the most likely suspects, and you reported the crime to the police, which makes me think you think you understand law enforcement. Why wouldn’t you lie—”
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As my heart rate was climbing, there was a sudden knock on the door. McGill stopped mid-rant and turned toward it.
“I’ll get it,” Gomez said. She walked over to the door and opened it. I couldn’t see who was on the other side, but Gomez leaned her head out, talking in hushed tones with what sounded like another woman.
“As I was saying,” McGill went on, “we know you think you know how to play us. But what I want you to understand is, we’re on—”
“Ahem.” Gomez closed the door and looked at McGill. “We need to stop.”
McGill looked up at her, clearly disappointed. “What do you mean?”
Gomez looked from me to Joe. “The boys’ father is here,” she said curtly.

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7 TRUTH AND LIES
JOE
I LOVE MY FATHER, BUT I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see him in my entire life as I was when he walked into Gomez’s office at the Margate police station.
“Detectives,” he said, nodding at McGill and Gomez. “Boys.”
They’d taken us out of the little interrogation room, and now we were crammed into Detective Gomez’s not-large-or-luxurious office. I noticed photos of her with two smiling kids, around preschool age, on her desk. There was also a little statue of Snoopy dressed as a police officer.
These things made me like her more, I’ll admit.
McGill cleared his throat. “I understand you have some information for us,” he said.
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“Better than that,” Dad said, pulling a flash drive out of his shirt pocket. “I have hard evidence. Evidence that I think will make clear what these boys were up to that night.”
Gomez took the drive. “Let me plug this into my laptop,” she said, sitting down at her desk and opening up the slim Mac she’d brought with her from the interrogation room. There were a few weird moments where she fiddled around on her computer, and we all looked at one another awkwardly.
“You made good time,” Frank said to my dad, all faux-casual.
Dad looked at him, stone-faced. “I had good reason,” he said simply.
“Aha,” said Gomez, clicking a key and turning the laptop around to face us all. “Here we go.”
The screen showed a window of footage from a security camera. In black and white, it showed our driveway, our basketball hoop, Aunt Trudy’s rosebushes. A clock in the lower right-hand corner kept track of the time. We watched for about thirty seconds until Frank’s car pulled into the driveway at precisely 11:08 p.m. The car was parked and the lights went out, and then Frank and I climbed out and walked toward the house.
“Huh,” said McGill. He didn’t sound entirely happy.
“Yes,” said Dad.
McGill coughed. “Do you have the raw footage from the camera?” he asked. “We’ll have to look it all over, and just make sure it wasn’t doctored. . . .”
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Dad nodded at the flash drive. “It’s all on there,” he said. “You can watch the entire night, if you like. It will show that the boys didn’t leave the house until the next morning at precisely 7:12 a.m. Which means . . .”
Gomez looked at McGill. “Frank and Joe were telling the truth. They went home that night.”
McGill did not look happy about this. He didn’t meet Gomez’s eye, and instead seemed to stare into some middle distance, his expression souring. “They could have . . . ,” he began.
“Snuck out the back door?” Dad supplied. “And gotten there how—taken a bus? A train? From Bayport to Margate, in the middle of the night?” He shook his head. “Unless you know of a different New Jersey Transit system that runs twenty-four hours a day, I think they were out of luck.”
McGill looked even more annoyed. “Another car?” he suggested.
Dad shrugged. “I guess,” he allowed. “They could have snuck out a back door into a waiting vehicle elsewhere on the block and gotten a ride. Considering that my sons didn’t know I had this security camera installed, that would show remarkable foresight on their part. And I’m sure the security camera from the apartment complex would show an unidentified car arriving.” He paused, and McGill cringed. “Right?”
McGill shook his head. “What about—Uber?” he asked.
“Sure, Uber,” Dad said. “The ride-sharing service. If you 
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subpoena their records, I’m sure they would show whether anyone was picked up around our neighborhood in Bayport and driven to Margate in the wee hours of Saturday night.” He nodded at Gomez, then McGill. “When you have that evidence, we’ll happily hand over the boys. Until then . . .”
McGill groaned.
Gomez stood up, nodding back at my father. “Thank you, Mr. Hardy,” she said, glancing awkwardly at McGill. “I think you’ve made your case. And I’d like to apologize on behalf of the Margate PD for any inconvenience to your boys.” She looked at Frank and me. “I’m sorry, boys. I think it’s clear now that you’ve been pretty up-front with us. You’re free to go.”
Frank and I stood eagerly. “You know,” I said, unable to stop myself from looking at McGill, “one of the guys on the list we brought you might be tall and lanky, like the guys in the video.”
McGill glared at me, but muttered, “We’ll look into it.”
• • •
Frank was allowed to drive a very relieved Jones home, but Dad insisted that I ride with him. And he gave Frank pretty clear instructions to drop off Jones and immediately head home.
“Um,” I said, as Dad pulled onto the highway after approximately ten minutes of sitting in silence. Ten minutes that felt like ten hours. “Thanks, Dad. You really saved us in there.”
Dad glanced at me from the driver’s seat. His mouth was 
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set in a grim line. “Your mother told you boys not to go in there alone,” he said after an excruciating pause.
“I know,” I said. “We just . . . we had some information we thought they would want to pounce on. We got the usernames of at least ten more suspects—members of the InkWorld online forum—that Harper owed money to. I mean, there’s no way they would have found that without us.”
“And I suppose you thought the police were your friends? That they’d never suspect you?”
I stared out the windshield at the passing signs. “Sort of,” I admitted. “Okay, yeah, we did. It just made sense that we should work together! We’re all looking for the same thing.”
Dad grunted. “That’s how it should work, yes, but you have to learn to think like a cop. They need to solve the case quickly, get the culprit off the street. They’re going to look at the most obvious suspects first. Which are you two.”
I didn’t respond, just swallowed hard.
“You were in the apartment that night. You had her phone. You were there when the crime was reported. Really, Joe: Why wouldn’t they suspect you?”
I sighed, feeling silly. “I don’t know.”
Dad shook his head. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Your problem, and your brother’s problem, is that you think you’re invincible. You’ve solved enough cases and come out okay, you think nothing can ever happen to you. Well, it can. It can, son.”
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He glanced over at me, and I met his gaze. He looked more upset than I was expecting.
“I know, Dad.”
“Do you?”
I looked back out the windshield. The world was flying by at seventy miles an hour. I felt incredibly lucky to be in that car, on my way home, and not sitting in a bare cell at the Margate police station.
“I do.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes.
“I didn’t know you had a security camera on the driveway,” I said finally, turning to look at Dad. “I didn’t know you had any cameras on the house.”
The corner of Dad’s mouth turned up. “Yeah. Well. It really comes in handy, with you boys’ odd extracurricular activities.”
I chuckled.
“Weren’t you supposed to be studying for the SAT today?”
Dad’s voice was just casual, no judgment, but it still made me feel bad. “I tried,” I said honestly. “I just couldn’t concentrate. You know what it’s like . . . trying to focus on anything else before a case is solved?”
Dad shook his head, but then smiled. “I do know.” He paused, then added, “Listen. If I can’t convince you to stop thinking about this case, can we at least agree that you and Frank will never charge into a police station for questioning again without a lawyer? Or at least your dear old dad?”
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I nodded. “Yeah, Dad. We can agree to that.”
We both watched the road for a while. All this talk about “the case” had reminded me that even after today’s crazy adventures, Harper was still out there somewhere . . . missing.
Everyone knows that the longer someone is missing, the smaller the chance that he or she will be found alive.
I shuddered, thinking about where Harper might be, who she might be with.
I just hoped she was okay.
• • •
That night Frank, Jones, and I were are all sitting around the living room, trying (and failing) to pay attention to a movie. I’d decided to start fresh with studying in the morning.
The movie was something about aliens. Or maybe cars that turn into aliens. I couldn’t really tell, because every time I managed to pay attention for more than thirty seconds, something would remind me of Harper, and I’d spend the next five minutes imagining some new terrifying scenario of what had happened to her.
“What if she was trying to ditch her phone on purpose?” I said out loud, as something exploded on the television and no one seemed to notice.
“What do you mean?” Jones asked. “I offered her mine. And she didn’t coordinate with me or anything.”
“I know,” I said. “But maybe she . . . planned it?”
“Why?” Jones asked. Her incredulous look made me realize I was grasping at straws.
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“I don’t know,” I admitted, sinking down into the couch.
Frank ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “We all keep thinking about it. I feel like there’s a piece of the puzzle we’re missing,” he said. “Why did Harper collect the money? Was she working with Matt, or trying to escape him?”
“We’ve all seen her messages on InkWorld,” I said. “Von was right, she told a different lie to every guy she asked for money.”
“Right,” said Frank. “So it’s impossible to know whether any of those stories are true.”
Jones lifted up her phone. “You guys ... there is one person who could probably clear up a lot of these questions for us—and I just happen to have his number.”
Frank stared at her. “Do you mean Matt?”
Jones nodded.
I shuffled my feet. “Guys, I don’t know. . . . We’ve already made some risky moves in this investigation.” I caught Frank’s eye, and he looked away. I’d caught him up on the Dad is majorly disappointed in us chat we’d had in the car. We’d both agreed it was time to start being more careful. “Matt could be dangerous. Maybe we should avoid getting too involved with him.”
“But remember,” Frank said, “the police say his alibi is airtight. And Matt seemed sincere when he said he and Harper were working things out.”
“See?” said Jones. “And besides . . .” She paused, and 
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suddenly a look of real worry came over her face. “He may be the only one who can tell us the truth about Harper’s life . . . before it’s too late.”
Too late. I pictured Harper trapped somewhere, desperately pounding on a locked door, waiting for us to save her. Maybe we were really her only hope. Matt was a controlling jerk, and she’d made so many enemies ... who else would try to find her?
But then I remembered something.
“That’s not true,” I said, pointing at Jones. “Matt isn’t the only one who can tell us about Harper’s life.”
She looked nonplussed. “Who, then?”
I turned to Frank. “Remember when we first discovered she was missing?” I asked. “We called someone. Her—”
“Aunt!” Frank’s face lit with recognition. “Matt said her aunt raised her.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And her number would be in Harper’s contacts.”
Jones ran over to the desktop, where we’d stored the information from Harper’s phone. “I’ll look for it.”
Frank was looking a bit more hopeful. “Right, her aunt,” he said. “I’d feel better about calling her than risking contact with Matt.”
Jones was typing away on the computer. “I’ve got it,” she said.
Frank stood up. “All right . . . let’s make the call, then.”
Jones turned back to the desktop to read off the number . . . 
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but then stopped suddenly. She paused, frowning, and then shook her head. “Some conversations are best had in person, don’t you agree?”
I glanced at Frank. “Maybe?” I couldn’t help remembering that Harper lived in Pennsylvania. An even longer drive from Bayport than Atlantic City or Margate.
“Just hear me out,” Jones went on. “Harper’s aunt has no idea who we are, or what our intentions are. I think we have to go there. Let’s call and try to set up a time to meet. I think we have to talk this out.”
Frank looked thoughtful. “Maybe if we’re there, we can learn a little more about her life. Get a feel for it, you know? Maybe learn something no one else would have told us.”
Jones beamed at him. “Exactly.”
Frank looked at me, regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Joe,” he said. “Jones and I can go alone, if you like. I know you still have to study for the—”
“Don’t be silly,” I interrupted him. “When it comes to this case, we’re all in it together.” And there’s no way I’d get anything done, anyway.
Frank nodded. “All right, then. Let’s call this woman. And tomorrow morning, we’ll head for Pennsylvania.”

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8 THE TRUTH HURTS
FRANK
WELL, HELLO.” HARPER’S AUNT PATTY opened her screen door and stepped back to let Joe, Jones, and me inside. She was short and stout, with long, straight gray hair pulled back and clipped to the top of her head, and dark eyes with thick eyelashes. She was wearing a red T-shirt with a quilt design on it and some faded blue jeans. She sounded a little nervous, but I supposed I couldn’t blame her. All she knew was that we were here to talk about Harper, her missing niece. Joe thought it best not to tell her anything more. But I could imagine she’d probably spent a lot of time over the last twelve hours wondering what on earth we’d say, what we might know.
We all walked into the small cape-style cottage, Joe 
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stretching his back. It was his unsubtle way of saying Thanks for sticking me in the backseat again. But what was I supposed to do? Jones had called shotgun.
It had taken four hours to drive to Pottsville, Pennsylvania. We’d left at eight in the morning, so it was now about lunchtime. We were smack-dab in the middle of the state of Pennsylvania, in a pretty remote, small town. I was pretty sure most of Aunt Patty’s neighbors were cows.
Inside, the cottage was cozy and cramped. Boxes of what looked like craft supplies lined the walls. A sewing machine was jammed into the middle of the living room, facing a small TV. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” Patty asked, leading the way down a small hallway. “I made some sandwiches.”
We all followed Patty down the hall to the rear of the cottage. We passed two closed doors off the hallway, which I guessed were bedrooms or bathrooms. The kitchen was sunny and decorated with wallpaper covered with lemons. Patty gestured to a small wooden table that had been set with four places, and a pile of sandwiches on a plate.
We all sat down and dug in gratefully. The sandwiches were egg salad, and I was so starving and tired, they tasted amazing.
“Thank you so much for this,” Jones said with a smile. “It was really kind of you to have us over.”
Patty didn’t smile back. “Well,” she said, “you wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone.”
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True. Jones and I exchanged awkward glances.
“Ms. Haverill . . . ,” I began.
“Patty,” she corrected me.
“Patty,” I said. “Well, Jones got to know Harper online, and then we all met her at Comic-Con right before she disappeared.”
Patty gave a tense nod.
“We’ve been trying to figure out where she might have gone,” Jones added.
Patty narrowed her eyes at Jones. “Are you working with the police? Because I’ve already talked to them.”
“No, we’re just friends of Harper’s,” Joe explained. “Concerned friends. We wondered if you could tell us anything about her life, anything that might help us figure out where she is?”
Patty let out an unimpressed-sounding grunt. “If you all are her friends,” she said, “then you probably know more than me. Even when she lived here, half the time Harper treated me like a landlord.”
Jones took a sip of iced tea and swallowed. “How did you come to be Harper’s guardian?”
Patty sighed. “Well. Sure. Let’s get into it.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I took Harper in when my sister, Harper’s mother, died.”
“That’s sad,” said Jones. “I mean, for you and for Harper. How old was she?”
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“She was eight,” Patty said. “Really sad. But I love Harper like my own daughter. Always have.”
Jones nodded slowly. “And Harper’s father?”
Patty scowled. “Her father was never in the picture. A rolling stone, that one. That’s where Harper gets it.”
Jones glanced at me, then Joe. “Sorry? Where Harper gets what?”
Patty shook her head, staring into her lap, then looked up at us. She looked into my eyes, then Joe’s, then Jones’s. “Look,” she said, “it’s nice of you kids to worry so much about my niece. And it’s terrible that Harper has gone missing, but that girl has always been . . . restless.”
Restless. I thought of the online messages, the money. Did Harper just want to get out of this town?
“What do you mean, restless?” Joe asked.
Patty fixed an unimpressed gaze on him. “I mean restless by restless. You know what it means. She ran with the wrong crowd, got into trouble, dropped out of school. She was always talking about going to the city and going to art school, but that girl couldn’t keep a job long enough to save up any money. She’d get fired, and it was always someone else’s fault. They gave her the wrong schedule. Or her boss didn’t like her. Or someone sabotaged the fryer machine.” She shook her head again. “Ridiculous stuff. I love her, but she’s work.”
I looked at Joe. “Matt told us that they were saving up for a down payment on a house,” I said to Patty.
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Patty frowned at me. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I can see Matt wanting that, but Harper? She’s still too . . .”
“Too?” Jones prompted, and took a bite of her sandwich.
Patty looked at her. “Wild,” she said, jutting out her chin a little. We were all silent for a few seconds—silent enough that we could hear a car drive past. So someone else does live around here, I thought.
Then she scowled. “Listen, like I said, you all are very nice to worry about my niece. But honestly? Whatever the police might believe, I don’t think anyone ‘took’ Harper anywhere.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “What do you think happened to her, then?”
Patty shrugged. “You know what? Harper tried to run away five different times before she was sixteen. I half think she got messed up with some of those same kids she hung with when she was a teenager, and took off with them.”
I put down my sandwich. As good as it was, I’d been too engrossed in this conversation to take a bite for the last few minutes, anyway.
“Um,” said Jones, looking a little flustered by this new theory. “Why? I mean, who were these kids?”
Patty snorted. “Bad kids,” she said, “that’s all you have to know. Always up to something they shouldn’t be.”
“Like what?” Joe asked frankly.
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“Stealing, running away, all of it.” Patty stared at the table for a minute, then looked up at us. “See, I’ve been getting threatening messages. Messages from people trying to find Harper. I think she got messed up with these kids again, and then panicked. Did something. Maybe took something. And now they want it back.”
Joe wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up. “You’ve been getting threatening messages?” he asked. “Did you save any? Could we hear them?”
Patty looked from Joe, to me, to Jones, her expression never changing from “unimpressed.” Still, she shrugged and stood. “I suppose.”
She walked over to the counter, which I now saw held a denim purse. She rooted around in it for a few seconds and then pulled out a smartphone clad in a quilt-patterned case. After tapping on the phone for a few seconds, she walked back to the table and held it out so we could hear.
“Hey.” The voice on the first message was low, raspy, and breathy. “I know you know where Harper is. Tell her I’m not forgetting. And if she won’t make it right, I’m coming after you.”
I looked at Jones and Joe. Is it someone she lied to online?
“Patty Haverill,” the next message began. This guy was growling—clearly trying to disguise his voice. “Harper owes me. She knows it. If I can’t find her . . .” The growl rose into a freaky cackle, the kind of thing you’d expect to hear in a haunted house. Then the message abruptly ended.
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“Th-that’s, um, that’s really,” Jones stammered. “That’s really . . . concerning.”
“Hello,” the next message began. This was a woman, surprisingly, with a slight British accent. “Patty Haverill, I’m calling for your niece, Harper, from Juniper Credit Solutions. As I’ve said on my previous messages, we’re collecting for American Express, with whom Harper opened a credit account with a five-thousand-dollar limit and took a twenty-five-hundred-dollar cash loan on it, which she never paid back. Ms. Haverill, while Harper is no longer a minor, so you’re not legally responsible for Harper’s debts, we are legally authorized to continue calling until—”
Patty tapped the button to hang up. “You get the idea,” she said.
Jones, Joe, and I all looked at one another, nodding. “The thing is,” Joe said, “we also recently learned that Harper owed money to several people. Like, even more people than have left you messages.”
Patty suddenly turned tense. She glared at Joe. “I have nothing to do with that girl’s debts,” she said. “You heard the lady on the phone: I’m not responsible. You can’t threaten me!”
“Wait, wait,” I said, patting the air in a calm down gesture. “Joe didn’t mean ... Harper never stole money from us.”
“We were just trying to figure out what it was for,” Jones added, “especially if people were trying to get it back. . . . It might give us a clue as to where she is!”
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But Patty wasn’t listening. She’d already moved away from us and was backed against the counter, looking panicked. I watched as her hand fumbled behind her toward a large block of knives. “You get out of my house,” she said. “Now I know what kind of people you are. . . .”
“We’re totally normal people!” Joe shouted, clearly getting frustrated. “Look, we’re all on the same side, aren’t we? Don’t we all want to find Harper?”
Patty’s hand found a small paring knife, which she jabbed in front of her. “I just want peace and quiet!” she yelled. “Time to work on my quilts!”
Joe groaned. I could tell he was getting worked up, which was not good. “Isn’t your niece more impor—”
But Joe never got to finish his sentence. Because at that moment, the front door banged open, and a vaguely familiar voice yelled from the living room. “Patty?!”
“In here!” she screamed, pointing the knife at us with every muscle in her body.
We heard a large person come stomping down the short hallway.
And then Matt was standing in the kitchen door—pointing a hunting rifle at the three of us.
“OMIGOD!” yelled Jones, shaking.
But Matt didn’t even seem to notice Jones. He came barging toward me and Joe, leading with the rifle.
“Wait!” I cried. “Matt, we—”
But Matt did not want to talk. This soon became 
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incredibly clear, as he got closer and his finger reached for the trigger.
“OUT OF THE HOUSE!” he screamed. “NOW!!!!!”
We didn’t hesitate. I looked behind me and noticed a back door in the kitchen, leading into the wooded backyard. I ran to it, opened it up, and ran out.
Joe followed me down the few steps to the woods, then Jones.
“We’ll go now,” I said, turning back to the house. “We’ll get in our car and—”
But once again, Matt didn’t seem interested in listening.
Because he was running out the back door after us—with us still in the rifle’s sights.
“If you want to live,” he growled, “I’d start running!”
I stared into the dark, gnarled woods. I looked at Joe and Jones.
We ran.

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9 SURVIVAL
JOE
WHEN A CRAZY GUNMAN IS chasing you, your brother, and your brother’s girlfriend who you’ve recently decided isn’t that bad through the woods in Pennsylvania, you have to think quickly. I decided to try to anger said gunman to get him to split off and follow me, giving Frank and Jones a chance to escape.
I know, I know. I’m very brave. Not to brag or anything.
So I screamed at Matt. “Hey, man! We know you did it! We know your crazy butt kidnapped Harper because that’s how crazy you are!”
It worked. The rifle turned in my direction, and I cut to the right, past a dangerously leaning shed and into a copse of scraggly pine trees.
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Matt followed.
Again, I don’t mean to brag, but I run cross-country. I’m kind of made for it, with the long legs and agility and whatnot. Plus, this is my life, you know? If anyone thinks this was the first time I’d tried to outrun a guy with a rifle who was trying to kill me, well, I’ve got some stories to share.
So I just concentrated on running, and I ran. Through trees and over piles of leaves, I ran. Around thick brush and smack-dab into a pile of what might have been deer poop, I ran.
I could hear Matt panting behind me. He was crazy and he had a rifle, but he had not run cross-country. I could tell.
After about ten minutes I came to a clearing with a huge, squarish boulder in the middle of it. I ran to the boulder and crouched down on the other side. When I heard Matt lumbering toward me, I scooted around to the other side of the boulder, trying to keep him exactly opposite me.
When he got to the side where I should have been, I could hear Matt curse.
“Dude,” I yelled from the other side of the boulder. “You don’t have to kill us, you know. We’ll leave quietly. Don’t we all want the same thing?”
He ran around the boulder, his heavy footsteps crunching in the dried grass. I scooted back to the original side.
“Come on, dude,” he groaned, panting, when he realized I wasn’t there, either. He stopped for a minute, seeming to try to catch his breath, and then spoke again. “What do you mean, we want the same thing?”
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I opened my mouth to answer, but then stopped.
Something interesting had appeared on the edge of my vision, where the clearing turned back into woods. Something bright red.
Jones’s lipstick.
I turned to look. Jones and Frank were there! Jones held up something, but I couldn’t tell what it was—it was mostly hidden by her fist. I shook my head, just a tiny movement. I’m cool. Stay where you are.
“We want Harper brought home safe,” I said to Matt. “Don’t we?”
I heard Matt pant a few more times. Apparently, he hadn’t caught his breath yet. “You know, honestly, I almost don’t care what happens to her at this point,” he said. “I want her to be okay, but ... she left me. And she left a hell of a mess behind her.”
“You know about the money,” I said. “What she owed.”
“I do now. The police kindly filled me in.” Matt gave what sounded like a bitter laugh.
“Was that for the two of you?” I asked. “For the house?”
“No,” Matt replied sharply. “It’s not anything I knew about. She just left me to deal with the fallout.”
“You and Patty,” I said, after a moment.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “That’s why Patty called me here. She thought maybe you were some of the people Harper owed money to, coming to try to shake her down, or whatever. But she wasn’t sure, and she wanted to hear what you had to 
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say. So she asked me to come be her bodyguard, but I was late.” He sighed. “Work.”
Now that Matt seemed calmer, I decided to take a chance. To plead my case. “Man, please believe me when I—”
But I was interrupted by some kind of war cry.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jones come flying from the woods, a small cylinder clutched in front of her, aiming straight for Matt’s side of the boulder. I heard Matt shift, and then heard Jones’s scream increase in volume . . . and then I heard a loud “SHHHHHH!!!” sound.
Then Matt screamed. “WHAT THE . . . ?!”
And there was a clatter as something—and maybe someone—fell to the ground.
I jumped up from my crouch and ran around the boulder. Frank was running from the woods too. I realized he must have run after Jones, but my attention had been too focused on her to notice.
Matt was lying on the ground on the other side of the boulder, his face bright red, eyes closed and swelling quickly. Jones was holding out a small spray can.
“What is that?” I asked.
Jones looked up at me, as casual as if I’d asked what the weather was going to be. “Pepper spray,” she said. “I couldn’t let him kill you, Joe.”

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10 THE LETTER
FRANK
I KNEW JONES WAS A KEEPER, but even I was impressed that she’d risked her life to pepper-spray Matt and save Joe.
I mean, of course she would have done it for me. But Joe.
An hour or so after the heroic rescue, we were all sitting comfortably Patty’s living room again. Matt (who, in a surprising twist, had vouched for us with Patty) was holding a washcloth soaked with milk to his eyes. Milk was the antidote for pepper spray—Jones googled it. And it seemed to be working, sort of.
“I never want to be pepper-sprayed again,” Matt moaned.
“Maybe you should never chase someone with a hunting rifle again,” said Jones unapologetically. “Just some advice.”
“So you really just came here for answers about Harper,” 
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Patty said, looking somewhat disbelievingly at the collection of people in her living room.
“That’s right,” I said. “We’re trying to find her. We really want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Why?” Patty asked, frowning. “You barely know her.”
“It’s what we do,” Joe said, shrugging. “We kind of . . . figure things out.”
Matt sighed, pulling the washcloth away from his face, which was still pretty red. “I’m sorry I chased you,” he said. “I guess I was just kind of amped up after getting this.”
He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I stood up and walked over to him, and he handed it to me.
I sat back down between Joe and Jones on the coach and unfolded it. Joe and Jones drew closer to read it with me. It was a letter, printed out from a computer.
You know what happened. We know everything. The debt will be repaid, one way or another. Pay me now, immediately, or deal with the consequences.
“This doesn’t mean they have Harper, but it could mean they know things are pretty bad. . . . I mean, they know where she lives.”
“Yeah, it sounds like a threat,” Jones filled in.
I turned to Matt. “How did you get this?”
He reached into his other pocket and pulled out an 
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envelope. “It was in my mailbox this morning, in this,” he said, handing the envelope to me. It was blank, with no postmark.
“Hand-delivered,” Joe said.
“Apparently,” Matt agreed.
I looked at Joe and Jones, frowning. “Did you take this to the police?” I asked Matt.
“Uh, no,” he scoffed. “Those guys and me aren’t exactly friends.”
I remembered what Gomez had said after we’d first been interviewed and we’d passed Matt in the other interrogation room: Mr. Driscoll isn’t going home any time soon. It had sure sounded as if they liked him as the main suspect—until he turned out to have an airtight alibi. He probably didn’t want to call attention to himself.
“This letter writer sounds like one of the online victims,” Joe muttered, “but which one could it be?”
Jones shrugged. “Don’t forget,” she said, “we just found out Harper owed money to a credit card company too. Who knows who else she might owe money to? Maybe it’s someone we don’t even know about yet.”
I looked at Matt, who looked miserable, probably for a lot of reasons. “You really don’t know what she wanted the money for?” I asked. “You’re sure it wasn’t a down payment?”
Matt groaned and shook his head. “For the last time,” he said, “I don’t know why she took that money. I didn’t even know about it until after she disappeared. She was so—I 
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don’t know—” He fluttered his hand like a bird desperate to get out of a cage.
“Restless?” Patty supplied.
Matt nodded. “That’s it. Restless.” He sighed. “I loved her, man. I wanted so badly to settle down with her. But she never seemed ready.”
“It sounds like you fought about it,” Jones pointed out, her mouth twisted into a skeptical scowl. “Like you tried to force the issue, control her. Some of the texts you sent while we had her phone were scary.”
Matt blinked, then nodded again. “Yeah,” he said, a little sadly. “I thought I could change her, you know? Like if I was serious enough about it, if I was mean enough, I could make her more ready.”
“That’s really messed up,” I said.
Matt swallowed hard, closing his eyes. “Yeah. I can see that better now. It got ugly once or twice. I never hurt her, but I scared her, and that really is messed up.”
Jones glared at him. “Yeah,” she said pointedly.
Matt opened his eyes. “I know. I do. I’m trying to work on my temper, but maybe that’s not enough.”
“I think you should talk to someone,” Joe suggested, “before you do more than scare somebody.”
“You’re right,” Matt said after a pause. “Anyway, the only thing I can think of is, she liked to talk about moving to a big city, going to art school. Maybe that’s what she collected the money for?”
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I looked at Joe and Jones. Moving to a city? Art school? It seemed like as good a lead as any ... and also our only lead, so there was that.
“Can we take the letter to the Margate police?” I asked Matt. “Or we could give you a ride, if you want to come along.”
Patty snorted. “You would take him in your car with you after he chased you with a rifle?”
“Well,” Jones said, “I’d still have my pepper spray.”
I waved the letter. “We’ve been honest with you all along, Patty. All we want is to figure out what happened to Harper.”
Patty looked from me to Joe to Jones, then shook her head. “You all are some good friends.”
Matt stood up. “You take it,” he said. “I’m eager to know what happens, and that Harper is safe. But I think I should stay here. No matter what’s happened to her . . . I realize now I need to let her go.” He pushed the washcloth back onto his eyes. “And start working on myself.”

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11 CRIMES OF PASSION
JOE
MATT COULD HAVE WRITTEN THE letter, you know.” It occurred to me just as we pulled off the highway in Margate, after swinging by Bayport to drop off Jones in time for her evening shift at the coffee shop. Matt and I had been through a lot together that afternoon—he tried to kill me, we helped him through a nasty pepper spray attack—and that had a tendency to create a bond. But Matt was still the suspect with the most obvious motivation for hurting Harper: jealousy.
We couldn’t lose sight of that.
“It was printed out, no postmark,” I went on. “Matt could have written it to throw suspicion off himself. He said the police had told him Harper owed people money.”
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Frank frowned, staring out the windshield. “But why?” he asked. “The police already cleared him, because he was at work. He didn’t need to do anything to throw their suspicion off him.”
I shrugged. “His alibi doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hired people to abduct Harper. Maybe he knew there was more evidence out there. Maybe—” A horrible thought occurred to me, and I broke off before I finished that sentence.
“What?” Frank prompted.
“Well,” I said carefully, “Harper hasn’t been heard from since she vanished. Maybe, somewhere, there’s a . . .”
Frank swallowed loudly as he seemed to get it. “Let’s not talk about that,” he said. “Let’s . . . take this to the police, and they can at least check it for fingerprints and DNA.”
I nodded, trying to push the horrible thought away and just focus on this lead. “Right. That would give them a hint as to who wrote it.”
• • •
Gomez and McGill weren’t thrilled to see us—especially McGill—but when we showed them that we’d brought new evidence, they seemed to warm up.
“You’re still working this case?” Gomez asked, as we settled into her office. She sounded a teeny bit impressed.
“We care about Harper,” I said. “We just want to find out what happened to her.”
Gomez breathed out through her nostrils, handing the letter over to McGill. He took it, still looking like he’d swallowed 
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a lemon. But as he started to read, his expression softened.
“We’ve been looking into the online victims, actually,” Gomez explained, “but most of them have alibis—and many of them live hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Honestly, we’re running out of potential suspects.”
“What about Matt?” I asked, remembering my realization in the car. “He had an alibi, I know—but couldn’t he have hired someone to take Harper? To abduct her, or . . . whatever?” I didn’t want to think about the specifics of what “whatever” could mean.
Gomez shook her head. “We don’t think—”
But to my surprise, McGill interrupted. “It’s not the worst theory,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Of all the suspects, Matt definitely has the clearest motive.” He paused, looking off into space. But then he let out a disappointed sound. “Although crimes of passion are usually, well, passionate. It would be very unusual for the abductor to hire someone hundreds of miles away.”
“But not impossible,” Gomez added. “We’ll look into it.”
McGill passed the letter back to Gomez. “We’ll also test this for fingerprints and DNA,” he said. “See what we find. If that’s it, boys . . .”
I was suddenly thinking about the last time we were in this office: when Dad had shown the security footage from our house. And McGill had come out with his crazy theory about us taking an Uber, and Dad had said . . .
“One more thing,” I said suddenly. “We know you checked 
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the security footage from the lobby and the walkway near the apartment, but did you ever look at the footage from the UrMotel parking lot? Or anywhere else, like any hallways?”
Gomez looked surprised by my question, but McGill looked annoyed, and maybe a little embarrassed. “We didn’t find any evidence that you boys had gotten into another car or taken an Yber,” he said, adding bitterly. “Another point to the Hardy boys.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, cool, but I’m not worried about that. I’m just wondering if you saw anything else of interest.”
Gomez and McGill exchanged a look. “No,” Gomez said finally. “We did watch the footage, but those cameras showed normal activity—people Geraldine identified as guests. Nothing helpful.”
“Could we see all the footage?” I asked hopefully.
McGill raised his eyebrows but shrugged. Gomez tilted her head. “Okay,” she said. “I mean, I don’t see why not.”
After McGill headed back to his office, and Gomez took off to find the footage, Frank leaned over to me. “What are you up to?” he asked. “We’re already going to be late getting home. What do you think we’re going to find in this haystack?”
“A needle, I’m hoping,” I said. “Specifically, I’m wondering if there’s any chance Matt showed up that night.”
• • •
WE’LL BE HOME LATE TONIGHT, I texted Mom a couple of hours later. Frank and I were still in the police station and had already sifted through hours of security footage.
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Gomez and McGill were right about one thing: it wasn’t super-thrilling stuff. In fact, it mostly showed guests moving around. I’d already recognized Complainy Guy (as Frank called him) walking down to the lobby a few times, but there was nothing you might call “unusual.” We’d already watched ourselves arrive and leave.
“What time is it?” Frank asked, yawning.
“In real life or in the footage?” I asked.
“Both.”
I pulled out my phone and lit it up. “It’s eight thirteen p.m. for real-time Joe and Frank.” Then I put my phone away and gestured to the numbers on the lower right corner of the screen. “In UrMotel time, it’s two forty-five a.m.”
Frank grunted. Things had gotten real quiet in the UrMotel footage. Every so often someone would come downstairs to have a smoke on the patio, or to get a drink or ice from the machine. But otherwise, it was kind of ... boring. It was making my eyelids heavy. The pizza Gomez and McGill had let us order about an hour before lay nearly demolished on a table nearby. I felt a pizza coma coming on. . . . Should have ordered a Mountain Dew too . . .
“Who’s that?” Frank suddenly asked, making me jump a few inches in my seat. After blinking a few times to focus, I realized he was pointing to a someone with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes who was crossing the lobby.
“Look,” Frank whispered as the figure walked across the lobby.
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I looked, and my jaw dropped.
The figure was wearing Chucks. Specifically, Von’s rather unique Batman-symbol Converse sneakers.
I looked at my brother, as he put my thoughts into words.
“Seriously?” Frank wondered out loud. “Him?”

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12 BATMAN RETURNS
FRANK
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ORDERED THAT.”
“Whuuut?” Joe looked up, chastened, but the effect was kind of ruined by the fact that his face was jammed full of Cowboy Burger. A Cowboy Burger—at least at the Supreme Diner—is a cheeseburger with a fried egg on top, covered in baked beans and, yeah, still served on a bun.
It was gross, and nearly impossible to eat. Nobody would order this except Joe. It was even on the last page of the menu, the one no sane person ever gets to.
I shook my head. “We’re on a case,” I hissed at him. The Margate police had agreed that it made sense for us to talk to Von first, since we had spoken to him earlier, and see if we could get at the truth. If Von admitted to anything, they were waiting in a patrol car outside and were prepared 
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to arrest him in the parking lot. “You’re wearing a wire, remember? We’re here to get the guy who took Harper—once and for all! Do you really want to gross out Gomez and McGill with every chew and swallow and burp?”
Joe looked wounded. “I’m hungry,” he said.
“You had three slices of pizza!”
“Five is my norm! I was distracted by the footage!”
I shoved Joe in the shoulder. “Finish that thing.”
Joe shoved what remained of the Cowboy Burger into his mouth and began devouring it.
• • •
Von walked in the front door of the diner and spotted us right away. It was pretty quiet at ten p.m. on a weeknight. He walked over to us eagerly, his eyes bright.
“So what do you think?” he started when he was still a good ten feet away. “Does she still have it? Is there any chance of getting it back? Or did she buy something with it, and I could try to get that. . . .”
We’d texted Von, claiming that we’d been digging into the Harper situation and had a fairly good idea of what she might have done with his money. It was a lie, of course, but an effective one, because here he was.
“Actually,” I said, gesturing to the seat across from us, “you might want to sit down, Von. This is going to be a deep conversation.”
Von looked confused, but he sat. “Deep?” he asked. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, man, was Harper into some weird 
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stuff? Was my money used for something illegal? Am I in trouble?”
Joe burped, which cut the tension considerably. “Excuse me,” he said.
Von shook his head. “It’s cool, man.”
I took the pause in conversation as an opportunity to pull a printout from my pocket. “Von,” I said, unfolding it, “I want you to look at this.”
Von looked at the black-and-white image and his face paled.
“Note the date and time stamp,” Joe said, wiping his face with his napkin.
Von looked up at Joe, clearly trying to look confused, but looking more like a freaked-out squirrel. “Ah . . . where is this place?”
Joe winced. “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know this already . . . but this is at the building where Harper’s UrMotel apartment was located.”
Von looked from the picture to me, back to the picture, and then down at his lap.
“You were there,” I pointed out. “We asked you all about what you knew about Harper. You never said—”
Von sighed and then took a quick breath. “Okay, but I can—I can—”
“You can what?” I prompted. “How about this? You can tell us what really happened that night.”
“Yeah,” Joe added. “No more of this I wouldn’t hurt a fly crap. You clearly know a lot more than you let on.”
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Von looked at Joe, then turned away, looking around the diner. “I don’t, though,” he said in a helpless voice.
I slammed my hand down on the edge of the printout. “Are you serious?” I asked.
Von looked back at me nervously, then said, “Okay, okay, I see how this looks. I get it. That’s why I didn’t tell you guys before that I went to her UrMotel—I knew it would look bad.”
“It does,” Joe said. “It looks very bad.”
“But I was desperate,” said Von.
I glanced at Joe. “Desperate” is a common description of how people were feeling before they committed a crime. “Desperate” does not lead to good outcomes.
Von spread his hands, appealing to us. “Harper stole my whole new car fund!” he said. “Do you know how long it took me to save up that money? Do you know what being a comics dealer pays? Not much! ”
Joe scowled, unimpressed. “How about we stick to what you did that night?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding. “We can get to the whys and hows later.”
Von sat up straighter. “Okay. Okay. So I found you guys at the convention, which you know, but after I talked to you . . . I hid.” His face was flushing. “I followed you. I saw you meet back up with Harper, and I followed you to her UrMotel.”
Joe was listening, rapt, eyebrows raised.
Von paused and took a breath, looking down at the table. “I waited until you guys left with Jones.”
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As much as I’d thought I was prepared for this conversation, my stomach twisted. Joe didn’t look like his Cowboy Burger was resting comfortably either.
“And what . . . you were angrier than you thought?” my brother prompted, looking horrified. “You confronted Harper, and things got out of control?”
Von shook his head emphatically. “No, no,” he insisted. “That’s the thing—I never even saw Harper!”
“You never saw her?” I repeated, confused. “Why, because you had someone abduct her for you? Why were you even there?”
Von sighed and placed his hands on the table. “No, I was going to see Harper,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to hurt her—I just wanted to ask her about the money. Tell her how much it had meant to me, see if she would agree to pay me back.” He paused and looked out the window. “But I never even got past the patio! I went up the stairs that seemed to lead to her room, but I got stopped a few steps up by a guy who demanded to know what I was doing there.”
“A guy?” I asked. “What did he look like?” But I already had an idea, and I could tell from Joe’s face that he did too.
Von looked thoughtful. “Big guy, shaved head,” he said. “Kind of . . . thick eyebrows?”
“How old?” Joe asked.
“I dunno, early thirties, maybe? Definitely an adult, not like, a college kid or whatever.”
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Complainy Guy. The guy who’d threatened to call the cops on us when we were talking in Harper’s room. I could tell that Joe was thinking the same thing. Was Complainy Guy just enough of a busybody that he prowled the halls, acting like an unpaid security guard? And if so—how had someone gotten to Harper? Was Complainy Guy involved? Had he looked the other way, for a price?
“I thought you were desperate,” Joe said. “This was your car fund, remember?”
“Yeah,” said Von, looking like he didn’t understand the question.
I jumped in. “I think what Joe means is, is that all it took to scare you off—a threat from some random guy?”
But Von shook his head. “Oh, no. It was not just a threat. You didn’t let me finish.”
He stopped, and Joe and I stared at him.
“Okay,” I said finally, annoyed. “Go head, tell us the rest.”
Von nodded, satisfied. “The dude had a gun.”
“A gun?” I asked, looking at Joe. “Complainy Guy?”
“It was super tiny,” Von went on. “I wasn’t even sure it was real at first. But then I figured I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I took off fast!”
Joe looked at me and laughed. “Complainy Guy had a gun the whole time. I guess it’s good we didn’t challenge him, then!”
When Von looked confused, Joe explained, “Frank and 
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I ran into this guy too—he kind of broke up our party. We thought he was really annoying, but we had no idea. . . .”
I’d stopped listening to the explanation, though. My mind was whirring with another idea.
Just a tiny thing . . .
Suddenly a pair of fingers snapped in front of my face. I startled and saw Joe trying to get my attention, asking what I wanted to do. Von was staring at me too, looking equal parts confused and hopeful.
“You can go, Von,” I said with certainty.
“Wait, what?” Joe asked, looking from me to Von. “Just like that? You’re totally sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I believe him—he didn’t do anything to Harper. But, dude”—I looked up at Von, who was getting nervously to his feet—“stop giving money to strangers on the Internet.”
He nodded. Then, a few seconds later, he laughed, as if on a delay. “Right! Yeah, I learned my lesson! Don’t worry about me! And thanks, guys—I really do hope you find her.” Without another word, Von turned and scurried away, clearly not wanting to press his luck.
I spread out the printed photo with my hands and stared at it.
Von walked out the front door and it shut behind him, the bell that hung over it dinging merrily. Joe looked from the door to me.
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“That’s it,” he mused sadly, “our last lead. God, Frank, what if we never find her?”
Our phones buzzed before I had a chance to respond. It was from Officer Gomez.
RAN LETTER FOR PRINTS. MATCHES ONE OF THE USERNAMES, BUT HE HAS SOLID ALIBI. DON’T THINK THERE’S ANYTHING THERE. SORRY, GUYS.
Joe groaned. “Okay, now that’s really it. No more leads.”
I stood up, carefully folding the photo and putting it back in my pocket. “We will find her,” I insisted. “In fact . . .
“I think I know where Harper is.”

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13 ANSWERS
JOE
JOE, DEAR, DID YOU WANT another doughnut?”
Harper’s aunt Patty held out a near-empty box from her perch on the end of the bench.
“Uh, no thanks,” I said, adjusting my binoculars.
“How about you, Officer McGill?” Patty asked.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m good with coffee.”
The three of us were packed—along with Frank, Jones, and Officer Gomez—onto a wooden bench on the Atlantic City boardwalk. It was cold, being only a few minutes before ten on a March morning, but at least we had hot coffee and doughnuts that Frank, Jones, and I had picked up on the drive from Bayport.
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“Won’t you give me a hint?” Officer Gomez asked us. “I’ve always been the nice one to you boys, remember.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not so sure about that.”
She frowned. “Well, I am genuinely nicer. Usually.” She gave me an appealing look. “Come on, tell me what we’re doing here.”
Frank cleared his throat from Gomez’s other side. “That will all be clear very soon,” he said.
McGill looked up and down the line of us on the bench. “Obviously we’re all people connected to Harper and her case,” he said impatiently.
“Yup,” said Frank, taking a sip of his coffee.
McGill fiddled with the lid on his own coffee, getting more and more frustrated. “You’re seriously not going to tell us?!”
Frank glanced at me and shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Officer McGill was pretty annoyed Frank wasn’t telling them what he’d figured out. Now he sipped his coffee and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like games. And I don’t have all morning.”
It was definitely risky not to inform the police of our theory, and the officers certainly could have made us tell them our plans. But it seemed we had earned their respect on this case. Or they were worried about what we’d say about our interrogation—it’s not usually a good idea to question minors without a guardian present. Whatever the reason, 
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they were following our lead. Not that they were happy about it.
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait much longer,” I assured them.
We looked around the boardwalk, from the just-opened arcade plus gift shop, to a saltwater taffy shop (a different one from Fiorelli’s, and I made a mental note to check it out later), to a line of cheesy “boardwalk games,” where you could win a huge stuffed animal. Farther down the boardwalk, the casinos were lined up, one after another, and an amusement park, still closed for the season, jutted out into a pier.
There weren’t many boardwalk revelers around at this hour. Just a few joggers and a couple of people with metal detectors, wandering the beach.
Officer Gomez pointed to the white building that rose above the arcade/gift shop. “You guys keep looking up at this place,” he said. “Is that something?”
I followed his eyes up the side of the white-painted building. A few small balconies jutted out from the wall. At the very top, an old-fashioned metal sign proclaimed the building THE SANDPIPER APARTMENTS.
“It most certainly is something,” I replied.
Frank pulled out his phone and checked it, prompting me to look at mine. It was exactly 9:59. He and I nodded at each other.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Frank, “I’d like to direct everyone’s attention to a trash can across the boardwalk.”
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Everyone looked. “Which one?” Officer McGill demanded.
I pointed. “The one in front of the saltwater taffy shop just to the left of the Sandpiper apartment complex.”
Everyone turned to face that garbage can. At the moment, absolutely nothing was happening.
McGill groaned. “Are you seriousl—”
“Shhhhh,” I hissed.
Because right at that moment, a hunched, slight figure was pushing open the front door of the Sandpiper. A baseball cap was pulled low over their head, and a baggy hoodie and sweats covered most of their body. The figure walked outside and slowly moved over to the trash can we were all watching, looked around furtively, and glanced pointedly at a corner of the arcade. Then, carefully, with shaking hands, the figure placed a wrapped plastic parcel in the trash can.
Frank cleared his throat and stood up, putting his coffee down on the bench behind him. “Hey,” he yelled, “Harper! ”
The figure looked up, seeking him out.
I gasped.
Even though her hair was shorter and dyed black, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup, I would have recognized her anywhere. “Harper!”
Frank had explained his theory to Jones and me over and over the night before. Jones had even found some really useful information online to back it all up. But it was still a shock to see Harper alive and well, just with a different look.
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Jones jumped to her feet and ran toward the hooded figure. “Oh my God, Harper!” she cried, her voice tight with worry.
Frank and I quickly followed behind her.
Just then another figure emerged from the Sandpiper. It was Complainy Guy, just as we’d hoped. Eyebrows furrowed, he reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and brandished a tiny gun in Frank’s direction. . . .
But he quickly paled when he saw Detectives Gomez and McGill followed us from the bench. McGill pulled out his badge as he approached.
“Drop it,” Gomez barked.
Complainy Guy dropped his gun onto the boardwalk and put his hands up.
“And if you point out your accomplice before we find her,” Frank told him, “I bet that’ll look good for you.”
Complainy Guy scowled but pointed with one raised hand to the far wall of the Sandpiper, where a small alley led to a ramp off the boardwalk. . . .
“Come out, Geraldine. Trust me, it’s better to cooperate,” he yelled out. This must not be the first time he’s gotten into trouble with the police.
Geraldine, the UrMotel host, reluctantly emerged with her hands up. “And just what are we being arrested for?” she sneered. Officer Gomez moved behind her and ushered her closer to Officer McGill.
To everyone’s surprise, it was Harper who spoke up. “For 
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helping me stage my own abduction and run away from all my debts.” She sighed and looked over to Patty. “I’m so sorry, Auntie.”
“Oh, honey,” Patty murmured, staring at Harper, who was looking down the line of us, biting her lip. “I’m just so relieved you’re really okay! How—” She turned around and sought out Frank. “How did you figure this out?”
“Well . . . ,” Frank began.
It was the gun that had tipped him off. Specifically, the way Von described the gun Complainy Guy had used to threaten him. Super tiny, he’d said.
That had reminded Frank of another time he and I had been threatened with a gun. It hadn’t been that long ago.
Geraldine, the UrMotel host, had pointed a gun at us when she’d found us with Matt in Harper’s room. Like the one Complainy Guy had threatened Von with, it was small. Notably small.
Which made Frank wonder: Could her gun be the same gun as Complainy Guy’s?
And if it was—if they were working together—what exactly were they trying to do?
That’s when Frank had started thinking about Harper. All the debts she’d racked up, and her tempestuous relationship with Matt, who seemed to want more from her than she could give. To put it plainly, Harper had a lot to gain from disappearing. If “Harper” was gone, then the Girl Formerly Known as Harper would get to keep all the money she stole, 
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avoid her online victims and collections agents, and get out of her relationship with Matt, which clearly wasn’t normal or healthy. Maybe she could even use that money—some of it, anyway—to start a new life in a city, going to art school, like she’d always wanted.
“But not all the money,” Frank explained now. Some of it, he went on, she used to buy Geraldine’s “help” to disappear. Because that was Geraldine’s real business—not the UrMotels, though those were a profitable side gig. Geraldine worked with Complainy Guy to stage “abductions” for guests who wanted a fresh start. No one would ever know what happened to them. She’d done it before, with the other guests Gomez and McGill had mentioned who had “disappeared” from UrMotels in the area. And she’d tried to do it for Harper.
Complainy Guy ran interference at the UrMotel—kicking out any stray guests and creating believable suspects like the ones Harper cooperatively brought into the apartment. He’d encouraged her to bring back friends she made at Comic-Con. And he got rid of Von because he came too late, and they couldn’t have anything disrupting Harper’s “abduction.” Because Geraldine owned the unit, she knew exactly where to place a plant to block the security camera.
As Frank explained, everyone stared at him, looking stunned. Even Complainy Guy and Geraldine looked shocked that we’d been able to figure it all out.
“But how did you find out for sure?” Gomez asked, gesturing at Harper. “How did you get her out here?”
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Frank smiled at me. “That was Joe’s idea.”
Everyone turned to face me, and I felt a little self-conscious. “We slipped a note under the door of apartment 2G, the place where Complainy Guy was staying the night we met him. The police had called him a neighbor, so we figured he was a more permanent resident than he had claimed,” I explained. “We’d already guessed that he worked for Geraldine and was in on the whole fake abduction. He’s too big to be one of the actual abductors, so I’m guessing there two more people involved. Anyway, in the note we pretended to be one of the guys Harper owed money to, and we said we’d figured out the whole disappearance act and would tell everyone the truth—unless Harper herself came out and returned our money. We even asked they meet us here, at the Sandpiper, so they would know how much we’d figured out. That’s what she was dropping in the trash can.” I looked at Geraldine. “We knew Geraldine and her muscle would be nearby, making sure it all went off without a hitch.”
“That’s pretty good detective work,” McGill murmured. He sounded, annoyingly, kind of surprised. Then there was silence for a few seconds.
Finally Patty spoke. “So you were going to disappear forever?” she asked Harper, shaking her head. “You were going to leave and never come back?”
Harper began to cry. “Aunt Patty . . . I really am sorry. It just seemed . . .”
“Easier?” Jones asked. When Harper nodded, Jones said, 
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“According to my research, the other two people who ‘disappeared’ from Geraldine’s units were never found. No charges were ever filed. But as Detectives Gomez and McGill told us, those people had reasons to want to disappear too. But they weren’t just running from their past. They had done some pretty bad stuff and were running from the law. I just can’t believe you’d want to work with these guys.”
Officer Gomez looked at Geraldine. “Do you have anything to say about that?”
Geraldine was still standing with her hands up. This time her shirt had a rhinestoned pineapple on it. Her jaw was set, and she didn’t look sorry. She just shook her head. Her orange-tinted hair didn’t move.
Gomez sighed. “All right,” she said. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss this back at the station.”
McGill gestured to Complainy Guy to follow him to the unmarked police car they had parked close by. But as Gomez moved toward Geraldine, the old woman suddenly bolted down the boardwalk.
“HEY!” Gomez screamed.
“Hey!” yelled a popcorn seller whose stand Geraldine plowed into, knocking the whole thing over.
I turned to Frank. “Come on!”
McGill stayed behind with Complainy Guy, but Frank and I followed Officer Gomez as she trailed Geraldine into the arcade and paused at the entrance. The inside was dark and musty, and the loud bleeps and bloops from the 
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machines were a little overwhelming. A guy stood at a glass display case of cheap prizes, but he goggled at Gomez, who gestured that he should get out of there. He ran out the front door without a word.
I drew up behind her. “Where did she go?”
Gomez startled and looked at me, surprised. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s so dark in here. I thought I saw her run off to the left when she came in, but I don’t know. . . .”
“We’ll split up,” I said, as Frank skidded to a stop behind me. “You take the back, by the Skee-Ball; I’ll take the right, the gift shop; Frank, you take the left, the arcade games.”
Gomez nodded. “Deal,” she said, heading to the back of the arcade.
As Frank headed toward the bleeping arcade games, I walked into the grimy, seen-better-days gift shop. It was full of shelves of dusty merchandise that had probably been there since the 1980s. I stumbled into a rack of T-shirts, which included one with Garfield saying THE ONLY THING I LOVE MORE THAN LASAGNA IS PLAYING THE SLOTS IN ATLANTIC CITY!
“Aaarrgh!” I heard Frank yell. “She popped up behind the Whac-A-Mole machine! Get her!”
As I moved toward the arcade section, I heard Gomez shout.
“Joe!” she yelled. “Look out! She’s coming your way!”
I ducked behind a shelf full of shell ashtrays and waited. Sure enough, she ran into the store area and looked around, creeping behind the personalized mugs.
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I jumped out. “AHA!”
She saw me. “You’ll never get me alive!”
I was impressed: that was an awfully spunky thing for such an old lady to say. My grandma lived in a retirement home and spent her golden days playing bridge and watching game shows I didn’t know they made anymore. Geraldine ran a crime ring.
I advanced on her. Despite her spunkiness, I was bigger and stronger. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
CRASH!!! Something hit me in the side of the head and knocked me down, and I was stunned by the sounds of shells clacking together and breaking glass. I blinked, struggling to keep conscious, and stared as a large periwinkle shell painted with a neon ATLANTIC CITY 2019 swam in my vision.
She’d knocked over the tank full of hermit crabs! This woman was diabolical!
“Frank . . . ,” I moaned.
And then he was looming over me. “Get up, dude! She threw that tank at you and took off out the front door!”
“But the craaaaaabs!” I whined, pointing at Mr. Atlantic City 2019, who clicked his front claws at me.
Frank gasped. “That’s cold! We’ll help them when we’ve caught her. Come on.”
I staggered to my feet and shook my head to try to clear it. Unfortunately, that only made it hurt a lot worse. But I managed to follow Frank out of the arcade and onto the boardwalk, which seemed blindingly bright now.
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I scanned the stands. “She’s not at the goldfish throw. Not at the Super Shot.”
Frank pointed. “There!”
She was running past the food stands across from the games.
“HEY!” I yelled, bolting after her. She opened the door of an enclosed lemonade stand.
Finally I was too quick for her. I reached the door and pushed it open before she could block it off with a case of lemons.
“Come on, Geraldine,” I coaxed. “You’re not making things any easier for yourself. Aren’t you in enough trouble, without resisting arrest?”
She scowled. “What do you know about it?”
“I know what it’s like to get in over my head,” I said, thinking of the SATs. “I know what it’s like to get absorbed in something I shouldn’t and forget what’s really important.”
She stared at me, her gaze softening a bit. “You do, huh?”
I nodded. “But it’s never too late, you know,” I said. “You could start cooperating. I can go back and do my SAT practice tests.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I shook my head, moving even closer. She was backed up against the rear wall of the stand, and I was just a couple of feet away. I just had to reach out and grab her, and this would be over. “The point is, we can both turn things around!”
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“BANZAI!”
Whack!
Something hit me square in the cheekbone, and I shrieked, grabbing at my face.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
One caught me on the ear. One hit my chest. It was lemons! Geraldine was now throwing lemons at me from a basket full of them!
Squish!
And some of them were rotten!
Where is the stand employee for all this? Are they hiding in here?
But I didn’t have time to give it too much thought. Geraldine had thrown me off my game enough to slip past me and run out of the stand. Frank raised his arms as I emerged, sticky with lemon juice. “Dude, who is this lady? She slipped by me too. I barely even saw her!”
I could only shrug in response.
Frank pointed behind him. “She’s down at the next line of stores.”
Without further ado, we ran after her.
Gomez was already there, standing in front of the first store, a closed ice cream shop.
“Do we know where she is?” Frank asked her, panting.
Gomez shook her head. “She’s slippery,” she said. “Amazingly so, for her age.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered, rubbing my cheek. I 
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looked at the stores. Only two were open: a swimsuit shop, and yet another saltwater taffy place.
“I’ll take the bathing suits,” Frank said, nodding at me.
I took a deep breath. Yes. All was as it should be. “I’ll take the taffy.”
“Whoever finds her, flush her out, and I’ll be waiting here,” said Gomez.
I walked into the saltwater taffy shop.
Inside, there were a few tall displays of boxes of taffy in different designs. One Atlantic City theme, one general beach theme, one “thank you” theme . . . They were all arranged around a large machine in the middle that mixed and pulled the taffy. It was running, and full of thick, gooey, delicious-looking taffy.
There was also a small desk in the rear with a cash register on it. Behind it, in the corner, I saw a terrified sales clerk about my age. She stared at me, clearly wondering who I was and why I’d chased an orange-haired woman in a pineapple top into her store.
Clunk. A few boxes fell off a display toward the rear of the store, across from the cashier’s desk.
I whirled around, and there she was.
Geraldine. She cackled at me.
“Let’s end this, Geraldine,” I said.
“Ha! You going to try to bond with me over your SATs again, boy?”
I lunged at her, knocking over several boxes of taffy in the 
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process. She backed up against the wall, picked some boxes off the shelf there, and started throwing them at me. They fell open, and little individually wrapped candies flew everywhere. The cashier girl darted out from behind the desk and ran right out the front door. I didn’t blame her.
I caught one of the boxes of taffy and winged it back at Geraldine. “ENOUGH! We’re wasting taffy, and that’s just wrong.”
Geraldine cackled again, grabbing a ceramic sandcastle off the shelf. “You like taffy? Can’t stand it myself. Too sticky!”
Now I was really mad. “The stickiness is the best part!”
She chucked the sandcastle at me. I ducked. It hit the window behind me and shattered it with a crash.
Frank and Officer Gomez must have heard the noise, because soon they were running toward us and the three of us were able to corner Geraldine in the store. Finally she was trapped.
• • •
Back at the bench where everyone else had waited, Harper was speaking tearfully with her aunt Patty. When Patty saw Frank and me walking over, she waved us closer.
Patty was teary too, we could see now. “I’m trying to explain,” she said, “why what Harper did upset me so much.”
Harper wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “I never wanted to hurt you, Aunt Patty,” she said. “I guess I just thought it would be easier for you. You gave up a lot to take care of me. I love you, but I wanted you to be free.”
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Patty stared at her. “Free?” she asked. “How could I ever be free, not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were even safe? I love you, girl. Don’t you understand that?”
Harper’s face crumpled into a sob. “I think I forget sometimes,” she whimpered.
Frank cleared his throat. “Harper,” he said, “it’s fine for you to try to turn over a new leaf, and make yourself happy . . . but you can’t con people out of their money, or lie to people who care about you. That’s what made what Geraldine is doing wrong.”
Harper sniffled. “I think I’m starting to get that,” she said. “I just . . . I don’t know. I was feeling so . . .”
“. . . desperate?” I suggested.
She looked at me, her eyes lighting with surprise. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it. Desperate.”
“Lot of that going around lately,” Frank muttered.
I looked at Harper. “You should know,” I said, “that Matt agrees your relationship should end. He knows he was too controlling and way out of line. He’s going to work on it.”
Harper looked briefly relieved, but then her gaze became dark again. “He’ll have to work on it alone,” she said.
I nodded. “He knows. And it’s probably a good idea for you to stay away from each other. But you don’t have to worry about him.”
Harper looked relieved again. She took in a breath, then let it out slowly. She looked around at Patty, Jones, Frank, and me.
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“I’m sorry, all of you,” she said. “I’m so sorry I brought you all into this. Geraldine told me I needed a reason to stay at the UrMotel to give to my friends and family. Something plausible so they wouldn’t be suspicious about me coming to this town. I was worried about running into some of the people I’d tricked on InkWorld, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to meet you in person, Jones. It was such a fun day, and I thought of it as my last hurrah. But I see now how many problems I caused. I didn’t think people would feel that way about me, and I’m sorry I freaked you out.”
There were murmurs of appreciation from everyone, and Jones stepped forward. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said. “I know you’re still working things out, but I hope we can keep in touch.”
Harper looked at her, clearly touched. “Thanks, Jones.”
I looked down the boardwalk. Officers Gomez and McGill were leading a handcuffed Geraldine back toward us. I could see Complainy Guy already sitting in the back of the police car.
“Harper,” Gomez called to our teary friend. “You’ll have to come down for questioning too. Can you follow us to the station?”
Harper nodded. “Of course.”
“We should really thank you boys,” Officer McGill told us. “I know I didn’t trust you before, but you’ve been invaluable on this case. We never would have solved it without you.”
I smiled. Man, that never gets old. “Well,” I said happily, 
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putting my arm around Frank’s shoulders, “this is just one more successful case solved by the Hardy boys!”
Something shoved between us. Someone. “And Jones!”
Suddenly Jones was standing between Frank and me, an arm around each of our waists, smiling a blindingly white smile. I stared down at her.
“Sure,” I muttered, wondering how long I’d have to put up with this. “And Jones.”
But then I saw how Frank was beaming at her—and me. And I remembered how Jones had helped us figure out Harper’s passwords and did tons of Internet research and kind of saved my life when Matt was after me with a hunting rifle.
Okay, so Jones wasn’t a Hardy. So she got in the way of Frank and Joe time. So she could be annoying.
Still, I had to admit to myself—she wasn’t that bad.

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14 SECOND CHANCES
FRANK
A FEW WEEKS LATER I WAS reading in my room when Joe came barging in with his laptop.
“Okay, dude. Moment of truth and I need some support here.”
“SAT results?” I asked as he plopped down on my bed.
“Yup.” I watched his eyes scan the screen—and then saw his face fall.
“Ugh,” he said.
“That bad?” I asked gently.
He shook his head, putting the computer down. “Let’s just say . . . I didn’t do very well.”
I scratched my ear, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m sorry, dude. We had a lot going on that week.”
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Joe shrugged. “It’s not surprising, I guess. Still, I’m disappointed.”
“Well ... ,” I said, trying to find the right words to comfort him. “We did find a missing girl and shut down a UrMotel-based crime ring!”
Joe nodded. “Right, that’s something,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound completely sincere. “Speaking of which, did I tell you? I got an e-mail from Harper the other day. Her apartment is really small, but overall, she’s having a really good time in the city. She’s learning now to bartend and hopes to use her earnings to keep paying back all the money she owes. And once she’s done with that: art school. She did get a ton of community service for all that fraud stuff, but it sounds like even that’s going well.” He smiled, and that, at least, seemed genuine.
“That’s great,” I said. “Good for her, landing on her feet. And I’m glad we managed to shut down Geraldine’s business before someone got hurt.”
Joe grunted. Geraldine hadn’t exactly gone quietly—she’d been feisty in the preliminary hearings for the case against her—but the evidence against her was pretty damning. It looked like she had been behind the two other “disappearances” in the area, and those people had now been found and had to face all the things they’d been trying to escape. It was hard to believe Geraldine would escape conviction.
As I’d spoken, Joe had opened up his test scores again and was frowning at them.
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“Hey,” I said, putting my hand over the scores. “You know, the SATs happen again in a few months—and as long as no serious mysteries happen, I can help you study? It’s not easy to be a teen detective and a scholar—but it is possible. I mean, just look at me.” I grinned.
Joe rolled his eyes, but then nodded. “Okay. You’re on.” He saved a file of his test scores to his desktop, naming it TO BE CONTINUED. “We just have to hope nothing mysterious is happening in a few months. . . .”
Stolen Identity
Franklin W. Dixon

1 OFF WITH A WARNING FRANK
YOU GOING TO FINISH THAT?” Joe asked as he snatched the last piece of bacon from my plate.
“Yes,” I replied, resisting the urge to jab my brother’s hand with my fork. “I was.”
“Don’t quarrel, boys,” Aunt Trudy said as she placed another plate of bacon onto the table. “There’s plenty to go around.”
I replaced the stolen strip of bacon and went back to my open chemistry book. Wednesday was always “pop quiz” day in Mr. Watson’s class. Although no one understand why he called it a “pop” quiz when it consistently occurred on the same day every week.
2
“Hey, bro,” said Joe. “It was just a piece of bacon. You didn’t have to call the cops on me.”
I looked up to see my brother staring out the kitchen window. We watched a police cruiser slow to a stop in front of our house.
“I wonder what’s up,” I muttered.
The driver’s door opened and a uniformed officer—a tall woman I didn’t recognize—stepped out and strode up our sidewalk toward our front door.
I raised an eyebrow at Joe. “What did you do?”
“Oh, sure. Blame me,” replied Joe.
I was just messing with my brother. We may be known around town for our sleuthing, but we’d never received unannounced police house calls before.
The doorbell rang and Aunt Trudy turned to us. “I’ll go see what this is about. You boys finish your breakfast, it’s almost time to get going.” She tossed her dish towel down and went to open the front door.
Joe and I put our forks down so we could listen in. The police officer’s voice was muffled but Aunt Trudy’s came through loud and clear.
“They’re overseas right now,” we heard Aunt Trudy say. The officer must’ve asked about our parents. “Fenton stayed over after his detectives’ conference, and Laura flew out to meet him. She wasn’t going to let him enjoy Paris all by himself !”
There was laughter from the officer and then more words I couldn’t quite make out.
3
“Oh, the boys are in here,” said Aunt Trudy, her voice getting louder. “They haven’t left for school yet.”
Aunt Trudy led the officer into the kitchen. The woman had a folded newspaper under one arm.
“Boys, this is Lieutenant Wolfe,” said Aunt Trudy. “She’s here to talk to you.” Our aunt turned to the lieutenant. “Can I get you some coffee?”
The woman smiled. “No thank you. I won’t be too long.” She took a seat at the table. “I just need to speak to Frank and Joe about a small police matter.”
Aunt Trudy beamed. “Ooh, another case. I’m sure the boys will be as helpful as always.” She grabbed her own coffee mug and headed for the living room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I turned back to the lieutenant, who was no longer smiling.
“Hello, boys,” she greeted us. “I just transferred over a couple of months ago. We haven’t crossed paths yet, but I’ve heard an awful lot about you.”
Joe grinned. “Our reputation precedes us, huh?” he asked. “Hey!”
I had kicked my brother under the table. Something told me this was not just a friendly get to know the neighborhood visit.
“Is there something we can help you with?” I asked politely.
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The lieutenant didn’t answer right away. She just stared at me from across the table. I finally broke eye contact and glanced at Joe. He simply shrugged.
“I picked up your newspaper outside,” said the lieutenant. She pulled out the paper out from under her arm and held it up for us to see.
“That’s our dad’s,” said Joe. “He still likes his news old-school.” My brother held up his phone. “Not like us.”
The woman pursed her lips and carefully unfolded the paper to reveal the front page. “How about I read an article for you . . . old-school.”
“You came over here just to read us the newspaper?” I asked.
Lieutenant Wolfe shrugged. “Why not? I’m a public servant, after all.”
She cleared her throat before she began reading “ ‘Local Teenagers Assist Baffled Bayport PD.’ ”
I cringed and stole a glance at Joe. His face mirrored mine. This wasn’t going to be good.
After a quick look in our direction, the lieutenant read past the headline. “ ‘Terrance Harlow was taken into custody yesterday by state police and is due to be transferred back to Bayport to face criminal indictment. He is charged with masterminding the string of home burglaries that plagued Bayport suburbs last month. Using a landscaping business as a cover, Harlow allegedly broke into houses 
5
and stole jewelry while homeowners were at work. However, it wasn’t the hard work of Bayport’s finest that led to his plot being uncovered. Instead Harlow was identified by the sleuthing skills of two Bayport High students—Frank and Joe Hardy.’ ”
“I don’t know how the paper found out about that,” I said. “We didn’t talk to the press.” I looked at Joe. “Did we?”
Joe ran a hand through his blond hair and looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t answer.
“I’m not finished,” Lieutenant Wolfe said through tight lips. She looked back down at the paper. “ ‘Our big break in the case came when we realized that most of the burglaries were just a cover,’ said Joe Hardy. ‘Harlow was really after a diamond necklace that had been willed to his niece. He thought it rightfully belonged to him. He thought the theft wouldn’t be traced back to him if it was just one of many.’ ”
“I didn’t know she was a reporter,” explained Joe. He half smiled. “At first.”
“Oh, and you didn’t stop there,” said the lieutenant. She read more. “ ‘ “We solve cases for the police all the time,” Joe Hardy went on to say. “My brother and I have been doing it since we were little kids. You could even say mystery solving is in our blood. Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a renowned detective.” ’ ”
“You were flirting,” I accused my brother. “Flirting and bragging.”
Joe just shrugged.
Lieutenant Wolfe cleared her throat and continued reading. “ ‘Police Chief Olaf is on extended leave and could not be reached for comment. However, Lieutenant Patricia 
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Wolfe was brought in to lead the department in his absence. One concerned citizen, who didn’t wish to be named, had this to say: “I don’t know who this Wolfe lady is, but I’m glad the Hardy Boys are still around to pick up the slack while Olaf is gone.” ’ ”
I cringed and Joe sucked in a breath after hearing the last line.
The lieutenant read on. “ ‘The Bayport Police Department did not comment directly, but Lieutenant Wolfe’s office released the following statement: “While we appreciate citizens keeping watch for criminal activity, the Bayport Police Department does not condone vigilantism in any form whatsoever.” ’ ”
“Vigilantes?” I asked. “That seems a little strong.”
Lieutenant Wolfe folded the paper. “Not in my book.” She tossed the paper onto the table. “Do you know what kind of grief I’m going to get when the chief finds out about this?”
“Don’t worry about the chief ! He’s used to us helping out. He comes off all scary, but he’s really just a big teddy bear once you get to know him,” Joe said with smile, clearly hoping his explanation would make this all go away.
I shook my head. “Why is the chief on extended leave?”
“His mother is ill and he took time off to care for her,” the lieutenant replied.
“We’re sorry to hear that,” I said. “And look, we didn’t mean for you or the police to look bad in that article.” I shot 
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a brief look to Joe. “We just try to help when we can. We always try to work with the police. Not undermine them. This is really just a misunderstanding.”
The woman leaned forward. “You’re teenagers. The Bayport police department does not need your help. I checked with the other officers, and it seems you two have been given a lot of leeway with your detecting hobby. But I don’t care who your father is. It’s dangerous and I won’t stand for it. You leave the mysteries and crime fighting to the police.” She pointed a long finger at each of us. “In fact, if I see you as much as handing out a missing pet flyer, I’m detaining the both of you for questioning.”
I raised both hands. “The only mystery on my mind right now is how to pass my chemistry quiz.”
The lieutenant got to her feet. “Glad to hear it.” She glanced at her watch. “About time you got to school, isn’t it? You need a ride?”
“Frank has a car,” Joe volunteered.
“Oh, yeah.” The lieutenant smiled as she pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen a few times and proceeded to rattle off the make and model of my car, the date it was purchased, the purchase price, its license plate number, and . . . “A parking violation last fall.”
Joe raised a hand. “Uh, that was me.”
She put her phone away. “Well, as soon as I get back to the station, every officer is going to have this information with orders to keep a watchful eye on both of you.” She gave a 
8
sly smile. “I wouldn’t roll through any stop signs if I were you.”
The lieutenant’s smile disappeared, and she strode out of the kitchen and left our house. Joe and I watched through the window as she climbed into her squad car and drove away.
“She was kind of intense, huh?” asked Joe.
I nodded as I checked my watch. “Oh, man. We’re going to be late.” I closed my textbook and shoved it into my backpack. “Especially since I’ll have to drive five miles under the speed limit, thanks to your big mouth.”
“Hey, we’ve gotten press before,” said Joe.
“Not making the police look bad like that,” I pointed out. “And not when Olaf was out of town. He’s established and not trying to prove anything. This is a pretty big deal for a new lieutenant. No wonder she’s mad.” I moved my plate to the sink.
“Yeah, you’re right. I definitely could’ve phrased things a little better.”
“You think?”
“Well how was I supposed to know Olaf was going to be gone! Anyway, I’m sure it’ll all blow over.”
“Agreed. But we better do what she says for the next couple of weeks. No cases, no mysteries, nothing out of the ordinary.”
Joe smiled. “Well, after tonight, right?”
Oh, man. I’d completely forgotten about tonight.

9
2 A PAGE FROM HISTORY JOE
IT WAS ALL I COULD do to talk Frank into going out that night as planned. After our visit from Lieutenant Wolfe, my brother had tried to back out several times throughout the day. I had to catch him between classes and talk him into it all over again ... and again and again. I had to remind him that this was his idea in the first place.
“Better park in the back,” I said as we drove closer to the museum that evening.
Frank drove past the large building and turned down a small side street, remembering to signal several feet before the turn. We hadn’t seen any police cars along the way, but Frank had still been overly cautious about obeying traffic laws.
10
He shot me a look. “If there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing, then why should I park in the back?”
“Better safe than sorry,” I replied with a shrug.
Frank tightened his lips and gave me that look that said he might try to back out again.
“Hey, a museum employee is letting us inside,” I said. “It’s all good. Now, he might be breaking some rules, but not us.”
Frank made another turn and we coasted down the large alley behind the museum. When we reached the museum’s loading dock, I pointed to a white van in a small parking lot across the alley. “Ooh, park behind that van.”
“You mean hide the car behind the van,” Frank corrected.
“Might as well be careful, huh?”
Frank pulled behind the van and killed the engine. We got out and walked across the lot toward the museum.
As we neared the loading dock, Frank grabbed my arm and stopped. “Check it out.”
I followed his gaze to a pair of legs poking out of a pile of trash against the building.
“Is that . . . ?” My voice trailed off. We changed course and moved cautiously to what looked like a poorly hidden dead body.
But the mystery was solved as quickly as it was discovered. A homeless man had created a makeshift shelter for the night. What looked like a pile of trash was actually a collection of items loaded onto an old wheelchair—clearly the man’s personal possessions.
11
“Oh, I see—” I began.
Frank shushed me and held a finger to his lips, instructing me not to wake the man. We each pulled out our wallets and placed some bills into an empty coffee cup in front of the sleeping figure. He didn’t stir as we backed away and headed back toward the museum.
We climbed the steps leading to a door beside the large loading dock. Frank took out his phone and sent a text. A minute later and a familiar face poked through the door.
“About time you got here,” said our friend Hector Cruz. “Come on in.”
We entered a large open area full of wooden crates, carts, and a forklift. It was like a scene out of Raiders of the Lost Ark, like there could be a mysteriously dangerous artifact hiding among the packing. I sent a silent wish to the stars that nothing out of the ordinary would happen this evening. My brother and I don’t have the best track record when it comes to avoiding mysteries . . . or danger.
“I take it this isn’t on the usual tour,” I said.
“There’s no one else here, is there?” asked Frank.
Hector smiled. “Just us.” He headed across the loading area. “This way,” he said. “Shortcut.”
Frank and I followed Hector through a plain door and entered the museum itself. We found ourselves surrounded by fossilized dinosaur skeletons, glass encased dioramas, and giant murals of grassy landscapes. Frank and I had been visiting the Bayport Museum since we were little kids. Between 
12
school field trips and weekend family visits, we knew our way around fairly well. Hector was leading us through the dinosaur exhibit toward the gallery set aside for traveling exhibits.
We passed through a hallway and approached an entrance with a banner reading A CENTURY OF SOLVING CRIME.
Hector flipped on the lights and dramatically spun around. He walked backward through the entrance with his arms opened wide, gesturing at the room around us. “Am I a great friend or what?” he asked. “As promised, a sneak peek at tomorrow’s new exhibit.”
The hall was filled with displays featuring everything from giant DNA sequences to a booth about Sir William James Herschel and Sir Francis Galton, the first people to use fingerprints for identification. But neither of those attractions were what interested us most. Hector led us to an open book resting on a pedestal in the center of the gallery. A spotlight hung above it and red velvet ropes fenced it off from the rest of the room. Clearly, this was the main attraction. The book was an original handwritten bound manuscript by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, the creator of the greatest fictional detective of all time: Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, Frank and I were huge Sherlock Holmes fans. Frank a bit more than me, actually. Both of us grew up reading all the Holmes stories and books. We’ve seen all the movies and television shows based on the character. What detective wouldn’t be a fan of the world’s greatest detective, even he was fictional?
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Hector unclipped one of the velvet ropes. “Come on up and take a look,” he suggested. “VIP tour.”
Frank and I stepped up to the book. It was opened to the first yellowed page. The author’s cursive handwriting was clear under the spotlight. The title of the story spread across the top of the page: “A Scandal of Bohemia.” The story began right under the title.
“Is this a good one?” asked Hector. “I’ve never read any Sherlock Holmes stories.”
“It’s not the most famous one,” Frank replied.
“Yeah, that’s more like ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles,’ ” I added.
“But it’s one of my favorites,” Frank continued. “It was the first Holmes story to be published in the Strand Magazine back in 1891. There it was retitled ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’ ”
Yeah, Frank was way more of a Sherlock Holmes fanboy than I was.
“It gets better,” said Hector. He dug into his pockets and pulled out two pairs of white cotton gloves. “If you want to carefully look through it, you have to wear these.”
He handed us the gloves. Frank slipped his on with lightning speed and began to gently turn the first page.
“Seriously, though, be careful,” warned Hector. “Josh said it was on loan from some university in Texas.”
“Who’s Josh?” I asked as I put on my pair of gloves.
“Josh Jenkins. He’s the assistant director in charge of this exhibit,” replied Hector. “And my boss.”
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“And he’s okay with this?” I asked. “Us coming here?”
Hector looked at me like I was crazy. “Heck, no. He doesn’t know you’re here. But I knew you guys would love this thing and not mess it up.” He shrugged. “Besides, it was kind of Josh’s idea. He told me that anyone who loved a mystery would be thrilled to see this in person. So naturally, I thought of you guys.”
“You rock, Hector,” I said, giving him a fist bump.
Hector smiled. “I know.”
I moved closer to get a turn at the manuscript. “You know we don’t have time for you to read the entire thing, bro.”
“I’ve read it already,” Frank said, not looking up from the pages.
“Of course you’ve read it,” Hector said. “I’m sure you guys have read all the Sherlock Holmes stories tons of times.”
“No, I mean I’ve read this particular manuscript,” Frank explained. “The university scanned in the pages and uploaded them to their website.”
Hector shook his head in disbelief. “Then why am I risking my new job to show you this?”
“Because you’re a great friend,” I replied, patting him on the shoulder. “Remember?”
Frank carefully flipped another page. “Because seeing this in real life, turning the actual pages, that’s way better.” He turned another page. “It’s a connection to the author himself. It’s like touching history.”
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Hector leaned over Frank’s shoulder. “Wait, that’s different handwriting. Is this a fake or something?”
Frank shook his head and turned another page. “Parts of the manuscript were written by Doyle’s secretary.”
“Of course you know that,” I chuckled.
Frank tried to turn the next page but it pulled away from the book. It wasn’t bound like the others. “Uh-oh,” he said as the loose page dangled between two fingers.
“Oh, man!” Hector’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Frank?”
My brother shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. It was already loose.” He gingerly set the page beside the open book. Then he placed a finger onto the next page. With the slightest effort, that page pulled away from the binding. “This one is loose too.”
“Dude, stop ripping pages out of the book!” Hector ordered.
“They were never attached to begin with,” Frank explained. “Are they supposed to be like that?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hector. “I never touched the thing.” He buried his face in his hands. “This was a bad idea. I am so fired.”
Something seemed weird about the loose pages. I leaned in for a closer look. “The paper color doesn’t quite match the rest of the pages, does it?”
Frank turned to one of the attached pages and laid the loose page over it. The loose page was yellowed like the others, but not quite the same shade. It was lighter.
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I reached into my pocket and pulled out my retractable magnifying glass and pulled the loose page aside. I carefully examined the writing. It was completely flat. When I zoomed in on the writing on the attached page, the ink was raised, ever so slightly.
“I don’t think this page is part of the original manuscript,” I reported. “I think it’s a forgery.”
Frank had pulled several more loose pages away from the binding. He ran a finger along the inside seam of the book. “I can feel several thin edges here,” he said. “I think the original pages were cut out.”
“So someone stole pages from Doyle’s manuscript?” I asked.

17
3 GROUND ZERO FRANK
WHO ARE YOU TWO?” LIEUTENANT Wolfe asked as she approached Joe and me. She hadn’t stopped glaring at us since the police had arrived at the museum. “You look like Frank and Joe Hardy, but you can’t be them.” She shook her head. “Oh, no. Because I told those boys, just this morning, in fact, that I didn’t want to see them near any investigation of any kind.”
“We’re not investigating,” Joe explained. “We’re witnesses.”
“Witnesses who happen to be in a museum after hours,” she added.
Joe opened his mouth to reply, but I nudged him with my elbow. Luckily, one of the many police officers took her aside to report his findings.
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Joe, Hector, and I had decided to call Hector’s boss first. Josh Jenkins wasted no time getting to the museum and confirming that the manuscript pages in question were indeed forgeries. Josh had insisted that we stick around while he called the police. Wearing his own set of white cotton gloves, he continued to study the manuscript while Lieutenant Wolfe and several other officers searched the museum for signs of a break-in.
Josh was tall and thin. He had dirty-blond hair and one of those faces that made him seem younger than he probably was. He looked more like one of our friends than an assistant director of a museum.
Lieutenant Wolfe held out an open palm toward me. “I need your car keys and consent to search your vehicle.”
“You want to search my car?” I asked.
“I have probable cause,” Wolfe replied. “With you two being here . . . well, let’s just say that I don’t believe in coincidences. Plus, it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “But it’s already open. The rear passenger door doesn’t lock.” I glared at my brother. The last time he borrowed my car, one of his friends shut the door on a hockey stick. Both the stick and the door latch broke in the process.
Joe raised his hands. “I really am saving up to get it fixed. Promise.”
Wolfe nodded to one of the officers. He marched to the back of the museum, no doubt to give my car the once-over.
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“Look, Lieutenant, we’re just Sherlock Holmes fans,” I explained. “That’s all.”
“It’s true,” agreed Hector. “That’s why I invited them to see the manuscript.”
The woman crossed her arms. “Big enough fans to take a little souvenir?”
“If we stole the pages, we wouldn’t have called Hector’s boss when we discovered the forged pages.”
“That makes sense,” said Josh. He took off his gloves and joined us. “Although I’m not happy about them being here, I’m glad they let me know about the theft.”
“Are you sure that the manuscript didn’t just come that way?” Joe asked. “Maybe the university lost the pages a long time ago.”
Lieutenant Wolfe’s eyes widened. “Excuse me.” She rounded on my brother. “I know you just didn’t ask him an investigative question. As if you were a detective on this case.”
Joe cringed. “Uh, I guess not.”
“Well, whoever asked,” said Josh, “for the record, I did check every page when the manuscript arrived. It’s all part of the job.”
“Every single page?” asked the lieutenant.
“I read the entire thing,” replied Josh. He nodded at Joe and me. “I’m a big Sherlock Holmes fan too.”
The lieutenant sighed. “All right, we’ll keep searching the museum for signs of a break-in or a stash spot for the 
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pages.” She glanced down at her phone. “Hector Cruz, I’ll need to speak to you some more.”
“Me too,” agreed Josh.
The officer who’d been sent to check out Frank’s car walked up to Wolfe. “Lieutenant, the car was clean,” he reported. “No sign of any manuscript pages.”
“Hardy brothers, go home,” Wolfe ordered. “Your part as ‘witnesses’ for this investigation is over . . . for now. And I don’t want a word of this to end up in tomorrow’s paper. We’re keeping this quiet for now.” She eyed Joe in particular. “Understood?”
Joe nodded. “Of course.”
“And one more thing.” She leaned forward. “The Bayport Police Department does not need your help. Remember that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She nodded. “Good answer. But if I find out that you’re investigating this case . . . well, let’s just say that I can get a couple of material witness warrants real quick. I can hold you in a cell for questioning for . . . well, who knows how long.”
One of the officers walked us out of the front of the museum. We had to walk around the entire building to get to my car. When we reached the back, I noticed that the homeless man and his stash were gone. Either the police presence scared him off or they had him simply move along to a shelter. The white van was gone too, leaving my car easy for the police to spot (and search). Joe and I climbed in without a word and drove for home.
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“What if—” Joe began.
“Don’t start,” I warned. “You heard what she said.”
“Yeah, sure,” Joe said. “But we were right there at the scene of the crime. Ground zero.”
My brother was right. My mind was already buzzing with questions about scenarios, suspects, and motives. Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Dr. Watson, wouldn’t hesitate if a mystery landed in their lap like this.
“You know what Holmes would say right now?” Joe asked, practically reading my mind.
I smiled. “The game is afoot.”
“That’s right,” agreed Joe. “And it is!”
“It may be,” I said. “But you heard what the lieutenant said. We can’t investigate anything if we’re stuck in jail. I don’t think she was joking about those material witness warrants.”
“Yeah, she seemed pretty serious,” said Joe. “That newspaper article really got under her skin.”
“Look, let’s sleep on it,” I suggested. “We can talk to Hector tomorrow at school, but that’s it for now. Deal?”
“Deal,” agreed Joe.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the way home. But if I know my brother, his mind was in overdrive, working all the angles of the case. I know mine was.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. As we climbed out, I noticed something in the backseat.
“You left stuff in my car again,” I told my brother.
“No, I didn’t,” Joe replied.
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“Backseat.” I tapped the rear window.
Joe peered through to see the sheet of paper. “It’s not mine.”
I shook my head and laughed as I opened the back door. I didn’t notice the page’s yellow tint under my dim dome light. But a chill ran down my spine when I picked it up and got a closer look. I turned it over to see familiar handwriting on the other side.
“Oh, man,” I muttered.
Joe jogged around the car to see what I held. His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse.
“Dude,” he said.
It was one of the missing manuscript pages.

23
4 UNEXPECTED GIFT JOE
MAYBE HECTOR SET US UP,” Frank suggested as he drove us to school the next day. “You know, as a prank.”
“Almost getting us arrested is a pretty big prank. And not a very good one,” I said.
“Well, he didn’t know about our morning visit from Lieutenant Wolfe,” said Frank. “So he wouldn’t know it would get us in so deep, so quickly.”
That was true. Frank and I had decided to keep that little conversation to ourselves. Otherwise, our friends would never let us hear the end of it.
“I don’t think it was Hector,” I said. “First: he wouldn’t have called his boss. Second: how could he slip the missing page into your car? He was with us the entire time.”
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“And the cops searched my car,” Frank said with a scowl. I could tell he didn’t like the idea of them going through his property. “The page had to have been left after the search.”
“Think it was one of the officers?” I asked. “They could’ve planted it.”
“I can’t see any of the Bayport police planting evidence,” replied Frank. “And even if they did, what would be the motive? Why say that the car was clean when they could’ve arrested us on the spot?”
“Or stopped us on the way home,” I added.
“Right,” Frank agreed as he turned into the school parking lot. He pulled to a stop and climbed out.
I had been trying to talk Frank into going into full investigation mode, no matter what the lieutenant said. With the missing page in our possession, I didn’t see any other options.
“Okay, you have to admit it,” I said as I followed Frank across the parking lot. “We’re in the middle of this now. We have to investigate.”
Frank sighed. “Yeah, I hear you.” He held up a finger. “But we have to keep an ultra-low profile. Lower than ever before.”
“Hey, I don’t want to be stuck in a holding cell any more than you do,” I said. “I have a track meet Saturday, remember?”
My brother and I had discussed the case a bit the night before. We had discussed turning the page over to the 
25
police. Chief Olaf might’ve believed the page was planted on us, but Lieutenant Wolfe? Extremely doubtful.
We also tried to guess why someone would steal only a few pages from the valuable manuscript. Frank had pulled up the university’s website, and we looked over the scanned versions of the missing pages. Although the author had made some notes in the margins of a few of the pages, there was nothing important scribbled on the pages in question; no secret codes, no clues to long-lost treasure. I even tried putting the original page under a black light to see if there was anything written in a secret ink. I almost brushed it in lemon juice but Frank wouldn’t let me. We searched online for a legend that would connect the pages with some bigger plan but couldn’t find anything. There didn’t seem to be anything relevant in the story, either. The pages seemed to be cut out at random.
No, this seemed to be more about framing us than getting anything out of those pages. And there was no shortage of criminals who would want revenge. The only question was, which one was it?
Frank and I split up and headed for our first-period classes. Luckily, I sat beside Hector in mine. It was up to me to begin the investigation—carefully.
I went into history class and slid into my desk. Hector was already at his.
“Hey,” I said.
“Don’t ‘hey’ me, man,” Hector growled. “Not after last night.”
26
“You invited us, remember?” I asked.
Hector dropped his head. “I know. I’m more mad at myself than you guys. I should’ve just let you look at the book behind ropes like everyone else.”
“So what happened last night, after we left?” I asked.
“I got fired, that’s what happened,” Hector said.
“Dude, I’m sorry about that,” I said. I wasn’t totally surprised, but it was still a bummer.
“It’s not your fault,” Hector said, shaking his head. “Of course, I only got fired after I told the story to the police three more times.”
“Common tactic,” I said. “They wanted to see if your story matched each time.”
“Oh, yeah, Mr. Detective . . .” Hector reached into his backpack and pulled out a business card. “I’m supposed to call Lieutenant Wolfe if you or Frank ask me any questions.”
“You’re not going to, are you?” I asked.
He smiled and put the card away. “No, don’t worry. But she doesn’t like you two for some reason. What did you do to tick her off ?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “But sorry again about your job.”
“It was such a sweet gig, too.” Hector sighed. “I practically stumbled on it in the first place. And Josh was the best boss I ever had. I basically got paid for hanging out and shooting the breeze with him. Now I gotta see if they’re hiring at the Meet Locker.”
The bell rang, sounding the end of our conversation and 
27
the beginning of class. For the next fifty minutes, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about Samuel Adams, Paul Revere, and the whole rowdy gang.
After class, I swung by my locker to exchange books. I’d catch up with Frank later and tell him about the lieutenant asking Hector to snitch on us. I dialed my combination and swung open the door. An envelope rested atop the pile of books and other various junk inside my locker. Someone must have slipped it through the vents in the locker door. Maybe Frank had come up with something about the case that couldn’t wait. I opened the blank envelope, and my eyes widened. A folded, yellowed sheet of paper was inside. I gingerly unfolded the page, but I already knew what it was. It was another stolen page from the manuscript.
The usual between-class hustle carried on around me. No one seemed to notice that I held a stolen piece of literary history in my hand.
I snatched a folder from my locker, emptied its contents, and carefully slipped the page inside. I had to find Frank.
I slammed my locker shut and swung my backpack over my shoulder. Clutching the folder to my chest, I moved through the crowd on the way to Frank’s locker.
When I reached the end of the hallway, I almost ran right into my brother coming around the corner.
“I found something in my locker,” he whispered.
“Does it look something like this?” I asked as I cracked open my folder.
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He glanced down at the page. “Oh, yeah.”
“Someone is messing with us big-time,” I said. “What do we do?”
Frank opened his mouth to answer but stopped when the intercom speakers crackled to life.
“May I have your attention, please,” said the principal’s voice. “May I have your attention, please.”
Everyone in the hallway paused to listen to the announcement.
“The Bayport Police Department is conducting a surprise locker inspection,” the principal continued. “Please place your backpacks, purses, or any other bags against the wall and make your way to the gym in an orderly fashion.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, man.”

29
5 CAUGHT ON CAMERA FRANK
JOE AND I TOOK OFF our backpacks like everyone else around us. Unlike everyone else, I crouched down and removed a stolen artifact from my bag. Joe stepped closer and opened the folder holding the other page so I could slide mine in on top of his. We joined the slow migration of students toward the gym.
“You think they’re looking for the pages?” Joe whispered.
“That’s my guess,” I replied. The high school had been the subject of surprise locker inspections in the past, but they were very rare. This seemed a little too coincidental.
“I have to ditch this folder,” said Joe. “You know they’ll take a special interest in us, for sure.”
“Hang on,” I said. “I’m thinking.”
30
I looked for a place to stash the folder. It needed to be someplace safe, where no one would think to look.
We rounded a corner and were in the main hallway leading toward the gym. Luckily, the sheer volume of students and teachers pouring into the corridor made traffic slow to a crawl.
Then I saw it.
There was a bulletin board up ahead on the right. Tacked-up flyers and announcements covered the rectangular corkboard. Courtney Terrill’s petition for more vegan options being served in the cafeteria hung from a large tack at the bottom of the board. Several wrinkled sheets dangled from a black metal clip.
“Hand me the folder,” I whispered to Joe. “And cover for me when we get to the bulletin board.”
“You got it.” Joe slipped me the folder.
I shuffled to the right side of the hallway.
Joe worked on the distraction; he spun around and began walking backward. “Hey! I know whose fault this is!” he shouted. “It was the stink Benny made in chemistry class last week.”
As a few of our fellow students laughed, I reached up and unhooked the petition from the tack. I pulled out the manuscript pages and clipped them to the back of the stack of pages as fast as I could.
“I bet the government thinks he came up with a formula to get superpowers,” Joe continued. Everyone laughed again.
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“You may call me Spider-Benny!” Benny shouted to the crowd.
Once the pages were in place, I hung the petition back amid other Benny nickname ideas and more laughter. “No, Super-Benny!” “Benny the Hulk!” “Bat-Benny!”
I dropped the empty folder, and Joe and I shuffled into the gym. We were surrounded by a discussion about how “Bat-Benny” doesn’t make sense, because Batman doesn’t have superpowers to begin with, and how the Benny-chemistry scenario is closer to how the Flash got his super speed. Of course, my brother was at the head of this serious philosophical debate.
Inside the gym, Joe and I made our way to one side, trying to find some kind of privacy. The place was so loud with chatter we no longer needed to whisper.
“That was way too close,” said Joe. “We really need to figure out who’s behind this. Fast.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but who would it be?”
“It has to be a student,” Joe concluded. “People would notice a stranger slipping stuff into lockers.”
“Yeah, and students do that all the time,” I agreed. “So no one would care.”
“How about the security cameras?” asked Joe. “I bet they recorded whoever did it.”
I felt a knot in my stomach. “You mean the same ones that probably recorded us finding the pages and then hiding them?”
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Joe’s eyes widened. “We have to get to that video before the police think of it.”
I followed my brother toward the nearest exit. I wasn’t worried about sneaking out of the gym. The place was chaos and filled with milling students. Paper balls and airplanes flew above everyone’s heads.
We slipped out the side door behind the bleachers. The door led to the outside of the building, so we ducked as we ran past several classroom windows. I paused to see the police in the hallway beyond an open classroom door. Sure enough, they were going through all the lockers. They had a big job ahead of them, so I guessed that they wouldn’t take the time to check behind Courtney’s petition.
I caught up with Joe at the end of the building as he peered around the corner. The side entrance was just ahead. He waited a moment longer before motioning me forward. Careful not to draw attention, we turned the corner and walked quickly toward the glass doors. Luckily, the hallway beyond was empty. We opened the doors and snuck inside.
It was just two more turns before we reached the security office. Luck finally seemed to be on our side: the door was unlocked and the room was empty. The school security guard was probably helping the police with the locker search. We snuck in and shut the door behind us.
Joe sat down at the desk in front of the main computer screen. Two smaller screens were on either side. They were each quartered off into eight camera views from around the 
33
school. After a few seconds, the screens would switch to a different scene.
“Can you find today’s footage?” I asked.
Joe tapped on the keyboard. “I already have, but we have trouble.” He pointed to one of the camera views. “That’s where we came into the building. This thing recorded us sneaking out and back into the school.”
“We’re toast,” I said.
“Not if I delete the file,” Joe suggested.
“That’s destroying evidence,” I countered.
Joe dug into his pocket. “Okay, ‘delete’ was not the right word.” He pulled out a small USB drive. “I’ll move the file to this. After we solve the case, we can turn it over to the police.”
“And get busted by Lieutenant Wolfe for meddling,” I said.
“Maybe she’ll just be happy we found the pages and all will be forgiven,” Joe suggested.
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Or maybe we sneak back in and put the file back,” said Joe. “Either way, we don’t have time to search the video file right now. We have to take it with us.”
I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay, do it.”
Joe tapped a few more keys. “Okay, first . . . let’s stop this thing from recording.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “So we can get out of here without being recorded again.” He then plugged in the drive and typed on the keyboard. “Now, moving the file . . . whoa, it’s a big one.”
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A progress bar appeared on the screen as I looked at the changing camera views. The police seemed busy searching lockers and backpacks. Hopefully no one would bother with the security office before the file finished transferring.
“Oh, man,” said Joe. “This is going to be awhile.”
Only we didn’t have awhile. I paced back and forth in the small room to relieve some of the tension.
When I looked back at the screen, the bar was only half complete. Joe was leaning closer to one of the screens.
“What are those two doing?” he asked.
I moved in and saw a police officer and the security officer marching down one of the hallways.
“Where is that?” I asked. “Are they coming here?”
“They sure are,” Joe replied.
“We have to get out of here,” I said. “Pull the drive.”
“I can’t,” said Joe. “It’ll corrupt the file.”
“Forget the file,” I said. “We can’t get caught in here.”
Joe leaned closer to the screen. “Just a little longer.”
On the surveillance screen, we watched the two men turn a corner and walk down the hallway toward the security room. They were closing in.
I took refuge in the small closet that housed shelves of old computer equipment and cameras. It would be tight, but we could both fit inside.
“Come on,” I whispered. “We can hide in here.”
Joe looked back and forth from the camera views to the progress bar. It still wasn’t finished. “Just a little more.”
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“Joe,” I whispered louder.
The men walked into a view of the hallway outside. They headed straight for the security room door.
“Good enough, I hope,” Joe whispered. He jerked the drive out of the computer and dashed toward the closet. He shut the door behind him just as we heard the security office door open.
We held our breath, careful not to make a sound.
“Okay, what do you need?” asked a voice from the other side of the door. It must’ve been the security officer.
“The lieutenant wants all footage from today,” said the police officer.
There was the sound of tapping keys and then, “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?” asked the police officer.
“The system isn’t recording,” said the other man. “And there’s no file from today. It must not have been recording.”
The policeman groaned. “The lieutenant isn’t going to be happy. Come on. You better explain it to her.”
“Why me?” asked the security officer.
“Because she can’t fire you.”
We heard the door shut behind them as they left, then waited a few moments before stepping out of the closet.
We both signed with relief.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“No kidding,” agreed Joe.
We took advantage of our location and checked all the camera views before stepping into the hallway. Before long, we had mapped out a clear path back to the gym.

36
6 ON THE MENU JOE
I WAS AFRAID OF THAT,” I said as I examined the file on my laptop. “When I pulled the USB drive, the file got corrupted.”
Frank leaned across the table to look at the screen. “Can you do anything with it?”
“Already on it,” I said as I opened one of my recovery apps. I dragged the file into the app, and a progress bar appeared. The bar on the security computer from that morning moved at lightning speed compared to this one. I set it to run in the background and put my laptop away. “It might not work, and it will take a couple of hours.”
Frank sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to take our chances.”
We sat in a booth in our usual after-school hangout spot: the Meet Locker. It was part coffee shop, part diner and 
37
basically everyone from Bayport High hung out here after school.
Frank stared out the window. “I’m having second thoughts about where I hid the pages,” he said. “What if someone decides to take down Courtney’s petition?”
I waved away the suggestion. “You chose the perfect hiding place, bro. That thing has been on the board since the beginning of the school year. The teachers won’t take it down because it’ll make them look biased. And Courtney hasn’t taken it down because it keeps getting more signatures.”
“Really?” asked Frank. “People are actually signing it?”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “Of course some of the names are Taylor Swift, Johnny Depp, and Barack Obama.” I smiled. “It’s a running gag for some of the guys.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “And how would you know about that?”
I shrugged. “Let’s just say I know that Darth Vader flew in from a galaxy far, far away to sign it.”
Frank laughed and shook his head.
“Hey, guys!” Chet Morton greeted us as he walked up with two menus under his arm. “Fun day today, huh? I don’t know about you, but I got out of an algebra exam.” He slid a menu in front of each of us.
I pushed mine away. “How long have you known us? And how long have we been coming here? We always order the same thing.”
Chet grinned. “Who knows? You guys might change 
38
your minds today.” He glanced at the front of the restaurant. “I’ll be back in a minute to take your orders.”
I raised a finger. “But we’re already ready to—” Chet was gone. I turned back to Frank. “What’s up with him?”
Frank was peering over my shoulder toward the front, a grim expression on his face. “Heads-up,” he said. “We’re about to have company.”
Lieutenant Wolfe strolled up to our booth. She did not look happy. “Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hello, Lieutenant,” Frank said. “Can we help you?”
“And by ‘help,’ he doesn’t mean helping with the case,” I added. “Just to be clear.”
“Is that so?” asked the lieutenant. “Well then, you wouldn’t know anything about the anonymous tip we received this morning, would you?”
My brother and I glanced at each other. “Is that what the surprise locker inspection was all about?” asked Frank.
The woman nodded. “Someone claimed the missing manuscript pages were hidden in one of the student lockers.”
“Were they?” I asked.
“No, they weren’t,” she replied. “An entire morning wasted.” She placed her hands on her hips. “But I wonder if two amateur detectives who aren’t supposed to be detecting tried to help by calling in the tip in the first place.”
“I don’t know. It sounds as if the tip wasn’t so helpful,” Frank said. His lips tightened. “If someone really wanted to help, they wouldn’t have called in a useless tip.”
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“Oh, it wasn’t completely useless,” said the lieutenant. “I did learn something.”
“Oh, good,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “What was it?”
Lieutenant Wolfe grinned. “Someone spotted you two sneaking out of the gym.”
“Not so good,” I muttered as I fidgeted with the menu. “Just a harmless bathroom run, that’s all.”
“Really?” asked the woman. “Brother detectives never pee alone, huh? You won’t mind if I search your backpacks, will you?”
I was about to oblige. After all, we didn’t have anything to hide. But Frank answered first.
“What’s your probable cause this time?” he asked.
I sighed. I knew Frank was irritated with the lieutenant, but this wasn’t how you keep a low profile. I thumbed the corner of my menu while they hashed it out.
“Oh, no probable cause,” she told him. “But I do have a couple of theories. Since the general public doesn’t know about the missing pages, maybe you did call in the tip. We’d come up with nothing and you’d make us look foolish ... again. Maybe you thought I would come to you for help.”
Frank shook his head. “Of course not. And your other theory?”
“That you two really did steal the pages. Hector Cruz knows this and he called in the tip. Then you boys snuck the pages out of school somehow. You already think 
40
you’re above the law—maybe you think you’ve earned these valuable pages from your favorite author. Maybe Hector sees what I see. He did lose his job because of you guys, after all.”
I thought I heard Frank growl.
“I’d give my opinion about your theories, but we’re not supposed to be working the case, right?” Frank said through clenched teeth.
The lieutenant shrugged. “Either way, I thought two helpful citizens like yourselves would consent to a simple search.”
“Again, I thought we weren’t supposed to be . . . helpful,” said Frank.
I shook my head. He was really digging in. I thought I might as well look at the menu. Thought perhaps I could turn this day around and try something new. Chet always says a new snack could mean a new direction.
I had no such luck.
I opened the menu to find another missing page covering the sandwich options. Great. It was right there, in front of the police. I quickly shut the menu and tried to act naturally.
“You know, your car is parked two inches over the legal distance from the curb,” said the lieutenant. “I was going to let you off with a warning.”
“Blackmail now?” asked Frank.
I slid my backpack over and handed it up to Wolfe. “It’s cool, bro,” I said. “We have nothing to hide, right?”
41
The police officer took the bag and began digging through it.
Frank rounded on me. “But we’re not criminals. They don’t have probable cause.”
I reached over the table and grabbed my brother’s backpack. I locked eyes with him and hoped he’d get with the program. “We give consent, don’t we?”
Frank must’ve seen something in my gaze. It was clear that he didn’t like it, but he gave in. “Okay, fine.”
The lieutenant searched through each of our backpacks. Of course, there was nothing to find.
“All right, Hardys,” said the lieutenant. She handed Frank his backpack. “Don’t forget what I said.” We watched her walk out of the diner and drive away.
“Why did you give in?” Frank asked. “They had no legal right—”
My brother shut up when I opened my menu, revealing one of the missing pages. His eyes widened and I shut the menu once again.
“Check yours,” I instructed.
Frank opened his menu to find another page. “Oh, boy.”
I looked around the restaurant. There were a couple of lingering glances left over from Frank’s dustup with the police, but no one seemed to be actively watching us.
I turned back to Frank as we both said, “Chet.”
Frank slipped the pages from the menus and slid them into his backpack. We grabbed our bags and approached the 
42
front counter. Chet was busy wiping it down with a towel. As we got closer, he leaned forward and whispered, “What was up with the cops?”
“Dude, why did you put those in our menus?” I asked.
“And where did you get them?” asked Frank.
Chet chucked. “Come on, it was just a prank. That guy—the friend of yours visiting from out of town? He asked me to do it. Said it would be the perfect joke after what happened with Hector. But he wouldn’t tell me what had happened. Will you guys let me in on this now?”
“What guy?” asked Frank, ignoring Chet’s question.
Chet cocked his head, clearly confused. “I’ve never seen him before, but he said he was from out of town so . . . He seemed to know you guys really well.” He pointed to the large front windows. “He was standing outside watching while you talked to the police. Oh, no. Did I do something wrong?”
We turned and saw a thin guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses. The hood was pulled down so I couldn’t make out his face. When he saw us looking, he climbed onto a bicycle and pedaled down the sidewalk and out of view.
Frank shoved his backpack at Chet, who barely caught it. I did the same. “Watch this for me,” he ordered.
“Ditto,” I added. “You owe us.”
I followed Frank as we ran onto the street.

43
7 DÉJÀ VU FRANK
OF COURSE MY BROTHER THE track star pulled out ahead of me as soon as we began the chase. I thought about going back to get my car, but I figured I’d just waste time. Anyway, the guy on the bike pedaled so slowly, it was clear he had no idea we were even chasing after him. I figured we’d catch up in no time.
I was wrong.
Things changed when he glanced back and realized his mistake. He stood as he pedaled, pouring on the speed. He was putting distance between us—and fast.
Joe kept pace at first. My brother knew how to pour on the speed himself. But legs were no match for wheels, and our culprit soon pulled away. I wasn’t even in the race when 
44
I saw the bike turn right down Swenson Avenue, though it looked like Joe still had him in his sights.
Taking a risk, I took an immediate right down Juliana Street. If the guy doubled back, maybe we could corner him.
I ran as quickly as I could down the sidewalk. My side began to ache, but I kept going. Luckily, it was after closing time for most of the local businesses; I didn’t have to worry about plowing over anyone.
I reached the intersection of Juliana and Winslow Boulevard and skidded to a stop. As I’d hoped, the cyclist had doubled back; now he sped down the sidewalk in my direction. I backed away and hid behind the corner of a building. Maybe the guy hadn’t spotted me yet.
I peeked out to see him getting closer. Behind him, Joe had turned the corner and was still in pursuit. A few more feet and I’d leap out to block his path. I hoped I would be enough of a surprise to make him stumble. Maybe even fall off his bike.
Just then, the cyclist cut left and darted into the street. Tires squealed as a car braked, almost slamming into him. The guy wobbled on his bike but kept crossing the road. He disappeared into an alley on the other side.
Joe and I crossed after him, both of us more careful than the rider. We ran behind the stopped car and darted into the alley after him.
I trailed Joe as we sprinted down the narrow alleyway. There was no sign of the cyclist, but we didn’t slow down. 
45
Growing up in Bayport, we both knew that this alley was a dead end. If we hurried, we could have the guy cornered.
We slowed when we saw the bicycle lying on the ground. I scanned the area, looking for places where the guy might be hiding. There was nothing but the empty alley ending at a tall wooden fence.
“Think he climbed over?” I asked Joe between heaving breaths.
“He didn’t have to. Look.” Joe pointed to a broken plank in the fence.
We ran up to it and I pulled half of the wide board away. There was a jagged gap just big enough to squeeze through. Joe carefully shimmied to the other side.
“Come on,” he said.
I pushed through the gap and found myself in a very familiar place.
“Déjà vu, huh?” asked Joe as he scanned the construction site.
We’d had a narrow escape here a few years ago when this was little more than a vacant lot. My brother and I had been after a couple of bank robbery suspects. The trail had led us here and the bad guys caught us. We had been tied up and placed in an excavation about to be filled with cement. If we hadn’t escaped, Joe and I might’ve been underneath the slab spread out before us.
It looked as if construction was underway again. Large steel girders jutted out of the slab, and stacks of building 
46
supplies and construction equipment filled the area. The site was deserted and silent, so the workers must’ve gone for the day. A tall chain-link fence sealed off the rest of the area. We hadn’t heard the fence rattle, so it was a good bet that the guy hadn’t climbed over. He was still here . . . somewhere.
I caught Joe’s eye and motioned for him to go left. I would go right. Maybe we could flush out the guy faster if we split up.
We both crept silently through the site. I didn’t exactly know what we’d do when we found the mystery man. If we could capture him and turn him in to the police, the pages would be returned. But we’d still get in trouble with the lieutenant for investigating in the first place. Maybe she would go easy on us since this guy was obviously trying to set us up.
None of this made sense, though. Who was this guy and what did he have against us?
An engine roar interrupted my train of thought. It came from Joe’s side of the construction site. I looked over to see my brother freeze in front of a tall stack of bricks. He was trying to find the source of the noise too. That’s when the bricks begin to move.
“Look out!” I shouted as I sprinted toward Joe.
My brother looked left and right, everywhere but at the stack of bricks behind him. The engine noise echoed around the site, making it hard to pinpoint.
As I neared, the tower of bricks leaned toward him and Joe looked up just as the stack began to loom over his right 
47
shoulder. Without thinking, I dove toward my brother and tackled him to the ground; my momentum carried us clear of the falling bricks. We watched as they smashed onto the spot where Joe had just been standing.
“Are you okay?” I asked as we got to our feet.
“Yeah, thanks,” Joe replied.
The rumbling died and the sound of footsteps filled the air. The culprit ran through the construction site, back toward the alley. He was halfway through the gap in the fence before Joe and I got up to speed.
“Ah!” the guy shouted as his leg caught on the jagged board.
It barely slowed him down. By the time Joe and I reached the fence, we heard the bicycle speeding off. I peeked through the hole and spotted the suspect turning out of the alley, getting away.

48
8 UNINVITED GUEST JOE
WHAT’S THAT WEIRD SMELL?” FRANK asked as we walked into our house.
“I hope it’s not dinner,” I replied with a wince. “Although Aunt Trudy does like to experiment.”
We weren’t happy about losing the mystery guy. However, we both agreed that we were lucky the police hadn’t spotted our chase through Bayport. How would we explain that? Training for my track meet?
We yelled greetings to Aunt Trudy as we climbed the stairs and went to straight to our rooms. I was anxious to see if my computer had rebuilt the security footage. I perched on my bed and pulled my laptop out of my backpack, tapping my foot as the computer powered on.
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Now, I’m not the neatest Hardy brother. My desk isn’t cleared off and organized like Frank’s, but I know where everything is when I need it. I have a very complex “pile” system. I can always tell when something has been added to it.
I was just about to move aside last night’s homework papers (placing them onto the correct pile) when I saw an unfamiliar sheet of paper lying on top. Picking it up, I realized that it wasn’t so unfamiliar after all: it was another stolen page from the manuscript.
With page in hand, I turned to go show Frank, but my brother stood in the doorway holding up a page of his own.
“Aunt Trudy?” we shouted in unison.
“Yes?” she replied from the kitchen.
Frank and I moved to the head of the stairs. “Did someone stop by today?” Frank asked.
“Yes, dear,” she replied as she stepped out of the kitchen and into view.
Frank and I hid the pages behind our backs.
Aunt Trudy wiped her hands on her apron. “The exterminator came by for the yearly treatment.”
“That’s the smell,” whispered Frank.
“Glad it’s not dinner,” I whispered back.
“Was he ever alone up here?” Frank asked her.
Aunt Trudy shook her head. “Heavens, no. I know better than that.” She squinted up at us. “Is anything missing?”
“No,” I replied truthfully. “Nothing’s missing at all.”
Our aunt clapped her hands together. “He did ask me to 
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pull out everything from under your bathroom sink. I probably didn’t get it all back the way it was.”
I nodded. “That was it. Thanks, Aunt T.”
She turned and waved. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
I returned to my room thoroughly creeped out. Frank followed me in and shut the door.
“Dude! He was in our house,” I said. “In our rooms.”
“I know,” agreed Frank. “Not good.”
“We have to go to the cops now,” I said.
“Yeah, but tell them what?” Frank asked.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . breaking and entering?” I replied.
“Except that nobody broke in,” Frank explained. “Aunt Trudy had an exterminator in and we have stolen goods in our rooms.”
“What about Chet?” I asked. “He can vouch for us.”
“Yeah, but he’s one of our friends,” Frank countered. “It’ll just look like we’re getting our friend to lie for us. This thing with the pages turning up in our possession is just too unbelievable. What if the lieutenant really thinks this would be our way of making them look bad? Or worse, thinks we actually stole the pages?”
“Then what do we do?” I asked. “The guy was in our house.”
“We need more evidence.” Frank pointed to the laptop. “Maybe we have the guy on video.”
“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” I sat down and opened my laptop—the footage was ready. “Let’s see what we have. . . .”
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I opened the file and a group of folders appeared. There were twelve camera views to choose from, each with their own video from the day. I played the video from the first folder. It showed a grainy black-and-white view of one of the empty hallways.
“Hey, it worked,” I said, leaning closer to the screen. “Where is that?”
Frank studied the screen. “I think that’s in front of Mrs. Meehan’s art room.”
I searched the rest of the folders and found the two that showed our lockers. Frank’s locker was closer to the camera on his video file, so I started with that one.
Like the beginning of all the other videos so far, the hallway was empty; school hadn’t started yet. I fast-forwarded until students began coming into view, then I slowed the queue a bit but kept the video running at triple speed. A figure zipped by Frank’s locker.
“There,” Frank said, pointing to the screen.
Rewinding, I got past the point where the figure appeared on-screen and played it at normal speed. The person walked into view and quickly slipped something through the vents in Frank’s locker. We recognized her. It was another one of our friends. Amanda Paul.

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9 THE SPIDER’S WEB FRANK
THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, before we did anything else, Joe and I checked our lockers for any new stolen pages. Luckily, my locker was just as I had left it. Joe’s locker was a disaster area, but that was just as he had left it as well. No new pages had mysteriously appeared.
The night before, Joe and I had decided to talk to Amanda at lunch so we could both question her at the same time. We attended our separate classes and tried to act like everything was normal and someone didn’t have it out for us. Hopefully, Amanda would have some answers.
My morning classes seemed to go on forever. Plus, it was hard to concentrate when my mind kept going back to the case at hand. When the lunch bell finally rang, I got to the cafeteria 
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as fast as I could. Joe was already there, waiting at the main door.
“She get here yet?” I asked.
“Nope.” Joe shook his head.
We tried to act casual as students filed past. We didn’t want to look like we were waiting to interrogate someone.
“How do you want to play this?” Joe asked. “Start slow, harmless questions? A little small talk? Then maybe go into good Hardy, bad Hardy?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think we just need to find out what she knows.”
“Hey, guys,” said a voice.
It was Amanda. She’d totally snuck up on us.
“You get those notes yesterday?” she asked.
“What notes?” I asked.
“The envelopes I slipped into your lockers,” she replied. “You had to have seen them.”
“Uh, yeah, about that . . . ,” I said. “We were just looking for you. We wanted to ask you about those.”
“Wait,” said Joe. “You think you put notes in our lockers?”
Amanda shrugged. “Yeah, what else would they be?”
“Uh, never mind that,” I said. “Why did you put them in our lockers?”
Amanda looked puzzled. “Eric asked me to. He didn’t sign them or anything?”
Eric Watts—another one of our friends.
Joe shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”
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“Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes at us. “If you didn’t know Eric sent the notes, then how did you know I put them in your locker?”
Joe and I glanced at each other. “Uh, someone saw you do it,” Joe replied.
Yeah, we did, I thought. On video.
Amanda raised her hands and laughed. “Okay, whatever the prank was, I’m not involved. Don’t shoot the messenger, all right?” She turned and waved to Courtney Terrill, who was walking right toward us.
My heart leaped into my throat. Had Courtney checked the petition? Had she told anyone?
“Hi, Courtney,” Joe squeaked as she approached us. “What’s up?”
“Hi, guys.” Courtney greeted us. “Hey, Amanda. I’ve been trying to catch up with the Hardy brothers all day. We have important business to discuss.”
“Sounds serious. I’ll leave you guys to it.” Amanda gave us a little wave and joined everyone else filing into the lunchroom.
“So, uh, what’s the, uh, business?” I stammered. Yikes, usually we were way more smooth with these types of things. The manuscript pages were making me nervous.
“It’s about the crime exhibit at the Bayport Museum.” She swung her backpack around and began digging in it. “Hold on a minute.”
I took a deep breath. I’ve learned it’s best to wait in these 
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situations. Let the other person reveal their hand before you launch into excuses. Clearly, Joe had learned the same thing. I looked over to see him put his hands in his pockets.
“Got it!” She pulled out a small reporter’s notebook and pen. “So, you guys are the teen detectives of Bayport. I’d love to get a quote from you about the exhibit. I’m writing an article for the Bayport High Gazette, and I think it would be interesting to get your take on it.”
I let out a huge sigh of relief. We were in the clear.
“I’m not sure what to say . . . but it sounds cool!” Joe beamed. “Though, for the record, I’ll always be loyal to the dinosaur exhibit. Triceratops forever.”
Courtney laughed, “I’m all about the space exhibit myself. What about you Frank, thoughts on the new crime exhibit?”
“Everyone should check out the history of fingerprinting. It’s a fascinating story that most people don’t know about.”
“Great. Thanks, guys!” Courtney put away her notebook. “This article is going to be great. I’m hoping it will good enough to make people realize I’m more than just the vegan girl, you know? That’s just one of my passions.”
“Totally!” Joe said. “You’re also Courtney Terrill, Bayport High’s star reporter.”
Courtney smiled and went to join her friends in the lunchroom.
Joe and I stared at each other in disbelief.
“That was close,” said Joe.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “And we still need to go talk to Eric.”
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We quickly spotted Eric across the lunchroom, sitting at a table with a few of our other friends. Joe was able to drag him away without arousing suspicion. We gathered beside the wall.
“What’s up, guys?” Eric asked.
“Amanda said you had her put something in our lockers?” I asked.
Eric’s face was blank for a moment. For a second there, I wondered if he was behind the entire thing and he knew he was caught. Then his face lit up.
“Oh, yeah.” He smiled. “The letters from your cousin.”
“Our cousin?” asked Joe.
“Yeah, the guy said he was visiting from out of town and wanted to surprise you,” Eric explained. “He asked me to slip some letters into your lockers. I didn’t have time, so I asked Amanda.”
“Letters?” I asked.
“Hey, I didn’t read them!” Eric laughed.
“What did this guy look like?” I asked.
Eric shrugged. “I don’t know . . . tall, thin. Maybe a couple years older than us.” He frowned. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him? You don’t remember what your cousin looks like?”
Joe and I shared a look.
Eric’s eyes widened. “Oh, snap! You’re on a case, aren’t you? Was that not really your cousin?”
Joe flinched and glanced around.
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I shushed Eric. “Keep it down. The police don’t want us working any cases.”
Eric put his hands in his pockets. “All right, all right.” He glanced around. “I’ll keep it on the down low,” he whispered. “Just let me know how it turns out, all right?”
“We will, man,” said Joe. “And thanks.”
Eric returned to his table and Joe and I got in line for lunch. We got our trays and chose an empty end of one of the tables, near the wall.
“All that and nothing to show for it,” Joe began. “We still don’t know who has it out for us.”
“We just know that this guy is using all our friends against us,” I added.
“You know what this is?” Joe asked between bites. “This guy is going full Moriarty on us.”
It took me a second to catch Joe’s meaning. “Oh, yeah. You’re right.”
Professor Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind who mirrored Holmes’s intelligence and cunning. He was famous for surrounding himself with a spider’s web of minor criminals. That way, if any were caught, their crimes would never lead back to the man in the center of the web, the professor himself. Because of this technique, many characters in the Holmes stories doubted the villain’s very existence. In the end it took all of Holmes’s detective skills to flush him out and lead to their final battle at Reichenbach Falls.
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“So, how do we find out who our Moriarty is?” Joe asked.
“It’s someone who knows way too much about us and our friends,” I said.
“And someone with a grudge,” Joe added. “Obviously.”
“You still think it’s someone we put away?” I asked.
Joe nodded and took another bite. “Yeah, this person is trying to make us squirm. And clearly has a plan. My only question is who? There’s a long list of people that would like revenge.”
“We’ll go over our notes tonight,” I said. “Before that, we have to get those pages back from behind the petition.”
“Absolutely,” said Joe. “That was way too close.”
“I’ll grab them after last class,” I volunteered. “During the Friday after-school rush.”
“Good thinking,” said Joe.
Since we’d used up most of our lunch break on the investigation we weren’t supposed to be conducting, we had to wolf down our lunch. After that, we went back to class as if everything was normal. But it was everything but normal. I found myself glancing around to see if I was being watched. Would another friend slip us more stolen pages?
When the last bell finally rang, I headed straight for the bulletin board near the main gym entrance. I turned the corner and was relieved to see the stack of papers still hanging from the page clip. I casually set my backpack under the board, unzipped the top, and unhooked the petition.
I had just unclipped the manuscript pages and crouched 
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down to slip them into my pack when a hand clamped onto my shoulder. I just knew it was Lieutenant Wolfe catching me red-handed.
“I didn’t peg you as a vegan, Hardy,” said a man’s voice.
I slid the pages deeper into my pack as I turned and looked up. It was Coach Smith.
“I’m not, Coach,” I said, “I, uh . . .” I fumbled for a pen in my pack. “I just support everyone’s right to, uh . . . eat what they want.”
“I’m a carnivore myself,” said the coach. “My food eats their food.”
I forced a small chuckle. “Good one, Coach.” Old one, I thought.
I flipped open the petition and found the last signature. I signed my name at the bottom of the page . . . right under Harry Potter.

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10 THE BAYPORT IRREGULARS JOE
I’M JUST SAYING,” I SAID. “If this guy is like Moriarty, and we’re like Holmes and Watson, then I’m Sherlock in this scenario.”
Frank shook his head and laughed. “No way.” He flipped another page in one of his journals. “I’m older. I’d be Sherlock.”
I pointed to the stack of journals on his desk. “You keep all the notes on our past cases. Watson wrote stories about their cases. Enough said.”
Frank ignored the debate and turned to the next page in the journal. Each page listed out the details of a past case: criminal name, clues, date of arrest. It was the Hardy Archives. “What about the Wilcox brothers?” he asked. “It may not have been a coincidence that we were led to that construction site.”
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“I thought of that,” I said, thinking back to the bank robbers who had tried to make us a permanent part of the building’s foundation. “But they went away for a federal crime. There’s no way they’re getting out of prison anytime soon.”
Frank sighed. “Wish we could find out for sure, though.”
If an irate crook was targeting us, it wouldn’t be the first time. In the past, we had checked in with a couple of contacts in the Bayport PD. The police had access to databases that let them know who was still locked up and who had been released. Unfortunately, we couldn’t reach out to any of those contacts without word getting back to Lieutenant Wolfe.
While Frank continued his search, I peeked through the window blinds again. The street looked empty, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. So far, the culprit had been in our house and had manipulated our friends. He knew all about us and we knew nothing about him. I had never felt so helpless during a case before.
“There has to be a better way to get a lead on this guy,” I said. “What would Holmes do in a case like this?”
Frank closed the journal and got to his feet. “He’d call on his Irregulars.”
In the stories, Sherlock would often get help from a group of street kids called the Baker Street Irregulars. They would blend into the background of Victorian London and follow people or keep their eyes and ears open for suspicious activities. They were named after Baker Street, where Holmes and Watson lived—221B Baker Street, to be exact.
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“That sounds great and all,” I said. “But there isn’t a group of homeless kids running around Bayport. And if there was, they certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed by the police.”
Frank shook his head. “No, but I have an idea for the next best thing.” He fished out his phone. “Does Dillon’s little brother still run around with that skateboard crew?”
I smiled. “I think so.”
After a quick text exchange with our friend Dillon, Frank and I pulled our bikes out of the garage and snuck them through the house. We wheeled them through the backyard and into the alley behind the house. Since the police (and our mystery Moriarty) seemed to be watching for Frank’s car, we thought it best to leave from the back on bicycles. Good thing Aunt Trudy was too busy watching her favorite prime-time reality show to notice. We didn’t want to explain why we couldn’t just ride our bikes out of the garage. Plus, she would have an absolute fit if she spotted us hauling our dirty bikes through her clean house.
We pedaled through the night, carefully sticking to alleys and side streets whenever possible to avoid running across any police patrol routes. It took awhile, but we pulled into the parking lot for the old Save Market grocery store. The place had been closed for several years, and weeds had begun sprouting through the cracks in the pavement. The store itself wasn’t our last stop. From what we’d learned from Dillon, our destination was in back.
I followed Frank behind the store and saw, as promised, a 
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group of young skaters hanging out on the abandoned loading dock. We pulled up just in time to see one of them skate off the lip of the dock. His skateboard spun beneath his feet as he soared through the air. The board righted itself just as the boy neared the ground. He landed on the board’s deck flawlessly.
“Nice,” I said, impressed with the board flip.
Dillon’s little brother, Drew, skated down the side ramp and skidded to a stop beside us. “Hey, guys.” He flipped his auburn bangs away from his eyes. “Dillon texted that you were coming by.”
“Yeah, we have a strange favor to ask,” said Frank. By this time, the other four skaters had gathered around. “We were wondering if you guys could keep your eyes open for a couple of days. Look out for anything suspicious around town.”
“We do that already,” said one of the skaters. “That’s why we find the best places to skate.” He exchanged a fist bump with another skater.
“Well, maybe you can hang out in our neighborhood and see if anyone is watching us or our house.” Frank gave them our address. “We think someone is pulling some kind of prank on us.”
Drew eyed us suspiciously. “Dillon said you guys solve mysteries and stuff. Is this for a case or something?”
“Yes,” I told him, figuring it was best to just tell him the truth.
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“No,” said Frank, glaring at me. “Well, yes and no. But you can’t tell anyone about it.”
Whoops, guess I was wrong.
“I don’t know,” one of the other skaters chimed in. “I know that neighborhood. It’s pretty boring. No places to pull any tricks.”
“We could build a ramp or a grind box,” another kid suggested.
Drew held up a silencing hand. “What he means is, how much does this job pay?”
“Pay?” I asked. I hadn’t thought of paying them.
“How about a couple of my brother’s video games?” Frank asked.
“What?” I asked. He had the answer too handy not to have thought of it beforehand.
The skaters began throwing out the names of popular video games. I had a lot of those games, but I wasn’t finished with them and certainly wasn’t ready to give them up. My dear brother simply nodded in agreement.
“Borrow,” I said, trying to save my games.
“Entire collection,” said Drew. “For six months.”
“Everything?” I may have squealed.
“Three months,” countered Frank.
“Deal,” said Drew. He shook my brother’s hand.
I stared at Frank in disbelief. “What just happened?”
He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for your sacrifice. I’m sure your homework will be very grateful.”
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I sighed. I guess I could live without video games for a couple of months. I just wished my brother would’ve warned me before offering them up as payment.
Frank and Drew exchanged numbers so they could text us with any news. Then we climbed back on our bikes and began the ride home.
“I’m not thrilled with your technique,” I said. “But you did it. Now we have our own Bayport Irregulars.”
Frank gave a sly smile. “Elementary . . . my dear Watson.”

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11 ANOTHER ESCAPE FRANK
THE NEXT MORNING, I CHOSE my seat in the bleachers very carefully. Drew and his friends were watching our house, and we guessed the next place to strike would be at Joe’s Saturday track meet. If this crook knew us as well as he seemed to, then he would know about my brother’s extracurricular events. I planned to stay extra vigilant while Joe ran with his team. My seat on the end of the bleachers let me keep an eye on both locker room entrances along with my parked car in the distance.
I stayed in the stands so it would appear as if I was just watching the track meet, in case anyone was watching me. And after the past few days, it seemed as if everyone was watching me. Not a great feeling. Every passing glance 
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seemed suspect. Every time a classmate greeted me, I expected him or her to pass along another manuscript page. Joe and I have been on a few stakeouts in our day, but I’d never felt like the one under surveillance.
So far, the morning had been uneventful. No one had been near the locker room or my car. I started to think that maybe this wasn’t the right play. Maybe the crook wasn’t going to strike.
Of course, that’s just when I saw him.
At least I thought it might be him. I spotted a custodian moving toward the locker room. He wore a cap and gray overalls and pushed a cleaning cart toward one of the entryways. At first I didn’t think anything of it. But then I wondered why a custodian would clean the locker room before the meet was over. Wouldn’t he wait until after the runners had finished, showered, and cleared out with their gear?
I was already making my way off the bleachers when the mystery worker disappeared through the open doorway.
I made my way down the bleachers and onto the walkway. I resisted the urge to run; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I had seen a couple of police officers working security, and the last thing I needed was to run into one of them.
As casually as possible, I strolled through the small crowd of spectators, glancing around as I neared the locker room. A custodian might not draw any attention going into the team’s locker room, but I might.
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I was lucky. I slipped into the open doorway unnoticed.
Once inside, I picked up the pace and jogged down the hallway. I almost immediately slammed into the cleaning cart. It had been abandoned in the middle of the short hallway. Now I knew this guy was an imposter.
I squeezed by the cart and eased toward the main locker room. The guy definitely didn’t know anyone was following him; the sounds of locker doors slamming shut and gym bags falling could be heard down the hallway. Still, I kept my back to the wall as I reached the doorway and carefully peered inside. The custodian’s back was to me as he searched the lockers. At worst, this was a real custodian looking to raid the athletes’ valuables while they were on the field. At best, this was our guy, searching for Joe’s locker to plant a manuscript page there. Either way, he didn’t belong there. I just needed to see his face.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Okay, not my best plan. He didn’t even turn to look. He knew he was busted and took off sprinting into the shower room.
I ran after him, but he was through the opposite side of the building by the time I got to the showers. The double doors on the other side of the room swung shut as I entered.
I made a break for the doors. Unfortunately, they didn’t open and I just ran into them.
I caught my balance and pushed them again. The heavy wooden doors gave a little but didn’t budge. The 
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custodian—or whoever he was—must have barred them with something on the other side. That’s when I remembered the other doors that opened onto another short hallway, leading to the other locker room entrance. I spun around and ran back the way I had come. I slipped past the cart again and ran outside. Slowing my pace so I wouldn’t draw any attention, I made my way around the building. From where I had been sitting all morning, I knew that this second entrance, the one closest to the field, was in full view of the spectators. I couldn’t look like I was the one who was up to no good.
Trying to act as nonchalant as I could, I walked toward the other entryway. I rounded the corner and hoped to run into the crook coming the other way.
The hallway was empty.
Undeterred, I stepped inside and saw why the doors to the showers had been impassible. A field hockey stick was jammed through both door handles. There was also a pile of clothes on the floor. I knelt and picked up a pair of gray overalls and a baseball cap. The crook had slipped out of them and out of the building before I got there without ever showing his face. Now he would be able to blend in with the rest of the spectators. In other words, he had gotten away. Again.

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12 BACK TO WORK JOE
OKAY, THIS IS GETTING TO be ridiculous,” I said after Frank finished telling me what happened during my track meet. We sat in his car, watching everyone else leave the event. “I’m not blaming you for losing the guy,” I went on. “I’m just sick of waiting for this guy to make the next move.”
“Yeah, me too,” Frank agreed. “Another wasted day with nothing to show for it.”
I pointed to the two medals hanging around my neck. “What about these?” I had won second place in the hundred-yard dash, and our team had come in first during one of the relays. We were going to regionals.
Frank smiled. “You know what I mean.”
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“Anything from the Irregulars?” I asked.
Frank may have lost sight of the bad guy, but he’d been able to check in with Drew and his fellow skaters.
“All quiet back home,” Frank replied.
“You know, having the Irregulars was a great idea and all,” I said. “But maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Frank.
“Instead of asking ourselves what Sherlock Holmes would do,” I explained, “maybe we should be asking what the Hardy brothers would do.”
“We’re doing it,” said Frank.
“No, we’re not.” I shook my head. “What if this was happening to someone else? What if someone else was being taunted like this?”
Frank’s eyes lit up. “We would try to solve the original case.”
It was true. Since that first night, Frank and I had been so preoccupied with being framed that we had only recently tried to figure out who would target us in the first place. We were all defense and no offense.
“We still have Lieutenant Wolfe to worry about,” Frank pointed out.
“True,” I agreed. “But if we end up being ‘detained’ ”—I made air quotes as I said the word—“then at least it’ll be after my track meet.”
“And we could fill the police in on what we’ve learned so far,” added Frank.
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“Say, what about the lieutenant?” I asked. “Do you think she could be setting us up?”
Frank thought for a moment. “How so?”
“She could warn us not to investigate and then get someone to plant the pages so we have no choice but to investigate,” I explained. “Busting us might make her look good to the chief when he gets back.”
“That’s a good motive,” said Frank. “But that’s still playing defensive. Let’s put that on the back burner for now and figure out how the pages were stolen in the first place.”
I pulled out my phone. “I know someone who can help with that.”
I shot a text to Hector and had him meet us at the Meet Locker. Fifteen minutes later and we were all at our favorite booth in the back.
“Hey, guys,” Hector said as he sat down. “What’s up?”
“We’d like you to tell us more about the manuscript,” Frank said.
Hector glanced around. “I told you that I’m supposed to call that lieutenant if you start asking questions about the case.”
Frank leaned in. “Are you going to?”
Hector raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”
“No,” Frank replied. “At least not yet. Not until we figure this thing out.” He glanced over at me. “Then I think we’ll have to tell her what happened.”
I leaned back. “And get some time off from school while we’re locked up for investigating a case.”
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“No kidding?” asked Hector. “She said that?”
Frank nodded. “In so many words.”
“Okay,” said Hector. “What do you want to know?”
“When did the manuscript arrive?” asked Frank.
“Was it in a crate or a regular box?” I added.
“Who had access to the manuscript once it arrived?” Frank pushed.
Hector held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down. Slow down.”
“Sorry,” I said. I think Frank and I were a little excited to be back doing what we do best—getting to the heart of the mystery. I had to admit, it felt good to be on the offensive for a change.
“The manuscript arrived last Monday,” Hector explained. “I was there when Josh signed for it. It came through a special courier in a small wooden crate.”
“Was the crate sealed?” Frank asked.
“Yeah,” replied Hector. “I watched Josh open it. The crate was filled with foam packing peanuts, and the manuscript was wrapped tight in bubble wrap.”
“Who else had access to it before we saw it?” I asked.
Hector thought for a moment. “Just Josh, I think.” He shrugged. “And me, I guess.”
“Are you sure?” asked Frank.
“Pretty sure,” Hector replied. “After Josh unwrapped it, he put on some white gloves and took it into his office. He wanted to read it. Like he said that night, he’s a big Sherlock Holmes fan.”
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Frank and I looked at each other.
“The next time I saw the manuscript, it was on display like you saw,” Hector finished. “I didn’t see anyone touch it again until you guys. A bunch of people work at the museum, though.”
“That’s great, man,” Frank said. “I think you helped a lot.”
Hector smiled. “You think so? If you find out who stole the pages, maybe I can get my job back.”
“Yeah, about that,” I said. “The other day you told me you ‘stumbled on’ your new job. How did that happen anyway?”
“Oh, yeah. That was weird,” he replied. “I came out of a store and found a flyer on my car. It said how they were hiring at the museum. When I got there, I thought I’d have to wait in line, you know? I mean if they’re putting flyers on everyone’s cars, they must be desperate. But I was the only one there. Josh just about hired me on the spot.”
“That didn’t seem strange to you?” asked Frank.
“Hey, I was just happy for the job,” Hector replied. “It was an easy one too. And fun—Josh is a great guy.” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re not hiring here, unless Chet messes up and gets fired.”
“Hey, why do you like Josh so much?” I asked.
“He was super fun to talk to. He loved hearing about all our friends from school and all the pranks we’ve pulled.”
I looked at Frank. We had gotten what we needed.
“Thanks, Hector. I’m really sorry about your job. But I 
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have a feeling those pages are going to turn up sooner rather than later.”
Frank and I said our goodbyes and practically skipped back to his car. Things were looking up.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked my brother.
Frank nodded. “I think it’s time to return the pages to the museum.”

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13 CONFRONTATION FRANK
I DROVE BACK TO OUR house to retrieve the pages. As we turned down our street, we spotted Drew and his friends pulling tricks on their homemade grind box. One of the skaters hopped up and slid his board down the corner of the long rectangular box.
“Hey, when this is over, we should give that thing a try,” Joe suggested.
I smirked. “Ah, how quickly we forget the skate park incident.”
Joe rubbed his left forearm. “It was just a hairline fracture.”
We pulled into the driveway and Joe ran inside to get the pages. Soon he was back in the car with another inconspicuous school folder. I backed out of the driveway and we headed for the museum.
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We arrived just before closing, so the parking lot was mostly empty. Of course, this time we entered through the front door.
We made our way to the special exhibit hall and spotted Josh Jenkins. He was speaking with a young couple in front of the fingerprinting exhibit. We hung back until we caught his eye. Jenkins excused himself and strolled over to us.
“The Hardy brothers, right?” he asked. “Frank and Joe?”
Joe held out his hand. “That’s right. Good to see you again.”
Josh shook his hand. A friendly smile lit up his face. “Hector told me about some of the cases you’ve solved. I half expected you to show up before now and ask about the theft.”
“Well, Mr. Jenkins, we do want to ask you a few questions,” I said.
“Please, call me Josh,” he said. “But I have to warn you. I was instructed by the police to let them know if you came around.”
“Well, we do have some questions,” Joe said. “I guess it’ll be up to you if you want to call the police or not afterward.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” I asked.
“Sure,” Josh agreed. “In my office.”
We followed him through a door on the back wall. It led to a small hallway full of employee offices. Josh led us into his and shut the door. He took his seat behind his desk.
“Okay, shoot,” he said.
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“Well, let’s start with this,” I said as I placed the folder onto his desk.
Josh opened the folder and scanned the contents. “Well, look at that. The missing pages.”
“That’s seven of them. So there are three more still missing,” Joe explained.
“And you don’t seem very surprised,” I added.
Josh closed the folder. “Why should I be? The police suspected you from the beginning. You snuck in here after hours, after all. I’m not sure why you’d return them now, though.”
“Someone has been planting those on us,” said Joe, “and then trying to get the police to catch us red-handed.”
Josh reached for his telephone. “That sounds like a story to tell the police.”
I reached out a hand. “Before you call, let me ask another question. Where were you this morning?”
Josh paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Because someone tried to plant another page in my brother’s things during the track meet,” I replied.
“And I have a question too,” Joe added. “Where were you Thursday morning, before eight a.m.?”
“I was here,” Josh replied. “I work here.”
“Are you sure you were here?” I asked. “Because someone had our friends deliver those pages to us. Someone who was young enough to convince our friends that he was our cousin, or just another friend they’ve yet to meet.”
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“I’m twenty-eight,” said Josh.
“Yeah, but you look younger,” said Joe.
“Thanks for the compliment,” said Josh. He picked up the phone. “But you said I could call the cops after your questions, so I’m calling them. You can tell them your outlandish story.”
“Do you really want to do that?” I asked. “Because the guy we chased the other night hurt his right leg on a jagged piece of wood.”
Josh froze. The friendly smile had dropped from his face.
“I’m sure the police would be interested to know about any wounds on your leg,” I continued.
Josh slowly put the phone back. He stared at us for a moment before dropping his gaze with a sigh. “Okay. It . . . it was me.”
“Why?” I asked. I was stunned. Any halfway decent criminal could’ve come up with something to explain the leg. Better keep this guy talking. “What did we ever do to you?”
Josh shook his head. “You didn’t do anything to me.” He stood and put his hands in his front pockets. “I don’t know why he targeted you.”
“He?” asked Joe. “So you’re not the Moriarty here?”
“Moriarty?” asked Josh. Then a wave of recognition washed over his face. “Oh, I can see why you’d think that.” He plopped back into his chair. “No, I’m not behind this. Awhile back, I received a call. It was a man’s voice. He 
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knew everything about me. Things I have tried very hard to keep secret. I made some mistakes when I was a kid—I hung out with the wrong crowd and was involved in some thefts. Art thefts. When we were caught, I was able to make a deal with the police and keep it all off my record. I turned things around and got this job. My dream job. But if my employers knew about my past, they wouldn’t allow me to stay. An art thief managing a museum? Not likely. The man threatened to expose me. He knew all about you, too, about your old cases. He orchestrated this entire thing. I had no choice. I’m sorry.”
“He set up everything?” I asked.
“Everything,” replied Josh. “He had me order the manuscript, hire Hector, befriend him and learn about you and your other friends, plant the seed in him about inviting you to the museum.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, I had to cut the pages from the manuscript. I was as careful as possible. I wasn’t lying before. I’m a huge fan. It killed me to fold the pages, to put a crease in them.”
“Okay. Now you can call the police,” Joe suggested.
Josh’s eyes widened. “Now that you know about him, we can’t. He forbade it. Whoever this is, he’s not done until you two get locked up.”

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14 THE IRREGULARS DELIVER JOE
I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE GOING to let him get away with it,” I said as Frank drove us home. “That guy made our lives miserable the past few days.”
“It’s not his fault,” Frank said. “You heard him. The guy’s just trying to protect the life he created. Now we have to find the real crook for all three of us.”
I had really thought he would be it. All the evidence pointed to Jenkins. If we hadn’t been so worried about the lieutenant’s warning, we would’ve figured it out sooner. Now we were back where we started. We thought we had uncovered our own personal Moriarty, but Jenkins had just been another pawn. We should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.
Frank gave Jenkins our phone numbers. If the guy heard from the mastermind of our misery, he was supposed to let 
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us know. But could we trust him? And would he trust us to discover the man’s identity so the police could finally get involved? There were too many ifs in the plan for me to feel comfortable.
We turned onto our dark street and didn’t see any sign of the skaters. I suppose even Bayport Irregulars had to eat dinner sometime. We pulled into the driveway and climbed out of the car. As soon as the car doors shut behind us, Frank’s phone chimed with a text alert.
“It’s Drew,” Frank told me. “He wants us to meet him at the side of the house.”
“That’s strange—why wouldn’t he just come in?”
Frank just shrugged in reply, and without another word, we slipped around the corner.
“Sup?” said Drew from the shadows. “I didn’t know if that guy would cruise down the street again.”
“What guy?” I asked.
Drew held out a folded sheet of paper. “The guy who gave me this.”
Frank took the paper and opened it. I had an idea what it was before I saw the writing on the page.
“It’s another page,” said Frank. “What did he want you to do with it?”
“He wanted me to put it into your car when you got back. He even told me your back door was broken and would be unlocked,” Drew replied.
Frank just shook his head.
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“What did he look like?” I asked.
Drew shrugged. “I don’t know. It was dark and he never got out of his car.”
“You know, you probably shouldn’t be taking things from strangers in cars,” Frank said.
“I wouldn’t normally,” said Drew. “But the rest of my crew was there, and you told us to keep an eye out for anything strange.”
“He’s got a point,” I told my brother.
“Besides, he gave us fifty bucks,” Drew added.
“Fifty bucks?” I asked. “For planting the page in my car?”
“No,” Drew replied. “For busting out one of your taillights.”
“Whoa,” I said.
“Did you get a license plate number?” Frank asked.
“No, his plates were removed,” Drew replied. “But a couple of the guys followed his SUV. We know where he went.”
“Got an address?” I asked.
Drew shook his head. “Be better to show you. It’s a weird garage downtown. I can get the crew back here in a couple of hours and take you there.”
“That’s great,” said Frank. “Meet us in the alley behind our house.”
“What about the fifty bucks?” asked Drew. “Can we keep it?”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Pretty sure you’re going to earn it.”
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Drew narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I think you’re going to bust out one of my taillights like you promised,” replied Frank.
“Really?” I asked my brother.
“Josh said that this guy wouldn’t stop until we were locked up, right?” Frank had that gleam in his eye I didn’t like. “I have a plan. Actually, I have two plans.” He turned back to Drew. “Wait until I text you and be sure to get the left one. It’s cracked already because somebody borrowed my car and backed into a signpost.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was supposed to fix that, too.”
Frank smiled. “Well, now you’ll really have to.”

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15 HARDYS’ GREATEST HITS FRANK
AFTER DINNER WITH AUNT TRUDY, Joe and I went upstairs and dug out our old skateboards, grabbed a couple of knit hats and flashlights, and snuck out back. The hats weren’t us trying to dress the part. We certainly didn’t want to look like two lame older kids trying to imitate the young skaters. But we did want to somewhat hide our identities from the odd glance in our direction.
Involving the police was inevitable. I had explained my plan to Joe and how the police played a big part. If we found the bad guy in his hideout, we would call them immediately. If not, it was on to plan B and the police would be involved anyway. Maybe we’d solve the case. Maybe we’d 
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get locked up ourselves like the lieutenant promised. One way or another, this was going to end tonight.
Drew and his friends were waiting for us in the alley. Joe and I put our boards down and joined the skaters as we rolled into the night.
As far as disguises go, this was pretty good. No one would be able to tell the Hardys were part of the pack of skaters zipping through town. Of course, we were the only two skaters who didn’t ollie onto every sidewalk and pull grinds on passing curbs.
We rode the sidewalk down Oak and turned right onto Daley. I almost wiped out on the quick turn. It had been way too long since I had skated.
As our group rolled down Daley, a police cruiser coasted toward us. Joe and I both turned away as we passed the patrol car. I watched its reflection in the shop windows. The car slowed and put on its turn signal. It was going to turn around and investigate the group of skaters rolling through the night.
Drew must’ve sensed the same thing. “Hardys, follow me!” he shouted. “Everyone else, go straight and let the cops catch up to you.”
“Hassled by the man again,” mocked one of the other skaters. The rest laughed.
Drew zipped down a side street to the right. Joe and I followed as best we could. Luckily, we were around the corner before the squad car’s headlights swung around and lit the sidewalk.
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Hopefully the patrolling officers hadn’t gotten an accurate head count as they passed us the first time and wouldn’t notice that three skaters were missing when they caught up with the group. I glanced back and saw the police car roll past, following the others. We were good.
Joe and I followed Drew down a few more side streets and back alleys. He kept us off the main roads, probably to avoid any more near misses with the police.
We turned down Washington and headed into the older, industrial part of Bayport. The traffic thinned to nothing as we passed closed warehouses and old factories.
Drew rolled to a stop and pointed. “Up there. The one with the blue door, next to that streetlight. We used to raid their Dumpster for building supplies.”
“We’ll take it from here,” I said. “Thanks.”
Drew spun his board around and prepared to kick off. “I’ll wait for your text?”
I nodded. “Thanks, Drew.”
After Drew skated away, Joe and I picked up our boards and walked down the sidewalk.
“You recognize this place, right?” Joe asked.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” I replied.
This was yet another location from one of our past cases. A couple of years ago, our friend’s new car was stolen. We eventually uncovered a ring of car thieves who used this very garage to repaint the cars in order to smuggle them out of town. My brother and I were trapped 
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in a painting tent and were nearly overcome by the fumes.
“Do you think one of those guys is behind all this?” Joe asked as we stepped closer.
“Did they seem like the type to create such a complicated plan to frame us?” I asked back.
“Not really,” Joe admitted.
“Whoever it is, hopefully we can catch him here and call the police,” I whispered.
We moved in and crept up to the small window beside the closed bay door and peeked inside. The nearby streetlight shone in through the window. We couldn’t make out everything inside, but we could see that the place was empty. Whoever the skaters followed here was long gone.
Joe moved to the oversize garage door and knelt. “Think the lock is still busted on this thing?”
I joined him. “Only one way to find out.”
We both grabbed the bottom of the door and lifted. The door moved but very slowly and only with all the power we could muster. After it was a couple of feet off the ground, we stopped. The door remained in place. Joe and I crawled under, pulling our skateboards in after us.
We both switched on our flashlights and examined the inside. It was just as I remembered it, except without all the paint equipment. The area was mostly open, with a small office alcove beside the only window.
I shined my flashlight beam up at the ceiling. “That’s why the door was so hard to open.” A garage door opener 
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had been installed since the last time we had been there. I followed a connecting conduit to a switch on the wall. I hit the switch and the door rolled shut.
“Check it out,” Joe said, examining the floor. His flashlight lit on two fresh-looking gouges on the cement floor. They were about four feet apart, and each was shaped like a small right angle. “What were they doing here?”
I was more interested in the tire tracks leading into the garage. Two parallel red tracks started at the door and crossed the bay.
Sherlock Holmes collected soil samples from all over London. He could compare mud from someone’s shoe to one of his specimens and deduce where in London that person had been. This was all well and good for Victorian England, where the closest thing to pavement was a cobblestone street. No use collecting soil from all over Bayport, since most of our streets were paved. But there was only one place nearby with a red clay road.
Finally. A real clue.
“What does that remind you of ?” I asked Joe.
Joe leaned in for a closer look. “The road leading to the city dam.” He looked at me in disbelief. “Is this guy playing tracks from our greatest hits album, or what?”
My brother and I had had another case end on the dam itself. And let’s just say that it didn’t end well. If our Moriarty knew about the sites of our many near-death experiences, then the city dam ranked up there with the best of them. Now 
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we had a clue leading us to the next site in question. Maybe we could finally get ahead of the guy.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.” I headed toward the garage door. “It’s time to put plan B into action.”
“Like Jenkins said, this guy won’t stop until we’re locked up,” said Joe. “So one of us needs to get locked up.”
I sent Drew a text.

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16 PLAN B JOE
I SAT ON MY BIKE at the top of the hill overlooking our street. I had taken the alley to make sure no one could see me get into position and parked in the shadows. I could see almost the entire street laid out before me; it didn’t take long before the headlights of Frank’s car lit our house. I watched the car back out of the driveway, the white bulb behind the broken taillight shone almost as brightly as the reverse lights.
I kept my lookout as the car slowly pulled away. As we hoped, one of the parked cars pulled out; the brown SUV’s headlights turned on, and it began to follow my brother’s car. I pushed off and followed both of them.
Frank’s car was cruising slowly enough that I had no trouble keeping up with the car following far behind. Like 
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the most boring parade in the world, we snaked through neighborhood streets on our way toward the main part of town.
Then Frank’s car came to a complete stop at a four-way intersection and took a right. A police cruiser followed him through, snapping on its blue and red flashing lights. We were right on schedule.
I slowed and stopped as the SUV pulled over to the curb and turned off its headlights. My brother’s car pulled over in the distance.
The cop car stopped behind my brother’s and two officers got out. They walked up on each side of Frank’s car, their flashlight beams washing over the car as they went. While one officer stood at the driver’s window, the other inspected the backseat with his flashlight. He leaned closer to the car before opening the back door. The officer reached in and came out with a sheet of paper. He held it and examined it with his flashlight. Of course I couldn’t make out the words from this distance, but I already knew what it was. It was the stolen manuscript page that Drew had planted on my brother’s backseat. The driver was caught red-handed.
Fortunately, the SUV pulled away from the curb and rolled forward. It must have been satisfied with the traffic stop. I prepared to follow on my bike. Unfortunately, the car began a U-turn.
I pedaled hard and headed for the space between two parked cars. I skidded to a stop and climbed off my bike 
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just as the SUV completed its turn. I ducked down when its headlights snapped on and it drove in my direction.
Once the car passed, I climbed back onto my bike and pedaled after it. No longer trailing my brother’s car, the SUV drove much faster. I had to work to keep up with it. Luckily, it couldn’t pick up much speed driving through the short residential streets.
I kept pace as the SUV zigzagged through the different neighborhoods. But when it turned onto one of the main roads leading out of town, I knew that there was no way I’d be able to keep up. I turned onto the road after it and shifted my bike up to its highest gear. I pedaled as fast as I could and was up to a decent speed. The car’s taillights grew smaller and smaller ahead of me.
But I had a pretty good idea where it was going. This is my hometown, after all.

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17 ANOTHER FAMILIAR PLACE FRANK
THE PAVEMENT TURNED TO RED gravel beneath my bicycle tires and my handlebars wobbled when I turned onto the uneven terrain of the dam’s small access road. The roar of the dam’s spillway grew louder the closer I got.
I hoped Hector made out okay with the police. Plan B was to give the crook exactly what he wanted. We had hoped to make him think that Joe or I had been stopped by the police for the broken taillight. Then, when the cops found the stolen manuscript page, they would arrest one of us. Little did he know, we’d asked Hector to drive Frank’s car. Our friend was sure to be brought in for questioning, but instead of confessing to a crime, he would tell them everything that had been happening, as we had explained it to him.
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For better or for worse, Lieutenant Wolfe would find out we had been investigating the crime. I just hoped we could give her a crook to go with that crime. Maybe that would lighten the punishment.
The clay tire tracks were our last and only lead to go on.
I saw the gravel road stretch up a hill before me in the moonlight. I switched to a lower gear and pumped harder as I drove up the incline. The ground leveled off when I reached the edge of the dam itself. The small metal gate meant to keep vehicles off the dam was wide open. I seemed to be on the right track.
I pedaled onto the dam and pulled to a stop to catch my breath. The deafening sound of rushing water masked my heavy breathing. I peered over the side and saw giant white streams of water blasting from openings in the side of the tall dam. The water spread as it dropped hundreds of feet to the river below. Through the mist, I saw the small river snake away into the woods beyond.
The last time I was here, I almost fell over the side myself. My brother and I were on the trail of an art thief named Bill Reynolds. We had tracked him to the dam and found his stash of stolen art in the pump house in the middle of the dam. After a confrontation where Reynolds tried to push me over the side, the art thief had gone over himself. The man had survived the fall and had been sent to prison. But this was yet another location where the Hardy brothers had nearly met their end.
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I got back onto my bike and pedaled across the dam. The surface was cement and level so I made better time. I hid my bike behind the old pump house. The building wasn’t much more than a small shed that had fallen into disrepair. The dam had since been automated, and the building seemed to be abandoned to all but the occasional vandal. Graffiti decorated the walls, and most of the small windows had been smashed. The main door was held shut with a small padlock.
I pulled out my flashlight and examined the lock. It was new and oddly low on the door, as if it had been installed by a kid. I moved to the window and shined the beam through the broken glass. The room was empty, the equipment having been removed long ago. Only a few old worktables and empty pallets remained.
The last time I was here, Reynolds had worked at the station and had stashed his stolen art behind large banks of equipment. Now there didn’t seem to be anywhere to hide anything. Still, the lock on the door suggested something was inside. I rolled my bike to the side of the building and found a window with the least amount of jagged glass. I used a piece of wood to knock away the remaining shards before carefully climbing through.
Once inside, I took a closer look at the interior of the shed. More graffiti tags decorated the walls, while empty spray paint cans and trash littered the floor. It seemed to be a strange collection to be kept under lock and key. Maybe 
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the city had installed the lock to keep more kids from coming up here. Maybe some kids just wanted to lock up their fun new clubhouse.
My flashlight’s beam fell onto an old worktable. A blue folder sat on its dusty surface. I crept closer and opened the folder and found two pages from the manuscript. The clues had paid off; I was definitely in the right place.
I saw something out of the corner of my eye and killed the flashlight. Two white dots appeared at the other side of the dam. They were headlights. Someone was coming.
I glanced around for a place to hide. The last time we were here, there had been plenty of things to duck behind. Now there was nothing but shadows.
The car was approaching fast. I couldn’t hear the engine over the sound of the rushing water, but the lights grew brighter. They streamed through the pump-house windows, chasing away what shadows remained. I crouched down against the wall. It was too late to crawl back out the way I had come.
I crept toward the door as the car pulled to a stop in front of the building. The headlights switched off and the interior was filled with deep shadows once more. I couldn’t hear the car door open over the sound of the water, but I heard the rattle of the padlock.
The only choice I had was to hug the wall beside the door and wait for the crook to enter. Then I could sneak out through the open door. Hopefully the sound of the water 
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would mask my footsteps. Once outside, I could call the police and we would have our Moriarty.
The door opened and a tall figure marched in. He headed straight toward the worktable. I didn’t stick around to find out who he was. I ducked outside and pulled out my phone. I dialed 911, but the call failed.
I groaned inwardly. Why is there never cell service when you need it most?
“Hey!” a voice shouted.
Caught, I spun around and was blinded by a flashlight. I squinted but could only make out a silhouette at first. He lowered the light and my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim moonlight. That’s when I recognized him.
Josh Jenkins held the flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other.

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18 LAST RELAY JOE
I NEVER REALIZED JUST HOW hard it was to pedal a bike at full speed and make a phone call. I gripped my wobbling handlebar with one hand and redialed my brother for the third time. Once again, the call just went to voice mail. I hung up and glanced at the screen. I suddenly knew why my calls weren’t getting through. The closer I got to the dam, the weaker my cell signal became.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and concentrated on getting to the dam as quickly as possible. The turnoff was only another mile away, but my strength was dwindling. With the track meet, the skateboard ride, and the bike ride across town, I was nearly spent.
I made it a few more yards before something snapped 
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below. My legs pedaled faster with no resistance whatsoever. My bicycle chain had broken.
Then the dangling chain tangled around my back tire and I lost control. I swerved off the road and couldn’t keep my balance when the tires hit the soft shoulder. My bike and I tumbled to the ground.
Breathing hard, I got to my feet. I only had a couple of scrapes and bruises after my tumble, but my bike wasn’t so lucky. The front tire was warped and the broken chain was tangled around the spokes of the back tire. I wasn’t getting to the dam on that tonight.
I left the bike where it was and began to run down the road. I couldn’t let Frank handle Bayport’s Moriarty alone. I kept telling myself it was just like one of my long-distance relays.
As I neared the red mud turnoff, the trees around me began to brighten. I glanced back and spotted headlights approaching. I paused and waved from the grassy shoulder but kept running. Maybe I could get a ride. The night grew brighter as the vehicle approached. It was a big white van. It slowed and pulled up alongside of me.
The passenger window lowered. “You okay, son?” asked the man driving.
I stopped and leaned forward to catch my breath. I held up a finger, letting him know that I wasn’t ignoring the question. “Bike . . . trouble,” I said between breaths.
I glanced up and got a better look inside. A heavyset man 
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sat behind the wheel. He had thick white hair and a white beard. He wore a friendly smile, and he was clearly concerned about the kid running alone in the dark.
“Can I give you a ride or something?” the man asked.
I held up another finger as I caught a few more breaths. Not getting into cars with strangers may have been Safety 101—it’s the first thing they taught us in elementary school, after all—but this was an emergency. I didn’t know what kind of situation my brother was in, and going by our track record, it could be a matter of life and death.
“Thanks,” I said. I was breathing easier now. “That would be great.”
I heard the door locks click and I opened the passenger door. I climbed in and buckled up.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
I pointed ahead. “Do you know where the city dam is?” I asked. “Down a little dirt road, up on the right?”
“Sure do,” he said as he put the van in gear. “Been there many times.”
The man began to drive, and I noticed how the van had been modified. Instead of pedals, the man accelerated using a small lever on the steering wheel. Another lever jutted out and must’ve been the brake.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the rest of the van was open; no other car seats were installed. However, a wheelchair was parked just behind the two front seats. There was some kind of lift installed just behind it, connected to a 
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large door on the passenger side. It must have been how the man exited the vehicle in his wheelchair.
“Thanks again,” I said, finally catching my breath. “This is kind of an emergency.”
“You in some kind of trouble?” the man asked.
“No,” I replied. “But I have a feeling my brother is.”

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19 COMING TOGETHER FRANK
BOY, WAS I IN TROUBLE.
I don’t know what kind of fear our Moriarty put into Josh Jenkins, but it was enough for him to get a gun involved and aim it right at my chest.
I slowly raised my hands. “Look, Josh, we can figure this out. I know this guy threatened your family, but we can go to the police.”
Jenkins shook his head. “No police. I told you that already.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “No police. But my brother and I can help you. We can find out who—”
Josh sneered. “Oh, yeah. Bayport’s big detectives. Following all the clues. Well, guess what? Your brother’s in 
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jail, Josh Jenkins is going to disappear, and you’re going for a little swim.”
“Disappear?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
He flicked the pistol twice, motioning me toward the edge of the dam. “Come on, get over there.”
From the corner of my eye, I spotted headlights in the distance. Someone was driving onto the dam. Josh hadn’t noticed them yet. I moved toward the edge as he instructed. But I inched away from the approaching headlights, making Josh turn his back to them. I didn’t know who was coming, but between keeping an eye on me and the sound of the water, maybe Josh wouldn’t notice right away. I might get a chance to run for it.
“Let’s go,” Josh ordered. “Climb over.”
I backed against the handrail. It came up to my waist, and it wouldn’t be any trouble to swing my legs over. But past the rail was a drop into the spillway that I didn’t think I’d survive. I wasn’t in a big hurry to climb over to find out. I had to stall for time.
“There has to be another way,” I said. “Maybe there’s something else. . . .”
“Something more important than family?” asked Josh.
Behind him, the headlights grew brighter and caught Josh’s attention. I thought this would be my chance to get away. However, Josh backed toward the pump station, letting him cover both me and the approaching vehicle.
A white van I didn’t recognize pulled to a stop behind 
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Josh’s SUV. The passenger door opened and Joe stepped out.
“Stay in the car, sir,” Joe told the driver. He raised his hands and slowly walked toward us. “Mr. Jenkins? Josh? What’s going on?”
“Well, look who it is,” said Josh. “I thought you’d be rotting in a cell about now. How did you talk your way out of that one?”
While Joe approached, I noticed the driver of the van moving around inside. Was he going to try something?
“Listen, Josh,” Joe continued. “We can work this out. No one has to get hurt.”
Jenkins shook his head. “Stop calling me that. I’m sick of going by that name.”
Behind Joe, a wide door slid open in the side of the van. A bearded man in a wheelchair appeared and jutted out on a special lift. The lift slowly lowered to the ground.
“Then what’s your name?” Joe asked.
“Bill Reynolds,” Jenkins replied.
Joe and I exchanged a glance. “No way,” said Joe. “That guy was in his forties. You’re way too young.”
The van’s lift reached the ground with a loud crunch. Its corners chipped away bits of rock as it hit the cement. If I had to guess, when the lift rose again, there would be small right-angle divots in the cement—the same kind of marks we’d seen on the garage floor from earlier.
“Let me guess,” I said to the guy formerly known as Josh. “You’re Bill Reynolds Junior.”
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“Very good, Frank,” said the bearded man. He grinned as he wheeled himself closer. “Long time no see.”
The man was older, had grown a beard, and had gained some weight, but it was Bill Reynolds. Bill Reynolds Sr. The Bill Reynolds from our past.
Bill Jr. smiled. “Like I said, family is everything. Boys, meet your Moriarty.”
That’s when I remembered that I had seen that white van before. In the Bayport Museum parking lot.

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20 REICHENBACH FALLS JOE
I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I had hitched a ride with the guy. The same guy who tried to throw my brother over the side of the dam a few years ago. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. I guess that’s what the Santa Claus look will do for you. Now both Frank and I stood next to the railing with our hands up.
“I thought you were in prison,” I said.
“Oh, I was,” said Reynolds. He wheeled himself closer. “But I got time off for good behavior. Plus . . .” He pointed to his legs. “Special consideration for my current condition.”
When Reynolds had gone over the side of the dam years ago, Frank and I had heard he had survived but with several broken bones and cracked vertebrae. No one said anything about him ending up in a wheelchair.
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Frank shook his head. “We didn’t know.”
“How could you? I recovered from the fall,” Reynolds said. “But let’s just say prison hospitals aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. They missed a bone fragment near my spinal cord. One minute I’m working in the prison laundry, the next I’m paralyzed from the waist down.”
“But you can’t blame us for—” I began.
“I blame you completely,” Reynolds interrupted. “And you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to get even with you two.” He jutted a thumb at his son. “With the help of Billy here, we researched you, your friends, most of your old cases. You know, you kids with your social media make it almost too easy. Anyway, we came up with a real doozy of a plan.”
“And they fell for all of it,” Billy added. “Every clue, every lead. They couldn’t resist.” He grinned at his father. “They even created their own archnemesis.”
Reynolds laughed. “Yeah, that was a hoot when I heard about this Moriarty guy. I don’t read the stuff myself, but Billy’s a fan.”
Billy stepped closer and glanced around. “It’s kind of fitting, don’t you think? Since Holmes and Moriarty had their final confrontation at Reichenbach Falls.”
“Yeah, but they both went over the falls,” I said.
“And Holmes lived,” Frank added. “Moriarty didn’t.”
Billy shrugged. “Well, those were just stories. This is reality.” He leveled the pistol at us.
“I truly enjoyed torturing you two,” said Reynolds Sr. 
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“Keeping you off guard, giving you just enough time to keep from getting arrested.” He wheeled himself closer. “I thought our last setup would do the trick, you know. Everything else had gone according to plan. But looks like you were too slick to be caught by the cops. Heck, when Billy told me about the cops finding the page in your car, well, I thought we were done. But this . . .” He smiled. “This is going to be so much better.”
“If you just wanted to frame us, why kill us now?” Frank asked.
Reynolds held up his hands. “Hey, I’m no killer. I just want you to go over the side there. You’ll have the same chance that I had. You’re both young. You might even survive.”
“It was an accident,” I said. “You tried to push Frank over first.”
Billy snarled. “Well, now we get to finish the job, don’t we?”
“Look,” Frank said. “The police are on their way. Our friend told them everything we know and where we are right now. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Why add murder to your list of crimes?”
Reynolds waved his hand dismissively. “Let ’em come. I used a remote to close the gate when we came through. You forget. These are my old stomping grounds.” He gestured at his legs. “As it were. Anyway, the gate has a magnetic lock, very hard to cut through.”
“Besides, after you jump, we’ll be long gone,” Billy added. “No one knows about Dad, and Josh Jenkins doesn’t exist.”
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“Yeah, there’s an old access road on the other side of the dam that no one remembers,” said Reynolds. “We’ll be out of the state before they pull your bodies out of the spillway.”
“Boy, they did plan everything,” I muttered.
Josh/Billy (whatever his name was) stepped forward and thrust the pistol at us. “So let’s get on with it.”
Frank and I turned and peered over the side. The thick torrent roared below. It splashed over the side of the dam and into the spillway below.
“I just have one more question.” I looked back at our captors. “How did you get the job at the museum, Josh? Could you really have faked a resume and that much experience?”
Reynolds growled. “Stop wasting time, Hardy.”
“Come on. At least let me close the case before I jump to my death.”
Josh/Billy chuckled. “You two make things fun, you know that? A real flair for the dramatic. Luckily for me, Bayport Museum isn’t the most high-tech of facilities. Faking a resume wasn’t hard at all. Just had to create a fake LinkedIn account and email address. And I really do I have a degree in art history. They were so excited about the crime exhibit I proposed that they hired me on the spot. Lovely people. I am sorry to have broken their trust.”
“Think about how sorry you’ll be after our deaths. You may hate us but I don’t think you want our deaths on your hands,” Frank reasoned.
Reynolds leaned forward in his chair. “I bet it’s real hard 
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to swim with a bullet in your leg.” He turned to his son. “Billy, plug one of them in the leg, will ya? I’ll let you pick which one.”
I raised both hands. “Okay, we’re going, we’re going!”
Frank and I each swung a leg over the railing. Straddling the rail, we faced each other.
“Maybe if we push off hard enough,” said Frank.
“We’re really going to do this?” I asked.
“I don’t see much of a choice,” Frank said, examining the fall once again.
“Who first, huh?” Reynolds laughed. “Or both together? Hand in hand, maybe?”
Suddenly a spotlight blinded me. Frank and I each raised a hand to shield our eyes. Through squinted eyelids, I could see the police helicopter hovering above. The roar of the water had completely masked its approach.
“Billy, no!” Reynolds shouted.
Billy raised the pistol, aiming it at the helicopter.
Without a word between us, Frank and I launched ourselves off the railing. We flew away from the churning water and toward Billy. We hit him hard, tackling him to the ground. The pistol flew from his hand and slid across the pavement, out of the circle of light.
Billy jerked an arm free and elbowed Frank in the stomach. I heard my brother grunt as he tumbled away. That left Billy’s hand free to whale on me. He punched me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Before I could 
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recover, he had jerked me to my feet and was shoving me back toward the edge. I tried to dig in, but my shoes skidded across the pavement. I scrambled to break his hold, but the day’s activities had finally caught up with me. I was too weak to slow him down. We slammed into the railing and flipped over the side of the dam.

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21 LOCAL EVENTS FRANK
JOE!” I COULD ONLY SHOUT as I watched my brother fly over the side of the dam.
I scrambled to my feet and ran after him, slamming into the railing to look down. The helicopter’s spotlight illuminated the scene below. I could see my brother holding on to the lip of the dam, his expression strained. Billy’s arms were wrapped around Joe’s waist. The two dangled over the churning water below.
“Hang on!” I shouted as I ducked under the railing. I lay flat on the ground and reached for my brother. I grabbed his arms with both hands. Joe reached up and held tight to my wrists.
I heard sirens over the sound of the water. The police 
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were on their way, and they would have ropes and gear for this type of situation. Unfortunately, I could tell that my brother wouldn’t hold on that long.
“Grab the post on three,” I grunted. “One, two, three!”
I pulled with all my might, lifting Joe toward the handrail support post. He let go of my wrist and clamped a hand onto the post.
“I’m going to pull again,” I said. “Try to lock your arm around it.”
Joe gave a quick nod in reply.
I growled as I pulled. Deadlifting Joe with just my arms would be hard enough. But it took everything I had to lift the weight of both Joe and Billy. I struggled to lift my brother high enough so he could wrap his arms around the post. He grabbed his wrist with his other hand, locking himself in place.
Now, with both hands free, I went for Billy. I had to get the extra weight off my brother. He didn’t look like he could hold that position much longer.
I reached down and clawed at Billy. He was locked tight on my brother, and I couldn’t get a solid grip. I tried for the back of his jeans, but they were just out of reach. I didn’t dare lean out farther for fear of going over myself.
The sirens were louder, but they weren’t going to make it in time.
Just then I heard something beside me. I jerked my head around to see Reynolds staring me in the face. He was out of 
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his chair and on the ground beside me. He could easily roll me over the side. I was so focused on Joe that I had forgotten about him. Once again, I was at the man’s mercy.
“Save my boy, please,” he pleaded. He grabbed the back of my waistband. “I can help.”
Putting my trust in a criminal (and trusting that he didn’t want his son to fall), I leaned way out over the edge. With Reynolds holding on to me, I was able to reach the back of Billy’s waistband. “I got him!” I shouted. “Pull!”
I felt myself being dragged backward as I lifted Billy up to the edge of the dam. He let go of Joe’s waist and grabbed onto another post. I heard my brother moan in relief as he shed the extra weight.
Footsteps erupted around us and hands appeared from every direction. They grabbed at Joe and Billy and lifted them completely onto the dam. Relieved, I rolled onto my back and caught my breath. I stared at the hovering helicopter, while silhouettes of police officers moved around above me.
“You okay, bro?” Joe asked.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “But you’re the one who decided to go for a high dive. Are you okay?”
“Oh, I think I could go to sleep right here for two days straight,” Joe said.
I got to my feet. “Come on,” I said as I helped my brother up. “Maybe they’ll have clean sheets in our cells.”
Red and blue lights flashed over the scene as police 
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officers led Billy away in handcuffs. Another officer followed, pushing Bill Reynolds Sr. toward the line of squad cars. A single figure emerged from the chaos and moved toward us. It was Lieutenant Wolfe.
“One thing,” she said as she stopped in front of us. “I ask you not to do one thing and what’s the first thing you do?”
“Uh, Lieutenant,” I said.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she told me. “I come to your house, ask a personal favor—”
“Favor?” I asked.
“And in four days, just four days”—she glanced around—“I’m running a major police operation.” She pointed to the sky. “We brought the helicopter. I don’t know if you noticed that.”
Joe raised a hand. “I . . . Thank you, ma’am.”
“Hector should’ve told you everything that’s been going on,” I said.
“Oh, he did,” she replied. “I almost locked him up on principle. You’re just lucky that the chief called to check in. It seems that whether he likes it or not, if you two have a lead, he takes it seriously.”
Joe nudged me. “Chief Olaf really does like us.”
“Lieutenant, are you going to lock us up as promised?” I asked.
Lieutenant Wolfe sighed. “No, I don’t suppose I will.” She held up a finger. “But here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to get both your statements, and when the chief 
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returns, you’re going to come in and tell him the whole thing in person.” She rolled her eyes. “Because that man is not going to believe a word of my report.”
“No problem,” said Joe. “We can do that.”
“But don’t worry,” said the lieutenant. “I’ll make sure he reads the newspaper article before you come in. Get him caught up on the local events.”
“Oh,” Joe said.
I shook my head. This was not going to be good.
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More from this Series




The Gray Hunter's…


Book 17
The Disappearance


Book 18




Dungeons & Detectives


Book 19
Return to Black Bear…


Book 20
More from the Author




Demolition Mission
Sea Life Secrets
Keep reading for a preview of
The Gray Hunter's Revenge


 
by
Franklin W. Dixon

JOE
THE HOUSE STOOD HIGH ON a hill, surrounded by the skeletons of trees. Dozens of crows perched on the trees’ branches, filling the silence with their harsh squawking. Frank and I stood next to the car, where he’d parked it after driving through the tall, wrought iron gates. Gates that had been kept closed for as long as anyone can remember. Closed and locked, until today.
As an amateur detective, I’ve been up against some crazy stuff in my time. Ruthless criminals, fiery explosions, and killer sharks to name a few. But Cliffside Manor was a whole new level of terrifying. I mean, sure, it was just a house. But the things that had supposedly happened inside that house, 
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well . . . They were things that would keep even the bravest soul up at night.
I couldn’t wait to get inside!
“You ready?” Frank asked, a chilly late-autumn breeze ruffling his dark brown hair.
I zipped up my coat against the cold and glanced back up at the house. It was constructed out of stone bricks that were almost black with age and sported a chimney on each side—one of them crumbling. Two large bay windows looked out across the estate like unblinking eyes, dark and forbidding. “I was born ready,” I replied with a grin.
We started to walk toward the house, passing a dozen other parked cars on the way. “Looks like we’re not the only ones coming to the estate sale,” Frank observed.
I snorted. “Are you kidding me? I’m surprised the entire city isn’t here. Who in their right mind would pass up the chance to go inside the hundred-year-old, superscary, superhaunted house?”
“Not Joe Hardy,” Frank muttered, smirking.
“Darn right, not Joe Hardy!” I said. “Not only that; I might get to buy something belonging to one of the greatest horror writers of all time—Nathan Foxwood!”
Frank’s smile fell. “It’s awful about the car accident,” he said. “I know you really liked his books.”
“Yeah,” I replied, kicking a rock across the long driveway. “I did.” Not a lot of people knew about Nathan Foxwood anymore, but back in the day, he was one of the most famous 
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authors in the world. A handful of his books had even been made into movies. When I was little, there was always a tattered Nathan Foxwood paperback on my dad’s nightstand—usually with some kind of scary picture on the front and a portrait of the author himself on the back. He was a wolfish looking guy—with dark hair and a short beard and piercing eyes that seemed to bore right into you. Once I found out I was supposedly too young to read them, I promptly “borrowed” one from Dad’s bedroom and hid in the closet to binge-read it with a flashlight. From then on, I was hooked.
A few years ago the news spread that Mr. Foxwood and his wife were buying the abandoned estate on the outskirts of town—the infamous Cliffside Manor. No one could understand why he’d want to live in such a terrible place—but I could. Nathan Foxwood’s books were always full of the scariest things imaginable, so I figured maybe he was just trying to get some new material firsthand. I had always hoped to run into him in downtown Bayport and get to meet one of my idols, but it never happened.
And now it was too late.
Just a couple of months ago, sometime in the middle of the night, Mr. Foxwood came tearing down the hill from the manor in his car, lost control, and careened right off the side of the cliff that bordered the estate. The car burned at the bottom of the ravine for hours before anyone found out.
Rumors had been swirling ever since that Mr. Foxwood had been working on a new novel since he’d moved into 
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town—a book about Cliffside Manor itself and its dark history. If that were true, it was a shame that he’d never get to finish it. I’d been waiting years for a new Nathan Foxwood novel.
As Frank and I approached the house, we saw a small group of people milling around near the front entrance. “Is that a reporter?” Frank asked, eyeballing a woman on the edge of the crowd holding a notepad and a camera bag. She was tall with deep brown skin and had twists of black hair cascading down her back.
“Might be,” I said.
“Well, try to control yourself this time, will you?”
I rolled my eyes. I flirt with one reporter who then goes and writes an article slanted against the police, and now I’ll never hear the end of it. Granted, it did cause some problems for us. As we reached the crowd, the wind picked up suddenly, and I watched as the reporter’s notepad went flying out of her hands and landed at my feet.
I picked up the notepad, threw a backward glance at Frank, and shrugged. “I was totally planning on controlling myself, bro,” I said. “But it looks like the universe has other ideas.” I strolled over to the young woman and handed back the notepad.
“Thanks,” she said with a wide smile. “Seems like the weather is conspiring to be as creepy as this house.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “Are you here to cover the estate sale?”
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She nodded. “Aisha Best. I’m a reporter with the local newspaper. I’m actually hoping to snag an interview with Heather Foxwood—the writer’s wife. I’ve heard that she’s got quite the story about what went on in there before her husband died. No one’s been able to get a hold of her since the accident, so I’m trying to get an exclusive.” Aisha quirked her head at me. “What brings you here to the sale, mister . . . ?”
I sneaked a look back at Frank, who was standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, looking less than thrilled. “Umm,” I said, biting my lip. “Oh, I’m just a fan, that’s all. Looking to pick up some memorabilia.”
Aisha raised an eyebrow, and looked like she was about to ask more questions when the front door of the manor opened. Everyone in the crowd went quiet instantly.
A wiry guy with a shaved head and copper-colored skin poked his head out of the door, his eyes roving the scene through black-rimmed glasses. He was also wearing a bow tie that seemed to be decorated with other tiny bow ties—which I thought was a little weird, but hey, it’s fashion, who am I to talk? After checking his wristwatch and adjusting said bow tie, he stepped out of the house and opened his arms in welcome.
“Hello everyone,” he said loudly, “and thank you for coming to the estate sale here at Cliffside Manor. My name is Adam Parker, and I’m the late Mr. Foxwood’s assistant. I’m sure you’re all eager to come in out of the cold, so please step inside the house, and I’ll explain how all this works.”
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Frank and I filed in behind the rest of the crowd as they trooped though the front door. I elbowed Frank in excitement as we climbed up the stone stairs at the entryway. “We’re going in! Hardly anyone has been inside this place in decades!”
Frank nodded, his eyes flashing with curiosity. “The place is probably like a time capsule. It’s more than a hundred years old, you know. There might be boxes of nineteenth-century newspapers just sitting around in a basement somewhere!”
I snorted. “Bro, need I remind you that we are about to enter Cliffside Manor? As in, the most haunted house on this side of the Mississippi? And you’re revving your engines over some pile of dusty newspapers?”
“Hey,” Frank retorted. “At least newspapers are real. What do you expect, for some phantasm to come sailing through the walls and take a selfie with you?”
“No,” I said, annoyed. Of course, when he said it that way, being so excited about the haunted aspect of the manor did seem a little silly. “Anyway,” I continued as we crossed the threshold into the house, “ghosts or no ghosts, you’ve got to admit—this house has seen its share of sinister stuff.”
Frank nodded, and I saw his eyes flick around nervously as we stepped into the front room. Legend had it that the people who’d first owned in the house, a wealthy, aristocratic family, had unknowingly built it on a piece of land belonging to a solitary man who lived in a cabin in the woods nearby. The man, who hunted deer and rabbits 
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for food, was furious that this family had taken over and spoiled his land, but he had no legal leg to stand on, and therefore wasn’t taken seriously by the family or anyone in town. The story goes that on one particular night, when a raucous dinner party filled the forest with noise and light all night, the man broke into the house carrying an ax—and left no one inside alive. Once the horrific scene was discovered, the local police pursued him into the dark forest, where he supposedly threw himself over the cliff ’s edge. His body was never found.
No one wanted to live in the manor after that. Gossip hung around the place like a cloud of smoke—people claimed to see the figure of the man, who they named the Gray Hunter, lurking in the shadows of the house, frightening off anyone who dared to enter. Of course, plenty of people think the whole story was nothing more than an urban legend meant to be told around a campfire, but still—just looking at the house gave you the willies.
As we entered the foyer, what I found there did nothing to dispel the idea that the place was, like, one hundred percent haunted. Heavy velvet curtains covered every window, and the only light that pierced the gloom came from a dusty chandelier above our heads. Where there wasn’t creepy oil paintings of little girls and long-dead rich guys with white wigs on, the walls were covered in peeling, olive-colored wallpaper. The whole place smelled of mold, overlaid with a cloying vanilla scent that must have been sprayed around 
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in an attempt to mask the stench of rot. It was quiet except for the ticking of a hulking grandfather clock and the wind moaning through the rafters, a sound that sent shivers down my spine.
It. Was. Awesome!
I glanced over at Frank to see if he was enjoying this as much as I was. “Isn’t this great?” I asked him. “It’s so creepy! I can totally imagine a Nathan Foxwood book about this place.”
“The atmosphere is pretty cool,” Frank admitted, studying the room. But then he wrinkled his nose. “I could do without the smell, though.”
Our guide, Adam, had climbed halfway up the staircase to the second floor and was trying to get everyone’s attention. “Welcome to Cliffside Manor,” he said over the murmuring of the crowd. “All of the items for sale by the Foxwood estate are clearly marked with labels and suggested prices. If you are interested in purchasing an item, simply pick it up and bring it down to this room to complete the sale.” He gestured toward a table where several people sat with open laptops and a cash box. “If an item is too large to carry, you can ask one of the assistants here to mark it ‘sold’ on your behalf. Please be courteous to other customers and . . .” Adam’s voice trailed off. He looked unsure of what to say next, but finally cleared his throat and continued. “And, just be careful. As you all probably know, this is a very old house, and things can happen 
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unexpectedly in places like these.” He clapped his hands once, as if trying to clear the air of the mystery that surrounded his words. “Well! I won’t take up any more of your time. Good hunting, everyone!”
People in the crowd immediately shot off in different directions, probably in search of the most valuable items on offer. “I’m going to check out the study,” Frank said. “I heard that Nathan Foxwood had a ton of true crime books in his collection—I’d like to snag a few if they aren’t too pricey. Where are you off to?”
I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. “I’d like to buy something if I can, but I want to do a little exploring first. Take it all in. How often do you get to just walk around a place like this?”
Frank nodded and said he’d meet back up with me in the main room in half an hour. With most of the shoppers milling around the first floor, I thought I’d get away from the pack and head upstairs. I loped up the steps two at a time until I reached the landing, where two murky hallways led away from the balcony that looked down on the foyer below. So I did what I always did when I faced a choice like this—I turned left.
The second floor of the house was no less creepy than the first—and being alone up there only upped the freaky factor tenfold. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs lurked invisibly in the air, only to be discovered by my face when I walked straight into one.
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After recovering from that unpleasant, creepy-crawly sensation, I have to admit—I was starting to get a little freaked out. I kept getting this weird feeling that someone was watching me, but whenever I turned around, there was no one there.
Get ahold of yourself, Hardy! I thought. I mean, wasn’t this what I wanted? A real-life haunted house experience? For all I knew, Nathan Foxwood himself had walked down these halls, getting inspiration for whatever he’d been working on before he died. I wonder if this place freaked him out, too.
As if in answer, somewhere up ahead there was an ear-splitting scream.
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FRANK
BY THE TIME I GOT to the study, it looked like a lot of the hot ticket items had already been snatched up and the crowd had moved on. I found myself alone. The room had a high ceiling and wall-to-wall bookshelves—many of them now half-empty after being pillaged by the shoppers. Even the great mahogany desk near the window already had a SOLD sticker on it. I was surprised to see that the antique black typewriter on the desk hadn’t been taken as well, but then again, it didn’t have a tag, so maybe it wasn’t for sale. I remember reading in Nathan Foxwood’s obituary that he was infamously old-fashioned when it came to his writing—he apparently never used a computer, preferring to write his books on typewriters.
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I noticed a piece of paper was still set inside the typewriter, with half a page of writing left incomplete midsentence. It was a little spooky, seeing it left behind like that, knowing that the man who had been working away at it would never get to finish the thought. I leaned over to read the words on the page, my curiosity getting the best of me.
The night was full of creeping shadows, I read, and my heart leaped, sickeningly, at each creak of the house, at every moan across the gutters. I felt like a deer in the woods, smelling the hunter on the breath of the wind, knowing that though I still lived my fate was sealed. And then I saw him. Too large to be a living man, and too silent besides—he appeared like a devil at my bedroom door, lit from within by an unearthly glow and hefting an axe in his hands. “The Hunter,” I whispered. I had scoffed at the villagers’ warnings, ignored their dread tales—but I had been wrong. I hadn’t believed in the Hunter, but he did not need my belief to come for my blood. I opened my mouth to—
That was all.
Never really being interested in horror stories myself, I’d never picked one up, though Joe pushed them in my face as often as he could. But reading this now, I could see why he liked them. The words sort of grabbed you and didn’t let go. Despite myself, I shivered.
And then I felt a prickle at my neck. A sensation like I was being watched. Figuring it was just another shopper who had come into the room while I was reading, I turned 
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around to face them—but there was no one there. And then movement outside the window caught my eye, and I looked through the gauzy, threadbare curtains to see what appeared to be a figure looming on the other side. It was a large, dark shape, made featureless by the gray light behind it. I took a step closer and saw the outline of an object it seemed to be holding in its hands. A familiar object, one that glinted sharply as it moved.
An ax.
My breath caught in my throat and I stumbled back—and at that exact moment I heard the sound of a distant scream. I instinctively turned toward the sound. Did it come from upstairs? What was going on? Remembering what I’d seen, I turned back to the window, back to the dark figure—but when I looked again, it was gone.
Had I been imagining things? Joe and his ridiculous stories are getting into my head! I went to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Out on the balcony there was a decorative stone statue of a man—could that have been what I’d seen? Was it just a trick of the light?
That didn’t matter now. Forcing myself to focus, I ran out of the room to try and find the source of the scream. Everyone in the front room was pointing upstairs, looking spooked, so I took two stairs at a time until I reached the landing.
“Joe!” I called out. “Where are you?”
“In here!” came his reply from a room at the end of the hall.
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I entered the murky sitting room to find Joe kneeling down next to a woman who held one shaky hand to her head, her face ashen. She looked to be in her forties, with dark, wavy hair streaked with silver, and blue eyes that fixed on me as I came in. “I heard a scream,” I said, breathless. “Is everything all right?”
“Frank,” Joe began, “This is Heather Foxwood. She’d passed out when I came into the room, but she seems fine now.”
“Should I call an ambulance?” I asked her.
“N-no,” she managed. “I’m not ill. It’s just that ... well, I saw something.”
“What?” I asked.
Mrs. Foxwood looked down at the floor, shaking her head. “It’s impossible,” she muttered to herself. “It can’t be.”
“Please,” I urged. “Just tell us what you saw.”
Mrs. Foxwood took a deep, shuddering breath before saying, “It was him. The man from the stories. The Gray Hunter.”
There was a moment of silence as Joe and I let this sink in. What was she saying? That she’d seen a ghost? There had to be another explanation. Was someone playing a cruel prank on a mourning widow?
“Tell us exactly what happened,” Joe encouraged her.
“I was just in here putting tickets on a few final items,” she said. “When the room suddenly got colder. And then I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye—and there he was. He appeared out of nowhere, just there”—she pointed 
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at the stone fireplace in front of us—“with an ax in his hands. He was coming toward me, soundless, when I screamed. I must have blacked out then. When I came to, though, no one was here but this young man.” She gestured at Joe, who was clearly enthralled by her story.
And so I felt it was my duty to be the voice of reason in all of this.
“Mrs. Foxwood,” I said. “My name is Frank Hardy, and you’ve already met my brother Joe. Solving mysteries is kind of a hobby of ours, so we’ve seen a lot of strange stuff—but they always turn out to have a logical explanation. Can you think of anyone who’d want to scare you like this? You are a local celebrity, and with what’s happened, your name has been in the papers a lot over the past few days.”
Mrs. Foxwood sighed. “I know what you’re thinking—the grieving widow of a horror writer seeing ghosts in her house. It’s almost cliché. But I am a scientist, Mr. Hardy. I don’t have my head in the clouds like my husband did. Like you, I believe in facts. I believe in what I can see right in front of my eyes.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders as a shiver shook her. “And what I saw was something I cannot explain.”
At that moment a bunch of people—including Adam Parker—came into the room, swarming around Heather Foxwood like buzzing bees. I pulled Joe out into the hallway, trying to get away from the chaos, but even out there people were hanging around, gossiping.
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“Did you hear?” one woman was saying. “Heather Foxwood saw the Hunter!”
“Really!” said an older man with her. “I just overheard a couple other folks saying they’d seen some kind of shadowy figure lurking around as they were shopping. Looks like this place is haunted after all!”
I was rattled. Joe was overjoyed.
“It’s like being in a real Nathan Foxwood novel!” he crowed.
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t really think she saw a ghost, do you?” But then I suddenly remembered what I’d seen back in the study, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
Joe noticed the change in my mood immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing, nothing,” I said.
But my brother’s like a bloodhound—once he’s picked up a scent, he’ll follow it until the ends of the earth. He squinted at me and exclaimed, “You saw something too, didn’t you! Don’t lie to me, bro—you know I can see right through you.”
I crossed my arms, annoyed. “Fine! Yes, I saw something. But I’m sure there’s an explanation for that too!” So I told him what I’d seen back in the study.
As I described the figure, Joe’s eyes widened in amazement. “It was the Gray Hunter!”
“Or someone dressed up like the Gray Hunter, more like.” I retorted.
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“Oh, really? You said that you saw the figure only seconds before you heard Mrs. Foxwood scream. But that would have been the exact same time that she saw him. So tell me how this person managed to be in two places at once?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn’t think of a good answer. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Yet.”
“Excuse me,” a voice broke in. Joe and I turned to see Adam Parker standing in front of us, his bow tie askew, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Mrs. Foxwood tells me that you’re Frank and Joe Hardy, the amateur detectives. Thank you for coming to her aid back there.”
“Sure thing,” I replied.
“I wonder if you would be willing to do me a favor,” he continued. “I’m in a bit of a predicament here, and I’m not sure where else to turn.”
Joe grinned, not even making an attempt to disguise his excitement. “Of course,” he answered. “What can we do to help?”
Adam straightened his tie and launched into his story. “So, being an aspiring writer myself, getting to be Nathan Foxwood’s assistant seemed like a dream come true. I could learn from the best, right? And for a while, it was like that. Mr. Foxwood was a great guy—he was always full of ideas. Until a couple of months before his death. That’s when things started to fall apart. It was almost like Mr. Foxwood was losing touch with reality. I’d find him talking to himself, claiming to see things that weren’t there. He heard 
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voices. Eventually it got so bad that the night of the accident, Mrs. Foxwood was so upset about his behavior that she left to go stay with a friend for the night. I tried to talk some sense into him, but Mr. Foxwood was out of his mind. He threw me out.” Adam looked at the floor. “I didn’t find out about the accident until late the next day. I was in shock. Anyway, I figured that was the end of it, but then all these strange things started happening. Weird noises in the house. Whispers. Things going missing from the house. I started to think I was losing my mind too! And now all this mess at the estate sale—the reporters are already having a field day!” Adam covered his face and sighed. “Look guys, I don’t believe in ghosts any more than the next person. But something is going on here. Mrs. Foxwood doesn’t want the police involved—she’s been through enough as it is—but I need to get to the bottom of this. Would you be willing to look into it for me? I don’t know where else to turn.”
I had to admit, the whole situation had really piqued my interest. Even if Adam hadn’t asked us to take the case, not knowing the truth about what was really going on would have nagged at me for ages. When I glanced over at Joe, the dopey grin on his face told me that he was already in the game. “We’d love to help,” I replied. “When do you want us to start?”
“Tonight,” Adam answered. “At midnight. Mrs. Foxwood is holding a memorial for Nathan outside on the grounds. She’s going to read an excerpt from the book he 
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finished right before he died, then spread the ashes. Most of their friends and colleagues will be there, so it’s the perfect opportunity for you guys to sniff around and talk to people.”
Joe gave a sharp nod. “We’ll be there,” he said.
As we walked out of the house and back into the windy, gray day, I couldn’t help but wonder who—or what—else would be joining us that night.
The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook
Franklin W. Dixon

CHAPTER I MYSTERY OF THE VANISHING PLASTICS Undercover Work
"Boys, I've taken on an important investigation for the Domas Plastics Company of Dover. I think you can help me."
Fenton Hardy, the famous private detective, sat behind the mahogany desk in his study and looked across at eighteen-year-old Frank and his brother Joe, who was a year younger.
"How, Dad?" dark-haired Frank asked eagerly.
"I'm convinced," Mr. Hardy went on, "that this case can be solved only by undercover work. Since you're on vacation, how would you like to be my assistants?"
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"Try and stop us," Joe said with a grin.
"We were hoping something exciting would turn up this summer," Frank said.
The boys were pleased that their father had so much faith in their detective ability. Mr. Hardy had trained his sons thoroughly in police science and they had become very proficient investigators.
"When do we start?" Frank asked.
"I've already laid the plans," his father replied. "Listen to them carefully. As of tomorrow, you'll be known as Frank and Joe Ghent and will be given credentials for those names."
"Wow! Cover names and all!" Frank exclaimed.
"You'll go to the employment office of the Domas Plastics Company," Mr. Hardy continued, "and you'll be given jobs in their packing department. I've reserved accommodations for all of us in a rooming house in Dover. We'll have adjoining rooms."
"Will you be working undercover too, Dad?" Joe asked.
"Yes. I'm Jerry Ghent, your uncle. I'll be employed in the shipping room."
"Exactly what are we supposed to look for, Dad?" Frank inquired.
"I'm coming to that. Domas is a fairly large company. They make household articles and some rather expensive decorative items. Past inventories have shown small losses in finished goods, probably due to pilferage by employees. The last inventory, however, has shown a staggering loss.
"Besides this, two molds which cost the company ten thousand dollars apiece have been stolen."
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"Dad," interjected Joe, "why do you want us in the packing department?"
Mr. Hardy studied a sheaf of notes. "I've a feeling that's where the action starts. A lot of Domas products, packaged as usual, are being sold all over the state under the guise of a special sale for less than the list price."
"Who sells them?" Frank asked.
"They are offered by telephone and delivered C.O.D.—cash on delivery, by various truck drivers. The physical descriptions of the men are not very conclusive."
"About those molds," Joe spoke up. "Are there any clues to them?"
"Yes. Two rival plastics companies have informed the president of Domas, Mr. Albert Matt, that they were approached by an unknown man over the telephone. He offered to sell the molds for five thousand dollars each. I have communicated with every plastics manufacturer who makes products similar to the Domas line and asked them to notify Mr. Matt in case they are contacted by anyone offering to sell the molds. All these companies have agreed to cooperate."
"Who else knows about our role in this operation?" Frank asked.
"Only Mr. Matt, George Sard, who is the plant manager, and Captain Nast of the Dover Detective Bureau."
Mr. Hardy leaned forward to emphasize his next point. "Tomorrow morning report in your work clothes to Mr. Sard. He'll be expecting you, and place each of you in one of the two packing rooms.
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"From there on you'll be on your own. Keep your ears and eyes open and make a mental note of everything. Follow all the rules of undercover work and you should have no trouble."
The boys nodded.
"We'll meet at night," Mr. Hardy went on, "and compare notes. Is it all clear?"
"So far, yes," Joe replied. "We're to discover how the merchandise is disappearing and who is stealing it."
"Exactly, son."
"And," Frank put in, "we must find out where the plastic molds are. It seems to me that whoever is stealing the merchandise is also involved in the theft of the molds."
"That's my deduction, too," Mr. Hardy said.
"Have you checked the background of all the personnel in the plant, Dad?" Joe asked.
"The Dover police did. They investigated everyone from the president down to the porters. But since all the members of the police department are likely to be known to the thieves, I was called in to do the undercover work."
Mr. Hardy paused, then went on. "Domas needs few skilled workers. They've been hiring a number of unskilled employees. Most of the routine jobs are done by them. The key workers are older, skilled machinists who make the molds and work the presses. Then there are about twenty younger men, mostly unskilled. They do the heavy work, including packing and shipping.
"It's in the last group that four have criminal
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records," Mr. Hardy continued. "At this point, all employees are suspect, but I think these deserve special attention. Have a look." He handed his sons four dossiers.
Frank and Joe examined the material as carefully as if studying for a final exam. They memorized the men's outstanding physical characteristics and inspected their criminal records minutely. Finally they placed the folders before their father.
"Well," Mr. Hardy said with a smile, "let's see what you've learned about these characters. Which one served a sentence in Sing Sing?"
"Alexander Smathers," the boys replied simultaneously.
"Joe," the detective went on, "tell me all you can remember about him."
Joe drew a deep breath. "Smathers has the worst criminal record of all. He was born in Brooklyn, is five-feet four-inches tall, weighs one hundred and forty-five pounds, has gray eyes, large nose, wavy brown hair, dresses flashily, is a bachelor and likes to gamble. He is a fast talker, has small, close-set eyes, good teeth, seldom smiles, moves and walks quickly. He'll be easy to recognize, Dad."
"Frank, has Joe left anything out?"
"He forgot the age, which is thirty-seven. Smathers' long record shows convictions for assault and battery, grand larceny, burglary and embezzlement."
"I knew that, but forgot to mention it," Joe said sheepishly.
Mr. Hardy nodded, then said to Frank, "Tell us what you've learned about Sam Streeter."
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"He's thirty years old, five-feet eleven-inches tall, weighs one hundred and ninety pounds, was born in Cleveland. He has spent most of his life in New York. He has brown eyes, low forehead, black hair, big mouth, large protruding ears, square jaw, poor teeth, and moves slowly."
Frank hesitated a moment. "Oh, yes. He has a poor education, is not very intelligent, dresses in work clothes or sport clothes, and is not married. He has a long record of convictions for grand larceny. I guess that's about all."
"Have you anything to add?" Mr. Hardy asked Joe.
"Only that Streeter smokes cigars. He seems to have one in his mouth all the time and chews on it."
"Let's go on from here," said Mr. Hardy, obviously pleased. "Frank, tell us about Harry Rands."
"Rands is twenty-two. He was born in New York City, is single, has a long juvenile record for assault and battery, purse snatchings, burglary and larceny. He has two convictions as an adult, for auto thefts and grand larceny. It also seems that he will resort to violence at the slightest provocation, mainly because he is strong and muscular. He is five-feet ten-inches tall, weighs one hundred and eighty pounds, has brown eyes, brown wavy hair, fair complexion.
"Rands graduated from high school. He has a nervous habit of cracking his fingers and laughs loudly at the smallest jokes. That's all that's important, I guess."
"How about the last character?" inquired Mr. Hardy, looking at Joe quizzically.
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"Let's review the rules about undercover work," said Mr. Hardy
"His name is Edward Cowell and his nickname is Slick. A convicted thief; he is twenty-three years old, about five-feet six-inches, weighs one hundred and forty pounds, has long black hair, brown eyes, and a small flat nose. Cowell blinks his eyes continually. He is sarcastic and always ready with a wisecrack."
"Very good," said Mr. Hardy. "Now let's review the rules about undercover work. Joe, you begin."
"Okay. An undercover operator is one who changes his character so that he can associate with criminals
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and obtain information necessary to an investigation and—"
"You mean he's got to be a good actor!" interjected Frank.
"That's right." His father nodded.
"As I was saying before I was interrupted," Joe continued with a smile, "an undercover operator must be intelligent and possess initiative. He should be courageous and cool at all times."
"Very good," Mr. Hardy said. "Now, Frank, since you seem so eager to get into this act, tell us something about the preparations for an undercover agent."
"That's easy. First, he must know exactly what information he's looking for. Next, he learns the best character to assume under the circumstances and plays that role so well he actually becomes the character.
"He must dress the part and use the kind of speech expected from him. He learns to anticipate every possible question that he may be asked and give predetermined answers whenever possible. How's that?"
"Frank, you forgot a couple of things," Joe stated. "An agent working undercover must never carry any incriminating papers, letters, badges, or other articles that may reveal his true identity. He makes it his business to create situations where he may meet, talk to, and become familiar with those persons from whom he is seeking information. In the Domas case we'll be working with them and probably eating at the same places. Right, Dad?"
"Correct. Now what have we left out?"
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"Communications with headquarters," Frank replied. "But the reason I didn't bring it up is that we won't have that problem. You'll be there in the same rooming house with us."
"Let's review it anyway, in the event our plans should change," said the detective.
"Okay, here goes," Frank volunteered. "Every agent must communicate with headquarters or another agent acting as a go-between. He must memorize all telephone numbers he might have to call, or addresses he might have to write to. He can't take chances and carry written telephone numbers or addresses around. If he has an appointment to meet another agent, he must choose the location carefully and exercise caution going to and from it. If he is followed, it means failure."
Mr. Hardy added solemnly, "The revelation that an agent is working undercover has sometimes meant his death. So, boys, be careful. Here are identification papers made out in your new names. We will try to stick as close to the true story of your lives as possible. You were both born in Bayport and attended school here. Your father died when you were young.
"The reason you came to work for Domas was because you have been thrown out of school after being in trouble with the police many times and—"
"What kind of trouble?" interrupted Frank.
"Well, let's not make you too bad," replied Mr. Hardy with a grin. "Just a few arrests for burglary, purse snatching, and a car theft. That's a typical juvenile delinquency pattern."
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"Wow!" exclaimed Frank, looking at Joe. "We sure are a couple of hoods!"
Next day the young detectives presented themselves at the Domas Plastics Company and were immediately hired. Joe was to work in packing room designated as Number 1, and Frank in Number 2. The first day was uneventful, marked by little conversation between themselves and their co-workers. Both realized that they were subjected to stares of curiosity by their colleagues.
That night the three Hardys met in the detective's room to review their activities. "I'm certain you didn't learn much today," Mr. Hardy said. "That's to be expected. But I hope you've been thinking about the possible ways in which those thefts are being made."
"Joe and I talked about it after work," Frank said. "We cased the layout. Both packing rooms are alike, except in size. No one but employees of the packing and shipping departments are allowed to enter. So far we have no idea who steals the stuff and how. Seems like a tough case, Dad."
The detective looked at his son severely. "You're forgetting your role! Call me Uncle Jerry at all times!"
"Sorry, er—Uncle Jerry."
Joe said, "I recognized Harry Rands. He works in my packing room and looks like a mean customer. All the workers seem to be afraid of him."
"Cowell is in my packing room," Frank said. "And the nickname Slick fits him like a glove. He talks to everybody in the place and moves around quickly."
"Smathers and Streeter are in the shipping department with me," Mr. Hardy added.
11
Frank stood up and paced around the room. "Joe and I went to the luncheonette down the street at noon," he said. "Smathers and Streeter came in. They started to play the pinball machine. Rands and Cowell joined them. They were playing for money on high scores."
"Yes!" said Joe. "And who do you think was winning most of the time?"
"Slick?"
"Right."
"By the way, Uncle Jerry," Frank said, "they looked our way a few times, probably talking about us."
"Don't worry about their curiosity," said Mr. Hardy. "But avoid becoming self-conscious and betraying yourselves."
The boys nodded.
Joe suddenly exclaimed, "I've got it! A good way to meet those guys would be to get to the luncheonette early and start playing the pinball machine while we eat our sandwiches. Maybe they'll offer to play with us."
"An excellent idea," Mr. Hardy said approvingly. "But don't overact your parts."
Next evening the three gathered again. The detective sat down in a comfortable chair and the boys lounged on his bed, looking glum.
"What happened today?" Mr. Hardy began.
"Nothing on my end," Joe replied.
"I made a little progress," Frank said. "Cowell spoke to me a few times. Asked where I was from and things like that, but I made believe I wasn't too eager to talk."
12
"Good. Now don't be so disappointed. You can't make much progress in a day or two."
"We can't spend months, either," Joe said. "We'll have to get back to school!"
Mr. Hardy laughed. "Don't worry. I believe we'll get a break sooner than you think. By the way, what happened to the pinball machine idea?"
Frank looked crestfallen. "I stopped to wash when the lunch-hour whistle blew, and when I reached the outside and met Joe, he told me that our friends had already gone into the luncheonette. I guess they didn't stop to clean up."
"The moral of this story is, don't be too clean. I suggest you go to lunch promptly tomorrow."
Next evening Joe started the conversation. "Nothing important happened today, except that we did beat them to the pinball machine. When they filed in and saw us playing, our suspects gave us black glances and whispered among themselves. But none of them offered to play with us!"
"That's right," said Frank, "and I noticed that Cowell was staring at me all afternoon. I wonder if he's suspicious."
"It probably means," Mr. Hardy replied, "that he's becoming interested in you and is observing you closely. Sooner or later you'll get a break—provided you're careful."
"Uncle Jerry, I noticed one thing that may be important," said Joe. "A man came into the luncheonette and ate with our suspects. He also walked into the packing room three times during the afternoon and
13
spoke with Cowell. One of the girls told me he's Clarence Sard, the manager's brother, who's in charge of quality control."
Mr. Hardy's eyebrows arched. "Hm! They could have been discussing business, but it's a little odd that he would have lunch with the packers. Usually the Sards eat at The Pub. I'll check this angle out tomorrow."
The next two days Frank and Joe drew a blank, and so did Mr. Hardy. But at the beginning of the second week, all were smiling when they met in the detective's room.
Joe spoke first. "Believe it or not, Rands talked to me a couple of times today. He seemed friendly."
"And Cowell was buddy-buddy with me," said Frank. "He made it his business to work near me as much as possible. At lunch he and I played pinball for a while, then Joe and Rands joined us. We played for a nickel a game and Cowell won almost every time. He surely knows how to manipulate that machine!"
"I can't understand what made them so friendly," Joe remarked.
Mr. Hardy grinned. "I might be responsible for that. I told a couple of gossipy fellows confidentially that you boys had been in trouble with the police and had served a term in reform school. Evidently the news has reached your friends!"
Frank said soberly. "There's one thing that bothers me. Smathers and Streeter never came over to the pinball machine."
"The reason," Mr. Hardy replied, "is probably be-
14
cause they are older and more suspicious. It will take them a while longer to accept you. Now both of you go take a walk, then go to bed. I have some thinking to do."
The next evening Frank was leaving the plant when Cowell called to him. "Wait, Frank!" The man sidled up and whispered, "What have you got in your pockets?"
Defiantly the boy answered, "None of your business!"
"I saw you take those ashtrays," Cowell said. "But I won't squeal. What are you going to do with them?"
Frank glanced left and right, then said, "I'm going to sell them. I spent all my money over the weekend and I'm broke." Nervously he added, "You're not going to report me, are you?"
"Naw. But that's only petty larceny stuff. You ought to get into the big money."
"I'm game," Frank said. "But where are you going to find big-time stuff in this joint?"
Cowell looked thoughtful, as if he had said too much. "I'm just kidding," he muttered. "Forget it. I'll see you tomorrow."
Frank waited outside the plant for Joe and told him of the conversation. Then they headed for the rooming house and went directly to their father's room. The detective arrived minutes later, and Frank relayed the information.
"That was fast thinking," Mr. Hardy said.
"I made sure Cowell saw me put the stuff into my pockets," Frank remarked.
15
Joe grinned. "That's how to make friends with thieves. Seems we're headed for action!"
"Good," Mr. Hardy said, and added, "Domas has been manufacturing some new products. In a week or so they should be ready for shipment. Unless we can crack this case before then, the company will begin to lose a large amount of merchandise right away."
"Uncle Jerry, you've been working close to Streeter and Smathers," Joe said. "How have they been acting lately?"
"At first they were aloof and suspicious. But the past two days they've been more friendly—even asked about you boys."
"No kidding," Frank said. "Cowell quizzes me about you, too. They're comparing our answers."
"This shows," Mr. Hardy said emphatically, "that you can't be too careful about what you say."
The three sat up late, mapping their strategy. It was agreed that if any move occurred, it would have to be through the initiative of the suspects. Frank would continue "pilfering" plastics and Joe would begin the next day.
The friendly relations among Frank, Joe, Cowell, and Rands grew during the rest of the week. They played the pinball machine at lunch and were joined by Streeter and Smathers.
On Friday, as Frank and Cowell were walking to the luncheonette, Frank said nervously, "Can you loan me a couple of bucks? I'm broke."
Laughing, Cowell pulled a wad of money from his pocket. He picked out a bill and handed it to Frank
16
in a grand manner. "Here's a ten. Pay me when you're on the plush."
"Slick," Frank said in admiration, "that's quite a roll. You make that much money?"
Cowell chuckled. "You kidding? Nobody makes anything in this cheap outfit." He glanced about cautiously, then whispered, "Maybe I can let you in on something. Where do you live?"
Frank told him, then they were joined by Joe and Rands and the conversation ended.
As the Hardys conferred in the boys' room that evening, a knock sounded on the door. Cowell and Rands walked in.
"Hi, fellows," Cowell greeted. "Hi, Mr. Ghent! You must be keeping an eye on your nephews, huh?"
Mr. Hardy grinned. "They can pretty much take care of themselves." A general conversation followed and Mr. Hardy noted that both Rands and Cowell moved about the room casually, taking in everything. Then, apparently satisfied, Cowell suggested that Frank and Joe take a walk with him and Rands.
It was late when the boys returned, but their father had waited up for them.
"Uncle Jerry," Frank said, "they took us to a recreation hall where Smathers and Streeter were playing pool. A little later Clarence Sard came in. All of them seemed to be sizing us up."
"They asked a lot of questions," Joe added. "I think Sard is part of their group."
"You're probably right," Mr. Hardy said slowly, as if deliberating. "It wouldn't surprise me if he were
17
"How would you like to make some easy money?" Cowell asked
the ringleader, even though his brother is the plant manager. We'd better watch him carefully." He yawned. "Let's get some sleep."
On Monday, as Frank and Cowell were returning to the packing room after lunch, the latter stopped and half-whispered to Frank, "How would you like to make some easy money?"
Frank appeared surprised. "I'll do anything within reason. Only whatever I do, Joe comes in with me. But my uncle must be kept in the dark."
"Suits me," rejoined Cowell. "I'll let you know when it's okay."
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The following afternoon Cowell told Frank to bring Joe to the recreation hall at seven that night. When they arrived, Cowell was waiting for them in the doorway. He led them into a back room, where they found Rands, Streeter, Smathers, and Clarence Sard seated around a table.
"Okay, fellows," Cowell said. "Sit down."
Smathers opened the conversation. "Slick says you want to throw in with us, right?"
Frank nodded, while Joe responded with pretended enthusiasm, "Sure—if we get a fair cut."
Streeter said belligerently, "We're letting you kids in on this, but you'd better keep your mouths shut! Until now everything has been going along fine and we expect it to stay that way. But—"
Cowell interrupted. "Take it easy, Sam. The boys are okay. Let's get down to business."
Joe said quietly, "Frank and I've been around. You don't have to worry about us. But if you don't trust us, we'll forget about the whole deal. Let's go, Frank!" He rose from his chair.
"Wait a minute!" Smathers cut in. "Let's stop acting like kids! Sit down, Joe!"
Sard cleared his throat and began. "It's an easy racket. There's no trouble at all. This is how it goes: The girls in the office make out labels addressed to the dealers who are to receive the merchandise. The labels go to the packing rooms together with instructions of what is to be sent. The stuff is packed, the labels glued on the cartons, and then the shipping department takes care of the loading. The company
19
uses outside truckers to make deliveries. Follow me?"
"Sure. So far," replied Frank. "But I don't see how we come in on it."
Everyone but Joe laughed, and Sard continued, "Here's how. We have labels of our own which I lifted when I had a chance. We type the address of an old warehouse on them with a typewriter we bought at a pawnshop.
"Harry and Slick pack whatever we need and put those labels on the extra packages. Then they're trucked to the warehouse by drivers who work with us."
"Pretty clever scheme," Frank put in.
"You bet," Cowell said. "In the warehouse we sort out the stuff, then pack the goods we've sold to our dealers, and arrange for delivery."
Frank and Joe gave an approving nod, and Cowell added, "We only take what we have a market for. Smart, eh?"
"That's real slick, Slick," said Joe.
There was a murmur of approval at Joe's play on words, then Sard continued. "Domas is bringing out a new line which will be shipped soon. We're going to cash in on this, and big, too!
"We'll take a truckload in the morning, and another in the afternoon."
"Won't that look funny?" queried Joe. "I mean, doesn't it seem peculiar, just loading stuff for our warehouse?"
Sam Streeter snorted, "Do you think we're that dumb? There's legitimate orders on those trucks, too."
20
"I guess you guys thought of everything," remarked Joe.
"We're sure glad we're in with you," Frank added.
Clarence Sard nodded. "We can use some more help." He took an envelope from his inside pocket and doled out the labels to Frank, Harry, Joe, and Slick, and told them what products to pack and how many of each.
Then the boys left, impatient to see Fenton Hardy.
When they arrived at the rooming house, the young detectives reported the latest developments to their father. They exhibited the labels. Mr. Hardy made a mental note of the address.
He looked at his sons and said quietly, "You did a great job. Keep on, but don't take any unnecessary chances. The case is as good as solved."
Frank and Joe nodded.
"I'm going to notify Captain Nast. He'll be ready for the showdown. Now go to bed and relax."
For the next few days the boys followed orders of the gang. Monday night after work there was a knock on the door of their room. Cowell walked in and invited them to take a stroll. They agreed, calling to their "uncle" that they were going out with Slick.
Outside, Cowell beckoned them to his car and slid behind the wheel.
"Where're we going?" Frank asked.
"To the warehouse," replied Slick. "Now that you're in with us, you're going to work!"
"We don't mind," Frank said. "It's better than sitting in our room, watching TV and hearing Uncle Jerry snoring."
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"You'll see a swell setup," Cowell said as they stopped in front of a dilapidated warehouse. It was located in the waterfront section of the city.
They got out and Cowell gave three sharp raps on the door, paused, and then rapped once. The door opened and the boys found themselves in a large dimly lighted room crammed with Domas packages.
Streeter and Rands were moving them around, sorting them by product. Smathers had a list in his hands and was calling out the articles needed. Clarence Sard sat at a table, pecking away laboriously on a typewriter. He was preparing a new set of labels with the addresses of the dealers.
Frank noticed a padlocked closet in one corner of the room.
"What's in there?" he asked Cowell, pointing.
"None of your business," was the curt reply.
Smathers looked up and growled. "It's about time you guys pitched in. Come over here and stack up these boxes like I tell you!"
The boys joined in with alacrity, and made up various piles at Smathers' direction. From time to time, Clarence Sard mumbled and swore, remarking that the typewriter was defective. The men's bantering about his typing ability increased his anger.
Finally Frank said, "Will you let me try? I used to work in the office at reform school and learned to type a little."
Sard accepted the offer. He showed Frank the names and addresses of dealers to be typed on the labels and watched him work. Frank was careful not to type too well.
22
About ten o'clock Sard announced that enough work had been completed for the evening. They stood around and talked a while.
Finally Smathers said, "Clarence has made contacts to dispose of this stuff at a good price. We'll hire two trucks day after tomorrow to make the deliveries. Everybody be ready to report here to load them."
He cleared his throat, then went on, "Clarence has also made arrangements to sell those molds we have. We can't get the price we wanted, but we'd better get rid of them. They're too hot."
Streeter exulted, "It looks like we're in for a good piece of change."
The group broke up and Slick drove the boys back to their rooming house. Frank and Joe reported to their father everything that had happened. They described the warehouse minutely, including the type of locks on the doors, the padlock on the closet, and the location of the light switch on the wall.
When they mentioned the prospective sale of the molds, Mr. Hardy laughed quietly and said, "I arranged that. Right after Clarence Sard contacted the Phoenix Plastics Company, I was notified. I requested that they negotiate with him and they have done so."
The detective went on, "I'm going to slip out and meet Captain Nast to inform him of the latest developments. He'll keep a sharp watch on the warehouse until we're ready to close in."
The next evening the Hardys were again picked up by Cowell. They went to the warehouse and continued their work as on the previous night. They noticed, however, that Clarence Sard was not present.
23
Smathers grumbled, "I wonder what's keeping him. He should have been here half an hour ago. And he's got the list of purchasers on him."
At that instant a key turned in the lock. Clarence Sard entered and slammed the door angrily behind him. His eyes had a wild look.
"Where have you been?" Smathers demanded. "We'll never get these shipments ready for tomorrow now!"
"Where have I been?" Sard shouted. "At my brother's house." He pointed to Frank and Joe. "I found out that these kids are stool pigeons and are working for their father, Detective Fenton Hardy, who is posing as their uncle!"
The men glared at the boys in fury. Smathers pulled out a switchblade knife and advanced toward the Hardys menacingly. There were shouts and curses from the other members of the gang.
Instantly Frank and Joe separated slightly and retreated. Frank headed toward the door with Joe a few feet away from him. Suddenly Frank reached up and snapped off the light switch.
Pandemonium broke lose in the darkness, with the thieves striking out wildly in utter confusion. There were groans of pain as they mistakenly mauled one another.
Suddenly there was a loud pounding on the door and a voice called out, "This is Captain Nast. I have a search warrant!" The door was flung open and in stormed the captain, a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other.
"Stop where you are!" he commanded.
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Right behind him were Mr. Hardy and a detective.
Frank switched on the light. Smathers dropped the knife on the concrete floor.
"Raise your hands above your heads and face the wall!" Captain Nast ordered. "You're all under arrest!"
He turned to Clarence Sard and served the search warrant. Then he directed the detective to frisk the thieves.
All incriminating papers were taken from them. Within minutes four uniformed police officers were on the scene. The prisoners were handcuffed and taken to jail.
Mr. Hardy telephoned Albert Matt, president of Domas Plastics Company, and the plant manager, George Sard. Both came to the warehouse. They were amazed at the amount of merchandise stored there and identified it as having been manufactured in their plant.
Fenton Hardy walked over to the closet. He looked at the padlock, selected a key from a case of master keys, and opened the door. In it were the two plastic molds. Mr. Matt confirmed that they were the ones stolen from Domas.
All this while Frank and Joe had been staring curiously at George Sard. The manager noticed this and said with a smile, "Is anything wrong?"
Frank asked in amazement, "Don't you know that your brother Clarence was the ringleader of the gang?"
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"These kids are stool pigeons!" Sard shouted
26
"Wh-what?"
"Tonight," Frank went on, "you told him about Joe and me doing undercover work. He came straight here and revealed our identities. If it hadn't been for Captain Nast and my father breaking in when they did, we might have been killed!"
George Sard turned white and became so weak that he had to sit down. Shaking, he said, "I invited Clarence over to dinner. He seemed very nervous. When I asked him what was the matter, he said he was concerned about the stolen molds. I told him to stop worrying. Mr. Matt had hired the famous detective Fenton Hardy, and he would find the molds. He had brought his two boys Frank and Joe to help him."
George Sard sighed. "Believe me, fellows, I never in the world had any inkling my brother was involved in the thefts."
Upon arraignment in court the next morning, the prisoners pleaded guilty to the charges filed against them by the District Attorney.
After court the Hardys and Captain Nast went to a nearby restaurant for lunch. The Dover police officer expressed his appreciation for the Hardys' work. To Frank and Joe, however, the greatest praise came from their father, who said. "Boys, you followed the rules of undercover work in this case to perfection. Congratulations 1"
27
CHAPTER II
THE CLUE OF THE CASHBOX Fingerprint Proof
The telephone rang shrilly in the Hardy home.
"I'll take it," said Joe. As he hurried into the hall he called back to his brother, "Frank, get out the fingerprint kit so we can show it to Chet."
Chet Morton, the Hardys' closest friend, had asked them to teach him the science of fingerprinting.
Joe picked up the phone. "Joe Hardy speaking. . . . Oh, hi, Dad. How are you coming along on the New York case?"
"I expect to be in Bayport late tomorrow," his father-replied. "But before I get back, there's an important job I want you and Frank to do for me. Dr. Gladstone just called me from Bayport at the request
27
28
of Chief Collig to arrange for processing a crime scene."
"I see, Dad," broke in Joe. "He called you here . . . sounded very worried. So I gave him the number of your hotel in New York."
"He was upset," replied the detective. "His office was burglarized and twenty-seven hundred dollars in cash was stolen. I spoke to Chief Collig and he told me the Bayport police are holding a suspect, but they haven't located the stolen money."
"What do you want Frank and me to do, Dad?"
"Locate, photograph, and lift fingerprints at the scene. As you know, one of Chief Collig's fingerprint experts is here with me to testify in this case, and the other one is in the hospital with a broken wrist."
"That leaves the chief really short-handed, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Call him right away. He's expecting to hear from you."
As soon as Mr. Hardy had hung up, Joe dialed Bay-port Police Headquarters. The chief said he would send a car to take the boys to the scene of the burglary. "I'm leaving for Dr. Gladstone's now and will meet you there," he added.
Frank came downstairs with the fingerprint kit and a camera just as Joe put the phone back in its cradle. He also carried a small black box.
"Boy, are we in luck!" Joe said. "Now Chet can see how a real case is handled." He told them about the theft and added, "A police car will be here shortly."
"While we're waiting, will you show me the equipment?" Chet asked.
29
Investigator's camera
"Sure," Frank replied. "This is an investigator's camera, sometimes called a press camera. It can be adapted to take pictures in a one-to-one ratio of visible and dusted latent fingerprints."
"Can you use other cameras, too?" Chet asked.
"Yes. However, most police departments use either the investigator's camera or one made especially for this work, commonly called a fingerprint camera."
"What's the difference?"
"The investigator's camera is more widely used because it can be employed in many other areas of police work as well as—"
"Oh, oh," Chet interrupted, "here comes the police car." But the black sedan he had seen approaching the Hardy residence continued down the street.
Joe took the camera and removed it from its case. He opened the front and extended the lens. Then he produced an angular, tapering sheet-metal trough with a ring feature attached to the small end.
"You see, Chet," he said, "the ring fits over the lens housing." He pointed to three screws protruding
30
from the ring and added, "The trough is fastened in place with these."
"And what do you need this contraption for?" Chet wanted to know.
"It's an adapter which permits us to focus the camera so that a fingerprint will photograph in its original size."
"I see."
"This makes it easier for the expert, who will compare fingerprint photos with inked prints appearing on an arrest fingerprint card. It also helps in preparing comparable enlargements for use in court."
Chet nodded. "I understand. Now tell me about the fingerprint camera."
"Its use," Joe went on, "is basically limited to fingerprint work and photographing signatures on forged checks and documents. It's meant to be used on flat surfaces, otherwise distortions occur due to improper focus."
Frank put in, "Let me explain the construction of the fingerprint camera to Chet. It's essentially a compartmented box with a predetermined focal depth which produces only a one-to-one reproduction of the subject."
"In other words, you don't need an adapter."
"Right. The shutter is manually operated and the exposure time is determined by the operator's manipulation of the shutter. There is no lens adjustment. The camera is equipped with batteries and/or an extension cord which can be plugged into a wall outlet to provide power for built-in electric light bulbs by which
31
variations in lighting and cross-lighting may be obtained.
"However," Frank went on, "because of the limitations Joe mentioned, many police departments believe the cost of such a specialized camera is not justified when the investigator's camera can be adapted to do the same job."
"That makes sense," Chet commented.
Frank carried on with the explanation. "In most cases, the investigator's camera will photograph a larger area, and minor adjustments in focus and lighting can be made when photographing latent fingerprints on curved or irregular surfaces. It can be used in other routine police work—accident investigations, photographing crime scenes, and taking mug shots of arrested persons."
Chet asked, "Talking about latent fingerprints, you say you dust them to make them visible?"
"Correct. There are many different colored powders on the market, but Dad says that only the black and gray ones have real practical value. You use whatever powder gives the best contrast, depending upon the color of the object. Incidentally, the powder also comes in aerosol cans and can be sprayed over a latent print. Furthermore—"
"Wait a minute," interjected Joe. "You should explain why powders are used."
"Okay. Well, Chet, all fingerprint impressions and footprints are made by ridges which appear only on the palmar areas of the hands and the soles of the feet.
32
Fingerprints are the markings left on objects touched by the ridges on the bulb of each ringer."
He added that fingerprint experts can actually make an identification by comparing ridge detail left at a crime area with an inked impression of the same ridges, taken either from a suspect's hand or foot."
"Fingerprints are left," Joe took up the explanation, "because of tiny ducts which emit an oily substance. It's really sweat, and every time the hand or foot touches something, a little is left on the object."
Frank added that there are a few persons in the world who do not leave latent prints. "They are called nonsecreters because they do not perspire. Most people do, however. And generally young persons perspire more freely and therefore leave stronger prints than older persons. The more excited or emotional they get, the more they perspire and the stronger their prints are."
"I'm learning fast," said Chet. "Now what about the visible print?"
"That's made by an individual who has had his fingers in material like paint, blood, grease, ink, or other similar substances," Joe said.
"There's one thing I forgot to say about latent prints," Frank put in. "They're hard to locate. The best way is to shine a flashlight over the surface at an angle."
"What's in the kit?" Chet inquired.
Frank opened the lid. "We call this the Hardy Fingerprint Kit," he said. "Joe and I assembled it."
Chet noted that it contained a long-handled magni-
33
33
fying glass, a small two-cell flashlight, jars of black and gray powder, two camel 's-hair brushes, a supply of black and white rubberized lifting tape, transparent lifting tape, and backup cards for the transparent tape. Scissors for cutting the tape to the proper size were also in the kit.
Joe said, "The rubberized tape usually comes in sheets four-by-eight inches and is similar to the tape used to repair bicycle tire punctures. One side of it is covered with a sticky substance. Over it is a transparent plastic layer."
"Now wait a minute," Chet interrupted. "What do you need that stuff for?"
"I'll get to that. Let's go step by step." Joe explained further.
The powders are dusted on an area thought to contain latent fingerprints.
The prints are made visible.
The prints are photographed.
The plastic cover on the rubber tape is removed and the tape is pressed firmly over the dusted print.
The tape is peeled off, bringing with it the powder.
The plastic cover is then replaced to seal the powder on the tape. This prevents its becoming smudged and at the same time permits the latent impression to be visible.
Chet had a question. "Do you always use powder on all surfaces?"
34
"No," Frank answered. "Actually there are two types of surface: porous and nonporous. On the porous, like unglazed paper, rough cardboard, and unfinished wood, the perspiration is absorbed and little powder will stick. The prints then must be developed by a chemical process. The most useful methods are iodine fuming and the application of a silver nitrate solution. Oil in the print absorbs the iodine, but the mark must be photographed at once because it fades quickly. Silver nitrate combines with the salt in perspiration, which is left along with the print, to form silver chloride. This substance darkens under strong light."
"Dusting is still the most common method for non-porous surfaces, however," Joe put in, "because the equipment is the easiest to carry around."
Frank had just started to tell how the powder is placed on the print with a camel's-hair brush, when a police sedan came to a stop in front of the house. The three boys hurried to the car. Officer Con Riley was at the wheel. Frank slid in beside him, while Joe and Chet jumped into the back seat.
As they drove off, Riley remarked, "Looks as if this is an open-and-shut case, boys. We caught the man who seems to be the burglar."
Frank asked why the police suspected the man they had picked up.
Riley chuckled. "Well, we have some pretty good circumstantial evidence. Bill Adams saw the guy running away from Doc's house with a jimmy in his hand. We caught him going into the woods about a quarter of a mile away."
35
"And the money?" Joe asked.
Riley frowned as he turned a corner. "That's one thing that has us puzzled. We've looked for it everywhere. No luck!"
The car pulled up to the curb in front of a large, old-fashioned brownstone house. Frank and Joe hopped out, followed by Riley and Chet.
After climbing a flight of stone steps, they entered Dr. Gladstone's office. There they were greeted by Chief Collig, who got to the point quickly.
"We have the suspect in the next room. He'll be booked for possession of burglary tools. But he insists he didn't steal any money from Doc's house.
"My men have taken photographs of the jimmied window and cashbox. That's where all the money was." With his thumb he indicated a metal box on a table.
"Did anybody here touch anything in the room?" Frank asked.
"Only Dr. Gladstone. He used the phone to call us," Collig replied. "Otherwise, there hasn't been a soul in this room that we know of for a week, until Dr. Gladstone came in this morning after a seven-day illness. Whoever left prints on the table, the window, and the cashbox is the one who stole the money."
Joe said, "Okay, Chief, we'll get to work."
The Hardys picked up their fingerprint kit and started from the room, calling to Chet to join them. The boy looked puzzled. "Hey, what are you going outside for?"
Joe explained that trained criminal investigators learned long ago that the best way to find latent prints
36
is by trying to put themselves in the burglar's place, mentally and physically.
"We're pretty sure the thief entered the office by the window," Joe said. "We'll check the outside of the sill, the panes, and the ledge for latent prints."
Frank and Joe found that the window was not far aboveground. They squinted at the glass from various angles in order to get a clearer view. Chet looked, too, and suddenly exclaimed, "I see a print!" He pointed to a darkish spot.
Frank shook his head. "That's only a smudge, Chet." He explained that a smudge is a smear of a print with no identifiable ridge pattern.
"Oh," said Chet, disappointed. He was about to touch the window when Frank warned, "Stop! You're violating the cardinal rule of preserving evidence. Many times people accidentally spoil latent fingerprints in this way."
"Sorry," Chet said.
Frank studied the window carefully, then said excitedly, "There are lots of prints along the bottom of the sash and the sill. And here are some beauties on the glass. I'll dust first, then we'll photograph them before lifting them."
"That's what I want to see!" Chet said.
"Well, watch me here," Frank suggested. He pointed to a portion of the window about midway in the frame.
"On glass, which is not backed up by any colored object on the other side," he said, "we can use either the gray or the black powder for our lift. But before we take a picture, we must back up the print by white
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paper if we use black powder, or black paper if we use gray powder."
Frank dusted the prints with gray powder. Then, while Officer Riley held a large black backup card inside the window, he photographed the first print.
Chet craned closer to watch. He noticed that Officer Riley had scotch-taped a small slip of paper in one corner of the backup card bearing Frank's initials, the date, and the numeral One. Before Frank took the next shot, Riley changed it to numeral Two.
"Why is he numbering the pictures?" Chet asked Frank.
"Because the investigator has to make notes about the crime scene processing and on all evidence located so that it can be properly presented in court," Frank explained. "Sometimes evidence is collected which can never be used in court, simply because it was not put together properly or was not maintained correctly. In some cases, a police officer cannot testify effectively due to incomplete notes."
"I see. In other words, you have to be very systematic."
"Right. Now let's lift the fingerprints."
Joe trimmed a piece about one and a half inches square from the sheet of rubber tape and removed the plastic covering from the sticky side. He handed the tape to Frank, who applied it over the first latent print.
"You see, Chet," he said, "I put one end of the tape down and roll the rest across the print. This way I get a nice smooth lift."
He peeled the tape off carefully and replaced the
38
transparent plastic covering over it. Then he initialed, dated, and numbered the back of the tape, just as Riley had done with the photographs, before going to work on the next print.
When all the latent prints were lifted, the Hardys gathered up their equipment and Frank said, "We'll go inside now."
They went to the physician's office to search for more latent prints. Three were discovered on the side of the window frame.
Their next job was the desk. "The cashbox was in the right-hand drawer," Chief Collig told them.
"Chet, try your luck and see what you can find," Frank suggested.
"Me?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Chet beamed Frank's flashlight obliquely on the surface of the desk. Suddenly he yelled triumphantly, "Here are a whole bunch of prints!"
Chief Collig and the Hardys came closer and took turns peering through the magnifying glass at the maze of patterns.
"Sorry, Chet," Frank said quietly, "but they're all smudges except this one." He placed a white chalk ring around the one he had pointed out. Seeing how crestfallen Chet was, he added, "Go ahead, dust it."
Chet selected the grayish powder for contrast and dusted it on lightly. Slowly the ridges appeared. He stepped back and gazed admiringly at his handiwork.
"Now take the camera," Frank told him. "I've already focused it and set the lens opening and shutter
39
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speed for the film we're using. Put the end of the adapter trough firmly on the desk, and don't forget to number your pictures."
Frank watched while Chet followed his instructions. "Perfect," he said. "Next you trip the shutter without moving the camera. Always remember to take two or three shots and to advance the film after each exposure."
When Chet had finished photographing the print, Frank asked him to lift it.
Chet selected the black tape to contrast against the gray powder and did as he was told.
"Good work," Chief Collig commented. "Now tackle the table and the cashbox."
Frank and Joe flashed their lights on the table and looked disappointed. "Nothing but smudges," Joe murmured.
"Right," Frank agreed. "Well, let's try the cash-box."
They scrutinized the small green metal container on the table, its lid jimmied open. Several papers were strewn nearby.
At that moment Chet looked up to see an elderly, bespectacled man enter the office. "Fellows, here's Dr. Gladstone," he announced.
"How are you, Doctor?" Frank said, recognizing the physician. "Too bad about this. Were these papers in the cashbox?"
"Yes," Dr. Gladstone said sadly. "That's all the burglar left."
Joe spoke up. "Were you the one who discovered
40
the theft, and has there been anyone else in the room today?"
"Well, I was coming down the stairs when I heard a noise. I opened the door with my key and noticed that the side window was open. It was then that I saw the rifled box on the table and called the police. I didn't touch anything else in the room except the phone."
The doctor turned to speak to the chief. Meanwhile, the Hardys located several good prints on the cashbox, which they dusted, photographed and lifted.
"Now what?" Chet queried.
"We'll take prints of the suspect. Okay, Chief?" Frank said. "Bring the kit, Joe."
At a nod from Collig everyone went into the waiting room. A dejected-looking small man with furtive eyes sat on an old-fashioned straight-back chair, guarded by a husky policeman.
The suspect watched worriedly as Joe set down the small black box the boys had brought along. They called this the Hardy Fingerprint Recording Kit. It contained a tube of printer's black ink, a small rectangular piece of clear plate glass, a rubber roller, a metal fingerprint card holder, a jar of gasoline, some paper towels and a number of FBI standard fingerprint cards.
Frank placed a few daubs of the ink on the plate-glass slab and with the roller spread it over the surface.
Noticing that Chet was watching intently, he said, "We roll the ink just enough so we can get a smooth coat on the fingertips. A good way to know if we have
41
too much or too little is to hold the glass up to the light. When there's a light-brown film it's okay."
Meanwhile, Joe got out the FBI standard fingerprint cards. Chief Collig began asking the suspect questions in order to fill in the required data.
When the man gave his name as Jed Silvers, the police chief advised him of his constitutional rights to consult a lawyer before making any statements. Then the chief said, "You're from Redmont, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you get out of jail only last week?"
"Yes."
Turning to Frank, Chief Collig said, "He's a petty larceny crook who is always in and out of jail."
While the chief continued to fill out the card, Joe said to Chet, "Take a look at this. The standard FBI card has spaces for the two types of impressions involved in fingerprinting. In the upper ten spaces the prints of each finger are taken separately. These are known as rolled impressions. At the bottom of the card, prints of the four fingers of each hand are taken at the same time; then the two thumbs are printed together. These prints are called plain impressions."
Joe picked up the card that Chief Collig had completed and clamped it firmly to the desk with the metal holder from the kit to prevent it from slipping.
Then he asked Silvers to clean his hands with gasoline by rubbing them together. "For the cleaning job," he said to Chet, "you can also use alcohol, or benzene—whatever you have available."
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"Didn't you get out of jail only last week?" the chief asked
43
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Joe gave Silvers a paper towel to dry his hands. Standing at the man's right side, he took Silvers' right hand and inked the thumb from the tip to below the first joint by rolling it lightly from right to left on the inking plate. Then he rolled it on the fingerprint card in the same direction.
"You roll each finger only once," he explained to Chet, "and you print the fingers separately, beginning with the right thumb and then index, middle, ring, and little finger."
As Joe proceeded, Chet noticed that contrary to the thumb, the fingers were rolled from the left to their right side, or away from the suspect's body.
"Do you think you could do the same with his other hand?" Joe asked Chet.
"I'd like to try."
"Here again, the thumb is rolled toward his body, but the fingers are rolled away from his body."
"Do I stand on his left side or his right?"
"Whichever you prefer."
Chet accomplished his job with a proud grin.
"Great work, pal," Frank said. "Now, in order to complete this card, we'll record Silvers' plain impressions."
The four fingers of the right hand were inked, then pressed simultaneously on the space designated. When the left hand was completed, both thumbs were inked and printed together.
"Why do you need both rolled and plain impressions?" Chet asked.
"Rolled impressions are better because the pattern
44
area is usually completely visible. The technician whose job it is to classify the prints uses the plain impressions as a check on the sequence of the rolled impressions. In other words, it is positive proof that the proper fingers were put in the correct spaces."
Chief Collig interrupted. "Look, boys. We must make five complete sets of cards for the various law-enforcement agencies. Let's get going!"
They rapidly completed the task. Then the Hardys compared Silvers' fingerprints with the latent prints they had found. Surprise registered on their faces.
Finally Joe blurted, "Chief, the prints on the window and the sill are identical with Silvers'. But unless I'm mistaken, the ones on the desk and the cashbox belong to somebody else!"
"What?" Collig declared in amazement.
"I told you I didn't take the money!" Silvers shouted. "But you wouldn't believe me!"
"Maybe you didn't take the money, but you sure jimmied the window," Joe said. "You didn't have time to steal anything, because you were scared off when Dr. Gladstone came down here. Isn't that the truth?"
Silvers hung his head in silent confession.
Just then Frank recalled a family scandal involving the doctor's nephew. On a hunch he asked, "Dr. Gladstone, was your nephew Don here recently?"
"Yes," the doctor replied haltingly. "He wanted money but I ordered him from the house. It was the night I got ill. I don't like to talk about it, because you know the disgrace he caused my brother when he
45
was involved in that car theft. You don't believe that Don—" The man's voice trailed off with the sad realization that his nephew was a prime suspect.
"Let's go over to headquarters and check these prints against Don Gladstone's in our file," said Chief Collig. He added, "Silvers, you'll be properly charged and held for the court."
The whole group went to headquarters and Collig requested that the card with Don Gladstone's prints be brought to his office immediately. They compared the impressions on the card with the lifted prints from the cashbox. They were identical!
"This clinches the case!" Frank exclaimed. "Don Gladstone stole the money, not Silvers."
The doctor, saddened by the results, nevertheless congratulated the Hardys. Chief Collig thanked them, saying, "When your father returns tomorrow he'll be surprised to find the case solved. You boys did a real professional job."
Frank and Joe grinned with pride, and Chet beamed. "I never thought I could learn fingerprinting so quickly. When's our next case, fellows?"
FOR MORE DETAILS ON FINGERPRINTING TURN TO CHAPTER XII, PAGE 197.
46
CHAPTER III THE CASE OF THE SHABBY SHOES Shoe Prints, Tire Marks, Plaster Casts
It was late Sunday morning. Frank and Joe were sitting on the front porch of their home with Tony Prito, a high school friend.
When Mr. Hardy appeared in the doorway, Tony said, "Hello, Mr. Hardy. Frank and Joe were just telling me about reproductions of shoe prints."
"That's right," Mr. Hardy replied, pulling up a chair. "As a matter of fact, we can do the same with tire marks or any other impression in sand, mud, dirt, and even snow. This is called positive identification."
Joe spoke up. "When we helped Dad on one of his cases, he showed us how to make reproductions of shoe and tire prints with plaster of Paris; also how to
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take impressions of tool marks. This is called moulage."
Mr. Hardy chuckled. "The most famous example of moulage identification," he said, "was the case where a burglar took a bite from a piece of cheese and the bite impression positively identified him as the criminal."
"I'll be careful hereafter where I eat cheese," Tony commented with a grin.
"Say, Dad," Frank remarked, "how about teaching Tony something about positive identification?"
"Certainly. We'll make a detective out of him yet."
"What's this all about?" Tony asked. "Something dangerous? If so, count me in."
"You'll see," Joe said.
Frank went inside and returned with a box. "This is the Hardy Plaster Cast Kit," he told Tony. "It contains two half-gallon cans with lids. In one can there's plaster of Paris. The other is empty. In addition, the kit has a number of flexible metal slats from a Venetian blind, a wooden stick, some clothespins, and a can of clear plastic spray."
Tony looked at the contents of the kit with considerable curiosity. He said, "I know you mix plaster of Paris with water and pour it to make a mold, but what are these other things for?"
"A metal slat," Frank explained, "is used to enclose the molding mixture in whatever size is needed. The clothespins hold the ends of the slat together. The plastic spray is needed to firm up dust, sand, or snow before the plaster of Paris is poured in. It also retards
48
the heat effect on the snow when the plaster is setting. And the wooden stick is for stirring the plaster mix in the can."
Mr. Hardy said, "How would you like to go on a case with us, Tony? Chief Collig is going to pick us up soon."
"That would be great, Mr. Hardy. Thanks!"
"You're welcome." The detective continued and his tone grew serious, "Mr. John Nelson, a wealthy Bayport businessman, was struck on the head near the driveway of his home. It appears that he was robbed. He's in the hospital, unconscious."
"How come they're calling us in on it?" Joe asked.
"Well, as you know, the chief is sort of short-handed right now. Several of his men are not available for various reasons, so he asked me to do him a favor and help him out."
Mr. Hardy stood up and began pacing around the porch. "The chief phoned me that there are footprints in the shrubbery beds and tire marks on a dirt road running along the side of Mr. Nelson's property."
Just then a police sedan pulled up and Chief Collig stepped out, his gold badge and braid shining brightly in the morning sunlight.
Seeing Tony, he smiled. "Fenton, have you added another assistant to your detective team?"
"Could be," Mr. Hardy replied jovially as everybody entered the sedan. Frank carried the kit.
A few minutes later the uniformed police chauffeur pulled up in the driveway of a large home.
"This way," the chief directed. "The shoe prints are
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over here. I had Officer Williams protect the crime scene."
Mr. Hardy approached the spot carefully, with his young assistants close behind. He scrutinized the impressions from various angles, then said, "The ground is soft and there are quite a few shoe prints, two different lengths. It appears that there were two men hiding in the shrubbery."
He beckoned the boys to come closer. "See these cigarette stubs? One's pretty long, the other one's been smoked all the way down to the filter. They'll be collected as evidence."
Mr. Hardy turned to Chief Collig. "Did your people take photographs of the crime scene yet?"
The chief nodded. "They're being developed in the lab right now."
Frank spoke to Tony. "When pictures are taken, it is essential to include the photographer's initials, the date, and a ruler in every shot."
"Why a ruler?" Tony asked.
"By comparing the object you photograph with the ruler, you can ascertain its actual size," Frank replied.
"How about getting to work on the casts, boys?" Mr. Hardy asked. He pointed to the shoe prints.
"Sure, Dad," Frank said. He and Joe began to mix the powder with water, which Tony had got from a nearby spigot.
"The mixture should be stirred constantly until it has the consistency of melted ice cream," Joe explained.
Mr. Hardy said, "Notice how I've placed a metal slat around this shoe print, Tony? I've put mud and
50
stones on the outside of the slat, so that when we pour the mixture, it will not move.
"Okay, Joe, pour the stuff in." As Joe did so, his father went on, "In order not to spoil the print, we pour the plaster on a piece of glass or a flat stick and let it drip gently into the impression. When it's about three-fourths of an inch thick, we reinforce the plaster by placing sticks on the surface."
"Why?" Tony wanted to know.
"So the cast will not break while it is being handled."
Joe added another three-fourths of an inch of the wet plaster. "Now we've got to wait twenty to thirty minutes before we remove the cast," he said. "See how easy it is?"
"Why, anybody could do it," Tony replied.
"That's right," Mr. Hardy agreed. "But the more one practices, the better one becomes at it." He pointed to other shoe prints. "Boys, make casts of these four here," he said. "Tony, suppose you practice on this one." He indicated one print apart from the others. "Meanwhile I'll look at the tire marks with the chief."
The two men walked away and Joe mixed another batch of plaster. Frank used more metal slats and made borders around each print. Then he checked the first cast which was beginning to harden. He smoothed out the surface with a piece of glass.
"What are you doing that for?" Tony asked.
"To give it a professional touch. Also, it makes it easier for the investigator to mark his initials, the date,
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How to Mate Plaster Casts
1. Photograph.
5. Identify
2. Mix Plaster
6. Remove
3. Pour Plaster
7 Cleaa
4. Reinforce
8; Finished Cast
52
and location with a pocketknife or a sharp-pointed stick."
Tony had just finished his cast when Officer Williams approached them.
"Mr. Hardy wants you to bring the plaster-cast kit to him right away," he said.
Frank, Joe, and Tony followed him to a dusty dirt road leading to the rear of the property. The boys noticed that part of the road had been roped off.
"I hope we'll have enough plaster," Mr. Hardy called out to the boys. "These impressions here are very good and we have a large area to cover.
"Frank, find some flat sticks to use for the border. Joe, get some water."
Mr. Hardy took the can of clear plastic from the kit and said to Tony, "Never direct the spray into the impression, but over it so that the mist particles float down into the pattern. This way you don't dislodge loose dirt or dust. When the plastic hardens, it provides a firm base for the plaster. The rest of the procedure is the same as for the shoe prints."
As Tony watched Mr. Hardy spray, the detective pointed out that due to the greater length of the tire impression, it would be more practical to cast the print in eighteen-inch segments for a distance covering one rotation of the wheel.
Joe finished mixing the plaster and poured it into the impression. While it was drying, Mr. Hardy suggested, "Let's go over to the chief. He'll fill us in on the details of the crime."
Chief Collig had been conferring with Officer Wil-
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liams, and now turned to Mr. Hardy, "Fenton, here's the story," he said. "Last night, about ten o'clock, Mr. Nelson drove his car into the garage after returning from a business conference."
"Wait a minute," Frank put in. "Yesterday was Saturday. Isn't that unusual?"
"Well, Mrs. Nelson told me that her husband has met people before on weekends, especially if they're from out of town. She had just opened the front door to greet him last night when she heard him call for help. As she ran down the walk, Mr. Nelson staggered and fell, crying out that he had been robbed.
"Mrs. Nelson noticed the sounds of running footsteps and a short time later the starting of a motor and the noise of a car as it roared down this roadway. She saw it turn onto the main road and head toward town.
"She tried to help her husband. But he was unconscious and blood was streaming from a scalp wound. So she immediately called the First Aid Squad. In her shocked state she did not think of phoning the police. When the squad reached the scene, they rendered first aid, took Mr. Nelson to the hospital, and notified us. Dr. Robinson said that if they hadn't stopped the flow of blood when they did, Mr. Nelson would not be alive now."
The chief paused briefly, then continued, "Two of my men went to the hospital to question Mr. Nelson. They were told he was unconscious and might be for a long time. Dr. Robinson's diagnosis was that the man had been struck with a blunt instrument on the
54
head and right arm, and that he was suffering from a possible skull fracture and fracture of the upper right arm.
"Then they went to Mr. Nelson's house and spoke to his wife. She told them what had happened. They searched the area with floodlights and found the shoe prints and tire marks. They also discovered a baseball bat with bloodstains on it near the front walk. Mrs. Nelson identified it as belonging to her nephew. The boy was here a couple of weeks ago."
"Where's that bat now?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Officer Rinshaw processed it for fingerprints but there were none. He thinks they were rubbed off with a cloth or handkerchief."
"He's probably right," Mr. Hardy said. "Now let's see. We know that Mr. Nelson was robbed. Of how much, we must find out. We know that at least two persons ambushed him.
"They must be familiar with this area, because they knew where to park their car so the victim would not see it. We can be reasonably sure that one of them, at least, is a professional criminal because he left no fingerprints on the bat. We also know what kind of cigarettes they smoked."
"Correct, Fenton," said Chief Collig. "One brand is Zara, an unusual cigarette of Turkish tobacco. The person who smokes that brand threw the butt away after it was only half-consumed. The other brand is a common one. This person smoked it clear to the filter."
Frank, Joe, and Tony went to check the tire plaster
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casts. When the segments were dry, they removed them from the retaining slats and brushed off the soil adhering to the casts with a soft paintbrush.
"You have to be careful not to scratch a cast or alter any detail when cleaning it," Frank explained to Tony. "Don't ever use hard or sharp instruments or wash the dust off with water."
Then the boys brought the casts to Mr. Hardy. He was pleased with the results. He said to Tony, "We can tell the make of the tire by the pattern. The FBI keeps a file of every brand.
"Now look at this. See where pieces of the tread have broken off, and note these scars. It's going to be easy to make a positive identification."
The boys hurried to get the casts they had made of the shoe prints.
"These are as good as any I've ever seen," Mr. Hardy said. "Take this larger print, for example. It was made by a comparatively new shoe, with an O'Sullivan heel. The two cuts in the rubber will easily identify the owner."
Next Mr. Hardy examined one of the other casts. It was apparently that of an older, half-soled shoe. The rubber heel, Cat's Paw brand, was well worn, especially on the outside rear edge.
"The man who wears this shoe," Frank observed, "walks splay-footed."
Later, everyone involved in the investigation held a conference at police headquarters. Chief Collig assigned various officers to specific tasks. Mr. Hardy asked his sons and Tony to call on all sellers of tobacco
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in town to inquire whether they stocked Zara cigarettes, and if so, who their customers were.
The boys' survey revealed that only four dealers sold Zaras. From the proprietors they got the names of the persons who regularly purchased the brand. They were reputable citizens, except one!
Mr. Pogatch, who owned the town's leading tobacco shop, told the boys that for the past week a stranger had been buying Zaras. The man, about forty years old, was six feet tall, slender, and distinguished looking. He wore rimless glasses, was well-dressed, and spoke with a Midwestern accent. From a remark the customer had made, Mr. Pogatch assumed that he was staying at the Bayport Hotel. Zaras were not sold there.
The three young detectives went immediately to the Bayport Hotel and talked with Alec Small, the desk clerk, whom they knew well. They repeated Mr. Pogatch's description of the Zara customer. Mr. Small informed them that the man was Andrew Sissler from Indianapolis.
"He registered together with a man from New York named Arthur Booth," the clerk added.
"What does Booth look like?" Frank inquired.
"He's about thirty years old, five-feet six-inches tall, and slender. He has a prominent, long, thin nose, sharp-pointed chin, and unusually large ears."
The clerk looked at Frank and Joe speculatively. "Working on a case with your father?"
"That's right," Joe replied with a grin.
"What case?"
"We're not at liberty to say," Frank replied, knowing that a good detective should never tip his hand.
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Alec Small nodded. "You don't have to tell me anything. But I've got a hunch it's the Nelson case. I heard Mr. Nelson got robbed last night."
"News travels fast," Joe said.
Mr. Small grinned. "My sister's a nurse in the hospital." He paused for a second, then went on, "I have certain suspicions and I feel that as a citizen I should communicate them to the proper authorities."
"Suppose you tell us," Joe said.
"No. Not because you're boys, mind you, but because the information is so important. I want to talk to Chief Collig, or your father."
"We'll get them," Joe declared, and the three hurried back to headquarters.
Mr. Hardy and Chief Collig, meanwhile, had visited Bayport Hospital. Mr. Nelson had regained consciousness but was presently sleeping and could not be disturbed. He had told Dr. Robinson that he was attacked by two men, who grabbed his briefcase containing ten thousand dollars, most of it in large denominations.
As Mr. Hardy and the chief stepped from the front entrance of the hospital, a patrol car carrying Frank, Joe, and Tony came to a halt at the curb. Joe quickly relayed their findings.
"Good work," the chief said. "Let's go see Alec Small."
Before they drove off, Mr. Hardy instructed his sons and Tony to question people around town about Booth and Sissler. "We'll meet in an hour at the hotel. Good luck, boys."
When the detective and Chief Collig confronted the
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clerk, Mr. Small beckoned them into his office and closed the door.
"Over a week ago," he began, "Sissler and Booth registered here. Sissler did most of the talking. He claimed they were businessmen seeking a site for a manufacturing corporation in Bayport."
"What were your suspicions?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Well, for one thing they didn't act like business people. They slept late and loafed around the hotel a lot. But in the evening they always went out."
The clerk took a deep breath. "About eight o'clock last night, I saw Mr. Nelson in the lobby. He was carrying a brown-leather briefcase, and asked what room Mr. Sissler was in. I told him, and he went upstairs. Half an hour later he came down again. I know him quite well, so he stopped and we talked a while. He mentioned something about going to Center City. Then he left. That's the last I saw of him."
"Then what happened?" Chief Collig asked.
"Right after he left, Sissler buzzed me to get him a telephone number, which I did. I recognized it because I had gotten it for him several times before. I made a note of it each time because I have to add the charges to his bill."
Mr. Small reached into his desk drawer. "Here it is."
"Hm!" Collig said. "A local number. I'll find out from the telephone company to whom it belongs. What happened next, Alec?"
"About eleven last night, Mr. Booth walked in. He appeared rather nervous as he asked for his room key. Then he hurried upstairs."
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Alec Small looked at his wristwatch. "At one o'clock, just about two hours ago, Sissler and Booth came downstairs. Sissler was not in his usually jovial mood. As a matter of fact, he seemed uptight. He asked me to make up bills for both of them; they were checking out. I did and they left. Now, gentlemen, I don't know if these facts mean anything to you, but they sure seem suspicious to me."
Mr. Hardy said, "Alec, you're absolutely right. Thanks for telling us."
He turned to the chief. "How about searching the rooms these men occupied?"
"Good," Collig said. Before they followed Alec Small upstairs, he called the telephone company and the supervisor promised to phone back with the information about the number Sissler had called.
Then they searched Sissler's room on the second floor but found nothing of importance. "I'll send someone over to look for fingerprints," Collig said. "Alec, make sure nobody cleans this room until then."
Booth's room across the hall was scrutinized next. In the corner of a closet Mr. Hardy found a pair of shabby shoes with traces of mud. As the detective examined the soles and heels, he gave a low whistle. "Ezra, did you bring a set of those photographs your man developed of the shoe prints taken at the Nelson house?"
"Right here," Collig said and pulled them out of his pocket. The men looked at them closely.
"There's no doubt that Booth was one of the assailants," Mr. Hardy declared. "These are the half-soled shoes with Cat's Paw rubber heels that left the
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impressions we found at the scene of the crime!"
Chief Collig scraped the soil off the shoes into a large envelope, then sealed it and marked the outside for identification.
"I'll forward this and soil samples from the area where we located the prints to the FBI laboratory," he said. "If they're found to be identical in makeup, we'll have some more constructive evidence."
The three returned to Mr. Small's office with the telltale shoes. Just then the telephone rang. The clerk answered and handed the instrument to Collig. "It's about that number," he said.
The chief jotted down a few notes, thanked the caller, and hung up.
"Fenton, it's the Shady Rest Guest House on the outskirts of Bayport. I wonder what the connection is."
"We'll soon know," answered the detective. "I think we'd better—"
At that moment the door flew open and Mr. Hardy's three assistants rushed in.
"Hey, Dad, do we have news!" Joe said. "We asked around as you suggested. When we talked to Jimmy Watkins, the shoeshine boy, he told us that he'd seen Sissler and Booth in a car belonging to the Portside Auto Rental Agency. A big man was with them."
Frank took up the story. "So we went to the Port-side Agency. We spoke to the manager. He told us Booth and Sissler had been renting the same car, a current model black sedan, for the past few days. They took it out again yesterday morning, and Booth did not bring it back until after ten-thirty last night."
Tony exclaimed, "And, Mr. Hardy, there was mud
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"These shoes left impressions at the scene of the crime," Mr. Hardy said
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on the tires! We were told that Sissler and Booth showed up this morning and are still out in the same car."
"Maybe they're at the guest house," Mr. Hardy said and told the boys about the phone number that Sissler had called several times.
"I know the place," Tony said. "It's off the main highway on the road to Griggstown."
The chief outlined his plan. "I'll send a radio car to Griggstown and have it head back toward the guest house. I will approach Shady Rest from the direction of Bayport and the place will be in between our two cars. If those men try to escape, we'll get them either way. And we'll keep in radio contact with each other at all times."
Collig dispatched a car with three police officers and allowed it a head start to coordinate the movement. After some debate, he agreed to take the Hardy boys and Tony along with him, under the condition that they stay in the background to avoid danger.
"After all, we want to see the finish of this case," Joe murmured to his brother.
With the chief's chauffeur at the wheel, the sedan sped quickly toward the Shady Rest Guest House. The other driver had been instructed to keep watch from a hill overlooking the house and to report any activity.
A metallic voice crackled over the police radio. "W2MAX calling. Three men just left the guest house. One is carrying a suitcase, the other two large bags. They seem to be in a hurry. Got into a black sedan and are coming your way. What do you want us to do?"
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"Follow and stay behind them. If they try to turn, head them off. We'll set up a roadblock on the narrow part of the highway just before the bend."
Upon reaching the bend, Collig's driver quickly swung the car across the road, making it impossible for anyone to pass. The boys were ordered into the woods in case of gunfire.
Frank, Joe, and Tony had hardly hidden behind the trees when they heard the roar of an approaching motor. The chief and his chauffeur, with drawn guns, were crouched behind their car, one at each end.
The suspects' vehicle came in sight around the sharp bend, kicking up a cloud of dust. The squeal of brakes filled the air as the careening car nearly struck the side of the chief's sedan.
As the driver frantically manipulated the wheel the two passengers in the rear seat were thrown violently backward. The driver backed up, turned, and raced off.
"They're getting away!" Joe shouted.
Just then the car veered to the right and crashed against a large oak tree. Despite the shattering impact, the driver jumped out and started for the woods, an automatic pistol in his hand.
By this time the other police car had reached the scene. Chief Collig and two officers started after the fleeing man. "Haiti" yelled the chief and fired two shots into the air.
The man turned to look at his pursuers and did not see the broken tree limb ahead. He tripped and fell, striking his head.
The police officers pounced on him and in a mo-
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ment he was handcuffed. The automatic was picked up from the ground. Chief Collig, meanwhile, seized the other suspects, sprawled dazedly in the car. They were quickly handcuffed, searched, and advised of their rights.
As soon as they had recovered from the shock, the larger of the two demanded to be set free. The chief, who had recognized him as Sissler from the tobacco shop owner's description, silenced him quickly.
"If I were you, Sissler, I'd keep my mouth shut. Mr. Nelson is very ill at the hospital. If he dies, you may have to face a murder charge."
By now the boys had emerged from cover and approached the wrecked car. Frank looked at its tire prints in the soft earth. He bent down to study them, then shouted excitedly, "Chief, this is the car that was at the crime scene 1"
As Frank and Tony crowded around him, Chief Collig pulled several photographs from his pocket and Frank pointed to the identical patterns and scar marks.
Joe and a police officer came forward with the men's luggage and a large manila envelope. The chief opened the latter and took out a tied stack of negotiable bonds.
The luggage contained only personal articles and clothing. "Let's put all this stuff into my car and take it to headquarters," Chief Collig said.
The three fugitives were herded into the squad car and one of the policemen took the rental car back to Bayport.
At headquarters the three men were fingerprinted.
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"Halt!" yelled the chief
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The Identification Division of the FBI was contacted. Identification of Sissler and Booth was confirmed. The third man, August Findal, was described in an FBI Wanted flier as a fugitive from justice. He was wanted along with John Scudder, alias Arthur Booth, for the daylight holdup of a bank messenger on a New York City street three weeks earlier. The negotiable bonds in the manila envelope were identified as belonging to the bank.
The prisoners were then questioned by Chief Collig separately. Sissler and Booth had waived their rights, but Findal refused to make any statement, even after being confronted with the FBI flier and the bonds.
Sissler, who admitted being an ex-convict specializing in confidence games, did not need much prompting. Chief Collig's statement that Mr. Nelson might die had scared him and he made a full confession. Frequently, however, he interspersed his statements with protestations of innocence regarding the assault on the merchant.
Sissler, a man of numerous aliases, had been released from prison a month before and needed money desperately. Three days after the New York holdup, he was approached by Booth, whom he had met in prison. Booth asked Sissler if he would undertake to sell the negotiable bonds. His cut would be one-third. Sissler readily consented.
He and Booth came to Bayport, where they met Findal. The latter had been hiding out at the guest house. Findal convinced them that Bayport would be an easy town in which to sell the bonds. He had heard
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stories of Mr. Nelson, who was somewhat eccentric and kept large amounts of cash in his own safe at home.
The three made their plans with Mr. Nelson as the target.
Sissler approached the merchant on Saturday and offered to sell him the bonds for a discount since he needed cash before the weekend was over. He told Nelson that he had been threatened by loan sharks from whom he had borrowed money and they insisted on repayment before Sunday night, and that he feared for his life unless he could meet the demands.
Finally, he thought he had hooked his fish and planned to close the deal the preceding night. Nelson had called at the hotel and told Sissler that he had the money with him but that he had changed his mind about concluding the transaction. He mentioned that he was going to Center City to confer with a friend who owned an investment firm and would call Sissler later.
After Nelson had left, Sissler telephoned Booth and Findal at the guest house to tell them what had happened. Findal was furious, blaming Sissler for not closing the deal right away.
Sissler insisted that he did not know his two partners had robbed Mr. Nelson until shortly before they were apprehended.
Booth was questioned next and repeatedly denied everything. But after being confronted with Sissler's statement, his own shoes, and the casts of their imprints at the crime scene, he began to show signs of weakness. When he was told that the car he had rented
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had been positively identified by a comparison of its treads and the impressions left at the scene, he confessed.
The prisoner stated that he was induced by Findal to go to the merchant's house. The original plan was for Findal to hold up Mr. Nelson with his gun. The victim was to be bound and gagged with adhesive tape and dropped off in the woods. Booth declared that he was shocked when his partner used the bat he had found at the scene. Findal had explained his action by saying he did not want to waste any time and that he did not hit Mr. Nelson hard.
The mystery now seemed to revolve around the whereabouts of Mr. Nelson's briefcase and the money. The three prisoners did not have the loot with them, nor was it found in Findal's suitcase or the bags of the other men.
Chief Collig dispatched two men to the guest house to see if they could locate it. They returned shortly with only a lock, similar to those found on expensive briefcases, but now blackened. The officers reported that the owner of the Shady Rest had told them Findal had burned some personal belongings in his incinerator. A search among the ashes had revealed the lock.
Frank examined Findal's suitcase closely. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, felt around the bottom, and pulled up a heavy lining. There was the missing ten thousand dollars!
Later in the day, Chief Collig and Mr. Hardy visited Mr. Nelson at Bayport Hospital. He assured them that he felt better and insisted upon hearing the details of the case. He said that he had not suspected
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Andrew Sissler of any wrongdoing and had delayed closing the deal only because of his habitual caution.
"I went to see a friend in Center City who is in the investment business and asked for his advice regarding the bonds," he said. "And since my friend had no unfavorable information, I planned to pay Sissler the money!"
At dinner that evening at the Hardy home, where Chief Collig and Tony had joined them, Joe said, "Chief, what about the clue of the Zara cigarettes? We know that Sissler smoked them. A butt was found at the scene of the attack and still Sissler says he wasn't there!"
Chief Collig laughed. "He happened to leave a pack in the car. When Findal was at the Nelson house, he ran out of cigarettes and smoked a Zara. It was one of those lucky breaks which happen occasionally in investigations. The cigarette clue was a very important lead!"
Tony observed, "The positive identification offered by the plaster casts was great. Even if there had been no other evidence, I think it would have been strong enough to convince any jury. And the most amazing thing is that almost any boy can learn to be an expert at it!"
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CHAPTER IV 
THE SAFEGRACKER'S CALLING CARD Identifying and Capturing the Fugitive
The steady patter of rain echoed monotonously in the large factory. Cyrus Cook, the night watchman, trudged wearily through the maze of storerooms with a small time clock on his shoulder.
He muttered to himself as he walked along. "Now I can rest for fifteen minutes."
Cyrus slumped into a battered old chair, removed his shoes, and rubbed the soles of his tired feet.
The watchman was in his early sixties, and he had worked thirty years for the Ajax Watch and Jewelry Company in the small town of York. His duties were light but dreary. Forty-five minutes out of each hour he spent punching his time clock at nine locations in the building. He wished the night were over.
Suddenly Cyrus heard a suspicious noise above the steady drumming of raindrops. He rose from his chair
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and shuffled through the warehouse, shining his flashlight left and right. As he neared a darkened storeroom, the light fell on three hooded men!
Cyrus froze in his tracks for an instant, then turned to run for the telephone. The men lunged at him. The watchman was blackjacked, tied in a heavy wooden chair, gagged, and blindfolded.
When Cyrus Cook regained consciousness, he could hear the sound of metal against metal not far from him and knew the company's safe was being cracked. As he sat helpless and frustrated, he pondered how the hooded men had managed to get into the plant without setting off the burglar alarm.
After what seemed an eternity, the safecrackers retreated, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
"I must do something!" the watchman thought.
He wriggled the chair along the floor until he reached a wall. Then he bounced himself to a desk with a telephone. His fingers fumbled with the dial, but finally he managed to get the operator. He called for help in a muffled voice.
Minutes later there was loud banging on the outside door, then the burglar alarm went off. The lights were turned on, and Cyrus saw two policemen who took off his blindfold and hastily untied him.
The first thing the watchman did was to shut off the burglar alarm. Next he looked at the ripped safe and telephoned Mr. Herbert Taylor, president of the Ajax Watch and Jewelry Company.
The police, meanwhile, had discovered a ladder propped against the skylight in a rear room. They questioned the watchman about it. Cyrus said the lad-
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der belonged to Ajax, but had not been there earlier, and the skylight had been ingeniously disconnected from the alarm system. Apparently the ladder had been used by the burglars.
Mr. Taylor, a brisk man with a black mustache, arrived at the plant at four a.m. He stared at the safe in shocked disbelief. Then he turned to the watchman and angrily demanded to know what had happened.
After Cyrus related his experience, Mr. Taylor's attitude softened. "I'm glad you weren't hurt," he said.
Then he went to the telephone and dialed. His face brightened as he said, "Is that you, Fenton? . . . This is Herb Taylor. Could you please come to our plant immediately? My company's safe has been burglarized. The thieves stole ten thousand dollars in negotiable bonds, fifteen thousand dollars in gold and silver used in jewelry manufacturing, three thousand dollars in cash and some new and invaluable jewelry designs."
There was a slight pause, and Taylor continued, "I'm sorry if you were about to take your boys and their friend on a vacation trip. Could you postpone it? . . . Bring them along and I'll see that they have a vacation in my summer home."
Another slight pause, then Mr. Taylor went on, "I'm ever so grateful, Fenton. . . . What do you mean by protect the crime scene? . . . Yes, the police are here. I'm sure they're taking care of it. You'll arrive in about four hours? . . . Fine. Good by."
One of the policemen asked, "Were you talking to Fenton Hardy? If he's coming, I'm sure the chief will
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be glad to work with him. He's practically a genius in his line."
"Yes, he is," Taylor replied. "I'm not so worried about the cash and the bonds, but the designs cannot be replaced. That's why I'd like to have him in on this."
A little after eight o'clock Fenton Hardy, his sons Frank and Joe, and their pal Chet Morton arrived at the Ajax factory. Mr. Taylor greeted his old friend warmly, and Mr. Hardy introduced the boys.
Then he said, "Herb, I'll need to know all the details. But first I want to see the mode of entry and then examine the safe."
Mr. Taylor took him to the rear room of the building where the ladder still stood under the skylight.
"Go to it, Frank," Mr. Hardy ordered.
Frank climbed the ladder and noted that two large panes of reinforced glass had been removed from the skylight. Putting his head through the opening, Frank saw that a long rope, knotted approximately every foot, was lying on the roof. One end was tied to the chimney.
Frank correctly surmised that after the panes had been taken out, the safecrackers had tied one end to the chimney and lowered the other end into the building. That was how they had entered.
The boy examined the metal frames of the skylight with his magnifying glass. He took a long pair of tweezers from his pocket and removed some lint and fibers and some whitish material from the frame. Then he placed these in separate envelopes on which
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Two panes had been removed from the skylight
he noted the contents, source, his initials, and the date.
After he had descended with the clues, his father went to the safe. He took a close look at it and the tools which had been left next to it. Then he said, "Seems as if Moose Wetzel did this job."
Chet nudged Joe and whispered, "How does he know who did it?"
"Dad remembers Wetzel's manner of working from a case years back. Also, he quickly scanned his Modus Operandi file on safe burglars before we left this morning."
"Modus Operandi?" Chet asked.
"It's a technique perfected by law-enforcement people to help combat crime. Modus Operandi is a Latin expression meaning method of operation."
"I see," Chet said.
"Through the years," Joe went on, "the police have discovered that criminals use distinct techniques when
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]committing crimes. Take a house burglar, for instance. There are a lot of ways to break into a house. The burglar might pick the lock of a door, jimmy a window on the first floor, or break the glass in the basement. Usually he will enter a house the same way every time."
Frank added, "There are other factors involved in the Modus Operandi." He jotted them down for Chet while the detective examined the safe.
Scene

Associates
Entry

Vehicle
How
entered
Victim
Time
of day
Odd and unusual acts
Loot

Alias or nickname
Frank handed his friend the piece of paper and said, "Under scene, you put the kind of building, store, automobile, or whatever else represents the scene of the crime. You generally find that a house burglar rarely breaks into a store. Whatever he specializes in, he will stick to and seldom changes.
"Under entry, you put the manner of entry. Under how entered, you insert the use of specific tools, ladder, aided by accomplice, and any other factors.
"Time of day is vital because a criminal will operate nearly always at a specific time."
Joe took up the explanation. "Loot is also important. For example, certain house burglars will take only cash and nothing else. Others may include jewelry.
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"Some specialize in furs. In recent years some steal only credit cards or blank checks and personal identification papers. Those are sold to others who fill out the checks, forge them, and use the identification to cash them.
"Under associates you state whether one or more persons took part in the criminal act and what each one did.
"Vehicles are studied to determine if a car was used in a crime and if it was stolen.
"Under victim you write the sex, age, and background of the person assaulted. For example, some muggers will only attack elderly people, others only young women.
"The item odd and unusual acts is extremely important. Often a criminal will leave the same characteristic clue. For instance, one might cut a pane of glass in a sort of circle. Another criminal might make a diamond-shaped cut or add his own personal flourish to the job. It's like planting his calling card at the scene of the crime.
"Alias or nickname is often important in identifying the criminal."
"I understand," said Chet.
"You forgot to mention one important thing, Joe," Frank put in, "the criminal's photographs in the Modus Operandi file, if any are available."
Fenton Hardy, meanwhile, had been taking photographs of the crime scene. Then he drew a sketch and Frank and Joe helped him by taking the measurements of the room.
Mr. Hardy explained to Mr. Taylor that through
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his study of safecrackers he knew there were seven ways to open a safe.
"The one used most today is the Rip Job," he said. "An electric drill and a sectional jimmy—which is nothing more than an extremely large can opener— are used.
"The second method is the Punch Job. Sledge hammers and a chisel are used to knock off the dial and punch in certain pins. Then there is the Chopping Job. A sledge, chisels, and sectional jimmies are generally used on the bottom of the safe. The fourth method is the Drag, or Old Man Job. This, however, is practically obsolete now. Drills were used to break the spindle around the dial.
"The Blow Job was also employed a great deal in the past. Nitroglycerine was placed in holes drilled in the safe and other recesses. Then it was detonated. The sixth way is the Torch Job, also seldom used today due to the danger of detection. An acetylene torch, or a burning rod, is used to burn a hole in the safe.
"The last method," Mr. Hardy went on, "is known as the Jimmy Valentine. The safe is opened by manipulating the combination. These are mostly inside jobs, meaning the criminal has wormed himself into the company as an employee or has access in some other official capacity. Or he finds the combination somewhere, in a desk drawer perhaps, or on the back of a calendar."
The detective added that when he had entered Mr. Taylor's office he had noted by the condition of the safe and by the tools left at the scene that it was a
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Rip Job. This immediately narrowed the number of suspects who might have committed the crime.
"When I found that the skylight had been used, it was just as if Moose and his pals had signed a confession."
Mr. Hardy said that Moose Wetzel, who always changed his associates with each job, was probably the only one in the area who entered buildings through skylights. He always bought new tools in some distant city and left them at the crime scene. Also, he ripped open the safe by cutting across the door diagonally.
Then the detective directed his sons to dust everything for latent fingerprints. "I'm sure you won't find any, because these men are professional criminals and wear gloves," he said to Chet. "However, we never take a chance of missing any possibility, so we go through the process of searching a crime scene according to regular patterns."
While looking for prints, Joe noticed a brown windbreaker lying on the back of a chair in the office. It was wet.
"This was evidently left by one of the burglars," he told Chet.
He examined the windbreaker carefully, looking and feeling in every pocket.
"What can you prove with it?" Chet asked.
"I'm not sure yet," Frank replied. "There's nothing in the pockets, but here is a dry-cleaner's mark. Most State Police laboratories maintain a file of laundry and dry-cleaner's marks."
"That's true," Mr. Hardy said. "The State Police
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here have one of the best in the country. This wind-breaker is a vital clue in identifying the criminal. We'll take it to the State Police today."
Mr. Hardy led the three boys toward the ladder. "Do you notice anything unusual on the floor?" he asked.
"There are some shoe prints!" Chet volunteered.
"Good. If they can be clearly seen, they're good evidence."
Frank took out his flashlight and shone it obliquely over the tile floor, making the details more visible. They searched for the best prints. When they had located two, Frank marked them with a piece of white chalk.
By this time Joe had taken a camera and a large piece of lifting tape from their kit. He laid a ruler close to the shoe prints for purposes of comparison, and also a piece of paper with his initials and the date. Then he set up the camera so that the lens was directly over the prints. He took several pictures.
"Are you going to lift the prints just as you did with the latent fingerprints?" Chet asked.
"Right," Joe said. When he had completed his task, he showed the lifts to the others. They were exceptionally good, finely detailed. They were heel marks of the right shoe, bearing the peculiar design of a five-pointed star. On it was a ragged gash apparently caused when the wearer of the shoe stepped on a piece of glass or sharp metal.
Mr. Hardy nodded approvingly. "Boys, this is a fine piece of evidence." He turned to Mr. Taylor. "We can find out the make and size of the shoe. The
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FBI lab maintains a shoe-print file of all rubber and composition heels, half soles, and whole soles manufactured in this country."
The detective went on to say that the photographs would be permanent records of these clues.
"We'll make several copies and distribute them," he said. "The heel print is so unusual that I'm sure we'll have no trouble in making a positive identification when we obtain the shoe of the suspect."
"A thief stands no chance at all with investigators like you!" Chet exclaimed with admiration.
A search of the outside of the building revealed that the criminals had climbed up to the roof by means of an extension ladder. It was discovered that it was the property of a painter who had left it alongside a nearby house.
The Hardys and Chet now went to police headquarters. Here a copy of the description, photographs, and fingerprints of Moose Wetzel were obtained from Chief Logan. As the group looked at the pictures, a policeman standing nearby exclaimed, "I saw that guy at the Center Luncheonette yesterday! He was having coffee and talking to the waitress. I'm sure it was the same guy because of his bulbous nose. I'd know him anywhere."
"Wetzel was probably casing the factory and making plans," Mr. Hardy said. "Let's go talk to the waitress."
On the way to the car Chet asked curiously, "Do you think she can tell us much?"
"You never know," Joe replied. "One of the best ways to get information is by interviewing people."
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"Right," Mr. Hardy said as they approached the Center Luncheonette. "For example, bellboys, bootblacks, waitresses, taxi drivers, postmen, salesclerks, and storekeepers can be a good source of information if they had any contact with the suspect."
He added, "Many investigators develop a contact file. On an index card they write the name, address, and description of people they think might be helpful. They add to this card all they know about the person. Then, whenever they have an investigation in the section of the town where the person lives or works, they have a valuable contact."
"You should see Dad's contact file," Joe said. "He has thousands of names in it."
Mr. Hardy, Chief Logan, and the boys interviewed the waitress at the luncheonette. She remembered talking to the man described and identified his photograph.
According to her, Wetzel asked a lot of questions concerning the town. He was well dressed and gave the impression that he wished to go into business in York. He inquired about the Ajax company and the police force.
On the basis of this and the Modus Operandi data, Logan went to the local court, made a complaint against Wetzel and obtained two John Doe warrants for Wetzel's associates.
Joe explained to Chet that a warrant is a court order for the arrest of a suspect. When the criminal is not known, the warrant is made out for the arrest of "John Doe."
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Mr. Hardy then asked Chief Logan to issue a teletype alarm to all police in nearby states.
"When the Wanted Notice is forwarded to the FBI in Washington, that agency, too, will look for the offender," he said to Chet.
"It will be only a matter of time," Chief Logan declared, "before we get him."
"That's true," said Mr. Hardy. "But we want him now before he sells all the loot!"
Chet studied a copy of the teletype alarm. "This is quite a long description, isn't it?" he asked.
"No," answered Frank. "This is what we call the short form of the Portrait Parle." -
Chet looked puzzled, and Joe explained. "Portrait Parle is important in criminal investigation. It's a French term, meaning speaking likeness. French scientists contended in the early half of the nineteenth century that no two human beings were alike."
Mr. Hardy supplied the following information: In 1870 a French anthropologist, Alphonse Bertillion, devised a system to measure the dimensions of certain bones in the body and to record them. From these a composite formula could be derived which, theoretically, would apply to only one person. The system was based on the theory that the pertinent measurements would not change during an adult's life.
A thorough description of the subject arrested was made along with the measurements. This method was used for about thirty years. However, it was prone to inaccuracies as it required special training on the part of the persons making the measurements, and the equipment used to make them was expensive. Also,
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there were cases when an identification could not be made merely upon the basis of the measurements formula. Therefore the system was discontinued about 1903 and followed by the use of fingerprint identification.
"Outstanding peculiarities, like a wart on somebody's nose, or a limp, are important in identifying a suspect and would be noted," Mr. Hardy concluded. "And this is what a Portrait Parle looks like." He showed a couple of forms to Chet.
PORTRAIT PARLE
Short Form
Name 
Aliases _
Sex 
Race .
Date of Birth 
Place of Birth 
Height 
Weight 
Build 
Hair 
Style 
Eyes 
Glasses 
Complexion .  
Scars or Marks 
Tattoos 
Peculiarities 
Armed or Dangerous
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Long Form
Name 
Aliases 
Sex 
Race 
Date of Birth Place of Birth
Height 
Weight 
Build 
Hair _
Color 
Style 
Beard 
Mustache 
Sideburns 
Eyes .
Glasses 
Ears 
Nose 
Mouth : 
Chin 
Complexion 
Scars or Marks Tattoos 
How Dressed 
Occupation 
Social Security Number
Residence Address 
Marital Status 
Wife's Name 
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STANDARD DESCRIPTION OF PERSON START -r— jasT-x FINISH
Name* Sex Race • Age
Height Weight Color of Hair •Color of Eyes Complexion
Physical Marks, Scars limp, etc.
Clothing-Head to Foot
Cap or Hat
Jacket Or Coat
Dress or Trousers'
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Wife's Residence 
Relatives and Residences
Peculiarities 
Habits 
FBI No. 
F.P. Classification Criminal Record
"The short form," Mr. Hardy said, "is generally used to give a brief description of a subject for a 'Wanted Broadcast.' Some of the individual features, of course, will not be obtained."
"And the long form?" Chet asked.
"That's for identification bureaus and for 'Wanted Notices,' and is used when the subject is interrogated."
"I just remembered something else that Dad taught us," Joe said to Chet. "Every time you describe a person, start from the top of the head and work downward. In that way you won't overlook or forget anything."
Mr. Hardy asked Chief Logan to dispatch an officer to the State Police laboratory to check on the dry-cleaner's mark in the windbreaker. Meanwhile, photographs of the heel prints were developed and distributed to everyone working on the case.
The State Police laboratory, upon examining the garment, informed the York Police Department that the cleaner's code mark indicated the windbreaker had been cleaned at Teddy's Laundry and Dry Cleaning Shop in the nearby city of Columbia.
Detective Hardy, Chief Logan, and the boys drove
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there to interview the owner. Theodore Katz revealed that the windbreaker belonged to Ernest Wetzel, who had been a customer for about a year. He owned expensive clothes, mostly of the sports type.
Katz said that Ernest was a quiet fellow who always had come in alone, except about a week ago when he had been accompanied by a stranger. He had introduced him as his brother.
"Do you remember what this man looked like?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Oh yes. I could never forget his face. He had a big nose that was shaped like a light bulb!"
"Do you know Ernest Wetzel's address?" Chief Logan queried.
"He lives on Poplar Street. I can't remember the number, but it's the last house next to Clark's Ice Cream Parlor."
After thanking the dry cleaner, the group went to Columbia Police Headquarters. Here they conferred with Sergeant Clooey, in charge of the Detective Bureau. The sergeant said that Ernest Wetzel was indeed the brother of Moose. There was another brother named Horatio.
Ernest and Horatio lived together on Poplar Street. Clooey added that as far as he knew, they were law-abiding citizens.
"On the basis of our evidence," Mr. Hardy said, "I'm afraid you'll have to arrest them."
It was decided, however, not to make any arrests unless the brothers could be apprehended at the same time.
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The Wetzel house, a small Colonial with a screened-in porch, was immediately placed under surveillance by the local police, including Sergeant Clooey, Chief Logan, Fenton Hardy, and the boys.
Chief Logan said, "I wish one of us could get into that house under some pretext and find out if they are there."
Chet spoke up. "I'll go! I can pretend to sell magazine subscriptions!"
"Great idea," Frank agreed.
"If you should get hurt, I'd have a lot of explaining to do," Sergeant Clooey said thoughtfully.
"I'll be all right," Chet declared. "Why should they bother me? I'm only selling magazines."
Fenton Hardy backed Chet's idea. The husky boy had often helped his sons on their cases and could handle almost any situation.
"There's a stationery store down the block," Joe said. "We'll go and get an order pad and a pen, so you'll look authentic."
A short time later they were back and Chet began to "sell magazine subscriptions." He started at the beginning of the block and worked his way toward the Wetzel house. When he finally reached it, hidden policemen had their eyes on him. The Hardys waited tensely as Chet rapped on the door and entered the porch.
"I hope he's all right," Joe whispered to Frank from his hiding place behind some bushes.
Two minutes passed. Then Chet emerged, whistling. He walked slowly to the next corner, turned,
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and hopped into a waiting police car. All the investigators gathered immediately.
"What happened, Chet?" Mr. Hardy asked.
The boy took a deep breath. "The door to the porch was open. I walked in, and the door to the house was also open a little bit. I heard one man say he wanted to see a movie at the Tivoli. Then another man answered, 'Okay.' The first man said for him to get ready, because the main feature would start in twenty minutes."
"Look! They're leaving!" Clooey called. He had been stationed at the corner to watch the house.
A car was backing out of the driveway. The entire group scattered behind the buildings. The prowl car backed into an alley. As soon as the Wetzels had driven away, everyone gathered again.
"They definitely are the Wetzels. I recognized them," Sergeant Clooey said.
"Good," Mr. Hardy replied. "Suppose you plant two men in the theater to spot them. When they leave, your people will be right behind them. We'll make the arrest when they come out of the place."
The sergeant nodded. "Let's go."
Everything went as planned. When the Wetzels walked out of the theater, Mr. Hardy and Sergeant Clooey snapped handcuffs on their wrists. The prisoners were hustled into a police car after being advised of their constitutional rights.
"Incidentally, Chet," Joe said mischievously as they drove back to headquarters in another squad car, "did you sell anyone a subscription?"
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"Thank goodness, no!"
At headquarters the Wetzels were searched. No clue of value was uncovered, and they indignantly protested their innocence. But when Ernest was told that he had forgotten his windbreaker at the scene of crime, Horatio cursed his brother.
"I knew that would get us into trouble, you stupid idiot!"
After this, it was easy to extract a statement from the brothers, who refused the assistance of a lawyer. They admitted burglarizing the Ajax company with the help of Moose, who had planned the job. They denied they had the money, bonds, precious metal, or the designs and insisted that Moose had gone off with everything.
They claimed they did not know where he was, and executed a voluntary waiver of search for the house and grounds, which meant they agreed to a search of the premises by the police.
The loot was not found. On the way out the rear door, Frank spotted a trash can near the side of the house. He walked over to it and deliberately scattered the contents on the walk.
"What are you doing that for?" Chet Morton asked.
"Trash cans frequently are good sources of information," Joe explained, while Frank poked among the debris with a stick.
"I don't see any clues," Joe remarked, glancing at a conglomeration of empty cans, old newspapers, and a crushed milk carton.
"Wait a second," Frank said and picked up the
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milk carton. Using his pocketknife, he cut off the top.
Inside were tiny bits of torn white paper!
Frank whistled. "This is a note and here are two of the words: 'loot' and 'lie low'!"
"It might be the key clue," Sergeant Clooey said, a note of excitement in his voice. "Let's piece it together at headquarters."
Minutes later Frank and Joe were working over a jigsaw puzzle of paper bits at a table in the Detective Bureau. Using plastic tape, they patiently fitted piece after piece together. Finally they were finished.
"Wow!" Frank exclaimed as he read the note. "Listen to this, Dad!
" 'Dear Ernie and Horatio,
I think it's best to lie low for a while, so I'm leaving for Clinton right now. When I feel the coast is clear, I'll come up with the loot and whack it up. It's better if I'm not seen with you now. Be careful and keep your mouths shut.
Moose'"
"Well," said Mr. Hardy, "that note proves that Moose has the loot."
"And it tells us where he is!" Frank said elatedly.
"You still don't have his street address," Chet put in.
Mr. Hardy said there were many possibilities to explore. These included the Clinton telephone direc-
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tory, city directory, friends and relatives, the gas and electric company, credit bureaus and collection agencies, the post office, finance companies, and voting registration lists.
"But our best bet," he concluded, "is the Motor Vehicle Bureau."
A telephone call quickly produced the information that Daniel (Moose's real first name as shown in the police records) Wetzel was listed as the owner of a new Oldsmobile; also that he lived at 373 Rutherford Street in Clinton.
"Boy, the trap is closing!" Chet exulted. "Let's go get him!"
"We'll have to ask the Clinton police to make the arrest," Frank told his pal. "Police can't act outside their jurisdiction unless they're actually chasing a suspect, but out-of-town officers who are familiar with a case often work with local authorities."
"You mean if a policeman is in another town and he sees somebody kill a person, he can't do anything?" Chet asked with indignation.
Joe laughed. "Of course he can. Anyone can make a citizen's arrest when he actually sees a felony committed."
Fenton Hardy was already on the phone talking to Deputy Chief Hansen in Clinton, whom he knew well. He asked Hansen to produce a search warrant for Wetzel's home. The officer assured Mr. Hardy he would have it ready by the time they arrived in Clinton and would accompany them to the Rutherford Street address.
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Chief Logan, Mr. Hardy, and the boys immediately departed for the nearby town in the chief's car.
From Clinton Police Headquarters, Hansen led the way in his car, accompanied by a plainclothesman.
The address turned out to be a bungalow on a dead-end street next to a wooded area. No one was home, but the back door was unlocked.
Deputy Chief Hansen, Chief Logan, and the Clinton policeman began to search the house. Mr. Hardy beckoned the boys into the driveway. "I think Wetzel left in a hurry," he said. "Otherwise he would have locked the back door. Also, he did not take his car. There's a chance he kept the loot in it. Let's check out the garage."
Joe was first to enter. "The keys are in the ignition!" he called out. "Wetzel must have been about to take off when he saw us coming. He probably left on foot."
Frank and Joe searched the inside of the car, while Mr. Hardy opened the trunk. In it he found a metal box. "This might be it, boys!" he said. "Frank, get the officers. Joe, see if you can force the lock on this with a tire tool."
When Frank returned with the others, Joe had succeeded in opening the box. "Money!" he cried. "And the bonds are here, too!"
Further search of the trunk revealed two canvas bags of gold and silver scraps and a manila envelope with jewelry designs.
"This is the loot from the Ajax company," Mr. Hardy told the officers.
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"Money!" Joe cried
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"Let's see if we can find any clue as to where Wetzel may have gone," said Frank. He, Joe, and Chet started to circle the house.
Suddenly Joe stopped short and stared at the ground.
"What's the matter?" asked Chet.
"A heel print with the star impression!"
"Here's another," cried Frank, who was scanning the ground farther on. "They seem to go into the woods!"
Caught up in the excitement of the chase, the boys followed Wetzel's trail among the trees.
"He was running here," Joe said.
"He was tiring going up this hill," Frank remarked after several minutes.
"How do you know all that?" Chet asked.
"Tell you later," Frank promised.
Finally the boys ran into rocky terrain where the trail seemed to stop. They stuck a stick into the ground next to the last print and covered it with a handkerchief. Then they began to travel systematically in a circle.
"Over here," Frank called.
The trail led straight to a cave, with its entrance half hidden by brush.
The boys retreated to a spot behind a rock which gave them a view of the cave.
"I'm sure Wetzel is holed up in there," Frank said in a low voice. "Joe, run back and bring Dad and the police. I'll stay here with Chet and keep watch."
After Joe had gone, Chet said, "That was great the way you followed the trail. How'd you do it?"
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"We call it tracking," Frank replied. "First you study the print you are following. Figure out when it was made. If it has water in it, recall when it rained last. If it contains sand or grass seed, think of the last time the wind blew.
"Then you track against the sun. This way the impression casts a shadow which brings out the details better. But don't just look at the tracks. Lift your head once in a while and survey the criminal's trail as a whole. You might spot cigarette butts on either side of the track, matchsticks, loose thread, or other important clues.
"When tracking early in the morning, the earth and grass may be dewy. It's easy then because the marks are more visible."
Frank paused a minute and the two listened. Everything was quiet. Then Frank went on.
"It's hard to follow tracks on hard or rocky ground. You might have to go by small signs such as broken moss, cracked branches or twigs, upturned stones and leaves, which you will recognize by their moist and darker undersides."
"What do you do if you lose the trail?" Chet asked.
"Don't go wandering around before you mark the last track. You do this by inserting a stick in the ground and placing a handkerchief on it. Then see if you can locate the new trail."
"Pretty neat," Chet said. "Tell me more."
"You can deduce a great deal from studying tracks. For example, whether a man was running, walking slowly, or walking normally. You can figure out if he's carrying a heavy weight or if he has a limp. You can
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also ascertain whether he's trying to run into hiding."
"How?"
"A person who's running away to hide will turn around from time to time to see if he's being pursued. Then a few of his steps will point to either side and not in the general direction of the trail.
"We knew when Moose was running because the deepest part of the track was in the toe mark and the prints were wide apart. When he was getting tired, his steps were shorter and the toes were pointing outward. Also, the prints were deeper."
"What else can be learned from tracks?" Chet asked.
"Well, if a person's walking slowly, there will be short spaces between the prints with the emphasis on the heels. If he's walking normally, there's no emphasis on the heels. If he's carrying anything heavy, the prints are much deeper at the heels. If he has a limp, the marks show unusual or odd patterns."
At this point the two boys saw the rest of their group arriving with Joe in the lead.
"Get behind the rock with Frank and Chet," Mr. Hardy ordered Joe. "Wetzel may be armed and dangerous."
The officers all drew their guns and approached the cave. But Wetzel was in no mood to put up a fight. He knew he was trapped and came out with his hands over his head.
"Wow!" Chet exclaimed. As they walked back along the trail, he added, "Detectives sure have to know a lot."
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CHAPTER V THE SECRET OF THE EMPTY PAGE The Powers of Observation and Memory
Fenton Hardy rose to his feet after examining the prone figure of a policeman on the roadway. "This is terrible," he said. "He's been shot to death!"
The detective turned to Frank and Joe and their pal Chet Morton. "Joe, jump in my car and call Chief Collig."
The crime scene area was a lonely stretch of the winding old road along a creek between Bayport and Center City. Mr. Hardy and the three boys were on their way for an afternoon of fishing when they had come upon the victim. No one else was in sight.
The policeman was lying face down in the center of the road, his head in the direction of Bayport. His
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crash helmet had fallen off and rolled a short distance away. A notebook and pen were in the dust near the body. The officer's right hand was extended over his head, still clutching his revolver.
His motorcycle was parked on the right side of the road approaching Bayport. The engine was running.
As was his usual custom, Mr. Hardy took notes and made a rough sketch of the scene. Joe returned and told his father that Chief Collig was on his way.
Within minutes a screaming chorus of police sirens could be heard. Three cars roared to a halt. Almost before they stopped, the chief was out on the road. He hurried over to the body and stared at it in shocked disbelief. Then he said in a choked voice, "That's my nephew, Tom Collig. Joined the department a few weeks ago. How can I tell his wife and three kids that he's dead!"
He turned to the elder Hardy. "What happened?"
"I don't know, Chief," Mr. Hardy said softly, "but it appears that he was shot twice in the back."
Collig nodded grimly.
"Ezra," Mr. Hardy added, "I want you to know how sorry I am. I'll do anything to help."
"Thank you, Fenton. I'll never rest until I catch the murderer!"
Meanwhile, Officer Higgins took photographs of the crime scene from several angles. As he did, the Bayport First Aid Squad arrived, followed by the city ambulance. A white-coated intern examined the victim and officially pronounced Tom Collig dead. The body was put into the ambulance.
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Mr. Hardy and the police officers made a thorough search of the crime scene. They scoured both sides of the road for a considerable distance, with negative results. The roadway itself yielded no clues either.
While the men were busily engaged, Frank and Joe decided to walk along the road toward Center City. Chet followed them. After passing a sharp bend, he asked, "Why are you walking all the way up here?"
"Because you never know where you'll find a clue," Frank replied.
"But there is nothing! Let's go back," Chet said.
At that moment Frank and Joe stopped dead in their tracks. "Chet," Joe asked, "do you mean to tell me that you don't see anything unusual?"
Chet looked about and shrugged. "Are you kidding? There's nothing but a few pieces of glass near that pole."
Joe pointed to the left. "Not only are there a few pieces of glass, but if you look a little higher, you'll notice a scrape mark on the pole. That could mean, a car speeding from Center City sideswiped it."
"So?" Chet asked.
"If you come closer to the pole," Joe continued, "you can see what appears to be dark-blue paint scrapes where it was struck."
"You're right! How come you notice all these things?"
"We've been trained by Dad to observe," Frank replied. "The power of observation, Chet, is based on our five senses: sight, hearing, smell, touch, and taste. The two that we use most are sight and hearing. It's
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a known fact that modern man does not use his five senses to their full capacity."
"As a matter of fact," Joe put in, "Dad says that people walk around completely oblivious to many things they see. Let me give you a concrete example." He took Chet by the shoulders and turned him about. "You've been with us all morning," he said. "What color shirt do I have on?"
Chet scratched his head. "I'll have to take a guess. Blue?"
Chet turned to face Joe. The shirt was green with white stripes.
"Oh, oh, I goofed!"
Joe continued. "There are a couple of good tests to show you how dormant your capability to observe may be. You pass the intersection of Main and Linden streets every day. Tonight, before you go to bed, picture what it looks like and write down these impressions. Tomorrow when you go there, you'll be surprised at how much you missed and how many incorrect impressions you have listed."
Joe turned to Frank. "I think you'd better get Dad and Chief Collig to look at this pole. It may be a clue. I'll tell Chet some more about observation."
As Frank sprinted down the road, Joe went on, "Chet, when you have some time, sit down and write as full a description as you can of some of your friends, teachers, and acquaintances. Keep the descriptions in your pocket. When you meet these people, compare your notes with what you see. You'll be amazed how inaccurate your descriptions are."
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"Well, isn't there a way to improve one's power of observation?" Chet asked.
"Sure. But it takes a lot of practice!"
"I'd like to," Chet said. "But how?"
"Observation is nothing more than a series of mental images to which you apply the laws of repetition, association, attraction or its opposite, repulsion. Here, I'll give you some examples. If I were to ask you to draw a map of France, you probably couldn't, because you've never truly observed it. But I'll bet you could do a fair job on Italy. Why? Because the picture of a boot comes to mind. That's the association. If I ask you what seven times seven is, you'd give me the correct answer immediately because you have repeated this over and over. This is repetition.
"So it is with things you like. They strike your attention, leaving a permanent image. The same applies to things you violently dislike. Such as last year's math teacher."
"Wow! Could I describe him!"
"Another way to improve your powers of observation," Joe went on, "is to look briefly at any shop-window display. Turn around and write down what you saw. Compare it with the real thing and note the A-items you left out. Keep practicing until you become proficient. This is the way policemen train themselves."
Just then Frank came running back. "They'll be here in a minute," he said. Nodding toward Chet, he added, "Joe, did you tell him about memory?"
"No, I didn't yet. Just got through with observation."
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"I'll do it, then," Frank volunteered. "Chet, memory works through association. We can recall a new idea only by connecting it to something we already know. We form these associations consciously and subconsciously. This can be improved by training."
At that moment Mr. Hardy, Chief Collig, and his men arrived. "What do you make of this?" the chief asked, pointing to the broken glass and the pole.
Fenton Hardy bent down and examined the splinters through • a hand magnifier. Then he carefully looked at the pole.
"The broken glass seems to be from the headlight of a car," he said finally. "It's very fresh, so are the paint scrapings."
"How do you know the glass hasn't been here long?" Chet asked.
"It's simple. This road is very dusty. Whenever a car drives by, a cloud of dust rises. But there's no trace of it on these fragments."
Joe interrupted excitedly, "Dad, this means that since the time the car hit the pole, no one else has driven past here. So the last car we passed coming from Center City must have been the one that struck the pole and may have something to do with Tom Collig's murder."
"I remember the car," Frank cut in. "We passed it only a couple of minutes before we found the body. It was going very fast. A dark-blue sedan. Recent model."
"And it had a broken right headlight and a dented right fender I" Joe said, "There were three men in it."
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"Correct," his father said. "I saw it, too."
"Not me," Chet said. "I just remember the car speeding by."
"Come to think of it, Dad," said Joe, "I looked at the license plate. It was covered with dirt, but the borders were yellow and it was the same size as the registration plates in our state."
At once Chief Collig radioed headquarters to set up roadblocks on all highways leading out of Bayport. He also notified police in the adjoining towns to be on the lookout for the car.
Higgins took photographs of the pole and the glass. Then the pieces were meticulously picked up. Using a sharp knife, Mr. Hardy cut away the paint scrapings which he placed in an envelope.
"What are you doing that for?" Chet asked.
"If we're fortunate enough to find the headlight from which the glass came, we'll fit the broken pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle. It will be positive proof that these pieces came from the damaged headlight.
"The scrapings and chips of paint will be sent to the FBI laboratory in Washington, D.C., to determine its exact composition. If we find the vehicle that scraped the pole, its paint can be compared with that on the pole to see if they're identical."
As the group slowly walked back to the waiting cars, Chet lagged behind, scanning the roadside. Suddenly he bent over and called out excitedly, "Come here quick! I think I've discovered something."
The others hurried to his side and Chet pointed among the weeds. There lay two .45 caliber shells, about three feet apart.
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"Good work, Chet!" Frank said.
Collig called for Higgins to make close-up photographs, and Mr. Hardy included the position of the shells in his sketch.
"They probably came from an automatic pistol," Joe said to Chet. "You see, every time a pistol fires, its firing pin hits the primer at the base of the shell. This causes the explosion which forces out the lead bullet. The extractor hits the side of the casing and ejects the shell from the gun automatically."
Chet was impressed by his friend's knowledge of firearms.
"When the firing pin hits the center of the primer," Joe went on, "it leaves a distinct mark. If you compare a shell found at a crime scene with another from the suspected gun and the marks are identical, you can positively state that this was the gun fired. It can also be proved by the ejector marks."
"Does this go for revolvers, too?" Chet asked.
"Yes, but with these differences. In the first place, a revolver does not eject any shells. After firing, the shell stays in the gun and must be removed manually. For this reason, no extractor marks are on the bullet. But there's a firing pin, so you can prove that two shells with matching pin impressions were fired by the same weapon."
"Why are firing pin marks different in different guns?" Chet wanted to know.
Frank answered. "When you look at any firing pin, extractor, or ejector under a microscope you'll find definite characteristics. No two are alike. Then you
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use a comparison microscope to study both the known shell and the suspected shell. If the marks on both are exactly alike, you have made a positive identification."
"I see," said Chet. "Is that a comparison microscope you've got in your lab?"
"Right."
"Hurry, boys," Mr. Hardy called. "We have a lot of work to do."
Chief Collig said to the detective, "I just radioed headquarters. There's no word on that sedan yet."
"Well," Mr. Hardy replied, "I think our next step is to check all the service stations in Bayport to see if the blue car was brought in to have a headlight repaired."
Several police officers, along with Frank, Joe, and Chet, were assigned to check the garages. The reports were negative. As the trio trudged back toward headquarters, Joe said, "Let's take a shortcut through the park."
"Okay," Chet agreed. "The soft grass will sure be easier on my poor tired feet." He grinned. Walking along a narrow lane in Bayport Park, Chet suddenly stumbled and pitched headlong to the side of the path.
He let out a whoop that startled Frank and Joe. "What's the matter, Chet? Did you hurt yourself?" Frank asked.
"No. But look!" Chet pointed to the shrubbery.
Frank and Joe parted the bushes and gasped. There stood an empty blue sedan!
Chet scrambled to his feet and they walked around it cautiously without disturbing anything. The right
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There stood an empty blue sedan!
headlight was broken and the fender was smashed.
Joe could hardly believe their good luck. "How in the world did you see it, Chet?"
"When I fell, I noticed tire ruts on the grass. They seemed fresh. And they led to the car. I saw it through a crack in the foliage."
Frank slapped Chet on the back. "You're learning fast!" Then he added, "We'd better get to a phone pronto."
"I'll go," Joe offered. "You stay here to protect the evidence." He was one of the fastest men on the high school track team and disappeared like a shot.
Shortly two police cars with Fenton Hardy, Chief
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Collig, and other members of his force arrived in the park and screeched to a halt.
An examination of the sedan revealed two bullet holes in the rear. The chief and Mr. Hardy noticed that attempts had been made to remove all fingerprints by rubbing the car's surface with a cloth.
However, they discovered a number of visible prints on the back of the rear-view mirror and a latent print on the rear window.
Higgins photographed and lifted them and rushed them to the fingerprint section for processing and identification. No other clues were found in the car and it was towed to the police parking lot, while everyone drove to headquarters.
Chief Collig contacted the Motor Vehicle Bureau. Within a few minutes a teletype came back. The car had just been reported stolen by its owner, who had left it in a parking lot in Center City.
"Obviously the criminals changed cars in Bayport," the chief said, and ordered that the roadblocks be continued, and also that train stations, the bus terminal, and the airport be kept under surveillance.
Then he said to Mr. Hardy, "Fenton, let's have another look at the sketch you made at the scene of the—"
A knock on the door interrupted him and Officer Riley walked into the office. "When the repairman came to fix our teletype machine, he found this message stuck in it. It had been sent from Center City at ten a.m., Chief," he said, and handed Collig a piece of paper.
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The chief glanced over the message, then said, "Listen to this: 'The Center City Bank of Commerce was held up by three armed bandits this morning. One of them had a .45 caliber pistol. He ordered the cashier to fill a brown paper bag with bills. The robbers wore handkerchiefs over their faces and the man with the gun had a white piece of adhesive tape above his right eye. According to witnesses, the robbers escaped in a blue car!' "
"Dad," Joe cried out, "maybe it was the bank robbers who killed Tom Collig!"
"I'm sure there's some connection," Mr. Hardy said. He frowned. "Ezra, do you have Tom's report book here?"
"Sure." Chief Collig ordered one of his men to bring it in. Mr. Hardy opened the notebook.
One page had been torn out!
"Chief," the detective said softly, "your nephew wrote something on that missing page. Someone did not like it. After Tom turned his back, this person shot him, tore the page out, and threw the book on the road. Tom lived long enough to fire twice at the escaping car. That's the way I see it. Now what could he have written?"
"Probably information from the driver's license of that person," Collig replied. "Perhaps he was going to give him a summons!"
Mr. Hardy examined the book again. He noticed indentations on the blank page following the missing one, and squinted at it from various angles.
"I can make out the name and address," he said
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slowly, "also the license number—Amos Chipman, 142 Parade Street, New York City, W8 113 47212 55343, or 848. And it goes on to say: age forty-two, five-feet eight-inches, one hundred and eighty pounds, adhesive patch above right eye!"
"Now we know for sure that the driver of the car was one of the robbers who held up the bank in Center City!" Frank exclaimed.
Chief Collig asked Officer Riley to telephone the New York police for information on Chipman.
Mr. Hardy said, "And I'll call the Center City police for fuller details on the holdup." He went into the office next to Collig's.
A few minutes later he returned and said the Center City police chief was sure that the blue car found in Bayport was the one used in the holdup. The driver had stopped for gasoline at a station on the outskirts of Center City. He seemed to be in a great hurry, refusing to let his windshield be cleaned. The attendant noticed the patch of adhesive over his right eye and remembered that he threw a Lozino panatela cigar wrapper to the pavement.
Just then Officer Riley finished his call to New York and reported that Amos Chipman had a long arrest record, beginning with larceny and including several holdups. He had been released from prison five months before and was wanted for violation of parole. Riley concluded by saying that all information, including rogues' gallery photographs, would be sent by special delivery and that Chief Collig should have them in the morning.
Bayport policemen, meanwhile, scoured the city
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for the suspects. Next morning everyone involved in the case met at headquarters. Chief Collig was tired and red-eyed from lack of sleep. All talked in subdued voices.
"Have you checked the field interrogation reports yet?" Mr. Hardy asked him.
"Sure." Collig scowled unhappily. "There's nothing of importance."
"What are field interrogation reports?" Chet asked Joe.
The young sleuth explained that they were forms used by police in progressive communities on which officers jot down anything unusual they observe while on duty.
"For example," said Joe, "last year when the safe at Commonwealth Supermarket was cracked, the police could never have solved the case without an officer's field interrogation report. In this case the policeman observed a car parked in a lot near Commonwealth late at night. It didn't seem to belong there, so he noted its license number. From there on it was simple to break the case because it had been the burglar's car."
Chet said, "I wouldn't know what to include in these reports."
"It's a matter of judgment," Frank said. "For instance, a man crossing the street, tripping and grabbing his hip may have a gun. A kid driving an expensive car may be an auto thief, so might be a person moving from one parked car to another, or seen loitering near a car. A car traveling at high speed may be fleeing from a crime."
"I see," said Chet.
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Joe picked up the interrogation forms and scanned them briefly. About midway through the pile he lifted one up and called to his father, "Dad, take a look at this! It says that Patrolman McDonald observed a stranger early yesterday morning walking slowly back and forth on the opposite side of the street from the Union Bus Terminal. He crossed the street twice, but did not go into the terminal. The officer talked to him briefly. He told McDonald that his name was Alonzo Chip, that he lived at 243 North Auglis Street, and that he was waiting for his brother to come in from Center City."
Officer McDonald's notes gave the description of Chip as about forty-two years old, five-feet eight-inches tall, about one hundred and eighty pounds. He smoked a long cigar and has a large mole over the right eye. McDonald concluded his report by stating that Chip walked south on Lyons Avenue and that was the last he saw of him.
"Might be something there," observed the chief. Then he asked Riley to bring McDonald to his office.
"Mac's been on the force only a year," he said to Mr. Hardy. "And he's very meticulous with his reports. Good man."
Meanwhile, the information on Chipman had arrived from New York and was handed to Chief Collig.
It contained fingerprint classification, a copy of Chipman's record, and photos. A complete description noted the following peculiarities: He frequented taverns, had a large mole over his right eye, repeatedly scratched his nose, and smoked Lozino panatela cigars.
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Chief Collig ordered Higgins to compare the fingerprints found on the sedan with those forwarded from New York.
Then Officer McDonald was ushered in. When questioned about Chip, he confirmed the observations in his report and added that the man appeared nervous. He looked at the photographs from New York and studied them intently, but said he could not make a positive identification.
Collig praised the patrolman for his alertness and filing the field interrogation report, then McDonald left. He was hardly outside the door when Officer Higgins came in excitedly. "Without a doubt," he declared, "the fingerprints behind the mirror and on the rear window of the blue sedan belong to Amos Chipman!"
"Wow!" Chet exclaimed. "The case is solved!"
"Not quite," Joe stated. "We still have to catch Chipman, remember? Then the pistol must be found and identified as the gun used. And we must find out who fired it!"
"And," Frank added, "we have to recover the stolen money!"
Mr. Hardy held up the full face photo of Chipman. "Chief," he said, "please have copies of this photograph made and give one to every police officer. Since the Lyons Avenue section has a lot of rooming houses, I would concentrate manpower in civilian clothes to scour that area."
Collig nodded. "I was thinking along the same lines."
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"Dad, what can we do?" Frank spoke up. "May we cover the Lyons section with the police?"
"No. I have a special job for you."
"What's that?"
"I want you to go into every store and eating place around Lyons Avenue and show the owner and employees the picture. The minute you locate someone who has seen Chipman, call me."
"Okay, Dad."
After the boys had obtained copies of Chipman's photograph, Frank and Joe examined it carefully.
"Why are you doing that?" Chet asked.
Frank replied, "Here's where we use our powers of observation again, this time to create a mental picture of the man. We imprint in our minds his prominent features or peculiarities: the sharp thin nose, the large mole over his right eye, his long head and deep-set eyes. When we hear the name Chipman from now on, we'll associate it with all this."
Chet nodded. "Let me see that photo for a minute." He, too, studied it, then the trio set off for the Lyons Avenue section. It was a community of older buildings. Chet and the Hardys went from one place to another, asking questions and showing the picture. But no one had seen Chipman.
They trudged in and out of stores, restaurants, diners, rooming houses and went through the age-old experience of professional detectives—wearying leg-work.
Finally Frank remarked gloomily, "We're almost through and have gotten exactly nowhere."
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The perspiring Chet sat down on the curb. "Don't you think we'd better go back?" he asked. "There are no clues around here!"
"Nothing doing," Joe said. "A good investigator never quits. We have seven more places to try."
At that moment he noticed Chet staring at something on the other side of the street. He turned and saw a man walk into the grocery store they had just left.
"That was Chipman!" Chet blurted. "He sure looks tough!"
"Are you sure?" Joe could hardly believe it.
"Positive!"
"Okay," said Frank. "I'll go in and see what he's up to. When he comes out, you two follow him."
"Okay," said Chet, and Joe nodded in agreement.
Frank crossed the street and entered the store. He stood a little to the rear of the man as if waiting for his turn. He was unable to see the suspect's face. The man was ordering a variety of cold cuts and canned goods from a prepared list he held in his hand.
The stranger's manner was that of any normal customer and Frank began to wonder if Chet had been mistaken. As the storekeeper was totaling the bill, the customer added, "I'll take a dozen Lozino panatela cigars, too."
The words electrified Frank and he stood rooted to the floor. His eyes fell on a suspicious bulge in the man's right rear hip pocket. Was it the death-dealing .45 caliber pistol?
The suspect paid with a twenty-dollar bill, took the
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change, and turned. Frank got a good look at him. He was Chipman all right.
"What'll you have, son?" asked the shopkeeper.
Concealing his excitement, Frank said in a calm voice, "A pound of sugar, please."
As soon as Chipman had walked out, the storekeeper said, "Wasn't that the man whose picture you showed me?"
"It was. And thanks for not giving me away. May I use your phone to call Chief Collig?"
"Sure, go right ahead." The man pointed to the wall phone and Frank gave the police chief the information.
"Be careful," Chief Collig cautioned. "This guy is a killer. If something happens to you boys, your father will never forgive me. I'll alert all unmarked police cars. They'll be there in one minute. Your dad and I in two!" He hung up.
Frank hurried from the store to catch up with Joe and Chet, who were following Chipman. The robber was walking at a rapid pace, and the two boys were a good distance ahead of Frank.
Before he could reach them, he was overtaken by an unmarked police car. In it were Chief Collig and Mr. Hardy, with Officer Riley at the wheel. Frank quickly jumped in.
Knowing the neighborhood well, Collig surmised that Chipman was on his way to a rooming house near the corner of the block. It was the only one on the street.
"Fenton," he said, "I think it's best to grab him
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before he gets there. Once he's inside with that .45, it'll be difficult to capture him and somebody might get hurt.
"We'll go around the block quickly and cut through the back yard, then hide behind the house next to the rooming house. I'll radio Johnston and Carroll who are riding ahead of us and tell them to creep up on Chipman. When they get near, they're to jump out of the car and cover him from behind while I take him from the front. Riley, you cover for me."
"Right," said Riley, and drove the car to the designated spot.
"Watch yourself," Mr. Hardy said to the chief. "The force needs you."
"Don't worry," Collig replied grimly. "I have a score to settle with that scoundrel!"
He radioed Johnston and Carroll and outlined his plan of action. Then he and Riley got out and flattened themselves against the building, with revolvers in hand.
Mr. Hardy and Frank also left the car and watched the scene from a distance. Chipman came into view, carrying his groceries in his left arm. A long cigar hung jauntily from his mouth.
Collig and Riley walked up to him. "Raise your hands!" the chief commanded.
Chipman dropped the bag and drew a pistol from his hip pocket. But he never had a chance to use it because the chief's gun spoke first. Chipman spun around with a bullet in his shoulder and fell to the sidewalk. The .45 caliber automatic clattered beside
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The chiefs gun spoke first
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him. In an instant he was grabbed by Johnston and Carroll, who kicked away the pistol and handcuffed the prisoner.
The hardened criminal began to whine, "Don't shoot any more, I'm dying!"
The chief answered grimly, "No, you're not. And you got a better break than you gave my nephew!"
The killer's wound proved to be superficial. While he was given first aid by the police, Chief Collig advised him of his constitutional right to consult a lawyer before making any statement. Chipman, however, volunteered the information that his two buddies were living in the rooming house. He also told the officers that the men were unarmed and that the bank loot was in a paper bag in the bureau.
The chief and his men, nevertheless, took proper precautions upon entering the house, their revolvers ready in case they had to use them. They arrested the other two robbers without any trouble. The bank's money was recovered, except for a small amount that the men had spent.
In a written confession obtained later, Chipman admitted shooting Officer Tom Collig. The bank robbers were on the way to their rooming house when Collig saw the speeding car approaching. He let it pass, then turned around to give chase. That was when Chipman whizzed around a curve and sideswiped the pole. Collig caught up to the sedan and Chipman stopped.
He said that at first the officer was only going to give him a summons. But when he found that Chipman had no owner's registration, Tom Collig ordered him to follow his motorcycle to headquarters. Chipman
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offered the policeman a bribe, which Collig had indignantly spurned. When the officer turned to mount his cycle, Chipman had shot him in the back.
That evening, after the criminals had been locked up, Frank, Joe, and Chet gathered in Mr. Hardy's study to discuss the highlights of the case. "What I don't understand," said Chet, "is why Chipman wore the adhesive tape when he held up the bank."
"That's easy," Joe answered. "He has a large mole over his right eye, remember? Realizing that this would identify him, he covered it with the piece of adhesive tape. Right, Dad?"
"Exactly. That kind of thing has been done many times. There are also some cases on record where a criminal had no facial scar or mark, but added adhesive tape to some part of his face to confuse an observer."
"You and the boys," said Chet, "have taught me a lot about observation. Now I know it's the keystone to the success of any criminal investigation."
"True," Mr. Hardy replied. "And you've caught on fast. If you hadn't spotted Chipman on the street, we would still be looking for him."
"Yes, Dad," Frank said with a grin. "But that's the first time I've ever heard of anyone solving a case while sitting on a curb!"
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CHAPTER VI
THE CLUE OF THE BROKEN PENCIL
Search of Crime Scene and Suspect
"After a crime has been committed, the investigator must go to the scene as quickly as possible to make a search of the location."
The pleasant voice was that of Fenton Hardy. He was seated in his study with Frank and Joe, and instructing their pal Chet on the subject of crime scene searches.
The detective continued, "The collection and preservation of physical evidence and clues to be used by investigators in solving a crime are of greatest importance. The evidence must be properly collected and preserved to meet the legal requirements allowing its use in court when the case is tried.
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"Now, Frank," Mr. Hardy said, "tell Chet what has to be done at a crime scene."
"The basic rule," replied the dark-haired boy, "is to protect the scene. This means that no one is allowed to enter the area, except the officers who will process it for evidence. Entry of the crime scene by other persons may result in destroying, altering, moving important evidence, or in leaving new items or marks which could mislead the investigators.
"Next, the crime scene is recorded. The best way to start is by photographing the scene. Then sketches of it are made, and finally casts of shoe and tire prints after they have been properly photographed. Also, fingerprints have to be photographed and lifted."
Frank paused, then continued, "Probably the most important duty of the investigator is to make notes of all observations, evidence located, photographed and collected. It's good practice to have one officer in charge of the crime scene search who will take notes and direct the search in a systematic manner. He will witness the location of each piece of evidence and will initial it together with the officer who discovered and preserved it. Both should also initial the notes. This way either of them can later testify in court."
"It sounds complicated," Chet remarked. "And a lot of equipment is needed."
"Not really," answered Joe. "Look at this."
He leaned over and picked up an attache case. In it were an ordinary camera with a flash-bulb attachment, extra bulbs and film, a clipboard with a pad of graph paper, note paper, and an engineer's scale. Also included were assorted pencils, a steel tape measure,
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rubber gloves, assorted empty pillboxes, plain envelopes, cellophane envelopes of various sizes, Scotch tape, evidence stickers, and a compass.
"We call this the Hardy Crime Scene Kit," Joe told Chet.
Frank spoke up. "One reason we photograph a scene is for the presentation of the pictures to a judge or jury so they can easily visualize what happened, and to settle any questions they may have in their minds concerning the crime scene."
"In other words," Chet said, "you make photos from different angles."
"Right. We use a wide-angle lens first, then make close-ups of all important pieces of evidence."
"Very good," said Mr. Hardy. "Joe, suppose you tell Chet now about sketching the crime scene."
"Sure," Joe replied. "Chet, first we have to decide what type of sketch would be most useful. It's also important to obtain an overall impression. For example, if the crime scene is outdoors, we must figure out how much ground to cover. There's no sense in bringing in the entire countryside if it's not important." .«
Chet chuckled. But he became serious again as Joe continued.
"To record the location of evidence believed to be important, we have to decide what base line to use and if necessary what fixed points. Then we measure the exact distance from these fixed points. The evidence will be charted on the graph paper."
Joe stressed that all measurements must be accurate. Where the distance is great, the investigator may use
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pacing or an automobile speedometer. To make sure that measurements are exact, more than one officer should check the tape measure.
"In almost every sketch," Joe said, "you have to use a scale. And—"
"Wait a minute. What do you mean by a scale?"
"Well, it's usually not possible to get a sheet of paper big enough to show the true measurements. So we scale it down. For instance, we'll make one-half inch equal to a foot. Or we use whatever scale we think is necessary in order to incorporate the measurements needed. This goes for both indoor and outdoor locations."
"I see. Go on," Chet said.
Frank took up the explanation. "On the sketch "we show the exact location, according to scale, of all important evidence—the approaches and entrances to the room or the area, the size of the area, and the position of windows or doors.
"Other things to be recorded," Frank said, "are the title, which is a brief descriptive heading, for example 'Homicide of John Doe,' the address or location, an arrow pointing north, the date the sketch was made and who made it."
"In order not to clutter the sketch with writing," Mr. Hardy pointed out, "symbols and numbers are used in the legend. The general rule is to use letters for furniture and fixed articles, and numbers for items of evidence."
Joe, who was watching Chet nod his head, said mischievously, "How about rectangular coordinates and triangulations?"
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Chet grinned. "I'll take a dozen."
"We use those two methods," Frank said, "to pinpoint evidence on a sketch. We usually take the rectangular coordinates where we have rectangular lines. For instance, the walls of a room. In order to locate the evidence, we draw a dotted line from it to any side; then at right angles to this line and from the evidence we draw another line to an adjoining side. The—"
"Wait a minute," interjected Mr. Hardy. "This whole thing must sound like Greek to Chet. Suppose you take this piece of paper and illustrate it by drawing as you talk."
"Okay, Dad," Frank said and drew a sketch.
"See?" he said to Chet. "We identify the violation, the residence, the room, show the date, our initials, and the compass reading of north. Then we indicate the corners of the room with capital letters, and the location of the evidence as 1. Next we draw perpendicular lines to the west and south walls which intersect at 1. This graphically locates I in the room and
B
West Wall
Dining Room
■to'—
\
\ South Wall Scale /8" = 1'
SKETCH 1
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permits us to relocate 1 at any time in the future by making the same two simple measurements."
"I get it," said Chet. "Actually, the dotted lines you drew are coordinates, each parallel with walls that meet so if you measured north on the west wall from corner D five feet, and east from D on the south wall eight feet, the lines or coordinates drawn perpendicular to these points would intersect at 1 or where the evidence was located."
"That's right, Chet," said Mr. Hardy.
"I learned it in math class," Chet remarked.
"Now I'll tell you about triangulation," continued Frank. "It is probably the most useful method of locating a specific point. It can be applied indoors, but is usually applied in outdoor crime scenes. It is based on locating two permanent fixed points from which the location of a third temporary point is determined.
"For example, in this sketch, we know that the corners, the doorway, the heating vents or radiators are fixed points. Therefore, if we measured corners D and C to point 1, that point can always be relocated with respect to D and C.





)
y
K f
7)


|










C



SKETCH
2


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"Let me illustrate this further." Frank made another sketch.
"You see," he went on, "point 1 is the only place at which lines C and D will intersect within the room using the original measured length for each line.
"Now let's consider the application of triangulation outdoors. We must always select two permanent points of reference, similar to the corners D and C in the sketch that I just made. Some of the better outdoor reference points are survey marks, fire hydrants, and drain sewers, because records of their location are maintained by local and county agencies. Utility poles are excellent, too. And, of course, there are other points. It's up to the investigator to pick the best ones."
Frank quickly drew a third sketch.
"You see," he went on, "to locate the evidence on this drawing, we simply measure south from utility
Hill Road
US7K1©
Fire Hydrant
.Old Fence Post Storm Drain
Hit & Run
A. Jones—-Victim
South of Glen Dr. on Hill Rd.
Yourtown, U.S A.
5/21/—, by F. Hardy
SKETCH 3
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pole number US7K2 to X and westward from the fire hydrant to X. An experienced investigator would never select either the old fence post or the dead tree as a reference point, because they may soon rot away or be removed.
"In this case it would be hard to draw to scale. However, the sketch can be reproduced on a scale map of the area prepared by the municipality or county."
Mr. Hardy had been looking over Frank's shoulder.
"Very good, son," he commented. To Chet he said, "Remember, every investigator must carry a notebook and pencil. He must never rely on memory. From the minute he arrives at the scene he should be busy writing, recording the time of day, date, location, weather and details of the area, people present, and anything else that he believes pertinent to the investigation.
"There is no substitute for note taking. For instance, when the weather is an important part of the evidence and the camera cannot show it in a crime scene photo, the investigator must make notes on this fact."
Chet sighed, overwhelmed by all the new information. "I wish we had a case right now in which we could use everything I just learned," he said.
Mr. Hardy smiled. "You may get your wish one of these days, Chet. There's always something—"
He was interrupted by the telephone and picked it up. "Fenton Hardy speaking. . . . Yes, Captain Abbott. . . . Yes, I understand. . . . Okay, we'll be
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right there." He hung up and turned to the boys.
"A big burglary at the Rex Manufacturing Company on the edge of town. Make sure all the equipment is in the car. Chet, you're getting your wish already!"
On the way to the Rex company, the detective told the boys that Chief Collig was on vacation and Captain Abbott was acting in his place.
"Seven thousand five hundred dollars in cash and about as much in gold and silver have been stolen from Rex," Mr. Hardy added, "by a person or persons who had gained entry through a window which had been broken."
The Hardys and their friend were met outside the building by Captain Abbott and the president of the firm, Charles Willets, who was pale and shaken.
Mr. Willets said to Mr. Hardy, "Please help me. This will ruin our business. Our insurance is not sufficient to cover this loss."
"We'll do everything in our power to find the burglars," Mr. Hardy assured the man. "Tell us what happened."
"Last night," Mr. Willets began, "I left the office later than usual after everyone was gone. I was checking on some shipments. Business had been slow but was just beginning to improve. I hurried home because I expected guests for dinner. They stayed late, but after they left my mind went back to business. Suddenly I was not sure whether I had closed the safe. I often forgot before, but never worried because there was little cash on hand. Yesterday, however, I did business with a new firm for the first time. When I
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checked their credit rating, I insisted upon payment in cash. That's the reason I had so much here."
He continued, "About two o'clock this morning I drove to the factory. I thought I saw a light flash in the office as I approached, but then dismissed the idea, thinking my imagination was playing tricks."
Mr. Willets stopped to mop his forehead, then went on:
"I unlocked the door and reached for the light switch. Two men suddenly jumped on me. They bound me with rope hand and foot and gagged me. Then they threw me in that old closet at the end of the hall. I didn't see their faces, because my eyes had not grown accustomed to the dark. I know that one of them was huge and strong. I could tell by the way he handled me.
"It's a big closet with a strong lock. We used to keep gold and silver in it before we built a bigger storeroom."
"Why do you keep precious metals here?" inquired Captain Abbott.
"We make gold and silver eyeglass frames."
"Of course," Mr. Hardy said, "Please tell us more."
"Well," Mr. Willets continued, "I lay there for hours. Finally my secretary arrived for work and opened the door. She called one of the workers and he untied me. I checked the safe. It was open and the money was gone. None of the desks had been ransacked and everything else seemed to be in order.
"Then I suddenly remembered the gold and silver. I went to the security room. It had been broken open.
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One look inside and I could see that the metal had been stolen."
"What has been done so far?" Mr. Hardy asked Captain Abbott.
"The crime scene has been protected. Higgins is taking photographs right now."
"Good. Let's go inside." Fenton Hardy beckoned the three boys to follow him. Then he paused in the doorway and seemed to be taking a mental picture of the room. He whipped out his notebook and jotted something down.
"Chet," he said, "there's no better time to learn than right now. Joe, bring the crime scene kit in, will you? Give Chet a clipboard, some paper, a notebook, and pencil and go to work. On second thought, you and Chet go outside and make a sketch of the window which was smashed by the burglars and whatever else seems relevant."
Mr. Hardy also took a clipboard and placed graph paper on it. Then he helped Captain Abbott and Frank to measure the location of essential evidence in the room. When they were finished, the captain asked Officer Rinshaw to dust for prints.
Fenton Hardy now went to the storeroom from which the gold and silver had been stolen. He looked about, but found no clue.
As he left the room, he asked Mr. Willets, "Are there any containers missing in which the metal might have been carried out?"
"Oh," Mr. Willets replied, "they took it in the chest it was stored in."
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"Hm!" Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. "Please give me a description of it."
He made notes as Mr. Willets replied that the box was made of steel, about two feet deep, four feet long, and one foot wide. It had handles on each end and was locked with a key.
"How about the color?" the detective asked.
"Steel gray."
Just then Chet rushed up. "Mr. Hardy, we found the tool which was used to smash the window! Come with me!" Chet led the way to the street and pointed to the gutter. In it lay a pick handle.
"Nice going, Chet. Photograph it and sketch it on your graph paper. Then it will be dusted for prints by Rinshaw and secured for evidence."
Mr. Hardy turned to the captain and said, "We'll be glad to help you make a crime scene search outdoors."
"Fine," the captain said, and ordered his men to line up across the street from the factory and spread out about an arm's length apart.
"We'll walk up to the building," he said, "go a-round it, and then line up the same way on the other side."
"Chet," said Mr. Hardy, "let me give you a few basic rules that must be obeyed. The most important thing is search discipline. Everyone must observe everything around him on the ground or in trees very carefully. The men will walk abreast of each other, in a straight line. Only in this way can a proper systematic search be conducted. Any questions?"
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"What are they going to look for?" Chet asked.
"Just about anything, including shoe prints."
Captain Abbott was instructing his men as the Hardys and Chet joined them. "If you locate something," he said, "hold up your hand to attract attention. Don't touch it."
"The reason for this," Mr. Hardy told Chet, "is that its location must be charted on a sketch, and if it's an article that the thieves might have dropped, it has to be dusted for fingerprints."
Now the line of policemen went about the search. The turning point would be just beyond a small ridge about two hundred feet in the woods, which stretched behind the Rex Manufacturing Company.
As they neared the edge of the woods, Chet Morton held up his hand and yelled excitedly, "Here! Here!"
"What is it?" Captain Abbott asked.
"A broken pencil. Maybe it doesn't mean anything—"
"Even a seemingly insignificant article may turn out to be a vital clue," Captain Abbott told him. "Good work, Chet!"
Mr. Hardy made a note, marked the location of the yellow pencil in his sketch, then picked it up.
The search party went on. They had almost reached the turning point when Joe suddenly shouted from a patch of woods, "Here it is!"
Mr. Hardy and Captain Abbott quickly walked to the location. On the ground lay the stolen metal chest. Joe removed the broken branches which partly concealed it and found it still intact.
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Mr. Hardy and Captain Abbott decided that all the officers would be instructed to maintain silence concerning the discovery of the chest. Most of them were sent to their routine duties.
Officer Rinshaw carefully dusted the chest for latent fingerprints. Many were found, and after they had been photographed and lifted, the chest was removed to police headquarters.
An identical chest was obtained from the local hardware store, filled with rocks, and placed where the stolen chest had been discovered. Chet was full of curiosity. "What's going on, fellows?" he asked.
"Dad and Captain Abbott are going to set up what is termed a plant," Joe replied. "Police will be detailed to watch and see if an attempt is made to pick up the phony chest."
"That's right, Chet," joined in Mr. Hardy. "Two officers will be hidden in the shrubbery at all times, and if someone comes for the chest, he'll be apprehended. Now, I think we'd better go to the Police Identification Division to see if Rinshaw has come up with anything."
Upon their arrival at headquarters, Rinshaw informed Mr. Hardy and Captain Abbott that there were several sets of prints on the chest. He had found upon comparison that some were Mr. Willets'. However, he was unable to make any other identification. He also told them there were some latent prints on the pick handle that matched the unidentifiable ones on the chest.
Mr. Hardy nodded, then read over his notes. Chet
™
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approached him. "Would you look at my sketch, Mr. Hardy?"
"Sure." The detective took the boy's chart and examined it. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Chet, do you mean to tell me there's a lot of broken glass on the outside of this window?"
"That's right. A lot of it. Why?"
Mr. Hardy did not answer but looked at his own sketch carefully. Then he said in a surprised voice, "That's odd. It looks as if the window was smashed from the inside. I wonder—" His voice trailed off in silence. Then he studied his sons' sketches.
"Frank," he asked, "how about this car near the curb down the street?"
"I saw it parked there," Frank replied. "So I placed it on the chart."
"Too bad we didn't pay attention to it sooner," Mr. Hardy remarked. "Do you have any notes on it?"
Frank took out his pad, and after scanning it he said, "The hood was up. I wrote down the license number."
Mr. Hardy turned to the captain. "It's just a hunch, but we'd better check with the Motor Vehicle Bureau and find out who owns the car."
Abbott nodded and had one of his officers send out a teletype.
Frank, meanwhile, continued to scan his notes. Then he said, "During our search, a wrecker from the Triangle Towing Service hoisted the front end of the car. I saw a man talking with the mechanic."
"I think we ought to follow this up," Mr. Hardy
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said. "Captain, let's take a ride to the towing service. Come on, boys."
At the Triangle Garage Captain Abbott did most of the talking. From the mechanic they learned that he had received a call requesting that he tow a car from the vicinity of the Rex company. When he arrived there, he recognized the automobile as belonging to William Tiller, the firm's bookkeeper. Tiller asked him to find the cause of the trouble. After a brief examination, the mechanic told him that the coil was not functioning. He offered to pick up a new one and replace it. But the bookkeeper insisted that he tow the car to the garage at once, even though he would have to pay a towing fee.
Tiller waited for his car to be repaired. He was obviously in a hurry and explained that Mr. Willets wanted him to make an important trip. He had the tank filled and the oil checked. After paying the bill, he departed quickly.
When the mechanic had finished, Fenton Hardy walked over to the telephone booth. He dialed a number and spoke rapidly to someone. Then he told the others, "I talked to Mr. Willets. He said Tiller disappeared from the office just before we started the search. Willets did not pay much attention to the fact and emphasized that Tiller is a trusted employee. He had a key to the office door and obviously often worked on the books at night. Mr. Willets denied, however, that he had sent the man on a trip. Tiller lives in a furnished room at 12 West Street. Let's go over and talk to him right away."
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They were proceeding toward West Street when Frank said, "Look! There's the car that was parked down the street from the Rex company. It's coming toward us!"
"Let it pass then turn around quick!" Captain Abbott ordered his driver.
"The man who's driving is the one I saw talking to the mechanic!" Frank cried out.
"No doubt it's Tiller," muttered Captain Abbott. "He sure is in a hurry."
Tiller poured on the gas.
"Captain," said Mr. Hardy, "let's give him the siren so he'll stop!"
The shrieking sound had the opposite effect on Tiller. He increased his speed. But the squad car gained. Finally the skillful driving of the police chauffeur convinced Tiller that escape was impossible and he came to a stop on the shoulder of the road. As the police car halted slightly to the rear, the officer driving opened his door and covered Tiller from behind it with his service revolver. Captain Abbott, with gun drawn, cautiously approached the suspect's car from the right rear.
He ordered in a loud, clear voice, "Put your hands over your head!"
Tiller obeyed. The police chauffeur walked toward the suspect's car and swung open the driver's door. "Keep your hands on your head and step out," he said. Then he told Tiller to face his car and sidestep to the right until he stood next to the police sedan.
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"Keep your hands on your head!" Captain Abbott ordered
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Tiller, a slight man, reluctantly complied, his shrewd eyes dartingly examining the situation. He was obviously seeking some avenue of escape.
Captain Abbott holstered his weapon and said, "Tiller, make no move unless I tell you to. Now slowly place your hands on the edge of the car roof and spread them as far apart as possible. All right. Now shuffle your feet back as far as you can, and spread them apart."
After the suspect had complied, Captain Abbott hooked his left foot in front of Tiller's left foot and forced his legs even farther apart. This placed Tiller off balance and gave him a minimum chance to turn and assault the police officer.
The chauffeur moved slightly behind Tiller, gun in hand. He stationed himself in a way so that Captain Abbott would not be in the line of fire if the suspect made an attempt to get away.
Frank, Joe, and Chet were watching from inside the police car as Captain Abbott began to search the suspect.
"Chet," Frank said, "this is called the wall search. It is a preliminary search and the officer looks for drugs or weapons the suspect might use to injure himself or the officer. Once the suspect is in this position, with his hands on a car or against a wall, the officer begins either on the right or the left side. Captain Abbott is starting on the left. When he goes to the right, you will note that he'll walk behind the chauffeur so as not to pass between the suspect and the gun."
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Chet nodded and Frank went on, "Here's what you do step by step:
Slide your left foot in front of the suspect's left leg and inside his left foot. Exert a slight knee pressure against the front of his leg. When you search the right side, you use your right foot. This position will enable you to sense and counteract a movement by the suspect.
Search the suspect's headgear.
Examine mouth, nose, ear, hair, and palm of left hand.
Start at left wrist and with both hands feel for any foreign object which might be in the suspect's clothing or strapped to his skin. Probe to the shoulder.
Search around his shoulder, around his neck, the front portion of his body, the side of his body, and his back. Pay special attention to the area between his shoulder blades and the small of his back. Often knives are strapped in the hollow areas.
Search his waistline by removing his belt and examining the inside of his trouser waistband.
Search in the groin area and down the suspect's left leg, pull his sock down and feel inside his shoe top.
Repeat the same procedure on the suspect's other side. Some areas will overlap.
Empty all pockets.
"One more thing," Frank added. "Don't pat, but
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feel your way over the suspect's body. This way thin, flat objects won't be missed."
"What do you do with the stuff you find?" Chet asked.
"Whatever is convenient," Frank said. "Weapons you retain on your person, other items you put on the roof of the car or on the ground. Later they are placed in an envelope or bag.
"After the search, you handcuff your man and take him to headquarters. There he will be subjected to a very thorough strip search and his clothing will be examined carefully."
"Suppose you don't have a second officer available to cover the suspect with his gun while you search?" Chet asked.
"Then you hold your gun in one hand while searching with the other," Frank said.
"What if you have two prisoners?"
"In that case one must be flat on his stomach with his arms extended forward, palms flat on the ground. Then you conduct your search in the method I just described. When you're finished with the first suspect, you handcuff him, force him to lie down, and search the other man."
While Frank had been talking, Captain Abbott had removed a fully loaded automatic from Tiller's belt and handed it to his colleague. When the prisoner was handcuffed, a careful search was made of the car.
"You've got nothing on me, copper," Tiller snarled, "except carrying that gun and I can explain that."
No one made any comment. The car yielded no clues, and the captain appeared puzzled.
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"Did you find anything important beside the gun?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"No. All he has on him is a wallet with personal credit cards, some bills, change, a comb, a ballpoint pen, and a broken pencil."
"A broken pencil?" Chet shouted excitedly.
All looked up in surprise. Captain Abbott caught on and said, "Of course. I forgot all about that. This broken pencil is yellow just like the other one, and I'll bet all the tea in China that it will match that piece we found."
Mr. Hardy opened the trunk of the car again. After looking around carefully, he leaned on the spare tire and found that it was not inflated. He took it out and forced it away from the rim. Everyone gasped! A mass of bills and checks spilled out!
"Wow!" Chet's eyes bulged in amazement. "Who would have thought of that!"
Tiller was advised of his constitutional rights as an arrested person, and then taken to police headquarters. The others followed. Here they learned that the policemen hidden in the woods had apprehended a man named Ford Williams when he attempted to pick up the steel chest.
Williams had already confessed his part in the crime. He had known Tiller in New York City. Both had criminal records and had been in jail together. About five years ago the two men had committed a burglary. Williams was apprehended, but Tiller escaped. The bookkeeper, whose real name was Hans Shinner, had used the alias of William Tiller and had
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come to Bayport. Shortly after his arrival he was employed by Mr. Willets.
Williams had served almost five years for his crime. Upon being released, he had been contacted by Tiller, who told him that Willets was an easy target and that the town's police were "hicks."
The previous night he had received a telephone call from Tiller to come to Bayport immediately. He told Williams that he had staked out the factory, waited till Mr. Willets left, and made sure that the safe had been left open.
The two burglars had entered the building with Tiller's key and rifled the unlocked safe. They had just broken the lock on the storeroom door when they noticed the glare of oncoming headlights. Then Mr. Willets opened the door and reached for the light switch.
The powerful Williams seized him. He was bound and thrown into the closet. In order to give the impression of a forced entry, Tiller smashed the window from inside the building with a pick handle. When they left, after locking the door again, Tiller threw the pick handle in the gutter.
The thieves had loaded the chest into Tiller's car. It had refused to start. Tiller became panic-stricken at the thought of leaving the chest containing the gold and silver in the car at the scene. So he and Williams carried the chest to the woods. Then they deflated Tiller's spare tire and stuffed the currency and checks inside.
Williams had gone to a hotel for the rest of the
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night and the following day. It was planned that the car would be repaired and the chest picked up that evening after working hours. Then the two men would leave Bayport.
Tiller, however, changed his mind when he realized that the employees would obviously be questioned by the police. He had tried to have his car picked up before daybreak, but had no luck. The Triangle Garage had promised to send a man early in the morning. Tiller waited, but the man did not show up before the company opened. He went to work, keeping an eye on the car. When the tow truck arrived, he slipped out, had the car removed, and was planning to leave town without Williams as soon as the repairs were finished.
Williams, in turn, was unable to reach Tiller by telephone and had become suspicious. He had returned alone to the spot where they had left the chest, and walked right into the arms of the police.
Captain Abbott commented, "This illustrates the old saying, 'There's no honor among thieves I' "
The next morning the three Hardys and Chet Morton were again seated in Mr. Hardy's study. All were in good humor, chatting about their exploits of the previous day.
"I think Chet has graduated from the recruit class," Mr. Hardy said with a twinkle. Then he added, "Chet, I'm proud of you. Be ready to help us solve the next mystery!"
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CHAPTER VII THE TRAIL BEYOND THE SMOKE SCREEN Surveillance
Fenton Hardy was pacing his room in a large hotel in Newark, New Jersey, when a knock sounded on the door. He opened it. Outside stood Frank and Joe and their chum Chet Morton.
"Hi, Dad!" Joe said, grinning. "Surprised to see us?"
"Sure am," Mr. Hardy replied.
"Mother told us you were here," Frank said, "and we drove down. You've been on this assignment for nine days, and we thought there might be something we could do."
"Thanks." The detective smiled. But then a frown clouded his face. "This is really a tough case. I'm up against the wall!"
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"Can we help you?" Chet asked.
"I'm afraid not," Mr. Hardy replied.
"Can you tell us about it?" Frank inquired.
Mr. Hardy nodded. "I've been engaged by a famous national jewelry corporation to investigate the theft of thousands of dollars' worth of merchandise from their showroom in New York City. The trail led to Newark. The police here are cooperating as much as they can, even though the actual crime took place in another state.
"So far, the police have located seven pieces of the stolen jewelry in Newark pawnshops. The pawnbrokers recorded the name, address, and physical description of the person who pawned them. The names and addresses in all cases were the same and proved to be fictitious. But a comparison of descriptions confirms my—and the police's—suspicion about the thief's identity."
"Who is he?" Frank wanted to know.
"A junior officer of the jewelry company."
"Then why hasn't he been arrested?" Joe asked.
"We decided to hold off and try to recover the jewelry. The police go along with me in my plans. I must find out where it is and also make sure that the suspect is the actual thief."
"Why don't you tail him, Mr. Hardy?" Chet asked.
"He knows me by sight. I've tried using other detectives, but no luck. This guy's clever and suspicious."
There was a moment of gloomy silence. Then Joe said, "Why don't you give us a chance at it, Dad? He'd never suspect that we boys were tailing him."
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"That's right," Frank broke in enthusiastically. "You know, we've done surveillance in almost every case we worked on."
Mr. Hardy thought for a moment, then said, "You know, this might not be a bad idea!"
"Great!" Frank said. "Let's get started."
"Wait a minute. The first thing you'll have to do is call Mother. Tell her you're spending a couple of days with me. Chet also had better call home."
The boys grinned. "We've told her already. Mrs. Morton too." Frank explained.
"Oh?" Mr. Hardy kept a straight face. Then he phoned the desk clerk and obtained an adjoining room for the boys.
After a quick lunch in the hotel's restaurant, they all went to Mr. Hardy's room to plan their strategy.
"I'll tell you all the important aspects of the case," Mr. Hardy said. "Ask questions any time."
He settled in a lounge chair and began. "Ten days ago there was a fire in the company's store in New York City. It flared up suddenly in a bundle of cleaning rags stored in a large closet under a stairway. It was a heavy, smoke-laden fire which spread rapidly. Customers and employees fled to the street. Someone tried the fire extinguisher near the closet, but it didn't work and he called the fire department. It was a stubborn blaze, but they confined it to the stairway area and finally put it out."
Mr. Hardy glanced from one boy to another and went on, "All the personnel returned to the store afterward. At first it was believed that the fire had been
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caused by paints and chemicals stored in the closet. But the fire chief was suspicious. He called the Arson Squad to make an investigation."
The trio listened intently as Mr. Hardy continued.
"That evening, when the employees began to lock up the jewelry, one of the most trusted salesmen reported the disappearance of an entire tray of diamond jewelry. It was valued at more than $100,000. The police, the FBI, and the insurance company were immediately notified, and liaison will be maintained.
"The search of the premises by the Arson Squad and detectives turned up the missing tray, which was partially consumed, inside the burned closet. But none of the jewelry was found. Samples of ashes, remnants of rags, and other burned material were taken to the laboratory for examination, as well as a glassine envelope which contained traces of a white powder. The envelope was found in a wastepaper basket in the men's room.
"The next day another minute search of the store for the jewelry was made and proved unsuccessful. It was at that time that the Arson Squad notified Kenneth Craig, the president of the concern, that the fire had been deliberately set. The lab examination determined that the rags had been impregnated with paints and gasoline before the fire was started.
"Also, it was found that the substance in the glassine envelope was heroin. As a result, the New York City Police Department Narcotics Bureau entered the case. It was at that point that I was called into the case by Mr. Craig."
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"What did you do first?" Frank asked.
"I interviewed every employee and officer of the company as well as every customer present when the fire started, and all the firemen who fought the blaze."
"The firemen tool" Chet exclaimed in surprise. "I would have never thought of that."
"We ruled out the firemen as possible suspects," Mr. Hardy continued, "because none of them had been near the section from which the jewels were missing."
"But, Dad," interrupted Frank, "how about the clerk in charge of the section where the jewelry was stolen? Didn't he notice anything unusual?"
"I'm coming to that. His name is Jerome Dempster. He told us that he had just put that particular tray back into the showcase when the fire was discovered. He hurried to the closet in an effort to put out the blaze with the fire extinguisher, but it did not work. He subsequently called the fire department. Then he tried to go back to the closet, but was blinded by the smoke and forced to move to the street door.
"He remembered seeing Ronald Lackey, a junior vice-president in the company, near his section when the fire started. Later, when he looked back from the exit, he thought he noticed Lackey near the closet, but was not sure because of the smoke."
"Excuse me, Dad," cut in Joe, "but have you made a background investigation of the staff?"
"Yes. I've checked to see if there was anyone with a police record, but the results were negative. I also checked credit companies and neighbors and found
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Dempster was blinded by the smoke
out that all the personnel live conventional lives with the possible exception of Ronald Lackey, who owes large sums of money."
"But, Mr. Hardy," burst out Chet, "you said that he's an officer of the company. How could he be the thief?"
"Well, my boy," the detective said, "just because Lackey's a vice-president doesn't necessarily mean he's honest. All I know is what the evidence indicates. I haven't said that he stole the jewels, but I'm sure he pawned some of them."
"You mean the pawnbrokers' description of their customer fits him?"
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"Right. I showed them his photograph and three of the shopkeepers were pretty sure that Lackey was the man who pawned the jewels."
"Dad, you're great," Frank said admiringly. "But why did you suspect him in the first place?"
"Well, he had some rather large debts. Then I found out that he was dismissed from college for stealing money from the room of a fellow student. The student didn't press charges, so Lackey has no police record.
"I also found out by a search of court records that his wife was recently granted a divorce on a charge of desertion. At the present time he is living alone in a studio apartment in the suburbs of Newark. He doesn't have to pay alimony and has only himself to support. His salary is considerable and I wondered why all these debts."
Frank nodded. "It certainly seems odd."
"How long has he been an officer of Towers?" Joe asked.
"About two years. You see, it's this way. Ronald Lackey's father married Mr. Craig's sister. They started a jewelry company, worked hard, and prospered. About three years ago Lackey's father got him the job with the firm, even though Mr. Craig, his uncle, was not too happy about it. For about a year Lackey was the public-relations manager for the company and did very well. He was married that year.
"Because of his good record and, I suppose, some influence of his father, he was made a junior vice-
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president. Soon after that his troubles began. He had difficulties with his marriage, began to drink, gambled, and kept questionable company.
"His father was forced to pay his debts to avoid a scandal. About eight months ago his father died. There was hardly any estate left because of his son's demands. Mr. Craig is disgusted with his nephew, but keeps him in the firm to avoid hurting his sister, who has been ill for a long time."
"He sure sounds like an unstable character," Joe said. "Let's go to work on him right away. How about searching his apartment?"
"Yes, Dad," Frank put in. "Certainly the information from the pawnbrokers would be sufficient to obtain a warrant?"
"None of them made a positive identification."
Mr. Hardy got up, paced around the room, and continued. "I interviewed Lackey's former wife. She told me that her husband had started to use marijuana shortly after their marriage. She believes that he's using stronger drugs and thinks he buys them from a young man named Dale Britt who came to their apartment for short visits prior to their separation. Mrs. Lackey identified a Newark police mug shot of Dale Britt as the man. Also, the doorman at Lackey's apartment house identified Dale Britt's photograph as that of a frequent caller, who had stopped his visits only recently."
"Boy," Frank said, "this will be a dangerous assignment if it involves narcotic addicts."
"Right," Mr. Hardy agreed. "For this reason I want
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you to be very careful. I'm not sure that Lackey is an addict, but I strongly suspect it. He seems the type who could easily become a victim of this terrible kind of slavery. I can't think of a worse fate to befall any human being! An addict will steal or commit other crimes, even murder, to get the stuff!"
The three boys sat in silence on the edges of their chairs, staring at the detective. They had never seen him so aroused about any subject.
Finally Mr. Hardy pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and took out two photographs. "This is Lackey, and that's Britt. Study the pictures well so you will recognize these men immediately."
Frank, Joe, and Chet followed his advice and passed the photographs around. Ronald Lackey was a homely man of twenty-nine, slight of build, with an obstinate expression. He had thinning light hair, large protruding ears, a hawk nose, beady eyes, thin lips, a receding chin, and a prominent Adam's apple.
The other photo showed a young man about twenty-three years old, slender, with long wavy hair and prominent sideburns. He had a low brow, deep-set eyes, a long, thin nose, large mouth, and a sharp chin.
"Dale Britt is a convicted heroin addict," Mr. Hardy explained. "He also has a criminal record dating back to his teens for purse snatching, burglary, and auto theft. He is wanted right now by the police as a parole violator."
"Quite a record," Joe muttered.
"Hm!" Mr. Hardy said. "Now here's where you come in. I've learned that Lackey leaves his office in
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New York about five p.m. He generally eats a very light dinner in a small restaurant near the store. Sometimes he doesn't eat at all.
"Then he takes a train which leaves him off about a half mile from his apartment. He sold his car recently and walks home."
"And what does he do at night?" Frank asked.
"I'm coming to that. Lately he never has any company. He goes out every night, but at no specific time. Some evenings he departs a few minutes after he gets home, while other times he leaves late."
"Do you know where he goes?" Frank asked.
"He takes a bus to Newark and always gets off at the same intersection. This is where my operatives have failed in their surveillance. They have never been able to follow him to his destination. He has used every trick to lose them—he has stopped at a store and doubled back, pretended to wait for a bus, and has used other similar tactics. He seems to sense that he's being tailed. When he becomes suspicious he'll jump onto a bus or hail a taxi. Anyway, he disappears, and then returns to his apartment very late."
"But, Mr. Hardy," Chet said with a frown, "do you have any idea whom he goes to see?"
"I suspect that he's visiting Dale Britt. But I have no facts to substantiate this."
"How about staking out Dale's house?" Joe suggested.
"The police do not know where Britt lives."
"Where do we go from here, then?" Frank asked.
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Joe spoke up. "In tailing Lackey, I think the three-man surveillance would be the best."
"Right, Joe," chimed in Frank. "Don't you agree, Dad?"
"Sure do. You'll start tonight."
"Wait a minute," said Chet. "I don't know how three-man surveillance works."
"I'll explain it to you," Frank said. "It's easy. The procedure in this type of shadowing is for three detectives to be scattered near the place where they expect to see the suspect. The first sleuth walks a reasonable distance behind him. The second follows the first and, in turn, the third follows the second.
"Any time the first detective feels that he is suspected, he gives a hand signal to the second man and then he either crosses the street or stops at a store window or slips into some alley. The second man takes his place. The first man finally falls behind the third detective. They continue to rotate until the surveillance is completed."
"Another thing," Joe put in. "If the suspect gets to a street intersection and makes a left or right turn or walks into a building, the first detective keeps right on walking. The next detective then makes the turn or follows the suspect into the building."
"That sounds easy," Chet commented.
Mr. Hardy laughed. "Yes, but you've got to be prepared for the unexpected. The suspect might jump into a bus or taxi. In that case, the second man tailing him gets into the bus or continues the surveil-
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lance by taxi. Always be sure you have enough money with you."
"What time do we start?" Frank asked, looking at his father.
"I suggest you station yourselves near the intersection where Lackey gets off the bus downtown. Be there about six-thirty p.m. Since he always goes home first, he won't show up until a quarter of seven at the earliest. Joe, you be the first shadow. Loiter nonchalantly as close to the bus stop as possible. Frank, you take the second spot, and Chet third. Is everything clear?"
"Yes," all three said excitedly.
"Will you be anywhere near us?" Chet asked.
"You bet," said Mr. Hardy. "I'll be in an unmarked police car with the Narcotics Bureau detectives. You're not to take any risks. I want you to remember this. If any of you sees that one of the other boys is in trouble, walk out into the street and hold both arms straight up in the air. We'll always be within sight of you."
"Okay," said Chet.
At six-thirty p.m. the trio arrived at the designated place and each boy stationed himself at a different spot. Two hours went by. Bus after bus discharged passengers, but Lackey was not among them. Finally the man alighted from one of the local buses. He stopped to light a cigarette and glanced up and down the street. Apparently satisfied that he was not being observed, he walked along the street at a moderate pace.
Joe, who had been idling on the bottom step of a nearby porch, went after him. Frank and Chet fell
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in line and followed. The radio police car was some distance behind Chet.
At the next intersection Lackey paused to tie a shoelace and looked around apprehensively. Joe walked past him and continued on. The suspect then made a right turn and Frank took up the surveillance. Joe fell in behind Chet later.
Lackey passed two more intersections, then stopped again. He lighted another cigarette while looking quickly up and down the street. He turned right again. Frank kept on going straight. It was Chet's turn to tail the man now!
Chet had been walking at a moderate pace and had not expected Lackey to change his speed. But when he arrived at the corner, he could not see Lackey and experienced a sickening feeling of failure. However, he realized that the man could not have gone far and signaled Joe to proceed to the corner.
Chet stopped in front of the third building on the block and listened. Hearing voices in the alleyway, he decided to investigate.
He signaled Joe to wait at the entrance of the alley. The building was old and dilapidated. Chinks of light filtered through holes in the shades. Chet tiptoed along the alley.
The voices he heard were now distinct. A man pleaded, "Give me some of the stuff! I need it quick, please! Don't stall, Lazar, you've got all the jewelry now!"
Chet recognized the speaker through a hole in the shade of the nearest window. Ronald Lackey! He was sitting at the kitchen table.
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Then a raspy voice taunted, "Look at him, the big executive! He'll do anything we say for the stuff. We're going to own Towers soon! Okay, Dale, let him have a fix and keep him quiet."
"Easy, Ron. Well take care of you." Chet figured it was Dale Britt speaking.
At that moment the boy moved so that he could see better through his peephole. As he did, he accidentally kicked an empty soda bottle, which broke with a crash. In trying to escape, he stumbled. Before he knew it, he was grabbed by two strong rough hands. He managed to yell for help before he was dragged into the kitchen.
Chet was knocked into a chair by a hairy thug. "What were you doing in the alley?" demanded the raspy-voiced man, whom Chet assumed was Lazar. "Make sure you tell the truth or I'll break every bone in your body!"
"Nothing," Chet replied shakily. "I was just going for a walk and got lost."
"Where do you live?" Britt asked sharply.
"I'm from out of town. Right now I'm staying with a friend on Ivy Hill Avenue. I came up to ask directions." Chet was desperately trying to stall for time, knowing that Joe would get help. "You see, if you could only tell me how to get to Pennsylvania Station, I could find my way—"
"You must be a stool pigeon!" the hairy thug rasped. "Now tell us the truth or we'll—"
Just then the alley door was smashed in by Mr. Hardy and two Narcotics Bureau detectives.
"The cops! Beat it!" Britt yelled. He raced toward
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The cops! Beat it!" Britt yelled
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the front door but was stopped by Frank, Joe, and another narcotics detective, who promptly searched and handcuffed him. Then he was led back to the kitchen.
Lazar and Lackey sat handcuffed on chairs, the picture of dejection.
"Who's he?" Frank asked, pointing to the hairy thug.
"His name's Lazar," Lieutenant Wilson from the Narcotics Bureau explained. "He pulled a knife, but didn't get very far. He kept looking at the refrigerator and led us right to the evidence. We found a small .32 caliber automatic between two slices of bread. In the crisper were bags of heroin worth fifty thousand dollars on the retail market and hidden in the freezer was some very expensive jewelry."
As Lieutenant Wilson advised the three captives of their rights, Mr. Hardy said, "Now we just have to clear up the New York angle. How about giving us your story, Mr. Lackey?"
Lackey, who refused a lawyer, said he was willing to make a statement. "I know I won't get out of this," he said. "So I might as well tell you everything. I met Dale Britt just before I was made junior vice-president of Towers. Dale introduced me to smoking grass, and eventually to heroin.
"The more addicted I became the more money it cost. Britt thought I was wealthy, but soon I could not raise any more. Right after I told him this, he arranged a meeting with Lazar. Lazar agreed to furnish me with junk provided that I stole jewelry from Towers. He planned all the details of the theft."
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Lackey mopped his brow and took a deep breath. "In the midst of the confusion during the fire, I went to Jerome Dempster's counter, dumped the contents of one tray into a paper bag, and put it in my pocket. Then I walked to the closet, pretending I wanted to help put out the fire. I threw the tray in the flames. Earlier I had tampered with the fire extinguisher so it wouldn't work. Then I ran outside, met Britt as prearranged, and handed him the bag.
"The next day he gave me a few gems as my share. I pawned them because I had a lot of debts."
Lackey, who had not had his promised fix, perspired and started to shake. "I can't do without the stuff 1" he moaned. "Believe me, if I had known what I was getting into, I would have never touched it!"
"You'll have to come with us," Lieutenant Wilson said. "You'll be able to kick the habit, if you really want to. It'll be rough, but you'll get all the help possible."
Lackey nodded, and Lieutenant Wilson led him outside. His two accomplices were already in the police car.
Mr. Hardy and the boys said good-by to Lieutenant Wilson and the other detectives, then took a taxi to their hotel. On the way Chet said, "Lackey was sure in bad shape. I never saw a guy who needed a fix. What a horrible thing to be addicted to drugs!"
MORE DETAILS ABOUT SURVEILLANCE IN CHAPTER XI, PAGE 188,
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CHAPTER VIII
DICTIONARY FOR A DETECTIVE
Special Language of Criminals, Police Terminology
An expert detective must also be an expert in criminal slang. Members of the underworld have a language all their own, and an investigator who is not familiar with it cannot do his job effectively.
Suppose that a criminal is willing to make a statement at police headquarters and give an account of how a certain crime was committed. The detective who constantly interrupts him for explanations of his slang might irritate him to the point where it becomes impossible to obtain a clear, coherent story. Or if a detective is working undercover, he must talk in the same manner the criminals do in order not to arouse suspicion.
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The following list of criminal slang expressions will give you some idea of what an investigator must know. Of course there are many more words and phrases—criminal slang varies in different parts of the country and changes constantly. A good detective must always be on the alert to learn new expressions.
Slang of Criminals
action. Betting, wagering, gambling play.
artillery. Guns, weapons.
bag. To steal. (In police language to arrest. In narcotics slang a glassine bag of heroin.)
berries. Dollars.
big house. Penitentiary.
bit. Term in prison.
blast. Shoot.
blow. Leave hastily, run away.
book. Maximum sentence, as in "The judge threw the book at him." Also, a betting operation.
bouncer. A worthless check.
box. A safe.
box man. A safecracker.
brass. Fake jewelry.
bull. Police officer or detective.
bull buster. One who fights a policeman.
bunco. To cheat or swindle.
buried. Held incommunicado.
burn. To electrocute, to be electrocuted.
can. Prison.
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cannon (or tool). Revolver or pistol. Also a pickpocket who does actual stealing. can opener. Safe ripper. capper. A go-between for gamblers, one who leads
victims into a gambling place. carpet place. A high-class gambling place. clean. Without funds. Not armed. No previous police
record. Not in any way involved in the case being
investigated.
clip. To steal from, as in "to clip a victim." college. Penitentiary. con. A convict. To swindle or persuade. To alibi on
the spur of the moment. contract. An agreement in the underworld to kill
someone. cooler. A prison or jail. Also a deck of cards, prepared
for cheating at gambling. coop. Jail, prison. cop a plea. To plead guilty to a lesser charge, in order
to escape penalty for more serious charge. copper. Policeman.
copper-hearted. By nature a police informer. creeper. Sneak thief. croaker joint. Hospital. crusher. Policeman. cutter. District Attorney (D.A.). czar. Principal warden of penitentiary. damper. Cash register. decoy. To entice, something that is not real or what it
appears to be. Female accomplice of a gang of
robbers. Police also use decoys to trap muggers.
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dee-dee. Person pretending to be friendly.
dick. Detective or plainclothesman.
dip. Pickpocket.
doing it all. Serving a life sentence.
doughnut. Automobile tire.
drill. To shoot.
dropper. Paid killer.
dummy up. To become silent.
end. Share or portion of illegal gains.
enforcer. A strong-arm man who specializes in maiming or killing other criminals for gang bosses.
equalizer. Pistol or revolver.
erase. To kill.
fagin. An adult thief who teaches minors to steal and keeps the major portion of the loot.
fall. To be arrested.
fall money. Money for bail or lawyers.
fanning a sucker. Locating a victim.
fed. U. S. Officer. (Also: Uncle Sam, T-man.)
Federal beef. Federal offense.
fence. A person who buys and sells stolen goods.
fingerman. One who points out a victim.
fingers end. Ten percent of the loot.
fink. Traitor.
fix. To arrange, to make a deal; to secure a favor.
flatfoot. Policeman.
flattie. Policeman or detective.
frisk. To steal from a person, pickpocketing. (In police work to search a person for concealed weapons.)
front guy. Man with good appearance and personality.
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fuzz. Policemen or detectives.
G. $1,000.
gat. Gun.
get to. To bribe.
G-man. Federal officer, particularly an FBI agent.
grab. To arrest; to kidnap.
grand. $1,000.
grease. To pay protection or tribute.
gumshoes. Detectives.
gun moll. A woman companion of a gunman or gangster; a female robber.
guzzled. Forced by painful methods to give information.
heater. Revolver or pistol.
heeled. Carrying a revolver or pistol.
heist. Robbery; a holdup; a theft.
herder. Guard in a penal institution.
hideout. Place of refuge to avoid arrest or capture.
hijacker. A person who robs or takes by force goods in transit.
hit. To kill. To make a "killing" or a big theft.
hole. Solitary confinement in prison.
hood. Hoodlum; strong-arm man; mugger, stickup man or killer.
hot. Stolen goods or a man wanted by police. (Also: sizzling, in a jam.)
hush money. A bribe paid to ensure silence.
ice. Diamonds.
in the bag. All set, okay, everything arranged.
iron. Gun.
Italian football. Bomb.
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John. Sucker.
John Law. Police officer.
jugged. Arrested.
juiced. Electrocuted.
kale. Money.
kick. Pocket.
knowledge box. School.
kosher. Not guilty (see clean).
lam. To run or flee.
lamp. Eye.
laying paper. Passing worthless checks.
layout. Gambling or dope outfit.
lifeboat. A pardon.
lift. Steal.
lob. A sap.
mark. A victim of a confidence man.
mechanic. Skilled professional criminal.
moonlighter. Midnight prowler.
mouthpiece. Lawyer, especially a criminal lawyer.
mower. Machine gun.
mush. Mouth.
natural. Seven years' imprisonment.
nippers. Handcuffs. Leg irons.
nucks. Brass knuckles.
on the Erie. Someone listening.
on the spot. Marked for killing.
out. An alibi.
pad. Money for protection. Also living quarters.
paddy wagon. Police patrol wagon.
paper. Any kind of paper money, including checks.
paperhanger. Passer of counterfeit bills or bad checks.
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pen. Penitentiary.
pew. Electric chair.
pigeon. A person who is, or lets himself be, easily
tricked, especially in gambling. pineapple. A bomb, generally a small bomb similar to
a hand grenade. queer. Counterfeit money. queer shover. Passer of counterfeit money. rap. Conviction. Prison sentence. rap sheet. Arrest record.
rat. To inform on a fellow criminal. An informer. rock. Any precious gem, generally a diamond. rod. Pistol or revolver. rub out. Kill.
runner. An agent of a bookmaker. sing. Inform, squeal. sleeper. Night watchman. spring. To release from custody. stool pigeon. Informer. sugar. Money. swag. Stolen property. sweet pea. Easy victim. take. Proceeds of illegal activity or consideration paid
to police officers to overlook illegal activity. tin. Police shield or badge. tommy gun. A submachine gun. A "tommy man" is
one who uses such a weapon. torpedo. Paid killer.
triggerman. Gunman, especially a hired assassin. typewriter. Submachine gun. up. In jail. "Up the river."
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useless. Dead.
weeper. A beggar who presents an elaborate sorrowful tale to get money.
wet goods. Stolen goods.
whiz. A pickpocket. To pick pockets.
wiper. A killer.
wired. Protected by burglar alarm. Also, political connections.
yard. $100.
zipper. To shut up or keep the mouth shut.
Police Terminology
APB. All points bulletin.
book. Arrest, arrest record.
bug. Plant electronic listening device.
bust. Police breaking up a criminal operation, arrest.
collar. Arrest.
BOA. Dead on arrival (from the notations on hospital records).
fan. To locate, to search.
flier. Wanted notice.
frisk. Search for weapons on person.
kickback. Payoff to police officers to overlook criminal operations.
M.O. (modus operandi). Details of method used during the commission of a crime.
plant. The assignment of officers to keep a continuous watch on a place. "The police put a plant on the hideout." An object or a plan to trap a suspect.
rap sheet, record. A criminal record.
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stakeout. The same as plant. tag. To arrest.
tail. To follow; also a surveillant. tip. A warning; information from an informant. wiretapping. To electronically hear and/or record a telephone conversation.
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CHAPTER IX
HIGH DANGER Drug Abuse
Fans of the Hardy Boys no doubt have read much about the so-called drug culture and have been warned about its dangers. Drugs have invaded all social classes and age groups and the destructive effects are widespread. Almost invariably the addict will turn to crime to support his habit. It is, therefore, not only a threat to him but to society as well.
Law-enforcement officers working on narcotics cases often operate undercover. If spotted, they may face severe maiming or death. Drug dealers and addicts live in constant fear of detection and are suspicious of any outsider. The narcotics officer must be able to understand the particular language of the drug culture,
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be familiar with the various kinds of drugs, and be able to spot the symptoms of the users.
A list has been compiled to provide some understanding of the most common drugs, the slang words used for them, and the effect they have on people.
Some of these drugs are prescribed by physicians, and under certain circumstances are valuable medicines. However, it is not only illegal, but also irresponsible and dangerous to take them without a doctor's prescription.
The drugs most often abused are divided into six groups: narcotics, stimulants, sedatives, hallucinogens (psychedelics), marijuana, and organic solvents.
Narcotics
In this group are heroin, methadone, morphine, codeine, and cocaine. All are highly addictive and extremely dangerous. They produce lethargy, euphoria (high), constricted pupils, respiratory depression and loss of appetite and weight. Codeine abusers scratch themselves and seem to be intoxicated.
Addicts who inject narcotics can usually be identified by needle marks, scars, or abscesses at the injection sites. Often they will wear long-sleeved shirts even in the summer heat to hide those marks, and put on sunglasses indoors so that their constricted pupils cannot be noticed.
Withdrawal from narcotics is extremely difficult. They cause serious personality problems, possible criminal involvement, and bacterial diseases like
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hepatitis. Overdoses can result in convulsions and death. A reduction of fertility has also been noted.
Heroin: White or brownish powder usually sold in glassine bags or capsules. Bitter in taste, faint vinegar odor.
Slang: H, Horse, Smack, Scag, Hard Stuff, Harry,
Dope
Method of use: Injected or sniffed Medical use: None
Morphine: White powder, tablets, capsules, or liquid. Bitter in taste and odorless.
Slang: M, Morph, Miss Emma, White Stuff Method of use: Injected or taken orally Medical use: Strong pain reliever
Methadone: White tablets or liquid. Bitter in taste. Slang: Joke, Dollies Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: Pain killer, cough depressant. Also given to heroin addicts in rehabilitation programs because it blocks addiction to heroin.
Codeine: White powder, tablets, or liquid. Bitter in taste. Used in some cough medicines. Slang: Syrup, Turps, Robo, Romo, Medicine Method of use: Oral Medical use: Pain killer, cough suppressant
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Cocaine: White crystalline powder, bitter and odorless. Numbs lips and tongue. Sold in glassine bags or capsules.
Slang: Coke, Snow, Happy Dust, Girl, Stardust
Method of use: Sniffed or injected
Medical use: Local anesthetic
Stimulants
Stimulants are addictive and very dangerous. They produce excitability, rapid and slurred speech, dry mouth and lips, bad breath, itchy nose, sweating, insomnia, hallucinations, and possible development of psychoses.
Amphetamines (Benzedrine and Biphetamine): Heart-shaped pills, white and off-pink in color; or capsules. Odorless and bitter in taste.
Slang: Bennies, Peaches, Hearts, Speed, Ups,
Pep pills
Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: For weight reduction, mild depressions
Dextroamphetamines (Dexedrine, Synatan, and Ap-petrol) : White—sometimes pink, heart-shaped tablet, also in capsule form. Odorless and bitter in taste. Slang: Dexies, Hearts, Speed, Ups, Footballs Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: For weight reduction, mild depressions
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Methamphetamin.es (Desoxyn, Methedrine, and Am-bar): Tablets, pink, white, and yellow in color, also in liquid form (glass vials). Odorless and bitter in taste.
Slang: Meth, Monster, Speed, Wake-ups, Ups,
Crystal
Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: For weight reduction, mild depressions
Sedatives
Sedatives are addictive. They produce a skin rash, slurred speech, nausea, dilated pupils. Constant use can lead to serious emotional disorder and memory loss. Brain damage is possible. In severe abuse, central nervous system becomes depressed and breathing stops, causing death.
Doriden: White tablets, chemical odor, bitter in taste.
Slang: Cibas, Cibees, Gorilla pills, Goofballs, Downs
Method of use: Oral, or by injection
Medical use: Sleeping tablets and tension relievers
Seconal: Reddish-orange capsules, sometimes liquid. Odorless, bitter in taste. Slang: Reds, Red birds, Red devils, Goofballs,
GB's, Downs
Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: Sleeping tablets and tension relievers
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Tuinal: Red and blue capsules. Odorless, bitter in taste.
Slang: Rainbows, Bullets, Christmas trees, Goof-balls, GB's, Jolly beans, Downs Method of use: Oral Medical use: Sleeping tablets, tension relievers
Nembutal: Yellow capsules, tablets, and liquid. Odorless, bitter in taste.
Slang: Yellow jackets, Yellow birds, Yellows, Nimbies, Candy, Goof balls, Downs, Yellow submarines
Method of use: Oral, or by injection Medical use: Sleeping tablets, tension relievers
Hallucinogens (Acids)
Hallucinogens are extremely dangerous mind-altering drugs. Users may appear in a trancelike state, show anxiety, confusion, often fear and terror. Perceptual changes involve senses of sight, sound, touch, body image and time. Users have been known to be driven to suicide; also there is possible chromosomal damage.
LSD (Lysergic Acid Diethylamide) : White, crystalline powder, tasteless, odorless.
Slang: Acid, Blue Cheer, Chief, Peace, Trips,
Black Magic Method of use: Oral: Dissolved on cookies, sugar
cubes, crackers. Or by injection. Medical use: None. Was used for psychiatric experimentation only.
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STP (Dimethoxymethylamphetamine): White, crystalline powder, tasteless, odorless. Slang: Dom, Serenity, Tranquility, Peace Method of use: Same as LSD Medical use: None
DMT (Dimethyltryptamine): White, crystalline powder, tasteless, odorless. Slang: Acid
Method of use: Same as LSD Medical use: None
Marijuana (Cannabis sativa)
Marijuana has a slight hallucinatory effect. It is a dangerous drug mainly because it leads to a drug environment and often to stronger drugs such as narcotics. The user may appear animated and hysterical, with rapid, loud talk, and bursts of laughter. Later the user may feel sleepy and stuporous. Depth perception is distorted. Eyes may appear red. Marijuana increases sensations present before the drug is taken, such as appetite, thirst, etc. Marijuana is the greenish-brown, coarsely-ground leaf of the Cannabis sativa plant. The smoke of marijuana smells a little like burning leaves or rope.
Slang: Grass, Weed, Pot, Reefer, Hay, Locoweed,
Hash Method of use: Usually smoked. Cigarettes are
small with the paper tucked in at both ends. It
can also be chewed, sniffed, smoked through a
pipe, or baked into cookies. Medical use: None
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178 the hardy boys detective handbook Organic Solvents
Airplane glue, gasoline, aerosols, and cleaning fluids are among this group. They usually have a hydrocarbon taste and odor. They are very dangerous. Similar to alcohol intoxication, they cause slurred speech, red eyes and nostrils, ringing in ears, nausea and vomiting, hallucinations, blurred vision, poor coordination and respiratory depression. There is a possibility of brain damage.
Slang: Sniffing, Snorting, The Bag, Fluid Method of use: Inhaled by use of paper and
plastic bags. Sometimes poured on rags and
handkerchiefs. Medical use: None
Common Terminology Used by Addicts and Dealers
acidhead. Frequent user of LSD (Also: freak, cube-head.)
boost. Shoplift.
bread. Money. (Also: scratch, geetis, lettuce, long green, folding stuff.)
burned. A bad supply or swindle.
bust. Arrest. (Also: clip, glue, bat out, drop, mail, can, jug.)
cap. Capsule.
cat. Sharp character.
chip. Use small amounts of drugs irregularly. (Also: dabble, joy-pop.)
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clean. Completely free of all drugs.
cokie. Cocaine addict.
cold turkey. To withdraw from drugs without help of
medication. connect. Purchase drugs. (Also: score, hit, make a
meet, domino.) connection. Dope peddler, source of narcotics. (Also:
dealer, bit man, pusher, bagman.) deck. Container of drugs. (Also: bindle, paper, bag,
piece—usually a one-ounce package.) dime bag. $10 package of narcotics. dirty. Possessing drugs, liable to arrest if searched. dripper. Eyedropper used in mainlining. (Also: gun.) dummy. Poor-quality narcotics. (Also: flea powder,
lemon, lemonade, Lipton tea, blank, turkey.) dynamite. High-grade heroin. fireplace ritual. In Synanon (see under S) terms, a
dressing-down in presence of all residents who
decide punishment.
fix. A drug injection, usually heroin. (Also: geezer.) freakout. Bad experience with psychedelics; also a
chemical high.
goofball addict. Person addicted to barbiturates. gut level. Emotional depth. haircut. In Synanon terms, a verbal dressing-down by
one or more older members. high. Under the influence of drugs. (Also: lit up,
blasted, charged up, wasted, shot down, coasting,
floating, banging, fixed, flying, leaping, belted,
twisted, wired.) hit the bricks. Released from jail. (Also: on the
ground, on the street, fresh and sweet.)
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hooked. Addicted. (Also: have a monkey on the back,
strung out.) hustle. In Synanon terms, gather food, clothing; in
street language, to prostitute. ice cream habit. A small, irregular habit. (Also:
weekend habit, three-day habit.) junk. Drugs, usually heroin. junkie. A drug addict. (Also: hype, gow head, AD,
hophead, junker.) kick the habit. Stop using drugs. (Also: to fold up,
hang up, make the turn.) locked up. Imprisoned or hospitalized. mainline. Inject heroin directly into the veins. (Also:
jab, pop, bang, shoot up.) manicure. Remove the dirt, seeds, and stems from
marijuana.
methhead. Habitual user of methamphetamines. nail. Needle. (Also: spike.) narco. Narcotics detective. nickel bag. $5 packet of narcotics. on ice. In jail. (Also: slammed, doing a bit, boxed,
behind the iron house, in the cooler.) on the nod. Sleepy.
pad. Apartment where drugs are used. (Also: shooting gallery.)
pass. To transfer drugs.
pillhead. Users of barbiturates and amphetamines. push. To sell narcotics. (Also: deal.) script. Prescription. (Also: paper, reader.) shoot dope. Take heroin. shuck off. Fail to work effectively.
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split. To quit Synanon.
square. A nonaddicted person. (Also: do-righter, apple, do-right John.)
Synanon. Form of leaderless group therapy.
tripping. Under the influence of a hallucinogen.
turned off. Withdrawn from drugs. (Also: washed up.)
vice squad. The ones who are clean.
works. Equipment for injecting drugs. (Also: biz, machinery, tools, factory, layout, artillery, gimmicks.)
weedhead. Marijuana smoker.
Not every drug and not every slang expression can be covered in this limited space. Also, the language differs in various areas and changes constantly. But this chapter will give readers an idea of the dangers of drug abuse, and what law-enforcement officers must know about illegal drug use.
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CHAPTER X
INNOCENT UNTIL PROVED GUILTY
A Look at the Law
It is imperative for law-enforcement officers to be familiar with court procedures and legal terminology. After a crime has been investigated and the suspect apprehended, his guilt must be proved before a court of justice beyond a reasonable doubt.
The laws and the organization of the courts vary among the different states. Therefore it is not possible to describe legal procedure in criminal cases in detail. But the following will give you a general idea of our legal system.
Crimes are usually divided into two groups: misdemeanors and felonies. In some states, felonies are called high misdemeanors. Also there are offenses
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which are quasi-criminal in nature; for instance, traffic violations, violations of municipal ordinances, and breaches of the peace.
A felony is a serious crime, such as murder, robbery, arson, grand larceny, burglary, and so on. A misdemeanor is a lesser crime, such as petty larceny, purse snatching, conspiracy, assaults, and gambling.
The value of the property involved is normally used to classify a crime. For example, in some states the theft of money or property of fifty dollars and more is grand larceny and a felony, while the theft of money or property under fifty dollars is petty larceny and a misdemeanor. It follows that the penalty for a felony is greater than for a misdemeanor.
A person can be arrested only when a crime has been committed. Arrests can be made by two methods: by warrant or by legal authority.
By warrant. Anyone having knowledge that a crime has been committed may go before a judge or clerk of the court and sign a written complaint charging a person with that specific crime. Only then will the judge issue the warrant for arrest. A warrant directs the police to arrest the person named in it and arraign him before a court, which means to bring him before the judge so that he may answer the charge against him.
By legal authority. Arrests may be made by a police officer without a warrant whenever he sees a crime or quasi crime committed. He may also arrest without a warrant when he has probable cause to believe that a felony has been committed not in his presence.
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The same goes for a private citizen. However, citizen's arrests are rare, mainly because if private citizens make a mistake they can be sued more easily than police officers can.
After arrest a suspect is brought before a lower court so he can be arraigned. These courts differ in name in the various jurisdictions, such as: municipal court, sessions court, or magistrate's court. They have the power to try only quasi crimes and misdemeanors, where there is no right to a trial by jury.
In all other cases they may conduct only a preliminary hearing. The purpose of such a hearing is not to decide whether the defendant (the suspect) is guilty, but merely to determine if there is enough evidence to have the case examined by the Grand Jury. If the judge decides there is not enough evidence, the defendant is released. If, however, he feels that there is enough evidence, the defendant is bound over to the Grand Jury and bail is set. A defendant may refuse to have this preliminary hearing and waive his right in favor of the prosecutor presenting the case to the Grand Jury directly.
The Grand Jury is not a trial jury. It is appointed by various methods in different states and decides whether or not there is sufficient evidence to bring the accused to trial. A Grand Jury may either report "no bill," in which case the accused is released, or it may find a "true bill" and draw up an indictment. This is a formal charge specifying the violation of the law for which the accused must stand trial.
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INNOCENT UNTIL PROVED GUILTY 185
During the time a defendant is awaiting trial in any court, or an investigation by the Grand Jury, he may either be kept in jail or be set free on bail. This means that he puts up a sum of money, bond, or guarantee in the amount specified by the judge which will be forfeited if the accused does not appear for trial. In most states the courts will allow bail on almost any charge except murder.
A defendant may plead guilty at any time. He may even waive indictment by the Grand Jury and plead guilty. If he elects trial, he may waive trial by the Petit Jury (a jury of twelve persons that sits at civil and criminal trials to try and decide finally on the facts at issue) and elect to stand trial before a judge alone. If found guilty, he is sentenced to punishment by the judge. The judge may imprison him for a certain length of time and/or fine him a sum of money, or give him a suspended sentence and place him on probation for a specific time.
The convicted person may always appeal a decision to the next higher court.
Following are brief definitions of the more common legal terms:
abet. To encourage another to commit a crime. accomplice. One who is involved in the commission
of a crime with others. acquit. A finding by a jury that the prosecution has
not proved the guilt of a defendant beyond a
reasonable doubt.
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alias (A-lee-us). An assumed name.
corpus delicti (KOR-pus duh-LIK-tye). The basic facts constituting a crime. This is often mistakenly thought to mean the body of a murder victim.
duress. Unlawful influence to force compliance, physically or mentally.
ex parte. On or from one side only, from a one-sided point of view.
ex post facto. After the fact. Affecting what has happened before.
habeas corpus. An order from a court to produce a prisoner in court so that the legality of the detention may be decided.
indict (in-DYT). To accuse of a crime, in writing, by a Grand Jury.
Miranda Ruling. The U. S. Supreme Court on June 13, 1966, made public its decision following its review in the case of Miranda v. Arizona.
In simple terms, the decision was that before an arrested person could be questioned by law-enforcement officers he must be advised of his constitutional rights. Any statement he makes without being advised of these rights cannot be used against him in court. The rights are:
To remain silent. Anything the suspect says can be used against him in court.
To consult a lawyer for advice before questioning, and to have the lawyer present during questioning.
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If the suspect cannot afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one for him before questioning if he so desires.
If the suspect wishes to answer questions without a lawyer present, he can stop answering at any time until he consults a lawyer.
The arrested person can waive these rights either orally or in writing. Most law-enforcement agencies use a printed form that the arrested person is requested to sign as evidence that he was properly advised. It also contains a waiver of rights paragraph which he signs if he wishes to.
recidivist (re-SID-ih-vist). A repeater in crime. subpoena (suh-PEE-nuh). A written order to appear
in court. venue (VEN-yoo). The place (county) where the
trial is held. waive. To give up a legal right.
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CHAPTER XI THE SUSPECT AND HIS SHADOW Secret Watch
Surveillance comes from the French word surveiller meaning "to watch."
It is the secret observation of persons, places, or things. Some call it spy work. In police work its objectives are:
To apprehend a person by watching his home and
places or persons he is known to visit.
To obtain information on a suspect and his associates:
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Habits
Daily routine
Persons contacted
Place of employment
Home address, floor, apartment number
Transportation used
To obtain evidence of a crime
To obtain basis for a search warrant
To catch a suspect in a criminal act
To prevent commission of a crime
Fixed Surveillance
Sometimes called a plant or stakeout. A fixed surveillance is generally of a house or place of business. Arrangements should be made to cover all exits. Usually the best place for a fixed surveillance is in a room or office directly across the street from the exit being watched. Sometimes, if circumstances permit, an automobile is used.
Foot Surveillance
This is probably used most often. The number of men involved depends on various factors, such as the neighborhood in which the surveillance will take place, its purpose, and the availability of officers. Foot surveillance is usually conducted by one, two, or three men. In special cases, additional men may be used.
One-Man Surveillance
The subject is followed on foot in many cases. It is
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SUSPECT TURNS A CORNER SUSPECT TURNS CORNER
SURVEILLANT A CROSSES STREET
SURVEILLANT B TOLLOWS SUSPECT
SURVEILLANT C FOLLOWS B
SURVEILLANT D JFOLLOWS C. . 
WHERE CASE IS IMPORTANT, AM EXTRA SURVEILLANT MAY BE PLACED IN POSITION D
SUSPECT CONTINUES STRAIGHT AHEAO
S SUSPECT
A SURVEILLANT IN POSITION A
B SURVEILLANT IN POSITION B
C SURVEILLANT IN POSITION C
P SURVEILLANT IN TOSITION D -
When suspect turns corner, detective A crosses street, B follows suspect, C follows B, D follows C.
When suspect continues straight ahead, detectives A, B, and C remain in position behind him, D follows across the street.
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difficult for one officer to follow a subject for any extended length of time, or very closely, without running the risk of being detected.
However, many detectives become very efficient at this type of surveillance, particularly in large cities and crowded areas where the number of people walking serve as cover.
Two-Man Surveillance
This type has advantages over the one-man surveillance because the subject usually can be followed more closely and for longer periods of time. The risk of losing the subject is less and the surveillants are not as easily detected.
The first detective will follow the subject. He in turn is followed by the second detective. In some instances, the second man will parallel the subject slightly to his rear on the opposite side of the street. In an area of stores, he can usually follow the subject's movements by watching his reflection in windows.
The second man must always be alert to the possibility of a counter-surveillance by the cohorts of the subject.
Three-Man Surveillance
The subject on foot is followed by officer A, who, in turn, is followed by officer B. The function of B is to see if there is any counter-surveillance as well as to take over if officer A becomes conspicuous. Officer C is effectively used in this situation on the opposite side of the street. He can take up the tail if the subject turns a corner or makes a sudden stop allowing A
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and B to continue on past the subject in order to avoid detection. These officers can then back up C by reversing roles.
Automobile Surveillance
Whether or not a foot surveillance, an automobile surveillance, or a combination of both is used will be dictated by the habits and behavior of the subject.
If he is known to ride a car, bus, or taxi, a foot surveillance will be backed up by an automobile. This car can pick up one or two of the surveillants and follow the subject's vehicle until he alights. Then foot surveillance can continue. If possible, officer C will ride on a public conveyance with the subject for uninterrupted surveillance and observe any contacts which he might make.
Automobile surveillance should, if possible, be conducted with two radio cars and two men each, so that a second man can take up a foot surveillance if the subject leaves his vehicle, and also take notes during the car tail. A one-car tail job is subject to the same limitations as a one-man foot surveillance.
If two cars are used, car A will follow immediately behind the subject's car, if circumstances of the surveillance and traffic conditions permit. Often one or two intervening cars are allowed between the subject's car and car A. Car B will back up car A, and, when advisable, take the lead position during the surveillance.
In an important case, additional cars may be as-
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signed to the surveillance. They will at times bracket the subject's car by traveling on parallel streets. If the subject's car makes a turn, one of these cars can pick it up at the first intersection and continue the tail as car A.
Such maneuvers depend upon well-coordinated radio control from the lead car. Many times such transmissions are in simple code designed to confuse the suspect if he should be tuned in.
Tight Surveillance
A close physical tailing of the subject so that he is not lost is called tight surveillance. In some instances the subject is deliberately made aware of the tail as a form of psychological pressure. This might be done to prevent him from making a particular contact, or to force his hand. It usually causes him to panic and make a move that will provide information to the tailing officer.
Loose Surveillance
This is used when it is vital that the subject remain unaware of the tail. This method of surveillance is conducted at greater distances and dropped immediately if the subject seems to get suspicious.
Progressive Surveillance
This is staged over a period of time, if possible, depending on the nature of the case. For example: A businessman is suspected to be a fence. The police
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will set up a stakeout to cover his place of business. In addition to that he may be followed from his home to the train station, to determine where he parks his car, what contacts he makes, if any, what train he takes and where he usually sits.
Having established this pattern, a surveilling officer will board the same train at a later date, probably at the station before the subject's. He will sit in the rear of the car used by the subject, so he can observe any contacts, also at what station the subject leaves the train. Another officer will pick up the subject at the station and follow him to his place of business.
The subject will be tailed during the day if he leaves his business location, and on his return home at night. All persons the subject contacts during the day will be checked out, and if deemed advisable, they will be tailed.
Duties
The duties of an officer on surveillance will be guided by the objective. However, good investigative techniques dictate that he will:
Familiarize himself with all details of the case, including all persons involved, their descriptions, dress, habits, locations of homes and places frequented, personal contacts, transportation used, and neighborhoods in which they will most likely operate.
Maintain contact with the officer in charge of the investigation and promptly report by radio, telephone, hand signals, or messenger all pertinent developments.
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Maintain detailed individual notes for the entire period of the surveillance from which logs or reports may be prepared. Notes and reports must show the specific time and place of each observation, the names of persons and places contacted, or physical descriptions and specific addresses.
Transportation used, such as bus, train, or plane, should be identified by company route and number. Automobiles should be identified by make, year, model, color, license plate number, and any special characteristics like trim, dents, etc.
Tips for Tailing
The surveillant should dress for the neighborhood to avoid looking out of place.
Prepare his mind for any eventuality. For example, if anyone asks what he is doing in the area, he must be prepared to give a good cover story.
Act as if he belongs in that area.
Watch out for a "check tail." Sometimes the criminal element may have someone following and observing him.
Always prepare visible signals with his partners in advance.
Always have money and change ready for any eventuality. He might need change in a hurry to telephone headquarters, or money for taxis and buses.
Always have an alternate plan ready if he loses his subject.
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Conclusion
The art and importance of surveillance in the field of investigation cannot be stressed too highly. It is a technique used at almost every level of police work, and an officer trained in this art is considered a valuable asset to his organization.
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CHAPTER XII
NO TWO OF THEM ALIKE
Visible and Latent Fingerprints
Fingerprinting is the principal means of positive identification for human beings. Of the millions of persons fingerprinted to date no two have ever been found to have even one fingerprint identical.
All fingerprints of criminals taken in the United States are sent to the FBI Identification Division in Washington. This division, established July 1, 1924, by an act of Congress, has fingerprint cards for almost one hundred million persons on file. It contains not only fingerprints of criminals, but also of military personnel, applicants for federal jobs, aliens, prisoners of war, civilians who have access to secret or classified information, and prints filed voluntarily by citizens for personal identification. It acts as a clearing house of
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arrest information for all the law-enforcement agencies in the United States and cooperates with more than eighty foreign countries in the exchange of criminal identifying data.
While fingerprint identification is a comparatively new science, it has been found that the ancient Chinese used thumb impressions on important documents, some of which are still in existence today. They were sealed, or signed, by the application of a thumbprint.
If you examine the inside surface of the tips of your fingers, you will see patterns formed by the ridges of your skin. These can be seen better through a magnifying glass.
By pressing your fingers against a piece of polished glass, the patterns formed by the ridges will show up clearly on the glass. At first they may look alike, but if you study them closely, you will note a variety of differences. With training and experience, you can discern these differences quickly.
One of the first men to discover that the ridge patterns of fingerprints differed was Marcello Malpighi, an Italian professor of anatomy, in the year 1686, but he did not follow up his discovery. In 1823 another professor of anatomy, John E. Purkinje of Germany, wrote a book on the subject.
Sir William Herschel, a British government officer stationed in Bengal, India, and Henry Faulds, a doctor in Tokyo, Japan, made further contributions in 1877 and 1880 respectively. They recommended that these patterns be used to identify people, but did not pursue their recommendations.
The next man of importance in fingerprinting was
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the noted English scientist Sir Francis Galton. He made a study of the patterns and developed a system of classifying fingerprints. Sir Edward R. Henry, who later became chief commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police, was appointed to head a committee in 1898 to develop a practical method of classifying and filing fingerprints. He worked out a system, based on the Galton classification, which was henceforth known as the Henry System, and was adopted by Scotland Yard in 1901.
The Henry System has been refined and modified since then and is used in the United States and in all English-speaking countries.
There are other parts of the human body from which a fingerprint expert can make a positive identification. They are the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet. Most hospitals today take footprints of newborn babies to make certain the infants are given to the right mothers.
The friction ridge patterns on the palmar areas of the hand and the soles of the feet never change. They are developed before birth and remain the same until decomposition after death. Some criminals, such as the notorious John Dillinger, who was slain by the FBI in 1934, have tried to change or obliterate their fingerprints by burning their fingertips with acid. Others have used different means, but enough characteristics always remain for identification.
Fingerprints are classified and filed rather than palm prints or footprints because they are most often left at crime scenes. Also, they can be classified and filed more readily.
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Fingerprint patterns are divided into three general groups: arches, loops, and whorls. These groups are subdivided as follows:
ARCHES LOOPS
Plain Arch Radial Loop
Tented Arch Ulnar Loop
WHORLS
Plain Whorl
Central Pocket Loop Whorl
Double Loop Whorl
Accidental Whorl
Before the different type patterns are discussed, it will be necessary to understand some of the terms used in fingerprint work. The ridges and ridge formations that are commonly encountered are:
RIDGES
ENDING RIDGE
A ridge that ends abruptly.
FIGURE 1 BROKEN RIDGE
A ridge with a definite break or breaks in it, which, if joined, would form a continuous ridge.
figure 2
FIGURE
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EIGHT BASIC FINGERPRINT PATTERNS
Plain Arch
Tented Arch
Ulnar* Loop
Plain Whorl
Double
Loop
Whor.l
Accidental Whorl
•These two patterns are classified as radial and ulnar loops if they appear in the left hand. If the prints were taken from the right hand, their classification would be reversed. (See pages 208-212 for discussion of loops, arches, and whorls.)
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DOT
A dot is considered a ridge if its diameter is as great as the width of the surrounding ridges.
FIGURE 4
FIGURE 5 BIFURCATION
The point at which a single ridge forks or divides into two or more branches.
figure 6
ISLAND
The formation caused by a bifurcation, the forks of which rejoin and continue as a single ridge.
FIGURE 7 SHORT RIDGE
A ridge whose length is materially shorter than surrounding ridges.
figure 8
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COMMON TYPES OF RIDGE FORMATIONS
ANGLE
The center ridge is regarded as forming a definite angle if the inside angle is 90° or less.
FIGURE 9 UPTHRUST
The center ridge is regarded as forming an upthrust if it rises at 45° or more from the horizontal plane (the ridge under it).
figure 10
looping ridge
A ridge that enters on either side of the fingerprint, recurves and leaves or tends to leave on the same side.
FIGURE 11
SHOULDERS OF LOOPING RIDGE
The shoulders of a looping ridge are located by drawing an imaginary line across the loop where the
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recurving portion of the ridge starts and ends. The shoulders are those points on the ridge cut by the imaginary line.
A ridge is considered a looping ridge when it has sufficient recurve. That means the ridge must cut or touch the shoulder line. Figures 12 and 13 meet the test. Figure 14 does not.
' Shoulders"
Sufficient Recurve
FIGURE 12 FIGURE 13
Insufficient Recurve figure 14
RECURVING RIDGES
Recurving ridges make a complete circuit and may be spiral, circular, or any variation of a circle.
6
FIGURE 15
PATTERN AREA
The pattern area is that part of a loop or whorl in which appear the cores, deltas, and ridges by which the fingerprint is classified. Type lines enclose the pattern area.
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TYPE LINES
Type lines are defined as the two innermost ridges that start parallel, diverge, and surround or tend to surround the pattern area.
Figures 16 and 17 illustrate type lines and pattern areas in loop formations.
B
flGURE 16
FIGURE 17
The ridges shown as A and B in Figures 16 and 17 are type lines. The point of divergence, or where they begin to separate, is shown by dotted line C. The area enclosed by the type lines is the pattern area.
Note that in these two illustrations there are other ridges that run parallel and diverge. They may not be called type lines because they are not the innermost ridges; only ridges A and B fit the definition for type lines.
Type lines are located in whorl patterns in the same manner. The only difference is that there are two sets of type lines, one on each side of the fingerprint.
It is very uncommon to find type lines which are continuous ridges, such as those shown in Figure 16. A typical pair of type lines would appear as in Figure 17; the rule is that when a type line has a definite
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break in it or ends abruptly, the next outer ridge is used as a type line.
DELTA
The delta is a reference point used in the classification of both loop and whorl type patterns.
A delta is denned as that point on a ridge at or nearest to the point of divergence of two type lines, and located at or directly in front of the point of divergence.
Some typical deltas are shown in Figures 18, 19, and 20. Bear in mind the type line and delta definitions as you look at these illustrations. A and B signify the type lines.
Delta
FIGURE 19
FIGURE 20
LOOP PATTERNS
A loop is that type of fingerprint pattern in which one or more of the ridges enter on either side of the fingerprint, recurve, touch or pass an imaginary line drawn from the delta to the core and pass out or tend to pass out on the side from which such ridge or ridges enter.
The core of a loop pattern is a reference point. It is always located on or within the recurve of the
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innermost looping ridge. Shown in Figure 21. The precise location of the core will vary depending on the appearance of other ridges within the recurve.
If there are no ridges within the innermost loop, the core is placed on the shoulder away from the delta. Indicated in Figure 22.
Shoulder Line
Core (Shaded Area)
Innermost Looping Ridge
figure 21
r Shoulder Line Core
-Innermost Delta \C^ Looping Ridge
figure 22
Ridges sometimes appear within the innermost looping ridge. If such a ridge comes up to the shoulder line or higher, the core is placed at the top of the ridge, as in Figures 23, 24, and 25.
„ Shoulder lone x"V ^"Shoulder line
•Ridge Innermost Looping Ridge
figure 24
Hore -Ridge
Innermost Delta *'' Looping Ridge
figure 23
•Shoulder Line ■Core -Ridge
-Innermost Delta Y* Looping Ridge
FIGURE 25
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On occasion such a ridge will run through the recurve, which spoils the recurve, and the next looping ridge becomes the innermost looping ridge, as in Figure 26.
The tip of the ridge appearing within the innermost looping ridge of Figure 27 cannot be used as the core because it does not rise to the shoulder line.
Innermost
Shoulder .Line lore
Innermost
•Ridge
Shoulder Line
figure 26
figure 27
RADIAL AND ULNAR LOOPS
The only difference between the radial and ulnar loop patterns is the direction in which the looping ridges slant, commonly called the line of flow. See Figures 28 and 29.
line of Flow
figure 23
Ulnar Loop figure 29
Radial loops flow toward the thumb (or radial bone, the bone on the inside of the forearm). Ulnar loops flow toward the little finger (or ulnar bone, the one on the outside of the forearm). You must know
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which hand a specific print is from in order to determine what kind of loop it is. Figure 28, a print taken from the right hand, would be a radial loop, and Figure 29 an ulnar loop. If, however, these patterns appeared in the left hand, their classification would be reversed.
The best way to determine which type of loop a certain print is, is to refer to the plain impressions at the bottom of the standard fingerprint card and to see which hand the print is from.
The essentials of a loop are:
A sufficient recurve
A delta
A ridge count across a looping ridge
Sufficient recurve and deltas have been discussed previously. In order to see if the third essential, a ridge count across a looping ridge, is present, an imaginary line must be drawn from the delta to the core and must cross or touch at least one recurving ridge. Figures 30 and 31 illustrate this. Figure 32 illustrates a fingerprint that has a delta, core, and recurving ridge. This print may not be classified as a loop because the recurving ridge is not crossed or touched by the imaginary line between delta and core.
Core
Delta
FIGURE 30
FIGURE 31
FIGURE 32
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Most loop patterns will have more than one looping ridge. Each ridge crossed or touched by the imaginary line drawn between delta and core is counted. The delta and core are not counted.
ARCHES
PLAIN ARCH
In the plain arch pattern the ridges enter from one side, make a rise or curve in the center, and flow or tend to flow out on the other side. Figures 33 and 34 illustrate plain arch patterns.
Plain' Arch figure 33
Plain Arch figure 34
TENTED ARCH
The tented arch pattern resembles a plain arch but possesses either an angle, an upthrust, or two of the three basic characteristics of a loop, as shown in Figures 35, 36, and 37.
Angle
Upthrust Delta
Tented Arch figure 35
Tented Arch. figure 35,
Tented Arch.
FIGURE 37
In Figure 37 there is a looping ridge with sufficient recurve. The delta would be placed at the center of
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the recurve. As a result, there would be no ridge count across a recurving ridge. (See also Figure 32.)
WHORLS
PLAIN WHORL
A plain whorl, as shown in Figures 38 and 39, consists of one or more ridges that make a complete circuit, with two deltas. If an imaginary line is drawn between the deltas, at least one recurving ridge is cut or touched.
Delt
Delta
Plain Whorl
FIGURE 38
Plain Whorl
FIGURE 39
CENTRAL POCKET LOOP WHORL
A central pocket loop whorl, as shown in Figures 40 and 41, consists of at least one recurving ridge, or an obstruction at right angles to the line of flow. It has two deltas. When an imaginary line is drawn between the two, no recurving ridge within the pattern area is cut or touched.
Delta
Obstruction Delta
•Line of Flow
■Delta
Central Pocket Loop Whorl Central Pocket Loop Whorl
FICURE 40 FIGURE 41
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DOUBLE LOOP WHORL
A double loop consists of two separate loop formations, with two separate and distinct sets of shoulders and two deltas, as in Figure 42.
Double Loop figure 42
accidental whorl
An accidental whorl consists of a combination of two or more different types of patterns with the exception of the plain arch. This exception is necessary, as every type pattern has ridges above and below the pattern area which conform to the arch definition.
The following are illustrations of accidental whorls. Figure 43 shows a loop over a tented arch, and Figure 44 shows a loop over a plain whorl.
Tented Arch
Delta; Delta
Accidental Whorl figure 43
Accidental Whorl
FIGURE 44
FINGERPRINT IDENTIFICATION
Each fingerprint card bearing the inked impression of all ten fingers of an arrested person is classified
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upon receipt at the FBI and police department identification divisions. This composite classification is a combination of an alphabetical and numerical formula applied to each of the ten fingerprints on the card. It serves as a filing index.
Fingerprint cards for many people who have similar but not identical prints bear the same classification and are filed together.
It is the responsibility of the technician to classify each card received and to compare the ridge details of the prints on it with those of all the cards filed under that classification. If he finds a card on file with the same ridge detail (ending ridges, bifurcations, islands, or dots) in exactly the same position as on the card he received, he has made an identification.
Latent fingerprint identification is made in the same manner as described above; that is, by painstaking comparison of ridge detail in the latent print. However, latent prints are not always complete, and sometimes identification must be made from just a fragment of one finger. For purposes of testimony in court, it is called the unknown print, since the person who left it at a crime scene is usually not known until the print has been identified with one on file with a law-enforcement agency. The print on file of a person arrested previously is referred to as the known print.
Having made an identification of an unknown print with a known print, the expert prepares photographic enlargements of each. He carefully marks and identifies all similarities. When he has found enough points of similarity in the known and unknown prints, he
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has made an identification and may testify in court to this effect. It is not necessary to establish a specific number of points of identity. However, the more of them the expert can identify, the more weight his testimony will carry.
Although many thousands of criminal cases have been solved by identifying latent fingerprints left at a crime scene, this technique has been beneficial in other areas as well.
The FBI Disaster Squad has frequently identified victims of airplane crashes and other disasters by obtaining latent fingerprints left by them on personal effects at their homes or places of employment. Latent prints were used in these instances as the victims had never been fingerprinted for employment, military service, or for criminal activity.
For those readers who have been stimulated to learn more about the science of criminal investigation, other areas of knowledge are available. Local police headquarters invite queries and inspection by young people. For readers in the New York City area, the world-famous Police Academy is a treasure of information, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C., conducts regular tours of its Identification Division and laboratory facilities.